Ghost King

by David Gemmell

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her I saw her as my daughter and could not love her more than that.”

  “Why?”

  “What sort of a question is that? Why what?”

  “Why could you not take her to wife?”

  “There was my second mistake, for she asked the same question. I have already given my heart; there can be no one else for me while my lady lives.” Culain smiled. “But she will not have me because I choose to be mortal, and I cannot love her while she remains a goddess.”

  “And this you told to Laitha?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was not wise,” said Thuro. “I think you should have lied. I am not versed in the ways of women, but I think Laitha would forgive you anything except being in love with someone else.”

  “I can do many things, Thuro, but I cannot turn back the hours of my life. I would not wish pain on Gian, but it is done. Go to her; help her to understand.”

  “Not an easy task, and the more difficult for me because I do love her and would take her to wife tomorrow.”

  “I know that; so does she. So you are the one who should go to her.”

  Thuro stood, but Culain waved him to his chair once more. “Before you go, there is something I want you to see and a gift I wish you to have.” He fetched a bowl of water and placed it before the prince. “Look deeply into the water and understand.” Culain took a golden stone from his pocket and held it over the bowl until the water misted. Then he left the cabin, pulling shut the door behind him.

  Thuro gazed down to find himself staring into a candlelit room where several men stood silently around a wide bed in which lay a slender child with white-blond hair. A man Thuro recognized as Maedhyln leaned over and placed his hand on the child’s head.

  “His spirit is not here,” came Maedhlyn’s voice, whispering inside Thuro’s mind. “He is in the Void; he will not return.”

  “Where is the Void?” came another voice that brought a pang of deep sadness to the boy. It was Aurelius, his father.

  “It is a place between heaven and hell. No man can fetch him back.”

  “I can,” said the king.

  “No, sire. It is a place of Mist Demons and darkness. You will be lost, even as the boy is lost.”

  “He is my son. Use your magic to send me there. I command it!”

  Maedhlyn sighed. “Take the boy into your arms and wait.”

  The water misted once more, and Thuro saw the child wandering in a daze on a dark mountainside, his eyes blank and unseeing. Around him stalked black wolves with red eyes and slavering jaws. As they crept toward the child, a shining figure appeared bearing a terrible sword. He smote the wolves, and they fled. Then he swept the child into his arms and knelt with him by a black stream where no flowers grew. The child awoke then and cuddled into the chest of the man, who ruffled his hair and told him all was well. Three terrible beasts approached from a sudden mist, but the king’s sword shone like fire.

  “Back!” he said. “Or die. The choice is yours.”

  The beasts looked at him, gauging his strength, then returned to the mist.

  “I will take you home, Thuro,” said the king. “You will be well again.” His father kissed him then.

  Thuro’s tears splashed to the bowl, disturbing the scene, but just as it faded, a dark shadow flitted across his vision.

  Culain entered silently. “Gian said you regretted having no memory of the scene. I hope it was a gift worth having.”

  Thuro cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. “I am more in your debt now than ever. He came into hell to find me.”

  “For all his faults, he was a man of courage. By all the laws of mystery he should have died there with you, but such men are made to challenge the immutability of such laws. Be proud, Thuro.”

  “One more question, Culain. What kind of man has a gray face and opal eyes?”

  “Where did you see such a man?”

  “Just as the vision faded, I saw a man in black running forward with a sword raised. His face was gray and his eyes were clouded, like a blind man—only he was not blind.”

  “And you felt he was looking at you?”

  “Yes. There was no time to feel fear; it was gone in an instant.”

  “Fear is what you should feel, for the man was a Soul Stealer, a drinker of blood. They exist in the Void, and none know their origins. It was a source of great interest in the Feragh. Some contend that they are the souls of the evil slain; others, that they come from a race similar to our own. Whatever the truth, they are dangerous, for their speed is like nothing human and their strength is prodigious. They feed on blood and nothing else and cannot stand strong sunlight; it causes their skin to blister and peel and eventually can kill them.”

  “Why would I see one?”

  “Why indeed? But remember that you were looking into the Void and that that is their home.”

  “Can they be slain?”

  “Only with silver, but few men can stand against them even then. They move like shadows and strike before a warrior can parry. Their knives and swords do not cut; they merely numb. Then a man feels their long hollow teeth in his throat, drawing his lifeblood. Give me your gladius.”

  Thuro offered the weapon hilt first. Culain ran his golden stone along both edges of the blade, then returned it. The prince examined it but could see no change.

  “Let us hope you never do,” said Culain.

  Thuro found Laitha in the upper mountains, sitting on a flat rock and sketching a purple butterbur. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and the sketch was not of her usual high quality.

  “May I join you?”

  She nodded and placed her parchment and charcoal stick to her left. She was wearing only a light green woolen tunic, and her fingers and arms were blue with cold. He removed his sheepskin jerkin and draped it over her shoulders.

  “He told you, then,” she said, not looking at him.

  “Yes. It is cold here; let us go back to your cabin and light a fire.”

  “You must think me very foolish.”

  “Of course I do not. You are one of the brightest people I have ever met. The only foolishness is Culain’s. Now, let’s go back.” She smiled wanly and climbed from the rock. The sun was sinking in fire, and a bitter wind was whispering through the rocks.

  Back at the cabin, with the fire roaring in the hearth, she sat before the flames, hugging her knees. He sat opposite her, nursing a goblet of watered wine from a cask in the back room.

  “He loves someone else,” she said.

  “He has loved her since before you were born—and he is not a fickle man. You would not love him yourself if he were.”

  “Did he ask you to speak for him?”

  “No,” Thuro lied. “He merely told me how distressed he was to cause you pain.”

  “It was my own fault. I should have waited a year; it was not so long. I am still lean like a boy; I will be more womanly next year. Perhaps by then he will realize his own true feelings.”

  “And perhaps not,” Thuro warned softly.

  “She is not here, whoever she is. I am here. He will come to me one day.”

  “You are already beautiful, Laitha, but I think you underestimate him. What is a year to a man who has tasted eternity? He will never love you in the way you desire. Your passion will hurt you both.”

  Her eyes came up, and the look hit him like a blow. “You think I don’t know why you are saying this? You want me yourself. I can see it in your moon-dog eyes. Well, you won’t have me. Ever! If I can’t have Culain, I will have no man.”

  “Fifteen is a little young to make such a decision.”

  “Thank you for that advice, Uncle.”

  “Now you are being foolish, Laitha. I am not your enemy, and you gain nothing by hurting me. Yes, I love you. Does that make me a villain? Have I ever pressed my suit upon you?”

  She stared into the flames for several minutes, then smiled and reached out to touch his hand. “I am sor
ry, Thuro. Truly. I am so hurt inside, I just want to strike out.”

  “I have something to thank you for,” he said. “You told Culain about me wanting to recall the day my father held me, and he used his magic stone to bring it to pass.” He went on to explain about the vision and how Culain had touched his sword.

  “Let me see,” she asked.

  “There is nothing to see.” He drew the gladius, and the blade shone like a mirror.

  “He has turned it to silver,” said Laitha.

  A dark shadow flitted by the window, and Thuro hurled himself across the room just as the door began to open. His shoulder slammed into the wood, and the door closed with a crash. Thuro fumbled for the bar, dropping it into place.

  “What is happening?” cried Laitha, and Thuro swung around. The window was shuttered and barred against the cold. The door to the back room opened, and a dark shadow swept across the hearth. Laitha, half rising, slumped to the floor as a gray blade touched her flesh. Thuro dived to his left, rolled, and rose. With preternatural speed the shadow closed on him, and his blade flashed up instinctively, slicing through the dark, billowing cloak. There was an unearthly cry, and Thuro saw a corpse-gray face and opal eyes just before the creature vanished in smoke. A stench filled the room that caused Thuro to retch. Dropping to his knees, he crawled to Laitha; her eyes were open, but she was unmoving. He ran into the back room just as a second shadow darkened the window; his sword snaked out, and the apparition fled back into the night. He slammed the shutters and barred them.

  Returning to Laitha, he stared into her eyes. She blinked. “If you can hear me, blink twice.” She did so. “Now blink once for yes, twice for no. Is there any movement at all in your limbs?” Twice she blinked.

  A crash came at the window, and a sword blade shattered the wood. Thuro, his gladius burning with blue fire, ran to the window and waited. A second crash came from the back room; then another unearthly cry rose from outside the cabin, and Thuro risked a glance through the shattered window.

  Culain was standing alone in the clearing, his silver lance in his hands. Three figures moved toward him with blistering speed. He dropped to his knees, the lance flashing and lunging. Two cloaked assassins fell. Thuro tore open the cabin door and rushed into the night as four others closed on Culain.

  “No, Thuro!” Culain bellowed, but it was too late, for a Soul Stealer flew at the prince. Thuro blocked a thrust and sliced his silver blade across his enemy’s throat, and the creature vanished. Two others were on their way. Culain attacked the two facing him, blocking and cutting, dispatching one with a thrust to the belly. The second advanced, but Culain pressed a stud in the lance, and a sharp silver blade flashed through the air and into the Soul Stealer’s chest.

  Thuro managed to kill the first of the assassins, but the second sank a cold knife between his ribs. All strength fled from him, and his legs gave way. He fell on his back and saw the gray face looming above him, huge hollow teeth descending toward his throat.

  Culain ran forward three paces, then threw the heavy lance. It sliced into the creature’s back, plunging through to jut from its chest. It vanished, and the lance fell to the ground beside Thuro.

  Culain lifted the paralyzed prince and carried him into the cabin, where Laitha was beginning to stir. “Get the fire built up and lock the door,” he said.

  He moved to her bow and emptied her quiver. There were twenty arrows. He touched his Sipstrassi Stone to the head of each, but nothing happened. Culain lifted Thuro’s gladius; once more it was iron.

  “What were they?” Laitha asked, rubbing limbs that ached with cold.

  “Void killers. We are no longer safe here. Come here!” As she approached, he lifted her hand. A copper bracelet graced her left wrist, and he touched the stone to it. “If ever it shines silver, you know what it will mean?”

  She nodded. “I am sorry, Culain. Will you forgive me?”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Gian Avur. I should have told you about my lady, but I have not seen her for more than forty years.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Her name is an old one meaning ‘Light into Life.’ She is called Goroien.”

  Culain sat up through the night, but the Soul Stealers did not return. Thuro awoke in the morning, his head seemingly full of wool, his movements slow and clumsy. Culain took him outside, and the crisp air drove the drowsiness from him.

  “They will come again,” said Culain. “There is no end to them. They did not expect you to be armed with silver.”

  “I cannot stand against them; they are too fast.”

  “I have spoken to you, Thuro, of Eleari-mas, the Emptying. It is something you will need to master. Skill is not enough; speed is insufficient. You must free your instinct, empty your mind.”

  “I have tried, Culain. I cannot master it.”

  “It took me thirty years, Thuro. Do not expect to excel in a matter of hours.” The sun was shining with golden brilliance, and the events of the night seemed of another age. Laitha was still sleeping. The Mist Warrior looked gaunt and jaded, the silver at his temples shining like snow on the distant mountain peaks. Dark rings circled his eyes. “Eldared has recruited an ally from the Feragh,” he said. “No one else could open the Void. I thank the Source that you saw the vision, but who knows what will come next? Atrols, serpents, dragons, demons. The perils of the Mist are infinite. I blame myself, for I first used the floating gateways.”

  “In what way?” Thuro asked.

  “When I led Boudicca’s Iceni against the Romans, there was an elite legion, the Ninth. They marched south from Eboracum to catch us and trap us between themselves and Paullinus. But I sent the Mist, and they marched onto it and out of history.”

  “The legendary Ninth,” whispered Thuro. “No one has ever known of their fate.”

  “Nor will any man. Even I. They died out of sight of their friends, their families, and even their land.”

  “Five thousand men,” said Thuro. “That is power indeed.”

  “I would not do such a thing again … but someone has.”

  “Who has the power?”

  “Maedhlyn. Myself. Maybe a dozen others. But that presupposes the lack of intellect and imagination in any of a hundred thousand worlds within worlds that make up the Mist. Perhaps someone has traveled a new road.”

  “What can I do? I cannot just remain here until they find me, and it puts both you and Laitha in peril.”

  “You must find your father’s sword and your own destiny.”

  “Find …? It was taken by a ghostly hand below the surface of the lake. I cannot travel there.”

  “Would that it were truly so simple. But the sword is not in the lake—I have searched there. No, it is in the Mist, and we must travel there to find it.”

  “You said there were thousands of worlds within the Mist. How will we know where to search?”

  “You are joined to the sword. We will take a random path and see where it leads us.”

  “You will forgive me for saying that it does not sound very hopeful.”

  Culain chuckled. “I will be with you, Thuro. Though, yes, it will be like searching for one pebble in a rock slide. But better than waiting here for the demons to strike, yes?”

  “When do we leave?”

  “Tomorrow. I must prepare the path.”

  “And we must spend one more night waiting for the Soul Stealers?”

  “Yes, but we have an advantage now. We know they are coming.”

  “A slim advantage, indeed.”

  “Perhaps as slender as the difference between life and death.”

  9

  PRASAMACCUS WAS GRATEFUL for the tears Helga shed so publicly as he mounted the huge black stallion chosen that morning from Victorinus’ stable. No warrior should leave on a dangerous hunt without such a display from a loving wife. He had been lucky, for Maedhlyn had been forced to wait five weeks after his magic had disclosed to him that the passes into the Caledones mountains were all blo
cked by heavy snow. Prasamaccus had used the time well, getting to know Helga, and she him. Happily, they both liked what they found. The house on the outskirts of Calcaria had been bought by Grephon at a fraction of its value, the owner being terrified of the coming war. At the back of the small white building was a ramshackle paddock and two fields that could be given over to crops.

  Now Prasamaccus leaned over his saddle. “Hush, woman!” he said. “This is not seemly.” But Helga’s tears would not cease, and it was with a happy heart that Prasamaccus rode alongside the Enchanter toward the remnants of the stone circle above Eboracum.

  For his part Maedhlyn was less than happy with the choice of messenger-escort he was sending to Thuro. The slender blond cripple was obviously a man of wit but hardly a warrior. And could he be trusted?

  The Brigante cared nothing for the doubts he saw in Maedhlyn’s sullen expression. The Caledones were in fact sparsely peopled, and the Vacomagi who did dwell in the foothills were renowned as a friendly tribe. With luck his mission would require no more than a six-day journey and a swift return to his white palace. He glanced nervously at the sky; he had kept his face blank, but the gods had a way of reading men’s eyes.

  Only two broken teeth remained of the circle, and Prasamaccus stood now where he had appeared six weeks before, overlooking the fortress city.

  “You understand? Six days,” said Maedhlyn.

  “Yes. I’ll notch a stick,” Prasamaccus replied.

  “Do not be flippant. You will appear above Pinnata Castra. In the mountains you will meet a man named Culain; he is tall, with eyes the color of storm clouds. Do not anger him. He will take you to the prince.”

  “Storm eyes. Yes, I’m ready.”

  With a muttered curse Maedhlyn produced a yellow-gold stone and waved it over his head. A golden glow filled the circle. “Ride west,” said the Enchanter, and Prasamaccus mounted and headed the stallion forward. It shied and came down running directly at the largest stone. Prasamaccus closed his eyes. A smell like oil burning on cloth smote his nostrils, and his ears ached. He opened his eyes as the horse charged out of the circle where he had killed the Atrol. He pulled Vamera from his saddle pouch and strung her swiftly. Then, with an angry oath, he hung the bow on his pommel.