“And would she desire this, young prince?”
Cormac looked away for a moment. “No, she would not,” he admitted, “and perhaps that is why I love her so deeply. But I will seek Goroien.”
“She will destroy you, and that is only if you can reach her. To do so you must leave the road and journey across the Shadowlands. There the most vile of creatures dwell, and they will haunt your every step.”
Victorinus raised his hand, and all eyes turned to him. “I appreciate your advice, Albain, and your warnings. But the prince and I will leave the road to seek the Witch Queen.” He turned to his aide, Marcus. “Will you travel with me?”
“We died with you, sir,” said the young man. “We’ll not leave you now.”
“Then it is settled. What of you, Maedhlyn?”
“The witch hates me more than any of you, but yes—I will go. What else is there for me?”
Albain rose and gazed sadly at the fifteen men. “I wish you God’s luck. There is no more to say.”
Cormac watched the little man weave his way through the crowded cavern. “How did he come to be here, Maedhlyn?”
“He followed the right god at a time when Rome was ruled by the wrong one. Let us go.”
12
THREE INVASION FLEETS landed on the coasts of Britannia in the fourth week of the spring. Eleven thousand men came ashore at Segundunum near the easternmost fortress of the nearly derelict Wall of Hadrian. The town was sacked, with hundreds of citizens put to the sword.
The second fleet—led by Wotan’s ablest general, Alaric—disgorged eight thousand men at Anderida on the south coast, and this army was further swelled by two thousand Saxons recruited by the renegade Agwaine. Refugees packed the roads and tracks toward Londinium as the Goths swept along the coastline toward Noviomagus.
The third fleet beached at Petvaria, having sailed unchallenged along the mouth of the Humber. Twenty-two thousand fighting men came ashore, and the British defense force of twelve hundred men fled before them.
In Eboracum, less than twenty-five miles away, the city was in panic.
Geminus Cato, left with little choice, gathered his two legions of ten thousand men and marched to engage the enemy. Fierce storms lashed the legions, and during the first night of camp many men swore they had seen a demonic head outlined against the thunderclouds and lit by spears of lightning. By morning desertions had reduced Cato’s fighting force by more than a thousand.
His scouts reported the enemy closing in just after dawn, and Cato moved his men to the crown of a low hill half a mile to the west. There trenches were hastily dug and spiked, and the horses of the officers were removed to a picket line in a nearby wood, behind the battle site.
The storm clouds disappeared as swiftly as they had come, and the Goths came into sight in brilliant sunshine that blazed from their spear points and raised axes. Cato felt the fear spread along the line as the sheer size of the enemy force made an impact on the legions.
“By all the gods, they’re a pretty bunch,” shouted Cato. A few men sniggered, but the tension did not break.
A young soldier dropped his gladius and stepped back. “Pick it up, boy,” said Cato softly. “It’ll gather rust lying there.”
The youth was trembling and close to tears. “I don’t want to die,” he said.
Cato glanced at the Goths who were gathering for the charge and then walked to the boy, stooping to gather his sword. “Nobody does,” he said, pushing the hilt into the soldier’s hand and guiding him back into line.
With a roar that echoed the previous storm, the Goths hurled themselves at the line.
“Archers!” bellowed Cato. “Take your positions!”
The five hundred bowmen in their light leather tunics ran forward between the shield bearers and formed a line along the hilltop. A dark cloud of shafts arched into the air and down into the charging mass. The Goths were heavily armored and the casualties were few, yet the charge faltered as men fell and tripped those who were following.
“Retire and take up spears!”
The bowmen pulled back behind the shield wall, dropped their bows and quivers, and in pairs took up the ten-foot spears lying in rows behind the heavily armored legionaries. The first man in each pair knelt hidden behind a shielded warrior, holding the spear three feet from the point. The second man gripped the shaft at the base, awaiting the order from Cato.
The charging Goths were almost at the line when Cato raised his arm.
“Now!”
As the spearmen surged forward, the hidden spears, directed by the kneeling men at the front, flashed between the shields, plunging into the front ranks of the attacking warriors, smashing shields to shards, and cleaving chain mail. The unbarbed spears were dragged back and then rammed home again and again.
The slaughter was terrifying, and the Goths fell back dismayed.
Three times more they charged, but the deadly spears kept them at bay. The ground before the line was thick with enemy dead and with wounded writhing in agony with their ribs crushed, their lifeblood oozing into the soft earth.
An officer moved across the Goths’ front line and spoke to the waiting warriors. Five hundred men flung aside their shields and advanced.
“What are they doing, sir?” asked Cato’s aide, Decius. Cato did not reply. It did not become an officer in the midst of a battle to admit that he had no idea.
The Goths surged up the hill, screaming the name of Wotan. The spears plunged into them, but each stricken warrior grabbed the shaft of the weapon that was killing him, trapping the spear in his own body. The main army attacked once more, this time crashing against the British shield wall with tremendous force.
For a moment the wall split, and several warriors forced their way into the line. Cato drew his gladius and rushed at them; he was joined by a young legionary, and together they closed the breach. As the Goths fell back, Cato turned to the legionary and saw that it was the boy who earlier had dropped his sword.
“You did well, lad.” Before the boy could reply, a terrifying roar went up from the Gothic ranks and the enemy surged toward the line.
The battle lasted the full day with neither side triumphant, yet at dusk Cato had no choice but to pull back from the hill. He had lost 271 men, with another 94 wounded. The enemy losses, he calculated, were around two thousand. In military terms it was a victory, but realistically Cato knew it had gained the Britons little. The Goths now knew—if they ever had been in doubt—that Uther’s army was not as poorly led as the Merovingian forces across the water. And the Britons knew the Goths were not invincible. Apart from those two points nothing had been gained from the day, and Cato marched his men back along the road toward Eboracum, having already chosen the site for the next battle.
“Is it really true, sir?” asked Decius as the two men rode ahead of the legions. “Is the king alive?”
“Yes,” answered Cato.
“Then where is he?”
Cato was weary and not for the first time wished he had another aide. But Decius was the son of a rich merchant and had paid for the appointment with a beautiful villa outside Eboracum.
“The king will let us know his plans when he is ready. Until then we will do what he asks of us.”
“But several men saw the corpse, sir. And the funeral arrangements were being made.”
Cato ignored the comment. “When the night camp is made, I want you to tour the fires. The men fought well today. Make yourself known among them—compliment them, tell them you have never seen such bravery.”
“Yes, sir. For how long should I continue to do this?”
Cato bit back his anger and thought of his villa. “Never mind, Decius. You set up my tent and I’ll talk to the men.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Galead’s dreams were dark and filled with pain. Awakening in the cold dawn, he stared at the ashes of the previous night’s fire. He had seen in his dreams Victorinus and his twelve warriors ride into the wood to be surrounded
by the Goths—led by the traitor Agwaine—and had watched the old general die as he had lived, with cold dignity and no compromise.
Shivering, he rekindled the fire. His news was of little worth to Britain now. The invasion fleets would sail within days, the king was dead, and the power of Wotan was beyond opposition. Yet he could feel no hate, only a terrible burden of sorrow dragging down his spirit.
Beside him lay his sword, and he stared at it, loath to touch it. What was it, he wondered, that led men to desire such weapons, that filled them with the need to use them against their fellows, hacking and cutting and slaying?
And for what? Where was the gain? Few soldiers grew rich. Most returned to the poor farms and villages where they had grown up, and many lived out their lives without limbs or with terrible scars that served as grim reminders of the days of war.
A sparrow landed beside him, pecking at the crumbs of the oatcake he had eaten at dusk the day before. Another joined it. Galead sat unmoving as the birds hopped around the scabbarded sword.
“What do they tell you?” asked a voice.
Galead looked across the fire to see a man seated there, wrapped in a cloak of rich rust-red. His beard was golden and heavily curled, and his eyes were deep blue.
“They tell me nothing,” he answered softly, “but they are peaceful creatures, and I am happy to see them.”
“Would they have fed so contentedly beside Ursus, the prince who desired riches?”
“If they had, he would not have noticed them. Who are you?”
“I am not an enemy.”
“This I already knew.”
“Of course. Your powers are growing, and you are rising above the sordid deeds of this world.”
“I asked who you were, stranger.”
“My name is Pendarric.”
Galead shivered as he heard the name, as if deep inside himself the name echoed in a distant hall of memory. “Should I know you?”
“No, though I have used other names. But we walk the same paths, you and I. Where you are now I once stood, and all my deeds seemed as solid as morning mist—and as long-lasting.”
“And what did you decide?”
“Nothing. I followed the heart’s desire and came to know peace.”
Galead smiled. “Where in these lands can I find peace? And were I to try, would it not be selfish? My friends are about to suffer invasion, and my place is with them.”
“Peace does not rest within a realm, or a city, or a town, or even a crofter’s hut,” said Pendarric. “But then, you know this. What will you do?”
“I will find a way to return to Britain. I will go against the power of Wotan.”
“Will it give you satisfaction to destroy him?”
Galead considered the question. “No,” he said at last. “Yet evil must be countered.”
“With the sword?”
Galead looked down at the weapon with distaste. “Is there another way?”
“If there is, you will find it. I have discovered a wonderful truth in my long life: Those who seek with a pure heart usually find what they are looking for.”
“It would help me greatly to know what I am looking for.”
“You talked about countering evil, and in essence that is a question of balance. But the scales are not merely linear. A great amount of evil does not necessarily require an equivalent amount of good to equalize the balance.”
“How can that be true?” Galead asked.
“An angry bear will suffer a score of arrows and still be deadly, but a touch of poison, and it falls. Sometimes an apparently meaningless incident will set in motion events that will cause either great suffering or great joy.”
“Are you saying there is a way to bring down Wotan without the sword?”
“I am saying nothing that simple. But it is an interesting question for a philosopher, is it not? Wotan feeds on hatred and death, and you seek to combat him with swords and shields. In war a soldier will find it all but impossible not to hate the enemy. And so, do you not give Wotan even more of what he desires?”
“And if we do not fight him?”
“Then he wins and brings even more death and despair to your land and many others.”
“Your riddle is too deep for me, Pendarric. If we fight him, we lose. If we do not, we lose. Yours is a philosophy of despair.”
“Only if you cannot see the real enemy.”
“There is something worse than Wotan?”
“There always is, Galead.”
“You speak like a man of great wisdom, and I sense you have power. Will you use that power against Wotan?”
“I am doing exactly that at this moment. Why else would I be here?”
“Are you offering me a weapon against him?”
“No.”
“Then what is the purpose of your visit?”
“What indeed?”
answered Pendarric.
His image faded, and Galead was alone once more. The birds were still feeding by the sword as the knight turned to look at them, but as he moved, they fluttered away in panic. He stood and strapped the blade to his side, covered the fire with earth, and saddled his horse.
The coast was a mere eight miles through the woods, and he hoped to find a ship that might land him on the shores of Britain. He rode the narrow trails through the forest, lost in thought, listening to the birdsong, enjoying the sunlight that occasionally lanced through the gaps in the overhanging trees. His mood was more tranquil after Pendarric’s appearance, though the sorrow remained.
Toward the middle of the morning he met an elderly man and two women standing alongside a handcart with a broken wheel. The cart was piled with possessions: clothes, chests, and a very old chair. The man bowed as he approached, the women standing nervously as Galead dismounted.
“May I offer assistance?” he asked.
“That is truly kind,” said the man, smiling. His hair was long and white, though darker streaks could still be seen in his forked beard. One of the women was elderly, the other young and attractive with auburn hair streaked with gold; her right eye was bruised, and her lip cut and swollen. Galead knelt by the cart and saw that the wheel had come loose and had been torn away from the joining pin at the axle.
He helped them unload the cart, then lifted it so that the wheel could be pushed back in place. Using the back of a hatchet blade, he hammered the joining pin home and then reloaded the cart.
“I am very grateful,” said the man. “Will you join us for our midday meal?”
Galead nodded and sat down by the roadside as the young woman prepared a fire. The older woman busied herself taking pans and plates from the back of the cart.
“We do not have much,” said the old man, seating himself beside Galead. “Some oats and salt. But it is filling, and there is goodness in the food.”
“It will suffice. My name is Galead.”
“And I am Caterix. That is my wife, Oela, and my daughter, Pilaras.”
“Your daughter seems to be in pain.”
“Yes. The journey has not been kind to us, and I pray to the lord that our troubles may now be over.”
“How was she hurt?”
Caterix looked away. “Three men robbed us two days ago. They … assaulted my daughter and killed her husband, Doren, when he tried to aid her.”
“I am sorry,” Galead said lamely.
The meal was eaten in silence after a short prayer of thanks from Caterix. Galead thanked the family for the hospitality and offered to ride with them to the coast, where they had friends. Caterix accepted the offer with a bow, and the small group followed slowly as Galead rode ahead.
As dusk flowed into evening Galead, rounding a bend in the trail, saw a man sitting with his back to a tree. He rode forward and dismounted. The man was bleeding heavily from a wound in his chest, and his face was pale, the eyelids and lips blue from loss of blood. Ripping open the dirty tunic, Galead stanched the wound as best he could. After several minutes Caterix came upon the scene;
he knelt beside the wounded man, lifting his wrist and checking his pulse.
“Get him to the cart,” he said. “I have some cloth there for bandages and a needle and thread.” Together they half lifted, half dragged the man to a rounded clearing by a silver stream. The two women helped clean the wound, and Caterix expertly sewed the jagged flesh together. Then they wrapped the man in blankets warmed by the fire.
“Will he live?” asked Galead.
Caterix shrugged. “That is in the lord’s hands. He has lost much blood.”
In the night Galead awoke to see the girl Pilaras kneeling by the wounded man. Moonlight glinted from the knife in her hand.
She sat motionless for a long moment, then raised the knife, resting the point on the sleeping man’s neck. Suddenly her head sagged forward, and Galead saw that she was weeping. She lifted the knife and replaced it in the sheath at her side, returning to her blankets by the cart.
Galead lay back and returned to his dreams. He watched as the invasion ships landed on the coast of Britain, saw the Goths begin their march toward the cities, and, over it all, saw two visions that haunted him: a demonic head filling the sky, surrounded by storm clouds and lightning, and a sword shining like a midnight lantern.
Despite his dreams, he awoke refreshed. The wounded man was still sleeping, but his color was better. Galead washed in the stream and then approached Caterix, who was sitting beside the victim.
“I must leave you,” said Galead. “I need to find a ship to take me home.”
“May the lord guide you and protect you on your journey.”
“And you on yours, Caterix. It was a fine deed to save the man’s life.”
“Not fine at all. What are we if we do not aid our fellows in their times of trial?”
Galead rose and walked to his horse, then on impulse returned to Caterix.
“Last night your daughter held a knife to this man’s throat.”
He nodded. “She told me this morning. I am very proud of her.”
“Why did she do it?”
“This is the man who raped her and killed her husband.”
“And you saved him? Sweet Mithras, he deserves death!”
Last Sword of Power Page 18
