For Camelot's Honor (38 page)

“I can.” She climbed unsteadily to her feet. Her body felt wrong. It was too heavy, too huge. Her eyesight was too sharp. She could see everything around her, despite the fact that the brazier was long dead. “Blood may call to blood and blood must hear. And more than that,” she grinned at the mouse king — mouse god? — fierce and mad. “I know his name.”

The mouse wife required nothing more. Without another word, she passed the jar to Elen, who took it in equal silence. She turned and walked into the hall, her heavy skirt dragging across the puddled floor as if it meant to drag her down to drown. She clutched the rough clay jar for dear life, for precious thought, for her talisman and passport from all the eyes and hungry teeth at her back.

In the corridor there was no light to see by, no way to tell which direction she should turn. It didn't matter. She had the lodestone she needed within her.

“Maius,” she said softly. “Maius the Smith. I call you. I am your daughter Elen, and I call you from the darkness.”

And Elen waited for the darkness to answer.

“So,” said King Gwiffert. “Fast as we were, we were not fast enough.”

Geraint and the King stood at the edge of a rough patch of bracken and spindling trees that provided them some little cover. With three nervous boys to attend them, they looked out across the valley floor. A shallow stream cut across the way in front of them, filling the air with its chatter. The birds had all gone silent, except for one wise crow croaking diligently above, letting its comrades know that here were men here dressed for slaughter.

The ragged column of the army was still arriving behind them, waiting in the deeper wood for orders.

Had Geraint been asked to describe a dangerous position to be in for the start of a battle, it would have been very close to the situation before them. The Great King's army had arrayed themselves at the top of the hill that stood across the narrow valley. Scrubby woods stood sentry between their army and the other. Geraint shaded his eyes against the sun and tried to see. They were, at least, not more fully armed. It was hard to count the spears at this distance, but there did not seem to be more than Gwiffert had brought. He saw only a handful of men on horseback, and there was one in a chariot.

This was the Great King. The chariot put him head and shoulders above even the men on horseback. Geraint wished he was closer. He wished to look into the man's eyes and see with what mind he faced the coming battle. What that unnerved Geraint more than knowing nothing of the men at his back was that he also knew nothing about the men he faced.

One thing he could see clearly. There were no grey horses or grey cloaks among Rhyddid's company.

“Where are the Grey Men?” Geraint asked, to hear what Gwiffert would say.

“I don't know,” frowned the Little King. “Could they be circling behind us?”

A good tale.
Geraint nodded “We should send to the outriders and bid them be vigilant.”
And hopefully keep that many more men out of this madness.

The Little King repeated the order to one of the boys who ran at once to see it done. Geraint wondered if the Grey Men might indeed be behind Gwiffert's army, waiting for the word of their master, waiting to see, perhaps, if anyone tried to flee.

It did not matter immediately whether the Grey Men were there or not. They had a more formidable foe to deal with, and that was the land itself. The Great King had picked his place well. The top of the hill, the screen of trees — it was good ground, and it would be foolish to try to fight their way up to them. Worse still, the valley was small and rocky. Their armies would meet on rough and ragged ground without room enough for all their numbers. They would be forced to fight in and out of the trees and up and down the slopes.

Geraint's warrior instincts grew grim and cold at all he saw about him. It occurred to him that the Great King might be hoping that they would become discouraged enough by the lay of the land to parley. A vain hope, given what he surely knew about Gwiffert's nature, but better than trying to stand off a seige in his poor hall.

With an effort, Geraint reminded himself that however bad this was, it played well into his own hand.

Now is the time.
Remembering form, Geraint climbed down from Donatus. One of the remaining boys took the horse's bridle. Geraint knelt before the Little King.

“Sire, I would beg a boon.”

“What boon, Sir Geraint?” A hint of genuine surprise colored the question.

Geraint lifted his head. Gwiffert's face was impassive, but his eyes had narrowed slightly. The hand holding the spear twisted it uneasily. The Little King did not know what was happening and he did not like it. Best to speak quickly. “There is a way to end this before it begins. Let me challenge the Great King to single combat.”

In an honest war, this was commonly done. It was a custom left from the most ancient times. The two champions would meet on the ground between the assembled armies and fight, one against the other, to the death. Once, when it was chief fighting chief, the grievance would be considered settled at the end of the matter. In more recent wars, the armies still clashed, but the side whose champion lost was disheartened, and that much could sometimes turn the tide.

Today, there were other things it might also accomplish.

Above him, the Little King was frowning. Good. He had not considered this possibility, but he was not dismissing it lightly.
You trust your hold over me.
“I do not like it, Sir Geraint. We know his fortifications to be far weaker than we thought, but I have seen him fight, as you have not. He is formidable in ways other than his size.”
And you know you need me. This is good, but what if you will not risk me?

“Sir, the men are tired. They are frightened by the enemy they must face, and I think, the absence of the Grey Men will work upon their nerves almost more than their presence would have. It is the enemy you do not see that is the most on your mind.” He paused, letting that sink into the Little King's thoughts. “They need a good omen,” he went on. “Let me give them one.”

That sparked a smile in the Little King's pale eyes. “Warrior's pride, Geraint?”

“Nonetheless.”
Yes, look at me. Do you see your chance to be rid of me? If he takes my life, you will have a
clean shot at him, and all will be over, and I will have spared you the trouble of murdering me yourself.

For he was fairly certain that once this one enemy was defeated, Gwiffert would have little use for a trained knight among his company. Such men were apt to become bored and discontent when they were not given active employment, and once discontent, they tended to turn on their masters.

“We are in a bad place, Majesty,” said Geraint bluntly. Beside him, the boy holding Donatus looked nervously up the hill. Geraint longed to reassure the lad but it would not do now to show concern for any but Gwiffert. “If we cannot get them down the hill, they will have advantage over us. If I can kill their leader, they may rush us, and we will meet them on level ground.”
There, a truth for you to chew over while you consider my pride.
“It will also give us time to get our men arrayed on the opposing slope. If they can be goaded into giving away their advantage, we gain in every way.” Gwiffert nodded, his lips pursed in judicious consideration. Geraint wondered if he truly cared, if there was the smallest chance that these rebellious men aligned against him would pose any threat after their king was dead. “Even if they do not, they will be less their leader, and that alone would make the risk worth taking.”

At last, the king said, “Very well.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” replied Geraint ferverently.
One victory,
he told himself.
One only. You will need many more before this day is through.

Geraint swung himself back into the saddle. He tried to give the boy an encouraging glance, but the child was looking down at the ground. Geraint touched up Donatus. If the horse the Lady had bestowed possessed any special properties, he had yet to note them, but it was a steady mount, and it walked him unafraid into the open ground and splashed without hesitation across the fresh, silver stream.

How to do this? How to call down the one king in this land who might be a king by heart and blood as well as fist and fear?

How to do it in a manner that did not give him away to the king who waited behind him.

Geraint reined Donatus up short and squared his shoulders. The whole of the Rhyddid's army looked down on him. It would not do to seem afraid.

“I call for the one who styles himself the Great King!” he shouted up the hill. “I Sir Geraint, son of Lot Luwddoc, nephew to Arthur the High King at Camelot, knight of the Round Table, I call you here!”

There was silence, and then a confused ripple of men's voices as in their hundreds they murmured to each other, perhaps cursing him, perhaps wondering what fresh gambit this was.

A man shouted down at him “What would you of the Great King, Sir Geraint?” Probably that was not the king himself. Probably it was some trusted captain. That was one of the dangers. If the Great King would only fight king to king, the remainder of the plan might not work. It was only Gwiffert's rage which would bring the carelessness Geraint needed.

“A challenge, Great King! Your skill against mine. Let us stand before God and let Him judge which of us has the right cause!”

“And why should the Great King fight any such as you?”

Here it was. “Because word of his fame has reached the High King at Caerleon. They say he is such a grand coward he will not risk one hair of his beard in honest battle, but needs must lead his armies from behind! The High King would not stoop to come before such a one himself, so he sent me to find if the tales were true!”
There now, if you are a man that will bring you. And may my uncle forgive me should he ever hear this tale.
He took another deep breath. “Refuse me now and I will know what answer to take him!”

The ripple of voices came over him again. He could hear nothing of what was going on behind him. His hands itched at the uncertainty of it. Were Rhys and Taggart arranging the men as they should be, or were they just hiding in the woods, crouching frozen between their fears of their king and the Grey Men?

I must not let this come to a battle.

On the slope in front of him, the mass of men began to shift ponderously. They parted, making a wide lane, like the Red Sea readying itself for Moses and his people. The Great King's chariot rolled forward. His driver was a slip of a youth, perhaps even a boy still.

“You stand there for your king, Sir Geraint?” called the giant.

“Yes!”
Let the ones who hear this think what they will. It is for my king I stand here. My king, my wife, myself.

“It is as Gwiffert's man you stand here?”

“Yes!”
For that is the part I must play.

“I am sorry for you. He is no master for a brave man!”

Be sorry if you will, but not so reasoned, man.
“Would you speak against my king? Come down here and speak with me as warriors do, or are you great only in the size of your boasts?”
Come down, come down. I am a
true man, not like the other you challenge. You cannot allow your men to see you afraid before me.

The Great King's silence stretched out. Geraint's heart beat heavy in his chest. The cawing crow had been joined by one of its fellows, and together they gossiped, perhaps laying wagers on the fight to come. Donatus stamped and snorted, impatient with all this standing about.

Then, the Great King touched his charioteer's shoulder, and the boy in turn touched up the great brown horses, and slowly, carefully walked them down the hill.

The effect was that of a god descending. Geraint had seen the Great King from a distance, and he had seen another giant up close once, a little more than a year ago. He had thought himself ready for the one named Rhyddid ap Gelyn. But what came to him now was nothing like the phantom that had come seeking Gawain. The Great King was a man of flesh and bone, that could be seen in his eyes and his skin and the war-hardened hands, but he was of a stature such as Geraint had never before seen in mortal man. Had he lifted his arm out straight, Geraint could have walked under it without bowing his head. Despite his enormous size, it was easy to see the Great King was still a young man, perhaps even younger than Geraint. Thick, brown hair hair fell to his waist, bound in a leather thong. His beard was scanty yet, and his pale green eyes were wide and unlined as they looked out from under the battered Roman style helmet. He wore armor of boiled leather over his chest, leather trousers on his legs and leather guards on his wrists. In place of sword or spear, he held a great, thick club, nobbed with bronze and scarred and stained from its use. His shield matched it, a relic from the Roman times like his helm, great and square, such as a man might hide his whole body behind, even when the body was the size of the giant before him.

The Great King climbed down from his chariot and planted his feet on the ground. Even on horseback, Geraint felt puny before him.

“Will you meet me on foot, Sir Geraint?” inquired Rhyddid, his voice filled with exaggerated courtesy. “Or are Arthur's men only brave when they're mounting?” Geraint ignored the crude joke, but his heart quailed at the challenge. On horseback, he could maneuver more quickly than the chariot. No doubt, the Great King knew that and so made this choice. Young he might be, but he was not unseasoned.

Geraint dismounted. He wished he'd brought one of the boys to take Donatus away with him. Well, the horse was a smart beast and would save itself should the need arise. Rhyddid reached out without taking his eyes from Geraint and tapped the chariot's side. The boy whistled to the team and turned them around, moving back to the base of the hill, but going no further. He would not desert his king.