Dragon's Child (34 page)

When Artorex saw the motley bunch his two friends had collected, he suspected that Llanwith and Myrddion had lost their minds.

Of course, Luka had vanished once more.

The appearance of the group of warriors drinking at a rough trestle table was unprepossessing. Myrddion appeared to have chosen the roughest and filthiest warriors he could find. Scarred, tattooed and ragged in hair and clothing, the men shared only one characteristic - their weapons were impeccably clean and shining.

Targo cheerfully greeted the scum, as he called them, and immediately seemed right at home. After a few moments of conversation with them, the old veteran invited Artorex to meet some of the grinning and unrepentantly dirty troop of warriors.

‘You sons-of-whores have claimed that you want to meet Artorex - and here he is,’ Targo shouted above the din of the warriors who were talking loudly in small groups. ‘To you men, he is Captain Artorex and he is your commander. I won’t be introducing you pretties to the captain for the moment because he won’t remember your names. But now that you’ve joined our impossibles, you’ll need to smarten up a bit.’

Artorex endured a round of backslapping, and soon became aware that many of the men had gambled on his right arm in his contest with Ban.

‘Why?’ Artorex asked one small, thickset man with repulsive features.

‘It stands to reason, Captain. My name’s Pinhead, by the way. Your gear’s good. It’s not pretty but it’s good. And you move real well. You didn’t need a shield, although I don’t fancy distance fighting or going up against arrows without one.’ He grinned amiably at Artorex, and winked with his single eye. ‘And most important, you didn’t give a damn about what was going on around you. You kept your eye where it belonged - on your enemy.’

‘And you’re very pretty!’ A tall Celt with an evil squint smiled and blew a kiss in the direction of Artorex.

Without a moment’s thought, Artorex backhanded the hulking brute across the face with sufficient force to knock him to the ground.

The Celt came to his feet with blinding speed. Artorex expected the man would draw his sword, but he merely shook his shaggy head and grinned sheepishly.

Pinhead sniggered. ‘Always the big mouth, Rufus. It’s a wonder you’re still alive. You’re lucky the captain only gave you a little kiss back.’

‘Beg pardon, Captain,’ Rufus apologized simply and, when Artorex nodded, he returned to his ale.

‘This one here is Odin, Captain,’ Targo said slyly of another huge warrior. ‘It’s not his real name but none of these pretties have been able to work out who he is. He’s a Jute.’

Artorex’s eyes passed over the man. Odin was so tall, even in his bare feet, that Artorex had to look upward to study his face. The Jute was fully clad in furs and Artorex had difficulty recognizing where hair ended and pelt began. Under a simple helmet, the man’s long mane was nearly white, while his beard, which was extraordinary in length and thickness, spread out in a red spray over his barrel chest. The warrior bore an axe threaded through a loop on the right side of his belt and an extremely long, and inhumanly heavy sword in a beaten scabbard on his left.

‘Now, this one’s a really pretty warrior,’ Targo told the troop, and everyone laughed.

Odin began to speak rapidly in a language Artorex couldn’t even hope to understand, apart from recognizing one word, Thor, uttered with reverence.

Then, to Artorex’s complete embarrassment, Odin knelt and placed Artorex’s foot upon his neck.

‘Don’t pay no mind to Odin, Captain,’ Pinhead explained. ‘He’s swearing one of his barbarian oaths - he seems to have taken a liking to you. He was most impressed with your little battle yesterday.’

‘How did a Jute find his way to Venta Belgarum?’ Artorex asked, through a deepening blush of embarrassment. He pulled his foot away from Odin’s huge hands.

‘Well, it wasn’t by choice,’ Pinhead explained. ‘He was running from a troop of Saxon vermin outside Londinium - and I mean running. Seems he’d upset them somehow. Five to one seemed an unsporting way to fight, so Rufus and I equalized the odds. Then we found we couldn’t get rid of him.’

‘The only thing we understood was that he was making a blood oath,’ Rufus said. ‘He seemed to think his life belonged to us.’

‘Oh, and he kept going on about Odin, so the name stuck,’ Pinhead explained in tandem with his friend.

‘He fights well, though,’ Rufus added conversationally. ‘What he does with that axe fair gives me the dreads. You could say goodbye to any Saxons we meet if you had forty of Odin.’

‘Then I’m pleased that he’s taken a liking to me,’ Artorex responded, raising Odin to his feet and taking out his dragon knife. Artorex thrust the hilt of the dagger towards Odin, while retaining his grip on the blade in a gesture of friendship. It was a dangerous game, for the Jute could have severed Artorex’s fingers just by pulling the blade free. Instead, as Artorex had hoped, Odin simply placed his hand upon the knife hilt and repeated his earlier blood oath.

A commotion at the door drew Targo’s attention.

‘By the bare breasts of Mother Juno, it’s Ban,’ he muttered.

Unconcerned at the stir he was causing, and with a brief nod to Artorex, Ban strode over to Myrddion and spoke quickly and quietly to him. The two men grasped each other’s wrists briefly, as if a pact had been sealed.

Then Ban swaggered out, as easily and as casually as when he had arrived.

Artorex sheathed his knife and joined Myrddion and Llanwith.

‘Fortuna is with us, Artorex. She certainly smiles on you,’ Llanwith chuckled.

‘Ban told me that he wishes to assist us in our expedition. He, and his entire personal guard, have offered to ride with us. He believes himself to be in your debt.’

Artorex shook his plaits in perplexity. Ban was a nobleman and a warrior, the master of vast lands, men and great wealth. Artorex repaid every debt and remembered every kindness offered to him, but he was surprised when men such as Ban behaved similarly. Caius, Severinus and the rest of their intimates had shown no sense of duty that Artorex could ever discern. Nor did Uther Pendragon prize honour overmuch, to judge by his actions.

‘How many men do we have in our combined force, Myrddion?’ Artorex asked.

‘Including Targo’s scum, we have sixty seasoned warriors, and I believe that number will be more than sufficient. In a surprise attack, and with luck, we have the numbers to win. If we fail in our task, then Uther’s forces are not greatly weakened. As we have no friends to assist us on our expedition, we shall have to live off the land and forage as we travel. Our party is not too large, so we should be able to maintain some element of surprise.’

Artorex nodded his agreement; Myrddion’s tactical appreciation was sound.

Myrddion beckoned to Targo to gain his attention. The warrior looked up from his ale cup and ambled over to where the two men were standing.

‘Yes, my lord?’ the veteran asked, all attention under his shield of soldierly indifference.

‘Your men must be up and mounted at dawn,’ Myrddion said. ‘You’re now their leader, though even your talents mightn’t be sufficient to discipline that rabble. Artorex is the Captain of our force, and he’ll determine all questions of leadership. For the moment, you may tell your beauties that there’ll be no more drinking this night.’

‘They’ll just love that,’ Targo snickered. ‘But they’ll obey. You have my word on it.’

‘And you’d best find a horse for that barbarian - a very large horse,’ Llanwith called after him.

‘If we have sixty men, our force should be divided into three cadres of twenty,’ Artorex decided. ‘Targo will command his troop, while Ban commands his choice of twenty of his best men. Llanwith should take whoever is left.’ He smiled at Llanwith. ‘I’m sorry, my friend. You must do with them what you can.’

Llanwith grinned at Artorex’s rueful expression. ‘Men are men. Whoever they are, and whatever gods they serve, they’ll obey.’

‘Luka will act as your forward scout,’ Myrddion said, ‘and will remain ahead of the force when you are on the march. He has a talent for subterfuge, he understands the Saxon tongue and we’ll need to utilize every tactical advantage open to us.’

‘What of you, lord?’ Artorex asked. ‘If any man should lead this expedition, it should be you.’

Myrddion grimaced. ‘I’m not a fighting man,’ he stated unequivocally. ‘I am a strategist, so I never developed the skills of combat. I’m a manipulator and a scholar, but I’m not a master of men. My purpose on our expedition will be as a mentor, a healer and an adviser - for those are duties that I do best. You four will lead the raid, with Artorex in overall command, exactly as Uther demands. If Artorex falls, it’ll be Llanwith’s task to return here with the survivors.’

Luka did not return to the Wild Boar Inn until the afternoon sun was low on the winter horizon. The rain had cleared to a light drizzle, but Luka was soaking and chilled to the bone.

Worse still, his eyes were hooded and he couldn’t quite meet Artorex’s speculative gaze.

‘What news, Luka?’ asked Llanwith. ‘While you’ve been out enjoying yourself, we’ve recruited our entire troop.’ He poured some warmed wine for his friend.

‘Uther has been with his confessor since dawn. He won’t see his queen, and refuses to suffer the ministrations of Morgan. The High King’s court prepares itself for his death.’

‘And?’

‘Morgan is happy.’

‘Only the death of Uther and all he stands for would give that bitch joy,’ Myrddion said vindictively.

‘I agree. There is one detail of concern - but the little Eilyn, my eyes and ears in the Great Hall, could be wrong.’

‘Spit it out then, Luka,’ said Llanwith with a smile. ‘How bad could kitchen gossip be? Our situation can’t get any worse than it already is.’

Something in Luka’s face made Llanwith pause and his easy grin quickly melted away.

‘Botha and twenty seasoned warriors left Venta Belgarum just after dawn. They rode to the west, in the direction of Sorviodunum.’

Myrddion frowned. ‘I don’t see—’

‘Before departing, Botha freed his slaves and he gave twenty pieces of red gold to Eilyn as a bride price,’ Luka went on. ‘It seems that the man is her uncle, and she believes he has no intention of returning from this particular raid.’

‘There’s more to this tale, isn’t there, Luka?’ Artorex interrupted. He felt a chill surge through his body until it raised the blond hair on his arms. Every sense was shouting alarm.

Artorex captured Luka’s impassive eyes with his own steely gaze. Will clashed against will, and Luka was the first to break eye contact.

‘Where does Botha go? He wouldn’t leave Uther’s side except on the orders of the High King.’

‘Botha avoided telling Eilyn any details of his mission or his destination. But she told me that he was profoundly disturbed by the orders he’d been given.’

A single, awful thought left Artorex gasping and sick with urgency.

‘Uther wouldn’t lift a hand against Ector, would he?’ he said, aghast. ‘Not even the High King would dare to alienate Roman Britain. No! ... It can’t be! . . . I must return to the villa!’

‘You can’t leave, Artorex,’ Luka cried out. ‘I’ve done all that is possible. I’ve sent two fast couriers by separate routes to the Villa Poppinidii as soon as I heard of Botha’s departure. I took this precaution, just in case.’ He paused. ‘You can do nothing to change the course of events that has already been set in motion, even if you returned to the Villa Poppinidii now. You are at least one day, probably more, behind Botha. I’m afraid we have no choice, for we are obliged to continue with our plans and ride with our impossibles to Anderida.’

Luka squeezed Artorex’s shoulders to console the younger man, but Artorex thrust his arms away violently. Luka’s face seemed magnified and Artorex was unable to tell if the emotions it wore were self-interest, pity or panic.

‘If Uther has sent Botha and his warriors to the Villa Poppinidii, you’d be too late now to help them, even if you rode until Coal’s heart burst,’ Luka begged. ‘You must trust that my couriers arrive in time to warn Ector and your family.’

‘Still, I must ride back to the villa, even if I should be too late,’ Artorex repeated, and began to collect his roll of travelling furs. ‘If any harm was done to my family, I’d never live with the shame.’

‘You speak nonsense, boy!’ Llanwith snapped. ‘Uther’s crazed hatreds can’t be laid at your door. He’s the architect of any wickedness that occurs in this place, and he alone must accept the blame. Besides, aren’t we trying to guess at Uther’s intentions? The road that leads to Sorviodunum winds on to many places that lie within the domains of the High King, and Botha could have been sent to any of these locations. What could Uther gain by sending his guard to the Villa Poppinidii?’

Luka averted his eyes; only Llanwith heard his sudden indrawn hiss of apprehension.

‘Nevertheless, I intend to return to the Villa Poppinidii immediately, regardless of your explanations,’ Artorex repeated, his mouth set in stony determination.

The three travellers looked at each other, their faces aghast with the possibility of total failure in their mission and the unravelling of all their carefully constructed plans.

‘Uther will call you a coward and he’ll have you killed as a traitor,’ Myrddion pleaded. ‘If you desert your command, he’ll raze the Villa Poppinidii to the ground as punishment for your treachery and Ector will be declared an outlaw. Your warriors - and your friends - will die as well. He’ll determine that all of us are unfit to live.’

‘Nevertheless, my duty lies at the Villa Poppinidii with my family,’ Artorex murmured with certainty. ‘I regret any harm that might come to you but I’ve no choice.’

As he bent to gather up his weapons, something came at Artorex from beyond his peripheral vision. Before he could turn away, his head exploded and his knees collapsed under him.