Gawain took in several pieces of information at once. The five men charging towards him were not enemies he had fought before – he knew that. They were simply dressed in long rustic tunics and trews. They wore no armour and ran bareheaded so that long dark-blonde hair streamed behind them. Even from several paces away they stank of cask courage. They waved long knives rather than swords in the hope of intimidating him, but he could sense their underlying fear. One of them, a big man built like a blacksmith, wielded an axe, but it was a wood-cutting tool and single-headed, not a war axe. They carried no shields and they did not seem to his discerning eye to be experienced warriors.
Gawain felt no fear – a part of his mind ran through the best tactic to employ to despatch so many men without injuring himself. The dog beside him waited for the signal. The men were scarcely more than a metre away. He could see small rivulets of sweat trickling down the face of the nearest man; see the glazed look of unfocused aggression. Now! The dog leapt forward and at the same instant Gawain attacked. The first man raised his long knife but Gawain slashed his sword in a sideways motion to slice through the muscle under the man’s arm and open a deep wound across his chest. As the shocked man lost his balance and cried out in pain, the hound leapt for his throat.
Gawain felt a searing agony of pain across his own torso although the man’s weapon had not so much as nicked his skin. At the same moment a picture of a smiling, blonde-haired child flashed across his inner vision – the child meant nothing to Gawain. He shook the image away just as he dismissed the pain from his mind. He had no time for weakness. He had no time for anything but the moment, the movement of the fight. He had not been touched and so, he knew, there could be no pain. Gawain’s attention was focused on the axe man. He was taller than his unfortunate companion and heavily built. The man’s face was set in a rictus of rage. He was screaming something in a language Gawain did not know. Spittle flecked his beard. The sound of the hound’s growls and the weakening cries of the dog’s victim sounded too loudly in Gawain’s ears. He imagined he could feel the war hound’s teeth ripping through his own flesh. He felt dizzy but he forced himself to concentrate. He could not remember previous fights in detail, but he knew that something was different about this one, something was wrong. Something that had once insulated him from the awareness of the pain he inflicted was gone. This new awareness made it much harder to keep to his task: to stay alive; kill his enemies. The axe man, who was now within hacking distance of Gawain’s exposed body, hesitated as if steeling himself for the blow – it was all the time Gawain needed. He sliced down with all his sword’s weight on the man’s shoulder and all but severed his left arm. The nerves of his own left arm screamed out in agony but Gawain refused to listen to their lies; he was unhurt! The axe man tried to land a blow with his intact right arm but the shock of his injury had enfeebled him. Gawain ducked the blow, kneed him swiftly in the groin and kicked him so that he fell forward. At the same time, with a swift, horizontal, slicing blow he severed the jugular of the third man, who followed his fallen companion and stepped into the breach. The last two attackers slowed their charge. Three strong men were down and dying in a space of two or three paces. The hound had finished them off by tearing out their throats. Their screams of pain had ended as abruptly as they had begun. There was a strange kind of silence. Gawain could feel the terror of the two who remained, their conviction that they were about to die. Shock had sobered them up sharply, but they did not run. Somehow, Gawain knew that it would shame them to leave their leader on a battlefield; though they were not warriors they chose to die like warriors. They exchanged a look and charged together. Gawain mentally saluted their bravery while readying himself for the kill. Without signal or warning the war hound leapt for the smaller of the two men and with his considerable weight knocked him over. The second man tried to slice at Gawain’s sword arm, but Gawain abruptly swapped his sword to his left hand and in one incongruously graceful motion sliced across his opponent’s belly. He hunched forward whimpering, clutching his spilling guts. Gawain brought his raised sword down with all the force he could muster and severed the man’s spine at the neck. He touched his own stomach and was surprised to find it whole and unmarked. His whole body burned with pain, though he was unharmed. Every limb shook and he felt sick at the carnage and the stink of blood and faeces that assaulted him. The man the dog was savaging still lived – just. Gawain whistled. The dog obediently moved away from the fallen enemy, though his low-pitched growl indicated his dissatisfaction. His victim was scarcely alive. Gawain ended the man’s suffering with a clean blow across his bloodied neck.
Gawain staggered backwards, fascinated and appalled by the scene. He allowed the sword to fall from his hand. He patted the war hound who nuzzled him contentedly with his gory muzzle; the hound’s breath smelled of fresh blood, his strong teeth were still stained with it. This all felt so wrong. Gawain knew he had killed before. He knew what to do and thought he knew what to expect and yet he had never felt like this before, he was sure of it. He had never suffered with his victims before, never imagined what it was to feel the full force of his own blade. For a vertiginous moment he had even glimpsed his own face, contorted with a terrible, grim joy as he hacked with all his strength at another man’s flesh. He sat down shakily on the damp grass. The bump on the head had affected more than his memory.
Bedewyr was looking at him, his own sword drawn but unbloodied. Bedewyr’s face was pale and he spoke in little more than a shocked whisper.
‘I have never seen anything like that – you are so fast …’ The whole fight had been over in a matter of heartbeats. ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’
Gawain found his voice. ‘I don’t remember, but I fear that I have had much practice.’ He wanted to vomit but knew that he would not, he wanted to cry but could not. He knew that his body had done all this before and was responding with the blunted reactions born of experience. His mind rebelled. He had done a terrible thing. He had killed five men. He had felt them die. This had not happened before. He wiped his hands on the grass and cleaned Bedewyr’s sword – automatic gestures. He handed the sword back to Bedewyr.
‘I’m sorry – the blade is slightly nicked and a little blunted. It cut through bone without shattering – it is a good blade. Please take it – I don’t think it is safe for me to have such a weapon.’
Bedewyr flinched at the word ‘bone’ and did not disagree. He was more afraid of Gawain than he had been before. His eyes had a wariness about them that had not been there scant minutes earlier. To Gawain’s eyes Bedewyr looked too young to have seen butchery like this before.
‘I would have helped, you know,’ Bedewyr began. ‘But it was over too fast – and the dog …’ Bedewyr shuddered.
‘Do you not fight with war dogs?’
Bedewyr nodded, ‘Yes, but I have never seen any hound half this size or half this savage, I—’
‘There is no need to fear him. I can’t remember his name but he will not harm you if you do not harm me.’ Gawain tried to make his voice as gentle and unthreatening as possible. ‘Do you have some more of that water?’
He rinsed his mouth and spat on the ground.
‘What do you do with the dead here?’
‘We do not bury our enemies.’
Gawain nodded. ‘Do you wish to claim their skulls?’ he asked matter of factly and was surprised by the horrified reaction on Bedewyr’s face.
Gawain shrugged. ‘Some people find it potent to keep the heads of their enemies. If you are not one of them, that is fine by me. Now, where were you taking me? I think we should go quickly before there are more of these – what do you call these people?’
‘They are Aenglisc. They are trying to take over our land. I was asked to take you to the War Duke Arturus and the Druid.’ Bedewyr watched Gawain closely for his reaction to either of the two most important names he knew, but he was disappointed. Gawain merely swung himself easily into the Roman-style saddle and nodded.
‘Lead the way, Bedewyr, and don’t worry – I am not a mad man and I do not think you a coward!’
Bedewyr blushed at the accuracy with which Gawain had guessed his thoughts, and spurred his horse on. He knew that Gawain fought less like a man than a demon. Bedewyr grew cold. Could he be a wizard after all?