Blood is everywhere.
The dogs race to the kill, but they are too far away. They will not come in time.
The horse falls. It is rolling over, its eyes wide and nostrils flared, its legs churning, hoofs lashing wildly at the air. Oh, Arthur! Arthur is stuck there. Help him!
The stag pulls free. He rears back, forehoofs raking in the air. The head angles down to plunge those deadly tines into the enemy struggling on the ground.
Arthur’s spear is wedged beneath the horse’s flank.
I am running to him. I gasp for breath. I cry out because I cannot run fast enough to save him.
The stag towers over Arthur…seems to hang there poised.
The stag lunges.
The sky cracks wide open and sunlight suddenly spills onto the causeway in a brilliant flood. The light is dazzling. I blink.
I look again to see Arthur’s body pierced by the stag’s antlers…
But no. His arm flashes up. He has a knife. The sunlight strikes the blade and it flares like a firebrand in his hand. The stag veers, plunging its rack into the hindquarters of the helpless horse.
Arthur swings his arm, aiming for the stag’s throat. He cannot reach it. The blow goes wide and strikes the beast’s shoulder as it worries the wound deeper into the feebly thrashing horse.
The stag pulls back to strike the killing blow. Cai heaves his spear, but it falls short and glances off the deer’s rump.
Arthur twists on the ground and kicks free of his helpless mount. We are screaming now to distract the stag. We are shouting to burst our lungs. The first of the dogs reaches the stag.
The stag turns on the hounds, scattering them. Arthur struggles to his knees, Cai’s spear in his hand. The stag turns on Arthur.
I see them: stag and boy, regarding one another across the distance of a few paces; a short spear throw separates them, no more. The dogs nip at the stag’s flanks. He turns and catches one of the hounds and flings it aside, then gathers himself for the last attack.
Arthur braces himself. His spear does not waver.
Desperate, Ectorius launches a spear. It falls heartbreakingly short, iron tip striking sparks as it skids away across the rocks. He readies another. We are almost within range.
The dogs surround the stag, but the Forest Lord has fixed his eye on Arthur.
“Run!” Pelleas cries. “Arthur! Run!”
The stag gathers his legs beneath him and charges, the powerful hind legs churning, driving toward Arthur.
“Run!” we shout. But it is too late. The stag is already hurtling straight at Arthur once again. The boy cannot turn to run or he will be impaled upon the antlers.
Arthur stands his ground, crouching, fearless, spear ready.
The stag closes swiftly—he is so fast!
Now! I throw my spear with all my strength and watch it slide uselessly under the legs of the onrushing deer. Ectorius lofts his one remaining spear.
In the same moment the stag simply lifts his hoofs and sails lightly over the crouching Arthur, and runs to the edge of the cliff. Arthur is already racing after the beast.
The Forest Lord pauses on the edge of the precipice, gathers its legs and leaps. What a wonder! It leaps over the cliff and we all dart to the place, thinking to see the proud animal battered as it plunges to its death on the rocks below.
Arthur turns wide eyes toward us as we run to him. He thrusts out a finger and I look where he is pointing.
I see the stag—sliding, leaping, running, flying down the cliff face to the ledge below. The beast tumbles sprawling onto the ledge, rolls to his feet and then, head held high, trots away to safety without so much as a backward glance. He is free.
It comes to us slowly what has happened.
“Arthur, are you hurt?” I demand, taking the boy by the shoulders and gazing at him intently.
Arthur shakes his head. He is disappointed rather than frightened. “I could have taken him,” he says. “I was ready.”
“Son, he would have killed you,” Ectorius says in a small, awed voice. “It is a true miracle that you are alive.” He shakes his head in amazement at Arthur’s still-unshaken courage.
Cai frowns. He is angry that the stag has escaped. “The dogs ruined it. We had him.”
Ruddlyn has gathered the dogs and is hurrying to us. “He had ye, young buck!” the huntsman snorts, showing his contempt for Cai’s assessment. “Never think otherwise. That King o’ the Glen was your master from the start. It is a wonder the both of you still tread the land of the living.”
At this, Arthur bows his head. Is he crying?
No. When he raises his eyes once more they are clear and dry. “I am sorry, Lord Ectorius. I have lost the horse you gave me.”
“Fret not the loss of the horse, lad. It is only a horse, God love you.” Ectorius shakes his head again.
“I will do better next time,” vows Arthur. The steel in his voice could shear hard leather.
“You will,” I promise him, “but not this day. The hunt is over for you.”
Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but I will not hear it. “Return to the caer and contemplate the gift you have been given this day. Go now—you and Cai together.”
They do not like it, but they do as they are told. They mount Cai’s horse and ride off. While Ruddlyn buries the two dead dogs, we unsaddle Arthur’s dead mount and, lugging the extra tack, return to our horses. No one says a word; even the dogs are quiet.
None of us, not even Ruddlyn, is certain what to make of what we have witnessed. It seems best not to speak, so we hold our tongues. But there is wonder in our souls. It is no doubt that we have seen a marvel—more perhaps, a sign.
Its fulfilling would follow in due season. I did not know what it meant at the time, but I know now. It was God’s saining witness to Arthur’s sovereignty, and a portent of the trial to come. For one day I would see that same young man make the same desperate stand against a great and terrible adversary wielding swift and certain death. And on that day Arthur would become immortal.
Book Two
The Black
Boar
1
THE DAYS DRAW DOWN; THEY dwindle and run away. See how swiftly they scatter! But not a single day passes that I do not recall with pleasure the kingmaking of Arthur ap Aurelius. And because he was Aurelius’ son—despite whatever ignorant slanderers may say—I strove to give him the same crowntaking as his father.
You will excuse me if I say nothing of that long season of strife we endured at the hands of certain southern lords and lordlings, or the fierce battles with the Saecsen that followed. More than enough has been written about those war-wasted years—even small children know the tales by heart. I will say only that after seven years of incessant fighting, Arthur broke the back of the barbarian host at Baedun Hill: a fearsome battle, lasting three days and costing lives in the very thousands. This, and Arthur not yet king!
I was there, yes. I saw it all, and still I saw nothing: I was blind from my encounter with Morgian. Some little time before Baedun, you will recall, I had left the war host and traveled south, determined to break the power of the Queen of Air and Darkness for once and all. Dread Morgian was at that time beginning to take an interest in Arthur’s deeds and I could not stand by and watch her spinning her evil schemes around the future High King of Britain.
I went alone, telling no one. Pelleas, following me, was lost and never returned—may the Gifting God grant him mercy. I know Morgian killed him. She all but killed me as well. Bedwyr and Gwalcmai found me in Llyonesse, and brought me back: blind, but unbeaten, having cleared the way for Arthur’s sovereignty. And that day was not far off.
After the bloodbath of Baedun, as terrible in necessity as in execution, we retreated to nearby Mailros Abbey to rest and give thanks for the victory we had won. Though the abbey was yet little more than a ruin, the good brothers had returned and were even then beginning repairs. As it was nearest Baedun—indeed, within sight of that blood-drenched, double-hu
mped hill—Arthur chose it as the place to offer his prayers of thanksgiving.
We stayed two days and then, having bound our wounds, continued up the Vale of Twide to Caer Edyn, where Lord Ectorius, his great heart bursting with pride, hosted a feast such as few men ever enjoy. For three days and three nights we sat at table, eating and drinking, healing our battle-bruised hearts and souls in the company of true men.
Good Ector, last of his noble breed, lavished his best on us, giving all without stint. Of good bread and roast meat there was no end; freely flowed the ale and rich honey mead—no sooner was one bowl emptied than another appeared, filled from the huge ale tub Ector had established in his hall. White foam and sparkling amber filling the cups and bowls of the Lords of Britain! Sweet as the kiss of a maiden, sweet as peace between noble men!
“I do not understand it, Myrddin,” Ector whispered, pulling me aside the evening of the third day. “The ale vats are not empty.”
“No? Well, it is not for lack of exertion, I assure you,” I replied.
“But that is what I am saying,” he insisted.
“You are saying nothing, my friend,” I chided gently. “Speak plainly, Ector.”
“The ale should have run out by now. I had not so much in store.”
“You must have mistaken yourself. And a happy mistake, too.”
“But the ale does not diminish,” he insisted. “As many times as I send to it, the vat remains full.”
“No doubt in all this merrymaking the servants have become confused. Or maybe we have not drunk as much as you think.”
“Do I not know my own brewhouse, man?” Ectorius countered. “Look at them, Wise Emrys, and tell me again I am mistaken.”
“It is for you to look, Ector,” I replied, touching the bandage on my eyes. “Tell me what you see.”
“I did not mean—” he blustered. “Oh, you know what I mean.”
“Be easy, Ector,” I soothed. “I believe you.”
“I know! I will tell Dyfrig—he will know what to do.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “send for the good bishop. He will be my eyes.”
Ectorius departed at once. Meanwhile, the feasting continued unabated; the circling of the cups did not cease. Soon, the bottom of the tub began showing through the foam once more, and a cry went up for the serving lads to fill it again. This time, I went with them. “Lead me to the alehouse,” I ordered the oldest boy, placing my hand on his shoulder.
He led me out from the hall and across the foreyard to one of the stout outbuildings of Ector’s holding. Inside were three great oaken barrels—two for ale, and one for mead. “Bring the brew master,” I told my guide as the other boys set about replenishing their buckets. “I will speak to him here.”
Making my way to the nearest container, I put my hands on it and felt the wooden staves; I rapped the side with my knuckles and heard the frothy slosh as the boys plunged their buckets. As big around as a wagon wheel, and nearly man-height, it would hold a fair amount. Two such together, as Ector had, might supply a celebration such as ours for a day and a night—perhaps two even—but never three days and three nights.
“How much is in the vat?” I asked the nearest boy.
“Why, it is nearly full, Emrys,” the boy replied.
“And the other? Empty or full?”
“It is full, lord,” the boy replied.
“When last did you fill from it?”
The lad—I imagined him ten or twelve summers, judging from his voice—hesitated. “Lord?”
“The question is simple enough, boy,” I said. “When did you last fill from the second vat?”
“But we have not touched it, lord,” he answered. “This is the only one we are allowed to breach.”
“That is true,” confirmed an adult voice from the doorway behind me. “Wise Emrys,” the man said, “I am Dervag, brew master to Lord Ector. Is there something wrong with the ale?”
“I remember you, Dervag. Your ale is excellent, never fear,” I assured him. “Even so, it is suspiciously plentiful. This has pricked my interest.”
“My lord Ector keeps three casks,” Dervag explained, coming to stand with me. “These three: two ale, and one mead. The boys fill from the standing vat, and only when the last drop is drained from the first will I allow anyone to open the next.”
“Then perhaps you could look for me and see that all is as it should be.”
The amiable man stepped up on the stone beside the vat. “It is above two-thirds full yet,” he announced, growing puzzled. He hurried to the second barrel. I heard a wooden cover lifted and quickly dropped back into place.
“This vat has not been touched.” The brew master’s tone had become wary and slightly accusatory. “What is happening here?”
“An apt question, Dervag,” I replied lightly. “How is it that men feast three days and nights and the ale vat shows less sign of ebbing than yonder lake? Answer me if you can.”
“But, Lord Emrys, I cannot answer. Since the warband’s return, I have been day and night in the brewing house, preparing to refresh these vats when they are empty. I bethought myself that when the lad came to fetch me, it was to open the second vat. But this”—he struggled to make sense of it—“this is most unchancy.”
“Nonsense!” declared the cleric, arriving with Ector just then.
Dyfrig, Bishop of Mailros, though a bighearted, cheerful man, maintained a precise and particular mind worthy of any scholar. He went to the cask, peered in, and declared that to his eye the vat appeared full.
“Yet this single observation is no true test,” he stated.
“But we have drunk from this selfsame ale vat for three days,” Ector insisted. “And it is no less full than when we first began.”
“Be that as it may,” Dyfrig allowed, “I was not here to see it.” Turning to the boys standing by with their buckets and cannikins, he commanded, “Fill the lot, lads.”
Dervag himself filled two buckets and, when the last one was full, the bishop again mounted the stone step. “You will all mark,” his voice echoed from inside the great cask, “that I am reaching inside the vat and pressing my thumbnail into the wax. I have scratched a line at the level of the remaining ale.”
He turned to us and stepped down. “Now then, my friends, we will watch. And I will look inside again when the cannikins have been refreshed for the third time.”
“Go, lads,” Ector ordered, “do your work.”
We waited in the brewhouse—Dervag, Ector, Dyfrig and I—passing the time cordially. After a time, the serving boys returned, the buckets were replenished, and we waited again. After filling the buckets the second time, Ector ordered torches to be lit because it was growing too dim for them to see properly. We talked of the feast and of the splendid victory at Baedun.
In a little while, the lads returned for the third time and, as before, Dervag refreshed their cannikins from the vat. “Will you look now, Dyfrig?” Ector said.
Dyfrig mounted to the stone. “Give me a torch.”
A moment’s silence…and then a sharp intake of breath: “Upon my vow!”
“Do you see your mark?” Dervag asked.
“I do not see it,” the bishop replied quickly, “by reason of the fact that the level of the liquid is now higher than when I made the mark.”
“Let me see.” I heard a scuffling sound as the brew master joined the bishop on the step, almost toppling him from the stone in his excitement. “It is as he has said,” confirmed Dervag. “Bring the jars!”
The boys rushed forward and the jars were filled yet once more. Then the two of them looked again. “I see the mark!” the brewer shouted. “There it is!”
Bishop Dyfrig descended the step and stood once more before us. “It is a wonder,” he said. “I am satisfied.”
“What does it mean?” said Ector, demanding an explanation.
“Rejoice, Ectorius!” the bishop told him, “for even as Our Lord Jesu at the marriage feast turned water into wine and trans
formed five loaves and two fishes into a feast for five thousand, so has the Blessed Christ honored your feast with a rare and precious gift. Rejoice! Come, we must share the glad news.”
Share it, he did. Word of this wonder carried everywhere. In time, the story of Ector’s Excellent Ale Vat took its place beside the tale of Bran’s Platter of Plenty and Gwyddno’s Enchanted Hamper.
But on that night, when the good bishop finished telling the assembled warriors what he himself had witnessed, the gathering sat silent, pondering. Then up jumped Bors. He stepped from bench to table and stood in the midst of the gathering with his arms outspread.
“Brothers!” he shouted, his voice loud in the hall. “Is there now any doubt what is required of us?”
“Tell us!” someone cried; it might have been Gwalchavad.
“Here is Arthur!” He thrust his hand to the bemused Arthur. “Victorious Battle Chief, Conquering War Leader, acclaimed of men, and favored of the Great God. It is time we made our Duke of Britain a king!”
The warriors lauded the suggestion. “Well spoken,” some shouted. “So be it!”
Bors, fists on hips, challenged them. “Then why do you yet sit here when there is kingmaking to be done? Up! Stand on your feet, brothers, I tell you not another night shall pass before I see the kingly torc on Arthur’s throat!”
At these words those closest to Arthur leapt to their feet and pulled him from his chair. They hoisted him to their shoulders and carried him from the hall. “I think they mean to do it,” observed Dyfrig. “Is there anything to prevent them?”
Ector laughed. “If all the battle host of Saecsland could not prevail against them,” he said, “I do not think anything in this worlds-realm can prevent them now.”
“It comes to this, Dyfrig,” I told him. “Will you make Arthur king, or will I?”
“By your leave, Merlinus,” the bishop said, “I will do the deed, and gladly.”
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