The Immortal King: Part One of the Godyear Saga

by Jason Malone

  “Kill them all,” cried another. I saw Ward shouting as he entered the fray, lifting his axe and swinging it down over the shield wall. That was a formidable weapon and was splitting open helmet and skull alike, then flicking back blood as he brought it up over his head. I found Cubert and Dughlas at the front of the shield wall. Their own shields were locked together with those of Ward’s men, and they were now jabbing and thrusting their swords through the gaps in the wall.

  That was a desperate, brutal fight. I had never been in a struggle like that before, and I could not shake the thought that this was where I would die. Songs and tales make shield walls sound glorious, but now that I was in one, I discovered it was nothing like the stories. It was cramped, and I was overpowered by the strong stench of sweat, blood, and shit. One of Ward’s men died beside me, and I quickly took his place. The man was pulled back out of the fight by his comrades, and I knelt in his spot, holding the shield tight.

  “If we die here,” Cubert said, “I want to be the first to toast Edward the Gifted while we feast at the Table of the Slain.”

  “If we die here, Cubert, know that your oath has been fulfilled,” I said.

  “Thank you, lord. But instead of dying, let’s give the Gods a victory to sing about.”

  I smiled and poked my sword through the wall. I felt the grinding feeling as my blade sliced through flesh and scraped against bone. A man screamed in front of me and fell down as he clutched his leg, then I made another thrust at his face, killing him instantly. Bodies were piling up against our wall, but we were quickly losing men. Archers on the other side were launching volleys over the palisade, killing our men at the back. Ward noticed we were losing.

  “Pull back,” he yelled. “We’ll box them in.”

  I knew what he meant, and his men did too. The shield wall folded inwards all at once, and the attackers piled in through the breach, tripping over bodies and each other, thinking we had retreated. But we were not retreating. About two dozen of the attackers were surrounded on three sides by Ward’s warriors, and what had looked like a retreat had been a trick. We closed in on them, slicing and lunging. We were like a wolf’s jaw, and we made a bloodbath.

  But now our defences were broken. Ward ordered us to fight to the death, and that we did. The attackers poured in through the breach, and men on both sides died in the vicious melee that ensued. I still had my shield, so I put my mind to work. Block, slice. Block, lunge. Block, slice. Block, block, parry. All I could think about was the fighting. The killing. I did not even remember why I was fighting. I tried to count how many I killed, but I lost track. I felt myself struck multiple times by swords and spears, but the pain was dulled by the rush of the battle.

  And indeed it was a rush. Soon enough, I heard a yell and the sound of a horn. The fighting stopped. I looked around to see we were surrounded by our enemies. I saw Cubert lying face down in the mud. His mail was drenched in his own blood, and my heart sank. Dughlas had three spears pointed at him, and his shield was broken in half, so he threw his sword down into the mud, realising it was over. The few warriors left on our side did the same, and I felt a blade poke at my back. I dropped my weapon, placed my hands behind my head, and fell to my knees.

  Only Ward remained fighting. His face and hair were caked in blood, and he stood a few yards away, swinging his great axe. No one dared get close to him. He was shouting insults and taunting them, insulting their mothers and their wives and their sisters and their daughters.

  One man tried to approach him from behind, but Ward swung his axe around and smashed it right through his enemy’s shield and sliced down his arm. The man screamed and collapsed, and Ward brought the axe up above his head to finish the brave man off, but another man behind him lunged a spear into his calf.

  Ward groaned, the axe fell from his hands, and he dropped to his knee. A dozen warriors leapt on him and pinned him in the mud. The attackers all gave a triumphant shout.

  The rain started to die down. It was over. We were prisoners.

  12

  King

  I sat in the damp, dark, cellar of Mudhill’s keep with Dughlas, eight other warriors, and the Muddy Earl. We had lost the battle outside and were dragged down here whilst the enemy decided what to do with us.

  We were cold, wet, and bloody. I had two large gashes, one on my leg and another on my shoulder. My chest ached with every breath, and my head was thumping. I had not noticed these injuries during the rush of battle, but now that I was sitting in the quiet cellar with ten other defeated men, the pain had arrived.

  Dughlas was injured too. An axe had smashed his shield in two and cut into his arm. It was a nasty wound. Cubert was not with us, for he had fallen during the battle. I wished I had died with him, but I knew that I would meet him again soon enough. Still, the pain of knowing he was gone stung worse than my wounds.

  Ward also had numerous cuts on his body but the spear wound in his leg was the worst. Drenched in mud and blood, he would likely die from infection within the next few days. He was in a sorry state, refused to speak, and had the look of a man who had already given up on life.

  We were all shivering. The warriors guarding the cellar had given us blankets, but they did little to shield us from the cold. We could not even drink Ward’s ale and wine to warm our bellies because our captors had raided the cellar and taken everything, and they were now upstairs in the keep celebrating their victory, gorging themselves on Ward’s food and drink. All we had to sustain ourselves was the rainwater trickling down through leaks in the cellar and the stale bread that one of the guards brought to us.

  “Dinner’s ready, lads,” he taunted, opening the cellar door. “This is your last meal in this world, so make sure you savour it.”

  He threw a large bucket of round lumps of bread on the floor, and the men all scrambled for their share. Only Ward and I remained disinterested. He just sat in the corner, wrapped in a blanket and staring at the floor, his teeth chattering. I leaned against a post with my legs crossed.

  “Guard,” I called as he was closing the door. He turned and glared at me. “There was a girl up there. Where is she now?”

  “Matilda? She your lass?”

  “She’s my friend. May I speak to her?”

  The guard chuckled. “No. She’s a comely thing, though, isn’t she?” he jeered. I clenched my jaw. “The boys are all taking turns on her upstairs. She looks to have a pretty little arse. I might have a go myself soon.”

  I shot up and lunged at the door, but the guard backed away and swung it shut. I slammed my fist against the hard oak door and cursed the man. He laughed as he walked away. I turned around to the men surrounding the bucket, stuffing bread into their mouths.

  “Next time he comes back, I say we kill him,” I said. Some of the men murmured in agreement.

  “And then what?” Dughlas asked. “Escape? Retake the fort?”

  “Rescue Matilda.”

  “So that’s all that matters, is it? Your damsel in distress?”

  “I made a promise, and gods damn me if I don’t keep it.”

  Dughlas shrugged and turned his attention to a piece of bread he was picking at. I went to slump back down against the post and hugged my legs. My wounds were sore, and I was freezing.

  “It is hopeless,” Ward mumbled from his corner.

  “What is?” asked one of his men.

  “Saving the girl. Getting out of here. It is all hopeless.” Ward lifted his head and stared at the ceiling. He grimaced, and I could tell his wounds were hurting him. “They are going to execute us all tomorrow morning.”

  “Then why not die fighting? Let’s kill the guard and break out of here,” I said.

  Ward snorted. “It will barely be a fight. I want to at least die with dignity and go to my death willingly, not flailing about half naked like some mad jester.” Some of his men nodded. Ward was right. Any escape attempt would be futile. We might have been able to kill the guard, but we would be cut down the moment we left the cellar.
We would die like fools. At least if we were executed, our deaths would be clean.

  I sighed and leaned my head back against the post. Could this be it? Would I die on my knees in the mud atop some irrelevant northern hill? We all die and join our ancestors in the afterlife to boast of our glory and guide our children and descendants. I would have been content dying on Mudhill and joining the slain in their halls but for the fact Matilda was upstairs being violated by dozens of warriors, and that ignited a wild fury within me.

  The ancient wisemen — those who were said to have spoken to the Gods — taught us that is one of the three unforgiveable crimes, along with oathbreaking and kinslaying. How could fate have led me to be sitting there helpless while my friend I promised to protect suffered and the Gods’ laws were broken?

  I could not die yet.

  I also thought of Philip. He was still out there, taken by Hakon and his men. If Hakon learned of my death, what would happen to Philip? His bait would be useless, and I somehow doubted Hakon would spare Philip’s life in that case. I could not fail everyone who relied on me. I knew then that if I were to die and meet my forebears, I would face them with shame.

  No, I could not give up yet. If I could not save the world, I could at least try to save my friends.

  I tried to speak to Ward about a plan to escape. When that failed, I asked about the lockbox he burned, or about the location of Emrys’s tomb, which he had not yet revealed to me. He was in no mood to talk. He only stared at the ceiling in silence, and thus it seemed Ward’s secret would die with him come morning, along with every man that now sat in that cellar. Yet even that near to the end, I refused to accept that I had failed.

  The leader of the force that attacked Mudhill was a man named Arne. He was short but stocky, in his mid-thirties, and he presented himself well. His blonde hair was tied back in one long braid, and he was clean-shaven save for a moustache, the ends of which hung below his chin and were tied with colourful beads.

  Arne ordered me and the other prisoners out of the cellar, into the courtyard, then up onto the section of the ramparts that was still intact. We all lined up, our wrists tied, and the chains rattled as we shivered in the cold morning air. There was light snowfall that morning, and the sky was a dark grey. Arne stood up with us on the ramparts, standing beside one of his warriors, who carried a long, sharp axe.

  He also had two white hound puppies following him everywhere he went, and they now sat at his feet. He was wearing his war gear: a fine mail coat, a decorated helmet he held under his arm, and a long sword that hung at his belt. We prisoners all stared at him.

  “Let’s make this quick and clean, men,” Arne said. A crowd stood beneath the ramparts in the courtyard, watching. Most were Arne’s men, but some were Ward’s servants and the families of the warriors that lived there.

  Without invitation, one of the prisoners stepped forward, knelt down in front of Arne’s executioner, and bowed his head. Arne looked at him for a moment and then nodded and stood back. The executioner lifted his axe and brought it down swiftly. The prisoner’s head dropped to the wood with a thud, and his body fell sideways, blood spurting from his open neck.

  The executioner kicked the body down off the ramparts and into the mud, then picked up the head and showed it to the crowd. Most of them cheered, Arne’s hounds yapped, and the head was thrown over the palisade and down into the ruins of the village below.

  I felt terrible. I was cold, and my wounds, my chest, and my head were groaning with pain. On top of that, like most of the prisoners, I had not slept the night before. I tried to think of something, anything, that I could do to avoid the axe, but deep down I felt it was over. I had failed to find Philip. I had failed to stop Hakon unleashing chaos on the land. I had failed to bring a good death to Dughlas. I had failed Cubert, who had foolishly retaken his oath to me in Everlynn Forest.

  But the worst pain was the knowledge that I had failed Matilda. I had allowed her to suffer and face humiliation at the hands of these brutes, and by now she was likely dead. I allowed my final thoughts to be ones of hopeless vengeance.

  I watched as another man lost his head and had it tossed over the palisade. Two headless bodies now lay in the mud below us, slowly being buried by snow. “Does anyone wish to go next?” Arne asked.

  “Aye.” Ward stepped forward, his head held high. He limped, he was shivering, and his beard was wild, but he seemed prepared to meet his death. He stood a pace in front of Arne, towering over him, and the two men stared at each other for a few moments. Ward turned and knelt and then looked at me. “You shall live past this day,” he said. He gave me a quick nod and smiled. I looked forward to joining the Muddy Earl in the halls of the dead very soon.

  “I have waited a long time for this moment, Ward,” Arne said.

  Ward turned to him. “Do me the honour of swinging the axe yourself, then,” he said. Arne stared at him and then took the axe from his executioner. He positioned himself and raised the axe above his head.

  “Long live the Kingdom of Ardonn,” Ward shouted. He glanced at me. “Long live the true king.”

  The axe came down, and Ward slumped sideways. His head rolled down from the ramparts and landed with a splash in the mud below. Arne pushed his body down with it and then handed the axe back to the executioner. “Next,” he said.

  I took a deep breath and made one step forward, but felt a hand on my chest. It was Dughlas, and he shook his head. “I wouldn’t stand to see you die, Boss.” He grinned, and I noticed a tear forming in his eye. I responded with a sad smile. Memories of our adventures together began to run through my mind, and my eyes began to water. I felt comfort in the fact that we would soon share one more.

  “You stupid bastard,” I said. He laughed, I started laughing too, and we embraced.

  “I don’t have all morning,” Arne called.

  Dughlas pulled away from me, nodded, then turned and walked over to Arne. He dropped to his knees, facing the crowd, and bowed his head. “I come to you, my ancestors,” he said.

  The executioner shuffled his feet and steadied himself, then began to lift his axe. I could not watch, so I looked away and felt a tear run down my cheek. Or perhaps that was a flake of snow melting on my face.

  “Stop this now!” someone screamed. It was a woman. I snapped my head in the direction of the voice and saw Matilda standing at the door to the keep, a look of horror on her face. She was barefoot, her hair was loose and wild, and she wore only a nightgown. Everyone turned to look — the men in the crowd all turned, the prisoners all turned, Dughlas lifted his head, and Arne’s puppies started yelping.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Arne growled.

  The executioner lowered his axe. At that moment, a man burst from inside the keep, panting, with blood trickling down his forehead. He stood beside Matilda, bent over to catch his breath for a few seconds, then stood back up.

  “Greyham, I told you to guard her,” Arne yelled.

  “She escaped, lord,” the man beside Matilda said.

  “How?”

  “She hit me with a chair, lord.”

  Arne rolled his eyes, and some of the warriors in the crowd laughed.

  “Do not kill that man,” Matilda said.

  “My Lady—” Arne stared.

  “I said do not kill that man.”

  “He is a traitor, My Lady.”

  “He is no traitor. This is Dughlas, a loyal oathman and companion to Edward Godspeaker of Oldford.”

  “What?” Arne frowned and looked down at Dughlas, puzzled. He gestured for the executioner to step back.

  Matilda then pointed at me. “And that, Arne, is Edward.”

  Arne and his executioner stared at me. The crowd below went silent and started whispering among themselves. The two puppies watched me, unmoving. “Is this true?” Arne asked, his mouth hanging open. I nodded, and Arne immediately went down on one knee. “I am sorry, I did not know…”

  I just looked at Arne, confused. I admit I had no ide
a what was happening. Arne’s men all stared up at the scene on the ramparts in similar confusion. The other prisoners all turned to look at me, frowning, and I noticed Dughlas grinning.

  “The king will wish to speak with you,” Arne mumbled. He turned his head to his men. “Kneel, you bastards. This is Edward, the heir of Godwin and the Sacred Champion of our King Carol, the true Lord of Ardonn.”

  Without hesitation, all of Arne’s men went down and put one knee into the mud. It was then that I finally understood. These men were Mountaineers, the warriors and soldiers loyal to Carol the Pretender. Rebels. They had come to Mudhill to punish Ward and his followers for fleeing the Capital in its hour of need and refusing to support the young Carol’s cause, and in doing so had accidentally stumbled upon their spiritual champion.

  I then understood why Fate had brought me there.

  I sat on a chair in one of the bedrooms of Mudhill’s keep. One of Arne’s healers was washing and stitching my wounds. She had already stitched the wound on my leg, and now she was fixing my shoulder. I winced as she stuck a needle through the skin.

  “Sorry,” she muttered. The healer bit her lip, focussing as she slowly slid the needle and thread through my flesh. Matilda sat on the end of the bed across from me, watching the healer do her work.

  “Will he be all right?” Matilda asked.

  “The wounds don’t look infected,” she replied, her attention fixed on my shoulder. “What worries me is his chest. If the ribs are broken, the marrow could leak into his blood, and that’ll not end well.” Matilda frowned and twisted her mouth.

  “Tell me what happened last night,” I said to Matilda.

  “I waited inside the keep whilst the battle raged outside. Some of Ward’s servants came to join me, but none of us spoke much. They said we would lose, and I suppose they were right,” she began. “When the fighting stopped, some of the men came into the keep and told us to stay put. Shortly afterwards, Arne came in with his dogs, and he immediately noticed that I was not a servant. He asked who I was, so I told him, and he treated me as a noblewoman should be treated. I was given a room, fresh clothes, food and all that, but I was put on guard. Arne came and visited me after I had washed and told me he was an oathman in the service of the king, and I begged him to release you. He said he would consider it but that you were a traitor and deserved to die.”