Dark Age

by James Wilde

  Lucanus peered into the depths, but even with the meagre spring growth it was like dusk beneath the branches.

  ‘Another charm here,’ Mato called from further along the treeline.

  ‘And another,’ Aelius shouted.

  ‘Someone is telling us to keep out,’ Bellicus said.

  ‘The trail goes in here,’ Lucanus repeated, his voice hardening.

  Amarina caught his arm. ‘Take care. Three witch-charms …’ Her voice trailed away and a shadow flickered across her face.

  She was a woman of secrets, was Amarina, and she was trying to find words that would not give anything away.

  ‘Some believe there are places in this world that are close to the Otherworld,’ she continued. ‘The gods … and other things … daemons, perhaps … can walk there with ease. And unwise men may fall through and never be seen again. So some say.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  Her lips shifted slightly into the ghost of a wry smile. ‘I believe in treading with care.’

  Lucanus stared ahead, hesitating for only a moment. Then he pushed on into the forest.

  Under the canopy, only the crunch of feet on dry twigs rang out. An odd mood hung in the air, although he wasn’t sure if it was simply the echo of Amarina’s words. All the chatter had died away.

  On they pressed, clawing their way past moss-coated trees, winding through rocky outcroppings topped with fern. Every now and then, he felt his skin turn to gooseflesh as a voice whispered his name, away among the ash trees. Or perhaps it was merely the wind soughing through the branches.

  The Grim Wolves took it in turns to scout ahead. Not long after Mato had set off along the trail, Lucanus jerked at the blast of a whistle. He threw himself past a dense bank of holly and found his friend kneeling by a marker stone beside the track. Though it was weathered with age, Lucanus could make out a carving, a face made of leaves. He’d seen this before, in the great forest beyond the wall.

  ‘An old way,’ Mato breathed, ‘from the days before Rome came.’

  ‘We shouldn’t be here,’ Comitinus murmured.

  On they marched, deeper into the darkness.

  Lucanus glimpsed movement away among the trees, little more than shadows. But whatever was keeping pace with them left them well alone.

  In that place, night came down fast. The camp sprang up among the trees on either side of the narrow trail. Men nestled in the arms of twisted roots as thick as their waist. No song rang out to keep the approaching dark at bay; no talk. Hands were held towards the flickering flames, but the fires seemed to give off less heat than usual, so they huddled closer, their breath steaming in the growing chill.

  Lucanus pulled Catia close under the thick fur of his wolfskin. He felt the knots in his shoulders loosen from the mere bloom of her warmth against his skin. Across the forest, a full moon punched shafts of white light through the thickening canopy. All was still.

  ‘We’ll find Weylyn, and return to the north, and live the life we were meant to have,’ he breathed. It was almost a prayer, repeated time and again. Catia nestled closer.

  As he looked out across the silhouettes of his dozing men, he felt sure he could see blue flames flickering along the trail deeper into the forest, a sapphire river pulling him on to whatever future the Fates held for him.

  Perhaps it was only a trick of the lambent moon-rays and that landscape of pure light and deep shadow. But his time in Goibniu’s Smithy had changed him in ways he was still discovering, and sometimes he saw more than other men, he was certain.

  He felt the steady rise and fall of Catia’s chest and the heaviness of her head on his shoulder and knew she’d fallen asleep. For a while, he watched and listened, wondering why there was no hoot of owl nor flit of bat. And then he drifted in and out of sleep himself, until he found it impossible to tell what were dreams and what was waking.

  At some point, he felt convinced he was being watched again. Figures seemed to be gathered just beyond that flickering light, an otherworldly court with a king with antlers and a queen whose skin glowed like gold. When he forced his eyes wide, they melted away. Just twisted branch and waving frond remained.

  And then, much later, in that temple-like silence, he thought he heard a dim snuffling. Some great beast circled them, pausing every now and then to snort and scrape its hooves upon the forest floor. The dark bulk of it, horns rising and falling: not a beast at all but a near-forgotten god. Cernunnos, who stands in the forest and howls.

  This was the world Myrrdin was drawing him into, a place as ancient and implacable and terrifying as the deepest heart of the forest or the heaving ocean under the stars.

  Lucanus slipped into a dreamless sleep.

  At dawn, the interlopers pulled themselves to their feet and trudged on. Lucanus sensed an odd mood, as if everyone there had experienced something troubling during the long night. But no one spoke of it.

  Through that day and another they marched, the forest becoming thicker, the path narrower. But then, with the sun slipping down the western sky, the Wolf saw Mato’s nostrils flare. He breathed in and tasted the hint of woodsmoke on the breeze. A hundred strides further and he raised his hand to halt the advance. Now he could hear what sounded like a heartbeat.

  Boom, boom, boom.

  The pulse of the very earth itself.

  ‘Drums,’ Bellicus muttered.

  For a long moment, no one moved.

  Lucanus felt a tug on his arm. Apullius was pointing away into the trees. He followed the lad’s direction and saw figures moving towards that steady thrum, in ones and twos, heads bowed as if they were being summoned. Silent, like ghosts.

  ‘The forest folk,’ Apullius breathed. ‘How long have they been there?’

  ‘They pay no heed to us.’ Bellicus watched them, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Where are they going?’ Apullius pressed.

  Lucanus strode on ahead, matching the pace of those distant supplicants, drawing ever closer to the sound of the drums.

  ‘The child will be here soon.’ Hecate mopped the sweat from Gaia’s brow.

  ‘This is not the auspicious occasion I’d hoped for,’ Corvus said as he paced around them. His mother was lying on the roughly constructed bier their horse had dragged since they’d been forced to abandon the wagon at the edge of the great forest. He studied her flushed face, the feverish dart of her eyes. This was not a good place to give birth, but what choice did they have? ‘Still, these are the trials one must face on the road to greatness,’ he continued, showing a brave face.

  Hecate smiled. If she had any worries, his words seemed to calm them. She’d follow him through the gates of hell, that one.

  ‘This seed planted so long ago will soon bear fruit,’ Pavo whispered in his ear.

  Corvus stepped away from the two women so they wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Aye. If this plan doesn’t fall apart, like all the others.’

  ‘You can blame your old friend Theodosius for that. I always said he couldn’t be trusted.’

  ‘True. True. But what could be done? He served a purpose for long enough, a man of influence like that.’ Corvus eyed Hecate and the tenderness of her touch as she cared for Gaia. ‘She’ll make our case for us when the time comes, and she’ll do it out of love. That will give it the ring of truth. A wood-priest would have been better, true, but the witches still carry some weight among these pagans.’

  ‘First you need to find someone who’ll hear your case.’

  ‘Once my sister’s child is dead, that should be easy enough.’ Corvus watched Severus stooping among the trees as he collected the plants that Hecate had demanded to help with whatever spells and charms she planned to brew to keep his mother safe during the birth. ‘They’ll be in need of a saviour or else all that they’ve planned across the long years will come to nothing. And lo, we’ll have one, ripe and ready. An heir to the Dragon, the blood that will bring forth the King Who Will Not Die, so the story they like to tell themselves will still stand. How could they
say no?’

  Corvus leaned back against an oak and folded his arms. The journey from Londinium had been exhausting. If only the wood-priest hadn’t fled with the child before he’d managed to reach the house of whores. Then it had been a matter of stealing a wagon and setting off in pursuit. Mithras or whatever gods there were must have been smiling on them, for they’d managed to avoid the war-bands until they reached this forest.

  At some point they’d lost the trail, and found themselves adrift among the trees. But the distant rumble of the drums told him they were not too far from their prey.

  ‘Ho!’

  Corvus looked round at the cry and saw Bucco scampering around an ash tree. His ruined face was flushed and he wheezed as he bounded up.

  ‘Faith, oh faith, it keeps us warm,’ the dwarf gasped.

  Corvus raised an eyebrow. He didn’t trust their little helper, not at all. But if there was one thing he knew about men like Bucco, even little men, it was that the lure of power and gold quickly brought them into line. ‘Your excitement tells me your search has not been a vain one.’

  The dwarf pointed a trembling hand back the way he had come. ‘The drums, yes, the drums, you were right. We will find the wood-priest there, no doubt, no doubt. But there is more.’ He flapped his hands on his knees and sucked in a deep breath.

  ‘I think I might die from anticipation.’

  ‘More, yes. Drawing through the forest. Old friends. I spied them.’

  ‘Old friends?’

  ‘Lucanus, the Head of the Dragon, and your sister. And more. Fighting men.’

  Corvus glanced at Pavo, unable to contain his smile. ‘And suddenly our work becomes so much easier.’

  ‘Not too much of a surprise. Did you expect them to give up their child without a fight?’ his friend said.

  ‘There are too many of them,’ Bucco continued. ‘What do we do?’

  Corvus raised one finger. ‘Stealth works wonders where others turn to brute force. We watch, and we bide our time. Sooner or later we’ll see an opening. A knife in the night. Tiptoe away. Our work is done.’

  ‘In the dark, you won’t have to look at your sister’s face,’ Pavo said.

  Corvus winced at that.

  As soon as Hecate had finished her ministrations, Corvus and Severus strapped the bier to the horse. When they were so close that the boom of the drums filled the air, Corvus held up his hand. ‘We’ll make camp here,’ he said. ‘Far enough away not to fall prey to prying eyes. Close enough to creep in under cover of night and do our work.’

  Space to think, that was what he needed. Hecate’s chirping had become an irritation, and with Bucco’s constant babbling it was all he could do to keep half a thought in his head. He clambered over twining roots and found a lightning-blasted oak where he could sit and ruminate.

  ‘Close now, Pavo,’ he murmured. ‘We can’t allow anything else to go wrong.’

  ‘It’s in the lap of the gods,’ his friend replied.

  Corvus watched the sun as it crept through the branches. When it reddened, he looked away. All he could see was his brother’s blood smeared on the floor of his mother’s house in Rome moments after he had hacked off Ruga’s right hand. He hadn’t thought of it once since that moment. Why now?

  He felt it squirming away inside him, like a maggot, and he realized he couldn’t bear to sit in silence any more. He needed that chirping and babbling.

  Pushing himself to his feet, he turned. He saw the movement first, the swarm of bodies, and then the sword-hilt crunched against his forehead.

  When his wits returned, he found himself looking up at a circle of faces: barbarians, with wild hair and beards. He sensed more of them moving in the trees just beyond.

  A huge figure loomed over him. The head was wrapped in filthy rags and Corvus realized this must be the Pictish king Arrist.

  He grunted something in that guttural barbarian tongue, Corvus didn’t know what. But then a much smaller, rat-faced man thrust his way forward. ‘I am Logen of the Fire’s Heart. I can understand your tongue.’

  ‘I’m only a poor deserter. No threat to you,’ Corvus said. This Logen’s eyes were like nail-heads. He wouldn’t find much sympathy there.

  Another barbarian with a mane of black hair pushed forward. Logen turned and grunted a few incomprehensible words, no doubt relaying what Corvus had said. He heard the name Erca and remembered the Wolf talking about his sister’s captor. Erca and the king spat a few more words between them. No love lost there, Corvus thought.

  Arrist snarled something and hands wrenched Corvus to his feet. Back through the woods he was dragged, to the camp, where more barbarians held the others.

  ‘They came out of nowhere,’ Gaia cried. ‘Oh, my son, save us.’

  Arrist and Erca took turns to snarl what sounded like orders as Logen listened. When they fell silent the rat-faced man nodded and stepped back to Corvus.

  ‘I know nothing about the army’s strategy, if that’s what you think,’ Corvus said quickly. ‘They’d crucify me in an instant if they caught me.’

  Logen translated, and Corvus crashed to the ground once more at the hands of his captors.

  Another man stepped forward. He was naked to the waist, his braided hair clacking with beads. Tattoos blackened the left side of his face. He crouched so he could look Corvus in the eye.

  ‘I’m Motius, of the Carrion Crows. Arcani,’ he said.

  One of the traitors, Corvus thought, and was wise enough not to say it.

  ‘Your army routed us,’ Motius continued. ‘They would like nothing more than to have the head of the great king here, and so they keep coming, and coming. We’ve been cut off from the rest of our own army. But we heard of a place hereabouts where the Roman army dare not venture. Where we could rest for a while and build up our forces so we can strike back. You know of it? Is that why you’re here, so deep in the woods?’

  ‘Of course,’ Corvus said. ‘We can lead you to it. No need to draw blood.’

  ‘He lies,’ Logen spat. ‘He knows nothing.’

  Before Corvus could react, the rat-faced man had translated for Arrist and Erca, and the king snarled a response.

  Logen looked around the circle of barbarians. ‘Kill them all. Except her.’ He stabbed a finger towards Hecate. ‘She’s a witch, and we don’t want that kind as enemies.’

  ‘Wait, wait,’ Bucco cried, his voice cracking. ‘Spare our lives and I’ll tell you how to gain all the power you need to keep hold of Britannia.’

  When Logen had relayed his words to the barbarians Arrist flexed his fingers and two Scoti warriors let the dwarf go free. He tumbled forward, rolled and jumped to his feet in front of the king. Everyone laughed.

  ‘Loose your tongue,’ Logen said.

  ‘I have a story to tell of a child with royal blood, and a King Who Will Not Die,’ Bucco began.

  Corvus saw Erca’s eyes narrow, and wondered why.

  ‘Take the child,’ the dwarf continued. ‘Kill all the others you find, yes, yes. They will only try to stand in your way. But take the child and power will be yours.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  What was Old is New Again

  UNDER A CRIMSON sky, the wild-haired forest folk whirled in ecstatic dance.

  Lucanus stepped from the treeline and gaped. The silhouette of a giant hung against the incarnadine sun edging the horizon. At its feet, a bonfire roared on the edge of a vast circle of standing stones.

  The Wolf blinked, trying to make sense of the monstrosity he was seeing. When it didn’t move, he realized it was a statue of some kind, constructed from interlaced branches. Dark holes stared down at him from a face of leaf and ivy and fern.

  He felt judged.

  Through the gaps in the wood, he could see squirming inside. Bleating occasionally punctured the space between the drumbeats. Sheep? A wheel hung from the left hand, and the right clutched what appeared to be a thunderbolt ready to smash any who did not bow their head to this primeval power.

&n
bsp; The Wolf sensed his men gradually emerging from the forest, then becoming rooted in awe. He drew Caledfwlch and that seemed to stir them from their daze.

  Blades levelled.

  From the numbers gathered there, and those still streaming in, they would have a fight on their hands, if that was what it came to. Lucanus swept his sword from side to side as he searched the milling crowd. Heads swivelled towards him, eyes gleaming red in the firelight. None seemed to care about the intruders.

  ‘Myrrdin!’ he yelled.

  The pounding drums swallowed his cry, yet the crowd parted and the wood-priest stepped forward, Weylyn nestled in the crook of his arm. Myrrdin smiled, and Lucanus felt his anger whip up into a frenzy. He lunged forward.

  As one, the forest folk surged into a barrier between him and his prey. Now they did care, and the scowls blackening their faces promised a rending limb from limb. Through the churning mass, he could still see the wood-priest smiling. Myrrdin said something he couldn’t hear, and the defenders stepped back. This time the druid held out the babe, and Catia darted forward to take him, tears glimmering in her eyes.

  Myrrdin whisked up one hand, and the forest folk spun back into their reel, leaving him standing alone with one hand on his staff.

  ‘I should cut you down now,’ Lucanus snarled.

  ‘Why? For saving the child’s life?’

  The Wolf wavered. ‘You stole him.’

  The wood-priest pointed the end of his staff at Lucanus. ‘Our enemy escaped his cell. He was coming to murder him.’

  The Wolf lunged again. This time Bellicus clapped a hand on his shoulder to hold him back. ‘Hear him out.’

  Myrrdin continued: ‘If that’s so, you might ask, why did I need to bring him all the way here, to this place that is older than time? I have two answers to that question, Wolf. The first is that Avalon in the west is the only safe place for all of us, but you would never have come if I’d not lured you out. You still cling on to a dream of returning to your old life in the north. And that choice would have seen you, and Catia, and the child all slain. You needed to come, all of you. The circle. Only then would the boy be kept safe.’