Free Stones of Power 01 - Ghost King by David Gemmell Page B

that Aurelius is dead.'
    'How?' asked Gwalchmai. 'Did someone else escape?'
    'He knows because I told him,' snapped Maedhlyn. That's why I am an Enchanter and not a cheese-maker, you ignorant moron.'
    Gwalchmai's anger flared. 'If you are such an Enchanter, then why is the king dead? Why did your powers not save him?'
    ‘I’ll not bandy words with you, mortal,' hissed Maedhlyn, looming over the tribesman. 'The king is dead because he did not listen, but the boy is alive because I led him clear. Where were you, King's Hound?'
    Gwalchmai's jaw dropped. Thuro?'
    'Is alive, no thanks to you. Now begone to the barracks.' Gwalchmai stumbled away and Victorinus approached the Enchanter.
    'I am grateful, my lord, for your aid. But you were wrong to berate Gwalchmai. I led him from Deicester; we believed the boy dead.'
    Maedhlyn waved his hand as if swatting a fly. 'Wrong, right! What does it matter? The clod made me angry; he was lucky I didn't turn him into a tree.'
    'If you had, my lord,' said Victorinus, with a hard smile, 'I'd have slit your throat.' He bowed and followed Gwalchmai towards the barracks.
    'And what is your part in this?' Maedhlyn asked Prasamaccus.
    'I was hunting deer. This has not been a good day for me.'

*
    Prasamaccus hobbled into the barrack square, having lost sight of the swifter men. Some children gathered to mock him, but he was used to this and ignored them. The buildings here were grand, but even Prasamaccus could tell where the old Roman constructions had been repaired or renovated; the craftsmanship was less skilled than the older work.
    The roads and alleyways were narrow and Prasamaccus passed through the barracks square and on to the Street of Merchants, pausing to stare into open-fronted shops and examine cloth, or pottery, and even weapons in a large corner building. A fat man wearing a leather apron approached him as he examined a curved hunting-bow.
    'A fine weapon,' said the man, smiling broadly. 'But not as fine as the one you are carrying. Are you looking to trade?'
    'No.'
    'I have bows that could outdistance yours by fifty paces. Good strong yew, well seasoned.'
    'Vamera is not for sale,' said Prasamaccus, 'though I could use some shafts.'
    'Five denarii each.'
    Prasamaccus nodded. It had been two years since he had seen money coin, and even then it had not been his. He smiled at the man and left the shop. The day was bright, the snow absent from the town, though still to be seen decorating the surrounding hills. Prasamaccus thought of his predicament. He was a hunter without a horse, and with only two arrows, in a land that was not his own. He had no coin and no hope of support. And he was hungry. He sighed, and wondered which of the Gods he had angered now. All his life people had told him the Gods did not like him. The injury to his leg was proof of that, they said. The only girl he had ever loved had died of the Red Plague. Not that Prasamaccus had ever told her of his love but even so, as soon as his affection materialised within him, she had been struck down. He turned his pale blue eyes to the heavens. He felt no anger at the Gods. How could he? It was not for him to question their likes and dislikes. But he felt it would be pleasant at least to know which of them held him in such low esteem.
    'What's wrong with your leg?' asked a small, fair-haired boy of around six years. 'A dragon breathed on it,' said Prasamaccus. 'Did it hurt?'
    'Oh yes. It still does when the weather turns wet.'
    'Did you kill the dragon?' 'With a single shaft from my magic bow.' 'Are they not covered with golden scales?' 'You know a great deal about dragons.' 'My father has killed hundreds. He says you can only strike them behind their long ears; there is a soft spot there that leads to the brain.'
    'Exactly right,' said Prasamaccus. "That's how I killed mine.'
    'With your magic bow.'
    'Yes. Would you like to touch it?' The boy's eyes sparkled and his small hand reached out to stroke the black, glossy