Song of the Centurion

by Steven A McKay

Without realising it, the pair picked up the pace even more, eager to prepare the ground they’d selected for the planned ambush. The men marching behind didn’t grumble, knowing themselves they stood a better chance of survival if they could reach Arachar well in advance of their approaching enemy.

  “You agree with my decision to wipe out the Dalriadan warband, Gavo?”

  The captain glanced at his king but saw only honest curiosity in Coroticus’s expression.

  “I thought it was the queen’s command to kill Loarn,” he replied with a smile, before nodding. “But aye, this is the best course of action. Without even taking into account what that prick said about Princess Catia, the Dalriadan’s will always be a threat to us in Alt Clota. They are constantly expanding their territory as more of their kin sail across here from Hibernia. If we can smash their king and, at some point, take Dunadd…” He trailed off and both men walked in thoughtful silence, simply taking in scenery before Coroticus spoke again.

  “How far ahead of them do you think we are?”

  Gavo pondered the question, his long stride eating up the ground as he tried to calculate distances, and terrain, and the Dalriadan’s marching speed.

  “No way to tell,” he finally replied, wiping sweat from his forehead. The sun was still high overhead so it wasn’t too late in the day and they were almost at Arachar. “We made good time this morning thanks to the tide, but the gods only know how much that damn boat sinking cost us.” He shrugged. “Loarn won’t be forcing their pace. I expect they’ll camp somewhere along Loch Laomainn and reach our ambush tomorrow morning.”

  “That means we can let the men enjoy tonight,” Coroticus said thoughtfully. “They can drink and have fires to cook a warm, hearty supper. A full belly and a mug of ale can chase away thoughts of a companion’s death better than anything.”

  “Hear that lads?” Gavo grinned, turning back towards the trailing warband. “The king says we can have a feast tonight when we reach Arachar. How does that sound?”

  The cheers that greeted his pronouncement were loud and long and heavy feet seemed to become lighter as the small gap between those at the front of the group and the stragglers at the rear closed up within moments. Even Troucisso seemed to brighten a little Gavo noted and the guard captain shook his head in wonder.

  Truly men were easy to please. Himself included, he had to admit, as the idea of ale and roast pork set his mouth to watering and his feet near flying along the worn old shore road.

  It was a measure of the warriors’ raised spirits that, when one of them struck up a marching song, the others—to a man—joined in, king and captain included.

  Before long, though, their destination came in sight. Smoke rose high up on the horizon proclaiming the existence of cooking fires, with the small round homes that were the source of that sweet-smelling wood-smoke coming into sight a short time later. Coroticus hushed the men to silence as they looked down on Tairbert.

  “We might as well avoid the place,” Gavo suggested, eyes scanning the handful of buildings they could see facing the head of the loch but seeing no-one watching their approach. “This is very close to Dalriadan territory—who knows how loyal the folk here might be to you? If they’ve been trading with Loarn’s folk they might feel some bonds of friendship with them and seek to do us a mischief.”

  Coroticus frowned, clearly wondering what on earth one or two peasants might do against the might of his warband, but he accepted his captain’s recommendation without argument. They had a good idea where they were now, and how to get to the chosen ambush-point, so he allowed Gavo to lead them off the main path, into the trees to the east with the intention of bypassing the village completely.

  The going was tough with it being summer, as briars ripped at the men’s exposed flesh, drawing curses along with blood, and, in places, their swords were required to hack a way through the undergrowth. Their destination was near however and they made good progress until, at last, the track from Tairbert to Arachar was visible through the trees a little way above them.

  “I hope that hassle was worth it,” Coroticus grumbled, picking a thorn from his forearm, a spot of blood taking its place. “We could have just walked along the path that leads to the abandoned Christian chapel, instead of forcing our way through all those bushes.”

  Gavo grinned. “Someone will have taken over that chapel. If they saw us they might have wondered if we were an enemy about to attack and gone for aid up in Tairbert. Word travels fast even out here, my lord, and the last thing we need now is for Loarn Mac Eirc to find out there’s a warband on the road ahead of him.”

  Coroticus muttered darkly but raised no more objections at his captain’s caution as they shoved their way past the final remaining trees that separated them from the road and their ultimate destination – the ambush point which was only a very short distance away now.

  “Remember the beer and roast meat,” Gavo called back over his shoulder to the tired, irritable men. “And bread and cheese, before—”

  His words were cut off as the king, staring through the trees to the road above them, raised his fist and jerked it once angrily, dropping to one knee as he did so.

  Thoughts of a feast and a good night’s sleep were forgotten as the warband followed their king’s example and crouched low, gazing at the shadowy road ahead. A road that was filled with marching warriors, chattering and laughing amongst themselves, completely oblivious to the presence of the hostile force watching their progress.

  Loarn Mac Eirc had somehow beaten them to Arachar. They were outnumbered two-to-one and their only chance to lay an ambush was gone.

  “Shit,” Gavo growled, knowing the mission was over. There was no way they could win a battle against the Dalriadans now. “What do we do, my lord? Wait for them to pass then head back to Cistumucus and Bri at the boat?”

  The king turned to stare at him as if he were mad.

  “No, Gavo,” he hissed, eyes flaring. “We attack them, now, when they don’t expect it. Who’s with me?”

  Only young Troucisso raised his fist in salute, looking like he’d have happily attacked the Dalriadan force on his own, the rest of the warband turning instead to Gavo with grim expressions of disbelief on their faces.

  “Good,” the king growled, somehow reading the men’s silence as a positive sign. “We might be outnumbered, but we are Damnonii! Draw your weapons, lads, and prepare to attack.”

  The guard captain raised his face to the sky and mouthed a prayer to Taranis, wishing, as he often found himself doing these days, that the giant druid Bellicus was with them, but there was no help for it.

  “Move as silently as possible,” Coroticus urged. “They don’t have any idea we’re here yet. Slings and bows at the ready, if you have one.” He grinned ferociously and glanced back to his warband, a hungry gleam in his eyes. “Ready? Let’s show these Hibernian mongrels what it means to face warriors of the Damnonii!”

  * * *

  Coroticus’s plan to sneak up behind Loarn mac Eirc’s marching warband and mount a devastating attack was always a hopeful one and Gavo wasn’t the least bit surprised when they were quickly spotted. Moving as stealthily as possible through the undergrowth, which was sparser here close to the road, they did get close to the rear ranks of the marching Dalriadans but then, inevitably, someone trod on a dry branch.

  An enemy soldier looked over his shoulder at the crack, which echoed off the hills rising to the north and opened his mouth to alert his companions. A stone whistled through the air as one of the slingers, obviously well prepared, let fly, his stone smashing the shocked enemy in the face and dropping him, senseless and bleeding, to the ground.

  “Charge!”

  Coroticus, always ready to lead from the very front of the battle, raced towards their prey, ignoring the fallen man with the smashed cheekbone, instead focusing his efforts on another panicked warrior who tried to parry the king’s thrust but only managed to turn the tip of the sword into his own guts.

  Ga
vo wasn’t far behind his leader, using his shield to block a Dalriadan’s axe and following up the movement with a thrust of his sword which mimicked the king’s.

  Their surprise attack had been fairly successful, with half-a-dozen of the enemy already down, but the Dalriadans had realised their danger and rallied, a giant warrior at the back ordering men to stand fast, shields up. As well as being physically imposing the huge swordsman was a natural leader, no doubt placed in the rear-guard to deal with a sneak attack just like this one. He was certainly doing his job, as battle was really joined now and the Damnonii’s first, easy kills turned into a proper fight.

  One which they could not win, Gavo knew.

  Already he could see the grey-fringed bald pate of Loarn mac Eirc pushing through the ranks of his men, directing them to flank the Alt Clotans. There was nothing Gavo could do to stop such a pincer movement and, once they got around the sides of Coroticus’s force, it would all be over. Encircled, they’d be mere food for the crows which had already begun to chatter in the trees all around, their guttural cries mingling with those of the combatants and their wounded companions.

  Movement in his peripheral vision broke the guard captain’s momentary reverie and he instinctively ducked, just in time to avoid a wildly swung blade. He barged the attacker with his shield, smashing the pointed boss into the man’s chest then swung his own sword around, feeling it bite deeply into the Dalriadan’s forearm. There was a scream, and a shocking spray of blood, then the man fell onto one knee and Gavo kicked him brutally in the mouth.

  “We must retreat,” he gasped, then, realising the king, lost in the battle fever, hadn’t heard, repeated himself much louder.

  The road was mercifully narrow at this point and the enemy soldiers were unable to flank them on the north side which rose too sharply, so Gavo ordered a handful of men to block the south, in the hope it would buy them some time. That was running out fast though. The captain couldn’t stop fighting long enough to count their losses, but he knew they were losing this battle, even if their crazed king was winning his own, personal duels.

  “Coroticus, we must retreat,” he shouted again, hacking his way closer to their leader. “We can’t keep this up for long. They’ll get around behind us soon and that’ll be it.” He batted an oncoming sword thrust aside but was unable to land his own return blow. “Do you hear me, my lord?”

  Whether the king heard him or not Gavo couldn’t tell. The king had spotted Loarn mac Eirc and was now intent on cutting a path through the Dalriadans to the man who had insulted the missing Princess Catia.

  Gavo’s head spun as he frantically tried to keep the enemy at bay while also planning their next move. Clearly the king was beyond offering any leadership in this battle but Gavo couldn’t order the retreat and abandon the king to fight on alone. That would bring eternal shame on the captain and his entire family line; yet to continue this battle would mean doom for every one of the Damnonii warriors.

  It would be a pointless death.

  Gritting his teeth, knowing there was nothing else for it but to die like a good soldier, Gavo redoubled his efforts to slaughter as many of Loarn’s men as possible. If he was going to the afterlife, he would do it bravely, beside these men who were somehow still holding their own against the invaders from across the western sea.

  His dismay grew along with his anger, as yet more of their men fell with cries of pain or terror. One of them, Gavo couldn’t see who and was glad of it, begged for mercy before a triumphant roar accompanied a sickening thud, probably as an axe or hammer caved in the terrified Damnonii warrior’s skull.

  They were finished, and all the king cared about was reaching Loarn, who was no nearer than he’d been when the battle commenced, having moved back behind his warband, too experienced to stand toe-to-toe with the young men of Dun Breatann, and quite content to watch proceedings with a grim smile.

  Gavo again parried a killing blow and, again, was unable to land a clean attack of his own, merely grazing his blade off the Dalriadan soldier’s leather armour, but, as he set his feet defensively once more, he looked on almost blankly as the giant Dalriadan who had been leading their defence got near to Coroticus and battered his shield against the king’s head.

  The enemy champion lunged forward with his bloody sword outstretched and Gavo thought, with a mixture of relief and guilt, that he could now order the retreat.

  Before the Dalriadan’s sword could skewer the collapsing king, though, young Troucisso, whose brother lay now at the bottom of Loch Fada, threw himself at the giant who roared in frustration, the sound ending in a higher pitched note which suggested Troucisso had injured him in some way.

  “Retreat!” Gavo screamed, kicking a Dalriadan’s knee and smashing the pommel of his sword into the man’s face. “Retreat!”

  He looked to the side and ordered two of the men there to watch his back as he bent down and lumbered towards the fallen king, grasping him beneath the armpits and, with prodigious strength, throwing him over one shoulder.

  “Retreat!” he repeated, although the weight of the king pressing down on him meant the command wasn’t issued with as much force this time.

  He noticed, with a near-sob of gratitude to Taranis, that the injury to their champion had stunned the Dalriadan warriors. They paused, allowing the surviving Damnonii, less than ten of them Gavo noted, to move away, back down into the undergrowth they had appeared from.

  Only Troucisso remained, his sword clattering against the giant’s as they fought for their lives.

  “Keep moving,” Gavo ordered, mentally saluting the young warrior who was giving his own life to allow the rest of them to disappear into the trees. Even Loarn mac Eirc seemed intent on the strange duel which the battle had come down to: a slim young man of medium height, seemingly no different to any other faceless warrior, standing against a bear of a man who wore a multitude of his slaughtered enemies’ teeth on a necklace that rattled with every blow he landed or parried.

  “Thank the gods the Dalriadan king isn’t as bloodthirsty as our own,” one man gasped as they hurried back to the south. “Or he’d have ordered his men to come after us.”

  They made good progress, putting a good distance between themselves and their victorious enemy before there was a loud cheer and Gavo knew Troucisso was dead.

  “He will now,” the captain grunted, trying to walk as fast as he could with his kingly burden, while staring at the ground for hidden roots or other obstacles. If he twisted an ankle…

  Incredibly, they made it almost to the loch before the sounds of pursuit came to them and Gavo exhorted the men to keep moving. Perhaps the Dalriadans would lose interest, since a good deal of their own number had fallen in the battle. Maybe they’d lose their appetite to renew the fight with every step they had to pursue the Damnonii through the trees.

  “We’re not getting away,” a warrior gasped, looking back over his shoulder. “They’re almost upon us. We should form a shield wall and prepare to die like men, not stabbed in the back or cut down by their slingers.”

  Whoops of triumph reached Gavo’s ears from close behind, lending credence to his comrade’s words and, despairingly, wondering what in Lug’s name had been the point of this doomed raid, he sucked in a breath and began to slow, looking for somewhere relatively sheltered to lay down the king.

  Perhaps he’d be better slitting Coroticus’s throat he mused, knowing the man was still alive, merely knocked out cold by the giant’s shield. Loarn mac Eirc would, at best humiliate the Damnonii king, at worst…who knew what horrible tortures the Dalriadans might dream up?

  “They’re behind us!”

  “We must form a shield wall!”

  Gavo stopped, opening his mouth to give the order to form up into a line, furious that he would die here, far from home, for nothing.

  And then he heard a familiar voice, raised in greeting not far in front of them. They had somehow reached the loch and there, framed by the setting sun, were two boats.


  “In the name of the gods,” Gavo exploded, an astonished grin lighting up his face and giving his exhausted legs a great jolt of extra energy. “Keep moving men, keep moving!”

  It was Cistumucus and Bri. And the Damnonii were saved.

  * * *

  Queen Narina watched the people feasting in Dun Breatann’s great hall. It was early evening and through the open doors she could see the huge orange sun setting over the Clota. She wished she could get up and leave the hall, alone, to watch the sight from the higher of the two peaks, knowing the water would reflect the light beautifully, as if the whole river was aflame.

  But Coroticus had insisted she remain by his side for the duration of the evening and, dutiful as ever, she sat there, eating little, bored and feeling almost dead inside.

  They were celebrating the king’s safe return from his mission to kill the Dalriadan Loarn mac Eirc. Narina saw little to celebrate, given half the men who’d gone to Arachar had failed to return while the hated enemy still lived, but Coroticus insisted the Damnonii nobles would want to make merry, and thank the gods for their ruler’s survival.

  Narina admitted the former but not the latter. Any man would enjoy a feast when someone else was paying for it, but the local chieftains, despite their smiling faces here tonight, were unhappy at how Coroticus was leading them. The only one who didn’t seem to have heard the mutterings of discontent was the king himself. He still believed, thanks mainly to the fawning of people like Senecio, that everyone in Alt Clota was behind his efforts to destroy the raiders plundering their livestock and grain, even if it meant all-out war.

  But Narina had heard the grumbles, and the doubts people cast on Coroticus’s leadership. When the defeated warband had returned on ships manned by half the crew they’d departed with she heard the angry murmurs of discontent. Why had the king allowed so many of their young men to die? What was the point? Coroticus had been driven mad by his daughter’s disappearance. Maybe it was time for a new leader. The Picts and Dalriadans would be back in the spring and next time they’d not give up so easily.