STEPHEN R.
LAWHEAD
PENDRAGON
Book Four of
THE PENDRAGON CYCLE
For
Bruce
MAP
Pendragon
Pronunciation Guide
While many of the old British names may look odd to modern readers, they are not as difficult to pronounce as they seem at first glance. A little effort, and the following guide will help you enjoy the sound of these ancient words.
Consonants—as in English, but with a few exceptions:
c: hard, as in cat (never soft as in cent)
ch: hard, as in Scottish Loch, or Bach (never soft, as in church)
dd: th as in then (never as in thistle)
f: v, as in of
ff: f, as if off
g: hard, as in girl (never gem)
ll: a Welsh distinctive, sounded as “tl” or “hl” on the sides of the tongue
r: trilled, lightly
rh: as if hr, heavy on the “h” sound
s: always as in sir (never his)
th: as in thistle (never then)
Vowels—as in English, but with the general lightness of short vowel sounds
a: as in father
e: as in met (when long, as in late)
i: as in pin (long, as in eat)
o: as in not
u: as in pin (long, as in eat)
w: as “double-u,” as in vacuum or tool; but becomes a consonant before vowels, as in the name Gwen
y: as in pin; or sometimes as “u” in but (long as in eat)
(As you can see, there is not much difference in i, u, and y—they are virtually identical to the beginner.)
Accent—normally is on the next to last syllable, as in Di-gan-hwy
Dipthongs—each vowel is pronounced individually, so Taliesin=Tally-essin
Atlantean—Ch=kh, so Charis is Khar-iss
Contents:
E-book Extra:
Stephen R. Lawhead on…
Dedication
Map of Britain
Pendragon Pronunciation Guide
Prologue
What is there to say of Arthur…
BOOK ONE: Hidden Tales
1 They say Merlin is a Magician, an enchanter, a druid…
2 As it happened, we stayed with Tewdrig through that spring…
3 In the days that followed, I saw nothing of Bleddyn.
4 Caer Edyn sat on a bluff over-looking a broad expanse…
5 We left Caer Edyn as soon as Pelleas had satisfied…
6 An important civitas under the Romans, Venta Bulgarum had been…
7 It is a long way to Caer Edyn, and a…
8 The next days were given to preparation for the autumn…
BOOK TWO: The Black Boar
1 The days draw down; they dwindle and run away. See…
2 If they had been jubilant before, the warrior host became…
3 Ah, Gwenhwyvar! White Goddess of DeDannan’s enigmatic tribe, deeply did…
4 I now appreciated Arthur’s discomfort, and why he had called…
5 “God help us,” said Bedwyr, gazing upon the enemy fleet.
6 Arthur lashed his mount to speed and raced to meet…
7 “Wayward and contrary!” Gwenhwyvar cried. “Easily given to despair!” She…
8 “Why are you here?” Arthur asked, his voice calm and…
9 I move like a storm-driven ship through the tide. Enemy…
10 We entered Mor Hafren as soon as it was light…
11 “Must I be everywhere at once?” Arthur’s cool blue eyes…
12 We met Amilcar and his horde the next day in…
BOOK THREE: The Forgotten War
1 All you who look upon the land now and raise…
2 “They know they cannot stand against us,” Conaire boasted. “We…
3 Coldly furious, Arthur ordered Barinthus to make landfall farther up…
4 Arthur intended to halt the enemy’s advance—which our attack…
5 Llenlleawg and I kept to the hilltops till we were…
6 “Your eyes…your beautiful eyes,” Charis whispered, tears of happiness…
7 After I had eaten something and rested a little, the…
BOOK FOUR: The Healing Dream
1 Dry…dry…dry. And hot. The earth cracks. The rivers…
2 We made landfall in the bay below Muirbolc. Commanding Barinthus…
3 I wakened the next morning to an ill-hushed commotion outside…
4 I gazed across the hilltop to see a man striding…
5 Barinthus bellowed out a warning, and the ship shuddered to…
6 Warriors lay on the ground where they had collapsed. Exhausted…
7 I maintained my vigil through the night, heart and mind…
8 I have thought many times what I could have done—perhaps…
9 As the last glittering notes went spinning into the night…
10 Cai and Bedwyr, steely and determined, took their places at…
11 The Cymbrogi were relieved to welcome their king’s safe return…
12 The sky was nearly dark when we rode from the…
13 The opposing war hosts were arrayed on the field of…
14 Amilcar’s lance had penetrated the stout oak of the…
15 Charis, grave with concern, emerged from the room where Arthur…
Epilogue
About the Author
Books by Stephen R. Lawhead
Praise for The Pendragon Cycle
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
WHAT IS THERE TO SAY OF ARTHUR after all these years?
His birth you know, and something of his end. You know his battles and his triumphs—those, at least, which the story-makers tell. And Aneirin’s book is open to all who care to read it. Poor Aneirin, he labored so hard at his black book. Yet even Aneirin caught but the slightest glimpse of the man he meant to honor. It brought him misery in the end.
Arthur’s fame, his very presence, like bright sunlight on clear water, obscured more than it revealed. So, you hear tales and think you know the man. You hear a part and think you know the whole. You hear one of a thousand speculations spun out by dim and dreary dreamers and think you have grasped the truth.
But do you know the highest achievement of Arthur’s life? Do you know his sorest trial, when he stood alone on the battle plain and all Britain hung in the balance? Do you know how he labored to save the Kingdom of Summer from its deadliest foe? No?
Well, I am not surprised. In this ill-born age, much is forgotten that would best be remembered. Men always give over the best of their birthright for the small comfort of the moment; the treasures of the previous age are sold cheap, its wealth trampled underfoot. Alas, this is ever the way of things. And where Arthur is concerned much that should be known remains hidden. Because Arthur himself was hidden in those troubled early years.
But I, Myrddin Emrys, know all the lost and hidden tales, for I was with him from the beginning. And I stood beside him on his darkest day. A day unlike any other in the long history of our race—a day of deceit, and dread, and, oh, great glory. Yes! Great the glory. For on that day Arthur won the name he treasured above all others: Pendragon.
That is a tale worthy of its telling. Lost and forgotten it may be, but if you would hear such a tale, if you would learn the measure of a man whose name will outlast this sorry age, listen then. Listen and remember. For I tell you the truth, you do not know Arthur until you know the Forgotten War.
Book One
Hidden
Tales
1
THEY SAY MERLIN IS A MAGICIAN, an enchanter, a druid of dark lore. If I were and if I were, I would c
onjure better men than rule this island now! I would bring back those whose very names are charms of power: Cai, Bedwyr, Pelleas, Gwalchavad, Llenlleawg, Gwalcmai, Bors, Rhys, Cador, and others: Gwenhwyvar, Charis, Ygerna. Men and women who made this sea-girt rock the Island of the Mighty.
I need no Seeing Bowl, no black oak water, or fiery embers by which to perceive them. They are ever with me. They are not dead—they only sleep. Hear me! I have but to speak their names aloud and they will awake and arise. Great Light, how long must I wait?
I climb the green hills of the Glass Isle alone, and I wear a different name. Oh, I have so many names: Myrddin Emrys among the Cymry, and Merlin Embries to those in the south; I am Merlinus Ambrosius to the Latin speakers: Merlin the Immortal. I am Ken-ti-Gern to the small, dark Hill Folk of the empty north. But the name I wear now is a name of my own choosing, a simple name, of no consequence to anyone. Thus I guard and protect my power. That is as it should be. One day those who sleep will awaken, and those who guard their slumbers will be revealed. And on that day, the Pendragon will reclaim his long-abandoned throne. So be it!
Oh, I am impatient! It is the curse of my kind. But time will not be hurried. I must content myself with the work given to me: keeping Arthur’s sovereignty alive until he returns to take it up once more. Believe me, in this day of fools and thieves that is no easy task.
Not that it ever was. From the very beginning, it took my every skill to preserve the Sovereignty of Britain for the one whose hand was made to hold it. Indeed, in those early years it was no small chore to preserve that small hand as well. The petty kings would have roasted the lad alive and served him up on a platter if they had known.
Why? Well you may ask, for the thing has become muddled with time. Hear me then, if you would know: Arthur was Aurelius’ son, and Uther’s nephew; his mother, Ygerna, was queen to both men. And while Britain had not yet succumbed to the practice of passing kingship father-to-son, like the Saecsenkind, more and more men had begun to choose their lords from the kin of previous kings, be they sons or nephews—all the more if that lord were well liked, fortunate in his dealings, and favored in battle. Thus, Aurelius and Uther, between them, had bestowed a prodigious legacy on the babe. For never was a sovereign better loved than Aurelius, and never one more battle-lucky than Uther.
So Arthur, yet a babe in arms, required protection from the power-mad dogs who would see in him a threat to their ambitions. I did not know Arthur would be Pendragon then. The way men tell it, I knew from the beginning. But no; I did not fully appreciate what had been given me. Men seldom do, I find. My own deeds and doings occupied me more than his small life, and that is the way of it.
Still, I recall the first faint glimmerings of the splendor that would be. Though it was a long time coming, when it finally broke, that glory blazed with a light so bright I believe it will shine forever.
Hear me now:
The nobles of Britain had been called to council in Londinium upon Uther Pendragon’s death to decide who should be High King—and there were plenty who thought to take his place. When it became clear no agreement could be reached—and rather than see a hissing toad like Dunaut or a viper like Morcant seize the throne—I thrust the Sword of Britain into the keystone of the unfinished arch standing in the churchyard.
“You ask for a sign,” I shouted, my voice a roar of fury. “Here it is: whosoever raises the sword from this stone shall be the trueborn king of all Britain. Until that day, the land will endure such strife as never known in the Island of the Mighty to this time, and Britain shall have no king.”
Then Pelleas and I fled the city in disgust. I could no longer abide the scheming duplicity of the small kings, so quit the council and rode with all haste to find Arthur. There was an urgency to my purpose, certainly. But even then I did not fully comprehend what drove me. I did not think him the future king, only a babe requiring protection—all the more since the High Kingship remained unresolved. Even so, I felt an almost overpowering desire to see the child. The bard’s awen was on me, and I could but follow where it led.
Later, yes. Understanding would come in its own good time. But when I bade faithful Pelleas saddle the horses that day, I simply said, “Come, Pelleas, I want to see the child.”
And so we flew from Londinium as if pursued by all those angry lords we had left behind. It was somewhere on the road to Caer Myrddin that I began to wonder if there was more to our speed than a simple wish to see Arthur.
Indeed, something in me had changed. Perhaps it was the strain of contending with the small kings. Or perhaps it happened when I joined the Sword of Britain to the stone. However it was, this I know: the Merlin who had ridden into Londinium so full of hope and anticipation was not the same Merlin who rode out. I felt in my soul that the course of my life had taken an unexpected turn, and that I must now steel myself for a far more subtle warfare than any I had known.
Alia jacta est, said old Caesar, a man who knew a thing or two about power and its perversities. For good or ill, the die was cast. So be it!
Leaving Londinium and the yapping of the petty kings behind us, Pelleas and I rode directly to Caer Myrddin. We traveled amicably; the road was good to us, and the journey pleasant. It does not need saying that our arrival on that windswept, wintry morning was a surprise. Loyal Tewdrig, who had faithfully shielded the child at my bidding, was still at the Council of Kings, and we were not expected.
Upon reaching Caer Myrddin we were met by the spectacle of young Arthur and the spitting cats. I saw the child clutching those two half-grown cats, one in each fist, and it seemed to me a sign. “Behold the Bear of Britain!” I declared, gazing at the chubby child. “A wayward cub, look at him. Still, he must be taught like any young beast. Our work is before us, Pelleas.”
As we climbed down from our horses, Tewdrig’s men came running to welcome us. Caer Myrddin—Maridunum in an elder time—seemed bursting with wealth, and I was pleased to see my old settlement so prosperous. Above the noise of our greeting, the clang of an iron hammer reached my ears and I remarked on it.
“Lord Tewdrig has found a smith,” explained one of the men taking the reins from my hand. “And all day long we are kept running for him.”
“Better that than running from the Sea Wolves!” declared another.
With their words in my ears, I stared at the child Arthur and listened to the ring of new-made steel in the air. I peered with my golden eyes beyond the thin veil of this worlds-realm into the Otherworld and I saw the shape of a man there, straight and tall, a big man, born to walk the earth as a king. Truly, this was my first premonition of Arthur’s future. Believe it!
Presently, I came back to myself, and turned to greet Llawr Eilerw, battlechief and advisor to Lord Tewdrig, who held the caer in his lord’s absence.
“Welcome, Myrddin Emrys! Welcome, Pelleas!” Llawr gripped us by the arms in greeting. “Ah, and good it is to see you both.”
Just then we heard a shriek and turned. A young woman had appeared and was standing over Arthur, scolding him. She slapped his hands to make him release the cats, and the child cried out—in anger, not in pain—and reluctantly let them go. The woman stooped and gathered up the child, saw us watching, blushed, and turned hurriedly away.
“She has the care of the child?” I inquired.
“She has, Lord Emrys.”
“What happened to Enid—the woman I brought?”
Llawr regarded me with a frankly puzzled look. “That is Enid—the very same you brought here. There has been no one else.”
“Remarkable,” I confessed, much surprised. “I would not have known her. She has changed, and much for the better.”
“I will summon her, if you wish.”
“Later, perhaps,” I replied. “It is not necessary now.”
“Of course,” said Llawr, “forgive me. You have ridden far today and you are thirsty. We will raise the welcome bowl between us.”
The beer was dark and frothy good. Tewdrig’s hall was warm. Th
e jar went around several times and we talked idly with Llawr and some of the men who had met us. Typically, no one would ask us outright why we had come; that was unthinkable. Although they knew we had attended the council, and must have been near to bursting with curiosity—Who is the new High King? Who has been chosen? What has happened?…Nevertheless, they respectfully allowed us to come to it in our own time.
“It has been quiet all year,” Llawr said. “And now that winter is here, we need not worry. The snow will keep the Sea Wolves home.”
“Indeed!” replied the man sitting next to him. “We have had more snow than last year. The cattle do not like it, though. It is not easy for them.”
“But favorable for the crops,” put in another.
“If this year’s harvest is as plentiful as the last,” observed Llawr, “we will have surplus grain to trade—even with our new storehouses.”
“I noticed those,” I remarked. “Four new granaries. Why? Is the caer growing so big?”
“We are growing, it is true,” said one of the men, Ruel by name. “But Lord Tewdrig wants to begin storing more grain. ‘The more we save now,’ says he, ‘the less we will want later.’ So he tells us.”
“And I agree with him,” said Llawr sharply. “Times are uncertain enough. We can no longer live from one harvest to the next and be content. We must have a care for the future.”
“There is wisdom in it,” I told them. “In these evil days only a fool would trust past benefits to continue.”
The men regarded me warily. Llawr forced a smile and attempted to lighten the mood. “Evil days? Surely, Emrys, things are not so bad as that. The Saecsens are gone, and the Irish have not raided all year. We have peace and plenty enough—any more and we will become soft and lazy.” The others nodded agreement with their chief.