For King and Country

Chapter Five

Stirling came awake slowly. The final thought he'd taken down into darkness with him was still reverberating through his mind. Let it all have been some terrible nightmare...

Unhappily, the scents and sounds and unfamiliar sensations coming from his immediate surroundings bore nothing in common with anything in the twenty-first century.

No such luck, then. It was entirely too real.

Stirling opened his eyes, to find that he lay sprawled across a fur bag of straw, which he vaguely remembered from a weltering confusion of images connected more or less solidly with his abrupt arrival in the sixth century. Someone had draped another fur across his body as a blanket. His dreams had been a hellish mixture of scenes: horseback combat, men in rough woolen tunics and padded leather armor dying from swords thrust through their bellies and throats; Belfast in flames, Orange terror squads shooting down women and children; the flash of heavy spears, a horde of blue-tattooed men swarming across a fallen rider, the crimson splash of blood across a muddy field, across a battered desktop, across pavements in Clonard...

He blinked away the disturbing images and studied the room, instead. It was well constructed and larger than he'd expected, some three by four meters. The ceiling was whitewashed plaster, stained with smoke and soot from pottery oil lamps, several of which hung from hooks in the corners of the room. The wicks had been trimmed low, sending a soft golden light through the room. The floor was utilitarian, made of simple stone flagging, although the stones had been shaped with skill and well mortared. The walls were plaster over stone, with murals of hunting scenes painted on them.

The style reminded him of Roman wall paintings, which surprised him. There were no Roman remains of this type anywhere near the Scottish Lowlands, not that Stirling had ever heard of, anyway. Plenty of small forts and watchtowers, in a line roughly paralleling Antonine's Wall and the Gask Ridge, with another line of them down along Hadrian's Wall in the border counties, but nothing like a villa with murals of this quality. Where exactly was he, then?

He was still puzzling it over when Ancelotis' part of his dual awareness woke up and tried to come to terms with the invader inside his skull. After one reflexive attempt to shout for help, Ancelotis and Stirling reached honorable compromise: they declared a truce in the interest of learning how to walk again. Trying to walk, with two fiercely competitive minds in the driver's seat—each of them utterly and ruthlessly determined to take charge of their shared body—landed them flat on the floor within two steps. They landed hard, jarring every bone against a floor that was startlingly warm under their shared skin.

Both of them swore aloud and creatively, with the curses breaking out in a mixture of Brythonic Welsh and modern English. Stirling rigidly ordered himself to stop thinking in his own native language. He couldn't afford to lapse into English when anyone else was around. Cedric Banning would find him faster, true, bringing him an ally, but Brenna McEgan would hear, as well. He'd certainly change history if Ancelotis was, in fact, the person Stirling's gibbering terror thought he might be, and McEgan and her unknown host slid a dagger through his ribs because of Stirling's carelessness.

I am in over my head, Stirling realized despairingly.

Explain why, Ancelotis' voice demanded abruptly, shocking Stirling half witless with the first clearly articulated words Stirling had been able to understand. Why would this McEgan want to murder the brother of a dead king of Gododdin? McEgan, that's a foul, Irish clan name, is it not? Are you some Druid's soul from the Otherworld, sent to warn and guard me from the Irish threatening our western coast? You're too late for my brother's life, if you've come to warn of us against the Picts. They've had him under their knives and war clubs already, and nearly the Dux Bellorum and myself with him.

Uh... Sprawled on a sixth-century stone floor, it seemed as good an explanation as any he might offer. Close enough, he thought carefully back at his host. I'm afraid I don't know anything about Picts and I'm sorry about your brother. I've lost a great-uncle to war and most of my comrades-in-arms, as well. The pain of his lost command, blown apart in Clonard, was a sickness in his gut.

It was not, perhaps, anything like losing one's brother, evidently right in front of his host's eyes, given the memory images bursting into Stirling's awareness, but it was enough to convey understanding of the loss—and a deep understanding of battle, as well. The images in Stirling's memory, of the entire city block in Clonard, Belfast, erupting into flame with whole buildings falling into ruin, was enough to stun Ancelotis silent, awed and horrified.

And this is the manner of war you fight? Enough flame and brimstone to cause even the bishop of Rome to flinch in dismay? May Afallach and his nine daughters of the Underworld preserve us, then, if Christ cannot, for we've nothing to stop that sort of death in our midst.

Stirling wanted to reassure his host that such death could not be reproduced in the sixth century by one man, working alone, but he could produce no such reassurance. It was a simple enough fact that he himself could have produced a crude but perfectly serviceable black powder, difficult to do if one didn't know the proper proportions, relative child's play if one did—and Sterling most assuredly did. And he would have bet several cases of Bibles that Brenna McEgan did, as well. And all it needed for a bomb was a containment vessel to hold the black powder.

A wooden keg or common crockery wine jug would suffice, since one didn't need to worry about building up sufficient pressure to launch a projectile, as one would need for a gun or a far simpler mortar or cannon. And the earliest of those, after all, had been made from church bells. Stirling was fairly certain that even Britain, as cut off from Rome as it must have been for the past hundred or so years, could supply a good-sized bronze bell.

I won't lie to you, he admitted. There's a great deal of destruction she could wreak on you and yours. Brenna McEgan must be found and stopped. She's an Irish terrorist. That is, she murders for political gain. It's my job to find and stop her. I suspect, he added grimly, that it's the Dux Bellorum she'll try to kill. I can't think of another reason for her to have chosen this particular time and place.

After a long moment, during which Stirling could literally feel Ancelotis thinking rapidly, another carefully verbalized question came back. And how will you find her?

I don't know, Stirling was forced to admit. She'll be hiding in someone's mind, just as I am borrowing yours. Dreadfully sorry, but I couldn't think of any other way to stop her. After a moment's further consideration, he added, There's another man who's come, a learned man who will help us, if we can identify him without risking your life. Unfortunately, I could easily do just that by accidentally exposing my presence in McEgan's company. Banning is his name, Cedric Banning. My own is Trevor Stirling. I was born not far from here, he added hopefully. Close to the city we call Stirling, where my ancestors have lived for generations.

An unexpected chuckle startled him as Ancelotis took the memory images from Stirling's portion of their shared mind and recognized the landmarks. Stirling, is it? There is truth in your mind, Stirling of Stirling. Truth is a powerful force, great enough to overcome even the barriers between worlds. It's Caer-Iudeu, we call it. Artorius was raised on that mountain I see in your memory, with that remarkable fortress you've built atop the cliff. We Britons should build half so well. Alas, the Romans departed with our finest engineers nearly a century ago. Artorius was, thank whichever God you prefer to worship, brought north for fostering, out of the short-lived kingdoms at the heart of the dragon lands of the south.

Dragon lands of the south? Stirling echoed, confused. Do you mean, actual dragons? He had a brief, doubtless impossible vision of a surviving tyrannosaur or two stalking the southern coast of England, although come to think of it, weren't the tyrannosaurs American beasties?

Oh, aye, Ancelotis agreed. The dragon lands. Old places of power, that's what the Druids have always said, even the ones who kissed the ring of the Roman bishop and turned their oaken groves into oaken churches and chaste nunneries and kept up the old teachings in the dead of night under a darkened moon.

It's the dragon lines I mean, of course, that run from Cerniw—the name translated to Cornwall, in Stirling's mind—and St. Michael's Mount, they call it now, up through Hurlers and Trethevy Quoit, twining their way along the northern route up through Brigit's Tor and Silbury Hill, Avebury, and Barbury, and along the southern route of Cerne Abbas and Stonehenge, meeting the northern line at the great white horse of Uffington that gallops its way toward Bury St. Edmund and the Norfolk coast.

The sun sets the dragon lines afire each year at Lammas and at Beltane, rising poised atop the terminus at the coast northeast of Caer-Lundein, sets them ablaze with all its own wild energy that races from tor to mound to henge. The Druids say the fire runs along the old stone roads and the standing circles, that focus and feed the wild, splashing flood into the pools of rocky cairns and the wheels of the standing stones, to be stored up for the balance of the year.

Stirling blinked in surprise, superimposing a map of southern England over Ancelotis' description and coming up with a long, snaking line of prehistoric ruins under the national trust, a line that did, indeed, cut a path from Cornwall to Norfolk through some very interesting real estate, looking at it from the viewpoint of a sixth-century Druid.

Druid, I? Ancelotis chuckled. I'm no teacher nor poet nor yet a prophet, although I've served often enough as judge when the disputes arise in Caer-Iudeu, which is my charge.

All right, Stirling agreed, more than willing to accept his host's opinion on the matter. So Emrys Myrddin brought Artorius north for safety's sake while the southern kingdoms went to hell in their own merry way? Leaving Artorius to rise to power in Ambrosius Aurelianus' footsteps?

Aye, you've the right of it. It was Ambrosius Aurelianus, last of the Roman commanders in Britain, who taught even Uthyr Pendragon a thing or two about war. Had Artorius and Lot and I not learned the art of war from Aurelianus himself, chasing us up and down that mountain in your mind, there would be no Britain left for the Britons, save a shallow ditch to be buried in. How else think you we've held the Picts and Irish and Saxons at bay, along with the Jutland Danes and their Frisian Anglish cousins?

Even as Ancelotis spoke, a grim and empty hollowness opened up in his heart, as the man's grief and self-blame welled up. The memory image of a tall and heavy-muscled man being torn from a mortally wounded horse played out again and again behind Ancelotis' closed eyelids, along with the sudden, wounded scream of the horse, the long topple to the ground, the swarm of Picts like blue-painted carrion flies clubbing and stabbing until what remained little resembled a human form.

Ancelotis clenched his jaw so tightly, his molars ached. They cut him down before my very eyes, before anyone could reach him or drive them back. I've a wild debt of blood to pay, Stirling of Caer-Iudeu, but once I have avenged my brother and king, once I have assured a safe transition of power for Lot Luwddoc's throne, then will I help you. We will hunt your Irish murderess together—and stop her.

Stirling was so grateful for the unexpected offer of alliance, he didn't know what to say. Ancelotis merely chuckled and suggested they get on with the business at hand—reaching the privy pot against the far wall. Stirling grunted once, then dragged himself off the floor and learned how to walk again, mostly by letting Ancelotis take over the driving, so to speak. It got them to the pot, at any rate. And men of the sixth century a.d. pissed in a pot the same way men of the twenty-first century did, leaning with one hand against the wall and taking reasonable care to aim. It was vaguely reassuring that they could aim, under the circumstances.

He wondered who'd stripped off his clothing, since he was bare-arse naked, except for thick gold armbands which circled his wrists and the ornate ends of a thin gold torque, which rested in the hollow of his throat. The room was surprisingly warm, the flooring actually toasty beneath his feet. Ancelotis chuckled at his puzzlement.

Have you no central heating where you come from? The whole fortress is heated, of course, with steam pipes beneath the floors to carry the warmth from the firepits. There's not a fortress or villa from Gododdin to Strathclyde that hasn't a good central heating system. It's too cold here, of a winter, to build without one. That much, at least, the Romans left for us when they pulled out their legions and engineers.

The smaller camps and watchtowers aren't heated, of course, which is one reason we rotate duty frequently, particularly during bad weather. Wouldn't be fair to subject the border guards to a whole winter in unheated towers and fortlets. And those glen-blocking forts are just as cold and unpleasant a duty station, up in the passes through the Highlands.

It made good sense, although Stirling could foresee trouble, if the enemy across the invisible border with Pictland ever figured out the timing of the relief columns. That was not, however, his concern and he'd no business meddling in the internal military affairs of the Briton commanders. So he stumbled back to the bed, a wooden frame with ropes supporting the fur bag he'd spent the night on, and sat down to drag his clothes on. Stirling wanted a bath, but Ancelotis conveyed a sense of considerable urgency in the journey which Stirling's arrival had interrupted. Getting dressed involved learning what sixth-century garments consisted of, and in what order he was meant to don them.

He pulled on loose-fitting woolen trousers over a linen undergarment more like a union suit than any other modern equivalent. The trousers—secured at the waist with a narrow leather belt which sported a metalwork buckle of finely wrought silver in a looping, quintessentially Celtic style—were boldly woven in a red-and-blue checkered pattern. Short lengths of leather cordage puzzled him until Ancelotis explained that they were meant to cinch the loose trouser cuffs around his ankles, thus keeping anything unpleasant from crawling up one's legs.

Before tying off the trouser cuffs, Stirling reached for a close-fitting linen tunic dyed a rich blue, over which went a long woolen tunic, in bright shades of reds, oranges, greens, and blues, the garish precursors of Scots tartan. The effect of plaid tunic and checked trousers offended Stirling's admittedly Philistine aesthetic sense. The thought prompted a grin, however, as mercifully there was no mirror in evidence to check the gaudy result. The quality of the cloth was surprisingly high, considering the century of invasions Briton kingdoms had endured following the collapse of Roman government. He wondered what further surprises the sixth century would hold?

Light footsteps caught his attention as he picked up thick leather boots. A tap sounded at his door, which opened on silent leather hinges. Stirling wasn't sure whom he expected, but it wasn't the startlingly beautiful girl who slipped inside, at first glance no more than half grown, but at second glance perhaps as much as a very young seventeen or eighteen. Eyes the color of deep blue ice gazed at him in wide concern. Copper hair streamed over one shoulder in a cascade that stopped his breath.

Her gown, of a far more attractive style than he'd expected, clinging delightfully to her more than delightful curves, was cinched around an impossibly tiny waist by a belt apparently made from solid gold links. The woolen gown had been dyed a blue as striking as her eyes. Jewels glittered at her wrists and ears. A heavy woolen cloak, startling in shades of crimson-and-green plaid and lined with soft white fur, hung from her shoulders, held closed across her breasts by a jeweled chain.

"You're awake at last!" she breathed.

Belatedly, he noticed the golden circlet at her throat. Torque of royalty... Was this woman his—or rather, Ancelotis'—wife? Ancelotis' reply growled through his confusion. She's no wife of mine, a fact she forgets far too frequently. Her identity, reaching him from Ancelotis' memories, burst into Stirling's awareness with cold horror. Ohshit, ohshit, ohshit... He stood up hastily, which was a mistake, given his poor coordination. He stumbled off balance and the girl gasped, darting forward to steady him.

"I'm no child!" he snapped, pulling free and wondering for a bad moment if he'd spoken in Brythonic Welsh or English. She froze, eyes wide. The beginnings of fear—and anger—began to spark in those lovely pale eyes.

While Stirling scrubbed at his face, trying to dredge up some kind of response, Ancelotis simply muttered, "Forgive my short temper, it's that damned potion of Morgana's."

For a long, hazardous moment, she said nothing at all; then the danger passed and she relaxed, although she remained standing far too close for his peace of mind. "Aye," she nodded. "Belike. Druids' potions have left me dizzy a time or two."

He glanced curiously into her eyes, wondering about that. No sense in asking, however; that could be even more disastrous than snapping at her had been. "I am all right, truly," he tried to reassure her.

"What happened?"

He shook his head, neither of them able to come up with an explanation that sounded even remotely plausible. "It doesn't matter. I'm fine now."

Her glance remained wary, but she didn't press the issue. Just how much did a Briton woman argue with her menfolk? Ancelotis didn't answer him, instead speaking with a firmness that bordered on the grim.

"Thank you for making certain I'm all right, but you had better go."

She glared at the door with a flash of defiance, then her shoulders drooped, as though her cloak—or some other burden—were far too heavy. "Aye. It wouldn't do to stir trouble just now. The council met while you slept," she added, eyes flashing with some strong emotion Stirling couldn't interpret. "Summoned by Artorius from the capital."

"And did the councillors take a vote while I slept?" he asked, voice on edge for a reason Stirling didn't quite understand.

Her ice-pale eyes glinted. "They did. You're wanted in the great hall."

"In that case," Ancelotis said coolly, "you had best not be here when they come to fetch me."

Her eyes flashed, rebellious again, but she subsided without further verbal protest. She did take one worried step forward—Stirling was pretty sure it was worry that prompted it—and checked abruptly at some tiny signal he hadn't realized he'd telegraphed until too late. She caught back a sob—of rage or frustration or grief, he had no idea. Then she whirled aside and snatched at the door, peering carefully into the corridor before slipping away with a rustle of woolen skirts. Stirling discovered an unmanly tremor in his knees and an even more disturbing response at his groin.

This was worse than riot duty in Clonard.

Ancelotis muttered, A man may leave a city of his free will, if life there displeases him, but a woman like Ganhumara will plague a man to the grave, stirring trouble wherever she sets foot. And she but a girl scarce grown to womanhood.

That, Stirling thought grimly, was doubtless the best reason for avoiding female entanglements he'd ever heard. He sat back down to tug on his boots, scrubbed his face for a long moment, and thought seriously of finding a very deep and icy lake to jump into. He was still wrapping ankle laces around his trouser cuffs when the door opened again, the knock so peremptory as to be nonexistent.

"Ancelotis! You're looking much better!"

Stirling found himself facing a man in his mid-thirties, perhaps a little older. His face had been deeply weathered by sun and worry and the harshness of battle. There was an odd, out-of-place look about his features, better suited to the wilds of Persia than the Lowlands of Scotland. He wasn't tall, but only a fool would've made the mistake of calling him a small man. Stocky, athletic under a tunic and loose trousers of cut and quality comparable to the ones Stirling wore, his hands were scarred and calloused. His nose had been broken at least once and his stance communicated instant readiness to fight. It was not belligerence. Stirling had seen that look of hair-trigger readiness before, in the faces of soldiers in a combat zone. This was a man accustomed to war. And command. And victory.

A golden torque, much smaller than the one Stirling wore, narrower even than the copper-haired girl's, glittered at the man's throat. High rank, then, but not quite royalty. A red dragon, hand-embroidered by some skilled needlewoman, blazed scarlet on the breast of his tunic, giving Stirling the final clue he needed, confirmed by Ancelotis.

Artorius.

Dux Bellorum of the People of the Red Dragon.

He didn't even know how to address this man. The word "sire" froze in the back of his throat. Artorius wasn't a king. That didn't stop Stirling from thinking dazedly, My God, it's King Arthur in person... .

Artorius was staring at him rather oddly. "You are all right, Ancelotis?"

He managed a nod. "Aye. It's that blasted potion." He winced at using the same lame excuse, but Artorius merely grunted.

"You'll need a clear head by week's end, man. The council's voted. I sent for them the moment you collapsed. They're in full agreement and Queen Morgana gives you her full backing."

Stirling had not the faintest idea what Artorius was talking about, but his host's reaction gave him an unpleasant clue. Ancelotis blanched, groping for the bed and sinking onto it before his knees gave way.

"She's refused it, hasn't she?"

"You cannot be surprised by that."

Ancelotis ran a distracted hand through his hair, a movement that startled Trevor Stirling, who still wasn't accustomed to having his body respond to commands he hadn't given. "No," Ancelotis agreed with a sigh. "It doesn't surprise me. If anything, I respect her the more for it. They've given it to me, have they? Until Gwalchmai is of age?"

"They have. I fear the formal ceremony must be kept far briefer than you might wish."

Ancelotis snorted. "I would wish for none at all to be needed. It was never my intent to rule Gododdin—or anything else, save my warhorse and a cavalry unit or two. That was Lot's desire, never my own."

Artorius' weathered face betrayed the depth of his concern in a whole series of deepened gullies through cheeks and brow. "This cannot be easy for you, old friend, nor is what I must ask now. I came to Caer-Iudeu because I had great need of both you and your brother in this matter of the Saxon challenge. This trouble has not diminished simply because the mantle of kingship has fallen onto your shoulders. I must ask it, Ancelotis, for the good of Britain. Don't return to Trapain Law yet."

"But—"

"Gododdin may be as far from the troubles of the south as it is possible to go in Briton territory, but if we allow Cutha and his machinations free reign while you look to Gododdin's internal affairs, you will wake one morning all too soon to find Cutha and his ilk massing on your border, not Glastenning's. Covianna Nim brought the demands from Cutha of Sussex and his puppet Creoda of Wessex, at the request of the abbot of Glastenning Tor. They are pushing, Ancelotis, and pushing hard. Glastenning is not yet theirs, yet already their eyes have turned north to Rheged—and if Rheged falls, my friend, there is no kingdom of the north that will be able to stand against them."

Ancelotis scrubbed his brow wearily with both hands, listening and cursing under his breath at every new piece of unpleasant news. "The kings of Dumnonia and Glastenning have asked your help?"

"They have. There must be a council of the kings of the north, to answer this Saxon challenge, to act in support of the kings of the south. Come with me to Caerleul, Ancelotis. Morgana rides with us to speak for Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw."

"And Ganhumara will speak for Caer-Guendoleu?"

Irritation flickered through Artorius' eyes. "She will. Would that God had granted her father another few years of life."

"And you wonder why I have never married?"

"No longer," Artorius shot back dryly. "Do yourself a favor, old friend, and marry a cowherd's daughter—queens of the blood have too much ambition and pride to make a man happy."

He held the Dux Bellorum's gaze for a long moment. "I grieve to hear you say it. Very well, Artorius, I will ride to Caerleul and speak for Gododdin in council. Does King Aelle of Sussex send his youngest son to us alone? Or does Cutha travel with company as pleasant and reasonable as that vile and odious mercenary he calls father? You had no real opportunity to give us details yesterday, with the fighting and Lot's death."

"No, Cutha of Sussex does not ride alone. God help us all, he's bringing Creoda with him. And it's Prince Creoda who's demanding a place in Rheged's council. You know only too well what that means."

Ancelotis swore with impressive Brythonic creativity.

Artorius grunted agreement. "King Aelle sits on his self-crowned throne and laughs at fools like Creoda, bootlicking dogs, he and his father both, styling themselves Saxons to hold onto lands they should have fought to protect. Gewisse, their own allies call them, and with good reason. His scheming grows ever bolder, Ancelotis, which is why I must speak to the kings of the north in council, without delay. Damn Creoda and his fool of a father, Cerdic, for selling their Saxon paymasters the rights they hold as Briton kings, to join our privy councils. 'They only wish to parlay,' was the message brought north by Covianna Nim."

Artorius growled, striking his open palm with a fist. "May the gods of our ancestors help us, for it is better—at least for now—that we talk when they offer it, than bleed for lack of trying." Artorius paced the room, an enraged dragon caged in far too small a space. "King Aelle is a crafty bastard, I'll give him that much, and Cutha is a right and proper twig off his branch. They supported Cerdic's bid for power and won him the thrones of Caer-Guinntguic and Caer-Celemion and Ynys Weith, and now they've turned that gain into a Saxon-controlled fiefdom with a stinking Saxon name. Wessex!"

Artorius spat disgustedly. "West Sussex, there's what that name really means, for you, and that name is our greatest danger, Ancelotis. Briton kings toppled by Briton traitors anxious for a taste of power for themselves and their by-blows of whores, too blinded by greed to see the price their Saxon masters will demand. Five years!" he snarled. "Five years, Creoda and his bastard of a father have strutted themselves under Saxon patronage, demanding treaties of alliance to secure guarantees they won't attack, and what have the kings of the south done about it? Nothing! While Aelle the mercenary grows fat and rich on land stolen from Briton widows and orphaned babes! God curse that fool, Vortigern, for hiring Saxon foederati fifty years ago!"

"Yes," Ancelotis agreed darkly, "Vortigern was as big a fool as Cerdic and Creoda, and the damned Saxons have been arriving by the shipload ever since." As Ancelotis spoke, Stirling was frantically casting back through his history lessons, trying to recall when the Kingdom of Wessex had been established, somewhere about the year 495, he thought. Which meant he'd landed more or less precisely on target. This ought to be the year of the historic battle of Mons Badonicus, Artorius' wildly famous twelfth battle.

Well, some scholars thought Mount Badon had been fought in the year a.d. 500, anyway. Others put it as many as twenty, thirty years later, and who in hell was to know, at this late remove, which piecemeal shattered records might hold the slightly larger grains of truth, never mind anything approaching genuine accuracy? All that could be said with certainty was that Artorius' victory at Badon Hill had driven the Saxons to their knees for nearly forty years, uniting Britons from the Scottish border to the southern tip of Cornwall.

Ensuring Artorius' defeat at Mount Badon could do a lot of damage. Enough to destroy a world. His world, Stirling's twenty-first-century one, with its billions of ordinary, innocent men, women, and kids, families watching the telly and taking a tea-time stroll through a world they naively believed to be safe.

The trouble was, no one, not even the scholars and archaeologists, knew where "Badon Hill" was supposed to be, which made Stirling's job trying to protect Artorius from being killed there a bit trickier. And Artorius was still pacing.

"We daren't show weakness before Cutha, old friend," he growled, pinning Ancelotis' eyes with a cold, hard look of anger. "Creoda may be a fool, but Cutha is another breed altogether. Aelle sends his son to us as spy, more than emissary, with Prince Creoda as means to a Saxon end." Steel-grey eyes glinted. "He'll challenge us to a test of arms, I have no doubt of that. Exhibition games with a darker purpose. Your brother's death will at least give us an excuse to stall them for a bit. We can declare traditional funerary games in his honor, even at Caerleul, to pay respect. King Meirchion Gul of Rheged will not stint Lot's memory, for Queen Thaney's sake, if for no other reason."

Ancelotis winced inwardly. "Thaney, surely, has not forgiven her father?"

Artorius grinned. "You know your niece better than anyone, Ancelotis. To my somewhat shaky knowledge, she has not forgotten any more than she's forgiven, but she remembers all too clearly the debt she owes you and Morgana, for helping her escape Lot's anger. Besides, the matter of paying proper tribute to her father's memory touches her honor as princess of Gododdin and queen of Rheged. And Thaney," Artorius chuckled a trifle grimly, "is a creature of honor, which you know only too well."

Ancelotis snorted. "That she is. All right, I won't worry about Thaney."

"Good. The funerary games will give us both the delaying tactic and excuse we'll need to gather all the kings of the north for council. It will also give us the opportunity to meet the challenge Cutha will inevitably deliver in the manner which best suits us. Fortunately," a nasty smile flashed into existence, "the Saxons are infantrymen. They ride horses only to reach the battlefield. They cannot match our heavy Roman cavalry, eh?"

Stirling bit back sudden panic.

He'd never been on a horse in his life.

Artorius frowned. "You're still pale, old friend. Would to God you could rest and recover your strength, but there simply isn't time. It's a long ride to Caerleul, if we hope to arrive before Cutha and his gewissan fool, Creoda. Damn, but it's a hellishly bad time for Lot to've gone riding after Pictish raiders! And the women, bless their good intentions, will slow us even further."

"Women?" Stirling blurted before Ancelotis could curb his tongue.

"Aye," Artorius nodded glumly. "Covianna Nim, who brought the news and insisted on riding with me to fetch Lot. Ganhumara, who would not hear of Covianna riding alone with me and demanded the right to accompany us. It's no fit time for Ganhumara to set foot outside the garrison at Caerleul, rail as she will about her status as battle queen in her own right. But she will throw her royal blood into the argument and, as queen of Guendoleu, I cannot ignore her demands, as I might a lesser wife's."

Artorius sighed, with the look of a man hard pressed to maintain peace on the home front, even as Stirling tried to take in the notion of that slender girl leading warriors into battle.

"And Morgana, of course," Artorius added, "will be riding with us. She must give her vote as queen of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw." Stirling nodded, worried that the real delay wouldn't be the women and not daring to admit it out loud. Artorius rested a hand on his shoulder. "Can you ride, Ancelotis?"

"I'll manage," Stirling growled, tugging uneasily at the gold torque around his neck. It wouldn't do for not-yet-crowned King Ancelotis to develop a sudden nervousness of travel by horseback. He sighed. He'd have to work doubly hard to make sure King Ancelotis didn't sprawl onto his royal backside in the dust, trying.

The ceremony was a brief one, startling in its sixth-century simplicity. It took place in a large room that clearly served as the principium, or headquarters building, of the fortress atop Stirling Cliff. There were no murals, here, just cracked plaster over well-shaped stones roughly the size of bricks. The floors were simple stone flagging, once again joined with skill. Oil lamps burned bright, hanging from the soot-streaked ceiling, resting in iron lamp stands along the walls, cheering up the heartlessly plain room with flickers of golden light across ceiling and walls. The room was big enough to have served as officers' mess, war room, and dance hall, with large tables of rough-hewn wood and enough chairs to accommodate a meeting of a hundred, without any difficulty.

And there were enough men in the room to have filled every one of those chairs, all of them waiting for his arrival. Ancelotis was greeted informally by a rousing cheer from the men of his command and formally by one group of twelve, all of them older men with grey in their hair, who served Gododdin as a senior council of advisors. Among them was a Christian priest, distinguishable by his long, monkish robes, which were nevertheless of good quality, and by the cross he wore, an ornate and beautiful Celtic cross of exquisite workmanship. He was holding a gold torque that Ancelotis, at least, recognized as having been his older brother's.

"Ancelotis," the priest greeted him solemnly, "because time is of the essence, do you swear before Christ to uphold the laws of Gododdin and protect her from all threats until your nephew is of age to rule in your stead?"

"I swear it," Ancelotis replied, voice hushed with grief.

"Wear the royal torque of the kings of Gododdin then, and pass it on to Gwalchmai when the time is ready."

Ancelotis pulled off the torque he had worn all his adult life, then bent his head, for the priest was shorter than he. Lot Luwddoc's royal torque was far heavier around his neck, with a weight of more than poured and beaten gold. Queen Morgana, grey eyes brilliant with unshed tears, kissed each of his cheeks by turn and it was done. In a moment of brilliance or madness, Stirling wasn't sure which, Ancelotis turned to Morgana's nephew Medraut, who had watched the proceedings with shadowed, hurt eyes and a neck bare of any adornment.

His mother had been executed, leaving him with uncertain status in their carefully measured world. Ancelotis gave the boy his own, princely-rank torque. "I make you the holder of my honor, Medraut. Guard my own torque as you would guard the welfare of your family, and remind me that I am king only to save Gododdin for the sons of Morgana and Lot Luwddoc."

The boy's eyes widened, glowing with the shock of unexpected honor as Ancelotis placed the golden ring around the boy's neck. Morgana, watching from the side, allowed the tears to fall unheeded, as Medraut was transformed from an awkward boy, uncertain of his welcome and place, to a young man with purpose and the respect of his elders.

"I will not fail you, Ancelotis!" the boy swore, gripping Ancelotis' proffered hand and forearm in a tight grip.

The watching councillors of Gododdin, momentarily startled by the move, began to nod as they saw the wisdom of the thing, binding Morgana's nephew—until now an unknown factor in the politics of the north—firmly to the new king.

"Councillors of Gododdin," Ancelotis said quietly, "I thank you for the faith you've placed in my trust. Please take my brother's body home and see to it he is buried with all honors. Nothing but the safety of the realm could tear me away at such a time, but the Saxon threat must be met and countered."

The councillors bowed, murmuring assent and understanding. Then it was done and Ancelotis went striding across the hall, determined to leave as quickly as possible. The sun was just rising above the hills to the east, toward the distant Firth of Forth, when he and Stirling emerged from the Roman fortress of Caer-Iudeu with Artorius on their shared heels. Not that Ancelotis could actually see the sun. Heavy violet smudges of cloud, thick with unshed rain, raced overhead, casting a deep gloom over the fortress walls, the sprawling rooftops of the town below the cliff, and the forested mountains beyond.

Caer-Iudeu was larger than a fort, which generally covered a mere one to four hectares of ground, but was considerably smaller than a twenty-hectare fortress. The wall enclosing it ran along all four sides, studded with wooden watchtowers every few meters. Long, narrow stone barracks followed the classic Roman camp pattern, roofed in overlapping sandstone shingles, heavier and more permanent than clay tiles and the Romans' favorite roofing material for these northern forts. Workshops and granaries were visible, as well, along the neatly ordered streets inside the fortress walls. The fortress was a beautifully maintained symbol of organized military power, one that must have an ongoing, deep psychological impact on the Pictish tribes to the north.

Judging from the position of the sun, the chill in the air, and the canopy of blazing crimson and gold amongst the trees down at the foot of the cliff—many of them already winter-bare—he'd arrived in late autumn, always a raw season in Scotland. The forests were a startling change from the bleak hillsides Stirling was used to seeing from this vantage point, high on the cliff of Stirling Castle—which would not exist for more than a full millennium. He curled his lips slightly at memory of the modern Scotsman's bitter, private joke about his wild, open hillsides, so popular with tourists.

The Scots lived in the wettest desert on the face of the earth, a landscape of low scrub and heather, kept deforested by high populations of sheep and large herds of deer. The sheep and the deer were carefully maintained by the landed nobility—many of them English—for their enjoyment in the kingly sport of hunting. Even native Scots landowners found it lucrative to maintain large deer herds, the better to earn money from enthusiastic tourists who came for the hunting. The dour hills weren't good for much else, really, besides growing timber, and money could be had far more quickly from sportsmen than from a stand of trees that took decades to mature.

Stirling had forgotten that the wilds of Scotland had once worn a thick mantle of virgin forest, filled with eerie shadows, drifting fog, and white-water cataracts roaring down through untamed glens. Early morning sunlight spilled through occasional rents in the clouds, striking the ancient trees with golden fanbursts. The forest had been cleared a good hundred yards from the outer stones of the Roman wall around the town, providing a wide perimeter of open ground across which an attacking army would have to charge, exposing themselves to fire from the defending fortress.

A full hundred horsemen of the Briton cataphracti waited, already mounted on massive animals that must have been the direct ancestors of medieval chargers. They greeted him with a great shout that sent the rooks flapping in alarm from nearby trees. The men were beating the flats of their swords against their shields. Ancelotis returned the salute even as Stirling's first real shock detonated behind their shared eyes. The faces of a startling number of those cavalrymen bore distinctly Oriental features—and the ones who weren't Asiatic still looked Middle Eastern, Iranian, perhaps. They looked for all the world like a band of the Great Khan's hordesmen—or refugees from Darius' Persian army—lifted out of Central Asia by a playful godling and dropped in the hills of Scotland.

He stared at the Asiatic horsemen, trying without much success to figure out where the devil they'd come from. Ancelotis' silent answer struck him with the strength of a thunderclap: Sarmatians! Memory stirred even as the impact of the word detonated. Sarmatian auxiliarymen... Thousands of the wild horsemen, Sarmatians and Alanians from the Hungarian plains to the steppes of Russia and even as far away as Central Asian Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan, had joined the Roman legions as auxiliary forces, mainly in the cataphracti—and the cataphracti was Artorius' strongest weapon, giving him a winning edge over Saxon invaders, an edge slated to last for more than fifty years, all told. There must have been thousands of Sarmatians stationed in Roman Britain, along Hadrian's and the Antonine Wall.

Aye, Ancelotis said with a hint of amusement in his thoughts, fifteen thousand Sarmatians in all, the records say, were sent by Rome to patrol the border. A fair number of them decided Britain suited them better than Italy, so they stayed when the legions left a hundred years ago. Stayed and married the Briton girls who'd captured their wild hearts.

Stirling was speechless. Among the best cavalrymen of the ancient world, the Sarmatians had held their own against Scythians, Persians, Germanic tribes, Gauls, Parthians in the deserts of the Middle East, and Carthaginians in Northern Africa. Over the millennium and a half separating Stirling's time from this one, the Sarmatian blood of the men who'd elected to remain in Britain must have been diluted until virtually no trace of Asiatic features remained in the gene pool.

But in a.d. 500, barely a century had passed since the departure of the legions—and a century was not nearly enough time to dilute the bloodlines of several thousand Asiatic warriors. He caught glimpses of battle pennons and shields bearing what must have been Sarmatian symbols, since only those men with Asian features carried them. Most of their spears were topped with bronze dragon heads, to which cloth banners had been tied, fluttering like windsocks, mouths wide open, with tails that ended in streamers flying wild as their Asiatic owners. And the symbols painted on their shields... A sword plunged into a stone was shocking in this context and left him wondering about the connection of that particular image with Arthurian lore.

Artorius, the Dux Bellorum who commanded the Sarmatian cataphracti...

Ancelotis said silently, When Artorius was still a young lad, not yet turned seventeen, but already showing signs of promise as a shrewd and successful war leader, he persuaded the Sarmatians of Gododdin to finally give up their pagan gods and follow Christian ways. They began referring to him as the man who pulled the Sarmatian sword from its sacred stone, a true war leader who replaced their centuries-old tribal icon with a new god and new ways of worshiping. They also say he's the only mortal man ever born worthy to drain their sacred cup of heaven, like enough to Christ's grail, it wasn't so difficult for them to switch their allegiance to Artorius' new god. It didn't hurt, of course, that Uthyr Pendragon was one of their own...

Stirling blinked. No wonder Artorius looked more Eurasian than Briton.

Oh, aye, Ancelotis agreed, he's one of them, right enough, and they know it. They would dare things in battle under Artorius' direction they wouldn't even consider, when my brother, King Lot, was giving the orders. These men will follow Artorius anywhere and gladly die for him, if they must. In their eyes, he is more of a king than I will ever be, more than the Dux Bellorum of the Britons, far more than just their commander. They have given him their sacred souls for safekeeping. And he has never betrayed that trust.

Nor would he ever betray it, Stirling realized numbly. Arthur, tribal "king" of the Sarmatian cataphracti of Britain... The far-reaching implications shook him, even while explaining the astonishing persistence of the sword-in-the-stone tale.

He shook himself slightly, focusing his attention on the men themselves. The cavalrymen wore an assortment of gear as widely varied as their genetic heritages. Most sported iron helmets, either of Roman design—looking something like a metallic baseball cap worn backwards, with protective metal cheekpieces—or a Celtic adaptation with conical iron points jutting upward and to the rear like metallic goats' horns. Many of the helmets, whatever style they might be, sported masses of feathers designed to make the wearer seem taller and more fierce.

All the men of the cataphracti wore close-fitting woolen trousers in wild checks and plaids, bloused and tied at the ankles over leather boots. Some wore wild-animal skins, others linen or leather tunics beneath Roman scale or ring-mail armor which glittered dangerously in the early sunlight, but most of them wore the scale armor that was a hallmark of Sarmatian heavy cavalry and had been for hundreds of years, going back several centuries before Christ even.

They were armed with a bewildering array of Saxon war axes, single- and triple-bladed spears with typically Celtic ironwork points, which were long and heavy, with concave edges. He also saw heavy Roman cavalry broadswords plus lances and javelins, even short Sarmatian bows and quivers full of bristling arrows. Iron-studded wooden shields—long, slightly dished ovals—were painted in bright colors, with a confusing mix of Christian and pagan symbols. Many of the weapons were heavily decorated with silver inlay, particularly sword and dagger hilts. The better a man's armor, he noted with a narrow-eyed glance, the more ornate his weaponry; but all of it was lethally functional. No ceremonial nonsense anywhere in sight.

Most of the horses wore at least minimally armored leather harnesses with circular metal bosses, which were spaced at regular intervals, wrought of iron and bronze. A fair number wore heavy coats of the same Sarmatian scale armor as their riders. Saddles were cinched tightly over fringed saddlecloths, many of them wildly patterned to match their owners' trousers. The saddles themselves were oddly horned affairs with four jutting projections that cradled a man's leg front and back. Weapons, water bags, and other equipment hung from leather cords slung around the saddles' four horns.

The detail that caught his eye almost instantly, however, was the presence of solid iron stirrups. Surprise caught him again—and Ancelotis chuckled once more. A grand invention of our Sarmatian cataphracti, eh? The Saxons were as shocked as you to see stirrups the first time we rode them down. He added with justifiable pride—and a dark sense of wasted lives and effort—Had the Roman legionary commanders understood cavalry as well as we Britons, they might not have lost an empire.

Stirling couldn't argue that. Roman generals had been notorious in their poor understanding of the proper uses of cavalry. Clearly, Artorius and Ancelotis and their Sarmatians had not made the same error.

Stirling was distracted by the sight of the beautiful copper-haired girl with the fur-lined cloak who had paid him a secret visit. She had already mounted a smaller horse, more suited to her petite frame than the massive horses of the armored cataphracti. Palfrey, they would call the smaller riding animal in later centuries. She sat easily in the saddle, however, clearly accustomed to riding astride. She looked very nearly as competent in the saddle as the armed warriors of their escort and she'd slung a smaller version of a war sword at her hip.

"Ganhumara." Artorius gave a curt nod to the lady as he accepted his own armor and helm, donning them with help from a standard bearer. Artorius' golden standard had clearly been modeled after the legionary eagles. For a legionary soldier, the eagle had been his personal "household" god and protector. The dragon standard was a brilliant ploy, echoing centuries of Roman military symbology, yet portraying a uniquely Briton symbol of nationhood.

A second rider carried another dragon standard, this one with distinctly Sarmatian alterations. The head of this second dragon was gold, as well, with silver throat and fangs. And fastened to it, exactly like those on the Sarmatian spears, was a blood-red dragon, its cloth body rippling like an angry, living beast in the stiff wind. The streamers of its tail would be visible even in the midst of battle, Stirling realized, providing a rallying point even easier to spot than the solid gold shape of the other standard.

Servants assisted Artorius into a Roman officer's burnished cuirass, ornate enough to have been worn by a victorious general during a triumph. Artorius settled onto his head a Celtic-style iron helm, covered with gold leaf and topped by a rampant dragon, clearly a Sarmatian symbol. He belted on sword and dagger and slung a crimson cloak of thick wool around his shoulders, pinning it with a heavy gold cloak pin of a style variously attributed to Celts and Vikings, then he vaulted easily into the saddle despite the weight of his armor.

His mount, a gleaming white stallion as big as a house, arched its neck and blew impatiently, pawing at the cold ground and rolling a wild, dark eye. Artorius checked the massive animal with a sharp word and a tightening of reins before accepting a long spear from the standard bearer. The bearer then mounted and took up position on Artorius' left flank, his gold-dragon standard glinting with burnished highlights in the cold sunlight.

Another servant brought up Ancelotis' armor, while others emerged from the fortress, carrying what must have been Artorius'—or Ancelotis'—personal baggage. Or maybe Ganhumara's. The heavy satchels and cases were strapped to pack animals while Stirling wrestled with unfamiliar fittings on Ancelotis' armor. The Briton king's personal armor was also of Roman design, nearly as ornate as Artorius', and must have been a well-preserved century old, at the very minimum. Unless there were still trade routes open to the Continent? Stirling didn't know enough to hazard a guess and Ancelotis wasn't saying.

Ancelotis' helm, unlike Artorius', followed the design of very late Roman cavalry. Burnished gold over the strong iron beneath, it formed a metal mask that completely enclosed his head, like an iron skullcap with cheekpieces that hinged around to cradle cheek and chin in metal. A thick blade of gold-covered iron projected above his brows, protecting eyes and to some extent nose from a glancing sword blow. He could smell dried sweat inside it, from many previous wearings as he settled it over his head.

His valet handed Stirling a thick woolen cloak of his own, dyed a brilliant scarlet-and-blue plaid, held closed across one shoulder with another circular cloak pin. His was decorated with chased dragon patterns and apparently made of solid silver. The artistry he'd already glimpsed in clothing and metalwork surprised Stirling—he'd expected such artifacts to be far more primitive. A modern man's prejudice, he realized, founded on nothing more than arrogance, when this culture was a direct heir of Roman civilization.

Morgana and Medraut appeared from the fortress a moment later, the latter carrying a heavy satchel of ornately decorated leather which he strapped to Morgana's saddle. Servants brought other satchels and bags, which they tied to pack animals. Morgana floated effortlessly into the saddle, despite the weight of a heavy, fur-lined cloak similar to Ganhumara's. Stirling gulped, realizing he would have to get onto his own horse before he could figure out how to ride it, and blessed the unknown Sarmatian who'd brought cavalry stirrups to the Scottish border country. Another woman Stirling vaguely recalled seeing from the night of his collapse appeared, blonde hair plaited neatly down her back, slim and beautiful in white woolen robes and a heavy cloak of dark fur. She, too, had a heavy satchel, which she strapped to her saddle.

The Dux Bellorum watched her mount, then spoke to Ganhumara, his voice nearly as cold as the wind. "We have a hard ride ahead, to reach Caerleul before Cutha and Creoda. We will ride by forced march, to the detriment of your comfort. I did warn you," he added. "It's no pleasure jaunt we're about, but preparation for war."

She lifted a shapely copper brow and said coolly, "I am as fine a rider as you, husband, and a battle queen in my own right, if not so skilled with a sword."

Steel-cold eyes glinted beneath glowering brows. "It is not your skill with saddle or sword which concerns me," Artorius growled. "Your stamina is not my equal, wife, and after the delay we've already had, to treat Ancelotis' illness, I will slow our pace for nothing and no one. If you cannot keep up, I will leave armsmen as an escort and ride on without you. Ancelotis, we dare delay no longer."

Only one beast remained riderless, clearly belonging to Ancelotis. Like Artorius' horse, his was a stallion, a dappled grey so massive, it must have been a direct ancestor of Percheron draft horses. He had to look up just to see the horse's back. Roman heavy cavalry was no joke. Stirling fumbled with his own sword belt and attempted to vault into the saddle, copying Artorius. Even with the assistance of the stirrup, his armor weighed so much, he stalled halfway up, lost his balance, and promptly landed in the dust, making a fine, disheveled heap under his horse's startled hooves. That damned Roman cuirass, solid armor plate formed of a single, thick slab of metal, skillfully forged to fit the human torso, gouged him in multiple, painful places.

He spat curses and glared at Morgana, trying rather desperately to shift blame to the potion she'd given him, while Ancelotis' scorn ricocheted off the insides of his skull. It's not my fault, Stirling growled at his host. A man doesn't have to ride a horse to learn how to lay down suppressing fire with an MP5 submachine gun. While Ancelotis tried to puzzle out his meaning, Stirling regained his feet and straightened his cloak, tugging at his armor and trying to recover his dignity. Morgana, far from upset at the implied criticism, merely urged her horse alongside his and reached down to test his pulse.

"The lingering effects of the medicine will be gone in a few hours," she murmured.

Artorius glanced worriedly into her eyes. "He must needs make haste with the rest of us, sister. You know the danger from these Saxons as well as I. Do what you can for his illness, along the way."

"Of course."

Stirling tried again, face flaming. He blanked his mind this time and let Ancelotis' muscles do the work—and astonished himself by making it onto the horse's back in one try. The saddle made for an awkward seat. He gripped with both thighs, grateful for even the minimal security offered by those odd, projecting saddle horns, and shoved his feet more securely into the stirrups, doing his utmost not to slide off again. The Dux Bellorum put heels to his horse's gleaming flanks and the entire body of Romanized cavalry broke into a fast canter. The red dragon battle pennon crackled like living flames in the rising light of morning and the burnished golden dragon standard floated high above their heads.

Stirling jerked in the saddle, caught off guard when his horse followed the others without any apparent signal from him. He grabbed at the mane with one hand, nearly unseated by the abrupt start. He ignored stares from the other riders, particularly the men of the cataphracti, who cast worried glances at him every few moments.

Stirling set his teeth and set himself the task of learning how to ride.