Sword of Neamha Read online

  “You wished my presence, my lord?” I asked, but he seemed to be in no hurry to get to the root of the matter.

  “I remember you were rather skilled with a javelin at one time yourself, weren’t you, Cadwalador?” he asked, gazing past me to where the young men practiced.

  I nodded. “Decently.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember you using them against that traitor Cavarillos. Too bad you didn’t kill him,” he said absently.

  “I did everything within my power,” I replied shortly. My failure to kill Cavarillos still haunted me. I didn’t appreciate him bringing it back up.

  “I know you did,” he responded, looking into my eyes with the same strange magnetism he had always possessed. The charisma that drew men to his banner, that had seduced me into his service more than once in the past. I had enough of it. “I have never doubted your loyalty to me, Cadwalador. That is why I have called you to me today.”

  I remained silent. A reply was neither required nor expected. He went on after a moment. “I need you to go back to the mainland.”

  “Permanently?”

  A shake of the head. “No. Merely to deliver a message. Aneirin!” he called, lifting his voice and summoning the young man who was his heir.

  The javelin flew from Aneirin’s hand just as Tancogeistla spoke, slamming into the logs several feet to the left of the target. It was a pitiful showing and I could see several of the soldiers covering their mouths to conceal their laughter. A bad sign, I observed. Tancogeistla had succeeded in his bloody path to the throne only because he commanded his men’s absolute respect as a warrior. Aneirin moc Cunobelin did not.

  He walked up to our small party, shaking his head as if well aware of his failings. “Aneirin,” Tancogeistla began, “I wish to introduce you to an old bodyguard of mine, one of my brihetin when we first came to Attuaca. His name is Cadwalador.”

  The young man acknowledged the introduction with a careless nod. “My father has spoken much of you.”

  Alarms sounded in my head. What had been said? Aneirin was perhaps seven years my junior, shorter and not as muscular. My work at the forge had strengthened me beyond anything I could have dreamed of when I first left my homeland. His head was topped by a rough shock of red hair, similar to the color I remembered Tancogeistla’s had been so many years ago. Looking at him now, it was hard to think it could have been so long.

  Aneirin’s posture was relaxed, almost languid. He had the look of a sedentary man, not a warrior. I didn’t know what to think of Tancogeistla’s choice.

  “This message you speak of,” I asked, focusing my attention back to Tancogeistla, “whom shall I deliver it to?”

  His eyes had lost none of their fire as he turned, his gaze locking with mine. “Malac…”

  Chapter XIII: Message for Malac

  His words took my breath away. Apparently it showed on my face. “Is there a problem with that?” he asked sharply.

  I shook my head. “No, my lord. I was just surprised.” Honesty seemed like the wisest answer at the moment.

  He snapped his fingers at a servant who stood nearby. The man disappeared into a nearby doorway and came back out with a leathern packet in his hand. Tancogeistla took it from him and handed it to me. “Give this to that dog of a vergobret,” he growled, snarling out Malac’s name.

  “Right away?” I asked, remembering my promise to Diedre. If I did not return by nightfall…

  “Immediately!” the old general snapped. “Or do you have commitments that take precedence over my orders, Cadwalador?”

  I shook my head in the negative. “I had promised my wife that I would return to her by nightfall. That is all.”

  The expression on Tancogeistla’s face never changed. He turned and barked at Belerios. The brihetin took a step forward to stand beside me. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, an imposing figure even in his street clothes, the sword strapped to his side. There was a vest of mail beneath his cloak, I knew. I had made enough of them. “Belerios, inform this man’s wife of the reasons for his absence. See that she is made comfortable.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The brihetin turned and left the courtyard, his strides long and purposeful. He had his orders. As did I.

  “I was glad to meet you, Cadwalador,” Aneirin said, smiling at me as I started to leave. I nodded.

  “Should I wait for an answer?” I asked, my attention still focused on Tancogeistla. No matter what his intentions for young Aneirin, my old general was still the man I had to deal with.

  He smiled grimly. “No,” he responded, shaking his head. “He will be coming back with you. The message will explain it all.”

  A regular ferry had been established for the use of men passing between Erain and the land of the Calydrae. I rode hard the rest of the day, reaching the ferry just before nightfall. The sun sank into the western sea, drowning its flames in a pool of molten blood. Reminding me of my promise to Diedre.

  I encamped with the ferrymen that night, lying alone by the fire. I dreamed of Diedre, her face rising up before me. I fancied I could feel her, as if she lay there beside me on the sand of the beach.

  The years of our marriage had been good ones, as I established my gobacrado there in Attuaca, attempting to provide for the family I had so suddenly taken upon myself. A wife, and a daughter. And soon, a son…

  I smiled at the memory. The night before, when we had lain together on our small wooden pallet. Diedre had taken my hand and placed it against her swollen belly. “Feel him, my love,” she had whispered, smiling into my eyes through the darkness. “Feel him move. A miracle—a miracle of our love, Cadwalador.”

  I had bent over and gently kissed her lips, whispering my love softly, as though afraid of waking her daughter. Her face was radiant with joy, glowing in the moonlight that shone through our window.

  And at once it changed, her face wet with tears, her eyes red from crying, her voice calling out my name. Screaming…

  I sat bolt upright, a fear gripping my heart. The sun was just beginning to peek over the hills behind me. It was a dream. Just a dream.

  I went aboard the ferry with the boatmen and together we began the passage. I stood in the stern of the boat for a long time, gazing back at the land of my home, where I had left my beloved. I had never dreamed of anything half so powerful as the love I felt for Diedre. United in sorrow, our union had endured and become stronger because of it. She was a part of me, inseparable. As the bard said, two had become one.

  But once again, I had a duty to fulfill. Perhaps this last obligation to Tancogeistla would quit me of him forever. I had lost too much following his banner.

  It took me several days to find Malac. He had hidden himself away from the world, from everyone that had shunned him. When I reined my horse in outside his house, the only sign that it was the residence of the Vergobret were three guards standing outside. It was little more than a hovel.

  “I need to speak with Malac,” I demanded, swinging down from the back of my horse. “I have a message for him.”

  The brihetin seemed unimpressed. “From who?”

  “Tancogeistla,” I replied, watching their eyes for any sign of trouble. For there it was that it would come. Not in the tightening of a hand ‘round the hilt of a sword, but rather in the flicker of an eye. Cavarillos had taught me that, drilled it into me in our mock sword-bouts back in the early days of our friendships. I could still hear his voice ringing down through the years.

  My eyes, Cadwalador. Watch my eyes, not my blade. For my eyes will tell you where my blade will go. It is something no man, not even I, can help. The eyes hold no secrets. Watch my eyes.

  But there was nothing to see. The oldest of the brihetin smiled at the mention of Tancogeistla’s name. “The leader of our people,” he intoned reverently. “Come inside.”

  I ducked my head to enter the hovel. Darkness filled the interior, but one of the guards went over and stirred the coals of the fire there in the center of the floor, fanning them into flame.<
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  “Malac!” he called.

  After a few moments, an aged figure shuffled from behind a partition towards the back of the dwelling.

  I was shocked by the change two years had wrought. He looked old, far beyond his years. His white hair was long and unkempt, a full beard covering his face. His skin was white as paste, untouched by the sun. And yet I could see it in his eyes as he stepped into the firelight.

  He was the same Malac. As crafty and cunning as ever. “Cadwalador,” he greeted, surprising me with his remembrance of my name.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He sagged onto a rude bench carved by the side of the wall and motioned for me to sit across from him. “It has been a long time since anyone has called me that. No one feels I deserve the distinction. You may call me by my name, if you so wish. What is it you have for me?”

  I handed over the leathern packet. “A message Tancogeistla wished me to deliver to you.”

  “That crafty devil,” Malac whispered, almost chuckling. “He ruined me at last, you see that, do you not, Cadwalador?”

  I nodded, watching as his thin fingers tore open the packet, unfolding the message inside. He spoke sharply to the brihetin, who stirred the embers into a brighter blaze, shadows dancing against the walls of the hovel.

  He swore vociferously as he finished reading and I inquired the import of the message.

  “As you undoubtedly know, your general is planning another campaign. Against the people of Yns-Mon.”

  I sat there in stunned silence. I knew nothing of such plans. And I told Malac so.

  “Perhaps the general no longer takes you into his confidence as he used to,” Malac suggested, the craftiness still there in his voice. “He wishes me to come and ride with him in this campaign. He challenges me to prove my bravery one last time.”

  My head came up. “You would be riding to your death!”

  He nodded. “I know it. Yet, what is life here? A never-ending death of shame and disgrace.” He stood, beckoning to the brihetin. “Bring me my sword.”

  “You were told to bring me back, were you not?” Malac asked, gazing into my eyes.

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “Then I will give you no trouble. You have stood unwavering with Tancogeistla for years. Would you mind if I asked you why?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, really. He was the rightful heir…” my voice trailed off.

  “I will tell you why, if you so wish. It is because you are a man of principle, a man of loyalty. You cannot leave him now even should you wish to do so, even if you should wish it. Because you would feel that you were doing wrong. Tancogeistla should appreciate such loyalty. The gods know he cannot find it in half the fawning sycophants he gathers ‘round himself. I will come with you.”

  “Very well. How soon can you leave?”

  The brihetin returned, bearing Malac’s sword. The old man took it and girded it to his body. “Immediately.”

  We rode back to the ferry together in silence, as I pondered the old Vergobret’s words. There was something sad and something poignant about his calm acceptance of death.

  Within two days, we rode into Attuaca. Malac smiled as our mounts trotted through the gate. “It has been years since I have seen this place, Cadwalador. It has grown.” He paused. “And this could have all been mine had I not been so foolish as to run from the heat of the battle.”

  “Nay, my lord,” I replied, surprising myself by my own words. “Tancogeistla would have killed you anyway.”

  He turned in his saddle, looking back into my face. “As he intends to do now?”

  I nodded slowly.

  “Be careful, my young friend. A man in Tancogeistla’s position is not to be trusted. He will kill me, as he has every right to. But he will also eliminate anyone who he perceives as a threat. Tread wisely.”

  “I must leave you here,” I said finally. “You will find Tancogeistla in the palace. I must go home to my wife.”

  “You are married?” Malac asked, raising his eyebrows. I acknowledged his question with a nod.

  “Then tread twice as wisely. Fare thee well, young Cadwalador.”

  We parted ways, and I rode slowly down the muddy street toward my home, which was built beside the gobacrado. As I approached, I spied a figure slumped on my doorstep. It was Berdic, apparently sleeping off a drunken stupor.

  But it was strange. Diedre knew he was my friend. We had given him hospitality before when the tavern had thrown him into the street. Why had she not taken him in now?

  I dismounted, gazing down into my friend’s face. He was clearly drunken, snoring loudly as he lay there on the step. I took him by the arm, but failed to waken him. Shaking my head in disgust, I stepped over his prostrate form and pushed open the door to my home.

  Everything was quiet. Far too quiet. “Diedre!” I called, almost fancying in my imagination that I could hear her voice answering back, light and cheerful, as in days of old. Her beautiful face smiling around the curtains of cloth that partitioned our apartment.

  There was nothing. Fear took my heart in its icy grip. I called again, for her, her daughter, anyone. The only sound was my own voice, and Berdic’s snoring.

  And then I saw. Food piled in a heap on the table, a mountain of it. I had seen it before. Gifts from neighbors and friends. The presents of death.

  I raced from the room, grabbing Berdic by the shoulder and shaking him. He snored on, unfazed. Swearing viciously, I slapped him across the face.

  “Berdic!” I screamed, fear in my voice. His eyes flickered awake. “Oh. It—it’s you, Cadwalador,” he said stupidly.

  “Where is Diedre? Berdic! Tell me where she is!”

  He gazed up at me through bloodshot eyes. My question didn’t seem to make much sense to him. “Diedre? You don’t know?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking!” I exclaimed through clenched teeth. “What happened to her, you fool!”

  “You don’t know,” he said, shaking his head as though to clear the cobwebs of drink from it. “Oh, Cadwalador. I’m sorry. You—you didn’t know.”

  “Tell me!”

  “She’s dead,” he whispered.

  I stood there in shock, my lips moving but no words coming out. I had no power to form them. My entire world was crashing down around me. Malac’s words flickered through my mind.

  He will eliminate anyone he perceives as a threat. Tread wisely…

  “Dead?” I asked, looking down into Berdic’s face, begging him to tell me otherwise. That his words were a lie. That it wasn’t true.

  He nodded slowly…

  Chapter XIV: Recompense

  I turned and ran into the house, tears flowing freely down my cheeks. “Diedre!” I screamed, the echoes mocking me hollowly. I grasped the curtains and tore them from their hangings, casting the ripped fabric to the floor. “Diedre!”

  The apartment was bare. I heard movement behind me and turned on heel, my heart twisting inside me. It was only Berdic, leaning staggeringly against the doorframe.

  “What happened?” I demanded. He shook his head drunkenly. “A curse upon you, Berdic!” I cried, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him fiercely.

  “What happened?”

  Sadness was in his eyes. “She—she’s dead, Cadwalador. That’s all I know. Maybe–”

  Another form flitted into the door behind him, a woman’s figure. My eyes locked on her face. It was the neighbor woman. Clutching tightly to her hand was Diedre’s daughter.

  “I came as soon as I heard you were home,” she whispered softly.

  “Home?” I exclaimed in bitterness. “Is that what this is? That murderer has taken her away from me!”

  Tancogeistla’s face rose up before me and for a moment I could almost feel my fingers closing around his throat, strangling the life from the old drunkard’s body. For him Inyae had been sacrificed. By his order, Diedre had been killed. Leader of my people or no, he had forfeited his life by this.

  “The me
ssenger came from Tancogeistla,” the woman continued. “I do not know what he told her, but she took the news badly. Diedre was worried for you, Cadwalador. To the end, she called out your name.”

  I lowered my head, feeling the condemnation descend onto my shoulders. The woman was still talking. “…an hour later, her daughter came running for me. Her pains were upon her, that she might bring forth the child.”

  “But her time was not for months to come,” I whispered, in shock at the news.

  The neighbor woman nodded. “I know. It happens this way at times, often when the mother is under great stress. I sent my son to Tancogeistla to summon help.”

  “And he rejected you,” I hissed, sure I knew now what had happened.

  She shook her head. “No. He was concerned and sent back one of the druids in his retinue, a man skilled in herbs and surgery. There was nothing he could do for her.”

  “Tell me his name.”

  The woman looked up into my eyes. “Do not blame him for your wife’s death. There was nothing—”

  “Tell me his name!”

  “Motios,” she replied. I felt as though I had been slapped. Motios, the wise old druid I had communed with on Teamhaidh. No groveling pawn of Tancogeistla. I had seen him at work, curing the diseased in Emain-Macha.

  “What happened?” I asked, swallowing the lump in my throat. I had to know the truth.

  “He did the best he could, but when the child was delivered, there was no breath in him.”

  “Him? A son?”

  She nodded. I turned away, covering my mouth with my hand as though to prevent the sobs from escaping. It was a futile effort.

  “She was weak from the delivery, and could not bear the news. She died soon after.”

  “I should have been here,” I whispered, condemning myself bitterly. If only…

  My mind swirled with everything that filled it so suddenly. Had Tancogeistla intended my wife to die, he would never have sent Motios. He would have sent someone he could use, could twist to his own will. Or had I misjudged the druid?