THE DOLOROUS DAY
Be happy, drink, and think each day your own as you live it and leave the rest to fortune.
—EURIPIDES, Alcestis
The battle of Mirk Wood would become the stuff of legends, while Arthur would become the red dragon who flew out of a burnished sky to destroy the enemies of the Dene. Arthur would laugh when he heard the sagas woven by Rolf Sea-Shaper, who would never again have a right arm strong enough to fight the rudder or carry a sword. He would become a singer, a chronicler of Stormbringer, the Last Dragon and those golden days of blood, death, and triumph that made some sense of the horrors of life.
But that was all in the future. On that grim morning, Arthur faced up to what battle had made of him. He was a creature of death!
As he strode towards the water’s edge at Lake Wener, the Dene warriors lowered their eyes respectfully and stepped aside for him so that even his shadow shouldn’t touch them. Many of them had seen the Briton in action and they had been awestruck by his power, his coldness, and his mastery of his weapons. “He isn’t human,” one warrior decided. “You only have to look in his eyes to see that the dragon in him is alive.”
“Aye! When he’s angry, the master’s eyes change from golden to grey, but by all the gods of Asgaad, he’s a wonder with those blades of his. I never knew a man who didn’t need a shield until I met Arthur,” his companion added. “But he’s also a good leader—and he cares about his men.” In fact, Rolf had defended Arthur so successfully that the Dene warriors gradually ceased to treat him as if he was a man monster.
As he scrubbed his body with coarse sand from the lake, Arthur believed that nothing could possibly peel or scour away the blood that tainted his skin. Fully clothed, he sat in the wavelets and ignored the water on his armor and his weapons. At this moment, all he wanted was to feel clean again.
Suddenly, Arthur remembered. His foster father had once described how he had sat in the ocean and attempted to scrub away the blood of Saxons he had killed at Moridunum. Bedwyr had learned much about himself from the carnage of those war experiences, so the wise old man had counseled his son in preparation for the time when the boy would suffer from the same pangs of guilt. Arthur immediately felt a warm sense of camaraderie with Bedwyr, which mitigated his disgust at the number of men he had killed in this battle.
“Blessed Bedwyr, you always seem to be here when I need to think straight. I have been a man who was so crazed by killing that he doesn’t even feel a blow that strikes him. Well, I can feel every blow now!”
Arthur made it to his feet with a deep sigh. Now that he was almost clean, he could feel the pains from a dozen small cuts, slashes, and contusions caused by deflected swords or the hilts of weapons used to batter his face and body. None of the wounds were serious—but they hurt!
Once his muscles had cooled, Arthur allowed his unbraided hair to stream down his back while he carried his helmet by the cheek strap. His fellow Dene seemed to meet his eyes more easily now that he wasn’t covered in blood.
“Where’s Stormbringer?” he asked Rufus, who was wrapping a superficial wound on his arm with a strip of cloth torn from his shirt. Laconic as ever, Rufus nodded in the direction of the partly burned headquarters, which had already been co-opted as a makeshift hospital.
Arthur thanked Rufus, who remained dour and glum, then ambled off in the direction the warrior had indicated.
As he entered the building, he noticed that the doorway had been built for tall men, a relief after some of the structures he had been forced to use. He remembered the cramped quarters at World’s End with an affection that was marred by the pain he had felt every time he hit his head on a doorway.
Inside, the once-spacious building was pungent with the smell of woodsmoke, fallen rafters, and illness, but part of the roof had survived in the capricious ways of fires. Without any way to care for them, Stormbringer had decided that any Geat warrior who couldn’t walk in the retreat should be put to death rather than die from starvation or be savaged by scavengers after the Dene army had departed.
The gloom was thick in the building, but Arthur could see that there were surprisingly few wounded men here. All told, there were fewer than a hundred.
“Yes! We fight—or we die!” Stormbringer exclaimed at Arthur’s shoulder. “The north is a testing place, as you have seen. We have no surgeons like the ones you have described to me. We even lack camp followers who can help us to care for the sick, as is the case today. Here, the wounded must fight until they die in the full knowledge that they will suffer that fate anyway. In death, my friend, there can still be glory.”
“My father would say that while there’s life, there’s hope, and a warrior must try to stay alive to strike further blows against his enemies.” Arthur grinned ruefully. “My teacher, Father Lorcan, often told me that it was better to be a live mouse than a dead lion—or a dragon in my case! I’m still wondering if he’s correct in that assertion.”
“I suppose it depends on the reasons for the battle,” Stormbringer said.
“Aye!” Arthur replied. He was too tired to make moral judgments on the ambivalent nature of warfare. “Have you seen Eamonn?” he asked the Sae Dene, but then felt his stomach drop to his boots at the flicker of regret in Stormbringer’s eyes. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Arthur anticipated the answer before Stormbringer gave him the confirmation, but the young man needed to hear the words to actually believe it. He could still see Eamonn laughing with devilry when he looked back at Arthur before dropping to the ground to begin the long, dangerous crawl to the Geat lines. Even more poignant, Arthur remembered the short, plump boy who’d been so mercilessly bullied by Mareddyd, the British prince, who’d believed he was the strongest and most royal of all the noble youth assembled by Taliesin to build a protective dyke in the marshland close to Glastonbury. In reality, the true purpose of the building project had been to bond together the next generation of the lords of Britain. Arthur had been thirteen at the time, so he had known Eamonn for nearly ten years, but adversity had caused them to become closer than brothers. Arthur had enough muscle for the two of them, but it was Eamonn who possessed the true joy of living.
“It’s unfair that Eamonn is dead. He took so much pleasure from living when less-worthy men have survived him.” Arthur was afraid that he would burst into tears. With some difficulty, he pursed his lips and squared his jaw.
“Eamonn and I were friends as boys,” he explained to Stormbringer, who was feeling helpless in the face of Arthur’s naked grief.
The young man wanted to scream at God for killing Eamonn and for taking his parents, whom he still hungered for, just as every child will in those times when their world is shattered.
“They’ve laid his body out under the sky with the other dead officers. We’ll burn the bodies of our warriors, but our jarls and Eamonn will go to the gods on a ship. There are some small rivercraft at the village where the Vagus meets Lake Wener. I’ve sent some of our scouts to bring back one of the largest boats, which will be used as a gift to our noble dead. Unmanned, the vessel will sail out over the lake where it will be set alight, burned, and allowed to sink in the deeper waters.”
Arthur sighed deeply. He must honor his friend in this rite so he could bear witness to King Bors and Queen Valda of Eamonn’s fate. Then he snorted with laughter, for he was presupposing that there would be a time when he actually returned to his native country. But in his heart of hearts, he knew that Eamonn’s untimely death had helped to sever the bonds that tied him to his homeland.
Stormbringer called to a young warrior who was still proudly wearing a thread of the yellow phalanx tied into his hair. Then, with a serious expression on his face, the Sae Dene instructed the warrior to conduct Arthur to the site where the Dene dead had been laid out in readiness for the flames.
Outside, in the cleaner air where sickness had no place, Dene working parties were laboring to strip the enemy bodies of their valuables. Once naked, the corpses were dragged to a long, eroded fissure in the earth where their remains would be burned and their ashes left to dissipate in the elements. Everything of use, including a number of fine horses, had already been collected and stored. Surprisingly, as the Dene warriors continued to search the bivouac for wagons and harness to transport the captured spoils, they found further caches of supplies that Olaus Healfdene had stockpiled for a long campaign.
“Would the Geat have stayed here for the winter?” Arthur asked the young warrior, Ole Skuldesen, who was awed at being in such close contact with a man already spoken of as a living legend, a new Thor who had come to save the Dene.
“The lake is too big to freeze in the winter, so there’s a constant source of food here. Also, my lord, the large body of water creates warmer air along the coast, so this place is a perfect spot in which to spend the winter. Olaus stored plenty of ale, and he kept a goodly supply of dried meat, fish, and game. He even had barrels of apples! By the gods, Olaus thought of everything when it came to his creature comforts.”
The young man grinned and looked at Arthur with the glow of hero-worship clearly visible in his eyes. “Everything but the best warriors!”
“The credit for our victory belongs to Stormbringer’s strategies, my friend. I merely tagged along in our commander’s wake,” Arthur replied gruffly.
“But you killed Olaus Healfdene, Lord Arthur. Don’t you remember?”
Arthur looked as thunderstruck as he felt. “I killed a number of men, Ole, but they didn’t pause to introduce themselves. Where is Olaus Healfdene?”
Arthur was led to a line of Geat dead who had, by their dress, been more important than the ordinary warriors. Ole pointed to the corpse of the large man wrapped in bear furs whom Arthur had killed at the very beginning of the battle. The long and slightly portly body was thick with muscle and was still decked with heavy, golden arm rings that were clamped around his biceps and wrists. Arthur realized the man’s importance when he saw that a blood-spattered torc of three strands of plaited gold was still lying on his chest and his valuables hadn’t, as yet, been pillaged. The head of the Geat commander had been cut through at the neck with amazing precision, and placed next to the body.
“Lord Stormbringer instructed me to present you with Olaus’s sword, his torc of office, and his arm rings. You stripped the Geats of their leader and saved many lives by doing so.”
Ole was so proud of the task he had been given that Arthur lacked the heart to argue with him. The torc was made of orange gold, so Arthur shoved it inside his leather vest where it clunked painfully against his ribs. With the massive Geat sword and its scabbard slung over his shoulder, Arthur could no longer put off the awful moment.
“Where are our own casualties, Ole? I need to see my friend and pay my respects.”
Although he was very young, Ole seemed to understand Arthur’s feelings. As they walked behind the barracks, the young man tried to explain his background in response to Arthur’s questions.
“I am one of the southern Dene, and my kin live close to our borders with Saxony. We live in a state of constant battle readiness. We must, for the Anglii and Jutes have been waiting for an opportunity to obliterate us for many years.” The young man coughed and surreptitiously wiped moisture from his eyes. Arthur pretended not to notice.
“I’ve lost two brothers, a cousin, and my betrothed to the enemy, so it seems my whole life has been lived between burials or periods of mourning. My father died when I was an infant, and my stepfather will never see clearly again.” Ole touched the side of his head and shrugged. “A sword blow to the head, you understand?”
“Aye, Ole, I do! I understand how it is, for I’ve had much the same kind of life with the same enemies.”
The two shared a glance of complete understanding. Our differences are born out of our natures, Arthur thought sadly. Fortunately for Ole, he still joys in life, much as Eamonn had done.
Ole came to a halt beside a long line of some twenty bodies lying swathed in their cloaks. We’ve lost half our captains in one engagement, Arthur thought. He was dumbstruck by the waste and the tragedy of it all. We may have crushed the Geats, but these fine young men will take generations to replace.
“Would you like me to wait for you back at the barracks?” Ole understood that Arthur might be embarrassed to show emotion in front of a stranger.
“You’ve lost friends too?” Arthur asked.
“Aye. We’ve lost many good men today, Master Arthur.”
As Ole walked away, his shoulders squared and his face turned away from the grim line of bodies, Arthur took in the scene, including the four guards, two per side, who’d been placed on duty to protect the dead from scavengers: human, avian, and beast. Already, Mirk Wood was heavy with crows, ravens, and shrikes, all waiting for a chance to feast on the dead. Fastidious as always, Stormbringer had set guards over the enemy dead as well, deep in their pits in a tangle of stiff arms and legs.
Grateful that Eamonn’s physical remains were safe, Arthur walked down the line of corpses. Eamonn’s short size meant that many of the shrouded faces needn’t be bared because the taller bodies were far too large. Then he saw a familiar pair of boots that were more sophisticated than the Dene leggings.
As he folded back the corner of the enveloping cloak, he prayed to his Savior that his friend might have gone into the shades with his face unmarked.
“Oh, Eamonn, you foolish bastard,” Arthur whispered. “Why did you always have to be in the front line when you were called to battle?”
“Because I’m a short arse, you fucking idiot. Why do you think I do it, you great beanpole?” Eamonn’s voice was clear in Arthur’s head, and he could almost believe that Eamonn had been wounded rather than killed.
He twitched the cloak away. Blood had run out of Eamonn’s nose and mouth and left three sanguine trails. Arthur’s sleeve was still damp, so he bent, knelt at his friend’s head, and gently scrubbed away at the dried blood, leaving Eamonn’s face familiar, but strange. Whatever was Eamonn was long gone now, and this husk had been discarded as no longer of any worth.
Blood had pooled and dried behind his head and his thick, black curls; Arthur’s probing fingers soon found a long axe wound. Another knife wound had struck him from behind, just below his shoulder blades.
“It took two men to kill you, my brother, and, even then, they had to take you from behind. I hope we killed the curs that sent you into the shades.”
Arthur forced himself to check Eamonn’s whole body so he could give an honest report to the young man’s kin when he returned to their home. Certainly, Blaise would want to know! Eamonn’s ring still rested on his hand and Arthur eased it off his friend’s thumb for Blaise, as well as a chunky chain that was still hanging around his neck. Arthur decided that this was his bulla, or birth gift, for King Bors had persisted with many of the old Roman ways. This trinket, more than anything else, held Eamonn’s essence, so Arthur slid it off and cleaned away the dried blood with his shirt. He flipped open the clasp, which resisted him for a moment, and then emptied the contents of the small casket onto his palm.
Arthur began to weep in great agonized sobs. He cried without shame, for so much of the sadness within him demanded to be set free.
There, on his open palm, lay a shell made of gold, probably the original birth gift from Eamonn’s father. Alongside it was a small, grey pearl from the distant lands of the north, perhaps a gift from a lover, although Arthur was ignorant of any special woman in his friend’s life.
But the third item was the reason for his tears, the final item that unlocked his misery and reminded Arthur that life is brief, like a butterfly that exists for a single day in beauty and joyfulness. Eamonn had kept a lock of Arthur’s hair, stolen when he had been shorn at some time during his youth. His friend had bound it with a little twist of gold wire and retained it with his other precious objects. He had kept his love for his friend against his heart.
• • •
THREE HOURS BEFORE dusk, a longship nosed into the shore and was pulled above the tide line by its rowers, for this lake was so large that the body of water still felt the pull of the moon.
The Geat ship was broader in the beam than a Dene longboat and, in many ways, it resembled a Saxon ceol. As it approached the shore, it had seemed to walk on the waves, whereas Sea Wife snaked through them with such flexibility and grace that it was hard to see the boat as simply a number of overlapping boards nailed into the shape of a leaf. Later, when Arthur examined the Geat trading vessel, he discovered its keel was heavier, its planks were thicker, and every line was more utilitarian than the poetry of a longboat. This ship was meant to carry cargo on the only western ocean access that Vastra Gotland possessed—down the Vagus River and out into the sea. Now the Wind Eagle would serve a different purpose.
“It’s a pity this eagle looks more like a duck,” Arthur observed to no one in particular, but Stormbringer spluttered into a brief bout of laughter that was quite inappropriate on this occasion. The Sae Dene had seen the redness in Arthur’s eyes and the blotchy skin across his cheekbones, so he knew that Arthur had visited his friend’s body to pay his last respects.
“Our friends will go to their various heavens in this particular duck, so I hope she gains decent wings by this evening when she sails out into the center of the lake,” the Sae Dene responded seriously. He was staring resolutely at the ship as it was stripped of all unnecessary fittings, to allow the shields of their Geat enemies to be piled onto the decks where they would make a bed of weapons on which the dead jarls would rest on their journey to Paradise.
Warriors were out scouring the fields and the margins of Mirk Wood for more fuel that could be added to the fire. Others collected flowers, the enemy’s blankets, and any cloth that held value. Sweetgrass was laid as a pillow for each man’s head, and jars of wine and beer from Olaus Healfdene’s own stores were placed where the twenty-two men could find them when the time came for drinking contests with the gods. A haunch of venison, a wheel of fine cheese, apples, and perfect fruit taken fresh from the vine or tree were placed alongside the wine.
As the sun sank lower, a long line of warriors bearing the dead bodies on quickly constructed stretchers came slowly to the Wind Eagle. Rolf Sea-Shaper led the procession, his voice rising in a song that shivered through the air, so that Arthur was reminded of keening women. One man stepped out of the crowd of warriors, carrying a strangely constructed brazen horn. As he raised the instrument to his lips, Arthur could see that the beautiful object was a long, sinuous, and delicate tube that widened gradually and flared out into a partly enclosed horn shape, rather like the head of a flower. Arthur could scarcely believe his eyes, or his ears, when the older warrior raised the instrument to his lips, and blew.
The sound, which consisted of several high, thin notes, turned and twisted round Rolf Sea-Shaper’s voice, wailing and mourning as if alerting Heaven to new heroes whose souls were poised to wing their way to its gates. That single horn brought Eamonn’s loss sharply back into Arthur’s imagination, as if that instrument could encompass all his deepest feelings. Perhaps it did, because Arthur and many of the warriors wept without shame.
Once the bodies were in place and flowers heaped around their feet, their swords were placed in their hands. Then, one by one, warriors came forward to extol the virtues of each of the jarls so that all the warriors still alive felt as if they knew the dead man and regretted his loss. One by one, singers praised the dead, until Arthur could no longer bear the thought that no one spoke for Eamonn. He moved to stand in front of Stormbringer as the ceremony began to draw to a close.
“Lord Stormbringer, one man lies unnamed and without kindred to shed tears to speed his way into the grey vastness of death. I speak of Eamonn, son of Bors, the king of the Dumnonii tribe of Britain. He is my oldest friend!”
Stormbringer nodded his head ceremoniously, and Arthur turned to face the dead with a dry mouth, trembling hands, and a pair of shaking knees.
I’d rather face a dozen huge warriors than speak on such an occasion as this, Arthur thought. But Eamonn must be honored, and I’m the only person who knew him well enough to do him justice.
He coughed, cleared his throat and tried to quell his nerves. “Warriors of the Dene, hear what I, the Last Dragon, say to you. I speak for Eamonn pen Bors, a young man who was a prince of the Britons. Many times, he shared a joke with you, and on many occasions you’ve called him ‘little man’ because of his short stature.”
Several of the Dene warriors from the crew of Sea Wife laughed affectionately, then realized that the insult they had laid upon Eamonn, albeit in fun, could never be recalled. They fell silent and looked down at the earth in regret.
“I, too, called him by that same insult, and I can assure you that he felt no resentment for a simple statement of fact. Eamonn saved his anger for deeds of cruelty, depravity, or dishonor. I recall that he once fought ferociously in a small, faraway village to save people who weren’t his own, having no shame in his passionate defense of the weak and the helpless.
“But more than for his courage or for his decency, every man on Sea Wife and Loki’s Eye will remember him for his joy in the whole wonder of being alive. Eamonn taught me about the beauties and pleasures of women, of the fun of being footloose, of fishing in a green bay, of dancing with pretty girls late into a warm summer’s night, and of how there is no need for shame if we weep to see great loveliness. Everything I know about living, I learned from Eamonn.
“He was my friend, but he has gone to sing and drink with the gods. And he’ll probably find a pretty wench to tumble.”
The warriors laughed at Arthur’s accurate reading of Eamonn’s irreverence.
“And so, my friends, I say my last Ave to Eamonn, who will always be my friend.”
“Ave, Eamonn.”
Led by Rolf Sea-Shaper, the cry was repeated by the crew of Sea Wife.
Arthur stepped back, while refusing to wipe away his tears. If men thought him weak, then let them prove their claim with sharp iron.
With a somber face, Stormbringer made a sign, and a dozen men pushed the Wind Eagle into the current. As half a dozen torches were thrust into the ship, the waiting warriors launched her out of the shallows and then stood waist deep in the wavelets to see if the ship had been accepted by the lake. A breeze suddenly sprang up from the land and filled the woolen sail, so that it rattled and soughed before bellying, causing the ship to turn till it faced out over the lake.
As if the ship itself had taken a great breath and leaped forward, the hull cut cleanly into the waves. On board, the torches set the fine cloth and timber alight, and the flames began to catch, licking at the decking and snaking towards the mast. The descending sun set the whole western horizon aflame as if the lake itself was burning, but the ship drove on and on, its rudder swinging uselessly as the sail captured the breeze.
As the light from the sun slowly began to fade, the ship burned from prow to stern. With an explosion of hot air that could be imagined from the shore, the sail caught alight, but the wool burned slowly with great gouts of white smoke. Arthur longed to turn away, yet the rites were so compelling and so final that he was afraid of being disrespectful.
The night seemed to thicken as, slowly, fire engulfed the Wind Eagle, and the ship began to slow. Hissing like a serpent, the fire died at the waterline, but the vessel was wallowing in the water now and the sail collapsed with a great shower of sparks as the ropes and spars burned through. Like a wounded bird, the prow dropped and the rudder rose into the air. Then, faster than Arthur thought possible, the ship and its precious cargo slid below the surface and vanished.
Eamonn was gone, and he would never return.
• • •
THREE DAYS LATER, the ships sailed upriver to the Lake Wener encampment and, regretfully, Arthur rose out of a stupor of indecision to slake his curiosity. The great sails flouted the Geat sky with their symbols of Dene power and, when the forty-three ships drove ashore, manned by skeleton crews under the command of Hoel Ship-Singer, Stormbringer and the jarls walked down to the sandy stretch of beach to greet them.
“Hail, Stormbringer, victor of the greatest battle in the history of Skania,” Hoel called loudly from the bow of the ship and raised his arm in salute to the Sae Dene captain. His eyes were shining with admiration. “We have come to transport you out of this place and take you to Halland, where the banners of the Geat king fly over my land. I beg you to bring relief to the south, and I swear that all able-bodied men who have survived in Guteland and Skania will flock to your standard.”
“We have taken serious losses here—” Stormbringer began, but Hoel cut him off.
“But not as many as your enemy has suffered and not as many as common sense indicated you could have lost. Your warriors have won a great victory, and word of it is already traveling through the villages like fire. Once we have left this accursed place, able-bodied men will come willingly to join your warriors as you continue your campaign.”
“Very well, Hoel.” Stormbringer’s voice was tired. “I will be ready to leave in three days. Meanwhile, we must load the wounded, determine what spoils will be taken, decide what to do with the horses, and store as many supplies as our ships can reasonably be expected to carry.”
Hoel was so pleased with the concessions he had wrung out of Stormbringer that he would have agreed to anything. Depressed, Arthur turned away and would have left the shore had Stormbringer not called him back.
“Hoel, I should point out to you that Arthur is the true hero of this battle, for it was he who killed Olaus in hand-to-hand combat. He denied the Geats the value of having a commander to lead them during the course of the battle.”
Once again, Arthur felt embarrassed at having to accept unnecessary praise.
Stormbringer turned back to Arthur. “If we are leaving with Hoel in a few days, Arthur, I want you to select two of Healfdene’s horses as my personal gift to you and Eamonn. These animals are in addition to your share of the spoils. I know that the Britons set even greater store by horses and cavalry than we do, so please take these gifts as a token of my gratitude and friendship.”
Hoel could see Arthur’s discomfort clearly enough, so he watched as Stormbringer sent him off with Ole to make his choice of the horses on the picket line.
“Why do you worry about this Briton, Stormbringer? He’s just another man from a far-off land. I expect that you have a dozen more who are as capable as he is, so why should you concern yourself over his fits and starts?”
“Arthur is one of the most exceptional men I’ve ever encountered.” Stormbringer smiled affectionately. “And he feels everything so very deeply, as you can see. He is unsettled and miserable after the death of his friend and is at a loss to know what to do in a foreign land. But, if you saw him on the battlefield, you wouldn’t ask me why I concern myself with him. He’s cold, distant, and impersonal in combat—the perfect weapon! For him, the goal becomes everything, and such focus actually saves the lives of his comrades and inspires those who fight beside him.”
At the picket line, Arthur’s mood picked up considerably when he saw the fine display of horseflesh that was on offer. He had missed horses, although he hadn’t realized it. These northern animals were heavier and longer in the leg than their British cousins, with large rounded rumps that were ridged with muscle and equally powerful, bowed necks. The faces of the long string of horses looked at him with eyes that reminded him of Eamonn: huge, dark, and fringed with extraordinarily long lashes.
Arthur walked down the line of beasts, checking them carefully. One particularly large black horse had the same warmth in its brown eyes as his friend, so he knew that this stallion would give pleasure to Blaise once she had recovered from the loss of her brother.
For himself, he searched for something other than good looks, so he had almost despaired of finding that something that sparked his imagination and his emotions when he heard a pained scream from farther down the picket line. One horse in particular was being fractious and refused to be fed with its fellows. It was reluctant to accept cut fodder when succulent, belly-deep grasses stood, green and growing, just nearby. The mare was very tall for a female, and Arthur could see that it was an indeterminate color that was neither brown nor grey nor black, rather like watered silk. One white sock marked her changeable hide and, when Arthur ran his hand down her back, he was surprised to feel the vigor and crude strength of the hair in her mane. He had expected smoothness under his fingers. This beast was a chameleon.
“I’ll take the black stallion and this mare,” Arthur told the warrior who had appointed himself to the role of horse master.
“She’s trouble,” he warned. “She’s a real bitch and I imagine her temper won’t improve if you want to ride her. She argues with my lads over every little thing and now she’s complaining about the grass.” He sighed with irritation. “She’s a real female!”
“But you can’t ignore her, can you? In ten years, you’ll still remember the fractious mare that caused such grief at Lake Wener. And that’s no bad thing! I don’t want a docile horse, I want a fighter.”
“Then you’ll be a happy man,” the horse master advised him. “Just watch her teeth—she bites!”
The next morning, Arthur selected a saddle from the supply taken from the Geats and, as he placed the harness alongside his horse, she tried to bite him. He actually raised his fist and was about to strike her when he glimpsed a shadow of terror in her eyes. He quickly decided that fear was the last thing he wanted in this horse.
“Be aware, Horse, that I intend to make you love me.” Arthur’s smile was competitive, wicked, and, for the first time since they had left World’s End, boyish. “I’ll think of a suitable name for you soon. In the meantime—stand still!”
Given the mare’s obvious intelligence, she should have known that this particular human was likely to be difficult. But she was determined to win their battle of wills. For the first half hour, Arthur struggled as she tried to defy him at every step.
She had turned in continuous circles whenever he tried to mount her, then she had bucked ferociously as soon as he attempted to settle himself into the saddle. Finally, she steadfastly refused to obey any instructions conveyed through the knees and boots. Eventually, Arthur kicked her hard in the belly as he lost his temper.
“Horse! That’s enough!”
Arthur dismounted with a thunderous face and decided to take the horse’s training back to basics. He knew he had two options: he could use brutal methods that would force her to bow to his demands, or he could convince her that she could accede to his demands with dignity. He decided to take the easier option.
The young man placed a halter over the head and nose of the horse and allowed her a lead of about twenty feet. Then, with a piece of whippy cane about three feet in length, Arthur forced her to circle around him, while flicking the cane to let her know that it could be used as a method of punishment, if she refused to obey his instructions. Within half an hour, the horse had decided that she would be compliant and was happy to walk, trot, or canter in a circle as her new master required.
Then, having demonstrated that he intended to become dominant, Arthur made a further attempt to mount.
For one short moment, the animal stood perfectly still and was contemplating her options. She was obviously undecided as to whether she should resume the contest.
But sanity eventually prevailed, and the mare showed her intelligence by making no further efforts to dislodge her master. Arthur had won the battle of wills so, from that point onwards, the beast would always be compliant when Arthur mouthed her newly acquired name, Horse.
Two hours later, they went on their first amicable ride, a journey along the shore of the lake with no particular destination in mind.
Riding along the margins of the lake, while permitting Horse to have her head and determine their destination, gave Arthur a sense of peace that had been missing from his life for months. He had been engrossed with his duties towards his sister and her friend, and to Eamonn, so he hadn’t known a carefree moment since their capture. Now, with the wind in his hair and bound for nowhere in particular, Arthur felt his guilt and troubles begin to fall away.
Eventually, Arthur resumed control of his steed, and they cantered up towards the margins of Mirk Wood. Then, about a mile or so outside the forest, he saw a bald, treeless tumulus off in the distance. Such a hill was a rare sight in these flat expanses, for it seemed to rise straight out of the dense vegetation and swamps. Piqued with curiosity, he turned his mount towards the hill.
Once he was under the shelter of the trees, he discovered that Mirk Wood was far wilder and denser here, where he was away from the western edge. Even hunters didn’t venture this far into the woods, so Arthur was surprised when his mare stumbled upon a footpath beaten flat by feet that had traveled in a single file towards the low hill. She turned to follow the enigmatic path, grateful to be separated from the worst of the thickly woven climbers, shrubs, and stinging branches that created impenetrable barriers on either side of the track. Without any effort, Arthur imagined that the forest had packed itself around the track, leaving the earth untouched in a manner that made the Briton shudder.
“Well, Horse, has the Green Man built this path that leads up from the lake?” Arthur asked his steed. “Never mind! We’ll continue onwards and see where it leads.”
Horse seemed relieved and almost skipped as she walked along.
The heat generated beneath the glowering trees beat down on them, and autumn seemed far away when Arthur arrived at the bottom of the hill. The rising ground was surprisingly smooth, perhaps because the track widened as the thick vegetation relinquished its hold on the smooth slopes. As with the path, there seemed to be no logical reason why vegetation didn’t grow there. With his overactive imagination, Arthur saw himself mounting a smooth, stone skull leading upwards towards a broad forehead, where he would discover what this strange place was meant to be.
Eventually, the flinty earth gave way to sheets of shale that had been laid down in ages long gone, even before the earth had cooled. Mirk Wood could not gain a purchase on this bare stone, for even the strongest, most deadly of invasive vines cannot force its way through a foot of solid rock.
Putting aside his superstition, Arthur kicked his mare into movement, even though she turned her head back to look at him and eyed his calf longingly. Then another light kick reminded her that he wasn’t for eating, and she moved forward in a relatively good temper.
A huge monolith was standing at the front edge of the shelf of rock which served as the crown of the hill. The stone was three times the height of a man, and it seemed to be wedged into a fissure in the shelf. What craft had been used to move such a massive weight? And where had it come from? Arthur reached over Horse’s back and stroked the monolith. He knew as soon as he felt the surface that it was made of sandstone and was roughly hacked into shape, probably with stone axes. He shook his head in wonder.
Beyond the monument, an odd structure seemed to have sprung out of the bare earth in one of the rare spots that wasn’t entirely shale-covered. Arthur had seen such structures in the land around the Giant’s Circle in Britain, when Eamonn had dragged him on an impromptu holiday around the southwest. The standing stones, with a large flat rock over the top, had once been covered with earth and sod, and Arthur had been told by an old woman that the Little People had built these structures as graves. Now, partly open to the elements, the structure offered a little shade from the baking sun, so Arthur decided to dismount and explore the area.
Leading Horse, he soon discovered a gaping black hole that plunged into darkness within the dolmen. Arthur resisted an overwhelming urge to throw himself in Horse’s saddle and ride back the way he had come as quickly as she could carry him. He would have acted on his instincts had he not heard wood being dragged over stone.
Almost unbidden, the Dragon Knife leapt into his left hand while his right hand continued to hold on to Horse’s reins. The animal’s ears were pricked, and she whickered quietly while scraping at the dirt with her left front hoof in obvious nervousness. As his eyes fixed on the black hole, he saw a figure that suddenly materialized out of an invisible passage like a conjuring trick. A knotted tree branch, long enough to use as a serviceable stick and polished by the hand until it had a honey-rich sheen, was being used to assist the figure to climb up a series of narrow steps until, shaggy and dusty, it stood upright in front of him.
“Well! A visitor! Welcome, sir, as you’re the first to come here in years. Sit! Sit! Weigh down the reins with a stone. Does your horse need water? No? Do you need water? No! Or food? Please—sit on that stone. It’s clean and safe, I swear to you.”
The gabbling figure was a small man who seemed even more dwarflike because he was much bent and twisted by a disease that caused his joints to swell and his fingers and toes to twist. He wore a dusty, coarse homespun robe of brown wool. A twist of hide was tied around his gaunt waist to expose his hollow chest and grotesquely humped back. The man’s body could have belonged to a dwarf or one of the small creatures that lived in the wild and wreaked mischief on humankind. Yet, the small man’s face was very human, although it was worn and old. Arthur knew by the soft shine of the old man’s washed-out blue eyes that he was some kind of hermit or outcast.
“My name is Arthur, and I come from Britain, a country from far away across the great sea. I serve Stormbringer, the Sae Dene captain who has just destroyed the army of the Geat commander, Olaus Healfdene. Are you a Geat? What is your name, my friend?”
As asked, Arthur hunkered down on his heels so the small man could see him, eye to eye. Arthur deliberately forced his face into an expression of friendliness and curiosity without any of the caution or surprise he was feeling.
“Why! My name is Thorvald! Very grand, isn’t it? I think I’m Dene, but who can tell? And what does it matter anyway? I’ve been here for such a very long time, fulfilling my duties to my master, that I forget the life I had before I came to the temple.”
“The temple!” Arthur exclaimed. “What temple? There’s nothing up here but those large stones.”
“Oh, no, Master Arthur. Can’t you see the temple down there? It was here before my master came. And he said that his master was just one of a long line of priests who kept the altar clean and swept out the dusty corners. We can’t have spiders in the shrine, can we? Would you like to see the temple?”
He’s crazed from loneliness, or . . . By the gods, how long has he been here? Arthur wondered, then smiled as guilelessly as he could.
“Show me, Thorvald. Whom does the temple worship?”
“Can’t you guess, Arthur?”
Thorvald skipped down the steps with surprising agility, when Arthur considered the man’s twisted feet. At the bottom of four stone steps, a short passageway of unmortared stone led to a conical room directly under the dolmen. Light slanted through the low doorway and marched towards a stone altar made of a single slab of crudely cut stone.
Arthur cautiously examined the room. The construction was coarse but very clever so the ceiling was a misshapen dome, yet the roof had all the strength of that architectural form. The only furniture was an altar, on which a statue of a man fighting a bull held pride of place.
The other objects in the room were a bowl of water on the floor near the entrance and Thorvald’s sleeping pallet. He obviously lived here, as well as caring for the shrine. A broom of twigs leaned against the entry wall, and a small box nested beside the sleeping pallet.
“Wash your hands, Arthur. Mithras expects every warrior to come to his house with clean hands.”
Somehow, Arthur felt the importance of obeying this harmless madman. What could it hurt to follow his instructions? The god of soldiers, Mithras, was a powerful deity who asked no evil from those who worshipped him.
“And now, Arthur, as the god watches, it’s time for you to do those things that you were sent here to do. My master told me that someone was coming today. An owl and a raven came by turns into the sanctuary, so I knew you’d soon need my services. You are only the second man who has come to Mithras in sixty years.”
Sixty years? Dear God, how old can this man be?
“Who was the other man?” Arthur asked. “Did he tell you his name?” Somehow, it seemed important to keep this eerie old man talking.
“I should remember . . . Was it wolf? No, that wasn’t it! Bee wolf? No! Beowulf, that was his name!”
Thorvald was very pleased with himself, so Arthur was quite shocked to hear the name of this legendary hero spoken of as if he was a real person.
“But he was real, Arthur, very much so! He was a warrior who came to Mithras because he doubted himself. The god spoke to him and gave him what he needed.”
“Beowulf!” Arthur muttered.
“Come to the altar now, Arthur, and kneel before it. The god will show us what he wants you to know.”
The Briton reluctantly allowed himself to be led to the altar, where he knelt awkwardly on the rough floor. “You don’t have to close your eyes, Arthur, for I know that a warrior is always careful.”
Thorvald knelt beside him and watched a finger of light on the wall. The silence was so thick that Arthur remained quiet, even when the stones under his knees began to cause him pain.
“You’ve been lost, Child of the Sword, lost for a long time.”
Arthur actually jumped to hear the voice that came from the priest’s throat, a voice far deeper and more masculine than Thorvald’s tenor treble.
“You’ve been confused about your place in the world, especially here, but the time of confusion is over.”
Arthur turned to look at Thorvald’s face, but his eyes were turned up so that only the whites were visible and his senses appeared to have fled.
“You must be thinking that I am a madman, but what you think today matters very little. Your page has already been written by the gods and only by denying yourself, as a man and as the foster son of Bedwyr, can you change your fate.”
How could he possibly know Bedwyr’s name?
“You will soon become the King of Winter and survive the disease that kills so many. You will be the ruin of many kings. You will return to your own lands, but nothing will be the same as it was, so you will carve out your new kingdom from Saxon earth and Saxon blood. And your kingdom will endure long into the future, although many men will think you are Dene or Angle. But you will not care, because you will save the world you know and love for the good of all your people. This goal is enough, Arthur.”
Despite himself, Arthur wanted to believe the Voice, but he had denied the worth of magic years before, and he sensed that only a demon could know him as well as this priest.
“It is your duty and your fate to save Stormbringer from the Crow King, but you must always beware of corruption. Even the Red Queen will be ensnared, but you must remain clear-sighted. You are the Last Dragon, God’s servant who is the ruin of kings and a master of the cold. If you stay true to the task that two fathers have bequeathed to the future, you will not fail in your appointed tasks, even though, in times to come, your deeds will be confused with those of your birth father. Do not fear what was, for it can be again. But only if your heart remains true.”
“But I will see Britain again?” Arthur asked, with his eyes full of longing and his voice harsh with pain.
“You will see Britain again, even if you are corrupted along the way. The page is already written. Ask me no more now, for I have nothing further to say.”
But you haven’t really said anything, Arthur’s mind screamed in frustration.
Then, Thorvald’s eyes returned to their normal position before closing into a deep and dreamless sleep. Try as he might, Arthur couldn’t waken him. Eventually, to save the little man from harm, Arthur placed the slight form onto his pallet and covered him neatly with a threadbare blanket.
Despite arguments from his rational self, Arthur’s heart had been touched by his experience. Perhaps that was why he took Olaus’s torc from his tunic and laid it out as a gift to Mithras and to Thorvald on the center of the altar, where the light pooled brilliantly before dusk.
The return journey to the encampment was uneventful, and Arthur wondered that he had considered Mirk Wood to be wilder here than those places where Stormbringer’s army had breached it. Nor was he a great distance from the site of the Geat camp. Before the last light had flickered out over the lake, he was sitting at Stormbringer’s fire and attempting to describe the hill, the dolmen, the shrine, and the old hermit. For the first time in months, Arthur stayed awake and spent the evening drinking with Stormbringer, Hoel, and Thorketil, talking strategies while Ole and a brace of young warriors listened with rapt attention.
The next morning, aware that they would be leaving Lake Wener on the following day, Ole and his friends mounted horses from the picket line and set off in search of the shrine of Mithras. Although they rode up and down the margins of Mirk Wood, they never saw the naked hill. Nor did they find any trace of the path that had led Arthur into the wilderness. Puzzled, they returned to the campsite and told Arthur that he must have been mistaken about the directions he had taken.
But both Arthur and Ole knew that there had been no mistake. The shrine had vanished, as if it had never existed.
And, perhaps, it never had.