And then, ringing high and strong, cutting like a sword-stroke through the tumult: the strident sharp blast of Rhys’ battlehorn. Its ringing call sliced the air like a spearhead flung into the heart of the enemy. The horn sounded again—a piercing, insistent shriek, keen and angry.
Behind the ringing call came Arthur and the Dragon Flight, sweeping down the hillside and into the tumult. They appeared so suddenly, their flight so swift, the Black Boar had no time to order his forces to meet this new attack. The Vandal host, chagrined by this unexpected event, melted before Arthur’s fresh onslaught.
The impetus of the attack carried the Dragon Flight deep into the enemy host, scattering foemen in all directions. By the time the Black Boar had regained control of his warriors, Arthur had succeeded in breaking the line in several places. The Britons were not slow to seize their freedom. Within moments the essential shape of the battle was transformed and the enemy wall began to crumble in disarray.
Seeing their advantage dwindling before their eyes, the Vandali lashed themselves to a frenzy. Screaming, wailing, shaking with fury, they threw themselves against the mounted Cymbrogi. They fought with hopeless courage, hurling themselves into the breach, trying to halt the British with their own corpses.
Even Arthur could not stand against such desperate determination. Rather than risk becoming encircled again and hopelessly enmired in a fight he could not win, Arthur chose flight; he quit the field.
Thus, when the Vandal host rose once more to the counterattack, they found the Bear of Britain in full retreat. Many another battlechief, encouraged by the fleeting success of his unexpected appearance, would have misjudged the moment—thinking his surprise maneuver had won the day. Arthur knew better. So, before the enemy had a chance to rally, the Cymbrogi were already riding away.
The High King turned from uncertain victory, choosing instead the sure saving of his men, using the momentary advantage gained by surprise to secure a safe corridor for their escape. It was, as I say, a circumstance decreed by dire necessity. Oh, but it exacted a terrible price.
I stared down into the bloody glen, horrified. Where the fight had been most fierce, I could not see the ground for the dead; they lay atop one another, toppled and stacked like felled wood. Limbs were strewn here and there; entrails coiled like bright-colored snakes; heads also, salted among the bodies, gape-mouthed and empty-eyed. And the earth, Dear God in Heaven, the earth was stained deep, deep crimson-black with the gore.
The futility! The waste!
Sickened by the loathsome extravagance of death, I felt my stomach heave. I gagged, but could not keep it down. I vomited bile on the ground at my feet, then fell sobbing with the humiliation of having witnessed—nay, encouraged, aided, promoted!—such an evil. I wept, and cursed the blindness of my soul.
Great Light, how long must hate and bloodshed reign in this worlds-realm?
I closed my eyes and raised my voice in keening lament for the dead on both sides. When I finished, I saw that the last Briton had fled the field. The Vandali had withdrawn farther up the glen, and the battlefield lay very still and terribly silent.
The only movement was that of carrion crows, hopping obscenely from corpse to corpse; the only sound their rasping croak as they gathered to their grisly feast. I felt the stain of death in my soul and in my heart. Aching with shame and grief, my hands shaking, I remounted my horse and made my way back to camp.
6
WARRIORS LAY ON THE GROUND where they had collapsed. Exhausted, too tired to move, they lay gasping, hardly more alive than the dead we left in the glen. Some men sat slumped over wounds, contemplating the extent of their injuries as if they revealed the source of the world’s sorrow. Women and boys hurried among the scattered warriors with jars of water to help revive the beaten war host.
Dull eyes watched me pass with little recognition. I did not pause, but made my way to Arthur’s tent. The Bear of Britain was holding council with his battlechiefs outside the tent.
“We have fared poorly today,” Arthur announced. “It was only by God’s grace that we escaped.”
“It is true,” Cador conceded. “The Vandali were ready for us today—”
“More than ready,” observed Bedwyr sourly. “It was as if they knew each move we would make before we made it.”
This brought a chorus of agreement from the gathered chieftains. “Aye,” said Cai, speaking up, “the Boar is showing himself a fighter at last. The farther inland they run, the more fierce they become.” He ended, shaking his head wearily. “I do not understand it.”
“We are losing this war,” I declared, taking my place before them. “And if we persist on this course, we will lose it, and all Britain as well.”
Arthur drew a deep breath. “We are tired,” he said, “and we all have duties elsewhere. We will talk again when we have seen to our men and taken some rest.” He dismissed them then and, as they departed, he said, “Attend me in my tent, Myrddin. We must speak.”
As soon as we were alone, he turned on me. “I cannot believe you would speak like that in front of the men, Myrddin! Are you trying to discourage them?”
“I spoke the truth.”
“You spoke of losing and defeat. I do not find that helpful—especially after such a battle as we fought today.”
“It was not a battle,” I replied. “It was a disaster.”
“I was ambushed!” he declared. “The sneaking barbarian had a warband lying in wait in the gully. It was a trap! God love you, man, it was a trap. I was anticipated and taken by surprise. It was unfortunate—a disaster, yes. But I cannot see what good it does to wallow in it.”
“I do not say this to grieve you, O king. I say this to open your eyes to the truth.”
“But it does grieve me, Myrddin. I am aggrieved! You speak of disasters and loss—as if I did not already know it. Well I know it! I am the War Leader, I own the fault.”
“No,” I replied, “if fault is to be apportioned, I am mostly to blame. I have not served you as I should. I have failed you, Arthur.”
“You?” he wondered, surprised by this unwarranted admission. “You have ever stood by me. You have been my wise counselor and my best advisor.”
“You did not need another advisor,” I told him flatly. “You needed a bard. Britain needed a True Bard—and was made to suffer a blind meddler instead. That is my fault and I own the blame.”
Arthur drew his hand through his sweaty hair. “I do not understand you, Myrddin. I led good men into the most simple trap of all. I have chased Twrch Trwyth all summer, I should have known. I should have seen it straightaway. But why sit here moaning about the blame? Where is the virtue in that?”
“Great the virtue if it leads to salvation.”
“Our salvation is as close as the next battle,” Arthur contended. “The Black Boar’s ambush held me too long from the fight, or you would have seen a different ending to this day’s battle. I will not make the same mistake again, believe me. And now that the Irish lords are soon with us—”
“You have not heard a word that I have said,” I snapped. “This is not about a single battle, or even a war. This is about the failure of a vision! Are we better men simply because we have better warriors, or better weapons?”
“With the Irish here,” Arthur maintained, “we will yet drive the barbarian from this land.”
“Hear me, O king: the realm is dying. Plague and war are bleeding us to death. If we persist, we will die.”
“It is not so bad,” Arthur said lamely.
“It is the ruin of the world!”
Arthur glared at me, sullen and annoyed. “We will yet drive the invader from this land. That is the truth, I say.”
“And those dead on the battleground—what do they say?”
“Agh! There is no talking to you.”
Arthur turned away and flung himself into Uther’s camp chair. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his face. I moved to stand over him.
“We must change, or we
will surely die. We must go back the way we came,” I declared. “Think on that,” I challenged. “Think long and hard, Arthur. For until you begin to understand what I am telling you, Britain is lost.”
The tent felt suffocatingly close; I could not breathe. Leaving the High King to his thoughts, I went in search of a place where I could be alone. I moved through a camp sunk in the gloom of defeat: silent, unmoving, awaiting the night’s shadows to cover and claim it.
Warriors, spent and forlorn, sat or lay before unlit fires, speaking in hushed tones if they spoke at all. Boys were leading horses to the pickets, and women were working to bind the wounds of the injured. A pall hung over the camp, a lethargy deeper than simple fatigue—as if all understood the futility of effort alone to win any lasting gain.
I saw men sleeping, and knew that some of these would not rise in the morning. Jesu, have mercy! I saw several of the lords, heads together, holding close council; they stopped talking as I approached, watching me darkly. I ignored them and moved on.
My feet found the path leading to the stream; moving among the slumbering bodies of those who had come to drink and dropped there, I descended the bank, crossed the water and continued on. The path began to climb, ascending the hillside, and I followed where it led—up through pungent bracken and prickly gorse. Eventually, I found myself in a grassy hollow scooped out of the hillside. Smooth, lichen-covered rock formed a wall at the rear, fringed by elderberry and blackthorn shrubs; beech trees stood on either side of the hollow, leaving the front open to a good view of the British camp below.
I sat down cross-legged on the soft turf between the two trees and watched twilight gradually enfold the glen in deep blue shadow. The sky held a pale lingering light for a long time, at last giving way before oncoming night. From my lofty perch I watched and listened, attending to the slow descent of the world into darkness.
My heart moved within me, for it seemed that as night stretched its dark hand over the glen, a weight of sorrow settled in my soul. Death had taken many good men this day, their sacrifice all but forgotten. As chief bard it was my duty to lead the people in laments of mourning for their fallen kinsmen. Yet here was I, sitting aloof from the concerns of my brothers. Once again, here was Myrddin, this day and always, a man apart, bearing all things, whether in triumph or tragedy, alone.
You must go back the way you came! Thus spoke the truth of my vision, and thus I did believe. But how? Alas, I had no idea how such a thing might be accomplished, nor where I might begin.
I sat looking out over the glen in the steadily deepening twilight. Lost in thought, I did not hear the footsteps approaching from behind. Then, hearing them, I turned, supposing Arthur had sent Rhys to find me…I turned and strange faces rushed at me out of the shadowed darkness. Before I could lift a hand, I was taken.
Four immense Vandali, armed with stout spears, surrounded me. I made no move to resist; that would, I was instantly persuaded, have been futile. So I simply remained seated and forced myself to appear calm and unafraid.
It was a small thing, but great events often swing on such modest hinges. The Vandali, confronted by an unarmed enemy who appeared neither frightened nor in the least disturbed, hesitated. This emboldened me. I regarded them impassively and raised my hands in welcome—as if I had been expecting them.
“I recognize you,” I said, knowing full well they would not understand me. That was not important, however; I merely wanted to be the first to speak, thinking to keep them off their mettle. “Put up your weapons and let us speak together as reasonable men.”
My ruse did not work. One of the Vandali raised his lance and made to strike. The narrow blade hovered, poised in the air, but the hand was stayed by a quick shout from the shadows. A voice barked a harsh order and the warrior froze.
I waited, my heart thumping violently in my chest. The spear still hesitated over me. I was less than a hair’s breadth from death.
Then the voice spoke again. This time, to my complete surprise, it said, “Stand easy. You are in great danger.”
With these words, a figure emerged from the gloom and came to stand before me. Though large and fully as powerful as those with him, he was younger than any of the others. I recognized him at once as one of the Black Boar’s piglets: the young chieftain they called Mercia.
“I am well aware of my danger,” I replied easily. “You need have no fear of me, Mercia. I am unarmed.”
He started at my use of his name. “How do you know me?”
I remembered him as the one who had remarked on Arthur’s youth at that first meeting. “You speak forthrightly,” I told him. “Hergest has taught you well.”
He stared. “You know this, too?”
Well, it could be no other way. But I did not let on. Instead, I touched my forehead meaningfully and said, “I am a bard; I know a great many things.”
His eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Then tell me why I have come here.”
Without hesitation, I said, “You have come to spy upon the British camp as you have done many nights before. Amilcar depends on the information you bring to order the battle. This is how Amilcar was able to defeat Arthur today.”
His eyes grew wide. “Hergest said you were a mighty man of wisdom. The priest ever speaks true—even to his hurt.” Clearly, this high regard for truth impressed him.
“Will you sit with me, Mercia?” I said, indicating a place on the ground beside me. “There is something I would tell you.”
“You have been waiting for me?”
I let him think this. “Sit. Let us talk.” I had no idea what I would say to him. My only plan was to win his confidence and find some way to persuade him to let me go. Even so, as he stood over me, quivering with indecision, a plan formed in my mind.
“Please,” I said, smiling in what I hoped was a confident and persuasive manner, “we have little time. They will come looking for me soon.”
Signaling to his men, he growled a quick command; they raised their spears and backed away. Mercia sat down on the ground opposite, cross-legged, lance in his lap. We regarded one another in the fading light. “What have you to say?” he asked at last.
“It is in my mind that Amilcar does not hold the trust of all his battlechiefs,” I said slowly, watching him to make certain that he followed my meaning. It was a crude but effective guess; I have never known a war leader yet who enjoyed the entire and utter confidence of all his lords. God knows, even Arthur, fighting for Britain’s survival, battled his own lords.
He studied me a long time, as if making up his mind. Finally he said, “It is true, there have been many disputes since coming here.” He paused. I nodded, understanding only too well—drawing the young man further into his confession. He obliged me by continuing with quiet defiance, “Our renowned War Leader holds not the favor of all.”
“I believe your War Leader often goes against those who counsel wisdom—” I suggested, watching Mercia’s face for nuances of expression to guide me. I saw what I expected to see and thrust home, saying, “All the more when those chieftains are held in low esteem because of their youth.”
The young battlechief’s eyes flashed quick fire, and I knew I had struck the raw wound of his complaint. “He is a most stubborn lord,” Mercia allowed cautiously. “Once he has set his hand to a thing, he will never yield—though it were wiser by far to do so.”
His use of the words “by far” expressed worlds of meaning to me. And I began to discern the slenderest golden glimmer of hope.
“Listen to me, Mercia,” I said. “You are closer to your desire than you know. Trust and believe.”
He regarded me suspiciously, and I feared I had pressed him too far. Mercia threw a quick sideways glance at his men, who were watching us closely. He uttered a low, growling command, but they made no move or response.
Turning back to me he said, “Do you know my thought, truly?”
“It is as I have told you,” I replied. “I know a great many things.”
“I wi
ll never betray my lord,” he said, and I sensed the shape of his fear.
“I seek an honorable settlement,” I assured him. “Treachery will have no part in it, neither betrayal.” I held him with the uncompromising certainty of my voice. “But I demand honor for honor; loyalty must be repaid with loyalty. Do you understand?”
He nodded. There was nothing sly about his acceptance, but I wanted assurance.
“Hear me, Mercia, the honor I demand is costly indeed. It will be bought with blood.”
“I understand,” he muttered impatiently. He glanced sideways again, then said, “What must I do?”
“Only this,” I spoke in an ominous tone, raising my hand in the gesture of command, “when the time comes to add your voice to the support of peace you must not be silent.”
He did not expect that. I could see him struggling to find a hidden meaning in my words. “Is there nothing else?”
“That is enough. Truly, it is more than many brave men will dare.”
He drew himself up. “My courage has never been doubted.”
“I believe you.”
“When will this take place?”
“Soon.”
He rose abruptly, and stood over me, at once menacing and wary. “I could kill you now and no one would know.”
“Yes. That is true.”
“You said I must trust you, yet you offer no token of trust.” His hand tightened on his spear.
“Then accept this as a sign,” I replied, rising slowly to my feet to face him. “There will be no attack against you tomorrow. The British will remain in camp, nursing their wounds. Tell this to Amilcar.”
He turned on his heel and, snapping a quick order to his men, disappeared into the shadows. The men stood watching me, and I feared Mercia had indeed ordered my death. I remained motionless—resistance was impossible, and flight would do no good. The spears swung up with a decisive motion. With an effort I held myself steady.
Within the space of three heartbeats, the warriors were gone, melting quietly back into the darkness.
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