Warriors of Camlann (7 page)

Dan wondered if the assembled men could understand Medraut's rapid Carvettian, or had he changed languages only to keep his thought from Dan? In the same tongue, Dan replied, ‘I may be a weakling, but I am no fraud. I was called the Bear Sark before, when I fought for King Macsen …' He paused, not knowing how to explain the gulf between that place and this. He understood now what Ursula had known at once at an almost cellular level: this was not Macsen's world and they were not what they had once been. ‘I don't know what you have been told about me but I'm not sure I am what you need. Anyway, I can't stay here. I have to help my friend who is in trouble.'

‘The Boar Skull?'

If Arturus had been surprised by Dan's grasp of the tribal language he did not show it, his tone was measured, calm.

‘Yes, the Boar Skull.'

Medraut murmured to Arturus, ‘I don't like it. We should not trust this man.'

‘But what if he is the Bear Sark? To have such a figure with us would surely inspire the men. We would be
fools to throw away such a prize! And then there is the prophecy …' Arturus speaking in little more than a whisper glanced appraisingly at the waiting men, who were fidgeting slightly as they watched the scene played out. ‘And morale is not all it might be, since the High King Ambrosius died,' he added in a harder undertone.

Medraut smiled his twisted smile again.

‘There is only one thing to do! He has to fight. If he is the Bear Sark he will prove himself in battle; if he is not, then we will quickly be rid of him.'

Medraut's voice was cold and firm. Dan felt the sinking sensation in his gut that was a precursor to real fear. He never wanted to fight again. In the moment that his recognition of Taliesin had opened the floodgates of all his memories he had realised one thing. He was no longer a berserker. He was sane and whole and could not lose himself in the wild killing frenzy that had earned him his name. Now he was himself again, Dan, he did not think he could fight without it.

Six soldiers in variations on Roman military dress escorted Dan to the barracks training ground. He was not under arrest, for Arturus smoothly assured him that he was their honoured guest, but he was unarmed and the soldiers weren't, so Dan drew his own conclusions. They had let him sleep in a guarded room with Braveheart but Taliesin had not come to visit as Dan had hoped. Maybe Medraut had prevented him. Dan was aware that for some reason the bulky soldier had taken a determined dislike to him. He did not know why.

Dan had slept well, exhaustion overriding all other considerations. He had tried to think about the mystery of Taliesin's presence, tried to think about what might have happened to Ursula, but his body had its own ideas and oblivion had overcome him. He had breakfasted on oatcakes drizzled with honey and ale of the kind that Macsen's men had drunk, though not so finely brewed. It was weak enough not to worry him. His body, so
many months among the Combrogi, was used to it.

It was not long after dawn, and a cool morning. As Dan was marched through the straight streets of the Roman city, Braveheart by his side, his curiosity almost overrode his nerves. What he saw was not quite what he had expected of Camulodunum. They passed a vast temple decorated with brightly painted statues, but the paint had peeled to reveal the white marble beneath. Someone had placed a large rustic cross at the entrance and grass grew between the stone slabs that formed the steps. There were weeds too in the roads and many of the stone houses and shops were tumbled down or ruined. Some had been roughly mended with timber or straw with scant regard given to their appearance. There were some soldiers dressed in the Roman style but many more wore simple homespun tunics and cloaks, sporting just a helmet, a belt or a sword that bore the marks of Roman origin. The whole population had turned out to watch the fight and few of the townspeople wore Roman dress; the checks and plaids of the Combrogi were more in evidence, though their colours were muddier and less vibrant than those that Macsen's men had worn. There was little evident display of wealth and Dan was disappointed. He had always wondered what a Roman city looked like. This one was clearly past its best.

Dan was led into the amphitheatre, a vast arena, surrounded
by tiers of ruined benches. Arturus's men had formed a circle around the perimeter to make a smaller arena, and to make sure he could not escape, they stood with swords drawn. Crowds of people had followed them and were arranging themselves on the broken benches. Dan began to sweat in spite of the coolness of the morning. He wished he had his sword, Bright Killer. He wished he were still the Bear Sark. He wished he still possessed his capacity for madness. He looked out for Taliesin's familiar form but saw no one he recognised except for Bedewyr, who rushed towards him.

‘Gawain—I mean, Dan!'

‘You can call me Gawain if you want to, Bedewyr. I'm not sure I know who I am anymore.'

The oddness of that reply seemed to confuse Bedewyr further. ‘Well, I heard you are to fight Arturus's champion, and I thought you might need me, as you didn't know anyone else – I mean, besides the merlin-man.'

‘Who?'

Bedewyr made some rapid sign against the evil eye. ‘I mean, beside the Druid you call Taliesin.'

‘Thank you. I—'

‘You will need a second to hold your cloak and to be sure that the fight is fair.'

‘Thank you, Bedewyr, I didn't know that. Would you also take care of Braveheart for me and see that he is looked after if—'

‘Medraut won't beat you.'

‘Medraut?'

‘He's got a reputation, but he must be thirty years old! You would make a lot of people very happy if you finished him off.'

‘Finished him off? Is this a fight to the death?'

‘Oh yes. Arturus says it's like the old games and a bit of old-fashioned gladiatorial killing is good for the men – gets their blood up. It's the only thing he really disagrees with his priests and monks about. He'd bring back the gladiators if we had any fighting men to spare, which of course we don't.'

It was worse than he'd feared. Dan patted Braveheart's head absently. He wished Ursula were there. She might have come up with something that meant he wouldn't have to enter that arena of armed men and try to kill the formidable Medraut. He had only ever fought as a beserker or, in his brief period as Gawain, as an amnesiac working on instinct. He still couldn't understand how, when he'd fought as Gawain, he could have experienced in his own body the blows he'd dealt his enemies. It seemed unbelievable and yet he was sure it was so. He needed Ursula's calm common sense. Even if she had been unable to find a reason for him not to fight, just her presence would have helped. He felt very alone. He managed somehow to fake a smile for Bedewyr.

‘Thank you, Bedewyr, I would be very grateful if you would be my second. You couldn't lend me a sword as well could you?'

‘The Duke Arturus will give you each a sword, to make sure there's no foul play – poison and the like.'

Bedewyr said it so breezily Dan was quite taken aback. What kind of a world was this?

The guards guided him towards the lean figure of Arturus, muffled against the morning in a long, richly dyed cloak of emerald green. It was lined with fur and very beautiful but somewhat ineptly patched in places where the fine wool fabric had torn and pulled. His eyes were flint hard and unreadable.

Medraut already stood before the Duke in his chain mail and elaborately decorated, gem-encrusted, crested helmet. Dan had no armour or weapon of any kind.

‘For this to be a fair fight I will arm you both,' Arturus began, but Bedewyr interrupted.

‘Excuse me, Duke, but Gawain – I mean, Dan – has no armour. Surely the Count may not fight in his if his opponent has none?'

‘Do you challenge my justice, Bedewyr?' Arturus did not raise his voice but managed to make it sound subtly threatening.

Bedewyr flushed. ‘No sir, but—'

‘Your point has been noted but, in Dan, Medraut must fight a hero, while Dan fights a mere man, battle-hardened
veteran though he may be. Be ready.'

No one it seemed argued with the Duke for long. Dan signalled for Braveheart to stay at Bedewyr's side, and accepted the sword from Arturus. It was not of the quality of Bright Killer, though fortunately it still had a killing edge as well as a stabbing point. It would have to do. He smiled more genuinely at Bedewyr as he gave him his cloak.

‘He favours his right hand and side but he's very tricky,' Bedewyr whispered, and Dan felt the dampness of his own sweat, suddenly cold on his skin. Now that he had regained his memory he knew he had always found his quiet place of inward focus before any major event in his life. When he had been a berserker that place had been red with blood and wildness. Now, it was, as it had always been when he raced or played football in his almost forgotten schooldays, the place where nervousness ended and where concentration began. He could still fight. He had fought as Gawain. The memory of that bloody battle sickened him. He did not want to kill again, but neither did he want to die. He closed his eyes briefly to prepare himself for combat and had an alarming vision of a young man in a soft woollen tunic, lean and well muscled, dark hair bound back in a braid. He opened his eyes in horrified confusion and for an instant he saw the young man's eyes open; dark eyes, harder than his years suggested. He recognised the
vision. It was himself.

Dan started to sweat, his palms were damp and unless he was careful the hilt of the sword would become slick – he could not afford to lose his grip on his sword, or on reality. Something weird was happening to him, stranger and more frightening than even his beserker rages – he had been largely unaware of them. Now, he was suddenly aware of too much.

Dan closed his eyes again to test a growing suspicion. His mind was assaulted by unfamiliar sensations. His left leg ached with an old wound. He stretched muscles that were ox-strong but aching with the stiffness that afflicted them each winter. The hand that held the sword was huge and gnarled by the harshness of an outdoor life. He tested the weight of the blade, a little light but it would serve. The mail shirt and the two layers of clothing he wore underneath it was heavy but comforting. The familiar weight of his helmet made him feel invincible. He felt confident and yet there was fear too. He was glad of it. Living with fear made him what he was. There was no way that a pup, scarcely on the road to manhood, could beat him – Medraut, Count of the Saxon Shore – in a fair fight, and it would be a fair fight, he had promised Arturus.

Dan opened his eyes, and almost lost his balance with the sudden abrupt change of perspective. His own heart pumped faster, he felt the steely strength of his own
youthful limbs, his own lightness and his own explosive energy, barely contained. He was afraid now. He may no longer be a berserker but he had a whole new strain of madness to contend with: he could feel his enemy's thoughts.

‘Gawain? Dan? Are you all right?' Bedewyr's face was wrinkled with concern.

‘I am well, Bedewyr. Wish me luck!'

‘May Cunedos and Mithras grant you victory this day!'

Dan strode to the centre of the circle of men to face Medraut. He had to get a grip of his hectic fear. He could not fight in this unfocused state. He sought his place of stillness and to his profound relief found it – still and calm and unpolluted by his opponent's thoughts.

Medraut was a big man, no taller than Dan himself, but broad and very intimidating. Medraut's helmet protected his face and skull and even offered some protection to the back of his neck. The mail shirt protected his torso and the leather of his under-tunic protected his upper arm and groin. At first glance Dan stood very little chance at all. He knew from experience that Raven helmets fitted snugly; there was no chance of removing this one without also removing the head that wore it. He did not want to take that option. He also doubted that the poorly fabricated sword was up to such a task –
it took a sharp and heavy blade to behead a man. Medraut was circling him warily, his body lowered into a fighting stance.

Dan prayed that he would not see himself again through this enemy's eyes – he could not deal with such a dizzying dual perspective. He dropped his right shoulder and adopted the familiar fighting stance, which offered the enemy the least access to his vital organs and the greatest access to his sword. Medraut stabbed forward with his sword and Dan parried it, lightly stepping backwards. He wanted to tire the older man till his joints ached. He was reluctant to attack. He was afraid of feeling the man's pain. He let Medraut make all the moves, defending himself easily. Dan's reflexes were lightning quick and in any case he could not quite blot out all awareness of his enemy's thoughts. He was always aware of Medraut's next move a heartbeat before it happened.

The audience were bored. The soldiers started to bang their spears against the ground and shout. Dan longed for the madness, which had always let his unconscious take over. He was not used to thinking in a fight. He had never fought defensively in his life before. He had to make a move. Medraut's face was red with anger and effort. Dan needed to finish it. He could not be the Bear Sark but he could still be Gawain. He had to forget himself and let his battle-honed instincts take over. He
urged himself to let go, to stop thinking. Suddenly, he found the knack of it. It happened in an instant as if someone had flicked a switch and the whole pace of the battle changed. Dan suddenly started to attack. His speed was devastating, the sudden change in pace confused Medraut whose anger was beginning to cloud his judgement as surely as the sweat now dripping into his eyes clouded his vision. Medraut found himself stepping back from the relentless thrusting of Dan's sword. Twice, Dan almost got through Medraut's defences. Twice, he was stopped by the older man's blade at the last moment. The third time Dan sliced through the protective leather tunic and drew first blood. A sharp, stinging sensation reminded him of what he already knew to be true. He would feel every blow in this contest – those he dealt and those he received. He backed off and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Medraut was bleeding freely from his upper thigh but it was a scratch, nothing more, though it initiated a new round of more enthusiastic spear thumping from the crowd. Dan wiped his right hand on his tunic, switching the blade to his left hand. Medraut rushed forward, eager to take him at a disadvantage, except that it was no disadvantage. Medraut thrust forward at his undefended right side as Dan sliced through the exposed under-arm of his opponent with a left-handed thrust and slash. Blood welled and Dan bit his lip against the pain. Medraut swayed
but did not fall. Dan knocked the sword from the man's strong right hand, twisted, and had his own blade to Medraut's throat. Their eyes were level. Dan experienced another strange moment of double vision: he saw Medraut keeping the fear from his eyes, defiantly refusing to yield to the pain and the recognition of defeat; and he also saw his own eyes, dark and ferocious, staring back. Dan shook his head to dislodge the unwelcome awareness.