by Alex Faure
“He says you walk like a horse,” Kealan said. “No stealth.”
Darius laughed at that. “Tell them that while I may walk like a horse,” he said, “they fight like one-eyed drunkards.”
Kealan blinked rapidly. He translated Darius’s words, but not before edging away from the middle ground between Darius and the warriors.
The Celts laughed uproariously at Darius’s words, as he’d guessed they would. “May I?” Darius said, and one of the warriors good-naturedly handed him his practice sword. It was a thick, sturdy branch that had been roughly shaped and sanded into a crude weapon.
“You four,” Darius said, motioning to the losing side. Exchanging skeptical looks, the boys came to stand before him.
“You keep getting pushed into the forest,” Darius said. “You want open terrain at your backs. And you—” He gestured at the boy who had been forced into the thorns, whose red hair matched his blush. “You gave up the higher ground too easily.”
“There are four of us,” the red-haired boy complained after Kealan gave them a fumbling translation of that. “Our numbers were supposed to be even, but Carafain said he wanted to practice his advance.”
Darius guessed that Carafain was the blonde leader. “Four can win against eight easily enough,” he said. “You merely need a different strategy.” Or any strategy at all, he thought. The young men watched him with a kind of dumbfounded interest as, through Kealan, he laid out his own approach to winning an uneven skirmish. It was nothing particularly groundbreaking, at least in Darius’s view, merely the product of endless drills he had engaged in as a soldier. But when he finished, the Celts were nodding and murmuring among themselves.
Redhead, though, looked dubious. He had been sucking the back of his hand, which was covered in scrapes. “There are still eight of them.”
“I’ll join you,” Darius said. “We’ll make it eight against five.”
The other side looked amused when Kealan explained the situation to them. Carafain grinned and swung his practice sword in a way that might have been impressive had not Darius seen young Roman recruits have their weapons knocked from their hands dozens of times by senior officers for such sloppiness. He said something that provoked laughter from the other Celts.
“He says he will enjoy beating a Roman dog one more time,” Kealan translated. His mood seemed much improved.
“Did he truly say ‘Roman dog’?” Darius said.
“I add this.”
The two sides separated, the eight going to one end of the field and the five to the other. But when they came together in a cacophony of battle cries that Darius found pointless in context, unless the aim was to deafen both sides equally, Darius’s five split into two groups. He and Redhead darted towards the woods. As Darius had known they would, the eight all took off after him, baying at their Roman quarry like hounds.
Leaving the three remaining Celts to ambush them from behind, and on higher ground no less.
It was over surprisingly quickly. The three Celts on Darius’s side tripped several men as they raced downhill, then neatly snatched up their swords. Meanwhile, Darius and the redhead split up the moment they were hidden by the trees and circled back, confusing the five Celts still chasing them, including Carafain. Carafain’s men tried to retreat to the field, but once there they found themselves taken by surprise by the three Celts on Darius’s side, who leapt out from behind a tree and easily knocked the swords from their hands. When Darius and Redhead rejoined them, victory was already theirs.
Redhead and the others cheered with the easy delight of boys granted a new toy. Carafain handled the loss with grace. Through Kealan, he asked Darius to explain how he had bested them.
“It wasn’t much,” Darius felt compelled to admit. “The terrain is varied, and in such situations it’s easy to use it against an undisciplined enemy.” As soon as he said undisciplined, he wished he could call it back, but the young Celts accepted the assessment, translated by a glowering Kealan, with thoughtful nods.
“He wishes to go again,” Kealan said sourly.
And so, they did. Darius ran the Volundi warriors through several scenarios with different configurations of men and terrain—dividing them equally or unequally; allowing or disallowing use of the forest; granting his opponents the higher ground. It made no difference. Each time, Darius’s side won.
After each victory, he gave the Celts a summary of the tactics he had employed, and why they had proved effective. He was pleased to see Carafain attempt to emulate a particular strategy once, and he might have won had he not telegraphed it so openly. After Darius disarmed him, he gave a thunderclap of laughter and shook his hand in the Celtic style, by clasping his wrist.
By then, a small crowd of villagers and warriors had gathered to watch. A small pocket of respectful space had formed around one pale figure, who Darius glimpsed out of the corner of his eye. He turned.
Fionn gazed back at him, a faint smile on his face.
A dizzying rush of pleasure thrummed through Darius’s veins at the simple sight of him. Fionn looked as cool and crisp as ever in a finely woven tunic and some sort of gold chain around his neck. It was his only kingly adornment; he wore neither cloak nor crown. But even without those things, every line of his body and cant of his head drew the eye and commanded admiration. It made Darius realize how many days had passed without him laying eyes on Fionn—even the intimacy of the previous night had played out in darkness. Darius was grateful that the exertions of the past hour or two had given him an excuse for his flushed cheeks.
Fionn murmured something to the reedy blonde man at his side. Darius recognized him from the party who had come upon Darius and Fionn in the forest after their first lovemaking. Fionn made his way to where Darius stood with the others. They bowed their heads to their king.
Fionn spoke to Kealan. “His Highness asks if you mean to teach them to fight with their heads, as Romans do,” Kealan said.
“I have not the skill to instruct them in any other way,” Darius said dryly. He had to consciously prevent his gaze from roving over Fionn’s lithe body. The events of the previous night filled his thoughts. “As His Highness once pointed out.”
Fionn’s smile took on a calculating aspect. He spoke again. Kealan said, “The king would like to participate in your game.”
The Volundi warriors looked simultaneously honoured and excited. Darius had the sense that Fionn’s displays of preternatural skill were viewed as a rare treat.
He gave Fionn a look. “The game will not last long, if His Highness were to take part.”
“The king says he will have only one warrior on his side,” Kealan said, motioning to the redhead, who looked beside himself with delight, his face now even brighter than his hair. “Last man to retain his weapon wins. The king says he is certain Roman ingenuity will triumph in this case.”
Darius was far from convinced on that point. He would be far from convinced even if Fionn offered to tie his hands behind his back. “We’ll see.”
Fionn spoke again, his gaze bland but steady on Darius. “The king invites you to put him on his back,” Kealan said.
Darius flushed anew at that, a prickly sensation that travelled over every inch of him. Before he could reply, Fionn was motioning to Redhead, and the game had begun.
Fionn and Redhead made for the trees immediately, as Darius had known they would. With such mismatched numbers, even a man of Fionn’s skill would look for opportunities to divide his opponents rather than battle a dozen warriors at once. Darius ordered his men to circle around the edge of the wood and then approach from the back, forcing Fionn and Redhead to retreat to the field again.
Unfortunately, the Celtic lack of discipline soon reasserted itself. There came a flash of red amongst the trees and the sound of branches breaking, and two of Darius’s warriors, sensing easy quarry, went charging into the woods with a whoop. Darius tried to order them back, but it was too late. They emerged seconds later, sheepish and disarmed. One o
f the men had somehow lost his helmet and cloak.
Darius now had ten men. He resigned himself, ruefully, to the sense of inevitability that hung over the game, but still he was intrigued to see what Fionn would do next. As he was clearly of an inclination to use Redhead as bait, Darius ordered his side to ignore Redhead entirely—focus only on the king. They reached the back of the woods and began making their way slowly towards the field, keeping within a few paces of each other at all times. The cool green canopy folded together above their heads.
From Darius’s left came a startled shout. Two of his men were on their backs, swordless, while the others looked on in astonishment. They had been attacked by one of Darius’s men.
But no—the assailant drew off his cloak and helmet, revealing a flash of silvery hair. Fionn good-naturedly knocked away the sword of another man who sprung at him, then faded back into the trees like a shadow.
Darius couldn’t help laughing. He gestured to his men to form a tighter line, but they paid him no heed. They had left Kealan behind, and Darius was now powerless to instruct the warriors, while Fionn’s insouciant attack had shattered what little discipline he’d managed to wring from them. Half went charging after Fionn like hounds after a hind, whooping. Darius managed to rally the rest to follow him in a tight formation, and yet somehow, every time he glanced behind him, he was short another man. By the time he reached the field, he was alone.
Redhead was there, laughing, as were several of Darius’s men, looking sheepish but pleased.
Redhead darted at Darius, who parried his attack easily—the man showed his every intention on his face. Darius relieved him of his sword with a quick slash of his own weapon.
Leaves rustled behind him, and Darius turned. Fionn emerged from the forest—naturally, he had retained his sword. Darius smiled. Fionn could move soundlessly when he wanted to, yet he’d chosen to announce his presence and give Darius a fighting chance at defending himself. It was simultaneously charming and insulting.
Darius raised his sword, inviting Fionn to advance. Darius’s vanquished teammates cheered—for whom, it was unclear. Darius’s heart skipped a beat as Fionn’s smile flashed in the sunlight. His beauty was so mesmerizing that if he’d chosen that moment to attack, Darius wouldn’t have noticed his sword being taken from him.
But Fionn only circled, manoeuvring them onto even ground. Darius feinted, and Fionn darted aside. A thrill raced through him at the fact that a crowd was watching them dance like this after what they’d done last night. It felt transgressive, intoxicating—and dangerous.
“This is ridiculous,” Darius said in the forest language, his voice pitched for the two of them. “You could have disarmed me a dozen times by now.”
“Perhaps I want the opportunity to study Roman swordsmanship,” Fionn murmured. There was a glint of mischief in his eyes that Darius had never seen before. It made him look like a young man rather than an unearthly creature, and Darius longed to grasp the collar of Fionn’s tunic and pull him in for a kiss. “Show me your moves.”
Darius felt intoxicated by Fionn’s nearness. “So that you can put me on my back?”
“I don’t think so, love.” Fionn was smiling, his pale cheeks flushed. “You know by now that’s my position.”
Darius had to pause for a moment to reorient himself after that. Then he lunged.
It was a simple enough sequence, characteristically Roman in its Spartan efficiency. Fionn parried every thrust, of course, but he made no move to counter. Darius found himself putting more effort into his swordsmanship than he normally would during practice, wanting to appear at least competent before the onlookers. Though, if he was honest with himself, he cared mostly for Fionn’s opinion.
He was rewarded with a “Not bad,” after they’d danced around the field a few times. They parted, Darius breathing heavily, Fionn looking as if he’d merely gone for a stroll. They were on the far end of the field, and their audience could not know they were speaking to each other.
“The Roman style seems very cautious,” Fionn said. “It’s as if you’re playing a song you’ve learned by heart rather than improvising.”
“There’s no need to improvise if you know your sequences,” Darius said.
“May I try that last one?”
Darius nodded, resigning himself to his looming defeat. But Fionn tempered his speed and grace, keeping Darius on his toes without trying to lure him into mistakes. Darius found that he was enjoying himself—something he couldn’t recall happening during any fight, practice or no. Fionn’s lightness and evident enjoyment made swordplay feel like a game, and he matched his skill so closely to Darius’s that he felt as if he was being comfortably challenged rather than dominated.
Fionn drew off, smiling. “How did I do?”
“Good,” Darius said.
Fionn raised his eyebrows. Darius bit back a smile. “All right. I wasn’t going to mention this, but your parries are a little sloppy.”
Fionn’s jaw dropped. “Sloppy?”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Darius said. “You’re swinging your sword too much. As you well know, you’re so quick that it doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.” Fionn’s mock-outrage had faded into thoughtfulness. “Show me again.”
They ran through it a few times, with Darius offering several beginners’ pointers to help Fionn focus on efficiency of movement. It was odd to think of Fionn as a beginner, but in truth, now that he was watching him fight at human speed, Darius could see that he was unschooled in the way of every Celt he’d encountered, having been taught all he knew by other men also lacking in formal training but abundant in bad habits. That he was so good was entirely a product of his inborn grace and speed.
Not that it mattered. “There,” Darius said as they drew apart again. “Now I’ve taught you how to kill a man in a quarter second instead of a half. You’re welcome.”
Fionn laughed. They sparred again, and Darius was pleased to see the improvements in Fionn’s technique. Unsurprisingly, he was a fast learner. For an unsettling moment, Darius stepped outside himself and watched as he taught swordsmanship to an already deadly Celtic king, Rome’s enemy. But the reedy blonde man appeared at Fionn’s side before his thoughts could take him farther down that road.
The man fixed Darius with a hostile glare and murmured something to Fionn, and Fionn nodded. He handed his practice sword to Darius and bid him farewell in the Celtic language. Darius responded in kind, and Fionn’s eyes sparkled with amusement.
It was only as he watched Fionn walk away that Darius realized that he hadn’t been disarmed once.
Chapter Six
“The king will speak with you this morning,” Kealan said the following day. “He pays you this visit out of respect for your rank among our enemies. I hope I need not remind you that it is a great honour. He has often been away from Glenvaneach recently and has many other duties pressing on him.”
“Glenvaneach?” Darius repeated. It was the first time he had been told the name of the village. “Is this your capital?”
“Yes. It is not the largest village, but it is always the royal home,” Kealan said. Though he maintained an air of disdain, he answered Darius’s questions evenly now, without attempting to insult him at every turn. Darius guessed, without caring much, that he had worn himself out with his own animosity.
“When will the king see me?” He felt, absurdly, a stab of trepidation. He had made passionate love to Fionn two nights ago, and lain open his heart to him. But that didn’t mean he felt wholly comfortable in his presence, particularly in his guise as Celtic king. He had even less of an idea of what to expect from him than usual.
“When the king chooses to see you,” Kealan replied, sounding as if he enjoyed saying it. “I suggest you make yourself presentable.”
Darius looked down at himself. It was a warm day, and he wore only his light Celtic trousers. His tunic, hung over a chair, was stained from several days’ wear and torn from his exe
rtions with the Volundi warriors yesterday. “Very well,” he said. “Bring me some clean clothes. Something lighter than what I have at present. And larger sandals. The ones you’ve given me are too small.”
Darius enjoyed the sight of Kealan’s face reddening. “I—” the man sputtered.
“I wouldn’t want to disrespect your king,” Darius added. “I appreciate your guidance in this area, Kealan.”
He returned to the breakfast he had been picking at. Kealan watched him for another moment, clearly searching for an insult that would somehow extract him from the servile role he had unwittingly thrust himself into. Failing that, he eventually stomped out. A few minutes later, Darius got his clean clothes and a new pair of sandals, brought to him by a stone-faced Celtic woman. He donned them with a small smile.
Darius didn’t have to wait long, it turned out. Around mid-morning, Kealan re-entered the tent, his expression cold but carefully composed. Behind him came the reedy blonde man from yesterday. And at his side was Fionn’s sister.
Brigit was even more painfully beautiful than Darius remembered. She stepped as lightly as a deer, her long hair a cascade of gold over her shoulders. She gave Darius a curious, appraising stare that Darius did not find easy to hold. She had some of Fionn’s thoughtless self-assurance, and there was a directness to her gaze that told Darius she was a girl used to issuing commands, even at her young age.
Behind Brigit was Fionn. Darius paid him the respect of standing up, though he did not bow his head; after all, a Roman did not bow to barbarian kings. He kept his expression a careful mask, though his heart was a drumbeat. Fionn was unarmed and dressed in a simple tunic, sandals and trousers, little different from Darius’s own clothing, and yet there was a weight to his presence that none of the other Celts possessed.
Darius found himself wondering how he hadn’t guessed that the man was the heir to power. Fionn’s ethereal grace translated well to kingship—it drew the eye and inspired wonder, as well as caution.
Darius watched him, trying to guess how he was expected to perform here, what Fionn’s intentions were. He had no idea. Fionn’s face was unreadable.