by Hall, Ian
Uwan tried the mental litany to clear his mind, but found that he could not. He felt a force nearby; a strong dark object. He calmed himself, his breath becoming more settled. He knew that his dhruidic training was trying to tell him something. There was a presence in the room which Uwan could not identify.
Another dhruid!
Abruptly Sewell came to a halt, and centered his gaze on Uwan.
“How could we have got it so wrong?” He glared at the three young dhruids in turn. Inside Uwan’s mind, Sewell had asked the same question, but had made it a more personal attack. “How could you have got it so wrong, Uwan?”
Uwan knew that the same individual question had probably been asked of all three young dhruids. Knowing this, Uwan still took the censure personally. He tried to concentrate on finding the source of the presence in the room, but found himself drawn back to Sewell’s probing.
Sewell probes, while the other dhruid stops my calming. A dual assault.
He hung his head, trying to summon the presence of mind to formulate a reasonable answer to Sewell, his mind caught between the two functions.
“An answer is not required.” Sewell said.
It had been Uwan’s first assignment as a fully-fledged dhruid, and it seemed that, as a group, they had made a complete mess of it.
Sewell continued. “The three dhruids we sent to watch over the legion at Isurium have disappeared. We have neither had communication from them, nor have they returned!” He began to pace the room again. “It is a strange situation, as they should have found some way of contacting us. We must consider them lost. Lugh praise their names.”
“Lugh praise their names!” The three sitting dhruids echoed.
Uwan shook his head. “I have searched my memories. I have no recollection of a mention of the second legion.”
Sewell looked at him over the small central fire. “Yet a second legion marched, and we had no chart of its progress. We must be better prepared in future.”
Uwan sent out his own probe; more subtle than before. Searching into the corners of the room. He found a familiar persona.
Quen’tan. You wily old fox.
Uwan was under no illusions as to the import of Sewell’s words. Whilst the killing of a dhruid was a great matter indeed, in the larger scheme of things, the dhruidic order had made a great matter of misjudgment.
“The facts which we can glean from this situation are this,” Sewell continued. “One; the Romans advanced in two columns. Two; by some flaw in our reasoning, we underestimated the Romans’ tactics and by doing this, we almost left two of the Norland clans to perish. Three; someone killed three dhruids, three dhruids of mine. Three dhruids of ours.”
“Through our inaction and our errors, we have failed the clan system that we are here to represent. Through the dhruidic code, I take responsibility for this. I sent you all, and I must answer for my own actions.”
He knelt in front of Uwan.
“Uwan.” He said, looking into the eyes of the young Caledon.
“Yes Sewell.”
“Wash yourself of blame, and go from here to a private place. Stay there until two moons have passed. Wash yourself of sin and wash your soul of guilt. Come back to me then; ready for service again.”
With a bow of his head, Uwan got to his feet and left the room. Behind him he heard Sewell address the next in line with the same instructions. As he reached for his staff which leant at the entrance of the hall, he heard the other dhruid getting to his feet. Uwan walked resolutely north; he had time to contemplate his actions and to atone to his gods for his weaknesses. He had suffered hardship for longer periods; the two months would pass quick enough.
Although Uwan walked slowly away, he saw the conversation within the room as clearly as if he were there.
“The brothers have a strong connection.”
Quen’tan took a few steps forward from the shadows at the back of the room, his arms folded. His bald head and hooked hose were unmistakable.
“I agree.” Sewell’s his head bowed before the newcomer. “But strength alone is not enough. The lad does seem to have the luck of the gods themselves. Everything I have asked of him has been more difficult than the last. Every task has had a more stringent punishment than before, but still he works through them, heedless of the pressure I heap upon him. When we sent him off for his year of solitude, he found his own circle, and studied the moon. When I sent him south, he came back with the most extensive information that I had ever heard.”
“So the lad is good.”
“He is more than good, Quen’tan.” Sewell looked into the warm embers of the fire. “He is by far the best. There is strength in him which I have never witnessed before.”
“So we may not be successful if we try to eliminate him by dhruidic means?” Quen’tan shifted feet slightly.
“I would not relish the backlash if we tried something like that.” Sewell replied. “He is strong in the ethereal world. Even in numbers, we may be unsuccessful.”
“And if we are unsuccessful, then we will perish.”
A silence grew between the pair.
“Then we must bring him nearer to us.” Quen’tan said, “We need his strength against Pell. The order has been weakened by the promotion of the new Arch-dhruid. Under Pell’s command, the dhruids of the Selgovae and Ordovice were ineffective. Although he is arch-dhruid, Pell plans for himself, not the order.”
Sewell was certain that he could see a smile in the man’s aura. “But be careful. If we ally with Uwan, he may have designs himself.”
“No one could be worse for the order than Pell.”
~ ~ ~
“We made a mess o’ it.” Calach reflected. It was his last day at Bar’ton, and he stood on the high battlements, Finlass on one side, Conrack on the other.
“Hardly a mess, Calach!” Conrack immediately countered.
Calach ignored the comment; he was certain of the next phase of battle. “We have to hit them in smaller numbers.”
Finlass truned. “But we hardly got through wi’ four hundred.”
“Smaller numbers mean greater flexibility.” Calach looked over his last Bar’ton sunrise. “Sma’ groups, no more than twenty. All armed, all with bows.”
It was Conrack’s turn. “I agree wi’ the bowmen. They made it easier to charge the cavalry, and cut them down when we left.”
Calach took a step back, and addressed both brothers. “We need men skilled in all facets of war. This raid was part o’ our growing. Part o’ out learning. We need to get ready for war, because unless we unite the clans, we’re not going to defeat the Romans.”
Finlass blanched.
“Unless we unite the clans.” Calach continued, “Unless we unite in tactics, and ultimately in our whole force, we’ll always lose.”
He walked away, and began to ready himself for the journey home. The next morning, he left with Aysar and a bodyguard of two riders.
~ ~ ~
“So your Roman days are over?” Calach’s mother tousled his hair and teased him.
Grinning he wrestled himself clear. He had only been home for just over a week, smothered in his mother’s attention. He turned to his father. “We learned valuable lessons, Da.”
Ranald sat against the broch wall, a tankard of ale in his lap. “An’ what would they be?”
Calach turned. “We arrived too late, but we didn’t have enough bowmen wi’ us. If every man could use the bow, then discard it to the short sword. That would be a better tactic.”
“Ach. I prefer the long sword. Always will.”
“But look at the Roman one Da’.” He pointed to the captured sword on the wall. “Short, front heavy. It’s meant for two things; stabbing forward to get between the ribs, then a twist to do the most damage, or a quick swipe, the big blade chopping a man to bits.”
Aysar suddenly appeared at the door of the broch. “Sorry, Lud Ranald, Mawrin.” He looked at Calach. “Some Vacomags just arrived.”
Ranald looked
at Calach quizzically.
“Bowmen, Da’.” Calach was out the door before his father could answer.
The eleven Vacomags were quickly taken to Lochery’s walls, where Calach quickly assessed the ability of each archer, most were proficient enough, but Calach needed more.
In his week back at Lochery, he had organized a force of bowmen from the surrounding clans, and the growing group practiced every spare moment of the day.
Skills such as tracking, horsemanship, camouflage, and stealth were in as much demand as bow and sword expertise. Masters of each craft gave lessons, both in the town, and out in the surrounding countryside.
As the number increased, he split them into groups of fifteen. Each group had its own leader, with Calach in complete charge. Calach led one group, Aysar, Bruce and others had been chosen either for their natural ability or their clan position.
Mauchty sent thirty of his best Venicone bowmen, and with Calach’s pick of the Caledonii, soon almost a hundred practiced each day.
Apart from the bowmen making their own arrows, Calach had three other fletchers working under his command.
In the evenings, Calach and his band rehearsed the tactics of hit and run.
One afternoon, a lone rider arrived from the west. He found Calach casting arrow points with three of his band.
“With respect, Lud.” The man bowed slightly. “Message from a friend.”
Calach looked around, then with a flick of his head motioned the man outside. “Are you Caledonii?”
“Yes, Lud. From Blane.”
“Who’s the message from?”
“I was never told. Message is simply. ‘Meet me at the moon’.”
Finlass!
Calach counted out the month, finding five days till the full moon. “Thank you.” He said to the man, shaking his hand, “Take food from the market, tell them it is for the bowmen, and have a meal before you leave for home.”
He walked across the centre of the town, gathering his lieutenants as he walked. When he had enough, he turned, smiling. “We leave tomorrow, prepare your men. We’ll be gone for two weeks.”
Calach strode to the family broch with quiet confidence.
“We hit an’ run, every time, no exceptions.” Calach’s parents looked better than when he had officially gone to war that spring. “We only hit targets much smaller in number than our own, an’ we always have a retreat route prepared.”
Ranald nodded his approval. “You’ve learned by your mistakes.”
“Aye, Da’, we have.” Calach felt better for the time spent at home, but he was bursting to be gone again. “Every single one o’ us is proficient wi’ the bow. We plan to strike from distance every time.”
The two embraced, and Calach left, satisfied with the way things had gone.
The next day, Calach readied his bowmen, and rode out of Lochery as usual. On the back of each saddle, was a long roll of cloth, looking every bit like a bedroll, but enclosed was a bundle of fifty extra arrows. Just outside the town, a dhruid rode up and joined them.
“Uwan!” Calach beamed. “What brings you here?”
“You will need my skills some of the time. I ride at my own divining.”
Although Calach was pleased at his attendance, he was unnerved by Uwan’s presence. “But you carry no weapons, brother.”
“I have my own skills, which you do not have.” Uwan kicked his horse to keep up.
~ ~ ~
Two dhruids looked on from a nearby hilltop.
“Uwan joins his brother.” Quen’tan grimaced, almost as if in pain. “There has never been a more powerful force.”
“I doubt if Calach feels it.” Sewell leant heavily on his staff. His legs had never been the same since the journey back from Pell’s investiture. “He will feel as if we spy on him.”
“And we do.”
“But in a good way.”
“Is there any other?”
~ ~ ~
Agricola’s tent was filled with the supreme commanders from two legions. On a large table in the centre of the room was a large vellum map. Bronze figures stood in lines, marking the Roman positions, stones marked the Norland tribes.
“So these two tribes to the west?” Agricola indicated the Novants and Damonii. “They will not resist?”
“No commander.” The legate smiled. “We negotiate with both the chief and the druids. For now, they will simply ignore us.”
Agricola nodded, then swept his forefinger between the two rivers which almost cut the Norlands in two. “And this allows us the time to build the wall here, cutting off all reinforcements from the north.”
“With the wall built, and the front secure, we can eliminate the western tribes next season.” The legate pushed some of the bronze figures to the west. “The western tribes have been swelled by fleeing Selgovae and Ordovice. And we no longer have the advantage of surprise.”
“A wise strategy.” Agricola looked up from the map. The men in the tent were in their thirties, veterans of many such campaigns. “What say you all?”
The senior soldier, Primus Maximus, of the ninth legion was called Shallacus, a man from the southern tip of Hispania. He saluted Agricola, then relaxed.
“Commander. The men will feel good about the wall. We dig in. We build, we consolidate, then we strike. It has always been the way.”
“A wall it is then.” Agricola dismissed the officers with a wave of his hand. “Stay, Marcellus.”
Marcellus was Agricola’s right hand, brought with him to Britain in the role of chronicler and historian. Agricola was well acquainted with the fact that concise and well written reports home to the Emperor and Senate were worth their weight in gold, and Marcellus was the best writer Agricola knew.
“We need plans for an earth wall for every cohort. Wooden sides to the north, two men high. Slope to the south. Camp every five miles.”
Marcellus knew that he was going to be busy. Thirty copies at least. “Yes, Commander.”
~ ~ ~
Calach and his troops rode for the great divide and began finding good defensible sites to foray from. They needed fresh water, and cover from the eyes below on the plain. As each new base was found, he dropped a group in place, with orders to foray to the south, but to meet, back in the camp every seven days.
At last, only his own group was left, and they camped close to Blane. As the evening drew close, and the sky to darken, Calach watched the full moon rise from the south.
Uwan was kneeling at the edge of a group of trees, seemingly deep in meditation. The two brothers had spoken, but nothing of consequence had passed between them.
He approached Gregor, the group’s second in command. “I’m going to Blane for the evening. I have a friend to see there.”
“When will you return?”
“I will be here by daybreak to lead the foray.” Calach whispered, he glanced in Uwan’s direction.
Calach carefully untied his horse, and led it through the trees. When he had gone far enough on foot, he mounted and rode away.
Techist, the head man welcomed him warmly, Finlass was already there, sitting out on a large stone in front of a dying fire. The embers rose gently, and the dim red of the glowing wood lent a strange red glow to his friend’s features.
Finlass looked up as Calach approached, but did not rise. “Good evening, my friend.”
“It is. How are you?”
“Sore from a day’s ride, but alive.” He rubbed his shoulder, wincing. Techist arrived with two large cups. “Ale?”
“No, Lud, a fresh batch of mead from the spring honey.”
Both men tasted and nodded their approval, drinking deeply.
Finlass waited till Techist has left them. “We attacked a Roman wagon two days ago. We were victorious. We lost two men, but killed thirteen.”
Those are much better figures.” Calach sat forward. “The plunder?”
“We stripped the men and butchered the ox. We have our first delivery of new iron for our forges. I mad
e the men leave the romans the same as the people of Shiels. Stripped and hacked.”
“That’s great news, Finlass. I have almost a hundred men from here to Alva. We begin our first foray tomorrow.”
“We fight back.”
“Indeed.”
Over the embers of the fire, Calach saw a man approach. He walked slowly, but the shimmer from the heat of the fire distorted his face. Slowly recognition dawned.
“Uwan!” Calach hissed, jumping to his feet.
Finlass reacted slower, his face contorted in pain as he drew his sword.
Uwan held his hand up. “You would draw on a dhruid, Finlass of the Meatae?”
Finlass looked from Uwan to Calach.
“It is my brother, Uwan.” Calach’s shoulders slumped. “He must have followed me.”
“I did.” Uwan said, “But not your tracks. I followed your reasoning; that was easier.”
Finlass sheathed his sword, but again, he did not look fluid doing so.
“You are injured, Finlass, Lud of the Meatae.” Uwan walked round the fire and touched Finlass’s shoulder.
“Argh!” he roared. “It’s a cut, nothing more!”
Uwan ripped Finlass’s tunic, and exposed a dark angry red wound.
“Techist!” Uwan roared. The man ran towards them. Calach looked on stupefied.
How did Uwan know his name?
“Bring water, some cloth, and any elderberry powder that you can find.”
The man ran off petrified. The presence of a dhruid in the village would have been shock enough, but the urgency in which Uwan spoke was frightening.
Uwan drew Finlass’s sword, and stuck it straight into the deep embers of the fire. Calach? Your belt!”
Calach quickly unfastened his leather belt.
“Why do you treat me?” Finlass asked. “Women could perform the task.”
“I need you back on your feet quickly, Lud Finlass.” He stuck the belt firmly in Finlass’s mouth. “Shut up. Bite this.”
He took the cloth and water and roughly bathed the wound. Finlass screamed behind his gritted teeth.
“I come to talk to you both, and find you can’t even look after yourself. Shame on you, Lud Finlass; you are irreplaceable in the beating of the Roman menace.”
