Calgaich the Swordsman (7 page)

"Come out here,” Aengus called and added, as if in answer to Cairenn, "You will fight only one man, Calgaich.” He laughed. "You'll find him quite enough even for you,
fian."

"How shall we fight each other, Pict?”

"Your name means the Swordsman,” Girich replied from behind one of the ring stones. "You've earned it well, Novantae. I am Girich the Good Striker. Leave the great
laigen
with the woman.” He laughed. "Soon enough she shall have a better man than you to present with that fine war spear.”

Calgaich returned to Cairenn and handed the heavy spear to her. He looked down into her eyes and then impulsively passed his hand alongside her face. He smiled a little as though to encourage her.

"Leave me your dirk, Calgaich,” she pleaded.

He smiled again. "To fight with, eh, little one?”

She shook her head. "They will not take me alive.”

She thrust the dirk down inside one of her leg wrappings and let the cloak drape over it.

Calgaich walked between two of the ring stones to the open area at the foot of the hill-slope. The Picts ringed the trampled turf, leaning on their broad-bladed spears, wrapped in their tartan cloaks and greasy, red-dyed sheepskins. They waited for the musical clashing of the sword blades.

Calgaich saw his opponent for the first time. Girich stood at the far side of the open space with his bared sword in his right hand. He held a small, blue-painted shield on his left forearm.

"A shield,” Calgaich requested.

A Pict handed his shield to Calgaich. Calgaich thrust his left forearm through the loops. He walked closer to Girich. A coldness flowed through Calgaich's body. Girich was to be no mean opponent.
You will fight only one man, Calgaich,
Aengus had promised
. You'll find him quite enough even for you, fian.

Girich was half a head shorter than Calgaich but half again as thick through the shoulders. His shoulders were slightly stooped from the thick covering of powerful muscles. His arms were bare to the shoulders and were corded with muscles under the dark-reddish hair that covered his arms. The hands were huge, and almost disproportionate to the arms. Despite the difference in height between Calgaich and Girich, the Pict had much longer arms. Girich’s face seemed to have been roughly carved from some dark native stone. His nose had been broken from a savage blow of the past, so that the nostrils were no more than mere slits, a fact that Calgaich noted for his own advantage. The Pict would have trouble breathing fully in the action of combat. His eyes were a grayish-green but there was a yellowish cast to them like the yolk of an egg. The hair that showed beneath the boiled-leather helmet he wore had been red in his earlier years, but was now tinged thickly with gray. Girich was not a young man, but the very fact that he -had survived so long as a champion of his clan indicated to Calgaich that he would not be easy to slay.

Girich came forward, beating lightly on the metal edging of his shield with his sword blade to drive away the evil spirits. He stopped just beyond striking distance and stood there with his upraised blade as steady as one of the great ring stones.

Calgaich withdrew his untried sword from the scabbard. The graying light struck against the figured blade, which seemed to be like a tongue of cold flame as Calgaich extended it. There was a sharp intake of breath from some of the Picts as they saw the magnificent weapon. Girich moved his blade to feel the heft and balance of it. Girich tapped his sword against that of Calgaich. They circled slowly on the slippery turf. To slip and fall was to die. Their eyes were fixed on each other. Suddenly, Girich closed in with a whirlwind attack to test Calgaich’s defense. Calgaich retreated before the wildly slashing sword to let the Pict tire himself, knowing the man probably had greater reserves of brute strength than he himself possessed.

The blades crossed swiftly, reflecting the growing light like the waters of a fast-running stream. Girich closed in again and again and then swiftly fell back before Calgaich’s sudden counterattack. Girich crouched with his shield held up high and cut low at Calgaich's knees. Calgaich leaped back and raised his shield just in time to fend off a smashing overhead blow that shook him to his heels. Girich was far swifter than Calgaich had expected him to be. Calgaich’s left arm still stung from the shield blow as he and Girich circled warily, weaving a pattern of cuts and parries. Calgaich’s sword tip moved swiftly in the curious cross pattern Cairenn had seen him use against the Pictish reivers and also on the night he had found the fine sword.

Girich retreated, studying the sword pattern being woven by Calgaich. There was no way he could counter it, so he suddenly bulled into an attack to drive Calgaich back with the impetuosity of it. Girich smashed at Calgaich like a smith hammering at his anvil. Chips flew from Calgaich’s shield. The tip of Girich’s sword drove through the shield and lightly punctured Calgaich’s left forearm. Blood ran down his arm to form a pattern on his hand, dyeing the fingers red. The Picts began to murmur.

Girich’s mad rushes drove Calgaich backward, ever backward until the Picts behind him stepped aside. He knew he was but inches away from one of the ring stones. He suddenly closed on the Pict, retreated and then leaped aside. Girich's blade rang like a bell against the ring stone and his arm numbed from the shock of the blow. An instant later Calgaich’s sword came down in a powerful overhand stroke that glanced from the Pict’s hard leather helmet. Girich blinked his eyes. He was half-stunned, and his arm tingled from the force of his blow against the stone. He swayed on his feet as he turned to shield off a thrust toward his belly. His timing and eye were off. Another blow crashed atop his helmet and drove it lower on his head. Girich staggered sideways. His breathing whistled through his slitted nostrils. He backed between two of the ring stones and then realized with superstitious horror where he was. He staggered back toward Calgaich with shield outthrust and his sword flashing in a wild attack.

Calgaich grinned, but he grinned too fast, for Girich cut hard at his shield and then reversed his blow and came down with a sweeping backhanded stroke that split the shield in two. Girich stepped back to allow Calgaich to get another shield. If that shield was destroyed, Calgaich would be allowed a third one, and if that, too, was demolished, he would have to fight this wild bear of a swordsman with only his sword for defense.

Calgaich swept into the attack. He pressed Girich back again and again. Their breathing was harsh and fast as they circled, feinting and dodging, thrusting and slashing while moving swiftly around like a pair of deadly whirligigs. He had learned something about Girich. His shoulder muscles were so thick they hindered his being able to raise his arms as high and as quickly as he would have liked. There was something else to Calgaich's advantage— Girich was deathly afraid to step within the ring of stones.

They circled. It was fully light now, and the snow was trampled into mush. Here and there on the surface of it were bright flecks of Calgaich's blood. Girich was becoming craftier as he realized Calgaich would soon weaken with the loss of more blood. Calgaich retreated before the steady attack of the Pict. It was as if Girich were chopping wood, but he always stayed back from that damned overhand stroke to the helmet from which he had been unable to defend himself.

"It grows late, Girich!” Aengus called out. "There are not enough of us to fight off an attack by the Damnonii. They will have seen the smoke by now. The hounds will soon be baying in the hills. Kill this braggart of the Novantae and have done with him!”

Girich did not take his eyes off Calgaich. "Would you like to come out here for a while, Cousin?” he asked.

There was no reply from Aengus.

Girich and Calgaich grinned wearily at each other.

Girich drove a crushing blow at Calgaich's shield and then cut low for the knees. The tip of the sword severed a crossgartering around Calgaich’s right leg and the leathern thong fell down about his ankle. It trailed behind him as he beat a feigned retreat toward the ring stones. There was a look of fear and almost of panic on his sweating face.

Girich spat to one side. He sensed victory. He drove in, striking wildly and steadily. There seemed to be no end to his great strength. Suddenly Calgaich sidestepped. His sword came down with powerful force on top of the Pict's helmet. Girich could not stop his headlong rush, which was aided by the blow to his head. He staggered in between two of the great ring stones.

Cairenn stepped back and lowered the tip of the war spear toward Girich’s back.

"No!” Calgaich shouted.

Calgaich leaped between two of the stones and smashed his sword down atop Girich's battered helmet. Blood began to trickle down from beneath the helmet and into Girich's eyes. Calgaich worked his way around the Pict so that the light of the rising sun shone against the tattooed face of the Pict. Girich's eyes were dazed with pain. His breathing was harsh and irregular. He turned his head from side to side, seeking an escape from the ring of stones. He forgot that Calgaich was really his opponent and not his own intense superstitious fear of the Holy Ring.

No matter which way the beleaguered Pict turned, a grinning Calgaich was there in front of him, feinting and thrusting with undiminished strength and skill. Girich's face was now a mask of trickled blood forming a grotesque pattern with the blue design of his tattooing.

Calgaich drove Girich back toward the stones to give him a choice—to try to escape while presenting his back to Calgaich, or to wait out the attack and put aside his fear of the ring of stones to save his life.

The Pict made his choice. He ran toward the stones, then whirled to get between two of them to hold off Calgaich's pursuit. As he turned, Calgaich's sword splintered Girich's shield down to the metal boss. Girich lowered his shield arm and sword arm. His recovery was too slow. Half-blinded by blood, with the sun shining full in his face, and deathly afraid of the ring of stones, Girich hardly felt the thrust that penetrated a hand's span into his heart. He was dead before he sprawled on the bloody snow.

Calgaich leaned on his reddened sword. His breathing was harsh and irregular. He looked between the stones at the body of Girich. The Picts were silent.

Aengus walked forward. "Your name is truly given, Calgaich—the Swordsman."

"He was a good opponent," Calgaich admitted. "I've met none better. You'll miss your champion, Aengus."

Aengus shrugged. "I never trusted him," he said in a low voice. "His weapons are yours, Calgaich."

Calgaich shook his head. "Take his weapons back with his body. He was a warrior."

The Picts waited, as if expecting something. Cairenn watched them curiously. Suddenly Calgaich raised his sword for a two-handed downstroke. The sharp iron cut cleanly through the neck of Girich and his head rolled to one side. A great gout of blood poured from the gaping neck hole. Cairenn turned aside and vomited.

Calgaich picked up the head and placed it on top of one of the ring stones so that its sightless eyes looked toward his former companions.

The Picts wrapped Girich's headless body in his cloak and carried it down to the shore of the sea loch. They pulled two long, lean rowing boats from the thicker shelter of the reeds, loaded them with their loot and the women prisoners, then shoved off and thrust out their oars. Aengus called out the stroke as the two boats moved out toward the sea mouth of the loch. In a little while the grinding of the oars between the hole pins died away.

Calgaich held out his left arm to Cairenn. "Bind it,” he said. He ignored the look of horror and distaste on her face, pale now from being sick.

Cairenn wiped her mouth and did as she was bidden. She cleaned the blood away first, pleased to see that it was only a slight puncture wound, before binding the arm tightly. She could smell the strong male odor. Neither of them §poke as she worked, nor did she raise her eyes to meet his.

Then Calgaich took his war spear. "Come. There's little time to waste. The Damnonii will be along all too quickly. They'll kill any strangers they find in the glen.”

He walked between two of the stones and strode toward the distant smoke pall. The snow-covered hills were bright in the rays of the rising sun.

"But why, Calgaich?” Cairenn asked.

He looked curiously at her.

"The head,” she said, not looking at the thing of horror on the stone behind her.

He shrugged. "He was too dangerous an enemy in life to have him haunt me after death.” He jerked his head backward. "That way, without a head, his vengeful spirit will not have eyes to see me or ears to hear me.”

They walked on.

"Perhaps the Damnonii are already at the
rath
,” she warned him.

“We’ll have to risk it. We need food and you need clothing. Perhaps the Picts left something behind them other than the dead.”

She shivered at the thought. High in the bright sky she could see circling ravens. Ravens soon find the newly dead.

The thick smoke lay close about the smoldering huts. A wraith of it rose slowly high above the ravaged path to stain the blue sky. A miasma composed of the smoke, thick piles of manure, heated stonework and the sweetish, stinking aura of burned flesh poisoned the fresh morning air.

Cairenn stopped at the edge of the
rath.
“No, I cannot go in,” she whispered when Calgaich impatiently motioned for her to keep up with him. “It is too soon.”

“Too soon?” Calgaich repeated. He hesitated as if about to force her to his will, but finally told her to wait there. She was not: sure he had understood.

Cairenn crouched low in the snowy bracken on a hill-slope at the edge of the
rath
, watching Calgaich as he walked slowly about the huts. She could not follow him. She knew what he would find. It was too close to what she had left behind in her father’s
rath
as she was dragged away by the Scotti when they were through with their killing and plundering. Perhaps it was well that she had been spared the aftermath of their ravages of her settlement, that her hiding place in the dog’s shelter had been found. How would she have buried her dead? Her parents and brother? Her betrothed? And where would she have found the strength to live beyond those terrible hours of labor? Head-bobbing ravens flew reluctantly away from the dead, and then circled close overhead watching the stranger with bright eyes. Tumbled, half-naked bodies lay like heaps of clothing on the trampled area of slush, manure and mud. The stiffening bodies were streaked with dark stripes and clots of coagulating blood. Somewhere beyond the
rath
and up the great dark glen a dog howled mournfully. Cairenn shivered. It
sounded
like a dog, but there was no dog to be seen.