The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2) (4 page)

One of the women working the loom hissed and made a sign of protection while her companion picked up a knife and made to rise, but Octa was already on his feet.

'Witchcraft? You bring dark magic to my hearth?' He advanced towards the visitor, the long blade of his seax held before him, but as he got closer, he saw she was smiling.

'I bring no magic into your home, Lord Octa. A simple trick to confound an old dog. I apologise, I do not wish you, nor your kin, any insult or injury; I am at your mercy.' She bowed her head and spread her arms wide in formal supplicancy. 'The fact of the matter is that this evening, after travelling almost all of the day, I come to you tired and unprotected, seeking only to bring honour and victory to you and your people.' Octa lowered his blade and, after a moment, waved towards the fire, indicating that his visitor should sit, which she did with obvious relief, plainly exhausted from her journey.

'You are a guest in my village and in my home, and as such I welcome you, we were about to begin our meal, you will join us.' It was said as a statement of fact rather than an invitation. He signalled to the woman tending the fire and watched silently as first a bowl of steaming meal stew was offered and then a smaller bowl of warm apple wine was poured and set before his guest.

'I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Octa.' The woman sipped some of the fragrant brew and then placed the bowl in front of her. 'I am the Abbess Morgana. I lead a small group of sisters in the worship of our Lord at the Abbey at Holy Glastening. Are you familiar with our Abbey my Lord?'

Octa accepted his own bowl of stew and then nodded. 'Although I have not yet been there, we know of the Abbey, because…' - he waved his hands as he thought of the correct words - 'our… contacts… have told us that your King Uther is there dying, yes?' He fished out a piece of eel from the bowl and gnawed the meat from the central bone before tossing it towards the dog. The old hound lifted its head to glance towards the offering, but then went back to sleep, giving a low whining sigh, Octa shook his head.

'Until recently, King Uther was indeed a guest at our Abbey, in fact, he was under my personal care.' Morgana took another sip of the wine and then set her bowl down and smoothed her robe. 'Now, however, the King has risen. He was summoned by the Druids and has now returned to his warriors. As we sit here enjoying the heat of your hearth, he is preparing to lead the tribes against you and your men when you meet at Valerum.'

'How can a dying man lead troops? The reports that I received claimed that he was standing at the gates of the Shadowland, that his light was almost gone from this world… were those reports incorrect?'

'Your informant did not lie. The King has been gravely ill and had almost passed. I did not think there was anything else that could be done for him. His spirit had faded, he had not taken sustenance for many days, his body was weak and he was more than halfway towards death.'

'Yet he now walks and leads men to battle, this half dead King? Something is not right with this; your Druids have enchanted him with their spells.' Octa gazed into the flames of the fire. 'And why do you, a Briton, come to me with this news? Do you seek to profit some favour or plead with me? To perhaps gain some kind of promise that we will not raid your Abbey for its gold and silver or turn me from my task of making this a Saxon land?'

'There is no gold or silver at Glastening and I seek no favour from you, Lord Octa, I come offering you information and ask nothing from you in return. I know you have wergild, a debt of blood to collect from King Uther, he killed your uncle, Lord Horsa, when you were still a child and I have heard it said that you have long wished this debt paid. I bring you information, but I have my own reasons for doing this. I will have the King returned to my care before you kill him and you will help me accomplish this.' Taking a small clay bottle from her cloak, Morgana leant forward and held it out. Octa sat back and stared down at the flask for a moment before glancing up questioningly at his guest.

'There is a grove to the west of Valerum that is sacred to the Druids; your raiding parties will no doubt know of it. The King will rest there before he meets with you in battle, or perhaps after. I do not know which, but I have seen that he will be there.' Morgana waved a hand dismissively. 'Anyway, there is a pool in the grove into which you must tip this potion. It will only bring an affect upon King Uther.'

'You say you have seen he will be there? You have the gift?' Octa glanced across to the women working the loom; they had both stopped and were listening to the exchange. The elder of the two gave a barely perceptible nod, and Octa returned his attention to Morgana. He stared into her eyes for a moment and then, reaching out, he took the bottle. 'Let us hope he visits before the battle commences, this half dead King of yours is a bad omen… an evil omen. I care not for your motives in this, but we will treat him to your potion and may Loki choose to cast him down.' He smiled, studying his guest. 'You didn't start fluttering and crossing yourself at the mention of one of my Gods, yet you wear the black of the Christian priests and you have that,' he pointed to the simple wooden cross hanging from a cord around her neck. 'You are a strange one; you are not like the Christians who come to preach amongst my people.' He smiled and gestured towards the cross again. 'You are not a real follower of this nailed god are you? You, I sense are something more.'

Morgana's hand touched the cross and drew in a breath. 'I follow many teachings, Lord Octa. I find truths and messages come to those who will take the time to listen. Truth passes through many lips, through countless ears and are attributed to many Gods. Yes, I listen and pray to the one God of the Christians, I find it prudent in many ways, but I also listen and speak with the old Gods, for, more often than not, it is they who speak to me the loudest.' She drew back her sleeve to show an intricately inked design that covered her forearm, a serpent that wrapped around and around her arm in writhing coils, only to reappear again to bite its own tail.

Octa studied the serpent, admiring the artistry as Morgana twisted her arm, the snake seeming to move in the flickering firelight. 'I evoked the name of Loki earlier, and it seems that was not just some idle twist of my tongue, for is not your serpent the image of Midgardsormr, which is the seed of Loki? So, you follow the old Gods of my people too?'

Morgana nodded and covered her arm.

Octa smiled. 'Sometimes the Gods put things in our path as some kind of test, they play with us and make for us challenges, and then they drink their mead and ale while they wager against each other, laughing at us as we try to determine what they would have us do. You have brought me such a challenge and I feel their eyes upon us at this very moment seeing which way this game shall be played. You know that I cannot disappoint my Gods.'

 Chapter 4 
The Half Dead King

'The King has been wounded, he bleeds. Bear him from the battlefield lest this day of victory is wrought with the sorrow of his death.'

Uther heard the words amongst the screams and cries of battle, felt the pain, which was a sudden, bright, stabbing light through the fog of his understanding and could feel his lifeblood as it pumped wetly from his wounded neck in thick, sticky, throbbing beats.

Unable to move from still being strapped to his horse, and incapable of seeing properly thanks to the limitations of the helm that had, ultimately, saved him from a mortal blow, Uther Pendragon allowed others to guide him from the field. If anything, it was a release from a day where he had felt little more than a garlanded piece of meat, displayed like a stuffed swan on the Samhain feasting table. A day spent as a painted figurehead paraded up and down the battlefield as ranks of screaming warriors shouted and screeched their encouragement, which had almost, but not quite, covered the taunts and insults being hurled from the Saxon ranks just beyond, as they writhed and howled behind their own bristling wall of shields.

'Half-dead King,' those Saxons had called him, and he had felt it, half-dead and little more than half-alive. With his breath rasping loud in his ears, echoing and bouncing around his helm along with the jolting motion of his horse, he had wobbled and bounced behind the fluttering pennons and screaming figures of Sir Ector and the other senior tribesmen as they drove the men and women under their commands into a frenzy ready for battle. He had tried to focus on the warriors through the narrow field of vision offered by the helm, but his head was moving so much that it was hard to focus properly, so eventually he had closed his eyes and tried to find a better place.

He could imagine what was playing out around him amid the noise and chaos. He was aware that the warrior, Maude, rode to his right side, protecting him as best she could, shield raised; while Arthur and his priest, Joseph, had ridden behind them and Sir Ector and his men to the fore. Stones, mud, and fouler things had been the first objects to be hurled from the Saxon ranks to his right, banging and bouncing from the protective shield of Maude, while behind him he could hear the priest whimpering and wailing, complaining incessantly at the futility and injustice of a priest being upon the field of battle.

'I cannot preach to the heathen, nor can I call down the fire of God's justice upon them while we parade like this. It is a mockery of my station to be here; I am a man of God, not a fighter.' The wheedling voice had receded from Uther's hearing as the ranks of spearmen began to swarm forward, taunting both the Saxons and each other as the mead and ale continued to flow, and courage and daring rose to its peak level.

As the procession had turned at the end of the line and yet again made its way forward, the missiles rained upon them once more, along with laughter and mocking insults, which, in reality, Uther knew to be fact rather than insult, for he was indeed a half-dead King. If Uther Pendragon had still possessed just the smallest shred of his former dignity, then surely, it would have withered and died right there without the need for blade or arrow, upon the meadow outside the town of Valerum. Yet he did not die, and he felt no concern for the taunts, for any shred of dignity that he had once possessed had long since been flayed from his soul.

The day had been drawn-out and tiring as the shield walls had finally surged forward to meet and then clashed again and again men and women, faces contorted, screaming and howling at each other. Shields met with a clattering crash that shook the ground and then locked together as the straining warriors on both sides pushed and heaved against one another. Spears and swords stabbed between shields seeking an unprotected arm or leg, a wound that might break apart the opposing wall while axes arced over the top, to hack down upon shield and helm and skull. Blood had spilled and sprayed as warriors drove into a state of invincibility fought in a bloodlust until their humanity returned in a rush and both men and women felt the cold, hot kiss of metal then screamed and dropped away, finally alone in their agony. Many died quickly, while countless others, the less fortunate, continued to live. Their screams and cries of their distress and suffering added to the noise of battle as they collapsed to the cold mud and grass of the field, victims of the most terrible of wounds, trampled into the muck and blood beneath the feet of the battling horde.

Horsemen and chariots joined the throng, the shrieks and cries of both men and now horses filling the air until Uther had at once become deaf to it all, concentrating instead on the steady gasping of his own laboured breathing as he continued his desperate internal struggle to endure.

Given its freedom, his mind stepped back from the world of man and journeyed back to a time in his youth, to a time where he rode on the battlefield of Mount Badon, upon a war chariot with Samel, a friend now long since dead. It was while he was trying to remember where the little warrior had fallen, that a Saxon arrow had glanced across the cheek guard of his helm knocking his head to the side before slicing deeply across his neck. The searing pain had shocked him from his musing, to be enveloped once more in the stench and roar of battle. His horse was turning wildly in circles beneath him as he cried out, but the sound was lost amongst the cacophony of noise and madness around him.

'The King has been wounded.' His attention snapped back. He could now tell that the voice giving instruction was that of Maude, the warrior who had attached herself to him back at the camp. He felt her horse bounce against his, steadying it, and her face, creased with concern, loomed into his vision as she assessed the damage that the arrow had caused, pulling his head to the side to expose the wound. A cloth of some kind was pushed against him and held while Maude, and now another warrior tried to direct Uther's horse away from the battle.

'We have all but defeated the Saxons, King Uther.' Maude rode beside him, holding the cloth to his neck. 'It was as the Druids proclaimed, your presence has brought us a great victory, the Saxons are drawing back, they are leaving.'

The wound was a deep heavy throbbing that all but consumed him. He wondered if each beat of his heart was forcing more of his lifeblood to the surface to ooze from his body yet it mattered not a whit to him, he realised. His task had been completed; they could lay him down to die in peace now, and Arthur could reign in his stead without the imminent threat of a Saxon invasion. As the sounds of battle receded, Uther Pendragon tried to surrender his life and instead, sought a path to the Shadowland.

When next he became conscious, it wasn't the sounds of battle that greeted him, nor, to his immediate regret was it to the sights and sounds of the Shadowland, although it was only the realisation that he was still feeling some considerable pain that finally convinced him of this. His neck burned where the arrow had sliced him, but this he only added to the multitude of various pains and discomforts that were his to suffer. The light was hurting his eyes, so he closed them and drew a deep breath, it was rich, damp and earthy and felt good to his aching lungs. He drew another and listened to the sounds of rustling leaves, soft birdsong, and dripping water and slowly opened his eyes again. At first, his vision was blurred, and he could only register that it was overwhelmingly green in this place. Others were here; he could hear them moving softly only a few steps away.

'Drink.' His head was lifted and a cup placed to his lips. He gazed up into the face of Maude as she tended him and he tried to drink, but couldn't. He studied her, seeing her face dirty and blood splattered, still reflecting an overwhelming concern for him.

'What have we done to you, my Lord? Yet, still you endure.' He watched as a tear trickled down her cheek, carving a track through the blood and grime. 'Please Lord, you must try to drink. We are at the holy well, close to Prae Tor. You must drink, this is holy water… it will help to heal you.' She glanced up and began to back away as another figure bent down beside them.

'She is right, Uther, drink deeply, and all will be as it should be.' It was Merlyn, smiling happily as if his King was not laying amongst the fallen leaves of the forest, dying. 'It was as I foresaw, Uther. You brought us a great victory today. You gave our warriors courage when they saw you and the Saxon ranks were eventually broken. Even now they are running back towards the coast, and though I doubt they will leave our shores, they will, at least, remain within the East while Arthur is allowed time to mature and take the crown. You have won, Uther. You have done all we could ever ask of you… drink.'

And so Uther Pendragon drank the water.

'Come to me and gather around my sons.' Octa gestured for the boys to come, and they leapt up from where they had been busy playing in their corner. 'I shall tell you this night the story of the Sceadugenga, the ones they call the shadow-walkers and perhaps also find a story for you before you sleep.'

The boys ran to their father's fire and sat at his feet, always eager when he found time to speak to them and truly excited at the promise of a story. The old war hound, the boys' constant companion, also rose stiffly to its feet and moved hesitantly to join them, wagging its tail, aware that it was intruding on a forbidden part of the hall, yet brave enough to approach because its young masters were already there.

Octa opened his arms in invitation, and the youngest clambered up, beaming happily at the honour.

'You have heard of them before, and perhaps' – Octa's voice lowered to a whisper – 'perhaps, you have even been close to one yet never knew it.' The fire crackled, drawing the boys' attention, and the oldest placed another log on top of the embers before glancing up to his father to hear more.

'When a warrior has the ability to draw the shadows of the night about him like a cloak and walk unseen through the darkness, he is known amongst us as a Sceadugenga or shadow-walker. Among the Saxon people, the deeds of the shadow-walkers are legendary, for although every boy, and many of the girls too, are trained, almost from the moment they can walk, to hold a sword and spear, few amongst our people are ever chosen to become shadow-walkers.'

'I wish to train as a Sceadugenga, father, teach me,' said the oldest jumping to his feet.

'And me, and me, father, please,' came the chorus of requests from the others.

Octa smiled and motioned the boys to return to their places. 'It is not for me to call you, to train you in their ways. I promise you that I will make warriors of each of you. I will train you with the spear and with the sword, and when the time is right, I will stand proudly beside you in the shield wall, but it is only the shadow-walkers themselves who can take you to the side, if they see that you are worthy, and then train you in their ways.'

The boys exchanged glances, and silent pacts and oaths were exchanged to become Sceadugenga at any cost.

'When the volk, our people, gather around their hearths and fires to bask in the heat and watch the flames devour the logs, we listen to the tales of our poets and scops as they tell their stories of heroic adventure, mighty battles, and the games that the Gods play with us, but boys, we all know it is the tales of the Sceadugenga that we love to hear the most. So train with your spears, fight well with your swords, but if you wish to be a Sceadugenga, move with the softness of the breeze, the silence of smoke, for then you may be chosen to train with the Sceadugenga and become a walker within the shadows.'