“How long have you known?” I questioned sharply, glancing back at Tancogeistla.
“A messenger from Malac. A week ago.”
“They were our friends, my lord,” I protested, endeavoring to find his loyalties in this. “They sheltered us in the dark months and saved us from perishing. How can we lift a hand against them now?”
“Ask Malac,” Tancogeistla replied, his disgust seeming to match mine, “he cares nothing for the kindness shone us. And he will never heed the advice of the man from whom he stole the throne.”
I looked over at the brihetin, surprised by the boldness of Tancogeistla’s words. His guard was smiling.
The general smiled at my confusion. “Belerios is my friend. We have been together for so many years—he believes in my right to the throne.”
The announcement stunned me. “If he believes,” I asked, “don’t others? Enough to stop this madness?”
Tancogeistla shook his head. “We stand not a chance with Malac in the city. I’m sorry, my son. But in a week, we march to Attuaca. I would be pleased if you would ride in my bodyguard.”
The request took me by surprise, but Tancogeistla’s requests had the habit of coming like that. And not leaving much room to refuse.
I nodded slowly. “I will join you.”
We left Emain-Macha at the end of the week, as Tancogeistla had said. Malac drew the troops up outside the city and addressed them.
I was surprised by the change. The years had clearly wrought their work upon him. His once-flaming head of hair was now white as the snow cresting the far-off mountains of Erain. He looked now as old as Tancogeistla, who was a few years his senior.
“My people!” he began, “I am pleased to see so many of you here with me today. Pleased to see that you have answered the call of your state. The time has come to expand our borders, to wet our swords in the blood of our enemies, and to take more land for our people. Cocolitanos believed our destiny lay on the isle of tin, across the sea. That was where he died, killed by the people of a place called Attuaca. We march this day to avenge his death.”
His eyes swept the ranks and I could feel his gaze rest upon me where I sat on my horse beside Tancogeistla. A faint smile creased his face, as though mocking me for the information I had given him. I stared coldly back at him. After a moment he looked away and continued his speech.
“A fleet of ships has been prepared at the coast. They will carry us to our destination. To our glory!”
Cheers greeted his words, a mighty, rousing cry of Rabo! swelling from the throats of the Aeduan warriors. The war-cry took me back years, to the last time I had heard it. The massacre of Inyae’s village. An action as senseless and brutal as what was taking place now.
But this time it was different. The Calydrae had sheltered us, protected us. Cinaed had been our friend in very truth, although at one time we had feared him. And now we moved to conquer…
Chapter XI: The Way of War
The journey back to the island was a hard one for me. Tancogeistla knew that. Perhaps that was the reason he left me to myself on the voyage. We were traveling in sturdier craft this time, but my heart was twice as unsettled as it had been on the rafts years earlier. Then we had been returning to our people, jubilant in our own survival. Now we went back, to carry flame and sword to those who had befriended us. There was no justice in this battle. Malac never intended any.
Our army was divided between the Gallic and Goidilic contingents. Most of the slingers were settlers from Emain-Macha, men who had answered Tancogiestla’s call for an army. So far as I knew, they were loyal to Malac, but at times I had my doubts.
Berdic was in command of one of the detachments of iaosatae. He did not share in my misery, failed to understand it. Boyhood friends though we were, fellow villagers—we were so different. I could never understand his carefree ways, no more than he could understand my silence, my reticence to speak on matters he talked so easily about.
Many of the Goidils were from the south, the area around Ivernis. Except for Lugort and his unit of ordmalica. The Goidilic noble had come aboard on the boat I sailed on. Apparently he and Tancogeistla knew each other.
He and his men set up a practice area on the stern of our small ship. I watched them at work from day to day, swinging their great hammers, the hammers I had forged.
After four days of sailing, we touched the shores of the island of tin. Malac chose one of the slingers who had been with Tancogeistla in the beginning to guide the column. And we set out, on our mission of death.
Ogrosan was coming, a terrible time of the year to war, but Malac did not seem to care.
I rode beside Tancogeistla near the head of our column. Malac’s men were watching constantly.
It seemed to amuse the general, as though he knew something I didn’t. “We are nearing Attuaca,” he stated calmly the second day after our landing.
I nodded. “You know of no way to stop him?” I asked, glancing across at him as I rode at his side.
Tancogeistla shook his head, chuckling grimly. “If I had, I would not have permitted him to come this far. No, my son. We are in too deep to back out now. The die is cast. We win, or we die.”
“And we win by killing those who saved our lives!” I snapped, anger boiling over inside me. He nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth of my words.
“There is no way to prevent it. Even now, I doubt not that the Calydrae know of our advance. They will be preparing their defenses.” Tancogeistla looked back over the marching warbands. “Many will die. On both sides.”
“Senselessly!” I hissed back at him, overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all. His gaze met mine.
“Such is the way of war…”
We rode on, through fields of now-snowy heather, the flower that had blanketed the fields in purple when I had wandered these hills with the Belgae maiden, Diedre. She hadn’t entered my thoughts in all the years since my departure from Attuaca, but as each hoofbeat carried us closer, my thoughts turned toward her. Was she still in the city? Was she still a slave of the Calydrae? They were unanswerable questions, and in very truth, she meant nothing to me. Just another friend I was about to betray.
Toward nightfall, one of our scouts came riding back in, his horse lathered with sweat. “My lord,” he began, reining up before Malac, “the town is ahead of us.”
“Attuaca?” Malac demanded. Even from my position twenty feet away, I could see the glitter in his eyes, watch the expression on his face change. The face of a conniving old man.
The scout nodded.
“Good,” Malac replied, turning in his saddle to face his warbands. “Tonight we camp outside the walls. Tomorrow—we avenge Cocolitanos!”
“Rabo! Rabo!”
I could not sleep that night. Instead I paced back and forth through the camp, endeavoring to find a way to slip through the sentries. There was none. Malac intended that no one be able to reach Attuaca. Several parties of the Goidils had been set to work fashioning crude battering rams. They worked long into the night.
Fires were burning in the town, reminding me of the signal fires that had summoned the host of the Dumnones to our destruction. Perhaps Cinaed needed no warning from me. A savvy warrior, he doubtless suspected Malac’s treachery. Or so I tried to console myself.
I sat down on the stump of a tree that had been cut down for the ram, my javelins in my hand, my eyes gazing toward Attuaca. The night was long…
I awoke to the sound of shouting. Shaking my head to clear the fog of sleep from my brain, I raised myself up from the ground. Apparently I had gone to sleep at some time during the night and fallen from my perch on the stump.
A small group of men was advancing from behind the palisade of Attuaca, coming toward our camp. I recognized Cinaed almost instantly, although he had grown a beard and his hair was duller than I had remembered it. Still, he walked tall and proud toward our lines, accompanied by his retainers. A noble man.
He stopped in front of our camp and cried wi
th a loud voice, “Where is the leader of this army and wherefore have you come?”
Malac appeared, a coat of chainmail over his shoulders. His sword was strapped to his side. He appeared to have thrown on his armor hurriedly. Tancogeistla was right behind him.
“From the land of the Aedui are we come,” Malac replied, drawing himself up in front of the Calydrae chieftain. “We have come to demand the surrender of your people.”
Unbidden, I walked toward the little group. There was so much I wanted to say to Cinaed, words I knew I would never have the chance to utter. He ignored Malac’s speech, but rather was staring at Tancogeistla. “My people sheltered and fed you through the dark months many years ago, when you and your men were starving in the wilderness. And this is how you repay that kindness?”
“Malac is my ruler. I obey his commands,” Tancogeistla shrugged piously, deceiving no one, much less Malac. He raised his eyes to meet Cinaed. “This was not my wish.”
The chieftain shook his head. “When you left, you told me that you sailed to take the throne of your people. Was that too a lie?”
“I was deceived,” was Tancogeistla’s simple reply. Cinaed looked toward my approach.
“Cadwalador,” he said slowly. “My men saved you from the snows.”
I nodded in painful acknowledgement of his words. His face twisted into anger. “I wish to the gods we had let you all die!”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, looking into his eyes. He turned his attention back to Malac, who was speaking again.
“…what is your answer? Will you lay down your arms and surrender the town?”
Cinaed glared into the face of the Vergobret. “The Calydrae have never known the meaning of surrender. As for our arms—come and take them.”
Malac nodded. “We will do just that.”
I watched as the delegation of the Calydrae turned and walked back, disappearing behind their palisade. A dark certainty overcame me. Many that I called friend would die. On both sides. I knew the Calydrae too well to think that their defense would collapse easily.
Our Vergobret turned, facing the troops that were now pouring from our camp. “Bring forward the rams! We attack as soon as they are in place!”
Despite Malac’s intentions, we were not formed up for an attack until almost noon. The Calydrae did not let the time go to waste. That much I knew. I dressed myself in a suit of mail I had forged in the gobacrado, took my javelins in hand and mounted up, beside Tancogeistla and the rest of the brihetin. The tension in our ranks was palpable.
Many of us felt the fight was unjust. Even more were breathless in their anticipation of plunder. Tancogeistla was right. We were past the point of no return.
Malac rode forward on his mighty gray warhorse, and tossed a javelin toward the palisade of Attuaca. Despite his age, his arm still possessed incredible power and I watched as the javelin stuck quivering in the logs.
His gesture was greeted with defiant taunts from the Calydrae. He turned, waving to his men. “Forward, my people! Forward, to the walls!”
The men assigned to the battering rams moved forward to Malac’s command, pushing the rams in front of them. Berdic’s iaosatae followed, moving to cover them with their slings. He waved to me as he passed, grinning from ear to ear. He had yet to see the sorrows of war. The way I had.
In the distance, far ahead of where Tancogeistla and I sat astride our steeds, I could hear the thud of the rams being shoved into the palisade. They should make short work of it.
I could hear the screams of men dying as the Calydrae pelted the rams with their javelins. My stay in Attuaca had convinced me firsthand of their proficiency with that weapon. They were putting up a stiff resistance.
Malac’s brihetin pranced a short distance behind the rams, just out of range. Minutes passed, dragging slowly. I could feel the impatience in our men. They were lusting for battle. Lugort’s ordmalica stood in formation beside us, their battle hammers held easily at their sides.
The tall, sober Goidilic noble stood at their head. He acknowledged my glance with a silent nod. He did not seem to share the exuberance of many of our warriors. Perhaps he, like myself, had seen too much of war. Or maybe fighting beneath an Aedui banner was what perturbed him. A distant crash turned our attention back to the front. Our rams had broken through the gate.
A horn sounded in front of us. Malac, sounding the charge. His brihetin galloped forward, nearly trampling several of the men pulling the ram back from the broken gate. The Goidils from Ivernis followed, making for the other two rams, which were just then smashing through the palisade to the right and left of the gate.
I looked at Tancogeistla, who was holding himself rigidly in place, as though waiting for something. What, I had no idea.
“Shall we go, my lord?” Through the gate ahead of us, I could see Malac’s horsemen fiercely engaged with the warriors of the Calydrae. For the moment they were all alone.
He smiled, barking a quick order to Belerios, the brihetin who had been his guard over the years of his captivity. The swarthy Gaul spurred his horse forward, to the line of the iaosatae, where Berdic stood with the rest of the slingers.
He reined up beside Berdic and said something to him, which was quickly passed down the line. The slingers ceased their fire. The Goidils of Ivernis had disappeared inside through the breach of the wall.
Everyone was engaged, except, I noticed with a sudden sense of disquiet, the men of Emain-Macha. Every detachment, every warband that had followed Tancogeistla’s call to war.
“What’s going on?” I demanded sharply, sensing that there was something he was holding back, something he had kept from me. “Do we not ride to his aid?”
Tancogeistla chuckled. “This is the day, my son. The day the authority of the vergobret returns to me. Your faithfulness will be rewarded, after all these long years.”
Just at the moment, I could have cared less. I merely wished to know what he meant, to have him deny the horrible sense of treachery that was rising within me.
“You intend that he falls by their hand, don’t you?”
He turned in his saddle. “Far more honorable than if I should slay him, don’t you think, Cadwalador? And far less divisive.”
“You speak of honor?” I asked incredulously. “Malac is a treacherous dog, but those men—all the Aeduans who will die with him. What have they done?”
His countenance was calm, undisturbed by my anger. Indeed, if anything, he seemed vaguely amused by it. In that, he suddenly reminded me of Cavarillos.
“They have chosen their side. And their death. They will die as heroes of our people.”
“Everyone will know how you abandoned them,” I remonstrated fiercely. Part of me wanted to abandon Malac, to do what Tancogeistla had planned, but the other part wanted to go to the help of my people. Even if it meant lifting my hand against the Calydrae.
“We will charge,” he stated, an irritating patience in his voice. “Wait.”
We could see the fighting through the massive gaps in the palisade. Here and there dashed a figure on a horse, presumably one of Malac’s brihetin. I had seen no horses among the Calydrae during our stay.
Tancogeistla sat silently on his horse, for perhaps another ten, fifteen minutes. What we could see of the carnage in the town was terrible. Our men were dying by the dozens. As were the Calydrae. My friends, all of them.
Tancogeistla leaned forward and spoke to Lugort. His voice was too low for me to hear, but we started forward, toward the walls of Attuaca.
My horse broke into a fast trot, his hooves a steady drumbeat against the snowy sod. We rode in the north breach, picking our way over and around the dead and dying. Just then a shout went up.
“He is fleeing! Gods preserve us, for he is fleeing!”
I looked back just in time to see Malac and two of the surviving nobles break from the mass of struggling men, riding toward the rear. Nay, not riding, but fleeing as the men had cried. Running from the enemy. I had never though
t of such a thing.
Malac was a cruel and treacherous foe, but I had never doubted his courage. Until now.
Tancogeistla laughed with delight, drawing his sword from its scabbard. It was now left to him to rally the men, to turn the tide of battle. A role he was more than willing to accept. “Forward my brave warriors!” he screamed, his voice carrying above the din of battle. “Rally to my banner! Follow on!”
I rode behind him, struck with the realization that he had deceived me in more ways than one. He was more than willing to destroy the Calydrae—in fact he was eager to do so. He had manipulated the whole situation from the beginning—everyone, including me. In a mad attempt to regain the judgment seat of the Aedui.
We rode forward, into the thick of the fighting.
I glimpsed Cinaed’s figure almost immediately—a bear-like figure in the middle of the struggle, fighting bravely with his thrusting spear. Apparently either his javelins were expended, or else our men had come too close. In my heart, I prayed that he might be spared, that somehow he could survive this madness. Prayer to whom, I had no idea. Perhaps to the ancient God Motios had spoken of. Certainly not to any of the triad of my forefathers, the gods which had abandoned me so many years ago on this desolate isle.
I rode behind Tancogeistla, into the sea of struggling men, trying to remain out of it. I had no wish to strike down those who had befriended me and saved my life in the dark months so many years ago.
My horse let out a shrill, pitiful whinny and I glanced down, broken from my trance. A young warrior stabbed his spear upwards into my mount’s belly, clearly attempting to unhorse me. His eyes full of hate and rage. I tossed one of my javelins at him, but the range was too short and the blow merely knocked him back, the tip not piercing his chest.
His comrades seemed to materialize out of the earth, surrounding me. My horse fell, flinging me to the side, to the ground. One of the Calydrae came rushing toward me, screaming his battle-cry, his spear leveled.
Sword of Neamha Page 9