‘Arthur,’ Nimue hissed, the shining stones glittering in her teeth as she flashed a malevolent grin. Nimue unslung the pack from her back, and Arthur recoiled as she drew from it a yellowed skull painted with dark swirls and strange symbols. ‘Remember, you have Excalibur’s power, and I will cast a spell of speed and strength to imbue your limbs with the strength of the gods.’ She capered to the hall’s rear, her eyes rolling in her head as she chanted dark words in a language Arthur did not understand. Nimue stroked her hand around the skull, fingernails scratching over its draíocht cailleach, its Irish witch-magic. Uther’s priest roared and spat towards Nimue, and folk around her scuttled away from Nimue’s dark power. The priest shrieked in protest again, but Uther ignored him, his one eye fixed on Mynog who advanced to the centre of the great hall, making huge sweeps with his longsword.
Arthur shook off his cloak and drew Excalibur from its scabbard, the hilt and shining edge scraping upon its iron throat. The blade shimmered in the sunlight and the grip felt warm and comfortable in his hand. Arthur touched Igraine’s disc with his left hand and then lowered it to touch Guinevere’s pin at his belt. He closed his eyes for a moment and prayed for luck, to the old gods and the new. Mynog was an enormous man with bright blue eyes and his muscles shifted beneath his skin like trees in the wind as his sword hissed through the air, waiting for Arthur like a caged animal. Arthur reached behind him and checked that his antler-hilted seax sat in its sheath, and it was there, flat and secure across the small of his back. His heart pounded in his chest, and Arthur did his best to ignore the churning twist of fear in his guts. He suddenly needed to piss, and his mouth was as dry as old bones. Arthur gripped Excalibur in both hands and advanced. He had always loved the feel and balance of a sword, preferring it to spear, knife or bow. As a child, he had practised endlessly with Huell’s wooden training swords, exhausting himself with lunge, cut, parry and the combinations Ector and Huell had drilled into him and Kai from the time they could stand.
‘Fight!’ Uther bellowed from his throne. Mynog roared again, and the men in the hall cheered their hero. Uther’s warriors banged their spears against their shields as one to create a throbbing, drumming sound.
Nimue’s undulating chants filled Arthur’s head. He had the sword and his lucky charms, and Arthur hoped that would be enough to help him defeat Uther’s monstrous warrior. To lose meant not only his and Nimue’s death, but losing two hundred Dumnonian spearmen. Balin would leave Dumnonia without the Pendragon’s support, and they needed the Pendragon’s banner to gather men from the rest of Britain. So Arthur clenched his teeth and braced himself to fight in single combat for the first time. As he drew closer to his adversary, Arthur was surprised to find himself as tall as Mynog, their eyes on the same level which gave him a burst of confidence. Across the hall the bare-chested man had seemed hugely tall and broad, but up close they were of similar size, though the Boar was much broader across chest and shoulder. Arthur rolled his shoulders and flexed his hands around the sword’s grip, loosening himself, trying to shift into a state of calm readiness.
Mynog darted forward with a quickness belying his vast frame, his sword lashed out point first, aiming to tear out Arthur’s throat and end the fight quickly in one wicked lunge. Arthur stood firm and parried the strike with the flat of Excalibur’s blade. The two swords rang together like a bell causing the people in the hall to gasp in awe at the sound. Mynog held his sword there, pushing against Excalibur, testing Arthur’s strength. The stink of his sweat filled Arthur’s nose along with a wash of rank, cheese-stinking breath, and he heaved back against the muscular man’s strength. It was like pushing against a horse, but Arthur held him, the two men straining against each other, muscles tense and faces grimacing.
Mynog snarled, and followed the lunge with his elbow. Arthur barely ducked beneath the blow, turning as he came up so that he could dance away from his foe. Mynog kept moving, spinning on his heel to bring his mighty sword around in a great sweep to cut Arthur’s head from his shoulders. Arthur ducked again, and the blade sang over his head. It came so close to his skull that the force of its passing ruffled his hair. Mynog drove his knee into Arthur’s chest, throwing him from his feet. Arthur’s boots slid on the floor tiles as he gasped for air, the pain in his chest like a hammer blow.
The Boar came on again, swinging his sword overhand with a mighty roar as though he meant to cut Arthur in two with one terrible stroke. Arthur brought Excalibur up and caught the sword on the downward stroke. He winced as the blades came together, fearing for Excalibur’s sharp edge. Mynog leant on his sword, his chest and shoulders over the hilt, trying to drive Arthur’s sword down. Spears beat on shields, mixing with Nimue’s other-worldly Irish dirge to fill the hall with blood-curdling death music. Arthur grimaced, the muscles in his shoulders and arms burning as he desperately tried to hold the warrior’s bulk above him. The longsword pressed close to within a handsbreadth of Arthur’s face, but he held the big man through gritted teeth.
Suddenly, Mynog whipped his sword away and punched Arthur in the face with the buckler fixed to his left arm. The iron smashed into the side of Arthur’s head, making his skull ring and his ear burn with pain. He fell, and Mynog kicked him savagely in the stomach. Air whooshed from Arthur. He rolled away, dizzy and gasping for air. Mynog tried to stamp on Arthur’s head, but the boot crashed into the floor tiles barely a finger’s width from Arthur’s eyes. Arthur tried to scramble to his feet, but his opponent grabbed a fistful of Arthur’s hair and tossed him across the hall like an old rag.
Arthur landed at Balin’s boots, his scalp burning like fire, and Balin hauled him to his feet.
‘Use your speed,’ Balin hissed into his ear. ‘You don’t need Nimue’s charms, or Merlin’s sword. I have seen you fight, lad. You can beat this man. He’s a brute, over-reliant on his strength. Be fast and sure and be brutal. No mercy.’
Air filled Arthur’s lungs. He nodded at Balin, standing straight and setting himself to resume the fight. Mynog marched around the hall as though he had already won, his sword aloft, basking in the adulation from Uther and his warriors. Arthur returned to the hall’s centre, pain ringing in his head and body, but Balin’s words were clear and hard in his mind. Brutal. No mercy. Just as Ector had taught him, just as battle with the Saxons had taught him. So far, he had tried to fend off Mynog’s attacks rather than trying to kill the muscled warrior. Arthur took a deep breath. He was as tall as Mynog, and had killed men in battle. He was a warrior. If he wanted to lead men into war, he had to kill the Boar and wash Uther’s hall in his blood. It must be so, for Arthur’s life, and for the fate of Britain.
Arthur ran at Mynog the Boar and unleashed a flurry of cuts and slashes. Mynog fell back, catching the first two of Arthur’s blows on his sword and then a third on his iron buckler. Arthur realised he was screaming incoherently, that he had given himself over completely to war-rage. Mynog tried to grab Arthur’s mail with his left hand and Arthur laid open the forearm with Excalibur’s tip so that bright blood spattered the tiny floor tiles for the first time since the fight had begun. Mynog cried out and Arthur leapt away from a wild sword swing and danced around the Boar, slashing his blade along Mynog’s bare back to open a wide cut.
The Dumnonians in the hall groaned as Mynog staggered and crimson blood flowed from his back and arm. Grimacing in pain, he swung again at Arthur, but his wounds had weakened him. Arthur swiftly stepped in and used all his strength to parry Mynog’s sword with Excalibur’s blade close to the hilt. The two swords rang again, but this time, Mynog lost his grip and his sword skittered across the tiles. The Boar stepped back, stiffened, mastering his desperation, and gestured for Arthur to let him retrieve his blade. It was the honourable thing to do, to let Mynog rest for a moment and recover his fallen sword so that they might resume their fight on an equal footing. But Arthur had been kind before, had shown mercy to Redwulf the Saxon, and it had cost men’s lives. Arthur shook his head and Mynog’s face dropped as he saw the implacable, ruthless look in Arthur’s eyes.
In a last, desperate attack, Mynog threw himself at Arthur, screaming like a madman. He dived underneath Excalibur and crashed into Arthur, driving his shoulder into Arthur’s chest, shoving him backwards. Fists hammered into Arthur’s sides. A massive hand came up to claw at his face. Arthur kicked Mynog in the groin, but the muscled man grabbed his sword arm and savagely twisted Excalibur from his grip with a triumphant cry.
Time slowed, death was close, hanging over the fighters with evil intent. Arthur let go of the sword. His heart drummed in his ears in time with the thumping shields but slowed to a dull echo. Arthur reached behind his back and whipped his seax from his sheath. Mynog rose, his face grinning with impending victory as he tried to bring Excalibur around to strike at Arthur. Arthur snarled, grabbed Mynog’s ear with his left hand and ripped his head back, tearing the ear from Mynog’s skull and in one quick, savage movement, Arthur thrust upward with the seax in his right fist. The wicked, long knife slid up the Boar’s blood-soaked belly, its broken-backed blade sleek like a pike in a surging river. Arthur drove the point into the soft skin beneath Mynog’s chin. It punched through his beard, slicing through skin, gristle and up into the Boar’s mouth. The seax cut through Mynog’s tongue, and the warrior stiffened, blue eyes staring with horror into Arthur’s face. Arthur grunted, grabbed the antler hilt with both hands, and ripped the weapon sideways. He tore Mynog’s jaw from his face. Teeth and jawbone skittered across the fine Roman floor tiles like pebbles and Mynog fell to the ground, quivering as he died. Blood pulsed from the ruined face to form a dark pool, and the men in the hall turned away from the horrific death blow.
Arthur slid his seax back into its sheath and plucked his sword from Mynog’s dead fist.
‘I am Arthur, a warrior of Britain,’ Arthur roared, his voice louder and more confident than it had ever been. ‘I am a killer, a warlord, and I hunt Saxons. I go to war, and King Uther Pendragon vowed to give me two hundred spearmen if I killed Mynog the Boar. The Boar is dead, and I will march north with three hundred Dumnonian warriors, not two. Dumnonia has the finest, most feared warriors in all Britain. If we march with your dragon banner, the rest of Britain will follow. I kill for Merlin, for our people and for Britain.’
Arthur stalked around the hall, letting Uther’s court drink in his blood-spattered mail and his bloody sword blade. Nimue’s chanting ceased. She held the skull up high and hissed at Uther’s priest, who cowered behind the great king’s throne.
‘Everybody out,’ Uther growled, and the courtiers, the priest and the king’s warriors all marched out of the old Roman building. ‘Not you, warrior,’ Uther said to Arthur as he turned to follow Nimue and Balin out of the door.
Arthur faced Uther Pendragon, he slid Excalibur back into its black fleece-lined scabbard and stood straight, despite the throbbing pain in his head and body. Imbued with confidence from the brutal fight, Arthur met the old king’s flat, one-eyed stare.
‘Mynog was a great warrior,’ Uther said wistfully, staring up at the high windows from which light flooded the hall. ‘We shall miss his sword.’
‘And now he is dead,’ Arthur replied, puzzled at the king’s melancholy because it was he who had suggested single combat.
‘There had to be a test, young warrior. Your worth had to be proven if my men are to follow you into battle.’
‘So, you will send men north to fight the Saxons?’
‘You shall have the three hundred you asked for, Arthur of Britain, which is a hundred more than promised. Two hundred are mustered in a field beyond Durnovaria, I will add one hundred more and my man Malegant will lead them.’
‘If the warriors are already here, then…’
‘Merlin came to me and spoke of the Saxon threat, so I ordered my spearmen to prepare for war three days ago.’
‘But Mynog?’
‘Had to die so that you could prove your worth.’
‘What if he had killed me?’
‘Then you would be dead, and Malegant would march north with Balin of the Two Swords. I am the Pendragon, and if Saxons threaten our kingdoms, I must send men to fight, or the other kings will challenge my authority, and another will seek to become the king of kings. Now men know you are the slayer of Mynog the Boar, and you have their respect. Such is the world of men, lad, if you want to be a warlord and men to risk their lives marching into battle under your orders. They must believe in you, they must see your strength. Now, you have the sword, the witch, the warriors and the reputation.’
Arthur sighed and was suddenly exhausted after the fight. His mail was heavy about his shoulders and his arms ached from matching the Boar’s enormous strength. He could have died in Uther’s Roman hall, but Mynog was dead, and for a fleeting moment Arthur wondered if the warrior had a wife, children or a mother who would mourn for him. He swallowed those hard thoughts like a wolf eating a lamb, because there was no place in the world for such sentiment. Mynog would have snatched Arthur’s life away without pity and danced on his corpse, so Arthur forced himself to accept the man’s death as a necessity. Mynog knew the risks when he picked up the sword, and Arthur doubted Mynog the Boar gave a care for any of the men he had killed in such fights for Uther before.
‘I thank you for the lesson, for the opportunity of reputation, and for your men.’ Arthur bowed and pressed his fist to his chest in salute.
‘Where did you get that?’ asked Uther, rising slowly from his throne like a bear from its winter sleep. His finger pointed at Arthur’s chest, and he glanced down to see the bronze disc had slipped out from behind the leather tunic which sat beneath his mail during the fight. Arthur rubbed his thumb over the metal charm and its dragon.
‘It was a gift, lord king.’
‘A gift from who?’ Uther limped down from the raised platform, his one eye glassy and his bottom lip quivering.
‘From Queen Igraine of Rheged, my lord. She gave it to me before she died.’
‘She is dead?’ Uther stumbled as though hit by a blow, and Arthur caught the old king’s arm to steady him and helped the immense man sit on the lip of his throne’s platform.
‘She died this summer, lord, though she had been ill for a long time.’
‘I did not know.’ Uther stared off into the distance, as though he tried to catch hold of a distant memory lost to the mists of time. ‘Did you know her?’
