The Sorcer part 1: The Fort at River's Bend cc-5

by Jack Whyte

  "I did not say they were. You said that. I think the eagle in my dream is young Arthur. Listen, now, to how my dream the other night was different. In it, the bear and the dragon fought and killed the boar, but only the bear survived. If we accept what you call the obvious, then that must be immutable, for Lot and Uther are both dead. The bear then rode upon a white bull's back to meet another creature, something like a bear, that was yet not a bear ... something far more fearsome and savage, as though a bear had mated with a wolf, or some other dire beast. It was a ... " She hesitated, seeking a word that she did not possess.

  "A chimera," I said.

  "A what?"

  "A monstrous, mythical creature, fashioned of different parts of savage beasts."

  "Aye, then it was a ... chimera."

  "And what befell when these things met?"

  Shelagh raised her chin and met my eye.

  "They fought in the ring of wolves, among waterfalls of blood ... and when the fight was over, the bear was sorely wounded. He thought to die alone, but then a sudden darkness descended, and with it, launched from the shoulders of the bull on a broadening beam of light, came the eagle to save him, and the ... the chimera withdrew, and all the wolves were scattered."

  I nodded, swallowing an urge to grin at the awestruck expression with which Donuil was staring at his wife. Instead of smiling, I made my voice more jocular than I had meant to.

  "And so the bear recovered. So I live?"

  But Shelagh had no smile for her response. "No, Cay. The bear did not recover. It fell dead. And yet I saw it rise again from within itself—one form supine and dead, the other, identical, rising from it whole and alive, to walk away. But as it went, it changed before my eyes into a dragon with bright-gleaming scales. And then there you were, as in my former dream, the dragon on your breast, the eagle on your shoulder, and yourself fading away into the gathering darkness ... "

  "I see," I muttered eventually, although in fact I saw nothing. Any meaning that she might have expected me to draw from what she had told me was completely obscure to me. "So what you are telling me is that your dream would make of me some Christ figure, rising from the dead?"

  She shook her head, not in denial, but in acknowledgment of her ignorance, and for a time we all stood silent.

  It was Donuil who spoke next, his pragmatic sensibilities unmoved by all this talk of dreams and omens. "We'd better head back. They're getting ready to serve the food, and I'm famished. If we're late, we'll be likely to go hungry."

  "Hardly that," Shelagh replied, turning to smile up at her hulking husband. "What you really mean is that if we're late, someone else will be ahead of you in reaching the prime cuts." She looked back at me. "Anyway, that's what I wanted you to know. My dream was different the second time, and although I don't know the significance of all the changes, I do know, deep inside, that they are important. And the similarities between parts of that dream and what happened to you today are too striking to ignore. Your emblem has always been the bear. The danger you faced today wasn't from wolves, but it was from a rabid canine creature, and the eagle saved your life, destroying the creature in the process. That is not coincidence, Cay."

  'Then what is it, Shelagh? Magic?"

  She squinted up at me, cocking her head to one side, then shrugged one shoulder. "It might be. Who am I to know, or even you?"

  "It doesn't matter," Tress said, speaking for the first time. "What it is, I mean—magic or not. Something has changed, and it's clear to me that you're the victorious one, Cay, since the eagle saved your life. What it really means will become clear, in time."

  "You, too?" I smiled at her. "Ah, well, I'll take your combined word for that. And I'll heed your warning, Donuil, for I'm half starved, too. Let's eat."

  It would be years before I learned that Horsa called his savage Danes his Sea-Wolves and took pride in being their Wolf King. That knowledge alone, had we possessed it then, would have gone far towards explaining the chimera in Shelagh's dream. But had we known it then, it might also have terrified and awed us to the point at which we would have become impotent to act the way some power had ordained we must.

  By the time we entered the dining hall, many of our companions had already filled their platters and seated themselves at the long tables with their food. We crossed directly to the serving tables and mingled with the people there, and Tress and I ended up being separated from Donuil and Shelagh. I helped myself to a broad, wooden platter and laid a large, thick slice of fresh-baked bread on it, completely covering the flat surface. One of the women serving us that night—a red-cheeked, smiling matron in her late thirties whose name was Monica—waved me forward and sliced a succulent, dripping slab of beef, marbled with fat, from the huge roasted hindquarter in front of her. She placed it on top of my bread and then poured a thick, steaming gravy of onions, greens and salted beef juice drippings over the whole, more than doubling the weight in my hand. I thanked her and moved away, looking over my shoulder to make sure that Tress was behind me. Most of the places at the closest tables were already filled, and Tress nodded to one in the far corner, where Hector sat by himself. We made our way to join him, and for a time thereafter none of us spoke, each intent on the business of eating.

  Finally, when I could eat no more, I pushed my platter aside and sat back to look about me. The first person I saw was young Arthur, seated at a table on my left in the* row ahead of mine, deep in conversation with a brightly attractive young woman who sat close beside him on the bench. As soon as I saw them there, heads close together, talking with that feverish intensity that full-grown adults seldom seem able to duplicate, my discussion with Derek sprang back full-blown into my mind. I had to fight the urge to go and join the two young people immediately, so eager was I to listen to all they had to say to each other. Of course I gave no outward sign of my interest, but merely sat back, focusing my gaze on them and watching intently. I was aware that Tress was deep in conversation now with Hector, to my right, but I had no idea what they were discussing. Tress, I knew, could tell me in an instant who the young girl was, but for the time being, at least, I preferred to make my own observations.

  From the way the girl sat staring wide-eyed into Arthur's face, I could tell that she was entranced and enraptured with the lad. He, however, had his back to me, so I could form no real impression of his reaction to her. From the way his head hovered close to hers, though, I could guess that her admiration was being returned in full measure.

  Arthur said something humorous, for the girl broke out into a clear, tinkling laugh that carried clearly to where I sat. Then she scooted even closer to him, grasping him by the right biceps to gain additional leverage as she pressed herself against his side. As she did so, another girl, this one a pretty, fair-haired thing with an open, laughing, wholesome-looking face, approached their table and seated herself on Arthur's other side. The first girl stiffened noticeably, tossing her hair, and sat there rigid while Arthur spoke to the newcomer, turning his head towards her so that I could see his expression. He spoke easily and graciously, although I could not hear what he was saying, but while his head was turned away from the companion at his back, she leaned forward, peering over his shoulder and piercing the other girl with a look that ought to have thrown her to the floor. The new girl ignored this hostility completely, leaning close and saying something in a whisper to Arthur, who remained blissfully oblivious to the tension resonating in the air about him.

  "Rena and Stella," Tress's voice said in my ear. "They're at each other's throats over him nowadays. I wonder which one he'll choose tonight?"

  I snapped my head around to look at her. "What d'you mean, tonight? Are you saying he chose one of them last night?"

  She laughed aloud, looking at me askance. "I don't know. He may have. The gods all know he could have. The girls buzz around him like bees around honey, and so they should. He's a fine young man."

  "He is a boy." I knew, even as I spoke the words, that I should have kept silent.
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  Tress reached over in front of me and gathered up my discarded platter, laying it atop her own, and for several moments I thought she would say no more. But then she turned more fully towards me.

  "He is a boy fully intent on reaching manhood as quickly as he can. As you must have been, at his age. Don't tell me you disapprove? Would you prefer him to be lifeless and unattractive, distasteful to women, like Derek's Droc?"

  I shrugged, feeling foolish. "I hadn't noticed it till now, that's all I meant. Who are the girls?"

  "I told you, Rena and Stella. They are from Ravenglass, like all the other girls in Mediobogdum."

  "Aye," I grunted. "But whose girls are they, and what do they do around here?"

  Tress was grinning now. "They live and grow, like all young people. Stella, the fair-haired one, works with her mother, Rhea, who works with me. She'll be a good needle- worker one day, that girl, and she has a good head on her shoulders, although it's turned askew right now whenever Arthur comes around. Rena is the daughter of Longinus."

  "Longinus? Is she, by God? And why have I not seen her here before?"

  "Because, my love, you've not had eyes for it. You notice only those with whom you have some pressing business."

  "Hmm!" I sat silent for a while, staring again at Arthur and the two young rivals for his attention. If he was aware of any tension between them, he gave no indication, and shortly afterward all three rose and left the hall. I watched them as they wait out, and then I turned back to Tress.

  "How long has this been going on, this thing with the girls? Does Shelagh know about it?"

  Tress laughed. "Of course! Think you Shelagh is blind? Everyone knows, Cay. There's no secret to it."

  "And does she permit it?"

  Tress raised her eyebrows in amazement. "Permit it? How would she stop it? As well try to turn the tide by disapproving of its progress. That's a silly thing to ask."

  "So she permits it."

  "Permits what, Cay? The boy is growing, awakening to himself. Shelagh has no more ways of stopping that than you have. But acknowledgment is not encouragement. She keeps young Arthur on a short, tight rein at night. Other than that, there is nothing she can do."

  I shook my head. "And I had not seen it until now."

  Tress bent forward and kissed my cheek, caressing my chin lovingly as she did so. "I told you, love, it had no importance to you then, so you paid no attention."

  I would in future, I swore to myself, and for the remainder of that night I spent my time wondering where Arthur was and what he was doing.

  SEVENTEEN

  It started to rain in the week that followed the incident of the eagle and the fox, and for the following fourteen days our entire world was wet and dank and grey, with thick banks of fog and mist roiling up from the valley beneath us like displaced clouds, seeking reunion with the lowering clouds above. The forested hillsides around us faded into shifting shrouds of textured blackness, and we lost sight completely of the high Fells that overlooked our mountain perch.

  It was impossible to be out of doors and dry at the same time. Everything we wore became waterlogged, doubled in weight and smelled of dampness. Exposed wrists and necks and knees grew red and chapped from the constant, chilly friction of moisture-laden hems and, in the case of the garrison soldiers, the chafing, unyielding edges of cold, wet armour. Not once in that entire period did the sun break through the overcast. From time to time, every few days, the skies above us would lighten slightly, as though to hint at brightness struggling to break through, but such intervals were always short-lived; the layers of cloud between us and the promise of new light would always grow heavier again, and more dense.

  Our people became dispirited with the lack of brightness, the late, leaden dawns and the early, depressing nightfalls. Even the horses, cattle and swine huddled miserably beneath any shelter they could find, too listless to forage for food, depending upon us to bring them oats and fodder. Occasionally, we would hear thunder rolling somewhere in die distance, but no lightning flashed. We grew inured to the heavy, dull silence that pressed down on us, broken only by the constant patter and hiss and the unending, listless drip of falling water.

  And then, late in the afternoon of the fourteenth dreary day, I emerged from one of die buildings and looked up to see a hint of yellow, filtered brightness on the hillside above us to the south. I waited there, almost stoically, for the phenomenon to fade. Instead, it grew stronger, and the dull yellow effulgence strengthened and spread outward, hazily illuminating a large stretch of tree-covered hillside. The sky above was still grey, but it was the lightest grey I had seen now in weeks, so I leaned my shoulder against the doorpost and lingered there, feeling a tiny thrill of anticipation fluttering in my chest.

  Then, through an unseen break in the clouds, a quartet of sunbeams lanced down to splash real light on the distant trees, bringing , the late-autumn colours into startling prominence. Still I remained, fascinated to see the sunbeams thicken and spread outward, joined by others now and melding together so that, all at once, the entire hillside opposite me was awash in light, reflecting and refracting flashes of colour and dazzling glare. When the clouds began to break apart, bright blue patches appeared where before there had been nothing but dull, impenetrable greyness. A sudden brilliance blinded me, as sunlight reflected from a puddle on the ground in the roadway outside the building where I stood, and I knew, finally, that the weather had broken. I considered going back into the room I had just left and telling the others the good news, but then I decided to leave them to the pleasure of discovering it for themselves, and I walked away towards my own quarters, whistling merrily.

  The brief period of warn, days that followed was summer's last song. After that, the evening temperatures plummeted, and the mornings crackled with thick hoar-frost that sometimes lingered until noon. A few, errant snowflakes drifted down on us from time to time, and the people of our little commune threw themselves urgently into a tempestuous flurry of last-minute preparations for the long winter months ahead. We men piled up vast supplies of fuel for the furnaces and fires, while the women cleaned and aired our living and communal quarters, scrubbing the concrete floors and covering them with fresh, dried rushes brought up months earlier from the wetlands below. In addition to these tasks, men laboured alongside women in drying, salting, smoking and curing the last of our meats for storage: pork, wild boar meat, venison, poultry and small game—though little of that,, that year—beef and fish, both saltwater and fresh. The fat salvaged from the butchering was rendered down in vats to give us oil for cooking and for mixing with lye to prepare soap. The last yield of berries, wild apples, plums and nuts were gathered in and carefully preserved, and several late-arriving wagonloads of bagged corn, millet and mixed grain from the fields around Ravenglass had to be husked and ground into meal and flour. Some vegetables—turnips and cabbages and kale—we had grown ourselves in the few tiny patches of arable land we had been able to identify close by the fort, and these, too, had to be collected and stored in cool, well-ventilated storage rooms. The granaries and warehouses of the old Roman Horrea were still intact, after hundreds of years, and we made full use of them, so that before the first snow fell, towards the end of December, all our work was complete and we felt confident about facing the winter.

  I was one of the very few in Mediobogdum who knew that almost a hundred years before, the Emperor Constantine, assuming the role of an apostle, had decreed December 25th, the date of the ancient Roman festival of Saturnalia, to be the proven birth date of the Christ. None had argued against him, despot that he was, and despite a widespread conviction that the "proof' on which the imperial decree was based smacked tangibly of political contrivance and expedience, what had been a pagan celebration from time immemorial was Christianized and sanctified, made respectable and sacred almost overnight. The smug churchmen had won a double victory: they had nullified a godless reminder of ancient times and evil ways, and asserted their superiority, and that of their r
eligion, over all the people of the Roman world, by creating a festival of Christian worship at a time when all the world prepared for festivities in any case. But to all those old enough to remember their elders talking of what they could recall of what had been before, December was still the time of Saturnalia, when hard-working folk celebrated together their successful efforts to bring in their harvests and prepare for winter.

  Our Saturnalia that year was swelled by the presence . of six unexpected guests, emissaries from Camulod, bearing letters from home for me and several of the others. They had descended from the saddleback of the high pass in the opening flurries of the first serious snowfall, thankful to have made the long and hazardous journey so late in the year without serious mishap. Their arrival itself warned me that the letter they bore for me from Ambrose must contain grave tidings, and so I excused myself from the company to read it in the privacy of my own quarters. It was substantial, and I read it with steadily increasing apprehension, noting curiously that it contained no opening salutation naming me.

  Brother:

  I hope this finds you in good health, although I fear it will do nothing for your peace of mind, reflecting my concerns as it must. I know its arrival, overland so late in the year, will have filled you with distress already, fearing that all is not as it should be here in Camulod. Let me put your mind at rest at once on that. Camulod, per se, is well. We have our problems, as ever, but most of them are concerned with growth, and adjustment to the demands generated by that. I shall deal with that at greater length later in the course of this. For the moment, however, put your mind at ease over Camulod. All things here are as they ought to be.

  Elsewhere, however, matters are more troubled and degenerating rapidly. The hour is late here, as I write, and that will enforce brevity upon me, since I must find time for sleep and be abroad before dawn. Come morning, I will be leading a column of our best cavalry to Dergyll ap Griffyd's stronghold in Cambria, travelling quickly even though we are too late before we leave.