Ghost King (23 page)

Swords clashed and Culain's hunting-knife barely blocked a disembowelling thrust which had been superbly disguised. He leapt back, aware more than ever that he had to maintain his strategy, for there was more to a battle than mere skill with a blade.

'A nice move, but you must learn to disguise the thrust,' he said. 'Were you taught by a fishmonger?'

Gilgamesh screamed and attacked once more, his swords flashing with incredible speed. Culain blocked, twisted, moved - being forced back and back towards a jutting rock. He ducked under a whistling cut, hurled himself to the right, rolled on his shoulder and came back to his feet. A trickle of blood was running from a slashing cut in his side.

'That was better;' he said, 'but you were still open to a blow on the left.' It was a lie, but Culain said it with confidence.

'I never knew a man talk as much as you,' answered Gilgamesh. 'When you are dead, I'll rip the tongue from your head.'

'I should take the eyes,' advised Culain. 'Yours look as if the maggots still remain.'

'Damn you!' screamed Gilgamesh. His blades flashed for Culain's face and it was all the Mist Warrior could do to fend him off; there was no opportunity for a counter-strike. Three blows forced their way through his defences only partially blocked - the first slashing a wide cut to his chest, the second piercing his side and the third plunging into his shoulder. Once more he escaped by hurling himself sideways and rolling to his feet.

'Where are your taunts now, Father? I cannot hear you.'

Culain steadied himself, his grey eyes focused on the lifeless orbs of his opponent. He knew now with a terrible certainty that he could not defeat Gilgamesh and live. He backed away, half-stumbling. Gilgamesh raced forward but Culain suddenly dived to the ground in a tumbler's roll, rising into Gilgamesh's path. The Lord of Battle's sword plunged home in Culain's chest, cleaving through the lungs, but his own sword sliced up into the enemy's belly to cut through the heart. Gilgamesh groaned, his head sagging to Culain's shoulder.

'I beat you!' he whispered, 'as I always knew I could.'

Culain dragged himself clear of the body, which slumped face-first to the ground. He stumbled, his lungs filling with blood and choking him. He fell to his knees and stared down at the hilt of the sword jutting from his chest. Blood rose in his throat, spraying from his mouth.

On the rock above, Goroien screamed. She leapt to the ground and ran to Culain's side, grabbing the sword-hilt and tearing it from his chest. As he sank to the ground she pulled a small Sipstrassi Stone from her tunic pocket, but as she placed it over the wound she froze, staring at her hands. They were wrinkled and stained with brown liver spots.

Yet it was impossible, for five thousand men had died to feed her Bloodstone. In that moment she knew her only chance for life was in the small Sipstrassi fragment held over Culain. She stared down at his face.

He tried to shake his head, willing her to live, then lapsed into the sleep of death.

Her hand descended, the power flowing into Culain, stopping the wound, healing the lungs, driving on and on, pushing back his mortality. His hair darkened, the skin of his face tightening. At last the Stone was black.

Culain awoke to see a white-haired skeletal figure lying crumpled at his side. He screamed his anguish to the skies and tried to lift her, but a whisper stopped him. The rheumy eyes had opened. He crouched low over her and heard the last words of Goroien, the Goddess Astarte, the Goddess Athena, the Goddess Freya.

'Remember me.'

The last flickering ember of life departed, the bones crumbling to white dust that the wind picked up and scattered on the rocky ground.

*

Uther, Prasamaccus and Laitha walked in silence, the fifty swordsmen of the Legion moving in a line with shields raised on either side of them. The black castle grew ever more large and sinister. No lights shone in the narrow windows and the gateway was darker than the night.

Prasamaccus walked with an arrow notched. Laitha kept close to Uther. Behind them came Maggrig and six Pinrae warriors; his eyes remained locked to Uther's back, for every time he looked at the castle his limbs trembled and his heart hammered. But where Berec walked, so too would Maggrig, and when the Witch Queen was dead the godling would follow. For Maggrig knew that the prince would never relinquish his hold on the people, and he was not prepared to allow another Enchanter to torment the land.

With each step the attackers grew more tense, waiting for the fire to reach out and engulf them, as it had the phantom Legion which Uther had conjured. Slowly they neared the castle, and at last Uther stepped on to the bridge before the gate towers. He drew the Sword of Cunobelin, glanced up at the seemingly deserted ramparts and advanced.

At once a bestial figure ran from the darkness, a terrible howl ripping the silence. More than seven feet tall, the giant wolf-beast roared towards the prince and in its taloned hands was an upswept axe. An arrow sang from Prasamaccus' bow, taking the creature in the throat, but its advance continued. Uther ran forward, leaping nimbly to his left as the axe descended. The Sword of Cunobelin swept up, shearing through the huge arm at the shoulder; the creature screamed and the sword sliced down into its neck with all the power Uther could exert with his double-handed grip. Before the eyes of the attackers the giant body shrank and Mag-grig pushed forward to stare at the dead but now human face. 'Secargus,' he said. 'I served with him ten years ago. Fine man.'

At that moment a sound drifted to the tense warriors and men looked at one another in surprise. A baby's cry floated on the wind, echoing in the gateway.

Take twenty men,' Uther told a centurion named Degas. 'Find out where it is coming from. The rest of you split into groups of five and search the castle.'

'We will come with you, Lord Berec,' said Maggrig, his hand on his sword. He did not meet Uther's gaze, for he was afraid his intent would be read in his eyes. Uther merely nodded and moved through the gateway. Inside was a maze of tunnels and stairwells and Uther climbed ever higher. The corridors were lit by lanterns, faintly aromatic and glowing with a blood-red light. Strangely embroidered rugs covered the walls, showing scenes of hunts and battles. Everywhere statues of athletes could be seen in various poses - throwing javelins, running, lifting, wrestling. All were of the finest white marble.

Near the topmost floor they came to the apartments of Goroien, where a massive bed almost filled a small room which had been created of silvered mirrors. Uther gazed around at a score of reflections. The sheets were of silk, the bed of carved ivory inlaid with gold.

'She certainly likes to look at herself,' commented Laitha. Prasamaccus said nothing. He felt uncomfortable and it had little to do with fear of Goroien. All she could do was kill him. Something else was in the air, and he did not like the way Maggrig kept so close to Uther and the other men of Pinrae also gathered round the prince. The group moved through to the far room, where a five-foot tree of gold supported a rounded black boulder veined with threads of dull red gold. 'The source of her power,' said Uther.

'Can we use it?' asked Maggrig. Without answering Uther strode to the tree and raised the Sword of Cunobelin high over his head. With one stroke he smashed the stone to shards. At once the room shimmered - the hangings, the carpets and the furniture all disappearing. The group stood now in a bare, cold room, lit only by the moonlight streaming in silver columns through the tall narrow windows. 'She is gone,' said Uther. 'Where?' demanded Maggrig. 'I do not know. But the Stone is now useless. Rejoice, man. You have won!' 'Not yet,' said Maggrig softly. 'A moment of your time,' said Prasamaccus as the wolf-like Maggrig drew his knife. The warrior turned slowly, to find himself facing a bent bow with the shaft aimed at his throat.

The other Pinrae men spread out, drawing their weapons. Laitha stepped forward to stand beside the stunned Uther.

'Did Korrin truly mean so much to you?' asked the Brigante.

'Korrin?' answered Maggrig with a sneer. 'No, he was a headstrong fool. But you think I am foolish also? This is not the end of the terror, only the beginning of fresh evils. Your magic and your spells!' he hissed. 'No good ever came of such power. But we'll not let you live to take her place.'

'I have no wish to take her place,' said Uther. 'Believe me, Maggrig, the Pinrae is yours. I have my own land.' 'I might have believed you, but you've lied once. You told me we were free to serve you or leave, and yet the Legion archers were waiting in the shadows. We would all have been slain. No more lies, Berec. Die!'

As he spoke he hurled himself at Uther. The prince leapt back, his sword slashing up almost of its own volition. The blade took Maggrig in the side, cleaving up under his ribs and exiting in a bloody swathe. The other warriors charged and the first fell to Prasamaccus - an arrow through his temple - the second to Laitha.

'Halt!' bellowed Uther, his voice ringing with authority and the warriors froze. 'Maggrig was wrong! There is no betrayal! I speak not from fear, for I think you know we can slay you all. Now cease this madness.' For a moment he had them, but one man suddenly hurled a dagger and Uther swerved as the blade flashed by his ear. Laitha plunged her gladius into the chest of the nearest warrior and Prasamaccus shot yet another. The remaining pair rushed at Uther and he blocked one thrust, spinning on his heel to crash his elbow into the face of the second man. The Sword of Cunobelin cut through the man's neck, his head toppling to the floor. Laitha leapt forward, killing the last man with a dazzling riposte which ripped open his throat. In the silence that followed Uther backed away from the bodies, an awful sadness gripping him. 'I liked him,' he whispered, staring at the dead Maggrig. 'He was a good man. Why did he do it, Prasamaccus?'

The Brigante turned away with a shrug. Now was not the time to talk of the Circle of Life, and how a man's actions would always return to haunt him. Ever since, in his rage, Uther had killed Korrin, Prasamaccus had been waiting for the moment of Pinrae revenge. It was as inevitable as night following day.

'Why?' asked Uther again.

'This is a world of madness,' said Laitha. 'Put it from your mind.'

The trio left the room, slowly making their way to the courtyard. There Degas was waiting with more than forty pregnant women and one new mother. Some of the women were crying, but the tears were of relief. Two days ago there had been sixty women imprisoned in Perdita.

“This is a strange castle,' said Degas, a short powerfully-built soldier. ”There are three more gates, but they lead nowhere: just blackness beyond them and a deadly cold. And a little while ago all the lanterns vanished, and the statues. Everything! All that is left is the building itself, and cracks have already started appearing near the battlements.' As he spoke the gate tower creaked and shifted.

'Let us leave,' said Uther. 'Are all the men here?'

'All the Romans, yes, but what of your guards?'

They will not be coming. Let's get the women out.' A wall lurched behind them, giant stones shifting and groaning as the legionaries helped the women to their feet and out through the yawning gateway. Once on the plain, Degas stopped to look back.

'Mother of Mitra!' he said 'Look!'

The great Castle of Iron was turning to dust, huge clouds billowing in the pre-dawn breeze. From the woods the men of the Ninth Legion swarmed down, their cheers ringing in the night. Uther was swept from his feet and carried shoulder-high back to the camp. As the dawn sun rose over the plain, the castle had completely disappeared. All that was left was a great circle of black stones.

Uther left Severinus and the others and walked to the entrance of the enclosure, looking out at the silent camp of the Pinrae men. On impulse he strode from the safety of the legion encampment and walked alone to where the Pinrae leaders sat. Their eyes were sullen as he approached, and several men reached for their weapons. They were seated in a circle with the warriors behind them, as if in an arena. Uther smiled grimly.

'Tomorrow,' he said, 'I leave the Pinrae. And there is no joy, now, in our victory. Several days ago I had to kill a man I had thought was my friend. Tonight I killed another whom I respected and hoped would lead you when I had gone.' His eyes swept the faces around him. 'I came here to aid you; I have no desire to rule you. My own land is far from here. Korrin Rogeur died because he could not control the hatred in his heart; Maggrig died because he could not believe there was none in mine. Tonight you must choose a new leader - a king if you will. As for me, I shall return here no more.'

Not a word was spoken, but their hands were no longer on their sword-hilts. Uther looked at the men, recognising Baldric with whom he had travelled on the first quest of the Stone. In his eyes there was only a cold anger. Beside him sat Hogun, Ceorl and Rhiall. They made no move, but their hatred remained.

Uther wandered sadly back to the enclosure. Only a short time ago, as he had returned with Baldric, he had pictured their adulation. Now he felt he had learned a real lesson. During his short time in the Pinrae he had freed a people and risked his life, only to earn their undying enmity.

Here was a riddle for Maedhlyn to solve . . .

Prasamaccus met him at the entrance and the prince clapped him on the shoulder. 'Do you hate me also, my friend?'

'No. Neither do they. They fear you, Uther; they fear your power and your courage, but mostly they fear your anger.'

'I am not angry.'

'You were the night you killed Korrin. It was a bloody deed.'

'You think I was wrong?'

'He deserved to die, but you should have summoned the people of Pinrae to judge him. You killed him too coldly and had his body thrown in a field for the crows to peck at. Anger overruled your judgement. That's what Mag-grig could not forgive.'

'But for you I would be dead now. I shall not forget it.'

Prasamaccus chuckled. 'You know what they say, Uther? That there are two absolutes with kings: the length of their anger and the shortness of their gratitude. Do not burden me with either.'