by J A Cummings
“Understood.” Ector saw something in Merlin’s eyes, and he added, “You know he doesn’t want them killed.”
“I know.”
The knights stepped back as Merlin began to cast his spell, and they watched in wonder as the druid, the prisoners, the carts and the oxen all disappeared.
Nyneve went to Lancelot’s chamber and found him sleeping. He was sprawled face-down on top of the coverlet, his limbs spread eagle and a hand dangling toward the floor. She stood and watched him for a moment, doubting whether she had the heart to follow her father’s command, but the thought of being subjected to the satyrs and the wood nymphs was enough to convince her. Better that the child should suffer that fate than she herself. She sat on the edge of the bed and took his lax hand, stroking it as he woke.
“Mother,” he said, groggy.
“Come, King’s Son,” she said, addressing him as she always did. Names had power, and she had not allowed him to use his own. Without his name, he had no autonomy and could not disobey her. “There is someone that King Manawydan would like you to meet.”
Lancelot left his bed and ran his fingers through his hair, sweeping the thick dark locks into place. He turned to her. “Shall I dress formally?”
Nyneve smiled, although her stomach was sick at the thought. “No need. Wear something comfortable.”
She watched him as he dressed, seeing the signs of his impending manhood. He was still a boy, but he would be an impressive man in time. She sighed. “You know that I am not your mother.”
“I know you didn’t bear me,” he said, sitting to pull on his boots. “But you’ve raised me, and that counts for something.”
“I don’t want you to call me ‘mother’ anymore.”
He blinked, surprised and saddened. “Why not? Have I done something to offend you?”
Nyneve’s eyes filled with tears. “No. But I am no mother to do these things to you.”
Lancelot frowned. “What are you talking about?”
She blinked her tears away. “Nothing. I’m just talking nonsense. Come, King’s Son. Your visitor is waiting.”
She took him by the hand and led him from the room, down a side corridor and a long, spiraling staircase. She brought him out of the castle through a little-used tunnel that opened in the depths of the wood. Lancelot looked around, confused. A wood nymph stood waiting, his muscular arms crossed over his chest. He was twice as wide as Lancelot and very tall, with brown hair and skin.
“Is this him?” the wood nymph asked, looking the boy over from head to toe.
“It is.” She released Lancelot’s hand. “King’s Son, this is Ysmon. He will be teaching you now.”
The boy looked at her, confused. “Teaching me what, M- my lady?”
Ysmon laughed, and it was an unpleasant sound. “More than you’d think.” He took Lancelot by the wrist. “Tell Manawydan that his debt is paid, and the wood nymphs and the sea nymphs are at peace again.”
Nyneve curtsied low. “I will.”
“Come, boy. I don’t want to wait any longer than I have to.”
The last thing she saw before Ysmon dragged him away was Lancelot’s puzzled face, watching her over his shoulder. As soon as the trees swallowed him up, Nyneve dissolved into tears.
Merlin and the ox carts appeared in the cold, crisp air of a snowy mountaintop a great many miles away from where they had started. The Saxons were terrified, and it amused him. They exuded clouds of energy, and he soaked it in, gathering it to feed his hungry soul.
One of the Saxons asked, “Where are we?”
He did not answer. Instead, he walked to a gong hanging from a nearby overhanging rock. He knocked upon it with one knuckle, raising the faintest shimmering sound from the golden disc. He stepped back and waited.
There was a low rumble, and then the mountain side shifted. A massive boulder rolled aside, revealing an equally massive cave mouth. A scaly paw extended out into the light, and a massive dragon stepped into view. The creature’s scales were blue and white like ice, but they shimmered with pinpoints of glistening light. The dragon looked as if it had diamonds in every scale, and the effect was like a starry night walking freely on the earth.
The Saxons began to scream and clamber out of the cart, attempting to flee. The dragon flapped a wing in their direction, and they froze, paralyzed in place.
“Merlin,” she said, her voice loud even though she was whispering. “Only you knock so politely. What have you brought to me?”
“An offering,” he said. “Prisoners from the first great victory of the new High King.”
The dragon looked at the men in the carts, then back at Merlin. “Does the High King make this offering, or do you make it on his behalf?”
Merlin smiled. “You know me well.”
“Too well.” The dragon licked her lips. “Does the High King even know you’re here?”
“Well,” he demurred, “truthfully, no. But what he doesn’t know won’t concern him, will it? I am his chief advisor, and I act in his name.”
“I wonder if he would say the same if I were to ask him.” She sighed. “I am hungry, though…”
He gestured toward the men. “Please, don’t hesitate on my account.”
He stood aside as the dragon devoured the Saxons and the oxen. The screaming was terrible, and Merlin watched in curiosity as she ripped the unfortunate humans and beasts into bits. The carts were flung off of the mountainside like refuse. When her bloody meal was over, she settled down with a sigh, using the axle from one cart as a toothpick.
“Ah… delicious.”
Merlin smiled. He had sucked in souls as the men had died, taking the part of the meal that the dragon could not consume. He was as full of soul energy as he could hold, and he had more besides. He could feel his cheeks burning in the heat of his feeding, and he said, “I am so glad that our gift pleases you.”
“Immensely. I haven’t eaten so many men in a long time.” She scratched her cheek with the long claws of her forepaw. “I may re-develop my taste for human meat.”
“Perhaps I can bring you more gifts in the future.” He bowed to her. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Nyx.”
She chuckled. “You should visit more often.”
“Yes. I should.”
She puffed a breath that smelled of chlorine as she said, “Don’t be a stranger, little demon. But you really should go now.”
He only had to be told once. He bowed, then left the mountaintop, his magic whisking him away.
Arthur, Griflet and Gaius returned to the High King’s camp. Gaius rode on Griflet’s horse with him, clinging to the young knight as they went. The men saluted their king as he passed them, and he smiled to them and spoke to those who dared to speak to him. Some simply stood and stared at him as if he was a mirage, and he wondered what was making them act so strangely. Perhaps these soldiers have never seen a high king before, he mused. Maybe they’re surprised to see that I’m human like them.
Sir Brastias and Sir Ector were sitting before the tent, waiting for him when he arrived. He looked around. “Where is Merlin?”
“He took the captives using his magic,” Sir Ector explained. “He said he would be exhausted by the effort and would not be back right away.”
Arthur nodded. “It was a huge task I set for him, so I understand completely. The other druids at Ynys Môn will care for him.” He dismounted and pulled the Saxon scroll cases from his saddle bags, then let a waiting soldier take his horse away. “He’s done so much to help me, he’s earned some rest… as have all of you.”
Sir Bedivere strolled into view in time to hear the king’s words. “No rest for the wicked, my lord,” he said with a smile. “Who is your new friend?”
Griflet helped Gaius down to the ground, and the man stood unsteadily, looking at the assembled knights in trepidation. Arthur said, “This is Gaius. He was kidnapped from Gaul and forced to build the ballistae for the Saxons.”
“Is he going to build some for us, now
?”
“We have no need for such things. Griflet, please see to it that he has somewhere to stay until we can send him home.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The young knight took Gaius’s arm in his hand and led him away.
He gestured with his scroll cases. “I took the warlord’s documents. Hopefully they’ll give us some assistance in defeating the Saxons the next time we cross swords.”
Bedivere laughed. “I don’t think we need assistance as long as we have you. I have never seen a man cut so wide a swath through enemy soldiers before! You created a river of blood behind you.”
Arthur was horrified. “Bloodshed is nothing to celebrate.”
“It is when the blood that’s shed isn’t mine!” Bedivere shook his head. “I’m sorry to tell you, my king, but you have a talent for killing.”
“That is not a talent anyone should wish to have,” he sighed, “but I suppose it’s a good one in times like these. Any news from any other quarter that I should know about?”
Sir Brastias said, “No, Your Majesty, but I will keep you apprised if anything should come about.” He hesitated. “Would you like for me to send someone to you?”
He suspected that he meant Diseta or another woman like her, but he shook his head. “Send me one of Bagdemagus’s surgeons.”
Sir Ector’s face seemed to clench and he hurried away from the camp, headed toward the King of Estrangore’s encampment. Bedivere and Brastias followed Arthur into his tent, concerned.
“My lord, are you injured?” Brastias asked.
“Let me see,” Bedivere insisted.
“First of all, you are no surgeon, so I don’t need to show you anything. Second, it’s nothing. I think my wound from Londinium opened a tad and needs to be re-stitched.” He began unbuckling his breastplate, and Brastias immediately came to assist him. “Don’t worry so much. I’m quite all right.”
“People who are all right don’t call for surgeons,” his friend chided him as he helped with his armor. The breastplate came away, and the scarlet stain on his chain shirt was clear to see. “How long has it been bleeding?”
“Since the battle. I don’t know how long.”
“Oh, only most of the day,” Brastias fussed. “My God, Arthur. Show some self-preservation!”
Bedivere knelt and unbuckled the king’s greaves. “Awfully familiar with your king, aren’t you?’
“We’re in private. He can call me by my name if he wants. So can all of my friends.” Arthur sighed and pulled the chain shirt off over his head, and his body protested the action in more places than he would have expected. He tossed it onto the armor form and wrestled out of his padded jack as well. The garment was soggy with blood.
Brastias shook his head. “You burst the whole thing open, and widened it besides.”
“Well, that’s why a surgeon is coming.” He sat on the bed and pulled off his boots. His feet were swollen and his ankles hurt. “I wonder how Kay is doing.”
“He’s with Lionors,” Bedivere said. “I would imagine he’s deliriously happy.”
Arthur shook his head. “His ankle, I mean.”
“Healing.” Bedivere put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and gently pushed him to lie back on the bed. “Let me at least clean the blood away.”
Sir Ector entered the tent with a black-robed and serious-faced man with a long, pointed beard. The man carried a leather bag slung over his shoulder. He said, “I want boiled water and bandages.” Ector hastened to see to the request while the robed man went to Arthur and bent in a respectful bow. “I am Blaes, chief surgeon of King Bagdemagus, and I am here to assist you.”
“Thank you. You look very grim,” the young king said. “I don’t know what you were told, but I’m not dying.”
“Let’s try to keep it that way, shall we?” He straightened and said, “I will want all your clothing away so that I may search you for wounds.”
Arthur colored in embarrassment. “I only have the one. There’s really nothing to see.”
“Let me judge that, Your Majesty. I am, after all, a doctor.”
“Are you also a priest?” Brastias asked, stepping forward to help strip Arthur’s clothes away. He left the short trousers that the king wore under his outer braccae, much to Arthur’s relief. He was growing tired of being naked in front of strangers.
“A monk,” the man answered. He leaned closer and inspected the king’s legs, specifically from the knee down. While the fronts of his shins had been protected by his greaves, the backs of his legs were a maze of bruises and cuts. His thighs were the same, mottled and discolored where there had been no armor to protect them. “I see you fought on horseback among the infantry,” Blaes said quietly. “They were not friends of yours.”
Arthur smiled. “No.”
Griflet came in with a cauldron of boiling water, followed by Ector, who carried a roll of linen. Blaes nodded. “My thanks. Can you stand, sir?”
“Of course I can.” He felt instantly embarrassed to be found lying down and hopped up onto his feet. The doctor walked around him, examining him closely.
“It is good that you wore a breastplate and backplate,” he said. “I can see that you suffered numerous blows from heavy objects, and have the bruising to show for it. You are fortunate that none of your adversaries had a proper mace or war hammer.”
“I’ll count my blessings.”
Blaes washed his hands in the water, then turned to the obvious culprit of Arthur’s discomfort, the stab wound he had received from Horsa in Londinium. The surgeon clucked his tongue. “I see the signs of a druid.”
“I was tended by a druid when I was first injured.”
“Ah. Well, they have their little ways, but they are not learned men.”
“Says you,” Griflet interjected.
Blaes ignored him. “I will need to wash this out. If you can avoid it, please do not exert yourself or get this area wet for several days.”
Arthur shook his head. “I can’t promise that I won’t exert myself if we’re attacked, but I’ll keep my soaking to a minimum.”
“Good.” The doctor took up the cauldron and brought it closer to the bed. “Lie down, if you please.”
Griflet put a pair of woolen cloaks over the bed itself, saying, “You’re going to get everything all wet.”
Arthur smiled his thanks to his friend, then lay down on the cloaks. Blaes proceeded to pour hot water into the wound, which made the blood run faster. Arthur hissed at the unpleasant heat, but Blaes seemed pleased with his efforts and repeated the action two more times. Finally, he pushed his finger and a brass probe into the wound. Arthur grit his teeth and tried not to complain, but he could not stifle the groan of pain that the surgeon’s investigation caused. Blaes pulled out and judged the depth of the wound by the amount of blood on his finger.
“Deep,” he said, “but not to the bowel. I will need to pack it, and you will scar.”
At the mention of scarring, Arthur briefly panicked, remembering the inspection he had endured from the druids at Beltane. “Scar?” he echoed, looking at Sir Ector.
“You are young still, and will likely heal well,” Blaes said as he prepared his gauze. “The scar may not be bad at all. And if it is, well, think of all of the tales you can tell your women.”
A wad of gauze was tucked into the wound using pair of brass tweezers, and Arthur groaned again. “Is that necessary?”
“Absolutely.” He bandaged him tightly, wrapping bandages around his middle to keep the packing in the hole. “There. I will return and take the packing out tomorrow. If you still bleed, I will pack it again. Sadly, it is too late for sutures - the wound is already too old. I am sure, though, that you will heal, if the wound does not fester.”
Brastias exploded. “You bloody hack! You don’t know anything! You’re just hurting and scarring him and not helping him at all!”
Bedivere put a hand on Brastias’s chest and held him back while Blaes looked at the knight impassively. “I cannot expect a war
rior to understand the science of medicine.”
“Science?” Brastias spat. “I can get more science out of a goat’s midwife!”
Blaes turned away from Brastias and put his tools away. They still bore some of Arthur’s blood on their tips. “Are you finished, Sir Brastias?”
“Not even close.”
“I suggest bleeding to balance your humors, for you are far too choleric.”
Brastias took a breath to fire back, but Sir Ector put a hand on Blaes’s arm and shepherded him out of the tent. “I will guide you back to King Bagdemagus’s campground. Come with me.” He looked back over his shoulder at Brastias, who was fuming.
“Bloody butcher!” Brastias shouted after the monk, while Arthur laughed.
“Calm yourself,” Arthur advised. “He’s doing the best he can, and I’m fine. You’re all making much more of this than you need to.” They all looked unconvinced, especially Griflet, who frowned. The king shook his head. “Is there food? I’m starving.”
“Yes, of course.” Griflet left to see to his dinner, and Brastias put his hands on his hips, looking hard at Arthur as he put his clothes back on.
“What now?” the king asked.
“You seem like you’ve been doing this forever - the fighting and everything that comes with it,” Brastias said.
Arthur took a deep breath and regretted it. He winced, and Brastias took a step forward. He held up a hand. “I’m fine. Stop. And if I seem like I know what I’m doing, it’s an illusion. I have no earthly idea from minute to minute what I’m supposed to do.”
The knight smiled. “Well, you hide it well. You’ve won the confidence of the men, which is more valuable than I can say. They will follow you anywhere. You bring them victory.”
“I hope I never do anything to make them lose faith in me.”
“I don’t think you can.” Brastias paused, then said, “And you will never lose my faith in you.”
“Thank you.”
The knight glanced at the tent flap as Griflet came in, a bowl of stew in his hand. He brought it to Arthur and stood nearby, watching.
