by Jack Whyte
"He was here when I arrived. Don't know where he is now, but he probably went looking for food. There are no cook fires this morning. I'll be outside when you're ready."
Meradoc watched the tall man leave, stooping to clear the flaps as he went, and then he dragged himself free of his sleeping skins, stood up and stretched. His head felt awful and he reeled, staggering sideways for half a step until he regained his balance. Mumbling curses to himself, he scratched at his groin, aware that it was past time for another delousing, and then he stooped to fling cold water on his face, scrubbing at his eyes and then rinsing his mouth. Shivering from the shock of the water and the dampness of the morning, he dried his hands and face on a sour-smelling piece of rag and then dug into a chest of clothes, pulling out a warmer tunic than the one in which he had slept. He pulled the soiled tunic over his head, noticing the stink of stale beer that clung to it, and shrugged into the heavier one, tugging and pulling at it until it hung comfortably, then strapping his sword belt over it. When he had finished, he glanced up again at the roof of the tent, noting the shiny wetness of the saturated leather, then peered blearily about him, searching for his campaign cloak. It lay in a heap on the floor in the corner where he had dropped it several days earlier. Moments later, safely muffled in the heavy garment, he thrust aside the tent flaps and stepped out into the torrential rain.
There were upwards of half a score of men standing about, all evidently waiting for him to emerge, and he blinked at them, failing to recognize them immediately since they were all swathed in protective, heavy-weather cloaks of wax-scraped wool. Owain of the Caves he recognized, since he had seen him mere moments earlier, and Huw Strongarm was there too, his beardless face setting him apart. He recognized Cunbelyn next by his elaborate cloak, despite the fact that its bright colours were rain-sodden almost to the point of blackness. He recognized the other Llewellyn Chief too, his own cousin. Hod, by the width of his enormous shoulders. Then another of the watchers raised his hand and pulled his hood back from his face, revealing himself as Cativelaunus, which meant that the smaller man behind him must be Brynn of Y Gaer.
"What's going on?" Meradoc demanded, his face flushing in a frown as he looked from face to face. "Where's my man Jaiius?"
"Trying to find a pool that's still enough to let him see which of his two faces is redder," someone said, joking about the two-headed Roman god who could see past and future at the same time. But no one laughed. "In the meantime, we came to help you welcome the Choosing day."
Meradoc turned to face the man who had spoken, knowing that something was badly wrong. "Garreth? Garreth Whistler, is that you?"
"Aye, it is, wishing a good day to you, Meradoc."
"How came you here today?"
"He came with me."
The voice was deep, its tone emotionless, and its owner, a tall, broad-shouldered man who had been standing farthest away at the very rear of the crowd stepped forward as he spoke, throwing the hood back from his head. Meradoc felt his heart freeze as he recognized Uther Pendragon. And beside Uther, Owain of the Caves stood motionless, staring at Meradoc with his arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked beneath his armpits for warmth, his face expressionless. Owain wore no cloak, and the shoulders of his tunic were sodden. Meradoc gaped from Uther to Owain and back to Uther. Uther did not wait for him to find his tongue.
"We arrived late last night, long after everyone had gone to bed, so we made no noise, wishing to disturb no one. Are you not glad to see me, Meradoc? I almost missed the Choosing. That would have been shameful, would it not?" He waited for the space of three heartbeats and then spoke again. "What, have you nothing to say?"
Meradoc made to speak, then coughed to clear his throat, determined to brazen this out despite the fact that he had no idea what had gone wrong. "Well." he grunted, "I'll not pretend I'm glad to see you, Pendragon, for I'm not. We had received word that you would not be coming."
"No, Llewellyn, not so. Word that I was dead is what you had, and you believed it. Because when Owain here came back yesterday, you assumed he had done what you sent him to do, which was to kill me, in much the same way you had my father killed." The pause that followed was very slight, but Meradoc felt the world crash down around him then at the flat, truthful accusation in the Pendragon's words.
"Except, of course," Uther continued, "Owain's arrow would not have been tipped with venom. Owain does not deal in poisoned arrows—has no need to."
Meradoc tried to swallow, to clear his mouth, but his throat was swollen with panic, and the beat of his heart was hammering loudly in his ears. He tried to conjure a way to win back the initiative as Uther continued speaking, but the words hit him hard, falling like hailstones about his unprepared ears.
"But the gods permitted me to save Owain's life, and so, being a man of honour, he made no attempt on mine. He knew you'd have him killed for that, though, and he was prepared to leave Cambria in order to save his life. Until I offered him a place with me. He liked that, because he knows he'll be in less peril with me . . . I do my own killing, unlike you."
"You're mad, Pendragon." Meradoc's fingers closed around the hilt of his sword beneath his cloak.
"No, Llewellyn, that I am not. You suborned some of my father's guards, and they allowed the Cornish bowman to sneak through our lines and kill their King, my father. Then you killed the guards before they could be questioned and condemn you."
Meradoc had no way of knowing that Uther Pendragon was merely provoking him, quoting what he had been told without a feather's weight of proof, for what he had said was the complete truth. And so Meradoc moved, leaping towards the Pendragon, screaming denial and whipping his sword from its sheath, thrusting the folds of his cloak back over his shoulder to free his arm. But he was far too late. As his weapon swept up and down in the killing stroke, Uther's sword arm emerged from beneath his cloak to block the blow, his long cavalry sword already bare, and the blades clashed and then slid together loudly as they met. Each man leaned into his blow, absorbing the strength of the other's strike, so that they strained together for long moments, face to face and chest to chest. Then Uther spun sideways and away, leaving Meradoc to sprawl forward onto his hands and knees while he himself sprang backwards, shrugging his loosened cloak so that it fell behind him, leaving him unencumbered. He stepped carefully away from the wet, discarded cloak, leaving it well clear of his feet, and then began to circle, half crouched, as he watched Meradoc struggle to his feet and divest himself of his own cloak.
Uther was in no hurry. He was quite content to give Meradoc all the time he needed to collect himself and prepare to die. The others moved to form a wide ring about the two, and as they did so the rain stopped falling, so suddenly that the absence of its noise seemed louder than the noise had been, and the sound of squelching feet was loud.
Meradoc hefted his sword in his right hand and pulled his long, one-edged dirk with his left, then began circling too, his narrowed eyes fixed on Uther's. Both men were renowned warriors, both champions, and none of the watchers made any attempt to wager on the outcome of this fight.
Meradoc made the first move, darting forward and swinging his sword upwards in a backhanded, lethal slash that Uther blocked easily. But in the moment of the block Meradoc changed his thrust, pulling his sword away and twisting his body to the right as he brought the dirk in his left hand up in an underhand thrust that should have disembowelled the Pendragon. Uther, however, had been waiting for him to do precisely that. He had seen Meradoc fight before, and as the wicked, stabbing thrust arched towards him, Uther rose to tiptoe and bent sharply at the waist, twisting away and sucking in his gut so that the blade slid by him, catching its point in his tunic. His left hand dropped to catch Llewellyn's left wrist and he pulled sharply, swinging his weight and dragging the other man across in front of him, then smashing him savagely on the back of the head with the pommel of his sword as he passed by.
The Llewellyn Chief went to his knees again, his hands in the mud, his g
rip on the dirk lost as he fell, and Uther moved quickly, stepping sideways again until he stood alongside Meradoc's left shoulder. The desire for this man's blood, the blood of his father's murderer, was a hammering urgency that threatened to overwhelm him, and he came close to ending it then and there, raising his long sword to plunge its point between the other's shoulder blades and into his heart. But that would have been too easy, too swift. He screamed his hatred and kicked Meradoc hard in the side of the head instead, knocking him over onto his side in the mud, and then he stepped away again, grounding his sword, and waited for him to get up.
Behind his back, someone in the circle muttered something indistinct, and suddenly Uther was facing the onlookers, ignoring Meradoc as he searched their faces in the strengthening morning light, his sword point weaving in front of him as he silently challenged any of them, all of them, to come against him. But no one moved, and nothing else was said, and so he turned back towards his enemy. The Llewellyn was up on his knees again, shaking his head, trying to clear it. He had lost his sword as well as his dagger. Uther saw both weapons, the dagger lying close to his own feet. He stooped and picked it up with his left hand, then threw it gently so that it landed with a clank across the blade of the sword. When he spoke, his voice was calm and quiet, betraying no hint of the rage in him, and because of that his words were more chilling than they might otherwise have seemed.
"Two weapons, Meradoc. There they are. Yours to use on me, although from the way you keep losing them, I begin to think you've lost the knack of how to employ them. Too many others have been doing your killing for you recently. Pick them up, whoreson, and clean them, so they won't slip in your grasp. Take your time and gel your wind. I want you to be well aware of what is happening when I kill you. My father's blood demands more punishment than a swift stab in the back. Get up and fight, for you have no other choice. Owain of the Caves now stands with me, and all your other creatures are dead, so there's no hope of further treachery saving you."
The taunts brought Meradoc to his feet, where he stood swaying, blood and spittle drooling from his broken mouth. He wiped his face roughly with a sleeve and then bent slowly to retrieve his weapons, never taking his eyes off Uther, expecting to be attacked when he was most vulnerable. But Uther merely stood waiting, making no attempt to close the distance between them. Meradoc cleaned the hilts of both weapons on his outer tunic, then grasped them firmly, hefting them, testing their weight and breathing deeply until he had regained his wind. Then, crouched and silent, he moved forward.
The fight went savagely after that, neither man taking the slightest risk of losing his footing on the treacherous ground. The sound of clanging blades seemed to go on forever as they dodged and weaved, each seeking the advantage and neither seeming able to gain sufficient momentum for a clean killing stroke. The watchers made no sound, aware that they were witnessing an epic struggle, their eyes constantly shifting from one to the other of the two superb fighters. Meradoc was grim-faced, frowning in concentration, calling up every vestige of his renowned skills in what he knew was his only opportunity to salvage anything of honour, or even life. He cursed monotonously under his breath as he sought, time after time, to win the advantage promised to him by having two blades against Uther's one. Uther, on the other hand, showed no emotion at all. His face was impassive, the planes of his cheekbones and forehead almost polished in their smoothness. Only his tight, seemingly lipless mouth and glittering eyes betrayed the implacable anger that consumed him. He moved on his toes, with the confidence and strength of the great red dragon that was his emblem, his every movement precise and dangerous, wary and murderous.
And then, after one breathtaking display of stroke and counter- stroke, Uther jumped back, blood streaming from his left arm, where the edge of his opponent's blade had nicked him deeply above the elbow.
He held his arm up, showing the blood to all of them but speaking to the Llewellyn. "Feast your eyes on it, whoreson. It is the last Pendragon blood you will ever see."
He leaped forward and the angry clangour of iron began again. This time, however, it ended quickly when Uther's scything blade struck Meradoc's sword arm, cleaving it above the wrist and almost severing the hand completely. With a strangled cry, Meradoc dropped his other weapon and clutched at the upraised stump that was already jetting bright life blood, and as he strained there, mouth agape, Uther stepped in and stabbed hard, thrusting with his entire weight, his blade plunging into the soft flesh beneath the other's sternum. The Llewellyn Chief screamed, choking, and Uther raised one foot high, placed it on Meradoc's chest, pulled his weapon free and then stepped back. Meradoc hung there, gaping and gasping, unable to utter a sound, then fell to his knees, head down, staring at the hole in his chest.
Calmly, his face expressionless, Uther stepped forward again and took a position by the kneeling man's side. His sword swept up once more, high over his head, then hissed down with all his strength behind it. The blade sliced cleanly through the Llewellyn's outstretched neck, severing his head, and a fierce jet of blood gouted three times before the headless body fell to earth.
Uther had turned away before the corpse collapsed, crossing directly to where the other Llewellyn chiefs, Cunbelyn and Hod, stood stunned by the swiftness of their kinsman's death. The Pendragon came close to them, facing them directly, his right arm extended slightly to hold the tip of his red-dripping blade above the wet earth, not threatening anyone directly but visibly in evidence. More blood dripped from his other arm, this his own, but he ignored it completely.
"Cunbelyn," he said, "Hod, do I yet have living enemies among Llewellyn? Does either you feel any need to avenge your kinsman's death as I have avenged my father's?"
Cunbelyn merely shook his head, unable to find words, but Hod the Strong lived up to his name. He drew himself erect and looked the Pendragon Chief straight in the eye. "No," he growled. "I see no need to fight with you. You challenged him on what you had been told. He drew his blade on you and we all witnessed it. The fight was fair, and more than fair. You won. And if the information that you threw at him was true, he deserved what befell him."
"It was true. And he made no attempt to deny it, because he knew whence it came."
"Aye." Hod the Strong turned his head slightly to look at Owain of the Caves, who stared back at him. his face expressionless. "But we'll never know for sure, will we?" He glanced back at Uther. "Very well, then. I'll tell my people what occurred, and I'll make no attempt to stir them against you, but I can't speak for Cunbelyn."
The other, hearing his name, held up his hand palm outward and shook his head. "Nor I," he said. "Nor I."
"So be it." Uther turned away from the two Chiefs back towards the other witnesses, who were now standing in a quiet group.
"Have someone clean that up," he said to no one in particular, nodding in the general direction of the headless corpse, and then he stalked away, still carrying his bloody sword, followed by Garreth Whistler and Owain of the Caves. He had taken no more than four steps, however, before he stopped and looked back over his shoulder to where young Huw Strongarm stood watching him. For a short while he stood there, staring deliberately at the younger man, and then he dipped his head in the tiniest of nods.
"You'll yet have some questions to ask me, I think, eh. Cousin? More than had occurred to you when we spoke earlier, no? Come then, if you like, and I'll try to answer them for you."
Young Strongarm nodded in return, then threw his cloak backwards, over his shoulders, drew a deep breath and stepped forward to accompany the trio.
Cativelaunus watched them leave and then threw off his hood and shook out his long white hair before turning to Brynn of Y Gaer.
"So," he said. "There's an end to uncertainty! No interregnum. Daris will be happy. Let's go and tell him." He snapped his fingers to attract the attention of one of his own minor chieftains, then waved towards the body of Meradoc.
"Throw this in a hole with the others—a deep hole. Three bodies, four heads.
Make sure you plant them well, too, because we don't want to be snouting them later." He stopped short, staring at the man to whom he had been speaking, then leaned slightly forward and repeated himself more slowly. "Three bodies, I said— four heads. Count them if you don't believe me. Meradoc, Petifax and Janus the two-faced Roman!"
Chapter EIGHTEEN
Huw Strongarm felt very strange. He would be hit with an overpowering urge to laugh, shout and leap around, and then within the space of a few heartbeats, he would want instead to weep like a child—although his dignity as a warrior and a Chief would never have permitted any possibility of his being able to do either. Nonetheless, his breast felt tilled to bursting with tumultuous feelings, all of them demanding some kind of violent, demonstrative, physical outlet. Rather than give in to any of them, however, Huw forced himself to walk stiff-legged, taking great strides, chin pulled in to his chest, fists clenched, arms pumping, his eyes fixed on the path ahead of him, following the tracked footprints in the mud.
Huw Strongarm, Chief of the northern Pendragon clans, was not yet seventeen years old, a boy in all but size and rank. But no one who knew the youth had ever doubted his natural leadership. Even in childhood, he had outstripped his cradle-mates at every stage of growth and development, being the first among them to crawl, and then to walk, to talk and even to reason coherently and with logic. By the time he was eleven, approaching twelve, his voice had begun to break, and long before his thirteenth birthday he had acquired a coarse body hair. But even so, no one, himself included, had been prepared for the incredible growth that he experienced in the two years, that followed. Almost overnight, it seemed, between one season and the next, the boy exploded in size, outstripping his own friends almost visibly day by day, until he towered even over his father's chieftains, some of whom were the largest men in the Federation.
