He knew now for certain that the power of the stone was insufficient to open a gateway large enough to allow the legion through. He was not even sure whether he himself could return, and his agile mind once more began the long slow examination of all the possibilities.
At last he decided on one supreme effort. He closed his eyes and pictured himself back in Pinrae, all the while holding the image of the Ninth Legion in his mind. Behind him Severinus saw Uther grow less tangible, almost wraithlike, but then he was back as before. The prince stared down at the black pebble in his hand and could not find the courage to turn and face the expectant soldiers.
Beyond the Void the army of Goroien had circled the base of the hill, waiting for the order to attack. Maggrig and Korrin had placed archers all around the stones, but there was no way they could repel the armored soldiers. At best they would wound a score or so, and it seemed to Korrin that more than two thousand men were assembled below.
“Why do they not attack?” he asked the lean, wolflike Maggrig.
“They are afraid of Berec’s magic. But they will come soon.”
Twenty paces to their left, kneeling behind a fallen stone, Laitha waited with an arrow notched, her eyes fixed on a tall warrior with a purple plume on his helm. She had already decided he would be her target for no other reason than that she disliked the arrogant way he strode among the men below, issuing orders. It made her feel somehow better to know that the strutting peacock would die before she did.
A hand touched her shoulder, and she turned to see a tall broad-shouldered man with a golden beard. She could not remember having seen him before.
“Follow me,” he said, his manner showing that he was obviously used to being obeyed. He did not look back as Laitha followed him to the center of the plateau.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Hold fast to your questions and climb the altar.” She moved up on the broken central stones, clambering over the scarred and pitted runes worked into the surfaces.
The bearded man spoke just as she reached the highest point and stood precariously on the top stone, some six feet from the ground.
“Now lift your hand above your head.”
“For what purpose?”
“You feel there is time for debate? Obey me.”
Biting back her anger, she raised her right arm. “Higher!” he said. As she did so, her fingers touched something cold and clinging, and she withdrew her hand instinctively. “It is only water,” he assured her. “Push high and open your fingers. Grasp what is there and draw it down.”
Suddenly a great cry went up, a battle roar that chilled the blood, and the soldiers of Goroien swept up the hill. Arrows sang down to meet them, some glancing from armored breastplates or helms, others wedging in the flesh of bare legs and arms.
“Reach up!” ordered the tall stranger. “Swiftly, if you value your life.”
Laitha pushed her hand through the invisible barrier of water and opened her fingers. She felt the cold touch of metal and the yielding warmth of leather. Grasping the object tightly, she drew it down. In her hand was a great sword with an upswept hilt of burnished gold and a silver blade, double-edged and engraved with runes she could not recognize.
“Follow me,” said the man, running toward the rocks where Uther had last been seen. Halting, he pulled Laitha forward. “When I finish speaking, smite the air before you.” The words that followed meant nothing to Laitha, but the air around him hissed and crackled as if a storm were due. “Now!” he shouted. The sword slashed forward, and a great wind blew up. Lightning flashed toward the sky, and the Mist billowed from where she struck. Laitha was hurled backward to the ground.
Uther leapt from the Mist, glancing around him. At the far end of the plateau the rebels began to stream back, and the prince could see the plumed helms of Goroien’s soldiers. Just then Severinus Albinus stepped into the sunshine with the Ninth Legion following him. Some of the men fell to their knees as the sunshine touched them; others began to weep in joy and relief. Severinus, though young, was a seasoned campaigner, and he took in the situation in an instant.
“Alba formation!” he yelled, and Roman discipline was restored. Legionaries bearing embossed rectangular bronze shields drew their swords and formed a fighting line, pushing forward and spreading out to allow the spearmen through. As the rebels ran back, the line opened before them.
Goroien’s soldiers had an opportunity then to rush the line, but they did not. They were mostly men of Pinrae, and they knew the legend of the ghost army. They stood transfixed as the legion formed a square and advanced with shields locked, long spears protruding. The soldiers of Pinrae were not cowards—they would face and had faced overwhelming odds—but they had already seen the coming of the god Berec. Now more and more spirits of the dead were issuing from the Mist, and this they could not bear. Slowly they backed away, returning to the base of the hill. The legion halted at the circle of stones, awaiting orders.
In the safety of the square Uther helped Laitha to her feet. “How did you do that? I thought I was fin—” He stumbled to a halt as he saw the great sword lying on the ground at Laitha’s feet. He dropped to his knees, his hand curling around the hilt. “My father’s sword!” he whispered. “The Sword of Cunobelin.” He rose. “How?”
Laitha swung around, seeking the man with the golden beard, but he was nowhere in sight. She explained swiftly as Severinus Albinus approached.
“What are your orders, Prince Uther? Shall we attack?”
Uther shook his head and, carrying the longsword, strode to the edge of the square. The legionaries stepped aside, and he walked down the hill, halting some thirty feet from the enemy line. A bowman notched an arrow.
“Draw the string and I’ll turn your eyes to maggot balls,” said the prince. The man dropped both bow and arrow instantly.
“Let your leader step forward!”
A short, stocky middle-aged man in a silver breastplate walked from the line. He licked his lips as he came but held his shoulders back, pride preventing him from displaying fear.
“You know who I am,” said Uther, “and you can see that the ghosts have come home. I gauge you are now outnumbered two to one, and I can see that your men are in no condition for battle.”
“I cannot surrender,” said the man.
“I see that, but neither would the queen desire you to throw away the lives of your men needlessly. Take your army from Mareen-sa and report to Astarte.”
The man nodded. “What you say is logical. Might I ask why you are sparing us?”
“I am not here to see the men of Pinrae slaughter one another. I am here to destroy the Witch Queen. Do not misjudge my mercy. If we meet again on the field of battle, I will crush you and any who stand in my path.”
The man bowed stiffly. “My name is Agarin Pinder, and if I am ordered to stand in your path, I will do so.”
“I would expect no less from a man of duty. Go now!”
Uther swung on his heel and returned to the plateau, calling Severinus to him. The young Roman followed him into the long building.
“Gods, I am hungry,” said Severinus, “and what a wonderful feeling it is!” On the table was a flagon of wine, and Uther poured two goblets, passing one to the Roman.
“We must leave the forest and march on Callia, a town nearby,” said Uther. “There are insufficient supplies here to feed a legion.”
Severinus nodded. “You chose not to fight. Why?”
“The Roman army was once the finest the world had seen. The discipline was second to none, and many a battle turned on that. But your men were not ready, not after the creeping horror of the Void. They need time to feel the sunlight on their faces; then they will be truly Legio IX.”
“You are a careful commander, Prince Uther. I like that.”
“Speaking of care, I want you to take your men from the plateau and prepare your defensive enclosure below; there is a stream there. Do not allow your men to mix with the people of Pinrae. Yo
u have been part of their legends for hundreds of years, and on certain nights they even watch you march. It is a trick of the Mist. But the important point is this: They believe that you are of Pinrae and are part of their history. As such we will gain support from the country. Let no one suspect you are from another world.”
“I understand. How is it that these people speak Latin?”
“They do not, but I’ll explain that at another time. Send out a scouting troop to follow Goroien’s soldiers from the forest. I will try to arrange some food for your men.” Severinus drew himself upright and saluted, and Uther acknowledged the gesture with a smile.
As Severinus left the room, Korrin and Prasamaccus entered.
Korrin almost ran forward, his green eyes ablaze with excitement. “You did it!” he shouted, his fist punching the air.
“It is pleasant to be back,” said Uther. “Where is the man with the golden beard?”
“I do not know who you mean,” answered Korrin.
Uther waved his hand. “It does not matter. Tomorrow we march on Callia, and I want your best men, trusted men, to precede us. The ghost army of Pinrae is returning to free the land, and the word must be spread. With luck, the town will open its gates without a battle.”
“I’ll send Maggrig and Hogun. Gods, man, to think I almost killed you!”
Uther reached out and gripped Korrin’s shoulder. “It is good to see you smile. Now leave me with Prasamaccus.” The huntsman grinned, stepped back, and bowed deeply.
“Are you still set on leaving Pinrae?”
“I am, but not until Goroien is finished.”
“Then that will suffice.”
After he had gone, Prasamaccus accepted a goblet of wine and leaned in close, studying Uther’s face. “You are tired, my prince. You should rest.”
“Look,” said Uther, lifting the sword. “The blade of Cunobelin, the Sword of Power, and I do not know how it came to Laitha. Or why. I was trapped in the Void, Prasamaccus, and was trying to find a way to tell almost five thousand men that I had raised their hopes for nothing. And just then, like a ghost, I saw Laitha raise a sword and cut the Mist as if it were the skin of a beast.”
Prasamaccus opened his mouth to phrase a question but stopped, his jaw hanging. Uther turned to follow the direction of his gaze. Sitting by a new fire was the golden-bearded man, holding tanned hands toward the blaze.
“Leave us,” Uther told the Brigante. Prasamaccus needed no second invitation and hobbled from the room as Uther approached the stranger.
“I owe you my life,” he said.
“You owe me nothing,” replied the man, smiling. “It is pleasant to meet a young man who holds duty so dear. It is not a common trait.”
“Who are you?”
“I am the king lost to history, a prince of the past. My name is Pendarric.”
Uther pulled up a chair and sat beside the man. “Why are you here?”
“We share a common enemy, Uther: Goroien. But aiding you was merely a whim—at least I think it was.”
“I do not understand you.”
“It is especially pleasant after so many centuries to find that I can still be surprised. Did Laitha tell you how she came by the sword?”
“She said she drew it through the air, and her hand was wet as if dipped in a river.”
“You are a bright man, Uther. Tell me where she found the sword.”
“How can I? I know of—” The prince stopped, his mouth suddenly dry. “Hers was the hand in the lake the day my father died. And yet she was with me in the mountains. How is this possible?”
“A fine question and one that I should like to answer. One day, if you are still alive when I reach a conclusion, I shall come to you. All I know for certain is that it was right that it should happen. What will you do now?”
“I shall try to bring her down.”
Pendarric nodded. “You are much like your grandfather: the same earnestness, the same proud sense of honor. It is pleasing to me. I wish you well, Uther, now and in the future.”
“You are of the Feragh?”
“I am.”
“Can you tell me what is happening in my homeland?”
“Aquila is losing the war. He smashed one Brigante army at Virosidum, and Ambrosius has destroyed Cerdic. But the Saxon Hengist is moving north with seven thousand men, hoping to link with Eldared for a conclusive battle at Eboracum.”
“How soon will this happen?”
“It is not possible to say, Uther, any more than it is possible to predict your future. It may be that you will defeat Goroien and not be able to return home. It may be that you will return only to face defeat and death. I do not know. What I do know is that you are Rolynd, and that counts for more than crowns.”
“Rolynd?”
“It is a state of being, a condition of harmony with the unknown universe. It is very rare—maybe only one man in ten thousand. In material terms it means you are lucky but also that you earn your luck. Culain is Rolynd; he would be proud of you.”
“Culain is dead. The Soul Stealers killed him.”
“No, he is alive—but not for long. He also is riding to face Goroien, and there he will meet an enemy he cannot conquer. And now I must go.”
“Can you not stay and lead the war against the Witch Queen?”
Pendarric smiled. “I could, Uther, but I am not Rolynd.”
He reached out as if to shake Uther by the hand but instead dropped a Sipstrassi Stone into the prince’s palm.
“Use it wisely,” he said, and faded from sight.
15
LAITHA FOUND UTHER sitting alone, lost in thought, staring into the flickering flames. She approached him silently and drew up a chair near him. “Are you angry with me?” she asked, her voice soft and childlike. He shook his head, deciding it was better to lie than to face his pain. “You have not spoken to me for days,” she whispered. “Was it … was I … so disappointing?” He turned to her then and realized that she did not know she had whispered Culain’s name. He was filled with an urge to hurt her, to ram his bitterness home, but her eyes were innocent, and he forced back his wrath.
“No,” he said, “you did not disappoint me. I love you, Laitha. It is that simple.”
“And I love you,” she told him, the words tripping so easily from her tongue that his anger threatened to engulf him. She smiled and tilted her head, waiting for him to reach out and draw her to him. But he did not. He turned once more to the fire. A great sadness touched her then, and she rose, hoping he would notice and bid her remain. He did not. She held back her tears until she was outside in the moonlight; then she ran to the edge of the stones and sat alone.
Inside the building Uther cursed softly. He had watched her leave, hoping this small punishment would hurt her, and now he found that it hurt him also. He had wanted to take her, to touch and stroke her skin, had needed to bury his head in her hair, allowing the perfume of her body to wash over him. And he had not told her that Culain was alive. Was that a punishment also—or a fear that she would turn from him? He wished he had never met her, for he sensed that his heart would never be rid of her.
He stood and looked down at his ragged, torn clothing. Not much like a god, Uther—more like a penniless crofter. On impulse he took up the stone and closed his eyes. Instantly he was clothed in the splendid armor of a first legate, a red cloak draped over a silver breastplate, a leather kilt decorated with silver strips, embossed silver greaves over soft leather riding boots. The stone still showed not a trace of a black vein.
He moved out into the night and wandered down to the square ditch enclosure where the legion had pitched its tents. The two legionary guards saluted him as he passed, and he made his way toward the tent of Severinus Albinus. Everywhere huge fires were burning under the carcasses of deer, elk, and sheep, and songs were being sung around several of the blazes. Severinus rose and saluted as Uther entered his tent. The young Roman was a little unsteady on his feet, and wine had stained the front of
his toga. He grinned shamefacedly. “I am sorry, Prince Uther. You find me not at my best.”
Uther shrugged. “It must have been good to see the sunshine.”
“Good? I lost seventy men to the Void, and many of them returned to stand outside the camp and call to their comrades. Only their faces were gray, their eyes red—it was worse than death. I will have nightmares about it for all my life. But now I am drunk, and it does not seem so terrible.”
“You have earned this night with your courage,” said Uther, “but tomorrow the wax must stay firmly in place on the flagons. Tomorrow the war begins.”
“We shall be ready.”
Uther left the tent and returned to Erin, seeing Laitha sitting alone at the edge of the circle. He went to her, his anger gone.
“Do not sit here alone,” he said. “Come join me.”
“Why are you treating me this way?”
He knelt beside her. “You loved Culain. Let me ask you this: Had he taken you for his wife, would you have been happy?”
“Yes. Is that so terrible?”
“Not at all, lady. And if on your first night together he had whispered Goroien’s name in your ear, would your happiness have continued?” She looked into his smoke-gray eyes—Culain’s eyes—and saw the pain.
“Did I do that … to you?”
“You did.”
“I am so sorry.”
“As am I, Laitha.”
“Will you forgive me?”
“What is there to forgive? You did not lie. Do I forgive you for loving someone else? That is not a choice you made; it is merely a truth. There is no need for forgiveness. Can I forget it? I doubt it. Do I still want you even though I know you will be thinking of another? Yes. And that shames me.”