-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XVI: The Armor
Tancogeistla arrived in Attuaca two days later, at the head of what remained of our army. The men were bone-tired, hungry. Had Attuaca been a smaller village, I would have feared a massacre like at Inyae’s home. As it was, the clearly displayed weapons of the Calydrae served as a deterrent.
I spoke with Tancogeistla as quickly as I could without arousing suspicion. There was a strange look in his eyes as I told him of the men who had come across the waters, of the hero who had died before Attuaca. As though he knew something I didn’t. . .
“Where was this armor the girl told you?” he asked, as I finished. I looked over at him, puzzled at his reaction. “On the town wall.”
“Take me there,” he ordered peremptorily. His voice was unusual, I almost feared he had been drinking again. But, no, his cheeks were free from the flush of wine.
I gestured toward my leg, wrapped tightly as it was with a crude splint. “I can’t move. Not any time soon.”
He cursed in frustration, acknowledging my injury. “I’m sorry. Where’s the girl?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Never mind,” he retorted. “I can find it myself.”
He stormed from the hut, leaving me laying there, my mind swirling with his reactions. There was no doubt in my mind about the identity of the army that had besieged Attuaca. They were my people, the army which had gone before us to Hibernia, the land across the sea. Had they been successful? Had they conquered that new land?
So many questions. So few answers. And now Tancogeistla. I didn’t know what to make of his reaction. The armor. What mattered about the armor.
Night was falling when Tancogeistla reentered the hut. Deidre was kneeling by the fire, fanning the smoldering coals into flame. He extended his hands to the flame, his body shaking from the cold. His face was worn, I could read the strain of the journey in the lines of his brow. And something else was bothering him. . .
He waited until Deidre left, announcing that she would go get food. Then he turned to me, gazing down into my face as I lay there on the blanket.
“Cadwalador,” he began. “I can trust you, can I not?”
His question took me by surprise. “Of course, my lord. With your life.”
“Yes—yes, I know,” he whispered distractedly. “You proved yourself on that night with Cavarillos. At great personal cost.”
I didn’t want the reminder. Inyae’s death was still too fresh.
“And you will stand by me now, I know that.” His eyes locked with mine, a powerful gaze. I could sense the magnetism, the charisma that had won him his position with Cocolitanos, his anointment as the Chosen Superior. Truly, he would have been a great man, save for the vine.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Cadwalador, I found the armor. It hangs near the gate.”
“Aeduan?”
He nodded slowly. “And more than that, my son. Not just any Aeduan armor. It is the mail of Cocolitanos.”
My mouth fell open. The shock. “The Vergobret?” I asked, unable to believe my ears. Our leader. . .
Another nod. “Our people are across the waters, my son. And that is where we must go, as soon as the snows melt. I must go and take my rightful place as their leader.”
I had nearly forgotten. Of course. He was the Taoi Arjos, the successor of Cocolitanos. The reason I had stood against Cavarillos from the beginning.
There was a far-away look in his eyes as he stared into the dancing flames. “My people are leaderless now, Cadwalador. Scattered as sheep without a shepherd. I must go to them. . .”
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
:dizzy2: ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Dude I seriously thought it was over after he fell in the snow, man my heart is racing. And Tancogeistla might want to find an AA group before he wants to take his place as ruler.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Well, drinking isn't always a negative, after all this wonderful expedition to hibernia in the first place is probably a result of some drunken boast... Still, it would be nice if the leader's drinking resulted in a little more cameraderie and loyalty from his troops rather than just ill concieved and poorly lead attacks (admittedly a likely outcome of being drunk as well)...
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
OOOOO is the old drunkard gonna pull his socks up now.! I wonder
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XVII: Flight
The cold stretched on, vicious and unrelenting as Ogrosan held the countryside in its dark grasp. There were days we never saw the sun, days of furious, blinding snow.
Tancogeistla was unbearable. I hadn’t seen him this impatient since those days on the headlands of my homeland. It seemed so long ago.
Cinaed treated us kindly, but I knew he was suspicious. Tancogeistla’s story of our shipwreck and subsequent journey seemed too improbable to be believed. I was hardly sure I would have believed it myself, had I not lived the horror. Still, we owed Cinaed our lives.
Spring came, and with it a wildly blooming purple flower that covered the hillsides surrounding Attuaca.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...r-Is-Harve.jpg
My leg had healed almost completely and to exercise it, I took long walks in the hills with Diedre. On one such excursion, we walked to the cliffs overlooking the western sea. They made me think of the cliffs Cavarillos and I had huddled beneath on that first morning washed ashore. It seemed an eternity ago, but I knew that was just a figment of my imagination.
Diedre noticed my silence and mentioned it with her characteristic boldness. I shook my head. “Memories,” I replied. “Just memories.”
My eyes narrowed as I gazed out across the water, at a strange sight emerging through the mist. It looked like—it was a peninsula of land, jutting out into the sea.
I pointed it out to Diedre. “That is the land of the hero,” she responded, speaking of the leader who had fallen before Attuaca. Cocolitanos.
My eyes fixed on that narrow spit of land—so close, yet so far. My people were there. I glanced over at the girl, wondering if she could read my thoughts. She was perceptive for one so young.
An unusual hunger rose inside me, a desire—to see my people, to live among them again. I had been a castaway for so long. Too much Aeduan blood had been spilled in this land.
Tancogeistla and I talked long into the night, in council with one of the Brihentin, one of the last of the nobility. I felt honored to be part of such a council.
One thing was decided. We would split the men up into small parties, send them through the hills and forests looking for wood sufficient to build a raft. A raft we could sail across to Hibernia.
I didn’t think it could be accomplished, but Tancogeistla was adamant. A strange fire had risen with him, perhaps another variation of the desire I felt, compounded by his knowledge that he was now the leader of his people. A leader who needed to return.
With my still-weakened leg, I was assigned no part of the woodcutting parties. Rather, it would be my job to occupy and deceive the man who had befriended us and spared us from the harsh blasts of Ogrosan. Cinaed. . .
Over the time we had stayed in Atttuaca, I had come to respect and admire the leader of the Calydrae. Which made what I had to do all the more difficult. Still, if it would mean I could see my people again. . .
In the weeks which followed, I spent most of my time with Cinaed and his young warriors, matching myself against them in the use of the javelin. The accuracy which the Calydrae achieved stunned me. I was clearly not in their class.
But I was accomplishing my purpose, keeping them occupied. I accompanied Cinaed’s son out on the hunt once, steering him away from our small groups of woodcutters.
Weeks passed. Looking up into the clear skies at night, I could see the moon grow full, then become dark. Two rafts were completed, but Tancogeistla felt a third was needed, if we were to carry all of us, and the remaining horses. They would be valuable in the new land.
The Calydrae celebrated the coming of the new moon with a feast, similar to that which some of the druids had observed back in Gaul.
I worried about the feast and the effect which the liquor might have on Tancogeistla, but he abstained, remarkably. He was drunk with something else these days—a fervor to return to his people, to take his rightful place as the Vergobret. And so no trouble arose from the feast. It was a blessing from the gods.
Two months had slipped by since the day I had seen Hibernia through the mists when Tancogeistla entered the small hut I had been living in ever since my arrival in Attuaca.
“We need to talk, Cadwalador,” he announced abruptly. I gestured for him to sit down on one of the hides spread out on the floor, but he shook his head, glancing sharply at Diedre and one of the village women.
I rose from my seat on the earth, following him out into the streets of the village. Night was coming on, the sun sinking low into the western sky. “What is it, my lord?”
“One of the rafts,” he whispered hurriedly. “It was discovered by the Calydrae. Smashed to pieces. We must leave at once.”
I looked into his eyes. “Are two rafts enough for us all?”
“If we leave the horses, yes,” he replied with a gesture of impatience, “quick, go spread the word among your comrades. Everyone must be at the top of the cliffs by the second watch of the night. We will set sail in the moonlight.”
“I understand, my lord.”
“Then, go! Quickly!”
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
@Reverend Joe: Sometimes I fail to make myself clear. Sorry. Anyhow, glad you're enjoying the story.
@Irishmafia: Wait and see, wait and see. It's been a job balancing Tancogeistla's traits, because he has some very negative drinking traits, counter-balanced by some very decent leadership traits. Which is why I've given him a bit of a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality. BTW, thanks for entering the contest.
@Captain Black: I think I fooled everyone with that ending. But no, he's still very much alive--for a little longer.
@Shylence: You never know, do you? :laugh4:
Incidentally, where is Chirurgeon? I had hoped to see him in the contest. :no:
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
This man has made an 1000+ mile journey I think once his fighting days are over he should write a Lonelyplant travel guide on the ancient isles of the tinpeople!
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Quote:
Originally Posted by Theodotos I
@Reverend Joe: Sometimes I fail to make myself clear. Sorry. Anyhow, glad you're enjoying the story.
@Irishmafia: Wait and see, wait and see. It's been a job balancing Tancogeistla's traits, because he has some very negative drinking traits, counter-balanced by some very decent leadership traits. Which is why I've given him a bit of a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality. BTW, thanks for entering the contest.
@Captain Black: I think I fooled everyone with that ending. But no, he's still very much alive--for a little longer.
@Shylence: You never know, do you? :laugh4:
Incidentally, where is Chirurgeon? I had hoped to see him in the contest. :no:
I think Chirurgeon thinks it is over?
Quote:
Wow. So thats it. Man that is quite the tale. Superb writing there. I have never seen the "starvation" announcement. Sure was rough. This was a complete tragedy, save for his reconciliation. Ok I need a drink now.
Only thing that bothered me was that I thought they ate their horses and yet he was riding one at the end? Other than that a great final chapter!
Wait..why the rush, Idon't understand why the Calydrae would do anything about the boats, they don't suspect anything and shouldn't expect anything from the boats. It's not like Tancogeistla is going to leave and come back with a greater force. Hmmm.. I think Tancogeistla is overreacting.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
since this is an Ulterior (is that the word?? im pissed, no bother) history you have to think that the Cayldrae would be as foregin to these gauls as some greeks. anyway the escape is on!!! and mabe conquest. But i always worry with thise narratives from one person angle that at some point the fellas has to die. I dont want them to die.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Quote:
Originally Posted by Shylence
i always worry with thise narratives from one person angle that at some point the fellas has to die. I dont want them to die.
Well, this guy was probably adopted by a man of the hour event or something, and since he's nobility now, he will have sons who can continue the story eventually....
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Wow I just got caught up. Sorry real life for the past week has precluded me from viewing your progress. I am glad I was wrong about the story ending. Man this is good stuff! So I assume they are going to Ireland huh? Your descriptions and pictures place me right there in the action. Excellent job.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
@Shylence: Yeah, I know. In my Sweboz AAR, my guy (Started @ 16) is already 36.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XVIII: Escape
I left Tancogeistla and hurried through the village, toward the houses where our men had been quartered, each of them with a family of the Calydrae. I was breathing hard as I ran from door to door, speaking briefly with our warriors, ordering them to depart as soon as they could without arousing suspicion.
A crescent moon shone down upon me as I continued on my mission, casting strange shadows over the town, flitting about me, each one of them a messenger from Cinaed, giving orders for our capture.
Tancogeistla and I had much ground to cover that dark night, but we managed, silently slipping from house to house, warning the men who we had marched beside in our trek across this hostile land. Our brothers.
We were going home to our people.
It was an anxious group that gathered on top of the cliffs shortly toward the second watch of the night. Swords were unsheathed, held in sweaty palms, spears nervously leveled at every sound in the bushes. I clutched my javelins firmly, watching as several of the stronger men pulled the makeshift log rafts from the bushes along the beach. My leg was still too weak for me to be of much assistance.
Tancogeistla stood by the side as the rafts were launched upon the water, giving orders in his accustomed tone of command. No one minded tonight. His orders were too much in line with the desires of his men. They obeyed without question.
The work proceeded slowly, despite our best efforts. We had just dragged the second raft to the water’s edge, pushing it out into the shallows. I had joined in the effort, leaning my shoulder against the raft and pushing as my bare feet scraped against the small stones that littered the shallow water.
It was just floating freely when we heard a shout from the lookout posted upon the cliff.
“They are coming!” he shouted, sprinting down the cliff path, fear giving wings to his feet. I turned and sprang to dry land, coming down on my bad leg. I fell to my knees in the sand, grabbing for the javelins I had laid aside. Tancogeistla shouted orders, drawing up his men in line of battle across the bottom of the path. Had we been facing swordsmen, I was sure we could have held men off on that path for hours, used it to bottleneck the Calydrae. But—I remembered their skill with javelins, and they would be throwing downhill. Flight was the only option left to us.
A body of torch-bearing horsemen appeared at the edge of the cliff, looking down upon us. A tall man with flame-red hair was at their head. I recognized Cinaed in the torchlight.
“Tancogeistla!” he called, his voice carrying far across the waters.
“Yes?” our king replied, standing in line with the dismounted Brihentin, what remained of his retainers. I stood at his side, my javelins readied. After they were exhausted, I determined, I would grab a spear from the first man who fell. If I was not already dead.
“I wish to come down and speak with you,” Cinaed retorted, swinging from the back of his horse onto the ground above us.
“You may come,” Tancogeistla grudgingly assented, “but come alone.”
“These many months, I have taken you into my village, fed you over the dark months, spared your lives. And now you treat me as an enemy?”
Cinaed had disappeared, but I could hear footsteps along the path coming toward us. After a few tense moments, he reemerged, standing in front of our line.
He stood before us unarmed, his scabbard empty, his javelins left behind somewhere on the clifftop. It was a gesture of trust I wasn’t expecting.
“What has happened, my friend?” he asked, staring Tancogeistla in the eye. “I treated you all as my guests, yet you flee as thieves in the night.”
Tancogeistla looked down at the ground for a moment. I could tell he was thinking. “A messenger came from my people at the time of the new moon,” he lied glibly. “He brought word that our king is dead. I have been chosen to succeed him. We go now to rejoin our people.”
Cinaed looked past our battle-line to where the rafts floated sluggishly in the shallows. “Why go by way of the sea? Did you not tell me that your people lived far away, on the main land to the south of this island?”
“Yes,” Tancogeistla agreed, “but I also told you of the battles we fought with the tribes of the Dumnones. To pass their way again would be certain death.”
“I understand,” Cinaed replied, “however there was no reason for this stealth.”
“You will make no effort to stop us?”
The chieftain of the Calydrae shook his head. “We destroyed the raft my young men found because we believed it had been left by the invaders we defeated months ago. Had I known it was yours I would have left it unharmed. Indeed, my brother, why should I try to stop you?” Merriment twinkled in Cinaed’s eyes. “Every man of you that leaves is one less my people have to house.”
“I thank you for your hospitality,” Tancogeistla responded, honestly, I believe. Then we turned and began loading our weapons and what remained of our supplies onto the rafts. Cinaed sent some of his men back to the village for food with which to feed us on our journey. His generosity truly stunned me, and once again I felt a twinge of guilt for the deception we were perpetrating.
We did not get underway until shortly before dawn. We poled south, sticking close to the direction of our story until we were reasonably sure to be beyond the gaze of any watchers, then we turned west, propelling ourselves with crude homemade oars. To Hibernia. To the new land of our people. To the land across the waters. . .
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
BTW, remember the contest ends tomorrow. The person coming the closest to guessing my true age will get three balloons :balloon2: :balloon2: :balloon2: . Good luck! :2thumbsup:
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
@Shylence: Alternate is the word, incidentally. I'm guessing you're a Brit? Thanks for following.
@gamegeek2: I wish. I already had to cheat to get out of debt, otherwise this would have been a story of the Great Depression and nothing else.
@Captain Black: Desperate men don't always think straight. And, btw, I fixed that with Chirurgeon.
@Irishmafia: Cadwalador doesn't exist in-game. His was the name of a captain early in the campaign, but those are randomly generated. So I can keep him alive for as long as I want to. :laugh4:
@Chirurgeon: Glad to have you back. I figured something must have happened. I'm amazed you had never seen the starvation announcement. I've seen it two or three times in every campaign. You must take better care of your men than I do.
Chapter Twenty will be up shortly!
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XIX: Hibernia
It is a rule of life. Things are always harder than they seem. What seems so close to the eye proves far to the feet, or the hands, as it proved in our case. The land that I, and the others, had seen from the cliffs of Attuaca, proved farther than we could have imagined.
Days passed as we rowed steadily over the waters separating us from Hibernia. Blisters formed on our hands and burst, causing great pain, only alleviated by slowly forming calluses. But I heard no word of complaint from the men. Each stroke of the oars brought us closer to rejoining our families. Each stroke brought us that much closer to ending our wanderings.
For eight days we rowed, aided by a patchwork sail we had made of the remaining clothes we had brought with us. There was little wind, perhaps a blessing in disguise. How our rafts would have fared in a storm, I shivered to think.
On the morning of the ninth day, the shoreline was close enough for us to descry the trees and lush green hills of this new land. It was everything the druids had described. Beautiful, I cannot create words to describe it. I only wished that Inyae sat there beside me. As little as I had known of her before her murder, I felt she would have loved Hibernia. Perhaps that explained the strange pang I had felt leaving Attuaca, the island upon which we had wandered for so long.
By leaving the island, I was also leaving behind my last chance of revenging myself upon Cavarillos, slim though that chance had been.
His face still appeared before me in dreams, that last taunting smile of his as he disappeared into the night. The embodiment of evil.
One of the Gaeroas came to relieve me at my oar and I went to the back of the raft, dropping down beside Tancogeistla. His eyes were focused on the hills before us.
“Just a little while longer, Cadwalador. Just a little while longer, and I will be the Vergobret of our people. The chief magistrate.”
I nodded wordlessly, following his gaze, taking in the beauty of the place. He continued, apparently not noticing my silence. Or ignoring it. “I will not forget what you did for me that night, Cadwalador. You sacrificed much for honor. I will not forget, and neither will the gods.”
“That is unnecessary, my lord,” I replied. There was no way I wanted to accept rewards for an action I had long since regretted. The price of doing something I had felt was right. That would never restore Inyae to my side.
We touched to shore that night, built a fire on the sandy beach we landed upon. After the chill nights at sea, the warmth seemed to penetrate to my very bones. I looked around at my companions, thinking back to our embarkation on the headlands of Gaul so many months ago. This small band was all that was left.
A few of the Iaosatae, the slingmen remained. Old men and young, all skilled in the use of their weapons. A force not be scorned.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...s/Iaosatae.jpg
The last of the Gaeroas, the spearmen from Mediolanium that had accompanied Cavarillos northward.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...os/Gaeroas.jpg
And those of us who belonged to Tancogeistla’s bodyguard, a few of the nobles and the rest of us freemen like me, who had been promoted to his side by virtue of some action on the field of battle, or because of the sheer need for his protection.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/.../Brihentin.jpg
They looked little like they had when we had departed from Gaul, as they huddled around the fire, struggling to get warm. A rag-tag band of warriors who had survived against incredible odds. In a strange way, I was honored to have been a part of it.
Morning came, and we were up with the dawn, marching after a perforcedly light breakfast of fish caught from the sea and berries plucked from bushes on the nearby hills.
We came upon a small village shortly after noon, surprising a man planting barley in the field. He attempted to run, but one of the fleet young slingers chased him down and brought him back to Tancogeistla.
The man struggled and twisted in the slinger’s grasp, cursing us all in his native tongue, until the king spoke to him.
The expression on his face changed suddenly and he fell to the ground on his knees before Tancogeistla, still jabbering away.
“What is it, man?” Tancogeistla demanded, shaking the fellow angrily. He did not seem to understand, just kept up his endless chatter.
I glanced at the king and he met my gaze. “Take him under charge. We must be moving on.”
I stepped forward and dragged the man to his feet, pushing him before me as we marched on, toward the village we could glimpse through the distant trees. I could sense the tension in the men around me, could feel it pulsating through my own body. Our captive had heard the Aeduan tongue before, even if he couldn’t understand it.
We were at the end of our trail. Or, were we? Had our people taken this land as conquerors, or been repulsed in their invasion? Would we be welcomed, or driven into the wilderness? The next few minutes could answer all of this.
Spurred on by our growing excitement, we double-marched our tired bodies down the small path into the village. Men and women ran out of our houses to greet our procession with amazement and awe. Yet I saw no weapons in their hands.
Then I saw a door open from a slightly larger house at the end of the dusty village street. A man stepped out and strode toward us as Tancogeistla drew our column up in the middle of the street.
His walk was familiar to me, something about it. And his face, although slightly more aged than once I had known it.
“Berdic!” I called out, releasing my prisoner and running toward him. His mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Cadwalador?” he asked. “Is that really you?”
“In the flesh,” I laughed, almost giddy with joy. I slapped my boyhood playmate on the back and hugged him close.
“Where did you come from?” he demanded, returning my embrace.
“It’s too long of a story,” I replied. “But, tell me, did our invasion succeed?”
“Succeed?” He threw back his head and laughed, his own good humor matching my own. “I am now the chieftain of this village. The cities of the Goidils are in our hands. We own Hibernia. It was more than a success, Cadwalador. It was glorious. I wish you could have shared it with me.”
“So do I, my friend.” Tancogeistla stepped up behind me and cleared his throat impatiently.
“My lord,” I began, “I wish you to meet a boyhood friend of mine, Berdic.”
My old friend was staring past my shoulder at the king. “Tancogeistla?”
“Yes,” he replied gruffly. “What are you staring at, boy?”
Berdic shook his head. “I guess you would not have heard. . .”
“Of the death of Cocolitanos?” Tancogeistla asked. When Berdic nodded, he went on. “Of course. That is why I have returned, to take my rightful place at the head of my people.”
The village chieftain turned away from us momentarily, as though trying to absorb what Tancogeistla had just said.
“That’s not what I meant, my lord. You see—Malac reigns in Ivernis. . .”
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...os/NewKing.jpg
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Three balloons go out to Irishmafia2020, the winner of my nearly uncontested contest! Here you go, sir. You earned them :balloon2: :balloon2: :balloon2:
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Wow good writing... I enjoyed these chapters! I wasn't expecting to win either, but your prose seems to polished for a child, so you had to be at least a high school student...
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
The way you keep the suspense in this AAR is novel worthy. What a great story/AAR. You're not published perchance are you?
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Wow, almost three thousand views! I can hardly believe it.
@Irishmafia: Yeah, you won. When you posted up, I thought somebody that knew me was getting on to spoof the contest. Keep reading! :book:
@Reality=chaos: Thanks. I've tried to be more novelistic in style than most AARs, give people something different. And yes, I've had a couple of short stories published.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XX: Man Who Would Be King
I stared at Berdic, unable to speak, unable to move. It was too much to comprehend. We had reached the end of the road, only to find that it was just the beginning.
Tancogeistla was the first to react, springing upon Berdic with the ferocity of a bear, slamming my old friend into the side of a village house. “What did you say?” he screamed, his hands around Berdic’s throat. “What do you mean, Malac reigns? I am the Vergobret! I was the anointed of Cocolitanos!”
I reached Tancogeistla in another moment and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him off Berdic with the assistance of one of the Gaeroas.
The villagers were gathering, stunned by the assault on their chieftain. Something had to be settled and settled quickly. I stepped between Berdic and Tancogeistla. “I am sorry, my friend. Your news came as a shock to us all.”
My old playmate stood aright slowly, rubbing his sore throat. “I understand,” he wheezed, still trying to get his wind back. He stepped past me and spoke a few words to his village in their language. Whatever he said, they dispersed quickly.
Berdic looked back at me and Tancogeistla. “I am sorry. Cocolitanos always held out hope that you would return. He was the only one. When he died across the sea, Malac took the throne with no one to stop him.”
“Where was Dennoros?” Tancogeistla asked, speaking of his younger brother.
“He died in the beginning, trying to break the Goidilic army at the siege of Ivernis.”
Tancogiestla turned away, sadness visible in his eyes. He didn’t want to show emotion in front of his men.
“He did not die in vain, my lord,” Berdic went on awkwardly. “His charge turned the tide of the battle.”
“Where is the nearest settlement?” Tancogeistla demanded abruptly, color coming back into his face. Berdic looked surprised at the sudden change.
“Three days journey,” he replied. “The town of Emain-Macha. Why?”
The general looked back at me, at the men who had followed him, stayed true to him through the agonies of our journey. “There are those who will follow where I lead. Even to the throne.”
Berdic shook his head. “It is no use, my lord. Malac has the council, the magistrates behind him. You would stand no chance.”
Tancogeistla transfixed him with a hard glance. “If you would ever succeed in anything you set your hand to, then strike these words from your vocabulary. Never and no chance. Cocolitanos is dead. Dennoros is dead. But I still live. And I will reign.” He raised his voice, addressing all of us. “We will spend the night in this village. Tomorrow we march to Emain-macha. Tomorrow we set out to take the throne. . .”
Berdic had been optimistic in his prediction. Our men were footsore and weary, and it took us a week to reach Emain-macha. I was frankly overawed as we entered its gates. The one-time capital of the Goidils, it was an amazing place. Men hurried through its streets, going about their business. I had not seen such a populace since the day my father had taken me into Bibracte to trade when I was a boy.
From the gates, we could look north and see the holy hill of Teamhaidh, a place of worship for not only the Goidils but for Celts from all over the world. I thought of the gods we worshiped, the gods whom I had forsaken in the wastes of the island we had come from. Perhaps living in the shadow of such a holy shrine would restore my faith. I doubted it.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...s/HolyHill.jpg
Tancogeistla tried to rally support to his cause from the moment he arrived, but the results were lackluster. Apparently, Malac had already killed several nobles who had opposed him, had them executed on trumped-up charges.
Still, the charisma that had endeared my general to Cocolitanos was showing to full effect, and for a few short days, I thought we had a chance. I should have known better.
One of the detriments of our return to civilization. Tancogeistla’s reaquaintance with the bottle. For several nights, his affinity for the bottle stood him in good stead as he frequented the taverns and alehouses, gathering support among some of the warriors who had been involved in the conquest of Hibernia. A good speaker when sober, he waxed eloquent under the influence of wine, swaying his equally-drunken audience with the power of his words. But it was not without its downside, and that was equally quick in coming.
He became short with subordinates and fellow nobles alike, alienating many of those who had pledged their support in the midst of their own drunkenness.
And then it all came to an end. Malac arrived in Emain-Macha. . .
It happened one night, three weeks from the day of our arrival in the city. I was standing in the gate of the tavern, listening to Tancogeistla’s speech. He was already deep into it.
A shout in the street caught my attention, swelling and growing louder. Cheers. The tramp of horses. I ran from the gate just in time to see Malac riding slowly down the street towards me, flanked by several score of Brihentin, clad in full armor. Malac himself wore a breastplate of elaborately woven mail, but no helmet, his red hair tousled by the wind. A sword was buckled to his side.
I left my post and hurried into the tavern, grabbing Tancogeistla by the arm. “Malac is coming,” I whispered fiercely. “We need to leave. Quickly!”
He pulled away from me with a drunken growl. “Do you hear that, my people?” he demanded, raising his voice so that all in the tavern could listen. “The whore’s son who calls himself your leader is coming! Coming to die—by my hand! Let us arise and take what is ours!”
He jerked his longsword from its scabbard and unbuckled the scabbard from around his waist, tossing it into the corner of the tavern. I watched the reaction of his listeners. Drunk though they were, the mere mention of Malac’s name had an incredibly sobering effect on them. I watched several get from their seats and hurry out, lurching toward the door. Fear was in everyone’s eyes. And I knew there was no one that would stand with Tancogeistla, despite all their promises.
I tugged at his arm again, begging him to leave, to save himself. He was the rightful leader of my people, and dying here would end his bid for the throne.
He swung on me, fury in his blood-shot eyes. “Would you too betray me?” The hilt of his sword caught me on the tip of my chin and my head snapped back. I was falling. I felt myself hit the floor. My world was spinning, dark and sparkling. Dimly I heard Tancogeistla’s drunken shouting, heard a crash as the tavern door came flying inward, the tramp of Malac’s bodyguards. Then everything faded away. Darkness. . .
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
And no, this is NOT the end!
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Sorry it took so long for me to comment. I read the whole thing in one sitting and I am now anxious for more. Excellent work, please keep it up! :2thumbsup:
Long live the Aedui!
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Another fade to black... i wonder if he'll wake up in the arms of some babe like he did last time! Or is it the end now... You'd better update this weekend!
Please?
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Sorry about not keeping up...life has been busy. I will try to catch up this weekend a bit...Looks like alot of reading to be done here :)
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
[/LURK]Cadwalador appears to be quite the ladies' man there. Maybe you could instruct me in the fine art of "passing out to get laid, eh".:laugh4: :laugh4:
Seriously though, lookin' forward to your next installment. [LURK]
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XXI: The Impostor
My eyes flickered open as I slowly returned to consciousness. I was still lying on the floor of the tavern, but this time sun was streaming through the window above me. I had no idea how long I had been there. I tried to rise, but a hand was on my shoulder.
Berdic’s voice. “I wasn’t sure you were going to come out of that, Cadwalador.” He sounded worried.
I sat up quickly. “Where’s Tancogeistla? What happened?”
“They took him away,” he replied.
“Malac?”
He nodded wordlessly.
“How did it happen?”
“Malac’s bodyguards stormed the tavern. There was not a man to stand with Tancogeistla. They all scattered like sheep. The general stood alone, fighting bravely until the sword was knocked from his hand. Then Malac took him prisoner. I imagine he will be executed, just like the others.”
I closed my eyes, envisioning those last few moments before I lost consciousness. “I tried to stop him,” I whispered futilely. “I tried to get him away from here before Malac came.”
Berdic reached out and took my hand, helping me stand aright. I was still dizzy and wobbled as I walked. “Come with me, Cadwalador. You can find a home in my village. There is still a future.”
A shadow was cast across the doorway as a figure clad in chain mail entered. It was one of the Brihentin I had seen in Malac’s retinue the night before.
He looked back and forth between Berdic and I, then his eyes settled on me. “Come with me,” he ordered, beckoning. “Malac wishes to speak with you.”
Berdic looked at me and I saw my own fear reflected in his eyes. A summons from Malac was anything but good news.
We found the Vergobret encamped outside Emain-Macha, beneath a spreading oak. Berdic and I followed the Brihentin into the encampment. Berdic unstrapped his sword-belt and left it at the entrance. I had no weapons save the dagger concealed in the waistband of my leggings. I left it where it was.
Malac looked up at our approach. He was a tall, finely built man with orange-red hair falling about his neck, a neatly-trimmed mustache of the same color gracing his visage. Ruthlessness emanated from his gaze as he glanced into my eyes.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...otos/Malac.jpg
“Good morning, my son. Cadwalador, I believe is your name,” he smiled. I replied with a silent nod.
“You were with the castaways of Tancogeistla?” He asked, his eyes locking with mine.
“Yes, my lord.”
He indicated a seat beneath the tree. “Have a seat. I want to hear your story.” I glanced over at Berdic before obeying. There was bewilderment in his eyes. Neither of us had expected this.
I took the seat as he had ordered and began my tale from the day we had set sail from the headlands of Gaul, leaving out only the plot of Cavarillos against Tancogeistla. I intended to give Malac nothing that he could use against me. Tancogeistla might already be dead. I had no intention of going to my own grave to protect his drunken memory.
I talked for what must have been an hour or more, with Malac listening patiently. But as I told of our arrival at Attuaca, the Vergobret held up his hand to stop me. “This mercenary you spoke of—Cavarillos, I believe you said. What became of him?”
I hesitated only a moment. “He fell in the ambush of the Dumnones, my lord,” I lied. “Fighting as only a warrior of Gaul can.”
The words were bitter in my mouth, but I forced them out with an effort. Unbidden, Cavarillos’ face rose in my mind’s eye, that last moment before he had disappeared into the night. I closed my eyes as if to shut out the image.
“You were close friends?” Malac asked, apparently misinterpreting my face.
I nodded with an effort, forcing myself to deceive the usurper once again. “Go on,” he said after a moment, and I continued my story, this time telling it as it was, from Attuaca until our coming unto Emain-Macha three weeks before.
“And your loyalties in this matter?” Malac demanded after I had finished. I looked into his eyes.
“My lord?”
“Don’t pretend ignorance before me!” he snapped with a sudden show of anger. “You know what I mean. Tancogeistla—you followed him for months. Would you still draw sword for him?”
“I draw sword for no man,” I replied truthfully. “I have seen enough blood spilled to last me for a lifetime. The life of a warrior is not one I desire to follow.” It was clear enough that I was dodging his question and I continued before he could interrupt. “I followed and stood with Tancogeistla because I believed he was my rightful leader. I will follow any man who commands that position. You are the Vergobret.”
He smiled, and once again his visage was full of cunning and deceit. “Cocolitanos knew. He knew that Tancogeistla’s drink would be his undoing,” he chuckled. “He tried to kill you last night—did you know that?”
I shook my head “no”. All I remembered was him striking me with the hilt of his sword.
Malac nodded. “You—one of his most faithful followers. Only the entrance of my men into the tavern kept him from driving his blade through your belly.”
I listened quietly, uncertain whether I should believe him. His objective was clear—to separate me from any remaining loyalties to Tancogeistla, but his words held the ring of truth. I thought back to the headlands of Gaul, when I had seen my general kill three men in a drunken brawl. In the power of liquor, he was capable of anything. I knew that. But I didn’t want to believe this, that this was the end of the journey, the end of the man Inyae had been sacrificed for. I still saw her face in my dreams. Time had healed nothing.
Malac was speaking again. “. . .if you desire not the path of the warrior, then what are your plans?”
I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly. “My lord?”
He waved his hand impatiently. “What life do you plan to follow here in Emain-Macha?”
I shook my head. “I have given it very little thought, my lord. My days have been busy since my arrival. Perhaps. . .before our migration I worked in a gobacrado, as an assistant,” I replied, thinking of my brief apprenticeship with the smith.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/.../Gobacrado.jpg
“Then return to that work,” he replied, rising to indicate that our interview was at an end. Berdic and I rose as well.
“I thank you, my lord,” I acknowledged, bowing low. The Brihentin which had fetched me from the town returned and escorted the two of us to the edge of the encampment and bade us farewell.
My survival surprised me. Even more surprising was the lack of joy it brought me. I knew nothing of the fate of Tancogeistla, the rightful leader of my people. I had bowed and scraped before an impostor to save my own life.
But the dead can accomplish nothing. . .
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
@defiant3279: You've been doing a lot of reading. :book: I'm glad you like it.
@Irishmafia2020: Can't update on weekends, sorry. But this is not the end. Keep reading!
@Chirurgeon: Ain't it always? I doubt I'll be able to write another AAR after this one--I've got to get back to work on my novel. But this has been a fun breather.
@MerlinusCDXX: :inquisitive: :inquisitive: Not quite sure what you mean. But stop lurking and start posting!:whip: :whip: :laugh4:
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Where is everybody? :inquisitive:
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XXII: The Quiet Years
I went to work as Malac had instructed, in a gobacrado, or smithy. As the months passed, I saw Tancogeistla on several occasions. He had not been put to death by his rival, but ever he was accompanied by several guards. Clearly, whatever Malac’s plans, they did not entail letting Tancogeistla out of his sight.
The smith’s work agreed with me. We turned out mattocks, plowshares, picks with which to work the earth; as well as the implements of war. We dwelt in safety and peace. The Aedui now controlled only two cities, a sad decline from the glory days of the Keltoi Confederation, but more than I had ever dreamed we would possess after our flight from home.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...s/Overview.jpg
I had no desires for further conquest and I naively assumed others shared my views. I had learned much in my sojourn on the isle with Tancogeistla, but I was still young. I had yet to learn that the surest sign of immaturity is fancying yourself mature.
Berdic visited me often, riding in from his village with a girl riding sidesaddle behind him. Often a girl he wished me to take as my wife. There was little way for me to explain the lack of interest I showed in them. The wound was still too fresh, and my happy, carefree friend would never understand my continued grief for a woman I had known so briefly.
I visited the hill of Teamhaidh frequently, becoming close friends with one of the druids in charge of the sanctuary there, a holy man by the name of Motios oi Neamha. But the association did nothing to restore my faith in the gods which had abandoned us in the wastelands of the Isle of Tin, as Motios informed me it was called.
There was an emptiness I have no way of describing. I was searching for something, I knew not what. For a long time I concealed it from my friend. Then one sunny afternoon, it slipped out.
“Are the gods we worship real, Motios?” I demanded, glancing sharply into the face of the old druid. I don’t know what I expected him to say. I could have hardly imagined that he would countenance my blasphemy.
A shadow passed over his face, something akin to sadness in his eyes as he regarded me gravely. “Why do you ask, my son?”
I shrugged helplessly, hanging my head in shame. “It was the Isle of Tin, father. The gods seemed to abandon us there. I lost a woman I loved, was betrayed by a friend I had held dear. I started to question.” I looked up into his eyes. “Was I wrong?”
He seemed to be struggling with something and at first he didn’t answer. Then he reached over and picked his staff off the floor, rising from his seat. “Come with me, son. I will show you what is true.”
I followed him out of his dwelling and up the hillside. Despite his age, he was in good condition and I had to hurry to keep up with him as we trudged toward the top of Teamhaidh.
A circle of standing stones surmounted the crest of the hill, a place of worship, of observing the movements of the stars. A breeze was building, swirling over the mountaintop as clouds gathered from the western sea. A storm was coming.
We were alone.
Motios turned to me and once again I could see the struggle in his eyes. “Was I wrong, father?” I asked, impatient with his hesitation.
He shook his head slowly. “No, my son. The gods you see here, worshiped around here by these stones and the altars below—none of them are real. None of them are divine.”
His admission shook me far more than words can describe. All this time, I had assumed I was in the wrong, my faith beaten down by a series of circumstances. I had known of only one other man who shared my disbelief. Cavarillos, the profane, pragmatic mercenary. And now this. . .
A thousand questions poured to my lips, but none of them could escape. I was speechless.
Motios sensed my dilemma. “You wonder why, my son? Simply this. We have lost the truth, abandoned it in the mists of our past. So we have had to invent. The records of the druids confirm this. They show that at one time, long ago, before we even came to Gaul, that we worshiped one god.”
The thought was completely foreign to me. “One god?”
A faint smile flickered across the old druid’s face. “Yes, my son. One god who was supreme over all things—and invisible. No altars were built unto him. He was worshiped in the privacy of one’s home.”
“What happened?”
“That, my son, I do not know. The records I possess do not show.”
“So there is no truth in the gods we worship now?”
“I did not say that, Cadwalador. I merely said none of them were divine. Cernunnos is an example I can use. He lived in those ancient days, as human as you or I. He was a mighty hunter and a conqueror in lands far to the east. The horns of the bull were a symbol of his aggression for it was said that he had wrestled with one and vanquished it in his strength. He rebelled against the worshipers of the one god and they put him to death for his blasphemy.”
I still couldn’t believe my ears. “And if this is all true, father, why have these gods been created—if they are all false, nothing more than the work of man’s hands?”
He reached forward and grasped me by both shoulders, holding my gaze. “Because, Cadwalador,” he whispered fiercely, “we have lost the truth. The records I possess are not sufficient to show us the right paths. Perhaps one day a man will come to once again restore us to truth. Until then—”
I interrupted him. “Until then, why deceive the people with these frauds?” The words came out with more anger than I had intended.
“Because we all must have something to believe in, my son. Something greater than ourselves. It is the fabric of our society. To destroy them will be to destroy our own selves.”
“Why were you honest with me?”
Motios shook his head, gazing steadfastly away from me, to where clouds were building, dark and forbidding. “I don’t know. Perhaps because I realized that you were no longer deceived. That you were searching. That your unbelief was tormenting you.”
“I thank you.”
He nodded wordlessly and without further conversation we left the hilltop of Teamhaidh, both lost in our own thoughts.
Despite his words, I was more troubled inside than ever before. Little did I know that it was but a foretaste of things to come. Clouds were building, not only over the slopes of Teamhaidh, but in the hearts of the men who led my people. Clouds of war. . .
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Quote:
Originally Posted by Irishmafia2020
Another fade to black... i wonder if he'll wake up in the arms of some babe like he did last time! Or is it the end now... You'd better update this weekend!
Please?
I was referring to this post (the bolded part). Our buddy Cadwalador always seems to have some girlie swooning over him whenever he comes to from "going unconscious". I was simply attempting to ascertain the effectiveness of "going unconscious" as a way to engender the sympathy of the ladies. :laugh4: :laugh4: :laugh4: :laugh4: :laugh4:
As to your 2nd request [DISABLE LURK MODE= 1,1], reporting as ordered, sir!
Nice update BTW, I like how you can keep every "this is the end" type occurrence from ending the story in a plausible manner. Great AAR.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
I have this feeling that Cadwalador is going to run into Cavarillos again, and kill him in every way possible, make it slow and make it painful. Hmm.. but a Druid actually admitting what he worshipped is false, thats odd and also somewhat blasphemic as well.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Quote:
Originally Posted by Theodotos I
Where is everybody? :inquisitive:
Right here man. Keep it up, you're doing nothing short of a novel here :beam:
Quote:
Originally Posted by CaptainBlack
Hmm.. but a Druid actually admitting what he worshipped is false, thats odd and also somewhat blasphemic as well.
Indeed, seemed to be a bit of a bombshell to just come out in such a small period of time.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Excellent job man! Glad to see that campaign map. This is awesome stuff.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
One God, lost to time? :inquisitive: I'm not sure that's historically accurate... could you point to a source? Or is this supposed to be a reference to the theoretical Sky Father worshipped by the Indo-Europeans?
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Well, everybody WAS still there!
@Merlinus: I figured. But since nothing in the story indicates that Cadwalador is not still a virgin, you were assuming. Keep reading AND posting! Thank you.
@Captain Black: Feelings can be deceitful. :laugh4:
@Sarcasm: Had no idea you were reading. I am honored to have a member of the EB team following along. Actually, the bombshell was partly to see if anyone was listening. I figured that would get a reaction.
@Chirurgeon: Indeed. The Arverni have taken over everything Cocolitanos left behind.
@Reverend Joe: A 19th-century scholar named Alexander Hislop made the link between Cernunnos and the Nimrod of the Hebrew Scriptures in his book The Two Babylons. It's a highly controversial book and perhaps not always accurate, but this is fiction after all. Hislop must be read with an open mind. As for one God, well I'm a Christian who believes in one God who created the earth.
I'm not trying to force that belief on anyone, but that's part of the reason it's in the story. Keep reading. This has only just begun!
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XIII: Clouds of War
I had seen Tancogeistla in the square of Emain-Macha many times in the intervening years, but he was always accompanied by the Brihentin of Malac, and I never spoke with him. All that changed on one bright day eleven years from the time of our departure from Gaul.
I was working steadily in the gobacrado, sweating from the heat of the forge as I hammered a sickle into shape. All at once, a figure darkened the doorway. “You prosper, my son,” a voice announced calmly.
I looked up into the bearded face of Tancogeistla. His hair was growing gray, and he walked a little slower, but otherwise he was the same man I had known. “My lord!” I exclaimed, dropping my hammer with a crash.
He smiled, waving the Brihentin in behind him. They were the same men who had accompanied him for years. “Cadwalador, my son,” he whispered, embracing me. “I have come to enlist your help.”
“In what, my lord?
“Raising an army,” he retorted, watching for my reaction.
“I am no warrior,” was my weak reply. I was amazed by his boldness in front of his guards.
He apparently sensed my hesitation. “These men are my friends, Cadwalador,” he laughed, “you can speak freely in front of them.”
I shook my head. “I still say, the warrior’s way is not mine. You should know that more than anyone else. Raise your army. I will remain at my forge.”
“The army is not mine.”
His words startled me. “Then whose?”
“The Vergobret’s. Malac’s. He has decided that this island is not enough for us.”
“Where does he intend to go? Back to Gaul?”
“He has not told me. But I need your help.”
“I have helped you all I intend to,” I replied, some of the old bitterness rising to the surface. That in itself disturbed me. I thought I had put that behind me.
“All the gobacrados in Emain-Macha have been called upon to provide weapons and armor for the soldiers being raised. I would be pleased if you would cooperate.”
There was something underlying his words, a veiled threat. I stared into his eyes. “Why this sudden eagerness to help Malac?”
“Every man is duty-bound to aid his state in time of trouble,” he replied piously. I could detect no sarcasm there, but I could sense something. Something was wrong.
But for now I saw no choice but to go along. “I will take your orders for weapons,” I replied. “I presume I will be paid fairly.”
He nodded, glancing at his guards. “It’s time we were going. Good-day, my son.”
“Good-day, my lord.”
The orders came pouring in within a matter of days, swords, spear-tips, armor, helmets. Several of the requests pushed my skill to the limit, but I did my best. Troops were being raised from the native population, the Goidils, and numerous of them were in and out of the gobacrado constantly.
Many of the locals were levied into bands of Vellinica, light spearmen who could hopefully be trusted to hold our line better than the Lugoae I had fought with in the army of Tancogeistla.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/.../Vellinica.jpg
Others, many of the younger Goidils, were formed into groups of Cladaca(Sword Carriers), fast light infantry who could hurry from point to point on the battlefield to reinforce weak spots. They were armed with darts and short swords, many of which I forged.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...os/Cladaca.jpg
I had seen many warriors, fought beside them in the isle of tin, seen them die beside me. But when a tall, flame-haired man stepped into the gobacrado about three months after Tancogeistla’s visit, I realized that I had never seen one to match him.
He introduced himself as Lugort, and I realized almost right away that he was a native of the island, if the Goidils had any right to be called such.
I almost laughed when he told me his mission—to secure a number of large hammers. I was instantly glad I hadn’t, for Lugort was not a laughing man.
“It is this army your Tancogeistla is raising,” he replied in response to my query. “He has called on me and my warriors to aid him.”
I just looked at him. “You use hammers to fight?”
“Ordmalica,” he replied simply, which I was to learn meant “hammer fighters”.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/.../Ordmalica.jpg
He went on, “It is the weapon of Dagda, with which he forged the creation and with which he punishes those who war against him.”
My thoughts went instinctively to my conversation with Motios. Man warring against God. Utter foolishness.
“. . .you can make what I need?” Lugort was asking, pulling me from my reverie. I acknowledged his question with a nod. “Easily.” I gestured to a table full of forged swords. “Far easier than I made those.”
He sniffed perceptibly. “A sword is a fool’s weapon. It will fail you in your hour of need.”
I shot a sharp look in his direction, his words piercing to my heart. Did he know? There was no way, and yet he spoke the truth. Nine years had passed and yet I could still feel that sword being ripped from my grasp with the force of Cavarillos’ blow, see Inyae rushing from the darkness to shield me.
“I know,” I replied simply. He looked at me, a question in his eyes, but it went unasked. Clearly my reply was unusual for an Aeduan.
“I will return in two weeks. Your pay will be ready then.”
“Agreed.”
Ogrosan was approaching and yet the task of preparing the army continued, more and more men pouring into Emain-Macha until I thought the city could not contain them all. I questioned every visitor to the gobacrado to find out the object of our invasion, but no one seemed to know.
One evening, as I was banking the fires of my forge, I heard laughter outside the door. Just as I was about to look out, the door swung open and Berdic lurched in, dragging a pretty tavern wench behind him. He was clearly in his cups, and she was just as drunken.
“News for you, lad!” he exclaimed, clapping me roughly on the shoulder.
“Yes?” I asked, not expecting anything important. It was hardly his first such intrusion into my privacy.
“Malac rode in at sunset,” he slurred, squeezing the girl tightly to him. She laughed at him and pulled away. “H-he was in the tavern, talking. Said we was going across the sea—to a place called Attu-something.”
“Attuaca?” I demanded, my heart nearly stopping. Surely not.
He looked up at me through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “That’s it, my old friend. Attu-Aca. You’ve heard of it?”
I pushed him aside roughly and strode toward the door. The girl giggled drunkenly at my hurry, but I had no time to heed her laughter.
My horse was tied in front of the gobacrado and I swung onto his back, grasping the reins in my hand. I needed to find Tancogeistla.
Visions of the hospitality we had enjoyed at Attuaca flashed through my mind. Now we were returning, to lay siege with fire and sword. It could not be. Not if there was any way to stop it.
I kicked my horse into a gallop as I rode out under the night sky, a premonition of doom enfolding me. The clouds of war were gathering. . .
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Excellent chapter :2thumbsup:
Cadwalador choosing between honoring a friendship and loyalty to his countrymen really adds more depth to the story.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Theodotos;
Great work here; very engaging through and through. You're an exceptional writer in this genre.
I can only find it appropriate to return the favor and offer you this balloon as a token of my appreciation of your work.
:balloon2:
Edit: On account of me being a moron.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Quote:
Originally Posted by Theodotos I
@Reverend Joe: A 19th-century scholar named Alexander Hislop made the link between Cernunnos and the Nimrod of the Hebrew Scriptures in his book The Two Babylons. It's a highly controversial book and perhaps not always accurate, but this is fiction after all. Hislop must be read with an open mind. As for one God, well I'm a Christian who believes in one God who created the earth.
I'm not trying to force that belief on anyone, but that's part of the reason it's in the story. Keep reading. This has only just begun!
Ah, okay; I misjudged the level of fictionality you were using. No worries. :2thumbsup:
So, wait... unless I am wrong, you seem to be suggesting that the Celts originated from one of the lost tribes of Israel... so the prophet the priest mentioned would be the Hebrew messiah. Intriguing.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Good writing, you are actually talented in your use of prose! Perhaps you will be fortunate enough to make a living with your keyboard one day... Either way, I am still reading, so please keep up with the story. Like the others in this forum I have nothing but praise and gratitude to offer you for supplying me with a few moments entertainment.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XXIV: The Return
I rode hard through the night, towards Tancogeistla’s residence. A light rain was starting to fall, but I never noticed it. Too much else was on my mind.
An oil lamp was still burning inside Tancogeistla’s house and I dismounted outside the door. Truly, I believe I would have gone inside had everything been pitch-black. I had to know the truth.
One of the Brihentin answered my pounding on the door. “The night is late,” he stated, glaring at me. His hand was on the hilt of the sword strapped to his side. Clearly he didn’t take a welcoming view of visitors.
“Tell Tancogeistla that Cadwalador is outside his door,” I replied. “I must speak with him.”
“One moment,” the Brihentin replied, closing the door in my face. I could hear voices from inside and in a moment, he was back.
“You may come in,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “Follow me.”
I ducked my head to avoid the lentel and followed him inside. Tancogeistla sat at a low table near a fireplace, and rose at my approach.
“Cadwalador, my son,” he greeted me. The look in his eyes told me he knew exactly why I was there.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” I demanded, gripping him fiercely by the shoulders, my eyes locking with his. The Brihentin advanced to pull me off the general, but Tancogeistla waved him off.
“What, my son?” he asked, concern in his voice. “The night is raw and you’re soaked with rain. You’ve ridden hard.”
I nodded, seeming to realize my condition for the first time. He was right. But I had to know. “Malac is in town, isn’t he?”
A silent nod. “And we are marching to take Attuaca?”
“Who told you?” Tancogeistla asked.
“Then it’s true?” I demanded in return, still wanting to hear denial from his lips. Knowing I would not.
He nodded. “There’s nothing I can do about it,” he continued, as if sensing my next question. “Nothing at all.”
I turned away, my mind still reeling. If only—I realized with brutal suddenness why Malac had been so interested in my story that bright morning I had been brought before him so many years ago. This had been a long time in the planning.
“How long have you known?” I questioned sharply, glancing back at Tancogeistla.
“A messenger from Malac. A week ago.”
“They were our friends, my lord,” I protested, endeavoring to find his loyalties in this. “They sheltered us in the dark months and saved us from perishing. How can we lift a hand against them now?”
“Ask Malac,” Tancogeistla replied, his disgust seeming to match mine, “he cares nothing for the kindness shone us. And he will never heed the advice of the man from whom he stole the throne.”
I looked over at the Brihentin, surprised by the boldness of Tancogeistla’s words. His guard was smiling.
The general smiled at my confusion. “Belerios is my friend. We have been together for so many years—he believes in my right to the throne.”
The announcement stunned me. “And if he believes,” I asked, “don’t others? Enough to stop this madness?”
Tancogeistla shook his head. “We stand not a chance with Malac in the city. I’m sorry, my son. But in a week, we march to Attuaca. I would be pleased if you would ride in my bodyguard.”
The request took me by surprise, but Tancogeistla’s requests had the habit of coming like that. And not leaving much room to refuse.
I nodded slowly. “I will join you.”
We left Emain-Macha at the end of the week, as Tancogeistla had said. Malac drew the troops up outside the city and addressed them.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...os/Aeduans.jpg
I was surprised by the change. The years had clearly wrought their work upon him. His once-flaming head of hair was now white as the snow cresting the far-off mountains of Erain. He looked now as old as Tancogeistla, who was a few years his senior.
“My people!” he began, “I am pleased to see so many of you here with me today. Pleased to see that you have answered the call of your state. The time has come to expand our borders, to wet our swords in the blood of our enemies, and to take more land for our people. Cocolitanos believed our destiny lay on the isle of tin, across the sea. That was where he died, killed by the people of a place called Attuaca. We march to-day to avenge his death.”
His eyes swept the ranks and I could feel his gaze rest upon me where I sat on my horse beside Tancogeistla. A faint smile creased his face, as though mocking me for the information I had given him. I stared coldly back at him. After a moment he looked away and continued his speech.
“A fleet of ships has been prepared at the coast. They will carry us to our destination. To our glory!”
Cheers greeted his words, a mighty, rousing cry of Rabo! swelling from the throats of the Aeduan warriors. The war-cry took me back years, to the last time I had heard it. The massacre of Inyae’s village. An action as senseless and brutal as what was taking place now.
But this time it was different. The Calydrae had sheltered us, protected us. Cinaed had been our friend in very truth, although at one time we had feared him. And now we moved to conquer. . .
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
@Defiant: Thank you once again. Team members are always extra welcome. Feel free to make any criticisms you feel helpful.
@RedRussian: Thanks much. One of my best friends is looking toward the Marine Corps and I have had a lifelong respect for your comrades. Thanks for the balloon. But why are you calling yourself a moron? :inquisitive:
@Reverend Joe: I'm sorry. You've misunderstood my statement. My fault, will explain when I have more time. In the mean time, enjoy the story.
@Irishmafia: That is my end goal. I have a four-hundred page novel that I am in the process of revising. Maybe it will see a publisher's desk one day. Glad I'm entertaining you.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Great job man you have us all strung along here. Continue this excellent work my friend...I wonder if they will make it back to the homeland...looks like the Arverni would put up a hell of a fight. How many years has passed by the way?
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
My reply to Reverend Joe: Sorry it took me a little while to get back with you. Had to phrase my position in a way I hope will not be misunderstood. Okay, I am not suggesting in any way that the Celts descended from one of the lost tribes of Israel. That would be only faintly less ridiculous than saying that the Amerindians are. However, as a Bible-believing follower of Christ, I believe that one God created the earth and that all human beings are descendants of the first man and woman, Adam and Eve. Therefore, if you acknowledge a common ancestor, the similarities between vastly-separated world religions make sense. As for my statement about Nimrod, it is commonly thought that most Celtic gods were nothing more than deified heroes. As the warrior who introduced the concept of conquest to the human race, Nimrod would qualify, even he could not be called a Celt himself. A careful and open-minded examination of ancient religions reveals the possibility that the ancients were celebrating the different aspects of Nimrod’s character in their different gods. Once again, I realize this Nimrod-Cernunnos connection is conjectural, but fascinating nonetheless. Hislop’s work, although controversial, cannot be dismissed out of hand, imperfect though it may be. However, the Bible is not conjectural and what it states can be counted on. I’ll stake my life on that fact. I recognize you may not agree with me, but I won’t argue over it. I respect your right to be wrong. :beam: Keep reading—your comments are always appreciated.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XXV: March to Attuaca
The journey back to the island was a hard one for me. Tancogeistla knew that. Perhaps that was the reason he left me to myself on the voyage. We were traveling in sturdier craft this time, but my heart was twice as unsettled as it had been on the rafts years earlier. Then we had been returning to our people, jubilant in our own survival. Now we went back, to carry flame and sword to those who had befriended us. There was no justice in this battle. Malac never intended any.
Our army was divided between the Gallic and Goidilic contingents. Most of the slingers were settlers from Emain-Macha, men who had answered Tancogiestla’s call for an army. So far as I knew, they were loyal to Malac, but at times I had my doubts.
Berdic was in command of one of the detachments of Iaosatae. He did not share in my misery, failed to understand it. Boyhood friends though we were, fellow villagers—we were so different. I could never understand his carefree ways, no more than he could understand my silence, my reticence to speak on matters he talked so easily about.
Many of the Goidils were from the south, the area around Ivernis. Except for Lugort and his unit of Ordmalica. The Goidilic noble had come aboard on the boat I sailed on. Apparently he and Tancogeistla knew each other.
He and his men set up a practice area on the stern of our small ship. I watched them at work from day to day, swinging their great hammers, the hammers I had forged.
After four days of sailing, we touched the shores of the island of tin. Malac chose one of the slingers who had been with Tancogeistla in the beginning to guide the column. And we set out, on our mission of death.
Ogrosan was coming, a terrible time of the year to war, but Malac did not seem to care.
I rode beside Tancogeistla near the head of our column. Malac’s men were watching constantly.
It seemed to amuse the general, as though he knew something I didn’t. “We are nearing Attuaca,” he stated calmly the second day after our landing.
I nodded. “You know of no way to stop him?” I asked, glancing across at him as I rode at his side.
Tancogeistla shook his head, chuckling grimly. “If I had, I would not have permitted him to come this far. No, my son. We are in too deep to back out now. The die is cast. We win, or we die.”
“And we win by killing those who saved our lives!” I snapped, anger boiling over inside me. He nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth of my words.
“There is no way to prevent it. Even now, I doubt not that the Calydrae know of our advance. They will be preparing their defenses.” Tancogeistla looked back over the marching warbands. “Many will die. On both sides.”
“Senselessly!” I hissed back at him, overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all. His gaze met mine.
“Such is the way of war. . .”
We rode on, through fields of now-snowy heather, the flower that had blanketed the fields in purple when I had wandered these hills with the Belgae maiden, Diedre. She hadn’t entered my thoughts in all the years since my departure from Attuaca, but as each hoofbeat carried us closer, my thoughts turned toward her. Was she still in the city? Was she still a slave of the Calydrae? They were unanswerable questions, and in very truth, she meant nothing to me. Just another friend I was about to betray.
Toward nightfall, one of our scouts came riding back in, his horse lathered with sweat. “My lord,” he began, reining up before Malac, “the town is ahead of us.”
“Attuaca?” Malac demanded. Even from my position twenty feet away, I could see the glitter in his eyes, watch the expression on his face change. The face of a conniving old man.
The scout nodded.
“Good,” Malac replied, turning in his saddle to face his warbands. “Tonight we camp outside the walls. Tomorrow we avenge Cocolitanos!”
“Rabo! Rabo!”
I could not sleep that night. Instead I paced back and forth through the camp, endeavoring to find a way to slip through the sentries. There was none. Malac intended that no one be able to reach Attuaca. Several parties of the Goidils had been set to work fashioning crude battering rams. They worked long into the night.
Fires were burning in the town, reminding me of the signal fires that had summoned the host of the Dumnones to our destruction. Perhaps Cinaed needed no warning from me. A savvy warrior, he doubtless suspected Malac’s treachery. Or so I tried to console myself.
I sat down on the stump of a tree that had been cut down for the ram, my javelins in my hand, my eyes gazing toward Attuaca. The night was long. . .
I awoke to the sound of shouting. Shaking my head to clear the fog of sleep from my brain, I raised myself up from the ground. Apparently I had gone to sleep at some time during the night and fallen from my perch on the stump.
A small group of men was advancing from behind the palisade of Attuaca, coming toward our camp. I recognized Cinaed almost instantly, although he had grown a beard and his hair was duller than I had remembered it. Still, he walked tall and proud toward our lines, accompanied by his retainers. A noble man.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...tos/Cinaed.jpg
He stopped in front of our camp and cried with a loud voice, “Where is the leader of this army and wherefore have you come?”
Malac appeared, a coat of chainmail over his shoulders. His sword was strapped to his side. He appeared to have thrown on his armor hurriedly. Tancogeistla was right behind him.
“From the land of the Aedui are we come,” Malac replied, drawing himself up in front of the Calydrae chieftain. “We have come to demand the surrender of your people.”
Unbidden, I walked toward the little group. There was so much I wanted to say to Cinaed, words I knew I would never have the chance to utter. He ignored Malac’s speech, but rather was staring at Tancogeistla. “My people sheltered and fed you through the dark months many years ago, when you and your men were starving in the wilderness. And this is the way you repay that kindness?”
“Malac is my ruler. I obey his commands,” Tancogeistla shrugged piously, deceiving no one, much less Malac. He raised his eyes to meet Cinaed. “This was not my wish.”
The chieftain shook his head. “When you left, you told me that you sailed to take the throne of your people. Was that too a lie?”
“I was deceived,” was Tancogeistla’s simple reply. Cinaed looked toward my approach.
“Cadwalador,” he said slowly. “My men saved you from the snows.”
I nodded in acknowledgement. His face twisted into anger. “I wish we had let you all die!”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, looking into his eyes. He turned his attention back to Malac, who was speaking again.
“. . .what is your answer? Will you lay down your arms and surrender the town?”
Cinaed glared into the face of the Vergobret. “The Calydrae have never known the meaning of surrender. As for our arms—come and take them.”
Malac nodded. “We will do just that.”
I watched as the delegation of the Calydrae turned and walked back, disappearing behind their palisade. A dark certainty overcame me. Many that I called friend would die. One both sides. I knew the Calydrae too well to think that their defense would collapse easily.
Our Vergobret turned, facing the troops that were now pouring from our camp. “Bring forward the rams! We attack as soon as they are in place!”
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
@Chirurgeon: It's about 257, I think. It's been a week or so since I've played--trying to get caught up in the AAR.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Ah, okay, I got you now. It makes the story a lot less freaky-deaky than I had hoped, but I'll roll with it. And, yeah, I have no idea who Nimrod is, other than the vernacularized namesake of many an idiot in the 1920's. ~D
And don't worry, I will not argue theocratics with you... that will lead to bad places fast. Your story is damn good, by the way. Keep it up.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Quote:
Originally Posted by Reverend Joe
Ah, okay, I got you now. It makes the story a lot less freaky-deaky than I had hoped, but I'll roll with it. And, yeah, I have no idea who Nimrod is, other than the vernacularized namesake of many an idiot in the 1920's. ~D
And don't worry, I will not argue theocratics with you... that will lead to bad places fast.
Nimrod is a man described in the book of Genesis as a mighty hunter and empire-builder. Some historians believe he may have been the first man to control an empire there in the Fertile Crescent. As for theocratics. . .it's probably a wise decision. It's against my Christian principles to needlessly flame someone, but one of us might say something regrettable. :yes: Thanks for reading.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XXVI: Assault
Despite Malac’s intentions, we were not formed up for an attack until almost noon. The Calydrae did not let the time go to waste. That much I knew. I dressed myself in a suit of mail I had forged in the gobacrado, took my javelins in hand and mounted up, beside Tancogeistla and the rest of the Brihentin. The tension in our ranks was palpable. Many of us felt the fight was unjust. Even more were breathless in their anticipation of plunder. Tancogeistla was right. We were past the point of no return.
Malac rode forward on his mighty gray warhorse, and tossed a javelin toward the palisade of Attuaca. Despite his age, his arm still possessed incredible power and I watched as the javelin stuck quivering in the logs.
His gesture was greeted with defiant taunts from the Calydrae. He turned, waving to his men. “Forward, my people! Forward, to the walls!”
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...nt-Attuaca.jpg
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...s/Calydrae.jpg
The men assigned to the battering rams moved forward to Malac’s command, pushing the rams in front of them. Berdic’s Iaosatae followed, moving to cover them with their slings. He waved to me as he passed, grinning from ear to ear. He had yet to see the sorrows of war. The way I had.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...nward-Rams.jpg
In the distance, far ahead of where Tancogeistla and I sat astride our steeds, I could hear the thud of the rams being shoved into the palisade. They should make short work of it.
I could hear the screams of men dying as the Calydrae pelted the rams with their javelins. My stay in Attuaca had convinced me firsthand of their proficiency with that weapon. They were putting up a stiff resistance.
Malac’s Brihentin pranced a short distance behind the rams, just out of range. Minutes passed, dragging slowly. I could feel the impatience in our men. They were lusting for battle. Lugort’s Ordmalica stood in formation beside us, their battle hammers held easily at their sides.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...contingent.jpg
The tall, sober Goidilic noble stood at their head. He acknowledged my glance with a silent nod. He did not seem to share the exuberance of many of our warriors. Perhaps he, like myself, had seen too much of war. Or maybe fighting beneath an Aedui banner was what perturbed him. A distant crash turned our attention back to the front. Our rams had broken through the gate.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...ghtheGates.jpg
A horn sounded in front of us. Malac, sounding the charge. His Brihentin galloped forward, nearly trampling several of the men pulling the ram back from the broken gate. The Goidils from Ivernis followed, making for the other two rams, which were just then smashing through the palisade to the right and left of the gate.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...ngtheWalls.jpg
I looked at Tancogeistla, who was holding himself rigidly in place, as though waiting for something. What, I had no idea.
“Shall we go, my lord?” Through the gate ahead of us, I could see Malac’s horsemen fiercely engaged with the warriors of the Calydrae. For the moment they were all alone.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...rgeofMalac.jpg
He smiled, barking a quick order to Belerios, the Brihentin who had been his guard over the years of his captivity. The swarthy Gaul spurred his horse forward, to the line of the Iaosatae, where Berdic stood with the rest of the slingers.
He reined up beside Berdic and said something to him, which was quickly passed down the line. The slingers ceased their fire. The Goidils of Ivernis had disappeared inside through the breach of the wall.
Everyone was engaged, except, I noticed with a sudden sense of disquiet, the men of Emain-Macha. Every detachment, every warband that had followed Tancogeistla’s call to war.
“What’s going on?” I demanded sharply, sensing that there was something he was holding back, something he had kept from me. “Do we not ride to his aid?”
Tancogeistla chuckled. “This is the day, my son. The day the authority of the vergobret returns to me. Your faithfulness will be rewarded, after all these long years.”
Just at the moment, I could have cared less. I merely wished to know what he meant, to have him deny the horrible sense of treachery that was rising within me.
“You intend that he falls by their hand, don’t you?”
He turned in his saddle. “Far more honorable than if I should slay him, don’t you think, Cadwalador? And far less divisive.”
“You speak of honor?” I asked incredulously. “Malac is a treacherous dog, but those men—all the Aeduans who will die with him. What have they done?”
His countenance was calm, undisturbed by my anger. Indeed, if anything, he seemed vaguely amused by it. In that, he suddenly reminded me of Cavarillos.
“They have chosen their side. And their death. They will die as heroes of our people.”
“Everyone will know how you abandoned them,” I remonstrated fiercely. Part of me wanted to abandon Malac, to do what Tancogeistla had planned, but the other part wanted to go to the help of my people. Even if it meant lifting my hand against the Calydrae.
“We will charge,” he stated, an irritating patience in his voice. “Wait.”
We could see the fighting through the massive gaps in the palisade. Here and there dashed a figure on a horse, presumably one of Malac’s Brihentin. I had seen no horses among the Calydrae during our stay.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...nd-to-Hand.jpg
Tancogeistla sat silently on his horse, for perhaps another ten, fifteen minutes. What we could see of the carnage in the town was terrible. Our men were dying by the dozens. As were the Calydrae. My friends, all of them.
Tancogeistla leaned forward and spoke to Lugort. His voice was too low for me to hear, but we started forward, toward the walls of Attuaca.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...os/Forward.jpg
My horse broke into a fast trot, his hooves a steady drumbeat against the snowy sod. We rode in the north breach, picking our way over and around the dead and dying. Just then a shout went up.
“He is fleeing! Gods preserve us, for he is fleeing!”
I looked back just in time to see Malac and two of the surviving nobles break from the mass of struggling men, riding toward the rear. Nay, not riding, but fleeing as the men had cried. Running from the enemy. I had never thought of such a thing.
Malac was a cruel and treacherous foe, but I had never doubted his courage. Until now.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...ghtofMalac.jpg
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/.../Cowardice.jpg
Tancogeistla laughed with delight, drawing his sword from its scabbard. It was now left to him to rally the men, to turn the tide of battle. A role he was more than willing to accept. “Forward my brave warriors!” he screamed, his voice carrying above the din of battle. “Rally to my banner! Follow on!”
I rode behind him, struck with the realization that he had deceived me in more ways than one. He was more than willing to destroy the Calydrae—in fact he was eager to do so. He had manipulated the whole situation from the beginning—everyone, including me. In a mad attempt to regain his rightful place in the state.
We rode forward, into the thick of the fighting.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...etFighting.jpg
I glimpsed Cinaed’s figure almost immediately—a bear-like figure in the middle of the struggle, fighting bravely with his thrusting spear. Apparently either his javelins were expended, or else our men had come too close. In my heart, I prayed that he might be spared, that somehow he could survive this madness. Prayer to whom, I had no idea. Perhaps to the ancient God Motios had spoken of. Certainly not to any of the triad of my forefathers, the gods which had abandoned me so many years ago on this desolate isle.
I rode behind Tancogeistla, into the sea of struggling men, trying to remain out of it. I had no wish to strike down those who had befriended me and saved my life in the dark months so many years ago.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...heTraitors.jpg
My horse let out a shrill, pitiful whinny and I glanced down, broken from my trance. A young warrior stabbed his spear upwards into my mount’s belly, clearly attempting to unhorse me. His eyes were full of hate and rage. I tossed one of my javelins at him, but the range was too short and the blow merely knocked him back, the tip not penetrating his chest.
His comrades seemed to materialize out of the earth, surrounding me. My horse fell, flinging me to the side, to the ground. One of the Calydrae came rushing toward me, screaming his battle-cry, his spear leveled.
I rolled to one side and grabbed the shaft with both hands, twisting with all my strength. The muscles I had developed at the forge were aiding me now, but the chainmail taxed my efforts to rise. With one final effort, I ripped the spear from his hands, swinging the blunt end toward his head.
He went down as though pole-axed. I reversed the spear quickly, throwing up my free arm to block the blow descending toward my head from another of the Calydrae. His effort had taken him off-balance and I counterattacked, thrusting the spear into his belly. He screamed, his eyes glazing with death as blood flowed from his body. He went down into the street, taking the spear with him.
Once again I was weaponless. The conflict ebbed and flowed around me. Men were dying on every hand. I moved forward, dazed by the carnage. The Brihentin, the champions of Tancogeistla, dashed to and fro, almost trampling some of our own men.
A javelin hissed past my ear, burying itself in the doorpost of a nearby house. I looked up to find an enemy warrior rushing toward me. His face was familiar to me, one of the young men I had played at javelins with, testing our skill and accuracy. One of my friends among the Calydrae.
There was no friendship in his eyes now, only a lust for blood. I stooped down, as though guided by instinct, my hands closing around one of the war-hammers used by the Ordmalica. The corpse of its owner lay scarce a foot from it.
I parried his thrust with the haft of the hammer, and then swung back at him, putting all my strength into the swing. I was entering the zone now, detached from myself, issuing commands to a body I no longer inhabited. I seemed to see myself, as though I watched in a dream, fighting against the army of the Calydrae. The army of my preservers.
I heard the sickening crunch of bone breaking, a twisted cry erupting from his throat as my hammer slammed into his breastbone, collapsing the chest cavity. He slumped to the ground, frothy blood escaping from between his lips. Death was knocking at his heart’s door.
I looked down into his eyes, eyes once vibrant with the joy of living, now harboring only the vacancy of death. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. And yet to survive, I had to keep moving, keep killing. And I did.
A sudden blow from the side stunned me, nearly spinning me around as fire raced up and down my back. I was bleeding.
Cinaed. “You should have stayed in your home,” he hissed, raising his spear for the final blow. “We did not seek this war.”
“Neither did I,” I whispered, lacking the strength to raise the hammer against him. His thrust had ripped open my side, letting the blood flow freely. “Neither did I.”
He hesitated, one moment, as though confused by my words. But it wouldn’t matter in the end. I knew that.
A sword descended from the air, smashing into Cinaed’s bared neck, just above his cloak. A crimson spray erupted from severed veins as the chieftain collapsed to the ground, his life flowing from his body.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...naedsDeath.jpg
I looked up into the eyes of Tancogeistla. There was a fraction of my mind that knew I should thank him for saving my life, but a larger part of me wanted to curse him for his manipulations, for bringing us here in the first place. For I knew now that he had possessed the power to stop Malac, even before we came across the waters, before we had marched on Attuaca. And he had not used it.
I stumbled away through the carnage, moving as though in a dream. I collapsed in a doorway, weak from blood loss, my hammer slipping from between my fingers.
The skirmishers, the Imannae of Ivernis, were putting up a stiff fight only a few yards from where I sat.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...os/Imannae.jpg
I lacked the strength to join them. Something warned me, a glimpse of motion out of the corner of my eye, a sound, what I don’t know. I rolled weakly to the side just as knife plunged into the doorpost where my head had been resting.
“Dog!” A woman’s voice cried, loud and shrill. And familiar. I reached up, grabbing at the knife hand, arresting its downward swing.
A young woman glared down into my face, her eyes red from weeping, rage on her countenance. Then her eyes changed. “Cadwalador?”
I shook my head to clear the cobwebs from my mind, attempting to place her. “Diedre?” I demanded incredulously.
She nodded, falling to one knee beside me. The knife fell from her hand, much to my relief. I could scarcely believe that the young woman now at my side was the same girl I had walked over the heather-covered hills with so many years ago. She had blossomed into the maturity of womanhood in the intervening years, leaving behind the gawkiness of her youth.
And she was very clearly with child. Tears flowed from her eyes, silent sobs wracking her body.
“Why did you come back?” She gasped out through her tears. “Why, like this?” I gazed past her, out the doorway. The ranks of the Calydrae were broken now, men running for the town square, disheartened at the death of their leader.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...dotos/Rout.jpg
There was no answer to the question of her broken heart. “Had it been my decision, I would never have returned,” I replied quietly, my own heart torn in two at the betrayal I had been an unwilling part of. “But some men’s ambition knows no limit.”
My words had no effect on her sorrow. I had hardly expected that they would. I wanted to reach out and comfort her, but I was acutely aware of the awkwardness of my position.
“Where is your husband?” I asked, my hand stealing surreptitiously toward the hilt of the knife. In my weakened condition, I hardly wanted to be caught in this compromising position with another man’s wife.
She shook her head, some of her anger returning as she gestured out the doorway to the body-covered ground. “Somewhere out there.”
I looked across the hard-packed sod, so thickly strewn with the dead and dying that it was impossible to walk without stepping on a corpse. Her husband, the father of her babe, was dead.
All at once, cheering seemed to erupt from the ground, rolling down from the hill in the center of town where the last of the Calydrae had taken refuge. Apparently, the day was ours. But none of that mattered. Not to me. Not to the young widow who grieved at my side. All that mattered was the loss—that could never be restored.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...fulVictory.jpg
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...uaca-Stats.jpg
Oh, yes, this was victory. . .
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
I think you just set an unbeatable record for longest time in an AAR before your first victory. :laugh4: Congratulations... I guess.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Wow that was a great little fight there. Were you trying to kill off Malac and instead he fled? Its bad enough to be fighting now he has to deal with yet another woman...Is he going to adopt the child? I guess time will tell. Nothing like blood and snow to start off your day right! and the guys with the hammers are very cool looking.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
I'm loving this story more and more each chapter. You could really make a novel out of this.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
I've finally managed to read the entirety of your tale so far... and I can comment on it at last... I did not want to comment before reading everything. I have to say that I was quite certain Tancogeistla was going to end up on top - that's how I would have done it too - then bring him down in the future - the obvious ways to bring him down being 1) through your main hero 2) through our beloved mercenary returning after all these years... but I would not pick the obvious path, no, no, I'd choose a third option, I shall not name here... after all this is your story, and I ramble too much. :oops: /someone gag me.
EDIT: I was so inspired by your story I even thought of a possible continuation... that's proof your writing is great right there if people actually think of possible continuations. I can not wait to see how you advance the story.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
@Reverend Joe: Thanks. Of course, you're forgetting that I had to win the assaults on Ivernis and Emain-Macha to own those cities. However, my narrator was absent, and those battles were never described.
@Chirurgeon: Yeah, Malac's death was my intent. I actually reloaded the battle four times in an effort to make it happen. :sweatdrop: However, the coward fled every time and I decided to work that into the story instead.
@defiant: There's even more twists to come. Glad you're reading along.
@Aaldaemon: This is reminding me of something I did to Chirurgeon a few months ago. Private joke, hehe. :laugh4: Glad you're reading and would be interested to see what you've thought up. PM me if you think it's worth your while. Rest assured, if I used anything I would give you appropriate credit. However, I've got quite a little planned out myself :idea2: Always interested to see what people are thinking.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XXVII: Consequences
The days which followed were filled with mourning, the women of the Calydrae weeping for their dead. Our troops rampaged through Attuaca, looting and burning, drinking themselves drunk. Diedre bandaged my wounds and together we went out to find the body of her husband.
The corpses were beginning to stink, bloating under the sun. Only the intense cold kept the town habitable. Some of the bodies were barely recognizable. Tancogeistla’s sword-slash had nearly taken the head off Cinaed’s body. The chieftain lay face-down in a frozen pool of his own blood.
We found her husband, lying in front of a nearby door. He was stretched out on his back, his spear still clutched tightly in hands now stiff with death. His torso was smashed in by a hammer, the entire rib cage collapsed inward.
He was the man I had killed. Diedre let out a small cry and fell to her knees beside the body, cradling his head in her lap. Clearly, she had loved him.
I saw no need to tell her that I had taken his life. It would only add to her grief, as it already had to mine. My friend. Her husband. Dead at my hand. War. . .
Malac came skulking back into town a week after the battle’s conclusion, but we saw little of him. People avoided him in the streets, shunned him by their scornful silence. Vergobret though he still was, he was an outcast
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...os/Recluse.jpg
Tancogeistla was leader in all but name. The people listened to him, respected him for the bravery he had shown in the battle. They called him Kuaroas, or champion. Men flocked to his banner.
But I did not. His deceitful ploy to reclaim his rightful place had cost many lives and wreaked havoc in many others. Mine included.
Rumor had it that he still sought Malac’s life and the Vergobret fled from Attuaca, back to Erain, where he assumed the governorship of Emain-Macha. However, he had lost almost all his influence and for the moment Tancogeistla seemed to have other things on his mind. His rival could be dealt with later.
Tancogeistla quickly went about quartering his troops in every house in the settlement, thus securing at the least the overt loyalty of the inhabitants.
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...ratuboudic.jpg
Almost three months to the day from the fall of Attuaca, Diedre brought forth a baby-girl, the child conceived of she and her husband’s union.
Over the months, I had found the fondness I had once felt for the Belgae maiden growing steadily into love, and it seemed that the feeling was mutual as she bandaged my wounds and endeavored to make me at home there in the town in those early days. I made the necessary arrangements to take her as my wife once the time of her mourning was fulfilled.
My dreams of Inyae had finally ceased to haunt me, those visions of that dark night with Cavarillos. Instead, as I lay beside Diedre in our small chamber, Inyae’s face was replaced by another.
Diedre’s husband rose up before me on our first night as man and wife. I could see the look of agony on his face as my hammer smashed into his breastbone, hear his death cry as his broken body collapsed to the ground.
Then all that passed away and his face changed, a look of reproach crossing his countenance. I could almost hear his voice rebuking me for my action. I rolled onto my back, coming awake with a start, sweat rolling in beads down my face. Diedre still lay at my side, her slow, regular breathing assuring me that she was still asleep. There were three of us in the bed that night. . .
A year passed, then two. I saw nothing of Tancogeistla, save in public. Perhaps sensing my condemnation of his actions, he no longer visited the man who had saved his life. The rewards he had promised during the battle never came to pass. I had hardly expected that they would.
And yet, for all the fame and power that he had gained through his cunning, still one thing eluded him. An heir. Perhaps it is man’s desire for immortality that causes him to crave a son, someone to continue his noble exploits, fulfill the dreams that are now beyond the grasp of his aged hands. Tancogeistla and his wife had never been able to have children. Some spoke in hushed whispers that this was the curse of his usurpation of power from Malac, but the more sensible realized the truth. He and his wife were simply too old. His youth had been spent fighting the wars of the Aedui. Such things as siring an heir had been cast by the wayside until it was too late.
Friends of mine who came to the forge told me he had even employed a witch of the Calydrae to try to work her magic. Whatever she attempted, it didn’t work.
Thus, the announcement in the city square nearly two and a half years after the fall of Attuaca came as no surprise.
Tancogeistla arrived in the square, standing tall and erect despite his years. If one improvement had been made to his character in the years since our migration together, it was that he had finally won his war with the bottle. Wine no longer had the same power over him that it once had. He was dressed in full battle regalia, chainmail and all, the helmet concealing his snow-white hair. But beside him stood another, a far younger man whom I did not recognize.
Tancogeistla raised his hands over the assembled crowd, calling for silence. “As all of you know,” he began, “I am old, and well stricken in years. And I have sacrificed my life in the service of my people. My days upon this earth are numbered.”
His speech was interrupted by the cries of the people, earnest protestations against what he was saying. It was as though he had become a god to them, a champion who would continue to lead their forces through eternity. They did not know him as I did. Diedre stood at my side, cradling her daughter in her arms. She was with child once again. I too prayed for a son.
Our leader continued as soon as the crowd would allow him. “It is true, my people. And if I die, who will lead you? The whore’s son who ran from battle those years ago, the man some still recognize as vergobret? Or the fruit of his loins, those two young boys who have not yet grown to manhood? Might they not too run from the test of brave men?”
Shrill cries of approbation greeted his words.
“The man who stands beside me is one in whom I have the greatest confidence. A man I have decided to adopt as though he were my own son. A man from the tribe of the Cruithni, whose homes have been made in Erain for countless centuries.”
My ears perked up. The Cruithni were an ancient race, but in the years since the invasion of Erain, they had hardly been known for their loyalty to their new Aeduan overlords. Perhaps this man was an exception.
“I present to you my son, Aneirin moc Cunobelin. My son and my heir.”
https://i272.photobucket.com/albums/...s/Adoption.jpg
The crowd went wild. A figure pushed through the mass of people to stand at my side. It was Berdic, an unusual sobriety on his typically carefree countenance. We exchanged greetings and he stood in silence for a moment before asking what I thought of the new heir.
I shrugged. “Only time will tell us. Until then I shall reserve my judgement.”
He nodded slowly. “You know, old friend, that could have been you. . .”
Diedre suppressed a small gasp. I turned, staring him full in the face. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Of course you do. . .”
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
It's almost a pity that characters get older... Tancogeistla should live forever... (now that would be a nice twist hehe):yes:
I particularly liked the: “You know, old friend, that could have been you. . .” line. Great line and great timing. (although you need edit your post - it has an extra you in it right now - "that could have you been you")
Obviously you got stuff planned, I tend to plan myself Hari Seldon style... long term being an understatement, and I doubt that what I thought at the time is what you'll be doing, but I'll pm you about it, since you ask.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Quote:
Originally Posted by
Aaldaemon
It's almost a pity that characters get older... Tancogeistla should live forever... (now that would be a nice twist hehe):yes:
I particularly liked the: “You know, old friend, that could have been you. . .” line. Great line and great timing. (although you need edit your post - it has an extra you in it right now - "that could have you been you")
Obviously you got stuff planned, I tend to plan myself Hari Seldon style... long term being an understatement, and I doubt that what I thought at the time is what you'll be doing, but I'll pm you about it, since you ask.
Interesting theory. As you say, different from what I had planned--but time will tell. Rest assured, if I use anything of your ideas, I will credit you. Thanks for catching my typo. I post in a hurry. Keep reading!
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XVIII: Loyalties
I shook my head, wondering if despite his sober countenance, my old playmate was drunken. “What are you trying to say?”
Berdic smiled grimly. “Tancogeistla had every intention of making you his heir, instead of this blasted Cruithni.”
He was dead sober. I didn’t know what to make of it. Perhaps it was the reward Tancogeistla had alluded to several times. Still, if so. . . “What kept him from it?”
“You,” he replied. “Your rebuke of his actions at Attuaca. I feel he no longer trusts you as he once did, Cadwalador. You should be watching your back.”
“My loyalty to him is unquestioned,” I retorted hotly. “I saved his life many years ago in this island, at great cost to myself.”
“My statement to you still stands. In this time, loyalties are changing, as unstable as a brook of water. This day the people flock to Tancogeistla’s banner. The next, they could just as easily turn back to a resurgent Malac. Tancogeistla knows this. And he will crush anyone who stands in his way.”
“Or in the way of his heir, Aneirin moc Cunobelin.”
“Exactly,” Berdic warned, his tones dark with meaning. “You have a family now, Cadwalador. The daughter of a Calydrae warrior and a wife who will bear your child. Take care of them. Don’t offend Tancogeistla again.”
“I did only what I felt was right,” I replied, feeling a need to defend myself from the accusation my friend had made. “There was no justice in this war.”
“Does there need to be?” Berdic asked, laying a hand on my shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. “Take care, my friend.”
I looked down into Diedre’s worried eyes. “Are you in danger, my love?”
I shook my head, wishing to reassure her. “Nothing that you should worry about,” I replied, taking her into my arms. But even as I did so, I looked up to the platform where Tancogeistla and Aneirin still stood. There was danger there. Should Aneirin moc Cunobelin prove as ruthless and cunning as his patron, there was much danger. . .
Thus it was that Berdic’s words were on my mind when a knock came on my door early one morning five weeks later and I opened it to find Belerios standing there. As always, a longsword nestled in the scabbard at his side.
The swarthy Brihentin wasn’t smiling as he bid me a good morning.
“Tancogeistla wishes to speak with you. Immediately.”
I glanced back into the shadows of my home, saw the fear in Diedre’s eyes as she held her daughter close. “What does my lord wish?” I asked, endeavoring to fathom Tancogeistla’s intent.
“He wishes you to come with me,” Belerios replied stolidly. “That is all you need to know.”
“I will be with you in a moment,” I responded. “Let me bid my wife good-bye.”
“Very well.”
I closed the door and turned back to Diedre, folding her into my arms. “Come back to me, my husband,” she whispered, her tears falling against my chest. I could feel the child she bore kick against me from her womb and I smiled.
“Our child is strong,” I stated, stroking her long hair with my fingers. She nodded, tears still streaming down her cheeks.
“A strong son. And he will need a father. Please, Cadwalador,” she begged, gazing steadfastly into my eyes. “My first husband was taken from me by this man’s lust for power. He will destroy you as well if he thinks you are a threat. Please return to me.”
My heart was torn by the despair in her voice, by the earnestness of her plea. “Don’t worry, love,” I whispered, gently pulling myself from her embrace. “I will do everything I can. We will sup together tonight. I promise you that.”
Belerios knocked again at the door. “Are you ready, Cadwalador?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Goodbye, Diedre. Remember, I will be home before the night falls.”
I left my house and walked through the streets of Attuaca with Belerios. Much had changed in the years since its fall to our army. More of the Aedui from Erain had moved to this new possession, thus securing their mastery of the place.
Tancogeistla’s dwelling, more of a rude palace than anything, stood at the end of a long street. It was of new construction.
Guards stood at the entrance as we approached, the light of the early morning sun glittering off their bared weapons. I knew Tancogeistla to have been a light sleeper ever since the night with Cavarillos so many years earlier. Clearly his feud with Malac had not diminished his desire for security.
Together we were ushered into an inner courtyard, where several young men practiced at javelins. One of them was Aneirin moc Cunobelin. Tancogeistla stood watching them.
He turned at our entrance. “Welcome, Cadwalador. It’s been some time.”
“Yes, my lord,” I nodded. “My forge keeps me busy.”
“And your wife,” he added, with a hint of a twinkle in his eye. “She carries your child, I hear.”
“Yes.”
“The gods have blessed you.” I felt it was prudent to acknowledge that statement with a short nod, whether I believed it or not.
“You wished my presence, my lord?” I asked, but he seemed to be in no hurry to get to the root of the matter.
“I remember you were rather skilled with a javelin at one time yourself, weren’t you, Cadwalador?” he asked, gazing past me to where the young men practiced.
I nodded. “Decently.”
“Ah, yes, I remember you using them against that traitor Cavarillos. Too bad you didn’t kill him,” he said absently.
“I did everything within my power,” I replied shortly. My failure to kill Cavarillos still haunted me. I didn’t appreciate him bringing it back up.
“I know you did,” he responded, looking into my eyes with the same strange magnetism he had always possessed. The charisma that drew men to his banner, that had seduced me into his service more than once in the past. I had enough of it. “I have never doubted your loyalty to me, Cadwalador. That is why I have called you to me today.”
I remained silent. A reply was neither required nor expected. He went on after a moment. “I need you to go back to the mainland.”
“Permanently.”
A shake of the head. “No. Merely to deliver a message. Aneirin!” he called, lifting his voice and summoning the young man who was his heir.
The javelin flew from Aneirin’s hand just as Tancogeistla spoke, slamming into the logs several feet to the left of the target. It was a pitiful showing and I could see several of the soldiers covering their mouths to conceal their laughter. A bad sign, I observed. Tancogeistla had succeeded in his bloody path to the throne only because he commanded his men’s absolute respect as a warrior. Aneirin moc Cunobelin did not.
He walked up to our small party, shaking his head as if well aware of his failings. “Aneirin,” Tancogeistla began, “I wish to introduce you to an old bodyguard of mine, one of my Brihentin when we first came to Attuaca. His name is Cadwalador.”
The young man acknowledged the introduction with a careless nod. “My father has spoken much of you.”
Alarms sounded in my head. What had been said? Aneirin was perhaps seven years my junior, shorter and not as muscular. My work at the forge had strengthened me beyond anything I could have dreamed of when I first left my homeland. His head was topped by a rough shock of red hair, similar to the color I remembered Tancogeistla’s had been so many years ago. Looking at him now, it was hard to think it could have been so long.
Aneirin’s posture was relaxed, almost languid. He had the look of a sedentary man, not a warrior. I didn’t know what to think of Tancogeistla’s choice.
“This message you speak of,” I asked, focusing my attention back to Tancogeistla, “whom shall I deliver it to?”
His eyes had lost none of their fire as he turned, his gaze locking with mine. “Malac. . .”
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Nice reflecting of traits in this chapter... "Bad Army Connections" and "Languorous" to be sure. Tancogeistla is still my favorite character... pity he's so old, would have loved to see him King of all the Gauls before his eventual fall from grace.:embarassed:
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
The past three chapters are excellent! Honestly, you have shown me that I could role play this game on a completely different level! I actually hope to be reading your novels in 10 years! I never intentionally use exclamation points, but you are a good writer....
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Quote:
Originally Posted by
Irishmafia2020
The past three chapters are excellent! Honestly, you have shown me that I could role play this game on a completely different level! I actually hope to be reading your novels in 10 years! I never intentionally use exclamation points, but you are a good writer....
I second that.
@ Theodotos : At first I thought the story was winding down toward it's conclusion. However, you've unlocked more potential for this story to roll on. It's been such a great read so far, and now it seems as if you are only getting started. I find myself anxiously waiting for even more. Keep it up :2thumbsup:
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
@Aaldaemon: Yeah, I don't bother roleplaying traits in my normal campaigns, but I will in this story. I kept puzzling over what "Bad Army Connections" could be, and finally settled on a simple lack of prowess with weapons. I wish Tancogeistla had more years too, but he will live long enough to cause more chaos, don't worry. :yes:
@Irishmafia: I am humbled by your appraisal of this. And that I've inspired you in your own gaming. As for my novels--if I have my way you will see them sooner than ten years. Curiosity question; saw the other day that you taught school on the Navajo Reservation. What subjects? I'm actually part Indian myself.
@Defiant: I was expecting an adoption, figured it would have to happen for my dynasty to survive at all. Which is why I invaded Attuaca. Malac and Tancogeistla can only keep going for so long. Enjoy! This story is far from over. :book:
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XXIX: Message for Malac
His words took my breath away. Apparently it showed on my face. “Is there a problem with that?” he asked sharply.
I shook my head. “No, my lord. I was just surprised.” Honesty seemed like the wisest answer at the moment.
He snapped his fingers at a servant who stood nearby. The man disappeared into a nearby doorway and came back out with a leathern packet in his hand. Tancogeistla took it from him and handed it to me. “Give this to that dog of a vergobret,” he growled, snarling out Malac’s name.
“Right away?” I asked, remembering my promise to Diedre. If I did not return by nightfall. . .
“Immediately!” the old general snapped. “Or do you have commitments that take precedence over my orders, Cadwalador?”
I shook my head in the negative. “I had promised my wife that I would return to her by nightfall. That is all.”
The expression on Tancogeistla’s face never changed. He turned and barked at Belerios. The Brihentin took a step forward to stand beside me. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, an imposing figure even in his street clothes, the sword strapped to his side. There was a vest of mail beneath his cloak, I knew. I had made enough of them. “Belerios, inform this man’s wife of the reasons for his absence. See that she is made comfortable.”
“Yes, my lord.” The Brihentin turned and left the courtyard, his strides long and purposeful. He had his orders. As did I.
“I was glad to meet you, Cadwalador,” Aneirin said, smiling at me as I started to leave. I nodded.
“Should I wait for an answer?” I asked, my attention still focused on Tancogeistla. No matter what his intentions for young Aneirin, my old general was still the man I had to deal with.
He smiled grimly. “No,” he responded, shaking his head. “He will be coming back with you. The message will explain it all.”
A regular ferry had been established for the use of men passing between Erain and the land of the Calydrae. I rode hard the rest of the day, reaching the ferry just before nightfall. The sun sank into the western sea, drowning its flames in a pool of molten blood. Reminding me of my promise to Diedre.
I encamped with the ferrymen that night, lying alone by the fire. I dreamed of Diedre, her face rising up before me. I fancied I could feel her, as if she lay there beside me on the sand of the beach.
The years of our marriage had been good ones, as I established my gobacrado there in Attuaca, attempting to provide for the family I had so suddenly taken upon myself. A wife, and a daughter. And soon, a son. . .
I smiled at the memory. The night before, when we had lain together on our small wooden pallet. Diedre had taken my hand and placed it against her swollen belly. “Feel him, my love,” she had whispered, smiling into my eyes through the darkness. “Feel him move. A miracle—a miracle of our love, Cadwalador.”
I had bent over and gently kissed her lips, whispering my love softly, as though afraid of waking her daughter. Her face was radiant with joy, glowing in the moonlight that shone through our window.
And at once it changed, her face wet with tears, her eyes red from crying, her voice calling out my name. Screaming. . .
I sat bolt upright, a fear gripping my heart. The sun was just beginning to peak over the hills behind me. It was a dream. Just a dream.
I went aboard the ferry with the boatmen and together we began the passage. I stood in the stern of the boat for a long time, gazing back at the land of my home, where I had left my beloved. I had never dreamed of anything half so powerful as the love I felt for Diedre. United in sorrow, our union had endured and become stronger because of it. She was a part of me, inseparable. As the bard said, two had become one.
But once again, I had a duty to fulfill. Perhaps this last obligation to Tancogeistla would quit me of him forever. I had lost too much following his banner.
It took me several days to find Malac. He had hidden himself away from the world, from everyone that had shunned him. When I reined my horse in outside his house, the only sign that it was the residence of the Vergobret were three guards standing outside. It was little more than a hovel.
“I need to speak with Malac,” I demanded, swinging down from the back of my horse. “I have a message for him.”
The Brihentin seemed unimpressed. “From who?”
“Tancogeistla,” I replied, watching their eyes for any sign of trouble. For there it was that it would come. Not in the tightening of a hand ‘round the hilt of a sword, but rather in the flicker of an eye. Cavarillos had taught me that, drilled it into me in our mock sword-bouts back in the early days of our friendships. I could still hear his voice ringing down through the ages.
My eyes, Cadwalador. Watch my eyes, not my blade. For my eyes will tell you where my blade will go. It is something no man, not even I, can help. The eyes hold no secrets. Watch my eyes.
But there was nothing to see. The oldest of the Brihentin smiled at the mention of Tancogeistla’s name. “The leader of our people,” he intoned reverently. “Come inside.”
I ducked my head to enter the hovel. Darkness filled the interior, but one of the guards went over and stirred the coals of the fire there in the center of the floor, fanning them into flame.
“Malac!” he called.
After a few moments, an aged figure shuffled from behind a partition towards the back of the dwelling.
I was shocked by the change two years had wrought. He looked old, far beyond his years. His white hair was long and unkempt, a full beard covering his face. His skin was white as paste, untouched by the sun. And yet I could see it in his eyes as he stepped into the firelight.
He was the same Malac. As crafty and cunning as ever. “Cadwalador,” he greeted, surprising me with his remembrance of my name.
“Yes, my lord.”
He sagged onto a rude bench carved by the side of a wall and motioned for me to sit across from him. “It has been a long time since anyone has called me that. No one feels I deserve the distinction. You may call me by my name, if you so wish. What is it you have for me?”
I handed over the leathern packet. “A message Tancogeistla wished me to deliver to you.”
“That crafty devil,” Malac whispered, almost chuckling. “He ruined me at last, you see that, do you not, Cadwalador?”
I nodded, watching as his thin fingers tore open the packet, unfolding the message inside. He spoke sharply to the Brihentin, who stirred the embers into a brighter blaze, shadows dancing against the walls of the hovel.
He swore vociferously as he finished reading. I asked him what the message said.
“As you undoubtedly know, your general is planning another campaign. Against the people of Yns-Mon.”
I sat there in stunned silence. I knew nothing of such plans. And I told Malac so.
“Perhaps the general no longer takes you into his confidence as he used to,” Malac suggested, the craftiness still there in his voice. “He wishes me to come and ride with him in this campaign. He challenges me to prove my bravery one last time.”
My head came up. “You would be riding to your death!”
He nodded. “I know it. Yet, what is life here? A never-ending death of shame and disgrace.” He stood, beckoning to the Brihentin. “Bring me my sword.”
“You were told to bring me back, were you not?” Malac asked, gazing into my eyes.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Then I will give you no trouble. You have stood unwavering with Tancogeistla for years. Would you mind if I asked you why?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, really. He was the rightful heir. . .” my voice trailed off.
“I will tell you why, if you so wish. It is because you are a man of principle, a man of loyalty. You cannot leave him now even should you wish to do so, even if you should wish it. Because you would feel that you were doing wrong. Tancogeistla should appreciate such loyalty. The gods know he cannot find it in half the fawning idiots he gathers around himself. I will come with you.”
“Very well. How soon can you leave?”
The Brihentin returned, bearing Malac’s sword. The old man took it and girded it to his body. “Immediately.”
We rode back to the ferry together in silence, as I pondered the old Vergorbet’s words. There was something, something sad and something poignant about his calm acceptance of death.
Within two days, we rode into Attuaca. Malac smiled as our mounts trotted through the gate. “It has been years since I have seen this place, Cadwalador. It has grown.” He paused. “And this could have all been mine had I not been so foolish as to run from the heat of the battle.”
“Nay, my lord,” I replied, surprising myself by my own words. “Tancogeistla would have killed you anyway.”
He turned in his saddle, looking back into my face. “As he intends to do now?”
I nodded slowly.
“Be careful, my young friend. A man in Tancogeistla’s position is not to be trusted. He will kill me, as he has every right to. But he will also eliminate anyone who he perceives as a threat. Tread wisely.”
“I must leave you here,” I said finally. “You will find Tancogeistla in the palace. I must go home to my wife.”
“You are married?” Malac asked, raising his eyebrows. I acknowledged his question with a nod.
“Then tread twice as wisely. Fare thee well, young Cadwalador.”
We parted ways, and I rode slowly down the muddy street toward my home, which was built beside the gobacrado. As I approached, I spied a figure slumped on my doorstep. It was Berdic, apparently sleeping off a drunken stupor.
But it was strange. Diedre knew he was my friend. We had given him hospitality before when the tavern had thrown him into the street. Why had she not taken him in now?
I dismounted, gazing down into my friend’s face. He was clearly drunken, snoring loudly as he lay there on the step. I took him by the arm, but failed to waken him. Shaking my head in disgust, I stepped over his prostrate form and pushed open the door to my home.
Everything was quiet. Far too quiet. “Diedre!” I called, almost fancying in my imagination that I could hear her voice answering back, light and cheerful, as in days of old. Her beautiful face smiling around the curtains of cloth that partitioned our apartment.
There was nothing. Fear took my heart in its icy grip. I called again, for her, her daughter, anyone. The only sound was my own voice, and Berdic’s snoring.
And then I saw it. Food piled in a heap on the table, a mountain of it. I had seen it before. Gifts from neighbors and friends. The presents of death.
I raced from the room, grabbing Berdic by the shoulder and shaking him. He snored on, unfazed. Swearing viciously, I slapped him across the face.
“Berdic!” I screamed, fear in my voice. His eyes flickered awake. “Oh. It—it’s you, Cadwalador,” he said stupidly.
“Where is Diedre? Berdic! Tell me where she is!”
He gazed up at me through bloodshot eyes. My question didn’t seem to make much sense to him. “Diedre? You don’t know?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking!” I exclaimed through clenched teeth. “What happened to her, you fool!”
“You don’t know,” he said, shaking his head as though to clear the cobwebs of drink from it. “Oh, Cadwalador. I’m sorry. You—you didn’t know.”
“Tell me!”
“She’s dead,” he whispered.
I stood there in shock, my lips moving but no words coming out. I had no power to form them. My entire world was crashing down around me. Malac’s words flickered through my mind.
He will eliminate anyone he perceives as a threat. Tread wisely. . .
“Dead?” I asked, looking down into Berdic’s face, begging him to tell me otherwise. That his words were a lie. That it wasn’t true.
He nodded slowly. . .
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
I think I'm gonna have to stop reading this AAR. Honestly, I enjoyed it at first as a change from the usual, but this is just unrelentingly bleak. It's getting to the point where there seems to be no variety whatsoever; everything just goes from bad to worse, all the leaders are evil, conniving monsters, and there's nobody even approaching a hero character, not even an antihero (which, frankly, I would prefer to a traditional hero, but like I said, there are no heroes at all.) After a while, it's simply too much to handle.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Great story. Seems like almost every chapter is a plot twister.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
I liked this update a lot. I have no problem with realism / bleakness... I'm quite tired of the opposite end of the spectrum in fact... ranging from "good guys always win" stuff to "let's sugar coat the ugly parts" stuff. No, no, quite liked this update. Two thumbs up... :2thumbsup:
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Oh man I really hope he's just insanely drunk.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Quote:
Oh man I really hope he's just insanely drunk.
So be -hic- easy and fwee -hic- when yerw drink-hic-ing wi' me.
I'm a -hic- man you don't meet evewy -hic- day!
Another excellent update. Love this stuff.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Oh, dear. You can please some of the people all the time, and all the people some of the time, but you can never please all the people all the time.:juggle2:
@Reverend Joe: I’m sorry you feel this way. However, things are not always as they seem. Malac and Tancogeistla are in their latter years, and I think you will find Aneirin moc Cunobelin to be quite a different type of character. I agree with you about the lack of heroes, but you must appreciate the difficulty of writing about the classic hero-style character from the first-person perspective. I initially intended for Cadwalador to chronicle the heroic exploits of Cavarillos, but that relationship went places I never dreamed of.
It is difficult for a hero to write about his own deeds without sounding boastful. I have talked with true modern-day heroes, including some of America’s brave soldiers, and they spent half their time trying to deny that they did anything out of the ordinary. Therefore, I think you see the problem.
As Malac and Tancogeistla pass from the scene, you will see Cadwalador’s role change. He is older than Aneirin moc Cunobelin, and that will alter the equation. I trust you will keep reading.
@General Appo: I’m glad you’re enjoying it.
@Aaldaemon: Thought you would. Your suggestions were far more bleak than this, but I appreciated them anyway. However, I see Reverend Joe's point. Perhaps this has been downhill for too long. I'll let my readers be the judge.
@Olaf the Great: Glad to see you're reading. But no, he's not that drunk. However, things are not always as they seem.
@Hax: Good to have you back. It's been awhile. And, yes, you do a good imitation of Berdic. Maybe I'll hire you. :laugh4::laugh4:
Quick question, everyone: How many agree with Reverend Joe, that this story is way too bleak? I have my own plans for the story, but I don’t want to follow them at a continued loss of my readers.
So if you agree, speak up now. You won’t offend me by doing so. And regardless, this story will take a turn toward triumph sooner or later.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Chapter XXX: Recompense
I turned and ran into the house, tears flowing freely down my cheeks. “Diedre!” I screamed, the echoes mocking me hollowly. I grasped the curtains and tore them from their hangings, casting the ripped fabric to the floor. “Diedre!”
The apartment was bare. I heard movement behind me and turned on heel, my heart twisting inside me. It was only Berdic, leaning staggeringly against the doorframe.
“What happened?” I demanded. He shook his head drunkenly. “A curse upon you, Berdic!” I cried, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him fiercely.
“What happened?”
Sadness was in his eyes. “She—she’s dead, Cadwalador. That’s all I know. Maybe—”
Another form flitted into the door behind him, a woman’s figure. My eyes locked on her face. It was the neighbor woman. Clutching tightly to her hand was Diedre’s daughter.
“I came as soon as I heard you were home,” she whispered softly.
“Home?” I exclaimed in bitterness. “Is that what this is? That murderer has taken her away from me!”
Tancogeistla’s face rose up before me and for a moment I could almost feel my fingers closing around his throat, strangling the life from the old drunkard’s body. For him Inyae had been sacrificed. By his order, Diedre had been killed. Leader of my people or no, he had forfeited his life by this.
“The messenger came from Tancogeistla,” the woman continued. “I do not know what he told her, but she took the news badly. Diedre was worried for you, Cadwalador. To the end, she called out your name.”
I lowered my head, feeling the condemnation descend onto my shoulders. The woman was still talking. “. . .an hour later, her daughter came running for me. Her pains were upon her, that she might bring forth the child.”
“But her time was not for months to come,” I whispered, in shock at the news.
The neighbor woman nodded. “I know. It happens this way at times, often when the mother is under great stress. I sent my son to Tancogeistla to summon help.”
“And he rejected you,” I hissed, sure I knew now what had happened.
She shook her head. “No. He was concerned and sent back one of the druids in his retinue, a man skilled in herbs and surgery. There was nothing he could do for her.”
“Tell me his name.”
The woman looked up into my eyes. “Do not blame him for your wife’s death. There was nothing—”
“Tell me his name!”
“Motios oi Neamha,” she replied. I felt as though I had been slapped. Motios oi Neamha, the wise old druid I had communed with on Teamhaidh. No groveling pawn of Tancogeistla. I had seen him at work, curing the diseased in Emain-Macha.
“What happened?” I asked, swallowing the lump in my throat. I had to know the truth.
“He did the best he could, but when the child was delivered, there was no breath in him.”
“Him? A son?”
She nodded. I turned away, covering my mouth with my hand as though to prevent the sobs from escaping. It was a futile effort.
“She was weak from the delivery, and could not bear the news. She died soon after.”
“I should have been here,” I whispered, condemning myself bitterly. If only. . .
My mind swirled with everything that filled it so suddenly. Had Tancogeistla intended my wife to die, he would never have sent Motios oi Neamha. He would have sent someone he could use, could twist to his own will. Or had I misjudged the druid?
I looked the woman in the eyes. “The neighbors brought food in her memory, did they not?”
“Yes.”
“Take what you will of it,” I answered brusquely. “Just take care of my daughter until I return.”
I took my javelins down from the wall, brushing past Berdic to reach the door.
“Where are you going, Cadwalador?” he called after me, still slurring the words.
“To Tancogeistla,” I screamed back, my rage consuming me. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I knew only one thing. My answers lay at the palace. . .
I remember nothing of my march through the streets that desolate afternoon, only my arrival at the palace gate just as the sun began its downward journey into the sea.
“Take me to Tancogeistla,” I ordered the Brihentin who stood in the entrance. They looked at me, at the javelins in my hand, and began to move towards me.
“Who sent you?” One of them called. “Malac? You were sent to fetch him and he has turned your heart away from our rightful vergobret!”
I raised a javelin in my hand, smiling in their faces. I outranged their swords. I could kill at least one of them, maybe both, before they could fall upon me. I could run before they could pursue me, encumbered as they were by their weapons and armor. But I had no intention of running.
“Stand away from him, my sons,” a voice interrupted, coming from behind the gate. Tancogeistla.
The Brihentin backed away, their hands still grasping the hilts of their swords. They looked at their leader in shock.
“I expected you, Cadwalador,” Tancogeistla said calmly. “Diedre’s death is a tragedy felt by all of us here.”
“Liar!” I hissed. One of the Brihentin started to draw his sword from its sheath.
Tancogeistla looked at me, and I could see something in his eyes. He seemed puzzled. “Why would you doubt that?”
“Belerios killed her! What message did you tell him to give to her?”
The old general shook his head. “I told him to tell her that you were safe, that you were undertaking a mission for me. He was to take whatever steps were necessary to ensure her comfort. Is that not what he said?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. But it killed her. Where is he?”
“Follow me,” Tancogeistla motioned. He barked an order to the Brihentin and they grudgingly let their swords slip back into their scabbards. I lowered my javelin and followed Tancogeistla through the gates.
We found Belerios in the courtyard, exercising at swords with another of the Brihentin. His helmet was fastened under his chin by a leathern strap, but no other armor was visible.
“Belerios!” I cried, a challenge, rage in my voice. He turned, and for a moment, I could see a smile light up his face.
“Cadwalador,” he nodded, making no attempt to sheathe his sword. “You found your wife well, I trust?” He was mocking me.
“Put up your sword, Belerios,” Tancogeistla ordered sharply. The Brihentin shook his head.
“Not with this rabid wolf in front of me,” he smiled back. “What is wrong, Cadwalador?”
“This man has lost his wife, Belerios,” Tancogeistla replied. “Now, I am ordering you, put up your sword.”
“What concern is his wife of mine?” Belerios demanded, taunting me. I stepped around Tancogeistla, taking one of my javelins in my right hand.
“You meant for her to die, didn’t you?” I challenged, my eyes fastened on the Brihentin’s face.
“Perhaps,” he replied, laughing in my face. At my grief. The javelin flew from my hand without conscious thought, as though propelled of its own power. I saw Belerios’ eyes widen, then the javelin struck him in the center of his chest.
In my fury, I had forgotten the mail shirt he wore under his outer garments. The tip of my javelin struck the mail and glanced harmlessly aside.
“Stop this!” Tancogeistla cried, his voice a dull ringing in my ears, a far-away cry. Neither of us heeded him. We were past that.
“I knew you would come, Cadwalador,” Belerios hissed, circling me with his sword. “To see what had happened to your woman. And the whelp she bore.”
His hatred baffled me, but I was beyond caring. I was in the zone now, watching two fighters circle. One with sword, the other with javelins.
I threw my second javelin, ignoring Tancogeistla’s shouted order. Belerios twisted away and I missed completely. My hands were shaking, my fury destroying my aim. I had to get hold of myself. If I was not to die.
“You have one left, Cadwalador. Throw it and I will kill you. As I did your wife.”
I stared into his eyes, forcing myself to ignore the blade he brandished. The eyes. The eyes. It was there I needed to focus, if I was to survive this.
“Keep it and I will kill you anyway,” he chuckled, mocking my hesitation. We continued to circle, looking for an opening.
He was becoming confident, my futile throws convincing him that the victory was in his grasp. And I saw my chance.
Reversing my grip on the javelin to hold it as I would a spear, I hurled myself across the open space, ducking low to avoid the slash of his sword.
The blade bit deep into my shoulder and I bit my tongue against the pain, throwing my weight against the Brihentin in an effort to take him off-balance, stabbing deep into his thigh with my javelin, ignoring the splintering of wood that told me my weapon was broken.
Belerios screamed, falling backward to the earth with me atop him. His sword was gone. As was his advantage. He was mine. I whipped the knife from the waist of my trousers and jammed it against his chin, holding him against the ground. He struggled, but the weight of the mail hampered his efforts.
“Tell me,” I hissed. “Why? Why did you cause my wife’s death?”
He spat in my face. I barely felt it. My anger could be no greater. “I have never done anything against you or your house. Why did you do this?”
The knife-tip pricked the skin of his throat, drawing blood. “You call it nothing?” he gasped. “That you should take my rightful place?”
I sensed that he was looking behind me and I looked up to see Tancogeistla standing over both of us.
“What do you mean?”
“He speaks of nothing but you. Cadwalador, son of the Wolf. Cadwalador, his bodyguard. Cadwalador, the man who saved his life on the Isle of Tin. Cadwalador, the man he wanted to succeed him. He ignored the years I spent with him, building an army against Malac, spying on his rival. I have put my life in danger countless times for his sake. All for nothing.”
“You speak lies,” Tancogeistla interrupted, his face flashing with anger. “I have promoted you to great honor, given you wealth and station. And you forget all of this! Let him up, Cadwalador.”
I hesitated, looking down into the eyes of the man who had been the cause of Diedre’s death. I wanted to kill him, to feel his blood run over my hands, to drown my sorrows in his life’s current. Revenge.
“I said, Cadwalador,” he repeated. “Let him up.” I looked up and saw the naked blade in the old man’s hands, the fire in his eyes. And I obeyed.
“You are a dog, Belerios,” Tancogeistla hissed, stepping closer as the Brihentin got to his feet. “An ungrateful dog! That you should spurn all the blessings of my court. It is an offense of the highest order.”
Both Belerios and I saw the blade coming and I saw terror fill his eyes for a split-second. The slash decapitated the Brihentin’s body and I saw the head spin off to one side, the torso crumple to the dirt of the courtyard, blood flowing freely from the corpse. Tancogeistla looked over at me and I nodded silently. It was recompense. . .
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Few quick gameplay notes here. As mentioned in the story, both Tancogeistla and Malac are getting old. Malac has two sons and a daughter, but none of them are of age. Which leaves Aneirin moc Cunovelin. As mentioned in Chapter 29, Tancogeistla will soon lead an expedition to Yns-Mon, which I hope will provoke the Casse. I've been extorting money from them every turn for the last few years, so hopefully they're royally mad by now. Yns-Mon and the renowned Ictis are the only two rebel settlements left in the British Isles. Anyway, interesting times are ahead. I trust you all will keep reading. :book:
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Oh well, I honestly did not see this one coming. (I mean the Belerios part) That's a good thing, by all means. :2thumbsup: Although you might have built Belerios a bit more before this imho, still well done. :2thumbsup:
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Quote:
Originally Posted by
Theodotos I
I’m sorry you feel this way. However, things are not always as they seem. Malac and Tancogeistla are in their latter years, and I think you will find Aneirin moc Cunobelin to be quite a different type of character. I agree with you about the lack of heroes, but you must appreciate the difficulty of writing about the classic hero-style character from the first-person perspective. I initially intended for Cadwalador to chronicle the heroic exploits of Cavarillos, but that relationship went places I never dreamed of.
It is difficult for a hero to write about his own deeds without sounding boastful. I have talked with true modern-day heroes, including some of America’s brave soldiers, and they spent half their time trying to deny that they did anything out of the ordinary. Therefore, I think you see the problem.
As Malac and Tancogeistla pass from the scene, you will see Cadwalador’s role change. He is older than Aneirin moc Cunobelin, and that will alter the equation. I trust you will keep reading.
Your words have won me back, Theodotos. :2thumbsup: Yeah, I can understand the difficulty of writing about a hero from their perspective; the thing is, Cavrillos just doesn't seem that much of a hero so much as a victim of constant manipulation. I can certainly appreciate that a true hero would not be boastful; instead, his herosim should be evident in his actions. Perhaps it could reflect in the people around him, as well; if Cavrillos had a little better opinion of them, it might make their opinions of him seem a little less hollow. On the other hand, maybe I'm looking at this the wrong way.
The promise of something different from Aneirin does intrigue me, as well.
I do not mean to imply that the story should be invariably one way or the other, or even that it should be balanced. You can have a rather bleak story, but without some happiness or hope sometimes it becomes overwhelming, just as an invariably heroic, good-guys-win story becomes gratingly boring. This last chapter is a good example of what I mean: Tancogeistla has spent too much time in his Mr. Hyde form; he doesn't even have to be a good guy, just a halfway-decent person, in order to give some variation to the story.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Excellent, I knew that Tancogeistla wasn't behind the wife's death. I figured that the most common killer for young women before the modern era (1900) was child birth, so I held out hope that you would use that rather than violently murder a pregnant woman. Big T's revenge made him a brutally heroic, or at least loyal character. Either way, that was a good chapter with a great twist. Even Malac is portrayed sympathetically.
As for me, I teach world history and coach basketball and football at a high school on the Navajo reservation. This reservation has 400,000 people on it, and it is the size of West Virginia. Amongst the people I work with, some of the grandmas have never left the reservation, and they do not speak English at all (only Dine'). The youngest generation, however is not at all different from youths that you would find in any city in America. They listen to MP3's, gang bang, play sports, shop at Wal mart, and visit their dads in Phoenix every other weekend. Therefore the experience is not as exotic as it sounds. Still, this is a great place to break into the teaching profession, as very few teachers want to live in special housing or be as culturally or geographically isolated as to live on this rez. Therefore the schools will hire anyone who just wants to become a teacher and patiently wait for them to complete the certification. Consider it one day when you finish college... you might get in touch with your roots a little.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Quote:
Originally Posted by
Irishmafia2020
The youngest generation, however is not at all different from youths that you would find in any city in America. They listen to MP3's, gang bang, play sports, shop at Wal mart, and visit their dads in Phoenix every other weekend.
Okay... :inquisitive: I´m hoping this is just some to me unfamiliar phrase, ´cause otherwise this gives me a whole new look on youths of America and life in reservations.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Uh... well, they are crips and bloods and Sureno's. I had a student stabbed in the hall in front of my class room, and I break up at least a fight a week, and I have probably caught 2 dozen students using drugs as well. I did mean gang banging, these kids are desperate and poor, and state police are not allowed on the reservation which makes it an ideal place to hide out if you have gotten in trouble elsewhere, or to use as a base for drug distribution. On the bright side (for me) they really do take their basketball seriously!
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
Okay, I see know what sort of gang banging you meant. Actually, you may not have heard of it, but there is another sort of gang banging. This is not the right place to discuss it, but search on "gang banging" in Wikipedia and you shall see what I mean.
-
Re: Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration
LOL... okay, I see where the mistranslation occurred... I don't have to do an internet search to know what your talking about there. If my students are into that... well I have no need to know about it... Good laugh though!