Calgaich the Swordsman (6 page)

Calgaich ignored her and stood up. 'Time for bed. I want to leave here before dawn light and get into the hills unseen. There is likely a
rath
not far from here, or at least a small village, and perhaps even a
dun,
a hilltop fort of the Damnonii. I do not want to be caught like a badger in his hole. The hills and the forests are the friends of the hunted man.”

Something in the way he said "hunted man” struck home to Cairenn. There was more behind his statement than just the fact that likely the Damnonii and positively the Picts would not be friendly. There was much more than that. It was something that allied itself to the scars on his back and his great hunger to reach his homeland despite all hindrances and dangers.

He picked up the dry cloak and walked to the bed of bracken, where he placed the cloak on the bed and turned to look at her. She rose slowly. The fire had died low again, leaving red, secretive eyes that peered now and again through the thick bed of ashes and were gone almost as quickly as they had come.

"Woman,” he said quietly from the shadows.

She walked toward him as though under a spell.

"The tunic,” he said patiently.

She stripped it from her body and felt the gooseflesh rise on her skin. He took the tunic from her hands. "Get into the bed,” he ordered.

She crawled naked over the cloak and lay down, looking up at him. She was not frightened. She had expected it long before this night.

Calgaich bent over the lovely, naked creature looking up at him. He hesitated and then passed a hand across her thick dark hair, then down along a smooth cheek and thence to her throat to linger there a moment. His hand lightly touched her hardening nipples. Suddenly he bent closer and began to gather her up into his arms. His breath came quickly in his throat. Cairenn began trembling, sure the time had come. For what seemed an eternity he held her, and then his grip slackened.

Calgaich stood up. He looked down at her, and then he lifted a fold of the cloak and flung it over her smooth white body. He turned his back to her and pulled his tunic over his head. He drew on his trousers and swiftly crossgartered them to his knees. He stood erect and withdrew the magnificent sword from its bronze sheath. Then he walked through the dark passageway while fighting back an almost overpowering woman-hunger within himself. The woman-smell was faint within the tunic but it was surely there.

Cairenn could not hear his soft footsteps within the dark passageway, but she did hear the clashing of the metal bosses on the hide door as he drew it aside. Long minutes passed during which she remembered the touch of his hand on her body, his strength as he had lifted her to him. Remembered her fear that it would surely happen now, and then the strange emptiness When he had pushed her back to the rough bed of bracken covered by his cloak. She waited and listened for his return, unable to quiet the beating of her heart. But he did not come, and finally she fell asleep.

Later, Calgaich came silently into the chamber. He crouched beside the embers of the fire and warmed his hands. He sat down on some of the bracken and rested his back against a pillar. He had his war spear close by his side and the naked sword rested across his thighs. He watched the dark entrance to the passageway for several minutes. At last he turned his head and looked toward where Cairenn slept on the rough bed of bracken. Her dark hair cushioned the pearl of her face. And suddenly he thought of Morar, the Golden One, and his vow to return to his land and claim her as his wife. Morar, for whose honor he had fought and won a bitter victory. But he must not think of her and in so doing take his lust for her out on this
cumal
—who was not worthy of his seed. Ah, but she was beautiful as she lay sleeping. The glow from the dying embers touched the ridges of her cheeks, gave color to her lips.

Sleep had finally come to her when she had given up wishing for its comfort. She dreamed she was back in her father’s
rath
again, clothed in soft woolen tunics brought to her from the northern settlements, her long hair being brushed by a fine gold comb. Suddenly the old images fled and she felt a hand close over her mouth and nose. She opened her eyes and looked up into Calgaich’s shadowed face only inches away from hers. “Do not make a sound,” he whispered. “Say nothing. Get up.”

She stood up when he released her. She wrapped the cloak around her and then realized it was shorter. Calgaich had cut long strips from the bottom of it while she had been sleeping. She knew their purpose. She bound them about her bare feet with the strips of leather he had placed beside them.

Calgaich stood beyond the bed of ashes leaning on his spear. Faint gray light filtered down into the chamber from somewhere up above them. When she was ready, he crooked a finger at her. She followed him along the passageway. He paused at the hide covering the entrance. Gray light showed through where the hide did not quite meet the sides of the doorway. The air that crept through the openings was cold and fresh and it hinted at dampness.

Calgaich looked down at her. “There are men beyond the ring stones,” he whispered to her.

“Who are they,
fian?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know."

“Could they be friends?”

He laughed shortly. “Not likely. Well know soon enough. They must realize we are in here.”

Calgaich thrust aside the hide covering and stepped out into the cold gray light of the dawn. Soft glistening snow had fallen during the night. It covered the hills and capped the distant mountains behind the hills. Each of the ring stones had its own grotesque gnome’s cap of pure white.

Calgaich walked into the center of the ring of stones as a man moved quickly behind one of them. Dim, cloaked figures stood beyond the stones. There were many of them.

“They are afraid to come within the Holy Ring,” Calgaich said over his shoulder in a low voice.

“Thank the gods for that.” Cairenn blinked at the early morning light but could see nothing beyond the ring stones.

Calgaich reversed his spear and held it butt-upward in the sign of peace. “It works both ways,” he said quietly. “They won’t come within the Holy Ring, but we in turn can’t go beyond it.”

“Then let us stay here in safety,
fian,”
Cairenn pleaded.

He shook his head. “With no food? Melted snow for drinking? Hardly enough fuel left for another cold night? No, woman, we must deal with them. There is no other way.”

He walked toward the largest of the ring stones, behind which the stranger stood. He rested the tip of his spear on the flagstones.

“Calgaich mac Lellan,” a strangely accented voice spoke from behind the ring stone.

“You know me?” Calgaich asked.

“You’re a long way from the country of the Novantae.”

“I’ve just returned here from Eriu.”

“A strange place to spend your first night in Albu.”

“We had no choice. Our
birlinn
was taken by the sea. Who are you?”

The man moved into the space between two of the stones, but he did not step within the ring. He leaned on his war spear and studied Calgaich.

Cairenn turned her face away to avoid looking at the stranger. She knew now why his tongue sounded so strange. The man’s face below the rim of his low-pulled helmet was tattooed like the faces of the fierce Picts she had seen the day before. His broad spear blade was dark with drying blood from tip to socket.

“Aengus of the Broad Spear,” Calgaich greeted the Pict. There was no warmth in his tone.

The Pict grinned, revealing uneven yellowed teeth. “Well met, Calgaich. It has been a long time since we fought the Red Crests together.”

Calgaich looked at the bloody spear. “That is not Roman blood on your blade.”

Aengus shook his head. Then he noticed Cairenn standing in the entrance of the cave. It was as though he were trying to pierce through the cloak to eye each intimate detail of her nakedness. Others of the Picts moved in closer to the ring of stones. Their wolfish gazes studied the woman, the tall warrior and his fine weapons. There were at least a score of them. Beyond them the sky was lightening and across it lay a thick scarf of rising smoke like coarse gray hair lying across faded blue linen.

Calgaich again spoke over his shoulder to Cairenn. “They have probably raided one of the
raths
in the great glen. They must have struck before the dawn and are likely returning to their boats. It is their custom to attack just before the dawn.”

“And
yours,
Novantae,” Aengus added. He had ears like a hunting wolf.

Beyond the Picts were piles of loot on the fresh snow. Ten or twelve younger women stood herded together, guarded by one of the raiders. Evidently the Picts did not know of Calgaich's attack on the Pictish reiving craft. Perhaps they came from different clans. Yet it was hardly possible that two such raiding bands would be operating so closely together and not know about each other. Calgaich had known Aengus some years before he had left Caledonia. It had been during one of those uneasy alliances when Pict and Celt together had fought the Romans. It was about the only thing that could bring them together for a concerted effort—their intense hatred of the Romans.

“What do you want of us?” Calgaich asked.

Aengus grinned. “Very little,
fian.
Your woman. Your weapons. Your finery, such as it is. Then you'll be free to go.”

“And if I don't choose to surrender them?”

Aengus rubbed his bristly jaw. “That would be foolish,” he suggested thoughtfully. “There would be red work beyond these stones.”

“She is my wife, Aengus.” At hearing this, Cairenn moved farther back into the passageway. Her cheeks felt warm.

Aengus spat on the snow. “You lie. The
fianna
do not take wives while in service. We also know of the vow you made when you left Albu for Eriu. The tale of your great love for Morar, daughter of Cuno, known as the Golden One, and your vow to return some day and claim her for your wife, has spread throughout Caledonia. We know of your honor in such matters. Give us the woman, the weapons and the finery. I give you your life for old time's sake, Calgaich. I haven't forgotten your great skill in battle against the Red Crests. Those were great days, eh,
fian?”

Cairenn heard the words with sudden fear. It would be the easy way out for him.

Calgaich slowly reversed his war spear. The growing light shimmered on the polished blade. "My father commands five hundred war spears, Pict,” he reminded Aengus.

“They are not here, Celt.”

The rest of the Picts laughed softly—deadly sure of themselves.

Aengus tilted his head to one side. “Your father no longer leads the Novantae. Bruidge of the Battle-Axe is chief now, by right of
tanaise ri.
You are nothing, Calgaich mac Lellan, but a
fian
and an exiled outlaw who can be killed by any man without fear of reprisal or having to pay the
galanas
, the blood debt.”

“Do you have a Champion, Aengus of the Broad Spear?” Calgaich asked formally. “Or is your mouth sharper than your spear blade! Perhaps
you
will try me? Come, a wager, man against man, blade against blade—spear, sword or dirk. Barehanded if you will. Winner take all—including the head of the loser.”

Aengus grinned evilly. “Why should I bother? We have you in a snare, braggart.”

“Perhaps you fear to try me.”

Aengus flushed. “I am a chief! I can’t fight a champion who is less than my rank.”

Calgaich threw back his head and laughed boldly.
“Chief?
Chief of yonder score of dirty-faced Picts? My old wounds hurt if I laugh too hard, Pict. Spare me that pain.”

“Let me clip this cockerel’s wings, Aengus,” a hoarse voice called from beyond the ring stones.

Aengus rubbed his tattooed face. He eyed Calgaich craftily. “Girich the Good Striker speaks, Celt. He is my second cousin. Cousin to the chief. Girich is willing to fight you, braggart.”

The sky was brighter now. The drifting smoke from the Pict-ravaged
rath
up the glen came slowly toward the bar-row. It brought with it the odor of burning wood and thatch, mingled with a haunting thread of an odor, one sweetish and sickly that revealed all too well what had happened at the settlement. Cairenn shivered. She remembered that sickly stench. So it had been when her father's
rath
in Wales had been ravaged by the Scotti and burned to the ground with the dead lying in the huts and on the streets.

Cairenn looked at the savage face of Aengus, wondering how his blue tattooings and hairy body would look pressed against her soft fair skin while his dirty, bloodstained hands defiled her private parts with greedy lust. She knew well enough what would happen to her if Calgaich was defeated. Her only good fortune might be in becoming the personal loot of Aengus, or perhaps of the yet unseen champion, Girich the Good Striker. One man, even a Pict, would be far better than the lust of twenty of them. If they meant to move fast away from this place they might have her, stripped and shivering on the slushy turf, one after the other as long as she could hold out. The thought was too terrible. It might be better to die beneath the claws and fangs of the great wolves who haunted the distant misty hills.

"Will you enter the Holy Ring, Girich?” Aengus asked.

There was a moment of silence and then Girich spoke. "There's evil within the great stones, Cousin. Have the Novantae come out here beyond the stones. I will fight him here.”

Calgaich looked back at the woman. "I will have to go beyond the stones, Cairenn.”

"They will kill you,
fian!
There are too many of them.”

He shook his head. "You don't know these people. They are a poor people in most things except honor. The word of a chief is law. Besides, is it not better for them to have one man killed than many?”

“You
are only one man, Calgaich.”

He smiled confidently. "Do you think they can buy
my
life for the price of one man? Before they send Calgaich mac Lellan West-Over-Seas by the Warrior's Road they will pay my blood debt beforehand.”

She knew well enough how it was with him and all his mad breed. Honor to him was as food and drink. It was a madness that was bred into the Celtic bone and flesh along with the warrior training that started with their tattooing at the age of two years.