by Ian Hall
tantalizing my stomach and making my mouth water.
“Cartimanda has taken firm hold of the lands to the south,” Breck said, I took no pleasure from the omission of her title, Queen of the Brigantes. “She flirts with the Roman whores, and her men lead their foraging parties into our lands.”
“So the clan has broken in two?” I asked.
“Yes, although she has the larger part of it.” Breck fiddled with the long sticks holding the thin slivers of meat. “Venutius and Cartimanda were never agreed on the treasonous act to hand Caratacus to the Romans, and he never forgave her. When she and Venutius’s second in command, Velocati, teamed against Venutius, it was the end. Velocati now rules as Cartimanda’s King, but there are few that sense any power from him. Cartimanda has ruled the Brigantes for many years.”
“And yet Venutius now holds his own lands?”
Breck gave me a wry smile, and handed me a stick with sizzling meat. “We are few in number, and although Venutius cries himself King, he holds a nomadic court with his third wife. We control the moors and highlands. Cartimanda holds the wheat fields of the south, and pushes Rome against us.”
After a while, I settled down to sleep, my back still against the warm stone. There was danger in the land I lay in, I could sense it. But despite the ominous seepage of the foreign influence, I slept well that night.
Rousing my heavy lids in the first light of dawn, I sensed the approach of the men before I heard their equipment.
I lifted my head, and saw nothing but fog and heavy dew on the grass. Breck slept close to me, and I prodded him with my staff. “Men approach!” I hissed.
In near silence, Breck roused his small group. Soon all seven crouched, swords at the ready, looking around in the mist for the first sign of the approaching men.
I closed my eyes, and my lips moved in silent litany as I concentrated. The Hunter’s Eye was a drill taught to the more sensitive warriors, a focus of perception. I searched outwards with my mind, my will drifting over stones and large tussocks of grass, then I felt the swish of men’s careful feet through the grass. “They come from the south,” I said, counting the disturbances. “Eleven men.”
Breck nodded, then spread his arms wide, his men forming into an extended line. “They are not friendly,” he hissed. “We are the furthest patrol east.”
Slowly, dark figures emerged from the mist, creeping towards us.
Breck crouched, then jumped forwards, roaring as he did so, his sword high in the air. Suddenly the mist was full of fighting and the clash of metal. I remained where I was, trying to get inside any of the invading heads, but the commotion prevented any such influence.
Then a figure dashed through the melee towards me. He was a tall man, had obviously seen me, and intended harm.
Killing me would be a bad idea. I sent, now able to focus all my energy in the one direction. His steps slowed, and I saw a look of confusion pass over his face.
Bad idea to harm a dhruid! I pushed harder, and he stopped, his sword held above his head, ready to strike.
In the moment of his indecision, I struck. I thrust the base of my staff directly into his face, hitting his nose and eye. He railed backwards, and I swung in a wide arc, my staff crushing his ear, sending his unconscious body to the ground. I pounced onto him, my fingers finding his throat.
You dare to raise your weapon against a dhruid!
More than my fingers drove his body to Lugh, his last gasp of air sounded ragged and distorted.
As I looked up, the swift conflict seemed over. Breck clutched his side, but looked around with confidence. He glanced back at me, still crouched over my victim. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I shook my head, standing up straight, holding my staff by my side. “What of the enemy?”
“It seems they had little spirit for a fight,” Breck said, eyeing me and my victim curiously. “You, however, performed well.”
I grinned, buoyed by my victory. Rarely as a dhruid had I used physical force against another man; I had seldom needed to, shielded by the clan warriors from any such occurrence. I felt proud that under such circumstances, I had not found my courage wanting. “Just because we wear the grey robes, does not mean we are weak.”
Breck’s skilled hands picked over the body before me, taking his dirk and sword. “He is from Cartimanda,” he said, a sneer passing over his lips as he stripped a thong of leather from the man’s neck, “he wears the talisman of the hawk, a badge she now shares with the Roman whores.” He held a crude bone hawk lay up to my gaze for a moment, then he tossed it angrily aside. “Come, we will take you to see Venutius.”
As we walked away from the camp, I felt a spear of chilling ice drive into my head. I buckled under the force of the onslaught, then staggered when it speedily dissipated. With a sudden realization, I knew that a dhruid had just died.
Corin, my friend. Tears sprung to my eyes, and I resumed my footing behind the Brigante men, my fleeting exposure unseen by them. Forcing myself to smile, I looked upward into the morning sky. May your spirit soar on the wings of eagles, my friend. I will walk with you again in the land of dreams. And for the whole of the morning, I recalled Corin’s companionship in the early days of our education into the ways of the dhruids.
After two days of walking, Breck took us to an encampment by a river. There were no defensive walls, just a collection of tents, protected by a complex extended sentry system.
As we weaved among the tents, I recognized Venutius as he approached our group. The man had obviously aged, but I had not expected it to show so much. His face had thinned, almost to a sallow level, and the large burly man I remembered had gone, replaced by a wiry, almost gaunt figure. Years of fighting had not rested easily on his shoulders.
He smiled as we neared each other. “This cannot be the young dhruid who passed through my kingdom so many years ago?”
I nodded, also smiling. “King Venutius, you look well.” I shook his outstretched hand.
“Ah, you know too well how I look!” I reeled under the strength of his embrace, a firmness that his thin figure belied. He stood back, and pulled a young man closer. “This is my eldest son, Stravius.” I shook his hand. “Stravius will fight the Roman jackals when my bones bleach in the sun.”
“My father exaggerates,” Stravius said, somewhat embarrassed. “He will fight the dogs of Rome for many, many years.”
Venutius led the way to his tent. “The Romans are unstoppable.” He said once we were alone. With serious faces we ate cold stale bread, and the pickings of some type of pheasant. In sad reflection, I remembered my last visit, full of captured wine, songs and feasting. “They make roads that spread further north every day; roads with stone surfaces that do not grow overgrown and disappear. Their advance is insidious, a malevolent vein across our countryside that we cannot avoid.”
I sensed sadness in his tone, and yet he seemed to calmly accept the facts. “You sense the Roman’s will attack you?”
His head lifted from the morsel of food in his hand. “They will attack me because I am in the path of their next conquest.”
His veiled silence held no surprises to me; the dhruids spoke of little else. We knew of the Roman thirst for subjugation, and it came as no surprise that their roads had continued to be built. Roads that stretched further and further north every year, opening up more of the kingdom of the Brigante with each season. A dark shadow passed over the tent opening, and I recognized Ishaar, the leader of Venutius’s personal guard. “The boys are ready, their mother too.”
“Thank you, Ishaar,” Venutius replied quickly finishing the remains of his drink.
I took it as time to leave, and stepped quickly from the tent. I felt uneasy in this camp, and found the mood of the Brigante men oppressive, as if they awaited destruction. It seemed to amplify my emotional state, and as I followed Ishaar’s wide shoulders, I felt happy to be leaving the settlement.
I found the two boys clinging tightly to their mother’s skirts. With thick sandals on their
feet I couldn’t tell their age by their tattooed toes, so I made a guess at six or seven summers. They looked at me with fear as I approached, obviously knowing some details of their impending journey. The woman held no trace of rank, her skirts dirty, her hair unkempt and rank; she looked like a slave. I glanced at her hands, and saw no callouses; she had disguised herself well, only a close look would give her away.
“This is my wife, Tasani,” Venutius said, although I felt he held no particular pride in it anymore. “My sons, Fetasius and Benelek,” The boys looked too afraid to acknowledge their names. “Boys, this is Sewell. He’ll be taking you and your mother north for a while. Your father’s going to do some fighting.” He grinned.
Kheltine said nothing about a woman. I blanched slightly.
“Tasani will accompany the boys?” I asked, hoping to hear a contradiction.
“It is arranged.” Venutius said, turning his back and stalking away. “She leaves.”
I felt annoyed that he would use his position in this way, but bowed at his retreating back, and turned expressionless to my new charges. “Lady Tasani, when will you be ready to travel?”
She swallowed, and looked up from her boys, still clutching her skirts. “Immediately.” She sharply pulled the boys free. “I wish to be gone from such a place.” She looked around with distaste, then pulled her sons away. “I will meet you on the north side of the camp.” She gave