Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

He didn’t know. He only knew that being confronted by so much power in the hands of people he didn’t entirely trust made him feel small and vulnerable. He could train in feats of arms until he was the mightiest warrior in the world, but in the face of magic, there would be nothing he could do. There was no weapon he could possibly wield that would protect him or the people that he loved.

  He thought of the things that Father Marcus always talked about at the chapel in Caer Gai, about how the Lord would be their shelter and their refuge against the schemes of the Devil and the evil of men. He wondered if the Lord would be strong enough to stand between him and the sorcery he’d seen. He had heard a story about a prophet of God fighting against a magician in Egypt, and how that prophet and the magician had gone toe-to-toe with no clear winner. It was not a ringing endorsement for the ability of the Christian God to counteract pagan magic.

  The sound of laughter rose behind him, and he looked back to see the druids building an altar with little effigies of those who had died over the year. They heaped food and drink onto the altar between those effigies and the looming central figure of the wicker man, preparing for the sacrifice and celebration to come. There was an effigy missing from the collection, and he damned himself for a fool before going to retrieve it.

  In his hut, wrapped in one of his shirts, was a wooden figure of Amren. He had carved it himself, working on it every night after his lessons were through. He was no sculptor, but he thought the likeness was good enough that Amren’s spirit would recognize himself. Surely if anyone should have known his face and how to replicate it, it was Arthur. He held the tiny figure and kissed it tenderly, his heart aching once again for his lost love. He blinked away a tear and took the effigy out of the hut and placed it on the altar.

  Merlin was standing near the altar when he arrived, and he watched Arthur as added his figure to the collection. The druid had a strange and pensive expression on his face. “For Amren,” he said softly. “I had not thought you would be seeking him tonight.”

  Arthur nodded. “Of course I am. How… how did you turn yourself into an owl?”

  “Magic.” He smiled. “It’s just an enchantment. Fairly simple once you know how to do it. With enchantments, you can change yourself into just about anything, or anyone.”

  “Can you change others, too?”

  “Yes.” Merlin stepped closer and reached for the figure Arthur had placed on the altar. He hesitated before he touched it, asking politely, “May I?”

  Arthur nodded wordlessly.

  The druid picked up the little wooden carving and studied it in silence for a moment. Arthur watched Merlin’s face, trying to read his thoughts in the flickering emotions in his eyes. The druid remained as inscrutable as ever, and Arthur sighed. He would never understand this man, he was certain of it.

  “It’s a good likeness,” Merlin said finally. “Perhaps his spirit will find his way back to you before his final journey to Annwn.”

  “That’s my hope,” Arthur admitted. “That’s what the Samhain ritual is meant to do, isn’t it? Call the spirits of the dead back to us one more time so that we can see them and speak to them?”

  “Among other things, yes.” He put the figure back in its place. “Do you hope to speak to Amren tonight?”

  “I want to see him.” He looked away, feeling his eyes stinging again. “I want to know that he’s all right, and I want him to know that his killer has been dealt with.”

  Merlin nodded. “I’m sure he knows that Pryderi is dead. And I’m certain that he’s happy now in the land beyond the veil.”

  Arthur’s head jangled at the druid’s words, and he was convinced that he was hearing a falsehood. “Why are you lying?”

  The druid looked startled. “Why do you think I’m lying?”

  “It’s in your voice.” Arthur looked at him again, meeting his eyes, blue with blue. “What are you hiding from me?”

  “I hide many things, young Arthur,” Merlin said archly. “I am not obligated to unburden all of my thoughts to you.”

  The words and the tone were sharp, and the young man nodded. “I see.” He should have known that Merlin would never tell him the full truth. He was beginning to think that he was incapable of it. He looked at the assemblage of effigies. “I hope we all get to see the people we want to see.”

  Merlin put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “We will.”

  Night fell in a hush, mist gathering as if the night herself was wearing a cloak and she was pulling it close. The cookfire in front of every hut was extinguished, and each person brought their last smoking stick to the bonfire in the center of the grove. Arthur watched as Merlin, the leader of the grove, lay his firebrand to the kindling first, speaking as he did.

  “We welcome you, spirits of our dead and departed, the loved and the unloved, the known and not known. We welcome you to this fire to share in our light on this, the last night of the year. Partake of our sacrifices and grant us your wisdom.” He pushed his burning branch further in, and tiny tongues of fire sprang up to lick at the dried twigs that were piled there. The first pop of the fire made the druid smile. He held up a flat river stone that had been painted white with lime and inscribed with his sigil. “I give you my name. I am Merlin, called Myrddin Wyllt, enchanter and master of this grove. I have no particular soul to call upon, and so I bid you all welcome.”

  One by one, they came forward, pushing their little fires into the larger one, adding to the blaze, and they tossed in their own river stones, each one with their own name marked upon it. As they did, they called out the names of the people they had lost since the last Samhain bonfire, or the souls with whom they wished to commune.

  When it was Arthur’s turn, he stepped forward and shoved the last coal from his fire into the heart of the massive pile. He held up his stone. “I am Arthur of Caer Gai, and I call upon Amren of Viroconium.” He threw the pebble into the fire and watched as it landed in a tangle of branches. The orange light of the fire flared around the stone, and then it tumbled out of view.

  Enfys came to him, a mug of something steaming in her hands. “Drink,” she said. “It will bring you closer to the spirit world.”

  Arthur took the mug and took a whiff of the evil-smelling brew. It was black inside the clay mug, and particles of leaves floated on the top of the water amid a brown-green foam. He glanced at Merlin, who was carefully watchful nearby. The druid nodded to him, and he forced himself to take a mouthful of the noxious substance and to swallow it down. His stomach lurched and he handed the mug back to her, and she accepted it with a smile.

  “Oh,” was all he managed to say.

  Enfys laughed and moved on to Merlin, who waved the cup away. Their eyes met, and she bowed her head and continued on around the circle. Merlin was the only one of the grove who did not drink.

  Arthur turned back to look at the bonfire, watching as embers drifted up into the sky like fireflies riding on the smoke. He held out his hand toward the fire, and though he stood several arms’ lengths away, he could feel the heat roasting his fingertips. The fire seemed hotter than a normal fire should have felt, and he wondered at the power in the flame.

  More druidesses came and handed out apples to everyone, and oatcakes, and mugs of cider and ale. Laughter rang around the clearing, and there was the sound of jingling as dancers began to cavort in the firelight, the tiny brass bells tied at their calves and ankles ringing merrily with their movements. Arthur joined in the dance. His head felt light as if he’d been drinking, but it made the dancing funny and he laughed. A young girl with sparkling eyes caught his hand and had him dance with her, and they circled the bonfire with other couples, weaving in and out among the other pairs, their path describing the complicated woven patterns that their artists liked to create in silver and stone. They were one with the fire and one with the night, and the animals and spirits all buzzed in time with them. He felt the power of every life around him pressing near, pushing through, piercing him but melding with him at
the same time.

  He danced and drank and ate until he could do no more, and finally, as the moon rose to her highest point, he found himself lying on his back, staring up at the wicker man, which had not yet been set alight. There were ropes on all of the construct’s limbs, and around its neck was a line that terminated in a noose, hanging open against its wooden chest. The girl he had been dancing with brought more mugs and apples, and she sat beside him with a grin.

  “Apple?” she asked, holding one out to him. “For divination.”

  Arthur struggled to sit up, despite the world spinning around him. He smiled at her and accepted the apple. “I don’t know how.”

  “I’ll teach you.” She took a knife out of her belt and began to peel the apple in her hand. “Peel the apple while you think about the secret that you want to know. If you can peel the apple so that it comes away in one long piece without breaking, you can throw the apple peel over your left shoulder, and it will land in a shape to tell you the answer you’re seeking.”

  He took out a knife of his own, taking it from the sheath at his waist, and he began to carefully peel. His dizzy head and his shaking hands made the exercise a difficult one, and he focused all of his attention on the task. He frowned in concentration, little furrows appearing between his dark brows. The girl giggled at him.

  “You look like you’re trying to will the peel away!”

  “I am,” he admitted, breaking into a smile. “Do I look foolish?”

  “No, not foolish. Adorable.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  “Hmm,” she admitted, flirting. “I don’t, either.”

  He continued to peel the fruit, and the red peel bounced against the hand holding the apple as it curled like the long hair of Blodeuwedd, the woman made of flowers. He wondered if the flower maiden smelled always of fruits and flowers, and if her husband, Llew Llau Gyffes, crushed her petals when he lay with her. The image of it made him flush, and he glanced at his companion, afraid she might have heard what he was thinking. She was pouting over her apple peel, which had broken. When she saw him looking, she smiled.

  “I can try again. There are more apples.”

  He kept peeling, and finally he was able to finish the job, the last of the peel coming away and leaving a single piece in his hand. He rose unsteadily to his feet and asked, “Left shoulder?”

  The girl nodded, and he tossed the peel over his shoulder. He turned to look at the form the peel had taken on the ground, and he was distressed to see that it had fallen into nothing he could readily recognize. His companion crawled over to have a look at the formation.

  “I see...I see a sword, and a crown,” she said. “And I see the letters ‘G’ and ‘L’.”

  “Where?” He leaned closer. “I don’t see a thing.”

  “There.” She pointed out the shapes that she was seeing, and as soon as she did, he could see them, too. He turned his head to look more closely, and the images vanished, replaced by a cauldron and a fire. He frowned.

  “This is so confusing,” he mumbled.

  “It’s meant to be, silly,” she laughed. “Divinations are meant to be contemplated. They’re not like road signs.”

  He sat heavily beside the fallen ort. “They should be. How else are we supposed to know what to do if we can’t make out what we’re being told?”

  “It’s called free will,” she said. She lay down with her head on his lap, looking up at him.

  “How can there be free will and fate all at the same time?”

  She grinned. “I don’t know. That’s a question for Merlin, not for me.”

  Arthur pulled a face. “I don’t want to talk to Merlin. He lies to me.”

  “He lies to everyone.” She laughed. “Don’t take it as a personal slight.”

  “If he’s such a liar, why does everyone come to him for counsel?”

  “Because every lie points to the truth.” She reached up and put her hand in Arthur’s hair, tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck. “He’s like a divination. What he says needs to be contemplated to have it make sense.”

  He liked the feeling of being touched that way, and the light stroke of her fingertips against his skin made him shiver. Arthur sighed and closed his eyes, remembering when Amren had touched him this way. He hoped that he would see him tonight, somehow.

  Drums began to beat in the center of the grove, and a procession of white-clad priests came in a line from behind the bonfire, bearing torches and clubs. In the center of them all walked Enfys, clad in a white shift with flowers in her hair. She was being supported between two men, virtually being carried along. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, and it was clear that she had been drugged. Arthur began to rise, but the girl on his lap gripped the back of his neck.

  “Don’t. She knew this was happening, and she chose to accept it.”

  “What is happening?” Even as he asked, he knew. He felt sick.

  Merlin, who walked at the head of the procession, stopped in front of the wicker man. “We call upon the gods of the underworld and the spirits of the dead to grant us favor in the year to come. We offer you the best of our harvest. We offer you this sacrifice.”

  The men tied Enfys to the wicker man, the noose around her neck and the other ropes binding her limbs to its limbs. One man took the rope leading to the noose and stood back, holding it taut but not yet choking the nearly-unconscious girl. Arthur pushed his companion from his lap and stood, wide-eyed and horrified, as two more men stepped forward, one with a club and one with a sickle. Merlin raised his arms and spoke in the druidic tongue, and the man with the rope hauled hard. The noose tightened around Enfys’s throat until her face turned purple. She gagged and struggled for breath, and still he pulled, strangling her. The man with the club beat her on the head with it, one crashing blow leaving a massive dent in her skull. She stopped gagging and sagged in the ropes. Immediately the man with the sickle slashed her throat, and Merlin came forward with a bronze cauldron to catch her blood.

  Arthur turned away in nausea and disgust.

  Enfys’s body was secured to the wicker man, and the horrible construct was set ablaze. Merlin dipped his fingers into the cup of her blood and walked around the circle, flicking everyone with gore like a priest sprinkling holy water. Arthur reeled away as Merlin approached him.

  “Do not resist, Arthur,” the druid warned. “This is a valuable blessing. Do not let her die in vain.” Merlin splattered him with the still-warm blood, and he jerked away in distaste.

  “Monster,” the youth hissed.

  The smell from the pyre was ghastly, and the celebration took on an almost desperate air. The people of the grove poured more of the black liquor and passed it around again. Merlin himself brought the cup to Arthur.

  “Drink this,” he commanded.

  The tone of his voice brooked no disagreement, and magic moved in the sound. Arthur did as he was ordered despite every part of him struggling to resist. He swallowed several gulps of the awful brew and winced as his head immediately began to spin. Merlin took the cup back and nodded his approval, which made Arthur angry.

  “Murderer,” he growled. Merlin shrugged and walked away, carrying the cup to the next person in the circle. Arthur turned and stalked back to his hut. He had had enough of this place and these people.

  The drink was taking its toll on him, burning in his gut and making his senses whirl. He staggered into his shelter and fell onto the bed. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and tried to erase the images of Enfys’s death that stuck in his mind like a thorn. He wanted to stop seeing it, wanted to deny that it had happened; most of all, he wanted to deny that he had watched it and had done nothing.

  His head ached, and he felt as if the bed was breathing beneath him, raising and lowering him in a slow rhythm. It was unsettling, but he was too dizzy to get up, so he only gripped the bed coverings and tried to hold on. He heard the crunch of a footfall inside the hut with him, and he
looked up. He expected to see Merlin.

  He saw Amren.

  He sat up in shocked joy. Amren stood there, looking alive and healthy but surrounded by a soft white light like a halo. He smiled at Arthur, love shining in his eyes.

  “Arthur,” he said.

  He nearly wept at the sound of Amren’s voice. He held out a hand, unable to speak. Amren stepped closer and reached out, as well, and their fingers intertwined. His hand was warm and solid, and Arthur sobbed. He rose and wrapped Amren in his arms, holding him tightly.

  Amren stroked his back. “There, now. No tears. I’m all right.”

  “You came,” he gasped. He clutched him close, pressing himself against him, amazed at the solidity of his form. “You came.”

  “Of course I came,” Amren said. He stroked Arthur’s hair with one hand. “I had to say goodbye.”

  They held each other for a long moment. Arthur was afraid to let go, fearful that his love would vanish if he stopped holding him. Amren kissed him gently, his lips soft and warm. Arthur’s breath caught in his throat and he returned the kiss. He had missed this feeling.

  Amren pushed him back onto the bed and lay down beside him. Their kiss deepened, and Amren gently removed Arthur’s clothing. His own clothing vanished into the ether until they were both nude and lying in each other’s arms.

  Arthur looked into his lover’s eyes. “Is this real?”

  “It’s as real as it can be,” Amren answered in a heated whisper. “Let me make love to you, one last time, before I go.”

  He nodded, tears on his cheeks. “Yes.”

  Amren pressed closer, and Arthur rolled onto his back, anticipation and nervousness racing through his blood. He had never been on the receiving side before, in all of the time he and Amren had been lovers. He was afraid of how it would feel, afraid it would be too real, or not real enough. He looked up into his lover’s eyes, and he saw love shining there. He took a calming breath and opened his arms to Amren, letting his lover settle between his legs.

  “I love you,” he breathed as his lover stroked the insides of his thighs with his fingernails, gently raking the skin and drawing gooseflesh to the surface. Amren responded with a heated kiss, his tongue dancing into his mouth. He tasted like herbs and mead, bitter and sweet, and his breath was hot on Arthur’s cheek. Amren’s fingertips touched him where he had never been touched before, gently probing. He moaned at the intrusion, finding that it was far more pleasurable than he would have expected.