Gemini Thunder (17 page)

Behind them the Viking command heaved an enormous sigh of relief. It had been touch and go. If the last attack had been repulsed, they would not have had enough men to mount another, let alone survive. Through a series of carefully orchestrated moves, small parties of men had left the Chippingham lines well before the battle started and worked their way stealthily to Guthrum’s beached long ships at Hengisbury. At twenty-five men per boat, the minimum number needed to make any sort of headway against the channel currents, the thirty long ships set off to the Scilly’s. This had left Guthrum seven hundred and fifty men short in the force at Chippingham, and this was why it had been close. Those men had been missed. The plain fact was, as at Winchester, a few hundred hideously howling Viking warriors are a frightening sight and enough to cause chaos in the ranks of opposing defenders. Although the resolve of the Celts had been stiffened at Chippingham, many still turned tail and ran in the face of the onslaught. It was enough to give the invaders victory. But Guthrum now needed those three thousand marooned warriors desperately if he was to stay and form a real presence for the undoubted fight-back that would come.

The other plus was Twilight had not noticed the stealthily departing men from Chippingham, or the boats now making their way slowly but surely toward the Scilly’s.

The twins’ strategy of keeping him occupied had seen to that.

As King Alfred and his small escort galloped toward the safety of the Summerland Levels, Twilight had something else on his mind. His biggest fear had come true.

The venefical destiny stones at Avebury were now completely exposed to the invader.

There was nothing between the Viking force and the stones, which were only an hour’s ride from Chippingham. For the time being the invaders were too busy celebrating, but it was only a matter of time before they found the ring of sarsens and destroyed them. For the first time in ten thousand years, the prophesy of the crimson pools of indestructible blood in place of the stones could be put to the test.

He must do everything in his power to ensure it did not come about. Above all this was sacred, inviolate, untouchable ground.

With Desmond, all four of the bears, Sir Valiant, and Lord Scroop in tow, he considered the problem from the top of Silbury Mound, which overlooked the stones.

‘This mound we are sitting on is man-made, isn’t it?’ Desmond asked.

‘Yes, many thousands of years ago. Must have taken a great many men to build it.’

‘Couldn’t you bury the stones under some earth? Make it look as if the entire site is just a rolling hill, a sort of wider, flatter Silbury Mound.’

‘Bury the venefical burial stones,’ mused the astounder. ‘Do you know, my clever troubadour, I think you have just come up with a solution? Cover them up with earth and growing grass to keep them safe underground until the heathens have gone away. Then uncover them. Desmond Kingdom Biwater, you are a genius.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Desmond, blowing on his nails. ‘Just so long as I don’t have to move the earth.’

‘Look,’ said Twilight. ‘It’s already done.’

And sure enough, where the semicircle of ninety-nine destiny stones had stood there was now a grass-covered rolling hill.

‘I wonder if any of my venefical forefathers felt anything under their stone when that happened,’ said Twilight.

Desmond gasped and nodded in disbelief.

‘When I see you perform huge miracles like that, I wonder how we could ever lose a battle,’ he said. ‘Surely you could have just killed all the Viking on the spot?’

‘Mankind,’ replied Twilight in what Desmond was beginning to recognize as his oblique way of answering a question, ‘must ultimately be responsible for his own future, and whilst we venefici can influence, adjust, and even shape some of the events that will form this future, we must take care not to dominate every facet of it. We must be careful not to limit the horizons of man’s endeavours. Especially in wars because they, more than any other event, form the history and future of a region or country. Otherwise all history would be venefically created, and man would have learned nothing due to our domination and arrangement of events. The civilization of mankind must move forward under its own power wherever possible. Knowledge is all if the species is to survive and progress. The veneficus must never be seen as a god. We are human beings with some interesting and useful skills in order to protect and move small regions of mankind forward. Self-knowledge and progress for the people is paramount. That’s it. In my case it’s the Celts and Wessex.’

‘But you could have killed all those Viking without any loss of life to us.’

‘You’re forgetting the twins. They could have done the same with the Celts. It becomes a stalemate—we cancel each other out. The venefici wipe out everyone, and there is no need for a battle. Who gains anything, specifically knowledge, from that? Besides, by my reckoning I’ve accounted for about eleven hundred lowlanders in this war already, which, for an astounder who doesn’t like to take life, is a large amount.’

‘What about the twins?’

‘I can’t speak for them. Because they are Viking they will have an entirely different code and outlook. My guess is if they had the chance to wipe out all the Celts, they would take it. The only reason they don’t is because I’m here. Besides, they are on the side of the winners at the moment, so the Viking leaders will consider them to have performed well.’

‘I still don’t understand why you won’t kill them all,’ said Desmond gloomily.

‘Look at it this way.’ Twilight got to his feet and walked to the edge of the mound overlooking the now covered destiny stones and pointed. ‘Manipulating phenomena in nature such as I have just done with the stones over there hasn’t upset anything. No lives have been lost, and a minor adjustment of the habitat has taken place, but nothing more and nothing less. I will return the stones to their proper position when the threat of damage has passed. All will be as before, and the history of this region has not been altered in any way. Now, if the twins and I wiped out both armies before matters got to this stage, the history of these lands for this period would have been rewritten by our actions and so on for every other battle or war we manipulate. It is not my purpose in being here. Unfortunately, these battles and all the others like them going on all over the earth are necessary in order to move the entire family of mankind forward. Crazy old world, eh?’

Twilight grinned at the puzzled look on his companion’s face.

‘Now, we must take care with your whereabouts. With the battle over, the twins will have more time to track you through that kernel in your hair. I think it’s time we confused them a little, don’t you?’

Go-ian spoke directly to his twin sister’s mind. They were sitting in a large settlement house in the centre of Chippingham. All around them Guthrum and his chieftains were celebrating their great victory with continuously raised drinking horns filled with the local mead, together with some better stuff that had been brewed by the druids at the Order of Lacock. The streets outside rang with the partying of the warriors. Tomorrow they would leave in pursuit of the escaped Celts, razing the town to the ground as they left. Tonight was for celebration, boasting, and toasting the Norse gods who had blessed them with a great victory. The only pity was the lack of inhabitants; all but one had left before the battle. The one left behind, an old and withered hag with no teeth and one eye missing, rushed around serving mead. Even by Viking terms she wasn’t worth the sword slash, so they put her to work . . . for now.

Someone would kill her later.

Kani has detected the aura kernel we placed in the jester’s hair. Where? On the island called Steep Holm where the beaten rune-slayer put the animals.

They looked at each other, both having the same thought.

Why would Desmond and Twilight go back there? They’d transformed that useless old nag and his stupid companion parrot back here and reunited them with the bears. What other reason could they have for going back?

‘His wife and children!’ they both exclaimed out loud. ‘He’s hidden them there.’ They began giggling.

We’ll wait until the kernel shows them to be away from Steep Holm,

then investigate personally. We’d better both go, stay together just in case we bump into him and need all our power.

I can’t wait to get my hands on his children. Good, I’ll deal with the wife then.

Around them the merriment had increased its cadence as Ove Thorsten stood on a table with a giant horn full of the strong mead of the druids and drank it down in one gulp as the others counted the time. Getting unsteadily to the ground, he was replaced by another chieftain and the counting began as the withered old hag filled the horn again. Then another. The fourth chieftain didn’t make it, crashing to the ground halfway down the horn, whereupon he was thrown outside as a failure.

Guthrum took his place on the table and downed the horn in the quickest time, then kicked the old hag in the face because she didn’t refill the second horn fast enough. He wanted another go.

The old hag slumped to the ground and didn’t move . . . ever again.

The following morning when all the Viking were sluggish and bad-tempered, Kani landed alongside Go-ian and screeched that he’d got a reading of the kernel aura from the top of a mound called Silbury nearby, and he’d verified it from high in the air. It was Twilight and Desmond. With the Wessex astounder out of the way, the giggling twins were about to transform to Steep Holm when a distinctly rough-looking Guthrum emerged from his tent. Back-handing the Viking guard across the face, he growled for some water before seeing the twins.

‘You,’ he rasped, pointing at Go-ian. ‘I want you to personally go to the long ships, which are on their way back now with Olaf Tryggvason and his men, and escort them in. Immediately. Make sure nothing happens to them. They are the key to our survival in this place. Understand? If it does I will hold you responsible.’

With a quick glance at his twin sister Go-ian answered.

‘Immediately, my
jarl.
’

He quickly spoke directly to Go-uan’s mind.

You go to Steep Holm—you’ll be okay. Give that family of the accursed rune-slayer something to remember us both by before they die. Take your biggest and meanest bear, the one who bit that priest’s head off in Winchester. He’ll look after you.

Then he was gone.

The Dog Star and Sirius were parted . . . at last.

Samuel Southee hid Alfred, de Gaini, and their small escort in a dense copse just off the western edge of the Levels. He took off his tunic and other evidence of soldiery and with just a concealed short sword went in search of the one man he knew on the Levels who could help them find sanctuary.

Ike Penbarrow.

Several casual conversations with folk later, on the pretext of looking for some roof reed for a new hovel, he tracked the boatman down to Ernie Wick’s smithy at Burrow Bridge. He waited in the trees as Ike and his son Ifor unloaded some jute sacks of charcoal, then took their leave of the blacksmith and began to pole their way back through the marshland. Southee tracked them for a while before coming to a ford. Spurring his horse forward he waited at the water’s edge for the flat-bottomed boat to draw abreast of him, then shouted to Ike.

‘Young Southee,’ said Penbarrow, poling in to the shallows. ‘I saw you dodging around the trees to keep up with us back there. I thought you’d gone off to fight for king and country.’

‘There’s no fooling you, Ike,’ replied Southee. He motioned to the young Ifor sitting in the boat with his father. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk . . . privately?’ Ike shrugged. ‘Anything you’ve got to say to me is safe with young Ifor here.’

Dismounting, Southee tied his horse to a tree and sat on the side of the boat.

‘Knowing you, Ike, I think you will have a good idea why I’m here.’ ‘Aye, the refugees from Chippingham have been streaming through the Levels for the last day or two. The news wasn’t good. Did he lose the battle?’

‘He did.’ ‘He needs sanctuary, somewhere to stay for the winter?’ ‘He does.’ ‘How many?’ ‘Eight, maybe a couple more later.’ Ike Penbarrow stroked his gray-whiskered chin for a while and then looked at his son.

‘We know the very place,’ he said finally. ‘No one will ever find them there, eh, Ifor?’ ‘Swifty’s Island,’ said Ifor emphatically in his eight-year-old voice. ‘Perfect in the winter.’ ‘Swifty’s Island?’ Southee repeated. ‘I was born and bred around here—you taught me to catch fish all over the Levels in that very boat, and I’ve never heard of it. Who was Swifty?’

Ike chuckled.

‘An old hermit called Swifty who would only talk to one person, and that was my grandfather. Hated everyone else and wouldn’t have anything to do with them. Old Grandpa Penbarrow used to deliver a bit of food and salt to the old boy from time to time in his punt.’ He paused for a moment. ‘If a man knows what’s good for him he keeps a few things to himself, young Samuel. Swifty’s Island is one of mine. There are others. Still has a couple of old hovels there. They’ll need a bit of patching up to keep the rain out, but that’s easy enough. Roof reed is my business. Talking of business . . . ‘ He purposefully let his voice trail off.

‘Up front, in gold, direct from the royal purse. You provide us with food and everything else we need for the winter.’