Gemmell, David - Stones of Power 1 - Ghost King

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GHOST KING

'I am not cut out to be a warrior', said Thuro.

'You are my grandson and the son of Aurelius and Alaida,' replied Culain. 'I think you will find

that blood runs true. We already know you can swing an axe. What other surprises do you hold in

store?'

Thuro shrugged. 'I do not want to disappoint you, as I disappointed my father.'

'Lesson one, Thuro: from now on you have no one to disappoint but yourself. But first you must

agree to abide by what I say and obey every word I utter. Will you do this?'

'I will'.

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

By David Gemmell

LEGEND -THE KING BEYOND THE GATE

WAYLANDER QUEST FOR LOST HEROES

WAYLANDER II

THE FIRST CHRONICLES OF DRUSS THE LEGEND v-

WOLF IN SHADOW

THE LAST GUARDIAN

BLOODSTONE

GHOST KING

LAST SWORD OF POWER ^

LION OF MACEDON

DARK PRINCE,

IRONHAND'S DAUGHTER y THE HAWK ETERNAL '

KNIGHTS OF DARK RENOWN MORNINGSTAR

GHOST KING

David A. Gemmell

ORBIT

An Orbit Book

First published in Great Britain by Century Hutchinson Ltd 1988 Reprinted by Orbit 1997

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or

dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in

any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be

otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and

without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 1 85723 642 4

Typeset by Input Typesetting Ltd, London

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham, Kent

Orbit

A Division of

Little, Brown and Company (UK) Brettenham House

Lancaster Place London WC2E 7EN .

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated with love to Stella Graham, to Tom Taylor and to Jeremy Wells for the gift

of friendship.

Also to the ladies of the Folkestone Herald -Sharon, Madders, Susie and Carol-for Rocky. And to

Pip Clarkson who cast the pearls anyway.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

So much in the literary world depends on the skill of those who take the manuscript and edit it

for publication. A writer can all too easily take the wrong direction, or lose the thread of the

drama. A good editor will re-direct skilfully and enhance greatly the work that will then accrue

credit to the author. Similarly, a good copy editor can, with an inserted word, or a clever

deletion, polish a dull sentence to diamond brightness.

My thanks to my editor Liza Reeves for making it all seem so easy, to copy editor Jean Maund for

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the fine tuning and the elegant polishing, and to my agent, Pamela Buckmaster, for bringing us

together.

FOREWORD

Ghost King is a fantasy novel and not intended as historically accurate. However the cities of

Roman Britain, as named, did exist in the areas suggested, as did certain of the characters who

appear in these pages.

Cunobelin was certainly a powerful warrior king, who earned the title Brittanorum Rex from the

Roman writer Seutonius. Cunobelin reigned for forty years from his base at Camulo-dunum, possibly

giving rise to the Arthurian legends.

Paullinus was also a true man of history, and did defeat the Iceni of Boudicca during the ill-

fated uprising. During the same period the Ninth Legion did indeed disappear. Some historians

claim they were ambushed and destroyed, others suggest a mutiny that the Romans covered up.

The manoeuvres of Roman military units are detailed as accurately as research and the needs of

drama allow.

The language used is relatively modern, and undoubtedly there will be some students who find it

jarring to read of arrows being 'fired', when of course the expression evolved only after the

introduction of matchlock muskets.

Similarly 'minutes' and 'seconds' appear ahead of their time.

Such arguments as may be offered can be overcome by pointing out that since the language being

spoken is not English, but a bastardized form of Latin-Celtic, some licence in translation should

be allowed.

Of the life of Uther Pendragon, little is known. This is not a history of the man, but a fantasy.

In other words it is not the story as it was -but as it ought to have been.

David A. Gemmell Hastings, 1988

PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

(in alphabetical order)

ALHYFFA Daughter of Hengist, wife of Moret

BALDRIC Warrior of the Pinrae

GAEL Son of Eldared, King of the Brigante

CULAIN LACH FERAGH Warrior of the Mist, also known as the Lord of the Lance. Master of weaponry.

ELDARED Brigante King and Lord of Deicester Castle. Betrayed his brother Cascioc twenty years

before to help Aurelius gain the throne.

GWALCHMAI King's retainer. Cantii tribesman

GOROIEN The Witch Queen, immortal and ruthless

HENGIST Saxon king, father to Horsa, the warlord

KORRIN ROGEUR Woodsman of Pinrae. Brother to Pallin

LAITHA Ward of Culain

LUCIUS AQUILA General of the Romano-British forces

MAEDHLYN Lord Enchanter to Aurelius MORET Son of Eldared

PALLIN Half-man, half-bear, tortured by the Witch Queen

PRASAMACCUS Brigante tribesman

SEVERINUS ALBINUS Roman legate of the Ninth Legion

THURO Son of High King Aurelius Maximus and the Mist Maiden, Alaida

VICTORINUS King's retainer and First Centurion

ROMAN NAMES OF BRITISH SETTLEMENTS

ANDERITA - Pevensey

LINDUM - Lincoln

CALCARJA - Tadcaster

LONDINIUM - London

CAMULODUNUM - Colchester

LONGOV1CIUM - Lancaster

PINNATA CASTRA – Inchtuthill

CATARACTONIUM - Catterick

SKITIS ISLAND - Isle of Skye

DUBRIS - Dover

VENTA - Winchester

DUROBRIVAE – Rochester

VINDOLANDA - Chesterholm

EBORACUM – York

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LAGENTIUM – Castleford

VINDOMARA - Ebchester

CHAPTER ONE

The boy stared idly at the cold grey walls and wondered if the castle dungeons could be any more

inhospitable "than this chill turret room, with its single window staring like an eye into the

teeth of the north wind. True there was a fire glowing in the hearth, but it might as well have

been one of Maedhlyn's illusions for all the warmth it supplied. The great grey slabs sucked the

heat from the blaze, giving nothing in return save a ghostly reflection that mocked the flames.

Thuro sat on the bed and wrapped his father's white bearskin cloak about his own slender

shoulders.

'What a foul place,' he said, closing his eyes and pushing the turret room from his mind. He

thought of his father's villa in Eboracum, and of the horse meadows beyond the white walls where

mighty Cephon wintered with his mares. But most of all he pictured his own room, cosy and snug

away from the bitter winter winds and filled with the love of his young life: his books, his

glorious books. His father had refused him permission to bring even one tome to this lonely

castle, in case the other war leaders should catch the prince reading and know the king's dark

secret. For while it might be well-known in Caerlyn Keep that the boy Thuro was weak in body and

spirit, the king's retainers guarded the sad truth like a family shame.

Thuro shivered and left the bed to sit on the goatskin rug before the fire. He was as miserable

now as he had ever been. Far below in the great hall of Deicester Castle his father was attempting

to bond an alliance against the barbarians from across the sea, grim-eyed reavers who had even now

established settlements in the far south from which to raid the richer northlands. The embassy to

Deicester had been made despite Maedhlyn's warnings. Thuro had not wished to accompany his father

either, but not for fear of dangers he could scarce comprehend. The prince disliked the cold,

loathed long journeys on horseback and, more importantly, hated to be deprived of his books even

for a day - let alone the two months set aside for the embassy.

The door opened and the prince glanced up to see the tall figure of Gwalchmai, his brawny arms

bearing a heavy load of logs. He smiled at the lad and Thuro noted with shame that the retainer

wore but a single woollen tunic against the biting cold.

'Do you never feel the chill, Gwalchmai?'

'I feel it,' he answered, kneeling to add wood to the blaze.

'Is my father still speaking?'

'No. When I passed by Eldared was on his feet.'

'You do not like Eldared?'

'You see too much, young Thuro; that is not what I said.'

But you did, thought Thuro. It was in your eyes and the slight inflection when you used his name.

He stared into the retainer's dark eyes, but Gwalchmai turned away.

'Do you trust him?' asked the boy.

'Your father obviously trusts him, so who am I to offer opinions? You think the king would have

come here with only twenty retainers if he feared treachery?'

'You answer my question with questions. Is that not evasive?'

Gwalchmai grinned. 'I must get back to my watch. But think on this, Thuro: it is not for the likes

of me to criticise the great. I could lose the skin from my back - or worse, my life.'

'You think there is danger here?' persisted the prince.

'I like you, boy, though only Mithras knows why. You've a sharp mind; it is a pity you are weakly.

But I'll answer your question after a fashion. For a king there is always danger; it is a riddle

to me why a man wants such power. I've served your father for sixteen years and in that time he

has survived four wars, eleven battles and five attempts on his life. He is a canny man. But I

would be happier if the Lord Enchanter were here.'

'Maedhlyn does not trust Eldared; he told my father so.'

Gwalchmai pushed himself to his feet. 'You trust too easily, Thuro. You should not be sharing this

knowledge with me - or with any retainer.'

'But I can trust you, can I not?'

'How do you know that?' hissed Gwalchmai.

'I read it in your eyes,' said Thuro softly. Gwalchmai relaxed and a broad grin followed as he

shook his head and tugged on his braided beard.

'You should get some rest. It's said there's to be a stag-hunt tomorrow.'

‘I’ll not be going,' said Thuro. 'I do not much like riding.'

'You baffle me, boy. Sometimes I see so much of your father in you that I want to cheer. And then

. . . well, it does not matter. I will see you in the morning. Sleep well.'

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'Thank you for the wood.'

'It is my duty to see you safe.' Gwalchmai left the room and Thuro rose and wandered to the

window, moving aside the heavy velvet curtain and staring out over the winter landscape: rolling

hills covered in snow, skeletal trees black as charcoal. He shivered and wished for home.

He too would have been happier if Maedhlyn had journeyed with them, for he enjoyed the old man's

company and the quickness of his mind - and the games and riddles the Enchanter set him. One had

occupied his mind for almost a full day last summer, while his father had been in the south

routing the Jutes. Thuro had been sitting with Maedhlyn in the terraced garden, in the shade cast

by the statue of the great Julius.

There was a prince,' said Maedhlyn, his green eyes sparkling, 'who was hated by his king but loved

by the people. The king decided the prince must die, but fearing the wrath of the populace he

devised an elaborate plan to end both the prince's popularity and his life. He accused him of

treason and offered him Trial by Mithras. In this way the Roman god would judge the innocence or

guilt of the accused.

'The prince was brought before the king and a large crowd was there to see the judgement. Before

the prince stood a priest holding a closed leather pouch and within the pouch were two grapes. The

law said that one grape should be white, the other black. If the accused drew a white grape, he

was innocent. A black grape meant death. You follow this, Thuro?'

'It is simple so far, teacher.'

'Now the prince knew of the king's hatred and guessed, rightly, that there were two black grapes

in the pouch. Answer me this, young quicksilver: How did the prince produce a white grape and

prove his innocence?'

'It is not possible, save by magic.'

'There was no magic, only thought,' said Maedhlyn, tapping his white-haired temple for emphasis.

'Come to me tomorrow with the answer.'

Throughout the day Thuro had thought hard, but his mind was devoid of inspiration. He borrowed a

pouch from Listra the cook, and two grapes, and sat in the garden staring at the items as if in

themselves they harboured the answer. As dusk painted the sky Trojan red, he gave up. Sitting

alone in the gathering gloom he took one of the grapes and ate it. He reached for the other - and

stopped.

The following morning he went to Mae-dhlyn's study. The old man greeted him sourly - having had a

troubled night, he said, with dark dreams.

'I have answered your riddle, master,' the boy told him. At this the Enchanter's eyes came alive.

'So soon, young prince? It took the noble Alexander ten days, but then perhaps Aristotle was less

gifted than myself as a tutor!' He chuckled. 'So tell me, Thuro, how did the prince prove his

innocence?'

'He put his hand into the pouch and covered one grape. This he removed and ate swiftly. He then

said to the priest, "I do not know what colour it was, but look at the one that is left." '

Maedhlyn clapped his hands and smiled. 'You please me greatly, Thuro. But tell me, how did you

come upon the answer?'

'I ate the grape.'

'That is good. There is a lesson in that also. You broke the problem down and examined the

component parts. Most men attempt to solve riddles by allowing their minds to leap like monkeys

from branch to branch, without ever realising that it is the root that needs examining. Always

remember that, young prince. The method works with men as well as it works with riddles.'

Now Thuro dragged his thoughts from the golden days of summer back to the bleak winter night. He

removed his leggings and slid under the blankets, turning on his side to watch the flickering

flames in the hearth.

He thought of his father - tall and broad-shouldered with eyes of ice and fire, revered as a

warrior leader and held in awe even by his enemies.

'I don't want to be a king,' whispered Thuro.

Gwalchmai watched as the nobles prepared for the hunt, his emotions mixed. He felt a fierce pride

as he looked upon the powerful figure of his king, sitting atop a black stallion of seventeen

hands. The beast was called Bloodfire and one look in its evil eyes would warn any horseman to

beware. But the king was at ease, for the horse knew its master; they were as alike in temperament

as brothers of the blood. But Gwalchmai's pride was mixed with the inevitable sadness of seeing

prince Thuro beside his father. The boy sat miserably upon a gentle mare of fifteen hands,

clutching his cloak to his chest, his white-blond hair billowing about his slender ascetic face.

Too much of his mother in him, thought Gwalchmai, remembering his first sight of the Mist Maiden.

It was almost sixteen years ago now, yet his mind's eye could picture the queen as if but an hour

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had passed. She rode a white pony and beside the warrior king she seemed as fragile and out of

place as ice on a rose. Talk among the retainers was that their lord had gone for a walk with

Maedhlyn into a mist-shrouded northern valley and vanished for eight days. When he returned his

beard had grown a full six inches and beside him was this wondrous woman, with golden hair and

eyes of swirJing grey like mist on a northern lake.

At first many of the people of Caerlyn Keep had thought her a witch, for even here the tales were

told of the Land of Mist, a place of eldritch magic. But as the months passed she charmed them all

with her kindness and her gentle spirit. News of her pregnancy was greeted with great joy

and instant celebration. Gwalchmai would never forget the raucous banquet at the Keep, nor the

wild night of pleasure that followed it.

But eight months later Alaida, the Mist Maiden, was dead and her baby son hovering on the brink

of death, refusing all milk. The Enchanter Maedhlyn had been summoned and he, with his magic,

saved young Thuro. But the boy was never strong; where the retainers had hoped for a young man to

mirror the king, they were left with a solemn child who abhorred all manly practices. Yet enough

of his mother's gentleness remained to turn what would have been scorn into a friendly sadness.

Thuro was well-liked, but men who saw him would shake their heads and think of what might have

been. All this was on Gwalchmai's mind as the hunting party set off, led by Lord Eldared and his

two sons Gael and Moret.

The king had never recovered from the death of Alaida. He rarely laughed and only came alive when

hunting either beasts or men. He had plenty of opportunity in those bloody days for the Saxons and

Jutes were raiding in the south and the Norse sailed their Wolfships into the deep rivers of the

East Country. Added to this there were raiders aplenty from the smaller clans and tribes who had

never accepted the right of the Romano-British warlords to rule the ancient lands of the Belgae,

the Iceni and the Cantii.

Gwalchmai could well understand this viewpoint, being pure-blood Cantii himself, born within a

long stone's throw of the Ghost Cliffs.

Now he watched as the noblemen cantered towards the wooded hills, then returned to his quarters

behind the long stables. His eyes scanned the Deicester men as they lounged by the alehouse and he

began to grow uneasy. There was no love lost between the disparate groups assembled here, though

the truce had been well-maintained - a broken nose here, a sprained wrist there, but mostly the

retainers had kept to themselves. But today Gwalchmai sensed a tension in the air, a brightness in

the eyes of the soldiers.

He wandered into the long room. Only two of the king's men were here, Victorinus and Caradoc. They

were playing knuckle-bones and the Roman was losing, with good grace.

'Rescue me, Gwal,' said Victorinus. 'Save me from my stupidity.'

"There's not a man alive who could do that!' Gwalchmai moved to his cot and his wrapped blankets.

He drew his gladius and scabbard from the roll and strapped the sword to his waist.

'Are you expecting trouble?' asked Caradoc, a tall rangy tribesman of Belgae stock.

'Where are the others?' he answered, avoiding the question.

'Most of them have gone to the village. There's a fair organised.' 'When was this announced?'

'This morning,' said Victorinus, entering the conversation. 'What has happened?'

'Nothing as yet,' said Gwalchmai, 'and I hope to Mithras nothing does. But the air smells wrong.'

'I can't smell anything wrong with it,' responded Victorinus.

'That's because you're a Roman,' put in Caradoc, moving to his own blanket roll and retrieving his

sword.

‘I’ll not argue with a pair of superstitious tribesmen, but think on this: if we walk around armed

to the teeth, we could incite trouble. We could be accused of breaking the spirit of the truce.'

Gwalchmai swore and sat down. 'You are right, my friend. What do you suggest?'

Victorinus, though younger than his companions, was well respected by the other men in the King's

Guards. He was steady, courageous and a sound thinker. His solid Roman upbringing also proved a

perfect counterpoint to the unruly, explosive temperaments of the Britons who served the king.

'I am not altogether sure, Gwal. Do not misunderstand me, for I do not treat your talents lightly.

You have a nose for traps and an eye that reads men. If you say something is amiss, then I'll

wager that it is. I think we should keep our swords hidden inside our tunics and wander around the

Keep. It may be no more than a lingering ill-feeling amongst the Deicester men for Caradoc here

taking their money last night in the knife-throwing tourney.'

'I do not think so,' said Caradoc. 'In fact, I thought they took it too well. It puzzled me at the

time, but it did not feel right. I even slept with one hand on my dagger.'

'Let us not fly too high, my friends,' said Victorinus. 'We will meet back here in an hour. If

there is danger in the air, we should all get a sniff of it.'

'And what if we find something?' asked Caradoc.

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'Do nothing. If you can, walk away from trouble. Swallow pride.'

'No man should be asked to do that,' protested the Belgae.

'That may be true, my volatile friend. But if there is to be trouble, then let the Deicester men

start it. The king will be less than pleased if you break the truce; he'll flay the skin from your

back.'

Gwalchmai moved to the window and pushed open the wooden shutters.

'I do not think we need to concern ourselves about hiding weapons,' he said softly. The Deicester

men are all armed.'

Victorinus swept up his blanket roll. 'Gather your gear now and follow me. Swiftly.'

'There are about a dozen of them coming this way with swords in their hands,' said Gwalch-mai,

ducking down from the window. Gathering his belongings, he followed his two companions to the

rough-carved wooden door leading to the stables. Drawing their swords they stepped through and

pulled the door shut behind them. Swiftly they saddled three horses and rode out into the yard.

'There they are!' someone shouted and soldiers rushed out to block the riders. Victorinus kicked

his mount into a gallop, crashing into the crowding warriors, who scattered and fell to the

cobbles. Then the trio were thundering under the beamed gateway and out into the snow-swept hills.

They had not travelled more than a mile when they came upon the bodies of their comrades, lying in

a hollow by a frozen stream. The retainers had been armed only with knives, but at least eleven of

the seventeen had been killed by arrows. The rest had been hacked to death by swords or axes.

The three men sat their horses in silence. There was no point in dismounting. They gazed at the

dead faces of those who had been their friends, or at the least their comrades in war. By a

gnarled oak lay the body of Atticus, the rope-walker. Around him the snow was stained with blood,

and it was obvious that he alone of all the retainers had managed to inflict wounds upon the

attackers.

'At least three men,' said Caradoc, as if reading the thoughts of his companions. 'But then

Atticus was a tough whoreson. What do we do now, Victorinus?'

The young Roman stayed silent for a moment, scanning the horizon. 'The king,' he said softly.

'And the boy!' said Gwalchmai. 'Sweet Juno! We must find them - warn them.'

They are dead,' said Victorinus, removing his bronze helm and staring at his own distorted

reflection. That is why the retainers were lured away and murdered, and why the king was invited

on the stag-hunt. It was a royal stag they hunted. We must get back to Caerlyn and warn Aquila.'

'No!' shouted Caradoc. 'This treachery cannot go unpunished.'

Victorinus saw the pain in the Belgae's eyes. 'And what will you do, Caradoc? Ride back to

Deicester and scale the walls to find Eldared?'

'Why not?'

'Because it would be futile - you would die before getting within a yard of Eldared. Think ahead,

man. Aquila does not expect the king back until spring and he will be unprepared. The first sight

he will see coming from the north is the Deicester army and any allies Eldared has gained. They

will seize Eboracum and the traitor will have won.'

'But we must find the king's body,' said Gwalchmai. 'We cannot leave it for the crows; it is not

fitting.'

'And suppose he is not yet dead?' offered Caradoc. 'I would never forgive myself for leaving him.'

'I know what you are feeling, and I grieve also. But I beg you to put aside emotion and trust

Roman logic. Yes, we could bury the king - but what of Eboracum? You think the king's shade would

thank us for putting his body before the fate of his people?'

'And if he is not dead?' persisted Caradoc.

'You know that he is,' said Victorinus sadly.

CHAPTER TWO

Thuro was lost. It had happened soon after the riders left the castle, when the dogs had picked up

a scent and raced into the dark wood with the hunters thundering after them. Having no intention

of galloping into the trees in hot pursuit, he had reined in the mare and followed at a sedate

canter, but somewhere along the trail he had taken a wrong turn and now he could no longer even

hear the hounds. The wintry sun was high overhead and Thuro was cold through to his bones . . .

and he was hungry. The trees were thinner here, the ground slowly rising. The wind had dropped and

Thuro halted by a frozen stream. He dismounted and cracked the ice, dipping his head and sipping

the cold fresh water. His father would be so angry with him - he would say nothing, but his eyes

would show his displeasure and his face would turn away from the boy.

Thuro cleared the snow from a flat rock and sat down, considering all the options open to him. He

could ride on blindly in the hope of stumbling upon the hunters, or he could follow his own tracks

back to the castle. It was not hard to find the right course of action with options such as these.

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He mounted the mare and swung her back to the south.

A large stag stepped lightly on to the trail and stopped to watch the rider. Thuro reined in and

leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle. 'Good morning, prince of the forest, are you also

lost?' The stag turned contemptuously away and continued its leisurely pace across the trail and

into the trees. 'You remind me of my father.' Thuro called after it.

'Do you often talk to animals?' Thuro turned in the saddle to see a young girl, dressed like a

forester in green hooded woollen tunic, leather leggings and knee-high moccasins fringed with

sheepskin. Her hair was short and a mixture of autumnal colours - light brown, with a hint of both

gold and red. Her face was striking, without a hint of beauty and yet. ...

Thuro bowed. 'Do you live near here?' he asked.

'Perhaps. But obviously you do not. How long have you been lost?'

'How do you know that I am lost?' he countered.

The girl stepped away from the tree beside the trail and Thuro saw that she was carrying a

beautiful bow of dark horn. 'You may not be lost,' she said, smiling. 'It may be that you found

your tracks so fascinating that you decided you just had to see them again.'

'I concede,' he told her. 'I am seeking Deicester Castle.'

'You have friends there?'

'My father is there. We are guests.'

'A fortune would not induce me to be a guest of that foul family,' she told him. 'Continue on this

path until you come to a lightning-blasted oak, then bear right and follow the stream. It will

save you time.'

'Thank you. What is your name?'

'Names are for friends, young lordling, not to be bandied about amongst strangers.'

'Strangers can become friends. In fact, all friends were at some time strangers.'

'All too true,' she admitted. 'But to speak more bluntly, I have no wish to strike up a friendship

with a guest of Eldared's.'

'I am sorry that you feel this way. It seems a great shame that to sleep in a cold and draughty

castle somehow stains the spirit of a man. For what it is worth, my name is Thuro.'

'You do speak prettily, Thuro,' she said, smiling, 'and you have a wonderful eye for horses. Come,

join me for the midday meal.'

Thuro did not question her sudden change of heart but dismounted and led his horse away from the

trail, following the girl into the trees and up a winding track to a shallow cave under a

sandstone rock-face. Here a fire had burned low under a copper pot perched on two stones. Thuro

tied the mare's reins to a nearby bush and moved to the fire where the girl joined him. She added

oats to the boiling water, and a pinch of salt from a small pouch at her side. 'Gather some wood,'

she told him, 'and earn your food.' He did as she bid, gathering thick branches from beside the

track and carrying them back to the cave.

'Are you planning to light a beacon fire?' she asked when he returned.

'I do not understand,' he said.

'This is a cooking fire. It is intended to heat the oats and water, and to give us warmth for an

hour or so. The wocd you need should be dry and no thicker than a thumb-joint. Have you never set

a cooking fire?'

'No, I regret that is a pleasure I have not yet encountered.'

'How old are you?'

'I shall be judged a man next autumn,' he said, somewhat stiffly. 'And you?'

'The same as you, Thuro. Fifteen.'

'I shall fetch some more suitable wood.' he said.

'Get yourself a platter at the same time.'

'A platter?'

'How else will you eat your oats?'

Thuro was angry as he left the cave - an emotion he rarely felt and with which he was exceedingly

uncomfortable. As he had followed the forest girl he had become acutely aware of the rhythmic

movement of her hips and the liquid grace of her walk. By contrast he had begun to feel he was

incapable of putting one foot in front of the other without tripping himself. His feet felt twice

their size. He longed to do something to impress her, and for the first time in his young life

wished he were a shade more like his father. Pushing the thoughts from his mind he gathered wood

for the fire, finding also a round flat stone to serve as a platter for his food.

'Are you hungry?' she asked.

'Not very.' Using a short stick, she expertly lifted the pot from the flames and stirred the thick

milky contents. He passed her his rock and she giggled.

'Here,' she said, offering him her own wooden plate. 'Use this.'

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'The rock will be fine.'

'I am sorry, Thuro; it is unfair of me to mock. It is not your fault you are a lordling; you

should have brought your servant with you.'

'I am not a lordling, I am a prince: the son of Maximusthe High King. And doubtless were you to be

sitting in the hall of Caerlyn, you would feel equally ill at ease discussing the merits of

Plutarch's Life of Lycurgus.'

Her eyes sparkled and Thuro realised they echoed the russet tones of her hair - light brown with

flecks of gold.

'You are probably correct, Prince Thuro,' she said with a mock bow, 'for I was never at ease with

Lycurgus and I agree with Plutarch in his comparison with Numa. How did he put it? "Virtue

rendered the one so respectable as to deserve a throne, and the other so great as to be above

it".'

Thuro returned the bow, but without mockery. 'Forgive my arrogance,' he told her. 'I am not used

to feeling this foolish.'

'You are probably more at ease chasing stags and practising with sword and lance.'

'No, I am rather poor in those quarters also. I am the despair of my father. I had hoped to

impress you with my knowledge, for there is little else I have to brag of.'

She looked away and poured the cooling oats to her platter, then passed the food to Thuro. 'My

name is Laitha. Welcome to my hearth, Prince Thuro.' He searched her face for any hint of mockery,

but there was none.

He accepted the food and ate in silence. Laitha put down the pot and leaned back against the cave

wall, watching the young man. He was handsome in a gentle fashion and his eyes were grey as

woodsmoke, softly sad and wondrous innocent. Yet for all the gentleness Laitha saw, she found no

trace of weakness in his face. The eyes did not waver or turn aside, the mouth showed no hint of

petulance. And his open admission of his own physical shortcomings endeared him to the girl, who

had seen enough of loud-mouthed braggarts vying to prove their strength and manhood.

'Why do you not excel?' she asked him. 'Is your sword-master a poor teacher?'

'I have no interest in sword-play. It tires me and then I fall ill.'

'In what way ill?'

He shrugged. 'I am told I almost died at birth, and since then my chest has been weak. I cannot

exert myself without becoming dizzy -and then my head pounds and sometimes I lose my sight.'

'How does your father react to all this?'

'With great patience and great sadness - I fear I am not the son he would have preferred. But it

does not matter. He is as strong as an ox and as fearless as a dragon. He will reign for decades

yet - and perhaps he will marry again and sire a proper heir.'

'What happened to your mother?'

'She died two days after I was born. The birth was early by a month and Maedhlyn - our Enchanter -

was absent on the king's business.'

'And your father never remarried? Strange for a king.'

'I have never spoken to him of it... but Maedhlyn says she was the still water in his soul and

after she had gone there was only fire. There is a wall around Maximus and his grief. None may

enter. He cannot look me in the face, for I am much like my mother. And in all the time I can

remember he has never touched me - not an arm on the shoulder nor the ruffling of a single hair.

Maedhlyn tells that when I was four I was struck down with a terrible fever and my spirit was lost

within the darkness of the Void. He says my father came to me then and took me in his arms, and

his spirit searched for mine across the darkness. He found me and brought me home. But I remember

nothing of it and that saddens me. I would like to be able to recall that moment.'

'He must love you greatly,' she whispered.

'I do not know.' He looked up at her and smiled. 'Thank you for the oats. I must be going.'

'I will guide you to the ford above Deicester,' she said.

He did not argue and waited while she cleaned her pot, platter and spoon. She stowed them in a

canvas pack which she slung to her shoulder and then, taking up her bow and quiver, she set out

alongside him. The snow was falling thickly now and he was glad she was travelling with him.

Without tracks to follow, he knew he would have been lost within minutes.

They had gone but a little way towards the trail when they hear the sound of horses riding at

speed. In the first second that he heard the horsemen, Thuro was delighted - soon he would be back

at the castle and warm again. But then he realised it would mean saying goodbye to Laitha and on

an impulse he turned from the path, leading the mare deeper into the trees and behind a screen of

bushes below the trail.

Laitha joined him, saying nothing. There were four men all armed with swords and lances. They drew

up a little way ahead, and were joined by three riders coming from the opposite direction.

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'Any sign?' The words drifted to Thuro like whispers on the wind and he felt ashamed to be hiding

here. These men were out in the cold searching for him - it was unfair of him to put them to

further trouble. He was just about to step into view when another man spoke.

'No, nothing. It's incredible. We kill the father in minutes, but the beardless boy causes more

trouble.'

'You are talking nonsense, Calin. The father killed six men - and that was with an arrow deep in

his lungs. The boy is costing only time.'

'Well, I intend to make him pay for wasting my time. I'll have his eyes roasting on the point of

my dagger.'

Thuro stood statue-still until long after the riders had moved on.

'I do not think you should go back to Deices-ter,' whispered Laitha, laying a gentle hand on his

shoulder.

Thuro stood unmoving, staring at the empty trail, his thoughts whirling and diving from fear to

regret, from panic to sorrow. His father had been murdered and Thuro's world would never be the

same again. This morning he had been miserable and cold, seemingly alone within a cheerless

castle. But now he knew he had not been alone, that the giant strength of Aurelius Maximus, the

High King, had covered him like a mantle and the companionship of men like Gwalchmai and

Victorinus had shielded him from grimmer realities. Laitha was right; he was a spoiled lordling

who did not even know how to set a cooking fire. Now the world was once more in turmoil. Eldared,

as Maedhlyn had feared, was a traitor and a regicide. The prince was now a hunted animal, with no

chance of escaping his hunters. Of what use would be his learning now? Plutarch, Aristotle and Seu-

tonius were no help to a weakly boy in a perilous wood.

'Thuro?'

He turned slowly and saw the concern in Laitha's eyes. 'I think you would be wise to leave me,' he

said. 'My company will bring danger to you.'

'What will you do?'

He shrugged. 'I will find my father's body and bury it. Then, I suppose, I will try to make my way

back to Caerlyn.'

'You are now the king, Thuro. What will you do when you get there?'

'I shall abdicate. I am not suited to govern others. My father's general, Lucius Aquila, is also

his second cousin. He will rule wisely - if he survives.'

'Why should he not?'

'Eldared has the equivalent of five legions and four hundred horsemen. At Caerlyn there are only

two legions; the rest of my father's army is made up of militia men who return to their homes in

winter. The killing of my father will see the start of a war no one can afford. With the Saxons

invading the south, Eldared's ambition is lunacy. But then the Brigantes have always hated the

Romans, even before Hadrian built the wall to torment them.'

'I was taught that Hadrian built the wall because he feared them,' said Laitha.

'If that were true, there would have been few north-facing gates. The gates were sally points for

raids deep into Brigante territory.' Thuro shivered and noticed that the snow was quickening

beneath a thunder-dark sky. 'Where is the nearest village?' he asked.

'Apart from Deicester Town there is Daris, some eight miles to the south-east. But Eldared will

have men there looking for you. Why not come to my home? You will be safe there.'

'I will be safe nowhere. And I do not wish to place you in peril, Laitha.'

'You do not understand. I live with my guardian and he will allow no one to harm you.'

Thuro smiled. 'I have just told you that Eldared has five Legions. He is also the man who murdered

the High King. Your guardian cannot be as powerful as my enemies.'

'If we stand and debate, we will freeze to death. Now, let your horse go and follow me. Trust me,

Thuro, for I am your only chance for life.'

'But why release my horse?'

'It cannot go where I will lead you. And, perhaps more importantly, your hunters are seeking a boy

riding and will not search the paths we will walk. Now come on.'

Thuro looped the mare's reins over her head and draped them over the saddle pommel. Then he

followed the lithe form of the forest girl ever deeper into the trees, emerging at last at the

foot of a high hill in the shadow of the northern mountains. Thuro's feet were cold, his boots wet

through. A little way up the rise he stopped - his face white, his breathing ragged as he sank to

the snow. Laitha had walked on maybe twenty paces when she turned and saw him beside the trail.

She ran lightly back to him and knelt. 'What is the matter?'

'I am sorry - I cannot go on. I must rest for a while.'

'Not here, Thuro, we are in. the open. Come on, just a little more.' She helped him to his feet

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and he staggered on for perhaps ten paces.

Then his legs gave way beneath him. As Laitha bent to help him, she saw movement some two hundred

paces back along the trail. Three riders emerged from the trees; saw the travellers and kicked

their horses into a gallop.

'Your enemies are upon us, Thuro!' she shouted, dropping the pack from her shoulder and swiftly

stringing her bow of horn. Thuro rolled to his knees and tried to stand, but his strength had

fled. He watched as the riders drew their swords and saw the gleam of triumph in their eyes, heard

the malice in their screams. His eyes flickered to Laitha, who was standing coolly with her bow

stretched, the string nestling against her cheek. Time seemed to slow and Thuro viewed the scene

with detached fascination as Laitha slowly released her breath and, in the moment between release

and the need for more air, loosed the shaft. It took the lead rider between his collar-bones and

punched him from the saddle.

But the remaining riders were too close to allow such perfect timing again and Laitha's next shaft

was loosed too swiftly. It glanced from the second warrior's helm, snapping back his head; he

almost lost his balance and his horse veered to the right, but the last man hurled himself from

his saddle to crash into the forest girl as vainly she strove to draw another arrow from her

quiver. Her hand flashed for the hunting-knife in her belt, but he hammered his fist into her jaw

and she fell to the snow, stunned. The other horseman, having gained control of his mount, stepped

from the saddle and approached Thuro with his sword extended.

'Well, little prince, I hope you enjoyed the hunt?'

Thuro said nothing, but he climbed slowly to his feet and met the assassin's eyes.

'Are you not going to beg for life? How disappointing! I thought at the least you would offer us a

king's ransom.'

'I do not fear you,' said Thuro evenly. 'You are a man of little worth. Come then, child-killer,

earn your salt!'

The man tensed and raised his sword, but then his eyes flickered to a point behind Thuro. 'Who are

you?' he asked and Thuro turned his head. Behind him, seeming to appear from nowhere, was a man in

a white bearskin cloak. His hair was black and silver shone at the temples; his face was square-

cut and clean-shaven, his eyes grey. He was dressed in a dark leather tunic over green woollen

leggings and he carried a silver staff with two ebony grips - one at the top, the second half-way

down.

'I asked who you were,' repeated the assassin.

'I heard you,' answered the newcomer, his voice deep, and colder than the winds of winter.

'Then answer me.'

'I am Culain lach Feragh, and you have attacked my ward.'

The man glanced at the unconscious girl. 'She is only stunned - and she killed Pagis.'

'It was a fine effort and I will compliment her when she wakes. You, boy,' he said to Thuro

softly, 'move behind me,' Thuro did as he was bid and Culain stepped forward.

'I do not like to kill,' he said, 'but unfortunately you and your companion cannot be allowed to

leave here alive, so I am left with no choice. Come, defend yourselves.'

For a moment the two assassins simply stood staring at the man with the staff. Then the first of

them ran forward, screaming a battle-cry.

Culain's hand dropped down the shaft to the central ebony grip and twisted. The staff parted and a

silver blade appeared in his right hand. He parried the wild cut and reversed a slashing sweep to

the assassin's throat. The blade sliced cleanly free and the man's head slowly toppled from his

shoulders. For one terrible moment the body stood, then the right knee buckled and it fell to rest

beside the grisly head. Thuro swallowed hard and tore his eyes from the corpse.

The second assassin ran for his horse and, dropping his sword, vaulted to the saddle as Culain

stepped over the corpse and retrieved Laitha's bow. He selected an arrow, drew the string and

loosed the shaft with such consummate skill and lack of speed that Thuro had no doubt as to the

outcome even before the missile plunged into the rider's back. Culain dropped the bow and moved to

Laitha, lifting her gently.

After a while her eyes opened.

'Will you never learn, Gian?' he whispered. 'Another doe for your collection?'

'He is the son of the king. Eldared seeks to kill him.' Culain turned and as his eyes fastened on

the prince, Thuro saw something new in his gaze, some emotion that the boy could not place. But

then a mask covered Culain's feelings. 'Welcome to my hearth,' he said simply.

CHAPTER THREE

Eldared, King of the Brigantes, Lord of the Northern Wall, sat silently listening to the reports

of his huntsmen. His sons Gael and Moret sat beside him, aware that despite his apparent

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file:///G|/rah/David%20Gemmel/David%20Gemmell%20-%20Stones%20Of%20Power%\201-%20Ghost%20King%20v1.0.txtGHOSTKING'Iamnotcutouttobeawarrior',saidThuro.'YouaremygrandsonandthesonofAureliusandAlaida,'repliedCulain\.'Ithinkyouwillfindthatbloodrunstrue.Wealreadyknowyoucanswinganaxe.Whatothers\urprisesdoyo...

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