The Bear King, page 30
part #3 of Dark Age Series
‘Pendragon!’ the men boomed as one. ‘Pendragon! Pendragon! Pendragon!’
The Wolf steeled himself. Lies did not trip easily off his tongue – he was not a wood-priest – but these good men deserved to have the fear banished from their hearts.
‘I have passed days in the Summerlands,’ he said, his voice soaring over their heads. ‘But death could not hold me. I have returned to you, to Britannia, in this darkest hour. And know now that only glory awaits you, in this world or the next. Seize this day, brothers! Seize this victory! Forward!’
A full-throated battle-roar rumbled out like the earth cracking, and his army heaved as one. Lucanus threw himself into their midst. Despite the bitter cold, the packed bodies sweltered around him and he breathed in the bitter tang of their sweat. His fingers clasped tight around the hilt of Caledfwlch. For a fleeting moment he believed his own legend. This was a sword of the gods. With it in his hand, he could never be defeated. He had slipped loose from the shackles of death and returned to the world of the living. He was a saviour now, chosen by the gods.
But then the clamour crashed in, and his thoughts rushed back to the heaving mass of fighting men forcing its way up the track to the fortress. The path was choked, the way steep. Snowflakes stung his eyes as he tried to see the way to those solid wooden gates, past the waving swords and his fluttering banner. Thick timber bound by iron braces with two heavy bars on the other side, no doubt. Breaking them down would be impossible.
And then he glimpsed Catia, in the crush just ahead, braided blonde hair dancing behind her, face as cold and determined as any man’s there. He felt his heart leap with apprehension. He’d pleaded with her to stay behind in the camp, with Amarina, for Weylyn’s sake. She would have none of it. And despite the terror that rushed through him that she might die, he also felt a burning pride. His Warrior Queen.
But then a cry rang out and Catia was lost to view in that churning mass. Men were pointing. Lucanus followed the direction. Silhouetted against the white sky, a row of figures now ranged along the battlements.
‘Shields!’ he roared.
Wherever they could, his soldiers wrenched their shields up high. But for many the crush was too tight and they were left defenceless as the arrows whined.
Lucanus heaved his own shield up. The shadow fell over him. Bracing his legs, he felt as if the gods were raining stones down upon them. The tip of a shaft cracked through the wood a hand’s width from his face. Screams echoed, and as he eased his shield aside, he saw a man reel back, an arrow jammed into his forehead. Others dropped on every side. His nostrils wrinkled at the stink of shit and piss and blood.
‘Onward!’ he yelled. How many more would they lose before they reached those walls?
But as his men lurched forward, stumbling over the bodies of those who had fallen, he caught sight of a smaller figure clambering out of the throng on to a large boulder at the side of the track.
Catia again.
He felt the urge to scream out to her to get back, keep her head down, hide, not make herself an easy target for Gaia’s archers. But she knew what she was doing, as always. His wife pushed herself up tall, braced her legs and nocked an arrow to her bow. When an archer on the wall bobbed back up once more, ready to launch an assault, she let fly.
Catia was the best archer among them by far. Her shaft flew true, slamming into the enemy’s face. He spun back, trailing a stream of black blood. A cry of alarm rang out and all the other heads that had been emerging along the wall instantly ducked down.
With cool, measured movements, Catia nocked another arrow and waited. She’d bought them some time, at the risk of her own life.
‘Onward!’ he bellowed, waving Caledfwlch over his head to exhort the soldiers to push on harder.
The second arrow flew from Catia’s bow. Another cry. But no more arrows rained down from the archers on the walls, not for now at least. Soon her shafts would be exhausted, though, and the enemy would find what little morsel of courage they had left.
His feet squelched through the pink slush underfoot, sliding as he tried to push on. Whoever had built that fortress understood how to make it impregnable. A view over the surrounding countryside, so any approaching enemy could be easily seen. Those steep, inhospitable slopes, littered with rocks and rotting tree stumps, ditches and walls of earth. And this track as the only way in, not too steep for carts but hard enough for any army to claw its way up, twisting this way and that around the contours of the hillside.
As they rounded a curve in the path, Catia shouted a warning and he threw his shield up again just in time. More arrows rained down. They crunched through wood, cracked through bone, tore through flesh. The Wolf gritted his teeth at the cries of agony that thrummed in his ears.
Looking through the row of heads, he could see some men at the front giving in to the terror of the death falling from on high and scrambling ahead over the frozen ruts to try to reach the cover of the base of the walls.
‘Stay back,’ Lucanus shouted. But if they heard him they gave no sign. The fear had smashed their wits away. His heart pounding, he yelled again, but the men threw themselves on, up to the gates, arms flailing, and feet slipping and sliding on the ice.
He sensed a dark shape looming above the walls, a barrel being heaved. A stream of boiling pitch flooded down on to the scrambling men. Lucanus pushed his head down, trying to block out the terrible screams. When he looked up again, though, the gates were just ahead, their prize almost close enough to grasp but still seemingly a thousand leagues away.
And then a horn blasted, low and mournful, somewhere at his back.
Bellicus felt his blood thunder at the wail of that horn. Among the trees, Mato was playing his part.
‘You don’t know how to live until you smell death!’ he roared. He dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks and it jolted forward. Behind him, Solinus and Comitinus drove their own mounts on.
The pound of hoofbeats drowned out the wind’s whine, and his fear too. He was not a fighting man, not really – he loved nothing more than the peace of a night in the Wilds – but he was ready to give his own life here if it should be called for. The cold blast flayed his face as he guided his mount out of the woods towards the track up to the fortress. Rivulets of blood trickled down through the churned snow, but far less than he’d expected. That was good. Perhaps the gods really were on their side. But then he looked up at the multitude of bodies jammed into the way and his heart sank at the monumental task that lay ahead.
On he thundered. He couldn’t afford to slow his pace for an instant, not if this ploy was to succeed. The horn moaned again.
His stallion galloped up the steep incline until he saw the rear of the army. ‘Make way. Make way,’ he breathed, almost a prayer. But he didn’t dare call out.
And the army was well prepared. The moment the lowing of Mato’s horn rolled out, they’d started to throw themselves aside from the centre of the track. With the second blast, they were pushing to each side with force, hauling themselves out on to the rocks and banks of earth.
Though he’d feared crushing his own men under the stallion’s hooves, a narrow path opened up and his mount crashed through it. Behind him he could hear the grunts and snarls of Solinus and Comitinus as they followed.
In the midst of the throng, he yanked out his sword and waved it one way and the other, making a play of hacking out at the soldiers surrounding him. A few stabbed their own blades towards him in return, while others cried out and feigned injury. Bellicus prayed that it was enough for anyone watching from the walls.
His stallion forced its way up through the mass. Looking down, he saw Lucanus raise his head and nod his support. For an instant, their eyes locked in a silent communication, a hope that they would see each other again on this side of the Summerlands. And then he was through the heaving mass of bodies and pounding up the final stretch to the fortress.
The gates loomed up ahead. This was the moment on which everything turned.
Bellicus whirled his sword in the air and stabbed it towards the gates. From under his brows, he glimpsed Gaia’s men hanging over the battlements watching his progress. They would understand what he wanted. Lucanus’ army was far enough away to mitigate any fear of being overwhelmed before the gates crashed shut again. Now he only had to pray that they had some loyalty to their own side.
The gates stayed shut.
On his horse thundered. He muttered another prayer, but with each hoof-fall that sped by beneath him his heart fell further. Despair pushed acid into his mouth.
‘Open the gates!’
The bellowed command came from behind the walls. Bellicus felt his spirits soar as he heard that cry. It rang out again. This time his neck prickled at something familiar, but he had no time to wonder what it was as he urged his mount on, bending low over its neck so that his face wouldn’t be seen as he neared the walls.
Ahead of him he glimpsed a sliver of grey light as the gates cranked open. The space grew wider, wider. Snow whipped past him. He dropped his sword to his side, tightening his grip on the hilt.
The roar of the army throbbed like the sound of waves crashing on a beach, and the hooves of the three horses thundered as one with the blood pounding in his head.
Head still lowered, he stared at that wide gap. And then he felt a jolt of shock as he saw the figure standing in the courtyard in front of him.
Myrrdin, the wood-priest, was alive and beckoning him into hell.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Into the Fortress
BELLICUS HAULED THE STALLION TO A STOP JUST OVER THE threshold, blocking the path of the closing gates. Picts and Scoti threw their arms in the air, roaring at the new arrivals to move.
The courtyard was heaving with barbarian mercenaries. Others swarmed up the stone steps to bolster those defending the walls. Roughly twenty breaths, that was about as long as he’d survive, he calculated. The wood-priest had already vanished, if he hadn’t imagined him.
Bellicus glanced at Solinus and Comitinus. A silent agreement, a signal, and he swung up his sword and bellowed.
The Scoti warriors gaped, eyes wide. Then he hammered his blade down into the neck of the man nearest him.
The moment hung across the courtyard, breaths held tight in chests. And then every man there erupted in fury at the realization that they’d been tricked. The sea of bodies rose up and washed towards the gates.
Fighting to keep their mounts under control, Bellicus, Solinus and Comitinus slashed their blades down at anyone who ventured near.
Fifteen breaths, Bellicus thought. Gods, let me buy enough time for Lucanus.
Through the haze of blood, shadows shimmered on the edge of his vision. Bellicus glanced round to see white figures dancing through the open gates.
Swords raised, the Attacotti swept into the fortress. Silent as death, they didn’t slow their step, those blades sweeping with elegant grace. Picts and Scoti fell as one, clutching at throats and guts. On went the Eaters of the Dead, as relentless as the incoming tide.
Bellicus saw terror etched into the face of every barbarian within range as they realized what they’d allowed into their midst. Many had fought alongside the Attacotti during the invasion. They knew what these strange creatures were capable of. Some of the Scoti fled. Others backed off, levelling their blades, none of them risking getting too close.
‘Now we have a fight on!’ Bellicus roared.
He kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks again and urged it into the melee. A barbarian sprawled under the hooves, his howl cut off as his skull was crushed. The Grim Wolf turned towards the men trying to heave the gates shut and lashed his blade down, once, twice, three times, and then Solinus and Comitinus were at his side, stabbing and thrusting.
The gates had barely budged. As the blood of the guards washed into the snow, Bellicus heard another roar and Lucanus’ army flooded through the opening. He felt his heart soar. He’d done what was asked of him. Perhaps he’d even paid Lucanus back for the years of silence about his father.
‘Not dead yet,’ he shouted, unable to stop his triumphant grin from spreading.
‘Still time if you don’t move,’ Solinus yelled back.
Bellicus slipped down off his horse – he could see the danger of being pinned against the gates by the attacking barbarians. Solinus and Comitinus jumped down too, and back to back they raised their swords.
The Scoti and the Picts were ebbing away as the army swept in. The Attacotti had carved a swathe through the barbarians, and now, as Bellicus looked across the courtyard, he could see only heaving bodies and flashing blades as the forces of the Pendragon clashed with the false king’s men. Contained within these walls, this last battle would be a slaughter one way or another.
‘Over there,’ Solinus shouted.
Bellicus spun and saw Lucanus beckoning furiously to them. He thrust his way through the flow of men still streaming into the courtyard, and came to where the Wolf huddled with the wood-priest behind a cart piled high with straw.
‘How did you survive?’ Solinus shouted above the din.
‘Have you betrayed us, that’s the question?’ Bellicus snarled his fist in the druid’s robes.
Myrrdin knocked his hand away. ‘Would I have commanded the gates be opened if that were the case? They would never have done so if I hadn’t called out. And now you’d be dead outside with all the rest and a river of blood would be flowing down from the walls. You owe your lives to me.’ Brushing down his robes, the wood-priest eyed Lucanus. ‘Only you could have dreamed up such a terrible plan.’
‘This is no time for talk,’ the Wolf snapped, stabbing Caledfwlch towards the cart. ‘Burn this.’
Bellicus understood what he wanted. Striking his flint, he lit the straw, and within no time, flames were licking up. ‘With me,’ he commanded, grabbing one arm of the yoke. Solinus grasped the other, and together they heaved the wagon forward. The wheels ground on the frozen yard, picking up speed as the two men pushed harder. As soon as the straw crackled and blazed up, Bellicus and Solinus shoved it with force one final time and it rolled away.
As a path opened up between the warring men, Lucanus leapt into the space and ran behind the trundling cart. ‘Now, take us to Gaia and her bastard,’ he shouted to Myrrdin. ‘This must be ended once and for all.’
Catia raced through the ringing chambers of the stone buildings on the other side of the courtyard. Not a single barbarian had challenged her as she rammed her way through the horde. Perhaps they thought she was no threat.
The gloomy chambers were deserted. Every soldier was fighting to defend the poisonous queen, her mother.
‘Where are you, Gaia?’ she muttered.
The throne room sweltered in the sickening heat of ten hissing braziers, but the carved wooden chair stood empty. The council chamber, the feasting hall, the bedroom … only her footsteps broke the silence.
As she stepped back out into the corridor, she cocked her head. The distant tones of a woman’s voice echoed through the shadows. Catia crept forward, following the sound.
At the end of the corridor, a dark doorway loomed. She lifted a torch from the wall and held it in front of her as she ventured to the top of a set of stone steps winding down to … what? Cells, catacombs, a tomb?
The dancing light washed over the slick wall as she descended. She breathed in dank air.
‘Do not abandon me now,’ the woman was imploring. It could only be her mother. ‘Victory is within my grasp … within our grasp.’
Catia stepped into a long, low-ceilinged room. Echoes of her footsteps bounced back and forth; there was water here.
‘You.’ An accusation.
Catia held the torch high and the dark swept away, past a pool in the centre of the chamber and her mother standing beyond it. The rear of the chamber was still swallowed by inky shadows, but Catia felt her mother had been talking to herself, or the gods, or both.
‘Victory is not in your grasp,’ Catia said, walking towards the other woman. ‘You’ve lost.’
‘I should have strangled the life from you the night I birthed my son,’ Gaia hissed. ‘Or when you were a babe. The gods know I tried hard enough.’
‘I don’t regret not killing you when I had the chance, though you’ve caused endless misery since that night.’
‘Then you are weak. Even if you were, by some chance, to win this day, I would never end my fight to claim what is rightfully mine. One day I would seize the life from you, and your son.’
Catia shivered, perhaps from the chill air. How could this be her mother, someone filled with so much poison that she would murder her own blood without a second thought?
She stepped to the pool and held her torch over it. The fire glowed in the black surface.
‘I would have won by now if not for you.’ Those flames danced in her mother’s eyes too.
‘What is this place?’ Catia stared into the depths of the water. The hairs on her neck prickled. She felt as if it was summoning her.
‘Two dragons swim in this bottomless pool … swim between here and the Otherworld, where the gods live. They bring power. Our power. The endless source of our destiny that courses through our blood.’
Catia couldn’t believe her mother’s words, and yet she couldn’t forget the brand on her shoulder, and her mother’s, of the Ouroboros, the dragon eating its own tail. The wood-priest’s symbol of all that the druids had invested in their dream of the King Who Will Not Die. Despite herself, she lowered the torch and leaned down to search those depths.
Movement whisked across the oily surface. Catia recoiled, realizing at the last that it was only a reflection.
Gaia’s hands clamped around her throat and she crashed back, her head bouncing off the flagstones. For an instant, she felt her wits jolted free of their moorings. When her vision cleared, she was staring up into a face twisted with fury, the lips pulled from the teeth, eyes wide and staring.
