The creature holding him vanished as a gladius clove its heart. "Marching formation," said Victorinus, and as the small group of warriors formed in two lines the shadows moved back.
On and further on they marched, until the road could no longer be seen and the dust hung around them like a storm-cloud, blurring their vision, masking the distant mountains.
Twice more the shadows moved in, but each time the bright swords of the Britons forced them back.
At last they came to higher ground on which stood an ancient stone circle, blackened and ruined. The shadows ringed the foot of the hill and it was with a sense of relief that the weary group sat down amongst the stones.
"Why will they not come here?" asked Victorinus.
"I am not the fount of all human knowledge," snapped Maedhlyn.
"You always claimed you were."
"I would like you to know, Victorinus, that of all Uther"s followers you were the one whose company I enjoyed least."
"Cutting words, Enchanter," answered Victorinus, grinning. "Perhaps now you"ll have an eternity in my company."
"h.e.l.l, indeed," commented Maedhlyn.
"This must have once been a living land," said Cormac. "There were trees, and we have crossed a score of dried-out stream-beds. What changed it?"
"Nothing changed it, Cormac," Maedhlyn replied. "For it does not exist. It is an echo of what once was; it is a nightmare."
"Does our presence not prove its existence?" asked Marcus Ba.s.sicus, moving to sit alongside them.
"Did you ever dream you were somewhere where you were not?" countered Maedhlyn.
"Of course."
"And did that dream prove the existence of the dreamscape?"
"But we are all sharing this dream," Marcus argued.
"Are we? How can you know? Perhaps we are just figments of your nightmare, young Marcus. Or perhaps you are all appearing in mine."
Victorinus chuckled. "I knew it would not be long before you began your games." He turned to the other men sitting by, listening intently. "I once saw this man spend two hours arguing the case that Caligula was the only sane man ever to walk the earth. At the end, we all believed him and he laughed at us."
"How could you not believe me?" asked Maedhlyn. "Caligula made his horse a senator and, I ask you, did the horse ever make a wrong decision? Did it seek to seize power? Did it argue for laws that robbed the poor and fed the rich? It was the finest senator in Roman history."
Cormac sat listening to the chatter and a slow, burning anger began to seize him. All his life he had lived with fear - of punishment, of humiliation, of rejection. These chains had held him in thrall since his first memories, but the fire of his anger cut through them. Only two people had ever loved Cormac Daemonsson - and both were dead. From deep inside him, a new Cormac rose and showed him his life from another viewpoint. Maedhlyn had been right, Cormac Daemonsson was not a failure, nor a loser. He was a man - and a prince, by right and by blood.
Power surged in his heart and his eyes blazed with its heady strength.
"Enough!" stormed Cormac, rising. "This talk is like the wind in the leaves. It achieves nothing and is merely a noise. We are here and this place is real. Now let us move on."
"He would have made a good king," whispered Victorinus, as he and Maedhlyn followed Cormac down the hill.
"This is a fine place to learn arrogance," agreed the Enchanter.
At the foot of the hill Cormac advanced on the shadow horde. "Back!" he ordered and they split before him, creating a dark pathway. He marched into it, looking to neither left nor right, ignoring the hissing and the gleaming talons. Then sheathing his sword he strode on, eyes fixed on the mountains.
A tall figure in black breastplate stepped into his path. The man was wearing a winged helm that covered his face - all but the eyes which gleamed with a cold light. In his hands were two short swords, about his waist a kilt of dark leather and on his shins were black greaves. He stood in perfect balance on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, poised to attack.
Cormac continued to walk until he stood directly before the warrior.
"Draw your sword," said the man, his voice a metallic echo from within the helm. Cormac smiled and considered his words with care, and when he spoke it was with grim certainty.
"If I do, it will be to kill you."
"That has been done before, but not by the likes of you."
Cormac stepped back and the sword of Culain flashed into his hand.
The warrior stood very still, staring at the blade. "Where did you come by that weapon?"
"It is mine."
"I am not questioning its ownership."
"And I am weary of this nonsense. Step aside or fight!"
"Why are you here?"
"To find Goroien," answered Maedhlyn, pushing forward to stand between the warriors.
The man sheathed his blades. "The sword earns you that right," he told Cormac, "but we will speak again when the Queen is done with you. Follow me."
The tall warrior led them across the arid valley to a wide entrance carved into a mountain.
Here torches blazed and guards stood by, bearing silver axes. Deep into the heart of the mountain they walked until they came to a huge doorway, before which stood two ma.s.sive hounds. The warrior ignored them and pushed open the doors. Inside was a round hall, richly carpeted and hung with rugs, curtains and screens. At the centre, lounging on a divan, lay a woman of exquisite beauty. Her hair was golden, highlighted by silver; her eyes pale blue, matching the short shift she wore; and her skin was pale and wondrous smooth. Cormac swallowed hard as the warrior advanced to the divan and knelt before her. She waved him aside and summoned Cormac.
As he approached he saw her shimmer and change to a bloated, scaled creature, diseased and decaying, then back to the slim beauty he had first seen. His steps faltered, but still he came on.
"Kiss my hand," she told him. He took the slender fingers in his own and blanched as they swelled and disgorged maggots in his palm. His thoughts fixed on Anduine, he steeled himself as his head bent and his lips touched the writhing ma.s.s.
"A brave man indeed," she said. "What are you called?"
"Cormac Daemonsson."
"And are you the son of a demon?"
"I am the son of Uther, High King of Britain."
"Not a name to conjure friendship here," she said.
"Nor is he a friend to me; he hounded my mother to her death."
"Did he indeed?" Her gaze wandered to the figure of Maedhlyn at the back of the hall. "And there is my old friend, Zeus. You are a long way from Olympus . . . such a very long way. I cannot tell you how pleasant it is to see you," she hissed.
Maedhlyn bowed gravely. "I wish I could echo the sentiment," he called.
She returned her gaze to Cormac. "My first thought is to watch you scream, to listen to your howls of torment, but you have aroused my curiosity. And events of interest are rare for Goroien now. So speak to me, handsome prince - tell me why you sought the Queen."
"I need to a.s.sault the Keep," he said simply.
"And why should that interest me?"
"Simply because Wotan - Molech - is your enemy."
"Not enough."
"It is said, my lady, that he has the power to return his followers to a life of flesh and blood.
Could it not be that were you to control the Keep, you would also have that power?"
As she lay on the divan, she stretched out once more. Cormac longed to tear his eyes from the shimmering figure of beauty and decay.
"You think I have not tried to defeat him? What do you bring me that could make the difference?"
"First, let me ask what prevents you from taking the Keep?"
"Molech"s power is greater than my own."
"And if he were not here?"
"Where else would he be?"
"In the world of flesh, my lady."
"That is not possible. I was among those who destroyed him at Babel; I saw Culain cut the head from the body."
"Yet he is returned, thanks to the man Maedhlyn. The same could be done for you."
"Why are you offering me this, when your very blood should scream its hatred for me?"
"Because the woman I love was murdered on account of this Molech, and even now he has her soul at the Keep."
"But there is something else, yes? Something that brings Maedhlyn to me - and those other men of Other"s."
"He also has the King"s soul in chains of fire."
"Now I see. And you want Goroien to free Uther? You are mad." She raised one hand and guards moved in from all around the hall.
"Molech is alive," said Cormac softly. "He calls himself Wotan now and he plans to invade Britain. Only Uther has the power to destroy him. If, when that happens, you are in control of the Keep, will Molech"s soul not come unwittingly to you?"
She waved back the guards. "I will consider the questions you have raised. Maedhlyn! Join the prince and myself in my chambers. The rest of you may wait here.
For an hour in the Queen"s private chambers, as she lay on a silk-covered bed, Maedhlyn talked of the return to life of the man Molech. Cormac noted that the tale was slightly different from the story Maedhlyn had told him. In this version, Maedhlyn was far less at fault and only defeated by an act of treachery. Cormac himself said nothing as the Enchanter spoke, but watched the shimmering Queen, trying to gauge the emotions in her ever-changing face.
As Maedhlyn finished speaking, Goroien sat up. "You always were an arrogant fool," she said, "and at last you pay the price. But then there was no Culain to save you this time.
Wait in the outer rooms." Maedhlyn bowed and left the chamber. "Now you, prince Cormac."
"Where should I begin?"
"How did the son of Uther come to be known as the son of a demon?"
And he told her. Her eyes blazed as he spoke of Culain"s love for the Queen, but she remained still and silent until, at last, he spoke of the day on the mountain when the Vikings had come and Anduine was slain.
"So," she whispered, "you are here for love? Foolish, Cormac."
"I never claim to be wise, my lady."
"Let us test your wisdom," she said, leaning forward with her face close to his. "You have given me all that you have, is that not correct?"
"It is."
"So you are of no further use to me?"
"That is true."
"Did not Maedhlyn tell you I was not to be trusted? That I was evil?"
"Yes."
"Then why did you come here?"
"He also said Culain lach Feragh once loved you."
"And what difference does that make?" she snapped.
"Perhaps none. But I love Anduine and I know what that means. She is part of me, and I of her. Apart from her, I am nothing. I do not know if evil people can love - or if they do, how they can remain evil. But I do not believe Culain would love anyone who did not possess a measure of goodness."
"As you say, prince Cormac, you are not wise. Culain loved me for my beauty and my wit.
And he betrayed me, just as he betrayed Uther. He wed another . . . and I killed her. He had a daughter, Alaida; he tried to save her by allowing her to marry the King of Britain, but I found her and she too died. Then I tried to kill her son, Uther, but there I failed. And now, you tell me, he is a prisoner and facing death . . . and his son sits in my fortress asking a favour. What do you offer me so that I will grant you aid? Think carefully, Cormac. A great deal rests on your answer."
"Then I am lost, my lady, for I can offer you nothing else."
"Nothing," she echoed. "Nothing for Goroien? Leave me and join your friends. I will have an answer for you in a little while."
He looked into her gleaming eyes and his heart sank.
The fishing-boat beached in the moonlight in the shelter of a rounded bay close to Anderita. Galead thanked the skipper, gave him two small golden coins and clambered over the side, wading through the calf-deep water to the rocky beach. He climbed a narrow path to the cliff-top, then turned to watch the boat bobbing out on the Gallic Sea.
The night air was cool, the sky clear. Galead pulled his long cloak about his shoulders and sought the shelter of the trees, halting in a hollow where the light from his fire could not be observed from more than a few yards in any direction. He slept uneasily and dreamt of a sword floating over water, and of a light in the sky like a great glowing, silver sphere speeding across the heavens. Waking at midnight, he added fuel to the fire; he was hungry and finished the last of the smoke-dried fish the boatman had supplied.
It had been twelve days since Caterix had rescued the robber and Galead found his thoughts constantly straying to the little man. He rubbed at the bristles on his chin and pictured a hot bath with scented water, and a slave girl to dry him and oil his body, soft hands easing the tension from his muscles. Groaning as desire surged in him, he quelled it savagely.