The center collapses. The onrushing Vandal tide is turning. Those in the rear force their way forward even as the forerank folds inward upon itself.
The horse glides beneath me. It undulates slowly and I am part of its rolling rhythm. I see a barbarian turn to meet me. A black spear rises. The sword in my hand sweeps down and I feel the fleeting resistance as the body before me falls away.
Another enemy appears. He leaps forward, jabbing upward with the spear. My blade slashes and the man spins away, clutching his head. I hear his scream and suddenly the clash of frenzied chaos around me slows, dwindling down and down to the barest movement, languid and listless and slow. My vision grows hard-edged and keen as the battle awen seizes me.
I look and see the battlefield spread before me, the enemy upon it moving as if in a torpor. Their hands swing in lazy, languid strokes; the spearblades edge cautiously through the air. The Vandal faces are rigid, their eyes fixed, unblinking; their mouths hang open, teeth bared, tongues lolling.
The battle sound throbs in my head. It is the roar of blood pulsing in my ears. I move into the crush and feel the heat of striving bodies; my arm strokes out its easy cadence; my dazzling blade sings out an unearthly melody. I smell the sick-sweet smell of blood. After long absence, I am Myrddin the Warrior King once more.
9
I MOVE LIKE A STORM-DRIVEN SHIP through the tide. Enemy rise before me—a massive sea-swell of warrior-flesh breaking upon the sharp prow of my blade. I hew with fatal and unforgiving accuracy, death falling swiftly as my unswerving sword. Blood mist gathers before my eyes, crimson and hot. I sail on, heedless of the tempest-waves of foe.
Up and up they rise, and down and down they fall. Death rakes them into heaps of twitching corpses before my high-stepping steed. The spears of the enemy seek me; I have merely to judge the angle of thrust to turn aside their feeble jabs. Every stroke follows a leisurely contemplation in which my mind traces the arc of each movement, and the next and the next. No wasted motion, no effort unrewarded. I kill and kill again.
If death ever wears a human face, this day its face is mine.
The barbarian foreranks cannot stand before us, nor can they retreat—they are too tight-pressed from behind to give feet to their flight. With Cai and Bedwyr forcing the sides into the center, and the center caught between the onrushing horses and their own rear guard still pushing in from behind, the enemy can but stand to our cruel, killing blades.
Eventually, the advance slows, the surge falters, and the tide begins to turn. The foe is flowing away, rear ranks first. The front ranks, feeling the sustaining wall behind give way, fall back. The battleline breaks; the invaders turn and flee the field, leaving their dead and dying heaped upon the earth.
They run screaming, crying their fear and frustration to the unheeding sky. They run in shameful disarray, without thought for their wounded kinsmen. They simply abandon the battleground and all upon it in their flight.
I leap after them, exulting in triumph. My victory song resounds across the plain. The foemen give way before me, stumbling in their haste to save themselves. I drive on and on, lashing my horse to speed.
And then Arthur is beside me, his hand on my sword arm. “Peace! Myrddin! Stop—it is over. The battle is finished.”
At his touch, I came to myself. The battle frenzy left me. I felt suddenly weak, drained, my chest hollow; my head throbbed, and I heard a sound like the echo of a mighty shout receding into the heavens, or perhaps into realms beyond this world.
“Myrddin?” Arthur gazed at me, concern and curiosity sharp in his ice-blue eyes.
“Pay me no heed. I am well.”
“Stay here,” he ordered, urging his horse away. “The pursuit is outpacing us. I must call the warriors back.”
“Go,” I told him. “I will remain behind.”
Our warriors gave chase as far as the stream. But there Arthur called off the pursuit lest the enemy regroup and surround us. Then he returned to the blood-soaked battleground to deal with the wounded and dying barbarians.
“What should we do with them, Bear?” asked Bedwyr. He was scratched and bleeding in several places, but whole.
Arthur gazed across the corpse-strewn field. Crows and other carrion birds were already gathering, their raw calls foretelling a grisly feast.
“Artos?” Bedwyr asked again. “The wounded—what will you have us do?”
“Put them to the sword.”
“Kill them?” Cai raised his head in surprise.
“For the love of Christ, Arthur,” Bedwyr began. “We cannot—”
“Do it!” Arthur snapped, turning away.
Cai and Bedwyr regarded one another with grim reluctance. Conaire saved them from having to carry out Arthur’s order. “I will do the deed, and gladly,” the Irish lord volunteered. He called his chieftains together and they began moving among the fallen. A sharp blade-thrust here, a short chop there, and silence soon claimed the battleground.
“Sure, it is a hateful thing,” Cai observed sourly, rubbing the sweat and blood from his face with his sleeve.
“Their own kinsmen would do the same,” I reminded him. “And they expect no less. Better a quick, painless end than lingering agony.”
Bedwyr gave me a darkly disapproving look and stalked off.
Quickly gathering up our own wounded—our losses were uncommonly light—we left the field and returned to Conaire’s stronghold. My head still ached with the beating throb of the battle frenzy, and every jolt of the horse sent a spasm through me. Gwenhwyvar’s voice stirred me from my self-absorbed regard.
“Did you see him?” she asked, her voice low.
“Who?” I wondered without looking up.
“It was very like you said,” she replied. “But I could not have imagined it would be so…so splendid.”
I turned my head, wincing at the pain. Gwenhwyvar was not looking at me, but at Arthur a little distance ahead. Her skin was glowing with the sheen of exertion, and her eyes were alight.
“No, I did not see him,” I told her simply.
Her lips curled with the hint of a smile, and she said, “I do not wonder that men follow him so readily. He is a wonder, Myrddin. He must have killed three score in as many strokes. I have never seen the like. The way he moves through battle—it is as if he were tracing the steps of a dance.”
“Oh, yes. It is a dance he knows well.”
“And Caledvwlch!” she continued. “I believe it is as sharp now as when the battle began. My blade is notched and bent as a stick, but his is fresh still. How is it possible?”
“The weapon is not called Caledvwlch for nothing,” I told her. She looked at me at last, but only to see if I were mocking her; she turned her gaze to Arthur once more, repeating the word softly. “It means Cut Steel,” I added. “It was given him by the Lady of the Lake.”
“Charis?” she asked.
“None other,” I replied. “My mother may have given him the sword, but the way he uses it, his uncanny skill—that is his own.”
“I have seen Llenlleawg fight,” Gwenhwyvar reflected. “When the battle frenzy comes upon him, no one can stand against him.”
“Well I know it,” I replied, recalling the Irish champion’s extraordinary ability to turn himself into a fighting whirlwind.
“The battle frenzy grips him and Llenlleawg loses himself,” she continued. “But with Arthur I think it must be the other way: he finds himself.”
I commended her perception. “A most astute observation, lady. In truth, Arthur is revealed in battle.”
She fell silent then, but the love and admiration in her gaze increased. It is the way of women sometimes, when the man they know so well surprises them, to exult in their discovery and cherish it. Gwenhwyvar hoarded her discovery like a treasure.
We rested through the day, delivering ourselves to the care of those who had remained at Rath Mor. We ate and slept, and roused ourselves at dusk to celebrate the victory we had been granted. By then men were thirst
y and hungry, and wanting to hear their feats lauded in song. We ate and drank, and listened while Conaire’s bards vaunted the achievements of the warriors, praising one and all with high-sounding words. Cai, Bedwyr, and Arthur were mentioned, of course; but among the kings involved, Conaire shone like a sun among so many lesser lights, though his part in the battle was actually quite small.
This chafed the Britons. “Are we to sit here and listen to this uncouth noise?” Cai demanded. The third bard had just launched into a lengthy retelling of the battle in which the Irishmen featured most prominently, and the British received no mention. “They are telling it all wrong, Myrddin.”
“They only praise their king,” I replied. “He is the one who feeds them.”
“Well, they praise him too highly,” Bedwyr put in. “And that is not right.”
“They steal the High King’s glory and dish it out to Conaire and his brood,” Llenlleawg complained. “Do something, Lord Emrys.”
“What would you have me do? It is Conaire’s right. They are his bards and this is his caer, after all.”
The three desisted then, but maintained an aggrieved and peevish silence. Thus it did not surprise me greatly when, as soon as the bard finished his laudatory song, a shout went up from Cai.
“Friends!” he said, leaping to his feet. “We have enjoyed the singing of Irish bards as much as we are able,” he said tactfully. “But you would think us Britons a tight-fisted and greedy race if we did not tell you that beneath this roof sits one whose gift in song is owned as one of the chief treasures of Ynys Prydein.” He turned and flung out a hand to me. “And that man is Myrddin ap Taliesin, Chief Bard of Britain.”
“Is this so?” wondered Conaire loudly. He was feeling the heady effects of flattery and drink, and it made him wonderfully expansive. “Then let us share this treasure you have been hoarding. Sing for us, Bard of Britain! Sing!”
Everyone began pounding on the table and calling for a song. Bedwyr rose and borrowed a harp from the nearest bard; he brought it to me. “Show them,” he whispered, placing the harp in my hands. “Show them what a True Bard can do.”
I looked at the instrument, considering what I might sing. I looked at the boisterous throng, red-faced and loud in the clamor of their cups. Such a rare gift should not be wasted on the unworthy, I thought, and passed the harp back to Bedwyr.
“Thank you,” I told him, “but it is not for me to sing tonight. This celebration belongs to Conaire and it would be wrong for me to diminish the glory he has rightly won.”
Bedwyr scowled. “Rightly won? Are you mad, Myrddin? If there is any glory this night we have won it, not Conaire.” He offered the harp to me again, and I refused again. “Earth and sky, Myrddin, you are a stubborn man.”
“Another time, Bedwyr,” I soothed. “We will have our night. Let it be this way for now.”
Seeing he could not persuade me, Bedwyr desisted, returning the instrument to its owner with a shrug. Cai gave me a look of supreme disapproval, but I ignored him. Since it was clear I would not sing, and since no more songs were forthcoming, the celebration ended and men began drifting off to their sleeping places.
Just before dawn the next morning, Arthur sent Cai and Bedwyr with a small warband to the coast to observe the movements of the Vandal host. We had slept well, and rose to break fast. I observed the haughty confidence of Conaire’s warriors—they swaggered and laughed loudly as they sharpened blades and mended straps—and I remarked on it to Arthur. “Give them one simple victory and they think they have conquered the world.”
He smiled grimly. “They think it will always be so easy. Still, I will not discourage them. They will learn the truth soon enough.”
Yet, when Bedwyr and Cai returned, they said, “The Boar and his piglets are leaving.”
“Truly?” wondered Conaire.
“It is so, lord,” replied Cai. “Most of the ships have gone.”
“Indeed,” added Bedwyr, “only a few remain, and those are even now sailing from the bay.”
“Then it is as I thought!” Conaire crowed. “They were only looking for easy plunder. When they saw we meant to fight, they took their search to other shores.”
Gwenhwyvar, who had come to stand beside Arthur, turned to him. “What do you think it means?”
He shook his head slightly. “I cannot say until I have seen it for myself.”
As quickly as horses could be readied, we rode to the cliff-tops overlooking the bay, and gazed out on a calm, bright sea speckled with the black sails of departing Vandali ships. The last had left the bay only a short while before we arrived, and were following the others, sailing back the way they had come.
“You see!” cried the Irish king triumphantly—as if the sight vindicated him in some way. “They will not soon forget the welcome they received at Conaire Red Hand’s hearth.”
“I see them leaving,” Fergus replied thoughtfully. “But I am asking myself where they are going.”
“That is what I am wondering, too,” said Arthur. “And I mean to find out.” He turned quickly and summoned Llenlleawg to him; they spoke quietly. The Irish champion nodded once, mounted his horse and rode away.
We returned to Rath Mor, and spent the day resting and waiting for Llenlleawg’s return. I slept a little in the heat of the day, and woke to a scattering of low clouds and a freshening wind off the sea. The caer was quiet as I made my way towards the hall.
Bedwyr called to me as I entered the yard. “Myrddin!” he rose from the bench outside the hall and crossed to me quickly. “I have been waiting for you. Arthur asked me to bring you as soon as you stirred.”
“Has Llenlleawg returned?”
“No,” he replied, “and I think that is why Arthur wishes to see you.”
I turned towards the hall, but Bedwyr caught my arm. “Conaire is there, and he has had too much to drink. Cai is keeping watch inside. Bear is in his hut.”
We walked quickly to the hut Arthur and Gwenhwyvar shared. Bedwyr ducked his head and pushed through the ox hide covering. “Bear, I have brought—” he began, then halted abruptly and backed out the door again quickly.
I heard Gwenhwyvar laugh, and Arthur called out, “It is all right, brother, there are no secrets between us.”
Bedwyr glanced at me and muttered, “Not anymore.”
“Come in,” urged Gwenhwyvar. “Come in, both of you. It is all right.” The laughter in her voice reminded me of my own Ganieda, and the memory pierced like an arrow through my heart. Ganieda, best beloved, we will yet be together one day.
Bedwyr and I entered the hut. Gwenhwyvar was tying her laces and rearranging her clothing; her hair was tousled and her smile was full. Arthur was reclining. He raised himself on his elbow and offered us places on the hide-covered floor. “You might have told me to delay a little,” Bedwyr said, blushing lightly.
“And you might have announced your arrival,” Arthur replied with a laugh.
“Dear Bedwyr,” Gwenhwyvar said softly, “there is no hurt, and hence no blame. Be easy.”
“Llenlleawg has not returned?” Arthur said.
“Not yet.” Bedwyr gave his head a slight shake.
“It is as I feared.”
“Then you do not know him,” Gwenhwyvar began. “He will—”
Arthur did not let her finish. “It is not Llenlleawg’s welfare that concerns me. I know full well that he is more than match to any trouble that finds him. But if the invaders had simply sailed away, he would have returned by now. I think it likely the Vandal host has come ashore again farther south. And if Amilcar’s boast about having more warships waiting—” He left the unsettling thought hanging.
In the wisdom of warcraft, Arthur had no equal. Likely, he was right. I might have asked him how he had arrived at this conclusion, but I accepted it instead, saying, “What do you propose?”
“Conaire must ride south at once to renew the defense. I will return to Britain and raise the war host.”
“Will they agree to
fight, do you think?” wondered Bedwyr.
“They have no choice,” Arthur said bluntly. “How long will the Island of the Mighty remain secure with the Rampaging Boar just across Muir Eiru?”
“I agree, Bear. All saints bear witness, your words are prudence itself,” Bedwyr affirmed. “But prudence is a virtue in short supply among the bull-necked British lords, as you well know. It may be that they will require something more to convince them.”
I agreed with Bedwyr, but Arthur remained confident in his ability to reason with the Lords of Britain and win them to the campaign. “We leave at once.”
“The ship must be readied,” I pointed out.
“I have already sent Barinthus ahead with some of Fergus’ men,” Arthur said. “Bedwyr, fetch Cai.”
Bedwyr rose and paused at the door. “What of Conaire?”
“I will tell Conaire what is to be done,” Arthur answered.
“Allow me,” Gwenhwyvar offered. “You must not delay or the tide will be against you. Go now. I will explain to Conaire.” She saw the question in Arthur’s eyes, and said, “Spare no thought for me, my love; I will be well. Besides, Llenlleawg will soon return.”
Arthur rose. The matter was concluded and he was eager to be gone. “Very well.”
We waited in the yard as our horses were made ready. Fergus and Cai emerged from the hall. “It is better we were gone,” Cai told us. “That Conaire is itching for a fight and I fear he will have one before this day is through.”
“You go,” Fergus said. “Leave Conaire to me. I know him, and I will see no harm is done.”
“I leave it to you then,” Arthur said, swinging himself up into the saddle. “Do what you must, but be ready to ride south as soon as Llenlleawg returns. I will send men and supplies as soon as I reach Caer Melyn.”
“Fare well, my love,” Gwenhwyvar said.
Arthur leaned down and gathered her in a quick embrace, and we then rode from Rath Mor and hastened towards the coast. The ship was waiting when we arrived, and the tide was already flowing. Wasting not a moment, we boarded the horses, slipped the line, and pushed off. Once into the bay, Barinthus raised the sail and the ship took wings back to Britain.
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