Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  “Hengist is holding his gains in the south, not marching here to give aid to this group.” He looked toward the tent flap, then said, “What was all that about?”

  “I was making plans.”

  “So I gathered. Tell me what they are.”

  Arthur turned to him and crossed his arms. “Nothing that concerns you, Merlin.”

  “Everything about you concerns me. Everything you do and everywhere you go. You’re the king, and it’s my duty to defend you.”

  “If I tell you, you won’t approve.”

  He could have predicted the look that stole over Merlin’s face, a combination of anger and irritation tempered with perhaps a tinge of admiration. He thought Merlin wanted him to be obedient and safe, but that he also admired the spark in Arthur that made him refuse to accept another’s chain. He thought Merlin was both annoyed by and envious of his defiance, and it made him think that someone who so admired resistance might have something he would like to resist, himself. He wondered who was at the end of Merlin’s leash.

  “Tell me anyway.”

  The young king thought, then said, “First let me ask you this. You have such power - I’ve seen your magic do such things that I’m still amazed. You could take this kingdom for your own in less than a heartbeat. You could just cast an enchantment and make it so. Why don’t you do it?”

  The druid looked surprised by his question. “I’m not that powerful.”

  “Yes, you are. I have never seen your magic fail.”

  “There are limits.”

  “Well,” he said with a shrug, “I haven’t seen them. You could easily take the crown you put upon my head and have it for yourself.”

  Merlin looked away, disconcerted for the first time in their acquaintance. “I don’t… I can’t. It is not my destiny.” He solidified his stance, inside and out, and looked back up at him. “My fate is to help you achieve yours. It’s all that I was born to do.”

  “Who says?”

  Arthur did not expect the flash of pain in his mysterious friend’s eyes, and it made him regret the question. Merlin swallowed, then said, “We all have our masters, Arthur, and that is all that I can say. You say that I’m powerful, and it is so. Be content that you hold that power in your hand to direct the way you will. So long as at the end of the day you are king of a united Britannia and the Saxons are held at bay, and so long as you achieve all that has been foretold, then I am satisfied.”

  “You would never turn on me.” He said it as a statement, because he did not doubt the words. He knew what Merlin would say next.

  “No. Never. Of those you love the most, I am the one who will never betray you.”

  He wasn’t sure why he had to ask, but he let the words tumble out. “Do you love me, Merlin?”

  That flash of pain and a look of surprise again took the druid’s face, and in a whisper thick with emotion and nearly too quiet to be heard, Merlin answered, “Don’t ask me that.”

  Arthur went to him, filled with emotion, and he wrapped the druid in his arms. After a moment, Merlin’s breath caught in his throat, and then he embraced Arthur, too.

  “I love you, too, Merlin. You are my dearest friend. I know that all of this - what’s come before now, and what will come later - is mine only because of you.”

  They held one another in the tent for a long time, beyond the time a friendly embrace would last. It seemed to Arthur that Merlin clung to him, like his heart was breaking, but the king could not say why. Finally the druid pulled away, his eyes downcast. Merlin said, “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “And you haven’t answered mine.”

  Merlin whispered, “And I will not.”

  He didn’t really need to. Arthur nodded. He thought he knew what Merlin felt, but on a level far from conscious understanding. He was sure of him. He was as sure of Merlin as he was of his own right arm.

  The druid spoke again. “Tell me your plans.”

  The young king sat on the edge of his bed and took up his sword and whetstone. He began to hone the edge, filing away the nicks that had been forged in the battles he had already fought. “I intend to destroy their ballistae.”

  “A good plan, and a good goal,” Merlin nodded, recovering himself. “How do you intend to do it?”

  “By covert means,” he said proudly. “Under cover of the night, we are going to sneak into the Saxon camp and destroy the cranks they use to pull back the arms. If we manage to disable all seven of them before they find us, then we will set fire to their camp. When the fires start, we’ll have our archers standing ready to shoot any man coming out of the burning tents. With luck, by morning we’ll have destroyed all of their artillery and a good number of their fighting force.”

  Merlin crossed his arms. “And if they come upon you while you’re dismantling the ballistae?”

  “Then we fight our way out.”

  “You’ll be outnumbered.”

  “Yes, but they won’t catch us all at once, and the others will defend the unlucky one. If necessary, the one who is caught will be left behind while the others retreat to safety.”

  “You need to give this part of the plan more thought. Your men might die.”

  “We’re all willing to sacrifice for the cause.”

  “All of you?”

  Merlin’s voice was flat but redolent with disbelief. Arthur raised his chin. “Yes. All of us.”

  The druid turned away and walked a few feet to the tent flap. He untied the straps so the flaps fell shut, concealing the two of them from the eyes of anyone outside. Arthur watched him curiously as he turned back and walked to where he sat.

  “You are the king.”

  He said it in heavy, measured tones. Arthur nodded. “This I know.”

  The druid slapped him, hard, across the face, and the combination of surprise and force left Arthur sprawling. He rolled back onto his knees and looked up at Merlin in shock. The druid was standing over Arthur, his eyes fairly glowing with rage. “Did that finally knock some sense into you? Are you going to listen to me now?”

  He rose to his feet. “What was that for?”

  The druid came closer until his nose was only inches from Arthur’s. “If you fall, everything is lost. How many times must I tell you?”

  Anger flooded him, and he argued, “How can I send men to take such chances if I’m not willing to take them, too?”

  “Because that is what kings do! When there are battles, yes, lead your men. But scouting? Wrecking raids? No. Not then.” He glared into the young king’s eyes. “You are meant to be their leader and the symbol of everything they fight for. You are not to be on the front lines with them every time, all the time. You are not at liberty to risk your life. It no longer belongs to you. Your life belongs to Britannia and to the people who depend upon you for their existence!”

  He turned away, frustrated. The druid grasped his shoulders and made him look at him again.

  “Send Illtyd in your place. He knows ballistae, anyway, so he should be on the raid.”

  It took some time for him to agree, but finally Arthur shook his head. “Fine. I can’t believe you hit me.”

  “Well, sometimes you’re like a bull. It takes a shock to get through that thick skull of yours, and even then, things don’t always penetrate.”

  “You know, hitting the king is treason.”

  “So have me executed.” Merlin squeezed Arthur’s shoulders, then released him. “I’ll tell Illtyd the change in plans.”

  Arthur nodded with a sigh, and Merlin left to find the priest-knight. He sat down on the edge of his bed again and returned to his sword, indulging himself in a round of adolescent pouting. Sometimes he didn’t want to be king at all.

  The evening meal was being served to the infantry when Ganile returned. She strode past the lines of soldiers waiting with their plates and spoons, ignoring the catcalls and insults that followed her. The ballistae were in working order, and they were firing repeatedly as she made her way through the camp
. From the look of the city walls, they had been hard at work all day. A few half-built siege towers were being created behind the line of ballistae, and Gaius was overseeing the construction of an eighth of his mechanical horrors.

  As she walked, she shifted the weight of the bag that she carried. The strap was digging into her neck, the heaviness of its contents dragging like a stone. The vials inside the bag clinked together despite the straw packing that they were in, and she could hear the liquid sloshing. She smiled grimly. She had brought a fresh hell for the residents of Lindum.

  She had been rather pleased when Hengist had sent her here, not because she enjoyed warfare all that much, and certainly not because she liked Colgren or his filthy presence. She had her own reasons for wanting to breach those walls, reasons for wanting to go to the castle on the hill. Deep in the earth, in a web of tunnels and hidden rooms beneath the castle and its dungeon, an ancient temple lay undisturbed. It had been old before the Romans first arrived upon this island, and it contained something she needed for her own. She would have it, no matter what it took, but first she needed to get through the warded walls. Before she could do that, the Saxon army had to be victorious.

  She would not be denied.

  The guards at Colgren’s tent let her pass without comment or challenge. She strode through the open flap and straight up to the folding table where the Saxon warlord was enjoying his meal. He looked up in surprise at her sudden arrival.

  “Ganile,” he said. “Just in time for dinner. Pull up a chair.”

  She put her bag down on the table with a thud, and his eyes went to it immediately. The sloshing sound of the liquids inside was loud enough to hear, and his curiosity was piqued, as she had known that it would be.

  “I went away and I made you these,” she told him.

  She opened the bag and showed him the vials. There were twenty of them, glass with glass stoppers, filled with a sickly yellow liquid.

  “What is it?”

  “Have you heard of Greek fire?” He nodded eagerly. “Well, this is even better. It’s an alchemical compound seasoned with dark magic. It is extremely flammable - only a drop or two will turn any arrow into a fiery brand. Use this on the ballista bolts and bring those walls tumbling down.”

  He put his meal aside, forgotten. With eager hands, he pulled out one of the vials and held it up to the light, examining the contents. Tiny pieces of something black floated in the liquid. “How is it made?”

  “By me. That’s all you need to know.”

  His blue eyes flicked up to her face. “And how shall I repay you?”

  “Let me go with you into the city when it falls.”

  He smirked. “I was going to do that, anyway. I know that you’re a warrior. I was counting on you to fight beside me.”

  “Fine.” She was surprised at the respect implied in his words. It was more than she had expected of him. She considered her response quickly and decided on her course. “Beneath the castle, there are tunnels, and in those tunnels are treasures of a magical and accursed variety. There are also riches galore. If you let me have the magical objects there, I will let you have all of the gold and jewels.”

  Colgren put the vial back into its packing. “I was going to take the gold and jewels anyway. You’re asking me to permit you to take your share of the booty from these things you say are in the ground.”

  She pursed her lips. “Say it however you want, but yes.”

  “Granted.” He smiled at her. “I have no interest in magic, so those things were yours before you asked for them.”

  “Then my payment will cost you nothing.”

  She pulled another folding chair to the table and helped herself to some meat from his platter. He watched as she ate, studying her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I’m wondering why you sell your services so cheaply, asking only for what I would have given in the first place. These things must be very important to you.” He took a bite of bread. “What are they?”

  Ganile took a deep breath, then decided to tell him the truth. “Britannia is a place of great magic. Their sorcerers are the most powerful in the world, even more than those in Egypt or in China. There is one among them, a witch named Vivienne. She is a true mistress of the dark arts and a mother of demons. Her power is spoken of in hushed tones, and her name is never said thrice in one conversation, because it will call her attention and sometimes she will come to the speaker. She is a queen among witches, and her son, Merlin, is the puppet master holding the new High King’s strings. Beneath this castle, in an ancient temple to a god whose name was long ago forgotten, are three scrolls and a box with a weapon. The scrolls will give me the power to be her equal and the knowledge of how to destroy her, and the weapon will be the tool with which to do it.”

  Colgren tapped his finger against the table. “I have heard this name, Merlin. He was behind the sword in the stone.”

  “Yes. He created the test and placed the sword in the stone himself. He chose the one who pulled it. As I told you, the new High King is just a boy, and no doubt easily controlled. He is weak and will hide in some safe castle while Merlin leads an army of the damned to take Britannia. He will turn this green world into a hellscape.” She fixed Colgren with a steady look. “Kill Merlin, and you will have a chance of taking Britannia, for his mother is no fighter. When I have the things in the temple beneath Lindum, I’ll remove her from the world. Then, and only then, will our people have this island and a place of safety and plenty.”

  She could see doubt in his eyes, but when he spoke, he said only, “The magic will be yours. I have no use for it.”

  “My thanks.”

  “Tell me more about this Merlin...”

  In Arthur’s camp, the druid in question tilted his head, hearing his name upon the wind. He was sitting outside the king’s tent, eating dinner with Arthur and his knights. It amused him to know that the Saxons were talking about him.

  “You’re smiling,” Arthur said to him.

  “I am.”

  “Why?” asked Sir Griflet. “If there’s something that amuses you, please share it. I love a good joke.”

  “It’s nothing,” he assured them. “Just a stray thought.”

  Arthur smirked. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

  “I intend to.”

  Sir Illtyd chuckled. “One thing I’ve always wanted to know. Did you ever meet the demon who sired you?”

  “The demon who sired me?” he echoed. “No. But I have met my mother.”

  “That’s more than I can say,” Arthur mumbled. Beside him, Sir Griflet gave the king a sympathetic smile.

  Illtyd persisted. “I heard your mother was a nun.”

  Merlin smiled. “I’m sure that you’ve heard many things. That is a damned lie.”

  “Was she raped by the demon?” Sir Brastias asked.

  “Absolutely not.” He stirred his stew. “My mother was a willing participant in my creation.”

  “Does she still live?”

  “Yes.”

  Arthur said, “She must be very old by now.”

  “Oh, yes. Ancient.”

  Sir Ector put his empty bowl aside and said, “Forgive me for prying -”

  “I’ve forgiven all of you so far.”

  He smiled. “I wonder, how is it that a druid and the son of a demon may walk into a cathedral and on holy ground without difficulty? You certainly showed no discomfort in the cathedral in Londinium, and you and the archbishop seemed well acquainted.”

  “I’ve known Augustine since he was just a parish priest among the Gauls. We’re very well acquainted, indeed. And as for the cathedral, well… a demon of sufficient power may walk upon such hallowed soil. Lucifer was once an angel, after all.”

  They had all known that he was powerful, but his hint about the level of his strength was clearly giving the men around the campfire something to think about. He smiled into his stew.

  “Do you believe in the Christian God?”

  �
��I believe that he exists. I simply choose not to worship him.”

  “Why not?” Illtyd pressed.

  Merlin looked into his eyes. “The hours you have are not to be wasted. Do you truly wish to debate theology on this night, of all nights?”

  An uncomfortable silence fell in the wake of his words, and Illtyd’s cheeks lost some of their color. He looked down into the fire, then said softly, “No.”

  “Good. The subject bores me.”

  “Me, too,” Sir Bedivere agreed. “Let’s talk about women.”

  “Ah! A subject I think we all can agree upon,” Sir Brastias nodded approvingly.

  The conversation turned to bawdier topics, and their laughter rang out. Only Illtyd and Merlin stayed silent, staring at one another through the fire.

  When the meal was over and the raiders were being prepared, Illtyd found Merlin and pulled him aside. The knight was urgent, but not afraid, and Merlin was glad to note the difference.

  When they were far enough away that they would not be overheard, Illtyd said, “You shared prophesy with me tonight.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not returning from this raid, am I?”

  Merlin shook his head and said, “No.”

  The priest-knight swallowed hard, then nodded. “It is well. I have lived a long life and I have known some happiness. If it’s my time, I am content.”

  “It is a brave man in your position who goes forward without weeping.”

  Illtyd sighed. “Tears will not change my fate.”

  “No, although I wish it might be so.” Merlin looked down. “We have known one another for many years, and in all that time, you have been a friend to me. You are an honorable man and you have been a good counselor to the king, teaching him things that I could not.”

  The knight took a deep breath. “I have not always been honorable. I have sins upon my soul. You are not Christian, but would you let me confess my greatest sin to you?”

  Merlin frowned, surprised. “Of course.”

  “I have a son.”

  He had not expected this. He nodded, silently encouraging him to continue.

  Illtyd could not meet his eyes. “His mother was a simple girl, and I was a young warrior, traveling with the High King’s band. I seduced her with promises I had no means and no intention to keep. She gave me a son in the winter while we were encamped and we called him Dinadan.” He took a ragged breath. “She asked me to marry her, but I refused. Even though I knew the child was mine, I accused her, said he could have been any man’s in the company. I abandoned them both. I… I was wrong. And I have lived in this shame for twenty years.”