King Arthur: Dragon's Child: Book One (King Arthur Trilogy 1)

by M. K. Hume

‘You must clean, sharpen and oil your weapons at dawn tomorrow, Artorex. You saw the size of those Celtic brutes in Uther’s Hall - no insult intended, gentlemen,’ he apologized for the racial slur.

  ‘None taken, friend Targo,’ Llanwith rumbled.

  ‘Do you want my shield? It is yours for the asking,’ Targo offered.

  ‘I’ve never cared overmuch for a shield, so I’ll use my dagger and sword. If I lack the skills to avoid the reach of Uther’s warrior, then I deserve to be defeated.’

  ‘Remember—’

  ‘One mistake and I’m dead,’ Artorex finished for him.

  But for the first time that night, Artorex’s heart was light, for now he would, at least, be doing something he understood.

  The morning was as cold as ever. After breaking the rime of ice in a bowl and washing himself as clean as possible, Artorex dressed in a leather jerkin over a woollen undershirt and encased his legs in soft leather trews.

  Targo entered Artorex’s room as he was contemplating his feet.

  ‘Those boots you wear are heavy and likely to slip on the stones. But barefoot your feet will freeze and become numb, so the outcome will still be the same,’ Targo said in his practical, hoarse croak.

  He offered Artorex a pair of knitted woollen sleeves, the footwear used by old men in the village as they dozed before the fire.

  ‘Try wearing these sleeves instead of your boots. I believe you can fight in them for a time, bootless, as long as the ground isn’t wet.’

  ‘I’m not in my dotage yet, Targo,’ Artorex protested.

  ‘Try them,’ Targo pressed.

  Artorex slid the wool over his long feet and up to mid-calf and Targo lashed the leggings into place with narrow strips of leather.

  ‘Try moving about in them,’ the veteran ordered.

  Artorex jumped and spun, parried and thrust in pantomime. To his surprise, his toes could grip the flags through the rough, knitted wool and the soles were not slick and likely to betray him. The socks were even quite warm.

  ‘I told you I’ve fought in places where you could piss ice,’ Targo laughed. ‘We barbarians know a thing or two, especially about combat. If I’d known we were coming to this place, I’d have fashioned kid boots for you without a heavy sole. They would’ve given you extra traction, but these will do until we have the time to cobble together some better accoutrement for you.’

  ‘My thanks, Targo.’

  ‘Enough, boy. Llanwith has sent a cloak and Luka has sent a helmet - just an iron cap with cheek guards and a nosepiece, but it might save your thick skull,’ Targo said with a smile. ‘And Myrddion sends you these.’

  From his cloak, Targo pulled out a pair of wristbands, each four fingers wide. They were made of iron, and the metal was embossed with the Winged Worm insignia of the Celtic Legion - its long, sinuous tail and small legs marked this dragon as a creature other than Dracos of Rome. Its wings spread as it rode on the curve of the metal.

  ‘These will protect your wrists. They’re not particularly heavy, and won’t save you from an axe blow, but soldiers of the Legion learned that a wristband could deflect a sword blow.’

  He smiled at his charge once more.

  ‘I wish we had time to find you a mail shirt and a breastplate. You can bet your opponent will be protected by armour from head to foot.’

  ‘Then I’ll be lighter than Uther’s man,’ Artorex quipped, although he felt a shiver of alarm. ‘I’ll simply remember the Scythian woman and how fast she proved to be.’

  ‘Your friends wish you luck, and they’ll see you in the courtyard before Uther’s Hall.’

  ‘The High King has sent word then?’

  ‘Aye. You meet his champion at noon.’

  So little time! Artorex could see that the sun was high, for he had slept overlong after their hurried journey to Venta Belgarum. Targo had insisted that his charge sleep as long as his body needed, but now Artorex knew that he would have to hurry.

  ‘Don’t fuss, my boy, for the contest can’t start without you,’ Targo replied, as if reading Artorex’s mind.

  ‘But I’ve never fought in serious combat, Targo. I’ve never killed anyone in the heat of battle. How can you know I’ll be able to defeat anyone, least of all a seasoned warrior?’

  Targo chuckled in amusement at first, then he looked at the face of his young charge and realized that Artorex was serious. Targo was so accustomed to the physical talents of his pupil that he had forgotten his charge might find the coming combat an ordeal.

  ‘To begin with, my boy, killing is a lot easier when you’ve been trained to do it. It’s often automatic. Someone comes at you with a sodding great axe, so you kill him - or he buries the weapon in your brain. I’m not saying it’s right, mind, but we warriors do what we’re told. Besides, boy, you haven’t been ordered to kill Uther’s champion. You’ve just got to ensure that he doesn’t kill you.’

  Artorex nodded. Targo’s explanation made good sense.

  ‘As for your inexperience, you’ve got to start somewhere, and in front of the High King and a whole city is an excellent place for your first combat. You’ve practised daily for half your life, you know every move that I know, and you’ve been taught every dirty trick that I’ve ever seen. I’m an expert, lad. If it makes you feel better, you can treat this bout as just another practice and tell yourself that it’s exactly the same as one of Lord Luka’s tests.’

  ‘Aye. Except that this warrior really will kill me.’

  ‘Only if you can’t find an edge.’

  Artorex laughed sardonically. Targo, as always, had found the crux of his needs, and the large muscles in his shoulders started to feel relaxed and limber. He thought he should be terrified, but all he felt was a tightening in his gut as excitement began to surge through his blood.

  Life is very strange, Artorex thought again, and began to prepare his weapons for the coming fight.

  Artorex was the object of a surprising amount of curiosity from the moment he stepped outside the inn. Before he was even halfway to the field of combat, he realized that his test of strength was an excuse for a day of entertainment for the citizens of Venta Belgarum.

  To his amazement, every street was crowded with tinkers, peasants selling all manner of fruit, vegetables and meat, and so many vendors of cooked food and drink that the young man’s head spun with the noise and competing smiles. Many men tried to clap him on the back and girls gave him flowers, while some wags even shouted insults or educated him by quoting the odds being wagered on his imminent and painful death. The crowds, the din and the excitement rose up around him like a rather odiferous wave.

  He arrived at the appointed place of combat accompanied by Targo and an entourage of hundreds of men and boys who pushed, shoved and fought those citizens who already had a good vantage point.

  The large square courtyard before Uther’s Hall was ringed with onlookers, curious to see the promised sport. The citizens of Venta Belgarum were only too aware of the strength and martial capacities of Uther’s personal guard, so word had spread quickly of the giant youth from the provinces who would challenge Uther’s selected champion. Curiosity, and the promise of blood, brought out those fortunate enough to find a place to stand.

  Still more of the citizens clustered within the nearby houses whose roofs provided a view over the tallest heads. The square seemed full of tier after tier of rapacious, eager faces when Artorex entered the prepared arena.

  The steps leading to the Hall’s forecourt were bare, except for a cloth-of-gold pavilion and several braziers. There, the High King would sit, surrounded by his women and his guard.

  The roar of a ram’s horn announced the entrance of Uther and his retinue. As they moved slowly towards their seats, the multitude knelt in the street as one, while Uther’s guards positioned themselves around the pavilion in a ring of drawn steel.

  At a wave from the hand of the High King, the citizens of Venta Belgarum rose to their feet and a babble of voices swelled and surged throu
gh the densely packed crowd.

  As Artorex knelt to remove his boots, Targo checked the lacings at his calves once again, and several seasoned warriors in the crowd laughed at his unconventional footwear. Artorex chose not to listen and blotted out everything to concentrate on the flagged stone surface of the fighting ring that had been circumscribed by lengths of rope. He practised falling into a fighting crouch with his sword and dagger drawn and ready for combat.

  ‘Is your Artorex here, servant Myrddion?’ Uther called - and the crowd grew silent at the insulting title. The whole world knew of Myrddion Merlinus, who had long been seer, physician and loyal adviser to the throne of the Britons.

  Myrddion stepped out into the field of combat and bowed low to his liege lord.

  ‘Myrddion Merlinus, my trusted steward, claims that this boy from the province of Aquae Sulis is the best warrior in the north-west,’ Uther wheezed out to the crowd. ‘Who here has heard of Artorex?’

  ‘No one!’ the crowd roared back, hugely amused by the mood of the High King. ‘No one! No one! No one!’

  ‘Our champion, Ban of Durnovaria, Firebrand of the West, will test the mettle of this Artorex.’

  The ram’s horn sounded once again and Ban stepped out of the King’s Guard. He was a warrior of no more than thirty, with a face that was seamed by a scar crossing the cheekbone and nose where they could be seen under his green plumed helmet. He was large, and heavier in the body than Artorex, while his bare arms were adorned with Pictish blue tattoos in the same whorls and spirals that Artorex had seen on the stone in the Old Forest. Ban carried a shield, circular in shape, and with a great metal boss and spike in the centre. Artorex knew it would mean broken ribs or punctured lungs if he allowed Ban to penetrate his defences with that wicked fist of iron.

  As Ban bowed to the High King, and then to the crowd, Targo whispered final instructions to Artorex as he stepped away from his pupil.

  ‘Look for an edge, my boy,’ Targo intoned. ‘Every fighter has a flaw. And keep away from that damned shield.’

  Ban’s legs were shorter than his torso promised, and his long sword and shield must have been heavy. Even though Ban’s arms were ridged with muscle and the tangle of veins that are only seen on superbly fit and strong men, he carried a slight belly under his leather battle tunic.

  ‘Are you ready, Artorex?’ Myrddion whispered.

  Artorex stepped forward and unsheathed his short sword and long dagger. The weapons arced in the cold air with vicious little hisses as he swung his arms.

  ‘Aye, Lord Merlinus!’

  Turning towards the dais, he bowed low to the High King.

  ‘Get on with it, then!’ Uther ordered, swinging his old man’s white plaits in irritation.

  Ban approached his opponent at a run, his sword carving a great slice through the freezing air. The crowd cheered in expectation of seeing Artorex split into two.

  But Artorex was no longer there. Nimble in his unshod feet, he evaded the swinging blade easily and skipped away to Ban’s left, slicing his dragon knife across the warrior’s eyes.

  It was only his lightning-fast reflexes that saved the over-confident Ban. His head reared back at the last second and the blow passed harmlessly across his helmet, sending up a small explosion of sparks as the blade struck metal.

  The crowd roared their approval at the contact, but Artorex didn’t hear them. He had blotted out everything and everybody but his adversary. He moved back to the right, his dragon blade probing, probing, while his right hand held his short sword close to his body, ready for an opportunity to thrust.

  Ban moved like lightning, and Artorex parried the blow with his short sword and the dragon knife raised in a cross above his body. Before Ban could slam him with his shield, for such a move Artorex could clearly read in the warrior’s eyes, Artorex disengaged and danced away, forcing Ban to turn once more in order to face his opponent.

  ‘You’re not bad, boy, but you really need a shield,’ Ban hissed. ‘It’s going to be a pity to cut you up today - if you ever stand still and fight like a man.’

  Artorex ignored the provocation and simply skipped away once again, then changed direction and hands in a blur of steel as he moved, nicking Ban just above the knee in a wicked slice. The dragon blade winked as its point reddened.

  ‘Not good enough, boy,’ Ban yelled and increased his efforts to take advantage of his longer reach. Every trick that Targo had taught him came into play, as Artorex parried, cut and thrust, all the time evading Ban’s deadly sword cuts through the use of his agile feet.

  ‘You talk too much, Ban,’ Artorex replied conversationally when the initial surge of effort had ended, and both men continued to feel their way over the uneven ground as they sought for an advantage.

  Ban was brilliant in his way. His strength was legendary and he was totally fearless, for it had always been his dearest wish to die on the battlefield. He was agile for a big man and had the stamina of an ox but, after fifteen minutes of combat, both men were breathing heavily, while blood oozed steadily from the cut inflicted by Artorex.

  Uther was growing restive. This callow youth should have been dispatched long before now and the king’s feet were growing cold.

  ‘Finish him, Ban!’ the King screamed. ‘Surely you can catch a provincial nobody.’

  Artorex winked at Ban - and grinned.

  The crowd, at least, were mesmerized by the equal battle, and large wagers were being laid on the fringes of the square.

  Following a feint with his sword, Ban succeeded in thrusting his shield straight into the shoulder of Artorex. Only instinct saved the younger man from a killing blow from the spike; he managed to spin away and deflected the force of the shield by tumbling backwards with it. Still, his helmet was lost, knocked from his head, and Artorex’s hair streamed out like a banner.

  The crowd gasped.

  A small cut leaked a trickle of blood from Artorex’s hairline where the shield boss ought to have split his skull. But Ban had overreached himself to breach the defences of his opponent, and now the dragon knife slashed him across the sword arm . . . down to the bone.

  Artorex quickly changed hands once again, slipped under Ban’s guard, and swept his opponent’s feet out from under him. Ban hit the cobbles with an audible thud, his shield arm falling away from his belly and leaving his throat exposed.

  Artorex’s short sword pressed deeply against Ban’s pulsing throat artery.

  ‘Strike hard, my friend, for it’s a good day to die,’ Ban said proudly.

  ‘Yield, Ban!’

  ‘I can’t. Only my master can give me the order to surrender. And he won’t do it.’

  Artorex looked up at Uther, while holding Ban supine with his left foot on the warrior’s upper arm.

  ‘Well? Kill him, Artorex, or don’t you have the taste for blood?’ Uther ordered.

  The crowd was utterly silent.

  Uther’s women sat like creatures of stone as they watched the drama unfold before them.

  Ban was the only person who was truly alive at that moment, for there was a distinct probability that he was sucking in the last exhilarating moments of his life.

  He didn’t know if he was going to live or die.

  ‘I’m here to kill Saxons for you, my liege, not my companions at arms,’ Artorex shouted to Uther - and at the rabble - with his sword at Ban’s throat. ‘I ask that Ban should not die by my hand this day but that he should live to perish for a nobler cause.’

  The crowd roared as Artorex stepped backwards and away from his erstwhile opponent.

  The warrior eased himself slowly to his feet, picking up his fallen sword as he did so. ‘Sire, I beg that you do not shame your champion, for he will kill a thousand Saxons for you, if you but ask.’

  The crowd roared its approval once again. Ban waited for his master’s orders, trying to grip his sword with his wounded arm.

  ‘Very well,’ Uther replied in great ill humour at the crowd’s response. ‘You may have your wa
y - on this occasion.’ He glared at his erstwhile champion. ‘You are excused, Ban. This contest is over.’

  Angry beyond measure, the High King and his retinue disappeared into the Great Hall, leaving Artorex to the acclamation of the crowd.

  As Artorex snatched up his cloak and boots, the well-wishing citizenry surrounded him, especially those admirers who’d shown the foresight to place wagers on his strong right arm. His shoulders and arms were pummelled to aching rawness by congratulatory fists, and it took some effort for Targo to force his way through the press of bodies to lead his protégé away from the makeshift arena.

  Throughout the cobbled streets, the name Artorex reverberated so loudly that even those few citizens who hadn’t chosen to enjoy the contest were hearing much-embroidered tales of the amazing battle even before the young man reached the sanctuary of the Wild Boar Inn. The rough-cut, wooden building was soon bursting at the seams with a motley crowd of townsfolk, farmers, mercenaries and warriors, all of whom were shouting at the top of their lungs, drinking almost as much as they spilled and joking, laughing, gesticulating and gyrating in noisy re-creations of the epic battle.

  Once there, Artorex would have drowned in free ale if Myrddion hadn’t insisted on first dressing his wound. The threat of force became necessary to clear a path for Artorex to escape to the upper floor.

  The story of Ban’s conqueror sped through Venta Belgarum like wildfire. The young warrior was a veritable giant, yet he had the strength and agility of a fighting cat. And this young man rejected the Celtic shield for the dizzying protection of a spinning web of iron. And then, when victory was assured and Ban was at his mercy, Artorex was magnanimous and refused to shed Ban’s blood needlessly. He had defied the orders of the High King - and survived to tell the tale. With a Roman sword and a long knife, he had beaten the legendary Ban, the Firebrand of the West, and Lady Fortuna had protected his back at every turn.

  More importantly, those few greybeards who had known Uther when he was a young man marvelled at how much this Artorex resembled the High King they remembered from his early manhood. Even Botha, the Captain of the King’s Guard, had been shocked by the resemblance. Once seen, such hair could never be forgotten, for it was barbarian hair, sometimes called Caesar Red, although the legends suggested that the great Julian had a balding pate.