Clash of Kings (23 page)

Hengist started, bit the nail of his thumb and then came to a decision. ‘Whatever happens, Myrddion of Segontium, I vow to help you to leave Dinas Emrys alive. My honour demands it but, more important, you offer me hope for the future because you might have true far-sight. My people are more used to women with the sight . . . but you’ve proved to me that your gift is true. You could not have known.’

‘Known what?’ Myrddion asked, his voice small and frightened.

‘That my name means stallion, and Horsa’s name means horse. My war shield is red for blood, with a white stallion on it. As you may have noticed, I ride well for a Saxon.’

‘Frisian,’ Myrddion replied, his eyes wide.

Hengist chuckled with real amusement. It was now his turn to offer a fillip of sympathy. ‘Fighting men have little time for soothsayers although, by and large, we’re a superstitious lot. Blind chance rules many battlefields, so our inclinations are natural. But I’ve only met one genuine magician, and that person was terrifying because he had no idea of the words he uttered. He was a small, twisted man who lived on the charity of my grandfather and was a constant source of amusement and scorn in the court. But when his eyes turned up in his head . . . well, brave men felt their knees turn to water.’

‘I don’t want to be an object of pity or fear,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘I want to be a healer. I believe in what is real!’

‘That crippled object of derision told me that I would become the ruler of a far-off land, and that my name would live on throughout the uncountable ages.’ He paused, and then stared fixedly at Myrddion’s face. ‘He also warned me to beware of a lad with black eyes whose blood would poison anyone who threatened his person.’

‘I couldn’t be such a child,’ Myrddion protested.

‘I was told my future many years ago when I was but a boy myself. You weren’t even born then. I am glad that I have been kind to you, young master, for I suspect that you are a true seer. Apollonius is a mountebank, a man who lives on his wits, but Rhun is something else. His runes speak the truth, perhaps, but he prostitutes any gift he has by telling fortunes for coin. Vortigern will be very sorry if he tries to kill you on their account.’

Then, with a warrior’s embarrassment, Hengist bowed low and kneeled in the dust before the boy. ‘Remember that I mean you no harm, Myrddion. Remember, too, that I vowed to repay my debt to you before I knew that you had the gift of the sight.’

‘Please don’t bow to me, Hengist,’ Myrddion begged, almost in tears with distress. ‘Please? I’m just an ordinary boy, truly I am.’

But Hengist smiled a knowing, satisfied grin and held his tongue.

The afternoon passed slowly, which allowed Myrddion an opportunity to examine the site of Vortigern’s ruined tower before the light began to fade. Although the ground was flinty, bare and dry, a patch of soil at the base of the tower flaunted long, lush grass, even though the tender shoots had been trodden flat by the feet of the stone-workers.

If grass grows in abundance like that, there’s usually a good water supply, Myrddion thought to himself. But why is it only in that spot? There doesn’t seem to be any other growth here. Perhaps there’s water under the foundations.

A worm of curiosity gnawed away in Myrddion’s mind for the rest of the afternoon.

Darkness had fallen and a persistent breeze rose up the valley slopes from the far-away sea, stirring the boy’s black hair as he waited in the ruins of the tower to learn his fate. The wind had a chill to it as it whined through the ruined tower with a thin keening.

‘They’re coming, lad!’ Hengist whispered. ‘It’s time to be courageous and trust that the gods are with you.’

The warrior pointed to a line of torches that lit the way for Vortigern, his wife, his two sorcerers and other notables and warriors. In the wake of the solemn procession, two peasants laboured to carry a large tub made of tin. Hengist grunted a short exclamation of disgust as he realised the purpose of this prosaic object.

‘Don’t be afraid, lad,’ he whispered as he lifted Myrddion to his feet.

The king picked his way over the rubble to stand before man and boy. Hengist bowed low but Myrddion remained standing, his face raised towards Vortigern’s frowning visage.

‘My physician will open your veins, boy, for I am not unduly cruel. Once your blood has been mixed with mortar, my tower will stand tall and strong, giving purpose to your life.’

A bent, white-clad ancient flustered his way forward, followed by a servant carrying a tray of sharp scalpels. Although Myrddion’s stomach churned to see the instruments of death, he noticed that the healer was more frightened than he was and the old man’s knees were visibly shaking. Despite his fears, Myrddion began to laugh.

Vortigern’s head snapped back like a striking snake.

‘Why such mirth? Don’t you realise that you’re about to die? Or do you expect your demonic father to save you?’

‘No, my lord, since I doubt a demon is my sire. At any rate, even if my blood seals your stones, your tower will fall down again as soon as it is rebuilt.’

Now it was Vortigern’s turn to laugh. ‘But you won’t be here to see it, Demon Seed! Still, I’ll satisfy my curiosity. Why will my tower topple once again?’

‘If you dig into the foundations, my lord, you will discover that your tower is built upon a deep pool of water, so the structure has no foundation on which to stand. If your sorcerers tell you otherwise, then they are liars.’

Apollonius and Rhun protested loudly and gathered their robes about their bodies in derision. ‘Do not listen, sire. The boy is trying to save his worthless, evil hide.’

As Vortigern opened his mouth to reply, Hengist shot a questioning glance towards Myrddion and saw the boy’s eyes were fixed and ruddy in the torchlight. His face seemed set and pure, filled with shadows and insensible to thought. Hengist felt his heart leap into his mouth.

‘Within the pond, if you care to drain it, you will find two dragons that are locked in battle.’ Myrddion was speaking in a voice that was older, deeper and more threatening than any that should proceed from his childish lips. Hengist heard a superstitious muttering issue from the warriors who clustered just out of the torchlight and he resisted an urge to step away from the child and that unearthly voice. Mindful of his oath, he stood his ground.

‘One dragon is white, like the banner of the Saxons, and its breath is freezing sleet and snow. Its claws are sharp scythes of cold iron and its scales are blue-white plates of ice. Whatever its claws or breath touches is killed instantly by the unnatural cold of eternal winter.’

The silence was absolute. Listeners scarcely dared to breathe as Myrddion’s shadow lengthened and flickered in the torchlight.

‘The other dragon is red, like the banner that you bear as your personal totem, King Vortigern. It is a creature of fire and elemental heat, and where its red claws and steaming plates move, the water sizzles and smokes. Its breath is fire, brimstone and steam and wondrous are the ruby jewels of its bloody eyes.’

Vortigern stared at the boy as if a monster inhabited his flesh.

‘These dragons fight until the end of time, the dragon of ice and the dragon of fire, as if Germania and Britain are locked in mortal combat for ever. You will see them if you dig into the foundations, as the ice dragon melts under the lash of the red dragon’s deadly breath. Dig, my king, and you will see that I speak the truth. The blood of a child will never trap the monsters of chaos.’

Vortigern rocked back on his heels and would have struck Myrddion had Hengist not stepped between them.

‘No, my lord. Look! The boy is in a trance. The father speaks through the son’s lips. Instruct the workmen to dig, for I fear for your life if you kill this boy.’

Still, Vortigern would have ordered his healer to cut the great veins in the boy’s throat, but Rowena rushed forward and gripped her husband’s arm in a passionate and terrified grasp.

‘Look at him, husband! This is no boy for all that he’s small and slight. Even now, his eyes don’t blink, for his senses are fled. Dig into the foundations of your tower, my lord, lest great misfortune befalls us.’

Apollonius and Rhun darted frightened glances around the gathered warriors and would have slipped away from the circle of light. Vortigern saw their movement and waved his hand, and they found themselves surrounded.

‘Please, husband? This boy frightens me. Do not call down the wrath of the immortals on us needlessly.’

Vortigern began to pace back and forth as he struggled to maintain his reputation for decisiveness without any loss of personal dignity. His warriors were rapt and in the thrall of the Demon Seed’s impassive eyes, so the magicians slid out of the light and vanished into the gloom. Only the sound of Vortigern’s pacing feet could be heard over the thunderous beat of each man’s heart.

Finally, he threw up his hands in surrender.

‘Hengist, since you believe the boy is speaking truly, organise some stout peasants to dig at the base of the broken tower. If no water is found, I will hold you personally responsible for the time we have wasted.’

Hengist paled a little, but he nodded his head bravely in acquiescence and trotted out of the torchlight to arrange for workmen and tools to carry out his allotted task.

Shortly afterwards, twelve peasants returned at a run with Hengist at their head. Using their digging implements, the labourers began to hack furiously at the site where the grass grew so prolifically. Under the basilisk eyes of the king, dirt flew and the hole grew larger and larger.

‘Lord, water is beginning to seep into the hole,’ Hengist called, his voice cracking with excitement.

‘Keep digging!’ Vortigern ordered, his face stiff and implacable.

The peasants worked on dourly in ankle-deep mud, although the work went more slowly as they tried to move the sticky layers of wet clay. Then one of the workmen swung a pick deep into the soil and a small jet of water forced its way through the hole made by the implement. Within moments, under the pressure of the underground stream, the hole began to cave in, widening so quickly that the peasants were forced to flee from the pit for their safety. The water soon filled the excavation, overflowed, and then began to pour down the slope of the hill in a red trail of muddy, rust-coloured slush.

‘There is a deep pool under the tower,’ Hengist called. ‘Do you wish to see the dragons, my lord?’

Vortigern gave a little shudder of disgust and apprehension. ‘No. When the water slows, fill the hole with rubble. The new tower of Dinas Emrys will be built on the other side of the fortress, once a suitable site has been determined.’ Vortigern turned back to the blank face of the slender boy who had neither moved nor spoken in all the time that had been spent in digging the excavation.

‘Are you happy, Demon Seed? Your prediction was correct. Answer me, sod you!’

Although the last demand was shouted, Myrddion made no sign that he had heard the king’s question. Then, just when the silence seemed to stretch out painfully and insultingly, the boy launched into a long, unemotional speech.

‘Hear, Vortigern, king of the lands of Cymru. Long have you lived, but now your days are numbered. No hired mercenaries or charlatan magicians can change the shape of your destiny. Long will your name endure, but your courage, wisdom and battlecraft will be forgotten. In ages to come, men and women will speak of this moment in time, and marvel that you could believe so easily in foolish lies.’

Vortigern raised his fists as if to strike the boy down, but the inexorable voice went on, robbing the king’s muscles of their strength.

‘The barbarians you have welcomed into your realm will steal the whole land, until your people will be forced to hide in the far, high places, just as the Pictish peoples were driven out so many generations ago. In turn, warriors will come from Gaul, and the Saxons will know the taste of bitter defeat. Beware of the king who looks skywards, for he will surely die. The lion will do battle with the unicorn, the crescent moon and the dragon, but the lion will prevail. Even the leopard of the north will bow before its might when the sacred stone is stolen. A rose will rule in blood, disease and fire and the crucified god will be cast down in his churches. A queen will preach sweet reason for a time, but then the roses will be crushed under the leopard’s claws and a triple throne will rise to make the Holy Roman Empire shudder. Beware, O king, for in the centuries to come those who remain of your race will hate you as the harbinger of chaos.’

Rowena paled and her hands gripped Vortigern’s arm as if she feared he would kill the boy to still that calm, insistent voice.

‘Men who eschew beauty will kill a king and the land will bleed as brother slays brother. Rods will spit fire and weapons of war will blow men into bloody slabs of meat. From afar, warriors will kill, until the crown is filled again by children from across the grey sea, so strangers will rule while Cymru fades away into a memory.

‘In the ages to come, men will live in castles of glass and fly through the air on weapons of iron that spit death across many miles. Men will kill and never see the faces of the enemies they slay. Monstrous rulers under crooked crosses will murder millions whilst the world is silent and afraid, until new monsters come to drag them from their thrones.

‘The city of the Romans will melt and Londinium will burn to ash. Men will walk among the stars, and turn whole nations into glowing, burning coals while skeletons dance in sheets of iridescent flame. Yet, though the very earth is poisoned and the sky is grey with dust, men will still open strange scrolls and read your name.’

Myrddion paused and the relieved listeners thought that he had finished, but the boy convulsed from head to toe as if an inner demon shook his slight frame from within.

‘Hear me, those of you who will live through the wars of Vortigern that will come. All is not lost, for a child will be born of the dragon of fire, a child who is noble and pitiless, gentle and murderous, true and false by turn. For a little time, so brief that it will be sung of as a golden age in aeons of chaos, this child will pluck a sword from a stone and halt the children of Hengist in their march from sea to sea. You will know him when he comes, although many men will turn their faces away from his glory. The Trine will bring him to you, and everything that Vortigern has wrought out of superstition and ambition will be cast out of the land. You will curse this day, because Vortigern will not learn from my words. The regicide will perish, as will every trace of his treasonous blood, and only his crimes will stain this land and his memory.’