by James Wilde
‘What are you saying?’
‘Tell your father … I will go. Proudly. Defiantly. I will do whatever I can for the empire.’
Theodosius grinned. ‘You are a brave man, my friend. God has put courage in your heart and fire in your belly.’
‘He must have listened to all my prayers.’
‘I’ll tell my father, and I’ll accompany you on your glorious campaign. How could I not? To do God’s work! To prepare the way for our Lord to smite the unbelieving barbarians. To ride into the very mouth of hell and look Death in its face. What a glorious undertaking!’
Corvus forced a reassuring smile, though the hell and death part didn’t stir his loins. The road would be harder now, for sure, but at least he would be there, in the place where he needed to be. And if fortune and the Fates were on his side, he could find his sister Catia and rid her of any ambition to steal his destiny. And her life in the process, of course.
He watched Theodosius bounce away among the tents like an eager puppy. Corvus clapped his hands together and strode in the opposite direction. First wine, and then what a story he would have to tell Pavo of the adventures that lay ahead.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Trapped
VOICES ECHOED THROUGH the trees. Guttural, low, questioning. The whinny of a horse. Then they came, like bears, hunched, thickset, heads turning slowly as they searched that shadowy emerald world. Five of them, Scoti, three on foot. Swords already drawn. Across the soft carpet of leaf mould, around the exposed fingers of roots, easing through the patchwork of sun and shade.
‘How many?’ one of them grunted.
‘A few. An army, or what passes for one.’
Mato’s breath burned in his chest. They were cautious, these barbarians. Always certain some kind of threat lay ahead. Lucanus’ army had been so careful to cover their tracks, but something had clearly alerted this patrolling band. A hint of smoke on the breeze. A tang of sweat. The footprint of a careless scout in the mud by a stream. It mattered little now.
Their luck had run out.
From behind the tangle of a hawthorn bush, he stepped into full view and held out both hands. ‘Brothers,’ he called in the Scoti tongue he’d learned when he scouted the Wilds with the Grim Wolves. It was the first time he’d exposed himself to an enemy without a blade in hand. He felt strangely liberated, yet also terrified.
The warriors stopped, dark eyes glinting, caught off guard by his use of their own tongue and his unarmed presence. He could see the shadows of questions flickering across their faces.
Before they could reach any conclusion, he turned and ran. Skipping over a fallen tree, bounding across a brook, Mato ducked a low branch and skidded down the valley side along the familiar trail. Whoops and cries rang out at his back. They were enjoying this. The sport of a hunt after so many weeks of ceaseless slaughter.
Mato crashed against an oak. Hands on knees, he doubled up and sucked in a gulp of air. As the Scoti warriors thundered up, he wagged one finger at them to give him a moment to recover. They laughed.
Too soon.
One barbarian dropped from his horse, blood spraying from his shattered nose where the staff had slammed into his face. As the other rider fought to keep his mount under control, figures darted out of the dense undergrowth. Hands clawed for his furs, dragging him down. Knives flashed in a shaft of sunlight. Two throats slit in the blink of an eye.
The three remaining warriors swept back to back, blades levelled. Mato could see the incomprehension in their faces. He almost felt pity for them. Since they’d flooded over the wall at Vercovicium, they’d encountered no resistance.
Seven more of his men eased out of the undergrowth. They were cautious, remembering Lucanus’ training; all but Aelius. He leapt in front of the others. Mato saw the young man’s wry smile and knew he was enjoying himself too. He’d questioned Aelius’ decision to fight – his withered arm left him at a disadvantage – but Catia’s younger brother had insisted he was capable.
And he was. He danced beyond the tip of his enemy’s blade, so light on his feet he made the barbarian look like a lumbering ox. A flick of his sword. A wound opened on the warrior’s forearm. The Scot snarled, angry that such a weakling was making him look a fool.
Mato watched Aelius grin. How this young man had been transformed. Once he had been a drunk, consumed by bitterness, with little hope for the life ahead of him. And then, amid all the suffering, he had been reborn.
A step to the left, a lunge, a nick, a step to the right. And then the killing blow. As the warrior howled his frustration, his throat opened. Aelius stepped back from the crimson gush and sheathed his weapon. He bowed his head to Mato.
‘A morning well spent,’ Aelius said. ‘I must confess, I have built up quite an appetite.’
The other warriors were dispatched soon enough, though not with as much aplomb. Mato ordered the bodies to be concealed. The wolves would dispose of the remains.
But it was still only a matter of time.
‘How much longer do you think we have?’ Aelius asked as they trudged back to the camp. ‘Days? Hours?’
Mato wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘Our scouts tell us the horde is massing to the west and north of where we’re camped. Soon they’ll realize that these five are missing. Others will come looking for them. Maybe only ten at first. Then a war-band when the barbarians realize the five didn’t fall into a bog. Then the army, from all sides.’
Aelius sighed as if Mato had told him the last of the wine was gone. ‘And the river holds us back in the south. Nowhere left to run. Things do not look good.’
Mato tried not to think what would happen once that barbarian horde swept through their camp. He still felt haunted by the slaughter at Vercovicium.
‘Do you fear death?’ Aelius didn’t, clearly. But then in Vercovicium he had seen it as a way out of his miserable existence.
Mato shook his head. ‘The first time we experience death, it changes us for ever. We turn from lead to gold, so the wood-priest likes to say. You’re young, but you’ve heard tell of the Chain, yes?’
‘Paulus Catena?’
‘Sent by Rome to bring order to a restive Britannia. His men cut down my sister, Aula. Only eleven, she was.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘That night, driven near mad by grief, I lay in the forest and …’ He fought to recall the memory, but it was hazy now. ‘The gods came to me, or sprites, or daemons, or some agents of the Otherworld, and they told me a truth, Aelius, one I can never repeat. But I know. Even amid death, there is joy, small sparks in the dark of the night, and on that we must always focus.’
A fox slunk out from behind a wall of bramble, looked at them briefly, then moved on.
‘You’re more priest than warrior. Amarina told me that. And now I can see she’s right.’
‘I’ve learned to love life, that’s true.’
‘You see things others don’t. Not strange for a scout, I suppose, but still … strange.’
‘Strange I am. And content to be so.’
‘You counsel Lucanus well, I’m told.’
‘If the wood-priest is in one ear, then I would be in the other. At least then there’s some hope for him.’
‘Ah. A battle for his soul. How grand.’ Aelius licked one finger and smoothed his eyebrow. ‘The druid who walks through the shadows and will have aught done, however terrible, to see his great plan realized. And you with your road of light and honour. That balance will keep him on the right path.’
‘If he ever returns.’
Down into the deepest part of the valley they trekked, along a near-invisible trail into an area of ever-present shadow. Silence hung over the camp. Mato felt his chest tighten in apprehension. But then, as he stepped past the first row of tents, he saw everyone waiting for him, trying to read his expression, desperate, praying. He nodded, and relieved grins rushed across their faces.
They thought there was still hope.
Flies droned across the
camp. Under the thick canopy, men slumped by their tents in the furnace heat. Mato mopped the sweat from his brow as he inspected the meagre remnants of their stores. Starve or be cut down. What kind of choice was that? He didn’t have the mettle to be a leader and make those kinds of decisions.
When the call of the curlew rang through the trees, he stiffened. A warning from one of their scouts. Aelius bounded to his side in an instant.
‘Is this it?’ the young man asked, already drawing his sword.
Mato cocked his head, but no tramp of feet or battle cries reached his ears. A lone scout?
Striding to the edge of the camp, he peered along the trail, the only way in or out. The curlew didn’t cry again.
A moment later, a lone figure shambled into view between the head-high banks of briar. A traveller, shoulders hunched from deprivation on the road, broken by the threat of the barbarians. But as the man neared, Mato felt a hollow in the pit of his stomach and he ran forward.
‘Lucanus?’
He grasped his friend’s shoulders, and for a moment the Wolf didn’t seem to recognize him. And Mato, his brother Grim Wolf, barely recognized him, even then.
Lucanus was dripping wet – from the river no doubt – and his face was drawn as if he were suffering from a long sickness. But his eyes burned with a light that Mato had never seen before.
‘Where’s Myrrdin?’ he asked, his voice hollow.
‘He’s not with you?’
The Wolf shook his head slowly, as if waking from a dream. But then he smiled and some colour returned to his cheeks. ‘I’m not the Lucanus you once knew, my friend. I’m sorry for that.’
‘What happened?’
‘There’s no time. We have preparations to make. An army to raise to its feet.’ He pulled out his crown and set it on his head. ‘I’ll speak to them now.’
Mato searched Lucanus’ face. His friend was indeed changed, there could be no doubt, though Mato couldn’t tell quite how. He sounded more confident, certainly; clearer of mind, less burdened. Less scared.
‘You know a way out?’
A wolf’s smile. ‘We will not be trapped here. We will reach Londinium. And then we will bring this barbarian horde to its knees.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Raid
STRANDS OF MIST drifted among the trees along the riverbank. In the early light, the first birdsong of the new day rolled out across the grey waters of the Tamesis. For a while, nothing disturbed the morning peace. Then, slowly, figures eased out of the rolling clouds of white. Silent, they were, like ghosts.
In the barbarian camp, the warriors slept. Only fourteen of them rested in their tents by the cold ashes of the fire. There was no need for more, not yet. But soon the rest would come and see what gain was to be had from the jumble of vessels moored along the quay. A couple were the larger flat-bottomed boats that could navigate coastal waters and the deeper stretches of the river. Others were currachs made of hide stretched over a wickerwork frame. And bumping against them were a few planked rowboats and logboats.
Lucanus prowled ahead of his men. He never once took his eyes off that camp. In his hand, Caledfwlch sang to him, and the power of the gods thrummed through his veins. He glanced to Mato, then to Aelius, a silent communication of strength. One by one, he caught the eyes of the men nearest to him, and they nodded and passed it on.
In times past, these barbarians would have had a man on watch. They’d grown too assured of victory. That would be their downfall.
His head had cleared now. Whatever he had dreamed, or experienced, in the dark of the smithy had started to fade. But its effect upon him had not. Myrrdin had been right. He felt reborn.
Ahead, a bare-chested barbarian lurched from his tent, stretching and cracking his bones. Bleary-eyed, he farted loudly. Probably still half drunk.
Lucanus threw himself forward, his feet barely making a whisper on the ground. The Scoti warrior stared at him, blinking stupidly, no doubt unable to comprehend the sight of this half-man half-wolf racing out of the shadows. He turned to grunt a warning, too late. Caledfwlch ripped through his gut and he died spitting showers of crimson. All around, the tents were torn apart as the barbarians scrambled to defend themselves. Lucanus’ men fell on them, hacking and cutting.
He stepped back and watched, pleased to see how these quiet men had grown into their new role, as he had grown under his father’s tutelage when he had first been groomed to lead the Grim Wolves.
True to his word, even in battle Mato no longer carried a blade. Instead, he swung a staff as long as Myrrdin’s, cracking skulls and whipping legs out from under their enemies. It was down to Aelius, no longer a drunken callow youth, to finish off the fallen, which he did with an unnecessarily theatrical flourish of his sword. He shadowed Mato everywhere, ensuring the older man was never in any danger.
Finally it was done. The bodies of the barbarians lay among the tattered remnants of the tents and the strewn ashes of the cold fire.
‘I think I’ve found my purpose here,’ Aelius said, sheathing his sword.
Lucanus raised his brows. ‘Killing is not much of a purpose.’
‘You say killing … I say smiting the enemies who would draw the light out of the world. And perhaps helping to bring about a better one.’ He cocked an eyebrow, smiling wryly. ‘If that’s not too grand. I wouldn’t wish to raise myself too high. But someone has to clear the ground for the King Who Will Not Die.’
Around them, the men were bowing their heads, sucking in steadying draughts of air and trying to hide their shaking hands. For many, it had been their first raid.
‘You did yourselves proud, all of you,’ Lucanus said. ‘This morning you’ve given hope to the women and children and old folk waiting in the camp. Heroes all.’
Awkward grins flashed. Eyes brightened. These soft-muscled merchants and farmers seemed to straighten as he watched.
‘But we are not done yet,’ he cautioned. ‘The jaws of the trap are closing fast. Back to camp.’
The pounding of Lucanus’ heart was like the beating of a war drum. The enemy was nearing. His nostrils flared at the reek of sweat on the few wafts of air that drifted through the furnace heat. Avian shrieks filled the air as birds took flight from the high branches. As each bout died away, a new one replaced it, drawing closer. And under that cacophony, if he listened intently, he could make out the low drone of hunting horns, the blast of full-throated battle-cries and the whistled call and response of war-bands communicating as they carved through the dense forest from different directions.
‘Hurry!’ he yelled as he marched around the camp.
Women scooped infants into arms and old men lurched on staffs or hung on to Apullius and Morirex as they hurried to join the rear of the column trailing south out of the camp. Eyes darting, his most trusted fighting men hung back on either side of the line of refugees, ready to battle to the last. To die, if necessary, to save these innocents.
As he’d feared, the barbarians must have followed the trail of their fallen scouts. Once they’d realized a force hid in the forest, however small, it was only a matter of time before they came to crush it.
Another flock of cawing crows, so close this time he could see them blackening the sky in the patches of blue among the branches.
The Morrigan is with me. The thought bubbled up in his head from nowhere.
They’d left behind the jumble of tents and supplies, anything that might slow them down. As the column eased out of the place that had been their home for the past few days, Lucanus looked across the clearing. The last man.
Once he was certain no one had been left behind, he backed away from the golden light and into the cooling shadows. He joined the end of the column, and as they lumbered on he glanced back constantly, searching for the first signs of attack.
‘Make haste,’ he hissed under his breath.
The refugees were slow, but Lucanus took comfort from the fact that the going would be equally hard for the barbarians. He’d
chosen their hiding place well. Only a few paths ran down the steep valley sides and none was wide enough for two men abreast. The trees leaned so tightly together they turned day to night and made it near impossible to squeeze among them.
He heard pounding feet and looked back to the column. Apullius raced up.
Lucanus frowned. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m here to fight with you, if need be. To hold back the first wave so these folk can reach the quay.’
‘You would do better—’
‘No.’ The lad’s voice cracked. ‘I do this for my father. It’s what he would have wanted.’
Lucanus nodded. Shoulder to shoulder, they edged backwards, swords drawn.
Through walls of briar the column crept, over fallen trees, and along the thin line of solid ground through a bog that would suck a man to his death in an instant.
Battle-cries rang out across the breadth of the forest. Lucanus thought there might be a thousand barbarians there. If his army could only hold fast for a little longer.
After what seemed like an age, the shadows began to ebb. A grey light suffused that preternatural world. Lucanus looked over the heads of the trundling column and saw sunlight shining. He breathed in and tasted the dank freshness of the river.
‘Faster,’ he yelled. ‘We’re nearly there.’
He crashed into the light, blinking. Once his eyes had cleared, he watched the refugees and his men lumbering along the riverbank. Some splashed in the shallows. Others clung on to overhanging branches to avoid pitching into the flow.
The thunder of the approaching barbarians seemed all around him now. The calls. The whistles. Madness. Wild beasts attacking.
‘We are wolves,’ he muttered to Apullius, to himself. ‘Never forget that.’
He hurried along the line, showing only a cold face. It would not do for any of these folk who relied on him to see even a flicker of doubt or worry. At the quayside, he pulled himself up on to the stones where Mato was pacing, waiting for his commands. ‘Put the old folk, the women and the children in boats together,’ he ordered. ‘If there are no fighting men with them, the barbarians might leave them alone.’