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....Quote:
Originally Posted by Shylence
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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....Quote:
Originally Posted by Shylence
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.
@Shylence: Yeah, I know. In my Sweboz AAR, my guy (Started @ 16) is already 36.
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. . .
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:
@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!
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
Three balloons go out to Irishmafia2020, the winner of my nearly uncontested contest! Here you go, sir. You earned them :balloon2: :balloon2: :balloon2:
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...
The way you keep the suspense in this AAR is novel worthy. What a great story/AAR. You're not published perchance are you?
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.
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. . .
And no, this is NOT the end!
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!
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?
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 :)
[/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]
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. . .
@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:
Where is everybody? :inquisitive:
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. . .
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:Quote:
Originally Posted by Irishmafia2020
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.
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.
Right here man. Keep it up, you're doing nothing short of a novel here :beam:Quote:
Originally Posted by Theodotos I
Indeed, seemed to be a bit of a bombshell to just come out in such a small period of time.Quote:
Originally Posted by CaptainBlack
Excellent job man! Glad to see that campaign map. This is awesome stuff.
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?
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!
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. . .
Excellent chapter :2thumbsup:
Cadwalador choosing between honoring a friendship and loyalty to his countrymen really adds more depth to the story.
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.