“I shall have food brought to you.”
After he had gone, Uther ran his mind back over the meeting. It was no mystery how he had focused on Maggrig; the man’s stance showed him to be a warrior, and he had been the first to come forward, the others crowding around him. It had been a pleasant surprise when Maggrig had misinterpreted Uther’s question. But then, as Maedhlyn had always said, the prince had a swift mind.
Somehow the meeting left Uther feeling less melancholy. Was it so easy to be a god?
The answer would come within four days.
And it would be written in blood.
14
CULAIN LACH FERAGH sat before the cairn of stones, watching the smoke from his small fire wafting in through the shattered windows of the derelict house. The Mist Warrior laid his silver lance by his side and pulled on two leather gauntlets edged with silver. His long hair was bound at the nape of the neck, and over his shoulders he wore a silver-ringed protector expertly sewn to a short cape of soft leather. A thick silver-inlaid belt was buckled to his waist, and his legs were protected by thigh-length boots reinforced by silver strips on the front and sides. A flickering blue light began inside the dwelling, and Culain rose smoothly, placing a silver-winged helm on his head and tying the scimitar-shaped ear guards under his chin.
A slender figure came forward through the smoke, which billowed and died, the fire quenched in an instant. As he saw her, his mouth went dry and he longed to step forward and pull her into his arms. She in turn stopped in her tracks as she recognized him, her hand flying to her mouth.
“You are alive!” she whispered.
“Thus far, lady.” She was wearing a simple dress of silver thread, her golden hair held in place by a black band at the brow.
“Tell me that you have come back to be with me.”
“I cannot.”
“Then why do you summon me?” she snapped, her blue eyes bright with anger.
“Pendarric says there is naught but evil in you, and he asked me to destroy you. But I cannot until I am convinced he is right.”
“He was always an old woman. He had the world and lost it. Now it is the turn of others. He is finished, Culain. Come with me; I have a world to myself. Soon it will be four worlds. I have power undreamed of since the fall of Atlantis.”
“And yet you are dying,” he said, the words cutting him like knife wounds.
“Who says that I am?” she hissed. “Look at me! Am I any different? Is there a single sign of age or decay?”
“Not on the surface, Goroien. But how many have died … how many will die to keep you so?”
She moved toward him, and the music began in his mind. The air was still, and all the world was silent. Her arms came up around his neck, and he smelled the perfume of her skin, felt the warmth of her touch. Reaching up, he pulled her arms clear of him, pushing her away.
“What will you prove?” he asked. “That I love you still? I do. That I want you? That, too. But I will never have you. You killed Shaleat, you killed Alaida—and now you will destroy a world.”
“What are these savages to you, with their ten-second lives? There will always be more to replace those who die. They are unimportant, Culain. They always were, only you were too obsessed to see it. What does it matter now that Troy fell or that your friend Hector was slain by Achilles? What does it matter that the Romans conquered Britain? Life moves on. These people are as shadows to you and me. They exist to serve their betters.”
“I am one of them now, Goroien,” he said. “My ten-second life is a joy. I never understood winter before or truly felt the joy of spring. Come with me. Live out a life unto death and we will see together what comes after.”
“Never!” she screamed. “I will never die. You speak of pleasure. I see your decaying face, and it makes me want to vomit: lines by your eyes, and I don’t doubt that under that helm the silver is spreading like a cancer through your hair. In human terms what are you now, thirty? Forty? Soon you will begin to wither. Your teeth will rot. Young men will push you aside and mock you. And then you will fall, and the worms will eat your eyes. How could you do this?”
“All things die, my love. Even worlds.”
“Do not speak to me of love; you never loved me. Only one man ever loved me, and I have brought him back from the grave. That is what power is, Culain. Gilgamesh is with me once more.”
He stepped back from the glare of triumph in her eyes. “That is not possible!”
“I kept his body throughout the centuries, surrounded by the glow of five stones. I worked and studied. And one day I succeeded. Go away and die somewhere, Culain, and I shall find your body and bring it back. Then you will be mine.”
“I am coming to Skitis, Goroien,” he said softly. “I shall destroy your power.”
She laughed then, rich mocking laughter that caused the color to flood his cheeks. “You are coming? Once that would have put terror into my heart, but not now. A middle-aged man, soft and decaying, is coming to challenge Gilgamesh? You have no idea how often he speaks of you, dreams of killing you. You think to stand against him? I will show you how your arrogance has betrayed you. You always liked the shade games—play this one.” She gestured with her right hand, and the air shimmered. Before Culain stood a tall warrior with golden hair and bright blue-green eyes. He carried a curved sword and a dagger. “Here is Gilgamesh as he was.” The warrior leapt forward, and Culain swept up the lance, twisted the handle, and pulled clear the hidden sword. He was just in time to block a savage cut. Then another … and another. Culain fought with all the skill of the centuries, but Goroien was right; his aging body was no longer equipped to tackle the whirlwind that was Gilgamesh, the Lord of Battle. Culain, growing desperate, took a chance, spinning on his heel in the move he had taught Thuro. His opponent leapt to the left, avoiding Culain’s raised elbow, and a cold sword slid beneath the Mist Warrior’s ribs.
He crumpled, hitting the hard clay ground on his face and dislodging the silver helm. He fought to stay conscious, but his mind fell into darkness. When he awoke, Goroien was still there, sitting by the cairn of stones.
“Go away, Culain,” she said. “What you fought was Gilgamesh as he was. Now he is stronger and faster; he would kill you within seconds. Either that or use this.” She dropped a yellow pebble on the ground before him; it was pure Sipstrassi with virtually no sign of black veins. “Become immortal again. Become what you were … what you should be. Then you will have a chance.”
He pushed himself to his feet. “It is not usual to give your enemy a chance at life, lady.”
“How could you be my enemy? I have loved you since before the fall. I will love you on the day the universe ends in fire.”
“We will never be lovers again, lady,” he said. “I will see you on Skitis Island.”
She stood. “You fool! You will not see me. You will see your death coming toward you in every stride Gilgamesh takes.”
She walked into the derelict house without a backward glance, and Culain slumped to the ground, tears in his eyes. It had taken all his strength to tell her their love was ended. He stared down at the Sipstrassi Stone and lifted it. She was right; he was in no condition to face Gilgamesh. Her voice drifted back to him as if from a great distance.
“Your grandson is a handsome boy. I think I will take him. Do you remember my time as Circe?” Her laughter echoed into silence.
Culain sat with head bowed. After the Trojan War Goroien had wreaked her vengeance on the Greeks, causing the bloody deaths of Agammemnon the warlord and Menelaus the Spartan king. But by far the most hideous of her vengeful acts had been the shipwreck of Odysseus. For Goroien, as Circe the witch, had turned some of the survivors into swine, tricking the others into cooking and eating them.
He picked up his sword and brushed the dirt from the blade.
Walking to his horse, he touched the Sipstrassi Stone to its temple and stepped back. The beast’s body collapsed, then swelled and stretched, its smooth flanks growing s
ilver-edged scales of deep rust-red. Its head shimmered, its eyes becoming slanted like a great cat’s, its snout stretching, fangs erupting from a cavernous mouth. Huge wings unfolded from its ribs, and its hooves erupted into taloned claws. Its long neck arched back, and a terrible cry filled the air. Culain looked down at the black pebble in his hand and tossed it to the ground. Sliding his sword back into the haft of his lance, he climbed to the saddle on the dragon’s back, whispering the word of command. The beast rose on its powerful legs, the wings spreading wide; then it soared into the night air heading northwest to Skitis.
On the third night a fearsome storm broke over Erin Plateau, with shafts of lightning spearing the sky. Uther remained where he had stayed for three days, sitting at the edge of the circle. Prasamaccus and Korrin gathered food and blankets for the prince and stepped out into the driving rain. At that moment lightning streaked the sky, and both men saw Uther stand and raise his arms over his head, his blond hair billowing in the shrieking wind. Then he vanished. Korrin ran to the stones, with Prasamaccus hobbling behind, but there was no sign of the prince.
The storm broke, the rain easing to a fine drizzle. Korrin sank to a rock.
“It is over,” he said, bitterness returning to his voice for the first time since the Vores had turned on the soldiers. Korrin began to curse and swear, and the Brigante moved away from him; he, too, felt demoralized and beaten, and he sat on the fallen stone overlooking the forest.
“What will we tell them?” said Korrin. The Brigante gathered his cloak tightly around his slender frame. His leg ached, as it always did when the weather turned damp, and his heart told him he would never see Helga again. He could offer Korrin no advice. Just then the two moons appeared from behind the breaking clouds, and a third man joined them.
“Where is Berec?” asked Maggrig, but neither man answered. “So, we are alone, as he said we might be.” He scratched his graying beard and sat beside Korrin. “We’ve set some snares and dug a few pits, which should slow them a little. And there are some five good ambush points.”
Korrin glanced up, surprised. The news of Berec’s departure seemed to affect Maggrig not at all. “We should hit them first at the Elm Hollow. The horsemen will not be able to charge up the rise, and we’ll have a hundred feet of killing ground. Even our archers should be unable to miss at that distance. We could down perhaps a hundred men.”
“You are talking of eighty men against an army,” said Korrin. “Are you mad?”
“Eighty men is all we had yesterday. Gods, man, no one lives forever.”
“Except the Witch Queen,” said Korrin, adding a savage curse.
“Take some advice from an old warrior: tell no one Berec has gone for good. Just say he has … who knows? … journeyed back to his castle in the clouds. In the meantime, let us hit them hard.”
“Good advice,” said Prasamaccus. “We do not know how many soldiers are coming, and the forest is immense. We should be able to lead them a merry chase.”
Below, in the tiny village of tents that had sprung up by the stream, a young woman wandered out into the forest to be alone for a while. As she entered the darkness, she caught sight of the moonlight reflecting from metal in the distance. She climbed a stout oak and peered to the west.
Moving silently through the trees came the army of Goroien.
For more than thirty hours Uther had been awake and worrying about the problem of the Void, searching every angle, exploring all the facts at his disposal. His reasoning and his training told him that he had overlooked a salient point, but try as he could, there seemed no way to home in on it.
And then, just as the storm broke, the answer sailed effortlessly into his mind. Just because the ghost army could not be seen did not necessarily mean they were not there.
It was so simple. The freezing rain was forgotten. Prasamaccus had told him that he had dreamed of drums and marching feet on his first night on Erin Plateau, and Uther should have leapt on that thought like a striking falcon.
All that was left now was to enter the Void—the home of Atrols and Soul Stealers. Yes, he thought, that is all. Do not stop to think, Uther, he told himself. Just do it! He stood, raised his arms above his head, gripped the stone tightly, and wished for the Void.
His head spun, and he fell. Around him the Mist swirled. Pushing himself to his knees, he drew his gladius. The Sipstrassi Stone was almost black. He risked touching his sword blade; it shone with a white light, and in the Mist he could see dark shadows and gray, cold faces. A long time ago, Thuro the child had wandered here in a fever dream and Aurelius had brought him back. The fear of that time returned to haunt him, and as his fear grew, the shadow shapes moved closer. Uther the man stood and steadied himself, lifting his sword high above his head. The light shone from the blade, pushing back both the Mist and the shadows within it.
As the Mist rolled away, Uther saw the desolate landscape of the Void, a place of ash-gray hills and long-dead trees beneath a slate-dark sky. He shivered. It was no place for a man to die. Far off to his right he caught the faint sound of drums. Holding his sword high like a lantern, he walked toward the sound. The shadows followed him, and he could hear whispering voices calling his name. The prince ignored them. He climbed a low hill and stopped in wonder. There, in a dusty valley, was a defensive enclosure made of mounds of gray earth thrown up from a huge square ditch. Sharpened stakes had been set into the banks. Within the enclosure were scores of tents, and at the center of the square stood a staff bearing a golden eagle, its wings spread. Uther stood for several minutes staring at the camp, unable to accept the vision before his eyes. Yet all the clues had been before him. Korrin had spoken of the Eagle sect that had tried to commune with the ghosts. The soldiers marched to the drum in perfect order.
And Culain had talked of his greatest regret, when he had consigned an army to the Mist.
Uther stood on the lonely hilltop and gazed in wonder at the eagle of the Ninth Legion.
The prince walked slowly down the hill to stand before the wide opening to the enclosure. Two legionaries stepped into his path, their eyes tired, their spears sharp. He was commanded to halt. The language was recognizable but lacked the later British additions. He thought back to his training under Maedhlyn and Decianus and answered them in their own archaic tongue.
“Who is your legate?”
The legionaries glanced at one another, and the taller man stepped forward.
“Are you Roman?”
“I am.”
“Are we close to home?” The voice quavered.
“I am here to bring you home. Who is your legate?”
“Severinus Albinus. Wait here.” The soldier raced away, and Uther stood, still holding the shining sword. Ten men returned some minutes later, and the prince was ushered into the enclosure, an honor guard of five legionaries on either side of him. Men rushed from their tents to see the stranger, their faces ashen, their eyes dull. The guard halted before a wide tent. Uther surrendered his weapons to the centurion at the entrance and ducked inside. A young man of maybe twenty-five, dressed in a polished bronze breastplate, was seated on a low stool.
“Your name?” he asked.
“You are Severinus Albinus?” responded Uther, aware that the success of his mission depended on maintaining the initiative.
“I am.”
“The legate of Legio IX?”
“No. Our legate is Petillius Cerialis; he did not accompany us. Who are you?” Uther sensed that the young man, like all the men he had seen, was on the edge of desperation.
“I am Uther.”
“Where is this place?” asked Severinus, rising. “We have marched here for months. No food. No water. Yet no thirst or hunger. There are creatures within the accursed Mist who drink blood. There are beasts the like of which I have never dreamed of. Are we all dead?”
“I can return you to Eboracum,” said Uther, “but first there is much you should know.” He walked past the young soldier and seated himself on a diva
n at the back of the tent. Severinus Albinus joined him. “Firstly, you marched from Eboracum to aid Paullinus against the Iceni uprising. You entered the Mist, a world of the dead.”
“I know all this,” said Severinus. “How do we get home?”
Uther raised his hand. “Gently. Listen to every word. Paullinus defeated Boudicca more than four hundred years ago.”
“Then we are dead. Sweet Jupiter, I cannot march any longer!”
“You are not dead, believe me. What I am attempting to tell you is that the world you knew is dead. The Roman Empire is fading. Britain no longer boasts a single Roman legion.”
“I have a wife … a daughter.”
“No,” said Uther sadly. “They have been dead for four centuries. I can take you to Eboracum. The world is much changed, but the sun still shines, the grapes make wine, the streams flow clear, and the water is good to drink.”
“Who rules in Britain now?” asked Severinus.
“The land is at war. The Brigantes have risen, and the Saxons and Jutes have invaded. The Romano-Britons led by Aquila, a pure-blooded Roman of noble family, are fighting for their lives. There was a king named Aurelius, but he was murdered. I am his son. And I have journeyed beyond the borders of death to bring you home.”
“To fight for you?”
“To fight for me,” said Uther, “and for yourselves.”
“And you will take us to Eboracum?”
“Not immediately,” said Uther, and told the Roman of the war in Pinrae and the rule of the Witch Queen. Severinus listened in silence.
“There was a time,” he said when Uther fell silent, “that I would have mocked your tale. But not here, in this ashen wilderness. You want us to fight for you, Uther? I would sell my soul for one day in the sunshine. No, for a single hour. Just take us away from here.”
Fear had brought Uther to the edge of panic. With the 4,600 men of the Ninth Legion marching behind him, he returned to the hill he had first encountered upon entering the Void. Now, after an hour, he still could not open the pathway between the worlds. He had willed himself back, the stone had glowed, and for a moment only he had seen the giant stones of Erin, misty shadows shimmering just out of reach. He heard Severinus Albinus behind him and waved the man back, fighting for calm. He glanced at the stone; only the thinnest thread of gold remained.