Ghost King

by David Gemmell

  A brightly colored bird fluttered down to sit on a branch above his head. Its breast was reddish brown, while its head was black, as if a little cap were perched there. On its back the feathers were gray, like a tiny cape, and the ends of its wings and tail were black with a white stripe, like the symbol of a Pilus Primus, a first centurion.

  Thuro had seen birds like that before in Eboracum wood but had never stopped to examine their beauty. It gave a soft, piping whistle and then vanished off into the woods.

  “It was a Pyrrhula, a bullfinch,” said Culain, and Thuro jumped. The man’s approach had been as silent as the arrival of dawn. “There are many beautiful birds in the high country. Look there!” Thuro followed his pointing finger and saw the most comical sight. It was a small orange bird with a white beard and black mustache, looking for all the world like a tiny sorcerer. “That is a Panurus Biarmicus, a bearded tit,” said Culain. “There are very few left now.”

  “It looks like a friend of mine. I wish he could see it.”

  “You speak of Maedhlyn, and he has already seen it.”

  “You know Maedhlyn?”

  “I have known Maedhlyn since the world was young. We grew up in the city of Balacris before Atlantis sank. And you asked about my title—Culain lach Feragh: Culain the Immortal.” He smiled. “But not any longer. Now I am Culain the man and the happier for it. I greet every new gray hair as a gift.”

  “You are from the Land of Mist?”

  “Maedhlyn and I and several others created the land. It was not easy, and even now I am not sure it was worthwhile. What do you think?”

  “How can I answer that? I have never been there. Is it wondrous?”

  “Wondrously dull, boy! Can you imagine immortality? What is there that is new in the world to pique your interest? What ambitions can you foster that are not instantly achievable? What joy is there in an endless sequence of shifting seasons? Far better to be mortal and grow old with the world around you.”

  “There is love, surely,” said Thuro.

  “There is always love. But after a hundred years or a thousand, the flames of passion are little more than a glow in the ash of a long-dead fire.”

  “Is Laitha immortal?”

  “No, she is not of the Mist. Are you taken with her, Thuro? Or are you bored, stuck in these woods?”

  “I am not bored. And yes, she is beautiful.”

  “That is not what I asked.”

  “Then I cannot answer. But I would not presume to approach your lady even were she to receive me.”

  Culain’s gray eyes sparkled, and a wide grin crossed his features. “Well said! However, she is not my lady. She is my ward.”

  “But she sleeps with you!”

  “Sleeps, yes. Was life so sheltered for you in Eboracum? What can Maedhlyn have been thinking of?”

  “And yet she loves you,” said Thuro. “You cannot deny it.”

  “I would hope that she does, for I have been a father to her—as best I could.”

  For the first time in his short relationship with the Mist Warrior Thuro felt strangely superior. For he knew that Laitha loved Culain as a man; he could see it in her eyes and the tilt of her head. Yet Culain could not see it; this made him truly mortal, and Thuro warmed to him.

  “How old are you?” he asked, switching the subject.

  “The answer would dazzle you, and I shall not give it. But I will say that I have watched this island and its people for over seven hundred years. I was even the king once.”

  “Of which tribe?”

  “Of all the tribes. Have you not heard of Cunobelin?”

  “The Trinovante king? Yes. That was you?”

  “For over forty years I ruled. I was a legend, they tell me. I helped build Camulodunum. Suetonius wrote of me that I was the Brittanorum Rex—the king of all Britain—the greatest of the Belgic kings. Ah, but I had an ego in those days, and I did like so to be flattered!”

  “Some of the tribes believe that you will return when the land is threatened. It is taught around the campfires. I thought it a wonderful fable, but it could be true. You could come back; you could be king again.”

  Culain saw the brightness of hope in the boy’s eyes. “I am not the king any longer, Thuro. And I have no wish to rule. But you can.”

  Thuro shook his head. “I am not like my father.”

  “No. There is a great deal of your mother in you.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Yes, I was there the day Maedhlyn brought your father home. Alaida gave up everything for him, including life. It is not a subject it pleases me to speak of, but you have a right. Alaida was my daughter, the only child I have fathered in my long life. She was nineteen when she left the Feragh, twenty when she died. Twenty! I could have killed Maedhlyn then. I nearly did. But he was so penitent, I realized it was a greater punishment to leave him be.”

  “Then you are my grandfather?” Thuro asked, savoring the feel of the word and seeing for the first time that Culain’s eyes of woodsmoke gray were the image of his own.

  “Yes,” said Culain.

  “Why did you never come to see me? Did you hate me for killing my mother?”

  “I think that I did, Thuro. Great age does not always ensure great wisdom, as Maedhlyn knows! I could have saved Alaida, but I refused to allow her to take a stone from the Feragh.”

  “Are the stones magical there?”

  “Not all of them, but there is a special stone we call the Sipstrassi, and it is the source of all magic. What a man can dream, he can create. The most imaginative of men become Enhancers; they liven an otherwise tedious existence with their living dreams.”

  “Maedhlyn is one of these,” said Thuro, “I have seen him conjure winged horses no longer than my fingers and whole armies to battle on my father’s desktop. He showed me Marathon and Thermopylae, Platea and Phillipi. I saw the great Julius fought to a standstill in Britain by Caswallon. I listened to Antony’s funeral oration …”

  “Yes, I, too, have seen these things,” said Culain, “but I was speaking of Alaida.”

  “I am sorry,” said Thuro, instantly contrite.

  “Do not be. Boys and magic make for excitement. She had her own stone, but I would not allow her to take it from the Feragh. I thought somehow that when she needed me, she would call. I knew I would hear her wherever I was. But she did not call. She chose to die. Such was her pride.”

  “And you blame yourself for her death?”

  “Who else would I blame? But that is in the past, and you are the present. What am I to do with you?”

  “Help me get back to Eboracum?”

  “Not as you are, Thuro. You are only half a man. We must make you strong; you will not survive a day as the weakling prince.”

  “Will you use stone magic to make me strong?”

  “No. Earth magic,” said Culain. “We will look inside you and see what we can find.”

  “I am not cut out to be a warrior.”

  “You are my grandson and the son of Aurelius and Alaida. I think you will find that blood runs true. We already know you can swing an ax. What other surprises do you hold in store?”

  Thuro shrugged. “I do not want to disappoint you as I disappointed my father.”

  “Lesson one, Thuro: from now on you have no one to disappoint but yourself. But you must agree to abide by what I say and obey every word I utter. Will you do this?”

  “I will.”

  “Then prepare to die,” said Culain. And there was no humor in his eyes.

  Thuro stiffened as Culain stood and pulled a gladius from a sheath behind his belt. The blade was eighteen inches long and double-edged, its hilt of leather. He reversed the weapon and handed it to Thuro. It felt blade-heavy and uncomfortable in his hand.

  “Before I can teach you to live, you must learn to die—how it feels to be vanquished,” Culain said. “Move onto open ground and wait.” Thuro did as he was bidden and Culain produced a small golden stone from his pocket, closing his
fist around it. The air thickened before Thuro, solidifying into a Roman warrior with a bronze breastplate and leather helm. He seemed young, but his eyes were old. The warrior dropped into a fighting crouch with his blade extended, and Thuro backed away, uncertain.

  The warrior advanced, locking Thuro’s gaze. The blade lunged. Instinctively Thuro parried, but his opponent’s gladius rolled over his own and plunged into the boy’s chest. The pain was sickening, and all strength fled from the prince. His knees buckled, and he fell with a scream as the Roman dragged free his blade.

  Moments later Thuro rose out of darkness to feel the snow on his face. He pushed himself to his knees and felt for the wound. There was none. Culain’s strong hand pulled him to his feet, and Thuro’s head spun. Culain sat him on the chopping ring.

  “The man you fought was a Roman legionary who served under Agricola. He was seventeen and went on to become a fine gladiator. You met him early in his career. Did you learn anything?”

  “I learned I am no swordsman,” Thuro admitted ruefully.

  “I want you to use your brain and stop thinking with your feelings. You knew nothing of Plutarch before Maedhlyn taught you. There are no born swordsmen; it is an acquired skill, like any other. All it requires is good reflexes allied to courage. You have both. Believe it! Now follow me; there is something I want you to see.”

  Thuro offered the gladius to Culain, who waved it away. “Carry it with you always. Get used to the feel and the weight. Keep it sharp.”

  The Mist Warrior walked out past the cabin and down the slope toward the valley below. Thuro followed, his belly aching for food. The return trip to Culain’s cabin was made in less than an hour, and the prince was frozen when they arrived. The cabin was cold, and there was no wood in the hearth.

  “I shall prepare breakfast,” Culain said. “You—”

  “I know. Chop some logs.”

  Culain smiled and left the boy by the wood store. Thuro took up the ax in his sore hands and began his work. He managed only six logs and carried the chunks into the hearth. Culain did not berate him and gave him a wooden bowl filled with hot oats sweetened with honey. The meal was heavenly.

  Culain cleared away the dishes and returned with a wide bowl brimming with clear water. He placed it before Thuro and waited for the ripples to settle.

  “Look into the water, Thuro.” As the prince leaned forward, Culain lifted a golden stone over it and closed his eyes.

  At first Thuro could see only his reflection and the wooden beams above his head. But then the water misted, and he found himself staring down from a great height to the shores of a frozen lake. A group of riders was gathered there. The scene swelled, as if Thuro were swooping down toward them, and he recognized his father. A burning pain began in his chest, tightening his throat, and tears blurred his vision. He blinked them back. By the lake a man stepped from behind a rock, a longbow bent. The arrow flashed into his father’s back, and his horse reared as his weight fell across its neck, but he held on. The other riders swarmed forward, and the king drew his sword and cut the first man from the saddle. A second arrow took his horse in the throat, and the beast fell. The king leapt clear and ran to the edge of the lake, turning with his back to the ice. The riders—seventeen of them—dismounted. Thuro saw Eldared at the rear with one of his sons. The group rushed forward, and the king, blood staining his beard, stepped in to meet them with his double-handed sword hacking and cleaving. The killers fell back in dismay. Five were now down, and two others had retired from the fray with deep wounds to arm and shoulder. The king stumbled and bent double, blood frothing from his mouth. Thuro wanted to look away, but his eyes were locked to the scene. An assassin ran in to plunge a dagger into the king’s side; the dying monarch’s blade sliced up and over, all but beheading the man. Then the king turned and staggered onto the ice and, with the last of his strength, hurled the sword far out over the lake. The assassins swarmed around the fallen king, and Thuro saw Cael deliver the death blow. And in that dreadful moment the prince watched as something akin to triumph flared in Aurelius’ eyes. The sword hung in the air, hilt down, just above a spot at the center of the lake where the ice had broken. A slender hand reached up from below the water and drew the sword down.

  The scene fragmented and blurred, and Thuro’s astonished face appeared on the surface of the water in the bowl. He leaned back and saw Culain watching him intently.

  “What you saw was the death of a man,” said Culain softly, respectfully, as if conveying the greatest compliment. “It was meet that you should see it.”

  “I am glad that I did. Did you see his eyes at the end? Did I misread them, or was there joy there?”

  “I wondered about that, and only time will supply an answer. Did you see the sword?”

  “Yes. What did it mean?”

  “Simply that Eldared does not have it. And without it he cannot become High King. It is the Sword of Cunobelin. My sword!”

  “Of course. My father took it from the stone at Camulodunum; he was the first to be able to draw it.”

  Culain chuckled. “There was little skill in that. Aurelius had Maedhlyn to guide him, and it was Maedhlyn who devised the stone ploy in the first place. The reason no one could draw the sword was that it was always a heartbeat ahead in time. Draw it? No man could touch it. It was part of the legend of Cunobelin, a legend Maedhlyn and I established four hundred years ago.”

  “For what reason?” Thuro asked.

  “Vanity. In those days, as I have told you, I had a great ego. And it was fun, Thuro, to be a king. Maedhlyn helped me age gracefully. I still had the strength of a twenty-five-year-old in a body that looked wonderfully wrinkled. But then I grew bored, and Maedhlyn staged my death—but not before I had dramatically planted my sword in the boulder and created the legend of my return. Who knew then but that I might want to? Unfortunately, events did not fare too well after my departure. A young man named Caractacus decided to anger the Romans, and they took the island by force. By then I was elsewhere. Maedhlyn and I crossed the Mist to another age. He had fallen in love with the Greek culture and became a traveling philosopher. But he couldn’t resist meddling, and he trained a young boy and made him an emperor—conquered most of the world.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I came home and did what I could for the Britons. I felt somewhat responsible for their plight. But I did not take up arms until the death of Prasutagas. After he died, the Romans flogged his wife, Boudicca, and raped his daughters. I raised the Iceni under Boudicca’s banner, and we harried the invincible Roman army all the way to Londinium, which we burned to the ground. But the tribes never learned discipline, and we were smashed at Atherstone by that wily fox Paullinus. I took Boudicca and her daughters back to the Feragh, and they lived there in some contentment for many years.”

  “And did you fight again?” Thuro asked.

  “Another day, Thuro. How do you feel?”

  “Weary.”

  “Good.” Culain removed his fur-lined jerkin and handed it to the boy. “This should keep you warm. I want you to return to Laitha’s cabin, restore yourself in her good grace, and then return here.”

  “Could I not rest for a while?”

  “Go now,” said Culain. “And if you can, when you come in sight of her cabin, run. I want some strength built into those spindly legs!”

  6

  PRASAMACCUS WAS PROUD of his reputation as the finest hunter of the Three Valleys. He had worked hard on his bowmanship but knew that it was his patience that set him apart from the rest. No matter what the weather was, burning heat or searing cold, he could sit silently for hours waiting the right moment to let fly. No stringy meat for Prasamaccus, for his quarry dropped dead instantly, shot through the heart. No deer he killed had run for a mile with its lungs bubbling and its juices swelling the muscles to jaw-breaking toughness.

  His bow was a gift from his clan leader, Moret, son of Eldared. It was a Roman weapon of dark horn, and he treasured it. His ar
rows were as straight as shafts of sunlight, and he trimmed each goose feather with careful cuts. In a tourney last Astarte Day, he had brought a gasp from the crowd when he had sliced to the bull through the shaft of his last hit. It was a fluke, yet it highlighted his awesome eye.

  Now, as he sat hidden in the bushes of the hillside, he needed all his patience. The deer were slowly but steadily making their way toward him. He had been hidden there for two hours, and his blood felt like ice even through the sheepskin cloak gathered about his slender frame. He was not a tall man, and his face was thin and angular, blue eyes set close together. His chin was pointed, emphasized by a straggly blond beard. Crouched as he now was, it was impossible to spot the deformity that set him apart from his fellows, which had deprived this finest of hunters of a bride.

  The deer were almost within killing range, and Prasamaccus chose a fat doe as his target. With infinite lack of speed he drew a long shaft from his doeskin quiver and notched it to the bowstring.

  Just then the lead stag’s head came up, and the small herd scattered. Prasamaccus sighed and stood. He limped forward, his twisted leg causing him to hobble in a sadly comical manner. When he had been a toddler, he had fallen in the path of a galloping horse that had smashed his left leg to shards. Now it was some eight inches shorter than the right, the foot mangled and pointing inward. He waited as the riders galloped toward him. There were two men, and their horses were lathered; they ignored him and thundered past. As a hunter himself, he knew they were being pursued and glanced back along the trail. Three giant beasts were loping across the snow, and Prasamaccus blinked. Bears? No bear could move that fast. His eyes widened. Lifting his hand to his mouth, he let out a piercing whistle, and a bay mare came galloping from the trees. He pulled himself into the saddle and slapped her rump. Unused to such treatment from a normally gentle master, the mare broke into a run. Prasamaccus steered her after the riders, swiftly overtaking their tired mounts.