Dark Age

by James Wilde

  Now nothing stood in their way. No more enemies, no death or suffering. Even the Attacotti seemed no longer a threat after Lucanus and Myrrdin’s encounter with them, so the gossip among the men said.

  The long war was over and the sanctuary Myrrdin had promised them waited ahead.

  The wood-priest’s speech when they were reunited was unwavering: ‘Now that the boy Weylyn has been baptized, the path to his own destiny is almost clear,’ he had said. ‘All that waits is for the gate to be opened at the Isle of Apples, and then we may enter the haunted land and seek the approval of the great council.’

  The haunted land.

  Mato turned and surveyed the men sprawling on their backs, red-faced in the sun after the long march. Some sluiced water into their mouths from their skins. Others watched white clouds scudding across the blue, relieved, no doubt, that the fighting was behind them.

  Not far away, Apullius and Morirex emerged from the trees lining a valley they had skirted on their journey here. The older boy caught his eye with a frantic wave and he hurried over.

  ‘We followed Myrrdin as you bid us,’ Apullius said, glancing back down the valley side. ‘The druid is always wary and I had to keep my distance. But Morirex kept watch on him from the branches.’

  Mato ruffled the younger lad’s hair as Morirex grinned. ‘Any army would be proud to have the two of you on their side.’ And it was true. He’d never seen anyone work harder at learning the skills they were acquiring. Morirex was already a decent scout. Apullius would grow up to be a fine warrior, if the swordplay he’d already picked up from Lucanus was any guide.

  ‘Come, quickly.’ Apullius tugged at his pelt.

  Soon they were prowling down the valley side in the cool shade under the trees.

  ‘Why don’t you trust the wood-priest?’ Morirex whispered.

  ‘He’s not an enemy. He’s helped us enough times,’ Apullius added.

  ‘Myrrdin helps himself. He only makes you think he’s helping you.’ Mato slowed his step. Now he could hear the drone of voices somewhere ahead. ‘Myrrdin is trustworthy when his own plans align with yours. And when they don’t, beware. He’ll do anything in his power to trick you into walking his path.’

  ‘So we are to keep spying on him?’ Morirex asked.

  ‘At all times, and especially when he seems to be doing nothing. Even when you sleep, keep one eye open. Tell me everything.’

  The valley floor was a patchwork of sunlight and shadow. They crept alongside a tinkling brook past a stinking bog clotted with sedge until Mato glimpsed two figures deep in conversation. Myrrdin leaned on his staff. Aelius lounged along a fallen tree in the sun, his good arm folded behind his head.

  Waving Apullius and Morirex to stay back, Mato eased forward until he could overhear the conversation.

  ‘I foresee a great destiny for you,’ the wood-priest was saying to the other man.

  ‘Great destiny comes cheap these days, it seems.’ Aelius’ tone was as wry as ever.

  ‘Pretend you are nothing as much as you want, but I know you’re not the same acid-tongued drunk who set out from Vercovicium on this journey. The war has changed you. You’ve risen to every challenge, become a general who commands the respect of all here. There isn’t a man in that war-band who wouldn’t want you leading them into battle.’

  Aelius pretended to enjoy the sun, but Mato could see him scrutinizing the druid from beneath his lashes. ‘I’m happy with the part I play. Besides, what else could I do?’

  ‘This struggle has been long in the making, and it will reach long into the years to come. If the King Who Will Not Die is to be born into the world, champions will always be needed—’

  Aelius guffawed. ‘Champions? Look down that long nose of yours at who you’re speaking to, wood-priest.’

  The wood-priest prowled around the supine man, tapping his staff on the soft ground in a steady beat. ‘There is always a greater part to play, for good men and women. For one, Weylyn will need shepherding, protecting.’

  ‘Surely that’s work for Lucanus and Catia?’

  Myrrdin did not reply.

  Mato narrowed his eyes as he studied Aelius. He could see the younger man was considering the offer.

  Weighing the moment, he pushed himself up and walked forward. ‘The wood-priest makes a good argument, as always.’

  Aelius jerked up. Myrrdin’s face darkened, but he kept his smile.

  ‘I came here to get away from the constant tramping and farting and bickering and now everyone I know is wandering through,’ Aelius said, cocking an eyebrow.

  ‘Think twice before you take the druid up on his offer … or any offer, for that matter,’ Mato said. ‘The wood-priests don’t care about anyone. Only their schemes. Everyone who heeds them will, sooner or later, be sent marching towards the enemy to be cut down.’

  ‘Spying on me, Grim Wolf?’

  ‘Always.’ Mato held the druid’s gaze.

  ‘Those are harsh words.’

  ‘But true.’

  ‘You should not make an enemy of me.’

  Mato held out both hands. ‘Of course not. We are friends. A bond forged in struggle, there is no greater.’

  Aelius levered himself up and bowed. ‘I’ll leave you to your debate. Somewhere in this great wide world there must be a place where I can find a little quiet.’

  Once he’d gone, Myrrdin said, ‘Aelius will heed me, you know. He has a lifetime behind him of being spat upon, dismissed. The lure of importance is too great.’

  ‘Now you’re showing me how the magic works. That is never wise.’

  ‘I tell you because there’s nothing you can do to prevent it.’ Myrrdin’s eyes glittered.

  ‘The schemes of wood-priests always unfold as planned?’

  Myrrdin nodded slowly.

  ‘You are not gods. Or the Fates. Only men. Never forget that.’

  The druid glided past him without a sideways glance.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Call of the Greenwood

  AD 368, The Western Levels, 24 April

  THE MIST ON the Levels shifted and the lamp of a full moon shimmered in the vast black pools of the marsh. Only the creaking of the damp wooden trackway disturbed the silence.

  As he edged along the oak timbers suspended just above the water, Bellicus gripped his sword more tightly. The fog muffled any sound.

  An enemy was waiting ahead, he was certain of it. But who?

  The horde was gone. Passing soldiers told them Theodosius the Elder had already dispatched a message to Valentinian that he had restored Britannia to the empire.

  Lulled by that news, their column of men had wound on through the verdant landscape, following Myrrdin’s directions and trading stories with the curious locals, who’d escaped the worst of the barbarian attack. Villas still thrived, farmland flourished and the markets buzzed with life. They filled their bellies on fat game and slept under clear skies in the growing spring warmth.

  And then they’d crested a dizzying ridge and trudged in the direction of the lowlands stretching out towards the great shining ocean in the west. Bellicus thought back to the wonder he had felt standing on the high ground looking down on what seemed a vast mirror reflecting spurs of golden sunlight and the blue sky above. It was almost an inland sea, a collection of lakes and pools separated by treacherous bogs that flooded every spring, so the wood-priest said. Out of the centre a great tor rose, so rare in that flat land that he could almost believe it had been shaped by the gods.

  But as they neared the ancient walkway that cut a line through the flooded Levels, they had glimpsed someone tracking them. The figure had disappeared into the bank of pearly fog on the timber track, as if to avoid being seen. Bellicus grunted. He trusted his instincts and they told him to beware.

  A bubble popped in the marsh and he jolted from his reverie.

  On he crept. The mist was shifting all around him, revealing then hiding. He squinted, trying to pierce the white folds. Every now and the
n he’d pause, listening. Perhaps, this time, his instincts had been wrong.

  Too late, he heard the whisper of bare feet on wood. A figure burst from the fog, and off the side he flew.

  Flailing, Bellicus plunged into the marsh. As the mud sucked at his legs, he thrashed out, snatching hold of a handful of rushes. He cursed, feeling the rough fibre burn his palm. It would not save him for long.

  When he craned his neck up, he stared into the grinning face of Motius of the Carrion Crows, caught in a shaft of moonlight.

  ‘You bastard,’ Bellicus snarled, kicking out to try to stop himself sinking further.

  The black tattoo on Motius’ face flexed as his grin grew broader still. The Crow was enjoying watching the last moments of his enemy’s life drain away.

  ‘I have a new ally now. He bade me track you, to make sure you didn’t veer from your path. And once you are all dead, he will reward me well.’

  Corvus.

  ‘You’ve been too confident,’ Motius continued. ‘You thought your battle was done and all the threats long left behind. The truth is, you’ve already lost. You just don’t know it yet.’

  Bellicus grinned, and took succour from the shadow of bafflement that crossed the Crow’s face. Stifling a chuckle, he whistled through his teeth.

  From deep in the mist echoed the sound of paws pounding on the wooden trackway.

  Catulus burst from the fog and leapt. His fangs ripped into Motius’ groin, and the Carrion Crow howled.

  With a violent shake of his head, the hound wrenched away a chunk of meat. Motius stumbled back, and back, until he pitched off the timbers. A stream of rubies glistened in the moonlight and his screams snapped off as the mud swallowed him.

  ‘Good boy, Catulus. Good dog,’ Bellicus called.

  Letting go of the reeds, he thrust his enemy down and held him as he thrashed. If he was going to die, at least he would take this bastard with him. Motius writhed, but only for a moment. The mud rushed into his mouth, then his lungs, and finally Bellicus felt him grow still.

  The Grim Wolf spread his arms out on the surface of the bog to buy a moment or two more. ‘Good boy,’ he murmured, looking up at the panting dog. Blood dripped from its muzzle. He felt a pang of sadness that he would never run with his friend again, and then the mist rolled in and Catulus was lost to him.

  ‘Take this.’

  The voice rumbled through the stillness, one he had heard before, in the grove that night when they had been hoping to free Catia from the Scoti. The golden hilt of a sheathed longsword reached out of the mist and hovered in front of him. Not one to question his good fortune, Bellicus grasped it.

  Once he’d been dragged from the bog, he rolled on his back and gasped in chill air. Catulus licked his face. When he pushed the slavering dog away, a man in a full-face helmet towered over him.

  The Lord of the Greenwood.

  ‘Who are you?’ Bellicus found himself caught in the grip of those burning eyes.

  ‘The champion of Cernunnos, he who howls in the forest. The wild heart of the green. I hear the roar of the oak-men and the whisper of fern and ivy. I sing the song of the wind through the branches.’ He reached out a hand. ‘The god is here, in everything, every leaf and frond, and in me too, and I will fight for him till I die.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Bellicus’ voice cracked.

  Those eyes. Unblinking, bloodshot, a stare that reached into the deepest depths of him.

  Eyes he knew.

  The Lord of the Greenwood grasped the side of that ancient emerald-tinged helm and pushed it up.

  Held fast, Bellicus watched the strong jawline appear, skin flayed to leather by the elements, pitted and criss-crossed with scars, wounds that could have come from a fall upon rocks from a height.

  Even as the Lord of the Greenwood set the helmet aside, Bellicus felt himself reeling, and for a moment he thought he was going mad.

  ‘Old friend,’ the warrior uttered.

  Bellicus shuddered from a racking sob, and then he covered his face. When he finally calmed himself, he looked up and saw he was not mistaken. ‘I thought you dead.’

  Lucanus the Elder nodded. ‘I thought so too, for a while. I remember … falling. Later, there was ice water, and hands on me.’

  His stare didn’t waver, and Bellicus tried to see loathing there, a justified desire for vengeance, but there was none.

  ‘The wood-priests … the witches … the forest folk … they’d been watching me for a long time in the Wilds. Making plans that I knew nothing of.’ His voice creaked like someone not used to speaking. ‘For me. For my son. For Gaia and Catia. Those plans have been long in the making, and they are greater than all of us. We are just driftwood, caught on the waves.’

  Bellicus pushed out his chest. ‘Take your sword. I deserve it.’

  Was that a hint of warmth in the Lord of the Greenwood’s eyes? He couldn’t be sure. There was barely a whisper of the man that had been. The rest driven out by a life lived away from human contact, with only the elements and the whispering gods of the Wilds for company.

  ‘I hold no grudge. We were friends once. The promise of that has gone now, through no fault of either of us, but you meant me no harm that night, I know that. There was no malice there. You had a rage on you. But I knew that fire burned in your chest from the moment I met you, and I accepted it. We are all flawed. And the punishment we inflict on ourselves is worse by far than anything others do.’

  ‘You forgive me?’ Bellicus felt hot tears burn. He’d kept this secret shame inside him for so long, and the sliver of ice had grown until he was filled with hoar frost.

  ‘There is no need to forgive. Forget your guilt. Forget your shame. What’s gone is gone. We are on new roads now.’

  Bellicus felt a rush of relief so great he could barely cope. He threw himself back on his elbows, and laughed, and laughed. The sound boomed out across the black lakes of the Levels. The weight that had crushed him down for so many years was lifted. He felt as light as feathers.

  ‘We must tell Lucanus!’ he uttered. ‘He will be reborn—’

  ‘No.’ The Lord of the Greenwood’s voice cracked. He lifted his helmet and slid it back on to his head. ‘My son must never know.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It will do him no good. I am not the man I was. And he will not be the man he is meant to be, if I am there.’

  ‘But he’s your son. Is your heart so cold?’

  ‘Do not judge me.’ This time the voice rang with such steel that Bellicus feared he would be killed there and then. ‘My son has grown to fill what was missing in his life. Death and grief shape a man. Harden him. If that makes him stronger, then it is well. Lucanus has been chosen for the part he has to play. And that destiny is greater than him, and me, and whatever lies between us. We are nothing. What lies in our hearts is nothing. What is to come … what must come … is everything.’

  Bellicus felt an ache in his own heart. More than anything he wanted his old friend back. But he could hear the determination in that voice and he knew he could not shake such resolve.

  ‘I will be with you, watching from a distance, as I always have. Making sure Lucanus and Catia and the babe are safe. And you.’ Was that another hint of warmth he heard? ‘And when I am gone, there will be another Green Warrior, to challenge, to shape, to guide. There will always be another.’

  The Lord of the Greenwood thrust out a hand and hauled him to his feet. Bellicus held his friend’s eyes for a long moment, and then the warrior turned and walked away into the mist.

  For a while, Bellicus absently scrubbed the fur on Catulus’ head, lost to his memories. His smile spread slowly, became a grin. Then he was striding back towards the camp to warn the others of what Motius had said, and for the first time in an age he began to sing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The Isle of Apples

  THE INLAND SEA glowed a rosy hue. The rising sun shone from those mirrored waters as the line of men and women trailed
across the timber walkway towards the tor.

  Here all things change.

  Mato turned over those words of the wood-priest, uttered as the chosen few had been woken in the dark hour before dawn.

  ‘It’s all rites and prayers with these druid bastards,’ Solinus had grumbled as he wiped sleep from his eyes.

  Always alert, Aelius had pulled himself from his tent and was soon joined by Apullius and Morirex. All three of them had been eager to join the procession. Myrrdin’s firm refusal sent sparks flying from Aelius’ eyes. Was this part of the druid’s manipulation, Mato wondered? Pull Aelius in, push him away, make him keen for some kind of alliance? Apullius, too, was simmering. He saw himself as Lucanus’ right hand, always there to serve and protect his master.

  ‘Stay here and care for the babe,’ Myrrdin had said, pouring poison into the wound.

  The three of them had been left standing on the edge of the marsh, watching their friends march towards the tor. Mato could almost feel the weight of their resentment at his back.

  He watched a hawk wheel across the blue sky above that granite-topped hill. He understood the need to talk to the gods, to fortune and the Fates, even if Solinus didn’t. Perhaps he would hear his sister’s voice here, one final time.

  When they reached the tor, Myrrdin stamped his staff once and pointed to the processional pathway winding around the hill from the base to the summit. Budding fruit trees edged the route.

  ‘Welcome to the Isle of Apples,’ the druid boomed. ‘It is told that this great tor is the gateway to Annwn, the Otherworld, ruled over by Gwyn ap Nudd, the leader of the Wild Hunt. If a man finds the entrance he can pass through to that land of eternal youth and endless delights. The Christians would call it heaven. And they have their own story about this place. A great man from the hot lands brought the Christ here, as a boy. The son of the Christians’ god blessed Britannia. And that great man planted his staff into the ground and it flourished and grew into a tree that thrives to this day. A sign, they say, that the Christ lives on in this island.’ Myrrdin smiled. ‘Two stories. Which is right? Perhaps both of them, or perhaps the true story lies behind these tales. Could it be that it is not the account of what happened but the place itself that draws fables to it like hungry men to a feast?’