Gemini Thunder (2 page)

Twilight turned his attention to the beach.

Three thunderbolts blazed from his fingertips, and three of the four long ships were engulfed by deafening explosions. When the smoke cleared there was nothing left of them other than three huge craters of splintered wood, which were rapidly filling with the incoming tide. The explosions had blown the guard from his lookout platform on the fourth ship some way out to sea, where he now sank under the weight of his armor. Next Twilight turned to the myriad pile of brightly coloured shields, and in a puff of smoke they all disintegrated.

The celebrations on the hill came to an abrupt halt as the Vikings began to take in what was happening. The red-headed leader was the first to react. Jumping down from his platform of bodies, he let out a bloodcurdling scream and charged in the direction of the beach, closely followed by his men. With arms waving and battle cries streaming from their bearded lips, the weapon-less Viking hoard came to a sudden halt as two hundred long ship oars streamed, carved blade first, toward them like the lances of the Valkyrie. Uproar and confusion reigned as those at the front tried to turn as the oars sliced through them. Each oar found a lowlander target, severing heads, slicing through backs, breastplates, and stomachs. As the guts of two hundred of their comrades spilled into the Wessex earth, the remaining two hundred stopped and stared about them in numbed terror. Who or what was doing this? No enemy had appeared. What sort of man could throw oars like that? Had they angered a god? Did this place have a special deity looking after it?

A grim-faced Twilight muttered to himself.

‘The moment of your brutal destiny, invader, has just arrived.’

The red-headed leader was still alive. He struggled to his feet from under a dead comrade, looked for a long moment at the writhing bodies of his downed warriors impaled on their own oars, and called on those left to make for the remaining long ship. As the bedraggled, demoralized bunch arrived on the beach, they saw a man standing on the lookout platform of the remaining long ship.

It was not one of their guards.

Redhead held his hand up and they came to a halt, all eyes trained on the slim young figure on the platform.

Twilight addressed them in Latin.

‘You were celebrating the mindless slaughter of innocent folk who could not defend themselves. Your civilization may applaud you for that. We don’t. To us it is the height of cowardice. In return for the two hundred lives you have taken of my Wessex brethren, I have dispatched two hundred of your murdering rabble to Valhalla. If you or any of your lowland hordes come to this land again, I will take ten lives for every one you take. You and one of your long ships have been spared in order to take this message back to your leaders.’

After a short pause the red-headed one shouted up at him hoarsely in understandable Latin, which, for such a barbarian, was a surprise to the young astounder. He alone of the remaining Viking seemed unafraid.

‘Are you a god?’

‘No,’ replied Twilight.

‘A veneficus then?’

‘Yes.’ He didn’t know why he was again surprised that such savages would know of venefici, but he was. Then the answer came.

‘We have such people as well.’

‘Good, then ensure that they get my message. They will understand.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that. They might even be worse than us,’ growled Redhead.

‘In which case we are all in for some turbulent times. Now leave this place on the next tide before I change my mind and use the remaining two hundred oars for something other than rowing.’

Crouching behind the flimsy wattle and daub walls of their hovels, the inhabitants of the settlement of Kennet were wondering if this was to be their last day on this green, pagan-driven Wessex earth. Clutching pitchforks, axes, stones, and anything else that would double as a weapon, they peered fearfully around the openings of their meagre hovels whilst trying to hush crying babies, still frightened children, and silence barking dogs.

Noise and movement did not seem a good idea at that moment.

The sight that they had awoken to that morning and the reason for their dread sat unconcernedly on the circular wall of the well in the centre of the settlement, gnawing contently on muddy turnips from the pile left there the previous night for washing.

Two very large brown bears.

Preoccupied with the turnips, the bears were oblivious to the fear their presence was causing. Picking up a wooden pail from the well wall, one of them dipped its great head inside and washed down the turnip with a draught of cool, clear well water. Mouth dripping, it suddenly looked up, dropped the pail, and stood high on its back legs and pawed the air. Instantly joined by its companion, the bear stared back up the track toward the settlement entrance. Ducking their heads back behind the walls of their hovels and muttering a prayer to their favourite pagan image, the villagers braced themselves for the blood and carnage of an imminent bear attack.

‘Combi, Nation, there you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

A young man of no more than seventeen with long flaxen hair twisted into two long braids strolled up to the bears, addressing them in a clear voice. The inhabitants, eyes popping in a mixture of fear and disbelief, watched as the great brown animals and young man engaged in a sort of mutual hug of joy in being together again. Dropping down to all fours, the bears then dutifully fell into place, one either side of the young man, and in a flurry of tickled ears and muzzled hands the three of them began to playfully make their way out of the village.

As if suddenly remembering something, the young man stopped before the edge of the settlement and turned to the relieved but curious inhabitants beginning to emerge from the hovels behind him.

‘I am very sorry if these two caused you concern, but as you can see they are very tame and would not harm anyone,’ he shouted. ‘I have a small, travelling spectaculum, an entertainment show. We are camped in a clearing in the Savernake.’ He waved his arm at the mighty forest behind him. ‘We would appreciate the opportunity of entertaining you tonight to make up for the scare you have had and the turnips these two have eaten. We will return at sunset.’

With a cheery wave he turned, and the three of them walked into the forest. As they disappeared from view, a pair of pied poly demons, the name locals gave to the black and white plumaged pica, left their high perch in an overlooking beech tree and flew off toward the west in their curious dipping flight to report something interesting to their liege-lord and master.

Later that day as the sun began to dip its orange orb beneath the gray-and pink-streaked rolling Wessex horizon, the young man returned on a battered old cart. The cart, patched and mended such that it was a wonder it stayed in one piece, was pulled slowly by an old piebald horse with a multicoloured blanket draped over its flanks. The blanket wasn’t the only brightly coloured object on the horse, because sitting on top of its head, between the long pointed ears and facing haughtily backward, sat a red-crested green and gray parrot. Tagging along dutifully behind, sniffing the ground and playfully slapping each other, followed the two bears.

For the second time that day, the inhabitants grabbed their children and shrank back into their hovels.

Stopping the cart alongside the well in the centre of the settlement where the bears had sat earlier, the young man jumped to the ground, unhooked the shafts from the horse, and engaged in a friendly wrestle with both of the bears. Treating him with a gentleness that belied their great strength and bulk, the bears rolled around playfully with him in between them. Then the young man took four sharpened posts from the cart, each with tallow-soaked rags bound around the top. Banging them solidly into the ground in a semicircle around the cart, he took a flint box and sparked each of them alight. Next he hauled a large, solid-looking chest down from the cart and placed it on the ground between the blazing posts. Opening the chest he removed a battered old Roman marching drum and two hand-carved drumsticks, a long, thin wooden whistle, and a lyre wrapped in cloth. Smiling and talking softly to the two bears, who had resumed their original seat on the circular well wall, he picked up the sticks and gave a long staccato roll on the drum. At the sound of the roll, the horse with the parrot on its head and the bears presented themselves each side of the young man behind the blazing lights. As evening began to fall over the settlement, this curious, ragged little travelling spectaculum prepared to entertain the inhabitants of an area of sixth-century Briton famed for its Celtic influences, cowering sarcophagal mists, and enchantment-driven sorcery.

It also started all the settlement dogs barking again.

‘Citizens of Kennet, we bid you a very good evening,’ the young man shouted over the howling din, ‘and ask you to come and enjoy our little show.’

Another long drum roll.

‘Please do not be afraid. You will come to no harm.’

Another roll.

Curious but hesitant, some of the villagers began to emerge from their hovels and edge toward the blazing makeshift stage occupied by the young man and his animals. Further drum rolls and a short tune on the wooden whistle brought more of them out. Soon there was a crowd standing just outside the arc of light thrown by the blazing tallow posts. The dogs had been quieted, and children clung to their parents’ hands and peered wide-eyed around their legs at the two bears. Putting down the drumsticks, the flaxen-haired, pigtailed young man picked up the lyre and strummed a few notes.

‘I would like to introduce my little band,’ he said. Pointing to the old piebald horse, he plucked a quick rising scale ending on a full chord.

‘This is Sir Valiant, a faithful piebald horse and friend, but, as you will soon see, he is no ordinary horse, are you, old fellow.’ Another chord and the old horse slowly dropped one forelock to the ground. As he bobbed his head in a bow, the parrot perched on his head, still facing backward away from the crowd, fluttered its wings to maintain balance.

‘And, as you have no doubt noticed, perched on Sir Valiant’s head and all the way from those mystic lands of the East, we have the most noble of parrots . . .’

Three loud, strident chords.

‘Lord Scroop!’

The parrot slowly turned around to face the crowd, bobbed its red-crested head three times, and then addressed them in a high-pitched cackle.

‘Lord Scroop, King of Britain, at your service.’

There were one or two grins at the front of the crowd.

‘Who did you say you are?’ the young man shouted with one hand to his ear.

The parrot added more sound to the high-pitched cackle.

‘Lord Scroop, King of Britain, at your service!’

This time grins broke out all over.

‘Now then, have I missed anyone out?’ The young man looked out at the crowd with a puzzled expression.

‘The bears. You’ve missed out the bears,’ came a chorus of voices, many of them from the children. A horse and parrot were all very well, but bears were altogether different.

‘Ah yes, the bears. Now let me see. Do you think big brown bears should have names?’

‘Yes, yes,’ squealed the children.

‘I know what their names are,’ said a small boy at the front in a loud voice. ‘I heard you call them when they were eating the turnips at the well this morning. I was hiding in that tree over there.’ He pointed to a large old oak on the side of the clearing. ‘That one,’ he continued, pointing at Combi, ‘is called Combi. And the other one is called Nation.’

‘Well done! A combination of bears, eh. Here’s an apple for being a brave and clever boy.’

He rolled his empty hands and produced a large, rosy red apple from the boy’s ear and handed it to him.

The villagers began to clap their hands.

As the orange evening sun sank over the Silbury Mound, Twilight walked slowly along the venefical stones, thinking about Rawnie’s words earlier that day.

‘The venefical duties placed upon you are onerous, especially as you only had seven years in which to learn,’ she’d said in that practical, no-nonsense tone she used when sure of her facts. ‘You need a companion. A Celtic soul friend who can share the burden with you in much the same way as you did with the long magus. Not the next in line—you’re many tens of years away from even beginning to search for a replacement to train, but a companion you can discuss matters venefical with, decisions, strategy, another viewpoint. I can’t do it; I am your wife and mother of your children and devoted to that duty. Besides, being the daughter of a king, I am not equipped to offer advice on such important matters. I was, until a certain young spellbinder spirited me away and stole my heart, surrounded by others who made every important decision for me.’

As the sun finally set and the Wessex darkness took hold, a wolf high on one of the rolling Wessex hills put back its head and howled a greeting to nightfall. It was answered by a similar cry from the other side of the ridgeway. The Wessex wolf population had begun to increase again following the slaughter of their numbers by the terminus of Elelendise, their liege-lord, and the battles with Merlin and Twilight. Old Pen, still alive but nearing the end of his days, remained their leader. He had put pride back into their loping stride and a sense of purpose in their hunting packs. There was no more whining and belly-crawling to flawed liege-lords in the Wessex wolfs’ makeup. In the ten years since Elelendise and Lupa, he had also kept a careful eye out for any pure white cubs and had them culled at birth just in case the savagery of the previous strain surfaced again.