The guards eased back from the stricken monster, glancing fearfully at the sky. Thuro himself felt a cold shiver on his back, but he forced a laugh and stood.
“Do you think she is the only power in the world?” he scoffed. “If she is so invincible, why are you not dead? Can you hear me, Witch Queen? Why is he not dead? Come, Baldric, lead me to the Dream Shaper.”
Two hundred miles away the silvered mirror shimmered as Astarte passed an ivory hand before it.
“You interest me, sweet boy. Come to me. Come to Goroien!”
11
AT SUNSET PRASAMACCUS limped into the camp as Thuro and Baldric were preparing for their journey. Behind him came the red-faced Hogun, staggering under the weight of the deer the crippled Brigante had killed two hours before. Prasamaccus sank to the ground beside Laitha.
“What is going on?”
“The noble prince has decided to take on the Witch Queen,” she answered. “He is heading off to some mountain range to find a wizard.”
“Why are you angry? He has obviously earned their confidence.”
“He is a boy,” she said dismissively.
Tired as he was, Prasamaccus rose and limped to the group, where Thuro outlined the events of the day. The Brigante said nothing, but he sensed the growing excitement among the men. The man-beast Pallin had returned to the caves.
“How will you find the Dream Shaper?” asked Thuro.
As Baldric was about to answer, Prasamaccus interrupted sharply: “A word with you, young prince?”
Thuro followed the Brigante to a sturdy oak. “You obviously disbelieve that the Witch Queen overlooks us, but that is an assumption and therefore unwise. Let the man lead us, but do not discuss the exact location.”
“She cannot be everywhere; she is not a goddess.”
“We do not know that. But she must have known the length of her spell on Pallin, and she could have been watching for his death. Give me your sword.”
Thuro did so, and Prasamaccus took three arrows from his quiver and ran them down the blade. “I do not know if the magic can be transferred in this way, but I see no reason why not.” He returned the sword to the prince. “Now let us find this Enchanter.”
“No, my friend. Pallin says that you and Laitha must remain. They will not allow all of us to leave the forest. Look after her and I will see you soon.”
Prasamaccus sighed and shook his head, but he said nothing and watched silently as the two men walked away into the shadows of the trees. Helga seemed so far away. The camp women gathered around the deer, quartering it expertly, and the Brigante lay down beside Laitha, covering himself with a borrowed blanket.
“He did not even say good-bye,” said Laitha.
Prasamaccus closed his eyes and slept.
Two hours later he was awakened by the point of a boot nudging his side. He sat up to see Korrin Rogeur squatting down beside him.
“If your friend does not return, I will cut your throat.”
“You woke me to tell me what I already know?”
Korrin sat down and rubbed at tired eyes. “Thank you for the deer,” he said, as if the words had been torn from him under duress, “and I am grateful that your friend helped my brother.”
“Was your scouting mission successful?”
“Yes and no. There is an army camped now at the northern border—a thousand men. At first we thought they would enter the forest, but then they were ordered to dismount and return to their camp. It would seem this was around the time that the boy used his magic on Pallin.”
“Then he saved not only your brother but your people as well,” said Prasamaccus.
“That is how it seems,” admitted Korrin. “We are doomed here, and it galls me. When I was a child, my father told me wonderful stories of heroes who could overcome impossible odds. But that is not life, is it? There are thirty-four fighting men here. Thirty-four. Not exactly an army.”
“Look at it from Astarte’s point of view,” said the Brigante. “You are important enough to merit the attention of one-tenth of her army. She must fear you for some reason.”
“We have nothing she should fear.”
“You have a flame here, Korrin. Admittedly it is a small flame, but I once saw an entire forest consumed from the glowing coals of a carelessly lit campfire. That is what she fears: that your flame will grow.”
“I am tired, Prasamaccus. I will see you in the morning.”
“Come hunting with me.”
“Perhaps.” Korrin stood and moved away toward the caves.
“You are a wise man,” said Laitha, pushing back her blanket and joining Prasamaccus. He smiled.
“I wish that were true. But were it the case, I would be back in the Land between Walls or in Calcaria with my wife.”
“You are married? You have not mentioned her.”
“Memory is sometimes painful, and I try not to think of her. Wherever she is now, she is not seeing the same stars as I. Good night, Laitha.”
“Good night, Prasamaccus.” For a few minutes there was silence, then Laitha whispered, “I am glad you are here.”
He smiled, but did not answer. It was not a time for conversation … not when Helga was waiting in his dreams.
Thuro and Baldric walked through most of the night in a forest lit by the bright light of two moons, a silvered, almost enchanted woodland that Thuro found bordering on the beautiful. They slept for two hours and at dawn were at the western edge of the forest, facing the open valleys before the white-blue mountains.
“Now the danger begins,” said Baldric. “May the ghosts preserve us!”
The two men strode out into the open. Baldric strung his bow and walked with an arrow ready. Thuro scanned the skyline, but there was no sign of soldiers. Small huts and larger houses dotted the land, and there were cattle grazing on the hillsides.
“Who are these ghosts you pray to?” he asked Baldric.
“The Army of the Dead,” answered the lean huntsman.
At noon they stopped at a farmhouse, and Baldric was offered a loaf of dark bread. The inhabitants, a young man and woman, seemed fearful and all too anxious for the travelers to move on. Baldric thanked them for the food, and they vanished into the house.
“You knew them?” asked the prince.
“My sister and her husband.”
“They were not very friendly.”
“To speak to me is death since the warrant went out.”
“What was your crime?”
“I killed a soldier who came for my neighbor’s wife. She was one of the Winter Seven.”
“What happened to the woman?”
“Her husband handed her over two hours later, and named me as the killer. I ran and joined Korrin.”
“I would have thought there would be more rebels.”
“There were,” said the huntsman. “An army of two thousand rose in the north, but they were taken and crucified on the trees of Caliptha-sa. Astarte wove a spell about them so that even when the crows had torn the flesh from their bones, they were still alive. Their screams came from the forest for more than two years before she relented and released their souls. Now there are not many rebels.”
The two travelers came to the foothills of the Etrusces by midafternoon of the following day. The mountains reared above them, gaunt giants against the gathering storm clouds. “There is a cabin,” said Baldric, “about a mile ahead in a narrow valley. We will stay the night there.”
The building was deserted, the windows hanging open and their leather hinges rotted. But the night was not cold, and the two men sat before a fire, saying little. Baldric seemed an insular, introverted man.
Toward midnight the storm broke above the mountains; rain lashed the sides of the cabin and was driven through the open windows by a shrieking wind. Thuro wedged the broken windows into place and watched as lightning speared the sky. He was tired and hungry, and his mind drifted to thoughts of Culain. He had not realized how fond he had grown of the Mist Warrior. That h
e had died at the hands of the Soul Stealers was more than a travesty. At least Aurelius had had the small satisfaction of taking some of his killers with him on the dark road. At the thought of his father, Thuro’s mood mellowed to the point of melancholy. He could remember only four long conversations with the king; all of them had concerned his studies. But they had never spoken as father and son …
A shadow moved across the clearing before the cabin, and Thuro jerked upright, blinking rapidly to clear his vision; he could see nothing. He drew his sword; the blade was shining like dull silver.
The door exploded inward, but Thuro was already moving. The shadow swept toward him even as Baldric awoke, reaching for his bow. Thuro’s mind emptied as his gladius blocked a gray blade and slashed through the dark cape and up into the corpse-gray face. The demon vanished in an instant, cape fluttering to the floor. Thuro ran to Baldric, touching his sword to the man’s arrowhead. They waited, but nothing moved in the storm. Thuro glanced down at his sword. Was it still silver or iron gray? He could not tell, and a tense hour followed. Taking a risk, he moved to the door, lifting it back into place and wedging it shut.
Baldric’s face was white, his eyes fearful. “What was that thing?”
“A creature from the Void. It is dead.”
“From its face, it was dead before it came in. How did you match it? I have never seen anything as swift.”
“I used a trick taught me by a master. It is called Eleari-mas—the Emptying.” Thuro gave a silent prayer of thanks to the departed Culain and allowed his body to relax. He thrust the gladius into the wooden floor. “If the blade glows silver, it means they have returned,” he told the huntsman.
“You are more than you seem, boy. A good deal more.”
“I think I have passed from youth to manhood in but a few days. Do not call me boy. My name is …” He stopped and smiled. “I carry a boy’s name still. My naming was due to have been conducted at Camulodunum in the summer, but I shall not be there. No matter. I need no druid or Enchanter to tell me that I am a man.” He dragged the sword from the wood and held it aloft. “Thuro is now the memory the man carries, a memory of youth and lesser days. This sword is mine. It is the sword of Uther Pendragon, the man.”
Baldric stood and offered his hand. Uther took it in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist. “More than a man,” said Baldric. “You are a brother.”
Gwalchmai sat with head bowed, the bandage on his arm dripping blood to the grass. His turma had been cut to pieces in a raid three miles from the merchant town of Longovicium. Twenty-seven men were dead or captured; the remaining four sat with Gwalchmai in a small wood, thinking of their comrades: men who had awoken to a bright sun and this afternoon stared sightlessly at a darkening sky.
Summer had arrived in northern Britain, but it had brought no joy to the beleaguered army of Lucius Aquila. The Brigantes, under Eldared and Cael, had conquered Corstopitum, Vindomara, Longovicium, Voreda, and Brocavum. Now they besieged the fortress city of Cataractonium, pinning down six cohorts of fighting men from the Fifth Legion. News from the south was scarcely better; Ambrosius had been forced to retreat against Hengist, and the Saxon king had taken Durobrivae in the southeast.
A Jute named Cerdic had raided the southwest and sacked the town of Lindinis, destroying two cohorts of auxiliaries. No one talked of victory now, for the British army was running short of men and hope, and the early victory at Corstopitum no longer boosted morale. Rather, it was the reverse, for it had raised expectations that had not been realized.
Gwalchmai sat, watching the blood on his arm thicken and dry. He made a fist and felt the pain in his bicep. It would heal, given time. But how much time did he have?
“If the king were still alive …” muttered a short, balding warrior named Casmaris, not needing to finish the sentence.
“He is not,” snapped Gwalchmai, torn between agreement with the unspoken sentiment and loyalty to Aquila. “What is the point of this endless hankering for things past? If the king were alive. If Eldared could have been trusted. If we had ten more legions.”
“Well, I am tired of running and holding,” said Casmaris. “Why can we not bring up the Fourth and take them on in one bloody battle?”
“All or nothing?” queried Gwalchmai.
“And why not? Nothing is what we will have anyway. This is the slow death we are suffering.”
Gwalchmai turned away; he could not argue. He was a Cantii tribesman, a Briton by birth and temperament, and he did not understand the endless strategies. His desire was simple: meet the enemy head on and fight until someone lost. But Aquila was a Roman of infinite patience who would not risk an empire on one throw of the dice. Deep inside him Gwalchmai could feel that they were both wrong. Perhaps there was a time for patience, but there was also a time for raw courage and a defiance of the odds.
He pushed himself to his feet. “Time to ride,” he said.
“Time to die,” muttered Casmaris.
Uther awoke with his heart thumping erratically, fear making him roll and rise, groping for his sword. He had fallen asleep while on watch.
“Have no fear,” said Baldric, who was honing the blade of his hunting knife as the dawn sunlight streamed through the open window. The storm had passed, and the morning was bright and clear under a blue sky.
Uther smiled ruefully. Baldric offered him the last of the black bread, which the prince was forced to dampen with water from his companion’s canteen to make it edible. They set off minutes later, heading higher into the timberline of the mountains, following a narrow trail dotted with the spoor of mountain goats and bighorn sheep. At last, as the sun neared noon, they came to a high valley where a small granite-built house nestled in the hollow of a hill. The roof had been thatched but was now black and ruined by fire.
The two men waited in the tree line, scanning the countryside for signs of soldiers. Satisfied that they were alone, they descended to the house, stopping at a huge oak. Crucified on the trunk was the near skeleton of a man.
“This would be Andiacus,” said Baldric, “and I do not think he can help us.” The leg bones were missing, obviously ripped away by wolves or wild dogs, and the skull had fallen to the earth by the tree roots. Uther wandered to the house, which was well built around a central room with a stone hearth. Everywhere was chaos: books and scrolls littering the floor, drawers pulled from chests, tables overturned, rugs pulled up. The three back rooms were in similar condition. Uther righted a cane chair and sat, lost in thought.
“Time to be leaving,” said Baldric from the doorway.
“Not yet. Whoever did this was searching for the source of the Enchanter’s power. They did not find it.”
“How can you say that? They have torn the place apart.”
“Exactly, Baldric. There is no evidence of an end to the search. It follows that either they found the source at the very last, or they did not find it. The latter is more probable.”
“If they did not find it, how can we?”
“We know where not to look. Help me clear the mess.”
“Why? No one lives here.”
“Trust me.” Together the two men righted all the furniture, then Uther sat down once more staring at the walls of the main room. After a while he stood and moved to the bedroom. The quantity of books and scrolls showed Andiacus to be a studious man. Some of the manuscripts were still tied, and Uther studied them. They were carefully indexed.
“What are we looking for?” asked the huntsman.
“A stone. A golden stone, black-veined, possibly the size of a pebble.”
“You think he hid it before they killed him?”
“No. I think he hid it as a matter of course, probably every night. And he did not have it with him when they captured him, which could mean they took him in his sleep.”
“If he hid it, they would have found it.”
“No. If you hid it, they would have found it. We are talking of an Enchanter and a magic stone. He hid it in plain sight, but h
e changed it. Now all we must do is think of what it might have been.”
Baldric sat down. “I am hungry, I am tired, and I do not understand any of this. But last night a creature of darkness tried to kill us, and I would like to be gone from these mountains before nightfall.”
Uther nodded. He had been thinking of the Soul Stealer and wondering whether it had been sent by Eldared or Astarte or was merely a random factor associated with neither. He pushed his fears from his mind and returned to the problem at hand. Maedhlyn had often told him not to waste his energies on matters beyond his knowledge.
The murdered Enchanter either had hidden the stone or had transformed it. If it had been hidden, the searchers would have found it. Therefore, it had been transformed. Uther rose from the bed. Any one of the scattered objects on the floor could be Sipstrassi. Think, Uther, he told himself. Use your mind. Why would the Enchanter disguise the stone? To safeguard it so that no one would steal it. Around the room were ornate goblets, gold-tipped quills, items of clothing, blankets, candle holders, even a lantern. There were scrolls, books, and charms of silver, bronze, and gold. All would be worth something to a thief and therefore useless as a disguise for a magic stone. Uther eliminated them from his thoughts, his eyes scanning the room, seeking an object that was functional yet worthless. There was a desk by the window, the drawers ripped out and smashed. Beside it lay piles of scattered papers … and there in the corner, nestling against the wall, an oblong paperweight of ordinary granite.
Uther pushed himself from the bed and moved to the rock. It was heavy and ideal for the purpose it served. He held it over the desktop and concentrated hard. After several seconds, his hand grew warm and there appeared two platters of freshly roasted beef. The granite in his hand disappeared, to be replaced by a thumbnail-sized Sipstrassi Stone with thick black veins interweaving on the golden surface.
“You did it!” whispered Baldric. “The Dream Shaper’s magic.”
Uther smiled, holding his elation in check, savoring the feeling of triumph, the triumph of mind. “Yes,” he said at last, “but the power of the stone is not great. As the magic is exhausted, these black veins swell. When the gold is used up, the power is gone. Enjoy the meat. We cannot afford to waste any more enchantment; we must heal Pallin.”
Ghost King Page 14
