Gemmell, David - Stones of Power 2 - Sword of Power

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PROLOGUE

Revelation stood with his back to the door, his broad hands resting on the stone sill of the

narrow window, his eyes scanning the forests below as he watched a hunting hawk circling beneath

the bunching clouds.

'It has begun, my lord,' said the elderly messenger, bowing to the tall man in the monk's robes of

brown wool.

Revelation turned slowly, his smoke-grey eyes fastening on the man who looked away, unable to bear

the intensity of the gaze.

Tell it all,' said Revelation, slumping in an ivory-inlaid chair before his desk of oak and gazing

absently at the parchment on which he had been working.

'May I sit, my lord?' asked the messenger softly and Revelation looked up and smiled.

'My dear Cotta, of course you may. Forgive my melancholy. I had hoped to spend the remaining days

of my life here in Tingis. The African weather suits me, the people are friendly and, with the

exception of Berber raids, the country is restful. And I have almost completed my book . . . but

then such ventures will always take second place to living history.'

Cotta sank gratefully into a high-backed chair, his bald head gleaming with sweat, his dark eyes

showing his fatigue. He had come straight from the ship - eager to unburden himself of the bad

news he carried, yet loth to load the weight on the man before him.

'There are many stories of how it began. All are contradictory, or else extravagantly embroidered

. But, as you suspected, the Goths have a new leader of uncanny powers. His armies are certainly

invincible and he is cutting a bloody path through the northern kingdoms. The Sicambrians and the

Norse have yet to find him opposing them, but their turn will come.'

Revelation nodded. 'What of the sorcery?'

"The agents of the Bishop of Rome all testify that Wotan is a skilled nigromancer. He has

sacrificed young girls, launching his new ships across their spread-eagled bodies. It is vile ...

all of it. And he claims to be a god!'

'How do the man's powers manifest themselves?' asked the Abbot.

'He is invincible in battle. No sword can touch him. But it is said he makes the dead walk - and

more than walk. One survivor of the battle in Raetia swears that at the end of the day the dead

Goths rose in the midst of the enemy, cutting and killing. Needless to add that the opposition

crumbled. I have only the one man's word for this tale, but I think he was speaking the truth.'

'And what is the talk among the Goths?'

"They say that Wotan plans a great invasion of Britannia, where the magic is strongest. Wotan says

the home of the Old Gods is Britannia, and the gateway to Valhalla is at Sorviodunum, near the

Great Circle.'

'Indeed it is' whispered Revelation.

'What, my Lord Abbot?' asked Cotta, his eyes widening.

'I am sorry, Cotta, I was thinking aloud. The Great Circle has always been considered a place of

magic by the Druids - and others before them. And Wotan is right, it is a gateway of sorts - and

he must not be allowed to pass through it.'

'I cannot think there is a single army to oppose him - except the Blood King, and our reports say

he is sorely beset by rebellion and invasion in his own land. Saxons, Jutes, Angles and even

British tribes rise against him regularly. How would he fare against 20,000 Gothic warriors led by

a sorcerer who cannot be bested?'

Revelation smiled broadly, his wood-smoke eyes twinkling with sudden humour. 'Uther can never be

underestimated, my friend. He too has never known defeat . . . and he carries the Sword of Power,

Cunobelin's blade.'

'But he is an old man now,' said Cotta. Twenty-five years of warfare must have taken their toll.

And the Great Betrayal ..."

'I know the history,' snapped Revelation. 'Pour us some wine, while I think.'

The Abbot watched as the older man filled two copper goblets with deep red wine, accepting one of

them with a smile to offset the harshness of his last response.

'Is it true that Wotan's messengers seek out maidens with special talents?'

'Yes. Spirit-seers, healers, speakers in tongues ... it is said he weds them all.'

'He kills them,' said Revelation. 'It is where his power lies.'

The Abbot rose and moved to the window, watching the sun sink in fire. Behind him Cotta lit four

candles, then waited in silence for several minutes. At last he spoke. 'Might I ask, my lord, why

you are so concerned about events across the world? There have always been wars. It is the curse

of Man that he must kill his brothers and some argue that God himself made this the punishment for

Eden.'

Revelation turned from the glory of the sunset and went back to his chair.

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'All life, Cotta, is balanced. Light and dark, weak and strong, good and evil. The harmony of

nature. In perpetual darkness all plants would die. In perpetual sunlight they would wither and

burn. The balance is everything. Wotan must be opposed, lest he become a god - a dark and

malicious god, a blood-drinker, a soul-stealer.'

'And you will oppose him, my lord?'

'I will oppose him'

'But you have no army. You are not a king, or a warlord.'

'You do not know what I am, old friend. Come, refill the goblets, and we will see what the Graal

shows.'

Revelation moved to an oak chest and poured water from a clay jug into a shallow silver bowl,

carrying it carefully to the desk. He waited until the ripples had died and then lifted a golden

stone above the water, slowly circling it. The candle flames guttered and died without a hint of

breeze and Cotta found himself leaning forward, staring into the now velvet-dark water of the

bowl.

The first image that appeared was that of a young boy, red-haired and wild-eyed, thrusting at the

air with a wooden sword. Nearby sat an older warrior, a leather cup strapped over the stump where

his right hand should have been. Revelation watched them closely, then passed his hand over the

surface. Now the watchers could see blue sky and a young girl in a pale green dress sitting beside

a lake.

'Those are the mountains of Raetia,' whispered Cotta. The girl was slowly plaiting her dark hair

into a single braid.

'She is blind,' said Revelation. 'See how her eyes face the sun unblinking?'

Suddenly the girl's face turned towards them. 'Good morning,' she said, the words forming without

sound in both men's minds.

'Who are you?' asked Revelation softly.

'How strange,' she replied, your voice whispers like the morning breeze, and seems so far away.'

'I am far away, child. Who are you?'

'I am Anduine.'

'And where do you live?'

'In Cisastra with my father, Ongist. And you?'

'I am Revelation.'

'Are you a friend?'

'I am indeed.'

'I thought so. Who is that with you?'

'How do you know there is someone with me?'

'It is a gift I have, Master Revelation. Who is he?'

'He is Cotta, a monk of the White Christ. You will meet him soon; he also is a friend.'

"This I knew. I can feel his kindness.'

Once more Revelation moved his hand across the water. Now he saw a young man with long, raven-dark

hair leading a fine herd of Sicambrian horses in the vales beyond Londinium. The man was handsome,

a finely-boned face framed by a strong, clean shaven jaw. Revelation studied the rider intently.

This time the water shimmered of its own accord - a dark storm-cloud hurling silent spears of

jagged lightning, streaming across a night sky. From within the cloud came a flying creature with

leather wings and a long wedge-shaped head. Upon its back sat a yellow-bearded warrior; his hand

rose and lightning flashed towards the watchers. Revelation's arm shot forward just as the water

parted; white light speared up into his hand and the stench of burning flesh filled the room. The

water steamed and bubbled, vanishing in a cloud of vapour. The silver bowl sagged and flowed down

upon the table, a hissing black and silver stream that caused the wood to blaze. Cotta recoiled as

he saw Revelation's blackened hand. The Abbot lifted the golden stone and touched it to the seared

flesh. It healed instantly, but even the magic could not take away the memory of the pain and

Revelation sagged back into his chair, his heart pounding and cold sweat on his face. He took a

deep breath and stared at the smouldering wood. The flames died, the smoke disappearing as round

them the candles flared into life.

'He knows of me, Cotta. But in attacking me I learned of him. He is not quite ready to plunge the

world into darkness; he needs one more sacrifice.'

'For what?' whispered the old man.

'In the language of this world? He seeks to open the Gates of Hell.'

'Can he be stopped?'

Revelation shrugged. 'We will see, my friend. You must take ship for Raetia and find Anduine. From

there take her to Britannia, to Noviomagus. I will meet you in three months. Once there you will

find an inn in the southern quarter - called, I believe, the Sign of the Bull. Come every day at

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noon and wait one hour. I shall join you when I can.'

'The blind girl is the sacrifice?'

'Yes.'

'And what of the red-haired boy and the rider?'

'As yet I do not know. Friends or enemies . . . only time will tell. The boy looked familiar, but

I cannot place him. He was wearing Saxon garb and I have never journeyed amongst the Saxons. As to

the rider, I know him; his name is Ursus and he is of the House of Merovee. He has a brother, I

think, and he yearns to be rich.'

'And the man upon the dragon?' asked Cotta softly.

'The Enemy from beyond the Mist.' 'And is he truly Wotan, the grey god?' Revelation sipped his

wine. 'Wotan? He has had many names. To some he was Odin the One-Eyed, to others Loki. In the East

they called him Purgame-sh,or Molech, or even Baal. Yes, Cotta, he is divine - immortal if you

will. And where he walks, chaos follows.'

'You speak as if you know him.' 'I know him. I fought him once before.' 'What happened?' 'I killed

him, Cotta,' answered the Abbot.

CHAPTER ONE

Grysstha watched as the boy twirled the wooden sword, lunging and thrusting at the air around him.

'Feet, boy, think about your feet!'

The old man hawked and spat on the grass, then scratched at the itching stump of his right wrist.

'A swordsman must learn balance. It is not enough to have a quick eye and a good arm - to fall is

to die, boy.'

The youngster thrust the wooden blade into the ground and sat beside the old warrior. Sweat

gleamed on his brow and his sky-blue eyes sparkled.

'But I am improving, yes?'

'Of course you are improving, Cormac. Only a fool could not.'

The boy pulled clear the weapon, brushing dirt from the whittled blade. 'Why is it so short? Why

must I practise with a Roman blade?'

'Know your enemy. Never care about his weaknesses; you will find those if your mind has skill.

Know his strengths. They conquered the world, boy, with just such swords. You know why?'

'No.'

Grysstha smiled. 'Gather me some sticks,- Cormac. Gather me sticks you could break easily with

finger and thumb.' As the boy grinned and moved off to the trees Grysstha watched him, allowing

the pride to shine now that the boy could not see him closely.

Why were there so many fools in the world, he thought, as pride gave way to anger? How could they

not see the potential in the lad? How could they hate him for a fault that was not his?

'Will these do?' asked Cormac, dropping twenty finger-thin sticks at Grysstha's feet.

'Take one and break it.'

'Easily done,' said Cormac, snapping a stick.

'Keep going, boy. Break them all.'

When the youngster had done so, Grysstha pulled a length of twine from his belt. 'Now gather ten

of them and bind them together with this.'

'Like a beacon brand, you mean?'

'Exactly. Tie them tight.'

Cormac made a noose of the twine, gathered ten sticks and bound them tightly together. He offered

the four-inch-thick brand to Grysstha but the old man shook his head.

'Break it,' he ordered.

'It is too thick.'

‘Try.'

The boy strained at the brand, his face reddening the muscles of his arms and shoulders writhing

under his red woollen shirt.

'A few moments ago you snapped twenty of these sticks, but now you cannot break ten.'

'But they are bound together, Grysstha. Even Calder could not break them.'

"That is the secret the Romans carried in their short-swords. The Saxon fights with a long blade,

swinging it wide. His comrades cannot fight close to him, for they might be struck by his slashing

sword, so each man fights alone, though there are ten thousand in the fray. But the Roman, with

his gladius -he locks shields with his comrades and his blade stabs like a viper bite. Their

legions were like that brand, bound together.'

'And how did they fail, if they were so invincible?'

'An army is as good as its general, and the general is only a reflection of the emperor who

appoints him. Rome has had her day. Maggots crawl in the body of Rome, worms writhe in the brain,

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rats gnaw at the sinews.'

The old man hawked and spat once more, his pale blue eyes gleaming.

'You fought them, did you not?' said Cormac. 'In Gallia and Italia?'

'I fought them. I watched their legions fold and run before the dripping blades of the Goths and

the Saxons. I could have wept then for the souls of the Romans that once were. Seven legions we

crushed, until we found an enemy worth fighting: Afrianus and the Sixteenth. Ah, Cormac, what a

day! Twenty thousand lusty warriors, drunk with victory, facing one legion of five thousand men. I

stood on a hill and looked down upon them, their bronze shields gleaming. At the centre, on a pale

stallion, Afrianus himself. Sixty years old and, unlike his fellows, bearded like a Saxon. We

hurled ourselves upon them, but it was like water falling on a stone. Their line held. Then they

advanced, and cut us apart. Less than two thousand of us escaped into the forests. What a man! I

swear there was Saxon blood in him.'

'What happened to him?'

'The emperor recalled him to Rome and he was assassinated.' Grysstha chuckled. 'Worms in the

brain, Cormac.'

'Why?' queried the boy. 'Why kill an able general?'

'Think on it, boy.'

'I can make no sense of it.'

'That is the mystery, Cormac. Do not seek for sense in the tale. Seek for the hearts of men. Now

leave me to watch these goats swell their bellies and get back to your duties.'

The boy's face fell. 'I like to be here with you, Grysstha. I ... I feel at peace here.'

'That is what friendship is, Cormac Daemonsson. Take strength from it, for the world does not

understand the likes of you and me.'

'Why are you my friend, Grysstha?'

'Why does the eagle fly? Why is the sky blue? Go now. Be strong.'

Grysstha watched as the lad wandered disconsolately from the high meadow towards the huts below.

Then the old warrior swung his gaze up to the horizon and the low, scudding clouds. His stump

ached and he pulled the leather cap from his wrist, rubbing at the scarred skin. Reaching out, he

tugged the wooden blade from the ground, remembering the days when his own sword had a name and a

history and more, a future.

But that was before the day fifteen years ago when the Blood King clove the South Saxon,

butchering and burning, tearing the heart from the people and holding it above their heads in his

mailed fist. He should have killed them all, but he did not. He made them swear an oath of

allegiance, and loaned them coin to rebuild ruined farms and settlements.

Grysstha had come close to killing the Blood King in the last battle. He had hacked his way into

the shield square, cleaving a path towards the flame-haired king, when a sword slashed down across

his wrist, almost severing his hand. Then another weapon hammered into his helm and he fell dazed.

He had struggled to rise, but his head was spinning. When at last he regained consciousness he

opened his eyes to find himself gazing at the Blood King, who was kneeling beside him. Grysstha's

fingers reached out for the man's throat - but there was no fingers, only a bloody bandage.

'You were a magnificent warrior,' said the Blood King. 'I salute you!'

'You cut off my hand!'

'It was hanging by a thread. It could not be saved.'

Grysstha forced himself to his feet, staggered, then gazed around him. Bodies littered the field

and Saxon women were moving amongst the corpses seeking lost loved ones.

'Why did you save me?' snarled Grysstha, rounding on the King.

The man merely smiled and turned on his heel. Flanked by his Guards, he strode from the field to a

crimson tent by a rippling stream.

'Why?' bellowed Grysstha, falling to his knees.

'I do not think he knows himself,' said a voice and Grysstha looked up.

Leaning on an ornate crutch carved from dark shining wood was a middle aged Briton, with wispy

grey-blond beard over a pointed chin. Grysstha saw that his left leg was twisted and deformed. The

man offered the Saxon his hand but Grysstha ignored it and pushed himself to his feet.

'He sometimes relies on intuition,' said the man, gently, his pale eyes showing no sign of

offence.

'You are of the Tribes?' said Grysstha.

'Brigante.'

"Then why follow the Roman?'

'Because the land is his, and he is the land. My name is Prasamaccus.'

'So I live because of the King's whim?'

'Yes. I was beside him when you charged the shield-wall; it was a reckless action.'

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'I am a reckless man. What does he mean to do with us now? Sell us?'

'I think he means to leave you in peace.'

'Why would he do anything so foolish?'

Prasamaccus limped to a jutting boulder and sat. 'A horse kicked me,' he said, 'and my leg was not

strong before that. How is your hand?'

'It bums like fire,' said Grysstha, sitting beside the tribesman, his eyes on the women still

searching the field of battle as the crows circled, screeching in their hunger.

'He says that you also are of the land,' said Prasamaccus. 'He has reigned for ten years. He sees

Saxons and Jutes and Angles and Goths being born in this Island of Mist. They are no longer

invaders.'

'Does he think we came here to serve a Roman King?'

'He knows why you came - to plunder and kill and grow rich. But you stayed to farm. How do you

feel about the land?'

'I was not born here, Prasamaccus.'

The Brigante smiled and held out his left hand. Grysstha looked down at it, and then took it in

the warrior's grip, wrist to wrist.

'I think that is a good first use of your left hand.'

'It will also learn to use a sword. My name is Grysstha.'

'I have seen you before. You were at the great battle near Eboracum, the day the King came home.'

Grysstha nodded. 'You have a good eye and a better memory. It was the Day of the Two Suns. I have

never seen the like since, nor would I wish to. We fought alongside the Brigante that day, and the

coward-king Eldared. Were you with him?'

'No. I stood under the two suns with Uther and the Ninth Legion.'

'The day of the Blood King. Nothing has been right since then. Why can he not be beaten? How does

he always know where to strike?'

'He is the land, and the land knows.'

Grysstha said nothing. He had not expected the man to betray the King's secret.

Of seven thousand Saxon warriors who had begun the battle, a mere eleven hundred remained. These

Uther required to kneel and swear Blood Oath never to rise against him again. In return the land

would be theirs, as before, but now by right and not by conquest. He also left them their own

king, Wulfhere - son of Orsa, son of Hengist. It was a brave move. Grysstha knelt with the others

in the dawn light before the King's tent, watching as Uther stood with the boy, Wulfhere.

The Saxons smiled, even in defeat, for they knew they knelt not before the conqueror but before

their own sovereign lord.

The Blood King knew it too.

'You have my word that our friendship is as strong as this blade,' he said, hoisting the Sword of

Cuno-belin high into the air, where the dawn sun glistened like fire on the steel. 'But friendship

has a price. This sword will accept no other swords in the hands of the Saxon.' An angry murmur

rippled amongst the kneeling men. 'Be true to your word and this may change,' said the King, 'but

if you are not true I shall return and not one man, not one woman, not one squalling babe will be

left alive from Anderida to Venta. The choice is yours.'

Within two hours both the King and his army had departed and the stunned Saxons gathered in the

Council of Wotan. Wulfhere was only twelve and could not vote, and Calder was appointed as steward

to help him govern. The rest of the day was devoted to the election of men to the Council. Only

two survived out of the original eighteen, but by dusk the positions were filled once more.

Two hours after dawn the Eighteen met and now the real business began. Some were for heading east

and linking with Hengist's son, Drada, who was after all Wulfhere's uncle and blood-kin. Others

were for waiting until another army could be gathered. Still more suggested sending for aid across

the water, where the Merovingian wars were displacing fighting men.

Two events turned the day. At noon a wagon arrived bearing gifts of gold and silver from the King,

to be distributed 'as the Council sees fit'. This gift alone meant that food could be bought for

the savage winter ahead, and blankets and trade goods from the Merovingians in Gallia.

Second, the steward Calder made a speech that would live long in the minds, if not the hearts of

his listeners.

'I fought the Blood King and my sword dripped red with the blood of his Guards. But why did we

fight him? Ask yourselves that. I say it was because we felt he could be beaten, and there would

be plunder from Venta, Londinium, Dubris and all the other merchant towns. But now we know. He

cannot be beaten ... not by us ... perhaps not by Drada. You have seen the wagon - more coin than

we could have taken in a campaign. I say we wait and judge his word: return to our farms, make

repairs, gather harvests where we can.'

'Men without swords, Calder. How then shall we reach Valhalla?' shouted a tall warrior.

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'I myself follow the White Christ,' said Calder, 'so I have no interest in Valhalla. But if it

worries you, Snorri, then join Drada. Let any man who wishes to fight on do the same. We have been

offered friendship - and surely there are worse things in the world to receive from a conqueror

than a wagon of gold?'

It is because he fears us,' said Snorri, lurching to his feet. 'I say we use his gold to buy men

and arms and then march on Camulodunum.'

'You will perhaps take the barn with you on your campaign,' said Calder. Laughter followed his

words, for it was well known that Snorri had hidden from the Romans under a blanket in the broad

barn, only running clear when the enemy put it to the torch. He had been voted to the Council

merely on the strength of his landholdings.

'I was cut off and it was that or die,' said Snorri. ‘I’ll take my gold and join Drada.'

'No one takes the gold,' said Calder. "The gift is to the Council and we will vote on its use.'

At the last Snorri and four other landsmen, with more than two hundred men, joined Drada; the rest

remained to build a new life as vassals of the Blood King.

For Grysstha the decision tasted of ashes. But he was Calder's carle and pledged to obey him, and

the decisions of the great rarely concerned him.

That night, as he stood alone on High Hill, Calder came to him.

'You are troubled, my friend?' the steward asked.

'The Days of Blood will come again. I can feel it in the whisper of the wind. The crows know it

too.'

'Wise birds, crows. The eyes of Odin.'

'I heard you told them you followed the White Christ?'

'You think the Blood King had no ears at our meeting? You think Snorri and his men will live to

join Drada? Or that any of us would have been left alive had I not spoken as I did? No. Grysstha.

I follow the old gods who understood the hearts of men.'

'And what of the treaty with Uther?'

'We will honour it for as long as it suits us, but one day you will be avenged for the loss of

your sword-arm. I had a dream last night and I saw the Blood King standing alone on the top of a

hill, his men all dead around him and his banner broken. I believe Odin sent that dream; it is a

promise for the future.'

'It will be many years before we are as strong again.'

'I am a patient man, my friend.'

The Blood King slowly dismounted, handing the reins of his war-horse to a silent squire. All

around him the bodies of the slain lay where they had fallen, under a lowering sky and a dark

cloud of storm crows waiting to feast.

Uther removed his bronze helm, allowing the breeze to cool his face. He was tired now, more tired

than he would allow any man to see.

'You are wounded, sire,' said Victorinus, approaching through the gloom, his dark eyes narrowed in

concern at the sight of the blood seeping from the gash in the King's arm.

'It is nothing. How many men did we lose?'

'The stretcher-bearers are still out, sire, and the surgeon is too busy to count. I would say

around eight hundred, but it might be less.'

'Or more?'

'We are harrying the enemy to the coast. Will you change your mind about not burning their ships?'

'No. Without ships they cannot retreat. It would cost near a legion to destroy their army utterly,

and I do not have five thousand men to spare.'

'Let me bind your arm, sire.'

'Stop fussing over me, man! The wound is sealed - well, almost. Look at them,' said the King,

pointing to the field between the stream and the lake and the hundreds of bodies lying twisted in

death. 'They came for plunder. Now the crows will feast on their eyes. And will the survivors

learn? Will they say. "Avoid the realm of the Blood King?" No, they will return in their

thousands. What is it about this land that draws them?'

'I do not know, sire, but as long as they come we will kill them,' said Victorinus.

'Always loyal, my friend. Do you know what today is?'

'Of course, my lord. It is the Day of the King.'

Uther chuckled. 'The Day of the Two Suns. Had I known then that a quarter-century of war would

follow . . .' He lapsed into silence.

Victorinus removed his plumed helm, allowing his white hair to flow free in the evening breeze.

'But you always conquer, my lord. You are a legend from Camulodunum to Rome, from Tingis to

Bysantium: the Blood King who has never known defeat. Come, your tent is ready. I will pour you

some wine.'

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The King's tent had been pitched on the high ground overlooking the battlefield. Inside a brazier

of coals was glowing beside the cot-bed. Uther's squire, Baldric, helped him out of his chain-

mail, his breastplate and his greaves, and the King sank gratefully to the cot.

Today I feel my age,' he said.

'You should not fight where the battle is thickest. A chance arrow, a lucky blow ..." Victorinus

shrugged. 'We . . . Britain . . . could not stand without you.' He passed the King a goblet of

watered wine and Uther sat up and drank deeply.

'Baldric!'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Clean the Sword - and be careful now, for it is sharper than sin.'

Baldric smiled and lifted the great Sword of Cunobelin, carrying it from the tent. Victorinus

waited until the lad had gone, then pulled up a canvas stool and sat beside the monarch.

'You are tired, Uther. Leave the Trinovante uprising to Gwalchmai and me. Now that the Goths have

been crushed, the tribes will offer little resistance.'

'I will be fine after a night's sleep. You fuss over me like an old woman!'

Victorinus grinned and shook his head and the King lay back and closed his eyes. The older man sat

unmoving, staring at the face of his monarch -the flaming red hair and the silver blond beard -

and remembered the youth who crossed the borders of Hell to rescue his country. The hair was henna-

dyed now and the eyes seemed older than time.

For twenty-five years this man had achieved the impossible, holding back the tide of barbarian

invaders threatening to engulf the Land of Mist. Only Uther and the Sword of Power stood between

the light of civilization and the darkness of the hordes. Victorinus was pure-blood Roman, but he

had fought alongside Uther for a quarter of a century, putting down rebellions, crushing invading

forces of Saxon, Norse, Goth and Dane. For how much longer could Uther's small army prevail?

For as long as the King lived. This was the great sadness, the bitter truth. Only Uther had the

power, the strength, the personal magnetism. When he was gone the light would go out.

Gwalchmai entered the tent, but stood in silence as he saw the King sleeping. Victorinus rose and

drew a blanket over the monarch; then, beckoning to the old Cantii warrior, he left the tent.

'He's soul-weary,' said Gwalchmai.'Did you ask him?'

'Yes.'

'And?'

'What do you think, my friend?'

'If he dies, we are lost,' said Gwalchmai. He was a tall man, stern-eyed under bushy grey brows,

and his long silver hair was braided after the fashion of his Cantii forebears. 'I fear for him.

Ever since the Betrayal . . .'

'Hush, man!' hissed Victorinus, taking his comrade by the arm and leading him away into the night.

Inside the tent Uther's eyes opened. Throwing off the blanket, he poured himself some more wine

and this time added no water.

The Great Betrayal. Still they spoke of it. But whose was the betrayal, he wondered? He drained

the wine and refilled the goblet.

He could see them now, on that lonely cliff-top . . .

'Sweet Jesus!' he whispered. 'Forgive me.'

Cormac made his way through the scattered huts to the smithy where Kern was hammering the blade of

a plough. The boy waited until the sweating smith dunked the hot metal into the trough and then

approached him.

'You have work for me?' he asked. The bald thickset Kern wiped his hands on his leather apron.

'Not today.'

'I could fetch wood?'

'I said not today,' snapped the smith. 'Now begone!'

Cormac swallowed hard. 'I could clean the storeroom.'

Kern's hand flashed for the boy's head, but Cormac swayed aside causing the smith to stumble. 'I

am sorry, master Kern,' he said, standing stockstill for the angry blow that smacked into his ear.

'Get out! And don't come back tomorrow.'

Cormac walked, stiff-backed , from the smithy and only out of sight of the building did he spit

the blood from his mouth. He was hungry and he was alone. All around him he could see evidence of

families - mothers and toddlers, young children playing with brothers and sisters, fathers

teaching sons to ride.

The potter had no work for him either, nor the baker, nor the tanner. The widow, Althwynne, loaned

him a hatchet and he chopped wood for most of the afternoon, for which she gave him some pie and a

sour apple. But she did not allow him into her home, nor smile, nor speak more than a few words.

In all of his fourteen years Cormac Daemonsson had seen the homes of none of the villagers. He had

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long grown used to people making the sign of the Protective Horn when he approached, and to the

fact that only Grysstha would meet his eyes. But then Grysstha was different ... He was a man, a

true man who feared no evil. A man who could see a boy and not a demon's son. And Grysstha alone

had talked to Cormac of the strange day almost fifteen years before when he and a group of hunters

entered the Cave of Sol Invictus to find a great black hound lying alongside four squealing pups -

and beside them a flame-haired babe still wet from birth. The hound attacked the hunters and was

slain along with the pups, but no man among the saxons cared to kill the babe, for they knew he

was sired by a demon and none wanted to earn the hatred of the pit-dwellers.

Grysstha had carried the child from the Cave and found a milk-nurse for him from among the

captured British women. But after four months she had suddenly died and then no one would touch

the child. Grysstha had taken him into his own hut and fed him with cow's milk through a needle

pierced leather glove.

The babe had even been the subject of a Council meeting, where a vote was taken as to whether he

lived or died. Only Calder's casting vote saved young Cormac - and that was given after a special

plea from Grysstha.

For seven years the boy lived with the old warrior, but Grysstha's disability meant that he could

not earn enough to feed them both and the child was forced to scavenge in the village for extra

food.

At thirteen, Cormac realised that his association with the crippled warrior had caused Grysstha to

become an outcast and he built his own hut away from the village. It was a meagre dwelling with no

furniture save a cot-bed and Cormac spent little time there except in winter, when he shivered

despite the fire and dreamed cold dreams.

That night, as always, Grysstha stopped at his hut and banged on the door-post. Cormac called him

in, offering him a cup of water. The old man accepted graciously, sitting cross-legged on the hard-

packed dirt floor.

'You need another shirt, Cormac, you have outgrown that. And those leggings will soon climb to

your knees.'

'They will last the Summer.'

'We'll see. Did you eat today?'

'Althwynne gave me some pie - I chopped wood for her.'

'I heard Kern cracked your head?'

'Yes.'

"There was a time when I would have killed him for that. Now, if I struck him, I would only break

my good hand.'

'It was nothing, Grysstha. How went your day?'

"The goats and I had a wonderful time. I told them of my campaigns and they told me of theirs.

They became bored long before I did!'

'You are never tiresome,' said Cormac. 'You are a wonderful storyteller.'

Tell me that when you've listened to another story-teller. It is easy to be the King when no one

else lives in your land.'

'I heard a saga poet once. I sat outside Calder's Hall and listened to Patrisson sing of the Great

Betrayal.'

'You must not mention that to anyone, Cormac. It is a forbidden song - and death to sing it.' The

old man leaned back against the wall of the hut and smiled. 'But he sang it well, did he not?'

'Did the Blood King really have a grandfather who was a god?'

'All kings are sired by gods - or so they would have us believe. Of Uther I know not. I only know

his wife was caught with her lover, that both fled and he hunted them. Whether he found them and

cut them to pieces as the song says, or whether they escaped, I do not know. I spoke to Patrisson,

and he did not know either. But he did say that the Queen ran off with the King's grandfather,

which sounds like a merry mismatch.'

'Why has the King not taken another wife?'

‘I’ll ask him the next time he invites me to supper.'

'But he has no heir. Will there not be a war if he dies now?'

'There will be a war anyway, Cormac. The King has reigned for twenty-five years and has never

known peace . . . uprisings, invasions, betrayals. His wife was not the first to betray him. The

Brigantes rose again sixteen years ago and Uther crushed them at Trimontium. Then the Ordovice

swept east and Uther destroyed their army at Viriconium. Lastly the Jutes, two years ago. They had

a treaty like ours and they broke it; Uther kept his promise and had every man, woman and child

put to death.'

'Even children?' whispered Cormac.

'All of them. He is a hard, canny man. Few will rise against him now.'

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'Would you like some more water?'

'No, I must be getting to my bed. There will be rain tomorrow - I can feel it in my stump - and

I'll need my rest if I'm to sit shivering.'

'One question, Grysstha?'

'Ask it.'

'Was I really born to a dog?'

Grysstha swore. 'Who said that to you?'

"The tanner.'

'I have told you before that I found you in the cave beside the hound. That's all it means.

Someone had left you there and the bitch tried to defend you, as she did her own pups. You had not

been born more than two hours, but her pups were days old. Odin's Blood! We have men here with

brains of pig-swill. Understand me, Cormac you are no demon-child, I promise you that. I do not

know why you were left in that cave, or by whom. But there were six dead men on the path by the

cliff, and they were not killed by a demon.'

'Who were they?'

'Doughty warriors, judging by their scars. All killed by one man - one fearsome man. The hunters

with me were convinced once they saw you that a pit-dweller was abroad, but that is because they

were young and had never seen a true warrior in action. I tried to explain, but fear has a way of

blinding the eyes. I believe the warrior was your father and he was wounded unto death. That's why

you were left there.'

'And what of my mother?'

'I don't know, boy. But the gods know. One day perhaps they'll give you a sign. But until then you

are Cormac the Man and you will walk with your back straight. For whoever your father was, he was

a man. And you will prove true to him, if not to me.'

'I wish you were my father, Grysstha.'

'I wish it too. Good-night, boy.'

CHAPTER TWO

The King, flanked by Gwalchmai and Victorinus, walked out into the paddock field to view his new

horses. The young man standing beside the crippled Prasamaccus stared intently at the legendary

warrior.

'I thought he would be taller,' he whispered and Prasamaccus smiled.

'You thought to see a giant walking head and shoulders above other men. Oh, Ursus, you of all

people ought to know the difference between men and myths.'

Ursus' pale grey eyes studied the King as he approached. The man was around forty years of age and

he walked with the confident grace of the warrior who has never met his equal. His hair flowing to

his mail-clad shoulders was auburn red, though his thick square-cut beard was more golden in

colour and streaked with grey. The two men walking beside him were older, perhaps in their

fifties. One was obviously Roman, hawk-nosed and steely-eyed, while the second wore his grey hair

braided like a tribesman.

'A fine day,' said the King, ignoring the younger man and addressing himself to Prasamaccus.

'It is, my lord, and the horses you bought are as fine.'

'They are all here?'

"Thirty-five stallions and sixty mares. May I present Prince Ursus, of the House of Merovee?'

The young man bowed. 'It is an honour, my lord.'

The King gave a tired smile and moved past the young man. Taking Prasamaccus by the arm the two

walked on into the field, stopping by a grey stallion of some seventeen hands.

"The Sicambrians know how to breed horses,' said Uther, running his hand over the beast's

glistening flank.

'You look weary, Uther.'

'It reflects how I feel. The Trinovante are flexing their muscles once more, as are the Saxons in

the Middle Land.'

'When do you ride?'

Tomorrow, with four legions. I sent Patreus with the Eighth and the Fifth, but he was routed.

Reports say we lost six hundred men.'

'Was Patreus amongst them?' Prasamaccus asked.

'If not, he'll wish he was,' snapped the King. 'He tried to charge a shield wall up a steep

slope.'

'As you yourself did only four days ago against the Goths.'

'But I won!'

'You always do, my lord.'

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Uther grinned, and for a moment there was a flash of the lonely youth Prasamaccus had first met a

quarter of a century before. But then it was gone and the mask settled once more.

'Tell me of the Sicambrian,' said the King, staring across at the young dark-haired prince, clad

all in black.

'He knows his horses.'

"That was not my meaning, and well you know it.'

'I cannot say, Uther. He seems . . . intelligent, knowledgeable.'

'You like him?'

'I rather think that I do. He reminds me of you -a long time ago.'

'Is that a good thing?'

'It is a compliment.'

'Have I changed so much?'

Prasamaccus said nothing. A lifetime ago Uther had dubbed him Kingsfriend, and asked always for

his honest council. In those days the young prince had crossed the Mist in search of his father's

sword, had fought demons and the Witch Queen, had brought an army of ghosts back to the world of

flesh and had loved the mountain woman, Laitha.

The old Brigante shrugged. 'We all change, Uther. When my Helga died last year, I felt all beauty

pass from the world.'

'A man is better off without love. It weakens him,' said the King, moving away to examine the

horses. 'Within a few years we will have a better, faster army. All of these mounts are at least

two hands taller than our own horses, and they are bred for speed and stamina.'

'Ursus brought something else you might like to see,' said Prasamaccus. 'Come, it will interest

you.' The King seemed doubtful, but he followed the limping Brigante back to the paddock gates.

Here Ursus bowed once more and led the group to the rear of the herdsmen's living quarters. In the

yard behind the buildings a wooden frame had been erected -curved wood attached to a straight

spine, representing a horse's back. Over this Ursus draped a stiffened leather cover. A second

section was tied to the front of the frame and the prince secured the hide, then returned to the

waiting warriors.

'What in Hades is it?' asked Victorinus. Ursus lifted a short-bow and notched an arrow to the

string.

With one smooth motion he let fly. The shaft struck the rear of the 'horse' and, failing to

penetrate fully, flapped down to point at the ground.

'Give me the bow,' said Uther. Drawing back the string as far as the weapon could stand, he loosed

the shaft. It cut through the leather and jutted from the hide.

'Now look, sire,' said Ursus, stepping forward to the 'horse'. Uther's arrow had penetrated a mere

half-inch. 'It would prick a good horse, but it would not have disabled him.'

'What of the weight?' asked Victorinus.

'A Sicambrian horse could carry it and still work a full day as well as any British war-horse.'

Gwalchmai was unimpressed. The old Cantii warrior hawked and spat. 'It must cut down on the speed

of the charge - and that is what carries us through the enemy. Armoured horses? Pah!'

'You would perhaps think of riding into battle without your own armour?' snapped the prince.

'You insolent puppy!' roared Gwalchmai.

'Enough!' ordered the King. 'Tell me, Ursus, what of the rains? Would they not soften your leather

and add to the weight?'

'Yes, my lord. But each warrior should carry a quantity of oiled beeswax to be rubbed into the

cover every day.'

'Now we must polish our horses as well as our weapons,' said Gwalchmai, with a mocking grin.

'Have ten of these . . . horse jerkins . . . made,' said Uther. 'Then we shall see.'

'Thank you, sire.'

'Do not thank me until I place an order. This is what you are seeking yes?'

'Yes, sire.'

'Did you devise the armour?'

'Yes, my lord, although my brother Balan overcame the problem of the rain.'

'And to him will go the profit for the wax I order?'

'Yes, my lord,' said Ursus, smiling.

'And where is he at present?'

Trying to sell the idea in Rome. It will be difficult, for the emperor still sets great store by

the marching legions even though his enemies are mounted.'

'Rome is finished,' said Uther. 'You should sell to the Goths or the Huns.'

'I would my lord, but the Huns do not buy - they take. And the Goths? Their treasury is smaller

than my own.'

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