Prologue: The Watchers
Once we had been a nation, a people great and mighty, beloved of the gods, a federation of the Keltoi stretching from sea to sea. All that was gone now, as though washed away by the surging tides of the sea behind me. The past.
Our brothers, the Arverni, led by their heathenous god-king, had turned against us, driving their sword deep into our ribs while grasping our hand in fellowship. Over the last few years, they had succeeded in driving us from our lands. They had robbed of us our birthright, backed our people to the wall. Over a year ago now, our Vergobret, a wise man named Cocolitanos, had made the decision. My people would flee.
We had abandoned our towns and settlements before the Arverni onslaught, fled northward to the sea, to the place we had prepared a small fleet for our departure. Many of the Aedui left immediately, over a thousand fighting men with their wives and children.
I, Cadwalador, son of the Wolf, had not left. I was one of the horsemen detailed to stay behind with Tancogeistla, one of our generals. Another detachment was working its way up from the south, from the settlement at Mediolanium. We must wait for them.
I and my fellows formed the Leuce Epos, the Light Horse. Taught from childhood to throw our javelins from the backs of our rapidly-moving steeds, to close with spear for the final charge. None of us had passed our thirtieth year. Many of us might never live to see it.
Tancogeistla was a volatile man, fond of his drink and of fighting afterwards. He grew weary of our enforced stay on this barren headland, as did indeed all of us. But he most of all. The ships were back from the land to the north, from Erain as it was apparently called by the natives. He was impatient to be gone.
Rumors ran through the cavalry, stories told by those that said Tancogeistla was preparing to leave immediately, in defiance of the orders given us by the Vergobret. In the end, who would know the difference? We were leaving our homeland for the last time.
I was never to find out if there was any truth in those rumors. Ogrosan closed upon us before he made up his mind and stranded us upon the cliffs, foraging through the snow every day for food for both us and our horses.
One day, as I was out on a scout, I glimpsed men through the trees. I took my javelins in one hand, watching as the column marched forward, all of them on foot. Many of them were bandaged and limping, leaving stains of blood in the snow as they advanced.
It was the column from Mediolanium. But something was wrong. I kicked my horse in the flanks, urging him forward as I rode toward the body.
The men halted as I moved into the clearing. I could see the suspicion in their eyes. There couldn’t have been more than one hundred and fifty. Less than a third of their reported strength.
“Who is your leader?” I demanded, riding to the head of the column. A tall, red-bearded man stepped from the column, an unsheathed sword in his right hand.
“Who asks?”
“Cadwalador, son of the Wolf, a member of the army of Tancogeistla. I was sent to look for you.”
A look of relief spread over his swarthy countenance. “Lead me to him. I am Cavarillos, captain of this detachment.”
“Then the rest of the army follows behind you?” I asked, praying to the gods that he would answer in the affirmative.
He suddenly looked tired, sheathing his sword with the motions of an exhausted man. “We are the army. All that remains of it.”
“The Arverni?”
He merely nodded. I wheeled my horse to the north and commanded him to follow. The rest of the men fell into step behind him, moving sluggishly, wearily. Bloody footprints in the snow. . .
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