PROLOGUE

Revelation stood with his back to the door, his broad hands resting on the stone sill of the
narrow window, his eyes scanning the forests below as he watched a hunting hawk circling beneath
the bunching clouds.
'It has begun, my lord,' said the elderly messenger, bowing to the tall man in the monk's robes of
brown wool.
Revelation turned slowly, his smoke-grey eyes fastening on the man who looked away, unable to bear
the intensity of the gaze.
Tell it all,' said Revelation, slumping in an ivory-inlaid chair before his desk of oak and gazing
absently at the parchment on which he had been working.
'May I sit, my lord?' asked the messenger softly and Revelation looked up and smiled.
'My dear Cotta, of course you may. Forgive my melancholy. I had hoped to spend the remaining days
of my life here in Tingis. The African weather suits me, the people are friendly and, with the
exception of Berber raids, the country is restful. And I have almost completed my book . . . but
then such ventures will always take second place to living history.'
Cotta sank gratefully into a high-backed chair, his bald head gleaming with sweat, his dark eyes
showing his fatigue. He had come straight from the ship - eager to unburden himself of the bad
news he carried, yet loth to load the weight on the man before him.
'There are many stories of how it began. All are contradictory, or else extravagantly embroidered
. But, as you suspected, the Goths have a new leader of uncanny powers. His armies are certainly
invincible and he is cutting a bloody path through the northern kingdoms. The Sicambrians and the
Norse have yet to find him opposing them, but their turn will come.'
Revelation nodded. 'What of the sorcery?'
"The agents of the Bishop of Rome all testify that Wotan is a skilled nigromancer. He has
sacrificed young girls, launching his new ships across their spread-eagled bodies. It is vile ...
all of it. And he claims to be a god!'
'How do the man's powers manifest themselves?' asked the Abbot.
'He is invincible in battle. No sword can touch him. But it is said he makes the dead walk - and
more than walk. One survivor of the battle in Raetia swears that at the end of the day the dead
Goths rose in the midst of the enemy, cutting and killing. Needless to add that the opposition
crumbled. I have only the one man's word for this tale, but I think he was speaking the truth.'
'And what is the talk among the Goths?'
"They say that Wotan plans a great invasion of Britannia, where the magic is strongest. Wotan says
the home of the Old Gods is Britannia, and the gateway to Valhalla is at Sorviodunum, near the
Great Circle.'
'Indeed it is' whispered Revelation.
'What, my Lord Abbot?' asked Cotta, his eyes widening.
'I am sorry, Cotta, I was thinking aloud. The Great Circle has always been considered a place of
magic by the Druids - and others before them. And Wotan is right, it is a gateway of sorts - and
he must not be allowed to pass through it.'
'I cannot think there is a single army to oppose him - except the Blood King, and our reports say
he is sorely beset by rebellion and invasion in his own land. Saxons, Jutes, Angles and even
British tribes rise against him regularly. How would he fare against 20,000 Gothic warriors led by
a sorcerer who cannot be bested?'
Revelation smiled broadly, his wood-smoke eyes twinkling with sudden humour. 'Uther can never be
underestimated, my friend. He too has never known defeat . . . and he carries the Sword of Power,
Cunobelin's blade.'
'But he is an old man now,' said Cotta. Twenty-five years of warfare must have taken their toll.
And the Great Betrayal ..."
'I know the history,' snapped Revelation. 'Pour us some wine, while I think.'
The Abbot watched as the older man filled two copper goblets with deep red wine, accepting one of
them with a smile to offset the harshness of his last response.
'Is it true that Wotan's messengers seek out maidens with special talents?'
'Yes. Spirit-seers, healers, speakers in tongues ... it is said he weds them all.'
'He kills them,' said Revelation. 'It is where his power lies.'
The Abbot rose and moved to the window, watching the sun sink in fire. Behind him Cotta lit four
candles, then waited in silence for several minutes. At last he spoke. 'Might I ask, my lord, why
you are so concerned about events across the world? There have always been wars. It is the curse