Ghost King (7 page)

'Yes.'

'I wonder why,' the man went on, his suspicion evident.

'I have just returned from the north with Gwalchmai and ... the other fellow.'

'You were with the king?'

'No. I met Gwalchmai and came with them.'

'Where is he now?'

'Making a report.' Prasamaccus could not remember the name of the clan leader, used by Maedhlyn.

'What news from the north?' asked the man. 'Is it true the king is dead?'

Prasamaccus remembered the savage joy in his own Brigante village on hearing the news. 'Yes,' he answered. 'I am afraid that it is.'

'You do not seem too concerned.' Prasamaccus leaned forward. 'I did not know the man. Gwalchmai feels his loss keenly.'

'He would,' said the man, relaxing. 'He was the King's Hound. How was the deed done?'

'I do not know all the facts. You must ask Gwalchmai and . . .' 'Who?'

'I am bad with names - a tall man, dark-haired, curved nose.'

'Victorinus?'

"That was it,' said Prasamaccus, remembering the sibilant calls of the Atrols.

'What happened to the others?'

'What others?'

'The king's retainers?'

'I do not know. Gwalchmai will answer all your questions.'

'I am sure that he will, my Brigante friend, and until he arrives you must consider yourself my guest.' The man stood and called two soldiers over. 'Take this man into custody.'

Prasamaccus sighed. The Gods were surely laughing today.

The two soldiers walked Prasamaccus across the square, keeping out of arm's reach of the cripple. One carried his bow and quiver, the other had taken possession of his hunting-knife. They led him to a small room with a barred door and no window. Inside was a narrow pallet bed. He listened as the bar dropped into place and then lay down on the bed. There was a single blanket and he covered himself. Food had been taken care of and now they had given him a bed. He closed his eyes and fell asleep almost instantly.

His dreams were good ones. He had killed a Mist demon - he, 'Prasamaccus the Cripple'. In his dreams his leg was restored to health and beautiful maidens attended him. He was not happy to be awakened. 'My friend, please accept my sincere apolo-gies,' said Victorinus as Prasamaccus sat up, rubbing his eyes. 'I had to make my report, and I forgot all about you.' "They fed me and gave me a place to sleep.' 'Yes, I see that. But I want you to be a guest in my home.'

Prasamaccus swung his legs from the bed. 'Can I have my bow back?'

Victorinus chuckled. 'You can have your bow, as many arrows as you can carry and a fine horse from my stable. Your own choice.'

Prasamaccus nodded sagely. Perhaps he was still dreaming after all.

For three weeks now Thuro had followed the instructions of Culain. He had run over mountain trails, chopped and sawed, carried and worked, and been 'killed' on countless occasions by a succession of swordsmen conjured by the Mist Warrior. His greatest moment had been when he finally beat the young Roman. He had noticed during their three previous bouts that his opponent was thick-waisted and unbending, so he had advanced, dropped to his knees and thrust his gladius up into the man's groin. The soldier had vanished instantly. Culain had been well pleased, but had added a cautionary note.

'You won, and should enjoy your triumph. But the move was dangerous. Had he anticipated it, he would have had an easy kill with a neck thrust.'

'But he did not.'

'True. But tell me, what is the principle of sword-fighting?'

To kill your opponent.'

'No. It is not to be killed by your opponent. It is rare that a good swordsman leaves an opening. Sometimes it is necessary, especially if you find your enemy is more skilled, but such risks are generally to be avoided.'

After that Culain had conjured a Macedonian warrior from the army of Alexander. This man, grim-eyed and dark-bearded, had caused Thuro great problems. The boy had tried the winning cut he had used against the Roman, only to feel the hideous sensation of a ghostly sword entering his neck. Shamefaced, he had avoided Culain's eye but the Mist Warrior did not chide him.

'Some people always need to learn lessons the painful way,' was all he said.

One morning Laitha came to watch him, but his limbs would not operate smoothly and he tripped over his apparently enlarged feet. Culain shook his head and sent the laughing Laitha away.

Thuro finally despatched the Macedonian with a move Culain taught him. He blocked the man's sweeping cut from the left, swung on his heel to ram his elbow into the man's face and finished him with a murderous slice to the neck.

Tell me, do they feel pain?'

They?'

'The soldiers you conjure.'

"They do not exist, Thuro. They are not ghosts, they are men I knew. I create them from my memories. Illusions if you like.'

'They are very good swordsmen.'

They were bad swordsmen - that's why they are useful now. But soon you will be ready to tackle adequate warriors.'

When he was not working Culain would walk him through the woods, pointing out animal tracks and identifying them. Soon Thuro could spot the spoor of the red fox with its five-pointed pads or the cloven hooves of a trotting fallow deer, light and delicate on the trail. Some animals left the most bewildering evidence of their passing; one such they found by a frozen stream, four closely-set imprints in a tight square. Two feet further on there were another four . . . and so on.

'It is a bounding otter,' said Culain. 'It kicks off with its powerful hind legs and comes down on its front paws. The rear paws then land just behind the front and the beast takes off for another bound, leaving four tracks close together. Obviously it was frightened.'

At other times Thuro would walk with Laitha, whose interest was trees and flowers, herbs and fungi. In her cabin she had sketches, richly coloured, of all kinds of plants. Thuro was fascinated.

'Do you like mushrooms?' asked Laitha, one day in early spring.

'Yes, fried in butter.'

'Does this look tasty?' She showed him a beautifully sketched picture of four capped fungi growing from the bole of a tree. They were the colour of summer sunshine.

'Yes, they look delicious.'

"Then you would be wise to remember what they look like. They are Sulphur Tufts and a meal of these would leave you in great pain and probably kill you. What of this one?' It was a foul-looking object in cadaver grey.

'Edible?'

'Yes, and very nutritious. It also tastes pleasant.'

'What is the most dangerous?' he asked.

'You should be interested in the most nutritious, but since you ask it is probably this,' she answered, producing a drawing of a delicate white and yellow-green fungi. 'It is usually found near oak.' she said, 'and is called Death Cap; I leave it to you to guess why.'

'Do you never get lonely up in the mountains?'

'Why should I?' she replied, putting down her drawings. 'I have Culain as my friend, and the animals and birds and trees to study and draw.'

'But do you not miss people, crowds, fairs, banquets?'

'I have never been among crowds - or to a banquet. The thought does not thrill me. Are you unhappy here, Thuro?'

He gazed into her gold-flecked eyes. 'No, I am not lonely - not with you, anyway.' He was aware that his tone was too intense and he flushed deep red. She touched his hand.

'I am something you can never have,' she told him. He nodded and tried to smile.

'You love Culain.'

'Yes. All my life.'

'And yet you cannot have him, as I can never have you.'

She shook her head. "That has yet to be decided. He still sees me as the child he raised.

It will take time for him to realise I am a woman.'

Thuro closed his mouth, stopping the obvious comment from being voiced. If Culain could not see it now, he would never see it. Added to which, here was a man who had known life since the dawn of history. How many women had he known? How many had he wed? What beauties had lain beside him through the centuries?

'How did he find you?' asked Thuro, seeking to move from the painful subject.

'My parents were Trinovante and they had a village some sixty miles south. One day there was a raid by Brigantes. I cannot remember much of it, for I was only five, but I can still see the burning thatch and hear the screams of the dying. I ran up into the hills and two horsemen pursued me. Then Culain was there with his silver lance; he slew the riders and carried me high into the mountains. Later we returned, but everyone was dead. So he kept me with him; he raised me and he taught me all I know.' 'It is hardly a surprise that you love him. I wish you success . . . and happiness.'

Every morning Culain would put Thuro through two hours of heavy exercise: running, lifting rocks, or making him hang by his arms from the branch of a tree and raise his weight until his chin touched the branch. At first Thuro could only raise himself three times before his arms would tremble and refuse the burden. But now, as spring painted her dazzling colours on the mountainside, he could manage thirty. He could run for an hour with no sign of fatigue, and he had despatched twelve of the ghostly opponents Culain created. The last had proved difficult; he was a Persian from the army of Xerxes and he fought with dagger and sabre. Four times he defeated Thuro before the youth won through. He did it by leaving a fractional opening twice, and covering late; the third time he lured the Persian into a lunge, side-stepped and cut his gladius into his opponent's neck. Culain had clapped him on the back and said nothing. Thuro was sweating hard, for the fight had lasted more than ten minutes.

'Now I think,' said Culain, 'that you are ready for the reasonable swordsmen.'

A movement to Thuro's left and a ghostly sword cut into his shoulder, numbing his left arm. He threw himself from the log on which he sat and rolled to his feet. The man before him was a blond giant over six feet tall, wearing a bronze helm adorned with a bull's horns. He held a longsword and was wearing a chain-mail vest.

Thuro blocked the man's sudden charge, but his opponent's shoulder crashed into him, sending him sprawling to the grass. Thuro rolled as the longsword flashed for his head. With his enemy off-balance, he regained his feet and launched a blistering attack, but his arm was weary and he was beaten back. Three times he almost found a way through, but his opponent - with his longer sword and greater reach -fended him off. Sweat dripped into the youth's eyes and his sword-arm burned. The warrior lunged, Thuro parried, swung on his heel and hammered his elbow into the man's face. The warrior staggered back and Thuro, still moving round, plunged his sword into the man's chest. As his enemy disappeared the young prince fell to his knees, his breath coming in great gasps. After several minutes his angry eyes locked on Culain.

'That was unfair!'

'Life is unfair. Do you think your enemies will sit back and wait until you are fresh? Learn to marshal your strength. Were I to produce another warrior now, you would not last five heartbeats.'

There is a limit to every man's strength,' observed Thuro.

'Indeed there is - a good point to remember. One day, perhaps, you will lead an army into battle. You will be filled with the urge to draw your sword and fight alongside your men. You will think it heroic but your enemy will rejoice, for it is folly. As the long day wears on, all enemy eyes will be upon you and your weakening body. All their attacks will be aimed at you. So always bear that in mind, young prince. There is a limit to every man's strength.'

'And yet do the men you lead not need to know you will fight alongside them? Will it not raise their morale?' asked Thuro. 'Of course.'

'Then what is the answer to the riddle? Do I fight, or not fight?'

'Only you can decide that. But use your head. At some time in every battle, there is a moment when it can turn. Weaker men blame it on the Gods, but it has more to do with the hearts of the warriors. You must learn to read these moments, that is when you enter the fray, to the bitter dismay of your enemies.'

'How is such a moment recognised?'

'Most men recognise it only in hindsight. The truly great general sees it in an instant. But I cannot teach you that, Thuro. That is a skill you either have or do not have.'

'Do you have it?'

'I thought that I did, but when Paullinus lured me to attack him at Atherstone my talent deserted me. He sensed the moment and attacked, and my brave Britons collapsed around me. We outnumbered him twenty to one. An unpleasant man, Paullinus, but a wily general.'

Often, when not with either Culain or Laitha, Thuro would wander the hillsides, enjoying the freshness of spring in the mountains. Everywhere was colour: white-petalled wood anemone tinged with purple, golden celandine, mauve violets, snow-white wood sorrel, and the tall, glorious purple orchid with its black-spotted leaves and petals shaped like winged helms.

Early one morning, with his chores completed, Thuro wandered alone in the valley below Culain's cabin. His shoulders had widened and he could no longer squeeze into the clothes he had worn a mere two months ago. Now he wore a simple buckskin tunic and woollen leggings over sheepskin boots.

He sat by a stream, watching the fish glide below the water until he heard a horse moving along the path. Then he stood and saw a single rider. The man spotted him and dismounted. He was tall and slender, with shoulder-length red hair and green eyes, and he wore a longsword at his waist. He walked to Thuro and stood with hands on hips.

'Well, it has been a long chase,' he said, 'and you are much changed.' He smiled. His face was open and handsome and Thuro could detect no malice there.

'My name is Alantric,' said the newcomer, 'I am the King's Champion.' He sat down on a flat rock, tugged free a length of grass and placed it between his teeth. 'Sadly, boy, I have been instructed to find your body and bring your head to the king.' The man sighed. 'I do not like killing children.'

'Then return and say you could not find me.'

'I would like to ... truly. But I am a man of my word. It is unfortunate that I serve a king whose character is less than saintly. Do you know how to use that sword, boy?'

"That you will find out,' said Thuro, his heart-rate increasing as fear wormed into his heart.

'I will fight you left-handed. It seems more fair.'

'I wish for no advantage,' snapped Thuro, regretting it as he spoke.

'Well said! You are your father's son after all. When you meet him, tell him I had no part in his killing.'

Tell him yourself,' said Thuro.

Alantric stood and drew his longsword and Thuro's gladius flashed into the air. Alantric moved out on to open ground, then spun and lunged. Thuro side-stepped and blocked, rolling his gladius over the blade and slicing a thin cut on Alantric's forearm. 'Well done!' said the champion, stepping back, his green eyes blazing. 'You've been taught well.' He advanced once more, with care. Thuro noted the liquid grace of his enemy's style, the perfect balance and the patience he showed. Culain would have been impressed by this man. Thuro attacked not at all, merely blocking his opponent at every turn while studying his technique.

Alantric attacked, his sword flashing and cutting, and the discordant clash of iron on iron echoed in the woods. Suddenly the Brigante faked a cut, twisted his wrist and lunged. Caught by surprise Thuro parried hastily, feeling the razor-sharp blade slide across his right bicep. Blood began to seep through his shirt. A second attack saw Alantric score a similar wound at the top of Thuro's shoulder, close to the throat. The youth moved back and Alantric sprang forward. This time Thuro read the attack, swayed and lanced his gladius into Alantric's side. But the Brigante was fast and he leapt back before the blade had penetrated but an inch.

'You have been taught well,' he said again. He raised his sword to his lips in salute, then attacked once more. Thuro, desperate now, resorted to the move Culain had taught him. He blocked a thrust and spun on his heel, his elbow flashing back - into empty air! Off-balance, the young prince fell to the grass. He rolled swiftly, but felt Alantric's sword resting on his neck.

'A clever move, Prince Thuro, but you tensed before you tried it and I read your intent in your eyes.'

'At least I ..." In the moment of speaking Thuro kicked Alantric's legs from under him and rolled to his feet. The Briton sat up and smiled.

'You are full of surprises,' he said as he stood and sheathed his sword. 'I think that I could kill you, but the truth is I do not wish to. You are worth ten of Eldared. It seems I must break my word.'

'Not at all,' said Thuro, sheathing his gladius. 'You were sent to look for my corpse. It is true to say that you did not find it.'

Alantric nodded. 'I could serve you, Prince Thuro ... should you ever be a king.'