Lockeran (Prince Ciaran the Damned Book 2) Read online

  Lockeran

  A Prince Ciaran story

  by

  Ruari McCallion

  Copyright ©Ruari McCallion, 2016

  Ruari McCallion has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted.

  We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

  For Ann, who has put up with a lot,

  over many years.

  Thanks for the advice on the recipes –

  and the horses!

  TABLE of CONTENTS

  Chapter One: Treasure Hunter 9

  Chapter Two: Choices 16

  Chapter Three: Touched by Evil 31

  Chapter Four: The Rich Man’s Burden 36

  Chapter Five: He Moves Through the Fair 43

  Chapter Six: Directions Home 51

  Chapter Seven: Wolf 63

  Chapter Eight: Refreshment and Recreation 70

  Chapter Nine: Visions of Johanna 81

  Chapter Ten: Let Freedom Ring 100

  Chapter Eleven: A Deadly Toll 107

  Chapter Twelve: Coriallum 117

  Chapter Thirteen: Leviathan 132

  Chapter Fourteen: The Fleet 142

  Chapter Fifteen: The Isle of Glass 152

  Chapter Sixteen: Elmet 179

  Chapter Seventeen: The Blood Red Game 192

  Chapter Eighteen: The Apple of Discord 209

  Chapter Nineteen: Lockeran 216

  The Legends and the History 229

  Map of Mid 7th Century France and Southern Britain 238

  Map of Mid 7th Century Britain 239

  Chapter One

  Treasure Hunter

  There were three of them. Why always three? Why was that? They crept up quietly to my tent, with skills honed over years of tracking and ambush. Mercenaries, selling their talents to the highest bidder - just like myself. They quickly and efficiently loosened the guy ropes and collapsed my tent, making it impossible for occupants to get out or to resist the beating they immediately imposed on the vague human form under the collapsed leather and fabric. The noise of what sounded like bones breaking and flesh being pummelled was just loud enough to be heard above the attackers’ breathing, made heavy by the strength and force of their exertions. They were giving it their all, I had to credit them with that.

  If I had been inside my tent, I doubt that I would have survived. As it was, I was watching from the cover of a tree, a few yards away in the darkness. They had absolutely no idea that I had been aware of the plans for a day or so. I had Seen them coming even before they set off from their own tents, in the main soldiers’ camp, further down the hill in the open field. The hill protected the so-called nobles and higher ranks - including me - from the stench and seemingly unending brawling of the pumped-up infantry lower down its slopes. It was protected from the rear by a high escarpment. The area of level ground in which the king and the leaders of the army had set their camp was also hard to penetrate even with a flight of arrows; it was heavily wooded. Several trees had to be felled before the king’s tent could be erected. The light from even a neighbouring campfire would be diffused and shaded before it reached the next tent. It gave good cover, both for defenders and for a small group of assassins that was brave enough to find their way up the hill and into the heart of the tented village. These three had proven their bravery, if not their intelligence.

  I gave the assassins a couple more minutes to wear themselves out before slipping out from my hiding place. The first, I despatched with a hard knock behind the ear from the hilt of my short sword - it is more useful for close-quarter work than my Big Blade. The second turned towards me as I touched him, looked into my eyes - and was lost in the maze of his own worst fears. He went off, lashing out and slashing at an enemy only he could see, whimpering with fear and gurgling wordlessly in terror. He knew what frightened him most and he was right in the middle of it. I stepped round him as the third turned towards me and drew his own sword. He took a few steps away from the pile of the collapsed tent, into clearer ground.

  “It doesn’t have to end this way,” I said. “Lay down your weapon and I will let you leave. I know who gave you your orders; I will deal with him later. You can go back to your home and your family. Go, and live.” I might as well have saved my breath. He came at me, his mind a mixture of anger and hatred towards me personally, along with greed for the promised reward. He hated me because he was frightened of me - more precisely, my Power. He thought of me as some kind of demon from the netherworld, wrapped in a stolen human form. He should have listened to the voice of fear that lurked towards the back of his mind. It was more interested in self-preservation than in reward.

  He was snarling like a beast - I could See that his family’s device was a wolf and he was trying to draw on that supposed strength in an attempt to overwhelm me. My Gift of the Sight is many-faceted; one of those facets was being able to see into the mind of attackers and to know what they intended to do, almost before they had made up their own minds. I was far from being the best swordsman in the Frankish kingdoms but my Gift had enabled me to best opponents who would otherwise have skewered me, quite easily.

  I stepped to one side in the face of his initial onslaught - I didn’t even have to feint, he was so committed. He charged past, turned, and readied himself again.

  “Don’t,” I said. “This is your last chance. Walk away.” His answer was another charge. A little less full-blooded, because he had something else in mind. I feinted this time, seeming to go the way he expected, but then slipped across his path, away from his sword-arm. As he came by I caught him across his neck with my forearm, throttling the chance of any shout before it could be made. My sword slipped easily up under his ribcage and into his heart. He wasn’t quite dead before he hit the floor but he didn’t have long to wait. I wiped my blade on his tunic, sheathed it and went to seek out the largest tent in the camp. I had business with the princeling within it.

  At 17 years of age, Clovis - the second of that name to occupy the position of king - was little more than a child and he was not known for his energy or commitment. He had been on the throne since he was two years old and had been brought up surrounded by advisers, whisperers, creepers and any manner of self-seeking careerists who had frightened and corrupted his young mind and heart. It suited the different factions in the Frankish kingdom of Neustria and Burgundy to have a pretty much helpless figurehead on the throne. Anything was preferable to having a representative from a rival wearing the crown - especially a strong one. The boy-king, a recipient of supposed adoration and reverence since he could sit up, could not be described as strong-willed, whatever the criers, bards, heralds and spokesmen may say. He preferred to sit in council-chambers, listening to talk going this way and that, and getting other people to do whatever work was needed. Or, more truthfully, those advisers had, through their own scheming and backstabbing, reduced him to paralysed uncertainty. He was definitely frightened now. When he woke up he had been confused to find himself securely restrained in the chair that served as his throne. He looked at me and was about to shout for his guards, when I held up my hand for quiet. My sword was pointing in his direction.

  “I think you want to live to a ripe old age. Whether you do or not, after today, is in the lap of the gods. For now, yo
u live at my pleasure,” I said.

  “Prince Ciaran -” he began.

  “Quiet, Clovis,” I interrupted before he could pitch into full bluster. “I know what you planned - I can See it in your mind. I saw it yesterday but I let it be, in the hope that it was just one of your childish daydreams. Three men who tried to beat me to death an hour ago made very clear that you really thought you could renege on your promise.”

  “What - what happened?”

  “They came, they saw, they lost. One is dead, another is locked in a prison of his own madness and the third will wake up with a headache but he’ll survive. Now, what about you?” He flinched as I stood up. A stream of wetness dribbled down his leg, testifying to his state of mind. The silk-edged hangings, cloth-of-gold drapes and various tapestries that had been placed around the tent to give it an air of regal importance didn’t look so impressive now. The space was large, as befitted a real king. The child who was squirming in his soiled throne looked smaller than ever.

  “I did what you wanted. I gave you a battle-plan that brought you a great victory,” I said. I maybe exaggerated. An over-ambitious Allemani lord was not exactly an all-conquering Roman Army. But Clovis and his advisers had thought the incursion worthy of a show of strength sufficient to make any others that were considering something similar to have second thoughts. So here we were, among the headwaters of the Saône River, up in the mounting foothills of the eastern border of Clovis’ kingdom. Where it formally ended and the Allemani territory began was difficult to establish with any permanence, and nor did it matter all that much; the Allemani were vassals of Clovis’ Frankish kingdom of Burgundy and Neustria, although there was always some ambitious would-be warlord or other ready to dispute that status. For now, after the battle yesterday, the demarcation line was definitely some way further east, back towards the Rhine River.

  “I told you exactly what they were planning before their army had fully gathered. You have what you and your advisers craved. Because of me. And you repay me with assassination?” I sat down again. “What would you do if you were in my position, looking at a man who betrayed him?” I lifted his chin with my sword so that the boy had no choice but to look at me. He swallowed hard and a faecal smell drifted across the short space between us. I moved off to one side but there was no way of escaping it or even lessening the odour. So I stepped across to a table and hauled out his treasure chest from underneath. It wasn’t particularly heavy; the main wealth of the kingdom was kept under the care of its mayors and officials. And very careful they were, guarding it as if it was their very own. Spending it like that, as well, by many accounts. There was a small bag that revealed a few gold coins when I tipped it into my hand.

  “Was this for me or for those you sent to kill me?” he blanched and licked lips that were clearly very dry. “You don’t seem to value my advice very highly. But I’ll take it anyway. And this.” I swept a few jewels and rings into another bag. “And these.” Necklaces and bangles - baubles, but made with pearls, silver and gold, and so tradable across all the kingdoms of the Franks and beyond. “And this, for the extra trouble you have put me to.” It was another, larger bag, stuffed with gold coins. I could almost buy my own kingdom with that lot, if I felt so inclined. I didn’t.

  “You are well named, Damned,” Clovis said, his voice breaking as if he was on the verge of tears. “Prince Ciaran the Damned. I curse the day I heard of you. And doubly the day I ignored what the priests said about your witchcraft and hired you. I will get them to say a Mass for the damnation of your soul. May you rot in Hell for all eternity!” I didn’t bother with a response. I was long past defending my reputation. They hired me for my skills and inborn Gifts, and cursed me for exactly the same reasons. He was a bit quieter when he spoke up again. “You might as well kill me now. You are leaving me with nothing.”

  “Oh, not nothing. Far from nothing. You have your life. As much power as your mayors and ministers will allow you. A pretty well-stocked Treasury, from what I hear,” I replied.

  “But they won’t let me -“

  “Then you must make them,“ I said. “Take a few armed guards and sort it out. Anyway, it is no longer my problem - if it ever was. I will take my leave of you. Don’t send anyone after me or I will be back. And you will have no idea at all when it will be, where or how. If you need any encouragement, talk to the one who I reduced to a gibbering wreck. If you can get any sense out of him. Count yourself lucky I have not done that to you - much though you deserved it, for your treachery. Do nothing at all - do not even call out - till dawn, at the earliest. I might still be here, checking whether you will do what I tell you. Goodbye.”

  I left the unfortunate young prince to squirm in his own mess. The guards at his tent did not even see me leave - I had made sure of that. They thought a young woman had entered Clovis’ tent and he was not to be disturbed. I went to select a horse from the stabling area and decided to take a couple. A fine-looking stallion might be thought of as good for speed but I knew that some mares were coming into season. Males would be the very devil to drag away from the compound; they would be sure to make a racket. The mares, too, would be little use; they were as obsessed with foals as the stallions were in conceiving them. I could feel the interest of a small group of geldings. They had no interest - beyond mere curiosity - in receptive mares and would not compete with stallions for their favours. They were pretty biddable and could also be relied upon in battle. They would do fine. I picked out a tall, well-made youngster for riding, and a more sturdy beast that the youngster seemed to have an attachment to. I would use it to carry my tent and other baggage. I had no idea what they were called, or if they had any names at all. For my own convenience I named my new riding-mount Sage, and the packhorse I called Onion.

  The strain of holding or diverting the minds of everyone who might have been watching me was becoming quite tiring, so I saddled the two as quickly as I could, rolled up my tent and left at a trot. If I was lucky it would be at least dawn before anyone thought to come looking for me. Until then, the bright full moon and clear stars would light my path away from the Frankish camp.

  Chapter Two

  Choices

  I was drawn to return to Erin, my childhood home. Such a feeling would normally incline me to head in the opposite direction - and fast. Even now, 20 years after I had killed Coivin, my cousin, foster-brother and Dark Twin, I was a wanted man in Donegal. They may have called off the search parties but memories were very long; it would still be foolhardy to walk back into that lion’s den.

  But the feeling was insistent. The push was to the north even as I tried to turn my horses south, back towards the Mediterranean and the Spanish coast. The nights were drawing in; the Equinox was almost upon us. I did not want to spend another winter in the north. My intention was to seek employment with one or other of the Visigoth clans or even a Christian group, in their disputes with the Arians. The rights and wrongs of different philosophies, or the roots of disturbed family feelings, were neither here nor there to me. I would have preferred a peaceful life but the gods clearly had other ideas; wherever I went, I either found trouble waiting for me, or it arrived soon after. Word of my talents as a battle-planner and tactician had spread across much of old Gaul and Iberia and, although I was always on the move, disputations and their participants eventually found me. After several years I had reluctantly come to accept the on-going struggle as my lot. The world may refer to me as Ciaran the Damned and be thinking of my soul; from my own perspective, I seemed to be damned to eternal conflict. May as well make the best of it; at least I could choose where and who I would risk my life for.

  Of all the various factions in the sunny land of Spain, the Christians were probably my preference. I had worked with some before and they paid well, on time, and with little argument - they were basically honest. There were plenty of opportunities for someone of my talents. But as my desire to head that way grew, the feeling towards the north became more and more intense. The horses s
eemed to sense it and snorted in discomfort if I tried to encourage them in the direction of the warmth. I tried - the gods know I tried - but they wouldn’t have it. The more I tried to force them, the more stubborn they became. I could feel that they would break and run away, with my fortune and all my possessions on their backs, if I pushed them any further. I even sought out a route that would oblige them to head south, the alternative involving a swim into a raging torrent, full with cold Spring melt water from the mountains - it was no use. They made very clear that they would risk the floods rather than take me where I wanted to go. After three days of this battle of wills I dismounted and had a chat with them. I soothed their troubled minds and assured them that I would not force them where they would not go. We would move a short distance from the river just to get away from the noise of it cascading over the rocks and through the steaming gorge, so we could hear if any threats came our way. Eventually, the conceded and followed me half a mile or so through the woods until we found a clearing on some level ground among the trees, which were beginning to race each other to come into leaf. I pitched my tent and went to find enough wood for a fire. We were lucky - in less than an hour I had enough for one that would last the rest of the day and overnight, if need be. The horses seemed to be prepared to wait. I left them while I went looking for some dinner. I saw a rabbit upwind from me and took it out with my first arrow. It would do nicely.