by James Wilde
Lucanus eyed him. ‘More games?’
‘This is not a place for games, Wolf.’ The druid’s voice was low, almost afraid, Lucanus thought.
With the tip of his staff, the wood-priest scratched a circle in the dry soil.
‘You must venture down alone,’ he said, ‘with your head bowed and your heart open. Cernunnos will judge if you are worthy.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘We won’t see you again.’
Lucanus stared into that swelling darkness, feeling his heart patter, despite himself. After a moment, he swung a foot over the first step, held it there for a moment, testing the dark and himself, and then he edged down.
His neck burned from the sun, but he felt it fade by the moment as the light fell away and the cool void swallowed him. His footsteps echoed off the stone walls, his nose filling with the dank air and the thick scent of soil and vegetation and cold rock.
Down he stepped, and down further, and gradually his eyes told him the shadows were not as deep as he believed. When he reached the bottom and looked around, he felt his skin prickle in a different way.
He marvelled at a green world. The light filtering through the vegetation and the moss that covered the sheer rock walls painted the refuge with an emerald tint. He craned his neck up and saw that the cleft – the temple – soared up the height of near ten men.
Cool. Silent. He shivered at the majesty of this sanctuary. A temple indeed.
‘This is one of the old places.’ Myrrdin’s voice echoed down to him. ‘And in every old place, the gods can be heard, aye, and spoken to, if the voice is right.’
In the centre of the temple, flat stones had been piled up, and on them nestled bones, dry flowers and herbs, and knobs of bread that had taken on the consistency of stone. An altar.
As the dark swept away, Lucanus could see he was alone in the long, narrow temple, yet he sensed something fading in the air as if a presence had been there only very recently. He breathed in deeply, letting the tightness ease out of his shoulders and the sanctity of the place settle on him, and he realized he had been unconsciously holding on to the hilt of his sword.
Reaching out, he scraped his fingers along the rough stone wall as he walked along the cleft. Images had been scratched there by unknown hands, some of them faded with great age, and he leaned in and squinted. His fingertips traced the faint outline of writing, runes, of the kind that had been etched into Caledfwlch, and surrounding those unreadable messages from times long gone, drawings. He followed the patterns and gasped when he saw they swept up high over his head, higher than any man could reach. He saw clouds throwing lightning bolts, and what looked like a boar bristling with spears; a man’s face formed from leaf and branch; swords and axes, bulls and crows and snakes, and two figures of differing sizes, which he took to be a man and a boy. That one had a sharper outline.
He shrugged. The work of idle hands, scratched out by firelight during long nights, perhaps. Yet he sensed a reverence in the careful strokes of those delicate designs, work that held a meaning for those who had laboured over them, but one which escaped him.
Walking to the centre of the temple, he looked up once more to that emerald slash high overhead where barbs of glinting sunlight broke through the vegetation. ‘The Lord of the Greenwood,’ he murmured. ‘Where are you?’
Jerking from his reverie, he strode to the foot of the steps and shouted up, ‘There’s no one here.’
A moment later he heard tentative footsteps trudging down.
‘Where is this ally?’ he said, when the others had reached the bottom and were gazing around the temple, mouths slack.
Myrrdin walked along the narrow cleft, looking round. ‘He is not here now, but he will come. And then I will petition him for aid. This is the most dangerous time, for all of us here, and for what we hope to achieve. All will be lost if the barbarian horde cannot be resisted.’
‘Not just your plans, or the lives of those here, wood-priest, don’t forget that. This is not a conquering army of the kind we’ve heard about in times past. The slaughter of all the folk who live in Britannia will not stop, and those who do survive will become slaves. Rome did not unleash a tide of blood when they first sailed to these shores.’
The druid’s eyes narrowed. ‘You say. The wood-priests would disagree.’
Lucanus nodded. ‘That is fair. But now everything we have known stands to be lost.’
‘Yes, this is a war that will shape the fates of all who live here. But we must get to the Heartstones without being captured or killed, and begin to build an army. We can’t do that alone.’
Lucanus raised his head so the others could not see his doubts. The army was fragmented, perhaps already crushed, and the chance that they could raise some fighting force from lazy merchants and farmers was beyond his dreams. But the others needed hope if they were to keep their spirits up. ‘Then let’s find this Lord of the Greenwood,’ he said.
‘If he is not here, he will be heeding the call of Cernunnos, for this day is Beltane, the fire festival. Summer is a-coming in.’
The dark deepened in Lud’s temple. Myrrdin demanded firewood and by the time dusk drew in Lucanus had helped the others build a small fire at one end of the cleft. They all had to help; the druid had insisted on that. As the flames licked up, the wood-priest stood behind the blaze and raised his arms to the sky. The Wolf watched his shadow swoop up the rock walls as if rising to the heavens themselves.
‘We call to Lugh,’ Myrrdin said, his voice ringing off the stone. ‘We call to Cernunnos. As the wheel of the year turns, and the land gives up its bounty, we raise our faces to the sun and give thanks for all that will be.’
The druid said much more, but Lucanus found his thoughts turning to gods and daemons and the Fates and how they ran men like dogs toying with a nest of rats.
He slipped from his thoughts when the wood-priest commanded, ‘Pick up your torches, then walk around the bonfire as the sun crosses the sky. Wolf, you must go last.’
Lucanus watched as first Amarina, then Decima and Galantha picked up the pieces of wood they had chosen earlier and processed around the fire. They plunged their torches into the golden heart, and when they were alight the three women walked to the foot of the stone steps and waited. Catia and Marcus followed, then Aelius, Amatius glowering, and Menius supported by Solinus and Comitinus, and Mato and Bellicus. Finally, he walked up himself.
Myrrdin rested a hand on his shoulder and leaned in. ‘The Dragon is born from fire,’ he whispered, ‘and this Beltane you shall be reborn, finally. I will tell you one of the great secrets.’
He opened his palm and Lucanus saw what looked like a shrivelled piece of bark. He tasted iron on his tongue as the druid pushed it into his mouth and commanded, ‘Chew.’
He chewed and swallowed. ‘What is it?’
‘The flesh of the toad’s-stool.’
‘Are we flying? This is what the witches gave me.’
Myrrdin smiled. ‘Not flying. But you will meet the gods and see the daemons. That is the secret, Wolf. That is what our novices learn. And not just wood-priests and witches. The toad’s-stool is sacred to all, the world over. Every religion. Mithras. The Greeks, the priests of Rome. In their holy places, in their houses of mystery where they keep their secrets tight to their breasts, learned only by the novitiates, they eat the toad’s-stool. It is part of their rites. And in this isle, this Albion, we are told that it has been sacred since the first men walked. The ones who put up the stones. And now you will undergo the Beltane rite, and the next step of your journey will begin.’
‘What if I do not want to hear the gods?’
‘You will be changed, Wolf. The man you once were must die so that the dragon may rise from the ashes. You wear the gold crown of the Ouroboros, but now you must become the Pendragon.’
‘Then let’s be done with this. I have a war to fight.’ Lucanus thrust his torch into the flames.
‘You still have much to learn. Thi
s is not one night. This is for all your days. The toad’s-stool and the Pendragon are bound together. In battle, it will make you a great warrior. You will fear nothing. You will have the strength of a hundred men. You will not tire. And in your darkest nights, and there will be many, it will give you wisdom.’
The wood-priest gave his shoulder a squeeze. He thought he felt something honest in that touch, a first for the druid. Was it concern? Or pity?
‘The voices of the gods can bring a man to terror,’ he said. ‘But fear not, I will be at your side. For all time now. We are joined too.’
His words seemed to throb and twist. The crackle of the fire whirled around him. As he peered along the cleft, Lucanus thought each of the torches held by his friends now burned like molten iron in the smith’s forge.
‘One thing leads to another, Lucanus. Always remember that.’ The words seemed to hang over him, uttered by no mouth. ‘There is not a single choice that a man makes that does not roll off into days yet to come.’ A whisper as loud as a shout.
He felt a hand on his arm. Myrrdin guided him away from the bonfire, past the others, and then up the stone steps. At the entrance, he saw the yellow forest flowers, the Beltane blooms, that Catia and Marcus had picked earlier and arranged to the wood-priest’s design. They swirled out into the dark.
‘Follow the spiral path,’ Myrrdin murmured. ‘This is life, and this is death, both joined, never ending. And at the end you will be renewed, ready for what is to come.’
‘Where is our ally?’ Lucanus said, distracted.
‘He’s watching you, Wolf. He is always watching you.’
The night was warmer than he expected, the forest rich with scents he had never smelled before. He looked around in wonder. The torches swept out among the trees, fireflies dancing in the dark.
‘See, Wolf,’ Myrrdin whispered. ‘See the majesty.’
And he did.
How long he was there, he didn’t know. At some point Myrrdin must have left him, for he found himself on his own. He thought he saw ivy-twined figures emerging from tree trunks, watching him with eyes flickering with emerald fire. Away in the night men and women processed, their skin shining with a golden light, an entire court of them headed by a king and queen. A part of him was certain he had always seen them, since he was a child, on the edge of sleep, in the woods and the wild mountain tops. More dreams. More dreams?
Lucanus walked the spiral path.
A voice whispered, ‘Only the Bear-King can save you.’
He jerked around, but no one was there.
War is coming. This voice was inside his own head. Soon. Soon. Blood and death.
A cry rang out. It sprang from lips to lips, growing in intensity. At first Lucanus thought this was inside his head too. But then the thrum of the toad’s-stool ebbed and his wits returned. The torches were flashing back and forth.
He felt a pang of panic, though he was not sure why.
Catia raced through the trees, and, seeing him, ran over and grabbed his arms. Lucanus looked into her wide eyes.
‘Marcus,’ she began, her voice becoming a croak as if she couldn’t bear to speak. ‘Marcus is gone.’
‘Where are we going?’ the boy asked.
Amarina gripped his hand tighter so that he couldn’t wriggle free. She was hurrying through the woods so fast his feet barely touched the ground, and feeling her heart pound she breathed in deeply to force herself to stay calm. She had the advantage. The others were lost to their Beltane games and even when they knew the two of them were gone, they wouldn’t know in which direction.
‘You would not see your mother die?’ she said, more harshly than she intended.
‘No!’
‘Then together we have a chance to save her … and … and your father and grandfather and uncle. And Lucanus and all the others.’ Decima. Galantha.
‘But I don’t understand.’ His bewildered words rose to a cry and tears brimmed in his eyes.
Cursing under her breath, Amarina skidded to a halt. She crouched and rested both hands on his shoulders, staring into his eyes with well-practised adoration.
‘You have the royal blood,’ she murmured. ‘You will bring forth a king, a great king, one who will never die and will save the lives of all … all who are suffering. You’ve seen what the barbarians have done, yes?’
Marcus nodded.
‘You’ve seen the misery and the suffering and the death. You can stop that, Marcus. You can help save everyone.’
His eyes widened.
Amarina stifled a sigh. She was even convincing herself. ‘But you can’t act like a child any longer. Now you must be like the king you will become, and a king makes sacrifices … great sacrifices. To save lives. You can do this. It’s in your power.’
‘I want to go back to Mother.’ His eyes welled up again.
‘When you were a boy … younger … your father told you stories of the great heroes … of kings, yes? With swords, who fought giants?’
‘Lucanus did.’
‘Lucanus. Of course he did. Remember those stories, Marcus. What the heroes did, because now you are a hero.’
Amarina watched him soften a little. It was enough. She pulled him along again, listening for any sound of pursuit, but the forest was still and quiet.
At her hip banged the pouch she’d hidden under the holly earlier, filled with what few provisions she could steal without being discovered. It wasn’t much, but it would suffice.
This wasn’t treachery. This was for the sake of all of them, because no other there was brave enough to do it.
She would find that barbarian leader, Erca, and she would bargain for their lives with this boy. He would be kept safe – he was too valuable to be harmed. Erca would have no interest in the others once he had his prize, and they would be free to go their own way.
And if she was taken slave, or killed – her stomach twisted – then so be it. For once she would have done some good.
To keep running, and hiding, until doom caught up with them, as it always did – what kind of life was that? She’d spent too many of her own days running and hiding to see it inflicted on others.
Down a bank she scrambled, and along the muddy banks of a stream, the air thick with the tang of wild garlic. Her eyes had learned to see into the dark, a little, but she still wished she had a torch to guide them.
‘I want to go back,’ Marcus whined.
‘It’s too late for that,’ she snapped. ‘If you try to go alone, you will lose your way and the boars will eat you. They’ll crunch up your bones and no one will even know you’re dead.’
She sensed movement in front of her, but she was too slow to react. A figure loomed up. Hands grabbed her and threw her to the ground.
‘The whore.’ A voice laced with dark humour.
Amarina looked up into a familiar face. The centurion Falx hung over her, still wearing his armour. Behind him she saw a circle of the soldiers he had trusted most in Vercovicium, the hard men, the liars and the thieves. Her thoughts raced, trying to make sense of what she was seeing, here in the deep forest, so far from the wall. But all she could think of were the wood-priest’s words, uttered so many times they had almost become a spell: nothing happens by chance.
‘Aye,’ Falx said as if he could read her mind. He leaned lower, a triumphant smile licking at his lips. ‘We have followed you for many days, whore, biding our time until we could get what we wanted. Tonight was to be the night, but you have saved us a fight.’
‘What do you want?’ she spat.
‘Why, the boy, of course. There’s nothing more valuable in all the world. We’ll take him now. Search her,’ he commanded his men. ‘These whores are a deadly breed. She’ll have a knife on her somewhere.’
Amarina shuffled back, unsure if she should try to fight or run.
But the centurion only pulled out his sword and pressed its tip against her throat. ‘Your life is worth nothing, though. Do not forget that.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
-EIGHT
The Crossroads
‘WHY WOULD AMARINA take the boy?’ Galantha protested.
‘This makes no sense to me.’
‘You know why.’ Amatius glowered at her and Bellicus stiffened, ready to act if the coward raised a hand. ‘Only gold moves you whores,’ Catia’s husband continued. ‘She plans to sell the boy to get rich.’
‘Amarina would never do such a thing,’ Decima blazed. ‘She has a good heart.’
Amatius advanced on the two women, one fist bunching. ‘We should never have brought you treacherous sows along. Now my son has paid the price for that weakness.’
Before Bellicus could move, Lucanus lunged in front of the other man. ‘Leave them. They’re not at fault here.’
‘They’re all cut from the same cloth.’
‘I say Amarina has a good heart too.’
‘Aye. You like your women, do you not?’ Amatius thrust his face towards Lucanus.
Bellicus saw his friend’s eyes narrow, recognizing full well the meaning behind those words.
‘At least I have the courage to defend my women,’ the Wolf growled. ‘And I’ll do what it takes to save Marcus. I’m not afraid.’
Amatius bristled, but before he could lash out Catia pushed her way between the two rivals, her eyes flashing as she looked from one to the other. ‘Enough. We must find Marcus. That’s all that matters.’
‘I don’t believe Amarina would sell the boy for her own gain,’ Bellicus rumbled, looking around the faces. ‘I’ve watched her in recent days – she’s not the woman she was. The horde’s slaughter has taken its toll on her, as it has on us all. But she’s as hard and cold as a frozen lake when she makes her calculations, and if she thinks giving up Marcus will save more lives, I am not surprised that she has acted.’
‘She has no right to make that choice,’ Aelius protested.
Myrrdin rammed his staff against the ground. ‘This is not just about the boy,’ he snapped. ‘She is betraying all those who will die in days yet to come if there’s no king to lead them out of darkness.’
Before the argument could start again, Mato loped into the circle of torchlight. ‘I’ve found their trail,’ he said, breathless. ‘Amarina is heading back the way we came.’