The Hallowed Isle Book Two (5 page)

Eadguth had been a landking, bound, blood and bone, to his native soil. Octha son of Hengest was a conqueror.

That night the Saxon chieftains met in the dining room, its walls painted in red ochre edged by a design of twining vines, of the house where once Catraut, the British prince who had been the city's chief magistrate, had entertained his peers. Its owner was fled long since—Oesc, bringing in more ale, wondered if he might be even now in Uthir's camp, gazing longingly toward the walls that hid his home. Most of the notable men of the town had escaped, or been killed when the Saxons marched in. But Octha had the authority to forbid looting, and if the common people had not accepted the warriors billeted among them with gladness, neither did they show active hostility.

“How long will we stay cooped up here?” asked one of the younger chieftains. “If we wait too long, Leudonus will come to his good-father's aid!”

“If he does so, I will close the gates—” The golden torque around Octha's neck glinted as he laughed. “But I do not think the British will maintain the seige so long.”

“It is true. The British king is a sick man,” said Baldulf thoughtfully. “And a military camp is no good place for healing.”

“And unless you count Leudonus, he has no heir,” said one of the others. “When Uthir dies, the British will be easy prey.”

“Easy prey?” exclaimed Colgrin. “Is that the word of a warrior? The weaker Uthir becomes, the less honor there will be in defeating him. I say we should attack them now . . .”

But Octha was looking at the doorway, where Hæthwæge had appeared. “I called her—” He answered the question in the chieftains' eyes. “In the old days, the priestesses always went with the warriors. Hæthwæge is alone, but she was trained by the Walkyriun. Sit—” he gestured toward one of the benches, and then to his son, “bring her ale.”

Hæthwæge accepted a sip from the cream-colored clay cup, but she did not sit down. Oesc's words of greeting stuck in his throat. He had grown too accustomed to her care for him, he thought, and forgotten what she was. Her eyes were wide and lightless, as if she had fared halfway down the road to the Otherworld already. As always when she worked magic, her face seemed simultaneously ancient and young.

“Wise One,” Octha said softly, “our enemies surround us. Speak to the spirits and give us good counsel.”

“I must have a high place . . .” she whispered.

Octha nodded soberly. “It shall be so—” He gestured to the others. Silent now, they rose, and as they moved down the empty street Oesc followed them.

Hæthwæge stared up at the dark bulk of the gatehouse of Verulamium, stark against the sky, its towers looming to either side of the arched gateway. The night was very still. It was only within that she sensed the slow stirring of power. Somewhere not too far away someone was working magic—perhaps it was the British witega they called Merlin.

They say you are strong to foretell the future, gealdor crafty. But I too am witege, and tomorrow you shall see that I too can sing battle spells
. She moved into the darkness of the doorway, frowning. For a moment her questing spirit had touched something stronger and sharper, like the mind of a god.

The planks of the stairway rang hollow as they climbed, feeling their way along the curving wall, but when they emerged at the top they breathed freely beneath the starry vault of the heavens. To one side glimmered the lamps of the city and on the other the watchfires of their enemy glowed like red eyes in the darkness. A faint breeze stirred men's hair as if the night were breathing.

Hæthwæge sank down upon the bench beneath the parapet and pulled down her veil. One by one, the warriors sat on the cold stone walkway until only Octha remained standing, his speech becoming the chant of ritual.

“Wicce, hear me . . . to this high place I have brought thee. From here thou mayest soar between the worlds.”

“This deed I will dare,” her own voice came hoarse to her ears, “but the way is long and weary. It is your prayers I carry—let your power carry me. . . .”

Octha nodded, and began to strike the palms of his hands rhythmically against his thighs. The other men followed his example, swaying gently as the soft vibration pulsed in the air.

The word, repeated, became part of the soft susuration of flesh on cloth, a whisper of sound that lifted the hair and the spirit and whirled them away to journey around the World-tree to the worlds it contained and gain access to the wisdom they held.
Wicce, to the Word-Ash win . . . Wisdom, shape-strong, find within. . . .

Hæthwæge took a deep breath, and then another, letting her limbs relax against the parapet. Awareness extended into the stones, all the way down to the foundations of the tower and then back up again. As her consciousness changed she fancied she could feel it swaying, even though there was only a little wind. She focused on the singing, and with each repetition felt the links between body and spirit loosen, until like a boat that has slipped its mooring, she fell inward and away.

Images whirled past her—the tower and the army encamped around it, the undulating bands of field and forest, still under starshine, with the rivers, black and shining, veining the land. Then these too dimmed, and there was only the great plain of Middle Earth, and in its midst the huge column of the Worldtree, its radiant branches brushing the skies.

But the will that carried her drew her downward, diving into darkness beneath one of the three great roots of the Tree. Around and around her spirit spiraled, past mist and shadows, past the roots of great mountains where rushed the icy streams. Through the heat of Muspel's fires she journeyed, and sped by the cool grey mirror that was the Well of Wyrd. And still her way led downward, around, and deeper within, until she saw the great gorge of the worldriver and the last bridge, and beyond it the land where the Dark Lady rules and the apples of the blessed and the wild hemlock grow.

One final gate remained to pass. She dropped into darkness, and for a time beyond time, knew no more.

A long time later, it seemed, she became aware of a quiet voice calling her name. Unwillingly she forced her mind to focus. It was Octha, using the same calm voice with which he commanded his warriors.

“Wise One, say then, what dost thou see?”

At the words, images began to dislimn from the darkness. She struggled to make her lips form an answer.

“A dark plain, and a dark lake, and a black swan swimming . . .” she murmured, her voice sounding thready with distance. “My raven flies before me, and around me glimmer the pale faces of those who have gone before.”

“Our enemies surround us. How shall we bring them to battle?”

In the pause that followed, her breathing came and went like the wind, fluttering the fabric of the veil. The scene before her blurred. There was still water, but in its midst now she could make out an island. From the woods that surrounded it she could hear the yammering of hounds, and in another moment she saw them, leaping up and down on the shore. What were they barking at? She strained to see, and presently became aware that she was speaking once more.

“I see a wolf brought to bay upon an island. The dogs wait on the shore. They will not swim across to meet the wolf's sharp fangs. He gazes around him and sees where the circle is weakest—where the old pack-leader watches—there he will make his fight.” She drew a deep breath. “Wilt thou know more?”

“Will the British king die?”

“All men die!” the answer came to her immediately. “And this one is half-dead already.”

“And will our sons inherit the land?” Octha added then.

Hæthwæge took a deep breath, releasing the vision, observing the ebb and flow of image until at last there came something she could put into words.

“I see the wolf and the dog running in one pack . . .” more visions came to her “. . . I see the wheat crop and the barley crop growing in one field . . . his seed shall rule men's hearts, but yours will rule the land. . . .”

While they were still chewing on that answer, another voice, that she recognized as Baldulf's, spoke.

“And what about the battle?”

Hæthwæge shivered violently, her awareness battered and reeling beneath the onrush of vision. Ravens were fighting—not the friendly presence that was her own spirit guide, but feathered forms, huge and terrible, whose cries scored the soul.

“I see the Raven of Battle rising, men die when she screams. But Woden sends Hyge and Mynd against her; men battle as the god and the goddess strive. . . .” Her spirit soared with the battling birds.

Then with a suddenness that seared her vision, the scene was split by a Sword of Light. Hæthwæge stiffened, features contorting. For a moment she glimpsed the figure that gripped it in all His glory. “Tir comes, Tir comes! Beware the Sword of War!”

Light and darkness crashed together around her and with it vision and consciousness were swept away.

When she could hear once more, she realized that she was lying on the cold stone of the walkway, her head resting on Octha's arm.

“Hæthwæge,” he said softly, “do you hear me? Come forth from the dark plain and the dark lake. Return to Middle Earth—in Woden's name I summon you! Your raven will show you the way. Come to my calling until you can feel the night air on your skin and the bench beneath you. Come then . . . come. . . .”

With a murmur of soft speech, as if he were gentling a fractious mare, Octha continued to call her. Hæthwæge forced herself to breathe, to reconstruct the image of the dark lake and to send forth the inner call that would bring her raven to her side. She wanted only to float in the friendly darkness, but Octha's voice was insistent, and so, painfully, she moved to the gate, and image by image, summoned the landmarks of the spirit that would show her the way home.

By the time she had recovered control of her limbs and was able to sit up again, her memories were fading.

“What is it?” she asked, looking at the grim faces around her. “What did I say?”

“You called out to Tir, and told us,” said Baldulf, “to beware the Sword of War.”

For a moment she closed her eyes. “I remember,” she said finally, “it blazed in the sun.”

“What does it mean?” Octha asked then.

“I give you vision,” answered the wisewoman tartly. “It is for you to find the meaning.” Then a fragment of memory came to her. “But in the land of the Huns, I have heard, there were once great smiths who forged seven magic swords for the god of war.”

“There are no Huns here,” said Colgrin.

“Perhaps not. But there are swords. Make an offering to Tir before you fight, and perhaps he will spare you.”

“Tir is a god of justice, not mercy,” muttered one of the men, but Hæthwæge shook her head and would say no more.

The earth trembled beneath the tread of the warriors as the Saxon army marched out to meet its foe. Their footsteps rang hollow from the great arch of the gate and pigeons fluttered screaming from the cornices. Then five hundred spear butts smote as many shields, and thunder leaped from earth to heaven. Oesc, a helm drawn down to hide his features and a tattered cloak concealing his lack of armor, felt himself become one with the men who were crowding through the gate. The driving rhythm overwhelmed thought and hearing, and with it, the fear that even now his father might somehow discover he had disobeyed and send him back.

Then they were through the gate, and the crush eased as men began to spread out into the wedge formation called the Boar's Head. Faint through the thunder he could hear the blare of British trumpets, then the irregular drumming of hoofbeats blurred the rhythm of spear and shield. In the next moment the British horsemen struck the Saxon line, and the thunder gave way to the clash of steel.

Oesc was lifted off his feet for a moment as the shock of the charge drove the man on his left against him. Then the Saxons steadied, spears bristling outwards, and began to drive forward against the foe. Oesc got his breath back just as a horseman in a scarlet cloak crashed through. He made a clumsy sweep out and heard the horse scream. Then another man thrust upward and the rider fell, blood spraying red around him.

The boy stared, but there was no time to worry about his reaction. Another enemy, dismounted, was slashing wildly with a long Roman cavalry spatha; a Saxon fell, then Oesc jabbed and caught the blade with his spear. The impact jarred down the shaft, almost knocking him over, but in the next moment two warriors speared the Briton through the body and he went down.

A figure in Roman armor loomed up before him and he thrust, then stared in horror as his point sank in and the man's face contorted in agony. Oesc jerked the spear free, shuddering. Again and again his swordmaster had told him that in battle there was no time for thinking. He had never explained that no sane man would want to think about what his blade was doing as it tore through flesh and bone.

Then another figure lurched towards him, and without his will he turned, taking the attack on his shield and jabbing back until his foe fell or the tide of battle tore him away, he never knew which, and the next enemy came on.

Some endless time later, a scream from overhead recalled him to himself. His spear had broken, and the short seax was in his hand. All around him, Saxon warriors were staring upward, their arms faltering as the raven wheeled above them, alternately black and white as the sunlight flared from its wings. He saw the litter in which the British king had been carried to the battlefield, and near it his father, staring upward with a face as anguished as his own.

But the British returned to the attack with courage renewed. “Cathubodva, Cathubodva, Raven of Battle,” they cried.

Oesc yelped at the sting as a spear tip sliced across his shoulder and got his shield back up, striving to shut out that dreadful keening cry. The enemy spear struck again and he felt the wood begin to crack, then two shadows flickered past and it seemed to him he heard a deep voice crying—