“I may not be right all the time,” he whispered, “and I may have struck a bad bargain with you. But whatever I become, I will always need you. And always love you.”
Outside, Prasamaccus heard the argument die away.
“I do not think they will want to see you now,” whispered a sentry.
“No,” Prasamaccus agreed, hobbling away into the darkness.
For two weeks Culain had toiled and struggled to regain lost strength and speed. He was now fitter and faster than he had been for years … and he knew it was not enough. Goroien had been right. In accepting mortality, Culain had lost the vital edge of youth. His doubts were many as he sat on the hard-packed ground before the cabin, watching the sun sink in fire.
Once, as Cunobelin the king, he had allowed his body to grow old and gray, but it had been a sham. Beneath the wrinkles his strength had remained.
For two days now he had exercised not at all, allowing his tired body to rest and replenish its lost energy. Tomorrow he would walk to the Castle of Iron and seek a truth he felt he already knew.
He was glad now that he had used up the stone in that wonderfully extravagant flight. The temptation to use its power on himself would today have proved irresistible. His thoughts turned to Gilgamesh, seeing the warrior as he had first known him, strong and proud, leading a hopeless fight against an invincible enemy. Goroien had taken pity on him, which was unlike her, and had helped him overthrow the tyrant king. Gilgamesh had known glory then and the adulation of a freed people. But it was not enough; there was a hunger in the Lord of Battle that no amount of victories could ease. Culain had never understood the demon that drove him. Three times Gilgamesh had challenged Culain, and three times the Mist Warrior had refused to be drawn. Many in the Feragh had wondered at Culain’s reasons. Few had realized the truth. Culain lach Feragh was afraid of the strange, dark quality in Gilgamesh that made him unbeatable.
Then came the day when news of his death had reached Culain. His heart had soared, for deep inside he had begun to believe that the Lord of Battle would one day kill him. He recalled the day well: the sun clear in a cloudless sky, distant cornfields glowing gold, and the high white turrets of Babylon cloaked in dark shadows. Brigamartis had brought the news, her face flushed with excitement. She had never liked Gilgamesh. Before his arrival she had been considered one of the finest sword duelists in the Feragh, but he had defeated her with ease in the shade games.
“There was something wrong with his blood,” Brigamartis said gleefully. “It would not accept Sipstrassi power. He aged wonderfully; in the last two years even Goroien would not visit him. He had begun to drool, you know, and he was half-blind.”
Culain had waited five years before crossing the Mist. Goroien was as beautiful as ever and acted as if her affair with Gilgamesh had never taken place. His name did not cross her lips for another three centuries.
Now the Lord of Battle had returned, and Culain lach Feragh would truly taste the terrors of mortality. It was galling to live so long only to face such bitterness. Thuro and Laitha were trapped in a world he could not reach, victims of a goddess he could never kill and menaced by a warrior he could not conquer.
He lifted his lance and drew the hidden sword. The edge was lethally sharp, the balance magnificent. He looked down at his reflection in the silver steel, gazing into his own eyes as if expecting to see answers there.
Had he ever truly known courage? How simple it had been for an immortal warrior to battle in the world of men. Almost all wounds could be healed, and he had on his side the knowledge and acquired skill of centuries. Even the great Achilles had been a child by comparison, the outcome of their duel never in doubt. Only his opponents had known courage. Culain smiled. His fear of Gilgamesh had made him run like a child in terror of the dark, and like all runners, he had hurtled headlong into greater fear. If he had killed Gilgamesh all those centuries ago, Goroien would not now have taken into her body the dread disease that was killing her. From that he could reason that she might never have become the Witch Queen. So the terrors of this age came squarely to rest on Culain’s shoulders.
He accepted the burden and sought the sanctuary of Eleari-mas, the Emptying. But his mind drifted into memory. He saw again the curiously beautiful end of the world. He was fifteen years old, standing in the courtyard of his father’s house in Balacris. He saw the sun sink slowly into the west and then hurtle back into the sky. A great wind came up, and the palace of Pendarric began to glow. He heard someone scream and saw a woman pointing to the horizon. A colossal black wall was darkening the sky, growing ever larger. He stared at it for some moments, thinking it a great storm. But soon the terror struck. It was a thundering thousand-foot wall of water, drowning the land. The golden glow from the palace spread over the city, reaching the outer sections just as the sea roared over them all. Culain had been rooted to the spot, desperate to draw out the last second of life. As the sea struck him, he screamed and fell, only to open his eyes and gaze at the sun in a blue sky. He stood and found himself on a hillside with thousands of his fellow citizens. The horizon had altered; blue-tinged mountains and endless valleys stretched out before him.
It was the first day of the Feragh, the day Pendarric had rescued eight thousand men, women, and children, turning Balacris into a giant gateway to another world. Atlantis was now gone, its glory soon to be forgotten.
Thus began the long immortal life of Culain lach Feragh, the Warrior of the Mist.
Unable to reach the heights of Eleari-mas, Culain opened his eyes and returned to the present. A thought struck him, easing the tension in his soul. Achilles and all the other mortals who had died beneath Culain’s blade must have felt as he did now. What hope was there for a mortal who stood against a god? Yet still they had taken swords in hand and opposed him, just as the mortal Culain would oppose the immortal, undead Gilgamesh. It was good that Culain’s last earthly experience would be a new truth. At last he would know how they felt.
Later, as he sat in silent contemplation, Pendarric appeared, stepping into the cabin as if coming merely from another room.
Culain smiled and rose, and the two men gripped hands. A table appeared, then two divans, the table bearing flagons of wine and two crystal goblets.
“It is a fine night here,” said Pendarric. “I have always loved the smell of lavender.”
Culain poured a goblet of wine and stretched himself on the divan. The king looked much as he always did, his golden beard freshly curled, his body powerful, his eyes ever watchful and masked against intrusion into his thoughts.
“Why did you come?”
Pendarric shrugged and filled his own goblet. “I came to talk to an old friend on the night before he takes a long journey.”
Culain nodded. “How is Thuro?”
“He is now Uther Pendragon, and he leads an army. I thought you would like to know how he found it.”
Culain sat up. “And?”
“He journeyed into the Void and brought back the Ninth Legion.”
“No.”
“And he has your sword, though I still do not know how.”
“Tell me … all of it.”
And Pendarric did so, until he reached the point of calling Laitha to the central altar. “I still do not understand why I asked her to do it. It was like a voice in my mind. I was as surprised as she when she produced the sword—doubly so when the ramifications are considered. She reached back into the past, to a time and a place in which she already existed. As we both know, that is not possible. It is a wondrous riddle.”
“You should speak to Maedhlyn,” said Culain.
“I would, but I do not like the man. There is an emptiness in him; he does not know how to love. And I am not sure I want the riddle solved. One of the problems with being immortal is that there are few questions that escape answers over so many centuries. Let this be one of them.”
“Can Thuro … Uther … defeat Goroien?”
Pendarric shrugged. “I cannot say. She h
as great power. But at this moment I am more concerned with Culain.” He stretched his hand over the table and opened his fingers. A golden Sipstrassi Stone tumbled to the wood.
“I cannot take it,” said Culain. “But believe me, I want to.”
“Can you win without it?”
“Perhaps. I am not without skill.”
“I never liked Gilgamesh, and it seemed to me that his inability to accept Sipstrassi power was a judgment far above mine. But it has to be said that he was a towering warrior, truly Rolynd.”
“As am I.”
“As are you,” agreed Pendarric. “But he, I think, has no soul. There is nothing of greatness in Gilgamesh—there never was. I think for him the world was gray. When Goroien brought him back, she doomed herself, for the Bloodstone enhanced his disease, giving it the strength to infect her.”
“I still love her,” Culain admitted. “I could not hurt her.”
“I know.” The king poured more wine, his eyes moving from Culain. “There is something else, and I am not sure even now whether it will aid or condemn you.” Pendarric’s voice trembled, and Culain felt a strange tension seep into his body. The king licked his lips and sipped his wine. “Goroien does not know that I am in possession of this … secret.” He lapsed into a silence Culain did not disturb. “I am sorry, my friend,” said Pendarric. “This is harder for me than I can say.”
“Then do not tell me,” said Culain. “After tomorrow it will not matter.”
Pendarric shook his head. “When I told you of Laitha and the sword, that was not all. Something … someone … bade me tell you the whole of the truth. So let it be done. You remember the days in Assyria when Goroien contracted a fever that brought her to the edge of madness?”
“Of course. She almost died.”
“She believed she hated you, and she left you.”
“Not for long!”
Pendarric smiled. “No, a mere two decades. When she returned, was all as it should have been?”
“After a while. The disease took almost a century to leave her.”
“Did it ever truly leave? Did her ruthlessness not grow? Was the gentleness in her soul not vanished forever?”
“Yes, perhaps. What are you saying?”
Pendarric took a deep breath. “When she left you, she was pregnant.”
“I do not want to hear this!” Culain screamed, leaping to his feet. “Leave me!”
“Gilgamesh is your son and her lover.”
All the strength and anger flowed from Culain’s body, and he staggered; at once Pendarric was beside him, helping him to the divan.
“Why? Why did she not tell me?”
“How can I answer that? Goroien is insane.”
“And Gilgamesh?”
“He knows. It is why he hates you, why he has always desired your death. Whatever madness infected Goroien was carried on into him. When he could not accept immortality, he blamed you.”
“Why did you tell me?”
“Had you accepted the Sipstrassi Stone, I would not have spoken.”
“You think this knowledge will make me stronger?”
“No,” Pendarric admitted, “but it might help explain why you were so loath to fight him.”
“I was afraid of him.”
“That, too. But the call of blood was touching your subconscious. I have seen you both fight, and I know that the Culain of old could defeat Gilgamesh. You were always the best; he knew that. It only added to his hatred.”
“How did you find out?”
“During the last years of his life Goroien would not see him. I went to him two days before he died. He was senile then, and calling for his mother. It is not a pleasant memory.”
“I could have raised him without hate.”
“I do not think so.”
“Leave me, Pendarric. I have much to consider. Tomorrow I must try to kill my son.”
16
THE TEN COHORTS of Legio IX arrived at the plain before Perdita, the Castle of Iron, five days after the battle in which Agarin Pinder’s army had been crushed. Uther ordered a halt, and the twenty wagons bearing supplies and equipment were drawn into a hastily dug defensive enclosure. The rebel army now numbered more than six thousand men, and Maggrig had been placed in command of the Pinrae warriors.
With Prasamaccus, Maggrig, and Severinus, Uther walked to the edge of the trees overlooking the fortress, a cold dread settling on him as he gazed on the black castle rearing from the mist-shrouded plain. It seemed to the prince to resemble a colossal demonic head, with a cavernous mouth of a gateway. No troops were assembled to defend it, and the plain sat silent and beckoning.
“When do we advance?” Maggrig asked.
“Why has no further attempt been made to stop us?” countered Uther.
“Why count the teeth of the gifted horse?” said Prasamaccus. Maggrig and Severinus nodded agreement.
“We are not engaging an enemy force,” said Uther. “We are fighting a war against a Witch Queen. No attempt has been made on my life; no other fighting force has been raised to oppose us. What does that suggest to you?”
“That she is beaten,” said Maggrig.
“No,” Uther replied. “The opposite is the case. She used Agarin because his victory was the simple option, but she has other forces at her disposal.” He turned to Severinus. “We have four hours before dusk. Leave a small force within the enclosure and march the legion to where we stand.”
“And what of my men?” asked Maggrig.
“Wait for my order.”
“What do you plan?” asked Severinus.
Uther smiled. “I plan to take the castle.”
On the high tower Goroien’s eyes opened, and she, too, smiled.
“Come to me, sweet boy,” she whispered. Beside her Gilgamesh stood, his dark armor gleaming in the sunlight.
“Well?” he asked.
“They are coming … as is Culain.”
“I would have liked the opportunity to kill the boy.”
“Be satisfied with the man.”
“Oh, I will be satisfied, Mother.” Under the helm Gilgamesh grinned as he saw her shoulders stiffen and watched a crimson blush stain her porcelain features. She swung on him, forcing a smile.
“I wonder,” she said, her voice dripping venom, “if it has occurred to you that after today you will have nothing to live for.”
“What do you mean?”
“All your life you have dreamed of killing Culain lach Feragh. What will you do tomorrow, Gilgamesh, my love? What will you do when there is no enemy to fight?”
“I will know peace,” he said simply. The answer shook her momentarily, for his voice had carried a note she had never heard from the Lord of Battle, a softness like the echoes of sorrow.
“You will never know peace,” she spit. “You live for death!”
“Perhaps that is because I am dead,” he replied, the harsh edge returning.
“He is coming. You should prepare yourself.”
“Yes. I long to see his face and read his eyes in the moment I tell him who I am.”
“Why must you tell him?” she asked, suddenly fearful.
“What will it matter?” he responded. “He will die anyway.” With that he turned and walked from the ramparts. Goroien watched him depart and felt again the curious arousal his movements inspired. So graceful, so strong—steel muscles beneath silk-soft skin. Once more she gazed at the line of trees in the distance, then she also returned to her rooms.
As she entered the inner sanctum, she stopped before a full-length mirror and closely examined her reflection. A hint of gray shone in the gold of her hair, and the finest of lines was visible beside her eyes. It was growing worse. She moved to the center of the room, where a boulder-sized Bloodstone rested on a tree of gold. Around it were the dried-out husks of three pregnant women. Goroien touched the stone, feeling its warmth spread into her. The corpses vanished, and a shadow moved behind her.
“Come forth, Secargus!??
? she commanded, and a hulking figure ambled into view. More than seven feet tall, he towered over the queen, his bestial face more wolf than man, his jaws slavering, his tongue lolling.
“Fetch five more.”
He reached out a taloned hand to touch her, his eyes pleading.
“Tonight,” she said. “I will make you a man again, and you can share my bed. Would you like that?” The huge head nodded, and a low growling moan escaped the twisted mouth. “Now fetch five more.” He ambled away toward the dungeons where the women were kept, and Goroien moved to the stone; the black lines were thick in the red-gold. For some time she remained where she was, waiting for Secargus to bring the women to their timely deaths.
On the ramparts once more, Goroien waited patiently. The mist swirled on the plain, but her excitement grew as she waited for the inevitable moment of victory. With an hour to go before dusk she saw the legion march from the trees in battle order, ranks of five, spreading to form a long shield wall before the spearmen. On they came into the mist: five thousand men whose souls would feed her Bloodstone. Her hands were trembling as she watched them advance, their bronze shields gleaming like fire in the dying sunlight. She licked her lips and raised her arms, linking her mind with the dread stone.
Suddenly the plain was engulfed in fire, white-hot and searing, the heat reaching even there on the battlements. Within the mist the soldiers burned, human torches that crumpled to the earth, their bodies blistering and burning like living candles. Black smoke obscured her vision, and she returned to her rooms.
Culain would soon be arriving, and she transformed her clothing into a tight-fitting tunic and leggings of forest green with a belt of spun gold. It had always been Culain’s favorite.
Back at the edge of the woods Uther collapsed Prasamaccus and Severinus knelt beside him.
“It is exhaustion,” said Severinus. “Fetch some wine!”
Maggrig stood close by, staring into the Mist where the vision of death had appeared. He was appalled, for he would willingly have led his own men across that plain and now would be lying scorched and dead on the blackened earth. Berec-Uther had halted the legion in the woods, then had knelt facing the plain.