Sword of Neamha

by Stephen England

  By the second watch of the night, I left my post upon the bluff and slowly slipped down the backside of the hill, careful not to dislodge any rocks or debris on my way down. I could scarce credit the plan I had formed, the madness that had seized my mind. I knew one thing, and one thing only. We could never hope to beat such a host in a fair fight. Thus craft and guile were our only allies…

  Many of the Casse slept in the open, wrapped only in their cloaks. Others had taken shelter under trees, stunty conifers which dotted the highlands of Attuaca. Still others, I suspected the richest of the warriors, had brought some rude form of tent with them and set them up above their heads.

  It was a motley collection, I thought as I moved stealthily, quietly, among them. Beardless boys and men in their prime, gray-haired champions and young men who had not yet drawn blood in anger.

  Two hours had gone by. I could tell by the position of the moon. One more hour I guessed until Periadoc would return. Perhaps my last hour on earth.

  My javelins were in my hand as I crawled slowly toward one of the last-burning fires, my knife thrust in the waistband of my trousers. Instruments of destruction. Death.

  A few smoldering faggots still lay at the edge of the fire, along with several half-empty jugs of liquor. They had been drinking to keep off the cold.

  I extended my hand toward one of the burning pieces of wood, seeking to seize it. The next moment, I withdrew my hand, hearing one of the sleepers stirring nearby.

  Pressed flat against the ground, I held my breath, the night still as death around me. I could hear the sleeper throw off his blankets and rise, footsteps against the earth. Coming toward me.

  I quickly reached out and grasped one of the jugs, jerking it toward me. The liquor splashed over my mouth and cheeks, staining my tunic. Then I sagged against the earth, the jug clasped in one hand as I lay on top of my javelins, apparently asleep. The footsteps came closer, then stopped directly above me. I nearly stopped breathing.

  The next thing I heard was a low chuckle, as if he was mocking my drunkenness. Then he moved off. I watched him go, walking off to the edge of camp as if seeking to relieve himself.

  The flame was dying on the piece of wood I had seized, dark coals flickering ever more slowly. I glanced toward the bluff again, then at the moon. Perhaps another twenty minutes. I breathed slowly upon the faggot, seeking to fan it into fuller flame.

  I could wait no longer. I must be about my business. I pulled myself up onto my hands and knees, clutching the fiery brand in one hand, my javelins in the other. The little cluster of Britonic tents was only a few yards away. Undoubtedly their chieftain was within.

  Silently, I whirled the brand round my head once, then twice, the air forcing the embers into full-blown flame. Perhaps the warrior who had passed me at the fire saw me. I thought I heard a shout. Perhaps it was nothing, but none of that mattered. I was past the point of no return. No one could stop what I was about to do.

  I ran, stooping low, to the first tent and shoved the brand against the thin fabric, waiting until it smoldered and caught, then running on to the next one. At the third tent, I heard a shout from within. A light breeze came rolling down from the north, aiding my efforts.

  I saw the fire leap from one tent to the next, fanned by the breeze as men came running out of the first tent. One of the men shouted and pointed in my direction. My javelin caught him in the hollow of his exposed throat and the words died on his lips. I tossed the faggot away, into the doorway of another tent. Now I was just another warrior. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  The sower of confusion. The bringer of death. Another warrior, indeed…

  Men rose from their resting places all around me, confused by the fire, panicked by the sudden attack from their midst. Screams, confusion, death wrought everywhere.

  I tossed my second javelin at a tall, noble-looking figure who emerged half-clad from his tent, still struggling to pull on his armor. He fell, pierced through the chest. A spear swished through the air near my head and I turned to confront a young lad, an enemy lugoae. Whipping my dagger from my belt, I thrust it into his flesh, his scream filling my ears as he crumpled forward. His agony meant nothing to me, I was deaf to his cries.

  All that mattered was the mission I had set for myself to accomplish. Faran sheltered behind yonder palisade, Diedre’s little daughter. My tribesmen. They were all that filled my mind. This bloodshed was necessary.

  Men were falling everywhere about me, as Casse killed Casse in their panic and confusion. And then I heard it, the sound of a horn sounding loud above the chaos. Looking to the south, to the hills above Attuaca, I saw a dark mass of horsemen.

  They swept into the camp, the sound of their hoofbeats dark thunder against the frozen sod. A few tried to resist, I saw several horsemen fall. But the slaughter had already been too great.

  One of the brihetin swung my way, his blood-flecked spear extending before him like a lance, seeking to skewer me.

  I stepped nimbly to the side at the last moment, shouting at him over the noise and chaos of battle.

  He pulled his horse up sharply, his steed rearing into the air at the suddenness of the halt.

  “Is that you, Cadwalador?”

  “Yes!” I cried. “Give me a hand!”

  The young bodyguard extended his arm and I swung up behind him on his horse, my eyes scanning the encampment from the vantage point as we rode out of danger.

  A dark mass of men was pouring from behind the walls of Attuaca, the garrison come to aid us.

  It was the final blow. The Casse broke, running from the field with our horsemen pursuing hotly. The battle was over, if the night’s slaughter could be called a battle…

  I did not see Aneirin moc Cunobelin until the next morning, when his horsemen came streaming back into the palisade along with the rays of the dawning sun.

  He dismounted, taking off his blood-stained helmet to reveal a tired face sweaty even in the cold morning air of ogrosan.

  “I owed you much before this last night, Cadwalador. Now I owe you more than I can ever repay. The lives of my wife, my sons, for all this am I indebted unto you.”

  He grasped my hand fiercely, tears shining in his dark eyes, his words embarrassing me. “I did not do it for your sake, my lord,” I replied with honesty. “I did it for my daughter’s sake, for the sake of my last link to the wife I lost those years ago.”

  “Why you did it matters not, Cadwalador. The deed itself is all that concerns me. Thank you.”

  I looked across the square at Faran. It had been nearly a year since I had seen her, and the changes in her saddened me, at the thought of what I had missed. She was well past her seventh birthday now, maturing more with every passing day. And she still remembered my face. That was enough.

  “Have you seen Margeria?” Aneirin asked, glancing once again in my direction.

  “Nay, my lord,” I replied. “Has she not come down to welcome you home?”

  He shook his head soberly. “No. I must go assure myself of her safety. Fare thee well, my friend.”

  It was two weeks after our slaughter of the Casse in the plains before Attuaca, that a lone horseman came riding into the town. I recognized him immediately as he reined up his horse in the square. It was Ivomagos moc Baeren, the emissary Aneirin had sent to Barae, High King of the Casse.

  He looked at me as he dismounted. “Take me to Aneirin,” he said soberly. I nodded, leading him into the palace of Attuaca. The Vergobret met us there.

  “What news do you bring?” Aneirin demanded, his voice anxious.

  Ivomagos remained silent, stripping off his cloak and casting it onto the stone floor. He turned away from us wordlessly, revealing a back that had been flogged with a whip, the flesh scored into fiery welts and blisters of clotted blood.

  “He ordered me whipped,” he whispered, his voice a low hiss.

  “What?” I heard Aneirin gasp.

  “I was scourged by order of Barae!” Ivomagos hissed out. “He said tha
t there could never be peace between us.”

  He reached into his baggage and pulled out a long, finely-crafted sword. “Barae told me also to give you this, my lord. He said to be sure and keep it sharp, for the day when he comes to meet you draweth nigh…”

  Chapter XXIII: A Faithful Man

  Spring came and with it news from the south. The oppida at Ictis had been assailed by a large force of the Casse, and the garrison nearly overwhelmed. My old friend and compatriot Lugort was among the slain, his ordmalica butchered by enemy slingers before the rams had even breached the walls.

  Had it not been for the stalwart defense of the dubosaverlicica and the eiras, who alone slew nearly a third of the enemy force, the hill-fort would have surely been lost.

  The words of Barae were not forgotten, and Aneirin went to work with a vigor, calling more warriors to his banner from among the Calydrae. He dispatched messengers to Erain to order levies to be sent from the Goidilic tribes, but his messages went unheeded. Erain was firmly in the hands of Praesutagos and Erbin moc Dumnacos, his brother-in-law and the governor of Emain-Macha, flatly refused Aneirin’s call for warriors.

  Dark times were upon the Aedui. I followed Aneirin wherever he went, my sword at his disposal, to guard his person from dangers without—and within…

  Aneirin’s young sons were fast growing toward manhood, and with them his hopes for a lineage. They were his pride and joy and he doted upon them, like any father. And perhaps more so.

  A granary inside Attuaca was torched one dark night in Fidnanos, apparently by Casse saboteurs. Aneirin grew steadfastly more suspicious of all who trafficked within the city, to the point of evicting several strangers who were ostensibly on their way to visit kinsmen in the north.

  Diedre’s daughter Faran spent most of her time in the palace now, playing with Aneirin’s young sons and looking out for their safety. It was an incredible responsibility, but she was no longer the little girl I had left when I had followed oi Neamha to the south, to Yns-Mon and Ictis. I had to remember that.

  Galligos moc Nammeios rode into Attuaca a few months after the sabotage of the granary, with two pretty young women riding behind him.

  He reined up his horse outside the tavern and went inside. I laid my tools aside and entered behind him, wondering what could bring Tancogeistla’s spy to the environs of the capital.

  “Cadwalador!” he exclaimed, slapping me on the back. “It’s been too long. Another ale, if you please!” he shouted at the innkeeper.

  I shook my head. “I don’t drink.” The example of Tancogeistla had been enough for me.

  Galligos shrugged. “So, what brings you to Attuaca?” I asked, when we had sat down in one corner of the tavern. His women didn’t sit with us. Instead they circulated around the room, singing with the other visitors to the tavern and laughing at bawdy jokes. At length one disappeared. Clearly about her master’s business.

  “Business, Cadwalador. As usual.” His black eyes narrowed, fire glinting within them like dark coals. “I heard about the granary.”

  “Ah, yes. An unfortunate business.”

  “You haven’t caught the miscreant.” His words were more of a statement than a question. I shook my head in the negative.

  “Nor are you likely to.” His words spoke the obvious truth, but the certainty with which he uttered them was sufficient to put me upon my guard. There was something behind the statement.

  “Where have you been all this time?” I asked, endeavoring to change the subject. I could come back to the topic later, when he would not be expecting it.

  “Camulosadae,” he replied coolly. “In the court of Barae, gathering information of his operations against the Aeduan state. They are preparing to march against us, Cadwalador.”

  “Then why did you not go to Aneirin moc Cunobelin upon the moment of your arrival? He needs all the help he can obtain at this time.”

  “Barae is known for his spies, Cadwalador. I learned much about him during the months I spent in his court.” A smile flickered across the spy’s face. “One of those young women you saw ride in with me—she shared his bed for three months, until he tired of her.”

  “He is a formidable enemy. And his weapons are not those of the field of battle. Not when he can avoid it. Rather he prefers to move in the darkness, striking unexpectedly and without warning.”

  “What does all this have to do with your reluctance to report to your master?” I asked sharply, annoyed by his manner. I had the sense that he was toying with me.

  “Everything, Cadwalador. Barae has a spy in the very household of Aneirin moc Cunobelin.”

  His words struck me like a blow to the face and I could do nothing but sit there, gazing into his eyes. “How can you be sure?”

  “An unimpeachable source,” he replied, seeming almost amused. “The High King himself, Barae.”

  “He told you this?”

  Galligos shook his head. “Not me. The whore. And she relayed his words to me, as she was bidden. He was given to bragging with his women. Of his conquests, to his conquests.” He chuckled as though he had just made a particularly funny joke.

  There was nothing funny in the whole situation—not to me. “Why do you tell me this?” I asked, glancing sharply at his face.

  “Who is better placed to find out the identity of the spy than you, Cadwalador? Trusted retainer of Tancogeistla. Friend and companion of Aneirin moc Cunobelin. You can move unquestioned in the palace.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t do that.”

  I glanced across the tavern to where one of the young women sat on the lap of an Aeduan warrior, laughing merrily as he whispered something in her ear.

  “Why don’t you use her?”

  “You seem to have forgotten the king’s fear of strangers,” Galligos reminded me grimly. “He would be reluctant to accept a new maid. And with his legendary devotion to his young wife, her beauty would not be of aid to us.” He looked pensive. “A faithful man, Cadwalador, is one of the greatest obstacles to my work that I know. Fortunately for my profession, it is a quality few men possess. A few men like yourself.”

  He rose from his seat, tossing a coin upon the table to pay for his drink. “Let me know what you can discover,” he stated unequivocally, looking down at me. And then he was gone.

  I sat there for hours, seeming frozen in my place, his words running over and over through my mind as I thought through my friends within the palace, considering and rejecting them all in turn. The idea of spying upon them was repulsive to me, yet Galligos’ words held the ring of truth. And if he were right…

  I went to the palace.

  Months passed and ogrosan approached once more. I had discovered nothing. The spy had left Attuaca without ever speaking to Aneirin. To my knowledge, I was the only one who even knew he had visited. The only one who had seen him and known his identity.

  His words tormented me, rolling through my tortured brain in the darkness of night. Who was the spy? Who was the spy? Who was the spy…

  Fate plays perverse tricks upon the lives of men. For it was not by stealth and by guile that I finally received the answer to my question. Nay, rather, it was by the mistake of a child.

  I went to the palace late one night to retrieve Faran. She was late and with Galligos’ warning ever in the back of my mind, I was worried about her.

  Faran was in the gardens behind the palace, chasing a small hare that belonged to one of Aneirin’s sons. She greeted me dirty and tired, with a huge smile on her face. Yes, there was still an element of the child within her.

  “You have worried me, my darling,” I whispered, clasping her to me in the darkness. She looked more like her mother with every passing year. She returned my embrace uneasily, as though sensing the tension in my body.

  “I had to find the rabbit,” she replied boldly, showing me the furry little animal. “He got lost.”

  I smiled. “Let’s go home.”

  It was then I heard voices from within the gardens, voices from
out of the night. I pulled away from Faran and bade her go on. “Return the animal and go home,” I whispered.

  A sixth sense seemed to warn me, as though this was what I had looked for, had sought for so many months.

  I moved stealthily through the hedges and trees that Aneirin had ordered planted for his wife’s enjoyment. Margeria was scarce twenty years old, but I rarely saw her in the palace. She seemed to keep to herself.

  Soon I was close enough to distinguish the voices. A man’s voice, hoarse and deep, and a woman’s, softer and harder to understand. For a moment I thought I had merely chanced upon a tryst between the servants, but the same impulse that had separated me from Faran drove me onward, to discover the truth of the matter.

  There was something familiar—as though I had heard the woman’s voice before, long ago.

  Moving from my position behind the hedges, I descried the couple, the man standing with his form silhouetted against the bright moonlight, the woman with her back turned upon me. Her next words were clear, distinct.

  “…do not stop until you hasten unto Ivernis. Tell Praesutagos that the Casse look kindly upon his overtures to them.”

  My heart nearly stopped beating. The woman, the unknown woman before me, she was the spy I had sought in the long months since Galligos’ strange visit.

  “How do you know this?” the man asked gruffly.

  “A emissary from Barae, he came to me last night,” she replied. “Bearing a message from the High King.”

  “It is enough,” the stranger assented at last, seeming satisfied by her reply. He reached forth his hand and took the packet from her hand. “I will deliver this to Praesutagos.”

  I parted the bushes with one hand, drawing my dagger from my belt. He looked up to me, startled and took to his heels. I caught only a fleeting glimpse of his face as he turned, a hawk-like face dark as the night.

  And then he was gone. I turned, grasping the woman firmly by the wrist, to prevent her escape.