The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2)

by C. M. Gray

  'Your Duc is a coward!' Sir Ector pushed to the front of his warriors and raised his voice, bellowing over the incredible roar of battle. As his warriors saw he was standing alone and was trying to speak, the noise lessened enough for his voice to travel some small distance. 'Your Duc is a coward… he is responsible for all of this madness. Gerlois, you scum, you coward. You are killing our people. All of their deaths will weigh upon your spirit as you enter the Shadowland. The Gods and your ancestors will hold you accountable.' The noise lessened as more warriors on both sides stopped their fighting, yelling and screaming as they became aware that something new was taking place. In the distance from the outer edges of the battle the noise went on, but this close to the centre of the battle, it was becoming eerily quiet. Around him, the warriors made space as Sir Ector continued his angry calls, driven to this point by senseless death and suffering to call the Duc forth.

  'Deliver the Duc, bring him forward. Do not let him shelter behind your friends, your brothers, and sisters; they are all dying for his wrongs. Where are you hiding, Gerlois? Fight with your warriors… come and fight me. If you are no coward as you say, fight me and let the good men and women of our tribes live.'

  A murmuring filled the air as all within earshot of Sir Ector lowered their shields and spears. The stones stopped falling and on the opposite bank the Dumnonii and Cornovii warriors parted and Gerlois pushed through the ranks, to stand, hands on his hips, scowling across the narrow divide at Sir Ector.

  'So now the old dog chooses to bark. Where is your master, old dog? Why does not Uther Pendragon come forward to challenge me, why does he send his cur? You will not take this fortress, Ector. You may reach the walls, but you will go no further and just reaching them you will incur a terrible cost. You know we will make you pay for every step.'

  'And whether we reach the walls or remain here, you will never be allowed to leave your precious fortress,' screamed Sir Ector. 'We go no further, this battle is done; we are staying. We will wait for you to either starve or surrender… or you and I can fight, here and now, so that others may live, no one starves and none of our warriors become food for crows.'

  Duc Gerlois stared at Sir Ector, weighing up the possible outcomes and choices left to him and then with a shrug of resignation, he took a shield from a warrior close to him, drew his sword, and stepped forward to slide his way down into the ditch towards the waiting Sir Ector.

  The wind snatched Igraine's headdress and she watched as it fluttered away, out across the rocks towards the sea. She tried to gather her hair; it was blowing about her head in the strong, icy wind making it impossible to see properly. Once gathered, she was able to look out from the tower and observe the land and surrounding sea for some considerable distance; it was a magnificent view and she never tired of it. On the seaward side, dark, turbulent waters around the little isle spoke of violent storms taking place out at sea amongst far distant lands. She was not surprised there were no boats to be seen amidst the whitecaps that danced amongst the waves like white horses, rising and falling as they galloped, only a fool would take to sea in the winter season. Her gaze turned back towards the rugged coastland in its winter colours of grey and brown and just the barest shreds of green. There were a few patches of white on the cliff, lodged amongst the rocks where the snow had not been blown away. This was a cold and desolate place to be sure, but it felt good to be out in the open like this, even if it was so bitingly cold. She wrapped her thick woollen shawl more tightly about her and drew in a deep breath; she would bear it and stay a little longer.

  Upon the isle below her, a few people from the fortress were set upon their errands, hurrying between huts, and further down towards the narrow bridge she could just see a group of warriors, they were huddled around a fire set against a large rock to protect its flames from the wind. Upon the mainland cliffs opposite, near the village, she could see two villagers. It looked like they were collecting firewood from a large stack, yes… they were gathering the branches into bundles. She kept watching as they heaved the bundles onto their backs and made their plodding way slowly back up the slope, bent under the weight of their burdens.

  A strong gust rocked her forward and the whole wooden tower beneath her creaked and groaned as it moved in protest against the strain of the wind. Gripping the edge for support, she glanced back for reassurance from the two warriors stationed as lookouts. They were watching her, smiling.

  'This is a well-built tower, Lady, it will not fall… just moves a bit in the wind is all.' She smiled and nodded her thanks and returned her gaze to the coastline, still unwilling to go back to the warmer confines below lest they think her scared. It was a silly reason to stay, she mused, she'd stay just a little longer. Movement further along the clifftop caught her attention and she tried to make out some detail in what appeared to be a small group of riders…. no, chariots, upon the coastal path. She studied them for a few moments, but then they disappeared back inland and were lost from sight. Visitors perhaps? A little distraction from the games and arguments of her daughters would be most welcome unless it was Gerlois. The thought sent a cold shudder through her that was nothing to do with the chill wind. She crossed to the stairway, the warriors lifted the heavy trapdoor for her and she descended into the fortress silently dreading the possibility that her husband may be about to visit.

  'I have agreed, will you please stop asking me. I, your King, demand that you cease your demands and just get on with whatever it is you are going to do.' Uther glanced down the path towards the village of Tintagel and wondered at the madness of trying to enter the fortress. These people would be loyal supporters of Duc Gerlois and they would no doubt be very aware of the current conflict. Gerlois seemed to have been a step ahead of him since before the quest. So to believe these warriors would be unaware of who to allow onto the Isle of Tintagel and who not to, well…

  'Not another word on the subject shall I say, Uther. You have my word on this. Just know that when you place the babe into my care, it shall be an act of kindness on your part, you entrust his care not only to me, but to all of the Druids, both here and…'

  'Yes, yes, but you're talking about it again, Merlyn. I still think the probability of my entering the fortress is very slim, to say the least. There is a veritable gale blowing, snow will no doubt begin to fall again before darkness, and any path you may know onto the Isle is going to be either closely guarded or far beyond extremely treacherous. The chances of my fathering a child anytime soon seem extremely remote. Perhaps we should rethink this whole thing and… what are you doing?' Uther eyed the dirty thumb that was being pushed towards his forehead.

  'Oh, stand still boy, I won't hurt you.'

  'You called me boy again, old man. I thought I had broken you of that habit.'

  'Behave like a little boy,' - Merlyn smudged his thumb a few times on Uther's forehead, it felt cold and wet and then hot - 'and you shall be treated like a little boy, whether you be the King or not.' Merlyn studied his handiwork, reached out to make a small change and then rubbed his hands on his robe to clean them. 'There, perfect. Don't touch it, let it dry, and then walk through the village as if you owned the place and then cross over the bridge to the fortress. You are alone from here.'

  'Walk right in there?' Uther made to rub at the wet burning mud on his forehead and Merlyn slapped his hands down.

  'I said don't touch it. If you rub it off, then it won't work.

  'What won't work, explain yourself Druid?'

  Merlyn reached into his robe and pulled out a flat shining plate; Uther recognised the decorated edges as Roman. As Merlyn tilted it towards him, he looked at it and then jumped back in surprise when he saw a face looking back, it was Gerlois.'

  'Be careful, don't make me drop it!' Merlyn snatched it back but then proffered it once again. 'One of these plates is very hard to come by and even harder to make, they break easily.' Uther glanced around, but the Duc wasn't to be seen, however, when he stared back into the glass, the Duc stared back.<
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  'It is you, Uther.' Merlyn was grinning and Uther could tell he was about to hop from one foot to the other as he did whenever he was especially excited by one of his own tricks.

  'You've made me look like Gerlois… I hope it isn't permanent.' Uther turned his face from one side to the other and reached up to touch a fat bearded cheek.'

  'Be careful not to damage the rune upon your head. If you disturb it, the magic will end and then you will be plain old Uther, King of all the Britons once again.' Merlyn grinned happily then took back the glass depositing back it into the folds of his robe. 'Go on. This is what you wanted, now go see your girl.' Merlyn thought for a moment and then held Uther back by his sleeve. 'Do you need any…' - he waved his hands about and puffed out his cheeks, which he did whenever he was uncomfortable about something, and which to Uther's mind was a rarity - '…do you need any other advice….about what to do when you meet the lady, I mean as a Druid I can explain a thing or two… possibly give you a potion to… you know… give you a little…?' he patted his robe searching for a potion.

  'No, Merlyn, I'm all good now. Do I still look like Gerlois?'

  'You still look like a fat, bloated toad to me, maybe frown a bit more and get cross with a few people, go!'

  'Uther walked off down the lane into the village of Tintagel thinking about how Gerlois used to walk. There was a definite swing of the hips and his stomach was always thrust forward. Uther glanced down at where a huge stomach should be if he truly were Gerlois, but saw only his normal, solid and immensely thinner frame. 'Oh, Merlyn, what faith I put in you!'

  Sir Ector sidestepped the flashing blade only to be knocked backwards by the heavy shield, he stumbled but kept his footing. The blade was coming back, a sweeping arc that would cleave him in two if allowed to run its course, but he had fought for many years and wasn't about to let a wide open swing like that end his days and send him to the Shadowland.

  He blocked the blade with his shield, ignoring the force of the blow as it travelled along his arm and hacked down with his own sword trying to make his opponent bring his shield up in defence and so leaving him open. The two fought hard and fast, both knowing they didn't have the stamina of the younger warriors, but neither lacking in strength or experience, this had to be fought hard and won quickly. There was a deafening roar surrounding the fighters as warriors from both sides screamed their encouragement and advice. Several warriors slipped down the bank or were pushed and had to be dragged out of the combatants' way. Sir Ector could see that the Duc was tiring. The man was strong and also fast, but years away from any serious combat had left him in a condition that meant he should soon fade. If he could keep the Duc from overpowering him for a little longer, then it would all be over, the Duc would collapse from exhaustion, and all of this would be ended.

  But the Duc wasn't finished yet, he lunged, snaking his sword down so that Sir Ector had to jump to the side, yet he managed to knock the sword down in the process, but then only just missed the shield as it knocked into him once more. The Duc kept coming, like a rampaging bullock, but then slipped in the mud under foot and went down onto one knee and Sir Ector sliced his sword down aiming at the base of the Duc's neck. A chorus of cries and shouts erupted as the onlookers sensed the end may be close, but the Duc blocked the blow once more and forced himself up to send Sir Ector into retreat once more.

  'Let us end this, Gerlois, this is madness even for you. Bend your knee to Uther, give up, or I will be forced to kill you in front of all your people.'

  'Never!' Gerlois swung his sword onto Sir Ector's shield, and the two exchanged a flurry of blows until Gerlois tripped over a fallen warrior. He regained his footing just in time to deflect a hammering blow from Sir Ector. The two fought savagely back and forth and then stood panting, glaring at each other for a moment as they each regained a little breath.

  'We are old men, both of us. We lack the youth, the energy to give this conflict true justice.' Sir Ector straightened and eased his back. 'However, I have the greater stamina. I have remained a Lord of war while you have turned to being a Lord of trade. Duc Gerlois, this is the last time I will ask you to yield, to join us once again as a united force against those who invade our country.'

  'There is no room for me to yield, you fool. Uther mocks me to the last. He does not call me forth and allow me to capitulate with any grace. He sends you in his stead, sends his dog to break me. Why does he not call me out himself? Allow me to submit to my King or die upon his famed sword. Where is the King? Where is…?' Gerlois' eyes widened as the truth finally registered, anger consumed him, and he lunged at Sir Ector screaming.

  'Yaaaaahhhh.' He swung his sword wildly in a flurry of violent blows and then just as suddenly stood panting, sword tip dropped to the mud. His chest heaved and spittle drooled from the side of his mouth, the attack having momentarily sapped him of strength. He glared his hatred and fury; warriors stepped back anticipating his next explosion of wild violence. 'So he goes to Tintagel. Slinks off to meet my cheating, bitch of a wife. Well, he will find more than he bargains for when he gets there. But I ask you, is this the action of a King I should follow? A King whom I should bend my knee to and stand beside in battle? No, I think not. I shall kill you and then my warriors will follow me as I go to Tintagel and kill them both. I shall make a far better King of the tribes than the Pendragon.' Once said, Gerlois drew a deep breath and then dragged his sword from the mud and attacked in a fury of renewed energy that forced Sir Ector back, tripping and falling in the mud desperately trying to regain his footing.

  'You cannot run from me, Uther Pendragon, you cannot hide in these woods.' The soft voice floated through the dead still air of the darkness as if carried upon the wisps of mist that flowed through the dank, decaying undergrowth and wrapped around the trees in silent embrace.

  'You have evaded the Saxons for now, but I can summon them whenever I wish. For now, I will allow you to hide in whatever dark, rotting hole that you think protects you. You are close; I can smell you… smell your fear.'

  As the voice drifted away, the sound of flapping wings replaced it. Uther tried to imagine where the bird could be now. The voice was Morgana's without a doubt; she must be standing on the path, quite close, while the bird was doing the searching for her. Maude moved slowly beside him, and he heard the soft hiss as she slid her knife free of its scabbard.

  'I'm coming to find you, Uther… coming to take all your pains away. No more stories, no more lies and no more dreams to trouble you…' The sound of a twig snapping beneath a softly placed foot came close, the other side of the tree. Maude rose and crouched beside him without a sound. Whereas all Uther could do was try to stem his beating heart which sounded so loud in his ears. Sweat beaded upon his brow, and the dank air of the forest was becoming difficult to breathe.

  'I have your confession, King of all the tribes. You are responsible for the murder of my father, the bewitching of my mother and the subsequent deaths of thousands.' The voice was coming from all around as if filling the air. The mist rising higher until, looking down, Uther realised only his head was above it. It threatened to rise and rather than feeling he should drop lower and hide within it, he had the awful foreboding that if he did he would drown and be lost forever. As he pushed himself into a higher sitting position against the tree, his jerkin rasped against the bark.

  'On behalf of all the many whom you have wronged, King Uther Pendragon, I shall pronounce your sentence… which is, of course, death…' - a flutter of wings - '… and carry out your execution… which shall be… now!'

  Chapter 26

  Lord of the Storm

  The brief stroll through the village of Tintagel had given Uther the opportunity to practice and refine his walk, so that now although he felt foolish pretending to be another man, he also felt confident that if his features did resemble the overweight Duc, then his bearing should come close to matching him as was possible. So far, he had very little confirmation that Merlyn's magic was anything other than
a cold, tingling smudge of mud on his forehead and he began doubting that he had seen Gerlois in the Roman glass. It would be just like the old Druid to do nothing more than smear him with slime and expect Uther's boldness and daring to carry him through. It tickled and he was tempted to scratch at it, but he knew that was probably not the best idea.

  It was starting to snow again as he splashed through the muddy centre of the village. The wind was gusting in from the sea through the small collection of huts and buildings, and rather disappointingly, there had been no real contact with anyone to confirm or deny his disguise. He shivered, pulled up the edge of his cloak and wished his feet weren't feeling so wet and cold. Two peasants emerged from a hut about twenty paces away, glanced over at him, and then scuttled out of his way. Neither had addressed him, but he supposed they may have moved out of anybody's way who was dressed in a lordly way, not necessarily because he appeared to be Duc Gerlois.

  He stopped and looked all about him; the huts seemed to be in a good state of repair. He knew Tintagel was a bustling trading village at any other time of year. The villagers apparently made a good profit from the trade, but right now, except for a rather sad looking goat tethered to a post, which was also ignoring him, there was nobody about. The snow was beginning to fall harder in big fluffy lumps; the villagers would all be inside their huts keeping warm, he was tempted to join them, but no. There was nothing for it but to continue on to the footbridge over to the isle itself.

  He hurried and tripped his way down the path towards the cliffs as the wind, blowing quite fiercely now, lashed him with stinging wet snow. It was getting darker too, another storm coming by the feel of it. He shivered and moved on down the slippery trail, leaving the settlement behind, then out onto the clifftop where the path took a steep drop down. Spirits it was cold. He stood for a moment in the shelter of a group of rocks and stamped his feet and blew hot breath on his hands to warm them. The sound of waves pounding on the cliffs could be heard now, the booming sound and rush of water mixing with the howl of the wind as it battered the coastline. He shuffled on; the path levelled and he held his cloak tightly, he glanced up into the bite of the wind to see the wooden bridge stretching out ahead of him. A shiver of cold, or was it trepidation, ran through him, and he had to force his foot to move up onto the bridge. After that, it was easier just to put his head down against the gale and make his way across to an uncertain reception.