by J A Cummings
“I would support that. I will have my heralds send notice to all of your commanders.”
Kay snorted and muttered, “What commanders?”
Merlin narrowed his eyes at the knight. “Speak up if you have something to say, Sir Kay.”
He took a breath. “What commanders, sire?” he asked Arthur. “Sir Bedivere, Sir Brastias maybe… and who else? In truth, brother, you have no army.”
Bedivere nodded. “It is a valid question. Gurgurest is on no one’s side but his own, and the same is true of Constantine. Kings Ban and Bors both fell outside Eburacum, and their kingdoms have been conquered by Claudas and the Franks. God only knows what happened to their sons. Sir Ulfius is dead. Sir Ector is… well...” He looked into Arthur’s eyes. “Kay is right. You don’t have many commanders left, I’m afraid.”
The king shook his head. “No. Don’t underestimate the loyalty of our people. They will come when we call. Don’t forget about Sir Maelgwas from Lindum, King Leodegrance and old King Bagdemagus. We can also call upon Fergus Mor Mac Eirc and the faery forces from Dal Riada. Further, Marcus Cunomorus in Cornwall is my relative, and I believe he will come as well. King Pellinore of Norgalis can be called upon, and possibly the forces of King Pellam and his brother, King Pelles of Corbenic. We are close enough that all of Cambria can be called upon, and they will come. I know they will.”
Bedivere looked unconvinced, but Arthur’s absolute faith in the honor of his people was having an effect upon him. He said, “Well, then, we’ll send the word and see who comes to answer the call.”
“They all will,” Arthur said confidently. “They all will.”
Merlin left the keep before Accolon returned with word from the kitchen. Braised meats and grainy breads were not the kind of food he required. He had neglected himself by staying close to Arthur, protecting and working with him during the long stay in Ceredigion. He had consumed the sexual energy that the king and his sea nymph left lingering everywhere they went, but it was not enough. He was an incubus. He needed souls.
He took himself with the last of his magic to a rocky island far north of Lothian. An ancient village, half-covered by sea and sand, poked its head at him, and he could remember it as it was, teeming with life and filled with families and fishermen. Those days had passed long ago. There had been a woman here, a kindly, buxom lady with soft dark eyes and wildly curling raven hair. She had shown him kindness, and he had consumed her soul in return. She had the distinction and the poor luck to be the first human being he encountered after his escape from Hell. He still bore a kernel of her in his heart.
There was a boat on the shore, and three fishermen were struggling against the waves to put out to sea. They had gotten a late start if they meant to retrieve a full net from the deep.
“It’s late in the day to go to sea,” he told them in Gaelic, strolling down the strand toward them. They looked up, surprised and startled, and the youngest of them flicked his eyes from Merlin to the ancient town behind him.
“We needed to repair our nets,” the oldest said, speaking the same tongue but with the hard Orkney accent. “They tore against the rocks.”
“You’ll be too late to catch many fish.”
“The fish are plentiful. We will find enough of them,” the third fisherman said.
Merlin stopped beside their boat, his hand on its lip, and smiled. “Have we three generations here? Grandfather, father and son?” The men looked at one another. His hunger left him cloaked in threats and he knew that they believed he was a ghost from Skara Brae. He smiled and compelled them with magic in his voice. “Tell me.”
The youngest, the one with the weakest mind, spoke. “Yes.”
“Delightful.” He smiled, thinking of the devastation he was about to wreak. His hunger roared.
“Get out of the way,” the father said, pushing the boat. “We have work to do.”
“Not yet.” He closed his hand and stopped the boat from moving, his grip stronger than the three humans together. They gaped at him.
With a smile, he advanced upon the one who stood nearest to him, the grandfather. The man watched him suspiciously, and Merlin put a hand out, touching him on the arm.
“I am a druid. Would you like to receive the blessing of Manannan Mac Lir?” When they tentatively nodded, too cowed by him to refuse, he smiled again. “Kneel before me.”
The three men haltingly did as he bade, settling on their knees in the wet sand. He guided them closer to each other until their shoulders touched. When he was satisfied, he nodded.
“Good. Now close your eyes and receive the power of the gods.”
They bent their heads in reverence to their great god of the sea, and Merlin rested his hands on the heads of the grandfather and the father. He pushed the two against the son, and then, when he could feel their energies commingling, he opened his eyes and his mouth and pulled. Their souls came free with an almost audible rip and dove into his body, bright beaming lights that vanished into the darkness deep within his spirit. As he consumed them, he gained their memories, their talents, and their names, and he swallowed it all, his heart pounding, power and stolen life surging through his veins. He raised his eyes toward the heavens, to where he imagined the God of Ages watching him in fury and disapproval, and he laughed.
The bodies dropped onto the sand beside the boat, and he left them where they lay.
The word went out across the land that war was once again upon Britannia, and as Arthur had believed, his people responded to his call. Phalanxes of men and scores of cavalry came to Viroconium from the west, the east and the south, and a party of Gaulish mercenaries from Durnovaria came marching to do their part. Brastias brought men from the center of Logres, and by the time the fighting forces were assembled, they numbered three legions strong. Arthur greeted each commander as he arrived, and Bedivere and his servants did what they could to make the men comfortable. Viroconium began to resemble the Roman garrison town it once had been, with soldiers and horses and the machines of war clogging the city and encamped in orderly rows outside the walls. Arthur’s army was assembled before the last full moon of winter, and before Easter came, they were on the move.
The snow was still on the ground when they reached Eburacum, and Gurgurest met Arthur at the gate. “Arthur Pendragon,” he greeted as he stood above the gate itself, his position protected by crenellations, “welcome back to my city.”
Beside the High King, Merlin, who had never quite overcome his foul temper despite feeding his hunger, sneered. “His city...”
“Many thanks, King Gurgurest,” Arthur responded. “I am delighted to see you well. Kindly open your gates to us.”
The king was joined on the parapet by Prince Constantine, who looked greasy, fat and smug. He had evidently spent his winter eating very well. Gurgurest smiled. “I’m afraid not.”
Merlin spat something in a harsh tongue that Arthur did not speak, and he peered up at his vassal in disbelief. “What did you say?”
“I said, I will not open this gate for you. Lot is coming, and you will be ground into dust between his might and my city walls.”
Brastias, who had been riding on Arthur’s other side, glared up at Gurgurest. “Traitor!” he shouted. “I will end you in single combat!”
The king of Eburacum sniffed. “I am a king. I do not accept challenges from lowly soldiers.”
While Brastias fumed, Arthur turned to Merlin. “Scry for me and see where Lot’s army is now.”
The druid summoned his mirror and cast his spell. He studied the images that he could see in his glass, and he frowned. “Lot’s army has begun to march, but they are still in Lothian. The Danes, Rheged, Gododdin and the outlaws from the Highlands ride with them. There are also multiple Danish ships joining with an Irish fleet, and they are heading for Cornwall and Lyonesse.” He looked up from his mirror. “You are betrayed, and you are beset.”
“What outlaws?”
“The Dogs’ Heads, under the murderer Gwrgi Garwylwd. He
and his band of fifty killers and thieves, exiled from Powys, have joined with Lot.”
Arthur pressed his lips together in irritated thought, then said, “Bedivere, take the army and set up along that ridge line north of the city. Use the terrain for your defense, and hold the line. Keep scouts alert and watching for Lot and his Danes. Brastias, select two hundred of the stoutest fighters from our army and have them come here to me directly. We ride for Cornwall tonight, and hopefully we can arrive before those ships. And as for Eburacum…” He glared up at Gurgurest, who was laughing at him. “I will see those walls taken down brick by brick and Gurgurest hanged for treason.”
King Bagdemagus nodded. “Leave Eburacum to me and mine, my lord. He will not be laughing for long.”
Within the hour, Brastias returned to Arthur’s side. “The chosen men have been assembled, sire,” he reported.
“Excellent.”
Arthur, Brastias and Merlin rode to where the men were assembled and waiting. The soldiers looked up with pride and anticipation as their king came to speak to them, and Arthur scanned their faces. He had seen most of these men before, both in the camp and on the battlefield. They had served him bravely, and some had even been campfire companions, although they did not know him at the time. He was satisfied with Brastias’ choices.
“My friends,” the king began, “we are needed in Cornwall. The Danes and the Irish are sending raiding parties to harry Britannia, and we cannot allow them to gain a foothold on our western lands while we are still confronting Lot’s rebellion in the north and the Saxons on our eastern shores. They must be stopped. You have been chosen for this mission because you are the best of our men. You and I will be going to Cornwall to head off this invasion while the rest of the army faces Lot. We will defeat the Danes and the Irish. We will send them back, bloodied and bowed, and we will secure our western shore. Then, when we are victorious, we will come back here and finish the work the rest of our army has begun.”
He paused and tried to gauge the reactions of the men. Their expressions were widely varied, and some were difficult to read. He hoped that they would be with him. Arthur took a breath and continued.
“It is a long, hard ride to Cornwall, and many of you are infantry and have no horses. I will see that you are well supplied with horses for the journey. We will be the worst surprise the Danes and Irish have ever had. Are you with me?” The men shouted and nodded in assent, and he was satisfied. He called to Brastias. “Bring these men some horses.”
From the horizon, a knight in heavily scratched and dented armor, his helmet crowned with a red crest of horsehair, rode toward the king. He saluted him, and Arthur returned the gesture. “Permission to speak, Your Majesty.”
“Granted.”
“I am Sir Diffydell. I serve with Constantine’s Armoricans, but I was born in Powys. I am Cambrian, like you. I have spoken with my men, and we will not rebel with Constantine. We will serve you as our rightful lord. You have our steel and our lives for as long as they last.”
Arthur rode closer so that he could clasp Diffydell’s arm. “I welcome you with joy. Your loyalty is a great delight to me, and a credit to you and to your men. Do you bring a phalanx?”
“Sir,” Diffydell said, “I bring an army.”
Arthur beamed and leaned over to embrace the startled knight. “My thanks,” he said. “I cannot tell you what this means to me.”
“We serve you, our High King.” He saluted again. “It is our honor.”
“Join Sir Bedivere’s Viroconians at the ridge line, and form secondary lines behind him. You truly are a godsend.”
Diffydell bowed to him and backed his horse three paces, as if they were in a throne room and he was following royal protocol. Arthur nodded to him, and the soldier cantered off, going back to what had been Constantine’s army and was now his.
Arthur turned back to his chosen men. They were being provided with horses from the rest of the army, and soon all two hundred were mounted and ready to ride. The High King looked at them in grim satisfaction.
“To Cornwall,” he said, “and victory!”
They rode hard, covering as much distance as they could with as much speed as they could muster, resting only when they had no other choice. Merlin did what he could to keep their horses and men from exhaustion, extending his druidic powers to their limits. At the end of five days, they reached the rocky promontory of Marcus Cunomorus’s stronghold, Tintagel. The garrison responded with predictable, and to Arthur’s thinking completely understandable, hostility and alarm when the two hundred unknown riders approached the castle. The defenders raced out to meet the newcomers with their weapons at the ready, prepared to do battle. Brastias rode forward under a flag of truce and stopped between the two groups of fighting men.
“We are friends,” he said. “I am Sir Brastias of Mons Badonicus, and this is High King Arthur Pendragon. We are here to help defend against the invaders.”
The commander of the garrison, a knight whose armor had been painted red, held up his hand to stay his men from their aggression. “I am Sir Melodias,” he said. “Your intercession is welcome. I will escort the king to King Mark.”
Brastias nodded. “I will attend,” he said firmly.
“As you wish.”
The knight from Mons Badonicus beckoned Arthur forward, and they were led into the fortress that was Tintagel. As he crossed the narrow bridge and through the gates, Arthur could well imagine why Uther had needed to turn to Merlin’s magic to make it through to Igraine. The castle seemed nearly impregnable by normal means. It was also heavily populated by soldiers and knights, kerns and archers, all of them assembled and awaiting their king’s orders. At the head of the throng, sitting astride a gleaming white charger and dressed in blue-traced armor, sat Marcus Cunomorus, whom the Dumnonians called King Mark. His Roman nose and beardless face made his Latin origins clear, as did the masculine musculature forged into his breastplate’s form. He even wore an old Roman centurion’s leather skirt as a protection over his trousered legs, and his helmet bore the elaborate red crest of a Roman officer. It was as if he had stepped out of history.
King Mark saw them approaching, and he recognized the dragons on Arthur’s standard, which fluttered in Sir Griflet’s hand. Mark’s mouth opened in shock that he quickly concealed. He bowed his head to the approaching High King as the Dumnonian army made space for him.
Sir Melodias said to King Mark, “Sire, the High King has come to lend his aid.”
“Your arrival is timely,” Mark responded to Arthur. “Three ships of Danes and five of the Irish have landed and have taken Caer Guiden in Lyonesse, and Rivalen, the king of that country, has been slain. We march to prevent them from crossing into Cornwall.”
“Are they continuing north?” Brastias asked.
Mark nodded sharply and said, “They mean to take the whole of Dumnonia. I have been fighting the Irish all my life, and that has ever been their aim. As for the Danes, this is the first time they have landed here.”
Arthur said firmly, “And it will be the last. They will find no kind welcome. Ready your men - we march south to meet them.”
“How many do you bring, sir?” Mark asked. “There are hundreds of invaders and I will need many men to even the score.”
“I have brought two hundred.”
“We need more.”
“This is enough.”
Mark’s dark, bushy eyebrows knit together over his prominent nose. “With all respect, King Arthur, you have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. We need a thousand to defeat them.”
“You have three hundred here of your own troops, and two hundred of mine,” Arthur objected. “I tell you, it is enough.”
The king of Cornwall chewed the inside of his mouth in agitation, and when he spoke, his voice was a hiss and his teeth were reddened with his own blood. “My lord, I disagree.”
“Your objection has been noted.” Arthur’s voice was cold, and he had no intention of suffering any more
dissent. He knew what his men could do, and he had faith in them. He also knew that if he’d taken any more from his forces at Eburacum, they would have difficulty holding off Lot’s army. “I am in command, and this is my order. You may follow it, or I will take this castle and all of its lands as my own. Am I understood?”
The men around him murmured, and Mark chewed his cheek again. Finally, he said, “I obey.”
“Good.” Arthur nodded to Brastias. “Prepare the men to march.”
The knight turned to follow his orders, and Arthur looked at Mark. “You are the nephew of Queen Igraine.”
“Yes. I was born to her sister, the princess Dahut.”
“Our mothers were the daughters of the Dumnonian chieftain.”
“Yes. What has this to do with anything?”
“I was told you were my cousin, but I was uncertain how you fit into the puzzle of succession,” Arthur answered levelly. “I want to know who you are, and whether you would have anything to gain from my death.”
Mark looked affronted. “You think that I might strike you down to take your throne?”
The High King smiled thinly. “Accidents happen, Marcus Cunomorus, do they not?”
“The title of High King has passed from Constantine I, the last Roman emperor of Britannia, through your father’s line. It is of no concern to me.” He spat blood upon the ground. “I will not strike you down in treachery, Your Majesty. It would gain me nothing.”
“Then I am reassured.”
They rode through the gates together, and Mark told Arthur quietly, “You may have been born in Tintagel, but you have no idea what Cornwall is like, where the rocks fall away or how hard the geography can be at the shore. Allow me to lead this defense.”
He had expected this suggestion, and given that King Mark knew nothing at all about him, he couldn’t fault him for having made it. He smiled. “What defense? We’re going on the offensive.”
The Cornish king stared. “You’re mad.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I suppose time will be the judge.”
