Now that Arthur had escaped, the Saxenow took their time to organize themselves and prepare for the attack. And when it came, it began with Hengist approaching in his chariot and addressing Arthur.
“Artorius,” he called, waving a broad, short blade whose steel blazed in the sun. “Ye are a fool to haf come. Surrender de fortress, or I’ll see dat yer head is smashed an’ yer brains spilled out.”
Arthur laughed at the man, but it was a nervous sort of laugh, revealing more of his feelings than he wanted. Dwin stood on his left, but the spot on his right was empty. How could he face a siege, knowing that Culann might be out there on the field, dying, alone and without help? He was a brother in all but blood, and rich in counsel. Yet there was no going for him, not while this Saxen dog kept barking at him.
“Yer High King es dead. Why fight on?”
This gave Arthur an idea. Perhaps there was a way to shut the man up. He began to pace back and forth, all the while holding up a hand for Hengist to wait, and the Saxenow warrior did so until Arthur finally turned to speak.
“You say that my High King is dead, and this is true. Yet another High King stands before you, one uncrowned as of yet but a High King nevertheless. And not just any High King, but one whose forebears have never made peace with you, and one who never will.”
Hengist laughed. “Who is dis High King? All de lines haf failed and der is no such man. Or is der a Roman among ye who came across de sea? If so, den beware! De Picti killed one legion . . . we Men of de People killed three!”
Arthur laughed at this. “No, he is not from Rome.”
“Den let him step forth and do battle with me!” And at this he plucked a javelin from its basket and launched it at the wall in front of Arthur. It jabbed the wood between two staves, and stuck fast.
As the javelin vibrated in the wind, its sound reached upward, tilting the world strangely, and Arthur felt himself falling, floating. Hengist’s jeering face was replaced by another, that of a very ancient man with a long, curly white beard who stared into Arthur’s face with an unholy eagerness. A mottled fur of black and white lay over his shoulders, and under that he wore a shiny red tunic embroidered with white thread.
But Arthur felt small, young. Scared.
Was he remembering the past? His past?
And the world had become cold . . . so cold that Arthur’s fingers were turning blue, yet as Arthur looked down at his hands, they had changed from the rough, strong hands he relied upon and knew so well to the hands of a little boy, and there was a rope tied tightly around his wrists. He suddenly felt even smaller. Insignificant. Powerless.
All around people danced upon bloody snow, and a fear clutched at Arthur’s throat like a garrote, tightening, ever tightening.
The old man bent forward, and he held out a knife to Arthur as his glistening, yellowed eyes sized him up like a cut of meat.
The knife plunged into Arthur’s stomach and he screamed. The world flashed as pain pulsed upward and outward . . . until all his flesh was on fire, as if the edge of the knife had cut his very soul.
Yet there was Merlin, through the haze, running toward him. Fear and sorrow, agony and ache were all etched there upon his face. Yet Arthur saw something else too — an assurance of faith and hope.
And Merlin held the bowl, the shining, ghostly bowl before him, and all the world faded in comparison to the brilliance of that beautiful object.
Yet even the bright image of the bowl faded to black as Arthur felt his soul slip from his body like a grain of wheat is pushed out from a dry, lifeless husk. The pain disappeared, and Arthur looked down upon his small lifeless body. The blue lips of the child’s face had ceased quivering, for his lifeblood had been poured out upon the pagan altar from his torn abdomen.
Arthur’s soul flew, then, far away to the lands of the south, to another time, to another place where he felt again the fresh breeze of a marsh and heard the ethereal croak of frogs and the buzz of insects. And there before him stood the woman in the raven-feathered wrap. She looked toward him with the one eye that wasn’t covered by her long, black hair, and there was a beauty and inner strength about her that amazed him. Yet she was hiding something from him. Arthur longed to know what.
“Arthur,” she said, “please come . . . You know how to find me, for you have been shown the way in your dreams. I need you. I’m so alone here, so alone.”
She knelt then before a cairn of weathered, moss-encrusted stone, and she wept.
But the vision of her was swept away by a great wind, and he beheld a tower amidst dead trees, rising like a dark sentinel in the night. Wolves howled, and Arthur felt afraid. He began running through the darkness. Lightning split the heavens, and suddenly a man appeared before him. Shadow cloaked his form, and he limped as he came.
“Who are you?” Arthur called through the howling wind.
Another blast of lightning cracked through the clouds, and the man was revealed. He wore a russet robe, and his beard was dark, though tinged with gray, and he had anxious eyes.
“I am someone of no importance, yet I offer you something . . . if you will come to me.”
He lifted his hands then, and Arthur beheld a torc, so beautiful to behold that it took Arthur’s breath away. It was a kingly ornament, ancient and rare.
Could it be? But no, that was impossible. He wanted to look away from it, but the idea that this might be his father’s long-lost torc smote him. He yearned to hold it and somehow, by touching its precious edges and whorled designs, to know the man who had forever been lost to him. But these were foolish thoughts.
And then the man holding the torc faded, and his final words were: “High King . . . High King! You must proclaim that you are the High King. Reveal yourself! Reveal yourself so that I may find you.”
And there was light, and Arthur breathed in the smell of smoke. Hengist stood below him once again, for the vision had gone. The Saxen leader shouted, and his words finally pierced through Arthur’s fog. “Are ya deaf?” Hengist called. “I asked who dis High King is, dat I may fight him.”
Arthur took a breath. The time had come, and he would not shirk back.
“I am the High King, for my name is not Artorius, but rather Arthur, son of Uther. I am the one whom Vortigern longed to kill, yet I live. I am the one taken as a slave amongst the Picti, yet I survive. Behold! I am the one who was sacrificed, yet has been resurrected to lead all of the Britons against you . . . and I am the one who slew your brother. Leave here, now, or I will be your death.”
The men around Arthur began to murmur in wonder, but Hengist roared with laughter as soon as the speech was done. “I jus saw ya run like de rabbit, an’ now ya threaten me? Come down for de fight, an’ we vill see who is de High King.”
Arthur nodded, and turned to descend the ladder, but Dwin grabbed his arm. There before him stood all the British warriors with their mouths agape and their eyes reflecting suspicion, doubt, and — did Arthur imagine it? — a flicker of hope.
Dwin shook him, tearing his attention away. “You’re not going to fight Hengist, are you?”
“Of course I am.”
“You can’t!”
Arthur met his friend’s eyes. “It’s the only way, Dwin. If I can kill him, we may just turn the entire Saxenow army back. I’ll take that chance. Now unhand me.”
Dwin let go, and Arthur climbed down, hopefully to victory, but more likely to his own death.
Taliesin gulped as he looked down the wall — twenty feet or more — to his sister’s hurt and whimpering puppy. And below the puppy he could see a mass of Pictish warriors climbing the hill to attack.
There was just enough time if he acted quickly.
Around him, confusion spread like a ripple in a pond. Caygek and Bedwir tried to help the porter. Old Brice hung limply between them, and Taliesin wondered if he might already be dead. The broken, black boil on his face had leaked pus down onto his neck and tunic.
If Gaff was to be rescued, it was up to Taliesin. He ju
st had to keep asking himself, what would his big brother, Arthur, do? What would his father do?
As his mother scooped up the crying Tinga and headed for the stairs and the safety of the tower, Taliesin ran along the parapet to the opposite side of the fortress, where he found the rope they had used the night before to lower the miller. Grabbing it, he ran back to where Gaff had fallen. But there was nowhere to tie the rope. The wall top was smooth, and the parapet likewise. Down below, in the courtyard of the tower, he saw Withel running on some errand.
“Withel!” he yelled.
The boy stopped suddenly and looked around, not seeing Taliesin above him.
“Up here!”
Withel cocked his head just as Taliesin threw the rope down.
“Tie that to the door!”
“What?”
“Quickly!”
Withel tied it onto the iron brace that held the bar, and Taliesin tested it.
“What’re you doin’?” Withel called up.
But there was no time to answer. Taliesin checked to make sure his sword was still strapped to his back, grabbed the rope, and threw himself over the wall to the outside of the fortress. His feet landed with a knee-jarring crack on the stones of the wall, and the rope burned his hands as he slid down.
Gaff whimpered below him and, far away like in a dream, he could still hear Tinga’s little voice: “My doggie! Help my doggie!”
Hand under hand he dropped, making three jumps down to the ground . . . only then did he look up and realize how far down he had come . . . and how far up he would have to climb. Running to the dry bush where the dog had fallen, he found her on the ground, bleeding from her snout and with one ear lacerated. When he picked her up, she wagged her little tail and licked his face.
Below him he heard the Picti scrambling up the scree-covered path.
He ran back to the rope and realized his quandary: He couldn’t climb back up holding Gaff. He tried tucking his tunic into his breeches, which would allow him to put Gaff inside his shirt, but the thick material was too bulky.
If only he’d put his belt on that morning.
Then an idea struck him . . . the rope! It was plenty long. He quickly tied it around his waist, unlaced the top of his tunic, and gently lowered Gaff into the makeshift pouch. Her sharp little claws scratched his bare chest, but there was no other choice.
Just as he was gripping the rope to climb back up, he heard a scuffing noise behind him. The foremost Pictish warrior ran up the path, huffing at the effort and bearing a short spear. He was nearly naked except for a ragged cloth, with painted blue whorls covering his body. Even his shaved head was painted, with solid blue on the left and what looked like dried blood on the right.
Taliesin panicked, dropped the rope, and ran, but only made it ten steps before the rope, still tied around his waist, went taut and stopped him cold.
The Pict laughed at this and then jumped forward, trying to jab Taliesin with his spear.
Taliesin saw the danger just in time, grabbed the rope as high as he could, and kicked off the wall to swing back the way he had come. But there was no way he could climb out of reach in time, and so he dropped back to the ground and drew his sword.
Now the Pict laughed even louder, and the man’s eyes were wild like an animal’s.
A freezing fear penetrated into Taliesin’s gut, making his legs shake.
The Pict lunged again with a hideous roar, intent on skewering Taliesin.
Arthur mounted his horse and set a helm on his head. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it would do. Merlin handed up a shield to him, and he slipped his left arm into its straps before choosing a good, stout spear from a selection jabbed into the ground before him. Then, after shifting the position of his sword, he rode toward the closed gate. Dwin and Peredur rode next to him, along with two other warriors.
Merlin walked beside him. “So Culann is dead and now you’re going out to fight a man who is so full of deceit that his stink would make a pig plug his nose with manure.”
“Do you think he’ll betray me?”
Merlin shook his head. “Since he challenged you to single combat, he’d lose the respect of his men if he did. But that doesn’t mean he won’t fight dirty.”
“If I can kill him — ”
“If you kill him, then nothing changes. All five thousand Saxenow won’t turn and sail back to their homeland. You solve nothing.” Merlin turned to walk away.
“Merlin!” Arthur called, and his father stopped but didn’t turn around. “What else am I supposed to do? I’ve just declared I’m the High King. I can’t run from him.”
“Yes, you can. In order to see your fight with Hengist, they haven’t surrounded the fortress yet. We’re a small force, and could ride out the back gate if we left immediately.”
“Where?”
Merlin turned back, and there was a zeal in his eye. “I don’t have the answers yet, but we need more men. Until then, let the south reap their reward for following Vortigern.”
Arthur gritted his teeth against a sudden swell of emotion. “No,” he said, “I don’t believe that. Let all the world lose faith, but there won’t be any hope if it doesn’t start with me. With us.”
“There’ll be enough fighting no matter where we go. We need a true stronghold where the Britons can rally, and this fortress isn’t it.”
Arthur blinked and thought about his father’s words, but bravery called him forth. There was no turning back now. “Pray for me, Tas.”
Merlin reached up and grabbed his hand. “I always do. Be on your guard.”
With that, Arthur raised his arm to signal the doorkeepers. The ancient doors groaned on their hinges and then opened wide. Arthur rode out into a light haze as the southern sun nearly blinded him. Here was their last chance. Just him and Hengist . . . to the death.
All but a few of Hengist’s men had backed down the hill to a wide plain at the foot of the fortress, and Arthur rode out into the center, leaving his supporters at the edge.
Hengist rode around Arthur, driving his chariot faster and faster, whipping the horses into a frenzy.
Arthur kept turning his horse to keep an eye on the man, and just that quick Hengist turned and threw a javelin at Arthur. The sharpened wooden stick flew like a hawk right at his face, and if Arthur hadn’t ducked quickly, it would have hit just below the neck.
Arthur kicked his horse forward, timing it such that he rode alongside Hengist. But he quickly realized his danger, seeing three scythe blades attached to the spokes of each chariot wheel.
Arthur angled his spear and threw it.
Hengist raised his shield and the spear clunked off of it to the ground.
Hengist veered his chariot to the left, directly in Arthur’s path.
Arthur’s horse was well rested and nimble, however, and did a quick stop and turn when Arthur pulled the reins hard to the left.
But the distraction itself was deadly, for Hengist used his own spear to stab Arthur’s horse right above the foreleg. The horse screamed and stumbled.
Arthur tried to jump off, but the horse slammed to its side. A shock of pain engulfed Arthur’s leg as his boot became trapped under the saddle, and his back muscles began to spasm.
Hengist circled around and aimed his chariot’s spinning bronze scythes toward Arthur’s head.
Arthur tried to kick free of the thrashing horse, but it was useless.
Hengist’s chariot rolled faster, and Arthur could hear the thunder of the horse’s hooves and the whirling of the blades. At the last moment, he flattened and covered his head with his shield.
Hengist yelled in triumph as the blades slammed into Arthur’s shield.
Splinters flew. Wood shattered. Arthur’s arm twisted and white hot pain tore through his shoulder. Dust choked him, as well as the smell of blood. There was a tearing sound as the shield’s leather strap rent loose and his wooden protection was ripped away.
The shield became caught in the blades and its edge was rammed int
o the dirt. The spokes of the wheel shattered, and Hengist’s chariot crunched to a stop. The king of the Saxenow untied the reins from his waist and leapt out, enraged. The darkening, smokey sun reflected off his golden armbands as he lifted a massive hammer, and his arms were so thick that Arthur had no doubt he could wield it with deadly effect.
Arthur’s horse, startled by the chariot, had lifted up on one leg, freeing Arthur, who climbed to his feet shakily and drew his sword. Only then did he notice that his helm was missing and blood dripped down the left side of his cheek.
Hengist strode toward him and raised his hammer and swung it at Arthur’s head.
Arthur sprang to the side, and in the moment when the weight of the hammer pulled the Saxen king’s balance forward, he tried to swing at his arm.
But Hengist saw it coming and twisted his body so that the blade made only a thin red line across his shoulder.
Arthur tried to strike again, this time thrusting the tip of his sword toward Hengist’s bare chest, but the man was too quick and swung his hammer up, hitting Arthur’s blade in the middle and nearly flinging it from his grip. And before Arthur could strike again, Hengist had dropped the hammer and tackled him.
Arthur released his sword, finding it useless as Hengist grappled him, tying up his arms in an unbelievable grip. Arthur had been trained in wrestling, sure, but no one near Dinas Crag had been as big or as strong as Hengist, and Arthur just wasn’t prepared for the ferocity of his attack. With only inches between their faces, Arthur could see the twitch of the man’s cheeks and his bulging eyes as Arthur fought to free himself.
A mob of Saxenow warriors had gathered, for their foreign-looking, long-laced boots had lined up in a circle around the two. Soon, Arthur feared, they would watch the spectacle of the High King of the Britons being beaten by Hengist. Arthur looked for British boots, but couldn’t find them in the sea of trespassing Saxenow legs.
Unable to free his arms, Arthur shifted his weight and kneed Hengist in the side five times.
The man’s grip slackened for the briefest moment.
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 22
