by James Wilde
Lucanus stumbled past them into the throb of life, his ears ringing with the din of the hammers, the yapping of hounds, the bellowed conversations in tongues he could barely recognize, choking on the miasma of shit and piss and smoke, roasting meat, the tang of burned iron.
Faces flashed by him, and in the whirl a few moments passed before he realized what he was seeing. Unfamiliar tattoos, skin darker than any he had seen before, more as pale as snow with blond hair in long, tight curls, curved swords, long straight blades, axes large and small, tall thin warriors with olive-shaped eyes, short stocky men with black beards that came down almost to their waists.
He felt their eyes burning him as he passed, heard their braying laughter, understood their mockery even though he could not recognize all their words.
Erca must have seen his baffled expression, or have been waiting for it, for he stepped forward and said, ‘See now, dog?’ He fluttered his fingers in front of his captive’s eyes. Lucanus thought how sly his grin looked.
‘An army?’ In all his time roaming north of the wall, he had never heard of so many tribes from so many far-flung lands gathering in one place.
Erca laughed. ‘This is not an army. This is but a council, the last one of many, where agreements are finally to be reached. Differences have been fought over. At times swords have been drawn and men have been at each other’s throats, but now we are all friends.’ He chuckled and rubbed his hands together.
‘Who are they?’
Erca jabbed a finger towards differently garbed warriors as he passed. ‘The Scoti you know. And the Picts too, those savage, tattooed bastards. We have Saxons from Germania. The Alamanni from Gaul. And the Attacotti.’
Lucanus frowned. ‘I have not heard of them.’
‘You will meet the Attacotti. Very soon.’
The Wolf looked around, still not quite able to believe that these truculent peoples had somehow found common cause. ‘If you think Rome will allow you to forge alliances—’
‘Rome has no say in this, or in anything any more. Its time is done.’
Lucanus snorted. ‘I’ve never heard that before.’
Erca shoved him, then spun away, raising his arms in greeting as several barbarians barged through the crowd to throw their arms around him. The Wolf watched them slap his back and roar their congratulations, another rabbit for the pot, more entertainment to be prodded with spears and swords and jeered at and humiliated.
Lucanus turned away, studying the crowd milling through the tents. He could see now that the majority were Scoti and Picts. Only a few of each other group ranged around, envoys most likely, sent from their tribes to agree terms.
Nearby, two dogs tore at each other, snapping and snarling. A crowd of men roared and shook their fists and broke off chunks of gold from the bands around their arms to wager. Beyond them, others wrestled and yet more fought bouts with their blades, the cheers of their supporters ringing out.
So many warriors. There was no chance of escape here.
As his gaze drifted over the tent-city, he caught sight of a knot of men striding towards him. Picts, by the look of them, their pale skin stained with black tattoos of spirals and circles and stars. He’d heard so many stories about these people: that they were the ones who had put up the stone circles and cairns that dotted the landscape; that they’d come from the hot lands across the sea when the world was young, that they were once Scythians or Basques or Chaldees.
All he knew was that these were the last warriors he’d want to face on the battlefield. They were as savage as beasts and filled with loathing for Rome. He’d once seen one of them hack away at a legionary, even though the Pict had been disembowelled and lost his left arm. Even after he was dead his eyes seemed to blaze with hatred. Atellus once told him that the Pictish navy was as fearsome as their armies. They were born to fight and kill, on land or at sea.
As the Picts came to a halt in front of him, Lucanus stared at one in the centre who towered over the rest. His head was swathed in filthy strips of cloth. Eyes the colour of a winter sky seared from the shadows of the sockets and Lucanus felt that he was being carved open by them and every part of him judged.
Erca leaned in and whispered behind the back of his hand. ‘That’s Arrist, the king from the south. The king from the north has sent men to speak for him. You do not want to make an enemy of Arrist, I’ll tell you that for free.’
‘What’s wrong with his face?’ the Wolf murmured, unable to break that icy stare.
‘All the flesh has been burned away, or so they say, down to the bone itself. He chased down the man who did it for seven days and nights and chopped him into chunks as big as my thumb and fed them to his wife.’ He shrugged. ‘Or so they say.’
He turned to a short man with a ratty face, few teeth and long greasy hair. ‘Take this Roman bastard,’ he said. ‘We will find out what he knows, one way or another.’
Lucanus felt strong hands grip him and then he was dragged away into the crowd.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Eaters of the Dead
LUCANUS CAREERED INTO the hall and fell sprawling across the floor. For a moment he lay face down on the cold ground, listening to the footsteps of the two guards who had thrown him and silently cursing himself because he didn’t have the strength to fight back. A shadow fell across him and he looked up at the rat-faced man.
‘I am Logen. Logen of the Fire’s Heart.’ His voice was thin and reedy.
‘Fire’s Heart?’ Lucanus repeated, looking around. The hall was little more than rows of logs resting on a frame of three jointed tree trunks, the centre of the pitch about twice his height. A fire smouldered at the far end.
With a gap-toothed grin, the other man thrust out his left arm. The flesh to the elbow was a mass of scar tissue. Logen unfurled the fingers of the hand to reveal a circle containing a cross burned into the palm.
‘A man wagered that I wasn’t brave enough to plunge my hand into the heart of the fire to find an amulet he’d thrown there.’ He held his palm close to the Wolf’s face. ‘There is the mark of the amulet, branded into me. I took that man’s gold. And then I killed him with a knife to his throat. Do you think you could suffer such agonies, just to win a wager? This night perhaps we’ll find out.’
He crossed the floor to the two guards and they bent their heads together, whispering and flashing occasional glances at their captive. Whatever they planned, Lucanus’ fate was no longer in his own hands. Instead, he thought back to all he had seen in the camp, still wondering what this new alliance of tribes meant. It was unlikely he’d live long enough to find out.
His three guards looked round at some disturbance outside, and a moment later Erca strode in, wiping the grease from his mouth with the back of his right hand. In his left he was carrying Caledfwlch.
‘A fine scabbard but a poor sword. Old. Is this the best you can do, Roman bastard? Is your army so short of coin and supplies that you must rely on your grandfathers’ weapons?’ He tossed the sword into the corner of the hall and prowled around his prey. ‘Lucanus,’ he said, turning over the name he had learned not long after he had set off for the camp with his captive. ‘The Wolf.’ He flexed his broad shoulders, shook his large head in a manner that resembled the bear that he seemed, then cracked his knuckles. ‘Let us be at it. I have much business to finish this night and I have little time for a flea like you.’
‘You’d save time by killing me now. I’ll tell you nothing.’
‘You’ll speak. All men do, in the end. The true question is, do you have anything worth saying? I’d wager not. We’ve learned all we need to know about your army, your comings and goings, your weaknesses and strengths. Mostly weaknesses.’
Lucanus laughed silently. The arcani roamed far and wide in the Wilds along the length of the wall. Everyone would know if the barbarians had got close enough to spy.
Erca grinned, reading his captive’s eyes. ‘There is much you don’t know, Wolf.’
‘How many times
have your men attacked? How much of your blood must be spilled before you accept that you can never defeat the might of Rome?’
‘What was does not always have to be.’ Erca flicked the fingers of his right hand and Logen and the two guards came forward.
Lucanus braced himself.
‘Why did you venture so far north?’ Erca squatted, rocking on his haunches as he studied his captive. ‘What had you heard of our business? What did you hope to find?’
The Wolf only grinned.
After he’d taken their boots and fists, he licked the fresh blood from his lips. ‘You waste your time.’ His voice was still hoarse, the words cracking. ‘If I wanted to learn what games you were playing, I would have brought my men.’
‘Easier for one man to venture so far into our land than ten.’
‘I was searching for a boy. He’d been taken from his home and brought north.’ It didn’t matter that he told the truth. Marcus was dead, or, if the gods had swooped down and carried him to safety, he was too far away for this man to harm him.
Erca snorted. ‘A boy. Now I know you’re lying.’
‘You wouldn’t save a child?’
‘I wouldn’t risk my neck, not unless he had some value to me. Was he your son?’
Lucanus shook his head.
‘Coming so far into our land, on your own, you must have known the chance of returning was slim. And you tell me you did that for some child that was not your own? You think me a fool?’ Scowling, he pushed himself to his feet.
The Fates found laughter everywhere. Lucanus had told the truth and now he’d be punished for it.
Logen flexed the fingers of his burned hand. ‘Leave him with us. We’ll draw the truth from him soon enough.’
Lucanus watched Erca pace around, then glance back at Logen. ‘No. I need you in the council with the Saxons. You’re the only one who can draw sense out of that old man who understands their animal tongue. Keep watch over him,’ he said to the two guards before turning back to the Wolf. ‘You would have done better to tell all to me, here. What will happen now, you’ve brought upon your own head.’
Erca and Logen strode out of the hall and into the sun-drenched camp. Lucanus watched them go, trying not to dwell on what had been meant by those final words.
The Wolf swam up from a dream of witches and druids and Marcus dead in the snow, his unseeing eyes staring up at the circling ravens. Night had come and he could hear song and laughter and cheering ringing across the camp. Lying on his side, he looked past the two guards. Orange light danced everywhere, the sky alive with a thousand sparks glimmering like fireflies from well-stoked bonfires. He smelled roasting venison and his stomach growled in response. A feast. A celebration.
A moment later, Logen swept in. ‘Bring him,’ the rat-faced man commanded the two guards.
Hands hooked under his armpits and he was yanked half up and dragged out into the night. After a mazy route among the tents, he crashed to his knees by a great fire at the centre of the camp, the flames the height of three men. He looked round at row upon row of glowing faces disappearing into the dark. Some of the warriors gnawed on chunks of meat, the juices coating their beards. Others swilled back wine or beer from wooden cups, immediately lifting the vessel to be refilled by one of the men moving through the crowd with hides.
When they saw him, the barbarians thrust their fists into the air and roared their approval. The two guards jerked him back to his feet and wrenched his arms behind him.
‘Are you afraid yet, Roman dog?’ Erca stepped forward. Shadows danced across his face.
‘I made my peace when you had me in that pit. I knew I wouldn’t live to see many new dawns.’
‘It’s not death that should fill you with fear. It’s how you die.’
Erca looked to his left and beckoned. Supporting himself on a staff, a man edged into the wavering glow from the fire. At first Lucanus thought it was Myrrdin, the same robes, the same haughty tilt of the head. But this man’s pate was bald, white hair flowing from the sides and back, his furrowed face a map of years of hardship. Spiral tattoos, now faded to mountain grey, cascaded down the left side of his features. Another druid, the Wolf thought. He had to be.
‘Speak, Hadrun of the Hills,’ Erca commanded. ‘Let this Roman dog hear what you told me at sunset.’
‘The prophecy?’
‘Aye, the prophecy.’
Hadrun turned his gaze on the captive and croaked, ‘The season is turning, and all must change.’
Lucanus could feel Erca’s eyes upon him, but he was gripped by the familiar words.
‘This is the hour that has been foretold since the first-times, when the true power in this land will begin to rise. In days yet to come, a great king will be born, a king who will not die. All will fall before his sword. The riches of the world will be bestowed upon him, and power the like of which has never been seen before. He will unite all who have suffered in this isle and lead them to a golden age.’
‘And whosoever stands with this king will share in that power,’ Erca boomed. A stillness had fallen on the crowd, disturbed only by the crackling of the fire.
‘Aye,’ Hadrun replied.
‘And why should we care now, wood-priest, if this king is yet to be born?’ Erca prowled around the fire, disappearing from view behind the leaping flames.
‘His bloodline is rising now from the sea of men, ready to take its place to rule.’ The old man’s voice rose, cracking. ‘That blood of kings is here, in this age, lying within a chalice. And that chalice is a child. He will grow, and father a son who will father a son, and when the time is ripe the great king will be born. The Bear-King.’
The Wolf saw Erca appear from the other side of the fire. The flames danced in the Scot’s eyes as he stared at his captive. ‘When you told me you hunted a child, I thought you were lying, Roman bastard. What man would risk all to come to our land for such a one?’ The barbarian held his arms wide. ‘But now I see. A risk must be matched by the worth of the prize, and what greater prize than this? Is this the truth of your quest, Roman bastard?’
Lucanus glared at Hadrun, then forced a blank face, trying to hide the confusion he was feeling. What game were these wood-priests playing? First they tell him that he must be the protector of the bloodline, now they reveal all to his greatest enemies? He felt sick that he had ever trusted Myrrdin.
‘It was the son of a friend, no more.’ Words that managed to be both truth and lie.
Erca snorted. ‘This is a game I would play too. That boy, raised by the Scoti … and his son, and his son’s son … No one would dare challenge us then.’
‘Rome will challenge you.’
‘I think not.’
‘You waste your breath. The boy’s dead, and the king died with him. You saw to that when you trapped me in that pit. You think a boy could survive in the Wilds in winter?’
‘On his own, no. But if your allies were there, waiting to take the boy back …’
‘I came alone.’
‘Would one of the great arcani be that foolish?’ Lucanus watched Erca shake his head slowly, and when the barbarian leader cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed ‘Ho!’ he realized that his fate had been sealed.
He looked around and saw movement in the dark far beyond the fire’s circle of life. Someone was coming.
‘I know your kind, Roman bastard.’ Erca stepped in front of him. ‘The arcani are hard like mountain stone. To live in the Wilds in winter, that is beyond the reach of most men, aye, even seasoned warriors. But you deal with hardship as you deal with joy. I know this. You will not loosen your tongue willingly. My men could try and they would succeed, but it would take too long, until your bones were broken and you could barely speak. Why waste that time when there are some here who are far more skilled in these ways?’
Lucanus broke the barbarian’s stare and looked towards that movement away in the dark. Now he could see several figures picking their way through the men squatting on the ground. Th
ough they were no more than shadows, he felt a chill begin to grow in the pit of his stomach.
One by one, they eased into the wavering light, ten of them, glowing white, like the ghosts that walked among the graves at midnight, their heads like skulls, only black holes where the missing eyes should be.
Lucanus stared, his skin prickling into gooseflesh. Daemons, he thought.
But as they neared he felt relief wash through him. They were men after all, naked to the waist, their bodies crusted with ashes and charcoal smeared around their eyes and along their cheekbones to suggest the skull beneath the skin.
‘Look upon the priest-kings of the Attacotti,’ Erca called above the roar of the fire.
Those staring eyes gripped him and in their black depths he finally understood. ‘The Eaters of the Dead.’
His thoughts flew back to that clearing where the last council must have taken place, and the half-consumed bodies of the Ravens.
‘What are you?’ Lucanus breathed.
‘You waste your breath. They do not understand your tongue, or mine, or any that we know, and only one man here speaks theirs.’ Erca rested a hand on his shoulder and waved a finger towards the ghastly band. ‘They are not like you or me, Wolf. Their home is far away from here, and they have kept themselves to themselves there, shut away from the outside world. They worship strange gods, and pray to them at altars made from the bones of their enemies. Their thoughts are strange too, and their secrets many. In consuming a man’s flesh, they steal his power, that is what they believe. Once all men were this way, they say, but now only the Attacotti still cling to those old beliefs.’
Lucanus looked the Attacotti up and down. Parchment skin hung thinly over bone. ‘There is nothing to them,’ he said, showing a contemptuous face.
‘Do not trust your eyes. There are no fiercer warriors on the battlefield, not even the Picts. And they are more than that, much more. You arcani are good trackers. The Attacotti are better. Silent hunters, these. You will never know they are there until they are upon you, and then it is too late. I am told they do not fear death – they welcome it. They believe that when they die, their spirits live on. That makes them strong.’
