Dark Age

by James Wilde

  He eyed the motley collection of punts, logboats and currachs and prayed there would be enough. Since they’d taken the quay, his men had fetched any other boats they could find moored along that stretch of the Tamesis and brought them here.

  ‘Into the boats,’ he called, marching along the line. Shepherded by Mato, those who could not fight clambered across the swaying vessels, struggling to keep their balance. Fear drove them on. ‘Once each one is full, cut loose and let the current take you.’ They’d had no time to prepare them, and he could only hope there would be at least one person in each vessel who could guide them on the water.

  Once the last of the small band of refugees was adrift, he walked to the end of the quay and studied the bank ahead while his men boarded their own vessels. A flock of crows surged out of the trees above the grey water, and he drew his sword.

  Narrowing his eyes, he glimpsed movement. The first hulking shape slipped out of the shadows. Then another, and another. Heads turned towards him. A jubilant roar rolled out, leaping from mouth to mouth. The warriors scrambled along the narrow bank towards him, fighting to keep their feet.

  ‘Come! Now!’

  Lucanus flinched at the hand on his arm. Mato tugged him towards the boats, where the last of his men was taking a seat on a rowboat. The Wolf bounded on to one of the larger flat-bottomed boats. Mato jumped down beside him and cast off.

  Clambering past the men crushed together in the belly of the boat, Lucanus grasped the side aft and watched their enemies stream along the water’s edge. He heard the battle-cries ebb and those jubilant roars turn to yells of frustration. For a moment, he wished Catia were there with her bow. He’d never seen an archer with a better eye, man or woman. But the thought was too painful and he pushed it aside.

  In turn, the barbarians had not sent their own bowmen in the forward ranks. They’d anticipated cutting down their feeble opposition with swords and axes.

  Mato clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘You saved us.’

  Lucanus turned to see the eyes of all the men on him. ‘Not yet. Not by a long way,’ he said so only Mato could hear. ‘We’ve clawed our way out of one trap. A bigger one awaits us.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The River

  A SEA OF shadows flooded across the land, pooling among the woods and the rolling meadows. The dusk was still as Lucanus stood at the side of the boat and looked out across this unfamiliar country. The north was a hard place of rock and heather and wind like knives, and it forged men in its image. This part of Britannia was gentler, lush, with rich brown earth that was good for farmers. He liked it.

  ‘Do you still see the daemons, Lucanus?’ Amarina’s voice was little more than a murmur, merging with the lapping of the river.

  Amarina had her hood pulled up, as she so often seemed to do these days, hiding her eyes and her thoughts. This was how he remembered her when she had first arrived in Vercovicium to set up the House of Wishes: shadow and smile, wit and words that hid as much as they revealed. ‘All the riches of Britannia are here, they say,’ she said; then, correcting herself: ‘Were here.’

  ‘It’s not lost yet.’

  She was quiet for so long he wondered if she hadn’t heard him. But then she said, ‘You think you can save it, from that vast horde?’

  ‘Not alone. But the folk of this land will heed the call. I have no doubt of that.’

  ‘That’s what I always liked about you, Lucanus.’ He could hear her smile in her words. ‘You see the good in people. You think the best of them is always waiting to emerge, like the leaves in spring.’

  ‘I’ve seen my fair share of blood and misery. But it’s never dulled what I believe.’

  ‘It could well be that the wood-priests chose wisely when they decided you were the man, of all the men in this isle, to be the Pendragon. The one trusted to usher in their great plan.’ Her tone was wry. He could never tell when she was teasing him and when she was revealing her true thoughts.

  ‘And yet Aelius tells me you tried to abandon me.’

  She brushed a strand of auburn hair from her forehead, but kept her gaze fixed on the dark landscape. ‘I don’t have such a burnished view of folk as you. I prefer to put my trust in myself alone. It’s served me well so far.’

  ‘I need you, Amarina.’

  This time she turned to look at him, but her hood was only a well of shadows. ‘What use am I?’

  ‘Five,’ he muttered, his thoughts flying back to what Myrrdin had told him.

  ‘Five?’

  ‘The wood-priest talks about numbers shaping all there is. Sometimes he speaks like a man in too much wine, but … Five is the number of strength, he tells me. Five of us will lead the way on this dark road, together. I’m the Head of the Dragon. There’s Mato, who has the soul of a poet. He shows me the light in the night. And then there’s you. You are, in some ways, the opposite of Mato. I sense the Morrigan’s ravens swooping around you.’

  She flinched.

  ‘I know you’re torn. The wyrd sisters have you under their spell.’

  ‘You know nothing about that,’ she spat.

  ‘True. No one knows anything about your past. But I know you trust them above all others. You know how their minds work, yes?’ She didn’t answer, and he took that as assent. ‘That’s the wisdom I need.’

  ‘I’ll think on it.’

  ‘Do that. I’ve accepted my destiny.’ Now his thoughts twisted back to his night in Goibniu’s Smithy and the strange beings who had visited him there – daemons, Amarina would call them – and the things they had told him about days long gone and days yet to come. ‘My life’s no longer my own. But if I’m to carry the torch into the years ahead, then I need good people to counsel me.’

  ‘And the other two?’

  He had an answer to that, but he couldn’t risk angering the Fates by revealing it now. ‘We’ll see.’

  Away in the gloom along the bank, a light flickered.

  Lucanus stiffened, but only for a moment. ‘Enemy,’ he bellowed. ‘Stay low.’

  Grabbing Amarina’s arm, he yanked her down. Three blazing arrows whined overhead.

  He heard a cry and a crackling, and as he peered over the side he saw a man on fire in one of the smaller boats, the shaft protruding from his chest. With another strangled cry, the man pitched backwards, splashing into the dark waters.

  Another burning arrow thumped into the side of their boat. The flames from the pitch licked up. Cries of terror rang through the men huddled in the bottom of the craft. One figure leapt up. Lucanus glimpsed Mato’s face lit by the orange glow. His friend was gripping the baling scoop and he swung almost upside down over the side and swept river water on to the fire. With a sizzle the glow snuffed out and darkness rushed back in.

  ‘Do we pull in to the bank to fight them?’ Aelius said at his elbow.

  ‘That may be their plan, to lure us in. We don’t know how many are waiting there.’ Lucanus pushed his head above the side. ‘To oars,’ he called.

  Splashing erupted all around as oars bladed into the river. It was dangerous in the dark, but what choice did they have?

  ‘Keep watch on those alongside,’ he called again.

  Another blaze of fire in the trees along the bank. The burning shaft arced, and as it dropped he froze the positions of all the boats in his mind. Mostly they formed a line along the centre of the flow, as they’d agreed when dusk was drawing in. But in a few of the smaller boats, the men had grown complacent. Some had slipped side by side, close enough to clash oars. And one was drifting treacherously close to the bank.

  ‘Clovis,’ he cried as the arrow plunged harmlessly into the river. ‘Pull away.’

  From the gloom, he heard muffled groans of confusion as Clovis’ men realized their predicament. A moment later a clamour of screams and cracking wood and splashing echoed.

  Lucanus felt his heart fall. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the barbarians lurching into the shallows when the boat turned to the bank, their blades fa
lling.

  ‘Faster,’ he cried. ‘Faster.’

  The dying moans of Clovis’ men fell behind them, lost to the river sounds. Another two arrows whistled through the night sky. Both plummeted into the water at their backs.

  ‘We’ve escaped them,’ Amarina said, her voice strained. She’d been holding her breath tight in her chest.

  ‘For now. But we can’t rest, not even for a moment, because our enemy won’t. They’ll harry us until we reach the safety of the walls of Londinium.’

  Lucanus slid his bronze sword out of its scabbard and turned it so that it caught the morning light. The black runes carved into the blade grew sharp, then faded again.

  Apullius’ eyes widened. ‘My father said the Pendragon carried a magic sword. Is this it?’

  The Wolf frowned. How quickly these tales had travelled far and wide.

  ‘Its name is Caledfwlch.’

  Sunlight glinted off the ripples around the ramshackle collection of boats. The morning was as peaceful as any he’d experienced. But as he looked around the pale, drawn faces of his men, Lucanus could see none of them had slept a wink.

  But he could no longer smell smoke on the breeze. That was good. And Mato, who had better eyes than most, leaned back against the side, the familiar smile on his lips as he scanned the lush grassland.

  Apullius reached out to the blade, then snatched his hand back as if it might burn him. ‘That’s a strange name. What does it mean?’

  Lucanus pursed his lips. It was a good question. ‘It’s how it was told to me. A name from another tongue, I think. From the people of the west?’

  ‘A gift of the gods,’ Apullius repeated. ‘My father said the Lady of the Lake gave it to you.’

  This time, Lucanus stifled his surprise. He recalled diving into the freezing waters off the Isle of Yews in the far north, and finding this blade still clutched in a skeletal hand at the muddy bottom. It could have been a woman, he supposed. Myrrdin and his tales.

  ‘I thought all you folk of the south were Christians now.’

  The lad nodded. ‘We are.’ Lucanus smiled at the uncaring tone. Just another story. Apullius looked up, his face bright. ‘I want to serve you.’

  Lucanus frowned. ‘I don’t need a slave.’

  ‘Not a slave. Someone to bring you Caledfwlch before battle, and to clean the blood off the blade when you have slain your enemies. Someone to feed your horse—’

  ‘I don’t like riding.’

  ‘To make sure your food is ready when you’re hungry, and to bring you wine at the end of the day. To carry messages to the other Grim Wolves … to allies …’

  Lucanus shook his head, but the lad carried on speaking.

  ‘The Pendragon shouldn’t have to do these things himself. And I could learn from you. How to fight. How to do God’s work … or … the gods’ work. How to be a Grim Wolf—’

  ‘No,’ Lucanus said, more sharply than he intended. He felt a pang of regret when he saw the boy’s face fall, but he had no intention of condemning him to the hard life of the arcani, or the bloodstained existence he himself endured now. ‘You should be a merchant. Earn some coin. Find some comfort in this miserable world.’

  ‘A merchant? When Britannia burns around us? There’s only one kind of work these days.’

  Lucanus couldn’t argue with that. But he ruffled the boy’s hair and said, ‘You’re angry with me now. You can’t understand why I’d deny you. But one day, when you’ve found a good woman, and have a boy of your own, and sit by the hearth surrounded by the luxury your hard work has bought you, then you’ll thank me.’

  The children ran along the water’s edge, cheering. Lucanus glanced at Mato, who was beaming. His friend waved, driving the children to louder squeals of joy.

  ‘Don’t indulge them,’ Amarina sniffed. ‘They should be working.’

  ‘Let them have their fun,’ Mato replied. ‘These are the moments that bring value to life.’

  Lucanus leaned over the side of the boat, cocking his head. Among the cheers, he heard one word repeated: Pendragon.

  ‘They know.’ Apullius had heard it too. ‘Myrrdin’s story is spreading faster than even the barbarian horde.’

  Lucanus wondered where the wood-priest was now. Moving steadily along the drove roads, weaving magic with his words, spreading the tale of the King Who Will Not Die and igniting hope and resistance with every encounter? He’d laughed when the druid told him words had as much power as swords. Now he thought he could understand.

  Ahead, a group of people jostled along a bank littered with wicker eel-pots. His gaze drifted across old men with white hair and hunched backs, mothers with apple cheeks, hands clasped in front of them. And young women, flushed and sparkle-eyed as they waved their ribbon favours at the men in the passing boats. Men who had become warriors, who had become heroes.

  ‘Pull in,’ he called.

  ‘Is that wise?’ Aelius asked.

  ‘The men have been running for too long with death nipping at their heels. Let them hear some kind words, feel some warmth.’ And knowing what they’re fighting for will give them the strength to keep going, he thought.

  The boats pulled in. Eyes widened along the bank. Those gathered could not believe they’d been so blessed.

  Once they were on dry ground, Lucanus’ men and the refugees stretched their legs and rubbed the cricks from their necks. Some collapsed on to the grass, closing their eyes as they turned their faces to the sun. The local folk moved among them, the older ones offering words of thanks, the younger ones demanding tales of heroism.

  ‘You are the Pendragon?’

  Lucanus looked into a face that seemed a map of the hard lands in the far north. The man’s cloud of white hair floated in a halo of sunlight.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I remember tales of the great war-leader, when I was a lad. We all thought your kind was gone for good.’

  ‘Nothing goes for ever,’ the Wolf replied, remembering Myrrdin’s words. ‘The old times are coming back.’

  ‘The old times were hard, so I hear. Rome’s brought us many comforts. And now the emperor has abandoned us. But you, you’re our saviour. Sent by God.’

  Lucanus felt discomfort, but this man didn’t want to hear any doubts or complaints. ‘The barbarians have the upper hand, for now. But this war’s far from lost.’

  The village elder nodded. The words seemed to give him some comfort. ‘If we live through this, we’ll need to build the world anew. I hear the tales from those fleeing. All has been washed away. Fields and villages burned. Forts destroyed. Towns reduced to naught but stones. The trade is gone. The coin is stolen. I have one fear now. Even if the war is won, the long night will reach out far into days yet to come. Who will save us from that dark age, Pendragon, answer me that?’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Forest

  Rutupiae, Britannia

  CORVUS SPLASHED INTO the foaming surf.

  ‘How does it feel to be back on home ground after being away for so long?’ Pavo said as he waded alongside him to the beach.

  ‘I can’t remember much of it. Rain and mud and cold nights. The two of us running through the barley.’

  ‘We were a couple of little bastards, and no mistake. Now we’re a couple of big bastards.’

  Corvus turned and looked to the ships heaving on the swell. Soldiers hefted bales over the side on to the small boats they’d towed behind them. Others gathered on the sand, stretching their legs after the cramped sea journey.

  His friend stood in the prow of the nearest ship, shielding his eyes as he scrutinized the coastline. Theodosius was not good away from dry land, and Corvus had been forced to listen to his increasingly desperate prayers as their vessel bucked across the turbulent currents of the channel. One of their seasoned comrades, a squat man with a face like leather, had said this had been the smoothest crossing he’d known. Theodosius only whimpered in reply.

  ‘No regrets?’ Pavo asked.

  Corvus da
bbed at the sweat trickling down his brow in the late afternoon heat. ‘I’m not usually one for sticking my neck out, but there was little choice this time.’

  ‘Maybe your sister’s already dead and it’s clear sailing ahead.’

  ‘We can only hope. We’ll know for sure when Hecate arrives with my mother and Severus. She can ask her kind. Those witches will know, I’d wager. They and the wood-priests have been prophesying this for years, and pulling on the strands to make it happen, too.’

  ‘You might have to drain a little blood to get the truth out of them.’

  ‘We’ll do what we have to do, as always.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘The ride to Londinium.’ Corvus squirmed as the sweat trickled down his back. ‘It’ll be a vile journey in this fiendish heat, but we’re not here for enjoyment. If only this business could have been completed in Rome, surrounded by civilized people. But this is where the bloodline must arise and grow strong. The wood-priests have seen to that.’ He sniffed. ‘Still, at least there will be some civilization in Londinium. I’ve heard tell it’s quite the wonder. Not Rome, exactly, but certainly a place where we can while away time in wine and good food.’

  ‘And Mithras knows, you like your comforts.’ Pavo dug a hole in the wet sand with his toe. ‘One word of warning. Keep an eye on Theodosius. Most of the time he seems lost in his religion. But those Christians are dangerous when they suspect unbelievers are wandering too close.’

  Corvus shrugged. ‘We have our loyal band to watch our backs.’ He glanced back at the milling men, all of them hand-picked from the worshippers of Mithras. ‘I quite enjoy being a Heliodromus. Some respect at last.’

  The road disappeared into the black maw of a great forest. As he peered into that darkness, Corvus felt an inexplicable shiver. The trees reached as far as the eye could see on both sides of the track. Above them, shrieking crows blackened the sky.

  ‘Just birds,’ Pavo said as if he could read his friend’s thoughts.

  ‘There’s an old woman who lives by the river beyond Rome’s walls who swears they’re lost souls.’