The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy

by Jules Watson

  As the troop leaders dispersed to rouse their drowsing men from the heather, Eremon called Fergus to fetch him a Caereni messenger. ‘Go to Conaire at the rockfall and tell him what has happened,’ Eremon ordered the messenger. ‘I want him ready to withdraw as soon as he gets news of our progress. He’s not to be there when Agricola comes back up that valley from the other side, understand?’

  The messenger nodded and trotted away, and after Fergus had gone to clean his weapons Eremon leaned his forehead on his arm, staring down at the guttering torch. He could not believe his luck – first the desertion of the Damnonii scout, and now this. Rhiann’s dream had to be true, then. The Albans were meant to triumph over the Romans. The gods decreed it.

  He smiled to himself and rubbed his sprouting, itching beard with his shoulder.

  The arrow that took the Roman sentry in the chest just missed his heart, and so allowed him enough time to watch a dark tide of men flow over the silvered plain before him. Down the ditch they poured, and up the bank to where he lay, sprawled between two of the wooden stakes that had been stabbed into the ground just that day to form the camp palisade.

  Then the haze around the sentry’s sight thickened, and he sensed the heavy tread of boots all around, the brush of fur on his face and stink of sheep wool, before a cold blade caught the moonlight above him. Then he knew no more.

  Deep in sleep, one of the eight soldiers in the tent nearest the gate was woken by a horse’s whinny, and as he blinked and yawned, struggling to adjust his eyes in the dark, the whinnies were joined by faint cries of alarm.

  But he only got as far as freeing his hand from his bed roll to grasp for a weapon, when the tent flap was torn asunder by a sword thrust. Immediately, the sloping leather walls were rent by a flurry of whirling blades and stamping feet, and he only had one moment to wonder if it was the gods come to earth in one slicing, many-legged beast of fury, before he, too, fell into darkness.

  Eremon kept his shield close to Colum on his left side, giving him protection while keeping his own right hand free to wield his blade in a stabbing motion, different from the sweeping slashes they were used to. Fergus to his right did the same, and so on down the line. It was a rough approximation of the Roman fighting fashion, even though their longer swords were not as suited to it as the short Roman gladius. Yet it ensured that his men stayed together in one block.

  Eremon risked a glance back at the lines behind him and to either side. All of the Epidii warriors were tightly bound, rolling over the Roman camp, rending and stamping down the tents, and stabbing the men within. Some knots of fighting had broken out away to his right, as the Roman soldiers on watch and those who’d reached their weapons scrambled to put up a defence. But there Eremon glimpsed Lorn’s hair, as the Epidii king rallied the Albans and laid into the defending men with his own formidable sword.

  Eremon dodged a fire pit outside a tent, scattering coals with his sword, and knocked a stand that held the standard and weapons of the men inside clattering to the ground with a contemptuous thrust. Then he shouted to draw his own line onwards, to where fresh ranks of tents beckoned. These were already a mass of movement as panic-stricken Roman soldiers stumbled out into their own fires, greeting the oncoming Albans with cries of terror.

  Eremon drove in with his shield edge and slashed and stabbed with his sword, barely noticing the hot blood that spattered on his hands and face, the screams and sudden clouds of choking smoke as his men set the tents alight.

  He worked methodically, Colum on one side, Fergus on the other, and when at last he realized that the surviving Romans had managed to group into formation at the edge of the camp, trapped against the loch shore, Eremon shouted the order to retreat. At least a third of the enemy were dead or wounded, and he had no intention of becoming locked into an even fight with the rest. Down the lines, the retreat order was repeated, and the Alban force began to fall back.

  As they streamed from the camp, over the torn remnants of the brushwood gate, Eremon stood off to one side near a stand of alders, barking orders and peering through the billowing smoke. Fergus and Colum had led the nearest warriors free, yet by the clash of swords over on his right Eremon realized that some of the men were still engaged in hand-to-hand fighting. He roared at them until he was hoarse, and at last they appeared through the smoky gloom, fighting as they retreated.

  As they reached him, Eremon took a step forward, judging it time to abandon his own post. Just then, he caught a whirl of movement from the corner of his eye, and instinct took over. He swept his sword around in an upwards arc as something struck him with force in his flank and, with a cry of anger and fear, he stumbled, slashing at the wild Roman eyes that swam before him.

  The tip of Eremon’s sword caught the man’s neck, snagging in his tunic, and Eremon wrenched his shoulders around to grasp the hilt with both hands and drive it deep into the flesh beneath. With a grunt the man fell, and Eremon tripped over the body and sprawled on his face, his helmet rolling free on the ground.

  Immediately, someone yanked his hair and then his shoulder. ‘By all the gods!’ Lorn thundered, as the remnants of his men raced around him for the gate. ‘Your own orders were to be away, brother, so why dally here?’

  Stumbling to his feet, Eremon was unable to answer, for the blow under the edge of his mailshirt had taken the wind out of him. But when he swayed, Lorn cursed and caught him around the waist. ‘Lugh’s balls,’ he muttered, and held him away, staring into Eremon’s face with puzzlement. Then Lorn slowly pulled one hand away from Eremon’s left side, and Eremon saw, as if from far away, that his palm was running with something that shone black in the moonlight.

  ‘You there!’ Lorn cried. ‘Grab that horse, and you two, help me with the prince and his weapons! We must be away from here, now!’

  CHAPTER 54

  In the morning light, the peaks of the mountains threw sharp, jagged shadows over their lower flanks, and the river was a silver thread in the dark cleft of the valley. Agricola balanced unsteadily on top of the now-abandoned rockfall, looking down the eastern path on the other side, his hand shading his face from the low sun.

  He knew now why the trail was empty and silent, for a few moments ago a courageous, desperate messenger had arrived from his camp by the loch, to bring Agricola the news of his Ninth Legion.

  Agricola did not shade his eyes this way to better observe his eastern forces, for they were recovering and regrouping – and burning the dead. He did it so he did not have to look into the faces of his officers; so he could grind his teeth methodically, and stare into space with burning eyes; so no one asked him questions or ventured opinions or tried to make him feel better.

  Seven hundred men had died in one night, because of his decision.

  He should somehow have sensed the significant Alban force lurking in the mountains. Despite his own scouts scouring the land ahead of them, they had remained invisible. Yet the men who attacked his camp were no rabble of peasants with scythes, or even a desperate band of local warriors. The messenger described a highly organized warband, attacking the camp with an Alban rush, but then switching to Roman tactics, with deadly effect.

  It was stamped with the mark of the Erin prince, Agricola had to admit. Somehow – the gods knew how – he had flown here from the north ahead of the Roman force. For a crazy moment, Agricola actually wondered if the prince was magical somehow: a sorcerer, or a demi-god like Hercules or Achilles. At the least, he was well blessed by his own gods. How in Jupiter’s name had he known they were coming?

  From the west, a cold breeze blew up the back of Agricola’s neck, finding its way underneath the guard of his helmet. But he did not turn to face it. He would not turn to face the west.

  He only had a little more than 3,000 men left, and the odds had now tipped. It was far too risky to go on, with a force of 1,000 Albans under the Erin exile’s control lurking somewhere near, and Agricola’s own army in unfamiliar terrain. It could easily turn into another cat-and-mouse game, ju
st like two years before, and this was not what Agricola had been expecting. His men would become trapped in these barren hills until the snows and storms found them – and after all the defeats of the last few months, he could not afford to lose even a few hundred more.

  With a great force of will, Agricola breathed out, dropping his shoulders beneath the fine, red cloak that covered his bright breastplate. The prince had won this round, damn him to Hades. Perhaps a war such as this could never be won this way.

  Slowly he turned, his eyes looking through his officers arrayed behind him. He was silent for so long that some of them began to stir, leaning on their sword-hilts, sweeping off their helmets.

  Yet Agricola was remembering his own words to Samana, given in a firelit tent two years ago: I will goad them, and taunt them, until I bring them all to bay in a place of my own choosing, and then I will crush them.

  Fresh to Alba, Agricola had known then what to do. Yet since then he had allowed himself to be seduced into this pointless game with Eremon of Erin and the Caledonii king. Now it was time to return to his earlier, and mercifully clearer plan. This season was all but over, and he would have to admit defeat and send his men back to their winter quarters in the south. But next season…

  I must corner them in one place, like hounds with a stag. The stag was fiery, yes, formidable and strong and wild. But the hounds always won, for they listened to their master and worked as a pack, and so the stag was brought down and its throat torn out.

  Agricola dropped his hand and turned to his officers, a kernel of renewed determination cooling the pain and shame in his breast. ‘We will return to base, and there lay plans to avenge our comrades, and in the name of our emperor scour these barbarians from this land!’

  Relief flowed over his officers’ faces, as they saluted him. ‘In the name of the emperor!’

  The news of the great victory resounded among the Alban mountains with the force of an eagle’s cry.

  This time, Rhiann wanted the people of Dunadd to outdo themselves in their welcome, to receive their warriors with the biggest homecoming they had ever seen.

  A muddy, road-weary rider came in, informing her of the expected arrival of the warband in three days, and she then lost no time in sending out a request for people to don their best cloaks and dresses, and all their jewellery. Many nobles had left for the remote duns when they first heard of the Roman advance, but with the news of victory they came streaming home.

  Hardly able to sit still, Rhiann nevertheless took great pains with her own appearance, and she and Caitlin bathed in scented water while Eithne and Fola combed and braided their hair. Rhiann considered her dresses carefully, and then chose that which she wore at her binding ceremony, with a new scarlet cloak and the amber necklace that Eremon had given her as a wedding gift. Caitlin wore her own bridal dress, soft blue with golden flowers, and when at last they were ready they looked at each other and burst into nervous laughter.

  Then Caitlin sobered, leaning into Rhiann and whispering, All this effort, sister, yet I fear our men will waste no time looking at our finery, but only waiting to take it all off!’

  Rhiann blushed. Her smile had hardly left her face these past days, and she felt as light-hearted as a girl, especially after such a long season of barrenness and pain. ‘Perhaps, sister, but they will love us all the more for looking pretty for them.’

  ‘And making their arrival such an occasion!’ Caitlin beamed, as they pinned on their cloaks and made ready to leave the house. Finan had announced that the warband had at last been sighted on the southern road.

  Outside, a blue haze of cook-fires hung over the village, rich with the scents of roasting pig, deer and beef from the baking pits, fresh bread and honey porridge – all the ingredients of the great feast that would follow that night. Baskets of shining salmon had been gutted and spitted on sticks propped over fragrant pinewood fires.

  In their bright, patterned clothes, the crowd spilling out of the great gates and lining the walls looked like drifts of new-sprung flowers, their petals edged in gold and bronze. The warriors guarding the dun had polished their helmets, scabbards and spear-tips, even the bronze bosses on their leather shields, and Finan had lined them up along the timber palisade. Beside them, drummers and pipers clustered, ready to announce the army’s arrival with suitable fanfare.

  Rhiann and Caitlin positioned themselves directly in front of the village gate, with Aedan to one side, ready to commit the occasion to song, and Gabran in Eithne’s arms to the other. Rori was beside Eithne, unable to take his eyes off her dark beauty, displayed to good effect in a new crimson dress. Behind them, Fola waited in her blue priestess cloak, making secret faces at Gabran to keep him amused.

  Now there was a shout from a warrior on the gatetower, and Rhiann raised herself on tiptoe, desperate for the first glimpse of Eremon’s boar helmet coming over the rise, out of the cover of the trees and blue hills. She was trying so hard to be dignified, but within her sleeves her fingers were twisting themselves into knots, and beneath her cloak her feet jiggled on the muddy path. All she yearned for was the freedom to race across the bridge, her heels kicking up, and throw herself into Eremon’s warm arms.

  A boar-head trumpet blasted out from above as the first men appeared on the track from the south, marching in muddy ranks. As they came into view, Gabran let out a garbled shout, breaking the tension among those closest to Rhiann. They all laughed, and Caitlin took him from Eithne. ‘Yes, love, that’s your daddy come home now! Home to us!’

  The people all around them broke into peals of excited shouting, jumping and stamping, and over Rhiann’s head the warriors lined along the palisade beat their swords on their shields, joined in the din by the pipers and trumpeters, trying to hold a tune over the tumult. The timbers of the gatetower above shivered with the pounding of their feet.

  Rhiann’s heart swelled along with the music, and soon the warriors had marched close enough for her to tell them apart. At the front of the columns were the mounted ranks. There rippled the banner of the White Mare, led by Lorn on his stallion, and under the Boar of Dalriada Rhiann glimpsed the flash of Conaire’s blond hair.

  She frowned, unable to recognize Eremon’s helmet. For a few breathless moments she studied every man on horseback, sure she would make him out from all the others. But she couldn’t see him. Rhiann’s breath faded away to nothing. She would have run forward, darting among the riders until she found him, but her feet seemed to have melted into the churned ground beneath her. The cheering people were focused on their own loved ones, and the thrill of the occasion, and sensed nothing amiss. Even Caitlin’s face was still shining, her eyes full of her own love as she bounced Gabran, pointing at Conaire.

  The front ranks were over the bridge now, and that was when something seemed to communicate itself to the crowd, for the men who came along the road were not cheering back, or waving their spears and shields. They seemed oddly subdued, their shoulders drooping with exhaustion, their heads low. They were dirty and unkempt and bloody, as would be expected, yet it was also obvious many had been wounded, for some limped, and some were held up by their comrades. And so some vivacity seeped away from the crowd in return.

  ‘Where is Eremon?’ Caitlin asked innocently, but when she looked at Rhiann’s face her own smile withered in shock.

  Rhiann was only vaguely conscious that the crowd’s cheering had died away into uncertain mutters and confused murmurs, that the eager music from above was trailing into odd, discordant notes. And then the group on horseback that led the first column parted.

  Behind them, a litter appeared, carried by six warriors, and on it lay the man for whom Rhiann had been searching. Further back she glimpsed more litters and more still bodies, but her eyes could see only one.

  Lorn’s hand raised now, and all the marching warriors came to a ragged stop, as the litter bearers rested their burdens on the ground. Then Rhiann’s feet at last came to life and she broke into a stumbling run, her vision narrowed t
o the utterly still figure on the first pallet.

  As Rhiann reached the litter, Conaire slid from his horse and caught her, stopping her from throwing herself across Eremon. Rhiann stared up at Conaire wildly, her fingers digging into his forearms, yet his face was barely recognizable with its taut, lined cheeks and hollow eyes.

  ‘I couldn’t,’ he was saying to her, his voice breaking. ‘I couldn’t send you a message. I had to spare you, give you these last days.’

  ‘He’s dead?’ she whispered, wondering who was speaking, for the sound came from far away.

  Yet Conaire shook his head, and then Rhiann wrenched free of his arms and threw herself to her knees by the litter. There was a thudding as Rori raced up behind her, stifling a curse, held back by Lorn’s arm.

  Eremon was unconscious, his hair matted, his face pale under the dirt and blood. And Rhiann realized with a shock that this was the drawn face she had seen in her strange vision moons ago, when Eremon first took his leave to join Calgacus. His shield had been laid over his torso; his helmet resting between his hands. Rhiann tore them both away and let out a guttural sob. Low on Eremon’s left side, just above his hip, the tunic was rent by a long slash. The wool all around it was stuck to him and the rough bandage underneath with a dark, dried stain. In the middle, the bindings were streaked with pale yellow.

  Rhiann took Eremon’s burning hand and pressed her face into it, oblivious of the men standing around her. Rori’s breath rasped loudly in the silence, as if he had been running for hours. Conaire knelt by Rhiann now, and in a sudden flare of rage she glared up at him. ‘How could you not send for me?’ she cried. ‘I could have been with him!’

  Conaire shrugged helplessly, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘I just knew that I needed to get him home. He needed to come home.’

  Lorn spoke over her head gently. ‘It would have taken the same time to send for you as to bring him, Rhiann.’