Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (25 page)

“Turn!” Arthur yelled, and he pulled his horse until it reared up and to the right.

The chariots nearly collided in front of him, their horses veering to the side just in time. But it was the Saxen warrior who was victorious, for his spear sliced through the shield bearer’s shoulder and then gutted the British warrior with a blow so fierce it came right through his armor.

The shield bearer fell down, clutching his wound while the other convulsed on the spear point.

Arthur tore his gaze away from the carnage just as a Saxen warrior made a jab at him. Almost without thought, he shoved the spear point away with his sword and then kicked the man in the face. Sheathing his sword, Arthur grabbed the man’s spear, turned toward the victorious charioteer, and threw the spear at his chest.

The spear missed.

The man wrenched his own spear from the dead Briton and turned to face Arthur, his lip curled in a snarl. He turned his chariot straight toward Arthur and snapped his reins.

Strength pulsed in Arthur’s limbs as he kicked his horse forward.

The Saxen leveled his spear, the deadly tip vibrating through the air as the horses pounded forward.

Arthur drew his sword, ready to strike, and raised his shield. There was a great crash. Arthur was floating. The sky was white. The clouds dripped blood. Culann’s face appeared, sideways. Dwin’s shouting dimmed in his ears. The neighing of horses. A shock of pain smashed through his upper back. He gasped for air. The hooves of horses slamming the ground next to his head. He had fallen from his saddle!

Casva reared up and then bolted off into the battle.

Arthur tried to stand, but he was dizzy, and sucked in air.

“Get up!” Peredur yelled. The three of them surrounded him, driving back the Saxen and buying Arthur time.

“Stand . . . stand!” he told himself, but his words didn’t avail him. He lay back, breathed, and let warmth return to his limbs. Shakily, he sat up, and when he did so, his hand rested upon his blade, which had fallen next to him.

A man yelled.

He looked up and saw a Saxen duck past Culann’s thrust and dive at him with a short sword. It was aimed at his throat.

He traced his hand back down his own blade, found the hilt, and gripped it. Barely in time, he brought his own blade up.

The warrior impaled himself, dropped his sword, and fell across Arthur’s legs.

Pushing him off, Arthur stood and identified a small hill only a few steps in front of him. Two Saxenow held this high ground, and he rushed them, swinging his blade wildly to get their attention, then changing tactics at the last moment and thrusting its dangerous tip into the closest one’s side. The other fled, allowing Arthur to step up and take stock of his situation.

Casva had galloped away, and everywhere Arthur looked there was swinging and thrusting steel, and the ground was slick with gore as the dead watered their lifeblood upon the parched soil. The line of British warriors rippled, sagged, and cracked all around him. They would push forward only to be driven back, while the charioteers and their men found success and cut deeply into the Saxenow.

And Arthur and his friends had fought themselves into the very heart of the battle, where they were surrounded on all sides by screaming, swinging warriors.

A yell caught his attention, and he turned to see a gilded chariot, along with ten British foot soldiers, drive forward into the ranks of the Saxenow. The rider wore a flowing purple cloak — Vortipor!

Arthur’s heart leapt, but he didn’t know why. Wasn’t this the son of the man who had killed his father? But
Vortipor
hadn’t done it, had he? Arthur had never heard about him. Either way, Vortipor represented all that Arthur aspired to . . . leading men in battle. Bravely fighting the Saxenow. Saving Britain.

Vortipor was tall, yet didn’t impress Arthur as being especially strong, and his peg leg made him unsteady in the chariot. He had brown hair under a tarnished helmet, and upon his throat he wore a thick silver torc. His nose was flat, and his dark eyes darted here and there across the battlefield. He wore his beard long, though thin, and it hung down over a coat of orange-rusted chainmail. His driver was a small man who bent over to keep out of the way, directing the horses as Vortipor yelled instructions.

Vortipor swung a long-poled axe and felled a man on his right, cutting him through the ribs. Another attacked on the left, and Vortipor hammered the man’s face, smashing teeth and sending him into the dust.

Another chariot rushed from the mass of warriors. Its white steeds were slick with sweat and their black lips frothed at the sides where the bits were lodged. The charioteer felled two of Vortipor’s footmen and raced alongside. The Saxenow had gold armbands, the left nearly hidden behind a small, iron-bound shield, and the right flashing as he brandished a long spear. He also had a set of javelins readily available at the front of his chariot, and these rattled in their wicker quiver.

“Horsa!” Vortipor bellowed as he swung his axe at the man. “Withdraw or I’ll cut you down.”

But they were too far apart, and the swing pulled Vortipor off balance on his wooden leg.

Horsa drove his horses closer and jabbed at Vortipor’s bicep, just behind his shield, but the shield turned and blocked the blow.

Dwin and his horse rode forward a little, blocking Arthur’s vision of the combatants.

Saxenow came screaming at Arthur. The first had a scimitar in
one hand, and his other hand was wrapped in a bloody cloth. The second man held two weapons — a short sword and a bludgeon.

Arthur feigned not noticing them, and at the last moment slashed his blade out and sliced them both across their chests.

They fell, screaming and cursing in their throaty tongue.

Leaping over them, he ran out after Vortipor, who had just wheeled his chariot away from the mass of the Saxenow to retreat, only half of his footmen still alive.

But Horsa wasn’t far behind. He set his spear down and pulled out one of the javelins. Throwing his body forward in the chariot, he hurled the sharp, wooden lance at Vortipor.

It struck into the back of Vortipor’s neck, penetrated, and hung out from his throat.

Vortipor’s eyes fluttered and his face contorted. He dropped his axe and grabbed the javelin, slick with his own blood, and fell sideways onto the driver, who collapsed beneath the weight.

The horses slowed to a stop, and a throng of Saxenow ran forward and slew the driver and horses.

Anger welled up in Arthur. Without their champion, the British line would crack, and the Saxenow would have the field of victory.

It must not be!

With Casva gone, Arthur needed a horse, and quickly.

Culann, Dwin, and Peredur fought on, oblivious to the tragedy that had just happened.

Arthur sheathed his blade and ran from them, back to the British line, where he found a horseman riding back and forth with his nose in the air.

“Give me your horse!” Arthur called.

The warrior turned to Arthur and spat on his chest. “Get your own, boy.”

“You don’t understand — ”

“I am Cradelmass, king of Powys, and I will not abide this insubordination.”

Black rage tinged Arthur’s vision. There was no time.

He grabbed the man’s boot and pulled.

“Stop that!” As Cradelmass leaned over to swing a fist, a look of surprise on his face, Arthur leapt up, grabbed his cloak, and jerked him from the horse.

The man fell to the ground, cursing, and yanked Arthur’s sleeve.

Arthur punched the man in the face until he let go.

Grabbing the saddle, he pulled himself up.

There was only one way to avoid a British loss, and that was by killing Horsa.

He rode off into the thick of the Saxenow, blade swinging and yelling his own battle cry.

H
orsa was only twenty paces away, and Arthur kicked his mount faster. Slashing here, stabbing there, he fought his way through, and the enemy fled before him.

Finally within hailing distance, he yelled “Horsa!” and raised his sword in challenge.

The leader of the Saxenow saw him, smiled, and turned his chariot horses widely around until they ran directly toward Arthur.

Arthur’s mount leapt forward, and then stiffened, thrashed, and neighed in a wild scream. A spear had been shoved into its belly, and it fell on its side, throwing Arthur. Earth and sky changed places as Arthur did his best to land on his feet.

But where was his sword? He had lost it in the fall, and couldn’t see it.

Twenty Saxen warriors approached, spears leveled, eleven from the right and nine from the left.

Horsa was riding hard down on him in front.

Far behind him, he heard Peredur’s voice. “Arthur! We’re coming!”

But it was too late. And he would never find his blade in time.

He looked at the Saxenow warriors.

He looked at Horsa grinning beyond the deadly hooves of his horses, white like the faces of Arthur’s dead countrymen. Horsa dropped the tip of his spear, preparing to gut Arthur.

The pounding feet of the Saxen warriors filled his ears. Red, glinting steel played at the edges of his vision as he focused on the white horses.

Arthur dropped his shield, slipped off his boots, and felt the grit of the dry soil on the soles of his feet. His timing would have to be perfect, and he crouched and tensed his muscles.

The white horses pummeled the ground, and unless he moved he would be crushed under their powerful hooves.

One . . . two . . .

Arthur stepped swiftly to the left, turned, and leapt.

A white blur of flesh passed under his hands.

He grabbed and caught hold of the tack, swollen with horse sweat.

His arms were jerked, and the shock of sudden speed made him dizzy, but he held tightly and pulled himself up. His legs hung, floating in air. With his right arm bent and tight, he let the left hand go and reached farther. Finding a side strap, he pulled harder and swung his right leg over the horse.

He was up! Sitting backward to face Horsa in the chariot — but at least he was up.

Horsa roared in anger and jabbed at Arthur with his spear.

With little room to maneuver, and no defense, Arthur kicked his toes into the horse’s flank, and it jumped forward, faster than its companion, jolting and turning the chariot.

Horsa tilted, and the spear missed.

Arthur grabbed the haft with both hands and jerked it forward.

Horsa, taken off guard, accidentally let it slip away.

Holding the spear in the middle for balance, Arthur stood on the back of the white horse. His bare feet gripped the animal’s thick skin, and he tried to remember all that Peredur had taught him — how to relax and lean into the horse’s canter — only here he was backward, and the ground was rocky. Arthur’s right foot slid, and he barely regained his balance. He needed more stability, so he shifted his left foot to the center of the horse and dropped his right over to the other horse. The harness held them close together, and this gave him more balance. But their hides were slick, and he wouldn’t keep the position long.

Horsa reached for one of his javelins and cocked it back. Sweat covered his bare chest and limbs, his blond hair flapped madly in the wind, and fury contorted his face.

Arthur thrust the long spear, and in one swift instant he stabbed Horsa in the chest.

At the same moment, Horsa tried to lunge forward to throw the javelin, plunging the biting tip of the spear even deeper. Dropping the javelin, he tried to recoil from the spear. But Arthur drove it forward, and at the same time the chariot wheel hit a dead warrior laying on the ground.

The chariot bounced up into the air.

Arthur fell toward Horsa, jabbing and twisting the spear until it shoved all the way through.

Horsa screamed, clutched the wound, and collapsed.