by J A Cummings
“You are wanted,” he said, looking at his king.
He sighed and stood up. “Thank you for sharing your ale, my friends. May the gods, or God and his angels, attend you.”
“Same to you, boy.”
Merlin told him, “Go on back. I’ll be there shortly.”
Arthur nodded. He’d known he wouldn’t be allowed to wander for long, but it was disappointing to be reined in all the same. “Good night,” he bid his companions.
“Good night. Pleasant dreams,” Denis said.
He left the group and walked back to his pavilion to face the long, dark night.
Arthur found Ector and Griflet waiting for him when he arrived. His father looked relieved. “Where were you?”
“Walking through the camp,” he answered. “I wanted to see how the men were faring.”
“How did you find them?”
“Nervous and rational.”
Griflet blurted without preamble, “We’re going to stand guard over you tonight.”
He was not surprised. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, but I welcome your concern. I’ll wait up with you.”
Ector objected, “You should sleep, at least somewhat.”
“We all should, but if you’re going to be sitting up, so will I.”
Griflet began to argue, but Ector shook his head. “Leave it. I’ve known him his whole life, and he’s stubborn as a mule. He won’t budge.”
The young knight sighed. “Well, fine. I’ll sleep, then, if you won’t. That way, if they get past our net, you’re not the one that they find in the bed.”
Visions of Amren with Pryderi’s dagger in his back rose in Arthur’s mind, and he went cold. He could not lose another lover to a killer’s blade. “No. I won’t risk you that way.”
“I’ll be fine,” he assured him. “After all, I’ve got you two in here to look out for me, and the other fellows outside. If anyone comes, they’ll be caught long before they can so much as breathe on me.”
He was mollified, but only a bit. He nodded. “All right. Get some sleep.”
Griflet smiled and climbed into Arthur’s camp bed. “Ah, a night in a bed meant for a king… heaven!”
Ector snorted. “As if it’s the first time you’ve been there.”
“Hush. I’m sleeping.”
Arthur chuckled and sat down at the map table. His foster father took up the seat to his left, and they began their vigil. After an hour or two, despite his best intentions, Arthur began to doze.
In the darkest hour of the night, Arthur’s attention was caught by the sound of the tent flap moving. He woke in time to see a man slide into the tent. He was short and wiry and smudged black with charcoal, and he had a wicked-looking knife in his hand. Arthur stood as silently as he could and watched as the intruder crept to the bed where Griflet slept.
The man looked at the sleeping knight and shifted his grip on his weapon, preparing to plunge it into Griflet’s unsuspecting back. Arthur rose and crossed to the man’s side in one long stride, and Ector was right behind him. They grappled the man to the ground, and Ector took the knife away from him and tossed it into the corner.
The brazier burst into life, bathing the interior of the tent with light. Merlin stood beside it, his hand still extended from casting his spell. The assassin fought wildly, trying to get away, but Arthur held him down. Bedivere and Brastias came into the tent, their swords in hand.
The assassin spat curses in the Pictish tongue, and Ector backhanded him across the face, rattling his brains and sending him sprawling on the ground. He was stunned for a moment, and they took that opportunity to haul him up to his knees.
Arthur stood and looked down at the kneeling Pict, who glared up at him with rage.
“Looking for me?”
Bedivere stepped forward and swung his sword, striking the man’s head from his shoulders. His corpse fell onto Arthur’s feet. Bedivere looked up at the High King and said, “Not anymore.”
Dawn broke with a drizzle of rain and a pale gray band across the sky to light the field. Arthur rode at the front of his army, three phalanxes wide, with Bedivere and Brastias leading columns of their own. The meadow before Vinovia’s gates had been filled by masses of armed men, the combined armies of King Lot and his allies assembled and marching. Lot’s men were driven forward by the skirling of pipes and the rhythmic beat of what sounded like a hundred drums. Behind him, Arthur’s men responded with a blast of a dozen horns, and drums of their own began to thrum.
His heart pounded in time with the drumbeats. He was filled with excitement and dread, and every step forward was an agony, torturing him with waiting. He saw Lot and Uriens at the head of their armies, leading their knights and infantry forward. A crowd of men rushed forward, Huail’s Picts painted with woad, screaming and running headlong toward his lines. Arthur stood in his stirrups and pointed with his sword.
“For Britannia!”
With a roar, his troops surged ahead, and the two waves of men crashed into one another with a sound like thunder. Arthur led the charge, his horse galloping forward as he swung his sword in merciless downward arcs, cutting down the Pictish warriors and pushing into the heart of the battle.
Behind him, Brastias and Bedivere led their men into the breach, and they left a stain of blood across the sodden grass everywhere they went. He heard Ector’s voice ordering the archers to shoot, and a rain of arrows fell, studding the ground and the enemy lines with death. The archers on the other side returned fire, and Arthur’s shield barely stopped the steel tipped arrows from finding him. Men fell all around him, some dead, some moaning in their pain. He kept riding.
Lot spurred his horse forward. He had eschewed a helmet and was glaring and gritting his teeth like a man possessed, true to his Norse berserker roots. His eyes looked like blue fire as he went for Arthur, riding in a beeline that trampled over his men and Arthur’s alike. He shouted as he rode.
“Arthur! Arthur!”
The High King meant to ride forward to meet him, but an infantryman with a sharp spear nearly unhorsed him with a blow from the side. He turned in the saddle and knocked the spear away with his sword, turning the path of the blade so that it reversed on the backswing and caught the spearman in the gut. He dropped with a groan, and Arthur was beset by another spear from the other side. His horse screamed and kicked, lashing out with sharp hooves to the front and to the back, spinning and biting, doing its best to keep the foot soldiers at bay. Arthur was surrounded, and he felt the momentary brush of panic.
The tattoo around his wrist began to tingle, and he could almost feel the Morrigan and the Macha watching him. He had been bidden to collect the heads of the enemy, the Macha’s acorns, and he was determined to do it. With a shout, he slashed at the footmen and broke free of the mob before they could pull him from his horse.
The opposing knights met in the center of the field, their lances striking. Men rocked in their saddles and wooden splinters flew as their lances shattered beneath the blows. When the lances broke, squires on fast horses raced out to their knights with replacements, then retreated again, fighting their way in and out, their own swords doing much harm. In the flurry, Arthur saw Sir Gawain riding hard, headed for the fight, his lance steady in his hand. He struck one of Lot’s knights so hard that the man was lifted out of the saddle and over his horse’s crupper, dumped onto the ground with titanic force. Gawain overrode those he unhorsed, ending them before they could rise again. He fought like a lion, as Arthur had known he would.
Lot saw Gawain, too, and the look of betrayal on his face was almost heartbreaking. Arthur might have felt sorry for the man under different circumstances. Today was not a day for soft feelings, though, and he shouted to the King of Lothian. He sheathed his sword and took his lance from its sling at his horse’s side.
“Single combat! Lot of Lothian, I challenge you!”
Lot tossed his head. “I accept, you bastard!”
They rode to a spot in the field that was mostly c
lear of carnage and battle, and there they faced one another, their lances fewtered and strong. They charged at each other, their horses’ strides eating up great swaths of ground as they were propelled forward by excitement and fury. Arthur’s lance found Lot’s shield and shattered. Lot’s lance struck Arthur’s shield with full force and held, and it was all that the young High King could do to stay in the saddle. He rocked to the side and held on for dear life, his thighs straining and his shoulder objecting to the blow it had received. He tossed his ruined lance aside and pulled his sword. Lot laughed and turned, bringing his horse back so he could charge again.
He came on with murderous speed, pounding over the rain-slick grass. His lance struck Arthur’s shield again, and again somehow it held. The High King struck at the lance with his sword, his anger giving him strength. He cut the weapon in two as Lot raced past him.
Lot and Arthur turned their horses toward one another, bringing them into close quarters. Lot’s sword slashed down toward the crown of Arthur’s head, but he brought up his shield to block the blow just before it fell. He pushed Lot’s sword back and swung at him over the dropping blade, connecting with Lot’s pauldron but bouncing back off the armor and leaving the Norse-born king intact.
They did not separate. They slashed at one another, trying to get close enough to befoul their enemy’s range of motion while maintaining enough space for their own swords to be effective. It was a difficult and deadly dance, made more so by the slick and uneven ground. Every moment carried the threat of destruction.
Another flight of arrows streaked into the field, and both kings held their shields up over their heads to prevent themselves from being skewered. Lot took advantage of the moment and hit Arthur in the abdomen, aiming directly for his still-healing wound. Arthur grunted in pain at the impact and brought his shield back down, wondering how his enemy had known just where to strike. Lot grinned at him over the edge of his own shield.
“I’m going to kill you,” Lot threatened.
Arthur had no time for words. He glanced back at his men and saw that his columns were falling in upon themselves, forming one massed group, beginning to retreat along the old Roman road. He turned back toward Lot, catching flashes and images from the field as he moved. The standard of Lindum was in the mud, its bearer lying face down beside it. Gawain struck down a knight from Rheged, his lance piercing the man’s visor and splitting his head like ripe fruit. Ector directed the archers to fire. Foot soldiers contended with other foot soldiers, wrestling for position and chopping at each other with axes and short swords. It was pandemonium.
Arthur faced Lot and raised his sword. He shouted, “Morrigan!” A surge of energy and strength flushed through him, and he attacked, battering Lot with blow after blow, hacking at him and forcing the other king back. Lot’s grin was gone now, Arthur noted with satisfaction. He aimed his sword at Lot’s unwisely exposed face, and he nearly connected. Only a twisting dodge and a stumble by the Norse king’s horse saved him, but Arthur still cut deeply into his cheek. Lot roared in anger and pain and pulled back.
The dux bellorum took one more look at his people and saw that King Lot’s knights were pursuing his infantry as they retreated down the road. Arthur took a precious moment to swing his sword in a circle over his head, giving a signal to his men. Sir Constantine took command of the column and increased their speed as they retreated, running down the road toward Lindum.
Lot laughed at Arthur. “Your men are cowards! You do not deserve to be king!”
They clashed again, swords ringing against armor. Arthur’s blade cut the strap from Lot’s breast plate, and the armor piece began to sag, exposing his neck and clavicle. Arthur aimed at that little gift and tried to stab him, but Lot was fast, and his own sword glistened with rain as he brought a crashing blow down on Arthur’s leg. The sword went under the edge of his chain shirt and caught him hard, slashing the muscle on top of his thigh and cutting deeply. Blood gushed from the wound, the young king screamed, and Lot laughed triumphantly.
Arthur refused to be undone. He tossed his shield aside and pulled his misericord with his left hand, slashing with this sword and stabbing with the dagger. His horse pressed in, helping Arthur as he leaned to the side to attack. The dagger found the soft meat of Lot’s shoulder and pierced him deep. Lot’s blood burst out in a torrent, and the King of Lothian grabbed Arthur’s wrist, trying to wrest the blade loose. Lot was strong, but Arthur was stronger, and though he disengaged, he kept control of his weapon.
Behind him, he heard his army’s horns sounding retreat. They pelted down the Roman road, running between banks of heavy forest. Lot’s knights were in pursuit, with their infantry behind them. Lot laughed at Arthur again, despite the blood that poured down his chest.
“You’re losing, boy. Surrender to me now.”
Arthur did not dignify him with a response. Instead, he slashed at him with his sword, and when his enemy parried, he stabbed under Lot’s arm and caught him in the armpit where he was most vulnerable. Lot howled and pulled away, spurring his horse back toward the city.
The High King let him go. He turned and rode to his men as fast as he could, heading toward the gap between the trees. His men had reached the forest, and Lot’s forces were following them in. Arthur watched them entering the gap, and his heart pounded. It was time. He stood in his stirrups again, the movement made more difficult by the horrible wound in his leg, and he swung his sword over his head in a wide side-to-side arc. Ector saw and shouted to the men, and the horns blasted again.
At the sound of the signal, the forest burst to life with soldiers and knights as Ban led his army to strike the left flank and Bors led the forces of Gannes to hit the right. Farther down the road, the army of Estrangore emerged from the tree line, blocking the road and closing the bottleneck. Bagdemagus’s army closed over the road on the end of the forest nearest the city, and the forces of Eburacum, who had been leading the false retreat, suddenly stood to fight. Lot’s knights and foot soldiers found themselves boxed in, and the pipes skirled again.
Arthur’s knights bore down on Lot’s knights like divine judgment even as Arthur’s foot soldiers tore the enemy knights from their horses’ backs and flung them onto the ground. The soldiers fell upon the fallen riders with a fury. Blood flew. The screams of dying men filled Arthur’s ears as he rejoined the battle.
The quarters were close, and there were so many bodies crammed together in the confines of the road that it was difficult to see what was happening. All Arthur knew was that he was bleeding badly, but he was still fighting. He hacked and cut, slashed and stabbed, and man after man fell before him. The ground was wetter with blood than with the rain now, and the stench of it curdled in his nose. A raven flew over the road, dipping low over the writhing mass of infuriated men, and it dropped a pair of feathers into the middle of the battle. The feathers became burning missiles, and they destroyed a score of Lot’s men. The raven, Merlin in another shape, turned back for another pass and dropped two more feathers before he streaked off into the trees to keep watch for stragglers.
The fighting was turning desperate. Men forgot what they were fighting for and now tried just to stay alive. Scenes of slaughter and violence played out all around Arthur and down the length of the road. It was beautiful in the most terrible of ways.
The pipes went silent as the last piper was felled by an arrow, and the drums perched on Vinovia’s walls began to beat a different rhythm. The men of Lot’s forces broke ranks and ran into the wood, taking cover where their enemies had been lying in wait. Bedivere ordered his men to pursue them, and the chase was on. The war and its bloody killing and dying extended into the trees.
“King Arthur!”
He turned to face the voice, and his head swam with the motion. He was bleeding too much. A squire was riding toward him, but his vision was blurry and he could not discern the heraldry on the young man’s chest.
“King Arthur!” the squire said again, and this time he recognized the vo
ice. It was Owain.
“Nephew,” he said. He shook his head to clear it, but the attempt failed. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting you out of here,” the boy replied. He grabbed Arthur and pulled him onto his own horse, a lighter and swifter animal than Arthur’s own, and he turned and galloped as fast as he could go toward the healers’ tents. Arthur struggled to stay alert and awake, but he had lost too much blood, and he was unconscious before they reached his army’s camp.
Ector saw Owain bearing the king away, and with all of his heart, he urged the horse they rode to go faster. Save him, he thought, and the words had the quality of a prayer. He hoped that God heard.
His horse faltered, and he realized that it had been struck by an arrow from Lot’s archers. The animal sounded surprised, snorting when it stumbled. An opportunistic foot soldier rushed forward, his long-handled axe swinging wide. He brought the horse down the rest of the way, and Ector struggled to keep his leg from being pinned.
Another foot soldier appeared to his left, and another, and soon he was surrounded by grim-faced Lothians and Picts. They attacked him, some of their weapons bouncing off his armor, some of their blades biting deep. He tried to block a blow with his shield, but his withered left hand prevented him from holding it properly, and it was knocked away. A blade slashed at his mail, and he could hear rivets breaking.
His horse twitched as a man slaughtered it with a flail, and then Ector was being pulled away from the animal’s body, away from the saddle and into the thick of their throng. His sword was lost in the scuffle. He tried to protect himself with his arms, tried to kick at them with his legs, but it was all a blur of pain and blood and shouting.
