Camulod Chronicles Book 8 - Clothar the Frank (86 page)

"These are our standard training swords," he said quietly. "They are made from ash wood, so they have resilience, as well as strength and weight. Choose whichever one pleases you more."

I took one in each hand, hefting them and feeling for balance and weight. "They are heavier than I am used to, and much longer."

"Aye, they are half again as long in the blade as a spatha. Do you normally use a spatha?"

"I do."

"We don't, in Camulod. Our swords are longer—stronger, too. Hence the heavier weight, based on the principle that a training weapon should be twice the weight of a real one. Will this be too much for you?"

I looked him straight in the eye and managed a smile for him, then crouched into the fighting stance and began the circling dance of the blade fighter half a step before he did the same. Before we had made half a revolution, the others had surrounded us, silent but watchful, plainly expecting to see their leader teach me a lesson in short order. I felt the difference in the practice sword immediately and straightened slightly, realizing that the increased length and weight of the weapon would call for a different technique in handling the thing. It felt cumbersome and ungainly in my grasp, but I noticed, too, that the hilt was twice as long as the hilt on my spatha, and that told me that the swords these people wielded could be gripped with both hands and swung ferociously.

My opponent immediately taught me something else about these weapons, because he held his in both hands, one on the hilt in the normal grip, and the other cradling the heavy end so that he held the weapon horizontally as he moved opposite me, assessing my capabilities. I could have told him I had none with such an alien weapon, but I knew he would reach that conclusion unaided within a very short time. Until that time, however, I would watch and hope to learn how to survive this encounter without disgracing myself. I began by holding my weapon the way he was holding his.

Decades have passed since that day, but I can still recall it clearly, and the clearest recollection I have is the easy half smile on my adversary's face, the supreme confidence expressed in his every move and the crouching grace with which he faced me. I knew that my weapon was going to hinder me, but I found myself taking encouragement from the way it nestled in my hands. And when he opened his attack by springing at me, changing his grip swiftly to hold the hilt in both hands and bring a mighty overhead blow down on me, I was ready for him. I could have jumped backwards or to either side to avoid the blow, because I saw it coming from the outset, but I chose to step into him instead, raising my weapon high in both hands to meet and absorb his blow before it could develop full momentum.

From the moment his sword hit mine, I lost all awareness of any newness or strangeness in my weapon and I fought as Tiberias Cato had taught me to fight, using all his tricks. Inside the big man's guard as I was, I turned and rammed my elbow into the soft, vulnerable spot beneath the join of his ribs. He grunted heavily and staggered backwards, and as he went reeling I spun again and slashed hard at his left knee. He managed to block the blow with a down-thrust blade and then exploded into a cat-like leap that won him enough distance to leave him safe for a few moments. And then the fight began in earnest.

The exhilaration of combat and the thirst for victory combined to increase my focus and my concentration, so that all my normal fighting techniques were enhanced and I adjusted quickly and easily to my new sword, manipulating it at times as though it were a spear with a solid, heavy shaft.

We fought long and hard, neither of us able to gain a lasting advantage over the other. When he attacked me, hacking and slashing ferociously, I would back away, fending off his blows and concentrating wholly on absorbing and avoiding his ferocity until the moment when I felt the vigor of his charge begin to wane. Then it became my turn to pursue, him. Back and forth we went, time after time, the entire meadow echoing with the hard, dry clattering of blade against blade. We lost awareness, right at the outset, of the people watching us. We had no time for others. Our entire attention was focused upon each other because we both knew, within moments of our first clash, that we were equally matched and that this fight would go to the first man fortunate enough to land a solid blow. And each of us intended to be that man. But on and on it went, advance and retreat, neither of us able to land that solid blow and both of us growing more and more fatigued with every passing moment.

There came a time, and I had known it must come soon, when I began to feel, and to believe, that I was incapable of lifting my weapon above my head one more time. But he attacked again, hewing wickedly at my flanks, and one of his blows, a lateral slash, knocked aside my guardian blade and hit me at mid-thigh.

It was not a killing blow, for my own weapon had countered it and absorbed most of its strength, but had we been using real weapons it would have cut me deeply and been the end of me. As it was, I felt the crushing impact and my mind transported me instantly to Gaul where, three years earlier, I had been kicked in the same place, and with much the same force, by a horse. Then, as on this occasion, there was no pain, and I knew this time I would feel none until later. For the time being, however, my entire leg was numb. I could move on it without falling only if I did so with great care.

Knowing he had hit me hard, my opponent held back instead of rushing in to finish me, and in doing so he gave the initiative back to me. I took full advantage of it, using a two-handed grip to unleash a rain of blows, pushing him inexorably backwards with a fierce but unsustainable attack. I knew I was using the last of my reserves of strength but I had gone beyond caring. I knew that I would be finished the moment my attack began to falter, but I was determined to go down fighting. And then, in jumping backwards to avoid a crippling slash, my opponent caught his heel on something and fell heavily, landing hard on his backside and losing his blade.

It was my victory. All I had to do was step forward and place the end of my weapon against his chest. Instead—and to this day I do not know why I did it, but I am glad I did—I grounded my weapon, and then stepped forward, offering him my hand to pull himself up.

Only when he was standing facing me again, his right hand still holding mine and his other gripping my shoulder, did I realize that he was breathing every bit as laboriously as I was. He finally sucked in one great, deep breath and held it for long moments before expelling it again, and when he spoke his voice was close to normal.

"That was well fought, stranger, and it was a task I would not care to undertake again today or any other day. You are . . ." He paused, searching for a word. "Formidable. Yes, that describes you. Formidable. Now that you have thrashed me, will you permit me to ask who are you and whence you come, and who taught you to fight like that?" He released my hand and waved away one of his men, who was trying to attract his attention, and I knew that he genuinely wanted to hear my answers.

"My name is Clothar," I said, looking him in the eye and seeing the black flecks in the tawny gold of his irises. "I am a Frank, from southern Gaul. A Salian Frank reared among Ripuarians in the south. I was sent here more than a year ago by my patron and mentor, Bishop Germanus of Auxerre, to carry letters and documents to Merlyn Britannicus of Camulod. As for the fighting, I went for six years as a student to the Bishop's School in Auxerre, and the stable master, Tiberias Cato, was a former cavalryman. It was he who, as a much younger man, brought those spears back from the other Empire in the distant east. He, too, it was who taught me how to fight. And now I am here in Camulod awaiting the return of Arthur the Riothamus."

"Arthur? Why do you wait for him? Do you bear letters for him, too? And have you been carrying them about with you for a year and more?"

I smiled. "No, no letters for him. But for years I have been hearing about Arthur Pendragon from Bishop Germanus, who heard of him through Merlyn. And now that my mission for the bishop is complete and the bishop himself is dead, I intend to offer my sword and my services to Arthur, if he will have me."

"Oh, he will have you. Never fear on that."

Something in the way he spoke the words prompted me to ask, "How can you be so sure?"

He grinned again. "Because I know. I can speak for the Riothamus. What did you say your name was?"

"Clothar."

"Aye, Clothar. It is . . . different. I've never heard that name before."

"It is common enough where I come from, and it is purely Frankish. Am I permitted to ask your name?"

He grinned, showing white, even teeth. "If I tell you my name will you show me the secret of your spears?"

I knew he was baiting me, gulling me in some manner, but I could not see how and I shook my head, smiling still but now uncertain of what was happening here. "I have already said I would. I said so before we fought."

"That's true, you did." He drew himself up straight, and his smile was open and forthright. "Come, then, return to Camulod with us. I am Arthur Pendragon, and men call me Riothamus, the High King of Britain, but that is only a title. I have yet to earn the right to it, and fill in the truth behind it, and I fear I have a long way to go before I can admit to the name without feeling inadequate. But my given name is Arthur, and I am the chief of Pendragon, and so be it you were serious about joining with us, I think we two could become friends. What say you, Clothar the Frank?"

My jaw had fallen open as he spoke, and I knew that I was gaping like a simpleton, but now I dropped to one knee in front of him, meaning to kiss his hand as I would a bishop's, but he caught me by the arm and pulled me back to my feet. "No, no, none of that. I have done nothing yet to earn that kind of treatment, and you have newly knocked me on my arse. Folly, then, to follow that by kissing my hand." His smile widened. "When the time comes to swear loyalty to me, I will let you know. For the time being, if you feel a need to be ceremonious, you can call me Magister, as the others do. Now, what about those spears you have? Mil you show me how they are different to ours?"

I had to breathe deeply and calm my racing, exultant heart. I could hear a blackbird piping somewhere among the woods to my right and a thrush singing its heart out behind us and I felt all at once that anything would be possible in this new land to which I had brought my friends with the thought of serving this impressive man. And when I felt able to speak again without quavering, I bowed my head, partly in acknowledgment, partly in respectful awe.

"Aye, Magister," I said, addressing my King thus for the very first time, "I will."