“My lord?”
“Do not pretend ignorance!” he snapped with a sudden show of anger. “You know what I mean. Tancogeistla—you followed him for months. Would you still draw sword for him?”
“I draw sword for no man,” I replied truthfully. “I have seen enough blood spilled to last me for a lifetime. The life of a warrior is not one I desire to follow.” It was clear enough that I was dodging his question and I continued before he could interrupt. “I followed and stood with Tancogeistla because I believed he was my rightful leader. I will follow any man who commands that position. You are the Vergobret.”
He smiled, and once again his visage was full of cunning and deceit. “Cocolitanos knew. He knew that Tancogeistla’s drink would be his undoing,” he chuckled. “He tried to kill you last night—did you know that?”
I shook my head “no”. All I remembered was him striking me with the hilt of his sword.
Malac nodded. “You—one of his most faithful followers. Only the entrance of my men into the tavern kept him from driving his blade through your belly.”
I listened quietly, uncertain whether I should believe him. His objective was clear—to separate me from any remaining loyalties to Tancogeistla, but his words held the ring of truth. I thought back to the headlands of Gaul, when I had seen my general kill three men in a drunken brawl. In the power of liquor, he was capable of anything. I knew that. But I didn’t want to believe this, that this was the end of the journey, the end of the man Inyae had been sacrificed for. I still saw her face in my dreams. Time had healed nothing.
Malac was speaking again. “…if you desire not the path of the warrior, then what are your plans?”
I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly. “My lord?”
He waved his hand impatiently. “What life do you plan to follow here in Emain-Macha?”
I shook my head. “I have given it very little thought, my lord. My days have been busy since my arrival. Perhaps…before our migration I worked in a gobacrado, as an assistant,” I replied, thinking of my brief apprenticeship with the smith.
“Then return to that work,” he replied, rising to indicate that our interview was at an end. Berdic and I rose as well.
“I thank you, my lord,” I acknowledged, bowing low. The brihetin which had fetched me from the town returned and escorted the two of us to the edge of the encampment and bade us farewell.
My survival surprised me. Even more surprising was the lack of joy it brought me. I knew nothing of the fate of Tancogeistla, the rightful leader of my people. I had bowed and scraped before an impostor to save my own life.
But the dead can accomplish nothing…
Chapter X: Clouds of War
I went to work as Malac had instructed, in a gobacrado, or smithy. As the months passed, I saw Tancogeistla on several occasions. He had not been put to death by his rival, but ever he was accompanied by several guards. Clearly, whatever Malac’s plans, they did not entail letting Tancogeistla out of his sight.
The smith’s work agreed with me. We turned out mattocks, plowshares, picks with which to work the earth; as well as the implements of war. We dwelt in safety and peace. The Aedui now controlled only two cities, a sad decline from the glory days of the Keltoi Confederation, but more than I had ever dreamed we would possess after our flight from home.
I had no desires for further conquest and I naively assumed others shared my views. I had learned much in my sojourn on the isle with Tancogeistla, but I was still young. Yet to learn that the surest sign of immaturity is fancying yourself mature.
Berdic visited me often, riding in from his village with a girl riding sidesaddle behind him. Often a girl he wished me to take as my wife. There was little way for me to explain the lack of interest I showed in them. The wound was still too fresh, and my happy, carefree friend would never understand my continued grief for a woman I had known so briefly.
I visited the hill of Teamhaidh frequently, becoming close friends with one of the druids in charge of the sanctuary there, a holy man by the name of Motios. But the association did nothing to restore my faith in the gods which had abandoned us in the wastelands of the Isle of Tin, as Motios informed me it was called.
There was an emptiness I have no way of describing. I was searching for something, I knew not what. For a long time I concealed it from my friend. Then one sunny afternoon, it slipped out.
“Are the gods we worship real, Motios?” I demanded, glancing sharply into the face of the old druid. I don’t know what I expected him to say. I could have hardly imagined that he would countenance my blasphemy.
A shadow passed over his face, something akin to sadness in his eyes as he regarded me gravely. “Why do you ask, my son?”
I shrugged helplessly, hanging my head in shame. “It was the Isle of Tin, father. The gods seemed to abandon us there. I lost a woman I loved, was betrayed by a friend I had held dear. I started to question.” I looked up into his eyes. “Was I wrong?”
He seemed to be struggling with something and at first he didn’t answer. Then he reached over and picked his staff off the floor, rising from his seat. “Come with me, son. I will show you what is true.”
I followed him out of his dwelling and up the hillside. Despite his age, he was in good condition and I had to hurry to keep up with him as we trudged toward the top of Teamhaidh.
A circle of standing stones surmounted the crest of the hill, a place of worship, of observing the movements of the stars. A breeze was building, swirling over the mountaintop as clouds gathered from the western sea. A storm was coming.
We were alone.
Motios turned to me and once again I could see the struggle in his eyes. “Was I wrong, father?” I asked, impatient with his hesitation.
He shook his head slowly. “No, my son. The gods you see here, worshiped around here by these stones and the altars below—none of them are real. None of them are divine.”
His admission shook me far more than words can describe. All this time, I had assumed I was in the wrong, my faith beaten down by a series of circumstances. I had known of only one other man who shared my disbelief. Cavarillos, the profane, pragmatic mercenary. And now this…
A thousand questions poured to my lips, but none of them could escape. I was speechless.
Motios sensed my dilemma. “You wonder why, my son? Simply this. We have lost the truth, abandoned it in the mists of our past. So we have had to invent, to fill the void with tales of our own making. The cycles of the druids confirm this. They show that at one time, long ago, before we even came to Gaul, that we worshiped one god.”
The thought was completely foreign to me. “One god?”
A faint smile flickered across the old druid’s face. “Yes, my son. One god who was supreme over all things—and invisible. No altars were built unto him. He was worshiped in the privacy of one’s home.”
“What happened?”
“That, my son, I do not know. The records I possess do not show.”
“So there is no truth in the gods we worship now?”
“I did not say that, Cadwalador. I merely said none of them were divine. Cernunnos is an example I can use. He lived in those ancient days, as human as you or I. He was a mighty hunter and a conqueror in lands far to the east. The horns of the bull were a symbol of his aggression for it was said that he had wrestled with one and vanquished it in his strength. He rebelled against the worshipers of the one god and they put him to death for his blasphemy.”
I still couldn’t believe my ears. “And if this is all true, father, why have these gods been created—if they are all false, nothing more than the work of man’s hands?”
He reached forward and grasped me by both shoulders, holding my gaze. “Because, Cadwalador,” he whispered fiercely, “we have lost the truth. The records I possess are not sufficient to show us the right paths. Perhaps one day a man will come to once again restore us to truth. Until then—”
I interrupted him. “Until then, why deceiv
e the people with these frauds?” The words came out with more anger than I had intended.
“Because we all must have something to believe in, my son. Something greater than ourselves. It is the fabric of our society. To destroy them will be to destroy our own selves.”
“Then why were you honest with me?”
Motios shook his head, gazing steadfastly away from me, to where clouds were building, dark and forbidding. “I don’t know. Perhaps because I realized that you were no longer deceived. That you were searching. That your unbelief was tormenting you.”
“I thank you.”
He nodded wordlessly and without further conversation we left the hilltop of Teamhaidh, both lost in our own thoughts.
Despite his words, I was more troubled inside than ever before. Little did I know that it was but a foretaste of things to come. Clouds were building, not only over the slopes of Teamhaidh, but in the hearts of the men who led my people. Clouds of war…
I had seen Tancogeistla in the square of Emain-Macha many times in the intervening years, but he was always accompanied by the brihetin of Malac, and I never spoke with him. All that changed on one bright day eleven years from the time of our departure from Gaul.
I was working steadily in the gobacrado, sweating from the heat of the forge as I hammered a sickle into shape. All at once, a figure darkened the doorway. “You prosper, my son,” a voice announced calmly.
I looked up into the bearded face of Tancogeistla. His hair was growing gray, and he walked a little slower, but otherwise he was the same man I had known. “My lord!” I exclaimed, dropping my hammer with a crash.
He smiled, waving the brihetin in behind him. They were the same men who had accompanied him for years. “Cadwalador, my son,” he whispered, embracing me. “I have come to enlist your help.”
“In what, my lord?
“Raising an army,” he retorted, watching for my reaction.
“I am no warrior,” was my weak reply. I was amazed by his boldness in front of his guards.
He apparently sensed my hesitation. “These men are my friends, Cadwalador,” he laughed, “you can speak freely in front of them.”
I shook my head. “I still say, the warrior’s way is not mine. You should know that more than anyone else. Raise your army. I will remain at my forge.”
“The army is not mine.”
His words startled me. “Then whose?”
“The Vergobret’s. Malac’s. He has decided that this island is not enough for us.”
“Where does he intend to go? Back to Gaul?”
“He has not told me. But I need your help.”
“I have helped you all I intend to,” I replied, some of the old bitterness rising to the surface. That in itself disturbed me. I thought I had put that behind me.
“All the gobacrados in Emain-Macha have been called upon to provide weapons and armor for the soldiers being raised. I would be pleased if you would cooperate.”
There was something underlying his words, a veiled threat. I stared into his eyes. “Why this sudden eagerness to help Malac?”
“Every man is duty-bound to aid his state in time of trouble,” he replied piously. I could detect no sarcasm there, but I could sense something. Something was wrong.
But for now I saw no choice but to go along. “I will take your orders for weapons,” I replied. “I presume I will be paid fairly.”
He nodded, glancing at his guards. “It’s time we were going. Good-day, my son.”
“Good-day, my lord.”
The orders came pouring in within a matter of days, swords, spear-tips, armor, helmets. Several of the requests pushed my skill to the limit, but I did my best. Troops were being raised from the native population, the Goidils, and numerous of them were in and out of the gobacrado constantly.
Many of the locals were levied into bands of vellinica, light spearmen who could hopefully be trusted to hold our line better than the lugoae I had fought with in the army of Tancogeistla.
Others, many of the younger Goidils, were formed into groups of cladaca, fast light infantry who could hurry from point to point on the battlefield to reinforce weak spots. They were armed with darts and short swords, many of which I forged.
I had seen many warriors, fought beside them in the isle of tin, seen them die beside me. But when a tall, flame-haired man stepped into the gobacrado about three months after Tancogeistla’s visit, I realized that I had never seen one to match him.
He introduced himself as Lugort, and I realized almost right away that he was a native of the island, if the Goidils had any right to be called such.
I almost laughed when he told me his mission—to secure a number of large hammers. I was instantly glad I hadn’t, for Lugort was not a laughing man.
“It is this army your Tancogeistla is raising,” he replied in response to my query. “He has called on I and my warriors to aid him.”
I just looked at him. “You use hammers to fight?”
“Ordmalica,” he replied simply, which I was to learn meant “hammer fighters”.
He went on, “It is the weapon of Dagda, with which he forged the creation and with which he punishes those who war against him.”
My thoughts went instinctively to my conversation with Motios. Man warring against God. Utter foolishness.
“…you can make what I need?” Lugort was asking, pulling me from my reverie. I acknowledged his question with a nod. “Easily.” I gestured to a table full of forged swords. “Far more easily than I made those.”
He sniffed perceptibly. “A sword is a fool’s weapon. It will fail you in your hour of need.”
I shot a sharp look in his direction, his words piercing to my heart. Did he know? There was no way that he could have, and yet he spoke the truth. Nine years had passed and yet I could still feel that sword being ripped from my grasp with the force of Cavarillos’ blow, see Inyae rushing from the darkness to shield me.
“I know,” I replied simply. He looked at me, a question in his eyes, but it went unasked. Clearly my reply was unusual for an Aeduan.
“I will return in two weeks. Your pay will be ready then.”
“It is agreed.”
Ogrosan was approaching and yet the task of preparing the army continued, more and more men pouring into Emain-Macha until I thought the city could not contain them all. I questioned every visitor to the gobacrado to find out the object of our invasion, but no one seemed to know.
One evening, as I was banking the fires of my forge, I heard laughter outside the door. Just as I was about to look out, the door swung open and Berdic lurched in, dragging a pretty tavern wench behind him. He was clearly in his cups, and she was well nigh as drunken.
“News for you, lad!” he exclaimed, clapping me roughly on the shoulder.
“Yes?” I asked, not expecting anything important. It was hardly his first such intrusion into my privacy.
“Malac rode in at sunset,” he slurred, squeezing the girl tightly to him. She laughed at him and pulled away. “H-he was in the tavern, talking. Said we was going across the sea—to a place called Attu-something.”
“Attuaca?” I demanded, my heart nearly stopping. Surely not.
He looked up at me through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “That’s it, my old friend. Attu-Aca. You’ve heard of it?”
I pushed him aside roughly and strode toward the door. The girl giggled drunkenly at my hurry, but I had no time to heed her laughter.
My horse was tied in front of the gobacrado and I swung onto his back, grasping the reins in my hand. I needed to find Tancogeistla.
Visions of the hospitality we had enjoyed at Attuaca flashed through my mind. Now we were returning, to lay siege with fire and sword. It could not be. Not if there was any way to stop it.
I kicked my horse into a gallop as I rode out under the night sky, a premonition of doom enfolding me. The clouds of war were gathering…
I rode hard through the night, towards Tancogeistla’s residence. A light rain w
as starting to fall, but I never noticed it. Too much else was on my mind.
An oil lamp was still burning inside Tancogeistla’s house and I dismounted outside the door. Truly, I believe I would have gone inside had everything been pitch-black. I had to know the truth.
One of the brihetin answered my pounding on the door. “The night is late,” he stated, glaring at me. His hand was on the hilt of the sword strapped to his side. Clearly he didn’t take a welcoming view of visitors.
“Tell Tancogeistla that Cadwalador is outside his door,” I replied. “I must speak with him.”
“One moment,” the brihetin replied, closing the door in my face. I could hear voices from inside and in a moment, he was back.
“You may come in,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “Follow me.”
I ducked my head to avoid the lentel and followed him inside. Tancogeistla sat at a low table near a fireplace, and rose at my approach.
“Cadwalador, my son,” he greeted me. The look in his eyes told me he knew exactly why I was there.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” I demanded, gripping him fiercely by the shoulders, my eyes locking with his. The brihetin advanced to pull me off the general, but Tancogeistla waved him away.
“What, my son?” he asked, concern in his voice. “The night is raw and you’re soaked with rain. You’ve ridden hard.”
I nodded, seeming to realize my condition for the first time. He was right. But I had to know. “Malac is in town, isn’t he?”
A silent nod. “And we are marching to take Attuaca?”
“Who told you?” Tancogeistla asked.
“Then it’s true?” I demanded in return, still wanting to hear denial from his lips. Knowing I would not.
He nodded. “There’s nothing I can do about it,” he continued, as if sensing my next question. “Nothing at all.”
I turned away, my mind still reeling. If only—I realized with brutal suddenness why Malac had been so interested in my story that bright morning I had been brought before him so many years ago. This had been a long time in the planning.
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