Turi’s eyes widened as the blade slid between his ribs and entered his heart. An icy chill shot down his spine. This was it. The end of his life. He drew a breath and held it, as if doing so might allow him a few more moments in the mortal realm. Then he closed his eyes and waited to die.
May the gods grant me exile.
“Nay, open them.” The druid’s cool breath brushed across his face. “Do not look away from me.”
Turi blinked and gazed into eyes that reflected his own. “You are m-merciful, Great Lord.”
Pendaran pulled the dagger free and observed the bloodied blade with a frown. “And you are mistaken, Setantii.”
Turi felt his flesh grow cold as his lungs grew heavy. Yet the druid’s strange words burned into what remained of his consciousness.
Mistaken?
“I do not understand,” he whispered, confused by the continued thud of his heart beneath his ribs.
“It is quite simple.” Pendaran reached up with the dagger and sawed through Turi’s bonds. “Your death serves no valid purpose. And besides, a father should never have to kill his only son.”
Bewildered, Turi collapsed to his knees, grimacing with pain. His only son?
This had to be some kind of delirium. The delusions of a man about to enter the Underworld, dying eyes and ears playing tricks. Merciless tricks, too. The solid rasp of breath in and out of his lungs seemed genuine, as did the hard, measured pulse in his temple. But neither could be real. He had felt the harsh sting of the blade as it gouged a path between his ribs. It had plunged deep and entered his heart.
Killing him, surely.
Trembling, he looked down at his nakedness. Dampened by sweat, the sparse triangle of hair on his chest narrowed to a thin line that trailed over the hard ridges of his abdomen. His manhood rested in its nest of coarse curls at the juncture of his thighs. Strong thighs, also dampened by sweat.
Sweat and grime.
Where was the blood? It should have been cascading over his ribs, blending with the previous flow in a deathly purge that stole the heat from his veins. He felt for the wound and then looked for it. His fingers found and traced a hairless line above his heart and, by the flicker of torchlight, he saw a dark furrow in his flesh. A scar, freshly healed and smooth to the touch.
As for his other wound, the one inflicted by a Roman sword, it pained him no longer. Only a harsh red line gave proof that the injury had existed at all.
What wizardry is this? Or does death heal all in a dead man’s eyes? It must. I felt the blade. Saw the blood upon it. His only son?
“My father was Emlyn,” Turi said, observing his wrists in disbelief, where the marks of his bonds had also faded, “son of Sior.”
Pendaran heaved a sigh. “On your feet, Setantii.”
Drunk on disbelief, Turi rose without trial. His pain and fatigue had vanished. If anything, he felt renewed. Stronger than ever. At least, physically. His poor mind, however, continued to spin in a whirlwind of confusion.
“How can I be healed? Why am I not dead? I felt the thrust of your blade, saw it stained with my blood.” He studied Pendaran’s face, searching similarities to his own. He saw none and demanded an answer to the most puzzling question of all. “Am I not the son of Emlyn?”
“Arianwen was already carrying you when I gave her to Emlyn and no one had touched her but me. You are of my blood, Turi. Why do you think you responded to my aura, my essence? The visions you saw are glimpses of the future, vague reflections of things to come. No son of Emlyn would be capable of such foresight. You are a true descendant of the ancient Setantii line, sired by Pendaran, Head Priest of Ellan Vannin and Ynys Dywyll. And no son of mine will die by my hand.” The priest frowned. “You are not, however, above our laws. Judgment has been made and justice will be served.”
Turi’s heart rattled in his ears as the truth of his lineage continued to filter into his brain. “My fa– I mean, Emlyn was not aware?”
“I’m certain he was, but he cared little. Your mother was a fine gift. He recognized the value of what I had given him.”
“But what justice has been served? It seems I live when I should not. Or am I cursed by some great spell and dead to all but you?”
“You are not dead. To the contrary, you are very much alive.” Pendaran’s attention shifted to the bejeweled dagger still clasped in his hand. He opened his palm, exposing the weapon within, the tip of the blade still stained with blood. The pale hilt, intricately carved and embedded with dark green stones, shimmered with light and shadow. “It is called Gwaed Tragwyddol.”
Eternal blood.
A chill crept over Turi’s scalp. “Why did it not kill me?”
Using his fingertip, Pendaran wiped what remained of Turi’s blood from the blade. “Moments ago, you said your ultimate torture would be to live with what you have done. Have you since changed your mind?”
Turi shook his head. “I have not, but I fail to see –”
“Then live with it you shall, Setantii. What is a fair sentence, do you think? Shall we say fifty years for each innocent soul who died because of your carelessness? Eleven women and fifteen children perished that night. Twenty-six souls in all.” He dragged his bloodied fingertip over the scar above Turi’s heart. “A penance, then, of thirteen centuries.”
“Thirteen centuries?” With a growing sense of dread, Turi placed a hand over the scar as if to deny its presence. “Does it amuse you, this game you play? Is all I see and hear an illusion?”
Pendaran’s eyes darkened. “This is no game. In a short while, you will be banished from this place and sent out into the world with nothing but your memories. Most of them will fade as time passes. These most recent will not. They will remain as fresh as they do now, as will your anguish as you recall them.”
“But no man can live for thirteen centuries, Lord.” Turi rubbed his forehead. “Only a god can do that.”
Pendaran tilted his head and regarded the dagger. “Gwaed Tragwyddol is said to have been stolen from the Underworld, the hilt carved from the claw of a dragon, the blade forged by a dragon’s fire. It grants immortality to those brave or foolish enough to use it. For thirteen centuries, its magic will keep you from mortal harm, but you will never lose the misery of guilt you presently carry. It will gnaw at your conscience without mercy, day and night. This is my justice and your penance.” He pinned Turi with his dark gaze. “Nay, you are no god. But I suggest you use your immortality wisely. Despite your guilt, strive to redeem your soul in readiness for its eventual journey. And pay heed to your visions, my son, however trivial they may be, for they may serve to guide you to your final destiny.”
Turi looked down, his mind still fumbling with his father’s words. This had to be a dream. An illusion brought about by pain or even death. But the scars on his body said otherwise. He knew Pendaran’s magic was great, but… thirteen centuries?
“’Tis some unholy madness,” he said, lifting his gaze. “A man cannot hope to bear such a burden for so long and remain sane. I will surely lose my mind.”
“You are my son,” the priest replied, “and therefore stronger than most men. And you will not be entirely alone. Take some comfort from that, if you wish.”
Turi gave a weak laugh. “You only add to my confusion with your assurances, my lord. Who else will be with me on this journey?”
“The gods, of course. And the one who has been with you from the beginning.” Pendaran gave a humorless smile. “I shall continue to watch you from afar, as I always have. That said, I expect you to be accountable to yourself. Do not think to call upon me and beg for help or with frivolous demands. My intervention will only occur in the direst of circumstances and entirely at my behest.”
Turi let the silence wrap around him as he absorbed his father’s words. They could only mean one thing, of course. “’Tis true what they say, then,” he murmured. “You are, indeed, immortal.”
Pendaran shrugged. “I am not a slave to time,” he replied. “It does not dicta
te when I live and die.”
“Then you must be a god.” Turi’s head swam. “And I… I am your son.”
“An actuality without advantage. Understand me, Turi. I have shown you no mercy here tonight. To the contrary. Men are meant to die. ’Tis their mortal rite of passage. I have denied you that rite and you will suffer for the lack of it.”
“Thirteen centuries.” Turi touched the scar above his heart again. “I must endure thirteen centuries.”
“You will endure them.”
“And afterwards? What then? Will I simply cease to live?”
“You will bleed.”
Turi frowned. “Bleed?”
Pendaran took Turi’s hand, turned it palm up, and dragged the blade across it. Turi winced at a brief sting of pain, but the wound did not weep. Even as he watched, the flesh began to heal, joining together till only a thin scar remained. He clenched and unclenched his hand in disbelief.
“Such powerful magic ought to be shared,” he said, staring up at his father. “Why do you not gift our warriors with it? We would be undefeated against all enemies.”
Pendaran’s expression darkened. “Your suggestion is an affront. The magic of Gwaed Tragwyddol was never intended for mortal use. It is a weapon of the gods and its power can only be summoned by the gods. After your sentence is complete, any wounds you sustain thereafter will bleed as they should. You will be mortal, your body returned to the mercy of time.” He leaned forward as if to impart some secret. “Until then, heed my words, Setantii. When confronted or challenged, ignore the protection of Gwaed Tragwyddol and fight as a mortal. Fight as if a single blow from your opponent will finish you. Fight to win. Time is now your servant, so use it. Exploit it. Become a master of all weapons. The sword. The bow. The staff. Never take your immortality for granted. I say again, as the son of Pendaran, you must use it to redeem yourself. Once your sentence is complete, the magic will cease to protect you. One day, without warning, you will become as you were. And mark my words, Turi, that day will be upon you sooner than you think.”
He went to a nearby table and poured the contents of a jug into two goblets, mumbling as he did so.
Still uncertain that all he had heard and witnessed was real, Turi looked down at the scar above his heart and touched a fingertip to it. “Thirteen centuries,” he muttered, again.
“It will pass.” Pendaran handed a goblet to him. “Drink.”
A while later, Turi opened his eyes and gazed up at a vast, starlit sky. The grass against his naked flesh felt cold and damp. He sat up, shivering so violently his teeth rattled. Where am I? What is this place?
Images began to emerge from the fog in his head, but the incredulity of them confused him. Had it all been a bizarre dream? The sacred isle. The pain. Pendaran’s incredible claim and his godlike justice.
Had he, perhaps, survived the attack on the village and stumbled away, his mind compromised by pain and anguish? Nay. He’d felt the blade enter his heart. Seen his blood upon it. With the sound of his breath rasping in his ears, he sought out the small ridge of scarred flesh above his heart.
Not a dream. Tears pricked at his eyes. Thirteen centuries. May the gods have mercy.
Teeth still chattering, he glanced about, trying to get his bearings. It appeared he was on a hilltop, but none of the surroundings seemed familiar. He staggered to his feet, hugging himself as he gazed out over the darkness. Shock chilled his blood further as he pivoted, not believing his eyes. He’d expected to see the sea lapping up to the familiar coastline of Ellan Vannin.
“Where am I?” he mumbled, staring in disbelief at the landscape before him. No longer on the island, certainly. He squinted at a shimmering line, way off in the distance. Was it the sea? Below him, a forest stretched out into the darkness like a thick, black pelt. Here and there, a plume of pale smoke was visible, rising upwards from the trees. Signs of life?
“Where am I?” Turi mumbled again, struggling against a sudden and terrible sense of abandonment. He had never felt so lost. So alone.
Seeking direction from the heavens, he lifted his gaze aloft. He soon found y seren gogledd, the single, unmoving star that pointed to the northern lands. Uttering a quiet prayer to the gods, he stretched out his arms and looked to the right. To the east, where the sun would surely rise.
Then, carrying naught but his burden of guilt and shame, Turi, son of Pendaran, took his first steps as an immortal.
Chapter One
The Final Return
The twenty-sixth day of June
Anno Domini 1348
“Behold the land of my birth,” Turi murmured as the coastline of southern England loomed from behind a wall of evening fog. Standing at the bow of the small ship, he drew a deep breath and sought out the comforting hilt of his sword. Over sixty years had passed since his previous visit, when his feet had left their imprints in the country’s war-torn soil. At that time, he had fought for what little remained of his land.
And what little remained of his people.
Thirteen centuries of history had left a bloody trail across the Britannic isles. Even before the Romans retreated, other intruders had arrived to plunder the bounteous land, swarming like flies to leftover scraps. First came the warlike Germanic tribes. Then the ferocious Norsemen. Finally, this last group of Norman and French overlords, who now held sway over much of the land.
Turi had fought them all, and even alongside them at times as alliances had been formed and broken. But it had been an endless and futile exercise. As a result, Pendaran’s sentence had been far worse than Turi could ever have imagined.
Helpless to prevent it, he had watched the steady demise of his culture. Setantii, Carvetii, Gangani, all the great tribes and unions had crumbled, or been torn apart and scattered like stale crumbs. Most of the old dialects had disappeared. Many of the ancient customs had been abandoned, forgotten, or outlawed. Even the mighty gods had been usurped, in Turi’s eyes at least, by a single Christian entity. In that regard, Rome had its hand around Britannia’s throat once more.
Over time, the resistant indigenous had been pushed to the west and now had their backs to the Irish Sea. The most steadfast of these had come to be known as the Welsh. The Cymri. They had fought hard and long, and Turi had frequently joined their ranks. Sadly, internal strife and betrayal did little to help their cause. Sixty-six years earlier, after learning of the assassination of the Welsh prince, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, Turi fled the country.
As he had many times before.
Not that he feared conflict. For centuries, fighting battles had been as much a part of his life as breathing and pissing. But he had learned to recognize the more ominous moments in history and knew when to retreat into the shadows. Wandering the known world, seeking refuge in one country or shelter in another, had become a part of Turi’s existence. It was a necessary pattern, the curse of a man who never aged and who possessed an unearthly ability to heal himself.
Except, as the punishment decreed, his heart and spirit had never been allowed to heal. Time had, however, granted him a few benefits. Heeding his father’s advice, Turi had become a formidable warrior; a master of sword, bow and staff. He always fought as a mortal, never forgetting his father’s warning.
Most assumed he had title, since he handled his sword with the superior skill of a seasoned knight. If asked, he truthfully claimed to be a mercenary, a hireling, offering his skill and services to those who needed them. It was a violent but lucrative lifestyle. He always had coin in his purse and had never known hunger.
He had learned to read and write and spoke several languages fluently. Yet he kept his wealth of knowledge hidden, and usually shied away from noble society. After all, a roughly-hewn stone was less noticeable than a bright, polished one. Consequently, he was intimately familiar with the more ominous nooks and crannies of most European and Middle Eastern cities.
“Strive to redeem your soul in readiness for its eventual journey.”
Turi gripped his sword tighter as
he recalled Pendaran’s words. In this, he had failed.
Perpetually haunted by guilt and remorse, Turi had sustained his sanity through the distractions of an unruly triad; fornication, fighting, and fine wine. In these, he had indulged with unabashed enthusiasm. His soul had long since passed the point of redemption. He barely recognized that abused, innermost part of him.
But it no longer mattered. The Britannic islands were about to face another invader, surely the most destructive one of all. It had already cast its evil stench across much of Europe. A black pestilence, one that killed without pause and without mercy.
It would most likely kill him, too, eventually.
“… and pay heed to your visions, however trivial they may be, for they serve to guide you to your final destiny.”
He had not experienced any more visions. At least, none he remembered. Images of beautiful women and innocent children were likely meant for minds not already polluted by endless nightmares of betrayal and slaughter.
Turi bit down against a fresh surge of guilt. Soon, his torment would ease. In this year of the Christian god, 1348, his sentence was almost complete. Turi, son of Pendaran, had endured. He had decided to return to the place of his birth. Go back to where it all began and, from there, let destiny guide him. It seemed fitting, somehow.
Things had changed dramatically over the centuries. His home, of course, was long gone.
A mere thirty years after Turi’s banishment, the Romans built a great fort not far to the south of where the Setantii village once stood. After the Romans left, the Saxons took over the abandoned post and built upon it. Now dominated by a Norman castle, the walled town of Chester occupied a strategically important spot close to the Welsh border.
It had long been unrecognizable as Turi’s home, but he felt drawn to the region, nonetheless. By the grace of the gods, he hoped to find some semblance of peace there. He wondered if he might at last see his elusive father again. On better terms, this time.
The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3) Page 2