The Paradise War (19 page)

Swiftly the battle line closed. I saw the glint of their bold eyes, the sweat on their firm-muscled limbs. I saw their teeth gleaming white, their dark braids swinging free. I heard their full-throated battle cries as they swept down upon me, and I cowered lower, hugging the stones, willing myself to disappear beneath them.

It worked. They did not see me. For even as the nearest combatant reached the place where I huddled, clutching my head and praying to keep it in closest possible contact with my shoulders, he dashed across the stream and all but leaped over me, without so much as a sideward glance in my direction.

The rest of the battle host likewise ignored my presence. They splashed across the stream and raced to meet the war band on the opposite hillside. Only then did I realize I was not the object of their desire.

This insight did not produce the relief it should have. Any comfort was all too quickly consumed by the fear that I would be killed in the confusion anyway. Dead by freakish mischance is still dead.

The two advancing battle lines closed on one another. The sound of their meeting shivered the air: spear clattering on shield, sword striking helmet, iron on bone, battle horns blaring, voices bellowing, drums pounding—all of it in the most horrific deafening clangor. I thought my eardrums would burst.

The impact of the initial collision threw the combatants apart. Some fell instantly, never to rise again. Most, however, swung into combat and the battle commenced in lethal earnest. Blood and spittle sprayed liberally. Horses reared and plunged, flinging dirt into the sky. Men fought, hacking viciously at one another with wicked, bloodstained blades.

I could not watch! I could not keep from watching! I crouched at the water’s edge, wide-eyed, yelping with terror as this or that warrior fell to his death with skull riven or throat slashed. I dodged this way and that, trying to stay out of the way. This became more difficult as the fight progressed, and the ordered lines became a ragged, rangy tangle. Men fought all around me. Just avoiding being trampled by a horse or stabbed by an errant spear, not to mention crushed by a falling body, occupied my utmost attention.

I thought to get hold of a shield to hide behind, and began scanning the nearby hillside. I saw several lying in the grass alongside the bodies of owners who would not longer need them. I ran to the nearest of these and tried to pull it free. The dead man’s arm was still engaged, and his hand still clutched the shield strap tightly.

I knelt over the body and tore frantically at the binding. I was thus occupied when I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder.

I screamed and was jerked over backwards. I saw a spear waver in the clear blue sky above me. I threw my hands into the air to ward off the blow and lashed out with both feet at my attacker. I squirmed and writhed, shrieking. To my profound astonishment, a voice shouted, “Lewis! Stop it!”

I looked and saw that the form bending over me wore a familiar face. “S-Simon?” I stammered uncertainly. “Simon, is it you?”

13
B
LOOD
B
APTISM

I
t was Simon, naked and painted for battle like all the others, and wearing a long, luxurious mustache. “Yes, it’s Simon!” he hissed. “Stop kicking! I’m trying to help you!”

I ceased thrashing and sat up. “Simon! I’ve found you! What are you doing here? How—”

He grabbed me by the arm and yanked me to my feet. “Get up!”

“Simon, let’s get out of here. We’ve got to—”

He stooped over the body of the dead warrior beside us and snatched the sword from the corpse’s hand, shoving it into mine. “Here, take this.”

“I don’t know how to use this thing.” I shoved it back at him.

“You’ll learn.” He began tearing at my clothes. “Get that shirt off.”

“Hey! What—”

“You don’t want to be seen like this,” he told me tersely.

Reluctantly, I began unbuttoning the shirt. “Simon, I’m really glad I found you.”

“Hurry!” Simon scanned the melée. The battle host of which he had been a member seemed to be overcoming their opponents, for the battle had quickly pushed beyond us. The heaviest combat was being waged higher up the hill.

I saw this as a perfect chance to creep away unnoticed. “Look, we’ve got to get away from here. We can—”

“Get if off!” he growled, snatching the shirt from me. “And get rid of this.” He seized my arm and jerked the watch from my wrist. Then he turned and heaved my watch into the stream.

“Wait a minute! You can’t—” The timepiece glinted in the air and disappeared among the rocks and the water.

“Follow me!” he cried, and, picking up his spear, dashed once more into the fray.

Reluctantly, I picked up the sword and tried once more, without success, to wrest the shield from the dead warrior. “Hurry!” cried Simon. “Try to stay with me!”

I followed without the shield, cursing every step. “This is crazy!” I cried. Simon did not hear me above the battle roar. “Bloody crazy!”

He gestured with his spear for me to follow, turned, and flung himself headlong into the fray. He was met almost the same instant by an immense warrior with a round, white-painted shield. The shield was spattered with blood, more red than white now, and the sword in his hand was notched and jagged. The warrior rushed at Simon, swinging the sword wide to strike, bellowing a brutal war cry as he came.

Simon did not hesitate but leaped to meet his adversary’s attack, throwing the butt of the spear up and into the man’s groin, ramming it hard. I winced. The warrior lurched back, swiping down with the blade, chopping off the end of Simon’s spear.

“Run!” I screamed.

But Simon had no intention of fleeing. He drove into the staggering foe, swinging the spear violently against the bloodstained shield. Even above the tumult of the battle I heard the crack. The shield swung aside. In the same fluid motion, Simon turned the spear and thrust its slim, leaf-shaped blade deep into the man’s bare chest. Blood spurted from the wound in a crimson torrent. The painted warrior fell dead to the ground, his mouth gaping in a silent scream.

Suddenly light-headed, black spots swimming before my eyes, I stumbled to Simon’s side. “He tried to kill you,” I mumbled, little knowing what I said. “Is he dead?”

By way of answer, Simon wrested the sword from his opponent’s dead hand. Placing a foot on the man’s chest and gripping the sword in both hands, he swung the blade high, then down, quickly, expertly. With a meaty crack, the dead warrior’s head rolled free.

I yelped and jumped back. “Simon!”

He picked up the severed head and turned, raising his grisly trophy on high. I stared in perfect disbelief. Simon threw back his head and laughed. “Here,” he called to me, “make yourself useful.”

With that, he threw the head to me. It hit the ground with an ugly thump and rolled toward me down the hill, flinging blood from the amputated neck. It stopped at my feet where I regarded it with abhorrence, choking back the sour bile that suddenly filled my mouth.

“Pick it up!” shouted Simon. “Let’s go!”

With difficulty I tore my eyes from the dead man’s empty gaze. “What?”

“Come on,” Simon snapped impatiently. “Pick it up! Let’s go!”

I glanced down at the head and back to Simon. “I can’t . . . I just—”

“Pick the wretched thing up!” he snarled savagely. “Now!”

I stooped and clenched a handful of hair. The head was warm and the hair was wet with sweat. I felt faint. My throat gagged. I thought I would throw up; my stomach heaved, and my knees went spongy. I stood retching, holding that hideous prize, dizzy and reeling with fear and revulsion.

Simon ran to join battle once more, but the fighting was over. The defeated were fleeing over the hill, and the victors—the war host I had encountered first—were throwing spears and hurling loud abuse at the rapidly retreating foe. The dead of both war bands lay scattered over the hillside like so many sun-bleached boulders. Crumpled and contorted, limbs askew, they lay in grass of the softest green I had ever seen, under that incredibly blue sky.

Even as I gazed numbly at the carnage around me, I heard a grating cry and looked up to see the carrion birds gathering. Already, they were flocking to their grim and ghastly feast. One big raven swooped low in front of me and landed on the headless corpse of the man Simon had killed. With a loud croak the big bird jabbed its black beak into the oozing chest wound, bit deep, and tore away a ragged strip of flesh. The raven tossed its sleek black head and gobbled the meat.

I had to look away. I stumbled after Simon, keeping my eyes away from the butchery in the grass.

Simon had joined the other warriors, who were setting the hills ringing with wild whoops of victory. Some leaped in the air and gestured with their spears to the obvious delight of their fellows, who barked with laughter. Simon laughed with them.

The merriment halted abruptly with the arrival of two young men on horseback: one looked to be a warrior and the other an adviser of some sort. But the warrior was dressed in bold checked trousers of gold and green, and a loose red shirt of shimmering satinlike fabric. He wore a large neck ring, or torc, of silver, and a wide belt of silver disks. The hilt of a golden dagger protruded from this belt, and he carried a spear with a silver blade. He, too, flaunted a great, spreading mustache. His hair—a long, full mane of tawny curls—gleamed in the sun.

The other youth was dressed more plainly: brown shirt and trousers of an ordinary cloth, a common leather belt. He wore no finery, and carried no weapons. His only adornment was a fine crimson cloak gathered at one shoulder with an immense silver brooch. He wore his dark hair scraped back tight to his scalp.

Both men were tall and striking, enjoying the ease and grace of youth. And both moved with a command and authority I imagined only Holy Roman emperors possessed: massive and benevolent, inspiring and daunting at the same time. They would have been at home in any of Europe’s royal courts. Even their horses appeared more graceful, more powerful, more beautiful than any of the manifest world’s much-vaunted thoroughbreds.

At the appearance of these two, the cheering and gyrating stopped, to be replaced by a general clamor of approval—a hailing of the chief, I reckoned. I crept next to Simon. “That’s the king, right?” I whispered.

“No. It’s the prince,” he murmured. “Be quiet.”

“Prince who?”

“Prince Meldron,” Simon told me irritably. “Meldron ap Meldryn Mawr. The one with him is Ruadh—he is the prince’s bard.”

“Oh.”

The prince halted amidst his gathered warriors and dismounted to the acclaim of all. Anyone would have thought he had won the battle single-handedly, though as far as I could tell he had not lifted a finger. Meldron beamed as his men exalted the victory; they began shouting and hugging and leaping onto one another and pummeling each other on the back. It reminded me of a locker-room celebration after a football championship match. All they lacked was champagne with which to douse themselves.

The cheering continued for a few moments, whereupon, by no sign or word that I could discern, it concluded. The prince issued a few brief words and everyone sprang into action, scattering across the hillside to the bodies of the slain. Their dead comrades were carried with all pomp to the stream and laid out beside the water. Stones were arranged over the bodies and a mound quickly, but carefully, raised.

The enemy dead were left where they had fallen. But each corpse was decapitated and the heads stacked neatly into a pyramid like so many ripe cabbages. Then their weapons were gathered, along with any ornaments—arm rings, torcs, bracelets, and the like. These were placed in a separate heap next to the severed heads.

Simon joined the others in these tasks, and I was left alone for the while. It was then that my presence on the battlefield was noticed and acknowledged for the first time. For, as the warriors were scouring the hillside for booty, one of them saw me standing apart, still holding the head of the man Simon had killed. The brawny fellow strode up to me and regarded me closely.

Not knowing what else to do, I offered him the head. The warrior behaved as if I had breached polite etiquette. His lips writhed back from his teeth in a grimace. He called over his shoulder to the bard, who turned, saw me, and joined the warrior in his scrutiny.

The bard spoke to me in a voice that sounded willowy and guttural at the same time. I could make nothing of the language, but realized that I had encountered it before—in a much altered form, at least. It had much of the same pattern and resonance as modern Welsh.

I stood grinning like an idiot, still holding the head. The bard turned abruptly and called to the prince, who came at once, striding down the hill. With him came several other warriors, and all at once I found myself under the stern examination of the prince and surrounded by naked, blue-stained bodies of powerful warriors—none of whom appeared particularly pleased to see me.

Prince Meldron, like his bard before him, spoke to me in his proto-Gaelic speech. I answered in my own tongue, which caused a small sensation—they murmured excitedly and pointed at my shoes and trousers. A few reached out to touch my bare skin with fingers extended gingerly. They stared at me and at the head I held, as if unwilling to believe their eyes at either curiosity.