Ghost King

by David Gemmell

  The food was as close to divine as either man had tasted. Then, gathering their weapons, Uther and Baldric left the house, the younger man carrying the Sipstrassi Stone in his hand. As they passed the skeleton, the stone grew warmer and Uther paused. A whisper like a breeze through dry leaves echoed inside his head, and a single word formed.

  “Peace.” It was a plea born of immense suffering. Uther remembered Baldric’s word about the army of rebels who had been crucified yet not allowed to die. Stooping, he lifted the skull, touching the stone to its temple. White light blazed, and the voice inside Uther’s head grew in power.

  “I thank you, my friend. Take the stone to Erin Plateau. Bring the ghosts home.” The whisper faded and was gone, and the black threads on the stone had swelled still further.

  “Why did you do that?” Baldric asked.

  “He was not dead,” answered Uther. “Let us go.”

  Maedhlyn hurled the black pebble to the tabletop, where Culain swept it up. Neither man said anything as Maedhlyn poured a full goblet of pale golden spirit and drained it at a swallow. The Enchanter looked to be in a dreadful condition, his face sallow, the skin sagging beneath his beard. His eyes were bloodshot, his movements sluggish. For seven days he had tried to follow Thuro, but the Standing Stones above Eboracum merely drained the power from his Sipstrassi. The two men had traveled to another circle to the west, outside Cambodunum. The same mysterious circumstances applied. Maedhlyn worked for days on his calculations, snatching only an hour’s sleep in midafternoon. Finally he attempted to travel back to Eboracum, but even that could not be achieved.

  The companions had returned on horseback to the capital, where Maedhlyn searched through his massive library, seeking inspiration and finding none.

  “I am beaten,” he whispered, pouring another goblet of spirit.

  “How can it be that the Standing Stones no longer operate?” Culain asked.

  “What do you think I have been working on this past fortnight? The rising price of apples?”

  “Be calm, Enhancer. I am not seeking answers, I am searching for inspiration. There is no reason for the stones to fail. They are not machines; they merely resonate compatibly with Sipstrassi. Have you ever known a circle to fail?”

  “No, not fail. And how can I be calm? The immutable laws of mystery have been overturned. Magic no longer works.” Maedhlyn’s eyes took on a fearful look. He sat bolt upright and fished in the pocket of his dark blue robe, producing a second Sipstrassi Stone. He held it over the table, and a fresh jug of spirit materialized; he relaxed. “I have used up the power of two stones that should have lasted decades, but at least I can still make wine.”

  “Have you ever been unable to travel?”

  “Of course. No one can travel where they already are; you know that. Law number one. Each time scale sets up its own opposing forces. It pushes us on, makes us accept, in the main, linear time. At first I thought I could not follow Thuro because I was already there. No circle would accept my journey on that score. Wherever he is and in whatever time, then I am there also. But that is not the case. It would not affect a journey from Cambodunum to Eboracum in the same time scale. The circles have failed, and I do not understand why.”

  Culain stretched out his lean frame on the leather-covered divan. “I think it is time to contact Pendarric.”

  “I wish I could offer an argument,” said Maedhlyn. “He is so dour.”

  “He is also considerably more wise than both of us, your arrogance notwithstanding.”

  “Can we not wait until tomorrow?”

  “No, Thuro is in danger somewhere. Do it, Maedhlyn!”

  “Dour is not the word for Pendarric,” grumbled the Enchanter. Taking his stone, he held his fist over the table and whispered the words of family, the oath of Balacris. The air above the table crackled, and Maedhlyn hastily withdrew the two jugs of spirit. A fresh breeze filled the room with the scent of roses, and a window appeared onto a garden in which sat a powerful figure in a white toga. His beard was golden and freshly curled, his eyes a piercing blue. He turned, laying down a basket of perfect blooms.

  “Well?” he said, and Maedhlyn swallowed his anger. There was a wealth of meaning in that single word, and the Enchanter remembered his father using the same tone when young Maedhlyn had been found with the maidservant in the hay wagon. He pushed the humiliating memory from his thoughts.

  “We seek your advice, lord,” muttered Maedhlyn, afraid that the words would choke him. Pendarric chuckled

  “How that must pain you, Taliesan. Or should I call you Zeus? Or Aristotle? Or Loki?”

  “Maedhlyn, lord. The circles have failed.” If Maedhlyn had expected Pendarric to be ruffled by the announcement, he was doomed to disappointment. The once king of Atlantis merely nodded.

  “Not failed, Maedhlyn. They are closed. Should they remain closed, then yes, they will fail. The resonance will alter.”

  “How can this be? Who has closed them?”

  “I have. Do you wish to dispute my right?”

  “No, lord,” said Maedhlyn hastily, “but might I ask the reason?”

  “You may. I did not mind the more capricious of my people becoming gods to the savages—it amused them and did little real harm—but I will not tolerate the same lunacy we suffered before. And before you remind me, Maedhlyn, yes, it was my lunacy. But the world toppled. The tidal waves, the volcanoes, and the earthquakes almost ripped the world asunder.”

  “Why should it happen again?”

  “One of our number has decided it is not enough to play at being a goddess; she has decided to become one. She has built a castle spanning four gateways, and she is ready to unleash the Void upon all the worlds that are. So I have closed the pathways.”

  Maedhlyn spotted a hesitation in Pendarric’s comment and leapt on it: “But not all of them?”

  The king’s face showed a momentary flash of annoyance. “No. You were always swift, Taliesan. I cannot close her world … not yet. But then, I did not believe any immortal would be foolish enough to repeat my error.”

  Culain leaned forward. “May I speak, lord?”

  “Of course, Culain. Are you standing by your decision to become mortal?”

  “I am. When you say your error, you do not mean the Bloodstone?”

  “I do.”

  “And who is the traitor?” asked Culain, fearing the answer.

  “Goroien.”

  “Why would she do it? It is inconceivable.”

  Pendarric smiled. “You remember Gilgamesh, the mortal who could not accept Sipstrassi immortality? It seems he had a disease of the blood, and he gave it to Goroien. She began to age, Culain. You, of all of us, know what that must have meant to her. She now drains the life force from pregnant women into her Bloodstone. It will not be enough; she will need more souls and more again. In the end a nation’s blood will not satisfy her, or a world’s. She is doomed and will doom us all.”

  “I cannot accept it,” said Culain. “Yes, she is ruthless. Are we not all ruthless? But I have seen her nurse a sick faun, help in childbirth.”

  “But what you have not seen is the effect of the Bloodstones. They eat like cancers at the soul. I know, Culain. You were too young, but ask Maedhlyn what Pendarric was like when the Bloodstone ruled Atlantis. I ripped the hearts from my enemies. Once I had ten thousand rebels impaled. Only the end of the world saved me. Nothing will save Goroien.”

  “My grandson is lost in the Mist. I must find him.”

  “He is in Goroien’s world, and she is seeking him.”

  “Then let me go there. Let me aid him. She will hate him, for he is Alaida’s son, and you know Goroien’s feelings for Alaida.”

  “Sadly, Culain, I know more than that. So does Maedhlyn. And, no, the gates stay closed—unless, of course, you promise to destroy her.”

  “I cannot!”

  “She is not the woman you loved; there is nothing but evil left in her.”

  “I have said no. Do you know me not
at all, Pendarric?”

  The king sat silent for a moment. “Know you? Of course I know you. More, I like you, Culain. You have honor. If you should reconsider, journey to Skitis. One gateway remains. But you will have to slay her.”

  Storm clouds swirled in Culain’s eyes, and his face was white. “You survived the Bloodstone, Pendarric, though many would have liked to slay you. Widows and orphans in their thousands would have sought your blood.”

  The king nodded in agreement. “Yet I was not diseased, Culain. Goroien must die. Not for punishment—though some would argue she deserves it—but because her disease is destroying her. At the moment she sacrifices two hundred and eighty women a year from ten nations under her control. Two years ago she needed only seven women. Next year, by my calculations, she will need a thousand. What does that tell you?”

  Culain’s fist rammed to the table. “Then why do you not hunt her? You were a warrior once. Or Brigamartis?”

  “This would make you happy, Culain? Bring you contentment? No, Goroien is a part of you, and you alone can come close to her. Her power has grown. If it is left to me to destroy her, I will have to shatter the world in which she dwells. Then thousands will die with her, for I will raise the oceans. Your choice, Culain. And now I must go.”

  The window disappeared. Maedhlyn poured another goblet of spirit and passed it to Culain, but the Mist Warrior ignored it.

  “How much of this did you know?” he asked Maedhlyn. The Enchanter sipped his drink, his green eyes hooded.

  “Not as much as you think. And I would urge you to follow your own advice and be calm.” Their eyes met, and Maedhlyn swallowed hard, aware that his life hung by a gossamer thread. “I did not know of Goroien’s illness, only that she had taken to playing goddess once more. That I swear.”

  “But there is something else, Enhancer—something Pendarric is aware of. So out with it!”

  “First you must promise not to kill me.”

  “I’ll kill you if you do not!” stormed Culain, rising from his chair.

  “Sit down!” snapped Maedhlyn, his fear giving way to anger. “What good does it do you to threaten me? Am I your enemy? Have I ever been your enemy? Think back, Culain. You and Goroien went your separate ways. You took Shaleat to wife, and she gave you Alaida. But Shaleat died, bitten by a venomous snake. You knew—and do not deny it—that Goroien killed her. Or if you did not know, you at least suspected. That is why you allowed Aurelius to take Alaida from the Feragh. You thought that Goroien’s hatred would be nullified if Alaida chose mortality. You did not even allow her a stone.”

  “I do not want to hear this!” shouted Culain, fear shining in his eyes.

  “Goroien killed Alaida. She came to her in Aurelius’ castle and gave her poison. The babe took it in, and it changed Alaida’s blood. When she gave birth, the bleeding would not stop.”

  “No!” whispered Culain, but Maedhlyn was in full flow now.

  “As for Thuro, he had no will to live, and I used up a complete stone to save him. But Goroien was always close through those early years, and I could not allow Thuro to grow strong. I gave him the weakness in his chest. I robbed him of his strength. Goroien saw the king’s suffering and let the boy live. She was always a vindictive witch, only you were too blind to see it. At last she decided the time had come to wreak her full vengeance. She it was who went to Eldared, lifting him with dreams of glory. Not to kill the king, but Alaida’s child—your grandson.

  “You blamed me for Alaida’s death. I said nothing. But when I left her on that fateful morning, her pulse was strong, her body fit, her mind happy. She did not have the disease of kings at that time, Culain.”

  The Mist Warrior lifted his goblet and drained the spirit, feeling its warmth cut through him. “Have you ever loved anyone, Maedhlyn?”

  “No,” replied the Enchanter, realizing as he said it the regret he carried.

  “You are right. I knew she killed Shaleat, yet I could not hate her for it. It was why I decided on mortality.” Culain laughed without humor. “What a weak response for a warrior. I would die to punish Goroien.”

  “It is ironic, Culain. You are dying when you do not have to, and she is dying when she does not wish to. What will you do?”

  “What choice do I have? My grandson is lost in her world, along with another I love dearly. To save them I must kill the woman I have loved for two thousand years.”

  “I will come with you to Skitis Island.”

  “No, Maedhlyn. Stay here and aid the Roman, Aquila. Hold the land for Thuro.”

  “We cannot hold. I was thinking of taking up my travels once more.”

  “What is left for you?” asked Culain. “You have enjoyed the glories of Assyria, Greece, and Rome. Where will you go?”

  “There are other worlds, Culain.”

  “Give it a little time. We have both given a great deal to this insignificant island. I would rather Eldared did not inherit it—or the barbarian Hengist.”

  Maedhlyn smiled wistfully. “As you say, we have given a great deal. I will stay awhile. But I feel we are holding back the sea with a barrier of ice … and summer is coming.”

  12

  PRASAMACCUS SAT WITH Korrin Rogeur behind a screen of bushes on the eastern hills of Mareen-sa, watching a herd of flat-antlered deer grazing three hundred paces away.

  “How do we approach them?” Korrin asked.

  “We do not. We wait for them to approach us.”

  “And if they do not?”

  “Then we go home hungry. Hunting is a question of patience. The tracks show that the deer follow this trail to drink. We sit here and let the hours flow over us. Your friend Hogun chose to sleep the time away, which is as good a way as any—so long as someone stays on watch.”

  “You are a calm man, Prasamaccus. I envy you.”

  “I am calm because I do not understand hate.”

  “Has no one ever wronged you?”

  “Of course. When I was a babe, a drunken hunter rode his horse over me. All my life since I have known pain—the agony of a twisted limb, the hurt of being alone. Hatred would not have sustained me.”

  The dark huntsman smiled. “I cannot be like you, but being with you calms me. Why are you here in Pinrae?”

  “I understand we are seeking a sword. Or rather that Thuro is seeking a sword. He is the son of a king—a great king by all accounts—who was murdered a few months ago.”

  “From which land across the water do you come?”

  Prasamaccus sat back and stretched his leg. “It is a land of magic and mist. It is called Britain by the Romans but in reality is many lands. My tribe is the Brigante, possibly the finest hunters of the world, certainly the most ferocious warriors.”

  Korrin grinned broadly. “Ferocious? They are not all like you, then?”

  Before Prasamaccus could reply, the deer stampeded in a mad run toward the west. The Brigante pushed himself to his feet. “Quickly,” he said. “Follow me!”

  He limped toward an ancient oak, and Korrin joined him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Help me up.” Korrin linked his hands and levered the Brigante high enough to grab an overhanging branch and haul his body across it.

  “Swiftly now, climb!” urged Prasamaccus. The Brigante moved aside and strung Vamera, notching a long shaft to the string. A terrible roar reverberated through the forest, and Korrin leapt for the branch, pulling himself up just as the first Vore bounded into the clearing. Prasamaccus’ arrow flashed into its throat, but its run continued unchecked.

  A second shaft bounced from its skull as it sprang toward the hunters. Its claws scrabbled at the branch, but Korrin kicked out, his boot smashing into the gaping jaws. The beast fell back, and two others joined it, pacing around the tree. Prasamaccus sat very still, a third arrow ready, and stared at the great cats. They were each some eight feet long with huge flat faces, oval yellow eyes, and fangs as long as a man’s fingers. The first beast sat down and worried at the arrow in
its throat, snapping it with its paw. It then continued to prowl the tree. The beasts’ backs were ridged with muscle, and the Brigante could see no easy way to kill them.

  “Shoot at them!” Korrin urged. At the sound of his voice the beasts began to roar and leap for the branch, but none could get a hold. Prasamaccus lifted his finger to his lips and mouthed a single word.

  “Patience!”

  He swung his quiver to the front and began to examine his arrows. Some were single-barbed, others double. Some had smooth heads for easy withdrawal; some were light, others heavy. Finally he chose a double-barbed shaft with a strongly weighted head. He notched it. It seemed to the Brigante that the only weak spot the Vore had was behind the front leg at the back of the ribs. If he could angle a shot correctly …

  He waited for several minutes, occasionally drawing back the string but hesitating. The watching Korrin grew ever more tense, but he held his tongue. A Vore paced away from the tree, presenting his back, and Prasamaccus whistled softly. The beast stopped and turned. In that instant the arrow flashed through the air, slicing into the Vore’s back and through to its heart. It slumped to the ground without a sound.

  Selecting a fresh arrow, the Brigante waited. A second Vore approached the dead beast and began to push at the corpse with its snout, trying to raise it. Another arrow sang through the clearing, and the Vore reared and fell to its back, its hind legs kicking. Then it was still. The third beast was confused; it approached its comrades and then backed away, smelling blood. It roared its anger to the skies.

  A single bugle call echoed through the forest, and the Vore turned toward the sound, then padded away swiftly. For some minutes the two men remained where they were, and then Korrin made to climb down.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The beast is gone.”

  “There may be others farther west. Let us wait awhile.”