The Forever Man: Clan War

by Craig Zerf

  King MacDonell looked deeply into the young warrior’s eyes and saw absolute belief. And more, he saw wisdom. An understanding that far superceded mere age. In fact, when he looked into Nathaniel’s eyes he saw an infinity of knowledge. Comprehension and understanding without end. He saw – The Forever Man.

  And the king climbed off his horse and knelt in front of The Forever Man. He drew his sword and laid it on the ground.

  Nathaniel dismounted and stood opposite the kneeling king.

  ‘I swear fealty, my lord Nathaniel Arnthor Degeo,’ said the king. ‘My sword, my life, my people and my kingdom are yours to command. The fate of the Pictish nation is now held in your palm.’ He looked up at Nathaniel. ‘A nation lives or dies at your will, lord Degeo. Take stock of that thought and remember it well in these coming days.’

  Nathaniel drew his axe and held it out to the ex-king who lent forward and kissed the blade. ‘My life,’ the ex-king said.

  ‘And my honor,’ answered Nathaniel.

  The marine grasped MacDonell by the hand and helped him to his feet.

  And the sound of over thirty thousand cheering warriors thundered across the valley, shaking the ground and raising the birds to flight as, for the first time, the Pictish clans were fully united.

  Chapter 12

  In the castle of MacDonell stood a massive, ancient, round table that could seat upwards of thirty people. At the moment Nathaniel, Torkill the druid, Padan, Padraig and the twenty clan chiefs sat around it. A fire blazed in the huge hearth, managing to heat half of the room but leaving the other half frigid and slightly damp. MacDonell sat on Nathaniel’s right hand side and the rest of the marine’s entourage sat on his left.

  Nathaniel stood up.

  ‘Lords,’ he said. ‘Today is the culmination of many months of fighting and bleeding and killing. Today is the day that I have been striving for, at the possible cost of my own life. Today is the first day in the beginning of the end of the Roman’s encroachment on our land. But, before we discuss details I want to ask of you all one question. Why do the Romans win all of their battles? They seldom have superior numbers, they are no braver than us and their equipment, although different, is not inherently superior. Yet they win. Always. Why?’

  ‘Discipline,’ said one of the chiefs.

  ‘Are we not disciplined?’ Asked Nathaniel. ‘Are they so much more disciplined than us?’

  The chief shook his head.

  ‘Tactics,’ said another.

  ‘We too have tactics,’ replied the marine. ‘Are our tacticians so much worse than theirs?’

  Again a shaking of heads in denial.

  Nathaniel picked up a Roman gladius short sword that had been lying on the table in front of him. He held it high.

  ‘This,’ he said. ‘This is why the Romans win.’ Then, using his fingers he spanned the tip of the gladius and some three inches of blade. ‘These first three inches of the Roman gladius. Because the Romans have learned that three inches of sharpened steel is enough to kill a man. Whereas we insist on using six feet of broadsword. Because of that, we need space in which to fight. One on one, the pict is the most fearsome warrior the world has ever known. But in formation we are simply a group of brave individuals. The Romans are a machine that exists only to plunge those three inches of steel into the enemy’s body. Every formation, every tactic that they have, centers on that one simple fact. And therein lies their weakness.’

  Nathaniel left his seat and walked around the table, gladius held out in front of him.

  ‘The tortoise, the wedge, the saw. All of these formations allow the Roman soldier to protect himself from attack whilst, at the same time, they allow him to part his shield wall just enough to poke this crappy little sword out and stab us.’

  The marine slammed the sword into the table where it vibrated with the shock.

  ‘Well no more,’ he shouted. ‘From this day on I will show you how to take this advantage away from the Romans and turn it into his greatest disadvantage. Over the next few weeks I will teach you and then you will go home and teach your men. Within the following three months we will become the very stuff of nightmares for the Romans. We will become their nadir and their bane. For eons to come, people will talk about us in hushed sentences as they recall what we did to the mighty Roman Empire. Through us, the name of the Picts shall live forever.’

  There was a tumultuous cheering as the chiefs sprang to their feet as one, and bellowed Nathaniel’s name.

  ‘Degeo, Degeo, Degeo!’

  ***

  The next few weeks were the busiest of Nathaniel’s life. Firstly he had to change hundreds of years of traditional Pictish battle tactics that consisted mainly of lining up in front of the enemy and charging into them, six foot broadsword windmilling about and chopping up all and any who came close enough.

  Secondly, he set out to radically increase the size of the Pictish cavalry. He did this by commandeering every horse of the correct size in the kingdom and then setting every saddlemaker and leathersmith in the area to make saddles and tack. He then commanded all blacksmiths to mass-produce light lances for throwing. Thousands upon thousands of them. Nathaniel aimed to have a cavalry of lancers at least fifteen thousand strong. Almost half of his entire force. He did this because he knew, from his history lessons that he had learned over 1000 years into the future, that the Romans were at their weakest against cavalry. Especially mounted archers.

  He didn’t have enough time to train mounted archers, but he could train lance throwers, particularly with the help of lance-lord Padraig.

  Then lay the task of explaining the concept of guerilla warfare. Or what the clan chiefs had termed “run away fighting”. He was busy at the moment trying, once again, to put the seemingly simple concept across.

  ‘So,’ said Padan. ‘You’re saying that we attack the Romans, chuck a few lances at them, inflict a couple of casualties and then run away?’

  Nathaniel nodded. ‘Basically, yes. Then we wait until they’ve all relaxed and we do it again. Sometimes we dig trench traps for them to fall into or we simply set fire to the food wagon.’

  ‘And then run away again,’ confirmed Padan.

  ‘Yep.’

  The red bearded warrior shook his head. Nathaniel noticed that many of the other warrior chiefs were reacting the same way.

  ‘Can’t see how a battle can be won by constantly running away,’ said Padan.

  ‘It can’t,’ agreed Nathaniel. ‘But by using those tactics one can, eventually, win a war. Constant striking at an enemy by a smaller force keeps them from relaxing. They have to constantly be on guard. Their supply lines are disrupted. One can draw them deeper into enemy territory and cause them to be cut off. And then, when they are in the perfect place for us to strike hard – we do so. With overwhelming force.’

  ‘Okay, lord,’ said MacDonell. ‘We shall take your word for it. Now, what about all of this cavalry? It has never been our tradition to fight on horseback. Two feet on the ground and a good sword is our way.’

  ‘The Romans have a weakness against cavalry,’ answered Nathaniel. ‘Their formations are deadly but slow to move. Even when they run, it is more shuffle than sprint. Lancer cavalry can strike and withdraw. Injuring without taking losses. And the Romans have little cavalry so they will have no answer.’

  MacDonell nodded, albeit reluctantly.

  ‘There is one more request that I need make of you,’ continued Nathaniel. He held up a spiked object made up of two short lengths of spiked steel bent and welded together in the middle. When he threw it onto the table one could see that, however it landed, one sharpened spike would always be sticking up. ‘This is a caltrop. You scatter them on the ground so that, when the Romans march forward, it penetrates the leather soles of their sandals and seriously ruins their day.’

  This small witticism was greeted by a round of laughter.

  ‘This simple piece of steel will be guaranteed to break up any Roman advance and, as we know, a splint
ered Roman advance is to our advantage. One on one, we can defeat them. As a coherent unit, we cannot. I will give each of you a handful of these and I ask that you get your blacksmiths to make as many as they can over the next few weeks. We need hundreds of thousands of them. Enough to booby-trap an entire battlefield.’

  There was a murmuring of assent amongst the clan chiefs.

  ‘Right then,’ said Nathaniel as he stood up again. ‘Go. Do it. Train your men in the arts that Padraig has shown you, manufacture the caltrops. Return as soon as you can.’

  The clan chiefs stood and saluted as one, then they filed from the room.

  Padraig, the druid and Padan followed them, leaving the Forever Man alone.

  After a while Janiver came in. As always, she was dressed in flowing white, her hair controlled by a circlet of gold. Around her neck a torc of ebony that set off her milky white, flawless skin.

  She walked over and sat on Nathaniel’s lap.

  ‘You are tense, my lord,’ she said. ‘It grows late. Come to bed and I will help you to relax.’ She nuzzled into his neck, her tongue flicked at his chin and lips. Pink. Small. Like a cat.

  Nathaniel kissed her passionately. ‘I cannot, my sweet,’ he answered. ‘Chief Gillanders did not show today. He sent message that he was ill but there are rumors that he is having second thoughts. If he pulls out then many other clans might follow. He is a man with influence, particularly with the highland tribes. I need to leave tonight. I will travel by torchlight, rest after midnight and get there first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Send Padan and Torkill,’ argued Janiver.

  ‘Alas, I cannot,’ said Nathaniel. ‘I lead, so I must go.’ He took her hand and kissed the palm. ‘This pace will not continue forever, my love. Soon I will have more time for you.’

  The marine picked her off his lap and stood up, kissing her once more before he left the room, calling for Padan and Torkill as he did so.

  Janiver waited until he had left and then she picked up a water goblet from the table and threw it against the wall, screaming out her frustration.

  ***

  Janiver stood on the battlements and watched the torchlight from Nathaniel’s party fade into the night as they rode away.

  Then she turned and walked back into the depths of the castle. Although the castle was large and the corridors many and meandering she knew where she was going and walked with sure foot and obvious knowledge. After a few minutes she came to a door and, without knocking, she opened it and walked in.

  Padraig sat on the edge of his bed. He wore only a loincloth and a band of leather around his head to keep his hair out of his eyes. At his feet lay a pile of throwing lances. In his hand he held another lance. He was sharpening the tip with a wet stone, methodically working it along the edges of the spear so that they glowed red in the light from the fire. Such was his concentration that he didn’t, at first, notice that Janiver had entered the room. It was only when she cleared her throat that he looked up.

  ‘My queen.’

  Janiver laughed. The sound as light as silver thread. ‘Not yet, Padraig,’ she said. ‘Lord Arnthor and I are not yet married.’

  ‘A mere formality, my queen,’ insisted the lance lord. He stood up and walked across the room to fetch a tunic to cover himself. But before he reached his wardrobe Janiver stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  ‘There is no need to enrobe on my behalf, Padraig,’ she whispered. ‘After all, I have seen you naked before when I was nursing you back to health.’

  The young warrior shook his head.

  ‘It is unseemly, lady,’ he said as he gently pulled away from her. He grabbed a doeskin tunic and dragged it over his head.

  Janiver laughed again. But this time her laughter was less light. Throatier. Salacious.

  Padraig blushed a deep red and looked away from her.

  She walked over to his bed and sat down on it. Patted the mattress next to her.

  Padraig snatched at his kilt and hastily buckled it on.

  ‘I must apologize, my queen,’ he muttered. ‘I have things to do.’

  He bowed and swiftly left the room.

  Behind him he heard Janiver’s laughter once again. Low and husky and dangerous. Full of promise. Of fruits forbidden.

  Chapter 13

  Although Nathaniel had planned on taking a break sometime after midnight he changed his mind and the three of them, himself, Padan and Torkill, pushed on through the night.

  They arrived at Chief Gillanders’s settlement at around two hours before sunrise. Nathaniel was surprised to see that the main gates were open and no sentry had been set.

  ‘Now here is a man who is not afraid of the Romans,’ said Padan.

  ‘Nor brigands,’ added Torkill.

  ‘Look to your weapons,’ said Nathaniel. ‘I like this not. Look,’ he pointed towards Gillanders’s sprawling abode. In front of it was a lavishly appointed, two wheeled Roman carpentum. A covered wagon used by the Roman senatorial class or anyone of wealth and influence. The horses had been detached and were obviously in the stables. Again there were neither guards nor sentries.

  The abode itself was silent and dark. The household still asleep. Even the servants would not start to rise until at least one hour before sunrise when bread would be baked and breakfast prepared.

  The three men dismounted and tethered their horses to the hitching post outside the main door. They drew their weapons. Nathaniel his axe, Padan his broadsword and Torkill his vicious, razor-sharp sickle.

  The front door was latched but it was a simple exercise for Padan to insert his broadsword through the gap in the side of the door and lift the bar. The hinges were well greased with animal fat and the door swung open silently.

  The three warriors padded down the passageway towards the sleeping area of the huge house. Torkill, who had been a guest of Gillanders’s before, led the way.

  ‘There,’ he whispered and pointed. Lying, curled up on the floor in front of a door, was a young man dressed in a short Roman tunic. Obviously a servant of some sort, sleeping outside his master’s room so as to be at his constant back and call.

  ‘Romans,’ grunted Padan.

  ‘And sleeping in the room reserved for honored guests,’ added Torkill.

  ‘Come on,’ whispered Nathaniel. ‘Let’s take a look at this Roman.’

  The three of them sneaked towards the door but, as quiet as they were, the servant awoke and jumped to his feet. But, before he could utter a sound, Torkill’s scythe struck him in the throat, severing his vocal cords and his arteries in one fell swoop. Blood jetted high and the servant fell, twitching, to the ground.

  Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. ‘Bit harsh.’

  Torkill shrugged. ‘He would have raised the alarm.’

  The marine eased the door handle down and pushed the door open. The room inside was large and sumptuously furnished. Hand woven carpets, carved wooden seats and a small table. The windows were shuttered but the fire was still glowing in the hearth, providing ample light for which to see.

  A naked, corpulent man of advancing middle age lay snoring on the bed, his massive gut rising and falling to the sound of his porcine breathing.

  Nathaniel walked over and prodded him in the stomach with the blade of his axe.

  ‘Hey, Roman,’ he said. ‘Rise and shine.’

  The foreigner spluttered awake, rubbing his eyes as he did so.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ He demanded.

  ‘What you doing here?’ Asked Nathaniel.

  ‘I am a guest,’ blurted the Roman. ‘And an important one at that, so, peasant, I advice you to leave my room this instant or things will go very badly for you.’

  ‘I’m not a peasant,’ said Nathaniel. ‘I’m a marine. Oorah!’

  ‘What?’ asked the Roman, his eyes wide with incredulity at Nathaniel’s audacity.

  Then marine shook his head. ‘Whatever.’

  He swung the axe in a tight circle, striking the Roman’s neck just
below his Adam’s apple and causing it to leap from his torso like a scalded cat.

  Nathaniel grabbed the dismembered head by its short hair and picked it up.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to his companions. ‘Let’s go have a chat to chief Gillanders and ask him about our Roman friend here.’

  They filed from the room and let themselves into Gillanders’s room that was situated at the end of the corridor.

  Nathaniel stood over the sleeping body of the chief and then, with a mighty swipe, he smashed him in the face with the severed Roman head.

  ‘Wake up, you cowardly traitor,’ he shouted.

  Gillanders came instantly awake, jackknifing into a sitting position, his arms and legs jerking spasmodically as he did so.

  ‘What the…’

  Before he finished his sentence Nathaniel hit him in the face with the head again. The Forever Man gasped Gillanders by his ear and pulled his face close to the Roman head, their noses almost touching.

  ‘What the hell is this Roman doing in my kingdom?’ He shouted.

  Gillanders screamed in terror, still half asleep, covered in blood, his vision full of severed head.

  Nathaniel threw the bloody head into the corner and dragged Gillanders from his bed, holding him up by the front of his tunic.

  ‘Talk, Gillanders. What’s happening?’

  ‘It’s not what you think, my lord.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Snapped Nathaniel. ‘How do you know what I’m thinking?’

  ‘It’s just that, my lord, the Romans…I was…’

  ‘I know what you were doing, Gillanders,’ said Nathaniel. ‘You were making a deal with the Romans. You were selling out to our enemy. The enemy of our people. Why? For gods sakes, why?’

  The chief stared at Nathaniel for a while and then he seemed to regain his senses. And a semblance of his pride. He stood straighter and brushed the marine’s grip from his tunic.