by Jack Whyte
"Now, Brother, this is the insane part I mentioned. Take off your helmet. Did you notice the boulders?"
"What boulders?"
"Two of them, one to each side of the summit of the knoll. Listen!" He cocked his head, pointing his right ear in the direction of the farm beyond the hilltop. I could hear nothing, but he relaxed, his face breaking into a smile again.
"There are two large piles of rocks, one over yonder to our left, the other that way, on the right. I noticed them this morning. They are similar in size, and almost equidistant from the largest oak tree on the summit there." He nodded towards the massive tree that crowned the knoll above and behind us. "About sixty, perhaps seventy-five paces between them. Now, please don't ask me where the idea came from." His grin grew wider. "You wear the silver bear on your black cloak. Mine has no emblem. But both cloaks are white inside, so that, reversed, they are identical. And so are we, especially when we remove our helms and let our hair hang free. And even more when we do this." He had been looking down at the ground by his feet and now he stooped quickly to a small puddle that had been churned into mud by animal hooves, goats and sheep. The surplus water had soaked into the ground, and the remaining mud gleamed black and viscous. He scooped up a handful of the stuff and smeared it diagonally down the left side of his face, coating it from forehead to chin, so that the stuff caked in the hollow of his eye. He dug out the surplus with a fingertip before continuing.
"If you do the same thing now, carefully, we will be identical and indistinguishable from far less than a hundred paces. After that, as each of us steps from hiding, from behind his own pile of rock, in sequence, Brother, and never both at the same time, it will seem as though one and the same man is shooting, moving from rock to rock at magical speed, without being seen to move at all. What say you?"
I found my tongue at last. "What can I say? You're right, it is insane. Completely insane."
He laughed. "Aye, but it will work. These Saxons are a superstitious breed and for them, white is the colour of death, dread and mourning."
I expelled my breath in a gust and bent to scoop up my own handful of mud, which I then applied to my own face, taking care to do it exactly as he had, caking it thickly on my own forehead and in the hollow of my eye, between brow and cheekbone, before scooping it out again with a fingertip. As I completed the task, the sound of shouting reached us from behind the hill.
"It has begun," Ambrose said. "We should take our places now, while their attention is centred on the farm buildings. The most difficult part for us will be getting from here to the rocks without being seen from below, but if we move quickly and carefully, we should be able to manage it. After that, it's simply a question of staying out of sight once we're in place and hidden. Which side do you want?"
I shrugged. "Makes no difference. You realise our bows are completely different? Mine curves one way, yours another. They don't look even faintly similar."
"From the distance at which we'll be shooting? All they will see is a yellow-haired man with a white cloak, a half-black face and a long bow, and when they see how magically he moves from side to side they'll be too afraid even to notice, let alone analyze, the difference in our bows.
"Let's go, and wait for me to shoot first. When I have loosed, give me a count of five to hide myself again, then you step out and fire. I'll do the same . . . a five count after you, I'll shoot again. I'm nowhere near as good a marksman as you are, but let's hope they don't notice that down there."
It took me some time to work my way into position on the left flank of the hill, and I had to crawl through high bracken for about a hundred paces in order to reach the rock pile. Once there, however, I was able to observe what was happening in the farm yard below, slightly more than a hundred paces from where I crouched.
The inhabitants had evidently taken shelter in the main house, for the shutters were closed over the windows, barred from the inside. At least one of them, I saw, had a bow, because two helmeted corpses sprawled in the open yard before the house, the arrows which had killed them clearly discernible from where I was.
A knot of eight or ten of the attackers—their positioning made it difficult to see clearly—huddled in the lee of the outhouse closest to me, and I saw smoke wisping up above them. The other attackers were scattered around the farmhouse, keeping low and out of sight from the shuttered windows. They must have been driven off by the defenders while I was making my way down through the bracken on the hillside. Even as I looked, however, several of them darted forward towards the house from different directions, one of them swinging a great, two-headed axe at the door of the building and two others battering at the shuttered windows. At the same time, under the cover of these diversions, one of the main group broke away and ran towards the house, whirling a smoking object round his head and plainly intent upon firing the thatch of the building. I sensed, rather than saw movement to my right, and then Ambrose loosed his first arrow.
His modest claim to poor marksmanship was set at naught immediately, as the running man below went flying sideways, knocked off his feet by the power of the missile that killed him. The swinging firebrand he had held arced briefly and uselessly, falling to the ground several paces short of the building. I began to count immediately.
For the first four of my counts, all movement was suspended below, and then I saw faces turned upward to where Ambrose yet stood in plain view, some seventy paces to my right. He allowed them to note him clearly, then stepped back into safety behind his rocks as the first retaliatory arrow came uphill, seeking him. I began my count again, and as I counted, the man at the front door dropped his great axe and ran to recover the burning firebrand, snatching it up and swinging it around his head as I stepped into view, an arrow already nocked and partway drawn. I sighted and loosed in one movement and he, too, went down as though smitten by his own great axe. This time, however, the firebrand landed on top of the dead man. A shout of surprise came up to me clearly and, knowing now that Ambrose could see me, I stood there a moment longer, then drew another arrow from my quiver, sighted, and brought down a second man. Five bodies now lay sprawled in the yard. Unhurriedly, I stepped back and out of sight.
"Yours," I called to Ambrose.
"Glutton," he called back, his voice pitched so that I only could hear him. "Can you see me when I shoot?"
"Yes."
"Good. I can see you, too, so take what targets are offered. I'm up now. Two arrows."
He stepped into view again and the cries of consternation from below were immediate. The tongue was alien to me, but the content was unmistakable. How did he do that? How did he get there so quickly?
His next arrow took a man in the leg. The one after that missed altogether, smacking into a wall as its intended target threw himself flat and scurried into shelter on all fours behind a wooden cattle trough, unknowing that he had left himself exposed to me.
When Ambrose stepped back and I exposed myself mere moments later, easily killing the man who had escaped my brother's arrow, the shouts of the surviving Saxons turned to wails. And then I found myself searching in vain for another target, since the farm yard suddenly appeared to be deserted, not a living body, a limb, or even a fraction of a protruding limb in sight. I held my second arrow, unwilling to waste it, and stepped back behind my rock, leaving Ambrose to shoot at anything he might see, but he, too, lacked a target and we had reached a stalemate, although that condition could not last. I resigned myself to waiting until someone should move below, and then all at once the shutters on the farmhouse windows swung open and bowmen, at least two of them, began shooting from inside the house, striking death and confusion into the attackers trapped between the outhouses fronting the house. Ambrose and I had already established a crossfire, driving the attackers into the only shelter available to them, the spaces between the outhouses, protected from us, but exposed to the farmhouse itself. Now, encouraged by our assistance, the farm's defenders took advantage of the targets exposed to them, adding a thi
rd, triangulated angle of attack.
Ambrose was still in place, looking down on the scene, and as the remaining survivors of what had been the central knot of attackers scattered, panic-stricken, from this new assault, he fired again and I saw his arrow strike sparks from a flint as it struck the ground between the feet of a fleeing man.
"Yours," he called, ducking quickly out of sight. "Take what you can, now!"
I emerged immediately, as soon as he was out of sight, and I had two clear targets, both of whom I shot, although neither shot was fatal. The move, however, completed the demoralization of the raiders and their attack was over as first one, then all who could, began to flee back the way they had come. I stood and watched them run, waiting until they began to converge, inevitably, at the entrance to the pathway leading back to the distant barn. I estimated a dozen of them, at least one of whom was wounded, and sent two final arrows hissing among them as added encouragement to speed them on their way. One arrow, at least, found a mark and then suddenly, there was silence.
I stepped back then to lean against my rock, scanning the ground below. Six dead men lay in clear view, and I guessed that at least a couple of others, shot from the windows of the house, must be concealed from my view by the intervening buildings, byres and storage sheds between which they had been trapped when seeking shelter from our arrows. We had counted twenty- four in the original party. A dozen had fled back along the path; six lay dead in view. I had wounded several and Ambrose at least one. The count seemed accurate enough and I suspected several injured men might still be lying in concealment down there. I heard sounds approaching from my right and Ambrose joined me, still crouching low among the bracken.
"What now?" I asked him as he crept up. "Do we show ourselves?"
"Not yet, and don't look at me. There are still at least ten of them out there and they might be watching from the safety of the trees. If they see that we are two, instead of one with magic powers, they might not be amused, and might not be so easy to discourage next time. Don't forget there were two who came ahead of the others. I don't know if they joined the main attack, but they may have remained outside, watching from concealment to guard against surprises."
"You mean like the one we gave them? They were not very effective if they were there."
"No, but who can guard against magic?" Ambrose was smiling again, his eyes watching the farm yard.
"Well, if they were there, watching, they know there are two of us. They must have seen us ride up here. They'll know there is no magic involved."
"Nonsense." He did not look at me but continued watching the farmhouse closely. "Not at all. Remember the tales of Merlyn and his magic powers, Brother. The eyewitness accounts of the crippled girl in the guarded room, who disappeared in the night. That's what put the thought into my head. Men believe what they want to believe. Two ghostly, mounted Romans attacked them on the path, and everyone knows the Romans have been gone from here for two score years, and then one white-robed Druid savaged them from afar with a mighty bow the likes of which none of them has ever seen. We're far from Pendragon territory here, don't forget that. Our longbows are unheard of in these parts. But I think you're right. The two scouts must have joined the others in the attack." He drew back suddenly, lowering himself to where there was no danger of being seen. "There's someone coming out of the house."
The big farmer emerged first, followed by the man we had seen arriving with the wagon. The farmer stopped in the yard, peering about him cautiously for signs of danger, then turned to gaze up to where I stood in plain view. I raised my hand to him, palm outwards, indicating my lack of hostility and after a long moment he returned the gesture, then beckoned me to come down. I told Ambrose what was happening. He said nothing, content to allow me to represent both of us.
Now the farmer turned away and, followed by his companion, strode purposefully towards the row of buildings opposite the house, both men disappearing among the huts. Moments later they reappeared, cleaning the blades of their weapons, and then they split up, one of them going around each end of the farmhouse itself. I watched the big man until he vanished around the back of the gable end facing me, maintaining a running report on the activities for the benefit of Ambrose who remained hidden from view.
The two men eventually re-emerged from behind the house, their weapons now sheathed, and in response to their call, which came up to us clearly, the other occupants of the house came out into the yard. The two youths emerged first, each moving towards the huddled bodies on the ground. At their backs, the farmer's wife appeared, clutching her brood against her skirts, and last of all came the half-grown girl, her daughter, peering timidly about her as she stepped beyond the threshold.
The farmer looked my way again and his gaze directed the eyes of his companions to where I stood. Then, extending a half-raised arm to the others in a clear command to remain where they were, the big man set off purposefully towards me.
"He's coming up here," I said. "The farmer, alone."
"Aye, well, he must, mustn't he? What other choice does he have? Can't ignore you. Go to meet him. I'll stay here, out of sight for a while longer."
"Then what? Won't you come down with me? You can talk to them. I can't".
"No, I can't either, remember? I didn't understand a word of what they said, any more than you did. Go down to him, before he sees me. When you have their attention, and when I'm quite sure you're safe and they mean you no harm, I'll slip away unseen and collect the other horses. I'll bring them back and wait for you by the barn."
I was feeling increasingly foolish, having to speak without looking at him, and trying to do so without moving my lips, lest the approaching farmer thought me a madman, talking to myself.
"What will I say to them?"
"Tell them your name. Then collect our arrows, accept some food from them, enough for both of us, since they'll be grateful, and bid them farewell. They won't attempt to stop you. They'll think you're magic, too. Go down now, before he has a chance to see the two of us. You'll have no need of speech. A friendly smile will suffice, you'll see. You did save their lives, after all. Besides, you need to meet them, to see for yourself that they are ordinary people, just like our own in Camulod. Being Angles does not make them any less than human. Go, now, but don't stay long. I'll see you later."
Resigned to the strangeness of the situation, I set off down the slope towards the farmer, who stopped as soon as I began to move. He remained motionless, giving me ample opportunity to examine him as I drew near. He wore the same half-sleeved tunic he had worn earlier, but now it was covered by a one-piece, knee-length overcoat of heavy, toughened leather, embossed with bronze, rectangular lozenges of armour. His head was thrust through the single yoke-hole and the garment was cinched at his waist, protecting his sides with an overlapping, double thickness, by a thick leather belt with a silver, ornately carved buckle in the shape of a writhing serpent. He wore heavy, leather brogans on his feet, fastened by long ties that criss-crossed up his calves to his knees, binding his leggings in place. He wore neither cloak nor helmet, nor did he carry a shield. His entire weaponry consisted of a longish, heavy-looking sword in a sheath by his side, and a broad-bladed dagger thrust into his belt.
I halted when a distance of four paces separated us and he stood gazing at me for several moments more, his eyes narrowed almost to slits, wary and speculative. Somehow, I summoned up a smile and nodded to him, and he relaxed at once, although the slight sagging at his shoulders was the only sign he gave that he had been under any kind of tension.
The act of crinkling my face in a smile had reminded me of the mud that coated one side of my face, and now I reached up to pick at the tight coating beneath my left eye. A large flake came free and I rubbed at it, feeling it crumble between my fingers. It may have been the simple humanity of the gesture that finally convinced him that he was dealing with a man and not some alien woodland deity, for he suddenly spoke, in a deep, grave voice, laying the spread fingers of one ha
nd upon his breast.
"Gethelrud," he rumbled, and I guessed he had named himself.
I repeated the sound as closely as I could, adding my own interrogative note. "Gethelrud?"
He nodded, apparently pleased, and repeated it. I touched my own breast in the same manner.
"Merlyn."
"Merlyn." Grave-faced, he repeated my name yet again and then broke into a flood of speech, of which I recognized no single sound. When he fell silent again, I shook my head, then spoke to him in Latin, asking him if he understood that tongue. His incomprehension was as complete as mine had been. I spoke then in our native Celtic tongue of the West, and then in Donuil's Erse tongue, and again made no impression.
Finally he grunted and shrugged eloquently, a gesture that required no translation, before following that with another movement, this one an obvious invitation to accompany him to his home. We walked side by side, and I was as conscious of his fascination with my huge African bow as I was of the awe with which his people watched my approach.
Face to face with all of them finally, in the farm yard, I was overwhelmed by the impossibility of communicating with them. The farmer had spoken to them as we approached, naming my name and evidently telling them I did not know their tongue, and now no one made any attempt to speak, all of them simply staring at me in silence. I could read gratitude and uncertainty in the eyes of the adults and sheer awe in the faces of the youngsters. It was the woman, however, who took the initiative to break the awkwardness of the moment. With a glance at her husband, she stepped towards me, reaching for my right hand. Taking it between her own, a tremulous half- smile on her handsome face, she raised it towards her forehead, bringing it eventually, palm downward, to touch the top of her head, which she lowered towards me in an unmistakable gesture of gratitude, friendship and submission. I saw, before she lowered her eyes, that they were grey and large. I now guessed her age to be somewhere in her mid to late twenties, but the smooth skin of her face was yet unmarked by the lines of hardship and age.