Last Sword of Power

by David Gemmell

  “Why, then, did you drive her into his arms?” he whispered.

  There was no answer to be found in logic or intellect. But Uther knew where it lay, deep in the labyrinthine tunnels of dark emotion. The seeds of insanity were sown on that night in another world when the youth had first made love to the maid, only to have her whisper the name of Culain at the moment of Uther’s greatest joy. The opposite of the alchemist’s dream—gold become lead, light plunged into darkness. Even then he could have forgiven her, for Culain was dead. He could not … would not be jealous of a corpse. But the Lance Lord had returned, and Uther had seen the light of love reborn in Laitha’s eyes.

  Yet he could not send him away, for that would be defeat. And he could not kill him, for he owed everything to Culain. He could only hope that her love for the Lance Lord would be overcome by her marriage vow to the king. And it was—but not enough. He tested her resolve time and again, treating her with appalling indifference, forcing her in her despair to the very act he feared above all others.

  King of fools!

  Uther, the Blood King, the Lord of No Defeat! What did it matter that armies could not withstand him when he dwelled in loneliness in a chilly tower? No sons to follow him, no wife to love him. He turned to the bronze mirror set on the wall; gray roots were showing under the henna-dyed hair, and the eyes were tired.

  He wandered to the ramparts and stared down at the courtyard. The Sicambrian Ursus was strolling arm in arm with a young woman. Uther could not recognize her, but she seemed familiar. He smiled. The horse armor had been a miserable failure, becoming sodden and useless in the rain, but Ursus had proved a fine cavalry commander. The men liked his easy manner and quick wit, added to which he was not reckless and understood the importance in strategy of patience and forethought.

  The king watched the easy way Ursus draped his arm over the woman’s shoulder, drawing her to him in the shadows of a doorway, tilting her chin to kiss her lips. Uther shook his head and turned away. He rarely had women sent to his apartments these days; the act of loving left him with a deep sadness, a hollow empty loneliness.

  His eyes scanned the green landscape, the rolling hills and the farms, the cattle herds and the sheep. All was at peace. Uther cursed softly. For years he had fostered the myth that he was the land, the soul, and the heart of Britannia. Only his trusted friends knew that the sword gave him the power. Yet now, even without the aid of the mystic blade, Uther could feel a sinister threat growing in the shadows. The tranquillity around him was but an illusion, and the days of blood and fire were waiting to dawn.

  Or are you getting old? he asked himself. Have you lied for so long about the myth that you have come to believe it?

  A cold breeze touched him, and he shivered.

  What was the threat? From where would it come?

  “My lord?” said a voice, and Uther spun to find Victorinus standing in the doorway. “I knocked on the outer door, but there was no response,” said the Roman.

  “I am sorry if I startled you.”

  “I was thinking,” said the king. “What news?”

  “The Bishop of Rome has agreed to a treaty with Wotan and has validated his claims to Gaul and Belgica.”

  Uther chuckled. “A short-lived Anti-Christ, was he not?”

  Victorinus nodded, then removed his bronze helm. His white hair made him seem much older than his fifty years. Uther moved past him into the apartments, beckoning the general to sit.

  “Still clean-shaven, my friend,” said the king. “What will you do now that the pumice stones are no longer arriving?”

  “I’ll use a razor,” said Victorinus, grinning. “It does not become a Roman to look like an unwashed barbarian.”

  “That is no way to speak to your king,” said Uther, scratching at his own beard.

  “But then your misfortune, sire, was to be born without Roman blood. I can only offer my deepest sympathies.”

  “The arrogance of Rome survives even her downfall,” said Uther, smiling. “Tell me of Wotan.”

  “The reports are contradictory, sire. He fought four major battles in Sicambria, crushing the Merovingians. Nothing is known of their king; some say he escaped to Italia, others that he sought refuge in Hispania.”

  “The strategies, man. Does he use cavalry? Or the Roman phalanx? Or just a horde overwhelming by numbers?”

  “His army is split into units. There are some mounted warriors, but in the main he relies on axmen and archers. He also fights where the battle is thickest, and it is said no sword can pierce his armor.”

  “Not a good trait in a general,” muttered the king. “He should stay back, directing the battle.”

  “As you do, my lord?” asked Victorinus, raising an eyebrow.

  Uther grinned. “I will one day,” he said. “I’ll sit on a canvas stool and watch you and Gwalchmai sunder the enemy.”

  “I wish you would, sire. My heart will not take the strain you put upon it with your recklessness.”

  “Has Wotan sent emissaries to other kings?” asked Uther.

  “Not as far as we know—only the Bishop of Rome and the boy emperor. He has pledged not to lead his armies into Italia.”

  “Then where will he lead them?”

  “You think he will invade Britain?”

  “I need to know more about him. Where is he from? How did he weld the German tribes, the Norse, and the Goths into such a disciplined army? And in so short a time?”

  “I could go as an ambassador, sire. His court is now in Martius.”

  Uther nodded. “Take Ursus with you; he knows the land, the people, and the language. And a gift; I will arrange a suitable offering for a new king.”

  “Too fine a gift may be misread as weakness, sire, and you did have a treaty with Meroveus.”

  “Meroveus was a fool, his army the laughingstock of Europe. Our treaty was for trade, no more. You will explain to Wotan that the treaty was between the kings of Sicambria and Britain and that I acknowledge the agreement to remain active even as I acknowledge his right to the throne.”

  “Is that not dangerous, sire? You will be supporting the right of the conqueror against the right of blood.”

  “It is a dangerous world in which we live, Victorinus.”

  Ursus awoke in a cold sweat, his heart hammering. The girl beside him slept on under the warm blankets, her breathing even. The prince slid out from the bed and walked to the window, pulling back the velvet hangings and allowing the breeze to cool his flesh. The dream had been so real; he had seen his brother pursued through the streets of Martius and dragged into a wide hall. There Ursus had watched a tall blond-bearded warrior cut his brother’s heart from his living body.

  He moved to the table and found that there was still a little wine in the jar. He poured it into a clay goblet and drained it.

  Just a dream, he told himself, born of his concern over the invasion of Gaul.

  A bright light flashed behind his eyes, filling his head with fiery pain. He cried out and stumbled, blind and afraid, tipping the table to the floor.

  “What is it?” screamed the girl. “Sweet Christos, are you ill?” But her voice faded back into the distance, and a roaring filled his ears. His vision cleared, and he saw once more the blond-bearded warrior, this time standing in a deep circular pit. Around him were other warriors, all wearing horned helms and carrying huge axes. A door above them opened, and two men dragged a naked prisoner to a set of wooden steps, forcing him to climb down into the pit. With horror Ursus saw that it was Meroveus, the king of Sicambria. His beard was matted, his hair encrusted with mud and filth; his slender body showed signs of cruel use, whip marks crisscrossing the skin.

  “Well met, brother king,” said the tall warrior, gripping the prisoner by his beard and hauling him upright. “Are you well?”

  “I curse you, Wotan. May you burn in the fires of hell!”

  “Fool! I am hell, and I lit the fires.”

  Meroveus was dragged to a greased and pointed stake
and hoisted high in the air.

  Ursus tore his eyes from the scene but could not block the awful sounds as the monarch was brutally impaled. Once more the bright light flashed, and now he was viewing a scene in a great wooden hall. Warriors surrounded a crowd, their lances aimed at men, women, and children who stood in silent terror. Ursus recognized many faces: cousins, uncles, aunts, nephews. Most of the Merovingian nobles were gathered there. Warriors in mail shirts began to throw buckets of water over the prisoners, jeering and laughing as the liquid splashed down. It was a ridiculous scene yet tainted with a terrible menace. Once more the blond-bearded Wotan stepped forward, this time carrying a torch. Terrified screams sprang up from the prisoners as Wotan laughed and hurled the torch into the mass. Fire swept the group … and Ursus suddenly understood. It was not water they were drenched with … but oil. The lancers retired quickly as burning men ran like human torches, spreading the blaze.

  The walls ran with flames, and dark smoke settled over the scene …

  Ursus screamed and fell back, weeping piteously, into the arms of the girl.

  “Dear God,” she said, stroking his brow. “What is it?”

  But he could not answer. There were no words in all the world.

  There was only pain …

  Two officers from the adjoining rooms entered, lifting Ursus to the wide bed. Other men gathered in the stone corridor. The surgeon was summoned, and the girl quietly gathered her clothing, dressed, and slipped away.

  “What is the matter with him?” asked Plutarchus, a young cavalry officer who had befriended Ursus during the summer. “There is no wound.”

  His companion, Decimus Agrippa, a lean warrior with ten years of experience, merely shrugged and looked into Ursus’ unblinking, unfocused eyes.

  Gently he pressed the lids closed.

  “Is he dead?” whispered Plutarchus.

  “No, I think he is having a fit. I knew a man once who would suddenly go stiff and tremble with such a seizure. The great Julius was said to be so afflicted.”

  “Then he will recover?”

  Agrippa nodded, then turned to the men in the corridor. “Off to your beds,” he ordered. “The drama is over.”

  The two men covered Ursus with the linen sheet and the soft woolen blankets. “He does like luxury,” said Agrippa, grinning. It was not often that the man smiled, and it made him almost handsome, thought Plutarchus. Agrippa was made for command—a cool, distant warrior whose skill and lack of recklessness led men to clamor to join his troop. In major engagements he lost fewer men than did the more reckless of his brother officers yet invariably achieved his objectives. He was known among the Cohors Equitana as the Dagger in the Night or, more simply, the Dagger.

  Plutarchus was his second decurion, a young man fresh from the city of Eboracum and yet to prove his worth on the battlefield.

  The surgeon arrived, checked Ursus’ pulse and breathing, and tried to rouse him, breaking the wax seal on a phial of foul-smelling unguent and holding it below the unconscious man’s nose. There was no reaction from Ursus, though Plutarchus gagged and moved away.

  “He is in a deep state of shock,” said the surgeon. “What happened here?”

  Agrippa shrugged. “I was sleeping in the next room when I heard a man scream, then a woman. I came in with young Pluta to find the Sicambrian on the floor and the woman hysterical. I thought it was a fit.”

  “I doubt it,” said the surgeon. “The muscles are not in spasm, and the heart is slow but regular. You!” he said to Plutarchus. “Bring a lantern to the bed.” The young officer obeyed, and the surgeon opened the prince’s right eye. The pupil had contracted to no more than a dot of darkness within the blue.

  “How well do you know this man?”

  “Hardly at all,” answered Agrippa, “but Pluta has spent many days in his company.”

  “Is he a mystic?”

  “No, I do not believe so, sir,” said Plutarchus. “He has never spoken of it. He did tell me once that the House of Merovee was renowned for its knowledge of magic, but he said it with a smile, and I took him to be jesting.”

  “So,” said the surgeon, “no speaking in strange tongues, no divining, no reading of the portents?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Curious. And where is the woman?”

  “Gone,” said Agrippa. “I do not think she was desirous of more public scrutiny.”

  “Whores should get used to it,” snapped the surgeon. “Very well; we’ll leave him resting for tonight. I will send my daughter here tomorrow morning with a potion for him; he will sleep most of the day.”

  “Thank you, surgeon,” said Agrippa solemnly, aware of the spreading grin on Plutarchus’ face.

  After the surgeon had departed, the younger man began to chuckle.

  “You will share the cause of your humor?” Agrippa asked.

  “He called his own daughter a whore. Do you not think that amusing? Half the officers have tried to entice her to bed, and the other half would like to. And here she was, alone and naked with the Sicambrian!”

  “I am not laughing, Pluta. The Sicambrian has the morals of a gutter rat, and the lady deserves better. Do not mention her name to anyone.”

  “But she was seen by the other men in the corridor.”

  “They will say nothing, either. You understand me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Now let us leave our rutting ram to his rest.”

  Throughout the exchange between the two men Ursus had been conscious, though paralyzed. After they had gone, he lay unable to feel the soft sheet on his body, his memory hurling the visions of death to his mind’s eye over and over again.

  He saw Balan’s heart torn from his chest and heard the agonized scream, watching helplessly as the light of life died in his brother’s eyes. Poor Balan! Sweet little brother! Once he had cried when he found a fawn with a broken leg. Ursus had ended its misery, but Balan had been inconsolable for days. He should have entered the priesthood, but Ursus, using the power of an older brother’s love, had talked him into the quest for riches.

  Both men had grown used to the luxury of their father’s palace in Tingis, but when the old man died and the size of his debts became clear, Ursus was unprepared for a life of near poverty. The brothers had used the last of the family wealth to secure passage to Sicambria, there to introduce themselves to their influential relatives. The king, Meroveus, had granted them a small farm near Martius where the court resided, but the revenues were meager.

  Balan had been blissfully happy wandering the mountains, bathing in silver streams, composing poems, and sketching trees and landscapes. But the life did not suit Ursus, for there were few women to be had and a positive dearth of wide silk-covered beds.

  But Balan would have been happy at the Monastery of Revelation in Tingis, sleeping on a cot bed and studying the mysteries. Now he was dead, victim of a demonic king and a greedy brother.

  Toward dawn Ursus’ skin began to tingle, and at last he could open his eyes. He stared for a long time at the rough-hewn ceiling, tears flowing, memories burning his soul—reshaping it until the heat of anguish fled, to be replaced by the ice of hatred.

  “The Sicambrian has the morals of a gutter rat. The lady deserves better.”

  Balan had also deserved better from his brother.

  Feeling returned to his arms and shoulders, and pushing back the bed linen, he forced himself to a sitting position and massaged his legs until he felt the blood begin to flow.

  He felt weak and unsteady and filled with a sadness bordering on despair. The door opened, and Portia entered, carrying a wooden tray on which there was a bowl of fresh water, a small loaf of flat baked bread, some cheese, and a tiny copper phial stoppered with wax.

  “Are you recovered?” she asked, placing the tray on the chest by the wall and pushing shut the door.

  “Yes and no,” he said. She sat beside him, her small body pressed to his and her arms around him. He could smell the sweet perfume in
her auburn hair and feel her soft breasts against his chest. He lifted her chin and kissed her gently.

  “Are you sure you are recovered? Father has sent a sleeping draft; he says rest is needed.”

  “I am sorry for your embarrassment last night. It must have been hard for you. Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. We love each other.”

  Ursus winced at the words, then forced a smile. “Love can mean different things to different people. Agrippa said I have the morals of a gutter rat, and he was quite correct. He said you deserved better; he was right in that also. I am sorry, Portia.”

  “Do not be sorry. You did me no harm. Far from it,” she said, stiffening as the realization of his rejection struck her. But she was Roman and of proud stock and would not let him see her pain. “There is food there. You should eat.”

  “I must see the king.”

  “I should dress first—and wash.” Pulling away from him, she walked to the door. “You really are a fool, Ursus,” she said, and the door closed behind her.

  The prince washed swiftly, then dressed in shirt, tunic, and leggings of black under a pearl-gray cape. His riding boots were also stained gray and adorned with silver rings. The outfit would have cost a British cavalry commander a year’s salarium, yet for the first time it gave Ursus no pleasure as he stood before the full-length bronze mirror.

  Despite his messages of urgency, the king refused to see him during the morning, and the prince was left to wander the town of Camulodunum until the appointed hour. He breakfasted in the garden of an inn, then journeyed to the Street of Armorers, purchasing a new sword shaped after the Berber fashion with a slightly curved blade. Those swords were becoming increasingly fashionable with Uther’s cavalry for their use from horseback. The curved blade sliced clear with greater ease than did the traditional gladius, and being longer, it increased the killing range.

  The church bell tolled the fourth hour after noon, and Ursus swiftly made his way to the north tower, where Uther’s manservant and squire, Baldric, bade him wait in the long room below Uther’s apartments. There Ursus sat for a further frustrating hour before he was ushered in to the king.