Sword of Neamha

by Stephen England

  “Do not diminish it,” he said, interrupting me once again. “My rage blinded me to my inability. If not for your intervention, Drustan would have killed me. And the adversaries of my father would have danced upon our graves. I owe you much, Cadwalador.”

  “It has been my honor, my lord.”

  “Bah!” Aneirin cried, spitting upon the sod. “You talk like one of the groveling courtiers of my father. Tell me the truth, Cadwalador. Forces are gathering, even as we speak. If you were in my place, what would you do?”

  It was a long moment before I answered, “You need time, my lord. Time to consolidate your rule over the state. Time you will not have if we continue at war with the Casse.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “That you send Ivomagos moc Baeren to them once again, to try to make peace with Barae, the High King of the Casse.”

  Silence. “Do you know what you are asking me to do?” Aneirin asked finally, looking over into my eyes. “You are asking me to go to our sworn enemies and beg for peace. You are asking me to pardon the garrison of Yns-Mon, to forgive their betrayal of my father. You are asking me to forget all that they have done to us!”

  “Nay, my lord,” I replied, shaking my head. “Not forget. Never could I ask you to do that. I only tell you that we must buy time. Else the Aeduan state will be torn apart from within while we are distracted by the warbands of the Casse. In Erain, Malac’s son Praesutagos has already taken the governorship of Ivernis. His brother-in-law leads the garrison of Emain-Macha. We must make peace.”

  “And then what?”

  “You must go to Attuaca without delay, establish the government there. Make Attuaca the center of power, the capital of the Aedui. Should Erain rebel against you, you dare not risk losing your capital as well.”

  He seemed to consider my proposition for a few moments, then he lifted his eyes to the western sky, where the sun was setting, a blood-red ball of fire slowly sinking into the sea. “It shall be as you say,” he acknowledged slowly. “In three days, we will ride for Attuaca.”

  We set out at the appointed time, riding north with thirty-five hand-picked men. Ictis was left under the command of a sub-chieftain, a man Aneirin trusted to look after his interests there. Of course, so too had Piso been trusted, by both Aneirin and Tancogiestla.

  However, there was an added surety with this man. His wife and children resided Attuaca. Should he betray us, he would never see them again. And that would have to be good enough.

  Snow began to fall as we rode on, the chill winds of ogrosan whipping over the low hills and meadows of the southern half of the island. At one of the villages in which we stopped, we hired a guide to direct us to the northern road.

  The village held many people loyal to us. It belonged to the territory of which Yns-Mon was the capital. Apparently the Casse had not yet completely subjugated the people, though they held the oppida.

  Aneirin was quiet as we rode, a silent intensity transforming his person. Tancogeistla’s death had changed him, I knew not how, but he was different.

  We lit no fires at night, instead eating our rations raw. We were thirty-five men in a country that could muster hundreds hostile to us.

  As we moved deeper into the territory of the Casse, we changed the pattern of our riding. No longer would we ride in the daytime. Rather we hid in the woods at dawn and saddled our horses again after dark.

  It was on one early morning, as we continued to ride northward, that I heard voices through the fog in front of us.

  I grasped Aneirin by the arm. “Listen!” I whispered fiercely. He pulled his horse up sharply, motioning for our column to halt.

  “What did you hear, Cadwalador?” he asked after a moment.

  “Voices, my lord. Directly ahead of us.”

  “Probably the wind in the trees, lord,” our guide put in obsequiously, glancing at me from his position at Aneirin’s right hand.

  “No!” I exclaimed, returning the look. There was something wrong here. Something I couldn’t quite place my finger upon…

  A light breeze rustled the bushes near us and Aneirin smiled. “He is probably right, Cadwalador. With the sleep we’ve gotten the last few nights, it will be little wonder if we all don’t start imagining the Casse behind every tree. Let us proceed.”

  I was looking at the guide when Aneirin spoke, and a smile flickered across his face at the decision. Not a smile at the words, or at the predicament we all found ourselves in, but something else. Something only he knew.

  I placed my hand on Aneirin’s arm to keep him from moving forward, looking him in the eye. “No,” I said firmly, surprising myself with my boldness. “There’s something wrong here.”

  I rode around in front of him. A worried look furrowed the guide’s brow at my approach, a look which turned to defiance as I rode up to him. “What is ahead of us?” I demanded through clenched teeth.

  “Nothing, my lord,” he replied, in the same groveling tone he had used ever since I had first met him. “This is the shortest way to the road you wished to find.”

  Then, from the fog ahead of us, I heard a shout of alarm. We had been led into a trap, the nature of which I knew not, but his treachery was clear.

  “Liar!” I hissed, grasping his horse’s bridle to keep him from escaping. To my surprise, he launched himself suddenly upon me, a knife appearing in his hand.

  I fell from the back of my horse, falling into the snow with him on top of me. I grabbed his wrist with all my strength, forcing the knife away from my face. Feral rage filled his eyes as he struggled to free his knife hand, sink it deep into my throat.

  Around us I heard shouts, the sounds of hoofbeats pounding into the snow. Then it all faded away, all my senses focused on that glittering knife. The only sound surviving was the sound of our ragged breathing, puffing in the chill morning air. The only sight that of his face, his knife.

  Do not wait for an opportunity, I thought, Cavarillos’ words of years gone by flickering through my mind. Make one.

  I spat in the guide’s face and he flinched involuntarily. The opportunity made, I took it, heaving my body up in one mighty effort and throwing him off me. The knife fell into the snow.

  He rolled over and retrieved it, started to rise, but my boot caught him just beneath the point of the chin in a savage kick. I heard a sickening crunch as his neck snapped. He fell helplessly back into the snow, dying.

  I ignored him, realizing my own situation. The breeze was lifting the fog, revealing the scene around us. We had nearly ridden into a camp of the Casse.

  One of the young brihetin rode up, looking at me with wide-eyed awe as he handed me the bridle to my runaway horse.

  “Quickly, Cadwalador!” I heard Aneirin’s voice call. Looking behind me, I saw the reason for his urgency. Hundreds of Casse warriors rushing from their encampment and forming in line on the plain directly in front of us.

  Indeed, there was the road, just as the guide had said. But, there also were the Casse on the other side of it. The voices I had heard.

  I vaulted into the saddle with all my remaining strength and threw myself low over my horse’s neck, kicking it into a gallop.

  Satisfied with my safety, Aneirin kicked his own horse in the flanks and together we galloped across the plain, away from the pursuing warbands.

  I could see the fear in Aneirin’s eyes as we rode, fear mingled with disgust and fury at how nearly we had been tricked.

  Had any of our enemies possessed horses, I fear that we would have been doomed, for the Casse possessed very fleet ponies, but no cavalry accompanied the warbands.

  We rode hard until we reached the cover of the woods, then perforce we slowed our steeds, lest a low-hanging branch crush one of us from the saddle. Clearly, we would need to find another way north.

  Four days later, as we saddled our horses at dusk, one of the young brihetin who had been posted at guard came running back into our small camp.

  “Horsemen approach from the north, my lord!�
�� he cried breathlessly, halting before Aneirin. “A small band.”

  “How small?” Aneirin demanded, anxiety clearly showing on his face as he reached for his sword-belt.

  “No larger than our own, lord,” the young warrior replied. “ Perhaps slightly smaller. We should be able to take them easily.”

  His voice betrayed the confidence of youth. A confidence I myself had once felt. Aneirin glanced over at me, a question on his face.

  “Stand or flee, Cadwalador?”

  I looked up the narrow forest road. Whatever decision was made, it had to be reached quickly. “Perhaps first, my lord, we should find out the identity of these mysterious horsemen. They come from the north, perhaps they are messengers from Attuaca.”

  “And if they are an advance guard for the Casse?” he asked, uncertainty in his tones.

  “Their horsemanship will do them little good in these forest glades,” I replied, reaching for the war hammer that lay across my saddle bags. “Give me two men and I will go out to meet them. The rest of you saddle your horses to be ready for flight.”

  “I will go with you,” Aneirin said quietly, drawing his longsword from its scabbard and hefting it in his hand.

  “Nay, my lord,” I replied. “Get you up and mounted, ready to ride should this be the enemy. We cannot afford that you should lose your life in these forests.”

  My words might as well not have been uttered for all the attention the Vergobret paid them. Seeing the example of their leader, the rest of the brihetin drew their weapons and moved out behind us. Instead of the two men I had requested, I had thirty-three. That would suffice just as well.

  Hammer in my hands, I stepped out onto the forest trail, in the path of the oncoming horsemen. I saw them the moment I stepped from cover, a scant sixty feet away.

  “Halt and declare yourselves in the name of Aneirin moc Cunobelin!” I demanded, planting myself firmly in their way. Aneirin came to stand beside me, the naked sword glittering in his hand. A faint sense of disquiet rippled through me. The horsemen were dressed in the manner of the Aedui. brihetin, no less. But whose?

  My question was answered a moment later when a stripling cantered his horse to the front of their body, taking off his helmet to reveal a smooth, hairless face. “I am Periadoc, son of Malac…”

  Chapter XXII: Son of Malac

  I stiffed instinctively at the mention of our foe’s name, my hammer held more tightly in my grasp. Aneirin straightened perceptibly at my side, fire flickering in his dark eyes.

  “Where are you bound?” I demanded, the first of our party to recover his voice. The youth looked at me sharply, apparently surprised at the hostility in my tones.

  “I know not who you pretend to be, but I am on my way south, to join the army of Tancogeistla oi Neamha.” He pronounced the name with audible pride, as though he expected its utterance to open all doors for him. A strange attitude for a son of Malac.

  Aneirin stepped in front of me, his sword still unsheathed in his hand. “Tancogeistla is dead,” he announced flatly. “Fallen in the taking of Ictis.”

  Periadoc’s face changed in a moment, genuine sorrow in those youthful eyes. It shocked me, I must admit. He swung down from his horse to stand before Aneirin.

  “Then who leads the Aeduan state?” he asked, looking from one to another of us with the air of expectation.

  Aneirin nodded slowly. “I do. I, Aneirin moc Cunobelin, have succeeded my father as Vergobret.”

  Periadoc turned, staring into our leader’s face for a moment. Then he extended his hand. “Then it is to you that I must offer the use of my sword. I have heard many things of you.”

  “All bad, I assume,” Aneirin stated, his voice full of suspicion. I could scarcely blame him. Malac had been a shadow over all our lives. And this young man’s older brother and brother-in-law had usurped Aneirin’s authority in Erain.

  Periadoc flushed red-hot, looking down at the ground. “You do me an injustice, my lord. I come to you, as I would have come before Tancogeistla oi Neamha, as a beggar, with nothing to my name save these men who have sworn their loyalty to me. And is not loyalty the greatest treasure of all?”

  “What would a son of Malac know of loyalty?” Aneirin hissed, bent on provoking the young man.

  “Were you to ask that of my brother,” Periadoc replied calmly, “I know not how he would answer you with honesty. It is because of his lust for power that I find myself before you today. I fled Erain pursued by his brihetin. Only these companions follow my banner.”

  My eyebrows shot up instinctively. If what he said was true…

  “Why does Praesutagos fear you?” Aneirin asked, still skeptical.

  “He swore a false allegiance to Tancogeistla out of nothing more than fear. He knew he could do nothing against the charisma and power of oi Neamha. He dreams of nothing more than reestablishing the line of my father. He feared that I might become a rival. I knew I could find refuge with Tancogeistla’s army. That is why I was riding south.”

  Aneirin seemed to consider his words for a moment, his eyes searching the young man’s face for any signs of duplicity.

  “We were on our way back to Attuaca,” he said finally. “You are welcome in our camp.”

  Periadoc nodded respectfully. “It is an honor, my lord.”

  We rode north the next few nights, now in the company of the young Carnute and his companions.

  He was a remarkably unselfish young man, willing to endure without complaint the same lot as his companions, despite his noble birth. He was nothing like his father. Indeed, there were times when I found myself wondering about the faithfulness of Malac’s wife.

  The snow continued to fall as we moved into the highlands. Aneirin seemed impatient at the delay. I found out why as we huddled together near the small fire one night.

  “It has been over a year, Cadwalador,” Aneirin said, rubbing his arms to restore their circulation. He went on before I could ask his meaning. “Over a year since I have seen Margeria, since I’ve held her in my arms.” He blushed. “I’m prattling on like a stripling. You must find it amusing.”

  “No, my lord,” I replied, gazing into the fire as the sparks pranced into the dusk-dark sky. I knew exactly how he felt, the yearning which seemed to come from deep inside a man, from the depths of his very soul. A yearning for nothing more than the sight of one’s wife, one’s love. Aneirin’s marriage to Margeria had been a fruitful one. She had born him two fine sons, future heirs to the throne of the Aedui, perhaps. And he seemed to truly love her. Remembering her glance at the marriage-feast, and rumors I had heard since, I wondered if his love was completely reciprocated. But that was none of my affair, and I was glad of it.

  Periadoc seemed to sink lower into the depths of despondency at Aneirin’s words. The spirit seemed to have been taken out of him at the news of Tancogeistla’s death and he had grown increasingly gloomy as the journey continued.

  “I too, have a wife in Attuaca,” he said soberly. Both Aneirin and I glanced his way in astonishment. He was young…

  “That is yet another part of the reason for my flight. My brother wished her for his own.”

  I looked over at Aneirin, watching as the light dawned in his eyes. Perhaps we were getting at the truth at long last.

  Aneirin forced a smile to his face. “Well, then. We have a double reason for haste. Let us ride.”

  Two weeks of hard riding later, we neared Attuaca. We rode single file through dark forest paths made slippery with snow. But something was wrong. I could feel it in my bones, as though the long years of campaign I had spent with Tancogeistla had given me another sense, a warning of danger.

  Taking Periadoc and three hand-picked brihetin with me, I gained permission of Aneirin to ride forward and reconnoiter the ground ahead of us. Clear the road to Attuaca.

  A feeling of danger gripped my chest as we rode forward, toward a narrow bluff which I knew offered a good view of the town. Below us, in the gathering twilight, between us and Attua
ca, was an encampment of the Casse.

  The town was under siege…

  I felt my heart sink at the sight of the encampment, saw the despair in the eyes of Periadoc. But though my feelings were the same as his, I dared not express them. Despite his noble birth, I was the leader here. Mine was the decision to be made.

  “I will stay here and keep an eye on the Casse,” I whispered, well aware of how far a voice could carry in the chill night air. “Depart and warn Aneirin.”

  “What should we tell him?” Periadoc asked, obedience implicit in his tones. It was clear he wanted none of the responsibility of the next few hours. That was just as well.

  “Tell him to bring his men on as quickly as possible. Smite the Casse by the light of the moon.”

  Periadoc stared down at the encampment and I could see the reluctance, the fear in his eyes. Another moment and his resolve might break. It was the critical moment. “If you confess defeat,” I whispered harshly, “if you confess fear, the battle is already lost. Now go on and bring Aneirin moc Cunobelin back to me. Hurry!”

  Without another word, he and his three bodyguards scrambled back down the trail, to where they had picketed their horses. And I was all alone, exposed upon the chilly bluff, looking down upon the encampment of my enemies.

  It would take at least three hours for Periadoc to go and bring Aneirin, and that was if things progressed smoothly. I had no way of knowing whether other patrols of Casse roamed through the woods.

  The moon was already coming out, rising into the night sky. One by one, the campfires of the Casse flickered out, their ashes growing cold as sparkling embers fell to the chilly sod. If I was to execute the plans forming in my mind, I would have to move quickly.

  I guessed there were well nigh three hundred of the enemy below me. I would be going in all alone. For a brief moment, I contemplated slipping through to Attuaca and summoning help, but I dismissed that idea from my mind. The risks of being killed by a nervous Aeduan sentry were too great. Not to mention the Casse.