Dark Age

by James Wilde

  Thunder cracked the night sky. The rain drummed on the earth and a growing pool shimmered like gold in each lightning flash.

  In her tent, Catia hugged her knees, looking out into the summer storm. She’d smelled the wind, seen the clouds building on the horizon in the late afternoon. She’d known this was coming.

  Her thoughts flew over the dark, sodden fields, the dripping forests and the grey lakes, and she saw the Attacotti making their way back. White shapes whipping through the shadows, knives in hand, blades nicked from bones, their lips already mouthing the strange words of the solemn ritual they would utter as they began their feast. Devoid of human emotion, relentless as death.

  As if in answer to her grim thoughts, she heard, or thought she heard, a croaking voice, almost lost beneath the pounding of the deluge: ‘Deep in the forest, Cernunnos howls.’ Or perhaps it was her mind playing tricks on her.

  The weight of her child pressed down. She could sense it drawing life from her, growing stronger, making her weary and sick in equal measure. A king in the making. What a world this child would inherit.

  A shape loomed in the entrance to the tent. Her guard, a sour-faced, lank-haired Scot, eased inside after emptying his bladder. He shook himself, showering her with rain. He didn’t apologize. She was less than nothing to him.

  ‘Did you hear someone?’ she asked. ‘Out there?’

  ‘In this storm? Have you lost your wits? Nobody but a jolt-head would venture out there.’

  ‘I thought I heard something,’ she murmured.

  ‘Sleep,’ he grunted, throwing himself down.

  ‘When I was a girl I heard a story about a Queen of Fury. This was not long after Rome first took this isle. The invaders had her whipped and her daughters raped, so the tale said, but this queen did not submit to her punishment. She brought the tribes of Britannia together, as your tribes came together, and she led a great revolt. So powerful was her rage that she almost drove Rome from these shores.’

  ‘As we will do,’ the guard muttered.

  ‘You do not have a Queen of Fury.’

  ‘Sleep, or I’ll cuff your ear, whatever Erca says.’

  ‘Imagine. Within a hair of defeating the power of Rome. What a wonder she must have been.’

  ‘Sleep!’

  Catia’s fingers closed around the rock she had found earlier and she bashed the guard’s brains in.

  Out in the turbulent night, she stalked among the tents, her blonde hair plastered to her head. The spattered blood soaked into pink clouds across her dripping dress. She paused outside one tent, where a row of round shields stood under a bowing shelter. Axes and javelins were racked behind them, out of the elements, and three bows and quivers. Catia trailed her fingers along them until she found one that suited her. She slung the quiver over her back.

  The storm seemed to swallow the camp. Her ears rang with thunder. Rain lashed her body. In the centre of that growing pool, she nocked an arrow and drew her bow. Waiting. Waiting. At that moment, she surprised herself by thinking fondly of Lucanus’ father, Lucanus the Elder, and remembering all the times he had leaned over her when she was a girl, teaching her how to use the bow, building the strength in her arms, forcing her to focus, and breathe at the right moment. She smiled to herself. He’d honoured her with that skill.

  Lightning flashed.

  Her shaft flew.

  Before the white light faded, she glimpsed the arrow protruding from the face of the watchman.

  Feeling around until she found his body in the dark, she dug her fingers into his furs and uncovered his long-bladed knife.

  Bellicus jerked awake. Rainwater sluiced around his head in the badly erected tent; why make any effort for captives who were going to be dead before too long? But it wasn’t that that had woken him.

  A weight crushed his legs. He kicked out, cursing as it rolled off him.

  ‘Can’t even get a good sleep on my last night,’ Solinus grumbled.

  Bellicus smelled blood, and when he kicked out again felt the softness under his foot, and he realized the weight was the body of their guard. Before he could call out, the tent flap lashed open in the gale. A silhouette loomed in the entrance.

  Lightning shimmered.

  Catia was hunched over, the whites of her eyes shining around her dilated pupils. The guard’s blood spattered her face. She drew the back of her hand across it, smearing the gore around her mouth so that it looked as if she had feasted on raw meat.

  But then she drew herself up, finding once again the woman inside the beast. Her hand fell to her side and Bellicus saw she was holding a knife. Ruby droplets fell from the tip to the body at her feet.

  The Grim Wolf felt her cold gaze upon him, and he almost squirmed. She spat a bloody gobbet on to the ground.

  ‘This King Who Will Not Die,’ she began. Her voice was low and strong, not a tone Bellicus expected to hear from someone who had been held captive by the barbarians for so long. ‘Why should it not be a queen?’

  Scrambling in, she wrenched him around and sawed at his bonds. While he rubbed the life back into his wrists, Catia turned her attention to Solinus, then Comitinus.

  ‘Now she’s embarrassed us,’ Solinus grumbled. ‘Showing us how a rescue should be done.’

  ‘We’re not away from here yet.’ Bellicus hauled himself to the entrance and looked out into the night. It was too dark to see anything.

  ‘The watchman?’ he asked.

  ‘Dead.’ Catia’s voice sounded wintry.

  ‘They’ll be changing the duty soon enough in this weather.’

  ‘Then let’s not stay here talking.’ Catia thrust him aside and stalked out into the storm.

  ‘Fuck me, we’ll be out of work soon enough,’ Solinus said. ‘Bunch of useless Grim Wolves.’

  ‘Why don’t you shut your mouth and learn something,’ Comitinus replied.

  Bellicus splashed after Catia as the other two tumbled out of the tent behind him. As he lurched through the sucking mud, he felt the fire begin to creep back into his limbs after being bound for so long.

  Once they’d left the tents behind and leaned into the hammering wind, he heard a cry erupt at their backs. His heart sank. It sounded as though the dead watchman had been discovered.

  A torch burst into life, guttering in the gale. Erca was holding the brand aloft, and a host of other barbarians was surging beside him.

  Catia sprang to Bellicus’ side. Her bow was drawn, an arrow pointed directly at the Scoti leader. The torch that had revealed him had made him a target.

  ‘Kill him,’ Bellicus bellowed. ‘Cut off the head and this war-band will fall apart.’

  Catia hesitated for a moment, no doubt getting her measure in the buffeting wind. She let fly. The arrow whistled a hand’s width from Erca’s head and thumped into a man standing behind him. Bellicus frowned. He’d never known Catia to miss before. Fear and worry got the best of all of them.

  The torchlight winked out. Now all were equally hampered by the night and the storm.

  ‘Run,’ he shouted. ‘And don’t look back.’

  Bellicus, Solinus and Comitinus raced on ahead. Catia pulled herself up the slope and allowed herself one look back at the sea of dark where the camp lay.

  ‘You are not alone.’

  Catia jumped, her knife flashing up. ‘Step closer,’ she snarled.

  For a moment there was no sound beyond the storm, and then lightning crashed across the sky. Catia jerked back. A line of people stood barely a spear’s length from her. She’d had no sense they were there, never even heard them approach. As the after-image burned in her mind, she realized she was not looking at Picts or Scoti. The men were filthy, dressed in rags the colour of bark and mildew, hair and beards wild. They carried staffs and cudgels; a few bore axes.

  These were the forest folk, those who had moved into the Wilds long ago, after the Romans came, living away from the sight of civilized folk. The ones who had sheltered the wood-priests after the great slaughter on Ynys
Môn. Who still held the old days and the old gods deep in their hearts.

  And towering over the others was a single warrior, his hands resting on a longsword. His face was hidden by a helmet of a kind she’d never seen before. The steel edged his jawline, an open section running up from his chin to twin eyeholes. A round shield hung on one arm. His tunic, cloak and leggings were filthy too.

  In another flash of lightning, she saw him sheathe his long blade and step towards her. ‘I am the Lord of the Greenwood.’

  ‘A friend?’

  ‘Of all those who believe in the coming of the King Who Will Not Die. I follow the Pendragon, whoever wears that crown.’

  Catia sagged with relief. In the distance, she could hear Bellicus shouting her name.

  ‘Myrrdin sent me to aid you. We will hold back the band sent out to hunt you down, be they arcani or barbarian.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You were well chosen, wolf-sister.’

  She flinched, surprised at the use of the name that Lucanus had given her.

  ‘Now go,’ he said in a rumbling voice. As he turned back to his ramshackle band, he added, ‘You will see me again, when it is darkest.’

  Catia felt she had many questions to ask, but she couldn’t wait. Spinning on her heels, she stumbled through the gusting wind and the thrashing rain, trying to follow the sound of Bellicus’ voice.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Londinium

  River Tamesis, not far from Alaunodunum

  IN THE BRIGHT noon sun, the figure on the hillside was little more than a dark blotch. A man, it seemed, though he hadn’t moved since the column of boats rounded the bend in the river. He was watching their approach, there was little doubt about that, and from his position and his lone appearance Lucanus had the strangest feeling that he had been waiting for them.

  ‘You see more than me?’

  Mato shook his head. They were standing beside each other in the prow. ‘Too much glare from the sun. But still, one only. How much threat can that be?’

  ‘If he’s a watchman for a hidden army, then a great threat.’

  ‘Thoughts like that are why you were chosen as the Pendragon.’

  Lucanus could never tell when Mato was taunting him. His friend had taken it upon himself to keep all feet upon the ground, and that was just what Lucanus needed.

  Since they’d encountered the welcoming party on the banks of the river, they’d seen no sign of any enemy. In the hamlets and villas they drifted past, folk still went about their business. Barley fields were threshed. Wood was cut. Cows were milked. The only sign of the approaching dark was the columns of refugees trudging relentlessly towards the south-east. In their hunched shoulders and staring eyes, Lucanus had seen his mission renewed.

  ‘Of course,’ Mato added, ‘we can never be certain how much of the horde has crept along the drove roads without pausing to sack the villages, just so they can get ahead of a small band of farmers with dreams of being warriors.’

  ‘Do I hear the buzzing of a fly?’ The Wolf wafted a hand. Mato grinned, but didn’t take his shielded eyes off that shadow.

  Lucanus looked back along the boat. His men seemed to have regained some of their fire since they’d pulled away from danger. Apullius had fashioned himself a sword from a broken branch, and he was sparring with his brother, the Mouse, on one of the benches. He was keen, Lucanus gave him that. But also searching for purpose, no doubt, after the death of his father and mother.

  Amarina, Decima and Galantha lounged on a bench beyond the boys, faces turned to the sun. The eyes of the men rarely left them. The three women knew that, of course, though they never showed it. Lucanus could see it in the curve of their lips, like cats toying with mice.

  And aft, Aelius sat mopping the brow of his father Menius. A good son, Lucanus thought, and felt an odd twist in his gut.

  ‘Wait,’ Mato exclaimed.

  The Wolf turned back to the prow. His friend was pointing at that watcher on the hill.

  ‘Do you see it yet?’

  Lucanus squinted, and after a moment he stiffened.

  He stood in silence as the boat drifted on. Dragonflies flitted among the rushes and the shadows of the overhanging branches dappled the glinting water. At some point – perhaps he had not been concentrating – the figure had disappeared from the hillside.

  But as they rounded another bend in that majestic river, there the watcher was.

  ‘I would have expected a sense of urgency,’ Myrrdin called.

  ‘I’m starting to think that the only great plan you have is to torment me.’

  Lucanus stood over the wood-priest as he lay back in the prow, swilling wine from a skin that he had appropriated somewhere along his journey.

  ‘I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find some enjoyment in it.’ Myrrdin smacked his lips and wiped the ruby residue away with the back of his hand.

  ‘Why did you leave me alone at Goibniu’s Smithy?’

  ‘I had business elsewhere.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to warn me?’

  ‘And what business is my business of yours? My business, I said. Mine.’

  ‘I might not have found my way back to the camp.’

  ‘Forgive me for thinking you were arcani, who scouted the wilderness beyond the wall.’ Myrrdin hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly offered the skin.

  Lucanus waved it away. ‘That night …’ His words drained away as the wonders and the terrors rushed back.

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Myrrdin asked.

  ‘I wasn’t looking for anything.’

  ‘Is that what you told yourself?’

  ‘Stop speaking in riddles.’

  ‘I speak perfect sense. If you don’t have the wit to understand me, that’s not my problem.’ He rested one hand on the staff at his side as he thought, then said, ‘You are becoming the dragon, Wolf. You have scales and wings, and soon you’ll breathe fire. You will become the Ouroboros, and then the circle will be unbroken.’

  Lucanus bunched his fists, but there was nothing to hit beside the wood-priest. He thought about it for a moment.

  ‘If we lose this war, wood-priest, it’ll all be over for the rest of us. Your kind will no doubt creep back into the forests and hide away for another few years until you find some other fool who’ll play your games.’

  Heaving himself to his feet, Myrrdin leaned on his staff. Lucanus felt the cold scrutiny of his eyes. ‘You do me a wrong, Wolf. This is no game. There has never been a more serious business. I’ve given you a chance. An army … small, yes, for now, but growing. One that might make a difference in the war with the tribes, now Rome has deserted you.’ He tapped his staff on Lucanus’ shoulder, his voice softening. ‘And if Cernunnos is willing, the Chalice will be brought back to you.’

  ‘The Chalice? Catia?’

  ‘You sent your allies to save her, I sent mine. The Lord of the Greenwood is a force to be reckoned with. You know that.’

  Lucanus nodded.

  ‘He is the power of Cernunnos in human form, and the forest folk will follow him to the ends of the earth. The hidden folk of this land’ – he smiled – ‘the true arcani will creep out from the woods and the marshes and the lonely hilltops, and they will smite down any who would harm her. Do not underestimate them, Wolf. They may not be warriors. They do not wear armour or carry swords. But they are as hard as the winter ground, and just as cold when their way of life is under threat.’

  Lucanus scarcely dared believe it. He had tried to put Catia out of his mind – it was the hope that killed him by degrees. But in that moment he felt emotion rush up inside him. ‘If you can bring Catia back to me, wood-priest, I will follow you to the ends of the earth.’

  Myrrdin smiled once more, but his wintry eyes seemed to be looking to some distant horizon.

  ‘Breathe deep,’ Mato said.

  Lucanus sniffed the breeze and tasted woodsmoke and shit and the acrid belching of furnaces. ‘Londinium.’ He fel
t his chest heave with relief.

  ‘Well, Lucanus, it appears you have saved us all,’ Amarina said in a wry tone.

  The Wolf nodded. There had been many times when he had thought he would never see this day. When the barbarian horde had crashed across the wall in the north. The perilous journey across the high country with that wave of blood and iron at their back. Searching futilely for a place of sanctuary when the whole of Britannia seemed to be burning. When Catia was taken, and Marcus killed, when there seemed no light left in the world. And then this final leg through the green lands of the south, with the barbarians so close at their heels he could smell their sweat.

  ‘How much of the army will have gathered here?’ Aelius enquired.

  ‘A good part, I would think,’ Lucanus replied. ‘They will have tried to make their way here from every garrison that has fallen. Many must have escaped death at the swords of the invaders.’

  Mato sighed, allowing himself to show his exhaustion as he all but collapsed against the side of the boat. ‘Behind the walls, we can see out the winter. Rest, lick our wounds, grow strong. And in that time our own army should have increased in number.’

  ‘Food for empty bellies,’ Apullius said. Lucanus could almost hear the lad licking his lips.

  ‘And a leech who can make my father well again,’ Aelius said. He gripped Lucanus’ arm. ‘Thank you. Menius would have died long ago without your leadership. Your own father would have been proud. Menius has whispered that to me many a time as I cared for him.’

  The Wolf stepped on to the front bench and looked over the weary heads of his men to the mismatched fleet that drifted on the Tamesis beyond. ‘Londinium,’ he called. And as heads rose and eyes brightened, he shouted it louder still. ‘Londinium!’

  A cheer rose up in his own boat, growing louder as the men realized what the word meant. And then it leapt from boat to boat, moving down the river.

  ‘Now that is fine music,’ Mato said.

  Oars dipped and flashed with renewed power, and soon the flotilla was speeding along the grey water. The river had widened as it meandered across the broad valley floor, the city still hidden by the bends and the trees. But as Lucanus looked around, he could see signs that they were moving closer to civilization. Small boats were moored at jetties along both banks. Creels were piled up and rods with lines were jammed in the mud. Homes dotted the fields, some shacks, but the white walls of larger villas gleamed in the sunlight in the distance. This was a place of wealth. Every now and then he glimpsed folk at their labours. They’d straighten themselves up and stare in amazement at the odd collection of vessels speeding downriver. His men waved and cheered in return, only adding to their bewilderment.