“I would do anything,” she said, “to take away the hurt.”
“You will become my wife?”
“Yes. Gladly.”
He took her hand. “From this day forward we are joined, and I will take no other wives.”
“From this day forward we are one,” she said.
“Come with me.” He led her to a small, still-deserted hut behind the main building. There he lifted his stone, and a bed appeared.
But the soaring passion of their first loving was not repeated, and both of them drifted to sleep nursing private sorrows.
The dragon circled Skitis Island twice before Culain directed it down to an outcrop of wooded hills some two miles from the black stone fortress Goroien had constructed. The edifice was huge, a great stone gateway below two towers and a moat of fire burning without smoke. Culain leapt from the dragon’s back and spoke the words of power. The beast shrank back into the gray gelding it had been, and Culain stripped the saddle from its back and slapped its rump. The horse cantered away over the hillside.
The Mist Warrior took up his belongings and walked the half mile to the deserted cabin he had seen from the air. Once inside, he laid a fire, then stripped off his clothing and stepped naked into the dawn light. Taking a deep breath, he began to run. Within a short time his breathing became ragged, his face crimson. He pushed on, feeling the acids building in his limbs, aware of the pounding in his chest. At last he turned for home, every step a burning torture. Back at the cabin he stretched his aching legs, pushing his fingers deep into the muscles of his calves, probing the knots and strains. He bathed in an icy stream and dressed once more. Beyond the cabin was a rocky section of open ground. There he lifted two fist-sized stones and stood with his arms hanging loosely by his sides. Taking a deep breath, he raised his arms and lowered them, repeating the movement again and again. Sweat streamed from his brow, stinging his eyes, but he worked on until he had raised each rock-laden arm forty times. As dusk painted the sky, he set off for another run, shorter this time, loosening the muscles of his legs. Finally he slept on the floor before the fire.
He was up at dawn to repeat the torture of the previous day, driving himself even harder, ignoring the pain and discomfort, holding the one vision that could overcome his agony.
Gilgamesh, the Lord of Battle …
The most deadly fighting man Culain had ever seen.
As Uther had hoped, the town of Callia opened its gates without a battle, the people streaming out to strew flowers at the feet of the marching legion. A young girl, no more than twelve, ran to Uther and placed a garland of flowers over his head.
Agarin Pinder and the army of Goroien had vanished like morning mist. The legion camped outside the town, and wagons bearing supplies rolled out to them. Uther met the town leaders, who assured him of their support. He found it distasteful that they flung themselves full-length on the ground before him but made no effort to stop them. By the following day six hundred erstwhile soldiers of the Witch Queen had come to him swearing loyalty. Korrin had urged him to slay them all, but Uther accepted their oaths, and they rode with him as the legion set off on the ten-day march to Perdita, the Castle of Iron.
Prasamaccus was sent with Korrin to scout ahead. Each evening they returned, but no sign of opposition forces was found until the sixth day.
Tired and dust-covered, Prasamaccus gratefully accepted the goblet of watered wine and leaned back on the divan, rubbing his aching left leg. Uther and Severinus sat silently, waiting for the Brigante to catch his breath.
“There are eight thousand footmen and two thousand horse. They should be here late tomorrow morning.”
“How was their discipline?” Severinus asked.
“They march in good order, and they are well armed.” Severinus looked to Uther.
“Do they have scouts out?” the prince asked.
“Yes. I saw two men camped in the hills to the west watching the camp.”
“Order the men to take up a defensive position on the highest hills,” Uther told Severinus. “Throw up a rampart wall and set stakes.”
“But Prince Uther—”
“Do it now, Severinus. It is almost dusk. I want the men working on the ramparts within the next hour.” The Roman’s face darkened, but he stood, saluted, and hurried from the tent.
“The Romans do not like fighting from behind walls,” commented Prasamaccus.
“No more do I. I know you are tired, my friend, but locate the scouts and come to me when they have gone. Do not let them know you are there.”
For two hours the men of the Ninth Legion constructed a six-foot wall of turf around the crown of a rounded hill. They worked in silence under the watchful eye of Severinus Albinus. An hour after dusk Prasamaccus returned to Uther’s tent.
“They have gone,” he said.
Uther nodded. “Fetch Severinus to me.”
Dawn found Agarin Pinder and his foot soldiers twenty-two miles from the newly built fortress. He sent his mounted troops to engage the defenders and hold them in position until the infantry could follow. Then he allowed rations to be given to each man: a small loaf of black bread and a round of cheese. When they had broken their fast, they set off in columns of three on the long march to battle. He did not push them hard, for he wanted them fresh for the onslaught; he did not allow the pace to slacken, for he knew that fighting men did not relish a long wait. It was a fine line, but Agarin Pinder was a careful man and a conscientious soldier. His troops were the best trained of the Six Nations and also the best fed and best armed. The three, he knew, were inseparable.
At last he came in sight of the fortified hill. Already his mounted troops had circled the base, just out of arrow range. Agarin dismounted. It was nearing noon, and he ordered tents to be set up and cooking fires lit. He broke the columns and rode forward with his aide to check the enemy fortifications. As the tents were unrolled and the soldiers milled about the new camp, the Ninth Legion marched in two phalanxes from the woods on either side. They marched without drums and halted, allowing their five hundred archers to send a deadly rain of shafts into the camp. Hearing the screams of the dying, Agarin swung his horse and watched in disbelief as his highly trained troops milled in confusion. The legion, in close formation, advanced into the center of the camp, leaving two ranks of archers on the hills on either side.
Agarin cursed and hammered his heels into his horse’s side, hoping to break through the red-cloaked enemy and rally his men. His horse reared and fell, an arrow in its throat. The general pitched over its neck, scrambled to his feet, and drew his sword. Turning to his aide, he ordered the man from the saddle. As he was dismounting, two arrows appeared in his chest. The stallion reared as the dying man’s weight fell to its back, and it galloped away. The thunder of hooves from behind caused Agarin to spin on his heel as Uther and twenty men in the armor of Pinrae rode from the trees. The prince dismounted, drawing a longsword.
“I told you once. Now you must learn,” said Uther. Agarin ran forward swinging his blade, but Uther blocked the blow, sending a vicious return cut through his enemy’s throat. Agarin fell to his knees, his fingers seeking to stem the red rush of lifeblood. He pitched to his face on the grass.
In the camp all was chaos, slaughter, and panic. With no time to prepare, the men of Goroien’s army either fought in small shield circles that were slowly and ruthlessly cut to pieces or ran back toward the east in frantic attempts to regroup. Some two thousand men managed to break from the camp under the command of three senior officers. They ran the deadly gauntlet of shafts from the bowmen on the hillsides and tried to form a fighting square, but then four hundred cavalry thundered from the woods with lances leveled. The square broke as panic blossomed and the soldiers fled, pursued and slain by the lancers.
They received no help from their own cavalrymen, who, seeing Agarin Pinder slain, rode south at speed. Within the hour the battle was over. Three thousand survivors threw away their weapons and pleaded for mercy.
The stench o
f death was everywhere, clinging and cloying, and Uther rode to the fortress hill, where two hundred men of the legion waited. They cheered as he rode in, and he forced himself to acknowledge them with a smile. Korrin was ecstatic.
“What a day!” he said as Uther slid from the saddle.
“Yes. Five thousand slain. What a day!”
“When will you kill the others?”
Uther blinked. “What others?”
“Those who have surrendered,” said Korrin. “They should all hang like the traitors they are.”
“They are not traitors, Korrin; they are soldiers—men like yourself. Strong men, courageous men. I’ll have no part in slaughter.”
“They are the enemy! You cannot allow three thousand men—warriors—to go free. And we cannot feed and guard them.”
“You are a fool!” Uther hissed. “If we kill them, no one will ever surrender again. They will fight like trapped rats, and that will cost me men. When these survivors go back, they will carry the word of our victory. They will say—and rightly so—that we are superb fighting men. That will weaken the resolve of those still to come against us. We are not here, Korrin, to start a bloodbath but to end the reign of the Witch Queen. And ask yourself this, my blood-hungry friend: When I leave this realm with my legion, from where will you recruit your own army? It will be from among the very men you want me to slay. Now, get away from me. I am tired of war and talk of war.”
Toward midnight Severinus and two of his centurions entered Uther’s tent. The prince looked up and rubbed his eyes. He had been asleep, Laitha beside him, and for the first time in weeks his dreams had been untroubled.
“Your orders have been obeyed, Prince Uther,” said Severinus, his face set, his eyes accusing.
“What orders?”
“The prisoners are dead. The last of them tried to break free, and I lost ten men. But now it is done.”
“Done! Three thousand men!” Uther rose to his feet, his eyes gleaming, and advanced on Severinus. “You killed them?”
“The man Korrin came to me with orders from you. We were to take the prisoners away in groups of a hundred and kill them out of earshot of the others. You did not give this order?”
Uther swung to the centurions. “Find Korrin and bring him here. Now!”
The two men backed away hurriedly. Uther pushed past Severinus into the night, sucking in great gasps of air. He felt he was suffocating. Laitha, dressed in a simple white tunic, came out and placed her hand on his arm. “Korrin has suffered greatly,” she said. Uther shook her hand loose.
Minutes later the two centurions returned with Korrin behind them, his arms pinned by two legionaries.
Uther moved back into the tent, returning with the Sword of Cunobelin in his trembling hands.
“You wretch!” he told Korrin. “You had to have your blood, did you not?”
“You were too tired to know what you were doing,” said Korrin. “You didn’t understand or you would have given the order yourself. Now release me. We have work to do, strategies to think of.”
“No, Korrin,” Uther said sadly. “No more strategies for you. No more battles and no more murder. Today was the high point of your sad career. Today was the end. If you have a god, then make your prayer to him, for I am going to kill you.”
“Oh, no! Not before the Witch Queen is overthrown. Don’t kill me, Uther. Let me see Astarte slain. It is my dream!”
“Your dreams are drowned in blood.”
“Uther, you cannot!” shouted Laitha.
The Sword of Cunobelin flashed up, entering Korrin’s belly, sliding up under the rib cage, and cutting through his heart. The body slumped in the arms of the legionaries.
“Take this carrion and leave it for the crows,” said Uther.
Back inside the tent Uther slammed the bloody sword into the hard-packed earth, leaving it quivering in the entrance. Laitha was sitting on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest.
Severinus followed the prince inside.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I should have queried an order of such magnitude.”
Uther shook his head. “Roman discipline, Severinus. First, obey. Gods, I am tired. You had better send some men to the other Pinrae leaders: Maggrig, Hogun, Ceorl. Get them here.”
“You think there will be trouble?”
“If there is, kill them all as they leave my tent.” The soldier saluted and left. Uther moved to the sword jutting in the entrance, the blood staining the earth. He made as if to draw it clear, then stopped and returned to the divan beside the bed. Within minutes the rebel leaders were assembled outside, and Severinus led them in. Maggrig’s eyes were cool and distant, his emotions masked. The others, as always, avoided Uther’s eyes.
“Korrin Rogeur is dead,” said Uther. “That is his blood.”
“Why?” asked Maggrig.
“He disobeyed me and murdered three thousand men.”
“Our enemies, Lord Berec.”
“Yes, our enemies. That is not the point at issue. I had other plans for them, and Korrin knew that. His action was unforgivable. Now he has paid for it. You men have two choices. Either you serve me or you leave. But if you serve me, you obey me.”
“Will you replace the Witch Queen?” asked Maggrig softly.
“No. When she is overthrown, I will leave Pinrae and return to my world. The ghost army will leave with me.”
“And we are free to leave if we choose?”
“Yes,” Uther lied.
“May I speak with the others?”
Uther nodded, and the men filed out. There was silence in the tent until their return. Maggrig, as always, was the spokesman.
“We will stay, Lord Berec, but Korrin’s friends wish him to be buried as befits a war leader.”
“Let them do as they please,” said the prince. “In a few days we will reach Perdita. Strip the dead of weapons and arm your own men.” He waved them away, aware that the sullen expressions were still evident.
“You have lost their love, I think,” said Severinus.
“I want only their obedience. What were our losses today?”
“Two hundred and forty-one dead, eighty-six seriously wounded, and another hundred or so with light cuts. The surgeons are dealing with them.”
“Your men fought well today.”
Severinus accepted the compliment with a bow. “They are mostly Saxon, and as you know, they are fine warriors. They take to discipline well—almost as well as trueborn Romans. And if I may return the compliment, your strategy was exemplary. Eight thousand enemy casualties for the loss of so few of our own men.”
“It was not new,” said Uther. “It was used by Pompey and by the divine Julius. Antony executed a similar move at Philippi. Darius the Great was renowned for taking his Immortals on lightning marches, and Alexander conquered most of the world with the same strategy. The principle is a simple one: always act, never react.”
Severinus grinned. “Do you always react so defensively to compliments, Prince Uther?”
“Yes,” he admitted sheepishly. “It is a guard against arrogance.”
After Severinus had left, Uther saw that Laitha still had not moved. She sat, hugging her knees and staring into the embers of the brazier fire. He sat beside her, but she pulled away from him.
“Speak to me,” he whispered. “What is wrong?”
She swung on him then, her hazel eyes fierce in the candlelight. “I do not know you,” she said. “You killed that man so coldly.”
He said nothing for a moment. “You think I enjoyed it?”
“I do not know, Uther. Did you?”
He licked his lips, allowing the question to sink into his subconscious.
“Well?” she asked. He turned his face toward her.
“In that moment—yes, I did. All my anger was in that blow.”
“Oh, Uther, what are you becoming?”
“How can I answer you?”
“But this war was being fought for Korrin. Now who is it fo
r?”
“It is for me,” he admitted. “I want to go home. I want to see Eboracum, and Camulodunum, and Durobrivae. I do not know what I am becoming. Maedhlyn used to say that a man is the sum total of all that happens to him. Some things strengthen; some things weaken. Korrin was like that. The death of his wife unhinged him, and his heart was like a burning coal, desiring only vengeance. He once told me that if he won, he would light fires under his enemies that would never go out. As for me, I am trying to be a man—a man like Aurelius or Culain. I have no one to turn to, Laitha. No one to say, ‘You are wrong, Thuro. Try again.’ Killing Korrin may have been a mistake, but if I had done it earlier, three thousand men would still be alive. And now—if we win—there will be no fires that never go out.”
“There was such gentleness in you when we were back in the Caledones,” she said, “and you were a hunted prince, ill suited to swordplay. Now you are acting the general and committing murder.”
He shook his head. “That is the sad part. I am not acting the general, I am the general. Sometimes I wish this was all a dream and that I could wake in Camulodunum with my father still king. But he is dead, and my land is being torn apart by wolves. For good or ill I am the man who can stop it. I understand strategy, and I know men.”
“Culain would never have killed Korrin.”
“And such is the way of legends,” he mocked. “No sooner does the man die than he becomes a wondrous figure. Culain was a warrior; that makes him a killer. Why do you think the Ninth Legion was in the Void? Culain sent them there. He told me about it back in the Caledones. It was a regret he carried, but he did it while fighting a war against the Romans four hundred years ago.”
“I do not believe you.”
“You are a foolish child,” he snapped, his patience gone.
“He was twice the man you are!”
Uther stood and took a deep breath. “And you are a tenth of the woman you ought to be. Maybe that’s why he rejected you.” She flew at him, her nails flashing toward his face, but he brushed aside her attack and hurled her facedown to the bed. Swiftly he straddled her back, pinning her. “Now, that is no way for a wife to behave.” She struggled for some minutes, then relaxed, and he released her. She rolled to her back, her fist cracking against his chin, but he grabbed her arms and pinned her beneath him.
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