‘We are going to set these men free.’
‘Set them free?’ Bors scoffed, so surprised that his big face turned red.
‘Aye. They will serve a purpose. We’ll tell them we are heading east and south to raid.’
‘But we…’ Bors began and then grinned, winked at Balin, and dragged his men away.
‘They shall all go free as Balin says,’ said Merlin, appearing at Arthur’s shoulder. ‘But not that one.’ He pointed a long finger at a crouched, hooded figure amongst the sorry-faced Saxons. ‘Stand.’ Merlin commanded, but the figure stayed still, and so Merlin barked in the Saxon tongue and the figure rose slowly and removed the hood. The surrounding warriors took a step back from what lay beneath. It was a woman with the top half of her face smeared with black ash so that her eyes shone dark and powerful, and the bottom half covered in a white paste. She looked like a demon, like a horror from the pit of hell. She had set her hair into fearsome, stiff spikes with cow dung and around her neck was a necklace heavy with iron and stone charms carved into wicked faces, writhing monsters, a hammer, a phallus, and other pagan symbols. ‘This one is mine.’ Merlin beckoned the woman towards him. She was as tall as he, and she cast her fur-lined cloak back to reveal heavy breasts beneath a thin dress, and wide hips. The woman hissed at Arthur and the surrounding warriors, who leapt back in fear of her evil magic, and she cackled. She was a Saxon priestess, a holy woman who marched with their army to bring the warriors luck, to use her closeness to their gods to imbue the war band with luck and power. Arthur tightened his grip on his seax as she passed him, because she pulsed with a strange force, like being in the presence of a king, a fearsome warrior, or Merlin himself.
The woman followed Merlin as he strode away. She walked proudly, shoulders back and her fearsome head held high. Men made the sign to ward off evil as she passed them, and Merlin led her towards the trees. Balin spoke to the prisoners in their own tongue, told them what he wanted them to hear, and sent them scampering down the hillside. They would run back to Ida and Octha and tell them of the Briton war band heading east and south, and so drive warriors away from Dun Guaroy. They camped that night in the forest, Balin sent scouts out on horses captured from the Saxons, ranging north and west to watch for any other roving bands of Saxons hunting the Briton raiding party, and Bors had the men of Gododdin take shifts watching the forests edges and approaches. The evening was raucous with boasting and recounting tales of brave deeds, remembering the six men who had died in the fight. Those who had taken wounds grimaced and sweated. If the wounds were not treated properly, most of those eight men would die of the rot. Arthur took a cut of roasted rabbit from the campfire to a Gododdin man with a cut in his guts, and he would surely die without Merlin’s attentions. But Merlin was ensconced in a vigorous conversation with the captured Saxon priestess at the camp’s edge, and no man approached those two fearsome figures.
Bors congratulated Arthur again loudly on his successful plan and the men gathered around as Arthur, and others in the war band, had their forearms tattooed with death rings in honour of the men they had killed. The tattooing hurt, the tiny bone needle puncturing Arthur’s flesh over and over and then the bloody marks smeared with a dark paste to make the ring permanent. Kai grinned with pride at the new marks on his arms, and Arthur and his brother wondered at how Ector would look upon their deeds since leaving the Bear Fort. Even Huell’s mood lifted, happy to have been part of the ruse, and some of the burly warrior’s melancholy lifted as he sat with the warriors and enjoyed their boastful stories.
Merlin stalked away from the Saxon priestess and marched back and forth amongst the trees, rubbing his palm over the strange patterns on his skull and pulling his braids. Arthur approached the druid slowly, and Merlin muttered to himself. Every so often he glanced up at the sky as though he searched for an answer, shook his head and carried on with his thoughtful pacing. Arthur stopped five paces away, and Merlin, keeping his eyes ahead of him, pointed a long finger at Arthur. The priestess sat against the trunk of a birch tree. Arthur caught her eye, and she smiled at him. There was an evil in her full-lipped, sharp-eyed face which made Arthur shudder. She could be beautiful, he thought, if it wasn’t for the fearsome paint on her face and the spikes in her hair. She tapped a finger slowly to her cheek beneath her left eye, its nail was deep black like an animal’s claw, and she pointed that finger at Arthur as if to say she was watching him. Arthur swallowed and forced himself to look away.
‘What is it?’ Merlin barked impatiently. ‘Don’t just stand there gawping at me. Spit it out if you have something to say. Don’t look at her, lad, or she’ll turn you into a horned toad, or worse.’
‘Could she do that, lord?’
‘She has power, I could do it, and perhaps she could too. So, mind yourself, even if you do fancy yourself a great general now that you have killed a handful of ragged-arsed Saxons.’
Arthur reddened at Merlin’s hard words. ‘They were Saxon warriors.’ Arthur spoke defensively before he had time to consider his words and instantly regretted it.
‘They were scouts and men of the Saxon fyrd. Farmers, potters, woodsmen and blacksmiths called up to fight by their lords. The real Saxon warriors are closer to Dun Guaroy, though they will no doubt march when they hear of the slaughter of this paltry force. The real Saxon warriors, the men who braved the wild sea, the champions and professional warriors, are a different thing entirely.’
‘Does she have a druid’s power?’
‘Oh, she has power, not quite the power of a druid, but close and different. She is Irish, boy, captured as a girl by Saxon pirates. Her Irish name is Nimue, and the Saxons call her Vivien. She was raised in the old knowledge deep in the Irish heartland, at Tara, the home of Irish high kings. The Romans never went to Ireland, and though the nailed god is strong there, the old ways live on and those with that ancient knowledge taught her the secrets of their dark mountains, of dwarven smiths and elfish magic. The Saxons realised her power, and they taught Nimue the ways of their gods, of Woden, Thunor and the rest. She can converse with their gods, hear their commands, she can augur the fate of battle in the guts of a goat or the blood of a raven. She can speak Saxon, Irish, Roman Latin and our own tongue. Nimue knows the secrets of the stars, of the nine spells of Woden, of Manawydan, Maponos, Arawn, and has visited Annwn in a dream state. I must learn from her, Arthur, I must… think on these things. And more, for the very fate of our island is at stake.’
Merlin stared at Arthur for a long moment, his bright eyes searching Arthur’s face as though he sought an answer there, or perhaps searched for an intellect with which to share his great problems. Arthur held his gaze until Merlin broke away with a disappointed shake of his head and waved Arthur away with a dismissive shake of his hand. Arthur nodded, not understanding half of what Merlin had said, but understanding enough to know that the druid needed to be left alone to ponder things that only he had the cunning to fathom.
The warriors continued their celebrations, Balin and Bors content to let their men enjoy the victory. Arthur warmed himself by the campfire and ate a thin flatbread which one of Bors’ Gododdin men had baked on a hot stone. As the night drew colder and a shadow of cloud blocked out the moonlight, men fell asleep beneath cloaks and blankets. Kai had drunk too much strong Saxon ale and snored happily beside Arthur with his jerkin sleeve rolled up to the elbow, showing off his fresh death rings which, like Arthur’s, were already beginning to scab over.
Arthur touched the cuts on his face and arms gingerly. Neither were deep, but both screamed of battle’s risk. If he closed his eyes, Arthur could still see the blades scything towards him, the broad-bladed axes, blood-smeared spear points and the furious-faced enemy behind them. A handsbreadth deeper or lower and it would be Arthur lying cold and still on the battlefield in a glistening pool of his own congealing blood and the shit from his voided bowels. Arthur lay down and pulled his cloak about him. He was wealthy now, having won the accoutrements of a warrior from the men he had slain. Lunete would marvel at his breastplate, belt, death rings, weapons and silver. He closed his eyes and tried to busy his mind with thoughts of the march, of how his battle plan had worked, and what other ways he could use cunning to outwit the enemy. But no matter how much he tried to distract himself, the dead fought their way through his thought cage to haunt him. Arthur lay by the fire in a half-sleep, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, and the fetches of the slain came for him with accusing eyes, bloody wounds, rotting teeth, ragged beards and grasping fingers. He knew that there would be more death before the quest was completed, more Britons and Saxons must die to rescue Princess Guinevere and Prince Gawain in the blood-soaked fight for Lloegyr.
13
The war band marched carefully, often taking circuitous paths through woodland and around the western slopes of high mountains to remain hidden from Saxon scouts. Balin of the Two Swords sent his own scouts ranging ahead of the column on horseback, searching for other bands of Saxon warriors and reporting back to Balin at regular intervals. The land was thick with Saxons, warriors mustering from farms and villages to gather to their lords’ banners in response to the party of raiding Britons. Arthur and Kai watched, crouched in woodland or from lofty escarpments, as spearmen with heavy shields, golden hair and fur-draped shoulders marched along paths and byways.
Balin knew his business, Arthur thought. There would be no blundering into Saxon war bands in unscouted woodland on this march. He watched Balin and Bors, observing how each man led his warriors. They were very different men, Bors boisterous, always joking and laughing with his warriors, huge and fearsome, where Balin was quiet and assured, stern and grim-faced. Both commanders had the respect of the men they led but achieved it by different means. Arthur liked Bors. He kept the men in good spirits and was a brutal fighter. Balin was ever thoughtful, and there was a sureness and trust to be found in his calmness, and Arthur had seen Balin’s ruthless savagery at first hand. Ector, whom Arthur had grown up following and learning from, was a great warrior. Ector’s skill with spear, sword and shield was incomparable, and Ector was also a fair man, even gentle when necessary. Men will follow courage, Bors had said, and Arthur supposed that was true. Ector, Bors and Balin all had that in common. They were different men, but each an effective leader in his own way.
Balin led the march, for Bernicia’s hills and dales had once belonged to him and his disposed band of black cloaks, and he knew the knolls, streams, caves, hedges and trees like the veins upon the back of his hand. It must be strange, Arthur thought, to wander a land where your ancestors had lived for generations beyond count, before the Rome-folk came, before men could remember, and travel through it like a hunted man. The Gododdin men grumbled at following the black cloak’s leader until Bors slapped a few heads, and then his warriors followed without complaint. The black cloaks marched silently, grim-faced and determined, each man a reflection of their commander. The Gododdin men were rowdy. A loud fart brought peals of laughter. They told endless riddles, stories of brave deeds, and Arthur heard at least a dozen barbs from one warrior to another about the promiscuity or weight of the man’s mother. Merlin marched at the column’s rear, locked in debate with the intriguing Nimue. She walked free of bonds, her head held high and proud. Her hair was no longer spiked but flowed behind her like a raven’s wing. The warriors eyed her broad hips and chest hungrily, but only when she was not looking, for Nimue’s snarl was a terrible thing to behold, and all men feared her ability to turn their manhood to a shrivelled worm, to blight their bowels or curse them with black luck.
The column stopped for a midday rest, and men ate dried meat, cheese, and drank ale. Merlin strode alone to a hilltop which, he said, had once contained one of the tall druidic stones which littered Briton’s high places. The Romans had removed many of such stones of power during their attempts to drive the druids from Briton, and so had the Christians who were ever resentful of the old gods. Nimue sat alone and Arthur went to her with his skin of ale. Kai grabbed Arthur’s arm to warn him to leave her alone, but Arthur shook him off. He wanted to know about her. If the great Merlin learned from her knowledge, how could Arthur pass up a chance to talk with her and perhaps learn something for himself?
Nimue watched his approach, her dark eyes as deep and mysterious as the black pool where they had first met Bors and the men of Gododdin. She still wore the strange paint upon her face, but as Arthur drew closer, he noticed it was as dry and cracked as a dried-up riverbed. Nimue rose to meet him, and the strange charms about her neck jangled. Arthur held the skin of ale out towards her, and Nimue’s head tilted to one side as she looked him up and down.
‘Ale,’ Arthur said slowly, and brought the drink slowly to his own lips to show her what it was.
‘I know what it is,’ she said in his language, her voice heavily accented and as silky as an otter’s back. ‘You are the boy of no kingdom.’
Arthur nodded, and she took the skin. He frowned at her, surprised that she knew who he was, and Nimue cocked an eyebrow. She smiled, and there were glistening stones set into her teeth, tiny rocks which shone like the stars, and Arthur wondered at this woman of such strangeness and power.
‘Can you really turn men into toads or turn women’s wombs to ash?’ The moment the question left Arthur’s lips, it embarrassed him. He had so much to ask her, but what tumbled out of his mouth was clumsy and not what he intended.
‘Would you like to be a toad?’ Nimue said with an evil smirk. ‘I cannot change you into any animal, young warrior. But I could put you under my spell. I could speak into your eyes and make you think and dream whatever I wish. I can make a man love a woman, poison a womb, or kill a king with a tainted draught. There is magic in the world, but not what you common folk believe it to be. There is a spear in Frankia which is said to have pierced the body of the nailed god and whoever wields it can never be defeated in battle. Did the god’s blood make it so, or is it the belief of the warriors who fight beneath its banner that makes it so? Men will believe the impossible if they wish to, or if a sorcerer can make them believe it.’
Her words surged in Arthur’s mind, and he wondered at what she meant. Did she mean that magic was real, or that a druid or volva’s power was based around the belief and weakness of men? Such things were too deep to contemplate, so Arthur pressed her on simpler matters.
‘Where did you learn magic?’ he asked.
‘Merlin told me of you,’ she said, ignoring his question. ‘That it was your plan which laid my war band low. Men think war is about strength and skill with weapons, but men are fools. War is about cunning and trickery, about preparation, understanding the lay of the land, and knowing when to fight and when to retreat.’
‘Then why did you charge?’
Nimue laughed and shrugged. ‘I was not the commander of those men, I was merely their seeress, their volva. I used my seidr to bring them luck, that is all.’
‘I hope you bring your next war band better luck,’ said Arthur, and she frowned at him. Nimue spoke too confidently, as though she had won the skirmish rather than lost it, and that rankled Arthur. Had it not been for Merlin’s protection, then her fate would surely have been terrible.
‘The Saxons are not my people, young warrior. They took me from my people and made me their slave. But they taught me things, and I know their gods and what they want. I know what Ida and Octha desire and I know what Merlin wants. What do you know, young warrior who thinks to scold me with hard words?’
‘What do the Saxons want?’
‘Everything.’ She threw her head back and laughed at that. ‘They want your land, your women, your wealth and your future. They want to drive you Britons into the western sea or to Annwn, and their gods imbue them with the strength to do it.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not? The men who come here are nothing in their own lands, they are warlords and captains of mud huts and thin soil, here they can make themselves kings of rich land and all they have to do is kill a few weak Britons who cannot even unite as one people. You are Bernicians, men of Rheged, Elmet, Kent, Gododdin and Powys, and each of your chieftains hates the other, so the Saxons will defeat you one at a time and take everything you have until the memory of your people is as ruined as your old gods. Already they bring their women, children and their elderly to your shores. This land we walk upon now is theirs. The names of these hills are no longer in your tongue. The spirits of the forests, springs and marshes are Saxon spirits. Your world is crumbling around you like rotten timber, taken from your people by iron will and belief in powerful gods.’
