Sword of Neamha

by Stephen England

  I waited, crouched to pounce, waiting until he had passed the stack of barrels. Then I would kill him.

  Heavy footsteps against the dirt of the alley. He passed my hiding place and I threw myself upon him, grabbing hold of his cloak with one hand and swinging him around, prepared to drive my sword into his heart.

  He turned on heel and in that moment I saw his face.

  Cavarillos.

  Surprise was on his face, turned quickly to joy when he recognized me. “So, Cadwalador, you play the spy?”

  I met his sword slash with my own, well aware now of his mailed shirt. We were all alone. The two of us. Just as it had been on that dark night. I saw the hatred in his cold eyes, hatred unmatched save by mine own.

  “You never forgot her, did you, my brother?” he asked tauntingly. Evidently, he hadn’t either.

  I ignored his words, only too aware of their intent. Of their purpose. I retreated farther within myself, searching for the place he had taught me of. Street noises faded, leaving only the ringing of steel against steel, the instruments of death sounding its knell.

  I was myself, and yet not in myself—looking down from above at this cloaked fighter, his sword slashing through the air.

  The warrior’s place, Cavarillos had called it. His taunts all melted away, falling from my shoulders like the droplets of rain. Sparks flew from our swords as blade ground against blade.

  I was pressing him back, unsure of my supremacy, watching his eyes for the treachery I knew him so capable of.

  He met my sword with his own and gave it a fearful wrench. I recognized the ploy instantly. The one I had never been able to meet on the headlands of Gaul. The one which had robbed me of my sword the night of Inyae’s death. I cried out in fear.

  But I was not the twenty-year-old lad that had fought him on the isle of tin. The years had matured and hardened me, while taking their toll upon his body. The advantage was there for me to sieze, if I only could.

  The sword was nearly torn from my hand, but I kept hold of it and replied with a blow of my own. He dodged and my blade bit deep into the wood of one of the wine barrels.

  He was upon me before I could pull it out, his sword gashing open my shoulder. His eyes danced with merriment. “I swore an oath that I would kill you, Cadwalador. You were taken from my grasp at Attuaca. This is the day…”

  I heard a shout from behind him and Cavarillos turned, distracted. It was the boy, Catuvolcos, his longsword in hand.

  Cavarillos’ blood-wet blade flashed in the sun as he turned, beating down the child’s guard as I screamed a warning.

  Summoning up all of my remaining strength, I jerked my sword from the wine barrel, ignoring my now-useless left arm.

  Catuvolcos went down as Cavarillos’ sword cut deep into his thigh, his blade ringing uselessly against the stones.

  Time itself seemed to slow down. I watched, helpless to intervene as Cavarillos ran the lad through the belly, transfixing him to the earth. Screaming an impotent cry of rage, I descended upon Cavarillos like an avenging angel, my longsword raised on high.

  He started to turn back, facing me. It was too late, and in his eyes I saw the awareness of death as the sword bit into his neck, severing the blood vessels there.

  His sword fell from his hand and he crumpled into the dust of the alley, clearly dying.

  I knelt by the side of Catuvolcos, looking down into the lifeless hollows of his eyes. Aware that he had given his life for mine.

  A faint voice penetrated my consciousness. Cavarillos.

  “You have bested me, my brother.” I turned to see him laying there, his life draining away, his voice still holding the faint hint of mockery. “Curse the day I ever taught you the use of the sword…”

  He slumped back against the stones, dead.

  Tears fell from my eyes as I turned back, looking down at the child that had rescued me, that had traded his life for my own. As I had fought for Tancogiestla, the chosen successor, in my youth, so he had fought for a man he knew only as a follower of oi Neamha. Because of the legend.

  I heard a rush of feet, rough hands seized hold of my arms. I bit deep into my lip to keep from crying out, pain flowing from my wounded shoulder. I lifted my head, looking around.

  Palace guards surrounded me on every hand. I stood no chance. Their leader stooped low over the body of Cavarillos. “He is dead,” he announced grimly. “The Casse will want to know what became of him.”

  He turned, looking me straight in the eye. I stared defiantly back, my gaze never wavering.

  After a moment, he barked an order to the guards. “Take him away. Erbin will want him questioned…”

  Chapter XXVIII: The Chosen Few

  A blood-red sun sank into the hills beyond Teamhaidh, mirroring the blood I had spilt earlier in the day. The blood of Cavarillos and Catuvolcos mingled together in the sodden dust of the street. The life-flow of a warrior and a child, mixed in their death. Both dead at my hand.

  The child had died because of me, giving his life as a wild sacrifice on the altar of the ideals he still cherished to his breast. In a strange way, as I had known him, he had probably felt honored to die in the service of the bodyguard of oi Neamha.

  I stepped to the window of my cell, a narrow four-by-five room built on top of the oppidum. Three iron bars were strategically placed to bar my exit. I paced back to the door, remembering the two guards placed outside, and wondered if Cador had succeeded in making his escape. It was unlikely, in that of the three of us, he was the best-known and the most easily recognized.

  And if he had been captured, the fate of Aneirin moc Cunobelin had been sealed. The dreams of empire we had cherished since the days of the migration dashed forever to the ground. For Erbin and Praesutagos loved their comforts too much to take the war to the Casse with whom they had conspired. They would hold on to their precious little kingdom of Erain for as long as their perfidious allies permitted. And then they too would fall.

  But if he were still alive… With life comes hope, not for me, but for the kingdom I had given my life for, the kingdom I had endangered by my foolishness.

  I clenched my fists together, thinking of the morning. Of Cavarillos. Surprised, I realized that his death brought me no joy. Was it because of the slaughter of Catuvolcos, or was there something deeper?

  The words of Motios the druid came drifting back to me through the mists of time. Vengeance is like this pitcher, Cadwalador. Poured out, it leaves one empty…

  That was the only word to describe how I felt. Empty. For nigh twenty years I had lived with Cavarillos in the back of my mind, haunting my dreams, waking from my sleep with visions of Inyae’s death. I had known I would kill him—one day. It was my destiny.

  And now it was all over, a curious let-down from the feeling that possessed me over those long years. No matter. I would not live to see too many more sunsets. Erbin would make sure of that.

  Hours later, or what seemed like it, I heard voices outside my cell. The gruff tones of the guards contrasted against a softer, almost feminine voice. I rose from my seat on the rough flagstones and went over to the door, pressing my ear against the solid wood.

  “Give me a moment with my husband,” the voice asked, quietly pleading. It was a woman, her youth indicated in her tones.

  I could not make out the guard’s reply, but the bar slid suddenly back. I turned quickly, my face once again to the window.

  “My husband!” I turned to see a young woman perhaps twenty years old standing in the doorway, flanked by my two guards. With an exclamation of joy, she threw herself into my arms, two loaves of bread falling to the floor of the cell.

  Her lips grazed my cheek, her eyes flashing with anger as she whispered, “Kiss me, you fool.”

  The realization hit me like a thunderbolt. There was no mistake here. This strange young woman was here because of me. I returned her kiss with all the warmth I could muster, my hands sliding around her slender waist. But there was something there, something bene
ath her garments.

  I heard the bar slide back into place and looked up to find the guards gone. They had left us to ourselves.

  The young woman pulled away from my embrace with a toss of her head, fiery-red curls dropping to her waist. She turned from me, opening her robes and unraveling the thin cord that had been wrapped around her slim body. It was that which I had felt.

  She handed me the rope, nearly a hundred feet long and breathtakingly woven. I pulled at it roughly, testing its strength. The fibers held.

  “It will carry you to the bottom of the wall,” she whispered, her gaze indicating the window.

  Puzzled, I looked into her eyes. “The bars?” I asked.

  “In the bread,” was her cryptic reply, her voice urgent. “Hide the cord carefully. Men await you at the footbridge to the north.”

  And in a moment, she was gone, tears glistening in those sea-blue eyes as she passed the guards.

  I waited a few cautious moments, then I tore open the loaves of bread with a vengeance. A file fell from within the one and I snatched it up before it could fall against the stones.

  Within the other was a small bottle of oil, to lubricate the file. Placing a piece of the bread within my mouth, I sprang to the window, testing the strength of the bars. Filing through them would be long work, in order to produce an opening large enough to squeeze my body. And I must be out before the breaking of dawn.

  I set to work, piling the rope in one corner of the cell while I pressed the file against the rightmost of the three bars, near the bottom so that the file nearly scraped the stone as I pressed it back and forth.

  Back and forth. Back and forth. Sweat was trickling into my eyes by the end of the first hour and I anointed the file with oil to keep it from getting too hot.

  The first bar was cut half-through.

  I paused, putting another piece of the coarse, dark bread in my mouth, chewing on it for sustenance. Then back to work. Back and forth…

  The first bar gave way readily enough. I was working in pitch darkness now, no torch to illuminate my cell. But my eyes had memorized my surroundings in the hours of daylight, so I worked unencumbered.

  I laid the file carefully to the side, taking the loose bar in my hands and bending it outward. Frustrated, I nearly cried out as pain tore through my injured shoulder. The iron held.

  The bar was cut, but it was still present, still blocking my way. The two hours had been wasted. The young woman, her dangerous mission, all in vain. It would take me another six hours to free both bars to a point where I could escape. By that time, daylight would once again be creeping over the hills of Erain.

  My strength utterly spent, I sank down against the flagstones, my nerves frayed beyond the breaking point. There was no escape, and I would die for my efforts. Unless…

  I leapt to my feet, suddenly renewed by the thought. My escape could still be effected, but two must die. I pushed it away, forcing myself to focus on escape. That was all that counted, how mattered not.

  I struck the file against the bars with a sharp, ringing sound, looking down at the blood seeping from the reopened wound in my shoulder. That was the only weak point, the only flaw in my plan. The only thing that could cause me to fail.

  Fail. I forced the thought from my mind. I could not, would not fail. And I struck the bars again, the sound like a bell.

  The bolt securing the door slid back with a clatter and one of the guards hurried in, his spear held at the ready. I was upon him before he could present it, my hands clutching his throat, squeezing the life from his body. He let out a strangled scream, bringing his comrade running into the room.

  I wrenched the spear from his hands with my remaining strength, sending him toppling backward into his fellow.

  Neither wore a helmet or armor, and his head struck the flagstones with a dull thud, rolling listlessly to the side.

  His comrade jumped to the side and I saw the fear in his eyes. He blocked my first pass with the shaft of his spear, but I pulled back and thrust beneath his guard, skewering him against the wall.

  A soundless scream died on his lips, and I jerked the bloody spear-tip from his belly. Released, he crumpled forward, his face pressed against the cobblestones. Soft moans escaped from his mouth as he lay there, life draining away.

  I forced myself to turn away, ignoring his plight. Thus to all the lackeys of Erbin. I crossed the room and scooped up the lengths of rope, pulling the door shut behind me. My heart beat fast as I crossed the narrow hall, pushing open the door that led to the outside.

  I pushed it open cautiously, peering into the darkness. Ahead of me, by the light of the moon, I could see a guard pacing along the top of the wall. He was nearing the end of his beat. Another few moments and he would be coming back toward me.

  Minutes passed, the steady footsteps of the guard ringing a knell in my ears. I crouched there by an embrasure, shrinking against its protection as he passed close enough to touch.

  Another moment gone by and he turned, re-passing me as I knelt there upon the wall.

  I rose from my crouch and in a trice had the thin rope twisted around the embrasure, anchoring it on the solid rock. I jerked hard on it, painfully aware that I was silhouetted against the moonlight. I had to be over the wall before he turned to come back.

  Assuring myself of its hold, I swung over the wall, seizing hold of the cord with both of my hands. The pain flowed like fire through my veins as weight hung from my injured shoulder. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

  It felt as though my arms would be pulled from their sockets. I placed my feet against the wall, forcing myself outward as I began to slowly back down the wall. The thin fibers of cord cut into the palms of my hands, drawing blood.

  My descent was painfully slow, my feet digging into the sod and stone that formed the oppidum of Emain-Macha. I dared not look down, aware that the height would shake whatever confidence I had left. My hands were slick with my own blood, jeopardizing my hold on the rope.

  I hung there like a spider upon the oppidum, inching my way backward. My mind was focused upon one thing and one thing only. Getting down.

  I had forgotten all about the guard.

  I was perhaps two-thirds of the way down when I heard a shout above me, a shout of alarm and challenge.

  “Halt!” he screamed, a sword in his hand. I watched the naked blade, entranced by its proximity to the rope I hung from. I looked down.

  Perhaps thirty feet separated me from the ground. Enough to kill me, if he should cut the rope. I continued downward, swaying with each foothold.

  The glistening sword moved ever closer to the thin cord separating me from eternity.

  And in that instant, with my life hanging in fate’s balances, I heard a faint swish, an arrow flying past me in the darkness.

  The shaft buried itself in the guard’s throat far above me. With a gurgling cry, he disappeared from view over the parapet.

  I slid the rest of the way to the ground, the rope burning the skin from my palms. None of that mattered to me. My feet were upon firm ground once more.

  A slender form materialized out of the darkness, leading a horse. The young woman from the tower, a strung bow in her hands. She cast a glance up at the tall, forbidding oppidum and bade me mount.

  “We must hurry. My father awaits us.”

  We rode swiftly through the night, a cool breeze fanning the young woman’s long hair back over my face as I rode behind her, keeping a tight grasp of the saddle. I closed my eyes, ignoring the pain in my hands and shoulder, the searing torment flowing through my veins.

  I had escaped.

  I nearly had to pinch my arm to convince myself of this truth. Just hours previous, I had been locked securely away in the guardhouse of the oppidum. Now I was free.

  Or was I. I had asked my rescuer her name when we had mounted, asked her who had sent her on the perilous mission. She had answered with a shake of her head.

  “All will be answered,” she answered cryptically. �
��Soon.”

  The horse covered the ground with long, pounding strides, carrying us farther and farther away from Emain-Macha. Toward the north. Toward the footbridge where I had met with Cador, the merchant.

  Catuvolcos and I.

  The young woman serving as my conductress reminded me of him with a pang of sorrow. He would have enjoyed meeting her, of that I was sure, his tastes similar to that of most young men.

  A dark mass of men were clustered around the footbridge when we rode up. Their leader stepped forward, a burning torch in his hand. “Uctia, my daughter,” he exclaimed as the girl swung gracefully from the saddle. “You are well?”

  It was Cador, a long, dirty bandage swathing his neck. His concern for his daughter satisfied, he turned to me. “Cadwalador, my brother. It is good to see you.”

  I limped painfully toward him. “As you, friend. Who are all these men?” I asked, waving a bloodied hand to the assembled company.

  He looked me in the eye, his gaze sober. “All the nobles of Emain-Macha who still follow the banner of oi Neamha. Of Tancogiestla. Of his anointed.”

  Again. The legend. A pounding drumbeat filling the minds of men from all walks of life. Power. This was the secret that filled Tancogeistla’s life, the power to motivate men to either hatred or devotion. One of the two.

  Or those like me, who lingered somewhere in the deadly no man’s land of indecision.

  “How many?” I asked, pushing away the philosophy of oi Neamha for the cold reality of the present. This was all that mattered. Here. Now.

  “Sixty,” Cador replied with the same level of sobriety. “I called only those I could be sure of.”

  “I see,” I said slowly, walking along the ranks of the eiras, the nobility of Goidilic Emain-Macha. Those whose fathers had been conquered by Cocolitanos, who now fought ‘neath the Aeduan banner which had crushed them. Brave men, warriors all. I could see it in their eyes, in the hardened faces that stared back at me.

  But only sixty. A scant few. Far less than I had hoped. Compared to the thousands the Casse had fielded at Attuaca.