Sword of Neamha Page 7

  “I thank you for your hospitality,” Tancogeistla responded, honestly, I believe. Then we turned and began loading our weapons and what remained of our supplies onto the rafts. Cinaed sent some of his men back to the village for food with which to feed us on our journey. His generosity truly stunned me, and once again I felt a twinge of guilt for the deception we were perpetrating.

  We did not get underway until shortly before dawn. We poled south, sticking close to the direction of our story until we were reasonably sure to be beyond the gaze of any watchers, then we turned west, propelling ourselves with crude homemade oars. To . To the new land of our people. To the land across the waters…

  It is a rule of life. Things are always harder than they seem. What seems so close to the eye proves far to the feet, or the hands, as it proved in our case. The land that I, and the others, had seen from the cliffs of Attuaca, proved farther than we could have imagined.

  Days passed as we rowed steadily over the waters separating us from Erain. Blisters formed on our hands and burst, causing great pain, only alleviated by slowly forming calluses. But I heard no word of complaint from the men. Each stroke of the oars brought us closer to rejoining our families. Each stroke brought us that much closer to ending our wanderings.

  For eight days we rowed, aided by a patchwork sail we had made of the remaining clothes we had brought with us. There was little wind, perhaps a blessing in disguise. How our rafts would have fared in a storm, I shivered to think.

  On the morning of the ninth day, the shoreline was close enough for us to descry the trees and lush green hills of this new land. It was everything the druids had described. Beautiful, I cannot create words to describe it. I only wished that Inyae sat there beside me. As little as I had known of her before her murder, I felt she would have loved Erain. Perhaps that explained the strange pang I had felt leaving Attuaca, the island upon which we had wandered for so long.

  By leaving the island, I was also leaving behind my last chance of revenging myself upon Cavarillos, slim though that chance had been.

  His face still appeared before me in dreams, that last taunting smile of his as he disappeared into the night. The embodiment of evil.

  One of the gaeroas came to relieve me at my oar and I went to the back of the raft, dropping down beside Tancogeistla. His eyes were focused on the hills before us.

  “Just a little while longer, Cadwalador. Just a little while longer, and I will be the Vergobret of our people. The chief magistrate.”

  I nodded wordlessly, following his gaze, taking in the beauty of the place. He continued, apparently not noticing my silence. Or ignoring it. “I will not forget what you did for me that night, Cadwalador. You sacrificed much for honor. I will not forget, and neither will the gods.”

  “That is unnecessary, my lord,” I replied. There was no way I wanted to accept rewards for an action I had long since regretted. The price of doing something I had felt was right. That would never restore Inyae to my side.

  We touched the shores of Erain that night, built a fire on the sandy beach we landed upon. After the chill nights at sea, the warmth seemed to penetrate to my very bones. I looked around at my companions, thinking back to our embarkation on the headlands of Gaul so many months ago. This small band was all that was left.

  A few of the iaosatae, the slingmen, remained. Old men and young, all skilled in the use of their weapons. A force not to be scorned.

  The last of the gaeroas, the spearmen from Mediolanium that had accompanied Cavarillos northward.

  And those of us who belonged to Tancogeistla’s bodyguard, a few of the nobles and the rest of us freemen like me, who had been promoted to his side by virtue of some action on the field of battle, or because of the sheer need for his protection.

  They looked little like they had when we had departed from Gaul, as they huddled around the fire, struggling to get warm. A rag-taggle band of warriors who had survived against incredible odds. In a strange way, I was honored to have been a part of it.

  Morning came, and we were up with the dawn, marching after a perforcedly light breakfast of fish caught from the sea and berries plucked from bushes on the nearby hills.

  We came upon a small village shortly after noon, surprising a man planting barley in the field. He attempted to run, but one of the fleet young slingers chased him down and brought him back to Tancogeistla.

  The man struggled and twisted in the slinger’s grasp, cursing us all in his native tongue, until the king spoke to him.

  The expression on his face changed suddenly and he fell to the ground on his knees before Tancogeistla, still jabbering away.

  “What is it, man?” Tancogeistla demanded, shaking the fellow angrily. He did not seem to understand, just kept up his endless chatter.

  I glanced at the king and he met my gaze. “Take him under charge. We must be moving on.”

  I stepped forward and dragged the man to his feet, pushing him before me as we marched on, toward the village we could glimpse through the distant trees. I could sense the tension in the men around me, could feel it pulsating through my own body. Our captive had heard the Aeduan tongue before, even if he couldn’t understand it.

  We were at the end of our trail. Or, were we? Had our people taken this land as conquerors, or been repulsed in their invasion? Would we be welcomed, or driven into the wilderness? The next few minutes could answer all of this.

  Spurred on by our growing excitement, we double-marched our tired bodies down the small path into the village. Men and women ran out of the houses to greet our procession with amazement and awe. Yet I saw no weapons in their hands.

  Then I saw a door open from a slightly larger house at the end of the dusty village street. A man stepped out and strode toward us as Tancogeistla drew our column up in the middle of the street.

  His walk was familiar to me, something about it. And his face, although slightly more aged than once I had known it.

  “Berdic!” I called out, releasing my prisoner and running toward him. His mouth dropped open in surprise.

  “Cadwalador?” he asked. “Is that really you?”

  “In the flesh,” I laughed, almost giddy with joy. I slapped my boyhood playmate on the back and hugged him close.

  “Where did you come from?” he demanded, returning my embrace.

  “It’s too long of a story,” I replied. “But, tell me, did our invasion succeed?”

  “Succeed?” He threw back his head and laughed, his own good humor matching my own. “I am now the chieftain of this village. The cities of the Goidils are in our hands. We own Erain. It was more than a success, Cadwalador. It was glorious. I wish you could have shared it with me.”

  “So do I, my friend.” Tancogeistla stepped up behind me and cleared his throat impatiently.

  “My lord,” I began, “I wish you to meet a boyhood friend of mine, Berdic.”

  My old friend was staring past my shoulder at the king. “Tancogeistla?”

  “Yes,” he replied gruffly. “What are you staring at, lad?”

  Berdic shook his head. “I guess you would not have heard…”

  “Of the death of Cocolitanos?” Tancogeistla asked. When Berdic nodded, he went on. “Of course. That is why I have returned, to take my rightful place at the head of my people.”

  The village chieftain turned away from us momentarily, as though trying to absorb what Tancogeistla had just said.

  “That is not what I meant, my lord. You see—Malac reigns in Ivernis…”

  Chapter IX: Erain

  I stared at Berdic, unable to speak, unable to move. It was too much to comprehend. We had reached the end of the road, only to find that it was just the beginning.

  Tancogeistla was the first to react, springing upon Berdic with the ferocity of a bear, slamming my old friend into the side of a village house. “What did you say?” he screamed, his hands around Berdic’s throat. “What do you mean, Malac reigns? I am the Vergobret! I was the anointed of Cocolitanos!”

/>   I reached Tancogeistla in another moment and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him off Berdic with the assistance of one of the gaeroas.

  The villagers were gathering, stunned by the assault on their chieftain. Something had to be settled and settled quickly. I stepped between Berdic and Tancogeistla. “I am sorry, my friend. Your news came as a shock to us all.”

  My old playmate stood aright slowly, rubbing his sore throat. “I understand,” he wheezed, still trying to get his wind back. He stepped past me and spoke a few words to his village in their language. Whatever he said, they dispersed quickly.

  Berdic looked back at me and Tancogeistla. “I am sorry. Cocolitanos always held out hope that you would return. He was the only one. When he died across the sea, Malac took the throne with no one to stop him.”

  “Where was Dennoros?” Tancogeistla asked, speaking of his younger brother.

  “He died in the beginning, trying to break the Goidilic army at the siege of Ivernis.”

  Tancogiestla turned away, a faint hint of sadness visible in his eyes. He would never show emotion in front of his men.

  “He did not die in vain, my lord,” Berdic went on awkwardly. “His charge turned the tide of the battle.”

  “Where is the nearest settlement?” Tancogeistla demanded abruptly, color coming back into his face. Berdic looked surprised at the sudden change.

  “Three days journey,” he replied. “The town of Emain-Macha. Why?”

  The general looked back at me, at the men who had followed him, stayed true to him through the agonies of our journey. “There are those who will follow where I lead. Even to the throne.”

  Berdic shook his head. “It is no use, my lord. Malac has the council, the magistrates behind him. You would stand no chance.”

  Tancogeistla transfixed him with a hard glance. “If you would ever succeed in anything you set your hand to, then strike these words from your speech. Never and no chance. Cocolitanos is dead. Dennoros is dead. But I still live. And I will reign.” He raised his voice, addressing all of us. “We will spend the night in this village. Tomorrow we march to Emain-macha. Tomorrow we set out to take the throne…”

  Berdic had been optimistic in his prediction. Our men were footsore and weary, and it took us a week to reach Emain-macha. I was frankly overawed as we entered its gates. The one-time capital of the Goidils, it was an amazing place. Men hurried through its streets, going about their business. I had not seen such a populace since the day my father had taken me into Bibracte to trade when I was a boy.

  From the gates, we could look north and see the holy hill of Teamhaidh, a place of worship for not only the Goidils but for Celts from all over the world. I thought of the gods we worshiped, the gods whom I had forsaken in the wastes of the island we had come from. Perhaps living in the shadow of such a holy shrine would restore my faith. I doubted it.

  Tancogeistla tried to rally support to his cause from the moment he arrived, but the results were lackluster. Apparently, Malac had already killed several nobles who had opposed him, had them executed on trumped-up charges.

  Still, the charisma that had endeared my general to Cocolitanos was showing to full effect, and for a few short days, I thought we had a chance. I should have known better.

  One of the detriments of our return to civilization. Tancogeistla’s reaquaintance with the bottle. For several nights, his affinity for the bottle stood him in good stead as he frequented the taverns and alehouses, gathering support among some of the warriors who had been involved in the conquest of Erain. A good speaker when sober, he waxed eloquent under the influence of wine, swaying his equally-drunken audience with the power of his words. But it was not without its downside, and that was equally quick in coming.

  He became short with subordinates and fellow nobles alike, alienating many of those who had pledged their support in the midst of their own drunkenness.

  And then it all came to an end. Malac arrived in Emain-Macha…

  It happened one night, three weeks from the day of our arrival in the city. I was standing in the gate of the tavern, listening to Tancogeistla’s speech. He was already deep into it.

  A shout in the street caught my attention, swelling and growing louder. Cheers. The tramp of horses. I ran from the gate just in time to see Malac riding slowly down the street towards me, flanked by several score of brihetin, clad in full armor. Malac himself wore a breastplate of elaborately woven mail, but no helmet, his red hair tousled by the wind. A sword was buckled to his side.

  I left my post and hurried into the tavern, grabbing Tancogeistla by the arm. “Malac is coming,” I whispered fiercely. “We need to leave. Quickly!”

  He pulled away from me with a drunken growl. “Do you hear that, my people?” he demanded, raising his voice so that all in the tavern could listen. “The old woman who calls himself your leader is coming! Coming to die—by my hand! Let us arise and take our weregild this night!”

  He jerked his longsword from its scabbard and unbuckled the scabbard from around his waist, tossing it into the corner of the tavern. I watched the reaction of his listeners. Drunk though they were, the mere mention of Malac’s name had an incredibly sobering effect on them. I watched several get from their seats and hurry out, lurching toward the door. Fear was in everyone’s eyes. And I knew there was no one that would stand with Tancogeistla, despite all their promises.

  I tugged at his arm again, begging him to leave, to save himself. He was the rightful leader of my people, and dying here would end his bid for the throne.

  He swung on me, fury in his blood-shot eyes. “Would you too betray me?” The hilt of his sword caught me on the tip of my chin and my head snapped back. I was falling. I felt myself hit the floor. My world was spinning, dark and sparkling. Dimly I heard Tancogeistla’s drunken shouting, heard a crash as the tavern door came flying inward, the tramp of Malac’s bodyguards. Then everything faded away. Darkness…

  My eyes flickered open as I slowly returned to consciousness. I was still lying on the floor of the tavern, but this time sun was streaming through the window above me. I had no idea how long I had been there. I tried to rise, but a hand was on my shoulder.

  Berdic’s voice. “I wasn’t sure you were going to come out of that, Cadwalador.” He sounded worried.

  I sat up quickly. “Where’s Tancogeistla? What happened?”

  “They took him away,” he replied.

  “Malac?”

  He nodded wordlessly.

  “How did it happen?”

  “Malac’s bodyguards stormed the tavern. There was not a man to stand with Tancogeistla. They all scattered like sheep. The general stood alone, fighting bravely until the sword was knocked from his hand. Then Malac took him prisoner. I imagine he will be executed, just like the others.”

  I closed my eyes, envisioning those last few moments before I lost consciousness. “I tried to stop him,” I whispered futilely. “I tried to get him away from here before Malac came.”

  Berdic reached out and took my hand, helping me stand aright. I was still dizzy and wobbled as I walked. “Come with me, Cadwalador. You can find a home in my village. There is still a future.”

  A shadow was cast across the doorway as a figure clad in chain mail entered. It was one of the brihetin I had seen in Malac’s retinue the night before.

  He looked back and forth between Berdic and I, then his eyes settled on me. “Come with me,” he ordered, beckoning. “Malac wishes to speak with you.”

  Berdic looked at me and I saw my own fear reflected in his eyes. A summons from Malac was anything but good news.

  We found the Vergobret encamped outside Emain-Macha, beneath a spreading oak. Berdic and I followed the brihetin into the encampment. Berdic unstrapped his sword-belt and left it at the entrance. I had no weapons save the dagger concealed in the waistband of my leggings. I left it where it was.

  Malac looked up at our approach. He was a tall, finely built man with orange-red hair falling about his neck, a nea
tly-trimmed mustache of the same color gracing his visage. Ruthlessness emanated from his gaze as he glanced into my eyes.

  “Good morning, my son. Cadwalador, I believe is your name,” he smiled. I replied with a silent nod.

  “You were with the castaways of Tancogeistla?” He asked, his eyes locking with mine.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He indicated a seat beneath the tree. “Have a seat. I want to hear your story.” I glanced over at Berdic before obeying. There was bewilderment in his eyes. Neither of us had expected this.

  I took the seat as he had ordered and began my tale from the day we had set sail from the headlands of Gaul, leaving out only the plot of Cavarillos against Tancogeistla. I intended to give Malac nothing that he could use against me. Tancogeistla might already be dead. I had no intention of going to my own grave to protect his drunken memory.

  I talked for what must have been an hour or more, with Malac listening patiently. But as I told of our arrival at Attuaca, the Vergobret held up his hand to stop me. “This mercenary you spoke of—Cavarillos, I believe you said. What became of him?”

  I hesitated only a moment. “He fell in the ambush of the Dumnones, my lord,” I lied. “Fighting as only a warrior of Gaul can.”

  The words were bitter in my mouth, but I forced them out with an effort. Unbidden, Cavarillos’ face rose in my mind’s eye, that last moment before he had disappeared into the night. I closed my eyes as if to shut out the image.

  “You were close friends?” Malac asked, apparently misinterpreting my face.

  I nodded with an effort, forcing myself to deceive the usurper once again. “Go on,” he said after a moment, and I continued my story, this time telling it as it was, from Attuaca until our coming unto Emain-Macha three weeks before.

  “And your loyalties in this matter?” Malac demanded after I had finished. I looked into his eyes.