The Druid Read online

  One of those was beset by both Coroticus and Nectovelius and it was clear the man, tiring as he was, wouldn’t survive long, especially as the king’s guards were moving to surround him.

  Another fell as Bellicus watched, borne down under the weight of four or five furious locals whose knives rose and fell in a bloody spray.

  The third, a short barrel of a man, stood in front of the doors, almost as if he was guarding them, and Bellicus’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Why wasn’t the fool escaping? His companions were beaten and he’d be killed soon too if he didn’t get away.

  A shiver ran down the druid’s neck. Something was amiss here – this was no simple raid gone wrong.

  “Take him alive!” he shouted, but as the cry left his mouth someone threw an empty amphora at the stocky swordsman, the pottery smashing into pieces on the unfortunate’s skull.

  “Alive,” Bellicus roared again, but the people were too enraged to heed his words and they set about the downed interloper with fists and feet and whatever else they could find.

  The screams didn’t last long. The hall was far from silent though, the babble of fear and confusion almost raising the rafters as everyone wondered what to do.

  Men eyed the smashed doors, wanting to run to their homes and gather their shields and swords and axes, but fearing what might be out there waiting for them.

  The king hurried across to Bellicus and together they peered at the doorway, trying vainly to see what, or who, might be waiting outside for them.

  “Can’t stay in here all night,” the druid growled, and Coroticus nodded grimly.

  “Guards, form up behind me.”

  The king’s warband, the only men in the hall wearing their armour, had already crowded in around him, a dozen hardened warriors led by a grizzled bear called Gavo.

  “You have no armour, lord king,” the captain said, making to push past Coroticus to the most dangerous place at the front of the group, but he was held back.

  “I have no need of mail to beat this scum. Look at the bloody work we’ve made of them so far.” He gestured at the corpses on the floor and Gavo stepped aside unhappily, prepared to defend his unarmoured king with his own body if need be.

  “Ready?”

  Bellicus nodded and fell into step just behind the king’s right shoulder while Gavo took the left, and the warband walked slowly, warily out into the night through the shattered doors, encouraging shouts from the frightened villagers spilling out alongside them.

  The glow of firelight greeted them, the acrid stench of damp wood burning filling the night air, and any semblance of discipline left the locals as they poured out of the hall, streaming towards the small stone shelter that was used to store wooden buckets. The druid had been right – their homes were on fire.

  “Fill them,” Nectovelius’s thin voice could just be heard over the babble. “Fill the buckets in the stream and douse the fires. Hurry!”

  His orders were unnecessary – the people knew their business and, as they ran to begin fighting the flames that threatened to engulf their settlement, Coroticus led his soldiers on, searching for any sign of the invaders.

  Bellicus scanned the night and his dogs’ noses twitched, ears pricked, listening intently, but the situation was entirely unreadable. The sounds, smells and bright fire-glow conspired to make the scene a confused mess.

  “The buckets are gone!”

  Coroticus turned as the anguished cries carried to them and Bellicus gripped his long knife tighter, feeling the blood from his dead opponent sticky on his fingers.

  “This is no simple raid,” the druid said, convinced now of his earlier conclusion. “This was a planned attack for some reason other than cattle thievery or...” He shrugged, still no closer to understanding what was happening that night.

  “It seems the attackers are all either dead or fled into the night,” Coroticus said, turning to face his guards. “Help the villagers douse the flames. See if you can find the lost buckets or some other means of carrying water from the stream. Go.”

  Gavo nodded and led the men away at a run towards the gesticulating Nectovelius who stood, anguished, amidst the burning buildings of his beloved settlement.

  Bellicus stared out into the dark, eyeing the brooding hill that filled the northern sky with its oppressive bulk.

  “The place will probably be half-burned to the ground before we can get things under control,” the king muttered. “But why? Is this a revenge attack by someone Nectovelius wronged?”

  “Could be,” Bellicus agreed, leading the way back into the great hall and the little ante-chamber that served as a storage room for the weapons taken from visitors other than royalty at the entrance. “That would explain why they came with so few men: they didn’t realise we were here with your warband and shit in their breeches when they saw us.” He quickly found his sword, Melltgwyn, easily recognisable by its white leather scabbard, and lifted it, buckling the belt around his waist, glad to be whole again.

  “Why fire the buildings and remove the buckets though?” said the king, buckling on his own sword and allowing Bellicus to help him fit his breastplate and greaves.

  “To stop any pursuit,” the druid replied. “We’re too busy fighting the flames to hunt them down and they’ll make good their escape.”

  Coroticus shook his head angrily. He wasn’t particularly surprised at the evening’s violent turn of events – raids like this were fairly common after all. “Damn it,” he said in frustration. “These are my lands and my people, Bel. We can’t stand around while the perpetrators of this attack sneak off unpunished. I don’t suppose you could magic up a thunderstorm, could you?” A rueful smile touched the edges of the king’s lips but it fell away as they heard another voice approaching—a voice filled with gut-wrenching anguish.

  “They’ve taken her! They’ve taken her, Coroticus! They’ve taken my little Catia!”

  * * *

  The king of Alt Clota’s face fell and for a moment Bellicus feared the man would dissolve in an anguished heap but Coroticus rallied, drawing himself up and pulling his wife into a comforting embrace.

  “Are you sure?” he demanded, anxiety making his voice harsher than he intended, but the queen was too panicked to care.

  “I’ve searched everywhere for her. One of the slave women saw a warrior carrying a struggling girl out the door not long after the attack started. She’s gone. All that’s left is this scarf.” The queen’s voice began to rise in pitch again as hysteria threatened to overcome her. “Why are you still standing here? You have to go after the devils that did this and bring her back to me!”

  Coroticus gazed blindly at the fires that were destroying much of Dun Buic but he realised his wife was right. The settlement could burn to the ground with everyone in it if it meant he’d have his beautiful daughter back safe again.

  “Bellicus.” He beckoned the druid over. “Come with me and we’ll see which way the bastards have gone, if we can in this confusion. Narina, you find Gavo – he’s over there somewhere helping fight the fire – and have him come to me with the men. Hurry now, and don’t fret – I’ll not rest until Catia is back here with us.”

  The queen rushed off to find the guard captain while Bellicus led the way, with a flaming torch he’d picked up from the lord’s hall, to the road.

  “Can you see anything?” Coroticus demanded, peering into the churned dirt track. Despite his promise to the queen, his bleak expression suggested he held little hopes of finding the kidnappers’ trail in the dark.

  The druid remained silent, focused completely on his task. Who were these men who had mounted an attack on this place seemingly just to kidnap the young princess? And what was their purpose? Ransom? King Coroticus held the impregnable fortress of Dun Breatann, aye, and many kings in Britain would give their shield arm for such a fort, but his lands weren’t particularly rich with mines or grain. He didn’t have all that much to trade in return for his daughter and everyone knew that.

  Whatever the reason for the abduction of Catia, Bellicus mused, premonition sending a shiver running down his spine, it was a dark one that would bring much misery to everyone involved.

  “There,” he grunted in satisfaction, pointing and using the torch to show Coroticus what he’d found. “Footprints, lots of them. At least eight men.”

  The king snatched the flaming brand from Bellicus’s hand and ran ahead, following the tracks. They led northwest.

  “Bastards are heading for the cairn,” he spat, raising his head to gaze with some trepidation at the towering, monstrous edifice that filled the night sky in that direction.

  Gavo, mounted on his warhorse, pounded up behind them, the rest of the king’s guard riding at his back.

  “We’re ready, my lord,” the man said, eyes iron-hard. “The queen’s told us about the princess. Have you found their path?”

  “Aye,” Coroticus replied, turning and taking the reins of his own charger from his captain’s hand before hauling himself atop the beast. “Looks like they’re making for the cairn. Let’s move.”

  “The cairn?” Gavo’s voice was low and there was a slight waver in it as he too looked at the hill Coroticus was already riding towards.

  “Aye,” Bellicus said, nimbly jumping onto the back of his horse which one of the men had brought for him. “Come on, we don’t have time to waste worrying what else might be up there at this time of night— we’ve the princess to find.” He raised his voice as he kicked his steed into a canter, making sure all the men could hear. “If anyone – or anything – gets in our way, they’ll find us more than a match for them, right?”

  There were half-hearted shouts of agreement, but the druid well understood their trepidation.

  Catia’s abductors were plainly not from this area or they’d never have made for the towering hill which was the site of Dun Buic Cairn.

  The great shadowed mound was almost a twin to the rock that housed Coroticus’s own fortress of Dun Breatann. They were both carved from the same volcanic rock and rose to similar heights, commanding the entire land for miles around. But while Dun Breatann was a home to the king and his family, and had been a place of protection for the peoples of the region since the beginning of time, Dun Buic Cairn was an entirely different place. Especially during the dark of night.

  The summit of the hill was an ancient ritual site—one which even the Roman invaders had been too wary to destroy. Instead, they’d used it themselves for rites to their own gods such as Apollo and Mithras.

  It was a place of power, and of death.

  The Romans had, of course, spread much propaganda about the widespread practice of human sacrifice by the druids and the barbaric religions of the lands they’d conquered here at the north-western boundary of their empire. Bellicus scoffed at the exaggerated tales of wicker men and wholesale slaughter. He knew, though, that Dun Buic cairn had witnessed some blood sacrifices in the not-so-distant past. He could feel it in the very air whenever he visited the place, which he did often, to pray and commune with Cernunnos and the other gods, and the hidden little people that shared these lands with them.

  No, the men holding the princess captive were not from these parts or they’d never willingly have headed into the trees that covered the eastern side of Dun Buic Hill.

  The druid glanced at the faces of the warriors riding beside him and saw the trepidation written plainly there. He had to bolster their courage, or they’d be beaten before they even caught up with their quarry.

  “These men we seek are interlopers,” he shouted over the wind rushing past them, “they have no ties to these lands of ours.” He tugged lightly on the reins, making his horse jink to the left, avoiding a boulder in the grass. “On my oath, you have nothing to fear from the cairn. Not when I’m with you. The spirits that haunt the place will aid us, I will command them!”

  Glancing back, he could see the apprehension still in their moonlit faces so, although they were in great haste, Bellicus reined in his mount and shouted the command to halt. Even the king, further ahead on the worn old path, slowed and turned to see what was happening.

  “You all know the tradition,” the druid said, jumping down and peering into the grass. “Come on – find a stone to take up as an offering. The spirits will appreciate it and,” he stooped, lifting a fist sized rock which he slipped into his horse’s saddlebag, “Catia’s abductors will have no such offerings to make.”

  As he clambered back atop the patient, silent horse, Bellicus nodded in satisfaction. The men all found suitable stones and shoved them reverently into pockets or pouches for safekeeping, the simple talismans clearly lifting their mood.

  “Come on,” Coroticus urged, almost invisible in the darkness ahead and the party began to move again, noticeably faster now they had that extra layer of magical armour with them. The captain, Gavo, pushed his steed hard until he caught up with the king and Bellicus could see the bearded soldier handing a stone to his lord, who nodded in thanks.

  “How are we going to do this, lord?”

  Coroticus didn’t look back at the druid who had finally caught up with him. “We have you – and the spirits – on our side, don’t we Bellicus? And Lug only knows what those bastards intend for my daughter. So we ride as fast as we can in this blasted dark until we find them, and then we cut them down without mercy.”

  Gavo nodded at the speech – he was dependable and fearsome in a fight and as imaginative as one of the stones they’d collected – but Bellicus reached out, taking hold of Coroticus’s reins and drawing his horse to a halt.

  “What are you doing?” the king demanded, face contorting in anger. “Do you not care about Catia? We must –”

  “We must think this through a little,” the druid said, raising a hand placatingly. “We have no idea where in their party the princess is. If we just ride them down there’s every chance she’ll be trampled. As you say, we also have no idea what they’ve taken her for.” He shook his head, peering up at the summit of the hill as if it might offer some clue to this strange night’s business. “We will kill those men up there,” he vowed, to mutters of agreement from the men behind them. “But blundering up there in the dark, furiously hacking at anything that moves, is not the way to do it. You know this to be true, Coroticus, if you put aside your fears for Catia for a moment.”

  The king followed Bellicus’s gaze upwards, his eyes narrowing as he saw some movement on the skyline. His daughter’s abductors were up there, and he wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms again, no matter how many men he had to kill to do it. He sighed resignedly.

  “What do you suggest?”

  The druid pointed at Gavo. “You lead half the men around the far side of the hill and come up where the shepherd brings his sheep. You know the path I mean?”

  The guard captain narrowed his eyes but the blank look on his face suggested he had no idea what the topography of the area might be like, especially not at night.

  “I know the path,” a man said, jumping onto the ground and handing his reins to another soldier as he walked forward to look at his three superiors. “I grew up not far from here – used to play in these hills as a lad although we stayed clear of the cairn...” He fingered his pocket, the stone there bolstering his nerve.

  “Good.” Bel nodded encouragingly at the soldier. “Gavo, let Prasto here lead you and another five up to the summit by the shepherd’s way. The king and I, with the remaining men, will approach these invaders and talk with them.”

  “Talk?” Gavo demanded. “You mean attack them.”

  “No,” Bellicus said. “First, I want to know what their purpose is here. We also need to find out where the princess is being held.”

  Coroticus, clearly feeling he should regain command of the situation broke in. “While I’m talking to the bastards you come up from the side and – if my daughter is safely out of the way – attack. When we hear your charge, we will come from the front and crush the scum like ants.”

  Gavo turned to Bellicus who nodded. “Go. Be as silent as the wraiths that will help bring us victory tonight.”

  The king, too distracted by his daughter’s plight to worry about the druid apparently usurping his authority, grasped his sword hilt and watched as Gavo’s party slipped off on foot into the bushes. It was too dark for them to move silently but once they found the shepherd’s worn old path up the hill they would be able to attain the summit quickly and quietly and, Lug willing, undetected.

  “Ready?”

  Coroticus grunted assent and kicked his mount forward into a walk. As they went they made no attempt to hide their progress. Harnesses jingled, and the horses’ hooves thudded almost deafeningly in the otherwise silent gloom.

  Suddenly the figure the king had spotted on the skyline earlier appeared again and one of the men hissed in fright, the eerie atmosphere almost getting the better of him.

  “Hush man,” Bellicus growled. “Remember your stone, and my influence with the gods and little people.”

  The silhouette resolved itself into that of a tall, broad-shouldered man although nothing could be discerned of his clothes or facial features as the bright crescent-moon was high in the sky at his back. The sword in his hand was unmistakeable though.

  “Hold! Come no further, men of Alt Clota, if you value your lives.”

  Coroticus pulled gently on his reins and the group halted, every eye watching the eerie figure which stood confidently atop the hill, so close to the cairn that was haunted by the spirits of dead centuries.

  Bellicus forced himself to look away, to scan the black hillside around them, fearing this was a diversion. He knew very well, from his skill at conjuring tricks, how misdirection could fool the unwary.

  “Who are you?” Coroticus shouted. “And what do you want with the girl?”

  “Girl?” the man asked and his voice was light. Tinged with madness, perhaps?

  The king shuddered. “Saxon filth,” he muttered in surprise, recognising the accent. “Aye,” he shouted again. “The girl you took from the hall. Return her to us now and we’ll let you live. If you don’t...”