by Hall, Ian
He looked around. “No elderberry?”
Techist shook his head.
“Nevermind. Techist, round here, take his head and neck. Tight now, strangle him if possible.” Techist’s terrified face glowed in the red of the fire. “Calach, take his arm and pull.”
Calach grabbed Finlass’s flailing wrist and pulled it away from his body. The wound closed slightly.
Finlass leant to the fire and with bare hands, grabbed some of the glowing embers. He held them to his nose. “Rowan.” He said. “You burn the sacred wood?”
“It is far too common here, we burn it to live.”
He held the burning embers in his hand, seemingly painlessly, and rubbed his hands together over the wound. Red and grey dust rained down on the inflamed, bleeding wound.
Then he grabbed the sword from the fire, examined its tip, nodded in satisfaction, then laid it across the wound, where it fell with a sizzle and a louder roar from Finlass.
In moments it was over.
Calach gave his half cup to his friend, who drank with large gulps.
Uwan stood. “More mead, Techist. Much more.” He dismissed the head man with a wave of his hand.
This is not the brother I once knew. This is a powerful man, full of purpose and confidence.
Uwan placed one hand on Finlass’s forehead, the other directly on the cauterized wound. Calach could see the dhruid speak, but the words were strange and spoken very quickly.
Uwan fell back with a start. He was out of breath, and looked unsteady on his feet.
“Brother?” Calach stepped towards him.
“I am well, Lud Calach.” He drew himself to his full height, the moment of weakness gone. “How do you feel, Lud Finlass?”
There was a look of amazement on the Meatae’s face. “There is no pain. You have the power of the Gods in your hands.”
“I need you at your best to fight Rome. For the next two moons, the Romans will be at their most vulnerable. You must hit them hard, and hit them often.”
Finlass told of their encounter two days before.
“Strike hard. Even arrows fired in error hit targets.”
~ ~ ~
Calach’s men edged forward; a line of camouflaged brown creeping along the forest floor. Ahead, three sentries guarded ten men working. Spears stood against a fallen tree, but they were many footsteps away from the workers. Their saws and axes blocked out any noise that Calach’s men made.
The sentries were still wearing their leather armor, but the workers had long since discarded theirs, the work was too hot. Bare-chested they harried at the trees.
Calach was patient not to strike at bow range, but crept closer. Their faces were brown, their bows dark, their backs and shoulders dirty and mudded.
Soon Calach could smell the sweat of the men to their front. Slowly he brought his bow to bear, knowing that along the line fourteen others were doing the same.
He aimed and fired. His arrow was true, hitting one worker directly in the chest, burrowing deep. The man fell limply to the ground. All across the workforce, the men fell.
Calach stood, knocked another arrow and fired at a sentry. It ricocheted off his helmet, but the second was already being aimed, hitting his neck, spinning his head half round.
He readied another arrow, but the fight was over.
With satisfaction, he was proud of the composure his men showed, sticking to tactics.
Five walked through the roman position, spreading out, listening for any reprisal from nearby Romans.
The rest busied themselves in silently looting the dead, and finishing off the wounded.
Before long, the Caledonii were making their way carefully back to camp.
Calach stressed time and time again, this was their vulnerable time. They walked, weighed down by their loot, taking their time. Before long, they were beginning to climb to the higher ground. By nightfall, they were back at camp.
“We stay in hiding tomorrow, unless an easy target presents itself.” They transferred the booty to a wagon, ready for an early morning start back to Lochery.
For five weeks they harried, easy pickings initially, but as the trees began to clear, their job was more difficult. Calach joined two groups together for better numbers, but even then, the wall and the clear ground to the north hampered their attempts at attack.
Chapter 16.
Autumn AD 80.
The Recall.
“Do you think you could get the one leaning on his spear?” Calach whispered. Their prey; two Roman sentries, were just within bowshot, their attention temporarily distracted by the spectacular red sunset. “Because I’m sure that I could get the other one.”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to miss, Calach.” Boaric hissed. “They’re still a long ways away.”
“Aye!” Calach let out a long sigh. He was debating the chances in his head, their own firepower against the probability of a silent kill. Calach’s group numbered thirty, lying hiding, watching the Roman sentries. but the horses were almost half a mile away. “An’ if we all miss, an’ one o’ them raises the alarm, they’ll scour the woods all night. We might never get away.”
Calach looked past the sentries at the legionnaires working on the wall, well out of bowshot range. If the sentries were dropped quickly with the first shots, without a sound, Calach and his troop could retreat silently back through the woods. If the action wasn’t soundless, however, and the alarm was raised, he knew that the Romans on the wall would drop their tools and charge his position. Even from where he lay, he could see thirty or forty Romans, digging, carrying timber, hammering in stakes, and more on guard farther away. Calach decided to err on the side of caution and wait for a better opening.
His decision made, they lay until it was beginning to get dark, on the off chance that one or both of the sentries would relax their guard and wander closer to the woods. Eventually, when it was apparent that they were wasting their time, Calach called off the watch. Silently and slowly the word was passed down the line to fall back. They made their way to their horses, then rode back up the hill, keeping to the trees, to the camp in the high moors. One by one the scouting parties came into the temporary encampment, which now changed location every two or three days. Calach, who was in command of this section, took reports from the men as they arrived. During the day, around noon, he had heard sounds of alarm from the east so he knew that today’s forays had not been without incident.
When the Roman legions first arrived in the area, they had systematically attacked and burnt all the Norland villages they had found. With resistance in the area eradicated, they had begun their engineering. It had only taken the Roman legions two moons of the summer, but they had cleared a wide strip of land right across the country. At first the Norlands warriors thought it the first stages of a roadway of some type, but as the Roman legions cleared the trees and bushes, stripping even the bracken and grass from the area, the reason for the clear belt became obvious.
The cleared ground to the south was their marshaling area. The cleared ground to the north was a killing ground. The wall stretched across the country from one side to the other. The barren avenue lay roughly east to west, about three good bowshots wide, between two defensible banks of the great rivers. It extended over level ground and hills alike, and after the initial clearing of the strip of land, the Romans burnt the remaining vegetation, blackening the ground.
In the initial stages, when the Romans were surveying the area, preparing the route, the Norland clans to the north had harried them with great success, but now that the strip of land was cleared, it had become more difficult; they had begun to lose numbers to the invaders. Now, at the beginning of Autumn, almost a full season later, with honors and casualties roughly equal, the two sides had a grudged, mutual respect. The Romans did not venture into the forest to the north of the cleared area except in numbers, and the clansmen of the north did not try to cross the imposed border during the day.
After the first trees had
been felled, and the strips of land become clear, some of the legionnaires had begun the building of wooden palisaded forts, at the southern side of the clearance. The first forts built were at the crest of hills, then others were started between these, making a chain of strongholds across the country. The last development, just in its initial stages was the beginning of an earthen wall, with numerous ditches to the north, linking the forts. This latest addition to the fortifications re-affirmed the opinions of most of the Norland chiefs and their advisors; this was a fortified wall in the making, and the ground in front of it was a killing ground.
The fact that it was now clear that a wall was under construction gave the clansmen further food for discussion. There were some, like Calach and Finlass, who espoused that it was merely a transitional defense and would be the staging point for the next part of the invasion. The others, in the main the older warriors, argued that such a great undertaking would not be started unless it was meant to be a final boundary. They said that they did not believe that the Romans intended to attempt to invade any further north, happy with the more arable lands of the lowland plains. The schisms in the Norland camps were driven deeper by this, somewhat strange behavior in an invading army. More and more, Calach found himself arguing his case with some village headman or other; Meatae or Caledon.
One by one, the groups of scouts arrived at their camp, high in the hills, until there were over a hundred of the clan, breaking into stale bread, unwrapping cheeses and slicing pieces of cold cooked game. The troops drew lots in the morning, and one stayed behind to guard the camp and forage for food and game. It was an arrangement which worked on the whole, but after ten or eleven days, the men were still eager to return home for some “real” food.
The leaders of the troops reported to Calach, who then sent a regular account to Ranald, back in Lochery, and to Finlass who commanded in the immediate west.
On this particular day, it transpired that only two of Calach’s groups had actually came into physical contact with the Romans. This had been one of the quietest days for a while, and was part of an on-going pattern. As the Romans built their wood and earth wall, they worked behind it more and more, thus the opportunities for a raid or taking out the odd sentry were becoming increasingly rare. As Calach was musing over the day’s events, readying his message for the chiefs, there was a shout from the camp’s sentry.
“Rider coming in!”
Calach peered through the grey dark at the lone rider, galloping into camp. The figure paused, to say something to one of the clansmen, who immediately pointed in Calach’s direction. The rider spurred his mount and rode quickly over. He found that he knew the rider, but could not remember his name. The warrior dismounted and paused to catch his breath, gathering in the horse’s reigns and smoothing his hand over its face.
“Calach! I bring greetings from Ranald.” He paused to catch his breath. “Greetings an’ a summons home to Lochery.”
“Is there anything wrong?” Calach asked sharply. Their presence here, harrying the Romans had left a reduced contingent of Caledons in Lochery, and Ranald’s initial worry had been that they were leaving themselves open at home.
“No, I don’t think there’s anything wrong.” The rider still struggled to get his breath back. “There is no other part of the message. Just a summons to meet chief Ranald in Lochery.”
Calach was surprised. He wondered why his father would want him home. He tried to think of anything he had done wrong, any impropriety between his father and himself, but could remember none. “Did he say how quick he wanted me?” He continued to the messenger. “Eh, sorry, what’s your name again?”
“The name’s Drew,” The warrior replied. “From Thole, to the north.”
“Of course; Drew!” Calach smiled, the name coming back to him. “You used to compete wi’ me at the archery. At the games!”
“Aye Lud, that’s right.” Drew said, “But I never beat you!”
“Aye, not for the want o’ trying! Anyway, how quick do I travel?” Calach repeated.
“Just as quick as you could manage.” Drew replied, uncertain. “He never exactly said you had to ride like the wind, but I wouldn’t waste any time either.”
“No I won’t.” Calach smiled. “Our chief doesn’t like to be kept waiting for anyone!” He looked about for Grayme. At thirty, a good tactician, and head man of his village, Grayme was the most experienced man to take over the running of the camp whilst he was gone.
“Grayme!” He shouted, catching the warrior in the middle of a large leg of some form of poultry. “Come over here!”
He brought his attention back to Drew and pointed to the eating figures. “Get yourself something to eat, you never know when you’ll get the chance again.”
With a muttered thanks, the warrior began to lead his horse away.
“Ah, Grayme.” Calach called to his subordinate. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a troop to command, I’ve to go back to Lochery to see chief Ranald.”
He was just about to start to delegate more duties to Grayme, when he noticed that Drew had halted in his tracks, and had turned round, wanting to say something.
“Aye, Drew?” Calach prompted. The messenger swallowed hard, and took a deep breath. “Come on man!” Calach raised his voice, “Out wi’ it!”
“Well Calach.” Drew started, “The order wasn’t just for yourself; it was for everybody.”
“What do you mean?” Calach stepped towards the now terrified messenger. “What do you mean, man?”
“I’m just repeating what Ranald told me, Calach.” Drew summoned courage from somewhere. “Ranald’s recalling the whole clan, an’ those who are here wi’ us.”
Calach just stared at Drew, his mouth wide open. “Everybody?”
“Aye, the order was for everyone under your command to go back to their homes, an’ for you to return to Lochery. I’ve ridden through a’ the camps; they’re probably packing up as we speak. You’re the furthest west; you’re the last ones I’ve to tell.” Drew shuffled his feet, uncomfortable with his situation. “I’ve to go back wi’ you. My job’s done.”
“Who’s going to pass the word down the line to Finlass an’ the Meatae?” Calach looked around. “We can’t just vanish into thin air wi’out telling them!”
Drew swallowed again. “Ranald just said to tell the Caledons an’ allies. That was a’.”
Calach turned away from the two warriors and faced the last vestiges of sunset. The rage he felt was not something he wanted witnesses to. Not knowing the loyalties of Drew or Grayme, it was better to deal with his anger alone.
“Get something to eat, both o’ you.” He said quietly. “We leave in the morning.”
As he heard the warriors walking away, Calach went over every possible explanation for the order to retreat. He called it a retreat in his mind, because he felt it would be looked upon as such by Romans and clans alike. There seemed to be no justification for the action. They were holding their own. Their casualties were lighter than their opponents; as far as that was concerned, that made the whole thing acceptable.
He began to walk to the edge of the camp, still staring at the darkening red sky. His thoughts alternated between disbelief and rage at his father’s decision. In the end he walked back into the camp and picked out Bruce; the young lad they usually used to carry messages westwards to Finlass and Ma’damar. Bruce’s loyalty was known to Calach; the lad had grown up alongside him, but was four years Calach’s junior. In his early years, Bruce had idolized Calach, and in the absence of an older brother, had adopted Calach loosely as such.
In the gathering darkness, with everyone milling around talking about the mornings return home, no one paid any attention to the two figures conversing.
“Find Finlass or Conrack.” Calach said simply. “On second thoughts, find Finlass an’ only Finlass. Tell him o’ Ranald’s orders. Tell him we’ve been pulled out, an’ there’s nothing I can do. Tell him that we’ll meet as usual. In the usual place. Usual
time.”
“Aye. ‘In the usual place, usual time.’” Bruce repeated, “I’ll find him, don’t worry.” He said, glancing from side to side.
“Then tell Finlass to pass on my apologies to his father.”
“Aye.”
“Then ride like the devil himself for Lochery, or even better, make for the trail north; we’ll be on it. A single rider might catch up wi’ us before we reach home.”
“I’ll try Calach.” Bruce said seriously.
“I know you will lad.” Calach slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “Right get going straight away. You’ll have a day’s start on us. Oh an’ Bruce?”
“Aye?”
“Be carefull. Nobody finds out about this, right?”
“Silent as the night Calach.”
“Good lad. See you on the trail.”
They shook hands with a solemnity which only Calach felt. To the lad, it was just another mission for his ‘brother’.
As Bruce silently gathered up his bedroll and weapons, Calach made sure he did the rounds just at the correct time to divert the western sentry’s eyes. He spoke to the warrior on guard about the recall home until his clandestine messenger was well on his way.
In the morning, when Bruce reached the first Meatae encampment, he would relate the whole story to Finlass, who he had met many times before. By sending word of their retreat, and the phrase ‘usual place’ Finlass would know that Blane would be the meeting place, and it would be on the full moon. Finlass would also know that if Calach could not make such a rendezvous, he would find a way to send a message to him regarding the situation at Lochery.
Bruce arrived safely at the Meatae encampment in the early dawn, and after verifying his identity with the sentries, he was led to Finlass, who listened in growing disbelief. Bruce could sense the deep anger and feelings of betrayal in the Meatae warrior. After getting Bruce to repeat the whole message, Finlass dismissed the messenger, and arranged that the lad be given some food, a fresh horse and then sent on his way.
