Free Ghost King by David Gemmell Page A

Victorinus glanced up. There was no sky, only a thick grey cloud hovering at the height of the stones.
    'Why are they not attacking?' asked the Roman. Gwalchmai shrugged. From beyond the stones came a sibilant, whispering voice.
    'Come forth, Gwalchmai. Come forth! Your father is here.' A figure appeared at the edge of the mist, a bearded man with a blue tattoo on both cheeks. 'Come to me, my son!' Gwalchmai half-rose, but Victorinus grabbed his arm. Gwalchmai's eyes were glazed; Victorinus struck him savagely across the cheek, but the Briton did not react. Then the voice came -gain.
    'Victorinus . . . your mother waits.' And a slender white-robed woman stood alongside the man.
    An anguished groan broke from Victorinus' lips and he released his hold on Gwalchmai, who scrambled down the altar. Prasamaccus, understanding none of this, pushed himself to his feet and sent an arrow into the head of Gwalchmai's father. In an instant all was changed. The image of the man disappeared to be replaced by the monstrous figure of an Atrol, tearing at the shaft in its cheek. Gwalchmai stopped, the spell broken. The image of Victorinus' mother faded back into the mist.
    'Well done, bowman!' said Victorinus. 'Get back here, Gwal!'
    As the tribesman turned to obey the mist cleared, and there at the edge of the stones were a dozen huge wolves standing almost as tall as ponies.
    'Mother of Mithras!' exclaimed Prasamaccus.
    Gwalchmai sprinted for the stones as the wolves raced into the circle. He leapt, reaching for Victorinus' outstretched hand. The Roman grabbed him and hauled him up, just ahead of the lead wolf whose jaws snapped shut bare inches from Gwalchmai's trailing leg.
    Prasamaccus shot the beast in the throat and it fell back. A second wolf leapt to the altar, scrabbling for purchase, but Victorinus kicked it savagely and it pitched to the ground. The wolves were all around them now, snarling and snapping. The three men backed to the centre of the altar. Prasamaccus sent two shafts into the milling beasts, but the rest ignored their wounded comrades. With only three shafts left, Prasamaccus refrained from loosing any more arrows.
    'I don't like to sound pessimistic,' said Gwalchmai, 'but I'd appreciate any Roman suggestions at this point.'
    A wolf jumped and cleared the rock screen around the men. Gwalchmai's sword rammed home alongside Prasamaccus' arrow.
    Suddenly the ground below began to tremble and the stones shifted. Gwalchmai almost fell, but recovered his balance in time to see Victorinus slip from the shelter. The tribesman hurled himself across the altar, seizing the Roman's robe and dragging him to safety. The wolves also cowered back as the tremor continued. Lightning flashed within the circle and a huge wolf reared up, his flesh transparent, his awesome bone structure revealed. As the lightning passed the beast fell to earth and the stink of charred flesh filled the circle. Once more lightning seared into the wolves and three died. The rest fled beyond the stones into the relative sanctuary of the mist.
    A man appeared from within a glow of golden light beside the altar. He was tall and portly, a long black moustache flowing on to a short-cropped white beard. He wore a simple robe of purple velvet.
    'I would suggest you join me,' he said, 'for I fear I have almost used up my magic.'
    Victorinus leapt from the altar, followed by Gwalchmai. 'Hurry now, the Gate is closing.' But Prasamaccus, with his ruined leg, could not move at speed and the golden globe began to shrink. Gwalchmai followed the wizard through, but Victorinus ran back to aid the bowman. Breathing heavily, Prasamaccus hurled himself through the light. Victorinus hesitated. The glow was no bigger than a window, and shrinking fast as the wolves poured into the circle. A hand reached through the golden light, hauling the Roman clear. There was a sensation like ice searing hot flesh and Victorinus opened his eyes to see Gwalchmai still holding him by the robe . .