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Dragon lands of the south? Stirling echoed, confused. Do you mean, actual dragons? He had a brief, doubtless impossible vision of a surviving tyra
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 nu
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.