Stephen Lawhead - Pendragon

I watched Llenlleawg flying into battle, scattering the foe before him, driving headlong into the fight. Some there are, no doubt, who would question the ability of a single warrior to redeem such a desperate plight. But there is no one I would rather have fly to my defence, whatever the odds. And any inclined to doubt that one sword more or less could make much difference can never have seen the Irish champion with the battle frenzy on him. I tell you the truth, no foe confronting the spectacle of Llenlleawg gripped in the awen of battle remained unpersuaded for long.

But where was Arthur?

I dismounted and crept to the edge of the bluff to better search the heaving mass below. The battlesound rose up like the roar of an ocean gale, the men rushing, hurling themselves into the clash like seawaves breaking against one another. Most of the Britons were mounted, but the superior numbers of Vandali and the closeness of the glen had lessened any advantage the horses provided. This, perhaps, was why the attack had been repulsed and was now in danger of disintegrating altogether.

Gazing down into the melee, I picked out Cai, at the forefront of his warband, sword whirling, trying to hack a way through the mass before him. He was attempting to reunite his force with the one nearest to him, but the enemy so securely choked the gap that far from cutting a path through, it was all he could do to keep from being swept farther away.

Bedwyr, I think, led those nearest Cai, but he was hard-pressed to prevent his warband from becoming surrounded. Cador – or Cadwallo, perhaps, I could not be certain – was being forced, step by grudging step, farther from the other two. In this way, the Vandal, moving fluid-like in and around the mounted Cymbrogi, surging into the empty places, filling them, surrounding, inundating, flowing on, were slowly reversing the tide of battle. Where was Arthur?

'Look!' shouted Gwenhwyvar behind me. 'Cador is in trouble!' Following Llenlleawg's lead, she spurred her horse forward, plunging down the hillside to join the battle. There was no stopping her; I did not even try.

The Vandali made best use of their numbers and the pinched confines of the glen to blunt the attack of the Britons, halt it, and turn it back. It now appeared Britain's battlechiefs had a rout on their hands. Something would have to be done, and soon, if the Britons were to escape a cruel beating. Where was Arthur?

I gazed from one end of the plain to the other, but could see no sign of him. Where could he be? What if he had fallen in battle? I dismissed the idea at once – if he had been cut down I would have seen some sign of it by now. Indeed, the British attack doubtless would have collapsed around him. No, I consoled myself, I did not see him because he was not there.

Llenlleawg had reached the beleaguered Cai and took his place in the forerank of the fight. His sudden, almost miraculous, appearance greatly encouraged the flagging Cymbrogi and they fought with renewed vigour to extricate themselves from their dire predicament.

Following Llenlleawg's lead they succeeded in cutting through the enemy wall between them and Bedwyr's warband, and wasted no time in reuniting the two forces. This tactic proved of only limited value, however, for as the two warbands merged, the barbarians swarmed into the gap, surrounding them both. Now, instead of two half-enclosed warbands, there was one fully encircled.

Arthur! Where are you? The battle is lost and the Bear of Britain is nowhere to be found. What has happened to him?

The Black Boar, no doubt astonished at finding himself within a spear-throw of an assured victory, cast off all restraint. I saw the Boar standard waving in a frenzy, and the drums quickened, booming like angry, insistent thunder. At once the mass of Vandali foot men thickened, drew together, then hurled itself against the British host.

Gwenhwyvar had reached the fight and quickly gathered a force around her. Despite her best efforts, they were kept on the outside; try as they might, they could not find a way to break through, and were reduced to harrying the rearward ranks-which they did with great, if ineffective, zeal, while the main battle took place elsewhere.

Sensing their dilemma, the mounted British stiffened and defied the encircling pressure. Bedwyr seemed to understand what was happening and attempted a counterattack, driving into the wall of foemen, thrusting, forcing, hacking his way forward by the strength of his blade alone. A wedge of horsemen formed behind him, desperately trying to cut a swathe to the surrounded Cymbrogi.

Step by bloody step they advanced. Fierce the fight, savage the resistance; the enemy gave ground with life-grudging reluctance. I saw men staggering under the weight of their shields, struggling to fend off the blows of the foe with broken weapons. I saw men pulled from their mounts even as they struck down their adversaries; I saw men falling beneath the hooves of the horses, shrieking men suddenly lacking limbs.

Bedwyr was now within two spears' lengths of rescuing the surrounded Cymbrogi. They were so close! One more push, one last strike, would break the enemy line. Bedwyr saw it, too; he raised himself in the saddle, lofted his sword and exhorted his warriors to the task.

And the Cymbrogi responded. They lowered their heads and drove in over the bodies of the fallen.

Alas! The enemy also saw the line bending inward as if to break. One of Twrch Trwyth's chieftains appeared and, with breathtaking bravery, threw himself against the buckling line. Leaping, whirling, he matched Bedwyr stroke for stroke and halted him. The faltering Vandali took heart and rallied behind their wild leader. They rose up with a shout, surging like a seawave to overwhelm the British.

Bedwyr was thrown back. Within the space of three heartbeats his gallant effort was undone.

I gazed across the churning turmoil as across a bubbling cauldron. Everywhere it was the same. The British were being surrounded and forced back, giving over hard-won ground… falling… failing.

The smoke and dust drifted up and up, casting a filthy veil over the sun. The cries of men and horses, the sharp crack of wood and bone, the stinging ring of metal on metal ascended to the dead white sky. My hand clenched as if holding a sword, and I felt the tug of battle in my blood.

Turning at once to my horse, I mounted, and retrieved my sword from its place behind the saddle. I made to draw the weapon, but could not pull it from the sheath. Though I drew mightily, I simply could not free it.

I sat for a moment, mystified. And then my eye fell upon my rowan staff, tucked securely in its place, under the saddle. I am the Bard of Britain, I thought. What need have I of a sword? Drawing out the staff, I lofted the rowan and raised it over the battlefield, in the age-old motion of a bard upholding his people in the fight. And as I did so, I heard the words of Taliesin from my vision: you must go back the way you came.

Understanding burst within me, dazzling like the fall of lightning from a clear sky. Gripping the staff with all my strength – as if the meaning of my vision might elude me once again if I let go – I sat upon my red horse in a wonder of illumination, my thoughts reeling. Yes! Yes! This… this is the way I must go. Not by the sword, but by the rowan!

I dismounted and carried the staff to the cliffside and there I knelt, clutching the rowan rod to me as if it were salvation itself. Gazing down upon the battle, my spirit writhed within me. I saw death as a grey vapor stealing over the plain, and a

putrid, sickening smell rose up to sting my nostrils. The vapors mingled with the stench and spread out over the plain and beyond, to poison all Britain. It was the plague and war combined with the fear and ignorance of terrified men. It was the stink of corruption hovering over Britain.