Sword of Neamha

by Stephen England

  “Very well,” I said after a moment. “We will move at dusk. In the meantime, my lord, we should withdraw our forces to the shelter of the trees. There is no need to expose ourselves to a Casse patrol.”

  The sun was low in the sky when Catuvolcos and I left the camp that night, a ball of fire sinking lower and lower until it was finally extinguished in the waters of the western sea. Darkness enveloped us as we slipped down the cliff path to the beach below us, swords drawn and in hand.

  The only sound was our breathing, the water lapping against the rocks below. It was quiet, tranquil. Too quiet—and too tranquil. Unnaturally so.

  The moon shone bright, pinpoints of light dancing upon the waves as we made our way along the rocks. I led the way, young Catuvolcos following behind me. I had not been to the spot in years, yet I could remember everything. Just around the next turn of the cliff, a jagged outcropping of rock jutting into the sea, was the ponto.

  My foot splashed into the water. Oh, yes. My memory was not as good as I had thought. We had to enter into the sea to make our way to the boat. It was hidden just around—a voice broke upon my consciousness with the rapidity of thought.

  I held up my hand for Catuvolcos to stop and he did so, both of us standing stock-still in thigh-deep water.

  There was an explanation for the stillness, for the quiet. The presence of man. The presence of the Casse.

  Moments passed, then the voice rang out again, a guttural challenge in the darkness.

  I felt a presence move forward through the darkness, until I was able to descry a man standing upon the beach, his form silhouetted against the moon. A long spear was clutched in his right hand. He stood there for a moment, only a few feet from us, his eyes scanning the night. Then, apparently satisfied that his imagination was playing a joke upon him, he turned away, returning to his post.

  I launched myself out of the water upon him, falling upon his back, driving the dagger between his shoulderblades repeatedly, a madness seeming to possess me. He must die.

  When I arose from the corpse, my hands and knife stained with blood, I saw young Catuvolcos looking at me in wonder, his unused sword in his hand. I wiped the dagger on my trousers and moved forward, ignoring his gaze. There was no heroism in what I had done. No honor, no glory. The sentry had been alone.

  The ponto lay a few feet beyond, its shape discernible in the moonlight. With the help of Catuvolcos, I pulled it out and floated it upon the waves.

  The corpse of the man I had slain still lay there, his blood staining the sand. I forced him out of my mind. I had a mission, and for this moment, that mission lay across the waters…

  Chapter XXVII: A Night Meeting

  Catuvolcos and I arrived in Erain two days later, the light craft speeding smoothly over the waves. At night, we had sat side by side in the small boat, as he asked me of days gone by. Of the days of Tancogeistla.

  “What was he like?” he asked me the second evening out, the waves lapping against the sides of our craft.

  “Who?” I asked, his question breaking into my thoughts, my plans for action in Emain-Macha.

  “Oi Neamha. You were his bodyguard, his friend. What was he like?”

  I turned, gazing into his youthful face. When I answered him, my voice was hard and cold. “Tancogeistla was a drunkard and a fool, carried away by his lust for power. He would brook no interference and crush anyone who stood in his path. I should know—I was one of them.”

  There was shock in those young eyes, the disappointment of fantasies shattered, of illusions washed away. I turned away, disgusted with myself. He was but a child. It was unreasonable of me to expect him to understand. I had difficulty with the matter myself.

  We hired a cart and horse from a small fishing village near the edge of the sea, hoping to pose as traders. It was a ploy I trusted to get us closer to the man Cador, himself a merchant. It should work—no, it had to work. Erbin moc Dumnacos would have no compunction at killing either one of us, should he discover our true mission.

  The journey to Emain-Macha took five days, long, slow days of plodding along. In very truth, I doubted that our disguises would survive a careful inspection. Neither Catuvolcos or I possessed a merchant’s skills. All our lives had been spent in other pursuits, namely those of war. For man must ever be at war.

  At the outskirts of Emain-Macha, we enquired for the man, and were told we could find him at his shop in the danoch, or city market.

  It had been years since I had been in the city, and I was amazed to see the changes time had wrought. Yet for all that had changed, still more remained the same. Above all, the hill of Teamhaidh glowered down, its slopes dark and forbidding. I thought back to my meditations upon its brow, the hours spent in the company of Motios, the old druid. So many years hence.

  Upon reaching the danoch, I left the reins in the hands of Catuvolcos and jumped down from the cart. I strode into the row of shops, my sword girt to my waist. There was no inconsistency in my costume. These days, every man went armed. Ever since the beginning of the troubles…

  “A man named Cador?” the first shop-owner asked, in answer to my question. “Of course! One of the most respected merchants in the city. His prices, now, they are higher that what a man like yourself would wish to pay. However, I have wares just as good as his, but much cheaper. If you would just honor me by—”

  “Where is this man?” I demanded, cutting him off. He shot me an aggrieved look, but answered the question.

  “Normally you could find him here in the market, but this is the third day of the week,” he stated, as though this was self-explanatory.

  I was in no mood for games. “Where?”

  “At the palace, my lord,” he said obsequiously, apparently glimpsing the danger in my eyes. “He is very good friends with Erbin oi Neamha.”

  “Oi Neamha?” I asked, puzzled. “The berserker?”

  “Yes. It is what my lord governor Erbin prefers to be called. It is used all over town now, and the little ones know him by no other name. A reference to his bravery in battle, of course.”

  That made things little clearer. “What battle?” I asked, well aware I could be treading upon treacherous ground.

  The shopkeeper winked and drew me closer, looking about as though to see if anyone was listening. “He has fought no battles, my lord. Not even against the bandits that plague the countryside. They whisper that his sword is rusted tight to its scabbard.” His thin, pinched face spread out into a wide smile, a silent chuckle escaping from his lips.

  I smiled in return, my eyes showing my appreciation for his joke. “Take this,” I whispered, pressing a coin into his hand. It was old and battered, still bearing the likeness of Cocolitanos. Silver minted in the days before the migration. “Take this and give a message unto Cador when he returns to the market.”

  “Yes, my lord?” he asked, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the money. He popped the silver between his lips and bit deeply into it, assuring himself of its authenticity.

  “There is a swift-flowing stream two miles to the north of the oppidum. Crossing it is a narrow footbridge. Tell Cador to meet me there tonight during the second watch of the night. Alone.”

  “Yes, my lord,” he nodded eagerly. “I will tell him this.”

  “Do your duty well,” I whispered, “and I will give Cador another piece of silver to reward you with.”

  His eyes glittered with greed, and I added quickly. “However, play me false…” My hand drifted toward the sheathed knife protruding from beneath my jerkin. He gulped audibly and turned away. “Of course, my lord. Cador shall receive your message.”

  “Thank you, good sir.”

  Catuvolcos and I were at the bridge that night, our wagon hidden away ‘neath the shadow of a nearby grove of trees. I stationed the boy beneath the footbridge, his naked sword in hand, a safeguard against treachery. For I trusted no man. Not anymore. There was no safety in trust.

  About the time of the second watch, I heard a low sound off
to the southwest, toward Emain-Macha. Stooping down, I placed my ear against the earth, listening. The sound of a horse galloping swiftly toward our position.

  Nervously, I checked my own sword, making sure it was girt firmly to my side. The moment of truth. A horseman appeared in the distance, his mount’s hooves drumming against the hard-packed road.

  Espying me by the footbridge, he reined up his horse and dismounted, tossing back the hood of his cloak.

  “My name is Cador, of Emain-Macha,” he announced, extending a hand to me. “The shop-keeper said you had a message for me?”

  “Does anyone know of your coming here tonight?” I asked.

  He shook his head in the negative. “These are hard times, and a man must take precautions for his life. But who are you?”

  “My name is Cadwalador,” I replied, watching his eyes. “Servant of the Vergobret, Aneirin moc Cunobelin.”

  His face broke into a smile. “I remember you! You rode with oi Neamha, as one of his brihetin, didn’t you?”

  I nodded good-naturedly. “Then, tell me,” he continued, “how go things with our lord since the fall of Attuaca?”

  “How did you know?” I demanded, taking a step closer to him.

  “An emissary came from the Casse not three days hence, bearing word of the success of Erbin’s alliance with him,” Cador replied, his visage unruffled by my tone.

  “An emissary?”

  Cador snorted his disdain. “So he calls himself. He is no diplomat, nor is he even a Briton.”

  His statement startled me and I looked keenly into his eyes. “Describe him…”

  He did so, the words driving a knife betwixt my ribs, the blade twisting deep into my soul. It had come to this.

  I placed my hand on the merchant’s shoulder. “I need to see this man. Can you arrange for me to appear in Erbin’s court?”

  “When?” Cador asked, appearing startled at my request.

  “On the morrow…”

  My gaze flickered from right to left as we approached the guards at the front gate of the palace of Erbin moc Dumnacos the next day. Despite Aneirin’s assurances about Cador, it was not his life in danger in this place. It was mine—and that of the boy.

  I could see the same unease in Catuvolcos, in his eyes, in the tight-lipped smile he flashed me just as we were passed on through. After the departure of Cador the previous night, I had explained my mission to him. His instructions were simple, and to the point. Guard my back.

  I had never entered the palace of Emain-Macha. During my years in the city, Malac had been Vergobret, and Tancogeistla had never returned to the oppidum after his ascendancy.

  But here I was. My hand slipped almost instinctively to the hilt of my sword, assuring myself of its presence. I need not have worried.

  Cador turned to me as we entered. “Let me do the talking,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “And remember! You are my brother and nephew from Ivernis, come north to seek employment in my service.”

  I nodded, my eyes fastening themselves on his face, a silent warning emanating from their depths. Do not betray us…

  At the next guard, he inquired after the emissary from the Casse. “He holds court with the king.”

  Apparently Cador knew the guard, for he drew the man close to him and whispered into his ear. I stepped in close, just in time to catch his final words. “…is there a way inside?”

  My instructions to him, followed to the letter. I hoped to make my entrance unobtrusively and escape just as quietly. Should there be another traitor in the inner circle of Aneirin moc Cunobelin, I had to know. Or so I told myself, reasoning away my madness in a futile attempt to justify my actions. For I knew perfectly well who Cador had described, those features burned on my memories for years. And I would not be content with escaping.

  I watched as Cador slipped a few golden coins into the man’s hand, once again bearing the timeless image of Cocolitanos upon them. I had been but a child like Catuvolcos when he had been the Vergobret of the Aedui. The shrewd old leader who had made the decision to abandon our homes on the headlands of Gaul and migrate north—to Erain, to the isles of tin.

  What would the old man have thought if he could have seen the chaos into which his decision had plunged the Aeduan state? I checked myself. The bloody power struggle between Malac and Tancogeistla could have happened anywhere.

  Men’s hearts are not changed nor influenced by geography. Men are still men, and crave power. In Gaul, Tancogeistla and Malac would still have flown to each other’s throats, and the Arverni would have overcome us, just as the Casse were doing now. Everything the same, only different players. Caught in a web with no hope of escape…

  The guard moved away from his post, leading us toward a large double door. “The throne room…” he whispered.

  Catuvolcos and I each bore baskets of fish, presents for Erbin and the pretext for our entrance into his presence. Only Cador, in his prestige as our employer, was unencumbered.

  “My lord Erbin oi Neamha!” The guard announced, stepping inside ahead of us. “The merchant Cador wishes an audience with you.”

  There was a muffled sound of assent from within, and the door swung back open, revealing the throne room to us. Erbin oi Neamha sat upon a rough wooden throne, its hard edges cushioned by furs from the north country, from Attuaca. From the lands he had abandoned to the people whose representative stood before him even as we entered. I stole a glance from beneath the hood of my cloak.

  Older, yes. Once flame-red hair now slowly graying, the beard still as full as ever. A face now lined with age. The battle had been too frenzied for me to take a full glance at his features. But there was no denying.

  Cavarillos.

  His long sword was at his side, thrust carelessly into the folds of the sash he wore twisted around his waist. The battle outside Attuaca had convinced me that years had worn away none of his skill with it. I kept my eyes averted as we approached the throne, fighting the madness that seemed to suddenly posess me. The desire to reach out and kill the demon that now stood beside me.

  I heard Erbin’s voice in the distance, heard Cador’s reply as though through a haze. It was all lost upon me, devoured by one all-consuming passion. Kill Cavarillos.

  My mind flickered back over the years. I could see Inyae’s face rising before me, the look of death in her eyes—the sword of Cavarillos protruding from her body. Feeling the life drain from her as I cradled her head in my arms, noiseless sobs wracking my body. The grief came back like a flood. Reason was gone.

  Cavarillos spoke, his voice as gruff and coarse as I remembered it. “And who might these men be, Cador?”

  Something snapped within me and I turned, throwing the basket of fish at Cavarillos. He recoiled in surprise and confusion as my hand went for the dagger concealed in the folds of my cloak.

  Chaos broke forth in the throneroom.

  I whipped the dagger out and threw myself upon him, close, inside his guard, just as he had instructed so many years before, the master with his pupil. He had no room to draw his sword.

  The blade gashed along his forearm, ripping open his jerkin, sliding toward his unprotected heart. And it stopped.

  I swore in desperate frustration, the useless dagger clattering to the flagstones of the throneroom. The mercenary wore a shirt of mail beneath the outer garment, as protection against the very kind of attack I had just launched. If only I had known…

  Cavarillos roared like a wounded bull, throwing me off him. Caught off-balance, I stumbled backward toward the throne. His sword materialized in his hand as though by some magician’s device, glistening like polished silver. Catuvolcos grabbed my arm and pulled me away, bringing me momentarily to my senses.

  The guard Cador had bribed moved to block our exit from the palace, his spear in hand.

  Erbin oi Neamha stood behind his throne, bellowing orders to everyone and no one in particular, seeming only concerned with his own safety. Neamha, indeed…

  Catuvolcos’ swo
rd was drawn and he brought it down in a smooth, slashing motion, breaking the guard’s spear-shaft. Terrified, the man turned to flee.

  The boy let him go.

  My senses had returned to me and deep within I cursed the folly of my actions. Aneirin, the state, everything jeopardized through my foolishness. But it was too late for regrets. Now was a time for action.

  And we ran, fleeing through the corridors of the palace, the sound of guards shouting to each other lending wings to our feet. Up one corridor and down another. It seemed to me countless times as if we must be losing ourselves hopelessly in the labyrinth of the palace, but each time Cador led us out.

  Another door loomed large ahead and Cador shoved it open, knocking down the surprised guard with his fist. The street lay beyond and we hurried into the open.

  “We must split up!” Cador hissed, anger flashing in his eyes. His opinion of my madness was evidenced within their depths and I silently agreed with him.

  I hurried along, seeking refuge in a small alley not far from the palace. They would search far and near for the fugitives, but they would expect them to run as far and as fast as they could. Or so I hoped.

  I could hear the chaos from the palace, orders shouted in a blind frenzy of confusion, every man doing his best to sound louder than his fellow, all of them with their own opinions and ideas. Pandemonium.

  I closed my eyes, reliving that moment, the look in Cavarillos’ eyes as he recognized me. I could feel the dagger sliding toward his heart. If only I had guided it a few inches above, it would have been enough. A lust for revenge had blinded me, robbing me of my senses at a time when I needed them most.

  Running footsteps passed the alley, then hesitated. I crouched, my blade in my hand, cowering behind a stack of wine barrels, undoubtedly bound for Erbin’s cellars. A pause, my ears pricked at the slightest sound.

  I could sense the man standing there, deciding. A presence. Then slowly the steps turned and began coming down the alley toward me. He had sealed his doom.