I did not know how long the Vandal king would content himself to stand aside while Arthur tarried. I hoped he might use the opportunity to belittle his opponent, but he seemed content to bide his time, and the longer he waited, the lower ebbed my hope and I began to fear that all my work would come to nothing. Had the wily Black Boar guessed what Arthur was planning?
No. Impossible.
Then why did Amilcar stand so amiably by? Why did he not denounce Arthur and call for the Britons to produce their king, or declare himself the victor?
The sun mounted higher in a formless sky, blazing hot, pooling inky shadows on the dry ground. I looked along the ranks of men, standing uneasily, sweating, their eyes narrowed slits against the hard, hard light. Across the plain, the barbarians shifted restlessly. The expectation was growing too great to contain any longer. Yet Amilcar waited.
When the Vandali war drums finally sounded, I thought: At last! The moment we have been waiting for, Arthur. Take it!
Amilcar advanced with his bodyguard and priest to his accustomed place. He stood for a moment scanning the ranks, then drew himself up and called out in a loud voice, which Hergest repeated: “Where is your champion? Where is your great king? Is he hiding? Is he afraid to face me?”
The words met stony silence. “Why does no one answer me? Has fear taken your tongues? Come out and fight! Show me you are not afraid!”
When he received no answer, his shouts became taunts. “Dogs! Cowards! Now you show your true nature! Kings of cowards, where is your coward of a king?”
This went on for a time. The Britons grew sullen and restive under this abuse. I could see the seeds of doubt and worry taking root. This was all to the good—my plan would better succeed if even Arthur’s own Cymbrogi were taken by surprise. And Amilcar’s abuse was beginning to worry our men.
Bedwyr hurried to my side, a frown of deepest concern creasing his brows. “I thought you said you would bring him.”
“I did, and I have.”
“Then where is he? Amilcar will not wait for ever. Whatever you are planning—”
“Peace, Bedwyr,” I soothed. “Return to your place. All is as it should be.”
“With you, Myrddin, nothing is ever as it should be.” He retreated a few steps behind me, telling Cai: “It is no use, brother. He will tell us nothing.”
“Where is Arthur?” demanded Cai.
“Peace,” I replied. “He is near.”
“Well, if Arthur does not come soon,” Cai called to me. “Tell Twrch that I will fight him. That will stop him raving.”
Amilcar drew encouragement from the refusal of the Britons to meet his taunts. He preened and posed, strutting back and forth, crying his insults to the cowed and increasingly uncertain Britons. I saw in his swagger the confidence of a man who believes himself a conqueror and his adversary already vanquished.
Yes, I thought, he is ready. Come, Arthur, it is time.
But Arthur did not come. And then it was my turn to worry. Where was he? Why did he wait? What if something had happened to him?
I endured this uncertainty for a time, wondering what to do, and was on the point of sending Cai and Bedwyr to find him, when I heard it: a low rumble, like distant thunder. The sound grew rapidly louder, mounting steadily like the wind of an approaching storm.
The Britons heard it and looked to the west. The Vandali heard it too, and turned towards the sound. Because of his shouting, the Black Boar was the last to hear the strange thunder. His voice faltered and he turned his gaze to the west where a pillar of dust had appeared.
The sound became a steady drumming rumble and Arthur appeared, as if out of a tempest. But it was Arthur as no one had ever seen him: standing upright on the platform of a speeding chariot, brandishing a spear. Llenlleawg, also painted with blue woad, held the traces, driving two of Fergus’ swift Irish stallions. The chariot—for it did look very like a war chariot—was hung with a bearskin and there were spears lashed to the uprights, giving it an even more menacing appearance. This Llenlleawg had done on his own; so pressed for time to complete the vehicle, I had not thought of it.
As remarkable as the sudden and unexpected appearance of the chariot might be, however, I think it was scarcely noticed at all. For every eye was on Arthur alone, and he held them rapt. His hair was a wild, spiky mass, white and stiff with lime. Most startling of all, he was wearing neither leather nor mail. In truth, he wore nothing save his golden torc of kingship; the champions of an elder time often fought naked, disdaining armor, trusting only their own prowess for protection. His face and body were freshly shaved, and his skin daubed blue with woad—spirals, hands, stripes, jagged lightning patterns—all over his arms and chest, and down his thighs and legs—symbols and signs now forgotten, but once possessing great power.
The impact of his unexpected appearance could not have been greater. It was as if a hero of old had taken flesh anew—Morvran Iron Fist himself, rising bodily from the dust at their feet, would not have astonished them more. Some did not recognize Arthur at first, and even those who did know him stared in amazement.
“Behold!” I cried. “The Pendragon of Ynys Prydein, riding to the defence of his realm.”
“How long has it been since a British king has appeared so before his people?” I felt a touch on my arm as Gwenhwyvar came to stand beside me. Her face was alight with pleasure at the effect of the surprise. “Oh, he is splendid man.”
“Truly.”
“And do not think to send me back to the line,” she said. “After what happened yesterday, I will not go.”
“Very well,” I replied. “Stay.” We stood together, the queen and I, reveling in a sight that had not been witnessed in the Island of the Mighty for ten generations or more. Such a spectacle! So bold and proud, standing in the chariot, torc glinting in the sun, adazzle with the blue of an elder age—they were heroes indeed.
Arthur and Llenlleawg raced up and down the length of the British line, encouraging wild whoops and cheers from the gathered Cymbrogi—a sound to assault the heavens! When they had whipped the Britons into an ecstatic frenzy, Llenlleawg turned the horses and drove the chariot to the center of the battlefield, where he stopped. Arthur lofted his spear and hurled it into the ground a few paces away, then stepped down. Llenlleawg turned the horses and drove the chariot from the field.
Taking up his shield and sword—both washed white with lime—the High King of Britain called out to the Vandal warlord. “Twrch Trwyth, I have heard your empty boasts! Take up your weapons and let us make an end of this battle. I tell you the truth, the world is weary of your presence, and I grow tired of you myself. Come, death awaits you!”
Amilcar, much impressed by Arthur’s appearance, was slow to answer. “Indeed, one of us will leave the field, the other will stay.” The barbarian king spoke much less confidently now.
“So be it. Let whatever gods you pray to receive your soul.”
Thus the deadly dance began once more: around and around the warriors moved, circling, circling, edging, probing for an opening. Gwenhwyvar chewed her lip, never taking her eyes from the contest. I noticed that one hand found the hilt of her sword, the other her dagger. She stood there, at the ready, willing Arthur to make a beginning. “Take him, Bear,” she murmured. “You can do it. Strike!”
And, as if in answer to her prompting, Arthur took a quick backward step, and Amilcar, suspecting a trick, hesitated. That momentary lapse was all Arthur needed; indeed, I saw now that he had cultivated it, using the Vandal’s devious nature against him. A man who employs deception always looks for it in others, and Amilcar thought he saw it now.
But Arthur used no trick. His quick step backward was but preparation for an honest and open attack and, like Arthur’s altered appearance, it caught Amilcar unaware.
Arthur stepped back, releasing his sword and letting it fall to the ground. His arm swung out and his hand closed on the spear he had planted. He whipped his arm forward. The Black Boar, flat-footed in hesitation, m
ade to dodge aside. But too late. The spear struck Amilcar’s shield square in the center.
It was a supremely well-executed throw, but I wondered at its prudence—it had done no hurt to the Black Boar and now Arthur lacked a spear. “No, no, no,” Gwenhwyvar groaned.
But we were wrong. Arthur’s ploy was genius itself: the spearhead was deeply embedded in the center of Amilcar’s shield where he could not easily reach it. To rid himself of the nuisance, Twrch must either lower the shield or somehow swipe at the spear with his own and try to knock it off. He could not leave the spear where it was—an unbalanced shield was too awkward and his arm would soon grow tired just trying to steady the unwieldy thing.
The Black Boar was in trouble, and the look of incredulous anger creasing his face said that he knew it. He made an ineffectual swipe at the infuriating spear with the butt of his own weapon. Arthur was ready; he scooped up Caledvwlch and darted forward, swinging the great blade through a tight arc as if to sever Amilcar’s spear hand.
This brought a howl of exasperation from the Chief Boar, a roar of approval from the Britons, and a yelp of delight from Gwenhwyvar. “Good!” she cried. “Well done, Bear!”
Amilcar evaded the stroke with a quick side-step, but Arthur pressed his slight advantage. Moving closer, sword slicing the air above the upper rim of his adversary’s shield, he weighed in against the Black Boar, forcing him back and back.
Amilcar, desperate, his face fixed in a snarl of rage, thought to use the bothersome spear against Arthur. He threw his shield before him, heaving the protruding spearshaft into Arthur’s face.
Arthur, unencumbered by the weight of leather and mail, ducked easily under the shaft and charged headlong into Amilcar as the shield swung wide. The Black Boar’s chest and stomach were momentarily exposed and Arthur’s swordpoint found its mark.
Amilcar made a futile chop with his spear as he fell, rolling onto his back. Arthur lunged at him to deliver the killing blow.
But Amilcar released his useless shield and hurled it up into Arthur’s face. The protruding spear deflected Arthur’s strike, allowing Amilcar to squirm away as the blade bit into his hip. He regained his feet in an instant and backed away. He had saved himself a terrible gash, but now faced Arthur without a shield, and bleeding from two wounds. Neither injury was mortal, but the steady loss of blood would fatigue and weaken him.
The balance of battle had tipped towards Arthur; he had placed his opponent in a critical, if not grievous, position. What would Amilcar do? The next move would likely augur the end.
Gwenhwyvar realized this, too. I suddenly felt her hand on my arm, fingernails digging into my flesh. “Take him, Arthur,” she urged, eyes bright, her brows lowered against the sunlight. “Oh, take him quickly!”
Knowing himself in dire distress, Amilcar’s reaction was immediate and decisive. He attacked.
Like the boar cornered by the pursuing hound, he gave an ear-splitting shout, lowered his head and charged. I could but marvel at the daring. “Truly,” I murmured, “he is a very boar of battle. I see that his name is well earned.”
Gwenhwyvar did not care for my approval. Her mouth bent down; she gave a derisory snarl and removed her hand from my arm.
The Black Boar’s attack on Arthur lacked nothing: an act of concentrated fury, its ferocity was breathtaking. A stone hurled from a sling is not more relentless or unswerving. Nor less swift.
Amilcar drove in behind his lance, broad back and shoulders hunched for a mighty thrust. Straight and true, he charged, risking all on this one feat.
Arthur caught the blow square on the shield. I heard a loud crack as the thick Vandal lance shattered. Arthur staggered, and almost went down. Amilcar threw the splintered shaft into Arthur’s face, drew his short sword, and, before Arthur could move, charged again, hurling himself forward with an ear-splitting scream of rage and desperation.
But Arthur did not meet this attack; at the last moment, he stepped aside and allowed the Black Boar to pass unscathed. I wondered at this. It is not like Arthur to permit even the slightest opportunity to slip by…but…
He seemed to be having difficulty with his shield…his arm hung down…
“No!” groaned Gwenhwyvar suddenly. “Please, God, no!”
Then I saw it, too. And my heart clenched like a fist in my chest.
14
AMILCAR’S LANCE HAD PENETRATED the stout oak of the High King’s shield and embedded itself in Arthur’s arm. Blood cascaded freely down the inside of the king’s shield. Skewered, his forearm pierced, Arthur could not free himself.
Desperate to make the most of this unexpected advantage, Amilcar seized his sword hilt and leaped at Arthur, loosing a furious rain of double-handed blows upon the wounded arm beneath the shield. Again and again, the blade rose and fell, each stroke hammering at the broken spearpoint, forcing it deeper into the wound.
Arthur reeled, his body convulsing in agony each time Amilcar struck the point. He tried to fend off the blows, swinging Caledvwlch in powerless, futile strokes. The Black Boar swung hard and struck the sword from Arthur’s hand. The blade spun from his grasp and landed in the blood-spattered dust at his feet.
Gwenhwyvar groaned, but did not look away.
Staggering back and back, no longer able to respond to the Black Boar’s assault, Arthur swayed under the blows. Glimpsing his chance at victory, Amilcar lifted his voice in a growling shout of triumph.
Leaping, driving, striking again and again…again…again…again—wild, savage, ruthless blows, each one falling with bone-shattering impact.
Dearest God in heaven, what keeps Arthur on his feet?
Chips of wood from Arthur’s shield flew into the air. Blood splashed from the split shield-rim in a steady rain, pelting into dust.
My throat seized. I could not swallow. I could neither watch nor look away.
Crack! Crack! The great shield began to break under the shattering attack. Chunks of splintered oak dropped to the ground.
I saw the point of Amilcar’s lance protruding from the inside of Arthur’s arm. The blunt blade had passed between the bones, making any movement of the arm impossible. Arthur was fixed to the shield.
Amilcar, terrible in his fury, raised his heavy blade over his head and brought it down on the rim of the broken shield. Arthur’s head jerked back, his features twisted in agony.
Shoulders heaving, the Black Boar threw the blade high and brought it down with all his strength. Crack! The shield rim burst and the oak split top to bottom.
Another such stroke and the shield would break completely.
“Arthur!” Gwenhwyvar screamed. “Arthur!”
Twrch Trwyth bore down mercilessly. The Vandali filled the air with a clamor of encouragement for their king—a sound to strike terror into the stricken British.
Again the short black sword rose and again it fell.
Arthur collapsed.
His legs had given way beneath him and he went down heavily, landing on his hip. He rolled, as if trying to crawl away. But Amilcar was on him instantly, striking furiously. Another massive chunk of Arthur’s shield came away.
Amilcar howled. He hacked at Arthur with a savage, demented glee. Arthur, struggling to rise, kept the broken shield over him. Every warrior who saw it knew he was only delaying the terrible, inevitable, final fatal thrust.
The High King heaved himself up. The Black Boar raised his foot and kicked Arthur back. Arthur rolled on the ground again.
“God help him!” cried Gwenhwyvar. “Holy Jesu, save him!” I echoed her prayer with one of my own, no less blunt or heartfelt.
Still the Black Boar struck, his iron blade cracking loud on the shattered remnant of the High King’s shield. Arthur rolled, his good arm flung wide. He seemed confused, his hand fumbled uselessly in the dust.
Great Light, save your servant!
Arthur squirmed on his back as the Black Boar’s sword smashed the broken shield. The battered wood parted, falling away completely. His last defense a
bandoned him.
“Caledvwlch!” cried Gwenhwyvar. “Arthur! Caledvwlch!”
In the same instant Arthur’s hand found his fallen sword. I saw his fingers tighten on the blade and pull it to him.
“He has it!” I shouted.
“Rise, Bear!” cried Gwenhwyvar. “Stand!”
Arthur gathered his legs beneath him and pushed himself up on one knee. Twrch lashed out with his foot, striking Arthur on his injured shoulder. Arthur fell.
“Arthur!” cried Gwenhwyvar. Her sword was in her hand and she made to dash forth.
Amilcar, exultant, bellowing his conquest, raised his weapon one last time.
Grasping Caledvwlch’s naked blade in his bare hand, Arthur made his final stand.
And I remembered that time long ago when a young boy stood alone on a mountainside against a charging stag. Now, as then, Arthur made no attempt to strike; he merely lifted the blade against Amilcar’s double-handed assault.
Amilcar’s sword swung down as Arthur’s rose to meet it. There was a peal of ringing metal, a flash of spark, and the Black Boar’s blade fractured, sheared neatly in two.
The wild-eyed triumph in the Vandal chieftain’s face melted into disbelief as he stared at the swordblade lying at his feet. Cut Steel had served its master well.
With a heroic effort, Arthur gathered his legs beneath him and raised himself up. He stood, swaying, his wounded arm hanging uselessly at his side, the lancehead still firmly stuck. The bright blue woad on his body was now mixed with sweat and deep red blood. Head bowed, he stared unblinking at his adversary.
The Vandali, stricken by the swift turnabout, fell silent, the shouts of triumph dying in their throats. Silence claimed the plain. Arthur steadied himself and squared his shoulders.
The Black Boar, clutching the useless hilt with its stub of broken blade, glowered at the High King. With a shout of defiance, he flung himself at Arthur, slashing fiercely with the broken shard of his blade.