Dark Age

by James Wilde

  ‘Get on with it,’ Solinus called.

  Laughter ripped through the small group – the Grim Wolves, Amarina and Catia – and they traipsed after the wood-priest along the spiral path.

  As they rose higher, curling around the tor, the landscape presented itself in a majestic sweep of water and wood and grassland. Mato felt struck by how this land must have been in the time before it became part of an empire. Time and again he’d heard the words The season is turning, and there, lit by the rising sun, he had a sense of what it meant.

  A new age was dawning, but whether it was for good or ill, no one could yet be sure.

  On the sun-drenched summit, Mato looked around. At first he could see no one, but then a figure rose up, seemingly from the rock itself, perhaps from a fissure, or perhaps he had emerged from that gateway to the Otherworld. He was another wood-priest by the look of him, with a fading tattoo crawling down the left side of his wrinkled face. Almost too frail to stand, he leaned on a staff, his long white hair stirred by the breeze.

  ‘Is this the one?’ the old man croaked.

  Myrrdin held out one hand and Lucanus stepped forward. The aged wood-priest looked the Wolf up and down, his eyes settling on the golden dragon crown. He nodded. ‘You vouch for him?’

  ‘I do.’

  The old man reached out one spindly arm and pressed a trembling palm on Lucanus’ chest. ‘Word will be sent on ahead. The council will gather.’

  With a nod to Myrrdin, he turned away and walked to the edge of the summit. Standing on a flat rock, he raised his arms and welcomed the rising sun.

  ‘We climbed all the way up here for that?’ Solinus said.

  ‘“That” has brought you a clear path to safety,’ Myrrdin said. ‘The journey into the west is fraught with dangers. When the Romans slaughtered the wood-priests in Ynys Môn, those who survived fled to the fringes of this island, some into Caledonia, some to Cambria, where I was raised. But many found sanctuary in Dumnonia. There, on the edge of the empire, is a part of Britannia that you have not imagined before. When you cross the Tamar, you will be entering another land, a haunted land where the witches and the gods and the Fates hold sway. The past has always lived on there.’

  ‘And the gods and witches will give us free passage?’ Lucanus said.

  ‘Once you’ve been presented to the council, in the wilds of the great moorland.’

  ‘A council of wood-priests?’ Mato asked.

  Myrrdin nodded. ‘Now the child has been baptized before the eyes of the gods, the council will give the final assent. Then you will be free to travel into the far west where you will find a place of safety and the protection you require for your son.’

  As the wood-priest turned back to the processional path, Lucanus caught his arm.

  ‘Every time you open your mouth you promise safety and hope. Yet all I see again and again are tricks. I’ll ask you one question: when I was in the far north, I saw one of your kind advising the Scoti and the Picts. Was the true conspiracy here that of the wood-priests? You brought the tribes together. You filled them with fire and set them to invade the south to weaken Rome’s hold so you could see your own plan reach fruition. If that’s true, your hands are drenched in blood from all the slaughter that followed. And the dark age that is dawning was caused by you, just so your saviour-king can lead the folk out into your new world.’

  Silence fell across the group. Mato looked across the faces of his friends and saw that all of them doubted as Lucanus did.

  Myrrdin held the Wolf’s gaze. ‘There is only one truth here that matters. There’s no safety for you in the land at your back. The only hope you have is in the west. Will you choose it?’

  Lucanus snorted and marched away. The others followed. Mato frowned, puzzled by the warmth he saw in Myrrdin’s face as the wood-priest watched the group walk away.

  ‘I’ve been observing Lucanus and Catia for almost all my days,’ the druid murmured. ‘When I was a mere novice, I was shown them and told this was my life’s work.’ His smile took on a sad note. ‘I’ve seen their loves and their losses, their triumphs and tragedies, all from a distance, yet they feel like my own blood. I could not bear to see them harmed.’

  ‘And yet you would happily barter away Lucanus’ life. We spoke of this that day among the Heartstones.’

  A shadow flickered across the wood-priest’s face and he looked away. ‘Some things are greater than the hearts of men.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The Gorge

  FOR FIVE DAYS, they trekked west. Along the way, white shapes flitted across ridges. The Attacotti were keeping pace with them.

  ‘Where did they come from?’ Shielding his eyes from the sun, Aelius watched the rapid movement flashing across the skyline. ‘Why aren’t they attacking, if that’s what they want?’

  ‘They don’t have the numbers to ensure victory.’ Bellicus followed the passage of the pale warriors. He felt unsettled.

  ‘They don’t care if they’re seen. That’s not like them.’ Aelius’ hand unconsciously twitched towards his sword. ‘And they’ve got no fight with us now. Why haven’t they gone with the others?’

  ‘Something’s amiss, that’s for sure,’ Bellicus grunted. ‘But who can know the minds of those bastards?’

  After the sightings, a dark mood seeped into the men as the days passed. On the fifth night, Bellicus looked around the figures hunched by the campfires and could see it etched in their faces. When the rain came, hard and fast, they crept back to their tents and sat in the entrances, staring into the deluge. No laughter, no song, features like a wintry moor.

  Sodden as ditch-rats, Apullius and Morirex trudged back into camp. Bellicus eyed them as they slunk to Lucanus’ tent. Not long after, they emerged and headed towards him. Something was wrong, he could see it.

  He beckoned them over. ‘You had sight of the Eaters of the Dead?’

  Apullius shook his head, rain flying from his hair. ‘We’ve scouted a wide area. No sign of them anywhere.’ He bit his lip.

  Before Bellicus could say more, Morirex blurted, ‘Lucanus wants me to stop scouting. He thinks I’m too young … that it’s too dangerous.’ He seemed on the verge of tears.

  ‘Morirex is a good scout. Better than me,’ Apullius said.

  Bellicus nodded slowly. ‘I’ll have a word with Lucanus. You’ve earned the right to risk your neck with the rest of us.’

  For a moment, he thought the young lad was going to lunge into a hug and he wagged a finger to deter him. As the two brothers splashed away, beaming, he reached out and scrubbed Catulus’ head. An unfamiliar sense of hope had settled on him and he wasn’t sure why.

  He cursed quietly to himself. What was he becoming?

  The next day a vast area of moorland loomed up, wild and windswept and filled with treacherous bogs, carved by rivers and steep crags. Myrrdin led the way along the eastern edge until they reached a river plunging out from the heart of the moor along a steep, heavily wooded gorge.

  Bellicus slipped in behind Lucanus as the column of men trailed along the side of the rushing Teign, the white-flecked waters swollen by the spring floods. In that shadowed green world, blades of sunlight dazzled through the branches high overhead. The rumble of water over rock drowned out the tramp of their feet, and the gorge hid them from prying eyes. Myrrdin had said it was the ancient route to their destination; it was one that had been well chosen.

  Sensing a presence at his back, he turned to see a wry smile glinting in the depths of Amarina’s hood.

  ‘You would have been the last one I expected to accompany us into danger,’ he grunted.

  ‘Why, I’m here for the wit and the entrancing conversation.’ Her voice was light, and he couldn’t tell if she was mocking him. Knowing Amarina, most likely. ‘And in my calculation, the danger at our backs is worse, just as the wood-priest said.’

  ‘Mato says you’ve become a woman of honour.’

  ‘No. I’d leave you to die in a ditch in the blink o
f an eye if I had to save my own skin.’

  ‘Believe her, Bellicus,’ Aelius said as he strode behind. He no longer made any attempt to hide his withered arm, and his mood seemed to have grown brighter as their journey became harder. ‘Survival is a subject Amarina knows much about.’

  At noon, they broke to fill their growling bellies with cold venison, sprawling on slabs of granite in the shade. Bellicus felt lulled by the crashing of the river and lay back, watching the flies drone through shafts of sunlight. Catulus slumped next to him.

  A shadow fell over him and he looked up at Lucanus. ‘The wood-priest says we need to set off again soon. We’ll meet this council of his under the light of the moon. That is their way, he says.’

  ‘Strange ways, wood-priests have. I’m sick of the lot of them.’

  Lucanus grinned. ‘You’re not alone there. But after this we should be free.’

  ‘Free,’ Bellicus repeated. ‘My brain hurts when I try to think what that means these days.’

  Lucanus hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘You’ve got my thanks for walking this road with me. It would have been easier—’

  ‘You’re talking like a jolt-head. Away with you and find some sense.’

  Lucanus laughed and walked off. Bellicus smiled as he watched him go. How long had it been since he’d heard his friend in such consistent good humour? He felt his heart sing, and he prayed that the Lord of the Greenwood could see this change in his son from whatever vantage point the emerald warrior inhabited. If only Lucanus could know he had not been abandoned. But he had given his word.

  For a while, he dozed, until the clatter of the men hauling themselves to their feet told him the time for rest was done. Soon they were tramping along the side of the Teign again, and he allowed himself to sink into the rhythm of the march.

  The sun drifted past the high point.

  ‘We’re not alone.’

  He jerked from his reverie. Apullius was tugging at his arm.

  Bellicus followed the direction of the lad’s pointing finger, up the side of the gorge. He squinted against the rays glaring through the branches, then shook his head. ‘I don’t see anything.’

  Turning back, he looked into the boy’s worried face. How easy it would be to brush him away, but Apullius was one of them now. Solinus had taught him how a sudden flight of birds signalled danger ahead, and Comitinus had instructed him on tracking a deer through the woods. His swordplay was rough, but he was learning fast.

  ‘Lucanus,’ Bellicus urged, keeping his voice low. ‘We have company.’

  The Wolf scanned the top of the gorge. ‘The Attacotti?’

  ‘If they were that close, the Attacotti wouldn’t show themselves,’ Apullius began hesitantly. Gaining confidence, he continued, ‘I saw a man, perhaps two, darting from tree to tree. Trying to stay out of sight.’

  ‘Arm yourselves,’ Lucanus hissed. The order rippled along the line of men. Swords leapt to hands; eyes swept up, searching the shadows.

  Bellicus craned his neck. For long moments, there was only the gurgling of the water and the whisper of the wind in the branches. He sensed the men beside him, all of them like statues, eyes used to searching out the slightest sign of threat in any landscape.

  Nothing moved.

  He eyed Mato, then Solinus and Comitinus. Each gave a curt shake of the head. He felt a tingle of relief. But when he eyed Lucanus he saw that his leader remained rigid, his gaze fixed high up on the gorge side.

  A dry branch cracked.

  A rumble resonated deep in Catulus’ throat.

  Further along the column, a cry rang out and Bellicus whirled. One of the men pitched back, an arrow rammed into his eye socket. Before anyone could move, he stumbled back into the rushing waters and was swept away.

  ‘Take cover,’ Lucanus roared.

  Within a heartbeat shafts blackened the air, the whine and thump as loud as a summer storm.

  Bellicus clawed his way into the lee of the gorge side. Along the line, men dived behind trees and threw themselves on to their bellies in a rolling sea of bracken. Little good it would do them. Bellicus peered up. Now the top of the gorge seethed with silhouettes on both sides. A war-band. They were trapped, pinned down.

  An arrow cracked into the trunk of an ash tree just above his head. He ducked down lower.

  ‘They can pick us off one by one.’ Lucanus had arrived beside him.

  Bellicus could see his friend was right. Some of the men were crawling on their hands and knees back the way they had come. Arrows showered around them. Their enemy had closed off any retreat; doubtless they would have done the same ahead. The entire war-band was pinned down. Sooner or later, the enemy, whoever they were, would come for them.

  ‘Picts,’ Solinus shouted. ‘They’re Pictish bastards. Listen – you can hear their tongue.’

  Bellicus cocked his head. Guttural battle-cries rolled down the gorge side. He gritted his teeth. Twisting out, he looked along the riverbank. Apullius and Morirex were both safe, flat on the muddy ground at the foot of a granite outcropping. As he watched, Apullius began to crawl away.

  ‘Stay where you are, Apullius, you damn fool,’ he bellowed. ‘This isn’t the time for scouting.’

  If Apullius heard him, he didn’t slow, and soon he’d disappeared past a group of crouching men.

  The arrows rained down. Bellicus searched again. This time he saw Aelius, and Amarina. Catia’s blonde head bobbed further along. She’d nocked a shaft in her bow, but couldn’t find space to loose it. Little good that would do, too.

  The battle-cries soared and Bellicus winced. That could only mean one thing. Pushing his head up above the cover of a fallen tree, he watched the barbarians creep down the steep, precarious path that wound among the maze of trees and vegetation.

  But soon they would be here.

  Lucanus caught his eye and held it for a moment, and in that look Bellicus could read all his friend’s desperate thoughts.

  ‘When the moment comes, lead the way ahead as fast as you can,’ the Wolf said, jumping to his feet. ‘They’ll want the Pendragon more than anyone. I’ll lead them away.’

  ‘Don’t be a jolt-head,’ Bellicus bellowed. But Lucanus had already drawn Caledfwlch and was scrambling up the slope.

  Cursing, Bellicus leapt after him. Cries of alarm rang at his back. Wheezing, he started to claw his way up the soft loam of the side of the gorge, but Lucanus was already far ahead of him.

  Iron helmets glinted as three Pictish warriors skidded through a sunbeam. One swung up a squarehead axe. Their strange, ululating battle-cry sang out. Bellicus yelled a warning, but Lucanus was wrong-footed, leaning back, unable to wield Caledfwlch to defend himself.

  The axe swung down.

  Seemingly from nowhere, a huge figure rose up between predator and prey. The axe clanged off the side of a green-tinged helmet, and the Lord of the Greenwood heaved up his longsword. The force of that blade all but hacked one of the skidding Picts in two.

  Wrenching around, the towering warrior bellowed at Lucanus, ‘Get back! Save yourself!’ He kicked out, catching Lucanus on the side of the head. The Wolf spun away, slamming against an ash tree before whirling down the side of the gorge, gathering speed until he crashed back on to the riverbank.

  The Lord of the Greenwood turned back, too late. The axe hacked into his shoulder. Bellicus reeled. But if his friend felt the brutal blow, he showed no sign.

  The Lord of the Greenwood swung his sword again. Bellicus winced. The blade had carved into the axeman, but the strike had been faltering.

  ‘I’m with you!’ Bellicus called, throwing himself forward. But his feet slid on the steep bank, and before he could reach his friend’s side the third Pict rammed his sword into the Lord of the Greenwood’s chest. Wrenching it out, he stabbed again, and again.

  Bellicus cried out as if he’d been stabbed himself.

  His friend, his old, old friend.

  Lucanus the Elder crunched to his knees. One hand flailed for pur
chase on a branch. For the briefest moment, he glanced back and locked eyes with the Grim Wolf. A farewell. A remembrance of times past. Of better days, and laughter, before their future was stolen from them by the schemes of others.

  Bellicus howled, the anguish cracking his voice.

  The Pict didn’t slow his assault.

  The Lord of the Greenwood crashed face down. His foe braced himself, gripped his sword with both hands, and slashed down. Once, twice, three times. The head rolled free, and the Pict kicked it down the bank where it disappeared into the greenery.

  Bellicus felt a black wave of despair engulf him.

  Nearby, Lucanus hauled himself up on a branch. ‘He sacrificed his life to save mine.’ His voice wavered and he stared at Bellicus, stunned. ‘He died for me.’

  Bellicus felt a desperate wish to tell Lucanus that it was a father doing as fathers did, sacrificing all for their child. But it passed, and he knew he could only be true to his friend’s desire, however painful it might be. His secret would be kept unto death.

  ‘Go,’ he choked, thrusting the Wolf to one side. ‘We have a fight on our hands.’

  Down the dizzying sides of the gorge, the Picts swept. Bellicus threw himself into the fray.

  For what seemed an age, all he knew was the clash of steel and the roar of battle-cries, digging in his heels and hacking and slashing for dear life.

  Blood drenched him. Enemies fell.

  At the moment when he feared all was lost, the Picts fell back, clambering away up the sides of the gorge. He lurched against rough bark, sucking gasps of air into his burning lungs. His arm felt too weak to lift his sword.

  Why had they pulled back when they were on the brink of victory?

  Slithering down the bank, he collapsed next to the rushing river. His thoughts whirled, visions of slaughter coalescing into that final glimpse of his best friend and the recognition of how much he had lost that day.