“Wake up, my friend,” said the king, nudging the sleeping man’s shoulder. There was no response. He shook him harder. Nothing.
Fear touched the king, and he moved slowly down the circular stair to the courtyard. Four sentries lay on the cobbles with their weapons beside them.
“Sweet Christos!” whispered Uther. “The dream!”
There was a movement to his left, and he whirled, the sword slicing the air. The ghostly figure floated beside him once more, the face hooded, the figure blurred and indistinct.
“The sword,” it whispered. “He wants the sword.”
“Who are you?”
Suddenly a hand of fire swept around the figure, and the heat hurled the king from his feet. He landed on his shoulder and rolled. Dark shadows spread on the walls around him, black as caves, opening …
Uther ran to one of the sentries, dragging the man’s sword from his scabbard. Then, touching his own blade to the weapon, he closed his eyes in concentration. Fire blazed on the blades as the king staggered and stared down: in his hands were two Swords of Power, twins of shining silver steel.
The dark caves opened still farther, and the first of the beasts issued forth. Uther swung back the true blade and hurled it high into the air. Lightning blazed across the sky … and the Sword of Cunobelin disappeared.
The beast roared and stepped into the courtyard, its terrible jaws parted in a bestial snarl. Others crowded behind it, moving into the courtyard and forming a circle around the naked king. Men in dark cloaks came after them, gray blades in their hands.
“The sword,” called one of them. “Give us the sword.”
“Come and take it,” said Uther.
The man gestured, and a beast raced forward. Fully seven feet tall, it was armed with a black ax. Its eyes were blood-red, its fangs yellow and long. Most men would have frozen in terror, but Uther was not like most men.
He was the Blood King.
He leapt to meet the attack, ducking under the swinging ax, his sword ripping through the creature’s scaled belly. A terrible scream tore aside the silence of the night, and the other creatures howled in rage and pushed forward, but the dark-cloaked man ordered them back.
“Do not kill him!” he screamed, and Uther stepped back, wondering at this change of heart. Then he glanced down at his sword to see that the beast’s blood had stained the blade … and ended the illusion. Once more it was a simple gladius of iron with a wooden hilt wrapped in oiled leather.
“Where is the sword?” demanded the leader, his eyes betraying his fear.
“Where your master can lay no hand upon it,” Uther answered, smiling grimly.
“Damn your eyes!” screamed the man, and threw back his cloak and raised his sword of shimmering gray. The others followed his example. There were more than a dozen, and Uther was determined to take a goodly number of them as company on the journey into hell. They spread out around him and then rushed forward. Uther charged the circle, sweeping aside a frenzied thrust and burying his gladius in a man’s heart. A cold blade pierced his back, and he dragged the gladius clear and spun, his sword tearing through a warrior’s neck. Two more blades hammered into him, filling his chest with icy pain, but even as he fell, his sword lashed out and gashed open a man’s face. Then numbness flowed through him, and death laid a skeletal finger on his soul. He felt himself floating upward, and his eyes opened.
“Now you are ours,” hissed the leader, his cold gray eyes gleaming in triumph.
Uther looked down at the body that lay at the man’s feet; it was his own, and there was not a mark on it. He watched as the attackers lifted their blades and saw the swords swirl and disperse like mist in the morning breeze.
“Now you will learn the true meaning of agony,” said the leader. As he spoke, the huge hand of fire appeared, engulfing the king’s soul and vanishing into darkness. Leaving the body where it lay, the beasts and men returned to the shadows, which closed behind them, becoming once more the gray stone of a silent fortress.
Galead, the blond knight who had been Ursus, prince of the House of Merovee, awoke in the chill of the dawn. The room was cool, the bed empty. He sat up and shivered, wondering if it was the cool breeze that prickled his skin or the memory of those ice-blue eyes …
For three weeks the embassy had been kept waiting in the city of Lugdunum, assured that the new king would see them at his earliest opportunity. Victorinus had accepted the delays with Roman patience, never giving a public display of his increasing anger. The messages from Wotan had been delivered by a young Saxon called Agwaine, a tall warrior with yellow hair and a sneering manner.
The choice of Agwaine was a calculated insult, for the warrior was from the South Saxon, Uther’s realm, and that made him a traitor in Victorinus’ eyes.
But the Roman made good use of his enforced idleness, touring the city with Galead, listening to the talk in the taverns, watching the various regiments of Gothic warriors at maneuvers, gathering information that would aid Uther in the now-inevitable war.
On their trip from the coast they had seen the massive triremes under construction and the barges that could land an army on the south coast, there to be swelled by dissenting Saxons and Jutes longing for a victory against the Blood King.
On the twenty-second day of their wait Agwaine arrived in the hour just after dawn with a summons from Wotan. Victorinus thanked him courteously and dressed in a simple toga of white. Galead wore the leather breastplate, leggings, and greaves of a Cohors Equitana commander, a gladius at his side, but over this was the short white surplice of the herald, a simple red cross embroidered over the heart.
The two men were taken to the central palace and into a long hall lined with lances on which severed heads were impaled.
Galead glanced at the rotting skulls, quelling his anger as he recognized one as Meroveus, the former king of the Merovingians. Swallowing hard, he marched slowly behind Victorinus toward the high throne on which sat the new god-king. Flanked by guards in silver armor, Wotan watched as the men approached, his eyes fixed on the white-clad Victorinus.
Reaching the foot of the dais, Victorinus bowed low.
“Greetings, my Lord King, from your brother across the water.”
“I have no brothers,” said Wotan, the voice rich and resonant.
Galead gazed at him, awed by the power emanating from the man. The face was handsome and framed by a golden beard, the shoulders broad, the arms thick and powerful. He was dressed in the same silver armor as his guards and was cloaked in black.
“My king,” said Victorinus smoothly, “sends you a gift to celebrate your coronation.” He turned, and two soldiers carried forward a square box of polished ebony. They knelt before the king and opened it. He leaned forward and lifted the silver helm from within. A gold circlet decorated the rim; the silver raven’s wings were fixed to the sides as ear guards.
“A pretty piece,” said Wotan, tossing it to a guard, who set it down on the floor beside the throne. “And now to the realities. I have given you three weeks to see the power of Wotan. You have used this time well, Victorinus, as befits a soldier of your rank and experience. Now go back to Britain and tell those in power that I will come to them with gifts of my own.”
“My lord Uther …” began Victorinus.
“Uther is dead,” said Wotan, “and you are in need of a king. Since there is no heir and since my brother Saxons have appealed to me for aid against your Roman tyranny, I have decided to accept their invitation to journey to Britannia and investigate their claims of injustice.”
“And will you journey with your army, my lord?” Victorinus asked.
“Do you think I will have need of it, Victorinus?”
“That, my lord, will depend on the king.”
“You doubt my word?” asked Wotan, and Galead saw the guards tense, their hands edging toward their swords.
“No, sire. I merely point out—with respect—that Britain has a king. When one dies, another rises.”
“I have petitioned the Vicar of Christ in Rome,” said Wotan, “and I have here a sealed parchment from him bestowing the kingdom of Britannia upon me, should I decide to accept it.”
“It could be argued that Rome no longer exercises sovereignty over the affairs of the west,” said Victorinus, “but that is for others to debate. I am merely a soldier.”
“Your modesty is commendable, but you are far more than that. I would like you to serve me, Victorinus. Talented men are hard to find.”
Victorinus bowed. “I thank you for the compliment. And now, with your leave, we must prepare for the journey home.”
“Of course,” said Wotan, rising. “But first introduce your young companion; he intrigues me.”
“My lord, this is Galead, a knight of Uther.”
Galead bowed, and the king stepped down from the dais to stand before him. Galead looked up into the ice-blue eyes.
“And what is your view, knight of Uther?”
“I have no view, sire, only a sword. And when my king tells me to use it, I do so.”
“And if I were your king?”
“Ask me again, sire, when that day dawns.”
“It will dawn, Galead. Come the spring, it will dawn. Tell me,” he said, smiling and raising his arms to point at the severed heads, “what do you think of my ornaments?”
“I think they will attract flies, sire, when the spring comes.”
“You recognized one of them, I think.”
Galead blinked. “Indeed I did, sire, and your powers of observation are acute.” He pointed to the rotting head of Meroveus. “I saw him once—when my father was visiting Gaul. It is the … former … king.”
“He could have served me. I find it strange that a man will prefer to depart this life in agony rather than enjoy it in riches and pleasure. And for what? All men serve others … even kings. Tell me, Galead, what point is there in defying the inevitable?”
“I was always told, sire, that the only inevitability is death, and we do our best to defy that daily.”
“Even death is not inevitable for those who serve me well—nor is it a release for those who oppose me. Is that not true, Meroveus?”
The rotting head seemed to sag on the lance, the mouth opening in a silent scream. “You see,” Wotan said softly, “the former king agrees. Tell me, Galead, do you desire me for an enemy?”
“Life, my lord, for a soldier is rarely concerned with what he desires. As you so rightly say, all men are subject to the will of someone. For myself, I would prefer no enemies, but life is not that simple.”
“Well said, soldier,” replied the king, turning and striding back to the throne.
The two men backed down the hall, then turned and walked in silence to their lodgings. Once there, Victorinus slumped in a broad chair, head in hands.
“It may not be true,” said Galead.
“He did not lie; there would be no point. Uther is dead. Britain is dead.”
“You think Wotan will be king?”
“How do we stop him? Better that he is elected and the bloodletting be minimized.”
“And you will suggest that course?”
“Do you have a better one?”
As the younger man was about to answer, he saw Victorinus’ hand flicker, the fingers spreading and then closing swiftly into a fist. It was the scout’s signal for silence in the presence of the enemy.
“No, sir, I think you are right,” he said.
Now, in the bright morning, Galead rose and walked naked to the stream behind the lodgings. There he bathed in the cool waters that ran from the snow-covered mountains down into the valleys. Refreshed, he returned to his room and dressed for the journey ahead. There were twelve men in the party, and they met to break their fast in the dining room of the inn. Victorinus, clothed once more as a warrior commander in bronze breastplate and bronze-studded leather kilt, sat in silence. The news of Uther’s death had filtered down to all the warriors, darkening their mood.
A young stable boy entered and informed Victorinus that the horses were ready, and the group made its way to the mounts, riding from the city as the sun finally cleared the mountains. Victorinus waved Galead forward, and the blond young warrior cantered his mount alongside the veteran.
The two men rode ahead of the following group, out of earshot, then Victorinus reined in and turned toward the young Merovingian.
“I want you to head for Belgica and take ship from there.”
“Why, sir?”
Victorinus sighed. “Use your wits, young prince. Wotan might have been fooled by my words and the air of defeat I summoned. But he might not. Were I him, I would see that Victorinus did not reach the coast alive.”
“All the more reason to stick together,” said Galead.
“You think one sword can make a difference?” snapped the old general.
“No,” Galead admitted.
“I am sorry, my boy. I get irritated when people try to kill me. When you get back to Britain, find Prasamaccus—he’s a wily old bird—and Gwalchmai. Both of them will offer sage counsel. I do not know who will have taken charge—perhaps Petronius, though he is ten years older than I. Or maybe Geminus Cato. I hope it is the latter; he at least understands war and its nature. From the looks of the barges they will be ready to sail by the spring, and that gives little time for adequate preparation. My guess is they will land near Anderida, but they may strike farther north. Wotan will have allies at either end of the kingdom. Damn Uther to hell! How could he die at a time like this?”
“And what will you do, sir?”
“I’ll continue as expected, but I will leave the road come nightfall. Sweet Mithras, what I would not give for ten of the old legions! Did you see those Roman soldiers at Wotan’s court?”
“Yes. Not impressive, were they?”
“No helmets or breastplates. I spoke to one of the young men, and it seems the army voted to do away with them because they were so heavy! How did Rome ever rule the world?”
“A country is only as strong as its leaders allow it to be,” said Galead. “The Goths could never have conquered without Wotan to bind them, and when he dies, they will be sundered once more.”
“Then let us hope he dies soon,” said Victorinus. “Once we are out of sight of the city, strike north—and may Hermes lend wings to your horse.”
“And may your gods bring you home, sir.”
Victorinus said nothing, but he removed his cloak and folded it across his saddle, a ritual all cavalry officers followed when riding into hostile territory.
“If I am not home by the spring, Galead, light a lantern for me at the Altar of Mithras.”
Culain stood at the center of the stone circle, his silver lance in his hand.
“Are you sure this is wise, my friend?” asked Pendarric.
Culain smiled. “I was never wise, Lord King. A wise man understands the limits of his wisdom. But I believe it is my destiny to stand against the evil of Wotan. My swords may not be enough to sway the battle, but then again, they may. Unless I try, I will never know.”
“I, too, will go against the dark one,” said Pendarric, “but in my own way. Take this; I think you will have need of it.” Culain reached out and accepted a golden stone the size of a sparrow’s egg.
“I thank you, Pendarric. I do not think we will meet again.”
“In that you are correct, Lance Lord. May the Source of All Things be with you always.”
Pendarric raised his arms and spoke the word of power …
9
THE CITY OF Eboracum was in mourning when Revelation arrived at the south gate. The sentry, seeing that the white-bearded stranger was a monk carrying no weapons, merely a long wooden quarterstaff, stepped aside and waved him through.
“Is the king in residence?” asked Revelation.
“You have not heard?” said the sentry, a young militiaman bearing only a lance.
“I have been on the road for three days. I have seen no one.”
&
nbsp; “The king is dead,” said the sentry. “Slain by sorcery.”
Other travelers waited behind Revelation, and the guard waved him on. He moved under the gate tower and on into the narrow streets, his mind whirling with memories: the young Uther, tall and strong in the Caledones; the Blood King leading the charge against the enemy; the boy and the man so full of life. Revelation felt a terrible sadness swelling within him. He had come here to make his peace with the man he had betrayed, to seek forgiveness.
He moved through the town like a dreamer, not seeing the shops and stores and market stalls, heading for the royal keep, where two sentries stood guard, both in ceremonial black coats and dark-plumed helms.
Their lances crossed before him, barring the way.
“None may enter today,” said a guard softly. “Come back tomorrow.”
“I need to speak to Victorinus,” said Revelation.
“He is not here. Come back tomorrow.”
“Then Gwalchmai or Prasamaccus.”
“Are you hard of hearing, old man? Tomorrow, I said.”
Revelation’s staff swept up, brushing the lances aside. The men jumped forward to overpower him, but the staff cracked against the first man’s skull, bowling him from his feet, then hammered into the second man’s groin, doubling him over, after which a second blow took him at the base of the neck.
Revelation walked on into the courtyard. Groups of men were sitting idly, their faces set and their misery apparent.
“You!” said Revelation, pointing at a warrior sitting on a well wall. “Where is Gwalchmai?” The man looked up and gestured to the north tower. Revelation mounted the steps and made his way up the circular stairwell to the king’s apartments. There, on a bed covered with white linen, lay the body of Uther dressed in full armor and plumed helm. Beside the bed, holding the king’s hand, was Gwalchmai, the Hound of the King. Tears stained his cheeks, and his eyes were red-rimmed.
He did not hear Revelation approach or react when the man’s hand touched his shoulder, but at the sound of the voice he jerked as if stung and leapt to his feet.
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