The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2) (34 page)

'I have agreed, will you please stop asking me. I, your King, demand that you cease your demands and just get on with whatever it is you are going to do.' Uther glanced down the path towards the village of Tintagel and wondered at the madness of trying to enter the fortress. These people would be loyal supporters of Duc Gerlois and they would no doubt be very aware of the current conflict. Gerlois seemed to have been a step ahead of him since before the quest. So to believe these warriors would be unaware of who to allow onto the Isle of Tintagel and who not to, well…

'Not another word on the subject shall I say, Uther. You have my word on this. Just know that when you place the babe into my care, it shall be an act of kindness on your part, you entrust his care not only to me, but to all of the Druids, both here and…'

'Yes, yes, but you're talking about it again, Merlyn. I still think the probability of my entering the fortress is very slim, to say the least. There is a veritable gale blowing, snow will no doubt begin to fall again before darkness, and any path you may know onto the Isle is going to be either closely guarded or far beyond extremely treacherous. The chances of my fathering a child anytime soon seem extremely remote. Perhaps we should rethink this whole thing and… what are you doing?' Uther eyed the dirty thumb that was being pushed towards his forehead.

'Oh, stand still boy, I won't hurt you.'

'You called me boy again, old man. I thought I had broken you of that habit.'

'Behave like a little boy,' - Merlyn smudged his thumb a few times on Uther's forehead, it felt cold and wet and then hot - 'and you shall be treated like a little boy, whether you be the King or not.' Merlyn studied his handiwork, reached out to make a small change and then rubbed his hands on his robe to clean them. 'There, perfect. Don't touch it, let it dry, and then walk through the village as if you owned the place and then cross over the bridge to the fortress. You are alone from here.'

'Walk right in there?' Uther made to rub at the wet burning mud on his forehead and Merlyn slapped his hands down.

'I said don't touch it. If you rub it off, then it won't work.

'What won't work, explain yourself Druid?'

Merlyn reached into his robe and pulled out a flat shining plate; Uther recognised the decorated edges as Roman. As Merlyn tilted it towards him, he looked at it and then jumped back in surprise when he saw a face looking back, it was Gerlois.'

'Be careful, don't make me drop it!' Merlyn snatched it back but then proffered it once again. 'One of these plates is very hard to come by and even harder to make, they break easily.' Uther glanced around, but the Duc wasn't to be seen, however, when he stared back into the glass, the Duc stared back.

'It is you, Uther.' Merlyn was grinning and Uther could tell he was about to hop from one foot to the other as he did whenever he was especially excited by one of his own tricks.

'You've made me look like Gerlois… I hope it isn't permanent.' Uther turned his face from one side to the other and reached up to touch a fat bearded cheek.'

'Be careful not to damage the rune upon your head. If you disturb it, the magic will end and then you will be plain old Uther, King of all the Britons once again.' Merlyn grinned happily then took back the glass depositing back it into the folds of his robe. 'Go on. This is what you wanted, now go see your girl.' Merlyn thought for a moment and then held Uther back by his sleeve. 'Do you need any…' - he waved his hands about and puffed out his cheeks, which he did whenever he was uncomfortable about something, and which to Uther's mind was a rarity - '…do you need any other advice….about what to do when you meet the lady, I mean as a Druid I can explain a thing or two… possibly give you a potion to… you know… give you a little…?' he patted his robe searching for a potion.

'No, Merlyn, I'm all good now. Do I still look like Gerlois?'

'You still look like a fat, bloated toad to me, maybe frown a bit more and get cross with a few people, go!'

'Uther walked off down the lane into the village of Tintagel thinking about how Gerlois used to walk. There was a definite swing of the hips and his stomach was always thrust forward. Uther glanced down at where a huge stomach should be if he truly were Gerlois, but saw only his normal, solid and immensely thinner frame. 'Oh, Merlyn, what faith I put in you!'

Sir Ector sidestepped the flashing blade only to be knocked backwards by the heavy shield, he stumbled but kept his footing. The blade was coming back, a sweeping arc that would cleave him in two if allowed to run its course, but he had fought for many years and wasn't about to let a wide open swing like that end his days and send him to the Shadowland.

He blocked the blade with his shield, ignoring the force of the blow as it travelled along his arm and hacked down with his own sword trying to make his opponent bring his shield up in defence and so leaving him open. The two fought hard and fast, both knowing they didn't have the stamina of the younger warriors, but neither lacking in strength or experience, this had to be fought hard and won quickly. There was a deafening roar surrounding the fighters as warriors from both sides screamed their encouragement and advice. Several warriors slipped down the bank or were pushed and had to be dragged out of the combatants' way. Sir Ector could see that the Duc was tiring. The man was strong and also fast, but years away from any serious combat had left him in a condition that meant he should soon fade. If he could keep the Duc from overpowering him for a little longer, then it would all be over, the Duc would collapse from exhaustion, and all of this would be ended.

But the Duc wasn't finished yet, he lunged, snaking his sword down so that Sir Ector had to jump to the side, yet he managed to knock the sword down in the process, but then only just missed the shield as it knocked into him once more. The Duc kept coming, like a rampaging bullock, but then slipped in the mud under foot and went down onto one knee and Sir Ector sliced his sword down aiming at the base of the Duc's neck. A chorus of cries and shouts erupted as the onlookers sensed the end may be close, but the Duc blocked the blow once more and forced himself up to send Sir Ector into retreat once more.

'Let us end this, Gerlois, this is madness even for you. Bend your knee to Uther, give up, or I will be forced to kill you in front of all your people.'

'Never!' Gerlois swung his sword onto Sir Ector's shield, and the two exchanged a flurry of blows until Gerlois tripped over a fallen warrior. He regained his footing just in time to deflect a hammering blow from Sir Ector. The two fought savagely back and forth and then stood panting, glaring at each other for a moment as they each regained a little breath.

'We are old men, both of us. We lack the youth, the energy to give this conflict true justice.' Sir Ector straightened and eased his back. 'However, I have the greater stamina. I have remained a Lord of war while you have turned to being a Lord of trade. Duc Gerlois, this is the last time I will ask you to yield, to join us once again as a united force against those who invade our country.'

'There is no room for me to yield, you fool. Uther mocks me to the last. He does not call me forth and allow me to capitulate with any grace. He sends you in his stead, sends his dog to break me. Why does he not call me out himself? Allow me to submit to my King or die upon his famed sword. Where is the King? Where is…?' Gerlois' eyes widened as the truth finally registered, anger consumed him, and he lunged at Sir Ector screaming.

'
Yaaaaahhhh.
' He swung his sword wildly in a flurry of violent blows and then just as suddenly stood panting, sword tip dropped to the mud. His chest heaved and spittle drooled from the side of his mouth, the attack having momentarily sapped him of strength. He glared his hatred and fury; warriors stepped back anticipating his next explosion of wild violence. 'So he goes to Tintagel. Slinks off to meet my cheating, bitch of a wife. Well, he will find more than he bargains for when he gets there. But I ask you, is this the action of a King I should follow? A King whom I should bend my knee to and stand beside in battle? No, I think not. I shall kill you and then my warriors will follow me as I go to Tintagel and kill them both. I shall make a far better King of the tribes than the Pendragon.' Once said, Gerlois drew a deep breath and then dragged his sword from the mud and attacked in a fury of renewed energy that forced Sir Ector back, tripping and falling in the mud desperately trying to regain his footing.

'You cannot run from me, Uther Pendragon, you cannot hide in these woods.' The soft voice floated through the dead still air of the darkness as if carried upon the wisps of mist that flowed through the dank, decaying undergrowth and wrapped around the trees in silent embrace.

'You have evaded the Saxons for now, but I can summon them whenever I wish. For now, I will allow you to hide in whatever dark, rotting hole that you think protects you. You are close; I can smell you… smell your fear.'

As the voice drifted away, the sound of flapping wings replaced it. Uther tried to imagine where the bird could be now. The voice was Morgana's without a doubt; she must be standing on the path, quite close, while the bird was doing the searching for her. Maude moved slowly beside him, and he heard the soft hiss as she slid her knife free of its scabbard.

'I'm coming to find you, Uther… coming to take all your pains away. No more stories, no more lies and no more dreams to trouble you…' The sound of a twig snapping beneath a softly placed foot came close, the other side of the tree. Maude rose and crouched beside him without a sound. Whereas all Uther could do was try to stem his beating heart which sounded so loud in his ears. Sweat beaded upon his brow, and the dank air of the forest was becoming difficult to breathe.

'I have your confession, King of all the tribes. You are responsible for the murder of my father, the bewitching of my mother and the subsequent deaths of thousands.' The voice was coming from all around as if filling the air. The mist rising higher until, looking down, Uther realised only his head was above it. It threatened to rise and rather than feeling he should drop lower and hide within it, he had the awful foreboding that if he did he would drown and be lost forever. As he pushed himself into a higher sitting position against the tree, his jerkin rasped against the bark.

'On behalf of all the many whom you have wronged, King Uther Pendragon, I shall pronounce your sentence… which is, of course, death…' - a flutter of wings - '… and carry out your execution… which shall be… now!'

 Chapter 26 
Lord of the Storm

The brief stroll through the village of Tintagel had given Uther the opportunity to practice and refine his walk, so that now although he felt foolish pretending to be another man, he also felt confident that if his features did resemble the overweight Duc, then his bearing should come close to matching him as was possible. So far, he had very little confirmation that Merlyn's magic was anything other than a cold, tingling smudge of mud on his forehead and he began doubting that he had seen Gerlois in the Roman glass. It would be just like the old Druid to do nothing more than smear him with slime and expect Uther's boldness and daring to carry him through. It tickled and he was tempted to scratch at it, but he knew that was probably not the best idea.

It was starting to snow again as he splashed through the muddy centre of the village. The wind was gusting in from the sea through the small collection of huts and buildings, and rather disappointingly, there had been no real contact with anyone to confirm or deny his disguise. He shivered, pulled up the edge of his cloak and wished his feet weren't feeling so wet and cold. Two peasants emerged from a hut about twenty paces away, glanced over at him, and then scuttled out of his way. Neither had addressed him, but he supposed they may have moved out of anybody's way who was dressed in a lordly way, not necessarily because he appeared to be Duc Gerlois.

He stopped and looked all about him; the huts seemed to be in a good state of repair. He knew Tintagel was a bustling trading village at any other time of year. The villagers apparently made a good profit from the trade, but right now, except for a rather sad looking goat tethered to a post, which was also ignoring him, there was nobody about. The snow was beginning to fall harder in big fluffy lumps; the villagers would all be inside their huts keeping warm, he was tempted to join them, but no. There was nothing for it but to continue on to the footbridge over to the isle itself.

He hurried and tripped his way down the path towards the cliffs as the wind, blowing quite fiercely now, lashed him with stinging wet snow. It was getting darker too, another storm coming by the feel of it. He shivered and moved on down the slippery trail, leaving the settlement behind, then out onto the clifftop where the path took a steep drop down. Spirits it was cold. He stood for a moment in the shelter of a group of rocks and stamped his feet and blew hot breath on his hands to warm them. The sound of waves pounding on the cliffs could be heard now, the booming sound and rush of water mixing with the howl of the wind as it battered the coastline. He shuffled on; the path levelled and he held his cloak tightly, he glanced up into the bite of the wind to see the wooden bridge stretching out ahead of him. A shiver of cold, or was it trepidation, ran through him, and he had to force his foot to move up onto the bridge. After that, it was easier just to put his head down against the gale and make his way across to an uncertain reception.

He counted twenty-five bouncing paces as he walked, head down, fully exposed to the blast of the storm, and then he was stepping from the bridge and moving quickly towards where three warriors leant over a flickering fire. They glanced round towards him, and one took up a spear as he approached.

'Stand by your fire,' Uther called, then pushed between two of the warriors and held out his hands to the blaze, the heat extremely welcome.

'A filthy day turning to a filthy night. May the spirits be with you.' With a wave of his hand, he turned and walked up the path to where he could see it rounded a rocky outcrop and headed upwards onto the isle; he heard no challenge from behind and counted the spirits in his favour, but his relief was short-lived.

The wind and driven snow attacked him the moment he emerged from the protection of the lower part of the path. It hit him with full force, driving, frozen needles that rocked him on his feet, almost forcing him stumbling down the dark slope to where he knew the waves were waiting to drag him to a cold, wet grave, almost, but not quite. Were the Gods and spirits against him? Regaining his feet and raising an arm to protect his face he staggered on. It took him some time to cover what was probably just a few hundred paces, and it was almost dark now, but he could still see the foot-worn trail leading ahead. He tried to remember how far the fortress had been from the bridge when he had studied it from the clifftop just a short while earlier; surely it couldn't be much further. As he squinted ahead he saw two shadowy figures coming towards him, he tensed and readied for the confrontation, but they simply passed him by saying nothing, more intent on their own descent of the hill.

This whole venture was madness. He took a breath and forced himself on almost blindly, counting two hundred paces lest he become lost, and then he saw the light of another fire flickering, not twenty paces away. Relief and fear washed through him at the same moment; he had made it to the fortress.

Close to the fire, sheltering from the direct blast of the elements, two warriors leant against the palisade beside a large door. They were watching him approach but weren't making any move away from the comfort of the fire in his direction. He muttered an appeal to the spirits to aid Merlyn's magic and bless his endeavours.

'Oh spirits, help me now to pass into the warmth of the fortress and make it that the Druid hasn't sent me chasing sheep in a storm with only a smudge of mud for protection.' He drew himself up and marched forward as he imagined a wet and bedraggled Duc Gerlois might.

'A terrible night, I thank you for guarding my family.' Uther looked from one guard to the other and smiled his thanks. He watched as the two warriors, each wrapped in furs to keep the cold at bay, studied him and then looked at each other, and then at the same time threw their furs to the side and reached for their spears.

Uther reacted immediately, but only just managed to draw Excalibur from its sheath in time to deflect the first spear thrust. He was soaking wet, almost frozen stiff and therefore slow in his movements, but thankfully so were they.

'
Attack, we are attacked!
' Uther's blade silenced the warrior by slipping past his spear to slide into his neck. From the side of his vision, Uther saw the other warrior's spear stab towards him and only just managed to move his head out of the way in time. The shaft burned along his cheekbone as he raised his arm and deflected it. He felt the warrior draw the spear back for the next lunge and then spun, bringing Excalibur around in a cut that sliced into the man's midsection almost cutting him in two. His gurgling cry was snatched away on the wind. Uther stood panting, glancing around lest the scuffle had been heard, yet no other threat loomed out of the night, and the door remained closed. He picked up one of the discarded furs and cleaned Excalibur with it before returning the blade to its scabbard. He was shaking after the exertion, wondering what had gone wrong, why had they cried attack? Was his disguise still in place? Had it been cleansed from his forehead in the storm or was there no real disguise, after all, just another of Merlyn's tricks? He held his hands out to the warmth of the fire then looked down at the fallen men. It took just a few moments to drag them some distance out into the darkness, away from the light of the fire, then after another few moments warming himself he lifted the heavy bar on the door and pushed it inwards.

The storm arrived without warning. The day had been cold, but during a battle, the cold is the last thing anyone noticed. Nobody had been looking up at the weather. The seasons and elements were the business of Druids, and with Merlyn away those Druids that remained were of little interest to the warriors making war. A covering of clouds had been moving high above them, much the same as any other winter day, but there had certainly been no indication a storm was coming until it did.

The shield walls of the two Celtic forces had first clashed around mid-morning and now, late in the afternoon they still fought at several points around the hill fortress. Those that still battled were mostly unaware of the contest that was taking place between the two men commanding either side. However, by far the greater number of warriors had stopped fighting and had swarmed forward so that they might witness the struggle between two of the oldest tribesmen on the battlefield. They pushed and vied for position as the fighters moved to observe more clearly a mighty battle that all present knew would be sung in the halls for years to come by bards throughout the tribal lands. The first indication that a storm was coming were just a few dancing snowflakes drifting softly on the breeze. These at first went unnoticed. However, within just a few short moments some began to notice that the breeze had become stronger and that snow was falling, with flakes becoming larger and more numerous. The sky had also taken on a more ominous darker shade.

Sir Ector was the first of the fighters to notice, although he gave it little heed having far more important matters at hand. They had stopped fighting and had drawn apart once more to regain some breath and take the other's measure. They were panting, wishing for the energy of their youth, weary beyond the reason to raise their swords yet again, but both knew the other would and therefore so would they. Neither had managed to make a killing blow. Both fighters bled from countless small wounds, nothing serious enough to end the contest and so both were still equally determined to continue and finish the other.

Now the weather had worsened to make their efforts even more challenging. Snow, driven by the increasing wind, beat against the exposed skin of their arms and faces, feeling as if they were suddenly being attacked with a thousand stinging spears. Squinting his eyes, Sir Ector glanced up and saw clouds sweeping past overhead, darkening as they became lost in the now increasingly heavy snow. He glanced across at Gerlois. The big man was beginning to stand, ready to continue the fight, apparently unaware of the worsening weather. The Duc was bleeding from cuts on both arms and his flesh beneath his left eye hung in a gaping wound, blood soaked through his beard and drenched his tunic on the same side, yet he seemed in no mood to stop fighting.

'Do you still think me a coward, Ector? Think me a man who will not pick up a sword?' He swung his blade, and Sir Ector blocked the cut upon the ragged remains of his shield and sent a swinging blow in return. The sound of screaming warriors had been joined by the howling cry of the wind. As Sir Ector beat blow after blow upon Gerlois shield and they moved up the slope towards the more exposed heights of the last defensive mound it became darker, the wind and driving snow ferocious, the storm had arrived.

Falling and sliding in the freezing mud, forcing himself up after the retreating Duc, Sir Ector pushed himself on determined to kill his opponent. The faces of warriors loomed into his vision beside him, cheering him, goading him on as he hacked and swung, kicked and pushed his opponent, driving him back and back, desperate to finish yet still unable to find room to make the stabbing thrust necessary.

Thunder boomed, echoing around them. They had climbed the slope and reached the white plastered side of the fortress and were now on level ground. Gerlois staggered back a few steps. He bent over, gasping for breath, staring through his wet hair at Sir Ector with malevolent hatred. As Sir Ector closed once more, Gerlois threw his shield to the side, grasped his sword in two hands, and ran at Sir Ector, sword drawn back ready to swing a savage killing stroke.

'
Gahhhhh…
' The sword swung, singing through the air. It was a last desperate attack by a man spending the very last of his energy, the Duc demanding one final effort from his muscles.

Sir Ector's body was old and exhausted, but it remembered thirty years of battles. Dropping below the flashing metal, he lunged upwards, immediately feeling his blade enter the Duc's chest. The momentary grating resistance as it met ribs and then the bones snapping and the metal sinking unhindered into the large body as the Duc's weight and momentum drove him on to impale himself.

Letting go of his sword, Sir Ector pushed himself away and watched as Duc Gerlois dropped to his knees beside him, eyes wide open in shock, the blade protruding from his back, twitching as blood pumped out around it. About them, the warriors gradually stopped their yelling and screaming as word was passed back that the Duc had fallen. The Duc coughed, vomited a gout of blood and collapsed upon the blade. His head turned to the side with blood bubbling from his mouth, his eyes vacant and staring. Sir Ector pulled away, forced himself to stand, and gazed down at the beaten man taking no joy from his victory. Gerlois leg shuddered as the last of his life bled out, pooling dark against the snow.