The Bear King, page 5
part #3 of Dark Age Series
And in that moment, the powers that had raised her up turned upon her. She had no choice but to run, with a new protector, her husband’s brother, as far from Britannia as she could: to Rome, where she could be safe, and plot to regain what was rightly hers.
Two sons came to her in rapid succession, and one of them had the strength and courage and wisdom to follow the path of the dragon.
Corvus; beautiful Corvus.
Gaia choked back a sob when her son’s face floated in the smoke rising from the brazier. How her heart ached for him. Dead and lost, somewhere on the great high moorland. Catia may not have wielded the blade that ended his life, but she might as well have done.
Her daughter had robbed her of the only thing she ever valued: her son.
The days after that loss had been as hard as the winters of her youth. But somehow the Hanged Man had guided her away and navigated a path through her grief. The remnants of the force that had been loyal to Corvus came with her, and they had bided their time once more, plotting, scheming, waiting for the stars to align so that she could reclaim her legacy. She would never leave it in the hands of Catia and her vile offspring!
For now she had another focus for her dreams. A new son, born only days before Corvus was killed.
Her child. Her son’s child.
‘… open the trade routes to the east,’ Severus was saying. She hadn’t heard a word of it, hadn’t even known he was still speaking.
‘Arthur!’ she cried, like gulls shrieking in a winter sky. ‘Arthur!’
A steady step echoed through the silence and the great door of the throne room creaked open.
There he was. Her beautiful son. Corvus reborn in all but name.
Arthur was tall for his age, hair the colour of a raven’s wing, eyes like deep wells. When she looked into them, she could never know what he was thinking. He was a mystery to her. The jaw was strong, the cheekbones sharp lines in his pale skin.
‘Corvus,’ she murmured. ‘Corvus.’
She threw her arms wide, and Arthur strode up and buried his face in her breast. His arms clasped each other round her back, as Corvus’ had once done, and she folded into him. After a moment of peace, she cupped his face and showered it with kisses. He didn’t like it, she was sure, but he never resisted her. She loved him all the more for that.
‘You have completed your studies?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Severus is a good teacher.’
‘You know why you must learn so much of the world, to become wise, and strong, and just?’
‘So I can be king one day.’
Gaia kissed him again on the forehead, long and hard. ‘Our destiny rests on your shoulders.’
‘Arthur is a good student,’ Severus said, ‘and he will make a good king, with the blessing of Sol Invictus.’
The boy’s lips twitched into a smile.
‘You are too serious by far,’ she breathed in his ear. ‘And your swordplay? Are you growing more skilled?’
‘I practise every day, Mother.’
‘If only we had that sword of the gods … Excalibur … the one the Pendragon wielded. Corvus believed it was vital to encourage the people to follow Arthur. No sword … no crown. What are we to do?’ She heard her voice spiral into a shriek.
Severus flinched, as he always did when her emotions escaped her. ‘Come.’ He beckoned. ‘Come.’
One of the servants hurried to throw a fur cloak over her shoulders as Severus crept through the door and across the hall, still beckoning.
Out on the steps leading down from the grand entrance to her quarters, she winced. The wind cut like knives, even through the fur, and her lungs burned every time she breathed in. Arthur took her hand and gave it a squeeze, as if he could sense her discomfort.
The Hanged Man swept out one hand. Across the terraces down to the walls, her army was in motion. Tossing hay for the horses, warming themselves by stamping their feet by the fires, slaughtering deer on the trestles outside the butchers’ shacks, painting their shields. The main gates rumbled open and another war-band rode in, past the bitter smoke belching from the blacksmith’s shop where their weapons were forged.
‘You have a force here to be reckoned with,’ Severus said. ‘The people of Britannia recognize power, more now that the army of Rome is leaving these shores by degrees. They will turn to you for protection, crown or sword notwithstanding.’
Gaia looked over the shaven-headed Picts to the loyal, leather-faced legionaries. ‘I need more men,’ she said. ‘So many men that the ground shakes as they march, and people fall to their knees in awe at the terrible sight of them.’
‘I have sent word out for more mercenaries.’ Severus formed each word with care. ‘There are still barbarian war-bands roaming the land, and the Scoti are once more raiding the north and west. But … we will need to pay for them.’
Gaia stamped her foot. Their treasure room had once been filled with gold looted in the devastation wreaked by the barbarian horde. But she knew it must be depleting by the day. ‘We need more.’
‘If we loot the settlements, the people will turn away from you.’
‘Mother.’ Arthur was tugging at her sleeve. She looked into those dark eyes. ‘If we act quickly, all will be well. Don’t wait for months or years to build the army. Use all the gold we have now to buy more men and strike before the year is out. Once the false king has been defeated, we will control the trade routes. The people will have no one to turn to but us. Gold will flow into our coffers. In victory, we will have more than we need.’
‘See!’ Gaia said, shaking her small fist at the Hanged Man. ‘This is why Arthur will be king. Already he has more wits than you. But of course, he is Corvus’ son. Send out word now. Promise the world. Let the mercenaries flood through our gates—’
‘I would urge caution,’ Severus interjected. ‘It is a risky strategy—’
‘Still your tongue! My son has spoken, and his will shall be made real. We will build our army. We will attack the false king before the year is out, and put them all to the sword. My daughter’s head will sit upon a spike outside the gates of their western stronghold, while Arthur will snatch up Excalibur, and hold it proudly above his head, and be proclaimed the one true king. And then our bloodline will rule for all time.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Storm
LIGHTNING SLASHED THE SKY. A WALL OF BLACK WATER SOARED up to the height of three men. In the white flash, Mato glimpsed faces the colour of bone twisted with terror.
Niall of the Nine Hostages was bellowing some order or other, but the howling gale swallowed his words as it ripped across the deck, threatening to tear those seasoned sailors from their benches and fling them to their deaths.
Mato gripped on for dear life.
The ship reared up, smashed down, spun from prow to stern in a dizzying current. Every man on board must be thinking the same thing: they would be dead long before they even set foot on the island that had haunted all their dreams. Mato muttered a prayer. His stomach surged up into his throat and then fell away. Seawater sluiced around his ankles. The men who were bailing couldn’t keep up with the deluge.
The storm had hit on the very last leg of the voyage. The pirate-king had used all his vast skill to steer a course between the gales that blasted the ocean between Britannia and Hibernia, and to navigate the turbulent currents that had dragged many a vessel to the bottom. But in the approach to the island, there was no place to hide.
Mato felt the ship heave almost on to its side. Desperate to see his friends one last time, he scanned the cowering crew. Bellicus’ head was pressed almost to his knees. Apullius and Comitinus were huddled together. But Solinus had his head back and was laughing like a madman into the storm.
When Mato saw that, he felt his spirits surge. This was the life he remembered with the Grim Wolves in the Wilds, with death always at their elbow, and them laughing in its face.
Though they could not possibly have heard it, Solinus’ laughter seemed to stir the others too. Bellicus pushed his head up and roared. Comitinus and Apullius sat up straight and stared around.
And then the ship crashed back down.
In another white flash, Mato glimpsed Niall standing in the prow. He was drenched, his red hair blasted to his head, his mouth open, bellowing. His finger jabbed aft and Mato swivelled on his bench.
An arc of flame swept back and forth as the fire-pot swung. In the ruddy light he could see the helmsman slumped across the tiller, dazed. Whatever had happened to him, the ship was now at the mercy of the currents.
The vessel tossed and heaved like an unbroken stallion. Without a second thought, Mato threw himself into the seawater swamping the deck. Hand by hand, he clawed his way forward. A gush of brine flooded his mouth. The stern swung up and he scrambled to clutch a bench so he wasn’t sent spinning towards the prow. But then he was at the tiller and he heaved himself on to the bench. The helmsman had slumped to the deck, and the bar smashed against Mato’s ribs, swung away and smashed back again. The Grim Wolf folded across it and tried to hold it fast, though it fought him like a wild drunk.
He felt a calm settle on him, and for a moment he was sure he could hear his sister whispering in his ear, telling him that he would finally find peace in the Summerlands. In that instant, he looked up. In the glare of another lightning flash, he made out Niall sweeping his arm to one side, and heaved the tiller in that direction. It took all his strength. He braced himself to hold it there, his feet sliding on the slick wood. But hold it he did.
For what seemed like an age, he fought with that wooden bar. His muscles ached; his wits drained away with exhaustion. A world of lashing rain and buffeting wind and constant, sickening movement engulfed him.
And just at the moment when he wondered if he had any strength left to endure it further, he realized his violent battle was almost over. The wind dropped, the crashing thunder rolled away, and the walls of water became little more than ridges. As voices started to rise up out of the departing storm, he slumped across the tiller and smiled at the jubilation of men who had marched past death.
Niall splashed along the deck, barking orders at the bailers to work faster.
‘You saved our necks,’ he said, reaching Mato. ‘That current would have taken us into the heart of the storm. We would now be food for the fish.’
‘I thank you for the opportunity to prove myself as a sailor,’ Mato croaked. ‘Take no offence, but I’d rather crawl through ditches for the rest of my days.’
Niall laughed, but only for a moment. He looked towards the northern horizon, and Mato saw his face darken.
‘The storm has pushed us off course,’ he said. ‘We will not now reach the island by dawn.’
‘How much longer till we get there?’ Mato asked.
Niall of the Nine Hostages shook his head. ‘We won’t make landfall before the sun has set.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘I wouldn’t wish to move through that place in the dark, not for all the gold in the world. But we have no choice.’
The low sun carved a ruddy path across the black ocean. Waveskimmer ploughed through it, skirting the distant silhouette to an area where Niall of the Nine Hostages hoped they would have a better chance of remaining unseen.
Bellicus stood in the prow, watching the darkening landmass. His stomach still twisted from the torment of the storm, and acid burned his throat. How they’d survived he didn’t know. Perhaps the gods really were smiling on them.
Or, as was sometimes the way with gods who liked their sport, they were being saved for a far worse fate.
The setting sun lit enough of the sky to give shape to the island of the Attacotti. Bellicus squinted, making out thick forest and a range of hills close to the southern approach.
‘We’ve sailed round it many times. One day, when we are brave enough, we’ll conquer it,’ Niall said at his shoulder. ‘You want to know the lie of the land?’
Bellicus nodded.
‘More than a day’s march from end to end, about half a day from west to east. There’s another range of hills in the north, and a valley separating the two ranges. One mountain, on a good day high enough to see Hibernia and Britannia from the top, I’d say. In the far north, there’s a flat plain. We don’t want to get caught there. No cover.’
‘And the home of the Attacotti?’
‘That’s where the danger lies. They could be anywhere in that forest.’
‘The valley would be best.’
‘I think so. But we can’t be sure.’
‘We tread with care from here on,’ Bellicus muttered. ‘I’ve seen too much of those bastards. Myrrdin was right – you don’t want to face them in the dark.’ He paused, then added, ‘You don’t want to face them in the light, either.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Island of the Dead
THICK CLOUD SWALLOWED THE MOON. BELLICUS SCANNED THE dark bulk before them, but he couldn’t see light glimmering anywhere, and when he sniffed the wind all he could smell was brine. Perhaps he’d have more luck once they were on dry land.
As the Grim Wolves lined up to lower themselves over the side of the ship into the rowboat, Comitinus muttered, ‘Why does the pirate-king have to come with us?’
‘You want that raiding bastard to stay on board so he can sail off and leave us with nothing but the Eaters of the Dead for company?’ Solinus rapped the other man’s head.
‘He’s an honourable man.’
‘They all are. Until they’re not.’
When Bellicus thumped down into the rowboat, it rocked so wildly that Mato had to grip the sides for fear it would tip over.
‘Eaters of the Dead ready to make us their dinner, and I’d rather be standing on that island than sitting here,’ Bellicus grumbled.
‘If there comes a time when you regret saying that, I won’t be waiting for you to catch up.’ Solinus planted himself on a bench aft.
Apullius lowered himself on to the boards with the elegance that had turned him into the best swordsman in their band. He eased himself next to Mato, and Bellicus thought in that moment how much he reminded him of Lucanus. They could well have been father and son. He’d be a leader one day.
Niall of the Nine Hostages dropped down, finding his balance in an instant like the seasoned sailor he was. He stared into the gloom.
‘What do you see?’ Comitinus asked.
‘Nothing,’ Niall replied. ‘It’s night.’
Solinus sniggered as the raider settled on to a bench and grasped an oar.
‘I bought my freedom by agreeing to bring you here,’ Niall continued, ‘but if things go as badly as I fear, don’t think I’ll wait to die with you. I’ve already met my side of the bargain.’
‘We’d expect no less,’ Bellicus grunted. ‘You’ve been true to your word.’
As they rowed towards the island, Bellicus felt his neck prickle as if there were eyes on him. The Attacotti seemed not of this world, but surely even they couldn’t see through the dark. The others, too, held their backs rigid and their heads low, and he sensed the same suffocating apprehension in each.
The oars dipped in rhythm. Not even the slightest splash, nothing to reveal their approach. The night swallowed Waveskimmer.
Bellicus found himself yearning for a lamp to keep the dark at bay. He breathed in to still his thumping heart, trying not to recall any of the horrors he had seen the Attacotti inflict.
The pirate steered them around the coast of the island to where he promised a sheltered shingle beach, and soon the swash of the surf rolled out through the night. Niall eased his oar out of the water, and the others followed his lead. Bellicus felt the tide take them in.
Once they were close enough, Niall hissed a soft whistle between his teeth and Bellicus splashed into the shallows beside him. Together, they heaved the rowboat up on to the pebbles.
On the edge of the beach, silhouettes of trees darkened the lighter gloom.
‘I’ll go first,’ Bellicus breathed, his words only just rising above the tinkling of the surf. ‘Keep close.’
‘And you keep close,’ Solinus muttered to Niall. ‘You’re in our world now. All that dancing across the deck won’t serve you here. If you’re not careful, you’ll be crashing around like a wounded bear.’
Once they’d prowled over slick stones to the edge of the woods, they dug their hands into loam and smeared it all over the exposed parts of their bodies to mask their natural musk among the scents carried far and wide by the strengthening breeze. Bellicus looked round at the pale eyes staring from blackened faces and nodded. They were ready.
One step into the trees and all light fled away. He breathed in the scent of cool, damp vegetation. Droplets of rain pattered on the ground as the breeze brushed the leaves.
‘Do we have a plan yet? I’d like a plan,’ Solinus muttered, babbling with unease. ‘If Lucanus is still alive, where will he be? In the heart of them? How do we get him back? Walk right in and demand they let him come with us?’
‘When we find him, we’ll see a way.’ Bellicus thrust ahead. Things had seemed so much simpler back on the mainland. Here, in the endless dark with death a whisper away, he felt the rising hopelessness. ‘We’re not going to give up now,’ he said, as much to himself as the others.
The ground rose steadily along a twisting rift between dizzying cliffs. The Grim Wolves picked their way over tangled roots as thick as their arms, hauling themselves onward with the aid of low-hanging branches. Niall followed silently. Slick with sweat, Bellicus pulled himself out of the climb and looked across a rolling landscape of wind-blasted grass. In the distance the black bulk of mountains loomed up. The breeze whined in his ears. Still no lights glimmered. They could have been alone in all the world.
Balancing on his haunches, Apullius pointed to the black slash where the valley cut through the island. ‘If they’re hiding in there, we may find it easier to slip in under cover of the night. Surely they wouldn’t place guards on an island in the middle of the vast ocean? Who would dare venture here?’
