Pendragon pc-4 Page 17

  I watched them draw nearer, my heart quickening. I heard the enemy's feet pounding a dull drumbeat on the earth, and saw the sun hard on spear shaft and shield rim. I looked along the line of our own warriors, our swift ala. The horses hoofed the ground and tossed their heads, the sundering shout of the enemy making them skittish.

  To the right, Cai sat at the head of his wing of fifty. Opposite him to the left, Bedwyr waited with his fifty. Both wings angled inward to force the enemy in towards the centre. They ran over the rough ground, screaming as they came.

  Gwenhwyvar at my right hand looked across to me. 'I have never fought beside Arthur,' she mused. 'Is he as canny as they say?'

  'They do not tell the half of it, lady,' I replied. 'I have fought beside Uther and Aurelius, and they were warriors to make others pale with envy. But Arthur far outshines his fathers on the unfriendly field.'

  She smiled with admiration. 'Yes, this is what I have heard.’

  ‘The Lord of Hosts formed Arthur for himself alone,' I told her. 'When he rides into battle, it is a prayer.'

  'And when he fights?' asked Gwenhwyvar, delighted with my acclaim of her husband.

  'Lady, when Arthur fights it is a song of praise to the God that made him. Watch him now. You will see a rare and holy sight.'

  Conaire, sitting opposite me on the other side of Gwenhwyvar, heard our talk, and turned his face to me. 'If he is such a fierce warrior,' he scoffed, 'why do we sit here waiting for the foemen to overwhelm us? A true warrior would meet their attack.'

  'If you doubt him,' I said, 'then by all means join the host of vanquished Saecsen who thought they knew something of war. Join the Angli and Jutes, and Frisians and Picti who belittled the Bear of Britain. Speak to them of your superior wisdom – if you can find any who will hear you.'

  Closer and closer the enemy came. Only a few hundred paces separated us from them now. I could see their faces, black hair streaming, mouths agape in savage howls.

  'How long must we wait?' demanded Conaire loudly. Some of the Irishmen muttered agreement with their lord. 'Let us strike!'

  'Hold!' countered Arthur. 'Hold, men! Let them come. Let them come.'

  Llenlleawg, sitting at Arthur's right hand in the front rank, turned in the saddle to face Conaire. 'Shut your mouth!' he hissed. 'You are scaring the horses.'

  Fergus, at Arthur's left hand, laughed, and the Irish king subsided with an angry splutter.

  The enemy fully expected us to charge them. They were prepared for that. But they were not prepared for us to stand waiting. The nearer they came, the more time they had to think what was to happen to them, and the more their fear mounted within them.

  'Hold!' Arthur called. 'Stand your ground.' The Vandali reached our outflung wings. As Arthur anticipated, they did not know what to make of the wings and so ignored them in their drive to take the centre.

  I could almost see what they were thinking – it showed in their faces. Surely now, they were thinking, the Bear of Britain will make his attack – and then we will swarm him and pull him down. But no. He waits. Why does he delay? Does he fear us?

  They rushed past the wings and surged on in a wave. Closer, and yet closer. I could see the sweat on their shoulders and arms; I could see the sun-glint in their black eyes.

  I felt a thin trail of fear snake through my inward parts. Had Arthur misjudged the moment? Great Light, there were so many!

  And then Arthur raises his sword. Caledvwlch shimmers in his upraised hand. He leans forward in the saddle.

  Still, he hesitates.

  The Vandal enemy is wary. Even in their greedy rush they are watching. They know he must charge. They brace themselves for the command, but it does not come. They are drawing swiftly closer, but the command does not come.

  Why does he delay? Why does he hesitate?

  I can see the doubt in their eyes. They are almost upon us, but Arthur has made no move. The sword hovers in the air, but it does not fall. Why does he delay?

  The enemy falters. All eyes are on Arthur now.

  It is a slight alteration of gait, a small misgiving. Their step is now uncertain. Doubt has seized them in its coils. They waver.

  This is what Arthur has been waiting for.

  Caledvwlch falls. Like fire from heaven it falls.

  Hesitation ripples through the enemy forerank, passing backward through the floodtide.

  The signal is given and the enemy braces for the impact. Still, we do not charge. We make no move towards them. Confusion. Bewilderment. The signal has been given, but no attack comes. What is happening? What does it mean?

  Oh, but the trap is sprung. They do not see it. Their doom has come upon them and they do not know it.

  Cai slashes in from the right. Bedwyr on the left thrusts forward. The two wings are now jaws with teeth of steel snapping shut. The outwitted barbarians turn to meet the unexpected attack and are instantly divided. Half turn one way and half another.

  The centre is exposed.

  This time there is no hesitation. Caledvwlch flashes up and down in the same swift instant. And then we are racing forward, flying into the soft belly the enemy host has revealed.

  The hooves of the horses bite deep, flinging turf into the air. We shout. The Vandal host hears the cry of our warriors. It is the ancient war cry of the Celt: a shout of defiance and scorn. It is a strong weapon.

  And we are flying towards them. I feel the wind on my face. I can smell the fear coming off the enemy warriors. I can see the blood throbbing in their necks as they stumble backwards.

  The centre collapses. The onrushing Vandal tide is turning. Those in the rear force their way forward even as the forerank folds inward upon itself.

  The horse glides beneath me. It undulates slowly and I am pan of its rolling rhythm. I see a barbarian turn to meet me. A black spear rises. The sword in my hand sweeps down and I feel the fleeting resistance as the body before me falls away.

  Another enemy appears. He leaps forward, jabbing upward with the spear. My blade slashes and the man spins away, clutching his head. I hear his scream and suddenly the clash of frenzied chaos around me slows, dwindling down and down to the barest movement, languid and listless and slow. My vision grows hard-edged and keen as the battle awen seizes me.

  I look and see the battlefield spread before me, the enemy upon it moving as if in a torpor. Their hands swing in lazy, languid strokes; the spearblades edge cautiously through the air. The Vandal faces are rigid, their eyes fixed, unblinking; their mouths hang open, teeth bared, tongues lolling.

  The battle sound throbs in my head. It is the roar of blood pulsing in my ears. I move into the crush and feel the heat of striving bodies; my arm strokes out its easy cadence; my dazzling blade sings out an unearthly melody. I smell the sick-sweet smell of blood. After long absence, I am Myrddin the Warrior King once more.

  NINE

  I move like a storm-driven ship through the tide. Enemy rise before me – a massive sea-swell of warrior-flesh breaking upon the sharp prow of my blade. I hew with fatal and unforgiving accuracy, death falling swiftly as my unswerving sword. Blood mist gathers before my eyes, crimson and hot. I sail on, heedless of the tempest-waves of foe.

  Up and up they rise, and down and down they fall. Death rakes them into heaps of twitching corpses before my high-stepping steed. The spears of the enemy seek me; I have merely to judge the angle of thrust to turn aside their feeble jabs. Every stroke follows a leisurely contemplation in which my mind traces the arc of each movement, and the next and the next. No wasted motion, no effort unrewarded. I kill and kill again.

  If death ever wears a human face, this day its face is mine.

  The barbarian foreranks cannot stand before us, nor can they retreat – they are too tight-pressed from behind to give feet to their flight. With Cai and Bedwyr forcing the sides into the centre, and the centre caught between the onrushing horses and their own rear guard still pushing in from behind, the enemy can but stand to our cruel, killing blades.
/>   Eventually, the advance slows, the surge falters, and the tide begins to turn. The foe is flowing away, rear ranks first. The front ranks, feeling the sustaining wall behind give way, fall back. The battleline breaks; the invaders turn and flee the field, leaving their dead and dying heaped upon the earth.

  They run screaming, crying their fear and frustration to the unheeding sky. They run in shameful disarray, without thought for their wounded kinsmen. They simply abandon the battleground and all upon it in their flight.

  I leap after them, exulting in triumph. My victory song resounds across the plain. The foemen give way before me, stumbling in their haste to save themselves. I drive on and on, lashing my horse to speed.

  And then Arthur is beside me, his hand on my sword arm. 'Peace! Myrddin! Stop – it is over. The battle is finished.'

  At his touch, I came to myself. The battle frenzy left me. I felt suddenly weak, drained, my chest hollow; my head throbbed, and I heard a sound like the echo of a mighty shout receding into the heavens, or perhaps into realms beyond this world.

  'Myrddin?' Arthur gazed at me, concern and curiosity sharp in his ice-blue eyes.

  'Pay me no heed. I am well.'

  'Stay here,' he ordered, urging his horse away. 'The pursuit is outpacing us. I must call the warriors back.'

  'Go,' I told him. 'I will remain behind.'

  Our warriors gave chase as far as the stream. But there Arthur called off the pursuit lest the enemy regroup and surround us. Then he returned to the blood-soaked battleground to deal with the wounded and dying barbarians.

  'What should we do with them, Bear?' asked Bedwyr. He was scratched and bleeding in several places, but whole.

  Arthur gazed across the corpse-strewn field. Crows and other carrion birds were already gathering, their raw calls foretelling a grisly feast.

  'Artos?' Bedwyr asked again. 'The wounded – what will

  you have us do?' -.,s

  'Put them to the sword.'

  'Kill them?' Cai raised his head in surprise.

  'For the love of Christ, Arthur,' Bedwyr began. 'We cannot-'

  'Do it!' Arthur snapped, turning away.

  Cai and Bedwyr regarded one another with grim reluctance. Conaire saved them from having to carry out Arthur's order. 'I will do the deed, and gladly,' the Irish lord volunteered. He called his chieftains together and they began moving among the fallen. A sharp blade-thrust here, a short chop there, and silence soon claimed the battleground.

  'Sure, it is a hateful thing,' Cai observed sourly, rubbing the sweat and blood from his face with his sleeve.

  'Their own kinsmen would do the same,' I reminded him. 'And they expect no less. Better a quick, painless end than lingering agony.'

  Bedwyr gave me a darkly disapproving look and stalked off.

  Quickly gathering up our own wounded – our losses were uncommonly light – we left the field and returned to Conaire's stronghold. My head still ached with the beating throb of the battle frenzy, and every jolt of the horse sent a spasm through me. Gwenhwyvar's voice stirred me from my self-absorbed regard.

  'Did you see him?' she asked, her voice low.

  'Who?' I wondered without looking up.

  'It was very like you said,' she replied. 'But I could not have imagined it would be so… so splendid.'

  I turned my head, wincing at the pain. Gwenhwyvar was not looking at me, but at Arthur a little distance ahead. Her skin was glowing with the sheen of exertion, and her eyes were alight.

  'No, I did not see him,' I told her simply.

  Her lips curled with the hint of a smile, and she said, 'I do not wonder that men follow him so readily. He is a wonder, Myrddin. He must have killed three score in as many strokes. I have never seen the like. The way he moves through battle – it is as if he were tracing the steps of a dance.'

  'Oh, yes. It is a dance he knows well.'

  'And Caledvwlch!' she continued. 'I believe it is as sharp now as when the battle began. My blade is notched and bent as a stick, but his is fresh still. How is it possible?'

  'The weapon is not called Caledvwlch for nothing,' I told her. She looked at me at last, but only to see if I were mocking her; she turned her gaze to Arthur once more, repeating the word softly. 'It means Cut Steel,' I added. 'It was given him by the Lady of the Lake.'

  'Charis?' she asked.

  'None other,' I replied. 'My mother may have given him the sword, but the way he uses it, his uncanny skill – that is his own.'

  'I have seen Llenlleawg fight,' Gwenhwyvar reflected. 'When the battle frenzy comes upon him, no one can stand against him.'

  'Well I know it,' I replied, recalling the Irish champion's

  extraordinary ability to turn himself into a fighting whirlwind.

  'The battle frenzy grips him and Llenlleawg loses himself,' she continued. 'But with Arthur I think it must be the other way: he finds himself.'

  I commended her perception. 'A most astute observation, lady. In truth, Arthur is revealed in battle.'

  She fell silent then, but the love and admiration in her gaze increased. It is the way of women sometimes, when the man they know so well surprises them, to exult in their discovery and cherish it. Gwenhwyvar hoarded her discovery like a treasure.

  We rested through the day, delivering ourselves to the care of those who had remained at Rath Mor. We ate and slept, and roused ourselves at dusk to celebrate the victory we had been granted. By then men were thirsty and hungry, and wanting to hear their feats lauded in song. We ate and drank, and listened while Conaire's bards vaunted the achievements of the warriors, praising one and all with high-sounding words. Cai, Bedwyr, and Arthur were mentioned, of course; but among the kings involved, Conaire shone like a sun among so many lesser lights, though his part in the battle was actually quite small.

  This chafed the Britons. 'Are we to sit here and listen to this uncouth noise?' Cai demanded. The third bard had just launched into a lengthy retelling of the battle in which the Irishmen featured most prominently, and the British received no mention. 'They are telling it all wrong, Myrddin.'

  'They only praise their king,' I replied. 'He is the one who feeds them.'

  'Well, they praise him too highly,' Bedwyr put in. 'And that is not right.'

  'They steal the High King's glory and dish it out to Conaire and his brood,' Llenlleawg complained. 'Do something, Lord Emrys.'

  'What would you have me do? It is Conaire's right. They are his bards and this is his caer, after all.'

  The three desisted then, but maintained an aggrieved and peevish silence. Thus it did not surprise me greatly when, as soon as the bard finished his laudatory song, a shout went up from Cai.

  'Friends!' he said, leaping to his feet. 'We have enjoyed the singing of Irish bards as much as we are able,' he said tactfully. 'But you would think us Britons a tight-fisted and greedy race if we did not tell you that beneath this roof sits one whose gift in song is owned as one of the chief treasures of Ynys Prydein.' He turned and flung out a hand to me. 'And that man is Myrddin ap Taliesin, Chief Bard of Britain.'

  'Is this so?' wondered Conaire loudly. He was feeling the heady effects of flattery and drink, and it made him wonderfully expansive. 'Then let us share this treasure you have been hoarding. Sing for us, Bard of Britain! Sing!'

  Everyone began pounding on the table and calling for a song. Bedwyr rose and borrowed a harp from the nearest bard; he brought it to me. 'Show them,' he whispered, placing the harp in my hands. 'Show them what a True Bard can do.'

  I looked at the instrument, considering what I might sing. I looked at the boisterous throng, red-faced and loud in the clamour of their cups. Such a rare gift should not be wasted on the unworthy, I thought, and passed the harp back to Bedwyr.

  'Thank you,' I told him, 'but it is not for me to sing tonight. This celebration belongs to Conaire and it would be wrong for me to diminish the glory he has rightly won.'

  Bedwyr scowled. 'Rightly won? Are you mad, Myrddin? If there is any glory this ni
ght we have won it, not Conaire.' He offered the harp to me again, and I refused again. 'Earth and sky, Myrddin, you are a stubborn man.'

  'Another time, Bedwyr,' I soothed. 'We will have our night. Let it be this way for now.'

  Seeing he could not persuade me, Bedwyr desisted, returning the instrument to its owner with a shrug. Cai gave me a look of supreme disapproval, but I ignored him. Since it was clear I would not sing, and since no more songs were forthcoming, the celebration ended and men began drifting off to their sleeping places.

  Just before dawn the next morning, Arthur sent Cai and Bedwyr with a small warband to the coast to observe the movements of the Vandal host. We had slept well, and rose to break fast. I observed the haughty confidence of Conaire's warriors – they swaggered and laughed loudly as they sharpened blades and mended straps – and I remarked on it to Arthur. 'Give them one simple victory and they think they have conquered the world.'

  He smiled grimly. 'They think it will always be so easy. Still, I will not discourage them. They will learn the truth soon enough.'

  Yet, when Bedwyr and Cai returned, they said, 'The Boar and his piglets are leaving.'

  'Truly?' wondered Conaire.

  'It is so, lord,' replied Cai. 'Most of the ships have gone.'

  'Indeed,' added Bedwyr, 'only a few remain, and those are even now sailing from the bay.'

  'Then it is as I thought!' Conaire crowed. 'They were only looking for easy plunder. When they saw we meant to fight, they took their search to other shores.'

  Gwenhwyvar, who had come to stand beside Arthur, turned to him. 'What do you think it means?'

  He shook his head slightly. 'I cannot say until I have seen it for my self.'

  As quickly as horses could be readied, we rode to the clifftops overlooking the bay, and gazed out on a calm, bright sea speckled with the black sails of departing Vandali ships. The last had left the bay only a short while before we arrived, and were following the others, sailing back the way they had come.

  'You see!' cried the Irish king triumphantly – as if the sight vindicated him in some way. 'They will not soon forget the welcome they received at Conaire Red Hand's hearth.'