Prophecy: Death of an Empire: Book Two (Prophecy Trilogy)

by M. K. Hume

  ‘The town appears to be intact, but the smell is vile. If the Huns are the enemy, they leave nothing alive to betray it.’

  ‘But Cambrai resisted. So let’s see the worst. Perhaps someone still lives!’ Myrddion pulled his leather satchel onto his shoulder as Finn flicked the reins on the flanks of the horses.

  Cambrai could have been Tournai’s twin. The gates had been ripped apart by battering rams and fire, and a great slaughter had taken place within the narrow streets that led directly to the gates. On this occasion, the enemy hadn’t bothered to pile the citizens into mounds, but had looted them where they fell. Even so, Myrddion could imagine the desperate last battle fought in the alleyways and narrow twisting lanes of the town as old men, boys, and even women had used whatever makeshift weapons were to hand. For the victors, the sacking of Cambrai had been hard won. Every street, no matter how narrow, had been taken with the loss of many men, while the defenders appeared to have perished trying to slow the inexorable advance. As Finn and his master picked their way through the smashed wood, burned stones and heaped bodies, they found the smell of the dead and rotting corpses so nauseating that they were forced to tie cloths across their noses and mouths.

  ‘Who were the people who defended this place?’ Myrddion asked Finn Truthteller, struck as he was by the height, the breadth of shoulder and the greying yellow hair of many of the corpses that lay near the inner gates.

  Finn shrugged and whistled piercingly to Cadoc to catch the attention of the scarred Celt. ‘You speak the language of a sort, Cadoc. Have you heard anything about these men who fought to the death here?’

  ‘I believe the defenders of this town were Franks, master,’ Cadoc replied as he drew his wagon to a halt just inside the gates where the piled corpses forced him to halt. ‘See, master! They wear red cloaks, or at least most of them seem to have done so. They have fierce moustaches, but they often leave the rest of their faces bare and their hair is allowed to grow, just like our warriors’. The Franks originally came from the north, and like all good northerners they are totally dedicated to war.’

  The Celtic warrior picked his way forward over the uneven stone paving and used his booted foot to turn over the corpse of a grey-haired man who had been hacked by sword blades in a dozen places.

  ‘His hand is bloody to the wrist, so he must have slain many men before he was killed. His gods will honour him in the Otherworld.’

  Myrddion observed that the half-naked man was indeed splattered with blood, much of which wasn’t his own. An undershirt that was too torn to be worth stealing was soaked in gore almost to the elbow, and his empty fist was still clenched as if it clutched the hilt of his sword.

  ‘This man wasn’t a peasant. A finger was severed to remove a ring after his death, and something valuable was torn from his throat.’

  ‘Aye, master. Blood surrounds him – far more than his own body could hold. He made his murderers pay before they cut him down.’

  In an action that was very gentle and respectful, Cadoc turned the slain Frank back onto his face so the birds couldn’t devour his cold blue eyes. Myrddion nodded his approval, touched that Cadoc should offer this small dignity to a man now deep in the shadows of the Otherworld.

  ‘Aye, Cadoc. Let him go to his gods with his eyes intact. Let him see his enemies perish, as they surely will!’

  Cadoc stared up at his master, his own eyes rounded with superstition.

  ‘No, I don’t see their destruction, Cadoc. But such wanton carnage will not be permitted to go unpunished by the Romans. Our erstwhile masters are a dour people, even if they are now in decline. We Celts have good reason to remember how they repay blows to the face. Where are our druids? They’re dead on the bloody shores of Mona. Where are Boudicca and her daughters? Long executed, regardless of their sex or status in their land. But these invaders go too far, for they leave the good earth barren behind them. When the Romans eventually force them to retreat, where will they find shelter or food for so large an army?’

  Cambrai and the atrocities enacted within its flame-scarred walls left Myrddion’s heart sick with regret. Girls no older than children had been raped, and then hacked to pieces. Their pitiful flanks, stained with their own blood, were affronts to any decent-thinking man. Even babes had not been spared, although their mothers had fought with nails and teeth when no other weapons had been at hand. Saddened, and feeling unclean, the healers carefully checked the detritus and rubble of Cambrai before leaving to sleep outside the walls where the air almost seemed fresh.

  In the weeks that followed, the healers travelled along straight, wide roads into the south: to Amiens, to Beauvais and onward towards Parigi, and in each town the same picture of violence was left as mute testimony to an enemy that showed no pity for the helpless, nor mercy to the innocent. Piles of corpses, burned crops and desecrated temples left a vast, charred track, as if a monster had dragged its hideous body across the earth, killing everything in its path with its poisonous breath.

  The Hun had spared Parigi and, once the terrified citizenry had been persuaded to open the gates, Myrddion’s party replenished their supplies. While Cadoc sought out what poor fare could be purchased from the skittish traders, Myrddion questioned an old soldier who spoke some Latin.

  ‘The city owes a huge debt to a holy woman called Geneviève who went forward to meet the Hun, barefoot and unarmed,’ Myrddion reported to Cadoc and Finn later that evening as they settled into their campsite outside the city gates. ‘Attila admired her bravery and permitted the city to live.’

  ‘That’s madness!’ Cadoc exclaimed. ‘How could a commander be so ruthless on the one hand and then spare the wealthiest city in the land because of a religeuse? It makes no sense!’

  ‘This Geneviève is supposed to be a woman of great sanctity, while Attila is a very superstitious man, or so my soldier friend told me. Whatever the truth of the matter, Geneviève is alive and so is Parigi. We must give thanks, for tonight we have full bellies and a small supply of food for our future needs. With luck, we will have sufficient food to reach Aurelianum.’

  ‘It’s still crazy!’ Cadoc repeated. ‘But we must be grateful to the gods that these Huns fear the retribution of prayer. It seems to be the only weakness they have.’

  Beyond the ploughed fields surrounding Parigi, their hidden watcher waited among the old trees that rimmed the once fertile patches of soil. Someone continued to follow them, with eyes that missed nothing and cared little if they were seen by the travellers in their wagons.

  Myrddion despaired during this journey into atrocity. His skills were useless, for no true battle was being fought. And yet the corpses in the killing fields were always of old men and boys, as if somewhere the able-bodied defenders of the land waited for Fortuna’s Wheel to turn in their favour at last. Nor could Myrddion entice the watcher in from the forest. Late at night, convinced that his whole journey to the Middle Sea was a fool’s errand fuelled by his own hubris, Myrddion began to wish that he had stayed in Segontium and remained ignorant of the realities of war in this fertile landscape. In this foreign land, only the dead seemed real.

  Worse still, he watched his little band of companions with a feeling of acute guilt. Cadoc and Finn worked diligently, driving, cutting firewood and easing their master’s way through this perilous land; Rhedyn and Bridie cooked, cleaned and collected herbs as they moved through the landscape and watched the denser forest with frightened eyes; only Brangaine seemed content as she nursed the child, Willa, crooning a lullaby between changes of dressings and giving all her attention to the wounded little girl.

  Myrddion felt shame stab though him. He had brought them to this dangerous and lawless land, stripping away their security and their trust in familiar things. Why? To sift through swollen bodies on the faint chance of finding someone alive in this charnel house? As a sop to their master’s pride? In search of a man who meant nothing to them? Or did they wander with him because they loved and honoured him?

  One nigh
t, as the healers followed the road towards distant Aurelianum, their watcher finally decided to approach the wagons. As the fires were dowsed at the healers’ campsite and the little group began to settle down to sleep, the moon appeared through the cloud like a huge orange ball that was almost as red as a baleful, bloodshot eye. Willa slept in Brangaine’s arms while Myrddion rested on the cooling earth, swathed in blankets against the encroaching chill.

  The first sound that warned him of the approach of visitors was the stamp of a horse’s hoof and a muffled whicker. He rolled to his feet and reached for the sword that was secreted under the seat of the wagon.

  ‘Don’t bother, young sir. My lad Clodinus can split you with an arrow, even in the dark, before your hand touches the sword you’re reaching for.’

  A dark figure had materialised out of the shadows and even the bloody moon hadn’t betrayed his approach. Carefully, Myrddion revealed both his hands, palms outwards, and turned to face his hulking visitor.

  ‘Tell your men and the bitches in the wagons to come to the fire – now! Meanwhile, I think we need a little light, so get those coals burning again. I’ve never been over-fond of the darkness.’

  ‘You’re a Celt,’ Myrddion croaked, ashamed that his voice revealed his fear.

  ‘As are you. But that won’t save you if I decide you’re going to become a problem. I’ve lived across the Litus Saxonicum for nigh on thirty years, so you’re nothing to me.’

  The intruder’s voice had hardened perceptibly, and Myrddion tried to pierce the gloom so he could see their visitor, but to no avail. Careful to stay in the shadows, the Celt lifted his sword in a gesture that underscored the fact that he was a clear threat to the healer’s safety.

  ‘Now, do as I say. Tell those young bucks to drop their weapons and to come out of the dark with empty hands. I’ll not ask again.’

  ‘Cadoc! Finn! Do what he says. Rhedyn, wait with the others beside Cadoc’s wagon. Don’t be afraid, for our guest has no intention of killing us just yet.’

  Myrddion’s tone had regained its decisiveness, although the stranger stifled a gurgle of amusement at the tone of authority in the youthful voice.

  Cadoc and Finn appeared obediently, although Finn’s eyes were silvery and fey in the moonlight. Myrddion snapped out a single, sharp instruction, and Truthteller lowered his head and dropped the knife that he had hidden in his sleeve.

  ‘Light the fire, Cadoc. You’ve a far better talent for that than I have. Finn, we need not fight this gentleman – and whoever else waits out there where we can’t see them. They could have murdered us in ambush days ago.’

  The dark shadow snickered again with a suggestion of admiration. ‘You’re a clever young boy, I’ll say that for you!’

  ‘He’s no boy, coward!’ Cadoc flared, his redhead’s temper erupting at the insult to his master. ‘Lord Myrddion is the confidant of kings. He was King Vortigern’s personal healer, and is renowned for possessing knowledge way beyond his years. You should beware that he doesn’t shrivel you with one of his spells.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot, Cadoc!’ Myrddion groaned, well aware that Cadoc’s threats posed a danger to them all. Then he turned to the invisible face of the intruder. ‘I am a healer – that much is true. And, yes, I served King Vortigern in his battles against his sons. But I don’t have the power to kill you with spells. If you choose to insult me on account of my age, you may do so without any harm to either of us.’

  The intruder chuckled again. ‘Those are the words of a wise man. Light the fire, Cadoc. You three are far too nosy for simple travellers, so I want to keep you in my sight. Other, wiser men would have headed back to the coast after seeing what happened at Tournai. So why are you still here?’

  Under Cadoc’s expert ministrations, the fire leapt into life and, finally, Myrddion could see their adversary clearly.

  At first glance, the short, thickset warrior seemed to pose very little threat. He was almost comically round at the belly and his legs were bandy from years in the saddle, giving him a grandfatherly look that was more suited to the fireside than to the sword. But his florid face spoke eloquently of the dangers of judging by superficial appearances.

  The warrior was middle-aged and his long hair was almost white, although a few strands of coal black still threaded through his plaits. He was clean-shaven, like many of the corpses found in the ruined towns, and his moustache was fierce, long and yellowed around the mouth. His sagging jowls and bristling brows couldn’t humanise a pair of flat black eyes that showed neither amusement nor friendliness, regardless of what his rather full lips suggested. Two slabs of prominent cheekbones set those eyes into deep hollows, so that his pupils glinted coldly and distantly as if through a veil of snow rather than flesh.

  With a deceptively languid gesture, the warrior raised his right arm and five very tall Franks came to stand at the edge of the firelight. We’d never have stood a chance, Myrddion thought. He could have killed us whenever he wanted, so we’re still alive for a purpose.

  ‘We travel to the Middle Sea for reasons that are mine,’ he replied at last. ‘If your men search our wagons, you will find our tools of trade easily enough. I am Myrddion of Segontium, named for the Lord of Light and sometimes called Merlin, and I am a healer. You know the names of my apprentices, who were both warriors like yourself before they were injured and entered my employ. We bear no weapons, except those we use for self-defence and hunting, so you may take what you want from us and leave us to ply our trade as best we can.’

  ‘You are impertinent,’ the Celt answered without any discernible emotion. ‘However, I’ll forgive your foolishness on this occasion because you’re blind to the dangers of your predicament.’

  He spoke rapidly in a language foreign to Myrddion and a young Frank strode forward into the light. ‘This young man is Lord Childeric, heir to the lands of Merovech. He is the son of my master, may he live forever. I am his comite, Gwylym ap Gwylydd, and I serve as his interpreter with the Romans, the Celts and our current enemy, Attila the Hun.’

  Childeric and Myrddion examined each other narrowly.

  The prince was as fair as the healer was dark. He possessed a quantity of yellow hair that had never been cut, framing a face that was handsome, grim and intelligent. Myrddion could not determine his age, for the young man had an air of gravity that was more suited to one in the prime of life. He would have been an imposing figure even had he not been the son of a Salian Frankish king, although his moustache was still a little downy. He stood just over six feet tall, the same height as Myrddion, although the healer could never hope to match Childeric’s width of shoulders or dense chest muscles, visible even through a shirt of leather, liberally plated with iron.

  Childeric spoke rapidly in a voice that was both deep and measured, while Gwylym began to translate.

  ‘My master’s son asks what a youth like you is doing following Attila’s hordes as they rampage through his father’s lands?’

  ‘I am a healer, Lord Childeric,’ Myrddion answered as he bowed to the young warrior. ‘I am obligated by my oath to save whatever lives I may when I see the bitter fruits of war.’

  Childeric spoke again and Myrddion listened carefully, trying to grasp the rudiments of this strange, rather guttural language.

  ‘You are far from your home,’ Gwylym continued. ‘Who gave you leave to enter our lands?’

  ‘No one, Lord Childeric. Healers are free to come and go as they please through all the far places of the Middle Sea – or so I am told. I seek knowledge, for a healer must strive to discover all the skills that will help the sick and succour the injured.’

  After the Celt had finished his translation, Childeric nodded briefly and spoke in a staccato growl. ‘Know you that my lord and father, Merovech, also called Merovius the Great, has dominion over all strangers who seek to travel through his lands. My father is the son of the mighty king Clodio, who won this kingdom through the power of his sword. But my sire was also born of the bestea Neptuni
Quinotauri similis, in the tongue of the Romans. This sea beast was a man-bull, sprung from the sea god, so King Merovech is doubly blessed. Every living soul within his realm owes service to the god-king.’

  Myrddion would have smiled at the pomposity of Childeric’s boasting had he not seen an opportunity to salvage their lives and their tools of trade from this grave young warrior who was so proud of his father’s doubtful parentage.

  ‘Then King Merovech and I have much in common, for I was said to be begotten on my mother, a princess of the Ordovice tribe, by a demon from the chaos-lands that hover between day and night. King Vortigern, High King of the Britons before his death, attempted to sacrifice me to the gods of the land in response to an ancient prophecy. As you can see, I still live.’

  It was now Childeric’s turn to peer at Myrddion’s face, as if he sought to see the marks of the godling, or the demon, in the healer’s features. At the firelight’s rim, Myrddion watched several Franks cross themselves or clutch at concealed amulets in superstitious dread as Gwylym translated Myrddion’s description of his parentage.

  After almost five minutes of careful thought, while Myrddion, the apprentices and the cluster of women awaited Childeric’s decision on their fate, the young prince launched into a rapid spate of words that was far too fast for Myrddion to follow. As he finished, he grudgingly offered the healer a brief bow of his yellow, helmed head.

  ‘You have the very luck of a demon, healer. My master has decided that his father, the gathering of kings and the Roman, Aetius, shall decide your fate. You will come with us to Châlons by the shortest route, although I fear we will see a mountain of dead before we reach the safety of King Merovech’s camp.’

  ‘But . . .’ Myrddion began, but Gwylym silenced his protest with an icy glance that brooked no disagreement.

  ‘Order your folk to the wagons after the horses have been placed in the traces. Our men will return with our own beasts, for my master’s son has decided that we leave at once, under the cover of darkness. The Hun is abroad, and you would have walked into certain death if you had braved the sunshine on the morrow.’