Last Sword Of Power (15 page)

An elderly man in a faded brown habit bowed to the Enchanter. 'God's peace to you, brother,' he said.

'And to you, Albain. I have here a young friend in need of goodness.'

Albain smiled and offered his hand. He was a frail, short man with wispy white hair framing his bald head like a crown above his ears. 'Welcome, my boy. What you seek is in short supply. How may I help you?'

'I am searching for my wife; her name is Anduine.' He described her to the old monk who listened attentively.

'She was here, but I fear she was taken away. I am sorry.'

'Taken? By whom?'

'The Loyals came for her. We had no time to hide her.'

'Molech's guards,' explained Maedhlyn. 'They serve him here as they served him in life, for the promise of a return to the flesh.

'Where did they take her?'

Albain did not answer, but looked at Maedhlyn.

'She will be at The Keep - Molech's fortress. You cannot go there, Cormac.'

'What is there to stop me?' he asked, grey eyes blazing.

'You truly are Uther's son,' said Maedhlyn, caught between sorrow and pride.

Several figures moved from the shadows.

'Uther's son?' said Victorinus. 'And is that you, Maedhlyn?'

'So the war has begun,' Maedhlyn whispered.

'Not yet, wizard, but soon. Tell me - is he truly Uther's son?'

'Yes. Prince Cormac, meet Victorinus, Uther's ablest general.'

'I wish I could say well met, prince Cormac.' He turned once more to Maedhlyn. 'Albain told us the King's soul is held at the Keep . . . that they are torturing him. Can it be true?'

'I am sorry, Victorinus, I know you were his friend.'

'Were? Death does not change my friendship, Maedhlyn. There are thirteen of us here and we will find the king.'

"The open ground before the Keep,' said Maedhlyn, 'is patrolled by hounds of great size. They have teeth like daggers and skin like steel; no sword will slay them. Then within the first wall live the Loyals, two hundred at least - all formidable warriors during their lives. Beyond the second wall I have never seen, but even the Loyals fear to go there.'

'The King is there,' said Victorinus, his face set, his eyes stubborn.

'And Anduine,' added Cormac.

'It is madness! How will you approach the Keep? Or do you think your thirteen swords will cut a path for you?'

'I have no idea, Maedhlyn; I am only a soldier. But once you were the greatest thinker in all the world - or so you told me.'

'Hell is no place for flattery,' said the Enchanter. 'But I will think on it.'

'Does Molech have no enemies?' Cormac asked.

'Of course he has, but most of them are like he is: evil.'

'That does not concern me. Are they powerful?'

'Believe me, Cormac, this is not a course to pursue.'

'Answer me, damn you!'

'Yes, they are powerful,' snapped Maedhlyn. 'They are also deadly, and even to approach them could cost you your soul. Worse, you could end up like your father - wrapped in chains of fire and tortured until you are naught but a broken shell, a mewling ruined thing,'

'Why should they do this to me?'

'Because you are your father's son. And Molech's greatest enemy here is Goroien, the Witch Queen defeated by Uther - and her lover-son Gilgamesh, slain by Culain. Now do you understand?'

'I understand only that I want to meet her. Can you arrange it?' '

'She will destroy you, Cormac.'

'Only if she hates me more than she desires to defeat Molech.'

'But what can you offer her? She has her own army, and slave-beasts to do her bidding.'

'I will offer her the Keep - and the soul of Wotan.'

'Talk to them, Albain,' said Maedhlyn, as the small group sat in a corner of the stalactite-hung cavern.

'Explain what they are risking.' The old man looked at Victorinus, his face showing his concern.

'There are many here who will pass no further on the road. They exist as beasts in this terrible twilight. Others are drawn on towards what some believe is a beautiful land with a golden sun and a blue sky. I myself believe in that land and I encourage people to travel there. But to do so, you must hold to the path.'

'Our King is held here,' said Victorinus. 'We have a duty towards him.'

'Your duty was to give your lives for him and you did that. But not your souls.'

'I will not speak for the others, Albain, only for myself. I cannot journey further while the King needs me - not even for the promise of paradise. You see, of what worth would paradise be to me if I spent it in shame?'

Albain reached across and took Victorinus by the hand. 'I cannot answer that for you. All I know is that here - in this land of death and despair - there is still the promise of hope for those who travel on, Some cannot, for their evil has found a home here. Others will not, for their fears are very great and it is easier, perhaps, to hide in the eternal shadows. But this ghastly world is not all there is, and you should not deny yourself the journey.'

'Why have you not journeyed on?' asked Cormac.

Albain shrugged. 'One day perhaps I will. For now there is work for me among the haunted and the lost.'

'As indeed there is work for us,' said Cormac. 'I am not a philosopher, Albain, but my love is here and you say she is held by Molech. I will not allow that. Like Victorinus, I could not live in any paradise with that on my conscience.'

'Love is a fine emotion, prince Cormac, and there is precious little of it here. Let me argue from another standpoint. To defeat Molech, you seek the aid of Goroien - she who was as evil as the man you desire to destroy. Can a man wed himself to the powers of evil and remain untouched by it? What will happen when the fire of your purity touches the ice of her malice?'

'I do not know. But Molech's enemies should be my friends.'

'Friends? How much do you know of Goroien?'

'Nothing, beyond Maedhlyn telling me she was an enemy to Uther.'

'She was an Immortal who held her eternal beauty by sacrificing thousands of young women, watching as their blood ran over her Magic Stone. She brought her dead son back to life - and made him her lover. His name was - and is - Gilgamesh, the Lord of the Undead. That is what you are seeking to ally yourself with.'

Cormac shook his head and smiled. 'You do not understand, Albain. You speak of my purity? I would sacrifice a world to free Anduine; I would see a million souls writhe in agony to see her safe.'

'And would she desire this, young prince?'

Cormac looked away for a moment. 'No, she would not,' he admitted, 'and perhaps that is why I love her so deeply. But I will seek Goroien.'

'She will destroy you - and that is only if you can reach her. To do so, you must leave the road and journey across the Shadowlands. Here the most vile of creatures dwell and they will haunt your every step.'

' Victorinus raised his hand and all eyes turned to him. 'I appreciate your advice, Albain, and your warnings. But the prince and I will leave the road to seek the Witch Queen.' He turned to his aide, Marcus. 'Will you travel with me?'

'We died with you, sir,' said the young man. 'We'll not leave you now.'

'Then it is settled. What of you, Maedhlyn?'

'The Witch hates me more than any of you, but yes -1 will go. What else is there for me?'

Albain rose and gazed sadly at the fifteen men. 'I wish you God's luck. There is no more to say.'

Cormac watched the little man weave his way through the crowded cavern. 'How did he come to be here, Maedhlyn?'

'He followed the right god at a time when Rome was ruled by the wrong one. Let us go.'

Three invasion fleets landed on the coasts of Britannia in the fourth week of the Spring. Eleven thousand men -came ashore at Segundunumn near the easternmost fortress of the near-derelict wall of Hadrian. The town was sacked, hundreds of citizens put to the sword.

The second fleet - led by Wotan's ablest general, Alaric - disgorged eight thousand men at Anderita on the south coast, and this army was further swelled by two thousand Saxons recruited by the renegade Agwaine. Refugees packed the roads and tracks towards Londinium as the Goths swept along the coastline towards Noviomagus.

The third fleet beached at Petvaria, having sailed unchallenged along the mouth of the Humber. Twenty-two thousand fighting men came ashore, and the British defence force of twelve hundred men fled before them.

In Eboracum, less than twenty-five miles away, the city was in panic.

Geminus Cato, left with little choice, gathered his two legions of ten thousand men and marched to engage the enemy. Fierce storms lashed the legions and, during the first night of camp, many men swore they had seen a demonic head outlined against the thunder-clouds and lit by spears of lightning. By morning, desertions had reduced Cato's fighting force by more than a thousand.

His scouts reported the enemy closing in just after dawn and Cato moved his men to the crown of a low hill, half a mile to the west. Here trenches were hastily dug and spiked and the horses of the officers were removed to a picket line in a nearby wood, behind the battle site.

The storm-clouds disappeared as swiftly as they had come, and the Goths came into sight in brilliant sunshine which blazed from their spear-points and raised axes. Cato felt the fear spread along the line as the sheer size of the enemy force made its impact on the legions.

'By all the Gods, they're a pretty bunch,' shouted Cato. A few men sniggered, but the tension did not break.

A young soldier dropped his gladius and stepped back. 'Pick it up boy,' said Cato softly. 'It'll gather rust lying there.' The youth was trembling and close to tears. 'I don't want to die,' he said.

Cato glanced at the Goths who were gathering for the charge and then walked to the boy, stooping to gather his sword. 'Nobody does,' he said, pushing the hilt into the soldier's hand and guiding him back into line.

With a roar that echoed the previous storm, the Goths hurled themselves at the line.

'Archers!' bellowed Cato. 'Take your positions!' The five hundred bowmen in their light leather tunics ran forward between the shield-bearers and formed a line along the hill-top. A dark cloud of shafts arched into the air and down into the charging mass. The Goths were heavily armoured and the casualties were few, yet still the charge faltered as men fell and tripped those following.

'Retire and take up spears!'

The bowmen pulled back behind the shield-wall, dropped their bows and quivers and, in pairs, took up die ten-foot spears lying in rows behind the heavily-armoured legionaries. The first man in each pair knelt hidden behind a shielded warrior, holding the spear three feet from the point. The second man gripped the shaft at the base, awaiting the order from Cato.

The charging Goths were almost at the line when Cato raised his arm.

'Now!'

As the spearmen surged forward, the hidden spears - directed by the kneeling men at the front -flashed between the shields, plunging into the front ranks of the attacking warriors, smashing shields to shards and cleaving through chain-mail. The unbarded spears were dragged back, then rammed home again and again.

The slaughter was terrifying and the Goths fell back, dismayed.

Three times more they charged, but the deadly spears kept them at bay. The ground before the line was thick with enemy dead, or wounded writhing in agony with their ribs crushed, their life-blood oozing into the soft earth.

An officer moved across the Goth's front line and spoke to the waiting warriors. Five hundred men flung aside their shields and advanced.

'What are they doing, sir?' asked Cato's aide, Decius. Cato did not reply. It did not become an officer in the midst of a battle to admit he had no idea.

The Goths surged up the hill, screaming the name of Wotan. The spears plunged into them but each stricken warrior grabbed the shaft of the weapon that was killing him, trapping the spear in his own body. The main army attacked once more, this time crashing against the British shield wall with tremendous force.

For a moment the wall split and several warriors forced their way into the line. Cato drew his gladius and rushed at them; he was joined by a young legionary and together they closed the breach. As the Goths fell back, Cato turned to the legionary and saw it was the boy who earlier had dropped his sword.

'You did well, lad.' Before the boy could reply, a terrifying roar went up from the Gothic ranks and the enemy surged towards the line.

The battle lasted the full day, with neither side triumphant, yet at dusk Cato had no choice but to pull back from the hill. He had lost two hundred and seventy-one men, with another ninety-four wounded. The enemy losses, he calculated, were around two thousand. In military terms it was a victory, but realistically, Cato knew it gained the Britons little. The Goths now knew - if they were ever in doubt - that Uther's army was not as poorly led as the Merovingian forces across the water. And the Britons knew the Goths were not invincible. Apart from those two points nothing had been gained from the day, and Cato marched his men back along the road towards Eboracum, having already chosen the site for the next battle.

'Is it really true, sir?' asked Decius as the two men rode ahead of the legions. 'Is the King alive?'

'Yes,' answered Cato.

"Then where is he?'

Cato was weary, and not for the first time wished he had another aide. But Decius was the son of a rich merchant and had paid for the appointment with a beautiful villa outside Eboracum.

'The King will let us know his plans when he is ready. Until then, we will do what he asks of us.'

'But several men saw the corpse, sir. And the funeral arrangements were being made.'

Cato ignored the comment. 'When the night camp is made, I want you to tour the fires. The men fought well today. Make yourself known among them -compliment them; tell them you have never seen such bravery.'

'Yes, sir. For how long should I continue to do this?'

Cato bit back his anger and thought of his villa. 'Never mind, Decius. You set up my tent and I'll talk to the men.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you.'

Galead's dreams were dark and filled with pain. Awaking in the cold dawn, he stared at the ashes of the last night's fire. He had seen in his dreams Victorinus and his twelve warriors ride into the wood, to be surrounded by the Goths - led by the traitor Agwaine - and had watched the old general die as he had lived, with cold dignity and no compromise.

Shivering, he rekindled the fire. His news was of little worth to Britain now. The invasion fleets would sail within days, the King was dead, the power of Wotan beyond opposition. Yet he could feel no hate, only a terrible burden of sorrow dragging down his spirit.

Beside him lay his sword and he stared at it, loth to touch it. What was it, he wondered, that led men to desire such weapons, that filled them with the need to use them against their fellows, hacking and cutting and slaying?

And for what? Where was the gain? Few soldiers grew rich. Most returned to the same poor farms and villages they had grown up in, and many lived out their lives without limbs, or with terrible scars that served as grim reminders of the days of war.

A sparrow landed beside him, pecking at the crumbs of the oatcake he had eaten at dusk the day before. Another joined it. Galead sat unmoving as the birds hopped around the scabbarded sword. 'What do they tell you?' asked a voice. Galead looked across the fire to see a man seated there, wrapped in a cloak of rich rust-red. His beard was golden and heavily curled and his eyes were deep blue.

'They tell me nothing,' he answered softly, 'but they are peaceful creatures and I am happy to see them.'

'Would they have fed so contentedly beside Ursus, the prince who desired riches?'

'If they had, he would not have noticed them. Who are you?' 'I am not an enemy.' 'This I already knew.'

'Of course. Your powers are growing and you are rising above the sordid deeds of this world.' 'I asked who you were, stranger.' 'My name is Pendarric.'

Galead shivered as he heard the name, as if deep inside himself the name echoed in a distant hall of memory. 'Should I know you.'

'No, though I have used other names. But we walk the same paths, you and I. Where you are now I once stood, and all my deeds seemed as solid as morning mist - and as long-lasting.' 'And what did you decide?' 'Nothing. I followed the heart's desire and came to know peace.'

Galead smiled. 'Where in these lands can I find peace? And were I to try, would it not be selfish? My friends are about to suffer invasion and my place is with them.'

'Peace does not rest within a realm, or a city, or a town or even a crofter's hut,' said Pendarric. 'But then you know this. What will you do?'

'I will find a way to return to Britain. I will go against the power of Wotan.' 'Will it give you satisfaction to destroy him?'

Galead considered the question. 'No,' he said at last. Yet evil must be countered.' 'With the sword?'

Galead looked down at the weapon with distaste. 'Is there another way?'

'If there is, you will find it. I have discovered a wonderful truth in my long life: those who seek with a pure heart usually find what they are looking for.'

'It would help me greatly to know what I am looking for.'

'You talked about countering evil, and in essence that is a question of balance. But the scales are not merely linear. A great amount of evil does not necessarily require an equivalent amount of good to equalise the balance.'

'How can that be true?' Galead asked.

'An angry bear will suffer a score of arrows and still be deadly . . . but a touch of poison, and it falls. Sometimes an apparently meaningless incident will set in motion events that will cause either great suffering or great joy.'

'Are you saying there is a way to bring down Wotan without the sword?'

'I am saying nothing that simple. But it is an interesting question for a philosopher, is it not? Wotan feeds on hatred and death and you seek to combat him with swords and shields. In war, a soldier will find it all but impossible not to hate the enemy. And so, do you not give Wotan even more of what he desires?'

'And if we do not fight him?'

'Then he wins, and brings even more death and despair to your land and many others.'

'Your riddle is too deep for me, Pendarric. If we fight him, we lose. If we do not, we lose. Yours is a philosophy of despair.'

'Only if you cannot see the real enemy.'

'There is something worse than Wotan?'

'There always is, Galead.'

'You speak as a man of great wisdom, and I sense you have power. Will you use that power against Wotan?'

'I am doing exactly that at this moment. Why else would I be here?'

'Are you offering me a weapon against him?'

'No.'

'Then what is the purpose of your visit?'

'What indeed?' answered Pendarric. His image faded and Galead was alone, once more. The birds were still feeding by the sword and the knight turned to look at them but as he moved they fluttered away in panic. He stood and strapped the blade to his side, covered the fire with earth and saddled his horse.

The coast was a mere eight miles through the woods and he hoped to find a ship that might land him on the shores of Britain. He rode the narrow trails through the forest, lost in thought, listening to the bird-song, enjoying the sunlight that occasionally lanced through the gaps in the overhanging trees. His mood was more tranquil following Pendarric's appearance, though the sorrow remained.

Towards the middle of the morning he met an elderly man and two women, standing alongside a hand-cart with a broken wheel. The cart was piled with possessions - clothes, chests and a very old chair. The man bowed as he approached, the women standing nervously as Galead dismounted.

'May I offer assistance?' he asked.

'That is truly kind,' said the man, smiling. His hair was long and white, though darker streaks could still be seen in his forked beard. One of the women was elderly, the other young and attractive with auburn hair streaked with gold; her right eye was bruised and her lip cut and swollen. Galead knelt by the cart and saw that the wheel had come loose and torn away from the joining-pin at the axle.

He helped them to unload the cart, then lifted it so that the wheel could be pushed back in place. Using the back of a hatchet blade, he hammered the joining-pin home and then reloaded the cart.

'I am very grateful,' said the man. 'Will you join us for our midday meal?'

Galead nodded and sat down by the roadside as the young woman prepared a fire. The older woman busied herself taking pans and plates from the back of the cart.

'We do not have much,' said the old man, seating himself beside Galead. 'Some oats and salt. But it is filling and there is goodness in the food.'

'It will suffice. My name is Galead.'

'And I am Caterix. That is my wife Oela, and my daughter Pilaras.'

'Your daughter seems in pain.'

'Yes. The journey has not been kind to us, and I pray to the Lord that our troubles may now be over.'

'How was she hurt?'

Caterix looked away. 'Three men robbed us two days ago. They . . . assaulted my daughter and killed her husband, Doren, when he tried to aid her.'

'I am sorry,' said Galead lamely.

The meal was eaten in silence, after a short prayer of thanks from Caterix. Galead thanked the family for their hospitality and offered to ride with them to the coast, where they had friends. Caterix accepted the offer with a bow and the small group followed slowly as Galead rode ahead.

As dusk flowed into evening Galead, rounding a bend in the trail, saw a man sitting with his back to a tree. He rode forward and dismounted. The man was bleeding heavily from a wound in his chest and his face was pale, the eyelids and lips blue from loss of blood. Ripping open the dirty tunic, Galead staunched the wound as best he could. After several minutes Caterix came upon the scene; he knelt beside the wounded man, lifting his wrist and checking his pulse.