Caledonii: Birth of a Celtic Nation. 5. A Druid's Work Read online

  Uwan could actually see tendrils of power reaching from the dhruid’s hut to Neall’s. As he examined the imagery, he found that Pell was not only manipulating Neall’s drunken body, he was inside the man, taking part! It was not Neall writhing on the naked body of the beautiful Rayna, it was the powerful Pell.

  Pell the Arch-druid. Pell, the pure. Pell the perverted.

  It mattered not. Uwan walked to the doorway of Pell’s hut, two dhruids stood outside supposedly on guard, their eyes closed, their only life sign; the breath from their mouths crystalizing in the cold night. Pell was so enmeshed in his earthly mission, he had not noticed his guards were already deep in Uwan’s control.

  Ignoring them, Uwan parted the curtain slowly and quietly stepped inside.

  Pell the pure, knelt by the small central fire, grey robes gathered at his waist, penis in hand, masturbating.

  Uwan smiled, then raised his staff, pointing it at Pell’s heart.

  Instantaneously, he dropped his mental guard and swept his power at the Arch-dhruid. White fire shot from his staff, hitting Pell’s chest.

  The Arch-dhruid roared to life, and exploded into action. With wide open eyes and mouth, he waved his hands in defense.

  You are not powerful enough!

  With quiet confidence Uwan fought the man on every level he knew. It began slowly, but soon both frenetically worked against each other, attack after attack crackling over the fire.

  Pell the pure, your time is short. It is not only I who fight!

  Pell’s eyes looked questioningly at Uwan for a moment, then he grinned.

  “Fools! This is nothing!” he shouted over the fire. I can absorb this for an eternity!

  Uwan fired bolt after bolt into Pell’s chest, but the man did not weaken. His body felt the added force of more dhruids join his own, and swept and organized them against the Arch-druid, but still he held his defenses firm.

  The air between them crackled and burnt in a myriad of patterns of white.

  Slowly, With Pell still fighting, Uwan took one step back from the fray. As he stepped back, the power of more dhruids joined the attack. As each added his own fraction, Uwan withdrew part of his own, remarshaling his strength.

  The Caledonii dhruid reached into a pouch and threw a handful of powder into the fire. It instantly burned bright blue, sending a huge blue smoke cloud into the room.

  Now Winnie!

  According to his plan, the blue fire and smoke slowly began to coalesce, spinning in a diminishing spiral. Uwan watched with satisfaction at Winnie’s power of concentration. The smoke seemed to grow solid, taking a small blue shape. Slowly, wings grew, then a head and tail, until it whirled into the shape of a bird.

  Now Winnie!

  The blue bird flew to Pell’s head squealed and squawked around him. Despite his determination to ignore it, Pell could not. For some reason unknown to him, he lost part of the concentration on the assault, distracted by the pesky blue bird.

  Freed from the burden of the main assault, Uwan sensed his advantage. With gritted teeth, he swept his staff back and forth, producing slices of fire across the room. Concentrating, he pushed the physical assault closer, then, at last, watched with great satisfaction as huge cuts appeared on Pell’s robes. He pushed farther again, his fire carving into flesh and bone. Pell seemed oblivious to the actual wounds, his attention taken by the assault and the bird. His life-force was draining from his body, running in red rivulets onto the earthen floor.

  Uwan lifted his staff’s arc slightly, until he was in line with Pell’s neck, slicing into his jugular.

  Then suddenly, with a resounding snap, his spine shattered, and his neck was torn completely asunder.

  In a cloud of blue smoke, trailing from the back of the bird, Pell’s severed head tumbled forward down the tattered robe, and bounced into the fire.

  Only then did the mouth of Pell roar.

  A huge peal of despair, ending in a crackling of flames.

  Suddenly, like a loud snapping of a twig in the forest, there was silence.

  Uwan fell to his knees.

  The remnants of the other dhruids had gone, retreated back to their clans, lost in their own exhaustion.

  Leaning over the fire, he rolled Pell’s headless body against the far wall.

  In the distance a woman screamed, Uwan needed no divining ritual to recognize Rayna’s terrified cries. Since they had been joined together, as Pell had fallen, the life force had been drawn from the clan chief.

  He sat for a while, letting his breathing return to normal.

  Knowing he had one last task to perform, Uwan pulled the grey robe from the carcass, and tossed it on the rejuvenated fire. Then he dragged the naked body round the fire and deposited it outside.

  With weary limbs, he walked to Wesson’s broch, and roused the new chief.

  After a moment, the man appeared, lifting the door’s curtain with an incredulous look. His long sword lay ready in his hand.

  “What’s the matter?” he looked at Uwan’s drained face, and stepped outside without further question.

  “Bring your sword. And follow me.”

  “Yes, wise one.”

  Pell’s naked headless body was illuminated only by the stars.

  “Cut it in two.” Uwan said without expression.

  Wesson’s expression turned dark. “Who is it?”

  “Just cut it in two.” Uwan needed sleep, and battled his own demons.

  I have just killed the Arch-dhruid.

  Wesson took several swings of the heavy two handed sword, and severed the naked body, just under the ribcage, his sword biting deep into the snow beneath the body.

  “Take the legs to the south, and throw them outside the village.”

  Wesson bowed, then dragging Pell’s legs behind him, walked away.

  Uwan interlocked his fingers with Pell’s hand and dragged the bleeding torso to the north. Once outside the town, he knelt down.

  “Lugh, take the spirit of Pell, and take him to the favored place.” He dipped his fingers inside Pell’s ribcage and drew bloody patterns on Pell’s chest.

  Spirals. Circles.

  Then he reached with both hands deep up inside the torso, and grabbed Pell’s heart. With strokes of his knife, he freed it, and pulled it out. Lifting it high above his head, he blessed it, and prayed over it.

  Then he slipped it inside his robe, and returned to the dhruid hut.

  ~ ~ ~

  Winnie woke the next morning knowing that she’d been in a fight. Her limbs were heavy, her chest sore. She swung her legs over the end of the bed and her limbs protested that slight movement.

  Already feeling the cold, she donned another layer of clothes and walked outside into the brisk morning frost.

  Rounding a corner, Wesson came into view, walking in giant strides. “What’s going on?” She asked, trying in vain to catch his sleeve.

  “Not now storyteller!” His mind was obviously elsewhere.

  It seemed that everyone was busy. No one seemed to look up, no one wanted to catch anyone else’s eyes. She sensed a movement behind her and turned quickly. A young dhruid stood in her way, his hood pushed back over his shoulders. She sensed him no older than eighteen.

  “Good morning Winnie.” he said.

  She looked at his eyes, suddenly lost in remembrance of her dream, then smiled. “You are of Calach’s line.”

  “You are perceptive as well as wise.” Uwan replied. “I am Uwan, his younger brother.” He placed his hand on her forehead, and she felt her pain slowly evaporate. For a second she felt sixteen again.

  Uwan bowed. “Thank you for your assistance last night.”

  She was lost for words for a moment, then she remembered the dream. “I was the blue bird.”

  “Yes, you were.” Uwan stepped forward and hugged her. She felt so safe and content; she felt that if she had died in his arms, she would not have cared. It seemed to last forever. “And you played your part so well.”

  She sensed he
was weak. “And you were the white bear.”

  “None other.” He released her, but held her at arm’s length. “I could not have done it without you.”

  “The brown bear?”

  “He is gone.”

  It took her a moment to put the pieces together. She held her hand to her mouth as if to stifle her own words. “The arch-druid?”

  Uwan nodded. “Gone.”

  Winnie sensed that there was more to the tale. “And is he the only casualty?”

  “Again, perceptive. It saddens me to say that Chief Neall is also dead.”

  “How is that so? He seemed in fine health last night.”

  “It seems that his drinking and eating caught up with him.”

  She struggled for the right words. “That is unfortunate.” She said. “Will you be staying?”

  “I have the journey to make.” Uwan said. “But first I must speak with Wesson, the new clan chief. The Clan must survive.”

  “Of course,”

  “Winnie? The journey may take me many moons. Would you like to accompany me?”

  Winnie looked hard into the young man’s eyes. He looked weak from the night’s adventures, yet he exuded more power than she could imagine. “I would be honored.”

  Bruce ran across Lochery as fast as he could. The young warrior was sure that Calach had said that he was going to spend some time with Kat’lana, the female warrior from the Votadini clan. Calach had only just returned from one of his southern scouting missions, but Bruce wanted to catch him with vital news.

  He came skidding to a halt at the main door to the inner ring; a guard stood by the open gate, leaning on the wall, his arm outstretched.

  “What do you want?” the older man said with undisguised disdain.

  One of Ranald’s men

  Bruce caught his breath, refusing to be drawn into the confrontation the guard expected.

  “Calach.” he said. “I seek Calach?”

  “An’ what business would it be to you?” the guard said, pushing himself from the wall.

  “My business would be mine, an’ mine only,” Bruce countered with more confidence than he felt, the insolence coming easy against chief Ranald’s man. “I only asked where Calach was, nothing more.”

  Bruce saw the anger building up in the older warrior’s face, then just as quickly it subsided.

  “He went to the north pasture wi’ his woman.” A hint of a smile played upon his lips as he spoke. “You just missed him.”

  Bruce ran off to the north, then circled round the outer ring after he was out of sight of the guard.

  “Bloody north pasture indeed!” he muttered to himself as he ran. “If there’s one place he’s not, it’s the north pasture.”

  As he ran round the settlement, he asked everyone he recognized if they had seen Calach, and was eventually called to the outer wall by one of the sentries.

  An older warrior, but one of the men loyal to Calach. Oh we are so divided.

  Three youthful bounds and he stood on the parapet.

  “There he is. He’s wi’ his Votadini woman, an’ their lad.” His finger pointed out a small group of figures, disappearing into the trees at the far side of the planted fields. It was too far to shout; Calach would never have heard him.

  “Are you sure it’s Calach?”

  “Aye son, I’m sure! I watched them a’ the way.”

  Bruce quickly looked around the walls, searching for the nearest gate, but they were all too far away. He only had a few moments before the group vanished altogether; he had to act quickly.

  He took a glance over the wall at the drop to the ditch below; too far to jump, but only just.

  “Here!” he said to the sentry, carefully putting one leg over the pointed wooden stakes of the wall. “Grab my hand, let me down as far as you can. I’ll dreep the rest”

  “You must want him pretty bad son.” He helped Bruce over the wall and lowered him on the other side.

  Bruce fell the last part, landing easily on the turf.

  “Thank you!” he shouted over his shoulder at the sentry. He was already off and running, down into the ditch, up the far side, then out over the field.

  “Calach!”

  “Calach!”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Hold on a moment Kat’lana.” Calach said. “Listen.”

  They stood quietly for a moment, and sure enough the calls got louder and louder.

  Eventually, seeing Bruce crashing through the fringes of the wood, Calach acknowledged him. “Over here!” Bruce came to an abrupt halt, holding his sides in pain. Calach walked briskly towards the breathless youngster.

  “Selgove!” Bruce blurted between gulps of air. “There’s a Selgove coming into town.” Bruce crouched over, holding his sides. Calach recognized the symptoms of a stitch from running. Bruce’s breath clouded in the cold air of morning.

  He was immediately interested. “Go on.”

  “He’s came from a huge massacre! He’s got messages for Ranald.” He pointed to Calach’s chest. “An’ he’s askin’ for you.”

  Calach turned to Kat’lana, then looked at Gawrcus, a frown drifting over his features. He seemed to get so little time with his family these days. “Sorry Kat’lana, this seems important.”

  She helped Bruce stand upright. As she did so, his breathing eased slightly. “You need to go.”

  “Aye you do!” Bruce insisted. His urgent expression told Calach more than his words. “The man was talking about a big massacre.”

  Calach turned to face Kat’lana, obviously torn.

  She gave a wry grin. “It’s a’ right, we’ll have our time later.”

  Calach turned to Bruce. “Where’s this Selgove now?”

  “I’ve been looking for you for a while, he could have been taken to Ranald by now.”

  “A’ right. I’m off then.”

  With a wave at Kat’lana and Gawrcus he took off through the undergrowth in the direction of the town.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ranald received the Selgove in the private room in the second broch. There was a larger meeting room out in the town, but Ranald had always hated it. It held bad remembrances from his father’s rule as chief. His father had died in the meeting room; a memory Ranald would never forget.

  Durgan and Masson were seated next to him, one either side. Sewell had been sent for, Ranald had observed protocol, but word had just come back that the senior Caledonii dhruid was not in Lochery. Ranald resigned himself to meet the Selgove with his two friends.

  The stranger was brought to the broch, and shown inside. He stood proud, but his face looked full of terror, as if he’d just seen his own ghost. “You are chief Ranald?”

  The chief shifted in his seat. “Aye, who wants to know?”

  “I am no warrior, chief Ranald. My name is Tyfix; I am a storyteller from the Selgove clan.”

  “Do you come with a story, or do you come with news?”

  “I come.....”

  With a swift movement of the curtain Calach stepped quietly into the room.

  Ranald eyed his son suspiciously. “You don’t miss much do you?”

  He watched the swagger as his eldest crossed the room, his sword waving at his thigh; the confidence that only combat can bring to a man. There were a lot of young Caledons in Lochery of late; most had taken to wearing swords constantly, something Ranald had never advocated.

  “What do you mean faither?” Calach found himself a seat, and sat down uninvited. “Miss much?”

  “You know fine well what I mean!” Ranald replied, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “Tyfix here is just in the door, an’ in you walk.” He motioned towards the Selgove. “This could be private business.”

  “This man comes from a land which I have been assigned by you to watch over.” He had meant no initial insult, but the words seemed to jump into his mouth. “This man comes from a people that I have fought for. That makes it my business.”

  “You’ve got better eyes an’ ears in this town than I have
!” Ranald’s rebuke was aimed at Masson and Durgal, who both cringed at the caustic comment.

  The growing discipline in the warrior ranks had not gone without Ranald taking note. Calach’s scouting forays and new sentry duties had involved more and more warriors as winter progressed. There was a new vitality amongst the warriors which had been lacking in the years of Ranald’s chiefdom. He chided himself often on his lack of leadership.

  One other element in particular had been the cause of raised words between Ranald and Mawrin. The warriors increasingly looked to Calach for leadership; some no longer answered directly to him. Again Ranald chastised himself. It was his fault. He had given authority to Calach to divert his energies, and it would now be difficult to take away.

  “My eyes an’ ears in the town are only my own, chief Ranald.” Calach said quietly. “I would be foolish to keep them shut!”

  “Aye,” Ranald turned his attention to Tyfix, the Selgove, who had been waiting patiently, watching the interplay between the two. “This is my son, Calach.”

  Tyfix’s face lightened and he crossed to Calach, bowing and shaking his hand warmly.

  “Your name is already legend in Selgove lands, Lord Calach!” His eyes were wide and glassy. “The story o’ you an’ your band o’ warriors is now a tale in itself. I thank you on behalf o’ our people for seeing to the funeral pyre. The bodies o’ Torthor an’ his people burned for two days.”

  Ranald was temporarily dumbstruck. He looked at the scene before him with a frown, his son was a legend? He listened as Tyfix spoke. Perhaps it was easier to become a legend in the flatlands. But then, he considered, perhaps he had misjudged his son.

  “You come wi’ news o’ the Selgove clan?” Ranald said, breaking the moment between the two. Calach looked as happy for the interruption as Masson and Durgal. It seemed fame and notoriety did not seem to sit well on his son’s shoulders; Ranald reflected that it was not a bad thing. “News, Tyfix?” He repeated.

  “Excuse me, chief Ranald.” The Selgove bowed. “I come wi’ news from Bruin’s camp, the son o’ the late chief Torthor.” Tyfix began. “I am here by way o’ Ma’damar, an’ Mauchty. I was told to give you a’ the same news.”

  At the mention of Ma’damar’s name, Ranald bristled; second hand news, first given to Ma’damar! But he quickly calmed; it was the obvious way to travel north, Bar’ton, then Lochery.