Ghost King (6 page)

'Lesson one, Thuro: from now on you have no one to disappoint but yourself. But you must agree to abide by what I say and obey every word I utter. Will you do this?' 'I will.'

"Then prepare to die,' said Culain. And there was no humour in his eyes.

Thuro stiffened as Culain stood and pulled a gladius from a sheath behind his belt. The blade was eighteen inches long and double edged, the hilt of leather. He reversed the weapon and handed it to Thuro. It felt blade-heavy and uncomfortable in his hand.

'Before I can teach you to Jive, you must learn to die - how it feels to be vanquished,' said Culain. 'Move on to open ground and wait.' Thuro did as he was bid and Culain produced a small golden stone from his pocket, closing his fist around it. The air thickened before Thuro, solidifying into a Roman warrior with bronze breastplate and leather helm. He seemed young, but his eyes were old. The warrior dropped into a fighting crouch with blade extended and Thuro backed away, uncertain. The warrior advanced, locking Thuro's gaze. The blade lunged. Instinctively Thuro parried, but his opponent's gladius rolled over his own and plunged into the boy's chest. The pain was sickening and all strength fled from the prince. His knees buckled and he fell with a scream as the Roman dragged free his blade.

Moments later Thuro rose out of darkness to feel the snow on his face. He pushed himself to his knees and felt for the wound. There was none. Culain's strong hand pulled him to his feet and Thuro's head spun. Culain sat him on the chopping ring.

"The man you fought was a Roman legionary who served under Agricola. He was seventeen and went on to become a fine gladiator. You met him early in his career. Did you learn anything?'

'I learnt I am no swordsman,' admitted Thuro ruefully.

'I want you to use your brain and stop thinking with your feelings. You knew nothing of Plutarch before Maedhlyn taught you. There are no born swordsmen; it is an acquired skill, like any other. All it requires is good reflexes, allied to courage. You have both. Believe it! Now follow me, there is something I want you to see.'

Thuro offered the gladius to Culain, who waved it away. 'Carry it with you always. Get used to the feel and the weight. Keep it sharp.'

The Mist Warrior walked out past the cabin and down the slope towards the valley below. Thuro followed, his belly aching for food. The return trip to Culain's cabin was made in less than an hour and the prince was frozen when they arrived. The cabin was cold and there was no wood in the hearth.

'I shall prepare breakfast,' said Culain. 'You . . .'

'I know. Chop some logs.'

Culain smiled and left the boy by the wood-store. Thuro took up the axe in his sore hands and began his work. He managed only six logs and carried the chunks into the hearth. Culain did not berate him and gave him a wooden bowl filled with hot oats, sweetened with honey. The meal was heavenly.

Culain cleared away the dishes and returned with a wide bowl brimming with clear water. He placed it before Thuro and waited for the ripples to settle.

'Look into the water, Thuro.' As the prince leaned forward, Culain lifted a golden stone over it and closed his eyes.

At first Thuro could see only his reflection and the wooden beams above his head. But then the water misted and he found himself staring down from a great height to the shores of a frozen lake. A group of riders was gathered there. The scene swelled, as if Thuro were swooping down towards them, and he recognised his father. A burning pain began in his chest, tightening his throat, and tears blurred his vision. He blinked them back. By the lake a man stepped from behind a rock, a long-bow bent. The arrow flashed into his father's back and his horse reared as his weight fell across its neck, but he held on. The other riders swarmed forward and the king drew his sword and cut the first man from "the saddle. A second arrow took his horse in the throat and the beast fell. The king leapt clear and ran to the edge of the lake, turning with his back to the ice. The riders - seventeen of them - dismounted. Thuro saw Eldared at the rear with one of his sons. The group rushed forward and the king, blood staining his beard, stepped in to meet them with his double-handed sword hacking and cleaving. The killers fell back in dismay. Five were now down, two others retired from the fray with deep wounds to arm and shoulder. The king stumbled and bent double, blood frothing from his mouth. Thuro wanted to look away, but his eyes were locked to the scene. An assassin ran in to plunge a dagger to the king's side; the dying monarch's blade sliced up and over, all but beheading the man. Then the king turned and staggered on to the ice and, with the last of his strength, hurled the sword far out over the lake. The assassins swarmed around the fallen king and Thuro saw Cael deliver the death blow. And in that dreadful moment the prince watched as something akin to triumph flared in Aurelius' eyes. The sword hung in the air, hilt down, just above a spot at the centre of the lake where the ice had broken. A slender hand reached up from below the water and drew the sword down.

The scene fragmented and blurred and Thuro's own astonished face appeared on the surface of the water in the bowl. He leaned back and saw Culain watching him intently.

'What you saw was the death of a man,' said Culain softly, respectfully, as if conveying the greatest compliment. 'It was meet that you should see it.'

'I am glad that I did. Did you see his eyes at the end? Did I misread them, or was there joy there?'

'I wondered that, and only time will supply an answer. Did you see the sword?'

'Yes, what did it mean?'

'Simply that Eldared does not have it. And without it he cannot become High King. It is the Sword of Cunobelin. My sword!'

'Of course. My father took it from the stone at Camulodunum; he was the first to be able to draw it.'

Culain chuckled. 'There was little skill in that. Aurelius had Maedhlyn to guide him, and it was Maedhlyn who devised the Stone ploy in the first place. The reason no one could draw the sword was that it was always a heartbeat ahead in time. Draw it? No man could touch it. It was part of the legend of Cunobelin, a legend Maedhlyn and I established four hundred years ago.'

'For what reason?' asked Thuro.

'Vanity. In those days, as I have told you. I had a great ego. And it was fun, Thuro, to be a king. Maedhlyn helped me to age gracefully. I still had the strength of a twenty-five-year-old, within a body that looked wonderfully wrinkled. But then I grew bored and Maedhlyn staged my death - but not before I had dramatically planted my sword in the boulder and created the legend of my return. Who knew then, but that I might want to? Unfortunately events did not fare too well after my departure. A young man named Caractacus decided to anger the Romans and they took the island by force. By then I was elsewhere. Maedhlyn and I crossed the Mist to another age. He had fallen in love with the Greek culture and became a travelling philosopher. But he couldn't resist meddling and he trained a young boy and made him an emperor - conquered most of the world.'

'What did you do?'

'I came home and did what I could for the Britons. I felt somewhat responsible for their plight. But I did not take up arms until the death of Prasutagas. After he died, the Romans flogged his wife Boudicca and raped his daughters. I raised the Iceni under Boudicca's banner and we harried the invincible Roman army all the way to Londinium, which we burnt to the ground. But the tribes never learnt discipline and we were smashed at Atherstone by that wily fox Paullinus. I took Boudicca and her daughters back to the Feragh and they lived there in some contentment for many years.'

'And did you fight again?' asked Thuro.

'Another day, Thuro. How do you feel?'

'Weary.'

'Good.' Culain removed his own fur-lined jerkin and handed it to the boy. 'This should keep you warm. I want you to return to Laitha's cabin, restore yourself in her good grace and then return here.'

'Could I not rest for a while?'

'Go now,' said Culain. 'And if you can, when you come in sight of her cabin, run. I want some strength built into those spindly legs!'

Prasamaccus was proud of his reputation as the finest hunter of the Three Valleys. He had worked hard on his bowmanship, but knew that it was his patience that set him apart from the rest. No matter the weather, burning heat or searing cold, he could sit silently for hours waiting the right moment to let fly. No stringy meat for Prasamaccus, for his quarry dropped dead instantly, shot through the heart. No deer he killed had run for a mile with its lungs bubbling and its juices swelling the muscles to jaw-breaking toughness.

His bow was a gift from his clan leader Moret, son of Eldared. It was a Roman weapon of dark horn, and he treasured it. His arrows were straight as shafts of sunlight and he trimmed each goose-feather with careful cuts. In a tourney last Astarte Day, he had brought a gasp from the crowd when he sliced to the bull through the shaft of his last hit. It was a fluke and yet highlighted his awesome eye.

Now, as he sat hidden in the bushes of the hillside, he needed all his patience. The deer were slowly but steadily making their way towards him. He had been hidden here for two hours and his blood felt like ice even through the sheepskin cloak gathered about his slender frame. He was not a tall man, and his face was thin and angular, blue eyes set close together. His chin was pointed, emphasised by a straggly blond beard. Crouched as he now was, it was impossible to spot the deformity that set him apart from his fellows, which has deprived this finest of hunters from taking a bride.

The deer was almost within killing range and Prasamaccus chose a fat doe as his target. With infinite lack of speed he drew a long shaft from his doeskin quiver and notched it to the bowstring.

Just then the lead stag's head came up and the small herd scattered. Prasamaccus sighed and stood. He limped forward, his twisted leg causing him to hobble in a sadly comical manner. When he was a toddler he had fallen in the path of a galloping horse that smashed his left leg to shards. Now it was some eight inches shorter than the right, the foot mangled and pointing inward. He waited as the riders galloped towards him. There were two men and their horses were lathered; they ignored him and thundered past. As a hunter himself, he knew they were being pursued and glanced back along the trail. Three giant beasts were loping across the snow and Prasamaccus blinked. Bears? No bear could move that fast. His eyes widened. Lifting his hand to his mouth he let out a piercing whistle and a bay mare came galloping from the trees. He pulled himself into the saddle and slapped her rump. Unused to such treatment from a normally gentle master, the mare broke into a run. Prasamaccus steered her after the riders, swiftly overtaking their tired mounts.

'Veer left!' he shouted. There is a ring of stones and a high hollow altar.'

Without checking to see if they followed him, he urged the mare up the snow-covered hill and over the crest, where black stones ringed the crown of the hill like broken teeth. He clambered from the saddle and limped to the centre where a huge altar stone was set atop a crumbling structure some eight feet high. Prasamaccus clawed his way to the top, swung his quiver to the front and notched an arrow to his bow.

The two riders, their mounts almost dead from exhaustion, reached the circle scant seconds before the beasts. Prasamaccus drew back the bow-string and let fly. The shaft sped to the first beast as it towered over a running tribesman with a braided blond beard. The arrow took the beast in its right eye and it fell back with a piercing scream that was almost human. The two men scrambled up alongside Prasamaccus, drawing their swords.

A mist sprang up around the circle, swirling between the stones and rising to stand like a grey wall beyond the monoliths. The two remaining Atrols faded back out of sight and the three men were left at the centre in ghostly silence.

'What are those creatures?' asked Prasamaccus.

'Atrols,' answered Gwalchmai.

'I thought they must be, but I expected them to be bigger,' said the bowman. Victorinus smiled grimly. The mist around the stones was now impenetrable, but it had not pervaded the centre. Victorinus glanced up. There was no sky, only a thick grey cloud hovering at the height of the stones.

'Why are they not attacking?' asked the Roman. Gwalchmai shrugged. From beyond the stones came a sibilant, whispering voice.

'Come forth, Gwalchmai. Come forth! Your father is here.' A figure appeared at the edge of the mist, a bearded man with a blue tattoo on both cheeks. 'Come to me, my son!' Gwalchmai half-rose, but Victorinus grabbed his arm. Gwalchmai's eyes were glazed; Victorinus struck him savagely across the cheek, but the Briton did not react. Then the voice came -gain.

'Victorinus . . . your mother waits.' And a slender white-robed woman stood alongside the man.

An anguished groan broke from Victorinus' lips and he released his hold on Gwalchmai, who scrambled down the altar. Prasamaccus, understanding none of this, pushed himself to his feet and sent an arrow into the head of Gwalchmai's father. In an instant all was changed. The image of the man disappeared to be replaced by the monstrous figure of an Atrol, tearing at the shaft in its cheek. Gwalchmai stopped, the spell broken. The image of Victorinus' mother faded back into the mist.

'Well done, bowman!' said Victorinus. 'Get back here, Gwal!'

As the tribesman turned to obey the mist cleared, and there at the edge of the stones were a dozen huge wolves standing almost as tall as ponies.

'Mother of Mithras!' exclaimed Prasamaccus.

Gwalchmai sprinted for the stones as the wolves raced into the circle. He leapt, reaching for Victorinus' outstretched hand. The Roman grabbed him and hauled him up, just ahead of the lead wolf whose jaws snapped shut bare inches from Gwalchmai's trailing leg.

Prasamaccus shot the beast in the throat and it fell back. A second wolf leapt to the altar, scrabbling for purchase, but Victorinus kicked it savagely and it pitched to the ground. The wolves were all around them now, snarling and snapping. The three men backed to the centre of the altar. Prasamaccus sent two shafts into the milling beasts, but the rest ignored their wounded comrades. With only three shafts left, Prasamaccus refrained from loosing any more arrows.

'I don't like to sound pessimistic,' said Gwalchmai, 'but I'd appreciate any Roman suggestions at this point.'

A wolf jumped and cleared the rock screen around the men. Gwalchmai's sword rammed home alongside Prasamaccus' arrow.

Suddenly the ground below began to tremble and the stones shifted. Gwalchmai almost fell, but recovered his balance in time to see Victorinus slip from the shelter. The tribesman hurled himself across the altar, seizing the Roman's robe and dragging him to safety. The wolves also cowered back as the tremor continued. Lightning flashed within the circle and a huge wolf reared up, his flesh transparent, his awesome bone structure revealed. As the lightning passed the beast fell to earth and the stink of charred flesh filled the circle. Once more lightning seared into the wolves and three died. The rest fled beyond the stones into the relative sanctuary of the mist.

A man appeared from within a glow of golden light beside the altar. He was tall and portly, a long black moustache flowing on to a short-cropped white beard. He wore a simple robe of purple velvet.

'I would suggest you join me,' he said, 'for I fear I have almost used up my magic.'

Victorinus leapt from the altar, followed by Gwalchmai. 'Hurry now, the Gate is closing.' But Prasamaccus, with his ruined leg, could not move at speed and the golden globe began to shrink. Gwalchmai followed the wizard through, but Victorinus ran back to aid the bowman. Breathing heavily, Prasamaccus hurled himself through the light. Victorinus hesitated. The glow was no bigger than a window, and shrinking fast as the wolves poured into the circle. A hand reached through the golden light, hauling the Roman clear. There was a sensation like ice searing hot flesh and Victorinus opened his eyes to see Gwalchmai still holding him by the robe . . . only now they were standing in Caerlyn wood, overlooking Eboracum.

'Your timing is impeccable, Lord Maedhlyn,' said Victorinus.

'Long practice,' said the Enchanter. 'You must make your report to Aquila, though he already knows that Aurelius is dead.'

'How?' asked Gwalchmai. 'Did someone else escape?'

'He knows because I told him,' snapped Maedhlyn. That's why I am an Enchanter and not a cheese-maker, you ignorant moron.'

Gwalchmai's anger flared. 'If you are such an Enchanter, then why is the king dead? Why did your powers not save him?'

‘I’ll not bandy words with you, mortal,' hissed Maedhlyn, looming over the tribesman. 'The king is dead because he did not listen, but the boy is alive because I led him clear. Where were you, King's Hound?'

Gwalchmai's jaw dropped. Thuro?'

'Is alive, no thanks to you. Now begone to the barracks.' Gwalchmai stumbled away and Victorinus approached the Enchanter.

'I am grateful, my lord, for your aid. But you were wrong to berate Gwalchmai. I led him from Deicester; we believed the boy dead.'

Maedhlyn waved his hand as if swatting a fly. 'Wrong, right! What does it matter? The clod made me angry; he was lucky I didn't turn him into a tree.'

'If you had, my lord,' said Victorinus, with a hard smile, 'I'd have slit your throat.' He bowed and followed Gwalchmai towards the barracks.

'And what is your part in this?' Maedhlyn asked Prasamaccus.

'I was hunting deer. This has not been a good day for me.'

*

Prasamaccus hobbled into the barrack square, having lost sight of the swifter men. Some children gathered to mock him, but he was used to this and ignored them. The buildings here were grand, but even Prasamaccus could tell where the old Roman constructions had been repaired or renovated; the craftsmanship was less skilled than the older work.

The roads and alleyways were narrow and Prasamaccus passed through the barracks square and on to the Street of Merchants, pausing to stare into open-fronted shops and examine cloth, or pottery, and even weapons in a large corner building. A fat man wearing a leather apron approached him as he examined a curved hunting-bow.

'A fine weapon,' said the man, smiling broadly. 'But not as fine as the one you are carrying. Are you looking to trade?'

'No.'

'I have bows that could outdistance yours by fifty paces. Good strong yew, well seasoned.'

'Vamera is not for sale,' said Prasamaccus, 'though I could use some shafts.'

'Five denarii each.'

Prasamaccus nodded. It had been two years since he had seen money coin, and even then it had not been his. He smiled at the man and left the shop. The day was bright, the snow absent from the town, though still to be seen decorating the surrounding hills. Prasamaccus thought of his predicament. He was a hunter without a horse, and with only two arrows, in a land that was not his own. He had no coin and no hope of support. And he was hungry. He sighed, and wondered which of the Gods he had angered now. All his life people had told him the Gods did not like him. The injury to his leg was proof of that, they said. The only girl he had ever loved had died of the Red Plague. Not that Prasamaccus had ever told her of his love but even so, as soon as his affection materialised within him, she had been struck down. He turned his pale blue eyes to the heavens. He felt no anger at the Gods. How could he? It was not for him to question their likes and dislikes. But he felt it would be pleasant at least to know which of them held him in such low esteem.

'What's wrong with your leg?' asked a small, fair-haired boy of around six years. 'A dragon breathed on it,' said Prasamaccus. 'Did it hurt?'

'Oh yes. It still does when the weather turns wet.'

'Did you kill the dragon?' 'With a single shaft from my magic bow.' 'Are they not covered with golden scales?' 'You know a great deal about dragons.' 'My father has killed hundreds. He says you can only strike them behind their long ears; there is a soft spot there that leads to the brain.'

'Exactly right,' said Prasamaccus. "That's how I killed mine.'

'With your magic bow.'

'Yes. Would you like to touch it?' The boy's eyes sparkled and his small hand reached out to stroke the black, glossy frame.

'Will the magic rub off?'

'Of course. The next time you see a dragon, Vamera will appear in your hand with a golden arrow.'

Without a goodbye the boy raced off shouting his father's name, desperate to tell him of his adventure. Prasamaccus felt better. He hobbled, back into the barrack square and followed the smell of cooking meat to a wide building of golden sandstone. Inside was a mess hall with rows of bench tables and at the far end a huge hearth where a bull was spitted. Prasamaccus, ignoring the stares as he passed, moved slowly to the line of men waiting for food and picked up a large wooden platter. The line moved on, each man receiving two thick slabs of meat and a large spoonful of sprouts and carrots. Prasamaccus reached the server, a short man who was sweating profusely. The man watched him for a moment, offering no meat.

'What are you doing here, cripple?'

'I am waiting to eat.'

'This is the Auxiliaries' dining-hall. You are no soldier.'

'The Lord Maedhlyn said I could eat here,' lied Prasamaccus smoothly. 'But if you wish, I will go to him and say you refused. What is your name?'

The man dumped two slabs of meat on his plate. 'Next!' he said. 'Move along now.'

Prasamaccus looked for a nearby empty table. It was important not to sit too closely to other men, for all who saw him knew he was despised by the Gods and none would want that luck rubbing off. He found a table near the window and sat down; taking his thin-bladed hunting-knife from its sheath, he sliced the meat and ate it slowly. It tasted fine, but the fat content was high. He belched and leaned back, content for the first time since the incident with the Atrols. Food was now no longer a problem. The magic name of Maedhlyn cast a powerful spell, it seemed.

A stocky, powerfully built man with a square-cut beard sat opposite him. Prasamaccus looked up into a pair of dark brown eyes. 'I understand the Lord Enchanter told you to eat here,' said the man.