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The battle had been raging for almost an hour before the sun broke the eastern horizon. The brutal Urnifal had attacked from the south without a warning while the Scythian village had barely begun to stir. It was the third attack in as many weeks.
The new light of the rising sun flashed across Cruithne’s axe as he swung it ferociously into the chest of his maniacal attacker. The axe sank deep into the warrior’s heart, and the warrior’s expression transformed from twisted, seething fury into the shocked realization of his impending, inescapable death. The dying warrior dropped his mace and fell heavily to the dusty ground.
Cruithne turned from his fallen foe to survey the battle that raged around him. His people were fighting well and bravely, but they were far outnumbered by the aggressive Urnifal tribe. Cruithne knew that this battle would be yet one more devastating blow to his dwindling tribe, and that it would push them even farther toward the raging northern sea in search of refuge beyond the reach of the relentless Urnifal.
Cruithne knew that he must signal retreat. His warriors had once again bought enough time for the rest of the tribe to escape, but now it was time for the warriors to save themselves. He hoped that they would not take too many casualties in their escape. Without hesitation, he turned to shout the order, and word spread among his warriors to cede the field.
At Cruithne's signal, Fiedhan the horn blower raised his instrument to his lips to sound the call. Its unearthly sound echoed plaintively across the field.
Satisfied that his order had been relayed, Cruithne turned his attention from Fiedhan and back toward the battle. As he did so, the call to retreat was abruptly silenced.
Cruithne turned again to see Fiedhan hurtling backwards as an Urnifal spear impaled his throat. The spear stuck hard into the ground, and the weight of Fiedhan’s body carried him along the spear’s shaft and to the ground, nearly severing his head. Fiedhan was dead before he hit the ground, but not before his tribe had heard his call. The Scythians had begun their precarious withdrawal.
Cruithne turned to confront yet another attacker. He ducked his head, and narrowly dodged a heavy, spiked mace that would have easily crushed his skull. He lunged reflexively and swung hard, severing the arm that carried the mace. Both spun wildly away from Cruithne and his attacker. The Urnifal warrior grimaced, clutching his left hand over the remaining stump of his right, trying vainly to staunch the spurting blood. Cruithne buried his axe in the forehead beneath his enemy’s horned helmet, and then he yanked it loose as searing pain shot through his back.
Cruithne saw the arrow protruding from his left side. It had entered from the back, tearing through the muscle below his armpit. He swore and grasped the shaft to break it off. He knew he had to end this battle without delay.
Cruithne led his warriors in the retreat, and to his great frustration they did suffer heavy casualties in the process. The Urnifal pursued the Scythians relentlessly, intent on killing every one of them before they escaped.
But Cruithne's tribe belonged to the fragmented remnants of a vast and long-indomitable tribe of equestrian archers. They were swift and agile, whether on foot or mounted on their smallish, nimble horses. Most of them escaped the innumerable but lumbering Urnifal, and within the hour their attackers had given up pursuit.
The decimated remnants of Cruithne's tribe fled north until they reached the shore of the icy, seething sea. The sea appeared to be endless and uninviting, and most of the refugees considered it an insurmountable obstacle to their escape. They made camp there on the shore, where a fierce wind blew dampness in from the sea, chilling them to their bones.
Cruithne looked across the open field as his people settled their families and their possessions for the night. Before long, most of them would gravitate toward the council fire at the center of the camp. Cruithne stood patiently, and waited. The tribe was pressed to decide on a plan that would allow them to survive, to heal, and to plot a course for whatever future might lay ahead.
Watching his small group settle in for the night, Cruithne vowed to do everything in his power, to give his life if necessary, to ensure that this struggling band endured.
It wasn’t long before the council fire was ringed with solemn faces, glowing orange in the flickering firelight. The tribal tattoos etched into those faces seemed to shimmer and dance in the undulating glow.
Cruithne stood before them, looking grave. When enough had gathered, he began to speak to them of the challenge they faced.
“From the dawn of our time until now,” Cruithne said, “for as long as we can remember, our people have never known slavery or defeat.” Cruithne paused for a moment. “We have also never known peace.”
Several around the fire nodded in agreement.
Fierce in battle and sworn to eternal independence, the one thing the Scythians valued more highly than peace was their freedom. But they had always longed for both. In these Indo-European steppes, however, the combination of peace and freedom was increasingly, maddeningly elusive.
“Through countless wars and fragile truces,” he continued, “the endless pressure of raiders, pillagers, and now the builders of empires have worn us down. We are weak, and no longer able to survive in this land, standing against these hordes. The Urnifal will not stop until we are all dead, or driven into the sea.”
Cruithne looked around at the solemn, forlorn, and fearful faces of his remaining tribesmen. Their sense of hopelessness was palpable.
“There’s no more north to run to,” said Fidach, one of Cruithne’s seven sons, indicating the sea upon which they had come. “What is left for us to do?”
“West,” replied Cait, with certainty. Cait was another of Cruithne’s sons. “They’re coming from the south and the east. We can only go west.”
“If we move quickly,” Fidach agreed, “as far to the west as possible, perhaps we will buy time to build boats, and take to the sea. These plains tribes won’t follow to the sea.”
Cruithne nodded thoughtfully. Many Scythian tribes had been able seafarers who had explored distant lands, bringing back wondrous goods and incredible tales. Cruithne’s tribe included a handful of veterans of such voyages, and they told of vast tracts of land and islands to the west, which were less hospitable but far more isolated than were these open plains. Cruithne was willing to accept inhospitable isolation over the extermination of his tribe.
“The sea is too forbidding,” Cirigh protested. “Most of us are unfamiliar with sailing. The sea could kill us all.”
“The Urnifal will kill us all,” Cait retorted. “Do you have a better plan?”
“Stay on the land,” Cirigh replied, “and continue west.”
“The land will limit our speed,” Cruithne said, “and our enemies will pursue us on land. Fidach and Cait are right. The sea is our only hope. No one will dare pursue us beyond that.” He indicated the rolling, crashing, wind-whipped sea. “We must take the chance.”
The debate continued for some time, and through the night it evolved into planning. By the wee hours, in the darkness by the sea, the tribe reached a firm decision that would quickly lead to unwavering action.
The tribe, practiced hunters of the plains, effectively covered their trail, and took flight towards the west. Short nights and long days led the tattered clan farther from the reach, and just beyond the interest, of the Urnifal, who finally had possession of what they had long sought – the ancestral lands of the Scythian tribes.
After a week of urgent flight, and several more of anxious preparations, the band of weary refugees finally took to the icy sea in long boats filled with all that they could carry. They sailed to the west, fighting the waves and currents and cold. They were to lose most of their women and children along the way.
The Scythian voyagers chose to call their tribe Cruithne, in honor of their trusted, fearless leader. At that moment, the Scythian race was made extinct, its dwindling remnants spread along the fringes of what had once been their vast and fertile territory, replaced forever by the aggressive culture that had driven them out.
The Cruithne sailed for weeks. They landed at long last upon an empty rocky beach at the foot of a steep cliff that extended high into the clouds. It was not a welcoming place, but it was more inviting than the angry sea. They set camp and sent scouting parties to explore the land, hoping to find it both inhabitable and deserted.
A small expedition of the sturdiest of sailors continued the journey by sea to the west, hoping to find a more welcoming home. If they found one, they would return for the remainder, which stayed on the rocky coast to recover from the journey, and to explore. The elderly, the women, and the children that had survived the voyage were in poor condition and could go no farther.
The men that sailed west followed the coastline as it turned sharply south, and they eventually arrived upon the milder coast of another island to the west, across the sea from the mountainous island that they had been circumnavigating.
On the western island, they found beautiful land that was ripe for farming and settlement. But the island was already inhabited by a hearty and welcoming people. They were the “Scoti,” they said, meaning “wanderers.” It was an ancient name, of which they were very proud.
The Scoti were friendly, but they had strange ways. They welcomed the ragged travelers warmly and offered them food and drink. They bid them stay as long as they pleased, provided it wasn’t too long, and asked them where they thought they might end up settling.
The visitors replied hopefully that they thought they might settle here, among the friendly Scoti, on this beautiful and welcoming western island.
The Scoti laughed kindly and long, and they added that they thought maybe not. They explained to their guests that they were open to having neighbors close by, but that they weren’t interested in adding to their clan. It was a matter of pride, they said. They pointed back toward the northeast, saying that there was plenty of fine land back there, with more than enough room for settlers. The Scoti assured the Cruithne of their assistance should they meet with trouble.
The Cruithne explained to the Scoti that they had left most of their party back there on a rocky coast to the northeast, and that the land there didn’t look at all hospitable. The Scoti advised them to surmount the imposing cliffs, where they would find in the highlands more suitable land. They might also encounter unsociable tribes, but the Scoti repeated their assurance of assistance if it were needed. The Scoti had often traded with a few tiny eastern highland tribes, and they insisted that they were relatively harmless. They offered to send a contingent of their tribe to help in the establishment of the Cruithne settlement. The Cruithne readily accepted the generous offer.
The Cruithne expedition worked out one last agreement with the Scoti. Since so few women and children had survived the journey, the Cruithne would need to take wives to ensure their survival. The Scoti agreed to the arrangement on one crucial condition. With cunning and long-range forethought, the Scoti insisted that the newcomers adopt a curious custom for that age: royalty and inheritance were to pass through the woman’s bloodline in the event of the slightest disagreement.
The Cruithne were familiar with the notion of matrilineal inheritance, although its practice had all but disappeared from their culture centuries before. Women had always held the highest honor among their people. From the earliest days, the Scythians marveled at the miracle of childbirth, and regarded it as proof of the divinity of the female spirit. Women were the source of human life. Men viewed the power that women held over the continuation of life with wonder and admiration.
The Cruithne readily embraced the Scoti proposition, and the deal was struck. Scoti wives would ensure the survival of the newest arrivals to the sanctuary of the western islands.
In the world from which they came, this Scythian clan had long craved peace; in their new home, they vowed to make it their destiny. Over the ensuing centuries, peace and freedom became their creed, and they swore to defend one another to their last breath if necessary.
The Cruithne flourished and grew. In time the tribe split into seven distinct tribes, each headed by one of Cruithne’s sons. Over the centuries, more tribal splits occurred, until there were twenty, covering the northern half of the island. Twelve tribes remained in the imposing highlands, and eight moved to the lowlands farther south.
Except for occasional skirmishes among the tribes, usually spurred by familial disputes, the Cruithne lived in relative peace. There were periodic forays into Cruithne lands by invaders from the east, but they always failed. The Cruithne were fiercely self-protective, and their adopted land was inhospitable and unforgiving to the outsiders. The Scoti, good to their word, assisted occasionally in repelling the invaders, but their involvement was rarely necessary. Cruithne determination was enough to ensure their success.
The Cruithne, long accustomed to hardship, grew comfortable with the harshness of the land and contentedly made it their home. Invasions subsided over time as the invaders lost their attraction for the difficult environment, and their patience with Pictish intractability. Over generations, the Cruithne adapted well, and they grew to regard their new home as temperate and comfortable. They desired no other place on earth.
The young boy knelt at the edge of a precipice looking out over the mist-filled valley below. Storm clouds billowed and churned, and lightning bolts flashed within them, illuminating the heavy darkness of their depths. Calach smiled faintly as huge, cold raindrops pelted his fair skin, rolling down his face and dripping from his chin. Reddish-brown locks framed his face in damp curls, and flowed freely over his shoulders. His hazel eyes were sharp and alert, taking in every detail of his world.
Young Calach loved this land. He loved the power and the strength of it, and the pride with which it filled his heart. As he surveyed the highland home of his hearty tribe, a fierce determination gleamed in his eyes, and he drew back his shoulders, filling his lungs with its sweet fragrance.
Calach knew all the myths and stories of old. He could recite them from memory, just as he had heard them from his first days. He spent hours at a time here in his secret place, meditating and thinking of his ancestors who had come here so long ago, from a far off Eastern place that existed only in a thousand-year-old myth. There were tales of extreme brutality and endless war, tribes in eternal conflict over hunting and territory and gods, each tribe fighting to control and to subdue all others, and to ensure its own survival. And in the end all were overcome by the ravenous Urnifal horde from the east.
The ancient engravings on an ageless standing stone to Calach’s right, near the edge of the clearing, told the historic tale. An ancient artist had etched pictograms of the journey below the deeply carved symbol of the Cruithne clan – two circles side by side, connected by two curved lines, which were in turn bisected by the median line of a superimposed z-rod. Below the z-rod symbol, several long ships fought the sea. Below the ships, several figures clasped hands. The last symbol, at the bottom of the stone, almost hidden by thriving straw grass, was a classic depiction of the spirit of Cruithne himself – an inverted crescent superimposed by an intersecting v-rod. Calach examined the standing stone with admiration and respect. He contemplated the lives that had passed since the stone was first carved and erected.
When Calach’s people arrived at this land they called themselves Cruithne, a name that the Scoti also came to call them, after their leader. Over time they adopted the new name, “Pict,” from an ancient Scoti word that meant “fierce warrior.”
Calach fancied himself the embodiment – perhaps the reincarnation – of the man called Cruithne, the first hero and the greatest king of his tribe. He tended and nurtured within himself the qualities he imagined that Cruithne had certainly possessed, and with which he believed he had been endowed by Cruithne’s spirit at his birth: loyalty, strength, wisdom, and honor.
Calach’s deep kinship with his ancient hero strengthened over time, until he was certain that he was indeed Cruithne reborn. The Picts toyed with the idea of spiritual rebirth through reincarnation, though no one claimed to understand fully the nature or the purpose of such a thing. Calach was certain of its veracity, if not its workings.
To Calach it could not be clearer. He believed that he had been born to continue in Cruithne's footsteps, to devote his life to leading the Picts, and to protect them from outside interference or conquest. His mission was to make sure that this land remained the haven that it had always been for the Picts.
To Calach, there was nothing more comforting than this land. To him, its harshness was a cloak of protection for his people against trespassers and invaders. He found comfort in his own ability to tolerate its climate, and he was proud of his clan’s success in melding into the fine tapestry of this beautiful place.
Calach wondered, though, how long it would be before the outside world turned to encroach upon, and to seriously threaten the Cruithne world. He wondered if the Urnifal would ever take up their trail and follow them here.
He was aware of stories and fables of distant lands, where violence and barbarism still thrived and raged. He knew that the world beyond his land was filled with voracious warriors that might some day come again to try to conquer and enslave his people.
And he knew of the Romans, who over the past few hundred years had forged a great empire over most of the world, including Pretanii lands not far to the south, and who were still far from satiated by their relentless and widespread conquest.
Lightning cracked through the clouds overhead, wrenching Calach from his ponderous thoughts. The thunder rumbling through the valley reverberated through his bones and made his scalp tingle. He smiled to himself grimly and thought, Let them come, whoever they are, and try to enslave my people. Let them come to face me.
Calach’s face hardened. He knew that if his people were attacked he would summon all of his strength, and call down the fiercest of his gods to fight by his side, and no one would ever enslave his people as long as Calach, the warrior boy, the reincarnation of Cruithne lived.