Shadowland (20 page)

‘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
Clarise, 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 wood-smoke 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 Clarice.
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. W
hen 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.

Chapter Twelve – Avalon

‘Steady,
girl...
whooo
there
, steady now.’ The younger of the
two mares was jumping and shuffling nervously, making the chariot creak and
shake as Meryn tried to calm her. ‘Hush now. Don’t you go listening to those
ol
’ noises, that's just those druids playing their games.’

As he held the harness, stroking and patting the
horse’s neck, it’s eyes rolled and it snorted, and then with a sudden flick of
its head, it pulled away hard and he struggled to keep hold. Beside it, the
older more experienced mare held her back, trembling but still trusting in Meryn
to guide her. The archer drew a deep breath, unable to blame the horses for
their discomfort and gazed about, trying to calm his own beating heart.