Ghost King

by David Gemmell

  “Thuro?”

  He turned slowly and saw the concern in Laitha’s eyes. “I think you would be wise to leave me,” he said. “My company will bring danger to you.”

  “What will you do?”

  He shrugged. “I will find my father’s body and bury it. Then, I suppose, I will try to make my way back to Caerlyn.”

  “You are now the king, Thuro. What will you do when you get there?”

  “I shall abdicate. I am not suited to govern others. My father’s general, Lucius Aquila, is also his second cousin. He will rule wisely—if he survives.”

  “Why should he not?”

  “Eldared has the equivalent of five legions and four hundred horsemen. At Caerlyn there are only two legions; the rest of my father’s army is made up of militiamen who return to their homes in winter. The killing of my father will see the start of a war no one can afford. With the Saxons invading the south, Eldared’s ambition is lunacy. But then, the Brigantes have always hated the Romans, even before Hadrian built the wall to torment them.”

  “I was taught that Hadrian built the wall because he feared them,” said Laitha.

  “If that were true, there would have been few north-facing gates. The gates were sally points for raids deep into Brigante territory.” Thuro shivered and noticed that the snow was quickening beneath a thunder-dark sky. “Where is the nearest village?” he asked.

  “Apart from Deicester Town, there is Daris, some eight miles to the southeast. But Eldared will have men there looking for you. Why not come to my home. You will be safe there.”

  “I will be safe nowhere. And I do not wish to place you in peril, Laitha.”

  “You do not understand. I live with my guardian, and he will allow no one to harm you.”

  Thuro smiled. “I have just told you that Eldared has five legions. He is also the man who murdered the High King. Your guardian cannot be as powerful as my enemies.”

  “If we stand and debate, we will freeze to death. Now, let your horse go and follow me. Trust me, Thuro, for I am your only chance for life.”

  “But why release my horse?”

  “It cannot go where I will lead you. And perhaps more important, your hunters are seeking a boy riding and will not search the paths we will walk. Now, come on.”

  Thuro looped the mare’s reins over her head and draped them over the saddle pommel. Then he followed the lithe form of the forest girl ever deeper into the trees, emerging at last at the foot of a high hill in the shadow of the northern mountains. Thuro’s feet were cold, his boots wet through. A little way up the rise he stopped, his face white and his breathing ragged as he sank to the snow. Laitha had walked on maybe twenty paces when she turned and saw him beside the trail. She ran lightly back to him and knelt. “What is the matter?”

  “I am sorry—I cannot go on. I must rest for a while.”

  “Not here, Thuro; we are in the open. Come on, just a little more.” She helped him to his feet, and he staggered on for perhaps ten paces. Then his legs gave way beneath him. As Laitha bent to help him, she saw movement some two hundred paces back along the trail. Three riders emerged from the trees, saw the travelers, and kicked their horses into a gallop.

  “Your enemies are upon us, Thuro!” she shouted, dropping the pack from her shoulder and swiftly stringing her bow of horn. Thuro rolled to his knees and tried to stand, but his strength had fled. He watched as the riders drew their swords and saw the gleam of triumph in their eyes, heard the malice in their screams. His eyes flickered to Laitha, who was standing coolly with her bow stretched, the string nestling against her cheek. Time seemed to slow, and Thuro viewed the scene with detached fascination as Laitha slowly released her breath and, in the moment between release and the need for more air, loosed the shaft. It took the lead rider between his collarbones and punched him from the saddle.

  But the remaining riders were too close to allow such perfect timing again, and Laitha’s next shaft was loosed too swiftly. It glanced from the second warrior’s helm, snapping back his head; he almost lost his balance and his horse veered to the right, but the last man hurled himself from his saddle to crash into the forest girl as she vainly strove to draw another arrow from her quiver. Her hand flashed for the hunting knife in her belt, but he hammered his fist into her jaw and she fell to the snow, stunned. The other horseman, having gained control of his mount, stepped from the saddle and approached Thuro with his sword extended.

  “Well, little prince, I hope you enjoyed the hunt.”

  Thuro said nothing, but he climbed slowly to his feet and met the assassin’s eyes.

  “Are you not going to beg for life? How disappointing! I thought at the least you would offer us a king’s ransom.”

  “I do not fear you,” Thuro said evenly. “You are a man of little worth. Come, then, childkiller; earn your salt!”

  The man tensed and raised his sword, but then his eyes flickered to a point behind Thuro. “Who are you?” he asked, and Thuro turned his head. Behind him, seeming to appear from nowhere, was a man in a white bearskin cloak. His hair was black, and silver shone at the temples; his face was square-cut and clean-shaven, his eyes gray. He was dressed in a dark leather tunic over green woolen leggings, and he carried a silver staff with two ebony grips: one at the top, the second halfway down.

  “I asked who you are,” repeated the assassin.

  “I heard you,” the newcomer answered, his voice deep, and colder than the winds of winter.

  “Then answer me.”

  “I am Culain lach Feragh, and you have attacked my ward.”

  The man glanced at the unconscious girl. “She is only stunned—and she killed Pagis.”

  “It was a fine effort, and I will compliment her when she wakes. You, boy,” he said to Thuro softly, “move behind me,” Thuro did as he was bidden, and Culain stepped forward.

  “I do not like to kill,” he said, “but unfortunately you and your companion cannot be allowed to leave here alive, so I am left with no choice. Come, defend yourselves.”

  For a moment the two assassins simply stood staring at the man with the staff. Then the first of them ran forward, screaming a battle cry.

  Culain’s hand dropped down the shaft to the central ebony grip and twisted. The staff parted, and a silver blade appeared in his right hand. He parried the wild cut and reversed a slashing sweep to the assassin’s throat. The blade sliced cleanly free, and the man’s head slowly toppled from his shoulders. For one terrible moment the body stood; then the right knee buckled, and it fell to rest beside the grisly head. Thuro swallowed hard and tore his eyes from the corpse.

  The second assassin ran for his horse and, dropping his sword, vaulted to the saddle as Culain stepped over the corpse and retrieved Laitha’s bow. He selected an arrow, drew the string, and loosed the shaft with such consummate skill and lack of speed that Thuro had no doubt as to the outcome even before the missile plunged into the rider’s back. Culain dropped the bow and moved to Laitha, lifting her gently.

  After a while her eyes opened.

  “Will you never learn, Gian?” he whispered. “Another doe for your collection?”

  “He is the son of the king. Eldared seeks to kill him.” Culain turned, and as his eyes fastened on the prince, Thuro saw something new in his gaze, some emotion that the boy could not place. But then a mask covered Culain’s feelings.

  “Welcome to my hearth,” he said simply.

  3

  ELDARED, KING OF the Brigantes, Lord of the Northern Wall, sat silently listening to the reports of his huntsmen. His sons Cael and Moret sat beside him, aware that despite his apparent tranquillity, their father’s mood was darkening moment by moment.

  Eldared was fifty-one years of age and a veteran of dark intrigue. Twenty years earlier he had switched sides to support the young Roman Aurelius Maximus in his bid for the throne, betraying his own brother Cascioc in the process. Since that time his power had grown and his support for Maximus had earned him great wealth, but h
is ambition was not content with ruling the highlands. During the last five years he had steadily increased his support among the warring tribes of the high country and solidified his power base among the Britons of the south. All he needed for the throne to fall was the death of Aurelius and his weakling son. After that, a surprise raid on Eboracum would leave him in an unassailable position.

  But now a plan of stunning simplicity had been reduced to ashes by simple human error. Three retainers had escaped, and the boy, Thuro, was at large in the mountains. Eldared kept his face calm, his hooded eyes betraying no hint of his alarm. The boy was not a great problem in himself, for he was by all accounts spineless and weak. However, if he managed to get back to Caerlyn, then Lucius Aquila, the canniest of generals, would use him as a puppet to rally support against Eldared. Added to this, if any of the survivors lived long enough to warn Aquila, the raid on Eboracum would become doubly perilous.

  Eldared dismissed his huntsmen and turned his gaze to his elder son, Cael, a hawkeyed warrior just past his twentieth birthday.

  “Suggestions?” invited the king, and Cael smiled.

  “You do not need me to state the obvious, Father.”

  “No. I need you to show me you understand the obvious.”

  Cael bowed. “At present the boy is of secondary importance. He is hidden somewhere deep in our lands, and we can deal with him at leisure. First we must find the three who escaped, most especially the Roman Victorinus. He is a man Aurelius had chosen for future command, and I believe it was he who stopped the others from returning to seek the king.”

  “Well and good, boy. But what do you suggest we do?”

  “Concentrate our efforts in the southwest. Victorinus will cross the wall at Norcester and then cut east and south to Eboracum.”

  “Why would he take the long route?” asked Moret. “It only increases his danger.”

  Cael’s eyes showed his contempt for the question, but his voice was neutral as he answered it. “Victorinus is no fool, Brother. He knows we will send men southeast, and he gains time by such a maneuver. We need to use Goroien.”

  Moret cleared his throat and shifted nervously in his seat. Eldared said nothing.

  “What choice do we have, Father?” Cael continued.

  “Choice?” snapped Moret. “Another dead Brigante babe for that foul woman!”

  “And how many dead Brigante men will fall before the walls of Eboracum if we do not use the witch?” Cael replied. “If I thought it would guarantee victory, I would let Goroien sacrifice a hundred babes.”

  “Moret has a point,” Eldared said softly. “In this deadly game I like to control events. This Mist Magic of hers can be a boon, but at what price? She plays her own game, I think.” He leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. “We will give the huntsmen another two days to catch the retainers. If they fail, I will summon Goroien. As for the boy … I believe he could be dead somewhere in a snowdrift. But send Alantric into the high country.”

  “He will not like that,” said Moret. “The King’s Champion sent out after a runaway boy?”

  “His likes and dislikes are mine to command—as are yours,” said Eldared. “There will be many opportunities in the spring for Alantric to show his skills with a blade.”

  “And what of the sword?” Moret asked.

  Eldared’s eyes flashed, and his face darkened. “Do not speak of it! Ever!”

  Victorinus sat near the narrow window of the alehouse tavern, staring out at the remains of the Antonine Wall, built far to the north of Hadrian’s immense fortifications and stretching from coast to coast over forty miles. It was a turf wall on a stone foundation, and as he stared, the young Roman saw the ruins as a vivid physical reminder of the failing Roman Empire. Three hundred years earlier three legions would have patrolled this area, with a fortress every Roman mile. Now it was windswept and mostly deserted, except in remote villages such as Norcester, on the well-traveled trade roads. He sipped his ale and cast a covert glance across the room to where Gwalchmai and Caradoc were sitting together, just beyond the six Brigante tribesmen. The three had been journeying for nine days; they had managed to buy provisions and a change of clothing from a Greek merchant on the road south. Victorinus was now dressed in the garb of an Order Taker: a long woolen robe and a fur jerkin. Across his shoulders hung a leather satchel containing stylus, parchment and a letter from Publius Aristarchos naming him as Varius Seneca, an Order Taker from Eboracum.

  The innkeeper, an elderly Romano-British veteran, moved onto the bench seat alongside Victorinus.

  “How soon can delivery be made if I order goods from you?” he asked.

  “They will be here in the second week of spring,” answered Victorinus, acutely aware of the Brigantes who sat nearby. “Depending of course on what you need,” he continued. “It’s been a bad year for wine in Gaul, and supplies are not plentiful.”

  “I need salt a deal more than I need Gallic wine,” said the man. “The hunting is good in these hills, but without salt I can save little meat. So tell me, what does your merchant charge for salt?”

  Victorinus drew in a deep breath; he was no quartermaster and had no knowledge of such dealings.

  “What are you charged currently?” he asked.

  “Six sesterces a pound. Five if I take the bulk shipment and then resell to the tribesmen.”

  “The cost has risen,” said Victorinus, “and I fear I cannot match that price.”

  “So what can you offer?”

  “Six and a half. But if you can secure orders from surrounding villages, I will authorize a payment in kind. One bag in ten sold will come to you free.”

  “I do not know how you people have the nerve to sell at these prices. It is not as if we were at war. The trade routes are as safe now as they have ever been.”

  “Your thinking is a little parochial, my friend. Most of the trade routes in Brigante territory may be open, but there is a war in the south, and that has cut our profits.”

  A tall Brigante warrior with a deep scar across his cheek rose from his table and approached Victorinus.

  “I have not seen you before,” he said.

  “Is there any reason why you should have?” Victorinus replied. “Do you travel much to Eboracum?”

  “You look more like a soldier than an Order Taker.”

  “I earn more salt this way, friend, with a great deal less danger.”

  “Are you traveling alone?”

  “Even as you see. But then, I carry little money, and there are few who would attack an Order Taker. They would much rather wait until I have fulfilled my duties and then raid the wagons on their way back.”

  The man nodded, but his keen blue eyes remained fixed on the young Roman. Finally he turned his back and rejoined his comrades. Victorinus returned to his conversation with the innkeeper while keeping a wary eye on the Brigantes. The scarred tribesman looked across at Caradoc and Gwalchmai.

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “South,” said Caradoc.

  “Belgae, are you?”

  Caradoc nodded.

  “I thought I could smell fish!” The other Brigantes chuckled, and Caradoc colored but tore his eyes from the warrior. “I had a Belgae woman once,” continued Scarface. “She charged a copper penny. She looked like you; perhaps it was your mother.”

  Gwalchmai reached across the table and gripped Caradoc’s arm just as the tribesman was reaching for his sword. “It could well have been his mother,” Gwalchmai put in softly. “As I recall, she had a fondness for animals.”

  The Brigante rose from his bench. “Not wise to be insulting so far from your homeland.”

  “It’s my upbringing,” said Gwalchmai, rising smoothly. “I was taught always to silence a yapping dog.”

  Iron blades slid sibilantly from their scabbards. Gwalchmai upended the table and leapt to the right, drawing his gladius. Caradoc moved left, his sword extended.

  “Six against two,” said Gwal
chmai, grinning. “Typical of the Brigantes!”

  “The object of battle is to win,” said Scarface, his eyes gleaming and his color deepening. Caradoc’s left hand dropped to his belt, coming up with a heavy dagger. Just as the Brigantes tensed for the attack, Caradoc’s arm flashed forward and the dagger entered Scarface’s throat below the chin strap of his bronze helm. With a gurgling cry he sank to the floor as Caradoc and Gwalchmai charged into the mass, hacking and cleaving.

  Victorinus cursed, drew his gladius from within his robe, and leapt to join them, plunging his blade deep into the back of a stocky warrior. The tavern was filled with the discordant sounds of battle: iron on iron, iron on flesh. Within seconds the fight was over. Victorinus dispatched two of the men, as did Gwalchmai. Caradoc finished his own opponent and then sank to the floor. Victorinus knelt beside him, staring in anguish at the sword that jutted from the Belgae’s belly.

  “I think he’s finished me,” said Caradoc, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  “I am afraid that he has,” Victorinus agreed gently.

  “You’d better leave me here. I have much to consider.”

  Victorinus nodded. “You were a fine companion,” he said.

  “You, too—for a Roman!”

  Gwalchmai joined them. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “You could look after my woman, Gwal. She’s pregnant again. You could …” His eyes lost their sparkle, and breath rattled from his throat.