King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) (38 page)

“Will he be using similar tactics to Badon?”

“I believe so.” Somewhat ashamed of the lack of interest she’d displayed during the strategic discussion, she said, “They were talking about a broad front in the valley, and a diversion at the ford. Meanwhile Arthur would take an outflanking force through the forest to the north.”

“He’d have to cross the open ground between the river and the forest to do that.”

“Yes.” Gwen felt well informed and clever. “But it seems there’s a tributary flowing down from the forest. It crosses that ground in a deep gully. Arthur says it looks like just a strip of reeds from level ground. That’s the way the outflanking force will go, in single file through the gully. It’ll take time, but in the space of two hours we’ll have a thousand men in the forest without the Anglo-Saxons knowing a thing.”

“What a fine
strategy.” His eyes were shining.

Their knees were touching. Gwen felt a surge of desire. He’d started moving things about on the low table now, hitching his chair even closer so they could see a model battle from the same position. “I … I …” She was not sure what she wanted to say. She wanted to say something intelligent and perceptive. She hoped Arthur wasn’t coming back tonight.

“Let’s say this salt shaker is Arthur’s outflanking force,” said Harry. …

A light drizzle was falling as the young man and his mother rode away from Camelot the following morning.

“Did you get enough out of her?” asked Morgan le Fay.

“Enough to ensure the destruction of Arthur and every Briton in the west of England,” said Mordred.

They gathered on the plains to the west of the river at Camlann. The last of the knights were addressed by Governayle. King Lodegrance had brought a small army from the far west, and Bedivere had raised another six hundred in the north. Gareth brought men from Wales. Arthur rode up with four hundred men from the southwest, to join the main body camped beside the river.

“How does it look?” he asked Governayle.

“We’ve had better days.” Twenty years had left their mark on Governayle; he was no longer the carefree youth of Mara Zion. Time had not dulled his wit, however; and it was he who had suggested the outflanking movement by which Arthur hoped to surprise the Saxons. “We’re outnumbered about three to one,” he said.

The Saxon tents covered the southern hillside of Camlann and extended over the ridge and out of sight, giving the impression of limitless forces. Dull clouds hung low over the hills, and a light drizzle fell, matting the horses’ coats and dampening the spirits of the squires who were preparing them for battle.

Arthur took Governayle aside. “I talked to Nyneve the night before last,” he said.

“Did she
give us any hope?”

“As much as she could. Not a lot. This is our last battle, Governayle. You know that, don’t you?”

“We’ve had some good times. We’ll go down fighting.”

Arthur hesitated. “We … we could call it off, you know. We could send every man home. We could save a lot of lives that way. Is there any point in fighting a battle we can’t win?”

“You certainly know how to depress a fellow, Arthur. What’s gotten into you?”

“I slept with Nyneve the other night. I’ve been going through hell ever since. My God, if Gwen ever found out! I’ve betrayed her, Governayle, and I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Don’t feel so bad about it. What about her and Lancelot?”

“I don’t believe anything ever happened between them. Neither of them are the type, somehow. …” Arthur was gazing southward. “There’s another army coming. Will they be on our side, or with the Anglo-Saxons? Who is leading our enemy, by the way?”

“I heard an odd thing from a messenger we captured. It seems one of their leaders is called Mordred. Rumor has it that he’s the son of Morgan le Fay from the west. By rights he should be on our side, but Morgan’s thrown in her lot with the enemy, I don’t know why. You remember her, Arthur? She was that good-looking woman at Baron Menheniot’s tournament, when the archers peppered Sir Mador de la Porte.” Governayle chuckled. “That’s one of the best memories.”

“I have another memory of that day,” said Arthur slowly. “I was seduced by Morgan le Fay.”

“You certainly get around.”

“How old is Mordred?”

“Early twenties, I believe. Why?”

“He might be my son.”

“And he might not.” Governayle regarded his leader worriedly. Arthur seemed
to have all kinds of problems on his mind; not a good omen for the battle to come.

Fortunately the arrival of the men from the south put all that from their minds. The leader was an old acquaintance.

“Lancelot!” cried Arthur. “I never expected to see you again.”

Smiling magnificently, the perfect knight dismounted. “It’s good to see you, Arthur. And this is Galahad.” He introduced a tall, handsome knight in silver armor similar to his own. “Son of Elaine of Trevarron Isle.”

Governayle’s mouth had dropped open. “Galahad?” he said. “The last time I saw you was twenty years ago in Tristan’s time. You haven’t aged a bit.”

Now Galahad looked puzzled. “I’m only twenty years old, sir. I’ve lived all my life on Trevarron Isle with my mother and Sir Lancelot.”

“Time has played us some queer tricks over the years,” said Arthur. “Nyneve would be able to explain it.” Her lively face and black hair had dwelt in his mind’s eye for two days.

“That’s right,” said Governayle. “I remember now. It was Nyneve who brought you to the Great Hall.”

“It must have been a different man,” said Galahad. “I met Nyneve for the first time today.”

“Today?” exclaimed Arthur. “Where was this?”

Galahad pointed. “Near that hill. …”

Dumden Hill sat on the plain like a bun on a table, two miles south. The lower slopes were fuzzed with bushes, but the soil was thin and no trees grew. The top was bare rock, with grass in the creases. Nyneve reached the top at about noon and sat down with her arms around her knees. The clouds hung close above her head, and a light, cold wind ruffled her hair. The armies were spread across the land beneath her, toy soldiers with their tiny toy spears and bows. Arthur’s forces were nearest, separated from the Anglo-Saxons by the wandering silver thread of the river.

“You’re going to lose.”

The voice
came from behind. Nyneve turned to see Morgan le Fay smiling at her coldly.

“I know. But in the end we’ll both win. Starquin will be saved.”

“Let’s hope so.” Morgan sat beside her; a little taller, a little older-looking, but centuries older in years. Not evil, not good; just another Dedo.

Nyneve hated her more than anyone on Earth. “We could work together.”

“Not when you’re so wrong. But perhaps it doesn’t matter. Every able-bodied man in England will be here.” They had come from the farthest corners of the land, and they were still coming in the thousands; armies, groups, lone figures straggling across the fields to Camlann.

The quicker she wins, thought Nyneve, the less men will be killed. “Where’s Mordred?” she asked.

“You know about Mordred? Of course you do. Mordred’s in there, planning. He’s born to it, of course. Just imagine it, Nyneve! The son of Arthur and me, down there. The capabilities of the boy! He won’t stop, at victory, of course. Once Arthur’s beaten, he’ll divide the Saxons and get them fighting among one another. He’s a master tactician, is Mordred. The Saxons are just a rabble of tribes—they’ll be happy to kill each other off. Then perhaps we’ll move to France and stir things up. All this is just practice, of course. I don’t pretend we can eliminate the human race this easily.”

“The Saxons are attacking.” Clear trumpet notes rode the wind.

“No, humans will become more sophisticated,” continued Morgan. “Communications will improve and tribes will get bigger. They’ll come back to Pentor one day, and they’ll have machines to kill one another with by then.”

“Arthur’s holding them at the river. It looks as though your people have broken through to the north. Oh, why do they have to fight like this? Haven’t they learned anything from the gnomes?”

“The direction
of progress is clear. In due course humans will have weapons that can destroy Earth.”

“In that case they’ll destroy the Rocks with it. Isn’t that what we’re trying to prevent?”

“You have too much human in you, Nyneve. You have a sentimental attachment to this world. It doesn’t matter a damn whether Earth and the Rocks are destroyed, provided it doesn’t happen at the exact instant when Starquin is on the psetic line leading to your Rock at Pentor. And right now my reading of the ifalong tells me we’re still heading for that unfortunate coincidence.”

“I agree. Look, that’s Lancelot down there. I recognize his colors. He’s fording the river. They’re mounting an offensive.” Nyneve couldn’t keep a certain pride out of her voice. “They’re hopelessly outnumbered, but they’re attacking! Don’t you see something praiseworthy in that kind of spirit, Morgan?”

“Very much so. Racial suicide is just what we want.”

Time went by. The battle ebbed and flowed. Deeds of heroism were done and legends were born. Many men died. The Saxons grew confident and moved their headquarters forward. By early evening a cluster of tents had been set up in a crook of the plain at the edge of the forested hills.

“Arthur’s moving men into the forest above that glen,” said Nyneve.

“Of course he is,” replied Morgan.

Arthur led the task force himself. Perhaps it was bravado, or perhaps it was an unwillingness to send his men unled into a hopeless position. The battle was lost; it had been lost months before. The great outflanking move planned at Camelot was now just a dream; he had insufficient men to carry it through. There was, however, a slight chance that he could assemble a force in the forest and make a direct attack on the enemy headquarters. It was their last chance.

Arthur crawled along the ditch against a rush of chilly water. Rain had swollen the flow. Fifty men crawled behind him; a thousand would not have been enough. Behind them, fires were being lit and the battle was winding down for the night. No ground
had been yielded; the adversaries still faced one another across the river. Casualties had been heavy, and much the same for both sides—Which meant that Arthur’s smaller forces had lost the day. Another day’s fighting and it would all be over, unless a single, crippling blow could be delivered under cover of darkness. …

“We’ll take the north side of the ridge,” Arthur murmured to Governayle, immediately behind him. “We’ll work our way east and then climb over the top. The tents will be below us.”

“I thought I was going to drown in that bloody river. There was a pit in the bed, and my armor took me down. What a way to die!”

“Quiet. We’re nearly there.”

Arthur lifted his head and peered through the reeds. He jerked down again. Soldiers stood a few feet from the ditch. The trees were twenty feet farther. He crawled on, and soon overhanging bushes provided better cover.

“All right. This is far enough.” He climbed out of the ditch. Trees were all around him; spreading oaks and chestnuts. Not the best of cover because the trunks were few and far between, but the leafy canopy cut down the fading daylight. He grasped Governayle’s hand and hauled him from the ditch. Others followed. An owl hooted like a woodwind.

“Hurry!” Governayle whispered urgently into the gloom of the ditch. Fifteen men gathered. Sixteen.

Arthur said, “I heard something.” It was a stealthy sound; a faint chink of armor, as though somebody had begun to move, then thought better of it. Everything was still again. Across the river, men and horses could be seen moving. Occasionally someone would shout an order, but there was no sound of fighting; no screaming or clashing of metal on metal. The battle was over for the night. Somewhere a minstrel plucked at his lute and began to sing a slow Welsh song.

Some twenty-five men stood shivering in the woods.

“Now!”

It was more of a scream than a shout; a frenzied and triumphant scream from
the south. A mob of soldiers ran yelling from the nearby forest and ranged themselves along the ditch, stabbing downward with pikes. Another group spread through the trees to the north, cutting off Arthur’s retreat. A third force moved from behind the trees to the east and began to advance slowly down the forested slopes.

“Arthur!” Another shout, and a young man ran into view, laughing insanely. Arthur didn’t recognize him in the dim light, but there was something familiar about his appearance. He carried a sword, but he didn’t approach any closer. “You’ve lost, Arthur!” cried the youth. “Do you know who’s beaten you?”

Arthur said to his men, “I’m going to fight. You do as you like, but I think they’ll kill us whatever we do. Who’s that laughing fool, by the way?”

“I think it must be Mordred,” said Governayle.

“We’ll stand in a circle,” said Arthur. “We’ll be broken up in the end, but at least it’ll protect our backs for a while.”

“Yield!” cried Mordred.

“How’s Excalibur working these days, Arthur?” asked Governayle.

“Good enough. Here they come!”

The attackers rushed them from all sides. Outnumbered ten to one, the little circle contracted. Yelling, two soldiers attacked Arthur simultaneously. Excalibur flickered twice, and they staggered away, swords drooping, clutching their wounds. Governayle fought beside Arthur like a man inspired, and the rest of the force gave ground only grudgingly. But for every man they beat off, several more arrived to take his place. Gradually Arthur’s force dwindled, fighting tiredly now, the circle contracting further as men fell.

On the other side of the river, Gareth said to Lancelot, “Arthur’s fighting over there. I can hear him. They’ve been caught on the edge of the forest.” He peered into the gathering dusk. “We’d better get over there quickly!”

“We can do no good.”

“We can save Arthur!”

Lancelot shook his head violently; not in disagreement but to silence an imp of a voice speaking in his mind. “They’re expecting
us to do that. We’ll lose an army trying to ford the river. Their archers are in position.”

“You don’t know that!” Gareth was outraged. “You’re a bloody coward, Lancelot!”