Sword of Neamha

by Stephen England

  I looked the woman in the eyes. “The neighbors brought food in her memory, did they not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take what you will of it,” I answered brusquely. “Just take care of my daughter until I return.”

  I took my javelins down from the wall, brushing past Berdic to reach the door.

  “Where are you going, Cadwalador?” he called after me, still slurring the words.

  “To Tancogeistla!” I screamed back, my rage consuming me. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I knew only one thing. My answers lay at the palace…

  I remember nothing of my march through the streets that desolate afternoon, only my arrival at the palace gate just as the sun began its downward journey into the sea.

  “Take me to Tancogeistla,” I ordered the brihetin who stood in the entrance. They looked at me, at the javelins in my hand, and began to move towards me.

  “Who sent you?” One of them called. “Malac? You were sent to fetch him and he has turned your heart away from our rightful vergobret!”

  I raised a javelin in my hand, smiling in their faces. I outranged their swords. I could kill at least one of them, maybe both, before they could fall upon me. I could run before they could pursue me, encumbered as they were by their weapons and armor. But I had no intention of running.

  “Stand away from him, my sons,” a voice interrupted, coming from behind the gate. Tancogeistla.

  The brihetin backed away, their hands still grasping the hilts of their swords. They looked at their leader in shock.

  “I expected you, Cadwalador,” Tancogeistla said calmly. “Diedre’s death is a tragedy felt by all of us here.”

  “Liar!” I hissed. One of the brihetin started to draw his sword from its sheath.

  Tancogeistla looked at me, and I could see something in his eyes. He seemed puzzled. “Why would you doubt that?”

  “Belerios killed her! What message did you tell him to give to her?”

  The old general shook his head. “I told him to tell her that you were safe, that you were undertaking a mission for me. He was to take whatever steps were necessary to ensure her comfort. Is that not what he said?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. But it killed her. Where is he?”

  “Follow me,” Tancogeistla motioned. He barked an order to the brihetin and they grudgingly let their swords slip back into their scabbards. I lowered my javelin and followed Tancogeistla through the gates.

  We found Belerios in the courtyard, exercising at swords with another of the brihetin. His helmet was fastened under his chin by a leathern strap, but no other armor was visible.

  “Belerios!” I cried, a challenge, rage in my voice. He turned, and for a moment, I could see a smile light up his face.

  “Cadwalador,” he nodded, making no attempt to sheathe his sword. “You found your wife well, I trust?” He was mocking me.

  “Put up your sword, Belerios,” Tancogeistla ordered sharply. The brihetin shook his head.

  “Not with this rabid wolf in front of me,” he smiled back. “What is wrong, Cadwalador?”

  “This man has lost his wife, Belerios,” Tancogeistla replied. “Now, I am ordering you, put up your sword.”

  “What concern is his wife of mine?” Belerios demanded, taunting me. I stepped around Tancogeistla, taking one of my javelins in my right hand.

  “You meant for her to die, didn’t you?” I challenged, my eyes fastened on the brihetin’s face.

  “Perhaps,” he replied, laughing in my face. At my grief. The javelin flew from my hand without conscious thought, as though propelled of its own power. I saw Belerios’ eyes widen, then the javelin struck him in the center of his chest.

  In my fury, I had forgotten the mail shirt he wore under his outer garments. The tip of my javelin struck the mail and glanced harmlessly aside.

  “Stop this!” Tancogeistla cried, his voice a dull ringing in my ears, a far-away cry. Neither of us heeded him. We were beyond that.

  “I knew you would come, Cadwalador,” Belerios hissed, circling me with his sword. “To see what had happened to your woman. And the whelp she bore.”

  His hatred baffled me, but I was beyond caring. I was in the zone now, watching two fighters circle. One with sword, the other with javelins.

  I threw my second javelin, ignoring Tancogeistla’s shouted order. Belerios twisted away and I missed completely. My hands were shaking, my fury destroying my aim. I had to get hold of myself. If I was not to die.

  “You have one left, Cadwalador. Throw it and I will kill you. As I did your wife.”

  I stared into his eyes, forcing myself to ignore the blade he brandished. The eyes. The eyes. It was there I needed to focus, if I was to survive this.

  “Keep it and I will kill you anyway,” he chuckled, mocking my hesitation. We continued to circle, looking for an opening.

  He was becoming confident, my futile throws convincing him that the victory was in his grasp. And I saw my chance.

  Reversing my grip on the javelin to hold it as I would a spear, I hurled myself across the open space, ducking low to avoid the slash of his sword.

  The blade bit deep into my shoulder and I bit my tongue against the pain, throwing my weight against the brihetin in an effort to take him off-balance, stabbing deep into his thigh with my javelin, ignoring the splintering of wood that told me my weapon was broken.

  Belerios screamed, falling backward to the earth with me atop him. His sword was gone. As was his advantage. He was mine. I whipped the knife from the waist of my trousers and jammed it against his chin, holding him against the ground. He struggled, but the weight of the mail hampered his efforts.

  “Tell me,” I hissed. “Why? Why did you cause my wife’s death?”

  He spat in my face. I barely felt it. My anger could be no greater. “I have never done anything against you or your house. Why did you do this?”

  The knife-tip pricked the skin of his throat, drawing blood. “You call it nothing?” he gasped. “That you should take my rightful place?”

  I sensed that he was looking behind me and I looked up to see Tancogeistla standing over both of us.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He speaks of nothing but you. Cadwalador, son of the Wolf. Cadwalador, his bodyguard. Cadwalador, the man who saved his life on the Isle of Tin. Cadwalador, the man he wanted to succeed him. He ignored the years I spent with him, building an army against Malac, spying on his rival. I have put my life in danger countless times for his sake. All for nothing.”

  “You speak lies,” Tancogeistla interrupted, his face flashing with anger. “I have promoted you to great honor, given you wealth and station! And you forget all of this? Let him up, Cadwalador.”

  I hesitated, looking down into the eyes of the man who had been the cause of Diedre’s death. I wanted to kill him, to feel his blood run over my hands, to drown my sorrows in his life’s current. Revenge.

  “I said, Cadwalador,” he repeated. “Let him up.” I looked up and saw the naked blade in the old man’s hands, the fire in his eyes. And I obeyed.

  “You are a dog, Belerios,” Tancogeistla hissed, stepping closer as the brihetin got to his feet. “An ungrateful dog! That you should spurn all the blessings of my court. It is an offense of the highest order.”

  Both Belerios and I saw the blade coming and I saw terror fill his eyes for a split-second. The slash decapitated the brihetin’s body and the head spun off to one side, the torso crumpling to the dirt of the courtyard, blood flowing freely from the corpse. Tancogeistla looked over at me and I nodded silently. It was recompense…

  Five months after the death of Belerios, Tancogeistla’s army left Attuaca, moving south along the coastline, towards the land of the Cyremniu, Yns-Mon. I did not accompany him.

  I could still remember his words to me as I had turned to leave the palace. What he hath said is true, Cadwalador. Always had I looked upon you as my successor. Only at Attuaca did I
question your loyalty to me. And in my anger, I made the foolish choice of Aneirin moc Cunobelin.

  I had turned to gaze into his eyes and found nothing but sorrow there. He is a fine lad, but he lacks the warrior’s heart. The men fail to respect him, and he will not have the throne for long. Once again the Aedui will be torn apart. My throne can still be yours, Cadwalador. Everything I have amassed, in reward for your faithful service. All of it, yours.

  I shook my head slowly. Your life is not mine, my lord, I had replied. As Aneirin moc Cunobelin will not survive, neither would I. One thing I ask from you. Give me back my wife!

  And I had left the palace, intending never to return. The months passed. Tancogeistla and Malac moved south together, at the head of the army. The old Vergobret smiled at me as they rode past, well aware he was going to his death. And that I was living mine.

  Diedre’s daughter was my lifeline, my one link to a happier past, and as time passed by, she reminded me more and more of her mother. Ofttimes, I would retreat to my forge and weep, that she might not see my tears and wonder why. Her childish innocence delighted me. I sought to bathe myself in it, that I too might return to that place. Before the knowledge of evil.

  And then one day, a rider reined up beside the gobacrado, his horse dusty from the road. I watched from my window as he tethered the horse and walked toward me.

  It was Motios. The first time I had seen him since Diedre’s death. He had accompanied the army of Tancogeistla when they moved south. I went out to meet him.

  “May I have a cup of cold water, my son?” he asked, throwing back the hood of his cloak.

  “Of course,” I replied with a smile, reaching for the dipper.

  “Thank you. Tancogeistla is arriving in the city this evening.”

  “Then the assault on Yns-Mon—failed?”

  The old druid shook his head. “No, my son. It succeeded, after a hard-fought battle against the Cyremniu. Many died, but the hill-fort was secured. Yns-Mon and the surrounding countryside are in our hands.”

  There was pride in his voice. “And Malac?” I asked.

  “He is dead,” Motios replied simply.

  “Tell me what happened, please.”

  Motios glanced into the interior of the gobacrado. “Perhaps we should take a seat, Cadwalador. The story is a long one.”

  I nodded slowly and led him back into the cover of the building, where we could be shielded from the wind.

  “We encamped around the city for many long weeks,” he stated, beginning his tale. “Many of our young men wished to attack, but Tancogeistla advised caution. Malac threw in his lot with the young men and for a while nearly succeeded in splitting the army.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. The old man had not intended to die passively. Not by a long shot.

  “However, Tancogeistla rallied the men to his banner and reminded them that his decisions had carried the day in the past, and that they should be careful of Malac. That it was Malac’s foolishness and cowardice that had cost us so many lives in the assault on Attuaca. Should we chance another reckless assault based on his advice?”

  “Finally, on a snowy day just over a week ago, the Cyremniu, weakened and desperate from the siege, burst forth from behind their palisade to attack us.”

  “Malac’s bodyguards were the first into the saddle and they almost immediately charged the enemy, scattering skirmishers left and right, trampling men underfoot.”

  “Tancogeistla soon followed, and the vanguard of the enemy was chased back in the town. However, a brave contingent of the cladaca followed so hot on the heels of the enemy skirmishers that they entered the gates before the enemy could close them, and fought boldly there until more troops arrived to bolster their line. It was then that Malac apparently spied the chariots of the enemy king, a chieftain by the name of Virsuccos, and wishing to engage him in single combat, he gave chase. I do not know whether Tancogeistla was unaware of Malac’s departure, or whether he merely wished the vergobret to die fighting, for he sent no men to reinforce Malac. The vergobret galloped off after the enemy chariots with only seventeen of his bodyguards.”

  “It was intentional,” I interrupted, fire flashing in my eyes. The old druid glanced over at me.

  “There is a change in you, my son. You have developed a bold tongue. It is not a gift to men who wish to live long.”

  “I no longer desire long life,” I snapped back in anger. “All reason for that has been taken from me.”

  His face softened. “I did everything I could for your wife, Cadwalador. Everything in my power. You must believe that.”

  “Go on with your story,” was my only response. My grief was still too great to discuss Diedre. With anyone.

  After a long pause, he went on. “All this I have told you, I witnessed with my own eyes. Of what follows after, I have only the word of one of the brihetin who escaped from Malac’s retinue. Virsuccos, the Cyremniu chieftain, retreated rapidly, his bodyguards tossing javelins back at Malac as they rode away, their chariots bouncing over the rugged terrain.”

  “They led Malac far from the town, as he pursued in a fruitless effort to regain his reputation for bravery. It was at this time that Tancogeistla heard of Malac’s gambit and left the infantry within the walls of Yns-Mon, riding with his horsemen and I to discover Malac’s fate. When we reached the ridge to the south of the town, we discovered the Virsuccos’ chariots had turned and were engaged in a fierce melee with Malac’s brihetin.”

  “Malac’s bodyguard told me that the chariots wheeled on them suddenly and dashed through the midst, their wheels breaking the legs of horses and grinding their riders into the snow. Many men died in the first charge, but Malac rallied the survivors bravely and threw them into the combat, cutting down many of the Cyremniu charioteers. The slaughter great on both sides.”

  “It was as though Malac had a death wish. He stayed in the melee with the charioteers for far too long. Finally only a few of his bodyguards were left, the rest killed or unhorsed by the vicious attack of the Cyremniu.”

  “Malac was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with one of the charioteers when a rider in Virsuccos’ chariot raised himself up and cast his javelin at the Vergobret. The javelin smote Malac in the neck, just under the helmet, and he screamed, falling from his horse into the snow, dead.”

  “The last bodyguard of Malac cried with a loud voice at his lord’s downfall and turned his horse to flee from the field of battle. Malac’s body was trampled ‘neath the wheels of the chariots.”

  “And where was Tancogeistla?” I asked, gazing earnestly into the face of the druid.

  Motios held up a finger to silence me. “Let me continue, my son. I will tell you all.”

  “Seeing the death of Malac, Tancogeistla ordered his brihetin to charge down upon the charioteers from their position on the top of the ridge. Virsuccos was taken by surprise and Tancogeistla rode quickly to the side of his chariot. I followed, my own sword drawn. I could see the terror in the eyes of Cyremniu chieftain. He was facing his own death. Then Tancogeistla’s sword descended upon him.”

  “Malac’s death was avenged at the hand of Tancogeistla.”

  “After he had suffered him to be killed,” I interjected sharply, rising and going over to the window of the gobacrado.

  Motios’ brow furrowed. “This man would have killed any of you he deemed a threat. Even at the last, he still tried to turn the army against Tancogeistla. As he would have done against you.”

  After a long moment, I nodded. “We spoke of Malac many years ago, Motios. And you told me that the enemy who faces you, sword drawn, is not the one you need to fear. Rather it is the man who greets you with a kiss. Is that not so?”

  “Tancogeistla did only what he had to do. Malac was far from an honest enemy. You know that.”

  “Yes,” I acknowledged. “I know. Tell me the rest.”

  “We rode slowly back to the town to find the balroae of Attuaca still engaged in fighting with one man in the square of Yns-
Mon.”

  “He was a large man, a champion, skilled in the use of the sword. But at long last they overwhelmed him and thrust him through with their spears as he lay on the ground. The hill-fort was ours. We had overcome the Cyremniu.”

  Chapter XV: Honest Words

  Tancogeistla returned to Attuaca a few months later, and was given a hero’s welcome. His men had begun referring to him as Tancogeistla oi Neamha, or Tancogeistla the Berserker, a reference to what they viewed as his courageous sword-fight with the leader of the Cyremniu. I did not see him again until two years later, at the marriage feast of Aneirin moc Cunobelin…

  I was working in my gobacrado when the messenger came from the palace. Diedre’s little daughter, Faran, was in the care of a neighbor woman for the day. “Cadwalador?” he asked, striding toward my forge.

  “I am he,” I answered, looking around at him. “What do you want?”

  “Aneirin moc Cunobelin desires your presence at the feast being given in honor of his marriage tonight.”

  I acknowledged the news with a nod. Indeed, I had heard of the girl who was to be his bride. A woman picked out for him by my old friend Berdic, or so I had been told. If that was so, then her beauty was assured. As for her purity…

  “I will be there,” I replied, taking the iron from the fire and placing it on my anvil. The messenger smiled and wished me good-day.

  That evening, I made arrangements for the neighbor to continue taking care of Faran and put on my best clothes for the feast.

  I felt a pang of sorrow as I prepared. The last feast of this nature which I had attended—had been my own, celebrating my marriage to Diedre. It seemed such a short time ago. Indeed, our happiness had been short-lived. All I had left was memories, how precious they were. I found myself regretting each moment I had spent at the forge, the nights I had spent in Berdic’s company, everything that had taken the place of time I could have spent with her. A man never knows how precious something is until it is taken from him…