Pendragon

by James Wilde

  Amatius flushed. ‘She has betrayed me. She is worthless.’

  ‘She has stood by you, for all the fists you brought down on her,’ Lucanus said, no longer able to contain himself. ‘She has honoured you at every turn.’

  ‘You lie,’ Amatius spat. ‘Only as I expected. How long has she been betraying me with you? Always? Did you both laugh at poor Amatius? The fool who cannot see the treachery under his own nose.’ Shame burned in his face. He had kept it all in for so long and now he could no longer control himself. ‘She deserves to die.’

  The Wolf lunged. He felt someone grab his arm and haul him back. ‘You’re a leader,’ Bellicus breathed in his ear. ‘Act like one.’

  Lucanus dragged himself back, trying to swallow his fury.

  But it was Aelius who snatched out his sword. ‘I should gut you now, for all the misery you’ve caused Catia.’

  Amatius sneered. ‘A cripple? Try. I would enjoy knocking you on your arse.’

  Though he had seemingly been at death’s door for months, Menius pushed himself upright. Lucanus watched passion burn new life into the old man’s face. ‘I am the fool here. I sacrificed my daughter’s joy, and for what? Gold and land and a power I once held too lightly. I sold her to you to try to heal the wound of my own betrayal. And now what have we? Nothing. All of it whisked away in the blink of an eye. All the pain my Catia suffered at your hands across the years, all for naught. And may the gods help me, I knew what you were like, what a vile and violent braggart. And still I thought it a price worth paying.’

  The old man’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I am to blame for inflicting you upon her, aye. But to say that she deserves to die … my daughter, my lovely, innocent daughter … when she has been only dutiful while suffering at your hand … I will not hear it!’ His voice cracked. ‘You are the one who should beg for mercy. And if my daughter did betray you, it is because you are weak and worthless.’

  Amatius trembled as if he had a fever. Lucanus thought he might strike the old man and he swung up Caledfwlch, ready to intervene. But Amatius realized how much of himself he had exposed. No longer could he carry his head high, damned as he was by all there. He hurried away into the trees.

  Menius turned to Lucanus. ‘Save my daughter,’ he pleaded. ‘You have always been like a son to me. Do this, Lucanus. Only you can.’

  The Wolf felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders.

  Bellicus clapped a hand on his back. ‘We’ll fight at your side, never doubt it. But they outnumber us ten to one.’

  ‘We are cunning, brother. That is why we are arcani. We will find a way to save her without sacrificing Marcus.’

  Myrrdin thudded the base of his staff upon the ground three times. ‘You are no longer Lucanus, leader of the Grim Wolves. You are Pendragon, latest in a long line of great men … kings of war. Raise Caledfwlch, the great sword of the gods, and you may shape this world by your will alone.’

  Lightning laced the horizon beneath a canopy of slate-grey cloud. For now, the rain had held off, but in the open country beyond the forest it was hot and clammy. Summer was not far away now.

  Mato lay on his belly in the yellow grass, swatting at the fat flies buzzing around his head. The stink of cattle dung hung in the air. He was looking down a gentle slope beyond a bank of nettles to where five houses stood in a circle.

  ‘Life would have been easier if I’d become a priest,’ he said. ‘Some wine, some chanting, a little incense every now and then.’

  ‘Aye, until you get your head cut off. Which in my experience happens to all priests sooner or later.’ Solinus sucked on a straw of the coarse grass. ‘Gods come and go. And new priests don’t take kindly to old ones.’

  Comitinus sighed. ‘Speak louder. I don’t think our enemies heard you.’

  ‘Quiet,’ Bellicus growled.

  Mato looked along the line. Lucanus lay at the end, silent and serious. He seemed a changed man. A day had passed since the confrontation with Amatius, a day of planning and scouting until they had found what they needed.

  Five pale figures emerged from one of the houses. Two of the Attacotti dragged a body out into the circle of baked mud at the centre of the hamlet, and then all five of them fell upon it with their knives.

  Mato looked away, sickened. Myrrdin knew the ways of these barbarians – he knew more than he said of just about everything, Mato had started to believe. And he had suggested that the Eaters of the Dead would not sit easily with the other tribes. They had their rituals, and their own gods, and they would roam wide to follow their own path before returning to the war-band.

  ‘I don’t trust the wood-priest,’ he murmured.

  Solinus plucked the grass from his lips. ‘Ah, he cares naught about you or me, only kings, and glory, and the mysterious ways of the gods. Don’t trouble yourself about him.’

  ‘The Attacotti don’t eat men for food.’ Comitinus furrowed his brow as he watched the fast movements of their blades. ‘This makes no sense to me.’

  ‘Their gods demand it.’ Solinus wrinkled his nose. ‘That is as close to sense as we are likely to get.’

  Mato saw Lucanus raise his hand and they all fell silent, focusing, smelling the wind, hearing the rustle of the grass, becoming wolves.

  A moment later they were loping down the slope, keeping low. The Attacotti crouched with their backs to the approach, caught in deep fascination with their bloody ritual.

  As they neared, Mato could hear the rhythmic whick of blades upon bones, the work of skilled hands. His nostrils wrinkled at the earthy scent of death. He thought of his sister, as he often did; of her alive, and of her no more than clay. His attention drifted to the song of a lark, to the wonder of the crackling of the lightning, and he felt peace return. There was beauty, even here.

  Lucanus slipped to the back of one of the houses and Mato slid beside him, the others close behind. In his head, Mato could still hear their leader’s words before they left the camp.

  The wolf strikes when its prey is most vulnerable.

  When it is at feed.

  For a long moment, they waited, listening to the sound of the knives and the smacking of lips. And then, as fast as his namesake, the Wolf drew his sword and darted round the edge of the hut. Mato threw himself behind his leader, and the rest followed.

  Their feet barely whispered on the ground. Mato watched the figures hunched around the body, like white crows at feast upon the battlefield. Heads rose and fell, again and again.

  Only at the last did the Attacotti look round, and then the Grim Wolves fell upon them.

  Mato chose his opponent. The warrior’s lips pulled back from red teeth as he lashed out with his weapon. But he was still upon his knees and Mato swerved round the attack with ease. Before the other could rise, he cracked the hilt of his sword across the man’s forehead, dashing the wits from him. The Attacotti warrior slumped.

  When he looked round, Mato saw that his brothers had made short work of the rest. Lucanus was a great and wise leader, he had never doubted it, but now he saw the plan unfolding in all its glory.

  The Wolf stood over one of the Eaters, the tip of his blade nicking the fallen warrior’s throat. A bubble of blood burst. The Attacotti’s eyes were wide, but Mato could see no fear of death in them.

  ‘Now,’ Lucanus said, ‘we shall have a reckoning.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Scale of Dragon, Tooth of Wolf

  IT WAS RAINING as if it had been raining for ever.

  The world had darkened and grown smaller in that ceaseless torrent. Bright hues leached away into a slurry of mud-brown and leaf-green. The earth drummed.

  Lucanus stood on the edge of the forest and looked out into the greyness, barely able to see more than a spear’s throw. He felt the cold breath of death upon his neck.

  ‘The heavens have opened.’ He sensed Myrrdin step beside him. The wood-priest had his hood pulled low over his brow, throwing his features into shadow. ‘The gods know this is a time o
f import. When the storms crash, and the winds howl, that is a sign. Those who rule our days are here. They watch. They know.’

  Lucanus looked back at his brothers. Swathed in the shadows of the woods, they waited for his order, sentinels, as much a part of the Wilds as the wolves whose pelts they wore. They would follow him anywhere, he knew. His pride, his burden.

  ‘Five against fifty,’ he murmured.

  ‘Listen.’ Myrrdin cupped his hand against the side of his hood. ‘Can you hear it?’

  Lucanus cocked his head, but all he caught was the rumble of the deluge.

  ‘Listen harder. Deep in the forest. Cernunnos howls. The old world stands behind you, Wolf.’

  This time Lucanus thought he could make out something, a deep yowl rolling through the trees, though it could just have been the wind in the branches.

  ‘Look. See, the Morrigan is here.’ Myrrdin pointed into the dark beneath the canopy. Lucanus thought he saw a mighty thrashing as if of many wings. ‘The Phantom Queen smells blood upon the wind. Her heart thunders at the prospect of battle. She will be with you, now and always.’

  Lucanus felt his lips prised open as the wood-priest pushed another of the dried toad’s-stools into his mouth. He’d already consumed four. He chewed slowly, his mouth watering at the unpleasant iron taste upon his tongue.

  ‘Be cunning like the fox,’ Myrrdin continued. ‘Be savage like the wolf. Be fleet like the crows. The five of you are not men. You are possessed by the souls of beasts, you are guided by the hands of gods. And you are the Head of the Dragon, Lucanus, and the fire of your righteous fury will smite all who dare stand before you.’

  Already the Wolf could feel the effects of the spell licking at the back of his mind. Yet it was not the same as when he flew with the witches or when he undertook the ritual in Lud’s temple. This time flames flickered in his belly and a cold focus settled on his mind. It was almost as if the power of the toad’s-stool flesh responded to the words of the wood-priest. Was this the true magic the druids wielded?

  ‘Cunning like the fox,’ he repeated.

  ‘It is the only way.’

  His instincts were on fire, as they had always become when he had been about to venture into the Wilds beyond the wall, and he sensed others had joined them. He turned again and saw Amarina supporting herself on a forked elm branch. That familiar wry smile touched her lips, masking the pain she must still be in. Galantha and Decima were with her.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said.

  ‘Because a battle is no place for women?’ she taunted.

  ‘Because I would see you live long and well. You need rest.’

  ‘Are you such a great warrior now that you don’t need allies?’

  ‘I have allies.’

  ‘Not enough.’ Decima and Galantha were both smiling, and he wondered why.

  ‘The storm will hide us.’

  ‘You think you can sneak into the heart of that camp and free Catia without being seen? Then you are a jolt-head. There will be battle. There can only be battle.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘But you know this, of course you do. You’re prepared to die if there’s a chance to save your woman. Brave and foolish and love-smitten Lucanus.’ She glanced at Myrrdin. ‘Is this what it takes to be the great Pendragon? How any war was won by a man I do not know.’

  ‘Tell the Wolf what you can do.’ The wood-priest’s voice was laced with humour. Lucanus felt a beat of anger. Were they all playing a game with him?

  ‘I’ve already done it. I’m here to see the fruits of my labour.’ She flicked her hand, dismissing the druid.

  Lucanus shook his head and turned away. Amarina had always been a mystery to him.

  ‘The hour has come,’ he said.

  Night was falling. The rain came down.

  The tent billowed in the gale. The ropes cracked and the downpour thumped. Catia sat by the entrance, looking out into the growing dark. The pain in her hand had settled into a constant dull ache that reached up the bone to her elbow. When the Attacotti had taken her little finger she had almost fainted from the agony, but she felt proud that she had shown her strength and remained conscious. They had sealed the wound with a red-hot blade, and one of the barbarians had smeared it with honey and herbs and bound it with a rag. Yet she hadn’t spent time mourning her loss. Instead she’d found her peace. Her life had not been all that she’d wished, not by a long way, but there had been moments of joy and beauty, even under Amatius’ iron rule. She gave thanks for Marcus, and Lucanus, and she was pleased that her childhood friend, the only one who really knew her, had been true to his vow. He was a good man, and if the gods smiled he would become the father Marcus needed.

  Shapes swirled through the deluge and Erca strode into the tent, shaking the drops from his hair with a grimace. He grunted a greeting to the guard who had been waiting at the rear of the tent. Logen was with him, and the rat-faced man slipped by, seemingly untroubled by his sodden clothes. He struck up a low conversation with the guard in the Scoti’s harsh tongue.

  Erca pulled off his cloak, shook it and tossed it into the corner. When he looked round at Catia, she thought how ill-tempered he looked.

  ‘There is still time for the Wolf to come crawling with his tail between his legs,’ he growled.

  ‘You know he will not give in to your demands.’

  ‘Then you will not see the sun set on the morrow. Are you ready for that?’

  ‘I am.’

  Erca clenched one fist as if he might strike her, but he only cursed under his breath. ‘It will do no good. You must know that. A waste of a life. We will still hunt down the boy. We will never let this prize slip through our fingers.’

  ‘You see the sun even on a day like this, Erca,’ she goaded him, her voice light. ‘But you must know you have found no joy in your dealings with Lucanus the Wolf from the moment you first met him beyond the wall. He is too clever for you, too cunning. And I have watched him get wiser and stronger by the day. He was a good leader, and he will be a great one. He will outwit you. Chase him to the ends of the earth and he will always stay one step ahead of you.’

  Erca grunted. ‘The words of the lovelorn.’ He fingered the hilt of his sword. ‘I don’t wish to end your days, but I will not shrink from the task.’

  ‘I would not expect any less.’

  Irritated by her calmness, he stalked to the entrance to the tent and looked out into the dark. She watched his brow furrow, and then he pushed his fingers into his mouth and whistled into the night. A moment later, Motius of the Carrion Crows bounded in, naked to the waist, his tattooed torso slick with rain. Catia didn’t like him. He reminded her more of beast than man, in the way his shoulders hunched and in his restless searching gaze.

  His eyes skittered around, lingering on her for a moment, and she felt her skin crawl.

  ‘Your men have found nothing amiss?’ Erca said.

  ‘We watch the approaches. All is well.’

  ‘Something’s not right. I feel it.’

  Motius strode to the tent entrance and sniffed the air. He shook his head.

  ‘The Attacotti have not returned. Two days now. That’s not like them,’ the barbarian leader said.

  Catia could hear the unease in her captor’s voice. This upset of the natural order troubled him.

  ‘They follow their own road, you know that,’ Motius said. ‘For now, it’s the same road as ours, but—’

  Erca cut him off with a wave of his hand. ‘We need them. Take your men. Find them. Bring them back.’

  Motius nodded. Ducking out of the tent entrance, he disappeared into the storm.

  When Catia looked up, she found Erca staring at her. He was imagining killing her, she could see it in his eyes.

  Lifting her chin, she smiled at him. She was a wolf-sister. She was not afraid. Soon there would be peace.

  Bellicus crawled down the slope, away from the trees. The rain hammered on his back and his nose was filled with the reek of the clay he’d smeared on himself to
mask his scent. He sensed his brothers beside him and he felt a warm glow that dispelled the chill. Like old times.

  Ahead, in the ocean of dark, he could just make out a few guttering torches planted in the entrances to the tents. No campfire could have survived that deluge. He imagined the land as he had seen it when he scouted its fringes in the light of day. A broad floodplain around a meandering river, surrounded by grassland. A good defensive position. Near to the forest for hunting, close to fresh water. In fair weather, enemies could be seen approaching from a long distance.

  Now, though, in the storm that Myrrdin had predicted, under the cover of a cloud-banked sky, they had clawed back some advantage.

  It was still madness, of course. To think that they could steal Catia away from the heart of the camp without a fight. But he would follow Lucanus anywhere. Nothing could ever redress the debt he owed.

  On he crawled, straining to hear any sounds ahead through the pounding of the rain. Mato would be moving off towards the river now, Lucanus, Solinus and Comitinus creeping around the camp’s edge.

  Madness.

  Death was close, he could smell it. Who would it claim this night? All of them? A mercy, then. In the end, dying was easier than living.

  Yet he heard Lucanus’ words ringing in his head, the ones he had spoken just before they set off. They were scouts, arcani, not warriors living from battle to battle. But in the final account, that was what wolves did. They hunted and they killed. For the wolf, there was only prey.

  Squinting through the downpour, he made out the faint silhouette of the shelter of branches and leaves and turf where the lookout hunched. Even through the rain, he could smell the man’s sweat. He would be cold, bored, wishing he was gnawing on hot venison or drinking ale or between a woman’s thighs. Anywhere but where he was.

  It was time.

  Crawling to the edge of the shelter, Bellicus rose up.

  With one sweep of his left arm, he smashed the fragile structure aside. In the thick dark, he couldn’t see the lookout’s shocked face, but he had bludgeoned more than one man to death in his time. He knew how it looked.