Last Sword of Power

by David Gemmell

  “I cannot, General,” said Gwalchmai.

  “Why?”

  “I must seek the sword.”

  “This is no time for chasing shadows, seeking dreams.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted the old Cantii warrior, “yet still I must.”

  Cato leaned back and folded his brawny arms across his leather breastplate. “And where will you seek it?”

  “In Camulodunum. When the king was a boy, he loved the hills and woods around the city. There were special places he would run to and hide from his father. I know those places.”

  “And you?” said Cato, turning.

  Prasamaccus smiled. “I shall journey to the Caledones mountains. It was there he met his one love.”

  Cato chuckled and shook his head. “You Celts have always been a mystery to me, but I have learned never to argue with a British dreamer. I wish you luck on your quest. What will you do if you find the blade?”

  Gwalchmai shrugged and looked to Prasamaccus. The Brigante’s pale eyes met the Roman’s gaze. “We will carry it to the Isle of Crystal, where the king lies.”

  “And then?”

  “I do not know, General.”

  Cato was silent for a while, lost in thought. “When I was a young man,” he said at last. “I was stationed at Aquae Sulis, and often I would ride the country near the isle. We were not allowed there, on orders from the king, but once—because it was forbidden—three officers and I took a boat across the lakes and landed by the highest hill. It was an adventure, you see, and we were young. We built a fire and sat laughing and talking. Then we slept. I had a dream there in which my father came to me and we spoke of many things. Mostly he talked of regret, for we had never been close after my mother died. It was a fine dream, and we embraced; he wished me well and spoke of his pride. The following morning I awoke refreshed. A mist was all about us, and we sailed back to where our horses were hobbled and rode to Aquae Sulis. We were immediately in trouble, for we had returned without our swords. None of us could remember removing them, and none had noticed that we rode without them.”

  “The isle is an enchanted place,” whispered Prasamaccus. “And when did your father die?”

  “I think you know the answer to that, Prasamaccus. I have a son, and we are not close.” He smiled. “Perhaps one day he will sail to the isle.”

  Prasamaccus bowed, and the two Britons left the room.

  “We cannot undertake this task alone,” said Gwalchmai as they emerged into the sunlight. “There is too much ground to cover.”

  “I know, my friend. But Cato is right. Against the power of Wotan he needs all his young men, and only ancients like us can be spared.”

  Prasamaccus stopped. “I think that is the answer, Gwal. Ancients. You recall the day when Uther split the sky and marched out of the mist leading the Ninth?”

  “Of course. Who could forget it?”

  “The legate of the lost legion was Severinus Albinus. Now he has a villa at Calcaria, less than half a day’s ride from here.”

  “The man is over sixty!” objected the Cantii.

  “And how old are you?” snapped Prasamaccus.

  “There is no need to ram the dagger home,” said Gwalchmai. “But he is a rich Roman and probably fat and content.”

  “I doubt it. But he will know the whereabouts of other survivors of the Ninth. They were Uther’s legion, sworn to him by bonds stronger than blood. He brought them from the Vales of the Dead.”

  “More than a quarter of a century ago. Most of them will have died by now.”

  “But there will be some who have not. Maybe ten, maybe a hundred. We must seek them out.”

  Severinus Albinus still looked every inch the Roman general he had been until a mere five years previously. His back was spear-straight, his dark eyes eagle-sharp. For him the past twenty-five years had been like living a dream, for he and all his men of the Ninth Legion had been trapped in the hell of the Void for centuries before the young prince, Uther Pendragon, rescued them and brought them home to a world gone mad. The might of Rome—preeminent when Severinus had marched his men into the Mist—was now but a shadow, and barbarians ruled where once the laws of Rome had been enforced by legions whose iron discipline made defeat unthinkable. Severinus had been honor-bound to serve Uther and had done it well, training native British troops along imperial lines, fighting in wars for a land about which he cared nothing. Now he was at peace in his villa, reading works of ancient times that, for him at least, were reminders of a yesterday that had swallowed his wife and children and all that he knew and loved. A man out of his time, Severinus Albinus was close to contentment as he sat in his garden reading the words of Plutarch.

  His personal slave, Nica, a Jew from the Greek islands, approached him.

  “My lord, there are two men at the gate who wish to speak with you.”

  “Tell them to come tomorrow. I am in no mood for business.”

  “They are not city merchants, lord, but men who claim friendship.”

  Severinus rolled the parchment and placed it on the marble seat beside him. “They have names, these friends?”

  “Prasamaccus and Gwalchmai.”

  Severinus sighed. “Bring them to me and fetch wine and fruit. They will stay the night, so prepare suitable rooms.”

  “Shall I heat the water, lord, for the guest baths?”

  “That will not be necessary. Our guests are Britons, and they rarely wash. But have two village girls hired to warm their beds.”

  “Yes, lord,” answered Nica, bowing and moving away as Severinus stood and smoothed his long toga, his contentment evaporating. He turned to see the limping Prasamaccus shuffling along the paved walkway, followed by the tall, straight-backed Cantii tribesman known as the King’s Hound. Both men he had always treated with respect, as the king’s companions deserved, but he had hoped never to see them again. He was uncomfortable with Britons.

  “Welcome to my home,” he said, bowing stiffly. “I have ordered wine for you.” He gestured to the marble seat, and Prasamaccus sank gratefully to it while Gwalchmai stood by, his powerful arms crossed at his chest. “I take it you are here to invite me to the funeral.”

  “The king is not dead,” said Prasamaccus.

  Severinus covered his shock well as the scene was interrupted by a servant bearing a silver tray on which were two goblets of wine and a pitcher of water. He laid it on the wide armrest of the seat and silently departed.

  “Not dead? He lay in state for three days.”

  “He is in the Isle of Crystal, recovering,” said Gwalchmai.

  “I am pleased to hear it. I understand the Goths will be moving against us, and the king is needed.”

  “We need your help,” said Gwalchmai bluntly. “And the men of the Ninth.”

  Severinus smiled thinly. “The Ninth no longer exists. The men took up their parcels of land and are now citizens, none less than fifty years old. As you well know, the king disbanded the Ninth, allowing them a well-earned retirement. War is a challenge for young men, Gwalchmai.”

  “We do not need them for war, Severinus,” said Prasamaccus. “The Sword of Power is gone—it must be found.” The Brigante told the general about the attack on the king and Culain’s theory of the sword. Through it all Severinus remained motionless, his dark eyes fixed on Prasamaccus’ face.

  “Few men,” said Severinus, “understood the power of the sword. But I saw it slice the air like a curtain to free us from the Mist, and Uther once explained the riddle of how he always knew where the enemy would strike. The sword is as valuable as the king. It is all very well to seek the Ninth, but there is no time to scour the land. You talk of a site where magic is suddenly powerful. In peacetime perhaps the quest would have some meaning, but in war? There will be columns of refugees, enemy troops, hardship, pain, and death. No, a random search is not the answer.”

  “Then what is?” asked Gwalchmai.

  “Only one man knows where the sword was sent. We must ask him!”
/>   “The king lies in a state close to death,” said Prasamaccus. “He cannot speak.”

  “He could not when last you saw him, Prasamaccus. But if Culain took him to the magic isle, perhaps he is now awake.”

  “What do you suggest, General?”

  “I will get word to the men of the Ninth. But do not expect a large gathering; many are now dead, and others have returned to Italia, hoping to find some link with their pasts. And we will start our journey tomorrow to the southwest.”

  “I cannot travel with you, General,” said Prasamaccus. “I must go to the Caledones.”

  Severinus nodded. “And you, Gwalchmai?”

  “I will ride with you. There is nothing for me here.”

  “There is nothing for any of us here,” said Severinus. “The world is changing. New empires grow, old ones die. The affairs of a nation are like the life of a man; no man and no empire can for long resist decline.”

  “You think the Goths will win?” stormed Gwalchmai.

  “If not the Goths, then the Saxons or the Jutes. I urged Uther to recruit Saxon warriors for his legions, to allow them a degree of self-government. But he would not listen. In the South Saxon alone there are thirty thousand men of sword-bearing age. Proud men, strong men. This realm will not long survive Uther.”

  “We have not suffered a defeat in twenty-five years,” said Gwalchmai.

  “And what is that to history? When I was young, in the days of Claudius, Rome ruled the world. Where are the Romans now?”

  “I think age has weakened your courage.”

  “No, Gwalchmai; four hundred years in the Mist has strengthened my wisdom. There is a guest room for each of you. Go now—we will talk later.”

  The Britons retired to the villa, leaving the old general in the garden, where Nica found him. “Is there anything you need, lord?”

  “What news from the merchants?”

  “They say that a great army is gathering across the water and that Wotan will be here within weeks.”

  “What do the merchants plan?”

  “Most have hidden their wealth. Some have reinvested in Hispania and Africa. Still more are preparing to welcome the Goths. It is the way of the world.”

  “And you, Nicodemus?”

  “Me, lord? Why, I will stay with you.”

  “Nonsense! You have not spent ten years building yourself a fortune merely to die as my slave.”

  “I do not know what you mean, lord.”

  “This is no time for denials. You risked my capital with Abrigus, and he brought home a cargo of silks that netted me a handsome sum. You took a commission of one hundred silver pieces, which you reinvested skillfully.”

  Nica shrugged. “How long have you known?”

  “About six years. I am leaving tomorrow, and I do not think I will return. If I do not come home within the year, then the villa is yours—and all my capital; there is a sealed parchment to that effect lodged with Cassius. My slaves are to be freed, and an amount has been set aside for the woman Trista; she has been good to me. You will see all this is done?”

  “Of course, lord, but naturally I hope you will have a long life and return speedily.”

  Severinus chuckled. “And still you lie, you rogue! Get ready my sword and the armor of combat—not the ornamental breastplate but the old leather cuirass. As to the mount, I will take Canis.”

  “He is getting old, lord.”

  “We are all getting old, Nica. But he’s wily and fears nothing.”

  The boat slid through the dark waters, Culain sitting silently at the tiller, until at last the tunnel widened into a cavern hung with gleaming stalactites. The waters bubbled and hissed, and the walls glimmered with an eldritch light. Culain steered the craft through a maze of natural pillars and out onto a wide mist-smeared lake. The stars were bright, the moon shining over the distant tor, on which stood a round tower. The air was fresh and cool, and the Lance Lord stretched and drew in a deep breath as the peace of the isle swept over him. His eyes roamed the landscape, seeking the once-familiar forms of the Sleeping Giants, the Questing Beast, the Centaur, the Dove, and the Lion, hidden for two thousand years but potent still.

  The craft moved on into the tree-shadowed bay, toward the campfire that twinkled in the distance like a resting star. As the boat neared the land, seven hooded figures rose from around the fire and advanced in a line toward the shore.

  “Why have you called us?” asked a woman’s voice.

  “I have a friend here in need of your help.”

  “Is your friend a man of peace?”

  “He is the king.”

  “Is that an answer?”

  “He is the man who declared the Isle of Crystal to be sacred, and he has protected its sanctity and its freedom.”

  “The isle needs no man to declare it sacred or swords to protect its freedom.”

  “Then look upon him simply as he is, a man whose soul has been stolen and whose body is in peril.”

  “And where would you have us take him?” asked the woman.

  “To the round hall in the circle of the great moon, where no evil may dwell, where the two worlds join in the sign of the sacred fish.”

  “You know many of our mysteries.”

  “I know all of your mysteries and more besides.”

  Without another word the women moved forward and effortlessly lifted the king from the craft. In two lines, the body almost floating between them, the hooded women set off into the shadows with Culain following. A figure in white emerged from the trees, a hood drawn over her face.

  “You cannot travel farther, warrior.”

  “I must remain with him.”

  “You cannot.”

  “You think to stop me?”

  “You will stop yourself,” she told him, “for your presence weakens the power that will keep him alive.”

  “I am not evil,” he argued.

  “No, Culain lach Feragh, you are not evil.”

  “You know me, then? That is good, for you must also know that I planted the thorn and began the work you now continue.”

  “You began it, yes, but not in faith; it was but one more of your games. You told the sisters that you know all their mysteries and more besides. Once that was the truth, but it is no longer. You think you chose this place, Culain? No. It chose you.”

  “Forgive my arrogance, lady. But let me stay. I have much to atone for. And I am lost and have nowhere to go.”

  Moonlight bathed the bay, making the white-robed priestess almost ethereal, and the warrior waited as she considered his words. Finally she spoke.

  “You may stay on the isle, Culain, but not at the round hall.” She pointed up at the great tor and the tower that stood there. “There you may rest, and I will see that food is brought to you.”

  “Thank you, lady. It is a weight lifted from my heart.”

  She turned and was gone. Culain climbed the ancient path that circled the tor, rising higher and higher above the land and lakes below. The tower was old and had been old when he had been a child in Atlantis. The wooden floors had rotted, and only the huge stones remained, carefully fashioned with a precision now lost to the world and interlocked without the aid of mortar. Culain lit a fire with some of the rotten wood and settled down to sleep beneath the stars.

  11

  CORMAC AWOKE TO a barren landscape of skeletal trees and dusty craters. Beside him lay his sword, and behind him was a tunnel that rose up through a mountain. Sitting up, he looked into the tunnel. At the far end, high in the heart of the mountain, he saw a flickering glow and yearned to walk toward it and bathe in the light.

  But just then he became aware of another figure and swung, sword in hand, to see an old man sitting on a flat rock; his beard was white, and he was dressed in a long gray robe.

  “Who are you?” asked Cormac.

  “No one,” the man answered with a rueful smile. “Once, though, I was someone and had a name.”

  “What is this place?”
/>   The man shrugged. “Unlike me, it has many names and many secrets. And yet, like me, it is nowhere. How did you come here?”

  “I … there was a fight … I … cannot remember clearly.”

  “Sometimes that is a gift to receive with gratitude. There is much I would like to unremember.”

  “I was stabbed,” said Cormac, “many times.” Lifting his shirt, he examined the pale flesh of his chest and back. “But there are no scars.”

  “The scars are elsewhere,” said the man. “Did you fight well?”

  “No. I was blind … Anduine! I must find her.” He stood and moved toward the tunnel.

  “You will not find her there,” the man said softly, “for that way lies blood and fire and life.”

  “What are you saying, old man?”

  “I am stating the obvious, Cormac, son of Uther. Your lady has gone before you on this long gray road. Do you have the courage to follow?”

  “Courage? You are making my head spin. Where is she?”

  The old man rose and pointed to the distant mountains beyond the black river that wound across the foot of the valley below. “She is there, Cormac, where all new souls gather. The Mountains of the Damned.”

  “I ask you again, old man. What is this place?”

  “This, young prince, is the place of nightmares. Here only the dead may walk. This is the Void, and here dwells chaos.”

  “Then … I …”

  “You are dead, Prince Cormac.”

  “No!”

  “Look around you,” said the old man. “Where is life? Is there grass or any living tree? Is there a sign of any animal or bird? Where are the stars that should grace the sky?”

  “And yet I still think and feel, and I can wield my sword. This is a dream, old man; it does not frighten me.”

  The man rose and smoothed his gray robe. “I am journeying to those mountains. Do you wish me to give a message to your lady?”

  Cormac looked back at the tunnel and the beckoning light. Every emotion in him screamed to run toward it, to escape the pitiless gray of the land around him. But Anduine was not here. He looked to the mountains.

  “You say she is there, yet why should I believe you?”