FIGHTING MEN are full of the glories of war, of their own deeds of courage, of enemies hacked down and stripped for their wealth in arms or gold. This I know, though: only a fool could stand in the thick of battle and be entirely without fear.
I remember the noise most of all, the roaring war cries of the men, the clang and clash of blades, the terrified screams and pounding hooves of the horses in the stables.
And yet … and yet I could, that day, begin to see just a little of what the harpers had sung. Vortigern’s men were utterly unprepared, off balance and weakened already by the fight with Merlin. My father’s men tore into them like wolves savaging sheep. Many fell, bleeding, to the ground, many more fled into the night, through the open gate or over the unfinished wall.
And there was a fierce, terrible beauty to it all. I stood shivering, sickened, fear a metallic taste in my mouth. And yet I could not tear my gaze away.
I had lost sight of Merlin; strain as I might, I could not see his wheat-blond hair among the crowd of fighting men, nor the darker head of Vortigern. But I saw Bron amongst the throng of heaving, grunting bodies. He was wielding a sword with slashing blows, his face fixed in the grin of battle, remaining eye alight. More than one man fell to his blade.
I saw my father, his war cloak streaming behind him, the scarlet dragon blazoned on his shield. And I saw my brother. Arthur, the brother I scarcely knew, wielding a sword that looked too heavy by far for a boy of fourteen. And yet he used it well, and his square-cut face was grim but fearless as he hacked and slashed at a warrior twice his size.
I had frozen, watching Arthur, and the scene had gone distant. Almost as though I watched the battle in Gamma’s scrying bowl. And then, swift as an adder’s bite, one of Vortigern’s men reared up before me, huge and powerful, sword upraised to deliver a killing blow.
What does one think, in that moment of facing death? In a tale, I might have seen Gamma’s face, or even my mother, standing before me. Or at least seen glimpses from my life pass like visions before my eyes.
I felt nothing, though; my mind was too blank even for fear.
And then, before I had even gathered breath enough to cry out, the bloodied point of a sword ripped through the man’s belly, and he fell instead at my feet.
Merlin tore his blade free, stepped over the body, and caught hold of my arm, dragging me back from the worst of the fighting, shielding my body with his.
If I had been too numb for fear before, the numbness was shattered now. My whole body started to shake, and I clung to him, slippery with blood and sweat as he was, before I could push him away.
“Go!” I had to shout to be heard over the noise. “Go, I’m all right. Go back to where the men have need of you!”
Merlin shook his head, still gripping my arms. “It’s over.”
He was right.
Vortigern’s men were dead, or running for their lives, or kneeling captive on the ground, at the point of my father’s men’s swords.
I felt something wet on my face, and when I wiped it with the back of my hand, it came away sticky red. Spattered blood from the man Merlin had killed; he had been that close to me, as close as that to ending my life with his sword.
I looked up at him. “Vortigern?”
“Gone. I had him,” Merlin said. “And then I saw the man come towards you—about to strike, and—I let Vortigern go. If I’d taken the time even to kill him I’d not have gotten to you in time.”
I saw Merlin swallow and put my hand up to stop him saying any more. Though, truly, I do not know what I would have said.
I had no chance, though, no chance in any case. My father, Uther the Pendragon, was there, huge in his mail armor and bloodied war cloak, snatching me up in an embrace hard enough to bruise my ribs.
“Well done, girl, well done!”
My father I scarcely knew, either, no more than my brother Arthur. Before the spring, I had not seen him since I was four years old. And it was strange, passing strange, to be caught now in his embrace, to smell the sweat and blood on his skin, and see the network of fine lines about the corners of his eyes.
He was a big man, and a handsome one. Very like Arthur, truth be told, with blue eyes set deep in a square, weathered face where age was just beginning to loosen the skin over the bold, prominent bones.
“You’re a daughter any man might be proud of, and no mistake!” Uther Pendragon swung me round in a circle. “Brave as a lad, that’s my girl. Got the devils on the run, now. Only thing is, looks like Vortigern got away. But he’ll not get far. We’ll soon hunt him down.” He looked from me to Merlin, still standing beside us, bruised and blood-spattered as my father. “And who is—”
And then he stopped. Stopped and set me down and strode across the fortress to where my brother Arthur was holding a fold of cloth pressed to the bloodied gash in his arm. “It’s nothing,” I heard Arthur say, and my father nodded and inspected the wound, then rewrapped it in a cleaner strip of cloth he tore from his own cloak.
I watched them.
And thought of the many, many threads of which fate was woven.
It should have angered me, perhaps. And yet, I stood and looked across the bloodied field of battle at my father’s gray head bent to Arthur’s golden fair one. And I could understand, at least a bit. A warrior of my father’s ilk wanted a boy, a son to ride into battle at his side. The way of the world, the way Uther Pendragon was made, and it, too, I could hate or no without ever making it untrue.
“He does love you.” Merlin stood beside me, still. Had followed my gaze to where Uther Pendragon stood with his son.
“He does,” I said. “Perhaps he always did. But not quite enough.”
And, oddly, there was in that a strange, backward sort of peace.
I moistened my lips and tasted blood. And realized that Merlin and I were alone, standing and facing each other beneath one of the flickering torches on the edge of the battle’s aftermath.
I looked up at him. “I doubted you.” My whole body was shaking, still, but the words forced themselves from my throat. “Just for one moment, no more than that. But when you told Vortigern’s men to dig. Just for an instant, I thought you were going to betray us all.”
“I know.” Merlin’s face looked the mirror of my own exhaustion, the eye that was not swollen shut hollow and rimmed with red. But then a quick, wry smile touched the edges of his mouth. “Did you think I would blame you for it? I asked myself whether I could expect a girl idiot enough to come back to Vortigern’s fort to have wit enough to believe my sworn word. The answer came up: No, I could not.”
I laughed. On the edge of that bloodstained field, I laughed, and felt the painful constriction in my chest start to ease a fraction of a bit. “I’m sorry for it, all the same.”
Merlin reached down and lightly wiped a smear of blood from my cheek with his thumb. His face was grave once more. “I’m sorry, as well. Sorry you had to see that. Sorry I could not have spared you this.”
Now, as the first waves of shock ebbed away, the sounds of the battle’s aftermath began to filter in to my ears: moans from the dying, shouts from the victors, and the tramp of booted feet as the looting began. Vortigern’s stores of grain and ale were dragged out from storage. And from somewhere I heard a woman’s scream; my father’s warriors must have found the slave girls in whatever bolt hole they had been hiding, as well.
I could see in Merlin’s gaze a reflection of the morning we had spent together, in the tunnel beneath the hill where we stood now. So much had passed between us, and yet now the memory of it made me feel uncertain, almost, and strangely shy.
I looked down at the ground, then back up at him and said, “You’ll be known now as a great enchanter. One who calls forth dragons from the soil.”
He looked down at the sword still clenched tight in one hand, and the bleak look crossed his gaze once more and a shudder went through his frame. “My days as a warrior are at any rate
done, for good and all.”
His face was shuttered, remote, as though he had stepped back behind a wall to a place I could not reach him. And I felt a hollowness spreading through me as it occurred to me that he might mean that for a goodbye.
But then our eyes met, and I realized that he looked as uncertain as I felt. “I would not—I would not wish to hold you to anything we may have said before. Any promises we made. I”—his eyes were grave—“it seems like a dream, now. I would not wish you to tie yourself—”
I stopped him. “What do you See”—my voice was fierce—“what do you See when you look at me? For tomorrow, I mean. Not days or years from now. If you truly now live time backward, what do you see for me—and for you—tonight, and tomorrow’s morning?”
Merlin let out a long, slow breath. And then he smiled, one sided. “If the past is gone, I suppose I can think of worse things for Merlin to be than ‘enchanter.’ Mayhap … your father has need of such a one?”
I felt myself smiling as well. “Mayhap he has.”
He looked back, then, back at the body of the man he had killed in my defense. He swallowed again. “I—I could not let him kill you.” His jaw clenched. “Gods, I could not. Even though it meant letting Vortigern go free. And yet if I had—”
If he had, I would have escaped the weight of the future that he had seen, that Gamma had shown me. The ever-narrowing path I must walk for Britain’s sake.
I shook my head. And then I reached out and traced the bruises on his face just lightly, with the very tips of my fingers. He closed his eyes at my touch, just for a moment, then took my wrist and held it to his lips, as before.
My fingers twined themselves, almost of their own accord, in the wheat-blond hair, flecked, now, with speckles of dried blood. “I’ve had today.” My voice was a whisper, scarce more. “I have today. And I have at least one morrow. Perhaps the promise of one tomorrow in the sunlight is all any of us can ask for or need.”
###
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Read more in the Twilight of Avalon universe
TRYSTAN AND ISOLDE unite in …
DARK MOON of AVALON
… coming September 2010 from Touchstone
(Simon & Schuster).
She is a healer, a storyteller, and a warrior. She has fought to preserve Britain’s throne. Now she faces her greatest challenge in turning bitter enemies into allies, saving the life of the man she loves … and mending her own wounded heart.
Book II in the Twilight of Avalon Trilogy
THE YOUNG former High Queen, Isolde, and her friend and protector, Trystan, are reunited in a new and dangerous quest to keep the usurper, Lord Marche, and his Saxon allies from the throne of Britain. Using Isolde’s cunning wit and talent for healing and Trystan’s strength and bravery, they must act as diplomats, persuading the rulers of the smaller kingdoms, from Ireland to Cornwall, that their allegiance to the High King is needed to keep Britain from a despot’s hands.
Their admissions of love hang in the air, but neither wants to put the other at risk by openly declaring a deeper alliance. When their situation is at its most desperate, Trystan and Isolde must finally confront their true feelings toward each other, in time for a battle that will test the strength of their will and their love.
Steeped in the magic and lore of Arthurian legend, Elliott paints a moving portrait of a timeless romance, fraught with danger, yet with the power to inspire heroism and transcend even the darkest age.
Advance Praise for Dark Moon of Avalon
“Passion, conflict, danger and magic combine for an irresistible love story which will keep you turning the pages!”
—Michelle Moran, author of Nefertiti and Cleopatra’s Daughter
“Elliott brings the Arthurian world to rich life, creating a Britain both familiar and distinctly alien to fans of medieval romances.”
—Publishers Weekly
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