Dark Eagle VIII: Shadow Walker, page 18
‘And now?’
‘Now everything is changing. The Romans bring new ways, new gods, new laws that make no sense to people who have lived by older customs. Some tribes try to accommodate, hoping to preserve what they can. Others resist completely, preferring death to submission. The Silures...’ He paused, staring up at the patch of sky visible above them. ‘The Silures are divided. Some follow leaders who preach accommodation, others support those who call for total war.’
‘And you?’
‘I believed in fighting smart rather than fighting hard. Use what we know, bend against their will when it suits us, but snap back like a released bowstring when it doesn’t before disappearing into the mist.’
----
The second week brought a visitor. Footsteps approached the pit’s edge, and a figure appeared silhouetted against the afternoon sky. When he spoke, his voice carried the measured tones of controlled anger.
‘Father.’
Cadoc looked up at his son, his weathered face showing no surprise at the visit.
‘Bran.’
‘The elders are meeting tonight. To decide your fate.’
‘I assumed they would be.’ Cadoc’s tone remained neutral, giving nothing away. ‘What are you here to tell me?’
‘That you brought this on yourself. That your actions have consequences beyond your own life.’ Bran’s young voice cracked slightly with the weight of emotions he was struggling to control. ‘Do you know what it’s been like? Living with the shame of having a father who was beaten by a Roman? Who brought dishonour to our entire bloodline?’
Falco started to speak, but Cadoc silenced him with a gesture.
‘Yes,’ the older man said simply. ‘I know.’
‘Then why?’ The question came out as almost a cry. ‘Why did you have to fight him? Why couldn’t you have found another way?’
‘Because sometimes there is no other way. Because I thought I was strong enough to win.’ Cadoc’s voice remained steady, but Falco could hear the pain beneath the words. ‘I was wrong.’
Bran stood silent for a long moment, his young face working through emotions too complex for easy expression. Finally, he dropped a bundle over the edge of the pit. Clean clothes, dried meat wrapped in cloth, and a small pot of salve for their wounds.
‘This is all I could manage without drawing attention,’ he said.
‘It’s more than enough. Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me. I’m not doing this out of love.’ But the harshness in Bran’s voice rang hollow, and when he turned away from the pit, his movements carried the reluctant concern of a son who could not entirely abandon his father despite their circumstances.
The visits continued sporadically over the following days. Bran would appear at the pit’s edge, sometimes bringing small gifts, sometimes only angry words about the burden of shame he carried. But gradually, as the days passed, the anger began to give way to something else, a reluctant recognition of the bond that connected them despite politics and tribal law.
‘I used to be proud of you,’ he said during one visit, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘When I was small, before I understood what it meant to be a chieftain’s son. I thought you were the strongest man in the world.’
‘I was never that strong,’ Cadoc replied. ‘Just stubborn enough to keep fighting when wiser men would have yielded.’
‘The elders say that’s what made you weak. That a true leader knows when to bend rather than break.’
Cadoc stifled a laugh at the irony. He had said almost the same thing to Falco just days earlier.
‘The elders say many things,’ he replied eventually. ‘Some of them are even true.’ He looked up at his son’s silhouette against the grey sky. ‘What do you say?’
‘I don’t know what to say anymore. I don’t know what to think.’ Bran’s voice carried the confusion of youth forced to confront complexities beyond his years. ‘All I know is that you’re my father, and they’re going to kill you, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.’
The admission hung in the air between them, raw and painful. For the first time since his capture, Cadoc’s composed facade cracked slightly, revealing the grief he carried for the choices that had brought them to this point.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘For the shame. For the burden I’ve placed on you. For all of it.’
Bran said nothing, but his shoulders shook slightly with suppressed emotion and when he finally walked away from the pit, his footsteps were slower, heavier, carrying the weight of love that could not be easily set aside despite duty and tribal expectations.
The morning of the fourth week brought the sound of many voices approaching the pit and Falco woke to find ropes being lowered, and rough hands hauling him upward into the grey dawn light. His legs nearly buckled when they touched solid ground as weeks of confinement had weakened muscles unused to bearing his full weight.
Cadoc emerged from the pit with greater dignity, though Falco could see the cost in the careful way he moved. Guards surrounded them immediately, spear points encouraging movement toward the village center where a crowd had already gathered.
The great hall loomed before them, its timber walls dark with age and weather. But their destination was not the building itself, but the open ground before it, where the entire population seemed to have assembled. Men, women, children, all knowing they were witnessing a significant moment in their community’s life.
At the crowd’s center, a circle had been marked in the earth. Within it sat the six tribal elders, and beyond them, on a chair carved from a single piece of oak, sat the man who had replaced Cadoc as leader of the Silures.
Bloodthorne was even more imposing in full daylight, his presence dominating the gathering through sheer physical authority. His dark beard was braided with rings of gold and silver, and scars crisscrossed his arms like a map of battles survived. When he rose from his chair, the entire crowd fell silent.
‘Cadoc, son of Brennan, once chieftain of the Silures,’ he said, his voice carrying easily across the gathered assembly. ‘You stand accused of bringing dishonour to your people through defeat in single combat, and living to tell the tale. You stand accused of collaboration with our Roman enemies, one of which stands alongside you. You stand accused of failing in your duty to protect those who trusted you with leadership. How do you answer these charges?’
Cadoc straightened as much as his injuries allowed, meeting Bloodthorne’s gaze directly.
‘I answer that I did what I thought best for our people. If that was failure, then I accept the judgment of my betters.’
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, some approving his dignity, others condemning what they saw as insufficient remorse. The elders bent their heads together, speaking in whispers too low for others to hear.
‘Death,’ said the first elder when their consultation ended. ‘For bringing shame to the Silures name.’
‘Death,’ agreed the second. ‘For weakness in the face of Roman power.’
Each elder spoke in turn, their voices carrying the weight of tradition and law. None suggested mercy, none proposed alternatives. The judgment was unanimous, death for the failed chieftain, death for the Roman who had caused his downfall.
But when the last elder had spoken, Bloodthorne raised his hand for silence. His cold blue eyes moved between the two prisoners, and something like amusement flickered across his scarred features.
‘Death is too simple,’ he said. ‘Too quick. Too merciful for men who have brought such shame to our people.’
The crowd stirred with anticipation. They could sense that their new leader had something more elaborate in mind, something that would serve as both punishment and entertainment.
‘Instead,’ Bloodthorne continued, ‘let the exile fight the Roman. Let them settle this matter with steel, whilst we watch and learn what manner of men they truly are.’
Gasps of approval rose from the crowd and several elders leaned forward in their seats, clearly surprised by this departure from traditional judgment. But Bloodthorne was not finished.
‘The rules are simple,’ he said, beginning to pace within the marked circle. ‘Both men will be armed with sword and shield. Both will fight until one is dead. The victor will then face me in single combat amongst the sacred standing stones, where the gods can judge whether he has the strength to challenge Silurian authority.’
‘I will not fight for your entertainment,’ said Cadoc, his voice cutting through the crowd’s murmur like a blade.
‘You will,’ Bloodthorne replied with absolute certainty. ‘Because if either of you refuses to fight, both will die slowly. Skinned alive whilst the other watches, kept conscious as long as possible so that each may witness the other’s suffering.’
Horror rippled through the assembly. Even among a people accustomed to violence, such cruelty was extreme. But Bloodthorne raised his hand again, demanding continued attention.
‘But if you fight, if you give us a battle worthy of warriors, then the loser will be granted an honourable death. A warrior’s pyre, songs to speed his spirit to the afterlife, recognition that he died with courage rather than shame.’ His smile was as cold as winter stone. ‘The winner earns the right to face me in sacred combat, where his blood will feed the ancient stones if he proves unworthy.’
The psychology was diabolical in its simplicity. By refusing to fight, both men would condemn each other to torture and degradation. By agreeing to fight, each would spare the other the worst possible fate, ensuring that whoever lost would at least die with honour. The choice was between shared torture or the slim chance that one might survive long enough to face Bloodthorne himself.
‘You’re asking us to provide sport for your amusement,’ said Falco.
‘I’m asking warriors to behave like warriors,’ Bloodthorne replied. ‘To face death with courage rather than cowering behind Roman arrogance or a dishonoured man’s cowardice.’
Cadoc looked across at Falco, seeing the same grim understanding in the Roman’s eyes. They had been manoeuvred into a position where any choice would serve their captor’s purposes.
The crowd waited in tense silence as the two prisoners stared at each other across the marked circle. The choice had been laid before them with pitiless clarity, die together in agony and shame, or fight each other for the privilege of an honourable death. Survival and duty, mercy and cruelty, all twisted together in a web that offered no clean escape.
The image of slow death, skinned alive whilst screaming for mercy that would never come, seared itself into both men’s minds. They had seen such executions before, knew how long strong men could survive such methodical torture. Sometimes days of agony, begging for death that would be withheld until the very end.
Better the quick thrust of a blade through the heart. Better to die with steel in hand, blood on the ground, and the knowledge that they had faced their end as warriors. Better to grant each other that mercy, even if it meant becoming the instrument of the other’s death.
‘If we must die, let it be with honour,’ said Cadoc quietly.
Understanding passed between them, the terrible recognition that survival sometimes demanded the ultimate sacrifice. That warriors’ final gift to each other might be the willingness to grant a clean death rather than watch prolonged suffering.
Bloodthorne watched them both with obvious satisfaction. He had created a situation where any choice would serve his purposes. Either they would provide entertainment through combat, or they would die slowly as an example of what happened to those who brought dishonour to the Silures name. The psychology was perfect, each man’s respect for the other would drive him to fight with desperate intensity, knowing that victory meant sparing his opponent the worse fate.
‘Choose,’ Bloodthorne said simply, though his tone suggested the choice had already been made.
Falco stepped forward first, his voice carrying across the silent crowd.
‘I choose to die as a warrior, not as a sacrifice to your cruelty.’
Cadoc nodded slowly.
‘As do I.’
The crowd stirred with anticipation, some voices calling approval whilst others murmured prayers to gods whose names were older than memory. Weapons would be brought, the sacred circle would be prepared amongst the standing stones, and two warriors would meet in combat whilst their captors and the gods themselves watched and judged.
‘Take them away,’ Bloodthorne commanded. ‘Let them prepare themselves for what is to come. At the next full moon, we shall see what manner of blood the stones require.’
----
Chapter Twenty-Five
Gaul
The mountain passes above Aquae Tarbellicae were treacherous even in good weather. Ancient tracks carved by generations of traders and armies wound between peaks that scraped the belly of grey clouds, whilst stone slides and sudden drops waited for the unwary. Seneca pushed the pace, driving his small party through terrain that demanded careful attention to every step.
The first day carried them through passes where eagles nested in crags that had never known human footfall. The air grew thin and cold, forcing frequent rests for both men and horses but with each mile they climbed, the weight of immediate danger seemed to lift from their shoulders. No imperial patrols operated at these altitudes, and no informants watched from the shadows of non-existent settlements.
‘How far to the channel ports?’ Marcus asked during one of their brief halts, his breath forming clouds in the crisp mountain air.
‘Two weeks if we push hard and the weather holds,’ Seneca replied, studying the sky where dark clouds were beginning to gather. ‘Three if we have to detour around trouble or wait out storms.’
‘And if the horses break down?’
‘Then we walk. Or ride double on the survivors. Or find new mounts somewhere. Either way, we’ll manage.’
But managing proved more difficult than anticipated. The mountain weather turned savage on their second day, bringing sleet that made the tracks treacherous and visibility that dropped to mere yards. They pressed on because stopping meant losing precious time, but the horses began to show signs of strain. Shoes came loose on rocky ground, and one pack animal developed a limp that forced them to redistribute its load among the others.
They made camp that night in a shepherd’s hut abandoned since summer, its stone walls providing shelter from wind that howled like something alive. A fire of dried sheep droppings gave more smoke than heat, but it was enough to warm their hands and prepare a meal from their dwindling supplies.
‘We’re moving too fast,’ said Marcus, checking the pack animal’s injured leg by the fire’s dim light. ‘At this rate, we’ll lose half our mounts before we reach the lowlands.’
‘At the other rate, Falco dies while we’re picking our way carefully through pretty scenery,’ Seneca replied, though his voice lacked its usual edge.
Sica said nothing, but his silence carried agreement with both positions. They were trapped between impossible alternatives, driven by circumstances that offered no clean solutions. The only certainty was that delay meant death for their comrade, but haste might mean failure for all of them.
The second week brought them down from the highest peaks into valleys where scattered farms dotted the landscape like islands in a sea of green. Here they encountered their first people since leaving Aquae Tarbellicae, a family of Gallic farmers who watched their passage with the wary interest of those who had learned to be suspicious of armed strangers.
‘We need supplies,’ Seneca decided, turning toward the modest collection of buildings that constituted the farm. ‘Food, fresh fodder for the horses, and information about the roads ahead.’
The transaction was conducted carefully. Gold changed hands, more than the supplies were worth, but enough to ensure discretion about their passage. They also learned that imperial patrols had been active in the valley the week before, searching for fugitives whose description might have matched their own.
‘How many patrols?’ Marcus asked in his rough Gallic, accepting bread and cheese from the farmer’s wife.
‘A hundred, maybe more. They questioned everyone, searched every building, offered rewards for information about Romans traveling without proper documentation.’ The farmer’s weathered face showed the strain of recent tension. ‘They left two days ago, heading west toward the coast.’
West toward the coast. Toward the ports where passage to Britannia might be arranged. The implications were clear, their enemies had anticipated their route and moved to block their escape.
‘Are there other roads?’ Sica asked, gesturing vaguely toward the surrounding hills.
‘Old tracks through the forest. Hunters’ paths, mostly. Harder going, but they avoid the main settlements where patrols might be watching.’ The farmer studied their faces, reading the desperation there. ‘Dangerous, though. Bandits work those routes, and the weather this time of year...’
They took the forest paths anyway, because the alternative was riding directly into imperial hands. The tracks were everything the farmer had warned, narrow, overgrown, treacherous in places where recent rains had washed away bridges or turned solid ground into sucking bog and progress slowed to a crawl as they navigated fallen trees and stream crossings that tested both horses and riders.
But the forests offered concealment, and concealment was worth more than speed if their enemies were actively hunting them. They made camp each night in hidden clearings where fire could be kept small and sound wouldn’t carry to unwanted ears. The routine became familiar. Unsaddle the horses, tend their injuries, and prepare what food they could without drawing attention.
It was during one of these evening camps, somewhere in the depths of a pine forest whose name appeared on no Roman map, that the conversation turned to their missing comrades.
‘Talorcan always said he wanted to die in his homeland,’ Marcus observed, prodding their small fire with a stick. ‘Fighting Vandals, if the gods granted him the chance.’
