Last Sword of Power

by David Gemmell

  “Why did you risk your life to save me?”

  Cormac chuckled. “It was not for you, Uther; I was seeking the woman I love. But you were there, and perhaps blood called me. I do not know. But I want nothing of you or your kingdom—what is left of it. I want only Anduine, and then you will hear from me no more.”

  “Harsh words, my son. But I will not argue with the judgment. I know the errors I have made, and no one can make the hurt less—or more. I would be glad if you would spend a little time with me so that I can know you and be proud. But if you choose another path, so be it. Will you shake hands, man to man, and accept my thanks?”

  “That I will do,” said Cormac.

  Cormac walked back down the hill to the group, more light of heart than he had been when he had climbed the tor.

  Gwalchmai and Prasamaccus were the next to be summoned, and after them Severinus Albinus.

  He bowed to the king. “I had thought to enjoy my retirement,” he said accusingly.

  “Then you should have refused the call,” said the king.

  Albinus shrugged. “Life was tedious without you,” said the Roman.

  Uther nodded, and the two men smiled and gripped hands. “Would that I could rely on other men as I can on you,” said the king.

  “What now, Uther? I have three hundred old men guarding the causeway. The latest arrivals tell me there are more than twelve thousand Goths. Do we attack them? Do we wait?”

  “We go to them with sword and fire.”

  “Fine. It should earn us a splendid page in history.”

  “Will you come with me this last time?”

  Albinus grinned. “Why not? There is nowhere else to run.”

  “Then prepare the men, for we will travel as we did once before.”

  “There were almost five thousand of us then, Lord King. And we were young and reckless.”

  “You think twelve thousand Goths are a match for the legendary Ninth?” Uther mocked, grinning.

  “I think I should have stayed in Calcaria.”

  “We will not be alone, old friend. I have journeyed far, and I can promise you a day of surprises.”

  “I do not doubt that, sire. And I am no fool; I know where you had to go, and I am surprised they let you walk away alive.”

  Uther chuckled. “Life is a grand game, Albinus, and should be treated as such.” His smile faded, and his eyes lost their humor. “But I have made promises other men may come to rue.”

  Albinus shrugged. “Whatever you have done, I am with you. But then, I am old and ready for a tranquil life. I have a crooked servant in Calcaria who is even now praying for my death. I would like to disappoint him.”

  “Perhaps you will.”

  Galead was the last to be called, and the sun was setting as he found the king.

  “You have changed, Ursus. Would you like your old face returned to you?”

  “No, my lord. It would confuse Lekky, and I am content as Galead.”

  “You found the sword. How can I repay you?”

  Galead smiled. “I seek no payment.”

  “Speaking of swords, I see that you are no longer carrying a weapon,” said Uther.

  “No, I shall never bear arms again. I had hoped to find a small farm and breed horses. Lekky could have had a pony. But …” He spread his hands.

  “Do not abandon that hope, Galead. We are not finished yet.”

  “Where will you raise an army?”

  “Come with me and find out.”

  “I will be no use to you. I will never be a warrior again.”

  “Come anyway. The good sisters will look after Lekky.”

  “I have lost my appetite for blood and death. I do not hate the Goths, nor do I desire to see them slain.”

  “I need you, Galead. And leave your sword behind; another will take its place at the appointed time.”

  “You have spoken to Pendarric?”

  “I do not need to. I am the king, and I know what is to come.”

  Lastly Laitha came to him on the hilltop, and they stood arm in arm, gazing out at the Sleeping Giants in the bright moonlight.

  “Tell me you will come back,” she said.

  “I will come back.”

  “Have you used the sword to see Wotan’s power?”

  “Yes, and I have seen the future. It is not all bad, though there will be hardship ahead. Whatever may happen tomorrow, the realm is finished. We fought hard to keep it alive, like a candle in the storm. But no candle lasts forever.”

  “Are you sad?”

  “A little, for I have given my life to Britain. But the men who will come after I am gone are strong men, good men, caring men. The land will receive them, for they will love the land. My realm will not be missed for long.”

  “And what of you, Uther? Where will you go?”

  “I will be with you. Always.”

  “Oh, dear God! You are going …”

  “Do not say it,” he whispered, touching his finger to her lips. “I will come back to the isle tomorrow. You will stand on this hillside and will see my boat. And from that moment we will never be parted, though the world ends in fire and the stars vanish from memory.”

  “I will wait for you,” she said, and tried to smile …

  But the tears came anyway.

  * * *

  Wotan rode at the head of his army, ten thousand fighting men who had tasted only victory since he had first walked among them. The Saxons had deserted during the night, but they were not needed now. Ahead lay the Great Circle of Sorviodunum, and Wotan could remember the days of its construction and the mystery contained in its measurements.

  “I am coming for you, Pendarric,” he whispered into the breeze, and joy swept through him.

  Slowly the army moved across the plain.

  Suddenly there was a blaze of light from the circle, and Wotan reined in his horse. Sunlight gleamed from armor, and he saw several hundred Roman soldiers ringing the stones. Then a tall man strode from the circle to stand before the Goths. On his head was a great winged helm, and in his hands was the Sword of Cunobelin.

  Wotan touched his heels to his mount and cantered forward.

  “You are a stronger man than I thought,” he said. “My compliments on your escape.” His pale eyes scanned the warriors. “I have always believed you cannot beat a veteran for experience and strength under siege. But this …? This is almost comical.”

  “Look to your right, you arrogant son of a whore,” said Uther, raising the Sword of Cunobelin and pointing it to the north. White lightning leapt from the highest hill, the air around it shimmering. From out of nowhere came Geminus Cato, leading his legion. Behind the disciplined British ranks streamed thousands of Brigantes riding war chariots of bronze and iron.

  “And to your left,” hissed the king, and Wotan swung in the saddle.

  Once more the air shimmered and parted, and thirty thousand Saxon warriors, led by the forked-bearded Asta, marched to form a battle line. Grim-eyed men bearing long-handled axes, they stood silently awaiting the order to take their revenge on the Goths.

  “Where is your smile now?” asked the Blood King.

  The Goths, outnumbered six to one, fell back into a huge shield ring, and Wotan shrugged.

  “You think you have won? You believe those men are all I can call on?”

  He removed his helm, and Uther saw a glow begin beneath the skin of his brow, a pulsing red light that shone like a hidden crown.

  The skies above darkened, and in the clouds the king could see a demonic army of taloned creatures wheeling and diving, tearing at some unseen barrier.

  Without warning Wotan’s horse shied before the king, scales appearing on its flanks, its head becoming long and wedge-shaped, fire exploding from its mouth. Even as the beast reared, Uther raised his sword, deflecting the fire to scorch the grass at his feet. The blade hissed down through the scaled neck, and the creature fell writhing to the grass. Wotan leapt clear, his sword snaking into his hands.


  “As it should be,” he said. “Two kings deciding the fate of a world!”

  Their swords clashed together. Wotan was a warrior of immense power and confidence, unbeaten in combat since his resurrection. But Uther was also a man of great strength, and he had been trained by Culain lach Feragh, the greatest warrior of the age. The battle was evenly balanced; their swords hissed and sang, and the watching men marveled at the skill of the fighters. Time had no meaning, for neither man tired. Nor was there any evidence of supremacy as the battle continued. Only the demons moved, striving to break through the invisible barrier, while the warriors of all the armies stood silently awaiting the outcome.

  Uther’s blade cut into Wotan’s side, but a savage riposte sliced the flesh of the king’s thigh. Now both men were bleeding from many cuts, and the battle slowed. Uther staggered as Wotan’s blade lanced beneath his ribs. For a moment only Wotan’s eyes gleamed with triumph, but the king fell back and the Great Sword of Cunobelin swung in a high, vicious arc. Wotan, his blade trapped in Uther’s body, could only scream as the blade smashed into his skull, slicing under the Sipstrassi crown and smashing the bone to crimson-streaked shards.

  The Gothic king staggered back, calling on the power of Sipstrassi, but Uther rolled to his knees and hurled himself at the enemy, his sword ripping up through Wotan’s belly and splitting his heart in two. Wotan fell, his body twitching, and with one stroke Uther cut the head from the torso. But the Sipstrassi still glowed on the skull, and above the heads of the army the barrier was giving way. Uther tried to raise the sword, but his strength was failing.

  A shadow fell across him as he knelt in the grass.

  “Give me your sword, my king,” said Galead.

  Uther surrendered it and toppled forward to lie beside his enemy as Galead raised the blade over his head.

  “Begone!” he called, and a great wind grew, the clouds bunching in on themselves as lightning forked the sky. A beam of light shone from the sword, cleaving the clouds.

  The demons vanished.

  High in the heavens a shining light appeared like a silver coin trailing fire. Galead saw the stone set in the sword shimmer and pale. This was the comet spoken of by Pendarric, the moving star that could draw Sipstrassi magic … and Galead knew then what to wish for.

  “Take it all!” he screamed. “All.”

  The sky overhead tore like a curtain, and the comet seemed to swell. Closer and closer it came, huge and round like the hammer of the gods descending to destroy the earth. Men flung themselves to the ground, covering their heads. Galead could feel the pull of the comet dragging the power from the sword, drawing the magic from the stone, and pulling the life from his frame. His strength wilted, his arms becoming thin and scrawny; his knees gave way, and he fell, but still he held the blade high above his head.

  As suddenly as it had come, the comet was gone, and a great silence settled on the field. Cormac and Prasamaccus ran to the king, ignoring the broken, ancient man who lay on the grass with his bony hand still clutching the Sword of Cunobelin.

  From the Great Circle there was a blaze of light, and Pendarric stepped into sight. Kneeling beside Galead, he touched a stone to his brow, and youth flowed once more into his veins.

  “You found the words of power,” said Pendarric.

  “Has the evil gone?”

  “There is no more Sipstrassi on the face of your planet. Far below the sea perhaps, but none where men will find it for a thousand years. You achieved it, Galead. You have ended the reign of magic.”

  “But you still have a stone.”

  “I have come from the Feragh, my friend. The comet was not seen there.”

  “The king!” said Galead, struggling to rise.

  “Wait. Gather your strength.”

  Pendarric moved to where Uther lay. The king’s wounds were grievous, and blood was streaming from the injured side. Prasamaccus was doing his best to stanch the flow while Gwalchmai and Severinus Albinus supported the body and Cormac stood close by.

  Pendarric knelt beside the king and made to press the stone to his side.

  “No!” whispered Uther. “It ends here. Bring the leaders of the Goths and the Saxons to me, Prasamaccus. Do it swiftly!”

  “I can save you, Uther,” said Pendarric.

  “To what end?” Blood stained the king’s beard, and his flesh was deathly pale. “I could not be anything less than I am. I could not live on a farm. I love her, Pendarric; I always did. But I could never be just a man. You understand? If I stay, it will be to fight the Saxons and the Brigantes and the Jutes—trying to keep the candle aflame just a little longer.”

  “I know that,” Pendarric said sadly.

  Prasamaccus returned with a tall, fair-haired Goth, who knelt before the king.

  “Your name?”

  “Alaric,” answered the man.

  “You want to live, Alaric?”

  “Of course,” the warrior replied smoothly.

  “Then you will lay down your weapons, and I promise you that you will be allowed to return to your ships.”

  “Why would you do this?”

  “I am tired of blood and death. Your choice, Alaric: live or die. Make it now.”

  “We will live.”

  “A good choice. Severinus, see that my orders are obeyed. There is to be no more killing. Where is Asta?”

  “I am here, Blood King,” said Asta, crouching before the dying monarch.

  “And I will be true to the promise I made to you yesterday. I give you the land of South Saxon to rule and to govern. This I say before witnesses.”

  “Not as a vassal?”

  “No, as a king, answerable only to your own people.”

  “I accept. But this may not end the wars between my people and your own.”

  “Not a man alive can end war,” said Uther. “See that the Goths reach their ships.”

  “Is that an order, Blood King?”

  “It is a request such that one king might make to another.”

  “Then I agree. But you should have those wounds treated.”

  Uther raised his blood-covered hand, and Asta took it in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist. Then he rose and walked back to his host.

  “Get me to the isle,” said Uther. “There is someone waiting for me.”

  With great care the men around him lifted the king and carried him back into the Great Circle, where they laid him on the altar. Pendarric stood by, and the king called Cormac forward. “We did not have time to know one another, my son. But do not think of me with bitterness. All men make mistakes, and most suffer for them.”

  “No bitterness, Uther. Just pride … and regret.”

  The king smiled. “Galead,” he whispered, his voice fading.

  “I am here, my lord.”

  “When we come through the gateway, you will see a boat. Carry me to it and sail to the isle. A woman will be waiting there who knows that I lied. Tell her my last thoughts were of her.” Uther sagged back on the stone.

  Pendarric moved forward swiftly, raising his arm, and the king and Galead disappeared.

  Prasamaccus cried out in his anguish and stumbled away. Gwalchmai stood dry-eyed, his face set.

  “He will return. I know that he will … when our need is great.”

  No one spoke. Then Severinus Albinus placed his hand on Gwalchmai’s shoulder.

  “I do not know all your Celtic beliefs,” he said, “but I believe also that there is a place for men like Uther and that he will not die.”

  Gwalchmai turned to speak, but the tears could not be held back. He nodded stiffly and walked away to stand alone at the altar, staring up at the sky.

  Cormac stood by, his heart heavy. He had not really known Uther, but he was blood of his blood and he was proud. Turning, he saw a young woman running across the field, her hair flowing behind her.

  “Anduine!” he cried. “Anduine!”

  And she heard him.

  Epilogue

  GOROIEN LIFTED HER silver
helm and laid it on the throne, her gauntlets and breastplate beside it. Her swords she kept. Then she walked down to the hall, through the silent ranks of the shadow beasts, and out onto the plain before the keep.

  She could see the gray ribbon of the road wending its way into the distance, and upon it stood a shrouded figure. Slowly she walked to the hooded man, her hand on the hilt of a silver sword.

  “Are you a servant of Molech?” she asked.

  “I am no one’s servant, Goroien, save maybe yours.” He pushed back the hood, and she gasped, hiding her face in her hands.

  “Do not look at me, Culain. You will see only decay.”

  Gently he took her hands and stared down at her unsullied beauty.

  “There is no decay. You are as beautiful now as the day I first saw you.”

  She looked at her hands and saw that he spoke the truth.

  “Can you still love me after all I have done to you?” she asked him. He smiled and lifted her hand to his lips.

  “No man knows where the road leads,” she said. “You think there is a paradise?”

  “I think we have already found it.”

  “Gemmell not only knows how to tell a story, he

  knows how to tell a story you want to hear. He

  does high adventure as it ought to be done.”

  —Greg Keyes,

  Author of The Briar King

  THE SWORDS OF

  NIGHT AND DAY

  A Novel of Skilgannon the Damned

  by David Gemmell

  With mythic sweep and epic scope, David Gemmell’s bestselling novels of magic and adventure feature brooding heroes who fight to preserve all that is good and honorable in themselves and in the worlds through which they stride like lonely giants. In times of terror and despair, theirs are the swords that carve a shining path, inspiring others to follow. Even after their deaths, their names live on.…

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