“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 humor in his eyes.
By David Gemmell
Published by Ballantine Books:
LION OF MACEDON
DARK PRINCE
KNIGHTS OF DARK RENOWN
MORNINGSTAR
The Drenai Saga
LEGEND
THE KING BEYOND THE GATE
QUEST FOR LOST HEROES
WAYLANDER
The Stones of Power Cycle
GHOST KING
LAST SWORD OF POWER
WOLF IN SHADOW
THE LAST GUARDIAN*
BLOODSTONE*
*Forthcoming
A Del Rey© Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1988 by David A. Gemmell
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Great Britain in 1988 by Century Hutchinson Ltd.
http://www.randomhouse.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-79745-2
v3.1
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.
Acknowledgments
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 redirect skillfully and enhance greatly the work that will then accrue credit to the author. Similarly, a good copy editor can, with an inserted word or 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 the finetuning and the elegant polishing, and to my agent, Pamela Buckmaster, for bringing us together.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Foreword
Ghost King is a fantasy novel and is not intended to be 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 Suetonius. Cunobelin reigned for forty years from his base at Camulodunum, 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 maneuvers 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 license 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
CAEL 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
CALCARIA—Tadcaster
CAMULODUNUM—Colchester
CATARACTONIUM—Catterick
DUBRIS—Dover
DUROBRIVAE—Rochester
EBORACUM—York
LAGENTIUM—Castleford
LINDUM—Lincoln
LONDINIUM—London
LONGOVICIUM—Lancaster
PINNATA CASTRA—Inchtuthill
SKITIS ISLAND—Isle of Skye
VENTA—Winchester
VINDOLANDA—Chesterholm
VINDOMARA—Ebchester
1
THE BOY STARED idly at the cold gray walls and wondered if the castle dungeons could be any more inhospitable than this chilly 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 gray slabs sucked the heat from the blaze, giving nothing in return but a ghostly reflection that mocked the flames.
Thuro sat on the bed and wrapped his father’s white bearskin cloak about his 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, cozy 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 kn
ow 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 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 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 scarcely comprehend. The prince disliked the cold, loathed long journeys on horseback, and, more important, 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 only a single woolen 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 criticize 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?” Gwalchmai hissed.
“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.”
“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 the previous 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 judgment. 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 thought hard, but his mind was devoid of inspiration. He borrowed a pouch and two grapes from Listra the cook, and sat in the garden staring at the items as if in themselves they harbored 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 Maedhlyn’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 that 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 color 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 realizing 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,” Thuro whispered.
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 on 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 pict
ure the queen as if but an hour 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 had 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 swirling gray like mist on a northern lake.
At first many of the people of Caerlyn Keep had thought her a witch, for even there 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 gentle spirit. News of her pregnancy was greeted with great joy and instant celebration. Gwalchmai would never forget the raucous banquet at the keep or the wild night of pleasure that had followed it.
But eight months later Alaida, the Mist Maiden, was dead and her baby son hovered on the brink of death, refusing all milk. The Enchanter Maedhlyn had been summoned, and he, with his magic, had 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, Cael and Moret.
The king had never recovered from the death of Alaida. He rarely laughed and came alive only 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.
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