Calgaich the Swordsman by Gordon D. Shirreffs Page A

and not know about each other. Calgaich had known Aengus some years before he had left Caledonia. It had been during one of those uneasy alliances when Pict and Celt together had fought the Romans. It was about the only thing that could bring them together for a concerted effort—their intense hatred of the Romans.
    “What do you want of us?” Calgaich asked.
    Aengus grinned. “Very little, fian. Your woman. Your weapons. Your finery, such as it is. Then you'll be free to go.”
    “And if I don't choose to surrender them?”
    Aengus rubbed his bristly jaw. “That would be foolish,” he suggested thoughtfully. “There would be red work beyond these stones.”
    “She is my wife, Aengus.” At hearing this, Cairenn moved farther back into the passageway. Her cheeks felt warm.
    Aengus spat on the snow. “You lie. The fianna do not take wives while in service. We also know of the vow you made when you left Albu for Eriu. The tale of your great love for Morar, daughter of Cuno, known as the Golden One, and your vow to return some day and claim her for your wife, has spread throughout Caledonia. We know of your honor in such matters. Give us the woman, the weapons and the finery. I give you your life for old time's sake, Calgaich. I haven't forgotten your great skill in battle against the Red Crests. Those were great days, eh, fian?”
    Cairenn heard the words with sudden fear. It would be the easy way out for him.
    Calgaich slowly reversed his war spear. The growing light shimmered on the polished blade. "My father commands five hundred war spears, Pict,” he reminded Aengus.
    “They are not here, Celt.”
    The rest of the Picts laughed softly—deadly sure of themselves.
    Aengus tilted his head to one side. “Your father no longer leads the Novantae. Bruidge of the Battle-Axe is chief now, by right of tanaise ri. You are nothing, Calgaich mac Lellan, but a fian and an exiled outlaw who can be killed by any man without fear of reprisal or having to pay the galanas , the blood debt.”
    “Do you have a Champion, Aengus of the Broad Spear?” Calgaich asked formally. “Or is your mouth sharper than your spear blade! Perhaps you will try me? Come, a wager, man against man, blade against blade—spear, sword or dirk. Barehanded if you will. Winner take all—including the head of the loser.”
    Aengus grinned evilly. “Why should I bother? We have you in a snare, braggart.”
    “Perhaps you fear to try me.”
    Aengus flushed. “I am a chief! I can’t fight a champion who is less than my rank.”
    Calgaich threw back his head and laughed boldly. “Chief? Chief of yonder score of dirty-faced Picts? My old wounds hurt if I laugh too hard, Pict. Spare me that pain.”
    “Let me clip this cockerel’s wings, Aengus,” a hoarse voice called from beyond the ring stones.
    Aengus rubbed his tattooed face. He eyed Calgaich craftily. “Girich the Good Striker speaks, Celt. He is my second cousin. Cousin to the chief. Girich is willing to fight you, braggart.”
    The sky was brighter now. The drifting smoke from the Pict-ravaged rath up the glen came slowly toward the bar-row. It brought with it the odor of burning wood and thatch, mingled with a haunting thread of an odor, one sweetish and sickly that revealed all too well what had happened at the settlement. Cairenn shivered. She remembered that sickly stench. So it had been when her father's rath in Wales had been ravaged by the Scotti and burned to the ground with the dead lying in the huts and on the streets.
    Cairenn looked at the savage face of Aengus, wondering how his blue tattooings and hairy body would look pressed against her soft fair skin while his dirty, bloodstained hands defiled her private parts with greedy lust. She knew well enough what would happen to her if Calgaich was defeated. Her only good fortune might be in becoming the personal loot of Aengus, or perhaps of the yet unseen champion, Girich the Good Striker. One man, even a Pict, would be far better