Nay, he was no warrior. Yet he it was who would lead us forth to battle this day. I watched as he turned his warhorse to face us, steel bared in his right hand. The order to advance burst from his lips. And our line swung into motion. Into battle…
We formed up in line of battle on the plain below, before the host of the Casse, waiting for them to come out of their encampment. A single ragged line of balroae, with the iaosatae sheltering behind our spears. Aneirin’s brihetin took up positions behind us as well, a heavily-armored reserve.
The Casse advanced to meet us, moving across the plain like a cloud. There were so many of them.
I looked to my left, to my right, seeing the fear in the eyes of my brothers, the warriors of the Calydrae. Javelins were clutched nervously in sweat-soaked palms, wet despite the cold. Snow was falling, the harbinger of ogrosan upon us.
Yet the chill I felt had nothing to do with the weather. I raised my javelin over my head, poised to throw as the Casse line descended upon us like a storm.
Men went down under a lethal hail of javelins but more advanced to take their places, stepping into dead men’s shoes. They crashed into our line and I grasped up my spear, thrusting it into the belly of a heavy-set man who appeared in front of me, his broad chest covered with designs in blue dye. He screamed and went down, his blood staining the snow. Magic or no magic, the woad had done him little good.
I saw a young warrior fall to my left and I jabbed with my spear toward his assailant. The tall spearman blocked it with his shield and thrust back at me. I felt the speartip graze my skin as I turned, plowing a fiery furrow into my ribs. He went down, pierced through the back by a javelin.
Yet for all of our valor, it was of little use. For each we killed, five more rose up to fill his place. And our line was melting away.
A young warrior of the Calydrae dropped his spear and ran for the rear, screaming at the top of his lungs. I thrust him through, spearing him like a fish as he dropped to the snow, a death-cry on his lips.
Yet it was too late. His fear was infectious and within minutes our line broke, men running for their lives, running for the rear, for the deception of safety.
I stood for a moment, a lone island amidst a sea of the enemy, then I too found myself running. In shame…
I heard the brihetin thunder forward, catching a warband of the Casse in the flank and turning it. Berdic’s iaosatae were also engaged, but they broke within moments, joining the rout.
We rallied in a grove of trees, their naked limbs stretched leaflessly toward the sky. A rag-tag, bloodied band of Calydrae gathered ‘round me, their unused javelins still in their hands.
The Casse swept into the grove like a wave, their impetus irresistible, unstoppable.
More men fell, blood staining the pure white snow now falling all about us. More lives ripped away in the space of an heartbeat. Tragedy.
A young neighbor of mine fell beside me, pierced through by a javelin. He lay there in the drift of the snow, the light gradually leaving his eyes, replaced by the emptiness of death.
Our fragile line broke in two, men once again scrambling for the rear. The Casse cut them down as they ran.
A riderless horse galloped past, his sides heaving. I grasped hold of his bridle and swung myself up, into the saddle. All around me men fled, our lines in disarray.
In the distance, I could descry the garrison of Attuaca and Periadoc making a valiant effort to harass the enemy flank. But the son of Malac had nowhere near enough men. He too would be crushed.
But what of Aneirin? Despite his deeds, despite his distrust, I felt my concern grow as my eyes scanned the battlefield in vain. Then I saw him, on foot, surrounded by a few unhorsed bodyguards, in the midst of the Casse. Cut off.
Loyalty. The drumbeat of my life. Driving me on to bravery. To madness. It drove me now as I plunged my horse into their ranks, forging my way toward my leader. My chieftain. Toward the Vergobret.
He stood in the midst of the enemy, fighting desperately against a tall, muscular, sword-wielding foe. The warrior’s hair was the color of flame, liberally streaked with grey. An older man. And there was something about him—familiar. I watched his blade, watched it slice the air, meeting against Aneirin’s sword with a clang. Something from my past. All over again.
My horse reared up, nearly throwing me as he trampled several of the Casse ‘neath his hooves. And in that moment of time, I saw the face. The face, though now lined by the years, which had haunted me through so many of the nights of my life.
Cavarillos.
With a cry of fury, I threw myself into the maelstrom, the fury of the melee, hacking my way to Aneirin’s side. The look was there, the look of victory, of triumph which I had seen in the mercenary’s eyes that dark night, so many years ago. Aneirin was losing the fight.
I poised my remaining javelin above my head, aiming it straight and true. “Cavarillos!” I screamed, anger in my tones. He looked up, momentarily distracted, as the javelin left my hand.
His eyes widened in surprise, then recognition. The crafty old warrior dodged, taking my javelin through the flesh of his upper arm. He reached over effortlessly and tore it out, breaking the shaft as though it were a straw. “Cadwalador!”
Another of Aneirin’s bodyguards fell to the snow, entering in unto the sleep of death. I leapt from the saddle, taking the sword of the fallen. “Mount, my lord!” I cried, screaming at Aneirin. He heard me, and turned.
I saw Cavarillos smile, his sword twisting through the air to fall upon the Vergobret’s mailed shoulder. A sickening crunch announced the breaking of bone and Aneirin cried out, his arm falling useless to his side.
As Cavarillos had wished to kill the father, now he desired to slay the son. It was happening, all over again. And once again, I was thrust into the role of protector. I parried his next slash with my own blade.
“How many years, Cadwalador?” He demanded, taunting me as of old, his voice rising above the battle like the bellow of an ox. “How many since I killed your woman?”
Twenty. Twenty long years, the figure burned into my memory as though with a brand. Yea, but those twenty years had wrought other changes as well. I was no longer the stripling he had once faced. He was no longer in the prime of his life.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the brihetin help Aneirin up onto the back of the horse. The Casse were surging forward. Another moment and all would be lost. And Cavarillos knew it.
“You stood in my path once before, Cadwalador!” he hissed, his sword grinding against my own. “In the days of oi Neamha. We were brethren and you betrayed me.”
His reference to Tancogeistla took me off balance. For the old general had not received his surname until long years after Cavarillos’ treachery. He had spied upon us—for how long?
“I swore that next time I should meet you, you would not live to see another night. And that day has come.” I took a step backward, his blade pressing me hard. This was the day I would die.
I heard a shout and turned, one of the young brihetin appearing like a ghost out of the battle, out of the swirling snow. He extended his hand to me and I sprang onto the horse behind him, feeling the sword bite into the back of my leg, drawing blood.
All around us, our army fled, running for safety, running off the field of battle. As we rode through the midst, I glimpsed Aneirin moc Cunobelin ahead of us, desperately trying to rally his men, his sword brandished in his one good hand. I looked back to Attuaca, the place which had been my home for so many years, and realized what he did not.
We had failed. Nay, this was worse than failure. Worse than defeat. The end of all dreams…
Chapter XXVI: Sunset of an Empire
The work of years destroyed, torn apart by the hands of Fate. Lives extinguished in the space of a moment. We fled for the mountains on that dark day, the falling snow obscuring our retreat as the squall turned into a blizzard, icy wind lashing at our bleeding and worn bodies. We were scattered across the highlands of t
he north, scarce two men together. I joined myself unto Aneirin and his bodyguard Catuvolcos, a young Aeduan like myself. The last of the breed.
Over the weeks that followed, a few more survivors trickled in to join our banner. Casse pursuit had ceased for the moment, as they returned to their siegeworks around Attuaca. For indeed, the oppidum had not fallen. Periadoc had managed to pull his bloodied force back within the kran, and now held out in defiance of the Casse chieftain’s threats.
The months passed by, and the days grew lighter. The month of Lugonatos, fidnanos, the time of light. The time of war. And the Casse launched their assault upon Attuaca.
We watched from the heights surrounding the plain of Attuaca, our numbers too few to effect any diversion, to do anything to help the beleauguered garrison. The last message from Periadoc, slipped out from behind the kran by a runner, had been a defiant one. “Our defenses are strong and our hearts are true. Though the end of our lives draws near, the fear of our memory will burn in the hearts of our enemies for generations. Come and help us if you can. If that is impossible, then know that we will defend this our kran to the last breath. The enemy shall never raise their banners over this place while a one of us remains alive.”
Words of pride. Words of defiance. The words of a young man unschooled in the ways of man. In the ways of war.
The Casse attacked on the south of the town, using two huge battering rams pushed forward on crude wooden wheels.
Nearly nine hundred men against the handful of Periadoc. He never stood a chance. Only the gods could have saved him. The gods, the false gods which had deserted me so long ago on this forsaken isle.
The rams advanced, their wheels groaning ponderously over the rough terrain.
Two hours later, they succeeded in smashing open the gate and a portion of the southern wall of Attuaca, forcing an entrance. For a time, we saw a tangled mass of men as Periadoc’s warriors met them in the breach, fighting toe-to-toe with the Casse.
Then silence fell over the town, the silence of death. A cheer swelled up the heights to where we stood, looking down upon the city which had once been the capital of the Aeduan state.
Aneirin turned away, tears of anger in his eyes, an angry impotence. There was nothing that could have been done. I knew that. Within his heart, he knew it as well. But he had stood by as his men died, an indelible stain upon his soul. Helplessness…
We retreated into the mountain fastness, gathering our followers unto us. Three weeks following the fall of Attuaca, a courier arrived from the south. From Ictis.
There, the oppidum had held out stalwartly against repeated attacks from the Casse. Yet at long last, the survivors had surrendered, exhausted by their long struggle and tempted by Barae’s gold. Our last stronghold was torn away from us. Erain remained, but Ivernis and Emain-Macha lay in the hands of Malac’s eldest son, the pretender. The man who had conspired with the Casse against us.
I saw it in Aneirin’s eyes. The shadow of defeat. He had been handed a kingdom, an empire, only to have it ripped away from him. Forces beyond his control. Divisions within and without, conspiring against the young ruler. Tancogeistla had succeeded only because of the fear he had created in the hearts of his enemies. Fear engendered by his prowess, by his deeds as a warrior. Aneirin had come to the throne without that advantage, without those skills. And he had failed in the task left to him by Tancogiestla.
I had long forgiven him his distrust of my motives with Margeria. He had been taught to look for treachery everywhere—and in the end he had, in every place except where it truly lay. He had gambled all, and lost everything, including his family. A treacherous wife, and the sons of his love, one of which was not his. I had never told him of this. The truth, I knew, would destroy him.
Now even the place of oi Neamha’s death had been torn from us, the hill upon which our leader had been slain.
And one morning, as the sun rose over the highlands, he gave the only order that could be given. We would march westward, to the ferry that would take us to Erain.
It was a tired, footsore, ragged group of men that marched from those hills.
Aneirin had been wounded in the leg during the battle, and the wound had never completely healed. Now the wound reopened and infection set in, prompted by the duress of the march. He was unable to keep to his horse and we had to bear him in a rude litter fashioned from the boughs of the trees.
I could see the pain in his eyes, discern that each step we took was agony for him, but he opened not his mouth. He was still trying, endeavoring, struggling to match the unmatchable, to live up to the legend oi Neamha had left to him. And he was failing, because it was just that—a legend.
It is the way of man—the past is ever better than the present, the leaders wiser, the truth truer. Let a man die, and he becomes what he never was. It was thus with oi Neamha.
The young warriors who marched with Aneirin moc Cunobelin were not those who had followed Tancogeistla through the early years of the migration, who had seen his drunken folly before Ictis. These only knew what their elders had told them—of the great deeds, of the Berserker, of the great deeds they had done with him.
Lies. Innocent, guileless falsehoods now combining to drive a man to the brink of himself, to the breaking point.
But we marched on, our heavy hearts growing gradually lighter with each step that took us closer to what remained of our homeland. And hope rose within, the impossible hope that there still remained in Erain those loyal to Aneirin moc Cunobelin, to the legend of oi Neamha. That they would rally ‘round our banner and hail Aneirin as their rightful king.
He was delirious at times with fever brought on by the wound in his leg, crying out in the night. I took him by the shoulders one night and shook him awake. Sweat was running down his cheeks.
“What is the matter, my lord?” I asked, the bland, foolish question escaping my lips unbidden. What was the matter, indeed! Everything was the matter.
He gripped my arm, rabid, unreasoning fear in his eyes. “They were there, Cadwalador. All around! Every one of them!”
“Who, my lord?” I asked, puzzled by his outburst. Almost instinctively, I found myself glancing into the darkness that surrounded us, searching for danger.
“All of them,” he whispered in his delirium. “Men, women, and children. All of them helpless. Mine—mine! I killed them!”
His flesh was clammy from the fever, rivulets of sweat trickling down his forehead. “The children of Ictis, their blood calls out to me from the earth. They haunt me, Cadwalador. Their screams…”
We resumed our march the next day. Aneirin showed no recollection of the night’s events, but the pallor of death was upon his brow. I feared for him, but I knew not the solution to the difficulties which plagued us.
Three days later, we arrived on the heights looking down upon the ferry. I heard shouts of joy from the column as we pressed forward, the sight of open water invigorating the spirits of every man of us. For across the waters lay safety. Across the waters lay a new hope.
Good, faithful Berdic came riding back to the column, guiding his horse with the one hand he had left. He had learned to ride well in the only way he had left unto him. Truly I admired his courage—and his loyalty.
But despair was in his eyes, his countenance betraying the nature of his news even before he spoke. He rode up to the litter of Aneirin moc Cunobelin where I stood, looking down upon his recumbent king. “My lord, a force of the Casse have seized control of the ferry. “
Aneirin raised himself up suddenly, gazing earnestly at his trusted subordinate. He shook his head, unable or unwilling to believe Berdic’s message. “What—why?”
“Our escape has been cut off…”
I saw it in Aneirin’s eyes, the same crushing weight that fell upon all of us at Berdic’s words. A growing sense of hopelessness that threatened to destroy us all.
“Is there no other way across?” I turned, finding Aneirin’s young bodyguard, Catuvolcos, standing there.
Berdic shook his head. “The only ships on this side of the waters are below us—with Casse seamen aboard.”
“And there is nothing else?”
“There is—at least there should still be, a light ponto two miles from here. I remember from the last time I came unto this area,” I interjected, my mind working feverishly. “Two men could use that to cross over to Erain.”
“But what good would that do?” Berdic snapped, the frustration clearly showing in his tones. “Had the oppida of Erain been upon our side, Attuaca would never have fallen!”
I saw Aneirin raise his hand for silence. “Cadwalador,” he said softly, raising himself up on one elbow. “There is a man—who might be able to give you the help we so desperately need. He is a noble of the Goidils in Emain-Macha, a merchant, and a friend of oi Neamha’s.”
Again. The legend. It possessed him, as it possessed all of us. The very name was now something mystical.
“He has ships,” Aneirin whispered, sinking back onto the litter. “You must go and find him, Cadwalador. For my sake.”
I nodded slowly. “His name, my lord?”
“Cador. A merchant named Cador. You will find him in the courts of Erbin moc Dumnacos.”
I shook my head, not understanding his words. “And what,” I asked, “is a friend of Tancogeistla doing in Erbin’s court?”
“Spying for me,” was the simple reply. “He will aid you.”
I straightened up, looking around at the little band of men that still stood with us. “I will need a man to go with me. Two men must row the ponto.”
“I will go.” It was Catuvolcos, an earnest look upon his young face and a longsword strapped to his side. I looked at him for a moment, gazing into his eyes. He was so young. As I had been once. He returned my gaze unwaveringly, conscious of my appraisal.
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