“The girl! Guard the girl!” screamed Revelation.
Cormac swung his eyes from Revelation’s battle with the two demons to see Anduine being dragged from the altar by two men. He leapt forward, and the first of the men ran at him. As his mouth opened to reveal long curved fangs, fear struck Cormac like a physical blow and his pace faltered. But just as the creature bore down on him with terrifying speed, the boy’s courage flared. The sword flashed up and then down, cleaving the demon’s collarbone and exiting through the belly. With a hideous scream the beast died. Cormac hurdled the body, and the creature holding Anduine threw her to one side and drew a gray sword.
“Your blood is mine,” it hissed, baring its fangs.
Their swords met in flashing arcs, and Cormac was forced back across the circle in a desperate effort to ward off the demonic attack. Within seconds he knew he was hopelessly outclassed …
By David Gemmell
Published by Del Rey Books:
LION OF MACEDON
DARK PRINCE
ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG
KNIGHTS OF DARK RENOWN
MORNINGSTAR
DARK MOON
IRONHAND’S DAUGHTER
THE HAWK ETERNAL
THE DRENAI SAGA
LEGEND
THE KING BEYOND THE GATE
QUEST FOR LOST HEROES
WAYLANDER
IN THE REALM OF THE WOLF
THE FIRST CHRONICLES OF DRUSS THE
LEGEND
THE LEGEND OF DEATHWALKER
WINTER WARRIORS
HERO IN THE SHADOWS
WHITE WOLF
THE SWORDS OF NIGHT AND DAY
THE STONES OF POWER CYCLE
GHOST KING
LAST SWORD OF POWER
WOLF IN SHADOW
THE LAST GUARDIAN
BLOODSTONE
THE RIGANTE
SWORD IN THE STORM
MIDNIGHT FALCON
RAVENHEART
STORMRIDER
TROY
LORD OF THE SILVER BOW
SHIELD OF THUNDER
FALL OF KINGS
A Del Rey® Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1988 by David A. Gemmell
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Great Britain in 1988 by Century Hutchinson Ltd.
DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-307-79744-5
www.delreybooks.com
v3.1
Dedication
This novel is dedicated with great affection to the many people who have made my trips to Birmingham full of enchantment. To Rog Peyton, Dave Holmes, and Rod Milner of Andromeda for the fun and the liquor; to Bernie Evans and the Brum Group for the magic of Novacon; to Chris and Pauline Morgan for the mysteries of the “Chinese”; and to the staff of the Royal Angus Hotel for smiling in the face of sheer lunacy.
Acknowledgments
Last Sword of Power, as with all my other novels, is the result of many months of hard work from a gifted team. Without them my poor spelling, lousy punctuation, and talent for split infinitives would be far more widely known. To my editor, Liza Reeves, and my copy editor, Jean Maund, many thanks. I am also more than grateful to my “readers” Edith Graham and Tom Taylor and my proofreader Stella Graham. Thanks also to my father-in-law, Denis Ballard, for supplying the research on Roman Britain.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Prologue
REVELATION STOOD WITH his back to the door, his broad hands resting on the stone sill of the narrow window, his eyes scanning the forests below as he watched a hunting hawk circling beneath the bunching clouds.
“It has begun, my lord,” said the elderly messenger, bowing to the tall man in the monk’s robes of brown wool.
Revelation turned slowly, his smoke-gray eyes fastening on the man, who looked away, unable to bear the intensity of the gaze.
“Tell it all,” said Revelation, slumping in an ivory-inlaid chair before his oak desk and gazing absently at the parchment on which he had been working.
“May I sit, my lord?” the messenger asked softly, and Revelation looked up and smiled.
“My dear Cotta, of course you may. Forgive my melancholy. I had hoped to spend the remaining days of my life here in Tingis. The African weather suits me, the people are friendly, and with the exception of Berber raids, the country is restful. And I have almost completed my book … but then, such ventures will always take second place to living history.”
Cotta sank gratefully into a high-backed chair, his bald head gleaming with sweat, his dark eyes showing his fatigue. He had come straight from the ship, eager to unburden himself of the bad news he carried yet loath to load the weight on the man before him.
“There are many stories of how it began. All are contradictory or else extravagantly embroidered. But as you suspected, the Goths have a new leader of uncanny powers. His armies are certainly invincible, and he is cutting a bloody path through the northern kingdoms. The Sicambrians and the Norse have yet to find him opposing them, but their turn will come.”
Revelation nodded. “What of the sorcery?”
“The agents of the Bishop of Rome all testify that Wotan is a skilled nigromancer. He has sacrificed young girls, launching his new ships across their spread-eagled bodies. It is vile … all of it. And he claims to be a god!”
“How do the man’s powers manifest themselves?” asked the abbot.
“He is invincible in battle. No sword can touch him. But it is said he makes the dead walk—and more than walk. One survivor of the battle in Raetia swears that at the end of the day the dead Goths rose in the midst of the enemy, cutting and killing. Needless to add, the opposition crumbled. I have only the one man’s word for this tale, but I think he was speaking the truth.”
“And what is the talk among the Goths?”
“They say that Wotan plans a great invasion of Britannia, where the magic is strongest. Wotan says the home of the Old Gods is Britannia and the gateway to Valhalla is at Sorviodunum, near the Great Circle.”
“Indeed it is,” whispered Revelation.
“What, my lord abbot?” asked Cotta, his eyes widening.
“I am sorry, Cotta, I was thinking aloud. The Great Circle has always been considered a place of magic by the Druids—and others before them. And Wotan is right. It is a gateway of sorts, and he must not be allowed to pass through it.”
“I cannot think there is a single army to oppose him, except the Blood King, and our reports say he is sorely beset by rebellion and invasion in his own land. Saxons, Jutes, Angles, and even British tribes rise against him regularly. How would he fare against twenty thousand Gothic warriors led by a sorcerer who cannot be bested?”
Revelation smiled broadly, his woodsmoke eyes twinkling with sudden humor. “Uther can never be under-estimate
d, my friend. He, too, has never known defeat … and he carries the Sword of Power, Cunobelin’s blade.”
“But he is an old man now,” said Cotta. “Twenty-five years of warfare must have taken their toll. And the Great Betrayal …”
“I know the history,” Revelation snapped. “Pour us some wine while I think.”
The abbot watched as the older man filled two copper goblets with deep red wine, accepting one of them with a smile to offset the harshness of his last response.
“Is it true that Wotan’s messengers seek out maidens with special talents?”
“Yes. Spirit seers, healers, speakers in tongues … it is said he weds them all.”
“He kills them,” said Revelation. “It is where his power lies.”
The abbot rose and moved to the window, watching the sun sink in fire. Behind him Cotta lit four candles, then waited in silence for several minutes. At last he spoke. “Might I ask, my lord, why you are so concerned about events across the world? There have always been wars. It is the curse of man that he must kill his brothers, and some argue that God himself made this the punishment for Eden.”
Revelation turned from the glory of the sunset and went back to his chair.
“All life, Cotta, is balanced. Light and dark, weak and strong, good and evil. The harmony of nature. In perpetual darkness all plants would die. In perpetual sunlight they would wither and burn. The balance is everything. Wotan must be opposed lest he become a god—a dark and malicious god, a blood drinker, a soul stealer.”
“And you will oppose him, my lord?”
“I will oppose him.”
“But you have no army. You are not a king or a warlord.”
“You do not know what I am, old friend. Come, refill the goblets, and we will see what the graal shows.”
Revelation moved to an oak chest and poured water from a clay jug into a shallow silver bowl, carrying it carefully to the desk. He waited until the ripples had died and then lifted a golden stone above the water, slowly circling it. The candle flames guttered and died without a hint of breeze, and Cotta found himself leaning forward, staring into the velvet-dark water of the bowl.
The first image that appeared was that of a young boy, red-haired and wild-eyed, thrusting at the air with a wooden sword. Nearby sat an older warrior, a leather cup strapped over the stump where his right hand should have been. Revelation watched them closely, then passed his hand over the surface. Now the watchers could see blue sky and a young girl in a pale green dress sitting beside a lake.
“Those are the mountains of Raetia,” whispered Cotta. The girl was slowly plaiting her dark hair into a single braid.
“She is blind,” said Revelation. “See how her eyes face the sun unblinking.”
Suddenly the girl’s face turned toward them. “Good morning,” she said, the words forming without sound in both men’s minds.
“Who are you?” asked Revelation softly.
“How strange,” she replied. “Your voice whispers like the morning breeze and seems so far away.”
“I am far away, child. Who are you?”
“I am Anduine.”
“And where do you live?”
“In Cisastra with my father, Ongist. And you?”
“I am Revelation.”
“Are you a friend?”
“I am indeed.”
“I thought so. Who is that with you?”
“How do you know there is someone with me?”
“It is a gift I have, Master Revelation. Who is he?”
“He is Cotta, a monk of the White Christ. You will meet him soon; he also is a friend.”
“This I knew. I can feel his kindness.”
Once more Revelation moved his hand across the water. Now he saw a young man with long, raven-dark hair leading a fine herd of Sicambrian horses in the vales beyond Londinium. The man was handsome, with a finely boned face framed by a strong, clean-shaven jaw. Revelation studied the rider intently.
This time the water shimmered of its own accord, a dark storm cloud hurling silent spears of jagged lightning streaming across a night sky. From within the cloud came a flying creature with leather wings and a long wedge-shaped head. On its back sat a yellow-bearded warrior; his hand rose, and lightning flashed toward the watchers. Revelation’s arm shot forward just as the water parted; white light speared up into his hand, and the stench of burning flesh filled the room. The water steamed and bubbled, vanishing in a cloud of vapor. The silver bowl sagged and flowed down onto the table, a hissing black and silver stream that caused the wood to blaze. Cotta recoiled as he saw Revelation’s blackened hand. The abbot lifted the golden stone and touched it to the seared flesh. It healed instantly, but even the magic could not take away the memory of the pain, and Revelation sagged back into his chair, his heart pounding and cold sweat on his face. He took a deep breath and stared at the smoldering wood. The flames died, the smoke disappearing as around them the candles flared into life.
“He knows of me, Cotta. But because he attacked me, I learned of him. He is not quite ready to plunge the world into darkness; he needs one more sacrifice.”
“For what?” whispered the old man.
“In the language of this world? He seeks to open the gates of hell.”
“Can he be stopped?”
Revelation shrugged. “We will see, my friend. You must take ship for Raetia and find Anduine. From there take her to Britannia, to Noviomagus. I will meet you in three months. Once there you will find an inn in the southern quarter, called, I believe, the Sign of the Bull. Come every day at noon and wait one hour. I shall join you when I can.”
“The blind girl is the sacrifice?”
“Yes.”
“And what of the red-haired boy and the rider?”
“As yet I do not know. Friends or enemies … only time will tell. The boy looked familiar, but I cannot place him. He was wearing Saxon garb, and I have never journeyed among the Saxons. As for the rider, I know him; his name is Ursus, and he is of the House of Merovee. He has a brother, I think, and he yearns to be rich.”
“And the man on the dragon?” Cotta asked softly.
“The enemy from beyond the Mist.”
“And is he truly Wotan, the gray god?”
Revelation sipped his wine. “Wotan? He has had many names. To some he was Odin the One-Eyed, to others Loki. In the east they called him Purgamesh, or Molech, or even Baal. Yes, Cotta, he is divine—immortal if you will. And where he walks, chaos follows.”
“You speak as if you knew him.”
“I know him. I fought him once before.”
“What happened?”
“I killed him, Cotta,” answered the abbot.
1
GRYSSTHA WATCHED AS the boy twirled the wooden sword, lunging and thrusting at the air around him. “Feet, boy; think about your feet!”
The old man hawked and spit on the grass, then scratched at the itching stump of his right wrist. “A swordsman must learn balance. It is not enough to have a quick eye and a good arm—to fall is to die, boy.”
The youngster thrust the wooden blade into the ground and sat beside the old warrior. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his sky-blue eyes sparkled.
“But I am improving, yes?”
“Of course you are improving, Cormac. Only a fool could not.”
The boy pulled clear the weapon, brushing dirt from the whittled blade. “Why is it so short? Why must I practice with a Roman blade?”
“Know your enemy. Never care about his weaknesses; you will find those if your mind has skill. Know his strengths. They conquered the world, boy, with just such swords. You know why?”
“No.”
Grysstha smiled. “Gather me some sticks, Cormac. Gather me sticks you could break easily with finger and thumb.” As the boy grinned and moved off to the trees, Grysstha watched him, allowing the pride to shine now that the boy could not see him closely.
Why were there so many fools in the world? he thought as pride gav
e way to anger. How could they not see the potential in the lad? How could they hate him for a fault that was not his?
“Will these do?” asked Cormac, dropping twenty finger-thin sticks at Grysstha’s feet.
“Take one and break it.”
“Easily done,” said Cormac, snapping a stick.
“Keep going, boy. Break them all.”
When the youngster had done so, Grysstha pulled a length of twine from his belt. “Now gather ten of them and bind them together with this.”
“Like a beacon brand, you mean?”
“Exactly. Tie them tight.”
Cormac made a noose of the twine, gathered ten sticks, and bound them tightly together. He offered the four-inch-thick brand to Grysstha, but the old man shook his head.
“Break it,” he ordered.
“It is too thick.”
“Try.”
The boy strained at the brand, his face reddening and the muscles of his arms and shoulders writhing under his red woolen shirt.
“A few moments ago you snapped twenty of these sticks, but now you cannot break ten.”
“But they are bound together, Grysstha. Even Calder could not break them.”
“That is the secret the Romans carried in their short swords. The Saxon fights with a long blade, swinging it wide. His comrades cannot fight close to him, for they might be struck by his slashing sword, so each man fights alone, though there are ten thousand in the fray. But the Roman, with his gladius—he locks shields with his comrades, and his blade stabs like a viper bite. Their legions were like that brand, bound together.”
“And how did they fail if they were so invincible?”
“An army is as good as its general, and the general is only a reflection of the emperor who appoints him. Rome has had her day. Maggots crawl in the body of Rome, worms writhe in the brain, rats gnaw at the sinews.”
The old man hawked and spit once more, his pale blue eyes gleaming.
“You fought them, did you not?” said Cormac. “In Gallia and Italia?”
“I fought them. I watched their legions fold and run before the dripping blades of the Goths and the Saxons. I could have wept then for the souls of the Romans that once were. Seven legions we crushed until we found an enemy worth fighting: Afrianus and the Sixteenth. Ah, Cormac, what a day! Twenty thousand lusty warriors, drunk with victory, facing one legion of five thousand men. I stood on a hill and looked down upon them, their bronze shields gleaming. At the center, on a pale stallion, sat Afrianus himself. Sixty years old and, unlike his fellows, bearded like a Saxon. We hurled ourselves upon them, but it was like water falling on a stone. Their line held. Then they advanced and cut us apart. Fewer than two thousand of us escaped into the forests. What a man! I swear there was Saxon blood in him.”