Last Sword Of Power (9 page)

'It gave you life,' said Culain softly, 'and whatever you think of me, you should know that your mother never recovered from losing you. It haunted her to her dying day. Add this to the burden of your hate for me. But it was not my gift to you - it was hers. With it you can protect Anduine far more powerfully than with the sword.'

'I would not know how to use it.'

Culain leaned forward. 'Take it, and I will show you.'

'Give it to Anduine and I will think about it after you have gone,' said Cormac, rising once more.

'You are a stubborn man, Cormac. But I wish we could part as friends.'

'I do not hate you, Culain,' said the youth, 'for you saved me from Agwaine and fought off the demons for Anduine. But had it not been for you, I would not have known a life of pain and sorrow. I am the son of a King and I have been raised like a leper. You think I should thank you?'

'No, you are my shame brought to life. But I loved your mother and would have died for her.'

'But you did not. Grysstha once told me that men will always excuse their shortcomings, but to your credit you never have. Try to understand, Culain, what I am saying. I admire you. I am sorry for you. But you are the father of my loneliness and we could never be friends.'

Culain nodded. 'At least you do not hate me and that is something to carry with me.' He held out his hand and Cormac took it. 'Be on your guard, young warrior. Train every day. And remember the three mysteries: life, harmony and spirit.'

'I shall. Farewell, Revelation.'

'Farewell, Prince Cormac.'

In the months following the Trinovante uprising, Britannia enjoyed an uneasy peace. Uther paced the halls of Camulodunum like a caged warhound, eagerly watching the roads from his private apartments in the north tower. Every time a messenger arrived the King would hurry to the main hall, ripping the seals from despatches and devouring the contents, ever seeking news of insurrection or invasion. But throughout the Summer and into the Autumn peace reigned, crops were gathered, militiamen sent home to their families.

Men walked warily around Uther, sensing his disquiet. Across the Gallic Sea a terrible army had ripped into the Sicambrian kingdoms of Belgica and Gaul, destroying their forces and burning their cities. The enemy king, Wotan, was named Anti-Christ by the Bishop of Rome, but this was not unusual. A score of barbarian kings had been dubbed by the same name, and subsequently many had been admitted to the church.

Rome herself sent five legions to assist the Sicam-brians. They were destroyed utterly, their standards taken.

But in Britain the people enjoyed the hot summer and the absence of war. Store-houses groaned under the weight of produce, the price of bread and wine plummeted. Only the merchants complained, for the rich export markets of Gaul had been disrupted by the war and few were the trade ships docking at Dubris or Noviomagus.

Each morning Uther would climb to the north tower, lock the door of oak and set the Sword of Power in its niche within the grey boulder. Then he would kneel before it and wait, focusing his thoughts. Dreams and visions would swirl in his mind, and his spirit would soar across the land from Pinnata Castra in the north to Dubris in the south, from Gariannonum in the east to Moriodunum in the west, seeking gatherings of armed men. Finding nothing, he would follow the coastline, spirit eyes scanning the grey waves for sign of long ships and Viking raiders.

But the seas were clear.

One bright morning he tried to cross the Gallic Sea, but found himself halted by a force he could neither see nor pass, like a wall of crystal.

Confused and uncertain, he returned to his tower, opening the eyes of his body and removing the Sword from the stone. Stepping to the ramparts, he felt the cool Autumn breeze on his skin, and for a while his fears slumbered.

His manservant Baldric came to him at noon, bringing wine, cold meat and a dish of the dark plums the King favoured. Uther, in no mood for conversation, waved the lad away and sat at the window staring out at the distant sea.

He knew Victorinus and Gwalchmai were concerned about his state of mind, and he could not explain the fear growing in his soul. He felt like a man walking a dark alleyway, knowing - without evidence, and yet with certainty - that a monster awaited him at the next turn: faceless, formless, yet infinitely deadly.

Not for the first time in the last ten years Uther wished that Maedhlyn was close. The Lord Enchanter would either have laid his fears to rest, or at worst identified the danger.

'If wishes were horses the beggars would ride,' muttered Uther, shutting his mind from the memory of Maedhlyn's departure. Harsh words, hotter than acid, had poured from Uther that day. They were regretted within the hour, but could not be drawn back. Once spoken they hung in the air, carved on invisible stone, branded into the hearts of the hearers. And Maedhlyn had gone . . .

As Laitha had gone. And Culain . . .

Uther poured more wine, seeking to dull the memories and yet enhancing them. Gian Avur, Fawn of the Forest, was the name Culain had given to Laitha - a name Uther had never been allowed to use. But he had loved her, and had been lost without her.

'Why then did you drive her into his arms?' he whispered.

There was no answer to be found in logic or intellect. But Uther knew where it lay, deep in the labyrinthine tunnels of dark emotion. The seeds of insanity were sown on that night in another world when the youth had first made love to the maid, only to have her whisper the name of Culain at the moment of Uther's greatest joy. The opposite of the alchemist's dream - gold become lead, light plunged into darkness. Even then he could have forgiven her, for Culain was dead. He could not. . . would not be jealous of a corpse. But the Lance Lord returned and Uther had seen the light of love reborn in Lai-tha's eyes.

Yet he could not send him away, for that would be defeat. And he could not kill him, for he owed everything to Culain. He could only hope that her love for the Lance Lord would be overcome by her marriage vow to the King. And it was so - but not enough. He tested her resolve time and again, treating her with appalling indifference, forcing her in her despair to the very act he feared above all others.

King of Fools!

Uther, the Blood King, the Lord of No Defeat! What did it matter that armies could not withstand him when he dwelt in loneliness in a chilly tower? No sons to follow him, no wife to love him. He turned to the bronze mirror set on the wall; grey roots were showing under the henna-dyed hair and the eyes were tired.

He wandered to the ramparts and stared down at the courtyard. The Sicambrian, Ursus, was strolling arm in arm with a young woman. Uther could not recognise her, but she seemed familiar. He smiled. The horse-armour had been a miserable failure, becoming sodden and useless in the rain, but Ursus had proved a fine cavalry commander. The men liked his easy manner and his quick wit, added to which he was not reckless and understood the importance in strategy of patience and forethought.

The King watched the easy way Ursus draped his arm over the woman's shoulder, drawing her to him in the shadows of a doorway, tilting her chin to kiss her lips. Uther shook his head and turned away. He rarely had women sent to his apartments these days; the act of loving left him with a deep sadness, a hollow empty loneliness.

His eyes scanned the green landscape, the rolling hills and the farms, the cattle herds and the sheep. All was at peace. Uther cursed softly. For years he had fostered the myth that he was the land, the soul and heart of Britannia. Only his trusted friends knew that the Sword gave him the power. Yet now, even without the aid of the mystic blade, Uther could feel a sinister threat growing in the shadows. The tranquillity around him was but an illusion, and the days of blood and fire were waiting to dawn.

Or are you getting old, he asked himself? Have you lied for so long about the myth that you have come to believe it?

A cold breeze touched him and he shivered.

What was the threat? From where would it come?

'My lord?' said a voice and Uther spun to find Victorinus standing in the doorway. 'I knocked on the outer door, but there was no response,' said the Roman. 'I am sorry if I startled you.'

'I was thinking,' said the King. 'What news?'

'The Bishop of Rome has agreed a treaty with Wot an, and has validated his claims to Gaul and Belgica.'

Uther chuckled. 'A short-lived Anti-Christ, was he not?'

Victorinus nodded, then removed his bronze helm. His white hair made him seem much older than his fifty years. Uther moved past him into the apartments, beckoning the general to sit.

'Still clean-shaven, my friend,' said the King. 'What will you do now the pumice-stones are no longer arriving?'

‘I’ll use a razor,' said Victorinus, grinning. 'It does not become a Roman to look like an unwashed barbarian.'

"That is no way to speak to your King,' said Uther, scratching at his own beard.

'But then your misfortune, sire, was to be born without Roman blood. I can only offer my deepest sympathies.'

'The arrogance of Rome survives even her downfall,' said Uther smiling. 'Tell me of Wotan.'

'The reports are contradictory, sire. He fought four major battles in Sicambria, crushing the Merovingians. Nothing is known of their King; some say he escaped to Italia, others that he sought refuge in Hispania.'

'The strategies, man. Does he use cavalry? Or the Roman phalanx? Or just a horde, overwhelming by numbers?'

'His army is split into units. There are some mounted warriors, but in the main he relies on axemen and archers. He also fights where the battle is thickest and, it is said, no sword can pierce his armour.'

'Not a good trait in a general,' muttered the King. 'He should stay back, directing the battle.'

'As you do, my lord?' asked Victorinus, raising' an eyebrow.

Uther grinned. 'I will one day,' he said. ‘I’ll sit on a canvas stool and watch you and Gwalchmai sunder the enemy.'

'I wish you would, sire. My heart will not take the strain you put upon it with your recklessness.'

'Has Wotan sent emissaries to other kings?' asked Uther.

'Not as far as we know - only the Bishop of Rome and the boy emperor. He has pledged not to lead his armies into Italia.'

'Then where will he lead them?'

'You think he will invade Britain?'

'I need to know more about him. Where is he from? How did he weld the German tribes, the Norse and the Goths into such a disciplined army? And in so short a time?'

'I could go as an ambassador, sire. His court is now in Martius.'

Uther nodded. Take Ursus with you; he knows the land, the people and the language. And a gift; I will arrange a suitable offering for a new king.'

'Too fine a gift may be misread as weakness, sire, and you did have a treaty with Meroveus.'

'Meroveus was a fool, his army the laughing-stock of Europe. Our treaty was for trade, no more. You will explain to Wotan that the treaty was between the Kings of Sicambria and Britain, and that I acknowledge the agreement to remain active, even as I acknowledge his right to the throne.'

'Is that not dangerous, sire? You will be supporting the right of the conqueror against the right of blood.'

'It is a dangerous world in which we live, Victorinus.'

Ursus woke in a cold sweat, his heart hammering. The girl beside him slept on under the warm blankets, her breathing even. The prince slid out from the bed and walked to the window, pulling back the velvet hangings and allowing the breeze to cool his flesh. The dream had been so real; he had seen his brother pursued through the streets of Martius and dragged into a wide hall. There Ursus watched a tall blond-bearded warrior cut his brother's heart from his living body.

He moved to the table and found there was still a little wine in the jar. He poured it into a clay goblet and drained it.

Just a dream, he told himself, born of his concern over the invasion of Gaul.

A bright light flashed behind his eyes, filling his head with fiery pain. He cried out and stumbled, blind and afraid, tipping the table to the floor.

'What is it?' screamed the girl. 'Sweet Christos, are you ill?' But her voice faded back into the distance and a roaring filled his ears. His vision cleared and he saw once more the blond-bearded warrior, this time standing in a deep circular pit. Around him were other warriors, all wearing horned helms and carrying huge axes. A door above them opened and two men dragged a naked prisoner to a set of wooden steps, forcing him to climb down into the pit. With horror Ursus saw it was Meroveus, the King of Sicambria. His beard was matted, his hair encrusted with mud and filth; his slender body showed signs of cruel use, whip-marks criss-crossing the skin.

'Well met, brother king,' said the tall warrior, gripping the prisoner by his beard and hauling him' upright. 'Are you well?'

'I curse you, Wotan. May you burn in the fires of Hell!'

'Fool! I am Hell, and I lit the fires.'

Meroveus was dragged to a greased and pointed stake and hoisted high in the air.

Ursus tore his eyes from the scene, but could not block the awful sounds as the monarch was brutally impaled. Once more the bright light flashed and now he was viewing a scene in a great wooden hall. Warriors surrounded a crowd - their lances aimed at men, women and children who stood in silent terror. Ursus recognised many faces: cousins, uncles, aunts, nephews. Most of the Merovingian nobles were gathered here. Warriors in mail-shirts began to throw buckets of water over the prisoners, jeering and laughing as the liquid splashed down. It was a ridiculous scene, yet tainted with a terrible menace. Once more the blond-bearded Wotan stepped forward, this time carrying a torch. Terrified screams sprang up from the prisoners as Wotan laughed and hurled the torch into the mass. Fire swept the group . . . and Ursus suddenly understood. It was not water they were drenched with . . . but oil. The lancers retired at speed as burning men ran like human torches, spreading the blaze.

The walls ran with flames and dark smoke settled over the scene . . .

Ursus screamed and fell back, weeping piteously, into the arms of the girl.

'Dear God,' she said, stroking his brow. 'What is it?'

But he could not answer. There were no words in all the world.

There was only pain . . .

Two officers from the adjoining rooms entered, lifting Ursus to the wide bed. Other men gathered in the stone corridor. The surgeon was summoned and the girl quietly gathered her clothing, dressed and slipped away.

'What is the matter with him?' asked Plutarchus, a young cavalry officer who had befriended Ursus during the summer. 'There is no wound.'

His companion, Decimus Agrippa, a lean warrior of ten years' experience, merely shrugged and looked into Ursus' unblinking, unfocused eyes.

Gently he pressed the lids closed.

'Is he dead?' whispered Plutarchus.

'No, I think he is having a fit. I knew a man once who would suddenly go stiff and tremble with such a seizure. The great Julius was said to be so afflicted.'

"Then he will recover?'

Agrippa nodded, then turned to the men in the corridor. 'Off to your beds,' he ordered. 'The drama is over.'

The two men covered Ursus with the linen sheet and the soft woollen blankets. 'He does like luxury,' said Agrippa, grinning. It was not often that the man smiled and it made him almost handsome, thought Plutarchus. Agrippa was made for command - a cool, distant warrior whose skill and lack of recklessness led men to clamour to join his troop. In major engagements he lost fewer men than the more reckless of his brother officers, yet invariably achieved his objectives. He was known among the Cohors Equitana as the Dagger in the Night or, more simply, the Dagger.