Unable to fend off the blows, Arthur stepped aside and lowered Caledvwlch. But his courage had not deserted him; even as he evaded Amilcar he prepared his last defense. As Amilcar leapt, Arthur’s hand—steady, calm, unhurried—snaked out, swinging the sword level. The Black Boar’s charge carried him onto the blade. Amilcar threw back his head and roared—a cry of shock and sharp defiance—then lowered his eyes to view the sword driven up under his rib cage. He had impaled himself on Arthur’s sword.
The Black Boar raised his head and smiled—his eyes glazed and his grin icy. He lurched towards Arthur, forcing the blade still deeper into himself. Blood bubbled out of the wound in a sudden crimson rush. He opened his mouth to speak; his tongue strained at the words, but his legs gave way and he fell to the ground, where he lay twitching and convulsing.
Stepping to Amilcar’s body, Arthur extracted Caledvwlch from his enemy’s chest. Clenching his jaw against the pain, he raised the blade to shoulder height and let it drop swiftly down, severing the Black Boar’s neck with a stroke. Amilcar’s head rolled free and the dreadful quivering ceased.
Arthur stood for a moment, then turned and staggered towards us. In the same instant, a scream tore the stillness of the battleground. One of the Vandal warlords—Ida, it was—rushed out onto the battlefield, readying his spear as he ran.
“Arthur!” Gwenhwyvar shouted. “Behind you!”
Arthur turned his head, not yet apprehending the danger closing on him from behind.
“Arthur!” she screamed, already racing to his side. Llenlleawg was instantly at her back.
Britain’s king half turned to meet his new assailant and his legs buckled under him. He crashed to his knees. Arthur made to rise, but his attacker was closing fast. One quick spear thrust and Britain’s High King would be dead.
Gwenhwyvar’s knife glinted like a fiery disk in the sun as it spun in the air. It did not stop the barbarian; he ran on a few steps before his hand lost strength and the lance slipped from his fingers. He glanced down to see the queen’s dagger buried up to the hilt in his upper arm.
He stooped to retrieve the lance, and Gwenhwyvar’s sword sang through a tight arc and caught him at the base of the neck. The barbarian pitched onto his face, dead.
“Here I am!” cried Gwenhwyvar, her voice towering with defiance. “Who is next?” She stood over the corpse, her sword red with the blood of Arthur’s false assailant, shouting, daring the Vandali to attack. Llenlleawg, bristling with menace, took his place beside the queen.
Another of the barbarian chieftains appeared eager to take Gwenhwyvar at her word: he drew his sword and started forth. Mercia seized him and threw him back. The battlechief staggered up, thrusting the head of his lance in Mercia’s face. Mercia grabbed the shaft of the lance and lashed out with a cruel kick, catching his bellicose comrade on the point of the chin. The chieftain subsided in a heap.
Cai and Bedwyr dashed to Gwenhwyvar’s side. The four stood over Arthur, weapons drawn, daring the enemy to attack. Meanwhile, I ran to Arthur’s side.
Mercia stepped boldly out from among the others. He called in a loud voice, and summoned Hergest to him. Together they advanced to where the three Britons stood.
“Help me stand!” groaned Arthur through clenched teeth.
“In a moment,” I told him gently. “First I must look at your wound.” There was blood everywhere, and sweat, and dust, and woad.
“Help me stand, Myrddin.” He shrugged away and, using Caledvwlch, raised himself up on his knees; his injured arm hung down limp and useless. Blood seeped from the wound in a steady dark flow. I helped him regain his feet and he turned to meet the advancing Vandali.
Mercia, with Hergest beside him, presented himself to the High King. “Lord Mercia says that he recognizes Arthur to be victor,” Hergest explained. “He will abide the terms of peace. Do with us what you will.”
With that, Mercia threw the disarmed chieftain’s lance to the ground at Cai’s feet. He then drew the short sword from his belt, laid the blade across his palms, and offered it to Arthur, bowing his head in submission. “I am slave to you, Lord King,” he said.
The High King motioned to Gwenhwyvar, who took the sword.
“I accept your surrender,” Arthur said through clenched teeth, his voice hollow. To Cai and Bedwyr, he muttered, “See to it.”
He made to turn away, stumbled, and would have fallen if not for Llenlleawg’s quick reaction. The Irish champion threw an arm around the king’s shoulders and held him up. “For the love of Jesu, Arthur, sit down and let me tend you.”
But Arthur would not hear it. “Walk with me to the chariot,” he said to Gwenhwyvar.
“Let me bind your arm at least,” I objected.
“I will leave the field as I came,” he growled. His skin was ashen and waxy; he was on the point of fainting. “Join me when matters are concluded here.” He gripped my arm. “Not before.”
Arthur walked with slow, painful dignity to the waiting chariot, Llenlleawg on one side and Gwenhwyvar on the other. Upon reaching the chariot, Llenlleawg all but lifted his wounded king onto the platform, and the queen took her place beside him to steady him and keep him upright. They drove from the battleground to the ecstatic cheers of the British. The Cymbrogi hailed him loudly as he passed, but Arthur kept his eyes on the far horizon.
I bade Mercia summon the remaining Vandali battlechiefs and there, over the corpse of their dead leader, I received their surrender.
Mercia, assuming command, made bold to answer for all. Through the captive priest, he said, “The battle was fought fairly. Our king is dead. We accept your terms and stand ready to give whatever spoils you ask, whether hostages or victims for sacrifice.”
Cai did not like this. “Do not trust them, Myrddin. They are all lying barbarians.”
“You will be disarmed,” I told Mercia. “Your people will be taken from here and returned to your camp to await the Pendragon’s pleasure.”
Hergest repeated my words in their tongue, whereupon, under Mercia’s commanding glare, the Vandali battlechiefs threw their weapons upon the ground. When they were disarmed, the young chieftain spoke once more, and Hergest said, “You called the king of Britain a strange name: Pendragon. Did you not?”
“I did,” I replied.
Mercia spoke up, addressing me directly. “What means this word?”
“Pendragon—the word means Chief Dragon,” I explained. “It is the title the Cymry use for the supreme ruler and defender of the Island of the Mighty.”
Hergest translated my words, and Mercia placed his hand on his heart and then touched his head. It was a sign of submission and honor. “I place my life in the hands of the Pendragon of Britain.”
Leaving Bedwyr, Cai, Cador, and the rest of the lords to deal with the Vandali, I returned to the line, mounted the nearest horse, and raced back to camp as fast as the beast could fly.
I pressed through the worried throng gathered before Arthur’s tent. The few women and invalid warriors who had not attended the battle—but had witnessed their wounded king’s return—swarmed the entrance to his tent, anxious and worried. Pushing my way through, I entered the tent to find Gwenhwyvar cradling Arthur against her as she held him, half-sitting, half-lying on his pallet. Her clothing was smeared and stained with blue woad and red blood. “It is over, my soul,” she soothed, dabbing at his arm with a cloth. “It is finished.”
“Gwenhwyvar, I—it is—” Arthur began, then winced, pain twisting his features. He bit back the words and his eyelids fluttered and closed.
“Be easy, Bear,” she said, kissing his brow, then raised her head and looked around furiously. “Llenlleawg!” she cried, saw me, and said, “Myrddin, help me. He keeps fainting.”
“I am here.” Keeling beside her, I took the cloth and, gently, gently, oh so carefully, I lifted Arthur’s arm; he groaned. Gwenhwyvar gasped at what she saw.
The point of the lance had been driven through the arm, passing between the two arm bones. The br
oken shaft protruded from one side—a mass of splinters where Amilcar had hacked at it—the thick iron tip poked through the other. But there was more. The force of the thrust had driven the spearhead through the arm and into the soft crease above his thigh, where the veins gathered thick. One of these had been severed. He was bleeding into his abdomen. I pressed the cloth to the gash, and sat back to think.
“Where is Llenlleawg?”
“I sent him for water to bathe the wound.”
“Hold tight,” I told her, indicating Arthur’s arm.
“What are you going to do?” Gwenhwyvar asked.
Easing the arm upright, I took hold of the Black Boar’s broken spear. Grasping the splintered stump, I gave a quick, firm pull.
“Aghh!” Arthur gasped in agony.
“Stop it!” shouted Gwenhwyvar. “Myrddin! Stop!”
“It must be done,” I told her. “Again.”
I tightened my grip on the stub end, greasy with blood. Gwenhwyvar, her lips a tight line, held Arthur’s arm in both her own, clutching it to her breast. Blood welled from the wound, spilling over her hands.
“Now!” I shouted, and yanked with all my might.
Arthur gave a strangled cry, his head lolled on his shoulders. The shaft broke away from the head, but the blade did not come free. I had succeeded only in making the wound bleed more freely.
Llenlleawg entered the tent with a basin of water. He brought it to me and knelt down, holding it. I took the bit of cloth he offered, dipped it into the water and began to bathe the wound, washing away the blood and dirt.
“Is the arm broken?” asked Llenlleawg.
“No,” I replied, probing the injury with my fingertips, “but this is not the worst.” I told them about the groin wound. “Truly, that alarms me far more than the arm.”
I rose, making up my mind at once. I turned to Llenlleawg. “There is room in the chariot for three. You will drive; Arthur and Gwenhwyvar will go with you. I will ride ahead to alert Barinthus and ready a boat.” I turned, starting away. “Make him as comfortable as possible, and come at once.”
“Where are we going?” demanded Gwenhwyvar.
“To Ynys Avallach,” I called over my shoulder.
15
CHARIS, GRAVE WITH CONCERN, emerged from the room where Arthur lay. “I think the bleeding has stopped at last,” she said solemnly.
“Thank God,” Gwenhwyvar breathed, her relief almost tangible.
“But,” Charis continued—there was no comfort in her voice—“he is very weak.” She paused, looking from Gwenhwyvar to me. “Truly, I fear for him.”
Gwenhwyvar shook her head, denying what Charis was saying. “The wound is not so bad,” Gwenhwyvar insisted, her voice growing uncertain. “Once the blade was removed, I thought…I thought would…” Her voice cracked, very close to tears.
“Arthur has lost much blood,” Charis said, putting her arm around the queen’s shoulders. “It often happens that loss of blood is more harmful than the injury itself. We must pray he awakens soon.”
“And if he does not?” asked the queen, horrified by the thought, but asking nonetheless.
“It is in God’s hands, Gwenhwyvar,” Charis said. “We can do no more.”
After a breathless chase through the vale and Barinthus’ swift boat across Mor Hafren, we had reached the Fisher King’s palace. Charis and Elfodd had taken over Arthur’s care. With skills honed by long experience, the point of the broken lance had been carefully removed from the High King’s arm, and he had been given healing draughts to drink.
Arthur had seemed to revive at first; he sat up and talked to us. Then he slept, and we thought the rest a benefit to him. The thigh wound had opened again in the night, however, and by morning, he had lapsed into a dull, insensate sleep. He slept all through the day; and now, as evening stole across the quiet hills, Arthur could not be roused.
Charis was clearly worried. She squeezed the queen’s shoulder. “It is in God’s hands,” she whispered. “Hope and pray.”
Gwenhwyvar clutched my arm, her fingers digging into my flesh. “Do something, Myrddin,” she urged. “Please! Save him. Save my husband.”
I took her hand and clasped it tightly. “Go with Charis and rest a little. I will stay with him now, and send for you if there is any change.”
Charis led Gwenhwyvar away, and I entered the chamber where Arthur lay on the litter the Fisher King used when his old affliction came upon him. Abbot Elfodd raised his head as I came to stand beside him. He saw the question in my eyes and shook his head.
“I will watch with him now,” I whispered.
The good abbot declined to go, saying, “We will watch together.”
We stood a long time in silence listening to Arthur’s slow, shallow breathing. “God will not let him die,” I said, willing it to be so.
Elfodd looked at me curiously. “I remember another time when I stood here like this and another spoke those selfsame words.” He paused and indicated Arthur’s sleeping form. “But it was you, Myrddin, lying there in the sleep of death, and it was Pelleas standing over you, refusing to let you go that way.”
My mind flooded with the memory: we had been in Armorica, Pelleas and I, where Morgian thought to slay me with a wicked enchantment. Pelleas had brought me to Ynys Avallach for healing, much as I had brought Arthur.
“I remember,” I said, thinking of that strange, unhappy time. “With all thanks to you, I was saved.”
“With no thanks to me,” the abbot objected. “It was Avallach’s doing, not mine.”
“Avallach?” I had never heard that part of the tale before. “What do you mean?”
Elfodd regarded me with an expression close to suspicion. “No?” he turned away. “Perhaps I have said too much. I have spoken above myself.”
“What is it, Elfodd? Tell me, I charge you. There is a mystery here and I would know it.” He made no answer. “Elfodd! Tell me, what is it?”
“I cannot,” he said. “It is not my place.”
“Then tell me who may speak?”
“Ask Avallach himself,” the abbot said. “Ask your grandfather. He knows.”
My heart quickened within me. Leaving Arthur to the abbot’s care, I fled the chamber and went in search of Avallach. It did not take long. I found him at prayer in the small chapel he had made in one of the rooms in the west wing of the palace. I entered the chapel and went to kneel beside him. He finished his prayer and raised his head.
“Ah, Merlin, it is you,” he said, his voice a soft rumble of thunder. “I thought you might come here. How is Arthur?”
“Weak and growing weaker,” I replied, speaking the full force of my fear. “He may not live through the night.”
Avallach’s generous features assumed an expression of heartsick grief. “I am sorry,” he said.
“The Bear of Britain is not dead yet,” I replied, and told him what Elfodd had brought to mind.
“I remember it well,” Avallach agreed. “Oh, we were worried for you, Merlin. We almost lost you.”
“Elfodd said that but for you I would have died. Is that true?”
“It was a miracle of God’s blessing,” the Fisher King replied.
“And when I asked him what he meant, Elfodd would only say that he had spoken above himself. He would tell me nothing more about it. He said I must ask you.” I stared at him hard. “Well, Grandfather, I am asking you: what did he mean?”
Avallach regarded me for a long time in silence, then lowered his curly, dark head. “It is the Grail,” he answered at last, his voice still and low. “He is talking about the Grail.”
I remembered: the holy cup of the Christ. It had come to Britain with the man who had paid for that last meal in the upper room, the tin merchant, Joseph of Arimathea. I had seen it once, years ago, while praying in the shrine.
“I have always thought it was a vision,” I said.
“It is more than that,” Avallach answered. “Very much more.”
My heart le
apt with sudden joy. “Then you must use it to heal Arthur, as you used it to heal me.” I jumped to my feet and made to hasten away.
“No!”
Avallach’s stern refusal halted me before I had taken two paces.
“Why? What do you mean? Arthur is dying. The Grail can save him. If you have it, you must use it to heal him.”
The Fisher King rose slowly; I could see sorrow like an immense weight upon his shoulders. “It cannot be,” he said softly. “It is not my place to decide such things. It is God’s place; He must decide.”
“It is ever God’s good pleasure to heal the sick,” I insisted. “How can you withhold that healing if it is within your power?”
He merely shook his head. “The Grail,” he said gently, “the Grail, Merlin, is not like that. It is not to be used so. You must understand.”
“I do not understand,” I declared flatly. “I only know that Arthur is dying, and if he dies the Kingdom of Summer dies with him. If that should happen, Britain will fall, and the West will die. The light of hope will fail and darkness will overtake us at last.”
“I am sorry, Merlin,” Avallach said again. “I would it were otherwise.” He made to return to his prayers.
Now it was my turn to challenge and refuse. “No!” I shouted. “Do not think to pray for Arthur’s healing when you hold that healing in your hands yet refuse to give it.”
“Death,” replied the Fisher King sadly, “is also God’s good pleasure. Do you think this easy for me? I sit here every day and watch people die. They come to the shrine—this plague has oppressed us sorely!—and we do what we can for them. A few live, but most die. As I said, it is for God to decide. He alone holds power over life and death.”
“He has given you the Grail!” I argued. “Why has he done that if he did not intend you to use it?”
“It is a burden more terrible than any I know,” moaned Avallach.
“Yet you used it once to heal me,” I persisted. “You took it upon yourself to decide then. You saved my life. Where is the harm?”
“That was different.”
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