Sword of Neamha

by Stephen England

  “How do we reach the Vergobret?” I asked, going on to my next question.

  “I own ships on the coast. They await my orders,” Cador replied calmly, clearly having thought through his plan. “Howbeit, I do not know the location of Aneirin moc Cunobelin. Only you can lead us to him.”

  “I am willing.”

  It was then in the moonlight he glimpsed my bloody hands, stripped of their skin by the cord. “Uctia,” he barked sharply.

  His daughter materialized at his shoulder, a dark vision. “Yes, father?”

  “See that our friend’s hands are bandaged and he is given sustenance. We leave within the hour.”

  We arrived at the coast a full week and a half later, our journey hampered by the patrols from Emain-Macha out searching for us. We traveled only at night.

  We slipped aboard one of Cador’s merchantmen one dark night, the moon obscured by clouds. His master met us on the gangway, warned of our arrival by a noble Cador had sent ahead.

  “A good journey, my lord Cador?” the master asked nervously, grasping his employer by the hand. “Erbin’s men have been here.”

  The merchant halted. “What did they want?”

  “They were seeking to impound your ships, to keep a watch aboard them until your capture had been effected.”

  Cador looked at me, alarm in his eyes. “And?” he demanded.

  “I called together our sailors and threw them from the ship. We were too many for them. Have I done right, my lord?”

  A nod was the only reply he received, Cador clearly lost in his own thoughts. “They’ll be back,” he announced grimly. “Let’s get the men aboard.”

  I nodded, moving back to the main contingent, my eyes full of wonder as I took in the sights around. The ships were long and wide, clearly suited for the carrying of cargo and men. An entire trevas of pontomora lay in the harbor, far larger vessels than anything I had ever seen before.

  Oh, would that we had owned such ships as these in the days of the migration! But none of that mattered now, either. The past was just that and only the future could still be changed.

  Word spread among the eiras and they filed silently aboard, their weapons wrapped in cloth to keep them from making noise.

  Our preparations took most of the night, but finally Cador was satisfied with what had been done, and he gave the master orders to cast off. A stiff breeze was blowing as the mainsail was unfurled and we began to slip out of the harbor.

  Moving to the stern of the ship, I once again marveled at the beauty and sheer size of the vessel. My eyes flickered back over the harbor, the still-sleeping port. And caught sight of a large torch-lit procession making their way down to the waterfront.

  I threw back my head and laughed aloud, for the first time in years. Erbin’s men had arrived a few minutes too late…

  Chapter XXIX: Oi Neamha

  We found the encampment of Aneirin moc Cunobelin after two weeks of searching, poking the bow of the pontomora into every inlet and sending scouts ashore to search for him. A long, frustrating search rewarded at last.

  His face lit up as we marched into the camp late one evening, having passed safely through the picket lines.

  “Cadwalador, my brother,” he whispered, hobbling over on his bad leg. He fell upon my neck and held me in a tight embrace. “I feared for your life. But you got through.”

  Cador stood by, keeping a respectful silence. I introduced them, the merchant to the king, warriors both.

  “How many men could you bring?” he asked as soon as the greetings were over.

  “Three score,” I replied swiftly. I could see it in his mind. Combined, our force numbered barely two hundred warriors. And his were weakened from their exertions over the past months.

  “We can begin moving the men down to the ships,” Cador interjected.

  To my surprise, Aneirin shook his head. “My men are wearied. If we embark in the middle of the night, someone might be forgotten. We will wait until morning.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  It was a fateful decision.

  As we lay down that night, I taking my accustomed station near Aneirin, as his bodyguard, I realized that never had a fire been lit that evening.

  Rolling onto my uninjured shoulder, I looked over at the king and asked why.

  A few moments of silence followed. Then he answered. “We are hiding, Cadwalador. A Casse sub-chieftain named Meriadoc has men in the area, looking for us. We dare not give away our location.”

  Another silence, as I digested his words. We were in more danger than I had suspected. Then he spoke again.

  “What became of the lad?”

  His question smote me to the heart. “Catuvolcos?” I asked, knowing full well whom he meant.

  A nod was my only reply.

  “He died in your service, my lord. Slain by the henchmen of Erbin moc Dumnacos.”

  “A pity.”

  At morning light, we awoke, the sun streaming down upon the highlands in all of their glory. A beautiful dawn.

  We breakfasted upon fish caught in an ice-cold mountain stream nearby. Just as we were finishing, a lad from the slingers of Berdic came running into the camp. He had been one of the sentries placed the night before.

  “The Casse!” he exclaimed, out of breath and panting from his run.

  My one-handed friend leapt to his feet, staring the boy in the eyes. “Where?”

  Aneirin moc Cunobelin came over to our fire, joining us as we looked downhill, to where the lad pointed. A thick column of the Casse wound its way uphill toward where we stood. Hundreds upon hundreds of warriors.

  Like the sands of the seas in number…

  Word of the approaching enemy spread quickly through the encampment. Cador bowed as he entered Aneirin’s presence, his hands fumbling to strap on a sword.

  “We will cover your retreat, my lord. The eiras will stay as you make your way to the boats.”

  Aneirin shook his head, a strange light entering into his eyes. I stared at him in disbelief. “No,” he said finally. “This is where we stand. This is where we fight.”

  “But, my lord!” I exclaimed.

  “But what?” he asked, one of the servants helping him with his coat of mail. “I have nowhere left to run. Sixty men are all that can be found in Emain-Macha to support me. I sent my messengers and they slew one of them, though he was no more than a lad. As they killed him, so they would deal with me. No, Cadwalador, it is best this way. Win or lose, we have nothing better to risk.” His eyes softened as he looked at me. “Of course, I cannot ask you to stay with me. I have abused your loyalty enough.”

  I stood there for a long moment, my lips unable to form a reply. He misinterpreted my silence and put out his hand. “Farewell, my brother. May the gods favor you in your new life.”

  Suddenly angry, I turned away from him, grabbing up my longsword as it lay there by my blankets, enclosed in its scabbard.

  My hands were still raw from my descent on the rope at the oppidum of Emain-Macha, but I had engaged in sword-play on the pontomora three days hence, and held my own.

  I turned back to him, the naked blade clutched tightly in my fist. “Nay, my lord. My life has been spent in the service of the vergobret. Now, I guess, it might as well be given in the same.” A bitter smile crossed my face. “I have nowhere to run, no one to run to. Let us fight, win or die.”

  The camp was filled with shouting, the bustle and hurry of men preparing for what they knew would be a last stand. Armor was pulled on by those few that had it, largely the nobles of Erain.

  I girt myself with a coat of mail and saddled the horse of Catuvolcos, which Aneirin had given to me for this day. The stone-gray warhorse nickered and looked at me through puzzled eyes as I mounted, as though wondering where his master had gone.

  We mounted and rode through the front of the slowly-forming line.

  I sat there in silence upon my horse, looking out over the hills, cloaked as they were in that purple bloom, the hea
ther of the highlands which I had first seen twenty years hence, in the company of Diedre. My desire to live had died with her, and the seed of her womb, Faran. All those I loved had died. I would join them soon.

  Our forces came together at last, a thin, ragged line on the brow of the hill. As nothing compared with the hosts that advanced against us. Aneirin sat upon his horse only feet from me, his face unscarred by worry. An incredible peace seemed to illuminate his countenance, untroubled in the face of death.

  A brave man truly, I realized at long last. Oi neamha. As worthy of that title as his adoptive father, if not more so.

  From the hill where we sat upon our horses you could look back, see the ships waiting there to carry us—to safety?

  Aneirin was right. No refuge was to be found there. Only a postponed demise. Our part was to die as men, not as rabbits, running before the wind.

  The Casse came closer, ever closer, shaking the earth with the rhythm of their march. Berdic’s men opened up on them with their slings, slaying many with stone and lead.

  Closer and I saw the eiras brace, their javelins in their hands, waiting for Cador’s order to fire. The merchant stood at their side, his face impassive. I heard his order as through a dream, saw the eiras fling their javelins down the hill into the host.

  Many died, the slope was carpeted with the slain, the grass bedewed with their blood. But it was not enough. More men advanced, stepping into dead men’s shoes, taking their place. Dying in their stead.

  The iaosatae retreated behind the line, still plying their slings as they fell back. Berdic waved to me as they passed, that rakish smile still on his face, a sword in his one good hand.

  The enemy spread out, sweeping toward and around both flanks. Our line was in danger of being crushed in their pincers. Aneirin looked at me, a grim smile crossing his face as he gave the order to charge.

  We swept down upon the enemy axemen, scattering them with the impetus of our onslaught.

  Cador’s nobles joined with us, desperately trying to hold that flank. The teceitos of the Casse broke, fleeing to the rear, but more took their place. We were bogged down within moments.

  Several of Aneirin’s bodyguards fell to the ground, never to rise again, their horses hamstrung by the foe.

  Another few moments, and we pulled back, whipping our horses to higher ground. Many of our number were left behind, dead.

  The balroae of the Calydrae broke, interpreting our withdrawal as retreat. Outnumbered heavily, they were butchered as they ran.

  Aneirin rose up on his steed, his sword brandished high, a scream of defiance on his lips. His attempts to rally them failed and then the eiras, the brave nobles of Emain-Macha, ran, flanked on all sides by the Casse host.

  Our army was falling apart, only Berdic’s men holding true, still pouring a stone rain upon the enemy from their position farther up the hill.

  Berdic. Always to be counted upon in a fight. I had known that as a boy, and what had been true of the child was doubly true of the man.

  Back we plunged into the melee, Aneirin cursing those who ran, our spears lancing through the enemy warbands. Warriors with brilliant blue patterns of woad etched upon their chests rose up to meet us, blocking our advance.

  My spear was shattered by a Casse blow and I tossed the useless shaft away, drawing my sword. I glimpsed Cador fighting among the Casse, a rock amidst the breakers. His blade rose and fell with a lethal rhythm, breaking heads, severing arms. And then he crumpled to the ground, his blood staining the heather. I was too far away to help, to aid the man who had rescued me from the clutches of Erbin Dumnacos. I thought of his daughter, a fleeting vision of her face now cloaked with grief at his death. The cost of war.

  My sword flashed in the sun, glistening with the blood of my enemies. I saw fear in their eyes as they disappeared beneath the hooves of my steed, the horse of Catuvolcos. I fought until my arm had wearied, till my hand clave unto the hilt of my sword. Kill—kill or be killed. There was no end of it.

  Then we were riding, away once again from the carnage, toward the next crisis. The Goidils had returned to battle, battling Casse axemen in a grove of trees. They were hard pressed, fighting unto the death. In loyalty to Aneirin moc Cunobelin.

  Without hesitation, we too plunged into the fray, with Aneirin riding at our head. I caught a glimpse of him as we charged, riding tall, his helmet and armor flecked with blood. Unbidden, my mind flickered back to another time, another man. Another vergobret. Ictis.

  Tancogiestla oi Neamha. It was as though I was seeing it all again, Tancogeistla charging to his death in the midst of his enemies. Oi neamha. The berserker come again.

  There were scarce a dozen of us now, the last companions of Aneirin. Perhaps just as well that Catuvolcos had not lived to see this day. Young warriors crept beneath the stamping hooves of our warhorses, hamstringing the beasts with their shortswords. Pinned beneath their own mounts, the fallen brihetin were easy to dispatch.

  The iaosatae charged into the grove behind us, their stones exhausted and knives drawn for killing work. I saw Berdic for a moment, pride upon his countenance, a sword in his hand, leading his men into the enemy host. Washed away like sand before the waves of the ocean.

  They disappeared for a moment, time lost in the fray as I cut down an enemy soldier. A moment later, my horse fell beneath me, disemboweled by a spearman. I threw myself from him at the last moment, losing my sword in the confusion. I stumbled backward, losing my balance and falling to the ground. All around me, people were dying.

  I struggled to rise, weighed down by the mail. As I did so, the heaving mass of men seemed to part and I looked. The iaosatae had been massacred, faithful Berdic among them. I saw his corpse between two of the enemy, the sword still clasped in his lifeless right hand.

  I was alone in the midst of the foe, alone and unarmed. I heard a shout from behind me and looked, seeing Aneirin moc Cunobelin still seated upon his rearing charger. With an unintelligible cry, he threw his sword toward me, the blade glistening as it spun through the air. I reached out, the hilt landing in my hand. He smiled a last, fateful smile, his lips forming a fare-thee-well.

  And then he disappeared, his horse falling beneath him.

  The enemy closed in, hiding him from my gaze. A strangled cry broke from my lips and I plunged into the Casse ranks, the sword of Neamha in my hand, hewing a path.

  A speartip buried itself in my shoulder, the same one wounded by Cavarillos. I screamed like a wounded bear, turning and disemboweling the spearman with one blow of my sword. He crumpled to the ground, clutching at his middle.

  A shortsword glanced upward off my coat of mail, sliding across the side of my neck. I thrust my body into the youth, driving him backward as I smashed down his guard, slicing his shoulder to the bone. He disappeared, trampled by his comrades.

  I felt something warm soak the collar of my jerkin and put my free hand up to my neck. It came away sticky with blood. I felt suddenly weak, a hundred enemies surrounding me, like dogs worrying a predator.

  More men fell under the blow of my sword, but I could go no farther. I dropped to one knee, supporting myself by a hand as I struggled to beat off their attacks.

  I never saw the final blow, a sword slicing deep above the mail. I fell slowly to the ground, my cheek pillowed by the flowering heather, my eyes gazing sightlessly upward to the heavens. Aneirin moc Cunobelin, I am dead. I hope it was enough…

  Epilogue: End of an Empire

  Upon receiving news of the demise of Aneirin moc Cunobelin, Praesutagos lost no time declaring himself Vergobret and ruler over all Erain.

  The uneasy alliance between Praesutagos and the Casse lasted precisely a year and a half. Then, in the summer of 242 BC, an army of the Casse sailed across the waters and landed in Erain, bent on avenging the suspicious death of their emissary, Cavarillos.

  Laying siege to the oppidum of Emain-Macha, they settled in, seeming intent on starving the defenders out. Panicked by the incursion, Erbin oi Neamh
a ordered the sacred temple sanctuary of Teamhaidh Cnocinhaofan plundered to provide monies by which he could raise an army.

  Howbeit, in the sixth month of the siege, the Casse launched their assault, battering down the walls with three huge rams. The Goidils put up a stiff fight at the oppidum, but Erbin’s heart failed him and he ran, fleeing from the town and up the hill of Teamhaidh.

  Two days later, the Casse found him there, clinging to one of the altars he had desecrated and beseeching the gods for mercy. Whatever mercy the gods might have deigned him, the enemy warriors chose to show none and his craven blood was spilt on the slopes of Teamhaidh.

  Emain-Macha fell to the enemy.

  Alarmed by the fall of his northern hold, Praesutagos ordered levies upon all the villages surrounding Ivernis, calling their men together to defend what remained of his father’s empire.

  But the Casse did not oblige, contenting themselves with subjugating the countryside surrounding Emain-Macha for the next year.

  Then in the spring of 241 BC, a warchief of the Casse, Meriadoc moc Maglocunos by name, entered Erain at the head of a large army, twelve hundred strong. A Brigante by birth, he quickly established alliances with several of the Goidilic clans of Erain, flocking to his banner as he moved south. Toward Ivernis.

  Once again, Praesutagos responded to the threat by calling upon his people, Aeduans and subjugated Goidils alike, to rise to arms. However, this time the response was not as great, and he succeeded only in levying a scant four hundred and fifty men. Little enough in the face of the approaching threat.

  Now himself betrayed, the traitor took the drastic step of adopting one of his young officers as a son, his own heir being only three years old.

  And so, Mabon moc Morbhe took his place as the “Chosen Superior”, the Taoi Arjos of the Aedui. An Aeduan himself, one of the few left from the migration, he at once set to work at the direction of Praesutagos, strengthening the defenses of Ivernis.