The Sorcer part 2: Metamorphosis

Verulamium

SEVENTEEN

The sentry stiffened as I lunged, but before he could begin to shout or move I had clamped my fingers over his mouth and nostrils and jerked him back against me, my dagger point pressed against his exposed neck. I hissed into his ear.

"You should be dead, my friend, but friend I am. I am Merlyn Britannicus. Nod your head if you believe me and can hold your peace." I felt his head move in my grasp, and I released him and stepped back. He turned to face me slowly, his eyes wide with fear. I did not know him, but I saw the recognition come into his face.

"Comm—" he began, but I silenced him with a chop of my hand.

"Who commands the guard tonight? And keep your voice down."

"Commander Falvo, sir."

"Good. Bring me to him."

Benedict was with Falvo in the command tent, and their jaws fell open when they saw me step in. They both leaped to their feet with cries of welcome, but stopped short as their eyes took in my whole appearance. I knew I was a sight well worth beholding, but I had no time to waste on niceties. This was a large encampment, filled with men and horses, and I had penetrated it without difficulty, making? my way through the outer guards simply by walking in the shadows, cloaked in my black robes.

"Benedict, Falvo," I greeted them, nodding to each in turn. "Your security is weak. Your guards are useless. None of them saw me walk in here. No one challenged me and I made no attempt to hide. Is Ambrose here?"

Benedict answered me. "No, Ambrose rode off late this afternoon with Derek and a hundred Scouts. We fought a battle here, today."

"And now your guards have earned the right to sleep on duty? I know you fought today. I watched it from the mountain top to the north. But you fought inconclusively. Their shield walls thwarted you. They gulled you into following' them on to their chosen ground, and then they outfought you with Roman tactics. You achieved nothing. Will you' offer me a cup of wine?"

There was an awkward silence as they absorbed my rebuke, but then Falvo said, "No, but we have mead, will ; that suffice?" I nodded. Falvo looked unhappy, but he said nothing more and moved at once to pour me a cup of mead.:

I knew I had been harsh, and that after a separation of ! long months he might perhaps have expected me to be more friendly, but everything I had said was true. The Danes had held the higher ground that day, and they had used the tortoise formations of the ancient legions to frustrate our cavalry, holding their big, round shields in overlapping rows that formed a solid front against our horsemen, who were thus forced to charge uphill to reach them and might as well have been attacking the towering sides of floating ships. The battle had been broken off after a useless spell of wasted hours, without victory going to either side. I had watched it from afar, discovering it by merest chance, and had been angered by the confusion I had witnessed, as much as by the fact that there was nothing I could do to influence any of it.

Falvo offered me my mead and I took it from him with a nod of thanks and drank the half of it, feeling the fiery, honey sweet bite of it exploding in my mouth, throat and chest.

"My thanks, Falvo. When is Ambrose due back? Or do you, too, call him Merlyn nowadays? Everyone else does, it appears. " I knew I was being unpleasant, but it was as though someone else had control of my tongue.

Falvo gazed at me, opening his mouth as though to answer me, then turned to Benedict, who had been sitting watching me with a peculiar expression on his face. Benedict turned his head slightly to catch Falvo's eye, then shrugged.

"What is it? Why do you look at me like that, Falvo?"

Benedict grunted. "He thought you dead. We all did. "

"Well, it's not so, as you can see. Why did you think that?"

Falvo spoke up. "Word reached us from the south that your body had been found burned and mutilated. "

I shook my head. "That sounds to me like someone's wishful prayer. It's author will be disappointed. "

Benedict evidently found no humour in my comment. "Aye, well, that was months ago, and no one has seen or heard from you since then. We have mourned you. "

"Arid Ambrose has taken my name. Why so? The word is everywhere that Merlyn of Camulod leads this army. "

Again they exchanged glances, and this time it was Falvo who shrugged his shoulders. "It was his wish and his decision. He says that Merlyn is a name to conjure fear. Merlyn is known, and Merlyn has the respect of Cambrian warriors, so Ambrose fought and campaigned as Merlyn right from the start of this campaign. No one remarked the difference. Then, when the word arrived that you were dead, he swore that while he lived, you would never die." He paused, and stuck out his jaw. "Your brother thinks highly of you," he said then, his tone implying that not all men did.

I heaved a short, sharp sigh and sat down in one of the chairs before his desk. "Aye, well, I dropped from people's sight, but not from life. I have been occupied as much as any of you, here in Cambria. Have you heard tell of Merlyn's Vengeance?"

Benedict's head jerked up. "Aye, everyone has, though we know not what we should make of it. We hear tales of rampant death and sorcery, of slaughter without bloodshed and of nightly terrors without end. It seems the Danes, and all their other allies; now live in fear of nightfall and the creatures that prowl there, among the shadows."

"That's true, and so they should. They live in terror of the night, and I have worked to make it so."

"You have worked to make it so?" Falvo's eyes showed a spark of curiosity. "Are you responsible for all of this, this sorcery?"

"Aye, and for the fear of it. I am. I've been moving openly among them for almost three months now, spreading terror by night."

He hesitated. "Why are you dressed like... that?" He nodded at my clothing.

"Because it helps conceal me, when I move through the dark. In daylight, I wear different clothing."

Benedict's voice was calm. "What can you tell us of this star thing, then? Is that your doing?"

"Aye. They call it the star of Merlyn's Vengeance. I work among them, posing as an idiot and doing menial tasks. I carry water to the cooks and do those things that warriors will not stoop to do, yet cannot live without. And in doing them I poison drinking water, and I poison food, and often wipe out whole encampments. Each time I do that, and can arrange my message without fear of interruption, I leave a grouping of eight corpses round a fire, their heads in the ashes so that they burn, their feet all pointing outwards to form an eight pointed star.

"At other times, I murder guards, or drunken men I meet among the woods at night. Those, though, I kill with poisoned thorns, leaving the unmarked corpses to be found by whomsoever might next chance that way. My purpose is, and has been, to spread terror. And to that end I have sometimes appeared in bursts of smoke and fire, frightening drunken men "who have already frightened themselves by talking of my deeds. Then, at those times, I tell them who I am, that I am Death, bearer of Merlyn's Vengeance."

Benedict laughed aloud, but the sound was strained and nervous. "By the Christ, Merlyn, you almost had me believing you, there..."

"Wait you."

I rose and walked away into the shadows of a dark corner, passing a small fire that burned in an iron basket upon the bare earth as I went. There, standing with my back to them, I reached into my robes and withdrew the warlock's mask. I placed it over my face, throwing the tangled locks of its wig over my head, and pulled my cowled hood up and forward to throw my face into shadow. That done, I reached again into my clothes to find a pinch of fire powder, then turned around and walked towards the fire, head down. I threw the powder in the fire. When the blinding flash of flame and sparks had died and all the space within the tent was. filled with roiling smoke, I stepped forward again and let them see my face.

Both men were rigid, straining away from me, petrified with shock and gazing at me in utter horror, seeing only the hideous visage of the mask. I stood silent for a moment, then intoned "I am Death", bearer of Merlyn's Vengeance!" in sepulchral tones. Finally I threw back my hood, pulled off the mask and opened the tent flaps to their widest, allowing the acrid, sulphurous smoke to dissipate. Neither man' had moved when I returned and their eyes were still staring in shock.

"Of course," I said, "you know me well, both of you, so you would not be fooled. But these Danes are pagans, terrified of insubstantial things and beings they cannot hew with axes. They believe in demons and in creatures that dwell in awful darkness. And so I feed their fears and sap their confidence in their invincibility. It is mummery, but it is effective."

Benedict appeared to have relaxed slightly, but when he spoke his voice was tight. "Aye," he muttered. "Mummery, perhaps, but it reeks of sorcery, and murder, too. What was that... that flash and all that smoke?"

"It was produced by throwing a certain powder upon a flame. No more than that." :

Falvo released his pent up breath in a long hiss. "Well,"! he said, "you've made believers out of us, with that display ... And you've been doing this now for three months, you say?" He snorted, almost managing to sound amused. "The Danes are either braver or more foolish than I thought. I would have fled long since, pursued by such demons. But did you come here merely to tell us this?"

"No, I came because I have had no news of Camulod for three months now. Is all well at home?"

"Aye, it is. No problems there," Benedict said, his voice sounding stronger. "Everything's peaceful, according to the last report we had, two days ago, and life is as it should be. "

"Good. And what of Germanus and the debate at Verulamium? Have we heard aught of that?"

"Not a word, " Falvo said, shaking his head. "It will be over now, long since. Germanus should be back in Gaul by now. "

"Bishop Enos. Has he passed this way, or sent word of any kind?' I saw their heads shake in unison. "And Arthur. What of him?" I had to fight to keep my face expressionless as I asked this, greatly fearing the answer I might receive.

"Arthur is here, " Benedict said. "Or he was, until today. He rode out with Ambrose. "

My heart leaped with relief. "How is the boy, is he well?'

"Better than well, " Falvo laughed. "And he's a boy no longer. He is a full Commander of Cavalry now, as big as you are, easily. Huge, he is, grown like a big, strong thistle, and beloved of his men. You will be proud of him, when next you see him. "

"Thank you for that, " I said, slumping in my seat from the intensity of my relief. 'Those are the finest tidings I could hear tonight. I have been terrified that something might have gone amiss with him. He was with Llewellyn, you know, when Horsa's Danes landed. "

Benedict nodded. "Aye, but they came straight to us when we arrived, and Arthur has been with us ever since. He is a sweet fighter, that lad. " '

"What happened to Llewellyn? Is he not here with Arthur?"

"He was, but he went back to be with Huw Strongarm. Will you have some more mead?"

I shook my head and rose to my feet. "No, I must leave now. I want to be far from hoe by morning, exacting Merlyn's Vengeance as usual. But before I go, I need more information. Where is Ironhair quartered, do we know? And where is Carthac? They seem to have no means of communication between their armies, save at the highest levels. Certainly none of the fools I meet have information on the whereabouts of their commanders."

Falvo stood and moved to the open flaps of the tent, his hands on his hips as he stared out into the darkness of the camp. "Ironhair is everywhere, according to reports. He never seems to stay in one place long enough for us to find out where he is. Rufio calls him the Man of Wind, since he passes like wind, and in the passing makes much noise and leaves a lingering unpleasantness..." He leaned forward and closed the flaps, shaking them loose from their ties, then turned back to me and moved to sit at the guard commander's table, where he tilted his chair back and crossed his feet on the table top.

"Carthac, on the other hand, is close by now. He has a well established camp, in a mountain valley eight miles from where we sit now, to the west. It's a natural fortress and we can't approach it—not with our horses. We have to wait until his animals come down to us. They have seven or eight ways in and out, but they all feed into three narrow approaches, higher up, and those are heavily manned and guarded at all times.

"His men think he is immortal and he has become a demigod of sorts, albeit a malign and twisted one. Every excess, every atrocity that you may name is his indulgence, and the creatures that he leads revere him for his lusts. They throng around him in hundreds, fanatical in their adulation of the imbecile. We cannot come near him—" He paused, abstracted, then continued. "And even if we could, I seriously wonder if we could kill him. He is... elemental. A terrifying, overwhelming presence. "

"Horse turds. He's a man, Falvo, and he must die. I intend to kill him, painfully and slowly. That is why I am here, doing what I do alone. But in order to kill him I must find him, and when I've found him I must come close by him. Once he is dead, your task will become much simpler. " I moved to leave, adjusting my hood about my face. "Please pass on my greetings to my brother... Merlyn... and tell him that. Tell him that Carthac's death is my prime task. " I smiled very slightly. 'Tell him I will do nothing to contradict his identity. Tell him, too, if you will, that I think of him daily, with love, as I do Arthur, and that I hope to meet them both again some day soon, when this is over. Farewell. "

Then the darkness swallowed me, and no one saw me leaving the encampment.

Six days later, in the first hour after dawn on a bright morning, I sat with my back pressed against the top of a high ridge, scanning another encampment, this one in the valley below me. I was enjoying the distant singing of a skylark as I listened to the sounds of the man who was clambering up behind me on the opposite side, towards the self same notch in the skyline that had attracted me the day before. Thinking himself alone, the newcomer made no attempt to cover his own noise; I had heard him long before, slipping and clattering as he climbed up a steep, dry stream bed. I had been on the top of the ridge since the previous evening, arriving there too late to run the risk of trying to descend in the darkness that was gathering by the time I had completed my examination of the site below.

Behind me, the newcomer reached the top and stopped, and I could hear his heavy breathing. He was a big man , heavy set and grey bearded. I waited, out of his sight, and suddenly saw the dipping flight of the skylark for the first time since it had started singing. Below me, a large and loose knit group of men entered the valley at its northern end and began to make their way to the encampment. Then I heard metal clink and a soft grunt as the man behind me raised himself cautiously to bring his head into the V-shaped notch in the ridge, where he could peer unseen into the valley below. He was less than an arm's length from where I sat.

"I had a dream about you last night," I said softly.

There came a grunt of startled fear and then a breathless moment of tense, motionless terror, followed by a great "whoosh" of breath and the sound of a body sagging against the ground.

"Merlyn, you demented whoreson! Is that you? Are you frying to kill me? What kind of sorcery is this?"

I bent sideways and offered Derek of Ravenglass my hand, then leaned backwards and heaved him into sight, pulling him belly downward through the narrow opening where he had crouched.

"Careful!" I warned. "It's steep, up here, but no one can see us. We're below the crest. There!"

He sat up, breathing heavily and digging in his heels to brace himself against the slope, then set about brushing the dust and tiny pebbles from his front. That done, he removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow before scrubbing the helmet's leather rim with his sleeve. Only when he had replaced the helmet and mastered his breathing somewhat did he turn to me, blowing out a short, sharp breath through pursed lips.

"Falvo and Ben told us you had been into camp, but what in the name of Lud are you doing here?"

"I've been up here all night." I nodded towards the camp below. "Carthac's down there and I'm on my way to visit him, to end his miserable life. Didn't they tell you that, too? That's the reason I am here in Cambria. What are you doing here? You must have spent the night on the mountain, too. "

"I did, at the bottom of the last slope, there. " His eyes swept the valley from one end to the other. "I'm here to see what's down there. What's your fancy word for it? Reconnaissance?" I said nothing, and he was silent for a few moments. "Did you really dream of me last night?" he finally asked. I smiled and shook my head, and he relaxed visibly. "Thank the gods for that, then. It terrifies me to think you might dream of me, the way you dream. What happened to your hand?"

"What?" I had been unconsciously kneading my left hand with my right thumb, and now I glanced down to where the web between the thumb and the index finger had grown dead and grey. I stifled the instantaneous urge to snatch it away and hide it from his sight, and forced myself instead to flex the hand several times. "Oh, that, " I said. "I scalded it, last week. It's healing, but it still feels stiff and sore. "

Derek turned his eyes away, back to the valley. "It's not much of a camp, is it?"

"No, but it's effective enough for their purposes. It's sheltered, and it's safe. Nearly impregnable, in fact. "

He grunted. "What's that building?"

There was only one, a long, low construction probably built from the stones that lay everywhere down there, fallen from the cliffs above, "it's some kind of cattle shelter. Nothing else it could be, up here, is there? There's grass for grazing, but there can't be any soil down there to speak of. So it wouldn't be a house. Must be a byre. "

"Well, they're using it as a house now. How many people are there down there, do you know?"

I looked again, carefully, before I answered him. Apart from the one building, there were a few ramshackle huts that I could see, but they seemed to be mere piles of stones, thrown together. And against the base of the cliff on the opposite side from us there was a line of green and brown and multicoloured patches that I had guessed, after long observation the previous day, to be a row of the roughest kind of shelters, branches and saplings propped against the wall of the cliff, then covered haphazardly with blanket coverings.

"Last night, I guessed there must be three score of them, or thereabouts. Three score in camp, I mean. I've no idea how many others are outside, defending the incoming passes. Probably as many again."

Derek sucked air through his teeth, impatiently. "There has to be a way for us to get in there."

"There is, but not with horses—not easily, at any rate, and not without a bitter fight. There are three ways in, and two of them might just be passable for cavalry, but not before the heights above each route have been swept clean, and that will be wicked work."

I had spent the previous five days examining the adits to the place. The valley was high in the mountains; not prohibitively so, but it was hemmed about with steep, unscalable mountainsides that were as flat as walls. Three entrances led into it through narrow approaches flanked by high cliffs. I had discovered that fact by doing more climbing than I had thought to do, scaling the heights overlooking the passes on both sides and lying belly down for hours while I attempted to decipher the patterns of their defences. While one careful, solitary man could penetrate the places I had reached, it would have been impossible for a number of men to have achieved the same without being discovered. Pendragon mountaineers might have had a better chance, but Camulodian lowlanders would have no chance at all.

Derek listened with a long face, chewing on his lips. I. cocked my head.

"What's wrong, Derek? Why are you up here? You're growing long in the tooth to be leaping about on mountains on your own. I am too, God knows, but I've a reason to be here alone. I have a one man task. "

"And so do I, almost. " He waved to indicate another hillside, to the south of us. "Ambrose is over there, with Arthur, on that hill. There are times when second hand reports are not enough. We came up here to see things for ourselves. But there's not much to see, is there?"

"That depends what you're looking for, my friend. How high above them do you think we are? How far from here to there?"

He made a face, reckoning. "Two hundred paces? Not much more than that, I'd guess. "

"In fact it's closer to four hundred. But even four hundred paces, downhill like this, would put the enemy in range of Pendragon bows. " He jerked his head around to look at me as I continued speaking. "It's a difficult climb, as you know, but it's far from impossible. We two came up it, each of us alone. Where two may go, in this kind of terrain, two hundred more can follow, and with two hundred Pendragon 'up here, that camp would be a death trap.

"Now I'm going down there, later in the day, timing my arrival so that I'll be there by nightfall, when there's little chance of my being seen descending from above. I'll spend tonight there, seeing how things work, and then tomorrow, or tomorrow night, I'll find or make an opportunity to put myself close to Carthac. Once I'm there, he's a dead man. "

"How can you say that, Merlyn? The man's not human! They say he's enchanted, has a charmed life, protected by the very gods themselves, and he can't be killed by human weapons. "

I looked at him, one eyebrow raised high. "That's superstitious nonsense. Surely you don't believe that, Derek?"

He shrugged and dipped his head, looking ill at ease. "I don't know, Merlyn. But I do believe he fights like no man I have ever seen. He won't be killed with ease. "

"I don't want him to die with ease, but die he will, if I win close to him. Now, when are you to meet again with Ambrose?"

"Midafternoon, at the base of the mountain. "

"Well, when you meet him, tell him I am here and warn; him what I intend to do. Then go and fetch Huw Strongarm and his bowmen—are they close by?"

"Not Huw himself, but aye, they're here, nigh on a thousand of them, under Llewellyn. "

"Then lead them back this way, and bid them bring as many arrows as they can carry, sufficient for a days long siege. And have Ambrose move his men up and position them outside each of the three adits to this place. Once Carthac is dead, the men below will be mere cattle. The death of their Immortal will destroy their will to fight. Tell; Llewellyn that when his Pendragon have wiped out this camp, he must then send them outward, to sweep clean the cliffs above the entranceways. They'll have but little opposition, I suspect. Did you bring food?" He blinked at me, then nodded. "Then let's eat, " I said, bending to take my own food from the heavy pack that lay by my feet, which contained the remainder of my much depleted supplies from the warlocks' chests as well as my long black nightclothes.

Derek stared at the pack. "Do you intend to take that with you? Down there?"

"Of course. It's mine, " I answered, smiling, but his face remained stern.

"What's in it?"

I shrugged my shoulders. 'Things, mainly extra clothing. "

"Horse turds, I saw the weight of it when you pulled it over. There's more in there than clothing. Probably enough to get you killed, should anyone look inside it. "

"But no one will. No one has, in the past three months. "

"No, but then you were alone. It's too big, an invitation to thieves. Or do you intend to carry it while you're killing Carthac?"

I could see he was right. I had intended to hide the knapsack, once safely down the hill, but the valley was small and crowded with people. He saw my indecision and spoke again.

"Look, you're determined to go down there, I know that. If you fail to kill your man, you'll die, and there's an end of you. If you succeed, again you'll probably die, for his creatures there won't let you simply walk away. So, armed with the knowledge of the odds against you already, why would you add to all your risks by dragging this great thing behind you? I'd hate to think of you being killed solely because of your pack, before you even get the chance to kill yourself apurpose... " He paused, and I said nothing. "Let me take it with me, Merlyn, back to our camp. It will be safe enough with me. I won't open it or let anyone else open it. Then, if your god is as merciful as you Christians say he is, and you come safely out of that place down there, I'll have it waiting for you. "

I tore a piece of bread from the half loaf I had been holding and chewed it thoughtfully for some time before I nodded my head. "So be it," I said then. 'Take it, and with it my thanks. But don't dare open it, Derek, and guard it as you would your wife or your life. Remember Merlyn's Vengeance. I swear to you that there is enough venom and poison within that pack to wipe out all of Camulod. Eat up!"

I should not have eaten that morning. Something poisoned me—something among my rations, I guessed, most probably the dried meat. I was surprised that I had not been alerted by its smell, and blamed myself for carelessness. It was only much later that I came to suspect some inattention on my own part that might have left a minute residue of poison on my own fingers after handling the vials I carried everywhere.

The first cramps, no more than mildly uncomfortable, hit me a few hours later, before I set off down the steep slope and while Derek was still with me. I foolishly ignored them, anticipating that they would soon fade away. Instead, they increased, both in intensity and in frequency, so that by the time I was halfway down towards the camp below I was in agony and violently sick. I could barely control my descent on the almost precipitous hillside and only narrowly escaped falling to my death when my foot slipped while I was bent over, trying not to retch. I fell forward, head over heels, unable to react in any way to stop myself. A projecting spur of rock arrested me less than two paces from a vertical drop, and I lay there clutching at the stone for a long time before I had sufficient strength to raise my head and look about me. My vision was swimming; everything slid away from me sideways when I Cried to focus. And then I dragged myself to a depression between two clumps of long, rank grass, where I lay gasping until my vision settled.

There was not much cover available; the hillside was open and exposed to anyone who glanced up from below. Even had I been unimpaired, the progress I had planned on making would have been slow, much of it achieved by lying flat on my belly and slinking from clump to clump of grass and stones like an adder. Now, with the excruciating pains in my stomach and ribs, the roaring in my ears and the blurred vision, along with the constant retching, progress became impossible and I had no choice but to remain where I was, in the relative security of the hollow. I could see a thick clump of bushes not far below me, but to reach them, I would have to negotiate the small cliff I had almost fallen over, and I knew I could not even contemplate such a move until I had regained some control of my spasming muscles. I began to feel lightheaded, and shortly after that I broke out in a clammy sweat that soon soaked my clothing. Then it seemed to me I drifted in and out of awareness for a time.

In the infrequent intervals of clarity I had, I would. giggle inanely, knowing that I, the great poisoner, had somehow poisoned myself. And now here I lay, on an open hillside above a crew of men who would skin me alive if they found me and knew who I was. I knew my mind was disordered by what was happening to me, and a large, sane part of me was appalled by my own mindless laughter. Then I was overtaken by a surge of nausea that left me exhausted and panting for breath, and in its aftermath, I passed out.

I awoke some time later to the feeling of rain on my face, and I felt slightly better; well enough, in fact, to move on down the hill. But I was extremely weak and still lightheaded, and I could hear myself making too much noise as I staggered and reeled downwards. They say the ancient gods protected fools, children and drunkards; someone protected me that afternoon on all three of those grounds, for I had been a fool, I was as weak as a child, and I fell and reeled like a drunkard.

The rain grew heavier, falling from low, heavy bellied clouds that clung as fog to the steep slopes; it was a gift to me, obscuring my movements, and I made my way down to the bottom without further mishap and without attracting attention. Once there, however; I collapsed again, my; body racked by painful, heaving spasms that produced nothing from my stomach but agony and bitter tasting bile. I could feel the sweat pouring from me and I knew I was running a fever.

When next I became aware, it was dark, the rain had stopped, and I could hear voices not far from where I lay I had no knowledge of where I actually was, in relationship to the point where I had intended to arrive, and I thought! the voices were Celtic, but in my intermittent moments of clear headedness I thought I might merely have dreamed of understanding them. I had visions of huge, blond haired, axe carrying Danes with bullhorns on their helmets, conversing fluently with me in my own tongue, and I knew I was raving. I also knew that I was cold, and as though detached from my own body, I pictured myself emerging from the bushes that screened me, to crawl forward on all] fours towards the beckoning light of the fires that I knew must be burning close by, where I would beg, in suicidal Latin, to be allowed to warm myself and sleep. Instead, I hugged myself more tightly, shivering and shuddering, and eventually I must have fallen asleep.

I knew nothing more until someone prodded me with an ungentle toe. My eyes snapped open to daylight and I was face down in a clump of long, rough grass, fully aware and knowing I had been discovered. I cursed and tried to scramble to my feet, but snatching fingers grasped my hair, pulling my head back and baring my neck. I felt a knee against my side, and I was heaved backwards and flipped over to land on a sharp pointed stone that smashed between my shoulders. I saw an unkempt form leaning above me with a dagger poised to strike, and I closed my eyes, knowing there was nothing I could do to save myself. And then I heard my name, uttered in a gasp of stunned surprise. Moments later I felt myself grasped beneath the shoulders, and then I was being dragged. When the movement stopped, I felt myself being raised to a sitting position, my back against a tree or a stone, and soon I became aware of someone crouching close to me.

I opened my eyes and recognized Turoc the ploughman, a Christian Celt from Cornwall who had come to Camulod the year I brought Cassandra home. He was one of the eight spies I had dispatched personally, months earlier, to penetrate Cornwall and discover what was happening with Ironhair. Now he kneeled in front of me, peering anxiously into my face. I managed to say his name and his eyes widened with relief.

"Merlyn, in God's name what are you doing here? I almost killed you. My dagger was on its way down when I recognized you. What's wrong with you, and why are you here? You're a dead man if anyone else sees you. "

"Sick, " I whispered. "Poisoned. Ate something bad, yesterday. "

"Shit! Can you walk?"

I shook my head. "Don't know, Turoc. I don't think so. I'm fevered. "

He sat up straighter and looked all around, barking a short, sharp grunt that was almost a cough. "Well, there's nobody around. " He glanced back down at me. "You're frozen and your clothes are soaked. I'd better get something: for you to wear and see if I can find something hot for you to eat. That'll be a miracle, but there might be something left of last night's stew, even if it's no more than a cup of broth. Wait you here and don't move. No one will see you if you stay just where you are. If I can find some food, I'll have to heat it over a fire, so I may be gone for a while. Meanwhile, let's get you out of those wet clothes and wrap; you in this."

He loosened the voluminous cloak he wore over his shoulders, then moved quickly to strip off my clothes before wrapping me in the cloak.

"At least it's dry," he grunted. "Nothing I can do about the smell of it." It smelled wonderful: dry and warm and filled with the tang of woodsmoke. He was wrapping my own clothing in a bundle, using my tunic as a bag. "I'll spread these by the fire in my own spot. I've been here for more than a month, so that gives me a certain privilege. I've! managed to clear a space of my own. Now wait here and be still. I'll be back as soon as I can."

I watched Him as he moved away, walking openly into the morning light with my clothes bundled beneath his arm, and then I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the dry, rough warmth of his cloak. Turoc had stripped me naked without remarking on the marks and lesions on my skin, but then I thought of how my sick, fevered body must have looked to him; the dead, whitening areas would have seemed like an effect of the icy chill that had sapped my strength and vitality.

He returned in less time than I had expected, and he brought a thick, heavy clay mug filled to the brim with heated, salty meat broth in which chunks of meat and vegetables floated. I sipped it with great care, expecting my stomach to rebel against the intrusion, but nothing untoward occurred. After the first scent of it, the first clean bite of it against my tongue, I was ravenous, and Turoc had to pull the mug away from me to prevent me from taking too much too soon and making myself sick again. Thereafter, I proceeded with more decorum, sipping the delicious broth slowly and savouring every drop of it, feeling my strength return with every mouthful. At least I felt that I would live again.

Turoc had been watching me closely, and now he indicated the bundle he had brought back with him. "Dry clothes, " he grunted. "Not clean, but dry. Better get them on you now. No telling when we might have company. You still haven't told me why you're here or how you got here. "

I waved a hand towards the slope I had descended. "Came down from up there, and I'm here to find Carthac. Where is he?"

His eyebrows rose, but he answered me straightforwardly, with no more than a grunt of surprise. "He's not here. He went out with a raiding party yesterday, before noon, and hasn't come back. "

This was bitter news, and I had to bite down on my anger and disappointment. "Where did he go, do you know? And how many men did he take with him?"

Turoc made a face and dipped his head to one side. "Took about half a hundred with him, but I don't know where they went. I wasn't in camp at the time. I was up on the cliffs above the northern entrance. What do you want with Carthac? He'll kill you as soon as he sets eyes on you. He's raving mad, the most frightening man I've ever seen. No man's life is safe around him—no one's. Even his closest captains live in fear of him. "

"I know, Turoc. " I sat straighter, grunting as I felt pain rippling up and down my ribs. "But I'm here to kill him, not to be killed. All I want to do is to get close enough to reach him. "

He squatted back on his heels and stared at me, shaking his head, and then his eyes scanned me from head to foot. "You can't even walk. How are you going to kill a man who can't be killed? I've seen him lost among a swarm of twenty men, all of them trying to kill him, and he's come out with barely a scratch on him. "

"Aye, but he has been scratched, has he not?"

"Well of course he has!" I could see him doubt my sanity. "But never badly. The worst injury he's had was a spearhead in the right thigh. "

"Aye. He killed the surgeon who dug it out of him, did he not?"

Now his eyes flew wide. "How did you know that?"

"No matter. " I shook my head. "I merely need to scratch him, that's all. Once scratched, he'll die, I swear to you. "

Turoc shook his head and looked away immediately, trying to hide his confusion and trepidation. There could be no logic, to his mind, in what I was telling him, and I knew that. I reached out, surprised at how difficult it was to make my arm and hand obey me, and gripped him by the forearm.

"Turoc, " I said, fighting to put conviction into my weakened voice. "Trust me in this. I know what I am doing, and I can kill him. Once he is dead, his warriors will melt away like snow in spring. They feed on this... this legend he has spawned, this thing about his immortality. Once he is dead, they'll quickly sicken of his memory. They'll recall the cannibal, not the demigod; the torturer, not the warrior. Get me to a place where I'll be able to see him and reach him, then leave me to do the rest. "

He shook his head again, more vehemently now. "You'll be recognized the moment you go in there, and you'll be killed. What use is there in that?"

"No, you're wrong, man. Look at me! Do I look like Merlyn of Camulod? Look at my beard, my clothes. You almost killed me yourself, not recognizing me, and you've known me for nigh on a score of years. None of these people know me at all, and if they think of Merlyn of Camulod, they think of my brother, Ambrose, who is now become the man that once I was. Get me inside there, Turoc. That's all I require. Take me inside, and then leave me. "

"But they'll know you're not one of them! They are uncouth and wild, Merlyn, but they're not stupid enough to fail to recognize a stranger in their camp!"

"Then I shall be a messenger. Where's Ironhair?"

"Ironhair? God knows! They say he's with the Danes, fighting to the north of here. We haven't seen his face in months. "

"Does he send messages to Carthac?"

"Aye, once in a while. "

"Then I shall be a messenger—a sick messenger, poisoned by Merlyn's Vengeance in a camp that I came through on the way here. My name will be... " I paused, thinking quickly, searching for an ordinary name that would be memorable to us both. "Mod, " I said then, remembering my young Druid friend, whom Carthac had murdered. "Mod is perfect. You'll say you met me as I came up through the southern entrance, and that I was raving with fever. You knew me long ago, and recognized me. I am a... a fisherman, but also a warrior. No explanation of how I avoided the guards above the pass; I was but a man alone and the gods were watching over me. I have messages for Carthac from Ironhair, and while I wait for his return, I'll need to lie beside a fire somewhere, where I can be warm and recover from my sickness, which is internal—poisoned, remember—and not contagious. Can you arrange that?"

His face was still troubled, but he nodded once, and then again, more emphatically. "I can do it, but I don't like it. Besides, you've no weapons. How will you kill Carthac with no weapons? I don't like this at all, Merlyn."

"You don't have to like it, Turoc, you merely have to put me into place. Besides, I have a weapon. My knife there, by my scrip."

"What, this?" His voice dripped scorn as he held up the Varrus dagger in its sheath. "This is your killing weapon?"

Thinking that he was about to draw the blade, and knowing that I had smeared it thickly with the deadly, venomous green paste, I cut him short, stretching out my hand for the knife.

"It's all I need. Now belt it about my waist, and my scrip, too. And if the thought of what I am about to do frightens you, then think upon this instead: think about who I am, and about the strange tales you have heard of me, down through the years. And ask yourself this: why should the death that stalks the Danes and Carthac's other mercenaries out there in Cambria be known as Merlyn's Vengeance? And why, if you find yourself believing in the immortality of such a thing as Carthac, would you doubt the sorcery of Merlyn?"

. He straightened up at that and I saw his hand thrust down behind his back, no doubt making the ancient sign against the evil eye. I waited till he breathed again, then said, "Are we agreed? Because if we are, we should move soon. I'm beginning to feel dizzy in my head again."

He grunted and stood up, leaning forward to take my hand. With his help I struggled to my feet and stood there swaying until he threw one arm about my waist and brought my left arm over his shoulder, gripping me firmly by the wrist.

"Don't be afraid to lean on me, " he told me. "But try to walk, if you can. I've got you firmly, so you won't fall. We're less than a hundred paces from the longhouse, but it might seem like a long way. If anyone stops us, don't try to talk. Just leave it to me. "

We set out then, and my legs felt as though they had no muscle in them at all. The light-headedness had come back and my vision was doing strange things again. I saw several men approach us, then move on after casting strange looks at us. On one occasion, directly challenged as to what was wrong with me, Turoc recited the story I had concocted, and it was accepted, with a muttered curse and a warning to keep the whoreson away.

Some time later, we entered the open doorway of the longhouse. I can remember looking up and seeing that the walls were higher than I had judged from above, and that two tall wooden doors hung limply and drunkenly from sagging rope hinges. We passed into the dim interior, and I saw open patches high above, where great holes in the thatch admitted beams of daylight. I smelled thick woodsmoke, and then I felt myself being lowered to the ground, and the heat of flames radiating against my face.

I opened my eyes again and found myself close by a large fire that had been built beneath a roofless section of the longhouse. Turoc was wrapping the folds of his big cloak tightly about me, and I heard voices all around me, and Turoc's voice repeating yet again the tale of my misfortune. He had known me for years, he swore, and had stumbled upon me this morning by accident and good fortune, since had he not found me, I might have died, and I bore messages for Carthac from Ironhair. I had survived a camp blasted by Merlyn's Vengeance, down on the plain, he told his listeners, and I had purged myself of most of the poison on the way up here from below. Now all I needed was to regain my strength, and since Carthac had not yet returned to camp, the best thing for me to do was sleep until he came. There came a chorus of mutterings, and, wonder of wonders, I slept, lulled by the sounds and the warmth of the fire.

"Carthac! Carthac! Carthac! Carthac! Carthac!"

At first it was the fabric of my dream, but as the volume swelled and grew into a roar of voices chanting in unison, I opened my eyes to find myself surrounded by a forest of legs. The demigod had returned to his worshippers.

Slowly, cautiously, I rose to. my feet, pulling my cloak about me and tugging its hood down over my face. I was caught up in the pandemonium, but my mind was clear enough to know, immediately, that here might be the best chance I would ever have of coming close to my quarry. In the midst of this capering throng of wild, enthusiastic men, I should easily be able to win close enough to him to strike. I knew that I would die immediately thereafter, but I had long since come to terms with that. I had no wish to live on as a leper, and I considered that my life would be well spent in ridding the world of this particular pestilence called Carthac at the same time as I rid it of my own.

Although I had not yet seen him, I knew from the chaos of shouts that he was here, in the longhouse, and as I stood there swaying, looking about me for an avenue to go to him, I saw the fire in front of me, separated from me only by several bodies. There lay the answer to the question of how I might reach him without arousing suspicion by a headlong approach. As soon as I located him, I would throw some of my fire powder into the fire, creating a distraction and, I hoped, some panic. Then, while everyone was disoriented by the noise and smoke, I would strike.

I moved slightly to my right, then, and saw him. He was a gargoyle, hideous and immense, a leering Cyclops, bald on one side of his head above the awful disfigurement that marred him and marked him as inhuman. He had no left eye, and the place where it should have been was a ruined, indented mass of twisted flesh. His head was misshapen, flattened and distorted at his birth, and it bulged enormously at the top on the right side. Then, when he was a boy, a kick from a horse had added diabolical refinements to his lifelong ugliness. The one eye that remained to him, however, was large and bright blue, offering a tragic but fleeting suggestion of how he might have looked had Nature not decided to make sport of him. That single, flashing, bright blue eye was the first thing I saw, before the ruin of the rest of his awful head eclipsed it.

And then I truly saw the size of him. He towered over everyone about him, hulking and huge, his shoulders leviathan and his great, deep, hairless chest unarmoured. He wore only a sleeveless vest, of some kind of animal pelt, long haired and shaggy, and a pair of breeches made from the same skins. Heavy boots covered his feet and lower legs and a broad belt with a golden buckle circled his waist. His arms, as big as many a man's thighs, shone as though oiled, and the biceps were wound in what looked like copper bracelets.

My hands were busy beneath my cloak, opening the drawstring of the leather bag that held the last remnants of my fire powder, perhaps two large handfuls. I reached inside and scooped a generous pinch into my right hand, and then I saw the sword he held in his. He gave a wild laugh and swung it around his head, sending his followers leaping back in fear for their lives, one of them gouting blood from a slash across the chest. Three times he swung the sword, and then he stood alone in the space he had cleared, laughing in a high, thin, chilling voice as though defying anyone to come against him.

The noise in the longhouse died almost completely away as the realization sank slowly home to me that somehow, impossibly, he had come into possession of my sword. I knew it was impossible, because I had left my sword at home, in my little valley, since it would have been too ostentatious for the task I had at hand. Yet there it was, in Carthac's enormous fist.

As I stared at it, incredulous, his insane laugh turned into a defiant, triumphant scream. He raised his left arm and brandished something above his head. I looked at it; I saw it; and my mind refused to accept what I was seeing. He screamed again, this time my name, "Merlyyyn!" and threw the thing. My brother's head. Ambrose's head.

It flew through the air towards me, and I watched it turning as though time had slowed to almost nothing. The fine, blue eyes were wide, staring and glazed in death; the thick, yellow locks were stained with blood. I even saw that he had grown a beard on this campaign, a grizzled beard, just like my own. And then it landed in the fire, thumping heavily among the coals, and I forgot everything in the urge to save my brother from the flames. I lunged forward, a strangled scream knotting in my throat, and my shoulder struck the man in front of me as my foot came down on the inside hem of my cloak, tripping me. As I fell, my outstretched hands released the open bag I had been holding and the fire powder fell into the heart of the fire.

A gigantic ball of flame roared from the pit with a concussive, deafening sound that sucked all the air in the room, it seemed, into its heart, then belched it out again in a terrifying rain of sparks and embers and great, whirling clouds of choking smoke. I had squeezed my eyes tight shut, but the brightness of the fireball seared right through my closed lids as I ripped away my cloak, casting it aside. Keening now with rage, I fumbled to pull my dagger from its sheath and clutched the hilt so hard that it pained my hand. Then, oblivious to the chaos swirling around me, I pushed myself up and ran though the smoke and the fire towards Carthac.

I found him rooted to the spot where I had last seen him, gaping open mouthed at me as I approached, making no effort to avoid me, and before he could my dagger found his breast and plunged between his ribs. He made a strange, mewling sound and his only defence was to thrust me away from him, with both hands, one of which still gripped the sword I now knew was my brother's. Demented with grief and disbelief and hatred, I tore my blade free again and raked it towards his one, blue eye, but he turned his head away before I could plunge the point into his brain and I succeeded only in blinding him, the knife's blade striking against the bone of his eye socket. Then he picked me up easily with one huge hand, and threw me back into the firepit.

I was burning—my left hand, which had plunged elbow deep into a bed of embers, my arms, my feet, my legs— and I scrambled, screaming in agony, until I was free of the pit. I threw myself against the wall and cowered there, striking off the glowing coals that stuck to my cringing flesh and tearing off the smouldering remnants of the tunic that was my only garment. When I was naked and all the coals were off me, I lay there, shuddering in pain, incapable of coherent thought.

After a time, above my own whimpers and cries, I heard Carthac moan, a quavering, disembodied sound of torment that soon swelled into a scream. Once he had begun, he could not stop. Thrusting aside my own pain in the urgency of my need to see him, I pushed myself up with difficulty, pressing my back against the wall, and peered towards the awful sounds. The smoke had begun to clear, and he came into view through its drifting skeins, staggering about at the far end of the long, empty building, close by the open doors, his hands clutched over his head as he bumped into walls and every obstacle that lay about him. He fell down and struggled to his feet again, screaming and screaming. We were alone in the longhouse, two crippled men, and no one came back to see what was afflicting him.

Slowly, and painfully, but gathering strength and resolve with every movement, I made my way forward, shambling in my nakedness, not taking my eyes from him for a moment. He fell to his knees again, and I saw Ambrose's skystone sword lying on the ground before him. Renewed resolve flared up in me and, barely aware of my burns now, or of any weakness, I walked forward and picked it up with my right hand, "then, cradling my wrist in my burned left hand, I swung the long blade high and struck off his deformed head with one blow that took all of my strength and left me sprawled across his corpse.

I found my brother's head later. It lay lodged in a corner of the building's walls, barely damaged by the fire. I picked it up and sat with it in my arms as I wept for him, remembering all I had loved in him. I felt as though my heart would burst apart with the pain of it, a deep, anguished, all consuming torment that eclipsed all other pains. And presently I found I was weeping for Tressa, too, and for Dedalus and all the friends and loved ones I had ever lost.

And as I wept and mourned my loves in the abandoned darkness of that ruined place, a hailstorm of Pendragon arrows swept down from the hillside above and killed every remaining thing that moved in the valley beyond the stone walls that surrounded me.

Not everyone who was in the longhouse that day died. Many' fled before the Pendragon attack began, in terror of Merlyn the Sorcerer, whose wicked and unholy infamy as a practitioner of the blackest arts soon spread throughout the entire land of Britain. For even though Carthac had killed Merlyn, beheaded him, and borne the severed head back to his camp, when the head was cast into the fire, flames had erupted thunderously amidst a welter of sparks and breath killing smoke, and from the heart of the inferno Merlyn had emerged, springing whole and alive to slay their champion.

The following day, when the armies of Camulod rode into Carthac's valley, they took prisoners away with them, and those prisoners told everyone who would listen, long afterwards when they had overcome their initial fear they had been witnesses to all of it; they had been present when Merlyn the Sorcerer came back to life.

EIGHTEEN

"Merlyn? Is that you?"

I smiled and turned to see a tall form step between me and one of the flickering torches ringing the interior of the great amphitheatre. The distant shape moved back, then started to approach again, now carrying the torch that had been guttering against the wall. I remained where I was, unmoving, as the ring of his footsteps echoed in the emptiness of the high walled space. Then the voice called out again.

"It must be you, I know, because no one else would ever dare to be here in the very dead of night, at the mercy of my ever vigilant guards. And besides, whenever I see darkness moving inside darkness, I know it can only be my cousin Cay."

Arthur Pendragon looked magnificent, striding forward across the marbled floor. The high crest of his helmet made him appear even taller and more impressive than he was, and his long, heavy cloak swirled behind him. He looked, I thought, almost as magnificent as he had on that morning, nigh on two full years earlier, when he had led his troopers into Carthac's valley and found me, huddling, naked in the longhouse. When last I had seen him, prior to that day, he had been still a boy, large and strong limbed and greatly admirable, aglow with the kind of fairness of face and form that turned women's heads, and men's too, but yet a boy in truth. That morning, when he rode into my life again, the metamorphosis had been achieved, and he approached me as a man—a hardened veteran and a seasoned warrior, Legate Commander, though he came unaware of it, of the Forces of Camulod.

On this night, he bore himself with the easy self assurance of a successful and victorious army commander. It thrilled me to see him wearing the armour of lustrous, shaped and layered, highly polished black bull's hide that had once been mine and before that had been my father's. All three of Us were large men, tall and broad shouldered. The armour, made expressly for my father when he was at the peak of his powers, was studded with solid, beaten silver rosettes; it was the ceremonial armour of a Roman commander of horse from the days of Flavius Stilicho who, as regent of Rome's Empire in the west, had brought the methods and cavalry techniques of Alexander the, Great back into use. Arthur filled it to perfection.

Now, as my young cousin drew close to me, he reached up with his free hand and pulled off the heavy helmet of glazed and toughened leather surmounted by a finger length high crest of stiff horsehair, in alternating tufts of black and white, packed into a beaten silver basket. His face was shining as he flashed his white toothed smile, and he came directly to me, embracing me with the arm that held his helmet while holding the flaming torch well clear. I hugged him briefly, my heart swelling with pride, then pushed him gently away. He cocked his head sideways, humour dancing in his great, yellow, gold flecked eyes.

"What?" he demanded, his voice bantering. "What is it?

You look as though you've been caught doing something of which the good Bishop Enos might not approve." He looked about him then, holding the torch at arm's length above his head, his eyes flicking over and away from the altar that stood close by. "What are you doing here in the sanctuary? I thought that, once the consecration had been made and the altar set in place, only God's servants could come into this area."

I shook my head, forming my features into an expression of rueful regret. "Are you suggesting that I am not one of God's servants, Arthur?"

He was unabashed. "Well, my cousin Cay is, I know that. On the other hand, Merlyn the Sorcerer? That, some might doubt."

I grinned, feeling a scar tug at the left side of my mouth, twisting my smile into a grimace. "Then they would be in error. I am here on Bishop Enos's own business, doing what he would do himself, were he not conferring with his pious brethren. Why are you here?"

"I've been inspecting the guard, keeping them on their toes. It inspires them with joy, and something akin to awe, to know that their Commander never seems to sleep. I learned that from you, you may recall. Have you finished here? Then come and walk with me a while. It's a glorious night."

We walked together back down the way he had come. He replaced the flaming torch in its sconce, then placed his helmet back on his head and nodded to the guard who stood nearby, as rigid as a column of rock. I sensed, rather than saw, the way the man flinched from me without betraying any sign of movement. "I would have expected clouds, had anyone asked me," Arthur suggested. "At least until the day after tomorrow."

Today had been the first of the three days of Eastertide, the day all Christian folk had come to think of as Good Friday, and we had been present at the ceremonies for the remembrance of the Crucifixion of the Christ. Two days hence would see the coming of Easter, and the Resurrection of the Flesh. Belief in that Mystery, I reflected with a rueful, private smile, explained the guard's religious fear of me a moment earlier.

As we emerged through the portals of the large theatre, wending our way through throngs of military personnel, all of whom saluted Arthur, he gestured towards the distant town, where lights illuminated what would, at any other time, have been a black and motionless emptiness.

"Who would have thought that Verulamium would stir to life again, in times like these, eh, Merlyn? What has it been, eighteen years since first you came here and met your Mend Germanus?"

"Yes," I replied. "The years of your own life. My one regret remains that Germanus himself could not be here this Easter." My Mend of years had died in his own bishopric in Gaul the previous year, in the summer following his return from Verulamium in 447. True until death, however, he had set in motion the plans we had prepared for Arthur, and for the survival of the Christian faith in Britain, and had passed on the responsibility for making them come true to Enos, Bishop of Venta Belgarum in the south-eastern country now being called Anglia.

"I believe that," Arthur murmured. "I wish I had met him. He must have been a fascinating man. Warrior and bishop. That's a strange blending."

"Aye, it was, and he was formidable in both aspects. You would have gained from knowing him. He would have liked you."

"How are your feet and legs nowadays?" We had been progressing slowly, Arthur mindful of the limp that prevented me nowadays from keeping pace with him.

I shrugged. "They function. Sometimes they pain me, but less and less frequently. One of these days, I'll have no pain at all." Carthac had maimed me at the moment of his death, when he thrust me away from him, into the firepit. The burns I had sustained had been severe and, when they healed, had left me with shortened tendons in my left knee and heel. My left hand had burned, too, and now its fingers were forever clawed and useless; the leprous area on the web of my left thumb had disappeared at the same time, burned into a knotted mass of hardened scar tissue. Further burns, to my face, had left me sufficiently disfigured for my friend Llewellyn to take great delight in telling me that when he was with me, he knew which of us was the better looking.

Arthur was still staring at me, so I stopped walking and faced him. "What? What is it? I know that look of yours. You have something in your mind you wish either to tell me or to ask me. Which is it?"

As I asked the question, I heard the clattering of approaching hooves, and then a rider drew his horse to a halt and leaped from the saddle to land rigidly at attention in front of his Commander, presenting a tightly rolled dispatch in his extended hand. I shook my head in silent wonder at the concentration that could produce this evidence of superhuman discipline. I had spent half my life upon a horse, but I had never been called upon to perform the prodigious feats of horsemanship and personal performance that these young men of Arthur's did without thought.

Arthur walked away to read the dispatch by the light of a nearby torch, and then nodded to the messenger, muttering something that I made no attempt to overhear. It was apparent from his stance that the missive contained no urgent summons, and the man who had brought it was dismissed.

"How do they do that, Arthur? How do they learn to leap down from a horse and land rigid on their feet like that, at attention? I've never seen anything like it in my life, and I've only seen it since you returned last time from Cambria. Is it necessary?"

He laughed. "No, Merlyn, it is not, and I'll grant you it seems... overzealous, but it's a harmless enough thing—a mark of the fever for excellence and distinction that seems to burn in all my men. It's a display of unit pride, no more. It began in the final stages of the Cornwall campaign, when we were cleaning up the detritus of Ironhair's levies. One of my officers, in a great hurry, leaped from his horse like that, to speak to me, and landed upright and rigid. It was sheer luck and completely unintentional, I'm quite sure, but he carried it off and pretended to have done it on purpose. Other young officers were watching, and all were impressed. Within the month, it had become the thing to do, an<} now it's standard. Elite troops develop elitist idiosyncrasies. "

"Aye, " I said, making no attempt to hide the irony in my tone. "I know what you mean. The Praetorians developed some, too. They killed and elected emperors, in their day... " When he did not react to my humour, I began to wonder if the thoughts he was guarding were blacker than I had suspected. "From the lack of concern you showed, I presumed that message you received held no great urgency. Was I wrong?"

He blinked his eyes, then focused them on me more keenly. "Oh, it did. Urgency enough, but there was nothing unexpected in it and there is nothing I can do about it now. It was from Bedwyr. His scouts report that Horsa's Danes are massing again, in the northeast, around Lindum. Bedwyr anticipates that they'll head directly south this time, into our most outlying territories. We've been anticipating something of the kind. Horsa needs to expand his holdings. We threw him out of Cambria and denied him any bases in Cornwall, and there's no room for his people elsewhere along the Saxon Shore, so he has to create new space along its boundaries. That involves intrusion upon us, although he doesn't know yet on whose toes he will be treading. By the time he does. I hope to have my forces well enough bestowed to smash him. He will be far from the sea, this time, with no fleet waiting offshore to spirit him and his defeated Danes away. But that's in the future. It makes no difference to the status quo. "

"Hmm. And you are sure of that? I distrust any analysis of the status quo when great distances are involved. "

'I do, too. But what more am I to do? I can't be everywhere at once, so I must simply wait and be prepared to move, instantly. "

"Very well. " I could not argue with his logic. "Now, what was it you wanted to ask or tell me?"

He laid his right hand on my shoulder. "Come, I'll walk with you to your quarters and ask you as we go. "

When we swung right and headed towards the distant lights of the town, I saw the silent, unobtrusive shadows of the squad of Pendragon bowmen who accompanied Arthur everywhere, as they fanned out and formed a ring about us. He saw me look at them and grinned again.

"My bodyguard. I've tried dismissing them and sending them away, but they are under Big Huw's orders, and it would be more than their lives are worth to obey me and thereby displease him. I'm merely their king; Huw Strongarm is their god. "

I made no comment on that. Arthur had become the king of the Pendragon clans a year before, under the protection and sponsorship of Huw Strongarm, who was now as much Arthur's loyal man as he had ever been Uther's.

"I'm concerned about this matter of the sword, Cay, " Arthur continued, and I immediately put every other thought out of my mind. He seldom called me Cay, and when he did, I knew that he had been thinking long and hard about some problem. I glanced at him, keeping my expression neutral.

"Why should you be concerned? Everything is arranged. "

"I know, but it still worries me. I can't see the sense of it, can't see any advantage to what is so openly a ruse. "

"It's not a ruse, Arthur. It is a symbol, and one of great import. The deed will be symbolic of your cause, Britain's cause. People need symbols to direct their beliefs. We've discussed this before now, several times. "

"We have, but... Merlyn, I'm still not satisfied that the idea will hold water. Look—" He sucked air through his teeth and then let out a pent up sigh. "It's not the symbol that concerns me—not the need for one, at least. I can see that clearly... I suppose it's the physical thing itself that worries me, the sword. I'm to produce my sword out of a stone. But it's my sword, Merlyn, Ambrose's sword! I've been using it for two years now, ever since you gave it to me that day in Cambria. People have seen it. They know it. They know I carry it with me every day, slung at my back, between my shoulders. Why are you so convinced that they will all be so impressed when they see me pull it from a stone? To my mind, they'll be more inclined to laugh. I know I would, were I to see such foolery. "

I had been holding up my hand to silence him for some time, but only now did he pause and look at me. When I was sure that he would say no more, I smiled and nodded.

"I have a question for you, now, and it's one I have never asked you before. Do you trust me, Arthur?"

"What kind of foolish question is that? Whom else could I trust in all the world if not you? Why would you even trouble to ask me?"

"I ask because I want you to engage that trust and bear with me in this. " His face fell, and I continued. "But if you have a single, tiny suspicion in your mind that I might ever do anything that could endanger or belittle you or what I believe to be your God sent cause, then tell me now, and I'll accept it and say no more about the sword. " He shrugged his big shoulders, mute. "Good, then two things more I'll say: I swear to you that no man watching the event will laugh, or will feel aught but awe and wonder. On my oath, I swear that to be true, Arthur. No man, or woman, will think less of you for what you will have done, and none will recognize the sword. You may doubt that, within yourself, but you have my oath on all of it. "

"Hmm. " He was grinning again, his endearing sense of mischief back. "Was that one thing or two you just told me?'

"It was one. The other is... something different in its meaning and structure. " He had caught my hesitation, but held his peace, waiting for me to find the words I sought. Finally I nodded. 'Think of this as a personal wish granting, from you to me. When you have pulled the sword and know that what we did is right and proper and appropriate in every way to what we intend, then I would like you to do something else, for me alone. You may think it strange, but it will cost you nothing. "

"Name it, and it's done. "

I drew a deep breath and released it in a sigh. "When once you hold the sword, Arthur, before the assembled crowd, and are convinced you hold it thus by right, I would like you to strike the blade against the stone—hard—and then reverse it, holding it straight upright in one hand only, with the pommel's end pressed against the stone. As you know, I won't be there, in public view, but I will see you do that and accept it as a signal that your trust in me has been vindicated. Will you do that?"

"Aye, I will, of course I will. " His face was troubled. I knew that he had difficulty with my desire to keep myself away from people's eyes and idle stares, but we had talked of that long before, he and I, and he had accepted my wishes, albeit with reluctance.

"My thanks for that, then, and for not asking why. Now I must find my bed, and you should, too. "

I felt relief, although it was tinged with guilt, for I had extracted his promise fully conscious of a small deceit in this discussion. Arthur thought the sword he was to draw out of the stone on Easter Day would be his own, and so it would, but it would be Excalibur. And so long as he remained in ignorance of its existence until that moment, he would be as stunned by the sight of its magnificence as every other person present that day. In consequence, I had continued to conceal my secret as guardian of the sword for far, far longer than I had dreamed I might.

We walked in silence, then, until the crumbling walls of the town drew near. As we entered the gates and passed the first of the dilapidated buildings, I saw guards in unfamiliar colours standing before its door.

"Who are those people?"

"Cheric's, I think. He's one of the kings from the far north, the district to the east of Derek's lands. But I may be wrong. The kings are gathering, and not all of them have made their presence known to me yet. A full score have arrived since yesterday, each with his own retinue, and there may be more to come. Not all the bishops have arrived, and many of those are travelling with their local kings."

I grunted. "We have a mighty flourishing of kings in Britain nowadays. In my father's time, you would scarce have found a single king in all of Britain—not by that name, at least—save for Uric Pendragon. Has Brander come yet?"

"Aye, he arrived today and is quartered with Connor, Donuil and Shelagh, and ha father, Liam Twistback."

I glanced at him sidelong. "Did he bring Morag with him?

"No, not this time. He came directly from his Isles at Donuil's summons." He smiled. "Brander, at least, is one king I can trust to stand at my back without growing envious."

"He's not from Britain and he is your uncle," I said. "Does it disturb you, then, to have so many kings so close about you?"

Arthur laughed. "So close? No, I prefer them close. That way, I know what they are doing. They are all men, with men's weaknesses. But there are some I enjoy mote than others. We have leaders here, too, from among the Christian Anglians. You knew Cuthric is here, didn't you?" When I nodded, he continued. "And there's one more king whose presence might amuse you: Retorix, the new king of Cornwall."

That startled me sufficiently to bring me to a halt. Retorix, Arthur told me, had finally grown tired of Ironhair's excesses, his posturing and his fundamental cowardice, and had abandoned him and his designs. Since then. Retorix had emerged as the most able independent leader in all of the far southwest, and had assumed the leadership of all the clans of that much brutalized territory. I listened, then shook my head, accepting what he told me with no more than a disbelieving grunt.

"Well," Arthur said, a few paces later. "Here we are. It's not palatial, is it?"

I gazed at the darkened, decrepit house I shared with Enos and some of his bishops. "No, it's not the Villa Britannicus, but it has almost half a roof intact, the walls shut out the wind, and it is warmed by the hot air of argumentative bishops. " I faced him again. "What will you do now, when you leave me here?'

He glanced at his shadowy escort. "Sleep, I suppose. There's not much else to do. " I smiled, remembering the roistering times I had enjoyed here twenty years before, in the makeshift tavern we had called the Carpe Diem.

"Well, it is Lent, " I murmured. "A sombre time of year. The bishops would look disapprovingly on open taverns on the very night the Christ hung bleeding for our sins. Sleep well, lad. Tomorrow night, you must stand vigil by the altar all night long, and the next day, you will be crowned High King. So have a deep, sound, restful sleep tonight. "

He stepped close and I felt the warmth and love of his embrace, in spite of his unyielding armour. I stood by the door until he disappeared from view, flanked by his Pendragon shadows.

There was no one in the large room adjacent to the entranceway when I looked in, but a fire burned brightly in the brazier and the air was bright with the radiance of at least a score of the fine, waxen candles that were the prerogative, it seemed to me, of clerics. In one corner, the sleeping pallet used by Bishop Enos lay neatly, its pristine condition indicating that he, at least, had not yet returned that night. The entire house was silent, and so I entered and crossed directly to the fire, where I stretched out my chilled fingers to the flames, feeling the phantom tingling they produced in my burned left hand, and looked about me.

The furnishings were Spartan, purely temporary and all portable, for this house had lain abandoned for decades, occupied only by rodents and insects. There was a scattering of folding chairs and tables, all of diem brought to Verulamium on the pack mules of various bishops, and a number of sawed logs that served as seats whenever Enos held a meeting here. Other than that, the room was empty and bare. Its upper walls were constantly veiled in darkness, since the skylight opening that once admitted light had been sealed up and boarded over sometime in the distant past. The lower walls, which now glowed in the candlelight, were of a honeyed, earthen colour that had faded unevenly; they were stained now with creeping dampness in places, but they must once have been quite beautiful. The floor had been swept since we arrived, and perhaps even washed; its mosaic tiles were clearly visible in spots, but the ingrained dirt and dust of years had obscured its colours.

One of the tables not far from the fire held a jug of water, which was all that Enos drank, and another that I knew was full of mead, for I had filled it earlier that day. Beside the jugs lay a sharp knife, a thick, hard wedge of cheese covered with coarse cloth, and a loaf of rough, wheaten bread that had come fresh from the oven that morning and lay concealed under a covering of white, clerical cloth. I moved one of the chairs and the smallest table close to the tire and sat down, throwing back my hood and shaking out my hair, then combing it between my spread fingers—one of the few activities for which my clawed left fingers were quite adequate. I was tired and it felt good to sit and stretch out my legs. This had been a long, tense day, its proceedings and the manner of their presentation crucial to the plan that we had crafted with such painstaking care over the past few years.

Mere moments later, feeling the stirrings of an unfed appetite, I rose again and cut myself a portion of bread and cheese, poured a cup of mead and carried them back to my chair. Thereafter, enjoying the almost silent flickering of flames in the stillness and peace of the room, I sat staring into the fire, but looking into the past.

I had not swung a sword nor mounted upon a horse since the day my brother died. My burned flesh and twisted sinews would permit neither activity. Arthur had sent me home to Camulod attended by a physician and borne in a commissary wagon specially adapted to my needs, and I had swung for long days in a cradle suspended from a frame his carpenters had bolted to the wagon's bed for that purpose, inspired by the similar device built by Connor Mac Athol's craftsmen to support their one legged captain while he was at sea. Then, for months thereafter, at home in Camulod, I recuperated under the loving care of Ludmilla, whose loss of her husband Ambrose resulted, once her initial bereavement, pain and grief had passed, in the transferral of some portion of her love for him to me. She grew determined that I would survive my wounds and overcome them, as had both Connor and Publius Varrus in their time. She hectored me constantly to exercise my damaged limbs to exhaustion and beyond, driving me to more and greater exertions, stretching my maimed and fire scarred muscles until they would perform for me again and finally enable me to walk erect. I limped, at some times more than others, and my left arm and hand were practically useless, but the rest of me was whole and strong.

It was Ludmilla, too, who eventually recognized my leprosy. But she had been trained in the medical arts by Lucanus, who had had no fear of the disease and had been filled with admiration and great sympathy for his friend Mordechai Emancipatus, who had worked for decades among those afflicted, eventually contracting it himself. Luke had taught Ludmilla that the disease was not readily contagious, and that it was not fatal, but brought death solely from lack and want and the tragic inability of lepers to find food, shunned and proscribed and dreaded as they were by everyone. She had seen my lesions and known them for what they were, and she and I had talked for hours about the consequences that must lie in store for me, if ever my affliction became known.

And it was Ludmilla, finally, who showed me my salvation in the fact that people now lived in fear of me and shunned me for my sorcery. She brought out my night clothes, the long, black, hooded cloak and the ankle length, pocket hung underrobe that had concealed me in my nocturnal campaign against my enemies in Cambria and which Derek of Ravenglass had carried back to Camulod for me. Ludmilla pointed out that they were equally suited, if not more so, for concealing me and my disfigurement from prying eyes in the light of day. The large, capacious hood would completely mask my face within its shadows, and the long sleeved arms would hang below my finger ends when I required them to. I could benefit from men's fear of me and my sorcery by using it to elude their far, far greater fear of leprosy. Seeing me dressed, as they thought, for sorcery, people would flee from me in terror, and that same terror would completely protect me against their curiosity.

While I had been recuperating from my wounds, Arthur had been at war in Cambria. Thrust into leadership by the death of Ambrose and my own removal, he overcame what some might have been tempted to regard as a premature elevation with the unstinting and committed support of Huw Strongarm. War Chief of the Pendragon, Huw immediately proclaimed the untried young leader to be the son of Uther Pendragon and the natural, incontestable king of all his people. That championship, coupled with the instantaneous commitment and loyalty of his own senior Camulodian commanders, whose trust in Ambrose and myself transferred itself with ease to our young ward and cousin, quickly enabled Arthur to display the true genius that belied his youth.

My killing of Carthac had indeed destroyed the ties that held his rabble together, but it had also destroyed the illusion of legitimacy that supported Peter Ironhair in his campaigns in Cambria. With Carthac dead, Ironhair's Cambrian cause was lost, leaving him only naked aggression to explain his continuing presence. His mercenary levies soon disintegrated, fleeing in all directions from the wrath of Arthur's infantry. Some of them sought to join with Horsa's Danes, who were a separate force, but the Danes would have none of them and turned them away to take their chances against our forces.

Arthur, acting alone in the planning stage but immediately thereafter delegating responsibility to Ambrose's former infantry commanders, designed and laid out a brilliant campaign plan for mopping up the remnants of Carthac's old host. Dividing his forces into maniples and cohorts in the Roman fashion, and employing the tactics used by Gaius Marius four hundred years earlier—tactics that I myself had explained to him when he was but a boy—he had sent his fighting units out to work in close coordination, quartering the territories assigned to them and working with mounted Scouts who served as liaisons between the units. As soon as the elements of his campaign were in place, he prosecuted it ruthlessly, offering no quarter to an enemy who had forfeited all right to clemency by their own atrocities against the common people of the land they had pillaged.

Then, when that effort had been launched, Arthur had turned his mind, and his cavalry, to deal with the Danes, who were the major threat.

Horsa's fierce warriors were of a different order from the rabble that the infantry pursued, and Horsa's own military abilities came into sudden prominence when Arthur brought the might of Camulod to bear on him. The inconclusive battle I had witnessed on the day when I slipped into Ambrose's camp had taught Horsa much: he had learned that when he held the high ground and used his shield walls, he was as safe from our cavalry as he would have been behind the walls of a fortified town. From that day forth, therefore, he fought with an eye to the high ground and the integrity of his defences. My own one man campaign of nightly poisonings and murder aided him in this, for I had succeeded all too well. After three months of nocturnal terrors, the Danes had suspended their practice of roving the land and fighting in small, independent bands. Through fear of Merlyn's Vengeance, they had coalesced into a tight, cohesive group, a real army, three thousand to five thousand strong, moving as one potent force, and they were formidable.

Arthur's cavalry was lethal to the Danes whenever they were caught in the open and unsuspecting of attack, but such occasions were few and happened only at the outset of that new stage of the war. Horsa soon learned that attack was always imminent, and he held his men in tight restraint, ready at any time to throw up their shield walls and hold Arthur's cavalry at bay. That strength, however, quickly became his biggest weakness, since his powerful axemen could not deploy their weapons while the shields were in place, interlocked. Furthermore, to frustrate the cavalry, these shield walls had to be raised on sloping ground, above the horses, since on flat ground the weight of surging horseflesh could simply batter them down. This upward slanting of the enemy's forces made them excellent targets for the long Pendragon arrows.

And so the war became a struggle between a hedgehog and a tortoise, with neither side able to win a conclusive battle and Horsa's army losing steadily by attrition. Arthur's cavalry denied the Danes access to the low ground and, stranded among the hills, the enemy could achieve nothing of value. To his credit, Horsa saw the truth of this very quickly and began to lead his army back towards the coast, fighting fiercely all the way and losing heavily among the hills to the deadly Pendragon bowmen. Arthur kept pressing fiercely at their heels the whole way, throwing his mounted weight time and again to storm the shield walls. He pressed the fight to the very edges of the beach that offered Horsa access to the anchored fleet that awaited him and his men, to ferry them home again. There, Arthur halted his advance and set his cavalry to form a solid wall about the crescent of sand that he could easily have set awash in Danish blood. His clemency was easily explained, he told me later, by the fact that Horsa had been a brave and clever enemy who had learned that he could never conquer Cambria and hence would not return. Should he and Horsa meet again, elsewhere, each would respect the other and renew their battles on new ground. So Arthur Pendragon sat and watched his enemy's fleet sail off to safety.

Connor Mac Athol, Arthur discovered later, had been ravaging that fleet relentlessly since shortly after its arrival, and had caused great damage. His biremes and his galleys skirted the edges of its anchorage like hungry wolves, avoiding the counterattacking vessels sent to fight them and raiding at random and at all hours, burning and sinking ships by night and day. In consequence, the vessels that bore the Danes away from Cambria were far fewer, and far more heavily laden, than their captains had expected they would be.

In the meantime, one of my own deep held wishes had been denied me. Peter Ironhair was dead, and the knowledge was like bitter ashes on my tongue. Ambrose had told me many times that I spent too much time thinking of Ironhair and the vengeance I would take on him when finally we two came face to face, and now that all my hopes of that revenge were gone, I was curiously relieved, no longer burdened by the hatred that had driven me for so long. He had somehow fallen foul of his own ally, Horsa, and had died for it; none of us would ever know the how or why of what occurred. I was intrigued, though, that his promise in my vision had been fulfilled. I had never set eyes on him again, nor had anyone else from Camulod except Philip, who commanded the patrol that found him hanging from a tree in an abandoned Danish camp. The irony of that was not lost on me, for his predecessor in Cornwall, Gulrhys Lot himself, had suffered the same fate, hanged from a tree by hands unknown.

All of this had taken place before the end of summer, mere months after my departure from Cambria, and with campaigning time to spare, Arthur quickly moved to consolidate his victories. He dispatched a strong force of horse and foot, conveyed in three swift journeys by Connor's massive biremes, into Cornwall, under Philip, to clean out the nests that had sheltered Ironhair and his verminous followers. The remainder of his force he led himself in a lightning swift sweep up the length of Britain, following the western slopes of the mountain chain that bisects the land. He was spreading a message of his own as he progressed: a message that the time was ripe for the folk of Britain to unite and throw out the foreign invaders who swarmed everywhere. Camulod stood for freedom from invasion, he proclaimed, and offered strength and support to those who would join it in the fight to drive the aliens from Britain's shores.

He did encounter opposition as he swept northward, but very little. The mere sight of the thousands of heavily armed horsemen ranked behind him had a pacifying and reassuring effect, even for those kings who might have felt threatened by his coming. By the time he turned eastward, following the line of Hadrian's Wall towards the sea that divided Britain from its would be conquerors, his name and fame were spreading ahead of him. Following the road south from the wall to where it crossed the wide river at the old Roman fort of Longovicum, he found a garrison of sorts in residence, under siege from a large army of Saxons who had sailed upriver from the coast, some twenty miles away. Taking advantage of the Saxons' surprise, Arthur split his forces and attacked immediately, destroying many of their beached longboats with burning arrows and smashing the clumps of men who ringed the old fort's walls. The king of that region was a man called Viticus, who was now in Verulamium for the great ceremony.

Within a year of coming to command, Arthur Pendragon had proclaimed himself the length and breadth of Britain, rallying the people and their separate kings to join his cause and form a united front against the Outlanders, and in the doing of it, he had discovered that our Camulod was not the only Roman settlement of its kind in Britain. There were several such, apparently, but none were so well established and maintained, and none had cavalry.

It was on Arthur's return to Camulod that I presented him with my own parade dress armour, telling him that I had no more need of it, and with the even more splendid armour that his own father had worn. He was greatly moved, and his eyes tilled with sudden tears, but from that moment on, he chose to wear my armour, claiming it to be the armour of Camulod. His father's armour, he maintained, he would reserve for dignified and ceremonial occasions, when he would wear it in proud tribute to Uther.

"Merlyn? Forgive me, my friend, I had no thought to startle you."

I had not even heard the door open behind me, and I leaped to my feet, spilling some of my mead. But then, swiftly recovered, I waved away Enos's concern. He smiled and crossed directly to his pallet, removing his long travelling cloak as he went. As he folded his cloak carefully. I poured a cup of water and cut a small portion of cheese and bread for him, knowing he would eat little of it. He accepted it with a word of thanks.

"You had no difficulties?" he asked.

"No, but Arthur almost caught me in the act."

He laughed quietly as I told him what had happened, then went on to talk about the proceedings planned for the following day. As he talked I thought about the difference between his gentle, speaking voice and what I thought of as his command voice. No longer young, he was gaunt and stooped from the hardships of his pastoral life, which involved constant travel in all weathers as he carried the Word to his far scattered flock. Yet he was vibrant in everything he did, radiating a calm and massive conviction, and he had been indefatigable in his efforts to ensure that this unprecedented gathering would take place as planned, and would present a spectacle the likes of which this land had never seen. That much of it must be arranged in secrecy seemed only to fuel his enthusiasm, and he had handled his far flung congregation of bishops as deftly as a successful legate must handle his legions.

Throughout the ceremonies early that afternoon, he had spoken strongly and clearly, instructing the assembled throng on the Roman history of the great theatre, and on the ceremony about to take place, and I had been as fascinated as anyone, listening to him speak with such authority and certainty. Then he had led us through the steps necessary to make the conversion from theatre to ecclesia, from house of entertainments to House of God, beginning with the sanctification of the place of worship. Upon his signal, a long procession had advanced from the grounds outside the doors and made its way down through the watching, spellbound crowd. More than a hundred bishops, led by thurifers spreading clouds of sweet incense, came forward slowly, chanting the Creed in unison. The majestic prayer, the formal declaration of the Christian tenets devised and perfected and inscribed at the Great Council of Nicaea more than a hundred years earlier, had raised the hairs on my neck as I listened to it sung by the chorus of voices.

Behind the bishops, who gathered in to form a semicircle on the rostrum behind Enos, came lesser clerics bearing a plain wooden table, a folded, pure white cloth and a block of polished, green stone, beautifully worked by a master stonemason. The table was set in place, and the cloth was laid upon it and draped about it, forming a solid block of whiteness that became the focus of all eyes. And then, with Enos describing every step of the process, the altar stone itself was laid upon the draped table and blessed with Holy Water. The stone, Enos explained, had come that day from Camulod, but its origins were in Verulamium; it had been made there some threescore years before by a Verulamian mason, at the request and under the supervision of the venerable Bishop Alaric. It was fitting, Enos said, that Camulod should provide the altar stone for this occasion, and that it should have been sanctified by Verulamium's own bishop. The stone contained the relics of a saint, one Of the Britons martyred for the Faith in earlier, Roman times, and its consecrated presence here transformed the theatre into a place of worship. So saying, he drew from his sash a large, plain pectoral cross of gold and slotted it into the hole carved in the stone to hold it, thereby completing the ceremony of consecration.

From that point, he had gone on to tell the story of the Saviour's Last Supper, and of His consecration of the sacred bread and wine, and every man and woman in the throng of thousands came forward to share the Eucharist distributed by all the bishops from the endless baskets and ewers brought forward for the Blessing and Consecration. When the Sacrament had been concluded, Enos went on to describe the Saviour's Passion and His Crucifixion at the third hour of the afternoon, bringing his oration to a close at very close to' that third hour, when he led the congregation in reciting the Creed again, and then observing a long moment of silence.

Now, he intoned, the world was all in spiritual darkness, and would so remain until the dawning of the third day. Then, with the Resurrection of the Flesh, all the world would rejoice, and mankind would know salvation and the rebirth of hope. As he spoke, a group of bishops moved about the sanctuary, draping and covering all the symbols of the Church—the candelabra, sacred vessels, monstrances and crosses—with purple mourning cloths, after which the gathering was blessed and dismissed.

I had never been caught up in the rituals of religion, but what Enos showed me, in that simple yet convoluted ceremony, moved me deeply, stirring fresh regret that Tress could not have been there to share it.

I realized suddenly that Enos had stopped talking, and I had no idea what he had been saying. I felt my face flush guiltily.

"Enos, " I said. "It's now my turn to beg your pardon. I was miles away, thinking about that magnificent ceremony today. But that's no excuse for ill manners. I've been dreaming all night, since I came in, so I know I'm tired and should be abed. Will you excuse me?"

"Happily, " he said, his eyes crinkled in a smile. "I might even sleep myself. God bless you, Caius Merlyn, and sleep well. "

The day that followed was a quiet one. Rather than subject myself to the curious stares and even fears of the throngs who now packed the town to an unheard of capacity, I spent the day in the confines of my quarters, observing the activities from a second storey window.

There were soldiers everywhere, of course, and not all of them had come from Camulod. Even so, there was no disorder or rowdiness in any quarter. Many of the visiting kings and chiefs had brought their own escorts and bodyguards, their wives and families and servitors, and the streets were bright with their colours, giving the entire gathering an air of motley gaiety and happiness, despite the religious solemnity of the season and the occasion. This sense of festivity was greatly enhanced by the street vendors who had emerged from nowhere, as such people always do, to profit from the gathering through the provision of food and drink, trinkets and jewellery, and any other thing for which they could find a purchaser. Overall, however, there was yet a muted quality to all the joy, for this truly was a day for quiet contemplation of the evils of a world that could condemn and crucify the Son of its own God, a day for prayer, between the darkness of the soul and the light of Resurrection that would shine the following day.

Towards evening, I was disturbed by an urgent summons from Arthur, who asked that I join him in his command headquarters as soon as I might.

I made my way with no difficulty through the crowded streets and all the way to his encampment, the crowds parting before me like the Red Sea patting before Moses. It seemed, I thought grimly, laughing at myself, that there must be something repellent in the way I walked or dressed. That self consciousness faded quickly, however, when I saw Arthur. His face was lined with concern and he was in the final stages of issuing a rapid series of terse, no nonsense orders to his assembled troop leaders, some hundred or more of them, when I arrived. He saw me come in and signalled that he would be with me presently. I moved into a corner and waited, feeling the awe, and sometimes the hostility, in the surreptitious glances that came my way and slid away again before I could engage them. Finally Arthur dismissed everyone else and came to me. He was dressed as he had been the previous night, save that he wore neither his cloak nor his helmet.

"What's wrong, Arthur?"

"Everything, Merlyn. Evil tidings coming as closely packed as hail, in the past three hours. I'm worried."

"I can see that. But why?"

He pursed his lips and exhaled noisily. "Last night I told you Horsa's Danes were massing outside Lindum. You recall?" I nodded, and he twisted up his face. "Aye, well now they're on the move. The word came in from Bedwyr shortly after noon. But that's not all. A messenger arrived from Gwin, not two hours after that. He and Ghilly are to the south of Bedwyr and farther east, in Anglian territory— Cuthric's country. There's trouble there, too. Saxon incursions from the existing settlements to the south, heavy incursions, and the hordes are moving west, Gwin says. That will set them on a collision course with Horsa's Danes as they come south. "

"Then they'll collide, and do good work for you, killing each other. "

"The Danes in the Weald are moving westward, too, Merlyn. Benedict's people there are falling back ahead of them, according to my own strict orders to observe but not engage. That word arrived less than an hour ago. Ben wants permission to attack. He doesn't like the way they're moving— thinks they're too numerous, too disciplined and too well organized to be on a mere raid. "

"What about the others, Bedwyr and your other advance scouting groups? Are they falling back, too?"

"Aye, all of them are. Those were my orders: to observe, and to retreat ahead of any developing threats without engaging, keeping me informed at all times. Now I've heard from almost everyone, and something inside me is making more than is plainly there out of what I hear. That's what has forced me to take these steps. "

"What steps? I'm not sure what you're saying, Arthur. "

"What if the Danes and Saxons have assigned a meeting place, and are not just driving blindly towards each other? What if they've made alliance? It's a frightening thought, and it gains weight from this report of Ben's. My gut is telling me we have no time to waste, and so I've ordered my armies to assemble at dawn, all of them, in the fields about the theatre. I'm to be crowned at noon. By midafternoon, I want to be fully deployed outside the confines of the town, at a safe distance for the town's welfare, holding high ground but prepared to move out in any direction. I think they're coming here, Merlyn, to Verulamium."

While I knew he had no real, logical grounds for the conclusions he had drawn, I myself had taught and encouraged him to put much credence in his own, unformed convictions at times like this. "If they are, then how long will it take for them to arrive?"

He shrugged. "From Lindum to here is more than a hundred miles, closer to a hundred and thirty. That's seven days, more or less, but they set out four days ago. Bedwyr's messenger killed a horse under him in getting here to warn us. By now they'll have joined up with the Saxons, if what I suspect is true. They could be here tomorrow, if they make good time, although I think the following day is closer to the mark and perhaps, if God truly is on our side, they'll be later yet. But the same travelling speed applies to those coming up from the Weald, and they're much closer. So I've passed the word to break camp and assemble early tomorrow. We can't afford to take the risk of not being ready, Cay."

"I know that, Arthur, but my concerns are more immediate. If news of this leaks out, it could cause panic in the town and ruin everything we've planned."

"It won't get out. I've seen to that. Only my own people know, and all my troops will be recalled and confined to barracks for the remainder of the day."

I nodded my approval. "For what it's worth, now that it's done, I think you took appropriate action. Now, about tomorrow's ceremonies. I think it would be excellent for everyone were your troops able to be present for your crowning. That way, even if rumours do break out—and when did rumours ever fail to do just that?—the sight of your troopers in tranquil attendance at the ceremonies will have a pacifying effect. "

He stared at me for a long moment. "That's not possible, is it? There's no room for them, for one thing. "

"Yes, Arthur, there is. The theatre holds seven thousand people, seated. Enos's clerics counted less than five thousand there yesterday. Some have arrived late, so there may be fully five thousand there tomorrow. That leaves two thousand empty seats and ample room for another thousand standing around the walls. "

"Aye, but I have more than six thousand men. "

"Have them draw lots. Make it a privilege to attend. I guarantee they'll squabble among themselves to make sure the lots are drawn fairly. Your troop leaders should all be there, but that's not feasible. Again, have them draw lots. One officer in four to stand on duty. For your sub officers and troopers, one in every two. That will fill up three thousand places, and I'm sure we could accommodate four thousand, if the numbers work that way. Apart from the reassurance of their presence serving to disarm rumours, I'd like to see them there, Arthur, and you can only gain by having them attend. That way, they'll see you crowned by bishops, with the blessing of the Church. They'll know they have a High King as Commander. "

He sighed and nodded. "I'll think on it. About the other thing... you do approve of what I've done? I've no real reason, other than my instinct. "

I smiled at him, at the earnestness in his troubled young face. "What does it matter what I think? It was your decision and it's made, right or wrong. But personally, I believe, wholeheartedly, that it's right. "

For the first time since I had walked into his presence, he smiled back at me.

NINETEEN

As the result of a surprising and considerate suggestion from Enos, I travelled to the theatre on Easter morning disguised as one of his bishops, having exchanged my long, black cowled garments for one of their equally long if less voluminous white cowled robes. It was a chilly morning, beneath overcast skies, and as the wind bit through my ceremonial, clerical garb, I regretted the loss of my own cloak of thick black wool. But the substitution was indisputably to my advantage, for along the entire route, more than half a mile in length, no one in the watching crowds recognized me or took any notice of me, other than to gaze at the small chest I carried and wonder, perhaps, what it contained. A score more than a hundred of us walked in that silent, solemn procession, and I was the only sorcerer among the quadruple ranks. As we passed, the crowds fell into place behind us, following us towards the high outline of the great building that sat alone beyond the walls among treeless fields.

I heard some murmuring, even among the bishops, as it became plain that Arthur's entire army had been assembled on those meadows, drawn up behind its standards in regimented ranks and sitting stiffly in diligent readiness. Close by the theatre itself, the road passed through their formations and we walked forward between the masses of them ranked on either side. As the head of the procession passed, however, marked by a junior acolyte bearing a long staff surmounted by a purple shrouded cross, squad leaders shouted commands and each unit came to the salute, greeting the bishops and adding to the air of great solemnity.

I hitched the wooden chest I carried higher, tightening my grip on it. Inside, resting on a magnificent cushion that had been embroidered years before by Tressa as a gift for me, lay a crown of gold made to fit Arthur's head precisely. It was a simple coronet, no wider than my thumb—a plain, flat, golden ribbon—bearing no workings other than a small, plain cross at the front, in the centre of the forehead, and an artfully depicted knotted bow at the back, the trailing ends of which bore golden acorns. I had no notion of what the ancient Roman military crowns had looked like, but I had seen and admired the simplicity of Athol Mac Iain's golden coronet in Eire and I had copied that simplicity with confidence, setting our Colony's finest craftsmen to create it from my description.

Then, just as we were about to enter the theatre, I saw Arthur. My eyes were drawn to the scarlet and gold splendour of the cloak he wore, a cloak so distinctive and uniquely visible from afar that I had once pursued its wearer far along the coasts of Cornwall. He stood with his back to me, wide legged and elbows spread, so that the great golden dragon of his father's standard stretched its widespread wings across his shoulders. He was bareheaded, and I assumed that he cradled his helmet on his hip, beneath the cloak. Only then did I see that he was conferring with Benedict and several others, all of them travel weary and radiating tension as they listened avidly to their young leader. I recognized, too, from Arthur's posture, that something grave was afoot. I passed my burden to my closest neighbour immediately, asking him to take it to Enos, and stepped out of the procession.

Arthur caught sight of my white robe from the corner of his eye as I approached, and frowned in annoyance, his expression stating clearly that he had neither time nor willingness to concern himself with clerics at that moment. I stepped closer, and he was about to turn on me in anger when I laid my hand on his arm.

"Arthur, it's me. I changed my colours."

"Merlyn!" He swung his head to pierce me with his glare, ignoring my lame attempt at levity. "Thank the Christ you're here! We must cancel this—this affair today." He waved a dismissive hand towards the procession streaming into the building. "You'll have to postpone it, put it off, save it for a more appropriate time. I must be gone from here, right now. I was just about to issue orders to set out."

His eyes swept me from head to foot, taking in my unusual garb, but I saw no glimmer of curiosity or interest cross his face. I glanced beyond his shoulder and saw several people, including his own front ranks, staring at us with open curiosity, and I knew that some of them, particularly those among the common throng who might have been soldiers at one time or another, would think nothing of approaching us. Arthur's obviously simmering wrath might easily spill over upon such innocent provocation, I knew, and I had no desire to see such an incident occur, today of all days. I looked at Benedict, who nodded gravely to me, and then I eyed each of the others.

"Come," I said. "There are ears hungering here for single words." I led them farther off, to where no one could hear or approach us without being warned away. "Now, Arthur, what is it?'

"Invasion, Merlyn. Massive, immense invasion on a scale never before seen in Britain, not even when the Romans first arrived. Thousands of galleys—Ben's people could not keep count of them. "

"Good God! Ben, you were in the Weald?'

"Aye, I was, at first. But we fell back, according to orders, keeping well ahead of the enemy and unseen. They started out by marching north, then angled to the northwest, towards Londinium. That's where we almost lost everything, including our lives. Our eyes were on the enemy following us, an army of them. But they were a mere squad compared to what we found awaiting them behind us. It's more than an invasion fleet, Merlyn. We've all seen those before. This is a fleet of fleets, from what we could see. The whole Tamis River is thick with shipping, from Londinium to the sea, full forty miles and more of it, with scarcely a bare patch left on either side to beach a boat. "

"Wait! How can you know all this? Did you patrol the river banks?"

He shook his head. "No, but we met with Anglians fleeing from those parts, who told us what was happening. It was their flight that warned us just in time to avoid riding right in among the Saxons. Londinium's completely overrun and is serving as the rallying point for whoever these people are. According to the Anglians, they're Saxons, not Anglians or Danes, but that's all I know. As Arthur says, we crept close enough to look, but we lost count of their ships, so God alone can tell the numbers of their men. It's only by God's grace we escaped and won back here, but we were forced to hide and slide to do it, so we moved but slowly for a long, long time. I swear, Merlyn, none of us had ever seen the like of it. The land's crawling with Saxons, and they'll soon be here in Verulamium. "

I was biting my lip, appalled by the scope of what Benedict was describing. No wonder Arthur had been set to cancel this day's activities, I thought. It would be suicidal to do otherwise. But then my reason returned and I began to think more clearly.

"How far are the nearest pursuers behind you, Ben? Think!"

He frowned in concentration. "Perhaps several hours. We covered ground quickly, once we could do so without being seen. They could be here by tonight. "

"What about opposition? Are they likely to encounter any at all?"

Ben shook his head. "Not in Londinium. It's gone, already. They might have stopped there, though, if what Arthur says is true. They might be waiting there for Horsa, although I wouldn't care to hazard my life on that. There's a thin ring of our own troops out there, between them and us, but they'll be of little use if those whoresons come through at us in strength. "

I stared now at Arthur, pausing lengthily before I dipped my head and spoke again. "Well, you have a decision to make, Commander, but if you have ever valued my advice, you'll let me say what's in my mind before you commit yourself or any of your troops to action. "

It was evident that he was not pleased, but he bit down hard, bringing the muscles of his jaws into prominence, clearly resisting the urge to tell me bluntly that the responsibility of command was his and his alone. He turned his head stiffly away to gaze back towards his motionless, waiting troops, and I could tell that he was holding his breath, willing himself to be calm. Finally he relaxed and his shoulders slumped slightly as he turned back to face me, nodding his head.

"Very well then, " he said calmly. 'Tell me what is in your mind. You have never failed me in the past, and I need counsel now more than I ever have. "

"My words may be for your ears alone, Arthur, " I warned, giving him the choice.

"No. Benedict, at least, should hear it, as my senior commander here in the east. Tertius Lucca, Rufio, Falvo and Philip should know what's afoot, too. " He turned to the others whom he had not named. "Could I ask you gentlemen, if you would, to find those four and direct them here to me immediately?" The men saluted smartly and spun about to leave, but he detained them. "One more thing, if you please. I know I need not ask it of any of you, but the information you possess is... dangerous. So I will ask you, please, not to speak of it, even among yourselves. Its effects, emerging unexpectedly, could be disastrous. " The men saluted him again and left quickly.

When they were gone, Arthur looked at me. "Well? What's in your mind, Cay?" He looked simultaneously very young and prematurely aged.

"You don't want to wait for the others?"

"No, that might take too long. We'll tell them what they need to know when they arrive. "

"Very well. " I drew a deep breath. "Your first instinct was to postpone today's ceremony. I can understand that, for it was mine, too, when I heard Ben's tidings. But then my common sense intervened. You heard Ben. Despite all our fears and worst imaginings, the most sensible answer is that the enemy won't come here before tonight, and that means before tomorrow, pragmatically, since no one in his right mind would fight a night battle.

"Think of this, Arthur: it would be madness to cancel these proceedings now they're all in place. This ceremony today is more than it appears to be. It cannot be postponed or simply put off until a better day. There may be no better day, ever again. This meeting in this place is the culmination of years of planning—"

"Aye, but there are more important urgencies! We—" "No, Arthur, there is nothing more important! I thought you were going to hear me out?"

He nodded, apologetic but implacable. "Forgive me. Please continue. "

"There is no greater urgency, Arthur, no greater cause than will be served right here, this day. All of the bishops in this land are here today to celebrate Easter, and the new Arising of the Saviour. You are a saviour, in their eyes, Arthur! The saviour of Britain and of the Christian faith. That's why we are all in Verulamium and not in Camulod! There's no place big enough in Camulod to hold a gathering of this significance. It had to take place here, in the ancient heart of Britain, where thousands of people could assemble in comfort, in this very theatre, the only building of its kind in all the land that is still usable, where you will be decreed and proclaimed High King of Britain by the representatives of the Christ Himself. The Church summoned you here today, and summoned all the lesser kings of all the land to see these bishops crown you, anoint you and bless you with their full support. You command, in Camulod's cavalry, the only realistic hope that Britain has of repulsing these invasions and protecting our own way of life throughout this land. " I stopped, waiting, then asked, in a quieter voice, "Arthur? Do you hear what I am telling you?" He licked his lips, his face now noticeably paler. "Yes. "

_ It was almost a whisper.

"Good. Now, the pragmatic view. If I go straight to Enos and explain what has occurred, he can curtail the service, beginning ahead of the planned time and proceeding directly with the consecration of the Eucharist. Once that is done, he can move straight into the ceremony, crowning you with the champion's crown as the Church's representative in Britain and requiring of you that you commit your forces, and the entirety of your resources, to the preservation of the faith in Britain and the conquest of the enemies of God. It can be over in two hours, Arthur, leaving you half the day to make your preparations to confront the enemy before night approaches.

"You'll lose but little in the interval, since we're forewarned of what is coming, but think what you will have gained: God's own blessing and the championship of His entire Church, all solemnly witnessed by an assembly of the kings and people of Britain and your own army. What greater encouragement to go to war with confidence could you imagine for your troops and troopers?"

Arthur's face was now set in deep graven lines that made him look far older than his years. He nodded, once. "So be it. I'm convinced. Let's do it, quickly. "

"We will, now. But while I talk to Enos, which may take some time, have your troops start filing into the theatre as planned. You did have them draw lots, I hope?"

"Aye, they're prepared. " He looked at Benedict. "Ben, pass the order, if you will. Tertius Lucca is expecting it. " Again his eyes returned to me. "Well, Caius Merlyn, I am in your hands for the next hour or so, and I shall try to be attentive to what happens. Do you still want me to strike my sword against the stone when it's all done?"

I flashed a grin at him. "Aye, Arthur. Do that for me. "

I watched the proceedings from high above, concealed beneath the curving arches of the colonnade that circled the huge building at its highest level. The space below was filled to capacity, and Arthur's troopers lined the outer walls three deep in places. The broad central aisle, sloping gently from the entranceway down to the steps directly before the altar, was the only clear space in the entire assembly ; all of the lesser aisles, radiating upwards from that central, focal point, were crowded with people. The consecration of the bread and wine had been completed, and the throngs should now have started forward to receive the Eucharist, but that was plainly impossible, with such a massive gathering in so confined a space. The bishops would distribute the Eucharist later, in the meadows outside the walls.

At the front of all, in the seats of honour reserved for the highest guests at each performance, now directly in front of the sanctuary, sat the civilian contingent from Camulod. Shelagh was there, sitting beside Ludmilla, and on her other side, her face now lined with age, sat Turga, Arthur's childhood nurse. On either side of these three sat Luceiia and Octavia, the eldest children of Ambrose and Ludmilla and the newest generation of Britannici, and beyond them several of the senior Councillors of Camulod.

Behind and about this group were ranked the gathered kings of Britain, representing every region of the land that had not fallen beneath foreign invasion and domination. There were some thirty of these, and I knew few of them. Derek of Ravenglass was there, as was Brander Mac Athol, with his brothers Connor and Donuil, but these three were set slightly apart from the others, in consideration of their status as visiting guests and allies from beyond Britain. Among the British kings I could see, even from my lofty vantage point, that there was much distrust and tension;

they managed, somehow, to remain stiffly apart, despite their propinquity, divided by tiny barriers of empty space which all were careful not to cross over.

Slowly, almost unnoticeably, the utter stillness of the crowd gave way to a swelling murmur as people leaned towards each other restlessly to comment on the strangeness of the proceedings. I looked to where Enos stood with his back towards the crowd, conferring with six of his senior bishops while the other clerics held their places in the semicircle that ringed the space at the back of the sanctuary, the sacred precinct of the consecrated Sacrament. The crowd had murmured earlier, when Arthur's soldiers had begun to file into the assembly, filling all the empty seats and taking up the space around the perimeter, but Enos had quickly quelled that, raising his hands high and explaining that the soldiers had but come to witness the Easter rituals and join in the Communion. This time, however, the muttering was going on too long, growing in volume with each passing moment. Enos turned about and stepped forward again, raising his hands to shoulder height, while the small .group of bishops with whom he had been conferring descended from the sanctuary with dignity and evident purpose and made their way, side by side in pairs, out of the theatre.

Before they had reached the external portals, silence had settled again within the assembly. A gust of errant wind swirled about me and I looked up at the skies above, restraining a shiver, whether of cold or nervousness I did not know, although if it rained now, I thought, the effects on what went on below in the open roofed theatre would be disastrous.

As I looked down at Enos I realized I had been foolish to perch myself so high upon the outer wall. I was unable to see his face with ease and peered down, indeed, almost upon the top of his head. Enos began to speak, in a voice much quieter than that which he had used so tellingly before, and I could barely make out his words.

I turned and went back to the stairwell and the steep, dangerous stairs I had climbed to reach this place. As I began to make my way back down, one step at a time, I discovered to my fury that I had to do so with great care, clinging to the iron handrail set into the wall like an old, bent man. It was a matter of balance—my shortened, stiff left leg dragged at every step, catching the lip of each stair and threatening to throw me sideways, so I had to proceed bad leg first, lowering my weaker foot deliberately at each Step before entrusting it with my full weight. The vertiginous depths of the well on my right had seemed like nothing at all as I climbed with my strong right leg, raising the other one effortlessly behind it. Now, on my weakened left, those self same depths seemed to beckon me.

I thought about what I would do when I arrived at the bottom. Where would I go, that I might not be seen and recognized? Then, forgetting completely that I wore a bishop's robe, I resolved to go boldly into the throng and make room for myself on the steps of one the lesser aisles.

At regular intervals on the way down, I passed narrow windows looking into the main body of the theatre, and I paused at each of them, listening to what Enos was saying. He had begun by talking of the God of the Israelites, and how He always protected and preserved His faithful servants. At the next window, I heard him speak of the Maccabees, the fierce and warlike rebels who had fought the Roman overlords of Israel so well and for so long, and of how they had faced death gladly for the preservation and protection of their religious beliefs. I wondered what the Israelite Maccabees had to do with Britain as I moved on to the next flight of stairs. By the time I arrived at the window below that one, he had brought the Romans into Britain and was talking of Queen Boudicca and how she had fought against invasion. Then an understanding of the tenor of his speech began to take shape in me, so that I was unsurprised to reach the last and lowest window and hear him talking about Camulod and the Saxon hordes who threatened Britain. I had missed the greater part of what he said but I could see the Camulodian troopers, standing around the walls, looking pleased and nudging each other with enjoyment.

I moved away again, to make the final stages of my descent, but I was less than half way down the next flight when I was stopped short by a most surprising and unexpected sound. A single, brazen horn began to blow, and I recognized the sound before the first three notes had ended. It was the ceremonial trumpet call of Camulod, played upon all our horns on special and great occasions but never before heard beyond Camulod. It began with the solo notes of the deepest cornua, the long, circular hems of the legions that were borne wrapped round the bodies of the trumpeters. I turned immediately and made my way back to the window as another, higher horn, the second of the four that would complete the call, joined in, and I stood there enthralled by the effect the sounds were having on the throng below. As the music swelled and the number of participating instruments increased, a ripple of pure wonder passed over the crowd.

Then, as the volume rose to a crescendo, Arthur Pendragon entered the assembly from the main portals at the head of the central aisle, escorted by the six bishops. He made his way slowly down through the throng to the altar steps. I could not see Enos from where I stood now; all I could see was his hand outstretched to receive Arthur. The young man walked bareheaded and erect, his eyes fixed on the white block of the altar ahead of him, his long scarlet cloak with its great, golden dragon making a brilliant contrast against the plain white robes of his escort." As he reached the top of the steps to the altar and stepped beyond, out of my line of sight, the notes of the trumpet call faded away, leaving a hushed, vibrating silence.

Cursing myself for my stupidity in being stuck out there, I turned away again and made my way as quickly as I could down to the lowest level, where I found myself out in the open fields beyond the outer walls and obliged to make my way completely around one quadrant of the massive building on my right.

I hurried to the best of my impaired abilities, hugging close to the wall and throwing my lame left leg in front of me to achieve the greatest reach with every step, knowing that on the other side of the high walls beside me, the greatest moments of my life might be unfolding. I ignored the serried ranks of troops that stood and sat out there, the foot soldiers double spaced and every mounted trooper holding the reins of a riderless horse, all of them no doubt wondering who and what I was. My mind was filled with conflicting and chaotic images, among them visions of my Uncle Varrus and the large, parchment filled books in which he had written his recollections of Grandfather Caius and his dream of unity and freedom and greatness in this land; a dream in which the people of Britain would survive the chaotic fall of Rome's corrupt Empire to emerge victorious and strong at the end of all. And then abruptly, unexpectedly, I reached the entryway into the theatre and stopped there, abashed and suddenly afraid to enter.

As I stood hesitating, a raindrop hit my face and I looked up fearfully at the sky. But there were no storm clouds that I could see, and off in the distance, a solitary patch of blue held out the promise of a weather change. I walked into the covered entranceway and stopped again, listening, unable to believe the stillness of the thousands within. Then, faint and indistinct in the distance, I heard Enos's voice. I moved forward slowly until the voice was clearer, and soon I was standing at the top of the long, central aisle. In the distance, within the sanctuary itself, the bishops began to chant the Creed again, their united voices sonorous and majestic as they intoned the magnificent words: Credo in unum Deum...

Some ten paces ahead of me, blocking my view, a solitary acolyte stood alone in the middle of the aisle, holding a long pole surmounted by a cloth wrapped cross, symbolically proclaiming the presence of the Christ to any who might seek to enter at his back. As I saw him, I remembered who I was supposed to be this day, a Christian bishop, and with an unexpected resolve, I knew what I must do. I pulled my cowl well forward over my head and approached the acolyte, tapping him on the shoulder and gently taking the long pole with its cross out of his hands. He saw only a bishop and relinquished it without demur, stepping aside to let me take his place. Then, holding the staff before me as I had seen him do in our procession, I walked slowly down the long, wide aisle towards the altar, the majestic voices growing clearer as I progressed. I came to a halt only when I had approached within thirty paces of the sanctuary. In all that progress, no one had paid me the slightest attention. They simply took me for what I appeared to be.

Behind the altar, facing the assembled throng, Arthur was seated in a curia, a backless chair with curved sides and legs; his arms were stretched along its arms, his hands gripping the ends loosely. His voluminous cloak was spread behind him so that he sat completely within it, its front lower edges gathered and draped over his knees to hang down to his booted feet. Within the opening of his cloak, the enamelled metal of his cuirass gleamed dully. He appeared at ease. I could see that his forehead was discoloured where he had been anointed with chrism and the ashes of burnt palms, so the ceremony had been largely completed, hence the singing of the Creed. As the massed voices of the bishops faded into silence, Enos turned once more to face the crowd and stepped forward, glancing at me as he did so.

"In the earliest days of Rome," he began, using his command voice, "in the time of the great Republic and long before the excesses of the Empire, it was the custom for the exploits of the very bravest of the brave to be rewarded by the granting of a military crown, a corona. There were five such crowns, each one awarded for a different, specific deed of valour, but each and all of them acknowledging and marking championship and heroism. The men who won and wore those crowns were champions and heroes, and none who saw them doubted them. All people knew them, publicly."

He paused and looked around the enormous gathering, his eyes singling out faces in the throng, then moving on again. No one moved, and he continued, lowering his voice.

"None of those crowns was awarded for horsemanship or cavalry exploits, for Romans had no cavalry in ancient times. And none, we know, were awarded in those ancient times before mankind's Redemption, for the guarding of God's Holy Faith." He paused again. 'Today, we have no Romanness in us; we are Britons. Yet it seems appropriate to us, your bishops, that a champion and defender of our faith should bear some signal mark of honour. And so we have adopted this one gift from ancient Rome, we have reinstituted the corona. "

As he spoke these words, Silvanus, the Bishop of Lindum, accompanied by Bishop Junius of Arboricum and Declan, the Bishop of Isca, stepped forward. Silvanus bore Tressa's embroidered cushion with the gold crown lying on top of it, and each of the flanking bishops swung thuribles that billowed clouds of heavy, aromatic incense from the glowing coals they contained. They stopped behind Arthur's chair, and Enos walked back to join them, taking the crown and standing directly behind Arthur, holding it poised high above the young man's head so that everyone could see it.

"This is the corona of God's Church in Britain. Marie well the Holy Cross upon its upper brim: in hoc signo vinces; in this sign shall you conquer. " He glanced down at the young man's head, then raised his voice strongly. "Arthur Pendragon, scion of kings, chieftains and other noble men, will you accept this crown and all its burdens, humbly and as befitting God's anointed choice?"

Arthur sat straighter. "Yes, my Lord Bishop, J will, " he answered in a deep, strong, vibrant voice. Enos lowered the crown closer to his head.

"And will you undertake the lifelong task of serving God in strict commitment to His Holy Will, attending the protection of His Church and all the followers of His Divine Son, Jesus, the Christ?"

"I will. "

Enos lowered the crown onto Arthur's brow and removed his hands.

"In hoc signo vinces, " he said again. "In the name of the Eternal and Almighty God, and of His Only Begotten Son, Jesus the Christ, and of the Holy Spirit, we pronounce you Riothamus, High Chief and Spiritual King of all Britain;

Defender of the Faith; Rex Britanniorum, King of all Britons. Stand. "

As Arthur rose to his feet, the silence was palpable; one mighty, hard held breath. I felt my throat swell up with pride and love, and tears came to my eyes. But this was not yet over. There were people here, among this crowd, who would have loved to protest this that had been done, yet dared not, at this time and in this place. Even without looking, I could sense that there were kings about me who were finding little joy in these proceedings.

Enos stepped back and nodded to two of his bishops who had been awaiting his signal. They moved forward immediately to flank the new Riothamus, each of them taking one of Arthur's forearms in both hands and leading him forward, one on either side, with great solemnity until the young king stood directly behind the altar, facing the congregation. There they left him, each taking two paces backward as Enos moved forward again, amid clouds of precious incense, to stand beside Arthur. He grasped the young king gently by the elbow, then guided his arm, extending it until Arthur's hand rested on one arm of the purple covered cross. Enos nodded and indicated to Arthur that he should place his other hand on the opposite arm. Arthur did so; this had been rehearsed. Enos stepped slightly aside and raised his voice again.

"It is done. Here, on the sacred stone of God's own altar, before the eyes of God Himself and all of you as witnesses, this man, Arthur Pendragon, Rex Britanniorum, has undertaken, on the brightest day of all God's Christian year, to bring a new beginning to all our lives so that we may live in openness and brotherhood, unafraid of persecution or invasion. It is a mighty task he faces—"

Arthur, amazingly, interrupted him. "Sir Bishop, may I speak?" The Bishop bowed his head graciously, and the new King faced the crowd, frowning slightly before drawing a deep breath and beginning in a voice that quavered very slightly on the first few words but strengthened rapidly as he progressed. His fingers flexed visibly on the arms of the cross, and I had the clear impression that he was leaning on it, drawing strength from it.

"Bishop Enos has said I face a mighty task, and I believe I do. But I also believe the task is achievable, given that I have the support and the goodwill of all of you, here today and throughout this land. " He paused, and allowed the silence to grow and stretch. "I know that some of you think me far too young to take on this responsibility, both sacred and temporal. I know, too, that some of you resent and fear my seeming elevation at this time. I hope to change all that in time, convincing you that none of you—no king, no chief, no warrior, need fear for his possessions or his territories while I rule in this land. You heard the Bishop name me Riothamus: spiritual King—God's Champion, Defender of the Faith. That is what I wish to be, and that is how I intend to govern. I have been taught, my whole life long, by all my teachers, many of whom are here today, to be morally aware, and I shall strive to continue thus. This one more, extra oath, however, I will give you willingly, here on God's altar. I solemnly swear that while I live and rule, no person, woman, man or child, regardless of wealth, rank or station —shall suffer wrongly at the hands of others without redress by me. My rule will be the rule of law, with God's help and with yours. "

I found myself smiling and blinking away tears, my throat choked with pride and love of this magnificent young man, whose integrity permitted him to say such things spontaneously, with sincerity and utter conviction. Enos stepped forward again.

"So be it! Alleluia! It is done and all praises be to God. Jesus is risen and the world rejoices. Now might we pray to Heaven for some sign, some symbol of God's Blessing and His Light." And as he spoke, the clouds above parted and a single beam of golden, shimmering light struck through the darkened air to illuminate the sanctuary. The crowd drew in its breath with a collective gasp of religious awe and somewhere behind me a woman began to weep, her sobs loud and racking.

Arthur, meanwhile, standing by the altar, was peering about him, seemingly unaware of the significance of this truly Heavenly sign. It took me several moments to realize what he was doing. He had had the signal from Enos, with his closing words, "God's Blessing and His Light," and now he was casting his eyes about the sanctuary, looking for the stone that should contain his sword. Enos leaned towards him and murmured in his ear and Arthur looked at him, amazed and obviously confused. The old man nodded, and Arthur reached out once more, tentatively this time, towards the cross upon which he had sworn his oath. About to grasp it, he hesitated again and looked to Enos for another affirmative nod before he closed his fist around its upright. Then, as his fingers felt the rounded hilt beneath the covering purple cloth, he relaxed and began to draw the sword slowly up from the recess beneath the altar, and yet again a hush fell over the assembly as they saw what he was doing.

Months earlier, I had personally chiselled out the slotted hole that held the cross, widening it until it would accept Excalibur's broad blade. When Arthur had found me on Good Friday night beside the altar, I had just completed the substitution of the sword for the cross that Enos had placed there earlier that day in the sight of everyone, before draping it in the purple cloth. I had used my dagger blade to punch out the wooden plug that had been glued into the table, directly beneath the wide slot in the stone so carefully aligned that day by Enos in preparing the altar, and then I had tucked the golden cross into my scrip and slipped Excalibur's long blade down through the stone and through the wood beneath it, to rest upon the floor, concealed from view completely by the long, white altar cloth. When it was there, securely and secretly in place, I had rearranged the drapery of purple cloth so that none could tell it had ever been disturbed. I had been on my knees, finding and pocketing the tell tale plug of wood, when Arthur had called my name that night.

Now Arthur was withdrawing it, the focus of all eyes, including mine. Higher he drew the blade, and higher still until his arm was straight before his eyes, but only then did he look down at the blade itself. And as he saw the shining silver blade emerging where he had thought to see his own plain, iron blade, his whole face, illuminated by the sunbeam's light, was transformed with reverent but overwhelming awe, and he quickly lowered the sword back into its recess and released it. The cloth draped itself again about the cruciform hilt.

Enos reached out and placed his hand between Arthur's shoulders, pushing him forward again, and once again the new crowned King reached out and grasped the hilt. Then, steadily and steadfastly, he drew the gleaming blade completely free and raised it above his head, its flawless beauty glittering in the light of the sunbeam.

Someone at the back of the gathering began to cheer, and the noise swiftly spread to become pandemonium. Quickly then, Arthur reached up with his other hand and pulled away the cloth that had concealed the hilt, and then he held the sword aloft, brandishing it and gazing up at its perfection with a glowing smile of joy upon his face while people leaped to their feet and the whole place went mad with joy and wonder. I stood gazing up at him, tears pouring down my cheeks. Moments later, he looked down and saw me and his face split into a great, white toothed, laughing grin as he whipped the sword downward, whacking the blade against the altar stone and reversing it to press the pommel against the stone itself.

The song of the sword leaped out like a living thing, swelling from nothingness to ringing, deafening purity in an instant. People flinched away from the stunning, vibrant sound of it. Arthur, startled anew to feel the thing vibrating in his hand, lowered it quickly and the blade touched the altar cloth, killing the sound at once. Brief, however, as the ringing tone had been, it had penetrated every space in the theatre, producing instant, shocked stillness. Arthur straightened up, his wide eyes locked upon the weapon in his hand. I moved closer to him, uncaring where I was or who saw me.

"Do it again, Arthur, and this time, hold it there and let it sing. "

Slowly, he raised the blade again, then, with every eye in the place fixed on him, he brought it sweeping down and struck the flat of it against the altar stone. This time, when the thrilling note sprang forth, none flinched, but merely gaped in awe. For ages, then, it seemed, Arthur held the hilt in place until the ringing tone died slowly into silence, and just before it faded completely, he raised his eyes and held his arms spread wide, the glowing, gleaming blade extended so that all could see it. Then, in a gesture that not even Germanus could have conceived of, for all his genius at such things, Arthur replaced the sword securely in the altar stone and left it there, now an obvious sword hilt, magnificent and ornate, black and gold and silver, crowned with a perfect, golden cockleshell, and with a broad, silver white blade that sank into the stone itself.

For long moments he stood there gazing at it, and then he raised his head towards the crowd again and asked them to be seated. When they were, listening intently for what he would say, he told them, without artifice or plaint, what we had learned that morning: that an invasion had begun, and might be massive, and that he must ride to deal with it immediately, today. He asked them to remain in place while all his troopers left, then asked the kings to reassemble here within the hour, at which time he would tell them of his plans and answer as many of their questions as he could. Then he nodded to Tertius Lucca, who gave the signal to dismiss the Camulodian troopers.

The new King's men, however, were not to be dismissed until they had made their contribution to the day's events. Someone, far at the back, began to chant Arthur's name, and it spread like fire in summer grass, sweeping the whole assembly until the very walls shook with the sound of the King's name. In the face of their acclaim, Arthur drew Excalibur from the altar stone again and brandished the shining blade three more times above his head, at which their voices rose to a thunderous roar. Then he turned about and walked away, carrying the sword, to the rear of the sanctuary, where he disappeared behind a screen. The troopers were still chanting his name as they left, and it took some time for all the others to file out behind them.

I found him later, when the crowds had dispersed, gazing at the sword, its shining blade a handbreadth from his eyes.

"It's called Excalibur, " I said. "Your great grandfather made it, sixty years ago, and it has been waiting in concealment ever since then, until you came of age to claim it.

Now it's yours, and there is not another like it in existence. Here's a sheath to hold it, made by me, and very recently. " I handed him the leather scabbard I had prepared, and he nodded in acknowledgement but made no move to sheathe the blade. "There's a tale behind the name, of course, " I said, smiling at his reverent admiration of the weapon's magnificence. "Behind the making of it, too—several stories, in truth. I'll tell them all to you as soon as we have opportunity to speak. "

He was still rapt. "Excalibur, " he whispered. "It sings on the tongue... What does it mean? Do you know?"

"Oh, aye, I know. It means, for one thing, that Britain has a King like none other before him. And it means the King of Britain has a sword all men will recognize and covet, given as it was in light and majesty from God's own altar stone before the eyes of a multitude of people. That much it means, and more. It was your great grandfather's gift to you, unseen, unknown, but dreamed of in a dream he shared with my grandfather... "

"Excalibur. " He slid the long blade reverently into the leather scabbard. "You knew it could sing, of course. Did you not?"

I grinned at the question. "Of course I did. Why would you even ask? Or did you suspect me of sorcery at God's own altar?"

He grinned back at me, and as his eyes fell again to the beauty of the weapon's hilt, I cleared my throat.

"Have you spoken with your aunts today?"

"No, I have not had time, but I saw them out there, in the crowd. I'll go and see them now, I think. "

"You're a real king now, lad. Riothamus. Rex Britanniorum. High King of all Britons. "

He grinned at me, somewhat ruefully, I thought, and shook his head. "I think not, Merlyn. Not yet. I have the name, and the responsibility, and I have all the duties of a king, but I still have to earn the support of those whose king I'm supposed to be. The kings who saw me crowned today, for example. I have to meet with them now. Within the hour, I told them. That meeting could be... difficult. And right now, I have to face all my men and tell them that we have a war to fight and win. I wish you could still ride and fight, Merlyn. I'm going to need your counsel. "

"That will be yours in perpetuity, lad. I have not lost the ability to think, scheme and advise. You do the fighting, I'll do some of the thinking, you handle the deciding, I'll look after the advising, and together, we'll change this country so that you may do the ruling the way it should be done. Shall we agree to that?"

"By God's love, we will!" He smiled and threw wide his arms to embrace me. We stood close for a long moment, until he spoke into my ear. "Walk out to greet my army with me now, will you Merlyn? They are still yours, you know. Not all men fear or distrust you. "

I thrust him to arm's length, gazing into his eyes.

"I'll come out with you, gladly, but not for acclaim. It suits me now to live the life I live, to be the man I am today. It is my choice. This time is yours, and all of the acclaim is due to you. "

He nodded. "Very well. But will you wait, outside, till we are set to leave, and see me on my way?"

I smiled without answering and laid my right arm over his shoulder, starting him towards the door. Aye, that I will, and willingly, lad, I thought, but did not say, as I walked beside him in my borrowed bishop's robes. I'll see you on your way to glory.

And there, hours later, in the fields outside the great theatre, that is precisely what I did. Standing beside Shelagh and Ludmilla and Turga, and surrounded by his relatives and friends, I watched Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain, pull himself easily up into the saddle of his huge bay and spread his wide, red and gold cloak over its rump before he stood up in his stirrups and unsheathed Excalibur. The great silver blade flashed in the sun's brilliance as he waved it above his head, so that I became light headed from looking up at it and had to close my eyes and breathe deeply, standing blind among the uproar of his joyous army as they cheered themselves hoarse shouting his name.