Pendragon

by James Wilde

  Bellicus grunted. ‘Heading back to their horde.’

  Lucanus rested against a tree, feeling all eyes upon him. He could read their unspoken thoughts. Now that Marcus was dead, there was no need for the barbarians to remain here. They could get on with their business of conquering Britannia.

  It would fall soon enough. And what then? The towns burned. The people slaves. And no hope for any of them, because he had failed.

  ‘They have taken Catia with them,’ Comitinus added. He let the words hang.

  ‘We will fetch her back.’ How hollow his voice sounded.

  ‘No.’ Bellicus stepped in front of him and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll go, with Solinus and Comitinus. You have work to do.’

  ‘Catia needs me.’

  ‘The people need you. You are the Pendragon now. You have a golden crown in case I forget.’ Bellicus was trying to make light of it, he knew, but he recognized the hard look in the other’s face that showed he would brook no resistance. Nevertheless, his voice softened a little when he added, ‘You must trust us.’

  Lucanus nodded. ‘You’re a good friend.’

  Bellicus grunted. ‘I’m a bastard.’ He looked around at Solinus and Comitinus. ‘You’re with me?’

  ‘I had hopes for some whoring and drinking, but this will do for now.’ Solinus spat on his hand and started to wipe the blood from his face.

  ‘We’ll bring Catia home, however long it takes,’ Comitinus vowed.

  ‘You want me to join you?’ Mato asked.

  ‘What, and risk you sticking yourself with your own sword?’ Bellicus said with a grin. ‘The Wolf will need a good man at his side in the days to come. I’m not good. But you are. Good to the heart.’

  Lucanus saw Mato’s surprise at the compliment, but he felt troubled. It was almost as if Bellicus didn’t expect to see either of them again.

  ‘You will be his friend and wise counsellor,’ the Bear continued. ‘But more than anything, you must counter the deceit that trips so easily from the mouth of the wood-priest. Do you hear me?’

  Mato nodded.

  Lucanus felt weary. He dared not tell them that he was sick of running and of fighting. He had not asked for this, and he was certain he was not up to the responsibilities being heaped on his shoulders. But he had accepted them. ‘You know I will do whatever is asked of me,’ he said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Among the Stones

  SUMMER BLAZED IN as they headed south. The band trundled along sun-drenched tracks during the heat of the day, watching the dance of bees and butterflies and drinking in the perfume of the wild flowers that lined the way. At night, they rested in balmy warmth, looking up at star-sprinkled skies.

  The Grim Wolves had rounded up four of the barbarians’ horses to pull a brace of Varro’s wagons along the path Myrrdin had set. Amarina grew steadily stronger as her wounds healed, and Menius seemed to find some purpose in each day’s chores that gave him a strength greater than they had seen since they had left Vercovicium.

  They filled their bellies with the abundant food they hunted and foraged along the road, but for all the peace of their journey they found little in their hearts. Grief suffocated them, as did the worry and the doubt and the fear. Soon the barbarian horde would sweep south, on a tide of blood and death that would wash away all they had known. And what did the future hold now that the hope epitomized by Marcus was gone?

  To Lucanus’ mounting frustration, the wood-priest offered no guidance, no answers. ‘Be patient. All will be revealed,’ he said, oddly untroubled by the passing of the one who was key to all that the druids had hoped for for so long.

  After they emerged from the dense forests of the uplands, they rumbled into a lush green land rolling into the hazy distance, dotted with gleaming lakes and carved by rushing rivers. The farmers and merchants they met were hungry for news of the threat that waited to the north. All were afraid to leave their homes and businesses and flee south, yet incapable of defending themselves. The army was nowhere to be seen.

  Lucanus’ cheeks burned every time he heard Myrrdin talk of the great war leader who would fight for them, the Pendragon, and tell stories that rushed along the trade routes. Why give them false hope, the Wolf wondered? Once more the wood-priest had no answer for him.

  Shared journeys forged bonds that lasted a lifetime. Lucanus had learned that during his forays into the Wilds with the Grim Wolves. Though he thought often of Bellicus and Solinus and Comitinus, and more of Catia, he fell into the lives of those who wandered with him. Mato spoke often of his dead sister Aula in ways that he had never done beyond the wall. Something consumed him, some desire for understanding perhaps, but what it was the Wolf decided he did not have the wits to understand. Aelius was keen to prove he was more than the man whose possibilities had been defined in Vercovicium. He sweated every day, dragging back firewood, heaving skins of fresh water, begging Lucanus to teach him how to use a sword more skilfully and learning how to balance himself in a duel with only one arm. Decima and Galantha spun tales of their past, of thieving and deception and high men brought low, both of them laughing as if all was right with the world. As they told Lucanus, though there had been slaughter and misery they had reached nightfall alive and with full bellies, and for that they gave thanks and always would, for in the past death and hunger had rarely left them alone. The Wolf found it hard to understand. Mato knew, though.

  Amarina was an enigma. The woman was filled with secrets and he was convinced he would never learn any of them.

  As they rolled across a great plain under a cloudless sky, Lucanus eyed Myrrdin beside him on the bench of the wagon and said, ‘You still have hope?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And how do we hold the barbarians at bay?’

  ‘The old tribes have been summoned to the war-moot.’

  Lucanus laughed, more bitterly than he intended. ‘You have not been paying attention, wood-priest: there are no warriors out there any longer. This is not the time of the old stories when a queen of fury laid waste to an army from Rome. Folk have grown fat and idle on the profits of the empire. Merchants do not wield swords. Landowners do not fight. Farmers only have ploughs.’

  Myrrdin shrugged. ‘They will fight. Or they will die.’

  Lucanus sighed. He was starting to believe the wood-priest’s words meant little more than a handful of dust.

  And then the wagons pulled through a line of trees and the Wolf yanked his horses to a halt. He leaned forward on the bench, unsure what he was seeing ahead of him.

  In the centre of wind-blasted grassland that reached as far as the eye could see, a circle of standing stones rose up in the heat haze. They were capped in pairs, a temple by any other name.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked.

  ‘Welcome to the Heartstones, Wolf,’ Myrrdin said, allowing himself a faint smile. ‘Here we will forge the days yet to come.’

  In the furnace of the late afternoon, the travellers lounged in the shade of the wagons. Mato noticed that most of them could not tear their eyes away from the stones silhouetted against the blue sky. He felt awe in the presence of that temple to unknown gods too, without being able to say why.

  To the south a winding river glimmered like silver. ‘The serpent that gives life,’ Myrrdin said as he followed its trail.

  ‘Dragons and serpents,’ Lucanus muttered. ‘To hear you speak, they are everywhere.’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘A river is a dragon. A man is a dragon,’ Mato mused. ‘Now I am beginning to understand. Everything is the thing it is, but it can also be another thing.’

  ‘And in the second thing, that is where the secrets lie,’ the wood-priest said, ‘and that is where the hidden bonds are.’

  Mato chewed on a grass stalk. ‘This is the wisdom you learn in your schools, wood-priest, and which you pass down the years? The knowledge of the hidden faces of all there is?’

  ‘Once you know the hidden faces, you know the truth of the w
orld.’

  Lucanus lost patience. ‘You make my head hurt. I’d rather know how a few may win a war against a barbarian horde. And why we even risk our necks in battle when there is nothing to fight for. No saviour. No way out of the long night that is drawing in.’

  ‘Turn your face to the sun, Wolf. You have too much gloom in you.’ The wood-priest hefted himself up and tapped the tip of his staff against Lucanus’ chest before raising it to the sky. ‘You have much yet to learn. Lugh looks down on you, brother; Lugh, who smiles upon priests and kings. Lugh, who has three faces, whom the Romans call Mercury. He brings all magic into this world, the wonder of words and the wisdom of stories, for that is where true power lies. The wood-priests have always known this, and it has shaped us, as we now shape you.’

  Mato saw Lucanus narrow his eyes, trying to make sense of what the druid was saying. ‘You lied to me. About the prophecy. About Marcus. It cannot be a prophecy if it does not come to pass.’ The Wolf stood up, stabbing a wavering finger at the other man. ‘Folk have died … the boy died … because we followed you. And now we have nothing, and we are …’ he looked around, ‘nowhere.’

  ‘We are at the heart of all things. The world turns here.’

  ‘We have nothing.’

  ‘Nothing, you say? You have been turned from lead into gold, Wolf. You now have a destiny where you had none. The gods have looked upon you and they have breathed life into your breast. They have given you a sword of power, and a golden crown that makes you a leader of men. They have made you a king, of a kind, you, a wild wolf clothed in rags and smeared with the green of the tree and the turf. Is this not a wonder that could only come from the gods? Know this. The Dragon will still rise. The king who will not die is coming still.’

  ‘How?’

  Mato watched the druid’s face, the light in his eyes, the power of persuasion that came off him in waves. There was something here, he was certain.

  ‘The secrets we know are many-fold,’ Myrrdin said, ‘but there is one … there is one that will turn all men from lead into gold once they accept it. There is no need to fear death. It is not an ending. The Attacotti know this to be true. All men have a soul, and when the heart is stilled that soul moves into another vessel. No ending, Wolf. This is at the heart of our teachings. Marcus is dead, but he yet lives, and the king who will save us all lives too.’

  Lucanus bowed his head, weighing the words, and then Mato watched him walk away among the stones.

  ‘This is the Wolf’s darkest moment,’ Myrrdin murmured. ‘He has suffered greatly, and if there is to be any chance of saving what we have we must guide him through this time and back into the light.’

  ‘Stories have two faces too, eh?’ Mato said. ‘What you say and what lies beneath. I’ve been paying attention to your words.’

  ‘At least one of you listens,’ the druid grumbled.

  ‘I hear more than you may wish to reveal.’

  Myrrdin eyed him.

  ‘You think your gods are wise above all others. Yet the Christians drive out all that you believe in, and they destroy the temples of the worshippers of Mithras.’

  ‘The wars of men are the wars of gods. Or the wars of gods are the wars of men, one or the other.’

  ‘That’s not the only story I hear in your words.’

  The wood-priest’s smile slipped away. ‘Speak.’

  ‘You did indeed lie to Lucanus. This prophecy is not from the gods, is it? It’s a plan made by men. By you wood-priests. Saying it is god-given …’ Mato paused, looking down towards the river, and past it into the hazy distance where the army no doubt cowered. ‘That is to convince weak-minded fools. Fools like me, and Lucanus, and all who hear your words.’

  Myrrdin nodded, impressed. He was making no attempt at denial. ‘You are a wise man, Mato. You see far more than your brothers. In a different world, you might have become one of us. Know this, then. I told Lucanus the truth, in a way. The king is an idea waiting to be born. He will come, and if enough men believe, he will do all that we say he will do. And he will lead the people of this isle out of darkness and into a better world. Would you deny them that by questioning what is truth and what is lie?’

  ‘But Lucanus was right. Many have died to further this plan you have been shaping for I don’t know how long.’

  ‘Death is not the end. Did you not hear my words?’

  ‘How easy it is then to send a man marching at your word into the Summerlands.’

  The wood-priest stepped in front of him, no doubt hearing the unease in his words. ‘What benefit to tell Lucanus your fears? Will it make right the ache in his stomach and help him grow strong? Will it help in the defeat of the barbarians? Or will it only wound him further, that all that he has lost has been for no reason? In the end, there is only one story. Who lays claim to it – that is the question. We will make the king who will not die. We, together. And men will fall in step behind him.’ Myrrdin’s voice was strong. ‘Will you help me?’

  ‘You wish me to lie to my brother?’

  ‘I wish you to help build a better truth.’

  Night had fallen on the plain; a deep stillness had settled across the stones. In the centre of the circle, Lucanus lay on his back and looked up at the full moon, the milky light edging the towering monoliths. Beside him, Myrrdin sat cross-legged, his staff across his lap.

  In that peace, it was hard to believe a war was about to crash down upon them. But Lucanus knew the thoughts of the group rarely turned from death and blood. No one gave voice to their innermost fears, but he could see from their faces that they looked to him as their saviour. How had it come to this?

  Myrrdin pointed to a bright emerald glow just beyond the circle. A firefly. ‘A message,’ he said, ‘from the gods. This is an auspicious night.’

  Lucanus grunted. ‘It is a night, like any other.’

  ‘There is magic around you at all times, if only you had eyes to see, and none more so than on this night, the eve of midsummer. Men look at the ground, or towards the next meal, or the next coin, and think the gods are not among them at all times. But they are.’

  ‘Is this another of the secrets you have been taught, druid?’

  ‘We see it in the flight of birds, or the call of beasts, or the stars in the sky. The gods watch, and they listen, and they speak, but you must know their tongue to hear.’

  ‘And what do the gods tell you of me?’

  ‘That there is no better man to lead the people towards the age of the Bear-King, Artorigios.’

  ‘You truly believe that?’

  ‘I do. But I am a mere man. The gods have chosen you, Lucanus. All that has been in your life, and in the life of your father, and your father’s father, has led to this moment.’

  The Wolf drew Caledfwlch and pointed it towards the sweep of stars. ‘A sword from a lake, left behind by a warrior from another age.’

  ‘A gift from the naiad who watches over that lake, a messenger who brought it to you from the gods themselves. That is the Sword of Light, and it once belonged to Lugh himself. In the west, they say it was given to him by Manannan Mac Lir who rules the oceans. With that sword, he saved the children of Dann from the great darkness, their enemy the Fomorians, led by the one-eyed god Balor.’

  Lucanus watched the wood-priest close his eyes, remembering, and continue in a sing-song voice, ‘“The Sword of Light was bare in his hand. He fell on the Fomorians as a sea-eagle falls on her prey, as lightning flashes out of a clear sky. Before him and his companions, they were destroyed as stubble is destroyed by fire. He held his hand when only nine of them remained alive.”

  ‘Nine,’ Lucanus repeated, drifting in the soothing rhythm of the words. He looked past the great stone blocks and thought he saw movement there, away in the dark. A procession of the gods, perhaps, like the one he had seen when he had lain dying in the great forest beyond the wall. It felt as if they had come to see him, and to bear witness to the choice he was about to make.

  ‘Numbers are i
mportant. This too is what we learned in our school. Three, five, nine. When you see those numbers, you must pay special attention, for the gods are speaking through them.’

  The Wolf nodded, but he didn’t really understand.

  ‘Your destiny was decided at that cold lake in the far north,’ Myrrdin said. ‘There’s no walking away from it.’

  Lucanus slipped his blade back into its scabbard. ‘Then my choice is decided. I’ll lead, and I’ll fight. For Marcus’ sake. For Catia, for my friends, for all who need to be led out of the dark.’

  He sensed a change in Myrrdin beside him, and he was certain he was smiling.

  ‘Who set up these stones?’ he said, looking around the circle. ‘Is this a temple of the wood-priests?’

  The druid paused, choosing his words. ‘They are old, older than the tales we have, but it’s our business to care for them now. Not just the Heartstones, but all these circles across these islands.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Our stories tell us that long ago, long before there were any wood-priests, a star fell to earth. Fires blasted the forests and the heathland and the skies turned black. The ocean rose up and swept across all the land, and only the mountain tops were safe for men to cling on to. When the waters fell away, those who survived … the forefathers of the wood-priests … set up these stones.’

  ‘As a monument, so the people would never forget those who had died?’ Lucanus said.

  Myrrdin pointed to a bright star, low in the evening sky. ‘Do you see that, how it seems to hang above that stone lintel? In these circles we can watch and study so that we will be ready if another star falls to earth.’ The druid looked around the circle of stones, black against the night sky. ‘But there is more to this place than that.’

  ‘More? How?’

  ‘Until the Romans came and blighted this land, great moots were held here every midsummer and midwinter. Feasts the like of which you and I have never known. And, so we are told, there was a great drumming, a pounding upon hide stretched across wood. And when the drumming reached its pitch, the stones spoke back.’