Ghost King (18 page)

'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?' asked Rhiall.

'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?' asked Uther.

'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 such a position as 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 favours the Gods bestowed.

Prasamaccus joined him, sensing his unease.

'Are the Gods being kind?' asked the Brigante.

'Perhaps,' replied Uther, 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, marshalling his thoughts. 'It must be exceptionally hard for her. All her life she has lived with this hero, worshipping 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 realised 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 ago 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 Ebor-acum, 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 here 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 realised 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 hill-top and he was alone. He turned and gazed on 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, grey-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 armourer. 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.

'I shall have food brought to you.'

After he had gone Uther ran his mind back over the meeting. It was no mystery how he had focused on Maggrig; the man's stance showed him to be a warrior and he was the first to come forward, the others crowding around him. It had been a pleasant surprise when Mag-grig had misinterpreted Uther's question. But then, as Maedhlyn always said, the prince had a swift mind.

Somehow the meeting left Uther feeling less melancholy. Was it so easy to be a God?

The answer would come within four days.

And it would be written in blood.

Culain lach Feragh sat before the cairn of stones watching the smoke from his small fire wafting in through the shattered windows of the derelict house. The Mist Warrior laid his silver lance by his side and pulled on two leather gauntlets edged with silver. His long hair was bound at the nape of the neck and over his shoulders he wore a silver-ringed protector, expertly sewn to a short cape of soft leather. A thick silver-inlaid belt was buckled to his waist and his legs were protected by thigh-length boots, reinforced by silver strips to the fronts and sides. A flickering blue light began inside the dwelling and Culain rose smoothly, placing a silver-winged helm upon his head, tying the scimitar-shaped ear-guards under his chin.

A slender figure came forward through the smoke which billowed and died, the fire quenched in an instant. As he saw her, his mouth went dry and he longed to step forward and pull her into his arms. She in turn stopped in her tracks as she recognised him, her hand flying to her mouth.

'You are alive!' she whispered.

'Thus far, lady.' She was wearing a simple dress of silver thread, her golden hair held in place by a black band at the brow.

Tell me that you have come back to be with me.'

'I cannot.'

'Then why do you summon me?' she snapped, her blue eyes bright with anger.

Tendarric says there is naught but evil in you and he asked me to destroy you. But I cannot until I am convinced he is right.'

'He was always an old woman. He had the world and he lost it. Now it is the turn of others. He is finished, Culain. Come with me; I have a world to myself. Soon it will be four worlds. I have power undreamt of since the fall of Atlantis.'

'And yet you are dying,' he said, the words cutting him like knife wounds.

'Who says that I am.?' she hissed. 'Look at me! Am I any different? Is there a single sign of age or decay?'

'Not on the surface, Goroien. But how many have died . . . how many will die to keep you so?'

She moved towards him and the music began in his mind. The air was still and all the world was silent. Her arms came up around his neck and he smelt the perfume of her skin, felt the warmth of her touch. Reaching up he pulled her arms clear of him, pushing her away.

'What will you prove?' he asked. 'That I love you still? I do. That I want you? That too. But I will never have you. You killed Shaleat, you killed Alaida - and now you will destroy a world.'

'What are these savages to you, with their ten-second lives. There will always be more to replace those who die. They are unimportant, Culain. They always were, only you were too obsessed to see it. What does it matter now that Troy fell, or your friend Hector was slain by Achilles? What does it matter that the Romans conquered Britain? Life moves on. These people are as shadows to you and me. They exist to serve their betters.'

'I am one of them now, Goroien,' he said. 'My ten-second life is a joy. I never understood winter before, or truly felt the joy of spring. Come with me. Live out a life unto death, and we will see together what comes after.'

'Never!' she screamed. 'I will never die. You speak of pleasure. I see your decaying face and it makes me want to vomit: lines by your eyes, and I don't doubt that under that helm the silver is spreading like a cancer through your hair. In human terms what are you now, thirty? Forty? Soon you will begin to wither. Your teeth will rot. Young men will push you aside and mock you. And then you will fall and the worms will eat your eyes. How could you do this?'

'All things die, my love. Even worlds.' 'Do not speak to me of love, you never loved me. Only one man ever loved me and I have brought him back from the grave. That is what power is, Culain. Gilgamesh is with me once more.'

He stepped back from the glare of triumph in her eyes. 'That is not possible!'

'I kept his body throughout the centuries, surrounded by the glow of five Stones. I worked and I studied. And one day I succeeded. Go away and die somewhere, Culain, and I shall find your body and bring it back. Then you will be mine.'

'I am coming to Skitis, Goroien,' he said softly. 'I shall destroy your power.'

She laughed then, a rich mocking laughter that caused the colour to flood his cheeks. 'You are coming? Once that would have put terror into my heart, but not now. A middle-aged man, soft and decaying, is coming to challenge Gilgamesh? You have no idea how often he speaks of you, dreams of killing you. You think to stand against him? I will show you how your arrogance has betrayed you. You always liked the Shade games - play this one.' She gestured with her right hand and the air shimmered. Before Culain stood a tall warrior with golden hair and bright blue-green eyes. He carried a curved sword and a dagger. 'Here is Gilgamesh as he was.' The warrior leapt forward and Culain swept up the lance, twisted the handle and pulled clear the hidden sword. He was just in time to block a savage cut. Then another . . . and another. Culain fought with all the skill of the centuries, but Goroien was right; his aging body was no longer equipped to tackle the whirlwind that was Gilgamesh, the Lord of Battle. Culain, growing desperate, took a risk, spinning on his heel in the move he had taught Thuro. His opponent leapt to the left, avoiding Culain's raised elbow, and a cold sword slid beneath the Mist Warrior's ribs.

He crumpled, hitting the hard clay ground on his face and dislodging the silver helm. He fought to stay conscious, but his mind fell into darkness. When he awoke Goroien was still there, sitting by the cairn of stones.

'Go away, Culain,' she said. 'What you fought was Gilgamesh as he was. Now he is stronger and faster; he would kill you within seconds. Either that or use this.' She dropped a yellow pebble on the ground before him; it was pure Sipstrassi, with virtually no sign of black veins. 'Become immortal again. Become what you were . . . what you should be. Then you have a chance.'

He pushed himself to his feet. 'It is not usual to give your enemy a chance at life, lady.'

'How could you be my enemy? I have loved you since before the Fall. I will love you on the day the universe ends in fire.'

'We will never be lovers again, lady,' he said. 'I will see you on Skitis Island.'

She stood. 'You fool! You will not see me. You will see your death coming towards you in every stride Gilgamesh takes.'

She walked into the derelict house without a backward glance and Culain slumped to the ground, tears in his eyes. It had taken all his strength to tell her their love was ended. He stared down at the Sipstrassi Stone and lifted it. She was right, he was in no condition to face Gilgamesh. Her voice drifted back to him, as if from a great distance.

'Your grandson is a handsome boy. I think I will take him. Do you remember my time as Circe?' Her laughter echoed into silence.

Culain sat with head bowed. After the Trojan war Goroien had wreaked her vengeance on the Greeks, causing the bloody deaths of Agammemnon the warlord and Menelaus the Spartan king. But by far the most hideous of her vengeful acts was the shipwreck of Odysseus. For Goroien, as Circe the witch, turned some of the survivors into swine, tricking the others into cooking and eating them.

He picked up his sword and brushed the dirt from the blade.

Walking to his horse, he touched the Sipstrassi Stone to its temple and stepped back. The beast's body collapsed, then swelled and stretched, its smooth flanks growing silver-edged scales of deep rust-red. Its head shimmered, its eyes becoming slanted like a great cat's, its snout stretching, fangs erupting from a cavernous mouth. Huge wings unfolded from its ribs and its hoofs erupted into taloned claws. Its long neck arched back and a terrible cry filled the air. Culain looked down at the black pebble in his hand and tossed it to the ground. Sliding his sword back into the haft of his lance, he climbed to the saddle on the dragon's back, whispering the word of command. The beast rose on its powerful legs, the wings spreading wide, then it soared into the night air heading north-west to Skitis.

*

On the third night a fearsome storm broke over Erin Plateau, shafts of lightning spearing the sky. Uther remained where he had stayed for three days now, sitting at the edge of the circle. Prasamaccus and Korrin gathered food and blankets for the prince and stepped out into the driving rain. At that moment lightning streaked the sky and both men saw Uther stand and raise his arms over his head, his blond hair billowing in the shrieking wind. Then he vanished. Korrin ran to the stones, Prasamaccus hobbling behind, but there was no sign of the prince.

The storm broke, the rain easing to a fine drizzle. Korrin sank to a rock.

'It is over,' he said, bitterness returning to his voice for the first time since the Vores turned on the soldiers. Korrin began to curse and swear and the Brigante moved away from him; he too felt demoralised and beaten, and he sat on the fallen stone overlooking the forest. 'What will we tell them?' said Korrin. The Brigante gathered his cloak tightly around his slender frame. His leg ached, as it always did when the weather turned damp, and his heart told him he would never see Helga again. He could offer Korrin no advice. Just then the two moons appeared from behind the breaking clouds and a third man joined them.

'Where is Berec?' asked Maggrig but neither man answered. 'So, we are alone, as he said we might be." He scratched his greying beard and sat beside Korrin. 'We've set some snares and dug a few pits, which should slow them a little. And there are some five good ambush points.'

Korrin glanced up, surprised. The news of Berec's departure seemed to affect Maggrig not at all. 'We should hit them first at the Elm Hollow. The horsemen will not be able to charge up the rise and we'll have some hundred feet of killing ground. Even our archers should be unable to miss at that distance. We could down perhaps a hundred men.'

'You are talking of eighty men against an army,' said Korrin. 'Are you mad?'

'Eighty men is all we had yesterday. Gods, man, no one lives for ever.'

'Except the Witch Queen,' said Korrin, adding a savage curse.

'Take some advice from an old warrior: tell no one Berec has gone for good. Just say he has . . . who knows? . . . journeyed back to his castle in the clouds. In the meantime, let us hit them hard.'

'Good advice,' said Prasamaccus. 'We do not know how many soldiers are coming, and the forest is immense. We should be able to lead them a merry chase.'

Below, in the tiny village of tents that had sprung up by the stream, a young woman wandered out into the forest to be alone for a while. As she entered the darkness she caught sight of the moonlight reflecting from metal in the distance. She climbed a stout oak and peered to the west.

Moving silently through the trees came the army of Goroien.

*

For more than thirty hours Uther had been awake and worrying at the problem of the Void, searching every angle, exploring all the facts at his disposal. His reasoning and his training hold him that he had overlooked a salient point, but try as he could there seemed no way to home in on it.

And then, just as the storm broke, the answer sailed effortlessly into his mind. Just because the Ghost Army could not be seen did not necessarily mean they were not there.

It was so simple. The freezing rain was forgotten. Prasamaccus had told him that he had dreamt of drums and marching feet on his first night on Erin Plateau, and Uther should have leapt on that thought like a striking falcon.

All that was left now was to enter the Void - the home of Atrols and Soul Stealers. Yes, he thought, that is all. Do not stop to think, Uther, he told himself. Just do it! He stood, raised his arms above his head, gripped the Stone tightly and wished for the Void.

His head spun and he fell. Around him the Mist swirled. Pushing himself to his knees, he drew his gladius. The Sipstrassi Stone was almost black. He risked touching his sword-blade; it shone with a white light and in the Mist he could see dark shadows and grey, cold faces. A long time ago, Thuro the child had wandered here in a fever dream and Aurelius had brought him back. The fear of that time returned to haunt him, and as his fear grew the shadow-shapes moved closer. Uther the man stood and steadied himself, lifting his sword high above his head. The light shone from the blade, pushing back both the Mist and the shadows within it.

As the Mist rolled away Uther saw the desolate landscape of the Void, a place of ash-grey hills and long-dead trees beneath a slate-dark sky. He shivered. It was no place for a man to die. Far off to his right, he caught the faint sound of drums. Holding his sword high like a lantern, he walked towards the sound. The shadows followed him and he could hear whispering voices calling his name. The prince ignored them. He climbed a low hill and stopped in wonder. There, in a dusty valley, was a defensive enclosure made up of mounds of grey earth thrown up from a huge square ditch. Sharpened stakes had been set into the banks. Within the enclosure were scores of tents and at the centre of the square stood a staff bearing a golden eagle, its wings spread. Uther stood for several minutes staring at the camp, unable to accept the vision before his eyes. Yet all the clues had been before him. Korrin had spoken of the Eagle sect who had tried to commune with the Ghosts. The soldiers marched to the drum in perfect order.

And Culain had talked of his greatest regret, when he had consigned an army to the Mist.

Uther stood on the lonely hill-top and gazed in wonder at the Eagle of the Ninth Legion.

The prince walked slowly down the hill to stand before the wide opening to the enclosure. Two legionaries stepped into his path - their eyes tired, their spears sharp. He was commanded to halt. The language was recognisable, but lacked the later British additions. He thought back to his training under Maedhlyn and Decianus, and answered them in their own archaic tongue. 'Who is your Legate?'

The legionaries glanced at one another and the taller man stepped forward. 'Are you Roman?' 'I am.'

'Are we close to home?' The voice quavered. 'I am here to bring you home. Who is your Legate?'

'Severinus Albinus. Wait here.' The soldier raced away and Uther stood, still holding the shining sword. Ten men returned some minutes later and the prince was ushered into the enclosure, an honour guard of five legionaries on either side of him. Men rushed from their tents to see the stranger, their faces ashen, their eyes dull. The guard halted before a wide tent. Uther surrendered his weapons to the centurion at the entrance and ducked inside. A young man of maybe twenty-five, dressed in polished bronze breastplate, was seated on a low stool. 'Your name?' he asked. 'You  are   Severinus  Albinus?'   responded Uther, aware that the success of his mission depended on maintaining the initiative, 'lam.'