What had he said that day on the tor? “The scrap of guilt” at her feet. Well, she had raised it to her face and taken it to her heart.
“I am sorry, Culain,” she whispered. “I am sorry.”
But he was dead now and could not hear her.
And her tears melted the years of bitterness.
Goroien stepped into the audience hall, dressed in armor of blazing silver with two short swords strapped to her slender hips. Cormac, Maedhlyn, and the Romano-Britons all stood.
“I will aid you, Cormac,” she said. “In a while Gilgamesh will come to you and tell you that the army of the Witch Queen is ready to march.”
Cormac bowed deeply. “I thank you, lady.”
The queen said no more and left the hall without a backward glance.
“What did you say to her?” asked Maedhlyn.
Cormac waved away the question. “How can we be sure that Wotan will be absent from the keep? You said the men there are called Loyals, but they would not be loyal to something they never saw.”
“Very shrewd, Prince Cormac,” said the Enchanter.
“Leave the empty compliments,” snapped Cormac. “Answer the question.”
“We cannot be sure, but we know he lives in the world of flesh, and that will take most of his time. We have all seen both worlds. In which would you choose to live, Cormac?”
“I mean to keep faith with Goroien,” said Cormac, ignoring the question, “and that means that I need to know what you plan. You have been wonderfully helpful, Maedhlyn. You were there when I arrived in this forsaken land … as if you were expecting me. And that nonsense with the coin—you knew I was not dead.”
“Yes,” admitted Maedhlyn, “that is true, but my loyalty was to Uther—to bring him back.”
“Not true. Not even close,” said the prince. By then Victorinus and the other Britons were listening intently, and Maedhlyn was growing increasingly nervous. “What you desire, wizard, is to regain your body. You can do that only if we take Wotan’s soul.”
“Of course I wish to return to the flesh. Who would not? Does that make me a traitor?”
“No. But if Uther is released and returns to the world, he will attempt to kill Wotan. And that would doom you here forever, would it not?”
“You are building a house of straw.”
“You think so? You did not wish us to come to Goroien; you argued against attacking the keep.”
“That was to save your souls!”
“I wonder.”
Maedhlyn stood, his pale eyes scanning the group. “I have aided those of your blood, Cormac, for two hundred years. What you suggest is shameful. You think I am a servant of Wotan? When Uther was in danger, I managed to escape this world briefly and warn him. That is why he still lives, for he managed to hide the Sword of Power. I am no traitor, nor have I ever been.”
“If you wish to come with us, Maedhlyn, then convince me of it.”
“You are right; I knew you were not dead. Sometimes I can breach the Void and glimpse the world of flesh. I saw you fall in the Caledones woods, and I also saw the huge man with you carry you into the hut and lay you on the bed. You wore a stone, and its power was unwittingly unleashed by your companion. He told it to keep you alive. It did—and it does. But I knew you were on the point of death, and I traveled to the gateway to await you. And yes, I want to return to the world, but I would not sacrifice Uther’s life to achieve it. There is nothing more that I can say.”
Cormac swung on Victorinus. “You know this man, so you choose,” he said.
Victorinus hesitated, his gaze locked on Maedhlyn’s. “He always had his own game, but he is right when he says there is no treachery in him. I say we should take him with us.”
“Very well,” said Cormac, “but watch him carefully.”
The door opened, and Gilgamesh entered. He was fully armored in black and silver, a dark helm once more covering his face. He approached Cormac, and as their eyes met, Cormac felt his hatred like a blow.
“The army is assembled, and we are ready to march.”
Cormac smiled. “You do not like this situation, do you?”
“What I like is of no consequence. Follow me.” He turned on his heel and strode from the room.
Outside the mountain entrance a vast horde of men and shadow beasts were gathered: red-eyed creatures with sharp fangs, monsters with wings of leather, scaled men with pallid faces and cruel eyes.
“Mother of Mithras!” whispered Victorinus. “These are our allies?”
Goroien stood at the center of the mass, surrounded by a score of huge hounds with eyes of fire.
“Come, Prince Cormac,” she called. “March with Athena, goddess of war!”
17
THE KEEP LOOMED like a black tomb over the landscape of the Void, a vast single-towered fortress with four crenellated battlements and a gateway shaped like the mouth of a demon, rimmed with fangs of dark iron.
Around it loped huge hounds, some as large as ponies, but of Molech’s army there was nothing to be seen.
“I do not like the look of that gateway,” said Victorinus, standing beside Cormac at the center of the shadow horde.
“Well you might not,” said Goroien. “The teeth snap shut.”
“Is there a mechanism that operates them?” Cormac asked.
“There is,” said Maedhlyn. “Molech based that design on one I created for him at Babel; there are a series of wheels and levers behind the gateway.”
“Then some of us must scale the walls,” Cormac said.
“No,” said Goroien, “it will not be necessary to climb them.” Raising her hand, she called out in a language unknown to the Britons, and the beasts around her made way for a group of tall men, their skins ivory pale, dark wings growing from their shoulders. “These will bear you to the battlements.”
“Do they know we are here, do you think?” whispered one of the Britons.
“They know,” said Goroien.
“Then let us waste no more time,” said Cormac.
Goroien threw back her head, and a high-pitched chilling howl issued from her throat. Her hounds leapt forward, hurtling across the dark plain. From the keep came an answering howl, and the beasts of Molech ran to meet them.
“If you cannot keep the gate open, we are lost,” Goroien told Cormac, and the prince nodded.
Winged creatures with cold eyes moved behind the Britons, looping long arms around their chests. Dark wings spread, and Cormac felt himself sag into the creature’s arms as it rose into the air. Dizziness struck him, and the beating of the wings sounded like a coming storm in his ears. High above the keep they soared, and now Cormac could see the armored warriors of Molech’s Loyals manning the battlements. Arrows flew up toward him, arcing away as the winged beast rose above their range. Again and again the beast dropped within range, only to soar once more as the shafts were loosed. Around him Cormac could see the other winged carriers using the same tactic.
Then, without warning, they dropped together, and Cormac heard several screams from among the Britons as the keep rushed toward them. The bowmen on the walls let fly with their last shafts but hit nothing, and men scattered as the diving beasts spread their wings and beat them frantically to slow their fall. Cormac felt the arms around him loosen as he was still ten feet above the battlements. Bracing himself and bending his knees, he was ready when the creature released him and landed lightly, his sword sliding into his hand. Around him the other Britons gathered themselves, and alongside him appeared the dark-armored Gilgamesh.
The winged carriers departed, and for a moment there was no movement on the battlements. Then, seeing how few the attackers were, the Loyals charged. With a wild cry Gilgamesh leapt to meet them, his swords a blur that cleaved their ranks. Cormac and the Britons rushed to his aid, and the battle was joined. There were no wounded or dead to encumber the fighting men. Mortal wounds saw the victim fall … and disappear. No blood, no screams of agony, no snaking entrails on which to slip and
fall.
Victorinus fought, as ever, coolly and with his mind alert, missing nothing. He saw with wonderment the incredible skills of the warrior Gilgamesh, who seemed to float into action without apparent speed. This, Victorinus knew, was the mark of greatness in close combat: the ability to create space in which to think and move. Alongside him Cormac hacked and slashed in a frenzy, his passion and recklessness achieving the same result as the more graceful Gilgamesh, warriors falling before him like leaves before an autumn storm. Slowly the Loyals were pushed back along the narrow battlement.
Out on the plain the shadow horde had reached the gateway, and the teeth snapped shut. Once again Goroien sent up the shadow beasts, who harried the defenders on the battlements, swooping and diving, cold knives sweeping across unprotected throats.
Cormac dispatched an opponent, then leapt to the parapet and sprinted along the wall above the shadow horde a hundred feet below. A defender slashed at him, but he hurdled the blade, landing awkwardly and swaying out over the edge. Recovering his balance, he ran on, clambering up the outside wall of the gate tower and over the top to a second battlement. There were two warriors stationed there, both with bows. Cormac dived to one side as an arrow hissed by him. Dropping their bows, the archers drew short, curved swords, and together they rushed him. He parried the first lunge, his blade cleaving the man’s neck, but the second man lashed out with his foot, spilling Cormac to the stone floor. His sword spun from his hand. Desperately he struggled to rise, but a curved sword touched his neck.
“Are you ready for death?” the man whispered.
A knife appeared in the warrior’s throat, and he vanished from sight as Gilgamesh leapt lightly down to join Cormac. “Fool!” hissed Gilgamesh.
Cormac gathered his sword and looked around him. A stairwell led down to the gateway, and he moved onto it and began the descent. Below the battlement was a room, and—as Maedhlyn had said—it was filled with interlocking wheels and levers. Three men sat by the mechanism. Gilgamesh touched Cormac’s shoulder and moved silently ahead. The men saw him, dragged their swords free …
… and died.
“You are very skilled,” said Cormac.
“Just what I needed,” responded Gilgamesh. “Praise from a peasant! How does this mechanism operate?”
Cormac gazed at the interlocking wheels, seeking the obvious and finding it. “I would say it was this,” he said, pointing to the dark handle that jutted from the smallest wheel. Gripping it with both hands, he began to turn it from right to left.
“How do you know that is the right way?” asked Gilgamesh.
“It does not move the other way,” said Cormac, smiling. “Does that not tell you something?”
Gilgamesh grunted and ran to a second door. “As soon as they see the fangs begin to rise, they will gather here more swiftly than flies on a wound.”
Even as he spoke, the pounding of feet could be heard on the stairs. Cormac turned the handle as swiftly as he could, his muscles bunching and straining. The door burst open, and several men rushed in; Gilgamesh dispatched them swiftly, but others forced him back.
At last Cormac reached the point where the wheel would turn no more. Picking up a fallen sword, he rammed it into the mechanism and jammed it between the spokes of two larger wheels. Then he ran to aid the beleaguered Gilgamesh, and together they halted the advance.
From below them came the clash of sword on sword. The Loyals fought desperately, sensing that their doom was close. Shadow beasts appeared behind them on the stairs, and the battle ended.
Cormac pushed past the creatures and forced his way down to the gateway tunnel. Inside the walls all was chaos. He saw Goroien battling desperately against three warriors and raced to her side, his sword crushing the skull of the man to her left. Spinning on her heel, Goroien plunged one blade into an attacker’s belly while blocking a slashing blow from the second man. Cormac killed him with a disemboweling thrust.
Everywhere the Loyals were falling back. Victorinus and the eight surviving Britons ran to join Cormac.
“The king!” said Victorinus. “We must find him.”
Cormac had thoughts only for Anduine, but he nodded, and the group forced its way into the central tower, finding itself in a long hall. Men and women fled past them, desperate to find places to hide. One of them ran to Cormac, grabbing his arm. He shook himself free but then recognized Rhiannon.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, pulling her clear of the melee. The Britons gathered around them in a sword circle.
“Wotan sent me here,” she sobbed. “Please help me!”
“Have you seen Anduine?”
“No. One of the guards said Wotan has taken her back to the world.”
“Back? I do not understand.”
“It is a promise he makes to his Loyals. He has a way of returning them to life.”
Cormac’s heart sank, and a terrible rage began to grow. What more must he do? He had come beyond the borders of death only to find that fate had tricked him even there.
“The king!” Victorinus urged him.
“Lead us to the dungeons!” Cormac ordered Rhiannon, and the blond girl nodded and set off across the hall to a wide stairwell. They followed her down into a narrow torchlit, shadow-haunted tunnel.
Suddenly a taloned hand flashed out, encircling Rhiannon’s neck. There was a hideous snap, and the girl disappeared. Cormac hurled himself forward, and a beast with the head of a wolf stepped into view, roaring with rage. Cormac rammed his sword deep into its belly, and it faded from sight.
Dungeon doors stood open through the length of the tunnel except one at the very end. Cormac lifted the locking bar and pulled open the door. Within was a shocking sight: a man covered in rats that tore at his flesh. Raising his sword, Cormac severed the chains of fire that bound him; the body fell, and the rats fled as the Britons came forward. The flesh of the man’s body healed instantly, but his eyes were vacant and saliva drooled from the slack jaw.
“His mind has gone,” said Cormac.
“Who could blame it?” Victorinus hissed as with great gentleness they lifted the man to his feet.
“Don’t know,” said Uther. “Don’t know.”
“You are with friends, sire,” whispered Victorinus. “With friends.”
“Don’t know.”
Slowly they led him from the tunnel and up into the throne hall, where Goroien sat with Gilgamesh standing alongside her. The hall was thronged with shadow beasts, which parted to make way for the small group of Britons and the naked man in their midst.
Goroien rose from the throne and walked slowly to stand before Uther, gazing into the empty eyes.
“There was a time when I would have been happy to see him this way,” she said, “but not now. He was a mighty man and a fine enemy. When I was a child, my father used to say, ‘May the gods give us strong enemies. For they alone will keep us powerful.’ Uther was the strongest of enemies.” She turned to Cormac, seeing the pain in his eyes. “And what of your lady?”
“Wotan … Molech … has taken her back to the world with him.”
“Then you must return there, Cormac.”
He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. He spread his hands. “And how shall I do that?” She looked down, and her eyes widened.
“However you do it, it must be done swiftly,” she said, pointing to his right hand. A dark shadow nestled there, round and semitransparent.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It is the black coin, and once it is solid, there will be no return.”
Maedhlyn waited in Molech’s private chambers with a slender dagger in his hand. A light flared over the silver-crowned skull, and a man’s shape formed in the air. As it became solid, Maedhlyn stepped behind it, his dagger plunging toward the back. With astonishing speed the man whirled, his powerful hand closing on Maedhlyn’s wrist.
“Almost, Maedhlyn,” hissed Wotan, twisting the dagger from his grasp and pushing the white-bearded Enchante
r from him. Wotan moved to the doorway and stood in the corridor; then, stepping back, he shut the door.
“So,” he said, “one empire falls. Well done, Lord Enchanter!”
“Kill me!” pleaded Maedhlyn. “I can stand this no longer.”
Wotan laughed. “Give it time. You sent me here two thousand years ago, and now it is your turn to enjoy the unimaginable wonders of the Void: food with no flavor, women but no love, wine but no joy. And if you become so weary, you can always end your own life.”
“Take me back. I will serve you.”
“You have promised that already. You said that the boy Cormac might know the whereabouts of the sword. But he did not.”
“I could still find it. They have rescued the king, and he trusts me.”
“You will not find much left of your king unless I misjudge the many talents of the companions I left with him.”
“Please, Molech …”
“Good-bye, Maedhlyn. I will pass on your kind regards to Pendarric.”
Wotan shimmered and was gone. Maedhlyn stood for a while staring at the silver-ringed skull, then lifted it and made his way to the hall.
He knelt before Goroien. “Here, my queen, is a gift worth more than worlds. It is the spirit twin of the one Molech has in life. With it you can breach the world above and return yourself—and others—to the flesh.”
Goroien accepted the skull, then tossed it to Gilgamesh. “Destroy it!” she ordered.
“But Mother!”
“Do it!”
“No!” screamed Maedhlyn as Gilgamesh dashed the skull to the stone floor, where it shattered into hundreds of tiny shards. The glowing silver band rolled across the floor, and Maedhlyn stumbled after it, but smoke began to issue from the circle and the band vanished. The Enchanter fell to his knees. “Why?” he shouted.
“Because it is over, Maedhlyn,” she told him. “We had thousands of years of life, and what did we do? We set mankind on a road of madness. I do not want life. I desire no more titles. The Witch Queen is dead; she will remain so.” She moved to Gilgamesh, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Now is the time for good-byes, my dear. I have decided to travel the road to see where it ends. I ask one thing more of you.”