Ghost King

by David Gemmell

  “Veer left!” he shouted. “There is a ring of stones and a high hollow altar.”

  Without checking to see if they had followed him, he urged the mare up the snow-covered hill and over the crest, where black stones ringed the crown of the hill like broken teeth. He clambered from the saddle and limped to the center, where a huge altar stone was set atop a crumbling structure some eight feet high. Prasamaccus clawed his way to the top, swung his quiver to the front, and notched an arrow in his bow.

  The two riders, their mounts almost dead from exhaustion, reached the circle scant seconds before the beasts. Prasamaccus drew back the bowstring and let fly. The shaft sped to the first beast as it towered over a running tribesman with a braided blond beard. The arrow took the beast in its right eye, and it fell back with a piercing scream that was almost human. The two men scrambled up alongside Prasamaccus, drawing their swords.

  A mist sprang up around the circle, swirling between the stones and rising to stand like a gray wall beyond the monoliths. The two remaining Atrols faded back out of sight, and the three men were left at the center in ghostly silence.

  “What are those creatures?” asked Prasamaccus.

  “Atrols,” Gwalchmai answered.

  “I thought they must be, but I expected them to be bigger,” said the bowman.

  Victorinus smiled grimly. The mist around the stones was now impenetrable, but it had not pervaded the center. Victorinus glanced up. There was no sky, only a thick gray cloud hovering at the height of the stones.

  “Why are they not attacking?” asked the Roman. Gwalchmai shrugged. From beyond the stones came a sibilant, whispering voice.

  “Come forth, Gwalchmai. Come forth! Your father is here.” A figure appeared at the edge of the mist, a bearded man with a blue tattoo on both cheeks. “Come to me, my son!” Gwalchmai half rose, but Victorinus grabbed his arm. Gwalchmai’s eyes were glazed; Victorinus struck him savagely across the cheek, but the Briton did not react. Then the voice came again.

  “Victorinus … your mother waits.” And a slender white-robed woman stood alongside the man.

  An anguished groan broke from Victorinus’ lips, and he released his hold on Gwalchmai, who scrambled down the altar. Prasamaccus, understanding none of this, pushed himself to his feet and sent an arrow into the head of Gwalchmai’s father. In an instant all was changed. The image of the man disappeared, to be replaced by the monstrous figure of an Atrol tearing at the shaft in its cheek. Gwalchmai stopped, the spell broken. The image of Victorinus’ mother faded back into the mist.

  “Well done, bowman!” said Victorinus. “Get back here, Gwal!”

  As the tribesman turned to obey, the mist cleared, and there at the edge of the stones were a dozen huge wolves standing almost as tall as ponies.

  “Mother of Mithras!” Prasamaccus exclaimed.

  Gwalchmai sprinted for the stones as the wolves raced into the circle. He leapt, reaching for Victorinus’ outstretched hand. The Roman grabbed him and hauled him up just ahead of the lead wolf, whose jaws snapped shut bare inches from Gwalchmai’s trailing leg.

  Prasamaccus shot the beast in the throat, and it fell back. A second wolf leapt to the altar, scrabbling for purchase, but Victorinus kicked it savagely, and it pitched to the ground. The wolves were all around them now, snarling and snapping. The three men backed to the center of the altar. Prasamaccus sent two shafts into the milling beasts, but the rest ignored their wounded comrades. With only three shafts left, Prasamaccus refrained from loosing any more arrows.

  “I don’t like to sound pessimistic,” said Gwalchmai, “but I’d appreciate any Roman suggestions at this point.”

  A wolf jumped and cleared the rock screen around the men. Gwalchmai’s sword rammed home alongside Prasamaccus’ arrow.

  Suddenly the ground below began to tremble and the stones shifted. Gwalchmai almost fell but recovered his balance in time to see Victorinus slip from the shelter. The tribesman hurled himself across the altar, seizing the Roman’s robe and dragging him to safety. The wolves also cowered back as the tremor continued. Lightning flashed within the circle, and a huge wolf reared up, his flesh transparent, his awesome bone structure revealed. As the lightning passed, the beast fell to earth and the stink of charred flesh filled the circle. Once more lightning seared into the wolves, and three died. The rest fled beyond the stones into the relative sanctuary of the mist.

  A man appeared from within a glow of golden light beside the altar. He was tall and portly, a long black mustache flowing onto a short-cropped white beard. He wore a simple robe of purple velvet.

  “I would suggest you join me,” he said, “for I fear I have almost used up my magic.”

  Victorinus leapt from the altar, followed by Gwalchmai. “Hurry now, the gate is closing.” But Prasamaccus, with his ruined leg, could not move at speed, and the golden globe began to shrink. Gwalchmai followed the wizard through, but Victorinus ran back to aid the bowman. Breathing heavily, Prasamaccus hurled himself through the light. Victorinus hesitated. The glow was no bigger than a window and was shrinking fast as the wolves poured into the circle. A hand reached through the golden light, hauling the Roman clear. There was a sensation like ice searing hot flesh, and Victorinus opened his eyes to see Gwalchmai still holding him by the robe … only now they were standing in Caerlyn wood, overlooking Eboracum.

  “Your timing is impeccable, Lord Maedhlyn,” said Victorinus.

  “Long practice,” said the Enchanter. “You must take your report to Aquila, though he already knows that Aurelius is dead.”

  “How?” asked Gwalchmai. “Did someone else escape?”

  “He knows because I told him,” snapped Maedhlyn. “That’s why I am an Enchanter and not a cheese maker, you ignorant moron.”

  Gwalchmai’s anger flared. “If you are such an Enchanter, then why is the king dead? Why did your powers not save him?”

  “I’ll not bandy words with you, mortal,” Maedhlyn hissed, looming over the tribesman. “The king is dead because he did not listen, but the boy is alive because I led him clear. Where were you, King’s Hound?”

  Gwalchmai’s jaw dropped. “Thuro?”

  “Is alive, no thanks to you. Now begone to the barracks.” Gwalchmai stumbled away, and Victorinus approached the Enchanter.

  “I am grateful, my lord, for your aid. But you were wrong to berate Gwalchmai. I led him from Deicester; we believed the boy dead.”

  Maedhlyn waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “Wrong, right! What does it matter? The clod made me angry; he was lucky I didn’t turn him into a tree.”

  “If you had, my lord,” said Victorinus with a hard smile. “I’d have slit your throat.” He bowed and followed Gwalchmai toward the barracks.

  “And what is your part in this?” Maedhlyn asked Prasamaccus.

  “I was hunting deer. This has not been a good day for me.”

  Prasamaccus hobbled into the barrack square, having lost sight of the swifter men. Some children gathered to mock him, but he was used to that and ignored them. The buildings were grand, but even Prasamaccus could tell where the old Roman constructions had been repaired or renovated; the craftsmanship was less skilled than the older work.

  The roads and alleyways were narrow, and Prasamaccus passed through the barracks square and on to the Street of Merchants, pausing to stare into open-fronted shops and examine cloth or pottery and even weapons in a larger corner building. A fat man wearing a leather apron approached him as he examined a curved hunting bow.

  “A fine weapon,” said the man, smiling broadly. “But not as fine as the one you are carrying. Are you looking to trade?”

  “No.”

  “I have bows that could outdistance yours by fifty paces. Good strong yew, well seasoned.”

  “Vamera is not for sale,” said Prasamaccus, “though I could use some shafts.”

  “Five denarii each.”

  Prasamaccus nodded. It had been two years since he had seen money coin, and even then it had no
t been his. He smiled at the man and left the shop. The day was bright, and the snow was absent from the town though still to be seen decorating the surrounding hills. Prasamaccus thought of his predicament. He was a hunter without a horse and with only two arrows in a land that was not his own. He had no coin and no hope of support. And he was hungry. He sighed and wondered which of the gods he had angered now. All his life people had told him that the gods did not like him. The injury to his leg was proof of that, they said. The only girl he had ever loved had died of the red plague. Not that Prasamaccus had ever told her of his love, but even so, as soon as his affection had materialized within him, she had been struck down. He turned his pale blue eyes to the heavens. He felt no anger at the gods. How could he? It was not for him to question their likes and dislikes. But he felt it would be pleasant at least to know which of them held him in such low esteem.

  “What’s wrong with your leg?” asked a small, fair-haired boy of around six years.

  “A dragon breathed on it,” Prasamaccus said.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Oh, yes. It still does when the weather turns wet.”

  “Did you kill the dragon?”

  “With a single shaft from my magic bow.”

  “Are they not covered with golden scales?”

  “You know a great deal about dragons.”

  “My father has killed hundreds. He says you can only strike them behind their long ears; there is a soft spot there that leads to the brain.”

  “Exactly right,” said Prasamaccus. “That’s how I killed mine.”

  “With your magic bow.”

  “Yes. Would you like to touch it?” The boy’s eyes sparkled, and his small hand reached out to stroke the black, glossy frame.

  “Will the magic rub off?”

  “Of course. The next time you see a dragon, Vamera will appear in your hand with a golden arrow.”

  Without a good-bye the boy raced off shouting his father’s name, desperate to tell him of his adventure. Prasamaccus felt better. He hobbled back into the barracks square and followed the smell of cooking meat to a wide building of golden sandstone. Inside was a mess hall with rows of bench tables and at the far end a huge hearth where a bull was spitted. Prasamaccus, ignoring the stares as he passed, moved slowly to the line of men waiting for food and picked up a large wooden platter. The line moved on, each man receiving two thick slabs of meat and a large spoonful of sprouts and carrots. Prasamaccus reached the server, a short man who was sweating profusely. The man watched him for a moment, offering no meat.

  “What are you doing here, cripple?”

  “I am waiting to eat.”

  “This is the auxiliaries’ dining hall. You are no soldier.”

  “The Lord Maedhlyn said I could eat here,” Prasamaccus lied smoothly. “But if you wish, I will go to him and say you refused. What is your name?”

  The man dumped two slabs of meat on his plate. “Next!” he said. “Move along now.”

  Prasamaccus looked for a nearby empty table. It was important not to sit too close to other men, for all who saw him knew he was despised by the gods, and none would want that luck rubbing off. He found a table near the window and sat down; taking his thin-bladed hunting knife from its sheath, he sliced the meat and ate it slowly. It tasted fine, but the fat content was high. He belched and leaned back, content for the first time since the incident with the Atrols. Food was now no longer a problem. The magic name of Maedhlyn cast a powerful spell, it seemed.

  A stocky, powerfully built man with a square-cut beard sat opposite him. Prasamaccus looked up into a pair of dark brown eyes. “I understand the Lord Enchanter told you to eat here,” said the man.

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder why,” the man went on, his suspicion evident.

  “I have just returned from the north with Gwalchmai and … the other fellow.”

  “You were with the king?”

  “No. I met Gwalchmai and came with them.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Making a report.” Prasamaccus could not remember the name of the clan leader used by Maedhlyn.

  “What news from the north?” asked the man. “Is it true the king is dead?”

  Prasamaccus remembered the savage joy in his own Brigante village on hearing the news. “Yes,” he answered. “I am afraid that it is.”

  “You do not seem too concerned.”

  Prasamaccus leaned forward. “I did not know the man. Gwalchmai feels his loss keenly.”

  “He would,” said the man, relaxing. “He was the King’s Hound. How was the deed done?”

  “I do not know all the facts. You must ask Gwalchmai and …”

  “Who?”

  “I am bad with names. A tall man, dark-haired, curved nose.”

  “Victorinus?”

  “That was it,” said Prasamaccus, remembering the sibilant calls of the Atrols.

  “What happened to the others?”

  “What others?”

  “The king’s retainers?”

  “I do not know. Gwalchmai will answer all your questions.”

  “I am sure that he will, my Brigante friend, and until he arrives, you must consider yourself my guest.” The man stood and called two soldiers over. “Take this man into custody.”

  Prasamaccus sighed. The gods were surely laughing today.

  The two soldiers walked Prasamaccus across the square, keeping out of arm’s reach of the cripple. One carried his bow and quiver; the other had taken possession of his hunting knife. They led him to a small room with a barred door and no window. Inside was a narrow pallet bed. He listened as the bar dropped into place and then lay down on the bed. There was a single blanket, and he covered himself. Food had been taken care of, and now they had given him a bed. He closed his eyes and fell asleep almost instantly.

  His dreams were good ones. He had killed a Mist Demon—he, “Prasamaccus the Cripple.” In his dreams, his leg was restored to health and beautiful maidens attended him.

  He was not happy to be awakened.

  “My friend, please accept my sincere apologies,” said Victorinus as Prasamaccus sat up, rubbing his eyes. “I had to make my report, and I forgot all about you.”

  “They fed me and gave me a place to sleep.”

  “Yes, I see that. But I want you to be a guest in my home.”

  Prasamaccus swung his legs from the bed. “Can I have my bow back?”

  Victorinus chuckled. “You can have your bow, as many arrows as you can carry, and a fine horse from my stable. Your own choice.”

  Prasamaccus nodded sagely. Perhaps he was still dreaming, after all.

  7

  FOR THREE WEEKS Thuro had followed the instructions of Culain. He had run over mountain trails, chopped and sawed, carried and worked, and been “killed” on countless occasions by a succession of swordsmen conjured by the Mist Warrior. His greatest moment had been when he had finally beaten the young Roman. He had noticed during their three previous bouts that his opponent was thick-waisted and unbending, so he had advanced, dropping to his knees, and thrust his gladius up into the man’s groin. The soldier had vanished instantly. Culain had been well pleased but had added a cautionary note.

  “You won and should enjoy your triumph. But the move was dangerous. Had he anticipated it, he would have had an easy kill with a neck thrust.”

  “But he did not.”

  “True. But tell me, what is the principle of sword-fighting?”

  “To kill your opponent.”

  “No. It is not to be killed by your opponent. It is rare that a good swordsman leaves an opening. Sometimes it is necessary, especially if you find your enemy is more skilled, but such risks are generally to be avoided.”

  After that Culain had conjured a Macedonian warrior from the army of Alexander. This man, grim-eyed and dark-bearded, had caused Thuro great problems. The boy had tried the winning cut he had used against the Roman, only to feel the hideous sensation of a ghostly sword entering h
is neck. Shamefaced, he had avoided Culain’s eye, but the Mist Warrior did not chide him.

  “Some people always need to learn lessons the painful way,” was all he said.

  One morning Laitha came to watch him, but his limbs would not operate smoothly and he tripped over his apparently enlarged feet. Culain shook his head and sent the laughing Laitha away.

  Thuro finally dispatched the Macedonian with a move Culain had taught him. He blocked the man’s sweeping cut from the left, swung on his heel to ram his elbow into the man’s face, and finished him with a murderous slice to the neck.

  “Tell me, do they feel pain?”

  “They?”

  “The soldiers you conjure.”

  “They do not exist, Thuro. They are not ghosts; they are men I knew. I create them from my memories. Illusions if you like.”

  “They are very good swordsmen.”

  “They were bad swordsmen—that’s why they are useful now. But soon you will be ready to tackle adequate warriors.”

  When he was not working, Culain would walk him through the woods, pointing out animal tracks and identifying them. Soon Thuro could spot the spoor of the red fox with its five-pointed pads and the cloven hooves of a trotting fallow deer, light and delicate on the trail. Some animals left the most bewildering evidence of their passing; one such they found by a frozen stream, four closely set imprints in a tight square. Two feet farther on there were another four, and so on.