Pendragon

FOURTEEN

Amilcar's lance had penetrated the stout oak of the High King's shield and embedded itself in Arthur's arm. Blood cascaded freely down the inside of the king's shield. Skewered, his forearm pierced, Arthur could not free himself.

Desperate to make the most of this unexpected advantage, Amilcar seized his sword hilt and leaped at Arthur, loosing a furious rain of double-handed blows upon the wounded arm beneath the shield. Again and again, the blade rose and fell, each stroke hammering at the broken spearpoint, forcing it deeper into the wound.

Arthur reeled, his body convulsing in agony each time Amilcar struck the point. He tried to fend off the blows, swinging Caledvwlch in powerless, futile strokes. The Black Boar swung hard and struck the sword from Arthur's hand. The blade spun from his grasp and landed in the blood-spattered dust at his feet.

Gwenhwyvar groaned, but did not look away.

Staggering back and back, no longer able to respond to the Black Boar's assault, Arthur swayed under the blows. Glimpsing his chance at victory, Amilcar lifted his voice in a growling shout of triumph.

Leaping, driving, striking again and again… again… again… again – wild, savage, ruthless blows, each one falling with bone-shattering impact.

Dearest God in heaven, what keeps Arthur on his feet?

Chips of wood from Arthur's shield flew into the air. Blood splashed from the split shield-rim in a steady rain, pelting into dust.

My throat seized. I could not swallow. I could neither watch nor look away.

Crack! Crack! The great shield began to break under the shattering attack. Chunks of splintered oak dropped to the ground.

I saw the point of Amilcar's lance protruding from the inside of Arthur's arm. The blunt blade had passed between the bones, making any movement of the arm impossible. Arthur was fixed to the shield.

Amilcar, terrible in his fury, raised his heavy blade over his head and brought it down on the rim of the broken shield. Arthur's head jerked back, his features twisted in agony.

Shoulders heaving, the Black Boar threw the blade high and brought it down with all his strength. Crack! The shield rim burst and the oak split top to bottom.

Another such stroke and the shield would break completely.

'Arthur!' Gwenhwyvar screamed. 'Arthur!'

Twrch Trwyth bore down mercilessly. The Vandali filled the air with a clamour of encouragement for their king – a sound to strike terror into the stricken British.

Again the short black sword rose and again it fell.

Arthur collapsed.

His legs had given way beneath him and he went down heavily, landing on his hip. He rolled, as if trying to crawl away. But Amilcar was on him instantly, striking furiously. Another massive chunk of Arthur's shield came away.

Amilcar howled. He hacked at Arthur with a savage, demented glee. Arthur, struggling to rise, kept the broken shield over him. Every warrior who saw it knew he was only delaying the terrible, inevitable, final fatal thrust.

The High King heaved himself up. The Black Boar raised his foot and kicked Arthur back. Arthur rolled on the ground again.

'God help him!' cried Gwenhwyvar. 'Holy Jesu, save him!' I echoed her prayer with one of my own, no less blunt or heartfelt.

Still the Black Boar struck, his iron blade cracking loud on the shattered remnant of the High King's shield. Arthur rolled, his good arm flung wide. He seemed confused, his hand fumbled uselessly in the dust.

Great Light, save your servant!

Arthur squirmed on his back as the Black Boar's sword smashed the broken shield. The battered wood parted, falling away completely. His last defence abandoned him.

'Caledvwlch!' cried Gwenhwyvar. 'Arthur! Caledvwlch!'

In the same instant Arthur's hand found his fallen sword. I saw his fingers tighten on the blade and pull it to him.

'He has it!' I shouted.

'Rise, Bear!' cried Gwenhwyvar. 'Stand!'

Arthur gathered his legs beneath him and pushed himself up on one knee. Twrch lashed out with his foot, striking Arthur on his injured shoulder. Arthur fell.

'Arthur!' cried Gwenhwyvar. Her sword was in her hand and she made to dash forth.

Amilcar, exultant, bellowing his conquest, raised his weapon one last time.

Grasping Caledvwlch's naked blade in his bare hand, Arthur made his final stand.

And I remembered that time long ago when a young boy stood alone on a mountainside against a charging stag. Now, as then, Arthur made no attempt to strike; he merely lifted the blade against Amilcar's double-handed assault.

Amilcar's sword swung down as Arthur's rose to meet it. There was a peal of ringing metal, a flash of spark, and the Black Boar's blade fractured, sheared neatly in two.

The wild-eyed triumph in the Vandal chieftain's face melted into disbelief as he stared at the swordblade lying at his feet. Cut Steel had served its master well.

With a heroic effort, Arthur gathered his legs beneath him and raised himself up. He stood, swaying, his wounded arm hanging uselessly at his side, the lancehead still firmly stuck. The bright blue woad on his body was now mixed with sweat and deep red blood. Head bowed, he stared unblinking at his adversary.

The Vandali, stricken by the swift turnabout, fell silent, the shouts of triumph dying in their throats. Silence claimed the plain. Arthur steadied himself and squared his shoulders.

The Black Boar, clutching the useless hilt with its stub of broken blade, glowered at the High King. With a shout of defiance, he flung himself at Arthur, slashing fiercely with the broken shard of his blade.

Unable to fend off the blows, Arthur stepped aside and lowered Caledvwlch. But his courage had not deserted him; even as he evaded Amilcar he prepared his last defence. As Amilcar leapt, Arthur's hand – steady, calm, unhurried – snaked out, swinging the sword level. The Black Boar's charge carried him onto the blade. Amilcar threw back his head and roared – a cry of shock and sharp defiance – then lowered his eyes to view the sword driven up under his rib cage. He had impaled himself on Arthur's sword.

The Black Boar raised his head and smiled – his eyes glazed and his grin icy. He lurched towards Arthur, forcing the blade still deeper into himself. Blood bubbled out of the wound in a sudden crimson rush. He opened his mouth to speak; his tongue strained at the words, but his legs gave way and he fell to the ground, where he lay twitching and convulsing.

Stepping to Amilcar's body, Arthur extracted Caledvwlch from his enemy's chest. Clenching his jaw against the pain, he raised the blade to shoulder height and let it drop swiftly down, severing the Black Boar's neck with a stroke. Amilcar's head rolled free and the dreadful quivering ceased.

Arthur stood for a moment, then turned and staggered towards us. In the same instant, a scream tore the stillness of the battleground. One of the Vandal warlords – Ida, it was – rushed out onto the battlefield, readying his spear as he ran. 'Arthur!' Gwenhwyvar shouted. 'Behind you!' Arthur turned his head, not yet apprehending the danger closing on him from behind.

'Arthur!' she screamed, already racing to his side. Llenlleawg was instantly at her back.

Britain's king half turned to meet his new assailant and his legs buckled under him. He crashed to his knees. Arthur made to rise, but his attacker was closing fast. One quick spear thrust and Britain's High King would be dead.

Gwenhwyvar's knife glinted like a fiery disc in the sun as it spun in the air. It did not stop the barbarian; he ran on a few steps before his hand lost strength and the lance slipped from his fingers. He glanced down to see the queen's dagger buried up to the hilt in his upper arm.

He stooped to retrieve the lance, and Gwenhwyvar's sword sang through a tight arc and caught him at the base of the neck. The barbarian pitched onto his face, dead.

'Here I am!' cried Gwenhwyvar, her voice towering with defiance. 'Who is next?' She stood over the corpse, her sword red with the blood of Arthur's false assailant, shouting daring the Vandali to attack. Llenlleawg, bristling with menace, took his place beside the queen.

Another of the barbarian chieftains appeared eager to take Gwenhwyvar at her word: he drew his sword and started forth. Mercia seized him and threw him back. The battlechief staggered up, thrusting the head of his lance in Mercia's face. Mercia grabbed the shaft of the lance and lashed out with a cruel kick, catching his bellicose comrade on the point of the chin. The chieftain subsided in a heap.

Cai and Bedwyr dashed to Gwenhwyvar's side. The four stood over Arthur, weapons drawn, daring the enemy to attack. Meanwhile, I ran to Arthur's side.

Mercia stepped boldly out from among the others. He called in a loud voice, and summoned Hergest to him. Together they advanced to where the three Britons stood.

'Help me stand!' groaned Arthur through clenched teeth.

'In a moment,' I told him gently. 'First I must look at your wound.' There was blood everywhere, and sweat, and dust, and woad.

'Help me stand, Myrddin.' He shrugged away and, using Caledvwlch, raised himself up on his knees; his injured arm hung down limp and useless. Blood seeped from the wound in a steady dark flow. I helped him regain his feet and he turned to meet the advancing Vandali.

Mercia, with Hergest beside him, presented himself to the High King. 'Lord Mercia says that he recognizes Arthur to be victor,' Hergest explained. 'He will abide the terms of peace. Do with us what you will.'

With that, Mercia threw the disarmed chieftain's lance to the ground at Cai's feet. He then drew the short sword from his belt, laid the blade across his palms, and offered it to Arthur, bowing his head in submission. 'I am slave to you, Lord King,' he said.

The High King motioned to Gwenhwyvar, who took the sword.

'I accept your surrender,' Arthur said through clenched teeth, his voice hollow. To Cai and Bedwyr, he muttered, 'See to it.'

He made to turn away, stumbled, and would have fallen if not for Llenlleawg's quick reaction. The Irish champion threw an arm around the king's shoulders and held him up. 'For the love of Jesu, Arthur, sit down and let me tend you.'

But Arthur would not hear it. 'Walk with me to the chariot,' he said to Gwenhwyvar.

'Let me bind your arm at least,' I objected.

'I will leave the field as I came,' he growled. His skin was ashen and waxy; he was on the point of fainting. 'Join me when matters are concluded here.' He gripped my arm. 'Not before.'

Arthur walked with slow, painful dignity to the waiting chariot, Llenlleawg on one side and Gwenhwyvar on the other. Upon reaching the chariot, Llenlleawg all but lifted his wounded king onto the platform, and the queen took her place beside him to steady him and keep him upright. They drove from the battleground to the ecstatic cheers of the British. The Cymbrogi hailed him loudly as he passed, but Arthur kept his eyes on the far horizon.

I bade Mercia summon the remaining Vandali battlechiefs and there, over the corpse of their dead leader, I received their surrender.

Mercia, assuming command, made bold to answer for all. Through the captive priest, he said, 'The battle was fought fairly. Our king is dead. We accept your terms and stand ready to give whatever spoils you ask, whether hostages or victims for sacrifice.'

Cai did not like this. 'Do not trust them, Myrddin. They are all lying barbarians.'

'You will be disarmed,' I told Mercia. 'Your people will be taken from here and returned to your camp to await the Pendragon's pleasure.'

Hergest repeated my words in their tongue, whereupon, under Mercia's commanding glare, the Vandali battlechiefs threw their weapons upon the ground. When they were disarmed, the young chieftain spoke once more, and Hergest said, 'You called the king of Britain a strange name: Pendragon. Did you not?'

'I did,' I replied.

Mercia spoke up, addressing me directly. 'What means this word?'

'Pendragon – the word means Chief Dragon,' I explained. 'It is the title the Cymry use for the supreme ruler and defender of the Island of the Mighty.'

Hergest translated my words, and Mercia placed his hand on his heart and then touched his head. It was a sign of submission and honour. 'I place my life in the hands of the Pendragon of Britain.'

Leaving Bedwyr, Cai, Cador, and the rest of the lords to deal with the Vandali, I returned to the line, mounted the nearest horse, and raced back to camp as fast as the beast could fly.

I pressed through the worried throng gathered before Arthur's tent. The few women and invalid warriors who had not attended the battle – but had witnessed their wounded king's return – swarmed the entrance to his tent, anxious and worried. Pushing my way through, I entered the tent to find Gwenhwyvar cradling Arthur against her as she held him, half-sitting, half-lying on his pallet. Her clothing was smeared and stained with blue woad and red blood. 'It is over, my soul,' she soothed, dabbing at his arm with a cloth. 'It is finished.'

'Gwenhwyvar, I-it is-' Arthur began, then winced, pain twisting his features. He bit back the words and his eyelids fluttered and closed.

'Be easy, Bear,' she said, kissing his brow, then raised her head and looked around furiously. 'Llenlleawg!' she cried, saw me, and said, 'Myrddin, help me. He keeps fainting.'

'I am here.' Keeling beside her, I took the cloth and, gently, gently, oh so carefully, I lifted Arthur's arm; he groaned. Gwenhwyvar gasped at what she saw.

The point of the lance had been driven through the arm, passing between the two arm bones. The broken shaft protruded from one side – a mass of splinters where Amilcar had hacked at it – the thick iron tip poked through the other. But there was more. The force of the thrust had driven the spearhead through the arm and into the soft crease above his thigh, where the veins gathered thick. One of these had been severed. He was bleeding into his abdomen. I pressed the cloth to the gash, and sat back to think.

'Where is Llenlleawg?'

'I sent him for water to bathe the wound.'

'Hold tight,' I told her, indicating Arthur's arm.

'What are you going to do?' Gwenhwyvar asked.

Easing the arm upright, I took hold of the Black Boar's broken spear. Grasping the splintered stump, I gave a quick, firm pull.

'Aghh!' Arthur gasped in agony.

'Stop it!' shouted Gwenhwyvar. 'Myrddin! Stop!'

'It must be done,' I told her. 'Again.'

I tightened my grip on the stub end, greasy with blood. Gwenhwyvar, her lips a tight line, held Arthur's arm in both her own, clutching it to her breast. Blood welled from the wound, spilling over her hands.

'Now!' I shouted, and yanked with all my might.

Arthur gave a strangled cry, his head lolled on his shoulders. The shaft broke away from the head, but the blade did not come free. I had succeeded only in making the wound bleed more freely.

Llenlleawg entered the tent with a basin of water. He brought it to me and knelt down, holding it. I took the bit of cloth he offered, dipped it into the water and began to bathe the wound, washing away the blood and dirt.

'Is the arm broken?' asked Llenlleawg.

'No,' I replied, probing the injury with my fingertips, 'but this is not the worst.' I told them about the groin wound. 'Truly, that alarms me far more than the arm.'

I rose, making up my mind at once. I turned to Llenlleawg. 'There is room in the chariot for three. You will drive; Arthur and Gwenhwyvar will go with you. I will ride ahead to alert Barinthus and ready a boat.' I turned, starting away. 'Make him as comfortable as possible, and come at once.'

'Where are we going?' demanded Gwenhwyvar.

'To Ynys Avallach,' I called over my shoulder.