Pendragon

by James Wilde

  His right arm clamped around the man’s neck, he heaved him back and up so his feet were kicking, though no sound escaped his lips. Straining, Bellicus held him tight until the thrashing had ceased, and then he dumped the body among the ruins of the shelter. Turning, he loped towards the lights.

  Erca’s tent would be in the centre of the camp. Catia would be there, and an army between him and her.

  Drawing his sword, he slowed when he could make out individual tents. Lucanus and the others would have made short work of the other lookouts by now, but it would only take one barbarian peering out from the camp and seeing movement to raise the alarm.

  They would come from four directions, that was the plan. If one of them was discovered, that man would flee, drawing the rest of Erca’s army and leaving the others to do their best to get to Catia. He had heard worse plans, but not many.

  And if they were all seen?

  Best not to think about that.

  And in that moment, he realized the truth in what one-eyed, one-handed Loca the Brave had told him when he was a boy: the gods liked to laugh and their jokes were cruel.

  That rain, that terrible, relentless rain that had been crashing down for a day and a half, stopped. Gone in an instant. The storm that had been holding overhead to punish them moved away. In its place there was silence.

  Bellicus heard a burst of laughter. A cheer. Voices calling. The camp coming to life.

  And then the clouds swept away, and the full moon came out, and the whole landscape lit up as bright as day.

  Lucanus watched the world become silver. It was as if the gods had turned the lamp of their gaze upon him and him alone. In his head, he could feel the tidal pull of the toad’s-stool. The howl of Cernunnos, deep in the primal forest, echoed through his skull. The black wings of the Morrigan’s crows crashed around the edges of his vision.

  He was Pendragon, and his enemies would bow to his will.

  A cry echoed from the camp, then another, and another. One of them had been seen, or all of them.

  Lucanus pulled out Caledfwlch. Perhaps it was the effect of the fungus, but the blade fairly glowed in the moonlight, limned with a blue light, and the runes carved on to the bronze seemed as if they would rise out of the metal and speak to him, if only he could understand.

  The sword of the gods, the power of the gods.

  He felt no fear; he felt nothing except a fierce determination. He would not shrink from battle. The Dragon’s fire would smite his enemies down.

  With a roar, he ran across the grassland towards the camp. He heard his battle-cry picked up by Bellicus and Solinus and Comitinus.

  Lucanus watched the barbarians begin to emerge from the circle of tents. Some were laughing. They drew their swords half-heartedly, swinging them from side to side as if they were preparing to spar with a child.

  As he ran, he put his head back and howled his wolf’s cry. Long and low and haunting, it rolled out across the grasslands, across the river, until it reached the edges of the great forest.

  In answer to it, the white shapes emerged from the graves where they had been lying since dark fell, luminous in the light of the full moon. Pulling themselves up on two feet, they turned towards the camp.

  Lucanus could see the hesitation in his enemies as they were gripped by the sight. The swords stopped their swinging. Feet ground to a halt. He imagined the thoughts rushing through their heads as they tried to make sense of what lay before their eyes.

  And then the realization came, to every man at the same time, or so it sounded, as a gasp that seemed like the exhalation of a waking beast rustled across the still grasslands.

  As one, the Attacotti drew their swords and swept towards their former allies.

  Though there were only five of them, fear gripped the barbarians. Lucanus watched them lurch back towards their tents, lowering their shoulders and turning their heads in a desperate search for reassurance from their brothers that these terrible, terrifying warriors could not, would not, have turned upon them.

  Lucanus smiled to himself as he ran. He remembered how they had dragged the captured Attacotti back to their own camp. Those white-crusted warriors did not fear death, but they still had their own strange needs and desires. Myrrdin had bargained with them in their own tongue deep into the night. What the wood-priest had promised them Lucanus did not know, but in the end they had agreed to change sides. Now they were ten against fifty.

  A clamour erupted in the camp as the barbarians rushed to defend themselves. In an instant, a tall, broad-shouldered Scoti warrior with a broken nose loomed in front of Lucanus, slashing with his long sword.

  Remembering everything his father had taught him, Lucanus ducked beneath the arc of the blade. He sensed it flash by just above the wolf pelt over his head, and then he was thrusting up, ramming his own sword into the man’s gut and ripping it towards his chest.

  Blood showered. The Wolf didn’t slow his step, throwing the dying man to one side, but as he looked up he saw that one of the Attacotti had already fallen. The weight of numbers was beginning to tell, and the Scoti were growing more confident. They smelled victory.

  Mato pushed himself up at the river’s edge where he had been hiding and peered over the lip of the bank. The furious yells and screams told him everything he needed to know: their attempt to creep into the camp undetected had already failed.

  When he had watched the full moon come out from behind the bank of clouds, he had known it was only a matter of time, but he was still surprised by the speed of discovery.

  Now he had to play his part.

  He clawed his way out on to the marshy ground edging the rushing grey waters and squelched towards the camp. He was no good with a sword, however much he tried, and Lucanus had spared him an early death. But sneaking through the shadows, that he could do.

  As he neared the tents, he could smell the musky scent of the horses and hear their neighs and snorts and the stamping of their hooves. They were frightened by the din of battle. That was good.

  At the pen, he tore down the fence of branches and untethered the lines of mounts. Shouting and clapping his hands, he whipped the animals into a fever and herded them towards the camp. They thundered among the tents, tearing them down, and screams echoed from warriors who had fallen under their hooves, just as he had hoped.

  The confusion would help, but it was only the start. They needed more if they wanted to snatch anything from this night.

  Turning, he looked deep into the night, waiting and praying. He need not have worried. Amarina had been true to her word.

  The first flight of arrows whined through the air, punching into the barbarians as they fled the maddened horses. Mato smiled. What a strange and ramshackle army they were.

  Now he could just make out the forest folk, nocking arrows to their hunting bows as they emerged from the dark. Lucanus had been right – they looked more like beasts than men with their wild hair and beards, hunched and restless, their ragged clothes flapping around them like ravens’ wings.

  Mato sensed movement. A figure rose up from the ground beside him and he cried out, spinning away. As he tumbled on to his arse, he looked up at a towering figure and felt his heart thunder. In the Wilds he had sensed the enemy from miles away, yet here he had not even known a man was practically close enough to touch.

  In the moonlight, the figure all but glowed emerald. Mato felt a surge of relief when he took in the armour, and the shield, and the bronze sword.

  Without any greeting, the Lord of the Greenwood bounded towards the tents, swinging his sword as he ran, carving into a barbarian’s ribcage with such force that it almost lifted the man off the ground.

  Mato looked around, unable to restrain a smile of disbelief. The forest people were close now, circling the camp. Shafts punched into flesh and bone. Like his brothers, he had had doubts about Amarina, but it was she who had begged for the aid of the Lord of the Greenwood, and his followers had answered. They knew the Pendragon title, understood
what it meant, and now Mato was beginning to realize it too.

  As he watched the barbarians fall, he felt some hope rising, however thin. The tide of battle was beginning to turn.

  ‘What madness is this?’

  Erca drew his sword and stood in the entrance to the tent. A riderless mount thundered by and he recoiled a step.

  Catia crouched in the centre of the space, listening to the din whirling outside. Screams and battle-cries, the clash of blades and the whinnying of frightened horses. Every fibre of her was on fire.

  She watched Erca and Logen trying to make sense of the confusion in the dark. When the first warning had rung out that the Grim Wolves had been seen, the Scoti leader had laughed. ‘Five men,’ he had said. ‘What threat can they pose?’

  She smiled to herself. Now his face was like thunder and he muttered feverishly to the rat-faced man who seemed to be his second in command.

  The guard loomed over her, but he was distracted by the battle out in the night, she could tell. What need did he have to keep an eye on a mere woman?

  Catia smiled again.

  When a horse crashed against the side of the tent, almost bringing it down, she was ready. She rammed her fist into the guard’s groin. He doubled up, falling back.

  Thrusting upright, she raced past Erca and Logen, who had reeled away from the entrance of the tent. Their furious yells boomed at her back, but she kept on running as fast as she could, perhaps as fast as Mato, past the tents, dodging a careering horse, out to the edge of the camp.

  The moonlight illuminated a scene of carnage. Blood puddled the ground and dead and dying barbarians sprawled everywhere.

  An arrow whisked by her head a finger’s length away, and after her heart had stopped pounding she muttered thanks to the gods for her good fortune. To die then, when she was so close to escape, would have been too unjust.

  Hoping that whoever was loosing the arrows could see she was not an enemy, Catia dashed past the line of corpses. Two men waited ahead, and she felt a surge of relief when saw it was Lucanus and Bellicus. Their swords dripped blood as they stood over fallen foes. At first Lucanus seemed not to see her. He had a faraway look in eyes that seemed blacker than ever, but then the daze cleared, a grin crept to his lips and he called her name. She was surprised at how her heart leapt when she heard it.

  ‘Witch.’

  She whirled. The word had been laced with acid and given force with fury, and it could only have been directed at her.

  Staggering across the grassland was Amatius. She thought how wild-eyed he looked, his hair flying up from his head, his cloak covered with dirt as if he had been sleeping in a ditch. But then she saw he was not alone and she felt a flood of fear.

  Marcus was clasped to his chest. Catia could see her son thrashing, terrified, unable to comprehend what his father was doing to him. Amatius’ face was filled with the terrible fury Catia had seen a thousand times, and she knew what it portended.

  ‘No,’ she screamed. ‘Take him away.’

  ‘Have the boy,’ he roared, not to her, but, she knew, to the barbarians who were closing on her back. ‘I did not sire him. He is a bastard. A sign of my wife’s treachery. Take him.’

  Catia struggled to comprehend what Amatius was saying. How could he believe that he was not Marcus’ father? But then she saw him glare at Lucanus and she knew that he’d been consumed by the monstrous jealousy that had always hunched inside him, a jealousy she’d long recognized but had ignored, like a fool.

  ‘No.’ Her voice was a dying croak. She held out a hand to her husband, pleading. ‘He is yours. I swear it.’

  Feet thundered at her back. Erca, no doubt, and Logen, coming to end all hope. She could see from his granite face that her husband would not back down.

  Spinning to Lucanus, she yelled, ‘Save Marcus. I beg you. Save him.’ When he hesitated, she shouted, ‘Forget me. End this battle. Save him.’

  Amatius seemed to jerk to his senses at the sound of her exhortation. ‘No,’ he bellowed. ‘I will not be defeated.’ He turned and ran into the night, hauling Marcus with him.

  Three sharp whistles rang out – Lucanus’ signal to his men – and then her love was racing after her husband with Bellicus close at his heels. From across the camp, the sound of battle ebbed away.

  Catia felt hands grab her arms. She didn’t care. Watching the disappearing wolves, she prayed harder than she ever had that all would be made right.

  Logen began to pull her back to what remained of the camp, but Erca stood his ground, glowering as he stared into the dark. Somehow Motius was there too.

  ‘Follow them,’ Erca commanded the Crow. ‘See where they take the boy. Bring him back to me, whatever it takes.’

  ‘Is there any sign of him?’ Amarina snapped.

  Decima shook her head, her eyes flickering with fear that she might feel the lash of her mistress’s tongue. And she should be afraid, Amarina thought, simmering. She had charged her and Galantha to watch over the boy. The old man and the cripple could not be trusted to protect so valuable a prize. But still Amatius had snatched him, rushing from the trees like a wild beast to beat both women to the ground with his fists.

  ‘There.’ Galantha was pointing to the edge of a copse on the bank of the river not far away.

  In the moonlight, Amarina could just make out Amatius lurching into the trees, the boy grasped in his arms. Further along the grassland, two other figures were following. She squinted and thought they were Lucanus and Bellicus.

  ‘Come,’ she said, leaning on her makeshift crutch as she started towards them. ‘You’re too weak,’ Decima objected, trying to hold her back.

  Amarina glared. ‘If that cockless cur has any wits, he will be able to escape along the riverbank before they can stop him. Now keep your tongue still and do as you are told. Run to Lucanus. Tell him Amatius is in the copse.’ She turned to Galantha. ‘Help me. We’ll do what we can to slow his escape.’

  As Decima ran off, Amarina hobbled as fast as she could towards the trees, holding on to Galantha with her free hand and ignoring the barbs of pain in her wounds. It was only a spear’s throw to the copse, but it seemed like a day’s march. Somehow she found herself on the edge of the trees. From the depths of the grove she could hear low juddering sobs.

  Amarina let go of Galantha’s arm and pressed her finger to her lips. She was weak, but she could still hold a pathetic coward like Amatius at bay. She pulled her knife from the folds of her dress, enjoying the feel of the deer-horn handle her father had carved.

  She could hear the sound of running feet coming from the grassland. This bastard’s day was done. She lurched forward into the heart of the thicket.

  Amatius knelt in a shaft of moonlight. His head was tilted back, his eyes were shut, and tears streaked the grime on his cheeks. Marcus lay across his lap.

  Amarina felt a sudden terrible fear. The boy’s body was limp, his head lolling at an odd angle. A broken neck.

  Fear turned into a rush of emotion: bewilderment that this man could take the life of his own son, fury at all that Amatius was, despair for all that had been lost, and finally an abiding grief for the boy, for Marcus.

  Lucanus crashed into the copse. Amarina blinked away tears and watched the same trail of emotions cross his face. He slumped against a tree, his sword falling limply to his side, his lips moving soundlessly as he tried to give voice to all the confusion inside him.

  The boy had been like a son to him, she knew that. But he would be feeling, too, for Catia, if she still lived. And laid upon that deep well of grief was another loss, one that affected every man and woman in the land. The prophecy was a lie. The king who would not die would now never be born. Who then could lead them out of the dark?

  She sensed movement on the other side of the copse and saw Bellicus appear behind the sobbing husk of a man. Amarina saw him take in the tableau in an instant. Cold judgement clouded his face.

  With a swing of his sword, he took Amatius’ head.

&nb
sp; Catia craned her neck round, desperately hoping to see some sign out in the night that would tell her Marcus was safe. All around her, the barbarians staggered through the ruins of their camp, trying to make sense of how they had lost so much to a band of beggars and thieves and farmers. She could smell the iron tang of blood on the wind.

  Logen kept a grip on her wrist while Erca strode among his men, trying to bring order. Barely more than twenty had survived. Under other circumstances this would have been a great victory for Lucanus and the Lord of the Greenwood, but for Catia all that mattered was the fate of her son. Why had Lucanus fought to rescue her? Why had he not fled with Marcus, as she had hoped and prayed?

  She watched Motius of the Carrion Crows dart back into the camp and her heart leapt. But he did not have Marcus with him.

  He bowed his head to Erca and for a moment they whispered together, then both of them turned to look at her. In that stare, she read everything that she feared, and she felt the world fall away from her.

  As if from a great distance, she heard Erca calling out to his men, ‘Round up the horses. We are done with this place. We ride back to the army tonight.’

  She felt as if hands were round her throat, choking the life from her. She watched the barbarian leader walk up to her without really seeing him.

  She heard his words as if from the depths of a well, and she wanted anger or hatred in them, but she heard only sadness and that was the worst of all.

  ‘You will come with us now,’ he said.

  Lucanus finished pounding the earth upon the shallow grave he, Bellicus and Mato had clawed out with their own hands. A circle of moonlight shone upon it. Marcus had been interred, with tears and muttered prayers to the gods, and what remained of Amatius had been dragged off to the edge of the copse and left for the wolves to consume.

  He felt drained of all emotion, numb to the very bone.

  At last, he looked up as Comitinus ran into the thicket. ‘The barbarians are riding north, what’s left of them,’ he gasped, breathless.

  ‘Whipped and frightened, tails between their legs,’ Solinus said. Blood speckled his face and soaked one side of his cloak, though not his own by the looks of it.