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

by M. K. Hume

  ‘He’s outplayed us, Myrddion. Damn me, but he must have been a great tactician when he was young!’

  Llanwith appeared to be genuinely impressed by Uther’s acumen. Myrddion saw no humour in the situation and scowled at both of his friends and reminded Llanwith that his uncle had been a victim of the same ploy. The Ordovice king sobered instantly.

  ‘He’s trapped your queen, Myrddion,’ Luka agreed, as he collapsed on to Artorex’s bed with Llanwith. ‘And we didn’t even know we were playing a chess game.’

  Myrddion glared at Luka and then viciously kicked at the wall, his teeth bared in furious irritation.

  ‘One other matter has come to my attention. The old devil’s body servant told me that Uther has only a month or two to live. Mind you, the idiot has been saying the same thing for years.’

  Myrddion paced back and forth, while Luka fell asleep and Targo mumbled something incomprehensible about an old soldier needing his rest. He stumbled off to Llanwith’s room to use a vacant bed.

  ‘I’ll join you,’ Artorex snapped, his patience well worn by the events of the day. ‘If I’m going to die then it’s best I be well-rested when I do.’

  Artorex fell asleep on a flea-infested pallet in a dirty attic somewhere in the back streets of Venta Belgarum and dreamed that he lay with his Gallia. Elsewhere, on a bed richly covered with fine wool and smooth linen in the palace of the High King, Uther Pendragon struggled to stay wakeful lest his sleep be troubled by a persistent nightmare of a huge sword that had once belonged to him. Now, no matter how hard he tried, his wasted muscles couldn’t lift the vast blade.

  Of the two, father and son, Artorex slept more easily, although he sensed that he could soon go to the shadows - and before his allotted time. As he lay in his wife’s warm arms in the web of his dreams, he heard a voice call out of the darkness so loudly that the whole world seemed to shudder from the sound. ‘Fortune smiles at last! Behold her wheel turns to raise you high. Beware, Artorex, Fortuna’s fool.’

  But Artorex smiled in his sleep as his dream wife kissed him. For who can fear a goddess when love holds tight to the heart?

  CHAPTER XII

  TO DIE IN ANDERIDA

  Ignorant of Uther’s unholy intentions for the Villa Poppinidii, Myrddion faced a day of strenuous mental and physical effort. The call to arms was being shouted from the High King’s forecourt and some fools would answer out of a simple desire for excitement and adventure.

  Word ran through the narrow streets of the city. Through alehouses, meeting houses and crossroads, the call to arms moved swiftly and set the imaginations of the citizens afire. But the young bloods that sought glory must be convinced to remain in safety in Venta Belgarum, for novices had no place in the storming of a fortress such as Anderida where they would be a hindrance rather than an advantage. In this deadly game that was being played to spite the scheming of Uther Pendragon, numbers didn’t count. Skill and cunning were far more important.

  To add to his woes, Myrddion must convince the most talented of his supporters to throw their lives away in the first skirmish of a series of battles that would lead, hopefully, to their country’s salvation. They would die as pawns in the affairs of greater men and Myrddion’s conscience had yet to find the exact words to persuade them.

  ‘A grey day,’ he sighed broodingly. ‘But we’re not dead yet, as Targo is so fond of repeating.’

  Nor did Myrddion wish to die himself.

  It was plain to him that Uther was prepared to sacrifice his chief counsellor and two stalwart and loyal kings because he envied the potential strength of his own son. Llanwith, Luka and Myrddion weren’t expected to return, but the real target was Artorex.

  Myrddion brooded.

  ‘Uther Pendragon will destroy the stability of the west to protect a crown that he believes is his forever. At least two tribes hang in the balance, great and loyal tribes, but Uther would tear the fabric of his pact with the kings to ribbons to retain - what? Is it the hunger of a diseased mind? Is it the savagery that grows in the head when the arm grows weak? I’ll never understand what drives the man!’

  Grey, sullen skies outside the inn mirrored Myrddion’s mood, while scudding cloud came from the sea and was torn to shreds by winds that the human eye couldn’t see.

  Rooks called and sleet threatened.

  ‘We agree that Uther must be stopped, yet we must still win Anderida for him. But how can we achieve this impossible task?’

  Targo was engaged in the process of preparing Artorex to face the stares and curiosity of the townsfolk by cleaning his charge’s leathers and brushing the mud from the wolfskin cloak. He served his pupil willingly, for he realized that Artorex was reaping the rewards of many years of practice and training, and was developing the mien of a commander. It was a role taken up by the young man unwillingly, perhaps, but Targo couldn’t fail to recognize the burgeoning signs of authority demonstrated by his protégé.

  Targo had never knowingly sired a son of his own, so he had never felt a sense of loss at the lack of children at his hearth. Artorex was his child of choice, because Targo had moulded the warrior streak in the young man and had watched his pupil prove his worth in combat with mixed feelings of fear and pride. For Targo, a soldier never lessened his stature by serving of his free will and only became a slave when he surrendered to his enemies.

  Artorex woke to a grim day of dripping eaves and drizzling, half-frozen rain, with the familiar sound of Targo’s tuneless whistling in his ears. If the boy in Artorex was confused, the man in him was optimistic. A mere day earlier, he had awoken to the knowledge of his impending death, but he still lived and breathed. Today, the muster for a suicidal raid on an entrenched enemy would begin, but Anderida was far away and Lady Fortuna alone would choose the time when Artorex would meet his destiny.

  ‘It is a good day, Targo,’ he greeted the older man. ‘You need not clean my kit - we are friends and fellow soldiers. That is, if you are not offended that I speak of myself as your equal.’

  ‘You talk nonsense at times, boy,’ Targo retorted gruffly, but with affection. ‘And who, in days to come, will remember old Targo? No, I’ll answer for you - no one! But I’ve a feeling in my water that they’ll remember you.’

  ‘I’d rather be at home with Gallia, my friend,’ Artorex replied sadly, as he stretched his long legs.

  ‘You should tell that children’s tale to someone who believes you, Artorex. I know that a part of you enjoys the scent of the coming battle.’

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Artorex changed the subject, knowing that he was no match for Targo’s sharp eyes.

  ‘They’ve eaten, dressed and gone,’ Targo responded economically.

  ‘Oh.’

  Targo could tell that Artorex was disappointed, so he took pity on the younger man.

  ‘Get up, get yourself dressed and we’ll convince some of these sheep to die with the great Artorex. Myrddion has estimated a force of no more than one hundred good warriors is needed but, in my opinion, even that number is excessive. It’d be better to have forty seasoned warriors than three hundred young boys.’

  Artorex swung his long legs out from under a cover of moth-eaten fur.

  ‘I don’t even know where Anderida is,’ he stated in all honesty.

  ‘I’ve never heard of it myself but it must be situated on the south-east coast somewhere,’ Targo replied. ‘And I can guarantee it won’t be pleasant or Uther wouldn’t have chosen it for your death, my young hero.’

  Artorex threw an empty wooden cup at the older man. Targo caught it neatly and spun it in his hand.

  ‘You’re reading my mind, boy. It’s time for a drink.’

  After a hurried bowl of porridge and several rather withered apples, Targo and Artorex faced the miserable weather outside the inn. Under the shelter of the wolf cape, Artorex managed to avoid most of the rain, but a dozen steps had him spattered with mud.

  ‘This rain is the soldier’s friend,’ Targo explained drily, eyeing his rui
ned handiwork on Artorex’s kit with the patience of long experience. ‘The commanders stick to their tents when rain comes to the battlefield, so mud takes the edge from everyone.’

  ‘The only detail about Anderida that Myrddion bothered to share with us was that it’s near a swamp. I predict that mud won’t be our friend.’

  ‘Hell, boy! You know how to make an old man feel better.’ Targo laughed boyishly.

  ‘But even mud can be an edge, especially if our enemy believes we’d never flounder through it to achieve our objective.’

  Targo stared hard at Artorex. His eyes were narrowed, and very bright.

  ‘You may have an idea there, boy. You could be right.’

  Artorex’s fame had spread quickly, and well-wishers slowed their passage through the narrow streets. An hour of damp wandering through the town finally led the pair to Myrddion and Llanwith in a very disreputable drinking house outside the gates of Venta Belgarum, where they were selecting warriors for what Llanwith was calling a ‘little hunting expedition’.

  When Artorex saw the motley bunch his two friends had collected, he suspected that Llanwith and Myrddion had lost their minds.

  Of course, Luka had vanished once more.

  The appearance of the group of warriors drinking at a rough trestle table was unprepossessing. Myrddion appeared to have chosen the roughest and filthiest warriors he could find. Scarred, tattooed and ragged in hair and clothing, the men shared only one characteristic - their weapons were impeccably clean and shining.

  Targo cheerfully greeted the scum, as he called them, and immediately seemed right at home. After a few moments of conversation with them, the old veteran invited Artorex to meet some of the grinning and unrepentantly dirty troop of warriors.

  ‘You sons-of-whores have claimed that you want to meet Artorex - and here he is,’ Targo shouted above the din of the warriors who were talking loudly in small groups. ‘To you men, he is Captain Artorex and he is your commander. I won’t be introducing you pretties to the captain for the moment because he won’t remember your names. But now that you’ve joined our impossibles, you’ll need to smarten up a bit.’

  Artorex endured a round of backslapping, and soon became aware that many of the men had gambled on his right arm in his contest with Ban.

  ‘Why?’ Artorex asked one small, thickset man with repulsive features.

  ‘It stands to reason, Captain. My name’s Pinhead, by the way. Your gear’s good. It’s not pretty but it’s good. And you move real well. You didn’t need a shield, although I don’t fancy distance fighting or going up against arrows without one.’ He grinned amiably at Artorex, and winked with his single eye. ‘And most important, you didn’t give a damn about what was going on around you. You kept your eye where it belonged - on your enemy.’

  ‘And you’re very pretty!’ A tall Celt with an evil squint smiled and blew a kiss in the direction of Artorex.

  Without a moment’s thought, Artorex backhanded the hulking brute across the face with sufficient force to knock him to the ground.

  The Celt came to his feet with blinding speed. Artorex expected the man would draw his sword, but he merely shook his shaggy head and grinned sheepishly.

  Pinhead sniggered. ‘Always the big mouth, Rufus. It’s a wonder you’re still alive. You’re lucky the captain only gave you a little kiss back.’

  ‘Beg pardon, Captain,’ Rufus apologized simply and, when Artorex nodded, he returned to his ale.

  ‘This one here is Odin, Captain,’ Targo said slyly of another huge warrior. ‘It’s not his real name but none of these pretties have been able to work out who he is. He’s a Jute.’

  Artorex’s eyes passed over the man. Odin was so tall, even in his bare feet, that Artorex had to look upward to study his face. The Jute was fully clad in furs and Artorex had difficulty recognizing where hair ended and pelt began. Under a simple helmet, the man’s long mane was nearly white, while his beard, which was extraordinary in length and thickness, spread out in a red spray over his barrel chest. The warrior bore an axe threaded through a loop on the right side of his belt and an extremely long, and inhumanly heavy sword in a beaten scabbard on his left.

  ‘Now, this one’s a really pretty warrior,’ Targo told the troop, and everyone laughed.

  Odin began to speak rapidly in a language Artorex couldn’t even hope to understand, apart from recognizing one word, Thor, uttered with reverence.

  Then, to Artorex’s complete embarrassment, Odin knelt and placed Artorex’s foot upon his neck.

  ‘Don’t pay no mind to Odin, Captain,’ Pinhead explained. ‘He’s swearing one of his barbarian oaths - he seems to have taken a liking to you. He was most impressed with your little battle yesterday.’

  ‘How did a Jute find his way to Venta Belgarum?’ Artorex asked, through a deepening blush of embarrassment. He pulled his foot away from Odin’s huge hands.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t by choice,’ Pinhead explained. ‘He was running from a troop of Saxon vermin outside Londinium - and I mean running. Seems he’d upset them somehow. Five to one seemed an unsporting way to fight, so Rufus and I equalized the odds. Then we found we couldn’t get rid of him.’

  ‘The only thing we understood was that he was making a blood oath,’ Rufus said. ‘He seemed to think his life belonged to us.’

  ‘Oh, and he kept going on about Odin, so the name stuck,’ Pinhead explained in tandem with his friend.

  ‘He fights well, though,’ Rufus added conversationally. ‘What he does with that axe fair gives me the dreads. You could say goodbye to any Saxons we meet if you had forty of Odin.’

  ‘Then I’m pleased that he’s taken a liking to me,’ Artorex responded, raising Odin to his feet and taking out his dragon knife. Artorex thrust the hilt of the dagger towards Odin, while retaining his grip on the blade in a gesture of friendship. It was a dangerous game, for the Jute could have severed Artorex’s fingers just by pulling the blade free. Instead, as Artorex had hoped, Odin simply placed his hand upon the knife hilt and repeated his earlier blood oath.

  A commotion at the door drew Targo’s attention.

  ‘By the bare breasts of Mother Juno, it’s Ban,’ he muttered.

  Unconcerned at the stir he was causing, and with a brief nod to Artorex, Ban strode over to Myrddion and spoke quickly and quietly to him. The two men grasped each other’s wrists briefly, as if a pact had been sealed.

  Then Ban swaggered out, as easily and as casually as when he had arrived.

  Artorex sheathed his knife and joined Myrddion and Llanwith.

  ‘Fortuna is with us, Artorex. She certainly smiles on you,’ Llanwith chuckled.

  ‘Ban told me that he wishes to assist us in our expedition. He, and his entire personal guard, have offered to ride with us. He believes himself to be in your debt.’

  Artorex shook his plaits in perplexity. Ban was a nobleman and a warrior, the master of vast lands, men and great wealth. Artorex repaid every debt and remembered every kindness offered to him, but he was surprised when men such as Ban behaved similarly. Caius, Severinus and the rest of their intimates had shown no sense of duty that Artorex could ever discern. Nor did Uther Pendragon prize honour overmuch, to judge by his actions.

  ‘How many men do we have in our combined force, Myrddion?’ Artorex asked.

  ‘Including Targo’s scum, we have sixty seasoned warriors, and I believe that number will be more than sufficient. In a surprise attack, and with luck, we have the numbers to win. If we fail in our task, then Uther’s forces are not greatly weakened. As we have no friends to assist us on our expedition, we shall have to live off the land and forage as we travel. Our party is not too large, so we should be able to maintain some element of surprise.’

  Artorex nodded his agreement; Myrddion’s tactical appreciation was sound.

  Myrddion beckoned to Targo to gain his attention. The warrior looked up from his ale cup and ambled over to where the two men were standing.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’ the vet
eran asked, all attention under his shield of soldierly indifference.

  ‘Your men must be up and mounted at dawn,’ Myrddion said. ‘You’re now their leader, though even your talents mightn’t be sufficient to discipline that rabble. Artorex is the Captain of our force, and he’ll determine all questions of leadership. For the moment, you may tell your beauties that there’ll be no more drinking this night.’

  ‘They’ll just love that,’ Targo snickered. ‘But they’ll obey. You have my word on it.’

  ‘And you’d best find a horse for that barbarian - a very large horse,’ Llanwith called after him.

  ‘If we have sixty men, our force should be divided into three cadres of twenty,’ Artorex decided. ‘Targo will command his troop, while Ban commands his choice of twenty of his best men. Llanwith should take whoever is left.’ He smiled at Llanwith. ‘I’m sorry, my friend. You must do with them what you can.’

  Llanwith grinned at Artorex’s rueful expression. ‘Men are men. Whoever they are, and whatever gods they serve, they’ll obey.’

  ‘Luka will act as your forward scout,’ Myrddion said, ‘and will remain ahead of the force when you are on the march. He has a talent for subterfuge, he understands the Saxon tongue and we’ll need to utilize every tactical advantage open to us.’

  ‘What of you, lord?’ Artorex asked. ‘If any man should lead this expedition, it should be you.’

  Myrddion grimaced. ‘I’m not a fighting man,’ he stated unequivocally. ‘I am a strategist, so I never developed the skills of combat. I’m a manipulator and a scholar, but I’m not a master of men. My purpose on our expedition will be as a mentor, a healer and an adviser - for those are duties that I do best. You four will lead the raid, with Artorex in overall command, exactly as Uther demands. If Artorex falls, it’ll be Llanwith’s task to return here with the survivors.’

  Luka did not return to the Wild Boar Inn until the afternoon sun was low on the winter horizon. The rain had cleared to a light drizzle, but Luka was soaking and chilled to the bone.