by J A Cummings
They had both been on campaign and had seen army camps before. This one was like all the others. The closer to the center of the camp, the higher the rank, and the very center pavilion would be the commander’s. They stepped lightly, passing the foot soldiers and the men at arms, careful not to bump or knock into anyone or anything and give their position away.
It was almost dizzying, this powerful feeling of being invisible, of being able to move among their enemies like ghosts. Under other circumstances, they might have been tempted to play a prank or two, but this was not a night for jesting.
Bedivere reached Pryderi’s tent first. Inside, the prince was sleeping, his deep and regular breathing punctuated by an occasional soft snore. He didn’t know if Brastias was still with him or not, and he didn’t care. Gripping the knife that had killed his son, he slid into the tent.
Pryderi was the very image of Uther Pendragon, from his dark features to his broad chest. He was younger than Bedivere, and probably stronger. He would be a dangerous foe if he awoke. The knight pressed his lips into a thin line and approached the sleeper’s cot.
Abruptly, the bastard prince’s head pressed back into the pillow, his jaw pulled up to expose his throat. His eyes flashed open, and he struggled against his blankets and the hidden assailant who had a hand over his mouth.
Good old Brastias, Bedivere thought, and then there was no more time for contemplation. He threw himself onto the struggling prince and stabbed his knife deep into the exposed neck. He felt the point of the blade strike bone. With all of his strength, he ripped the knife sideways, nearly decapitating Pryderi in the process. The prince flopped like a landed trout, and the cot collapsed beneath the weight of the three men. Brastias and Bedivere tumbled together onto the dying man. His blood bathed them all.
It was done, and nearly silently. No call had risen, and no cry of pain or surprise had attracted any attention. Bedivere was still holding the knife when they rose to their feet, and he tucked it into his boot.
They were able to slip back out of the camp, still unseen, leaving their deadly handiwork behind them in the night. As Merlin had told them, the magical invisibility faltered as they rode back to Caer Gai, and soon both men faded back into view, grim-faced and gore-smeared. Neither spoke, even after they were safely out of earshot of the army camp.
When they returned to the keep, they woke Lucan to see to their horses. He stared at them in dismay when he saw the drying blood that caked them, but he asked no questions and they volunteered no information. The two men washed briefly in the castle’s bath house, but a thorough cleaning would wait until morning.
Brastias clasped Bedivere’s bicep and nodded to him, then returned to his bed. Bedivere drew the knife from his boot and stole into Arthur and Kay’s bedroom. He knew that Kay was sleeping in Sir Ector’s room tonight, giving Arthur the privacy to grieve. When Bedivere pushed the door open, he could see the boy lying on his side, curled around a pillow that he held tightly in his arms. His face was pale, but his eyes were swollen and red. Bedivere leaned over him and put the bloody knife onto the pallet near his head.
“There,” he whispered over the sleeping boy. “It is done.”
On the day Amren died, the wind was cold and wild as it whipped over the cliffs on the western coast of Norgalis. It grabbed and snapped at the cloak pinned to the shoulders of the lone man who stood there on the rocky promontory, his gaze on the sea. Below him, an invading force was landing on his beach. The Irish had come to Cambria.
King Pellinore of Norgalis glowered down at the attackers. His young son Aglovale stood beside him, barely old enough to walk, tended by one of his many nursemaids. His wife had long since locked herself in her tower, as was her wont.
“Take the boy to his mother,” he commanded the nurse. “There will be fighting soon, and he must be safe.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She gathered the protesting child into her arms and carried him away. Pellinore could hear his son’s wailing over the wind, and he smiled in spite of himself. A strong-willed child would be a mighty warrior in time. He had high hopes for Aglovale.
Sir Gamerion, his leading man-at-arms, came to his side. “Will we go to the beach to meet them?”
“No. Let them spend their strength scaling this cliff. The fools. There are better landing areas south of here.” He paused, then said, “Send a squad to the southern beach and make sure that no ships are there. I wouldn’t put it past old Aonghus to send a diversionary attack.”
Gamerion raced off to do his master’s bidding, and Pellinore turned back to his castle. His soldiers were gathering rapidly, answering the call that had gone out as soon as the first Irish sail was seen on the horizon. They were accustomed to repelling the unwelcome visits from Eire. Since the Romans had abandoned Britannia, every scavenging nation in their corner of the world had smelled blood in the water and had fallen on the weakened island. Invaders were attacking every shore. He had heard that Cornwall was so beset that the king of the realm had been forced to agree to pay tribute to the Irish crown.
Norgalis would never pay tribute to anyone, Pellinore swore.
He went to his great hall and finished his own preparations, allowing his body servant to strap his armor over his chainmail tunic. He was just receiving his helmet when his seneschal, Cadfan, raced up to him. Pellinore raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for his report.
“A rider from King Uriens of Rheged is here.”
“Show him in.”
When he arrived, the young man was spattered with mud and wind-blasted but otherwise in hearty condition. Pellinore appraised his fighting worth with a glance. He stood squarely, his sword slung low for a quick draw from the scabbard. His arms and neck were thick, and his barrel chest hinted at great strength. The king decided that he would press him into service.
“Your Majesty,” the man said, bowing low, then straightening to look Pellinore in the eye. None of his own servants dared to do the same. “King Uriens sends an offer of aid.”
He knew Uriens. “For what cost?”
“That you support him in his bid to become the next High King. Swear your fealty to him and he will send men and arms to aid you.”
Pellinore snorted. “And what men and arms does he have ready to send, and how far away are they?”
“Two hundred knights and six times that number of foot soldiers stand at the very border of your land. If you give the signal, they can be here in two days.”
“In two days, the fighting will be done, and we will be victorious or dead. I wish your master luck in his pursuit of glory, but I will swear no fealty in return for help that will never come in time.”
The rider looked dismayed for a moment, then bowed. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
He turned to leave, but Pellinore stopped him. “You will be greatly rewarded if you stand with us before taking my reply to your lord.”
The young man hesitated, then turned. “Rewarded?”
“I will give you gold to match the weight of your sword.”
The king watched as the rider did some mental factoring, then bowed. “I am at your disposal, Your Majesty.”
He smiled. “I thought as much.”
On the beach, the Irish raiders dragged their curraghs onto the sand, leaving a small cadre of guards to protect the boats and ensure their ability to retreat. Their leader, clad in red-painted armor and standing a head taller than all of his fellows, strode to the bottom of the cliff. He looked up the rock face, and the antlers affixed to his helmet gave him the look of a quizzical stag. He was the Morholt.
“Come,” he told his men. “Prepare yourselves.”
He drew a wand of yew wood heavily wrapped in mistletoe, and he could feel the dazzling sparkle of the magic his sister had implanted. He pointed the wand at the base of the cliff, and in a quiet voice, he spoke the druidic word Yseult had taught him.
The brambles and sea grass at the base of the cliff shivered, then twisted together and grew with shocking speed, forming a
series of rope ladders all the way to the top of the rock. The wand in his hand vibrated with the power it was emitting, and it numbed his fingertips. When he thought he might have to drop the wand to stop the lightning-like sensation, the magic ended, leaving one last stored spell and a means to approach Norgalis.
He turned to his men. “Climb! Upward to glory, boys!”
Pellinore was nearly armed when a runner came in from the cliffs, breathless and afraid. “My liege,” he panted, “they’re climbing!”
The king frowned. “Climbing what?”
“Magic. The Morholt -”
At the sound of the Irish champion’s name, Pellinore cursed and pushed past the messenger, bellowing orders as he went. The garrison in the castle hastened to muster at the cliffside, forming into ranks of pikemen and archers while the knights took up position behind them, their horses ready to trample anyone who broke through. The king himself went to the front of the line, standing with his toes nearly at the edge. He could see hundreds of Irish raiders climbing up eldritch vines that had never graced his cliffs before. The new vegetation sparkled with an aura of fell magic, and he cursed the day the witch Queen Yseult had been born.
The Morholt looked up at him and pointed at Pellinore with his left index finger. He held something in his hand that the king could not see, but he feared it. Years of experience with the gifts of Queen Yseult and her murderous brother had taught him that much. He drew his sword and prepared for the onslaught to come.
Pellinore waited until the Irish raiders were within range, and then he shouted to his archers, “Fire!”
Arrows flew, buzzing like hornets, and several Irishmen fell from the magical vines. Their fellows climbed faster, followed by the Morholt himself, and Pellinore called for the archers to send another volley. There were more raiders than arrows, and soon the first Irishman clambered to the top of the cliff, only to be run through by a waiting Cambrian pikeman. His body joined the others at the base of the cliff.
Pellinore swung his sword, cutting down the raider who dared to climb up in front of him. He slashed with a fury, slaughtering the attackers as they tried to reach his foothold. A group of six rose up at once, and the Morholt was right behind them, his dark eyes piercing behind his visor.
“Pellinore of Norgalis!” the Morholt shouted. “I challenge you to single combat!”
“I accept!” he roared back, as if he could have said any different. He stepped back, giving the Morholt room to advance.
The men-at-arms gave room to the King of Norgalis and the prince of Ireland, letting them take each other’s measure in an open section of grass at the top of the cliff. The Morholt held his sword in his left hand, while in his right, the wand shivered and glowed. Pellinore watched it warily.
“Single combat does not include magic cast by others,” he warned the Morholt. “If you persist, you will lose all honor.”
The red knight roared with laughter. “What do I care about Cambrian opinions?” He pointed the wand at Pellinore and spat a word in the Druidic tongue.
Power lanced out of the wand and struck Pellinore in the chest. He stiffened as if he’d been struck by lightning, crying out in rage and pain around his clenched teeth. The soldiers of Norgalis shouted in anger at the plight of their king, and some prepared to rush the Morholt. The magic hold on Pellinore released him, and he staggered, gasping.
“Hold!” he shouted to his men. “This is single combat!” He turned back to the Morholt, fury dancing in his eyes. He raised his sword. “Prepare yourself!”
Their swords danced and clanged with stroke and parry. Blows landed on armored bodies, leaving behind dents and bruises. Pellinore and the Morholt fought, their martial dance flattening a wide circle of seagrass. The King of Norgalis stabbed with the point of his blade and found the soft flesh under the Morholt’s left arm, piercing through the chain mail shirt he wore beneath his plate armor. Blood gushed from the wound when Pellinore pulled his blade free.
The Morholt laughed at him, which both infuriated and surprised him. He stabbed with his blade once again, but the Irish prince deflected the blow and retreated.
“You have won first blood, but I have won this battle,” the Morholt informed him. “I have ruined you.”
Pellinore lifted his chin in challenge and dispute. “You have no power over me.”
“I have more power than you know,” his foe rejoined, “but you will discover this for yourself.” He signaled to his men, who fell back immediately, breaking off their fight and climbing down toward the beach. The Morholt saluted Pellinore. “Until we meet again.”
Pellinore was unsatisfied. He rushed at the Morholt, the point of his sword aimed at the narrow opening in his visor. The Morholt used the antlers on his helmet like a stag, lowering his head and tangling the blade in his horns, ripping the weapon out of Pellinore’s hands. He laughed at the shocked king and rubbed a talisman that hung from his belt. With a flash of shadow, he dissolved into a murder of crows and flew away from the cliff.
Pellinore felt another flash of magic that shot through his body like fire, and he fell onto his knees. The rider from Rheged was the first to reach him, and he dared to put a hand on the king’s royal shoulder.
“What did he do to you?” the rider asked.
“I don’t know,” Pellinore admitted. More loudly, he ordered his men, “Cut them down! Don’t let them escape!”
The men from Norgalis surged to the edge of the cliff and let fly arrow after arrow. Bodies piled up on the beach and the surf ran red with blood, but they were unable to stop all of the Irish from escaping. The raiders returned to their boats and set out to sea, leaving their fallen behind.
Sir Gamerion, smeared with blood from the battle, came back up the cliff and knelt beside Pellinore. “My lord? Are you injured?”
His head felt as if it were burning him alive from the inside out. His vision swam with the pain, and he gasped for breath, his chest constricting. His heart pounded like the hooves of a galloping steed, the rush of his own blood in his ears making him deaf to all other sounds. He gripped the grass in his fists, holding his land as if it could help him hold on to himself.
They were joined by more of Pellinore’s men, and they gathered up their sovereign and carried him into the castle. He was unconscious before they crossed the threshold.
Pellinore roared in delirium for the rest the day and well into the night, soaking his bedclothes with sweat. His wife Sybile stayed in her tower, but two of her ladies in waiting hovered near the king, swabbing his brow with cool water and trying to soothe his distracted mind. Pellinore pushed them away with a growl, and they retreated before his violence could show itself. He had raised his hands to them both in better days.
It was well into the darkest hours of the night when Pellinore fell quiet at last, his thrashing finally going still. His eyes fixed on the doorway to his bedchamber, and he stared angrily into the air.
“What is that?” he asked, his voice roughened from his screaming.
One of the ladies looked where his gaze was pinned. “What is what, my lord?”
“That...thing. Standing in the doorway. What is that?”
She shook her head. “There is nothing there, Your Majesty.”
He lunged at her, his fist barely missing her as she dodged away. “You lie!” He fell back onto the pillow. “There is a creature in the doorway…. a beast...it calls me….”
Sir Gamerion came into the room, walking through the place where Pellinore’s creature was supposed to be standing. He came to the king’s bedside, and Pellinore pushed at him, trying to get him to move out of his way. “Your Majesty,” the knight said softly, “what troubles you?”
“The beast,” Pellinore answered, aggrieved. “You walked past it. Did you not see it?”
Gamerion and the queen’s lady looked at one another, disquieted, and the knight replied, “There is no beast in your chamber, my king.”
Pellinore’s fist struck Gamerion’s temple, and the knig
ht stumbled back from the bedside. The king lurched to his feet, naked and quivering with rage. “Lie to me no longer! Faithless fool! Bring me my sword!”
Sir Gamerion retreated a safe distance and said, “My lord, you are mistaken. I am no liar, and there is no beast. Please return to your bed, or I will be forced to compel you for your own safety.”
The king pulled himself up to his full impressive height. He towered over his men on normal days, and in his rage, he seemed larger still. The queen’s ladies ran from the room. “You will not lay one hand upon my royal person!” he roared at Gamerion. “How dare you!”
“Your Majesty -”
“Silence!” He looked back at the doorway and moaned in distress. “It comes closer. My sword!”
One of the queen’s ladies returned, the king’s sheathed sword in her hand, still attached to his belt. He ripped it free, the blade gleaming in the light from the hearth. She quailed and hid behind Sir Gamerion, who hissed at her. “What have you done?”
“The king commanded,” she answered.
“The king is mad!”
Pellinore strode toward the doorway, and his sword edge cut the air. He cried out in triumph. “Aha! Its blood is real enough!” He blocked a blow that no one else could see, and then with a laugh he raced out of the room, pursuing his invisible enemy. Sir Gamerion ran after him.
The naked king ran shouting through the keep, his sword flashing. He shattered wall sconces and tore tapestries with his blade, battling the air. His chase took him out of the keep and into the bailey, and at last Gamerion tackled him to the ground. The guards and soldiers still encamped after the battle watched in dismay as their sovereign was choked into unconsciousness by his knight commander.
When Pellinore was still, Gamerion released his hold and told the nearby soldiers, “Take the king’s sword and put it in the keep. You there, carry him back to his chamber and lock him inside.” He ran a hand over his head and took a deep breath. Irish magic was to blame for this. Somehow, he would find a way to make the Irish pay.