Stephen Lawhead - Arthur

'Cymbrogi!' called Cador, drawing his sword. His call was relayed and I heard the ring of steel all down the line, as the Britons readied themselves to meet the foe. On the hilltop to our left, Ban's forces rose up in battle array, sunlight gleaming on their bright-burnished helms, spears clustered thick like a forest of young trees.

Fifteen thousand British stood to meet the foemen. Someone in one of the ranks somewhere began beating on his shield with the haft of his spear – the age-old challenge to combat. Another joined his sword brother, and another, and more and more, until the entire British war host was beating on their shields. The sound rolled across the narrow valley like thunder and echoed in the hills round about.

I felt the drumming pulse in my stomach and brain, and rise up through the soles of my feet. My heart beat wildly in my chest. I opened my mouth and combined my howl of jubilation with the din. It seemed to me that the sound poured up from my throat and spread out across the hills like the great and terrible voice of doom.

Though the Picti host greatly outnumbered the Pendragon's forces, we had six thousand horses with us. This, I think, and not our war cry – terrifying though it was – is what decided the Picti in the end. Nor do I fault them. Indeed, it would have been the height of folly lightly to disregard the horse-mounted warriors of the Pendragon's a/a. It has been said that a warrior on horseback is worth ten men on foot, and there is wisdom in the saying.

Besides, it had been Medraut and Keldrych's rebellion, and both those traitors were dead. Any allegiance owed died with them. Even for the Picti, it took more than the lure of plunder to make death appealing.

So, as the battle of Camlan ground to its bloody end, the entire army of the rebel Picti simply turned and melted away, fading once more into the northern hills. When Arthur was at last able to raise his eyes from the slaughter before him, the enemy had vanished. The rebellion was over.

Rhys raised the victory call, and we answered it with the cry of triumph which shook the very hills. Clattering spear and sword on shield rims, and thrusting weapons in the air, we shouted for joy. Then all at once we were flying down the steep slope to join the Pendragon in the valley below. Men racing, horses galloping, the war host sweeping down to embrace the victors.

I shouted myself hoarse, running and running, relief and joy lifting me up. I cried my joy to the dazzling sky above, to the Great Giver, the All-Wise Redeemer who had not abandoned us to our enemies. I raced down the rocky slope, the tears flowing from my eyes.

All around me were glad Britons raising the victory cry. The rebellion had been crushed. Medraut was dead. The Picti had fled and would trouble us no more.

Breathless, I reached the glen and splashed across the stream where I immediately came upon a group of Britons gathered tight around someone lying on the ground. A horse stood by, the saddle empty. I wormed into the crowd, now grown suddenly silent, and heard a familiar voice complaining.

'It is nothing – a scratch.' Let me up, God love you. I can stand… '

I pressed closer and glimpsed a shock of red hair. Cai.

The Boar of Battle was lying against a stone, his legs splayed out before him. He seemed to be struggling to rise, but no one would help him. I wondered at this and then saw the wicked gash in the battlechief s thigh.

'Rest you a moment,' one of the men said. The Emrys should attend you.'

'Then let me up!' Cai said. 'I will not have him find me flat on my back. I can stand.'

'Your leg… '

'Tie it up with something. Quickly! I must go to Arthur.'

One of the men was already working to bind the wound with a bit of cloth. I backed from the throng and ran stumbling over the corpse-strewn battle ground to the Emrys, whom I found at last, binding a warrior's broken arm. 'Wise Emrys!' I called. 'Hurry! Cai is wounded! Please!'

He turned aside at once. 'Take me to him!'

I led him to the stream where the group waited with Cai. The Emrys hastened to the place; upon reaching it, the crowd parted to admit him and closed again. I pushed in after him and thrust myself to the front in time to see Myrddin stooping over Cai, whose face was now pale as a winter moon.

'I can stand, God love you!'

'Cai,' the Emrys soothed, 'it is bad.'

'It is but a scratch,' he protested, but his protest was weaker now. 'The heathen slashed wild. He barely touched me.' The great warrior made to push himself up, he grabbed at the Emrys, who held him. Blood pooled on the ground.

'Easy, my friend,' said the Emrys in a low, commanding tone. He tightened the strip of cloth around Cai's leg just above the knee.

'Are you telling me I am hurt?'

'The wound is deeper than you know, Cai.'

'Well, bind it then. I must go to Arthur.'

The Emrys glanced up quickly, saw me and said, 'Bring Arthur at once.' Distracted by the change in Cai's appearance, I hesitated, but only for an instant. 'Go!' Myrddin urged. 'For God's sake, hurry!"

I turned and ran without thinking, saw the gleam of the red-gold dragon standard, and made for it, dodging among the crowds of jubilant warriors thronging the glen. 'Please, my lord,' I gasped, pushing my way through the press around Arthur. 'Cai is wounded,' I blurted. 'The Emrys said to come at once.'

Arthur turned. 'Where is he?'

I pointed across the glen. 'Over there by the stream. The Emrys is with him.'

The lung mounted the nearest horse, slapped the reins, and raced over the field. By the time I returned to the place, Cai was unable to lift his head. He lay cradled in the crook of Arthur's arm, and the Pendragon of Britain smoothed his brow. 'I am too old for this, Bear.' 'Never say it, brother,' said Arthur in a choked voice. 'Na, do not take on so. We walked the land as kings, did we not?'

That we did, Cai.' 'What man needs more?'

Tears glinted in the High King's eyes. 'Farewell, Caius ap Ectorius,' he said softly.

'Farewell,' whispered Cai. He raised a trembling hand and Arthur clasped it to him. 'God be good to you, Bear.' His voice was little more than a breath on the wind, and then that, too, was gone.

Arthur Pendragon knelt long beside the body of his friend, their hands clasped in a last pledge of loyalty. Cai stared upward into the face of his king, the colour already fading from his deep green eyes. A small, satisfied smile still lingered on his lips.

'Farewell, my brother,' Arthur murmured. 'May it go well with you on your journey hence.'

Then the High King laid the body gently down and stood. 'Bring a wagon. We will take him to the shrine. I will not see him buried in this place.'

The Pendragon ordered Cai's body to be sewn in deerskins and placed on the wagon. As this was being done, Bedwyr appeared, ashen-faced, leading his horse. A body was slumped across the saddle. I took one look and sank to my knees on the ground.

Arthur met him and without a word gathered Gwalcmai's broken body from the saddle and lifted it down. The bloody stub of a broken arrow protruded from his chest just above the protecting mail shirt. His face was smeared with blood, as were his hands where he had tugged in vain at the arrow, succeeding only in snapping it off.

'Where is Gwalchavad?' asked Bedwyr gently. 'I will tell him.' Then he saw the wagon, and the men arranging the body there. 'Blessed Jesu! Cai!'

Bedwyr walked stiffly to the wagon and stood with eyes closed before it. Then he took Cai's cold hand in his and held it to his heart. After a long moment he turned and walked away.

I stayed to help with the wagon, and a little while later Bedwyr returned with Gwalchavad's body across his saddle. Gently, Bedwyr lifted the body of his sword brother and placed it beside that of Gwalcmai. Bitter were the deaths of these champions, whose lives the hateful Medraut had claimed as his blood-debt.