Last Sword Of Power (13 page)

'Wherever it is, the Magic of the Sword will become apparent. Let us say it is a flower: in that region plants will grow as never before, crops will flower early and sickness will disappear. The knights must search for such signs.'

'If it is in Britannia,' said Gwalchmai.

'If it was easy to find, then Wotan would take it,' snapped Revelation. 'But think on this: When Uther was in peril, he had at best only moments to hide the Sword. Knowing the King as you both do, where do you think he would send it?'

Prasamaccus shrugged. 'The Caledones, perhaps, where he first met you and Laitha. Or the Pinrae, where he defeated the army of Goroien. Or Camulodunum.'

'All places Wotan will search, for the King's story is well known. Uther would not make it so easy,' said Revelation. 'Sweet Christos!'

'What?' asked Gwalchmai.

'There are two people in the Caledones that Wotan must not find. And I cannot reach them; I cannot leave here.' He rose from his seat, his face grey, his eyes haunted. Prasamaccus laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

'The boy you spoke of?' Revelation nodded.

'And now you must choose between . . .' Prasamaccus left the sentence unfinished. He knew the torment raging inside him. Save the father or the son. Or, as Culain would see it, betray one to save the other.

Behind him Gwalchmai lit the lanterns and drew the first of his swords, which he honed with an old whetstone. Revelation took up his staff and closed his eyes. The brown woollen habit disappeared, to be replaced by the black and silver armour of Culain lach Feragh. The grey beard vanished and the hair on his head darkened. The staff became silver and Culain twisted the haft, producing two short swords of glistening silver.

'You have made your decision then?' whispered Prasamaccus.

'I have, may God forgive me,' said the Lance Lord.

The Spring was beautiful in the Caledones, the mountains ablaze with colour, the swollen streams glittering in the sunlight, the woods and forests filled with bird-spng. Cormac had never been happier. Oleg and Rhiannon had found and renovated the old cabin higher in the mountains, leaving Anduine and Cormac to the solitude needed by young lovers. On most mornings Oleg would join Cormac on his training runs, and teach him the more subtle skills of sword-play. But once the sun passed noon Oleg would journey back to his cabin. Of Rhiannon Cormac saw little, but enough to know she was unhappy. She had not believed her father concerning Wotan, and was convinced he had prevented her from becoming a Queen over the Goths. Now she stayed in the high country, wandering the hills, seeking her own inner peace.

But thoughts of Rhiannon rarely entered Corm-ac's head. He was alive, surrounded by beauty and in love.

'Are you happy?' Anduine asked him, as they sat naked by the lake in the afternoon sunshine.

'How could I not be?' he countered, stroking her cheek and leaning in to kiss her softly on the mouth. Her arm looped around his neck, pulling him down until he could feel her soft breasts pressing against the skin of his chest. His hand slid down her hips, and he marvelled anew at the silky softness of her skin. Then he drew back from her.

'What is wrong?' she asked.

'Nothing,' he replied, chuckling, 'I just wanted to look at you.'

Tell me what you see?'

'What can I tell you, my lady?'

'You could flatter me mercilessly. Tell me I am beautiful - the most beautiful woman who ever lived.'

'You are the most beautiful I have ever seen. Will that suffice?'

'And do you love me only for my beauty, young sir? Or is it because I am a princess?'

'I am the son of a king,' said Cormac. 'Is that why you love me?'

'No,' she whispered. 'I love you for what you are as a man.'

They made love once more, this time slowly and without passion. At last they moved apart and Cormac kissed her softly on the brow. He saw the tears in her eyes and pulled her to him.

'What is the matter?'

She shook her head, turning away from him.

Tell me ... please.'

'Each time that we are together like this, I fear it is the last. And one day it will be.'

'No!' he said. 'We will always be together. Nothing will separate us.'

'Always?'

'Until the stars fall from the sky,' he promised her.

'Only until then?'

'Only until then, lady. After that, I might need someone younger!'

She smiled and sat up, reaching for her dress. He passed it to her, then gathered his own clothes and the sword he had worn since the attack.

'Give me your eyes, Cormac,' she asked.

He leaned towards her, allowing her hand to touch his closed eyelids. Darkness descended, but this time there was no panic.

‘I’ll race you home,' she shouted, and he heard her running steps. He grinned and walked forward six paces to the round rock, his hand feeling for the niche that pointed south. Lining himself with the niche, he began to run, counting the steps. At thirty he slowed and carefully inched forward to the lightning-struck pine, whose upper branch pointed down towards the cabin and the straight run into the clearing.

As he reached it he heard Anduine scream, a sound that lanced his heart and filled him with a terrible fear.

'Anduine!' he yelled, his torment echoing in the mountains. He blundered on, sword in hand, not noticing that he had left the path until he tripped over a jutting root. As he fell awkwardly, the sword slipped from his grasp and his fingers scrabbled across the grass, seeking the hilt.

He fought for calm and concentrated on the sounds around him, his fingers still questing. At last he found the blade and stood. The incline of the hill was to his left, so he slowly turned right and followed the hill downwards, his left hand stretched out before him. The ground levelled and he could smell the wood-smoke from the cabin chimney.

'Anduine!'

A movement to his right, heavy and slow. 'Who's there!'

There was no answer, but the sound increased as hurried steps moved towards him. Cormac waited until the last second, then swung the sword in a whistling arc; the blade hammered into the attacker and then slid clear. More sounds came to Cormac then - angry voices, shuffling feet. Gripping his sword double-handed, he held it before him.

A sudden movement to his left - and a hideous pain in his side. He twisted and slashed out with his sword, missing his attacker.

By the wall of the cabin, Anduine regained consciousness to find herself being held tightly by a bearded man. Her eyes opened and she saw Cormac, blind and alone within a circle of armed men.

'No!' she screamed, closing her eyes and returning his gift.

Cormac's vision returned just as a second attacker moved silently forward. The man was grinning. Cormac blocked a blow, then sent his own blade slicing through the Viking's throat. The remaining seven charged in and Cormac had no chance, but as he fell he hacked and cut at the enemy. A sword-blade pierced his back, another tore a gaping wound in his chest.

Anduine screamed and touched her hand to her captor's chest. The man's tunic burst into flames that seared up to cover his face. Bellowing in pain he released her, his hands beating around his beard as the fire caught in his hair.

She fell, then stood and ran at the group surrounding Cormac, her hands blazing with white fire. A Viking warrior moved towards her with sword raised, but flames lanced from her hands, engulfing him. A second warrior hurled a knife that slammed into her chest. She faltered, staggered but still came on, desperate to reach Cormac. From behind her another warrior moved in, his blade piercing her back and exiting at her chest. Blood bubbled from her mouth and she sank to the ground.

Cormac tried to crawl to her, but a sword plunged into his back and darkness swept over him.

From the hill above, Oleg Hammer hand roared in anger. The Vikings turned as he raced into the clearing with two swords in his hands.

'I see you, Maggrin,' shouted Oleg.

'I see you, traitor,' hissed a dark-bearded warrior.

'Don't kill him!' yelled Rhiannon from the cabin doorway.

Oleg and Maggrin rushed at each other, their blades crashing, sparks flying from the contact. Oleg spun on his heel and rammed his second sword like a dagger into the man's belly. As Maggrin fell, the four survivors attacked in a group. Oleg ran to meet them, blocking and cutting with a savage frenzy they could not match. One by one they fell before the cold-eyed warrior and his terrible blades. The last survivor broke into a run to escape his doom, but Oleg burled a sword after him which hit him hilt-first on the back of the head and he fell. Before he could rise, the Hammer hand had reached him and his head rolled from bis shoulders.

Oleg stood in the clearing, his lungs heaving, the berserk rage dispelling. Finally he turned to Rhiannon.

'Traitress!' he said. 'Of all the acts you could have committed to bring me shame, this was the worst. Two people risked their lives to save you . . . and paid for it with their own. Get out of my sight! Go!'

'You don't understand!' she shouted. 'I didn't want this to happen; I just wanted to get away.'

'You called them there. This is your work. Now go! If I see you after this day, I will kill you with my bare hands. GO!'

She ran to him. 'Father, please!' His huge hand lashed across her face, spinning her from her feet.

'I do not know you! You are dead,' he said. She struggled to stand, then backed away from the ice in his eyes and ran away down the hillside.

Oleg moved first to Anduine, pulling the sword clear from her back.

'You will never know, lady, the depth of my sorrow. May God grant you peace.' He closed her eyes and walked to where Cormac lay in a spreading pool of blood.

'You fought well, boy,' he said, kneeling. Cormac groaned. Oleg lifted him and carried him into the cabin where, stripping the youth's blood-drenched clothes, he checked his wounds. Two in the back, one in the side, one in the chest. All were deep and each one could see a man dead, Oleg knew. But all of them? Cormac had no chance.

Knowing it was useless, yet Oleg gathered needle and thread and stitched the wounds. When they were sealed, he covered Cormac with a blanket and built up the fire. Then with candles lit and the cabin warm, Oleg returned to the bed. Cormac's pulse fluttered weakly and his colour was bad - grey streaks on his face, purple rings below his eyes.

'You lost too much blood, Cormac,' whispered Oleg. 'Your heart is straining . . . and I can do nothing! Fight it, man. Every day will see you stronger.' Cormac's head sagged sideways, his breath rattling in his throat. Oleg had heard that sound before. 'Don't you die, you whoreson!'

All breathing ceased but Oleg pushed his hand hard down on Cormac's chest. 'Breathe, damn you!' Something hot burned into Oleg's palm and he lifted his hand. The Stone on the chain around Cormac's neck was glowing like burning gold and a shuddering breath filled the wounded man's lungs.

'Praise be to all the gods there ever were,' said Oleg. Placing his hand once more on the Stone, he stared down at the wound in Cormac's chest. 'Can you heal that?' he asked. Nothing happened. 'Well, keep him alive anyway,' he whispered.

Then he rose and took a shovel from the back of the cabin. The ground would still be hard, but Oleg owed this at least to Anduine, the Life Giver, the Princess from Raetia.

As the night wore on, Gwalchmai slept lightly on his chair at the bedside, his head resting on the wall. Prasamaccus and Culain sat silently. The Brigante was recalling his first meeting with the Lance Lord, high in the Caledones when the dark-cloaked Vam-pyres sought their blood and the young prince escaped through the gateway to the land of the Pinrae. The boy, Thuro - as he then was - became the man Uther in a savage war against the Witch Queen. He and Laitha had wed there and she had brought him the gift of the Sword; two young people ablaze with the power of youth, the confidence that death was an eternity away. Now, after a mere twenty-six summers, the Blood King lay still, Gian Avur - the beautiful Laitha - was gone, and the kingdom Uther had saved faced destruction by a terrible foe. The words of the Druids echoed through Prasamaccus' mind.

'For such are the works of man that they are written upon the air in mist, and vanish in the winds of history.'

Culain was lost in thoughts of the present. Why had they not slain the King once his soul was in their possession? For all his evil, Molech was a man of great intellect. News of Uther's death would demoralise the kingdom, making his invasion plans more certain of success. He worried at the problem from every angle.

Wotan's sorcerer priests had come to kill the King and take the Sword. But the Sword was gone. Therefore they took Uther's soul. Perhaps they thought -not without justification - that the body would die.

Culain pushed the problem from his mind. Whatever the reason, it was a mistake and the Lance Lord prayed it would be a costly one. Though he did not know it, it had proved more than costly to the priest who made it, for his body now hung on a Raetian battlement - his skin flayed, crows feasting on his eyes.

A glowing ball of white fire appeared in the centre of the room and Prasamaccus notched an arrow to his bow. Culain stretched his sword across the bed and touched Gwalchmai's shoulder. The sleeper awakened instantly. Taking the golden stone, Culain touched it to both of Gwalchmai's blades, then moved to Prasamaccus and emptied his quiver, running the stone over each of the twenty arrow-heads. The glowing ball collapsed upon itself and a grey mist rolled out across the room. Culain waited, then lifted the Stone and spoke a single Word of Power. A golden light pulsed from him, surrounding the two warriors and the body of the King. The mist filled the room . . . and vanished. A dark shadow appeared on the far wall, deepening, spreading until it became the mouth of a cave. A cold breeze blew from the opening, causing the lanterns to gutter. Moonlight streamed through the open windows, and in that silver light Gwalchmai saw a beast from the Pit emerge from the cave. Scaled and horned, with long curved fangs, it pushed out into the room. But as it touched the lines of magic Culain had laid, lightning seared its grey body and flames engulfed it. It fell back into the cave, hissing in pain.

Three men leapt into the room. The first fell with an arrow in his throat. Culain and Gwalchmai darted forward and, within moments, the other assassins both lay dead upon the floor.

The two warriors waited with swords raised, but the cave-mouth shrank to become a shadow and faded from sight.

Gwalchmai pushed the toe of his boot at a fallen assassin, turning the body to its back. The flesh of the face had decomposed and only a rotting corpse lay there. The old Cantii warrior recoiled from the sight. 'We fought dead men!' he whispered.

'It is Wotan's way of gaining loyalty. The bravest of his warriors are untouched by death ... or so they believe.'

'Well, we beat them,' said Gwalchmai.

'They will return, and we will not be able to hold them. We must take the King to a place of safety.'

'And where is safe from the sorcery of Wotan?' asked Prasamaccus.

'The Isle of Crystal,' Culain answered.

'We cannot carry the King's body half-way across the realm,' argued Gwalchmai. 'And even if we could, the Holy Place would not accept him. He is a warrior - they will have no dealings with those who spill blood.'

'They will take him,' said Culain softly. 'It is, in part, their mission.'

'You have been there?'

Culain smiled. 'I planted the staff that became a tree. But that is another story from another time. Nowhere on land is the earth magic more powerful, nor the symbols more obscure. Wotan cannot bring his demons to the Isle of Crystal. And if he journeys there himself it will be as a man, stripped of all majesty of magic. He would not dare.'

Gwalchmai stood and looked down at the seemingly lifeless body of Uther. "The question is irrelevant. We cannot carry him across the land.'

'I can, for I will travel the Ancient Paths, the lung met, the way of the spirits.'

'And what of Prasamaccus and me?'

'You have already been of service to your King and you can do no more for him directly. But Wotan's army will soon be upon you. It is not my place to suggest your actions, but my advice would be to rally as many men to Uther's banner as you can. Tell them the King lives and will return to lead them on the day of Ragnorak.'

'And what day is that?' Prasamaccus asked.

"The day of greatest despair,' whispered Culain. He stood and walked to the western wall. Here he knelt, Stone in hand, and in the near silence that followed both men heard the whispering of a deep river, the lapping of waves on unseen shores. The wall shimmered and opened.

'Swiftly now!' said Culain, and Gwalchmai and Prasamaccus lifted the heavy body of the Blood King and carried it to the new entrance. Steps had appeared, leading down into a cavern and a deep, dark river. A boat was moored by a stone jetty; gently the two Britons lowered the king into it. Culain untied the mooring-rope and stepped to the stern.

As the craft slid away, Culain turned. 'Get back to the turret as swiftly as you can. If the gateway closes, you'll be dead within the hour.'

As swiftly as the limping Prasamaccus could move, the two men mounted the stairs. Behind them they could hear weird murmurings and the scrabbling sounds of talons on stone. As they neared the gateway Gwalchmai saw it shimmer. Seizing Prasamaccus, he hurled him forward and then dived after him, rolling to his knees on the rugs of Uther's room. Behind them now was merely a wall, bathed in the golden light of the sun rising above the eastern hills and shining through the open window.

Victorinus and the twelve men of his party rode warily but without incident during the first three days of their journey. But on the fourth, as they approached a thick wood with a narrow path, Victorinus reined in his mount.

His second aide, Marcus Bassicus - a young man of good Romano-British stock - rode alongside.

'Is anything wrong, sir?'

The sun above them was bright, the pathway into the woods shrouded by the overhanging trees. Victorinus took a deep breath, aware of the presence of fear. Suddenly he smiled.

'Have you enjoyed life, Marcus?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Have you lived it to the full?'

'I think so, sir. Why do you ask?'

'It is my belief that death waits, hidden in those trees. There is no glory there - no prospect of victory. Just pain and darkness and an end to joy.'

The young man's face became set, his grey eyes narrowed. 'And what should we do, sir?'

'You and the others must make your choice but I must enter those woods. Speak to the men, explain to them that we are betrayed. Tell them that any who wish to flee may do so, without shame; it is no act of cowardice.'

'Then why must you ride on, sir?'

'Because Wotan will be watching and I want him to know that I do not fear his treachery - that I welcome it. I want him to understand the nature of the foe. He has conquered Belgica, Raetia and Gaul and has the Romans on bended knees before him. Britannia will not be as these others.'

Marcus rode back to the waiting men, leaving the general staring at the entrance to his own grave. Victorinus lifted the round cavalry shield from the back of his saddle and settled it on his left arm. Then looping the reins of his war-horse around the saddle-pommel, he drew his sabre and without a backward glance touched his heels to his mount and loved on. Behind him the twelve soldiers took up their shields and sabres and rode after him.

Within a clearing, just inside the line of trees, two hundred Goths drew their weapons and waited.

'You say the King is alive,' said Geminus Cato, pushing the maps across the table and rising to pour a goblet of mixed wine and water. 'But you will forgive my cynicism, I hope?'

Gwalchmai shrugged and turned from the window. 'I can offer you cnly my word, general. But it has been considered worth respecting.'

Cato smiled and smoothed the close-cropped black beard which shone like an oiled pelt. 'Allow me to review the facts that are known. A tall man, dressed in the robes of a Christian, assaulted two guards and made his way unobstructed to the King's Tower. This man, you say, is the legendary Lancelot. He declared the body to be alive and used sorcery to remove it from the tower.'

'In essence that is true,' Gwalchmai admitted.

'But is he not also the King's sworn enemy? The Great Betrayer?'

'He is.'

'Then why did you believe him?'

Gwalchmai looked to Prasamaccus, who was sitting quietly at the table. The crippled Brigante cleared his throat.

'With the utmost respect, general, you never knew the Lance Lord. Put from your mind the interminable stories regarding his treachery. What did he do? He slept with a woman. Which of us has not? He alone saved the King when the traitors slew Uther's father. He alone journeyed to the Witch Queen's castle and killed the Lord of the Undead. He is more than a warrior of legend. And his word, on this matter, I believe utterly.'

Cato shook his head. 'But you also believe the man is thousands of years old, a demi-god whose kingdom is under the great western sea.'

Prasamaccus swallowed the angry retort that welled within. Geminus Cato was more than a capable general; he was a skilled and canny soldier, respected by his men, though not loved and - with the exception of Victorinus - the only man capable of fielding a force against the Goths. But he was also of pure Roman stock, and had little understanding of the ways of the Celts or the lore of magic that formed their culture. Prasamaccus considered his next words with care.

'General, let us put aside for a moment the history of Culain lach Feragh. Wotan has tried - perhaps successfully - to assassinate the King. His next move will be to invade and when he does so he will not find himself short of allies - once it is known that Uther will not stand against them. Culain has given us time to plan. If we spread the word that the King lives - and will return - it will give the Saxons, Jutes and Angles a problem to consider. They have heard of the might of Wotan, but they know the perils of facing the Blood King.'

Cato's dark eyes fixed on Prasamaccus and for several minutes the silence endured, then the general returned to his seat.

'Very well, Horse-Master. Tactically I accept that it is better for Uther to be alive than dead. I shall see that the story is disseminated. But I can spare no knights to seek the Sword. Every officer of worth is out scouring the countryside for volunteers and all militia-men are being recalled.' He pulled the maps towards him and pointed to the largest, the land survey commissioned by Ptolemy hundreds of years before. 'You have both travelled the land extensively. It is not difficult to imagine where Wotan will land in the south, but he has several armies. Were I in his place I would be looking for a double assault, perhaps even a triple. We do not have the numbers to cover the country. So where will he strike?'

Gwalchmai gazed down on the map of the land then called Albion. 'The Sea Wolves have always favoured the coastline here,' he said, stabbing his finger to the Humber, 'at Petvaria. If Wotan follows this course he will be below Eboracum, cutting us off from our forces in the south.'

Cato nodded.'And if the Brigantes and Trinov-antes rise to support him, the whole of Britain will be sliced into three war zones: from the wall of Hadrian to Eboracum, from Eboracum to Petvaria - or even Durobrivae, if they sail in by the Wash -and from there to Anderita or Dubris.

'At best we can raise another ten thousand warriors, bringing our total mobile force to twenty-five thousand. Rumours tell us that Wotan can muster five times as many men, and that is not to count the Saxon rebels or the Brigante in the north. What I would not give for Victorinus to return with reliable intelligence!' He looked up from the map. 'Gwalchmai, I want you to journey to Gaius Geminus in Dubris ..."

'I cannot, general,' said Gwalchmai.

'Why?'

'I must seek the Sword.'

'This is no time for chasing shadows, seeking dreams.'

'Perhaps,' admitted the old Cantii warrior, 'yet still I must.'

'Cato leaned back and folded his brawny arms across his leather breastplate. 'And where will you seek it?'

'In Camulodunum. When the King was a boy, he loved the hills and woods around the city. There were special places he would run to and hide from his father. I know those places.'

'And you?' said Cato, turning.

Prasamaccus smiled. 'I shall journey to the Cale-dones mountains. It was there he met his one love.'

Cato chuckled and shook his head. 'You Celts have always been a mystery to me, but I have learned never to argue with a British dreamer. I wish you luck on your quest. What will you do if you find the Blade?'

Gwalchmai shrugged and looked to Prasamaccus. The Brigante's pale eyes met the Roman's gaze. 'We will carry it to the Isle of Crystal, where the King lies.'

'And then?'

'I do not know, general.'

Cato was silent for a while, lost in thought. 'When I was a young man,' he said at last. 'I was stationed at Aquae Sulis, and often I would ride the country near the Isle. We were not allowed there, on orders from the King, but once - because it was forbidden - three officers and I took a boat across the lakes and landed by the highest hill. It was an adventure, you see, and we were young. We built a fire and sat laughing and talking. Then we slept. I had a dream there, that my father came to me and we spoke of many things. Mostly he talked of regret, for we had never been close after my mother died. It was a fine dream and we embraced; he wished me well, and spoke of his pride. The following morning I awoke refreshed. A mist was all about us, and we sailed back to where our horses were hobbled and rode to Aquae Sulis. We were immediately in trouble, for we had returned without our swords. None of us could remember removing them, and none had noticed we rode without them.'