Stephen Lawhead - Pendragon

The warriors' spirits were high; there was much good-natured jostling and jesting. The forest echoed with the sound of laughter and song. At night the men built great fires and clamoured for a tale of valour; I summoned my harp from Pelleas and sang to the throng. Bedwyr and Arthur were foremost among them, of course, bright-eyed and eager to the last, lingering note.

Early on the fifth day we reached the forest's end, and by dusk arrived at the gathering place: a wide valley formed at the meeting of two rivers. The sun had already dropped behind the high shoulder of the hill, but the sky was illumined with the soft, golden light peculiar to the northern country.

Suffused in this honeyed light, we crested a long ridge and paused to look down into the valley. Three or four warbands were already there, and the smoke from their cooking fires hung silver in the still evening air.

At the sight of the fires below, blazing like new-fallen stars, the boys halted. 'I never imagined there would be so many,' Bedwyr gasped. 'There must be ten thousand!'

'Not as many as that,' I assured him. 'But it is more than have gathered in many years.'

'Why?' asked Arthur.

'Because the lords are increasing the warbands each year. We need more warriors to fight the Saecsens.'

'Then it is good Bedwyr and I have come,' he replied thoughtfully.

Bedwyr put the lash to his pony and rode ahead to join the first of the warriors making their way down to the valley. 'Arthur!' Bedwyr shouted. 'Come on! Hurry!'

The two boys slapped their horses to respectable speed and flew down the hillside, whooping like the bhean sidhe . 'I hope we have not made a mistake,' Pelleas said, watching the two boys streaking away. When Pelleas and I finally caught them again, they were sitting by a fire listening to a harper sing the Battle of the Trees. Since there could be no stirring them until the song was over, we settled down beside them cross-legged on the ground to wait.

The harper belonged to the household of one of Bleddyn's kinsmen, a man with a Roman name: Ectorius. This Ectorius held lands a little north and east of Celyddon on the sea, a difficult region to protect, since the Saecsens and their minions – Frisians, Angles, Jutes, and others – often sought landing there in one of the innumerable, nameless rock bays, coves, and inlets.

He was a big man with a fiery red beard and a head of frizzled, copper-coloured hair which he wore bound at the nape of his neck. Though not tall, he stood on sturdy legs like oak stumps, and was reputed to have once crushed a cask by squeezing it in his thick-set arms. If his feats of strength were storied, his skill at arms was legendary. One swift stroke of his sword could part the purple from the head of a thistle, or as easily split a man in half.

Ectorius was as jovial as he was fearless. Never a man laughed but Ectorius laughed louder and longer. And no man enjoyed a good song more, nor beer, nor meat. If his taste was not particularly discriminating, at least it entertained the widest possible latitude of acceptance.

No harper, however mediocre, was ever turned from Ectorius' hearth. As long as the wretch could warble a tale to its conclusion, his patron was in bliss. In consequence, his generosity to bards was well known and he rarely wanted for a night's entertainment. The better bards vied for the opportunity of singing for him.

Thus, it was Ectorius' fire which had drawn the boys. There they were made welcome, and were not unnecessarily reminded of their youth.

The harper knew his tale, and he sang with fervour, if in a peculiarly tuneless voice. Still, no one seemed to mind – least of all Arthur and Bedwyr, whose faces glowed with pleasure in the light of the fire.

When, at last, the tale was finished, a cheer went up. The harper accepted his acclaim, bowing modestly to his listeners. Ectorius elbowed his way forward and clapped the singer on the back, praising him loudly. 'Well done! Well done, Tegfan. The Battle of the Trees… Splendid!'

Then the lord's eye lit on the boys, as we rose to return to our camp. 'Och!' he called. 'Hold, men! What have we here?'

'Lord Ectorius,' I said, 'allow me to present King Bleddyn's son Bedwyr, and his swordbrother, Arthur.'

Both Arthur and Bedwyr saluted the lord, touching the backs of their hands to their foreheads in the age-old sign of respect.

Beaming broadly, he placed a big hand on each boy's shoulder and squeezed. 'Stout lads. I give you good greeting! May you fare well while you are among us.'

Bedwyr and Arthur shared a secret glance, and Arthur spoke up boldly, 'We are not to take part, Lord Ectorius.'

'We are not deemed old enough to try our skill,' Bedwyr explained, throwing a dark look at me-as if I were the cause of all his worldly problems.

'Well, is that so?' replied Ectorius, beaming even more broadly. 'Then perhaps we must change that. Come to me tomorrow and I will see what can be done.'

The boys thanked him and then dashed away, willing to be abed now in order to awaken all the sooner next morning. Just before closing their eyes, both boys thanked me again for letting them attend the Gathering.

'I am glad we are here,' yawned Bedwyr happily. 'This will be a Gathering to remember. You wait and see, Artos.'

'I am certain I shall never forget it,' Arthur assured him solemnly.

To be sure, I do not think he ever did.

In the days that followed, I saw nothing of Bleddyn. He was about business of his own with the other lords of the Gathering, as I was about mine. Seeing that no one took any interest in Arthur – to the northern chieftains he was just another young boy – I left the boys in Pelleas' care and rode alone into the hills. There, I sought out those whose eyes were keener than my own, and whose advice would be well worth the effort to obtain. Impossible for anyone else, it took me several days to raise so much as a trace of the Little Dark Ones.

Searching among the empty, windswept hills for the tracks I knew were there, I came upon a faint trail at dusk the second day. I made camp there so that I would not lose it again, and the next day followed the near-invisible trail along the ridgetops to a Hill Folk settlement: the low humps of earth-covered dwellings, or raths, nestled in a secret fold of a secluded glen. But the settlement appeared deserted.

The day was far spent, so I made camp. Picketing my horse outside one of the dwellings, I went for water to the nearby stream at the bottom of the glen. I drank my fill, and then replenished my waterskin, and returned to camp – to discover my mount surrounded by seven diminutive men on shaggy ponies. I had neither heard nor seen them approach; they might have sprung from the heather banks around us. Bows and arrows in hand, they regarded me coldly, deep distrust in their dark eyes.

I raised my hands in greeting. 'Samhneach, bredthairi,' I called to them in their own tongue. 'Peace, brothers.' I touched my fingers to the faded blue fhain-mark on my cheek. 'Amsarahd Fhain,' I told them. 'Hawk Fhain.'

They gazed at me and then at one another in amazement. Who was this tallfolk stranger who spoke their tongue and claimed to be a clan member? One of the men, no larger than a boy of twelve summers, slipped from his mount and advanced to meet me. 'Vrandubh Fhain, ' he said, touching his fhain-mark. 'Raven Fhain.'

'Lugh-sun be good to you,' I responded. 'I am Myrddin."

His eyes went wide and he turned to his brothers. 'Ken-ti-Gern!' he shouted. 'Ken-ti-Gern has come!'

At this the men threw themselves from their ponies and out from the raths streamed women and children. In the space of three heartbeats, I was surrounded by Hill Folk, all of them reaching with eager hands, touching me, patting me.