The Bear King, page 28
part #3 of Dark Age Series
Mato circled the space on the Lucanus figure where the arm should be, then scrubbed out the drawing. On the second figure, he rubbed out the left arm.
‘Take me,’ he said, tapping his chest once more. ‘Not Lucanus. I will go with you in his place.’ Scratching out more figures, he continued, ‘Lucanus has a wife, a child. I have nothing. Take me.’
He’d jerked from sleep in the middle of the night with the notion burning in his mind. Immediately he had felt it was right. He could take Lucanus’ place when the Attacotti decided the time was right. True, he was no king. But he was one of the king’s circle, and that, surely, would carry some power. As he lay there, staring into the dark, he’d realized he wasn’t afraid. If truth be told, he would find peace walking with his sister again, in the Summerlands. Once death has touched you, it never lets go. Not in a way of misery and shadows. It transformed a man. Since his sister’s death, he’d learned to love life even more.
No, he was not afraid to die.
‘Take me,’ he repeated.
Was that compassion he saw in the Attacotti warrior’s eyes? He couldn’t be sure. Their thoughts, their ways, seemed impossible to define.
‘Lucanus is a good man. Take me,’ he said a final time, to himself.
But this time the other man shook his head.
‘You understand my words? How long—’
Standing, the warrior took his hand and tugged him towards the edge of the clearing.
There, Mato looked back at the group. ‘Take me,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘Take me.’
His Attacotti companion stared at him, and Mato felt sure he saw pity in those eyes. With that silent communication, he turned away and walked back to his post.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The Mountain’s Teeth
THE WORLD HAD TURNED WHITE. THE WIND HOWLED AND THE snow blasted and not a man could see more than two sword-lengths in any direction. The army huddled in the lee of overhanging rocks, the bitter cold stripping the life from them by degrees. Snow frosted hair and beards. Hunched inside their cloaks, the shuddering men pushed themselves as close to the fires as they could. But though the flames roared up in the gale, and the smoke billowed around them, the heat died before it warmed them.
‘We can’t survive this much longer.’ Bellicus shook his head and a mist of snow flew from his mane.
Lucanus stamped his feet as he paced around the huddled groups. ‘If we try to leave this shelter, we’ll die even faster.’
He looked over the bowed heads into the wall of white. They’d been pushed much further up the mountain than they’d planned. But it seemed the only way to avoid the war-bands that now roamed across the landscape. Perhaps Gaia was getting worried and wanted to destroy them before they drew close to Dinas Ffaraon Dandde. Or perhaps this had been her plan all along. Send them up into the harsh region higher in the mountains and let the elements do the work for her.
Lucanus winced, his face as numb as that witch’s heart. They’d thought they would be able to shelter on high until Gaia’s warriors passed, then find a new route to re-join the road in the north-west. But the storm had come down like a hammer, trapping them on the mountainside, blinded by that endless cloud of white, the cold digging deep into their bones.
And now they were running out of wood for the fires.
Bellicus was right. They couldn’t take much more of this punishment. ‘We’ll give it until the fires start to burn low. Then we’ll march down again.’
To his credit, his fellow Grim Wolf didn’t point out the terrible flaws in that strategy. He knew as well as any of them that there was no other choice.
Lucanus walked to the edge of the overhanging rock, hoping he might glimpse a break in the weather. But there was no sky, nor any land, only the white. The wind flayed his skin and threatened to throw him off his feet, and he turned back.
Further under the rock, a small cave offered some shelter. He hoped to find Catia, but was not surprised to see she’d given up her place to someone else. Instead of his wife, he found Amarina nestled in a cleft in the rocks in front of a small fire, the hood of her cloak pulled down to hide her face. Weylyn was asleep, his head in her lap.
‘Wolf,’ she murmured, as he crouched beside the glowing branches and rubbed his hands.
‘How are you? How is Weylyn?’
‘As hard as any arcani. A little cold doesn’t bother him.’ She put out a hand to stroke his head, then thought better of it. ‘He never complains. Me … I’m wishing I’d stayed behind in Tintagel.’
‘You’re not alone.’
‘You have a plan?’
‘Aye. It’s not a good one, though.’
Amarina shrugged and a strand of red hair tumbled out of her hood.
Lucanus slumped back against the cold stone. ‘We’re not going to die here, not after all we’ve been through.’
‘The men think you can’t die.’
Lucanus glanced at her, puzzled.
‘They believe the story that you were brought back from the Summerlands in the hour of desperate need. That you are the true King Who Will Not Die. They believe it even when they are told the truth. And why? Because they want to believe it.’
The Wolf sucked in a deep breath, the cold burning his throat as it travelled to his lungs. ‘Believe in a story hard enough and it will come true. That’s what I was once told. But this one …’ He grinned without humour.
‘Your wife and I, we’ve never seen eye to eye. But on the long journey into the western lands we found some common ground. Surviving, when death is at your shoulder: that forges a bond. And we vowed then that we wouldn’t be subject to a story written by others, by the wood-priests. We would write our own tale, and our own ending.’
He sensed her turn her head towards him and felt the weight of her attention.
‘Some stories are written by the Fates,’ he said, pushing himself to his feet. And yet as he walked away he felt her words settle on him, as they always did. Amarina knew how to worm her way into his mind. For now there was only one tale, and that was of them all freezing to death there on the mountain.
And he could see no other ending.
Bellicus scrabbled together the last few twigs and tossed them on the fire. ‘That’s the end of it.’ He stood, resting his hands on his hips, and looked down at the paltry glow.
Comitinus and Mato sat cross-legged, trying to warm their hands. Solinus squatted near by, hands around his knees as he looked out into the snowstorm. Bellicus had never seen him so quiet, so reflective.
‘It’s not that far down the mountain,’ Comitinus lied. ‘We could do it.’
‘We could,’ Mato said.
Bellicus nodded. He wouldn’t put it past them either. He looked round. But the others? Farmers, merchants? They’d never seen hardship, like the arcani.
Solinus shook off his reverie and crawled over, his eyebrows white with snow. The scar that quartered his face flexed as he grimaced. ‘We could freeze to death here,’ he said, looking round at the other Grim Wolves, ‘or we could look to the horizon and think what might lie ahead.’
‘What good would that do?’ Comitinus rocked as he hugged himself.
‘Nothing, probably. But hear me out.’
Bellicus eyed the other man, seeing the lines in his face. This was serious talk. ‘What’s on your mind? A plan made by fools?’
‘Aye. No doubt.’ Solinus looked down, plucking at his wolf-pelt. ‘We could die here. We could die in the battle at Dinas Ffaraon Dandde. But there’s going to be death, we know that. We’re not coming out of this in one piece.’
‘Enough talk of defeat,’ Bellicus snarled.
‘I’m not. I …’ Solinus held up a hand as if he could pluck the words out of the air. ‘I’m not much of a talker. Never read a book in my life. All I know is the hard land, and the wind in the trees, and the peace of a starlit night. But when you get close to death, you start to think of what’s right and what’s not.’
Comitinus snapped. ‘What’s wrong with you? You’re talking like a jolt-head.’ Bellicus could hear the unease in his voice. It was true – Solinus had never spoken like this before, and it was worrying them all.
‘I’m talking about Lucanus.’ Solinus’ eyes sparked. ‘And we should have spoken about this long ago. Who are we, eh? His brothers, that’s who. We’ve followed him for years. He’s given up his own food in the Wilds so that we could eat. He’s saved our lives time and again. Those Attacotti bastards say they’re going to take him and finish their feast. They say he’s as good as dead. And what do we do? We roll over like whipped curs.’
Comitinus’ gaze fell. No one spoke.
‘I say no!’
Solinus’ words rang with conviction. Bellicus saw Comitinus look up, his eyes now glowing as brightly as his friend’s.
‘They don’t decide Lucanus’ fate, not without a fight. We’re brothers. We’ve got the wolf-blood coursing through our veins, and the wolf-spirit burning in our hearts. And Lucanus is as much a part of us as our right arms. We owe him everything.’ His voice crackled with passion. ‘We should all give our lives for him.’
‘We fight the Attacotti for Lucanus,’ Bellicus said. ‘That’s what you’re saying.’
‘There’re more of them than there are of us,’ Comitinus noted.
‘Then we die.’
‘And if we win they’ll keep coming back, time and again, until they get their way.’
‘Then we die the next time, or the time after that. Somebody’s going to die, today, or tomorrow, or the next. One of us, maybe all of us. Let’s go out as we’ve lived. Together.’
Bellicus looked round and saw that Mato was smiling. Anybody else would have thought he’d lost his wits, smiling at the prospect of death. But Bellicus knew. They all did.
‘We go out together,’ Bellicus repeated. ‘It’s agreed.’
The red glow in the ashes faded. In the cave, Lucanus’ voice echoed, rousing the men to their feet. Filling their hearts with hope for what was probably a march to their deaths. Aye, he was a good leader. A good man.
As he turned to help the Wolf direct the army, Bellicus squinted into the blizzard beyond the overhanging rock. Something had caught his attention in that swirling curtain of white. As he stared, shapes began to appear, darkening, taking on weight and form. The Attacotti emerged from the storm with measured steps.
‘What are they doing here?’ Solinus grumbled.
On they came, looking from side to side. Searching for someone, Bellicus thought. The Eaters of the Dead passed through the uneasy, watchful army like ghosts. Finally, one in the centre of the group stepped to the front. Both arms were outstretched, and on them rested a staff, the wood intricately carved with spirals.
The man came to a halt in front of Mato and waited. Mato hesitated, then took the staff, examining it, bemused.
‘What’s that all about?’ Solinus muttered. ‘When did Mato become their friend?’
Leaning on his new staff, Mato nodded his thanks. The Attacotti warrior showed no emotion.
With all eyes on them, the Eaters of the Dead turned and walked away. But on the edge of the blizzard, the one who had presented the staff turned back. Raising one arm, he flexed his hand, beckoning for everyone there to follow.
‘What do we do?’ Comitinus asked.
Bellicus looked over to Lucanus, who had emerged from among the men. Their eyes met for an instant, and then the Wolf nodded.
‘We follow them,’ Bellicus said.
Into the swirling storm they trekked. The knives of the wind carved their flesh. Bellicus heaved his way to the front to walk beside Lucanus. Ahead, the hunched forms of the Attacotti faded in and out of the blizzard. Scarcely could he believe he was doing this, following the Eaters of the Dead as if they were saviours sent by the gods. Still ghosts, their white-caked flesh making them almost a part of the elements. He half believed that this was some final judgement and the Attacotti might simply evaporate, leaving the rest of them to die there.
‘We’re putting our trust in these bastards now?’ he grunted.
The Wolf said nothing. Perhaps, Bellicus thought, they’d cast a spell over him long ago.
Bowed into the howling gale, the army trudged down the slope. Just when Bellicus thought the snow would swallow them all, the Attacotti spun away to one side, clambering between boulders twice the height of a man. Squeezing between a cleft in their wake, Bellicus took two more steps and then looked around in amazement.
The snow was gone, the wind too.
Above them, overhanging rock between two cliffs formed a near roof with only narrow gaps between the two sides. A few flakes drifted down. Ahead, the trail ran down steeply, almost a tunnel between the soaring cliffs. His feet crunched over gravel. He imagined the spring floods rushing down here from the high land.
Out of the storm, Bellicus felt the blood start to thump through him. His fingers tingled; his cheeks did too. Still couldn’t feel his feet, though. He glanced at Lucanus. The Wolf cocked an eyebrow, said nothing.
They hurried down the slope. Behind them, Bellicus could hear rustles of surprise turning into waves of jubilation. The sound of hope.
After a long trek with the dark growing around them, Bellicus stepped out to see the ghosts of stark trees reaching out into the twilight. Firewood. Shelter. Game, as well. The storm still crashed above them, but here the wind was low and the drifting snow bearable.
Squinting, he looked ahead. Nothing moved. The Attacotti had already vanished into the dusk.
Comitinus loomed up at his elbow. ‘They saved us,’ he whispered, baffled. ‘The Eaters of the Dead saved us.’
‘They’re just trying to make it harder for us to kill them,’ Solinus grumbled, but Bellicus could already hear the doubt in the other man’s voice.
‘Saviours come in many forms,’ he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Pool of the Dragons
‘IF YOU WISH TO WALK INTO THE REALM OF THE GODS, FIRST CONSUME the flesh of the sacred mushroom.’
Myrrdin closed his eyes. The creaking words of his aged tutor flew back to him from the day when his mother and father offered him up to the College of the Druids to begin his new life. It was the first lesson, the one from which all the other wisdom sprang.
In later studies, he would learn that this was the path taken by all who wanted to walk with the gods. Yes, even back to those time-lost days when man took his first steps upon the world. In the hot sands of Aegypt, in the shadow of the great pyramids, when Osiris had been summoned. In Greece, when the wanderers had searched for Olympus. In the rituals of Mithras. Even among the new religion chosen by the followers of the Christ. All of them chewed upon the sacred flesh to hear the words of those who shaped this world.
‘The gods have given this gift to us. It is the sacrament, to allow them into your heart. To use it for any other reason invites the madness that only the gods can bring.’
The wood-priest snapped his eyes open and peered into the still surface of the black pool. There, in the womb of Dinas Ffaraon Dandde, his ears throbbed from the heartbeat of the earth. He felt the first whispers of the Otherworld lick around his mind.
‘What do you see?’ Arthur’s voice echoed around the walls in the dark.
‘If you would learn, keep your tongue still and watch.’
Myrrdin stared deep into the depths until he felt as if he were looking into a black mirror. There was his face, and the boy’s hanging opposite. The more he stared the more he felt he was looking through those faces, deep into the heads of both of them.
Movement stirred far below.
Sinuous, swimming back and forth, slowly surfacing.
‘We have nothing to fear, surely,’ the boy babbled. ‘Mother is confident. “We shall lure the false king in,” she says, “and we will destroy him here, at our fortress, so there can be no doubt of his survival. And word will go out to the four corners of Britannia that there is now only one king, one royal bloodline. The Dragon will have risen.” That’s what she says.’
‘Silence.’
Myrrdin felt himself swimming with those serpents, enveloped by their coils in the dark depths. He could feel the crackle of blue fire sizzling off them into his flesh, into his heart, into his mind. Becoming one with them.
If truth be told, worry was eating away at him day and night. He rarely slept, and when he did his dreams were terrible, of gods and witches tearing him apart, and the Fates cutting strand after strand with their shears.
One serpent flashed near the surface. He jolted, more visions tumbling. He saw lines of blue fire stretching out across the land, from the heartstones to the other great circles that his kind had guarded since those who had originally thrown those sacred places up had vanished from the face of the earth. The land healing, after this time of war and destruction.
One dragon. Only one could usher in this coming golden age.
The wood-priests who came before him had planned this. They knew all the tales from the other great religions, going back to the earliest days. A saviour was needed. One figure who could gather the people around them and lead them out of the dark. A saviour chosen by the gods, and imbued with the powers of the heavens, for then who could ever doubt them? A leader who could defeat death itself, who would always return in the hour of greatest need.
And what of those who guided this great king? Would they not have the greatest power of all?
Myrrdin drifted back across the years, remembering the discussions in the great council, and the words of the most learned. How the story was shaped. And so their spies went out from the deep forest where they were forced to hide after the Roman bastards had invaded. The search for the right candidate over those long years.
How had they ever thought Gaia would be the mother of that royal bloodline? He choked back acid as he watched the water roil.
But in the end he had found Lucanus, and he had persuaded the other wood-priests that this might be the way to save their Great Plan. And he had not been wrong. Lucanus, of everyone he had encountered, had the heart of a king blessed by the gods.
