Page 86 of The Quest for Excalibur
Closer to the road, the dead lay everywhere, scattered across the ancient, graveled surface, sprawled in the still-deep ditches to either side, spreadeagled on what had once been close-cropped green grass but now was black with blood.
The sickly, iron-rich stench of their blood mingled with the stink of excrement, a hand over my nose not enough to keep it out. I fought the old urge to vomit.
But I couldn’t drag my horrified eyes away. Just as Merlin had said, severed limbs and hacked bodies lay in tangled jumbles where they’d fallen. Already their humanity had vanished– they lay like broken marionettes, tumbled, forgotten, unreal, their unquiet souls fled.
More crows settled in swarms like flies, eager for the feast. The not-quite-dead batted feeble arms to fend them off– crows make no discrimination between the living and the dead.
The inclination to vomit receded at last. Twelve years had hardened me. The innocent librarian who’d tumbled back in time had long ago become a warrior queen.
Horses lay gutted and twitching, legs broken, intestines hanging out, squealing and groaning in pain, and our men hastened to finish them off. The men’s filthy, blood-smeared faces showed their horror at doing this. A horse was more than just transport to them, more than just a servant. A horse was their friend, their partner, dearer to many of them than their wives. How much must it hurt to have to kill them?
But they weren’t just finishing off the horses. Their swift, sharp knives slit the throats of the wounded enemy, as well. Gurgles and cries filled my ears, drowning the moans for help. Even a warrior, when mortally wounded, becomes a child again, calling for his mother.
I tore my eyes away and set my gaze between Alezan’s sharply pricked ears, fixed on Merlin’s back. The fear that if I looked to left or right, I would find one of my dear friends lying dead, or worse, not yet dead, threatened to overwhelm me. Alezan stepped daintily over the bodies, unfazed by the sight and stench of death. She’d seen it before enough times. She knew death as well as I did.
The battle was well and truly over.
Our men had gathered on the far side of the ridge. Many had dismounted. We approached with caution, my eyes scanning the blood-spattered faces of the exhausted warriors, searching for my loved ones.
A man lay on the ground in the center of the group, half propped against his dead horse. Cadwy. His thick legs sprawled akimbo, his bulky body, soaked in blood, slumped like a lumpy sack. But he wasn’t dead. His small, malevolent eyes peered out from between the folds of gray flesh that sagged on his face.
Arthur was on his knees beside him, with Custennin. Both of them had discarded their helmets, their hair plastered to their heads with sweat. I couldn’t miss the arrow still in Arthur’s shoulder, the white fletching on the shaft stained with blood, the point protruding from his back.
Merlin dismounted, and I, too, slithered to the ground. My knees gave way as the world spun for a moment, and I had to hang onto one of the horns on Alezan’s saddle or I’d have sunk to the churned mud. My heart wasn’t so much hammering as doing uneven leaping bounds in its efforts to emerge from my throat. Merlin slid a much-needed supporting hand under my elbow as I drew a steadying breath.
“Arthur.” His name came out weaker than I’d expected, but he heard and turned his head, a little awkwardly as though doing so pained him.
“Gwen.”
I shook off Merlin’s hand and took the half dozen steps to reach Arthur’s side. Custennin didn’t move, but Cadwy’s piggy eyes blinked up at me, as if he were struggling to focus.
I went down on my knees on the wet, trampled ground beside Arthur. Were those tears in his eyes? Did he, despite their years of emnity, care about his brother?
Cadwy’s lips moved. “The Ring Maiden sees my end.” Just a whisper.
On an impulse I put out my hand and took his. If his wife couldn’t hold it as he died, then I could do it for her, and perhaps offer him some comfort.
The ghost of a smile brushed his blueing lips. “You chose the right brother.”
I nodded, and took Arthur’s hand as well, linking them.
Arthur grunted. “You did the right thing at the end,” he said. “And you will be remembered for it.”
Cadwy snorted, his face contorting in a grimace. “Make sure it’s not your end as well.” His eyes went to the arrow shaft.
“Just a scratch,” Arthur said. “Just a scratch.”
Cadwy’s eyes flicked to his son’s face. I followed his gaze.
He licked his lips. “You’ll be a better king than me,” he whispered. “Look after your mother for me.”
Custennin, pale-faced and filthy, swallowed. “I promise, Father.”
Cadwy’s eyes began to glaze. Under my hand, his went slack, and a sigh bubbled from his lips with a trickle of blood. His head lolled to one side, jaw slack.
Custennin swallowed again. No mere prince now, but a king. Dried blood masked his face, but apart from that he showed no sign of injury. He released his father’s hand, and got to his feet. Leaning on me, Arthur did the same, his face beneath the dirt nearly as pale as his dead brother’s.
The urge to make Arthur sit down while I looked after him welled up inside me, but I didn’t move. He couldn’t afford to show any sign of weakness in front of another king. Just because Custennin was not his father didn’t mean he harbored no desire to annex Dumnonia to Powys once again.
