Song of the Centurion

by Steven A McKay

  SONG OF THE CENTURION

  By

  Steven A. McKay

  Copyright © 2019

  Book 2 in the

  WARRIOR DRUID OF BRITAIN

  Chronicles

  KINDLE EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,

  in whole or in part, without prior written permission

  from the copyright holder.

  Dedicated to my in-laws, Ronnie and Marjorie.

  Thank you for all your help over the years.

  CONTENTS

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ALSO BY STEVEN A. MCKAY & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CONCEPT ART

  CHAPTER ONE

  Northern Britain, Autumn, AD 430

  “Get down! Their slingers are attacking!”

  There was a horrific rattling as dozens of stones battered against the walls and the defending Damnonii soldiers crouched low to avoid being struck. A slinger’s missile could do severe damage if it hit someone in the right place, as a few of the men had discovered to their cost during the previous days.

  “Now!” Gavo roared as the attack ended without injuring any of the defenders. “Give them some back!”

  Instantly, his men stood up and launched a volley of their own fist-sized rocks down onto the enemy below. The captain grinned as cries of anger and pain filtered up to him. It was much easier to hit people when they were beneath you, especially when they didn’t have walls to hide behind.

  Not all the enemy slingers were crouching under their shields though, and a sharp-edged, flat rock careered past Gavo, hammering into the neck of a young soldier at his side. The warrior reeled back, a terrible gurgling sound coming from his ruined, bloody throat as he dropped onto the wooden platform they were standing on and Gavo knew the lad would be dead within moments.

  Thank the gods though, the enemy were taking casualties of their own beneath the hail of Damnonii missiles, and the besieging army pulled back now, out of range, heralding another in a long line of stand-offs.

  “That’s it,” Gavo shouted in fury. “Run, you bastards!”

  Dun Breatann, ancient capital of Alt Clota, was under siege, and had been for almost a week, the Picts from the far north led by King Drest having finally grown tired of the attacks on their raiding parties by King Coroticus’s soldiers.

  For generations, livestock theft from neighbouring tribes was an accepted part of life – part of a young warrior’s coming-of-age. Unwritten rules made it clear that any captured during such an action could be beaten, but then sent on their way home, to try again another day.

  Now, though, Coroticus, outraged by his daughter Catia’s recent abduction, was slaughtering every such raider he could find in his lands and displaying their severed heads as ghoulish trophies – warnings – on the towering rock of Dun Breatann. It wasn’t just Pictish thieves suffering such violence either – Dalriadans, Selgovae and Votadini tribesmen had all been killed by the Damnonii king’s forces. In response, Drest had formed an alliance with the other kings and led them here for vengeance.

  To Queen Narina it was a ludicrous situation to be in – a war started over the execution of a few cattle thieves. Yet her husband had broken with tradition, despite her protestations, and now Alt Clota was paying the price. Standing high on the eastern peak of the fortress, she looked away from the guard captain, Gavo, commanding the defending warriors on the walls, and turned her attention to the tents, cooking-fires and massed, undisciplined, ranks of the enemy camping at the foot of her home.

  Standing two hundred and forty feet high, and surrounded on three sides by the river Clota, Dun Breatann had never been taken by a besieging army. The queen shook her head sadly and turned to her maidservant, Enica, whose downcast expression mirrored her own.

  “They’re wasting their time,” Enica muttered, shifting her gaze back to the tiny figures on the ground so far below them. “King Drest must have known that when he embarked on this foolish course.”

  Narina didn’t answer for a while. She could see Drest’s tent, grander and more colourful than the others surrounding it, and she wondered what was going through his mind at that moment.

  “I don’t think their siege is so foolish,” the queen finally said. “Coroticus pushed them all too far and they’re within their rights to strike back. Besides, they might say they’re here to avenge their dead warriors, but there’s more to it than that. Drest, and Loarn in particular, would like to make our lands their own. This is merely their first move towards that end.”

  “They’ll never take this place though, my lady,” Enica said and her voice was full of conviction. “We have fresh water from the spring that comes up between the two peaks and enough men to rebuff any attempts to scale the gatehouses. Food is plentiful too, since your husband stockpiled it when he heard of the approaching army.”

  Enica was correct in her assessment and Narina wondered if the woman had been listening at Coroticus’s door when he’d been meeting with his advisors. It wouldn’t surprise her. Enica was a canny servant, which was why Narina liked her.

  “They’ll need to leave soon enough,” the maid went on as if she’d spent many hours thinking this over.

  “Their men will be needed at home to bring in the harvests and so on, yes, I know that,” Narina nodded. “But what of our people whose homes Drest’s soldiers destroyed? The people he killed on his way here, and those he’ll no doubt kill on his way back north again?”

  “At least he didn’t destroy our crops,” Enica said and Narina peered at her thoughtfully. There was no way the servant could have known that unless she had truly spent a long time listening to Coroticus’s private councils or…Narina took in the woman’s unlined, pretty face, full lips, and firm, shapely figure and resolved to find out if Enica had taken a lover amongst the king’s advisors. That kind of information could come in very handy.

  “No, he hasn’t destroyed our crops,” said the queen with a wave of her hand. “Yet. Probably because he hoped they would belong to him once he defeated us.” The queen turned away from the depressing sight on the ground far below and walked slowly back towards the royal chambers. They were located within the building in the very centre of the rock, flanked by birch trees and the rising twin peaks, one of which was gently rounded while the other, the higher one, was narrow and so steep that it was a challenge for many people to climb. Indeed, it was so narrow no proper buildings could be erected upon it and, other than a single sentry watching the Clota for invading ships, only a giant raven could be seen there most days, its strange cry—almost like the bark of some weird dog—heard pealing out across the ancient rock.

  The thought of that majestic bird, black with a white tuft on its neck, brought Bellicus to mind. The druid h
ad somehow trained the raven to speak—it could say ‘hello’ and cough like a person thanks to Bel’s tutelage—and she felt an ache in her heart just as she always did when the druid came to mind. Was he dead?

  Was her beautiful, sweet daughter?

  A feeling of anxiety swept through her and she almost stumbled like one of the many people who grew dizzy after looking down from the lofty summit of Dun Breatann. What if Bel returned today, with Catia? They would walk straight into Drest’s besieging army and be torn to pieces!

  Enica noticed her lady’s discomfort and placed a steadying hand on her upper arm as Narina pulled herself together. Bellicus was no fool, and besides, he knew Drest well; there would be no danger there.

  If only the giant warrior-druid would return. It had been such a long time since he left to hunt the princess’s kidnappers, with no word coming to them from any who had seen him on the road, and it was hard not to give up hope.

  Or go mad, rather like Coroticus seemed to have done in starting this insane war that no-one could ever truly win.

  As they walked in through the iron-bound doors to the main hall the king peered up from where he was sitting, ale mug in hand but clear-eyed and, when he spoke Narina believed her assessment of him to be close to the mark.

  “I’m going to lead the men out,” Coroticus said decisively, jaw set in determination.

  “What? You can’t!” Narina shook her head in confusion. “There’s no need: they’ll leave soon enough. Even my servant, Enica, knows that. Why take a chance of losing to Drest?”

  “You think I’d suffer defeat?” Coroticus’s eyes flared and Narina remembered too late that she had to speak carefully around her husband these days, as any slight or question of his manhood could send him into a sullen silence or, worse, a rage. Slightly behind him stood Senecio, an older man from the southern lands who seemed to have wormed his way into the king’s favour recently. Narina wondered if he’d had some druid training for he had, on occasion, a silver tongue and mannerisms similar to those versed in the old ways.

  “Of course I don’t,” she replied, turning her attention back to her husband and trying to make it sound as if she had every confidence in him. “But many of our warriors would die for nothing.”

  Somewhat mollified he sat back in his chair and shrugged. “That’s a warrior’s fate, my dear. To die. And I’m fed up sitting here like a frightened woman while Drest pillages my lands.”

  Before Narina could say another word the sound of someone running up the stairs outside came to them and a young man wearing chainmail much too big for his spare frame looked in through the open door, breathing heavily after his climb from the bottom of the fortress.

  “My lord king,” he gasped but his youth allowed him to regain his breath much faster than Narina could have and he continued in a steadier tone. “Drest would speak with you.”

  “He’s at the gates?”

  “Aye, my lord,” the youth confirmed. “The captain says Drest has brought the Dalriadan and Votadini leaders with him to see you as well. Their attack has halted, for now.”

  Coroticus upended the last of the beer into his mouth and stood up with a determined half-smile on his face.

  “Be careful,” Narina cautioned, grasping his arm gently as he followed the young guardsman out the door. “Don’t let them get to you.” She smiled and was pleased to see the expression mirrored in his eyes.

  “Come down with me,” he said. “I always value your counsel. Not you.” He waved a dismissive hand towards Enica and Narina wondered if he too suspected the servant had been eavesdropping on him, for his gesture seemed loaded with some hidden meaning the queen couldn’t quite fathom.

  Leaving Enica standing with eyes downcast Narina followed Coroticus and the guard out of the building and down the narrow steps which had been carved from the living rock. A robin flitted along before them, eyeing them curiously, and Narina couldn’t help but feel her spirits rise. Perhaps the red-breasted little bird was a good omen and Drest was here to parley before lifting the siege and heading home again…

  Gavo noticed them as soon as they reached the bottom of the staircase and hurried over to meet the king, nodding respectfully towards Narina as they continued to walk towards the gatehouse while the young messenger drifted away back to his fellows lining the wooden outer walls.

  “Are they all here?” Coroticus asked, looking at the captain.

  Gavo nodded, calm and as immovable as the rock they stood upon. “Aye, my lord. Drest, Cunneda and Loarn Mac Eirc. They’re waiting outside.”

  “Have they said anything? Tried to speak to you or the men?”

  Gavo shrugged. “The usual nonsense, you know how it is. Telling us we can’t win this war, that we should overthrow you and let Drest in because he’s a better leader than you. As I say: the usual shit. Don’t worry, the men didn’t care to listen to it.”

  Narina could tell by the man’s expression he was holding something back, but she didn’t press him, knowing Gavo was loyal to her husband—more so than any other man in Dun Breatann. Whatever he was hiding was presumably for what he saw as a good reason. She looked at the warriors standing on the platform that ran the length of the wall and took in the looks from them.

  No doubt a few of them had muttered agreement with the Pictish king’s suggestions. If so, it was entirely prudent that Gavo should conceal the fact from the unpredictable Coroticus.

  She followed her husband up the steps of the gatehouse, guard captain bringing up the rear. The building had been built after the old Roman designs, with ditches outside to make the walls higher than they were on the inside, while a roofed platform offered protection from missiles. Even if the enemy were, somehow, to break through or destroy the walls or gatehouse, the men of Dun Breatann would simply retreat up the stairs and mount a new defence at a second gate which could only be approached by that steep, narrow walkway.

  No wonder no hostile army had ever managed to mount a successful attack on the fortress; its reputation as being impregnable was well-founded and Drest had to know that.

  Narina’s hopes of a parley and peaceful conclusion to the siege were tempered but not extinguished with the first word out of the Pictish ruler’s mouth.

  “Surrender.”

  Coroticus simply laughed down at the men gathered outside the gates.

  “Surrender,” Drest repeated, expression solemn. Nor was there any sign of amusement on his companion’s faces. Loarn Mac Eirc of the Dalriadan’s was tall and slim, with grey hair which he wore long at the back although it was completely bald on top. Cunneda, king of the Votadini, was also tall, but younger than Drest or Loarn, with a great bushy red beard and close-cropped hair. Both men gazed up at Coroticus with looks of irritation.

  “Why would I surrender?” the ruler of Alt Clota demanded. “You will never take these walls as you’ll soon find out. We have enough food to last for weeks and, unless you have ships as well as infantry, we can simply sail downriver to replenish our supplies any time we need to.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Go home, Drest. You’re wasting everyone’s time here and your people will soon need to start gathering their crops in for the winter.”

  “Is that Narina I see behind you?” Cunneda of the Votadini asked. “As pretty as ever, eh? I’ve always fancied a go on her. Once we smash these gates open my wish will come true.” He leered suggestively, stroking his red beard, and the dozen warriors who had escorted them laughed, adding crude comments of their own.

  The queen made as if to step forward and address the Votadini king, but Coroticus held out his arm. These preliminary insults were nothing new – part and parcel of battle negotiations since time began. “Ignore him,” the king muttered to Narina not unkindly. “No doubt there will be more to come. Empty words.” He turned back to the enemy delegation and spat over the wall towards them. “Like I say,” he shouted, “try and force your way in. My men will slaughter you like animals and then I’ll ride to your fortress in Dun Edin, Cunneda, and
see how your wife enjoys the attentions of my Damnonii warriors! She’ll probably enjoy it more than being humped by you, with that pitiful excuse of a beard, you ugly whoreson.”

  Coroticus’s men cheered and hooted with laughter, glad to see their king strike back with a barb of his own. Narina simply rolled her eyes at the posturing but she was glad her husband wasn’t rising to the bait. Waiting until the besieging army returned to their homes was the sensible thing to do.

  Her heart sank, though, and a cold chill swept through her as a new voice, rich and powerful, carried easily up to her from below.

  “Where is the princess, Catia?”

  Narina shoved Coroticus’s restraining arm aside and pushed past him to look upon the speaker. It was many years since she’d last seen the man, but she knew him well enough: Qunavo, the Pictish druid. The man who had trained Bellicus in the old ways on the sacred isle of Iova. He’d served the kings of the northern lands for decades and was loyal to Drest. With his flowing white beard, hooded robe and long staff he looked every inch the powerful druid, and he stared up at the lord of Dun Breatann now with a knowing expression on his seamed face.

  Then there was a flicker of recognition on Qunavo’s face, and even a slight nod of the head as if in greeting and Narina turned to see Senecio had followed them onto the battlements. The man had lived in Dun Breatann for a number of years now, working as a clerk or some other administrative role, but he seemed more visible these days. Always hanging about Coroticus. Taking advantage of the king’s weak state of mind perhaps.

  “What do you know about my daughter?” Coroticus demanded, oblivious to Narina’s thoughts, his composure severely rattled at this unexpected mention of the abducted princess. “Do you have her? Did you pay those mercenaries to take her from me Drest, you bastard?”

  The Pictish king shook his head but it was the druid who spoke again.

  “We know nothing about your daughter’s disappearance,” Qunavo attested. “Other than the fact she was taken south. But you already know that, don’t you? You sent my pupil, Bellicus, after her.”