Cal jolted awake. In a distant corner of his mind, the howl of a wolf was slowly
fading while the rich earthy scents of the forest continued to linger in his nostrils
and the memory of a chill wind blowing through the trees still swam before his
eyes. He was cold, but his body was slick with sweat.
Wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, he exhaled the breath
burning his lungs and stared up into the darkness of the communal roundhouse.
A lasting vision still played across his mind, of a new moon peeking from behind
the clouds to reveal a company of wolves. He tried to dismiss it, but the vision
stubbornly remained.
Uther's voice came as a whisper through the gloom. 'You had another dream,
didn't you?'
Cal turned his head. He couldn't actually see Uther's face, but he heard the
concern in his voice, and could imagine the worried frown on his friend's face.
'It's so real. As real as… as anything else is that's happened to us lately,
Usher… sorry… Uther.' There was silence for a moment before he continued.
'That's another thing I can't get used to either.' He gave a great sigh. 'When did
our lives suddenly become so complicated? You're Usher from the village, not…'
He left the sentence unfinished as tears began to sting his eyes.
Around them, Ambrosius and the six others continued to sleep, the sounds of
snoring and coughing coming from more than one of them. Chill, rainy weather
had brought its share of coughs and colds, and any warrior without a runny nose
or touch of fever was the rare exception.
'When I dream, it's real,' continued Cal, lowering his voice. 'It's not like a
normal dream; I'm actually there. The wolves are in the woods, near where we
were riding today. They were watching us as we rode past, I know they were.'
'What are they waiting for?' Uther asked. Then throwing back his furs, he
scuttled across to the embers of the fire, dropped on a few sticks, and bent down
to blow life into them, coaxing the damp wood into producing a flame. It flared,
lighting up his face and sending shadows dancing about the cold roundhouse.
After feeding it some larger pieces, he crept back to his bed, still waiting for Cal
to respond.
'I've tried to keep them out of my dreams, but it's getting harder and harder,'
said Cal. He sat up, leaning upon one elbow, and stared into Uther's eyes,
seeking some sign that his friend either understood him, or was about to dismiss
the whole notion as another nightmare. 'I can run with them in my dreams,
Uther. They're waiting for me to lead them, to take them on the hunt.'
'Then lead them, Cal.' Uther reached over and placed a hand upon his
friend's arm. 'This whole experience is beyond anything we could ever call
normal. I think we have to follow wherever fate and the spirits lead us. We have
little choice at the moment.' The fire suddenly crackled and spat as someone
dropped a log onto it. The man, still half-asleep, didn't look over at them, but Cal
lay back down and tried to find a more peace-filled sleep, his mind still unsure
where the divide really lay between dreams and reality.
* * *
Meryn had been in the camp of the Britons for five days, living alongside
Samel and his men and spending much of his time brooding over the misfortunes
that had befallen him since leaving the druid's well.
When they first arrived, there had been rumours around camp that the
younger brother of Ambrosius had recently ridden in. However, it hadn't once
dawned upon Meryn that this young prince, the boy, who, so the rumours
claimed, had escaped capture as several hundred Saxon and Pict warriors
scoured the country trying to find him, was one of the two boys he had also been
searching for. With nearly three thousand men, women and children in the camp,
and the number growing daily, there was little wonder the two hadn't crossed
paths yet, but of course, it was only a matter of time.
The day began the same as the others since arriving. Meryn was training
alongside Samel, the pair passing on their skills to some of the younger warriors
who had arrived with ample bluster, yet little in the way of experience or
training.
'Go on, hit him!' shouted Meryn. 'He's only a little runt of a fellow. Surely, a
great hulking brute of a lad like you can beat a little red-haired mouse like him?'
Each time Meryn goaded the boy on, Samel glared across at him. Meryn
knew that Samel hated any attention drawn to his size, and that he was
dangerously close to being the target of the Iceni warrior's axe. However, the
taunts were pushing the loud-mouthed youth into making several mistakes,
which of course was good for Samel, and, he reasoned, for the lad's training.
Better to learn here than the battlefield. He wasn't much more than a boy, and
had twice suffered the consequences of a botched attack. With the first, he had
received a kick to his stomach, and now the flat of Samel's axe to his backside
had just sent him sprawling in the mud. The young warrior rose on this second
occasion, humiliated, angry, and caked in mud. Meryn watched as the boy began
circling, sweeping his sword from left to right, cutting the air with a blur of cold
steel, biding his time rather than rushing in for once.
'Don't listen to him, boy;' growled Samel, 'all he can ever do is pluck that
bow and flap his lips about facing an enemy. Archers are a cowardly bunch,
hiding behind the real fighting warriors like you and me as we face our enemies
blade to blade.' The boy was learning, but, between them, the training bout had
progressed to something far more serious, and the lad looked to have murder on
his mind.
'Remember, boy, we're only training. Don't do anything foolish. Nobody
wants to get seriously hurt here, let's save that for the Saxons and stand down,
eh?' But the young warrior wasn't listening. With shouts, and cheers of
encouragement from his watching friends, he leapt forward and delivered a hefty
strike toward Samel that would have taken the head from a lesser man. As he
ducked beneath the whistling blade, Samel decided he was through with the
lesson. Leaping forward, he drove his axe in a sweeping arc that sliced into the
boy's leg, dropping him to the mud with a howl of agony.
When Samel stepped back, ready to defend himself lest the boy's friends
jumped him, Meryn dashed forward, reaching the fallen fighter before anyone
else. A quick examination proved Samel's aim to be true, it was merely a flesh
wound, just enough to stop the boy and, hopefully, to bring him to his senses.
''Tis a tiny scratch and nothing more,' commented Samel, as he pushed past
the circle of onlookers. He held out his hand and the young warrior hesitated,
just for a moment before taking it, and they clasped forearms as warrior brothers.
'You're a fine fighting man, my young friend,' growled Samel, as the youth
struggled to his feet. 'We'll knock a few more of those rough edges from you,
and then I'll be happy to have you at my side when we meet the Saxons.' With
that, he strode away, a giant of a man, even if he was only chest height to most.
Meryn bid the injured boy sit again and then, selecting several herbs from
his pouch, prepared a mixture with a little water and rubbed the paste into the
wound, his patient stifling a cry as he did so. That done, he pinched the two sides
together and placed a large green leaf around it then bound it tightly with a strip
of twisted bark.
Once he had finished, he helped the fallen warrior back to his feet as the cry
of; 'Ambrosius!' was taken up by several around him. Men, women and several
groups of children all surged forward pushing him along with them. Meryn tried
to see where they were heading and glimpsed the tall figure of their king making
his way through the ranks of training warriors, a huge grey battle-hound not far
from his side.
This was the first time Meryn had seen Ambrosius so close and he was
impressed. The young king was a striking figure; a strong, tanned face framed by
long, unkempt hair, he was wearing armour that shone above the gloom of the
day. He was talking to a band of warriors dressed in the clan colours of the
southern Dumnonii, greeting them as old friends. After a few moments, he
walked on, stopping to talk to others, before encouraging them to continue in
their practice and offering advice.
It was then that Meryn noticed that two of the group following in the trail of
Ambrosius appeared somewhat familiar. He began pushing his way closer
through the crowd of warriors; his stride lengthening as he realised it really was
them.
'Usher… Cal?' There was a lot of noise from the crowding warriors around
them and it took Meryn several attempts before Cal heard his name being called
and glanced over his way. Meryn saw Cal grin in recognition then he turned to
tug on Usher's arm, pulling him round until he too saw Meryn. They hurried
across, shouting greetings as they came, and hugged him, clearly delighted to see
him after being parted for so many days. Unfortunately, the first question from
Cal's lips immediately sobered Meryn, bringing him back to the truth of his
inadequacy as a guide and protector.
'Meryn, thank the spirits you're safe. Where's Nineve?'
Meryn stared into Cal's eyes then glanced across at Usher. He saw the smiles
slide from their faces, and felt his heart drop with them.
'Meryn? Where is she? Where's Nineve? She was with you, wasn't she?' Cal
reached out and grabbed the old archer's arm, desperately searching his face for
answers.
'She's with the druids, boy,' said Meryn, his voice little more than a whisper.
'She helped me escape from the Picts, I don't quite know how she got free, but
she did, and then cut my bonds, but then she was gone.'
'Gone? What do you mean gone? She's eight years old, she's not allowed to
just go!'
'Steady, Cal. Let's give Meryn a chance to tell us what happened, shall we?'
Uther drew the trembling Cal away and Meryn followed as they strode in silence
along the muddy walkways of the camp to the roundhouse, ignoring everything
else around them.
Pushing through the door-flap, Cal dropped down in the darkness by the
central fire, and stared up at Meryn, waiting for some kind of explanation. Uther
sat down next to him and began feeding wood into the flames while Meryn
gathered himself, ready to try and explain what he had gone through. When he
did start speaking, it all came out in a rush as he confessed everything that had
happened and all the mistakes he had made since they parted. He told how the
Picts had captured them as they fled through the fog, and of how Nineve had
managed to cut the rope binding his hands, only to have completely disappeared
when he finally freed his legs moments later.
'Last thing she said was that she was all right, and I was to tell you she'd see
you soon. Then, after I'd gotten my feet free, I glanced up, and she was gone…
vanished. I spent days combing through the forest, searching for some sign of
her, but found nothing more than a single footprint, and that might not have been
hers.' He went on to tell them of the birthing and as Ambrosius stepped into the
roundhouse, he had just finished telling of his meeting with Samel and the
others. Meryn fell to his knees before his king, only to be drawn to his feet a
moment later by a smiling Ambrosius.
'I thank you for your support,' said Ambrosius, 'and if you are the archer my
brother has told me so much about, then you are most welcome at my hearth.'
Meryn nodded and told how he had met Uther and Cal, and then of his recent
journey in the Weald. Once he had done, he lapsed into a sullen silence as Uther
took his turn to tell Meryn of their escape from the Saxons and of their fortuitous
meeting with Ambrosius.
Ambrosius had arrived with four others, and as they became comfortable
about the fire, Uther soon had them all captivated with his description of the
Roman Villa and their narrow escape from Horsa. As the tale unfolded, Meryn
felt his grim expression, turn to one of surprise when he heard how Usher had
discovered he was actually named Uther, was the brother to Ambrosius, and how
they had been parted as children to secure the line.
The talk continued long after daylight had faded into night. They cooked a
meal of venison and barley porridge and the conversation turned to war, plans
for the future and the parts each would play in the coming days.
Ambrosius spoke of the tribes that were still sending in their warriors and
how they continued to be frustrated by the lack of any real information about
Vortigern and the Saxons.
'I have some of my most trusted people visiting the tribes, spreading the
news that we're building a united fighting force to meet the Saxon threat, and as
you know, our ranks continue to grow. Others are out trying to find something of
what Vortigern and the Saxons are planning. However, so far anyway, none have
returned with any real information beyond that Saxon boats continue to land. We
suspect that our enemies are gathered at Dinas Emrys. It's Vortigern's stronghold
in the mountains of Cymru, about ten days' march from here. Until we know
more, we can only stay here and continue to gather strength.'
'Well, my path is clear at least,' said Meryn. 'I spent many days on Nineve's
trail and I aim to continue until I find her.' He placed a hand on Cal's shoulder.
'You two are in good company here. You found the man the druid sent us
searching for, and now you have to stay and support him. I believe that Nineve is
with the druids, so I mean to find her and try to discover what interest they have
in her. I shall go to Glastenning, to the druid council, they must know where she
is, but then of course, whether they'll talk to me when I get there is another thing,
and even if they do, there's little chance it will make any sense, but I have to try,
and so I'll start there.' He glanced over to Ambrosius.
'I would surely hate to miss fighting for my king. There was a full moon two
nights ago. If I were to return before the coming of the next full moon, would I
be in time to march with you?'
Ambrosius shrugged, and then nodded. 'I doubt we'll be ready before then,
so you may well be in time to join us, but hurry, we need trained archers.'
Meryn stood up. 'Then I shall leave at first light.' He turned back to Cal.
'Don't worry, I will find your sister. Would you boys walk with me back to my
camp? I have something there that I think is meant for Uther.'
A few moments later, as they stepped from the comfort of the roundhouse,
the cold and darkness of the night covered them in its damp, chill cloak and a
cold wind quickly robbed them of the fire's lingering warmth. Thankfully, it had
stopped raining, but clouds still covered the moon and they had to wait until
their eyes adjusted to what little light there was.
Uther glanced about, trying to see something of the camp as Cal and Meryn
came out behind him. The sound of singing and the beating of drums floated
through the darkness, and then a few muted conversations and laughter coming
from a little further away. He stared into the darkness trying to make out the
path, but other than a few stars, the only light was coming from the sentry fires
on the perimeters of the camp and a few isolated fires within, to help people
move about.
'It's freezing out here,' muttered Cal, as he came alongside. 'Is that you,
Uther?' His breath emerged as a plume of white in the cold air before the wind
quickly snatched it away.
'Yes, it's me. Do you think it's going to snow?'
'It'll be another few weeks before it snows,' said Meryn, joining them,
'although, it certainly feels cold enough.' He held up the burning branch taken
from the roundhouse fire, and his face shone bright in its guttering flame.
'Ready?'
Keeping close together, they slowly picked their way through the sleeping
camp, passing more sounds of conversation, snoring and the angry tones of an
argument as they searched for Meryn's camp. When they finally made it, they
were heartened to see a warm fire awaiting them with Samel and the others
gathered around sharing a pot of stew. Samel glanced over as they entered and
welcomed them with a cry of relief.
'Meryn! Oh, thank the spirits you're back. My head's pounding fit to burst.
I'm in need of one of your infusions.'
Meryn nodded. 'Sit with Samel for a moment, boys. I'll fetch willow bark
and feverfew for him and the… well, the thing I have for you, Uther. Although
right now I feel a bit silly giving the rusty old thing to you,' he muttered, as he
moved away.
He was back a few moments later, and after handing the fur-wrapped bundle
to Uther, he sat down and began to sort through his herb pouch. Finding what he
was looking for, he put several pinches of dried leaves and some powder into a
small wooden cup then ladled in some hot water from a pot hanging above the
fire.
'I wish I had some honey to offer, but I don't.' He offered the steaming cup
across to Samel.
The smell of the infusion filled the hut with a delicate flowery scent and
Samel took the cup with a smile of gratitude.
'It smells wonderful, thank you.'
Meryn glanced round at the sound of Uther's voice, and saw him lift the
sword from its wrapping. As it came free, he felt a tremor of disbelief run
through him. Gone was the rusty tarnished relic that he had taken from the
druid's circle. The sword that Uther held up gleamed in the firelight, its blade
polished to a brilliant silvery sheen. Its bronze crosspiece intricately engraved
with the body and scales of a dragon, and the pommel, as it rose above the black
leather grip, emerged as the roaring head of the mythical beast.
'This is the sword, Excalibur,' murmured Uther in awe. 'I have no idea why I
know it has a name, but it does, and I know it to be my blade. Where did you get
it, Meryn? And how did you know it was meant for me?'
Meryn remained silent, staring at the sword, his mind trying to understand
the change in the weapon, or at least the illusion of change, had it really been a
rusty relic?
'The spirits and the druids are playing some great game here, boy. We're
merely stones, caught in the flow of their plans. I discovered that sword within a
druid's circle and also heard the name "Excalibur" when I touched it, but I can't
say how I knew it to be yours. It's just one more question I shall put to the druids
when I find them.'
Uther tied the sword at his hip and thrilled at the feeling of power it gave
him. He glanced across at the old bowman. 'Thank you for bringing it to me,
Meryn.'
'You are most welcome, Uther. May it protect and never fail you.'
Life returned to its normal routine within the camp until, just two days later,
with a chariot borrowed from Samel, Meryn headed out to the Roman road. It
was early as he drew away, a cold grey sky floating past reflecting the bleak
landscape that lay beneath. Winter had placed its first frosty grip upon the land,
painting the camp and surrounding countryside with a dusting of white that
covered the mud of the fields, bringing with it a temporary icy beauty. The heavy
chariot wheels rumbled and jarred as they carried him over the frozen ground,
crunching through the ice-capped puddles. When he reached the stone surface of
their road, he mumbled a silent prayer. It was a prayer that carried thanks to the
spirits of the land for allowing the Romans to build the road, yet also an apology
that the stone would cut him off from their guidance. It would take him in speed
and relative comfort almost all the way to Holy Glastenning, and at its heart, the
Isle of Avalon, spiritual home of the druids.
His mind still whirled in a turmoil of emotions as he tried to piece
everything together. The druids had a strong influence in what was happening in
the land, and nothing could be taken at face value, that much was becoming
more and more apparent. The decision to go to Glastenning had been made, but
he was unsure if it was because he had chosen to seek word of Nineve, or that
they had designed for him to come to them. Whichever it was, there would be no
turning back. He would arrive at the sacred Isle of Avalon before sunset the
following day.
* * *
As the lone chariot headed out, the practice fields were already ringing with
the sounds of training. Close to the road, a small group had gathered, watching
intently as two combatants pushed each other in an entertaining show of their
abilities.
Ambrosius stepped back, his face creasing in a frown of concentration as he
became aware of the silence around them; all other practice in the area having
long since ceased to witness, what was becoming, a most unusual bout.
He had been sparring for some time, but what had started out as just another
lesson had quickly escalated into a battle of wits, plunging him into a situation
that found him reaching deep into his reserves of ability and stamina.
He sensed, rather than saw, the blur of shimmering steel and moved swiftly,
blocking the strike as it came into his left side. A fraction of a moment later, he
just managed to retrieve his blade in time to defend against the next sweeping
cut as it flew down at him from an unthinkable angle. It seemed that whatever he
did, he was still being forced back. Stumbling under an unexpected blur of cuts
and thrusts, at last he finally managed to check his opponent, and put his
superior strength and Roman training behind a combination of his own in an
attempt to regain the advantage over his far smaller companion. He realised he
was becoming desperate to take back some control of the fight. However, try as
he might, it soon became apparent that no advantage was going to be found and
he was forced back to a more defensive strategy. It wasn't enough. With a sharp
intake of breath, he threw himself backwards, narrowly avoiding the bright blade
as it thrust towards him, the point missing him by a hair's-breadth and he slipped
in the mud, to land in an undignified heap.
He gazed up and stared along the length of steel at the opponent who had
bested him. Drawing ragged breaths into his lungs, he waited for the moment
when he would be able to speak again.
'That sword… has changed you…' He gasped, then coughed and accepted
the help of two of his men to regain his feet. 'I'm glad you're on our side, brother.
You were showing promise before this Excalibur was gifted to you, but now…'
He shook his head in wonder. 'The spirits favour you, that much is clear.'
Uther studied the blade and replaced it in its sheath before answering. 'I don't
know what to say,' he said softly. 'When I grasp Excalibur, it's almost as if we
become one. Time runs slower and it feels as if energy is pouring into me,
almost to the point of bursting. It's as if I have all the time in the world to dance
with the blade.' He gave a grin and looked about him at the gathered warriors.
'Who will be next to test me?' There were some takers, but as the day drew on it
was apparent that none could hope to best him.
* * *
The wolves gathered around, tails wagging with excitement as they licked
his muzzle, welcoming him back into the pack. Then they ran, and a feeling of
exhilaration filled Cal as he felt the cold wet earth beneath his paws and finally
gave himself over fully to being a wolf.
The trees were soon behind them, giving way to rolling, open meadow and a
star-filled night that stretched overhead to light their way. The smell of woodsmoke from the humans' camp gradually faded, replaced with the rich aroma of
damp earth and grassland. Cal rejoiced in the feeling of freedom and knew it was
a love that the other wolves shared as they ran beside him.
Rabbits fled in front of them and he experienced a great delight when he saw
their heads pop up, eyes shining in the starlight, and ears twitching as they
waited for them to pass, only to disappear again when one of the other wolves
got too close. They smelt good.
Back into the forest again, the pack stopped and waited while those that had
lagged behind to feed caught up. Cal raised his head and howled into the
darkness, calling the rest of the pack towards him, and then as they began to
arrive, he set off through the trees once more, eager to be moving.
Later, as the sky in the east began to lighten with the first blush of a
promised sunrise, the wolves found a place to rest amongst the caves of a rocky
escarpment, and the pack settled down to sleep away the daylight hours. When
the sun set once more, they would be rested, ready to hunt, and then to run once
more.
* * *
'You spin a fine tale, storyteller, wolf creatures, ancient curses, magical
swords and the like, but you're not still trying to tell us all this is true, are you?'
The red-faced farmer ignored the elbow he was receiving in his stomach from
his wife, accompanied by the cold stares and mumbled comments from his
friends and neighbours.
Uther tried to focus on the man, dragging his attention back to the present.
He glanced across at Calvador Craen, but his old friend gave no indication that
he had heard the question, or was even aware that the tale had been interrupted.
Uther sighed. 'Well, I couldn't honestly say if it's true or not. However, I am
telling my story as I remember it to be true, warts and all. If it makes you more
comfortable to believe it to be a tale of fantasy, then I shall take no offence.' He
drew on his pipe and gathered his thoughts while the farmer smiled as if he had
just won some kind of contest.
'Where was I?' Uther's brow creased in thought. 'I think I should tell you
more of Meryn and his determination to find Nineve. Now some of you may
have heard tell of the Isle of Avalon, lying as it does at the centre of Holy
Glastenning. It was so named because it rises at the centre of a sea of marshes.
When Meryn reached the end of the road and finally arrived at the Isle it was
sunset, the light was filtering through the clouds and into the mists of the marsh,
painting the air with a strange orange light that Meryn found decidedly
unsettling, to say the least. It made him cautious and he was wise enough to
approach the druids' Tor quietly, leading the horses by hand over the last part of
the narrow path before stepping up and onto the Isle itself. The air was filled, as
he later told it, with the beating of drums and the mournful droning of horns.
Meryn claimed that the steady chanting of the druids only joined in as he set his
first foot on the Isle itself, and that when the voices began, they vibrated through
him to the very roots of his soul.