“How did it happen, Gwal?”
“You!” Gwalchmai’s hand flew to his side, but there was no sword. The eyes blazed. “How dare you come here?”
Revelation ignored him and moved to the bed. “I asked how it happened,” he whispered.
“What difference does it make? It happened. A sorcerous mist filled the castle, and all fell into a deep sleep. When we awoke, the king was lying dead in the courtyard beside the body of a scaled beast. And the sword was gone.”
“How long ago?”
“Three days.”
Revelation lifted the king’s hand. “Then why no sign of stiffening?” He slid his fingers to the king’s wrist and waited. There was no pulse, yet the flesh was warm to the touch.
From the pocket of his robe he produced Pendarric’s stone, which he touched to the king’s brow. There was no discernible movement, but the pulse point under his fingers trembled.
“He is alive,” said Revelation.
“No!”
“See for yourself, man.”
Gwalchmai moved to the other side of the bed and pressed his fingers to the king’s throat, just under the jawline. His eyes brightened, but the gleam died.
“Is this more sorcery, Culain?”
“No, I promise you.”
“Of what worth are the promises of an oath breaker?”
“Then you must judge, Gwalchmai. There is no stiffness in the body, the blood has not fallen back from the face, and the eyes are not sunken. How do you read his condition?”
“But there is no breath, there is no heartbeat,” said the Cantii tribesman.
“He is at the point of death, but he has not yet passed the dark river.”
Revelation put both hands to the king’s face.
“What are you doing?” asked Gwalchmai.
“Be silent,” ordered Revelation, closing his eyes. His mind drifted, linking with Uther, drawing on the power of the stone he carried.
Darkness, despair, and a tunnel of black stone … A beast … Many beasts … a figure, tall and strong …
Revelation screamed and was hurled back across the room, the front of his habit ripped, blood welling from the talon tears on his chest. Gwalchmai stood transfixed as Revelation slowly rose to his feet.
“Sweet Mithras,” whispered Gwalchmai.
Revelation took the stone and held it to his chest, and the wounds sealed instantly. “They have Uther’s soul,” he said.
“Who?”
“The enemy, Gwalchmai: Wotan.”
“We must rescue him.”
Revelation shook his head. “That would take a power beyond mine. All we can do is protect the body. While it lives there is hope.”
“A body without a soul—what good is it?”
“The flesh and the spirit are linked, Gwalchmai, each drawing on the strength of the other. Wotan will know now that the body lives and will seek to destroy it; that is a certainty. What is puzzling, however, is why the soul was taken. I can understand Wotan’s desire to kill Uther but not this.”
“I care nothing for his motives,” hissed Gwalchmai, “but he will die for this. I swear it.”
“I fear he is too powerful for you,” said Revelation. He walked to the far wall and traced a line along it with the golden stone, past the door, onto the north wall, and on around the room until he reached his starting point. “Now we shall see,” he said.
“Why have you come back?”
“I thought I had come to ask Uther to forgive me. But now I think the Source guided me here to protect the king.”
“Had he been … alive … he would have killed you.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Fetch your weapons, Gwal, and your armor. You will need them soon.”
Without a word Gwalchmai left the room, and Revelation pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. Why had the king been taken? Molech would not idly waste such power merely to torment an enemy. And the power drain on his Sipstrassi Stones would be enormous for such a venture. He had to believe there was something to gain, something worth the loss of magic. And the body—why leave it alive?
Revelation gazed down at the king. The armor was embossed with gold, the helm bearing the crown of Britain and the eagle of Rome, the breastplate fashioned after the Greek style and embossed with the symbol of the bear. The brass-studded kilt was worn over leather leggings and thigh-high boots reinforced with copper to protect the knees of a horseman in the crashing together of mounts during a charge. The scabbard was jewel-encrusted, a gift from a rich merchant in Noviomagus, made to house the Great Sword of Cunobelin.
It was a sickening thought that the Sword of Power was now in Wotan’s hands. For once it had been Culain’s, and he had watched it being fashioned from pure silver Sipstrassi, the rarest form of the magical stone, a hundred times more powerful than the gold pebble Culain now carried. Without the sword Wotan was powerful enough, but with it, could any power on earth stand against him?
The door opened, and Gwalchmai entered in full armor and wearing two short swords scabbarded at the hips. Behind him came Prasamaccus, bearing his curved cavalry bow and a quiver of arrows.
“It is good to see you again,” said Revelation.
Prasamaccus nodded and limped into the room, laying the bow and quiver by the wall. “Somehow,” said the old Brigante, “I did not think the fall from the cliff would kill you. But when you failed to reappear …”
“I traveled to Mauretania on the African coast.”
“And the queen?”
“She stayed in Belgica. She died there some years ago.”
“It was all a terrible folly,” said Prasamaccus. He held out his hand to Revelation, who took it gratefully.
“You do not hate me, then?”
“I never hated anyone in all my life. And if I were to begin, it would not be with you, Culain. I was there the first night when Uther made love to Laitha; it was in the land of the Pinrae. Later I saw the prince, as he then was, and he told me that during the lovemaking—when his emotions were at their highest point—Laitha whispered your name. He never forgot it … it ate at him like a cancer. He was not a bad man, you understand, and he tried to forgive her. The trouble is that if you can’t forget, you can’t forgive. I am sorry the queen is dead.”
“I have missed you both during the years,” said Revelation. “And Victorinus. Where is he?”
“Uther sent him to Gallia to discuss treaties with Wotan,” said Gwalchmai. “There has been no word in a month.”
Revelation said nothing, and Prasamaccus pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. “When will they come?” he asked.
“Tonight, I think. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“How will they know the body lives?”
“I tried to reach Uther’s soul. Wotan was there, and one of the beasts attacked me. Wotan will know I traced the thread of Uther’s life, and they will follow it back.”
“Can we stop them?” asked the Brigante softly.
“We can try. Tell me everything about how the king was found.”
“He was lying in the courtyard,” said Gwalchmai. “There was a nightmare beast beside him, gutted and dead and rotting at a rate you would not believe. By nightfall only the bones and the stench remained.”
“That is all that was there? Just a dead beast and the king?”
“Yes … no … There was a gladius by the body; it belonged to one of the guards.”
“A gladius? Did the guard drop it there?”
“I do not know. I’ll find out.”
“Do it now, Gwal.”
“How important can it be?”
“If the king was using it, then believe me, it is important.”
Once Gwalchmai had gone, Prasamaccus and Revelation walked together on the circular battlement around the north tower, staring out over the hills surrounding Eboracum.
“The land is so green and beautiful,” said Revelation. “I wonder if it will ever know a time without war.”
“Not so long as
men dwell here,” replied Prasamaccus, pausing to rest his lame leg by sitting on the battlement wall. The wind was chilly, and he drew his green cloak around his slender frame. “I thought you immortals never aged,” he said.
Revelation shrugged. “All things have their seasons. How is Helga?”
“She died. I miss her.”
“Do you have children?”
“We had a boy and a girl. The boy died of the red plague when he was three, but my daughter survived. She is a handsome lass; she is pregnant now and hoping for a boy-child.”
“Are you happy, Prasamaccus?”
“I am alive … and the sun shines. I have no complaints, Culain. You?”
“I think that I am content. Tell me, has there been any word of Maedhlyn?”
“No. He and Uther parted company some years ago. I do not know the rights and wrongs of it, but it began when Maedhlyn said his magic could not discover where you were hiding with Laitha. Uther believed it was his loyalty to you that prevented him from giving aid.”
“It was not,” said Revelation. “I used my stone to shield us.”
Prasamaccus smiled. “I am sorry about the hound. I wished we had never discovered you. But Uther was my king and my friend. I could not betray him.”
“I bear no ill will, my friend. I just wish you had searched a little harder after we leapt from the cliff.”
“Why so?”
“Uther’s son was waiting in the cave. Laitha bore the child there, and it survived.”
The color drained from the old Brigante’s face. “A son? Are you sure it was Uther’s?”
“Without the slightest doubt. He was raised among the Saxons; they found him by the hound and her pups, and they called him Daemonsson. Once you see him, there will be no doubt in your mind. He is the image of Uther.”
“We should fetch him here. He should be the new king.”
“No,” said Revelation sharply. “He is not ready. Say nothing of this to Gwal or any other man. When the time is right, Uther himself will acknowledge him.”
“If the king lives,” whispered Prasamaccus.
“We are here to see that he does.”
“Two elderly warriors and an immortal seeking to die? Not the most awe-inspiring force to be mustered in this Land of Mist!”
Gwalchmai returned just as the sun was setting, and Revelation and Prasamaccus joined him in the king’s apartments.
“Well?” asked Revelation.
The white-haired Cantii shrugged. “The guard said that when the mist struck, his sword was in its scabbard, but when he awoke, it was beside the king. What of it?”
Revelation smiled. “It means that Uther killed the beast with the guard’s gladius. What does that suggest to you?”
Gwalchmai’s eyes brightened. “He did not have his sword.”
“Exactly. He knew what they had come for and hid the blade where they could not find it. Therefore, they took him alive … for torture.”
“Can you torture a soul?” asked Prasamaccus.
“Better than you can a body,” Revelation answered. “Think of the inner pain you have suffered over the death of a loved one. Is it not greater than any physical wound?”
“What can we do, Culain?” whispered Gwalchmai, his gaze resting on the still body of the king he had served for a quarter of a century.
“First we must protect the body, second find the Sword of Power.”
“It could be anywhere,” said Prasamaccus.
“Worse,” admitted Revelation, “it could be anything.”
“I do not understand you,” the Cantii said. “It is a sword.”
“It was fashioned from silver Sipstrassi, the most potent source of power known to the ancient world. We built the gateways with its power, fashioned the Standing Stones, created the old straight tracks your people still use. With it we left the ancient paths, stretching across many kingdoms, joining many sites of earth magic. If Uther wished, the sword could become a pebble, or a tree, or a lance, or a flower.”
“Then for what do we search?” asked Prasamaccus. “Can we send Uther’s knights across the land in search of a flower?”
“Wherever it is, the magic of the sword will become apparent. Let us say it is a flower: in that region plants will grow as never before, crops will flower early, and sickness will disappear. The knights must search for such signs.”
“If it is in Britannia,” said Gwalchmai.
“If it was easy to find, then Wotan would take it,” snapped Revelation. “But think on this: When Uther was in peril, he had at best only moments to hide the sword. Knowing the king as you both do, where do you think he would send it?”
Prasamaccus shrugged. “The Caledones, perhaps, where he first met you and Laitha. Or the Pinrae, where he defeated the army of Goroien. Or Camulodunum.”
“All places Wotan will search, for the king’s story is well known. Uther would not make it so easy,” said Revelation. “Sweet Christos!”
“What?” asked Gwalchmai.
“There are two people in the Caledones Wotan must not find. And I cannot reach them; I cannot leave here.” He rose from his seat, his face gray, his eyes haunted. Prasamaccus laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“The boy you spoke of?”
Revelation nodded.
“And now you must choose between …” Prasamaccus left the sentence unfinished. He knew the torment raging inside him. Save the father or the son. Or as Culain would see it, betray one to save the other.
Behind him Gwalchmai lit the lanterns and drew the first of his swords, which he honed with an old whetstone. Revelation took up his staff and closed his eyes. The brown woolen habit disappeared, to be replaced by the black and silver armor of Culain lach Feragh. The gray beard vanished, and the hair on his head darkened. The staff became silver, and Culain twisted the haft, producing two short swords of glistening silver.
“You have made your decision, then?” whispered Prasamaccus.
“I have, may God forgive me,” said the Lance Lord.
The spring was beautiful in the Caledones, the mountains ablaze with color, the swollen streams glittering in the sunlight, the woods and forests filled with birdsong. Cormac had never been happier. Oleg and Rhiannon had found and renovated the old cabin higher in the mountains, leaving Anduine and Cormac to the solitude needed by young lovers. On most mornings Oleg would join Cormac on his training runs and teach him the more subtle skills of swordplay. But once the sun passed noon, Oleg would journey back to his cabin. Of Rhiannon, Cormac saw little but enough to know she was unhappy. She had not believed her father concerning Wotan and was convinced he had prevented her from becoming a queen over the Goths. Now she stayed in the high country, wandering the hills, seeking inner peace.
But thoughts of Rhiannon rarely entered Cormac’s head. He was alive, surrounded by beauty, and in love.
“Are you happy?” Anduine asked him as they sat naked by the lake in the afternoon sunshine.
“How could I not be?” he countered, stroking her cheek and leaning in to kiss her softly on the mouth. Her arm looped around his neck, pulling him down until he could feel her soft breasts pressing against the skin of his chest. His hand slid down her hips, and he marveled anew at the silky softness of her skin. Then he drew back from her.
“What is wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he replied, chuckling. “I just wanted to look at you.”
“Tell me what you see.”
“What can I tell you, my lady?”
“You could flatter me mercilessly. Tell me I am beautiful—the most beautiful woman who ever lived.”
“You are the most beautiful I have ever seen. Will that suffice?”
“And do you love me only for my beauty, young sir? Or is it because I am a princess?”
“I am the son of a king,” said Cormac. “Is that why you love me?”
“No,” she whispered. “I love you for what you are as a man.”
They made love once more, t
his time slowly yet with passion. At last they moved apart, and Cormac kissed her softly on the brow. He saw the tears in her eyes and pulled her to him.
“What is the matter?”
She shook her head, turning away from him.
“Tell me … please.”
“Each time we are together like this, I fear it is the last. And one day it will be.”
“No!” he said. “We will always be together. Nothing will separate us.”
“Always?”
“Until the stars fall from the sky,” he promised her.
“Only until then?”
“Only until then, lady. After that I might need someone younger!”
She smiled and sat up, reaching for her dress. He passed it to her, then gathered his own clothes and the sword he had worn since the attack.
“Give me your eyes, Cormac,” she asked.
He leaned toward her, allowing her hand to touch his closed eyelids. Darkness descended, but this time there was no panic.
“I’ll race you home,” she shouted, and he heard her running steps. He grinned and walked forward six paces to the round rock, his hand feeling for the niche that pointed south. Lining himself up with the niche, he began to run, counting the steps. At thirty he slowed and carefully inched forward to the lightning-struck pine whose upper branch pointed down toward the cabin and the straight run into the clearing.
As he reached it, he heard Anduine scream, a sound that lanced his heart and filled him with a terrible fear.
“Anduine!” he yelled, his torment echoing in the mountains. He blundered on, sword in hand, not noticing that he had left the path until he tripped over a jutting root. As he fell awkwardly, the sword slipped from his grasp, and his fingers scrabbled across the grass, seeking the hilt.
He fought for calm and concentrated on the sounds around him, his fingers still questing. At last he found the blade and stood. The incline of the hill was to his left, so he slowly turned right and followed the hill downward, his left hand stretched out before him. The ground leveled, and he could smell the woodsmoke from the cabin chimney.
“Anduine!”
There was a movement to his right, heavy and slow. “Who’s there?”
Last Sword of Power Page 14
