The Forever Man: Clan War Page 5

  ‘Well, I’ll keep far away and jab him to death,’ replied Nathaniel.

  Padan and Torkill stared at each another. Eventually Padan spoke.

  ‘You tell him.’

  The druid took a deep breath. ‘You can’t keep away. You’ll be tied together. Separated by a four foot long leather strap, tied to each of your left wrists.’

  Nathaniel put his head in his hands. ‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’

  They both shook their heads.

  ‘Okay then,’ said the marine. ‘Let me rest. I know it’s still morning but I haven’t had much sleep lately. If you need anything, ask Janiver. Wake me two hours before we set off.’

  He stood up from the fire, went to his tent, crawled under his furs and lay there. Thinking once again of double shot espresso lattes and fudge brownies and computer games. As opposed to being tied to a five hundred pound gorilla and fighting to the death.

  Needless to say – sleep took a while to come.

  Chapter 9

  Janiver brushed the hair back from Padraig’s face and wiped the sweat from him with a damp, cool cloth. The young man was healing well, his wounds had been stitched and there was no mortification present. Also, he was young and fit, so he had every chance of recovering.

  As he lay sleeping he looked younger than his nineteen years, his face unlined apart from the lines of pain. His body was a physical poem. Long limbed, his muscles smooth and even, not yet having achieved the bulk and the coarseness of a fully-grown male warrior. The rows of stitches stood out like fissures in marble and his bruises as dark shadows on a landscape of virgin snow.

  When he was awake his eyes were of the deepest azure, his brows thick and noble and his default expression one of mild bafflement. As if the world and all of its evils both puzzled and saddened him.

  He moaned in his sleep. Either nightmares or pain, Janiver could not be sure. So she took his hand and held it tight, attempting to draw his pain from him. She sat with him all of that day and that night, willing him to heal.

  The next morning, when he awoke, hers was the first face that he saw.

  And he smiled.

  She stroked his face.

  ***

  Nathaniel had zero fight plan whatsoever. Massive bonfires had been lit all around the fighting circle and thousands of warriors had formed a vast ring around the area.

  Opposite the marine stood the largest man that he had ever seen. Not the tallest, in fact he was almost half a foot shy of Nathaniel’s six feet five inches. But he was simply enormous.

  Nathaniel remembered when he had once been stationed to Japan and had gone to watch a Sumo wrestling match. Afterwards he had been privileged enough to actually meet the Yokozuna, the top wrestler. It was like meeting a mountain, albeit a talking, breathing sentient one. He remembered that the Yokozuna weighed about 480 pounds. And he had been a lightweight compared to the monstrous Pict standing opposite him. The man’s arms were far bigger than Nathaniel’s legs and his legs were like tree trunks. His belly hung down in massive pendulous folds almost to his knees and his chins blended into his chest like a waterfall of lard.

  But the sheer weight was not the only thing that worried Nathaniel. The simple fact of the matter is that, anyone who spends every day carrying around a surplus weight of almost half a ton is going to be very, very strong.

  Chief Cradoc’s druid stepped forward and bowed to Nathaniel. Then he took a four-foot length of leather from his robes and tied the one end securely around the marine’s left wrist. He led the marine into the center of the circle and joined him to chief Cradoc, tying off the other end to the fat man’s left wrist. Then he stood back.

  ‘Warriors,’ he said. ‘Fight.’

  Nathaniel reacted immediately, bringing his right knee up and then unleashing a massive roundhouse kick to Cradoc’s face. It was like trying to chop down a mountain with a hammer. He big man flinched but did not move.

  Nathaniel did it again. This time he was rewarded by the sight of blood as the skin over the fat man’s left eye split.

  Nathaniel stepped in closer and launched a massive straight right into the same eye. He struck Cradoc’s face so hard that he felt the shock through his whole body. The cut opened up and blood steamed down Cradoc’s face.

  Emboldened by his success, Nathaniel lifted his knee to his chest and slammed his heel into Cradoc’s enormous gut. It was a complete waste of time so he went back to punching him in the face.

  Nathaniel struck again and again until his fist was bruised and painful and the fat man’s face was covered in blood.

  The marine tried for another kick to the head. But this time, as he unleashed the kick, Cradoc moved with surprising speed, grabbed his foot and lifted, throwing the marine to the ground. Then the fat man lent forward, grabbed Nathaniel by his hair, lifted him with ease and enveloped him in a gigantic, stinking, sweaty bear hug.

  ‘Got you now, wee man,’ grunted Cradoc. ‘Gave you a fair chance I did but you wasted it. Now – time to die.’

  Nathaniel felt his ribs begin to creak from the pressure of the bear hug. His right arm was still free and he hammered it down on top of the fat man’s skull, but to no avail.

  He began to see black spots in front of his eyes as the lack of oxygen started to affect his vision. Then the world turned to gray.

  He vividly remembered the taste of the Lagavulan single malt scotch that he had ordered once at the bar of the Connaught hotel in London. The smell of boot polish from his time training on Parris Island. His mother’s voice. The sound of an M16 assault rifle firing on full auto. His sister’s laughter.

  Something broke inside him and the pain brought him, momentarily, back into the land of the living.

  He stared around him. At the baying faces of the Pictish warriors. The concerned face of Torkill, his druid. And he thought of Janiver, his love and his destiny. He let his mind spread. He let his consciousness flow. Out. Out. Seeking, delving deep into the earth and high into the sky. And there he found it. Not in massive quantities like it was during his time of the pulse, but it was still there. The magic. The power. Gamma rays from the Aurora Borealis.

  The silver weave of his mental net settled down over the swimming shreds of power and he reeled them in, pulling them, close. Tight to him.

  Firstly he used them to strengthen his muscles, turning them to steel to resist Cradoc’s crushing embrace. Then he healed himself, knitting his ribs, repairing his ruptured spleen, his punctured lung.

  Finally he powered the rest of it into his muscles. He grabbed Cradoc’s right wrist and simply pulled it away from him, breaking the bear hug in an instant. The look of utter surprise on the fat man’s face was almost comical as the marine placed his right hand on his bloated chest and shoved. Cradoc lifted off his feet and flew through the air like an extremely mobile hippo, snapping the leather connection as he did so and landing with an earth shaking thump.

  Nathaniel strode over to him and delivered a chopping right and left to his head. The fat man rolled to the floor, gasping as he tried to get his breath back. Eventually he stood up, legs shaky, air whistling in and out as his massive chest heaved like a blacksmith’s bellows.

  ‘It’s over,’ said Nathaniel. ‘Swear fealty to me and you shall live. I shall even let you stay as leader of your own tribe. Simply swear your life to mine and that will be the end.’

  Cradoc shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, wee man. A couple of lucky shots does not a victor make.’ He shambled forward, arms outstretched as he attempted to ensnare the marine once again.

  Nathaniel danced inside the fat man’s arms and struck him with a cracking right cross, followed by a left hook and another straight right. Blood sprayed from Cradoc’s face and forehead as the blows carved into him.

  ‘Submit,’ shouted Nathaniel. ‘Swear fealty. Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Up yours, little man,’ bellowed Cradoc in return. ‘It’s your time to die.’ He rushed forward again, moving surprisingly quickly on hi
s massive tree-trunk legs.

  It was with a certain amount of regret that Nathaniel delivered his final blow. He went down on one knee and delivered a straight-armed punch to the center of Cradoc’s meaty chest as the huge man charged down on him. The marine’s fist sank almost to his elbow into the fat and flesh of the big man. Nathaniel could hear ribs breaking. He could feel flesh tearing. Blood squirted out of Cradoc’s nose and eyes and, with a look of absolute incredulity on his face, the big man keeled over. Dead.

  The crowd of warriors went wild.

  Chapter 10

  Nathaniel now controlled nine of the twenty clans of the Picts. The last one he had gained without ritual combat. Chief Feargus had arrived some two weeks ago and sworn fealty without battle. He was happy to call Nathaniel his king as long as he still maintained nominal leadership of his own tribe.

  Padraig sat opposite him, tearing the flesh off a leg of mutton and eating with great relish. It was now six weeks in all since the young man had arrived and he was almost fully recovered.

  Nathaniel found him to be sharp of wit and deep thinking. He was an honorable man and, after the marine had sparred with him in training, he saw that he was also a fine warrior. He was particularly gifted with the light javelin or throwing lance and could even hit a target whilst throwing from the back of a galloping horse, a task that few others could emulate.

  Nathaniel had immediately gotten Padraig to teach the cavalry how to handle a throwing lance in the same fashion, and he had officially named Padraig as his Lance Lord in charge of the cavalry.

  Since Nathaniel had managed to use The Power in his fight with Cradoc, Torkill the druid had spent many hours with him, training, teaching control, getting him to meditate and showing him exercises so that he could get into the same mental space that he was in when he had fought the fat man.

  But it was no use. Nathaniel could sense the power. He could almost feel it. But he couldn’t control it. It slipped away from him, touching the outer reaches of his consciousness, flirting with his subconscious but never showing itself in full. The frustration was driving the marine mental.

  Janiver came up behind him and started to massage his shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension out of him. After a few minutes Nathaniel stood up, brushing her hands from him.

  ‘I have to see Padan,’ he said. ‘He needs to set up a challenge with chief MacAsgain. I need more of the clans to follow me before I can rule.’

  The marine swept from the room in search of his right hand man and his druid, ignoring Janiver completely.

  The queen in waiting stood where she was, hands by her side, a slight glaze of tears in her eyes.

  ‘He means no harm, my lady,’ said Padraig, sensing Janiver’s confusion and distress at her lord’s sharp behavior. ‘He is under enormous stress. He has to lead the clans, he has naught to look forward to but yet another in a line of mortal combats and, even then, who knows whether the present king will accede or declare war.’

  Janiver wiped a tear. ‘He has changed, Padraig.’

  ‘Aye, mistress. He has. But then, who wouldn’t?’

  ‘He is not like us, Padraig. He is different.’

  The young warrior nodded. ‘Truth you speak, lady. I suspect that our Lord Arnthor Degeo may be a god.’

  Janiver nodded. ‘I too think thus,’ she agreed. ‘So tell me, Padraig, do you think that gods are capable of true love?’

  The young man shrugged. ‘They are capable of what they are capable of, my lady. It is not ours to question.’

  ‘And you, Padraig?’ Asked Janiver. ‘Are you capable of love or is your heart too full of hate for the Romans to allow such a trivial emotion to intercede?’

  Padraig stared at the queen in waiting, his dark eyes bored into her. ‘I am capable of love, lady. For love is not a trivial thing, it is the most powerful of all emotions.’

  ‘So. Whom do you love then, young warrior chief?’

  ‘I love my people,’ said Padraig. ‘I love my lord Nathaniel Arnthor Degeo and I love you, mistress.’

  Janiver blushed but hid it by turning her head away from the intense young man.

  ‘You love me?’ She smiled.

  ‘With all my heart,’ assured Padraig. ‘For are you not a living part of my lord Degeo? And, as such, I shall love you as much as I love him.’

  And because Janiver was facing away from him, the young man could not see the look of disappointment on her face. Nor would he have understood it even if he had seen it.

  ‘Is there anything that I can do for you, lady?’ He asked. ‘For, if not then I need to continue my training of the cavalry.’

  Janiver waved him away without looking up or speaking.

  Padraig left the tent, collecting his batch of lances as he did so.

  Chapter 11

  True to his word, when Padraig had fully recovered he took one hundred men with him and went on a field trip to visit his relatives.

  Firstly he visited his brother in law, chief Dunbar. Secondly, his uncle, chief MacVaxtar and, finally, his godfather, chief Gillanders.

  All three of them agreed to join under the banner of Lord Nathaniel Arnthor Degeo.

  Padraig gave them two weeks to get their troops in order and then, he informed them, the banner of Degeo would march on the king.

  Nathaniel now controlled thirteen of the twenty Pictish clans.

  The next two weeks were frantic as Nathaniel and his chiefs drew together to form one of the greatest armies that the Picts had ever seen.

  They formed up on the plains of Kilbride and marched, twenty thousand strong, to the castle of king Tavish MacDonell of clan Ranald in Dunblane.

  And their arrival was as a host from the gods so mighty was their presence.

  However, it had taken them over two weeks to march there, so king MacDonell had been offered ample time to bring up his own clans. And he had done so.

  Fully fifteen thousand men.

  For the first time since Nathaniel had met him, Torkill the druid looked nervous.

  ‘This is simply a war waiting to happen, my lord,’ he informed Nathaniel.

  ‘Not on my watch,’ retorted the marine. ‘Send messengers out to all of our men. I am going in alone, tell them to stay put. That means without you, or Padan or Padraig. Just me, under a banner of truce.’

  Torkill shook his head.

  ‘I don’t recommend that. Lord, please, at least take Padan and me with you.’

  ‘Can the two of you fight fifteen thousand men?’

  Torkill shook his head.

  ‘Well then,’ continued Nathaniel. ‘What’s the point? No, druid, I go alone.’

  The marine waited until the message had been sent to his men. Meanwhile, Padraig had taken a lance and attached a white banner to it. He handed it to Nathaniel.

  ‘Take care, my lord,’ he said.

  Nathaniel winked at him. ‘Always, my friend. Always.’

  The marine nudged his horse in the flanks, trotting forward towards king MacDonell’s host, the banner of truce billowing in the wind as he held it high.

  It took Nathaniel about twenty minutes to cross the space between the two armies and, when he was still a few hundred paces out, he noticed a single horseman riding towards him. As he approached closer, the marine could see that it was none other than king Tavish MacDonell himself. Riding alone.

  The king drew up in front of the marine and nodded his greeting.

  ‘Well met, lord Nathaniel Arnthor Degeo.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Nathaniel. ‘Well met, king Tavish MacDonell of clan Ranald.’

  ‘So, young man,’ continued the king. ‘Do you come to my lands in an effort to do war upon me?’

  Nathaniel shook his head. ‘Nay, sire. However, I do come to challenge you for the seat of the throne of the Picts.’

  ‘And if you win?’

  ‘When I win,’ corrected the marine. ‘When I win, I shall unite the Pictish tribes against the Romans and push them back from our lands. I shall punish th
em so that they never strike against us again, such will be their fear of the Pictish people.’

  The king shook his head. ‘Dreams of mist and sand, young man. The Romans cannot be beaten. I myself have warred against them. I have attacked them with overwhelming odds in our advantage and they have decimated us at every turn. Even your friend Padraig and his two thousand warriors were annihilated by less than five hundred Romans and it is said, that they lost but three men in return. Also, we Picts are not full time warriors.’

  The king waved his hand to encompass the host of men around him.

  ‘One looks and sees thirty five thousand men in battle gear. But I see thirty five thousand farmers carrying swords. Aye, there is none braver, none more stalwart nor courageous in battle than these men who stand around us but, the fact is, they are home makers first and warriors second. I do not know where you have come from, lord Degeo, and I have no doubt that you are a fearsome warrior, but you must understand, when these men go to war you will be lucky to take twenty thousand with you. The others will have to stay behind to protect their livestock and families from wolves and bears. They will need to plant and to till. They will have to continue the tasks that keep us all alive through the lean winter months.’

  ‘I hear what you say, king MacDonell,’ agreed Nathaniel. ‘But I feel that we may not have a choice. I do not think that the latest punitive action by the Romans was their last. They have become emboldened with their easy wins and, it will not be long before they begin to encroach on our home soil.’

  ‘There are twenty thousand Romans on the wall itself,’ said king MacDonell. ‘It is rumored that the ninth legion is encamped close by and, if we create too much of a stir, then the emperor could send a force as large as forty thousand against us. They would annihilate us. It would be the end of my people.’

  ‘No,’ Nathaniel disagreed. ‘It would be the end of Roman dominance. Under my leadership we would destroy any attempt by the emperor to subjugate us. Trust me, we can, and we will, successfully engage the Romans. They are not superhuman. They are not even fighting for their own lands and their own people. They are mere mercenaries. We can take them.’