by Hume, M. K.
‘Nor will you return to Mithras in his temple on the hill. Did you think that chapel was real? Did you believe the little priest who lives on sunshine rather than food or drink? You were wide awake in Mirk Wood.’
Arthur shivered. He remembered the chapel in the dolmen, buried in the ancient forest of Mirk Wood. After the Battle of Lake Wener, Arthur had been lost in guilt at the death of Eamonn, his friend. Mirk Wood had taken the chapel into itself, melting it like summer hail, and no one had been able to find that strange place since.
‘I believe in nothing that soothsayers of any kind tell me. I certainly don’t believe your promises!’
‘Liar!’ she hissed. ‘I’m the only one who really wants you, Arthur. Unfortunately, it’s a fine line between madness and the messages that come to us from the gods. Do you want to tip too far and become a gibbering idiot?’
The beautiful she-dragon sighed luxuriantly, but with regret.
‘No! You don’t desire that fate, my beloved dragonlet. You’re well named, Ruin of Kings, because you’ll go on and on, with your sister or without, and with your slaves or without. You are fated to become the King of Winter. You will remember me, dragonlet, when you sit in your halls and look out over your broad acres. I am the only creature who truly loves you . . . and who truly knows you.’
‘You do? I live for the day when I can sleep without your intervention.’
She stirred petulantly and her movement sent an ancient skull rolling away from her complex couch of bones. The jaw had been attached to the cheekbones with fine gold wires so that the teeth chattered obscenely as it sank into the ooze. She scarcely noticed as her tail twisted and twitched irritably. The fitful light from far above lit her scales with a soft glow that belied her rising temper.
‘You’ll be off to war soon enough, dear heart. The Dragon’s Brood are spread through your world and their cries affront the ears of the most heartless of men. I wonder that you don’t hear them when they weep in the night because of you.’
‘But—’
‘Be silent, dragonlet! You cannot believe that you can save anyone or anything, simply by issuing orders. Change must be paid for, with blood, heart and spirit. You’re not a Dene! And you’re no jarl! Nor are you anything of importance to anyone, except to me and the Geat bitch who loathes and loves you in equal measure. But she is changing. Beware whom you trust, Arthur.’
The she-dragon brought her beautifully carved face within inches of his. She hadn’t quite finished tormenting him.
‘So many wars are yet to come, and you will fight in them, my heart. You will provide bones aplenty for my house when you take revenge for the ruined children. But, as you negotiate the tangled halls of kings, remember what I tell you.’
She paused.
‘What is real, is not!
‘What is love, can be hate!
‘What is kingly, can be cruelty!
‘And, finally, my beloved,
‘What is loyalty, can be treason.’
Eyes glowing with urgency, she delivered her warning of incipient danger.
‘When you can understand what I have said, then, and only then, will you find your way back to your home.’
Suddenly Arthur felt the weed set him free and the pressure of water in his lungs began to choke him. Then he awoke to find himself rubbing at his thigh where the flesh was shiny, red and swollen.
CHAPTER I
THE MASTER OF SKANIA
To be turned from one’s course by men’s opinions, by blame, and by misrepresentation, shows a man unfit to hold an office.
Quintus Fabius Maximus, Plutarch, Parallel Lives
The sea was boiling with struggling men and smashed timbers as Arthur directed his men to edge Sea Wife as close as possible to the heaving mass. Weighted down by thick armour and weapons, even the strongest had to struggle to keep their heads above water. A hundred men fought mindlessly to live, climbing over each other in a desperate battle to stave off the inevitable.
‘Ship the oars, helmsman,’ Arthur ordered Snorri. This Dene helmsman was vastly different from his predecessor, being a hard-bitten pragmatist who had won Arthur’s respect during the pell-mell chase from the Vagus River to their present position just off Rugen Island. Stormbringer’s fleet had pursued the Geat ships that had tried to ambush them off the southernmost tip of Skania, after Stormbringer had defeated Heardred’s land forces in Halland and central Skania.
These land battles had been hard-won, with both sides sustaining serious losses, but the Denes had prevailed. Now the Dene fleet had increased to more than fifty ships of massed warriors, while the Dene populace provided more and more reinforcements that swelled the size of the expeditionary force. The Dene elders were aware that uprisings in the east opened the way for border attacks in the south so, given Hrolf Kraki’s inaction, the more prudent of the jarls sent any warriors who could be spared to Stormbringer as a hedge against treason or bad luck.
Meanwhile, Heardred had made a serious tactical error by sending fire-ships in the hope of catching Stormbringer unawares. Unfortunately, they were discovered and destroyed.
It soon became obvious that the re-purposed trading vessels used by the Geats could never hope to compete with the fighting longboats used by the Dene. The Sae Dene ships were manned by seafarers, first and foremost, although their fleet now also included some slower transport vessels and smaller, faster boats used as couriers.
The outcome of the sea battles had never been in doubt.
Then, like coursing hounds pursuing a stampeding herd of bulls, the Dene fleet had swept down on the slower Geat vessels, with Sea Wife in the vanguard.
The three travellers rode into Lubeck, relieved to have finally reached the northern sea. Conscious that discretion and diplomacy were necessary for their continued health, the three tried to be unobtrusive but, as Lorcan explained to his friends, they were as obvious as a boil on the forehead.
‘This place considers a good day’s fishing to be a time when the herring run in gargantuan shoals. For these people, a flock of crows attacking a village cat in a time of drought is a matter of cataclysmic, heavenly intervention. And a babe who is born with an extra finger? Well, that’s a message from Loki or the Devil, or the trolls have come to earth to claim one of their own. Such disasters would be far, far less noticeable to these people than three armed men who have come here from the south on a social visit.’
‘Please, Lorcan! Can’t you just hope for the best for once?’
The man who spoke was probably in his fifties, but showed none of the overt physical decay of his ripe years. He was still very tall and straight, and he wore a pair of ferocious whitish-blond moustaches that overhung his clean-shaven jaw. Only a distinct yellowing around the mouth revealed something of his age. However, his hands were well cared for and muscular, while his shaved head revealed he had spent many years in the sun and was comfortable with strong physical exercise. His vigour in the saddle resembled the energy of a far younger man.
‘I’ll gladly pray for the rest of the night if necessary, my friend, but no amount of prayer will change your appearance. You are obviously a Frank who is miles from your sodding home and your king. And this sprog,’ the priest flipped an expressive hand towards a young man mounted on a superb stallion. ‘This paragon of virtue is so fucking good-looking that every female under sixty tries to get him between her legs. Try being observant for once, Germanus. What would have happened at Molzen, in the marches of Thuringia, if I hadn’t recognised those fucking Saxons at the inn? You were deeply in lust with that blond- haired pair of tits and wouldn’t have recognised Arthur if he’d bitten you on the nose.’
‘Shut your nagging, Lorcan! I’m thoroughly tired of how you go on and on and fucking on!’
‘Will both of you be silent?’ the quiet young man hissed. Around them, on a muddy road near t
he outskirts of the city walls, a number of plump citizens rode fat donkeys to market; phlegmatic ruddy-faced farmers walked beside wagons laden with baskets of fresh produce; and gape-mouthed women with muddy skirts pulled snotty-nosed children out of the reach of the stallion’s hooves. The local population was entranced and frightened by these three men with their angry eyes and dangerous weapons.
Having gained their attention, the young man edged his stallion close to the two older men. Only several children sitting in the crown of a half-grown tree above them heard the hissed conversation that ensued.
‘You old bastards have squabbled during the entire journey from Reims, Metz, Speyer, Fulda . . . now that was a prize shit-hole . . . and then through Molzen, Halle, Brandenburg and Schwerin. And now that we are close to our destination, you’re still arguing. What has it achieved? As you kindly noted, Lorcan, your arguments came to the attention of a troop of Saxons near Molzen. They noticed us because, after a jug of the roughest red wine I’ve ever tasted, you took the opportunity to scream out at Germanus that Saxon dogs were watching us. As Germanus was occupied with Blondie Big Tits – my apologies to the lady – you saw fit to repeat your news, only now you suggested that our Saxon friends held strong feelings of lust for their sheep.
‘Then, in Brandenburg, Germanus caught a cutpurse who was stealing his silver coin, so he decided to beat the man senseless. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, but this thief was the son of a local councillor and the lad’s father usually reimbursed the young man’s victims but, being ignorant of the arrangements, you decided to trounce the young fellow. You’d still be in prison if I hadn’t paid a gold coin to get you out.
‘Then you, Lorcan, met another woman in Schwerin. Married, of course! And you seemed to forget that you’re supposed to be a priest. Please! I’d like to reach the land of the Dene alive, especially since we’re so damned close now. Can’t you smell the sea around us?’
‘Is that what that stink is? I suppose we should be grateful that we seem to have outrun the plague and we won’t see its return until spring and summer.’ Lorcan tried to deflect Gareth from the long list of sins committed by the two old reprobates. One dirty foot in an open sandal made nervous circles against the hide of his mule, so the beast shied fretfully.
Against all the odds, the trio had travelled safely into the north from the land of the Britons and had almost reached the northern seas in their quest to find Prince Arthur, the adopted son of Bedwyr, Master of Arden Forest, and the natural son of Artor, the High King of the Britons. The prince was their master and their friend, so it was inconceivable that they should be so close and yet fail to rescue him. For his part, Gareth had decided that nothing, not even these two old men whom he loved and respected, would be permitted to stop him from completing his self-imposed quest.
With their greater speed and flexibility, the Dene longboats had managed to cut off the erstwhile merchant ships filled with Geat warriors who were seeking sanctuary with the Saxons at Rugen Island.
Arthur knew very little about the niceties of long-distance navigation, but he was fast becoming expert in the killing of men. When the first of the Geat stragglers came within sight as it waddled through the slow swells, Arthur had demanded that the ship surrender to prevent unnecessary loss of life.
‘Try to board us and see what you get, you fuckers,’ a bearded man roared from the stern of his boat. Those on board who weren’t fully occupied with pulling on the oars set up a chant that accused the Dene warriors, their mothers, and their unknown fathers of various unsavoury sexual practices.
Snorri flushed a dull, beetroot red before he snarled a retort back at the Geat crew. ‘Our ship sails under the Last Dragon banner. Do you intend to surrender – or will you suffer the consequences? Our captain asks but once!’
Arthur felt the sting of salt water in his eyes from the freshening wind. The dragon sail above him snapped viciously as it filled.
‘We don’t care who you are, Last Dragon!’ A loud voice drifted from the up-wind ship as it began a slow tack to starboard. ‘Your captain’s just a man – so he can kiss my hairy arse.’
This response was accompanied by further crudities and Snorri gripped the rudder with whitened knuckles. When he looked towards his captain, he shuddered. Arthur’s eyes were wintry, but his face was bare of any expression. Snorri knew that the Last Dragon was at his most dangerous when he was quiet and cold.
‘We will ram them when they go onto their next tack to port,’ Arthur yelled to his crew so they could prepare themselves for the collision. ‘We’ll run the bastards down midships!’
A ragged cheer greeted Arthur’s words, although many of the warriors felt their hearts flutter. Could they hole their own ship in such a risky manoeuvre?’
‘Snorri?’ Arthur chose not to look at his helmsman, confident in Snorri’s seamanship and skill. ‘Give the order for full speed at the very moment that the Geat ship commences her next tack. Make sure our bow strikes these bastards about a metre or so behind their midships.’
‘Aye, Master Arthur,’ Snorri responded and barked out his orders for the crew to lie on their oars. For a moment, Sea Wife sat almost still in the water.
Then, at a single command, the Dene warriors drove their oars into the sea and Sea Wife leaped forward like a hunting hound to strike the Geat transport midships. As he put his weight on the rudder to turn Sea Wife into a killing position, Snorri remembered the madness of Arthur when, as a newly appointed captain at the mouth of the Vagus River, he had ordered Sea Wife to be beached and her prow and the front section of the keel to be reinforced with plates of iron. Arthur had issued orders that a one-metre length of tree trunk studded with iron spikes should be attached to the bow of the ship just below the waterline to provide a ramming device that would penetrate the hull of any enemy ship. At the time, Snorri had thought the Briton was crazed. Longboats were built for speed rather than as fighting platforms. Now, however, he understood his master’s intentions.
Sea Wife struck the Geat ship directly at the intended point and the ram penetrated the timbers. Normally, such a ramming on the port side would have caused Sea Wife to ride over the deck of the Geat ship. The Geat hull would tip to the left and fill with water, while throwing the crew into the sea. Instead, the iron spoke impaled the hull with a screech of wood and iron as it sprang planks and punched a large hole into the vessel below the waterline. Sea Wife turned a little and ripped a huge wound in the trading vessel’s belly.
‘Now! Reverse the oars and row on Snorri’s command! Put your backs into it. Row, you bastards! Row!’ Arthur roared.
The ram on Sea Wife’s bows was pulled out of its obscene embrace with the Geat ship and sea water began to flood into the vessel’s lower deck. Terrified, the Geat crewmen began to scream. Unfortunately, many of them had no idea how to swim.
‘I knew it!’ Arthur whispered in a voice so soft that only Snorri heard. ‘God bless Father Lorcan and his passion for the Greeks. I just knew that the Greek ram would eventually do its best work for us.’
Again and again, Sea Wife sped in pursuit of stragglers. In each case, the Geat ships were offered the opportunity to surrender, but the first three vessels were rammed and sunk, despite Arthur’s offers of clemency. Then, when a trail of thrashing bodies lay in Sea Wife’s wake, the fleet of ten remaining ships finally surrendered to Stormbringer, who ordered their sailors to be bound while Dene skeleton crews were put in place to sail the ships back to Skania.
But Arthur felt his usual guilt after the heat of battle had cooled, so Sea Wife was ordered to return to pick up whatever survivors might still remain. The other Dene ships had offered no aid to the drowning Geats, for they were eager to claim their share of the captured ships as spoils.
As Sea Wife slowed to a full stop, the drowning men struggled towards the Dene vessel, ensuring that the crew was forced to repel their desperate attempts
to board which were causing her to list alarmingly. The Dene sailors felt revulsion at having to strike crazed men who’d managed to survive for nearly an hour in very cold waters, but Arthur knew that the Geats could only be permitted to clamber aboard in a safe and orderly manner. The Geat warriors were now at the point of collapse at the very time when they thought they would be saved. Arthur, who had seen similar tragedies at the mouth of the Vagus River, silently mourned the exhaustion that killed without mercy.
With one hand gripping a handful of greasy hair liberally smeared with bear-fat, Arthur attempted to keep one older warrior above the surface of the slapping waves. Eventually he seized the man’s long forked beard, rousing him out of his torpor.
‘Help me with this one, Snorri!’ he called. ‘His beard’s full of grease and it’s likely to tear out of my hand.’
The Geat warrior tried to thrash about with limp, weakening arms rendered almost useless by a bone-deep weariness, but for some reason Arthur determined that his she-dragon wouldn’t take this warrior as one of her victims. She would have many fine new skulls and ribcages, so why should he allow her more? He had an odd feeling about this captive, as if he was somehow going to be important in the future.
Without any thought for the man’s pain, Arthur and Snorri plucked him bodily over the rail of the ship. The warrior lay in the scuppers in a few inches of salty water retching up water and vomit.
The captain and helmsman returned to their rescue efforts. Once every living man had been dragged onto Sea Wife’s deck, the crew returned to their oars to retrace their course back to the site of the two other sunken vessels. The man atop the mast and the lookout on the ship’s bow searched in vain for any trace of life among the slow swells arriving from the open ocean, but other than a few seagulls squabbling and fighting on the wind, the sea was bare.
‘They’ve all gone, master,’ Snorri remarked. ‘The weight of their armour and exhaustion must have tipped the balance against them. If we’d passed up the survivors from the third ship to return to the first, we might have saved some from drowning, but who could have known what was likely to happen when we were fighting an engagement?’