Last Sword of Power Page 12

“She is a demon!”

  “Nonsense!” Oleg roared.

  Anduine leaned back, withdrawing her hand. “It is all right; we all have our fears. How close behind were the hunters?”

  “We lost them in the mountains,” said Oleg, “but they will not give up the search.”

  “They want Rhiannon,” said Anduine. “For she, too, has a talent.”

  “How did you know?” Oleg asked, his eyes fearful.

  “She called me from the mountains; that is why Cormac came.”

  “I am sorry we have caused you trouble. We will leave as soon as my leg is mended.”

  “You think to escape Wotan?”

  “I do not know, lady. All my life I have been a warrior, a wolf of the sea. I fear no man. And yet … this Wotan is not a man. His followers are crazed. They adore him, and those who are less than adoring are rooted out and slain. A kind of madness has infected the people of the Northlands. The god is returned. The grim, gray god walks among men. Can I escape him? I fear that I cannot.”

  “Have you seen this Wotan?” asked Cormac.

  “Indeed I have. I served him for three years. He is strong, which is all we ever asked in a leader. But he is more than this. He has power in his voice and in his eyes. I have seen men cut their own throats on his order … and do it gladly for the honor of pleasing him. He is like strong wine; to listen to him is to be filled with a sense of glory.”

  “You sound like a worshiper still,” whispered Anduine.

  “I am, lady. But I am a man also, and a father. The brides of Wotan die. My Rhiannon is not for him.”

  “How did you escape?” Cormac asked.

  “I was told to deliver Rhiannon to his castle in Raetia. I said that I would, but instead we boarded a merchant trireme bound for Hispania. Strong winds and fear of the following storm made the captain seek shelter near Pinnata Castra, but the storm winds were Wotan’s and his assassins attacked us outside the castle. I killed two, and we fled into the blizzard.”

  “How many hunters are there?” Cormac wanted to know.

  “Only five attacked us, but there will be more. And he has other forces to do his bidding, though I will not speak of them before the Lady Anduine.”

  “Do not fear for me, Oleg. I am aware of the demons; they have attacked me also.”

  “How, then, did you survive?”

  “Through the courage of others. Cormac saved my life, as did the monk you heard of.”

  “Then the demons are not invincible?”

  “Nothing is invincible. There is no evil that cannot be conquered, not even Wotan.”

  “I would like—dearly like—to believe that. But he is now the king across the water, and all the nations pay him homage. Even Rome sends gifts with ambassadors who bow and scrape.”

  “Uther does not bow and scrape,” said Cormac. “Wotan has yet to face the Blood King.”

  “That I know. It is the whisper of the world, Cormac. In every tavern men wonder at the outcome. It is said that Uther has a magic sword, a gift from a god, that once it parted the sky like a tearing curtain and men saw two suns blazing in the heavens. I would like to see the day he and Wotan face each other.”

  “And I,” agreed Cormac. “Blood King and Blood God.”

  Rhiannon tensed, her head jerking upright and her hands covering her face.

  “What is it?” asked Oleg, his huge arm circling her shoulder.

  “The hunters have found us,” she whispered.

  In the silence that followed Cormac could feel his heart beating hard inside his chest. His fear rose as bile in his throat, and he felt his hands trembling. All his life he had been subject to the whims of others, lashed and beaten, allowed no opportunity to stand tall and learn the virtues of pride; he had had no time to absorb the strength-giving qualities of defiance. With Culain his anger had carried him on, but now, as the enemy approached, he felt a terrible sense of despair crawling on his skin, bearing him down.

  Anduine came around to stand beside him, her soft hand touching the skin of his neck, her fingers easing the knot of tension in his shoulders. Her voice whispered inside his mind.

  “I love you, Cormac.” The depth of her emotion warmed him like a winter fire, the ice of his panic fleeing from it.

  “How many are there?” he asked aloud.

  “Three,” whispered Rhiannon.

  “How close?”

  “They are on the hillside to the south, approaching the cabin,” the girl answered.

  “And I have no sword!” thundered Oleg, crashing his fist to the table.

  “I have,” Cormac said softly. Standing, he took Anduine’s hand and kissed the palm, then walked to the hearth, where the sword of Culain stood by the far wall.

  “I’ll come with you,” Oleg said, gathering a carving knife from the table and pushing himself to his feet.

  “No,” said Cormac. “Wait—and deal with any left alive.”

  “You cannot defeat three men.”

  Cormac ignored him and walked into the cold sunlight. He moved swiftly to the chopping ring, laid his sword beside it, and took up the ax. The six-pound blade hammered into a chunk of wood, splitting it neatly; he lifted another piece and carried on working. After several minutes he heard the hunters moving across the yard and turned. As Rhiannon had said, there were three men, tall and bearded, their hair braided beneath bronze helms. Each wore a sheepskin cloak, and the man in the lead carried a round wooden shield edged with bronze and a longsword.

  “Are you seeking shelter?” asked Cormac, sinking the ax blade into the ring.

  “Are you alone?” responded the leader, his voice guttural, his eyes as cold as the snow around him.

  “You are waylanders,” said Cormac. “Are you lost?”

  Two of the men moved toward the cabin, and Cormac lifted his sword from the ground, brushing snow from the blade. “Shelter will cost you coin,” he called, and they stopped and looked to the warrior with the shield.

  “Good sword,” he said. “Very good.” He turned to the others and spoke in a language Cormac had never heard. The men chuckled. “I like the sword,” he said, turning back to Cormac.

  “You have a good eye. Now, are you going to pay for shelter or move on?”

  “You think I would pay to enter that cattle shed?”

  “You don’t enter if you don’t pay.”

  “Do not make me angry, boy. I am cold and have walked far. You have a woman in there?”

  “She’ll cost extra.”

  The warrior grinned. “Is everything for sale in this cursed country?”

  “Yes,” said Cormac.

  “Well, I don’t want a woman. I want hot food and information.”

  “The nearest settlement is Deicester. You should head back down the hill and then east along the deer trails. You could be there by dawn tomorrow. Other than that, there is Pinnata Castra.”

  “We are looking for a man and a girl, and for that we will pay coin.”

  “Why are you looking here? There is no one else on the mountain but me and my wife.”

  “In that case you are of no use to me.” As he turned to his comrades and spoke softly, Anduine’s voice whispered inside Cormac’s mind.

  “He is telling his men to kill you.”

  Cormac took a deep breath and walked forward, smiling. “There is one place you might care to search,” he said, and the three men relaxed as he approached.

  “Where?” asked the leader.

  “In hell,” he answered, still smiling.

  Suddenly Cormac’s sword swept up to slash through the neck of the nearest man, and blood fountained into the air. The second tried desperately to drag his sword clear, but Cormac reversed the blade, sending it double-handed through the man’s collarbone and deep into his chest. The leader leapt back, hurling his shield aside and taking a double-handed grip on his longsword.

  Cormac launched a swift attack, but the Viking blocked it with ease and a vicious riposte nicked the skin of the youth’s thr
oat.

  “The sword is only as good as the man who wields it,” said the warrior as the two men circled.

  Cormac attacked once more, slashing wildly, but the Viking blocked and countered, this time ripping through the buckskin tunic and slicing the skin of Cormac’s chest. Cormac stepped back, swallowing his anger, forcing it down, and clearing his mind. The Viking was skilled, battle-hardened, and confident. He watched Cormac back away, smiled grimly, and then with dazzling speed attacked, the sword whistling for the youth’s skull. Cormac blocked the cut, swiveled on his heel, and rammed his elbow into the man’s head, spinning him to the ground. Then he ran in for the killer blow but slipped on the ice.

  The Viking rolled to his feet. “A good trick. I shall remember it.” Blood was seeping from a gash on his cheek.

  The two warriors circled. Three times the Viking attacked, but each time Cormac countered swiftly. Then Cormac lunged, but the Viking’s sword flashed down to block and then twisted as he rolled his wrists. Cormac’s blade spun from his grasp.

  “Another good trick,” said the Viking, advancing on the defenseless youth. “But you will not live to remember it!”

  Diving to his left, Cormac rolled and came to his feet against the chopping ring. Tearing the ax loose, he faced the Viking once more. The man grinned and backed away to where Cormac’s sword lay in the snow. Stooping, he lifted it, feeling the balance. Sheathing his own sword, the warrior faced Cormac.

  “To be killed by your own blade … not a good way to die. The gods will mock you for eternity.”

  Cormac’s eyes narrowed, his rage returning, but he quelled it savagely. Hefting the ax, he launched a murderous swing, and the Viking leapt back. But halfway into the swing Cormac released the haft, and the ax flew from his hands, the six-pound head smashing into the Viking’s face. The man stumbled back, dropping the sword, whereupon Cormac jumped forward, swept up the blade, and hammered it into the Viking’s chest. The man died without a sound. Dragging the sword clear, Cormac wiped it clean of blood and returned to the cabin.

  “That was well done,” said Oleg. “But you need to work on your grip; you held the sword too tightly.”

  Cormac smiled. “Next time I’ll remember.”

  “Next time it will not be so difficult, lad.”

  “How so?”

  “Next time the Hammerhand will be beside you. And then you will learn something.”

  8

  AFTER MANY WEEKS of travel Culain lach Feragh arrived at the ruined stone circle of Sorviodunum. At dawn, under a bright glowing sky, he approached the central altar and laid his silver staff on it. The sun rose to bathe the monoliths in golden light, the staff shining like captured fire.

  Culain closed his eyes and whispered three words of power. The air crackled around him, blue fire rippling over his cloak and tunic. Then the sky darkened, and an emptiness smote him, a great engulfing blackness that swallowed his soul.

  He awoke feeling sick and dazed.

  “You are a fool, Culain,” said a voice, and he turned his head. His vision swam, and his stomach heaved. “No one should seek to pass the gateway without a stone.”

  “Still preaching, Pendarric?” he growled, forcing himself to a sitting position. He was lying in a soft bed, covered with sheets of silk. The sun blazed brightly in the violet sky beyond the arched window. His eyes cleared, and he gazed at the broad-shouldered figure seated beside the bed.

  “I rarely preach these days,” said the Atlantean king, a broad grin parting the square-cut golden beard. “The more adventurous of my subjects have found various pursuits beyond the Mist, and those who remain are more interested in scholarly pursuits.”

  “I have come for your help.”

  “I did not doubt it,” said the king. “When will you cease these games in the old world?”

  “It is not a game—not to me.”

  “That, at least, is welcome news. How is the boy?”

  “Boy? Which boy?”

  “Uther, the boy with the sword.”

  Culain smiled. “The boy now has gray in his beard. They call him the Blood King, but he reigns wisely.”

  “I thought that he would. And the child, Laitha?”

  “Are you mocking me, Pendarric?”

  The king’s face became stern, the blue eyes cold. “I mock no one, Culain, not even reckless adventurers like you and Maedhlyn who have ruined a world. What right have I to mock? I am the king who drowned Atlantis. I do not forget my past, and I condemn no one. Why do you ask?”

  “You have not kept a watch on the old world?”

  “Why should I? Goroien was the last danger, and you disposed of her and her undead son. I don’t doubt Maedhlyn is still meddling with kings and princes, but he is unlikely to destroy the world. And you? For all your recklessness, you are a man of honor.”

  “Molech has returned,” said Culain.

  “Nonsense! You beheaded him at Babel; the body was consumed by fire.”

  “He is back.”

  “Maedhlyn agrees with you on this?”

  “I have not seen Maedhlyn in sixteen years. But believe me, the Devil has returned.”

  “Let us walk in the garden—if you are strong enough. Some tales need to be told in bright sunlight.”

  Culain eased himself from the bed and stood, but dizziness swamped him. He took a deep breath and steadied himself.

  “You will be weak for a day or so. Your body suffered terrible punishment during the journey, and you were all but dead when you appeared.”

  “I thought there would be sufficient power in the lance.”

  “There might have been—for a younger man. Why is it, Culain, that you insist on growing old? What virtue is there in dying?”

  “I want to be a man, Pendarric: to experience the passing of the seasons, to feel myself a part of the life of the world. I have had enough of immortality. As you said, I have helped to ruin a world. Gods, goddesses, demons, legends—each one contributing to a future of violence and discord. I want to grow old; I want to die.”

  “The last, at least, is the truth,” said the king. He led Culain to a side door and then down a short corridor to a terraced garden. A young man brought them a tray of wine and fruit, and the king sat on a curved seat by a bed of roses. Culain joined him.

  “So, tell me of Molech.”

  Culain told him of the vision in the monastery and of the lightning bolt that had seared his hand. He detailed the astonishing rise to power of the king, Wotan, and his conquests in Belgica, Raetia, Pannonia, and Gaul. At last Culain sat back and sipped his wine, staring out over the gardens at the green hills beyond the city.

  “You said nothing of Uther or his lady,” said Pendarric.

  Culain took a deep breath. “I betrayed him. I became his wife’s lover.”

  “Did he kill her?”

  “No. He would have, but we escaped to Gaul and she died there.”

  “Oh, Culain … of all the men I have known, you are the last I would expect to betray a friend.”

  “I offer no excuses.”

  “I would hope not. So, then, Molech has returned. What is it you require of me?”

  “As before, an army to destroy him.”

  “I have no army, Culain. And if I did, I would not sanction a war.”

  “You know of course that he desires to kill you? That he will attack Britain and use the great gate at Sorviodunum to invade the Feragh?”

  “Of course I know,” snapped the king. “But there is no more to be said about war. What will you do?”

  “I shall find him—and … fight him.”

  “For what purpose? The old Culain could have defeated him … did defeat him. But you are not the old Culain. What are you in human terms, forty, fifty?”

  “Somewhat more,” was the wry reply.

  “Then leave him be, Culain, and return to your monastery. Study the mysteries. Live out your days and your seasons.”

  “I cannot,” Culain said simply.

  For a
while the two men sat in silence, then Pendarric laid his hand on Culain’s shoulder. “We will not talk again, my friend, so let me say this: I respect you; I always have. You are a man of worth. I have never heard you blame another for your own mistakes or seek to curse fate or the Source for your misfortunes. That is rare and a precious quality. I hope you find peace, Culain.”

  “Peace … death … Perhaps they are the same,” whispered Culain.

  Uther awoke in the night, his hand clawing at the air, the nightmare clinging to him in the sweat-dampened sheets. He threw them back and rolled from the bed. In his dreams dark holes had appeared in the walls of the castle, disgorging monsters with curved talons and dripping fangs that stank of death and despair. He sucked in a deep breath and moved to the window; the battlements were deserted.

  “Old men and children fear the dark,” whispered the Blood King, forcing a chuckle.

  The breeze whispered along the castle walls, and for a moment he thought he heard his name hissing softly in the night wind. He shivered. Calm yourself, Uther!

  Then the sound came again, so low that he shut his eyes and craned his head toward the window. There it was …

  “Uther … Uther … Uther …”

  He pushed it from his mind as a trick of the night and returned to his bed. Glancing back at the window, he saw a flickering shape floating there.

  In the moment that he identified it as a man, Uther reacted. His hand swept back to the sword sheathed at the bedside, and the blade flashed into the air. He leapt toward the window and froze. Though the figure remained, it was wholly transparent and hung like trapped smoke against the moonlight.

  “They are coming,” whispered the figure …

  And vanished.

  Confused and uncertain, Uther threw the sword to the bed and wandered to the table by the far wall, where stood a jug of wine and several goblets. As he reached for the jug, he stumbled, his mind reeling. He fell to his knees and only then saw the mist covering the floor of his room. His senses swam, but with one desperate heave he regained his feet and half staggered, half fell toward the bed. His hand scrabbled for the sword hilt, closing around it just as the darkness seemed set to envelop him. The Sword of Power glowed like a lantern, and the mist fled, snaking back to the wall and under the door. Naked, the king dragged open the door and stepped into the corridor beyond, where Gwalchmai slept on a narrow cot.