Sword of Neamha

by Stephen England

  Several of the general’s bodyguards rode ahead of our column, scouting out the territory before us. On the third day, they came galloping back into camp at sunset, their steeds panting and lathered with sweat.

  Cavarillos was close enough to hear their conversation with Tancogeistla, and a few minutes afterward he came over to where I sat beneath a towering oak tree, laboring over a small fire.

  “The scouts report a village ahead of us,” he announced without preamble. “It’s name is Ictis.”

  “Perhaps we can get supplies there,” I said, gently blowing on the flames.

  “Tancogeistla thinks so.”

  There was a note of uncertainty in his voice and I looked up in surprise. “You don’t?”

  “I believe they will show us nothing except the sharp end of the spear.”

  “Why should they? We are no threat to them. They have never even seen us before.”

  “Listen to your own words, Cadwalador, listen to the echo of your voice. They have never seen us before. We are alien, strangers. It is the nature of man to suspect what he does not know. We number less than two hundred men, but we are all armed. We are an invading army. How are they to know that we are alone, and not merely the advance guard of more to come?”

  “Tancogeistla will be able to convince them otherwise.”

  There was no smile on the mercenary’s face as he gazed into the fire. “I pray to the gods that it will be as you say. Until then, Cadwalador---make sure your sword is sharp on the morrow.”

  Chapter III: Dead Men Walking

  At daybreak, we were up and moving. Breakfast was perforce light, consisting of a mere few handfuls of berries. Once again our scouts rode out ahead of us, cantering up the trail. I swung into step beside Cavarillos at the head of the botroas.

  I had been marching for days now, but I still had trouble keeping up with his powerful strides. He glanced sideways at me as though to assure himself of who accompanied him. “Did you sleep well last night, Cadwalador?”

  “Tolerable,” I replied, surprised by his solicitude. It wasn’t like him.

  “Good,” he retorted gruffly. “It’s liable to be the last good sleep any of us get.”

  I nearly stopped marching, looking over at him surprise. “What do you mean? With any luck, we’ll sleep with full bellies tonight.”

  “Luck is a fickle wench. Tancogeistla’s been drinking,” was his short reply.

  “What? Where did he get liquor out here?”

  “Ask the gods,” Cavarillos shot back. “And while you have their ear, pray that they’ll take it away from him.”

  I nodded, my cheer suddenly ripped away from me. I had seen Tancogeistla drunken before, back on the headland of Gaul. He had gotten into an argument with one of his subordinates and ended up killing three men before his bodyguards could restrain him. Just the man we needed to conduct diplomacy with the people of Ictis, the Dumnones, as they were called.

  Just then, Tancogeistla rode by, as if an embodiment of our thoughts. Cavarillos was right. Our general’s face was flushed with the fire of liquor and he was unsteady in the saddle. Passing the lugoae, the levy spearmen, he cursed their leader and ordered them to march faster.

  “If he lives to see the end of this march, I will own that the gods are protecting him,” Cavarillos stated quietly. “If he does not lose his drunken head to the natives here, he will insult one of his own men to the point of killing him.”

  “He is the anointed of the Vergobret,” I replied hotly. “They wouldn’t dare!”

  “Once again, Cadwalador, hearken unto your own words. We are all alone here, far from the magistrates of the tribe. We may never see our tribesmen again. In this case, the men may decide that one as volatile as Tancogeistla is not fit to lead. A knife in the darkness, a sword thrust on the field of battle. That is all it would take.”

  I glanced into the mercenary’s dark face, the man I called my friend. “You speak of treachery as though it were a light thing!”

  He shook his great head slowly. “I have lived longer than you have, my brother. I have seen many men die, felt their blood run over my hands, watched their eyes as life fled them. We number scarce two hundred men. Are we all to die because of the foolishness of one? Or is it better for that one man to die that we all be preserved?”

  I couldn’t answer him. I could scarce believe what I was hearing. And yet his words made a strange, twisted sense.

  The sun was directly above us when we arrived in the clearing before the village of Ictis. A small wooden palisade about the height of a man’s shoulder encircled the small settlement. Behind it one could see the homes and buildings that housed its inhabitants.

  Tancogeistla rode to the front, his bodyguard of brihetin or knights encircling him. Very few of them now were of noble blood, most being replacements from the night of the storm.

  The king of the Dumnones, a man named Drustan, came out to meet Tancogeistla. He was on foot, surrounded by the champions of the tribe.

  I heard our general ask him for food and supplies for his men. Perhaps Tancogeistla had sobered up since his morning binge.

  “Why should we give you succor, since you come before our gates with armed men?” Drustan demanded. “Are not there more warriors behind you, to march in once you have spied out the land?”

  Cavarillos tensed at my side, his hand going instinctively to the hilt of his longsword. “I pray you followed my instructions, Cadwalador,” he hissed in my ear. “Is your blade sharp?”

  I nodded silently, my eyes focused on Tancogeistla. The reply he gave would determine our fate. I silently asked the gods that he would be sober enough.

  “A month ago, we were washed up on the shores of your land,” Tancogeistla replied angrily. “We are the lone survivors of the wreck, yet you would turn us back in the wilderness to starve!”

  “The lone survivors?” Drustan asked, his eyebrows going up suggestively. “Ten score of heavily-armed men? Nay, but to spy out the weaknesses of our defenses are ye come. Go find your food elsewhere, and get from my sight.”

  Tancogeistla drew himself erect in the saddle, towering over the Dumnone chieftain. I could see the flush of liquor upon his cheeks and he was unsteady on the horse’s back. “If it is not within your will to give us food, then by the gods, we will take it! Fall upon them, warriors of the Aedui!”

  His naked sword gleamed in his hand and he lashed out at Drustan before any of us could react. With an agility few would have suspected, the chieftain leaped back and Tancogeistla’s blow fell upon one of the champions, laying the man’s shoulder open to the bone.

  Cavarillos swore furiously at my side. “He has done it! He has slain us all. See, Cadwalador, he has slain us all!”

  As one man, our warriors advanced toward Drustan’s bodyguard, to shelter our general. Seeing our numbers, he began to fall back, toward the gates of the palisade.

  Waving his sword in the air, Tancogeistla swung his horse to follow them, but two of his nobles reached out and grasped his bridles, turning him away from the enemy.

  It was too late. The damage was done. We could no more stop the battle which was to come than we could stop the chill winds of Imbolc blowing through the trees. Once again, Cavarillos was right. We were all dead men. Only our bodies didn’t realize it—yet…

  That night we encamped in the plain facing Ictis, preparing for the fight to come. Several of the nobles had counseled flight, but Tancogeistla, although now perfectly sober, was still adamant. We were the warriors of the Aedui, and we would remain where we were, stand our ground. Eventually most of the brihetin went over to his side of the argument.

  “This is madness, Cadwalador,” Cavarillos said as he joined me by the campfire. The flames danced into the night sky, casting strange shadows all around us. The number of our fires was pitiful in comparison to the light blazing up from Ictis. In the distance, torch-bearing runners could be seen hurrying through the woods, undoubtedly rallying the warriors of the Dumnones to the sta
ndard of Drustan.

  “Tancogeistla actually believes we can win,” he said a moment later, his tones full of disbelief.

  “He was not appointed by the Vergobret for nothing,” I said weakly. “Perhaps we can.”

  Cavarillos glanced across the fire at me. “Cadwalador, have you been pillaging the general’s wine?” He shook his head derisively. “We have no more chance of winning than we do of taking wing like the birds. Several of the men are planning to run tonight.”

  “They are betraying us!” I cried, anger rising within me. My hand reached out for the longsword laying beside me. “Tell me who they are.”

  “I don’t think I will,” Cavarillos replied in a voice more amused than angry. His humor nettled me.

  “Why do they run?”

  “Because they are mercenaries like me, the merchants of war. A dead mercenary does not show up to collect his coin. It goes to another, just like his woman and everything else he possesses. That’s not good business.”

  “Serving your country is not about business!”

  His eyes locked with mine and all humor was gone from his voice. “These are not my people, Cadwalador. This is not my tribe. All of my tribesmen died in the mountains on our journey to meet Tancogeistla. This mythical country you speak of is but an ancient dream from the days of the Keltoi Confederation. Those days are gone, just as the men who leave camp tonight.”

  “Then why don’t you go with them?” I shot back.

  He shrugged. “As I said before, I am a businessman. Just as dying does not strike me as a good proposition, neither does running through an unknown land peopled by those hostile to me. There is safety in numbers, Cadwalador---even if those numbers are commanded by a drunken fool. Go to sleep.”

  I lay there for a long time as the flames danced high in the air above me, as Cavarillos snored noisily on the other side of the fire. I was seeing another side of my friend, and I didn’t know what to think of it. Finally I fell asleep, there on my cloak on the hard ground. Deserters were not my problem, staying alive soon would be…

  When next I woke, the sun was rising in the eastern sky, casting its rays over the camp. Cavarillos was stirring the ashes of the fire, apparently hoping to find some hot coals. Two fish lay at his feet.

  “Where did you find those?” I demanded, raising myself on one elbow.

  He smiled for the first time in days. “A stream back that way,” he replied, pointing. “Our last meal should be a good one.”

  Just then a shout arose from the town. “What’s that?” Cavarillos dropped the fish and sprang to his feet.

  I was at his side in a moment, my hand going nervously to the hilt of the longsword at my waist. Before us, we could see the Dumnones issuing forth from the town, their warriors marching in formation.

  Drustan was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a man rode out before them with a horn in his hand. “Hear me, outlanders!” He screamed, rising in his saddle. “Prepare to die!”

  “He’s not wasting his breath,” Cavarillos observed dryly. He kicked the fire out and grabbed up his cloak and sword. “We’ll fight on empty stomachs, Cadwalador. Perhaps it’s just as well.”

  All around us, our warriors were scrambling to get ready. Behind us I could see Tancogeistla pulling on his armor as he called for his horse. The scene was chaos. We were encamped slightly below the town, and we knew without being told what would happen if the enemy charged down the slopes into us. Massacre.

  The lugoae were already moving up to the ridge, their simple spears grasped in one hand. Cavarillos was gone, gathering his men. Together we ran to the high ground, barely a dozen of us. Thirty of the gaeroas moved into position behind us.

  The enemy continued to pour from their gates, hundreds and hundreds of armed men. I tried counting the battle standards of the chieftains, but lost count. Cavarillos had been right.

  The slingers began their fire from behind us, stones whizzing overhead to fall upon the bodies of the enemy. A number of the Dumnones had stripped off their cloaks and were completely naked as they marched against us. I had seen our own warriors do this, but it still unnerved me. They were completely without fear.

  “What did I tell you?” Cavarillos appeared suddenly at my side. His javelins were clutched in his right hand, his longsword still sheathed. “We throw these first,” he said quietly, reminding me of my duty.

  I flushed hot, returning my sword to its scabbard and taking my own two javelins in my hand. In my excitement, I was forgetting the proper order of things.

  I looked back to where Tancogeistla waited, with his band of brihetin. Perhaps they would be the deciding factor in this battle. The enemy seemed to possess no cavalry.

  The slingers were taking a toll of the enemy, but I could tell it would not be enough. They would run out of stones before the Dumnones ran out of bodies to absorb them. Nothing would be enough.

  To our left, the first enemies advanced, tossing their javelins into the ill-protected lugoae before charging home. I closed my eyes, hearing the sound of metal tearing into flesh, the screams of the wounded and dying.

  “So the battle begins,” Cavarillos observed quietly. He looked my way, a quizzical expression on his face. “Have you ever been in a battle, Cadwalador?”

  I shook my head. “We raided a village—a year ago. It was just a skirmish.”

  “I see.” His voice was studiously neutral, but I could tell he was hardly pleased.

  A second band of the Dumnones suddenly appeared in front of us, charging into the gaeroas on our left. Once again the clatter of weapons and the shrieks of the dying filled the air. A new sound, hoofbeats to my right. Tancogeistla and the brihetin were circling around us. They were obviously planning to charge into the axemen that had attacked the gaeroas. Javelins slew several of the nobles even as they passed before us.

  One could tell from where we were standing that our brethren were taking heavy casualties. The javelins seemed to tremble in my hand, as though they wished to bury themselves in the flesh of our enemy.

  Cavarillos’ face was impassive, unmoved by the carnage. Aloof. The brihetin slammed into the enemy flank, trampling many of the axemen.

  For a moment, I thought perhaps they might succeed in routing the enemy army, in turning this debacle into a victory for our tribe. It was not to be. Their moment of glory was short-lived indeed, as yet another warband of our enemy descended, trapping Tancogeistla and his bodyguards.

  We were the last uncommitted body of warriors. I glanced to Cavarillos. “Now?”

  He looked ‘round, saw the bloodlust in the faces of his men. Perhaps he felt our moment had come. Perhaps he merely realized he could restrain them no longer. “Follow me,” he ordered simply, breaking into a trot.

  We charged the enemy spearmen. I hefted my javelin in my right hand, hurling it ahead of me as I ran.

  “Rabo!” we screamed, expelling the air from our lungs in the age-old cry of the Aedui.

  “Rabo!”

  My javelin caught one of the Dumnones in the arm, ripping him open. He lost his grasp of his spear and stumbled backward. One of Cavarillos’ men was upon him before he could recover, nearly disemboweling the man with a single slash of the sword.

  We slammed into the enemy ranks, swords drawn. We had never bothered throwing our second javelin. One of the spearmen tried to block my sword, but I knocked him backward. To my right, one of my brothers fell, his face covered with blood. I stepped over the corpse, driving my blade between the ribs of the man who had killed him.

  A strangled cry rose from his lips, a strange, gurgling sound. His eyes seemed to glaze over, and he collapsed forward, his blood spilling onto my trousers, a dark red life-fluid. I pulled my sword from his flesh with an effort, raising it to protect myself as a blow descended toward my head.

  The force of it nearly took me to my knees, but I recovered. I had lost all sense of what was happening around me. My world was now restricted to the few feet around me, which were filled with my enemies. We we
re badly outnumbered.

  My comrades were dying all around me. We were dead men. I brought my sword’s edge down on the wrist of one of the Dumnones, severing the hand. He screamed in pain, blood spurting from the stump as his shield fell to the ground. He tried to bring his sword up to block me, but I knocked it aside, ignoring the terror in his eyes. Another moment and he lay dead at my feet.

  From behind me, I heard a long, keening cry of rage, resounding above the cacophony of the battlefield. A blade sliced across the bare skin of my back, opening a wound. I spun around, my longsword raised high. A boy my own age stood in front of me, a sword in his hand. A sword which was descending toward my head. I raised my shield to block it, but the force of his blow knocked me to the ground. I lost my grasp on the shield, rolled away to escape his next slash.

  I saw his eyes in that moment of time, saw the hatred and agony there. Perhaps I had killed his father, his brother—none of that really mattered now. I raised my sword to deflect his, but he beat down my guard. I was losing for all the reasons Cavarillos had taught. Balance, mobility, I had lost both of those and now I stood to lose my life because of it.

  I saw his eyes again as he aimed a final blow to my head, and I couldn’t tell which fate was the more merciful. Mine, to die, or his, to live with the knowledge of his loss.

  He screamed again, but in pain, not rage. Drops of something wet showered over me and I looked up. Cavarillos stood over me, a bloody sword clutched in both his hands. My opponent was sagging to the ground, nearly beheaded by the blow. I was covered in his blood. I staggered to my feet, starting to thank my savior. Cavarillos stopped me.

  “Run for your life, brother!” he screamed in my ear. I glanced around. There were only four of us left. The lugoae had already broken and were running from the field. One of the Dumnones aimed a blow at Cavarillos and I blocked it savagely. My mind refused to believe this was happening. That we were losing.