Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  “I will find him, and if they still live, they will both be cared for,” Merlin promised.

  “Tell them… tell them that I’m sorry, even though it is too late for such a thing.”

  Merlin put his hands on Illtyd’s shoulders. “I’ll tell them that you were a good man who made a bad mistake, as all men eventually will.”

  Illtyd embraced him. “Thank you, my friend.” He took a deep breath and looked toward Lindum and the thumping of the ballistae. After a moment, he turned back. “Keep yourself well. And keep the king.”

  “I swear.”

  Night was at its darkest, with only the dim light of the crescent moon illuminating the ground, when Illtyd gathered his raiders. Merlin met them at the edge of Arthur’s camp, where he enchanted them all with invisibility, as he had done for Bedivere and Brastias once before. The men vanished from sight and headed into the Saxon camp.

  There were sentries, but few and far between. It was an easy matter to slip past them and into the camp itself. As army encampments went, it was fairly orderly, with the ranks clearly grouped together and all of the business of a military campaign being carried on appropriately. Illtyd was impressed by the level of discipline he saw as he slipped past the soldiers. He had never supposed that the Saxons had such an organized militia.

  The ballistae were arrayed ahead of the main camp, and they were all manned. A woman in leathers walked among them, speaking to the soldiers. She stopped short, scenting the air like a bloodhound, and though he knew he could not be seen, Illtyd was convinced that the strange woman turned and looked straight at him.

  He knew that they would never be able to approach the ballistae. The best that they could do would be to gather information and return to Arthur. He had no way of communicating with the rest of his team, something that had been neglected in this incompletely considered plan. He hoped that the men who had come with him were savvy enough to know that this mission would fail.

  He pressed forward, intent upon learning as much as he could. The Saxon woman took a heavy bag from her shoulder and put it upon the ground near the first ballista, then walked slowly toward him. He stepped to the side by several paces, careful not to bump into any nearby Saxons or equipment, and to his surprise and not inconsiderable dismay, the woman turned to track him.

  Illtyd crossed himself and prayed for protection. He hastened forward, reaching the bag the woman had put down at the side of the siege machine. He picked it up, knowing that he revealed himself in doing so. It was heavy with vials of a noxious-looking liquid that he thought might have been Greek fire. The woman muttered something in the Saxon tongue and inscribed a sigil in the air before her. His invisibility fell away like dust.

  She shouted, and men began to rush toward him. He smashed the bag against the ballista with all of his strength, and it burst into a raging inferno. He reeled back from the heat and into the waiting arms of the Saxons. They began to rain blows down upon him, but the woman shouted to them, and they stopped.

  She came to him and grasped his throat in her hand. “Who are you?” she asked in his own language.

  “Your enemy,” he answered. One of the men struck him in the kidney, and he winced.

  “Your name, Briton,” she snarled.

  “You will have to earn that.”

  The woman raised one blonde eyebrow. “A challenge. I accept. You will tell me everything I want to know, believe me.”

  The Saxon warlord came racing out of his tent, shouting. He gestured toward Illtyd, and the woman answered calmly. The warlord listened, then gave a sharp nod of his head. The men holding him dragged him to the chieftain’s tent, and he prayed to God for mercy.

  Maelgwas ran to the wall and looked out at the blaze in the Saxon camp. The man who had retrieved him from his bed told him, “It started all of a sudden, like. I thought I saw them taking a prisoner away.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “Too far away to see, my lord.”

  The knight nodded. Hope, however slight, rose in him. Perhaps his runner had reached Eburacum after all.

  Arthur watched from the outskirts of his camp as the ballista went up in flames. He chewed his lip and paced while Sir Ector stood silently nearby. They had seen Illtyd being revealed and then dragged away, and they both feared the worst.

  The mass of the Saxon camp descended on the burning siege engine, trying to put out the flames. The other ballista operators abandoned their posts to help the effort. He watched and waited, hoping that in the confusion, his raiders would be able to finish the job they had been sent to do.

  He had not made allowances for counter magic in the Saxon camp, and he had not considered that the ballistae might still be manned at night. He had not planned for all contingencies. Now Illtyd was going to pay the price for his short-sightedness.

  “He knew the risks,” Ector said quietly, as if he’d read his son’s fevered mind.

  Arthur tried to reply, but words failed him and he remained silent.

  Sir Brastias rushed up to him, one of his scouts at his side. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I have news.”

  The young king turned to him. “What news?”

  “An army is approaching from the north. It flies the standard of Eburacum.”

  “How many men?”

  The scout shook his head. “I counted over a thousand.”

  Arthur nodded, relieved. “At first light, I will ride out to meet them.”

  Brastias hesitated. “My lord…”

  “In the meantime, I want you to stage a rescue for Sir Illtyd. They’ve captured him and no doubt mean to interrogate him. I want him retrieved. I will leave no man behind.”

  The king’s tone allowed for no dissent, so the knight merely nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Arthur walked back toward his tent. “Where is Merlin?”

  “I do not know, my lord.”

  “Find him, if you can, and send him to me.” He continued walking. “And send me Sir Griflet as well.”

  Arthur was pacing in his tent when Griflet came in, his eyes bleary from sleep. “My lord?” he said. “You called for me?”

  “Yes. In the morning, you will ride with me to greet the army from Eburacum. You and I are going alone. You will be my escort and standard bearer.”

  “It will be my honor. But what if they’re not friendly?”

  “Then we will try to make them so.” He ran a hand over his face. “We will also have Merlin with us to protect us in case of attack. I trust our lives to his magic.”

  “That’s good to hear,” the druid said, appearing in the corner of the tent, his black armor gleaming in the low light from the lamp on the map table. “May I be of assistance before tomorrow?”

  “Yes.” Arthur looked to Griflet. “That’s all.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” He went to the king’s bed and lay down on his side.

  “What are you doing?” Arthur asked.

  “Going back to sleep. Your bed is more comfortable than mine.”

  Merlin chuckled. “Get out, you rascal!”

  “He can stay.” Arthur turned to the druid. “I need your help retrieving Sir Illtyd. I can’t leave him in the hands of the Saxons. God knows what they’re doing to him. I’ve already tasked Sir Brastias with his rescue, so please coordinate with him.”

  Merlin bowed his head. “Yes, my king.” As quickly as he appeared, he vanished.

  Arthur nudged Griflet aside and sat on the edge of the bed. He put his head in his hands and tried not to cry. He had never failed so badly.

  Griflet shifted to sit beside him, and he put an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. He pulled him into an embrace, squeezing him tight. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve killed a friend.”

  Griflet frowned. “How so?”

  His throat tightened as he struggled to hold back his tears. He looked at Griflet and said, “You heard what I said to Merlin. I made a bad plan and sent men to carry it out. Now Illtyd will probably be killed because I w
as wrong.”

  Griflet embraced Arthur. The king dropped his face into his hands again.

  “It’s all right to be wrong,” he whispered. “You’re still learning. Kingship seems to come naturally to you, but there will be mistakes along the way.”

  “But if I make mistakes, I should be the one to suffer for them, not my friends.” He did not lift his face, and his hands made the words sound muffled.

  Griflet ran a hand over Arthur’s back, comforting him as best he could. “This will not be the last friend that you send into harm’s way. It’s inevitable. Most of us would relish the honor of dying for you.”

  At that comment, Arthur did raise his head. “Don’t say that! I don’t want anyone to die for me. What a terrible thing!”

  “If you served a king you loved, would you not feel that a death in his service is a death worth the dying? Honestly?” He looked into the king’s eyes, and Arthur could not hold that steady gaze. He looked away. Griflet continued. “I for one live for you, and I would be happy to die for you, too. It’s the greatest glory a knight can hope to achieve.”

  His words came out like a cry. “Why must glory be measured in blood?”

  “Because these are ugly times, and blood is all we really have to give.” The young knight shifted to crouch in front of Arthur, taking his hands in his. “Mourn if you must, and I’ll mourn with you. Sir Illtyd is a good man, and maybe God will protect him. We can pray for that until we know that the prayers went unanswered.”

  “They’re torturing him,” he whispered. “I know it.”

  “That’s you imagining the worst.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I know it.”

  “How?”

  He could not explain, but it was a feeling, a certainty that ran straight down to his bones. He looked away. “I don’t know how.”

  His friend pushed him down onto the bed and then lay down beside him. He wrapped him in his arms and pulled him close. “Stop thinking,” Griflet advised. “You are the thinkingest fool I ever saw.”

  “Isn’t that a contradiction?”

  “Well, if it is, you raise it to an art form.” He shifted to get more comfortable. “Sleep. Tomorrow’s not far away, and if we have to fight a whole army, I think we’d better be rested.”

  Arthur closed his eyes, but sleep was not to come.

  Merlin and Brastias went alone into the Saxon camp, once more under enchantment to remain unseen. The closer they went to the commander’s tent, the more clearly they could hear cries of pain. They were not surprised by the grim sight that greeted them upon their arrival.

  The Saxon leader and his enchantress stood over Illtyd, who had been stripped of his armor and his clothing. He was bound like a calf, all four limbs tied to a choking noose around his neck. Any attempt he made to struggle for freedom cut off his air, and he had no choice but to stay still and accept the torments they presented him.

  It was clear that they had been busy. His left leg was covered in burns, no doubt delivered by the iron spike that was resting tip first in a brass brazier filled with hot coals. His face was bloodied and bruised, with eyes that were swollen shut. His chest and abdomen, already swollen and discolored, were now also a mass of stripes, and as they watched, the enchantress added another with the whip in her hand.

  “Who commands you?”

  The priest-knight cried out at the lash, then spoke in a strangled voice. “The Lord Jesus Christ commands me.”

  The Saxon leader looked at his fingernails. Merlin spoke the Saxon tongue, so he understood as the man said, “He isn’t going to tell you anything, and you’re asking stupid questions anyway.”

  “Shut up,” the woman snapped. She raised her arm and delivered another painful blow, this one opening a bleeding line across the helpless prisoner’s thigh. “Who do you serve?”

  “Lord Jesus Christ and God the Father…”

  She grabbed his jaw in her hand as if she meant to wrench it from his head. “If you say one more word about your god, I will kill you.”

  “This is pointless,” the warlord said.

  “Shut up.” She released the knight’s jaw and glared down at him. “I want to know who sent you here to destroy our ballista. You are going to tell me, or I am going to start flaying you alive. Do you know what flaying is?”

  Illtyd chuckled but there was more desperation than mirth in the sound. “I know Saint Bartholomew.”

  Merlin had seen enough. He whispered magical words, and as his incantation started, their invisibility dropped away. The woman whirled to face him.

  “Wizard!” she hissed.

  Her hand rose, wreathed in magical fire, but Merlin’s spell went off first. Both the woman and the warlord were frozen in place, paralyzed. Brastias hurried forward and scooped the wounded knight up in his arms. Illtyd cried out in pain at the touch.

  “Sorry, old friend,” Brastias said. “Merlin…”

  The druid wrapped his magic around them and took them away to his tent in Arthur’s camp. Brastias put Illtyd onto Merlin’s bed, then cut away the ropes that bound him. Illtyd tried to straighten his limbs, but when he did, he cried out again and returned to a fetal curl. Merlin went to him, his hand upon his head.

  “He’s badly hurt,” he said.

  “I can see that,” Brastias growled. “What do you need to heal him?”

  Merlin shook his head. “He’s beyond my ability to help. I can help to ease his pain somewhat, though, if you bring me hot water.”

  The knight hurried out to comply. Illtyd turned his face toward Merlin. “I made it back,” he said, rasping. “You said I wouldn’t.”

  “You’re not back yet,” Merlin said. He touched the man’s stomach and confirmed the worst. It was filled with blood from injuries too deep to see, and he could sense his life force fading. “You were brave, and you were true to your faith.”

  Brastias returned with a pot filled with water and put it over Merlin’s brazier. The druid flicked a finger at the brass, and a fire sprang to life beneath the pot. He busied himself with preparing herbs while Brastias knelt at Illtyd’s side.

  “I did not give up the king,” the priest-knight whispered. “Tell him that for me.”

  “I will.”

  “Tell him I forgive him.”

  Merlin saw tears standing in Brastias’s eyes, but the knight blinked them away. “I will.”

  Illtyd put his hand on his friend’s. Merlin came to the bedside with bandages soaked in his herbal preparation, and he draped them over Illtyd’s distended abdomen. He moaned at the pressure that Merlin applied.

  Arthur, who had been summoned by Brastias, came into the tent and stood at Illtyd’s feet. His eyes shone with tears as he looked upon the injuries his friend had suffered.

  “Will he be all right?” he asked.

  Merlin looked at the king and shook his head. Arthur’s chin trembled.

  “My king,” Illtyd said. “I cannot see you.”

  “I’m here.”

  The priest-knight held out his hand, and Arthur came forward to grasp it gently. “My king, do not turn your back on God. He will be your light if you allow Him.”

  “I won’t,” he promised.

  “Turn away from sin,” he said. His voice was cracking and becoming difficult to hear. Merlin cursed beneath his breath and added more bandages to his wounds, knowing that, in truth, there was nothing he could do to help him.

  “We have no priest here to give you last rites, my friend,” Brastias said gently. “You were the only priest in our band.”

  Illtyd coughed, and blood spattered his lip. “Forgive me my sins, King Arthur.”

  The young man spoke around his tears. “If I have that power, they are forgiven. But I’m not a priest, and I can’t give you absolution.”

  “All the same,” the knight breathed. “All the same…”

  He gave a gentle sigh, and then his pain was over.

  They mourned him through the night until dawn painted the eastern sky, and
then they buried him beneath a wooden cross with his head toward the west. The Christians among the knights prayed for the repose of his soul, and then, though so little time had passed, it was time for Arthur to meet the army from Eburacum.

  They rode with heavy hearts toward the mass of armed men approaching from the north. Arthur rode in the lead, with Griflet carrying his standard on his left side and Merlin on his right. His standard showed the red dragon rampant upon a field of snowy white, the banner edged in cloth of gold and trimmed with golden cords. It was unmistakably the royal standard of Uther Pendragon, not yet amended to reflect his son.

  The men of Eburacum flew a standard, too, hanging from a cross-arm like the Roman legionary standards of old. It was a red cross with four golden lions, also on a field of white. There was royalty to this standard, too, and Arthur knew that he was about to meet a king.

  A heavily armored rider came out ahead of the army to meet them, his face shaven in the Roman style and his expression grim. “State your name and purpose,” he demanded.

  “I am Arthur Pendragon, crowned High King of the Britons, and I wish to parley with your leader.” His voice sounded firm and confident, which amazed him, since his stomach fluttered.

  “My lord is King Gurgurest of Eburacum. You say you are the new High King? You drew the sword?”

  “He did,” Merlin said.

  The man’s eyes saucered when he saw the druid. He bowed in his saddle. “Master Merlin,” he said. “I did not recognize you without your robes.”

  “Captain Dubnus.” He nodded back. “So King Excingus has died.”