Chapter 51
The only war Arthur had ever fought had been the one that existed in his soul. The silent battle between his father and the One God and the life that had been slowly killing him. The battle he had fought, and mostly lost, against fear.
There was no place for fear on the battlefield. There was no place for his dry mouth and pounding heart, his atrophied limbs, the overwhelming need to flee.
With the Sword of the White Dragon’s magic flowing through him in anticipation, Arthur led his people out into the dust of Camlann Plain. By the time they were lined up, Mordred’s men were pouring from Dinas Emrys like ants. They stopped, the cursed earth a barrier between them.
And with the inevitability of fate, the barrier broke.
Arthur was outside of himself. His arms did not belong to him.
The legs that carried forward were not his own.
He watched and did not recognise the man he was, the man who sliced his way through flesh and bone, who spared no one.
The man who others followed, flowing along in his wake, killing those Arthur missed.
Halymere fought beside him, but Arthur barely saw the Cruithean. He barely saw anything except blood and death and shadow. He did not hear the screams.
The Sword had its way, at last. It was gleeful, proud, and deadly. Arthur hated it. He hated that he was a puppet on its strings, a conduit for its hate, for its thirst for blood and pain.
Control it. Merlin’s voice in his head, cutting across the constant babble of the Sword. You are its master.
Arthur’s arm spun, body twisting away from the enemy. Blood sprayed as the Sword continued to drink.
Stop! Arthur told it.
‘We need to regroup.’ Halymere’s voice. ‘Arthur, we need to pull back.’
They’d only just started, hadn’t they? Arthur couldn’t remember. He slammed back into his body and felt everything. The muscles in his arms screamed, his thighs were tight, his lower back, shoulder, his hands – everything ached.
‘Where are the others?’ he managed, pushing his hair from his forehead. He was drenched in sweat. ‘Where’s Kat?’
‘On your left,’ Halymere said, then yelled her name. Kat nodded and hailed Olwen who fought nearby surrounded in red mist. They retreated, calling for others to do the same. Mordred’s men were also backing away.
A break, then.
A breath, a moment, and the power of the Sword slipped.
Blood painted the earth in streaks and splotches, a terrible artwork trampled by hundreds of feet.
Arthur blinked at the crimson stain beneath his feet, the sword whispering in his ear.
The reality of it all crashed into him with such force he almost fell to his knees.
Chaos. That was what battle was. It was chaos and blood and despair.
It was broken earth and broken bodies. Shredded hearts and shredded limbs.
It was monstrous and terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
Bodies lay like discarded toys. The wounded cried out in pain.
He saw Iouen lift a man from the ground, watched Melhala support a Cruithean woman to stand.
Blood gushed from the woman’s leg. He saw the shifter, Voss, change from giant cat to man without breaking stride as he joined Iouen and Tristan.
A huge white wolf, jaw smeared with red, walked at Tristan’s side, while in the distance, Arthur caught sight of Ordes’ wings and a flare of magic, Sorcha and her Warriors, still in perfect formation.
Chaos. Bloodshed. Drink it in, king who shall be for this is the start of your reign.
No, Arthur thought. This isn’t what I wanted.
But it’s what was necessary, the sword crooned. Power corrupts and corruption paints the world in red and rust and—
Stop, Arthur demanded. That’s not who I am.
Isn’t it? The sword asked. You are a man like all the others. You will break and bend the world to your will.
‘Arthur!’ Jalen’s voice.
The former demi-god hurried to his side. Halymere had gone, swept away somewhere in the terrible storm that surrounded them.
‘Whatever is going on in your head, you need to snap out of it,’ Jalen said urgently.
Arthur blinked.
‘Arthur!’ Jalen shook him. ‘The retreat has been sounded.’
‘This wasn’t what I wanted,’ Arthur breathed.
‘I know, I know,’ Jalen said. ‘But it’s happening and if you don’t stay focused that will be you,’ he added, pointing at a man on the ground, blood seeping from his chest. ‘I don’t want that to be you.’
Arthur met his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
Jalen frowned. ‘Arthur—’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you wanted,’ Arthur said.
Jalen’s expression collapsed. He tucked his sword away and pushed the hair from his forehead. ‘Arthur, you did nothing wrong. Nothing at all.’
Arthur’s hand tightened on the sword. He nodded. ‘This isn’t what I wanted.’
‘I know.’
Arthur allowed Jalen to lead him from the field of death and devastation.
‘Did anyone see Mordred after it started?’ Kat asked, accepting a mug of water and draining it.
Her hair had come loose from its braid, strands brushing her cheek.
She batted them away, irritated. The sun was setting.
Arthur stared at the sky in wonder. A whole day.
They’d retreated, regrouped, rested, then it started again – a horrible, vicious cycle of anger and pain and blood.
‘Medb?’
‘No sign.’
‘The Witchfinders must not have been out there…’
‘Has anyone seen…’
Conversation drifted around Arthur like waves. He still held the bloodied sword. He wiped it on his shirt as best he could.
‘Arthur?’
He jolted as someone touched his shoulder.
‘How many dead?’ he croaked. Dust coated his throat.
No one answered; their faces reflected the horror he felt. This would haunt them for a long time. Ordes had his arm around Jenyfer, had pulled her close. There was blood on her cheek.
‘Your mother?’ he asked Ordes.
Ordes shook his head.
Arthur stood. He hadn’t realised he’d been sitting. His knees protested the shift in position. ‘Someone find out how many we lost,’ he whispered, then walked back to his tent where he found Jalen waiting for him.
Without a word, Arthur pushed the flap aside and went in.
A moment later, Jalen followed. They didn’t speak.
All Arthur wanted was to fall against Jalen’s chest and sob.
Jalen, who had always seemed so strong, was exhausted.
The lines of his face sagged and there were shadows beneath his eyes.
Arthur figured he looked the same. Someone had left a basin of water and a cloth for him to bathe.
‘We’ll do that again tomorrow, won’t we?’ he asked. A terrible numbness had started to slide over him.
‘Yes,’ Jalen said.
‘And then what? We keep going until there is no one left?’ His voice was bitter.
‘Arthur…’
‘Tomorrow, the White Dragon will join us,’ Arthur said.
‘Eseld told me—’ He glanced at Jalen, then decided he didn’t care if Jalen had lied to him.
He didn’t care if he was still loyal to Niniane.
He wanted this to end already. ‘Eseld told me the dragons must fight. That they represent Mordred and myself. If that is true, the White Dragon must defeat the Red, or we won’t win this. ’
Jalen nodded. ‘Merlin saw your victory.’
‘No,’ Arthur said sharply. ‘He didn’t, not exactly.
“When the White Dragon defeats the Red”…
when, Jalen. When. The prophecy doesn’t say when.
’ Arthur sighed, slumping onto the end of his bed, legs unable to hold him up any longer.
‘This has happened before. I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.
Tomorrow, I’ll find my cousin, and one way or another, this will be over. ’
Arthur slept for a few hours, waking to complete darkness.
He got up, splashed his face with chilled water, and went in search of…
someone. The sun had slipped behind the jagged spine of the Nemhain Mountains and night had spread its fingers over Camlann Plain.
Torches lit their camp, and glowing orbs of fiery light hovered above the tents.
Wings beat overhead where the White Dragon soared.
‘I’m sorry,’ Arthur whispered. The dragon roared and sailed away.
He found Ordes and Jenyfer sitting outside their tent. Jenyfer had a bowl of stew in her hands, but it didn’t look like she’d eaten any.
‘It’s Samhain. We should be sleeping, but…’
Arthur hadn’t realised – he didn’t know the old calendar and nobody had mentioned it.
His skin prickled. There was something important about tonight, but he couldn’t recall what.
Jenyfer frowned then leapt to her feet, hurrying away.
Arthur and Ordes exchanged a look and followed her.
She had stopped in the next row of tents, her hands held to her mouth in shock.
Arthur looked around, heart thundering. He’d left the Sword behind! What if—
Ordes touched his arm. ‘It’s midnight. Look, Arthur.’
Walking through the rows of tents was Ophine.
Arthur’s heart surged. The wraith was wearing armour made of bones, their black cloak swirling behind them.
People scurried out of the way, whispering in awe, eyes wide.
Someone recited the Word – Ophine grinned, that grin widening when they spied Arthur, Jenyfer and Ordes.
They stopped, holding up a slender hand, a signal to wait.
‘It is time. The tides have turned. Samhain is upon us. You wanted an army, Jenyfer? Here it is,’ Ophine said.
‘My master’s gift to you.’ They clicked their fingers and the air filled with the rattling of old bones, the howling dogs and the pealing of bells.
A swirling mist rose behind Ophine, and when it cleared, hundreds of figures stood at their back.
Ankou’s promised army.
‘Who are they?’ Jenyfer whispered. Some were skeletal in appearance, some had skin stretched over bone like a canvas, and some looked like they could pass for human. Like their master, they all had dark sockets for eyes. All were armed – swords, spears, bows.
‘They are those who died fighting against corruption the last time this happened in this place. They are here to make sure evil does not win,’ Ophine explained, then turned to Arthur and inclined their head. ‘The Once and Future King, we are yours to command.’
They knelt, and the army of the dead knelt with them.