Warlord 2 Enemy of God (12 page)

‘Warm and dry,’ I said, and then, when the newcomers had greeted their old companions, I embraced them all and gave their names to Ceinwyn. One by one they knelt and swore her loyalty. They had all heard how she had fled her betrothal feast to be with me, and they loved her for that and now held their naked sword blades for her royal touch. ‘What of the other men?’ I asked Galahad.

‘Gone to Arthur.’ He grimaced. ‘None of the Christians came, sadly. Except me.’

‘You think this is worth a pagan Cauldron?’ I asked, gesturing towards the cold road ahead.

‘Diwrnach lies at the road’s end, my friend,’ Galahad said, ‘and I hear he is a King as evil as anything that ever crawled from the devil’s pit. A Christian’s task is to fight evil, so here I am.’ He greeted Merlin and Nimue, and then, because he was a Prince and so of equal rank to Ceinwyn, embraced her. ‘You are a fortunate woman,’ I heard him whisper.

She smiled and kissed his cheek. ‘More fortunate now that you are here, Lord Prince.’

‘That’s true, of course.’ Galahad stepped back and looked from her to me, and from me to her. ‘All Britain speaks of you two.’

‘Because all Britain is stuffed with idle tongues,’ Merlin snapped in a surprising burst of shrewishness,

‘and we have a journey to make when you two have finished gossiping.’ His face was pinched and his temper short. I put it down to age and the hard road we walked in cold weather, and tried not to think of his death-oath.

The journey through the mountains took us two more days. The Dark Road was not long, but it was hard and it climbed up steep hills and went through gaping valleys where the smallest sound echoed hollow and cold from the ice-locked walls. We found an abandoned settlement to spend the second night on the road, a place of round stone huts that were huddled inside a wall the height of a man on which we set three guards to watch the glittering moonlit slopes. There was no fuel for a fire and so we sat close together and sang songs and told tales and tried not to think of the Bloodshields. Galahad gave us news of Siluria that night. His brother, he told us, had refused to occupy Gundleus’s old capital at Nidum because it was too far from Dumnonia and had no comforts other than a decaying Roman barrack block, so he had moved Siluria’s government to Isca, the huge Roman fort that lay beside the Usk at the very edge of Siluria’s territory and just a stone’s throw from Gwent. It was as close as Lancelot could get to Dumnonia while still staying in Siluria. ‘He likes mosaic floors and marble walls,’ Galahad said, ‘and there’s just enough of them at Isca to keep him satisfied. He’s gathered every Druid in Siluria there.’

‘There are no Druids in Siluria,’ Merlin growled. ‘None that are any good, anyway.’

‘Those who call themselves Druids, then,’ Galahad said patiently. ‘He has two he particularly values and he pays them to make curses.’

‘On me?’ I asked, touching the iron on Hywelbane’s hilt.

‘Among others,’ Galahad said, glancing at Ceinwyn and making the sign of the cross. ‘He’ll forget in time,’ he added, trying to reassure us.

‘He’ll forget when he’s dead,’ Merlin said, ‘and even then he’ll carry a grudge across the bridge of swords.’ He shivered, not because he feared Lancelot’s enmity, but because he was cold. ‘Who are these so-called Druids he particularly values?’

‘Tanaburs’s grandsons,’ Galahad said, and I felt an icy hand creep round my heart. I had killed Tanaburs, and though I had possessed the right to take his soul, it was still a brave fool who killed a Druid and Tanaburs’s dying curse still hovered about me.

We went slowly the next day, our pace held back by Merlin. He insisted he was well and refused any assistance, but his step faltered too often, his face looked yellow and haggard, and his breath came in short, harsh gasps. We had hoped to be over the last pass by nightfall, but we were still climbing towards it as the short day’s light faded. All afternoon the Dark Road had twisted uphill, though to call it a road was a mockery for it was nothing but a stony, dreadful path that crossed and re-crossed a frozen stream where the ice hung thick from the ledges of the frequent small waterfalls. The ponies kept slipping and sometimes refused to move at all; it seemed we spent more time supporting them than leading them, but as the last light drained cold into the west we reached the pass and it was just as I had seen it in my shivering dream on Dolforwyn’s summit. It was just as bleak, just as cold, though with no black ghoul barring the Dark Road that now dropped steeply onto Lleyn’s narrow coastal plain and then ran north to the shore.

And beyond that shore lay Ynys Mon.

I had never seen the blessed isle. I had heard of it all my life and known of its power and lamented the destruction worked on it by the Romans in the Black Year, but I had never seen it except in the dream. Now, in the winter’s dusk, it looked nothing like that lovely vision. It was not sunlit, but shadowed by cloud, so that the big isle looked dark and menacing, a threat made worse by the sullen glint of black pools that broke its low hills. The isle was almost free of snow, though its rocky edges were fretted white by a grey and miserable sea. I fell to my knees at the sight of the island, we all did except for Galahad, and even he finally went on one knee as a mark of respect. As a Christian he sometimes dreamed of going to Rome or even to far-off Jerusalem, if such a place really existed, but Ynys Mon was our Rome and our Jerusalem, and we were now in sight of its holy soil.

We were also now in Lleyn. We had crossed the unmarked border and the few settlements on the coastal plain beneath us were the holdings of Diwrnach. The fields were lightly covered with snow, smoke rose from huts, but nothing human seemed to move in that dark space and all of us, I think, were wondering how we were to go from the mainland to the island. ‘There are ferrymen on the straits,’ Merlin said, reading our thoughts. He alone of us had been to Ynys Mon, but it had been many years ago and long before he had ever known that the Cauldron still existed. He had gone there when Leodegan, Guinevere’s father, had ruled the land in the days before Diwrnach’s ragged ships had come from Ireland to sweep Leodegan and his motherless daughters out of their kingdom, in the morning,’ Merlin said, ‘we shall walk to the shore and pay our ferrymen. By the time Diwrnach knows we have reached his land, we shall already have gone.’

‘He’ll follow us to Ynys Mon,’ Galahad said nervously.

‘And we shall be gone again,’ Merlin said. He sneezed. He looked wretchedly cold. His nose was running, his cheeks were pale and from time to time he shivered uncontrollably, but he found some dusty herbs in a small leather pouch and he swallowed them with a handful of melted snow and insisted he was well.

He looked much worse next morning. We had spent that night in a cleft of the rocks where we had not dared light a fire, despite Nimue’s charm of concealment that she had worked with the help of a polecat’s skull we had found higher up the road. Our sentries had watched the coastal plain where three small glints of fire betrayed the presence of life, while the rest of us had clung together in the deep rocks where we shivered and cursed the cold and wondered if morning would ever dawn. It came at last with a seeping, leprous light that made the distant isle look darker and more menacing than ever. But Nimue’s charm seemed to have worked, for no spearmen guarded the Dark Road’s ending. Merlin was shaking now and was much too weak to walk, and so four of my spearmen carried him in a litter made of cloaks and spears as we slid and edged our way down to the first small wind-bent trees in the hedgerows of Lleyn. The road was sunken here and its ruts were frosted hard where it twisted between hunched oaks, thin hollies and the small neglected fields. Merlin was moaning and shuddering, and Issa wondered if we should turn back. ‘To cross the mountains again,’ Nimue said, ‘would surely kill him. We go on.’

We came to a fork in the road and there found our first sign of Diwrnach. It was a skeleton, bound together with horsehair ropes and hung from a pole so that its dry bones rattled in the brisk west wind. Three crows had been nailed to the post below the human bones and Nimue sniffed their stiffened bodies to decide what kind of magic had been imbued into their deaths. ‘Piss! Piss!’ Merlin managed to say from his litter. ‘Quick, girl! Piss!’ He coughed horribly, then turned his head to spit the sputum towards the ditch. ‘I won’t die,’ he said to himself, ‘I will not die!’ He lay back as Nimue squatted by the pole.

‘He knows we’re here,’ Merlin warned me.

‘Is he here?’ I asked, crouching beside him.

‘Someone is. Be careful, Derfel.’ He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘I am so old,’ he said softly, ‘so horribly old. And there’s badness here, all about us.’ He shook his head. ‘Get me to the island, that’s all, just reach the island. The Cauldron will cure all.’

Nimue finished, then waited to see which way the steam from her urine blew, and the wind took it towards the right-hand fork and that omen decided our path. Before we set off Nimue went to one of the ponies and found a leather bag from which she took a handful of elf bolts and eagle stones that she distributed among the spearmen. ‘Protection,’ she explained as she laid a snake stone in Merlin’s litter.

‘Onwards,’ she ordered us.

We walked all morning, our pace slowed by the need to carry Merlin. We saw no one and that absence of life put a dreadful fear into my men for it seemed as though we had come to a land of the dead. There were rowan and holly berries in the hedgerows, and thrushes and robins in the branches, but there were no cattle, no sheep and no men. We did see one settlement from which a wisp of smoke blew in the wind, but it was far off and no one appeared to be watching us from its circling wall. Yet men were in this dead land. We knew that when we paused to rest in a small valley where a stream trickled sluggishly between icy banks under a grove of small, black, wind-bent oaks. The intricate branches were each delicately limned with a white frost and we rested beneath them until Gwilym, one of the spearmen who was standing guard at the rear, called to me.

I went to the oaks’ edge to see that a fire had been set on the lower slope of the mountains. There were no flames visible, just a thick gruel of grey smoke that boiled fiercely before being snatched away by the west wind. Gwilym pointed to the smoke with his spear-blade, then spat to avert its evil. Galahad came to stand beside me. ‘A signal?’ he asked.

‘Probably.’

‘So they know we’re here?’ He crossed himself.

‘They know.’ Nimue joined us. She was carrying Merlin’s heavy black staff and she alone seemed to burn with energy in this cold, dead place. Merlin was sick, the rest of us were besieged by fear, but the deeper we pierced into Diwrnach’s black land the fiercer Nimue became. She was nearing the Cauldron, and the lure of it was like a fire in her bones. ‘They’re watching us,’ she said.

‘Can you hide us?’ I asked, wanting another of her concealment spells. She shook her head. ‘This is their land, Derfel, and their Gods are powerful here.’ She sneered as Galahad made the sign of the cross a second time. ‘Your nailed God won’t defeat Crom Dubh,’ she said.

‘He’s here?’ I asked fearfully.

‘Or one like him,’ she said. Crom Dubh was the Black God, a crippled and malevolent horror who gave dark nightmares. The other Gods, it was said, avoided Crom Dubh, which suggested we were alone in his power.

‘So we’re doomed,’ Gwilym said flatly.

‘Fool!’ Nimue hissed at him. ‘We’re only doomed if we fail to find the Cauldron. Then we’d all be doomed anyway. Are you going to watch that smoke all morning?’ she asked me. We walked on. Merlin could not speak any longer and his teeth chattered, even though we piled him with furs. ‘He’s dying,’ Nimue told me calmly.

‘Then we should find shelter,’ I said, ‘and build a fire.’

‘So we can all be warm while we’re slaughtered by Diwrnach’s spearmen?’ She scoffed at the idea.

‘He’s dying, Derfel,’ she explained, ‘because he’s close to his dream and because he made his bargain with the Gods.’

‘His life for the Cauldron?’ Ceinwyn, walking on my other side, asked the question.

‘Not quite,’ Nimue admitted. ‘But while you two were setting up your little house,’ she made that statement sarcastically, ‘we went to Cadair Idris. We made a sacrifice there, the old sacrifice, and Merlin pledged his life, hot for the Cauldron, but for the search. If we find the Cauldron, he’ll live, but if we fail then he dies and the shadow-soul of the sacrifice can claim Merlin’s soul for all time.’

I knew what the old sacrifice ‘was, though I had never heard of it being made in our time. ‘Who was the sacrifice?’ I asked.

‘No one you knew. No one we knew. Just a man.’ Nimue was dismissive. ‘But his shadow-soul is here, watching us, and it wants us to fail. It wants Merlin’s life.’

‘What if Merlin dies anyway?’ I asked.

‘He won’t, you fool! Not if we find the Cauldron.’

‘If I find it,’ Ceinwyn said nervously.

‘You will,’ Nimue said confidently.

‘How?’

‘You’ll dream,’ Nimue said, ‘and the dream will lead us to the Cauldron.’

And Diwrnach, I realized when we reached the straits dividing the mainland from the island, wanted us to find it. The signal fire told us his men had been watching us, but they had neither shown themselves nor tried to stop our journey, and that suggested Diwrnach knew of our quest and wanted it to succeed so that he could take the Cauldron for himself. There could be no other reason why he was making it so easy for us to reach Ynys Mon.

The straits were not wide, but the grey water swirled and sucked and foamed as it swept through the channel. The sea ran fast in those narrows, twisting itself into sullen whirlpools or else breaking white on hidden rocks, but the sea was not as frightening as the far shore that stood so utterly empty and dark and bleak, almost as if it waited to suck our souls away. I shivered as I looked at that distant grassy slope and could not help thinking of the far-off Black Day when the Romans had stood on this same rocky shore and that far bank had been thick with Druids who had hurled their dread curses at the foreign soldiers. The curses had failed, the Romans had crossed, and Ynys Mon had died, and now we stood in the same place in a last, desperate attempt to wind back the years and spool back the centuries of sadness and hardship so that Britain would be restored to its blessed state before the Romans came. It would be Merlin’s Britain then, a Britain of the Gods, a Britain without Saxons, a Britain full of gold and feasting halls and miracles.