Last Sword of Power

by David Gemmell

  “It is.”

  “So you are of no further use to me?”

  “That is true.”

  “Did not Maedhlyn tell you that I was not to be trusted? That I was evil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why did you come here?”

  “He also said Culain lach Feragh once loved you.”

  “And what difference does that make?” she snapped.

  “Perhaps none. But I love Anduine, and I know what that means. She is part of me, and I of her. Apart from her I am nothing. I do not know if evil people can love or, if they do, how they can remain evil. But I do not believe Culain would love anyone who did not possess a measure of goodness.”

  “As you say, Prince Cormac, you are not wise. Culain loved me for my beauty and my wit. And he betrayed me, just as he betrayed Uther. He wed another … and I killed her. He had a daughter, Alaida; he tried to save her by allowing her to marry the king of Britain, but I found her and she, too, died. Then I tried to kill her son, Uther, but there I failed. And now, you tell me, he is a prisoner and facing death … and his son sits in my fortress asking a favor. What do you offer me so that I will grant you aid? Think carefully, Cormac. A great deal rests on your answer.”

  “Then I am lost, my lady, for I can offer you nothing else.”

  “Nothing,” she echoed. “Nothing for Goroien? Leave me and join your friends. I will have an answer for you in a little while.”

  He looked into her gleaming eyes, and his heart sank.

  The fishing boat beached in the moonlight in the shelter of a rounded bay close to Anderida. Galead thanked the skipper, gave him two small golden coins, and clambered over the side, wading through the calf-deep water to the rocky beach. He climbed a narrow path to the cliff top, then turned to watch the boat bobbing out on the Gallic Sea.

  The night air was cool, the sky clear. Galead pulled his long cloak about his shoulders and sought the shelter of the trees, halting in a hollow where the light from his fire could not be observed from more than a few yards in any direction. He slept uneasily and dreamed of a sword floating over water and of a light in the sky like a great glowing silver sphere speeding across the heavens. Waking at midnight, he added fuel to the fire; he was hungry and finished the last of the smoke-dried fish the boatman had supplied.

  It had been twelve days since Caterix had rescued the robber, and Galead found his thoughts constantly straying to the little man. He rubbed at the bristles on his chin and pictured a hot bath with scented water and a slave girl to dry him and oil his body, soft hands easing the tension from his muscles. Groaning as desire surged in him, he quelled it savagely.

  Gods, it was an age since he had last felt soft flesh beneath him and warm arms encircling his back. For several minutes Prince Ursus returned, haunting his mind.

  “What are you doing in this forsaken land?” Ursus asked him.

  “I am honor-bound,” Galead told him.

  “And where is the profit in it, fool?”

  He transferred his gaze to the flames, unable to answer. He wished Pendarric would appear and sat quietly waiting until the dawn. But there was nothing.

  The day was overcast, and Galead set off in the direction the fisherman had indicated, heading west along the coast. Three times he saw deer and once a large buck rabbit, but with no bow there was no opportunity for swift hunting. Once he had known how to set a snare, but his lack of patience would never allow him to sit for hours in silent hope.

  Throughout the morning he walked until he saw, slightly to the north, smoke curling into the air. He turned toward it and, cresting a hill, saw a village in flames. Bodies littered the ground, and Galead sat down staring at the warriors in their horned helms as they moved from home to home, dragging out women and children, looting, and killing. There were maybe fifty raiders, and they stayed for more than an hour. When at last they moved off to the north, nothing stirred in the village but the snaking smoke from the gutted homes.

  Galead rose wearily and made his way to the Saxon hamlet, halting by each of the bodies. None lived. A smashed pot still contained dried oats, and those Galead scooped into a linen cloth, knotting it and tying it to his belt. Farther on, in the center of the devastated settlement, he found a ham charred on one side; with his knife he cut several slices and ate them swiftly.

  Glancing to his right, he saw two children lying dead in the doorway of a hut, their arms entwined, their dead eyes staring at him. He looked away.

  This was war. Not the golden glory of young men in bright armor carving their names in the flesh of history. Not the Homeric valor of heroes changing the face of the world. No, just an awful stillness, a total silence, and an appalling evil that left dead children in its wake.

  Carving several thick sections from the ham, he threw the joint aside and walked from the settlement, once more heading west. At the top of a rise he looked back. A fox had stolen into the village and was tugging at a corpse. Above the scene the crows were circling …

  Something in the bush to his right moved, and Galead swung, his sword snaking out. A child screamed, and the knight threw away his weapon.

  “It’s all right, little one,” he said softly as the girl covered her face with her hands. Leaning into the bush, he lifted her out, cradling her to his chest. “You are safe.” Her arms circled his neck, and she clung to him with all her strength. Stooping, he lifted his sword and sheathed it, then turned from the village and continued on his way.

  The child was no more than six years old, her arms painfully thin. Her hair was yellow streaked with gold, and he stroked it as he walked. She said nothing, scarcely moving in his arms.

  By midafternoon Galead had covered some twelve miles. His legs ached with walking, and his arms were weary from carrying the child. As he topped a short rise, he saw a village below: eighteen rounded huts in a wooden stockade. There were horses in a paddock, and cattle grazed on the slopes. Slowly he made his way down the hill. A young boy saw him first and ran into the village, then a score of men armed with axes strode out to meet him. The leader was a stocky warrior with an irongray beard.

  The man spoke in the guttural language of the Saxon.

  “I do not speak your language,” Galead answered.

  “I asked who you are,” said the man, his accent thick and harsh.

  “Galead. This child is Saxon; her village was attacked by the Goths, and all were slain.”

  “Why would the Goths attack us? We share the same enemies.”

  “I am a stranger here,” said Galead. “I am a Merovingian from Gaul. All I know is that warriors with horned helms slaughtered the people of this child’s village. Now, can I bring her in—or shall we move on?”

  “You are not an Uther man?”

  “I have said what I am.”

  “Then you may enter. My name is Asta. Bring her to my home; my wife will take care of her.”

  Galead carried the child to a long hall at the center of the village, where a sturdy woman tried to prize the child from his arms. She screamed and clung on, and although Galead whispered gentle words to her, she would not leave him. The woman just smiled and fetched warm milk in a pottery cup. As Galead sat at a broad table, the girl in his lap drinking the milk, Asta joined them.

  “You are sure it was the Goths?”

  “There were no Romans in the attack.”

  “But why?”

  “We cannot talk now,” said Galead, indicating the silent child, “but there were many women in the settlement.”

  Asta’s blue eyes gleamed with understanding, and his face darkened. “I see. And you observed this?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  The man nodded. “I have sent one rider to scout the village and follow the raiders and three others to settlements close by. If what you say is true, then the Goths will rue this day.”

  Galead shook his head. “You do not have the men, and any attempt you make to fight will result in more slaughter. If I may advise you, have scouts out, and w
hen the Goths approach, hide in the hills. Does your king not have any forces here?”

  “Which king is that?” snapped Asta. “When I was a young warrior, the Blood King crushed our forces, allowing the boy—Wulfhere—the title of king of the South Saxon. But he is no king; he lives like a woman—even to having a husband.” Asta spit his contempt. “And the Blood King? What would he care that Saxon women are … abused?”

  Galead said nothing. The child in his arms had fallen asleep, so he lifted her and carried her to a cot by the far wall near the burning log fire, where three warhounds lay sleeping on the hay-strewn floor. He covered the child with a blanket and kissed her cheek.

  “You are a caring man,” said Asta as he returned to the table.

  “Tell me of the Goths,” said Galead.

  Asta shrugged. “Little to tell. Around eight thousand landed here, and they destroyed a Roman legion. The main part of the army has headed west; around a thousand remain.”

  “Why west? What is there for them?”

  “I do not know. One of our young men rode with them for a while, and he said their general wanted to know the best route to Sorviodunum. My man did not know. That is across the country.”

  “Was the king, Wotan, with them?”

  Once more the Saxon shrugged. “What is your interest?”

  “Wotan destroyed my whole family in Gaul, and my interest is to see him die.”

  “They say he is a god. You are mad.”

  “I have no choice,” Galead answered.

  14

  “THE SOUTH IS virtually ours, sire,” said Tsurai, his flat brown eyes staring at the marble floor.

  Wotan said nothing as he watched the man, seeing the tautness in his flat Asiatic face and the tension in the muscles of his neck. Sweat was beading the man’s brow, and Wotan could almost taste his fear.

  “And the north?”

  “Unexpectedly, sire, the Brigantes have risen against us. A small group of our men strayed to one of their holy sites where there were some women dancing.”

  “Did I not say there was to be no trouble with the tribes?”

  “You did, sire. The men have been found and impaled.”

  “Not enough, Tsurai. You will take their officers and impale them also. What regiment were they?”

  “The Balders, sire.”

  “One in twenty of them will be beheaded.”

  “Lord, I know you are all-wise, but permit me to say that men at war are subject to many vices of the passions …”

  “Do not preach to me,” said Wotan softly. “I know all the deeds men are capable of. It is nothing that a few women are raped, but obedience to my will is the paramount duty of all my people. A Saxon village was also attacked yesterday.”

  “It was, lord?”

  “It was, Tsurai. The same punishment must be exacted there—and very publicly. Our Saxon allies must see that Wotan’s justice is swift and terrible. Now tell me of Cato in the Middle Lands.”

  “He is a skillful general. Three times now he has fought holding actions, and our advance on Eboracum is not as swift as we had hoped. But still,” he continued hurriedly, “we are advancing, and the city should fall within days.”

  “I did not expect the assault of Eboracum to succeed as swiftly as my generals thought it would,” said Wotan. “It is of no matter. What have you discovered as to the whereabouts of the Blood King’s body?”

  “It is on the Isle of Crystal, my lord, close to Sorviodunum.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Yes, lord. Geminus Cato has an aide called Decius, and he in turn has a mistress in Eboracum. He told her that a man called the Lance Lord took the king’s body to the isle to restore it.”

  “Culain,” whispered Wotan. “How I long to see him again!”

  “Culain? I do not understand, sire.”

  “An old friend. Tell Alaric to proceed on Sorviodunum but to send two hundred men to the isle. I want the head of Uther on a lance; that body should have been cut into pieces in the first attack.”

  “The enemy is saying, lord, that the king will come again.”

  “Of course they are. Without Uther and the sword they are like children in the dark.”

  “Might I ask, lord, why you do not slay his spirit? Would that not solve any problem of his return?”

  “I desire the sword, and he alone knows where it lies. As long as his body lives, he has hope burning in his heart and defies me. When it dies, he will know and I will milk his despair. Go now.”

  Alone once more, Wotan locked the door of his window-less chamber and settled back on the broad bed. Closing his eyes, he forced his spirit to plummet into darkness …

  His eyes opened in a torchlit room of cold stone, and he rose from the floor and took in his surroundings: the empty-eyed statues, the colorless rugs and hangings. How he hated this place for its pale shadow of reality. In the corner were a jug and three goblets. During the long centuries he had passed here he had often poured the red, tasteless liquid, pretending it was wine. Everything here was a mockery.

  He strode to the outer hall. Everywhere men leapt to their feet in surprise, then dropped to their knees in fear. Ignoring them all, he walked swiftly to the dais on which stood the throne of Molech. For some time he listened to the entreaties of those who served him here: the pleas for a return to the flesh, the promises of eternal obedience. Some he granted, but most he refused. At last he left the throne room and walked down the curved stairwell to the dungeons. A huge beast with the head of a wolf bowed as he entered, its tongue lolling from its long jaws and dripping saliva to the stone floor.

  Wotan moved past him to the last dungeon, where Uther hung by his wrists against the far wall. Tongues of flame licked at his body, searing and burning—the flesh repaired itself instantly, only to be burned again. Wotan dismissed the flames, and the king sagged against the wall.

  “How are you faring, Uther? Are you ready to lie to me again?”

  “I do not know where it is,” whispered Uther.

  “You must. You sent it.”

  “I had no time. I just hurled it, wishing it gone.”

  “The man who first saw you said he heard you call a name. What was that name?”

  “I do not remember, I swear to God.”

  “Was it a friend? Was it Culain?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Ah, then it was not Culain. Good! Who, then? Who could you trust, Blood King? It was not Victorinus. Whose name was on your lips?”

  “You’ll never find it,” said Uther. “And if I were freed from here, I could not find it, either. I sent the sword to a dream that can never be.”

  “Tell me the dream!”

  Uther smiled and closed his eyes. Wotan raised his hand, and once more fire surged over Uther, forcing a bloodcurdling scream of agony. The flames disappeared, and the blackened skin was replaced instantly.

  “You think to mock me?” hissed Wotan.

  “Always,” said Uther, tensing himself for the next torture.

  “You will find that always is a very, very long time, Uther. I am tired of fire. You should have some company.” As Wotan stepped back to the doorway, holes appeared in the dungeon walls and rats poured out, swarming over the helpless king to bite and tear at his flesh.

  Wotan strode from the dungeon, screams echoing behind him in the corridor.

  He moved back to the upper levels and found the captain of his Loyals waiting by the throne. The man bowed as he entered.

  “What do you want, Ustread?”

  “I have something for you, lord. I hope it will make amends for my failure in Raetia.”

  “It needs to be something rather greater than you can find here,” said Wotan, still angry from his talk with the stubborn king.

  “I hope you will find I do not exaggerate, lord.” Ustread clapped his hands, and two soldiers entered, holding a girl between them.

  “A woman? What use is that here? I can …” Wotan stopped as he recognized the princess. �
�Anduine? How?” He walked forward, waving away the guards, and she stood silently before him.

  “What happened to you, Princess?”

  “Your men killed me. I was in the mountains of the Caledones, and they stabbed me.”

  “They will pay. Oh, how they will pay!”

  “I do not wish them to pay. What I wish is to be released. I am no longer of value to you; there is nothing left to sacrifice.”

  “You misunderstood me, Anduine. You were never for sacrifice. Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “To a private place where no harm will come to you.” He smiled. “In fact, quite the reverse.”

  The child screamed in the night, and Galead awoke instantly. Rising from his blankets by the dying fire, he went to her, lifting her to his arms.

  “I am here, little one. Have no fear.”

  “Mudder tod,” she said, repeated the words over and over. Asta’s wife crossed the hall, a blanket around her shoulders. Kneeling by the bedside, she spoke to the child for some minutes in a language unknown to the Merovingian. The girl’s face was bathed in sweat, and the woman wiped it clear as Galead laid her down once more. Her tiny hands gripped the front of Galead’s tunic, her eyes fearful. “Vader! Vader!”

  “I won’t leave you,” he said. “I promise.” Her eyes closed, and she slept.

  “You are a gentle man, very rare for a warrior,” said the woman. She stood and moved to the fire, adding wood and fanning the blaze to life. Galead joined her, and they sat together in the new warmth.

  “Children like me,” he said. “It is a good feeling.”

  “My name is Karyl.”

  “Galead,” he replied. “Have you lived here long?”

  “I came from Raetia eight years ago, when Asta paid my father. It is a good land, though I miss the mountains. What will you do with the child?”

  “Do? I thought to leave her here, where she will be looked after.”

  Karyl gave a soft, sad smile. “You told her you would not leave her. She believed you, and she is much troubled. No child should suffer the torment she has endured.”