Last Sword Of Power (2 page)

'It will be many years before we are as strong again.'

'I am a patient man, my friend.'

The Blood King slowly dismounted, handing the reins of his war-horse to a silent squire. All around him the bodies of the slain lay where they had fallen, under a lowering sky and a dark cloud of storm crows waiting to feast.

Uther removed his bronze helm, allowing the breeze to cool his face. He was tired now, more tired than he would allow any man to see.

'You are wounded, sire,' said Victorinus, approaching through the gloom, his dark eyes narrowed in concern at the sight of the blood seeping from the gash in the King's arm.

'It is nothing. How many men did we lose?'

'The stretcher-bearers are still out, sire, and the surgeon is too busy to count. I would say around eight hundred, but it might be less.'

'Or more?'

'We are harrying the enemy to the coast. Will you change your mind about not burning their ships?'

'No. Without ships they cannot retreat. It would cost near a legion to destroy their army utterly, and I do not have five thousand men to spare.'

'Let me bind your arm, sire.'

'Stop fussing over me, man! The wound is sealed - well, almost. Look at them,' said the King, pointing to the field between the stream and the lake and the hundreds of bodies lying twisted in death. 'They came for plunder. Now the crows will feast on their eyes. And will the survivors learn? Will they say. “Avoid the realm of the Blood King?” No, they will return in their thousands. What is it about this land that draws them?'

'I do not know, sire, but as long as they come we will kill them,' said Victorinus.

'Always loyal, my friend. Do you know what today is?'

'Of course, my lord. It is the Day of the King.'

Uther chuckled. 'The Day of the Two Suns. Had I known then that a quarter-century of war would follow . . .' He lapsed into silence.

Victorinus removed his plumed helm, allowing his white hair to flow free in the evening breeze. 'But you always conquer, my lord. You are a legend from Camulodunum to Rome, from Tingis to Bysantium: the Blood King who has never known defeat. Come, your tent is ready. I will pour you some wine.'

The King's tent had been pitched on the high ground overlooking the battlefield. Inside a brazier of coals was glowing beside the cot-bed. Uther's squire, Baldric, helped him out of his chain-mail, his breastplate and his greaves, and the King sank gratefully to the cot.

Today I feel my age,' he said.

'You should not fight where the battle is thickest. A chance arrow, a lucky blow ..." Victorinus shrugged. 'We . . . Britain . . . could not stand without you.' He passed the King a goblet of watered wine and Uther sat up and drank deeply.

'Baldric!'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Clean the Sword - and be careful now, for it is sharper than sin.'

Baldric smiled and lifted the great Sword of Cunobelin, carrying it from the tent. Victorinus waited until the lad had gone, then pulled up a canvas stool and sat beside the monarch.

'You are tired, Uther. Leave the Trinovante uprising to Gwalchmai and me. Now that the Goths have been crushed, the tribes will offer little resistance.'

'I will be fine after a night's sleep. You fuss over me like an old woman!'

Victorinus grinned and shook his head and the King lay back and closed his eyes. The older man sat unmoving, staring at the face of his monarch -the flaming red hair and the silver blond beard - and remembered the youth who crossed the borders of Hell to rescue his country. The hair was henna-dyed now and the eyes seemed older than time.

For twenty-five years this man had achieved the impossible, holding back the tide of barbarian invaders threatening to engulf the Land of Mist. Only Uther and the Sword of Power stood between the light of civilization and the darkness of the hordes. Victorinus was pure-blood Roman, but he had fought alongside Uther for a quarter of a century, putting down rebellions, crushing invading forces of Saxon, Norse, Goth and Dane. For how much longer could Uther's small army prevail?

For as long as the King lived. This was the great sadness, the bitter truth. Only Uther had the power, the strength, the personal magnetism. When he was gone the light would go out.

Gwalchmai entered the tent, but stood in silence as he saw the King sleeping. Victorinus rose and drew a blanket over the monarch; then, beckoning to the old Cantii warrior, he left the tent.

'He's soul-weary,' said Gwalchmai.'Did you ask him?'

'Yes.'

'And?'

'What do you think, my friend?'

'If he dies, we are lost,' said Gwalchmai. He was a tall man, stern-eyed under bushy grey brows, and his long silver hair was braided after the fashion of his Cantii forebears. 'I fear for him. Ever since the Betrayal . . .'

'Hush, man!' hissed Victorinus, taking his comrade by the arm and leading him away into the night.

Inside the tent Uther's eyes opened. Throwing off the blanket, he poured himself some more wine and this time added no water.

The Great Betrayal. Still they spoke of it. But whose was the betrayal, he wondered? He drained the wine and refilled the goblet.

He could see them now, on that lonely cliff-top . . .

'Sweet Jesus!' he whispered. 'Forgive me.'

Cormac made his way through the scattered huts to the smithy where Kern was hammering the blade of a plough. The boy waited until the sweating smith dunked the hot metal into the trough and then approached him.

'You have work for me?' he asked. The bald thickset Kern wiped his hands on his leather apron.

'Not today.'

'I could fetch wood?'

'I said not today,' snapped the smith. 'Now begone!'

Cormac swallowed hard. 'I could clean the storeroom.'

Kern's hand flashed for the boy's head, but Cormac swayed aside causing the smith to stumble. 'I am sorry, master Kern,' he said, standing stockstill for the angry blow that smacked into his ear.

'Get out! And don't come back tomorrow.'

Cormac walked, stiff-backed , from the smithy and only out of sight of the building did he spit the blood from his mouth. He was hungry and he was alone. All around him he could see evidence of families - mothers and toddlers, young children playing with brothers and sisters, fathers teaching sons to ride.

The potter had no work for him either, nor the baker, nor the tanner. The widow, Althwynne, loaned him a hatchet and he chopped wood for most of the afternoon, for which she gave him some pie and a sour apple. But she did not allow him into her home, nor smile, nor speak more than a few words. In all of his fourteen years Cormac Daemonsson had seen the homes of none of the villagers. He had long grown used to people making the sign of the Protective Horn when he approached, and to the fact that only Grysstha would meet his eyes. But then Grysstha was different ... He was a man, a true man who feared no evil. A man who could see a boy and not a demon's son. And Grysstha alone had talked to Cormac of the strange day almost fifteen years before when he and a group of hunters entered the Cave of Sol Invictus to find a great black hound lying alongside four squealing pups - and beside them a flame-haired babe still wet from birth. The hound attacked the hunters and was slain along with the pups, but no man among the saxons cared to kill the babe, for they knew he was sired by a demon and none wanted to earn the hatred of the pit-dwellers.

Grysstha had carried the child from the Cave and found a milk-nurse for him from among the captured British women. But after four months she had suddenly died and then no one would touch the child. Grysstha had taken him into his own hut and fed him with cow's milk through a needle pierced leather glove.

The babe had even been the subject of a Council meeting, where a vote was taken as to whether he lived or died. Only Calder's casting vote saved young Cormac - and that was given after a special plea from Grysstha.

For seven years the boy lived with the old warrior, but Grysstha's disability meant that he could not earn enough to feed them both and the child was forced to scavenge in the village for extra food.

At thirteen, Cormac realised that his association with the crippled warrior had caused Grysstha to become an outcast and he built his own hut away from the village. It was a meagre dwelling with no furniture save a cot-bed and Cormac spent little time there except in winter, when he shivered despite the fire and dreamed cold dreams.

That night, as always, Grysstha stopped at his hut and banged on the door-post. Cormac called him in, offering him a cup of water. The old man accepted graciously, sitting cross-legged on the hard-packed dirt floor.

'You need another shirt, Cormac, you have outgrown that. And those leggings will soon climb to your knees.'

'They will last the Summer.'

'We'll see. Did you eat today?'

'Althwynne gave me some pie - I chopped wood for her.'

'I heard Kern cracked your head?'

'Yes.'

"There was a time when I would have killed him for that. Now, if I struck him, I would only break my good hand.'

'It was nothing, Grysstha. How went your day?'

"The goats and I had a wonderful time. I told them of my campaigns and they told me of theirs. They became bored long before I did!'

'You are never tiresome,' said Cormac. 'You are a wonderful storyteller.'

Tell me that when you've listened to another story-teller. It is easy to be the King when no one else lives in your land.'

'I heard a saga poet once. I sat outside Calder's Hall and listened to Patrisson sing of the Great Betrayal.'

'You must not mention that to anyone, Cormac. It is a forbidden song - and death to sing it.' The old man leaned back against the wall of the hut and smiled. 'But he sang it well, did he not?'

'Did the Blood King really have a grandfather who was a god?'

'All kings are sired by gods - or so they would have us believe. Of Uther I know not. I only know his wife was caught with her lover, that both fled and he hunted them. Whether he found them and cut them to pieces as the song says, or whether they escaped, I do not know. I spoke to Patrisson, and he did not know either. But he did say that the Queen ran off with the King's grandfather, which sounds like a merry mismatch.'

'Why has the King not taken another wife?'

‘I’ll ask him the next time he invites me to supper.'

'But he has no heir. Will there not be a war if he dies now?'

'There will be a war anyway, Cormac. The King has reigned for twenty-five years and has never known peace . . . uprisings, invasions, betrayals. His wife was not the first to betray him. The Brigantes rose again sixteen years ago and Uther crushed them at Trimontium. Then the Ordovice swept east and Uther destroyed their army at Viriconium. Lastly the Jutes, two years ago. They had a treaty like ours and they broke it; Uther kept his promise and had every man, woman and child put to death.'

'Even children?' whispered Cormac.

'All of them. He is a hard, canny man. Few will rise against him now.'

'Would you like some more water?'

'No, I must be getting to my bed. There will be rain tomorrow - I can feel it in my stump - and I'll need my rest if I'm to sit shivering.'

'One question, Grysstha?'

'Ask it.'

'Was I really born to a dog?'

Grysstha swore. 'Who said that to you?'

"The tanner.'

'I have told you before that I found you in the cave beside the hound. That's all it means. Someone had left you there and the bitch tried to defend you, as she did her own pups. You had not been born more than two hours, but her pups were days old. Odin's Blood! We have men here with brains of pig-swill. Understand me, Cormac you are no demon-child, I promise you that. I do not know why you were left in that cave, or by whom. But there were six dead men on the path by the cliff, and they were not killed by a demon.'

'Who were they?'

'Doughty warriors, judging by their scars. All killed by one man - one fearsome man. The hunters with me were convinced once they saw you that a pit-dweller was abroad, but that is because they were young and had never seen a true warrior in action. I tried to explain, but fear has a way of blinding the eyes. I believe the warrior was your father and he was wounded unto death. That's why you were left there.'

'And what of my mother?'

'I don't know, boy. But the gods know. One day perhaps they'll give you a sign. But until then you are Cormac the Man and you will walk with your back straight. For whoever your father was, he was a man. And you will prove true to him, if not to me.'

'I wish you were my father, Grysstha.'

'I wish it too. Good-night, boy.'

The King, flanked by Gwalchmai and Victorinus, walked out into the paddock field to view his new horses. The young man standing beside the crippled Prasamaccus stared intently at the legendary warrior.

'I thought he would be taller,' he whispered and Prasamaccus smiled.

'You thought to see a giant walking head and shoulders above other men. Oh, Ursus, you of all people ought to know the difference between men and myths.'

Ursus' pale grey eyes studied the King as he approached. The man was around forty years of age and he walked with the confident grace of the warrior who has never met his equal. His hair flowing to his mail-clad shoulders was auburn red, though his thick square-cut beard was more golden in colour and streaked with grey. The two men walking beside him were older, perhaps in their fifties. One was obviously Roman, hawk-nosed and steely-eyed, while the second wore his grey hair braided like a tribesman.

'A fine day,' said the King, ignoring the younger man and addressing himself to Prasamaccus.

'It is, my lord, and the horses you bought are as fine.'

'They are all here?'

"Thirty-five stallions and sixty mares. May I present Prince Ursus, of the House of Merovee?'

The young man bowed. 'It is an honour, my lord.'

The King gave a tired smile and moved past the young man. Taking Prasamaccus by the arm the two walked on into the field, stopping by a grey stallion of some seventeen hands.

"The Sicambrians know how to breed horses,' said Uther, running his hand over the beast's glistening flank.

'You look weary, Uther.'

'It reflects how I feel. The Trinovante are flexing their muscles once more, as are the Saxons in the Middle Land.'

'When do you ride?'

Tomorrow, with four legions. I sent Patreus with the Eighth and the Fifth, but he was routed. Reports say we lost six hundred men.'

'Was Patreus amongst them?' Prasamaccus asked.

'If not, he'll wish he was,' snapped the King. 'He tried to charge a shield wall up a steep slope.'

'As you yourself did only four days ago against the Goths.'

'But I won!'

'You always do, my lord.'

Uther grinned, and for a moment there was a flash of the lonely youth Prasamaccus had first met a quarter of a century before. But then it was gone and the mask settled once more.

'Tell me of the Sicambrian,' said the King, staring across at the young dark-haired prince, clad all in black.

'He knows his horses.'

"That was not my meaning, and well you know it.'

'I cannot say, Uther. He seems . . . intelligent, knowledgeable.'

'You like him?'

'I rather think that I do. He reminds me of you -a long time ago.'

'Is that a good thing?'

'It is a compliment.'

'Have I changed so much?'

Prasamaccus said nothing. A lifetime ago Uther had dubbed him Kingsfriend, and asked always for his honest council. In those days the young prince had crossed the Mist in search of his father's sword, had fought demons and the Witch Queen, had brought an army of ghosts back to the world of flesh and had loved the mountain woman, Laitha.

The old Brigante shrugged. 'We all change, Uther. When my Helga died last year, I felt all beauty pass from the world.'

'A man is better off without love. It weakens him,' said the King, moving away to examine the horses. 'Within a few years we will have a better, faster army. All of these mounts are at least two hands taller than our own horses, and they are bred for speed and stamina.'

'Ursus brought something else you might like to see,' said Prasamaccus. 'Come, it will interest you.' The King seemed doubtful, but he followed the limping Brigante back to the paddock gates. Here Ursus bowed once more and led the group to the rear of the herdsmen's living quarters. In the yard behind the buildings a wooden frame had been erected -curved wood attached to a straight spine, representing a horse's back. Over this Ursus draped a stiffened leather cover. A second section was tied to the front of the frame and the prince secured the hide, then returned to the waiting warriors.

'What in Hades is it?' asked Victorinus. Ursus lifted a short-bow and notched an arrow to the string.

With one smooth motion he let fly. The shaft struck the rear of the 'horse' and, failing to penetrate fully, flapped down to point at the ground.

'Give me the bow,' said Uther. Drawing back the string as far as the weapon could stand, he loosed the shaft. It cut through the leather and jutted from the hide.

'Now look, sire,' said Ursus, stepping forward to the 'horse'. Uther's arrow had penetrated a mere half-inch. 'It would prick a good horse, but it would not have disabled him.'

'What of the weight?' asked Victorinus.

'A Sicambrian horse could carry it and still work a full day as well as any British war-horse.'

Gwalchmai was unimpressed. The old Cantii warrior hawked and spat. 'It must cut down on the speed of the charge - and that is what carries us through the enemy. Armoured horses? Pah!'

'You would perhaps think of riding into battle without your own armour?' snapped the prince.

'You insolent puppy!' roared Gwalchmai.

'Enough!' ordered the King. 'Tell me, Ursus, what of the rains? Would they not soften your leather and add to the weight?'

'Yes, my lord. But each warrior should carry a quantity of oiled beeswax to be rubbed into the cover every day.'

'Now we must polish our horses as well as our weapons,' said Gwalchmai, with a mocking grin.

'Have ten of these . . . horse jerkins . . . made,' said Uther. 'Then we shall see.'

'Thank you, sire.'

'Do not thank me until I place an order. This is what you are seeking yes?'

'Yes, sire.'

'Did you devise the armour?'

'Yes, my lord, although my brother Balan overcame the problem of the rain.'

'And to him will go the profit for the wax I order?'

'Yes, my lord,' said Ursus, smiling.

'And where is he at present?'

Trying to sell the idea in Rome. It will be difficult, for the emperor still sets great store by the marching legions even though his enemies are mounted.'

'Rome is finished,' said Uther. 'You should sell to the Goths or the Huns.'

'I would my lord, but the Huns do not buy - they take. And the Goths? Their treasury is smaller than my own.'

'And your own Merovingian army?'

'My King - long may he reign - is guided in matters military by the Mayor of the Palace. And he is not a visionary.'

'But then he is not assailed on all sides and from within,' said Uther. 'Do you fight as well as you talk?'

'Not quite.'

Uther grinned. 'I have changed my mind. Make thirty-two and Victorinus will put you in command of one Turma. You will join me at Petvaria and then I will see your horse armour as it needs to be seen - against a real enemy. If it is successful, you will be rich and, as I suspect you desire, all other fighting kings will follow Uther's lead.'

'Thank you, sire.'

'As I said, do not thank me yet. You have not heard my offer.'

With that the King turned and walked away. Pra-samaccus draped his arm over Ursus' shoulder.

'I think the King likes you, young man. Do not disappoint him.' 'I would lose my order?' 'You would lose your life,' Prasamaccus told him.

Long after Grysstha had returned to his own hut in the shadow of the Long Hall Cormac, unable to sleep, wandered out into the cool of the night to sit below the stars and watch the bats circle the trees.

All was quiet and the boy was truly, splendidly, perfectly alone. Here in the glory of the hunter's moonlight there was no alienation, no sullen stares, no harsh words. The night breeze ruffled his hair as he gazed up at the cliffs above the woods and thought of his father, the nameless warrior who had fought so well. Grysstha said he had killed six men.

But why had he left the infant Cormac alone in the cave? And where was the woman who bore him? Who would leave a child? Was the man - so brave in battle - so cruel in life?

And what mother could leave her babe to die in a lonely cave?

As always there were no answers, but the questions chained Cormac to this hostile village. He could not leave and make a future for himself, not while the past was such a mystery.

When he was younger he had believed that his father would one day come to claim him, striding to the long Hall with a sword at his side, a burnished helm upon his brow. But no longer could the dreams of childhood sustain him. In four days he would be a man . . . and then what? Begging for work at the smithy, or the mill, or the bakery, or the slaughterhouse?

Back in his hut he slept fitfully beneath his threadbare blanket, rising before the dawn and taking his sling to the hills. Here he killed three rabbits, skinning them expertly with the small knife Grysstha had given him the year before. He lit a fire in a sheltered hollow and roasted the meat, enjoying the rare sensation of a full belly. But there was little goodness in rabbit meat and Grysstha had once told him a man could starve to death while feasting on such fare. Cormac licked his fingers and then wiped them on the long grass, remembering the Thunder Feast the previous Autumn where he had tasted beef at the open banquet, when King Wulfhere had visited his former steward, Calder. Cormac had been forced to stay back from the throng around the Saxon King, but had heard his speech. Meaningless platitudes mostly, coming from a weak man. He looked the part, with his mail-shirt of iron and his axe-bearing guards, but his face was soft and womanly and his eyes focused on a point above the crowd.

But the beef had been magnificent. Grysstha had brought him three cuts, succulent and rich with the blood of the bull.

'Once,' the old man said, between mouthfuls, 'we ate like this every day! When we were reavers, and our swords were feared. Calder once promised we would do so again. He said we would be revenged on the Blood King, but look at him now - fat and content beside the puppet king.'

'The King looks like a woman,' said Cormac.

'He lives like one,' snapped Grysstha. 'And to think his grandfather was Hengist! Would you like more meat?'

And they feasted that night like emperors.

Now Cormac doused his fire and wandered high into the hills, along the cliff-tops overlooking the calm sea. The breeze was strong here, and cool despite the morning sun, clear in a cloudless sky.

Cormac stopped beneath a spreading oak and leapt to hang from a thick branch. One hundred times he hauled himself up to touch his chin to the wood, feeling the muscles in his arms and shoulders swell and burn. Then he dropped lightly to the ground, sweat gleaming on his face.

'How strong you are, Cormac,' said a mocking voice and he swung round to see Calder's daughter. Alftruda, sitting in the grass with a basket of berries beside her. Cormac blushed and said nothing. He should have walked away, but the sight of her sitting there cross-legged, her woollen skirt pulled up to reveal the milky whiteness of her legs . . . 'Are you so shy?' she asked.

'Your brothers will not be best pleased with you for speaking to me.'

'And you are frightened of them?'

Cormac considered the question. Calder's sons had tormented him for years, but mostly he could outrun them to his hiding places in the woods. Agwaine was the worst, for he enjoyed inflicting pain. Lennox and Barta were less overtly cruel, but they followed Agwaine's lead in everything. But was he frightened?

'Perhaps I am,' he said. 'But then such is the law that they are allowed to strike me, but it is death if I defend myself.'

'That's the price you pay for having a demon for a father. Cormac. Can you work magic?'

'No.'

'Not even a little, to please me?'

'Not even a little.'

'Would you like some berries?'

'No, thank you. I must be heading back; I have work to do.'

.'Do I frighten you, Cormac Daemonsson?' He stopped in mid-turn, his throat tight.

'I am not . . . comfortable. No one speaks to me but I am used to that. I thank you for your courtesy.'

'Do you think I am pretty?'

'I think you are beautiful. Especially here, in the summer sunlight, with the breeze moving your hair. But I do not wish to cause you trouble.'

She rose smoothly and moved towards him and he backed away instinctively, but the oak barred his retreat. He felt her body press against his and his arms moved around her back, drawing her to him.

'Get away from my sister!' roared Agwaine and Alftruda leapt back with fear in her eyes.

'He cast a spell on me!' she shouted, running to Agwaine. The tall blond youth hurled her aside and drew a dagger from its sheath.

'You will die for this obscenity,' he hissed, advancing on Cormac.

Cormac's eyes flickered from the blade to Agwaine's angry face, reading the intent and seeing the blood-lust rising. He leapt to his right - to cannon into the huge figure of Lennox, whose brawny arms closed around him. Triumph blazed in Agwaine's eyes, but Cormac hammered his elbow into Lennox's belly and then up in a second strike, smashing the boy's nose. Lennox staggered back, almost blinded. Then Barta ran from the bushes, holding a thick branch above his head like a club. Cormac leapt feet first, his heel landing with sickening force against Barta's chin, and hurling him unconscious to the ground.

Cormac rolled to his feet, swinging to face Agwaine, his arm blocking the dagger blow aimed at his heart. His fist slammed against Agwaine's cheek, then his left foot powered into his enemy's groin.

Agwaine screamed once and fell to his knees, dropping the dagger. Cormac swept it up, grabbed Agwaine's long blond hair and hauled back his head, exposing the throat.

'No!' screamed Alftruda. Cormac blinked and took a deep, calming breath. Then he stood and hurled the dagger far out over the cliff-top.

'You lying slut!' he said, advancing on Alftruda. She sank to her knees, her eyes wide and terror-filled.

'Don't hurt me!'

Suddenly he laughed. 'Hurt you? I would not touch you if my life depended on it. A few moments ago you were beautiful. Now you are ugly, and will always be so.'