The Hallowed Isle Book Two Page 21

  At sunset it was the high king’s custom to make the rounds of the breastworks unescorted, stopping at each guard post to hearten the men on duty there. On the evening of the second day of the seige, Merlin fell into step beside him. He had been waiting for the right moment, when the king, driven to the limit of his resources, would be willing to hear his words.

  “Have you come to point out my foolishness, as you used to do when I was a boy? I gambled that if I took refuge here, Aelle would be forced to raise the seige, and my pride may have lost not only the war, but Britannia,” Artor said bitterly as they moved along the breastwork. “Tomorrow we must try to break free.”

  “You did not choose so badly. This hilltop has been a fortress before—” Merlin replied.

  “What do you mean?” asked Artor. He paused to greet the men who were leaning against the tangle of logs at the post on the eastern side. Torches on tall poles cast an uncertain light down the slope, a garland of fire that was matched by the larger necklace of watchfires below. Between them, dark shapes lay among the stumps; bodies that neither side had dared to retrieve for fear of arrows from above or below.

  “Did you think the gods had leveled this summit in foreknowledge that one day you would need a refuge?” Merlin said as they moved on. “Men lived here before the Romans came. That is why the top is flat and the edges so sheer. Your breastworks are built on the remains of the ramparts they raised to protect their village.”

  “I wish they were here! I speak words of cheer, but this morning we lost men we could not spare.”

  “What makes you think that they are not?” said the druid. “Now, in the hour between dark and daylight, all times are one. Open your ears and listen—open your eyes and see. . . .”

  As Artor turned, frowning, Merlin touched his forefinger to the spot on his brow just between his eyes. The king staggered, blinking, and the druid held him, his own sight shifting. Overlaid upon the shapes of hide campaign tents he saw round houses of daub and wattle with conical roofs of thatch. The ghostly images of earthen ramparts crowned by a palisade veiled the breastwork of piled logs. And among the warriors of Artor’s army moved the figures of men and women and children dressed in the striped and checkered garments of ancient days.

  “I see . . .” whispered the king, his voice shaking. “But these are only memories.”

  “By my arts I can give such substance to these wraiths as will send the Saxons shrieking. But you must call them—”

  “In whose name? To what power that they would recognize can I appeal?”

  Merlin drew from his pouch a bronze disc with a woman’s face in bas-relief. “This is an image of the Goddess—one of those they used to sell to folk who came to bathe in the waters of Sulis. The ancient ones will know it. Fix it to your shield and summon them in the name of the Lady of this land.”

  The time for tricks and surprises was over. Today must see an ending—both sides knew it, thought Oesc, tightening his grip on the Spear. Before the sun rose the Saxons had taken up their arms; the first rays glittered on ranks of helmets and spearpoints and shields. The toll was likely to be terrible, but by the end of it the Britons would be broken. He would be avenged.

  He wondered why that knowledge brought no triumph. I will weep for you, my king, but I will not hold my hand. . . .

  Saxon cowhorns blared in challenge, and from behind the ramparts, British trumpets shrilled a reply. On the southern side, where once had stood the gateway to the fortress, he glimpsed a shiver of movement. The tree trunks and brush were being pulled away. Of course, he thought then, this was the only slope on which the horses could hope to keep their footing. The momentum of the hill would aid that of the British charge.

  Aelle had given Oesc the right flank. His thanes had formed the shieldwall in front of him, but all around him men edged back as they saw him fumbling with the wrappings that covered the Spear. The dawn wind was rising, tugging at the bindings, whipping back the hair that flowed from beneath his helm.

  Are you so eager, lord of the slain? Soon, you shall have your prey!

  The last knot came free and the transclucent stone of the spearhead glowed in the light of the rising sun. A tremor ran through the rune-carved shaft. Oesc tried to convince himself it was the wind.

  Wood cracked above and a horse whinnied shrilly. Wind gusted, flattening the grass, and suddenly the whole world was in movement, logs bouncing and clattering downward, bowling over the first rank of Aelle’s houseguard. The first of the horses followed.

  Oesc tensed, balancing the Spear. In a single moment he glimpsed Artor’s big black horse with the white blaze among them, and felt his arm swinging back of its own accord.

  “To Woden I give you!” he cried. The god-power rushed through him as light flared from the boss of Artor’s shield. That same power brought his arm forward, plucked the Spear from his hand and sent it arcing through the air, higher and higher. Surely the wind was lifting it, carrying it where the god required it to go.

  Oesc followed it with his eyes, over the horsemen who were cascading down the hill through the opening in the breastwork and straight for the man who had sprung onto the logs beside it, his grey beard flying in the wind. He stared, ignoring the tumult around him, as that white-robed figure seemed to expand, reaching, and impossibly, caught the Spear.

  To Merlin, it was a streak of incandescent power. He reached out with body and spirit, knowing only that he must keep it from plunging into the mass of men behind him. And then, like a striking eagle, it came to his hand, and agony flared through every nerve and limb. He wheezed as the air was squeezed from his lungs, breathed again in a great gasp and felt the pain replaced by ecstasy.

  Consciousness whirled upward as through the gateway thundered wave after wave of men and horses. With awareness at once precisely focused and impossibly extended, Merlin heard each battle cry and knew the name of the man who uttered it. He heard the silent yelling of the wraiths who rose from the earth as Artor called them, felt them flow down the hill, and heard the terrified babble of the men who fell before them. He heard, as once before at Verulamium, the battle-shriek of Cathubodva’s raven that weakened the sinews and fettered the will, as Artor swept back and forth across the field, scything down men as a reaper cuts grain.

  He knew all words in all languages, and the language of the earth itself, the song of every blade of grass and leaf on tree.

  And he heard, with a clarity beyond mortal hearing, a Voice that whispered, “All those who battle on this field I claim—my speech will fill the mouths of their children’s children; my law will rule this land. But today, to your king I give the victory. . . .”

  Oesc fought an army of shadows, with shadow-warriors at his side. Some of them had faces he knew—men he had led to battle, and men he had known as a child. It was when he saw Octha his father among them that he understood that this battlefield was not the British hill he had left, but the plain before Wælhall. He stopped then, and put down his sword. His father saw, and turned to him, gesturing towards the foe.

  “Is this all,” Oesc cried, “Is there no other way but war?” As he spoke the shadows faded, and he fell down a long tunnel and back into his body once more.

  At least he assumed it was so, for he was very cold. With an effort he drew a breath, and felt the first tinglings of pain. With sensation came hearing—the cries of wounded men, and someone speaking nearby.

  “Oesc, can you hear me?”

  With another effort of will, Oesc made his eyes open. Artor was bending over him, his hair matted by the pressure of his helmet and the smudges of fatigue shadowing his eyes.

  “My lord. . . .” It was barely a whisper. “He took Rigana. Why didn’t you answer me?”

  “I didn’t know!” Artor’s face contorted. “By our Lady I swear that you were on the march before I knew.” He reached out to take Oesc’s hand.

  Oesc tried to return the grip, but nothing seemed to be happening. “I can’t . . . feel . . .”

  He
sensed movement and saw that Artor was cradling his hand against his breast, but he felt nothing at all.

  “A horse fell on him,” said another voice. He could not turn his head to see. “I think his back is broken.”

  There was a moment of shock, and a rush of bitterness as Oesc understood that he would never hold Rigana in his arms, never see his son grow to be a man, never again watch the rich grasslands of Cantuware rippling in the wind from the sea. All his hopes, his ambitions . . . whirled away like dust on the breeze. . . . He fought for control.

  This, then, was the Wyrd that the runes had foretold for him, the outcome of all the choices he had made. It was the gift of a hero to know when the time had come to cease fighting. To choose whether his spirit should dwell with the gods or stay to guard his people was the gift of a king.

  “I don’t remember that . . . only the fighting. . . .” With difficulty, he drew breath once more. The cold had increased; he didn’t have much time. “My lord . . . find Rigana and my son. . . .”

  “They are safe—” Artor said quickly. “I will bring them back to Cantium. And you—” His words failed.

  Oesc remembered the shrine at Ægele’s ford and the promise he had given there. “Make my mound next to Hengest’s, and I will guard the land. I am . . . its king. But you . . . are different. You belong to all . . . Britannia.”

  A sudden flush of color came into Artor’s face, as if only now was he realizing that with the Anglians tamed and the southern Saxons broken, for the first time in his reign he was truly the high king. He cleared his throat.

  “Eormenric shall have your high seat, and while I live no one will dare to challenge him!”

  Oesc managed a smile, and after another moment, the breath to speak again. “Only one last gift . . . to ask.. . .” Sudden anguish filled Artor’s eyes, but Oesc held his gaze until he nodded acceptance. “Now. . . .”

  Light glinted from the king’s dagger. Still smiling, Oesc closed his eyes. There was a swift pressure, but no pain, only the sweetness of release as his heart’s blood flowed out to feed the earth and he gave his breath back to the god.

  PEOPLE AND PLACES

  A note on pronunciation:

  British names are given in fifth-century spelling, which does not yet reflect pronunciation changes. Initial letters should be pronounced as they are in English. Medial letters are as follows.

  SPELLED PRONOUNCED

  P...........................b

  t...........................d

  k/c......................(soft) g

  b...........................v (approximately)

  d...........................soft “th” (modern Welsh “dd”)

  g...........................“yuh”

  m..........................v

  ue.........................w

  †

  PEOPLE IN THE STORY

  CAPITALS = major character

  * = historical personnage

  ( ) = dead before story begins

  [ ] = name as given in later literature

  Italics = deity or mythological personnage

  Ægele—thane holding Ægele’s ford for Hengest

  *AELLE—king of the South Saxons;

  AEethelhere—one of Eadguth’s thanes

  Aggarban [Agravaine]—third son of Morgause

  Alfgifu—daughter to Ceretic

  (*Ambrosius Aurelianus—emperor of Britannia and Vitalinus’s rival)

  (Amlodius—Artor’s grandfather)

  Andulf—a Burgund bard in the service of Hengest

  (Artoria Argantel—Artor’s grandmother)

  ARTORIUS/ARTOR [Arthur] son of Uthir and Igierne, high king of Britannia

  (*Augustinus of Hippo—St. Augustine, originator of the doctrine of predestination)

  Baldulf—a Jutish warrior settled in the North

  Belinus—prince of Demetia

  BETIVER [Bedivere]—nephew to Riothamus, one of Artor’s companions

  Brigantia [Brigid]—British goddess of inspiration, healing, and the land

  Byrhtwold—a thane in the service of Eadguth and Hengest

  CAI—son of Caius Turpilius, Artor’s foster-brother and companion

  Caidiau—commander of the western forts on the Wall

  Caius Turpilius—Artor’s foster-father

  CATAUR [Cador]—prince of Dumnonia

  Cathubodva—Lady of Ravens, a British war goddess

  *Catraut—prince of Verulamium

  *CERETIC [Cerdic]—son of Maglos of Verulamium, king of the West Saxons

  *Chlodovechus—king of the Franks in Gallia

  *Constantine—son of Cataur

  *Cunorix—a hostage from the Irish of Demetia, later leader of Artor’s Irish allies

  *Cymen—Aelle’s eldest son

  Cyniarchus—son of Matauc of Durnovaria

  *Cynric—son of Ceretic

  *Dumnoval [Dyfnwal]—daughter’s son of Germanianus and Ridarchus’s brother, lord of the southern Votadini

  Docomaglos [Docco]—prince of Dumnonia, second son of Gerontius the elder

  *Dubricius—bishop of Isca and primate of Britannia

  Eadguth—king of the Myrgings, Oesc’s maternal grandfather

  Eadric—one of Hengest’s thanes

  Ebrdila—an old priestess on Isle of Maidens

  Eldaul [Eldol]—prince of Glevum

  Eldaul the Younger—his son, one of Artor’s ministers

  Eleutherius—old lord of Eboracum

  (*Eormenaric [Ermanaric]—king of the Goths at time of Hun invasion)

  *Eormenric—son of Oesc, heir to Cantuware

  Fastidius—a priest in Artor’s service

  Freo [Freyja, the Frowe]—Germanic goddess of love and prosperity

  Frige [Frigga]—Germanic goddess of marriage, queen of the gods

  Ganeda [Ganiedda]—Merlin’s half-sister, wife of Ridarchus

  Geflaf—chief of Eadguth’s sword-thanes

  *Germanianus—prince of the South Votadini

  *Gerontius the Younger—son of Docomaglos

  (Gorangonus—prince of Durovernum, grandfather of Rigana)

  Godwulf—oldest of the Saxon priests, formerly one of Merlin’s teachers

  (Gorlosius—elder son of Docomaglos, father of Morgause)

  (*Gundohar [Gunther]—king of the Burgunds, killed by Attila)

  Goriat [Gareth]—fourth son of Morgause

  Guthlaf—a warrior in Hengest’s hall

  GUALCHMAI [Gawain]—first son of Morgause

  Gwyhir [Gaheris]—second son of Margause

  Hæsta—a Jutish chieftain who settles in Cantuware

  HÆTHWÆGE—a wisewoman in the service of Hengest

  *HENGEST—mercenary warrior, later king of Cantuware

  (Hildeguth—Oesc’s mother)

  Hrofe Guthereson—eorl holding Durobrivae

  Hyge and Mynd [Huginn and Muninn]—Woden’s ravens

  *ICEL—king of the Anglians in Britannia

  IGIERNE—Artor’s mother, Lady of the Lake

  Ing [Yngvi]—Germanic god of peace and plenty

  Johannes Rutilius—count of Lugdunensis, father of Betiver

  Leodagranus [Leodegrance]—prince of Lindinis

  LEUDONUS [Lot]—king of the Votadini

  Matauc [Madoc]—king of the Durotriges, lord of Durnovaria

  Maglos Leonorus—king of the Belgae, Ceretic’s father

  Mannus—mythic ancestor of the Ingvaeones

  MORGAUSE—daughter of Igierne and Gorlosius, queen of the Votadini

  MERLIN—druid and wizard, Artor’s advisor

  *NAITAN MORBET—king of all the provinces of the Picts

  Norns—Germanic goddesses of fate

  *OCTHA—son of Hengest, Oesc’s father

  *OESC—son of Octha and king of Cantuware

  (*Offa—king of Angeln, enemy of the Myrgings)

  (*Pelagius—fourth-century British theologian who believed in salvation through good deeds)

&n
bsp; Peretur [Peredur]—son of Eleutherius, lord of Eboracum

  *Ridarchus—king at Alta Cluta

  RIGANA—granddaughter of Gorangonus, wife of Oesc

  *Riothamus—duke of the Britons of Armorica

  (Sigfrid Fafnarsbane [Siegfried]—hero)

  Thunor [Thar]—Germanic god of thunder

  Tir [Tyr]—Germanic god of war and justice

  (*Vitalinus, the VOR-TIGERNUS, overking of Britannia)

  (Uthir [Uther Pendragon]—high king of Britannia, Artor’s father)

  (Wihtgils, Witta, Wehta—Anglian kings in Hengest’s line)

  Woden (and Willa and Weoh) [Odin, Vili, Ve]—Germanic god of magic, war and wisdom

  Wulfhere—one of Oesc’s sword-thanes

  †

  PLACES

  Aegele’s ford—Aylesford, Kent

  Abus—Humber

  Afallon [Avalon]—Glastonbury

  Alta Cluta—Dumbarton Rock

  Ambrosiacum—Amesbury

  Anderida—Pevensey, Kent

  Anglia—Angeln in northern Germany

  Blackwater—River Dubglas, probably the Witham in Lincoln

  Calleva—Silchester

  Camulodunum—Colchester

  Cantium/Cantuware—Kent

  Cantuwaraburh—Canterbury

  Cluta fluvius—the Clyde

  Cornovia/Kernow—Cornwall

  Demetia—modern Pembrokeshire

  Deva—Chester

  Dubris—Dover

  Dumnonia—the Cornish peninsula

  Dun Breatann—Dumbarton

  Dun Eidyn—Edinborough

  Dun Tagell/Durocornovium—Tintagel

  Durobrivae—Rochester

  Durolipons—Cambridge

  Durovernum Cantiacorum

  Durnovaria—Dorchester, Dorset

  Eburacum—York

  Fifeldor—“Monster Gate,” the mouth of the Eider, Germany

  Giant’s Dance—Stonehenge

  Glevum—Gloucester

  Guenet—Gwynedd

  Icene—River Ictis

  Isca Dumnoniorum—Exeter