DAVE BARTELL
Thriller Author
The prologue of Celtic Omen went through three major iterations. The final version became a flash-forward of Jasmin kicking off the heist during the geomagnetic storm. Enjoy these two other versions. Let me know if you like them.
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I wrote this version early in the cycle when I was thinking of a closer connection to the druids. Rereading it has me thinking I was heading in the fantasy novel direction. It finishes with a hint at Version 2.
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Prologue Version 1 - Celtic Omen
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249 BCE
Iron Age Belgium
Theoderic lay on a board—skin cold as the Autumn air and pale as the moon. His wife, Ingund, stroked his dark braids that splayed across his shoulders. Her other hand supported her belly, swollen with their first child days from entering this world. A tear rolled off her cheek and splattered on his. She dried it with the back of her hand, then smoothed a wrinkle in his white tunic.
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She insisted that he be buried as a man of peace, but eventually permitted his sword. Theoderic’s hands gripped its hilt, and its jeweled scabbard ran down his chest. Once a warrior, Theoderic had won peace for the Suessiones tribe. As its leader, he brought them prosperity by establishing trade with people in faraway lands. Situated between the Aisne and Marne rivers gave them advantages in the iron trade.
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Now, three decades later, he had succumbed to an assassin’s cowardly bolt. They’d found the man, a fanatic who thought the tribe had gone soft. His body now fed the vultures.
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The clan leaders had each donated shares for Cedric’s burial. A solid gold torque encircled his neck. Each of its pear-shaped appendages held a jewel—amber from the north and lapis lazuli from Egypt. Gold cuffs embedded with emeralds from the far east wrapped around each wrist—a gift from a trader whose life Theoderic had saved.
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“We’re ready, my Lady.” A low voice called from the doorway.
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Ingund stood and moved back as eight men entered, hefting the board onto their shoulders. Other men lined up outside as members of the clans fell in behind them. A crowd followed the litter bearers into the forest until they reached a clearing where they placed his body in a tomb beside his chariot.
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The ceremony continued as Ingund stood tall in a simple green gown and her hair braided into intricate loops. She gazed out at the mourners who had gathered to pay their respects to her husband.
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As her husband’s body lowered, Ingund clutched her breastbone, feeling as if someone thrust a dagger into her heart. Her knees buckled. She wanted to scream, but willed herself not to cry in front of his people.
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When they sealed the chamber, her grief morphed into a fierce determination. She swore a silent oath to preserve her husband's legacy. I will carry it until our child is ready to take the mantle.
The baby kicked at that moment, and Ingund accepted it as a sign. She turned and, resting a hand on the child’s head, spoke to the crowd. “We mourn a great man today.” She made eye contact with specific mourners as she continued. “A warrior. A leader. A friend.” Ingund paused and looked down at the green fabric of her dress, then said more softly, “A husband and father.”
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She paused as murmurings of agreement ran through the crowd. She looked up at them. “Our lives are richer because of his courage and tenacity. Let us remember his legacy.”
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Orange light rimmed the clearing as the sun dropped below the treeline. Long shadows flowed over the grass, and several torches were lit against the growing dark. Ingund turned towards the tumulus and raised her arms to the sky and said, “May he find peace in death, but may we also continue his good works throughout our lives.”
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At that moment, a guttural sound burst from the woods. The warriors tensed and drew their weapons. A throaty call echoed, much deeper than creatures of its kind that usually roamed these woods.
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Cracking branches drew all eyes to the trees where the monstrous animal emerged. A stag, white as a full moon and bigger than the tribe’s largest ox, paraded into the clearing. People gasped and clung to each other.
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The animal’s chest fur ruffled. Its nose and eyes shone like obsidian. But the antlers left everyone breathless. Dozens of points, black as pitch, swept outward the width of a man on each side of the beast.
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It bellowed again. A woman shrieked. Shouts went up to get back as the animal approached. Its inky eyes fixed solely on Ingund. Theoderic’s guard closed about her. But she found herself inexplicably drawn to it.
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All about her dissolved in a haze, except for the creature. She heard it speak. "Follow me if you want your wish granted.”
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Ingund fingered her protective amulet. She’d heard of magical creatures before, but she never thought that they were real. Her heart beat pounded. She looked around. No one else looked like they heard anything.
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It called to her again.
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Theodoric? She’d heard that people’s spirits sometimes inhabited animals. Again, she glanced at the mourners. They’d heard only the stag’s trumpeting. She locked eyes with the beast and stood tall. Perhaps this is what I needed to carry on Theoderic’s legacy.
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While the people rooted themselves in fear and uncertainty, Ingund took a deep breath and moved toward the stag. Guards grabbed her arms, but she shook them off. Gasps and hushed talk ran through the onlookers as she moved through the grass.
The closer she got, the smaller she felt against the gargantuan animal. It’s, she tried to count, seventeen, no, eighteen hands.
Her insides quivered. She wanted to turn and run. But instead, she moved closer, the folds of her skirt swishing softly against the grass. What am I doing?
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As if sensing her anxiety, the stag slowly nodded its head. “You and your child are safe with me.”
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She blinked. It knows I’m with child.
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She extended an arm, palm up, in a gesture of peace.
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The stag took a step.
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Ingund stroked its forehead. The massive animal made a low rumble. Then it kneeled so that Ingund could climb onto its powerful neck. She had no time for doubt. Without looking back, she thrust a leg over and hauled herself up. Her hands disappeared into the thick fur of its neck as the stag rose to its full height and bellowed. Ingund’s ear rattled.
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The stag charged the crowd, then swerved and galloped to the far side of the clearing. Ingund hung on for dear life and feared for her child, but as they plunged into the trees, the animal said, “She will be a fine, strong woman. A leader.”
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It ran for what felt like an hour, then burst onto a vast plain. A billion stars filled the sky. But one had an immense tail.
The stag stopped, its head raised in reverence at one star.
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“What is it?” she asked.
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Before it could answer, pain exploded from her insides. Ingund clamped her eyes shut and screamed.
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A voice yelled, “It’s coming.”
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Ingund opened her eyes to a dim room full of women crowded at her feet. “Where am I?” she asked, looking between the faces. Their answers came fast and urgent.
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“The baby.”
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“You’re in labor.”
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“You passed out in the clearing. We brought you here.”
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Ingund panted, confused. “No. I—”
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“Push,” yelled the woman between her legs.
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“Argh.”
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Seconds later, the woman held the bloody child. “It’s a girl,” she said to another woman who ran outside with the news.
Ingund looked around, disoriented. Memories of the funeral and stag returned as the pain subsided. “But—”
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“Shush,” said the woman as she handed Ingund the baby.
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Ingund held her close, tears streaming down her face. “She’s perfect. Dark hair just like her father’s.”
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The woman who had delivered the baby wiped Ingund’s forehead with a damp cloth. "You're lucky to be alive," she said. "Your husband's legacy will live on through this child."
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“What do you mean?” asked Ingund, still in shock.
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“The stag knocked you down. We thought you dead.”
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“But I rode it. We went into the forest and…” Ingund stopped. The women rolled their eyes.
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“It’s the pain, dear,” said the elder midwife. “You’re fine now.” She helped Ingund get the infant onto her breast. “There, there. She’s a strong girl.”
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Ingund tensed as the baby latched onto her nipple. But the sharp tug gave way to a warmth as she smiled at her tiny daughter. As they bonded, Ingund envisioned sitting astride the stag, gazing through its antlers at a vast sky. Her skin tingled as she followed the comet’s long tail. She’d never seen its equal.
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The vision faded as her daughter cried. She brought the baby back to her breast and considered what the woman had said. But it had felt real.
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Maybe it was a spirit journey.
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At that moment, her daughter’s eyes opened. Ingund peered into them—dark like her father’s. Do you remember? No. That’s silly. How could you?
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A voice interrupted. “What will you call her?”
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Ingund said, “I name her Fredegund. She will grow strong like her father, Theoderic.”
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***
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Years passed, and Fredegund grew into a fearsome warrior, protecting the tribe’s territory. And, she followed in her father's footsteps, leading the Suessiones to even greater prosperity. But she was restless. Trade had faltered. “Wars in the south,” said a traveling merchant. In the larger oppida, young people spoke of migrating to better lands. But others countered that they’d been in this valley forever.
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She went to an elder who studied the seasons and the spirits. Three winters ago, on her mother’s passing, she’d told him about the mysterious stag and comet at her father’s funeral. Fredegund had never accepted her mother’s tale as anything but visions brought on by pain, but she heeded her advice to consult the spirit elders.
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Fredegund paused at his door, reluctant to enter. She believed in what she could see: people’s actions, the land, the crops, and trade caravans. She had little time for speculation and fantasy.
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The tribe looked to her leadership. But as the wet, cold spring gave way to a drought-ridden summer that shriveled the crops, she heard them whispering behind her back.
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“She doesn’t understand us.”
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“Theoderic would have known what to do.”
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When answers and reasons evaded her, she went to the elder. She raised her head and knocked.
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“Enter,” came a voice from inside.
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She pushed her way into a room where every surface held a jar or bowl filled with dried plants or seeds. An iron kettle over a small flame spewed a pungent herbal mixture, and she pinched her nostrils to hold back a sneeze.
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“The unbeliever returns,” said the man without looking up. He scratched a bronze plate with an iron stylus while carefully comparing it to a scroll at his right elbow.
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“What are you doing? she asked.
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He looked up and grinned from beneath a thin gray mustache—teeth yellowed with age. He set the iron tool aside and placed his weathered hands in his lap.
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“I’m recording our knowledge.”
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“I thought that was forbidden.”
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“So it is. But I sense the need has arrived. This scroll,” he said, patting the papyrus, “comes from the people we trade with in the Mediterranean. Your scribes know its letters. They use it to record accounts. I have adapted them to record our knowledge of the stars.”
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He got up and went to the fire. “Would you like some tea?”
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Fredegund nodded and studied the bronze. She’d learned the language of commerce, so she’d know when someone tried to cheat them.
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He handed her a cup and said, “I have been waiting for you to ask about your mother’s spirit journey.”
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“I have no time for that. I came for advice.”
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The elder snorted. “Ah, the gifted warrior and leader has no time for learning the way of the universe, yet here she is.”
Fredegund hated his esoteric speeches. She ground her teeth, fighting the urge to leave. Instead, she said, “The way of the universe has killed our crops. I came here to ask your advice.”
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“Tell me what you know,” he said, sitting down with his tea.
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“Our accounts show trade has decreased. The mines in the north are no longer as productive, and our food stores are dangerously low. We will suffer if winter is long. Some suggest moving south.”
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“Winter will be harsh. The tribunal has seen this,” he said.
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She knew he’d been to a gathering in the summer with others of his kind. She pondered his statement before asking, “When will it improve?”
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“I cannot say for sure, but we have seen this cycle. It has not occurred for generations. You’ve heard of the great death?”
Fredegund scoffed and set the cup down. “Mothers’ tales to get us to finish our porridge.”
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The elder produced a wan smile. “Perhaps, but legend speaks of a time when our ancestors lived in the east. Relentless cold and starvation forced them from the steppe to our valley. The cycle we foresee resembles that time.”
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“I find that hard to believe.”
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“What you believe has no bearing on the weather. It will happen. The only thing you control is the path you choose for your people. Stay and suffer the consequences or risk a new direction.”
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Fredegund walked in tiny circles, clenching her fists. “This isn’t helping. I need answers.” She turned and slammed her palms on the table. “Tell me what to do!”
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The elder blinked rapidly, then said, “I cannot. It isn’t my role, but I sense you’d decided what to do before visiting me,” he said.
She groaned and rubbed her face. Why did I come here?
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Fredegund stomped out of the hut into the oppidum’s narrow lanes. Minutes later, she found herself at the stables and commanded a groom to ready her horse.
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She galloped through the outlying fields and turned into the trees. The wind on her face felt good. Her braids thrashed wildly as the horse’s hooves thundered across the forest floor. Her heart raced as they slalomed around the trunks. She ducked and whooped as a low branch nearly took her head off and brought the horse to a canter, then a walk.
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She let it wander, and they soon entered the clearing with her father’s tumulus. Two rotted corpses lashed to crude lattices warned would-be tomb raiders of their fate. She looked away in disgust and guided her steed to the mound’s opposite side.
Fredegund dismounted and let the horse graze while she sat and drank from her waterskin. Evening closed in as the late autumn sun dropped below the treeline, much like the day they entombed her father.
She lay back on the slope and watched the migrating geese, their chevrons stretching across the cloudless sky.​ Her limbs sank into the grass as she wallowed in her confusion.
She thought of the tribe, knowing the harvest had been meager and the game was farther afield. Iron piled up in the northern mines, and the goods they needed demanded more coin.​ Words from the elder circled her brain. “You must choose a path for your people.”
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She growled, ripping up handfuls of grass.
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Another flock chattered overhead. She sighed, realizing why she’d come to the tumulus.​ Father would have known what to do.
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A large goose honked.
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“Hah!” she blurted. “At least you know where you’re going.” Her gaze drifted to her hands holding the grass.
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“Father, what should I do?” she asked, giving in to the spirits.
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Crickets chirped in the otherwise silent clearing. After a time, she shook her head and sighed.​ What did I expect?
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The treeline rattled. She grasped her bow and rolled to her knees. She notched an arrow and turned toward the noise. Something moved. The crickets muted.
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Her heart thudded. She sucked in deep breaths to quell the blood whooshing in her ears and steadied her aim.
C’mon. Show yourself.
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Fredegund drew the bow as two small trees moved.
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A sudden chill descended. Her skin tingled, and she felt a presence. But instead of dread, she realized that whatever it was, it meant her no harm.
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She lowered the bow.
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“Father?”
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A flock of birds burst from the brush as a colossal white stag with coal black antlers strode into the clearing. Mother was right. Fredegund’s mouth hung open. She never believed an animal so massive could exist.
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The creature roared as if its size alone didn’t produce awe.
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Fredegund fell back, landing on her butt.
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Its hooves crunched through the grass.
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She jumped to her feet, fumbling with an arrow.
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The stag halted a few body lengths away, and an overwhelming sense of familiarity flowed through Fredegund. She knew it was the stag her mother rode on the day of her birth. The one she said watched over them and preserved her father's legacy. She’s heard the tale countless times, but never believed it. Now, she realized her mother had been right.
She dropped her weapons and bowed low.
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“It is time to follow the elders’ advice.”
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“What?” Her head snapped up, searching for who spoke the words. But she was alone. She turned back to the stag.
It nodded, “Who else? We’re the only ones here.”
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“You mean follow the elders’ advice to leave? But, where shall we go?” she asked.
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The stag pivoted to its left and raised its head to the sky.
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“I don’t understand.” She shrugged.
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The stag nosed at the sky, the way her dogs pointed. She followed its gaze to a star she’d not seen before, burning bright enough to be seen in the twilight.
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“What is it?” she asked.
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The stag snorted and turned to face the strange long-tailed star.
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“You want me to follow it?”
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The creature stamped its fore hooves and nodded its magnificent rack of antlers.
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“How far?”
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At that moment, the stag galloped towards the star. It paused at the forest, looked back, then plunged into the canopy.
Fredegund’s mind sped into action. The heaviness that had plagued her for weeks fell away. She seized her bow from the grassy mound, jumped on her horse, and rode back to the oppidum.
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***
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After her spirit journey with the stag, Fredegund expected the elder to be smug, but he embraced her conversion and focused on imparting the ancient knowledge.
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The debate on staying or leaving took weeks, and most of the tribe declined to follow Fredegund on her fool’s journey south.
The day before they left, the elder took Fredegund aside. He handed her a leather-bound box.
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“I’m too old to go with you. No doubt you will meet others of my kind. But if you do not, these plates contain our knowledge.”
“But how will I read them? You told me they are in code,” said Fredegund.
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“With this.” He opened a leather pouch and removed a gold torc. He turned it around. The twisted gold had letters carved within its swirls. He continued, “These letters are the key.”
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He showed her how to use the cipher, then placed the torc on her neck and drew her collar over it. “Keep these safe. Guard them with your life.”
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“I will,” said Fredegund.
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“Go,” he said. “You must get south before this winter sets in.”
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***
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Seventeen families and twice that number of single members of the tribe left the oppidum at daybreak. After a modest trek, they made camp near the Suessiones’ southernmost border. Fredegund insisted on taking the first watch.
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As the comet grew bright above the horizon, she lit a candle and opened the box of bronze tablets. She laid the first ten in a row like the elder had shown her and removed the torc from her neck.
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Deciphering the first words took hours while Fredegund grew familiar with the letters. When the next person came on watch, she replaced the pieces and went to sleep.
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Over the following weeks, she learned the mysterious bronze squares told of a comet that had led their ancestors from the steppe. The ancient ones who preceded the elder.
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A month after they left their oppidum, Fredegund had the strongest of the group erect a menhir as instructed in the tablets. She explained they were creating a sacred line that connected them with their ancestors.
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The next day, a bear attacked and killed one of the group. After the burial, Fredegund erected another menhir, this time telling the group that all their burials must align with the spirit trail back to their ancestral homeland. “This way our spirits can find each other in the afterlife.”
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As they travelled, the comet rose lower and lower on the horizon, eventually disappearing altogether. They had reached a valley much like the one they had left. Volcanic plateaus had created fertile soil. Their crops thrived in the milder climate, which provided a long growing season.
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They took a new name, the Aruernoi, and prospered as they developed the trade routes throughout the region. Fredegund ruled from their largest oppidum at Corent, and life was not without struggle, for they had to defend against rivals, the Aedui tribe.
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In her later years, Fredegund turned over leadership to ambitious younger members. She traveled to Bibracte in the north, where she communed with other elders. At home, she spent her time mastering the bronze tablets and adding to them. She inculcated the knowledge in the next generation of spirit leaders.
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By the time she passed, the Roman Empire had advanced and was imposing its way of life. The younger generation turned to the Roman gods and had less interest in Fredegund’s knowledge. They laid her in a sacred grotto, wearing the torc into the afterlife, and placed the box of bronze tablets on her chest.
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In a few generations, people forgot about Fredegund and her spirit elder kind.
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***
315 CE
Iciodurum, Gaul
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The day had turned hot when the men broke for lunch. Antonius leaned against the cool stone. The chapel’s shade reached just short of a body length as the July sun peaked. While the others stretched out for a nap after their bread and wine, Antonius bided his time, fighting off heavy eyelids himself until the last man began to snore. Then he got to his feet and clambered down into the cellar.
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Stremonius, his bishop in Clermont, wanted the crypt extended. The footprint of the old pagan site, on which they’d built the hundred-year-old chapel, could no longer accommodate the graves needed for the clergy of the expanding faith.
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Antonius went to the far corner where he’d seen a bone. He’d thrown dirt over it before the break. Now he kneeled and scraped away the crusted soil. Indeed, it was a shoulder. His heart jumped. He’d heard the pagans sometimes buried themselves with their jewelry. He shoveled away. The arm bones spilled onto the pile.
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Gold!
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He jabbed the dirt, clearing the area around the skull, and pulled a dirt-encrusted torc from around the neck bones. He held it to the oil lamp. Gold, as thick as his thumb, had been twisted and bent.
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But there was more.
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The corner of a box protruded from atop the sternum. Antonius worked the soil until a bronze box, the width of his forearm, came free. His breath came fast as he cleaned it with his tunic, then worked the hinge mechanism. He imagined jewels and more gold, but his heart sank.
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Neatly arranged stacks of bronze tablets, each no bigger than his palm, filled the box. He fingered one of them, but noises from behind meant the men were coming. He shut the box and thrust it, along with the torc, into his satchel.
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“What did you find?” asked one man.
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“A pagan skeleton,” said Antonius. “We cannot let it desecrate this holy place. Cast the bones into the forest.”
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***
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That evening, Antonius shared his find with the bishop, who tried on the torc and examined the bronze tablets. He tossed them back in the box, saying, “I have no wish to revive this pagan nonsense. Destroy these before they can corrupt anyone.”
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“What about the torc?” asked Antonius.
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“Melt it down. We need a new chalice for the altar.”
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Antonius left with a heavy heart. He’d converted to Christianity a few years before and had not entirely let go of the old ways. His grandmother had regaled him with stories of their ancestors before the Romans. They were a noble people who understood the land and its mysteries.
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He prayed to the new god, asking for guidance. Shall I destroy this?
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No answer came as he studied the tablets in the privacy of his cell. They looked somewhat Latin, but not structured in any way he could make out. Some had a crude depiction of a long-tailed star, but he’d never seen such a thing and dismissed it as fantasy.
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A few days later, he recalled his grandmother’s wagging finger as she admonished, “Never disturb the dead, especially the spirit elders.”
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He shivered at what he’d done. Surely, anyone wearing such a magnificent torc must belong to this class.
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What if it’s true?
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He prayed to the new god for protection against any pagan curse.
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And the tablets? He set down the box that had lain in the soil for centuries. Who am I to destroy something my ancestors deemed sacred?
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In that moment, he decided to tell the priest he destroyed the tablets, but that a thief had taken the torc.
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Late that night, he went into the crypt and opened the sarcophagus of the chapel’s first priest. Antonius gagged at the miasma and placed the box near the foot bones. He had no desire to touch the brittle corpse, so he slid the torc between skull and sarcophagus. He replaced the lid and asked for forgiveness.
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For weeks afterward, Antonius wrestled with guilt, almost retrieving the box and torc, but that winter, a flu decimated the village, and the secret went with him to the grave.
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