Under the startled eyes of the rebel army Berec had lifted his hand, which had glowed as if he held a ball of fire. Then a vision had appeared of the legion marching, a truly ghostly army. When the fire had erupted and the heat had washed over the watchers, Maggrig’s stomach had heaved. The illusion had been so powerful, he had almost smelled burning flesh.
Uther groaned. Severinus lifted him to a sitting position and held a goblet of wine to his lips. The prince drank deeply. Dark rings circled his eyes, and his face was gaunt and gray.
“How did you know?” asked the Roman.
“I did not know. But she is too powerful not to have one more weapon.”
“This fell from your hand,” said Prasamaccus, offering Uther a black pebble with threads of gold. The prince took it.
“We will advance on the castle at midnight. Find me fifty men—the best swordsmen you have. The legion will follow at dawn.”
“I will lead the raid,” said Severinus.
“No, it is my duty,” Uther responded.
“With respect, Prince Uther, that is folly.”
“I know, Severinus, but I have no choice. I alone have a source of magic to use against her. It is weak now, but it is all we have. We do not know what terrors wait inside the castle: Void warriors, Atrols, were-beasts? I have the Sword of Cunobelin, and I have the stone Pendarric gave me. I must lead.”
“Let me go with you,” pleaded the Roman.
“Now, that would be folly, but I am grateful for the offer. If all goes well, the legion will follow at dawn and I shall greet you in the gateway. If not …” His eyes locked to Severinus’ gaze. “Make your own strategy—and a home for yourselves in Pinrae.”
“I’ll pick your men myself. They will not let you down.”
Uther called Laitha to him, and the two of them wandered away from the gathered men to a sheltered hollow near a huge oak.
Swiftly he told her of the attack he would be leading, explaining, as he had with Severinus, the reasons for his actions.
“I will come with you,” she said.
“I do not want you in danger.”
“You seem to forget that I also was trained by Culain lach Feragh. I can handle a sword as well as any man here, probably better than most.”
“It would destroy me if you were slain.”
“Think back, Uther, to the day we met. Who was it who slew the first of the assassins? It was I. This is hard for me, for I accept that as your wife I must obey you. But please let me live as I have been taught.”
He took her hand and drew her to him. “You are free, Laitha. I will never own you or treat you as a servant or slave. And I would be proud if you were to walk beside me through the gate.”
The tension eased from her. “Now I can truly love you,” she said, “for now I know that you are a man. Not Culain, not his shadow, but a man in your own right.”
He grinned boyishly. “This morning I washed in a stream, and as I looked down, I saw this child’s face staring up at me. I have not yet needed to shave. And I thought how amusing Maedhlyn would find all this—his weak student leading an army. But I am doing the best that I can.”
“For myself,” she admitted, “I saw a tree this afternoon that seemed to grow into the clouds. I wanted to climb it and hide in the topmost branches. I used to pretend I had a castle in the clouds where no one could find me. There is no shame in being young, Thuro.”
He chuckled. “I thought I had put that name behind me, but I love to hear you say it. It reminds me of the Caledones, when I did not know how to light a fire.”
Just short of midnight Severinus noisily approached the hollow, clearing his throat and treading on as many dry sticks as he could see. Uther came toward him, laughing, Laitha just behind.
“Is this Roman stealth I hear?” asked the prince.
“It is very dark,” the Roman answered with a grin.
“Are the men ready?”
The grin vanished. “They are. I shall follow at dawn.”
Uther offered his hand, which Severinus took in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist.
“I am your servant for life,” said the Roman.
“Be careful, Severinus, I shall hold you to that.”
“Make sure that you do.”
* * *
Culain lach Feragh stood before the gates of Perdita, the winds of Skitis Island shrieking over the rocks. He wore his black and silver winged helm and silver shoulder guard, but no other armor protected him. His chest was covered merely by a shirt of doeskin, and on his feet were moccasins of soft leather.
The black gate opened, and a tall warrior stepped into the sunshine, his face covered by a dark helm. Behind him came Goroien, and Culain’s heart soared, for she wore the outfit he had first seen on the day they had met. Goroien climbed to a high rock as Gilgamesh advanced to stand before Culain.
“Greetings, Father,” said Gilgamesh. “I trust you are well.” The voice was muffled by the helm, but Culain could hear the suppressed excitement.
“Do not call me Father, Gilgamesh. It offends me.”
“The truth is sometimes painful.” Now there was disappointment in the voice. “How did you find out?”
“You told Pendarric, but probably you do not remember. I understand you were senile at the time.”
“Happily you will not suffer the same fate,” Gilgamesh hissed. “Today you die.”
“All things die. Do you object to me saying farewell to your mother?”
“I do. My lover has nothing to say to you.”
Suddenly Culain chuckled. “Poor fool,” he said. “Sad, tormented Gilgamesh! I pity you, boy. Was there ever a day in your life when you were truly happy?”
“Yes—when I bedded your wife!”
“A joy shared by half the civilized world,” Culain said, smiling.
“And there is today,” said Gilgamesh, drawing two short swords. “Today my happiness is complete.”
Culain removed the winged helm and placed it at the ground by his feet.
“I am sorry for you, boy. You could have been a force for good in the world, but luck never favored you, did it? Born to a mad goddess and diseased from the moment you first sucked milk. What chance did you have? Come, then, Gilgamesh. Enjoy your happiness.” The lance split in two, revealing the slanted sword. Culain laid the haft next to the helm and drew a hunting knife from his belt. “Come, this is your moment!”
Gilgamesh advanced smoothly and then leapt forward, his sword hissing through the air. Culain blocked the blow, and a second, and a third. The two men circled.
“Remove your helm, boy. Let me see your face.”
Gilgamesh did not answer but attacked once more, his swords whirling in a glittering web but always blocked by the blades of Culain. On the rocks above Goroien watched it all in a semidaze. It seemed to her as if she were viewing two dancers moving with impossible grace to the discordant music of clashing steel. Gilgamesh as always was beautiful, almost catlike in his movements, while Culain reminded her of a flame leaping and twisting in a fire. Goroien’s heart was beating faster now as she tried to read the contest. Culain was stronger and faster than he had been when the shade of Gilgamesh had defeated him. And yet he was failing. Almost imperceptibly he was slowing. Gilgamesh, with the eye of the warrior born, saw the growing weakness in his opponent and launched a savage attack … but it was too early, and Culain blocked the blows and spun on his heel, his sword snaking out in a murderous riposte. Gilgamesh hurled himself backward as the silver blade scored his stomach, opening the top layers of skin.
“Never be hasty, boy,” said Culain. “The best are never reckless.” No blood seeped from the wound. Gilgamesh tore his helm from his head, his golden hair catching the last of the sunlight, and Culain saw him with new eyes. How could he ever have missed the resemblance to the mother? The Mist Warrior was growing tired—but not as weary as his body appeared. He was grateful now to Pendarric, for had he not known the truth, he would be dead by now. He could not
have fought so well while struggling to come to terms with the awful knowledge.
“Are you beginning to know fear, little man?” he asked. Gilgamesh mouthed a curse and came forward.
“I could never fear you,” he hissed, his dead gray eyes conveying no emotion.
Swords clashed, and Culain’s hunting knife barely blocked a disemboweling thrust that had been superbly disguised. He leapt back, aware more than ever that he had to maintain his strategy, for there was more to a battle than mere skill with a blade.
“A nice move, but you must learn to disguise the thrust,” he said. “Were you taught by a fishmonger?”
Gilgamesh screamed and attacked once more, his swords flashing with incredible speed. Culain blocked, twisted, moved, being forced back and back toward a jutting rock. He ducked under a whistling cut, hurled himself to the right, rolled on his shoulder, and came back to his feet. A trickle of blood was running from a slashing cut in his side.
“That was better,” he said, “but you were still open to a blow on the left.” It was a lie, but Culain said it with confidence.
“I never knew a man to talk as much as you,” Gilgamesh answered. “When you are dead, I’ll rip the tongue from your head.”
“I should take the eyes,” advised Culain. “Yours look as if the maggots still remain.”
“Damn you!” Gilgamesh screamed. His blades flashed for Culain’s face, and it was all the Mist Warrior could do to fend him off; there was no opportunity for a counterstrike. Three blows forced their way through his defenses only partially blocked, the first slashing a wide cut to his chest, the second piercing his side, and the third plunging into his shoulder. Once more he escaped by hurling himself sideways and rolling to his feet.
“Where are your taunts now, Father? I cannot hear you.”
Culain steadied himself, his gray eyes focused on the lifeless orbs of his opponent. He knew now with a terrible certainty that he could not defeat Gilgamesh and live. He backed away, half stumbling. Gilgamesh raced forward, but Culain suddenly dived to the ground in a tumbler’s roll, rising into Gilgamesh’s path. The Lord of Battle’s sword plunged home in Culain’s chest, cleaving the lungs, but Culain’s sword sliced up into the enemy’s belly to cut through the heart. Gilgamesh groaned, his head sagging to Culain’s shoulder.
“I beat you!” he whispered, “as I always knew I could.”
Culain dragged himself clear of the body, which slumped facefirst to the ground. He stumbled, his lungs filling with blood and choking him. He fell to his knees and stared down at the hilt of the sword jutting from his chest. Blood rose in his throat, spraying from his mouth.
On the rock above Goroien screamed. She leapt to the ground and ran to Culain’s side, grabbing the sword hilt and tearing it from his chest. As he sank to the ground, she pulled a small Sipstrassi Stone from her tunic pocket, but as she placed it over the wound, she froze, staring at her hands. They were wrinkled and stained with brown liver spots.
Yet it was impossible, for five thousand men had died to feed her Bloodstone. In that moment she knew that her only chance for life lay in the small Sipstrassi fragment held over Culain. She stared down at his face.
He tried to shake his head, willing her to live, then lapsed into the sleep of death.
Her hand descended, the power flowing into Culain, stopping the wound, healing the lungs, driving on and on, pushing back his mortality. His hair darkened, the skin of his face tightening. At last the stone was black.
Culain awoke to see a white-haired skeletal figure lying crumpled at his side. He screamed his anguish to the skies and tried to lift her, but a whisper stopped him. The rheumy eyes had opened. He crouched low over her and heard the last words of Goroien, the goddess Astarte, the goddess Athena, the goddess Freya.
“Remember me.”
The last flickering ember of life departed, the bones crumbling to white dust that the wind picked up and scattered on the rocky ground.
Uther, Prasamaccus, and Laitha walked in silence, the fifty swordsmen of the legion moving in a line with shields raised on either side of them. The black castle grew ever more large and sinister. No lights shone in the narrow windows, and the gateway was darker than the night.
Prasamaccus walked with an arrow notched. Laitha kept close to Uther. Behind them came Maggrig and six Pinrae warriors; his eyes remained locked to Uther’s back, for every time he looked at the castle, his limbs trembled and his heart hammered. But where Berec walked, so, too, would Maggrig, and when the Witch Queen was dead, the godling would follow. For Maggrig knew that the prince would never relinquish his hold on the people, and he was not prepared to allow another Enchanter to torment the land.
With each step the attackers grew more tense, waiting for the fire to reach out and engulf them, as it had the phantom legion Uther had conjured. Slowly they neared the castle, and at last Uther stepped onto the bridge before the gate towers. He drew the Sword of Cunobelin, glanced up at the seemingly deserted ramparts, and advanced.
At once a bestial figure ran from the darkness, a terrible howl ripping the silence. More than seven feet tall, the giant wolf-beast roared toward the prince, and in its taloned hands was an upswept ax. An arrow sang from Prasamaccus’ bow, taking the creature in the throat, but its advance continued. Uther ran forward, leaping nimbly to his left as the ax descended. The Sword of Cunobelin swept up, shearing through the huge arm at the shoulder; the creature screamed, and the sword sliced down into its neck with all the power Uther could exert with his double-handed grip. Before the eyes of the attackers the giant body shrank, and Maggrig pushed forward to stare at the dead but now human face. “Secargus,” he said. “I served with him ten years ago. Fine man.”
At that moment a sound drifted to the tense warriors, and men looked at one another in surprise. A baby’s cry floated on the wind, echoing in the gateway.
“Take twenty men,” Uther told a centurion named Degas. “Find out where it is coming from. The rest of you split into groups of five and search the castle.”
“We will come with you, Lord Berec,” said Maggrig, his hand on his sword. He did not meet Uther’s gaze, for he was afraid that his intent would be read in his eyes. Uther merely nodded and moved through the gateway. Inside was a maze of tunnels and stairwells, and Uther climbed ever higher. The corridors were lit by lanterns, faintly aromatic and glowing with a blood-red light. Strangely embroidered rugs covered the walls, showing scenes of hunts and battles. Everywhere statues of athletes could be seen in various poses, throwing javelins, running, lifting, wrestling. All were of the finest white marble.
Near the topmost floor they came to the apartments of Goroien, where a massive bed almost filled a small room that had been created from silvered mirrors. Uther gazed around at a score of reflections. The sheets were of silk, the bed of carved ivory inlaid with gold.
“She certainly likes to look at herself,” commented Laitha. Prasamaccus said nothing. He felt uncomfortable, and it had little to do with fear of Goroien. All she could do was kill him. Something else was in the air, and he did not like the way Maggrig kept so close to Uther and the other men of Pinrae also gathered around the prince. The group moved through to the far room, where a five-foot tree of gold supported a rounded black boulder veined with threads of dull red gold.
“The source of her power,” said Uther.
“Can we use it?” Maggrig asked.
Without answering, Uther strode to the tree and raised the Sword of Cunobelin high over his head. With one stroke he smashed the stone to shards. At once the room shimmered, the hangings, the carpets, and the furniture all disappearing. The group stood now in a bare, cold room lit only by the moonlight streaming in silver columns through the tall narrow windows.
“She is gone,” said Uther.
“Where?” Maggrig demanded.
“I do not know. But the stone is now useless. Rejoice, man. You have won!”
“Not yet,” Maggrig said softly.
“A moment o
f your time,” Prasamaccus said as the wolflike Maggrig drew his knife. The warrior turned slowly to find himself facing a bent bow with the shaft aimed at his throat.
The other Pinrae men spread out, drawing their weapons. Laitha stepped forward to stand beside the stunned Uther.
“Did Korrin truly mean so much to you?” asked the Brigante.
“Korrin?” answered Maggrig with a sneer. “No, he was a headstrong fool. But you think I am foolish also? This is not the end of the terror, only the beginning of fresh evils. Your magic and your spells!” he hissed. “No good ever came of such power. But we’ll not let you live to take her place.”
“I have no wish to take her place,” said Uther. “Believe me, Maggrig, the Pinrae is yours. I have my own land.”
“I might have believed you, but you lied once. You told me we were free to serve you or leave, and yet the legion archers were waiting in the shadows. We would all have been slain. No more lies, Berec. Die!”
As he spoke, he hurled himself at Uther. The prince leapt back, his sword slashing up almost of its own volition. The blade took Maggrig in the side, cleaving his ribs and exiting in a bloody swath. The other warriors charged, and the first fell to Prasamaccus—an arrow through his temple—the second to Laitha.
“Halt!” Uther bellowed, his voice ringing with authority, and the warriors froze. “Maggrig was wrong! There is no betrayal! I speak not from fear, for I think you know we can slay you all. Now cease this madness.” For a moment he had them, but one man suddenly hurled a dagger, and Uther swerved as the blade flashed by his ear. Laitha plunged her gladius into the chest of the nearest warrior, and Prasamaccus shot yet another. The remaining pair rushed at Uther, and he blocked one thrust, spinning on his heel to crash his elbow into the face of the second man. The Sword of Cunobelin cut through the man’s neck, toppling his head to the floor. Laitha leapt forward, killing the last man with a dazzling riposte that ripped open his throat. In the silence that followed Uther backed away from the bodies, an awful sadness gripping him.