Uther cc-7

by Jack Whyte

  She sat for a few moments, her eyes unfocused, gazing into the middle distance, and then, afraid to hesitate any longer, she breathed in deeply through her nostrils, gritted her teeth and then used both hands to draw the long sword from between her shoulders, reaching back with her left to push the blade upwards behind her back and then drawing it down and forward over her shoulder with her right. She hefted the weapon for a moment, feeling its balance, and then she kicked her horse forward slowly down the steeply sloping path.

  Within moments she was completely shut in by the growth around her, as the bushes on either side of the narrow track shot straight up and then arched beneath their own weight to meet over her head. Summer leaves filtered out and almost quenched the afternoon sunlight, so that Nemo and her mount moved downward through a thickening, green-tinctured gloom. She moved her head constantly from side to side, her nerves stretched tighter than she could ever recall, but there was nothing untoward to see. The ground rose steeply on one side of her and fell away at the same angle on the other, and the dense growth of long, rank clumps of grass, spindly saplings and springy undergrowth seemed to creep towards her from both directions.

  She could see that the track she followed now had once been wider, but its edges had been swallowed by the encroaching grass and twiggy bushes, so that in many places the narrow wheels of Cassandra's coach had straddled the pathway completely, leaving tracks in the long grass on either side and sometimes even stripping the bark from fragile saplings. Nemo reached out with her sword, and half of its blade was among the bushes before her arm was fully extended. She knew immediately that she had drawn the wrong weapon and that her sword was useless here, its blade too long for such thick growth and cramped quarters. She reined her horse to a halt and replaced the long blade carefully in its harness, trying to move without making a sound and grateful that she was wearing the long cloak to muffle the grating sounds of iron upon iron as the sword slid down into the ring between her shoulders. When it was safely lodged in place, Nemo bent forward slowly and gathered up the heavy iron flail that hung from a strong hook set into the frame of her saddle close by her right knee. It was an invention of Uther's, a treasured gift to her. She had even painted it a dull, deep red to match his exactly. She slipped her right hand through the leather strap and grasped the weapon's thick wooden shaft, clasping it close to the bottom end, where the iron ring that anchored the short chain was riveted to the wood. Holding it thus, she could feel the weight of the heavy iron ball at the end of the chain, dangling at the level of her right stirrup, pulling her arm straight down by her side. She felt better holding the flail than she had felt with the sword. She kicked her horse forward again and rounded the next narrow bend in the track with less trepidation than she had felt before.

  After negotiating several more bends and the steepest part of the incline—a straight, plunging slope of at least forty paces that turned back on itself and stretched as far again without relief—she eventually arrived at the bottom and moved slowly forward until she could look through a screen of trees into a small and very pleasant valley, whose existence she would never have suspected or believed.

  It was neither very long nor very wide, probably less than sixty paces at its longest axis, she estimated, and perhaps as long again on its widest, but it was deep and well hidden, steep-sided and secure and filled with trees, mainly birch and willow, as far as she could see. The centre of the place was taken up by a tiny jewel of a lake that seemed to be fed by a sliding fall of water that ran almost soundlessly down the full length of the steep rock face that formed the far side of the depression. From the plunging angle of the rock face's descent, Nemo could guess that the lake, while small, was very deep and probably extremely cold even in summer. A narrow shelf or ledge of beach ran along the water's edge closest to where she sat on her horse, and in the distance, almost completely screened by the trees that flanked it, someone had built a tiny stone hut. The scene was idyllic, and her first sight of it banished any doubts Nemo had held about where Merlyn had hidden Cassandra for so long.

  As the thought occurred to her, the door in the stone hut opened and Cassandra herself emerged, holding a basket of some kind that she carried towards a spot that was marked by fire-blackened stones. Kneeling down carefully, she set out very conscientiously to build a fire, and Nemo watched her, fascinated, as a spark instantly— perhaps magically—leaped to flame, reminding her of why she was there. Her chest filled up with fear again. Nemo believed, with all her being, that she was about to die, here in this hidden place, but she was determined that she would die as Nemo the Dragon and that she would take the witch with her into the other world.

  Now she lowered her helmet over her head and hooked together the cheek-flaps that would protect her face. Then she hefted the dangling ball of her flail and kicked her horse forward, out of concealment, rowelling the beast savagely with her spurs. Startled, the animal stomped and snorted, leaping sideways and attempting to rear up in protest, but Nemo reined it in brutally, pulling its head hard down and forcing it forward.

  The woman in the distance looked up and froze for a moment, attracted by either the noise or the horse's movements. Nemo neither knew nor cared which; she knew only that she had been seen and that her life was now in dire peril. Digging her spurs deep, she launched herself towards the woman at the far end of the beach.

  Cassandra watched her coming for what seemed an age, and then she turned and began running as quickly as she could in her swollen condition towards the cart, where the horse yet stood between the shafts. Nemo spurred harder, believing somehow that if Cassandra reached the cart before she reached Cassandra, then her life would be over and Uther's would be forfeit. As she thundered up to the cart, she hauled herself up in her stirrups and swung the heavy flail over her head, whirling it twice and then smashing it down in the killing stroke.

  As the lethal ball came whistling towards her, Cassandra lost her footing and fell on one knee. The ball missed her, hissing over her right shoulder and striking the side of the cart, where it tore one of the thick oak side panels loose from its mountings, splintering the wood and twisting the iron bar that secured the panel in place. Whimpering with terror, Cassandra turned and stooped lower, scrambling beneath the belly of the enormous horse that reared above her. She threw herself sideways, to her right, as Nemo's horse reared and turned in the opposite direction. She turned again, this time to her left, and ran away from the water towards the trees.

  Nemo's blood pounded in her ears and a wild cry rose from her throat as her horse, with a thunderous hammering of hooves, struck the witch's right shoulder, throwing her forward and off balance.

  Nemo's heavy, hard-swung iron ball caught her beneath the right collarbone with massive, crushing force and lifted her into the air, throwing her as though she were weightless back towards the water's edge. She went spinning through the air until she hit a willow tree by the waterside and fell sideways across a low branch, to hang there like a sagging, swollen sack from which blood poured to the ground in thick, ropy runnels.

  Cassandra was dead with that first fearsome blow, but Nemo took no chance of failure. She wrenched her horse around and brought it up again onto its hind legs, where she could brace herself in the stirrups and create sufficient momentum to deliver a full swing, and this time the killing ball crashed into and through the swollen lump of belly that contained Cassandra's unborn child. The force of this terrible blow knocked the body into the shallow waters at the lake's edge.

  Then, her vision blurred and her heart banging against her ribs with terror, Nemo clambered down from the saddle and fell to her knees, where she swayed for long moments before falling forward to lie full length, face down upon the grass, shuddering and shaking.

  Later, much later, when she had convinced herself that she was still alive and had won the battle with the witch. Nemo began to wonder at the ease with which she had achieved her victory. She had expected unearthly powers to come against her from the underworld,
She had expected to be faced with fire-breathing furies and the powers of the damned. She had expected to be exhausted by the effort required to fight, let alone kill, a witch. And she had expected, most of all, to die herself in her quest for victory. But none of those things had happened. She was still alive and still breathing, and slowly, frighteningly, she was beginning to regret the lack of all of the things she had expected . . . beginning to wish she had felt even one of them. Any one of them.

  At one point, before she could clench her jaws and close her mind and thrust the disturbing thought aside, it occurred to her that her victory could hardly have been easier had the dead witch been an ordinary, pregnant, helpless woman.

  And once that thought had entered her mind, it refused to leave again, and she had to force herself to go and examine the dead witch.

  Nemo knelt above the shattered body and gazed at the destruction she had wreaked. She tried to tell herself that this was Cassandra's witchcraft, that she could bend people's minds and make them believe that what they saw was different from what it actually was. This woman, had she been allowed to live, would have been a danger and a threat to Uther, and so to all that Nemo held to be of value. But gazing at the dead woman, who lay on her back in the shallow waters of the lake's edge, her face above the surface, eyes closed and skin unmarred in any way, she found herself amazed at its beauty and at the serenity stamped on it, despite the awful fury of her death. The dead face bore no trace of pain or fear, as though someone had come along and soothed her terror at the moment of her passing. Nemo found herself staring at the gentleness of that face, afraid to think of what she was thinking. She forced herself to stand upright and walk away, and as she went, the flail that still hung from her wrist by its leather loop dragged behind her through the water and then bumped on the narrow strip of sandy grass that formed the beach.

  Two ways to kill a witch: fire and iron. But the iron used may never again he used by human hand.

  Nemo spread her feet, slipped her hand free of the leather loop and swung the iron flail over her head until she could hear it hissing through the air and doubted that she could swing it any harder. Then, at the top of her swing, she opened her hand and released the weapon, knowing that it would soar and fall into the centre of the little lake and be lost in its depths. But she had misjudged her throw. The weapon, released, flew for more than twenty paces, but to her right rather than forward, so that it struck the water quite close to the bank, yet sufficiently far from the body of the woman to escape detection.

  She walked over in that direction to see if she could see anything, but there was nothing visible. The flail had landed in a bed of reeds and had plunged deep into the muddy bottom. It was no great loss, other than in the fact that it was the first such weapon ever made. Since then, however, it had become quite common to see troopers riding with them hanging from their saddles. Once Uther and Merlyn had begun to use them, others had rushed to copy their design, because the things were far less difficult to make than a good sword. Nemo would quickly find a new one.

  She turned and walked back to where the body of the witch Cassandra lay sprawled in a shapeless, sodden tumble of bloodied limbs. The edges of her clothing drifted and eddied in the shallows and the surrounding water had turned pink with blood, so that the skin of the dry, upturned face was creamy white by contrast. Fascinated, Nemo stared down at it for a long time, reminding herself of all that had occurred. Finally she nodded, satisfied that what she had done was right, and as she did so, she caught a movement from the corner of her eye. It was completely unexpected and her startled reaction was out of all proportion to what she had seen.

  It was Cassandra's horse tossing its head, and now Nemo wondered what to do about it. It was still tethered between the shafts of the wagon, and she knew it would be cruel merely to leave it behind that way. And yet if she were to release it or even leave it harnessed to the cart, the animal would eventually make its way directly home to Camulod, where its arrival would set alarums clanging and precipitate the discovery of the witch's death. She heaved a deep sigh, knowing she had no options, and crossed to where the beast stood waiting for her, twisting its head to see her as she drew close to it.

  The long cavalry sword made a slithering sound as it cleared the iron carrying ring at her back, and she held it out at arm's length, aiming it at the downward sloping column of the horse's neck. But then she thought about the bones and muscles in that massive neck and changed her mind, deciding to use her wickedly sharp double- edged dagger instead. She bent forward slightly, reaching completely beneath the horse's neck, and then plunged the pointed blade upwards into the animal's jugular on the other side with all her strength. Then, gripping the hilt strongly with both hands, she pulled the long blade back strongly towards her, slashing and slicing hard and deep. The horse barely made a sound, beyond an initial grunt of pain, and its leap of surprise was stillborn. Blood sprayed everywhere and the animal fell immediately to its knees and died quickly, still between the shafts.

  Nemo stepped away from it and looked down at herself, shaking her head in disgust. Her entire lower half was drenched in blood. She found a length of white cloth in the back of the cart and carried it to the water's edge, well clear of the spot where the dead witch lay. There she soaked it and used it to clean the worst of the blood from her armour, scrubbing at the tiny bronze rings that covered the heavy leather leggings of her armoured trousers.

  When she was finished, she dropped the cloth in the water and left it there. She then took one last look around the lovely little valley, noticing that the mid-afternoon sun had already started bending the shadows slightly towards the east. She glanced once more time towards the body in the water, wondering how long it would be before someone found it, and then she sighed and spat loudly before crossing to her horse and pulling herself up into the saddle. She had decided not to return to Camulod for the evening meal, as she had originally planned, but to strike out immediately for Cambria and home instead, pitching her camp that night wherever sunset found her. Within three days she would be in Tir Manha again with Uther, secure in the knowledge that the threat to him had been removed and that he and his cousin Merlyn could be friends again.

  Chapter TWENTY-ONE

  Within an hour of Nemo's departure from Camulod in pursuit of Cassandra, Uther himself rode into the Colony from the west, accompanied by a small group of hand-picked companions. It was obvious from their appearance that he and his party had been riding hard and taking little or no time to rest, because their horses were lathered and caked with dust and sweat and their riders looked little better. Uther rode through the main gates at a fast trot, barely nodding an acknowledgment to the guards on duty, and made his way directly to the administrative building, where he strode to the Duty Officer's station and demanded to see Merlyn Britannicus immediately. The Duty Officer that day was Jacobus, a junior decurion, an officer trainee, which was not unusual, since there was seldom any need for seniority in making the kinds of decisions that were called for in the middle of a normal working day in the administrative building.

  From the way Uther phrased his demand to see Merlyn, Jacobus knew that his response was not going to be well received. Snapping to attention and saluting Uther, he spun and clicked his fingers to attract the attention of one of the runners on duty, knowing as he did so that the gesture was unnecessary. The runner was already standing by his side, gawking from him to Uther and back, waiting for an explosion. Jacobus sent the fellow running to bring the Legate Titus, the Commander of Camulod in Merlyn's absence, then cleared his throat and informed Uther that Merlyn had left Camulod several days earlier to ride eastward into the Saxon-occupied area of Britain known as the Saxon Shores in order to attend a debate among Christian churchmen in the old Roman town of Verulamium, approximately thirty miles northwest of Londinium, the former administrative centre of Roman Britain. Jacobus awaited the explosion, but it did not come. Uther drew in his breath sharply, making a tiny, sucking sound of annoyance b
etween his teeth, and then nodded abruptly.

  "I'll wait for Titus. Where should I wait?"

  Jacobus indicated the cubiculum against the outer wall of the building that contained the commanding officer's table and chair and was illuminated by a long, low, shuttered window. Uther nodded his thanks and asked the young man for his name before he made his way inside to wait.

  Moments later. Titus himself swept in from the courtyard outside and joined him, closing the door behind himself and leaning back against it, slightly out of breath.

  "Titus." Uther nodded, smiling at his old friend. "You look well, but you sound a little puffed."

  "Age, Uther, age. I don't have the resilience I once had."

  Titus straightened and crossed to embrace Uther with both arms. Then he stepped back and held the younger man by the shoulders to peer up at him. "It will hit you, too, one of these days, no matter how immortal you believe yourself to be. Before you know it, the masseurs will be plucking grey hairs out of your head, and your joints will be starting to feel stiff on cold mornings."

  "They already do, my friend. How long do you expect Merlyn to be gone?"