Balin crashed into the back of the melee, but his progression was jammed by the sheer number of bodies alive and dead glutting the bridge. He pressed forward, but the horse could make no headway in that tightly packed mob.
The nameless king in the fur mantle wielded a shining, thick bladed sword with both hands. He chopped at Arthur’s head, and when the boy raised the sword of Macsen to check it, the sword from the stone snapped at the hilt, broken beneath the titanic blow.
The rebel king laughed at Arthur’s understandable look of distress. Momentarily distracted by his own excitement, he missed the knight slipping through the combatants to jump on the back of his horse.
The brute twisted and landed a glancing blow with his weapon. It didn’t seem that palpable a hit, but it sent the knight’s visor into the river.
It was Bedivere.
Bedivere did not answer the blow, but called out:
“Arthur!”
And threw his own sword to the High King.
The boy plucked it from the air in time to parry a blow from King Lot’s battle axe.
The king in the furred robe sheared off Bedivere’s outstretched hand with his terrible sword.
Bedivere cried out and the king shoved him from his horse.
Gamely, Bedivere gripped the king’s mantle as he fell, and the two men crashed to the bridge.
King Lot landed a heavy blow to Arthur’s shoulder and unhorsed him. The High King went down beneath a writhing mass of armor and arms, and Balin shrieked in alarm behind his visor.
He leapt from the saddle, clambering over the heads and shoulders of the fighters until he reached Lot himself. He struck the rebel king upside the head and tackled him from his horse. Lot flipped over the rail of the bridge and fell headlong into the water below.
Balin stabbed desperately down again and again, trying to drive the screaming men from the king, ignoring the upthrust blades and pikes that slashed his cheeks and cut his underarms.
He dove from Lot’s horse and punched and kicked madly to clear a space. Somewhere beneath those steel shod feet Arthur was being crushed.
Balin felt the press of bodies all around, a man’s head lolled limply against his shoulder, the face slack. He was dead, but there was no room for him to fall.
“Arthur!” Balin called. “Arthur!”
Then, to his right, a single bloody hand, bereft of its gauntlet, burst from the crowd and gripped the pommel of Lot’s horse.
Arthur’s face appeared, bloodied, battered, but animate. Then his shoulder. He slowly pulled himself up, extricating himself from the press, and gained Lot’s saddle.
He still had Bedivere’s sword, and he hewed furiously down at the men about him, until they cried and begged for mercy, climbing over each other to escape his fury.
Balin let himself be jostled. He was in awe of the High King. No force in Albion, none on all of the earth could harm the one God had chosen. He was sure of that now. His heart nearly burst in his chest to know that he was counted in the company of such an august and worthy leader, as the hearts of the twelve disciples must have warmed in the reflected light of their Master.
He would live for this boy
He would die for King Arthur.
But not today.
Balin renewed his own attack, and with a mighty bellow sent six men flipping into the river. It was enough to clear an egress for Arthur, and the King took it, urging Lot’s horse through the fight to the edge of the bridge.
Balin watched him with pride. Arthur did not race to escape, but turned back and slashed to free his beleaguered men.
Then Balin saw Bedivere struggling to lift himself from the crush and forced his way over. Bedivere’s wound was grievous. Blood coursed from the stump of his left wrist. Balin threw that arm over his own neck and pulled him aright for all he was worth. Another knight came to their aid. It was Lucan, Bedivere’s brother. His wide, dark eyes said his thanks.
A piercing light shone down on all of them suddenly, as the flare of Merlin’s magic had done when he’d revealed the Gaulish army. Enemy and ally alike paused and blinked up at it.
Maybe it was Merlin’s magic, for the black robed enchanter stood on the rail of the bridge, his arms outstretched, an ashwood staff in his hand like Moses over the Israelites.
“What is this?” someone cried. “The Cambion brings the day!”
“No!” Merlin called in an unnaturally loud, impressive voice, loud enough for the listeners to cease fighting across the valley and fields. “You have been warring all night! Dawn is here! Aguysans and the Hundred are gone! Clarivaunce of Northumberland and King Nentres have fled! The combined forces of Benoic and Gannes are joined against you now. Will you kings who oppose the High King treat now for peace?”
There was silence for a moment, and then, from somewhere upriver, a voice called out.
“This night I have seen, in the mettle of my enemy, the spirit of his father, King Uther, which I cannot deny!” It was Uriens, bloodied and held up by his knights. “As in days of old, Gore pledges its loyalty to Pendragon!”
There were cheers in answer, and Arthur raised his hand in a salute which King Uriens returned.
“Hibernia is for King Arthur!” called another. “So says King Anguish, and bless him!”
“Never!” called a deep voice from the riverbank.
Lot sat there, bleeding and soaked, his squire wrapping a bandage about his head where Balin had struck him.
“Orkney will not surrender to you, Arthur, be you Uther’s son or no.” He pointed one gloved hand up at Arthur on the bridge.
“Nor will Stranggore!” another called.
“King Carados will not bow to you either!” Carados declared from far afield.
Merlin looked pained, and Balin saw him share a look with Arthur. Then he raised his hands and his voice blared out terrible again:
“Be still! If it’s war you want, look to your own lands! Look to Vambieres! Osla Big Knife has landed there, and even now his tribe seeks to penetrate the walls!”
“Saxons, Merlin?” Carados chuckled. “What, have you brought them along in your pockets to frighten us?”
“I tell you, even now the Saxons have their eye on Cornwall,” Merlin said. “And you well know it is the backdoor to all your lands.”
An older man, bearing the arms of Cornwall, spoke from the opposite bank.
“Merlin! You have been a friend to Cornwall in days past. If you say this is true, and that we are threatened, what must we do?”
“King Idres,” said Merlin, leaning on his staff. “Take your men to Nauntes and keep watch over the sea.”
Balin watched Lot scoff and shake his head.
King Idres turned and called to the others.
“If this alliance is to hold, we must be prepared to defend each other! I ask your help in defeating these Saxons!”
“You old fool, Idres!” Lot barked, reeling on his heels so that he had to lean on his squire. “You’ll listen to that creature?”
“Your wife, Morgause, has the Sight, King Lot,” Merlin countered. “Ask her to confirm what I say.”
“I will!” Lot said. “Because I am tired of this fight, and I am tired of listening to this black liar! Bring me my horse!”
“I have it here, Uncle!” Arthur called down. He dismounted, and though Balin and several soldiers moved to escort him, he held up his hand and led the horse down to the riverbank.
Lot watched him come, and Balin watched for him to make some violent move.
But when he was near, Lot simply climbed up on his horse’s back, Arthur holding the animal still for him the whole time.
“If you are Uther’s son, do not share his failure.” He pointed again at Merlin, without looking at him. “Do not trust that creature’s words or his magic. Do not let him hold your scepter.” He held up his hand then and stood in his saddle. “Orkney goes!”
“The Master of Orkney is always welcome to return,” Arthur said. “I would like to meet my cousins
.”
“You will meet them,” Lot said. “That I promise. On the battlefield.”
He spurred his horse up the slope and went to the road, his men falling in behind, without a look back.
It was the strangest end to a battle Balin had ever imagined. Once again Arthur allowed his enemies to simply depart with their living and their dead.
He could not fathom the breadth of Arthur’s mercy in that. King Lot had all but threatened him in parting, yet they were ordered to make no pursuit.
He wondered, too, at Lot’s admonition about not trusting Merlin. In that at least, Balin and the King of Orkney were in agreement. Now that he had seen the extent of the wizard’s power first hand, he feared it more than ever. Yet he heard some of his fellow Christians praise Merlin’s deception as miraculous.
He parted with them at that.
Balin walked alone up and down the battlefield the rest of the day as the remaining rebels left the valley and Arthur took the formal oaths of King Anguish and King Uriens in his pavilion.
Balin poked among the discarded dead, swatting flies and holding a rag to his face against the increasing stench, looking for Brulen.
As the sun set, he knelt in prayer, giving thanks when he didn’t find him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
King Arthur and nine hunters in creaking leather cuirasses rustled through the blazing yellow-orange autumn of Sciryuda Forest. The guide—marked as the most experienced among them by the set of long tusks and whetters strung about his neck—lifted his cruciform boar spear with one hand, a signal for the party to stop.
They crouched, listening to the far-off barking of the bay hounds.
“They don’t seem to be getting any closer,” whispered the king’s yellow-haired young cousin, Culwych. “We shouldn’t have left the horses with Lucan.”
“Have patience,” Arthur whispered back.
The guide looked sharply over his shoulder down the line of crouching men and hissed disapprovingly. “Quiet!”
Arthur smirked and hunched, a boy chastised. It was a mischievous gesture. He was only a few summers out of his youth, but he had commanded a victory against thousands of soldiers here in this very forest only a year ago.
“Here now…” Culwych began “You let this greenwood ruffian…”
Arthur put a firm hand on his cousin’s shoulder.
“That ruffian is Sir Balin of Northumberland,” Arthur said in in his smallest voice. “One of the best knights in Albion and the finest woodsman I have.”
“Balin The Savage?” said the Welshman, peering with new interest at the back of the broad-shouldered fellow at the front.
“That’s an unfortunate appellation and not of his choosing,” Arthur warned. “He doesn’t like it. Sir Balin personally accounted for fourteen of King Aguysans’ famed knights at Bedegraine.”
“My lords!” Balin said again, wheeling on them with a desperate glare. His bright eyes flashed with annoyance in his ruddy, unshaven face. “You will spoil the hunt! Listen!”
The men listened. Save for the newly dubbed Sir Dagonet of Caerleon, they were all of them veteran warriors, battle-seared and disciplined. They had crept through sleeping enemy camps and themselves foiled ambushes. Old Sir Ulfius and bald pate Sir Brastias were there. So was Arthur’s foster father Sir Ector and his foster brother Kay, and of course Bedivere.
But none of their trained ears heard any change in the bay hounds’ pitch that signaled their coming.
“Ready your spears!” Balin commanded. “This is a wily one.”
They did as they were told, and presently a loud huffing sound came to their ears, and a snapping of the underbrush.
Moments later, an immense boar, something that must have rivaled the Calydonian monster loosed by Artemis, burst through the shrubbery and charged directly into their midst.
Dagonet lost his nerve in the face of that mound of wiry hair and tusks, and rolled aside, clearing the way to Arthur.
The young king, to his credit, stood his ground, but Balin leapt nimbly between them and set his spear against the side of his boot, angling it so the squealing thing took the point down its throat. Balin’s back leg furrowed the earth, but he leaned against the charge and twisted his spear, until the boar’s eyes glazed and it shuddered and sagged heavily to the ground, its snout nearly touching the knuckles of Balin’s lead hand.
The knights leaned on their spears and sighed their relief. Arthur touched Balin’s shoulder and smiled.
Ulfius turned and slapped the back of Dagonet’s head. “Heart of a lion,” he remarked.
“Aye, a lion cub,” said Sir Ector, and they broke into nervous chuckles as men who had narrowly avoided the same horrific fate.
“That’s a chide against lion cubs,” Sir Kay said, and Arthur laughed and shook his head.
Balin failed to see the humor in Dagonet’s cowardice. He was as shoddy a specimen of knighthood as ever he had seen, thin and bony. Most disturbing to Balin, he had a more than passing resemblance to images of Jesus Christ, with his long dark hair and sparse beard, and wide, doe eyes. Having observed his irreverent nature, Balin could not help but suspect Dagonet had cultivated his appearance to some ironic, blasphemous purpose, which angered him irrationally. Maybe it was the uncanny resemblance and Balin’s knowledge of Christ’s renowned instruction to meet a blow with a proffered cheek that made him suspect the man was ill suited to war. He was somewhat new to Arthur’s service and did not yet know the intricacies of their camaraderie, so he said nothing. He had heard word the man was not even born to knighthood. He was some sort of entertainer Arthur had elevated.
Culwych jammed his spear point in the ground and put the back of his hand to Balin’s arm.
“Sir Balin, why did you not grant your king the honor of the kill?”
Balin looked at the Welshman. What was there to say to such a question? He had seen danger and interposed himself. He looked past the man to Arthur. “Did I do wrong, sire?”
“No, Sir Balin,” Arthur smiled. “You probably saved me a bruising.”
“Likely a goring,” said Dagonet. “That monster must weigh thirty stone.”
“More,” said Bedivere, pressing the toe of his boot to its thick side.
“It might’ve swallowed me whole,” said Dagonet, with appreciative awe.
“It would’ve still had plenty of room for Arthur.” Kay laughed, shoving the smaller man off his feet.
“You’re fortunate it didn’t work its way up the shaft and kill you,” Bedivere said to Balin.
“That’s why we use the cruciform spear,” Balin said, pointing out the cross guard at the point where the haft met the steel head of Arthur’s spear. Claellus had taught him that.
“So the arms prevent it,” said Arthur, looking at the spear admiringly.
“Yes, my king.”
“We should forge all our spears thus,” said Arthur, “to keep an enemy from doing the same thing on the battlefield.”
“A man is not a boar, Arthur,” said Bedivere, smirking. “It would take more animal hatred than a man has in him to force his own body down the length of a spear shaft.”
“Don’t underestimate the hatred of men, for I’ve seen a Saxon do that very thing,” said Brastias grimly.
“I would think a spear through the chest would have a more calming effect on the temperament,” said Dagonet. “Even a Saxon’s.”
“Well, I still say a straight spear point is better,” Bedivere went on. “The quicker out, the quicker back in.”
“At last you speak of something I know of,” Dagonet said, causing the others to laugh heartily.
“Too quick for most ladies’ tastes,” Kay said, and they roared even louder.
“We’ll sup well tonight,” said Ulfius, admiring the carcass.
The king’s cousin had stared at Balin throughout the exchange, his expression one of disdain. He was a high-born fool, and his father was a devil worshiping pagan who let the witches of Avalon roam free throughout his
kingdom, preaching their dark gospel, leading astray the women of the land as the Lady Lile had his mother. Balin didn’t care for him, but he turned away, having a more pressing concern.
“Where are the damned hounds?” Sir Brastias said.
“That was my thought, sir,” Balin said, stepping away from the group and straining to hear.
It was the middle of the rutting season. Rare to find such a strong male apart from a sow. But the dogs were still barking, and he recognized the catch hounds’ call too.
“I think they have cornered the mate,” said Balin.
Culwych pulled his spear from the earth.
“Then what are we waiting here for?” he said, and went running off into the brush.
“Hastiness in a knight makes for a swift undoing,” Sir Ulfius said.
“He’s just eager to prove himself,” said Arthur. “Call the hounds back, Sir Balin. We have enough meat here to bear.”
“I fear Balin’s horn won’t bring your cousin back, Arthur,” said Ector, watching with amusement the rustling leaves that marked the Welshman’s flight.
“It’s growing late,” said Ulfius, peering up at the descending sun through the canopy. “We should butcher this beast and pack it before the meat spoils.”
“I’ll fetch him, sire,” Balin announced, and ran off into the woods after Culwych, leaving the others to dress the carcass.
***
Balin’s youth had been spent leaping and running through the tangled woods and peat bogs behind surefooted Killhart, so he traversed the rises and gullies of Sciryuda with relative ease. He soon spied the Welshman bumbling ahead of him.
When he caught up at last, he found Culwych standing on a rise looking down on a squealing hunchbacked sow. She backed into the hollow of a great oak within a cacophonous semicircle of Arthur’s dogs. The two catch hounds, Cavall and Drudwyn, pulled at her ears, bearing her great head down, keeping the wildly spinning and bucking swine from breaking away.
Yet by the swell of her flanks, Balin could see the sow was heavy with her litter. She had probably chosen the hollow tree in which to drop her farrow. The boar they had killed had tried to lead the dogs away and failed.
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