Ghost King

by David Gemmell

  They camped that night in a glade nestling in the bowl of the hills and out of the wind. It snowed heavily, but the two men and their mounts were snug in the shelter of a heavily laden pine and the fire kept their blood from freezing.

  The following morning they located a small settlement consisting of some twelve huts and rode warily in. Gwalchmai seemed unconcerned, and Victorinus marveled anew at the British optimism that pervaded the tribes. They had a total inability to learn from past mistakes and greeted each new day as an opportunity to replay the errors of the past twenty-four hours.

  “Try not to insult anyone,” urged Victorinus.

  “Have no fear, Roman. Today is a good day.”

  They were met by the village headman, an elderly warrior with braided white hair and a blue tattoo on his forehead in the shape of a spider’s web.

  “Greetings, Father,” said Gwalchmai as a small crowd gathered behind the headman.

  “I am no father to you, South Rat,” answered the man, grinning and showing only one tooth at the top of his jaw.

  “Do not be too sure, Father. You look like a man who spread his seed wide as a youngster, and my mother was a woman who attracted such men.”

  The crowd chuckled, and the old man stepped forward, his blue eyes bright. “Now you mention it, there is a certain family resemblance. I take it you’ve brought a gift for your old father?”

  “Indeed I have,” said Gwalchmai, stepping down from the saddle and presenting the old man with Caradoc’s best knife, an oval-bladed weapon with a hilt of carved bone.

  “From across the water,” said the old man, hefting the weapon. “Good iron—and a fine edge.”

  “It is pleasant to be home,” said Gwalchmai. “Can we rest the night and feed our horses?”

  “But of course, my son.” The old man called forward two youngsters, and they led the horses back toward a paddock east of the settlement. “Join me in my hut.”

  The hut was sparsely furnished, but it was a welcome respite from the wind. There was a cot bed and several rugs, and an iron brazier was burning coal. An elderly woman bowed as they entered and fetched bowls of dark ale and some bread and cheese. The three men sat by the brazier, and the ancient identified himself as Golaric, once the champion of the old king, Cascioc.

  “A fine king, good with sword or lance. He was murdered by his brother and that cursed Roman, Aurelius.” Golaric’s bright eyes switched to Victorinus. “It is not often that an Order Taker bothers to visit my small village.”

  “I am not an Order Taker,” Victorinus owned.

  “I know that. My teeth may be gone, but my mind is unaffected. You are Victorinus the centurion. And you, my wayward son, are Gwalchmai the Cantii, the Hound of the King. Word travels with exceptional speed.”

  “We are hunted men, Father,” said Gwalchmai.

  “Indeed you are. Is it true that bastard Roman is dead?”

  “Yes,” said Victorinus, “and I’ll not hear that term used of him—alive or dead.”

  “Short-tempered, is he not?” asked Golaric, seeing Victorinus’ hand straying toward his gladius.

  “You know these Romans, Father. No control,” said Gwalchmai. “Why are you so open with your knowledge?”

  “It pleases me to be so.”

  Gwalchmai smiled. “I know something of Brigante history. Cascioc was Eldared’s elder brother; he was slain in his bed. There was almost a civil war among the tribes of the old Caledonian Confederacy. What part did you play in that, Father?”

  “As I said, I was the King’s Champion. I had a good arm in those days, and I should have gone to Eldared and cut his throat, but I did not. The deed was done, and I was sworn on blood oath to defend the king with my life. But Eldared was now the king, so I left his service. And now he offers good gold to kill the men who are a danger to him. I am not interested in his gold; I am interested only in his downfall.”

  “I cannot promise that,” said Victorinus. “All I can say is that he will succeed if we do not reach Eboracum. Eldared bragged of having around fifteen thousand men at his call. Lucius Aquila has only four thousand at Eboracum. Taken by surprise, he would be routed.”

  “I do not care whether a Roman survives at Eboracum, but I understand the point you are making. Your horses will be fed and watered tonight, but tomorrow you will leave. I will give you food to carry—not much, for we are a poor village. But be warned; there are hunting parties south and east of you. You must move west and then south.”

  “We will be careful, Father,” said Gwalchmai.

  “And you can stop calling me ‘Father.’ I never slept with a Cantii woman in my life—they were all bearded.”

  Gwalchmai chuckled. “He’s right,” he told Victorinus. “It’s one reason I joined the king’s army.”

  “There’s something else for you to think of,” said Golaric. “The huntsmen seem unconcerned about your capture; they say that Mist Magic is being used to track you. If that is true, I pity you.”

  The color drained from Gwalchmai’s face. “What does he mean?” asked Victorinus.

  “Death,” Gwalchmai whispered.

  Throughout the long day the two men rode together, and Victorinus grew steadily more uncomfortable with the silence. The land was open, the wind was bitterly cold, but it was Gwalchmai’s frightened eyes that dominated the Roman’s thinking. He had known Gwalchmai for four years, since arriving at Camulodunum as a raw eighteen-year-old fresh from Rome. In that time he had come to hold the man in high regard for his eternal optimism and reckless bravery, but now he rode like a man possessed, his eyes unseeing, his manner echoing his defeat. They camped in the lee of a rock face, and Victorinus prepared a fire.

  “What is wrong with you, man?” he asked as Gwalchmai sat passively staring into the flames.

  “It is well for you that you do not understand,” said Gwalchmai.

  “I understand fear when I see it.”

  “It is worse than fear; it is the foreknowledge of death. I must ready myself for the journey.”

  At a loss for a response, Victorinus laughed in his face. “Is this Gwalchmai I see before me? Is this the King’s Hound? More like a rabbit in the torchlight, waiting for the arrow to strike. What is the matter with you, man?”

  “You do not understand,” repeated Gwalchmai. “It is in the bones of this land … in the gods of wood and lake. This land was once the home of the gods, and they still walk here within the Mist. Do not mock me, Roman, for I know whereof I speak. I have seen scaled dragons in the air. I have seen the Atrol walk. I have heard the hissing of dead men’s breath. There is no escaping it; if the old gods walk our trail, there is nowhere to hide.”

  “You talk like an old woman. What I can see, I can cut. What I can cut, I can kill. There is no more to be said. Gods, indeed! Look around you. Where are the Atrols? Where are the dragons? Where are the dead that walk?”

  “You will see, Victorinus. Before they take you, you will see.”

  A cloud obscured the moon, and an owl swooped over the campsite. “There is your dragon, Gwalchmai. Out hunting mice!”

  “My father angered an Enchanter once,” said Gwalchmai softly, “and he summoned a witch woman. They found my father on a hillside—or rather, they found the bottom half of him. The top had been ripped away, and I saw the fang marks on his back.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” offered Victorinus, “and perhaps demons do walk. But if they do, a man must face them. Fear is the killer here, Gwal.” A distant wolf howled, the sound echoing eerily through the glade. Victorinus shivered and cursed inwardly. He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and stoked the fire, adding fresh branches to the blaze.

  “I’ll keep watch for a couple of hours,” he said. “You get some sleep.”

  Obediently Gwalchmai wrapped himself in his blankets and lay down by the fire while Victorinus drew his gladius and sat with his back to a tree. The night wore on, and the cold grew. The Roman added more fuel to the fire until the last broken branch
was all but finished, then he pushed himself to his feet and stretched his back, moving off into the darkness to gather more dead wood. He put down his gladius and had stooped to lift a long windfall branch when a low, whispering sound alerted him. Still on edge after the conversation with Gwalchmai, he dropped the wood, swept up his sword, and dived to the right. Something touched the skin of his back, and he rolled, gladius sweeping up into the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. The blade struck something solid, and a bestial scream followed. Victorinus rolled once more as a dark shadow loomed over him, then with a battle cry he leapt to meet his assailant. His sword plunged home, then a blow to the side of the head sent him hurtling back into the campsite to skid across the glowing coals of the fire. The clouds parted, the moon shining its silver light on the scene. Victorinus came to his feet—and froze … Before him was a creature some nine feet tall, covered in long brown hair. Its eyes were red, shining like freshly spilled blood, and its fangs were the length of daggers and wickedly curved. The creature’s arms were disproportionately long, hanging almost to the ground, and from the end of each of its four fingers grew gleaming serrated talons.

  A gray mist swirled around Victorinus’ legs, rising even as he noticed it. The creature advanced. The Roman swiftly wiped his sword hand free of sweat and gripped the leather hilt of his gladius. It was the wrong weapon for this beast; he needed a spear.

  “Come forward and die!” he called. “Have a taste of Roman iron!”

  The creature stopped—and spoke. Victorinus was so surprised that he almost dropped his sword.

  “You cannot fight destiny, Victorinus,” it said, its voice sibilant. “This is the day of your passing. Cease your struggle. Rest and know peace. Rest and know joy. Rest …” The voice was hypnotic, and as the beast advanced, Victorinus blinked and tried to rouse himself from the lethargy it induced in him. The mist rose about his shoulders, billowing like woodsmoke.

  “No!” he said, backing away.

  Suddenly an unearthly scream pierced the silence. The mist parted, and Victorinus saw Gwalchmai behind the beast, raising his bloody sword for a second strike. The Roman raced forward to plunge his blade into the hairy throat. The talons lashed at him, ripping the front of his robes and scoring the skin. Gwalchmai struck once more from behind, and the creature fell. The mist thickened and then vanished.

  The beast was gone.

  Victorinus staggered back to the campsite, gathering together the hot coals with his swordblade and blowing flames to life. Gwalchmai joined him, but they said nothing until the fire was once more lit.

  “Forgive me,” said the Roman. “I mocked in ignorance.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You were right—a man must fight for life even when he believes all is lost. You taught me a lesson today, Roman. I will not forget it.”

  “This is obviously a day for lessons. What was that thing?”

  “An Atrol—and a small one. We were lucky, Victorinus. By now they will know they have failed, and the next demon will not die as easily.”

  “Maybe not, but it will die.”

  Gwalchmai grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. “I believe you.”

  “One of us ought to,” said the Roman.

  “I think we should leave this place,” offered Gwalchmai. “Now that they have the scent, they will be close behind us.”

  As if to emphasize his words, a dreadful howling came from the north. It was answered from the east and west.

  “Wolves?” Victorinus asked, dreading the answer.

  “Atrols. Let us ride.”

  5

  THURO STARED AT the unsmiling Culain and for the first time in his young life felt hatred swell inside him. His father was dead, his own life was in ruins, and now he was at the mercy of this strange mountain man. He stood up from the floor before the fire.

  “I’ll work for my keep tonight,” he said, “despite your trickery. But then I leave.”

  “I fear not, young prince,” said Culain, stripping off his leather jerkin and moving to stand before the fire. “The lower valleys will be cut off by morning, and the snow will be drifting over ten feet deep. I am afraid we are forced to endure your company for at least two months.”

  “You are a liar!”

  “Rarely is that true,” Culain replied softly, kneeling to extend his hands to the flames. “And certainly not on this occasion. Still, look on the summer side, Thuro. You do not have to see much of me—a few simple chores and you can keep Laitha company. Added to this, you may not be able to leave, but neither can your enemies come upon you. By spring you will be able to make the journey home a far less dangerous one. You may even learn something.”

  “You have nothing to teach me. I need to acquire none of your ways.”

  Culain shrugged. “As you will. I am tired. I am not as young as once I was. May I rest my old bones upon your cot, Gian?”

  “Of course,” said Laitha. Thuro saw the look in her eyes and wished he could inspire such a reaction. Her love for Culain was a radiant thing, and Thuro was amazed that he had not realized it before. He felt like an interloper, an intruder, and his heart sank. Why should the forest girl not love this man of action, tall and oak-strong, mature and powerful? Thuro turned away from the love in her eyes and wandered to the far window. It was shut tight against the weather, and he made a point of examining the wood, noting the neatness with which it fit the frame. Not a breath of draft troubled him. When he turned back, Culain had gone into the back room, Laitha with him. Thuro returned to the fire. He could hear them speaking in low tones but could distinguish no words.

  Laitha returned a few minutes later and lit two candles. “He is sleeping,” she said.

  “Forgive me, Laitha. I had not wished to intrude.”

  Her large brown eyes focused on him, her look quizzical. “In what way intrude?”

  He swallowed hard, aware that he walked a dangerous path. “On you and Culain. You seem happy together and probably did not need … more company. I will be gone as soon as I am able.”

  She nodded. “You were wrong, Thuro. There is much you can learn here—if you use your time well. Culain is a good man, the best I have known. There is no malice in him—whatever you may think. But there is always a reason for his actions that has little to do with selfishness.”

  “I do not know him as well as you,” said Thuro in his best neutral tone.

  “Indeed you do not. But you might, if only you would start thinking instead of reacting.”

  “I do not understand your meaning. Thinking is perhaps the one strength I have. In all my life my mind has never let me down as have my legs and lungs.”

  She smiled and reached out to touch his shoulder, and he felt an almost electric thrill in his blood. “Then think, Thuro. Why is he here?”

  “How can I answer that?”

  “By examining the evidence before you and reaching a conclusion. Think on it as a riddle.”

  Here was a situation in which Thuro felt comfortable. Even the word “riddle” made him feel more at home, remembering his evenings with Maedhlyn in the oak-paneled study. His mind switched effortlessly to a new path. Culain had asked him to visit Laitha, bringing a message, but then had come himself, thus negating the need for Thuro’s journey. Why? He thought of the long arduous climb to this lonely cabin and realized that the mountain man must have set out soon after he had. He looked up and found Laitha staring at him intently. He smiled, but her face remained fixed.

  “Have you come upon the answer?” she asked.

  “Perhaps. He was watching out for me in case I collapsed in the snow.”

  Now it was her turn to smile, and he watched the tension flow from her shoulders. “Do you still see him as an ogre?”

  “The fact remains that there was no necessity for me to come here at all.”

  “Think about that, too,” she said, rising smoothly and moving to a long chest by the far wall. She removed two blankets and passed them to him. “Sleep here before the fire.
I will see you in the morning.”

  “Where will you sleep?” he asked.

  “Alongside Culain.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.”

  “Yes, of course,” she repeated, the hint of fire in her eyes. He colored deeply and looked away.

  “I did not mean to offend. Truly.”

  “Your words are not as offensive as the look in your eye.”

  He nodded and spread his hands. “I am jealous. Forgive me.”

  “Why should I forgive you? What is your crime? You see and you do not see. You make judgments on the flimsiest evidence. Do not be misled, Thuro, as to your strengths. True, your body is not as strong as your mind. But what does that tell us? Your body is so weak that you have mistakenly inflated the true power of your intellect. Your mind is undisciplined, and your arrogance unacceptable. Good night to you.”

  He sat for a long time watching the fire burn, adding logs and thinking on what she had said. He should have known that Culain had followed him from the moment the tall warrior had entered the cabin, just as he should have known why he had been told to come here. True, it was to trap him in the mountains for the remainder of the winter, but there was no gain in it for Culain, only for Thuro, safe now from his enemies. He lay on the floor with the blanket over his shoulders, feeling foolish and young and far out of his depth. Laitha first and then Culain had saved his life. He had repaid them with arrogance and lack of gratitude.

  He awoke early, having slept dreamlessly. The fire was down to gray ash with an occasional glowing ember. He carefully shifted the ash, allowing air to circulate, and added the last of the logs. Then he rose and left the cabin. Outside, the snow had stopped and the air was fresh and bitterly cold. He located the wood store and took up a long-handled ax. His first stroke sliced a thick log, and he felt pride roar through him. He grinned and drew in a deep, searing breath. The blisters on his hand had dried, but the skin was still sore. He ignored the growing discomfort and continued to chop the wood until twenty logs had been rendered to forty-six chunks. Then he gathered them and sat down on the chopping ring, sweat dripping from his face. He no longer felt cold; he felt alive. His arms and shoulders burned with the raw physical effort, and he waited a little while until his breathing returned to normal. Then he took up three chunks and carried them back to the hearth. Just as he had the day before, he began to feel light-headed after several trips, so he slowed his action and rested often. In that way he completed his task without collapse and felt a ridiculous sense of achievement when the hearth was full. He returned to the wood store and hammered the ax blade into a log. His hand was bleeding again, and he sat staring at the congealing blood, as proud of it as of a battle scar.