The Companions

Chapter 1

The forests of the Weald had never been kind to prey, and today the quarry had no fearsome teeth, horns, or claws; instead of sporting feathers or fur, this prey ran on two legs. But this quarry could fight back. Arturius, one of the hunted, was only certain of one thing: he would never be enslaved again. The dense foliage of the primeval forest created a perpetual gloom. Sunlight rarely graced the forest floor in this place untrammeled by man, a refuge in southeastern Britannia once used by the Romans Empire for sport. Poachers of game faced a brutal death if caught, and though the empire had left Britannia years ago, locals still avoided the evil spirits and banshees that dwelt there.

The ground felt damp beneath his body as he remained motionless. Arturius could smell the musky odor of earth and decaying leaves as he lay beneath the carpet of rotting vegetation, trying not to think about the insect that was slowly crawling up his left leg. Fear clinched his gut as he felt the creature moving its way up, yet he knew he had to remain still. One move, one twitch, and he could be spotted and killed. He concentrated upon the fleeting images of a Saxon warrior stalking him, his eyes narrowed so the whites of his eyes were camouflaged. If a bird could be spooked by that, then so could this fur-clad bastard.

 His mouth was dry as he kept his breathing measured. Concentrating on his breathing would calm him, as when he held his breath, he could feel his heart beating, willing it to slow down. It was not the first time he had felt fear like this, but long ago he had learned how to control his fear so he could function. If he failed now, he knew the icy clasp of panic would be the last thing he would feel before he died. But I am not going to die today, he thought.

The sweaty-palmed dread he was experiencing now was mixed with a sense of anger and a desire for revenge. The Saxon warrior searching for him had a name: Holt, an evil bastard who haunted his dreams, his nightmares of that yellow-toothed bastard smiling at him as he tormented him. Helpless rage would startle him out of his sleep, but he was not sleeping now. This was real. This was no dream.

He and his friends had tasted freedom for only a few days, but already it felt like a lifetime. Arturius and his two teenaged companions had made a pact to die rather than be captured again, but Arturius was confident that if he could perform with the skill he possessed, they would survive. He visualized himself striking the pose of a slinger with perfect rhythm and balance, flinging his projectile towards the Saxon hunter with speed and accuracy.

The sling consisted of two pieces of braided rope about eighteen inches long, linked together by a leather pouch, the projectile being a lead pellet. Thralls would never be allowed to touch a real weapon, but to the Saxons, the unassembled sling looked like innocuous pieces of rope and leather. Arturius could assemble it into a deadly weapon in just a few minutes, able to cave in a skull with a well-placed throw.

Saxons regarded their thralls as less than human, cursed by Woden and Thunor to be wretched Nithings fated to serve at the feet of their Saxon masters. Slaves who ran away were destined to die as a lesson for daring to seek freedom. He almost gagged, recalling one such recaptured thrall, disemboweled and burnt in the fires, the smell of charred pork and shite still fresh in his mind. He and his friends had sworn they would never let that happen to them.

The Norse believe their thralls had lost the favor of the gods; luck and fortune having deserted them and, in their world, luck was everything. The Norns, the three blind witches that weaved one’s life’s thread on their looms of fate, were no doubt cackling in mirth at his plight. Arturius and his friends were once Romano-British nobility, ones who had ordered servants about their entire lives until they had been thrown into thralldom by the treachery of King Aelle of the South Saxons.

Finally, the bowman stepped into a spot on the trail where the trees thinned out enough to give Arturius an unobstructed view. He had a clear shot now. Ever so slowly, he rose out of the leaves, an easy shot, or so he hoped. His bollocks started to ache as they always did when he felt threatened. He wondered if that ever happened to anyone else. Suddenly, a youth stepped out from behind a massive oak farther down the trail, and the Saxon’s head snapped around at the sight.

It was Caradoc, one of his companions. They were committed now, and there was no going back. His friend was curly-haired and stocky, wearing a ragged- looking tunic that only a thrall would touch. Even from this distance, Arturius could see Caradoc’s startling blue eyes that contrasted with his dark complexion and hair. A beam of sunlight flashed off the iron collar of a thrall around his neck as he darted from tree to tree.

“Hey, Holt,” Caradoc called out in the guttural Saxon tongue, “I bet you cannot hit me, you Svin Hund!”

 Holt’s full attention was on Caradoc, and his back was turned. The Saxon drew back his 75bow with the intent to kill, taking his time to get a clear shot at his tormenter. Fully upright now, taking care to make as little noise as possible. Arturius settled his body into his well-practiced firing position. Caradoc was risking his life to act as a decoy for Arturius to spring the ambush, and Arturius only had time for one shot.

He crouched, the sling hanging down as he took a cleansing breath and relaxed his shoulders. He swung the sling backwards like a pendulum, bringing it back in a circle. Once, twice, three times, and release! His arm ended up pointing at the back of Holt, eyes fixed upon his target. The almond-shaped lead missile hummed like a bee as it headed for the back of Holt’s head.

Whirrrrrrr, Smack!

The Saxon stood still for a moment, stunned, then the stricken warrior’s body collapsed forward, as if his legs had been transformed from stout supporting structures into wet ropes. Arturius stood still, transfixed for an instant, then he scampered to where the fallen bowman lay. He kicked the weapon away from the prostrate man’s hand, then he grabbed Holt’s seax, the Saxon’s short sword, from a scabbard. Once Holt was disarmed, Arturius let out his breath in a whoosh. By Jupiter, he thought, I was holding my breath the whole time. Is he dead?

Arturius fell back to one knee, suddenly drained of strength. Relief flooded though him as everything around him seemed sharper, brighter, and more vivid. By all the gods, I am alive, he thought. He felt weak as a kitten, feeling a strange mix of pride in his skill and revulsion at the results as he gazed down upon the slack-jawed face of Holt, the tongue lolling out, saliva drooling from his unmoving lips. The Saxon’s loose breeches were stained yellow with urine, overwhelming the normal stench of body odor and rotten teeth that Holt was known for.

Holt certainly looked like he was dead. If so, Arturius had just killed a man, his first. He was surprised over how little remorse he felt. Arturius had hunted and killed countless times before, but those were innocent animals. He had always felt a sense of regret whenever he had dispatched one of those unfortunate creatures, but for this man, he had none. Arturius wondered what his mother would think of him now. He had been raised in a Christian household, as the official religion of Rome still had many adherents in Britannia, and she was one of the faithful. Would she be disappointed in him for what he had just done?

His stepfather had been a Roman pagan, and he would have had no problem with this act of violence, as he was a member of the mystery cult of Mithras that Roman legionaries followed. Those who admired Mithras valued strength and honor, and the protection of family and friends. War was killing, and they accepted that. The followers of the Christos believed killing was a sin, and Arturius thought it odd he did not feel more guilt. Am I a murderer, he thought. Do I possess no compassion for my fellow man?

But he had no choice but to dispatch Holt to save himself and his friends, but the killing of this bastard seemed almost too easy as he reveled in the sense of accomplishment and his feelings of relief. He had crossed his own personal Rubicon, killing a man to defend himself and his friends, more of a rite of passage than the old-fashioned Roman ceremony when he had received his virilis toga at the age of fourteen. He did not feel like a man then, but now he knew that he would never be the same again.

“A head shot,” stammered Caradoc, who ran up and joined him next to the fallen figure. “That was an amazing throw! Is he dead?”

“I do not know yet,” he said.

Arturius found the projectile that had hit the Saxon lying in the grass at the man’s feet. Arturius put the object into his pouch by his side, and then he slowly reached up to Holt’s head. He felt the neck for a pulse. It was there, but it was weak and thready. Then he gingerly pressed upon the spot where the missile had struck, feeling a warm wetness where the skull was deeply indented, with pieces of bone grating under his fingers. He pulled his hand back in disgust.

“I was aiming for the center of his back,” Arturius muttered, “a lucky shot, but unlucky for him. He still lives, but probably not for long. If he does awaken, he will not remember his own name.“

His reverie was broken by the sound of the distant baying of the hounds down the path that Holt had come from as farther up the trail, a tousled blonde head popped out from behind a gnarled tree. It was Cerdic, his other companion.

Cerdic hissed, “We are in a pile of shite now, we have got to move!”

Arturius shook his head and motioned for Cerdic to join them.

“Come over here,” Arturius said. “You remember the little present he gave us the night when Holt made us slaves? Well, let’s give him that same gift back.”

Cerdic smiled, then once he joined them, they all gave Holt their offering, a stream of fresh urine that splashed over the prostrate Saxon. They quickly stripped him of his Holt of his possessions, nervously glancing down the trail. Arturius reached out and placed a reassuring hand on each of their shoulders.

“Cerdic, Caradoc, remember what we talked about. If we maintain a steady pace and keep moving, we can stay ahead of them. Those dogs cannot run long and steady like we can.”

Arturius cracked a smile.

“Remember the story of Pheidippides at Marathon in ancient Greece? He ran one hundred and fifty miles in two days, to Athens and Sparta both before and after the battle.”

“Arturius, he died,” Cerdic said, rolling his eyes.

“Well, we’ll just skip that part.”

Arturius was trying to look more confident than he felt, but he had to keep their hopes up.

“It is only fifty miles or so to Caleva,” he said.

“And then it is fifty miles to Glevum,” Cerdic replied.

Then all three recited the plan aloud in unison.

“And it’s only fifty miles to Venta Silurum.”

“Well,” Cerdic said as he sulked, “I am not going to run that in two days, I can tell you.”

“Okay, let’s get started,” he said.”

Then it dawned on him. It had been one year since he and his friends had been enthralled, and tomorrow he would be turning eighteen. Will I be alive to see my birthday, he wondered.