There was no answer, but the sound increased as hurried steps moved toward him. Cormac waited until the last second, then swung the sword in a whistling arc; the blade hammered into the attacker and then slid clear. More sounds came to Cormac then: angry voices, shuffling feet. Gripping his sword double-handed, he held it before him.
There was a sudden movement to his left—and a hideous pain in his side. He twisted and slashed out with his sword, missing his attacker.
By the wall of the cabin Anduine regained consciousness to find herself being held tightly by a bearded man. Her eyes opened, and she saw Cormac, blind and alone in a circle of armed men.
“No!” she screamed, closing her eyes and returning his gift.
Cormac’s vision returned just as a second attacker moved silently forward. The man was grinning. Cormac blocked a blow, then sent his blade slicing through the Viking’s throat. The remaining seven charged in, and Cormac had no chance, but as he fell, he hacked and cut at the enemy. A sword blade pierced his back, and another tore a gaping wound in his chest.
Anduine screamed and touched her hand to her captor’s chest. The man’s tunic burst into flames that slid up to cover his face. Bellowing in pain, he released her, his hands beating his beard as the fire caught in his hair.
She fell, then stood and ran at the group surrounding Cormac, her hands blazing with white fire. A Viking warrior moved toward her with sword raised, but flames lanced from her hands, engulfing him. A second warrior hurled a knife that slammed into her chest. She faltered, staggered, but still came on, desperate to reach Cormac. From behind her another warrior moved in, his blade piercing her back and exiting at her chest. Blood bubbled from her mouth, and she sank to the ground.
Cormac tried to crawl to her, but a sword plunged into his back and darkness swept over him.
From the hill above Oleg Hammerhand roared in anger. The Vikings turned as he raced into the clearing with two swords in his hands.
“I see you, Maggrin,” shouted Oleg.
“I see you, traitor,” hissed a dark-bearded warrior.
“Don’t kill him!” Rhiannon yelled from the cabin doorway.
Oleg and Maggrin rushed at each other, their blades crashing, sparks flying from the contact. Oleg spun on his heel and rammed his second sword like a dagger into the man’s belly. As Maggrin fell, the four survivors attacked in a group. Oleg ran to meet them, blocking and cutting with a savage frenzy they could not match. One by one they fell before the cold-eyed warrior and his terrible blades. The last survivor broke into a run to escape his doom, but Oleg hurled a sword after him that hit him hilt-first on the back of the head, and he fell. Before he could rise, the Hammerhand had reached him and his head rolled from his shoulders.
Oleg stood in the clearing, his lungs heaving, the berserk rage dispelling. Finally he turned to Rhiannon.
“Traitress!” he said. “Of all the acts you could have committed to bring me shame, this was the worst. Two people risked their lives to save you … and paid for it with their own. Get out of my sight! Go!”
“You don’t understand!” she shouted. “I didn’t want this to happen; I just wanted to get away.”
“You called them here. This is your work. Now go! If I see you after this day, I will kill you with my bare hands. Go!”
She ran to him. “Father, please!”
His huge hand lashed across her face, spinning her from her feet. “I do not know you! You are dead,” he said.
She struggled to stand, then backed away from the ice in his eyes and ran away down the hillside.
Oleg moved first to A duine, pulling the sword clear from her back.
“You will never know, lady, the depth of my sorrow. May God grant you peace.” He closed her eyes and walked to where Cormac lay in a spreading pool of blood.
“You fought well, boy,” he said, kneeling.
Cormac groaned. Oleg lifted him and carried him into the cabin, where, after stripping the youth’s blood-drenched clothes, he checked his wounds: two in the back, one in the side, one in the chest. All were deep, and each one could see a man dead, Oleg knew. But all of them? Cormac had no chance.
Knowing it was useless, Oleg gathered needle and thread and stitched the wounds. When they were sealed, he covered Cormac with a blanket and built up the fire. Then, with candles lit and the cabin warm, Oleg returned to the bed. Cormac’s pulse fluttered weakly, and his color was bad—gray streaks on his face, purple rings below his eyes.
“You lost too much blood, Cormac,” whispered Oleg. “Your heart is straining … and I can do nothing! Fight it, man. Every day will see you stronger.” Cormac’s head sagged sideways, his breath rattling in his throat. Oleg had heard that sound before. “Don’t you die, you whoreson!”
All breathing ceased, but Oleg pushed his hand hard down on Cormac’s chest. “Breathe, damn you!” Something hot burned into Oleg’s palm, and he lifted his hand. The stone on the chain around Cormac’s neck was glowing like burning gold, and a shuddering breath filled the wounded man’s lungs.
“Praise be to all the gods there ever were,” said Oleg. Placing his hand once more on the stone, he stared down at the wound in Cormac’s chest. “Can you heal that?” he asked. Nothing happened. “Well, keep him alive, anyway,” he whispered.
Then he rose and took a shovel from the back of the cabin. The ground would still be hard, but Oleg owed at least that to Anduine, the Life Giver, the princess from Raetia.
10
AS THE NIGHT wore on, Gwalchmai slept lightly on his chair at the bedside, his head resting on the wall. Prasamaccus and Culain sat silently. The Brigante was recalling his first meeting with the Lance Lord, high in the Caledones, when the dark-cloaked Vampyres sought their blood and the young prince escaped through the gateway to the land of the Pinrae. The boy, Thuro—as he then was—became the man Uther in a savage war against the Witch Queen. He and Laitha had wed there, and she had brought him the gift of the sword; two young people ablaze with the power of youth, the confidence that death was an eternity away. Now, after a mere twenty-six summers, the Blood King lay still, Gian Avur—the beautiful Laitha—was gone, and the kingdom Uther had saved faced destruction by a terrible foe. The words of the Druids echoed through Prasamaccus’ mind.
“For such are the works of man that they are written upon the air in mist and vanish in the winds of history.”
Culain was lost in thoughts of the present. Why had they not slain the king once his soul was in their possession? For all his evil, Molech was a man of great intellect. News of Uther’s death would demoralize the kingdom, making his invasion plans more certain of success. He worried at the problem from every angle.
Wotan’s sorcerer priests had come to kill the king and take the sword. But the sword was gone. Therefore, they took Uther’s soul. Perhaps they thought—not without justification—that the body would die.
Culain pushed the problem from his mind. Whatever the reason, it was a mistake, and the Lance Lord prayed it would be a costly one. Though he did not know it, it had proved more than costly to the priest who had made it, for his body now hung on a Raetian battlement, his skin flayed, crows feasting on his eyes.
A glowing ball of white fire appeared in the center of the room, and Prasamaccus nocked an arrow to his bow. Culain stretched his sword across the bed and touched Gwalchmai’s shoulder. The sleeper awakened instantly. Taking the golden stone, Culain touched it to both of Gwalchmai’s blades, then moved to Prasamaccus and emptied his quiver, running the stone over each of the twenty arrowheads. The glowing ball collapsed upon itself, and a gray mist rolled out across the room. Culain waited, then lifted the stone and spoke a single word of power. A golden light pulsed from him, surrounding the two warriors and the body of the king. The mist filled the room … and vanished. A dark shadow appeared on the far wall, deepening and spreading until it became the mouth of a cave. A cold breeze blew from the opening, causing the lanterns to gutter. Moonlight streamed through the open windows, and i
n that silver light Gwalchmai saw a beast from the pit emerge from the cave. Scaled and horned, with long curved fangs, it pushed out into the room. But as it touched the lines of magic Culain had laid, lightning seared its gray body and flames engulfed it. It fell back into the cave, hissing in pain.
Three men leapt into the room. The first fell with an arrow in his throat. Culain and Gwalchmai darted forward, and within moments the other assassins both lay dead upon the floor.
The two warriors waited with swords raised, but the cave mouth shrank to become a shadow and faded from sight.
Gwalchmai pushed the toe of his boot at a fallen assassin, turning the body to its back. The flesh of the face had decomposed, and only a rotting corpse lay there. The old Cantii warrior recoiled from the sight. “We fought dead men!” he whispered.
“It is Wotan’s way of gaining loyalty. The bravest of his warriors are untouched by death … or so they believe.”
“Well, we beat them,” said Gwalchmai.
“They will return, and we will not be able to hold them. We must take the king to a place of safety.”
“And what place is safe from the sorcery of Wotan?” asked Prasamaccus.
“The Isle of Crystal,” Culain answered.
“We cannot carry the king’s body halfway across the realm,” argued Gwalchmai. “And even if we could, the holy place would not accept him. He is a warrior; they will have no dealings with those who spill blood.”
“They will take him,” said Culain softly. “It is, in part, their mission.”
“You have been there?”
Culain smiled. “I planted the staff that became a tree. But that is another story from another time. Nowhere on land is the earth magic more powerful or the symbols more obscure. Wotan cannot bring his demons to the Isle of Crystal. And if he journeys there himself, it will be as a man, stripped of all majesty of magic. He would not dare.”
Gwalchmai stood and looked down at the seemingly lifeless body of Uther. “The question is irrelevant. We cannot carry him across the land.”
“I can, for I will travel the ancient paths, the lung mei, the way of the spirits.”
“And what of Prasamaccus and me?”
“You have already been of service to your king, and you can do no more for him directly. But Wotan’s army will soon be upon you. It is not my place to suggest your actions, but my advice would be to rally as many men to Uther’s banner as you can. Tell them the king lives and will return to lead them on the day of Ragnorak.”
“And what day is that?” Prasamaccus asked.
“The day of greatest despair,” whispered Culain. He stood and walked to the western wall. There he knelt, stone in hand, and in the near silence that followed both men heard the whispering of a deep river, the lapping of waves on unseen shores. The wall shimmered and opened.
“Swiftly now!” said Culain, and Gwalchmai and Prasamaccus lifted the heavy body of the Blood King and carried it to the new entrance. Steps had appeared, leading down into a cavern and a deep, dark river. A boat was moored by a stone jetty; gently the two Britons lowered the king into it. Culain untied the mooring rope and stepped to the stern.
As the craft slid away, Culain turned. “Get back to the turret as swiftly as you can. If the gateway closes, you’ll be dead within the hour.”
As swiftly as the limping Prasamaccus could move, the two men mounted the stairs. Behind them they could hear weird murmurings and the scrabbling sounds of talons on stone. As they neared the gateway, Gwalchmai saw it shimmer. Seizing Prasamaccus, he hurled him forward and then dived after him, rolling to his knees on the rugs of Uther’s room.
Behind them now was merely a wall bathed in the golden light of the sun rising above the eastern hills and shining through the open window.
Victorinus and the twelve men of his party rode warily but without incident during the first three days of their journey. But on the fourth, as they approached a thick wood with a narrow path, Victorinus reined in his mount.
His second aide, Marcus Bassicus, a young man of good Romano-British stock, rode alongside him.
“Is anything wrong, sir?”
The sun above them was bright, the pathway into the woods shrouded by the overhanging trees. Victorinus took a deep breath, aware of the presence of fear. Suddenly he smiled.
“Have you enjoyed life, Marcus?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you lived it to the full?”
“I think so, sir. Why do you ask?”
“It is my belief that death awaits, hidden in those trees. There is no glory there, no prospect of victory. Just pain and darkness and an end to joy.”
The young man’s face became set, and his gray eyes narrowed. “And what should we do, sir?”
“You and the others must make your choice, but I must enter those woods. Speak to the men, explain to them that we are betrayed. Tell them that any who wish to flee may do so without shame; it is no act of cowardice.”
“Then why must you ride on, sir?”
“Because Wotan will be watching, and I want him to know that I do not fear his treachery, that I welcome it. I want him to understand the nature of the foe. He has conquered Belgica, Raetia, and Gaul and has the Romans on bended knee before him. Britannia will not be as these others.”
Marcus rode back to the waiting men, leaving the general staring at the entrance to his own grave. Victorinus lifted the round cavalry shield from the back of his saddle and settled it on his left arm. Then, looping the reins of his warhorse around the saddle pommel, he drew his saber and without a backward glance touched his heels to his mount and moved on. Behind him the twelve soldiers took up their shields and sabers and rode after him.
Within a clearing just inside the line of trees two hundred Goths drew their weapons and waited.
“You say the king is alive,” said Geminus Cato, pushing the maps across the table and rising to pour a goblet of mixed wine and water. “But you will forgive my cynicism, I hope.”
Gwalchmai shrugged and turned from the window. “I can offer you only my word, General. But it has been considered worth respecting.”
Cato smiled and smoothed the close-cropped black beard that shone like an oiled pelt. “Allow me to review the facts that are known. A tall man, dressed in the robes of a Christian, assaulted two guards and made his way unobstructed to the king’s tower. This man, you say, is the legendary Lancelot. He declared the body to be alive and used sorcery to remove it from the tower.”
“In essence that is true,” Gwalchmai admitted.
“But is he not also the king’s sworn enemy? The Great Betrayer?”
“He is.”
“Then why did you believe him?”
Gwalchmai looked to Prasamaccus, who was sitting quietly at the table. The crippled Brigante cleared his throat.
“With the utmost respect, General, you never knew the Lance Lord. Put from your mind the interminable stories regarding his treachery. What did he do? He slept with a woman. Which of us has not? He alone saved the king when the traitors slew Uther’s father. He alone journeyed to the Witch Queen’s castle and killed the Lord of the Undead. He is more than a warrior of legend. And his word, on this matter, I believe utterly.”
Cato shook his head. “But you also believe the man is thousands of years old, a demigod whose kingdom is under the great western sea.”
Prasamaccus swallowed the angry retort that welled within him. Geminus Cato was more than a capable general; he was a skilled and canny soldier, respected by his men though not loved, and, with the exception of Victorinus, the only man capable of fielding a force against the Goths. But he was also of pure Roman stock and had little understanding of the ways of the Celts or the lore of magic that formed their culture. Prasamaccus considered his next words with care.
“General, let us put aside for a moment the history of Culain lach Feragh. Wotan has tried, perhaps successfully, to assassinate the king. His next move will be to invade, and when he does so, he will
not find himself short of allies once it is known that Uther will not stand against them. Culain has given us time to plan. If we spread the word that the king lives—and will return—it will give the Saxons, Jutes, and Angles a problem to consider. They have heard of the might of Wotan, but they know the perils of facing the Blood King.”
Cato’s dark eyes fixed on Prasamaccus, and for several minutes the silence endured; then the general returned to his seat.
“Very well, horse master. Tactically I accept that it is better for Uther to be alive than dead. I shall see that the story is disseminated. But I can spare no knights to seek the sword. Every officer of worth is out scouring the countryside for volunteers, and all militiamen are being recalled.” He pulled the maps toward him and pointed to the largest, the land survey commissioned by Ptolemy hundreds of years before. “You have both traveled the land extensively. It is not difficult to imagine where Wotan will land in the south, but he has several armies. Were I in his place, I would be looking for a double assault, perhaps even a triple. We do not have the numbers to cover the country. So where will he strike?”
Gwalchmai gazed down on the map of the land then called Albion. “The Sea Wolves have always favored the coastline here,” he said, stabbing his finger to the Humber, “at Petvaria. If Wotan follows this course, he will be below Eboracum, cutting us off from our forces in the south.”
Cato nodded. “And if the Brigantes and Trinovantes rise to support him, the whole of Britain will be sliced into three war zones: from the Wall of Hadrian to Eboracum, from Eboracum to Petvaria—or even Durobrivae, if they sail in by the wash—and from there to Anderida or Dubris.
“At best we can raise another ten thousand warriors, bringing our total mobile force to twenty-five thousand. Rumors tell us that Wotan can muster five times as many men, and that is not counting the Saxon rebels or the Brigantes in the north. What I would not give for Victorinus to return with reliable intelligence!” He looked up from the map. “Gwalchmai, I want you to journey to Gaius Geminus in Dubris.”