The Killing Way

by Tony Hays

Arrows sped past me.

  Fifty yards.

  Twenty yards.

  My knees began to buckle under my burden.

  Ten yards.

  Arrows buzzed in swarms, it seemed. One nicked my shoulder, stinging, but I knew instinctively that it was not serious.

  Five yards.

  I could feel the coolness of the shaded trees in front of me.

  The sickening thwack of arrow in flesh sent a shudder through me, and the force of the blow sent me falling forward and Accolon tumbling from his perch on my shoulder. We rolled into the protection of the trees and a depression, a little hollow.

  I quickly scrambled forward, pulling myself with my one arm and peering into the clearing behind us. In the distance, shadows dashed among the trees. I counted five. Two seemed to hold bows. The use of bows continued to bother me. They simply were not used for war in our lands, only for hunting. In all my battles I had never fought against Saxon archers, though I had heard of their use in Gaul. Another small clue that I knew must mean something, but I could not tell exactly what.

  “Malgwyn—” Accolon was stirring from his faint.

  Our pursuers were moving slowly, cautiously, toward us. I had a little time and so I turned back to Accolon. The last arrow had hit his shoulder at an angle from the rear. To lay him on his back, I had to remove it. “Accolon—”

  “No, Malgwyn.” He waved a weak hand at me. “You must leave me. I am already dying.”

  “Be quiet.” I took the arrow and pulled it quickly. Accolon seemed not to notice. The point bothered me. It was of an odd shape, made of iron, without barbs intended to take hold of the flesh. I broke the arrow and stored the point in my pouch.

  “I cannot leave you.”

  “You . . . must.” The words came hard for him. The rattle in his throat and the pink on his lips told the tale better than any bard.

  “No. We must make this journey together.”

  He grabbed the stump of my arm with a strength I could not believe he possessed. “Go, Malgwyn. I will tell you what you need to know, but I am done.” And then as quickly as he grasped me, he released me, the effort almost visibly draining his strength.

  I stared at the wrinkled face, his long, brown hair lying wet and matted across his cheek and lips. He was indeed done. Other lives now took precedence.

  “Who, Accolon? Who did you see with the maid?”

  His eyes opened slowly. I knew he was almost gone, and I willed him to live a little longer.

  “Tell . . . Arthur I tried . . .”

  “I will. I will. Now, who?”

  “As I passed . . . the alcove, I saw the maid . . . arguing with a man. I did not see his face; he wore . . . a hood. But I knew . . . the voice.” A fit of bloody coughing racked his body. I feared he would die before he finished.

  “Accolon! Please, stay with me!”

  “’Twas . . . Tristan . . . son of Mark. Go, now, Malgwyn!”

  “But later, Accolon, later, did you see him with anyone about the watchtower?”

  His eyes began to glaze, but he managed a nod. “Yes, he and others.”

  “What others?”

  “. . . and Dru . . . and . . .” The effort became too much, and he closed his eyes.

  I gave him the Saxon’s dagger, and though I knew not if he could hear me, I whispered, “If you live, take one more with you. God grant you mercy. You have earned my respect and thanks.”

  I left him there, bleeding from three wounds and from his mouth. Accolon was not a bad man. He had walked down a dangerous path, but he had returned to an honorable lane at the end. Without looking back, I threaded my way through the trees, heading south by southeast toward Arthur’s castle. The sun was past the meridian, and the time I had left was slipping like water through my fingers.

  The forest swallowed poor Accolon up behind me. I thought I heard the anguished sounds of the Saxons as they found their fellow, but it was probably just the wind singing through the trees. Forcing my feet forward, I tried to focus on my next steps. If I did not move quickly, both Merlin and I would die.

  As branches whipped into my face, I considered what Accolon had told me. Tristan was the man who was last seen with Eleonore, most probably the man she had left Cuneglas’s house to see.

  Tristan! I knew that he desired the girl. His suit was well known among the people of the castle. I understood Accolon’s hesitation. For a common soldier to accuse a lord, the son of an ally, of murder was a serious matter. That Tristan was affrighted had been obvious at the feasting the night before. I had believed that he was treating with the Saxons, but perhaps it was the guilt of his actions that made him nervous. Perhaps it was both. Still, I did not see Tristan as the architect of this maze. Perhaps he killed the girl in a fit of passion, but he did not compound his error by cold-bloodedly murdering Nyfain. No, Accolon had been right. That act showed the hand of a shrewder, more evil mind than the boy had.

  The murder was one affair. The attempt to hide it and cast a shadow of guilt on first Merlin and then Accolon was another, pointing to a cool and calculating nature, which I did not believe that Lord Tristan possessed.

  Yet Vortimer came from a bloodline that would do these things. Now it all made sense. Eleonore, Nyfain, talk of conspiracy and assassination. More was at stake than the death of two women and old Merlin’s head. Somehow, Eleonore had stumbled on a conspiracy to kill Ambrosius. She had been killed to keep her mouth shut, and Nyfain had been killed for what Eleonore might have told her. But who were the conspirators?

  I tried to think back to that first night, the last time I had seen Nyfain. She had been with Ambrosius, but then he drifted off to sleep and she fell in with some other soldiers. I remembered seeing Mordred for he had left with her, but I could not recall who else had been there. One thing was certain. Arthur’s hope of becoming Rigotamos, indeed the hopes of all Britannia, rested on my sorting out this affair.

  While I thought, I ran, faster than I believed possible. My knees ached. My head pounded from lack of sleep and little food. But I knew that as soon as the other Saxons found their countryman and then found Accolon, they would come after me in earnest. Beyond the young leaves of the trees, I saw that the afternoon continued to wane. We had wasted much time. I hoped upon hope that Kay was alive, and that he had realized that our ploy had not worked. If so, he would soon be upon us and instead of four against one, it would be four against two. I tried to put the matter from my mind and concentrated on reaching my destination without breaking my neck.

  The woods before me extended nearly to the edge of the settlements around the castle, but they were thick woods with few paths. I thought more than once of heading south and striking out for the Via Arthur, but if Vortimer was at the head of the conspiracy, as I was certain he was, then he would have soldiers loyal to him watching the lanes. So I stayed to the trees and kept watch over my shoulder.

  After some time, I stopped near a group of stones lying carelessly on top of each other on a steep slope. Their facings showed that someone long ago had dressed them. I studied the green slope, covered with trees save where the stones had tumbled down the hill many years before. Grass and ivy had covered the hollow created by the old landslide. I did not think they could find me in this forest, but I had been wrong many times in the last three days. From Merlin to Accolon to Tristan, the trail of guilt had led me on a crooked path. I had even suspected Kay for a time.

  Glancing at the sky, I judged that I had about two hours until sunset and but another hour to travel. Even so, I had the river Cam to cross. Cam was an old and sacred river, a reason, the bards sang, that Arthur’s castle was first settled back many, many generations before.

  My plan was to strike the river north of the town, where the land sloped gently down to the water. The river could be forded there, but not farther upstream, where the bank rose more than fifty feet above the water. From the crossing to the castle was a ten-minute run only.

  Climbing up into the fallen rocks, I hid behind on
e of the larger ones, with the ivy-covered hollow at my back. My stomach growled, and I took a moment to pull the crusty bread and hard cheese out of my pouch. Fortunately, my teeth were not as worn as those of many of my fellows; I drank too much of my food to bother my teeth much. And oh, how I wished for a drink of mead, or watered wine, or anything that would cut through this exhaustion.

  I could offer Arthur a new murderer, but it was not one he would welcome. The crowd would demand Vortimer’s death, and Arthur could not afford to execute Vortimer. He was too powerful. My evidence would have to be secure, and Vortimer was smart enough to keep himself at arm’s length. He had others to do his bidding. To alienate one of the most powerful members of the consilium was not a wise move at any time. So, if I were to save Merlin—and Arthur, for that matter—young Tristan would have to be sacrificed. Yet that would alienate Mark. Every time I seemed to have an answer, another difficulty emerged from the gloom.

  And then there were the Saxons. That Tristan seemed uncommonly close to our mortal enemies surprised me not. Vortimer would do anything to put Ambrosius’s crown on his own brow, including directing his minions to treat with the Saxons. Tristan was young and might fall under Vortimer’s spell. At the very least, Tristan could be manipulated, and Vortimer was a master at manipulation, evidenced by his way with the common folk.

  But Saxons chasing Accolon, far away from their lands among the Cantii? Had Arthur not told me of Saxons encroaching on our lands again, I would have thought it impossible. Arthur’s forces defeated the Saxons at the City of the Legion, driving them back to the eastern shores of our island. The victory had sealed Arthur’s right to the crown, among the lesser lords such as Mark, and the sounds of battle had temporarily ceased. We had signed no peace treaty, and we knew the Saxon vermin had withdrawn from the war only to lick their wounds and plan more treachery. All who knew them understood that the warfare was not over; we were just enjoying a lull in the fighting.

  Much was at stake here. For a small band of Saxons to run through our lands openly showed how precarious Arthur’s position was. It also indicated the laxity of our borders. I resolved to tell Arthur to investigate the conduct of his patrols. Only someone manipulating them could allow Saxons such free rein, especially in the region between Arthur’s castle and Ynys-witrin.

  My hate for them did not fill my soul as it once did. I was surprised at my reaction to killing the Saxon in the copse of trees. That he deserved to die, I knew. But I felt no pleasure at his death. Rather, almost a regret at the taking of a life. I shook my head to clear it and took another bite of the hard cheese.

  Tristan had argued with Eleonore, but, if Accolon were to be believed, they returned to the town together, went to the watchtower. Then Accolon saw Tristan, and others, coming from the watchtower. Paderic, I recalled, had also seen men drunk, coming down the lane from the tower. An idea was forming, a guess at what may have happened. I struggled to my feet and went to store away the cheese, but so lost was I in my thoughts that I dropped the chunk.

  Sighing, I bent over to retrieve it—just as a Saxon spear split the air where my head had been.

  I stared at the spear, quivering in the earth, and then I snatched it up and ran. With only a dagger tucked in my belt and the spear in hand, I had no choice. I could do little with either one, but taking one of their weapons was better than doing nothing at all. Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw six of them scrambling down the massive stones. One of them carried a bow; the others but one brandished spears. They wore their hair greased back and braided.

  Seeing their numbers, I could only conclude that Kay had failed. The question remained: Did Kay know that he had failed, or was he still trying to lead them on a merry chase? The answer was of little use to me at that moment.

  I headed for the banks of the river Cam and the shallow water I knew I could ford. Swimming was not easy for a one-armed man. Though the slowness in crossing the river would give my pursuers a chance to catch up to me, I knew I would do neither Merlin nor Arthur nor anyone any good if I drowned in the sacred river.

  Drained as I was, I found new energy when I emerged from the forest and saw the river across a small field, holding not much more than three hides of land, red and yellow with little flowers in first bloom. Once across the river, I was but a mile or less from the castle, and even less than that from Arthur’s cavalry encampment.

  The sun was setting off to my right, beyond the western lands, and shadows were lengthening. If I could make it across the river, I could reach the castle in time.

  Then I heard a Saxon war cry.

  But not behind me. Not in the forest. To the west. To my right.

  I very nearly stopped in my tracks, but instinct urged me on as I looked across the western reach of the field and saw them. Ten Saxon warriors, bellowing their familiar cry and rushing across the field in a line.

  Laughing wearily, I did the only thing I could and turned east, where I did not want to go. As I shifted direction, I glanced back at the trees and saw that those Saxons were angling down into a line as well. They were pinching me in, herding me like a goat into the one place I wished to avoid—a fifty-foot cliff over a deep part of the river.

  My heart sank at that prospect, but I could not give up, not to a pack of Saxon dogs. They had taken too much of my life from me. They would not win this race.

  I was dizzy from the run and from exhaustion, stumbling now, falling. But each time I pulled myself up and forced my legs to cover yet more ground.

  Sweat stung my eyes and made it difficult to see. I could smell the beginning of spring and wondered at the fates that put me in this place and time.

  My half-arm ached.

  My stomach was beginning to heave.

  Checking over both shoulders, I saw that I would reach the height before they caught me. But that was as good as being caught. I could never swim across the river with only one good arm.

  I was approaching the top of the bluff, the river flowing gently many feet below. I turned and took aim at one of the approaching Saxons, heaving the spear with all my might.

  It struck him in mid-chest, lifting him off the ground and flinging him backward in a splash of blood. But the others kept coming.

  And then I did something very strange, and even as I write this, I cannot explain it.

  I jumped.

  Any chance, no matter how slim, is better than no chance at all. If I had stood and faced off the Saxons, they would have surely killed me and more than merely my own life would have been forfeit.

  As the air roared in my ears and the water rushed up to greet me, I heard an odd sound from above. The sound of horses neighing and hooves on packed earth. But I had no time to wonder at its meaning before I slapped against the water, broke its surface, and was swallowed by its depths.

  The world became one of cold green water and silvery bubbles. My descent slowed the deeper I went, but then I felt a firmness, ground, beneath my feet. I bent my knees and let my weight carry me another foot farther, and then I sprang up with all my might, thrusting toward the surface. I might lack for an arm, but I had two strong legs.

  When I broke surface, I found myself in the chilly shadow of the great stone bluff, and as far away from the far shore as I could get. In my confusion beneath the water, I had headed back toward the northern shore.

  My legs ached and my arm ached, but I did the only thing I could. I struck out for the southern bank and prayed that I would make it before the Saxons could ford the river to block me.

  Kicking with my legs and stroking with my one good arm, I began to feel hope again. I was moving swiftly. Tucking my head in, I stroked harder and felt the surge of my extra effort.

  Just a little farther, I thought.

  Suddenly I realized that I was moving more sideways than straight ahead.

  I had forgotten the waterfall to the west.

  And then I found myself flying over the edge.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Two thoughts passed t
hrough my mind as I hurtled down the falls. First, I knew that Merlin was as good as dead. Second, I knew that by the time I had gathered my wits about me, the Saxons would be upon me. That is, if I survived the fall. As if to remind me of my danger, my shoulder slammed into some rocks and threw me out a bit from the churning waters, but I landed belly first just where the current was strongest, thereby pulling me down into a whirlpool.

  Once again, I was surrounded by the murky jade water, brightened only by the churning bubbles. But this time I did not search for a quick trip to the surface. I considered not fighting the pull of the undertow, carrying me deeper into the bottomless pool beneath the falls. Within minutes, the pain that ate at my heart, the belief that I had failed in life, would all be washed away in sweet oblivion. It was an enticing prospect.

  But then I thought of Mariam. If I surrendered to the lure of death, I would never have the chance to set affairs straight with her. I would never see my child’s smile again.

  I kicked my legs and climbed with all my might through the suddenly cruel water, knowing that the Saxons waited above, but knowing too that I could not just give up.

  The undertow was strong, almost too strong, but I fought it with a strength that surprised me.

  Then the surface, painted by the light of a dying sun, appeared before me and I fought harder.

  A dark, curling snake hit the surface, and it drifted down toward me.

  A rope.

  Grabbing it with my one hand, I pulled hard, not knowing who was at the other end and not really caring. Life brought opportunities. Death brought nothing. The rope tightened and pulled me up and up.

  I broke the surface sputtering and choking, but I was glad to see the sun.

  “We have caught an exceedingly large fish, Lord Kay,” a familiar voice said as the rope continued to pull me to the riverbank, the south bank.

  Gareth and his band of latrunculii appeared. Kay was astride his horse, the other end of my rope looped over the horse’s neck. Beside him stood my horse, pawing and scratching at the earth.