Stones Of Power - The Last Sword Of Power Part 25

G.o.ds, it was an age since he had last felt soft flesh beneath him and warm arms encircling his back. For several minutes the prince Ursus returned, haunting his mind.

'What are you doing in this forsaken land?' Ursus asked him.

'I am honour bound,' Galead told him.

'And where is the profit in it, fool?'

He transferred his gaze to the flames, unable to answer. He wished Pendarric would appear and sat quietly waiting until the dawn. But there was nothing.

The day was overcast and Galead set off in the direction the fisherman had indicated, heading west along the coast. Three times he saw deer, and once a large buck-rabbit, but with no bow there was no opportunity for swift hunting. Once he had known how to set a snare, but his lack of patience would never allow him to sit for hours in silent hope.

Throughout the morning he walked until he saw, slightly to the north, smoke curling into the air. He turned towards it and, cresting a hill, saw a village in flames. Bodies littered the ground and Galead sat down staring at the warriors in their horned helms as they moved from home to home, dragging out women and children, looting and killing. There were maybe fifty raiders and they stayed for more than an hour. When at last they moved off to the north, nothing stirred in the village save the snaking smoke from the gutted homes.

Galead rose wearily and made his way to the Saxon hamlet, halting by each of the bodies.

None lived. A smashed pot still contained dried oats and these Galead scooped into a linen cloth, knotting it and tying it to his belt. Further on, in the centre of the devastated settlement, he found a ham charred on one side; with his knife he cut himself several slices and ate them swiftly.

Glancing to his right, he saw two children lying dead in the doorway of a hut, their arms entwined, their dead eyes staring at him. He looked away.

This was war. Not the golden glory of young men in bright armour carving their names in the flesh of history. Not the Homeric valour of heroes changing the face of the world. No, just an awful stillness, a total silence and an appalling evil that left dead children in its wake.

Carving several thick sections from the ham, he threw the joint aside and walked from the settlement, once more heading west. At the top of a rise he looked back. A fox had stolen in to the village and was tugging at a corpse. Above the scene the crows were circling . . .

Something in the bush to his right moved and Galead swung, his sword snaking out. A child screamed and the knight threw away his weapon.

'It's all right, little one,' he said softly, as the girl covered her face with her hands. Leaning in to the bush he lifted her out, cradling her to his chest. 'You are safe.' Her arms circled his neck and she clung to him with all her strength. Stooping, he lifted his sword and sheathed it, then turned from the village and continued on his way.

The child was no more than six years old, her arms painfully thin. Her hair was yellow, streaked with gold, and this he stroked as he walked. She said nothing, scarcely moving in his arms.

By mid-afternoon Galead had covered some twelve miles. His legs ached with walking, his arms were weary with carrying the child. As he topped a short rise he saw a village below: eighteen rounded huts within a wooden stockade. There were horses in a paddock and cattle grazed on the slopes. Slowly he made his way down the hill. A young boy saw him first and ran into the village, then a score of men armed with axes strode out to meet him.

The leader was a stocky warrior with an iron-grey beard.

The man spoke in the guttural language of the Saxon.

'I do not speak your language,' Galead answered.

'I asked who you are,' said the man, his accent thick and harsh.

'Galead. This child is Saxon; her village was attacked by the Goths and all were slain.'

'Why would the Goths attack us? We share the same enemies.'

'I am a stranger here,' said Galead. 'I am a Merovingian from Gaul. All I know is that warriors with horned helms slaughtered the people of this child's village. Now can I bring her in - or shall we move on?'

'You are not an Uther-man?'

'I have said what I am.'

'Then you may enter. My name is Asta. Bring her to my home; my wife will take care of her.'

Galead carried the child to a long hall at the centre of the village where a st.u.r.dy woman tried to prise the child from his arms. She screamed and clung on and although Galead whispered gentle words to her, she would not leave him. The woman just smiled and fetched warm milk in a pottery cup. As Galead sat at a broad table, the girl in his lap drinking the milk, Asta joined them.

'You are sure it was the Goths?'

'There were no Romans in the attack.'

'But why?'

'We cannot talk now,' said Galead, indicating the silent child, 'but there were many women in the settlement.'

Asta's blue eyes gleamed with understanding and his face darkened. 'I see. And you observed this?'

'Unfortunately, yes.'

The man nodded. 'I have sent one rider to scout the village and follow the raiders, and three other to settlements close by. If what you say is true, then the Goths will rue this day.'

Galead shook his head. 'You do not have the men, and any attempt you make to fight will result in more slaughter. If I may advise you, have scouts out and when the Goths approach - hide in the hills. Does your king not have any forces here?'

'Which king is that?' snapped Asta. 'When I was a young warrior the Blood King crushed our forces, allowing the boy - Wulfhere - the t.i.tle of King of the South Saxon. But he is no king; he lives like a woman - even to having a husband.' Asta spat his contempt. 'And the Blood King? What would he care that Saxon women are . . . abused?'

Galead said nothing. The child in his arms had fallen asleep, so he lifted her and carried her to a cot by the far wall near the burning log-fire, where three warhounds lay sleeping on the hay-strewn floor. He covered the child with a blanket, and kissed her cheek.

'You are a caring man,' said Asta as he returned to the table.

'Tell me of the Goths?' said Galead.

Asta shrugged. 'Little to tell. Around eight thousand landed here, and they destroyed a Roman legion. The main part of the army has headed west; around a thousand remain.'

'Why west? What is there for them.'

'I do not know. One of our young men rode with them for a while and he said their general wanted to know the best route to Sorviodunum. My man did not know. That is across the country.'

'Was the King, Wotan, with them?'

Once more the Saxon shrugged. 'What is your interest?'

'Wotan destroyed my whole family in Gaul and my interest is to see him die.'

'They say he is a G.o.d. You are mad.'

'I have no choice,' Galead answered

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

'The south is virtually ours, sire,' said Tsurai, his flat brown eyes staring at the marble floor. Wotan said nothing as he watched the man, seeing the tautness in his flat Asiatic face, the tension in the muscles of his neck. Sweat was beading the man's brow and Wotan could almost taste his fear.

'And the north?'

'Unexpectedly, sire, the Brigantes have risen against us. A small group of our men strayed to one of their holy sites where there were some women dancing.'

'Did I not say there was to be no trouble with the tribes?'

'You did, sire. The men have been found and impaled.'

'Not enough, Tsurai. You will take their officers and impale them also. What regiment were they?'

'The Haiders, sire.'

'One in twenty of them will be beheaded.'

'Lord, I know you are all-wise, but permit me to say that men at war are subject to many views of the pa.s.sions . . .'

'Do not preach to me,' said Wotan softly. 'I know all the deeds men are capable of. It is nothing that a few women are raped, but obedience to my will is the paramount duty of all my people. A Saxon village was also attacked yesterday.'

'It was, lord?'

'It was, Tsurai. The same punishment must be exacted there - and very publicly. Our Saxon allies must see that Wotan's justice is swift and terrible. Now tell me of Cato in the middle lands.'

'He is a skilful general. Three times now he has fought holding actions, and our advance on Ebor-ac.u.m is not as swift as we had hoped. But still,' he continued hurriedly, 'we are advancing and the city should fall within days.'

'I did not expect the a.s.sault of Eborac.u.m to succeed as swiftly as my generals thought it would,' said Wotan. 'It is of no matter. What have you discovered as to the whereabouts of the Blood King's body?'

'It is on the Isle of Crystal, my lord - close to Sorviodunum.'

'You are certain?'

'Yes, lord. Geminus Cato has an aide called Decius and he in turn has a mistress in Eborac.u.m. He told her that a man called the Lance Lord took the King's body to the Isle to restore it.'

'Culain,' whispered Wotan. 'How I long to see him again!'

'Culain,' I do not understand, sire.'

'An old friend. Tell Alaric to proceed on Sorviodunum, but to send two hundred men to the Isle. I want the head of Uther on a lance; that body should have been cut into pieces on the first attack.'

'The enemy is,saying, lord, that the king will come again.'

'Of course they are. Without Uther and the Sword, they are like children in the dark.'

'Might I ask, lord, why you do not slay his spirit? would that not solve any problem of his return?'

'I desire the Sword and he alone knows where it lies. As long as his body lives, he has hope burning in his heart and defies me. When it dies, he will know and I will milk his despair.

Go now.'

Alone once more, Wotan locked the door of his windowless chamber and settled back on the broad bed. Closing his eyes, he forced his spirit to plummet into darkness . . .

His eyes opened in a torchlit room of cold stone and he rose from the floor and took in his surroundings - the empty-eyed statues, the colourless rugs and hangings. How he hated this place for its pale shadow of reality. In the corner was a jug and three goblets. During the long centuries he had pa.s.sed here he had often poured the red, tasteless liquid, pretending it was wine. Everything here was a mockery.

He strode to the outer hall. Everywhere men leapt to their feet in surprise, then dropped to their knees in fear. Ignoring them all, he walked swiftly to the dais on which stood the Throne of Molech. For some time he listened to the entreaties of those who served him here: the pleas for a return to the flesh, the promises of eternal obedience. Some he granted, most he refused. At last he left the throne-room and walked down the curved stairwell to the dungeons: A huge beast with the head of a wolf bowed as he entered, its tongue lolling from it's long jaws and dripping saliva to the stone floor.

Wotan moved past him to the last dungeon where Uther hung by his wrists against the far wall. Tongues of flame licked at his body, searing and burning - the flesh repairing itself instantly, only to be burnt again. Wotan dismissed the flames - and the King sagged against the wall.

'How are you faring, Uther? Are you ready to lie to me again?'

'I do not know where it is,' whispered Uther.

'You must. You sent it.'

'I had no time. I just hurled it, wis.h.i.+ng it gone.'

'The man who first saw you said he heard you call a name. What was that name?'

'I do not remember, I swear to G.o.d.'

'Was it a friend? Was it Culain?'

'Perhaps.'

'Ah, then it was not Culain. Good! Who then? Who could you trust, Blood King? It was not Victo-rinus. Whose name was on your lips?'

'You'll never find it,' said Uther. 'And if I was free from here, I could not find it either. I send the Sword to a dream that can never be.'

Tell me the dream!'

Uther smiled and closed his eyes. Wotan raised his hand and once more fire surged over Uther, forcing a blood-curdling scream of agony. The flames disappeared, the blacked skin replaced instantly.

'You think to mock me?' hissed Wotan.

'Always,' said Uther, tensing himself for the next torture.

'You will find that always is a very, very long time, Uther. I am tired of fire. You should have some company.' As Wotan stepped back to the doorway, holes appeared in the dungeon walls and rats poured out, swarming over the helpless King to bite and tear at his flesh.

Wotan strode from the dungeon, screams echoing behind him in the corridor.

He moved back to the upper levels and found the captain of his Loyals waiting by the throne. The man bowed as he entered.

'What do you want, Ustread?'

'I have something for you, lord. I hope it will make amends for my failure in Raetia.'

'It needs to be something rather greater than you can find here,' said Wotan, still angry from his talk with the stubborn King.