BLOOD AND COURAGE
It is perfectly certain that the soul is immortal and imperishable, and our souls will actually exist in another world.
—SOCRATES, RECORDED BY PLATO IN Phaedo
Arthur spent several idyllic days out on the cliffs snaring rabbits with Blaise’s traps, while Eamonn filled his days with the men of the village as they fished in the bay.
Arthur saw his skin begin to brown in the spring sunshine, and he gained a boy’s enjoyment from pitting his muscles against the cliffs, climbing up faster and faster as his confidence grew. He achieved some measure of success with the women of the village by presenting them with rabbits, wild fowl, and a too-curious fox in its spring coat. He also became adept at catching and tethering wild goats in a makeshift pen for the boys to tame and milk. These young lads spent most of spring and summer away from the village as they tended their sheep and a small herd of prized cows. In his daily explorations, Arthur found that there were caves aplenty farther up the coast, where the paths to the sea were kinder and fresh water was plentiful. The additional wild goats he found in this area were very welcome as a new source of milk, hides, and wool.
The young man found that killing the wild creatures he caught was far harder than destroying an enemy in battle. Naturally softhearted, Arthur experienced a bone-deep sadness when he was forced to inflict suffering on an animal, but he accepted that such animal husbandry was necessary. Only Maeve could fully understand this squeamishness in her brother, reckoning that men were able to comprehend why death came to claim their lives, while beasts could only suffer in dumb silence.
Sometimes, his hunts were especially profitable for the villagers, and these occasions became a cause célèbre for the whole village.
While clearing his trapline, Arthur stumbled across a deer in a small expanse of woodland and managed to bring it down with a bow and arrow. Because the carcass was too large to carry, the young man was forced to butcher the deer where it fell and carry the meat and hide back down to the village in well-planned stages.
The women exclaimed over the meat and the internal organs, while the hide was carried off to be stretched and aired on a frame. Even the hooves provided a sticky substance that had a variety of uses when they were boiled, and the bones could be carved for utensils, hooks, and other weapons. The small horns were especially prized.
Maeve also applied the skills learned from her mother, augmented by some of the herbal remedies contained in Myrddion’s scrolls. Arthur grinned ruefully when he remembered how he had pored over those same scrolls to learn the secrets of his father’s warcraft and Myrddion’s strategic genius, while his mother memorized every casual reference she’d heard from her son of Myrddion’s healing lore. Here, Maeve could put the knowledge learned so long ago to some practical use.
Still limping badly, Maeve began to hunt for mandrake root, radishes, and comfrey. Herbs and plants were hung to dry in the hut she shared with Freya, while the young girl shared what knowledge she had with that old soul who, in turn, shared her knowledge of various seaweeds and remedies from the sea. Once her feet began to heal, Maeve climbed to almost inaccessible places along the cliffs, which Arthur’s weight would bar him from reaching. While there, she pillaged the gulls’ nests for eggs while apologizing to the angry birds for stealing their embryonic young.
Both girls spent time using simple spindles to spin the coarse wool from the small herd of black-faced sheep that the village possessed. These objectionable animals were very bad-tempered, and the old ram resisted being shorn so violently that Arthur was badly bruised by its powerful head when he and the boys removed its heavy winter wool.
Like many British women, the two girls had been well trained at the loom and were able to create a yarn that could be woven into a coarse cloth, regardless of whether the wool came from sheep or goats. While the village women were adept at spinning and weaving, the British girls were more familiar with the sophisticated tools that had come to Britain with the Romans. They did everything they knew to share their knowledge with their new friends.
And so the days passed in pleasure and usefulness, so that Arthur almost forgot that they were fugitives and that Hrolf Kraki’s dogs were still hunting for them. Ultimately, such idylls must end, but Arthur was unprepared for the suddenness and viciousness of that ending.
The villagers settled down for the night after eating their frugal evening meals of flat bread and stew. Then, just on dark, a boy ran into the compound with his shaggy hound trotting behind him. As the herders normally stayed away from home for several weeks at a stretch, the boy’s arrival sounded an alarm, so tousled heads appeared at every door in the compound. This boy was like most of his kind. He was a little over ten years of age, but not yet a man, and was dressed for the summer in crude hide breeches, a coarsely woven shirt, and rough sandals. His eyes wide and terrified, he spoke out manfully as soon as he had been ushered into the headman’s hut, gabbling out what he had seen.
“There are men coming! Some are on horses and the others are on foot. Near to twenty of them! I saw them chasing Leaper here. He’d have fought them, but I thought it was more important to raise the alarm. We didn’t want to leave the cows, so we drove them into a copse where they’ll be safe. I’ll kill the bastards myself if they hurt my cows—I swear I will!”
In spite of his fear, the boy was proud of his efforts and luxuriated in the praise of his elders for his foresight and bravery. Before he had completed his tale, Arthur had heard enough and instructed Blaise to run as fast as she could to raise the alarm with Stormbringer and the other warriors. Eight men, as well as a dozen able-bodied villagers, almost set the conflict on an equal footing, except for the obvious fact that their enemies were trained warriors, hard-bitten and brutal killers who would stop at nothing to succeed with their mission.
Then, with the aid of Eamonn and the six warriors loaned by Stormbringer, Arthur dragged the village gate into position at the entrance to the compound. Inside the barrier, a large, trimmed log was kept specifically to act as a blockade. The wall on either side of the gate had holes chopped into the raw stone where the massive log could fit firm and snug once it had been maneuvered into position. Arthur admired the creativity shown by the builders of the wall and their foresight in constructing such easily erected defenses.
“That wooden barrier won’t hold them for long if they have their axes with them, but at least there’s no way they can spirit their horses down the cliffs. They’ll be forced to leave at least one of their warriors to guard the hobbled beasts once they find the path leading down to the beach. At a guess, we’ll be fighting nineteen men, and I’ll warrant they’ll be heavily armed.”
“Can we hold them, Arthur?” Eamonn asked. His face was drawn with worry, but his eyes gleamed with the battle joy that ran through his whole tribe. As a direct descendant of Gorlois, the Boar of Cornwall, Eamonn was a true son of those wild coasts and savage seas. Blaise had already departed on her dangerous run through the darkness with the same expression glistening in her eyes, for she shared her bloodline with Morgan and Morgause, extraordinary women who refused to be tamed.
Arthur considered Eamonn’s question. It didn’t really matter whether they could win or not, because Arthur was oath-bound to protect the villagers with his lifeblood anyway. Still, he started from the premise that he had to succeed at any task assigned to him.
“Yes, we can hold them! But we must win the battle, Eamonn, or at least keep the king’s men penned inside the compound until Stormbringer can come to our rescue. But we can only defeat our enemies if the headman agrees to give me command of the able-bodied men in his village. I must be permitted to place them in strategic locations where we can trap the warriors in narrow spaces, and then pick them off—one or two at a time. We are asking the headman to place his trust in strangers, so no one should be surprised if he refuses my request. But I have thought hard about our predicament because the Dene warriors provided by Stormbringer are unused to command, which leaves you and me to take control, Eamonn, and I’ve a lot more experience than you. The responsibilities will lie heavily on our shoulders. Many of the villagers will die, but it’s the only way we can hold them—and survive the battle.”
Sigurd, the headman, was already translating the words of the two Britons to the gathering crowd of villagers. Arthur was visibly shocked that this elderly, uneducated man knew the Celtic tongue as well as the Dene language. His surprise must have shown on his face, because the headman answered his guest’s unasked question in a reasonable facsimile of good Celt.
“The Old Ones say your people once came from lands near here in the days before the Romans laid waste to Gaul and the approaches leading into the north. They moved south into Gaul during the years beyond imagining. It was said that they built a kingdom in the new lands and became rich on trade. I cannot know how they came to arrive in your homeland, but I can still speak and understand a little of their ancient tongue.”
He paused and his eyes were sad. “I have no particular learning, but I remember the old stories, and some tribes near the borders of Saxony speak a version of your language that is even more pure than yours. I married a girl from one of those tribes when I went wandering in my youth, so I can still understand something of what you say. I only learned basic words and pillow talk, mainly because my girl was a dutiful wife who felt the need to learn my tongue. But when you love someone, it’s a pleasure to do little things that will make them smile, such as learning the language of their childhood.” Sigurd smiled sadly. “She died forty years ago, but I never forgot her stories or her language.”
The world is far smaller than I ever imagined it to be, Arthur thought as he began to formulate his plans for defense and attack in his head. When he finally spoke, he used the Dene language out of a perverse desire for privacy.
“All the women, children, and elderly men must go into the deep cave. If Kraki’s men should enter your refuge, you must defend yourselves as best you can until Stormbringer arrives. You must understand that the rest of us will have already been killed by the king’s warriors if the enemy has penetrated this far into our defenses. If that occurs, you’ll have to fight to the death.”
The lack of understanding on Sigurd’s face spoke more loudly than words that the old man had lost the thread of Arthur’s rapidly issued orders. Briskly, and without any sign of panic on her face, Freya appeared and quickly and efficiently began to translate Arthur’s instructions.
“Thank you, Mother. But it’s time for you to go to the caves with the others, including my sister. I can’t be distracted from my task because I’m worrying about your safety.”
“Of course, Arthur. I’ll just wait for a short time until you have placed your men exactly where you want them. I’m concerned that they mightn’t understand you. I promise you I’ll go to the deep caves with Maeve as soon as you require it.” Freya spoke with such autocratic authority that Arthur decided he would be wasting his breath if he argued with her.
Off in the distance, a muffled cry of terror came faintly from the direction of the path that led down the cliff.
“With luck, that’s one less man to worry about.” Arthur grinned with wolfish relish.
“I’m quite capable of using a bow, Arthur, if there’s one I can borrow,” Maeve interrupted. “I can help to guard the entrance leading into the deeper caves.” He nodded briskly as his sister’s mulish expression convinced him that she had already made up her mind.
Then he turned to Stormbringer’s warriors, who were armed to the teeth and eager to do something other than the domestic tasks that had occupied them for most of the past week. Now there were enemies to kill. As Fortuna would have it, they would probably see battle and become heroes. Their fellow warriors working on the ship would most likely arrive too late to take any part in the impending combat.
“Once the king’s men have broken through the log barrier, we’ll allow them to enter the alleyways. Their numbers are such that they’ll have to divide to the right and to the left, as the smaller paths are very difficult for a fully armed man to negotiate. There simply isn’t enough room along the pathways for them to maneuver themselves, so it’s a good strategy for us to divide their number and eliminate them individually. We’ll let them come to us, and then we’ll ambush them.”
Arthur turned to examine Stormbringer’s warriors. Unfamiliar with their abilities, he selected them at random.
“You three will take the right fork. But I need a bowman to accompany you.”
With Freya’s help, one of the villagers stepped forward. He was clutching an old bow and quiver filled to bursting with arrows, most of which were flint-tipped.
They must be very old, but they’ll kill just as well as good iron, Arthur thought with grim satisfaction. In fact, they’ll probably make nastier wounds.
“According to the village legends, they go back to the time of the ice,” said the headman, noticing Arthur’s surprise. “Although we no longer have a need for bowmen in our lives, these men still honor the totem of their ancestors and the sea eagles, by keeping bows for . . .”
“Religious ceremonies?” Arthur asked.
“Aye, that’s it!” the headman replied. “But men of that totem could never explain their rituals to a stranger.”
Arthur nodded his understanding and thanked God that these old pagans possessed archery skills that were relics of some distant past. Whether the villagers were accurate with these weapons was of little importance. In such close quarters, a bowman could hardly miss his target.
“The rest of you will go to the left with another bowman. I need to divide the village men into three groups now, and these men will make up the second line of defense. When the pressure is greatest on Stormbringer’s warriors, they will fall back once we have inflicted some initial damage. This retreat will draw the attackers in for the kill. The men from World’s End must wield a mixture of weapons in each group. One man with a harpoon or a spear, and others with axes and hoes would be ideal, as the man with the harpoon or spear can kill from a distance while the others can come in closer. An archer would be even better, but I understand how unlikely it is to expect a number of men capable of drawing a bow in a small village, especially one that depends on fishing and grazing animals rather than hunting. And so we will do the best we can with what we have, such as the blacksmith’s hammers. Be wary of every move of the enemy, for these warriors are savage killers who are blood-bound to their king. They will cheat and use every low blow they know. They won’t give you any choice other than to kill them, so you can’t be squeamish. They know they can’t fail, for their oaths bind them to Hrolf Kraki—even beyond death!”
Arthur’s sobering advice was more settling than any rousing speech. Then, as Freya departed for the caves with Maeve, the headman, and the other noncombatants, Arthur spoke once more to his motley group of defenders and explained quickly, with the use of diagrams in the mud of the pathway, how these simple fishermen must tempt their enemies into advancing deeply into the labyrinth. When he was satisfied that they understood his instructions, he sent the men to their positions in the defensive lines.
As the defenders were about to depart, serious and determined, Arthur remembered one last issue that must be faced, by himself as much as by them.
“Before you go, you must understand what we are doing this night. We commit treason, so no enemy must be allowed to escape, or they will take a warning to Hrolf Kraki of our presence here. Every man who is part of the attack on the village must die! Do you understand me? I doubt they’ll beg for quarter, but we can give none. Even the wounded must perish, although it seems cowardly. If we let even one man live, the king will return with a huge force and obliterate this village and kill everyone and everything in this place—men, women, children, and livestock! By giving us shelter, the lives of every villager is forfeit, even the infants in their cradles.”
Such wanton revenge by Hrolf Kraki had never crossed the minds of these simple fishermen, because they were incapable of such gross disrespect for human life themselves.
Perhaps men who live in close proximity with nature, and are therefore prey to her whims, don’t understand the wickedness that motivates some kings or jarls whose power has turned into hubris, Arthur thought sadly. Then he smiled savagely. “Hrolf Kraki is due for a great fall, and his own crows will feed on his eyes, if he’s not careful.” Arthur spoke in his own language, so Eamonn was the only person who understood, which was just as well, given that Arthur’s words were treasonous. His friend nodded in tacit agreement.
As the Dene warriors and the villagers disappeared into the maze of huts, Arthur gave Eamonn one final instruction.
“You’re my second-in-command, and we understand each other’s capabilities, Eamonn, so you must remain directly behind me. We each know what has to be done. You must fight with your head rather than with your passion, my friend, because I can’t afford to lose you. When the point is reached where we’re finally securing the village from the attackers, I have one final task for you, and this responsibility is yours alone. You must climb the cliffs and locate the place where the Dene’s horses have been tethered. Once there, you must kill every sentry who has been left behind and ensure that no one escapes to raise the alarm with Hrolf Kraki. I repeat, Eamonn, no quarter must be given to any of the Dene warriors. Every one of them must die! Ride after any man who chooses to run, and then ensure he is killed.”
“I swear it, Arthur. None of them will escape, not as long as I can hold a sword.”
Eamonn’s grin seemed wide and white below the bleached skull of the moon. Only a few torches were left alight to illuminate those parts of the village that could provide aid to its defense rather than give even a modicum of assistance to the attacking force. If the king’s hunters required illumination, they must bring their own torches with them. After all, a warrior only had two hands, and Arthur’s strategy depended on the enemy being out of their depth at every step.
Every enemy handicap was useful to the defenders, so the fire pits in the village had been doused with water to ensure that the attackers had only minimal access to fire. Thatch could burn and fire might work against them, as well as leaving the villagers homeless after the skirmish was over.
As Arthur carried out one final inspection of his defenses, he noted that most of the smaller stone buildings had roofs of sod, but the central hut where the headman lived was thatched for it was largely ceremonial. As the focal point of the village, Arthur expected it would become an important target, and a place where he could consolidate his reserves.
“One further matter remains for discussion, Eamonn. Distasteful as it might seem, you must use the boy—the one who brought us warning of the attack. Take him with you as your guide when the time comes. He’ll move faster than you, because he can guide you up the cliffs even in darkness. He’ll be around here somewhere, because he’ll refuse to go to the deep caves.”
Predictably, a shadow moved across from him, for Arthur had spoken in the Dene tongue. The boy had been watching Arthur with narrowed and angry eyes; he was determined to play his part in the coming battle and had hidden himself away until the women and children were ushered towards the caves.
“Where’s your dog, boy? He’ll be of no use here, no matter how brave he is, because he won’t have the space to fight or to protect himself. If you love your dog, you’ll send him to the caves with someone you trust.”
The lad flushed at the tone of Arthur’s voice, but he had spirit and raised himself to his full height of barely five feet.
“I’ve already sent Leaper to my mother. He’ll protect her, so she’ll be safe with him.”
“Can you use a knife, lad?” Arthur asked in the kindest voice he could muster. “Are you capable of cutting a man’s throat? You must tell me now! If you doubt your ability to do this, I will send another young man who is able to carry out this essential task. No shame will attach itself to you if you don’t think you can kill a man at your tender age.”
“I’ve cut the throats of my ewes if they’ve broken legs or are dying during the lambing. And I’ve had to kill one of the calves after a fox savaged it. I love my beasts more than my own life, so I’ll surely kill anyone who comes to hurt my family or any of our villagers.”
“Good lad! Do you have a serviceable knife? I know you have your stick, but it would be useless in close-quarter fighting.”
The boy extended a worn blade by the point and allowed Arthur to grip the plain wooden handle. The precious iron glowed with cleanliness, although the blade had been sharpened so often that it had become quite narrowed. When Arthur tested the edge along his thumb, he viewed the resultant thin streak of blood with satisfaction.
The boy must have spent many nights sitting on his bedroll, while cleaning and sharpening this old knife until the blade had become razor-sharp. The thought of the lad’s solitary life with only his dog for company filled Arthur with melancholy and respect, and a sympathetic lump formed in his throat. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and friendly as he handed the knife back, handle first. “Fair enough, boy! I’ll personally give you a new knife to replace this worn one once this little skirmish is over and done with. If we survive this night, your old blade will become an honored memento of our victory. What is your name?”
As he spoke, blows from a number of axes began to strike the wooden gate with a savage, disciplined intent.
“They’re coming for us, Arthur,” Eamonn interrupted from deep within the shadow of the hut where he was invisible to any intruder. Arthur ignored the noise, although the boy’s eyes widened and darted towards the sounds of destruction coming from the barricade.
“I am called Seagull in your tongue,” the boy replied proudly, as if daring Arthur to make any mention of the scavenger reputation of that particular bird.
“Ah, that is after the sailor’s friend. Gulls tell seamen that land is close by, so you’re well named, boy!”
Arthur smiled at him in encouragement. “But it’s time now for you to save all the families who live in your village. After the battle is over, I need you to guide Eamonn up the cliff to the place where the Dene warriors will have secreted their horses. I’d like you to choose a fast and safe route that will outflank them. When you get there, everyone must die at Eamonn’s hand. Until then, you will stay with Eamonn at all times and take no part in the coming battle. You are crucial to the attack on the cliff top, Gull, so don’t fail me by getting yourself killed down here. Finally, if Eamonn should die in his attempt to kill the sentries, you must try to kill the sentries yourself and complete his mission in any way that you can. Do you hear me, boy? I know it’s wrong for a grown man to ask you to kill another person—but I have no choice!”
“Aye! I hear what you say!” Gull answered solemnly.
The boy melted into the darkness like a wraith as the gate began to shudder under the pounding of the Dene axes. Even now, the timber could be heard to shake and splinter as Arthur freed the Dragon Knife from its scabbard.
“And now they are here!”
The gate collapsed inwards, further blocking the entry into the village proper. Dark shapes began to drag away smashed slabs of timber, while a dark figure leapt through the breach with braids flying wildly in his haste. Behind him another figure followed carrying a torch aloft, followed by another . . . and another . . . and another.
Gods! That boy has no idea how to count, Arthur realized as the press of men began to fill the small space at the open end of the yard. Of course, any number over twenty would be an impossibly large number for an illiterate shepherd boy to imagine. Arthur berated himself for his failure to question the boy more carefully.
Meanwhile, the attackers divided into two distinct packs that moved like wolves to encircle their prey.
“Just as I hoped.” Arthur attempted to comfort himself. In the past, he’d never had so many lives depending on his leadership abilities.
Within seconds, the first man through the gate had charged past the doorway where Arthur stood with his back against the wall. Somehow, it seemed dishonorable to kill him from behind, despite the defenders being comprehensively outnumbered. The young man yelled out a Celtic war cry, completely alien in this land. The hairs rose on Gull’s neck as the undulating challenge rose over the sound of splintering wood. The Dene warrior turned and raised his axe, but before Arthur could run him through, Eamonn slid into position behind the man and sliced through the back of his knees with a scything sweep of his sword. He collapsed with a scream, and Eamonn vaulted over his writhing body, his sword in one hand and a Dene shield in the other.
Before he turned back to face the oncoming Dene warriors, Arthur saw the shepherd boy dart out of the shadows and bury his knife to the hilt in the wounded man’s eye socket. The Dene thrashed his legs and arched his body in a final fit, but Gull dragged his knife free as the dying man’s heels stopped drumming on the sod floor. Then, as the lad stripped away the dead man’s sword and axe, Arthur turned away, his knife and sword slicing through the air in deadly parabolas of shining metal.
“Come on then! Come and meet the Dragon Knife,” Arthur snarled in Dene as one man broke away from the press of warriors in an attempt to corner him in the confined alleyway.
“Get back, Eamonn! Check on the others—and quickly! I can hold long enough to kill this fool,” Arthur ordered as blade met blade. This Dene was more intelligent than his predecessor and was able to swing his shield like a weapon, while keeping the metal boss aimed directly at Arthur’s breast. He was also very fast, so the boss skidded across the plates sewn into Arthur’s tunic.
But Arthur was faster still.
To attempt such a risky maneuver, the Dene warrior had been forced to expose the trunk of his body. Feinting with his sword, Arthur seduced his enemy’s weapon farther away from the man’s torso in a move that allowed him to close to within a foot of the warrior’s chest. The man’s shield and sword were useless now, so Arthur had the edge. The Dragon Knife slid upwards between the second and third ribs like a hot blade slicing through cheese. The Dene’s eyes gaped widely and a great gout of blood gushed out of his mouth when Arthur dragged his knife upwards and outwards in one smooth motion.
As this Dene fell, another took his place.
After several months of inactivity, Arthur found himself on comfortable ground at last, a feeling he welcomed. His blood sang, and he understood why the Dene seamen on Loki’s Eye had gone into battle with the forces of nature with songs of defiance on their lips. Although the voice in his brain calmed his excitement, he felt truly alive.
Two men came at him. They rushed him, side by side, but they could scarcely raise their swords because they were encumbered by their huge, circular shields. Within the blinking of an eye, one man reeled away with his arm pumping out arterial blood when his right arm was severed at the wrist.
Arthur scarcely bothered to watch the warrior as he fell to the ground. Gull leapt onto him like an angry cat, with his reddened knife flashing in the indistinct light. Under the feet of struggling men, the boy was at an advantage. Even as he slithered away into the shadows, the worn knife flashed again and impaled a very dirty foot. Arthur grinned fiercely.
“Young Gull will go far. He has all the instincts of a born killer.”
The other warrior quickly learned that a British sword will cut just as deeply into the abdomen as a Dene blade, and he fell to the ground with his entrails spilling out like unraveling, reddened wool.
The boy screamed out a shrill warning that caused Arthur to take evasive action just as a sword blow slid harmlessly past his shoulder and caused sparks to fly as it skidded along the stone wall. One of the attackers had used a narrow space between two of the huts to outflank Arthur. With a desperate curse, the Briton stepped sideways and then forward until the man’s extended arm was exposed to Arthur’s sword as it sheared down through bone and muscle at that point where the shoulder met the neck. Grotesquely, the warrior’s head rolled sideways. It was almost severed, but Arthur had no time to watch his enemy as the man’s body fell to the ground.
A torch spat out a shower of sparks with a small explosion, and Arthur swore with the shock. If one enemy could outflank him, so could others. Cursing this oversight, Arthur swept the boy under his arm and swung him off his feet as he ran, with both weapons still at the ready.
The Dene warriors pursued him, as Arthur expected they would.
“Down, Arthur!” Eamonn’s voice roared out in Celt from the darkness. Arthur dropped to his knees immediately and released Gull, who rolled away into shadows that immediately swallowed his slight form.
As he dropped, two arrows immediately whined past him. Arthur felt one shaft whistle past his ear as it impaled itself in the chest of the massive shape behind him. Only the black fletch was visible inside the ruff of black bear fur that was worn around the huge man’s neck and shoulders. The arrow quivered obscenely as its victim tried to breathe.
Although the action seemed to take place in slow motion, only scant seconds had elapsed. Arthur’s detached brain noted that two Dene lay dead in the narrowest part of the labyrinth and several of Stormbringer’s warriors had taken Arthur’s place in the defenses. The sound of mortal combat could be heard only a few feet away on the left-hand path that had led half the invading force away from the caverns. Frustratingly, Arthur was unable to follow the true course of that battle, because several huts lay between him and the other village defenses.
“We’ve killed at least five of the bastards,” he grunted to Eamonn as his friend led him at a trot down the passageways between two houses. These alleys were so narrow that the two men were obliged to turn sideways and slide along the sweating, wet-stone walls.
“Seven,” Eamonn responded. “You’re forgetting that we’ve been guarding the smaller paths, so we can’t expect to retain all the glory for ourselves.” A ragged knife slice had twisted Eamonn’s mouth out of shape, and his smile would never be as wide or as innocent again, but the young Dumnonii prince seemed twice as alive as anyone else.
Behind them, Arthur could hear the soft susurration of Gull’s sandals on the packed sod, but the darkness was absolute.
One section of the space between two of the houses almost defeated Arthur because of his wide shoulders. He could barely slide through this narrow section of curved tunnel, until he contrived to burst into a wider passage beyond. There, in the hellish light, Arthur was thrust into a conflict that was more suited to the Greek Hades than to a small fishing village.
In a bottleneck caused by heaped bodies, five village defenders were holding nearly a dozen Dene warriors at bay. Two archers were peppering away at any portions of exposed enemy flesh with their barbed, black-fletched arrows, while the Dene warriors were unable to use their own bows in the narrow maze. Because the archers were fighting on their own soil, they had the knowledge to seek out perches where they could unloose their arrows and then disappear like smoke.
“Eamonn, a fire arrow! Guard my back!”
Arthur realized that one of the Dene warriors at the back of the press of struggling men had raised a short bow which he was pointing towards a thatched hut in the densest part of the village near the headman’s house. Attached to the barb was a length of cloth already well alight.
Without pausing to check on Eamonn’s response, Arthur stepped away from the narrow passageway behind the bulk of the Dene warriors. Before him, the melee and its resultant chaos was loud, confusing, and deceptive.
Arthur looked more like a Dene than many of Hrolf Kraki’s ruffians, for many of the honorable warriors found various nefarious ways to avoid the pursuit of Stormbringer, who was a famed Sae Dene and a noted patriot. But others of Hrolf Kraki’s men were warriors who served out of a desire for preference or payment, while some came from other northern lands where they had plied their skills for hire. These venal creatures were more criminal than loyal, for they were bought and paid for with the king’s coin. Hrolf Kraki, who knew the worth of such men, called them his dogs.
One of his dogs had managed to free his bow by stepping back from the press of his fellow warriors. Arthur’s position outflanked the larger group of attackers so, as the archer raised his bow to shoulder height, Arthur appeared behind the man like a pale ghost. The archer had no time to scream before Arthur clapped his arm over the unfortunate man’s mouth and chin.
Then, using both hands, Arthur snapped the man’s neck like a carrot.
The cracking sound shuddered through Arthur’s hands and the noise seemed to reverberate off the enclosing walls. But the battle was so fierce that none of the attacking Dene noticed an enemy was behind them.
Eamonn pushed his friend through a closed doorway behind him. It swung open under his weight, and Arthur found himself in a small, smoke-filled space.
“We can be trapped in here,” Arthur warned in a whisper.
“No,” Eamonn whispered back.
“Can we resume the attack from here? From what I saw, there are six men still alive out there, but only three of our men are still standing.”
“And they’re near to dying, master,” a child’s voice said from the doorway. Gull had materialized silently from out of nowhere. “We’ll have to do something!”
“We’re behind them, so we’ll try an all-out attack from the rear, just the two of us. But we’re on the knife’s edge now.”
Arthur gripped Gull by the shoulder.
“Whatever happens, boy, I congratulate you for the wicked knife thrust you used on the eye of that Dene warrior. But now I must ask you to stay in this room once Eamonn and I venture outside, for someone has to let Stormbringer know what has happened if we should be killed. Remind him that none of Hrolf Kraki’s warriors must be allowed to escape. This is the task that is entrusted to you, Gull.”
“I won’t fail you, master, but why can’t I help? You’ve seen that I can fight like a man.”
Arthur was halfway out of the door as he answered. “This is red work, Gull. I’d rather you didn’t see what that means until you’re older. You must obey me in this!”
Impaled by Arthur’s implacable eyes, the boy swore to obey. Then, using the darkness to full advantage, the Britons were gone.
The defenders of this section of the maze had been pushed into a slow retreat. They were fast exhausting themselves, for the limited fighting space acted against them as well as in their favor. Entering the fray from behind, Arthur screamed like the fabled Banshee of Hibernia and attacked the first Dene in his path as his sword and knife flashed in the half-light. His charge was so suicidal and unexpected that the six remaining servants of the Crow King were forced back against the defenders from the village, all of whom were now too weak to capitalize on the mad attack by their British allies.
Arthur felt a sudden hot wire of pain across his biceps, but he ignored the leak of blood where his armor had been sliced through. As he killed his next opponent, he thanked God for Germanus, who had taught him how to use a knife at close quarters, and for Father Lorcan, who had taught him to think rationally under pressure. As fast as a man wavered or stumbled before him, Arthur advanced to the next, leaving Eamonn to mop up the wounded. Arthur’s longer reach and Eamonn’s ferocity worked effectively in tandem to destroy the warriors who stood against them.
Two men could fight more effectively than six in these narrow spaces, no matter how large and how strong they might be.
Finally, none but his allies were left standing in the narrow labyrinth, while Arthur felt the warm stickiness of blood as it dripped all down him into the leather of his boots. He was a man dipped in gore as if he had waded through a tide of clotted blood. Sickened a little by the carnage of tangled bodies and severed limbs, Arthur hawked and spat, trying to clear his mouth of the stench of physical destruction in this confined space. He weaved a little on his feet before managing to stagger along the narrow cross passage and return to the right fork in the pathway.
Another pile of heaped bodies was thrust against the external wall. With a pang, Arthur recognized the faces of three men with whom he had rowed, run, and shared food. If there was a Valhalla, then Arthur was certain that their souls were already winging their way to the Abode of Heroes, aided by Valkyrie, the warrior women of the air.
Eamonn and Arthur broke into a run, while both men heard the patter of Gull’s feet as he followed them, but all their haste was in vain. The last of the Crow King’s dogs were all dead now, hacked to pieces by the villagers and their wicked hoes, and Arthur was proud to see a large number of arrows that were deeply embedded in the corpses. Maeve was retrieving her arrowheads, oblivious to the more gruesome aspects of this task as she tugged or cut the barbed fletches out of dead flesh. Now that these strong men were only so much useless flesh, the arrowheads were worth more than the corpses.
“We’ll move this carrion outside the walls to places where their remains can be burned and their ashes scattered on the winds. Our own dead must be washed and cleansed, and then we’ll prepare them for the final funeral pyre.”
Arthur’s voice was filled with regret for so much loss of life, but the village had been securely held and remained unburned.
“Eamonn, you and Gull know what you have to do. Start your climb!”
The man and the boy nodded and padded away, while the headman and Freya moved forward. “You mustn’t worry about those who have died during this conflict, young master,” Freya explained with great seriousness. “Everything will be done for them as if they were our own honored kinfolk.”
“We’re in your debt, Lord Arthur,” Sigurd added. “You are truly the Last Dragon of the Britons! Now that we have seen the mettle of you and your friends, we believe you are who you say you are. We live in times when there are still wonders to be seen, and while we are simple folk, we can still recognize greatness when it appears in our midst.”
“But I had the honor of leading Stormbringer’s warriors and your own heroes—and that is all! I simply acted as I was taught to do since I was just a very young boy.”
Freya and the headman smiled and nodded, and gave their own praise to those who had taken part in the battle, including lauding Arthur as the hero of the battle of World’s End. While the skirmish was a small conflict in the larger scheme of things, it was now the stuff of legend in the annals of this small and undistinguished village.
Arthur was forced to endure the gratitude of the village until Stormbringer and his warriors eventually came running into the compound under the light of torches that were borne high to light their way. Their faces were bone-white with anxiety.
Stormbringer was told how World’s End had been secured, and how twenty-seven of Hrolf Kraki’s warriors were lying on a rocky outcrop high above the tidemark with their bodies stripped of all valuables. The shades of these warriors would enter the next world without wealth or arms, for they had failed their master and their possessions were now forfeit to the victors as spoils of war.
If the Green Dragon existed in her ossuary beneath the surge and violence of the waves, then her smile was an irritated sneer of chartreuse lips over wicked white teeth. As she entwined her scaled tail around her pyramid of skulls, she crooned to herself so that Arthur, in his dreams on that night of blood, could hear her sibilant whisper.
“You aren’t free of me yet, King of Winter, for I can wait until you come to me. I am always prepared to wait for the greatest of prizes.”
Then Arthur awoke to a new day with the weight of forty corpses on his shoulders.