Medraut

by David Pilling

  “I am Angharad Ddu,” she went on. “I live here in the forest with my sisters. This is our refuge.”

  “From the Yellow Plague?” he asked quickly.

  “From the world. We all came to the forest for different reasons. Loss of homes, husbands, children, lovers...”

  A terrible sadness came into her eyes.

  “Some of us were driven out. Accused of using our art to kill babies or livestock. We are safe in the wild. For now. Yet one day the priests and their slaves will come looking for us. The nailed god is a jealous god. He wants all the power and worship for himself.”

  “The Black Oppressor,” said Peredur, “who was he? Some chieftain, fallen on hard times?”

  “Yes,” Angharad replied simply, “a cruel man, who once held sway over this part of the country. He and his warriors used to ride from their fort to plunder and slay and rob as they pleased, until Artorius came and drove them out. Your king slew every one, save the Black Oppressor himself, who fled into the wild. He has lived as a brigand for years, murdering any who strayed into his path.”

  “Artorius is your king too,” Peredur reminded her. “No,” she said, “he abandoned us long ago. Abandoned the old gods in favour of Christ. We pity Artorius, but cannot save him.”

  “Save him?” he exclaimed. “Save him from what?”

  Angharad sighed, rose and walked to the fire. Her sisters rose too. Peredur was again gripped with fear. Would they kill him now? He struggled against his bonds, gasping as the thongs bit into his flesh.

  One of the witches, the eldest, judging by her mane of white hair, took something from a pouch at her girdle and dropped it into the fire. The flames sizzled and hissed and leaped high again. Angharad pointed at the heap of kindling in the middle of the fire.

  “There is your king,” she said. “He stands in the centre of a pool of light. For over twenty years he has held back the darkness. Yet even the strongest of kings cannot hold forever. See, the shadows close around him.”

  The flames gradually consumed the pile of timber. Soon it was reduced to ash, the fire burnt almost to nothing. Peredur trembled as the armies of night advanced into the glade.

  “I want none of your prophecies,” he rasped through chattering teeth. “I follow the Quest of the True Cross. Swyno thought you might know where the Fragment is hidden. If so, tell me. Or let me go.”

  The nine witches were no more than silhouettes in the gloom.

  “Poor fool,” said Angharad in a pitying voice. “Why do you risk your skin in the Quest? Even if you found your precious bit of wood, how would it defeat the Yellow Plague? How could it save Artorius? Relics of the nailed god have no power. Christ himself was a victim of the fates.”

  “My fate is my business,” shouted Peredur, “and I’ll listen to no more lies! Help me, or cut my throat and have done!”

  Darkness closed over him. A strange narcotic scent filled the air, and Peredur’s vision started to blur. The hags had cast a glamour over him, or else thrown some poisonous herbs onto the fire.

  “You are loyal,” said Angharad, her gentle voice distorted in his ears. “Loyalty deserves its reward. Go north from here and follow the path to a mountain ridge. From the ridge, you shall see a valley shaped like a bowl, the confines of which are rocky and wooded. In the flat part of the valley are meadows, and none dwell there. In the bosom of the wood you shall find a temple. The temple contains that which you seek.

  “Be warned,” she added in a whisper, “the temple is guarded by powers even you may struggle to overcome, Peredur son of Evrawc…”

  Her voice faded, and Peredur’s head slumped forward. He woke to find himself alone in the glade. His skull ached. The fire was a scattered heap of white ash and charred timber. Pale morning sunlight lanced through the trees. The bonds on Peredur’s wrists and ankles had been severed. His sword, shield and helmet lay neatly stacked beside the remains of the fire. Relieved yet wary, he got up and approached the pile of gear, wincing at the cramp in his limbs. The drugged mead Angharad made him drink had quite worn off.

  As he snatched up his weapons, a neigh alerted him to the presence of his horse, tethered to a nearby tree. The animal was bitted and saddled, and a quick search revealed nothing had been taken from her saddlebags. Even Peredur’s rations were intact. Wondering, Peredur untied his horse and led her on foot out of the glade. Angharad’s words came back to him.

  Go north from here and follow the path to a mountain ridge…

  He set out north, through the woods. For a long while there was no path, not so much as a forest track, and he had to use his sword to hack through the clawing brambles and natural walls of vegetation. The sun beat down hard, penetrating even the shade of the woods. Sweat rolled down Peredur’s back as he hacked and fought his way through. Dangling branches snatched at him, like fingers with ragged nails, scraped against his armour and opened shallow cuts on his face.

  Some malicious spirit dwells in these woods, Peredur thought in despair. It doesn’t want me to go on.

  He stuck his sword into the dirt, knelt and prayed. His tiredness lifted a little. Peredur rose and pushed on, deeper into the green labyrinth.

  Peredur was near the limits of his strength when he came to a stream, flowing merrily through a pebbled clearing. He gave thanks to Christ, knelt and washed his face and neck in the water. Then he drank until his thirst was slaked, while his horse dipped her head and did the same.

  Once he was refreshed, Peredur waded into the stream to test the depth. It barely came up to his knees, so he mounted and rode across. He smiled with relief when he spied a path leading north through a sea of tall grass. The witch had not played him false after all.

  The path was a dirt track, more or less straight, and showed no sign of recent use. Peredur followed it on foot, while the flaming torch in the sky threatened to fry him alive in his armour. He resisted the temptation to remove his helmet and mail shirt. That would leave him vulnerable, as well as add extra burdens to his horse. He tramped on to the edge of the woods and waited awhile in the cool of the shade, taking sips from fresh spring water.

  He mounted and followed the path where it led through a long corridor of arched trees. This part of the forest was eerily quiet. There was no birdsong, and the ground steadily rose towards a sweep of gaunt mountains. The path ran to the foot of the hills, where it abruptly stopped.

  Unafraid, Peredur urged his horse up the flank of the mountain, towards the highest ridge. He passed scattered rocks and boulders, shattered as though thrown down or struck by lightning. The air was tepid here, and grew colder as he neared the summit. Above him the sun continued to beat down, though with less force. Peredur crossed himself again and drew his sword. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck. He was riding into an enchanted realm; some fragment of Annwn, the Summer Country, where the normal laws of man and nature did not apply.

  At the top of the mountain was a cairn, a great heap of rocks roughly shaped like a pyramid, rising the length of three spears above Peredur’s head. He thought of the ancient warrior buried inside.

  “He must have been a great man,” Peredur said aloud, “for his people to drag so many rocks up here to honour him.”

  “Yes...I was…”

  Peredur twisted around at the sound of the voice. He saw nothing. The high ridge was still bare of life. Had he imagined it? Peredur lowered his sword, and stiffened when he thought he heard distant laughter, carried away on the breeze.

  A mere breath on the wind, Peredur told himself. Even if these hills were haunted by restless spirits, what of it? Ghosts without form or substance could not harm him. He was strong in his faith, trusted in Christ, and oath-bound to follow the Quest. To whatever end. He looked north, where the flank of the mountain dropped away sharply to a valley ringed by high hills. Just as Angharad had described it. Green meadows filled the interior, fringed by dark woods. Somewhere in those woods lay the temple containing that which Peredur sought. His heart fluttered at the thought of hol
ding in his hands a fragment of the True Cross, upon which the Saviour of Mankind had yielded up the ghost.

  He eagerly guided his horse down the northern spur of the mountain, careful to avoid scattered rocks and sudden dips in the ground. A chill wind swept across the meadows at the base of the valley, and the sky darkened. Slate-grey clouds massed and boiled above Peredur’s head, blotting out the sun. A few drops of rain fell.

  Peredur heeled his mount into a gallop. The clouds threatened to burst any moment, and he wanted to reach the shelter of the forest. Thunder rolled across the heavy skies as he ducked under the nearest trees.

  Still the rain held off. Peredur slowed and wandered through the woods at a cautious pace, alert for danger. Angharad had warned him the temple was guarded by some terrible foe even his strength might not overcome.

  “Christ, lend me your strength,” he muttered, “so I may not fail at the last.” A fresh roll of thunder broke overhead. Wind shrieked through the trees, bending the boughs and threatening to snap the weaker trunks. Peredur was almost bowled off his horse. He struggled to keep his seat, one arm flung over his face. When the gale had passed, he lowered his arm and saw the temple.

  Peredur was disappointed. He had expected some magnificent house of pagan sacrifice, the very walls etched with blood-soaked memories. This was a long, low building of earth and timber, more like a cattle byre, built in a man-made clearing. The roof was made of turf, rotted and fallen away in many places. The entire structure sagged, as though it might collapse and fold up into the ground at any moment.

  The entrance was a low doorway with a stone lintel. Peredur dismounted, tethered his horse and stepped carefully into the darkness of the temple. Inside was a single long chamber, poorly lit by a pair of slit windows cut into the walls. The earthen floor was uneven, the chamber empty, save for a high wooden table set up at the western end. This was perhaps the altar, though it was bare of any symbols or ornaments. The gods had long since abandoned this place.

  Peredur crouched behind his shield and looked around for any sign of the temple guardian. He half-expected some monster to come leaping out of the shadows, all claws and teeth, or the shades of dead warriors.

  Nothing happened. Peredur relaxed slightly and explored the temple from end to end. Besides the altar, it contained nothing except an old yellow calfskin dumped in the corner. There were no relics, no sign or hint of the Fragment.

  Peredur was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. He sheathed his sword, dropped his shield and sat down heavily on the skin, barely able to keep his eyes open. For a short while he tried to fight the waves of fatigue battering at his senses, but the struggle was hopeless.

  He stepped into dreams.

  * * *

  Peredur stood on a hill over a rocky shore. Beyond the foaming sea was a headland, crowned with a mighty fortress of white stone. The towers of the fortress reared high above the sea, and the gates stood open. Horsemen in shining silver mail and red cloaks clattered across the bridge. They were led by a gigantic figure in armour of burnished gold, mounted on a white horse.

  The warriors galloped towards Peredur, who was not afraid. They halted at the sight of him. The golden giant, who was twice the size of Peredur, threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  “God help the Island of the Mighty,” he cried, “now the great ones are all quiet in their graves, and the defence of the island is entrusted to such little men as these.”

  Peredur was outraged. “You are free with your insults, stranger,” he growled, drawing his sword. “Come down off your horse and I’ll teach you some manners.

  The giant grew solemn. “In life, I was Cei the Tall, steward of Caerleon, friend and sword-brother to Artorius. Now I go to a hosting of his warriors. Follow, little man, if you wish to be counted among them.”

  He swung his horse about and thundered away, followed by his troop. Peredur, who had no wish to be left out of the hosting, went after them. Beyond the shoreline was a river valley. The flanks of the valley were carpeted with silken tents of many colours. From the largest flew the dragon banner of Artorius. A great army was gathered on the banks of the river, thousands of spears and banners, horse and foot. Their shining ranks stretched into the far horizon, further than the naked eye could see. Peredur stopped to marvel at the sheer size of the host. All the fighting men of Britannia were assembled here, Saxons and Britons and Scotti, as well men from Frankia and the lands beyond.

  Cei urged his horse through the river. At sight of him there was a great commotion in the host, and the massed ranks flowed back and forth, like the undulations of a living body. The men in the front ranks retreated from Cei to make way for him, while those in the rear pushed forward, eager to catch a glimpse of the famous hero. All order and discipline was lost, and the great army degenerated into a horde of angry men, pushing and shoving at each other.

  Peredur made his way around the edges of the camp. Few took any notice of the newcomer, and those that did jeered and hurled insults at him. He went red with anger, which only made them laugh the more.

  Finally, he reached the High King’s pavilion, a towering pyramid of white silk fringed with purple. Peredur’s heart leaped when he saw Artorius himself, sat before a table set up on the field before the pavilion. The table was set upon a carpet of yellow silk, an apple of ruddy gold at each corner. On the table was a gwyddbwyll board set with round playing counters of silver and gold. The High King and his opponent were engrossed in the game.

  Artorius wore his purple cloak and golden crown. The ivory hilt of Caledfwlch, stamped with Roman eagles, glittered at his waist. His opponent was clad in a coat of yellow satin, falling to his ankles, embroidered with threads of red silk. His braccae were of fine white linen, and boots of black leather covered his feet. He wore a broad-bladed dagger at his belt, with a scabbard of red-deer hide, tipped with gold. His face was covered by a hooded mantle of the same yellow silk as his coat. Peredur, who sensed an air of terrible danger about this faceless man, moved closer to get a better look at him.

  “Your move, lord king,” Peredur heard him say. His voice was familiar. Artorius studied the board awhile, then reached out to move one of his silver counters.

  As it slid across the board, the din of battle rumbled in the distance. It rapidly swelled until the screaming of men and horses, clash of swords and spears, oaths and yells and war-cries, raged like a storm. The sky was blotted out by a cloud of black ravens, cawing in ravenous excitement as they swarmed to the feast. Deafened and terrified, Peredur looked around wildly for the source of the noise. There was nothing. The great host in the valley had disappeared. Save for himself and the men at the table, not a soul remained. The noise dropped.

  “Lord prince,” said Artorius, “will you call off your ravens?”

  By way of response, the man in red moved one of his gold pieces. “Your move, lord king,” he replied.

  The hellish din of battle rose again. The shrieks of the dying, mingling with the dreadful chatter of ravens, echoed inside Peredur’s skull. He cried out and fell to his knees. Now he saw the carnage, spread out on the fields below. Thousands of armed men locked in battle, the croaking of ravens overhead, and a flapping of black wings; the great birds swooped down to tear men and horses in pieces, gulp down the bloody gobbets or scatter them about the field. The gigantic figure of Cei broke loose from the carnage and rode up to the High King. He was weary and besplattered with blood, his golden armour dented and torn in many places.

  “Lord king,” he gasped, “the ravens have slain your household and the sons of the chief men of the Island of the Mighty. I beseech you, put an end to this slaughter.”

  Peredur gazed in horror at the stricken field. All the legions of Britannia were broken and shattered; not a single fighting man remained to guard the land against invaders. Despair engulfed his heart. In the far distance, he heard the baying of sea-wolves.

  “Will you call off your ravens?” Artorius demanded of his opponent. “Your move, lor
d king,” said the other man.

  The High King rose in his wrath, seized a handful of playing counters and crushed them to powder in his fists.

  “Lower your banners,” he shouted, and his voice was like a thunderclap. “Call off your ravens!”

  Angry black storm clouds billowed across the sky. The ravens continued to wheel and peck at the wreckage of men. Their dreadful cawing was all but drowned by the chorus of wolves and the crash of waves.

  Peredur strode forward and seized the faceless man’s hood. “Traitor,” he yelled, “you have condemned us all!”

  He ripped back the hood. A ghastly pale face stared up at him, glittering pale eyes and a fixed smile. The face of Prince Medraut.

  That which you seek…

  Angharad’s words echoed inside Peredur’s mind. Here was no Fragment, no splinter of the True Cross to carry back to Caerleon. This was the face of evil, the treason that would destroy free Britannia. Medraut moved like a snake. The broad-bladed knife flashed in his hand and drove upwards into Peredur’s heart. His victim staggered backwards. Blood pumped from his chest, while the insane laughter of Medraut merged with the croaking of ravens and the howling of wolves. All faded into shadow as a cloak of darkness swept over the land.

  * * *

  Peredur woke with a start. He shivered, though his flesh was slick with sweat. The temple was freezing and dark. Night stars glimmered through the narrow windows. He had been asleep for hours. His throat was parched, and his belly groaned with hunger. Peredur ignored these discomforts. The grinning face of the traitor, Medraut, rose in his mind. What could he do? He was sworn to the Quest, yet the ruin of Britannia had been revealed to him. If he went back to Caerleon and accused Medraut of treason on the strength of a dream, who would believe him? Peredur was already a figure of fun among the Companions; a dull, slow-witted country oaf, strong as an ox and about as intelligent.

  No. Peredur dared not risk it. He would make himself a laughing stock, perhaps be driven out of the Companions. He pictured himself limping back to his mother’s house in the forest, shamed and dishonoured. His head full of dark thoughts, Peredur rose and hurried out of the temple.