The Iron Grail (3 page)

Now again I felt that familiar tingle below the flesh, ability returning, saw at once how to open the door. And persuaded it to do so. We dragged Jason’s body outside, through the fires and into the fresh air.

No guards were to be seen save the slain. Someone went for horses.

Tisaminas crouched down beside me, lifting Jason’s battered head and wiping the blood from his brow. Jason opened is eyes, then reached out to grab me by the shoulder. ‘Antiokus…?’ he whispered. ‘Why didn’t you stop her? There is more enchantment in your veins than
blood
!’

‘I warned you she could be more powerful than me. I tried, Jason. With all my heart, I tried.’

My own power had been strangled. Medea had exercised her own charm upon me, stifling my inner sight and my ability with enchantment. How she had managed this was beyond me. It would be seven hundred years before I would find the answer.

Jason’s look was grim, but he acknowledged my words. ‘I know you did. I’m sure you did. You’ve been a good friend. I know you would have tried.’ He groaned as he tried to move. ‘Come on, help me up! Tisaminas, help me up. And fetch horses! We have to follow…’

‘The horses are on their way,’ I told him.

‘She will run to the north, Antiokus. I know the way she thinks. She’ll run to the coast, to the hidden harbour behind the mourning rocks. We can catch her!’

‘We can certainly try,’ I said, though in my heart I knew that Medea had slipped away for ever. She had always outwitted Jason.

*   *   *

I had not been in Iolkos on that final, fateful day when a spar from the rotting Argo, where the rotting man lay ageing and raging against Medea, fell and broke his skull. Hera found me, as she had found all the argonauts. I was walking my long path round the world, too far away in the snows of the north to return. But the others came back and lined the headlands above the harbour. They circled firebrands in farewell as the proud ship gracefully sailed into the moon and Time. Even the shade of sad Orpheus was there, allowed to return for this final farewell. And Heracles too, dark and brooding, plucked from his own manic adventures by the wily goddess, even he was there, casting his torch wistfully from the heights as the old ship passed below.

As if pursuing me, it was to the Northlands that Argo brought the hero. She sank into the depths of a lake, near Tuonela, in the bleak land called Pohjola. I always knew he was buried there. I often passed that way, out of respect for my old friend, staying for a while, trying not to hear the screams of the shade of Jason, still mourning his sons.

All this would one day change when I discovered the clever conjuration that Medea had performed for us.

PART ONE:

Hardship and a Long Sigh

CHAPTER THREE

Old Ghosts

I had been reliving the far past for half the morning, lost in my dreams, walking lost times as I walked the boundaries of the deserted fort. My reverie was abruptly interrupted by a sudden shower of rain, sleeting across the grass within the walls. It seemed to drive in through the Riannon Gate, very cold and very wet. A figure moved through the rain, insubstantial, defined by the shower, a man leading a horse by the reins, followed soon by others, entering the enclosure cautiously. And nervously.

The leader suddenly ran as if to pass me by where I now crouched in the lee of a collapsed house. His men jogged after him, their horses struggling in the downpour. I could see through their forms to the ramparts opposite; they were rain-ghosts, clad in long cloaks, leather tunics over knee-length trousers. Their horses were large and exquisitely harnessed.

The leader suddenly stopped and glanced in my direction, then walked towards me, a watery shade, gaining features. Behind him his retinue mounted up and slouched forward across their saddles, watching.

There was something familiar about him, sufficiently so for the hair on my neck to prickle. His eyes, his bearing: they reminded me of Urtha, High King of the Cornovidi and true owner of this abandoned place. Then again, many people reminded me of Urtha: the look of such an extended family could grin at me from behind every stronghold wall.

‘Are you the enchanter? The old man who walks in circles talking to himself?’ He laughed as he said this.

‘I walk a circular path around the world. It takes fifty years to make one circuit, sometimes longer. I talk to myself because I like what I have to say.’

‘What madness would make a man do such a thing? Walking, walking.’

‘The madness of my birth. It’s the undertaking I was tasked with at my birth.’

‘What do you achieve?’

‘Achieve? Greater understanding of things that are normally confusing; more memories than I know what to do with; greater skills than I have the time to practise; but a great deal of practice in the sort of interference that can shape kingdoms.’

‘I could do with a man like you,’ the ghost said appreciatively, grinning as he scratched the stubble on his face. Then he peered closely. ‘I was expecting someone older. You’re no older than me.’

‘Looks can deceive.’

‘That they can. That they can indeed. Deception can kill more certainly than an iron blade. I’ll remember your face; remember mine. Now, go to the river. Quickly. Someone has been following you for days. You move fast and in mysterious ways. Your help is needed.’

He was suddenly apprehensive. A horn sounded, somewhere in the distance, an eerie call, or warning. His ethereal steed tugged at the reins; his companions were anxiously staring towards the western gate, at the rear of the stronghold.

‘Get out of here now,’ he said to me, turning away. ‘The river, by the old sanctuary—wait for her.’

He slipped into the rain, a glistening shape defined by water. ‘Who are you?’ I called after him, but he either didn’t hear or chose not to answer. I took a deeper look at him and felt that tingle of shock, deep in the bones, as I recognised the unfocused, misty spark of one of the Unborn. I left well enough alone at that point.

I ran to the Riannon gate, the horse gate, and began to descend the causeways. Behind me I faintly heard the sound of men riding at the gallop—a raiding party surging into Taurovinda from the direction of the Land of the Shadows of Heroes.

*   *   *

The old sanctuary by the river was dedicated to Nantosuelta, the ‘winding one’, the spirit of springs and streams, wells and rivers like this wide flow that wound tightly around Taurovinda, and named for the spirit herself.

This river was more than it seemed; willow-fringed, dense with rushes, alive with movement close to the shore, it might have been any river anywhere in the island. But Nantosuelta flowed from Ghostland, the Land of the Shadows of Heroes. It separated the land of the Cornovidi in the west from the Otherworld of their ancestors; its winding course also separated the Parisii, the Durotriges and the Seutones from their own Otherworlds. To row a boat along Nantosuelta was to always row at the edge of the world of the Dead. Urtha’s fortress of Taurovinda guarded five dangerous fords across the water, and the five deep valleys that led, westwards beyond the marshes, to Ghostland itself.

The sanctuary lay among the evergroves, stunted, twisted trees that reared like petrified spirits from the rocks and cairns of older temples. Weathered grey rocks, crumbling piles of stones, there was a chaos to the place, but a sense of presence, of listening, that told me that here was a sanctuary which still pulsed with life.

The rain hadn’t eased. I went to the edge of the river and searched the dense greenery for the woman the rain-ghost had suggested was waiting for me.

When she finally arrived, she was not alone.

‘What in the name of Llud’s bastard sons have you done with my bastard son-in-law?’

The voice that challenged me from the groves was deep, angry, resonant and recognisable.

‘Ambaros!’

‘Merlin! Is the bastard dead? Is he coming home? Why did my daughter—the Good God grant her rest when rest comes due—why did she have to bond with a man whose dreams took him away from his duties?’

‘Your son-in-law fought a good and famous combat.’

‘I hope he took a head to prove it.’

‘A well-oiled head. He also took a wound.’

‘Mortal?’

‘Watch the east. If he shows, then you have your answer. He fought well, Ambaros, and avenged your daughter.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

Now he stepped towards me, casting aside his shield and spear, throwing back his cloak. Old and white-haired, but with eyes that were sharp as spear-points, this grand warrior, this man of Taurovinda, father of Urtha’s dead wife Aylamunda, embraced me like a long lost son.

When his relief—the gesture was one of relief at finding me, that much was clear—when his relief was satisfied, he stepped back, looked me up and down and shook his head.

‘Dreadful. Filthy. A dog wears better clothes. You’ve been in seclusion too long. There are week-old wolf-cubs forty days’ ride from here, blind and helpless, who are smelling your scent and urging their mother to let them hunt you down.’

‘Thank you. You’ve aged a lot yourself.’

‘Age has less to do with it than water. Anyway, I can’t get any older. You can’t add white to white. I can only get stronger. When that strength goes, it will be in an instant. I’ll sing loudly as my head bowls along the ground. As long as it’s a clean cut, I don’t care about it. I care about this land and that fortress, where the Dead are gathering having evicted us yet again. And about my grandchildren. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Kymon and Munda?’

‘They’re the only grandchildren I have, Merlin, unless the ghosts of my three dead sons have been fornicating in the world of the living! Yes. Kymon and Munda. I don’t understand what is happening myself, but one of their guardians is here. One of the
modronae
. The Mothers. She’s dying. So let’s not waste time.’

He led me to the shelter of a slouching stone. A woman in black dress, her dark hair streaked with white, lay curled there, shivering. Ambaros had covered her with a blanket. Her cheeks were so dry that she had the look of a corpse. I could hear the hollow echo of her stomach, the feeble pulse of her heart, the crow-call that was summoning her.

‘She’s very ill,’ Ambaros said as he knelt beside her. He took her hand and massaged it, as if this act of touching might stimulate life in a body that was shedding life with every passing flight of cranes.

What could I do? Knowing Ambaros as I did, knowing of his strengths in combat and his strength of heart, his dedication to his family, I touched this dying Mother with a little strength of her own. In doing so I realised that she belonged in Ghostland, not in Urtha’s world. She had crossed the divide—Nantosuelta—and now could never return.

‘I remember you,’ she whispered. She reached a hand to stroke my whiskered cheeks. ‘You’re the man who brought their father to see them. You are their father’s friend.’

She must have known this already; else why pursue me from the land that sustained her to a realm that would kill her?

‘I brought Urtha to see them. He and I have travelled together to Greek Land. He avenged the death of Aylamunda and his son Urien.’

‘I’m glad of that,’ the
modron
whispered.

Ambaros too seemed pleased, the slightest nod of his head as he watched me without expression signalling that he was content to hear of the triumph of his son-in-law.

The Mother raised her hands, palms towards me. She said, ‘For a while they were safe in the borderland between the river and the land of shadows. But they are no longer safe. The Warped Man, Dealing Death, is closing in. He is searching for Urtha’s children. He is hungry for them.

‘Merlin! There is a storm in Ghostland that none of us can understand. Something terrible is happening. Nothing is right in that strange realm! But Urtha’s children are both key and cure. You have old bones and old charm; my sister saw this when you came to the meadow with their father, before he went to Greek Land. You can take them from a broken haven to safety. Hurry. Hurry.’

Suddenly her lips pressed against mine. I felt the moisture of life on her tongue. Her eyes blazed with death. Her fingers scratched urgency through my stinking sheepskin coat. ‘Leave me here,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll make my own way back.’ Then the light faded from eyes that had seen wonders. A cooling carcass curled into my arms, skin and bone glad to say goodbye to the ghost that had held this fragile doll together for the journey to find me.

I kissed her gently, this time on the brow. I closed her eyes. I folded her carefully.

Ambaros asked, ‘Dead?’

‘Very dead. But then, she was dead already, I realise.’

‘Let’s get on with it. Can you get those children out of Ghostland?’

‘Will you help?’

He laughed sourly. He was appalled at the question.

I felt ashamed.

‘Get me a horse,’ I said to him.

‘Find your own damned horse. Do you think horses grow on trees?’

‘Then first help me bury this woman. She said to leave her here.’

‘That is something that must be done. Under one of the cairns. The present owners won’t object, and if they do, they can face me in Ghostland with their argument!’

*   *   *

That response was exactly what made me admire this man. In one way I truly envied Ambaros: he cut to the quick; he had no time for nonsense. In other ways I didn’t envy him at all: he was old, he was tired, he was weak in heart and limb, he had a narrow view of a world that was exhaustingly complex (he was hardly alone in this, of course; he didn’t walk the path that I walked). And yet, he could make sense of small affairs. For all my journeying around the wider world, all I could do was accrue memory; insight, it seemed to me, came from concentrating on the near-at-hand.

Ambaros, Urtha’s father, Urtha’s mentor, Urtha’s scourge and challenge, the nightmare voice in Urtha’s dreams, could whisper words that made sense, see strategy that made sense, understand situations where sense had taken a walk … but in a narrow range.

For all my broader range, I could make less sense of the world than Ambaros. I felt drawn to him, to the necessity that now drove him—to bring Kymon and Munda out of Ghostland—in a way that I had rarely experienced before.