But that, he thought, would mark him out for awe and power. Knowing what he did, he could work mightily, not as conqueror but as uniter, teacher, healer, and lawgiver. He might, perhaps, lay a foundation that would stand strong against the evil Storm was to bring.
This was his fate. He could only take it.
He looked at his few people, the seeds of what would come. “Will you help me?” he asked.
“Yes,” Auri said, with her voice and her being.
21
And the years flew past, until again there was a day when rain grew into fog and the warriors from the west came in its cloak, up the Limfjord to Avildaro.
He whom they called Lynx stood in the galley’s bow: a man older than most, grey of hair and beard, but still hardly less hale than the four big sons beside him. All were armed and armoured in shining bronze. They peered at the shoreline, sliding vague in the fading vaporous light, until the father said, “Here is our landing.”
The eagerness of his sixteen years beat through the tone of Hawk, Ann’s child, as he relayed the order. Oars ceased to splash and creak. The stone anchor went overboard. Men stirred down the length of the ship, their battle gear clanked, they sprang from the benches into cold shoulder-deep water. The skinboats of their flint-weaponed allies grounded and were drawn ashore.
“Keep them still,” said Lynx. “We must not be heard.”
The captain nodded, “Belay that noise, you,” he commanded his sailors. Iberians like him, dark hook-nosed round-heads, smaller and more slender than the fair tribesfolk of Britain, they needed every restraint that could be laid on them. Even he, a civilized man who had often been in Egypt and Crete, had had some trouble understanding that this was to be no piratical raid.
“I have gathered enough tin and fur to pay for your voyage ten times over,” the chief named Lynx had told him. “All is yours if you will help. But we fare against a witch who wields lightnings. Though I can do likewise, will your men be too frightened? Moreover, we go not to plunder, but to set my kindred free. Will you and yours be content with my wages?”
The captain swore so, by Her Whom he worshipped as did these powerful barbarians. And he was honest when he did. There was that about the blue eyes confronting him which bespoke a majesty like nothing less than the Minos of the South.
Nonetheless—Well, Lockridge thought, we’ll just have to play her as she lies. Which is a liberation. Tonight I break free of destiny.
Not that the time in England was ever bad. On the contrary. I’ve had a better, happier, more useful life than any I dared dream of.
He made his way aft. Auri stood by the cabin under the poop. Their other children, three girls and a boy too young to fight, waited with her. They’d been lucky in that respect also: a certain dolmen sheltered only one tiny form. Indeed the gods loved her.
Tall, full of figure, the hair that fell past her Cretan gown little less bright than in girlhood, she looked at her man with no more than a glimmer of tears. A quarter century in which she must be his right hand had brought forth greatness. “Farewell, my dearest,” she said.
“Not for long. As soon as we’ve won, you can come home.”
“You gave me my home, beyond the sea. If you should fall—”
“Then return, for their sakes.” He caressed the children, one by one. “Rule Westhaven as we did before. The folk will rejoice.” He forced a smile. “But I shall not be harmed.”
“It will be strange,” she said slowly, “to see our young selves go by. I wish you could be with me then.”
“Will the sight hurt you?”
“No. I will give them our love, that pair, and be glad for what they have ahead of them.”
She alone had come to understand what had happened with time. To the rest of the Tenil Orugaray, that was a disquieting magic which they gave as little thought as possible. True, it had brought them to a good country, and they were grateful; but let Lynx bear the burden of sorcery, he was the king.
Lockridge and Auri kissed each other and he left her.
Wading to land, he found himself surrounded by his men. A few were Avildaro born, infants when they fled. The rest came from half of Britain.
That had been his work. He had not gone back to East Anglia, lest rumours of him cross the water and wait for Storm Darroway. Instead, he led his company into that beautiful land which would later be named Cornwall. There they ploughed and sowed, hunted and fished, loved and sacrificed, in the old carefree manner; but piece by piece, he taught them how much they could gain from the tin mines and from trade, he recruited new members from the restless tribes around, he brought in new ways of life and work, until Westhaven was known from Skara Brae to Memphis as a rich and mighty realm. And meanwhile he made alliance—with the axemakers of Langdale Pike, the settlers along the Thames, even the dour downland farmers, whom he persuaded that manslaughter was not pleasing to the gods. Now today they spoke of erecting a great temple on Salisbury Plain, as the sign and seal of their confederation. And so he could leave them; and a hundred hunters he could pick, from the many who asked to come, for his battle in the east.
“Form ranks,” he ordered. “Forward.”
Northerner and Southerner alike, they fell into the formation he had drilled and moved toward Avildaro.
Walking through the dank greyness, where only footfalls and the wail of curlews broke silence, he felt his throat gone tight and his heart wild. Storm, Storm, he thought, I’m comin’ home to you.
Twenty-five years had not blurred her in his mind. Grown lean and wolf-grey, with the troubles and joys of a generation between him and her, he still remembered black tresses, green eyes, amber skin, a mouth that had once dwelt on his. Step by reluctant step, he had come to know his weird. The North must be saved from her. The human race must be. Without Brann, she could drive her Wardens to victory. And neither Warden nor Ranger must prevail. They had to wear each other down, until what was good in both stood forth above the wreck of what was evil and the world of John and Mary could take shape.
Yet he was not really Lynx, the wise and invincible. He was only Malcolm Lockridge, who had loved Storm Darroway. The fight was hard to hold fast to Auri, and to the fact that he was going against the Koriach.
Hawk slipped back from his scouting. “I saw few about in the village, Father,” he said. “None looked like Yuthoaz, as near as I can tell from what you’ve related of them. The chariot people’s watchfires are dim in this mist, and most lie bundled up from the cold.”
“Good.” Lockridge was glad of action. “We’ll divide the bands now, each to its own part of the meadows.” Their commanders came to him and he gave close instructions. One after the next, the groups vanished into the dusk, until he was left with a score. He numbered their bullhide shields and sharp edges of flint, raised his arm and told them: “Ours is the hardest task. We go to meet the witch herself. I swear again that my magic is as strong as hers. But let any leave who fear to witness our strife.”
“Long have you led us, and ever we found you right,” rumbled a hillman. “I stand by my oath.” A fierce whisper of agreement ran around the circle.
“Then follow.”
They found a path toward the sacred grove. When combat got going, Storm and her attendants at the Long House should come this way.
Shouts lifted through cloudiness.
Lockridge stopped by the dripping trees. Noise grew and grew on his right: horns and horses neighed, men whooped and screeched, bows twanged, wheels groaned, axes began to thunder.