Chapter 2.

The Opening of Dialogue.

Summer 74 AD.

 

The Norlands was littered with stone and wooden circles or solitary stones, erected in the dim and distant past by the first of the ancient dhruids.

Each group of stones was ancient and had its sacred name. Each clan had its smaller and larger circles which were tended by the dhruids and used by them on all festive and ceremonial occasions. The circles were very much the domain of the dhruidic order; clansmen were forbidden to enter the sacred ground within the circles without dhruid permission. Everyone, however, used the location of the stones for meeting places or to aid navigation when travelling longer distances. There was a series of routes between the circles, some of which had been travelled so often that the track was visible on the ground. Most stone circles had some form of building or settlement nearby, to shelter the weary traveller (usually traders or the dhruids themselves).

Calach changed into a tunic and trews woven in his clan pattern, his wet hair tied behind his head in a tail. Sentry duties abandoned, he would now take his place as his father’s delegate; his first ever official duty as chief’s eldest son. Ranald had said that at fifteen summers old, he should be learning some responsibility.

Aysar on the other hand, had joined the other sentries who had now been assigned new duties. Some lit braziers, suspended on wooden stakes, lighting up the whole of the camp. Others had laid out the meat and soup on trestle tables, in the centre of the temporary village, along with platters of bread and cheese. There were also the obligatory kegs of ale, kept cool during the warm day in the chilly waters of the stream.

Calach stood on the grass hillside, just outside the immediate torchlight and looked down as the seventeen chiefs of the Norlands clans dined together for the first time. There was little noise at the meal, the conversation was stilted, just the odd comment being made and the noise of mugs and plates on the tables. He wished he had been invited, but room was limited, he would sit with the other representatives, when the chiefs had finished eating.

The grey-robed dhruids were all inside the stone circle in silent meditation, dwarfed by the towering stones, all barely visible in the encroaching darkness. Calach glanced at them, the dark shapes of the dhruids stood as still as the stones themselves, then turned his face away. Deference to the order, even at a distance in the near-dark, was instinctive. He looked around the camp, and noticed the chief’s companions, waiting around as he was, for the invitation to eat.

“Calach!” came a half shout, half whisper from one side.

Startled, he swung round, his hand moving instinctively to where his dirk would normally have been. He cursed under his breath and peered into the murky evening, his eyes temporarily blinded from the light of the fires.

“Good job the dhruids insisted on no weapons, eh?” Calach smiled and relaxed slightly as he recognized Finlass, casually walking over to him, his hand extended. They shook hands quietly, each appraising the other.

Good job indeed. I would have had my dirk in my hand before I turned round. By Kernos, I must be really jumpy tonight.

Finlass pointed to the chiefs, his smile illuminated by the torches. “At least they’re not arguing yet!”

Calach resumed his gaze. “It’s difficult for them to argue! They’re hardly saying a word to each other.”

“Aye, that’s true. But it must be strange; sitting at the same table as the man who last summer was raiding your cattle, or stealing your children for slaves.”

“Aye.” Calach nodded with a sigh. “There’s a lot o’ bad blood lying under the surface.”

“Some o’ it’s not so far under the surface. Look where my Da’s sitting.” Finlass pointed out the Meatae chief. “He’s between Ca’duell from clan Epidd, an’ Nevish from clan Cerones. They’re the only ones here he can talk to. The rest we’ve either raided them, so they hate us, or their lands are too far away, so don’t know us by anything other than reputation.”

Calach looked at the patterns, noticing various separate groups; he simply hadn’t been aware of the divisions before. He suddenly felt immature beside the older Meatae warrior and quickly realized that the Finlass would probably have a better grasp of clan politics than himself. He shifted his feet nervously.

“So Finlass, if you were Ma’damar, sitting wi’ your cronies in the middle of enemies an’ strangers, what would you talk about?”

“Nothing important. Just small-talk. Anything to let me get through the evening.”

Calach tryed to imagine the tension the clan chiefs were under; glad for the first time that he was not actually at the tables eating with them.

“Even small-talk could lead to other things.”

In the light of the camp fires, Calach could see Finlass smile.

“Aye, an’ they a’ know it!” Finlass began to laugh. “So they’re taking the only way out, by saying nothing!”

By this time Finlass was guffawing, clamping his hand over his mouth. Soon the tears were falling openly down his face. His mirth was soon caught by Calach, as the humor in the improbable situation spread.

“They’re like kids again!” Finlass babbled, still laughing. “They’re just like wee boys; terrified in case they say the wrong thing!”

Calach wiped his tears away with his sleeve. “Aye, or in case whatever they say’s taken the wrong way!”

Gradually the laughter subsided, and they quietly watched the chiefs for a few moments; Calach’s new understanding changing the way he viewed the situation.

Finlass broke the silence abruptly. “What do you think Kheltine will be talking about tomorrow?”

Calach was taken aback by the inquiry, and was instantly on his guard.

Is Finlass asking me a personal question, or trying to gauge the general mood of the Caledon clan for his own chief’s benefit?

“Oh, I don’t know.” said Calach, eventually, giving nothing away. “It could be one o’ many things.” The reason for the gather had been discussed around the Caledon camp for days and there were various thoughts on the subject. “It could be the Roman advance; it’s been mentioned already. It could be a political move. It could be some dhruid matter that we know nothing about.”

“Aye sure it could be,” Finlass interrupted, looking Calach straight in the eye. “It could be about the common barter price for fish and cheese!” The smile was back on Finlass’s face. “But they could’ve told each clan individually if it was. There was no need to risk this ‘gaither’ if it was something small. Let’s face it, we both know that they’ll be talking about the Romans tomorrow.”

Calach stalled for a moment before answering, marshaling his thoughts. “Aye, you’re probably right.”

Finlass looked up at the dark sky for a moment.

Calach looked at the Meatae. Even in the dim firelight, he was certain he could see something in Finlass’s eyes. Whether it was truth, honesty or honor, he could not decide, but it was something. Against what Ranald would have called ‘his better judgment’, he felt that he could trust this person.

“There’s never been a gather like this before.” Calach said. “A time when a’ the chiefs have been called together.”

“Never.”

“Exactly. So, as far as I see it, I can’t really believe that the clans were summoned a’ the way here to talk about anything other than the Romans.” He gulped his next breath of air, glad that he had finished; that his own opinion was out in the open.

Finlass nodded and gazed at the chiefs again. “An’ I believe that if that lot actually thought about the situation, instead of their petty bickering an’ clan rivalries, then they would see it too.”

Calach followed Finlass’s stare. “Maybe they do. Maybe they a’ realize it, but are just too scared to voice it openly.”

“Aye Calach, maybe they do. But I doubt it!”

Finlass smiled, and with his hand on Calach’s shoulder, began to walk towards the camp. “When you come to the table to eat, Calach o’ the clan Caledon, sit beside me. We’ll talk some more.” Finlass began to laugh again. “Maybe our Da’s will see us, and mirror us.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

There was a low, almost inaudible hum from the cowed heads. One by one, each kneeling dhruid murmured his own name, adding his strength to the cadence. The sound did not carry out of the circle, but within, it was a roar.

Kheltine’s voice, his tone hoarse, whispered the name “Calach” over and over again, keeping rhythm with the others.

Then, abruptly, seemingly without command, the sound stopped.

Kheltine, the only dhruid whose face his cowl did not cover, knelt low on the damp grass, the entrails of the chicken still warm in his hands, the blood dripping. His sharp ceremonial knife had been wiped clean and hidden within his cloak.

“Strength, my brothers.” Kheltine’s voice was strong and clear for one of such an advanced age. “We need your strength now; more than ever before.”

We need your strength and your courage and your loyalty to the brotherhood.

There were a few gasps from the dhruids as the old dhruid’s words rang loudly in their minds. Some had never been spoken to so clearly before. It was like the insides of their heads acted like a bell, with Kheltine’s words echoing loudly.

Kheltine grinned.

The power of Circal Rosich is indeed great.

He bowed his head; his long white hair fell on either side of his face.

“Kernos. Hear us.”

“Hear us!” The other dhruids gave a whispered reply.

Gradually the group chant began again.

“Finlass, Finlass ...” began Kheltine’s hoarse voice.

When the chant ceased, Kheltine motioned inside the stone circle and the assembled dhruids stood up serenely. If anyone had been watching them, in the darkest part of the glen, it would have seemed as if these new grey stones thrust themselves out of the ground. They pulled back their hoods from their faces one by one. The leader Kheltine spoke softly.

“The plan proceeds well. Go and get what rest you can before the gather starts in the morning.”

The dhruids left the circle and made their way to the tents. This was the end of their fourth day of fasting, and the third without any sleep. Fasting was an essential part of the dhruid culture, it made the dhruids stronger, their spiritual power increased as the lack of food broke their physical bodies down. Going without sleep encouraged pure thought; it made it easier to focus their minds on the task at hand. They could go without food or sleep for ten days if the need occurred. There would be plenty of time for both when the clansmen had gone back to their own lands; time to sleep when their task was completed.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Conrack furtively worked his way towards the camp. The evening had been long, and his hunt, high up on the surrounding hills had proved futile. His empty belly had forced this new, daring act. He had chosen to approach the camp unarmed. If he was discovered here, his punishment would be enough without bringing weapons to the gaither. But still he relished the danger, the possibility of discovery, the smell of his own fear.

Know fear and bind it close to your heart. The words of Quen’tan, the dhruid.

As he paced silently towards the broch where the food was stored, he cringed at the chorus of snores from the nearby tents.

It’s a wonder they can sleep at all with all this racket!

Standing by the high curved stone wall, he took another look at the positions of the sentries.

Incompetents. They guard nothing. A child could have got this far!

He listened at the door, and hearing nothing, unlatched it and gave it a tug.

Noisless. Good, that would have given the game away.

With an effectiveness which a blind man would have been proud of, he felt his way inside. He felt bowls, on a shelf, then his thighs bumped into a table. There was meat on the table, covered in damp cloth. Sliding his hand inside, he quickly located a large joint and some smaller portions, which he slipped into his tunic. The belt round his waist held them firm.

Wouldn’t want to take too much. Don’t want them to notice.

Retracing his steps to the door, he bolted it shut and turned for the hills again.

He had timed his raid perfectly, as he walked up the slope, shifting his feet erratically, leaving no easy trail; he felt the morning dew descend. It would soon cover his tracks completely.

The perfect raid.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Calach woke early. He had thought that after his conversation with the others at dinner that he would toss and turn, thinking about the political issues which had been discussed, but he had been asleep as soon as he had lay down. His coverlet lay crumpled on the ground. He looked at it and tried to remember if he had slept fitfully, but he had no memory of waking during the night, or his sleep having been disturbed in any way.

At the evening meal Calach had introduced Finlass to Mauchty; the son of the chief of the neighboring Venicone clan. Mauchty would be the only non-Caledon attending who Calach had ever seen before, although he did not know him well. Mauchty’s father was ill and he was attending the gather as his father’s representative.

Mauchty had tried to eat with the chiefs, but had felt an outsider; taking the somber atmosphere as a personal affront. After the sons joined the meal, Mauchty sought them out.

Although the torch lit meal had passed without event, it had at the very least answered one of Calach’s questions; how old Finlass was. He had one finger bare of tattoos; he was nineteen years old.

The Norland people did not, as a whole, have a system of counting, and had developed a simple way of keeping track of the age of a person under twenty. The system was run and supervised by the dhruids in all the clans, and based upon the Norland custom of body tattooing. Every year at the midsummer feast, everyone below the age of twenty was taken aside, and beginning with the toes and moving on to the fingers, one digit was dyed with tattoo paint every year. The style of tattoo varied from a simple dipping in the colour, to intricate designs, colors and textures. In general, the poorest had simple coloring, and those children with some form of barter currency in the clan paid tattooists to perform the task in a more intricate form. Anyone could then tell the age of every child and young adult in the clan.

In a system which would have found it difficult to keep track on ages, the tattooing made a system of rites of passage, dependent on age, easy to enforce. When the child had every toe painted, and was then judged officially ten summers old, they were allowed to take up apprenticeships in any trade, begin dhruid training, or in the main start warrior drills. Only at ten were they allowed a proper sword, anyone younger practiced and played with wooden ones. The tattooing of a child’s tenth toe was a celebration in the family.

By the time a warrior had five of his fingers tattooed, (fifteen summers old, or ‘showing five fingers’) they had to have completed their hunting ‘trials’; have stalked and killed a boar, and a hawk. Boar teeth and hawk claw necklaces were a status symbol among the young.

At fifteen, any clan warrior who did either not have a trade or been assigned any special duty was eligible to be drafted into farming, building or other clan activities. They could also be recruited for hunting or raiding parties. At fifteen, with the permission of the respective families, clan members could marry and start families of their own. After the wedding ceremony, they were considered fully independent of their parent families and completely incorporated into clan life.

The ultimate accolade came at twenty. When the clan member had all his fingers and toes tattooed, they could be involved in clan politics, even on the lowest levels. They could take up positions of power within their clan, they could petition the chief to start a new settlement, and they could marry and travel without their parent’s consent. They could also tattoo other parts of their body. This body and facial tattooing was the status symbol wielded by the warrior’s caste, and although by now this practice usually only concerned the male warrior, many women made no effort to start raising children and became full members of the clan fighting force. The Norlands clans’ warrior contingent consisted of as many as one woman in four.

The tattoo artist, therefore, was one of the trades held in the highest esteem, and wandering traders with new designs, patterns, pictures and colors were in great demand. Most warriors only tattooed their torso, leaving their faces untouched, but some had fantastic designs, drawings, and even stories covering the whole body.

When a warrior went into battle, he went almost naked, with the full intention of showing off his or her tattoos. It was considered an event of great honor, and they engaged the enemy with just a wrap round their waists. The tattoos were then augmented by the liberal use of body painting, and great pride was taken in the content and originality of their body illustrations. The colour in the ‘war paint’ was predominantly blue, coming from the heavily fermented woad leaves. The woad served the double purpose of painting the body and congealing the blood in any wounds received. Many lives had been saved by the liberal painting of woad.

Calach was showing five fingers. As a chief’s son, he had access to more wealth than others, and had paid for an intricate criss-cross patterns on all fingers of his right hand; his sword hand. Calach had long harbored plans of the individual tattoos joining on the back of his hand and running up his arm in an interweaving design till it stopped with a tattooed armband. He would have to wait another four years to begin the extended tattoo up his arm. At the feast of the long day, which was less than one moon away, he would have another finger tattooed, the first of his left hand.

He lay pensive, looking at the intricate pattern of knots, tattooed on the fingers of his right hand, wondering what the day would bring.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Pell was suddenly alert. The morning sun was shining through holes in the tent wall.

Pell? It is time.

Pell smiled at Kheltine’s gentle summons. Stretching, he got steadily to his feet. He had been in meditation, feeling the early morning sunshine warm up the air inside the tent, blocking out the snores of Neall and Wesson. He glanced back at the sleeping chief as he parted the tent flap.

My time will come chief Neall.

In his mannerisms toward the chief, Pell was deferent. In his thoughts, however, he allowed himself the luxury of sneering at the overbearing man. With a smile, he walked out into the morning to start the real business of the gather. Neall and Wesson still snored loudly.

As Pell walked up the slight incline to Circal Rosich, other dhruids emerged from their tents and soon a large group of grey robed figures were striding together to the edge of the stone circle. As they came to the stones, the assemblage broke into two groups and edged round the stones making a semi-circle. They then turned in unison to face the centre of the circle and bowed their heads.

Kheltine’s voice began with a falter, then regained strength.

“Kernos the Spirit of the Underworld, you hear our unspoken words.”

Pell felt the silence descend on the circle.

“Lugh the Earth Spirit, you hear our unspoken words.” Kheltine said in a monotone. Dhruids repeated the mantra in unison. There was then a pause in which each dhruid mumbled one of their own personal phrases.

Pell took a breath. “Carry me to the special place.” he said. He concentrated on the chant.

Kheltine’s voice rang out. “Aretha; goddess of Summer, you give us the power to carry out your will.” Again the encircled dhruids added their own quiet part of the ceremony. Pell asked again to be carried to his ‘special place’.

The dhruids then walked into the circle of stones and, joining hands, made a smaller circle. With bowed heads they meditated for a few moments, then raised their heads together.

“Give us the strength and the power to accomplish this task.” said Kheltine quietly. The other dhruids nodded their heads in assent. “We did well last night. I feel the beginnings of great things here.”

He looked around the circle.

“Lugh the Earth Spirit, you hear our unspoken words, and now we would ask you in person.” said the old man.

Pell felt his body lighten, as if he could fly, then found himself noticing the tingling in his legs.

The power of the circle rises within me. I can feel Lugh rising through my bones!

The column rose through his body, making him feel giddy. He held down an attack of panic as he felt the stirrings of an erection. Never in his life had he felt so good.

This is what power really is!

Pell sailed over the camp, till he was above Ranald’s tent.

Yeild today. Yield.

He drifted to Ma’damar’s tent and repeated the spell.

Full of euphoria, he circled the camp, faster and faster, till he was giddy.

“Pell!”

This is my destiny!

“Pell!”

The dhruids on either side shook his hands as Pell suddenly snapped out of the trance. His legs collapsed from underneath him, and the dhruids were forced to hold him upright

“What happened?” he croaked. He looked around in confusion. The dhruids had now abandoned their circle, and were standing round him.

“Like before, you went too deep.” Kheltine looked on with concern. “Look at the sun. It is time.”

Pell nodded to the dhruids holding him, and stood on his own. Noticing that the sun was appreciably higher than before, he acknowledged that he had been in the trance for more than a few moments. Time had passed so quickly.

“Leave the circle and return with your clan chiefs and their seconds.”

He shook his head to clear it, as he turned for the camp.

As Pell walked back to Neall’s tent, he hummed a dhruidic chant in the warm morning sun. Unlike the clansmen, who did not usually meet each other at all, there was nothing new or unusual in dhruids from different clans meeting together. They met every seven years, in a remote Norlands glen, and once every fourteen years with the dhruids of the south at the Great Circal in the far south. This southern gather was called the ‘Dhruids Torch’. On the last such two occasions, the ‘Dhruid’s Torch’ had been a nervous event, with each group of dhruids threading their way through the Roman occupied south to attend.

As Pell pulled the flap of the tent open, he interrupted a conversation between the waking brothers. He waited.

“Yes?” Neall snapped. The sleep still encrusted one eye. He pulled at his eyelid with dirty fingers.

“Chief Neall, it is time to meet in the circle.” Pell said, his head bowed, the smell of stale sweat and cold breakfast assaulting him from inside the tent.

For a moment, the Damon chief seemed to ignore the dhruid, then said simply to Wesson: “Let’s go.”

The two men took large bites from the bread and cheese, threw it back into the tent, and roughly brushed past Pell on their way to the circle.

As the young dhruid followed, he wore a knowing smile.

My turn will come Neall. Soon you will throw yourself at my feet and beg for my help. Play your game for now and savor your success. It will not last long.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Conrack lay, supine, in perfect camouflage, his dirk in his hand, ready.

So much rough moor grass was twisted in his hair and through his clothes that it was difficult to see his hair’s red colour. The remains of two quail lay in a cloth-wrapped parcel near his other hand. The larger joint of meat had turned out to be pork; juicy and well cooked. The meat now filled his belly, and he still had some in his saddlebag. He would not be hungry like yesterday.

He was in the perfect position. He would watch it all from the hill and retire to his camp at nightfall. A sentry walking a dozen paces from him, would have strolled by unaware. But there were no sentries. They worked on the evening meal in the camp.

“Unguarded.” he said. “Amateurs!”

He spat into the grass in front of him. “Aretha, change the wind so I can hear what they’ll be saying!”

He watched the procession of dhruids and clansmen as they walked towards the circle.

He waited for the wind to change.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Kheltine climbed onto the central flat altar stone, his long white hair drifted in the breeze.

“Make yourselves as comfortable as you can.” said the old dhruid, his voice easily carrying to everyone present. “You can sit or lie down, but please.... be comfortable.”

There was a rustle of bodies as they settled on the grass. Usually they would stand for the arch-dhruid.

“Most of you know me.” He began, “I am Kheltine, dhruid of the Votadin, Arch-dhruid in the Norlands. I am the High dhruid of Kernos; the Earth Spirit. As the senior dhruid in the Norlands, I welcome you all to Circal Rosich.”

The old Votadin dhruid looked at the assembled chiefs and entourage who sat in a scattered group inside the stone circle itself. All seventeen clans were represented, and with the extra dhruids, over sixty men were on the grass surrounded by the tall grey-pink stones. The old Votadin dhruid stood on the central sacrifice stone, and smiled as he nodded and smiled to individual clan chiefs.

“With the exception of Ranald and clan Caledon, you all have travelled far to be here today. Some have journeyed many days to hear what we have to say. To you all, I thank you.” Kheltine paused, sweeping his hand from side to side, letting the magnitude of his words carry to the audience. “Never before have all the chiefs of the Norland clans met together. This is indeed historic.”

“Five summers ago, as some may already know, the senior Norland dhruids attended the ‘Dhruids Torch’, a great gathering in the noble Aviar stone circle in the lands of the far South. At the ‘Dhruids Torch’ we met our brethren from every clan and tribal group in our great land. Many items were discussed by all the dhruids, some of which affected our Norland clans, others which did not. The most important item that we deliberated was the presence of the invaders from Rome in our Southern Brothers’ midst.”

Calach looked round for Finlass, but could catch no sight of him.

“Five summers ago, whilst we attended the great gathering, Venutius; king of the Brigantes, overthrew his pro-Roman queen Cartimanda and took over control of his great tribe. I say ‘great’ tribe because his tribe alone numbered three times that of the Caledon clan.”

There were a few gasps from some of the assembled listeners. The Caledon clan was the largest fighting force in the Norlands, on their own they could outnumber two or three of the smaller clans put together.

Only Ma’damar’s Meatae clan approached the Caledon warrior contingent.

“Venutius raised the swords in his tribe,” Kheltine continued, “And again gave the Romans a hostile Brigante nation within their lands.”

“When Sewell,” he indicated the dhruid who sat at his side, “The Caledon dhruid, passed through Venutius’ lands at the end of the gathering, the king gave his two youngest sons into our good keeping. Venutius was not a stupid man; he knew what he was attempting. Even with his warrior strength, he knew the might of the Roman legions would soon come to bear on his Brigante force. In Sewell’s care, the boys Fetasius and Benelek came to be with the Caledonii clan today.”

Calach thought about the boys who had been taken in by Mawrin, his mother. They had been so well integrated into Calach’s family that he considered them brothers.

Kheltine bowed his head for a moment. “The story of the massacre of the Brigante should be a lesson to us all.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Pell and his dhruid brothers sat to each side and behind Kheltine. Outwardly to the clansmen, they seemed to listen to his words and follow the story. Their minds, however, worked together to soothe the clansmen; they wanted no interruptions, they wanted the chiefs receptive to their ideas. They worked as one, mentally saying the words taught to them by Kheltine the evening before.

By the will of Kernos and the power of Lugh, let them think together.

Hold them together.

Hold them.

All the dhruidic teachings were taught orally, the only written records were of astronomical data; a library which provided the dhruids with the material to predict the seasons, keep the calendar accurately, control the farming year, hold their festivals, and hold meetings like this; in which seventeen parties travel many days to be present at a meeting on one pre-determined day.

By the will of Kernos and the power of Lugh, let them think together.

Hold them together.

Hold them.

Pell found this exercise quite easy; he was used to trying to deal with Neall on his own. With the rest of the dhruids beside him, the power of the circle beneath and with most of the clan chiefs willing to listen to Kheltine anyway, this part of the plan was easy. The difficult element was still to come.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Kheltine went on. “Travelling north, Sewell and the two boys took rest with the Selgove and Votadin clans, in part for safety, but also to gauge their reaction to the Roman expansion north.”

Kheltine paused slightly and bowed his head. Calach thought that the old man looked tired. When Kheltine looked up, he gazed directly at the young Caledon. Kheltine paused, seemingly in contemplation, his eyes burning into Calach’s head.

You, Calach!

Calach physically gave a start. As he calmed, he knew that Kheltine had spoken directly into his head.

“Four summers ago, Venutius and the entire Brigante nation was crushed by two great Roman armies. His warriors scattered to the four winds; a dark day for all. The old queen Cartimanda now rules under Roman law. We all know the courage of the Brigante warriors. We all know that they would not have died easily. ‘We all give praise to Kernos for their safe journey to Him’.”

The dhruids around Kheltine murmured in unison the response to the words of Kernos; the god of the underworld and afterlife.

The decimation of the Brigante tribe in three days was indeed a chilling reminder of the destructive military force of the Romans. At the news of his father’s death at the hands of the Romans, Fetasius, at the age of only six summers, had assumed the mantle of the chief of the Brigantes in the Norlands. There was a growing contingent of Brigante warriors in Ranald’s clan, drawn by the young boys. So many Brigante had been accepted into the Caledon clan that one in ten of their fighting force was Brigante.

Kheltine took a deep breath, then proceeded with his history lesson. “Three summers ago the Romans spent the year subjugating the Brigante people. Many thought that they would be satisfied with the land they had conquered.”

“Last summer, the Brigante survivors that came north were given equal status in the clans in which they served. Most of you now count Brigante warriors as your own. One day they will return to their lands as liberators of their own people, but that may be a long time in the future.”

The arch-dhruid spread his arms wide. “I have now come to the most important part.” He paused, looking at the gathered clansmen. “For the last two summers the Roman leader, a man called Petilius Cerealis, has busied himself building roads towards the Norlands. Their roads run as straight as the crow would fly.” He brought his hands together with a loud crack. If any of the clan chiefs had been inattentive, they now were listening to Kheltine’s every word.

“I have thanked you all for coming here today, but now I thank two of you in particular. Two chiefs have left their homes with the Romans at their door; Torthor of the Selgove, and Pe’weric of the Votadin.”

There was a murmur through the crowd, the chiefs next to Torthor slapped his back, Pe’weric shied away from contact.

Calach could see them both from his position.

“At the end of their roads the Romans have built a huge fort; a staging post for their next move. One is at the edge of Selgove land, is this not true Torthor?” Kheltine indicated that the chief of the Selgove should speak.

He slowly got to his feet and turning round, spoke to the assembled gathering.

“Aye it’s true, they took over the old Brigante settlement at Carlee, an’ built a huge wall round it, two full men high. They’ve got so many men stationed there an’ more arriving every day, they’re bound to invade our lands someday soon. There can’t be any other reason for the buildup o’ men.” Torthor turned to Kheltine for some sign of affirmation on a speech well made. The old dhruid smiled at the Selgove chief and Torthor sat down again. Still the assembled clans kept silent. There had been a nodding of heads through Kheltine’s speech and Torthor’s declaration, but no one dared to speak.

“They have also built a huge fortification at the other side of the country, near the southern edge of Votadin lands,” Kheltine continued, nodding towards Pe’weric, the Votadin chief. If the arch-dhruid wanted Pe’weric to speak, he was disappointed, the Clan leader just nodded emphatically and sat with a determined look.

“They are building roads and fortifications ready for movement north. Of that there is no doubt.” Kheltine continued, frowning slightly at Pe’weric.

“For the last two years, they have readied themselves for the final push into the Norlands. We dhruids have information from inside these two fortifications which suggest that this is indeed the case.”

“Here I need to say again that a force of three times the size of the Caledons was crushed in as many days.”

“There is nothing at the end of these roads except the Norlands. So where do these Romans think they are going to travel next? Will they use them for trade? Have they used the roads for trade in the past?” His voice began to rise, stifling any answers from those gathered. “Ask Boudicca if they used their roads for peaceful trade! Ask Venutius!”

He paused, looking at each chief individually. His eyes were wide and bloodshot.

“We feel that there is only one thing we can do.”

Calach was totally captivated by the rich deep rasping voice.

He’s getting near to the point now.

Kheltine stood shaking, his voice was getting stronger with every word. “If any of you here think that they are building these roads for trade, let me tell you that you are suffering a delusion!” He brandished a finger, held shaking before him. “They have only one aim; to conquer our lands and enslave us all!”

He paused, letting the import of his words get to the assembly.

Calach had felt the tension rise in the listening group for the last few moments, he felt nervous and eager, yet did not know why. He held his breath waiting for the arch-dhruid to speak.

This is it.

“We now call on every clan leader here. We ask you to unite the clans!”

Perfect timing!

 

~ ~ ~

 

Pell winced slightly as Kheltine made the crucial statement, and as he did so he concentrated on making the clan leaders silent and receptive.

By the will of Kernos and the power of Lugh, let them think together.

Hold them together.

Hold them.

Knowing that this was the most critical time in the whole gathering did not make their task any easier. This would be followed by an explanation of the strategy behind the unification plans.

Pell began to sweat.

Something is changing! Control is slipping away!

He felt the mental presence of the other dhruids aid him to keep the gathering together, then he vaguely heard someone speak, he wasn't sure who it was, but someone spoke, then the shouting broke out and Pell felt his concentration falter.

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Never!” one chief roared.

“Wait, let him speak!” roared another.

“I'll no’ happen in my lifetime!”

Some of the chiefs began to scramble to their feet, gesticulating widely.

“It'd never work!”

“Typical bloody flatlanders!” There was a grabbing of clothes and a few struggles began.

“Oh aye, an’ you would do better?”

Some of the clansmen were on their feet, some angry, some trying to calm the others down. Some were trying to make their own points over the building rabble. Calach still sat on the grass with a few of the others and looked around in bewilderment at the disorder.

What are they doing? They’re going against the dhruids!

He watched Finlass do the same, at one point their eyes met with the same unsaid message.

“You’ll never do it!” came the shout from one side.

“Come on, we’ve got to do something against those......!”

“We'll never go to battle together!”

Calach saw Ma’damar through the mass of protesting bodies, thrusting his way towards him. Then he realized that his father was also standing. Calach made to rise, but was knocked to the grass again as another body joined the fray. The gathering was in chaos. Ma’damar stood face to face with Ranald, their eyes locked in hatred, shouting at the top of their voices.

“We’ve got to unite, it’s the only way!” Came a shout from behind.

The two main protagonists were now standing nose to nose, shouting at each other. Calach noticed Finlass trying unsuccessfully to pull his father back. He made to rise again, then a foot landed squarely in Calach’s lap, pinning him to the ground. His cry of pain was lost amongst the clamor in the circle.

“By Lugh’s name! Let me up!”

Hands and arms appeared from all sides to pry the two apart. There was such a cacophony of different voices and viewpoints that Calach could not make out what anyone was saying, but of one thing he was certain; the meeting was over.

Then, as if by some unseen signal, one by one, the clansmen fell silent, turning their heads towards Kheltine. Calach eventually got to his feet and realized that all the dhruids were also standing, their arms crossed over their bodies, heads bowed low.

There was absolute silence in the circle.

Then the dhruids began to chant; a soft, lilting, rhythmical hum.

As one they lifted their heads; their eyes unfocused, the clansmen were transfixed.

Kheltine raised his hands, and spoke above the chant. “You have dared to lift your voices in the circle!”

The chanting dhruids fell silent.

“You have usurped my authority as arch-dhruid!”

The realization of what they had done fell over the clan members, and those most guilty stood like scolded children, ashamed at their actions. Even Calach felt humiliated at the behavior of his fellow clansmen.

“Kernos, God of the Underworld, forgive us what we have done,” said the old dhruid, lifting his arms to the sky.

“Kernos forgive us.” murmured the other dhruids.

Kheltine looked around at the assembly. “We will try in future to conduct ourselves with the dignity the circle deserves!”

Again the assembled dhruids mouthed their response.

“The clan chiefs will stay in the circle,” Kheltine said, his voice soft and calm. “All the others must now go out of hearing and sight of Circal Rosich. We will begin again when we have the clan chiefs alone.”

I don’t get to stay? This is unfair! It wasn’t my fault!

Calach turned indignantly and left the stone circle in the direction of the broch, the quickest way to lose sight of the stone circle. As he passed the large pink-grey stone, he paused and let his fingers run across its smooth surface. He made a personal apology to Kernos for the behavior of his father, who had been arguing with the best of them, and spat on the ground as a sacrifice to help his apology get to the Earth Spirit.

“Calach!” he recognized Finlass’s voice. “Join us!”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Conrack watched the small group assemble on the hillside. He recognized two of the four.

And I hate them both!

The wind that he offered prayer for, had never arrived. He had watched as the old dhruid addressed the assembly within the circle, and looked on with a satisfied sneer as the others in the delegations were banished from the circle.

Although he had not heard one single word, he had been left in no doubt as to the outcome of the meeting.

Now his attention was split between the group of four and the main circle. He watched them both as the morning passed.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Calach found himself sitting on the hillside in the company of Finlass, and two other young warriors.

“Cam’bel is the eldest son of Ca’duell; chief of the clan Epidd.” The lanky youth offered his hand. Calach counted six tattooed fingers.

“My clan’s land are the islands north o’ the Meatae.” Cam’bel’s accent was strange and lilting. “Finlass an’ I have known each other for a few summers.”

“Ma’damar uses the Epidds for ships.” Finlass offered.

“Aye, my folks build the best ships in the Norlands. Not a boast either, this is reputation!”

Calach turned to the other figure in the group.

“My name is Morro.” said the young man as they shook hands, Calach noting his age at fourteen. “From the Cerones, just to the north o’ Finlass, but on the mainland, no’ the islands like Morro here.”

“Are we the only chief’s sons here?” Morro looked round at the broch for any others to join them.

Finlass shook his head. “There’s Mauchty, but he’s here in place o’ his sick faither, he’ll still be in the circle.”

“From the Venicones.” Calach added for the others.

“We’re the cream o’ the Norlands; the new blood.” Finlass said with some enthusiasm. Calach watched him carefully, watching as his smile captivated the group.

He’s doing it again, smiling. Getting them all on his side, just like he did with me last night!

“You know,” Calach began, “Everybody’s going on about the fact that this is the first time all the clan chiefs have met.”

Cam’bel and Morro nodded agreement. Finlass watched the Caledon intently.

“But no one has said anything about the first time we chief’s sons have met.”

“Finlass nodded. “Aye, true. Maybe we can come to some form of agreement that our Da’s would find impossible.”

“Agreement?” said Morro and Cam’bel together.

“Nothing improper.” said Finlass quickly. “Nothing that would mean we’d be disloyal to our clan.”

Calach grinned. “How about just some form of informal treaty not to try and kill each other. That would be a start.”

Cam’bel laughed. “Aye there’ll be enough to fight when the Roman’s come!”

Calach found his attention focusing on Finlass.

“Aye no point in killing each other,” agreed Morro, “We’d just doing the Roman’s job for them!”

Calach found himself liking where this conversation was going. When Kheltine had asked for the unification of the clans, there had been a long pause before the bedlam had started, and he had begun to muse on the advantages of such a plan. Now, in the calm of further discussion, he still could not see anything but benefits from such a scheme. He was brought back to reality as he realized all three of the warriors were clasping hands in a three-way handshake.

“Come on!” said Finlass.

Calach felt even more foolish than he had the night before; in his pondering he had missed the whole conversation.

What’s happening?

“Aye come on Calach!” said Morro, smiling. “An oath that we won’t kill each other!”

“Unless we have to!” added Cam’bel.

Carried on by the feeling of friendship which pervaded the group, Calach joined his hand to the others. “Unless we have to!” they all chorused.

Finlass’s expression changed suddenly, becoming serious. He used his other hand to clamp all four hands together.

“We may need that oath sooner than we think. Let’s hope we never have to use it!”

A chorus of “Aye” carried round the group, and somberly they disengaged their grip on each other.

After the euphoria had died, Calach watched as Finlass skillfully changed the subject, first talking about ships, then tales of his escapades and hunting trips.

He watched and listened as they exchanged opinions with the Meatae warrior. He felt glad to be included in the circle of friends.

“The only thing more important,” Finlass’s contorted face was like that of a madman, “Is to find out which neighbor’s got the prettiest sisters!” They all laughed and the tension from the gather in the circle was soon put to the back of their minds.

“You wouldn’t want my sister anyway, she’s just a glorified warrior.” said Cam’bel. “She’s acted like a boy for so long that she’s forgotten how to be a woman.”

“How old is she.” said Calach, feigning over-interest.

I don’t know why I’m asking, Da’ would never allow me to anyway!

“Showing nine,” said the Epidd warrior, his long red-brown hair blowing in the slight breeze. “But she’s already maimed two young men who were looking for marriage.”

“I’m bloody sure that I’m not going to be number three then!” said Calach quickly.

“She’s feisty?” said Morro, picking his way into the conversation.

“Aye. A ‘feisty bitch’ Ca’duell calls her. He says that he’ll never get rid o’ her.” said Cam’bel.

“If she’s hurt two already, then she’s got no chance wi’ me.” said Morro, “I like my women to be graceful an’ feminine. Not another Boudicca who’d cut my throat at the first argument!”

Calach was pleased in the direction that the conversation was taking, and generally relaxed, letting the sun warm him. Finlass was in good form as the discussion continued.

“I might just run away! I might sail far over the sea with my love, an’ never return. We’d live on a remote island together and raise a family, an’ Ma’damar an’ the Meatae clan would be forgotten about forever!”

“You couldn’t leave your clan Finlass,” Calach laughed. “You’ve got too much to lose!”

“An’ Finlass, what do you know about delivering babies; you’d have to do it all yourself!” Morro countered, and they all laughed at the prospect.

The conversation went from one topic to another as the morning lapsed into afternoon. They boasted of their prowess with weaponry and the discussion was heated when the comparison of sword to bow was taken up by Calach and Finlass.

Calach had often thought it strange that Norland warriors did not rely much on the bow, his own favorite weapon. The sword and dagger were favored in general for close quarter combat, and Calach was quick and proficient with both. Warriors usually carried only the short sword, it was about the length of a man’s arm, with no guards near the grip. Finlass and Cam’bel agreed it was their favorite weapon. The longer sword was accepted as the standard weapon for dueling or encounters between larger groups of warriors and varied in length with the strength and height of the individual. Some of the longer swords were as tall as Calach himself, but he did not find the weapon to his liking; it was too unwieldy and slow for him, he preferred speed and dexterity to brute force.

The spear and flyte were the accepted standard in the Norlands for targets at longer range. The spear was around the height of a man, made of ash or pine, and topped with a sharp, heavy iron point, but because of its weight, was limited in range. It was accurate, however, and spear-throwing contests within the clan were fiercely fought. It was also the chief hunting weapon for larger animals such as deer and boar; one spear usually being enough to bring down the prey. The flyte was of similar manufacture, with the same point, and although slightly shorter, was much heavier, with a notch at the base to take the short length of rope which launched it. The flyte almost doubled the range of the spear, but was not as precise. It was a weapon of mass delivery, only effective at long to medium range and in large numbers.

 

~ ~ ~

 

As the afternoon passed and the conversation turned to the boys travels, Calach found himself almost ashamed of his lack of experience in travelling the various lands in the North. Generally the clansmen did not wander outside their own clan territory, there was simply no need. The clan held everything a clan member could want, and traders travelling between the clans brought the rest. By the same token clansmen did not usually travel great distances, the longest most clansmen wandered from their homelands was when they joined raids or traded into adjacent or neighboring lands, and those were few and far between these days; most raiding now had been reduced to posturing and shows of strength. Calach had only travelled far three times that he could remember; once to the northern extent of Caledon lands with his father where he saw the sea for the first and only time, once on his hunting trials; alone into the forests and he had also once been to the edge of the Great Divide, the southern limit of Caledon lands.

Although he had been young, he had gazed in wonder at the difference between the mountain ranges behind him and the contrast of the flatness of the land to the south, generally called the flatlands by the warriors of the north. Calach, in his fifteenth summer, had only just qualified for inclusion to the warrior group proper, (he had his eagle-claw necklace tucked into his tunic) and, like so many younger clan warriors, he had yet to join his first raid.

“Calach.” Finlass said, much later. “You’ll to come an’ see Bar’ton for yourself. Bar’ton is such a bonny place.” He began to gesture, to illustrate his descriptions. “There’s the fort on the hill, wi’ the best view down over the flatlands that you’ll ever see. Then there’s the smaller fort down by the river, on the rock that rises from the river bed like the Earth Spirit’s thumb itself. From the smaller fort we get command o’ the river at low tide because the channel runs really close to the rock. Nobody can sail by us, up or downstream without our consent. We sometimes even see Roman galleys sailing up an’ down the river.”

“You’ve seen Romans?” Calach blurted in disbelief.

“Aye manys the time, although more over the last few years. We’ve fired at them a few times now, an’ they don’t come near the rock any more. You an’ that bow o’ yours, Calach, you’d be great on top o’ the rock, firing over to the rampaging invaders.” He made a grand act of firing an imaginary arrow high into the sky.

“That settles it Finlass, I’m coming to see Bar’ton for myself.”

“You should come to our lands in the west too Calach,” said Cam’bel, “I’ve never seen a real Roman before, but some o’ the clan have had sightings up the coast.”

“Woah lads!” Finlass held his hands up. “I never said that I’d seen one close up! I’ve only seen them in their ships, although we know that they come ashore from time to time. We’ve had sightings o’ them landing to the north, but there’s always large numbers though, more than one ship o’ them.”

“I’d like the chance to fight the Romans,” Morro said. “We’ve seen them an’ their galleys sailing around the islands once or twice this spring.

“You’ll get your chance, Morro.” Cam’bel shook his head. “Because most o’ our land in surrounded wi’ the sea, we sight Roman galleys nearly every moon or so, an’ like Finlass says they do land. But we’ve never actually came into contact wi’ them.”

“Aye they’re not daft, these Romans. If you look at the southern tribes that they’ve conquered, their army must be good.” said Finlass, again steering the discussion.

Calach was staring incredulously at these young boys. All of them had seen Romans, all knew that the Romans were making landings, but still the chiefs argued about unification.

“I’d take the chance to fight if it were mine,” mused the Caledon warrior, half to himself; a sentiment that was agreed upon by the other three chief’s sons.

They talked through the afternoon until they agreed to visit Finlass, in Bar’ton as soon as they could.

Calach had been rapt in the conversation, he had not seen the sun falling low towards the high peak, sending a red light into the circle.

The chiefs sat in the distant circle with the dhruids.

Then the horn announced dinner and an end to the day’s formal proceedings, and the four dissolved their little alliance and went back to the tented village to eat.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Conrack listened as the footsteps behind came closer. A swish, swish sound of careful feet brushing against the grass on the hillside. He gripped his dirk tighter, glad that he had brought it with him.

Has he seen me, or is he just walking this way unwittingly?

The evening had set in and it would be difficult to see the prone figure in the darkening gloom. But not impossible.

It would depend how close the sentry came to him. And he was getting closer with every step.

Slowly, imperceptibly he turned his head to look over his shoulder in the direction of the sound. Through the grass falling down over his forehead, he could discern the advancing figure.

He’s not looking directly at me, but that means nothing.

He watched as the sentry walked straight towards his position, sometimes watching his footing, sometimes looking down at the fires of the camp.

He’s not looked at me once.

With a speed a snail would have been proud of, he shifted his hands under his shoulders. If he were discovered, he wanted to be quick to his feet.

Run away or fight? If I run, I’ll have to ride through the night. They may catch me, but I doubt it. If I fight, he’s got a bow, but that’s all I can see. Perhaps he’s got a dirk too. That makes us equal. Now all I have to do is get an advantage.

He realized that he had decided.

He’s going to be bloody close! By Lugh, he’s going to walk right over me!

Then the towering figure lunged forward and downwards.

With a stab of pain, the prone figure knew that the sentry had stepped on the back of his knee, pinning him to the ground. He followed this with a crunching knee in his back, his whole weight behind the blow. The lone figure felt the bow sliding roughly past his forehead as the sentry tried to bring the bow round to his neck.

“What have we here?” hissed the sentry. His breath passed through the lone figure’s hair.

First mistake! ‘Always fight in silence unless you’ve something to gain’.

The lesson came to him easily.

“Trying to spy on us eh?”

Again he felt the sentry’s breath as he spoke.

Second mistake! You got too close!

With a sudden lunge backwards the figure drove his head into the face of the sentry, causing a muffled cry of pain. Then he swiftly twisted his torso and drove the dirk into the sentry’s face, past bone. As he withdrew the dirk the sentry groaned again.

Now!

In one movement, as the sentry clutched at his own face, he twisted and pull the man firmly to the ground.

With one hand he clamped the sentry’s mouth closed, forcing his jaw backwards.

No more sound now....

His other hand plunged the knife upwards under the sentry’s upraised chin propelling the blade up into his head.

He held the body tightly until he was sure the sentry was dead.

By Lugh!

He spat to one side and sighed.

Just what I needed. Another body to get rid of....