by J A Cummings
He ground his teeth and tried not to moan as he said, “My ankle.”
His father dismounted and pulled him from his saddle. The soldiers around them looked confused and concerned but kept marching. One of the men at arms left the column and asked, “Should I fetch the druid?”
“Yes,” Ector nodded.
Kay let his father sit him down on the ground, and he gripped the dirt as Ector pried at his greaves and boot. The straps of the armor pieces were overtaken with Kay’s swollen flesh, and the boot was nearly cemented into place, refusing to budge even after it was fully unlaced. Ector pulled his knife and cut a slit in the top of the boot to try to loosen it.
Merlin rode to them and dropped lightly from his saddle, his eyes already on the injured knight’s complaint. He put a hand on Ector’s shoulder. “Let me,” he said softly.
Ector stepped back, and Kay looked up into Merlin’s calm blue eyes, silently begging for something, anything, that would stop the pain. The druid managed to pull the boot free and set about unwrapping the bandage. Kay’s skin was black and blue, both from the injury and from the pressure of the wrappings, and Merlin clicked his tongue.
“Sir Kay,” he said, “your campaign is over. I am returning you to Verulamium.”
“But...Arthur…”
“Arthur will fight better if he’s not worrying about you,” Merlin said. “And there is no shame in nursing a wound that was honestly obtained. You fought bravely in two battles and you should be proud, but if you persist, you’ll never heal. Arthur will need you in the future, and you must be there.”
Kay looked up into his father’s eyes, and Ector nodded to him. He sighed.
Hoofbeats approached, and Arthur rode to them, his face a mask of concern. “Kay? Is it worse?”
Merlin answered for him. “It’s worse. He needs to go back to Verulamium to heal.”
“Arthur, I don’t want to go,” Kay protested.
“I know,” he responded, speaking as both brother and king. “But you need to be whole, and there will be more fights, no doubt. Listen to what Merlin says. Besides, the scouts are reporting back to Verulamium, and I need someone I trust to be there to receive the messages. I should have thought of that before we left.”
It was a pretty lie, and they all knew it. Kay swallowed his pride and nodded. “All right.”
Arthur smiled down at him. “Thank you. I’ll see you soon. Merlin, please take him.”
The druid straightened. “As you wish, my king.”
Kay closed his eyes in trepidation, waiting for the sickening feeling of magical travel. The lurching sensation washed over him in a wave, and he nearly vomited as the dirt he had been sitting on became cobblestone. He opened his eyes to see the courtyard at the great hall in Verulamium. Merlin was crouched beside him, his hand on his shoulder.
“It will be all right,” the druid reassured him. He rose and picked Kay up from the ground, draping Kay’s arm over his shoulders as he helped him walk inside.
One of the serving women rushed to pull a chair over, but Merlin said, “We’re going upstairs. Please tell Princess Lionors that we are here.”
Kay frowned. “Why…?”
“You’ll need someone to help look after you.”
“I can look after myself.”
“Don’t be a dolt, Kay,” Merlin chided. “Are you so unimaginative that you can’t see the benefits of having a lady nurse you in close quarters?”
The young knight flushed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Clearly.”
They made their slow and painful way up the steps to the great hall’s second level and the private sleeping chambers. Merlin took Kay into the first room he reached, lowering the young knight onto the bed. Kay sat with his injured foot stretched out in front of him.
“Am I going to lose my foot?” he asked, worried.
“Not if you stay off it and let the swelling recede. No more riding, and walk as little as possible. I will find a crutch for you to use.”
Kay ran a hand over his face. “I can’t believe how much this hurts.”
Merlin nodded. “Broken bones are unpleasant.”
“You’re a master of understatement.”
Running footsteps approached down the stone corridor, and they looked up as Lionors, her cheeks pink, hurried into the room. “Sir Kay!” she cried. She went to him and stopped just short of embracing him. “How can I help?”
“I -” Kay began, but Merlin interrupted.
“He will need to soak his ankle three times a day in a hot salt water bath, then wrap it with a comfrey poultice to bring down the swelling. Can I trust you to help him with this?”
“Of course.”
He smiled. “I thought as much.” He gestured toward the door, and a leather bag appeared where there had been nothing but air. “The bandages and herbs are there. There is also a potion, a very powerful one, that can be used to help him sleep. Three drops in a mug of ale will be sufficient, so the vial that is in the bag will last a long while. Mind that you use no more than three drops. More than that is dangerous.”
Lionors nodded. “I will remember.”
She put her hand on Kay’s shoulder, and warmth spread through him like wildfire. He smiled up at her, besotted.
“Come and let me show you how to make the poultice.”
Merlin took herbs, a mortar and pestle, and a wad of linen out of the bag and set about teaching Lionors. She listened attentively, her bright eyes keenly watching everything the druid did, and Kay watched her. He was taken once again by her beauty. He had never seen a woman like her, with hair like burnished brass and eyes the color of the summer sky. Her concern for him was balm for a spirit he never knew was hurting. She turned and glanced over her shoulder at him, and she smiled. He smiled back and felt himself blushing like a fool. She turned back to her lesson.
Kay was convinced, more than ever. He was going to marry Lionors.
The center of Colgren’s tent shimmered, and he stepped back just in time to avoid a gray-haired Roman who sprawled through the magical portal and onto the ground. Ganile followed him, and the rip in reality closed.
“Gaius,” she said. “This is your new master.”
The man stayed on his knees, cowering. “M-my lord,” he stammered, so terrified that Colgren could practically smell it.
The Saxon smiled. “Well done, Ganile.”
“Of course.”
He turned to the kneeling Roman. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“No, my lord.”
Colgren crouched before the terrified man and took his chin in his hand. “You’re going to build ballistae for me.”
Gaius swallowed. “Yes, sir. How many do you need?”
“Excellent question,” he mused. “Four, I think. How long will it take?”
“How many men will be working with me?”
“As many as you need.”
The Roman did some quick mental calculations. “With a gang of six workers, I can build your ballistae in eight days.”
“That takes too long. I need them now.”
Ganile chuckled and sat on the bed, watching the show. Colgren grinned at her over the terrified man’s head. The Roman said, “With twelve workers, I can have it done in five days.”
He squeezed harder, his thumb pressing painfully onto the bone in Gaius’s chin. “I said I need them now.”
He winced. “With twenty workers, I can have it done in three days, but that is as fast as it can go!”
The Saxon released his grip and Gaius rubbed at the red thumbprint he’d left behind. “Good.” Colgren rose. “Come with me.”
He led the hapless man out into the field to begin his work.
Arthur rode to Brastias, who was accompanying the body of the foot soldiers. “Do you know how much farther it is to Lindum?”
The knight looked around him. “I’d say we probably have another two days’ march ahead of us.”
The young king nodded and pursed his lip
s, thinking. “I want to send a scout ahead to see what’s happening.”
“A good plan. I will select someone to send.”
“No need. I’ll go.”
Brastias gaped at him. “Absolutely not!”
“Why? I’m a fast rider.”
“You’re the king. You need to stay here where you can be protected.”
Arthur felt insulted. “I’m not a coward. I’m not going to hide behind these men.”
“I never said you were a coward,” he sighed. “But you are too valuable to risk needlessly. Risking you in battle is one thing - you must fight, after all - but risking you as a scout? No. Unacceptable.”
Merlin and his mount appeared suddenly, startling their horses and half of the men in the column. Brastias’s charger reared and kicked, and it took him a moment of wrestling to get the animal to calm down. Arthur’s horse sidestepped nervously while the druid chuckled.
“You did that on purpose,” Arthur accused.
“Perhaps.”
“The king wants to be our scout.”
Merlin shook his head. “That’s ridiculous.” He turned to one of the soldiers, who was clearly listening closely to their exchange. “Are you hearing all of this? Should we speak up?”
The man turned to face forward immediately. “Sorry, sir.”
“Ride with me, Arthur.”
He led him down the track at a canter, much as Arthur had led Bedivere earlier in the day. When the druid was confident that they would not be overheard, he slowed his horse to a walk. Arthur did the same.
“Why can’t I go ahead and scout?” the young king asked, aware that he was whining like a child. “I need to do something.”
“You can ride with your men, where they can see you and be inspired by your presence. You must remember that your life is no longer your own. As king, you must live for your people. They need you, especially since you have no issue of your own - and I will not hear of Constantine inheriting, because he’s a fool and will be a horrible king.” He looked at Arthur with an intense gaze. “You are so necessary, Arthur, and you cannot risk falling now, not when there is so much left to do that only you can accomplish.”
It was not what Arthur wanted to hear. He was eager for adventure, thirsting for the chance to test himself as a king, as a knight and as a man. Those desires came from the young man in him, the not-yet-fully-grown boy who yearned for glory. He realized, though, with grudging understanding, that his youthful impulses were at odds with his responsibility as king. Merlin was only telling him what he already knew. He sighed and looked away.
Merlin seemed to sense what he was thinking, for he said with a sympathetic smile, “There will be time to prove yourself. There are many battles to be fought, and by the time you have united this land, you will have become the subject of story and song. But all things in their own time.”
Arthur took a deep breath and switched to another topic. “How is Kay?”
“I left him in the tender loving care of Princess Lionors. He’ll be just fine if he does what she tells him to do.”
“He’s not exactly good at following orders.”
“He’ll do whatever she says. He is enthralled by her.”
Arthur smiled. “Do you think he’s in love?”
“I think he thinks he is.”
“Do you believe in love, Merlin?”
The druid looked at him, then said, “Yes. Unfortunately.” He looked forward and turned back to their first topic. “Let Brastias send a scout while you stay here. I believe that reconnaissance is good, but you are not the one to do it.”
Arthur nodded, feeling defeated. “I agree.”
“Good.” Merlin smiled at him again and motioned for Brastias to join them. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. Your time to shine is still to come.”
Midway through the afternoon, Arthur and his army approached an old fort that squatted over the River Nene, its heavy towers guarding the only bridge. There were no sentries that Arthur could see, and though the fort’s stonework was still standing, its mortar had clearly seen better days and was in need of some repair.
“This is a place called Durobrivae,” Merlin told him. “It used to be a Roman stronghold, as you can see, but now it’s a home to potters and shepherds. We might find some good food here, if we ask.”
“I only want to cross the river,” Arthur answered. “The bridge is narrow. We will have to reduce the width of the column and go through in threes, and one horse at a time. I hope the baggage will fit.”
“The carts will fit,” Ector assured him. “After all, they need carts to carry their wares to Verulamium and Londinium.”
There was a sense of danger in the place, though Arthur could not say why he felt it. He led the way to the bridge, riding cautiously with his shield on his arm and his helmet on his head, his visor down. A voice called out from inside the western tower. “Who steps upon my bridge?”
“I am called Arthur,” he answered. “Arthur Pendragon, King of the Britons.”
An unpleasant, phlegmy laugh rose from the shadows. “So, the king, are you? No king comes by this road.”
“A king does now.” He squared his shoulders with his shield between himself and the tower. He distrusted this speaker, whoever he was.
“So are these your men? You are their leader?”
He looked back at his soldiers. “Yes. May we pass?”
“On one condition.”
“What is it?”’
“On the condition that you defeat me in honorable combat.”
Arthur glanced back at his party. Merlin shook his head sharply. Firming his seat in the saddle, the king replied, “I accept.”
There was a rasping sound, and then a clawed foot, shaped like the foot of a crow, stretched out into the light. Two three-fingered hands gripped the edges of the door, the skin a dark brackish green and coated with patchy yellow fur. There was a wheezy chuckle, and then the whole creature emerged from the tower.
It was much taller than a man, taller even than a man on horseback. It had a mane of yellow-green hair that flowed down its back from the top of its pointed head, and its wide mouth resembled nothing so much as a frog’s. It had no ears that Arthur could see, and its eyes were black and bulbous. It was clad in a loincloth made from skins, and a human skull hung around its neck like a pendant. It reached into the tower and pulled out a massive club studded with iron spikes.
Behind him, Arthur could hear Brastias grumble, “Oh, bloody hell. It’s a boggan.”
“Merlin, do something,” Bedivere urged.
He shook his head in disgusted dismay. “I can’t. The young fool accepted honorable combat, and if the Unseelie Fey hate one thing, it’s oath breakers.”
“It will kill the king,” Ector despaired.
“Very likely.”
Arthur nudged his horse forward, and despite some initial resistance, his charger obeyed. If he stayed close, the boggan would be unable to really put its club to good use, and he could undercut its blows. He drew his sword and dropped the reins around the saddle crest.
“You know my name,” he said. “What is yours?”
“No!” Merlin shouted. “Don’t name it!”
The boggan replied, “I am Ainsel.”
Brastias sighed. “God damn it…”
“Very well, Ainsel. For ownership of this bridge, I will fight you one-on-one. If you win, we will cross at another place along the river and will trouble you no further. If I win, this bridge and this river are mine. Agreed?”
Ainsel laughed, its breath fetid as swamp gas. “Agreed.”
Arthur raised his shield. “Then lay on.”
The boggan roared and raised its club above its head, swinging with all of its considerable might. Arthur spurred his horse and ran at his opponent, ducking under the club and slicing the beast across its round belly as he passed. The club buried itself in the soft earth of the river bank, and it roared again as its black blood fell to the grass, sizzling.
The beast whirled around, yanking its club free and bringing up its fist. It was momentarily behind Arthur’s back, and it punched him between the shoulder blades, nearly sending him over his horse’s neck. He kept his seat, though barely, and his grip on both sword and shield stayed secure. The horse turned tightly and Arthur set up for another pass.
This time, the boggan did not attempt to use its club. Instead, it belched bile toward the king, who brought up his shield to block the jet of filth. The black slime adhered to the shield, corroding it, and soon Arthur could see daylight through the boss. He threw the ruined shield aside and steadied his sword in both hands. He stabbed at the boggan as he raced by again, his horse’s hooves pounding like thunder on the boards of the bridge. The sword was shunted away by the shaft of the club, and the boggan brought its fist down toward Arthur’s head.
The young king dove from his horse’s back and kicked the animal to make it gallop to safety. It ran away neighing, kicking dirt up in its wake. Arthur tumbled to the ground and rolled out of the way of the boggan’s club, barely avoiding being struck by the monstrous iron spikes. The boggan laughed at him.
“Give up, little man, and accept your death.”
Arthur rolled to his feet and held his sword before him. It glinted in the light, and the sight of it made him feel brave. “I will do no such thing. Perhaps it is you who should accept your own demise.”
“I have lived a thousand years and will live a thousand more,” Ainsel goaded. “I eat better men than you for breakfast.”
He scoffed. “Then eat this, monster.”
Arthur ran directly at the boggan, his sword braced against his body, his head down for the charge. His blade struck first, sticking into the creature’s abdomen with the sound of a grape bursting under pressure. He kept ramming the weapon home, not slowing his attack until the tip of his sword protruded through the boggan’s back.
“Ah, no!” Ainsel wailed, falling to its knees. “You’ve killed me, you little bastard!”
“That I have.” Arthur yanked his sword free, then swung it downward, cleaving the monster’s head from its stinking, hairy shoulders. Its skull rolled down the river bank and landed in the water with a splash.
