2 2 THE KING, FLANKED by Gwalchmai and Victorinus, walked out into the paddock field to view his new horses. The young man standing beside the crippled Prasamaccus stared intently at the legendary warrior.
“I thought he would be taller,” he whispered, and Prasamaccus smiled.
“You thought to see a giant walking head and shoulders above other men. Oh, Ursus, you of all people ought to know the difference between men and myths.”
Ursus’ pale gray eyes studied the king as he approached. The man was around forty years of age and walked with the confident grace of a warrior who had never met his equal. His hair flowing to his mail-clad shoulders was auburn red, though his thick square-cut beard was more golden in color and was streaked with gray. The two men walking beside him were older, perhaps in their fifties. One was obviously Roman, hawk-nosed and steely-eyed, while the second wore his gray hair braided like a tribesman.
“A fine day,” said the king, ignoring the younger man and addressing himself to Prasamaccus.
“It is, my lord, and the horses you bought are as fine.”
“They are all here?”
“Thirty-five stallions and sixty mares. May I present Prince Ursus of the House of Merovee?”
The young man bowed. “It is an honor, my lord.”
The king gave a tired smile and moved past the young man. He took Prasamaccus by the arm, and the two walked on into the field, stopping by a gray stallion of some seventeen hands.
“The Sicambrians know how to breed horses,” said Uther, running his hand over the beast’s glistening flank.
“You look weary, Uther.”
“It reflects how I feel. The Trinovante are flexing their muscles once more, as are the Saxons in the Middle Land.”
“When do you ride?”
“Tomorrow, with four legions. I sent Patreus with the Eighth and the Fifth, but he was routed. Reports say we lost six hundred men.”
“Was Patreus among them?” Prasamaccus asked.
“If not, he’ll wish he was,” snapped the king. “He tried to charge a shield wall up a steep slope.”
“As you yourself did only four days ago against the Goths.”
“But I won!”
“You always do, my lord.”
Uther grinned, and for a moment there was a flash of the lonely youth Prasamaccus had first met a quarter of a century before. But then it was gone, and the mask settled once more.
“Tell me of the Sicambrian,” said the king, staring across at the young dark-haired prince clad all in black.
“He knows his horses.”
“That was not my meaning, and well you know it.”
“I cannot say, Uther. He seems … intelligent, knowledgeable.”
“You like him?”
“I rather think that I do. He reminds me of you—a long time ago.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It is a compliment.”
“Have I changed so much?”
Prasamaccus said nothing. A lifetime earlier Uther had dubbed him Kingsfriend and asked always for his honest council. In those days the young prince had crossed the Mist in search of his father’s sword, had fought demons and the Witch Queen, had brought an army of ghosts back to the world of flesh, and had loved the mountain woman Laitha.
The old Brigante shrugged. “We all change, Uther. When my Helga died last year, I felt all beauty pass from the world.”
“A man is better off without love. It weakens him,” said the king, moving away to examine the horses. “Within a few years we will have a better, faster army. All these mounts are at least two hands taller than our horses, and they are bred for speed and stamina.”
“Ursus brought something else you might like to see,” said Prasamaccus. “Come, it will interest you.” The king seemed doubtful, but he followed the limping Brigante back to the paddock gates. There Ursus bowed once more and led the group to the rear of the herdsmen’s living quarters. In the yard behind the buildings a wooden frame had been erected—curved wood attached to a straight spine, representing a horse’s back. Over this Ursus draped a stiffened leather cover. A second section was tied to the front of the frame, and the prince secured the hide, then returned to the waiting warriors.
“What in Hades is it?” asked Victorinus. Ursus lifted a short bow and nocked an arrow to the string.
With one smooth motion he let fly. The shaft struck the rear of the “horse” and, failing to penetrate fully, flapped down to point at the ground.
“Give me the bow,” said Uther. Drawing back the string as far as the weapon could stand, he loosed the shaft. It cut through the leather and jutted from the hide.
“Now look, sire,” said Ursus, stepping forward to the “horse.” Uther’s arrow had penetrated a mere half inch. “It would prick a good horse, but it would not have disabled him.”
“What of the weight?” asked Victorinus.
“A Sicambrian horse could carry it and still work a full day as well as any British warhorse.”
Gwalchmai was unimpressed. The old Cantii warrior hawked and spit. “It must cut down on the speed of the charge, and that is what carries us through the enemy. Armored horses? Pah!”
“You would perhaps think of riding into battle without your own armor?” snapped the prince.
“You insolent puppy!” roared Gwalchmai.
“Enough!” ordered the king. “Tell me, Ursus, what of the rains? Would they not soften your leather and add to the weight?”
“Yes, my lord. But each warrior should carry a quantity of oiled beeswax to be rubbed into the cover every day.”
“Now we must polish our horses as well as our weapons,” Gwalchmai said with a mocking grin.
“Have ten of these … horse jerkins … made,” said Uther. “Then we shall see.”
“Thank you, sire.”
“Do not thank me until I place an order. This is what you are seeking, yes?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Did you devise the armor?”
“Yes, my lord, although my brother Balan overcame the problem of the rain.”
“And to him will go the profit for the wax I order?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Ursus, smiling.
“And where is he at present?”
“Trying to sell the idea in Rome. It will be difficult, for the emperor still sets great store by the marching legions even though his enemies are mounted.”
“Rome is finished,” said Uther. “You should sell to the Goths or the Huns.”
“I would, my lord, but the Huns do not buy—they take. And the Goths? Their treasury is smaller than my own.”
“And your own Merovingian army?”
“My king, long may he reign, is guided in matters military by the mayor of the palace. And he is not a visionary.”
“But then, he is not assailed on all sides and from within,” said Uther. “Do you fight as well as you talk?”
“Not quite.”
Uther grinned. “I have changed my mind. Make thirty-two, and Victorinus will put you in command of one turma. You will join me at Petvaria, and then I will see your horse armor as it needs to be seen—against a real enemy. If it is successful, you will be rich and, as I suspect you desire, all other fighting kings will follow Uther’s lead.”
“As I said, do not thank me yet. You have not heard my offer.”
With that the king turned and walked away. Prasamaccus draped his arm over Ursus’ shoulder.
“I think the king likes you, young man. Do not disappoint him.”
“I would lose my order?”
“You would lose your life,” Prasamaccus told him.
Long after Grysstha had returned to his own hut in the shadow of the long hall, Cormac, unable to sleep, wandered out into the cool of the night to sit below the stars and watch the bats circle the trees.
All was quiet, and the boy was truly, splendidly, perfectly alone. Here, in the glory of the hunter’s moonlight, there was no alienation, no sullen stares, no harsh words. The night breeze ruffled his hair as he gazed up at the cliffs above the woods and thought of his father, the nameless warrior who had fought so well. Grysstha said he had killed six men.
But why had he left the infant Cormac alone in the cave? And where was the woman who bore him? Who would leave a child? Was the man—so brave in battle—so cruel in life?
And what mother could leave her babe to die in a lonely cave?
As always there were no answers, but the questions chained Cormac to this hostile village. He could not leave and make a future for himself, not while the past was such a mystery.
When he was younger, he had believed that his father would one day come to claim him, striding to the long hall with a sword at his side and a burnished helm on his brow. But no longer could the dreams of childhood sustain him. In four days he would be a man … and then what? Begging for work at the smithy, or the mill, or the bakery, or the slaughterhouse?
Back in his hut he slept fitfully beneath his threadbare blanket, rising before the dawn and taking his sling to the hills. There he killed three rabbits, skinning them expertly with the small knife Grysstha had given him the year before. He lit a fire in a sheltered hollow and roasted the meat, enjoying the rare sensation of a full belly. But there was little goodness in rabbit meat, and Grysstha had once told him a man could starve to death while feasting on such fare. Cormac licked his fingers and then wiped them on the long grass, remembering the Thunder Feast the previous autumn, where he had tasted beef at the open banquet when King Wulfhere had visited his former steward, Calder. Cormac had been forced to stay back from the throng around the Saxon king but had heard his speech. Meaningless platitudes mostly, coming from a weak man. He looked the part with his mail shirt of iron and his ax-bearing guards, but his face was soft and womanly and his eyes focused on a point above the crowd.
But the beef had been magnificent. Grysstha had brought him three cuts, succulent and rich with the blood of the bull.
“Once,” the old man said, between mouthfuls, “we ate like this every day! When we were reavers and our swords were feared. Calder once promised we would do so again. He said we would be revenged on the Blood King, but look at him now—fat and content beside the puppet king.”
“The king looks like a woman,” said Cormac.
“He lives like one,” snapped Grysstha. “And to think his grandfather was Hengist! Would you like more meat?”
And they feasted that night like emperors.
Now Cormac doused his fire and wandered high into the hills, along the cliff tops overlooking the calm sea. The breeze was strong there and cool despite the morning sun, clear in a cloudless sky.
Cormac stopped beneath a spreading oak and leapt to hang from a thick branch. One hundred times he hauled himself up to touch his chin to the wood, feeling the muscles in his arms and shoulders swell and burn. Then he dropped lightly to the ground, sweat gleaming on his face.
“How strong you are, Cormac,” said a mocking voice, and he swung around to see Calder’s daughter, Alftruda, sitting in the grass with a basket of berries beside her. Cormac blushed and said nothing. He should have walked away, but the sight of her sitting there cross-legged, her woolen skirt pulled up to reveal the milky whiteness of her legs … “Are you so shy?” she asked.
“Your brothers will not be pleased with you for speaking to me.”
“And you are frightened of them?”
Cormac considered the question. Calder’s sons had tormented him for years, but mostly he could outrun them to his hiding places in the woods. Agwaine was the worst, for he enjoyed inflicting pain. Lennox and Barta were less overtly cruel, but they followed Agwaine’s lead in everything. But was he frightened?
“Perhaps I am,” he said. “But then, such is the law that they are allowed to strike me but it is death if I defend myself.”
“That’s the price you pay for having a demon for a father, Cormac. Can you work magic?”
“No.”
“Not even a little, to please me?”
“Not even a little.”
“Would you like some berries?”
“No, thank you. I must be heading back; I have work to do.”
“Do I frighten you, Cormac Daemonsson?”
He stopped in midturn, his throat tight. “I am not … comfortable. No one speaks to me, but I am used to that. I thank you for your courtesy.”
“Do you think I am pretty?”
“I think you are beautiful. Especially here, in the summer sunlight, with the breeze moving your hair. But I do not wish to cause you trouble.”
She rose smoothly and moved toward him. He backed away instinctively, but the oak barred his retreat. He felt her body press against his, and his arms moved around her back, drawing her to him.
“Get away from my sister!” roared Agwaine, and Alftruda leapt back with fear in her eyes.
“He cast a spell on me!” she shouted, running to Agwaine.
The tall blond youth hurled her aside and drew a dagger from its sheath. “You will die for this obscenity,” he hissed, advancing on Cormac.
Cormac’s eyes flickered from the blade to Agwaine’s angry face, reading the intent and seeing the blood lust rising. He leapt to his right—to cannon into the huge figure of Lennox, whose brawny arms closed around him. Triumph blazed in Agwaine’s eyes, but Cormac hammered his elbow into Lennox’s belly and then up in a second strike, smashing the boy’s nose. Lennox staggered back, almost blinded. Then Barta ran from the bushes, holding a thick branch above his head like a club. Cormac leapt feetfirst, his heel landing with sickening force against Barta’s chin and hurling him unconscious to the ground.
Cormac rolled to his feet, swinging to face Agwaine, his arm blocking the dagger blow aimed at his heart. His fist slammed against Agwaine’s cheek, and then his left foot powered into his enemy’s groin. Agwaine screamed once and fell to his knees, dropping the dagger. Cormac swept it up, grabbed Agwaine’s long blond hair, and hauled back his head, exposing the throat.
“No!” screamed Alftruda.
Cormac blinked and took a deep, calming breath. Then he stood and hurled the dagger far out over the cliff top. “You lying slut!” he said, advancing on Alftruda.
She sank to her knees, her eyes wide and terrorfilled. “Don’t hurt me!”
Suddenly he laughed. “Hurt you? I would not touch you if my life depended on it. A few moments ago you were beautiful. Now you are ugly and will always be so.”
Her hands fled to her face, her fingers touching the skin, questing, seeking her beauty. Cormac shook his head. “I am not talking of a spell,” he whispered. “I have no spells.”
Turning, he looked at his enemies. Lennox was sitting by the oak with blood streaming from his smashed nose, Barta was still unconscious, and Agwaine was gone.
There was no sense of triumph, no joy in the victory.
For in defeating these boys, Cormac had sentenced himself to death.
* * *
Agwaine returned to the village and reported Cormac’s attack to his father, Calder, who summoned the village elders, demanding justice. Only Grysstha spoke up for Cormac.
“You ask for justice. For years your sons have tormented Cormac, and he has had no aid. But he has borne it like a man. Now, when set upon by three bullies, he defends himself and faces execution? Every man here who votes for such a course should be ashamed.”
“He assaulted my daughter,” said Calder. “Or are you forgetting that?”
“If he did,” said Grysstha, rising, “he followed in the tracks of every other able-bodied youth within a day’s riding distance!”
“How dare you?” stormed Calder.
“Dare? Do not speak to me of dares, you fat-bellied pig! I have followed you for thirty years, living only on your promises. But now I see you for what you are—a weak, greedy, fawning bootlicker. A pig who sired three toads and a rutting strumpet!”
Calder hurled himself across the circle of men, but Grysstha’s fist thundered into his chin, throwing him to the dirt floor. Pandemonium followed, with some of the councillors grabbing Grysstha and others holding the enraged leader. In the silence that followed Calder fought to control his temper, signaling to the men on either side of him to let him go.
“You are no longer welcome here, old cripple,” he said. “You will leave this village as a Nithing. I will send word to all villages in the South Saxon, and you will be welcome nowhere. And if I see you after today, I shall take my ax to your neck. Go! Find the dog child and stay with him. I want you there to see him die.”
Grysstha shrugged off the arms holding him and stalked from the hall. In his own hut he gathered his meager belongings, pushed his hand ax into his belt, and marched from the village. Evrin the baker moved alongside him, pushing two black loaves into his arms.
“Walk with God,” Evrin whispered.
Grysstha nodded and marched on. He should have left a long time ago and taken Cormac with him. But loyalty was stronger than iron rings, and Grysstha was pledged to Calder by blood oath. Now he had broken his word and was Nithing in the eyes of the law. No one would ever trust him again, and his life was worthless.
Yet even so joy began to blossom in the old warrior’s heart. The heavy mind-numbing years as a goatherd were behind him now, as was his allegiance to Calder. Grysstha filled his lungs with clean, fresh air and climbed the hills toward the Cave of Sol Invictus.
Cormac was waiting for him there, sitting on the altar stone, the bones of his past scattered at his feet.
“You heard?” said Cormac, making room for the old man to sit beside him on the flat stone. Grysstha tore off a chunk of dark bread and passed it to the boy.
“Word filtered through,” he said. Cormac glanced at the blanket sack Grysstha had dumped by the old bones of the warhound.
“Are we leaving?”
“We are, boy. We should have done it years ago. We’ll head for Dubris and get some work—enough to earn passage to Gallia. Then I’ll show you my old campaign trails.”
“They attacked me, Grysstha. After Alftruda put her arms around me.”
The old warrior looked into the boy’s sad blue eyes. “One more lesson in life, Cormac: women always bring trouble. Mind you, judging from the way Agwaine was walking, he will not be thinking about girls for some time to come. How did you defeat all three?”
“I don’t know; I just did it.”
“That’s your father’s blood. We’ll make something of you yet, lad!”
Cormac glanced around the cave. “I have never been here before. I was always afraid. Now I wonder why. Just old bones.” He scuffed his feet in the loose dirt and saw a glint of light. Leaning forward, he pressed his fingers into the dust, coming up with a gold chain on which hung a round stone like a golden nugget veined with slender black lines.
“Well, that’s a good omen,” muttered Grysstha. “We’ve been free men for only an hour and already you find treasure.”
“Could it have been my mother’s?”
“All things are possible.”
Cormac looped the chain over his head, tucking the golden stone under his shirt. It felt warm against his chest.
“Are you in trouble, too, Grysstha?”
The warrior grinned. “I may have said a word or two too many, but they flew home like arrows!”
“Then they will be hunting us both?”
“Aye, come morning. We’ll worry then. Now get some rest, boy.”
Cormac moved to the far wall and settled himself down on the dusty floor, his head resting on his arms. Grysstha stretched out on the altar and was asleep within minutes.
The boy lay listening to the warrior’s deep heavy snoring, then drifted into a curious dream. It seemed he opened his eyes and sat up. By the altar lay a black warhound and five pups, and beyond her was a young woman with hair of spun gold. A man knelt beside her, cradling her head.
“I am sorry I brought you to this,” he said, stroking her hair. His face was strong, his hair dark and shining like raven’s wings, his eyes the blue of a winter’s sky.
She reached up and touched his cheek, smiling through her pain.
“I love you. I have always loved you …”
Outside a bugle call drifted through the morning air, and the man cursed softly and stood, drawing his sword. “They have found us!”
The woman moaned as her labor began. Cormac moved across to her, but she did not see him. He tried to touch her, but his hand passed through her body as if it were smoke.
“Don’t leave me!” she begged. The man’s face showed his torment, but the bugle sounded once more and he turned and vanished from sight. The woman cried out, and Cormac was forced to watch impotently as she struggled to deliver her child. At last the babe came forth, blood-covered and curiously still.
“Oh, no! Dear sweet Christ!” moaned the woman, lifting the child and slapping its tiny rump. There was not even a flicker of movement. Laying the babe in her lap, she lifted a golden chain from around her neck, closing the child’s tiny fingers around the stone at its center. “Live!” she whispered. “Please live!”
But there was no movement … no sign of life.
From the sunlit world outside came the sound of blade on blade, the cries of the wounded, the angry shouts of the combatants. Then there was silence, save for the birds singing in the forest trees. A shadow crossed the entrance, and the tall man staggered inside, blood pouring from a wound in his side and a second one in his chest.
“The babe?” he whispered.
“He is dead,” said the woman.
Hearing something from beyond the cave, the man turned. “There are more of them. I can see their spears catching the sun. Can you walk?” She struggled to stand but fell back, and he moved to her side, sweeping her into his arms.
“He’s alive!” shouted Cormac, tears in his eyes. “I’m alive! Don’t leave me!”
He followed them out into the sunlight, watching the wounded man struggle to the top of the cliff before sinking to his knees, the woman tumbling from his arms. A horseman galloped into sight, and the warrior drew his sword, but the man hauled on the reins, waiting.
From the woods another man came limping into view, his left leg twisted and deformed. The tall warrior drew back his sword and hurled it into the trees, where it lanced into a thick ivy-covered trunk. Then he lifted the woman once more, turned, and gazed at the sea foaming hundreds of feet below.
“No!” screamed the crippled man. The warrior looked toward the horseman, who sat unmoving, his stern face set, his hands resting on the pommel of his saddle.
The warrior stepped from the cliff and vanished from sight, taking the woman with him.
Cormac watched with tears in his eyes as the cripple fell to earth, but the horseman merely turned his mount and rode away into the trees. Farther down the trail Cormac could see the hunting party approaching the cave. He ran like the wind, arriving to see the stone in the child’s hands glow like a burning candle and an aura of white light shine over the infant’s skin. Then came the first lusty cry. The hunters entered, and the black warhound leapt at them, only to be cut down by knives and axes.
“Odin’s blood!” said one of the men. “The bitch gave birth to a child.”
“Kill it!” cried another.
“You fools!” said Grysstha. “You think the dog killed those Romans?”
Cormac could bear to watch no more and shut his eyes as Grysstha reached for the babe …
He opened them to see the dawn light creeping back from the cave mouth and Grysstha still asleep on the altar. Rising, he moved to the old man and shook him awake.
“It is dawn,” he said, “and I saw my mother and father.”
“Give me time, boy,” muttered the old warrior. “Let me get some air.” He stretched and sat up, rubbing at his eyes and groaning at the stiff, cold muscles of his neck. “Pass me the water sack.”
Cormac did so, and Grysstha pulled the stopper and drank deeply. “Now, what is this about your mother?”
The boy told him about the dream, but Grysstha’s eyes did not show great interest until he mentioned the crippled man.
“Tell me of his face.”
“Light hair, thin beard. Sad eyes.”
“And the horseman?”
“A warrior, tall and strong. A cold, hard man with red hair and beard, wearing a helm of bronze banded by a circle of iron.”
“We’d best be going, Cormac,” said the old warrior suddenly.
“Was my dream true, do you think?”
“Who knows, boy? We’ll talk later.”
Grysstha swung his blanket sack to his shoulder and walked from the cave. There he stopped stock-still, dropping the sack.
“What is wrong?” asked Cormac, moving into the sunlight. Grysstha gestured him to silence and scanned the undergrowth beneath the trees.
Cormac could see nothing, but suddenly a man rose from behind a thick bush with an arrow nocked to his bow, the string drawn back. Cormac froze. Grysstha’s arm hammered into the boy’s chest, hurling him aside just as the archer loosed his shaft. The arrow sliced through Grysstha’s jerkin, punching through to pierce his lungs. A second arrow followed. The old man shielded Cormac with his body as blood bubbled from his mouth.
“Run!” he hissed, toppling to the earth.
An arrow flashed by Cormac’s face, and he dived to the left as other shafts hissed by him, then rolled and came up running. A great shout went up from the hidden men in the undergrowth, and the sound of pounding feet caused Cormac to increase his speed as he hurdled a fallen tree and sprinted for the cliff tops. Arrows sailed over him, and he dodged to the left and the right, cutting up through the forest path, seeking a hiding place.
There were several hollow trees where he had previously hidden from Agwaine and his brothers. He was feeling more confident now as he increased the distance between himself and his pursuers.
But the baying of the warhounds brought fresh terror. The trees would offer no sanctuary now.
He emerged at the cliff tops and swung, expecting to see the dark hurtling forms of Calder’s twin hounds, fangs bared for his throat. But the trail was empty for the moment. He drew his slender skinning knife, eyes scanning the trees.
A huge black hound bounded into sight. As it leapt, Cormac dropped to his knees and rammed the blade into its belly, disemboweling it as the beast sailed above him. The stricken dog landed awkwardly, its paws entangling in its ribboned entrails. Cormac ignored it and ran back to the trees, forsaking the path and forcing his body through the thickest part of the undergrowth.
Suddenly he stopped, for there, embedded in the ivy-covered trunk of a spreading oak, was the sword of his dream. Sheathing his knife, he took hold of the ivory hilt and drew the blade clear. The sword was the length of a man’s arm, and not one spot of rust had touched the blade in the fifteen years it had been hidden here.
Cormac closed his eyes. “Thank you, Father,” he whispered.
The hilt was long enough for the sword to be wielded double-handed, and the boy swung the blade several times, feeling the balance.
Then he stepped out into the open as the second hound rounded the trail, hurtling at the slim figure before it. The blade lanced its neck, half severing the head. His eyes blazing with an anger he had never experienced before, Cormac loped down the trail toward the following hunters.
Near a stand of elm the sound of their pursuit came to him, and he stepped from the track, hiding himself behind a thick trunk. Four men ran into view—Agwaine in the lead, his brothers following, and bringing up the rear the blacksmith Kern, his bald head shining with sweat.
As they raced past Cormac’s hiding place, he took a deep breath, then leapt into the path to face the astonished Kern. The blacksmith was carrying a short double-headed ax but had no time to use it, for Cormac’s sword swept up, over, and down to cleave the man’s jugular. Kern staggered back, dropping his ax, his fingers scrabbling at the wound as he sought to stem the flooding lifeblood.
Cormac ran back into the trees, following the other three. Agwaine and Lennox had disappeared from sight, but Barta was lumbering far behind them. Darting out behind him, Cormac tapped his shoulder, and the blond youngster turned.
Cormac’s blade slid through the youth’s woolen jerkin and up into the belly, ripping through lungs and heart. Savagely he twisted the sword to secure its release, then dragged it clear. Barta died without a sound.
Moving like a wraith, Cormac vanished into the shadow-haunted trees, seeking the last of the hunters.
On the cliff top Agwaine had found the butchered hounds. Turning, he ran back to warn his brother that Cormac was now armed; then he and Lennox retreated back along the trail, finding the other bodies.
Together the survivors fled the woods. Cormac emerged from the trees to see them sprinting back into the valley.
At first he thought to chase them to the Great Hall itself, but common sense prevailed, and, his anger ebbing, he returned to the cave. Grysstha had propped himself against the western wall; his white beard was stained with his blood, and his face was pale and gray.
As Cormac knelt beside the old man, taking his hand, Grysstha’s eyes opened.
“I can see the Valkyrie, Cormac,” he whispered, “but they ignore me, for I have no sword.”
“Here,” said the boy, pushing the ivory hilt into the warrior’s left hand.
“Do not … do not … tell anyone … about your birth.” Grysstha slid sideways to the ground, the sword slipping from his fingers.
For a while Cormac sat in silence with the body of his only friend. Then he stood and wandered into the sunlight, staring down at the village far below.
He wanted to scream his anger to the skies, but he did not. One of Grysstha’s sayings sprang to his mind: “Revenge is a better meal when served cold.”
Sheathing the sword in his belt, he gathered Grysstha’s possessions and set off for the east. At the top of the last rise he turned once more.
“I will return,” he said softly. “And then you will see the demon. I swear it!”