Last Sword of Power

by David Gemmell

  Uther, his hair freshly dyed and his beard combed, was sitting in the fading sunshine, overlooking the fields and meadows beyond the fortress town. Ursus bowed.

  “You mentioned urgency,” said the king, waving him to a seat on the ramparts.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I heard of your seizure. Are you well?”

  “I am well in body, but my heart is sickened.”

  Swiftly and succinctly Ursus outlined the visions that had come to him and the nauseating slayings he had witnessed.

  Uther said nothing, but his gray eyes grew bleak and distant. When the young man had concluded his tale, the king leaned back and switched his gaze to the countryside.

  “It was not a dream, sire,” said Ursus softly, mistaking the silence.

  “I know that, boy. I know that.” Uther stood and paced the ramparts. Finally he turned to the prince. “How do you feel about Wotan?”

  “I hate him, sire, as I have hated no man in all my life.”

  “And how do you feel about yourself?”

  “Myself? I do not understand.”

  “I think you do.”

  Ursus looked away, then returned his gaze to the king. “I get no pleasure from the mirror now,” he said, “and my past is no longer a cause for pride.”

  Uther nodded. “And why do you come to me?”

  “I want permission to return home and kill the usurper.”

  “No, that you shall not have.”

  Ursus rose to his feet, his face darkening. “Blood cries out for vengeance, sire. I cannot refuse it.”

  “You must,” said the king, his voice gentle and almost sorrowful. “I will send you to Martius, but you will travel with Victorinus and a party of warriors as an embassy to the new king.”

  “Sweet Mithras! To face him and not to kill him? To bow and scrape before this vile animal?”

  “Listen to me! I am not some farmer, responsible only for his family and his meager crop of barley. I am a king. I have a land to protect, a people. You think this Wotan will be content with Gaul and Belgica? No. I can feel the presence of his evil; I feel his cold eyes roaming my lands. Fate will decree that we face each other on some bloody battlefield, and if I am to win, I need knowledge: his men, his methods, his weaknesses. You understand?”

  “Then send someone else, sire, for pity’s sake.”

  “No. Harness your hatred and keep it on a tight rein. It will survive.”

  “But surely it will end his threat if I just kill him?”

  “If it were that simple, I’d wish you God’s luck. But it is not. The man uses sorcery, and he will be protected by man and demon. Believe me! And if you failed, they would know whence you came and have legitimate cause to wage war on Britain. And I am not ready for them.”

  “Very well, sire. It shall be as you say.”

  “Then swear it upon your brother’s soul.”

  “There is no need …”

  “Do it!”

  Their eyes locked, and Ursus knew he was beaten. “I so swear.”

  “Good. Now we must have a new name for you—and a new face. Wotan has butchered the House of Merovee, and if you are recognized, your death is assured. You will meet Victorinus at Dubris. You will be Galead, a knight of Uther. Follow me.” The king led Ursus into the inner apartments and drew the Sword of Power from its scabbard. As he touched the blade to the prince’s shoulder, Uther’s eyes narrowed in concentration.

  Ursus felt a tingling sensation on his scalp and face, and his teeth began to ache. The king removed the sword and led the warrior to the oval mirror on the wall.

  “Behold the latest of Uther’s knights,” he said with a wide grin.

  Ursus stared into the mirror at the blond stranger with his close-cropped hair and eyes of summer blue.

  “Galead,” whispered the new knight. “So be it!”

  7

  THE WINTER WAS fierce in the Caledones, snowdrifts blocking trails, ice forcing its way into the cracks in the wooden walls of the cabin. The surrounding trees, stripped of their leaves, stood bare and skeletal, while the wind howled outside the sealed windows.

  Cormac lay in the narrow bed with Anduine snuggled beside him and knew contentment. The door rattled in its frame, and the fire blazed brightly, dancing shadows flickering on the far wall. Cormac rolled over, his hand sliding gently over Anduine’s rounded hip, and she lifted her head and kissed his chest.

  Suddenly she froze.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “There is someone on the mountain,” she whispered. “Someone in danger.”

  “Did you hear something?”

  “I can feel their fear.”

  “Their?”

  “Two people, a man and a woman. The way is blocked. You must go to them, Cormac, or they will die.”

  He sat up and shivered. Even here in this bright, warm room, cold drafts hinted at the horror outside. “Where are they?”

  “Beyond the stand of pine, across the pass. They are on the ridge leading to the sea.”

  “They are not our concern,” he said, knowing his argument would be useless. “And I might die out there myself.”

  “You are strong, and you know the land. Please help them!”

  He rose from the bed and dressed in a heavy woolen shirt, leather leggings, a sheepskin jerkin, and boots. The jerkin had a hood lined with wool that he drew over his red hair, tying it tightly under his chin.

  “This is a heavy price to pay for your love, lady,” he said.

  “Is it?” she asked, sitting up, her long dark hair falling across her shoulders.

  “No,” he admitted. “Keep the fire going. I will try to be back by dawn.”

  He looked at his sword lying beside the hearth and considered carrying it with him, but it would only have encumbered him. Instead he slipped a long-bladed hunting knife behind his belt and stepped out into the blizzard, dragging the door shut with difficulty.

  Since Culain’s departure three months before Cormac had stuck to his training, increasing the length of his runs, working with ax and saw to build his muscles, and preparing the winter store of wood, which now stood six feet high and ran the length of the cabin, aiding the insulation on the north wall. His body was lean and powerful, his shoulders wide, his hips narrow. He set off toward the mountain peaks at an easy walk, using a six-foot quarter-staff to test the snow beneath his feet. To hurry would mean to sweat; in these temperatures the sweat would form as ice on the skin beneath his clothes and would kill him as swiftly as if he were naked. The straighter paths on the north side were blocked with drifts, and Cormac was forced to find a more circuitous route to the pine, edging his way south through the woods, across frozen streams and ponds. Huge gray wolves prowled the mountains but kept clear of the man as he made his slow, steady progress.

  For two hours he pushed on, stopping to rest often, saving his strength, until at last he cleared the pine and began the long dangerous traverse of the ridge above the pass. There the trail was only five feet wide, snow covering ice on the slanted path. One wrong or careless step and he would plummet over the edge, smashing himself on the rocks below. He halted in a shallow depression sheltered from the wind and rubbed at the skin of his face, forcing the blood to flow. His cheeks and chin were covered by a fine red-brown down that would soon be a beard, but his nose and eyes felt pinched and tight in the icy wind.

  The blizzard raged about him, and vision was restricted to no more than a few feet. His chances of finding the strangers were shrinking by the second. Cursing loudly, he stepped out into the wind and continued his progress along the ridge.

  Anduine’s voice came to him, whispering deep in his mind: “A little farther, to the left, there is a shallow cave. They are there.”

  He had long grown used to her powers. Ever since he had given her—albeit briefly—the gift of sight, her mystic talents had increased. She had begun to dream in vivid pictures of glorious color, and often he would allow her the use of his eyes to see som
e strange new wonder: swans in flight, a racing stag, a hunting wolf, a sky torn by storms.

  Moving on, he found the cave and saw a man huddled by the far wall, a young woman kneeling by him. The man saw him first and pointed; the woman swung, raising a knife.

  “Put it away,” said Cormac, walking in and looking down at the man. He was sitting with his back to the wall and his right leg thrust out in front of him, the boot bent at an impossible angle. Cormac glanced around. The shelter was inadequate; there was no wood for a fire, and even if he could light one, the wind would lash it to cinders.

  “We must move,” he said.

  “I cannot walk,” replied the man, his words slurred. There was ice in his dark beard, and his skin was patchy and blue in places. Cormac nodded.

  Reaching down, he took the man’s hand and pulled him upright; then he ducked his head to let the body fall across his shoulders and heaved him up.

  Cormac grunted at the weight and slowly turned. “Follow me,” he told the girl.

  “He will die out there,” she protested.

  “He will die in here,” answered Cormac.

  He struggled to the ridge and began the long trek home, his burden almost more than he could bear, the muscles of his neck straining under the weight of the injured man. But the blizzard began to ease, and the temperature lifted slightly. After an hour Cormac began to sweat heavily, and his fear rose. He could feel the ice forming and the dreadful lethargy beginning. Sucking in a deep breath, he called to the young woman.

  “Move alongside me.” She did so. “Now, talk.”

  “I’m too tired … too cold.”

  “Talk, curse your eyes! Where are you from?” He staggered on.

  “We were in Pinnata Castra, but we had to leave. My father broke his leg in a fall. We … we …” She stumbled.

  “Get up, damn you! You want me to die?”

  “You bastard!”

  “Keep talking. What is your name?”

  “Rhiannon.”

  “Look at your father. Is he alive?” Cormac hoped he was not. He longed to let the burden fall; his legs were burning, his back a growing agony.

  “I’m alive,” the man whispered.

  Cursing him savagely, Cormac pushed on. They reached the pine after two torturous hours and then began the long climb downhill to the woods. The blizzard found fresh strength, and the snow swirled about them, but once they were in the trees the wind dropped.

  Cormac reached the cabin just as dawn was lightening the sky. He dropped his burden to the cot bed, which creaked under his weight.

  “The girl,” said Anduine. “She is not with you.”

  Cormac was too weary to curse as he stumbled from the cabin and back into the storm. He found Rhiannon crawling across a snowdrift and heading away from the cabin. She struggled weakly as he lifted her, then her head sagged on his shoulder.

  In the cabin he laid her before the fire, rubbing warmth into her arms and face.

  “Strip her clothes away,” ordered Anduine, but Cormac’s cold fingers fumbled with the leather ties, and she came to his aid. He removed his own clothes and sat by the fire, wrapped in a warm blanket, staring into the flames.

  “Move away,” Anduine said. “Let the heat reach her.” Cormac turned and saw the naked girl. She was blond and slim, with an oval face and a jaw that was too strong to be feminine. “Help me,” asked Anduine, and together they moved her nearer to the fire. Anduine pulled the warm blanket from Cormac’s shoulders and laid it over Rhiannon. “Now let us see to the father.”

  “You don’t mind if I dress first?”

  Anduine smiled. “You were very brave, my love. I am so proud of you.”

  “Tell me in the morning.”

  Stepping to the bed, Anduine pulled the blanket clear of the injured leg, which was swollen and purple below the knee. When Cormac was clothed once more, she bade him twist the limb back into place. The injured man groaned but did not wake. While Cormac held it, Anduine placed her hands on either side of the break, her face set in deep concentration. After some minutes, she began to tremble and her head sagged forward. Cormac released his hold on the man’s leg and moved around to her, helping her to her feet.

  “The break was jagged and splintered,” she said. “It was very hard forcing it to knit. I think it is healing now, but you will need to cut some splints to support it.”

  “You look exhausted. Go back to bed; I’ll tend to them.”

  She grinned. “And you, I take it, are back to the peak of your strength?”

  “Assassins!” screamed the girl on the floor by the fire, sitting bolt upright. Slowly her eyes focused, and she burst into tears. Anduine knelt beside her, holding her close and stroking her hair.

  “You are safe here, I promise you.”

  “No one is safe,” she said. “No one!”

  The wind howled outside the door, causing it to rattle against the leather hinges.

  “They will find us,” whispered Rhiannon, her voice rising.

  Anduine’s hand floated over the girl’s face, settling softly on her brow. “Sleep,” she murmured, and Rhiannon sank back to the floor.

  “Who is hunting them?” asked Cormac.

  “Her thoughts were jumbled. I saw men in dark tunics with long knives; her father killed two of them, and they escaped into the wilderness. We will talk to her when she wakes.”

  “We should not have brought them here.”

  “We had to. They needed help.”

  “Maybe they did. But you are my concern, not them.”

  “If you felt like that, why did you not drop your burden on the high mountain when you thought you were going to die?”

  Cormac shrugged. “I cannot answer that. But believe me, if I thought they were a danger to you, I would have slit both their throats without hesitation.”

  “I know,” she said sadly. “It is a side of you I try not to think about.” She returned to her bed and said nothing more about the strangers.

  Cormac sat by the fire, suddenly saddened and heavy of heart. The arrival of the father and daughter had cast a shadow over the mountain. The ugliness of a world of violence had returned, and with it the fear that Anduine would be taken from him.

  Taking up his sword, he began to hone the edge with long sweeping strokes of his whetstone.

  * * *

  Anduine slept later than usual, and Cormac did not wake her as he eased from the bed. The fire had sunk to glowing ashes, and he added tinder until the flames leapt. Larger sticks were fed to the blaze, and the warmth crept across the room. Cormac knelt beside the blond-haired girl; her color was good, her breathing even. Her father was snoring softly, and Cormac moved to the bedside and stared down at the man’s face. It was strong and made almost square by the dark beard, which glistened as if oiled. The nose was flat and had been twisted by some savage break in the past, and there were scars around the eyes and on the brow. Glancing down at the man’s right arm, which lay outside the blankets, he saw that it, too, was crisscrossed with scars.

  The snoring ceased, and the man’s eyes opened. There was no sign of drowsiness in the gaze that fastened on the young man.

  “How are you feeling?” Cormac asked.

  “Alive,” answered the man, pushing his powerful arms against the bed and sitting up. He threw back the covers and looked down at his leg, around which Cormac had fashioned a rough splint.

  “You must be a skilled surgeon. I feel no pain. It is as if it were not broken at all.”

  “Do not trust it overmuch,” said Cormac. “I will cut you a staff.”

  The man swung his head, staring down at his daughter by the fireside. Satisfied that she was sleeping, he seemed to relax and smiled, showing broken front teeth.

  “We are grateful to you, she and I.” He pulled the blankets over his naked body. “Now I will sleep again.”

  “Who was hunting you?”

  “That is none of your concern,” was the soft reply, the words eased by an awkward smile.r />
  Cormac shrugged and moved away. He dressed swiftly in woolen tunic, leggings, and sheepskin boots, then stepped out into the open. Icicles dripped from the overhanging roof, and the slate-gray sky was breaking up, showing banners of blue. For an hour he worked with the ax, splitting wood for the store. Then he returned as the smell of frying bacon filled the air.

  The man was dressed and sitting at the table, the girl beside him wrapped in a blanket. Anduine was delicately slicing the meat, her blindness obvious. Her head was tilted, her eyes seeming to stare at the far wall.

  She smiled as Cormac entered. “Is it a beautiful day?”

  “It will be,” he said, sensing the change in the atmosphere. The man was deep in thought, his face set and his eyes fixed on Anduine.

  Cormac joined them at the table, and they broke their fast in silence.

  “What are your plans now, Oleg Hammerhand?” Anduine asked as the meal was finished.

  “How is it, lady, that you know my name?”

  “How is it that you know mine?” she countered.

  Oleg leaned back in the chair. “All across the world men seek news of the Lady Anduine, the Life Giver. Some say Wotan took her, others that she died. I met a man who was close by when her father was slain. He said that a man dressed as a monk yet wielding two swords cut his way through the assassins and rescued the princess. Was that man you?” he asked, switching his gaze to Cormac.

  “No. Would that it were!”

  Oleg swung back to face Anduine. “Wotan has offered a thousand gold pieces for news of your whereabouts. Can you imagine? A thousand pieces! And there has been not a word. Not a sign.”

  “Until now,” said Anduine.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But we will not betray you, lady—not for ten times ten times that amount.”

  “I know. It is not in your nature, Oleg.” Anduine leaned toward the girl and reached out, but the girl shrank back. “Take my hand, Rhiannon.”

  “No,” whispered the girl.

  “Do it, girl,” ordered Oleg.