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  Grysstha had carried the child from the cave and found a milk nurse for him from among the captured British women. But after four months she had suddenly died, and then no one would touch the child. Grysstha had taken him into his own hut and fed him with cow’s milk through a needle-pierced leather glove.

  The babe had even been the subject of a council meeting, where a vote was taken as to whether he lived or died. Only Calder’s vote had saved young Cormac, and that had been given after a special plea from Grysstha.

  For seven years the boy lived with the old warrior, but Grysstha’s disability meant that he could not earn enough to feed them both, and the child was forced to scavenge in the village for extra food.

  At thirteen Cormac realized that his association with the crippled warrior had caused Grysstha to become an outcast, and he built his own hut away from the village. It was a meager dwelling with no furniture but a cot bed, and Cormac spent little time there except in winter, when he shivered despite the fire and dreamed cold dreams.

  That night, as always, Grysstha stopped at his hut and banged on the doorpost. Cormac called him in, offering him a cup of water. The old man accepted graciously, sitting cross-legged on the hard-packed dirt floor.

  “You need another shirt, Cormac; you have outgrown that. And those leggings will soon climb to your knees.”

  “They will last the summer.”

  “We’ll see. Did you eat today?”

  “Althwynne gave me some pie—I chopped wood for her.”

  “I heard Kern cracked your head.”

  “Yes.”

  “There was a time when I would have killed him for that. Now, if I struck him, I would only break my good hand.”

  “It was nothing, Grysstha. How went your day?”

  “The goats and I had a wonderful time. I told them of my campaigns, and they told me of theirs. They became bored long before I did!”

  “You are never tiresome,” said Cormac. “You are a wonderful storyteller.”

  “Tell me that when you’ve listened to another storyteller. It is easy to be the king when no one else lives in your land.”

  “I heard a saga poet once. I sat outside Calder’s hall and listened to Patrisson sing of the Great Betrayal.”

  “You must not mention that to anyone, Cormac. It is a forbidden song—and death to sing it.” The old man leaned back against the wall of the hut and smiled. “But he sang it well, did he not?”

  “Did the Blood King really have a grandfather who was a god?”

  “All kings are sired by gods, or so they would have us believe. Of Uther I know not. I only know that his wife was caught with her lover, that both fled, and that he hunted them. Whether he found them and cut them to pieces as the song says or whether they escaped, I do not know. I spoke to Patrisson, and he did not know, either. But he did say that the queen ran off with the king’s grandfather, which sounds like a merry mismatch.”

  “Why has the king not taken another wife?”

  “I’ll ask him the next time he invites me to supper.”

  “But he has no heir. Will there not be a war if he dies now?”

  “There will be a war anyway, Cormac. The king has reigned for twenty-five years and has never known peace … uprisings, invasions, betrayals. His wife was not the first to betray him. The Brigantes rose again sixteen years ago, and Uther crushed them at Trimontium. Then the Ordovice swept east, and Uther destroyed their army at Viriconium. Lastly the Jutes, two years ago. They had a treaty like ours, and they broke it; Uther kept his promise and had every man, woman, and child put to death.”

  “Even children?” whispered Cormac.

  “All of them. He is a hard, canny man. Few will rise against him now.”

  “Would you like some more water?”

  “No, I must be getting to my bed. There will be rain tomorrow—I can feel it in my stump—and I’ll need my rest if I’m to sit shivering.”

  “One question, Grysstha.”

  “Ask it.”

  “Was I really born to a dog?”

  Grysstha swore. “Who said that to you?”

  “The tanner.”

  “I have told you before that I found you in the cave beside the hound. That’s all it means. Someone had left you there, and the bitch tried to defend you, as she did her own pups. You had not been born more than two hours, but her pups were days old. Odin’s blood! We have men here with brains of pig swill. Understand me, Cormac. You are no demon child; I promise you that. I do not know why you were left in that cave or by whom. But there were six dead men on the path by the cliff, and they were not killed by a demon.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Doughty warriors, judging by their scars. All killed by one man—one fearsome man. The hunters with me were convinced once they saw you that a pit dweller was abroad, but that is because they were young and had never seen a true warrior in action. I tried to explain, but fear has a way of blinding the eyes. I believe that the warrior was your father and that he was wounded unto death. That’s why you were left there.”

  “And what of my mother?”

  “I don’t know, boy. But the gods know. One day perhaps they’ll give you a sign. But until then you are Cormac the man, and you will walk with your back straight. For whoever your father was, he was a man. And you will prove true to him, if not to me.”

  “I wish you were my father, Grysstha.”

  “I wish it, too. Good night, boy.”

  2

  THE KING, FLANKED by Gwalchmai and Victorinus, walked out into the paddock field to view his new horses. The young man standing beside the crippled Prasamaccus stared intently at the legendary warrior.

  “I thought he would be taller,” he whispered, and Prasamaccus smiled.

  “You thought to see a giant walking head and shoulders above other men. Oh, Ursus, you of all people ought to know the difference between men and myths.”

  Ursus’ pale gray eyes studied the king as he approached. The man was around forty years of age and walked with the confident grace of a warrior who had never met his equal. His hair flowing to his mail-clad shoulders was auburn red, though his thick square-cut beard was more golden in color and was streaked with gray. The two men walking beside him were older, perhaps in their fifties. One was obviously Roman, hawk-nosed and steely-eyed, while the second wore his gray hair braided like a tribesman.

  “A fine day,” said the king, ignoring the younger man and addressing himself to Prasamaccus.

  “It is, my lord, and the horses you bought are as fine.”

  “They are all here?”

  “Thirty-five stallions and sixty mares. May I present Prince Ursus of the House of Merovee?”

  The young man bowed. “It is an honor, my lord.”

  The king gave a tired smile and moved past the young man. He took Prasamaccus by the arm, and the two walked on into the field, stopping by a gray stallion of some seventeen hands.

  “The Sicambrians know how to breed horses,” said Uther, running his hand over the beast’s glistening flank.

  “You look weary, Uther.”

  “It reflects how I feel. The Trinovante are flexing their muscles once more, as are the Saxons in the Middle Land.”

  “When do you ride?”

  “Tomorrow, with four legions. I sent Patreus with the Eighth and the Fifth, but he was routed. Reports say we lost six hundred men.”

  “Was Patreus among them?” Prasamaccus asked.

  “If not, he’ll wish he was,” snapped the king. “He tried to charge a shield wall up a steep slope.”

  “As you yourself did only four days ago against the Goths.”

  “But I won!”

  “You always do, my lord.”

  Uther grinned, and for a moment there was a flash of the lonely youth Prasamaccus had first met a quarter of a century before. But then it was gone, and the mask settled once more.

  “Tell me of the Sicambrian,” said the king, staring across at the young dark-haired prin
ce clad all in black.

  “He knows his horses.”

  “That was not my meaning, and well you know it.”

  “I cannot say, Uther. He seems … intelligent, knowledgeable.”

  “You like him?”

  “I rather think that I do. He reminds me of you—a long time ago.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “It is a compliment.”

  “Have I changed so much?”

  Prasamaccus said nothing. A lifetime earlier Uther had dubbed him Kingsfriend and asked always for his honest council. In those days the young prince had crossed the Mist in search of his father’s sword, had fought demons and the Witch Queen, had brought an army of ghosts back to the world of flesh, and had loved the mountain woman Laitha.

  The old Brigante shrugged. “We all change, Uther. When my Helga died last year, I felt all beauty pass from the world.”

  “A man is better off without love. It weakens him,” said the king, moving away to examine the horses. “Within a few years we will have a better, faster army. All these mounts are at least two hands taller than our horses, and they are bred for speed and stamina.”

  “Ursus brought something else you might like to see,” said Prasamaccus. “Come, it will interest you.” The king seemed doubtful, but he followed the limping Brigante back to the paddock gates. There Ursus bowed once more and led the group to the rear of the herdsmen’s living quarters. In the yard behind the buildings a wooden frame had been erected—curved wood attached to a straight spine, representing a horse’s back. Over this Ursus draped a stiffened leather cover. A second section was tied to the front of the frame, and the prince secured the hide, then returned to the waiting warriors.

  “What in Hades is it?” asked Victorinus. Ursus lifted a short bow and nocked an arrow to the string.

  With one smooth motion he let fly. The shaft struck the rear of the “horse” and, failing to penetrate fully, flapped down to point at the ground.

  “Give me the bow,” said Uther. Drawing back the string as far as the weapon could stand, he loosed the shaft. It cut through the leather and jutted from the hide.

  “Now look, sire,” said Ursus, stepping forward to the “horse.” Uther’s arrow had penetrated a mere half inch. “It would prick a good horse, but it would not have disabled him.”

  “What of the weight?” asked Victorinus.

  “A Sicambrian horse could carry it and still work a full day as well as any British warhorse.”

  Gwalchmai was unimpressed. The old Cantii warrior hawked and spit. “It must cut down on the speed of the charge, and that is what carries us through the enemy. Armored horses? Pah!”

  “You would perhaps think of riding into battle without your own armor?” snapped the prince.

  “You insolent puppy!” roared Gwalchmai.

  “Enough!” ordered the king. “Tell me, Ursus, what of the rains? Would they not soften your leather and add to the weight?”

  “Yes, my lord. But each warrior should carry a quantity of oiled beeswax to be rubbed into the cover every day.”

  “Now we must polish our horses as well as our weapons,” Gwalchmai said with a mocking grin.

  “Have ten of these … horse jerkins … made,” said Uther. “Then we shall see.”

  “Thank you, sire.”

  “Do not thank me until I place an order. This is what you are seeking, yes?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Did you devise the armor?”

  “Yes, my lord, although my brother Balan overcame the problem of the rain.”

  “And to him will go the profit for the wax I order?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Ursus, smiling.

  “And where is he at present?”

  “Trying to sell the idea in Rome. It will be difficult, for the emperor still sets great store by the marching legions even though his enemies are mounted.”

  “Rome is finished,” said Uther. “You should sell to the Goths or the Huns.”

  “I would, my lord, but the Huns do not buy—they take. And the Goths? Their treasury is smaller than my own.”

  “And your own Merovingian army?”

  “My king, long may he reign, is guided in matters military by the mayor of the palace. And he is not a visionary.”

  “But then, he is not assailed on all sides and from within,” said Uther. “Do you fight as well as you talk?”

  “Not quite.”

  Uther grinned. “I have changed my mind. Make thirty-two, and Victorinus will put you in command of one turma. You will join me at Petvaria, and then I will see your horse armor as it needs to be seen—against a real enemy. If it is successful, you will be rich and, as I suspect you desire, all other fighting kings will follow Uther’s lead.”

  “Thank you, sire.”

  “As I said, do not thank me yet. You have not heard my offer.”

  With that the king turned and walked away. Prasamaccus draped his arm over Ursus’ shoulder.

  “I think the king likes you, young man. Do not disappoint him.”

  “I would lose my order?”

  “You would lose your life,” Prasamaccus told him.

  Long after Grysstha had returned to his own hut in the shadow of the long hall, Cormac, unable to sleep, wandered out into the cool of the night to sit below the stars and watch the bats circle the trees.

  All was quiet, and the boy was truly, splendidly, perfectly alone. Here, in the glory of the hunter’s moonlight, there was no alienation, no sullen stares, no harsh words. The night breeze ruffled his hair as he gazed up at the cliffs above the woods and thought of his father, the nameless warrior who had fought so well. Grysstha said he had killed six men.

  But why had he left the infant Cormac alone in the cave? And where was the woman who bore him? Who would leave a child? Was the man—so brave in battle—so cruel in life?

  And what mother could leave her babe to die in a lonely cave?

  As always there were no answers, but the questions chained Cormac to this hostile village. He could not leave and make a future for himself, not while the past was such a mystery.

  When he was younger, he had believed that his father would one day come to claim him, striding to the long hall with a sword at his side and a burnished helm on his brow. But no longer could the dreams of childhood sustain him. In four days he would be a man … and then what? Begging for work at the smithy, or the mill, or the bakery, or the slaughterhouse?

  Back in his hut he slept fitfully beneath his threadbare blanket, rising before the dawn and taking his sling to the hills. There he killed three rabbits, skinning them expertly with the small knife Grysstha had given him the year before. He lit a fire in a sheltered hollow and roasted the meat, enjoying the rare sensation of a full belly. But there was little goodness in rabbit meat, and Grysstha had once told him a man could starve to death while feasting on such fare. Cormac licked his fingers and then wiped them on the long grass, remembering the Thunder Feast the previous autumn, where he had tasted beef at the open banquet when King Wulfhere had visited his former steward, Calder. Cormac had been forced to stay back from the throng around the Saxon king but had heard his speech. Meaningless platitudes mostly, coming from a weak man. He looked the part with his mail shirt of iron and his ax-bearing guards, but his face was soft and womanly and his eyes focused on a point above the crowd.

  But the beef had been magnificent. Grysstha had brought him three cuts, succulent and rich with the blood of the bull.

  “Once,” the old man said, between mouthfuls, “we ate like this every day! When we were reavers and our swords were feared. Calder once promised we would do so again. He said we would be revenged on the Blood King, but look at him now—fat and content beside the puppet king.”

  “The king looks like a woman,” said Cormac.

  “He lives like one,” snapped Grysstha. “And to think his grandfather was Hengist! Would you like more meat?”

  And they feasted that night like emperors.


  Now Cormac doused his fire and wandered high into the hills, along the cliff tops overlooking the calm sea. The breeze was strong there and cool despite the morning sun, clear in a cloudless sky.

  Cormac stopped beneath a spreading oak and leapt to hang from a thick branch. One hundred times he hauled himself up to touch his chin to the wood, feeling the muscles in his arms and shoulders swell and burn. Then he dropped lightly to the ground, sweat gleaming on his face.

  “How strong you are, Cormac,” said a mocking voice, and he swung around to see Calder’s daughter, Alftruda, sitting in the grass with a basket of berries beside her. Cormac blushed and said nothing. He should have walked away, but the sight of her sitting there cross-legged, her woolen skirt pulled up to reveal the milky whiteness of her legs … “Are you so shy?” she asked.

  “Your brothers will not be pleased with you for speaking to me.”

  “And you are frightened of them?”

  Cormac considered the question. Calder’s sons had tormented him for years, but mostly he could outrun them to his hiding places in the woods. Agwaine was the worst, for he enjoyed inflicting pain. Lennox and Barta were less overtly cruel, but they followed Agwaine’s lead in everything. But was he frightened?

  “Perhaps I am,” he said. “But then, such is the law that they are allowed to strike me but it is death if I defend myself.”

  “That’s the price you pay for having a demon for a father, Cormac. Can you work magic?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a little, to please me?”

  “Not even a little.”

  “Would you like some berries?”

  “No, thank you. I must be heading back; I have work to do.”