Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  “It has always been so,” Catavignus said stubbornly. “Yet despite this, we have survived.”

  “And that is all we have done,” Boiorix responded. “Scratching at the earth for worms like chickens when we should be feeding on meat like wolves.” He let his gaze roam over the crowd, pausing momentarily on Malcolm and nodding imperceptibly to him before moving on.

  Malcolm took a deep breath, knowing which way he’d be expected to cast his vote, for Boiorix was Arrturi’s father. Not that it would matter in the end anyway, since he already knew how that vote would ultimately go. Today was a momentous day, one which historians had debated about for many years. Why had the Cimbri, Teutones, and Ambrones abruptly left their homeland, trekking southward from the frozen shores of what one day would be Denmark on a nineteen-year quest to the south? Many had theorized that it had been due to rising sea levels—a hypothesis Malcolm had supported—while others were convinced it was due to overpopulation and starvation.

  Malcolm now knew both sides of the argument had been right. The tribes along the peninsula were starving, with the sea encroaching on their territorial lands more and more, pushing them ever closer together—which predictably led to inevitable conflicts. Boiorix was proposing a solution to this problem before the tribes eventually wiped each other out—one rife with risk and danger—but also promising great rewards if the tales of the riches to be had in the Southlands were true.

  Teutobod, the king of the Teutones, stood then, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the anxious crowd. He opened his mouth to speak just as the cries of a wailing baby arose. Some of the men and women around the fire laughed in amusement, though Teutobod did not. The king’s face was set in a perpetual scowl, and he glanced to the woman in the shadows who was trying to comfort the screaming infant. “Alodia,” he grunted. “If you can’t keep that squalling babe quiet, then go to the birthing house. There are important matters to discuss here.”

  The woman bowed her head, looking embarrassed as the child continued its cries without letup. Malcolm was hugely impressed with the baby’s lung capacity, and for a moment, he and the mother locked gazes. Malcolm was startled by her youth and beauty, her light blue eyes mesmerizing before they shifted back to the baby again. The young mother bundled her child and left, with Malcolm watching her go with interest. He’d felt something just now. A connection that couldn’t be denied. Could that woman be Claire?

  “You should dampen that gleam in your eyes, Artturi,” a warrior sitting beside him said with a chuckle. “Should her husband see the intent lying in them, he will drop you in the bogs as a sacrifice to the gods.”

  Malcolm tore his gaze away from the door the girl had passed through and looked to the other man. He was big, fit, and strong and was seventeen years old—the same age as Artturi. Malcolm knew his name was Caratacus and that he and Artturi were best friends.

  “Was I that obvious?” Malcolm asked.

  “Yes,” Caratacus said with a grin. “I suggest you keep your focus on the vote and nothing more.” Caratacus winked. “At least for now.”

  Malcolm leaned closer. “But who is she? I’ve never seen her before.”

  Caratacus shrugged, motioning to the king of the Teutones. “His son’s wife,” he replied. He pointed to a fierce-looking warrior sitting nearby. “That’s him. His name is Clovis.”

  “Oh,” Malcolm said, studying the warrior curiously as Teutobod finished speaking and sat down beside his son. Clovis returned Malcolm’s gaze, his eyes hard and unfriendly before his father said something to him and he looked away.

  “Is there any other who wishes to speak?” Boiorix asked. “Or shall we vote?”

  Excited voices arose then, some still debating, though many others had clearly made up their minds by the determined looks on their faces. The king of the Teutones had advocated for leaving to go south, which had surprised many by the looks of things—though Malcolm had known all along that he would. Several more leaders rose to voice their opinion, and Malcolm’s mind drifted off, not listening. He thought of the girl, Alodia, wondering if his interest really was because he believed she was Claire or if there was something else involved. She certainly was pretty, there was no denying that, and Malcolm was in the body of a young, healthy man with a young man’s healthy interest in the opposite sex. After his experience with Edward Thache, Malcolm was well aware that not all the feelings he had while in his host stemmed from him, so he knew he had to tread carefully.

  Another hour went by, with arguments raised for staying and leaving before the vote was finally taken. And, just as Malcolm had expected, the tribes chose overwhelmingly to go south to find a more hospitable land in which to dwell. Malcolm stood once the result was official, stretching as Caratacus grinned at him in excitement. Two months from now, when the winter’s harsh gale began to weaken, the migration would begin—a migration that would ultimately span nineteen years and shake the very foundations of Rome itself.

  Germania 118 BC

  Artturi wanted to kill someone. Malcolm could feel the turmoil swirling inside him, aware of his fingers flexing with eagerness on the hilt of his sword and of how his heart raced. Flames roared all around him, the tiny village of thatched-roofed huts billowing dark smoke as Cimbri and Teutone warriors disappeared and reappeared through the haze like wraiths, slaughtering any who opposed them. Malcolm wasn’t sure which tribe the village had belonged to, though he guessed they were of Germanic descent. Not that it would matter one way or the other in the end.

  “Come on, Artturi!” Caratacus cried, running past him, his battle-axe red with blood. The pure joy on his friend’s face turned Malcolm’s stomach, though inside, the pull to follow him to the slaughter was almost overwhelming. Malcolm watched from atop his horse as Caratacus laughed, dodging as a stumbling, grey-bearded man in a brown cloak swung a knobbed stick at him. Caratacus grabbed the old man’s wrist and twisted cruelly, laughing again as the man cried out and the stick fell. Caratacus kicked the cloaked man’s feet out from under him, then swung his axe down in a vicious arc.

  Malcolm turned his eyes away as blood sprayed, trying to block out the screams of despair from the villagers and cheers from the Cimbri and Teutones. He’d seen the same thing many times already, but even so, the wanton slaughter was something that his modern mind could never seem to get used to. A woman sat on the ground nearby sobbing as she held the body of a dead boy to her breast. She was pretty with dark brown hair, and Malcolm wished she’d just stop crying and run away. If she didn’t leave the corpse and try to flee soon, he knew one of his fellow warriors was bound to see her. When that happened, then she’d really have something to wail over.

  Two long years had passed since the ambitious migration of the Cimbri, Teutones, and Ambrones had begun. Two years in which there had been no sign of Claire Blackwood. Malcolm had initially thought that the daughter-in-law of King Teutobod, Alodia, might be her, but had quickly realized once talking with her that he’d been mistaken. The pull that he’d felt toward the girl had simply been Artturi’s inner desires and nothing more, though he couldn’t deny that she was exceedingly attractive, even though her child never did seem to stop crying and making odd grunting noises when he was around. It was a shame that she had a husband at all, for Artturi was looking for a mate.

  Malcolm muttered to himself in annoyance, unsure if that previous thought had belonged to him or his host. He’d stopped looking for Claire at some point over the last two years, though he couldn’t quite remember exactly when that had been. Malcolm had initially painted his shield with the Blackwood crest, but that shield had been shattered in battle almost a year ago. He hadn’t bothered to repaint his next one, thinking now that perhaps that’s when he’d stopped looking for Claire. He’d reasoned at the time that she would find a way to contact him on her own when she arrived. And if they’d somehow missed each other and she was already in this timeline, then at least he knew there was little that she could do to change the past. Malcolm was well aware that
few people in the twenty-first century knew anything about the Cimbrians other than stuffy historians like himself.

  Malcolm looked behind him to where a long line of men, women, and children could be seen marching along a beaten path near a vast forest almost a mile back. Few of the travelers had horses, as only the elite, such as Artturi and his father, could afford them. Most of those walking had been simple farmers, fishermen, and shepherds back home, and they carried their few meager possessions on their backs or in crude, two-wheeled carts pulled by giant, oxen-like beasts called aurochs.

  The unified tribes had numbered almost eighty thousand strong when they’d left Jutland, with the other tribes and people they encountered either joining them and swelling their numbers or resisting only to be destroyed—just like this stubborn village was about to be. The first tribe that they’d come across in their wanderings had been the Angles in southern Scandinavia, then after them the Saxons and the Swabians, each scattering like leaves before the might of the Cimbri and Teutones. After that, the sprawling caravan of migrants had swung southeast to meet up with the Amber Road, a trading route that brought amber from the Northern and Baltic Seas to the Mediterranean. The Cimbrians had long traded in amber, and Malcolm knew it had been from southern traders that they’d first heard of the warmer climate and lush fields to the south.

  “Artturi!”

  Malcolm turned, the horse stamping its feet in irritation as Caratacus lifted the severed head of the man he’d killed toward him, shaking it by its blood-soaked, grey hair. Artturi’s friend whooped and threw the grisly head aside, then plunged further into the smoke, disappearing from sight.

  “No, you don’t,” Malcolm grunted as he felt his host’s body twitch eagerly. “You’ve spilled enough blood these last few years. Today we take a break.” He guided his horse away from the carnage. Boiorix and Teutobod were somewhere to the north in the foothills, waiting as the grey-haired seeresses consulted the gods on whether they should continue south or head further west. Malcolm decided he would join them if for no other reason than to get Artturi as far away from the bloodshed as he could. That’s when he heard the screams.

  Bearded men with weapons were spilling out from the forest, descending on the leaders of the caravan. Warriors were protecting the vanguard of the column, Malcolm knew, but not many, as most had left their posts to join in the slaughter at the village. The few that had remained were quickly overrun and cut down. Malcolm urged his horse into a gallop without thinking, drawing his sword as he raced back to the long train of migrants. The attackers numbered at least a hundred, and they surged into the procession, focusing on the older men and boys armed only with clubs or walking sticks. People further along the winding line halted in surprise, then began to scatter in panic through the fields as they realized what was happening.

  Malcolm could see more Cimbri and Teutone warriors sprinting forward through the crowd as he reached the first of the enemy, aiming for a bare-chested warrior using an axe to chop savagely at a wailing farmer’s face. Malcolm recognized the dying man from Borremose, where he’d exchanged pleasantries with him numerous times. He allowed Artturi to guide the horse with his knees, knowing the young Cimbrian was a far superior horseman than he was. Malcolm struck the moment he was in range, slashing across the bare-chested warrior’s back, not pausing as the man screamed and fell.

  Another warrior appeared directly in front of Malcolm’s horse, shouting and waving an axe. Malcolm headed directly for him, cursing as the man dodged nimbly out of the way even as he swept his axe sideways, catching the mount just below the right knee. The heavy iron axe head cracked against the animal’s cannon bone, breaking it with a sickening snap. The horse squealed and reared on its hindlegs, twisting sideways in agony as Malcolm desperately pitched himself off its back. He landed heavily in the grass, then rolled instinctively as a shadow fell over him, the axe blade thudding into the ground where moments before he’d been.

  “All right, my friend,” Malcolm whispered to Artturi as he scurried to his feet. Two warriors were facing him, both grinning. “It’s your time to shine now.”

  The warrior to Malcolm’s right was short, with brown teeth and a long, reddish-brown beard that matched his hair, which was knotted on top of his head. The second man was taller, wearing the head and skin of a wolf over his head, with the front paws tied beneath his neck. Malcolm gripped his shield and sword tighter, then released Artturi, who screamed in rage and leaped forward. The warrior wearing the wolf pelt held a spiked club, which he whistled over Malcolm’s head as his host instinctively ducked. Artturi swept his shield sideways, raking the reinforced rim across his attacker’s legs, forcing him back even as he chopped downward, slicing the head off the axe of the second man. Artturi whooped, pure joy escaping from his lungs at being free as he slashed once, then a second time in a crisscross pattern down the chest of the axe-wielding warrior. The man fell, his chest crimson as Malcolm and Artturi focused on the second man.

  “Come on, little bird,” Artturi whispered eagerly, his sword whistling as he twirled it in his hand.

  The enemy warrior grunted and rushed forward, swinging his club. Artturi lifted his shield, letting the heavy wood absorb the impact, then he pushed back, knocking the warrior off balance even as he stabbed outward, slicing through the man’s tough stomach muscles. The warrior gasped, his eyes wide with shock as Artturi smiled and then savagely twisted his blade and yanked it free, allowing the man’s intestines to pour out from his body onto the ground.

  Many of the Cimbri and Teutone warriors had reached the fray now, and some of the enemy began to give ground, falling back toward the forest dragging screaming women or children from the caravan with them. Others remained, meeting the Cimbri and Teutones with spears, shields, and swords. Malcolm heard a shout near the forest line, and he cursed when he saw two brawny warriors dragging a struggling woman holding a child in her arms into the trees. He’d only seen her for a moment, but had instantly recognized her long blonde hair and terrified face before she’d disappeared. Alodia!

  Malcolm ran, skirting around the battling factions as he sprinted toward the forest and plunged into the trees. A warrior was waiting for him there, clutching a spear, and Artturi’s body moved instinctively, twisting sideways as the spearpoint cut through the air where his stomach had been. Malcolm lost his grip on his sword and it fell spinning to the ground as he grasped desperately for the knot of thick hair on his adversary’s head. The warrior cried out in pain as Malcolm tugged on the man’s hair, dragging his head down to meet his uplifting knee, crunching his nose. The warrior sagged, swinging his spear sideways weakly, but Malcolm just blocked it with his shield, then smashed his attacker’s face directly into the trunk of the closest tree. Blood splattered and Malcolm grunted, repeating the motion a second time before finally, he let the limp body sag lifelessly to the leaf-covered forest floor.

  Malcolm picked up his sword and waited, listening. He could hear shouts coming from the trees to his left and from his right as the raiders scattered, along with the terrified cries of the women and children they’d captured. But which way had the bastards taken Alodia and her child? Malcolm stood in indecision, knowing every moment counted. Dusk would be upon them soon, and it would be next to impossible to find her in the darkness of the forest. He turned right, his mind made up as he sprinted beneath tall oaks and leaped over dead branches.

  Malcolm ran as fast as he could for a full minute, counting off the time in his head, then he stopped, trying to steady his breathing as he listened. The shouts and screams sounded fainter and seemed to only be coming from the west now. He cursed softly and turned to head back just as his keen ears heard the snap of a twig ahead of him. Malcolm moved in that direction cautiously, all his senses alert for danger as he scanned the forest. Another twig snapped, this time to his right and he carefully shifted that way, pushing aside waist-high ferns with his sword as he progressed. A man’s voice suddenly arose, screaming in pain, followed by a dark form hu
rtling through the bushes directly toward Malcolm. It was Alodia, he saw in surprise. Her cloak was gone, and her dress was torn, her eyes wide as she almost ran into him. The girl slashed without hesitation at him with a red-stained knife, cutting open his cheek before sprinting away.

  “Alodia!” Malcolm cried, holding his face as hot blood poured from his cheek. “It’s me, Artturi! Wait!”

  Alodia glanced back over her shoulder, her face twisted in surprise, then she disappeared into the trees, heading away from the caravan and deeper into the forest.

  “Alodia!” Malcolm shouted again in exasperation. “Stop!”

  Malcolm cursed, glancing behind him to make sure they weren’t being followed, then he sprinted after the girl. It took almost five minutes before Malcolm finally caught up to her. Alodia was sobbing, weaving as she ran with the hem of her torn dress lifted, but she wouldn’t stop no matter what he said. Finally, Malcolm gave her shoulder a shove, knocking her off balance.

  The girl fell heavily and rolled, coming back to her feet, her face twisted ugly with rage and fear. “They have Frida!” Alodia hissed.

  Malcolm grabbed her shoulders firmly before she could run again. “Your daughter?” he asked, guessing that was the child’s name. He’d never bothered to ask.

  “Yes,” Alodia sobbed, her chest heaving as she tried to breathe. “The men who took us split up.” Alodia twisted helplessly in Artturi’s strong grip. “I have to go after her,” she pleaded.

  “Listen to me,” Malcolm said, shaking the girl to get her attention. “We’ll go together, but not running like frightened deer. If we go much farther like this, we’re bound to get a spear in the belly. We go carefully and quietly, do you understand?”