Sword of Neamha Page 3

  Cavarillos took me by both shoulders and thrust me toward the rear. “Run, Cadwalador!”

  I did as I was told, running for my life. It filled my heart with shame, but Cavarillos ran at my side, threatening to strike me down if I turned back. I kept running.

  Behind us, Tancogeistla himself was fleeing, with only a few of his bodyguards remaining. They had been butchered.

  Tears were running down my face, tears of shame and rage. Behind me, I could hear the cries of our pursuers, baying like wolves on the trail.

  “Have the gods abandoned us, Cavarillos?” I cried. It was a stupid question, but for some reason, I had to ask it.

  He struck me between the shoulderblades, forcing me onward. “The gods haven’t been with us since we were washed ashore on this land! Don’t talk—run!”

  And we were all running, all those of us that were left alive. All the valiant tribesmen of the Aedui. Running from the enemy. Running in defeat…

  How long we ran, I will never know. We ran until our legs ached, till the sun sank low in the western sky. Behind us we could still hear the cries of the pursuers. Drustan was a determined man.

  Cavarillos stayed behind me, his sword still unsheathed. I glanced back once and caught sight of his face. Saw the anger there, the bitterness of a man who had always played to win. And who had now lost. His bare chest was streaked with blood, whether his own or that of his enemies, I had no idea.

  As night fell, we camped ‘neath a towering oak, inside a dark forest. Perhaps we could rest there in safety. The night air was cold, reminding us both that ogrosan was coming. We dared not build a fire, lest the Dumnones spot it and come looking for us.

  “I will kill him,” Cavarillos whispered harshly, rubbing his bare arms to keep warm.

  “Who?”

  He shot an angry look toward me. “Tancogeistla, that’s who! Next time we meet, I will kill him.”

  I looked away, into the darkness of the forest, hoping to avoid the conversation. It was a futile hope.

  “Are you with me?” The question came sharp as a sword-thrust, his tones cold as ice.

  “He is the anointed of the Vergobret,” I replied weakly. “I cannot raise sword against him.”

  “The Vergobret!” Cavarillos hissed the title as though it were a curse. “He is not here. We will never see him again, nor your people. My tribe is dead. I am the last of my clan.”

  “Do you want their legacy to be that of a murderer?” I shot back angrily, regretting the words the moment they left my mouth.

  He started to rise from his seat on the moss, then apparently thought better of it, his lips relaxing into a sardonic smile. “I should have killed him yesterday morning, before he had the chance to slay us all.”

  “How many do you think we lost?” I asked, trying to steer him off the subject of Tancogeistla’s imminent demise.

  “Fourscore, maybe a hundred, how am I supposed to know? I was too busy trying to keep you from getting yourself killed. And the first opportunity you find, you call me a murderer.” He laughed humorlessly.

  “I’m sorry,” I replied, but my voice must have lacked conviction. At least he seemed to think so.

  “I don’t ask that you slay Tancogeistla,” he went on after a moment. “Just help me.”

  “They are the same thing. If I help you, I am just as guilty as if I had plunged the sword within his heart myself.”

  Cavarillos’ form came erect suddenly, and for a moment I thought he meant to fling himself upon me. Instead, he raised a finger to his lips and reached for the sword at his side.

  “Quiet,” he whispered. I looked quickly around us and suddenly saw torches flickering through the trees, the low hum of voices coming from perhaps forty feet away. The searchers.

  We threw ourselves flat on the ground behind a fallen tree, watching as the search party went by. I counted fifteen men, all heavily-armed. They flitted along the forest path, moving effortlessly. Without doubt they were part of the Dumnone army that had chased us away from Ictis.

  There was no question that Tancogeistla had played the fool. I knew that. But he was the taoi arjos, the “chosen superior” of the Vergobret. I would not—I could not have any part of a plot against him.

  We watched until the men had passed, then Cavarillos grabbed my arm. “We can’t stay here,” he hissed. “Let’s keep going.”

  I nodded, acknowledging the wisdom of what he said. My legs ached as I rose to my feet and I wasn’t sure I could keep going. But there was no choice…

  We kept going all through the night. How we did it, I have no idea, but about morning we met up with two of Cavarillos’ mercenaries, the last survivors. They didn’t know where the rest of the army was any better than we did. Their bodies bore fresh scars, the marks of a brush with a search party. Perhaps the one we had seen—I had no way of knowing.

  Tancogeistla—for the moment he was beyond the rage of Cavarillos. We were all alone. We were fugitives…

  Chapter IV: A Time for Choosing

  Two days later, we ran into the remnants of the lugoae. They carried fresh weapons, the booty of a Dumnone search party they had overpowered. They added to our numbers. And more importantly, they brought news of Tancogeistla…

  “Where is he?” Cavarillos demanded the moment they spoke of him. I thought for a moment that they would detect the anger in his voice, but they either did not, or ignored it deliberately. Perhaps they felt the same way.

  “A day’s journey toward the rising sun,” their leader replied. “He waits with the nobles who survived, as well as a few of the gaeroas and slingers.”

  “Take me to him,” Cavarillos instructed gruffly. I could see the look in his eyes, the look that assured me that Tancogeistla would die. I glanced away, into the meadows and fields that stretched before us.

  A man would die, and I knew of it. A chieftain of my people. And yet to warn him would assure the death of a man I called my friend. I felt twisted inside, torn between what I knew was right and what I wished to do. The loyalties of tribe, and the stronger loyalties forged in the fires of battle.

  “Cadwalador.” I turned, suddenly aware that Cavarillos was speaking to me.

  “Yes?” His eyes seemed to be looking right through me, as though he could see what I was thinking.

  “You will march beside me.”

  I nodded. It was plain he wanted me where he could see me. And that was all right by me.

  We didn’t stop that night, kept pressing onward through the hills and valleys of this strange land we now wandered in. Cavarillos was pushing us like a man possessed. Tancogeistla was not far away. I looked on my left and right, to the men marching there. The last swordsmen from southern Gaul. Mercenaries. I had no way of knowing whether they were part of Cavarillos’ plot.

  If they were, I was outnumbered. If they weren’t, I was outclassed still. There was no hope of my beating Cavarillos in a fair fight. I had no desire to. My only wish was to dissuade him from this mad plan that he had conceived, this plot to murder one of my fellow tribesmen.

  By morning we had reached a ridge that rose steeply above the surrounding terrain. From its height, we could look down and see the scattered campfires of Tancogeistla. So few. The last of the Aeduan army…

  “He is still here,” Cavarillos observed quietly. I didn’t respond. To answer in the way I knew he wanted would be to lie, to deceive a friend. To answer in the negative—I feared what would happen then.

  I fingered the javelins in my hand. They were my one advantage. Cavarillos was not skilled in their use. If I could keep him at range—But I prayed it would not come to that. He was one of the few friends I had left. Loyalty to him, loyalty to tribe, to the clan of my fathers…

  My heart sank when I saw Tancogeistla. He was sitting beneath a large tree, his back resting against its bark. His sword-arm was swathed in dirty, blood-soaked bandages, clearly the result of a battle wound. He had fought bravely, despite his drunken foolishness.

  “Cavarillos
,” he greeted quietly as we came to a halt before him. Once again, he didn’t remember my name, and I didn’t expect him to. Cavarillos had been the leader of the warriors from Mediolanium. I was merely a foot-soldier.

  “Is this all that’s left?” Cavarillos demanded abruptly.

  Tancogeistla nodded, clearly sensing the condemnation in the mercenary’s voice. He was dead sober now. He nodded to the two nobles who flanked him, his bodyguards.

  “Help me up.” It was then that I noticed the bandages on his foot as well. They lifted him into a standing position and he faced Cavarillos.

  “Let your men rest today,” he said calmly. “We head north tomorrow. You can bivouac your men over there.”

  “My men?” Cavarillos asked, irony dripping from his lips. “All four of them? The four that survived the slaughter of Ictis?”

  “I understand how you feel, my brother,” Tancogeistla said softly. He was not a bad leader when he stayed away from the bottle. “I lost many good friends in the fight as well.”

  Cavarillos nodded, seemingly mollified. He turned and led us over to the place Tancogeistla had indicated. He stripped off his sword and scabbard and threw them on the ground, sighing heavily. The march had been hard on all of us, him not the least.

  I waited till we were alone before I spoke. “You have abandoned your plan?” I asked quietly, hope in my voice. Hope that I would not be forced to confront my friend, to match myself against his skill with the sword.

  He looked over at me, humor glinting in his dark eyes. “There is a time for everything, Cadwalador. Everything under the sun. Including his death.”

  “But he was nearly crippled in that battle!” I protested, keeping my voice down with an effort. “There’s no way he can meet you!”

  “So much the better.”

  “You would murder him?”

  He turned on me, eyes blazing. All humor was gone now, replaced by a frightening earnestness. “Yes, if you choose to call it that. Else he will kill us all. His stupidity has already caused the death of too many.” Once again I felt as though his glance was searching the depths of my soul.

  “Are you with me, Cadwalador?”

  My eyes met his, and in that moment I knew I had to answer him. It was a time for choosing, between the loyalties I held dearest.

  I nodded slowly. “I will be at your side when the time comes…”

  We rose at sunrise the next morning, falling into formation almost immediately. The foraging parties had been unable to find food, and I heard the men murmuring as they shouldered what remained of their belongings. I saw the brihetin helping Tancogeistla onto his horse. He appeared to be little stronger this morning.

  Cavarillos seemed in unusually high spirits, despite the lack of sustenance. Another day, I would have been deceived into thinking he no longer harbored evil against Tancogeistla. But not now.

  By the time the sun was high in the sky, we were marching northward, through rolling fields of tall grass. Several of Tancogeistla’s bodyguards rode out in advance of the column, acting as our only scouts.

  By this time, I was sure that the remainder of the botroas were with Cavarillos in his plot. I had seen them talking together earlier, a conversation which had abruptly ended at my approach.

  Cavarillos apparently no longer trusted me. I risked a sidelong glance at him as we strode along, his powerful body moving effortlessly when other men lagged. His cloak had been lost in the battle and the muscles of his chest and arms were clearly defined. A formidable foe.

  I thought back to the day we had first met, that day in the snows of northern Gaul, how he had stumbled in at the head of the army from Mediolanium. How in the months that followed he had taught me the use of the sword, striving to pass away the time.

  I had never dreamed of needing to use that knowledge against him. As our friendship had grown, I had never thought that we would be separated so violently.

  Early in the afternoon, one of the riders came galloping back in. He was a noble from my village, a calm, dignified man. I had never seen him so excited.

  “There are houses ahead!” he cried to Tancogeistla, striving to get his horse under control. “A village!”

  I could see the look in Cavarillos’ dark eyes. The last village we had approached had been Ictis. His memories of that bloodbath were clearly visible.

  I heard Tancogeistla demand the number of houses, the strength of the villagers. Clearly he was acting more rationally this time.

  Before the nobleman could give a full report, however, another scout came riding in, his mount lathered with sweat. “We were discovered,” he gasped, panting out his message. “One of the village women. She ran back into the houses before we could stop her.”

  Tancogeistla hesitated for but a moment. He knew, as we all, what had to be done. He turned to face the column. “Men, warriors of the Aedui,” he began, raising himself in the saddle. “Before us lies a village of the natives. It is too late to go around them. They have already discovered our presence. The village is small and should not pose a problem to our army.” He paused for effect, glancing at the weathered faces of the men he led. “In short, we must leave no one to carry word to the Dumnones. Kill them all!”

  Tired though the men were, I saw the line surge forward, each man grasping his shield and spear more firmly. Men once about to drop dead from exhaustion now ran through the meadows, spurred on by the twin motivations of food and women. From the village ahead I could hear the shouts as the hapless villagers rallied each other in their defense.

  “Rabo!” Our war-cry burst from the lips of the lugoae as they charged down on the defenders. I felt strangely sick. If the fight at Ictis has been stupid, senseless, then this was twice so. Only this time we were in the position of might.

  I kept moving forward, as though lost in a dream. Cavarillos was running ahead of me, eager for blood. And other things, perhaps. He was a warrior, a man who lived for the fight. We were opposites.

  I saw the sword of one of the botroas descend upon the neck of a villager, severing the man’s head completely from the torso, sending it spinning into a pile of straw. A young woman, her hair the color of flame, ran from one of the houses toward the dead man, a high-pitched wail breaking from her lips.

  The mercenary turned, the blood-red sword still in his hand. I saw him grasp her by the arm, a strange leer on his face.

  I stood there numbly as he pushed the sobbing girl roughly up against the side of her home, wiping his blade on her garments. All around me the slaughter continued, but I could not hear it. The screams of the dying were a dull ring in my ears. My eyes were locked on the mercenary, on the girl.

  He began to tear at her clothes and her sobs turned instantly to screams. I moved forward instinctively, barely considering the consequences of what I was about to do.

  “Stop,” I ordered in an unaccustomed tone of command, laying my hand on his shoulder. I didn’t know what his reaction would be, I only knew I couldn’t stand by. He would rape this girl and then kill my general. I could have no part of either. What had I told Cavarillos?

  If I help you, it is as bad as if I had done the deed myself.

  There was no difference. The mercenary turned angrily to me, lust glazing his eyes. “You can have her after I’ve finished.”

  He turned, ignoring me. My sword was unsheathed, carried in my right hand, down low as Cavarillos had taught me. I didn’t want to kill him.

  She screamed again, tears running down her cheeks. The sound galvanized me into action and I thrust my elbow into his ribs, sending him sprawling into the dirt of the street.

  He rolled over on his back and lay there for a mere moment of time before scrambling to his feet, roaring like a wounded bull. My sword was already raised to guard myself.

  I blocked his first thrust, frustrating him. He swung the longsword in a two-handed sweep toward my head. The ferocity of the blow took me off balance, nearly ripping my own blade from my hands. The point of his sword sank into the f
lesh of my forearm, which I had raised to protect my face.

  I winced, forcing myself to ignore the pain, find the space Cavarillos had told me of. That strange state of mind where the combatant is no longer a participant, but the spectator of his own actions. I reeled backward into the side of one of the houses, with him following hard on my heels.

  His sword bit deep into the sod of the house as I dodged the blow. I had reached it. It was as though I was above and behind myself, watching a dirty, bedraggled, bloodstained fighter carry out the dictates of my mind. Except that it was me.

  I slammed the hilt of my sword into his cheekbone, breaking the flesh and perhaps the bone. He toppled backward, howling in fury. His blade was left stuck in the wall of the house.

  He was defenseless, on his back in the dirt. The girl was still slumped where he had left her, maybe in shock. My blood was up and I followed him, striding down on him as he tried to roll away from my approach. An avenging fury.

  The sounds of battle around me had faded to a low hum, punctuated only briefly by the screams of the vanquished and the shouts of the victors. It was he and I.

  I glimpsed the terror in his eyes as my sword descended upon him one last time, lust replaced by fear. A crimson spray erupted from his body, spattering my clothes, bathing my sword. Sightless eyes stared back at me as I looked down on the corpse. One less in the plot against Tancogeistla.

  The eyes I found myself looking into when I lifted my head were anything but sightless. I was facing Cavarillos.

  “Can’t you find a better way to occupy yourself, brother?” he asked, his face creasing into a strange smile.

  He kicked aimlessly at the corpse as the slaughter around us continued. “He was a good man. I’m amazed you beat him.” The smile vanished as quickly as it came. “All over a woman!”

  The back of his hand came up like lightning, slapping me across the face. My head swam from the force of the blow. I could hear his voice dimly through the ringing in my ears. “Take her! Use her as you like. But never, Cadwalador, never kill one of my men again. I am warning you of this.”