Last Sword Of Power (18 page)

For Goroien . . .

What had the boy said? A chance to return to the flesh? Did he think that would attract her? How could he know it was the last gift she would consider?

Gilgamesh entered and removed his helm. His face was scaled and reptilian; gone was the beauty he had known in life.

'Let me have the boy,' he said. 'I yearn for his life.'

'No. You will not have him, Gilgamesh. We will journey together to the Keep and then we will storm it. You will fight alongside Cormac and, regardless of the danger to yourself, you will keep him alive.'

'No!'

'If you love me - if you ever loved me - you will obey me now.'

'Why, Mother?'

She shrugged and turned away. 'There are no answers.'

'And when we have taken the Keep? If indeed we can.'

'Then we will free Uther also.'

'In return for what?'

'In return for nothing. That is the prize, Gilga-mesh: Nothing. And I cannot think of anything I would rather have.'

'You make no sense/

'Did you ever love me?'

He lifted his helm, his head bowing. 'I loved nothing else,' he said simply. 'Not life, not combat.

'And will you do this for me?'

'You know I will do whatever you ask.'

'Once I was a queen among the gods,' she said. 'I was beautiful and men thought me wise. I stood with Culain at Babel and we brought down Molech and believed we had defeated a great evil, and men said they would sing of me throughout the ages. I wonder if they still do.'

Gilgamesh replaced his helm and backed from the room.

Goroien did not see him go. She was remembering that fine Spring day when she and Culain had wed by the Great Oak, when the world was young and the future limited.

For five days the dwindling force of Germinus Cato's two legions had withstood the ferocious charges of the Goths, retreating under cover of darkness and taking up fresh positions further back along the road to Eboracum. The men were weary to the point of exhaustion and Cato called his commanders to a meeting on the fifth night.

'Now,' he told them, 'is the time for courage. Now we attack.'

'Insanity!' said Decius, his disbelief total. 'Now is the time to retreat. We have less than six thousand men, some of whom are too tired to lift their shields.'

'And to where shall we retreat? Eboracum? It is indefensible. Further north to Vinovia? There we will meet a second army of Goths. No. Tonight we strike!'

'I will not be party to this!' said Decius.

'Then go back to Eboracum!' snapped Cato. Ten villas could not make me keep you here another moment.'

The young man rose and left the group and Cato switched his attention to the remaining eight officers. 'Anyone else?' No one moved. 'Good. Now, for five days we have offered the Goths the same strategy: hold and withdraw. They will be camped between the two rivers and we will come at them from both sides. Agrippa, you will lead the right column. Strike though to the tent that bears Wotan's banner. His generals will be at the centre. I will move from the left with sword and fire.'

Agrippa, a dark-eyed young man with ten years of warfare behind him, nodded. 'Decius did have a point,' he said. 'It will still be six thousand against twice that number. Once we attack, there can be no retreat. Win or die, general.'

'Realistically, our chances are slim. But the divine Julius once destroyed an army that outnumbered him by a hundred to one.'

'So his commentaries tell us,' said Agrippa.

'Come in on a wide front and re-form inside their camp. Once you have despatched the generals, try to forge a link with my column.'

'And if we cannot.'

'Then take as many of the bastards with you as you can.'

Cato dismissed the group and the officers roused their men. Silently the Roman army broke camp, leaving in two columns for the march.

Three miles away, the Goths had spread their tents across a wide flat area between two stretches of water. There were scores of fires, but few men were still awake. Sentries had been posted, but most of them were dozing at their posts or asleep behind bushes. No one feared an army that moved backwards day by day.

In the tent of the general, Leofric, the Gothic commanders sat on captured rugs of silk swilling wine and discussing the fall of Eboracum and the treasure that lay there. Leofric sat beside a naked young British girl, captured earlier that day by outriding scouts; her face was bruised from a blow one of the riders had given her before they raped her. But she was still pleasing to Leofric; he had taken her twice that day and planned to return for one more bout before passing her on to the men tomorrow. His hand cupped her breast, squeezing hard. She winced and cried out and Leofric grinned. Tell me how much ypu love me,' he said, his grip tightening.

'I love you! I love you!' she screamed.

'Of course you do,' he said, releasing her, 'and I love you - at least for tonight.' The men around him laughed. Tomorrow,' he said, 'there will be women for all of us - not village peasants like this wench but high born Roman cows with their pale skin and tinted lips,'

'You think Cato will retreat to the city?' asked Bascii, Leofric's younger brother.

'No, he cannot hold the walls. I think he will split his force and make for Vinovia, trying to gather men from among the Trinovante, but he will not succeed. We will have a hard job chasing him down, but he will fall. He has nowhere to go.'

'Is it true there are walls covered with gold in Eboracum?' Bascii asked.

'I doubt it, but there is treasure there and we will have it!'

'What kind of treasure?'

"The kind you find here,' he said forcing the girl back and opening her legs. She closed her eyes as to shouts of encouragement from the men around him. Leofric opened his breeches and mounted her.

Her torment continued interminably as first Leofric, then Bascii and then the others took her by turn. Pain followed pain . . . followed humiliation. At last she was hurled aside and the men returned to their own tents.

Suddenly a trumpet blast pierced the night. Drunk and staggering, Leofric stumbled to the entrance to see Roman warriors streaming into his camp. Dumbfounded he fell back, scrabbling for his sword.

All was chaos as in tight, disciplined formations the Romans surged into the camp. Men ran from their tents, only to be ruthlessly cut down. Without preparation or organisation the Goths, most of them without armour, fought desperately in isolation.

Cato's men, moving from the left flank, put the torch to the tents - the wind fanning the flames to an inferno that swept across the open ground.

On the right Agrippa's force sliced through the Gothic ranks, forming a wedge that cut like a spear towards Leofric's tent. For all his drunkenness, the general was a warrior of great experience; he saw at once the desperate gamble Cato had taken and knew he could turn the tide. His battle-trained eye swept the scene. There! Bascii's men had formed a shield-wall, but what they needed was to strike against the Roman wedge, blocking it and the advance. The flames would stop the Romans from linking, and sheer weight of numbers would destroy them. Poor Bascii would never think of such a stratagem. Leofric stepped from the tent . . . and something struck him a wicked blow in the back. He stumbled and fell to his knees, his head spinning as he rolled to his back.

The British girl knelt over him, a blood knife in her hand, a wide smile of triumph on her mouth as the blade hovered over Leofric's eyes.

'I love you,' said the girl.

And the knife plunged down.

Cato stood over the body of Leofric, the dagger-hilt still jutting from the eye. 'The last of them are fleeing towards Petvaria,' said Agrippa. 'Lucius and three cohorts are harrying them.' 'I wonder what happened here,' Cato said.

'I do not know, sir. But, my congratulations on a famous victory!'

'Why congratulate me? You did your part, as did every man who served under me. By the gods, this place is beginning to stink!' Cato's dark eyes swept the field. Everywhere lay corpses - some burnt black by the inferno that roared over the tents, others lying where they had fallen, cut down by the swords of the legions. The British dead had been carried to a hastily-dug ditch; the Goths, stripped of their armour and weapons were being left for the crows and the foxes.

'Twelve thousand of the enemy were slain,' said Agrippa. 'The survivors will never re-form into an army.'

'Do not say never. They will return one day. Now we have to consider whether to march the men south to reinforce Quintas, or north to prevent the Goths marching on Eboracum.'

'You are tired, sir. Rest today and make your decision tomorrow.'

Tomorrow may be too late.'

'My old commander used to say: 'Weary men make mistakes.' Trust his judgement, sir, and rest.'

'Now you quote my own words to me. Is there no respect left?' asked Cato, grinning.

'I have ordered your tent to be set up beyond the hill. The stream narrows in a hollow there, surrounded by oaks.'

Prasamaccus reined in his horse. To the north was the semi-ruined Wall of Antoninus, and before it a great battle was being fought. Thousands of Brigante warriors had encircled an army of Goths and the carnage was awesome. Neither side fought with any strategy - merely a savage and chaotic frenzy of slashing swords, axes and knives.

He steered his mount away from the scene; his practised eye could see there would be no victors today and both sides would withdraw from the field bloodied and exhausted. As a Brigante himself, he knew what would happen then. Tomorrow the tribesmen would renew their assault and continue to attack until the enemy was perished or victorious.

Moving west, he passed through the turf wall at a place where it had collapsed alongside a ruined fort. He shivered, whispered a prayer to the ghosts that still walked here and rode on towards the north-west and the mountains of the Caledones.

His journey had been largely without incident, though he had seen many refugees and heard terrifying stories of the atrocities committed by the invading army. Some had been exaggerated, most were stomach-turning. The elderly Brigante had long since ceased to be surprised at the horrors men could inflict on their neighbours, yet he thanked his gods that such stories could still inspire both horror and sorrow within him.

That night he camped by a fast-moving stream and moved out at first light on the steady climb to the cabin where he had first met Culain lach Feragh. It had not changed, and the welcoming sight of smoke from the short chimney lifted his spirits. As he dismounted a huge man stepped from the cabin, bearing a sword.

Prasamaccus limped towards him, hoping that his advanced years and obvious infirmity would sway the stranger into a more relaxed stance. 'Who are you, old man?' asked the giant, stepping forward and pressing the point of the blade to Prasamaccus' chest.

The Brigante gazed down at the blade, then up into the pale eyes of the warrior.

'I am not an enemy.'

'Enemies come in many guises.' The man looked weary, dark rings circling his eyes.

'I am looking for a young man and a woman. A friend said they were here.'

'Who was that friend?'

'His name is Culain; he brought them here to keep them safe.

The man laid down the sword, turned and walked inside'the cabin. Prasamaccus following. Within, he saw a wounded man lying on a narrow bed. The Brigante stood over him and saw that the wounds had sealed well, but there was a deathly pallor to his skin and he seemed to be barely breathing. On his chest lay a black Stone with hairline streaks of gold.

'He has been like that for weeks. I can do nothing more.'

'And the girl?'

'Buried outside. She died trying to save him.'

Prasamaccus stared at the wounded man's face -seeing the image of Uther, the same high cheekbones and strong jaw, the same long straight nose and thick brows.

"The magic is almost gone,' he said.

'I guessed that,' said the man. 'At the beginning it was gold streaked with black, but as the days passed the black lines grew. Will he die?'

'I fear that he will.'

'But why? The wounds are healing well.'

'Recently I saw another warrior in a like condition,' said Prasamaccus. 'They said his spirit was gone from his body.'

'But that is the same as being dead,' argued Oleg, 'and this boy is alive.'

Prasamaccus shrugged and lifted Cormac's wrist. 'The pulse is very weak.'

'I have some broth here, if you are hungry,' said Oleg, moving to the table. Prasamaccus limped to a chair and sat.

After they had both eaten, Oleg told the Brigante of the fight outside the cabin and how his own daughter, Rhiannon, had betrayed them. Prasamaccus listened in silence, reading the pain in Oleg's eyes.

'You love your daughter very much,' he remarked.

'Not any more.'

'Nonsense. We raise them, we hold them, we understand them, we weep at their weaknesses and their sorrows. Where is she now?'

'I do not know, I sent her away.'

'I see. I thank you, Oleg, for helping the prince.'

'Prince?'

'He is the son of Uther, High King of Britain.'

'He did not talk like a nobleman.'

'No, nor did life allow him to live like one.'

'Is there nothing we can do?' asked Oleg.

'If we could, I would take him to where his father lies, but it is too far; he would not survive the journey.'

"Then all we can do is sit and watch him die? I will not accept that.'

'Nor should you,' said a voice from the doorway and both men swung towards the sound, Oleg lurching upright and reaching for the sword.

'That will not be necessary,' said the stranger, pushing shut the door and moving into the room. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with hair and beard of spun  gold.   'Do  you  remember  me, Prasamaccus?'

The old Brigante sat very still. "The day Uther found his Sword . . . you were there, helping Laitha. But you have not aged.'

'I was there. Now I am here. Put down your sword, Oleg Hammerhand, and prepare for a journey.'

'Where are we going?'

'To the Isle of Crystal,' replied Pendarric.

"This man says it is the length of the realm,' said Oleg. 'It will take weeks.

'Not by the roads he will travel,' Prasamaccus told him.

'What roads are these?' Oleg asked as Pendarric moved into the clearing before the cabin.

"The Spirit Paths,' answered the Brigante. Swiftly Oleg made the sign of the Protective Horn and followed his limping companion to the clearing. Pendarric now held a measuring rod and was carefully chalking a series of interlocking triangles around a central circle. He looked up from his knees.

'Make yourselves useful,' he said. 'Dress the boy in warm clothes and then carry him out here. Be careful not to tread on the chalk-lines, or in any way disturb them.'

'He is a sorcerer,' whispered Oleg.

'I think that he is,' agreed Prasamaccus.

'What shall we do?'

'Exactly what he says.'

Oleg sighed. They dressed the unconscious Cormac and Oleg lifted him carefully from the bed, carrying him outside to where Pendarric waited in the centre of what appeared to be a curious star. Oleg trod carefully across the lines and laid the body down beside the tall sorcerer. Prasamaccus followed, bringing Oleg's sword and another blade.

When all were inside the Circle, Pendarric raised his arms and sunlight glinted from a golden Stone in his right hand. The air cracked around them, and a shimmering light began that suddenly blazed so bright that Prasamaccus shielded his eyes. Then it was gone . . .

And the trio stood within a stone circle on the crest of a hill crowned with trees.

'This is where I leave you,' said Pendarric. 'May good fortune attend you at the end of your journey.'

'Where are we?' asked Oleg.