Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Yet we fought doggedly on. We charged the barriers and threw ourselves against them as if to break them down by force of will alone. We slew and were slain, but could gain no advantage. The cunning barbarian mazework kept us separated and confused. We tried to circle around the earthworks to breach the furthest edge, but the forest prevented us. It was too thick and the way too easily lost. So we charged the barriers. Again and again and again we were thwarted. Each time we came away leaving more dead in the ditches than the time before. Our efforts grew erratic, frantic, reckless.

  Arthur had no choice but to order the retreat, which he did. Rhys blew the long quavering note, and riders began streaming past me out of the wood. Arthur was last among them.

  “We can do nothing against this,” he said, his voice husky with fatigue. “We must find another way.”

  Out of the forest, I saw our troops staggering across the ford. It was a dismal sight. Battered bloody, and limping with exhaustion, they dragged themselves to the far bank and collapsed. Food and drink had been prepared by the camp cooks, and these were hastily brought and given the warriors where they dropped.

  Rhys sounded assembly, and the battlechiefs sought us where Arthur had planted his spear on the riverbank. Grim-faced, they slid from their saddles, wiping sweat and blood from their eyes. The lords came to stand in a ring with Arthur at the center.

  The curses with which they greeted the Duke spoke their despair. They blamed Arthur for the retreat, or rather its necessity, and wasted little time telling him how they felt about it. Arthur took their abuse, but the Emrys frowned and raised his staff.

  “Did you think yourselves invincible?” inquired Myrddin sourly. “No? Then why condemn Arthur for your own weakness?”

  “Weakness!” Idris cried. “You blind fool! I own no fault in this. Half my warband was cut down by those cursed stakes.”

  Ceredig grumbled agreement, and Owain tactfully suggested, “Our War Leader should have known better.”

  “Did you know better?” I demanded hotly. “Or you, Ceredig? Ogryvan? I did not hear your protests when Arthur laid the battle plan.”

  “It is our fault, is it?” wailed Maglos, his voice thin and pathetic. They were hurting and did not know what they were saying, it is true, but it rankled me to have them blame Arthur.

  “I cannot see it serves any purpose to accuse each other—” began Custennin, his voice quickly drowned in the railings of the others.

  Myrddin made to speak again, but Arthur laid his hand on the Emrys’ arm. “I am with you, my lords,” he declared loudly, so as to be heard above them. “I should have seen the traps sooner. I should have guessed. I own the fault. But we are in it now and must decide what is best to do. We are beaten where we stand if we fall to fighting among ourselves.”

  “Hear him!” said Custennin and several others. Meurig added, “Let us save our fury for the foemen.”

  Tempers were brought to heel, and a sullen silence settled over the lords. The stewards came with cups, and we were given cold water to drink. “Now then,” began Arthur, draining his cup in a gulp, “what did you want to say to us, Wise Emrys?”

  “The pit that snares the wolf may also capture the hunter. And there are many, many traps in Celyddon,” Myrddin said.

  “Spare us your riddles, Bard,” growled Idris.

  “What the Emrys means,” explained Arthur, “is that perhaps we can turn the traps to our advantage.”

  “How?” demanded the surly kings. “Our horses are no use to us in the wood. You can scarce swing a sword without tangling blade and arm in the branches.”

  “You are right,” soothed Arthur. I looked and saw the light come up bright and fierce in his eyes. “Listen—Baldulf thinks to use the forest against us; very well, we will take up the weapons of the forest: darkness and disguise, secrecy and stealth.”

  I do not know how Arthur did this. Was it in his mind waiting to be called forth at need? Did it come to him fresh from the Otherworld—like the awen of a bard? Or did he simply invent it as he spoke it out? As many times as I saw him do it, I cannot say. But when a plan of genius was required, genius we received.

  As Arthur began to elaborate on his plan, all grumbling and vexation ceased. The kings crowded in closer to hear the scheme, and their disappointment soon turned to delight.

  Although our shadows stretched long on the meadow, we reformed the battlelines according to Arthur’s orders and advanced once more into Celyddon—all except the troops under my command. For as soon as the first ranks reached the forest and the fighting began again, those with me broke to horses, mounted, crossed the ford, and began galloping west and south along the Etric Glen.

  There were a thousand with me under the younger battlechiefs: Idris, Maelgwn, Maglos. We followed the river a goodly way before finding the place Myrddin had described to us—a small dingle where the Etric met a smaller stream, one of countless thousands of burns that flowed out from the forest. This was our entrance.

  Abandoning our horses, we took our spears and headed into Celyddon along the burn. We ran reckless through the undergrowth, now in and now out of the water. Our only thought was to reach the battle as quickly as possible. But the burn wandered the wrong direction! We were moving away from the fray.

  Idris shouted, “That meddling bard has sent us the wrong way!”

  I halted and whirled on him. “Shut up, Idris! We see it through.”

  The others caught us. “I say we go back,” insisted the stubborn Idris.

  Maglos stood undecided, though inclining more toward Idris than Myrddin. But Maelgwn spoke up: “A blind bard is to be trusted above all else. Who else sees the world so clearly?” He planted the ash haft of his spear between his feet and would not be moved.

  I glared at Idris, furious with him for halting our march and provoking the warriors to doubt. I could have run the spear through his arrogant heart. “I said we will see it through, Idris. Follow me.”

  I turned and continued on. Maelgwn followed without hesitation. Maglos and Idris remained stubbornly behind, but when the warriors began passing them, they came along.

  The burn continued bending away from the battle site. I trusted the Emrys with my life, but as the sound of the clash diminished, doubt began to creep in. Perhaps Idris is right and Myrddin has misremembered, I thought. Celyddon is so vast; there are so many brooks and burns, perhaps this is not the one he thought it was. Or perhaps we have come to another…

  No, we must go on. There was no other way. The lives of our kinsmen depended on it. The battle depended on it. If we failed, the battle was lost. I clenched my teeth and kept running.

  And then, the sound of the battle faded away altogether. I strained after it, and heard only the drum of blood in my ears and my own rasping breath. Please, God, I prayed, do not let us fail. I kept my eyes on the track ahead and ran, my feet pounding the soft earth even as my heart pounded in my chest. My mouth went dry and my lungs burned, but I swallowed the pain, lowered my head, and ran on.

  Then all at once we were running uphill and the burn became a straight and open pathway. The trees arched overhead, and the water ran swift. Above the sound of rushing water came the faint din of the fight.

  The sound grew to a mighty roar. By this I knew we were coming to the battleplace—but now we were behind it. Heaven bless your Most Excellent Bard, he has remembered aright!

  There was a pool ahead which the barbarians had used for water, now dark in the failing light. Beyond the pool rose the central bulwark of the earth and timber mazework Baldulf had constructed to thwart us. I could see it through the trees, and I could see the swarming host upon it.

  Around the mounded structure, like vast contorted limbs, lay the immense timbered walls of the mazework. It was as Arthur had suggested: the maze had a center which, because it served to protect the other sections, would not be protected itself. The enemy had trusted the forest to prevent an assault from the unprotected side.

  Before me the chaos of battle r
aged unrestrained. The British warriors struggled against the barriers, gained them, and were time and again turned back. Our Cymbrogi fought bravely. The battle din was a ground-trembling roar, the clash of shield on shield and sword on axe a steadily pounding drum. Fierce was the fight, dread the slaughter.

  It was all I could do to keep from dashing in at once and attacking the unsuspecting enemy. But that was not the plan.

  Instead, we knelt at the edge of the pool and kindled the brands we had brought with us. This stole precious moments from the fight. Father of Light, kindle your wrath against our enemies and let it burn as brightly as the torches in our hands.

  At last, when every man held a flaming brand, up I stood and cried the charge. My shout was answered by a thousand throats, and a thousand pairs of feet sprang forward as one.

  The startled barbarians turned to see a blazing wall of fire rushing toward them. We fired their camp as we passed through. The flames leapt high and the smoke curled black and thick.

  The barbarians quailed to see it. Our sudden appearance inspired alarm, and the blaze of our torches greatly magnified our numbers in their eyes. For in the fading light of the forest they thought themselves surrounded by a numberless fiery foe.

  But they quickly gathered courage. Some abandoned their earthwork defense and raced to join battle with us. The charge was ill-timed and inept. It did nothing to halt us, or even divert our path. We drove straight to the timbered mound whereon Baldulf stood to direct the battle.

  Upon reaching the foremost earthwork we seized the clay jars at our belts and smashed them against the timbers, spilling oil everywhere. We thrust the torches forth and held them. The oil sizzled and burst into flame. Greasy smoke billowed into the air. Curtains of shimmering flame leaped high. The smoke rolled to Heaven. Everywhere along the timbered mazework the assault was repeated, and the timbers began to burn.

  Now were the barbarian host entrapped in a maze of their own making. Battle taunts became shrieks of terror. Men plunged through the flames to the ground, and we ran among them with sword and spear, cutting them down.

  We had prayed for confusion, and were granted chaos.

  Angels and archangels bear witness, we gave the barbarians a taste of the burning Hell that awaited them! Oh, it was terrible to see!

  The disordered ranks of Angli and Irish collapsed. The Irish screamed and flew to the refuge of the forest. The Angli raged and began slashing at one another in utter hopelessness and frustration. In all, the enemy hordes behaved foolishly, for if they had simply held firm for a moment they would have seen how few we truly were, and how scant the fire.

  But it has been said, and indeed proved true, that for all their ferocity and cunning, the barbarians are easily discouraged. They lack the spirit to stay the course. Let their scheme be thwarted and they surrender wildly to despair. They fall away; they die. Myrddin says it is because they do not know how to hope, and I believe him.

  We had only to run shouting at them, throwing our torches into their midst, and they faltered. Our simple surprise unnerved them. They yielded not to our swords, but to fear. And it was their doom.

  They might have rallied given time, but Arthur snatched that chance clean away. For the instant the barbarians turned to glance behind them at our onslaught, the dauntless Cymbrogi swarmed up and over the embankments. Fire on one side, Arthur on the other—little wonder that so many chose the flames.

  With deft, sure strokes we hewed them down. Though they had been a field of thistles, we could not have felled them so swiftly. All around us the enemy wailed. Where one or two brave battle lords stood to fight like men, a dozen others deserted king and kin. Thousands bolted into the dark refuge of the wood.

  “Bretwalda!”

  I heard the familiar voice and searched the melee for it. Not a hundred paces before me stood Arthur at the foot of the central mound, Caledvwlch streaming red in his hand. I ran to his side.

  “Bretwalda, I challenge you!” the Duke called boldly.

  From the earthmound above us came a great cry of rage. We looked up through the shining veil of smoke and flame and saw a knot of foemen clustered about the skull-and-bones standard of the Bretwalda. Out from the midst of his house carles roared Baldulf like a bull, his helm gleaming in the firelight, his axe shining dull red; blood drenched his sinewy arm to the elbow. Trampling without heed over the corpses of his kin, the battlechief plunged down the hillside straightway so that the force of his assault might be the greater.

  Arthur faced him unafraid. And when the Bretwalda leaped through the flame-curtain, his loathsome axe high in the air, the wily Arthur dodged aside, leaving only the sharp edge of his sword behind.

  Baldulf’s steel shirt saved him from the fatal thrust, but the frenzy of his attack carried him beyond Arthur. In trying to stop, his feet slid in the blood-soaked earth and he fell onto his back. Arthur was there and ready.

  Caledvwlch sang in the air. The thirsty blade bit deep, and Baldulf’s head rolled cleanly from his shoulders.

  Seeing their mighty Bretwalda slain, the barbarians fled, howling in despair and anguish. Their flight to the forest became a migration. Hundreds, thousands abandoned the field like dogs running from a scalding.

  Arthur strode to the severed head of his enemy and lifted the helm from its face. The bulging eyes that stared at him were not those of Baldulf; the face belonged to another man: Boerl, the Bretwalda’s kinsman.

  “They must have taken one another’s helms and weapons,” I observed.

  Arthur nodded. “It matters not. Baldulf has doomed himself.”

  The Duke signalled Rhys, who raised the hunting horn to his lips and sounded the rout. The Britons pursued the fleeing foemen into the darksome tracks and game runs of Celyddon. The wood echoed with the screams of the unfortunate. It was the sound of miserable defeat. I do not know any warrior who likes hearing it.

  But twilight comes early to the forest, and we could not run the enemy to ground. Many escaped in the dark.

  11

  “We will camp in the meadow and continue the pursuit at dawn,” declared Arthur. “I will have Baldulf in chains or see his body in the earth before I put up this sword.”

  He then ordered the care of the wounded and the plunder of the dead, and we worked steadily into the night, stripping the corpses by torchlight. The enemy dead were thrown into the earthwork ditches. The British fallen were wrapped in their cloaks, carried to the mound, and honorably put to the flame by the priests of Mailros. As the pyre lit the darkling sky, the good priests prayed the souls of our sword brothers on their way. Thus the bodies of our kinsmen and Cymbrogi did not suffer the gross humiliation of birds and beasts.

  When at last we staggered back across the river to the meadow, a pale moon shone through wisps of cloud. The campfires had been banked high; hot food and cold drink awaited. The warhost of the Island of the Mighty sank gratefully down upon the cool grass. The Duke made certain his men were well supplied with all they needed before turning to his own refreshment.

  The other lords did likewise, and I saw the clustered masses of our troops spread out along the river and across the meadow. Fewer, dear God, than had marched out this morning—an age ago that was. I felt old and weak.

  Arthur and I dragged ourselves to the place where Arthur’s tent had been set up. Myrddin waited there before the fire, and rose when we came near. “Sit you down,” he commanded. “I will bring food.”

  Without a word, Arthur collapsed into Uther’s camp chair. He sat there too exhausted to move. We had washed in the river, but the bloodstains on our clothing shone black in the firelight, and we were speckled with dark, crusted blotches.

  “It is a filthy business,” Arthur murmured, staring at his hands.

  I nodded. “That it is, Bear, that it is.”

  Myrddin returned with two stewards carrying meat and bread on a wooden tray, and beer in a huge jar. He quickly dismissed the stewards to other duties and began serving us with his own hand. Blind th
ough he was, the Emrys moved quickly and without hesitation. When I asked him how he knew where to find us, he laughed and answered, “By the smell of you, Most Fragrant Bedwyr! How else?”

  It was meant to cheer us, and did not fall far short of the mark. But I was too tired to laugh, and could not even manage a suitable smile. I drank my beer in silence, and ate some bread, forcing my jaws to chew. I think I have never eaten bread so tough; although it came apart in my hands easily enough, it was all I could do to choke it down. The venison was no better.

  While we ate, some of the other lords, having settled their men, joined us. Maelgwn and Maglos were first, and they were followed by Owain, Ogryvan, Idris, and Ceredig. These were eager for the division of the spoils, which they thought should take place at once as they saw no reason to delay.

  Arthur was not inclined to disappoint them, although I could see that his heart was not in it. “Bring the plunder here before me, and I will divide it out.”

  That is what they wanted to hear. Indeed, they were only waiting on Arthur’s word, for all at once men bearing arm-loads of treasure appeared. They came before the Duke and placed their burdens before his feet. Others came with meal-bags full of objects collected from the barbarian camp and corpses—gold and silver, brass, bronze and pewter bright-colored, with gems and with clever inlay: cups, bowls, trays, torcs, armrings, bracelets, brooches, mead jars, pins, knives, swords, belts, finger rings and rings for the ear, necklaces, caldrons, pots, fine furs, combs, hair ornaments, collars for dogs and for valued slaves, coins, mirrors, statues and idols of Woden, Thor, and Freya, razors, discs and plaques, spoons, circlet crowns, ingots large and small in the shape of axe-heads…and on and on.

  At first the gathered throng cheered to see the rich hoarding. Bag after bag and load upon load was brought forward, and the pile rose higher and still higher—the heap was fully as tall as Arthur himself! But as the trove swelled, the laughter and the cheering became less. The last trinket was placed upon the stack in total silence.