Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration

[Reverend Joe]

@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.

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.

[Irishmafia2020]

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.

[Theodotos I]

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.

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. . .

[Theodotos I]

@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?
@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.

[Chirurgeon]

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?

[Theodotos I]

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. Keep reading—your comments are always appreciated.

[Theodotos I]

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.

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!”

[Theodotos I]

@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.

[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.

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.

[Theodotos I]

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.

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. Thanks for reading.

[Theodotos I]

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!”


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.


Oh, yes, this was victory. . .

[Reverend Joe]

I think you just set an unbeatable record for longest time in an AAR before your first victory. Congratulations... I guess.

[Chirurgeon]

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.

[fenix3279]

I'm loving this story more and more each chapter. You could really make a novel out of this.

[Aaldaemon]

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. /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.

[Theodotos I]

@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. 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. 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 Always interested to see what people are thinking.

[Theodotos I]

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

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.

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.”

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. . .”

[Aaldaemon]

It's almost a pity that characters get older... Tancogeistla should live forever... (now that would be a nice twist hehe)

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.

[Theodotos I]

It's almost a pity that characters get older... Tancogeistla should live forever... (now that would be a nice twist hehe)

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!

[Theodotos I]

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. . .”

[Aaldaemon]

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.

[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....

[fenix3279]

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

[Theodotos I]

@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.
@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.

[Theodotos I]

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. . .

[Reverend Joe]

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.

[General Appo]

Great story. Seems like almost every chapter is a plot twister.

[Aaldaemon]

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...

[Olaf The Great]

Oh man I really hope he's just insanely drunk.

[Hax]

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.