Pagan Siege (Tribes of Britain Book 5)

by Sam Taw

  We all waited for the men to finish preparing the site, but there was simply not enough room. The new homesteaders’ shelters sprawled right across the former training grounds. Even with our defences moved back, the space could not accommodate the bouts for eight men at once. The Head Hunters were all for demolishing the huts, the Sea Warriors tried to bring about a compromise and the homesteaders squabbled over their new homes. Tempers were more than frayed and looked set to spill over into an all-out battle within the tribe.

  I looked to Tallack to take control, display his status and power by acting swift and decisively. The whole point of the exercise was for Tallack to regain the men’s respect. With the situation balancing on the edge, Tallack sat frozen in his tall chair.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Kitto smirked as the Head Hunters pushed and shoved the Sea Warriors. The Homesteaders set loose their wives to kick and punch at anyone nearing their huts, the men standing behind them with spears in hand ready to defend their homes. With the camp dogs nipping at everyone’s heels and barking incessantly, the noise was deafening. Still Tallack did nothing, sitting with a wide-eyed stare at his tribe as the bickering took a fearsome descent into chaos.

  I watched as Kitto scanned across the sandy ground until his eyes met those of Tallack’s. This was precisely what the wily older warrior wanted; more opportunities to undermine the young Chief. I leaned forward from my bench and hissed at my nephew.

  “Tallack, do something… anything!” By the time I’d gained my nephew’s attention, it was too late. One of the Head Hunters threw a punch at a Sea Warrior. Rather than knock him to the ground or rattle his wits it merely incensed the man. He pulled back his fist and slammed it into the jaw of the Hunter. Within moments, the anger of those jostling around them boiled over until our finest men were engaged in a vicious brawl. Knuckles and jaws collided, blood and spittle flew, until many were reduced to wrestling their opponent to the ground.

  Senara fidgeted next to me, keen to wade into the fray. Even she was spoiling for a fight. All the pent-up aggression and posturing over a potential war with our neighbours had left our warriors restless. Kitto must have known that before he took the Head Hunters out to replenish our meat supplies. My poor nephew was out manoeuvred at every turn.

  I tried to rouse him to action once again. “Tallack, please, you have to stop this before someone gets killed.” At first, I thought he’d not heard me. I stood up and followed my nephew’s line of sight as he watched a figure leaving the western gate and hurry across the trickling gravel beds of the stream. He looked to be in pain, his back hunched and his gait was ambling and cautious. When my old eyes focused on his face, I recognised him.

  It was Ren. My breathing quickened in fear as he made his way towards the gaggle of fractious men. What I couldn’t see was what he clutched to his chest. I covered my mouth to stop myself from calling out. He was too weak to stand between the warriors; he’d be smashed to pieces by their superior strength. Even Tallack shook himself from his daze and stood up, preparing to protect his old friend.

  My heart pounded in my ears, I was dizzy with fright but just when I was sure that Ren would put himself in harm’s way to stop the fighting, he stood on the periphery and lifted a horn to his lips. With a single blow, the shrill noise halted all action at once. The men looked up from their squabble and saw the battered old sailor staring at them all.

  “Call yourself Dumnonii? You should be ashamed of yourselves. These homesteaders are our people. Are we not one proud tribe?” He went red in the face with the effort of yelling at them. Most of the men immediately let go of their wrestling partners and hung their heads, staring at their feet. Kitto folded his arms across his chest in defiance. Ren was not finished. As weak and sinewy as he was, he still commanded great respect. He turned to face Kitto.

  “And you of all people should know better.” The two men locked stares, neither backing down. “You who expects to be promoted to clan leadership, yet allows the men to succumb to their childish ways.” There was a lengthy silence in which neither shifted their scowls. I thought Ren had more to say, but he remained quiet, allowing his age and standing in the community to bear down on the great warrior. Eventually, Kitto dropped his gaze to the ground. Only then did Ren spin about to address the men.

  “Enough of this pettiness. Settle your differences and accept that these are troubling times. We pull together as one tribe. That’s the way it is and will always be.”

  It was Tallack who led the foot stamping and rapping on wood in support of the crewman’s speech. As much as I applaud Ren’s mastery over troubled waters, it did little to assuage the men’s doubts in my nephew’s ability to lead. He couldn’t expect Ren to bail him out of all his leadership issues and still gain the respect of our tribe’s people.

  Tallack relaxed in his bear head chair, chatting to Endelyn and Senara while Ren arranged the fighting bouts as fairly as he could. I watched him gather up a series of small stones from the sandy ground and show them to the men. From what I could see, he was assigning each rock to half of the warriors. I assumed that they were all distinctive in size or shape or the sorting process would return to chaos once again. One of the homesteader women fetched a bag in which the stones were placed.

  Ren shook the rocks inside the cloth and held the bag out to each of the men who did not have a stone assigned to them. As the pebbles were drawn, the pairings for the bouts were fixed. Most drawings received a little chorus of cheers, until they could see that the youngest and as it happened, smallest of the competitors was left to pick Kitto. The cheers faltered. It was hardly a fair fight, but then, the lad was foolish to stand against so many others with more experience.

  While the men prepared themselves, guzzling water and stripping off to their essentials in the heat of the afternoon, Ren marked out a circle in the sand with a big stick. Only one bout could occur at a time in the limited space. For those from the homestead settlements, this was a new and exciting spectacle, worthy of a ring-side seat. For those of us who are long in the tooth, it meant a tedious afternoon of stinking sweat, grunting men and the application of too many cattle gut stitches and plantain paste.

  For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why Tallack was so adamant that he should fight the victor. Everyone knew that he would have to face Kitto in the ring at some point, and that would spell disaster. If the seasoned warrior allowed Tallack to live, we would be banished at best, or slaughtered as a warning to others at worst.

  The drummers and pipers sat on the scorched grass on one side of the training ground, whipping the crowds up into fevered anticipation. Kitto graciously asked Ren to remain on the side line as referee, should there be a need to intervene. This was not meant to lessen the numbers of our best men by way of murder, only to demonstrate strength and agility.

  When the first bout began, I slipped away to my hut in search of my medicine kit and a long cool drink. The ale supplies in camp were at an all-time low and I had no thirst for warm milk. I had to make do with water like everyone else. Before leaving my house, I took a long look at the few possessions I had left to me. With my knives taken by the Belgae on that ill-fated trip and my tin all gone, I had nothing left of value.

  If the worst happened, there was only my bedding furs to offer to the gods for my passage into the Underworld. I am no warrior maiden, nor a great leader of men. There would be no seat next to my forefathers in the Summerlands on my passing.

  Would Cernonnus take his vengeance out on me for my kin slaughtering the white hart? I swallowed back my tears. My life had been long and full. There was little point in fleeing. Kitto would’ve me run down in no time at all.

  I dragged my weary limbs back to the fights to find that the first was already over. Both warriors appeared to be evenly matched in size and strength but one of them, a young man who I knew relatively well, had out matched the other in mere moments. Senara’s account of the bout told me that she greatly admired this untested warrior who used his quic
k mind over brute force to win the bout. The Head Hunters were keen to take the man’s arm and praise his fortitude. His opponent sat dejected but unharmed outside the circle, cradling his head in his hands.

  “Remind me of that lad’s name, Senara.” I rasped, leaning over closer to where she sat.

  “They call him Skentel.”

  I screwed my face up at her, confused. “What’s his given name?” His parents wouldn’t have chosen that for his proper name. It had to have been a nickname of sorts, referring to his quick-wit and intelligence.

  She shrugged. “That’s all I know of him. You’ll have to ask someone who knows him better.”

  Well, that should have been me, only my memory had clouded. The men were so fond of bestowing nicknames on people. From the way he was received by both the Head Hunters and the Sea Warriors, I’d say he enjoyed a great deal of respect for one so young. He took his fill of water from the jugs at the far end of the training ground and rested alongside Kitto. I watched their interactions closely. Would Kitto see this young fellow as a potential threat, or recognise his value as a worthy ally?

  Skentel nodded and smiled to the warrior as he lowered himself down on the cracked earth. Without altering his dour expression, Kitto returned the nod and glanced away. Before I could inquire further about the pair, the second bout was underway. The crowd roared once again, sending the dogs yapping and snapping into the ring, much to the amusement of all. After a brief hiatus, giving Ren time to shoo the mutts away, the bout began in earnest.

  Armed only with hazel poles, the two men moved about the circle, baring their teeth and goading the other into striking first. A lunge was countered by a swift side-step, a swipe with the stick in return had them both ducking. It was quite some time before the crowd lost patience with their dance. Calls of, “Bash his head in!” and “Get on with it!” came from the homesteaders, who were eager to see the men bleed.

  When the fight truly began, the crash of the sticks sent splinters flying until both men held two halves in each hand. Neither of them would let go, lashing out with the jagged ends to catch the other in the face or neck. I could see the bout ending in a lost eye or worse, requiring my skills with a needle and hot blade at any moment.

  Thankfully, Ren foresaw the same. He called out to them, forcing them to discard the broken shafts and continue the fight without weapons. For a short while the warriors glared at each other, waiting for a sign that their opponent would comply with the order.

  “Do it now, men or forfeit the bout.” Ren yelled, prompting both to drop the sticks immediately. It’s times like this when I admire Ren the most. He has an astounding sense of fair play. If only he were of Chieftain blood. He would’ve made a brilliant leader. The fight continued without interruption; pounding fists, shattered teeth and an arm lock that almost squeezed the life out of the shorter of the two men. When the poor lad’s face was almost purple with lack of air, he tapped his opponent’s arm and conceded to the stronger man.

  On it went for the rest of the afternoon until it was time for Kitto to fight with the youngest contender. The crowd stopped their yelling and cheering, hushed at the difference in stature. Kitto spat on the ground and pulled off his tunic, revealing rippling muscles and extensive tattoos across his torso. The summer heat had given him a bronze glow that glistened with a dewy sweat. He had quite a fan group of young maidens, bickering over who of them he preferred the best. Kitto flexed and preened, making a show of stretching his arms out and clicking his bullish neck.

  His opponent stood at the far side of the ring, blind terror flickering in his eyes. We could all guess what was passing through the poor lad’s thoughts. He had no way of backing out now, unless he was willing to be teased and belittled for the rest of his days. The lad took off his belt, but kept his tunic on. It was soaked through with nervous sweat in huge stains about his armpits and chest. Ren passed him a hazel pole and patted his back.

  Kitto lifted his weapon over his head, reigniting the cheers and whoops. I watched intently, curious as to how this wily brute would handle the young warrior. Would he smash him down in mere moments, toy with him like a bird of prey teaching her young, or let the lad get a few hits in to save face? It was a puzzle playing on all our minds, of that I’m sure. Tallack leaned forward on his seat, concentrating hard on Kitto’s moves.

  That kind of swagger only comes when you’ve seen all there is to witness in battle, but did he also have the temperament to handle the men when they were weak and injured or in need of support. A good clansman should be almost a parent to those young green warriors and respectful of the limits of the elderly. Was Kitto a good fit for all those roles?

  Ren called the start of the bout and moved closer to the young man. Kitto postured for a short while, examining his hazel pole intently. Every now and then he peeked up at the lad, as though he was waiting for him to act. Sure enough, the poor boy took Kitto’s ruse as a sign that he could attack him while he was off his guard.

  The young man hurled himself at the older warrior, taking a great swing at him with his stick. At the very last moment, Kitto blocked the strike with his own staff, pushing him backwards with such force, the lad’s feet lifted off the ground. He toppled backwards and stumbled to keep his balance. Kitto bent his knees and prepared for the next assault. He’d chosen to let the boy tire himself out. All who looked on knew that the older man could kill him in a flash if he so chose. This was his way of girding the admiration of the tribe. His kindness towards the lad would stay in the memories of young and old alike. He was shrewder than I’d predicted.

  Time and time again, the young fighter launched his skinny mass at Kitto, sometimes with an upwards thrust of the pole end to his gut, other times with a leap and downward strike, but all were deflected without much effort expended. Kitto was not even panting in the arid heat of the late afternoon. Just when the crowd were growing tired of the same moves, Kitto saw his chance. The young lad altered his grip and the pole slipped to the ground. Before he could stoop to retrieve it, Kitto was on him.

  With a single manoeuvre, he grappled the boy’s wrist and twisted it up his spine until he was squealing in agony. A swift kick to the back of the knees had him slumped to the ground. It was all over in an instant.

  “Do you submit?” Kitto roared above the clamour. The lad closed his eyes and squirmed. As soon as he nodded, Kitto released him, ruffled his hair and offered his hand to pull the boy to his feet. It was a masterful show. The tribe’s folk lapped it up, chanting his name in unison as he took his victory stroll around the ring.

  I couldn’t stop looking at my nephew. His expression was one of deep concern, and rightly so. This man was everything Tallack was not. It would take an act of the Gods to make Kitto fall from favour now. The slaves and womenfolk poured him water and offered him what little meat there was to spare, while his defeated opponent slunk off to lick his wounds. I was amazed that the first round of fights was complete without the need for my services.

  Ren repeated the selection process with the stones again to decide the pairings for the second round, and after a short rest, the bouts began again. My interest waned shortly after they started. I scanned the crowd looking for signs of Cryda and her babe. She was not near to Tallack where I expected her to be, nor was she among the elders’ wives or homesteaders. I thought perhaps that she had taken my advice on board and was packing her belongings ready to escape, but she appeared a short time later with Delen slung over her shoulder bawling her little eyes out.

  She approached Tallack’s tall chair from behind and whispered something into his ear, but I was too far away to hear. Whatever she said to him, he turned his gaze upon me and shot me a withering look. Moments later, he rose from his chair and raised his arms to silence the crowd. The tribe listened to their leader with a mixture of contempt and amusement plastered across their faces.

  “I was considering leaving the final fights until tomorrow when everyone is fresh and full of vigour. Now I see that you’re
all having so much fun, let us conclude the trials tonight. As soon as you are down to one final victor, we shall rest and eat together and then I will enter the ring when the moon is at its highest. We will fight by torchlight under the gaze of the gods.”

  The tribe’s folk stamped and thudded their approval. I was relieved my nephew had the common sense to fight Kitto while he was most weary, until I caught sight of the worrisome brute winking it his clansmen. What had they in store for my foolish young nephew?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sure enough, the bouts continued until only Kitto remained. Whether that was because he was genuinely the better fighter or because the Head Hunters had planned it so I could not say, but my gut told me that there was some devious plot afoot. With scant resources at our disposal, only those who fought valiantly in the trials were permitted to drink the last of Tallack’s ale. Everyone else made do with water or milk from the few goats that had not yet been put to the knife.

  Endelyn took the opportunity to steal the attention of most elders and their wives, asking their advice on the preparations for her binding ritual set for mid-summer’s eve. She gambolled and strutted as though there was no question of her authority over the tribe. Even Cryda appeared to be taken with the priestess, something I couldn’t have imagined only a moon or so ago.

  With no sign of rain and a gentle breeze coming from the direction of the moors, the smell of burning was strong. The fires were still raging on the heath, sending all the wild horses across the borderlands into the Durotriges’ territory along with the herds of deer, hares, geese, and birds that we relied on for food.