The Hallowed Isle Book One Page 16

“But do we want them—” objected Eldaul, “if it means a house-to-house fight where we can make no use of our cavalry?”

  “Do you propose to leave them there unmolested?” Cataur replied.

  “Of course not,” said Ulfinus. “Give them a good scare on the walls, and perhaps we can winkle them out of there!”

  Matauc of Durnovaria, who had created a princedom from the old Durotrige lands, shook his head. “Beseige them long enough and they’ll starve to death inside!” Leonorus of the Belgae, who was even more cautious by nature, nodded agreement.

  “We don’t have that long,” exclaimed Ulfinus. “It is high summer now—if there is to be a harvest, our men must be getting away home!”

  “There is a way.” Merlin, who as usual had been effectively invisible until he wished to be heard, came forward. Several of the commanders jumped, and one of them crossed himself.

  “The Saxons are concerned above all with their reputation as warriors. They will pursue glory even to their own disadvantage. You complain, my lord, that your weakness will not allow you to fight—” He turned to Uthir. “Let it work for you. Have them carry you in your litter before the walls, and let your men mock the enemy by saying they are too cowardly to fight even a man who cannot ride.”

  Uthir flushed angrily. “And what about my honor?”

  “Is it dishonor to tell the truth?” Merlin spoke dispassionately, but Igierne could see the sorrow in his eyes.

  “It’s not, but you’re the only man who would dare say it to me—” growled the king.

  “And what if it works, and they come out to fight us?” Jordanus said into the silence that followed. “We can use our cavalry then, but they still have the greater numbers. We must not only win, but win so decisively that the Saxons will run away to lick their wounds and not come back again!”

  “Merlin . . .” the king said slowly. “In all these years I’ve never required you to take a role in the fighting. But I’m asking now, for I see no other way. Can’t you find a spell to cast madness on the enemy? To call spirits from the earth to fight them?”

  Those parts of the druid’s face not covered by beard went perfectly white. Igierne realized suddenly how much silver there was in her cousin’s hair.

  “You don’t know . . . the cost of what you’re suggesting—”

  “Maybe not. But I think you know what it costs me to ask!”

  For a long moment dark eyes met gray, and it was the druid who first looked away.

  “I do . . .” whispered Merlin. “I will do what I may.”

  From there, the conversation turned to ways of disposing of their forces if the plan to draw the enemy out should succeed. Merlin went out almost immediately, and presently the others also took their leave and went away.

  “They’re so hot for the fight,” Uthir said painfully. “I’d give my soul to stand with them, but I can hardly hold a sword!”

  “There is a Sword that I think you could hold,” Igierne said softly, “and it will not require your soul, but only your promise to serve this land.”

  “I gave that at my anointing—” he began, not understanding.

  Igierne shook her head, pulling the long box from beneath the cloak she had laid over it and laying it on the bed beside him. “This belongs to an older mystery.” Feeling her own heart beat faster, she opened the box and turned back the cloths that wrapped the Sword.

  “Touch it—”

  Uthir gripped the hilt and jerked, let go, then carefully grasped it once more. The color came and went in his face as power pulsed through him, then, with an effort of will, he released the hilt and covered it with the silk again.

  “By Beli’s blazing balls!” he breathed, which if not precisely the same god, at least belonged to the right religion. “That thing will either kill or cure me! Where—”

  “It will cure you!” Igierne exclaimed. “It must!” She could not allow herself to contemplate any other possibility, for he had pulled the box closer to his body, and it was clear that he would never now give up the Sword.

  And so, as the British prepared for battle around them, Igierne recounted to her king the history of the Chalybe blade.

  Merlin watched, frowning, as Uthir’s litter was carried onto the battlefield. Behind him, the British were moving into position before the western gate of Verulamium. Smaller forces had been delegated to watch the other gateways, but it was here, where broad pastures spread out to either side of the road, that the major fighting must be. Overhead the sky was clear, but to the west, gray clouds were building, and a restless wind bent the grass.

  The men seemed grim, but determined; there had been little rest for anyone the night before, as warriors sharpened weapons and checked the straps of their armor or simply sat by their campfires, too tense to sleep.

  Merlin’s preparations had been more complex, if less tangible, as he searched his memory for the appropriate spells and contemplated the ways in which they must be focused and combined. He calculated their interaction as carefully as a master chef making choices from his spice jars. But a cook could only ruin a meal; if Merlin made a mistake, both armies might be destroyed. When he tried to rest, his sleep was troubled by images of destruction from whose midst rose a flaming sword.

  Uthir had given them their instructions with a kind of febrile gaiety that Merlin found disturbing. Was he fey, or had the prospect of battle simply made him forget his pain? Either way, he should not be out there. Merlin had only meant to suggest that Uthir have himself carried before the walls to taunt the Saxons, not station himself in the midst of the battle line. Even if the British did not win this battle, their cause would not be lost while the High King lived. He had to survive long enough for Artor to grow up.

  Thus the druid in him had reasoned, but as he watched the king go by, the tears on his cheeks were those of the man.

  He turned his attention inward, seeking solace from that invisible companion who had been his inspiration and comfort for so long.

  “I give life—I do not take it. I cannot help you here. What you do today will be done on your own. . . .”

  “So be it—” whispered Merlin, but there was a knot of unease in his belly that would not go away.

  “Hai, you Saxon dogs!” cried the British warriors, “why are you hiding behind those walls? Are you afraid to face us? Even our sick are a match for you! Come out and play!”

  From beyond the wall they heard shouting, then above the gate a Saxon head appeared.

  “We have no need for children’s games,” came the guttural answer. “We are men!”

  Another helmed head appeared beside him. “What honor is there in killing a man who is half-dead already? Take your king home and let him die in peace!”

  Merlin looked up and saw a buzzard circling hopefully. He climbed into one of the wagons where no one would trip over him, lay down, and sent his awareness arrowing upward to seize the mind of the bird, then directed it to fly toward the town.

  “Skulk inside there and starve if you want to,” called the British, “but we give you a chance to settle this now. The only peace between us will be in the grave. See, we will withdraw to give you room!”

  The escort surrounding Uthir’s litter began to retreat. The buzzard soared over the walls. Through the bird’s eyes, Merlin could see Saxon warriors crowding toward the walls, knots of men tangling and separating as they argued.

  “Pee-oo,” called the buzzard, “Fight, kill, win—” Carried by the force of his will, the message arrowed down. “Charge, strike, destroy! Pee-oo, pee-oo, pee-oo. . . .”

  This time the noise from inside the town was louder. The fair-haired man who had first replied seemed to be arguing with the others. It was Octha, Hengest’s son. Merlin guided the buzzard closer.

  “Pee-oo, pee-oo, blood will flow and I will feast! Go out and win glory!” Three times widdershins he circled the Saxon leader, then winged out past the gateway, and Octha’s disputation became a battle cry.

  The gate trembled
as men hurried to draw the bar, then swung open. The Saxon warriors began to form up into their battle array.

  Soaring back towards the British, Merlin saw their spearmen ready, the cavalry wings waiting to either side. Uthir’s litter was still in the center, but the High King was sitting up now, speaking to his men.

  “The Saxons called me the half-dead king,” Uthir burst out laughing, “because I lay flat in my litter, felled by illness. And it was true, but I’d rather fight them half-dead than live healthy as a horse and have them think me afraid! Better to die with honor than live disgraced!”

  From the gateway came the thunder of spear-shafts beating on shields.

  “Do you hear them, lads? They are coming out—will you show them how rough the men of Britannia can play?”

  The British replied with an ululation of defiance whose echoes left a mist of brightness in the air. Merlin released the buzzard and sank back into his body. Even with his eyes closed, he could sense the High King’s presence as a radiant sphere of power. Had the exultation of the moment released some potential the druid had never noticed before, as Artor had been transfigured by meeting the bear? Or was it something else—

  There was no time to wonder. Octha and his warriors were coming out of Verulamium. More and more of them poured through the gate. The mournful call of a cowhorn sounded above the noise and the drumming of spear on shield gave way to the thunder of feet on sod as they began to run.

  From the British side trumpets blared. The sound of thunder was abruptly amplified as from one side, Cataur of Dumnonia and his horsemen, and from the other, Eldaul and his cavalry, began their own charge. The wood of the wagon shivered to the vibration. Merlin got to his feet, holding to the side for balance, just as the charge hit, and the separate groups of combatants became a single struggling mass.

  In moments, Uthir was surrounded, as in the game of tabula the enemy pieces attack the warriors guarding the king. The clangor of clashing weapons smote the ear, pierced by the cries of those who were struck down. Merlin had been present at other battles, but before, he had always waited with the physicians. Now he forced himself to really look at the carnage, striving to understand what was happening.

  The Saxons were experienced fighters. Once the British had charged, they lost their main advantage. Horsemen skirmished around the edge of the battle, picking off foes with their lances, but they could not affect the fighting farther in. The British were going on the defensive. This, then, was why Uthir had insisted that the druid help them; without Merlin’s magic to tip the balance, the British might well lose.

  Once more he sat down. This time, he could not merely ride a passing raptor; he must become it. Focusing inward, he formed the image of the raven, Cathubodva’s bird.

  Goddess, it is your people who are suffering—come to us, blast our foes!

  His breathing grew deeper; awareness of his body faded, to be replaced by an alien sense of taut strength, of lightness, of the air. Spirit borne by the raven, he opened his eyes, spread wings to catch the wind, and beat heavily into the sky.

  To spirit sight, the forms of the men locked in that mortal struggle were no more than shadows. What he saw was their spirit bodies, flaring brightly as courage spurred them against the foe or fading as they were overcome. Those whose lives were severed floated free, gazing down in confusion at the battle in which they could no longer join.

  The raven dove downward, beak opening in the terrible cry with which the Lady of Battles freezes the courage of her foes. Glossy feathers flared white in the light of the sun. And though fleshly ears might hear nothing, the souls of the Saxons heard, and quailed. That moment of hesitation put heart into the British warriors, who drove with renewed vigor at their enemies.

  The raven, flapping skyward once more, saw a knot of combatants at whose center swayed Octha’s fair head. They were perilously close to the High King; Octha could reach him in a moment if he broke free. The raven circled, gathering momentum, but before he could dive, two dark shapes sped between her and her goal—two other ravens, cawing defiance, which Merlin heard as words.

  “This man is my kin through many sons . . . I remember!” called the first raven, and Merlin recalled that Hengest’s family believed themselves to be descended from one of their gods.

  “I protect him, for he plans wisely and well—” the other echoed.

  “What is that to me?” Cathubodva’s voice came through her bird. “He has attacked my land and killed my people! He must die!”

  There were two of the enemy ravens, but the one who was Cathubodva was bigger. Wheeling and slashing, they joined in a battle as furious as the one below, the German god and the Celtic goddess confronting one another.

  Even the overflow of power from that conflict of forces was enough to madden the human warriors. Shrieking and grunting, they dropped their weapons and went for each other with teeth and fingernails. The impact of that violence reverberated from one plane of existence to the next. Merlin felt his own mind disintegrating into a madness in which he had no thought but to rend and slay.

  And then the fabric of the world was rent by a Sword of Light, and a great Voice that cried out—

  “Stop! If they must fight, they shall do so within the bounds I establish—not as beasts, but as men!”

  From the Sword came the shape of a Warrior. To some He seemed the helmed Mars of the old shrines, and to some, red Cocidius of the Wall. To the Saxons, He appeared grim and tall, with only one hand. He lifted the blazing sword and swept it above the battlefield, and everywhere combatants sprang apart, staring about them like men waking from a dream.

  But the power of that stroke swept Merlin back to his own body, and for some little while he knew no more.

  Merlin opened his eyes and groaned. His head hurt—indeed, every part of his body ached as badly as if he had been out on the battlefield. In a sense, he thought painfully, it was true. He should have anticipated that his astral activities would be reflected in his physical body. He sat up, wincing. Then he remembered.

  Fear sent its own anodyne through his body as he jumped down from the wagon, but now there was nothing to distract him from the images that flooded his memory. And there before him was the reality of the battlefield. Where there had been green fields was now a trampled mass of mud and blood and the remains of men. Already the ravens—the real ones—were gathering. With all his senses still open, he felt the agony of the wounded, the confused spirits of the slain.

  My fault . . . he thought. It was I who made this a conflict of forces beyond the nature of humankind.

  In the distance he could see fleeing figures; a few horsemen were chasing them. The British were not running. From that, he supposed that they must have won. He certainly could not tell from looking at men’s faces. They all looked as stunned as he. But they did not carry his guilt. Already he could feel the madness that had driven him to the mountains once before nibbling at his control. Rubbing his forehead, he looked around him. Where was the king?

  In the center of the carnage, men were moving. They lifted the litter and bore it slowly toward the villa, stopping often to rest, for all had wounds of their own. Leaning on his staff, Merlin hurried to meet them.

  Uthir opened his eyes as the druid bent over him. He was splashed with blood, but none of it seemed to be his own.

  “Octha’s dead—” he whispered. “We have the field.”

  Merlin nodded. “My lord, how is it with you?”

  “As if I’ve been ploughed . . . by a red-hot poker.” Uthir coughed painfully, and lifted his mantle so that Merlin could see what he had hidden there.

  The druid stopped short, appalled recognition making everything suddenly very clear. He had never seen the full length of the Chalybe sword until now, when it gleamed with deadly beauty at the king’s side. Now he understood where Igierne had gone, and why she had avoided him when she returned.

  “I should have known!” Merlin exclaimed. “I sensed its presence—” It was one more thing i
n which he had failed.

  “I didn’t have the strength to wield it. The power . . . burned through me . . . killed everyone around.”

  “And no matter what Igierne may have said, you did not have the right,” the druid replied.

  Uthir grimaced. “Don’t tell her . . . she’ll blame herself. Must . . . keep it safe. . . .”

  “I also am of the blood of its keepers. I will guard the Sword for your son, who is its destined lord.” He pulled off his cloak, and kneeling beside the litter, wrapped it around the blade.

  “I’m sorry I won’t see him grown. . . . I always thought there would be time. Give him a father’s blessing for me. . . .”

  Merlin looked down at that white face and nodded.

  The king smiled faintly. “But at least . . . Octha is dead.”

  Some of the servants who had stayed with Igierne at the villa came out, saw the litter, and began to run toward them. Merlin stepped back, still watching Uthir, as they took him up and carried him inside.

  For a few moments Merlin stood unmoving, the shrouded Sword held close against his breast. Overhead, ravens were flying, calling harshly to their kin. Already he could smell a charnel scent from the battlefield. If he stayed here, with the Sword, he would indeed go mad. He took a deep breath, drawing up a cloak of shadow around him. Then he strode swiftly away.

  Merlin had planned, insofar as thinking was possible, to carry the weapon northward, back to the Isle. But three days later, when the daze in which he had been wandering began to lift at last, he found himself many miles to the southwest. The Saxons had raided through this land several times, and many of the villas and farmsteads were in ruins, but there were buildings enough left to shelter him, and food in the gardens that had been left to run wild.

  Only Calleva, on the old Roman road, still maintained itself as a center of civilization. Near an abandoned chapel just outside of the town Merlin came to rest.

  “Stop here . . .” said his daimon.

  “Make me a house,” said the god in the Sword.

  When Merlin began to rebuild the roof, folk from the town decided he must be a hermit, and some of them started to leave food as an offering. They were not so far wrong, though his devotions were not quite what they might have expected. As the days passed, he fell into a trance of labor in which the task of rebuilding kept his madness away.