'Lady, when Arthur fights it is a song of praise to the God that made him. Watch him now. You will see a rare and holy sight.'
Conaire, sitting opposite me on the other side of Gwenhwyvar, heard our talk, and turned his face to me. 'If he is such a fierce warrior,' he scoffed, 'why do we sit here waiting for the foemen to overwhelm us? A true warrior would meet their attack.'
'If you doubt him,' I said, 'then by all means join the host of vanquished Saecsen who thought they knew something of war. Join the Angli and Jutes, and Frisians and Picti who belittled the Bear of Britain. Speak to them of your superior wisdom – if you can find any who will hear you.'
Closer and closer the enemy came. Only a few hundred paces separated us from them now. I could see their faces, black hair streaming, mouths agape in savage howls.
'How long must we wait?' demanded Conaire loudly. Some of the Irishmen muttered agreement with their lord. 'Let us strike!'
'Hold!' countered Arthur. 'Hold, men! Let them come. Let them come.'
Llenlleawg, sitting at Arthur's right hand in the front rank, turned in the saddle to face Conaire. 'Shut your mouth!' he hissed. 'You are scaring the horses.'
Fergus, at Arthur's left hand, laughed, and the Irish king subsided with an angry splutter.
The enemy fully expected us to charge them. They were prepared for that. But they were not prepared for us to stand waiting. The nearer they came, the more time they had to think what was to happen to them, and the more their fear mounted within them.
'Hold!' Arthur called. 'Stand your ground.' The Vandali reached our outflung wings. As Arthur anticipated, they did not know what to make of the wings and so ignored them in their drive to take the centre.
I could almost see what they were thinking – it showed in their faces. Surely now, they were thinking, the Bear of Britain will make his attack – and then we will swarm him and pull him down. But no. He waits. Why does he delay? Does he fear us?
They rushed past the wings and surged on in a wave. Closer, and yet closer. I could see the sweat on their shoulders and arms; I could see the sun-glint in their black eyes.
I felt a thin trail of fear snake through my inward parts. Had Arthur misjudged the moment? Great Light, there were so many!
And then Arthur raises his sword. Caledvwlch shimmers in his upraised hand. He leans forward in the saddle.
Still, he hesitates.
The Vandal enemy is wary. Even in their greedy rush they are watching. They know he must charge. They brace themselves for the command, but it does not come. They are drawing swiftly closer, but the command does not come.
Why does he delay? Why does he hesitate?
I can see the doubt in their eyes. They are almost upon us, but Arthur has made no move. The sword hovers in the air, but it does not fall. Why does he delay?
The enemy falters. All eyes are on Arthur now.
It is a slight alteration of gait, a small misgiving. Their step is now uncertain. Doubt has seized them in its coils. They waver.
This is what Arthur has been waiting for.
Caledvwlch falls. Like fire from heaven it falls.
Hesitation ripples through the enemy forerank, passing backward through the floodtide.
The signal is given and the enemy braces for the impact. Still, we do not charge. We make no move towards them. Confusion. Bewilderment. The signal has been given, but no attack comes. What is happening? What does it mean?
Oh, but the trap is sprung. They do not see it. Their doom has come upon them and they do not know it.
Cai slashes in from the right. Bedwyr on the left thrusts forward. The two wings are now jaws with teeth of steel snapping shut. The outwitted barbarians turn to meet the unexpected attack and are instantly divided. Half turn one way and half another.
The centre is exposed.
This time there is no hesitation. Caledvwlch flashes up and down in the same swift instant. And then we are racing forward, flying into the soft belly the enemy host has revealed.
The hooves of the horses bite deep, flinging turf into the air. We shout. The Vandal host hears the cry of our warriors. It is the ancient war cry of the Celt: a shout of defiance and scorn. It is a strong weapon.
And we are flying towards them. I feel the wind on my face. I can smell the fear coming off the enemy warriors. I can see the blood throbbing in their necks as they stumble backwards.
The centre collapses. The onrushing Vandal tide is turning. Those in the rear force their way forward even as the forerank folds inward upon itself.
The horse glides beneath me. It undulates slowly and I am pan of its rolling rhythm. I see a barbarian turn to meet me. A black spear rises. The sword in my hand sweeps down and I feel the fleeting resistance as the body before me falls away.
Another enemy appears. He leaps forward, jabbing upward with the spear. My blade slashes and the man spins away, clutching his head. I hear his scream and suddenly the clash of frenzied chaos around me slows, dwindling down and down to the barest movement, languid and listless and slow. My vision grows hard-edged and keen as the battle awen seizes me.
I look and see the battlefield spread before me, the enemy upon it moving as if in a torpor. Their hands swing in lazy, languid strokes; the spearblades edge cautiously through the air. The Vandal faces are rigid, their eyes fixed, unblinking; their mouths hang open, teeth bared, tongues lolling.
The battle sound throbs in my head. It is the roar of blood pulsing in my ears. I move into the crush and feel the heat of striving bodies; my arm strokes out its easy cadence; my dazzling blade sings out an unearthly melody. I smell the sick-sweet smell of blood. After long absence, I am Myrddin the Warrior King once more.
NINE
I move like a storm-driven ship through the tide. Enemy rise before me – a massive sea-swell of warrior-flesh breaking upon the sharp prow of my blade. I hew with fatal and unforgiving accuracy, death falling swiftly as my unswerving sword. Blood mist gathers before my eyes, crimson and hot. I sail on, heedless of the tempest-waves of foe.
Up and up they rise, and down and down they fall. Death rakes them into heaps of twitching corpses before my high-stepping steed. The spears of the enemy seek me; I have merely to judge the angle of thrust to turn aside their feeble jabs. Every stroke follows a leisurely contemplation in which my mind traces the arc of each movement, and the next and the next. No wasted motion, no effort unrewarded. I kill and kill again.
If death ever wears a human face, this day its face is mine.
The barbarian foreranks cannot stand before us, nor can they retreat – they are too tight-pressed from behind to give feet to their flight. With Cai and Bedwyr forcing the sides into the centre, and the centre caught between the onrushing horses and their own rear guard still pushing in from behind, the enemy can but stand to our cruel, killing blades.
Eventually, the advance slows, the surge falters, and the tide begins to turn. The foe is flowing away, rear ranks first. The front ranks, feeling the sustaining wall behind give way, fall back. The battleline breaks; the invaders turn and flee the field, leaving their dead and dying heaped upon the earth.
They run screaming, crying their fear and frustration to the unheeding sky. They run in shameful disarray, without thought for their wounded kinsmen. They simply abandon the battleground and all upon it in their flight.
I leap after them, exulting in triumph. My victory song resounds across the plain. The foemen give way before me, stumbling in their haste to save themselves. I drive on and on, lashing my horse to speed.
And then Arthur is beside me, his hand on my sword arm. 'Peace! Myrddin! Stop – it is over. The battle is finished.'
At his touch, I came to myself. The battle frenzy left me. I felt suddenly weak, drained, my chest hollow; my head throbbed, and I heard a sound like the echo of a mighty shout receding into the heavens, or perhaps into realms beyond this world.