Last Sword of Power

by David Gemmell

  “Are they in love?”

  “Why ask me? Adriana is standing here.”

  “Of course. My apologies, my lady.”

  “You must forgive my father,” she said, her voice deep and husky. “He forgets that the customs of his guests are rarely like his own. Are women still bought and sold by the Sicambrians?”

  “That is somewhat harsh. Dowries are paid to prospective husbands, but then, that is still the case in Uther’s Britain, is it not? And a woman is servant to her husband. All religions agree on this.”

  “My father told Gryll there would be no dowry. And we will be wed at the Feast of Midwinter.”

  “And are you in love?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “But no dowry?”

  “I think Father will relent. He has too much money already. And now, if you will excuse me, I am very tired.”

  Ursus stood and bowed as Adriana kissed Prasamaccus’ bearded cheek and left the room.

  “She is a good girl, but she must think I’m growing senile! She will slip out through the yard and meet Gryll by the stables. How is your wine?”

  “A little sweet for my taste.”

  Prasamaccus leaned forward, tossing a log to the fire. “Honey aids the mind and clears the stomach. It also wards off evil spirits.”

  Ursus chuckled. “I thought that was bitter onions.”

  “Those, too,” agreed the Brigante. “And mistletoe and black dogs with white noses.”

  “I think you have drunk a little too much wine, my friend.”

  “It is a fault of mine on lonely evenings. You know, I was with the king before he was the king—when he was a hunted boy in the mountains and he crossed the Valley of the Dead to another world. I was young then. I watched him become a man, I watched him fall in love, and I watched his great heart slowly die. He was always a man of iron will. But now that is all he has left: the iron. The heart is dead.”

  “His wife, you mean?”

  “The lovely Laitha. Gian Avur, Fawn of the Forest.”

  “I understand the song is forbidden here. I suppose it is understandable: a king cuckolded by a relative, betrayed by a friend.”

  “There was more to it than that, Ursus. Far more. There always is. Culain lach Feragh was a warrior without peer and a man of great honor. But his weakness was that he lived without love. Laitha was raised by him, and she had loved him since childhood, but they were doomed.”

  “You speak as if man had no choices.”

  “Sometimes he does not. Culain would have died before hurting Uther or Gian, but the king knew that his wife had always loved Culain, and evil thoughts grew in him like a dry grass fire. He was always on some mission of war, and he took to living with the army. He rarely spoke to Gian and appointed Culain as her champion. He forced them together, and finally they gave in to their desires.”

  “How did he find out?”

  “It was an open secret, and the lovers grew careless. They would be seen touching hands, walking arm in arm in the gardens. And Culain often visited the queen’s apartments late in the night, emerging at dawn. One night the King’s Guards burst into the queen’s bedchamber, and Culain was there. They were dragged before the king, who sentenced them both to death. But Culain escaped. Three days later he attacked the party taking the queen to the scaffold, and they got away.”

  “But that is not the end of the story?”

  “No. Would that it were.” Prasamaccus lapsed into silence, his head tipping back to rest on the high back of the chair. The goblet slipped from his fingers to the rug, and Ursus scooped it up before the wine could stain the goatskin. Then the prince smiled and stood. There was a blanket draped across a stool by the bedroom door. He took it and covered Prasamaccus, then entered his own room.

  Adriana smiled and pulled back the blankets. Slipping from his clothes, he joined her, stroking the golden hair back from her face.

  Her arm circled his neck, drawing him down.

  * * *

  Ursus washed in the barrel of cold water at the back of the lodge, enjoying the crispness of the dawn air on his naked skin. His sleep had been untroubled by dreams, and the future was filled with the promise of gold. If the king of legend adopted his horse armor, all other fighting monarchs would follow and Ursus would retire to a palace in the Great River Valley with a score of concubines.

  At twenty Ursus had his future clearly mapped out. Although of the House of Merovee, he and Balan were but distant relatives of Meroveus and had no claim to the crown of the long-haired kings. And the life of a soldier offered no delights to a man who had spent his youth in the pleasure palaces of Tingis.

  He scrubbed himself dry with a soft woolen towel and donned a fresh black shirt under his oiled jerkin. From a small leather flask he poured a few drops of perfume onto his palm and spread it through his long dark hair. The stink of the stables was galling, and he wandered to the open fields, enjoying the scent of the wild roses growing by the ancient circle of Standing Stones.

  Prasamaccus joined him. The older man seemed nervous.

  “What is wrong, my friend?” asked Ursus, sitting on the flat-topped altar stone.

  “I drank like an old fool, and now there is a hammer inside my head.”

  “Too much honey,” said Ursus, trying not to smile.

  “And too loose a tongue. I should not have spoken so about the king and his business.”

  “Put your fears at rest, Prasamaccus; I cannot remember any of it. The wine went straight to my head also. As far as I recall, you spoke of Lord Uther as the finest king in Christendom.”

  Prasamaccus grinned. “Which he is. Thank you, Ursus.”

  Ursus said nothing. He was staring at the ragged line of armed men cresting the far hills.

  “I do hope they are ours,” he whispered.

  Prasamaccus shielded his eyes, then swore. Pushing himself to his feet, the older man hobbled toward the house, shouting at the top of his voice and pointing to the now-charging line. Herdsmen and horse handlers came running from the stables with bows in hand while the twenty regular legionaries, armed with swords and shields, formed a fighting line in the yard before the house. Ursus sprinted back to his room to gather his own bow and quiver. Adriana was crouching below the main window.

  “Who are they?” Ursus asked as the riders neared.

  “Trinovante tribesmen,” she said.

  An arrow flashed through the open window, slamming into the door frame across the room. Ursus stepped back from view, nocking an arrow to his bow.

  The horsemen thundered into the yard, leaping from their mounts to engage the legionaries. Outnumbered four to one, the line gave way, the garishly clad tribesmen hacking and cutting a path toward the house.

  Ursus risked a glance through the window as a warrior with a braided beard leapt for the opening. Dragging back on the bowstring, he released the shaft to slice into the tribesman’s throat, and the man fell back.

  “I think we should leave,” said Ursus, seizing Adriana by the hand and hauling her to her feet. The door burst inward, and three warriors entered the room, swords red with the blood of the fallen legionaries.

  “I hope the thought of ransom has occurred to you,” said Ursus, dropping the bow and spreading his arms wide.

  “Kill him!” ordered a tall dark-haired warrior with a fading scar on his cheek.

  “I am worth quite a lot … in gold!” said the prince, backing away.

  The warriors advanced. Ursus stepped forward, twisted on the ball of his foot, and leapt, his right heel cracking against a warrior’s chin and somersaulting the man into his companion. The prince landed lightly, diving to his right to avoid a slashing cut from Scarface. Then, rolling to his feet, he ducked under a second sweep and drove his fingers up under the tribesman’s breastbone. The man gasped, his face turning crimson … then he fell. Ursus scooped up the fallen man’s sword and plunged it through the chest of the first warrior, who had started to rise. Adriana hit the third man with a stoo
l, knocking him from his feet.

  A trumpet blast echoed outside, and the thunder of hooves followed. Ursus ran to the window to see Uther, Victorinus, and a full century of mounted legionaries hammering into the bewildered tribesmen. Many of the Trinovantes threw down their weapons, but they were slain out of hand.

  Within a few minutes the battle was over, the bodies being dragged from the yard.

  The king entered the house, his pale eyes gleaming, all weariness gone from him.

  “Where is Prasamaccus?” he asked, stepping over the bodies. The warrior hit by Adriana groaned and tried to stand. Uther spun, his great sword cleaving the man’s neck. The head rolled to rest against the wall, the body slumping to pump blood to the floor. Adriana looked away.

  “I said, where is Prasamaccus?”

  “Here, my lord,” said the cripple, stepping into view from the back room. “I am unharmed.”

  The king relaxed, grinning boyishly. “I am sorry we were not here sooner.” He moved to the window. “Victorinus! There are three more in here!”

  A group of legionaries entered the lodge, dragging the bodies out into the sunshine.

  Uther sheathed his sword and sat. “You did well, Ursus. You fight as well as you talk.”

  “Fortune favored me, sire, and Adriana downed one with a stool.”

  “Hardly surprising; she comes from fine stock.”

  Adriana curtseyed and then moved to the cupboard, fetching the king a goblet and filling it with apple juice from a stone jug. Uther drank deeply.

  “You will be safe now. Gwalchmai has isolated the main band, and by tonight there will not be one rebel Trinovante alive from here to Cumbretovium.”

  “Are your subjects always this unruly?” asked Ursus, and a flash of annoyance showed on the king’s face.

  “We British do not make good subjects,” said Prasamaccus swiftly. “It is the land, Ursus. All the tribes revere their own kings, their own war leaders and holy men. The Romans destroyed most of the Druids, but now the sect is back, and they do not accept Roman authority.”

  “But Britannia is no longer ruled by Rome,” said the prince. “I do not understand.”

  “To the tribes Uther is a Roman. They care nothing that Rome is gone.”

  “I am the high king,” said Uther, “by right and by conquest. The tribes accept that, but the Druids do not. Neither do the Saxons, the Jutes, the Angles, or the Goths, and only in recent years have the Sicambrians become friends.”

  “You suffer no shortage of enemies, Lord Uther. Long may you have strong friends! How will you deal with the problem of the Druids?”

  “The way the Romans did, my boy. I crucify them where I find them.”

  “Why not gather your own?”

  “I would as soon take a viper to my bed.”

  “What do they want, after all, but that which all men want—power, riches, soft women? There must be some among them who can be bought. It would at least sow dissension among your enemies.”

  “You’ve a sharp mind, young Ursus.”

  “And an inquiring one, sire. How was it you knew the attack would come here?”

  “The land knew, and I am the land,” answered Uther, smiling.

  Ursus pushed the question no further.

  Cormac ran until his legs burned and his lungs heaved, but he knew he could not outrun the horsemen following on the narrow trail or outfight those who had cut across the stream to his left and were moving to outflank him. He struggled to reach the high ground, where he felt he would be able to kill one, perhaps two, of the hunters. He prayed one of them would be Agwaine.

  He tried to leap a rounded boulder in the trail, but his tired legs struck the stone, spilling him to the grass, his sword spinning from his fingers. He scrambled forward to retrieve it just as a hand circled the hilt.

  “An interesting blade,” said a tall, hooded man, and Cormac dragged his knife clear and prepared to attack. But the stranger reversed the sword, offering the hilt to the startled boy. “Come, follow me.”

  The hooded man ducked into the undergrowth, pushing aside a thick bush to reveal a shallow cave. Cormac scrambled inside, and the man pulled the bush across the opening. Less than a minute later the Saxon hunters swept past the hiding place. The stranger threw back his hood and ran his hands through the thick black and silver hair that flowed to his broad shoulders. His gray eyes were deep-set, and his beard swept out from his face like a lion’s mane. He grinned.

  “I’d say you were outnumbered, young man.”

  “Why did you help me?”

  “Are you not one of God’s creatures?”

  “You are a holy man?”

  “I understand the mysteries. What are you called?”

  “Cormac. And you?”

  “I am Revelation. Are you hungry?”

  “They will return. I must go.”

  “I took you for a bright lad, a boy with wit. If you leave here now, what will happen?”

  “I am not a fool, Master Revelation. But what will happen will still happen an hour from now, or a day. I cannot cross the entire South Saxon without being seen. And I do not want you to be slain with me. Thank you for your kindness.”

  “As you will, but eat! It is the first rule of the soldier.”

  Cormac settled his back against the wall and accepted the bread and cheese he was offered. The food was welcome, as was the cool water from the man’s leather-covered canteen.

  “How is it that you, a Saxon, have such a sword?”

  “It is mine.”

  “I am not disputing its ownership. I asked how you came by it.”

  “It was my father’s.”

  “I see. Obviously a fine warrior. The blade is of a steel that comes only from Hispania.”

  “He was a great warrior; he killed six men on the day I was born.”

  “Six? Truly skilled. And he was a Saxon?”

  “I do not know. He died that day, and I was raised by … by a friend.” Grysstha’s face leapt to Cormac’s mind, and for the first time since his death tears flowed. The boy cleared his throat and turned away. “I am sorry, I … I am sorry.” Choking sobs fought their way past his defenses; he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

  “In life, if one is lucky, there are many friends. You are lucky, Cormac. For you have found me.”

  “He’s dead. They killed him because he spoke up for me.”

  The man’s hand moved to Cormac’s forehead. “Sleep now and we will speak later, when the danger is past.”

  As Revelation’s fingers touched his brow, a great drowsiness flowed over the boy like a warm blanket. He slept without dreams.

  He awoke in the night to find himself covered by a thick woolen blanket, his head resting on a folded cloak. Rolling over, he saw Revelation sitting by a small fire, lost in thought.

  “Thank you,” said Cormac.

  “It was my pleasure. How do you feel?”

  “Rested. The hunters?”

  “They gave up and returned to their homes. I expect they will come back in the morning with hounds. Are you hungry?” Revelation lifted a copper pot from the fire, stirring the contents with a stick. “I have some broth, fresh rabbit, dried beef, and herbs.” He poured a generous portion into a deep wooden bowl and passed it to the boy. Cormac accepted it gratefully.

  “Are you on a pilgrimage?” he asked between mouthfuls.

  “Of a kind. I am going home.”

  “You are a Briton?”

  “No. How is the broth?”

  “Delicious.”

  “Tell me of Grysstha.”

  “How do you know the name?”

  The bearded man smiled. “You mentioned it in your sleep. He was your friend?”

  “Yes. He lost his right hand fighting the Blood King. After that he was a goatherd; he raised me, and I was like his son.”

  “Then you were his son; there is more to being a parent than the ties of blood. Why do they hate you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Corma
c, remembering Grysstha’s dying words. “Are you a priest?”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I saw a priest of the White Christ once. He wore a habit like yours and sandals. But he had a cross of wood he wore on his neck.”

  “I am not a priest.”

  “A warrior, then?” Cormac said doubtfully, for the man carried no weapons except for a long staff that now lay beside him.

  “Nor a warrior. Simply a man. Where were you heading?”

  “Dubris. I could find work there.”

  “For what are you trained?”

  “I have worked in a smithy, a mill, and a pottery. They would not let me work in the bakery.”

  “Why?”

  “I was not allowed to touch their food, but sometimes the baker would let me clean his rooms. Are you going to Dubris?”

  “No. To Noviomagus to the west.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why not come with me? It is a pleasant walk, and the company would be fine.”

  “West is where my enemies are.”

  “Do not concern yourself with enemies, Cormac. They shall not harm you.”

  “You do not know them.”

  “They will not know you. Look!” From his backpack the man pulled a mirror of polished brass. Cormac took it and gasped, for staring back at him was a dark-haired youth, thin-lipped and round of face.

  “You are a nigromancer,” he whispered, fear rising.

  “No,” said the man softly. “I am Revelation.”

  Despite his shock, Cormac struggled to think through the choices facing him. The stranger had not harmed him, had allowed him to keep his sword, and had treated him kindly. But he was a sorcerer, and that alone was enough to strike terror into the boy’s heart. Suppose he wanted Cormac for some ghastly blood sacrifice, to feed his heart to a demon? Or as a slave?

  And yet if Cormac tried to reach Dubris alone, he would be hunted down and slain like a mad dog.

  At least if the sorcerer had evil plans for him, they were not plans for that day.

  “I will travel with you to Noviomagus,” he stated.

  “A wise choice, young Cormac,” said Revelation, rising smoothly and gathering his belongings. He scraped the pot and bowl clean with a handful of scrub grass and returned them to his backpack. Then, without a backward glance, he set off in the moonlight toward the west.