The Bear King, page 29
part #3 of Dark Age Series
‘What do you see?’ Arthur breathed again. ‘Please … tell me.’
‘Two dragons fighting for supremacy. Only one can live. Only one.’
The time was coming fast.
Gaia’s scouts had told her their enemies were marching closer, and with each report her bravado had grown. But Myrrdin had seen her eyes. It was her terror that was really growing, the fear that she might lose her grip on the thing that she’d yearned for all her life.
And that was when she was at her most dangerous.
This plan that had been generations in the making all turned on the coming days. He alone could decide the outcome.
Raising his eyes, he peered across the dragon pool.
‘Only one dragon can live,’ he murmured to himself.
Arthur would have to die.
CHAPTER FORTY
Samhain
OUT OF THE WALL OF WHITE THE DARK FIGURES TRUDGED. Heads down, furs crusted with snow, they hunched into the blizzard. Some Scoti, about twenty of them, bearlike with their unkempt hair and beards; a handful of Picts, shaven heads, tattoos blackening their features. Swords swung loosely in their hands as they hunted. Eyes roamed. On the flanks, four riders eased their mounts among the sparse trees.
A single line of footprints ran ahead of them through the waves of snow. Their enemy’s scout would be dead before he reached his lines. They were all thinking that. Any man could see it.
Too confident. Too confident by far.
The arrow whined out of the gale and thumped into the eye socket of the front rider. Red rain splashed across the white.
Before the dead barbarian had crashed down into a drift, battle-cries drowned out the howls of the wind. Soldiers thundered from every side, swinging the swords they’d trained with every day since Isca Augusta.
Lucanus felt his heart swell with pride as he watched those farmers and merchants risk their lives for this good fight.
‘Now!’ he yelled, dashing forward. He could feel the Grim Wolves racing at his back.
All his friends had tried to persuade him not to be in the first line of battle. Solinus had taunted him mercilessly about his single arm. He was having none of it. He wouldn’t ask such sacrifice of any man if he wasn’t prepared to do it himself.
The barbarians whirled, bewildered. This was the last thing they expected. But the Grim Wolves had long since learned how to use the elements to mask their passage and their men in turn had learned that lesson well. Creeping through the trees under cover of the blizzard, hiding their tracks, smearing their clothes with snow so that they didn’t stand out against the white background.
A Scoti warrior spun towards him, whipping up his blade. His snarl turned to a mocking grin when he saw what he was up against.
Lucanus ducked under his lumbering strike and rammed his sword into the man’s guts. He held the blade there as he peered into his dying enemy’s shocked eyes. ‘Half a man is twice the man you are,’ he said, before wrenching Caledfwlch back in a shower of entrails.
This was the end of a long game. It was not a time for weakness.
The Wolf hacked into the side of the next barbarian, still rooted in shock at the attack. His third opponent was ready, though, balancing on the balls of his feet, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword, hunched, arm muscles flexing to swing.
From the corners of his eyes, Lucanus glimpsed Bellicus cut down a Pict. On his other side, Solinus thrust his sword through a red-headed Scoti.
As his enemy’s blade whisked in an arc, Lucanus swung up Caledfwlch. Sparks glittered. He felt his arm joints burn from the clash, but he narrowed his eyes. Focused. This was his time. He danced through the gusting flakes, the two swords whirling, high, low, the whine of blade on blade.
When his foe’s foot skidded on crushed snow, the Wolf lunged, ready for the opening. The gush of hot blood steamed in the bitter cold. As he wrenched his blade back, he looked around. Bodies littered the pink snow. The victory had gone as smoothly as he had wished. Two of his men nursed deep gashes, that was all. Mato and the leech bound the wounds. Bellicus looked from the wounded to him and nodded, pleased with the outcome.
The snow whipped down on vast, buffeting gusts that raced straight from the mountaintop. Soon enough there’d be no trace of this encounter.
‘Strip them of their furs,’ Lucanus commanded. ‘Make it quick. We don’t want our enemies to know how close we are.’
‘Don’t let those horses wander off, you lead-footed oafs,’ Bellicus bellowed.
Soldiers threw down their weapons and raced off to bring in the riderless mounts roaming among the trees.
The Grim Wolves strode up, rubbing their burning arms and flexing their shoulders.
‘Lured them out easy enough,’ Solinus said. ‘Not a bowlful of brains among them.’
‘It won’t always be this easy,’ Lucanus said.
Comitinus was still frowning, as he had been since Lucanus had planned this attack. ‘I don’t understand. We could have skirted them easily enough. Why risk a battle?’
‘Trust Lucanus,’ Solinus snapped. ‘He knows what he’s doing. If any of us thought you knew what you were doing, you’d be leader.’
Comitinus grumbled, kicking up whorls of snow as he marched away.
‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ the Wolf said. ‘This will look less like madness soon enough. And by then we’ll have a different kind of madness.’
The army trailed out among the trees. Lucanus peered through the blizzard to the east. The going would have been easier on the road, but they couldn’t risk encountering any more of Gaia’s war-bands. Surprise was key.
‘Too cold for this time of year. The gods have it in for us.’ Solinus brushed the frost off the snout of his wolf-pelt as they trudged.
‘It’s Samhain. By rights we should be huddled around the hearth, keeping ourselves safe from the dead walking the land,’ Comitinus grumbled.
‘When the doors to the Otherworld swing open, you never know, you might find a few allies dancing through.’ Amarina strode beside them, her cloak billowing behind her. Lucanus eyed her. Never a complaint. Never a moment of weakness. She was as strong as any Wilds-hardened arcani.
‘Or they’ll drag us back under hill or beneath lake and a hundred years will pass here in the passage of one night there, and all our loved ones will be gone,’ Comitinus said.
‘Stop whining,’ Solinus snapped. ‘You haven’t got any loved ones.’
As dusk fell, the army pushed down into a valley where their fires would not be so easily seen. Once the tents were pitched, Lucanus stood looking out at the specks of light flickering in the sea of night. The Grim Wolves huddled round their own fire, the orange light washing across the snow. Solinus waved a knob of dry bread in front of his eyes. ‘Tonight we should be drinking. Living life to its full. And what have we got? Only fit for pigs, this.’
Bellicus just grunted, for once. The flames danced in his eyes.
Mato leaned on his staff on the other side of the fire, peering away into the dark among the trees. How like Myrrdin he seemed in that moment, Lucanus thought.
‘What are you looking for?’ Comitinus asked.
‘The Attacotti. Will they help us in the battle? Or simply watch and wait? Will they turn on us in the final hour?’
‘Well, you’ll be all right, you bastard,’ Solinus said, stuffing the bread into his mouth. ‘You got a new staff out of them. They’re your best friends now, though I’ve no idea why. Unless they’ve decided you look like a tasty morsel for the pot.’
Mato forced a smile, but Lucanus could see his eyes were troubled. ‘Still, we should keep an eye on them none the less, wouldn’t you say?’
The others nodded. The Wolf sensed some kind of silent communication among them, though what it was he couldn’t tell. As they drifted into reminiscences about Vercovicium, he stepped away. In the dark, he glanced back at the faces glowing in the firelight, setting the vision of his friends in his mind.
Trudging through the snow, he found his tent and slipped inside. Catia and Weylyn huddled together under the furs.
‘Preparations for tomorrow have been made?’ his wife asked.
‘As much as can be.’ Lucanus pushed his way in between the two of them, sinking into the warmth of his family.
‘You know I’m going to fight tomorrow,’ Weylyn muttered. His voice was heavy with sleep.
‘I expect no less. And I have work for you – to protect Amarina. She will need your sword-arm more than any other.’
Weylyn nodded and let his head fall against his father’s chest. ‘I’m proud of you, my son,’ Lucanus whispered. The boy nuzzled against him and the Wolf felt a wave of love. He looked to Catia and her eyes gleamed. She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, her lips pressed there so long he thought she was never going to pull away.
‘We are together,’ she murmured. At that moment, it seemed the greatest prize of all.
Lucanus settled against her. This might well be his last night among the living, one way or another. He couldn’t imagine a better way to spend it.
The Wolf felt the skin of his face flayed raw by the wind as he bowed into the blizzard. The snowstorm had barely eased since they’d set off at dawn. Behind him, his army crunched through the deepening snow in silence. It could have been the bleakest midwinter in the Wilds, with not a soul around for miles.
In the quiet, he could sense their apprehension. These were not fighting men, but they were prepared to lay down their lives; for the gods, for a dream that the wood-priests had conjured up out of nothing.
He felt a pang of bitterness. But the dream was real now, and they were all caught up in it. The result would be the same if the prophecy and everything the druids had imagined were true.
‘So serious.’ A hand fumbled for his, fingers folding into him. Catia had stepped beside him. ‘Your thoughts are on the battle?’
Lucanus nodded. And more, but whatever was forming was like a ghost appearing out of the dark, and he didn’t dare give voice to it in case it vanished completely.
‘I won’t let the Attacotti take you away from me,’ she said, her voice now as hard as the cold earth under their feet. Before he could respond, she slowed her step, letting the Grim Wolves and some of the other men pass her by.
A whistle cut through the howl of the gale and he jolted, all thoughts of what Catia had said falling away. The sound of feet crunching through snow echoed nearer, and then he looked up at the advance scout appearing on the ridge ahead. He was beckoning furiously.
Lucanus threw himself into a run.
When he reached the ridge, the scout said breathlessly, ‘There,’ and pointed.
Suddenly, it was as if the gods had drawn back a curtain. The blizzard fell away, the wind dropped, and there were only fat white flakes drifting down and a terrible quiet.
A rocky hill rose up out of the white landscape. A series of steep banks and ditches ran around the slopes, and on the top of the hill towered the thick stone walls of Dinas Ffaraon Dandde. The only way in was a steep track on the western side of the hill.
Slowly, he raised his eyes to the flag with the red dragon, fluttering above that impregnable fortress.
Here was the place of death.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The Last Battle
BLOOD SEEPED INTO THE THICK SNOW. A BODY SPRAWLED in the dark pool of slush, an arrow protruding from an eye socket. Two ravens stabbed their beaks into the fallen man’s face.
As four men scrambled up the track to the fortress gate to claim the remains, arrows whined down from the walls. The soldiers threw themselves to one side and the shafts rattled off the rocks. In the lull that followed, they darted out again, grabbed the tunic of their fallen comrade and dragged him back down the slope. A trail of crimson flowed in his wake.
Lucanus watched his men pull the body back into the trees. It was a fisherman from the south coast of the western lands, who knew the weather well and always had a helping hand for those around him.
Fourteen, they’d lost so far. Fourteen struck down by Gaia’s archers as they’d failed on three attempts to claw their way up that steep track to the gates. After the third, all could see there was little hope of success with a frontal assault. Their enemy held an unassailable position, able to rain hell down on anyone who tried to reach the walls. The army of barbarians might be far from full strength with the majority of the force sent to the western lands, but even a handful could keep that stronghold.
Lucanus prowled along the lines of his men, waiting just beyond the range of the archers. They were showing brave faces. That was good. Eyes flickered towards him as he passed, all of them waiting for his next command.
When he reached the end of the line, Mato was leaning on his staff, peering towards the southern horizon.
‘Look,’ the Grim Wolf said, pointing.
In the far distance, a beacon blazed on the top of a hill. Lucanus felt his heart sink. ‘I’d hoped for more time,’ he said.
‘We knew Gaia’s reinforcements would be riding hard at our backs,’ Mato said. ‘At least this warning buys us space to make the hard choices.’
The Wolf nodded. And hard choices they would be. No chance now to try to starve the enemy out. No chance to pick off odd bands of reinforcements making their way back. That beacon spoke of a major force coming their way. He looked back up the slope to the fortress, those towering stone walls, that steep hillside, those ditches and that single, narrow way to the gate. There would be death, on a huge scale. They couldn’t avoid it now.
‘Get them ready,’ he commanded.
Mato nodded and hurried away.
Lucanus bowed his head, brooding, until he heard the stamp of hooves and the snort of breath from the horses they’d captured from the war-band. He turned to see Mato leading three barbarians towards him in front of their mounts. Their heads were lowered above the filthy furs of the Scoti, the cracked leather armour, those familiar short swords that the warriors from the north preferred.
When they neared they raised their heads and he looked into the eyes of Bellicus, Solinus and Comitinus.
‘I’m just warning you, I might die if I breathe in the reek from these furs,’ Solinus grumbled.
‘Are you ready for this?’ Lucanus asked.
‘We were ready when you asked us,’ Bellicus replied.
‘There are others—’
‘We’re the best ones for the job and you know it,’ Bellicus grunted. ‘Now are we going to stand here talking or are we going to fight?’ The big Grim Wolf strode to the largest stallion and heaved himself on to its back.
‘You look like a cunt,’ Solinus said, looking Comitinus up and down.
‘You look like a bigger cunt, you scar-faced bastard.’ Comitinus held the other man’s gaze for a moment and then hauled himself on to his own mount.
Lucanus felt a pang of regret. He could see through their bravado. ‘I feel as though I’m sending them to the slaughter,’ he muttered.
‘They look the part. Any man would think they were Scoti.’ Mato paused. ‘They know what they’re doing.’
Even if his plan worked, what chance did his friends have? He bit down on his tongue. No good would come from showing doubts.
‘There’s no other way to get inside that fortress in what little time we have left, and you know it,’ Mato continued, as if he could read the mind of his leader. ‘This is the only hope we have.’
‘I should be—’
‘You should be here, commanding the rest of your army. You owe them that.’
Lucanus nodded. He couldn’t argue. ‘Ready the army.’
When Mato had gone to spread the plan among the ranks, the Wolf turned on his heel and plunged into the trees. It was time for his biggest gamble. The moment when his prayers would be answered or his final hopes dashed.
Large snowflakes began to drift down from the colourless sky. The wind picked up. More bad weather was sweeping in. He hoped it was not an omen.
He heard the familiar whick-whick-whick of small knives being sharpened. There they crouched, almost invisible against the sweeping drifts. All heads turned as he stepped towards them.
Lucanus swept his arm towards his constant companions and said, ‘I would have words.’
The day boomed with the roar of battle-cries and the thunder of swords beaten against shields. The din drowned out even the howl of the wind. Step by step, the army advanced into the blizzard, the ground slowly rising ahead of them. Still beyond reach of the archers, still safe. But that would soon change.
Lucanus squinted through the whirling snow. He could just make out the grey walls of the fortress. What were their enemies thinking, hearing that blood-curdling clamour? Were they confident? Were they filled with terror? What was on Gaia’s mind? For both pretenders to the royal bloodline, everything turned on what was about to unfold.
And if the enemy didn’t fall for this ploy, all would be lost.
Finally, he glimpsed movement along the foot of the walls, and nodded. ‘The weather has helped us,’ he said.
No one had seen the Attacotti creep up there past the crags and the ditches on the near-impossible-to-climb southern slope. The enemy wouldn’t expect anyone to come from that direction, and they would have been distracted by the tumult his army was making.
The Eaters of the Dead were crouching at the foot of the walls, all but invisible. Waiting.
‘Offer up a prayer, my friend,’ he said to Mato. ‘We need the gods on our side.’
Mato bowed his head, resting his forehead against the carved staff.
Lucanus stepped away to the back of the advancing lines and roared. The advance ebbed. The battle-cries died, and the beating of the shields stilled. The whine of the wind rushed in.
‘Let your hearts fill with fire!’ he shouted into the howling blizzard. ‘Victory will be ours! For never has there been a more courageous army. The gods are watching over you. They see that you fight in their name. They see that you fight for the good of all in Britannia, for the True King. The King Who Will Not Die!’
