by J A Cummings
They managed to knock him flat onto his back, and a soldier with Norse blood stood over him with an axe, ready to strike the killing blow. From behind him, Ector heard the pounding hooves of a galloping horse, and then there was Brastias, swinging his sword in a brutal arc, murdering the soldier who meant to murder Ector. His old friend’s war horse kicked and stomped, then stood over Ector, protecting him with its body while Brastias fought the soldiers and chased them away.
When the attackers had retreated, Brastias dropped down from the saddle and knelt at Ector’s side. The fallen knight could see by the look in Brastias’s eyes that his story was nearing its end. He tried to take a deep breath, but he could feel the air whistling back out of his chest. He was wet with his own blood and he knew.
“Ector,” Brastias said, taking his hand. “Confess.”
He took a breath and tried to speak, but it was hard. “I repent me of my sins to the Lord God,” he gasped. He took another breath and pushed out more words. “Forgive me, brother.”
“You are forgiven,” Brastias said, tears in his eyes. He squeezed Ector’s hand. “Go to the bliss of Heaven.”
He had more that he needed to say, even as twilight began to fall. His pain was fading. “Arthur...I leave him to you… protect him and… Kay...”
Twilight turned to night, and everything was silence.
When Arthur woke, he was lying in his bed in the pavilion. The brazier was burning herbs, and the sweet-smelling smoke tickled his nose like incense. Merlin was sitting beside him, watching him sleep, and when he woke, the druid smiled.
“Welcome back,” he said. “You had us very concerned.”
Arthur tried to sit up, but his head was cloudy and he could not catch his balance. He lay back down. “Who took the day?”
“You did.”
He closed his eyes and said a brief prayer of thanks. “How many did we lose?”
“Seven hundred and forty-two men at arms and twelve knights, among them King Ban and his brother, King Bors.”
He winced. “And them? How many did they lose?”
“They lost over a thousand.” He bent over and pulled the blanket up, looking at Arthur’s wounds. “The first one just isn’t healing well, and the new one was nearly the end of you.”
“Where is Lot?”
“Retreated back to Din Eidyn with his army.”
He took a breath. “So he survived.”
“Yes. Caradoc Short-Arm, Carados, Huail and Prydain all fled the battlefield, but Caradoc was slain as he ran. Uriens and Carados were captured. Huail and his father have escaped.”
“Griflet?”
“Eating at the campfire with Brastias, Bedivere, Gawain and Owain.”
“I owe Owain my life.”
“Yes, you do,” he agreed.
“Where is my father?”
Merlin put the blanket down. The sudden halting quality of his demeanor filled Arthur with apprehension.
He asked again. “Merlin… where is Sir Ector?”
The druid sat back down beside him. “He fell.”
The blood drained from his face, and Arthur’s chest felt hollow. “What?” he whispered.
“He was pulled from his horse during the fight on the road, and he was slain.” Merlin delivered the bad news in a gentle voice, trying to cushion the blow, but the young king gasped as if he had been punched in the face.
“Oh, Jesus,” Arthur said, tears springing to his eyes and overflowing onto his cheeks. “Oh my God.”
“He fought bravely, but his old would hampered his ability to use a shield to best effect. He did not go easily.”
Arthur wept bitterly, and Merlin held him while he mourned. “Kay,” he finally gasped. “Someone has to tell Kay.”
“I sent a message to Verulamium to tell him. He is on his way here with Lionors.”
He nodded against Merlin’s chest and clutched the black robes in his hands, sobbing. There were no words to be said.
Arthur was confined to his bed by the severity of his wounds, and he lapsed in and out of consciousness for days. A lady he did not recognize brought him broth, and on one occasion, he woke up to see Merlin dozing quietly in a chair at his bedside. He was unable to stay awake, but he also didn’t really want to; wakefulness was painful, and he was bereft in the wake of his father’s death.
The next time he woke, he was no longer in his tent. He was lying in a wagon that was jostling him back and forth, rocking him like a canoe on a lake. He thought of Lake Bala near Caer Gai and his years growing up by its banks, and of the love and careful teaching he had received from Sir Ector. He had always loved Arthur and treated him better than he had to. He had truly been his father, not just a guardian.
He lay on his back with his eyes half-open, feeling a fever burning within him. His leg was a misery, the pain gripping his thigh like a vise. He could feel a tight dressing over the deep wound, and he wanted to loosen it, but he could not get his hands to move.
“You’re awake,” Griflet said. He scooted into view, his eyes tired and sad. He stroked Arthur’s hair back from his brow. “Your fever has broken. How do you feel?”
“Horrible,” he answered honestly. He closed his eyes tightly against an upswell of tears. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Griflet stretched out beside him, pulling him into his arms to comfort him. There was no way to ease the pain in his heart, but Arthur was grateful to his lover for trying. He tried to sit up, but the wound in his abdomen stabbed at him, and he winced and fell back.
“Where are we going?”
“Cameliard,” he said. “Your fighting season is over. Merlin says there’s someone there who can heal you, and so we’re taking you there.”
Arthur considered how Merlin could travel with just a thought, and he wondered aloud, “Why didn’t he take me himself instead of bothering with a cart?”
“I asked him that. He said he can’t take someone who’s dead.” He stopped, appalled with himself, and Arthur looked at him.
“My father’s body is traveling with us,” he said.
“Yes. Kay insisted that he be taken back to Caer Gai.”
Arthur sighed and nodded. “Father should be able to rest beside his wife again, at long last.” His voice caught as he choked on unshed tears, and he cleared his throat. “Is Kay all right?”
“Well… he’s devastated, like you are, and his ankle is still painful, but it seems to be healing well.” He smiled. “I think he’s in love with Lionors.”
“I know he is, or he thinks he is. Are Owain and Gawain with us?”
“No. They stayed in Eburacum with Prince Constantine.”
He touched Griflet’s face. “Are you unhurt?”
The young man’s green eyes softened, and he said softly, “I’m much better now that you’re awake. The only thing that hurt me was my worry.”
He leaned down and kissed Arthur’s lips gently, and Arthur returned the touch. The young king sighed. “What time is it?”
“Midday. We should be stopping to eat soon.”
He didn’t care about that. Food was the last thing on his mind. “How long…?”
“The battle was eight days ago. We’re almost at Cameliard.” He shifted to peek out of the cart, moving the fabric of the curtain aside. Brilliant light and an unpleasant smell rushed in through the crack he created. “I think I actually see the castle from here. It’s a lovely place, from what I see. The sun is really making its towers shine.”
He began to ask about the smell, but the horrid truth struck him at once. They were bearing Sir Ector back to Caer Gai for burial beside his wife, Lady Aelwen. It had been eight days since his father died, and it was the height of summer. He knew what happened to things that died and lay in the summer heat. The thought of that stench coming from the decomposing remains of his father undid him, and he lurched to vomit over the side of the cart, but his stomach was empty already. His wounds complained, and he fell back onto his pillow with a quiet cry.
; Griflet came to him immediately with a moist cloth and a soothing embrace. Arthur dissolved into tears once again and held his lover closer, burying his face in his chest. “He’s gone,” he sobbed. “My God, Griflet… I can’t… he was the best man in the world and I can’t do this without him.”
He held him tight, stroking his back and hair while Arthur cried. Finally, in a whisper, Griflet said, “You can, and you will, because Sir Ector would have wanted you to. He believed in you. You can be all the things Sir Ector was, because he taught you well. His spirit will be with you, Arthur, always. It doesn’t matter what god or gods you worship, they all teach this - the people who love us will always love us, before they die and after.”
The words were meant to be comforting, and in time they would be, but for now that was no succor for the agony of loss. Arthur cried until he could cry no longer, and then his swimming head and his battered body took control. He lost consciousness again, falling back into a fever and the weakness of lost blood.
They stopped an hour later, and Arthur had roused again. He lay staring as the cart rocked to a stop. The curtains opened, and Merlin climbed inside, a hopeful smile on his face.
“Ah! You’re awake.” He crouched beside him. “How are you feeling?”
“Well enough, I suppose,” he said quietly.
Merlin looked at him closely, and Arthur could practically feel the weight of his scrutiny. He said, “Your foster father was a good man. We all mourn him.”
Griflet mouthed, “The smell…”
Arthur saw and said, “You can speak out loud. I know my father’s body is… not doing well. You can’t hide it from me. I’m not a fool.”
Merlin cast a spell, and the stench vanished, replaced by the scent of flowers. “No one said that you were.”
“Let me get out of this cart.”
“No.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows. “No? I gave you an order as your king.”
“And as your doctor and chamberlain, I countermand that order. You’re staying here. You’re in no condition to walk.” Merlin shook his head. “Stubborn as always.”
He clenched his jaw, determined to prove the druid wrong. He rolled up onto his knees. Immediately pain and a devastating weakness lashed at him from his left thigh, and he fell forward into Merlin’s waiting hands.
“Stay here,” the druid commanded.
Arthur frowned. “I am only weak from not walking for days. I will be fine. Take me from this cart.”
“You are weak because your leg nearly got cut off, and because the muscle hasn’t healed. You’re also still weak from blood loss, and because you haven’t had more than broth in days. Do not fight me on this, Arthur. You will not win.”
The king wanted to resist him, but he knew that he was in no shape to combat anyone, let alone the most powerful magic user in all of Britannia. He sat back down. “Hmph.”
Merlin smiled. “Thank you. Griflet, bring us some food when it’s ready.”
Griflet looked at the king, then at the druid. “Yes, of course.”
“Thank you, Sir Griflet,” Arthur said, emphasizing his title for Merlin’s benefit. He lay back again, complaining, “I hate feeling like this.”
“It will improve, if you give it time.” He opened his bag and took out the supplies that he would need, then proceeded to remove the bandage holding Arthur’s leg wound closed. The linen strip was soaked with blood and other fluids, and the king looked at it in fascinated horror. An old poultice came last, hurting as it was pulled away from the wound, and Merlin flung it outside of the cart to land on the ground with a sickening splat.
Arthur risked a look at his injury. The cut was very, very deep and had received the attention of someone who wielded a needle and thread with small, precise stitches. The edges of the wound were dark and his leg was badly bruised and swollen around the cut. Merlin clicked his tongue as he looked at the damage King Lot had inflicted.
“That looks awful,” Arthur said.
“Yes, it does.” Merlin prepared another poultice of honey, comfrey and vinegar, and the stinking thing was pressed against the wound. Arthur groaned in protest, and Merlin ignored his reaction. He began to bandage the king’s thigh, holding the poultice in place and sealing the injury closed once again.
“Will I walk again?”
“I hope so. The top muscle is severed, but I am doing my best to keep it alive so that it will one day mesh. I will be honest, Arthur. This wound is beyond my skill to address. You need someone with greater healing ability than I have.”
“But I thought you could do anything,” he said sincerely. “You’re the most powerful druid alive.”
Merlin looked into his eyes and smiled. There was a warm softness in his gaze. “I’m glad you think so. There are many areas of magic where I am undisputedly strongest, but there are many other areas where I’m only an amateur. Healing is one of those. I have my herbalism, but beyond that? I’m useless.”
Arthur shook his head. “You could never be useless. Not to me.”
“Stop saying things like that,” Merlin said softly, looking away.
“I just want you to know how much I appreciate everything you do for me.” He took Merlin’s hand. “Your loyalty and friendship will not be forgotten.”
“Lie down and hush.” The druid gently pushed him back onto the pallet. “Let me look at that belly of yours.”
He lay back and held still as Merlin drew up the hem of the tunic he was wearing. The druid’s touch was gentle, but it was still an agonizing pressure. Merlin shook his head and pulled a long, slender knife out of his bag. Arthur’s eyes widened.
“What are you doing with that?”
“You have blood and fluid building up and making your body distend. I need to release some of it.”
“You’re going to stab me with that?”
“Yes, I am.”
He placed a wide-mouthed dish at Arthur’s side, then pressed the tip of the knife into his flesh, just above the original wound. Arthur groaned. Merlin pushed his hands down around the opening he had made in Arthur’s side, and hot fluid gushed out into the bowl. The king closed his eyes in distress and muttered, “That’s so disgusting.”
Merlin nodded. “Yes, it is. You’re infected. That’s part of why it’s bloating so badly.”
He couldn’t help but hear the concern in his friend’s voice, and it made him nervous. “Am I dying?”
“Not if we can get you to Cameliard in the next few hours.”
Griflet came clambering back into the cart, an earthenware bowl in his hands. He stopped short when he saw what Merlin was doing. “Jesus wept!” he swore.
“Did you bring food?” the druid asked, not looking up from his work.
“Yes. It’s not much, mostly barley and a little meat and broth, but it’s something to keep body and soul together for a little while.” He peered into the bowl that Merlin was holding. “That’s horrid.”
“Put the food down. He’ll eat as soon as I’m finished here.”
Arthur shook his head. “I don’t feel like eating.”
Griflet sat at his other side, opposite from Merlin. “Don’t be stupid. You most certainly are eating, because you have to keep up your strength.”
The druid finally stopped pressing on his abdomen and Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. Merlin examined the contents of the bowl, then dumped it onto the ground outside the cart. He applied more of the poultice and more bandages to the wound he’d just made and the one it had been meant to help. Once Merlin was done with his ministrations, Griflet moved closer and spoon-fed Arthur from the bowl he had brought. He had little appetite, but he did his best.
He could hear the sounds of someone approaching, walking with a limp. There was a light tap on the side of the cart, and then the curtain parted and Kay looked in. He looked sad and tired, and dark circles shadowed his eyes. He had not shaved and his face was a forest of stubble.
“Arthur,” he said, sounding pleasantly surprised. “You’r
e awake.”
He reached out a hand to his foster brother, and Kay took it. Arthur said, “Are you well?”
“Truthfully? No.” Kay smiled ruefully. “Are you?”
He sighed and answered honestly, “No.”
Kay leaned against the side of the cart, taking weight off of his injured ankle. “I never thought he could die. Foolish, isn’t it? I know Father was just a mortal man like all the rest of us, but I just somehow never believed anything could happen to him.” His eyes brimmed with tears, but he blinked them away. “I don’t know how I’ll get by without him.”
He could have said the same thing, but this was the time when his brother needed him to be strong. “We’ll get by because we have each other,” Arthur said, squeezing his brother’s hand. “We’ll always have each other.”
Kay gave a shadow of his usual smile. “Agreed.”
“Is Lionors with you?”
“Yes, she accompanied me. She insisted that I still needed someone to care for me along the road.” He looked sheepish. “I managed, for the most part, but…”
“But it was nice to have her along,” Merlin finished for him.
“Well, yes.”
“Does she like you as much as you like her?” Arthur asked.
Kay blushed and shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. I think so. Maybe. She certainly acted that way in Verulamium. Since we reached Lindum, though, she’s been a little more distant.”
“Verulamium to Lindum to Eburacum is a long trip,” Merlin counseled. “She’s perhaps weary from the travel.”
“Perhaps.” He looked toward the front of the cart, then said, “We’re going to get moving again. Try to rest.”
Kay closed the curtain and limped away. Merlin and Griflet sat near Arthur, and with a jerk, the cart began to roll forward once again. Arthur lay quietly, listening to the crunch of the wheels on the road and trying to figure out which part of him hurt the most. He was weary to his bones, and the rocking of the cart worked against his efforts to stay awake. He fell back into a deep sleep.
They reached Cameliard at dusk. Arthur was lost once more in delirium, and Merlin worried that they might have arrived too late. He had the porters and Sir Kay stay with Sir Ector’s body on the castle green while he and the others rode ahead.
