King Arthur: Warrior of the West: Book Two

by M. K. Hume

  The Brigante cleared his throat and spat bloody sputum on to the soiled mud.

  ‘Aye! It’s stupid trying to kill Saxons when my nose is half off. Hold my place in the line, Arden Knife. I’ll return before the Saxons find the nerve to come at us again.’

  Then, as an afterthought, he held out his sword hand in the ancient symbol of brotherhood.

  ‘My name is Melwy of Verterae, and I’m proud to stand beside you.’

  Conscious of the honour offered to him, Bedwyr wiped his sword hand on his bloody tunic and gripped the Brigante’s proffered hand and wrist.

  ‘They’ll be calling you Melwy Scarface from now on, I’m thinking, my friend. Aye! I’ll hold your place in the line for you while Lord Merlinus gives you a new nose.’

  Both men laughed and Melwy ambled away, still ruefully examining his damaged blade.

  As he sat in the mud and honed the edges of his sword while waiting for the next attack, Bedwyr marvelled at the camaraderie of the battlefield. Men fought and suffered together, and the diversities of tribe, status and wealth became mere affectations in the brotherhood of death.

  Then Bedwyr forgot Melwy Scarface completely.

  Artor had commenced the battle with two hundred and fifty effective warriors in his reduced command, apart from the fifty archers and another thirty non-combatants. A small group of camp followers, fierce women who followed their men on to the battlefield, assembled slings, stones and even knives for the time when they would be needed. The High King had lost sixty men on the shield wall, a loss he couldn’t sustain with every attack. The Saxon dead were now piled six feet high, but Glamdring’s massed army seemed as large as ever as they recovered in the shelter of the trees.

  Artor sighed. Three days was a very long time.

  ‘Have no doubts, boy,’ Targo muttered as he pulled a strip of rag over a superficial wound on one arm. ‘I’ve slowed down a bit over the years, else I’d not have been touched. The battle goes well, Artor. We have lost one of ours to two of theirs in these first probes, but soon it will be one of ours to three of theirs. Your tactics have worked so far, boy, so you must have faith. Lot and Llanwith will come, and we will still be here to welcome them back into the fold.’

  The High King bit his lip. So far, he had not even had an opportunity to draw his sword, and he deplored the need for good men to die while he issued orders in relative safety.

  He walked amongst the men and explained his plans to his warriors. If they could endure for two more days, Glamdring Ironfist would be caught in a destructive web of sharp iron. He would be finished, and they could return to their homes and a life of peace and plenty.

  ‘I won’t lie to you and say that this siege will be easy,’ he told them. ‘We could lose this battle, because we are gravely outnumbered. But I refuse to believe that Celtic hearts are less stubborn and disciplined than Saxon might. Let Glamdring batter against our defences; we will not crumble. When the Saxons come again, I will fight with you if someone will lend me a spear and a shield.’

  ‘No, lord, no,’ one warrior called out. ‘You must control the battle, or we will all perish. We can hold. We will hold!’

  Artor bowed his head in homage to the man’s courage, and told his warriors how privileged he was to lead such exceptional patriots. He also explained Bedwyr’s use of the sharpened shield edge as a weapon and, after viewing the Cornovii, sticky with Saxon blood from head to toe, the waiting soldiers took out their whetstones and commenced working on the edges of their own shields.

  Then, in the afternoon, shortly after each man had consumed his rations of stale bread, a heel of cheese and clean water, the Saxons began their next attack.

  Glamdring had been busy developing a new strategy. Perhaps the words of Gaheris had come back to haunt him, for this time his warriors were not at the point of the attack column. A line of peasant archers moved warily through the long grass to a point just out of reach of Pelles’s conventional short bows, while the warriors of Glamdring’s main force remained along the tree line just out of arrow range.

  A fusillade of Saxon arrows struck the shield wall with such force that they almost passed completely through the wooden shields.

  ‘Hell’s kitchen!’ Targo swore. ‘Those longbows are the work of a demon.’

  ‘Then it’s handy that we have ten of them,’ Artor replied. ‘Pelles,’ he shouted to the commander of the bowmen. ‘Select your best men to use our longbows. Move them forward so that they are in the lee of the Saxon bodies. They can use them as a shield to pick Glamdring’s archers off one by one. The Saxons are in the open and should be easy targets. Get to it.’

  Pelles took one of the bows for himself, and nine other exceptional archers were issued with the remaining weapons. Rushing forward to the protection of the barricades, each stood, unleashed an arrow, and then ducked back into safety.

  Most of the arrows had not been pitched correctly and simply buried themselves harmlessly in the earth, but Pelles’s aim was true.

  The other archers quickly adjusted their trajectories to match the aim of their leader.

  ‘That Pelles is worth his weight in gold ingots,’ Targo crowed as two more Saxon archers fell to the ground.

  ‘Save it for later, Targo. Here they come again.’

  And so the whole, grim reaping of death began again. The battlefield had become a struggle of wills, of attrition, as both sides suffered losses, but the flower of west Saxon manhood was sacrificing itself on soil that was churned into red mud.

  During the height of the battle, Artor heard a high-pitched whine, and something struck him hard under the arm in the narrow gap between his cuirasses and his shoulder greaves. He staggered backwards with the force of the blow, and saw a feathered shaft protruding from the side of his shoulder.

  ‘Dear Mithras!’ Targo gasped. ‘You’re hit!’

  ‘Snap off the shaft and adjust my cloak over it. It doesn’t matter if you hurt me. My men must see that I am standing with them.’

  Targo obeyed, although the wound made a strange sucking sound and Artor was very pale. Targo gestured to Pelles who summed up the situation in a glance. Ten pairs of eyes scanned the ground beyond the struggling morass of men until Pelles notched an arrow, lifted the longbow and fired, all in one smooth action.

  Targo watched the flight of the arrow, and saw a rough-clad Saxon fall back against the wall of Saxon dead, skewered neatly through the throat by Pelles’s shaft.

  Targo grinned savagely and stood beside his king as he tried desperately to stay upright.

  ‘At least the bastard who shot you is dead, but there could be others charged with doing the same thing. If you are killed, then we all lose. Can I call for Myrddion?’ Targo begged.

  ‘No. Not yet. My men will lose heart if I leave the field of battle and, if that happens, Glamdring will defeat them. If the standard of the Red Dragon is fated to fall, it will not be because I ran from the field of combat at the first scratch. Let them try to kill me.’

  ‘Very well then, boy,’ Targo agreed. ‘But at least let me take some precautions.’

  A young messenger was acting as a courier between the two flanks of Artor’s army, and Targo intercepted him, whispered in his ear and sent him to Pelles.

  Once he had heard the message, Pelles waved his arm in acknowledgement, and two of his archers with longbows scaled the mound of Celtic dead. Their task was to scan the field with arrows notched and ready to fire at any Saxon bowmen who should target Artor.

  Meanwhile, the High King concentrated his scattered wits on the melee before him. Although breathing was difficult and his chest was one long protest of pain, he did not have the luxury of time to allow his wound to affect his control of the battle.

  ‘Double the line, Targo. And send the first line forward by one step. The Saxons will be caught between the wall of their own dead and our warriors and won’t have room to manoeuvre.’

  Targo looked out at the desperate struggle. He sensed that the will of the Celts
was beginning to buckle.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Do as I say,’ Artor shouted over the screams of dying men. ‘And then order Pelles to hit the Saxons with every arrow we have. There is to be nothing held in reserve. Now!’

  Targo had no choice but to obey. Perversely, when they were told that Artor wished them to advance one step and then hunker down into the Tortoise, the weakest men found extra strength. Those warriors who had time to look behind could see Artor, proudly standing in the open on a slight incline of ground. He seemed unafraid of the enemy weaponry. The warriors believed he had consummate faith in their abilities, and so their spirits responded to his trust.

  Caught in a narrow defile, the Saxons died under the withering rain of arrows from the Celtic bowmen until Glamdring was forced to order his warriors to retreat to their positions along the tree line.

  Both armies took the time to lick their wounds.

  ‘Move all my warriors back by six spear lengths,’ Artor panted. ‘And collect all arrows and weapons as before. Then rebuild the wall of Saxon dead so that it has a different opening leading into our barricades. We must make them pay for every life they take.’

  ‘You are sorely wounded, sire,’ Luka murmured. The young messenger had told him of Artor’s plight, and he had hurried back from the left flank during a lull in the battle.

  Artor fixed him with his flat and impenetrable eyes.

  ‘Luka, get back . . . to your . . . position.’

  Luka could see that every word hurt Artor, yet he fled from the scorn in the king’s eyes. There was no sign of softness or weakness in the Artor of thirty-eight years of age, and not one corner of his heart was unguarded. Even an old friend like himself must serve in the role that Artor had planned for him.

  ‘You look at me as if I was a monster, Targo. But who will hold you all together if I don’t do it? Those whom the gods would destroy . . .’ Artor’s voice trailed away.

  ‘They first make mad?’ Targo shook his tired old head. ‘I don’t think so, my son. The Greek who coined that ancient truism didn’t know you. The gods love you, Artor, mad or not, as they never loved your father. And we love you too.’

  The last words were uttered in a bare whisper that, in his pain, Artor did not hear. He stood, four square upon the rising ground, until the afternoon gave way to early evening and the men were permitted to rest, to eat and, in turn, to sleep.

  ‘Will you see Myrddion now, my lord?’ Targo asked.

  Artor sighed and permitted his shoulders to slump.

  ‘Yes, I will see Myrddion now.’

  CHAPTER IX

  A SEASON IN HADES

  Myrddion’s small kingdom was a kind of hell. The stench of the dead was a persistent itch in his nostrils, not sharp and sweet yet, for death was still young, but wet and heavy, like an empty sickroom after the patient has died.

  Men lay on makeshift pallets in the circle of the wagons. Glassy-eyed with poppy juice, they bore wounds of varying severity: the bloody stumps of amputation by sword or axe; the gut-piercing wounds of arrows that stank like death already; and the delirium of head wounds that few men survived. Those who bore lesser wounds had already rejoined their fellow soldiers, bearing their bandages, stitches and slings like heroes. They would rather kill again and again before they joined the living dead of the knoll.

  Myrddion and his healers worked on tirelessly. While his leather apron was covered in dried and fresh blood, his fastidious hands were clean, for he had noticed that dirty hands hastened putrefaction. He had ordered regular supplies of boiled river water, trusting that water from the brackish tides would be clean. Similarly, every rag used on a patient was washed before it touched another man, just as Myrddion himself laved his hands before he touched a new patient. Men still died, but other men swore that the devil’s spawn saved more lives than he lost.

  Myrddion was holding a dying man’s hand, pretending to be his father, offering a harmless lie as comfort, when Odin assisted Artor into the circle of the dying. Myrddion’s face blanched at Artor’s extreme pallor, but his voice did not cease its soft, country cadences as he talked about the lambing on the morrow, and the young calves frolicking in the upper meadows. The eyes of his patient had the pinpoint pupils of poppy juice, and he soon fell asleep, lulled by his father’s talk of ordinary, familiar things.

  Myrddion extricated his hand gently and kissed the closed, fluttering eyelids. The young man smiled as he dreamed.

  ‘Will he live, Myrddion?’ Artor asked quietly as the healer joined him and plunged his hands into clean water.

  ‘No. He’s been disembowelled. He will die by morning regardless of what I do. If the gods are kindly he will dream through the night, at least as long as the poppy lasts, and I promise he will feel no pain.’

  Myrddion’s serene face was infinitely sad and Artor began to truly understand what his chief counsellor achieved on the battlefield. If a dying man needed a lover, a friend, a wife, or a parent, Myrddion took their place. He said everything that was needed to bring peace and heart balm to the sufferers, and allowed brave men to die wrapped in the arms of loved ones who were far away. Although he never struck a blow, Myrddion Merlinus had the grace and the gravity of a hero.

  Artor’s head began to spin, and he almost fainted.

  ‘Come, Artor,’ Myrddion ordered, as he immediately took the younger man’s weight. ‘I have a clean pallet just for you. Let me see what you have done to yourself.’

  Artor recoiled from Myrddion’s touch.

  ‘No. I cannot lie with these men. I cannot be ill, for too much depends on tomorrow’s battles. Take out the arrowhead and wrap me tightly. Come what may, I must be seen to be in command when dawn lights the day.’

  Myrddion smiled gently with complete understanding.

  ‘If you are dying, Lord Artor, I will tell you so. If you are not, then you will do what I say. Odin, strip your master to the waist.’

  For once, Odin evaded Artor’s febrile hands and obeyed Myrddion. The cuirass was removed, followed by the leather jerkin, and both men’s faces paled as they saw the deep staining of Artor’s woollen undershirt. When his chest was bared, the stump of the arrow was revealed.

  ‘How are you breathing, my lord?’ Myrddion asked gently.

  ‘It hurts, but the air still goes in and out,’ Artor replied with grim humour. ‘No, Myrddion, I do not have a sucking chest wound, but talking is painful.’

  Myrddion examined Artor’s back and pressed lightly on the swelling muscle under the shoulder. Despite his clenched teeth, Artor cried out and his face greyed even further. Targo was sure his master would faint, but Artor struggled to remain in an upright position.

  ‘Well, Myrddion? You promised me the truth.’

  ‘The arrow has passed almost completely through your body. I must cut into your back to draw the arrowhead out with the shaft attached. I think you may also have broken your shoulder bone - which accounts for the pain - but, no, this is not a sucking lung wound. That injury would have resulted in your death.’

  ‘Then start cutting. I must return to my post.’

  Myrddion laughed lightly. ‘No, my king! You are now in my hellish little domain, and I consider your wound serious. Yes, I will patch you up so you can join your troops at dawn, perhaps, but unless you have a wish to depart this earth, you must consign your body into my care. At least for tonight.’

  ‘Shite!’ Artor swore, for Myrddion rarely lied, and never to him.

  He nodded to Targo. ‘Take my place in the line, Targo,’ he said softly. ‘Tell any warriors who ask that Myrddion is sewing up a minor wound, and that I will rejoin them at dawn.’

  ‘Me? I’ve never been in command before. You know how I feel about officers.’

  Artor clenched his teeth as Myrddion explored the wound around the arrow shaft.

  ‘Do as I bid you. Immediately!’

  ‘Shite, boy! Me? An officer? I’ve avoided that responsibility for forty years or more.’

  ‘You bec
ame an officer on the day I became High King, so don’t argue with me. Just obey the orders you’ve been given.’ Then Artor grinned. ‘Remember, if you make a mistake, you’re dead.’

  ‘By all the gods!’ a disgruntled Targo snapped as he moved slowly out of the circle of suffering.

  Myrddion continued to probe at the small entry wound on Artor’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m going to hurt you now, Artor. You may use the poppy juice if you wish, but I’d rather you were awake to let me know if I strike some vital spot. Odin will hold you down, and I need you to grip this strip of leather firmly between your teeth. Biting through your tongue is the last thing I need to happen.’

  Artor shook his head firmly. ‘There’ll be no poppy juice. We’ll do it your way, old man. Just don’t let your knife slip, for I fear that Odin wouldn’t understand.’

  Odin and another healer held the king upright on the pallet, his arms firmly imprisoned by his side. Still another burly man sat on the king’s legs, while Myrddion secured the strip of leather inside Artor’s mouth.

  ‘This hurts me more than it hurts you,’ Myrddion joked, and made a fast incision into Artor’s back with a narrow, razor-sharp blade.

  Artor’s whole body bucked with the shock of the sudden pain.

  ‘Hold him fast,’ Myrddion ordered, and the blade sliced through flesh and muscle once again, this time deep into Artor’s back. The king’s brow was thick with a cold sweat, and his teeth bit deeply into the leather. It was only Odin’s massive strength that kept him motionless as Myrddion used a fire-cleansed skewer to probe the open wound.

  ‘Aaah!’ he cried. ‘I’ve found the point of the metal.’

  As Myrddion probed deeper into the wound, Artor’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slipped into unconsciousness.

  ‘Good! Now we must work fast.’

  Myrddion’s fingers were slick with blood but he did not attempt to clean them. Instead, he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the wound, parting tendons and muscle physically as he prepared a path through which the arrowhead would pass.