Ghost King

  “You remind me of someone I once knew,” she said, her face close to his, the perfume of her breath sweet and arousing.

  “I hope it was someone you liked.”

  “Indeed I did. Your eyes, like his, are the colors of the Mist.”

  “Who are you?” he whispered, his voice husky.

  “I am a dream, perhaps. Or a wood nymph. Or a lover?” Her lips brushed his face, and she lifted his hand, pressing it to her breast.

  “Who are you?” he repeated. “Tell me.”

  “I am Athena.”

  “The Greek goddess?” She drew back from him then, surprised.

  “How is it that you know of me? This world is far from Greece.”

  “I am far from home, lady.”

  “Are you of the Mist?”

  “No. What other names have you?”

  “You know of the Feragh, I see. I am also called Goroien.”

  Now it was Uther’s turn to show surprise. “You are Culain’s lady; he spoke of you often.”

  She moved subtly away from him. “And what did he say?”

  “He said that he had loved you since the dawn of history. I hope you will forgive me for saying that I can see why.”

  She acknowledged his compliment with a slight smile. “His love was not so great as you think. He left me and chose to become mortal. How would you explain that?”

  “I cannot, lady. But I knew Culain, and he thought of you always.”

  “You say ‘knew’ and ‘thought.’ Have you lost touch with him?”

  Uther licked his lips, suddenly nervous. “He is dead, lady. I am sorry.”

  “Dead? How?”

  “My enemies destroyed him: Soul Stealers from the Void.”

  “You saw him die?”

  “No, but I saw him fall just before the circle brought us to Pinrae.”

  “And who are you?” she asked, smiling sweetly, her left hand on his back. As she spoke, the nails of the hidden hand grew long and silver and hovered over his heart.

  “I am Uther.” The talons vanished.

  “I do not know the name,” she said, rising and moving to the center of the clearing.

  “Will you help us?” he asked.

  “With what?”

  “This world is ruled by a Witch Queen, and I seek to overthrow her.”

  Goroien laughed and shook her head. “Foolish boy! Sweet, foolish boy. I am the Witch Queen. This is my world.”

  Uther rose. “I cannot believe that!”

  “Believe it, Prince Uther,” said Prasamaccus, stepping from the shadow of the trees.

  “Ah, the cripple,” said Goroien, “with the magic arrows.”

  “Shall I kill her?” asked the Brigante, a shaft aimed at her heart. Goroien turned to Uther, her eyebrows raised.

  “No!”

  “A wise choice, sweet boy, for now I will let you both live … for a little while. Tell me, how long has your name been Uther?”

  “Not long, lady.”

  “I thought not. You are the boy Thuro, the son of Alaida. Know this, Uther. I slew your mother, I planned your father’s death, and I sent the Soul Stealers into the Caledones mountains.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it pleased me.” She turned on Prasamaccus. “Loose your arrow, fool!”

  “No!” shouted Uther, but the Brigante had already released the string. The shaft flashed in the sunlight, only to be caught in a slender hand and snapped in two.

  “You said sweet words to me, Uther. I will not kill you today. Leave this place; hide in the world of Pinrae. I shall not seek you. But in four days I will send an army into this forest with orders to kill all they find. Do not be here.” She raised her hand in a cutting motion, and the air beside her parted like a curtain. Beyond her, in a room adorned with shields, swords, and weapons of war, Uther saw a tall man wearing a dark helm. And then they were both gone.

  “She came to kill you,” said Prasamaccus.

  “But she did not.”

  “She is capricious. Let us fetch Laitha and leave this place.”

  “I must wait for the one moon.”

  “You asked me to be a wise counselor …”

  “This is not a time for wisdom,” snapped Uther. “This is a time for courage.”

  Under a bright moon a lone figure scaled the outer wall of Deicester Castle, strong fingers finding the tiniest cracks and crevices. Culain moved slowly and with great care. His horse and lance had been hidden in the woods two miles away, and his only weapon was a long hunting knife in a scabbard at the back of his belt.

  The climb would not have been difficult in daylight, for the castle was over two hundred years old and the outer walls were pitted and scarred. But at night he was forced to test every hand- and toehold. He reached the battlements just after midnight and was not surprised to find no sentries. For who did Eldared fear in the Caledones? What army could penetrate this far into his territory? He swung his body over the wall and crouched in the moon shadows below the parapet. He wore dark leggings of dyed wool and a close-fitting leather shirt as soft as cloth. He stayed motionless, listening to the sounds of the night. In the barracks below and to the right were only a dozen soldiers. He had counted them from his hiding place during the day; now he could hear some of them playing dice. To his left the gate sentry was asleep, his feet planted on a chair, a blanket around his shoulders. Culain moved silently to the stairwell. The steps were wooden, and he moved down them, keeping close to the wall, away from the center of the slats, where the movement and therefore the noise would be greatest. Earlier he had noted the flickering lights at the highest western window of the keep, the rest of the upper living quarters dark and silent.

  He crossed the courtyard at a run, halting before the door beside the locked gates of the keep. It was open. Once inside, he waited until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness within, then found the stairs and climbed to the upper levels. A dog growled close by, and Culain opened the pouch at his side and pulled clear a freshly cut slice of rabbit meat. He walked boldly into the corridor. The dog, a gray war hound, rose threateningly, its lips drawn back to reveal long fangs. Culain crouched down and offered his hand. The dog, smelling the meat, padded forward to snatch it from Culain’s fingers. He patted the hound’s wide head and moved on.

  At the farthest door he stopped. A light still showed faintly in the cracks around the frame. He drew his hunting knife and stepped inside. A candle was guttering by the bedside, and in the broad bed lay a man and a woman. Both were young: the woman no more than sixteen, the man a few years older. They were asleep in each other’s arms like children, and Culain felt a pang of regret. The woman’s face was oval and yet strong even in sleep. The man was fair-haired and fine-boned. Culain touched the cold knife blade to the man’s throat. His eyes flared open, and he jerked, cutting the skin alongside his jugular.

  “Do not hurt her!” he pleaded. Culain was touched despite himself, for the man’s first thought had been for the woman beside him. He gestured for Moret to rise and, gathering the candle, led him through the bedroom into a side chamber, pushing shut the door behind him.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to know how you contacted the Witch Queen.”

  Moret moved to stand beside a high window overlooking the Caledones mountains. “Why do you wish to see her?”

  “That is my concern, boy. Answer me and you may live.”

  “No,” Moret said softly. “I need to know.”

  Culain hesitated, considering killing the man and questioning the woman. But then, if she knew nothing, his mission would be ruined, for Cael and Eldared were away at war.

  “I plan to destroy her,” he said at last.

  Moret smiled. “Go from here to the Lake of Earn. You know it?” Culain nodded. “There is a circle of stones and a small hut. Before the hut is a tiny cairn of rounded rocks. Build a fire there when the wind is to the north. The smoke enters the hut, and Goroien comes forth.”

  “Have y
ou seen her?”

  “No; my brother travels there.”

  Culain returned his knife to his scabbard. “It is against my better judgment to allow you to live, but I shall. Do not make me regret the decision, for I am not an enemy you would desire.”

  “No man who seeks to destroy Goroien could be an enemy of mine,” Moret answered. Culain backed to the door and was gone within seconds. Moret stood for a while by the window, then returned to his bed. Outside the door Culain heard the bed creak and returned his knife once more to its scabbard.

  Rhiall and Ceorl returned from Callia in high spirits. Behind them was a convoy of three wagons, sixty-eight men, and twelve women, two of them pregnant. The huge youth bounded up the hill, grabbing Korrin’s arm.

  “The soldiers ransacked the town. They took twenty pregnant women and burned the shrine to Berec. Two council leaders were hanged. The place is in an uproar.”

  “What are they all doing here?” asked Korrin, staring down at the crowd forming a half circle below the hill.

  “They’ve come to see Berec reborn. The story is spreading like a grass fire that Berec has returned to earth, riding a forest stag and ready to overthrow the Witch Queen.”

  “And you let them believe it?”

  Rhiall’s face took on a sullen look. “Who is to say it is not true? He did ride a stag, just like Berec, and his magic vanquished the soldiers.”

  “What is in the wagons?”

  Rhiall’s good humor returned. “Food, Korrin. Flour, salt, dried fruit, oats, wine, honey. And there are blankets, clothes, weapons.”

  Uther approached and stared down at the gathering, which grew hushed and silent. The sun was behind him, and he appeared to the crowd to be bathed in golden light. Many in the group fell to their knees.

  Rhiall and Korrin joined him. “How many fighting men?” Uther asked.

  “Sixty-eight.”

  Uther grinned and laid his hand on Rhiall’s shoulder. “That is a good omen. In my land the men fight in centuries of eighty warriors each. With our own people and these we now have a century.”

  Korrin grinned. “Your arithmetic is not as strong as your magic. Surely a century is one hundred?”

  “True, but with cooks, quartermasters, and camp followers the fighting strength is eighty. Our army is formed by such units. Six centuries equal 480 men, or one cohort, and ten cohorts make a legion. It is a small beginning but a promising one. Korrin, go down among them and find out who the leaders are. Get the men in groups of ten. Add one of your own men to each group, two to the last. Find the groups work to make them feel part of the brotherhood and weed out the weak in heart, for they will need to fight within four days.”

  “One small problem, Uther,” said Korrin. “They think you are a god. When they find out you are a man, we could lose them all.”

  “Tell me about the god—everything you can remember.”

  “You will play the part, then?” Rhiall asked.

  “I will not risk losing sixty-eight fighting men. And it is not necessary for me to lie or to use any deceit. If they believe it, let them continue. In four days we will either have an army or be dead on this forest floor.”

  “Does that not depend,” put in Korrin, “on when Sennicus shines alone?”

  “Yes.” Both men turned to Rhiall. “When will such an event happen again?” Uther asked.

  “In about a month,” said the youngster. Uther said nothing, his face without expression. Korrin cursed softly.

  “Get the men in groups,” said the prince, walking away to the edge of the stone circle, holding the bitter edge of his anger in check. In four days a terrible enemy would descend on the forest. His one hope was the army of the dead, and they could not be seen for a month. He needed to think, to plan, yet how could he devise a strategy with such limited forces at his disposal? All his life he had studied war and the making of war, seen the plans of generals from Xerxes to Alexander, Ptolemy to Caesar, Paullinus to Aurelius. But never had they been in a position like his. The unfairness of his situation struck him like a coward’s blow. But then, why should life be fair? he reasoned. A man could do only his best with the favors the gods bestowed.

  Prasamaccus joined him, sensing his unease.

  “Are the gods being kind?” asked the Brigante.

  “Perhaps,” Uther replied, remembering that he had not yet learned of the life of Berec.

  “The burden of responsibility is not light.”

  Uther smiled. “It would be lighter if I had Victorinus and several legions behind me. Where is Laitha?”

  “She is helping unload the wagons. Is all well between you?”

  Uther closed his mouth, cutting off an angry retort, then looked into the Brigante’s cool, understanding eyes.

  “I love her, and she is now mine.”

  “But?”

  “How do you know there is a but?”

  Prasamaccus shrugged. “Is there not?”

  “Where did you learn so much of life?”

  “On a hillside between the walls. What is wrong?”

  “She loved Culain, and it chains her still. I could not compete with him in life—nor in death, it seems.”

  Prasamaccus sat silently for a moment, marshaling his thoughts. “It must be exceptionally hard for her. All her life she has lived with this hero, worshiping him as a father, loving him as a brother, needing him as a friend. It is not difficult to see how she came to believe she wanted him as a lover. And you are right, Prince Uther; you cannot compete. But in time Culain will fade.”

  “I know it is arrogance,” said Uther, “but I do not want a woman who sees me as the shadow of someone else. I made love to her, and it was beautiful … and then she whispered Culain’s name. She lay beneath me, and in her mind I was not there.”

  There was nothing for the Brigante to say, and he had the wisdom to know it. Laitha was a foolish, undisciplined child. It would not have mattered if she had screamed his name inside her mind, but to speak it at such a time showed a stupidity beyond comparison. It was with some surprise that Prasamaccus realized he was angry with her; it was not an emotion he usually carried. He sat in silence with the prince for some time, and then, when Uther was lost in thought, he rose and limped back to where Korrin waited with a group of strangers.

  “These are the leaders of the Callia men,” said the woodsman. “Is … the god ready to receive them?”

  “No, he is communing with the spirits,” answered Prasamaccus. Some of the men backed away. The Brigante ignored them and wandered away to the long hall.

  Uther the man stared out over the forest, while Thuro the boy sat inside his skull. Only a few short months earlier the boy had been weeping in his room, frightened of the dark and the noises of the night. Now he was acting the man, but the torments of adolescence were still with him. As summer was beginning outside Eboracum, the boy Thuro had wandered into the woods and played a game where he was a hero, slaying demons and dragons. Now, with the summer there once more, he sat on a lonely hill and all the demons were real. Only there was no Maedhlyn. No Aurelius with his invincible legions. No Culain lach Feragh. Only the pretend man, Uther. “I am the king, by right and by destiny.” Oh how the words haunted him now in his despair!

  A frightened child sat among the stones of another world, playing a game of death. His melancholy deepened, and he realized he would give his left arm if Maedhlyn or Culain could appear at this moment. More, he would offer ten years of his life. But the wind blew over the hilltop, and he was alone. He turned and gazed at the group waiting silently some thirty paces away. Young men, old men, standing patiently waiting for the “god” to acknowledge them and their fealty. Turning his face from them, he thought of Culain and smiled. Culain really had been a god: Ares, the god of war to the Greeks, who became Mars for the Romans. Immortal Culain!

  Well, thought Uther, if my grandfather was a god, then why not me? If the fates have decided I shall die in this deadly game, then let me play it to the full.

/>   Without looking back, he raised his hand, beckoning the group forward. There were twelve of them, and they shuffled hesitantly to stand before him. He spread his arms, gesturing at the ground, and they sat obediently.

  “Speak!” he said, and Korrin introduced each of the men, though Uther made no effort to remember their names. At the end he leaned forward and looked deeply into each man’s eyes. All looked away the moment his gaze locked on theirs. “You!” said Uther, gazing directly at the oldest man, gray-bearded and lean as a hunting wolf. “Who am I?”

  “It is said you are the god Berec.”

  “And what do you say?”

  The man reddened. “Lord, what I said last night was said in ignorance.” He swallowed hard. “I merely voiced the doubts we all carried.”

  Uther smiled. “And rightly so,” he said. “I have not come to guarantee victory, only to teach you how to fight. The gods give, the gods take away. All that is of worth is what a man earns with his sweat, with his courage, and with his life. Know this: you may not win. I shall not rise to the sky and destroy the witch with spears of fire. I am here because Korrin called me. I shall leave when I please. Do you have the heart to fight alone?”

  The bearded man’s head rose, his eyes proud. “I do. It has taken me time to know it, but I know it now.”

  “Then you have learned something greater than a god gift. Leave me—all but Korrin.”

  The men almost scrambled from his presence, some backing away, others bowing low. Uther ignored them all, and when they were out of earshot, Korrin moved forward.

  “How did you know what that man said?” he asked.

  “What do you think of them?”

  The woodsman shrugged. “You picked the right man to speak to. He is Maggrig, the armorer. Once he was the most feared swordsman in Pinrae. If he stands, they all will. Do you wish me to tell you of Berec?”

  “No.”

  “Are you well, Uther? Your eyes are distant.”

  “I am well, Korrin,” answered the prince, forcing a smile, “but I need to think.” The green-eyed huntsman nodded his understanding.