by Andre Norton
“More than that I do not ask,” Arthur returned. “I wish that it had been given me to learn as you learned. For at this moment I feel that I need more than human strength and will to aid me.” He rose slowly, “Well, let us sleep, if any sleep will come to us. Tomorrow brings either peace or blood, and which choice we cannot now foresee.”
“There is this,” Merlin told him. “They have appointed a meeting place in the middle of ancient stones. If this is part of some forgotten temple, even as the Place of the Sun, then I can command more of the Power to our service. For much lies sleeping in such places.”
“Providing they are not places hostile to us.”
“Lord King, I have found many such places in this land. Only once has any had the stench of the Dark about it, and that was the hold of Nimue. I hope that none was built elsewhere.”
If the King slept that night, Merlin did not. He lay on his cloak, his eyes closed, to be sure, but his mind awake; he sought through his memory for anything which might prove either armor or weapon. Piece by piece, word by word, he assembled all he knew, all he had learned from the mirror that might at this time add to his inner forces. He understood that this was a trial of strength with Nimue, perhaps the final battle between them.
Though he had not slept, yet the morning found him alert and eager for that confrontation. And as they moved on, he fingered his wand as a boy might finger his sword hilt before his first battle.
They came to a place which was like a finger of firm earth poked into marshy land. There were ponds here and there, some scummed over with green, others clear but dark, with water reeds and the strange growths of such country standing tall. On the finger of firm earth were the stones Modred had named, while on the slope of the hill on the other side were drawn up the rebel forces, making a parade of banners.
Arthur’s men did the same on this slope, while the King dismounted and with him Merlin, Cei, Owien and others. He had refused to take Constans, rather giving into the Duke’s hands the command of the force behind. Constans would have argued but Arthur pressed on him that this was his true duty, for after Arthur now no other man had clear right to the crown.
Then with Arthur to the fore, Merlin and Cei shoulder-to-shoulder behind him, they moved on down to the stones. The rhythm of chanting from the rebel forces sounded, and Merlin saw robed monks in a tight group under the unlawful standard of the Dragon.
Though he searched carefully with alert eyes he could make out no sign of any women. If the Queen, Morgause and Nimue were there, they were somehow hidden by the warriors.
He next studied the stones as they slowly drew closer to them, their pace being carefully matched by Modred’s group coming down to meet them here. To Merlin’s eyes there was little outward difference between these rough rocks and those he had seen at the Place of the Sun. But he still wondered at Modred’s selection of such a site. Such places were abodes of the Devil, to the monks who had given their good will to Modred. Why then . . . ? Mistrust strengthened in Merlin, for he felt that Nimue would never have allowed her puppet prince to select a place where the old forces slept and could be awakened.
Unless she was finding Modred—her own creation perhaps—a weapon which turned in the hand, and that he, not she, now gave the orders of their company.
The stones were set in a single small circle. Two lay prone. Merlin swung his wand a little. He felt no pull, detected no spark of energy. These stones were as dead in that respect as any ordinary rock. Well, he had not really expected that they would be otherwise.
He watched Modred now, that narrow dark face which bore so much the stamp of the Old Blood, yet had something within it which subtly repelled. Modred was smiling; he gave the appearance of one whom fortune had favored. And Merlin, thoroughly alert for trickery, began a subtle probing, only to meet a barrier as strong to his mind’s thrust as steel might stand to the prod of a single fingertip. Modred was well armed indeed.
18.
* * *
Merlin did not relinquish his struggle to touch the younger man somehow. He caught Modred’s slanting gaze once and was answered with a sly smile, as if Modred knew what he would do and had no fears. Then Modred spoke directly to Arthur with open insolence.
“You have asked that we meet. What plea would you make to me?”
Merlin sensed the stiffening of Cei, knew that it was only with difficulty that the other must be restraining his growing rage at such an insult to the King. But Arthur’s answer came calm and clear.
“I make no plea, Modred. I only tell you the truth now; if we war, Britain fails. Then all we have won will be lost forever.”
“Your throne will be lost,” Modred returned, flaunting his insolence without any shading of prudence. “Have you come then to beg for your crown, Arthur?”
Merlin saw the flush rise on the King’s face. That Arthur kept his self-control was a measure of the man, and Merlin’s pride in him was great. He himself strove to pierce Modred’s barrier, to reach the man. And so intent was he on the task he had promised Arthur he would try that he nearly lost the warning of a more subtle attack.
He turned his head swiftly. Something moved by the nearest stone, rustling in the grass. Before Arthur could answer, one of Modred’s men uttered a cry of surprise and fear, drawing his sword and striking downward. For a moment they saw the upraised head of a serpent. But it was no true serpent. Illusion, cried Merlin’s own senses, too late.
“Treachery!” Cei’s blade was also out, slashing at the man who had driven his sword into a serpent which vanished even as he tried to impale it.
Modred sprang at the King, his sword out and ready, but Cei’s charge shouldered him aside. Then battle swirled openly around the stones. From behind, Merlin heard the sounding of the trumpets where Constans was ordering a charge. Inches of steel reached for his own throat. He brought up the wand and hurled a mental blast at his attacker.
The man howled madly, his sword wavered, his eyes became fixed in his head. He plunged on, hurling Merlin back against one of the stones. The force of that crushing against the rock drove the breath from Merlin’s body in a mighty wheeze.
The fighting swirled around him. The man he had mind-struck staggered on, to be cut down by one of Arthur’s men. Down the slope thundered those of Arthur’s guard, the man in advance leading the King’s own charger, cutting his way in so that Arthur might swing into the saddle. Modred was gone. Merlin, clinging to his stone lest he go down and be trampled under hooves, saw him leaping from tussock to tussock across a band of marsh to join with those milling there, striving to find a dried path to come at the King’s forces.
There were four bodies among the stones. One was Owien, his aged face turned up, his sightless eyes staring straight into the sun hanging over them. There was a look of vast surprise frozen on his features, as if death had come so swiftly that he had not even had time to realize it before the stroke fell.
The fighting had already whirled away from the stones. Merlin got back his breath, went from one body to the next. Healing craft was his and by the looks he would be well needed this day. But these were all dead.
He made his way back to the wagons which carried the supplies for the wounded. There he shrugged off his robe of office, leaving his body freer in his under-tunic as he went to work. But in him was the stricken knowledge that he had failed Arthur. Had he not been so intent on mastering Modred, he might have seen that illusion, dispersed it before it incited this slaying. Whether he had seen Nimue or not, the serpent was hers, he had no doubt of that.
Now he labored to staunch grievous wounds, perhaps saving lives while in the valley below others were as intent on ending it. Whoever won this day, Britain might well be lost.
Time ceased to be counted as passing hours. Merlin wrought with his hands and with his mind among those brought to him. Many he could only ease into a painless parting, others he could grant a chance. And of those who still had their senses alert enough to give coherent answers he asked about t
he progress of the fight. But the men he tended had seen only portions, those which had centered about them. Sometimes they reported retreats, at other times small victories, with a beating back of the rebels.
At mid-afternoon they brought him Cei’s young shield bearer. And the boy wept as Merlin set splints around a broken arm. His lord, he said dazedly, had been cut down, though he had taken with him at least four of the enemy who had surrounded him.
So Cei was gone, even as Ector had gone before him, Merlin thought wearily. He had indeed ever been Arthur’s right hand, and now that was cut off. Owien and Cei, and how many more who would have and did follow Arthur no matter what tattling lies could be told?
He felt as if he moved now through some dreadful dream, perhaps that hell the followers of the Christus were wont to say lay ready to engulf all unbelievers. There was blood everywhere, and dead men asprawl, their bodies dragged hurriedly aside when no more might be done to aid them.
The stench of blood filled his nostrils, clung about him, just as it splashed and clotted on his under-tunic, bespattered his arms and legs, even his cheeks. And with it hung the smell of death from which there was no escape. The sun that had been overhead at the beginning of this slaughter was now far down in the west.
“Merlin—” Someone pulled at his arm, tugging in spite of his efforts to shake off that touch. He moved on toward a man who lay groaning, his hands clasped across a great gash in his belly, the touch of death already on him.
“Merlin!”
Dazed, he looked down into a small dark face across which was a cut which had dribbled blood now clotting in a smear. There was a name for this man. Merlin searched his memory....
“Bleheris,” he said.
“Merlin!” The other jerked at his arm. “Bring your healing things and come!”
Merlin shook off the stupor which had grown out of suffering and his attempts to relieve it. There could only be one reason why Bleheris sought him out. And he discovered at that moment that all the fear which he had ever known in his life was nothing compared to the terror which gripped him now.
Arthur!
Though they had known that death ever waited in battle, still Merlin had not really foreseen in his heart that this might come to Arthur. It could not! All he had, all he was, would rise to fight for the last of the Star-born.
Savage anger followed that thrust of agonizing fear. In that moment he wanted two throats between his hands—Modred’s and the slender one of Nimue! Catching up a bag of linen strips, grasping at two pots of salve, he rounded on Bleheris.
“Where?” he demanded.
The Pict was fairly hopping from one foot to another in impatience.
“Come.” He started on a run and Merlin easily matched his pace.
They threaded a way through the human wreckage of the battle. The fight had swirled away. Only distantly now could they hear the shouting, the cries, groans, screams of wounded horses and men. Bleheris bore to the right, pounding along the bank of the river whose overflow fed the swamplands. There were more dead here, even wounded who cried out faintly. But Merlin’s ears were still closed. Arthur was all that mattered, for Arthur was Britain—Arthur was the shining future of the world!
“It was Modred,” the Pict babbled between gasps as he ran. “The King, he had cut straight through all the others to get at the traitor. He speared him, but Modred would not die. He held to the King’s lance and cut up. He would not die!”
There were tears washing away the clots of blood on Bleheris’ cheek. “Dead he was, that foul traitor, but he would not die until he left his mark on the King.”
There was a hut ahead, a rough thing probably used during the hunting season by a fowler. And outside it stood two of those Merlin knew as Arthur’s guard. He pushed by them, and then was on his knees where a body rested on a heap of stained and tattered war cloaks.
Arthur’s eyes were closed. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and cheeks. His breath came in the ragged gasps of a man in torment. They had stripped off his ring armor, bared his body, and there was a mass of cloth plugging a wound in his lower belly.
Swiftly, but with care, Merlin drew that away, sodden as it was with blood. What he saw there—
Men did not live with such wounds. Not in this day. But Arthur was not just a man; he was more. Merlin worked deftly, cleansing, binding up that wound.
“He—he will live ... ?” Bleheris hunkered to watch, and beyond him was Gawain of Arthur’s guard.
“I do not know.” Merlin sat back on his heels. His mind had at last broken free of that deadly stupor which had gripped it since the battle began. Clear as if he saw it actually before him, he was remembering that coffin box in the cave. It preserved life—could it heal Arthur or at least keep him asleep and living until the Sky Lords came? For their knowledge was greater than Merlin or any in his world would have.
But that cave was distant Could he keep Arthur living until they reached it? What did he have? Only the small knowledge of this day, a little aided by what the mirror could share with him, though he was unable even to comprehend the learning long since lost. But he also had his will! And if will and purpose could keep Arthur living, then he would set all of his to that task alone from this moment forward.
“How goes the battler?”
He could not transport Arthur through a land where they might be hunted as they went. Now he saw the young guard near Arthur’s head look at him angrily, as if nothing mattered except saving the life of his wounded lord. But Bleheris guessed the reason for his question instantly.
“If you would take the Lord King hence, Lord Merlin,” he answered, “Modred’s men are broke. They flee before the vengeance of the Black Riders.”
“Where would you take the High King?” demanded the guard then.
“He is sore hurt,” Merlin answered. “He must be taken where those well versed in heal-craft can tend him.”
“Merlin—”
Their heads all swung around. Arthur’s eyes were open, his voice so thin, a thread of sound, that they tried to still even their breathing that they might not drown out his words.
“I killed him ...”
That was not quite a statement, not quite a question, but Merlin treated it as the latter.
“He is dead,” he replied flatly.
“He forced me to it. He was so greatly my enemy that he threw away his life to make sure of my death. Why?”
Merlin shook his head. “I do not know, save that he was only a weapon in another’s hands. This hate is old, old beyond our understanding. Once it turned this world into ashes—”
“So does it again.” Arthur’s voice had grown a little stronger as if he must get out the words he would say. “The Fellowship is broken, Merlin.” His hand moved a little by his side as if seeking something which should rest there. “Where is the sword?”
“Here, Lord King,” Bleheris burrowed beneath the edge of the massed war cloaks on which the King lay. He found the weight of the ancient blade heavy but he held it up so Arthur could look at it without turning his head.
“I shall not ... put hand to its hilt again ...” the King said.
“Not until your wound is healed,” Merlin corrected quickly.
“Brother-kin.” Arthur’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles. “Do not deceive yourself. Great may be your powers, but on all powers there is a limit.”
“There was also a promise!” Merlin’s eyes caught and held Arthur’s, setting his will on the King. “You are he who was, is and shall be!”
“Shall be ...” repeated Arthur drowsily, his eyes closed.
Bleheris regarded him fearfully. “Is he—has he gone from us?”
“Not so,” Merlin assured the Pict. “He sleeps and will continue to sleep free from pain. So shall he rest until we get him to where he may be cared for.”
“Lord Merlin, what of—? Who will lead us, then?” asked the guard.
“The Lord King has given Constans the leadership. But w
hen you speak to the Duke tell him also that Arthur lives, he only goes hence that he may be cured of his wound. Also” —he was thinking clearly and logically now—“do you tell the Duke that he is to search in Modred’s camp and there he will find the Queen and two others—the Lady Morgause and the Lady of the Lake. And these he will say nothing to concerning the King, save that he is wounded a little and rests. But he shall also make sure that those three do no more mischief.”
“Lord Merlin, as you have said it, so will it be told to Duke Constans. But how bear you the King hence and where—”
“As to how, he shall go by horse litter, well wrapped in. And where, to the mountains where there is a place well known to healers.”
He began to give orders and they were obeyed. It was as if those who had served Arthur so faithfully were willing to do anything to maintain their fragile hope that the King would survive. By morning Merlin was ready to lead forth a small party.
The King, as well protected as they could make him, was secured in a horse litter, with Bleheris, mounted on his own small pony, leading the horses. Merlin brought up the rear. He had spoken to Constans, who had sought him out with the news that Modred’s forces had suffered such a defeat as would make the kingdom safe.
“Duke,” Merlin had answered him. “I do not hide from you, though I ask you for the sake of the men’s spirits not to set it generally about, that the King is sore hurt. He has only one chance for life and that is to reach a place of healing. I shall fight, as you have, to keep breath in his body until we are there. Into your hands did he give command, and to you he would leave his rule. Britain has been torn sorely here; you must heal the country’s wounds as I will strive to heal the King’s.”
Constans listened and then said, “Healer, I have heard many strange things of you, but never has it been said that you were unfriend to the King. Rather it is known that to you he turned when he was in sore trouble. Therefore I believe in what you say. I shall hold Britain, not as her king, but as one who rules for another. Unless word comes that your hopes have come to nothing. Then will I reign as Pendragon.”
