by J A Cummings
“He was here long enough to catch some fish, but they’ve been sitting here in the sun and they stink.” He crouched, scanning the mud. “There are two sets of footprints here.”
Arthur came forward, his heart pounding. Ector had taught them both the rudiments of tracking, and he could see as plainly as his brother that there had been a struggle here. Amren had been involved in some sort of confrontation. If he followed the footprints, he might be able to find him.
Bedivere was a step ahead of him, tracing the signs left behind. He followed the signs of struggle from the bank to the wood. He pushed some brush aside and let out a sudden cry of anguish.
Arthur raced to where he stood, and his stomach dropped when he saw Amren lying face down in the bushes. A dagger was pushed up to the hilt in his back, ugly and obscene. A pool of blood surrounded him, staining his tunic and the ground around him with gore.
He dropped to his knees with a cry, pulling the lifeless body into his arms. His lover was stiff and cold. He stroked Amren’s hair, trying to will him to live again, but the blue lips and the discoloration of his face destroyed that hope. Something inside Arthur broke, and he clutched Amren to his chest, sobbing.
Bedivere knelt beside him, his own tears flowing. “Amren! Amren!” He clutched his son’s tunic in his hands, bunching the fabric in his fists. His teeth ground together in impotent rage. “Who did this to you?”
Amren was past answering. Behind them, Kay hovered, his eyes wide and wet. He wrung his hands briefly, stricken by dismay and indecision, but then he went to Arthur. He wrapped his brother in his arms, trying to give him comfort, but Arthur was inconsolable.
The knight took hold of the weapon that had killed his son, and he wrenched it free of his body, hating the sight of it protruding from his flesh. He tossed it on the ground in disgust, then pulled Amren away from Arthur, cradling his child and weeping over him. Arthur began to keen, and Kay held him tighter, trying to turn his face away from the bloody spectacle. Arthur struggled against him, keeping his gaze locked on Amren’s still form, burning the sight into his memory. He shook, wracked with grief, and Kay rocked him slowly. Arthur sagged into his arms and clung to him, his head against his brother’s chest.
They stayed that way for what felt like an eternity, too paralyzed by horror and devastation to move. Bedivere rose to his feet, his son’s corpse bundled up into his arms, and he wordlessly began the walk back to the keep. Kay retrieved the dagger and urged Arthur to his feet, and the two followed behind the knight.
The mournful procession reached Caer Gai, and Bedivere carried Amren into the hall. Ector, Brastias and Illtyd were all waiting there, and they rose in shock. Arthur leaned on Kay’s arm, and his brother silently supported him, nearly carrying him as the younger boy’s feet grew more and more leaden as dead-eyed shock set in. Bedivere brought Amren to the trestle table that had been erected for dinner. He laid his son there, gently placing him on the wooden surface before falling to his knees in bitter tears.
Ector rushed to his stricken friend. “What happened?”
Kay offered him the dagger, and his father took it. He saw the symbol on the hilt and his jaw twitched, rage igniting in his eyes. He passed the dagger to Illtyd, who showed its mark to Brastias.
“Pryderi,” Brastias said grimly. “I told you.”
“Why would he leave this behind?” Illtyd asked. “A dagger like this is valuable. Wouldn’t he want to keep it?”
Brastias answered, “He wants us to know he was here. He wants us to know he’s coming.”
Ector embraced Arthur, who was staring at Amren’s purpled face. His foster son stiffened in his arms and pulled away. His grief was giving way to cold fury.
“Give me a sword,” he told his father, ordering him for the first time.
“You are not going after Pryderi,” Illtyd objected. “You are too inexperienced, and he is well protected by strong and deadly fighters.”
Arthur ignored him. He pinned Ector with a look that belonged on a much older face. No words passed between them, but when Arthur reached out and took Ector’s sword belt from around his waist, his father did not prevent him.
He strapped the sword around himself and strode from the keep. Bedivere jerked to his feet, angrily wiping his eyes, and he looked at his companions.
“That boy is more man than any of us. Follow me or be damned.”
He went to the stable. Arthur was saddling Avona, and his temper made the old war horse stomp and snort. Bedivere prepared his own mount. They said nothing to one another, not even when Kay and Brastias joined them. Kay had Illtyd’s sword at his hip and had donned a chainmail shirt. He tossed another chain shirt to Arthur, who tugged it on over his tunic. He re-belted his father’s sword over it and swung into the saddle.
“Where was Pryderi when you saw him?” Arthur demanded of Bedivere.
“On the western shore of Lake Bala. He had made camp.”
“Then that is where we are going.”
Brastias muttered, “This is madness.” Despite his misgivings, he held out the dagger to Bedivere, who took the damning evidence of the warlord’s misdeed. Silent, he followed Arthur out into the fading light.
Brastias told Kay, “Stay close to me. If there is combat, I will protect you as well as I am able. I will not have you die before you can take the spurs.”
Kay nodded. He saddled Illtyd’s horse and Brastias prepared his own, and they followed Arthur as well.
They rode in determined silence to the place where Amren had been found. While Kay held his horse, Brastias alit and examined the ground.
“The killer must have been a scout, for I see no hoof marks and there are no signs of any mass of men,” he announced.
“So much the better for us,” Arthur replied, still in the saddle. “One man will be easier to kill than twenty.”
Bedivere asked, “If there were twenty, would you turn around?”
The boy fixed him with cold blue eyes. “Would you?”
“Two men and two boys against an army is not wise,” the knight responded. “We may all die here. Is that really what you want, Arthur?”
He turned his face away. “I didn’t tell any of you to come.”
“We could hardly let you go alone.”
“My father made no move to stop me.”
He nudged his horse to continue on, and Brastias caught the reins. “And I would be no friend of your father if I permitted this. You are enraged at the death of your friend, and hurt, and I understand.”
Arthur pulled the reins free of his interfering hand. “None of you understand a damned thing.”
Kay shook his head. “You’re being a stupid little bastard. Listen to the man. You’re not even a squire yet. What makes you think you’re going to do anything but get yourself killed?”
Bedivere spoke next, quietly, his head bowed. He was staring at his son’s blood on the fallen leaves. “That’s what he wants.”
Brastias glared, and Arthur looked away to hide his tears. Uther’s old retainer nodded. “I suspected as much. There is no honor in a useless death, not even if you do it out of love for the lost. Bards may sing of it, and maidens may weep to hear the tale, but what will it accomplish? Nothing.” He finally compelled the boy to look at him. “Live longer. Grow strong. Become a fighting man with this oven of rage in your heart. Then, when you are ready, go to find Pryderi and punish him for what he never did.”
“The knife had his mark,” the boy argued, strangling on grief.
“Every prince gives his mark to his vassals and his men. It bore his sign, but that doesn’t mean that his hand wielded the blade. Arthur, you are heading off with the intent to kill an innocent man.”
“Innocent is not a term I have heard applied to Pryderi,” Bedivere scoffed.
Brastias scowled. “Innocent of this crime, I mean. You aren’t helping.” He put a hand on Arthur’s knee. “You are full of feeling, and it does you credit, but if you mean to be a knight and a leader of men, you
need to think, too. Child, this is foolishness.”
In the saddle, Arthur sagged, his rage extinguished in a rush of tears. Brastias hauled him down and clutched him in his arms, holding him while he released more wracking sobs. Bedivere turned away, hiding his face in his cloak. Kay sat silently on his own mount, grateful that this ill-conceived war party was coming to an end.
It took a long time for the boy’s weeping to abate, and when it finally did, he was tired and weak. Brastias remounted and took Arthur onto his horse’s back with him, casting Avona’s reins to Kay. Silently, the little group turned and went back to Caer Gai.
Amren was buried the next day with full Christian solemnity, dressed in his best clothes and laid in the crypt beside Sir Ector’s late wife Aelwen. Illtyd, the priest-knight, led the prayers. Bedivere spoke not a single word throughout the ritual, but he kept Arthur close at his side as the crypt’s gate was closed. Brastias and Illtyd held back as the procession of mourners returned to the keep for the funeral feast.
“We will take him out tonight and lay him on a pyre, as his father would want,” Brastias said.
“It is meet,” Illtyd agreed, although Brastias had expected him to resist. “Bedivere is no Christian, and I’d wager that the child was never baptized, either.”
“Nasty work.”
“There are so many things you could be referring to here. Regardless, I’ll say that I agree completely.”
They watched as Ector took Arthur under his arm and walked through the massive oaken doors. The boy was crestfallen but listening to the soft words his father said to him.
“What do you make of the boy?” Illtyd asked.
Brastias shook his head. “I very nearly failed to stop him.”
“Would you have followed him if he’d continued?”
The other knight cast his mind back over his memories and arose with suspicions. The wind Brastias remembered blowing over Tintagel seemed to tickle his nose again as he said, “I would have. I will follow that boy anywhere.”
Across the bailey, Ector guided his heartbroken ward back from the chapel. “There will come a time,” he told the boy softly, “when you will see him again. You will see him again, and the time between now and then will seem like only a moment.”
Arthur’s heart was a dull stone in his chest. He tried to believe what his father was saying, but he could only indicate that he was listening with a slow nod.
Ector pulled him closer and placed a kiss in the boy’s black curls. “There was nothing you could have done. Now you have to live to fight on in his name and in his memory. When we fight for the ones we love, there’s nothing we can’t do, and nothing we can’t survive...even when we don’t wish to.”
Arthur sighed. “Yes, Father.”
Kay was holding the door for them when they reached it, and the younger boy eyed him warily, waiting for some scathing remark. His brother put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed supportively, a wan and uncomfortable half-smile of comfort on his face.
Bedivere was already inside, his mug filled with ale. He sat near the fire, staring into the flame, his face blank. His eyes shone with unshed tears. Ector went to his old friend’s side and sat silently, offering his support with his presence instead of words. Bedivere would not have wanted platitudes. Brastias and Illtyd joined them in the keep, and Kay shut and barred the door.
There would be no new visitors to Caer Gai today.
When the night was at its blackest, Bedivere and Brastias rose and armed themselves lightly, leaving their breastplates and greaves behind. They stole out together, abandoning their sleeping fellows in favor of the fog-thick night. As quietly as they could, they opened the gates and lead their horses through on foot. Once they were free of the castle walls, they mounted up and rode toward Lake Bala.
Bedivere led the way, his jaw set and his eyes burning with rage. Brastias rode behind him, grimly determined. They had stopped Arthur, for though his heart was bold, he was still only a boy. Now it was time for men to do men’s business.
The thick fog was a good omen, and proof that the gods approved of their bloody plans. It would cloak their approach and give them cover as they sought out Pryderi. Their horses knew the path through the woods, but the lack of visibility made them hesitant and skittish. Bedivere was preparing to leave them behind when a spark of light in the trees made them catch their breath.
A cloaked figure was standing on the path, a wooden staff in his hand. On the top of the staff, a quartz crystal was affixed, and the stone gave off an unearthly glow. The knights drew their swords, ready to do battle with this strange man, but as they approached he dropped his hood, and they recognized the druid Merlin.
His voice spoke in their minds, nearly startling them both out of their saddles. I know where you’re going and what you’re prepared to do. I can help.
Brastias hissed, “I know you can change appearances. Make us look like Pryderi’s men.”
That is done easily enough. I will give you something even better, though.
Bedivere frowned and gestured with his hand, palm up, silently asking what the wizard had in mind.
Merlin stepped forward and touched them each on the forehead with the crystal atop his staff. The stone was hot against their skin, just shy of burning, and where it pressed against their flesh, a shivering, ticklish feeling arose. They could feel that strange tingle course along their bodies, coating them from head to foot. Their horses felt it, too, and side stepped in agitation.
Brastias turned to look at his companion and let out a soft cry of surprise. He could no longer see Bedivere, although the other knight’s horse was still standing beside his own. He looked down at his own hand and saw nothing where his flesh and bone should have been.
Yes, Merlin thought in their heads. You are invisible. This spell will last an hour - after that, you will be seen. Make haste.
Bedivere’s voice spoke quietly. “Thank you, my friend.”
Go and avenge your son. He nodded to them. Make him pay for the murder of poor Amren.
Bedivere urged his horse forward, nearly trampling over the druid in the process. Merlin simply turned into another cloud in the mist.
Pryderi’s army was almost all asleep, except for a patrol of watchmen keeping guard along the perimeter. Bedivere and Brastias left their horses tethered in the wood and waited until the watchmen passed. Once the way was clear, they crept into the camp.
They had both been on campaign and had seen army camps before. This one was like all the others. The closer to the center of the camp, the higher the rank, and the very center pavilion would be the commander’s. They stepped lightly, passing the foot soldiers and the men at arms, careful not to bump or knock into anyone or anything and give their position away.
It was almost dizzying, this powerful feeling of being invisible, of being able to move among their enemies like ghosts. Under other circumstances, they might have been tempted to play a prank or two, but this was not a night for jesting.
Bedivere reached Pryderi’s tent first. Inside, the prince was sleeping, his deep and regular breathing punctuated by an occasional soft snore. He didn’t know if Brastias was still with him or not, and he didn’t care. Gripping the knife that had killed his son, he slid into the tent.
Pryderi was the very image of Uther Pendragon, from his dark features to his broad chest. He was younger than Bedivere, and probably stronger. He would be a dangerous foe if he awoke. The knight pressed his lips into a thin line and approached the sleeper’s cot.
Abruptly, the bastard prince’s head pressed back into the pillow, his jaw pulled up to expose his throat. His eyes flashed open, and he struggled against his blankets and the hidden assailant who had a hand over his mouth.
Good old Brastias, Bedivere thought, and then there was no more time for contemplation. He threw himself onto the struggling prince and stabbed his knife deep into the exposed neck. He felt the point of the blade strike bone. With all of his strength, he ripped the knife sideways,
nearly decapitating Pryderi in the process. The prince flopped like a landed trout, and the cot collapsed beneath the weight of the three men. Brastias and Bedivere tumbled together onto the dying man. His blood bathed them all.
It was done, and nearly silently. No call had risen, and no cry of pain or surprise had attracted any attention. Bedivere was still holding the knife when they rose to their feet, and he tucked it into his boot.
They were able to slip back out of the camp, still unseen, leaving their deadly handiwork behind them in the night. As Merlin had told them, the magical invisibility faltered as they rode back to Caer Gai, and soon both men faded back into view, grim-faced and gore-smeared. Neither spoke, even after they were safely out of earshot of the army camp.
When they returned to the keep, they woke Lucan to see to their horses. He stared at them in dismay when he saw the drying blood that caked them, but he asked no questions and they volunteered no information. The two men washed briefly in the castle’s bath house, but a thorough cleaning would wait until morning.
Brastias clasped Bedivere’s bicep and nodded to him, then returned to his bed. Bedivere drew the knife from his boot and stole into Arthur and Kay’s bedroom. He knew that Kay was sleeping in Sir Ector’s room tonight, giving Arthur the privacy to grieve. When Bedivere pushed the door open, he could see the boy lying on his side, curled around a pillow that he held tightly in his arms. His face was pale, but his eyes were swollen and red. Bedivere leaned over him and put the bloody knife onto the pallet near his head.
“There,” he whispered over the sleeping boy. “It is done.”
On the day Amren died, the wind was cold and wild as it whipped over the cliffs on the western coast of Norgalis. It grabbed and snapped at the cloak pinned to the shoulders of the lone man who stood there on the rocky promontory, his gaze on the sea. Below him, an invading force was landing on his beach. The Irish had come to Cambria.
King Pellinore of Norgalis glowered down at the attackers. His young son Aglovale stood beside him, barely old enough to walk, tended by one of his many nursemaids. His wife had long since locked herself in her tower, as was her wont.
