Chapter 15.

Summer 80AD.

A New Kind of War.

 

The messengers to the clans rode like the wind.

The pairs of riders made the best time possible, quickly recounting their stories to whoever they met on the way. The account of the great Roman invasion began to spread across the Norlands like a plague, but although the tale was gory, life for the ordinary clansmen and clanswomen in the towns and villages changed little. They listened to the news, then waited for their orders from their chiefs. They made sure their weapons and armor were available and ready for use, but even in such unusual circumstances, the chief’s word was law, and everyone knew it and respected it.

Before Calach was carried aboard Ma’damar’s ship, the two messengers stood before Neall, the Damon clan chief. Care had been taken to pick two Caledonii for the mission as Neall was not to be trusted with members of his Meatae neighbor. The two men were stripped of their weapons and dragged into Neall’s main hut. With disdain the chief heard the story memorized by the two men then, with a wave of his hand, sent them to be fed.

When the messengers told the clan chief their news, they used the exact wording which Calach had made them memorize before he had lost consciousness. The warriors had been through a torrid raid with the young Caledonii, and he had earned their respect.

To their dismay, Neall had seemed to listen to their story with complete disinterest and when they had finished, sent them on to Bar’ton under armed escort. No gratitude for the message was sent with the men. They arrived at Bar’ton two days after Finlass. With the exception of the food given at Ayra, they had been forced to fend for themselves.

Neall’s apparent distrust of Calach’s warning, however, did not stop him strengthening the defenses of his clan lands. He ordered more men brought from the outlying lands to his home town of Ayra. He ordered sheep and cattle slaughtered and dried; his town would not fall to a siege because of starvation. Generally Neall’s sense of self-preservation overcame any other feelings he held regarding the substance of Calach’s message.

Three days later, as Calach was carried from the ship to a bed in Bar’ton, Daglass, chief of the Novants, was the next of the clan chiefs to be informed. He received the news with great reservation. The two messengers of the Meatae clan had arrived in Witton in some disarray, their mounts exhausted, their wounds needing attention, their plaintive pleas for some kind of action lost in the activity to force them to rest and recover. They had been asked to travel the worst route of all; through the Roman lines of communication and down into the south-west corner of the Norlands.

Daglass decided that until lucidity had been restored to the two foreign warriors, he would wait. Days later, after they had recovered to his satisfaction and told their harrowing story, Daglass concluded that he would again wait. This time he waited on some form of verification from other sources. When the dhruids concurred with the warrior’s statement of events, he reluctantly set about drawing his outlying villagers closer to the main settlement.

Again, the Meatae warriors had recounted the story by rote. Already the legend of Calach of the Caledonii was beginning.

~ ~ ~

With the first signs of Calach recovering, Aysar, with Ma’damar’s amulet around his neck, made for Lochery. He rode as never before. Oric; the man at his side, mostly rode silently, his only words those of encouragement for his horse.

The actual message that Aysar was practicing in his mind had changed many times since he had ridden out of the gates at Bar’ton. But one thing was uppermost in his mind. He had to get to Mawrin and Ranald and tell them that Calach was alive. If any other version of the news spread north to Lochery before Aysar’s arrival, there might be a clan war between Caledon and Meatae.

And I’m not going to be held to blame for that!

And he kicked his mount on faster.

“We’ll kill them at this rate man!” Oric shouted from behind.

“Better we kill the horses than thousands o’ men on the battlefield!” He roared over his shoulder.

“Aye, but if we kill the horses here, we’ll have to walk to the next village to get new ones!”

Good point.

With a quick showing of Ma’damar’s amulet at the next large village, they changed horses hastily, the change of saddle allowing them time to be handed food and a goatskin of ale for the journey.

In the allotted two days Aysar and Oric arrived in Lochery to a crowd of people at the main gate. Aysar croaked Ranald’s name, but his request was swallowed by the clamor of the clanspeople’s questions.

Suddenly the crowd parted and Ranald pushed his way through.

“What news lad?” He bellowed over the sudden hush. “Where are the rest o’ the men?”

“They’re behind me Lud Ranald.” Aysar’s voice was dry and painful. “But they’re a long ways behind me; it’ll be days before they get here.”

Ranald had approached Aysar and now held the reins, looking up at the young man. “An’ your Lud Calach? My son? Where is he?”

Aysar swallowed hard. “The last time I seen him, he was alive.”

Ranald read volumes from Aysar’s face. “But he is not well.”

“No my Lud, he has two broken ribs.”

Ranald emitted a huge sigh, then began to lead the horse to the inner ring. Questions again began to be asked from the crowd.

“Oric?” He roared to the other rider.

“Aye, Lud Ranald?”

“Get some ale down you, then get telling these people what happened. At least that way they’ll leave us alone.”

“Aye, Lud Ranald.”

Aysar’s last look at Oric told him that he was glad to be the one telling the people. Aysar had the worse task, and the worst part was coming sooner rather than later.

Mawrin.

~ ~ ~

Although Ranald was concerned about his son’s health, he held his tongue until Aysar preceded him through the door of the broch. It would do the clanspeople no good at all to see their chief’s mood. As he indicated that Aysar should enter the inner room, both he and Mawrin asked the same question at the same time.

“Well? How is he?” They chorused. Mawrin was wiping some residue of cooking from her hands. Ranald knew from the tone of her voice that she was frantic with worry. “Is he going to be a’ right?”

Aysar took a deep breath. “We think so. We were caught by a Roman unit on the way back to Bar’ton, an’ he took a blow in his side. He’s got a couple of broken ribs. Kat’lana pulled them out, an’ set them.”

Mawrin moaned involuntarily.

“She knows what she’s doing.” Aysar added quickly. “Made a poultice; he’s looking much better.”

“Sit down son.” Ranald said. He moved to Mawrin and forced her to sit on his chair. “Now that you’ve told us the main news, tell us the whole story.”

As Aysar spoke, Ranald demanded meticulous details of their journey, then he questioned the young man in ever greater detail regarding the military parts of the story. As the different aspects emerged, Ranald was alarmed to hear of the speed of the Romans’ advance and began to prepare in his mind the plan for the mobilization of his southern clan villages.

They would have to be told.

As Aysar recounted the fight through the Roman line, Ranald outwardly questioned the tactic of the charge, but inside he dwelt on the fact of Finlass’s leading the warrior party. Finlass was older than Calach, he would undoubtedly have a pull on his son.

I’ll keep a closer watch on their relationship in future.

Mawrin was more interested in Calach’s health. She jumped Aysar forward to Calach’s wound; whether they had been dressed correctly, and the length of time it was anticipated he would be in Bar’ton.

As Aysar explained the care that Calach was receiving in Bar’ton, Ranald noticed two new names cropping into the narration. With a grin he remembered Calach’s tale of a tall Votadini girl, years ago, and wondered if it had been the same girl.

Probably.

The second name was very worrying for him; Elenin, Finlass’s sister.

Another tie to Ma’damar. Another hold the old chief is trying to build to my son.

Although Ranald was reeling inwardly, he still smirked as Mawrin questioned the mentions of strange women caring for her son. Aysar’s reassurances seemed to do little to offset her apprehension.

“How long did it take you to ride from Bar’ton to here?” She asked.

“Four days.” He replied. “We had changes of horses twice a day, it was a tough ride.”

“An’ how quick could you get back there?”

Even Ranald was surprised at her question. He watched Aysar swallow again.

“I could leave today, an’ make the same time back.”

“No son.” Ranald interrupted. “If Mawrin wants you to go back you’ll rest a day first.” He looked at the impatient look on his wife’s face. “That’ll be a’right, won’t it Mawrin?”

“Aye, I’ll see to it that you get well fed an’ rested today.”

“I can leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Good lad.” The parents chorused together.

~ ~ ~

Back in Bar’ton, Tamoira supervised Calach’s recovery, offering assistance to the ever-present duo of Kat’lana and Elenin, who vied for supremacy at every juncture. As Finlass and Conrack began the long task of raising every available warrior to arms, Calach slept, and regained strength.

Tamoira knew the danger of the young Caledon dying in Bar’ton and was taking no chances. The last thing the Norlands needed right now was Ranald’s army on their doorstep swearing vengeance.

New recruits arrived daily, in ones and twos, and were soon put to work, building earthworks and digging ditches to strengthen their emplacements.

Although Ma’damar realized the seriousness of the situation, he could not suppress a smile as he watched his two sons working together for the first time in their lives.

Through Finlass and Conrack, Ma’damar sent word from his Meatae forts to the Epidds in the isles of the west, and the Cerones to the north, he asked for men and arms to fight the Romans. The memory of Kheltine’s identical appeal and its subsequent refusal were lost in his subconscious. In the far north, by the time the Caronacs, Lughs, Smerts, Cornavs, and Carins eventually heard the news, (most of these informed by word of mouth from the other northern clans,) the funeral fires of Shiels were long cold; at least two full moons having passed by. The clans of the far north and the islands were moved by the descriptions of the messengers, and bards made up songs about the heroism of the small warrior band who rode to challenge the might of the Roman Empire. Secure in their isolation, however, they did not feel threatened by the invading army, their remoteness being their defense.

In the east, Pe’weric of the Votadini clan ignored the two returning clansmen totally, secure in the knowledge of a peaceful outcome, bargained for long before with the Roman scouts and their ambassadors. A horde of gold and silver coins was his reward for such an agreement, his greed matching his diplomacy and ensuring that his particular part of the Norlands received no Roman aggression whatsoever. He had already began the dismantling of the fort in Edin, a concession to the Romans wanting a secure port nearby. There would be no war for the Votadini people.

Mauchty, secure in his Venicone crannog, received the news calmly, although he was dismayed to hear of Calach’s injury. In the case of the Venicone, the young chief and his advisors were of one mind. They debated the news for only moments, before planning the origination of the biggest amassing of warriors in their clan’s history. Mauchty was adamant that his clan was not going to succumb to the Roman’s advance. Their clan was the most exposed after the apparent destruction of the Selgove and Ordovice; there were only natural barriers between them and the Romans now. The defensive buffer which they had expected from the Votadini clan had dissolved and they needed to act swiftly. Chief Mauchty spent most of the day in the saddle. Coastal villages were either strengthened or joined together. New, higher walls were thrown up around the larger towns. He established a line of runners, ready to bring him news of any invasion.

Certain his clan were going to be next, he sent messengers to Ranald, asking him for his support, offering his in return.

News spread north, through the Caledons, to their neighboring clans; the Vacomags to the east, the Taexals and Decants to the north. Their fates were intertwined with those of the much larger Caledonii clan; if Ranald was to fall to the Romans, they would surely be a much easier proposition.

Most of the Selgove clan, who had been absent from Calach’s raiding party, lay scattered through the wild moors of the south. The Roman column which Calach and his band encountered had traveled from their fort at Carlisle and had decimated the clan as surely as the Ordovices had suffered in Kel’sar. Brogian, the chief’s wife, lay in pieces in the centre of Loch’rabie, the clan’s largest town; her husband, Torthor, lay dead where he had rallied the clan, his sons dead at his side. Before his wife had died, she had been mutilated and dismembered, being too old for the sport of the Roman conquerors. Some of the survivors fled east, only to meet with fleeing Ordovice clansmen and women. Some fled west and joined the Novants, swelling their numbers, some just stayed in their farms and villages, awaiting the orders from their new and foreign chiefs.

Within the chaos and upheaval, however, there was also an unseen exodus from these newly conquered lands. The hardened warriors and woodsmen travelled north in ones and twos, heading for the mountains of the north. As they did so, none could really explain why they had chosen north as their beacon; the lands of the Novants were much nearer, but they journeyed nonetheless. Others in the small groups, remembered the young man from the Meatae clan who promised them safety and refuge in the rugged lands of the Caledons and Meatae.

In various clearings and caves, the dhruids of the Selgove and Ordovice knelt, heads bowed, willing their clansmen to head north to the safety of the mountains. They did all they could to meet these fleeing warriors, personally urging them to travel only at night, and to hide and forage for food during the day. As the last of the warriors passed the dhruids’ hiding places, they hailed the fighting men and headed north with them.

~ ~ ~

Kat’lana hurried to the chief in answer to his urgent summons, where she waited for what seemed like ages to be admitted into the main hall. She cursed under her breath as she paced beck and forth outside the chief’s quarters; didn’t Pe’weric know she was needed elsewhere? She felt so angry at being taken from her task that she felt like walking straight in on the chief and telling him so. She was so tired; she was irritable to the point of almost crying out loud.

She seemed to have been working so hard lately, picking herbs, drying and sorting them, training with Winnie in the ‘older arts’. Then there was the preparation for war, and Aysar and Finlass insisting on asking her advice at every turn. Couldn’t they do anything on their own? She was under instruction to help Winnie with her stories, and then there was the all-important, never-ending attention to Calach’s wounds. Ah! And the constant intervention of that annoying blond Meatae girl, who seemed to disagree with every statement she made, and always appeared to be at Calach’s side, challenging her every diagnosis. She’d seen the way the Meatae looked at her Caledon warrior as he lay recovering. Didn’t she know that there was no chance of winning Calach’s heart when the mighty Kat’lana was there? She sighed when she realized that she wasn’t there all the time. That was the point! She had so many other things to draw her away from Calach’s nursing.

She sighed again and her shoulders slumped; she was so tired, she knew she needed sleep, but also knew that as soon as she gave in to her need, she would be gone from Calach’s side for over a day. She would collapse; simply black out. That was the way her body reacted when she gave into the exhaustion; it had happened too often before.

Eventually she was called, and she made her way into the hall, to be confronted by a crowd of strangers surrounding Pe’weric, the chief. They turned as one to face her. The strangers were all clothed in dhruid grey, but she instinctively knew that they were not actually dhruids, but something else altogether. Their faces were all dark, but Kat’lana could make out a small crescent moon shape, tattooed on their foreheads. This was indeed strange; dhruids were not permitted to tattoo after they had been initiated.

“This is Kat’lana!” Pe’weric shouted, much louder than he had needed to, pointing to her advancing figure.

The strangers scrutinized her so completely and obtrusively, that she halted, and even took a few steps backward.

“Yes!” Said one of the strangers, his eyes piercing through hers.

“She is the one!” Said another, with a touch of venom in his voice.

Then they all bowed their heads and started chanting, even Pe’weric joined in the dirge. Her head was suddenly filled with an image of the standing stones all over the country, raising from the virgin turf, pushing through the grass, their grey surfaces slick and wet from their time below the earth.

Filled with alarm and an unshakable feeling of immediate danger, Kat’lana turned on her heels and ran outside.

She ran until she reached the still smoking ruins of Kel’sar, where the smoke burned her eyes, making her feel even sleepier. She absent-mindedly sat at the town wall, laid her back to it and wondered why everyone wouldn’t go away and leave her to sleep.

Why was Winnie insisting she do so much lately? With Calach to attend to and all the plans for war going on, why was she so insistent that Kat’lana be present when she picked her herbs? She looked around the battlefield looking for the Bannith, and picked a few leafs of meadow sour which were growing within reach.

‘Strange’, she thought. ‘That plant didn’t flower in the summer!’

Suddenly the blonde Meatae girl appeared at her side; Elenin! That was her name!

“That’s my meadow sour!” Elenin said bitterly, and grabbed the leaves from Kat’lana’s hand and stormed off in the direction of home. Kat’lana was going to argue that the leaves she had taken were not in fact meadow sour, but rabbits’ ear. Then she remembered picking the meadow sour, looked at the broken stems still clutched in her hand, and in her confusion, the words died on her tongue. She was too tired even to argue. Looking at Elenin’s quickly vanishing figure, she wondered where Winnie was.

She then decided that since Winnie was nowhere to be seen, that maybe Kat’lana could sleep, just for a few moments. The child within her took over and she nuzzled into the warm grass and slipped a thumb lightly into her mouth. She closed her eyes tightly to block out the bright sunshine, and settled to sleep. Preoccupied, she sucked on her thumb; she was tired and needed comforting.

The thoughts of the rising stones were soon forgotten as she began to dream of her first days with the Votadini clan and being taken in by Winnie, the first mother figure she could remember. Then she realized that Winnie was trying to tell her something. It was important, as the Bannith was standing over her, shouting.

~ ~ ~

“Kat’lana!” The voice had urgent need in every syllable. “Kat’lana! Wake up now!”

She sat up quickly on the bed, shaking the sleep from her confused and dizzy head. “What is it?” She mumbled loudly, looking around the room for the source of her torment. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I was sent to get you!” Kat’lana could identify the voice as a young female, but could narrow down her identity no farther. “Calach’s trying to get up. He won’t take no for an answer. Elenin says you’ve got to come quick.”

At the mention of her tormentor’s name, Kat’lana stumbled out of her sleeping furs, and quickly donned her jacket and trews. Pulling a belt tight around her middle, she rushed barefoot to the hut where Calach was being kept.

“I tell you I’m going, an’ that’s that!” She heard the yell from inside, Calach’s voice carrying out into the settlement. “An’ there’s no slip o’ a girl going to stop me!” He was beginning to roar.

“Sit down!” Kat’lana shouted as she entered the hut. “Sit down, now!”

Calach was so bewildered by her manner towards him that he simply sat down on the bed, open-mouthed, searching for words. “Kat,....I....”

“Enough!” She walked over to him and started to pull his legs up onto the bed, taking no notice whatsoever of his protests. “What do you think you’re doing Calach? Trying to kill yourself?”

“But Kat, it’s only bruising, it won’t be harmed by me moving around.”

Kat’lana looked at Elenin’s tearful figure, standing in the corner. “Oh an’ now he’s

an expert on wounds too!” She couldn’t resist the temptation to put her Meatae rival in her place. “What were you doing letting him get up Elenin? He could’ve done himself real harm.”

“He just wouldn’t take no for an answer Kat’lana!” The young girl replied. “He wouldn’t do as I told him.”

“Kat’lana.” Calach had found his composure once again. “It’s only bruising. I’m not an invalid.”

“Oh, it’s only bruising is it!” she moved forward to the sitting warrior. “I think it’s time we changed these dressings anyway. Elenin, would you send for some clean water?”

As Kat’lana slowly undid the bandaging around Calach’s body, he tried to engage her in conversation with limited success. She kept repeating the phrase “only bruising is it?” under her breath. Eventually, she only had the poultice to remove, and when this peeled away, it revealed a horizontal cut in Calach’s ribcage, the width of a swordblade. It had been stitched very carefully back together, the join was a little red and inflamed, but was nonetheless clean and mending nicely.

She took great delight in Calach’s incredulous gaze at his wound.

“But it was only.....”

“Aye, only a bruise Calach!” Interrupted Elenin, from the doorway, bringing in a small bowl of water to clean the stitching further. “Kat’lana cut you open to pull out your ribs an’ reset them.”

“They were broken an’ pressing on something inside.” Kat’lana took on the narrative, irritated beyond belief at Elenin’s presence. “You were spewing up blood for three days. You only just made it through Calach; we nearly lost you.”

The already muted patient, grew even paler, and sat perfectly still for Kat’lana to apply the new poultice and replace the bindings. “I had no idea.” He said apologetically and lay back on the bed. He gazed from one woman to the other. “How long have I been here?”

“Six, seven days.” Elenin said. “No more.”

“What? I’ve got to warn everyone!”

“It’s all been done Calach.” Kat’lana’s hands pushed firmly on his shoulders. “The messengers are out rounding up the whole clan system, there’s nothing else you can do but get better.”

Partly with dizziness from rising too quickly, and partly from Kat’lana’s strong relaxing pressure on his shoulders took all the struggle out of him. Meekly he lay down again.

~ ~ ~

Calach watched as Kat’lana pulled her saddle tight. “Why won’t you let me come wi’ you?” Calach’s exasperation did not mask the worry behind the question.

“We’ve been through this before.” Kat’lana sighed and hoisted her saddlebags onto her mount. “It’s far too dangerous for you to come home wi’ me.”

“But I’d only stay long enough for you to pick up your stuff......”

“No Calach!” She flashed him an angry look. “We’ve been here! You’ll be recognized by one o’ the clan for sure. You never kept a low profile last time did you?”

“Aye, but that was.......”

“Never mind what it was!” She snapped, tugging the ties tight. The horse shied away and Kat’lana quickly grabbed the reins. “Look, we’ll be crossing territory held by the Romans. You’re up on your feet, but I don’t think you’re up to a prolonged chase if we get caught.”

“You could leave your ‘stuff’, an’ send for it later!”

“An’ who would I get to bring it to me?” She sighed again, an edge of exasperation creeping into her voice. “Who could I trust to bring it back, Aysar?” She finished tying the saddlebag and turned to face him.

“Calach, my Lud, this is one thing that I have to do myself. No one else will do. This has to happen or I can’t come and stay with your clan.”

Kat’lana walked over to him, pulling the horse behind her. Even after being with her for a while, he was still surprised by her height, her build and her beauty. The fight against her leaving drained out of him like dry sand spilling through his fingers. He held her face, then kissed her deeply. They stood for a moment, motionless.

“Apart from that,” Kat’lana continued, tears in her eyes. “You have to go home. If you stay away for any longer your Ma’ is going to come looking for you!”

They both smiled, glad that humor could break the tension. Concentrating on her saddle, she mounted, ready to ride.

“But you’re on your own!” He said, plaintively.

“That’s the way it’s got to be Calach.” She raised her hand to the other warriors. “Fight well! But keep ‘him’ safe for me!” She smiled and kicked her horse to a chorus of farewells from the rest of the group.

“I’ll not be long Calach!” She shouted over her shoulder as she rode away.

~ ~ ~

In a dark and dimly lit hall, Sewell strode back and forward, his hands thrust into the sleeves of his dhruid’s tunic. His serious, deep expression made it obvious to the three sitting dhruids that he wished to think undisturbed.

Uwan and the other two dhruids had just returned from Luguualium. Getting through the Roman occupied countryside had been more difficult that he had envisaged.

Uwan tried the mental litany to clear his mind, but found that he could not. He felt a force nearby; a strong dark object. He calmed himself, his breath becoming more settled. He knew that his dhruidic training was trying to tell him something. There was a presence in the room which Uwan could not identify.

Another dhruid!

Abruptly Sewell came to a halt, and centered his gaze on Uwan.

“How could we have got it so wrong?” He glared at the three young dhruids in turn. Inside Uwan’s mind, Sewell had asked the same question, but had made it a more personal attack. “How could you have got it so wrong, Uwan?”

Uwan knew that the same individual question had probably been asked of all three young dhruids. Knowing this, Uwan still took the censure personally. He tried to concentrate on finding the source of the presence in the room, but found himself drawn back to Sewell’s probing.

Sewell probes, while the other dhruid stops my calming. A dual assault.

He hung his head, trying to summon the presence of mind to formulate a reasonable answer to Sewell, his mind caught between the two functions.

“An answer is not required.” Sewell said.

It had been Uwan’s first assignment as a fully-fledged dhruid, and it seemed that, as a group, they had made a complete mess of it.

Sewell continued. “The three dhruids we sent to watch over the legion at Isurium have disappeared. We have neither had communication from them, nor have they returned!” He began to pace the room again. “It is a strange situation, as they should have found some way of contacting us. We must consider them lost. Lugh praise their names.”

“Lugh praise their names!” The three sitting dhruids echoed.

Uwan shook his head. “I have searched my memories. I have no recollection of a mention of the second legion.”

Sewell looked at him over the small central fire. “Yet a second legion marched, and we had no chart of its progress. We must be better prepared in future.”

Uwan sent out his own probe; more subtle than before. Searching into the corners of the room. He found a familiar persona.

Quen’tan. You wily old fox.

Uwan was under no illusions as to the import of Sewell’s words. Whilst the killing of a dhruid was a great matter indeed, in the larger scheme of things, the dhruidic order had made a great matter of misjudgment.

“The facts which we can glean from this situation are this,” Sewell continued. “One; the Romans advanced in two columns. Two; by some flaw in our reasoning, we underestimated the Romans’ tactics and by doing this, we almost left two of the Norland clans to perish. Three; someone killed three dhruids, three dhruids of mine. Three dhruids of ours.”

“Through our inaction and our errors, we have failed the clan system that we are here to represent. Through the dhruidic code, I take responsibility for this. I sent you all, and I must answer for my own actions.”

He knelt in front of Uwan.

“Uwan.” He said, looking into the eyes of the young Caledon.

“Yes Sewell.”

“Wash yourself of blame, and go from here to a private place. Stay there until two moons have passed. Wash yourself of sin and wash your soul of guilt. Come back to me then; ready for service again.”

With a bow of his head, Uwan got to his feet and left the room. Behind him he heard Sewell address the next in line with the same instructions. As he reached for his staff which leant at the entrance of the hall, he heard the other dhruid getting to his feet. Uwan walked resolutely north; he had time to contemplate his actions and to atone to his gods for his weaknesses. He had suffered hardship for longer periods; the two months would pass quick enough.

Although Uwan walked slowly away, he saw the conversation within the room as clearly as if he were there.

“The brothers have a strong connection.”

Quen’tan took a few steps forward from the shadows at the back of the room, his arms folded. His bald head and hooked hose were unmistakable.

“I agree.” Sewell’s his head bowed before the newcomer. “But strength alone is not enough. The lad does seem to have the luck of the gods themselves. Everything I have asked of him has been more difficult than the last. Every task has had a more stringent punishment than before, but still he works through them, heedless of the pressure I heap upon him. When we sent him off for his year of solitude, he found his own circle, and studied the moon. When I sent him south, he came back with the most extensive information that I had ever heard.”

“So the lad is good.”

“He is more than good, Quen’tan.” Sewell looked into the warm embers of the fire. “He is by far the best. There is strength in him which I have never witnessed before.”

“So we may not be successful if we try to eliminate him by dhruidic means?” Quen’tan shifted feet slightly.

“I would not relish the backlash if we tried something like that.” Sewell replied. “He is strong in the ethereal world. Even in numbers, we may be unsuccessful.”

“And if we are unsuccessful, then we will perish.”

A silence grew between the pair.

“Then we must bring him nearer to us.” Quen’tan said, “We need his strength against Pell. The order has been weakened by the promotion of the new Arch-dhruid. Under Pell’s command, the dhruids of the Selgovae and Ordovice were ineffective. Although he is arch-dhruid, Pell plans for himself, not the order.”

Sewell was certain that he could see a smile in the man’s aura. “But be careful. If we ally with Uwan, he may have designs himself.”

“No one could be worse for the order than Pell.”

~ ~ ~

“We made a mess o’ it.” Calach reflected. It was his last day at Bar’ton, and he stood on the high battlements, Finlass on one side, Conrack on the other.

“Hardly a mess, Calach!” Conrack immediately countered.

Calach ignored the comment; he was certain of the next phase of battle. “We have to hit them in smaller numbers.”

Finlass truned. “But we hardly got through wi’ four hundred.”

“Smaller numbers mean greater flexibility.” Calach looked over his last Bar’ton sunrise. “Sma’ groups, no more than twenty. All armed, all with bows.”

It was Conrack’s turn. “I agree wi’ the bowmen. They made it easier to charge the cavalry, and cut them down when we left.”

Calach took a step back, and addressed both brothers. “We need men skilled in all facets of war. This raid was part o’ our growing. Part o’ out learning. We need to get ready for war, because unless we unite the clans, we’re not going to defeat the Romans.”

Finlass blanched.

“Unless we unite the clans.” Calach continued, “Unless we unite in tactics, and ultimately in our whole force, we’ll always lose.”

He walked away, and began to ready himself for the journey home. The next morning, he left with Aysar and a bodyguard of two riders.

~ ~ ~

“So your Roman days are over?” Calach’s mother tousled his hair and teased him.

Grinning he wrestled himself clear. He had only been home for just over a week, smothered in his mother’s attention. He turned to his father. “We learned valuable lessons, Da.”

Ranald sat against the broch wall, a tankard of ale in his lap. “An’ what would they be?”

Calach turned. “We arrived too late, but we didn’t have enough bowmen wi’ us. If every man could use the bow, then discard it to the short sword. That would be a better tactic.”

“Ach. I prefer the long sword. Always will.”

“But look at the Roman one Da’.” He pointed to the captured sword on the wall. “Short, front heavy. It’s meant for two things; stabbing forward to get between the ribs, then a twist to do the most damage, or a quick swipe, the big blade chopping a man to bits.”

Aysar suddenly appeared at the door of the broch. “Sorry, Lud Ranald, Mawrin.” He looked at Calach. “Some Vacomags just arrived.”

Ranald looked at Calach quizzically.

“Bowmen, Da’.” Calach was out the door before his father could answer.

The eleven Vacomags were quickly taken to Lochery’s walls, where Calach quickly assessed the ability of each archer, most were proficient enough, but Calach needed more.

In his week back at Lochery, he had organized a force of bowmen from the surrounding clans, and the growing group practiced every spare moment of the day.

Skills such as tracking, horsemanship, camouflage, and stealth were in as much demand as bow and sword expertise. Masters of each craft gave lessons, both in the town, and out in the surrounding countryside.

As the number increased, he split them into groups of fifteen. Each group had its own leader, with Calach in complete charge. Calach led one group, Aysar, Bruce and others had been chosen either for their natural ability or their clan position.

Mauchty sent thirty of his best Venicone bowmen, and with Calach’s pick of the Caledonii, soon almost a hundred practiced each day.

Apart from the bowmen making their own arrows, Calach had three other fletchers working under his command.

In the evenings, Calach and his band rehearsed the tactics of hit and run.

One afternoon, a lone rider arrived from the west. He found Calach casting arrow points with three of his band.

“With respect, Lud.” The man bowed slightly. “Message from a friend.”

Calach looked around, then with a flick of his head motioned the man outside. “Are you Caledonii?”

“Yes, Lud. From Blane.”

“Who’s the message from?”

“I was never told. Message is simply. ‘Meet me at the moon’.”

Finlass!

Calach counted out the month, finding five days till the full moon. “Thank you.” He said to the man, shaking his hand, “Take food from the market, tell them it is for the bowmen, and have a meal before you leave for home.”

He walked across the centre of the town, gathering his lieutenants as he walked. When he had enough, he turned, smiling. “We leave tomorrow, prepare your men. We’ll be gone for two weeks.”

Calach strode to the family broch with quiet confidence.

“We hit an’ run, every time, no exceptions.” Calach’s parents looked better than when he had officially gone to war that spring. “We only hit targets much smaller in number than our own, an’ we always have a retreat route prepared.”

Ranald nodded his approval. “You’ve learned by your mistakes.”

“Aye, Da’, we have.” Calach felt better for the time spent at home, but he was bursting to be gone again. “Every single one o’ us is proficient wi’ the bow. We plan to strike from distance every time.”

The two embraced, and Calach left, satisfied with the way things had gone.

The next day, Calach readied his bowmen, and rode out of Lochery as usual. On the back of each saddle, was a long roll of cloth, looking every bit like a bedroll, but enclosed was a bundle of fifty extra arrows. Just outside the town, a dhruid rode up and joined them.

“Uwan!” Calach beamed. “What brings you here?”

“You will need my skills some of the time. I ride at my own divining.”

Although Calach was pleased at his attendance, he was unnerved by Uwan’s presence. “But you carry no weapons, brother.”

“I have my own skills, which you do not have.” Uwan kicked his horse to keep up.

~ ~ ~

Two dhruids looked on from a nearby hilltop.

“Uwan joins his brother.” Quen’tan grimaced, almost as if in pain. “There has never been a more powerful force.”

“I doubt if Calach feels it.” Sewell leant heavily on his staff. His legs had never been the same since the journey back from Pell’s investiture. “He will feel as if we spy on him.”

“And we do.”

“But in a good way.”

“Is there any other?”

~ ~ ~

Agricola’s tent was filled with the supreme commanders from two legions. On a large table in the centre of the room was a large vellum map. Bronze figures stood in lines, marking the Roman positions, stones marked the Norland tribes.

“So these two tribes to the west?” Agricola indicated the Novants and Damonii. “They will not resist?”

“No commander.” The legate smiled. “We negotiate with both the chief and the druids. For now, they will simply ignore us.”

Agricola nodded, then swept his forefinger between the two rivers which almost cut the Norlands in two. “And this allows us the time to build the wall here, cutting off all reinforcements from the north.”

“With the wall built, and the front secure, we can eliminate the western tribes next season.” The legate pushed some of the bronze figures to the west. “The western tribes have been swelled by fleeing Selgovae and Ordovice. And we no longer have the advantage of surprise.”

“A wise strategy.” Agricola looked up from the map. The men in the tent were in their thirties, veterans of many such campaigns. “What say you all?”

The senior soldier, Primus Maximus, of the ninth legion was called Shallacus, a man from the southern tip of Hispania. He saluted Agricola, then relaxed.

“Commander. The men will feel good about the wall. We dig in. We build, we consolidate, then we strike. It has always been the way.”

“A wall it is then.” Agricola dismissed the officers with a wave of his hand. “Stay, Marcellus.”

Marcellus was Agricola’s right hand, brought with him to Britain in the role of chronicler and historian. Agricola was well acquainted with the fact that concise and well written reports home to the Emperor and Senate were worth their weight in gold, and Marcellus was the best writer Agricola knew.

“We need plans for an earth wall for every cohort. Wooden sides to the north, two men high. Slope to the south. Camp every five miles.”

Marcellus knew that he was going to be busy. Thirty copies at least. “Yes, Commander.”

~ ~ ~

Calach and his troops rode for the great divide and began finding good defensible sites to foray from. They needed fresh water, and cover from the eyes below on the plain. As each new base was found, he dropped a group in place, with orders to foray to the south, but to meet, back in the camp every seven days.

At last, only his own group was left, and they camped close to Blane. As the evening drew close, and the sky to darken, Calach watched the full moon rise from the south.

Uwan was kneeling at the edge of a group of trees, seemingly deep in meditation. The two brothers had spoken, but nothing of consequence had passed between them.

He approached Gregor, the group’s second in command. “I’m going to Blane for the evening. I have a friend to see there.”

“When will you return?”

“I will be here by daybreak to lead the foray.” Calach whispered, he glanced in Uwan’s direction.

Calach carefully untied his horse, and led it through the trees. When he had gone far enough on foot, he mounted and rode away.

Techist, the head man welcomed him warmly, Finlass was already there, sitting out on a large stone in front of a dying fire. The embers rose gently, and the dim red of the glowing wood lent a strange red glow to his friend’s features.

Finlass looked up as Calach approached, but did not rise. “Good evening, my friend.”

“It is. How are you?”

“Sore from a day’s ride, but alive.” He rubbed his shoulder, wincing. Techist arrived with two large cups. “Ale?”

“No, Lud, a fresh batch of mead from the spring honey.”

Both men tasted and nodded their approval, drinking deeply.

Finlass waited till Techist has left them. “We attacked a Roman wagon two days ago. We were victorious. We lost two men, but killed thirteen.”

Those are much better figures.” Calach sat forward. “The plunder?”

“We stripped the men and butchered the ox. We have our first delivery of new iron for our forges. I made the men leave the romans the same as the people of Shiels. Stripped and hacked.”

“That’s great news, Finlass. I have almost a hundred men from here to Alva. We begin our first foray tomorrow.”

“We fight back.”

“Indeed.”

Over the embers of the fire, Calach saw a man approach. He walked slowly, but the shimmer from the heat of the fire distorted his face. Slowly recognition dawned.

“Uwan!” Calach hissed, jumping to his feet.

Finlass reacted slower, his face contorted in pain as he drew his sword.

Uwan held his hand up. “You would draw on a dhruid, Finlass of the Meatae?”

Finlass looked from Uwan to Calach.

“It is my brother, Uwan.” Calach’s shoulders slumped. “He must have followed me.”

“I did.” Uwan said, “But not your tracks. I followed your reasoning; that was easier.”

Finlass sheathed his sword, but again, he did not look fluid doing so.

“You are injured, Finlass, Lud of the Meatae.” Uwan walked round the fire and touched Finlass’s shoulder.

“Argh!” he roared. “It’s a cut, nothing more!”

Uwan ripped Finlass’s tunic, and exposed a dark angry red wound.

“Techist!” Uwan roared. The man ran towards them. Calach looked on stupefied.

How did Uwan know his name?

“Bring water, some cloth, and any elderberry powder that you can find.”

The man ran off petrified. The presence of a dhruid in the village would have been shock enough, but the urgency in which Uwan spoke was frightening.

Uwan drew Finlass’s sword, and stuck it straight into the deep embers of the fire. Calach? Your belt!”

Calach quickly unfastened his leather belt.

“Why do you treat me?” Finlass asked. “Women could perform the task.”

“I need you back on your feet quickly, Lud Finlass.” He stuck the belt firmly in Finlass’s mouth. “Shut up. Bite this.”

He took the cloth and water and roughly bathed the wound. Finlass screamed behind his gritted teeth.

“I come to talk to you both, and find you can’t even look after yourself. Shame on you, Lud Finlass; you are irreplaceable in the beating of the Roman menace.”

He looked around. “No elderberry?”

Techist shook his head.

“Nevermind. Techist, round here, take his head and neck. Tight now, strangle him if possible.” Techist’s terrified face glowed in the red of the fire. “Calach, take his arm and pull.”

Calach grabbed Finlass’s flailing wrist and pulled it away from his body. The wound closed slightly.

Finlass leant to the fire and with bare hands, grabbed some of the glowing embers. He held them to his nose. “Rowan.” He said. “You burn the sacred wood?”

“It is far too common here, we burn it to live.”

He held the burning embers in his hand, seemingly painlessly, and rubbed his hands together over the wound. Red and grey dust rained down on the inflamed, bleeding wound.

Then he grabbed the sword from the fire, examined its tip, nodded in satisfaction, then laid it across the wound, where it fell with a sizzle and a louder roar from Finlass.

In moments it was over.

Calach gave his half cup to his friend, who drank with large gulps.

Uwan stood. “More mead, Techist. Much more.” He dismissed the head man with a wave of his hand.

This is not the brother I once knew. This is a powerful man, full of purpose and confidence.

Uwan placed one hand on Finlass’s forehead, the other directly on the cauterized wound. Calach could see the dhruid speak, but the words were strange and spoken very quickly.

Uwan fell back with a start. He was out of breath, and looked unsteady on his feet.

“Brother?” Calach stepped towards him.

“I am well, Lud Calach.” He drew himself to his full height, the moment of weakness gone. “How do you feel, Lud Finlass?”

There was a look of amazement on the Meatae’s face. “There is no pain. You have the power of the Gods in your hands.”

“I need you at your best to fight Rome. For the next two moons, the Romans will be at their most vulnerable. You must hit them hard, and hit them often.”

Finlass told of their encounter two days before.

“Strike hard. Even arrows fired in error hit targets.”

~ ~ ~

Calach’s men edged forward; a line of camouflaged brown creeping along the forest floor. Ahead, three sentries guarded ten men working. Spears stood against a fallen tree, but they were many footsteps away from the workers. Their saws and axes blocked out any noise that Calach’s men made.

The sentries were still wearing their leather armor, but the workers had long since discarded theirs, the work was too hot. Bare-chested they harried at the trees.

Calach was patient not to strike at bow range, but crept closer. Their faces were brown, their bows dark, their backs and shoulders dirty and mudded.

Soon Calach could smell the sweat of the men to their front. Slowly he brought his bow to bear, knowing that along the line fourteen others were doing the same.

He aimed and fired. His arrow was true, hitting one worker directly in the chest, burrowing deep. The man fell limply to the ground. All across the workforce, the men fell.

Calach stood, knocked another arrow and fired at a sentry. It ricocheted off his helmet, but the second was already being aimed, hitting his neck, spinning his head half round.

He readied another arrow, but the fight was over.

With satisfaction, he was proud of the composure his men showed, sticking to tactics.

Five walked through the roman position, spreading out, listening for any reprisal from nearby Romans.

The rest busied themselves in silently looting the dead, and finishing off the wounded.

Before long, the Caledonii were making their way carefully back to camp.

Calach stressed time and time again, this was their vulnerable time. They walked, weighed down by their loot, taking their time. Before long, they were beginning to climb to the higher ground. By nightfall, they were back at camp.

“We stay in hiding tomorrow, unless an easy target presents itself.” They transferred the booty to a wagon, ready for an early morning start back to Lochery.

For five weeks they harried, easy pickings initially, but as the trees began to clear, their job was more difficult. Calach joined two groups together for better numbers, but even then, the wall and the clear ground to the north hampered their attempts at attack.