Winter 394-5, The Danube Frontier


Midwinter on the Danube Frontier, and it was bitterly cold. Once, the river had flowed through the middle of Roman imperial lands, but the further shore had been surrendered to the marauding Goths over a century before. Although the Goths themselves had accepted Christianity and passed across the river, the further shore was still enemy territory – the Huns were there.


To guard against the possibility of enemy forces crossing, a line of forts had long been established along the southern and western banks of the river, and, although they were now badly garrisoned, with inexperienced troops, military discipline still prevailed. Sentries patrolled the walls, even in the middle of winter, and stared fearfully across the broad, slow river, into the darkness of the plains beyond. That day, visibility had been poor, due to low cloud and snow flurries, driven on a bitterly cold wind. But, as the sentries paced, they had certainly been able to hear something happening beyond the frontier, even though they were almost blinded by the falling snow.


For several hours earlier in the day, blood-chilling screams had come floating across to the Roman garrison. The sentries grimly wrapped their thick cloaks still tighter around themselves, hefted their weapons and continued to pace up and down. When the weather cleared, they looked out across the muddy banks, and across the wide, murky river, studded with floating chunks of ice and saw half a dozen black figures, hanging limply from stakes that had been driven into the hard ground. The officers of the garrison had been summoned up to the ramparts, shivered at both the temperature and the view, shrugged their shoulders, and then disappeared back to the warmth and conviviality of the mess. Before leaving, one of the Centurions had clapped a sentry on the back and tried to reassure him.


“What do you expect from the Huns? They’re complete barbarians – worse than savages. Heaven only knows why they do these things. Just keep an eye open, and make sure they don’t try and sneak across to do the same to us, eh!�


But as the night drew in, and the sentries were left almost alone in the freezing dark, the jocular words became less and less reassuring, and it became easier and easier to imagine that something was going on. Almost complete silence prevailed, even in the ramshackle little town that had grown up around the fort. The only noise came from the river, where the ice floes seemed to be grinding together, creaking and groaning. It also seemed as though the night was becoming colder and colder, colder in fact, than it had ever been. One of the soldiers turned to look out across the river, but the act almost seemed like something from a dream; bad memories, horrible memories began running through his head, before his eyes, images from long ago come back to haunt him, stronger than ever. He suddenly felt unable to stand, and had to fall to his knees, his spear and torch falling abruptly from his lifeless grip. Just enough time remained for him to see the other sentries’ torches flicker out, leaving him in darkness and then the darkness itself seemed to swallow him up.


It was in that winter that the Huns first crossed the Danube frontier, riding slowly across the now-frozen river, led by their shamans, in case the creatures sent ahead to prepare the way should come back. They would, of course, return many times, to take huge amounts of gold and silver from the cities of the empire in exchange for peace. In 450, Princess Honoria, sister of the Western Emperor, sent her ring to Atilla, King of the Huns, and he, claiming they were now betrothed, led his armies into Europe to claim the whole Roman Empire. The Huns were eventually defeated in Gaul by the great Roman general, Aëtius, but not before they had released an army of their shamans’ dark creatures to ease their path into Europe. And, of course, these creatures spread, leaving no marks, so it was said that some new plague had come out of the east, coming, eventually, all the way to the Western edges of the Empire.


………………………………………………………


September, 700 CE


It was well-known that the point of monasticism was to find a place in the wilderness, far from civilisation and its distractions from which to contemplate God. Thus, it was obvious that the place would not be easy to find; the party could trace its journey through Britain, from the largely Saxon south up through the Celtic north and west, where the search had begun in earnest, and then north of the Roman Walls. Eventually, though, they had found it; a small island, literally a stone’s throw from the mainland in places, in the channel between the mainland and the larger islands to the west. The monastery, they were told, was on the coast, looking south and west.


And so it had proved to be. Once they had waited until low tide and carefully taken the horses across, and once they had ridden down through the Pine forests, they were able to look out from the trees and there see the familiar shapes – a communal church with a group of small beehive-shaped cells around it, all made from pieces of the same rough grey stone. They camped down under the shelter of the trees and waited until morning.


On the part of the monks, the first sign that they were not wholly alone was the smoke from the fire. Drifting up in a long pale grey column from the tops of the trees, it contrasted clearly with the late summer sky. As night began to draw in, some of the sharper-eyed among the community thought they could make out the flickering orange glow of the flames coming from behind the tree line. As the night passed, not a few lay in their cells and wondered what the omen might portend.


The only man on the island who had not rushed to stare across at the mainland was its oldest resident, Brother Aidan, who had been a pillar of the community for as long as anyone could remember, but who was now bedridden. Even he, though, immediately began questioning the young Brother Mernoc, who was regularly sent to read to him.


“The Abbot should know better� was his only, laconic, comment on Mernoc’s excited description.


But Mernoc’s excitement that evening was as nothing compared to that of the next day when he came rushing into Aidan’s cell to share the latest, momentous development. Three men, two carrying tokens of peace, had come to the monastery, whereupon the third, clearly the leader, had demanded to see the Abbot.


“Father Abbot called us into the church and told us that the men in the woods were soldiers, as he had feared, and that they had travelled a long way seeking a treasure which they believe us to possess. They have threatened to take it by force if we don’t hand it over!�


Aidan said nothing, but only stirred slightly. Mernoc couldn’t contain himself.


“Didn’t you hear me, Brother? Were you asleep?�


“Yes, I heard you, boy. I was thinking. It’s something you should consider, instead of rushing around like a headless chicken the whole time.�


There was another moment’s silence.


“Tell me, boy. Have you ever heard the stories of Arthur?�


“Many years ago, Brother, yes. But since I came to the monastery…�


“I don’t want to hear about that. We don’t have time.� The older man’s tone was harsher, more abrupt that usual. “What about Merlin? Did you hear about him as well?�


Mernoc nodded.


“Good. You know, then, that at Camlann, at the Last Battle, Arthur and Mordred fought for supreme power?�


“Were you there?� Mernoc was awestruck.


“Of course not, fool. How old do you think I am? No, Merlin came here…�


“Merlin..?�


“Yes, Merlin. He came here after Camlann. Before the battle started, he cursed both Arthur and Mordred as fools for fighting each other as the Saxons swarmed across the land. When he found Arthur dying, Merlin repented of his anger, and used his power to send Arthur to Avalon. And when Arthur was gone, Merlin went to Mordred, trying to resurrect his plan to bring Britain together under one ruler, to bring back peace. But Mordred didn’t want to know. He drove Merlin away, put a price on his head. So Merlin cursed Mordred again, as not only a fool, but an ingrate and a traitor to his lord.


“Merlin travelled the land, trying to find someone who would listen, but Mordred’s hatred followed him wherever he went. Eventually, the effort became simply too much for him, and he retired here. He called it his crystal prison, a place shut off from the world, but full of light. A good place to think, he said, even though the rules said he couldn’t leave…�


“You knew Merlin..?�


“Yes, I knew him. But only in his last years, when he was extremely old. He wanted to make sure his idea didn’t die with him. His Magnum Opus, he called it; the Great Work. I wrote it down, to his dictation, and very boring I found it, too, fool that I was. But he always said it should be kept safe here until someone came who was worthy of carrying it through. If it couldn’t be kept here, he said to have it sent to Rome. It looks as though Merlin has been proved right, as usual.� He struggled to sit up. “The book is hidden behind that stone. Take it, and hide in the woods until they’re gone. “


“But… But…�


“But what? If they never knew you were here, they’ll never know you’ve gone, will they? I’m not going to tell them anything, and I doubt any of the others will have the chance. Now, go!�


Dropping to his knees, Merdoc feverishly pulled at the stone in the cell wall that Aidan had pointed to. Finally dragging it out, his fingers found a soft bundle in a cavity behind. Clutching it to his chest, he turned and ran. He didn’t stop until he had reached the woods, from which point of safety he watched as the soldiers, as they had threatened, entered the monastery and began to search, over the vocal protests of the Abbot and monks. And he watched as they found nothing, and, in a fit of petulance, razed the community to the ground. Afterwards, when he had been left alone on the island, he turned towards the mainland and began walking.

Toledo, al-Andalus (Spain)

The approach to the city had made it plain to Salazar that this was an old city, very old. Islamic architecture lay in a veneer across the Gothic work of his ancestors, which itself lay on top of Roman buildings. All in all, a very different place to what he was used to. This difference was heavily reinforced by the ululating call to prayer that sounded from the minarets which towered over him as he walked under the massive archway, through the gate, and into the city. Toledo was clearly far greater even than Narbonne, where he had spent some time, and Salazar stood and looked up and around him in wonder, ignoring the crowds which surged on either side of him. As he did so, the hood of his cloak slipped and fell back, revealing the distinctive tonsure which marked him out as a Christian cleric. In the northern mountains, where Christian kings still ruled, it guaranteed safe conduct as much as anything could, but here it only attracted attention. Under more than one puzzled gaze, Salazar pulled his hood back on his head and hurried on.

Eventually, Salazar found the entrance to the Wizarding quarter of the city, concealed in the market behind a rather shabby looking bath-house. Once through this final gate, he sighed with relief, and walked through an aromatic haze to a stall which sold vividly coloured spices.

“Excuse me,� he said to the merchant. “Where might I find the house of…� The end of the sentence trailed away. The man clearly couldn’t understand a word he was saying. He tried again using Greek, hoping he might be understood.

“Where might I find the house of Ibrahim the Healer?�

“On the Street of the Doctors. Third house down.� The man’s accent was thicker than mud, but at least they could comprehend each other. Salazar thanked him and moved on, edging his way through the crowds. Eventually, after stopping a further two times to ask where the Street of the Doctors was, Salazar found the house. Or rather he found a gateway, cut into a thick, high wall. The gate itself was of some hard, dark wood, old and solid. He knocked twice and waited several minutes before the gate swung open.

A boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen looked him up and down, taking in his gaunt face, dusty robes and tonsure (the hood had slipped again) before beckoning him inside. The inner courtyard, around which the house of Ibrahim the Healer had been built was a revelation, an oasis of calm compared to the bustling street outside. Green plants filled the space, in the middle of which was a fountain. The smell of vegetation was heavy in the cool, damp air, and reminded Salazar of the forests to the north. He was shown to a cloister that ran around the outside of the courtyard – cool grey stone behind long, slim pillars which supported elegantly pointed arches – and invited him to sit on a stone bench. The boy left and Salazar relaxed, enjoying the little courtyard garden immensely.

Eventually, he realised that he was being watched. Again, a watchful pair of eyes took him in, but these, Salazar saw, had far more behind them than the servant boy. A powerful man. But one who none the less inclined his head politely.

“Salaam aleikum. What ails you?� Although the first words were the traditional Arabic greeting, the rest of the softly-spoken sentence was Latin, albeit with a faint lisping accent. Salazar started.

“I…er…there is a plague in the villages where I come from.� Ibrahim gave him a calm, measured look.

“And how far away are these villages?�

“I travelled a week to get here. From the Frankish marches, near Barcelona.�

“And yet you seem to have no symptoms..?�

“No, no, no… I don’t have this plague. It kills almost immediately, usually during the night, and leaves no marks on the bodies.�

“That does not sound like any plague of which I have ever heard.� There was silence in the garden, broken only by the fountain, as Ibrahim sat and thought. “I will need to consult my library. In the meantime, I will have someone take you to somewhere where you can lodge. I do not think this will be a short process.�

And so it proved to be. Salazar stayed in a hostel in the city for three days, going to Ibrahim’s house every day to ask for news, and each time being told: Nothing yet. Finally, on the fourth day, he was invited to take a seat on the stone bench in the garden as Ibrahim said that he had news.

“So?� Salazar was excited.

“The news… is that there is no news.�

“What do you mean..?�

“I mean that I have been unable to find anything that could tell me more about the plague which you describe. The only thing which I could uncover was a few sentences in an old book which talks about something similar to the east, near Constantinople. If that is the case, then a colleague of mine, practicing as a physician in Alexandria will probably have heard of it.�


The Bishop’s Palace, Narbonne, Languedoc

“Heresy, you say..?�

“Yes, Your Grace. I have spent many long hours in the cells, conversing with the wretch, and it seems that he has been following the practices of Arianism since birth.�

“Arians! Here?�

“Yes, Your Grace. It seems that there are elements in the town who are so thoroughly misguided as to…�

“So it seems. Don’t remind me.� A moment of silence. “What is to be done?�

“Well, thanks be to God, I think I have persuaded this one of his error.�

“Praise God. You think he is saved?�

“I’m as sure as I can be of anything, Your Grace.� He paused. “I am also sure that as he comprehends more fully the magnitude of his folly, he will show enough remorse to reveal to us the others.�

“To save the rest, if we can, would be a miracle indeed. Well, take as long as you have to. We need to do the job thoroughly, after all.�

“Yes, Your Grace.�

Tuscany, Italy

And in this year, a man came from the north, bearing relics of Ambrosinus

The words, flat and black on the smooth parchment in front of her stared back up. Rowena sighed. The monastery’s chronicle was dull, with flat, laconic entries designed to use up as little of the precious, expensive vellum as possible.

Who, she wondered, was Ambrosinus? There was Saint Ambrose, once Bishop of Milan, and one of the Fathers of the Church. But why would Milan give up any of his relics? Relics, of course, were very valuable, because of the pilgrims they drew, and furta sacrum, or sacred theft was by no means uncommon. But neither was it unknown for monks to lie, or at least bend the truth. Rowena had spoken to a deacon in a church in Gaul about a charter that had been copied into the front of the Bible there, had looked deep into the man’s eyes and knew he was lying, that it was a forgery. She had almost seen the act with her own eyes, almost heard the careful scratching of the quill.

She shook her head to clear it of the memory. It had been incidents like that, a trail of them through southern Britain, which had led her father to bring her south. He had hoped that in the sun-lit Mediterranean would remain enough Ancient Greek and Roman teaching and skill to keep his daughter’s almost wildly blossoming power sufficiently under control for her to survive. Instead, he had found a fever, which had eventually worn him away after two long weeks in the monastery infirmary, and now he lay among the monks in the monastery graveyard. The Abbot had done what he could to help, to fulfil the dieing man’s gasped last wish, but Rowena had quickly exhausted the books of magic he had shown her; he had more, but informed her they were not seemly for a young aristocratic lady to study. Rowena had declined to push the point, not wishing to risk being evicted. That thought, as usual, made her smile bitterly.

This must be the self-control I’m always being told about.

The tolling of a bell startled her out of her self-contemplation. It was time for prayer, as demanded by the Rule of St. Benedict. Carefully closing the volume, Rowena left the library and scriptorium, heading towards the church, and the tolling bell. A line of monks in black robes, cowls covering their heads moved slowly through the doors in ceremonial procession. Rowena joined the back of the line, and took her place in the choir. As she cast her eyes down to the page in the missal in front of her, the monks began to chant the service.

The church had been built in the Roman style, long and thin, with the monks lined up along either side, amongst the rows of columns which held up the roof. As the chant rose and fell, mixing with the echoes from the hard stone walls and floors, and as the sound mingled with the clouds of incense, shot through with beams of light from the small windows up above, Rowena thought, as she so often had before, that she was in paradise. The feeling didn’t last nearly long enough of course, but it almost made living under the benevolent dictatorship of the Abbot bearable.

As the chant died away, Rowena’s mind flickered back to the chronicle. The Rule had specified that time should be spent at work or at prayer, and she was to use her powers to check and reinforce the protective spells on the codices in the library. It was deathly dull, and Rowena shuddered at the thought. But then she remembered the mysterious footnote – who was Ambrosinus? It had been niggling at her ever since she saw it; the name had connected with some memory from long ago, and she couldn’t work out what it was. Something about her father telling her stories by the fireside one winter, many years back. But why would her father’s old tales..?

Merlin. That was it. Merlin Ambrosinus! Of course! But why would anyone be transporting relics of Merlin? Relics were objects of power – where had Merlin’s power lain? He certainly hadn’t been a saint in the usual sense, not if even half the stories about him were true. For that matter, had he even left a body behind? No, Merlin’s power was in his skill as a leader, someone who could inspire to great deeds, and in his magic. So, perhaps the wand of Merlin had passed through? Or did use Merlin use a staff? Either way… If not that, perhaps a codex, a manuscript. Merlin had done great things – perhaps she could hold the key to them in her hands. The very thought made her light-headed. She could rise above the pettifogging rules – it was a sign. She would go on a pilgrimage, a quest!

The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, 954: “This year the Northumbrians expelled Eric; and King Edred took to the government of the Northumbrians.�


The place was perfect for the ritual: a pool formed in a slight dip, given further shelter by a small stand of wind-blown yew trees. The only sound was the gurgle of the water as it flowed south to join the river; the only light on this still autumn evening came from the moon as it was reflected in the dark water. A man knelt beside the pool, a coat of chain mail and a broad-bladed axe lay on the ground a short distance behind him; iron could severely affect magic.


Putting his hand down the front of his clothing, he withdrew a small glass phial filled with white powder that had hung from his neck on a leather strip. Breaking the seal, and opening the vial, he held it, arm outstretched, over the water. He paused. Before calling up a spirit from the next world to ask what the future would bring, you had to have what you wanted to know firmly in your mind. He cast his mind back.


The tent had been lit by flickering torches, in the glow of which the king and queen, bedecked with gold, had seemed almost unearthly. They had been subdued, serious, as befitted two people who had lived for power and now could see that power finally disintegrating. Eric, previously the Norwegian king, had been evicted by the one brother he had not killed, and, sent into exile, been offered Northumbria to act as a bulwark against the marauding Scots. His harsh rule, however, had provoked a rebellion, and he had led his army out of his capital, York, to crush the rebels. Gunnhildr, the queen, was just as infamous as her husband, accused of witchcraft and other dark acts committed against her enemies. Although Gunnhildr had indeed acted ruthlessly, she was no witch. She had, however, brought in those who did have magical powers, knowing that they could help her keep her grip on the crown. Ormr, the man who stood before them, was one of these.


The queen had done all of the talking, such as it had been, shortly instructing Ormr to find out whether the army camped around them would defeat the miserable rebels. Walking out of the encampment, the Norseman had thought that the rebels could not possibly be as miserable as the fyrd, the peasant militia that formed most of the force.


These memories running through his mind, Ormr slowly turned the vial upside down, and began the ritual. As the last words of the incantations faded away, a mist seemed to rise from the still, dark water, a murky grey tinged with green. It swirled up and around his body, surrounding him in a cocoon, across the inside of which images began to play. A raven flew high over a green land, before suddenly falling to the ground, struggling desperately, but still being pulled inexorably downwards. Then, a dragon appeared, red and snorting flame. The vision shifted, showing another, different dragon hatching from an egg and rapidly growing in size. It forced its way out of a burial mound, crowned and carrying a great horde of treasure before beginning to fight with the red dragon. It was a vicious, snarling brawl, and in the end the two great lizards merged together into one.


As this last image died away, so also did the mist, fading back into the pool as rapidly as it had emerged. Ormr slumped to the ground; he hadn’t realised that the visions could be so intense, so draining. So exhilarating. Eric’s days were clearly numbered; the fate of the raven had shown that. But the second part of the vision…The first dragon, the red one, was the emblem of the king, the man to whom Eric had sworn allegiance, Æthelred. The other, though-could that have been he himself? If so…


When the army moved off the next morning, Ormr was not among them. Gathering up his belongings, he had ridden away in the middle of the night, heading north. Having ridden often enough with Eric and his men against the Scots, he knew that hiding places could easily be found in the border country. While he felt a slight twinge at abandoning his sworn lord before the battle in which he would be overthrown, greater things beckoned.




It had been a good day’s hunting. They had left the hall in the early hours of the morning and ridden out into the open countryside whilst mist still swirled in amongst the bottoms in the moor. The dogs hadn’t taken long to catch the scent of a stag, and they were soon hard on its trail, the whole pack baying wildly as the riders followed closely behind. The animal was clearly young and strong, and led them a merry chase across the moor before they were finally able to catch up with it.

Godric, the young son of the Ealdorman, the local lord, had led the party on its wild ride and had dismounted to finish the stag off while the dogs were called off and brought to heel, but he now stood back to watch as the carcass was prepared.


“The day’s getting on,� he said. “I think we’ll have a quick meal, and then we can make our way back to the hall.�


Packs were opened, and the party sat down to bread, cheese, apples, and the ale brewed as an alternative to dangerous drinking water. A simple meal, compared to what was usually served in the hall, but they would have their recompense when they got back.


“We should be getting back, lord. It’s a long ride back to your father’s hall.�


“Why, Osferth?� Godric grinned, teasingly. “Are you worried you’ll not return in time to see Aethelflaed?� There was a bellow of laughter from the other half dozen men. Osferth blushed. Godric patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry; we’ll not miss the feast.�


They remounted the horses, and began to ride back to the hall, moving in a long line through the rough terrain, taking their time to avoid the treacherous mires that littered the moor. They were close up to the hall when Godric, at the head of the line, looked back, and noticed that the group was one short. They pulled up.


“Where’s Osferth?�


“He must have fallen behind and got lost, lord. I thought I saw him fall back earlier.�


“Damned fool.� Godric thought for a second. “Wulfric, you and the rest head back to the hall. My father won’t be happy if there’s no venison at the feast tonight. I’m going to go back and find Osferth.�


Godric rode quickly back across the moor. He pulled a wand out of his belt. “Hominem revelio.�


Nothing happened.


He spurred his horse up one of the tors. Standing on the summit, he looked out across the countryside. The autumn sun was descending towards the horizon, and the mists were beginning to gather again.


“Damn Osferth.� The words were quiet, but vehement. He drew his wand again, but it was unnecessary. On one of the hilltops, a small figure, almost too faint to make out, was moving. Godric spurred his horse towards the figure.


Eventually, the two men met.


“Thank you for coming back for me, lord.� Osferth was deeply grateful.


“Osferth, you’re an idiot. But we can talk about that later. Come on, let’s try and get back before it gets dark.� Godric put his wand on the palm of his hand and whispered. “Point me.� The wand swung around and pointed north. Godric winked at Osferth, and started to ride back down the hill.


The countryside was unsettling in the half-light of dusk, the tops of the few trees, increasingly skeletal silhouettes, sticking out of the mist. Crows and ravens called to each other harshly, and in the distance, wolves howled. Osferth shuddered visibly. It was dangerous to be out at night with no shelter.


“Don’t worry – you and I aren’t going to end up feeding the wolves.�


“It’s not the wolves I’m worried about, lord.� Godric laughed quietly.


“The Goblins, Osferth, won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.�


They had to move slowly through the gathering darkness, letting the horses pick their way across the rough terrain rather than risk injuring one of the precious beasts. By the time they reached the vicinity of the hall where Godric’s father would be feasting, it was almost completely dark.


Almost completely dark but for an orange – red glow that shone ominously from the direction of the hall. The two riders checked their horses momentarily. Then –


“It’s a hall-burning!� There was horror in Godric’s voice. The two men dismounted, and, tying the reins of the horses to a tree trunk, moved slowly towards the light.


The hall had been built in a dip in the ground, so as to be protected from the worst of the winter weather. Looking down on it now from where they lay under the cover of the undergrowth, Godric and Osferth could see the hall, engulfed in flames, surrounded by a ring of dark, silent figures, with one other man, mounted on horseback just outside the ring. It was possible to see armour beneath the dark cloaks, where the light from the fire glinted off the polished metal. All had wands drawn, and several limp figures lying on the ground where the entrance to the hall had once been showed where they had been used. Godric’s expression was grim, and he too had drawn his wand and was holding onto it with white knuckles. He looked as though he was about to charge down the hill. Osferth gripped his shoulder, and pushed him back onto the dew-soaked ground.


“Lord, all we can do here is die. We have to go.� Osferth’s quiet voice pulled Godric back. He looked at him, and, after a long pause, nodded. They moved slowly back down towards where they had left the horses. Just as they reached the tree where their mounts had been tethered, they saw shadowy figures waiting. As the two men halted, they realised there were more behind them, and that all were carrying swords. They were surrounded.