As remarkable as the sudden and unexpected appearance of the chariot might be, however, I think it was scarcely noticed at all. For every eye was on Arthur alone, and he held them rapt. His hair was a wild, spiky mass, white and stiff with lime. Most startling of all, he was wearing neither leather nor mail. In truth, he wore nothing save his golden tore of kingship; the champions of an elder time often fought naked, disdaining armour, trusting only their own prowess for protection. His face and body were freshly shaved, and his skin daubed blue with woad – spirals, hands, stripes, jagged lightning patterns – all over his arms and chest, and down his thighs and legs – symbols and signs now forgotten, but once possessing great power.
The impact of his unexpected appearance could not have been greater. It was as if a hero of old had taken flesh anew – Morvran Iron Fist himself, rising bodily from the dust at their feet, would not have astonished them more. Some did not recognize Arthur at first, and even those who did know him stared in amazement.
'Behold!' I cried. 'The Pendragon of Ynys Prydein, riding to the defence of his realm.'
'How long has it been since a British king has appeared so before his people?' I felt a touch on my arm as Gwenhwyvar came to stand beside me. Her face was alight with pleasure at the effect of the surprise. 'Oh, he is a splendid man.’
‘Truly.'
'And do not think to send me back to the line,' she said. 'After what happened yesterday, I will not go.'
'Very well,' I replied. 'Stay.' We stood together, the queen and I, revelling in a sight that had not been witnessed in the Island of the Mighty for ten generations or more. Such a spectacle! So bold and proud, standing in the chariot, tore glinting in the sun, adazzle with the blue of an elder age – they were heroes indeed.
Arthur and Llenlleawg raced up and down the length of the British line, encouraging wild whoops and cheers from the gathered Cymbrogi – a sound to assault the heavens! When they had whipped the Britons into an ecstatic frenzy, Llenlleawg turned the horses and drove the chariot to the centre of the battlefield, where he stopped. Arthur lofted his spear and hurled it into the ground a few paces away, then stepped down. Llenlleawg turned the horses and drove the chariot from the field.
Taking up his shield and sword – both washed white with lime – the High King of Britain called out to the Vandal warlord. 'Twrch Trwyth, I have heard your empty boasts! Take up your weapons and let us make an end of this battle. I tell you the truth, the world is weary of your presence, and I grow tired of you myself. Come, death awaits you!'
Amilcar, much impressed by Arthur's appearance, was slow to answer. 'Indeed, one of us will leave the field, the other will stay.' The barbarian king spoke much less confidently now.
'So be it. Let whatever gods you pray to receive your soul.'
Thus the deadly dance began once more: around and around the warriors moved, circling, circling, edging, probing for an opening. Gwenhwyvar chewed her lip, never taking her eyes from the contest. I noticed that one hand found the hilt of her sword, the other her dagger. She stood there, at the ready, willing Arthur to make a beginning. 'Take him, Bear," she murmured. 'You can do it. Strike!'
And, as if in answer to her prompting, Arthur took a quick backward step, and Amilcar, suspecting a trick, hesitated. That momentary lapse was all Arthur needed; indeed, I saw now that he had cultivated it, using the Vandal's devious nature against him. A man who employs deception always looks for it in others, and Amilcar thought he saw it now.
But Arthur used no trick. His quick step backward was but preparation for an honest and open attack and, like Arthur's altered appearance, it caught Amilcar unaware.
Arthur stepped back, releasing his sword and letting it fall to the ground. His arm swung out and his hand closed on the spear he had planted. He whipped his arm forward. The Black Boar, flat-footed in hesitation, made to dodge aside. But too late. The spear struck Amilcar's shield square in the centre.
It was a supremely well-executed throw, but I wondered at its prudence – it had done no hurt to the Black Boar and now Arthur lacked a spear. 'No, no, no,' Gwenhwyvar groaned.
But we were wrong. Arthur's ploy was genius itself: the spearhead was deeply embedded in the centre of Amilcar's shield where he could not easily reach it. To rid himself of the nuisance, Twrch must either lower the shield or somehow swipe at the spear with his own and try to knock it off. He could not leave the spear where it was-an unbalanced shield was too awkward and his arm would soon grow tired just trying to steady the unwieldy thing.
The Black Boar was in trouble, and the look of incredulous anger creasing his face said that he knew it. He made an ineffectual swipe at the infuriating spear with the butt of his own weapon. Arthur was ready; he scooped up Caledvwlch and darted forward, swinging the great blade through a tight arc as if to sever Amilcar's spear hand.
This brought a howl of exasperation from the Black Boar, a roar of approval from the Britons, and a yelp of delight from Gwenhwyvar. 'Good!' she cried. 'Well done, Bear!'
Amilcar evaded the stroke with a quick side-step, but Arthur pressed his slight advantage. Moving closer, sword slicing the air above the upper rim of his adversary's shield, he weighed in against the Black Boar, forcing him back and back.
Amilcar, desperate, his face fixed in a snarl of rage, thought to use the bothersome spear against Arthur. He threw his shield before him, heaving the protruding spearshaft into Arthur's face.
Arthur, unencumbered by the weight of leather and mail, ducked easily under the shaft and charged headlong into Amilcar as the shield swung wide. The Black Boar's chest and stomach were momentarily exposed and Arthur's swordpoint found its mark.
Amilcar made a futile chop with his spear as he fell, rolling onto his back. Arthur lunged at him to deliver the killing blow.
But Amilcar released his useless shield and hurled it up into Arthur's face. The protruding spear deflected Arthur's strike, allowing Amilcar to squirm away as the blade bit into his hip. He regained his feet in an instant and backed away. He had saved himself a terrible gash, but now faced Arthur without a shield, and bleeding from two wounds. Neither injury was mortal, but the steady loss of blood would fatigue and weaken him.
The balance of battle had tipped towards Arthur; he had placed his opponent in a critical, if not grievous, position. What would Amilcar do? The next move would likely augur the end.
Gwenhwyvar realized this, too. I suddenly felt her hand on my arm, fingernails digging into my flesh. 'Take him, Arthur,' she urged, eyes bright, her brows lowered against the sunlight. 'Oh, take him quickly!'
Knowing himself in dire distress, Amilcar's reaction was immediate and decisive. He attacked.
Like the boar cornered by the pursuing hound, he gave an ear-splitting shout, lowered his head and charged. I could but marvel at the daring. 'Truly,' I murmured, 'he is a very boar of battle. I see that his name is well earned.'
Gwenhwyvar did not care for my approval. Her mouth bent down; she gave a derisory snarl and removed her hand from my arm.
The Black Boar's attack on Arthur lacked nothing: an act of concentrated fury, its ferocity was breathtaking. A stone hurled from a sling is not more relentless or unswerving. Nor less swift.
Amilcar drove in behind his lance, broad back and shoulders hunched for a mighty thrust. Straight and true, he charged, risking all on this one feat.
Arthur caught the blow square on the shield. I heard a loud crack as the thick Vandal lance shattered. Arthur staggered, and almost went down. Amilcar threw the splintered shaft into Arthur's face, drew his short sword, and, before Arthur could move, charged again, hurling himself forward with an ear-splitting scream of rage and desperation.
But Arthur did not meet this attack; at the last moment, he stepped aside and allowed the Black Boar to pass unscathed. I wondered at this. It is not like Arthur to permit even the slightest opportunity to slip by… but…
He seemed to be having difficulty with his shield… his arm hung down…
'
No!' groaned Gwenhwyvar suddenly. 'Please, God, no!'
Then I saw it, too. And my heart clenched like a fist in my chest.
FOURTEEN
Amilcar's lance had penetrated the stout oak of the High King's shield and embedded itself in Arthur's arm. Blood cascaded freely down the inside of the king's shield. Skewered, his forearm pierced, Arthur could not free himself.
Desperate to make the most of this unexpected advantage, Amilcar seized his sword hilt and leaped at Arthur, loosing a furious rain of double-handed blows upon the wounded arm beneath the shield. Again and again, the blade rose and fell, each stroke hammering at the broken spearpoint, forcing it deeper into the wound.
Arthur reeled, his body convulsing in agony each time Amilcar struck the point. He tried to fend off the blows, swinging Caledvwlch in powerless, futile strokes. The Black Boar swung hard and struck the sword from Arthur's hand. The blade spun from his grasp and landed in the blood-spattered dust at his feet.
Gwenhwyvar groaned, but did not look away.
Staggering back and back, no longer able to respond to the Black Boar's assault, Arthur swayed under the blows. Glimpsing his chance at victory, Amilcar lifted his voice in a growling shout of triumph.
Leaping, driving, striking again and again… again… again… again – wild, savage, ruthless blows, each one falling with bone-shattering impact.
Dearest God in heaven, what keeps Arthur on his feet?
Chips of wood from Arthur's shield flew into the air. Blood splashed from the split shield-rim in a steady rain, pelting into dust.
My throat seized. I could not swallow. I could neither watch nor look away.
Crack! Crack! The great shield began to break under the shattering attack. Chunks of splintered oak dropped to the ground.
I saw the point of Amilcar's lance protruding from the inside of Arthur's arm. The blunt blade had passed between the bones, making any movement of the arm impossible. Arthur was fixed to the shield.
Amilcar, terrible in his fury, raised his heavy blade over his head and brought it down on the rim of the broken shield. Arthur's head jerked back, his features twisted in agony.
Shoulders heaving, the Black Boar threw the blade high and brought it down with all his strength. Crack! The shield rim burst and the oak split top to bottom.
Another such stroke and the shield would break completely.
'Arthur!' Gwenhwyvar screamed. 'Arthur!'
Twrch Trwyth bore down mercilessly. The Vandali filled the air with a clamour of encouragement for their king – a sound to strike terror into the stricken British.
Again the short black sword rose and again it fell.
Arthur collapsed.
His legs had given way beneath him and he went down heavily, landing on his hip. He rolled, as if trying to crawl away. But Amilcar was on him instantly, striking furiously. Another massive chunk of Arthur's shield came away.
Amilcar howled. He hacked at Arthur with a savage, demented glee. Arthur, struggling to rise, kept the broken shield over him. Every warrior who saw it knew he was only delaying the terrible, inevitable, final fatal thrust.
The High King heaved himself up. The Black Boar raised his foot and kicked Arthur back. Arthur rolled on the ground again.
'God help him!' cried Gwenhwyvar. 'Holy Jesu, save him!' I echoed her prayer with one of my own, no less blunt or heartfelt.
Still the Black Boar struck, his iron blade cracking loud on the shattered remnant of the High King's shield. Arthur rolled, his good arm flung wide. He seemed confused, his hand fumbled uselessly in the dust.
Great Light, save your servant!
Arthur squirmed on his back as the Black Boar's sword smashed the broken shield. The battered wood parted, falling away completely. His last defence abandoned him.
'Caledvwlch!' cried Gwenhwyvar. 'Arthur! Caledvwlch!'
In the same instant Arthur's hand found his fallen sword. I saw his fingers tighten on the blade and pull it to him.
'He has it!' I shouted.
'Rise, Bear!' cried Gwenhwyvar. 'Stand!'
Arthur gathered his legs beneath him and pushed himself up on one knee. Twrch lashed out with his foot, striking Arthur on his injured shoulder. Arthur fell.
'Arthur!' cried Gwenhwyvar. Her sword was in her hand and she made to dash forth.
Amilcar, exultant, bellowing his conquest, raised his weapon one last time.
Grasping Caledvwlch's naked blade in his bare hand, Arthur made his final stand.
And I remembered that time long ago when a young boy stood alone on a mountainside against a charging stag. Now, as then, Arthur made no attempt to strike; he merely lifted the blade against Amilcar's double-handed assault.
Amilcar's sword swung down as Arthur's rose to meet it. There was a peal of ringing metal, a flash of spark, and the Black Boar's blade fractured, sheared neatly in two.
The wild-eyed triumph in the Vandal chieftain's face melted into disbelief as he stared at the swordblade lying at his feet. Cut Steel had served its master well.
With a heroic effort, Arthur gathered his legs beneath him and raised himself up. He stood, swaying, his wounded arm hanging uselessly at his side, the lancehead still firmly stuck. The bright blue woad on his body was now mixed with sweat and deep red blood. Head bowed, he stared unblinking at his adversary.
The Vandali, stricken by the swift turnabout, fell silent, the shouts of triumph dying in their throats. Silence claimed the plain. Arthur steadied himself and squared his shoulders.
The Black Boar, clutching the useless hilt with its stub of broken blade, glowered at the High King. With a shout of defiance, he flung himself at Arthur, slashing fiercely with the broken shard of his blade.
Unable to fend off the blows, Arthur stepped aside and lowered Caledvwlch. But his courage had not deserted him; even as he evaded Amilcar he prepared his last defence. As Amilcar leapt, Arthur's hand – steady, calm, unhurried – snaked out, swinging the sword level. The Black Boar's charge carried him onto the blade. Amilcar threw back his head and roared – a cry of shock and sharp defiance – then lowered his eyes to view the sword driven up under his rib cage. He had impaled himself on Arthur's sword.
The Black Boar raised his head and smiled – his eyes glazed and his grin icy. He lurched towards Arthur, forcing the blade still deeper into himself. Blood bubbled out of the wound in a sudden crimson rush. He opened his mouth to speak; his tongue strained at the words, but his legs gave way and he fell to the ground, where he lay twitching and convulsing.
Stepping to Amilcar's body, Arthur extracted Caledvwlch from his enemy's chest. Clenching his jaw against the pain, he raised the blade to shoulder height and let it drop swiftly down, severing the Black Boar's neck with a stroke. Amilcar's head rolled free and the dreadful quivering ceased.
Arthur stood for a moment, then turned and staggered towards us. In the same instant, a scream tore the stillness of the battleground. One of the Vandal warlords – Ida, it was – rushed out onto the battlefield, readying his spear as he ran. 'Arthur!' Gwenhwyvar shouted. 'Behind you!' Arthur turned his head, not yet apprehending the danger closing on him from behind.
'Arthur!' she screamed, already racing to his side. Llenlleawg was instantly at her back.
Britain's king half turned to meet his new assailant and his legs buckled under him. He crashed to his knees. Arthur made to rise, but his attacker was closing fast. One quick spear thrust and Britain's High King would be dead.
Gwenhwyvar's knife glinted like a fiery disc in the sun as it spun in the air. It did not stop the barbarian; he ran on a few steps before his hand lost strength and the lance slipped from his fingers. He glanced down to see the queen's dagger buried up to the hilt in his upper arm.
He stooped to retrieve the lance, and Gwenhwyvar's sword sang through a tight arc and caught him at the base of the neck. The barbarian pitched onto his face, dead.
'Here I am!' cried Gwenhwyvar, her voice towering with defiance. 'Who is next?' She stood over the
corpse, her sword red with the blood of Arthur's false assailant, shouting daring the Vandali to attack. Llenlleawg, bristling with menace, took his place beside the queen.
Another of the barbarian chieftains appeared eager to take Gwenhwyvar at her word: he drew his sword and started forth. Mercia seized him and threw him back. The battlechief staggered up, thrusting the head of his lance in Mercia's face. Mercia grabbed the shaft of the lance and lashed out with a cruel kick, catching his bellicose comrade on the point of the chin. The chieftain subsided in a heap.
Cai and Bedwyr dashed to Gwenhwyvar's side. The four stood over Arthur, weapons drawn, daring the enemy to attack. Meanwhile, I ran to Arthur's side.
Mercia stepped boldly out from among the others. He called in a loud voice, and summoned Hergest to him. Together they advanced to where the three Britons stood.
'Help me stand!' groaned Arthur through clenched teeth.
'In a moment,' I told him gently. 'First I must look at your wound.' There was blood everywhere, and sweat, and dust, and woad.
'Help me stand, Myrddin.' He shrugged away and, using Caledvwlch, raised himself up on his knees; his injured arm hung down limp and useless. Blood seeped from the wound in a steady dark flow. I helped him regain his feet and he turned to meet the advancing Vandali.
Mercia, with Hergest beside him, presented himself to the High King. 'Lord Mercia says that he recognizes Arthur to be victor,' Hergest explained. 'He will abide the terms of peace. Do with us what you will.'
With that, Mercia threw the disarmed chieftain's lance to the ground at Cai's feet. He then drew the short sword from his belt, laid the blade across his palms, and offered it to Arthur, bowing his head in submission. 'I am slave to you, Lord King,' he said.
The High King motioned to Gwenhwyvar, who took the sword.
'I accept your surrender,' Arthur said through clenched teeth, his voice hollow. To Cai and Bedwyr, he muttered, 'See to it.'
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