Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  “I’m pretty sure it was Miach who pissed himself the last time either of you tried anything with Artturi,” Caratacus said, grinning at the look of anger on the younger brother’s face. “As I recall, he was begging for his life like a girl after Artturi beat him senseless.”

  “He got lucky!” Miach shouted, his face reddening. He pointed a finger at Malcolm. “Why don’t we try it again right now?”

  Malcolm just shook his head. “No, little maggot, I think not. Killing you would be too easy.” He leaned down, letting the brothers see the contempt in his eyes. “At least Clovis was a capable fighter, not that it did him much good in the end.”

  “You bastard!” Miach cried, drawing his sword.

  “Enough!”

  The entire group of Teutones turned, many of them lowering their eyes as they saw the Cimbri king, Boiorix, sitting on a gleaming white horse behind them. The king dug his heels into his mount, placing himself between the Teutones and Malcolm and Caratacus.

  “Does the word of the council, not to mention two kings mean nothing to you?” Boiorix growled down at the Teutones. “Were you not told to leave this man alone?”

  “Yes,” Eachan and Miach said together as they stared at the ground.

  “Yet, here you are,” the king said, his voice frosty as he sat back in his saddle. “The blood of these Roman curs is not even dry, and already you try to spoil our victory. I will not hear of it, understand?”

  “We understand you, great king,” Miach said, so low it was barely heard.

  “What!?” Boiorix thundered.

  “We understand you, great king!” both bothers cried out, loud and forceful.

  “That’s better,” Boiorix grunted. He motioned with his hand. “Now get out of here. And don’t let me see you anywhere near my son or the girl again. If I do, Teutobod will have no sons left.”

  The two brothers and their companions slunk away, glaring at Malcolm with hatred as Boiorix swung his horse around and trotted over to his son.

  “What are you grinning at, you one-eyed bear?” Boiorix grunted at Caratacus.

  Caratacus shrugged, unable to wipe the smile from his face. “I just remembered a joke my wife told me last night, great king,” he said, his eyes dancing with humor.

  “Uh-huh,” the king grunted. “She was undoubtedly describing your pathetic cock.” Caratacus just grinned wider as Boiorix waved a hand. “Now go away, you huge oaf. I wish to speak with my son alone.”

  The Cimbrian king waited for Caratacus to leave before focusing on Malcolm, though he sat his horse and studied him without saying anything for a long time.

  “Eachan and Miach were just having some fun,” Malcolm finally said, feeling awkward under the king’s hard gaze. “Nothing would have come of it.”

  “Perhaps,” Boiorix replied. “Perhaps not. We both know those fools can barely think straight when they have a sword or a prick in their hands, so why antagonize them?”

  “I didn’t start it,” Malcolm said in exasperation. “They came over to me.”

  “But you would have finished it,” Boiorix growled. He sighed, relaxing slightly. “I can’t have that, Artturi. Our alliance with the Teutones is strained as it is, despite our great victory today. Killing Teutobod’s other sons would only make things that much worse.”

  “He still blames me for what happened with Clovis?” Malcolm asked, knowing it was true.

  The king’s eyebrows rose. “Shouldn’t he? Did you not kill his eldest son?”

  Malcolm hesitated, surprised by the clear reprimand he could hear in the older man’s voice. “I had no choice, Father,” he said. “Clovis lied about Alodia and me and I couldn’t let that stand. Besides, the gods vindicated me.”

  Boiorix snorted. “You mean Gunda and a quick blade vindicated you, nothing else.” The king shook his head, lowering his voice as he guided his horse closer to Malcolm’s. “I understand as much as any man the allure of a pretty girl, Artturi. Luckily for you, the seeress favored you and chose to confirm your claim, despite what she knows. But I warn you, Teutobod hasn’t given up on finding out the truth.” He studied Malcolm with hard eyes. “Someday, he just might learn what that is, then what will you do?”

  “It’s been four years, Father,” Malcolm protested. “It’s time he let this go.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Boiorix agreed solemnly. “It has been a long time. But the wound of losing his eldest son still festers deep within Teutobod, even more now than it did then. I can see it every time he looks at you. You’re like a sore oozing puss that won’t go away to him, always there as a reminder of what he lost. Teutobod believes you lied, Artturi, and that the seeresses and I are all complicit in that lie.”

  “Well, he’s wrong,” Malcolm said, getting angry now. “Teutobod will just have to live with the fact that his son accused an innocent man.”

  “I am amazed you can say that with a straight face,” Boiorix grunted, looking unimpressed. “Because we both know Clovis was telling the truth. You lay with his wife, and he had every right to call for your execution along with the girl’s. And now, because of your actions, I have been forced into finding a solution before Teutobod’s wound finally erupts.”

  Malcolm hesitated, trying to read the expression on the king’s face. “Forced, how?” he finally asked, feeling the first stirrings of alarm. He’d been around Artturi’s father enough to know when the man had made up his mind about something, and it was clear he had about this.

  “I have just come from meeting with Gunda,” Boiorix said, his face expressionless. “The news is grim, for she has seen all of our deaths in a vision.”

  Malcolm felt his mouth falling open in surprise. “What?” He shook his head, trying to understand the sudden change in topic. “All of us? How? When?”

  “She does not know how,” the king said, his voice filled with weariness now. “Nor when, though it seems we have some time left before the end.”

  “Gunda could be wrong,” Malcolm offered, wondering once again how the seeress could know things she had no business knowing.

  “She is not wrong,” Boiorix said with conviction.

  Malcolm removed his helmet and ran his hand through his hair as he thought. “What are you going to do?” he finally asked.

  “We will live, we will breathe, and we will fight,” the king said with a smile. “Until the day that we no longer can.” He reached out and put a hand on Malcolm’s arm. “All men must die, my son, but perhaps some are meant to live longer than others.”

  Malcolm frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  The king removed his hand. “I have decided that you will leave for the north in two weeks.” Malcolm opened his mouth to protest, but Boiorix lifted a finger to stop him. “You and the girl, along with one hundred warriors and their families, will return to our homeland. You will stay there and grow strong, and if the gods are mistaken about our fate, then I will call for you to join us once again.”

  “No,” Malcolm said without thinking. “I’m not going.”

  “It’s not your choice to make,” Boiorix grunted, his eyes hardening. “I believe the gods put a king in the belly of a woman who by rights should not have conceived for a reason, and that means you and he must live at all costs. You cannot do that here. The bad blood between the Cimbri and Teutones is because of you and her, and with your departure, perhaps all of our destinies will change.” Boiorix smiled sadly. “And if they do not and we fall, then at least the Cimbri will still exist somewhere with a great king to rule over them.”

  Malcolm looked down at his horse’s twitching ears, feeling hope rising in his breast as he realized the opportunity he’d just been presented. He and Alodia and their child could have a life together—one which did not end with death at the hands of Consul Marius’ legions.

  The king swung his horse around as Malcolm sat in silence, thinking. “You will obey me in this, my son. Do not test my patience. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, great king,”
Malcolm said as he watched Boiorix ride away, marveling at the turn of events. He felt like he’d just been given a new lease on life, one that now might last many years longer than he’d thought. Malcolm heard musical laughter drifting over the fields and he looked north where Alodia and several other women were dancing together as they held bloody cuirasses to their naked chests. He smiled, feeling a sudden, overwhelming affection for the girl that he suspected just might be love. He felt the smile slowly fade as Gunda appeared, walking slowly toward him.

  The old woman stopped and stroked his horse’s nose as she looked up at him. “You will obey the king and go north, yes, man from the future?” she asked in a soft voice.

  Malcolm hesitated. The seeress seemed as old as time itself to him, and she regarded him with eyes glowing with inner knowledge as she awaited his answer. “Is that what you think I should do?” he asked.

  Gunda laughed, revealing rotten stumps for teeth. “What I think means nothing, man from the future. The gods sent you to us for a reason, but now they wish for you to leave, and so you must.”

  “Sending me away was your idea, wasn’t it?” Malcolm said, knowing that it was true.

  Gunda inclined her head. “Yes, and no. I am just a simple vessel through which the gods speak. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “And what am I, then?” Malcolm asked her, curious to hear the response.

  “You are the hammer the gods use to keep our world on the right path,” Gunda said without hesitation. “A being created for the purpose of good.”

  Malcolm gaped at her. “You really think that?”

  “I know that, man from the future. You are the gods’ eyes and ears in this world. A spirit guardian, if you will.”

  “A guardian against what?” Malcolm asked, breathless now.

  “Against the other one,” Gunda whispered, making a sign to ward off evil spirits. She glanced around, then spat on the ground. “And so you shall. That is your destiny as well as hers.”

  Malcolm gaped down at Gunda. Were the old woman’s words just an odd coincidence, or was she actually talking about Claire? The seeress crooked a withered finger at him, motioning that he should follow her. “You will need guidance on your journey through the ages, man from the future,” she said, hobbling as Malcolm followed her on his horse. The seeress finally paused at the base of a hill where a round object sat on the ground. Gunda turned to look up at him. “You will take this treasure back with you, for it will keep you safe and focused in the coming struggle with the other one.”

  Malcolm could only stare down at the blood-covered Gundestrup cauldron in surprise, before finally he started to laugh low in his chest. What would his twenty-first-century colleagues think, were they to learn that the mystery of how and why the cauldron had been returned to Denmark was now solved—carried there by a one-time author, professor, and now time traveler named Malcolm Foster. It boggled his mind to think about it.

  “The chicken or the egg,” Malcolm muttered as he stared at the cauldron. “Which came first?”

  “What?” Gunda grunted, looking perplexed.

  Malcolm waved a hand in the air. “Nothing, Gunda. I would be delighted to take this great treasure back with me to our homeland.” Malcolm glanced behind him toward the battlefield, waving when he saw Alodia shielding her eyes as she peered in his direction. Malcolm grinned as she waved back before he turned to Gunda. “Absolutely delighted.”

  Malcolm’s future belonged to him now—him, Alodia, and their coming child—and he had no idea what would happen next, which was an invigorating, welcome thought. The history books didn’t matter anymore, just today, tomorrow, and every day after that for as long as fate and the universe allowed.

  Malcolm couldn’t wait to get started.

  EPILOGUE

  Jutland: 70 BC

  Malcolm walked slowly, the burden in his hands far heavier than he remembered it being from years before. He paused to cough, ignoring the low chanting coming from a seeress behind him with long black hair that was just beginning to show the first signs of grey. The seeress was wearing a flowing white dress, and he tried to remember her name, but it had slipped his mind just like so many other things seemed to these days. The incredible memory that Malcolm had relied upon so heavily all his life was long gone now, blunted by Artturi’s advanced age and chronic illness. A small part of Malcolm worried that his memory loss would follow him into the next life, though he tried not to dwell on it too much. He’d know soon enough once the events of this night were over. Besides, there was nothing he could do about it, anyway.

  The coughs finally subsided, and Malcolm fought to draw air into his tortured lungs, tasting the familiar coppery tang of blood in his mouth. He turned his head and spat, closing his eyes as he searched for the strength inside to carry on with the journey. His destination was still some distance away, and Malcolm feared that Arrturi’s frail body might not be able to make it that far despite his determination.

  “Let me help you, Father, please,” a man said in a worried voice as he appeared by Malcolm’s side. The man was short and stocky, with massive shoulders and a fine beard held in place by an ornate, silver beard ring.

  “No,” Malcolm grunted as he started forward again, the word sounding gruffer than he’d intended. “I must do this my way, Kenryk,” he added after a moment, softening his tone this time. “We talked of this.”

  Artturi’s son frowned, but he said nothing as he bowed his head in reluctant acceptance, moving off the path to let the dark-haired seeress pass before falling into step behind her. Six more seeresses walked in single file to the rear of the future king, each holding a torch and chanting, while behind them came several hundred villagers, all moving forward in solemn silence. Malcolm fought the steady ache in his arms and back as he stumbled along in front of the procession, determined to make it on his own to the huge bog known as Rævemosen before his strength gave out.

  Malcolm glanced down at the heavy Gundestrup cauldron he held in his shaking hands, the vessel gleaming in the moonlight as he walked. He’d polished the twelve side plates and ornate rim for hours before dismantling everything and setting the pieces inside the curved base. He knew the famous cauldron would be found exactly like that many centuries from now, though the thick rope wound around the bottom would be long gone by then. The other end of the rope was tied tightly around Malcolm’s waist, leaving less than a foot of space between them.

  Malcolm could feel Artturi’s growing excitement with each step he took, knowing the Cimbri was eager to be with Alodia and Caratacus again, both of whom had died years ago. “Soon, my old friend,” he whispered. “Soon, you will be with them.”

  Malcolm felt a sudden moment of unease, knowing that Artturi’s journey was almost over now, but his was far from finished. Claire Blackwood was a distant memory, and at times it seemed to him as though she’d never existed at all and that he must have dreamed the entire thing. But then reality would return and he’d realize what had happened had been no dream at all and that soon, he’d have to start the process all over again. It was something that he was looking forward to and dreading, both in equal parts.

  Malcolm felt relief when he finally saw the open bog ahead of him, with two silent seeresses waiting along the bank holding torches. A small boat lay nestled in the reed grass close by, with two warriors crouched down as they kept the craft in place. Malcolm felt a momentary lurch in his stomach, realizing in surprise that he was afraid of what was about to happen. He could feel Artturi trying to calm him and couldn’t help but shake his head. The ancient warrior was moments away from the end of his life, and he knew that Malcolm would continue to live on, yet he was the calm one and Malcolm the fearful one. Shouldn’t it have been the other way around?

  “You never cease to amaze me,” Malcolm said to Artturi under his breath, knowing he was going to miss the tough Cimbri. He reached the shoreline and shuffled his feet in the slippery muck as he turned to face Kenryk, who slowly knelt in front of him, unmi
ndful of the mud. “Rule wisely, my son,” Malcolm said down to him as the villagers spread out around them and joined hands, then began to chant.

  Kenryk swallowed, lowering his eyes to the ground. “I will do my best, Father,” he said with a waver in his voice. “I swear I will not fail you.” Malcolm was surprised to see tears in Kenryk’s eyes as Artturi’s son looked back up at him. “Tonight, we are losing a great king,” the kneeling man said. “But your sacrifice to the gods will ensure a plentiful harvest for years to come.” Kenryk slowly stood and placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “You will be sorely missed, my king.”

  “I will miss you as well,” Malcolm said, trying to control both his and the old Cimbri warrior’s emotions. “But I promise, we will meet again.” He let his eyes roam over the villagers, many of whom he’d known for most of their lives. “We will all meet again in the world beyond, my friends. Until then, be well and prosper.”

  Malcolm turned then, helped into the boat by his son, where he stood unsteadily on a flat wooden platform built in the center of the craft. Next came the dark-haired seeress, followed by the two warriors, with one of them using a long pole to push them off from shore. The chanting from the bank grew louder, with the full moon combining with the glimmer from the torches the other seeresses held helping to light up the dark, silent waters of Rævemosen. Malcolm took in a deep breath as the boat slid smoothly across the calm surface of the water, heading for the deepest part in the center. He could smell the heady stench of rotting vegetation around him, which he knew would help to make this area a treasure trove for peat moss miners in the future. The boat finally reached the middle of the bog, and Malcolm glanced at each warrior, giving them both a silent nod of thanks. Their names were Casworon and Revelin, and they had both served him faithfully as personal bodyguards for almost fifteen years.

  “Please turn to the gods, now, great king, and prepare yourself to meet them,” the seeress whispered.

  Malcolm did as he was asked, facing north. He stared up at the moon and stars as Casworon helped the seeress move closer to him. Malcolm grinned as his eyelids suddenly fluttered in that familiar way, remembering the woman’s name was Abria. She’d only been a child when Malcolm and Alodia had returned to Jutland more than thirty years ago, he recalled, thinking of his wife with fondness. He tensed as he felt the seeress’s light touch on his elbow, signaling that it was time, then closed his eyes as Abria began to chant in a high voice that echoed out over the dark water. Malcolm focused his mind on a black-haired, smiling girl just as a knife appeared in the seeress’s hand, gleaming for the briefest of moments in the moonlight before she used it to slash open his throat. He gasped, surprised at how much it hurt as his life’s blood gushed over and into the cauldron that he held to his chest.