by J A Cummings
“Tragic,” another lady said.
A joint of meat was brought to the table, and the knife was presented to Arthur. “Will you do the honors, sir?”
He hesitated, then rose. “I would be pleased to do so.”
He took the knife and pressed it to the blackened rind on the roast. When he did, flashes of horrible images, of suffering and of blood, shot into his mind as if he had been hit by lightning. He gasped and nearly dropped the knife. Ector surged to his feet immediately and was at his side before the visions passed.
“Arthur!” his father cried, his strong right hand on his elbow.
The young king looked down, and the black band on his skin, the remembrance given to him by the Morrigan, seemed to flow around his right wrist like water. He blinked at it twice before the motion stopped and it became a simple tattoo again.
“What is it, my lord?” Hellawes asked, her voice shaking, either from fear or from excitement.
He closed his eyes and took a breath. “It’s nothing.” He opened his eyes and saw the looks of dismay on the twelve ladies before him. “I apologize. I am well, I assure you.”
He took up the knife again, and this time he was able to make the first cut. Juices ran pink from the meat, and he was suddenly reminded of blood. His stomach churned.
Ector gripped his elbow, and he looked into his father’s face with a smile that looked braver than he felt. The knight nodded and returned reluctantly to his own seat, leaving Arthur to sit once more at Hellawes’s side.
The lady clapped her hands and ordered the music to begin again, and the dancers resumed their paces. The young king made a second cut, and then the platter was whisked away for the servant to finish the apportionment.
Arthur took a deep breath and steadied his swimming head, rubbing at the tattoo on his wrist with the opposite hand. The cuff on his left wrist was nearly vibrating. Hellawes smiled brightly, her beauty radiant, and said, “Your army has been given meat from the self-same larder that our feast came from tonight.”
“I trust we will not be eating all of your food,” the king said.
“Oh, no. There will be more where that came from, just as soon as we find a huntsman who can cull the herds outside.”
A cut of meat and a helping of spiced root vegetable found their way to Arthur’s plate, and he looked down at the meal. It looked delicious, juicy and wholesome, and he was very hungry. Somehow, though, he could not bring himself to cut a bite. He looked down the table at his father, whose face told the same story. The young king hesitated.
“My lord,” Babh said, appearing in the center of the horseshoe. She was carrying a steel shield painted blue, but emblazoned with three crowns down the center. “Your shield was destroyed by the boggan’s attack, but I have found this to replace it.”
Hellawes went pale. “Where did you find that, girl?”
“In the workshop where the blacksmith left his tools. It was hanging on the wall above the door, facing inward.” She held it up proudly. “It’s in perfect condition, Your Majesty, and I believe it will serve you well, if you will have it.”
“This was found on your land,” Arthur said. “Did -”
The word died in his throat. The shield hummed and flashed with a light that illuminated the entire room, bathing them all in its white glow. His cuff and tattoo throbbed in time with its pulsating illumination. He turned to Hellawes and stared in shock. Instead of the elegant lady who had been sitting at his side, he now saw a hag with withered features and snaggly teeth, her nose so hooked that the tip was nearly resting upon her bottom lip. Her eyes were black and beady, shot through with blood and swollen around the lids, and he could smell her fetid breath from where he sat. Babh shrieked and hid behind the shield, and Ector crossed himself and stood away from the table.
“What is happening?” Arthur demanded.
Around the room, the lovely ladies of Hellawes’ company began to transform. Instead of women, they were massive birds, all leathery skin with tufts of oily black feathers. They screeched in anger and dismay and launched themselves into the air, flying at the hapless girl and the shield. Their heavy bodies bounced off the shield, and the impacts drove her to the ground, her grip loosening as she fell.
Arthur vaulted over the table and ran to her. He took the shield upon his left arm and pulled her beneath it with his right. It fit his arm as if it had been made for him. “Father!” he shouted. “Protect yourself!”
Sir Ector picked up his dinner knife and used it like a dagger, slashing through the body of an onrushing monstrous bird. Black gore, like what the boggan had spilled, coated the knife and the table, and the creature transformed into a pile of brackish moss when it died. Ector pulled away, confused and horrified.
Hellawes chanted curses and pointed her hand at Arthur. A beam of blue-black light flashed from her fingertip, and he held up the shield to block it. It splashed away, shunted aside to strike another of the birds, which died immediately. It left another pile of stinking moss on the floor.
Babh was screaming, and outside, the army’s alarm horns were blasting. Arthur pulled the terrified girl to her feet and dragged her with him, trying to make the main entrance before Hellawes or her bird-monsters could close it. Ector ran past him and grabbed a tall candlestick, which he leveled like a spear, holding the creatures back as his son threw open the door. Hellawes did not follow, but her birds flew out into the night. The sound of clanging swords from his army’s camp made Arthur’s heart pound, and he kept dragging Babh with him until he, the girl and his father were all outside the walls of the castle. He could hear Hellawes shrieking in the hall.
As soon as they were outside the walls, Merlin was beside him, casting an umbrella of glowing white energy over him, extending it over Ector and Babh. The birds had formed a flock of black rage, streaking down at them like arrows from a bow. The druid shouted something in a language Arthur did not speak, and the birds recoiled, hissing and in obvious distress. One of them did not arrest its dive in time and collided with Merlin’s energy. It burst into brilliant green flame, and it screamed and writhed upon the ground until it died.
He could hear his men shouting, and he wanted to go to them, but Arthur could not abandon the young girl who cowered beneath his protection. The shield glowed with a golden illumination, a companion to the white energy that Merlin had conjured. The light arose from the three crowns, and upon each one, Arthur could see the inscription of a solar cross.
The walls of the castle began to shake and crumble, and the smell of sulfur rose around them, choking them all in its intensity. Arthur picked Babh up off her feet and ran toward the army’s camp, Merlin and Ector sprinting right behind. They had scarcely gone ten feet when the entire castle collapsed with a roar like the voices of a hundred men moaning in pain. The ground shook beneath them, knocking them to their knees, and then all of the lights - the magical light from Merlin, the glow of the shield, even the campfires of the army - went out at once.
Utter silence fell, so complete that Arthur’s ears were ringing with it. He shook his head to clear it and looked around him.
The castle was gone, as if it never had been. The girl he had been protecting had also vanished, and his army stood in confusion, staring at each other with swords drawn and no enemy to fight. Like the castle, the armed men who had attacked them had vanished into mist. Brastias and Bedivere staggered up from the riverbank, each one holding the head of a boggan and dragging the decapitated bodies behind them.
“Build a fire,” Bedivere ordered the troops. “Burn these damned things once and for all.”
Merlin put a steadying hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and only then did the young king realize that he was trembling.
“This was a trap,” the druid said, “put in place for us. These were the Unseelie fey, and the meat they served to you was the flesh of men. If you ate, your life force would be drained to feed those monsters. Please tell me that you didn’t take a bite.”
“No. Neither of u
s did.”
“Did you drink?”
“He took one sip of wine,” Ector nodded. "I abstained.”
Merlin’s face was grim. “I need to take you somewhere to be healed. There is only one person I know who can treat the illness you’ve contracted.”
He gave Ector and Arthur no chance to respond. Instead, he grabbed the king by the tunic and took him away.
Merlin appeared with Arthur on the edge of a high tower over crashing waves. Arthur nearly lost his balance as he looked down at the rocks that stood very far below, lashed by white water whose constant pounding roared like thunder up the cliff and the smooth sides of the spire on which they stood.
The druid’s hand stayed strong and secure on the collar of his tunic, and he was steadied. He looked forward and saw a circular room surrounded by a curtained colonnade. Sheets of black silk floated upon the wind, reaching out into the air like the wings of some dark bird, and he felt momentarily afraid.
Merlin looked at him. “Come,” he said.
He pulled the king after him inside the circle of columns, walking through the curtains that opened to allow them passage. In the center of the room, a vision of beauty in a green gown sat at a writing desk, her scarlet curls pouring down her shoulders and back like a tumbling river. Arthur’s mouth fell open as he gazed upon her. He had never seen anyone with such a perfect face, or with eyes that burned like emerald stars.
The woman stood, and her gown clung to her body, revealing a tantalizing figure, the most beautiful female form he had ever seen. He knew that he was staring, but he couldn’t stop. He whispered, “Are you a queen?”
She smiled. His heart skipped a beat and he could not tear his gaze away.
Merlin broke the spell. “Arthur Pendragon, I present Vivienne. She will help you in ways that I cannot.”
The woman came toward him, gliding like a swan on a glass-calm lake. She put her delicate hands upon his face, and her touch was ice and fire at once, sending a shiver coursing through him. She looked into his eyes, and he felt her inside his mind, even inside his body. Her green eyes narrowed once, and Merlin looked away as if he was ashamed.
“This failure will not be forgotten,” she told Merlin. To Arthur, Vivienne said, “You have a second soul that is trying to meld with yours. It is Unseelie fey and means you harm. Thus far, it has had no success in taking you, which is a testament to your strength and your uniqueness, but it needs to come out. Will you allow me?”
He nodded, although he didn’t understand a word of what she said. “Yes.”
“Good.”
She leaned closer, bringing her sensual scent and the silken brush of her hair. She kissed him, and he found himself leaning into the touch, feeling that this kiss was the entire reason he had been born, and that he would die if she pulled away. He had never needed anyone or anything so much in his entire life.
He felt something inside him strain and stretch, and suddenly he was convinced he was on fire. He was burning, and in his mind’s eye he saw black smoke and the curling of animal skin in the flame. He should have been in pain, but instead everything was bliss and he was lost.
The feeling ended as quickly as it began, and Vivienne pulled away. He gasped in the sudden absence of her kiss, and his hand reached out for her of its own volition. She stepped out of his reach.
“Take him back,” she ordered Merlin, her white cheeks tinged with pink. “Take him back or he will never leave this place.”
The druid grasped him by the back of the neck and prevented him from rushing toward Vivienne, who continued retreating from him slowly, her fingertips pressed against her lips. With a wrench, Arthur felt himself pulled out of time and space, and he shouted in despair at the separation from her. In his heart, he vowed that he would find her again.
After four days of work, Gaius came to Colgren and knelt at his feet. The Saxon warlord enjoyed making the Roman grovel, so he waited until he finished his meal before he acknowledged the man. It amused him to see the little fool’s face and the downtrodden expression he had worn during the building of the ballistae. Gaius had finally yielded to his fate, and his abject terror had given way to resignation.
When he was satisfied that he had made the man wait long enough, Colgren looked at him. “Report.”
“There are seven ballistae ready for your use, my lord, and the bolts to go with them. We will continue making bolts to maintain ammunition stores.”
He put his mug aside. “Excellent. Show me how they work.”
The Roman rose and led him out to where the ballistae stood. They were monstrous machines built of wood and iron, shaped like the crossbows of some giant god. The bolts were as large as trees, capped with iron spearheads as long as Colgren’s forearm. They were formidable, and he hoped they were as deadly as they looked.
Gaius called together a crew of soldiers, and they loaded a bolt into the slot and set to work turning the crank wheels on the tension. The machine creaked as it tightened, coiling and ready to let fly.
“We can aim either generally or precisely, depending upon your wishes,” the engineer told him.
The Saxon looked up at the walls of Lindum, where he could see the heads of soldiers silhouetted against the afternoon sky. “Show me a precise shot. Kill one of those men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gaius and his crew swarmed over the ballista, adjusting the angle of the piece and taking careful aim. The Roman turned to him.
“At your command, sir.”
Colgren smiled. “Fire.”
They set the bolt loose with a loud thumping sound. It arced toward the wall, and much to the Saxon’s delight, the missile struck one of the soldiers through the chest, impaling him and knocking him from the wall. He could hear screams from inside the enclosure, and he chuckled.
“Brilliant! Well done, Gaius. I may not kill you after all.” The Roman sagged with relief, and Colgren nodded. “Rain hell down onto those walls. Keep shooting until they surrender.”
He watched the first few bolts strike the defensive perimeter of the city, dislodging stones and sending up clouds of broken rock. He was well satisfied. This siege would not last for long.
Inside Lindum, Maelgwas pushed through the crowd to the fallen body. The bolt that protruded from the man’s chest was huge, and the force of the blow and the victim’s subsequent fall from the parapet had buried the point in the ground. He ground his teeth in agitation.
“Everyone keep down when you’re on the wall. Don’t give them a target,” he ordered his men. “I hope that was a lucky shot.”
One of the other guards said, “No, my lord. They aimed.”
He cursed beneath his breath and looked at the man who had spoken. He was splattered with the blood of the man who had died, and his eyes had the unfocused glaze of someone who was badly shocked. He put his hand on the guard’s shoulder.
“Ebruart,” he said gently, “take some time.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Maelgwas crouched beside the fallen guard and closed the dead man’s eyes with his fingertips. He sighed. “Take him to the church to be properly buried,” he said. “He was a good man.”
It required both hands, but he pulled the bolt free. It came loose with a sickening squelch. He tossed the offensive thing aside and stood with his hands on his hips, his head down. The other guards, with Ebruart in tow, gathered up their fallen comrade and bore him away. Maelgwas straightened and looked around him at the city he had sworn to defend, and at the anxious faces of the people who were depending on him. He could not afford to show any fear.
He hoped that his runner had reached Eburacum. If he had not, and if help was not on the way, they were all as good as dead.
Arthur and his army, recovered from their unwelcome Unseelie distraction, approached Lindum at last. His armor and Sir Ector’s had been magically recreated by Merlin, since their own had been destroyed when Castle Nigramis had vanished. The shield he had obtained in that cursed place hung over his back
by a strap, and the magic in it buzzed against his spine, and not disagreeably. It made him feel strong.
In the distance he could see the city and the Saxon forces that surrounded it. He stopped his horse, and his army stopped with him. Brastias and Bedivere rode to stand on either side of him.
“We are greatly outnumbered, sire,” Sir Bedivere told him.
Sir Brastias looked grim as he said, “I was not aware that the Saxons had ballistae.”
“Nor was I,” Bedivere agreed. “This is a bad development.”
Arthur chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, his mind racing. There was no way that his meager forces could enact a counter siege against the Saxons, and a headlong attack was doomed to failure. A barrage of bolts flew out of the ballistae, knocking stones from Lindum’s walls, and a flash of inspiration came to him.
“Do you understand how ballistae are built, and how they work?”
Bedivere and Brastias looked at one another, and the lord of Viroconium answered, “I have no idea how they're built, other than they’re made of wood and metal. I know they use some sort of spiral tension to fling the bolts.”
Brastias offered, “Sir Illtyd is the most educated of all of us, so he might know more than we do.”
Arthur nodded. “Set up camp on this side of the river, as quietly as possible. Bring me the six stealthiest fighters that we have and send Sir Illtyd to me. I have an idea.”
Arthur was in his tent when Merlin found him. He had just dismissed his six chosen men, and the druid waited at the open flap for them to leave before he came inside. When the others had gone, Arthur greeted him.
“What news?”
Merlin spoke as he walked closer. “The Saxons have seven ballistae, and we’ve seen their work. It appears they’ve only just begun to use them. The walls are holding - for now.”
“Good.”
