Ghost King (3 page)

Thuro looped the mare's reins over her head and draped them over the saddle pommel. Then he followed the lithe form of the forest girl ever deeper into the trees, emerging at last at the foot of a high hill in the shadow of the northern mountains. Thuro's feet were cold, his boots wet through. A little way up the rise he stopped - his face white, his breathing ragged as he sank to the snow. Laitha had walked on maybe twenty paces when she turned and saw him beside the trail. She ran lightly back to him and knelt. 'What is the matter?'

'I am sorry - I cannot go on. I must rest for a while.'

'Not here, Thuro, we are in. the open. Come on, just a little more.' She helped him to his feet and he staggered on for perhaps ten paces.

Then his legs gave way beneath him. As Laitha bent to help him, she saw movement some two hundred paces back along the trail. Three riders emerged from the trees; saw the travellers and kicked their horses into a gallop.

'Your enemies are upon us, Thuro!' she shouted, dropping the pack from her shoulder and swiftly stringing her bow of horn. Thuro rolled to his knees and tried to stand, but his strength had fled. He watched as the riders drew their swords and saw the gleam of triumph in their eyes, heard the malice in their screams. His eyes flickered to Laitha, who was standing coolly with her bow stretched, the string nestling against her cheek. Time seemed to slow and Thuro viewed the scene with detached fascination as Laitha slowly released her breath and, in the moment between release and the need for more air, loosed the shaft. It took the lead rider between his collar-bones and punched him from the saddle.

But the remaining riders were too close to allow such perfect timing again and Laitha's next shaft was loosed too swiftly. It glanced from the second warrior's helm, snapping back his head; he almost lost his balance and his horse veered to the right, but the last man hurled himself from his saddle to crash into the forest girl as vainly she strove to draw another arrow from her quiver. Her hand flashed for the hunting-knife in her belt, but he hammered his fist into her jaw and she fell to the snow, stunned. The other horseman, having gained control of his mount, stepped from the saddle and    approached   Thuro   with    his   sword extended.

'Well, little prince, I hope you enjoyed the hunt?'

Thuro said nothing, but he climbed slowly to his feet and met the assassin's eyes.

'Are you not going to beg for life? How disappointing! I thought at the least you would offer us a king's ransom.'

'I do not fear you,' said Thuro evenly. 'You are a man of little worth. Come then, child-killer, earn your salt!'

The man tensed and raised his sword, but then his eyes flickered to a point behind Thuro. 'Who are you?' he asked and Thuro turned his head. Behind him, seeming to appear from nowhere, was a man in a white bearskin cloak. His hair was black and silver shone at the temples; his face was square-cut and clean-shaven, his eyes grey. He was dressed in a dark leather tunic over green woollen leggings and he carried a silver staff with two ebony grips - one at the top, the second half-way down.

'I asked who you were,' repeated the assassin.

'I heard you,' answered the newcomer, his voice deep, and colder than the winds of winter.

'Then answer me.'

'I am Culain lach Feragh, and you have attacked my ward.'

The man glanced at the unconscious girl. 'She is only stunned - and she killed Pagis.'

'It was a fine effort and I will compliment her when she wakes. You, boy,' he said to Thuro softly, 'move behind me,' Thuro did as he was bid and Culain stepped forward.

'I do not like to kill,' he said, 'but unfortunately you and your companion cannot be allowed to leave here alive, so I am left with no choice. Come, defend yourselves.'

For a moment the two assassins simply stood staring at the man with the staff. Then the first of them ran forward, screaming a battle-cry.

Culain's hand dropped down the shaft to the central ebony grip and twisted. The staff parted and a silver blade appeared in his right hand. He parried the wild cut and reversed a slashing sweep to the assassin's throat. The blade sliced cleanly free and the man's head slowly toppled from his shoulders. For one terrible moment the body stood, then the right knee buckled and it fell to rest beside the grisly head. Thuro swallowed hard and tore his eyes from the corpse.

The second assassin ran for his horse and, dropping his sword, vaulted to the saddle as Culain stepped over the corpse and retrieved Laitha's bow. He selected an arrow, drew the string and loosed the shaft with such consummate skill and lack of speed that Thuro had no doubt as to the outcome even before the missile plunged into the rider's back. Culain dropped the bow and moved to Laitha, lifting her gently.

After a while her eyes opened.

'Will you never learn, Gian?' he whispered. 'Another doe for your collection?'

'He is the son of the king. Eldared seeks to kill him.' Culain turned and as his eyes fastened on the prince, Thuro saw something new in his gaze, some emotion that the boy could not place.   But  then   a  mask  covered  Culain's feelings. 'Welcome to my hearth,' he said simply.

Eldared, King of the Brigantes, Lord of the Northern Wall, sat silently listening to the reports of his huntsmen. His sons Gael and Moret sat beside him, aware that despite his apparent tranquillity their father's mood was darkening moment by moment.

Eldared was fifty-one years of age and a veteran of dark intrigue. Twenty years before he had switched sides to support the young Roman Aurelius Maximus in his bid for the throne, betraying his own brother Cascioc in the process. Since that time his power had grown and his support for Maximus had earned him great wealth, but his ambition was not content with ruling the highlands. During the last five years he had steadily increased his support amongst the warring tribes of the high country, and solidified his power base among the Britons of the south. All he needed for the throne to fall was the death of Aurelius and his weakling son. After that, a surprise raid on Eboracum would leave him in an unassailable position.

But now a plan of stunning simplicity had been reduced to ashes by simple human error. Three retainers had escaped and the boy, Thuro, was at large in the mountains. Eldared kept his face calm, his hooded eyes betraying no hint of his alarm. The boy was not a great problem in himself, for he was by all accounts spineless and weak. However, if he managed to get back to Caerlyn then Lucius Aquila, the canniest of generals, would use him as a puppet to rally support against Eldared. Added to this, if any of the survivors lived long enough to warn Aquila, then the raid on Eboracum would become doubly perilous.

Eldared dismissed his huntsmen and turned his gaze to his elder son Gael, a hawk-eyed warrior just past his twentieth birthday.

'Suggestions?' invited the king and Gael smiled.

'You do not need me to state the obvious, Father.'

'No. I need you to show me you understand the obvious.'

Gael bowed. 'At present the boy is of secondary importance. He is hidden somewhere deep in our lands and we can deal with him at leisure. First we must find the three who escaped, most especially the Roman Victorinus. He is a man Aurelius had chosen for future command and I believe it was he who stopped the others from returning to seek the king.'

'Well and good, boy. But what do you suggest we doT

'Concentrate our efforts in the south-west. Victorinus will cross the Wall at Norcester, and then cut east and south to Eboracum.'

'Why would he take the long route?' asked Moret. 'It only increases his danger.'

Gael's eyes showed his contempt for the question, but his voice was neutral as he answered it. 'Victorinus is no fool, brother. He knows we will send men south-east and he gains time by such a manoeuvre. We need to use Goroien.' Moret cleared his throat and shifted nervously in his seat. Eldared said nothing.

'What choice do we have, Father?' Gael continued.

'Choice?' snapped Moret. 'Another dead Brigante babe for that foul woman!'

'And how many dead Brigante men will fall before the walls of Eboracum if we do not use the Witch?' replied Gael. 'If I thought it would guarantee victory, I would let Goroien sacrifice a hundred babes.'

'Moret has a point,' said Eldared softly. 'In this deadly game I like to control events. This Mist Magic of hers can be a boon, but at what price? She plays her own game, I think.' He leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. 'We will give the huntsmen another two days to catch the retainers. If they fail, I will summon Goroien. As for the boy . . . I believe he could be dead somewhere in a snow-drift. But send Alantric into the high country.'

'He will not like that,' said Moret. "The King's Champion sent out after a runaway boy?'

'His likes and dislikes are mine to command - as are yours,' said Eldared. 'There will be many opportunities in the spring for Alantric to show his skills with a blade.'

'And what of the Sword?' asked Moret. Eldared's eyes flashed and his face darkened. 'Do not speak of it! Ever.’'

*

Victorinus sat near the narrow window of the alehouse tavern staring out at the remains of the Antonine Wall, built far to the north of Hadrian's immense fortifications and stretching from coast to coast over forty miles. It was a turf wall on a stone foundation and, as he stared, the young Roman saw the ruins as a vivid physical reminder of the failing Roman Empire. Three hundred years ago three legions would have patrolled this area, with a fortress every Roman mile. Now it was windswept and mostly deserted, except in remote villages like Norcester, on the well-travelled trade roads. He sipped his ale and cast a covert glance across the room to where Gwalchmai and Caradoc were sitting together, just beyond the six Bri-gante tribesmen. The three had been journeying for nine days; they had managed to buy provisions and a change of clothing from a Greek merchant on the road south. Victorinus was now dressed in the garb of an Order Taker: a long woollen robe and a fur jerkin. Across his shoulders hung a leather satchel containing stylus parchment and a letter from Publius Aris-tarchos naming him as Varius Seneca, an Order Taker from Eboracum.

The innkeeper, an elderly Romano-British veteran, moved on to the bench seat alongside Victorinus.

'How soon can delivery be made if I order goods from you?' he asked.

'They will be here in the second week of spring,' answered Victorinus, acutely aware of the Brigantes who sat nearby. 'Depending of course on what you need,' he continued. 'It's been a bad year for wine in Gaul and supplies are not plentiful.'

'I need salt a deal more than I need Gallic wine,' said the man. 'The hunting is good in these hills, but without salt I can save little meat. So tell me, what does your merchant charge for salt?'

Victorinus drew in a deep breath; he was no quarter-master and had no knowledge of such dealings.

'What are you charged currently?' he asked.

'Six sesterces a pound. Five if I take the bulk shipment and then resell to the tribesmen.'

'The cost has risen,' said Victorinus, 'and I fear I cannot match that price.'

'So what can you offer?'

'Six and a half. But if you can secure orders from surrounding villages, I will authorise a payment in kind. One bag in ten sold will come to you free.'

'I do not know how you people have the nerve to sell at these prices. It is not as if we were at war. The trade routes are as safe now as they have ever been.'

'Your thinking is a little parochial, my friend. Most of the trade routes in Brigantes territory may be open, but there is a war in the south, and that has cut our profits.'

A tall Brigante warrior with a deep scar across his cheek rose from his table and approached Victorinus. -'I have not seen you before,' he said.

'Is there any reason why you should have done?' replied Victorinus. 'Do you travel much to Eboracum?'

'You look more like a soldier than an Order Taker.'

'I earn more salt this way, friend, with a great deal less danger.'

'Are you travelling alone?'

'Even as you see. But then I carry little money, and there are few who would attack an Order Taker. They would much rather wait until I have fulfilled my duties and then raid the wagons on their way back.'

The man nodded, but his keen blue eyes remained fixed on the young Roman. Finally he turned his back and rejoined his comrades. Victorinus returned to his conversation with the innkeeper, while keeping a wary eye on the Brigantes. The scarred tribesman looked across at Caradoc and Gwalchmai.

'Where are you from?' he asked.

'South,' said Caradoc.

'Belgae, are you?'

Caradoc nodded.

'I thought I could smell fish!' The other Brig-antes chuckled and Caradoc coloured, but tore his eyes from the warrior. 'I had a Belgae woman once,' continued Scarf ace. 'She charged a copper penny. She looked like you; perhaps it was your mother.'

Gwalchmai reached across the table and gripped Caradoc's arm, just as the tribesman was reaching for his sword. 'It could well have been his mother,' put in Gwalchmai softly. 'As I recall, she had a fondness for animals.'

The Brigante rose from his bench. 'Not wise to be insulting so far from your homeland.'

'It's my upbringing,' said Gwalchmai, rising smoothly. 'I was taught always to silence a yapping dog.'

Iron blades slid sibilantly from their scabbards. Gwalchmai up-ended the table and leapt to the right, drawing his gladius. Caradoc moved left, his sword extended.

'Six against two,' said Gwalchmai, grinning. Typical of the Brigantes!'

The object of battle is to win,' said Scarface, his eyes gleaming, his colour deepening. Caradoc's left hand dropped to his belt, coming up with a heavy dagger. Just as the Brigantes tensed for the attack Caradoc's arm flashed forward and the dagger entered Scarface's throat below the chin strap of his bronze helm. With a gurgling cry he sank to the floor as Caradoc and Gwalchmai charged into the mass, hacking and cleaving.

Victorinus cursed, drew his gladius from within his robe and leapt to join them, plunging his blade deep into the back of a stocky warrior. The tavern was filled with the discordant sounds of battle - iron on iron, iron on flesh. Within seconds the fight was over. Victorinus despatched two of the men, as did Gwalchmai. Caradoc finished his own opponent and then sank to the floor. Victorinus knelt beside him, staring in anguish at the sword that jutted from the Belgae's belly.

'I think he's finished me,' said Caradoc, gritting his teeth against the pain.

'I am afraid that he has,' Victorinus agreed gently.

'You'd better leave me here. I have much to consider.'

Victorinus nodded. 'You were a fine companion,' he said.

'You too - for a Roman!'

Gwalchmai joined them. 'Is there anything I can do?'

'You could look after my woman, Gwal. She's pregnant again. You could . . .' His eyes lost their sparkle and breath rattled from his throat.

Gwalchmai swore. 'You think they guessed who we were?' he asked.

'Perhaps,' replied Victorinus, 'but it is more likely to have been the normal British penchant for tribal disharmony. Come, we had better be on our way.'

'How far is it to the Wall of Hadrian?'

Too far - unless the Gods smile.'

*

Gael chuckled at his brother's discomfort as they walked across the cobbled courtyard to the carles' quarters. 'You should not have mentioned the Sword,' said the taller man.

'Go ahead - enjoy yourself, Gael. But I know what I saw. When he threw that blade out over the ice, a hand came up out of the water and drew it down.'

'Yes, brother. Was it a man's hand?'

'Your mockery does not upset me. Two other men saw the hand, even if you did not.'

'I was too busy putting the finishing blow to the Roman's neck,' snapped Gael.

'A blow, I notice, that came from behind. Even without his sword you did not have the courage to cut him from the front.'

'You speak of courage?' sneered Gael, pausing before the oak doors of the carles' quarters. 'Where were you? You did not land a blow.'

'I considered eighteen to one good enough odds even for you, Gael.'

'You miserable sheep! Bleat all you want. I jdid not hear your voice raised in argument when Father's plan was made known.'

'The deed was ignobly done. There is no credit in such a murder. And, by all the Gods beyond, he died well. Even you must admit that.'

'He had a choice then, you think? Even a cornered rat will fight for its life.'

Gael finished the conversation by turning away from his brother and pushing ahead into the dimly-lit quarters seeking Alantric. Moret turned back across the courtyard and returned to his apartments, where his young wife Alhyffa waited. She was dark-haired and sloe-eyed and Morel's passion for her grew daily. He had not wanted to wed the Saxon girl and had argued long into the night with his father. But in the end, as he had known he would, he gave in and the betrothal was secretly agreed. He had travelled by ship to meet his bride, all the way round the coast to the lands they were now calling the South Saxon.

Her father had met him in an inlet near Anderida forest and he had been taken to the Long Hall to see his bride. His heart had been heavy until the moment she entered the Hall. . . then it all but stopped. How could a barbarous animal like Hengist produce such an offspring? As she approached he bowed low, breaking all precedent. If she was surprised, she did not show it. He stopped her as she was about to kneel.

'You will never need to kneel before me,' he whispered.

And he had been true to his word - a fact that had surprised Alhyffa, especially after her father's disparaging comments concerning the treacherous family.

'Have no fear,' he had told her. 'Within a few seasons I shall be at Deicester Keep with an army and then we'll find a good husband for you.'

Yet now Alhyffa was not sure that she wanted her father riding north to take her back. Her husband was not a powerful man, nor yet a weak one, but he was gentle and loving and he aroused in her a feeling not unlike love. As he entered the room she watched his expression move from his perennial look of sadness to an almost juvenile joy. He swept her into his arms and swung her high into the air. She draped her arms over his broad shoulders and kissed him lightly.

'I have missed you,' he said.

'You liar! You have not been gone an hour.'

'It's true, I swear it.'

'How went it with your father?'

He shrugged and released her, his face once more sad and wistful. 'I have no use for his lust for power. And my brother is as bad - if not worse. You know, Aurelius Maximus was not a bad High King.'

'My father spoke of him always with respect.'

'And yet your father connived in his murder?'

She pulled him to the window bench and sat beside him in the sunshine. 'The High King would have connived in the murder of Hengist, yet I do not doubt that he also respected my father. There has never been a king with clean hands, Moret. You are altogether too sensitive.' He grinned and looked so terribly young that she took his face in her hands and kissed his fair cheeks, running her fingers through his long blond hair. 'You have given me happiness. I pray to Odin that you receive a proper reward for it.'