'And you, my lord? Where did you go?'

'I went to Africa. I became Revelation.'

'And do you seek forgiveness?'

'No. I seek oblivion.'

Culain sat opposite the young warrior in the watery sunshine, pleased with the progress Cormac had made in the last eight weeks. The youth was stronger now, his long legs capable of running for mile upon mile over any terrain, his arms and shoulders showing corded muscle, taut and powerful. He had outgrown the faded red tunic and now wore a buckskin shirt and woollen trews Culain had purchased from a travelling merchant pa.s.sing through the Caledones towards Pinnata Castra in the east.

'We must talk, Cormac,' said the Lance Lord.

'Why? We have not yet practised with the sword.'

'There will be no sword-play today. After we have spoken, I shall be leaving.'

'I do not wish to talk,' said Cormac, rising.

'Know your enemy,' said Culain softly.

'What does that mean?'

'It means that from today you are on your own -and Anduine's life is in your care. It means that when Wotan finds you - as he will - only you and your skill will be between Anduine and the Blade of Sacrifice.'

'You are leaving us?'

'Yes.'

'Why?' asked the youth, returning to his seat on the fallen log.

'I do not answer to you for my life. But before we part, Cormac, I want you to understand the nature of the enemy, for in that you may find his weakness.'

'How can I fight a G.o.d?'

'By understanding what a G.o.d is. We are not talking about the Source of All Creation, we are talking about an immortal: a man who has discovered a means to live for ever. But he is a man nonetheless. Look at me, Cormac. I also was an immortal. I was born when the sun shone over Atlantis, when the world was ours, when Pendarric the King opened the Gates of the Universe. But the oceans drank Atlantis and the world was changed for ever.

Here, on this Island of Mist, you see the last remnants of Pendarric's power, for this was the northern outpost of the empire. The standing stones were gateways to journeys within and beyond the realm. We gave birth to all the G.o.ds and demons of the world. Werebeasts, dragons, blood-drinkers - all were set free by Pendarric.'

Culain sighed and rubbed at his eyes. 'I know there is too much to burden you with here.

But you need to understand at least a part of a history that men no longer recall, save as legend. Pendarric discovered other worlds, and in opening the gates to those worlds he loosed beings very different from men. Atlantis was destroyed, but many of the people survived. Pendarric led thousands of us to a new realm - the Feragh. And we had Sipstra.s.si, the Stone from Heaven. You have seen its magic, felt its power. It saved us from ageing, but could not give us wisdom nor prevent the onset of a terrible boredom. Man is a hunting, compet.i.tive animal. Unless there is ambition, there is apathy and chaos. We found ambitions. Many of us returned to the world and with our powers we became G.o.ds.

We built civilisations and we warred one upon another. We made our dreams reality. And some of us saw the dangers . . . others did not. The seeds of madness are nurtured by unlimited power. The wars became more intense, more terrifying. The numbers of the slain could not be counted.

'One among us became Molech, the G.o.d of the Canaanites and the Amorites. He demanded the blood sacrifices from every family. Each first-born son or daughter was consigned to the flames. Torture, mutilation and death were his hallmarks. The agonised screams of his victims were as sweet to him as the music of the lyre. Pendarric called a council of the Feragh and we joined together to oppose Molech. The war was long and b.l.o.o.d.y, but at last we destroyed his empire.'

'But he survived,' said Cormac.

'No. I found him on the battlements of Babel, with his guard of demons. I cut my way through to him and we faced each other, high above the field of the fallen. Only once have I met a man of such skill, but I was at the magical peak of my strength and I slew Molech, cut his head from his shoulders and hurled the body to the rocks below.' 'Then how has he returned?' 'I do not know. But I will discover the truth, and I shall face him again.' 'Alone?'

Culain smiled. 'Yes, alone.' 'You are no longer at the peak of your strength.' 'Very true. I was almost slain twenty-five - no, twenty-six years ago. The Sipstra.s.si restored me but since then I have not used its power for myself. I want to be a man again. To live out a life and die like a mortal.'

"Then you will not beat him.' 'Victory is not important, Cormac. True strength is born of striving. When you first ran to the pine, you could not return before the shadow pa.s.sed the stick. Did you say, "Ah well, there is no point in running again?" No. You ran and grew stronger, fitter, faster. It is the same when facing evil. You do not grow stronger by running away. It is balance.

Harmony.'

'And how do you win if he kills you?' said Cormac.

'By sowing the seed of doubt in his mind. I may not win, Cormac, but I will come close. I will show him his weakness and then a better man can destroy him.'

'It sounds as if you are merely going away to die.' 'Perhaps that is true. How will you fare, here alone?' 'I do not know, but I will protect Anduine with my life.'

'This I know.' Culain dipped his hand into the leather pouch at his side and produced the Sipstra.s.si necklace Cormac had dropped within the Circle of stones. The youth tensed, his eyes glinting with anger.

'I do not want it,' he said.

'It gave you life,' said Culain softly, 'and whatever you think of me, you should know that your mother never recovered from losing you. It haunted her to her dying day. Add this to the burden of your hate for me. But it was not my gift to you - it was hers. With it you can protect Anduine far more powerfully than with the sword.'

'I would not know how to use it.'

Culain leaned forward. 'Take it, and I will show you.'

'Give it to Anduine and I will think about it after you have gone,' said Cormac, rising once more.

'You are a stubborn man, Cormac. But I wish we could part as friends.'

'I do not hate you, Culain,' said the youth, 'for you saved me from Agwaine and fought off the demons for Anduine. But had it not been for you, I would not have known a life of pain and sorrow. I am the son of a King and I have been raised like a leper. You think I should thank you?'

'No, you are my shame brought to life. But I loved your mother and would have died for her.'

'But you did not. Grysstha once told me that men will always excuse their shortcomings, but to your credit you never have. Try to understand, Culain, what I am saying. I admire you. I am sorry for you. But you are the father of my loneliness and we could never be friends.'

Culain nodded. 'At least you do not hate me and that is something to carry with me.' He held out his hand and Cormac took it. 'Be on your guard, young warrior. Train every day.

And remember the three mysteries: life, harmony and spirit.'

'I shall. Farewell, Revelation.'

'Farewell, Prince Cormac.'

CHAPTER SIX.

In the months following the Trinovante uprising, Britannia enjoyed an uneasy peace.

Uther paced the halls of Camulodunum like a caged warhound, eagerly watching the roads from his private apartments in the north tower. Every time a messenger arrived the King would hurry to the main hall, ripping the seals from despatches and devouring the contents, ever seeking news of insurrection or invasion. But throughout the Summer and into the Autumn peace reigned, crops were gathered, militiamen sent home to their families.

Men walked warily around Uther, sensing his disquiet. Across the Gallic Sea a terrible army had ripped into the Sicambrian kingdoms of Belgica and Gaul, destroying their forces and burning their cities. The enemy king, Wotan, was named Anti-Christ by the Bishop of Rome, but this was not unusual. A score of barbarian kings had been dubbed by the same name, and subsequently many had been admitted to the church.

Rome herself sent five legions to a.s.sist the Sicam-brians. They were destroyed utterly, their standards taken.

But in Britain the people enjoyed the hot summer and the absence of war. Store-houses groaned under the weight of produce, the price of bread and wine plummeted. Only the merchants complained, for the rich export markets of Gaul had been disrupted by the war and few were the trade ships docking at Dubris or Noviomagus.

Each morning Uther would climb to the north tower, lock the door of oak and set the Sword of Power in its niche within the grey boulder. Then he would kneel before it and wait, focusing his thoughts. Dreams and visions would swirl in his mind, and his spirit would soar across the land from Pinnata Castra in the north to Dubris in the south, from Gariannonum in the east to Moriodunum in the west, seeking gatherings of armed men.

Finding nothing, he would follow the coastline, spirit eyes scanning the grey waves for sign of long ships and Viking raiders.

But the seas were clear.

One bright morning he tried to cross the Gallic Sea, but found himself halted by a force he could neither see nor pa.s.s, like a wall of crystal.

Confused and uncertain, he returned to his tower, opening the eyes of his body and removing the Sword from the stone. Stepping to the ramparts, he felt the cool Autumn breeze on his skin, and for a while his fears slumbered.

His manservant Baldric came to him at noon, bringing wine, cold meat and a dish of the dark plums the King favoured. Uther, in no mood for conversation, waved the lad away and sat at the window staring out at the distant sea.

He knew Victorinus and Gwalchmai were concerned about his state of mind, and he could not explain the fear growing in his soul. He felt like a man walking a dark alleyway, knowing - without evidence, and yet with certainty - that a monster awaited him at the next turn: faceless, formless, yet infinitely deadly.

Not for the first time in the last ten years Uther wished that Maedhlyn was close. The Lord Enchanter would either have laid his fears to rest, or at worst identified the danger.

'If wishes were horses the beggars would ride,' muttered Uther, shutting his mind from the memory of Maedhlyn's departure. Harsh words, hotter than acid, had poured from Uther that day. They were regretted within the hour, but could not be drawn back. Once spoken they hung in the air, carved on invisible stone, branded into the hearts of the hearers. And Maedhlyn had gone . . .

As Laitha had gone. And Culain . . .

Uther poured more wine, seeking to dull the memories and yet enhancing them. Gian Avur, Fawn of the Forest, was the name Culain had given to Laitha - a name Uther had never been allowed to use. But he had loved her, and had been lost without her.

'Why then did you drive her into his arms?' he whispered.

There was no answer to be found in logic or intellect. But Uther knew where it lay, deep in the labyrinthine tunnels of dark emotion. The seeds of insanity were sown on that night in another world when the youth had first made love to the maid, only to have her whisper the name of Culain at the moment of Uther's greatest joy. The opposite of the alchemist's dream - gold become lead, light plunged into darkness. Even then he could have forgiven her, for Culain was dead. He could not. . . would not be jealous of a corpse. But the Lance Lord returned and Uther had seen the light of love reborn in Lai-tha's eyes.

Yet he could not send him away, for that would be defeat. And he could not kill him, for he owed everything to Culain. He could only hope that her love for the Lance Lord would be overcome by her marriage vow to the King. And it was so - but not enough. He tested her resolve time and again, treating her with appalling indifference, forcing her in her despair to the very act he feared above all others.

King of Fools!

Uther, the Blood King, the Lord of No Defeat! What did it matter that armies could not withstand him when he dwelt in loneliness in a chilly tower? No sons to follow him, no wife to love him. He turned to the bronze mirror set on the wall; grey roots were showing under the henna-dyed hair and the eyes were tired.

He wandered to the ramparts and stared down at the courtyard. The Sicambrian, Ursus, was strolling arm in arm with a young woman. Uther could not recognise her, but she seemed familiar. He smiled. The horse-armour had been a miserable failure, becoming sodden and useless in the rain, but Ursus had proved a fine cavalry commander. The men liked his easy manner and his quick wit, added to which he was not reckless and understood the importance in strategy of patience and forethought.

The King watched the easy way Ursus draped his arm over the woman's shoulder, drawing her to him in the shadows of a doorway, tilting her chin to kiss her lips. Uther shook his head and turned away. He rarely had women sent to his apartments these days; the act of loving left him with a deep sadness, a hollow empty loneliness.

His eyes scanned the green landscape, the rolling hills and the farms, the cattle herds and the sheep. All was at peace. Uther cursed softly. For years he had fostered the myth that he was the land, the soul and heart of Britannia. Only his trusted friends knew that the Sword gave him the power. Yet now, even without the aid of the mystic blade, Uther could feel a sinister threat growing in the shadows. The tranquillity around him was but an illusion, and the days of blood and fire were waiting to dawn.

Or are you getting old, he asked himself? Have you lied for so long about the myth that you have come to believe it?

A cold breeze touched him and he shivered.

What was the threat? From where would it come?

'My lord?' said a voice and Uther spun to find Victorinus standing in the doorway. 'I knocked on the outer door, but there was no response,' said the Roman. 'I am sorry if I startled you.'

'I was thinking,' said the King. 'What news?'

'The Bishop of Rome has agreed a treaty with Wot an, and has validated his claims to Gaul and Belgica.'

Uther chuckled. 'A short-lived Anti-Christ, was he not?'

Victorinus nodded, then removed his bronze helm. His white hair made him seem much older than his fifty years. Uther moved past him into the apartments, beckoning the general to sit.

'Still clean-shaven, my friend,' said the King. 'What will you do now the pumice-stones are no longer arriving?'

'I'll use a razor,' said Victorinus, grinning. 'It does not become a Roman to look like an unwashed barbarian.'

"That is no way to speak to your King,' said Uther, scratching at his own beard.

'But then your misfortune, sire, was to be born without Roman blood. I can only offer my deepest sympathies.'

'The arrogance of Rome survives even her downfall,' said Uther smiling. 'Tell me of Wotan.'

'The reports are contradictory, sire. He fought four major battles in Sicambria, crushing the Merovingians. Nothing is known of their King; some say he escaped to Italia, others that he sought refuge in Hispania.'

'The strategies, man. Does he use cavalry? Or the Roman phalanx? Or just a horde, overwhelming by numbers?'

'His army is split into units. There are some mounted warriors, but in the main he relies on axemen and archers. He also fights where the battle is thickest and, it is said, no sword can pierce his armour.'

'Not a good trait in a general,' muttered the King. 'He should stay back, directing the battle.'

'As you do, my lord?' asked Victorinus, raising' an eyebrow.

Uther grinned. 'I will one day,' he said. 'I'll sit on a canvas stool and watch you and Gwalchmai sunder the enemy.'

'I wish you would, sire. My heart will not take the strain you put upon it with your recklessness.'

'Has Wotan sent emissaries to other kings?' asked Uther.

'Not as far as we know - only the Bishop of Rome and the boy emperor. He has pledged not to lead his armies into Italia.'

'Then where will he lead them?'

'You think he will invade Britain?'

'I need to know more about him. Where is he from? How did he weld the German tribes, the Norse and the Goths into such a disciplined army? And in so short a time?'

'I could go as an amba.s.sador, sire. His court is now in Martius.'

Uther nodded. Take Ursus with you; he knows the land, the people and the language. And a gift; I will arrange a suitable offering for a new king.'