Last Sword of Power

by David Gemmell

  “He has been like that for weeks. I can do nothing more.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Buried outside. She died trying to save him.”

  Prasamaccus stared at the wounded man’s face, seeing the image of Uther: the same high cheekbones and strong jaw, the same long straight nose and thick brows.

  “The magic is almost gone,” he said.

  “I guessed that,” said the man. “At the beginning it was gold streaked with black, but as the days passed, the black lines grew. Will he die?”

  “I fear that he will.”

  “But why? The wounds are healing well.”

  “Recently I saw another warrior in a like condition,” said Prasamaccus. “They said his spirit was gone from his body.”

  “But that is the same as being dead,” argued Oleg, “and this boy is alive.”

  Prasamaccus shrugged and lifted Cormac’s wrist. “The pulse is very weak.”

  “I have some broth here if you are hungry,” said Oleg, moving to the table. Prasamaccus limped to a chair and sat.

  After they had both eaten, Oleg told the Brigante about the fight outside the cabin and how his own daughter Rhiannon, had betrayed them. Prasamaccus listened in silence, reading the pain in Oleg’s eyes.

  “You love your daughter very much,” he remarked.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Nonsense. We raise them, we hold them, we understand them, we weep at their weaknesses and their sorrows. Where is she now?”

  “I do not know. I sent her away.”

  “I see. I thank you, Oleg, for helping the prince.”

  “Prince?”

  “He is the son of Uther, high king of Britain.”

  “He did not talk like a nobleman.”

  “No, nor did life allow him to live like one.”

  “Is there nothing we can do?” asked Oleg.

  “If we could, I would take him to where his father lies, but it is too far; he would not survive the journey.”

  “Then all we can do is sit and watch him die? I will not accept that.”

  “Nor should you,” said a voice from the doorway, and both men swung toward the sound, Oleg lurching upright and reaching for the sword.

  “That will not be necessary,” said the stranger, pushing shut the door and moving into the room. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with hair and beard of spun gold. “Do you remember me, Prasamaccus?”

  The old Brigante sat very still. “The day Uther found his sword … you were there, helping Laitha. But you have not aged.”

  “I was there. Now I am here. Put down your sword, Oleg Hammerhand, and prepare for a journey.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the Isle of Crystal,” replied Pendarric.

  “This man says it is the length of the realm,” said Oleg. “It will take weeks.”

  “Not by the roads he will travel,” Prasamaccus told him.

  “What roads are those?” Oleg asked as Pendarric moved into the clearing before the cabin.

  “The spirit paths,” answered the Brigante.

  Swiftly Oleg made the sign of the protective horn and followed his limping companion to the clearing. Pendarric held a measuring rod and was carefully chalking a series of interlocking triangles around a central circle. He looked up from his knees.

  “Make yourselves useful,” he said. “Dress the boy in warm clothes and then carry him out here. Be careful not to tread on the chalk lines or in any way disturb them.”

  “He is a sorcerer,” whispered Oleg.

  “I think he is,” agreed Prasamaccus.

  “What shall we do?”

  “Exactly what he says.”

  Oleg sighed. They dressed the unconscious Cormac, and Oleg lifted him carefully from the bed, carrying him outside to where Pendarric waited in the center of what appeared to be a curious star. Oleg trod carefully across the lines and laid the body down beside the tall sorcerer. Prasamaccus followed, bringing Oleg’s sword and another blade.

  When all were inside the circle, Pendarric raised his arms and sunlight glinted from a golden stone in his right hand. The air cracked around them, and a shimmering light began that suddenly blazed so brightly that Prasamaccus shielded his eyes. Then it was gone …

  And the trio stood within a stone circle on the crest of a hill crowned with trees.

  “This is where I leave you,” said Pendarric. “May good fortune attend you at the end of your journey.”

  “Where are we?” asked Oleg.

  “Camulodunum,” said Pendarric. “It was not possible to move straight to the isle. From here you will appear at the center of the settlement, for it has been designed to imitate the setting of the stones. An old friend awaits you, Prasamaccus. Give her my love.”

  Pendarric stepped from the circle and gestured. Once more the air shimmered, and the next sight to greet their eyes was that of three astonished women sitting in a round hall, watching over the body of Uther.

  “Our apologies, ladies,” said Prasamaccus, bowing. Oleg lifted Cormac and carried him to the large round table on which the king lay, where he gently laid him down beside his father. Prasamaccus approached and gazed at the two bodies with great tenderness.

  “Such a tragedy that they have never met until now.”

  One of the women left the room; the others remained deep in prayer.

  The door opened, and a tall figure dressed in white entered. Behind her came the woman who had left.

  Prasamaccus limped forward. “Lady, once more I must apolo—” He stumbled to a halt as Laitha approached.

  “Yes, Prasamaccus, it is I. And I am becoming increasingly angry about being haunted by shadows from a past I would as soon forget. How many more bodies do you intend to bring to the isle?”

  He swallowed hard and could find no words as she swept past him and looked down on the face of Cormac Daemonsson.

  “Your son, Gian,” whispered Prasamaccus.

  “I can see that,” she said, reaching out and stroking the soft beard. “How like his father he is.”

  “Seeing you makes me very happy,” he told her. “I have thought of you often.”

  “And I you. How is Helga?”

  “She died. But we were very contented together, and I have no regrets.”

  “Would that I could say the same! That man,” she said, pointing at Uther, “destroyed my life. He robbed me of my son and any happiness I could have had.”

  “In doing so he robbed himself,” said the Brigante. “He never stopped loving you, lady. It is just … just that you were not meant for each other. Had you known Culain was alive, you would not have wed him. Had he been less proud, he could have put Culain from his mind. I wept for you both.”

  “My tears dried a long time ago,” said Laitha, “as I lay on a ship bound for Gaul with my son dead behind me—or so I thought.” She was silent for a moment. “Both you and your companion must leave the isle. You will find Culain camped on the hillside across the lake; there he waits for news of the man he betrayed.”

  Prasamaccus looked into her eyes. Her hair was still dark, though a silver streak showed at one temple, and her face was beautiful and curiously ageless. She did not look like a woman in her forties, but her eyes were flat and lifeless and there was a hardness to her that Prasamaccus found disturbing.

  She looked down at the bodies once more, her face expressionless, then transferred her gaze to the Brigante.

  “There is nothing of me in him,” she said. “He is Uther’s get and will die with him.”

  They found Culain sitting cross-legged on the top of a hill. Behind him was a narrow causeway that led back to the isle, which was clearly visible now that the tide was low. He rose and embraced Prasamaccus.

  “How did you come here?”

  “I brought Cormac.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Alongside the king.”

  “Sweet Christos!” whispered Culain. “Not dead?”

  “Close to it. Like U
ther. Only a fading stone keeps his heart beating.”

  Prasamaccus introduced Oleg, who outlined once more the drama that had seen the death of Anduine. Culain sank back to the earth, staring to the east. The Brigante placed his hand on Culain’s shoulder. “It was not your doing, Lance Lord. You are not responsible.”

  “I know, and yet I might have saved them.”

  “Some things are beyond even your great powers. At least Uther and his son are still alive.”

  “For how long?”

  Prasamaccus said nothing.

  “There are other matters to concern us,” said Oleg softly, pointing to the east, where a large group of armed men could be seen riding at speed toward the hill.

  “Goths!” said Prasamaccus. “What can they want here?”

  “They are here to kill the king,” said Culain, rising smoothly and taking up his silver staff. Twisting it at the center, he produced two short swords, then spun and ran toward the causeway. Halfway down the hill he turned and called to Prasamaccus.

  “Hide, man! This is not the place for a cripple.”

  “He’s right,” said Oleg, “though he could have been less blunt. There are some bushes down there.”

  “What of you?”

  “I owe Cormac my life. If those men seek to kill the king, I don’t doubt they’ll also butcher the boy.”

  Without another word he sped down the hill to the mud-covered causeway; it was a mere six feet wide, and the footing was treacherous. Carefully Oleg made his way some thirty feet along it to where Culain stood waiting.

  “Welcome,” said Culain. “I applaud your courage—if not your wisdom.”

  “We cannot hold this bridge,” said Oleg. “Weight of numbers will force us back, and once we are on level ground, they will overwhelm us.”

  “Now would be an exceptionally good time to think of a second strategy,” observed the Lance Lord as the Goths drew rein at the end of the causeway.

  “I was just making conversation,” replied Oleg. “Do you object to me taking the right side?”

  Culain smiled and shook his head. Oleg moved warily to the right as the Goths dismounted and several of them moved onto the causeway.

  “They do not appear to have any bowmen in their ranks,” said Oleg.

  An arrow sliced through the air, and Culain’s sword flashed up, swatting it aside just before it reached Oleg’s chest.

  A second followed, then a third. Culain ducked the one, then blocked the other with his sword.

  “You are very skilled,” said Oleg. “Perhaps you can teach me that trick on another day.”

  The Goths charged before Culain could reply. They could only come two abreast. Culain moved forward, blocking a slashing cut and disemboweling the first man. Oleg ducked under a wild slash and hammered his fist to the other warrior’s jaw, spinning him unconscious to the water, where he sank without a struggle, his heavy armor dragging him to the bottom.

  Culain’s swords were shimmering arcs of silver steel as he wove a terrible web of death among the warriors who were pushing forward. Beside him Oleg Hammerhand fought with all the skill he could muster. Yet both men were forced inexorably toward the isle.

  The Goths fell back momentarily, and Culain, breathing hard, steadied himself. Blood was flowing from a shallow cut to his temple and a deeper wound in his shoulder. Oleg had suffered wounds to his thigh and side. Yet still they stood.

  From the hillside Prasamaccus could only watch in sad admiration as the two men tried to do the impossible. The sun was sinking in glory behind them, and the water shone red in the dusk. Once more the Goths surged forward, only to be met by cold steel and courage.

  Culain slipped, and a sword pierced his side, but his own blade swept up through the enemy’s groin, and the man screamed and fell back. Scrambling to his feet, Culain blocked another blow and slashed his second sword in a vicious cut through his attacker’s throat. Oleg Hammerhand was dying. One lung was pierced, and blood frothed over his beard; a sword blade jutted from his belly, the wielder dead from an instinctive riposte.

  But with a bellowing roar of rage and frustration Oleg charged into the Goths’ ranks, his great weight smashing men from their feet. Swords cut at him from every side, and even as he died, his fist crashed into a man’s neck to snap it instantly. As he fell, Culain rushed into the fray, his blades cleaving and killing. Dismayed, the Goths fell back once more.

  Prasamaccus closed his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks. He could not bear to watch the death of the Lance Lord, nor did he have the courage to turn away. Then a sound came from his right: marching men. Prasamaccus drew his hunting knife and limped into their path, ready to die. The first man he saw was Gwalchmai, walking beside Severinus Albinus. Behind them came the survivors of Uther’s Ninth Legion, gray-haired veterans long past their prime yet still with the look of eagles. Gwalchmai ran forward.

  “What is happening, my friend?”

  “Culain is trying to hold the causeway. The Goths seek the body of the king.”

  “Ninth to me!” shouted Severinus, his gladius snaking clear of its bronze scabbard. With a roar the eighty men gathered alongside him, taking up positions as if the years of retirement had been but a midsummer dream.

  “Wedge formation!” called Albinus, and the soldiers at the outer edges fell back, forming the legendary spear point. “War pace! Forward!” The wedge moved out onto open ground before the causeway, where the great mass of the Goths still waited for a chance to mount the mud-covered bridge. Enemy warriors saw the approaching force and gazed in disbelief. Some even smiled at the sight of the gray-haired veterans, but their smiles vanished as the iron swords cleaved their ranks, the wedge plunging onto the causeway itself.

  A giant Goth hurled himself at Albinus, only to find his wild cut neatly blocked and a gladius slicing into his neck. “Horns!” shouted Albinus. The veterans swung the line into the feared bull’s horns and half encircled the dismayed Goths. They fell back in disorder, seeking to regroup on higher ground. “At them!” shouted Albinus, and the men at the center of the line charged. It was too much for the Goths, who broke and ran. On the causeway Culain, bleeding from a dozen wounds, saw the men facing him leap into the water rather than encounter the veterans of the Ninth. Despite their struggles to reach the shore, many of them were hauled below the surface by the weight of their armor. Culain fell to his knees, a terrible weariness sweeping over him.

  His swords slipped from his hands.

  Gwalchmai ran to him, catching him even as he toppled toward the water.

  “Hold the causeway. They will return,” Culain whispered.

  “I will carry you to the isle; they’ll heal you.”

  Gwalchmai’s huge arms gathered him up, and the old Cantii warrior staggered along the causeway to where several women were watching the battle.

  “Help me!” he said, and they came forward hesitantly, taking his burden. Together they carried the dying man to the round hall.

  Laitha watched them come, her face without expression as they laid him down on the mosaic floor with a rolled cloak under his head.

  “Save him,” said Gwalchmai. A woman opened Culain’s tunic, looked at the terrible wounds, and closed it again. “Magic! Use your magic!”

  “He is beyond magic,” said another woman softly. “Let him pass peacefully.”

  Prasamaccus joined them, kneeling by Culain’s side.

  “You and Oleg killed thirty-one of them. You were magnificent,” he said. “And Albinus has his men guarding the causeway and others patrolling the lake. More are coming every day; we will protect the king and his son.”

  Culain’s eyes opened. “Gian?”

  “She is not here,” said Prasamaccus.

  “Tell her …” Blood bubbled from his ruptured lungs.

  “Culain? Dear God! Culain?”

  “He is gone, my friend,” said Gwalchmai.

  Prasamaccus closed the dead eyes and pushed himself wearily to his feet. In the doorway he saw Lait
ha, her eyes wide.

  “He asked for you,” he said, his voice accusing. “And you could not grant him even that. Where is your soul, Gian? You wear the robes of a Christian. Where is your love?”

  Without a word she turned and was gone.

  16

  LEKKY, HER HAIR washed and her thin body scrubbed by Karyl, sat on a horse, gazing down from a great height at the countryside around her. Behind her sat her father, the tallest and strongest man in the world. Nothing could harm her now. She wished her father had not forgotten how to speak the language of their people, but even so, his smile was like the dawn sun and his hands were soft and very gentle.

  She glanced down at her new tunic of gray wool edged with black thread. It was warm and soft, just like the small sheepskin boots Karyl had given her. She had never worn footwear of any kind, and the sensation was more pleasant than she could ever have imagined as she wriggled her toes against the soft wool. Her father tapped her shoulder and pointed into the sky.

  Swans were flying in a V formation, their long necks straight as arrows.

  The horse Asta had given them was an elderly mare of sixteen hands, swaybacked and slow. But Lekky had never ridden a horse, and to her it was a charger of infinite strength that could outride any of the warhorses of the Goths.

  They stopped for a meal when the sun was at its height, and Lekky ran around the clearing in her new boots, never having to worry about sharp stones beneath her feet. And her father played a silly game, pointing at obvious objects such as the trees and sky and roots and giving them strange names. They were easy to remember, and he seemed pleased when she did so.

  In the afternoon, close to dusk, she saw Goths in the distance riding toward them on the road. Father steered the mare into the trees, and they dismounted until the Goths had passed. But she was not frightened; there were fewer than twenty of them, and she knew Father could kill them all.

  Later they camped in a shallow cave, and he wrapped her in blankets and sat with her, singing songs in his strange, melodious language. He was not a good singer—not like old Snorri—but she lay calmly in the firelight, staring up at the most wonderful face in the world, until at last her eyes drifted closed and she slipped into a dreamless sleep.