Sword of Neamha

by Stephen England

  “Berdic!” I cried breathlessly. “Who is that man?”

  Berdic kept walking, ignoring my words. Frustrated, I laid my hands upon his shoulders, gripping them fiercely. He turned, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. “Let go of me,” he hissed between his teeth. “I could slay you for that.”

  “Berdic,” I whispered, my hands falling to my sides, “just tell me. Who is the man who just rode in?”

  He looked at me for a moment, as though wondering at the impertinence of my question. Then, as though he could see no harm in the matter, he answered, “His name is Sucellyn moc Eporedoros. He is the cousin of our commander here.”

  I recoiled as though struck in the face, my mind swirling with a thousand thoughts, a thousand images. Could I have been mistaken? There was no doubt. “Berdic, that man is a spy for the Casse!”

  Berdic looked upon me for a moment, then turned away as though disgusted by the audacity of my statement. “Of course,” he replied dismissively.

  I reached forward, seizing his cloak in my hands, turning him back to me, heedless of the danger. “Please, Berdic, listen to me! For the sake of our friendship, listen to me!”

  His eyes locked with mine, scorn radiating from their ice-blue depths. “I have no friendship with traitors. What proof do you have of this man’s treachery?”

  “He was in the garden that night,” I whispered desperately. “With Margeria. She was giving him a packet to take to Praesutagos from the Casse.”

  He stopped, turning once again to look upon my face. “And you would spare yourself by your denunciation of another?”

  “Berdic, if I am lying unto you, slay me! But investigate Sucellyn’s doings. There is a plot afoot here!”

  He looked toward the tent, a look of indecision on his face. I knew the moment had come. I had to push him over that ledge in his imaginations. “Berdic,” I cried hoarsely, “if I have deceived you, let not only my life be forfeit, but that of my daughter. But search out the truth!”

  “Faran?” he asked. When I nodded, he continued, “She is dead already. Dead of the fever two years ago.”

  My world was swirling around me. I sunk down upon the snowy ground, no strength left in my legs. Tears coursed their icy way down my dirt-encrusted face.

  Faran dead.

  My last link to Diedre severed. In my heart I cursed all those months spent away from her. Diedre’s death had taught me nothing. I had allowed the kingdom to come between my family and myself, Aneirin moc Cunobelin and his court. And in the end, all that had faded away, leaving me holding only the ashes of the past. Of what might have been.

  I looked up at Berdic through tear-filled eyes. “Please, Berdic,” I whispered, praying that he would not continue to be deaf to my entreaties. “Search out the truth.”

  He reached down and took me by the shoulder, helping me to stand to my feet. “I will take you to the tent of Eporedoros moc Estes. There you can make your accusation. It would not surprise me if he slays you where you stand. But you were once my friend, and I can no longer refuse your wish.”

  I followed Berdic numbly, moving like a man lost in his dreams. Or rather his nightmares. I heard his voice as he inquired at the entrance to Eporedoros’ tent, distant and far away. The guards replied and then we moved inside. The cousins looked up, startled by our entrance. Sucellyn’s face went white as he glimpsed sight of me behind Berdic. “You!” he gasped, realizing a moment later that his admission could cost him everything.

  “You recognize me, don’t you, Sucellyn?” I demanded grimly, advancing haltingly toward him. “The man who caught you in the gardens with the wife of Aneirin moc Cunobelin. The Casse spy!”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Eporedoros bellowed, looking from my angry face to Berdic’s puzzled countenance. His hand was upon the hilt of his sword.

  “This man, Cadwalador, believes that he once saw your cousin spying for the Casse,” Berdic said, his tone almost apologetic.

  “That is absurd, Berdic!” Eporedoros retorted, his voice trembling with fury. And something else. Something uneasily akin to fear.

  But none of that mattered. I was a prisoner and Berdic believed not my story. I could do nothing against these men—unless…

  My eyes left Sucellyn’s face and traveled around the narrow confines of the tent. I had to find something. My gaze lit briefly upon Sucellyn’s cloak, which lay across a rude bench. Peeking out from ‘neath the folds of the cloak, as though someone endeavored to hide it in haste, was the edge of a packet. A packet much like the one I had taken from Margeria in the gardens.

  I sprang for it, stumbling forward on shaky feet, falling to my knees upon the frozen sod as I grasped the packet in my hand. I heard Eporedoros’ cry of anger behind me, felt rough hands seize hold upon my shoulder. Sucellyn.

  I swung ‘round, backhanding the spy across the face, surprising myself with the strength still left in my arms. He toppled backward, blood spurting from a broken nose. I stood erect, the packet in my hand.

  Eporedoros stood before me, his sword drawn. His eyes glittered with hate as I moved to open the incriminating packet. “Give me the packet!”

  I smiled, intending to infuriate him. “Why should not I open it, my lord? Tell me.”

  “Because you are nothing more than a deceitful, treacherous dog!” Eporedoros hissed, his fury growing. “Don’t dare!”

  “Then, perhaps,” Berdic interjected coolly, “you would not object to a representative of Aneirin moc Cunobelin opening it.”

  The traitor and I both turned to find Berdic standing there, a naked sword in his hand, his eyes glinting with suspicion. “Give me the packet,” he repeated calmly, gazing steadfastly into Eporedoros’ eyes.

  We stood there for a moment, the three of us, as Sucellyn rose from his recumbent posture, still clutching his bleeding nose. Then Eporedoros relented, glancing over at me. “Give him the packet,” he assented grudgingly.

  I turned, handing the packet over to Berdic. I saw the eyes of Eporedoros as Berdic took the small leathern package, eyes glinting with treachery. Berdic’s sword-arm fell to his side as he moved to open the packet.

  Eporedoros struck without warning, his sword lashing out in a fiery blur. I saw Berdic recoil backward, his left hand severed, blood spurting from the stump. He screamed in agony.

  I threw myself upon Eporedoros without thinking, without hesitation, bearing him down under my frail weight. We collapsed to the hard earth, him striking his head against the edge of the bench. He lay motionless. I looked up, glimpsing Sucellyn with a javelin in his hand. “Berdic!” I screamed, warning of his danger. “Ride! Ride for your life! Ride unto Aneirin moc Cunobelin!”

  Sucellyn turned upon me, casting the javelin in my direction. I rolled across the sod, dodging easily. His effort had been a clumsy one and the javelin stuck in the wood of the bench. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Berdic rise and dart from the tent, holding his bleeding arm close to his body. “Run!” I cried after him.

  Sucellyn drew his dagger and advanced upon me as two guards entered the tent, their weapons drawn.

  I jerked the javelin from the bench and pressed the sharp tip against Eporedoros’ throat, pressing in until a small trickle of blood flowed from the wound. “Take another step,” I whispered, “and I plunge this into his body.”

  The trio stopped in their tracks, glowering at me, but remaining where they were. I rose, holding the noble’s unconscious body tightly against my own. “Now,” I declared, “lay your weapons upon the ground and allow me to depart in peace…”

  For a long moment, I stared into Sucellyn’s eyes, sensing his hesitation. I poised my exhausted body for one final break for freedom. It was my only hope. Then slowly he lowered his dagger and nodded.

  I backed away from them toward the entrance of the tent, holding the body of Eporedoros in my arms. Out into the open, across the flat ground of the cape. I glimpsed several of my fellow prisoners glance up as I struggled by, saw one of the balroae pick up hi
s javelin.

  The forces in the camp were clearly in league with the noble I now held as a shield against me. A momentary flash of anxiety tore through me at the thought of Berdic. Had he been able to make it to his horse? Or had he been slain by the guards? My gaze flickered up to the heights overlooking the cape and saw a cloud of dust kicked up by a lone horseman at full gallop. It had to be Berdic.

  I glanced behind me. Only a few more yards. The net was closing in upon me, Calydrae advancing, their spears held at the ready.

  Without warning, I dropped Eporedoros’ body, turning and darting for the cover of the scraggly undergrowth only a few feet away. Taken off guard by my actions, the balroae still reacted quickly and I felt a javelin rip through the air past my ear. Another moment and I was within cover, my feet pounding through the half-frozen, slushy turf of the salt marshes which covered a large part of the cape. I had to run, to hide. The life of a fugitive was a familiar one to me, I knew the tricks, the stratagems to be undertaken. I kept running, my feet soaked in icy brine, the snow cutting into my feet. Near a small brook of water I paused, throwing myself upon my belly in the snow.

  Running footsteps filled the scrub near me, my pursuers searching like mad dogs for my blood. I heard voices at the stream, then feet splashing into the water as they crossed, in search of me on the other side.

  A few more moments. Then I rose to my feet, coming face-to-face with a young balroae. His eyes mirrored the shock in my own and his mouth opened to scream a warning.

  My javelin plunged into his belly, thrusting upward through his lungs as I bore him to the earth, my hand clasped firmly over his lips as his body thrashed beneath me, struggling in its death throes. I gazed into his eyes, watching their agony, watching as the glaze of merciful death entered into them.

  We lay there for hours, I and the man I had slain, my ragged clothing soaked in his life-blood. He was little more than a boy—reminding me of myself years before, reminding me of the young man I had killed at Ictis in the early days of the migration. He, my first kill, this, my latest. I took pride in neither. Both equally senseless, the victims of other men’s hatred and greed, the primary things which had sent men flying to each other’s throats for thousands of years.

  Several times I heard voices passing by, but no one entered the thicket. No one came in search of the boy. Yet that was only a matter of time. Another grief-stricken home, the wailing and lament in the streets. Because of me. What I had done.

  There was no time to think of such things. The young man had been my enemy, and he had discovered me, and he had died for his discovery, and that was the end of it. My enemy.

  What did such a word mean? Years before, he might have played ‘round my anvil in the gobacrado, a carefree child. Many children of Attuaca had, the playmates of Faran. And now he was dead.

  At nightfall I rose, wiping my javelin upon his clothes to clean it, and hastened west, my body chilled by the inactivity of the day. I could only hope that Berdic had not fainted from blood loss before arriving in Attuaca, before delivering his message to Aneirin. If he had, then the hunt would continue on the morrow. And I would be at the mercy of the hunters.

  Sleep came but fitfully to me that night, stretched out neath the sheltering branches of a pine. Images of the young Calydrae, of the now-dead Faran, of Margeria, Diedre, Aneirin, all these flowing through my mind in an unending, tormenting stream. When I awoke to the rising sun thrusting its rays down through my shelter, I was more exhausted than when I had lain down.

  I lay there for a moment, my ear pressed against the frozen sod, listening. Listening to a gathering thunder, a sound like unto the strength of waters. Hoofbeats. The hoofbeats of many horses, from up the mountainside.

  I scrambled from my cover, javelin in hand. My ears had not deceived me. Nay, men blackened the heights far off to my south, the heights overlooking the work camp, overlooking that cape of sorrows.

  I watched as the rebels assembled below them, forming up to defend their treachery, and I could dimly descry the figure of Eporedoros moc Estes in the van.

  The brihetin of Aneirin moc Cunobelin swept impetuously down the slopes, crashing into moc Estes’ hastily-formed line.

  Rebels fell by the score, and I saw their line waver. I caught up my javelin and began to run toward the scene of battle, summoning up a last reserve of energy.

  balroae from Attuaca, Calydrae loyal to Aneirin, charged down the heights behind him, their javelins causing confusion and disorder among the rebels.

  As I approached I saw Aneirin mounted upon his mighty war-horse, a blood-red sword in his outstretched hand. Many of the prisoners had joined with Eporedoros moc Estes, swelling their ranks. But it was of no use.

  I heard another sound, swelling above the clash of battle. Something wet splashed against my hand and I looked up into the sky as rain began to fall.

  Below me on the slopes, the rebels gave way at long last, turning to run as the brihetin chased them down, spearing them with their long lances. The rain started pouring down in torrents, as though the heavens were attempting to wash the earth of blood as fast as man could spill it.

  Eporedoros was slain as he ran, butchered like the coward he was.

  As I stood there, watching the carnage from a distance, I heard a voice calling my name. I turned to find Berdic sitting upon his horse a few feet distant. The stump of his left hand was wrapped in bloody bandages.

  “You got through,” I said, stating the obvious.

  He nodded. “Margeria has been confined within the palace. Aneirin ordered her placed under guard until his return.”

  “It is good,” I whispered, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Still…

  The brihetin started drifting back to where we stood, leaving the remnants of the rebellion fleeing from the battlefield. Aneirin moc Cunobelin rode up to us, slowly removing his battered helmet. He glanced from Berdic to myself, the awkwardness of the moment palpable.

  A riderless horse cantered nearby, panicked by the clash of battle. Aneirin ordered one of the men to catch it and when the young brihetin came riding back, he looked down upon me.

  “Cadwalador,” he began slowly. “Come with me, my friend. We ride to Attuaca.”

  The words sounded so foreign, so alien coming from his lips. Friend. The man who had condemned me to prison now wished me to call him friend. The irony would have been amusing had it not been so serious. For a moment, I stared full into his face, my eyes hard and cold. “No,” I whispered, turning on heel. Turning from all that had been my life for so many years. “Never again…”

  Chapter XXV: End of all Dreams

  I took up my javelins and my place with the balroae of Attuaca, my people, as they had been Diedre’s. For Aedui was I no longer. Attuaca was my home. The Calydrae were my people. A curse upon Aneirin moc Cunobelin…

  And so it was upon the slow march back to Attuaca. Back to my home. I forced myself to keep up the pace of the march, exhausted though I was. We encamped that night well nigh twenty miles from Attuaca, for the day was far spent.

  Sucellyn’s form danced before me that night, haunting my dreams. For his body lay not with the fallen. The traitor, the spy of the Casse, had escaped from the carnage of battle. And lurked somewhere out in the darkness of the moorlands, biding his time. Waiting. To strike again.

  Waking at dawn, we rose to take breakfast upon fresh trout speared in the icy shallows by the Calydrae. I gazed to the east as the rising sun cast its rays down upon me, dawning upon a free man. For the first time in three years. I closed my eyes, striving to black out the misery, the fear, the sheer horror of those years. Never again…

  I had been born free, and so would I die.

  A shout caught my attention and I turned to see a courier ride into camp, his mount’s flanks lathered with sweat, steam billowing from the horse’s nostrils into the crisp morning air. He swung down from his horse without preamble or ceremony and dashed toward Aneirin’s tent. A moment’s paus
e there, and then the guards permitted him to enter.

  I stood for a moment, seemingly frozen to the earth, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prickle and then stand erect. Danger was in the air, a familiar feeling, but something else also. Something beyond danger. Something tangible, yet unidentifiable.

  Fear rose within me, fear of the unknown, fear of what had befallen us. I trotted slowly toward the center of camp, forcing down my rising panic, desperately clawing for the mastery of myself.

  Aneirin moc Cunobelin stepped from within the tent, his helmet strapped firmly upon his head. Danger sign.

  He raised a hand, calling for the attention of his men. “My people. I have just been given word. A large army of the Casse has advanced upon Attuaca. Periadoc and the garrison are surrounded. Our people are besieged.”

  Shouts filled the camp as Calydrae scrambled to gather their weapons. I followed, shocked into action by the news. My arms, though weakened through long disuse, could still hurl a javelin. My legs, though wasted by endless days, could still carry me into battle. I had sworn never to bear arms for Aneirin moc Cunobelin again, but this was different. This was for my homeland. This was for Attuaca and all we had left behind. This war was righteous…

  Righteous or not, it would make no difference, I realized as we surmounted the heights above Attuaca, snow falling gently from the heavens, the foresign of an approaching squall. Including Aneirin’s brihetin and the iaosatae of Berdic, we numbered scarce three hundred men. Not quite two hundred comprised the garrison of Attuaca.

  The host of the Casse stretched out before us in the plain, like the sand upon the seashore in number.

  I looked across the way, to where Aneirin moc Cunobelin sat upon his nervous steed, looking down upon the enemy army. Still, after all these years, after all the two of us had been through, he was no more a warrior than the day I had first met him. I remembered that day, something I had clutched firm hold of during my long imprisonment. Remembered his efforts on the javelin range. Remembered the warriors’ ill-concealed laughter.