Sword of Neamha

by Stephen England

  I heard wild laughter coming from the palace as I dismounted outside. Clearly, the feast had already begun.

  I passed easily through the guards who stood outside. Who is Tancogeistla afraid of now? I asked myself silently. I looked from left to right as I entered the courtyard. A pavilion was set up at one end, with two mock thrones placed beneath its shelter. On one of them sat a very beautiful young woman in the bride’s attire. The other was empty.

  She caught me looking at her and smiled across the crowd, jewel-green eyes sparkling as they looked into my face. Clearly she was not unaccustomed to men staring at her. I turned away, unsettled by her gaze.

  “Cadwalador!” a voice called loudly, a hand descending jovially on my shoulder. I turned, looking full into the face of Aneirin moc Cunobelin.

  “It is good to see you, my brother,” he declared, kissing me on both cheeks. “It has been too long.”

  “Ah, well, I have preferred to remain to myself these last few months.”

  He nodded, ignoring the import of my words in his own excitement. “But come, brother. I wish you to see my bride.”

  “I already have,” I smiled, remembering the early days of my own marriage. The newness of it all.

  “She is beautiful, is she not?”

  “Indeed. May I congratulate you upon your marriage.”

  “Thank you. And thank our mutual friend.”

  “Oh?” I asked, unsure of what he meant.

  “Berdic,” he answered, smiling as he gazed upon his new wife. “He introduced me to her.”

  “Of course,” I nodded. “It has been good to speak with you.”

  “And I am honored by your presence, Cadwalador,” Aneirin stated earnestly, turning to look me in the eye. “I hold the man who saved my father’s life in great esteem.”

  “Nay, but you honor me, my lord,” I replied.

  He shook his head, reaching out to grasp me by the arm. “I meant those words, Cadwalador,” he remonstrated, gesturing to the mug of ale in his hand. “I am not drunken—not yet. Look over there and tell me what you see.”

  I looked in the direction of his gaze. “It is Tancogeistla.”

  “Oi Neamha,” Aneirin added. “The berserker. It saddens me, Cadwalador, all his life he has striven for the throne of the Aedui, to become the vergobret of his people. And yet now that he has attained it, he is an old man. He cannot live for many more years.”

  “I pray you are wrong,” I replied honestly.

  “I know why you say that, Cadwalador,” Aneirin said after a long moment of silence. “You do not believe I am prepared to follow in his footsteps.”

  “I have never said such a thing, my lord,” I responded, startled by the suddenness of his statement.

  “But don’t deny that you haven’t thought it, Cadwalador. You are too sharp of a man not to have. Because it’s true. The Aedui must be led by a warrior. And I lack in skill at arms.”

  I didn’t know how to answer him with the honesty he seemed to demand. “That is why I will need you at my side—I will need your advice in the days ahead.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “As you are not a warrior, neither am I, my lord. There are many who could better advise you than I.”

  “But none whom I would trust,” he replied fiercely. “You were with my father on this island in the early days of the migration. And you followed him and protected his life at great cost to yourself. I know this, as does he. The rest, they circle like wolves, hedging their loyalties and watching for the opportunity to vaunt themselves above the rest. Above me and the trust Tancogeistla has placed in my care.”

  “I will do my best to repay your trust, “ I said quietly, numb with the impact of his words.

  “I have faith,” he responded, “enjoy your evening, brother.” He moved off through the crowd, the ale in his hand, leaving me alone.

  I made my way over to where Tancogeistla stood, surrounded closely by several of his brihetin. As I came closer, I saw what Aneirin had meant. The years had taken their toll on my old general.

  “Welcome to the feast, my son,” he greeted, extending his hand to me. I still did not share Aneirin’s sentiments. The same strength was still there as he gripped my hand firmly.

  “I am glad to be here, my lord.”

  “I regretted that you could not accompany me on the expedition to Yns-Mon, but I understood your reasons.”

  Did he? I doubted it, but my doubts were not those that should be voiced. Just as I opened my mouth to continue the small talk, a man entered the courtyard, breathless and shouting.

  “Tancogeistla! Tancogeistla!” Someone pointed him in the right direction, and I saw him pushing through the crowd toward us.

  The Vergobret frowned, a puzzled look crossing his aged face. “I come from Ivomagos moc Baeren,” the man gasped out, falling at Tancogeistla’s feet.

  “Who?” I heard one of the nobles ask.

  Tancogeistla waved his hand for silence. “What is it, man? What message do you bring?”

  “My master is in Caern-Brigantae, carrying out your mission among the Casse. Three days ago, he was summoned before Mowg, the chieftain of that place.”

  “Yes? Go on!” Tancogeistla exclaimed impatiently.

  “Mowg informed my master that he was canceling our alliance with his people, that our advance on Yns-Mon had displeased him and the High King and that they could no longer continue in fellowship as friends with us.”

  Tancogeistla turned to me, his tone grave, a dangerous fire glittering in his eyes. “Bring Aneirin to me. I must see him at once…”

  Chapter XVI: War Upon the Wind

  I was not privy to what passed between Tancogeistla and Aneirin moc Cunobelin that night. All I knew was that they left the marriage feast early, and together.

  The Casse were a tribe in the south of the island. In the early days, when the migration had begun, their power had been centered in the southeast, all of their tribal territory centered around a hill-fort known as Camulosadae. However, in the fourteen years since, they had expanded their power, taking in almost the entire island. We had snatched Yns-Mon after they had attacked it three times, each time being repulsed with heavy losses. In the south, only Ictis held out against their armies.

  Ictis… The name brought memories flooding back into my mind. The place where we had been routed so decidedly back when we had first landed on the island. The defeat which had condemned us to our wandering. Rumor in Attuaca was that Tancogeistla was setting his sights on it as the next target of our warbands, that he wished to avenge his defeat before he died.

  I could understand why. However, I had the feeling that the new aggression of the Casse might change all that.

  Two weeks after the night of the feast, two contingents of men arrived from Emain-Macha. The sight of them marching through the gate nearly took my breath away. These were no levies, drawn from the poor of Erain. These were the finest warriors I had ever seen.

  In front marched the chieftains of the Goidils, the eiras, now rallying to Tancogeistla’s banner.

  And right behind them came warriors from the Ebherni, one of the most powerful tribes in all Erain. They were cloaked in armor from their heads to their thighs, armor like the scale of a fish.

  I had never seen anything like it, and from my position beside the street, marveled at the craftsmanship. I could barely dream of the level of skill needed to create such masterpieces. They were beautiful.

  But their arrival boded something far darker. Tancogeistla was once again bracing for war. Whether it was his preparations to advance upon Ictis, or whether he planned to strike our former allies, the Casse, I knew not. But war was upon the wind…

  And then one day a runner came from Yns-Mon, with a message from the military commander there, a captain named Piso.

  His news was undoubtedly intended for Tancogeistla’s ears only, but within hours of his arrival it had spread all over Attuaca like a wind-fanned fire.

  A man had been caught spying on
the defenses of Yns-Mon. Placed under guard and tortured by Piso, at long last he had given up the name of the man who had ordered him on his mission. It was Massorias, a chieftain of the Casse, brother of Mowg, the chieftain who had given Tancogeistla’s emissary their ultimatum.

  And once again, as he had after the messenger from Ivomagos, Tancogeistla went into council with several of the nobles of the Aedui, as well as Aneirin moc Cunobelin.

  What they decided was none of my affair. I went back to my forge, in hopes that if hostilities commenced, I would be left out of them. I wanted nothing further to do with war. It had taken too much from me. However, Aneirin’s words at the feast left me very much in doubt as to whether I would be permitted to stay away.

  A year passed, a year of tension and preparations. Troubling news came also from Erain.

  Praesutagos, the eldest son of Malac, had come of age and had assumed the governorship of Ivernis, without Tancogeistla’s leave or assent.

  Yea, in the same year, his sister Keyne was given in marriage to a Caledone by the name of Erbin moc Dumnacos.

  His loyalties at the present were uncertain, but the familial bond between him and Praesutagos was troubling. I looked toward Tancogeistla’s death with a distinct sense of unease. It seemed forces across the waters were gathering against him and Aneirin.

  Praesutagos was a Carnute, as had been his father. Harking back to the days of the Gallic Council at Cenabum, the majority of the druids had supported Malac’s usurpation of the throne. And they had become increasingly disenchanted with Tancogeistla…

  Ogrosan descended upon us, the tall trees around Attuaca bearing snow upon their eternally green branches. And with the snow came the end of campaign season. Armies did not go forth to war in the dark months. To do so was to tempt fate.

  Apparently, the Casse had other notions, or perhaps they had decided to make their own fate. Either way, I was walking with Faran one sunny wintry day, just outside the kran, or palisade, which protected Attuaca. Aeduan carpenters had repaired the damage caused by Tancogeistla’s rams so long ago. Faran was nearly six years old now, and was reminding me more of her mother with each passing day. She had no memories of Diedre, something which saddened me far more than words will permit me to express. Her mother had been taken from her far too soon.

  As we walked, I heard a cry and turned to see a man floundering in the snow. I let go of Faran’s hand and rushed through the knee-deep snow to his side. A scraggly beard heavy with snow and ice covered his face. He looked like he was starving, weak from his exertions. Too weak to rise.

  I put my arm around his waist and pulled him to his feet, carefully guiding him toward the gate. He was shivering uncontrollably, his teeth gnashing against each other. “Let me help you inside, my friend,” I said cheerfully. “I’ll fix up a bed and you can warm yourself by my fire.”

  A light came suddenly into his eyes and he gripped my arm with the power of a madman. “No,” he whispered insistently, the words coming from between cracked and bleeding lips. “Take me to the palace.”

  “Why?” I asked, surprised by his request. “Do you have business there?”

  “Yea,” he replied, “with Tancogeistla. I come from Yns-Mon.”

  “All this way,” I exclaimed in surprise. “In the middle of ogrosan? You must have been mad!”

  “They sent me to bring word,” he gasped out. “We are besieged.”

  “By whom?” I asked, knowing the answer before he even breathed.

  “The Casse…”

  Chapter XVII: Relief of the Oppidum

  We set out for Yns-Mon four days from the arrival of the runner. I rode with Aneirin in the vanguard, accompanying some ninety-one brihetin and nobles of the Aedui. Taken together, the army consisted of five hundred and twenty-eight footsoldiers, comprising lugoae, vellinica, balroae, ordmalica, Briton champions recruited in Yns-Mon itself, as well as the contingents of Erain which I had seen arrive in Attuaca.

  The brihetin were the only cavalry accompanying the army, while my old friend Berdic led a force of one hundred and twenty of the iaosatae to screen our advance.

  The news of the Casse’s attack did not entirely take me by surprise. Still, their attack in the midst of ogrosan was unexpected, to say the least.

  Aneirin’s nerves were at a fever pitch as we rode southward. I could see it in his eyes, hear the uneasy excitement in his voice when he spoke. In his manner, I saw myself reflected as though in a glass, the way I had been when we had first come to this isle, before the defeat at Ictis, the brutal massacre of Inyae’s village, the flight north into the snows. And in that moment, I realized how much I had changed. It was unsettling.

  I could sense that he wished to speak of his feelings, but was unsure how to do so, embarrassed at the presence of the brihetin, hardened warriors all.

  He looked at me one night as we encamped, building a fire to ward off the chill. “Let me take that, my lord,” I asked quietly, taking a bundle of sticks from his arms and placing them gently on the embers, so as not to extinguish the struggling flame.

  When I straightened, I found him looking at me. “We will be heading into battle soon,” he said nervously, rubbing his hands together in an effort to warm himself.

  “Yes, my lord,” I responded. “Only four days journey, if Tancogeistla’s geographer knows what he’s talking about.”

  “What is it like?”

  “What?” I asked. “Battle?”

  He nodded, looking around as if to see if anyone else had heard his question. We were alone. “I remained with the baggage train during the assault on Attuaca. Everyone deemed me too young to be of any use. I have never actually seen the fray.”

  I waved my hand to the many fires that flickered through the trees, where our army was encamped. “There are many warriors here, men who enjoy the battle, to whom the cries of our enemies are music to their ears. I ask nothing more of life than that I be permitted to return to my gobacrado, my forge. Why do you not ask them?”

  He sat down beside me on a fallen log, gazing earnestly into the flames. And for a long time he did not answer. Finally, “Because I trust you not to despise me, Cadwalador. Not to despise me as all these men do. They know I am not one of them. I am a Cruithni, an outlander. I must gain their respect if I am to lead them. Yet I know not how to accomplish that.”

  “What is the advice of Tancogeistla?”

  “That I win their respect by my deeds in battle. That is why I asked you the question. What is battle like?”

  I was silent for a long time, staring into the fire in my turn, watching as the sparks danced into the night sky, shooting ever upward, their light illuminating the forest. His question turned over and over in my mind. Unanswerable…

  “It is chaos,” I said at long last, my voice a mere whisper to the trees. “Chaos and confusion. Men sent screaming into eternity. It is the knowledge that you must kill to live, keep moving, keep killing even if the carnage sickens you. Men are turned unto the beasts of the forest as though seized by a lust for the blood of their fellow man.”

  “And what decides the victor?” Aneirin asked, looking into my eyes.

  “The victor…” I whispered, calling to my remembrance the words of Cavarillos those many years earlier, “ the victor is the man who is able to keep his head in the chaos, who can forget that he is butchering men just like himself, who can fight with both the ferocity of a beast and the mind of a man. Such a man will emerge victorious.”

  “An incredible task,” he said slowly, his eyes on the ground. He kicked aimlessly at the snow with his foot, watching as the flakes melted from the heat of the fire. His teeth clenched. “But I must do it.”

  I could see the pain on his face as he glanced sideways at me. “I will prove myself worthy of the Aedui. I have no other choice…”

  We continued to advance, southward on the dirt road Tancogeistla had ordered built a few years earlier. If not for it, we could never have traversed the snows. Even with it, we struggled.
Several men froze to death in the night. A horse wandered away from the camp and was found six hours later, as stiff as wood.

  To our west we could occasionally glimpse the great sea. The oppida of Yns-Mon was built on what could be called a large peninsula jutting out into the waters. We were getting closer. Now our only fear was whether we had arrived in time.

  Then one morning several of Berdic’s scouts came running back into camp, breathless and gasping with excitement.

  “We have glimpsed the kran of Yns-Mon!” one of them cried, calling out to Tancogeistla. “The gate is smashed open and one of the walls has been broken down.”

  I saw the fire catch in the old general’s eyes. “And have the Casse taken the town?”

  The scout shook his head. “None of the enemy are in evidence, my lord. Yet we could see mounds of bodies piled near the gate, as though a great slaughter had taken place.”

  Tancogeistla turned in his saddle, looking back over the column. “This may be a trap of the Casse. We must send a scouting party to ride in and scout out the oppida, lest our enemies lurk inside to ambush us.”

  “I will go, father,” Aneirin said quietly. Tancogeistla glanced sharply at his adopted son and heir and shook his head. “No.”

  “Is there a man who will go and espy out the enemy for me? Who follows the banner of Tancogeistla oi Neamha?” the old king cried, his sword brandished high to the heavens.

  Aneirin glanced at me and nodded slowly, kicking his mount into a trot, riding out to the front of the column, right past his father.

  I clucked gently to my horse and he moved forward, bearing me toward Tancogeistla.

  The general clasped at my arm as I rode by. “Take care of my son, Cadwalador. His life…I will require it at your hand.”

  “Yes, my lord,” I replied, staring him full in the face. Then I was past, following Aneirin moc Cunobelin out into the open plain before the oppida of Yns-Mon. Behind me, I could hear the hoofbeats of the rest of Aneirin’s bodyguard following us. Almost forty horsemen, riding slowly onto the plain…