The bear king, p.11
The Bear King, page 11
part #3 of Dark Age Series
‘Why here?’ she said. ‘Why now, after so long?’
The concealing helmet dropped a little, and though she could no longer see her brother’s eyes, Catia felt his change of mood.
‘The season is turning again,’ he said. ‘And this time there will be a final battle to end all battles.’ He paused, choosing his words. ‘The gods have stepped aside, for now, as should I. Whoever wins this war – the followers of Weylyn, or those of Arthur – will have earned the right to lay claim to all the glorious hopes of days yet to come. The losers will be crushed down into the mud, forgotten. Only strength, and a cold, relentless desire for victory, will see us through the dark days to come. That is the thinking as I hear it, deep in the forest. But I couldn’t stand by, Catia. I couldn’t. You, Weylyn, you’re my blood, my heart. You’re all that matters to me, and I would freely give up my own life if I could save you from what’s to come.’
‘We know of the false king’s threat.’
‘You’re not aware how quickly time is running out for you.’ An edge appeared in his voice. ‘The army of Arthur is growing by the day. The whispers I hear as I move about the land tell me how fast you are losing the support of the folk you’ll need if your line is to usher in the golden age that we all pray for. Everything rides on your shoulders. I hate the fact that once again you’re carrying this burden, but it can’t be denied.’
For the second time, she wondered if she should have killed Gaia and Arthur that terrible, blood-soaked night on the high moor. But she was who she was, and she couldn’t sacrifice that identity, not when she’d nurtured its flame through so many years of hardship.
‘The Grim Wolves are searching for Lucanus. If he is still alive—’
‘You can’t wait for them to return.’
‘With the crown missing, and the druids – or most of them – dead, Myrrdin insists we need to find the cauldron of the Dagda if we’re to convince the people to follow us.’ She paced the throne room, the lamp swinging at her side. ‘He told me who guards it and where it might be found, but the road to it is filled with peril, so he says. Who can I trust to seek it out, if I’m not to wait for the Grim Wolves to return?’ After a moment, she answered her own question. ‘Me. There is no other.’
‘You’re the queen. You’re needed here.’
‘Whatever duties I have here are meaningless if we’re to be crushed by our enemy.’ She watched the Lord of the Greenwood nod slowly. He understood duty as well as she did.
‘You’ll go alone?’ he asked.
‘It’s for the best. I’ll need as many good men as possible to stay here to protect Weylyn.’
‘Then I’ll come with you.’
‘What will the powers who forced you to take up this role think of your taking sides?’
‘We share the same blood, sister. I am my own man, regardless of consequence.’
She felt a wave of deep affection rise up in her, and she hugged Aelius again, tighter this time.
‘One other thing,’ he murmured. ‘There’s a third child, a girl, Morgen, who is Weylyn’s …’ He paused, again selecting his words carefully. ‘What part she has to play, I’m not yet certain. But the Hecatae will not let power slip away from them, and they believe this Morgen is crucial to their plans.’
‘So many plots.’ How hard her voice sounded, how distant from the joyful tone she once had. ‘So much energy expended for the dream of a few old men yearning for power. What if it’s all for nothing? A story told to children that can never be made real, however much blood is shed.’
Aelius had no words to answer her.
The tolling bell rang out deep in the night and she jerked back from her brother’s embrace. The alarm, raised by her guards on the walls.
‘Can it be?’ she gasped. ‘Our enemy is attacking? So soon?’
She raced away through the empty chambers, hearing the shouts of her army as they roused themselves. Only when she was out in the night did she realize Aelius hadn’t followed her.
Between the barracks and the offices of her rule, golden light flitted like fireflies. Catia lifted her skirts and darted after one swinging lamp to the gate. Amarina was there, the hood of her cloak pulled low. She turned her shadowed face towards Catia, but said nothing.
‘This way!’ someone bellowed. Soldiers were streaming down the steep path from the fortress, lamplights flying alongside them.
‘So much excitement,’ Amarina sighed.
Catia hurried after them, winding down into the mouth of the valley where the moonlit stream tinkled down to the sea.
In the cove, the slick pebbles gleamed. A white path ran across the waves to where the moon hung in the starry sky. The soldiers huddled together, holding their lamps up so that the wavering light twisted their faces into grotesqueries.
‘What’s wrong?’ Catia shouted through the hubbub.
The men turned to her, and now she could see the dark lines of concern carved into their features. One of them pointed along the stony beach to the black slash of a cave that ran right through the headland to the ocean on the other side. Her men had christened it Myrrdin’s Cave, for it was somewhere usually hidden from prying eyes where the wood-priest vanished to divine entrails or speak to the gods, casting runes and mixing potions, whenever the urge took him. Within the black depths the embers of a fire glowed, like the eye of a resting beast.
‘Show me,’ she said.
The man who had pointed edged towards the cave, glancing back at his comrades, who remained rooted.
‘What are they scared of?’ Catia asked.
‘They’re a fearful lot,’ Amarina replied, appearing at her side. ‘Men.’
Catia picked her way over seaweed-slick rocks, skirting the pools that had been left at high tide. She breathed in the gassy reek of bladderwrack. The lamplight flared up the dank walls of the cave, and a wisp of blue smoke from the dying fire swirled in the breeze. Scattered around the ashes and charred sticks were three wooden bowls and a goblet, bundles of herbs, and pots containing the foul-smelling unguent Myrrdin smeared on his skin. Catia looked round, but the wood-priest was nowhere to be seen.
‘Here.’ Amarina pushed past her and pointed at a long broken stick lying half submerged in a rock pool. It was Myrrdin’s staff, shattered.
‘What happened?’ Catia asked.
The man who had led them there said in a tremulous voice, ‘The guards heard a scream, a terrible, throat-rending scream. And when they rushed down here, they saw—’ He choked on his words. ‘The wood-priest summoned daemons, and they carried him away to hell.’
Catia turned up her nose.
‘Don’t dismiss him so easily,’ Amarina said. She was staring down at another rock pool, but the seawater there was black.
Catia edged closer, and as the lamplight gleamed off the surface she saw the crimson tint.
‘Blood,’ Amarina said. ‘More than a man can stand to lose.’
‘We saw a body drifting out on the waves,’ the soldier muttered. ‘The wood-priest commands magic, everyone knows that. If even he can be killed, what hope is there for the rest of us? What has he summoned? What’s out there?’
‘This is just the blood of a lamb whose throat Myrrdin slit for his ritual,’ Catia said. She could feel Amarina’s eyes on her, but she didn’t meet them. ‘No more superstition. Leave the lamp, and go back to the fortress with the others. The wood-priest will be back soon enough, and then you’ll all feel like fools.’
Once the soldier had trudged away, Amarina said, ‘A lamb?’
Catia crouched beside the ruddy pool. There was more blood there than any lamb could hold.
‘The Dumnonii know of the wood-priest and are afraid of his power. They would not have attacked him,’ she said.
‘Warriors from the army of the false king, you must know that,’ Amarina said. ‘Only they would dare kill a wood-priest. They’ve set out to weaken us by degrees.’
‘And they’ve succeeded. Once word gets out that the druid has been murdered a spear’s throw from his home, everyone … our own army … will know how powerless we are.’
Catia listened to the relentless pounding of the waves and felt alone in all the world.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Strange Allies
THE BLASTING SEA WIND WHIPPED THE FOUNTAIN OF SPARKS up into the funnel of smoke. The fire roared, all but drowning the crashing of the waves on the stones. Howling like lost souls, the warriors danced around it, their pale figures little more than spectres in the thin light of dawn.
Lucanus watched the ritual, breathing in the acrid aroma of woodsmoke and the strange herbs the Attacotti tossed into the flames every now and then. That strange yowling set his teeth on edge. What were they saying in that rolling, unfamiliar tongue? What dark gods were they petitioning?
‘Do you know what this means?’ Bellicus rumbled at his side.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve lived among them all these years, and they’re as strange to me as the first time we encountered them. There are days when I wonder if they are mortals at all.’
One of the priests walked up to the edge of the bonfire, his bone necklace clattering. He thrust both hands into the air, and the dancing ended and the howling faded away. The warriors became statues, not even blinking.
‘I tried to understand them at the start,’ Lucanus continued. ‘Though I could never grasp their words, that priest would scratch things in the dry mud with a sharp stick. Drawings of the sun and the stars, of men and women in ships with strange curved prows, the stories they tell themselves. This island is not their true home, so it seems. They travelled here from somewhere in the east long, long ago. That is my understanding, at least. Beyond that …’ He shrugged.
‘Then how did you persuade the bastards to let us live?’ Solinus stamped his feet against the early-morning chill. ‘More than that, how did you do this deal with them?’
Lucanus shuddered. The ache in his stump was deep this day, and he could feel spikes lancing into the heart of him. ‘With patience, and more scratchings in the mud.’
He thought back to those long hours squatting outside the great hall of the idiot-king, not knowing if his friends would live to see the dawn. The guilt had gnawed away at him. The Grim Wolves would not be there if not for him. He should have guessed his loyal brothers would never let him sacrifice himself without risking everything to bring him home.
One by one, the Attacotti shook off their rigid pose and knelt in front of the priest. He moved among them, tapping each one on the forehead with an old bone taken from the pouch at his waist, then pressing the yellowing fragment into their palms. Each one snapped his fingers around it, and held it next to his heart.
‘They haunt my dreams,’ Comitinus said, hugging his arms around himself. ‘They eat the flesh of the dead, and now we’re to call them allies?’
‘We have no choice.’ Lucanus turned away from the knot of Grim Wolves and Niall of the Nine Hostages and looked out across the waves to where his brothers’ ship strained at its anchor. Home lay beyond that horizon. He had not thought he would ever see it again.
Catia was so clear in his mind’s eye, it was as if he could throw his arms around her and embrace her. His heart ached for the feel of her against him, for the smell of her skin and her hair, for a glimpse of that bright light in her eyes. One more time. Just one more time. And Weylyn – how he would have grown. He had so many things to pass on to his son, to teach him how to be a good man.
A hand clapped across his shoulder and he jerked from his reverie. Niall of the Nine Hostages looked down at him, grinning. ‘Who wouldn’t be lost to the relief of escaping this hellish place?’
‘This hell can never be escaped. I carry it with me.’
Niall leaned in and whispered, ‘No more sour talk. We are kings, you and I, and the men who follow us want to see the sun shining on the waters ahead, not be told there is always another storm coming over the horizon.’
Lucanus nodded. ‘Good advice.’ Niall was right. This burden was his to carry, and he shouldn’t let it fall on the shoulders of his friends. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Once the Attacotti are done here, let’s set a course for the south, and home.’
The ritual continued until the sun was midway in its climb up the sky. The Grim Wolves paced and kicked stones, cursing under their breath. They could not be away from the place too soon.
The Attacotti warriors who were to accompany them lined up along the shore. There must have been thirty of them, a goodly number, and Lucanus felt surprised to see so many. Though for this strange people he was the greatest prize of all, and the Attacotti wouldn’t let him slip through their fingers. They would be allies and captors in equal measure.
As they watched the gulls wheeling across the blue sky, he caught sight of the ship sailing around the eastern edge of the island. It was as strange as he’d been led to believe, resembling none of the vessels he’d watched put into port near the fortress, and they had come from all corners of the earth.
The deck was shaped like an eye staring up at the sky, with a long arched tiller aft. The single mast sported a sapphire sail with a yellow eye in the centre. The prow curled into a horse’s head so the ship would look as though it were cantering through the white wake, and a streak of gold ran along the rails on both sides. What warship could this be? That gold would catch the sunlight and it would be seen long before it neared, allowing any enemy to prepare their defence. Perhaps the Attacotti had no need to care about things like that.
It was a sturdy, ocean-going vessel, though, and he was certain it could cover long distances with ease. A rowboat cut across the swell soon after to collect the Attacotti. While they moved away towards their vessel, Lucanus heard Niall hail him as he splashed through the shallows to Waveskimmer.
‘Are we to be friends now, us and those Eaters of the Dead?’ Comitinus was still grumbling.
‘Oh, aye, it’ll be all laughing and drinking until you find yourself face down in their pot,’ Solinus replied.
Lucanus felt Bellicus’ eyes on him. His old friend knew the truth. The Attacotti recognized Lucanus’ power and tried to accommodate his wishes, but they would never be friends. They wanted to protect their interests. They would be his shadow to the end of his days. No chance of escape.
‘You need an army,’ Bellicus said, ‘a powerful one. There are no fiercer fighters than the Attacotti, you know that. When the warriors of the false king see them coming, they’ll throw down their weapons and turn tail.’
‘It’s true,’ Solinus said. ‘I’d rather have them at my side than looking into my eyes.’
‘And when the war is done,’ Mato asked, ‘will they sail away and leave us alone?’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Homecoming
LUCANUS CLOSED HIS EYES AND LET THE SEA WIND LASH HIS face. When he opened them again, Tintagel was still there.
Not a dream.
The honey-coloured stone of the fortress all but glowed in the afternoon sun, and he could see his banner, the gold dragon on the red background, flapping above the quarters where Catia and Weylyn would be waiting for him. His heart swelled at the vision of his loved ones. He felt himself begin to tremble from the rush of feelings. In this moment, the reunion was all that mattered, not war, not the great destiny in store for his son, nor the plots of the druids. Just to see his wife and son again: that was a prize greater than any other. Yet he still felt pangs of pain over the time that had been lost. He would make it up to them both, do anything to try to recapture those missing days.
He rested his one hand on the prow, feeling Waveskimmer skip across the water, urging it on.
‘Never thought you’d see it again, I’d wager,’ Niall of the Nine Hostages said. ‘Nor that wife of yours. I’ve never met a woman with more fire in her. You’ve chosen well, Pendragon.’
‘She chose me.’
‘I wish you success in the fight to come. It’ll not be an easy war, but then what wars are? Tales will be told about it for years to come. You’re not fighting for the easy things – for gold, for land. You’re fighting for a hope of better times. That’s a noble pursuit, and if truth be told, I can’t think of a king or emperor who ever fought for it before. You’ll earn your place on the tongues of storytellers for that alone.’
Lucanus licked the salt off his lips. ‘Give me my wife and son and a full belly, and days free of fighting, and I’ll be happy enough. I don’t need to be remembered.’
Niall clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. ‘No statues for you, then, Pendragon? You’ll sail off into the mists and be forgotten for all time!’
To be forgotten. That sounded perfect.
‘For my part, I’ll be happy to return to the life I had,’ Niall continued. ‘There are places still to plunder, and I have expensive tastes. I plan to sit on a throne of gold when that crown finally gets dropped on my head.’ He glanced back at the Attacotti ship streaming along in their wake, and Lucanus heard his voice grow cold. ‘And if I never return to the Island of the Dead it will be too soon. This world was not meant for those things. I cannot even imagine the horrors you must have seen.’
Aye, horrors.
Lucanus pushed them out of his mind, as he would be doing until his dying day.
Lucanus stood in the rowboat as it drifted the final lengths to the quay. The side throbbed with people, cheering and yelling and waving long streams of coloured silk that fluttered in the breeze. He shook his head, marvelling at the din. But the Grim Wolves were well liked among the court and the Dumnonii so he wasn’t surprised. But then he heard his own name repeated time and again until it became a full-throated cry, and he realized the welcome was for him. He felt bewildered.
‘You don’t know how they feel about you,’ Mato murmured. ‘You’re their saviour.’
‘I’m no saviour.’
