The Forever Man: Clan War Page 3

  It also didn’t help that the marine himself was actually unsure of whether he was doing the correct thing. Who was he to decide that the Scots were going to be appointed as the guardians of humanity in the United Kingdom? Perhaps the chiefs were correct. Perhaps he should just bugger off and leave them alone to do their thing. No matter how stupid their thing turned out to be.

  He beckoned to both Tad and Gruff and wandered outside, leaving the smoky confines of the room that they were in. He ambled into the nearby field and stood in front of the Clach a' Mheirlich, a megalithic standing stone that was carved with ancient Pictish symbols. He ran his hand over the carved serpents and the circles and wondered at their meanings. Marveling at the age of the 1000-year-old artifact.

  Tad and Gruff stood close by. Neither spoke as they sensed that the marine needed companionship but not company.

  Nathaniel drew on his cigar, keeping it clenched between his teeth as he walked slowly around the stone, letting his fingers drag over the weatherworn surface. No historian had yet been able to translate the Pictish hieroglyphs and the marine speculated as to what they said or meant.

  He traced one of them. A circle, above it a flattened M, like a child’s depiction of a bird in flight and next to it an upside-down T.

  The sky above him coruscated with the oily colors of the solar flares and the cold air swept across the hills, ruffling the heather and kicking up puffs of dried grass. Close by, a bolt of lighting flashed across the firmament and a clap of thunder rent the air.

  The cigar fell from the marine’s mouth as his jaw dropped open in a revelation.

  A Globe. Above it a Bird. Next to it, an upside-down T. An anchor.

  An Eagle. A Globe of the World. And an Anchor.

  Nathaniel started to laugh out loud. For, standing in front of him, carved one thousand years before – was the official emblem of the United States Marine Corps.

  Above him more lightning forked across the sky. The ground shook with peals of thunder. A whirlwind of rainbow color twisted down upon the marine like a tornado of light.

  And then – he was gone.

  Tad and Gruff ran forward but the marine was no more.

  ***

  Nathaniel fell forward, striking his head on the standing stone as he did so. His vision blurred and he shook his head to clear it. All around him the heather was now knee high. Above him the sky was the deep dark navy blue of early morning. A sliver of blood red sun peeked over the horizon and there was no sign of the ever-present Aurora Borealis in the heavens.

  He felt a pair of strong hands grasp him by his right shoulder.

  ‘Are you all right, my lord?’

  The marine looked up. A large red-bearded man stood next to him. He was dressed in a great kilt, a rough spun white woolen tunic and leather sandals. On his back was sheathed a mighty broadsword.

  Behind the large warrior stood a druid, dressed in traditional grubby white robes. Around his neck a bronze torc. His long beard was plaited and adorned with the tiny bones of woodland creatures. Hanging from his ears were chains of gold and around his eyes he had smeared a mixture of charcoal and fat, giving him a look of dark lunacy. In his right hand he carried a bronze sickle, its blade dull with dried blood.

  The marine noticed that he too was wearing a great kilt and sandals with leather greaves. He had no shirt and his torso was covered with a stiff bull-hide jerkin of hardened leather armor. On his left hip, a short sword. On his right, his axe.

  He recognized neither the warrior nor the druid. But his shock was even greater when he turned around. Arrayed before him, forming a large ring, were over a thousand warriors. Standing still. And, in front of them all, another warrior, leaning on his massive broadsword, his beard fashioned into a club, tied tight so that it did not get in the way when he moved. A jagged scar ran down the side of his face, dragging the right side of his mouth down into a perpetual expression of distaste. He nodded at the marine.

  ‘It’s time, highlander,’ he said as he walked forward, swinging the sword back and forth to limber up his muscles.

  The red-bearded man slapped Nathaniel on the back. ‘Be strong, my lord. We know that you can win. Remember, beware his low strikes, keep moving, you’re faster than him. Don’t over-extend.’

  The druid stepped up to the marine and slapped him across the face and back with a bushel of mistletoe, chanting as he did so. Then, he leaned forward and whispered into Nathaniel’s ear.

  ‘I am not sure if you are now him, lord. But, if the prophecies are true, then you are. If so then I must warn you - you are not immortal here and now. Your speed, strength and agility are enhanced but if you die…you die. Please, lord, attempt not to do so. It would be very inconvenient to all involved. Now, step forth and fight for your right to rule.’

  The druid gave Nathaniel a firm push between the shoulder blades and the marine staggered into the circle formed by the mass of warriors.

  Scarface swung a massive overhand strike at the Nathaniel who barely managed to dodge to the side, still thoroughly discombobulated from his sudden transportation from one thousand years in the future.

  The tribesmen were cheering and shouting encouragement. The noise was almost deafening and it further added to the marine’s confusion. He shook his head again to clear his senses and stepped away from Scarface, rising up on his toes and dancing to the side like a boxer.

  His antagonist swung again and this time Nathaniel danced easily out of the path of the massive blade, unclipping his axe from his belt as he did so. At the same time he drew his knife and held in his left hand.

  The two men circled each other for a few seconds. Sizing up. Looking for a gap. Scarface faked a lunge but Nathaniel didn’t fall for it, instead bringing his axe in a low sweep towards scarface’s knees. Scarface jumped back and swung another overhand blow. Nathaniel swayed to the side but the blade clipped his shoulder, slicing off a chunk of flesh as it did so. Blood sprayed high and a bolt of pain shot through the marine’s body.

  He jabbed with the knife and felt the blade strike flesh, punching a shallow wound into Scarface’s chest.

  Again they circled, both bleeding freely from their wounds. Scarface whipped his sword low, swinging at Nathaniel’s ankles, but the marine remembered Red-beard’s warning and he jumped over the blade, moving forward as he did so. He grabbed Scarface by the back of his head and dragged him into a vicious head butt, smashing his nose and dropping him to the ground. But he was strong and he rolled to the side and sprang up once again.

  Nathaniel took the brief respite to concentrate his mind because, although he was fighting for his life, he had no real idea what was actually happening. The druid had mentioned something about the right to rule. But it was obvious that this was no ceremonial affair. This was a knock them down, chop them up, fight to the death.

  The marine pushed down any scruples that he had about killing someone that he didn’t know or, seemingly, even have a real reason to fight. If this was his geas then so be it. He would fight to the best of his ability.

  He raised himself up onto his feet and swung the axe around his head, jumping forward and sideways at the same time, bringing the deadly blade down on a forty-five degree angle.

  ‘Oorah!’

  The blade bit deep into scarface’s left shoulder.

  Nathaniel inverted the swing immediately, using his brute strength to drag the blade backward into a reverse cut that sliced across his adversary’s chest, slashing through his leather jerkin and exposing the white of his ribs below the severed flesh.

  Scarface bellowed in pain and swung his broadsword at the marine’s head. A brutish overhead blow that would have cleaved Nathaniel in twain if it had connected.

  But, once again, the marine was not there. He had dropped and rolled to his left. Then, using a trick of combat that he had learned from Tad, he lashed out with his foot, catching Scarface in his knee. There was a crunch and the scarred warrior fell to the ground.

  Nathaniel sprang up and
raised his axe. He hesitated slightly at the apex of his swing but the druid caught his eye and drew his finger across his throat in the internationally recognized kill sign.

  The axe swung down.

  Scarface was no more.

  A thousand voices erupted in cheers as the warriors yelled their approbation.

  Nathaniel sank to his knees. Pleased that he had survived. That he had won. But not happy that he had killed a fellow human being for reasons that he knew nothing about.

  The druid walked over to him, pulled him to his feet and whipped him with the holly branch, chanting ancient spells as he did so.

  Then hands grabbed the marine and lifted him high and, in a procession of exaltation, they carried The Forever Man down the valley to the village of Ballyclyde.

  Chapter 6

  Nathaniel sat at the head of the table. On his right, the red-beard Scot who went by the name of Padan Fidach.

  On his left sat the druid, Torkill Taggart, a name that literally translated as Thor’s Priest.

  Although the table was capable of seating twenty and the room was big enough for another hundred, the three of them sat alone.

  ‘So,’ said Nathaniel. ‘Let me get this right. The man that I just defeated in single combat was lord Sholto of clan Douglas?’

  Torkill nodded.

  ‘So, by dint of my victory I am now king of the Picts?’

  Padan laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Enquired the marine.

  ‘Sorry, my lord,’ responded the red bearded warrior. ‘I meant no offence. But, no, you are not king. By defeating Sholto in ritual combat you have taken over the right to rule his clan. Basically, those men that you saw outside. Half are yours and the another half were Sholto’s. Now, they are all yours. However, they are only a quarter of the clan Douglas and there are also five more major clans and some twenty sub-clans such as Sholto ruled. There is only one king, Tavish MacDonell of clan Ranald, and he is not honor-bound to join against you in combat. The only way to make a claim to the kingdom is to rally sufficient swords to your banner and force a challenge from the presiding king.’

  Nathaniel rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Attempting to scrub away the utter exhaustion that was threatening to overcome him.

  ‘Torkill.’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Who am I?’

  The druid looked puzzled. ‘I am afraid that I don’t understand my lord’s question.’

  ‘Am I The Forever Man? Am I Lord Degeo?’

  The druid nodded.

  ‘Right. Then who was I before? You know, before I got here, before I appeared. Who was I?’

  Again the druid looked perplexed.

  ‘You were you, my lord. You are always you. Who else could you be but yourself?’

  ‘But I was somewhere else,’ insisted Nathaniel. ‘I was in the future from here. And then I arrived here just before the fight but someone must have been in my body, this body, before I got here.’

  The druid nodded. ‘Yes, lord. Obviously. You were.’

  ‘How?’

  The druid shrugged. ‘I know not, lord Degeo. You are The Forever Man. I am but a humble priest of the earth. You are the one doing all of these things not me. My knowledge comes solely from the prophecies and the stories foretold. I can repeat, I can observe, I can advise, however - I cannot be you, my lord.’

  ‘All right then, priest of the earth, advise me. Why am I here?’

  Torkill raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, that one’s easy, my lord. You are here to do what you need to do.’

  Nathaniel shook his head. ‘Blasted priests. All the same. Riddles answered with more riddles. Padan, help me.’

  The red-bearded man chuckled. ‘The prophesies say that you are here to join the clans together. To forge them all into one so that you can wield them against the invaders and drive them from our lands.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said the marine. ‘Now then, who are our enemies?’

  ‘Well,’ said Padan. ‘At the moment – the Roman Empire.’

  Chapter 7

  Marius Corcus was an Avocati in the tenth cohort of the Augusta the 2nd legion. As an Avocati he had served his allotted time in the Imperial Legions but, as he neither knew of, nor desired any other life beside that of a soldier, he had reenlisted. He had fought in both Germania and Hispania and had been awarded two gold armbands and a cup for valor. He had lost the cup somewhere in Hispania and had gambled the armbands away when he had first arrived in Britannia. But he loved his life in the legion.

  He ranked high enough above the lowly Munifex so as to avoid manual labor and trivial tasks – as well as commanding twice the pay. But he did not rank as high as an Immunes, a rank that brought with it both responsibility and accountability.

  He was the classic square peg in a square hole and he was happy for it.

  Seated next to him on the communal toilet, his friend Avocati Seneca Lupus grunted and shook his head.

  ‘You know,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had a good crap since we arrived in this gods-forsaken land. It’s all the barley that we have to eat. By Zeus, who ever thought that we would be forced to eat barley instead of wheat or oats? Bloody animal food it is. And it binds my gut up tighter than a drum it does.’

  Marius chuckled. ‘I don’t have a problem. I’ve told you before, eat beets and drink a mouthful of castor oil every day.’

  ‘All hail to the Cacator,’ replied Seneca. ‘The king of shits. No way am I swallowing that oil, nor shall I munch upon the flesh of the lowly beet. Barley is bad enough, darn horse food that it is, but beets are food fit only for pigs. I should rather suffer the pain of my plugged up bowels than eat pig food and obnoxious oils.’

  Marius wiped himself clean with a handful of moss, threw it into the waste bucket and stood up.

  ‘Whatever, my friend,’ he said. ‘The Imperator has decided that we sally forth before the next watch to strike a punitive blow against the blue-people in order to punish them for their last raid past the wall. So make speed and join me at the gates. The tenth cohort marches alone under Pilus Prior, Marcus Albinus.’

  By the time that Marius had got to the gates, Seneca was already right behind him. Both were fully kitted out with armor, kilt, helmet, hob-nailed sandals and large shield. They also carried a pugio dagger, a gladius short sword and a pilum, or heavy throwing spear. Both Marius and Seneca also carried a set of six plumbatae, long lead-weighted darts that could be thrown at least sixty feet and took the place of a light archer.

  The tenth cohort formed up just inside the main gates, ranked into six blocks of eighty soldiers each.

  Marcus Albinus, the Pilus Prior in command, rode on horseback at the front, flanked by two mounted centurions.

  There was no speech, no call to arms or talk of valor. The picts were considered unworthy of such blandishments. The mighty Roman legions had been tasked with punishment and it was punishment that they would deliver.

  The Imperator in charge of the legion had deliberately sent forth only a single cohort even though he knew that they would be outnumbered at least two, maybe three, to one. He did this with full knowledge that the Romans did not lose against tribesmen. He also knew that the news would travel. The tribesmen would know that many had lost against few. He was looking to humble as well as to punish.

  They were proceeding to the nearby settlement of Badenyon. Home of around five thousand Picts including women and children. Ruled by chief Morleo Drest. The Imperator had no idea if chief Drest’s men were responsible for the cross-wall raid but the settlement was well suited to Roman battle tactics. Situated in a slight vale and surrounded by flat, treeless ground, it would allow the free use of the tried and tested Roman formations against which the barbarians had no real answer.

  The tenth cohort had been tasked with full victory. This meant that all would be put to the sword. Man, women and child. Even the cattle. The fields and the houses would be torched and the men’s heads would be displayed on stakes to further discourage a
nyone who felt like raiding into Roman controlled territory.

  The cohort fell quickly into their stride and the centurions struck up their marching song.

  I wanna be a legionnaire

  I'm gonna shave off all my hair

  Walk real stupid, talk real loud

  I'm gonna make my mother proud

  I wanna be a legionnaire

  I'll wear a dress, but I don't care

  An army camp is now my home

  I'll kill and maim and rape for Rome

  Scutum!

  Pilum!

  Sin, dex, sin, dex, Sin…Sin Dex!

  ***

  Young Connell came sprinting into the settlement, sandals slapping and kilt flapping as he did so.

  ‘Romans!’ He screamed. ‘Romans coming from the south. Roman war party coming.’

  The tribesmen reacted instantly. No time was wasted asking if the boy was sure, or how many Romans there were or even how far away they were. They all simply grabbed their swords and shields and spears and started running south.

  The watch started blowing the watch-horn. A mournful Boo-Ha echoed across the vale, bringing yet more tribesmen in. Young and old they came, weapons ready. Hatred in their hearts and killing in their minds.

  They stretched across the vale 2000 strong, in a line two hundred wide and ten deep. A numerical advantage of over four to one.

  Chief Drest stood front and center, his two brothers stood one on each side.

  ‘Why are they here?’ Asked Padraig, the youngest, only eighteen but as tall as a man.

  ‘Why are the Romans anywhere?’ Replied Morleo. ‘They have come to kill. To take what is not theirs by dint of force.’

  ‘Well they’ve come to the wrong place then, haven’t they, brother?’ Said Padraig. Youthful bravado attempting to drown out first-time-battle fear.