Clash of Kings (21 page)

The snake was small and brilliant in the autumn light, but cold, irritable and frightened too, with a great creature blotting out the light of the sun. Fangs exposed and coiled tightly to strike, the viper aimed its head at the muscular legs that reared over it.

Down came the huge hooves. Myrddion gripped the mane with both hands and prayed to the lord of light that he’d not be thrown. Horsa wasn’t so fortunate, and tumbled back over the rump of his terrified horse as it reared once more,before its hooves snapped the back of the reptile like a twig. With Myrddion clinging like a limpet to its mane, the huge beast reared again and again, until the snake was a dull, mashed mess of skin and bone smeared on the hard sod.

With admirable discipline, the Saxons threw themselves from their mounts. One warrior dragged Horsa to safety from under the dangerous hooves of his horse, while another lifted Myrddion off the broad back of the stallion and dumped him unceremoniously out of harm’s way. When the animal finally quietened, Myrddion scuttled back to it and used the reins to draw it away from the battered remains of the snake before carefully checking its legs. He paid particular attention to its knees and hocks, especially where the coarse hair grew in whorls and spirals, as he searched for signs of a puncture wound.

‘Hoi! What’re you at, Demon Seed?’ one of the Saxons bellowed.

‘I’m checking to see if the snake bit Horsa’s mount, because he’d hate to walk,’ Myrddion said quietly.

‘Horsa’s done for,’ the man replied laconically. ‘His leg’s broke.’

‘He’s broken his leg? That won’t kill him. I’ll have a look at it.’

The warrior snorted at Myrddion with derision, as if any boy, demon or otherwise, could be of any help. ‘We all know bad breaks don’t heal, and what use is a warrior who doesn’t walk on two good legs? If he ever walks again, that is.’

‘I’ve been apprenticed to a healer, and I’ve mended dozens of broken bones. A clean break isn’t always dangerous, so I’ll try to help Horsa if you’ll allow me to do so. He’s been nice to me since we left Segontium.’

‘You’re just a boy,’ the captain of Vortigern’s troop muttered, although his pale eyes were speculative under his auburn-brown brows. Myrddion decided that blue eyes were expressive, contrary to popular wisdom that described them as cold and blank. This warrior was examining the boy with a careful, analytical interest that belied all the rumours of Saxon stupidity.

‘I’m supposed to be a demon’s seed, remember?’ Myrddion retorted.

The Saxon spat with disgust and led Myrddion to Horsa, who lay prone on a soft swathe of grass. One leg was turned at an odd angle and Myrddion found himself praying that the bone hadn’t breached the skin. He knew he had insufficient skill to deal with such a complex wound.

Horsa was moaning and cursing in his own language, but Myrddion turned to the Saxon captain. ‘May I have a sharp knife, please?’ he asked. ‘And I need my satchel. Would someone fetch it from the horse?’

The Saxon captain looked suspicious and lowered his red brows aggressively. ‘What purpose requires you to use a knife?’

‘Horsa’s wearing laced leggings that need to be removed if we are to fix the break in his leg. I want to cut the leather thongs that tie them together along the outer leg. It would be far too painful to take the leggings off otherwise.’

The captain took a thin blade out of its narrow leather scabbard and proceeded to cut the lacings down the side of Horsa’s right leg. The two pieces of leather fell apart, and Horsa stopped moaning long enough to try to cover his genitals with his hands. Realising how foolish he looked, he pulled the leathers across to cover his embarrassment.

Myrddion and the red-haired captain both peered down at the affected leg. The apprentice sighed with relief, for although the lower leg was very swollen, the skin was unbroken. The captain reached out one large, freckled hand as if to touch the shiny, reddened flesh.

‘Don’t touch him! You can do serious harm if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing,’ Myrddion yelped, and the captain quickly withdrew his hand as if Horsa’s flesh was about to burst into flames.

‘Here’s your satchel,’ another Saxon muttered as he handed over Myrddion’s bag with the straps untied and the opening gaping wide. ‘I think everything’s still in it.’

Myrddion scrabbled through the contents. A small bottle of henbane seeds lay at the bottom, along with some clean rags, his notes, which he kept in a roughly cased scroll, a small jar of drawing ointment and his quill and ink. As he drew out the scroll case, the Saxons eyed him as if he were mad.

‘I need two stones, one as flat as possible, a beaker and clean water. Boil the water! Then I’ll need at least two large trimmed branches. They must be as straight as possible, and the length of Horsa’s leg from the knee to the ankle. Can you do that for me?’

‘What’s to stop you taking off while we’re playing healer?’

Myrddion rolled his eyes derisively. ‘How far would I get? I’m only half-grown and I don’t know how to ride.’

With much grunting and complaining, the Saxons set to work, using their wicked, two-edged axes to chop down several young saplings and beginning the task of trimming off the excess branches and foliage. The red-haired captain personally sought out a stone that seemed flat enough for Myrddion’s purpose, while the boy hunted for a round piece of granite to use as a pestle. Before the splints were prepared, Myrddion had already begun to grind the henbane seeds into a fine dust, which he tipped into a small beaker of water.

As Myrddion worked, the Saxon captain lowered himself down on his haunches next to him and placed one large and surprisingly well-shaped hand over Myrddion’s as he ground.

‘Horsa is my brother, Demon Seed, and I have been both father and mother to him since we fled Frisia for Denmark when Horsa was nine years old. If you do anything to harm him, you won’t have to worry about Vortigern. Do you understand me?’

‘I understand, sir, but the duty of any healer is to do no harm. I will try to push his broken bone into its proper position and then bind it against a splint to immobilise the limb and keep it straight. This henbane will put your brother to sleep and take away the pain while we work on him.’

The boy was so young and was proposing such a complex process that the captain was dumbfounded. He used his hand to turn up Myrddion’s chin so he could examine the boy’s face.

‘You’re like no boy I’ve ever met, Demon Seed or not,’ the captain murmured after he had peered into Myrddion’s eyes.

‘I’ve never met a Frisian except for Horsa,’ Myrddion replied. ‘So I don’t know if you’re like others of your race. But I know you’re not a proper Saxon.’

‘You’ve a bold tongue about you, boy, I’ll say that for you. Let’s hope you’re as good at your trade as you talk.’

Myrddion nodded and lifted the beaker to Horsa’s lips. Despite his pain, the patient looked doubtfully at the cup.

‘Drink this, Horsa,’ Myrddion said softly. ‘It’s grainy and hasn’t suspended well, but try to get it all down. I know the taste is horrid, but it will put you to sleep so I can set the bone in your leg. You’ll dream and you won’t feel my probing and tugging.’

Horsa stared up at the boy with dumb hope. He had seen the twist in his leg and knew that, untreated, he would always be forced to hobble around on a useless limb. Bravely, he took the beaker and gulped down its contents, then forced himself to scrape out the residue with the side of one finger and swallow the paste that remained on his nail.

‘Good,’ Myrddion encouraged him. ‘Now we’ll wait for the drug to take effect.’

The Saxons brought samples of splints for Myrddion’s approval. By now, the tall, muscular warriors were treating the boy as another man in response to his aura of knowledge. One of the warriors had shaped the sapling’s trunk by splitting the bark and young wood away from one side to create a snug fit along Horsa’s leg. Myrddion nodded with approval and the other Saxons sent woodchips flying as they copied the general shape of the accepted splint.

As soon as Horsa’s head began to nod, the pace of the treatment escalated. Myrddion ordered two of the Saxon’s friends to hold down his shoulders and arms while two others pressed their full weight onto his thighs and good leg. Once Horsa was securely pinioned, Myrddion kneeled at the side of his patient and used his sensitive fingers to find the break.

‘He’s broken the large bone in the lower leg, and the two ends are overlapping each other. I’ll have to pull on his ankle to draw them apart, and then reposition them so the bone can knit together. But I won’t have the strength to do it by myself.’ Turning, he examined his scroll that was unrolled on the ground, then pointed to the captain of the guard. ‘As Horsa’s brother, you must do exactly what I say. Please? I know I’m just a boy, but Horsa needs you to listen to me. I want you to sit at his feet, grip his broken leg by the ankle and pull back steadily towards your chest. I’ll guide the two broken ends together once we have pulled them apart and separated them. You’ll hurt him and he’ll be in some pain, but better a little hurt now than a lifetime as a cripple.’

Rather pale, the captain did as he was told, and Horsa began to thrash his limbs and scream thinly, even through the soporific effects of the henbane.

‘Ram a stick between his teeth if you can do so without losing a finger,’ Myrddion instructed a watching Saxon as calmly as he could. ‘But don’t let him move.’

Amazingly, the Saxon warrior obeyed the boy’s commanding voice.

Myrddion acted quickly, his fingers beginning to probe the site of the break. Exerting all the pressure that his growing fingers could muster, he manoeuvred the bones, praying that his strength was sufficient to complete the task.

Just when he thought they had failed, he felt the two edges of the bone slide together, the ragged edges grinding sickeningly against each other until they locked in position. Horsa had lapsed into unconsciousness at the most painful part of the operation, and Myrddion sighed with relief as one of the men placed the finished splints close to his hand.

Myrddion bound the leg at the site of the break, hoping to brace and protect the skin. Then, as quickly as possible, with the assistance of the Saxon captain, the splints were bound around the leg to immobilise it. Only when his task was finished did Myrddion allow himself the luxury of taking a deep, shuddering breath.

‘Can Horsa ride when he wakes?’ the captain asked.

‘No, definitely not. Any untoward movement can dislodge the bones again. Next time, we might not be so lucky,’ Myrddion replied tersely, although he could see the captain reverting to his position as uncontested, autocratic leader of the troop now that the emergency had passed.

‘Alric, ride to the nearest village and order a cart to collect Horsa. Once he can travel, take him back to Forden. We’ll ride on with the Demon Seed to King Vortigern.’

As far as the boy could see, the only advantage he had gained was a horse to call his own.

As Myrddion held out his hands to be bound once more, his packed satchel carefully placed over his shoulder, Horsa woke and saw his bound and splinted leg, although he was still groggy and his eyes were heavy-lidded.

‘Boy! Come here!’ he called, and the captain permitted Myrddion to kneel beside his patient. ‘Will I walk properly again? Will I remain a warrior?’

Myrddion gazed into Horsa’s pale eyes and saw the terror hiding like a huge shadow behind the young man’s flimsy facade of courage. The boy understood, for a cripple lived off the pity and charity of more fortunate men.

‘As long as you are prepared to stay off your leg for at least six weeks, the bone will knit together and you will be strong again.’

The young Saxon winced and his eyes clouded.

‘I swear to you, Horsa. Your leg will heal if you follow my instructions and take care. The skin was not breached, although your leggings might never be the same again.’

Horsa laughed, then quickly sobered. ‘May the gods bless you, Demon Seed, if such you be. And when I stand on my two good legs again, I will bless the boy who saved me. I will pray to Loki that you might undo King Vortigern’s sorcerers, for only the trickster god can save you from Vortigern’s intent.’

The red-haired captain tossed Myrddion onto the broad back of Horsa’s stallion, while a warrior held the huge beast by its reins. Myrddion looked down at Horsa and the warrior who was remaining with him, and the young healer’s face was stern and serious.

‘I doubt that we’ll ever meet again, Horsa. But if we do, we will always be on opposing sides. That is a pity, because I admire you and I hope that you’ll recover – even if time decrees that one of us may kill the other. I see you’re smiling at my words, for we both know that King Vortigern intends to kill me.’ He shrugged like the child he was. ‘You must think I’m talking nonsense.’

‘I hope all goes well for you, Demon Seed.’

‘My name is Myrddion, named for the sun, the lord of light.’

‘Then I hope that you are right, Lord of Light.’

Myrddion broke the serious tone of the farewell by giggling at Horsa’s address and waving childishly as the warrior at the stallion’s head arranged the boy’s bound hands in its white mane. The Frisian captain kicked his mount’s ribs and the small cavalcade moved out onto the path leading into the barren hills.

‘We’ve lost hours of time and Vortigern expects us to arrive at Dinas Emrys by noon tomorrow,’ the captain muttered, as he lashed his horse’s flanks and the beast leaped forward. ‘We’ll be forced to ride through the night.’

As the afternoon descended into evening, Myrddion was seduced by the beauty of a moon that rose like a large, perfect pearl out of a grey-edged nest of cloud. Its soft, luminous glow touched the mountains, the helmets of the Saxons and the bronze plates on their leather cuirasses with a gentle, opalescent sheen. Myrddion recognised the beauty that existed in their armour, even in their wild beards, stern profiles and heavily muscled arms. These men were fashioned for war, but they weren’t animals. Like the warriors who came from Dyfed or Gwynedd, they were also capable of love, honour and gratitude, as are all men who fight for their coin.