The Sorcer part 2: Metamorphosis

Cambria

SEVEN

"Bedwyr, Merlyn. "

Donuil's words brought me back from my thoughts and I turned my head to look where he was pointing. I saw young Bedwyr immediately as he brought his horse at full gallop down the smoothly sloping hillside across from where we sat, guiding it easily between the rock outcrops that littered the short grassed ground, picking the shortest, easiest route to the knoll from which we watched his progress.

"He rides like a centaur, doesn't he?"

"Aye, he does, " I answered. "But what we need are warriors who can fly like eagles. "

I twisted around in my saddle to look behind me, down to where my forces were spread out for more than a mile along the broad belt of land by the water's edge. Beyond them, the late morning sunlight reflected dazzlingly from the waves that still churned the surface of the sea, restive, despite the now cloudless skies, from the fury of the violent summer storm that had swept over this area the previous night. The coastal plain was wide here, along the westernmost edge of south Cambria, and I had no fears of being entrapped, despite the apparent unpreparedness of

my army, spread out as it was, its soldiers sprawling at leisure on the ground. Now I heard Rufio's rough voice, growling in response to my comment.

"I doubt that, Merlyn. We're in Cambria, remember? Even a soaring eagle can be felled up here by a well flighted Pendragon arrow."

Smiling, I turned to face him. Beside him, standing with one hand on the neck of Rufio's horse, his friend Huw Strongarm, the leader of our Pendragon contingent, stood looking at me and shaking his head tolerantly at Rufe's bluntness. His great longbow was slung over his shoulder and the flights of a full quiver of arrows rose behind his head. I winked at him and answered Rufio's remark.

'True, Rufe, but all the Pendragon longbows are with us, so your point is weakened."

"Hmm'phmm!" The sound was loaded with disgust. "."Most of them are, Commander, most of them. But there are too many turncoat whoresons out there with Ironhair for my taste."

He was referring, I knew, to Owain of the Caves. I nodded, then spoke to Benedict, whose mount was so close to me on my left side that my knee touched his. "Well, we'll know now what Philip has found inland. Judging by the speed young Bedwyr's making, it must be significant."

Benedict grinned. "Aye. Unless, of course, he's trying to kill his horse simply because he sees us watching him."

Behind me, I heard Derek bark a gruff laugh at Benedict's quip. The king of Ravenglass sat astride a horse that was as big as my Germanicus. Derek had changed greatly since reaching Camulod. His resolve to fight no more had given way beneath an increasing belief that Ironhair and his demented ally Carthac should be put down once and for all. A king himself, Derek of Ravenglass had a sense of natural justice that offered no quarter to usurpers. He now wore a uniform that would have marked him as a Roman tribune in earlier times, complete with scarlet cloak, plumed helmet and richly figured, polished leather cuirasses front and back.

I looked from Derek to Benedict and shook my head in mock regret. "Cynics! I am surrounded by cynics and pessimists. No wonder we are faring less than well here in Cambria."

I kneed my horse gently forward, moving beyond the others of my command group to where I could see Bedwyr clearly and he could see me awaiting him. I remained motionless as he put his mount to the slope in front of me, and in a short time he had reached the summit, blowing almost as hard as his horse. He had grown taller and filled out impressively in the months we had spent together in Cambria, and I found myself wondering if Arthur had made such evident progress, wherever he was in the northeast.

Bedwyr brought his horse to a halt and jumped down. He approached me and then drew himself to attention with a stiff salute, bringing his right fist to smack against his left breast and gazing up wide eyed to where I sat looking down at him.

"Legate Commander Merlyn!"

I nodded to him, repressing an urge to smile at his frowning earnestness. "Stand easy, Trooper, and make your report."

He sucked in a deep breath and stood even straighter, his elbows slightly bent and braced to hold his body motionless, his clenched fists resting slightly forward of his hipbones. Then, in a clipped and formal voice very different from his normal tone, he rattled off his message.

"Legate Commander, the Legate Philip wishes to report that he has been unable to make significant contact with the enemy forces opposing him. He has penetrated the territories assigned to his attention on this sweep during the past six days, as planned and according to his instructions, and has encountered no resistance. He wishes to report that the territories and all the hills between his present position, fifteen miles directly north from here, and your present position, including all the coastal region, are free of enemy infestation. His foot cohorts have swept the crests and upper slopes without incident, and his cavalry forces, split between the command of squadron tribunes Falvo and Tessius, have completed their patrols of the lower slopes and valleys on both sides of the range of hills being invested. They joined ranks two days ago, having encountered nothing to impede their progress towards the meeting point.

"The Legate's objectives have been achieved, and he now holds the ground as commanded. He awaits additional instructions, but respectfully informs you that his northernmost observers yesterday reported a passing fleet, holding far out to sea but heading swiftly southward, with the potential of changing course towards your present position. The storm last night, the Legate suggests, might have scattered or destroyed them, but he dispatched me at the utmost speed at first light to bring the tidings. The fleet consists of one large bireme, accompanied by an unconfirmed number of galleys, too far offshore to be counted accurately but estimated to be no less than fifteen craft. Legate Commander!"

The final salutation was accompanied by another crashing salute, indicating that the report was complete. I expelled air sibilantly between compressed lips and then nodded to him. "Thank you, Trooper. An excellent, succinct report. No questions. Report now to Tertius Lucca, if you will, and have him assign you to a place where you can eat and sleep, once you have cared for your mount.

When you are rested, you may come back to me for further instructions. "

Bedwyr saluted me again, then turned and left. I watched him mount and ride away, then turned to my companions.

"Same story, but this time there's a fleet out there. They'll probably sail by, but we had better be prepared, just in case Ironhair has decided to annoy us. " I looked up at the sky, still clear and cloudless. "Gather the troop commanders, if you please. We'll meet by the command tent in half an hour. Thank you. "

As they began to disperse, Donuil caught my eye and pointed to his chest, one eyebrow raised, asking me mutely if I wished him to remain. I shook my head and waved him away. Moments later I was alone.

I looked about me, to be sure that no one was paying me attention, then kneed Germanicus slightly downhill on the landward side of the summit, towards a narrow, three sided niche in the cliff overlooking the valley Bedwyr had crossed a short time earlier. I had found and used the spot the day before, when I had been equally in need of solitude.. Once in there, I knew I was concealed from all eyes.

I dismounted and removed my heavy helmet, wiping my brow and the inside rim of the headpiece with one of the soft, daintily bordered kerchiefs Tress had made for me for just that purpose. Then I stretched hugely, rising to my tiptoes, and yawned, kneading the soreness from my buttocks. I rummaged in my saddlebag for the whetstone I carried there, unhooked and unsheathed my sword, then made myself comfortable on a rock outcrop that formed a natural chair against the sloping cliff face. I began to sharpen my weapon then, allowing my thoughts to come and go with the rhythmic, abrasive sweep of the stone's surface against the keen edge of my blade. Bedwyr maintained my weapons perfectly, as part of his training discipline, but the habits of a lifetime remained intact, and I found security in sharpening my own blades at least once each day. Then, as my mind was lulled by the sameness of the mechanical actions I was performing, my thoughts began to flow more smoothly.

Four months had passed since I last spoke with Ambrose, and more than three since I had arrived in Cambria at the head of Camulod's two legions. Since then we had been waging a make believe war, marching and countermarching the length and breadth of Cambria, it seemed, attempting to come to grips with an enemy as ethereal and insubstantial as the clouds and mists that shrouded the mountains in the early mornings. And yet the enemy was very real and numerous. We saw them frequently, in the distances ahead of us, but they remained frustratingly beyond our grasp, for the most part, melting away into nothingness as we approached.

From time to time in the earlier days of the campaign, a. foolhardy group of them, as frustrated as we were by this inactivity, would try to turn our flank, hiding in the bracken as we passed by and then springing from concealment to attack us from the rear. Our strategy had been designed to encourage that, however, and to punish such incursions swiftly and mercilessly, enfolding the interlopers and destroying them. The time soon came when no one tried it again.

. In the first days of the campaign, in truth, we had been too successful. Our arrival had attracted great attention, and a large army of the enemy, numbering several thousand, had assembled to await us and drive us back out of Cambria. Unaware of the impending confrontation, I had split my forces a few days earlier, sending half of my troops, most of them infantry, accompanied by our five hundred Scouts, southward and west along the coastal plain under the command of Tertius Lucca, to capture the harbours of Caerdyff and Caerwent, driving the occupying Cornishmen out and denying access to their supply vessels. In consequence, the force I commanded when we came to face Ironhair's host was largely made up of cavalry. Less than one thousand of my three thousand infantry remained to me, along with two thousand heavy horse.

Warned only slightly in advance that an army had materialized under cover of the night and awaited us a mere three miles distant, in an open, rising valley where they held the high ground, I had been forced to make my dispositions in some haste, and to assume a greater risk than I might otherwise have chosen to consider. I was bolstered however, by my firm belief that the odds would be in my favour if our most fundamental assumption was correct: that our heavy cavalry would be an unknown factor in the eyes of Ironhair's mercenaries. Allowing myself no time to waver, since I truly had none, I split the infantry into two five hundred man cohorts and sent them forward in formation, marching ten abreast, each division forming a block fifty ranks deep, with the cohortal standard bearers marching between the two. Ahead of these and behind them, vanguard and rearguard, I sent two heavy formations, each of two hundred cavalry, again riding ten abreast by twenty deep, the entire progression flanked by one mobile unit of fifty troopers on each side, deployed as a defensive screen. The result was a long, vulnerable looking, greatly extended line that I hoped would invite instant attack from both sides.

My remaining force of cavalry, fifteen hundred strong, I split into three equal groups. Two were sent off on either side of the route the main force would take, instructed to find the quickest, easiest way to circumvent the enemy while remaining undetected, and then to hold themselves prepared to attack from either flank upon my signal. I held the third group close to me, hanging well back behind the main advance and moving forward slowly in an extended line abreast, five ranks deep.

As I have said, my plan, extemporaneous as it was, worked all too well. The host we faced was almost leaderless, with no general, no strategist ruling the various contingents to give direction to their strength. Ironhair was far distant, we discovered later, and Carthac with him. The army that we faced was an amalgam of what remained in south Cambria, assembled on a whim of opportunity and composed of differing levies of mercenaries. Lesser leaders were there in plenty, even in profusion, but none who was there possessed the power to lead any group other than his own, and not one of them thought to send out scouts to verify our strength. Because of that, my two converging units of troopers, sent out to slip around the enemy's flanks, were able to occupy the prime high ground at the head of the valley unnoticed and unopposed, after the enemy threw away their one advantage by instantly quitting the high ground they held to charge downhill, with howls of glee, against the long, thin line they saw approaching them along the valley floor. As the howling masses charged, the cavalry contingent facing them, at the head of the column, appeared to wilt and flee, falling back and away to either side, withdrawing at full speed and leaving the long files of infantry exposed to the oncoming horde.

None of the attackers had ever dealt with Roman tactics, it was plain. None of them noticed that the fleeing cavalry regrouped immediately, on either side of the phalanx of the rearguard, which had stopped at the first sign of attack, and then stood firm. None saw—or if they did, they were too far committed to regroup—that the exposed infantry was regrouping rapidly as well, deploying outwards upon itself to form two hollow squares, each three men deep, each forming an unbreakable, four sided defensive wall before the nearest enemy could close to within throwing distance.

As the first waves of attackers began to throw themselves uselessly and suicidally against the standing squares, I arrived in the valley at the head of my five hundred and aligned my troops to the right of the rearguard. No one sought to interfere with any of us. The fighting was contained about the squares of infantry, who were having no , difficulty standing off the enemy. I looked up to the head of the valley, where my other thousand cavalry sat waiting, less than a mile away, commanded by Tessius. I realized then that I had one more order to deliver before signalling them down. I called young Bedwyr to me and sent him galloping, escorted by six troopers, to tell Tessius to lead his charge westward, downhill along the line of the squares to my left. He was to charge immediately upon receiving my order, and I would move when he did, leading my forces upward to the east, on the right of the squares. On either side, we would trample the enemy beneath our hooves, while remaining far enough away from the squares themselves to present no threat to our own infantry. I watched Bedwyr and his escort gallop away and settled back to wait for him to make the transit of the field. Nothing is as difficult for a leader as having to wait, while in front of him his men are being killed.

Even in the short time it took for Bedwyr to ride up the valley floor, however, it was becoming evident that we had won a victory. The enemy were bloodthirsty and fierce, ferocious and undisciplined, but they were not stupid. They had already recognized the folly of throwing themselves against the unwavering rows of our shields and spears, and now many of them hung back, their weapons dangling from their hands, looking about them to the east and west, peering towards where our cavalry sat motionless and filled with menace. I saw several men running this way and that, exhorting others, tugging at arms and clothing, and then a barely discernible progress began away from the fight as groups and bands began to disengage and move away.

Next came the brazen peal of Tessius's trumpets,, and his long line of men surged into motion. My own trumpets sounded immediately, and I stripped the sheath from my sword and sank my spurs into Germanicus, sending him forward.

It was slaughter—nothing less. One pass we made, from west to east, and scarce a living man was left to face us. They had outnumbered us, it seemed, by almost a full thousand, but we had lost less than a score of our infantry and captured half a hundred of theirs. The others, nigh on four full thousand of diem, lay dead. Several score escaped the field and we made no attempt to hinder them. We left the dead to rot where they had fallen, since we had neither the time nor the means to bury them, and left that dismal place to be whispered of by our enemies, and to be cleansed in time by birds, animals, insects and the purifying actions of the weather.

From that day forward, no enemy had stood against us. The report I had received today from Philip had become routine. We had no belligerent opposition in Cambria, despite the fact that the Pendragon lands still swarmed with Ironhair's mercenaries and the war of invasion was being fought daily. The enemy was near, but always out of our reach. Yet we had tried, and had come close to winning. Twice now we had been successful in driving the enemy ahead of us like partridges, pushing them towards the coast, but on each occasion, thanks to some form of signalling or communication that might tempt a man to believe in magic, a fleet of galleys had been waiting just offshore to spirit them away to safety before we could close with them. Something new was called for, but to this point I had been unable to find any alternative strategy that might offer hope for more success.

Our campaign along the southern coast, on the other hand, where our objectives were fixed towns and harbours, had been hearteningly successful and our victory complete. There was no place now in all of the southern half of Cambria where Ironhair could land his vessels without fear of being attacked and losing his cargo. Nowadays, his fleets plied north and south, maintaining a safe distance from the shore, and the few new levies that his vessels ferried must land in the far north, then make their way southwards through inhospitable terrain that was filled with dour and bitter enemies.

My thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of a rolling stone, and then came Donuil's voice from above and behind me, calling to me that my officers were assembled and waiting. I sighed and rose to my feet, then put away my stone and sheathed my sword before replacing my helmet and climbing up onto Germanicus, who made his way without urging towards the sound of Donuil's voice. The big Celt sat waiting for me, his face expressionless, and when I drew level with him he reined his own horse about and rode knee to knee with me.

"Look yonder," he said. I turned and gazed along the coastline to my right, shielding my eyes against the water reflected brightness of the sun.

"What? I can't see anything."

Donuil was squinting, too. "Neither can I, now, " he murmured. "But the big bireme's out there, just a dot on the skyline. Derek saw it first and gave voice. "

I stared hard now, squinting almost directly into the brightness, but it was hopeless; there was nothing to see except scintillating sheets of blinding brilliance. "What about the other ships accompanying it? How many?"

We were headed steeply downhill now, towards the command tent on the level turf above the sloping beach. 'Too far away to see, let alone count, " Donuil said. "But you'll see better, once we get down there. The angle's better, and there's less reflection. "

Sure enough, when we reached the level land above the beach the coruscating brilliance of the sun on the waves was greatly diminished and I could see the huge shape of the bireme, clearly accompanied now by a host of lesser ships. I reached the command tent to find everyone staring off to sea, talking among themselves and unaware of my approach.

I dismounted and walked towards the table set up on the rostrum outside the tent. "Well, gentlemen, " I called. "Does anyone have any advice to offer on the disposition of this fleet? Will it come down on us, think you? Or is it merely passing us by to relieve some harbour to the east of us?"

Huw Strongarm swung around to face me and approached. "They won't come near us here. "

"Why not, Huw?"

"There's no place for them to land, for one thing, other than this beach behind us, and it slopes too much to let them close to us. By the time they disembarked and charged this far, through water up to their waists, they'd all be dead and we'd be out of arrows. "

I nodded. "Right. So they won't be coming here. But they'll see us clearly enough. Is there a disadvantage to us in that?"

The other officers, some forty of them, had surrounded us by now, and stood listening to what we were saying. The big Pendragon captain shrugged, clearly having nothing more to add, and I changed topic.

"How long would it take you to arrange for me to meet with Uderic, Huw?" I ignored the sudden buzz that greeted my mention of the name of the mercurial man who had sprung up to replace the fallen Dergyll ap Griffyd as leader of the Pendragon Celts. I held up my hand to still the noise as Huw considered my surprising question.

"Uderic?' He shook his grizzled head. "Who knows? It might take me a month to find out where he is. He has no trust in me, nor I in him. Once I find him, though, if I can hold him down for long enough to listen to what I have to say, it should be an easy matter to arrange a meeting between you. Why would you want to speak with Uderic?'

"Because I should have spoken with him months ago. He refused to meet me then, for reasons of his own. But we have amassed victories lately, and those have worked to his advantage. He and I have need of each other, despite his reluctance to share anything with me. He is the closest thing Pendragon has right now to a king and supreme leader. He also seems to be the only man in Cambria who can move swiftly and decisively to counteract Ironhair's manoeuvres and convince others to move with him. " I saw the protest forming in Huw's eyes and spoke quickly to forestall him. "I know that is not strictly true, and there are others who have arguably stronger rights to the kingship. I also know that some of those are able leaders, too. But there's no denying that Uderic is the most dynamic leader among them, or that he has the loyalty of his own men, and of some of those who follow others, too. He's the only one of the Pendragon chiefs I have not yet met, and I think the time to rectify that is now. Will you find him for me?"

"Aye, but he mislikes you even more than he mistrusts me." Huw looked uncomfortable, speaking the words.

"No, Huw, he thinks he mislikes me, but he has never met me. He may mislike the thought of me, and he may mistrust me—that I can understand, since I believe he sees in me some threat to his ambitions. He is insecure in his new kingship, having seized it by conquest, and he knows me as kin to Uther. But I hope that he will be clever enough see the advantages of having me—having all of us here— as allies. Uderic has a war to fight and win, and so have we, for reasons of our own. Acting together we could win it quickly, saving thousands of lives."

"The big one is heading this way!" This shout from the beach caused a general turning towards the sea. I eased my way among my men to where I could see what was happening, Derek and Donuil flanking me on either side. Sure enough, the massive bireme had come much closer to us and would soon draw level with our position, perhaps less than half a mile out to sea. Its lesser, consort galleys, of which I counted ten at first glance, were sweeping closer to shore, spying on us, yet keeping just beyond Pendragon bow range.

"They won't come closer, but they're curious." I turned to Donuil. "Show them our standards, Donuil. Have our trumpeters sound out a challenge for them. And post a squad of bowmen on the rocks above, in hopes that some of them may row too close." As he left to carry out my orders, I turned back to Huw, who had come to stand behind me. "So, Huw, how many men will you take with you and how long will you require to make ready? I'd like to see you on your way today."

"Then you will. I'll take my own half hundred with me. I'll feel safe with my own Pendragon bowmen against any number of heathen Outlanders. With the goodwill of the gods, I'll find Uderic within the week, unless he's dead and in the ground, and I'll be back within three days of that. Where should I arrange for you to meet with him?!'

"I've no idea, " I told him honestly. "You pick the place, as close as possible to half way between where we are now and where you find Uderic. But be sure to leave yourself sufficient time to get back here and lead me to the meeting place before the appointed time. "

He nodded, grinning. "Should I go now? I'm ready. "

"Then do so, and accept my thanks. "

He spun on his heel and walked away, and as I watched him go I heard another shout from the beach. 'Tell Commander Merlyn one of them's coming in!" I was moving again before the word was relayed. As I stepped clear of the throng, on to the bare strand above the beach, I saw Donuil come galloping towards me along the hard sand at the water's edge.

"That's Feargus, Merlyn!" he shouted.

Sure enough, I recognized the racing galley instantly by the red of its sail. My jaw dropped as I looked again to where the massive bireme ploughed ahead of its escorts.

"Connor Mac Athol!" I roared into the sudden stillness. "You crazed, intemperate, one legged madman!"

Feargus's galley heeled hard over and came scything towards the beach, its oars scattering water and flashing wet in the sunlight. I made my way straight down the sand to the water's edge, holding my arms widespread in welcome and restraining myself with difficulty from breaking into a headlong run. Donuil, I knew, had jumped down from his horse and was close behind me, as would be the others. The galley sped straight towards me until, at the last possible moment, the oarsmen shipped their oars in unison and the long, sleek craft glided forward unaided, its speed dwindling rapidly, to grate to a halt on the shallow, sandy bottom less than a score of paces from where I stood. The tiny man who captained this graceful craft leaped to the prow and hailed me.

"Merlyn of Camulod! The Admiral of King Brander's seas sends greetings! Would you care to step aboard his bireme?"

"Gladly," I roared. "But I cannot walk on water, nor can I swim in armour." Even as I shouted, however, I saw the tiny boat being pushed away to fetch me and I turned to Donuil. "Your brother never fails to amaze me. The last time we spoke, he told me he intended to steal one of Ironhair's biremes. I should have been expecting this! Come with me." I looked beyond his shoulder to where Derek, Benedict and Rufio stood grinning. "We'll be gone but a short time. My apologies to the others for the interrupted meeting, but this development may change everything. Connor Mac Athol may have won our war for us!"

Connor made us royally welcome aboard his magnificent new ship, and as soon as the amenities of greetings and exchange of family trivia had been concluded, he told us the tale of how he had procured it, slipping unnoticed with more than a hundred men into the armed camp that served as its major harbour on the northern coast of Cornwall.

His plan had succeeded without a setback. He and his men and ships were welcomed by the Cornishmen, accepted unquestioningly as mercenaries no different from the hundreds of others who came and went constantly, and Connor had bided his time, establishing himself and his followers, over the course of six days, as belonging. Then, on the seventh day, the bireme had arrived and the booty captured in the previous month's raids in Cambria had been unloaded and dispatched in wagons to wherever Ironhair stored such things. Connor had discovered that new levies would be boarded the following day for transportation into Cambria, and thus had been presented with two alternative courses: loading his own men aboard the following day, then capturing the vessel once at sea, or taking the initiative immediately and capturing the ship that very night. He had chosen the latter, because the cargo holds his men would occupy in travelling were deep, and they might not be able to leave them before the end of the voyage. He had heard tales aplenty of mercenaries confined in the holds beneath locked hatches throughout entire voyages, especially in foul weather. Furthermore, at sea the ship would have its own armed defenders.

Connor had issued his commands, and his men had boarded the bireme in the dead of night, easily overcoming the few guards posted in the ship's home port. Once aboard, the remainder had been simple, and the bireme had quietly slipped from its moorings, under new command, with no one noticing.

Two things, however, had appalled him and his men: the rank stench of the ship, emanating from the decks where the rowers were chained to their sweeps; and the unsuspected fact that such ships were powered by slaves. Connor had been completely unprepared for that. When he had discovered it, he had been forced to consider abandoning his attempt to steal it, knowing that the vessel's oarsmen would be confined there, and aware of what was afoot. The size of the ship, however, the overwhelming bulk of it and the power it offered, had convinced him that he could not simply do nothing merely because he feared the possible reaction of a crew of slaves. Certainly, he reasoned, they might rebel and raise the alarm when they discovered the theft, in which case Connor and his men would be in dire straits; or they might even refuse to row the vessel, which would be scarcely better. Connor, however, had elected to believe they might choose freedom, and so he offered it, overcoming language difficulties by the simple expedient of choking a hulking overseer with his own whip, striking the chains off the leading slaves and setting some of his own men to toil beside them in starting the ship away from the dock. His message of hope spread quickly, and the galley slaves worked harder, without goading, than they had probably ever worked before. By dawn, the bireme was safe in deep, blue water, surrounded by Connor's own galleys and unthreatened by pursuit.

I interrupted him at that point to ask him what he had done with the slaves, and he smiled at me.

"Almost half of them are here aboard, those who were fit enough to want to fight. "

"And what about the others?"

'They're in the north, among our Isles. Some died, but very few. The others are... mending. "

"How long ago did all this occur?"

His smile grew wider. "What was it, three months ago? No, it was four. I sailed directly south on leaving you, and we took the ship a short time after that... perhaps two weeks. My plan was right, you see. No point in putting off what could be done right then and there. "

"And then you sailed home again, all the way north, directly?"

He laughed. "We had to, man! We couldn't stay down here. You've never smelled a stink the like of what we found aboard. Those rowers were chained to their oars, never released for any purpose, so they lived in their own filth. My men were vomiting all the time from the stench of it. You couldn't eat your food and hold it down! We had to clean the whole ship, stem to stern. We beached it, north of here, as soon as we were free of interference, and swilled it out, but the stink was settled deep in the wood and would not be swiftly moved."

I nodded. "It still smells ripe," I said, but Connor waved my comment away disdainfully.

"Ah, it's almost nothing now, and growing fainter all the time. I tell you, at the start, it was unbearable. When we won home, to the Isles, we didn't dare take the thing near any of our people, so we beached it again on a sand bar and then spent two months scraping the hull and scrubbing the wood inside it with lye soap to root out the stink. Even then, it was hard to bear. We floated it again and built slow fires of peat along the decks, in braziers, letting the sweet smell of the smoke hang tight inside the walls for two full weeks, and that made things a little better. After that, we filled the space between the decks with fresh mown hay. Soon we'll fumigate the place again with sweet peat smoke, and that should finish it. Now no man shits or pisses between decks, on pain of flogging.

"But what a ship, eh, Merlyn? What a ship! Nigh on five hundred men I have in her right now. Five hundred men! It's cramped—there's no denying that—but five hundred on one ship!" He stopped, then shook his head. "Mind you, that's a lot of men to drown if she ever sank under us." He stood up and strode across his cabin, and the deck above his head was high enough to permit him to do so without stooping. He thumped the sloping wall. "Little chance of that, though. Solid, this is, and iron hard, though I've not the least idea what kind of wood it is."

"What of the other one?"

"The other one like this? I've no idea, nor have I ever seen it. If it's still in these waters, I'll find it one day."

"And then? What will you do?"

"I'll burn it, or I'll capture it."

"You mean you'll fight it, ship to ship?"

His grin was ferocious. "Why not? All the advantages would lie with me. Their ship is crewed by slaves, mine by free men. We'll out row them, out sail them and out fight them."

I glanced at Donuil, to see how he was taking this, and found him grinning at his brother. "So be it," I said. "Where are you headed now, and how did you happen to come by here?"

Connor shrugged his broad shoulders. "I knew you were in Cambria, but I didn't know where. We rode out last night's storm in a small bay two hours' sailing time from here, and now I'm on my way to join forces with Logan. I'll sweep along the coast here, till I reach the river mouth, then turn south and sail back westward along the northern coast of Cornwall. Logan will sail east, from the end of the Cornish horn, to join me in visiting Ironhair's harbour there, the one where we found this beauty. It's defended by a fort, built into the cliff, but like all forts, it's built facing the land, so it offers us no great threat. That's why we were able to sail out so easily. This time we'll sail in, but of course they'll know us as enemies, even before we attack. They'll know this beauty immediately. Her sister may even be there when we arrive, in which case we'll take her if we can, or destroy her if we must. In either event, I intend to make life unpleasant for the troops along that coast, outside the fort and close to the town." He paused. "You've a look in your eye, Merlyn Britannicus, a look I knew well when you were yellow headed the first time. What have you in your mind?"

I shook my head. "Nothing, really. What's this fort called? Is it Tintagel, by any chance?"

Connor nodded. "Aye, that's the name. You know it?"

"I know of it. Lot of Cornwall's father started building it, and Lot carried on with the work. Is it made of stone?"

"Some of it. Some parts of it. They've had masons working on it for years, but it's nowhere near complete. Mainly it's built of wood—log palisades. Would you like to come with me and see it?"

I answered his grin with my own. "I would dearly love to, but my troops might grow confused, seeing me sail off like that. I think I'd better stay right here, in case fighting breaks out."

"Well, then, let me show you my ship, before I have to go. Logan has less than ten craft with him, in the south, so I've no wish to keep him waiting for my arrival. Come."

I was stunned by the spaciousness of his new craft. From the exterior view it looked enormous, but walking between the multiple decks, its real dimensions became awesomely apparent. It stretched fully eighty paces long, from stem to stern as Connor said, while the width of the main deck was twenty five paces. The hatches to the cargo holds ran in a line along the middle of the craft, giving access to the holds themselves, three full decks beneath. The great double banks of oars were handled from a stepped deck in the very centre of the craft, where the rowers of alternate sweeps worked above and below each other, half the height of a tall man separating them. The signs of recent slavery were still apparent there: iron rings set into the floor and smooth worn channels in the wooden deck showed where the chains that bound the rowers had run. At the rear end of the rowing deck , directly at the foot of the companionway leading up to the steering deck, a massive kettledrum sat mounted on a tripod. This, Connor explained, was the post of the oarmaster, the man who dictated the rhythm of the huge sweeps that propelled the ship. From his position just below the shipmaster on the stern steering deck, the oarmaster could clearly hear the commands passed down to him, and the rhythmic pounding of his drum hammers decreed the pace of the rowers’ efforts.

Below the rowing deck was a deck for cargo storage, while another above provided accommodation for the ship's warriors. The original biremes of Rome had been no more than floating platforms from which land trained troops fought land based wars, and that priority had altered little over the centuries. Front and rear, great towers soared above the main deck, giving the vessel an ungainly appearance when seen from either side; these provided viciously effective advantages as platforms for the ship's catapults and other artillery, and also housed the ship's officers and troop commanders. At either end of the deck drawbridges reared high. Lowered by pulleys, they were used to attach the ship to land when the vessel was in port, but they were equally capable of locking it similarly to another ship's side in battle, allowing soldiers to pour across on to the enemy's decks.

Connor, I knew, had good reason to be proud of owning this floating fortification, but his greatest source of pride was the enormous, copper clad battering ram of solid wood, wider than my outspread arms where it formed the prow of the ship. This stretched out a full six long legged strides from the bireme's bows and tapered to a wicked point below the waterline. Heaven help any other vessel that found itself facing this, I thought when he pointed it out to us.

Connor shipped us ashore again, promising to return by the shortest route to visit us after he had sacked Ironhair's harbour in Cornwall. He estimated that it would take him less than a week to go there, do what he must do, and return. I promised him we would still be there when he did return, providing his estimate was accurate, since I was committed to await Huw Strongarm's return, and that would take no less than a week. After that, though, I would be leaving as soon as I had to, in order to meet with Uderic Pendragon.

He walked with Donuil and me to the side of his ship and then braced himself with his wooden leg against the rail before leaning outward, clinging to a rope, to watch with a wide grin of delight as we made our way nervously down a narrow wooden ladder lashed to the side of the great ship. We were suddenly terrifyingly aware of how simple it had been to board this monster from the tiny boat that now bobbed sickeningly on the leaping waves, slightly beyond our reach.

Clinging there above the lurch of the slapping waves, we gauged our time and distance and leaped to where willing hands waited to grasp us and save us from overturning the boat. We both made the transit safely, albeit with a decided lack of dignity. My stomach was still swooping distressingly when the hull of the boat grated on the sand and I leaped out, wading through ankle deep water to the satisfying solidness of the dry beach, carefully avoiding the eyes of any of the watchers who stood there.

For the remainder of that day I had but one pressing priority. I reconvened the officers and apologized for the interruption of our session, after which I set them to drawing up rosters of activities that would keep our troops occupied and usefully employed during the time we must wait for Huw's return. That done, I handed command over to Donuil, as adjutant, and withdrew to my own tent to bring my diurnal log up to date.

The wording of the first two sentences I wrote that day has remained bright in my memory, because they fell so far short of the truth that, when I read them again later, I laughed aloud at the power we have to surprise ourselves with our own ineptitude. "Connor has returned unexpectedly, " I wrote, "in possession of one of Ironhair's biremes. Now, after months of inaction, it appears that things might start to change. " Well, change they did.

It began the following day, just before noon, when a squadron of cavalry arrived from Camulod. I had been expecting no word from home and I strode out to meet them, my insides knotted with apprehension, since here, I suspected, could be no good tidings. My apprehension flared into fear when I recognized the officer in charge as one of the junior tribunes I had last seen leaving Camulod with Ambrose, headed north.

"You should be with my brother, " I snapped at the man, as he stood rigidly to attention in front of me. "Why are you here, and where is he?"

"The Legate Commander Ambrose is safe and well in Northumbria with King Vortigern, Commander Merlyn. He dispatched me immediately upon our arrival there to put your mind at rest as to his welfare, since he now believes he might be detained in Northumbria for slightly longer than he originally thought. I came with all speed, stopping but briefly in Camulod to gain fresh horses. I bear dispatches, sir, for your attention. This from the Legate Commander, and the smaller is from the Legate Dedalus, in Camulod. "

I took the two carrying cases young Sulla held Out to me and thanked him kindly for his trouble, feeling somewhat guilty now for the coldness of my initial greeting. I sent him off with Donuil, accompanied by his men, then dismissed everyone else and withdrew to my tent.

Once confident that I would remain undisturbed, I found myself postponing the moment when I would open up the thick leather wallet that contained Ambrose's dispatches. I poured myself a cup of ale and made myself comfortable in my folding chair, tilting it back onto its hind legs as I sat with my feet up on the old, scarred campaign desk that had been my father's and his father's before that, rubbing the thick leather of the wallet with my thumb. At length, however, I had to admit to myself that I was merely putting off the inevitable, and I untied the thongs that bound the wallet tight There were two scrolls in the receptacle, one of them much heavier than the other, and I saw at first glance that they were not both from Ambrose. His letter bore his seal, a floral emblem petalled like a daisy, with his personal crest of an eagle's head embossed in the centre. The other bore a common seal of wax, pressed flat with the point of a knife. I smiled as I broke it and unrolled the single sheet of papyrus covered with small, tightly compressed letters. It was from Arthur, the first letter I had ever received from him, and it showed evidence of torturous effort in its composition, with many words written and then struck out afterwards.

The Legate Commander Caius Merlyn Britannicus

Greetings, Cousin:

I write this on the instructions of the Legate Commander Ambrose, who has decided that I must learn the power of words on papyrus. As part of my assigned duties each day, I now must keep a daily log, presenting it to him for his inspection and approval each morning.

I fi

n

d the writing difficult.

The writing of the log is not, in itself, difficult, but the selection of the proper words, to describe events

without being too

precisely, without wasting time or space, consumes much time.

We have come safely to Lindum, where Vortigern the King now keeps his strength, after moving south from his former stronghold in Eboracum three years ago. We are quartered in the ancient Roman fort of Lindum itself, which is being fortified anew, with stone walls being erected atop the old, earthen walls. We had no trouble on the wad, except for one incident which I unfortunately missed, when a small party of our advance scouts was waylaid by a band of wandering brigands who outnumbered them by five to one. The brigands had never fought armed horsemen before, and they fared ill. I wish I had been there.

Our troopers have struck wonder into all the people here in Lindum. Nothing like them has ever been seen in these lands. King Vortigern would be well pleased were we to stay here, but Ambrose has told him that we must return. Ambrose, I felt, was as unhappy to say so as the King was to hear it. He has much loyalty to Vortigern, from former times, I think. We are to make one great, rapid sweep around the King's main holdings here, in company with Vortigern, before we leave. Ambrose plans to penetrate the great forests to the south and east, to show our strength to the Danes and Saxons living there.

I am really looking

Sadly, Ambrose says we will not fight, but that we will appear prepared to fight. King Vortigern has never ridden in a saddle with stirrups, and he says that he is now too old to learn, so he will ride bareback as he always has.

Ambrose says that when we have completed that long sweep, we will leave for home immediately, but I hope that he will bring us directly to Cambria and that the war will still be in progress.

I look forward to seeing you again. Greet Bedwyr for me. I wonder if he has blooded his sword yet.

Arthur.

I read the epistle three times, smiling more broadly each time as I imagined the effort the boy had put into its composition. I sympathized utterly with him, recalling clearly my own laborious attempts at writing down my thoughts when I was even older than he now was. The stricken out words and the few blots that marred the sheet delighted me particularly, since they showed that Arthur had not yet progressed sufficiently along the path to have realized that a letter could be drafted first, painfully and messily, then rewritten completely. Well, I thought, he would soon learn all of that, just as surely as he would learn not to yearn for the death and violence of war. That thought, with all its implications, robbed me of any further desire to smile, and I turned to Ambrose's letter.

Lindum.

Ambrose Britannicus to Caius Merlyn Britannicus;

Hail, Brother!

I wonder which of these two missives you will open first? My intuition tells me that, despite your need to learn the status quo here in the northeast from me, your natural decision will be to read what Arthur has to say first. I must remember to ask you, when next we meet.

Vortigern is well and, to my delight, living in Lindum, which has permitted me to spend some time with my adoptive parents, Jacob and Gwilla. You have never met Gwilla, my mother's sister, but she has asked me to convey her best wishes to you, and so has Jacob, who remembers you well.

The King is as healthy and as ambitious as he ever was, and the knowledge came as a pleasant surprise. I truly had expected that he would be dead, and that his territories would be torn by civil war, but that is not the case. He has great problems, nevertheless, all of them emanating from Hengist's brat Horsa, but it has not come to open war between them, to this point. I have little faith it will remain that way, however. Horsa, from all I hear, has been preparing for war in earnest now for several years and has amassed a mighty army—five to ten thousand warriors, depending upon the source one listens to—which, to this time, he has kept firmly based far south and east of here, among the great marshes of the coastal fens. From there, they have historically raided south, against the Saxon newcomers established there, and that honours the bargain made initially with Vortigern—to help him keep his kingdom free of Saxon invaders—and has led to the precarious, hostile peace that has prevailed up here for years now.

As I say, I expect that to change very soon. My own analysis leads me to suspect that, in terms of his rumoured strength, the ten thousand estimate might be more accurate, and even short of the mark. I base that upon my own evaluation of his immediate fighting requirements, taking into account the vastness of the territory he has to contain: the area we call the Saxon Shore, directly southward of his base. Recent, reliable reports gathered by Vortigern indicate that the Saxons in the south grow stronger and more numerous every year. The fleets arriving annually are growing larger, bringing hordes of land hungry Outlanders to swell the numbers already here, and new fleets are coming, too, from new directions, as the word of land for the taking spreads among the tribes of the Germanic territories that the Romans held underfoot for so long. There is nothing to hold them now, with the Roman restraint abolished, and they are sweeping into Britain in multiplying thousands each year, claiming and clearing land and spreading outwards all the time from the boundaries they held the previous year.

Much of that outward spread nowadays is focused northward, in order to keep the sea within their reach, for these are all seafaring tribes; that means Horsa has his hands full, at present, in beating back these incursions, and he has neither the time nor the resources to cast his eyes backward at Vortigern's kingdom. But the enemy is being constantly renewed and resupplied, and I believe that Horsa must soon fall back into Vortigern's domain, in order to establish a new line that he can hold against the incursions from the south At that point, the northward surge may flag and stop, but the expansion will then seek other outlets, and in the meantime, Horsa's army will be cheek by jowl with Vortigern's.

I greatly fear we may have grown complacent in our western Colony, assuming a safety that is spurious, simply because we are removed from sight and sound of these upheavals. Numbers of such vastness as those reportedly pouring into the eastern lands will not be long contained, because, extensive as the Saxon Shore may seem to us in Camulod, it cannot long sustain the kind of crowding that is occurring now, and the time must soon come when the exploding growth must spill out into other regions of Britain. It follows logically that any such spillage must be to the west, towards us.

How goes the Cambrian campaign, I wonder. It is much in my thoughts, because I now fear that the war against Ironhair and Carthac is by far the lesser of the problems facing us; a local squabble when compared to the threat stirring here on the other side of Britain. Because of the seriousness of my concern over matters here, I have decided to look into things myself, and that will mean extending my stay here by not less than a month, in order to undertake a wide ranging and fast moving sweep of the southern territories. I do not intend to linger anywhere during that manoeuvre, nor will I seek conflict. I simply intend to demonstrate our presence and potential force, as allies of Vortigern, and to gain a clearer understanding at first hand of the forces that may be ranged against us in the future. In the meantime, lam sending this dispatch in the hands of Paul Sulla, to forewarn you.

Vortigern, as we surmised he might, wants me to remain here in the north for an extended time, but I have already convinced him that I must return to Camulod as soon as possible. I have, however, promised to return next year, in even greater strength. I am convinced that this is the proper and appropriate course to adopt, and I am equally convinced you will agree, once you come to understand the gravity of what I have discovered.

Two alternative courses lie open to us next year, as I see it: if the Cambrian war is concluded, you and I will ride up here together; if it still drags on, however, then I will conduct it while you come north to form your own opinion of matters here. I consider that need—for you to come here personally—to be imperative. I see enormous danger here, the potential for great and dire conflict, and that has forced me to reconsider most of the beliefs I once questioned in you, when I thought you guilty of unwarranted xenophobia. Ironhair and Carthac and their like may be contentious and intractable, but I now see that they are Celts like us, our own people in the final analysis. The threats we face from the seething hordes now investing this northeastern land, on the other hand, might well culminate in the annihilation of our people and our very way of life in Britain, should we not take timely steps to counteract them.

I shall return to Camulod as soon as I am able. If you are then still in Cambria, I shall join you there. In either eventuality, I will have far more information by that time than I possess now.

Farewell, and may the gods of war smile upon your army.

Ambrose

I sat motionless after the first reading of that long, astonishing missive, allowing its tone and tidings to settle themselves within my mind at their own speed and making no attempt to analyse what Ambrose had actually said therein. I knew that anything else, any reaction I permitted myself at that time, would be ill considered. I wished to reread the letter several times and then think the entire situation through in detail before I spoke of it to anyone else. And then, knowing how my own mind works, I turned to Dedalus's dispatch, trusting myself to work on Ambrose's information while I digested Ded's.

I opened the cylinder and broke the plain seal on the document. As I might have expected, Ded wasted no time on salutations or frippery but came straight to the point.

Cay:

Young Paul Sulla arrived today, on his way to find you and deliver dispatches from Ambrose, so I am sending this with him. He is preparing to leave now, so I have little time. I have no idea what Ambrose might have said to you in his dispatches, but from the few hints I have squeezed out of young Sulla, I gather he will not be back as soon as he had thought, and also that there is more going on up in Northumbria than we might have suspected. At least Vortigern is still alive, and Sulla said nothing of war.

This now in relation to your arrangements for the build up of new, allied forces outside Camulod: the expedition we had planned, one hundred strong, went out to Nero Niger Appius and Corinium within the first week after you left, and it has met with great success. Corinium is now alive again, with people living behind its walls and the beginnings of a garrison undergoing training with our men. Early reports seem confident, although I continue to have doubts about making soldiers out of farmers and peasants. Those doubts are my own, however, and I am prepared to be convinced of my error.

Two similar expeditions have gone out since then, one of them to the next town north of Corinium. It had no name, or if it ever did it has been long forgotten. Our people are now calling it Secunda. The third expedition went to Tertia—as you might expect—another nameless old marching camp fortification to the south of us, some twenty miles west of Lindinis. That was unexpected, but a delegation arrived here one day, prompted by the success of the Corinium plan. Someone from the Tertia region had been up there and spoken with Nero Niger, and had returned home filled with enthusiasm. Apparently Tertia is good farm country and well populated. I took the matter to Council, and they approved, so Tertia was launched, and I am told that in the space of less than two months they have progressed as far as the Corinium people have in four.

Now there are two more expeditions being prepared, both of them bound for similar places with no name, but with the remnants of old Roman walls in place and fertile fields nearby.

Your plan for this region is working, my friend, no matter what frustrations you are facing where you ate. I thought you might be glad to know that.

Everything here is as it should be, though I do not enjoy working with the Council—too much discussion, too little decision. The garrison matters proceed smoothly, nonetheless, and that I do enjoy. I see your Lady Tressa frequently, usually with your brother's wife Ludmilla. It is clear they have become good friends, so disabuse yourself of any thought that she is languishing without you. In truth, she seems so much at home here now in Camulod, no one would ever think she is but a new arrival. I know that, too, will please you. I would have asked her if she had words for me to send to you with this, had that been possible, but Sulla is anxious to be on his way and is fretting as he waits even for this from me.

Get rid of Ironhair and Carthac quickly, but do it thoroughly.

Decapitation is thorough.

Dedalus

Decapitation! I grinned to myself, shaking my head as I released Ded's letter and allowed it to roll up on itself.

The news was good concerning the outlying settlements, and I was grateful, and a little surprised, that he had thought to send it. His reservations on the quality of the garrisons we were building in those new settlements were no surprise to me, though. Ded was a professional soldier, and he simply could not believe that any other kind of man could be successful in soldiery. The best tidings, however, were those concerning Tress and Ludmilla. The mere mention of Tressa's name had filled me with warmth and homesickness, and now I allowed myself to think of her for long moments, recalling the smell and the taste of her, the laughter in her eyes and the sound of her voice, admitting to myself that I missed her sorely. Then, aware that I was being self indulgent, I replaced Ded's letter in its cylinder and took up Ambrose's lengthy dispatch again.

I had barely finished reading it for the second time when I heard Donuil's voice speaking my name. He pulled back the flap of my tent and entered, followed closely by Derek. Donuil had a strange look on his face, and I was suddenly aware of a hubbub of raised voices outside. "What's wrong?"

Donuil shook his head in a tiny gesture of perplexity. "I'm not sure. Connor sailed east—d'you expect him to come back that way?"

"Aye, or directly from the south. What are you talking about?"

"Well, either he's coming back from the west, or there's another big bireme coming to visit us."

"Coming from the west? Show me."

I forced myself to move slowly and deliberately, rolling my brother's letter up carefully and slipping it back into its wallet. That done, I moved to the entrance, holding the flap open for Donuil to pass in front of me. There was no need to go any further; the great, dark, solitary shape approaching rapidly in the offshore waters was unmistakable.

"Well, that's not Connor," I said softly, after my first glance. "So whoever it might be, he's from Ironhair, and he's not passing by. I doubt he'd be foolhardy enough to attempt an attack of any kind from there, and he has no other vessels with him, so we must presume we have a visitor wishing to speak with us."

Donuil stood close by, watching me as I spoke, and I was conscious that his were not the only eyes on me.

"Let's show them some discipline, Donuil. Assemble our people on the beach in full battle order. I'd estimate we may have half an hour before they reach us—that is, if they don't sheer off and resume their journey. Pass word to the senior commanders to change to full parade armour immediately, if you please, and send my orderly here at once, to help me with my own preparations. We have no time to waste."

EIGHT

Donuil returned to my tent just as I was removing my heavy war cape, having decided that it was too hot and that I had put it on too soon. He, too, had changed into parade gear and carried his ornately crested helmet in the crook of his left arm, and I looked him up and down approvingly.

"They're here, Merlyn," he announced quietly. "Lying in deep water, no more than fifty or sixty paces from the beach. But they've made no move to hail us. How do you want to proceed?"

"Have they given any sign of their intent?"

"No, but it's not hostile. They drifted into place, barely moving through the water, and there's no sign of bared weapons anywhere that I could see."

"They haven't lowered a boat?'

"No, nothing. They've done nothing. There's a group of what must be officers—"

"Armies have officers, Donuil, and a formal structure. These men may be leaders, but they are not officers."

"Aye, well, there's a group of them at the bow of the ship, just staring down at us."

"And are we staring back?"

He blinked at me. "I suppose so. We're facing them. There's nothing else to look at. "

"You're wrong there, Donuil. There are a hundred other things out there, all of them better to look at than these people. "

I opened the flap of my tent and looked outside to where several of my own officers stood waiting. "Gentlemen, will you come here?" When they were crowded into my tent, I looked at Donuil. "Donuil here tells me that the enemy are looking—staring—at us, and that we may be staring back. I want that stopped now. You will move among our units, please, and instruct all of them to ignore these people. They are to stand at attention with their eyes on the horizon straight ahead. They may look at the sea, the waves, the clouds in the sky, or at the back of the head of the man in front of them. But they are not to look at the enemy ship, or at any of its crew, is that clear?" I looked at each man individually and they all nodded.

"Good. Thank you all. In a moment I shall require you. to go and spread that word among our people, beginning with those units closest to the enemy ship. Before you do, however, I want to tell you how we will behave, and continue to behave, in this encounter. These people appear to believe they are on an embassy of some kind, bringing word to me from Ironhair, one equal to another. That implication of equality is offensive, completely unacceptable, and I want that clearly understood. I will not truck with Ironhair, or with any of his minions, on anything that seems to approach equal terms. I have no wish to give anyone the slightest false impression that I might be even slightly concerned to hear whatever it is they may have to say. " Again I looked from face to face and each man nodded gravely in return. "Good.

Donuil, here, will therefore be the only one to deal with them or speak to them. I'll ask you one more time: do you all understand what I am saying?" They all nodded, with a chorus of "Aye, Commander," and I dismissed them to spread the word. When they had gone, I turned to Donuil.

"These people will undoubtedly have the effrontery to expect me to go to meet them. I will not. Ironhair is not on that ship. He wouldn't endanger himself so foolishly. Whoever leads this expedition, therefore, is a deputy, and he will deal with you, my deputy. They may be mute for now, but sooner or lata' they will have to speak, or shout, then come to us. No one from our army will go to them, under any circumstances. If they wish to speak to us, they must come ashore, and when they do, they must speak to you and to you alone. When you have listened, if you think I should hear what they have to say, you will bring diem to me, and then they may wait until I have time for them. You will bring no more than three or four of them, fewer if possible, and you will bring them under guard—an armed escort. There will be nothing to suggest that it might be honorary— no ceremony, ho deference, no courtesy other than the barest necessary to avoid violence. They are to be treated as invading brigands under a temporary and unwelcome truce. Brigands, Donuil, not warriors, not men of honour."

Donuil was gazing at me steadily, absorbing every word, and now he nodded. "I will make sure there is no doubt of the regard in which we hold them."

"Good, but understand clearly what I have just said. You alone will judge the import of their words and decide whether or not I should talk to them thereafter. Should you decide against that, you will escort them back to the water's edge and see them off." I saw his eyebrow quirk at that. "I mean it, Donuil. This is your confrontation, to conduct how you will. You are my adjutant, and you have full discretion to decide if this matter is worth my time. I won't question your judgment. Now go down there to the water's edge and wait for them to shout to you, but don't encourage them. Don't look curious, and under no circumstances be the first to speak or initiate anything. Just stare at them as though they were some kind of noxious matter floating on the water. When they see you won't be moved, they'll come to you."

He nodded, snapped a smart salute, pressed his helmet onto his head and left me alone to wait.

I paced my tent for a time, straining to hear what was going on outside, but the silence was astonishing. From time to time I would hear a quiet spoken sentence, or an order from one of the officers, and the occasional crunch of pebbly sand as someone's horse shifted and sidled, but little else. I wanted to step outside, or at least part the tent flaps so that I could see something, but I was unwilling to show the slightest sign of interest.

Eventually, in the distance, I heard a voice raised in a shout, but I could not hear what was said. There, was no response, and I began to count, slowly. When I reached fifteen, the shout came again, still too muffled by distance for me to decipher it, and this time Donuil's voice rang out in response.

"If you have words to say to us, come here and say them like a man, instead of bellowing like a bull. No one will harm you."

A long period of silence ensued, and then came the sound of footsteps approaching my tent, and young Bedwyr drew back the flaps.

"Commander Merlyn? I am to inform you that a boat is approaching, with five men on board, apart from four oarsmen."

"Thank you, Bedwyr, " I said. "Now remain where you are and look back. Can you see what is happening?"

"Aye, Commander. The boat is approaching the shore. "

"Good. Now close the flaps and stand outside. Face the beach and simply report to me what is happening. I can hear you perfectly well without your having to raise your voice. "

"Aye, sir. " A long silence, then, "They've stopped rowing, Commander. Now the oarsmen are in the water, pulling the boat up onto the beach... The others are out, approaching Tribune Donuil. They don't like the bowmen. "

"What bowmen?'

"The adjutant has ordered two squadrons of Pendragon longbows to assemble on either side of him with arrows drawn, slanting out towards the water's edge in a funnel shape. The newcomers are walking between those files, approaching the adjutant. "

"Good, and what is Donuil doing?'

"Nothing, sir. He stands waiting, facing them, his hands clasped at his back. Now they are talking, but I can't hear them... The adjutant is leading them away now, towards the quartermaster's tent... He's sitting down at the quartermaster's table, in front of the tent, facing them, saying something... I'm sorry, sir, his back is to me. I can't hear what he's saying. "

'That's fine, Bedwyr. What's happening elsewhere? What are the other troops doing?'

"Nothing, sir. No one has moved. "

"Thank you. Stay there, and warn me the moment anyone starts to move again. "

I forced myself to walk to my table and sit down, and then to withdraw Ambrose's dispatch from its holder and read it again. I have no knowledge of how many times I started reading it Only to realize that I had lost all sense of what it said, and each time I would return to it, starting again from the salutation.

Eventually, after what seemed like an age, Bedwyr spoke again.

"Tribune Donuil has stood up, sir. He's coming this way. "

"Good. Come inside. "

"Sir!" He stepped inside and stood at attention just inside the doorway.

Donuil's footsteps approached and his shadow fell across the slight opening in the flaps. By the time he entered I was facing him. He glanced at Bedwyr, then turned to me.

"I think you ought to talk to them, Merlyn. "

"About what? What's their purpose?"

"I don't know, but they have one. You'll judge the content better than I could. Their leader is a man called Retorix, a captain of Ironhair's Cornwall levies. He's an arrogant blowhard, full of blustering menace, but he's more articulate than any of the others. He's the one charged by Ironhair to speak with you. He won't tell me what he has to say to you, and I've been tempted to kick him back on board his ship, but something tells me that would not be the right thing to do. I think you have to meet him. "

"Very well then, bring him in, but leave the rest of his people standing out there on the sand. "

Donuil nodded and began to turn away, but he hesitated, obviously caught short by some impulse. "D'you think that's wise, Merlyn, to leave all four of them out there? I mean, if you have things to say to him, harsh things or otherwise, wouldn't it be better to have witnesses? You speak to him alone, with no one to hear you, then there's no telling what he might report to Ironhair, and no refuting what he says. If others are here, it seems to me, he'll be more tightly bound to tell the truth, or something close to it. "

"You're right, my friend. Bring them all here, but stop them short outside. I don't want them inside my tent. "

I waited for the sounds of their approach, and then listened with appreciation to the stilted, metallic rattling of arms and armour as the guard who surrounded them responded to the clipped commands of their officer. Moments later, Donuil approached again and informed me that the delegation from Cornwall awaited me.

I sat still, at my desk, and forced myself to read Ambrose's letter, in its entirety, one more time. Then I rose and threw my ceremonial war cloak about my shoulders, adjusting the hang of it until the heavy, silver wire mass of the great bear embroidered across its back sat snugly, perfectly draped from my shoulders. Beckoning to Bedwyr to accompany me, I picked up my parade helmet and walked outside to where the newcomers stood clustered together under the watchful eyes of a full squadron of the guard who surrounded them on three sides.

Retorix, their leader, was not hard to pick out. He stood half a head taller than his companions, and his clothes were richer and more finely made. He was a well made man himself, broad in the shoulders, narrow of waist and thick legged, perhaps thirty three years of age. He was clean shaven, with no moustache, and armoured in a vaguely Roman fashion: bronze back and breastplates and a domed helmet with a skirt that covered his neck but failed to conceal the thick, rank curls of black hair that hung down past his shoulders. From the waist down he wore no armour. A padded tunic came down to his knees and beneath that he wore breeches of heavy, homespun cloth, cross bound from ankle to knee. The boots he wore were of heavy leather and looked hard and comfortless. A thick, grey cloak of rich wool enhanced the Romanish look of him, hanging from his right shoulder with one end looping up beneath his left arm, where a thick, barbaric ring pin of silver held it in place. I deliberately ignored the other four men and fixed my eyes on Retorix alone.

"Who are you?"

"They call me Retorix. "

"Hot wind?" I saw his eyes widen. 'That is what 'rhetoric' means in my world—hot wind and bullying argument. Rhetorics would be a plurality—a profusion of hot wind. " I could see that my meaning, though not my tone, had blown right over his head, and I chided myself silently for stooping to such a level. "Who are these 'they' that call you Retorix?'

"My people. "

"I knew that, since I presume only your own people would care to own you. Who are your people? That is what I am asking you. "

He drew himself up, his bearing expressing outrage. "The Romans called them the Belgae, the people of Cornwall. "

I stared him in the eye. "The Romans are long since gone. Their day is past. We are Britons. Would you like to know what we call the people of Cornwall nowadays, the people who would submit to the will of such a thing as Peter Ironhair?' I looked away from him, making no effort to disguise my disgust, and then swung back. "My adjutant tells me you have words for me, but I have little time to listen, so spit out what you have to say and then be gone. "

I could see the fellow growing angrier with each word, but he reined himself in and breathed deeply through his nostrils several times before beginning to speak. "You are Merlyn of Camulod, am I right?'

"What of it?'

I saw his eyes move beyond me to where Bedwyr stood at my back, and as I watched his eyes flick up and down, scanning the boy from head to foot, I had a sudden certainty that he thought Bedwyr was Arthur. He had looked at no one else but me since I appeared. He quickly brought his gaze back, however, and try as I might I could discern no sign of interest in the boy in his eyes.

"I bring greetings from my leader, Iron—"

"Then you may take them back with you. I have no wish for diem."

Again he stopped, visibly restraining his anger. "I have a charge upon me, Master Merlyn! Will you permit me to deliver it without being interrupted at every word?"

I stared at him, feeling a reluctant stir of admiration for his self command. Donuil had named him an arrogant blowhard, but I had seen nothing so far to suggest that. "Very well, I will. Say what you have to say to me."

"Ironhair sends his greetings as one leader to another. You as Legate Commander of Camulod, himself as Supreme Commander of the Armies of Cornwall. He will not insult you by pretending that friendship could ever exist between you, nor will he claim that you might negotiate together based upon mutual esteem. But he believes you will acknowledge that both of you, and those associated with you, have much to gain from a cessation of this war." He paused, evidently expecting some kind of response, but I continued to stare at him, allowing no expression to show on my face. Eventually he had no choice but to continue.

"Your presence in Cambria is an intrusion, he believes, while his activities here are legitimate. He represents your distant kinsman, Carthac, whose claim to the vacant kingship of Pendragon is the strongest, claimed through the line of direct parentage." He could not resist the temptation to glance again towards young Bedwyr. It was the merest flicker of movement, quickly controlled, but it verified what I had thought before. Unfortunately, his companions were less disciplined than he, because they all looked at the boy, too, so obviously that even Bedwyr noticed their interest. I heard him start to speak and swung abruptly around to cut him short.

"Why are—?"

"Be quiet, boy!" Bedwyr's eyes flew wide with shock at the harshness of my voice. I stood motionless, my back to the others, until I had his eyes on mine, and then I winked at him before continuing in the same, harsh tones. "Are you mad? How dare you raise your voice when I have guaranteed no interruption? Get you into my tent immediately and stay there until I send for you. Move!"

The poor lad took one step backward, his confusion and embarrassment taking him visibly to the edge of tears, and then he drew himself together, squared his shoulders, turned smartly about and marched into my tent, closing the flaps behind him.

I swung back to the others. "You may continue, and no one will interrupt you further. You were speaking of Carthac. " I moved my eyes slowly around my men, making no attempt to disguise the anger in them. The source of my anger, however, was the intolerable hubris of what I was listening to. When my gaze came back to him, Retorix was watching me closely, his eyes boring into mine, and I wondered if I had managed to disguise my recognition of his interest in Bedwyr—Arthur, as he believed the boy to be.

Finally he nodded, cleared his throat and continued speaking. "Cardiac's father was Mor, youngest brother to Uric Pendragon, father of Uther. Carthac has requested, and enlisted, the aid of Peter Ironhair to help him claim his kingship, and so Ironhair is here in Cambria. Your presence, on the other hand, is unsolicited by anyone. Dergyll ap Griffyd, with whom you once had dealings, is dead, his so called kingship taken by the usurper Uderic, who is no friend of yours. Your army therefore stands as an invading force, a status both amplified and verified by the fact that none but a few of the Pendragon have joined you. They seek no help from you in settling their affairs. In fact, they believe themselves to be quite capable of resolving their differences without your interference. " Again he paused, gathering his thoughts before proceeding, and as he did so I tried to empty my mind of his reference to Uderic's being a usurper. Ironhair would say so, of course, but Uderic had won his tide in battle, leading his people in their war against Cardiac's attempt at usurpation. Retorix spoke again.

"My Commander's proposal, in outline—to be expanded to your mutual satisfaction later—is this: he believes that you perceive his presence here in Cambria to be a threat against your own security and safety in your Colony of Camulod. He suggests that there is no such threat, and that his presence hoe is temporary, dedicated only to the swift success of the campaign he is waging on behalf of Carthac Pendragon. When that has been concluded, Ironhair will withdraw his forces into Cornwall once more, content that he has a strong ally in Cambria to the north and, conceivably, an ally of convenience in Camulod to the northeast—yourselves.

"You, on the other hand, would benefit greatly by being free of involvement in the affairs of Cambria, since that would enable you to give your full attention to the emerging threat from the Saxon territories to the east and north of you, and even to extend terms of alliance and cooperation to the king, Vortigern, in Northumbria, should you decide it prudent to protect your interests in that way. As for your peace of mind over Cambria, Ironhair suggests that a precedent already exists for taking care of that: a patrolling force of your cavalry, much like the one that formerly assisted Dergyll ap Griffyd, could be established and maintained as a safeguarding buffer between Cambria and Camulod. That force would be recognized and permitted to function without interference. "

At several points I had turned away from Retorix, taking great pains to do it casually and feigning interest in the conduct of my motionless troopers, in order to school my features more rigidly. The news that Ironhair was aware of our involvement with Vortigern, and of the threat from the Saxon Shore, came as a revelation, despite the fact that I already knew how wide a net Ironhair was capable of casting. The information about Uderic—that he was no friend of mine—was less surprising, since Uderic made no secret that he was suspicious of my motives in being here. It was his specious championship of Carthac that was hardest for me to bear without protest, however much I tried to tell myself that I was listening to mere words, designed to keep me off balance and distracted from taking another course. That angered me, because the course itself remained unclear to me. The suggestion, even by omission, that Ironhair could see it more clearly than I could, and that he could move against me to block it even before I saw it, was infuriating.

There was also the matter of Arthur. Ironhair knew about Arthur—his blood lines, his paternity, and therefore the primacy of his claim to the Cambrian kingship. Our move to Mediobogdum had been the result of one assassination attempt on the boy, fomented by Ironhair himself. Now ' that I was back from my long disappearance, it was presumable that I would keep the boy close by me. Retorix and his companions had clearly been warned to keep a lookout for the boy who would accompany me, and their reaction to Bedwyr told me they knew Arthur's age but had no idea what he might look like.

Why then, I wondered, would Ironhair feed me this mess of pottage about Carthac's claim? He must know that I would scorn it, so what did he seek to gain? In what way would I damage my own cause and advance Ironhair's by rejecting his proposal on the grounds of Arthur's claim? That perplexed me greatly, for I knew that Ironhair must know the answer. And then it came to me, in a burst of sudden understanding that almost took my breath away, so quickly did it supplant Ironhair's apparent advantage over me.

To cover my reaction to the awareness that had flared in me, I stepped forward slowly, my eyes downcast, and made a lengthy display of settling myself into the only chair at the table between Retorix and me. I leaned back and crossed my left arm over my chest, resting my right elbow on my fist and plucking at my lower lip with the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. Retorix watched me, narrow eyed, assuming that I was considering his words. What I was considering, in fact, was what I should do with the knowledge that now throbbed in me, and what I wanted to do most was to stride off into my tent to be alone with my thoughts. I needed to analyse this new awareness immediately and to probe it for weaknesses. But I knew that Bedwyr waited for me in my tent and would distract me from thinking clearly, whereas, if I simply remained where I was, no one would dare to break in on my thoughts.

Ironhair, I was now convinced, was wagering heavily that I would be able to tolerate neither his insolence in making this approach nor the spurious cloak of respectability he was holding up for Carthac. Fully aware of the legitimacy of Arthur's claim as Uther's heir, he was gambling that I would react in outraged fury to his proposal and would—must—

expel his hirelings from my presence. His reasoning, and his hopes for success, were now clear in my mind, and he himself had given me the key to resolving the entire matter. By mentioning Uderic, and the dislike he held for me, Ironhair had overplayed his advantage. When I refused his invitation to withdraw based upon his terms, which depended heavily on his definition of my presence in Cambria as an invading force, I would define myself as a third force in this conflict, inimical, by that definition, to both sides. Bolstered by the false legitimacy of his support of Carthac, who was a Pendragon, Ironhair could then approach Uderic and make common cause with him—albeit temporarily—to drive the invading forces of Camulod out of Cambria.

I had no illusions about Uderic. His ambition was as great as Ironhair's, and his eyes were set on the same prize: the gold circlet that sat upon the brows of whoever ruled as king of the Pendragon. The fact that many, perhaps a majority, of his Pendragon people would refuse to accept that Camulod might have designs on Cambria would have little sway over Uderic's designs. He would form an alliance with Ironhair to drive us out of the Pendragon territories. Then, once we were gone, crushed between the armies of both enemies, he would think he could turn his attention to Ironhair and Carthac, dealing with them at leisure. Uderic was a strong war chief and a natural successor to Dergyll, but he lacked Dergyll's brains and the popular support the former king had attracted without effort. I would pick Ironhair, ten times out of ten, to win any contest with Uderic. But none of that had any direct bearing on my immediate concerns, which had to do with Ironhair's beliefs.

When I was a child of ten, perhaps eleven years old, Publius Varrus had said something to me that I had never forgotten. He had caught me lying to him over some minor boyhood scrape, when, seeking to protect Uther from some unspecified punishment, I had claimed ignorance of my cousin's whereabouts. Uncle Varrus had taken me severely to task over the lie, emphasizing and reiterating that lying consistently contains its own punishments, feeding upon itself to the point at which the liar loses all respect and credibility. He had kept coming back to the point for weeks, until I grew heartily sick of it, but then he had concluded the lesson by asking me if I knew what the liar's tragedy was. He insisted that I think about his question and find an answer to it, so I thought, and I thought. Finally, I thought I knew the answer.

"Well?" Uncle Varrus asked me.

"I think... once a man has become a really bad liar... a habitual liar... then his tragedy must be that, no matter what he says, no one will ever be able to believe him. "

My uncle nodded. "That is really awful, isn't it? Would. you like to be in that situation?"

"No. "

"No, nor would I. To go through life knowing that no one will believe you about anything must be truly terrible.But you know, Cay, that is not the liar's tragedy. The liar's tragedy is far, far worse. "

I gazed at him, wide-eyed. "How, Uncle? What could be worse than that?"

'This, Cay: the real tragedy of the liar is that he can never believe anyone else. "

That befuddled me, for I was yet too young to grasp its full implication, but I never forgot it, and I never stopped thinking about it, and as I grew older I began to see the extent of the tragedy: for if a man knows, deep in his heart, that he is a liar and a fraud and a hypocrite, how can he ever ascribe any honesty, sincerity or integrity to any other?

Ironhair was judging me according to his own criteria, and he was wrong. He was ascribing his own venal ambitions to me, believing that I truly did seek to rule in Cambria and that I lusted to be king in the same way he did, for I had not the slightest belief that Carthac would survive Ironhair's friendship long enough to claim the crown. He would never believe the truth: that my motivation was revenge for the treachery he had brought into Camulod. I sought his death, and Cardiac's, simply because I believed the world would be a better place were they both dead, and I could withdraw to Camulod and live there happily until the time arrived when Arthur would step forth to claim his own.

Now I believed I had the measure of him. He was unaware that I had sent Huw Strongarm to meet with Uderic. When Uderic and I met face to face, I would tell him what Ironhair sought to do, and we would thwart him together, with an alliance between our armies. Uderic had many faults, and until I discovered otherwise, I was prepared to accept that he might not be trustworthy, but he was sane, unlike Carthac.

I sucked air with a hiss through my front teeth, then rose to my feet. Retorix and his people stood facing me stalwartly, flanked by my troopers, and I hesitated for a heartbeat, wondering for a strange, brief moment, if I was about to make a serious error. Connor would be active in the waters below Tintagel, even now. He would have scant cause to thank me were I to send these people slinking home to arrive at his back unexpectedly.

I spoke directly to Retorix again, watching his eyes closely. "How long will it take you to bear my message back to Ironhair? I presume he is sitting safely in Tintagel, awaiting your return?"

The eyes widened very slightly, but he answered immediately, his voice calm. "He awaits our coming, but not in Tintagel."

"No, of course not You came from the west" Then, knowing I was right, I hardened my tone and rattled off what I had to say, speaking harshly and giving him no chance to interject or quibble. "But whichever way you came, from south or west, you came here uninvited, and I have listened to you with patience, despite my own inclinations. Now, having listened, here is my decision... " I walked around the table to face them from less than two paces, with nothing between us. "Let me begin from the beginning. I am Legate Commander of Camulod, and you addressed me correctly. Your 'Supreme Commander, ' as you call him, is, on the other hand, an upstart and an exile from that Camulod. He is a liar and a murderer of women, and though he may seek to assume it by himself, he is completely unworthy of being accorded any kind of nobility. His friend Carthac, whom he refers to as my distant kinsman, is no kin of mine. He is a demented degenerate and utterly unworthy to be called human. As for his so-called claim to the kingship of Cambria, it is ludicrous to suggest that the Pendragon people would ever willingly place themselves beneath his heel.

"The reason for my presence here in Cambria, uninvited and accompanied by my army, is quickly explained. I have but one purpose: to bring about the death and destruction of Ironhair and everything he represents. Get you then aboard your ship and take that word back to your upstart kingling. And if you should ever be unwise enough to come this way again, you will find yourself treated appropriately, the way we should have treated you today. " I turned to the guard commander. "Escort these people back to the water's edge and get them out of my sight. " I then spun on my heel and marched back inside my tent.

Bedwyr stood waiting for me there, his eyes serene, his expression resigned, his square-shouldered demeanour reflecting his decision to accept whatever punishment I might assign. I nodded to him.

"Do you understand what happened there, and why I had to turn on you?"

Whatever he had expected to hear, it was not that, and his eyes clouded with perplexity as he wrestled with my meaning. Finally he shook his head. "No, I didn't."

"They thought you were Arthur. That's why they were all staring at you. They had been talking about Carthac's claim to the Pendragon kingship, but they all knew Arthur's is stronger, and they all knew Arthur is my responsibility. Therefore, they assumed that you were Arthur. I wanted them to continue thinking that, and so when you began to speak, I silenced you. I was never angry with you, not for a moment, but I did not want you to say anything that might betray that you are not Arthur. Now, be a good lad and go and find Donuil, down on the beach. Ask him to come to me as soon as he is free."

. "He's here now, sir." The boy nodded towards the open flaps of my tent and I turned to see Donuil approaching, accompanied by Benedict, Derek and Rufio.

"Good. In that case, I have another task for you now. Go you and see if you can find something to eat, for I have not seen your jaw move in hours, and I find that most unusual and perhaps alarming." He flushed, grinning, because his amazing appetite had made him the butt of jests for months. He made to salute me, but I stopped him. "After that, when you have regained your strength, I want you to select an escort of six good men from among the Scouts, draw rations from the commissary and make your way back to the Legate Philip. You need not kill your horse with speed on the way, but don't waste time, either. Inform the Legate that I have dispatched Huw Strongarm to treat with Uderic, and inform him also of what has passed here today. Tell him I have need of him as quickly as he can bring his forces back. And the same thing applies, there, in the matter of returning. There is no crisis, so please make that clear to Philip. He may come back at route march speed, there is no need to wear out his men and horses. That's all. But eat first, before you go. That is an order. Go now, and I'll see you in two days or so. "

Bedwyr saluted me and spun smartly away, flushed again, but this time with the consciousness of his responsibility. He passed the others in the entranceway and I told them to find someplace to sit as they came in. Donuil dropped into my chair and pulled off his heavy helmet while Benedict settled himself on my wooden map chest. Rufio dragged in the chair I had used earlier from the table outside. Derek remained standing by the entrance of the tent, his hands clasped together over his belt buckle, his newly acquired Roman patterned leather cuirass making him seem even larger than he was.

"Well?" I asked when they were all settled. "Did I choose rightly?"

"I'm prepared to accept that you did. " Donuil wiped the brim of his helmet with the hem of his cloak, and then scrubbed at the sweat on his temples before tilting his head back to squint up at me. "But none of us has any idea what your choices were. One thing is certain, you left them in no doubt of your opinions about their masters. "

"Good, that's what I intended. Which way did they go, when they left?"

"West, the way they came, and they were moving quickly by the time they had made a score of oar strokes from the beach. By now they should be fairly flying over the wave tops. What do we do now?"

I glanced from him to Benedict and then to Rufio. "We hope Huw Strongarm gets back here quickly, and in the meantime we plan what we intend to do after that. Young Bedwyr is leaving now, at my orders, to recall Philip and his people from their patrol, since there's no one up there to patrol against. " I paused. "I realized something out there, while I was listening to that diatribe from Retorix. Ironhair's not as clever as he thinks he is, and he's suffering from a disadvantage he doesn't know about. "

Rufio cocked his head. "What disadvantage?"

I told them, briefly, what I had remembered about the liar's tragedy. Then, as I had expected, Donuil and Benedict sat silent and motionless, absorbing what I had said while Rufio shook his head.

"What's wrong, Rufe? You don't like my story?"

"The story's fine, Cay, and I've no fault with it for what it is, but it treats all liars as equal, and Ironhair's not equal to any common liar. Your story tempts you to think he'll be weakened by not being able to believe the truth, that you've no interest in becoming king of Cambria. So what? You might be right, but I'd hate to have to risk my life on that 'might. '"

"You think there's a more likely outcome?"

"Aye, I do. Whether Ironhair believes you or not will make no difference. to what he'll do. Ironhair is Ironhair, Cay. He sees things differently from us. Where we see white, he sees black, and a thousand oaths from men who see our way will never convince him that he's seeing wrongly. He believes his own lies because in his twisted mind they are the truth— the only truth he has ever known or will know. He doesn't give a damn about what's true or false to others. His own truth is all that counts. He'll play you false at every turn— you and every other being who steps into his way—and never lose a wink of sleep over any of it, because he believes, deep in the bottom of his own soul, that he sits at the centre of the universe and everything in the world has been created for his use and benefit. He is the Lord of Creadon in his own mind, and no one—not you, or me or anyone else— can influence that. "

This was perhaps the longest speech I had ever heard from Rufio, and his lack of profanity impressed me and disturbed me even more than his unusual eloquence. It betrayed a far greater respect for Ironhair, backhanded though it might be, than I had ever felt Rufio could possess. I made no effort to debate him.

"As you say, none can influence his mind, but he is less than perfect in his mind, for all that. He does not know, for example, that we've already sent out word to Uderic, asking him to meet with us. Now, when we do meet, which will be sooner than Ironhair could guess, I'll undo all his planning. We will form the alliance with Uderic, and between us we'll drive Ironhair and Carthac into the sea. "

"Aye, if Uderic can be trusted. "

"Why would you even say that? What we're proposing will be in his own best interests. Of course he will be trustworthy, when he knows he's having his own way to his own ends. "

"If he believes and trusts you. From all accounts I've heard, he doesn't. "

I looked at the others, hoping for some support, but they sat silent. Seeing that I had nothing to add for the moment, Rufio spoke up again.

"Look, Caius, I'm not trying to dissuade you from anything here, but it seems to me your logic isn't thorough enough in this case. You're basing everything, it seems to me, on an underestimation of Ironhair's deviousness. "

That caught my attention. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Ironhair is far from being a stupid man, and be has shown us damn few weaknesses in the past. Suppose, just suppose for a moment, that he has already thought this through. Suppose that, having seen the route he ought to take, he had the brains to guess that you might see it, too. Alliance with Uderic. Think of that. So, having thought of it, and being aware that you, too, might have thought of it, what would he do then, think you? Would he approach you with an offer, as he has, knowing that you, seeing the offer for the insult that it was, would refuse it? And would he then run to Uderic, seeking alliance the moment that you do refuse it?" Rufio paused, looking me straight in the eye, giving me time to think before he continued.

"Or do you think he might send men to Uderic first, to talk, just as he did with you today, making a proposal to an enemy—a proposal that would sound reasonable and temperate—that they bury their differences for as long as it might take to destroy a common enemy—us, but primarily you, Merlyn of Camulod. Uderic might consider it, don't you think? He already sees you as a threat. " He stepped again, still gazing at me steadily.

"Now, if Ironhair's proposal were carefully structured, and included telling Uderic about this visit we were to receive today, Uderic might perceive Ironhair's proposal as holding two advantages for him: it would contain an offer to eliminate the threat you pose, by convincing you to retire peacefully, with no risk to Uderic. Failing that, it offers a way to be rid of you completely, citing your ambition and your arrogant refusal to withdraw from a struggle that is no concern of yours. If you withdraw now, the threat to Uderic is gone and he's lost nothing. If you remain, you'll be declared an enemy and he'll unite with Cornwall to smash you, thinking to go back and deal with Ironhair later. "

"Damnation, Rufe, you make me feel stupid!"

"Why? There's no reason to. You and Ironhair are completely different creatures. I'm not so constrained by your ideas of honour and nobility, so I can think like Ironhair. I might also be wrong."

I stared at him, trying to read his mind. "Aye, you might, but you're probably right."

"Perhaps." His face showed no trace of self satisfaction. "We have no way of knowing one way or the other—"

"But we should plan accordingly..."

He nodded. "We need a plan that will work in both eventualities, and be flexible enough to change halfway, if necessary."

"But you are adamant I shouldn't trust Uderic."

Rufio glanced from Donuil to the others, shaking his head, and then turned back to me with a wry look. "You didn't need me to tell you that, my friend. Did you? Would you have trusted him if I had not spoken?"

I shook my head gently. "No, Rufe, I would not, because I never have. I had not seen so far into the folds of policy as you have taken me, but I would not have ridden blindly into Uderic's clutches. But now, let's talk about what's likely to transpire here. I believe that, no matter what happens, and simply because Uderic is so loudly vocal in his distrust of me, he is likely to insist that our meeting be held in some place safe for him, secluded so that he can control the gathering. He's also almost certain to insist that I bring only a few men with me. He'll allow me an escort, but not a large one. I know—" I held up my hand to forestall his protest. "That opens up the possibility of treachery. I think, nonetheless, that that is the way it will he."

Benedict cleared his throat. "That ship went west, at great speed. I don't know much about these things, but it looked to me as though the rowers couldn't sustain a pace like that for very long, so they might not be going very far."

Rufio was watching him, frowning slightly. "Don't follow you, Ben."

Benedict grinned a small, unamused grin. "Be interesting to see what direction Huw comes in from. Should it be west, I'll be inclined to wear ring mail beneath my armour for the next few weeks."

Donuil spoke for the first time since he had sat down. "We'll need two groups, Cay, one mounted, the other afoot, with bows—Pendragons. You should have no less than ten men in each group, the first to ride openly, the other to follow unseen."

I looked at Benedict. He shrugged and dipped his head, pushing his palms together. "As many men as we can take, in both groups, but no less than ten on horseback. I'm riding with you, and I agree with Rufe. I think we're going to ride into treachery and betrayal, so we had best be prepared for it."

NINE

The hillside across from where we stood was a vast expanse of dun coloured bareness, with a faint wash of green here and there from the moss, lichen and occasional patch of stunted grass that maintained a tenuous hold on the naked rock. Against that background, a single, jagged patch of dark, lush green stood out like a scab, crusting a deep, vertical gash carved by the waters of the stream that fell from the summit to join the narrow river far below. Across the broad stream bed, cut deep into the rock over the course of aeons and sheltered from the prevailing winds that scoured the open hillsides, hardy, indomitable trees had rooted and grown to fill the ravine completely, their ancient trunks and gnarled boughs coated with the thick mosses that made their appearance so startlingly stark. Slightly more than halfway down the stream's chute, the midmorning sun flashed bright reflections from a cataract that leaped from the trees to fall down a short but sheer cliff face before vanishing again among the trees below.

As I watched, I saw a man come into view, balance briefly on the cataract's edge and lower himself cautiously to arm's length before leaping sideways, into the trees and out of sight again.

"That's fifty, and they're still coming, " Huw grunted.

I answered without looking at him. "Fifty seven. " And then, as yet another moved forward to teeter, lower himself and leap, "And he's fifty eight. "

Ten days had passed since Ironhair's deputation had approached us. We stood now on a hilltop close by the west coast of Cambria, screened from detection by a fringe of bushes, watching Rufio's prophesied treachery and betrayal unfolding as the long file of men made their way with extreme caution down the steep hill on the other side of the narrow valley that divided us from them.

One of Huw Strongarm's men had sat among these cautious prowlers the previous night and learned much from them. They were Ironhair's mercenaries, mainly, guided by a few Cambrian locals, and their plan was to scale the hill from the coastal side and make their way unseen down the deep ravine and into the woods along the valley bottom, where they would wait for us to cross the harrow bridge over the swift flowing river, and then seal it behind us. Huw's man, whose name was Gwynn Blood-Eye, had slipped away silently and brought the word to us immediately, travelling by moonlight for most of the night and reaching our encampment just at dawn, so that by the time the first of the Cornwall mercenaries breasted the summit across from where we now stood concealed, there was no sign of life on the valley floor below, and I was safely ensconced with my retinue on the hillside facing them.

Below us, in the valley bottom, lay the river, the confined belt of forest that lined it on both sides, and the narrow, stone arched bridge built by the legions of Paulinus four hundred years before in his campaign to wipe out Cambria's Druids. Beyond the bridge, the ancient legionary road swung north again, following the river's edge until it emerged onto a plain formed by the convergence of three valleys. More than a hundred additional mercenaries lay concealed on the flat topped hill that divided the two most northern of those valleys. We had discovered their presence the day before, thanks again to Huw's amazing hill scouts.

The design was clear: we were to ride out into the plain following the ancient road, which would lead us beneath the slopes where our murderers lay hidden. When they attacked, we would either fight or flee, and it must have seemed likely to them that we might do both, outnumbered as we would be. Those who remained to fight would die there, and those who fled would die at the hands of the group behind them, waiting at the bridge. The flaw in the design lay in the fact that they expected twenty of us to ride into their ambush, whereas they would, in fact, find fifty of us, backed by fifteen hundred more.

Rufio's suspicions had had a salutary effect on me. Everything we had planned, from the moment he had so eloquently stated his beliefs, had been designed to encompass and eliminate the threats we were all convinced would now materialize. Philip had returned quickly, summoned by Bedwyr, and had agreed immediately with Rufio's interpretation of events. Thereafter, as our plans progressed and we became accustomed to the steps we had decided to take, the scope of our thinking developed and our manipulation of events and probabilities had grown more deft, more sure handed and more confident.

Connor had returned on the fourth day, flushed with triumph at the success of his raid on Ironhair's home base in Tintagel. He had been virtually unopposed and had achieved complete surprise, capturing two of the six galleys moored below Ironhair's clifftop fortifications and burning the other four. After that, secure in their possession of the seaward approaches, his men had ranged far inland, seizing great stores of food, drink and booty from the supplies in Cornwall storehouses, all of them destined for Ironhair's armies. Our own army feasted on the beaches on the night of their return, gorging themselves, after four months of campaign rations, on the food, wine, mead and casks of ale Connor's fleet had pillaged.

Connor had listened that night to our suspicions about Ironhair and Uderic, and had agreed with our reasoning and our proposed responses without a blink. His sole amendment was to suggest acting with even greater strength. He believed we should field every unit at our disposal, and he argued that, were we to do what must be done, and do it stealthily and subtly, we could turn all threats to our immense advantage. To illustrate his point, he gave us all a lesson in fleet warfare, scratching a battle plan in the dirt by the fireside and demonstrating how his individual galleys could combine, in line abreast or line astern, to concentrate the heaviest weight on the enemy's weakest point. As he spoke, I looked from face to face among my troop commanders, some score of whom had gathered around our fire to listen. All of them, standing or sitting, were bent forward, narrow eyed with concentration. When he had finished, Connor looked up at me, and every eye in the assembly turned to see what I would say.

"So you would have me take my entire strength into the hills to this upcoming meeting, and you would prefer it if I could achieve that without their being seen? Do I understand you clearly?"

He looked at Derek, one eyebrow raised high, and then his teeth flashed in a great grin. "Perfectly!"

"Wonderful, Connor. Now would you have any idea how I might do that? I know there are stories among my troops that I was something of a sorcerer in my youth, gifted in the ways of the gods. And I know Derek, there, for one, believes me to have mystical and superhuman attributes. To this time, however, I have never found a way to transport a thousand men and five hundred cavalry invisibly. But that, apparently, is what you'd have me do. How? If either you or Derek, with whom you seem to be sharing something humorous, could suggest some means of achieving that, I would be most grateful."

'Tomorrow," he said, his grin still in place.

'Tomorrow. What about tomorrow?"

"Huw Strongarm might come back."

"Aye, he might, and... ? Is there significance to that? How will it help me take my army unseen through the mountains?"

"That might depend upon where you wish to go." Connor glanced around the assembly, catching Derek's eye again. When he spoke again to me, no trace of humour was left on his face.

"Look you, Merlyn, you suspect collusion between Ironhair and Uderic, no? Well, in order to collude, they have to take you to some place close by the sea, for Ironhair will not stray far inland from his ships and his escape route, I promise you. There's a terrible attraction in the safety of a heaving deck when your enemies are all behind you, on dry land. Two things occur to me. Either they will combine to wipe you out, expecting you to come as Uderic instructs you to, with but a few strong, trusted men. Or they will ambush you along the route, with Ironhair attacking you before you get to Uderic, thereby leaving Uderic's hands clean. They won't try either method far inland. Deep enough into the central mountains, the glens and hills will work against them as much as for them. So they'll keep you close to the coast, where they can use the terrain to their own advantage.

"As soon as Huw returns we'll know the where and when. Once we do, then I can take your thousand infantry along the coast in my own ships and land them safely and unseen, long before you reach the meeting place. That was Derek's idea, and he would come with us, being more at home on a galley than on a horse. You travel inland with your scouting force, your full five hundred, but you yourself ride out in front with thirty or forty men, leaving the other hundreds to follow behind you, well out of sight of spying eyes. Huw's own Pendragons—how many of those are there?"

"Some two hundred, all told. He took less than a hundred with him, and the rest are here with us now. "

"Then Huw's two hundred, native to this land, can throw a broad screen out in front of you, dealing with any prying eyes they find. With them covering every stride of land for two full miles ahead of you and out on both flanks, no one should come near enough to you to see the force that follows you. Remember, they will expect you to have no suspicion in you at all. You are riding to convince a potential ally that you wish him naught but well, so you'll ride openly, secure in the safe conduct you've been offered. "

He was right, of course, and we adapted our plans accordingly.

Huw arrived the following day, and I knew from the moment I first saw his face that he was unhappy with the outcome of his mission. I took him aside immediately and asked him to say nothing until I had assembled Connor, Rufio, Benedict, Derek and Donuil.

His report was brief and succinct: he had found Uderic not far distant from our current position, to the west of us, after first having sought him further to the north. Uderic had received him with barely concealed hostility and had listened to my message with disdain, but had then quite patently allowed himself to be convinced that it would be to his advantage to meet with me. He had set a time and a place: seven days from that day, on the site of the abandoned Roman fort of Moridunum. I recognized the name of the place, from my readings in my grandfather's journals. I knew it lay some two miles inland from the sea, on a narrow but navigable river, and it had been the westernmost Roman fortification in south Cambria, one of the few that had remained fully garrisoned until the legions were withdrawn from Britain. I was to come to Uderic there, escorted by no more than thirty men, and he would send out word to permit me safe conduct through "his" territories.

Uderic had appeared ill at ease in committing to this meeting, betraying a shiftiness that was all the more upsetting to Huw simply because of its inscrutable nature. Nothing he had said or done had been identifiably contrived or false, yet Huw had had the distinct impression that nothing truly was as it appeared to be.

As soon as Huw had finished, I told him about Retorix's visit and exactly what we had decided in its aftermath. The big man's concern fell away immediately, replaced by visible relief as he listened to what I had to say, and then he joined the rest of us in reviewing what would happen next. Yes, he told Connor, he had a score of men among his most trusted warriors who were native to the region around the old fort at Moridunum, and he would send them with the fleet, to guide our foot soldiers, and the others, a full complement of two hundred and forty bowmen, would serve as a scouting screen for our cavalry in their westward advance through Cambria.

On the morning following Huw's arrival, I rode at the head of our five hundred Scouts, accompanied by Donuil and by Philip, who would command the main cavalry body advancing some two miles behind us. Huw and his twelve score of bowmen had left at dawn, three hours ahead of us, to give themselves time to separate and form a far flung, semicircular protective fan about our front. Benedict and Rufio remained behind with all our infantry. They would depart the following morning, aboard Connor's fleet, and would arrive within a few miles of our destination no less than one full day in advance of our arrival.

The last man lowered himself down the edge of the cataract across from us. After he passed from sight, I waited for a count of one hundred before turning my head to where Huw leaned against a tree trunk.

"I think that's all of them. I counted seventy-one. "

Huw grunted. "I must have lost count, then, because I only saw sixty-four. Anyway, you're right, they're all gone now. The first of them must be in the trees at the bottom by this time. We won't see them again until they attach"

"Well then, let's give them something to attack. How long will it take you to reach your men down there?" Fully half of Huw's bowmen had crossed the river bridge much earlier and were now securely hidden in the forest to the north of it.

"Less than a half hour, to get there unseen. There's a ravine on this side, too, just beyond the bow of the hillside there, on the right. It leads almost directly to where I told my men to wait for me. They'll have a rope across the river for me by this time. "

I nodded. "Go, then, and make good time. It will take me half an hour to reach my own people, and half an hour longer to lead them back along the river road towards the bridge.

Once we're across, they'll move to close the bridge at our backs, and that's when your bowmen can hit them. We'll ride on until we reach you and your forward group, and then we'll lead the enemy right back' into your trap. " I stopped, seeing the worried look on his face. "What's wrong?"

"What if they're impatient? They outnumber you. What happens if they attack you, instead of merely letting you ride past?"

"Hmm. " I shrugged my shoulders. "I doubt they will. They're mercenaries. Some might have bows, but most would have to fight us hand to hand, them on foot, us on horseback and unblooded yet. I don't think that is likely. But, if they do, well then, we'll have to hope your bowmen are as accurate as ever and come to our rescue swiftly. " I held up my hand in a farewell salute, then watched him as he nodded and then turned away, making his way along the crest of the hill to where he would enter the ravine for his downhill journey. When he had disappeared, I turned and made my own way to the rear of the crest, where I had left Germanicus haltered safely below the skyline.