Conall V: Retribution—Díoltas: Conall, #5

By David H. Millar

"Witch!" Tullus gasped.

"You are not that fortunate, Roman," came the menacing reply."

 

Blood has purchased a fragile peace for Conall and Mórrígan and the close circle of friends they call family. However, allies and enemies alike wonder if the king and queen have lost the thirst for vengeance on those who slaughtered their families. Alarmed, gods, kings, and despots conspire to poke the slumbering fire.

Brennus of the Senones smarts at his defeat at Conall's hands and covets his lands and wealth. Will a bruised ego and hubris overrule the Gaulish king's typical pragmatism?

The Gaiscedach want revenge for the defeat and execution of their queen. In the dead of night, like cockroaches, they scuttle over the walls of Lugudunon.

Marcus Fabius Ambustus tolerates no challenge to his plan to be the Dictator of Rome. But has arrogance blinded him to the enemy he has nurtured?

The gates of Rome and retribution draw closer. But Conall needs his enemies as much as his friends. Still, who are enemies and who are friends? It is a time of schisms and rebuilding, of loved ones endangered, and assassins and spies revealed.

Yet, there has always been one constant: only the foolish doubt Conall and Mórrígan will show mercy to those who threaten their family.

 

Conall V: Retribution is the final novel in the Conall series.

 

 

The Conall Series contains scenes of sex, violence, and language appropriate to the period (400 B.C.) in which it is set. It is not recommended for those under 14 without parental consent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David H. Millar
• Release date: Jun 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9780991664092

David H. Millar

Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, David H. Millar is the founder and author-in-residence of Houston-based ‘A Wee Publishing Company’—a business that promotes Celtic literature, authors and art. Millar moved to Nova Scotia, Canada, in the late 1990s. After ten years shovelling snow, he decided to relocate to warmer climates and has now settled in Houston, Texas. Quite a contrast! An avid reader, armchair sportsman, and Liverpool Football Club fan, Millar lives with his family and Bailey, a Manx cat of questionable disposition known to his friends as "the small angry one!"

Book preview

MAP 1

Map of Gaul (France)

MAP 2

Map of Italy

1

396 B.C.—LUGUDUNON

S o this is peace.

Conall Mac Gabhann, Rí Ruirech—King Over Kings—of Clann Ui Flaithimh reflected that with age came an increased use of sarcasm. Whether that was good or bad, he let others judge. Fortunately, his words were instantly whipped away by a welcome breeze. The zephyr carried the faint burnt fragrance of a dry landscape begging for rain.

The long, hot summer experienced by the Rodonos valley had pushed aside a temperate, if stormy, spring. With the departure of the relentless winds and storms of the Máistir, the river plain and surrounding lands and forests breathed easier. It was a fertile land. Few doubted that rain would come and the earth would once more reclaim its lush appearance.

The king raised an eyebrow as he approached his adversary. It was an action well-known to his friends, but likely lost on his opponent. An ornate helmet embellished with gold, silver, and copper concealed Conall’s face. He sensed the black plumes trailing from the golden raven atop the helmet flare in the passing breeze and flick his neck—perhaps a reminder to focus.

Conall wore red plaid triubhas—trousers. A plaited cord, knotted at the waist, prevented the embarrassment of the britches falling down during the rigours of combat. The pants, tucked into soft hide boots, were held in place by criss-crossed leather thongs from the ankle to below the knee.

A loose, long-sleeved, mid-thigh-length léine—shirt—covered his torso. Like the triubhas, the garment was lightweight and matched the colour of his pants. Conall snorted. Mórrígan was forever cajoling him to diversify his wardrobe.

In this respect, her powers of persuasion were wasted. He was comfortable with red and black, and that would never change. The tunic was gathered above the hips by a broad, carved leather crios—a gift from his children. A fist-sized gold and bronze buckle, fashioned as an open-winged raven, a gift from Mórrígan, drew the leather ends together.

On the girdle hung an assortment of weapons—a throwing axe, a short sword, and two daggers. Several knives were hidden in his boots, although hidden was absurd. It was universally known that all boots concealed blades. The apprentice-blacksmith-turned-warrior-king settled his waisted, oblong shield on his left arm and gripped a battle-axe in his left hand.

With a throwing axe balanced in his right hand, he moved forward. Conall’s stride was steady and confident. Yet, it could not disguise the self-assured hubris and boredom he felt. Few in the clann doubted that he was the superior warrior. Conall’s demeanour shouted his annoyance at what he considered a pointless duel.

Conall’s challenger was a head taller than the king. Untamed blond locks fought against an impressive, winged helmet. A sheen of sweat covered a lightly tanned and muscled torso, giving the warrior the glow of oiled skin.

Like Conall, axe and shield were his chosen armaments, and like the king, he carried a heavy-headed throwing axe in his right hand. The middle finger of that hand was missing a joint—a sure sign of an axe warrior. Unlike swordsmen, axe-wielders did not have the luxury of a hilt or cross-piece to protect their hands.

The warrior was alert to opportunity. Without breaking his stride and five paces apart, he released the axe, and it tumbled through the air. Conall cursed as the weapon embedded itself in the scíath he hastily drew across his body. Conall’s hurried response glanced harmlessly off his adversary’s shield. He had missed his chance, and the gap between the duellists was too close for a killing strike.

The space between the two men was quickly closed, resulting in an inevitable clash of scíatha. Conall felt his left arm throb with pain and then numbness as it bore the brunt of the metal boss of his enemy’s shield. Teeth clenched, he followed through with a flurry of axe strokes. Soon, wood shavings and ribbons of cowhide littered the flat-topped grassy mound on which they fought.

The opening flourishes over, the combatants settled into a mesmerising dance of feints, dropped shoulders, and misdirection as they circled one another.

In the early days, the tribes surrounding the lands conquered by Clann Ui Flaithimh had thrown thousands of warriors—young and old, male and female, novice and veteran—at the defences of the fortress of Lugudunon. Picked clean by flocks of ravens and scoured by the winds of the Máistir, their sun-bleached, headless skeletons lay scattered around the towering white ramparts.

Traditionally, the skulls of the defeated were spiked and displayed on Lugudunon’s walls. However, with so many attacks and challengers, only those of famed champions currently adorned the monumental gateways and the tall, wooden trophy posts that lined Lugudunon’s main avenues.

The rest were crushed underfoot or tossed aside. Fame and valour were ephemeral virtues. Often, children, and even some adults and druids, created a macabre form of art or constructed musical instruments from the bones.

Eventually, the attacks became ritualistic. They became a rite of passage for young warriors and a futile demonstration of Gallic stubbornness. On this morning, the few hundred Souconna warriors who tested the walls of Lugudunon were well aware that they had no hope of success.

Over the past five summers, Cúscraid Mac Conchobar, the clann’s master of defence, had overseen renovating and rebuilding the fort’s walls with massive blocks of quarried stone. The fortifications were now higher and broader, and the stone was so tightly aligned that the fortifications presented an almost smooth face to besiegers.

Two-storey, square guard towers jutting from the ramparts loomed over a fertile landscape of planted vineyards and olive groves. Around the city, neat drills of corn and wheat radiated outwards. Innocently pastoral, they disguised a sinister function as the army’s killing fields. Beyond this were the wildwoods and dense ancient forests of Gaul.

Lugudunon was built on a southwest-to-northeast axis. Hence, the eastern entranceway was more accurately the northeastern gate. Two round guard towers were staggered to slow traffic entering the ráth, enabling defenders to rain down a murderous crossfire on enemies.

Along the ramparts, heavy ballistae stood silently—tall, foreboding sentinels. Their teams were rarely called upon for minor skirmishes unless tedium provoked a round of target practice. Archers, slingers, and spearmen lined the ramparts. They jostled with the civilian population to watch the entertainment.

In a festive mood, such was their confidence in Conall’s fighting skills, all drank, cheered, and placed wagers. Only a few had the slightest doubt as to the eventual outcome.

Gaius Aurelius Atella, maligned and branded an outcast and traitor of Rome, paced the walls. Burnished bronze helmet, cuirass, and greaves glinted in the sun. Given the turning of the seasons, he had forgone his usual heavy red woollen cloak. Gaius pointed to the north and growled at his men, On your feet. Stay alert. Twenty thousand bastards might be hidden in the trees beyond the cornfields.

A few paces from Gaius, Fearghal Ruad, the grizzled battle commander of Clann Ui Flaithimh, snorted loudly. Gaius glanced at him quizzically. There was a time when Gaius was numbered among the clann’s enemies.

In a whim of Fate, they now counted each other as friends. Fearghal directed the Roman’s gaze to the duel. "That is no callow youth looking to make his reputation. His goal is not to escape with a few scars to impress and spread the thighs of virgins. He covets a throne."

Gaius reluctantly agreed. The duel was a threat, much more than an assault by hordes of unwashed barbarians on Lugudunon. Defeat would be disastrous for the tribe. Damn, your Gallic pride and sense of honour. It will be your downfall.

The Roman paused. I smell more of Brennus’ plotting and mischievousness. His proxies have grown from annoying, impotent flies to wasps with real stings. A grunt from Fearghal signalled his agreement.

As if sensing Fearghal and Gaius’ trepidation, Conall blinked beads of sweat from his eyes and attacked with a ferocity that wrongfooted his rival. Eschewing blows that required raising his arm above the shoulder or a full arc of the weapon, he reduced his exposure to counterstrikes, forcing his adversary to give ground.

An accomplished swordsman, Conall was more than good enough for the slash and stab of the shield-wall. Under the giant Urard’s tuition, he had become a master of the axe, if not yet as good as the man who protected his children.

Nevertheless, in a close-quarter fight such as this, he wondered if he should follow the example of Bláithín Ni Neill, a noblewoman of the clann. Her chosen weapon was a short-hafted, double-headed blade. In close combat, she insisted it allowed for more flexibility.

It finally dawned on Conall that his enemy’s actions appeared almost nonchalant, and the contest manipulated with remarkable skill. With excellent timing, his opponent hooked the edge of Conall’s scíath and pulled sharply downwards, wresting it from the king’s grip. The shield clattered to the ground, and a booted foot shattered it.

Conall grunted in pain as he felt the pressure of an axe blade rake his chest diagonally from nipple to belly. A triumphant sneer ghosted the lips of the Souconna war chieftain. His celebration proved precipitous.

Torn by the axe’s cutting edge, Conall’s tunic revealed the silver-grey links of chainmail. Conall shook his head as if disappointed at his adversary’s surprise. With his left hand, he pulled the second throwing axe from his belt and pressed his attack with renewed vigour. Before long, his challenger discarded his own weakened shield.

Both men faced each other with battle axes in one hand and throwing axes in the other. Both watched for the merest signal of intent. A weapon arched through the air. The distance was too close, and the throw hurried. It was a glancing blow, but the blade bit into Conall’s upper arm, causing him to drop the smaller axe.

He roared, partly in pain but mostly angry at miscalculating his opponent’s skills. Blood trickled down his arm and onto the haft of the remaining weapon, now grasped in two hands. In the fever of battle, the wound did little to hamper the king’s movement.

Conall sprang forward. A side-step to the right quickly followed a feint to the left. His reward was the butt-end of an axe in his belly. Bastard! he shouted. His opponent laughed. Overconfident, he moved to where he expected Conall to be.

It was his first mistake. Rather than scramble away, Conall let go of his axe and rolled closer like a log tumbling down a hill, forcing the Souconna chieftain to stumble over Conall’s torso. A shriek of agony muted the cheering from those who accompanied the Souconna chieftain. They watched Conall rise, a bloody dagger in his hand.

The challenger attempted to crawl to safety, but Conall severed his hamstring. A calloused hand cupped the warrior’s chin and jerked it backwards. Quickly and deeply, Conall drew the sharp blade across the exposed throat. The dying chieftain’s last memory was gargling blood as his life ebbed.

You’re not very magnanimous in victory, said Fearghal, approaching Conall.

"Not so. Alive, he’s just another defeated chieftain. Dead, he and his men will be honoured as heroes battling against impossible odds and the merciless Rí Ruirech of Clann Ui Flaithimh. Seanchaithe will immortalise them in epic tales, and they will be remembered in tribal lore forever."

Conall turned to his men and pointed to the fleeing Souconna warriors. Pursue them. Kill all but one. Someone should tell of their battle.

The lone warrior waited patiently to make his break for the treeline. Scattered around him lay the corpses of former comrades. Grunts and curses told him that the ritual of beheading and stripping of the fallen had begun. He inhaled deeply, rose to a crouch, and then ran.

A few paces from the dense, verdant cover of the wildwood, relief flooded his body. It was followed by intense pain. The force of the arrow that thudded into his back flung him forward, and he came to rest in a tangle of brambles and ferns. He was alive. The shaft had avoided his heart, but the bleeding was ominous.

Conall removed his helmet, setting it down on a large rock, shook long, lank tresses of auburn hair loose, and looked to his queen. He stretched out his arms with his palms facing the subject of his indignation.

Why?

Whether to defy or goad, Mórrígan slowly and deliberately took a second black shaft from the quiver that hung from her belt, fitted it to the bowstring, and looked at her partner. The mask of curling symbols on her face caused a shiver to trickle up Conall’s spine.

No! shouted Conall.

Not long ago, you let another go likewise for a similar reason—misplaced mercy. As a result, the blood of many Clann Ui Flaithimh warriors was spilt on these walls. Mórrígan, An Fiagaí Dorcha—the Dark Huntress—smiled grimly at her partner.

Pity is not for the likes of us, Conall. That is for the Goddess and Fate to apportion. With an unsettling smirk, she shrugged and replaced the second arrow in the quiver. Besides, I only wounded him. He’ll last long enough to reach his tribe and tell his tale.

Conall shook his head. His hand-fast partner and lover since their youth had always been beautiful. She had grown into a woman whose loveliness transcended her physical appearance. The slaughter of their parents had ripped innocence from a young Mórrígan and replaced it with an awful blight on her soul.

It was a stain that once had caused Conall to consider whether his Mórrígan should live. He had withheld his blade and was glad. Yet, he knew she fought a perpetual battle against this darkness and the power that accompanied it.

Increasingly, Conall pondered whether Mórrígan’s abilities had become more fearsome than those of her mentor, the Sídhe, Mongfhionn. In the dark of the night, the question often troubled the sleep of both Conall and the Sidhe.

2

ALPES

The man stood alone on Lugudunon’s battlements and revelled in the pleasure of the morning sun. Lustrous, black hair was swept back from his deeply tanned face and styled in a thick braid that hung between broad shoulders. A tightly curled black beard scented with almond and jasmine oil covered cheeks and chin.

Scarred hands rested on the smooth stone wall. As the sun rose, it bathed his polished bronze cuirass and greaves, and it seemed the warrior shimmered. His Corinthian-style helmet, with its long red plumes, rested between two crenellations.

A soft footfall behind him caused Nikandros to turn around. He smiled at the approach of Conall’s daughters, Brighid and Danu. Yet, their demeanour did not reflect the same pleasure. In their hands, they carried two short swords and carved sheathes. He recognised them. He had crafted and gifted the weapons to the twins at their birth. Danu, marginally the eldest of the two, spoke with disappointment and a tremble of emotion in her voice.

Assassin. Murderer. Spy. Traitor. These are the names spoken of you, Nikandros of Sparta.

Danu’s formality added a chill to the morning air. The slap across his face expressed her anger. Nikandros flinched. It was common knowledge that neither Danu nor Brighid had much time for rumour or gossip. They must have eavesdropped on higher-level conversations.

As if presenting a sacrifice, both girls took a pace backwards, dropped to one knee, and placed the small swords at his sandalled feet. These are no longer appropriate for us to carry, said Brighid.

There was deep sadness and betrayal in eyes as green as her Ma’s. Nikandros’s weakness was that he loved the twins as if they were his own. It would have been more merciful if they buried the swords in his chest. The Spartan bowed. No words could ever be adequate to salve the pain on either side.

As he watched the twins walk away, Nikandros allowed himself a brief, bitter smile. Brighid and Danu had just warned him that Lugudunon was no longer safe and that he had few friends within the army and the tribe.

The meeting of Conall and his Chomhairle—his High Council—was convened in the royal fort of Dún-an-Rí, located at the confluence of the Rodonos and Souconna rivers. The gathering was charged with deep emotions.

There had never been a good time to explain or justify his tolerance of Nikandros or his knowledge of the crimes committed by the man. By design, Conall had moved the pieces on the fidchell board to achieve his intent and ensure the tribe’s well-being. Right or wrong, it was the king’s decision.

Given the benefit of hindsight, perhaps there might have been a better path. Did Conall feel remorse for the dead? Yes. Would he make the same decision again? Yes. Still, the game of cat and mouse played since Nikandros’ rescue of a young and naive Mórrígan in the forests of Ériu needed to be concluded. Whether there was to be justice for the victims and the dead—that was in the Goddess’ hand. Yet that provided no salve for Conall’s conscience.

To Conall’s disappointment, lancing this particular carbuncle appeared to do little more than spread the poison. Celtic passions bubble close to the surface, and in their newly adopted land, the summer heat only exacerbated the fever. The argument at first simmered, then boiled, and then, with a few exceptions, subsided into disappointed resignation.

Ancient oak staff in hand, Mongfhionn stared defiantly at her audience, daring them to challenge her—or her chosen king. Few held her eyes. Íar Mac Dedad, the ordinarily ebullient leader of the tribe’s horse warriors, shook his head and gave Conall a look that said, I warned you.

Conall had a sympathiser in Gaius. Brandubh, Cúscraid, Deaglán, and Lonán were silent but understood that a king sometimes had to make disagreeable choices.

As for the Ó Cuileannáin brothers, Craiftine, Fionnbharr, and Tadhg, their perspectives differed. How many murders other than Laoise and Cuán can be laid at the feet of the Spartan? demanded a bitter Tadhg. The bile that rose in Tadhg’s gorge burned his gullet, souring his mouth to match his frame of mind.

Craiftine and Fionnbharr’s outrage was honest, if selfish. What danger had their brother been put in when asked to investigate crimes that Conall knew were attributable to Nikandros? All knew that Tadhg was clever, but he was no match for the wiles and weapons of the olive-skinned warrior.

Conall’s iron axe head slammed the oak table, startling those present. "Be careful, Tadhg. I did not put Laoise in the path of an assassin’s sword. You were warned several times. You chose to ignore the advice."

Stunned, Tadhg stood open-mouthed. Bastard! At the insult, Urard rose from behind Conall, the giant axe Breith—Judgment—at the ready. At a sign from Conall, Urard stepped away from the table. All noted the axe remained in his hands.

That said, Tadhg’s protest was muted. Since Laoise’s death, he had buried his culpability deep, unwilling to accept even a portion of the blame. Now Conall had ripped the festering wound open, and it lay exposed, raw, and weeping for all to see.

Among the Council, apart from his brothers, any sympathy for Tadhg’s pain had dissipated some time ago. All knew that the price of Tadhg’s ambition and his arrogance had been the young whore’s blood. Thus, in this gathering, his supporters were few. Tadhg’s appeals to the gods brought no satisfaction, relief, or absolution. The Goddess judged his offerings as lacking contrition; thus, they were not well-regarded.

An ominous silence fell in Dún-an-Rí’s Great Hall as Mórrígan stood. Her face, covered in swirling indigo-blue symbols, was grim. "You go too far, friend." The honorific spat from the queen’s mouth left few in doubt about her true feelings.

"None of us is without guilt as to the Spartan, including me. But where were your much-vaunted skills of observation and analysis? Did you come to Conall, your king, to advise of your doubts, premonitions, and unease at Nikandros’ activities? The Spartan is an accomplished assassin and spy but a man—not a god."

The Huntress paused and raised a tattooed arm. A long finger pointed at Tadhg. "I suspect—no, I know—you did not."

An arrow from the queen’s bow would have been more merciful. And the quiver of her wrath held more shafts: "How often did you refuse his aid in battle? How many years of life do you owe the Spartan?" Those present cringed at Mórrígan’s venom.

"You sacrificed Laoise to save your skin and your reputation."

Conall’s hand touched his partner’s arm. Enough. He’s suffered enough.

No, he hasn’t!

The feral snarl stunned all present. Mórrígan’s fierce gaze swept over the speechless occupants of the chamber. Conall is your king. He is not without fault, but on his shoulders rests the security of Clann Ui Flaithimh. He sacrificed his youth and freedom to the clann, which will be so until his death. He is the Goddess’s chosen Hand.

Mórrígan paused and held Tadhg’s gaze with eyes so intensely emerald that they seemed black. Withdraw. Your presence offends me. The king is forgiving. I am not, and my wrath goes beyond the veil.

Ashen-faced, Tadhg turned on his heels and strode from the hall. With hands raised and sighs of resignation, the remaining Ó Cuileannáin brothers rose from their bench. They bowed their heads in deference to Conall.

He is our brother. Blood is blood. We will not allow him to stand alone, said Fionnbharr. There was deep sadness among those remaining as the straw-haired brothers exited in the wake of their sibling.

Well, that went well, said Fearghal. "We just lost a famed harpist, a seanchaí, and the tribe’s best healer.

Now, what do we do about the Spartan?

Alone or in packs, predators prowled the dense forests that swathed the foothills bordering the valley of the Rodonos River. They preyed on the young and the weak. Few relished or would risk a head-to-head fight with the healthy. That might cause injury and relegate them to the status of the hunted. Mostly four-legged, recently, they had been joined by a band of two-legged hunters.

One hundred men and women comprised the group. All were belligerent, disinterested in communicating with their comrades, and randomly violent. Only their leader and paymaster, Tullus Brutus, the former captain of the Pontifex Maximus of Rome’s guard, and his two burly lieutenants kept the band in check.

The pack had one rule—obey without question. The corpses of the few who struggled with this concept bled out on the forest floor. All were Romans, although many in Rome disavowed them.

Only Tullus knew that Marcus Fabius Ambustus, Pontifex Maximus of Rome, purchased their services. His orders were unwritten but clear. If the opportunity presented, Tullus and his group were to kill the kin and offspring of Conall and Mórrígan. They were to bring strife to a tribe that had become too settled, too accustomed to prosperity and relative peace.

Marcus had an unlikely empathy with the Goddess and the Sídhe. Both had concerns about Conall’s diminished zeal to fulfil the geis laid on him as a young man in Ériu. Were shifting priorities and the well-being of the tribe nudging aside the desires and plottings of deities and Romans? Had the Hand of the Goddess become the Hand of Clann Ui Flaithimh? Whether the roles were compatible had yet to be tested.

Tullus’ mission was straightforward and should have been well within the brutish capabilities of the band. It was to terrorise the many Clann Ui Flaithimh settlements scattered along the southern bank of the Rodonos. For this, they were paid handsomely in Roman gold. Any plunder they took was a bonus.

Staying beyond the reach of enemy hillforts, they were to burn, pillage, and rape. None, from the newborn to the elderly, were to be left alive. Not because of the threat of witnesses but to demonstrate that they, and by implication their paymaster, were without mercy.

They were, however, under orders not to antagonise the Gallic tribes that populated the slopes of the Alpes. Even the Gaesatae, also known as the Gaiscedach by the Celts, who were significantly weakened after their defeat by Conall and the death of their queen, Matres, were to be avoided.

The realisation that a good portion of the civilian population of Conall’s clann was more than capable of wielding spears and shields in their defence precipitated a rise in the brutishness of the band’s activities.

No matter the farmholding or settlement size, the stubborn Celts, both men and women, refused to give up without a fight or drawing blood. Defiant shouts of "Ní ghéillfear, nó cúlú!—No retreat, no surrender!—rang in Roman ears.

Tullus regarded the latest slaughter and spat on the blood-soaked earth. Two more of his band lay lifeless in the dirt, and several others were injured. One would not last beyond dusk, either from his wounds or a knife across his throat.

The bloody-mindedness of the farming communities had reduced Tullus’ group by half in one moon cycle. As a consequence, the raiders avoided attacking locations that might have more than thirty people. It was not by choice. The odds were no longer in their favour. The superstitious held that the gods of these lands had put their thumbs on the scales of justice. And not in the thugs’ favour.

The latest attack took place on a small farmholding. Its three buildings were home to a score of people of all ages. All were dead, mutilated, and beheaded. The women had been raped while their bodies retained some heat. Nailed to the charred supports of the dwellings or impaled on spears, skulls dripped blood. Far from making crude jokes, pissing on, or laughing at the trophies, his men gave them a wide berth.

All avoided the stares of the dead and the fearsome expressions on faces set by the rictus of death. Yes, they had been victorious, but Tullus detected an unease among the mercenaries that had not been present at the start of the campaign. A growing sense of fear overshadowed the band’s early arrogance and condescension.

Many asserted that they were being watched. Tullus agreed. A noose was being tightened around their communal necks. Tullus inhaled, taking in the odour of smoke and charred flesh. He reached into a small pouch and, with a sigh, withdrew a small bronze coin, pushing it into the ruined socket of a child’s skull. At the scene of every atrocity, this token had been left—a signature.

It was a command of Marcus’, but to Tullus, it was foolish, aiding only those who now hunted them. But then, that was what Marcus wanted. Marcus wanted Conall to know he could reach him, his family, and his people anywhere. That he was in control of the game, and Conall was just a piece to be manipulated.

As the sun descended, a conspiracy of ravens rose from the forest canopy and swooped over the massacre site. A bad omen. Instinct and the fine hairs on the back of Tullus’ neck told him that his enemies drew closer. His thoughts drifted to consider how he and his two enforcers might extricate themselves from a situation that could quickly become deadly.

3

SENS

Outside his quarters, rushlights in wooden sconces threw flickering shadows into the spacious chamber. An irritating need to piss frequently did not make for a night of deep sleep but enhanced a survival instinct. Thus, the soft scuffling on the sleeping chamber’s wooden boards prompted Brennus to act. With a stealth that belied his size, the king rolled noiselessly from his cot and waited in the shadows.

Gaiscedach whores!

Alarm momentarily checked the assassins. Instead of drawing a sharp edge across the king’s throat and plunging a blade into his heart, the startled killers peered in the direction of the voice. Held in both hands, Brennus’ sword cut through the air.

It was a weighty weapon made for slashing, and its long edges were honed sharp. The high rafters of the chamber set no constraint on its arc. Guided by a warrior’s instinct, the first cut carved a gory path through the bone and gristle of one intruder’s neck. Almost cleaved from his shoulders, the man’s head tilted absurdly to one side before he collapsed lifelessly to the floor.

The other attacker, splashed by her partner’s gushing blood, cursed and decided that the darkness was insufficient protection. Rather than facing the Senone king with only a dagger, albeit a poisoned one, she chose retreat as the more prudent option.

Tumbling over the bed, she paused briefly to gauge her position and started towards the room’s entrance. The moment of hesitation killed her. As she rose from a crouch, her head was cleaved in two by the powerful downward stroke of Brennus’ blade. By the time the sword edge crunched through her skull to her upper spine, she was already in Mag Mell.

Brennus coughed harshly as the night air caught his throat. His body was soaked in sweat, acid burned his throat, and he suddenly needed to pee. He reached for the jug of water beside his cot. Several long gulps soothed his throat but only made the compulsion to piss more urgent. The rest of the pitcher he poured over his head.

Bitseach!

This time, Brennus was referring not to the assassin but to the Oracle, Rosmerta, who still haunted his dreams although she had crossed the veil. The accuracy of her final prophecies provided a deep well of troubles and increased the terror of his nightmares.

Although not a modest man, Brennus grabbed a light brat to cover his nakedness before stumbling out of the entranceway. He kicked aside the guards who lay with their throats cut. Useless bastards, muttered Brennus as he stomped down the hall and into the night.

Sens, the capital of the Senones, sat on a high plateau in eastern Gaul. Only the flickering torches and glowing braziers along the settlement’s walls broke the deep blackness of night. Brennus, King of the Senones, had much to think about, little of which was pleasant.

While still capable of fielding the largest army in Gaul, his ambition to become what the Celts called Ard-Righ or High King had crumbled. Persistent rumours of Conall’s ambition to be elected Ard-Righ of Ériu, Albu, and Gaul infuriated Brennus.

The strength of Brennus’ army remained sufficient to comfortably sustain the Senones’ place at the top of a multitude of warring Gaulish tribes. Yet it proved insufficient to cajole or force them into a unified nation—or even a grand alliance. After his defeats at the hands of Conall, he had witnessed a sharp decline in his influence, and this scarred Brennus deeply.

The Carnutes under Tasgiitios were emboldened by their treaty with Conall and raided Brennus’ borderlands to his west. Further west of the Rodonos River, the Arverni made no secret of their ambition to supplant the Senones.

In the east, across the Rénos River, incursions by Germani warbands probed for any sign of weakness. To his south, even the Aedui, a relatively minor tribe, openly taunted him with their brotherly links with Rome and refused to pay levies to Brennus in full. As for Conall and Clann Ui Flaithimh, Brennus cursed the day Conall had outmanoeuvred him into retreating from the walls of Lugudunon.

And there were always internal troubles. Many openly challenged Brennus’ authority. He grew weary of the increasing frequency of assassination attempts by his enemies, his retaliatory slayings, and the public show trials and executions of rivals and their families. Despite his efforts, the number of the rebellious continued to grow. His door frames stank of rotten flesh and groaned with the weight of the latest skulls nailed to them.

Brennus spat into the perimeter ditch as he pissed. His challengers now stooped as low as paying hated Gaiscedach assassins to remove him.