Pendragon

'Myrddin?' Arthur gazed at me, concern and curiosity sharp in his ice-blue eyes.

'Pay me no heed. I am well.'

'Stay here,' he ordered, urging his horse away. 'The pursuit is outpacing us. I must call the warriors back.'

'Go,' I told him. 'I will remain behind.'

Our warriors gave chase as far as the stream. But there Arthur called off the pursuit lest the enemy regroup and surround us. Then he returned to the blood-soaked battleground to deal with the wounded and dying barbarians.

'What should we do with them, Bear?' asked Bedwyr. He was scratched and bleeding in several places, but whole.

Arthur gazed across the corpse-strewn field. Crows and other carrion birds were already gathering, their raw calls foretelling a grisly feast.

'Artos?' Bedwyr asked again. 'The wounded – what will

you have us do?' -.,s

'Put them to the sword.'

'Kill them?' Cai raised his head in surprise.

'For the love of Christ, Arthur,' Bedwyr began. 'We cannot-'

'Do it!' Arthur snapped, turning away.

Cai and Bedwyr regarded one another with grim reluctance. Conaire saved them from having to carry out Arthur's order. 'I will do the deed, and gladly,' the Irish lord volunteered. He called his chieftains together and they began moving among the fallen. A sharp blade-thrust here, a short chop there, and silence soon claimed the battleground.

'Sure, it is a hateful thing,' Cai observed sourly, rubbing the sweat and blood from his face with his sleeve.

'Their own kinsmen would do the same,' I reminded him. 'And they expect no less. Better a quick, painless end than lingering agony.'

Bedwyr gave me a darkly disapproving look and stalked off.

Quickly gathering up our own wounded – our losses were uncommonly light – we left the field and returned to Conaire's stronghold. My head still ached with the beating throb of the battle frenzy, and every jolt of the horse sent a spasm through me. Gwenhwyvar's voice stirred me from my self-absorbed regard.

'Did you see him?' she asked, her voice low.

'Who?' I wondered without looking up.

'It was very like you said,' she replied. 'But I could not have imagined it would be so… so splendid.'

I turned my head, wincing at the pain. Gwenhwyvar was not looking at me, but at Arthur a little distance ahead. Her skin was glowing with the sheen of exertion, and her eyes were alight.

'No, I did not see him,' I told her simply.

Her lips curled with the hint of a smile, and she said, 'I do not wonder that men follow him so readily. He is a wonder, Myrddin. He must have killed three score in as many strokes. I have never seen the like. The way he moves through battle – it is as if he were tracing the steps of a dance.'

'Oh, yes. It is a dance he knows well.'

'And Caledvwlch!' she continued. 'I believe it is as sharp now as when the battle began. My blade is notched and bent as a stick, but his is fresh still. How is it possible?'

'The weapon is not called Caledvwlch for nothing,' I told her. She looked at me at last, but only to see if I were mocking her; she turned her gaze to Arthur once more, repeating the word softly. 'It means Cut Steel,' I added. 'It was given him by the Lady of the Lake.'

'Charis?' she asked.

'None other,' I replied. 'My mother may have given him the sword, but the way he uses it, his uncanny skill – that is his own.'

'I have seen Llenlleawg fight,' Gwenhwyvar reflected. 'When the battle frenzy comes upon him, no one can stand against him.'

'Well I know it,' I replied, recalling the Irish champion's

extraordinary ability to turn himself into a fighting whirlwind.

'The battle frenzy grips him and Llenlleawg loses himself,' she continued. 'But with Arthur I think it must be the other way: he finds himself.'

I commended her perception. 'A most astute observation, lady. In truth, Arthur is revealed in battle.'

She fell silent then, but the love and admiration in her gaze increased. It is the way of women sometimes, when the man they know so well surprises them, to exult in their discovery and cherish it. Gwenhwyvar hoarded her discovery like a treasure.

We rested through the day, delivering ourselves to the care of those who had remained at Rath Mor. We ate and slept, and roused ourselves at dusk to celebrate the victory we had been granted. By then men were thirsty and hungry, and wanting to hear their feats lauded in song. We ate and drank, and listened while Conaire's bards vaunted the achievements of the warriors, praising one and all with high-sounding words. Cai, Bedwyr, and Arthur were mentioned, of course; but among the kings involved, Conaire shone like a sun among so many lesser lights, though his part in the battle was actually quite small.

This chafed the Britons. 'Are we to sit here and listen to this uncouth noise?' Cai demanded. The third bard had just launched into a lengthy retelling of the battle in which the Irishmen featured most prominently, and the British received no mention. 'They are telling it all wrong, Myrddin.'

'They only praise their king,' I replied. 'He is the one who feeds them.'

'Well, they praise him too highly,' Bedwyr put in. 'And that is not right.'

'They steal the High King's glory and dish it out to Conaire and his brood,' Llenlleawg complained. 'Do something, Lord Emrys.'

'What would you have me do? It is Conaire's right. They are his bards and this is his caer, after all.'

The three desisted then, but maintained an aggrieved and peevish silence. Thus it did not surprise me greatly when, as soon as the bard finished his laudatory song, a shout went up from Cai.

'Friends!' he said, leaping to his feet. 'We have enjoyed the singing of Irish bards as much as we are able,' he said tactfully. 'But you would think us Britons a tight-fisted and greedy race if we did not tell you that beneath this roof sits one whose gift in song is owned as one of the chief treasures of Ynys Prydein.' He turned and flung out a hand to me. 'And that man is Myrddin ap Taliesin, Chief Bard of Britain.'

'Is this so?' wondered Conaire loudly. He was feeling the heady effects of flattery and drink, and it made him wonderfully expansive. 'Then let us share this treasure you have been hoarding. Sing for us, Bard of Britain! Sing!'

Everyone began pounding on the table and calling for a song. Bedwyr rose and borrowed a harp from the nearest bard; he brought it to me. 'Show them,' he whispered, placing the harp in my hands. 'Show them what a True Bard can do.'

I looked at the instrument, considering what I might sing. I looked at the boisterous throng, red-faced and loud in the clamour of their cups. Such a rare gift should not be wasted on the unworthy, I thought, and passed the harp back to Bedwyr.

'Thank you,' I told him, 'but it is not for me to sing tonight. This celebration belongs to Conaire and it would be wrong for me to diminish the glory he has rightly won.'

Bedwyr scowled. 'Rightly won? Are you mad, Myrddin? If there is any glory this night we have won it, not Conaire.' He offered the harp to me again, and I refused again. 'Earth and sky, Myrddin, you are a stubborn man.'

'Another time, Bedwyr,' I soothed. 'We will have our night. Let it be this way for now.'

Seeing he could not persuade me, Bedwyr desisted, returning the instrument to its owner with a shrug. Cai gave me a look of supreme disapproval, but I ignored him. Since it was clear I would not sing, and since no more songs were forthcoming, the celebration ended and men began drifting off to their sleeping places.

Just before dawn the next morning, Arthur sent Cai and Bedwyr with a small warband to the coast to observe the movements of the Vandal host. We had slept well, and rose to break fast. I observed the haughty confidence of Conaire's warriors – they swaggered and laughed loudly as they sharpened blades and mended straps – and I remarked on it to Arthur. 'Give them one simple victory and they think they have conquered the world.'

He smiled grimly. 'They think it will always be so easy. Still, I will not discourage them. They will learn the truth soon enough.'