10 10 AS THE NIGHT wore on, Gwalchmai slept lightly on his chair at the bedside, his head resting on the wall. Prasamaccus and Culain sat silently. The Brigante was recalling his first meeting with the Lance Lord, high in the Caledones, when the dark-cloaked Vampyres sought their blood and the young prince escaped through the gateway to the land of the Pinrae. The boy, Thuro—as he then was—became the man Uther in a savage war against the Witch Queen. He and Laitha had wed there, and she had brought him the gift of the sword; two young people ablaze with the power of youth, the confidence that death was an eternity away. Now, after a mere twenty-six summers, the Blood King lay still, Gian Avur—the beautiful Laitha—was gone, and the kingdom Uther had saved faced destruction by a terrible foe. The words of the Druids echoed through Prasamaccus’ mind.
“For such are the works of man that they are written upon the air in mist and vanish in the winds of history.”
Culain was lost in thoughts of the present. Why had they not slain the king once his soul was in their possession? For all his evil, Molech was a man of great intellect. News of Uther’s death would demoralize the kingdom, making his invasion plans more certain of success. He worried at the problem from every angle.
Wotan’s sorcerer priests had come to kill the king and take the sword. But the sword was gone. Therefore, they took Uther’s soul. Perhaps they thought—not without justification—that the body would die.
Culain pushed the problem from his mind. Whatever the reason, it was a mistake, and the Lance Lord prayed it would be a costly one. Though he did not know it, it had proved more than costly to the priest who had made it, for his body now hung on a Raetian battlement, his skin flayed, crows feasting on his eyes.
A glowing ball of white fire appeared in the center of the room, and Prasamaccus nocked an arrow to his bow. Culain stretched his sword across the bed and touched Gwalchmai’s shoulder. The sleeper awakened instantly. Taking the golden stone, Culain touched it to both of Gwalchmai’s blades, then moved to Prasamaccus and emptied his quiver, running the stone over each of the twenty arrowheads. The glowing ball collapsed upon itself, and a gray mist rolled out across the room. Culain waited, then lifted the stone and spoke a single word of power. A golden light pulsed from him, surrounding the two warriors and the body of the king. The mist filled the room … and vanished. A dark shadow appeared on the far wall, deepening and spreading until it became the mouth of a cave. A cold breeze blew from the opening, causing the lanterns to gutter. Moonlight streamed through the open windows, and in that silver light Gwalchmai saw a beast from the pit emerge from the cave. Scaled and horned, with long curved fangs, it pushed out into the room. But as it touched the lines of magic Culain had laid, lightning seared its gray body and flames engulfed it. It fell back into the cave, hissing in pain.
Three men leapt into the room. The first fell with an arrow in his throat. Culain and Gwalchmai darted forward, and within moments the other assassins both lay dead upon the floor.
The two warriors waited with swords raised, but the cave mouth shrank to become a shadow and faded from sight.
Gwalchmai pushed the toe of his boot at a fallen assassin, turning the body to its back. The flesh of the face had decomposed, and only a rotting corpse lay there. The old Cantii warrior recoiled from the sight. “We fought dead men!” he whispered.
“It is Wotan’s way of gaining loyalty. The bravest of his warriors are untouched by death … or so they believe.”
“Well, we beat them,” said Gwalchmai.
“They will return, and we will not be able to hold them. We must take the king to a place of safety.”
“And what place is safe from the sorcery of Wotan?” asked Prasamaccus.
“The Isle of Crystal,” Culain answered.
“We cannot carry the king’s body halfway across the realm,” argued Gwalchmai. “And even if we could, the holy place would not accept him. He is a warrior; they will have no dealings with those who spill blood.”
“They will take him,” said Culain softly. “It is, in part, their mission.”
“You have been there?”
Culain smiled. “I planted the staff that became a tree. But that is another story from another time. Nowhere on land is the earth magic more powerful or the symbols more obscure. Wotan cannot bring his demons to the Isle of Crystal. And if he journeys there himself, it will be as a man, stripped of all majesty of magic. He would not dare.”
Gwalchmai stood and looked down at the seemingly lifeless body of Uther. “The question is irrelevant. We cannot carry him across the land.”
“I can, for I will travel the ancient paths, the lung mei, the way of the spirits.”
“And what of Prasamaccus and me?”
“You have already been of service to your king, and you can do no more for him directly. But Wotan’s army will soon be upon you. It is not my place to suggest your actions, but my advice would be to rally as many men to Uther’s banner as you can. Tell them the king lives and will return to lead them on the day of Ragnorak.”
“And what day is that?” Prasamaccus asked.
“The day of greatest despair,” whispered Culain. He stood and walked to the western wall. There he knelt, stone in hand, and in the near silence that followed both men heard the whispering of a deep river, the lapping of waves on unseen shores. The wall shimmered and opened.
“Swiftly now!” said Culain, and Gwalchmai and Prasamaccus lifted the heavy body of the Blood King and carried it to the new entrance. Steps had appeared, leading down into a cavern and a deep, dark river. A boat was moored by a stone jetty; gently the two Britons lowered the king into it. Culain untied the mooring rope and stepped to the stern.
As the craft slid away, Culain turned. “Get back to the turret as swiftly as you can. If the gateway closes, you’ll be dead within the hour.”
As swiftly as the limping Prasamaccus could move, the two men mounted the stairs. Behind them they could hear weird murmurings and the scrabbling sounds of talons on stone. As they neared the gateway, Gwalchmai saw it shimmer. Seizing Prasamaccus, he hurled him forward and then dived after him, rolling to his knees on the rugs of Uther’s room.
Behind them now was merely a wall bathed in the golden light of the sun rising above the eastern hills and shining through the open window.
Victorinus and the twelve men of his party rode warily but without incident during the first three days of their journey. But on the fourth, as they approached a thick wood with a narrow path, Victorinus reined in his mount.
His second aide, Marcus Bassicus, a young man of good Romano-British stock, rode alongside him.
“Is anything wrong, sir?”
The sun above them was bright, the pathway into the woods shrouded by the overhanging trees. Victorinus took a deep breath, aware of the presence of fear. Suddenly he smiled.
“Have you enjoyed life, Marcus?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you lived it to the full?”
“I think so, sir. Why do you ask?”
“It is my belief that death awaits, hidden in those trees. There is no glory there, no prospect of victory. Just pain and darkness and an end to joy.”
The young man’s face became set, and his gray eyes narrowed. “And what should we do, sir?”
“You and the others must make your choice, but I must enter those woods. Speak to the men, explain to them that we are betrayed. Tell them that any who wish to flee may do so without shame; it is no act of cowardice.”
“Then why must you ride on, sir?”
“Because Wotan will be watching, and I want him to know that I do not fear his treachery, that I welcome it. I want him to understand the nature of the foe. He has conquered Belgica, Raetia, and Gaul and has the Romans on bended knee before him. Britannia will not be as these others.”
Marcus rode back to the waiting men, leaving the general staring at the entrance to his own grave. Victorinus lifted the round cavalry shield from the back of his saddle and settled it on his left arm. Then, looping the reins of his warhorse around the saddle pommel, he drew his saber and without a backward glance touched his heels to his mount and moved on. Behind him the twelve soldiers took up their shields and sabers and rode after him.
Within a clearing just inside the line of trees two hundred Goths drew their weapons and waited.
“You say the king is alive,” said Geminus Cato, pushing the maps across the table and rising to pour a goblet of mixed wine and water. “But you will forgive my cynicism, I hope.”
Gwalchmai shrugged and turned from the window. “I can offer you only my word, General. But it has been considered worth respecting.”
Cato smiled and smoothed the close-cropped black beard that shone like an oiled pelt. “Allow me to review the facts that are known. A tall man, dressed in the robes of a Christian, assaulted two guards and made his way unobstructed to the king’s tower. This man, you say, is the legendary Lancelot. He declared the body to be alive and used sorcery to remove it from the tower.”
“In essence that is true,” Gwalchmai admitted.
“But is he not also the king’s sworn enemy? The Great Betrayer?”
“He is.”
“Then why did you believe him?”
Gwalchmai looked to Prasamaccus, who was sitting quietly at the table. The crippled Brigante cleared his throat.
“With the utmost respect, General, you never knew the Lance Lord. Put from your mind the interminable stories regarding his treachery. What did he do? He slept with a woman. Which of us has not? He alone saved the king when the traitors slew Uther’s father. He alone journeyed to the Witch Queen’s castle and killed the Lord of the Undead. He is more than a warrior of legend. And his word, on this matter, I believe utterly.”
Cato shook his head. “But you also believe the man is thousands of years old, a demigod whose kingdom is under the great western sea.”
Prasamaccus swallowed the angry retort that welled within him. Geminus Cato was more than a capable general; he was a skilled and canny soldier, respected by his men though not loved, and, with the exception of Victorinus, the only man capable of fielding a force against the Goths. But he was also of pure Roman stock and had little understanding of the ways of the Celts or the lore of magic that formed their culture. Prasamaccus considered his next words with care.
“General, let us put aside for a moment the history of Culain lach Feragh. Wotan has tried, perhaps successfully, to assassinate the king. His next move will be to invade, and when he does so, he will not find himself short of allies once it is known that Uther will not stand against them. Culain has given us time to plan. If we spread the word that the king lives—and will return—it will give the Saxons, Jutes, and Angles a problem to consider. They have heard of the might of Wotan, but they know the perils of facing the Blood King.”
Cato’s dark eyes fixed on Prasamaccus, and for several minutes the silence endured; then the general returned to his seat.
“Very well, horse master. Tactically I accept that it is better for Uther to be alive than dead. I shall see that the story is disseminated. But I can spare no knights to seek the sword. Every officer of worth is out scouring the countryside for volunteers, and all militiamen are being recalled.” He pulled the maps toward him and pointed to the largest, the land survey commissioned by Ptolemy hundreds of years before. “You have both traveled the land extensively. It is not difficult to imagine where Wotan will land in the south, but he has several armies. Were I in his place, I would be looking for a double assault, perhaps even a triple. We do not have the numbers to cover the country. So where will he strike?”
Gwalchmai gazed down on the map of the land then called Albion. “The Sea Wolves have always favored the coastline here,” he said, stabbing his finger to the Humber, “at Petvaria. If Wotan follows this course, he will be below Eboracum, cutting us off from our forces in the south.”
Cato nodded. “And if the Brigantes and Trinovantes rise to support him, the whole of Britain will be sliced into three war zones: from the Wall of Hadrian to Eboracum, from Eboracum to Petvaria—or even Durobrivae, if they sail in by the wash—and from there to Anderida or Dubris.
“At best we can raise another ten thousand warriors, bringing our total mobile force to twenty-five thousand. Rumors tell us that Wotan can muster five times as many men, and that is not counting the Saxon rebels or the Brigantes in the north. What I would not give for Victorinus to return with reliable intelligence!” He looked up from the map. “Gwalchmai, I want you to journey to Gaius Geminus in Dubris.”
“I cannot, General,” said Gwalchmai.
“Why?”
“I must seek the sword.”
“This is no time for chasing shadows, seeking dreams.”
“Perhaps,” admitted the old Cantii warrior, “yet still I must.”
Cato leaned back and folded his brawny arms across his leather breastplate. “And where will you seek it?”
“In Camulodunum. When the king was a boy, he loved the hills and woods around the city. There were special places he would run to and hide from his father. I know those places.”
“And you?” said Cato, turning.
Prasamaccus smiled. “I shall journey to the Caledones mountains. It was there he met his one love.”
Cato chuckled and shook his head. “You Celts have always been a mystery to me, but I have learned never to argue with a British dreamer. I wish you luck on your quest. What will you do if you find the blade?”
Gwalchmai shrugged and looked to Prasamaccus. The Brigante’s pale eyes met the Roman’s gaze. “We will carry it to the Isle of Crystal, where the king lies.”
“I do not know, General.”
Cato was silent for a while, lost in thought. “When I was a young man,” he said at last. “I was stationed at Aquae Sulis, and often I would ride the country near the isle. We were not allowed there, on orders from the king, but once—because it was forbidden—three officers and I took a boat across the lakes and landed by the highest hill. It was an adventure, you see, and we were young. We built a fire and sat laughing and talking. Then we slept. I had a dream there in which my father came to me and we spoke of many things. Mostly he talked of regret, for we had never been close after my mother died. It was a fine dream, and we embraced; he wished me well and spoke of his pride. The following morning I awoke refreshed. A mist was all about us, and we sailed back to where our horses were hobbled and rode to Aquae Sulis. We were immediately in trouble, for we had returned without our swords. None of us could remember removing them, and none had noticed that we rode without them.”
“The isle is an enchanted place,” whispered Prasamaccus. “And when did your father die?”
“I think you know the answer to that, Prasamaccus. I have a son, and we are not close.” He smiled. “Perhaps one day he will sail to the isle.”
Prasamaccus bowed, and the two Britons left the room.
“We cannot undertake this task alone,” said Gwalchmai as they emerged into the sunlight. “There is too much ground to cover.”
“I know, my friend. But Cato is right. Against the power of Wotan he needs all his young men, and only ancients like us can be spared.”
Prasamaccus stopped. “I think that is the answer, Gwal. Ancients. You recall the day when Uther split the sky and marched out of the mist leading the Ninth?”
“Of course. Who could forget it?”
“The legate of the lost legion was Severinus Albinus. Now he has a villa at Calcaria, less than half a day’s ride from here.”
“The man is over sixty!” objected the Cantii.
“And how old are you?” snapped Prasamaccus.
“There is no need to ram the dagger home,” said Gwalchmai. “But he is a rich Roman and probably fat and content.”
“I doubt it. But he will know the whereabouts of other survivors of the Ninth. They were Uther’s legion, sworn to him by bonds stronger than blood. He brought them from the Vales of the Dead.”
“More than a quarter of a century ago. Most of them will have died by now.”
“But there will be some who have not. Maybe ten, maybe a hundred. We must seek them out.”
Severinus Albinus still looked every inch the Roman general he had been until a mere five years previously. His back was spear-straight, his dark eyes eagle-sharp. For him the past twenty-five years had been like living a dream, for he and all his men of the Ninth Legion had been trapped in the hell of the Void for centuries before the young prince, Uther Pendragon, rescued them and brought them home to a world gone mad. The might of Rome—preeminent when Severinus had marched his men into the Mist—was now but a shadow, and barbarians ruled where once the laws of Rome had been enforced by legions whose iron discipline made defeat unthinkable. Severinus had been honor-bound to serve Uther and had done it well, training native British troops along imperial lines, fighting in wars for a land about which he cared nothing. Now he was at peace in his villa, reading works of ancient times that, for him at least, were reminders of a yesterday that had swallowed his wife and children and all that he knew and loved. A man out of his time, Severinus Albinus was close to contentment as he sat in his garden reading the words of Plutarch.
His personal slave, Nica, a Jew from the Greek islands, approached him.
“My lord, there are two men at the gate who wish to speak with you.”
“Tell them to come tomorrow. I am in no mood for business.”
“They are not city merchants, lord, but men who claim friendship.”
Severinus rolled the parchment and placed it on the marble seat beside him. “They have names, these friends?”
“Prasamaccus and Gwalchmai.”
Severinus sighed. “Bring them to me and fetch wine and fruit. They will stay the night, so prepare suitable rooms.”
“Shall I heat the water, lord, for the guest baths?”
“That will not be necessary. Our guests are Britons, and they rarely wash. But have two village girls hired to warm their beds.”
“Yes, lord,” answered Nica, bowing and moving away as Severinus stood and smoothed his long toga, his contentment evaporating. He turned to see the limping Prasamaccus shuffling along the paved walkway, followed by the tall, straight-backed Cantii tribesman known as the King’s Hound. Both men he had always treated with respect, as the king’s companions deserved, but he had hoped never to see them again. He was uncomfortable with Britons.
“Welcome to my home,” he said, bowing stiffly. “I have ordered wine for you.” He gestured to the marble seat, and Prasamaccus sank gratefully to it while Gwalchmai stood by, his powerful arms crossed at his chest. “I take it you are here to invite me to the funeral.”
“The king is not dead,” said Prasamaccus.
Severinus covered his shock well as the scene was interrupted by a servant bearing a silver tray on which were two goblets of wine and a pitcher of water. He laid it on the wide armrest of the seat and silently departed.
“Not dead? He lay in state for three days.”
“He is in the Isle of Crystal, recovering,” said Gwalchmai.
“I am pleased to hear it. I understand the Goths will be moving against us, and the king is needed.”
“We need your help,” said Gwalchmai bluntly. “And the men of the Ninth.”
Severinus smiled thinly. “The Ninth no longer exists. The men took up their parcels of land and are now citizens, none less than fifty years old. As you well know, the king disbanded the Ninth, allowing them a well-earned retirement. War is a challenge for young men, Gwalchmai.”
“We do not need them for war, Severinus,” said Prasamaccus. “The Sword of Power is gone—it must be found.” The Brigante told the general about the attack on the king and Culain’s theory of the sword. Through it all Severinus remained motionless, his dark eyes fixed on Prasamaccus’ face.
“Few men,” said Severinus, “understood the power of the sword. But I saw it slice the air like a curtain to free us from the Mist, and Uther once explained the riddle of how he always knew where the enemy would strike. The sword is as valuable as the king. It is all very well to seek the Ninth, but there is no time to scour the land. You talk of a site where magic is suddenly powerful. In peacetime perhaps the quest would have some meaning, but in war? There will be columns of refugees, enemy troops, hardship, pain, and death. No, a random search is not the answer.”
“Then what is?” asked Gwalchmai.
“Only one man knows where the sword was sent. We must ask him!”
“The king lies in a state close to death,” said Prasamaccus. “He cannot speak.”
“He could not when last you saw him, Prasamaccus. But if Culain took him to the magic isle, perhaps he is now awake.”
“What do you suggest, General?”
“I will get word to the men of the Ninth. But do not expect a large gathering; many are now dead, and others have returned to Italia, hoping to find some link with their pasts. And we will start our journey tomorrow to the southwest.”
“I cannot travel with you, General,” said Prasamaccus. “I must go to the Caledones.”
Severinus nodded. “And you, Gwalchmai?”
“I will ride with you. There is nothing for me here.”
“There is nothing for any of us here,” said Severinus. “The world is changing. New empires grow, old ones die. The affairs of a nation are like the life of a man; no man and no empire can for long resist decline.”
“You think the Goths will win?” stormed Gwalchmai.
“If not the Goths, then the Saxons or the Jutes. I urged Uther to recruit Saxon warriors for his legions, to allow them a degree of self-government. But he would not listen. In the South Saxon alone there are thirty thousand men of sword-bearing age. Proud men, strong men. This realm will not long survive Uther.”
“We have not suffered a defeat in twenty-five years,” said Gwalchmai.
“And what is that to history? When I was young, in the days of Claudius, Rome ruled the world. Where are the Romans now?”
“I think age has weakened your courage.”
“No, Gwalchmai; four hundred years in the Mist has strengthened my wisdom. There is a guest room for each of you. Go now—we will talk later.”
The Britons retired to the villa, leaving the old general in the garden, where Nica found him. “Is there anything you need, lord?”
“What news from the merchants?”
“They say that a great army is gathering across the water and that Wotan will be here within weeks.”
“What do the merchants plan?”
“Most have hidden their wealth. Some have reinvested in Hispania and Africa. Still more are preparing to welcome the Goths. It is the way of the world.”
“And you, Nicodemus?”
“Me, lord? Why, I will stay with you.”
“Nonsense! You have not spent ten years building yourself a fortune merely to die as my slave.”
“I do not know what you mean, lord.”
“This is no time for denials. You risked my capital with Abrigus, and he brought home a cargo of silks that netted me a handsome sum. You took a commission of one hundred silver pieces, which you reinvested skillfully.”
Nica shrugged. “How long have you known?”
“About six years. I am leaving tomorrow, and I do not think I will return. If I do not come home within the year, then the villa is yours—and all my capital; there is a sealed parchment to that effect lodged with Cassius. My slaves are to be freed, and an amount has been set aside for the woman Trista; she has been good to me. You will see all this is done?”
“Of course, lord, but naturally I hope you will have a long life and return speedily.”
Severinus chuckled. “And still you lie, you rogue! Get ready my sword and the armor of combat—not the ornamental breastplate but the old leather cuirass. As to the mount, I will take Canis.”
“He is getting old, lord.”
“We are all getting old, Nica. But he’s wily and fears nothing.”
The boat slid through the dark waters, Culain sitting silently at the tiller, until at last the tunnel widened into a cavern hung with gleaming stalactites. The waters bubbled and hissed, and the walls glimmered with an eldritch light. Culain steered the craft through a maze of natural pillars and out onto a wide mist-smeared lake. The stars were bright, the moon shining over the distant tor, on which stood a round tower. The air was fresh and cool, and the Lance Lord stretched and drew in a deep breath as the peace of the isle swept over him. His eyes roamed the landscape, seeking the once-familiar forms of the Sleeping Giants, the Questing Beast, the Centaur, the Dove, and the Lion, hidden for two thousand years but potent still.
The craft moved on into the tree-shadowed bay, toward the campfire that twinkled in the distance like a resting star. As the boat neared the land, seven hooded figures rose from around the fire and advanced in a line toward the shore.
“Why have you called us?” asked a woman’s voice.
“I have a friend here in need of your help.”
“Is your friend a man of peace?”
“He is the king.”
“Is that an answer?”
“He is the man who declared the Isle of Crystal to be sacred, and he has protected its sanctity and its freedom.”
“The isle needs no man to declare it sacred or swords to protect its freedom.”
“Then look upon him simply as he is, a man whose soul has been stolen and whose body is in peril.”
“And where would you have us take him?” asked the woman.
“To the round hall in the circle of the great moon, where no evil may dwell, where the two worlds join in the sign of the sacred fish.”
“You know many of our mysteries.”
“I know all of your mysteries and more besides.”
Without another word the women moved forward and effortlessly lifted the king from the craft. In two lines, the body almost floating between them, the hooded women set off into the shadows with Culain following. A figure in white emerged from the trees, a hood drawn over her face.
“You cannot travel farther, warrior.”
“I must remain with him.”
“You think to stop me?”
“You will stop yourself,” she told him, “for your presence weakens the power that will keep him alive.”
“I am not evil,” he argued.
“No, Culain lach Feragh, you are not evil.”
“You know me, then? That is good, for you must also know that I planted the thorn and began the work you now continue.”
“You began it, yes, but not in faith; it was but one more of your games. You told the sisters that you know all their mysteries and more besides. Once that was the truth, but it is no longer. You think you chose this place, Culain? No. It chose you.”
“Forgive my arrogance, lady. But let me stay. I have much to atone for. And I am lost and have nowhere to go.”
Moonlight bathed the bay, making the white-robed priestess almost ethereal, and the warrior waited as she considered his words. Finally she spoke.
“You may stay on the isle, Culain, but not at the round hall.” She pointed up at the great tor and the tower that stood there. “There you may rest, and I will see that food is brought to you.”
“Thank you, lady. It is a weight lifted from my heart.”
She turned and was gone. Culain climbed the ancient path that circled the tor, rising higher and higher above the land and lakes below. The tower was old and had been old when he had been a child in Atlantis. The wooden floors had rotted, and only the huge stones remained, carefully fashioned with a precision now lost to the world and interlocked without the aid of mortar. Culain lit a fire with some of the rotten wood and settled down to sleep beneath the stars.