Pendragon

by James Wilde

  He watched the lad’s trembling hands as he levered himself up, and the shudder that racked his legs. Exhaustion was setting in. Against his own command, he glanced back and saw movement in the half-light among the trees. Closer, now. It was only a matter of time before they caught up.

  Once they’d scrambled on to a plateau, Lucanus grabbed Marcus’ shoulders and looked him deep in the face. ‘Time to use our wits,’ he breathed.

  Under the overhanging branches of a fir, a trench had been carved into the forest floor by the spring rains flooding down the hillside. Tufts of yellow grass edged the furrow. Lucanus pushed the boy in, then threw himself on top, pulling his wolf pelt tight over them. He prayed they would be unseen in the gloom.

  For a while there was nothing. His skin bloomed at the warmth of the body beneath him and the pattering of a small heart fluttered against his chest.

  He mouthed another prayer, to Lugh, to Cernunnos, to any god who might be listening.

  A branch cracked and he almost moved.

  Feet tramped on frozen ground. A shout, a rumbling reply. And then the sound of laboured breathing, so loud it could have been at his elbow.

  Lucanus stiffened. For what seemed like an age, his ears burned at the sound of that ragged breathing. A heavy hand was about to fall on him, he was sure of it.

  At the moment when he thought his chest was ready to burst, the rasping floated away. Heaving in a draught of cold air, he loosened his muscles and felt the boy sag beneath him. A brief respite. He could still hear the war-band trundling all around.

  The last day and night had blurred by. One moment he’d been paddling away from the Isle of Yews in the small round boat, with Marcus hunched behind him, and then he’d heard the barbarians crashing down to the rocky shores of the lake and there’d been nothing but running and hiding and praying as he picked a way through the enemy lines.

  Why had the wood-priest abandoned them? Was this another test? The Wolf ground his teeth. He was sick of the questions and the plots, of being led on a dance that could cost him his life.

  Through that simmering anger, he began to realize that all was now silent. Inching up his head, he peered over the lip of the trench.

  ‘Do you hear anything?’ Marcus whispered.

  ‘No, but that’s not a good sign. I don’t hear the birds and they should be in full throat if the barbarians were far enough away not to be a threat. Stay strong. Soon.’

  ‘I’m not afraid.’

  Lucanus stifled a smile. He felt proud of this boy. He was tough and clever, not afraid of a little hardship, unlike many of the pampered children of wealthy merchants. There was a great deal of Catia’s spirit in him, and he would need all of it in the days to come.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll teach you some of the ways of the Arcani, but you mustn’t tell your father,’ he breathed.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wants you to grow up to be a man with smooth hands, who reads and writes and lives a gentle life. And that’s a good thing. Who’d wish to crawl in the mud and gnaw on roots and raw meat like a beast?’

  ‘I want to do what you do, Lucanus.’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ll teach you some things … ways that can help keep you safe should you find yourself in danger. But if I gave you any encouragement to become one of the arcani, your mother would beat me to death with my own sword.’

  The boy chuckled.

  In that moment, it was easy to forget that everything had now changed. Even if they survived this ordeal there would be no return to the peace of life in Vercovicium, not for the boy who carried the blood of kings and not for the man charged to defend him. If there was one thing he had learned about emperors and kings, it was that death always followed one step behind them.

  The sun was already slipping towards the west when the slanting shafts of thin light breaking through the canopy began to wink out one by one. Lucanus craned his neck to look up through the high branches. Heavy clouds were banking overhead. Soon snow was falling, at first only a few large flakes, but then the flurries blew thick and fast and a white carpet unfurled across the forest floor.

  The Wolf looked back along the pairs of footprints now chasing them along the trail and felt his chest tighten. It was as if the gods themselves were conspiring against them.

  Beside him, Marcus stumbled, his exhausted legs giving out. Lucanus caught him before he fell and worried that the boy’s hands were like stone. ‘Here,’ he said, stripping off his cloak and wrapping it around him.

  ‘I’m warm enough,’ Marcus protested, eyeing the Wolf’s bare arms.

  ‘You’re a hardy soul, but it will grow colder still when night has fallen. My skin’s thicker than yours and I’m used to being abroad in winter. The blood of wolves courses through my veins, you know that. Besides, if you freeze to death I’ll only have to carry you.’

  The boy nodded, sinking into the folds. As brave as the lad was, Lucanus saw relief in his eyes. Marcus was too young for these hardships. It was a miracle he’d survived so far, and there were miles still to go, in the bitter cold, with scant food supplies to be found in the forest, and the barbarians relentless in their pursuit.

  By the time the last of the light had faded, the snow was gripping their ankles and the crunch of their feet rolled out in a steady beat, too loud in the stillness. Lucanus leaned against a trunk to give Marcus a chance to catch his breath, and in the ensuing quiet cocked his head and listened.

  When the wind in the branches dropped, he heard low voices somewhere ahead.

  ‘Wait here,’ he whispered.

  Following the guttural conversation, he crept through the trees. Bursts of raucous laughter punctuated the conversation. These men were not trying to hide. He blinked away stinging snowflakes and saw a light glimmering ahead, a fire, another war-band at camp. How many of these bastards were roaming through the woods? Shouldn’t they be at home by the warm hearth with their women?

  Lucanus prowled as close as he dared. Crouching beside a fir, he watched perhaps fifty men in furs and leather hunched around three fires. His nostrils wrinkled at the sweet, sticky scent of roasting venison and his stomach growled in response.

  Satisfied the Scoti had settled for the night, he followed his footprints back through the trees. But when he reached the place where he had left the boy, his heart thumped and he whirled around.

  ‘Marcus,’ he hissed, fighting back panic.

  ‘Here.’

  The lad was grinning down at him from the branches above his head.

  Lucanus wagged a finger at him. ‘You gave me a scare.’

  ‘And wouldn’t the great Lucanus have found a hiding place to keep himself safe?’

  This boy continued to surprise him. A battler, a survivor. Perhaps the blood of kings did flow through his veins.

  Once Marcus had clambered down, Lucanus lifted him on to his back and bowed into the gusting snow.

  ‘We’re taking a different path?’ the boy asked.

  ‘The barbarians are blocking our way and they may well have watchmen far off on their flanks. I’m loath to waste more time, but we have to travel towards the west until it’s safe to skirt them.’

  Lucanus cursed under his breath. He’d wanted to make camp, light a fire for warmth, but now he couldn’t risk that. They had to keep moving, put some space between them and their enemies.

  After a while, he felt Marcus’ head flop on to his shoulder and the boy’s body grow limp. His breathing became regular, punctuated by low snores.

  Lucanus’ ears pulsed with the howling of the wind, but when the gale dropped for just an instant, he thought he heard something at his back. When he turned and listened, he felt his blood run cold.

  A yowling rolled through the trees, the sound of the Scoti whipped into a frenzy of hunting. High-pitched whistles rang back and forth.

  His trail in the snow had been discovered.

  Lucanus thundered into a loping run. Marcus jolted awake at the sudden movement.

  �
�What is it?’ His voice was thick with sleep.

  ‘Our enemies are upon us. Pray to the gods. We need their aid.’

  ‘I’m weighing you down.’ Though Lucanus fought him, the boy wriggled off his back.

  ‘No. Your legs are tired—’

  ‘I’m strong. I can run as fast as you.’

  As they leapt a narrow stream trickling down from the higher ground, he caught the boy and yanked him back. ‘Follow me,’ he whispered.

  Splashing into the water, he bounded up the brook. After a moment, he heard Marcus behind him.

  ‘They will not be able to follow our footprints here,’ the boy said, understanding.

  ‘It will buy us a little time. But they’re not fools, these barbarians. When our prints in the snow disappear, they’ll guess where we went soon enough.’

  As he stepped out of the stream and resumed the journey west, he heard baffled cries ring out away in the gulf of night. A moment later the howls and whistles began again.

  ‘Look,’ Marcus gasped after they’d raced on a little further.

  When Lucanus raised his eyes from the ground, he followed the boy’s pointing arm and saw flames dancing among the trees ahead of them. Torches.

  ‘Another war-band?’ he gasped. It must be. The ones at their backs could never have circled ahead of them in that short time.

  Lucanus veered off the path he was on, listening to the howls and whistles sweep back and forth, fading out when the wind blasted stronger, only to return with greater force. They were deer, being run down by seasoned hunters.

  ‘What can we do?’

  Lucanus heard a tremor in the boy’s voice. ‘For now, run. We may find a place to hide somewhere ahead.’

  They skidded up to the lip of a slope which plunged down into the dark. A valley. Scooping the boy up, Lucanus threw the two of them over the edge and they careered down the slope, a sea of bracken washing past his legs. Whipped snowflakes burned his eyes. A tree loomed out of the dark and he swerved at the last moment, the branches tearing at his face as he sped by.

  And then they thundered on to the valley floor, steep slopes soaring up on three sides. Dropping Marcus to his feet, Lucanus plunged on into the dark along the only way open to him.

  The howls and whistles died away and then there was just the thud of their feet on the whitening ground. Somehow the silence that pressed in was even worse.

  When the fir trees thinned out, he thought he could make out a track disappearing into the night. Another byroad? That would allow them to move faster than the warriors trying to keep pace with them on the higher ground. As the wind whipped up a blizzard along the glen, he slowed his step, unsure.

  ‘What if more wait for us ahead?’ Marcus asked, reading Lucanus’ hesitation.

  ‘I’ll fight them. I have a magic sword now.’

  ‘A magic sword?’

  ‘Aye. A gift from the gods, so fear not for me. Whatever happens, you must run on, though. Don’t wait. Don’t look back. I’ll find you.’

  He could feel the boy’s eyes on him as he pounded on. Marcus was clever. He could see the lie.

  ‘Keep running until you find a village,’ Lucanus pressed. ‘A boy like you, they’ll give you food, a place to stay warm. Then keep going. See where the sun rises and mark its track in the sky. Head south. You’ll reach the wall soon enough, if I’ve not found you by then.’

  ‘I will not look back.’ Marcus’ voice floated to him, filled with determination. Somehow that made him feel worse.

  And then the world fell away from him, just as it had once before.

  Lucanus crashed on to hard ground, his breath smashed from him, and he was looking up at a square lighter than the darkness around him, snowflakes whipping across it. For the second time he’d plunged into a pit covered over with branches and turf, and hidden further by the covering of snow, an old hunter’s trick. He roared his anguish.

  The Scoti had herded him to where they wanted him to be, knowing full well he would keep on the track through the forest, for speed.

  A silhouette appeared on the edge of that square. Marcus was looking down at him.

  ‘Run,’ he yelled. ‘Run now. And may the gods be with you.’

  The boy whisked away and the beat of running feet echoed into the hole.

  Lucanus dropped his head into his hands, but only for a moment. Then he was on his feet, clawing at the side of the pit. A thin hope: the barbarians had dug their trap well. The sides were smooth, the ground so frozen he couldn’t even gouge out a hand-hold with his fingernails.

  ‘What have we here? A rat?’

  Torchlight flickered around the hole, and in that orange glow he could make out a man crouching by the lip of the pit, grinning, the flames dancing in his eyes. It was Erca, the bear-like warrior Lucanus had glimpsed from his hiding place in the forest when the war-band had first passed him by.

  ‘I’m a traveller, lost in the forest,’ Lucanus began, in the Scot’s own tongue.

  Erca wagged a finger at him. ‘Lost in the woods you may well be, for you’re far from home. But I know your kind. I can smell the stink of you a day’s march away. You have the blood of my people upon you.’

  Lucanus looked up into that face, seeing the certainty there. What point lying? He must face his fate like a man.

  ‘Say your prayers to your Roman gods,’ Erca continued. ‘Your days are done.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Camp

  LUCANUS’ EYES FLICKERED open. A puddled track was trundling by beneath him. Sounds rushed in. Birds shrieking. The tramp of feet and the snort of horses, the steady drip of water from the high branches. He shook his head, feeling his senses slowly coalesce. Bolts of agony seared his joints and he realized he was hanging face down, his wrists and ankles bound above him.

  Craning his neck, he squinted into bright sunlight slanting among trees. Through the flashes he could make out a Scoti warrior on each end of the branch on which he’d been strung. One of them saw him looking and laughed. ‘Ah, you Roman bastard. Now you know what a deer carcass feels like.’

  The Wolf glowered, hiding his bitterness that he’d allowed himself to be captured, but that only made them laugh harder.

  He felt memories surface. That first night was little more than a blur. Once his enemies had hauled him out of the pit, they’d beaten him with such savage fury he’d lost consciousness. After that he’d drifted in and out of wakefulness, caught in a web of pain. He recalled blood caking his eyes so that he could barely force them open, and water from a hide sloshing on his cracked lips.

  At some point, he’d been chewing on venison while he lay on the cold earth beside one of the fires, each new chunk forced between his lips. Through the smoke he’d watched his captors in the orange glow from the flames, hunched like bears in their furs and leathers, with their wild manes and beards. Sometimes he’d caught their coal eyes and felt a deep chill.

  They were only keeping him alive so he could endure even greater agonies, he knew.

  A hand gripped his hair and yanked his head up and he looked into the broad face of Erca, the features dashed here and there with scars. The Scoti leader’s eyes sparkled.

  ‘Still alive? That’s good,’ he said in his rumbling voice. ‘You’ll be of some use to us, at least for a short while.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Lucanus winced when he heard his voice, so hoarse it was little more than a whisper. They had turned him into a ghost of his former self.

  ‘Soon you’ll see something one of your kind has never seen, and lived.’ A sly smile.

  The barbarian flung Lucanus’ head down. Through slit eyes, the Wolf watched his tormentor stride to the head of the column of men. They’d been travelling a broad, well-used track through the forest, generally towards the west, so the shifting light told him. One war-band, around thirty men.

  Colours and light surfaced from the constant gloom of the forest, and as Lucanus squinted ahead he thought that the trees were thinning. After
a while the track passed the stumps of creamy wood still showing the marks of axes. Undergrowth had been cleared. His nose filled with sweet woodsmoke from smouldering bonfires of branches and brush.

  Lucanus screwed up his eyes as they burst from the shadows of the forest into a sunlit expanse. When he looked again, he could see waving grass on either side and he breathed in the scent of roasting venison and the earthy reek of a great number of folk gathered in one place. The beat of hammers and axes rang out in the distance, accompanied by a chorus of raucous singing. Loud voices called from the front of the column.

  ‘Wait.’

  Erca strode back towards him as he swung to a halt.

  ‘Raise him up. Let him see what is waiting for him.’

  The two men heaved the pole upright and Lucanus stifled a cry as his shoulders wrenched. When the mist of pain cleared from his eyes, he looked out across a teeming tent-city filling a basin that reached to a row of low hills on the horizon. Under a thick pall of smoke, many fires glowed red. The sound of hammers he had heard came from forges; his nostrils flared at the bitter scent of those furnaces. When the wind shifted, he breathed in the musk of horses and saw that one side of the camp was given over to an enclosure; more mounts than he had ever seen in his life. Boys wandered among them, tossing handfuls of hay.

  ‘What do you think of our moot, Roman?’ Erca murmured close to his ear. He drew his long knife, leaned in, and Lucanus felt his bonds grow tight. First his legs swung free, then his wrists, and he tumbled forward on to the mud, too weak to support his own weight. The barbarians around him laughed and his cheeks burned.

  ‘Crawl into our camp on your hands and knees so everyone can see you for the dog you are,’ Erca said, ‘or stand and walk like a man.’

  Lucanus steeled himself against the agony in his ankles and hips. A cold anger froze his heart; his pride was all he had left and he would not easily give that up. Pushing himself upright, he swayed on his feet for a moment. The barbarians watched him, still laughing. One step, then another.

  The Wolf swallowed his pain and trudged to his doom.

  At the edge of the camp, a rotting head on a pole looked down its nose at two sentries warming their hands over a bonfire.