by James Wilde
‘You could let me go. Back to my own kind.’
He shook his head. ‘Soon enough there won’t be any of your kind left.’
Anger flared and she silently cursed herself for treating this murderous dog like a civilized man. She hurled the cup of wine aside. ‘I’ve had my fill of men telling me what the days ahead hold for me. I’ll choose my own path, and you will not be able to stop me.’
She swept out into the dank night. Logen would be close at her heels, she knew that – she was a hound permitted just enough freedom to stop it going mad. There would be no point in attempting to flee. They’d only drag her back and beat her.
Catia weaved among the tents, trying to burn away her simmering rage so she could at least sleep. As she neared the edge of the camp, she heard raucous laughter and what sounded like a carcass being softened by a butcher’s mallet. An angry epithet. More laughter.
A small group of men had gathered near a twisted hawthorn. Though it was dark, Catia recognized Motius poised like a spider ready to strike. The other Carrion Crows surrounded him. Three figures lay at their feet, all of them badly beaten.
Catia stepped closer. Her hand flew to her mouth.
One of the captives raised his bloodied head and saw her. She watched a defiant grin spread, despite the agony.
‘We’ve come to rescue you.’ And Solinus gave a throaty chuckle until Motius’ foot slammed his wits away.
CHAPTER TEN
Age of Orphans
IN THE DISTANCE, thunder rumbled. The wind whining through the branches forced the storm away to the north-west. They would not have rain that night.
That was one small blessing. Mato looked out through the inky dark of the forest, where the red stars of what seemed like a hundred fires glowed. He was perching on a fallen tree, feeling his thighs burn and the wheeze of exhaustion in his chest. Lucanus had kept the pace hard in the face of the advancing wave of barbarians. But now he had given them leave to break for a while, to rest, to fill their growling bellies with the game they’d caught along the way.
How long could they keep running before they fell under those swords?
Sobbing could be heard and Mato heaved himself up and picked a path through the trees, following the sound. The crying came from the boy, Morirex, the one the others called the Mouse. His brother Apullius hugged him close, trying to comfort him. On the other side of the campfire Aelius lounged, his good arm stretched out along another fallen tree. He seemed unmoved by the boy’s pain, his expression aloof and wry as always. But then Mato saw a shadow flicker across his face and knew it was just one of the masks he wore.
‘Cry,’ Aelius said. ‘Cry until all the tears are gone.’
Apullius looked up. ‘Don’t be cruel.’
‘Cruelty is to pretend what’s gone is coming back. That hope will destroy you, in time. The only way to survive is to turn your face to this new world we’ve inherited.’
‘I want Mother to kiss my tears away,’ Morirex sobbed. ‘I want Father to play-fight with me in the meadow.’
Mato watched Aelius’ features soften. ‘Your heart aches, I know. But you’re part of a special brotherhood now.’
Morirex stopped sobbing and frowned.
‘This is the age of orphans. Britannia is filled with ones like you now. Once the pain you feel ebbs away, and it will, you’ll find that you’ve been given a gift—’
‘A gift?’ Apullius exclaimed in horror.
Aelius nodded. ‘Death changes us all. We can’t understand life, or ourselves, until we see it claim someone close to us. At the time it seems too harsh to bear, but it changes us. We were lead. We become gold. This is a great secret I’m telling you, one that only the wisest among us know, so heed it well.’
Mato smiled when he saw that Apullius and Morirex were rapt. Aelius had a way with words, from all those books he’d read. But the spell was affecting him too, he could feel it, and he remembered with a pang the day his sister left this world and travelled to the Summerlands. Lead into gold. He still carried the pain of that loss around with him, but he was a better man for it, a humbler man, a wiser man. What a cruel game the gods were playing, that this was the way to become the one you were always intended to be.
‘Orphans are particularly special,’ Aelius was continuing, his quiet voice still weaving through the crackles of the fire. ‘The loss they endure ignites a fire in their heart. They go on to do great things. They have something to prove.’
Mato could see the Mouse was on the brink of tears again. Aelius must have seen it too, for he wagged a finger. ‘Listen carefully. I have a tale to tell.’
‘About the King Who Will Not Die coming to save us?’ Morirex gasped between two juddering breaths.
‘In a way. But first I need to tell you how all this came to be, this misery, this world turned on its head.’ He looked up into the dark among the branches, pausing for effect. It worked; the boys were rapt again. ‘In the north, there is a great wall that runs from sea to sea. On one side, the empire. On the other, the land of the barbarians, of witches and daemons and curses and magic. For long years, battles raged along that wall like rolling summer storms, coming and going. And yet still trade flowed across it, back and forth. That lulled us. We thought we were cousins who fought and then made up. We never realized how much they hated us. The Scoti and the Picts held a great moot, and summoned the representatives of all the tribes scattered from where the sun rises to where it sets. They found common ground, and that was their hatred of Rome. Rivals became allies, because they knew, in that pact, they had the numbers they needed.
‘And in Vercovicium, one of the great forts along that wall, and its settlement, we continued blindly with our mundane lives. Trading and fighting among ourselves and drinking and wooing. We were fools in many ways, all of us from the emperor Valentinian to the lowliest apprentice. We’d grown complacent. Rome was distracted by events elsewhere and it had stopped sending enough supplies and reinforcements and gold to keep our defences at their peak, so they began to crumble. There was no pay for the arcani, whom we relied on to scout the barbarian lands and warn us of impending attack—’
‘Lucanus was arcani,’ Apullius exclaimed. In his eyes Mato glimpsed the light of admiration, if not worship.
Aelius nodded. ‘The arcani, the spies of Rome. Lucanus’ band, the Grim Wolves, were the only ones who remained true.’ He waved a hand, urging them to listen to his tale. ‘And then there was the centurion Falx, now the most hated Roman in all of Britannia. He stole wages from his own men so that they became resentful and wouldn’t fulfil their duties. All of this left us unprepared for the barbarian horde massing in the north. When they struck, it was like a wave of steel and fire that crashed over the wall, over all Vercovicium.
‘Those of us who survived that slaughter fled south – and none of us would even have lived if not for Lucanus and the Grim Wolves. That vast horde came at our heels, looting and burning and … more.’
Morirex’s eyes widened, Mato could see.
‘Things look dark now,’ Aelius continued, ‘but this is a story of heroes.’
‘And we are the heroes in this story,’ Apullius said, giving his brother’s shoulder a squeeze.
Aelius cocked an eyebrow, his smile wry and a touch sad, Mato thought. ‘Are we, though?’
‘We fight for what’s right. We fight for the good people of Britannia.’
‘You think the barbarians don’t think they do the same? Fighting against the oppression of the empire. Driving back the ones who have plundered their villages and slaughtered their folk. Seeking revenge, perhaps even freedom from the yoke of Valentinian.’
‘But …’ Apullius gaped.
‘Whoever wins will write the story.’ Aelius leaned back and folded his arms. ‘We’ve yet to know if we shall be cast as heroes and villains. No man knows that, until the judgement is made by other men after they’re gone.’
‘The barbarians think they are heroes?’
‘All men
do, my friend from the south. They learn and they love, and they fight and they strive, they suffer and they cry, and their hearts soar with the belief that they are the great Alexander or a Caesar changing the course of history. Cut-throats and beggars, princes and fools. Men who slaughter innocents, and priests who die for their creed. But whoever tells the tale will make the final decision.’
Morirex leaned forward. ‘And you? You think yourself a hero too?’
Mato watched Aelius’ mouth fall open to speak, and then he crunched it into another tight smile. ‘I’ll wait for the judgement of the teller of this tale.’
‘You’re strong, and brave,’ Apullius pressed.
Aelius tapped his withered arm. ‘I am half a man. Not one worthy of being the heir to any great prophecy. But … when I’m knocked down, I get straight back up again. That’s how I make up for having only one good arm.’
‘When the King Who Will Not Die arrives, all will be made right again, and we all will live in a new golden age,’ Morirex breathed.
‘Do you believe that?’ Apullius said to Aelius, his eyes narrowing. He started to say more, but then glanced at Morirex and fell silent.
Mato leaned back against a tree, lost in the shadows. He was interested in the answer to this question. Aelius weaved his tale well, but did even he believe this so-called prophecy or did he understand that Myrrdin and his druids decided which story would be told, and made it real simply by telling it?
Aelius tossed some sticks on the fire and the sparks swirled up with a roar. ‘The bloodline of the King Who Will Not Die runs through my family.’
‘Is that true?’ Apullius asked.
‘It’s true that my family has been cursed with bad luck. But perhaps that is the gods’ way of finding a balance with the glory that lies ahead. In the months since the barbarians invaded, we have seen that history can be wiped away in the blink of an eye. Empires can fall. Oceans rise, mountains be levelled by the hands of the gods. Yet we must never forget that it is men and women – their individual stories – which make up the pattern of the great sweep of events. And you are fortunate to be at the heart of the story of the King Who Will Not Die. You’ll see it unfold around you, perhaps even help to bring it into being.’
A story, Mato thought. Aelius should be a senator for the way he played with words.
‘But still, a family cursed.’ Aelius glanced to the bundle of blankets nearby, making sure Menius was asleep. ‘My father’s wife Gaia left him and ran off with my uncle, taking much of what we owned. My sister Catia agreed to marry the son of another wealthy family. The price she paid for that sacrifice was to spend her days being beaten by her new husband. And then he killed their son Marcus.’
Aelius fell silent, staring into the fire.
‘But Catia is strong,’ he said quietly. ‘She will rise above it.’ His eyes gleamed when he looked up. ‘When she was a babe, my sister was stolen from our home. Everyone searched high and low, but found nothing’ – he shrugged – ‘for days. By rights, she should have been dead. But when she was found she was being protected by wolves in the Wilds, and she had upon her shoulder a new mark, a brand, a dragon eating its own tail. The Ouroboros, the sign of the bloodline of the King Who Will Not Die. Catia had been chosen.’
‘By a god?’ Morirex asked.
Aelius only held out his hands.
‘But if Marcus is dead …’ Apullius began.
‘The story yet unfolds. Let us wait for the ending.’
‘Where is Catia?’
‘The barbarians took her captive. Three of the Grim Wolves are bringing her back to us.’
Mato watched another shadow dance across Aelius’ face. He saw worry there behind the glib words, anxiety for the sister he loved that carved deep into the heart of him. None of them knew if Catia was alive or dead.
‘You’re afraid for her?’ Apullius asked quietly.
Aelius nodded. ‘But I’m used to the hard knocks. It’s Lucanus who deserves our concern. Only the gods know what torment must burn away inside him. He loved Catia from the time when they were children. He kept any hurt inside him when he watched her give herself to Amatius out of duty. And then, when it seemed he might finally find the path to that love, the world burned around him and Catia was stolen away from his arms. My sister was all that ever mattered to him. And now there is only sacrifice, duty and battle. However much he hopes and prays, he must know that the chance of his gaining happiness is fading fast.’
Mato jerked. Someone was standing in the dark beneath an oak’s low branches. He’d not heard even a whisper of a footstep. The fire crackled and flames twirled up, lighting the face of Lucanus. Mato winced. Deep lines were carved in his friend’s face, so deep that he seemed about to crumble. The pain of yearning for a love lost, one who might already be dead, whom he might never see again.
Mato felt his heart go out to him, this man who kept his own suffering hidden for the sake of his men’s spirits.
The thunder rumbled again, closer this time. And then, on the back of it, further away. Mato frowned. He saw Lucanus stiffen, the raw emotion drain away, the cold features of a commander rise up.
Two storms. One distant, one nearing. But now Mato could tell that the closest was rolling, growing louder, the sound of hooves and feet making the earth throb.
‘On your feet!’ Lucanus raged, whirling through the camp. ‘On your feet! We must be away! Our enemies are nigh!’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Workshop of the Gods
CROWS SWOOPED ACROSS the bright blue sky. Their shadows flashed over the line of kneeling men, hands bound behind their backs. Under the hot sun, sweat plastered fine tunics of Syrian silk to well-fed bodies. Faces twisted with fear and tears streamed down burning cheeks, while lips were constantly working, pleading, praying.
The jeers of the barbarians swallowed whatever the captives were saying. In their furs and with their wild hair and beards, the Picts and Scoti and Saxons looked like wolves about to fall on their prey.
Lucanus gripped the rough bark of the oak branch to steady himself. Through the emerald canopy, he peered down the long grassy bank to where the war-band had gathered.
The captives were leaders of their communities, used to opulent villas from the look of the gold thread that gleamed in their tunics. They’d come with sacks of coin and gleaming plate to try to buy the invaders off. Little good it had done them. The barbarians didn’t need offerings. They took whatever they wanted.
The leader marched along the line, a blond-haired northman. At the end of the row, he turned and raised a hand. A towering Scot stepped forward and swung his axe into the air. As the leader’s hand fell, the axe swept down.
The first head spun away.
Now the captives shrieked, but the sound of their terror was lost beneath the jubilant roar of the bloodthirsty horde, which only soared louder as the axeman moved along the line.
When the grisly task was finished, Lucanus glanced at Mato lying on the branch next to him. His friend was mouthing a silent prayer, and it was with a cold grip on his heart that the Wolf looked back out across the war-band, over the lush countryside and gleaming lakes and thick forests to the hazy distance, where Londinium lay alongside the great Tamesis. The sanctuary they so desperately needed to reach.
The horde must have realized that all opposition was flowing towards the south-east. They had swept in from the north and the south, two horns of a relentless advance, to close off the way ahead.
Lucanus squinted into the brassy light, but he could see no way through. War-bands roamed everywhere.
His army was trapped.
Somewhere, an owl hooted.
A milky trail of stars flowed across the vast vault of the heavens and the full moon carved deep shadows into the silvery grassland. Lucanus leaned his head back and breathed in a deep draught of balmy air scented with the fragrance of cooling vegetation. Memories flooded back of similar nights in the Wilds beyond the wall, with his wolf-brothers beside him
. He yearned for that peace.
‘You feel it?’ Myrrdin said, his voice low and rich. ‘There is magic here.’
Lucanus thought he did. The hairs on his forearm were prickling erect and he thought he could sense a presence watching them as they trekked towards the cluster of trees silhouetted against that starry sky. Not man, nor beast; not a threat, but not welcoming either. It felt ancient, unknowable.
‘The old gods are here,’ Myrrdin murmured. ‘This is one of their places.’
Or it was the druid himself who was weaving magic. That melodic voice plucked visions from deep in the cave of his head.
‘The old gods,’ Lucanus whispered. He felt awed by the silent majesty of that night world, as if he had been standing in a temple. ‘Cernunnos, who stands deep in the forest and howls? The Morrigan, the Phantom Queen, the bringer of night?’
‘Both of them and more.’
They’d left the army behind two days ago and journeyed south. Lucanus had been loath to abandon his men – the barbarians could attack at any time – but the wood-priest had pressed on him the importance of their going. ‘A rite,’ the druid had said. ‘Putting the fire into your soul so you are ready for what’s to come. You wear the gold crown of the Pendragon. Now you must let the serpent into your heart.’
He’d had no idea what the wood-priest had meant, but Mato had urged him to go too. The army was well hidden, camped in a deep, near-inaccessible valley at the heart of one of the old, dense forests. Mato would keep watch, and lead them away if any danger arose.
And so, reluctantly, he had set out under a rosy dawn, following a path that was ancient even in his father’s father’s father’s time. Myrrdin knew the route. His people after all were the keepers of the old ways, and the old places. They’d followed the drovers’ road due south between high banks topped with sweet-smelling blue flowers, planted there as offerings to the gods for safe journeys, so the druid told him. But where Myrrdin was concerned, Lucanus could never be quite sure what was true and what was some elaborate tale designed to lead him by the nose.