A Fragile Peace Read Online Free Page A

fish and even a seal pup, its body unmarked and unmolested by the raucous gulls, of which there seemed, his subconscious mind noted, far fewer than usual.
    He walked over to examine the dead seal. Its flipper seemed to point meaningfully to the west, beyond Mona. Several bedraggled herring gulls dead lay on the sand, looking as if they were in formation flying east, away from the threat the seal was indicating. The sorcerer pulled his cloak a little tighter and remounted his mule. These omens, the blood-red moon and her acolyte red tide and the warnings in the bodies of creatures of the sea god Mannan mac Lir needed to be interpreted and their message relayed to Arthur, urgently. “Man is standing alone,” he murmured. “This is a time of a decline of the old gods and if we do not act on their warnings of disaster to come, the Christian god will rise and supplant them.”
    Myrddin, shaken at the clarity of the warnings, abandoned his visit to the smith, instead ordering the slaves to collect the bronze mirrors, to pack them carefully and to bring them to his house. He himself turned his mount’s head west for Ty Ffynnon, his viewing chamber and a rendezvous with the supernatural.
    Two nights later were preparations complete. He had taken a draught made from forest mu shrooms, gazed into his viewing bowl and made his mind open to the gods’ messages. Then the sorcerer lay down to dream a vision of death. The green fields and hills of Britain were strewn with corpses, and as Myrddin swooped low like a hawk to view them, he saw they were blistered and blackened as if scorched by contact with the wings of the Furies. He knew this was a clear directive from the gods, but what was he to do? Were they saying it was inevitable, that the pale horse of death would cross the land, or was this some warning of what might be unless…? He had to find out.
    The next night, Myrddin braced himself. He had dreamed of corpses, now he would visit the dead. Necromancy was always difficult and very dangerous, but he had prepared carefully and had done this before. The air in the chamber was cool and the water surface in the viewing bowl seemed to glow as it reflected the candles’ light. The sorcerer had taken another draught of an infusion of dried woodland mushrooms and lit one of the candles he had calibrated to measure how much time he was away from the physical world. He usually surfaced from his drug-induced, dreamlike viewings with a raging thirst and no knowledge of how many hours, or even days he had been unaware of his surroundings. He hoped to make that measurement with a beeswax candle, grasping just another grain of knowledge that might lead to more understanding.
    He felt the familiar buzzing as the drugs took effect and leaned over the dark surface of the water bowl that would yield the images he sought. He experienced the tremble of fear that was also usual when he visited the land of the dead. Was this the time that Kimro, Norse keeper of the path between worlds, who led the souls of the dead to their eternal homes, was this the time she would not lead him back to the world of sunlight, birdsong and blossoms?
    The water surface seemed to swirl before his stare, small explosions of light streaked across his vision and a formless shadow began to take shape, making a file of humans that stretched away from him.
    Myrddin sensed a reassuring hand at his shoulder, the touch of Kimro to tell him he was safe from the hounds of hell that guarded the gate, and the line of figures before him came slowly into focus.
    First stood Caratacus, the king who had defied Rome’s legions and faced down his enemies in their own hall while wearing the shackles of a condemned man. Myrddin took in the dead king’s long moustaches and fair hair, pallid against the ashen colour of his face, glanced at the familiar great badge of office, an amber and silver clasp at the shoulder of his cloak, then raised his eyes to the long column of spectres lined