M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon Read Free

basilisk stare.
    ‘Be gone, fool!’ the old woman ordered. Then, by mischance or the goddess’s will, the protesting warrior’s boot slipped on the slick forehead of the sculpture and he almost fell. On one knee, he spat a curse at the old woman, but she was not yet done with him.
    ‘Carrion will feed on you before three years have passed. Long will your wife search for your corpse, for the Saxons will feed you to their dogs when they finally hunt you down.’
    Somewhere in the crowd, a woman wailed in a terrified voice that was high and shrill.
    ‘Cry, widows. Beg the Mother to save you if you will, but you have slain her favourite, the Child of the Dragon, and she now turns her face away from you.’
    The crone spun to face the cluster of warriors who surrounded their fallen brother and they could see that her eyes were filled with madness – or that she was possessed by the goddess. Superstition stilled the hands that had crept towards sword hilts and dried the saliva in their mouths. The eagerness for killing died in their eyes.
    ‘When King Artor breathed his last, the Celtic kingdoms started to die. Nothing will save you now, not your wide lands, your fair Melandra, your warrior’s swords or the strength of your arms. When you swore allegiance to the Matricide, you poisoned your own blood, and when you raised your swords against your brothers you damned your children to be slaves. The Saxons will devour you in the night, and no magical cup endures that can save you.’
    More women began to weep and wail as they were caught up in the hysteria of the crowd. Warriors who had been at Deva, or had seen the Dragon King’s insane charge across the ford, remembered how it felt to be a traitor, until their cheeks were stained with shame.
    ‘No man is innocent.’ The witch woman’s voice was a whisper, but every person in the crowded, dirty marketplace heard all four words. The silence was absolute as the seer’s message sank into their bones. No excuses would be accepted.
    ‘Tell your children and your grandchildren, those of you who survive in the wild, high places in the bloody years to come. Do not forget the names of the heroes. Do not forget Modred, the Matricide, and what was done that bloody day when the Celts began their march towards death. You followed a man so crazed by vile ambition that he poisoned his own mother by stealth. And you knew it! You heard the rumours that damned the Matricide for ever – but he promised plunder, broad lands and power so you drowned your honour in the spoiled waters of greed. Warn your children that treachery breeds blood that must be paid before the darkness comes, and perhaps, if she believes you, the Mother will permit some children to survive for the Dragon’s sake. But remember, when the Great Darkness comes and you forsake your heritage and your ancient lands, that the gods will not be mocked, or bargained with, or tempted. You must find some last rags of glory out of your betrayal if any of you are to survive the night that is coming.’
    Then, as if the effort of speech had sucked the last blood from her veins, the old woman folded and fell, like a pile of old rags and threadbare furs. When one of the women dared to approach the prone figure, she discovered that the old hermit had breathed her last.
    Her feet were scabbed and bloody from the long roads she had travelled, while her hollowed belly spoke of starvation and the travails she had undergone. Her flinty eyes had rolled up into her skull and only the whites could be seen between the swollen red eyelids. Her mouth was almost toothless and her flaccid breasts had surely never been young. Now that the Holy Spirit had deserted her, after having chosen her frail shell to bear the curse and the warning, she was a pathetic old woman once more.
    Perhaps the Brigante might still be forgiven for raising their swords against the might of King Artor. Or perhaps they had not earned a moment’s safety in the twilight