by M. K. Hume
Myrddion had ensured that Ban was as comfortable as possible on a nest of discarded furs, but even Artorex’s untutored eye could see that the wounded man was near to death. The worst of the blood from sword cuts to the body had been staunched, but Ban’s torso was literally held together by his own armour.
A lesser man would already be dead, Artorex thought sadly.
He schooled his face into some semblance of a smile.
‘Still abed, Ban? Don’t you realize you’ve won us a great victory? Your banner stands before the Great Hall of the Saxons even as we speak. It is our personal tribute to your service.’
‘You have difficulty lying, Artorex, for all your skill with a sword,’ Ban whispered wryly, each word forced from his filling lungs with great pain. Bubbles of blood were forming at his mouth, so one of his warriors wiped them away gently with a clean cloth.
‘You must listen, Artorex, to the words of a man who is now one of your few, true friends. The High King will kill you, if he is able. But before Uther Pendragon becomes worm food himself, many false men will vie for the privilege of betraying you. You must remember this . . . and beware.’
The warrior’s eyes were filming over, and only with the greatest of effort did Ban force back death for a few brief moments.
‘My orders were to kill you during the attack,’ he gasped. ‘I couldn’t . . . I must know . . . that my death has some . . . purpose . . . take the throne.’
‘I am not meant to be a king,’ Artorex stated.
‘Answer . . . me fairly,’ Ban demanded with all his old fire. ‘My eyes are as good as those . . . of Uther. Uther . . . your sire.’
His words struck Artorex like body blows.
‘If the kingship should be offered, I will take it.’ Artorex’s voice was firm, but his eyes were moving restlessly as they hunted for escape. ‘I swear this to you on the lives of those who died at Anderida.’
Artorex told himself that he was swearing a harmless lie, and he smiled down at Ban with something akin to fondness.
‘I’ll remember your lesson, my friend,’ he said softly. ‘So fly to the heights, Firebrand of the West, to set the abode of heroes ablaze with your coming.’
‘My . . . brother!’
And so Ban died, simply and quietly.
As one, the remainder of Ban’s guards swore their allegiance to Artorex until death, for where their master had chosen to serve, so too would they.
And, as they swore their oaths, the young man pondered the depth of human frailty. Ban’s basic integrity had stopped him from killing Artorex, even though a promise to Uther Pendragon should have made him a murderer.
Uther was always certain that he would win this game, whether by chance or by treachery, Artorex thought sadly as he bent over the warrior and kissed his bloody lips. The High King underestimated Ban’s basic decency but I, for all of my days, will always remember this man as a true warrior.
He rose to his feet and turned his attention back to Targo.
‘We leave none of our dead to the carrion,’ Artorex ordered. ‘No matter how lowly, not one of our comrades shall be defiled. Their bodies shall be burned and their ashes collected in the finest golden box in Anderida. The only exception is Ban, whose body shall be returned to Venta Belgarum with us for burial. He shall receive full honours.’
And the warriors marvelled at the beauty and hawk-like cruelty of Artorex’s face. As he ordered, so was it done.
All too soon, Artorex was forced to commence his preparations for the return of his command to Venta Belgarum and Uther’s court. The Saxons possessed wagons built to be drawn by great oxen, and one of these ponderous carts was piled high with weapons, gilded crosses and chalices that had been looted by the Saxons from churches in the East. Even the sod huts were small treasure troves that turned up furs, jewels and adornments of gold, electrum, brass and bronze.
Many of the Saxon children had escaped into the wild woods, but those who could be found were tied within one of the wagons, to be taken as house slaves in a world that was brutal, even to the innocent.
In the other wagons, those wounded Britons who couldn’t ride were gently placed on to thick straw pallets. Myrddion would ride with them, and would tend them as best he could.
All that remained was for a small detachment to be sent to collect the horses left by Targo’s scum near the approaches to the swamps. These beasts, along with all the Saxon animals that could be found, would follow the wagons along the easier coastal road back to Venta Belgarum.
Only Llanwith, Luka and Artorex remained behind as the cavalcade moved out.
‘And now we burn Anderida to the ground,’ Artorex said grimly. ‘Until only ash remains.’
‘The Saxons will return, Artorex,’ Luka replied patiently. ‘You know as well as I do that the Saxons own this coast, and they’ll rebuild Anderida, just as it was before.’
‘Then we’ll burn it again, and again - a hundred times, if need be.’
‘The Saxons may have something to say about that,’ Llanwith grinned, and Artorex flushed hotly.
‘Yet, you are right, Artorex,’ Luka said with grim logic. ‘Any delay to the Saxon advance is better than nothing, and Anderida holds several hundred Saxon corpses who won’t breed again, and neither will they kill our brothers in the west. So let’s burn the fortress down, so that those Saxons who are forced to rebuild the structure will understand that we intend to fight for our lands, come what may.’
And so, the fires were set. At first, the logs smouldered and smoked, but finally the fire took hold. The timber buildings, along with the corpses of the defenders, were consumed in the flames.
Long after Artorex and the impossibles were out of sight of the fortress of Anderida, they could see the great column of black smoke staining the grey noon sky. It marked the first frail victory by the warriors of the west.
The cavalcade arrived at Portus Adurni after two slow days of travel, taken in easy stages for the sake of the wounded. Artorex led his small command towards the stone-walled village above the harbour, where ships still plied a brisk trade with Gaul and beyond. The townspeople looked on in amazement as the column slowly wound its way up the Roman road.
To all the questions thrown at the warriors as they set up camp for the night, only one message was passed on to the population.
‘Artorex has taken the fortress at Anderida. The Saxons were put to the sword and they died, to the last man and woman.’
Small gilt boxes were brought forth. They were filled with the ashes of both scum and warrior, all mingled in death.
‘And these are the ashes of our fellow heroes, who came to Anderida to prove that their oaths of allegiance were true. They died for the land, for their King and for Artorex, the Warrior of the West.’
The townsfolk speculated on how such a small troop of warriors, so battle-worn in their attire, could attack and overcome a fortress such as Anderida. They stared, wide-eyed, at the contents of the two groaning wagons that moved with them, and marvelled at the fat-tailed sheep and milking cows as they were herded into the pens of Portus Adurni and turned into gold and silver coins. Man turned to man, each wondering who, or what, this Artorex might be and whether the old days of glory might have come to the west once again.
Word and rumour spread faster than the slow-moving cavalcade could travel, so where small villages clustered near the Roman road, folk came out to stare, to cheer and to throw green branches over the chill roadways lest horses and oxen should slip on the black ice. Young children sucked their thumbs and stared up with wide eyes at the dour, grim-faced men as they passed, their destination of Venta Belgarum fixed firmly in their minds. Maidens sighed at their first sighting of the russet hair of Artorex, uncombed as it was, and at his wintry features that were so brave and so fair. Old men recalled the heroes of their youth and compared Artorex with a young Pendragon, come back to succour his people in their time of peril.
So the story became legend, and the glory ran like Greek fire
through the snow-shrouded hills.
Artorex rode at the head of the column with his troop commanders alongside him. Odin walked, as silently and as steadfastly as ever, his eyes always searching for any threat in the lines of trees that ran parallel to the road. Rufus had died at the southern gate, but Pinhead still lived, although he sported a new and even uglier wound across his cheek that had severed part of one ear. The four other remaining members of the scum took great pride in their status as the last heroes of an impossible assault on an overwhelming enemy, and Artorex had little difficulty in imagining how the story would grow with the telling. Already, he was embarrassed at how villagers bowed their heads or tugged their forelocks as he rode past, for he knew that Odin had turned the tide of the battle when all seemed lost, that Targo had saved the situation at the southern gate and that the irrepressible Ban had brought the conflict to its ultimate conclusion.
‘The plan was yours, Artorex, and the final responsibility was yours,’ Myrddion lectured him, a day’s march from Venta Belgarum. ‘You, too, could have died on the ramparts with your men. You are the figurehead, the Warrior of the West, whether you like it or not. And you alone must face Uther’s fury when we return to his court.’
‘Aye, but I don’t wish to take what credit is due to others.’
‘You can be sure, lad, that no one is likely to face the vicious wrath of Uther other than you,’ Targo told him solemnly.
Even the scum laughed.
And so, with their deeds already being sung in the inns of Venta Belgarum, Artorex’s expedition returned to the High King’s city on the first day of the spring thaw. The church bells pealed their approach, warriors and townsfolk lined the muddy streets, while eager hands helped to unload the wounded into the care of the priests. Many of the townsfolk cursed their bad fortune in not courting death with the impossibles, and they looked up at Artorex with eyes that were awe-filled and envious.
Rumour had travelled fast from the coastal settlements that Artorex had won a great victory at Anderida and was returning to Venta Belgarum, so it was inevitable that a swift messenger from Pontus Adurni brought the news to the High King that Artorex and his band of warriors were less that two days’ march away from his court.
Morgan brought the messenger to Uther in person. Her eyes were alive with malice although her marble-cold face was contained.
‘Lord King, Artorex bids you all homage and all honour. He has taken Anderida and has left the Saxons to feed the crows, exactly as you demanded.’
Uther’s breath drew in sharply, causing his whole, wasted frame to snake inward under the weight of his robes, almost as if he protected his belly from a stab wound.
‘Don’t speak that name to me,’ he ordered querulously. ‘Artorex is dead! No one could take Anderida!’
‘Your confessor has told you tales of the Jewish King David, has he not?’ Morgan smiled delicately. ‘And he will have told you of how the great King lusted after another man’s wife, the divine Bethsheba. King David sent Bethsheba’s husband out to die, just as you sent Artorex to fight and perish in your service.’ She glared her hatred at Uther. ‘It’s too sad for you, Stepfather, that a ruse you once used so successfully didn’t work nearly so effectively on the second occasion.’
Morgan’s light, girlish laughter was hideous within the King’s previously silent rooms. His confessor turned his wide, frightened eyes towards the face of his monarch. On receiving no response, he slipped from the apartment lest he should hear words spoken that would consign him to the strangler’s rope.
The eyes of the old King narrowed with cunning.
‘Ban hasn’t failed me. The Firebrand is loyal until death!’
‘You have such fickle hopes, my lord,’ Morgan retorted. ‘I must inform you that the body of Ban is lashed to the back of his horse and that he is one of the honourable dead of Anderida. Even as we speak, Artorex rides to Venta Belgarum in triumph, with the sound of the people’s cheers ringing in his ears. If you still wish his death, you must find another fool to wield his sword on your behalf.’
‘The whelp will never rule in my stead. He will never cast me down as High King of the Britons - and he will soon be forgotten by my people.’
‘It’s too late, Lord Uther. Far too late. You alone have turned this youth into a hero of the people. Yes, you alone have done this foolish thing. He came to Venta Belgarum as a nameless and deedless young nobody, and you’ve turned him into the greatest warrior of the Celtic people.’
Morgan knelt before her King and looked up into his rheumy, malicious eyes. Her small pink tongue explored her upper lip and stroked a small gap in her teeth.
‘How my father would laugh. How Gorlois smiles on the other side of the veil as he waits for you to join him. Hail, Uther Pendragon, the High King, who will be remembered only as the cur who sired the saviour of the Britons.’
‘Do not speak such filth to me.’ Uther blocked his ears with both age-spotted hands. ‘I can have you strangled - and perhaps I will, if you aim your poison at me. Be silent, or you will shriek your last breath away.’
‘How could you cling to life for just a little longer if I were dead?’ Morgan crooned. ‘And how could you plot against Artorex if you are worm food? I alone can keep you breathing beyond your time, which is something your confessor and his foolish, fruitless prayers can’t do.’ She smiled once more. ‘And when your eyes close at last, a long line of your dead will be waiting to meet you.’
Morgan poured a small quantity of white powder into Uther’s half-drained wine cup, where it hissed and bubbled ominously.
‘A stimulant, my lord.’ She held the goblet out to her stepfather. ‘Artorex comes to greet you - whether you wish it or not.’
Uther took the proffered potion and gulped it eagerly. Only spite, hubris and Morgan’s powders could keep the blood circulating through his ancient, tired heart.
‘You hate him worse than me, you viper,’ he whispered as the stimulant cleared his brain.
‘Aye, lord, but here’s the oddity of it - I love him too,’ Morgan replied, her eyes void of all emotion.
‘Then God help the cub, for you’ll skin him while you caress him.’
Morgan left her King to his endless, circling thoughts. On the stone threshold, conscious of the cold seeping through her thin slippers, she looked back over her shoulder towards the wicked old man and his dreams of immortality.
What a poisoned pair we are, Uther, she thought ruefully. Perhaps what we seek will only be won because we have become pawns in the destiny of Artorex, the boy - who has now become Artorex, the man.’
She shrugged away her thoughts, because the habits of hatred were too deeply ingrained in her nature to be weakened by the demands of history.
Morgan, eldest girl child of Gorlois, the long-dead Boar of the Dumnonii tribe, slipped away from the King’s apartments like a whisper of acrid smoke on the breeze.
CHAPTER XV
ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS
Artorex waited with Myrddion, Luka and Llanwith in the forecourt of the Great Hall. Dressed now in the best finery that the Saxons of Anderida had to offer, including a great cloak of white wolf pelts bound at the shoulder with a dragon pin in bronze, he was an imposing and regal figure. Targo had insisted he do honour to the scum by wearing the torc of the Saxon chieftain, a massive neck-piece of pure red-gold, in the form of the winged worm-like dragon of the northern barbarians. The young man’s hair was combed and loose, except for plaits that left his wide brow free, and his winter tunic beneath the barbaric cloak was of fine Roman wool.
Odin stood behind him, bearing a great wooden box.
The Jutlander had been bathed and barbered, not without some heathen protests, but now master and servant towered over the other courtiers outside the Great Hall, while many covert glances were aimed at the impassive faces that stared straight ahead towards the carved and verdigris-encrusted entrance doors.
‘The High King keeps us waiting to put us in our place,’ Luka h
issed, while maintaining his soldierly bearing.
‘The desperate act of an impotent man,’ Llanwith agreed, with contempt.
‘Yet Uther was once a great king and a gifted leader of men, my boy,’ Myrddion murmured. ‘It’s important for you to remember this lesson.’
Artorex chose not to reply.
He stood mute, for not long after he arrived at Venta Belgarum, Caius had joined him after a furious ride from the Villa Poppinidii.
The preceding night had been fine and cloudless, white stars visible at last. After seeing to the welfare of his men, Artorex had returned to the Wild Boar Inn where the drinkers’ voices had been stilled by the changes wrought in the raw young man during his trial by combat.
In his room under the eaves, Artorex had prayed to Mithras, to the Christian Jesus and to the Celtic Duan de Dartha to protect his family. But even as he intoned the intercessions to all the gods that he knew, he could feel a heavy weight pressing on his chest.
The arrival of Caius was no surprise.
His foster-brother was travel-weary and mud-stained, his dark hair awry and his impeccable clothing marked by the headlong pace of his journey. With new eyes, Artorex saw a thin stain of dried blood on Caius’s cloak that was almost concealed by mud, and Artorex realized dispassionately that the other man could not quite meet his unwavering stare.
His foster-brother was afraid.
Caius told his tragic story simply and sparely, hoping to shield this new, wholly alien stranger from the worst excesses of sorrow.
‘Ector mounted a great funeral pyre for Gallia, Frith and your servants. They have gone to the gods in glory together, just as they lived in life,’ Caius explained slowly.
Artorex merely nodded.
The silence dragged out painfully.
‘Our father mourns with you, and he holds little Licia as close as his own grandchild. Gareth guards her day and night - and his sorrow knows no bounds.’