The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy

by Jules Watson

  ‘Well met, Orcades king,’ the young man said pleasantly.

  At the sound of that familiar voice, the day around Maelchon darkened into a night of rage.

  *

  Aedan now brushed past Eremon, his head high, his cloak drawn back over his shoulder to unveil his polished harp. The instrument was his badge of office, the sign that made him sacred, untouchable. Only for this reason would Eremon bring him anywhere near a battle.

  ‘Take care,’ Eremon muttered to Aedan, as the bard strode down towards the seething column of warriors. Now that their leaders had halted, the men were milling along the side of the stream and part way up the slope near the eastern valley entrance, their agitated murmurs growing louder than the rushing water.

  Maelchon’s eyes were obscured by the shadow of his helmet, yet he had remained still and silent since Eremon appeared from the bracken. The men behind the king surged in confusion, the edges of the crowd disintegrating as some flowed further up the near slope to gain a better view. Others were hemmed in by the river on one side, and the rest of the warriors pressed in from the rear. Their ranks of spears dipped and swayed as they jostled each other, cursing and snarling.

  Aedan halted some way up the slope, his long fingers drawing themselves across his harp strings with one flourish. As the high, piercing chord echoed off the peaks all around, the men below grew quieter, for it was appearing less likely by the moment that they would be subjected to attack.

  ‘Honourable fighters, fierce warriors!’ Aedan’s bardic voice rang out clearly over the hushed crowd of men and the sound of the river. ‘We salute the fire of your eyes, the strength of your arms, the heat of your hearts. So hear me, and honour my own lord, Eremon mac Ferdiad, war leader of the Epidii, consort of the Ban Cré, King Stag of the westlands, rightful king of Dalriada in Erin.’

  At the announcement of Eremon’s identity, a ripple of mutters ran over the warriors below, and the edge of Eremon’s mouth quivered with a certain satisfaction. So not even Maelchon could stem the tide of rumour; it flowed everywhere at will.

  The Orcadian king obviously thought he’d try, though, for he suddenly came to life, shouting ‘Silence!’ at the top of his voice, and raising his clenched fist. His whole arm shook with visible fury. ‘Spit out your words, harper, and quickly! After we deal with your rabble we have a battle to join.’

  Aedan ignored him and kept his head high. The rising breeze blew his dark curls back from his high forehead, and streamed his blue cloak out behind him. ‘I bring a challenge out of the old tales; a challenge for only the most valiant, noble and skilled of men.’

  So baited, Maelchon lurched forward one menacing step, opening his mouth to cut Aedan off. Yet before he could speak, there was a stir among the other warriors, as a man of Calgacus’s age pressed free of the men who guarded him. Like Maelchon he was of dark, northern blood, yet slight compared to Maelchon’s bulk. Eremon could see little of his face beyond the beard that fell to his chest, yet his thick gold torc and profusion of gleaming armbands confirmed that this was the Lugi king.

  ‘What is this challenge, bard?’ the king demanded, his posture wary rather than hostile.

  ‘Our forces are hidden all around in the trees,’ Aedan answered. ‘Two thousand horses, two thousand spears, two thousand swords. We do not have to let you leave this valley alive. Yet my lord offers you mercy – a battle to be decided in the old way of the tribes. By a duel of champions.’

  The Lugi king made some exclamation of surprise, as the murmurings of the warband swelled restlessly.

  Aedan held up his hand for attention, raising his voice. ‘Further, my lord, the greatest swordsman in Erin will act as his own champion – and he calls out the Orcades king to meet this challenge and take the field himself.’

  Eremon expected the shock, and on the edge of his vision he saw the impact of the words vibrate along the wedge of men like a hammer striking iron. Yet Eremon’s eyes were fixed on Maelchon, and though the planes of the king’s florid cheeks were broken up by his writhing blue tattoos, still Eremon saw from afar the slight curve of his smile.

  Maelchon could only react in two ways, and Eremon wasn’t sure yet which he’d take. Accepting the challenge would be quick and clean – and satisfying for them both. But there was something greater that Eremon hoped for, upon which he had gambled.

  And Maelchon chose much as Eremon expected. The Orcadian king threw back his head and laughed, a rasping sound with a sharp edge that sought to cut deep with its scorn. ‘I, fight him? I will not soil my own sword, my honour, by crossing blades with a homeless exile, a gael, a man with no kin or lands! Well may I fight with any peasant from the fields! Be gone, harper, and bring on your men, for I’d wager you lie about their numbers.’

  Aedan said nothing in reply, but merely shrugged, turned and walked back up the slope, stepping onto a rock that had fallen from the cliffs and now lay half-covered with bracken. There, he flung out one arm towards the gathered men, none of whom could fail to see him clearly, outlined in the morning sun.

  ‘Hear me then, men of Alba!’ he cried now, with all the force his trained voice could muster. ‘So the craven coward is revealed among you at last! He, your king, would sooner shed your blood than his own! Follow him and he will lead you to death – your names will be as mud and ashes to your people, and your lives fall into dark forgetfulness, because of your shame!’

  With a roar, Maelchon drew his sword with a ringing sweep, rage twisting his face.

  ‘Aye, shame!’ Aedan continued, spreading his cloak out like wings. ‘Shame for betraying your land, your Mother, out of greed and lust and lack of courage to stand your ground against the traitor in your midst!’ He pointed with dreadful finality at Maelchon. ‘This traitor, who has betrayed you, and led you to your own betrayal!’

  Maelchon was now alone in the empty space before his men, shaking his head like an enraged bear. ‘After me!’ he screamed, the cords in his neck standing out in the sun that spilled down the valley walls. ‘After me, to pound this rabble into dust!’ His own guard, some two hundred men, rushed forward to surround him, howling their war cries as they swung their swords over their heads.

  Yet the rest did not act as Maelchon demanded. The Lugi king had flushed a deep red, his mouth twisting in dismay, for to be so accused by a bard could be the ruin of his kingship. Suddenly he seemed to come to some decision, crying out, ‘Back! Back! The bard speaks true: let the challenge be decided!’

  Hardly believing his eyes, Eremon watched the movement gain ground as all the other men – Lugi and fur-clad Orcadian warriors both – began to melt away from Maelchon and his guards, drawing back from the front ranks like an ebbing wave, the mutters and murmurs now open cries of anger and shame. Many turned tail and fled altogether, shoving for all they were worth on the men gathered behind.

  As all order disintegrated, a thrill of relief shot up Eremon’s spine. Aedan’s words, and Maelchon’s refusal to take the field as champion, had undone what years of fear and intimidation had wrought, melting the weak bonds of loyalty like leaf-bud snows. Fear is a foolish way to control people.

  And so Maelchon’s own realization of this hit him, that his allies and even his own tribesmen had deserted, and would not fight. The king’s scream then became a terrible roar of rage, issuing from his open throat, just as Eremon raised his hand. From the trees on his side of the glen his horsemen burst out, their swords pointing down as their mounts charged the valley floor. And from the lower ground, hidden among the boulders, Rori and Nectan’s archers let loose another volley of arrows, this time set to kill.

  Trailing Dòrn, Conaire reared to a halt beside Eremon, with Colum, Finan and Fergus behind. Eremon was already in the saddle as he reached back over his shoulder for his sword.

  The men around Maelchon were fine fighters; they tightened into a circle with their shields facing out, deflecting the arrows, and the first volley of their spears took down a few leading Epidii horsemen. But when the mounted
charge hit the shield wall, it crumbled, and then all order was lost in a mass of rearing, screaming horses, slashing blades and war cries being hurled in all directions.

  As he ducked and dodged the first violent sword-swings, Eremon’s blood pounded with a wild, unleashed fury – the desperate need not to kill all the men, but one man only.

  This single flame of rage powered Eremon’s blade almost of its own accord, and he stabbed with desperation, pushing closer to the protective circle around the Orcadian king. Conaire was close by his shoulder, and when Eremon was bodily hauled from the saddle and set upon by hordes of heavy northmen, Conaire yelled and flung himself from horseback, quickly joined by Fergus and Colum. Together they fought to regain their footing, and formed themselves instinctively into a tight wedge to pierce the inner circle around Maelchon.

  The last shreds of coolness in Eremon’s head were shattered when the back of Maelchon’s helmet came into view, his huge shoulders bunching and heaving as he swung his great sword. With an unearthly howl, Eremon launched himself forward, slicing through the net of arms that sought to hold him back. On both sides his own men parried swords with the other warriors, freeing Eremon to dart through when a breach opened before him.

  The edge of his blade caught Maelchon’s helmet just as the king himself whirled to face this new onslaught, and as the helmet clattered to the ground Eremon was arrested for a moment by the ruin of Maelchon’s face. The whole of his right eye was a pulpy mass of scar tissue that sealed the lid shut. From the socket, a crimson scar sliced down in a cruel curve, scoring the cheek like the tracks of bloody tears.

  Rhiann.

  At the thought of what Maelchon had done to release such terror in her, rage burned Eremon’s chest, and his sword was flinging itself at Maelchon’s unprotected neck. The king parried the blade, and then suddenly cut under Eremon’s left side with the edge of his shield. The shock ran up Eremon’s arm, and with a grunt he dropped his own shield, his fingers momentarily nerveless.

  Yet the smile that then curved the Orcadian king’s face, drawing the scar down, was fuel to Eremon’s fire and, pushing himself past the pain, he grasped his hilt with both hands and began to rain blows down on Maelchon’s sword just as he had trained to do with the equally large Conaire – hard and fast and unrelenting.

  Eremon had a fleeting impression of space around them both, as Maelchon’s guards were either cut down, or fled. The sun was high enough now to flood the valley with light, yet all brightness was sucked into the void that was the Orcadian king’s remaining eye, framed by the greasy hanks of his hair and beard. The hatred that lay there seemed to reach grasping hands around Eremon’s throat, throttling the life from him.

  Yet slowly, agonizingly, youth and vigour began to outweigh size and weight. Eremon sensed Maelchon weakening, in the rasping sound of his breath, and the slight slowing of his reflexes. It was then, when he was tiring, that Eremon decided to target the king’s right side, for he surmised that the damaged eye would affect Maelchon’s depth perception.

  Without warning, Eremon suddenly leaped far into the king’s right-hand field of vision, twisting as he went. The matted black head shot around, but Eremon had already drawn his blade across Maelchon’s flank, under the edge of his mailshirt.

  The cut was deep enough to take Maelchon’s breath from him, and the king stumbled, bellowing. Recovering his balance, Eremon brought his foot around in a circle and kicked Maelchon’s feet out from under him. The king went down, and Eremon jumped on to both wrists, pinning the sword arm while the tip of his own blade pressed into the hollow of Maelchon’s throat. Abruptly, all sound of the fighting around them receded.

  Maelchon hissed, attempting to speak, but Eremon flicked the tip of his sword, nicking Maelchon’s throat. A line of blood beaded the furred hollow, and the Orcadian king made a swallowed gargle of fury far back in his throat. Swiftly, Eremon’s blade moved lower, slicing the thongs that bound the mailshirt and tunic beneath. Then, panting, Eremon stopped and stared down at the naked bloated belly and chest. This beast had done this to her, for she had once told Eremon, and wept as she spoke of it.

  Eremon rested the edge of his blade on that heaving mound of fat and muscle. ‘No mercy did you show her, and no mercy will you be given,’ Eremon forced out, turning his head only to spit blood from a cut lip.

  ‘Whelp …’ Maelchon tried to wrench his arms free, and without hesitation Eremon flicked up the blade and pressed it home with all his weight, skewering Maelchon to the ground above his collarbone. This was not the killing blow either; the king gasped and writhed, his eye flaming in agony.

  Yet Eremon did not wish to look upon his face; instead he raised his head to meet Conaire’s gaze. His brother was panting, his helmet under one arm, his blond hair stuck down with sweat, dirt and blood. But in his eyes was understanding, and from that look Eremon took the strength he needed.

  Tilting his head, Eremon deliberately met the hatred in Maelchon’s face. ‘I will allow you to speak once more,’ he ground out, pulling the sword free. ‘To beg me for a swift death. Yet know that whatever comes out of your mouth is your last farewell.’

  CHAPTER 69

  A gricola took a deep, satisfied breath of the northern air; the scent of sun-warmed bracken and heather mingled with damp earth churned to mud by hooves. The sky was hazy with moisture and heat, but his own mind could not be clearer. The Albans appeared to have taken his bait.

  His army had moved slowly these last weeks, to give them time to gather, and to ensure the destruction of everything that would shelter them afterwards. He wanted these savages to know there was nothing waiting, no safety or succour, so they would throw their all into this fight. He wanted them to succumb to the usual folly of barbarian tribes: a single charge of mindless ferocity. Their wave would rise up, then break harmlessly over the rock of his own disciplined troops.

  For two weeks Agricola had known they were massing somewhere in the north, though not exactly where or when they would make a stand. Yet two days ago his scouts had finally returned. Now he knew their numbers, and the alliances that this implied.

  Since then, Agricola had brought his army swiftly to the southern edge of the tribes’ chosen ground: a plain of rolling country, rippled with rises and dips, scattered with hazel and oak woods. On one side it was backed by the higher ground leading into the central mountains, and on the other, by the coast.

  ‘Sir,’ Lucius said now, turning in his saddle, ‘they have already mustered on the other side of that.’ Agricola followed Lucius’s outstretched hand to gaze northwards at the enormous forested ridge that reared from the plain, its peaks crowned by bare granite outcrops. He had good eyesight, and could just make out movement along its crest.

  From the far side of the hill, a haze of smoke drifted in an acrid fog, smearing the blue sky. There were campfires, many of them, out of sight to the north.

  ‘I want to swing around to the north-east and camp there, so we are facing them. We cannot chance them outflanking us, or getting between us and the sea.’

  ‘Yet they have already taken the advantageous ground on the slope,’ the tribune Marcus remarked.

  For a long moment, Agricola squinted eastwards into the sun. Then he turned back to the columns of soldiers still feeding into the far end of the long, broad valley behind them, and said in a flat voice, ‘It will not save them.’

  Night had fallen over the sprawling Alban camp, the last night before battle. Sleepless but exhausted, her whole body trembling with frustration and fear, Rhiann paced the crest of a low hillock crowned with oak trees, a short way from the nearest bed rolls.

  The leaves whispered all around her, as restless as the child in her belly, and she stopped her nervous steps. Staring out over the camp, she paused with her hand flat against a gnarled trunk, as if to draw some peace from its solidity.

  It was late, yet the campfires scattered all over the dark plain still flickered with the shadows of men, thousands of men, and the sounds of dr
unken singing and shouted laughter floated up to her. The warriors were working themselves into the battle frenzy already: challenging each other to wrestling and sword duels; showing off their weapons; boasting of their prowess before the fires.

  They were excited, eager, straining. And yet the outcome of what they yearned for had woken Rhiann in a cold sweat. For from the sea of Otherworld dreams two terrible visions had arisen, more vivid than the rest, and she had been in them.

  First there were women and men in white druid robes, whirling around a string of bonfires on a beach, hurling curses across a stretch of dark, gleaming water. And bloodied by the firelight, huge armoured men with Roman helmets swam horses towards the shore …

  Then a woman was fleeing in blind panic, a boy held to her chest as bolts of fire and iron rained down around her, setting fire to thatch roofs, spearing the men who rushed past to defend the walls. And the woman had no breath left to scream, but threw the child down beneath an overturned cart, covering him with her body …

  Still shuddering from these nightmares, her skin chilled by dried sweat, Rhiann’s fingers now clenched on the rough bark of the tree. As she stared up at the dark Hill of a Thousand Spears, which loomed above them, blotting out the stars, she knew somewhere that the visions were actually memories – memories involving Romans. And this is what had dragged her fear for Eremon up into her heart and throat. Where was he? Was he even alive? Had the destruction of her visions also swept over him?

  Rhiann had heard from Calgacus himself that the Romans had been sighted making their way around to the north and east, delving a camp on the far side of a stream and wooded ridge. She didn’t understand why Calgacus would stand back and let them do this, and not attack as the columns were on the move. Yet Calgacus had explained to her that he had already taken the higher ground on the slope of the hill, the strongest position, and to retain that advantage he would let the Romans camp where they would.