Stones Of Power - The Last Sword Of Power Part 15

"That at least is welcome news. How is the boy?'

'Boy? Which boy?'

'Uther, the boy with the Sword.'

Culain smiled. 'The boy now has grey in his beard. They call him the Blood King, but he reigns wisely.'

'I thought that he would. And the child, Laitha?'

'Are you mocking me, Pendarric?'

The King's face became stern, the blue eyes cold. 'I mock no one, Culain - not even reckless adventurers like you and Maedhlyn who have ruined a world. What right have I to mock? I am the King who drowned Atlantis. I do not forget my past, and I condemn no one. Why do you ask?'

'You have not kept a watch on the old world?'

'Why should I? Goroien was the last danger and you disposed of her and her undead son. I don't doubt Maedhlyn is still meddling with kings and princes, but he is unlikely to destroy the world. And you? For all your recklessness, you are a man of honour.'

'Molech has returned,' said Culain.

'Nonsense! You beheaded him at Babel - the body was consumed by fire.'

'He is back.'

'Maedhlyn agrees with you on this?'

'I have not seen Maedhlyn in sixteen years. But believe me, the Devil has returned.'

'Let us walk in the garden - if you are strong enough. Some tales need to be told in bright sunlight.'

Culain eased himself from the bed and stood but dizziness swamped him. He took a deep breath and steadied himself.

'You will be weak for a day or so. Your body suffered terrible punishment in the journey and you were all but dead when you appeared.'

'I thought there would be sufficient power in the lance.'

"There might have been - for a younger man. Why is it, Culain, that you insist on growing old? What virtue is there in dying?'

'I want to be a man, Pendarric: to experience the pa.s.sing of the seasons; to feel myself a part of the life of the world. I have had enough of immortality. As you said, I have helped to ruin a world. G.o.ds, G.o.ddesses, demons, legends - each one contributing to a future of violence and discord. I want to grow old; I want to die.'

"The last, at least, is the truth,' said the King. He led Culain to a side door and then on down a short corridor, to a terraced garden. A young man brought them a tray of wine and fruit and the King sat on a curved seat by a bed of roses. Culain joined him.

'So, tell me of Molech.'

Culain told him of the vision in the monastery, and of the lightning bolt that seared his hand. He detailed the astonishing rise to power of the king, Wotan, and his conquests in Belgica, Raetia, Pan-nonia and Gaul. At last Culain sat back and sipped his wine, staring out over the gardens at the green hills beyond the city.

'You said nothing of Uther - or his lady,' said Pendarric.

Culain took a deep breath. 'I betrayed him. I became his wife's lover.'

'Did he kill her?'

'No. He would have, but we escaped to Gaul and she died there.'

'Oh, Culain ... of all the men I have known, you are the last I would expect to betray a friend.'

'I offer no excuses.'

'I would hope not. So, then, Molech has returned. What is it you require of me?'

'As before - an army to destroy him.'

'I have no army, Culain. And if I did, I would not sanction a war.'

'You know of course that he desires to kill you? That he will attack Britain and use the Great Gate at Sorviodunum to invade the Feragh?'

'Of course I know,' snapped the King. 'But there is no more to be said about war. What will you do?'

'I shall find him - and ... fight him.'

'For what purpose? The old Culain could have defeated him . . . did defeat him. But you are not the old Culain. What are you, in human terms -forty, fifty?'

'Somewhat more,' was the wry reply.

"Then leave him be, .Culain, and return to your monastery. Study the mysteries. Live out your days - and your seasons.'

'I cannot,' Culain said simply.

For a while the two men sat in silence, then Pen-darric laid his hand on Culain's shoulder.

'We will not talk again, my friend, so let me say this: I respect you; I always have. You are a man of worth. I have never heard you blame another for your own mistakes, nor seek to curse fate, or the Source, for your misfortunes. That is rare . . . and a precious quality. I hope you find peace, Culain.'

'Peace . . . death . . . Perhaps they are the same,' whispered Culain.

Uther awoke in the night, his hand clawing at the air, the nightmare clinging to him in the sweat-dampened sheets. He threw them back and rolled from the bed. In his dreams dark holes had appeared in the walls of the castle, disgorging monsters with curved talons and dripping fangs, stinking of death and despair. He sucked in a deep breath and moved to the window; the battlements were deserted.

'Old men and children fear the dark,' whispered the Blood King, forcing a chuckle.

The breeze whispered along the castle walls and for a moment he thought he heard his name hissing softly in the night wind. He shivered. Calm yourself, Uther!

Then the sound came again, so low that he shut his eyes and craned his head towards the window. There it was . . .

'Uther . . . Uther . . . Uther ..."

He pushed it from his mind as a trick of the night and returned to his bed. Glancing back at the window, he saw a flickering shape floating there.

In the moment that he identified it as a man, Uther reacted. His hand swept back to the Sword sheathed at the bedside and the blade flashed into the air. He leapt towards the window - and froze. Though the figure remained, it was wholly transparent and hung like trapped smoke against the moonlight.

"They are coming,' whispered the figure . . .

And vanished.

Confused and uncertain, Uther threw the Sword to the bed and wandered to the table by the far wall where stood a jug of wine and several goblets. As he reached for the jug he stumbled, his mind reeling. He fell to his knees, and only then saw the mist covering the floor of his room. His senses swam, but with one desperate heave he regained his feet and half-staggered, half-fell towards the bed. His hand scrabbled for the Swordhilt, closing around it just as the darkness seemed set to envelop him. The Sword of Power glowed like a lantern and the mist fled, snaking back to the wall and under the door. Naked, the King dragged open the door and stepped into the corridor beyond, where Gwalchmai slept on a narrow cot.

'Wake up, my friend,' said the King, nudging the sleeping man's shoulder. There was no response. He shook him harder. Nothing.

Fear touched the King and he moved slowly down the circular stair to the courtyard. Four sentries lay on the cobbles with their weapons beside them.

'Sweet Christos!' whispered Uther. "The dream!'

A movement to his left and he whirled, the Sword slicing the air. The ghostly figure floated beside him once more - the face hooded, the figure blurred and indistinct.

'The Sword,' it whispered. 'He wants the Sword.'

'Who are you?'

Suddenly a hand of fire swept around the figure and the heat hurled the King from his feet.

He landed on his shoulder and rolled. Dark shadows spread on the walls around him, black as caves, opening . . .

Uther ran to one of the sentries, dragging the man's sword from his scabbard. Then touching his own blade to the weapon, he closed his eyes in concentration. Fire blazed on the blades as the King staggered and stared down: in his hands were two Swords of Power, twins of shining silver steel.

The dark caves opened still further and the first of the beasts issued forth. Uther swung back the true blade and hurled it high into the air. Lightning blazed across the sky . . . and the Sword of Cuno-belin disappeared.

The beast roared and stepped into the courtyard, its terrible jaws parted in a b.e.s.t.i.a.l snarl.

Others crowded behind it, moving into the courtyard and forming a circle around the naked King. Men in dark cloaks came after them, grey blades in their hands. 'The sword,'

called one of them. 'Give us the sword.'

'Come and take it,' said Uther. The man gestured and a beast raced forward. Fully seven feet tall, it was armed with a black axe. Its eyes were blood-red, its fangs yellow and long.

Most men would have stood frozen in terror, but Uther was not as most men. He was the Blood King.

He leapt to meet the attack, ducking under the swinging axe, his sword ripping through the creature's scaled belly. A terrible scream tore aside the silence of the night and the other creatures howled in rage and pushed forward, but the dark-cloaked man ordered them back, 'Do not kill him!' he screamed and Uther stepped back, wondering at this change of heart.

Then he glanced down at his sword to see that the beast's blood had stained the blade . . .

and ended the illusion. Once more it was a simple gladius of iron, with a wooden hilt wrapped in oiled leather.

'Where is the Sword?' demanded the leader, his eyes betraying his fear.

'Where your master can lay no hand upon it,' answered Uther, smiling grimly.

'd.a.m.n your eyes!' screamed the man and he threw back his cloak and raised his sword of shimmering grey. The others followed his example. There were more than a dozen and Uther was determined to take a goodly number of them as company on the journey into h.e.l.l. They spread out around him . . . then rushed forward. Uther charged the circle, sweeping aside a frenzied thrust and burying his gladius in a man's heart. A cold blade pierced his back and he dragged the gladius clear and spun, his sword tearing through a warrior's neck. Two more blades hammered into him, filling his chest with icy pain, but even as he fell his sword lashed out and gashed open a man's face. Then numbness flowed through him and Death laid a skeletal finger on his soul. He felt himself floating upward and his eyes opened.

'Now you are ours,' hissed the leader, his cold grey eyes gleaming in triumph. Uther looked down at the body which lay at the man's feet; it was his own, and there was not a mark upon it. He watched as the attackers lifted their blades, and saw the swords swirl and disperse like mist in the morning breeze.

'Now you will learn the true meaning of agony,' said the leader. As he spoke the huge hand of fire appeared, engulfing the King's soul and vanishing into darkness. Leaving the body where it lay, the beasts and men returned to the shadows which closed behind them, becoming once more the grey stone of a silent fortress.

Galead, the blond knight who had been Ursus, prince of the House of Merovee, awoke in the chill of the dawn. The room was cool, the bed empty. He sat up and shivered, wondering if it was the cool breeze that p.r.i.c.kled his skin or the memory of those ice-blue eyes . . .

For three weeks the emba.s.sy had been kept waiting in the city of Lugdunum, a.s.sured t1 at the new King would see them at his earliest opportunity.

Victorinus had accepted the delays with Roman patience, never giving public display to his increasing anger. The messages from Wotan had been delivered by a young Saxon called Agwaine, a tall warrior with yellow hair and a sneering manner.

The choice of Agwaine was a calculated insult, for the warrior was from the South Saxon, Other's realm, and that made him a traitor in Victorinus' eyes.

But the Roman made good use of his enforced idleness, touring the city with Galead, listening to the talk in the taverns, watching the various regiments of Gothic warriors at maneouvres, gathering information that would aid Uther in the now inevitable war.

On their trip from the coast they had seen the ma.s.sive triremes under construction and the barges that could land an army on the south coast, there to be swelled by dissenting Saxons and Jutes longing for a victory against the Blood King.

On the twenty-second day of their wait, Agwaine arrived in the hour just after dawn with a summons from Wotan. Victorinus thanked him courteously and dressed in a simple toga of white. Galead wore the leather breastplate, leggings and greaves of a Cohors Equitana commander, a gladius at his side; but over this was the short white surplice of the herald, a simple red cross embroidered over the heart.

The two men were taken to the central palace and into a long hall, lined with lances on which severed heads were impaled.

Galead glanced at the rotting skulls, quelling his anger as he recognised one as Meroveus, the former King of the Merovingians. Swallowing hard, he marched slowly behind Victorinus towards the high throne on which sat the new G.o.d-King. Flanked by guards in silver armour Wotan sat and watched as the men approached, his eyes fixed on the white- clad Victorinus.

Reaching the foot of the dais, Victorinus bowed low.

'Greetings, my Lord King, from your brother across the water.'

'I have no brothers,' said Wotan, the voice rich and resonant. Galead gazed at him, awed by the power emanating from the man. The face was handsome and framed by a golden beard, the shoulders broad, the arms thick and powerful. He was dressed in the same silver armour as his guards and cloaked in black.

'My king,' said Victorinus smoothly, 'sends you a gift to celebrate your coronation.' He turned and two soldiers carried forward a square box of polished ebony. They knelt before the King and opened it. He leaned forward and lifted the silver helm from within. A gold circlet decorated the rim, the silver raven's wings were fixed to the sides as ear-guards.

'A pretty piece,' said Wotan, tossing it to a guard who set it down on the floor beside the throne. 'And now to the realities. I have given you three weeks to see the power of Wotan.

You have used this time well, Victorinus, as befits a soldier of your rank and experience.

Now go back to Britain and tell those in power that I will come to them, with gifts of my own.'

'My lord Uther . . .' began Victorinus.

'Uther is dead,' said Wotan, 'and you are in need of a king. Since there is no heir, and since my brother-Saxons have appealed to me for aid against your Roman tyranny, I have decided to accept their invitation to journey to Britannia and investigate their claims of injustice.'

'And will you journey with your army, my lord?' Victorinus asked.

'Do you think I will have need of it, Victorinus?' 'That, my lord, will depend on the King.'

'You doubt my word?' asked Wotan and Galead saw the guards tense, their hands edging towards their swords.

'No, sire. I merely point out - with respect - that Britain has a king. When one dies, another rises.'

'I have pet.i.tioned the Vicar of Christ in Rome,' said Wotan, and I have here a sealed parchment from him bestowing the kingdom of Britannia upon me, should I decide to accept it.'

'It could be argued that Rome no longer exercises sovereignty over the affairs of the west,'

said Victorinus, 'but that is for others to debate. I am merely a soldier.'