The Legend of the King

  "Tsk," tutted a voice at his left. "Did him faw down?"

  Terence had already scrambled to his feet and whirled around, knife in hand, when the voice registered in his mind. "Robin?"

  "This is how we first met," the voice said reminiscently. "Do you remember? I tripped you in the woods. It was a lovely afternoon, and you fell so beautifully."

  Terence ignored the irrelevant memory. "I'm glad you're here," he gasped.

  "Oh, you say that," Robin replied. "But then you point a nasty knife at me."

  "Shut up, Robin."

  "Yes, your grace."

  Terence sheathed his knife. The little elf who had been his most frequent contact with the Faery World was often irritating but had always been a friend. "Where are Mordred's troops?"

  "The largest body is due north of Arthur, about a half-hour for a marching army."

  "Anything at all over those western hills?"

  "Some lovely wildflowers. Periwinkle and—"

  "I don't care about the wildflowers, Robin."

  "Now, that's just sad," Robin said reproachfully. "You should listen to yourself, your grace! Sad. I say it again: sad."

  Terence forced himself to take a slow breath. "Later we'll go appreciate the wildflowers together, shall we? But for now, I just wonder if there are any of Mordred's men there."

  "That's what you want to see? I can tell you right now that Mordred's men are hardly as pleasant to look at as—"

  "Robin."

  "No, your grace. No soldiers to the west."

  "Thank you, my friend," Terence said.

  "You're welcome, my lord," Robin said, his voice suddenly husky. "And Terence? I won't forget your promise."

  Terence blinked. "What promise is that?"

  "The wildflowers, lad."

  Terence hurried back to Arthur's camp and stopped before the king's tent, but before he could report, there came a crash from the beach behind them, then shouts, then a cry of pain. Arthur tore out of his tent, sword in hand. "They're behind us!" he called.

  "No, sire!" shouted Terence. "They're north of us!"

  Arthur paused, thinking. "North? You're sure?"

  "Yes, sire. Someone's on the beach, but Mordred's main forces are north."

  Arthur hesitated only a second, then said, "To arms! We march north!"

  Kai appeared. "North? But the fighting's in the other direction."

  "Think, Kai. There isn't room on that beach for an army. It must be a diversion. We march north, now!"

  Without further question, Arthur's disciplined army began moving north. Terence caught up his horse and sword, without bothering with a saddle or armor, and fell into line with the rest. At every step the sounds of battle from the beach grew fainter. At last they ceased altogether. Gawain rode up beside him. "So who was that on the beach?"

  "I don't know."

  "Kai says all our troops are accounted for. Whoever it was, it wasn't any of our men."

  Terence shrugged, and at that moment Arthur's army topped a hill and looked down onto Mordred's camp. Terence's first impression was horror—there were more men there than even the most pessimistic guesses—but then he realized that the camp was sleeping. This was not an army ready for war. Arthur had taken them by surprise.

  Arthur called the charge, and so began the Battle of Dover. It was exactly what Arthur had been looking for, a chance for a pitched battle on his own terms, and Arthur's army cut Mordred's troops in half. Within an hour the White Horsemen were in full flight in every direction, and within two hours the battle was done. Terence had stayed within sight of the king, and when the last of Mordred's men had fallen or fled the field, he walked over beside him. Kai was urging him to pursue the fleeing rebels.

  "Where?" asked Arthur. "Which direction? They're running in all of them."

  "They'll regroup," Kai warned.

  "True, those who don't slip off," Arthur replied. "But that will take time, and we need that time as well. Our men were exhausted before the battle. They'll be on their last legs now. Start them back toward our camp above the beach. It was a good place before, and it still is. We'll stay there until we're rested."

  Gawain stepped up beside Terence, stumbled on a stone, then caught himself. Arthur smiled at him. "You're worn out, too, my friend, but I have one more thing to ask you."

  "Just one?"

  "You and Terence go ahead of us and scout the beach. I want to know what that fighting behind us was."

  Gawain nodded. "I've been curious, too. Come on, Terence."

  The sun was just showing above the horizon when they arrived at the beach below Arthur's deserted camp, where dozens of dead knights were scattered about, alone and in heaps. Two small wooden sloops lay at anchor just off the beach, but there was no sign of life either on the ships or on the shore.

  "Who were these?" Terence asked.

  The first four knights he came to wore the insignia of the White Horsemen, but he didn't remember seeing any of them before. Then he turned over the fifth knight, raised the visor, and said, "Gawain?"

  Gawain had just been standing still amid the carnage while Terence examined the bodies. "Yes?"

  "It's Mador."

  "Mador," Gawain repeated slowly. He shook his head as if to clear it—Terence had never seen his friend look so tired—then said, "So all that business with the table leg and the dress. That wasn't just to enrage the king, that was to distract us while a troop of his men sailed around and took a position here on the beach. He left us and circled behind to meet them. There'll be ladders and ropes on those ships, I'd imagine, to scale the rocks."

  "A sneak attack at night?" Terence asked.

  Gawain shook his head. "Nay, not with so few men. It'd be suicide. But if Mordred was planning to attack us from the north—just before dawn, say—then these men could climb up the palisades and get behind us in the battle. It would have been devastating." He frowned. "But that plan would have required them to stay quiet. Who were they fighting? Who attacked them?"

  Terence resumed turning over bodies while Gawain stood still. Then Gawain said, in a quiet voice, "Terence? That one. The shiny armor at the bottom of that pile of bodies."

  Terence looked where Gawain was pointing and saw a gleaming leg sticking out from beneath several other men, where the fighting had obviously been intense. Gawain limped slowly toward the pile with Terence, and together they pulled the topmost bodies from the pile. Terence caught his breath and stared. "It's Griflet, milord," he said softly.

  "He came back," Gawain whispered. Then he fell on his knees before Griflet's body. "You came back."

  Gawain stayed there, kneeling beside Griflet, while Terence finished the survey of the field. There were twenty-five White Horsemen and about a dozen knights who had evidently been with Griflet.

  "What do you suppose Griflet was doing down here on the beach?" Terence asked.

  Gawain was hunched over Griflet's body, but after a second, he answered, "Probably got lost. He came to join the king's forces but wound up on the beach instead. It'd be like him. But he was here when Mador arrived to meet the ships. They must have waited until the men were ashore, then attacked from the darkness. Silly. Stupid. And maybe saved our lives."

  Gawain turned back to Griflet, his right arm moving slightly. Stepping up, Terence saw that Gawain was writing something on Griflet's silver shield. The writing was red. "Gawain?" Terence said. "Is that blood?"

  Gawain looked up and met Terence's eyes. Gawain's face was pale, and the armor on his right thigh was bright with fresh blood.

  "Milord?"

  Gawain nodded. "In the side, just before the battle ended. I think it's bad this time, Terence. Can you get me back on my horse?"

  By summoning strength that he never suspected he had, Terence managed to get Gawain mounted and back to the camp at the top of the cliff before his friend collapsed into complete unconsciousness. He had removed Gawain's armor and was cleaning the wound when the first riders from Arthur's army arrived. Twenty minutes la
ter he was giving a grim report to the king.

  "Will he die?" Arthur asked, his face gray.

  "Anyone else would have been dead already," Terence said. It was a struggle to speak of Gawain's peril. He took a breath, then another, then said, "But we think we know what happened behind us last night."

  Arthur's face was blank, clearly indifferent for the moment to the fight on the beach. Kai brought him back to the present. "We're still in a war, Arthur. What was it, Terence?"

  Terence explained what they had found and Gawain's interpretation. Kai shook his head disbelievingly, but Arthur only said, "Kai, choose a light crew of guards and set the rest of the men sleeping. We'll have another battle soon, perhaps by day's end."

  "What about you, Arthur?" Kai demanded.

  "I'll sleep in a moment. Terence, walk with me to the cliff. I'd like to pay my respects to the knights who died to save us."

  Terence and King Arthur walked alone to the edge of the cliff. Forty feet below them lay the human debris of battle. "And to think of all the times I've wished I was rid of the old poop," the king murmured.

  "Sire?" said Terence.

  "Yes?"

  Terence pointed out into the sea. "Look."

  At the edge of the southern horizon, still many miles away, was a line of ships of all shapes and sizes. Counting the ones whose masts barely showed above the line of the sea, there were easily a hundred vessels.

  "Mordred," the king said resignedly.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Who else?" Arthur asked. "He's already used ships to come in behind us once. I thought we were choosing a defensible spot, backing up to the sea like this, but Mordred has outgeneraled me again." He paused pensively. "But don't despair. They won't make land as long as the wind's in this quarter. We sleep now. Then we march again."

  Terence nodded, but he had no intention of sleeping. Returning to the tent he shared with Gawain, he sat beside his friend.

  For most of that day the offshore wind held, and the ships in the channel stayed on the edge of the horizon. Scouts reported that Mordred's scattered armies had regrouped at a village called Barham, not ten miles northwest of Arthur's camp. There were woods there, but open fields as well, as good a place for battle as Arthur could have hoped for. All this was favorable news, but nothing was as encouraging as Gawain's continued breathing. He even opened his eyes shortly before noon, drank some water, and called Terence a damned fool for sitting up when he ought to be sleeping. The wind died down a few hours after that, and Arthur gave orders to break camp and begin marching toward Barham. Most of the tents and gear they left behind, to increase their speed. They took only two light wagons with them, in one of which lay the resting Gawain.

  About halfway to the village of Barham, the wind picked up. Now it blew briskly from the southeast, a fair wind for the armada in the channel to make a swift landfall. Arthur looked grim and weary, but he marched on. He made a wide circle around the village, taking a position on the high downs just north of Barham. He wanted the high ground, and he didn't want to be caught between Mordred's army in the village and the reinforcements arriving from the sea. Surveying his army, Arthur chose two men who seemed less worn-out than the others—Terence saw that one of the two was young Sir Bede—and sent them to scout the White Horsemen. Then everyone collapsed where they were for an hour of sleep before battle. Only Arthur and his inner circle stayed awake, by a small fire. Arthur paced as he awaited the scouts' report. Kai and Parsifal sat together in silent companionship, staring out into the blackness. Ywain rebandaged a slight wound on his left calf that he had gotten at Dover, and Terence—assisted by his old friend Tor—did the same for Gawain. Lionel was missing. No one had seen him since Dover. As Terence worked on Gawain's side, Gawain woke again and cursed him mildly as a ham-handed torturer. Terence grinned to hear his friend sound so much like himself, but when Gawain tried to stand, he couldn't even summon the strength to sit up. Gawain scowled for a moment, then said, "We'll be fighting again tomorrow?"

  "Sooner than that, I should think," Terence replied.

  "Maybe you should take my sword," Gawain muttered. "Saving Excalibur itself, there's no blade like my Galatine."

  Terence nodded. He had no intention of taking Gawain's sword, but he wasn't going to argue with him either. A rustling came from the darkness as one of the scouts returned.

  "What news?" demanded Arthur.

  "Bad," the scout replied. "Mordred's army looks as large as ever. It doesn't look as if we hurt them at Dover at all. Bede has stayed behind to watch them. If they make a move, he'll report."

  "Are they asleep? Resting?"

  The scout shook his head. "No, sire. They're armed and ready and watching the down. They know we're here."

  The king nodded. "Thank you. Go rest for now. We'll wake you when we're ready."

  The scout nodded. "I'm sorry, my king." Then he left.

  For a long two minutes, no one spoke. The crushing sense of inevitable defeat weighed like lead on Terence's soul. Was this how the greatest glory of England's history would end? At last, Arthur spoke.

  "You heard it, my friends. We can fight, but we are lost. Mordred must have received reinforcements since Dover—probably what he was waiting for even then—and in a few hours will get still others from the sea. We're outnumbered at least three to one, perhaps more."

  "Ay," said Kai.

  "We must not all die," Arthur said. "I am not England's hope; you are. The honor of the Round Table is what will save England from itself. Mordred won't rest until he's killed me, but you may be able to escape. Leave now. Go north. Go into hiding. Keep hope alive."

  No one spoke. Kai hawked once and spat into the dust at his feet. Tor scratched his beard.

  "Didn't you hear me? I am giving you an order as your king. I want you to go now. Mount your horses and leave the battlefield. Take all the men you can with you. While you are alive, England can rediscover its honor."

  Gawain stirred and, raising one hand, pointed at a gourd of water. Terence gave him a drink. Ywain finished bandaging his wound and buckled his armor over it. Tor scratched his face again and muttered, "I hate the seaside. It always dries out my skin."

  "Will you not answer me?" whispered the king. "Don't I deserve that from you?"

  No one would speak, so Terence took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, "My liege?"

  "Yes, Terence?"

  "Twenty years ago I decided I would die for you. I may not be able to do that tomorrow, but if I can't, I can at least die beside you."

  One by one, the others nodded. No one spoke. Arthur bowed his head in the silence.

  They began waking their army an hour later. The men still needed sleep, but Arthur couldn't give the reinforcements from the channel time to arrive. Within twenty minutes, Arthur's army stood in formation on Barham Down looking over Mordred's army, also in formation, at the foot of the hill. The moon glinted on their armor, and from the stars Terence guessed that it lacked only two hours to dawn. He had slept perhaps two hours in the last three days.

  Arthur rode to the head of the formation, drew Excalibur from its scabbard, raised it high, and shouted one word: "Camelot!"

  Arthur's men let out a roar, and Terence found himself crying wildly, "Camelot!" and then they were all tearing down the hill. Terence felt that he couldn't live with himself if anyone reached Mordred's lines before he did, and every trace of weariness dissipated like mist. The fury of Arthur's charge made Mordred's lines waver, and then the armies came together with a clang that Terence thought must have been heard as far away as the ruins of Camelot. Then there was no more time to think. Terence fought beyond his strength and ability, driving back men twice his size, and he was keenly aware that the rest of Arthur's men were doing the same. Somehow, time seemed at once stopped and fleeting. Those who attacked him seemed to move ridiculously slowly, and he evaded their clumsy blows with ease while they seemed unable to move at all before his counterattacks. Terence was even able to see in the
moonlight how others fared in the battle. Not far away he saw Kai bashing men aside to the right and left as if they were straw effigies. Then, unthinkably, Kai went down. Several of the White Horsemen lunged forward to strike the fallen knight, only to be felled themselves by Parsifal's blade. A moment later, Kai was back on his feet, and he and Parsifal were fighting back to back.

  In the center of the line, just where the battle was fiercest, was Arthur. Terence couldn't make out his form in the night, but he knew Arthur was there all the same. Dodging one blow and leaping over another aimed at his knees, Terence tried to fight his way toward the king. He never seemed to draw closer, though. Someone new was always rising up in front of him. Gradually Terence became aware that his army was being driven back. Arthur's men were falling and dying and, step by step, retreating back up the slope of Barham Down. The king himself stayed at the foot of the hill, though, holding his ground against more and more of the enemy. Terence could see him now. Though it hardly seemed possible for so much time to have passed, the morning had come. The sun's first red outline had appeared on the eastern horizon. Terence was glad to see the sun again; he hadn't been sure he would.

  At that very moment, while parrying blows from two of Mordred's men and being driven inexorably backwards, Terence sensed something behind him. The soldiers fighting him froze suddenly, staring at the top of the hill. Terence stepped back, out of reach of their swords, and risked a glance over his shoulder. At the summit, his armor glowing with the morning sunlight, stood Gawain. Gawain raised his arm, let out a lion's roar, and charged down the hill, his great sword mowing down enemies like hay. Awed, Terence renewed his attack on his own foes, killing one and wounding another, then raced after his friend, following in his wake. "To the king!" Terence shouted. "In the center! Foot of the hill!"

  The new light of day showed a scene of unspeakable devastation. Around Terence, hundreds of men and horses lay sprawled in death or writhing in pain. He caught up to Gawain, whose charge had finally been halted by a solid front of Mordred's men. "I'm behind you, milord!" Terence shouted.