Page 96 of The Road to Avalon
Something moved on the far side of Taran. A sword flashed.
“I’m your Queen. I order you to give it to me now!” I bellowed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Medraut swing his sword. Desperation flooded through me ripping a gaping hole in my stomach.
Llawfrodedd unhooked his spear.
Don’t let me be too late.
I snatched the spear out of his hand and dug my heels into Enfys’s sides. She needed no second bidding but leapt into a gallop. Without hesitation, I levelled the spear just as Medraut and Cinbelin had. Like them, I’d practiced this enough with the targets on Din Cadan’s training ground.
Ahead of me, swords flashed. To my right, Cei fought Bran of Ebrauc. I fixed my gaze on Medraut’s figure.
Taran had fallen forward on top of Arthur, pinning him to the ground, yet somehow, he was managing to fight off Medraut. Light reflected off Excalibur’s blade as Arthur fought to keep Medraut at bay and prevent the killing blow he must so much want to make.
From the battleground, riders were heading our way, their hooves drumming on the hard ground.
I didn’t look but kept my eyes on Medraut. Aiming.
Arthur’s sword arm came up to parry blow after blow. Sparks flew, Excalibur against the sword in the stone. I hammered my heels against Enfys’s side. Were the other riders our men or Medraut’s? I had no idea. I didn’t care.
The riders swallowed up Cei and Bran.
Time stood still. Enfys’s hooves drummed the ground.
The tip of my spear wavered. I had to fight to hold it steady.
Medraut was still frantically trying to disarm Arthur and strike the killing blow. Despite being pinned down, Arthur fought back with gusto. Excalibur rang against its predecessor.
Medraut had his back to me. He didn’t see or hear me coming.
My spear took him in the middle of his back, the momentum wrenching it from my grip and carrying me past Taran’s inert body. With both hands back on my reins, I hauled with all my strength.
Enfys skidded to a halt. I pulled her round.
Somehow, without me noticing, the whole battle seemed to have shifted to center on the fallen king. The riders had already dismounted and surrounded Taran’s body. Were they Medraut’s men? I drew my sword. I’d kill every one of them for Arthur if I had to.
No one was fighting.
Weapons hung loose and forgotten in the hands of the men surrounding Arthur. The sound of their labored breathing filled the air as a deathly quiet settled over the battlefield.
The autumn sun, past its zenith now and cooling as the clouds in the west thickened, hung smiling over the battlefield of Camlann in defiance of the carnage. The humps of dead or dying horses lay scattered like small islands in the trampled, blood-soaked grass. Men lay spreadeagled between them, moaning softly or silent and distorted in death. The patient buzzards dropped from the sky to perch on horses’ flanks and tear and rip, without discrimination, at any flesh, be it living or dead.
Amongst the dead and dying, exhausted men stumbled. Only they didn’t look like men. They wore armor and carried swords, but the blood and brains that soaked them robbed them of any humanity. And there were not many of them left.
Who lay here dead? I couldn’t tell. Whose faces would I see? None that I could recognize. Sprawled, they were no longer human, but toys discarded on the rubbish heap of death, limbs akimbo, severed, broken, incomplete. If anyone chased away the buzzards with their savage ripping beaks, they swooped down on another corpse too far away to reach.
Medraut’s men lay dead or dying, or had fled. The men surrounding Arthur were our men. I kicked Enfys into a trot, and shouldered my way between them.
Sliding to the ground onto unsteady legs, I let her reins drop from my slack fingers.
A huddle of men stood around Arthur’s dead horse. I stumbled the last few yards, my stomach twisting in horror.
Arthur lay pinned by his left leg beneath the horse, eyes closed, his face a mask of dirt and blood. Someone had taken off his helmet, but in his right hand he clutched Excalibur still.
Was I too late? Was he dead?
Bedwyr kneeled by his shoulder, his fingers exploring a gaping wound on his king’s arm, the chainmail torn and buckled.
