Stones of Power 02 - Last Sword of Power Read Free Page B

his banner broken. I believe Odin sent that dream; it is a promise for the future.'
    'It will be many years before we are as strong again.'
    'I am a patient man, my friend.'
*
    The Blood King slowly dismounted, handing the reins of his war-horse to a silent squire. All around him the bodies of the slain lay where they had fallen, under a lowering sky and a dark cloud of storm crows waiting to feast.
    Uther removed his bronze helm, allowing the breeze to cool his face. He was tired now, more tired than he would allow any man to see.
    'You are wounded, sire,' said Victorinus, approaching through the gloom, his dark eyes narrowed in concern at the sight of the blood seeping from the gash in the King's arm.
    'It is nothing. How many men did we lose?'
    'The stretcher-bearers are still out, sire, and the surgeon is too busy to count. I would say around eight hundred, but it might be less.'
    'Or more?'
    'We are harrying the enemy to the coast. Will you change your mind about not burning their ships?'
    'No. Without ships they cannot retreat. It would cost near a legion to destroy their army utterly, and I do not have five thousand men to spare.'
    'Let me bind your arm, sire.'
    'Stop fussing over me, man! The wound is sealed - well, almost. Look at them,' said the King, pointing to the field between the stream and the lake and the hundreds of bodies lying twisted in death. 'They came for plunder. Now the crows will feast on their eyes. And will the survivors learn? Will they say. "Avoid the realm of the Blood King?" No, they will return in their thousands. What is it about this land that draws them?'
    'I do not know, sire, but as long as they come we will kill them,' said Victorinus.
    'Always loyal, my friend. Do you know what today is?'
    'Of course, my lord. It is the Day of the King.'
    Uther chuckled. 'The Day of the Two Suns. Had I known then that a quarter-century of war would follow . . .' He lapsed into silence.
    Victorinus removed his plumed helm, allowing his white hair to flow free in the evening breeze.
    'But you always conquer, my lord. You are a legend from Camulodunum to Rome, from Tingis to Bysantium: the Blood King who has never known defeat. Come, your tent is ready. I will pour you some wine.'

    The King's tent had been pitched on the high ground overlooking the battlefield. Inside a brazier of coals was glowing beside the cot-bed. Uther's squire, Baldric, helped him out of his chain-mail, his breastplate and his greaves, and the King sank gratefully to the cot.
    Today I feel my age,' he said.
    'You should not fight where the battle is thickest. A chance arrow, a lucky blow ..." Victorinus shrugged. 'We . . . Britain . . . could not stand without you.' He passed the King a goblet of watered wine and Uther sat up and drank deeply.
    'Baldric!'
    'Yes, my lord.'
    'Clean the Sword - and be careful now, for it is sharper than sin.'
    Baldric smiled and lifted the great Sword of Cunobelin, carrying it from the tent. Victorinus waited until the lad had gone, then pulled up a canvas stool and sat beside the monarch.
    'You are tired, Uther. Leave the Trinovante uprising to Gwalchmai and me. Now that the Goths have been crushed, the tribes will offer little resistance.'
    'I will be fine after a night's sleep. You fuss over me like an old woman!'
    Victorinus grinned and shook his head and the King lay back and closed his eyes. The older man sat unmoving, staring at the face of his monarch -the flaming red hair and the silver blond beard -
    and remembered the youth who crossed the borders of Hell to rescue his country. The hair was henna-dyed now and the eyes seemed older than time.
    For twenty-five years this man had achieved the impossible, holding back the tide of barbarian invaders threatening to engulf the Land of Mist. Only Uther and the Sword of Power stood between the light of civilization and the darkness of the hordes. Victorinus was pure-blood Roman, but he had fought alongside Uther for a quarter of a century, putting