Rise of the Pendragon (Islands in the Mist Book 3)

by J. M. Hofer

  Aelhaearn pounced. He kicked Gareth’s dropped sword out of the way and stomped on his left wrist, pinning his shield to the ground. He leaned down over him, shaking his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, boy.”

  ***

  Gareth sat outside his tent, his stomach leaping with adrenaline each time he pictured the arena. He thought of Jørren. Only five more days, friend. Be strong. He wondered how he fared and whether or not he had been given the news of his release, but it was not likely. The guards would probably let him believe he was being taken to his execution and deliver him clueless to his father’s tent—after beating him farewell, of course. With all the forgework Gareth had done on the prison cells, he had become familiar with the tactics the guards employed. Grown wicked with idleness, they often took pleasure in tormenting their charges.

  Gareth sighed and looked up. The sky was overcast, at odds with the cheerful mood in the camp. Children woke earlier than usual and hurried through their porridge. Boys took up their wooden swords and tugged at their father’s tunics, badgering them as to when they could leave for the arena. Girls wove ribbons in their hair and filled baskets with fistfuls of wildflowers to throw at their favorite contestants.

  He was about to leave when his father came over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s do a few rounds before you go. For luck.”

  Gareth was loathe to tire him, but knew his father would feel worse if he refused to spar with him. He got up and followed him to a nearby field where others in the clan were practicing. A crowd of children followed them, eager to see their chieftain fight his son.

  Sparring with his father, though certainly not easy, was easier than with Aelhaearn. He had been crossing swords with him since he was old enough to hold one and knew his tactics well. And Idris, of course. It dawned on him that he had not seen him since they had arrived. “Where’s Idris?”

  His father gestured across the field. “Over there, training his prize pupil. He got a new one after you left.” He winked.

  “Laust!”

  Laust turned. His face lit up, and he ran over. “Gareth! When did you get here?”

  Gareth grinned, happy to see his good friend. “A few days ago, with the garrison.”

  Laust slugged him on the shoulder and then took a step back, looking him up and down. “Gods, what the hell have you been eating? Bear meat?”

  Gareth laughed. “No, just swinging a lot of hammers. Have you entered the tournament?”

  Laust shook his head. “No.” He reached down and rubbed his wrist. “Injured myself a few months back. Still recovering.”

  Gareth felt disappointed. “That’s too bad.”

  “It’ll be healed soon enough. Getting my strength back. Working with Idris has helped.”

  Gareth felt a wave of nostalgia, thinking back on the countless afternoons he had spent training with Idris. I do want to win. I want to win for him, for my father, and for Mynyth Aur.

  ***

  The crowds were deafening as Gareth and the other contestants entered the arena. His heart galloped as he turned around, taking in the scope of it all. There were eighty of them, all chosen to represent their clans in the tournament. Idris and Bran had nominated Gareth for the honor, and none had opposed them.

  Soon, one of Uthyr’s commanders barked an order at Gareth, pairing him up with his opponent for the first round. He was not as tall as Gareth, but just as broad, sturdy and barrel-chested. They circled one another a few times, getting the measure of each other. Gareth let him strike the first few blows. He’s clumsy, but strong. He’s going to try to win with force. When he felt confident he knew the man’s fighting style, he pressed in and defeated him in less than ten quick blows. He received his first shower of flowers from the crowd.

  Each round reduced the number of opponents by half, so those who won gained quite a bit more room to maneuver in the next fight.

  His next opponent was from Powys. He was a slender man with arms that looked like a better fit for a bow than a sword. To Gareth’s surprise, he was much stronger than he looked. Time and time again, the man deflected his efforts. Come on, what’s wrong with you? Look at him. He’s as thin as a beech sapling! Cut him down! Yet, like a beech sapling, he refused to break, moving with swiftness away from Gareth’s iron blows. It took longer to wear the man down than he expected, but he managed to do it.

  They now numbered only twenty, so Gareth could clearly see everyone who remained. It was only then that he first noticed Aelhaearn but not as he had expected to see him. He was breathing hard, sweating, with sword in hand—not standing among the judges. Bloody hell. The bastard’s entered the fucking tournament!

  In that moment, as if he had somehow gained his mother’s gift of prophecy, he knew who the last two men standing would be. What he did not know, was who would become champion. That was as cloudy as it had always been. But he felt much less confident that it would be him.

  The next three rounds were almost dreamlike. He felt as if he had already fought them and were simply remembering his victories. When the judges announced he and Aelhaearn would be competing against each other in the round for the title, he did not feel the thrill and pride he had imagined feeling—he felt only the cold hand of destiny.

  What he lacked in enthusiasm, his clan more than made up for, however. They rushed in and surrounded him, the children hollering and jumping up and down, the women kissing him, and the men smacking him on the back and shoulders.

  “I’m proud of you,” his father said, embracing him. “You’ve brought honor to the Oaks today.”

  Though his father did not say it, Gareth knew he wanted nothing more in this world than for him to defeat Aelhaearn. He could almost see the unsaid words hovering in the air.

  Gareth’s throat tightened. He felt equally proud and ashamed—betrayed, as well as a betrayer. I have to beat him.

  ***

  The following morning brought more clouds and a light rain. The archery competition would not be held until noon. They said it was so no contestant would have any advantage in terms of sunlight, but Gareth thought it more likely the judges wanted to sleep off their hangovers.

  It gave him the entire morning to train. Every Oak in the camp offered to help him practice and took turns giving him advice or crossing swords with him. Women brought them food and drink, sometimes staying to watch awhile. The children could not be kept away. They cheered them on, playing with wooden swords and mimicking their moves.

  They went as a clan to the competition, hoisting their green banners over their heads proudly as they made their way to the cleared field where a seemingly endless row of targets were set up.

  “Where’s Mother?” Arhianna asked, looking around. There were a good number of women from their clan who had entered the competition, all of them protégés of their mother. She had trained them all since they were strong enough to pull a bowstring back.

  “I don’t know. They’ve been here practicing since dawn, though. They’ve got to be here somewhere.”

  Arhianna craned her neck and squinted, looking for her mother’s blazing hair. “I don’t want to miss anything.”

  “It’s a shame Mother didn’t enter the competition. She could beat anyone here. Man or woman.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No, but the odds are pretty damn good.” Gareth had never seen anyone shoot as well as his mother. Her eyesight had begun to falter but it did not seem to affect her much. She could still put an arrow anywhere she wanted it to go.

  Arhianna pointed. “Oh, there she is. Let’s go.” They moved through the crowd, maneuvering toward where their mother stood, huddled with the women who would shoot. “You’re right. She probably could win, but you and I both know she’d rather see one of the girls do it. All she cares about is being able to put an arrow through anyone or anything that attacks the village—she doesn’t care about this sort of thing.” Arhianna caught their mother’s eye and waved. She gave them a nod and a quick wave, clearly involve
d in what she was doing.

  There was a woman standing next to her whom Gareth did not recognize. She was taller than any of the others, with a regal torso—beautiful and curved, like a Roman statue. She pulled back her bow and sent an arrow straight into the middle of the target. “Who’s that?”

  Arhianna laughed and elbowed him in the ribs. “You don’t recognize her? I guess you’re not the only one who’s changed over the last year.”

  Gareth took a closer look. “Gods. Is that Inga?"

  Arhianna nodded. “You should have asked her to marry you when you had the chance. Every man in the clan has his eye on her, now.”

  He could see why. She had always been a pretty girl, but now, her cheekbones soared into her upturned eyes, giving her a striking cat-like appearance. Her hair, once nearly white-blonde, had darkened somewhat, making the gold in her eyes stand out. It was her body that had changed the most, however. She had grown strong and tall, her neck and limbs long and graceful, her arms smooth and muscular from pulling back her bow.

  “She may be as good as Mother,” Arhianna said, breaking his reverie. “She practices for hours every day.”

  Gareth barely noticed his sister was speaking.

  ***

  Inga sent another arrow straight into her target, the third in a row, and breathed deep with satisfaction.

  The judges moved along the row of contestants and eliminated everyone except those who managed to get all three arrows in the center circle. When given the signal, she and the others who remained walked to their targets and removed their arrows.

  The targets were moved further away. Three more shots. Hers were clustered tightly together in the center of her target.

  She could sense people disappearing on either side of her, but she did not look left or right to see how many remained.

  Again, the targets were moved further away.

  She closed her eyes and listened to her clan cheering her on. She took a deep breath, and evenly, slowly, let it out. She opened her eyes. The sunlight is soft today. It’s going to rain. She watched a butterfly teeter between two of the targets and felt blades of grass tickle her ankles. There’s a breeze. She took another deep breath, took aim, exhaled completely, and loosed her arrow.

  Dead center.

  She felt a surge of adrenalin and smiled, thanking Freya.

  She waited only a moment before shooting again, and then a third time.

  More emptiness on either side. More emptiness between her and the target.

  I can ford that river. She aimed her bow upwards and pulled back with more force, feeling the arrow sail through the air as if her own arm and fingers lived inside it, stretching forward to touch the target. The arrow went where she had commanded it to but did not hit the target with enough force. It wavered in the slight breeze, threatening to drop. She held her breath as if it were a small child hanging from a cliff—but it did not drop.

  I need a stronger bow. She took up her longbow for the next two shots. Her weakness was not accuracy, it was strength. Much was required to pull back the larger bows. Here is where a man could beat her. But not today. Today, I’m strong enough. She forbid herself to look around and see who remained on the field.

  Bless my arms and chest, Freya. Breathe your fire into them. She put everything she had into the last two shots and then waited. She kept her eyes on the arrows sticking out of her target, forbidding herself to blink. She rooted herself into the ground like a tree, waiting, wondering if the tap on the shoulder would come for that first faltering arrow—but no tap came. Only when she heard her kinswomen crying her name and knew for certain she had won did she take her eyes off the target and smile.

  ***

  Every man, woman, and child flocked to the track to watch the chariot races, leaving the streets of Caer Lundein as deserted and quiet as a forest in winter. Gareth had never seen so many people in one place before in his life, not even on the battlefield, though it reminded him of one.

  Though he was preoccupied with the match against Aelhaearn that afternoon, Gareth did not want to miss the races. He had gotten up early and done his exercises, as always, and then gone to the track with the rest of his clan. Whatever will be, will be.

  He stood with Arhianna, Laust and Inga, stealing glances at Inga from time to time. He stared at her not so much out of lust or desire, but more out of astonishment, as if staring might help him discover how she had changed so much—or, perhaps, to find the vestiges of the girl he once knew within her face.

  He felt proud of her. She, her father and brother had become true members of the clan, contributing as much, and sometimes more, than the others. I’ll tell her so, later today—after dealing with Aelhaearn. The prospect of losing turned his stomach. It churned with a terrible brew of doubt and shame. How could I have trusted him? I’m a fool. He knows my every strength and weakness. Every one of them.

  “Are you worried about this afternoon?” Laust asked.

  Gareth wanted advice but could not ask the men he normally asked for it. Certainly not his father. I can ask Laust, though.

  He was about to, but the race started. The sound created by hundreds of wheels and hooves sounded like thunder rolling in from the hills. As the charioteers came closer, the crowd went into a frenzy. The sound as they passed was deafening, sending chills up Gareth’s spine. He forgot his worries and hollered with the rest of his clansmen.

  “It’s like a thunderstorm!” Laust yelled. “I’ve never seen anything like this!”

  Gareth had learned everything he could about the Romans from his mother. Though his people had always ridden battle chariots, and, of course, raced against one another, the races the Romans held were far more tremendous in scope. As a boy, everything about the Romans had captured his imagination. What the Caesars accomplished was staggering to him. Now, to have Uthyr, son of Constantine, as Brython’s Pendragon, gave him hope that his people could achieve such greatness for themselves. And this afternoon, I have the opportunity to impress him. His stomach leapt and began churning again.

  Laust punched him in the arm. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you?” He looked him up and down. “Look at the size of you! And you’re not just a huge hunk of meat. You’re smart. You don’t lose control. You can take him.” He smacked him on the back in reassurance.

  Inga looked over. “Are you worried about the match?”

  “Yes,” Laust answered for him.

  Gareth felt ridiculous. He abandoned the idea of telling Laust he had been training with Aelhaearn. What does it matter, anyway? It won’t change anything. I’ll either win or I’ll lose. Nothing anyone says is going to make any difference.

  Inga came over and stood by his side. An oil or perfume she wore rose up to his nostrils and made his heart pound.

  She tied a ribbon around his sword hilt. “I’d say that’s for luck, but I have something better for that.” She beckoned for him to lean down. He thought she might kiss his cheek, but instead, she whispered in his ear, “I’ve been watching you practice with him every morning.” He pulled back, but she put her hand on his. “Don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone, and I won’t. Now, listen to me. He fights right-handed but naturally favors his left, so keep an eye on that hand. He wins whenever you let him drive you off balance, so keep both feet on the ground—slide into position as much as possible. Also, you always grimace a few seconds before you strike. Stop letting him know when you’re going to make a move. And, for the love of Freya, use your damn shield—you’ve got enough muscle in those arms to hold it up for days.” She squeezed his bicep and stepped back. “You can beat him. I know you can.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just do it, now, will you? I want you sitting beside me tonight at the feast, not bloody Aelhaearn.” She winked and went back to her place beside Arhianna.

  He felt a rush of happiness watching her smile, cheer, and jump up and down next to his sister. Everything in him wanted to reach out, grab her arm, turn her around and kiss her, but he di
d not. He contented himself with the gift she had given him instead.

  She’s right, about everything.

  He looked away from her and watched the rest of the race, feeling his confidence rise.

  ***

  Gareth sat outside the arena, his sword across his lap. He breathed in slowly, fully, feeling the oxygen flooding his blood and lungs, and then exhaled.

  Yes, Aelhaearn knew all his weaknesses and would not hesitate to exploit them, but, in the course of their training, he had revealed his own as well. He does not understand his sword the way I understand mine—I knew my sword before it was forged. I knew the fire that was its father, the water that was its mother, and the hammer that taught it to sing. I know where it is strongest and where it is weakest. This is why I forsake my shield for it.

  He heard the noise of the crowd rise. It’s begun. He lifted his sword from his lap, kissed its blade, and walked into the light.

  ***

  Inga watched in rapt anticipation as Gareth emerged into the arena.

  “Where’s his shield?” Arhianna cried in horror. “Is he out of his mind?”

  Lucia looked over at Bran. “What’s he doing?”

  Bran shook his head, his brow furrowed. “I don’t know.”

  While the crowd discussed whether Gareth could actually be stupid enough to have forgotten his shield or had simply lost his wits, he struck the first blow. Aelhaearn was nearly thrown off his feet, and the crowd ceased talking.

  Inga smiled and gripped her brother’s arm. “He’s going to win. I know it.”

  “Shhhh,” Laust whispered. “Don’t tempt the gods!”

  She said nothing more but not because she feared tempting the gods. She knew he would win. It’s his destiny. She knew it with the same certainty she had felt when she first drew back her bow in the archery competition. He is going to win, and we shall sit together tonight, side by side. She felt her heart soar.

  ***

  Though Gareth had taken both Aelhaearn and the crowd by surprise, Aelhaearn did not falter for long. He regained his balance and surged toward Gareth like a stallion.