“Only because you do. I would not lie to you, young prince. I served your father and his father and grand-father. I was the Lord Enchanter.”
“Maedhlyn?”
“Yes, that was one of my names in the light. Now I am no one.”
“So you also are dead?”
“As dead as you, Prince Cormac. Will you travel with me on the gray road?”
“Will I truly find Anduine?”
“I do not know. But you will walk her path.”
“Then I will join you.”
Maedhlyn smiled and walked down the hillside to the dark river. He raised his arms and called out, and a black barge came into sight, steered by a monstrous figure with the head of a wolf and eyes that gleamed red in the pale half-light of eternal dusk. Cormac raised his sword.
“You will not need that,” whispered Maedhlyn. “He is only the ferryman and will offer no harm to you.”
“How can he harm a dead man?” asked Cormac.
“Only your body has died. Your spirit can still know pain and, worse, extinction. And there are many beasts here and once-men who will seek to harm you. Keep your sword ready, Cormac. You will have need of it.”
Together they climbed into the barge, which moved out onto the river under the skilled silent poling of the ferryman.
The boat came to rest against a stone jetty, and Maedhlyn climbed clear, beckoning Cormac to follow him. The ferryman sat still, his red eyes fixed on the youth and his hand extended.
“What does he want?”
“The black coin,” said Maedhlyn. “All travelers here must pay the ferryman.”
“I have no coin.”
The old man was troubled. “Search your pockets, young prince,” he ordered. “It must be there.”
“I tell you I have nothing.”
“Search anyway!”
Cormac did as he was bidden, then spread his arms. “As I said, I have nothing but my sword.”
Maedhlyn’s shoulders sagged. “I fear I have done you a terrible injustice, Cormac.” He turned to the ferryman and spoke in a language the youth had never heard. The beast seemed to smile; then he stood and turned the barge, poling it back onto the river.
“What injustice?”
“You are not, it seems, dead, though how you have come here is a mystery. All souls carry the black coin.”
“There is no harm done. He carried us over.”
“Yes, but he will not take you back, and that is the tragedy.”
“It is not wide, Maedhlyn. If necessary I can swim across.”
“No! You must never touch the water; it is the essence of hell itself. It will burn what it touches, and the pain will last an eternity.”
Cormac approached the old man, placing his arm over Maedhlyn’s shoulder.
“It is no tragedy. I have no wish to live without Anduine, and she has already passed the river. Come, let us walk. I wish to reach the mountains before dark.”
“Dark? There is no dark here. This is how the Void is and always will be. There is no sun and no moon, and the stars are a distant memory.”
“Let us walk, anyway,” snapped Cormac.
Maedhlyn nodded, and the two set off.
For many hours they continued on their way until at last weariness overcame the prince. “Do you never tire?” he asked the Enchanter.
“Not here, Cormac. It is another sign of your bond to life. Come, we will sit up there on the hillside; I will light a fire, and we will talk.”
They camped within a circle of boulders. Maedhlyn gathered dead wood, and the small fire blazed brightly. The Enchanter seemed lost in thought, and Cormac did not disturb him. After a while Maedhlyn stretched and smiled grimly.
“It would have been better, young prince, to have met under the sun, in the woods around Eboracum or in the palace at Camulodunum. But men must make of events what they can. I taught your father when he was your age, and he was swift in learning. He became a man who could bend almost any situation to his will. Perhaps you also are such a man.”
Cormac shook his head. “I was raised as a demon’s son, shunned by all. The man who was a father to me was slain, and I fled. I met Culain, and he saved me. He left me to protect Anduine, and I failed. That is the story of Cormac. I do not think I am as Uther was.”
“Do not judge yourself too harshly, young prince. Tell me all of the story, and I will be your judge.”
As the fire flickered to glowing ash, Cormac told him of his early life with Grysstha, of the kiss from Alftruda that had led to Grysstha’s murder, of the meeting with Culain, and of the battle with the demons to protect Anduine. Lastly he outlined the rescue of Oleg and his daughter and the fight with the Vikings that had ultimately caused the attack on the cabin.
Maedhlyn listened quietly until the story was complete, then added fresh fuel to the fire.
“Uther would have been proud of you, but you are too humble, Prince Cormac; I would guess that has much to do with the tribulations of your childhood. Firstly, when Alftruda’s brothers attacked you, you defeated them all—the act of a warrior and a man of courage. Secondly, when the demons came, you fought like a man. And when you carried Oleg from the mountain, you once more showed the power of your spirit. And yes, you failed; the forces against you were too powerful. But know this, child of Uther, to fail is not so terrible. The real act of cowardice is never to try.”
“I think, Maedhlyn, I would sooner have been less heroic and more successful. But there is no point now in worrying about it. I will have no opportunity to redeem myself.”
“Do not be too sure of that,” said the Enchanter softly. “This world, damnable as it is, has many similarities to the one you have left.”
“Name them.”
“The lord of this world is Molech, once a man but now a demon. You know him better as Wotan. This was his realm for nigh two thousand years.”
“Wotan? How is that possible?”
“Through one man’s stupidity. My own. But let me tell the story in my own time. You know, of course, of the Feragh, the last living fragment of Atlantis?”
“Yes, Culain told me.”
“Well, in those glorious days there were many young men who yearned for adventure. And we had the power of the stones, and we became gods to the mortals. One such young man was Molech. He reveled in dark emotions, and his pleasures would turn most men’s stomachs; torture, pain, and death were as wine to him. He turned his world into a charnel house. It was too much for any of us to bear, and the Feragh turned against him. Our king, Pendarric, led a war that saw Molech humbled. Culain fought him on the towers of Babel and killed him there, beheading him and hurling the body to the rocks to be burned.”
“Then how did he return?”
“Be patient!” snapped Maedhlyn. “Molech, like all of us, could use the stones to become immortal. But he went one step further than we had; he took a ring of silver Sipstrassi and embedded it in his own skull, under the skin, like an invisible crown. He became Sipstrassi, needing no stone. When Culain killed him, I took the head. No one knew what I had done. I burned the flesh from it and kept it as a talisman, an object of great power. It aided me through the centuries that followed. I knew Molech’s spirit still lived, and I communed with it and with the dead of his realm, learning much and using the knowledge well. But in my arrogance I did not realize that Molech was also using me and that his power was growing.
“Some years ago, just after you were born, Uther and I suffered a parting of the ways. I journeyed to the lands of the Norse and there met a young woman who wished to be my student. I allowed her into my house and into my heart. But she was a servant of Molech, and she drugged me one night and placed the skull on my head. Molech took my body, and my spirit was sent here. Now he torments me with my own stupidity, and the murderous excesses we fought so hard to destroy have returned to plague the world. And this time he will not be defeated.”
“Culain still lives. He will destroy him,” said Cormac.
“No
, Culain is a shadow of the man who once was. I thought that Uther and the Sword of Power might be strong enough, but Wotan outthought me there also. He has taken the Blood King.”
“Killed him?”
“No. Would that he had!”
“I do not understand you,” said Cormac.
“Uther is here, Prince Cormac, in the Void. Held in chains of soulfire.”
“I care only for Anduine,” said Cormac. “While I can admire the strength and skills of the man who sired me, all I know is that he hounded my mother to her eventual death. I do not care about his suffering.” He rose smoothly to his feet. “I have rested enough, Maedhlyn.”
“Very well,” whispered the Enchanter. His hand floated over the fire, and the blaze died instantly. “It is a long walk and a road fraught with peril. Keep to the path. No matter what happens, Cormac, keep to the path.”
Together they set off on the wide road. On either side the pitiless landscape stretched to a gray horizon, the land broken only by ruined trees and jutting black boulders, jagged and stark. Dust rose about their feet, drying Cormac’s throat and stinging his eyes.
“This is a soulless place,” he said, bringing a wry chuckle from Maedhlyn.
“That is exactly the opposite of the truth, young man. All that lives here are the souls of the departed. The problem we face is that the majority of those condemned here are evil. And here a man’s true nature is what is seen. Take the ferryman. He was a man once, but now he has the shape of the beast he hid in life.”
“Anduine has no place here,” said Cormac. “She is gentle and kind; she has harmed no one.”
“Then she will pass on along the road. Do not fear for her, Cormac. There is a cosmic balance to this place, and not even Molech could disturb it for long.”
As they rounded a bend in the road, they saw a young girl whose foot was caught in a snare. “Help me!” she called, and Cormac stepped from the road to where she lay. As he reached her, a towering figure loomed from behind a rock.
“Look out!” yelled Maedhlyn, and Cormac spun, his sword slashing in a murderous arc that cleaved the side of the scaled beast.
With a hissing scream that sprayed black blood over Cormac’s shirt the monster vanished. Behind him the girl rose silently, fingers extended like claws. Maedhlyn hurled a slender dagger that took her between the shoulder blades, and Cormac whirled as she fell to her knees. Her eyes were as red as blood, her mouth was lined with pointed fangs, and a serpent’s tongue slid between her blue lips. Then she, too, vanished.
“Get back to the road,” ordered Maedhlyn, “and bring my dagger.” The blade lay in the dust. Cormac scooped it up and rejoined the Enchanter.
“What were they?”
“A father and daughter. They spent their lives robbing and killing travelers on the road between Verulamium and Londinium. They were burned at the stake twenty years before you were born.”
“Does nothing good live here?”
“A man finds good in the most unlikely places, Prince Cormac. But we shall see.”
They journeyed on for what seemed like an eternity. Without the stars or moon to judge the hours, Cormac lost all sense of passing time, yet eventually they reached the mountains and followed the path to a wide cave where torches blazed.
“Be on your guard here, for there is no protection,” warned Maedhlyn.
Inside the cave scores of people were sitting, sleeping, or talking. The newcomers were ignored, and Maedhlyn led the prince down a series of torchlit tunnels packed with souls, halting at last in a central cavern where a huge fire burned.
An elderly man in a faded brown habit bowed to the Enchanter. “God’s peace to you, Brother,” he said.
“And to you, Albain. I have here a young friend in need of goodness.”
Albain smiled and offered his hand. He was a frail, short man with wispy white hair framing his bald head like a crown above his ears. “Welcome, my boy. What you seek is in short supply. How may I help you?”
“I am searching for my wife; her name is Anduine.” He described her to the old monk, who listened attentively.
“She was here, but I fear she was taken away. I am sorry.”
“Taken? By whom?”
“The Loyals came for her. We had no time to hide her.”
“Molech’s guards,” Maedhlyn explained. “They serve him here as they served him in life, for the promise of a return to the flesh.”
“Where did they take her?”
Albain did not answer but looked at Maedhlyn.
“She will be at the keep—Molech’s fortress. You cannot go there, Cormac.”
“What is there to stop me?” he asked, gray eyes blazing.
“You truly are Uther’s son,” said Maedhlyn, caught between sorrow and pride.
Several figures moved from the shadows.
“Uther’s son?” said Victorinus. “And is that you, Maedhlyn?”
“So the war has begun,” Maedhlyn whispered.
“Not yet, wizard, but soon. Tell me, is he truly Uther’s son?”
“Yes. Prince Cormac, meet Victorinus, Uther’s ablest general.”
“I wish I could say well met, Prince Cormac.” He turned once more to Maedhlyn. “Albain told us that the king’s soul is held at the keep … that they are torturing him. Can it be true?”
“I am sorry, Victorinus. I know you were his friend.”
“Were? Death does not change my friendship, Maedhlyn. There are thirteen of us here, and we will find the king.”
“The open ground before the keep,” said Maedhlyn, “is patrolled by hounds of great size. They have teeth like daggers and skin like steel; no sword will slay them. Then, within the first wall, live the Loyals, two hundred at least—all formidable warriors during their lives. Beyond the second wall I have never seen, but even the Loyals fear to go there.”
“The king is there,” said Victorinus, his face set, his eyes stubborn.
“And Anduine,” added Cormac.
“It is madness! How will you approach the keep? Or do you think your thirteen swords will cut a path for you?”
“I have no idea, Maedhlyn; I am only a soldier. But once you were the greatest thinker in all the world, or so you told me.”
“Hell is no place for flattery,” said the Enchanter. “But I will think on it.”
“Does Molech have no enemies?” Cormac asked.
“Of course he has, but most of them are like he is: evil.”
“That does not concern me. Are they powerful?”
“Believe me, Cormac, this is not a course to pursue.”
“Answer me, damn you!”
“Yes, they are powerful,” snapped Maedhlyn. “They are also deadly, and even to approach them could cost you your soul. Worse, you could end up like your father—wrapped in chains of fire and tortured until you are naught but a broken shell, a mewling ruined thing.”
“Why should they do this to me?”
“Because you are your father’s son. And Molech’s greatest enemy here is Goroien, the Witch Queen defeated by Uther, and her lover-son Gilgamesh, slain by Culain. Now do you understand?”
“I understand only that I want to meet her. Can you arrange it?”
“She will destroy you, Cormac.”
“Only if she hates me more than she desires to defeat Molech.”
“But what can you offer her? She has her own army and slave beasts to do her bidding.”
“I will offer her the keep—and the soul of Wotan.”
“Talk to them, Albain,” said Maedhlyn as the small group sat in a corner of the stalactite-hung cavern. “Explain what they are risking.” The old man looked at Victorinus, his face showing his concern.
“There are many here who will pass no farther on the road. They exist as beasts in this terrible twilight. Others are drawn on toward what some believe is a beautiful land with a golden sun and a blue sky. I myself believe in that land and encourage people to travel there. But to do so you must hold to the pat
h.”
“Our king is held here,” said Victorinus. “We have a duty toward him.”
“Your duty was to give your lives for him, and you did that. But not your souls.”
“I will not speak for the others, Albain, only for myself. I cannot journey farther while the king needs me, not even for the promise of paradise. You see, of what worth would paradise be to me if I spent it in shame?”
Albain reached across and took Victorinus by the hand. “I cannot answer that for you. All I know is that here—in this land of death and despair—there is still the promise of hope for those who travel on. Some cannot, for their evil has found a home here. Others will not, for their fears are very great and it is easier perhaps to hide in the eternal shadows. But this ghastly world is not all there is, and you should not deny yourself the journey.”
“Why have you not journeyed on?” asked Cormac.
Albain shrugged. “One day perhaps I will. For now there is work for me among the haunted and the lost.”
“As indeed there is work for us,” said Cormac. “I am not a philosopher, Albain, but my love is here, and you say she is held by Molech. I will not allow that. Like Victorinus, I could not live in any paradise with that on my conscience.”
“Love is a fine emotion, Prince Cormac, and there is precious little of it here. Let me argue from another standpoint. To defeat Molech you seek the aid of Goroien, who was as evil as the man you desire to destroy. Can a man wed himself to the power of evil and remain untouched by it? What will happen when the fire of your purity touches the ice of her malice?”
“I do not know. But Molech’s enemies should be my friends.”
“Friends? How much do you know of Goroien?”
“Nothing beyond Maedhlyn telling me she was an enemy to Uther.”
“She was an immortal who held her eternal beauty by sacrificing thousands of young women, watching as their blood ran over her magic stone. She brought her dead son back to life—and made him her lover. His name was—and is—Gilgamesh, the Lord of the Undead. That is what you are seeking to ally yourself with.”
Cormac shook his head and smiled. “You do not understand, Albain. You speak of my purity? I would sacrifice a world to free Anduine; I would see a million souls writhe in agony to see her safe.”