Ghost King Page 12

  “To find my father’s sword, the Sword of Cunobelin. But I do not know where to look, and I am not even sure that this is the world we were meant to enter. Culain said we needed the power of the sun, and we certainly left without that.”

  Prasamaccus cracked another clay sphere and sat back quietly. He had Vamera and therefore a constant supply of food. When they found people, he could trade skins and meat and perhaps buy a horse eventually. He would not starve, but what of his wards? What skills could the young prince bring to bear on this new world where he was not even a prince? The girl was not a concern, for she was young and pretty and her hips looked good for childbirth. She would not go hungry. Suddenly an unpleasant thought struck him. This was another world. Suppose it was the world of the Atrols or other demons? He remembered the tilled fields and was partially relieved. Demons tilling fields were somehow less demonic.

  “We will go west,” said Thuro, “and find the owners of the field.”

  Prasamaccus was relieved that Thuro had decided to be the leader; he was much more content to follow and advise, and that way little blame could be attached to him if matters went awry. The trio set off through the woods, following obvious game trails and coming across the spoor of deer and goat. The tracks were somewhat larger than Prasamaccus had known but not so large that they gave cause for concern. By mid-morning they spotted the first deer. It was almost six feet high at the shoulders, which were humped, and it had a flap of skin hanging on its throat. Its antlers were sharp, flat, and many-pointed.

  “It would need a fine strike to kill that beast,” said Prasamaccus. He said no more, for his ruined leg was beginning to ache from the long walk. Thuro noticed his limp growing more pronounced and suggested a halt.

  “We have come only about three miles,” protested Laitha.

  “And I am tired,” Thuro snapped, sitting down against a tree. The Brigante sank gratefully to the grass. The boy would make a fine leader if he lived long enough, he thought.

  After a short rest it was Prasamaccus who suggested that they move on, smiling his thanks to Thuro, and toward late afternoon they emerged from the wood into a rolling land of gentle hills and dales. The distant mountains reared white and blue against the horizon, and in their shadow—some two miles farther west—was a walled stockade around a small village. Cattle and goats could be seen grazing on a hillside.

  Thuro gazed long at the village, wondering at the wisdom of walking in. Yet what choice did he have? They could not spend their lives hiding in the woods. The path widened, and they followed it until they heard the sound of horsemen. Thuro stood in the center of the road; Prasamaccus moved to the left, Laitha to the right.

  There were four men in the party, all heavily armored and wearing high plumed helms of shining brass. The leader halted his mount and spoke in a language Thuro had never heard. The prince swallowed hard, for this was a consideration that had not occurred to him. Whatever it was that the man said, he repeated it, this time more forcefully. Instinctively, Thuro’s hand curved around the hilt of his gladius.

  “I asked what you were doing here,” said the rider.

  “We are travelers,” Thuro answered, “seeking rest for the night.”

  “There is an inn yonder. Tell me, have you seen a young woman, heavily pregnant?”

  “No, we have just come from the woods. Is she lost?”

  “She is a runaway.” The warrior turned to his men and lifted his arm, and the four horsemen thundered by. Thuro took a deep, calming breath. Prasamaccus limped toward him and spoke. The words were unintelligible, a seemingly rhythmless series of random sounds.

  “What are you talking about?” asked the prince. Prasamaccus looked startled and swung toward Laitha, whose words were equally strange, though almost musical. Thuro clapped his hands, and they both turned toward him. He slowly pulled clear his gladius, offering the hilt to Prasamaccus; the Brigante reached out and touched it. “Now do you understand me?”

  “Yes. How do you come by this magic?”

  Laitha interrupted them with an incomprehensible question.

  “Might be best to leave her like that,” said Prasamaccus. Laitha was becoming angry and shook her fist at Thuro. As she did so, the copper bracelet on her arm slid down over her tunic sleeve and touched the skin of her wrist.

  “Thuro, you miserable whoreson? Do not leave me like this.”

  “I will not,” said Thuro. Her eyes closed in relief, then they flared open.

  “What happened to us?”

  “Culain touched my sword and your bracelet with his magic stone. I suspect we are now speaking whatever language is common to this world.”

  “What did the riders want?” asked Laitha, dismissing the previous problem from her thoughts.

  “They were seeking a runaway woman, heavily pregnant.”

  “She is hiding in those rocks,” Prasamaccus told them. “I saw her just as we heard the soldiers.”

  “Then let us leave her be,” declared Thuro. “We want no trouble.”

  “She is hurt,” said Prasamaccus. “I think she’s been whipped.”

  “No! We have problems enough.”

  Prasamaccus nodded, but Laitha walked away from the path and up the short climb to the rocks. There she found a young girl, no older than herself. The girl’s eyes widened in terror, and she bit her lip, her slender hand moving protectively across her swollen stomach.

  “I shall not hurt you,” said Laitha, kneeling beside her. The girl’s shoulders were bleeding, and it was obvious that a whip had been laid there with considerable force. “Why are you hunted?”

  The girl touched her belly. “I am one of the Seven,” she said, as if that answered the question.

  “How can we help you?”

  “Take me to Mareen-sa.”

  “Where is that?” The girl seemed surprised, but she pointed up into the hills, where a shallow wood opened beyond a group of marble boulders. “Come, then,” said Laitha, holding out her hand. The girl rose and with Laitha’s support began the climb.

  Below them, Prasamaccus sighed and Thuro fought to control his anger.

  “Easier to tame a wild pony than a wild woman,” muttered the Brigante. “Said to be worth the effort, though.”

  Thuro felt the anger seep from him in the face of the man’s mildness.

  “Does nothing disturb you, my friend?”

  “Of course,” said Prasamaccus, hobbling off in the wake of the woman.

  Thuro followed, his eyes sweeping the hills for sign of the horsemen.

  10

  THE VANGUARD OF the Brigante army—some seven thousand fighting men—crossed the Wall of Hadrian at Cilurnum, moving on in a ragged line to the fortress town of Corstopitum. The force was led by Cael and spearheaded by seven hundred riders of the Novontae, skilled horsemen and ferocious swordsmen.

  Corstopitum was a small town of fewer than four hundred people, and the council leaders sent messages of support to Eldared, promising supplies of food to the army on its arrival. They also ordered the withdrawal of the British garrison, and the hundred soldiers marched to Vindomara twelve miles southeast. The town leaders in this larger settlement had studied the omens and followed the example of their northern neighbors. Once more the garrison was expelled.

  Eldared was winning the war even before the first battle lines had been drawn.

  Now, kneeling behind a screen of bushes in the woods above Corstopitum, Victorinus studied the camp below. The Brigantes had pitched their tents in three fields outside the city; the Novontae riders were farther to the west beside a swiftly flowing stream.

  Gwalchmai moved silently alongside the swarthy Roman. “At least two thousand more than we expected, and the main force still to come,” said the Cantii.

  “Eldared is hoping his show of force will cow Aquila.”

  “That is not unreasonable. The cities do not relish a war.”

  Behind the two men waited a full cohort of Alia, 480 handpicked fighting men trained for battle
as either foot soldiers or cohors equitana, mounted warriors. Victorinus moved back from the bushes and summoned the troop commanders to him. As with the old Roman army, the cavalry was split into turma—or troops—of thirty-two men each, with sixteen turmae to a cohort.

  The commanders gathered around Victorinus in a tight circle as he outlined the night’s plan of action. Each commander was given a specific target and the various counteroptions open to him depending on the fortunes of the battle. In such a ferocious skirmish the best-laid plans could come to nothing, and Victorinus knew there would be no opportunity for tactical changes once the fight began. Each turma would accomplish its own task and then withdraw. Under no circumstances would one group go to the aid of another.

  For more than an hour they discussed the options; then Victorinus walked among the soldiers, checking weapons and horses and talking to the men. He wore, as did they, a leather-ringed breastplate and a wooden helm covered with lacquered cowhide, with scimitar-shaped ear guards tied under the chin. His thighs were protected by a leather kilt split into five sections above copper-reinforced boots that had replaced the more traditional greaves. The men were nervous yet anxious to inflict punishment on the proud Brigantes.

  At one hour after midnight, with the Brigante camp silent, three hundred horsemen thundered down the hill. Four turmae rode to the Brigante supply wagons, overturning them and putting them to the torch. Another troop galloped to the Novontae picket line, killing the guards and driving the horses up and into the hills. Brigante warriors streamed from their tents, but a hundred veteran lancers led by Gwalchmai hammered into them, driving them back. Behind the lancers two turmae galloped around the tents, hurling flaming brands to the canvas. The camp was in an uproar.

  High above Corstopitum, Victorinus watched with concern as the flames grew and the pandemonium increased.

  “Now, Gwalchmai! Now!” whispered the Roman. But still the battle raged, and the Brigante leaders began to restore order. As Victorinus verged on the edge of rage, he saw Gwalchmai’s lancers wheel into the flying arrow formation and charge. The wedge, with Gwalchmai at the point of the arrow, sundered the gathering Brigante, and the other turmae galloped in behind the wings of the lancers as they broke clear into the fields. Several horses went down, but the main force escaped into the hills. In their wake Victorinus viewed with pleasure the burning wagons and tents and the scores of Brigante bodies that littered the fields.

  The days of blood had begun …

  Bitterness was so much part of Korrin Rogeur’s life that he was hard-pressed to remember a time when different emotions had fueled his spirit. He stood now on the outskirts of the forest of Mareen-sa, watching the small group make its way down the hill toward the trees. He recognized Erulda and was pleased at her escape—though not for her sake but for the chagrin it would cause the magistrate. In Korrin Rogeur’s world the only moments of pleasure came when his enemies were discomfited.

  He was a tall man, wand-slim and wearing hunting garb of browns and dark greens that allowed him to merge with the forest. By his side was a longsword, and across his back he wore a longbow of yew and a quiver of black-feathered arrows. His eyes were dark, and a permanent scowl had etched deep lines into his brow and cheeks, making him seem older than his twenty-four years.

  As the group grew closer, he studied the woman helping Erulda. She was young, tall, and lithe, long-legged and proud as a colt. Behind her came a fair-haired young man, and behind him a cripple.

  Korrin scanned the skyline for signs of soldiers lying in wait, aware that the arrival of Erulda could herald a trap. He signaled the men hiding in the bushes, then moved out onto open ground. Erulda saw him first and waved; he ignored her.

  “And where do you think you are going, pretty?” he asked Laitha.

  Laitha said nothing. Her upbringing with Culain had lacked some of the finer points of communication. She drew her hunting knife and stepped forward.

  “My, my,” said Korrin, “a ferocious colt! Do you plan to stick me with your pin?”

  “State your business, ugly, and be done with it,” she told him.

  Korrin ignored her and turned to Thuro. “Your women fight for you, do they? How pleasant.”

  Thuro advanced to stand before the taller woodsman. “Firstly, she is not my woman. Secondly, I do not like your tone. That may seem a small matter, especially as you have five men in the bushes even now, with shafts aimed. However, believe me when I tell you I can kill you before they can aid you.”

  Korrin grinned and walked beyond Thuro to where Prasamaccus had seated himself on the grass. “Your turn to offer me violence, I believe.”

  “This is a foolish and foolhardy game,” said the Brigante, rubbing his aching leg. “There are soldiers hunting this girl who could come riding over the rise at any moment. I take it from her reaction when she saw you that you are a friend, so why not act like one?”

  “I like you, cripple. You are the first of your group to make sense. Follow me.”

  “No,” Thuro said softly. “We are looking for no trouble with the soldiers. You have the girl; we will leave.”

  Korrin lifted his arm, and five men stepped from the trees, arrows notched to taut bowstrings. “I fear not,” he said. “I must insist you join us for a midday meal. It is the least I can offer.”

  Thuro shrugged, pulled Prasamaccus to his feet, and followed the woodsman into the forest. Erulda ran forward to walk beside Korrin, linking her arm in his.

  The pace was too swift for Prasamaccus despite the fist that kept prodding his back, and on a slippery patch where the path rose he fell. As Thuro leaned to assist him, a dark-bearded woodsman kicked Prasamaccus in the back, hurling him to the ground once more. Thuro hit the man backhanded across the face, spinning him to the grass. A second man leapt forward, but Thuro spun and hammered his elbow into his attacker’s throat. Prasamaccus scrambled to his feet as the others swarmed in to tackle the prince.

  “Stop!” bellowed Korrin, and the men froze. “What is going on?”

  “He struck me,” stormed the first woodsman, pointing at Thuro.

  “You are a troublesome boy,” Korrin said.

  “Ceorl kicked the cripple,” said another man. “He got what he asked for.”

  Ceorl swore and rounded on the speaker, but Korrin stepped between them.

  “You fight when I tell you, never before. And you will not strike a brother, Ceorl. Ever. All we have is our bond, one to the other. Break it and I’ll kill you.” He swung on Thuro. “I will say this once: You are at present a guest, albeit a reluctant one. So curb your temper, lest you truly wish to be treated like enemy.”

  “There is a difference between the two?”

  “Yes. We kill our enemies. Bear that in mind.”

  They walked on at a reduced pace, and Prasamaccus was pleased to note the absence of a fist in his back. Still, his leg was raging by the time they reached the campsite, a honeycomb of caves in a rocky outcrop. He, Thuro, and Laitha were left to sit in the open under the eyes of four guards while Korrin and Erulda vanished into a wide cave mouth.

  “You must learn not to be so hotheaded,” said Prasamaccus. “You could have been killed.”

  “You are right, my friend, but it was a reaction. How is your leg?”

  “It hardly troubles me at all.”

  “She did not even thank me,” said Laitha suddenly. Thuro took a deep breath, but Prasamaccus tapped his arm sharply.

  “It was a fine gesture nonetheless,” said the Brigante.

  Laitha dipped her head. “I am sorry I said what I did, Prasamaccus. You did not cause Culain’s death. Will you forgive me?”

  “I rarely recall words said in anger or grief. There is nothing to forgive. What we must decide is how to deal with our current situation. We appear to be sitting at the heart of a war.”

  “Surely not,” said Laitha. “This is just an outlaw band.”

  “No,” put in Thuro, “the girl was some kind of hostage. And if these men were
truly outlaws, they would have searched us for coin. They appear to be a brotherhood.”

  “And a small one,” said the Brigante, “which probably makes them the losing side.”

  “Why does that affect us?” Laitha asked. “We mean them no harm.”

  “What we may intend is not the point,” said Thuro. “This looks to be a more or less permanent camp, and now we know how to find it. If the soldiers question us, we could betray the brotherhood.”

  “So? What are you suggesting?”

  “Simply that we will either be slain out of hand or offered a place among them. The latter is more likely since we were not killed back in the hills.”

  Prasamaccus merely nodded.

  “So what should we do?” Laitha asked.

  “We join them—and escape when we can.”

  Korrin emerged from the cave and summoned Thuro. “Leave your sword and knife with your friends and follow me.” The prince did as he was bidden and walked behind the woodsman deep into the torchlit maze of caves, arriving at last at a wide doorway cut into the sandstone. Korrin halted. “Go inside,” he said softly. From within the entrance came a deep, throaty growl, and Thuro froze.

  “What is in there?”

  “Life or death.”

  The prince stepped into the shadow-haunted interior. Only one flickering candle lit the room beyond, and Thuro waited as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. In the corner sat a hunched figure, seemingly immense in the shadows. The prince approached, and the figure turned and rose, towering over him. The head was grotesque, bulging-eyed and savagely marked, while the face was a mixture of man and bear. Saliva dripped from the jaws, and though the figure was robed in white like a man, the huge paws that extended from the sleeves were clawed and bestial.

  “Welcome to Mareen-sa,” said the creature, its voice deep and rolling, its words slurred almost beyond recognition. “Tell me of yourself.”

  “I am Thuro. A traveler.”

  “A servant of whom?”

  “I am no man’s servant.”

  “Each man is a servant. From where have you traveled?”