by James Wilde
So far he’d escaped discovery. The shadows of the dense forests had cloaked him and only three scouts had fallen to his blade. But that trail of blood would still be enough to bring vengeful Scoti to his location, sooner or later. He could not afford to waste any time.
By the time he’d crept along a deer track to the water’s edge, a thick fog had blanketed the lake. He strained to listen, but beyond the muffled lapping no other sound reached his ears, not even the mournful cries of the gulls. He might have been alone in all the world.
Choosing a direction at random, he scrambled over the slick stones along the shore towards the east. After more than an hour of fruitless searching, he felt the hairs on his neck prickle erect and he drew his sword. Smudges were appearing in the mist among the trees, figures taking shape, silent, like ghosts. Lucanus watched them drift down the slope towards him, the fog rolling away from their feet in wreaths. There was no urgency to their movements.
On the brink of emerging from the mist, they came to a halt and stayed half swathed by the white strands. Though their faces remained hidden, Lucanus thought he could sense their implacable gaze upon him.
One of the strangers continued walking. With each step, the mist folded away from him until Lucanus realized he was looking at Myrrdin. How the wood-priest had kept pace with him he did not know. As arcani, he was a seasoned scout, used to long, fast marches across the wilderness, barely pausing for rest. Yet the druid looked as fresh as if he had woken from a long sleep in the comfort of his home.
Lucanus waved his blade at the wise man. ‘More games?’
‘We are here to greet you, Wolf, my brothers and I.’
‘I said I wanted no part of your plot.’
‘You say and you say, but here you are, and here are we.’ Myrrdin leaned on his staff and looked him up and down.
‘Where’s the boy?’
‘Here. Waiting for you.’
‘Don’t make me any more angry than I already am. You’ve put the lad’s life at risk, and my own. If any harm comes to Marcus before I return him to his mother, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.’
‘You think you have some power here, Wolf?’ The wood-priest was smiling, his tone wry, but Lucanus stared into eyes like nail-heads. ‘Do you think you can threaten me and not pay a price? You’ve entered a new land now. Here your sword means nothing. You stand before the power that has guided the men of this island since the dawn of all there is.’ He lifted one hand as if he were plucking an apple from a tree and slowly closed his fingers. ‘Your life can be crushed in the blink of an eye.’
‘You think I haven’t heard threats before? Give me the boy and I’ll be on my way.’
‘First, you must do what I asked of you in the shadow of Three Hills.’
Lucanus shook his head to try to shake that conversation free of the sludge in his mind. All he’d dwelled on over the last few days was staying alive, and the cold, and the hunger, and wondering how much longer his aching legs would be trudging through that endless forest. ‘An offering, that’s what you said. I should make an offering here at the lake. For good fortune.’ He gritted his teeth, his frustration rising.
‘My words didn’t fall on deaf ears, then. I struggle to tell what goes in and what bounces off that thick skull of yours.’
‘And what prize must I offer the gods? One mud-stained cloak?’
‘Your sword, Wolf. That’s your most prized possession, yes? The gods would surely look fondly on you with such an offering.’
‘Are you mad? Then what would I use in a fight?’ Another fragment of memory surfaced and he nodded. ‘Oh, that’s right. The gods will give me a magic sword.’ He laughed, without humour. ‘You’re wasting my time with stories for children, Myrrdin. No, I think I’ll follow my own path. I’ll keep searching for the boy.’ He waved his sword. ‘Go back to the woods and your hiding places.’
‘There is no time, Lucanus. Your enemies are just beyond the hill behind me. A horde of Scoti, with vengeance in their hearts for the man who killed their friends.’
‘You lie. They’re a day away.’
‘We see everything, Lucanus. The Scoti didn’t need to follow the track, like you. They know quicker ways through the wilderness. They’ll be here in no time. And then you will be dead, and so will the boy.’
The Wolf felt a rush of rage. Levelling his sword, he strode towards the druid.
‘Kill me if you will,’ Myrrdin said, ‘though I cannot say I’m filled with joy at such a prospect. But I will not tell you where the boy is.’
Lucanus threw back his head and let out a roar. ‘The gods couldn’t blame me if I took your head now and kicked it into the lake.’
‘Here?’ Lucanus asked. He frowned at a narrow pier leading out from the rocky shore, ancient, by the look of it, the timbers cracked and splintered, some of the boards shattered.
‘Walk to the end, say your prayer and make your offering.’
‘I pray to your god?’ Lucanus heard the hesitation in his voice. ‘Cernunnos?’
‘There are many gods, Wolf. Some of them you know by different names.’ From the corner of his eye, Lucanus saw the other man purse his lips, thinking. ‘Say your prayer to Lugh. It’s his temple where you have to venture, and you’d do well to earn his approval.’
‘Lugh.’ Lucanus turned the word over, but it sounded strange on his lips.
‘That’s one of his names. The Romans call him Mercury. You have heard of him, of course?’
Lucanus eyed the other man.
Myrrdin nodded. ‘Good. Lugh is the god of the sun and the sky. He walks the boundaries between this world and the next and he likes his games. Walk carefully under his stare – he plays tricks on even the most devout. We hold his feast when the season is hot and the harvest is about to begin. Lughnasadh. In days long gone, all the tribes would come together to make merry and prepare for the cold months to come. But now …’ Lucanus heard a momentary note of sadness in the man’s voice. ‘All seasons turn, and his time will come around again.’
Lucanus nodded. He’d petitioned many a god in his time. Some listened, some had little time for the ways of men. It would be good to see if this new god … this old god … would give him aid in this time of testing.
The fog had crept back to the hillsides now and he could see clearly across the vast lake. Still and quiet as it was, he understood how the wood-priest considered this a temple, one built by the gods, not man.
He strode out along the pier, feeling the planks give under his feet. Despite his doubts, it held, and when he reached the end he drew his sword.
For a moment, he turned the blade in his hand. Was he a fool for trusting Myrrdin? What if there was no great sword beneath the waters and he was left with only his knife to defend himself – and Marcus – on the long trek back to Vercovicium?
But time was short and he had run out of choices. Raising the sword over his head, he said, ‘Here is my offering to you, great Lugh. My sword, a warrior’s weapon, the most valuable thing I have. I give it to you. And I pray you will guide me back safely, with Marcus by my side.’ He lowered his voice until it was little more than a murmur. ‘And bring Catia to me.’ He felt a pang of guilt the moment he had uttered the words, but by then it was too late.
He hurled the sword. Over and over it turned, barbs of steely light glinting off it, and he watched his prized blade splash into the grey waters. The glimmering ripples rushed back to him. He waited until all was still again and then walked back to Myrrdin.
‘I’ve done as you asked. Don’t make me out to be a fool.’
‘You are wise,’ the druid replied. ‘Wiser than you look.’
Before Lucanus could draw offence, Myrddin walked north along the shore. Lucanus watched him go for a moment, and then decided he was supposed to follow.
The fog came and went, pale fingers probing the edges of the lake. When the wood-priest came to a halt, he pointed out across the water. Lucanus followed the direction he was indicating and saw an
island swathed in mist. It was long and narrow, three low hummocks covered with long grass and hawthorn. At the centre, two yew trees stood proud.
‘That is Inchlonaig,’ Myrrdin said.
Lucanus thought how odd it appeared, those two yews standing there.
Myrrdin saw him looking. ‘Would you hear a secret?’
The Wolf nodded.
‘Two yew trees, that is a sign.’
‘Of what?’
‘Yews mark places where the world is thin. Places blessed by the gods. See how they bend together there, side by side? Do they not look like a door?’
Squinting through the drifting pearly strands, Lucanus had to agree. The thick, gnarled trunks, as old as anything in that land; the way the branches met above. He could imagine walking between those trees and entering … what?
‘Aye, ’tis a door,’ Myrrdin continued, ‘to the Land of Always Summer.’
‘We are travelling to the Summerlands?’ Despite himself, Lucanus felt uneasy.
The wood-priest laughed. ‘That is not a place for men. But on that isle we will find what the gods would give you.’
Pulling aside the dead bracken that came almost to the water’s edge, Myrrdin revealed a small, circular boat. Seasoned hide had been stretched across a frame of ash-wood. An oar rested on the bottom.
‘Stir yourself,’ he commanded.
Lucanus dragged the vessel across the shingle and on to the water. They clambered inside, the Wolf holding out his arms to steady himself as the boat rocked back and forth. It was less stable than the flat-bottomed vessels he was used to, and he felt sure it would flip over and send them both to the bottom.
Once they were both sitting he released a taut breath as the rocking ceased. With slow, steady strokes, first one side, then the other, the wood-priest rowed out towards the island.
The stillness settled on them. Lucanus listened to the beat of the oar licking into the water and felt a fleeting peace.
‘Lakes, and rivers, the ocean, hilltops, barrows, these are thin places where it’s possible for the brave to pass between this world and the world of the gods.’ Myrrdin’s voice rolled out, low and calm. ‘And where the gods, when they felt the urge, could travel to the world of men.’
‘You’ve met the gods?’
‘They’ve been long absent from this place. But they will come again.’
Lucanus watched the island draw out of the shrouding fog, a black slash in the white world.
‘In times long gone, folk would travel here and make offerings,’ Myrrdin continued. ‘A shield, a sword, an axe, a comb … a sacrifice. If the gods were pleased, they would look kindly on the giver.’
Lucanus glanced over the side of the boat. For a moment he thought he saw a face looking back up at him from the grey depths, but it was only his own.
At the island, he splashed into the shallows and pulled the boat up on to the stony shore, and then he stood for a moment, listening. No birds sang there. He found that strange and unsettling. An odd mood hung over the place, like the heaviness before a storm, or perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks upon him after all the wood-priest’s talk.
Myrrdin crunched along the stones, beckoning. Lucanus followed him to a finger of rock reaching out into the water. At the end a cairn had been raised. He squatted in front of it, his fingers tracing the lines that had been carved in the surface. A man’s face peering out of a halo of ivy and branches.
‘Here is where you will find if Lugh has answered your call.’ Myrrdin swept out an arm, indicating the water beyond the cairn. ‘Dive deep, Wolf. Seek out the weapon of kings. If it is there, Lugh will bring your eyes to it.’
‘And if it’s not?’
‘Then take the boy and return to your life. Our search for the Pendragon will continue.’
Lucanus wanted to ask what that odd word meant – he had not heard it before – but his eyes were gripped by the calm surface of the lake. ‘The water’s too cold. The warm-sleep will claim me and I’ll be in the Summerlands before I know it.’
‘Wisdom only comes when a man walks close to death. The gods will not give gifts to one who is faint of heart.’ Lucanus felt Myrrdin’s hand upon his shoulder, and the wood-priest leaned in and whispered, ‘Step up to the threshold of the Summerlands, Wolf. Find your fate.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Sword
AS THE GREY water closed over him, Lucanus felt the clash of bitter cold like the flat of a blade to the side of the head. Then he was plunging down, into the deep, into the dark, to the very edge of the Summerlands.
Faces flashed through his head. His father. Bellicus. But most of all Catia. He prayed he would see her again before he was taken.
The darkness swept in around him. Drifting flakes of peat added to the murk, but he pulled himself on with strong, rhythmic strokes, trusting his senses. Close to the shore, the bottom fell away only gently and his fingers were soon scraping the mud.
Looking around, he could just make out objects half submerged in the silt. As he heaved himself on, the wheel of a half-buried shield emerged from the gloom, the wood rotted and falling away. Bumps and mounds across the muddy expanse revealed the resting places of long-lost offerings, their true nature only hinted at by their shape.
Swimming as low as he could, he let his fingers scrape across the bottom. His nails hooked under something hard and a goblet popped up. Gold, by the look of it, its surface studied with jewels. Vast riches lay there. But these were the possessions of the gods. To steal from them would surely damn him for all time.
His bones were aching from the cold. He’d seen men claimed by the warm-sleep before, in the seas to the west, and in the snows in the Wilds, men who were not used to hardship like the arcani. But even though he knew he was stronger than most, he could already feel his light dimming.
Turn back, a voice in his head urged. Plead failure. Take Marcus and be gone.
But now he wanted that sword, wanted it perhaps more than he had wanted anything in his life.
He swam on, though his limbs felt like stone and his chest burned.
Ahead was an area of deeper dark where the lake bottom fell away, and on the edge of that abyss … something. Lucanus squinted, trying to draw the shape from the gloom. A spear, he thought, thrown from the cairn, the tip embedded in the mud.
But no. The shape was irregular.
Two more strokes and he felt a swell of disbelief.
An arm was reaching up from the silt, stripped to the bone by the fish and the years, the fingers still gripping the hilt of a sword. Though the rest of the body was buried in the brown muck, that blade stabbed up towards light and life. Weeds floated from the blade like banners at the head of a war-band. Shafts of sunlight punched through the water around it, as if it were a beacon lit by the gods for his benefit alone.
Surely this must be the prize he desired?
He grasped the blade and tugged, but the owner held tight.
Lucanus jerked, his head throbbing with panic. Was this Lugh the trickster’s final joke, luring him to the edge of victory only to snatch away his life for daring to take such a gift?
But then a sliver of gold glimmered in a sunbeam and he looked down at a fine wire fastening the sword-hilt to the bony wrist. More wire coiled around the arm bones towards the elbow and beyond. This was the work of men, not gods.
He floated, darkness rolling in around the edges of his vision, fingers of warmth creeping towards his heart. He could hear whispers lulling him, and the slowing beat of a distant drum.
My life is leaking from me, he thought, and felt surprised that he no longer cared.
Yanking on the blade, he wrenched it free. The wire snapped. The arm bones felt apart and drifted down to the silt.
And then he was striking out for the surface, his body cold stone, the light only a pinprick at the centre of his vision.
The smell of woodsmoke. The crackle of a fire.
As he rose up from the darkness, back into the world of m
en, Lucanus could feel warmth flooding his limbs. He stirred, and the wool of Myrrdin’s cloak was rough against his arms. The smell of loam and incense filled his nose.
‘Not dead, then,’ he muttered.
The wood-priest looked down the bridge of his nose at him. ‘There’s more to you than a first glance would suggest, it seems.’
The Wolf pushed himself up. His head was like a stew too long in the pot. Looking around, he saw the fog had drifted away and a wintry sun made the lake gleam like molten lead.
‘We can’t rest here. Our enemies will soon be on us.’
‘That’s true. Sometimes you can hear their hunting cries ring out in the distance. But even I’ve not found a way to make a half-dead man run like a deer.’
‘What, then? We stand and fight an army?’
‘We? You fight if you wish. I still have wits in my head.’ Myrrdin threw more wood upon the fire.
Lucanus dragged himself to his feet. He swayed, his legs almost crumpling beneath him. Light flashed across his vision and the dark closed in again.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. ‘Take your time. Find your strength. You are arcani, Wolf. You have the stealth and cunning that allow you to melt into the land. If the gods are with you, you will creep back through those barbarians, however many lie between here and your home.’
A thought flickered up from the depths. ‘The boy,’ Lucanus said. ‘Marcus.’
‘In good time. You’ve kept your side of the bargain. I’ll give you what you want, in just a short while. But first, see what you’ve claimed.’
Myrrdin swept out one hand. On the ground, on Lucanus’ sodden wolf pelt, lay the sword he’d brought back from the edge of the Summerlands. The wood-priest had scrubbed away the weeds and must have spent some time polishing it too. The blade now had the brown sheen of bronze, not like the iron weapons Lucanus was used to. A sharper edge, a weapon that wouldn’t bend or break so easily in battle. He could just make out thin black lines inscribed on the blade, but what those strange symbols meant he had no idea. The hilt was inlaid with gold, the pommel curling into the head of a dragon. This surely must be a weapon of great age, the sword of the gods, a blade of kings, as the wood-priest had said.
