The Retreat to Avalon (The Arthurian Age Book 1)

by Sean Poage

  Another snicker from Riwal caused Gawain’s jaw to tighten. It was not the implication that Arthur may have manipulated events to his own advantage, but the snide attitude that expressed them. Gawain often heard comments suggesting Arthur desired the title of emperor, and while there was reason to believe it may be true, the evidence was sparse. In truth, Gawain was not sure he even cared. He changed the subject to the usual small talk themes, such as the lands they came from, families and so on.

  Coming off the hill, the land flattened out, with many small streams and scattered clumps of trees and brush. They followed an oak-lined path that soon passed the old Roman road, continuing north-west along a hard-packed trail.

  The terrain became more uneven, drier and less open. After a while, the scattered trees closed in around the road. Glyf said the forest was not large, and they would be out of it and see the Tor soon. Gawain was glad, as the day had turned warm and thick with humidity, and the trees blocked the cooling breeze.

  Not far into the woods, they came to a small stream that crossed the path, so they paused to let the horses have a drink. Gawain wiped sweat from his forehead and took a sip from his skin. He felt uneasy, peering out into the dim reaches of the trees. This was an ancient wood, and the cloudy day did nothing to cheer the view. Even the birds and insects were subdued by the heat and gloom.

  That snapped Gawain alert. He snatched up his horse’s reins, looking about and hissed for Glyf. In the stillness, it sounded like a shout, and the other three looked up, alarmed. A rustle came from the woods behind them, and Gawain turned and spurred his horse into a sudden leap forward. An arrow cracked into his chest with a sharp pain but failed to penetrate his mail. A man in rough skins and rags had stepped into the trail behind them, fitting another arrow to a bow.

  “MOVE!” Glyf screamed to the boys, spurring his horse forward. They were confused for a moment, then sprang after him in panic, following him further down the track into the woods.

  Gawain charged towards the man, slipping his spear from its rest and lowering it towards the man’s dirty head. The man smiled, let the arrow fly and stepped back into the trees. As the arrow passed by Gawain’s ear, he realised what was happening, a sick feeling hitting his stomach. He spun his horse sharply about and tried to catch up to the others.

  In the space of these few seconds, they would be too far ahead of him. He released the reins, trusting his horse to follow the path, and grabbed the hunting horn he kept slung on the saddle. He blew as loud a blast as he could, then several more as he careened along the path.

  Coming around a bend, he found his companions. His eyes took in the scene, and his mind instantly chose a course of action. The road had narrowed, and a rope stretched across the track at about neck high for the average rider. Glyf was unhorsed and struggling with a man on the ground. Meliau had managed to stop in time and had drawn his sword as another man leapt out of the trees with a short spear and crude shield. Riwal managed to duck under the rope and had stopped just past it, but another pair of dirty, ragged men with spears had blocked the path ahead of him. He sat paralysed, armed with only a long knife, unsure of turning his back to these men to help Glyf and Meliau.

  Gawain’s momentum carried him into the narrow space between Meliau’s horse and the trees, and unfortunately for the man aiming his spear at Meliau, right over him. Gawain did not even have time to aim his spear properly and missed, but the man was knocked flat. Gawain dropped his spear, vaulted out of his saddle and drew his sword, the old Roman spatha. He charged towards Glyf, who was on his back, desperately trying to hold his attacker’s knife away from his throat. This man, as filthy and ragged as the others, looked up in time to see Gawain, but not the sword that caught him on the side of the head, crushing the skull more than cutting it, and sending a spray of blood, bone and brains across Gawain and Glyf.

  In the instant after his blade had struck and he had skidded to a stop, Gawain experienced a moment of awe, elation, shock and horror at his actions. But a cry from Meliau caused him to spin to his left, just in time to avoid having Meliau’s attacker plant his spear firmly between his shoulder blades. Instead, it cut the back of his arm and skipped off his mailed back.

  Gawain stepped towards him, swinging for the man’s head in an overhand arc. The attacker threw his shield up, catching Gawain’s sword on the round iron boss in the shield’s centre. Then he jammed the bottom edge of the shield back at Gawain’s face and stabbed at him with the spear.

  The shield caught Gawain on the chin, cutting his jaw, but he managed to turn away from the spear point. In doing so, he pulled the shield towards his left, pivoting and stabbing towards the man’s back with the spatha.

  It felt different, the balance was off, and the man grunted as the sword hit him but did not penetrate. It had bent when it had struck the shield’s boss. Gawain dropped it, grabbing for his long knife as the man spun back to face Gawain, readying his spear for another thrust. His arm cocked back, but then he lost his balance as Glyf yanked his leg.

  The man cursed and stabbed at Glyf with his spear, but missed as Glyf rolled away. That gave Gawain the moment he needed to tackle the man’s shield arm, spinning him around and face first to the ground, Gawain landing on top of him. Before he had a moment to move, Gawain began stabbing furiously into the man’s right armpit and side. The man let out a scream of pain, rage and fear, then went limp.

  Gawain rolled off to sit on the ground, his right hand and arm covered in blood, the back of his left arm burning. The two men threatening Riwal had fled into the wood after Gawain killed Glyf’s attacker and Meliau had rushed to his brother’s side.

  Glyf groaned and pulled himself up to kneel. He was battered and had a painful red rope burn covering the front of his throat to his chin.

  Meliau swung his sword and severed the rope, and he and Riwal trotted back to Gawain and Glyf.

  “No, stay mounted,” Gawain waved to them, trying to slow his breathing. “We must leave immediately in case a second attack is attempted. But first, Glyf, help me search these men, find out who they are.”

  “They’re common brigands,” Glyf replied, getting painfully to his feet. “Unlikely to have anything of worth.”

  “They’re probably Arthur’s men,” Riwal muttered.

  “What?” Gawain’s head spun towards him. Riwal jumped and paused before continuing.

  “Along the path we would take, barely halfway to our destination in the most protected lands of Britain, we’re ambushed,” Riwal began tentatively but grew bolder. “Why send us to the ship now? We came here with Aergol. If we are so honoured, why did he send us with only two guards? My brother is foolish to think Arthur intends to return our lands to us.”

  “Even this region is not entirely free from outlaws who prey upon travellers,” Glyf answered, looking less convinced than he sounded. Meliau looked troubled but said nothing.

  Gawain felt the heat rising in his head, so he slowly stood and turned to face Riwal, pointing at him with his blood covered arm and knife.

  “Make such accusations again, boy,” Gawain growled, “and I will cut out your tongue and pin it to your chest with this knife.”

  Riwal paled and shrunk into his saddle. Meliau’s eyes widened, and he held up his hands. “Lord, please forgive my brother; he suffers from the disease of youth, his thoughts untempered by wisdom.” He turned to Riwal and continued.

  “Arthur has been as a father to us, and I do not believe he harbours any designs for our lives or our lands. Let this be the end of such thoughts.”

  Gawain grunted and turned to search the body of the spearman, while Glyf did the same with his attacker. Neither found anything of interest. Gawain stood for a moment, staring at the spearman, then knelt and used his knife to clumsily hack the head off the corpse. He pulled the shirt from the body, tied it into a sack, stuffed it with leaves and the head, then tied it to his saddle.

&nbs
p; “Taking trophies?” Glyf asked. Centuries before, it was common for Britons to take the heads of their enemies but the practice was very rare these days, except among pagans.

  “Of course not,” Gawain retorted, still irritated by Riwal’s comments. “We’ll show this to Melwas. Perhaps he knows something of this.” He stared thoughtfully at the other body for a moment before stepping over and cutting the head off of that one as well.

  “This one’s not identifiable, but let’s confuse the brigands if they return for the bodies,” Gawain said, throwing it deep into the woods.

  Gawain cleaned his knife then collected his spear and bent sword. That was a tremendous disappointment. He gripped the hilt, placed the point against a tree root and used his foot to bend it back straight enough to sheath. Quickly bandaging his arm, he remounted, and they set off again for Ynys Witrin, but at a much quicker pace and without conversation, wary of any sign of another ambush.

  Finally coming out of the woods, the road crossed marshland along a raised causeway bordered by oak trees or small plots of tilled land. A few low hills rose from the marshes, with one steep summit rising far above the others in a tall, elongated and terraced peak topped by a palisaded fort. This was their destination, Ynys Witrin, the Isle of Glass, where Melwas maintained his hall. A small river, the Brue, crossed their path to it, and marshes surrounded it, giving it the appearance of an island. At low tide in dry times it became more like a peninsula, with a neck of land connecting it to the higher ground to the east. It was an ancient place, said to be the gateway to the fairies’ realm. Some said it was they who carved the seven maze-like terraces that circled the peak.

  The road turned northerly, aiming for the south-western spur, and soon they arrived at a wooden bridge over the Brue. To their right, the river widened into a small lake fed from somewhere to the south-east. Before crossing, they paused so Gawain could scrub the dried blood from his skin and hair. His shirt was ruined. Continuing on, they followed the road along the northern side of the first low hill. They passed a few hovels whose occupants paid them little attention. Beyond those, in a flat space between the hills, lay the vallum and wooden palisade enclosing a small community of monks. Another half mile along a shady avenue of ancient oaks brought them to the base of the Tor.

  The hill’s highest point faced north-east, away from them, and a path followed the spine of the ridge to its summit. A stable and shack stood off the trail, as leading horses up the steep climb would be difficult. Beneath some tall bushes, a pair of soldiers sat on logs. They looked up at Gawain’s party, more irritated at the interruption than interested in the visitors. Gawain regarded them in distaste. Their appearance was sloppy, their kit uncared for, spears and shields out of reach against the wall of the shack.

  “Who are you?” one of the guards asked sullenly.

  “I am Gawain, here to speak to Melwas, on command of the Rigotamos.”

  The attitudes of the men changed somewhat, though Gawain was not sure how much it had to do with his assertive tone or the mention of the Rigotamos. In any event, the men took their horses and directed them to follow the path to the fort above.

  It was a strenuous climb, and none spoke as they trudged up the steep track. Gawain was tired, his head down, not taking in the view as he replayed the battle in his mind. His thoughts turned to Rhian.

  At the wall encircling the summit, they were met by another pair of soldiers at the gate. These were as slovenly and ill-mannered as the first two, if somewhat more attentive. Seeing Arthur’s seal, they admitted the visitors, and one led them towards a small hall in the centre of the compound. Beyond the building rose a wooden beacon tower. A single soldier sat on the railing along the top, watching them. They did not see any other soldiers. The fort was not well cared for, the barracks were in poor repair, and the entire place smelled as if the midden was too close.

  Entering the hall, they found it empty, apart from a portly man with lank, greasy hair sprawled on a pile of cushions near the hearth. He wore only a long dingy tunic and had a cup at his elbow and a scattering of parchments and scrolls on the floor around him. A young girl in a flimsy shift sat beside the hearth and poked listlessly at the fire, not even looking up at the visitors.

  “Hmm, the young princes with their escorts, I presume?” Melwas drawled. “Your boat will arrive tomorrow with the incoming tide. In the meantime, feel free to help yourself to wine and food.” He gestured to a table on the wall behind him bearing a cask and plate of bread, dried fish and cheese. “I cannot hope to match the hospitality of the magnanimous Rigotamos,” he said airily, “but I hope that what he has left me will suit your needs while you are my guests.”

  The other three looked sceptically about, as Gawain stepped closer to Melwas holding the bag with the head in it. The smell of blood was strong, and the leaves had not kept it from soaking through the cloth.

  “I am Gawain, tasked by the Rigotamos to bring Meliau and Riwal to your care,” Gawain spoke politely, but with authority. He did not like this man on sight. “I now release them to you.”

  “Yes, fine.” Melwas glanced up, showing little interest before turning his attention to a parchment within his reach. “Will you be returning today?” he asked in a hopeful tone.

  Gawain hesitated, glancing at Glyf. “I will, after I’ve located Myrddin, who I’m told is here.” Glyf had a momentary look of fear before regaining his composure.

  “Ah, well, he was, earlier,” Melwas looked up again, clearing his throat nervously. “Though he tends to arrive and depart unexpectedly. You might enquire at the gate. Is there anything else?”

  “There is.” Gawain reached into the bag, pulled the head out by its hair and held it up. “While in the forest south of here, we were ambushed by at least five men, two of whom have been sent to their final judgement.”

  “And you felt the need to bring that mess into my hall to inform me of this?” Melwas growled.

  “I had hoped you might have some knowledge of who they were,” Gawain said. “Perhaps even recognise this man.”

  “Is there some reason you should expect me to recognise him?” Melwas’ eyes narrowed, his tone turning icy.

  “None, lord.” Gawain sensed he had crossed a line. “But it was closer to your hall than to Cadubrega, and I thought you might have an interest.”

  Melwas peered at Gawain for a moment before taking a closer look at the dead face. “I have never seen that man,” Melwas finally answered. “Though from his appearance, I would suspect he is a Scoti outlaw. Probably a member of one of the raiding bands that tried to colonise the coastline to the south. Did any of them speak?”

  “No, not a word,” Gawain answered.

  “That’s too bad,” Melwas shrugged. “Though it makes it more likely that they were Scoti, hiding their origins. Unfortunately, I do not have the resources to dispatch patrols or investigate occasional rumours of outlaw bands.” He returned to the parchment in front of him. “Now remove that stinking thing from my hall.”

  Gawain stood for a moment, wanting to ask more questions, even demand information, but it would likely get him nothing but frustration, or worse. He nodded and turned to leave, followed by Glyf and the two brothers.

  Outside, they stopped to look around. The dark clouds from the morning covered the sky, and it smelled like rain.

  “I don’t care to stay here tonight,” Glyf said, “but it looks like a storm’s coming, and I’m not fond of travel in such weather.”

  “I agree, on both counts,” Gawain nodded, still glowering. “We’ll need to ride long and hard tomorrow.” He turned to the brothers.

  “I imagine you’ll want to refresh yourselves and rest for tomorrow,” he said. “I wish you both a fair journey and safe arrival.”

  “Will you not join us for a drink?” Meliau asked.

  “I’m sorry, but I have other tasks yet to complete, and I’m exhausted. But
I hope one day we shall meet again and have that drink.” Gawain smiled at Meliau, avoiding the gaze of his brother.

  Meliau reached out and grasped Gawain’s hand in both of his.

  “Thank you, Gawain, for your valour today,” he said. “We owe you our lives. I have nothing here to reward you as you deserve, but please accept this.” He pulled his sheathed sword from his belt and pressed it into Gawain’s hands. “This was my father’s sword, Galuth, forged in Germania and wielded against Atilla’s hordes. It deserves hands just as valiant.”

  “I cannot take your father’s sword!” Gawain gasped, his embarrassment and discomfort turning to shock. “I did nothing but my duty.” He tried to hand it back to Meliau, who stepped back and refused to take it.

  “It would honour me if you would accept it,” he said. “And wield it in the coming war towards a better future for my home. Please do not refuse.”

  Gawain stood speechless for a moment, then glanced at Glyf, who looked impressed, and Riwal, who stood in open-mouthed indignation. That sealed it, and he accepted, embracing Meliau and thanking him for his generosity. “I’d give you my sword, but that would be more insult than exchange.” Meliau laughed and said it was not necessary.

  “You have all the marks of a great king,” Gawain said, looking at the new sword. The scabbard was brown leather, as was the well-worn grip. The narrow hilt was of bronze plates, etched in intricate knot patterns, with polished bone between. The pommel was similar, though with a rounded cap. It slid from the wool-lined scabbard to reveal a blade like none he had seen before. His spatha was of polished steel, with a raised ridge running down the centre to give the blade strength. This one bore a wide, shallow fuller running the length of both sides of the blade. The metal had a darker appearance which, on closer inspection, showed that the bright steel had myriad fine, grey lines curling throughout, adding to its beauty. The edge was keen and the balance perfect. This was a warrior’s tool, not an ostentatious showpiece.