Stones Of Power - The Last Sword Of Power Part 3

"Thirty-five stallions and sixty mares. May I present Prince Ursus, of the House of Merovee?'

The young man bowed. 'It is an honour, my lord.'

The King gave a tired smile and moved past the young man. Taking Prasamaccus by the arm the two walked on into the field, stopping by a grey stallion of some seventeen hands.

"The Sicambrians know how to breed horses,' said Uther, running his hand over the beast's glistening flank.

'You look weary, Uther.'

'It reflects how I feel. The Trinovante are flexing their muscles once more, as are the Saxons in the Middle Land.'

'When do you ride?'

Tomorrow, with four legions. I sent Patreus with the Eighth and the Fifth, but he was routed. Reports say we lost six hundred men.'

'Was Patreus amongst them?' Prasamaccus asked.

'If not, he'll wish he was,' snapped the King. 'He tried to charge a shield wall up a steep slope.'

'As you yourself did only four days ago against the Goths.'

'But I won!'

'You always do, my lord.'

Uther grinned, and for a moment there was a flash of the lonely youth Prasamaccus had first met a quarter of a century before. But then it was gone and the mask settled once more.

'Tell me of the Sicambrian,' said the King, staring across at the young dark-haired prince, clad all in black.

'He knows his horses.'

"That was not my meaning, and well you know it.'

'I cannot say, Uther. He seems . . . intelligent, knowledgeable.'

'You like him?'

'I rather think that I do. He reminds me of you -a long time ago.'

'Is that a good thing?'

'It is a compliment.'

'Have I changed so much?'

Prasamaccus said nothing. A lifetime ago Uther had dubbed him Kingsfriend, and asked always for his honest council. In those days the young prince had crossed the Mist in search of his father's sword, had fought demons and the Witch Queen, had brought an army of ghosts back to the world of flesh and had loved the mountain woman, Laitha.

The old Brigante shrugged. 'We all change, Uther. When my Helga died last year, I felt all beauty pa.s.s from the world.'

'A man is better off without love. It weakens him,' said the King, moving away to examine the horses. 'Within a few years we will have a better, faster army. All of these mounts are at least two hands taller than our own horses, and they are bred for speed and stamina.'

'Ursus brought something else you might like to see,' said Prasamaccus. 'Come, it will interest you.' The King seemed doubtful, but he followed the limping Brigante back to the paddock gates. Here Ursus bowed once more and led the group to the rear of the herdsmen's living quarters. In the yard behind the buildings a wooden frame had been erected -curved wood attached to a straight spine, representing a horse's back. Over this Ursus draped a stiffened leather cover. A second section was tied to the front of the frame and the prince secured the hide, then returned to the waiting warriors.

'What in Hades is it?' asked Victorinus. Ursus lifted a short-bow and notched an arrow to the string.

With one smooth motion he let fly. The shaft struck the rear of the 'horse' and, failing to penetrate fully, flapped down to point at the ground.

'Give me the bow,' said Uther. Drawing back the string as far as the weapon could stand, he loosed the shaft. It cut through the leather and jutted from the hide.

'Now look, sire,' said Ursus, stepping forward to the 'horse'. Uther's arrow had penetrated a mere half-inch. 'It would p.r.i.c.k a good horse, but it would not have disabled him.'

'What of the weight?' asked Victorinus.

'A Sicambrian horse could carry it and still work a full day as well as any British war- horse.'

Gwalchmai was unimpressed. The old Cantii warrior hawked and spat. 'It must cut down on the speed of the charge - and that is what carries us through the enemy. Armoured horses? Pah!'

'You would perhaps think of riding into battle without your own armour?' snapped the prince.

'You insolent puppy!' roared Gwalchmai.

'Enough!' ordered the King. 'Tell me, Ursus, what of the rains? Would they not soften your leather and add to the weight?'

'Yes, my lord. But each warrior should carry a quant.i.ty of oiled beeswax to be rubbed into the cover every day.'

'Now we must polish our horses as well as our weapons,' said Gwalchmai, with a mocking grin.

'Have ten of these . . . horse jerkins . . . made,' said Uther. 'Then we shall see.'

'Thank you, sire.'

'Do not thank me until I place an order. This is what you are seeking yes?'

'Yes, sire.'

'Did you devise the armour?'

'Yes, my lord, although my brother Balan overcame the problem of the rain.'

'And to him will go the profit for the wax I order?'

'Yes, my lord,' said Ursus, smiling.

'And where is he at present?'

Trying to sell the idea in Rome. It will be difficult, for the emperor still sets great store by the marching legions even though his enemies are mounted.'

'Rome is finished,' said Uther. 'You should sell to the Goths or the Huns.'

'I would my lord, but the Huns do not buy - they take. And the Goths? Their treasury is smaller than my own.'

'And your own Merovingian army?'

'My King - long may he reign - is guided in matters military by the Mayor of the Palace.

And he is not a visionary.'

'But then he is not a.s.sailed on all sides and from within,' said Uther. 'Do you fight as well as you talk?'

'Not quite.'

Uther grinned. 'I have changed my mind. Make thirty-two and Victorinus will put you in command of one Turma. You will join me at Petvaria and then I will see your horse armour as it needs to be seen - against a real enemy. If it is successful, you will be rich and, as I suspect you desire, all other fighting kings will follow Uther's lead.'

'Thank you, sire.'

'As I said, do not thank me yet. You have not heard my offer.'

With that the King turned and walked away. Pra-samaccus draped his arm over Ursus'

shoulder.

'I think the King likes you, young man. Do not disappoint him.' 'I would lose my order?'

'You would lose your life,' Prasamaccus told him.

Long after Grysstha had returned to his own hut in the shadow of the Long Hall Cormac, unable to sleep, wandered out into the cool of the night to sit below the stars and watch the bats circle the trees.

All was quiet and the boy was truly, splendidly, perfectly alone. Here in the glory of the hunter's moonlight there was no alienation, no sullen stares, no harsh words. The night breeze ruffled his hair as he gazed up at the cliffs above the woods and thought of his father, the nameless warrior who had fought so well. Grysstha said he had killed six men.

But why had he left the infant Cormac alone in the cave? And where was the woman who bore him? Who would leave a child? Was the man - so brave in battle - so cruel in life?

And what mother could leave her babe to die in a lonely cave?

As always there were no answers, but the questions chained Cormac to this hostile village.

He could not leave and make a future for himself, not while the past was such a mystery.

When he was younger he had believed that his father would one day come to claim him, striding to the long Hall with a sword at his side, a burnished helm upon his brow. But no longer could the dreams of childhood sustain him. In four days he would be a man . . . and then what? Begging for work at the smithy, or the mill, or the bakery, or the slaughterhouse?

Back in his hut he slept fitfully beneath his threadbare blanket, rising before the dawn and taking his sling to the hills. Here he killed three rabbits, skinning them expertly with the small knife Grysstha had given him the year before. He lit a fire in a sheltered hollow and roasted the meat, enjoying the rare sensation of a full belly. But there was little goodness in rabbit meat and Grysstha had once told him a man could starve to death while feasting on such fare. Cormac licked his fingers and then wiped them on the long gra.s.s, remembering the Thunder Feast the previous Autumn where he had tasted beef at the open banquet, when King Wulfhere had visited his former steward, Calder. Cormac had been forced to stay back from the throng around the Saxon King, but had heard his speech.

Meaningless plat.i.tudes mostly, coming from a weak man. He looked the part, with his mail-shirt of iron and his axe-bearing guards, but his face was soft and womanly and his eyes focused on a point above the crowd.

But the beef had been magnificent. Grysstha had brought him three cuts, succulent and rich with the blood of the bull.

'Once,' the old man said, between mouthfuls, 'we ate like this every day! When we were reavers, and our swords were feared. Calder once promised we would do so again. He said we would be revenged on the Blood King, but look at him now - fat and content beside the puppet king.'

'The King looks like a woman,' said Cormac.

'He lives like one,' snapped Grysstha. 'And to think his grandfather was Hengist! Would you like more meat?'

And they feasted that night like emperors.

Now Cormac doused his fire and wandered high into the hills, along the cliff-tops overlooking the calm sea. The breeze was strong here, and cool despite the morning sun, clear in a cloudless sky.

Cormac stopped beneath a spreading oak and leapt to hang from a thick branch. One hundred times he hauled himself up to touch his chin to the wood, feeling the muscles in his arms and shoulders swell and burn. Then he dropped lightly to the ground, sweat gleaming on his face.

'How strong you are, Cormac,' said a mocking voice and he swung round to see Calder's daughter. Alftruda, sitting in the gra.s.s with a basket of berries beside her. Cormac blushed and said nothing. He should have walked away, but the sight of her sitting there cross- legged, her woollen skirt pulled up to reveal the milky whiteness of her legs . . . 'Are you so shy?' she asked.

'Your brothers will not be best pleased with you for speaking to me.'

'And you are frightened of them?'

Cormac considered the question. Calder's sons had tormented him for years, but mostly he could outrun them to his hiding places in the woods. Agwaine was the worst, for he enjoyed inflicting pain. Lennox and Barta were less overtly cruel, but they followed Agwaine's lead in everything. But was he frightened?

'Perhaps I am,' he said. 'But then such is the law that they are allowed to strike me, but it is death if I defend myself.'

'That's the price you pay for having a demon for a father. Cormac. Can you work magic?'

'No.'

'Not even a little, to please me?'

'Not even a little.'

'Would you like some berries?'

'No, thank you. I must be heading back; I have work to do.'

.'Do I frighten you, Cormac Daemonsson?' He stopped in mid-turn, his throat tight.

'I am not . . . comfortable. No one speaks to me but I am used to that. I thank you for your courtesy.'

'Do you think I am pretty?'

'I think you are beautiful. Especially here, in the summer sunlight, with the breeze moving your hair. But I do not wish to cause you trouble.'

She rose smoothly and moved towards him and he backed away instinctively, but the oak barred his retreat. He felt her body press against his and his arms moved around her back, drawing her to him.

'Get away from my sister!' roared Agwaine and Alftruda leapt back with fear in her eyes.

'He cast a spell on me!' she shouted, running to Agwaine. The tall blond youth hurled her aside and drew a dagger from its sheath.

'You will die for this obscenity,' he hissed, advancing on Cormac.

Cormac's eyes flickered from the blade to Agwaine's angry face, reading the intent and seeing the blood-l.u.s.t rising. He leapt to his right - to cannon into the huge figure of Lennox, whose brawny arms closed around him. Triumph blazed in Agwaine's eyes, but Cormac hammered his elbow into Lennox's belly and then up in a second strike, smashing the boy's nose. Lennox staggered back, almost blinded. Then Barta ran from the bushes, holding a thick branch above his head like a club. Cormac leapt feet first, his heel landing with sickening force against Barta's chin, and hurling him unconscious to the ground.

Cormac rolled to his feet, swinging to face Agwaine, his arm blocking the dagger blow aimed at his heart. His fist slammed against Agwaine's cheek, then his left foot powered into his enemy's groin.