Bernard Cornwell - The Winter King

The Christians gathered to say their prayers, while we pagans sought the Gods' help. Men tossed coins into the river, then brought out their talismans for Nimue to touch. Most carried a hare's foot, but some brought her elf bolts or snake stones. Elf bolts were tiny flint arrowheads shot by the spirits and much prized by soldiers, while snake stones had bright colours that Nimue enriched by dipping the stones in the river before touching them to her good eye. I pressed the scale armour until I could feel Ceinwyn's brooch pricking against my chest, then I knelt and kissed the earth. I kept my forehead on the damp ground as I beseeched Mithras to give me strength, courage and, if it was His will, a good death. Some of our men were drinking the mead we had discovered in the village, but I drank nothing but water. We ate the food Valerin's men had thought would be their breakfast, and afterwards a group of spearmen helped Nimue catch toads and shrews that she killed and placed on the road beyond the ford to give the approaching enemy ill omens. Then we sharpened our weapons again and waited. Sagramor had found a man hiding in the woods behind the village. The man was a shepherd and Sagramor questioned him about the local countryside and learned there was a second ford upstream where the enemy could outflank us if we tried to defend the river bank at the vale's northern end. The second ford's existence did not trouble us now, but we needed to remember that it existed for it gave the enemy a way of outflanking our northernmost defence line.

I was nervous of the coming fight, but Nimue seemed unafraid. “I have nothing to fear,” she told me. “I've taken the Three Wounds, so what can hurt me?” She was sitting beside me, close to the ford at the vale's northern end. This would be our first defence line, the place where we would begin the slow retreat that would suck the enemy into the vale and Arthur's trap. “Besides,” she added, “I am under Merlin's protection.”

“Does he know we're here?” I asked her.

She paused, then nodded. “He knows.”

“Will he come?”

She frowned as though my question was crass. “He will do,” she said slowly, 'whatever he needs to do."

“Then he will come,” I said in fervent hope.

Nimue shook her head impatiently. “Merlin cares only for Britain. He believes Arthur could help restore the Knowledge of Britain, but if he decides that Gorfyddyd would do it better, then believe me, Derfel, Merlin will side with Gorfyddyd.”

Merlin had hinted as much to me at Caer Sws, but I still found it hard to believe that his ambitions were so far from my own allegiances and hopes. “What about you?” I asked Nimue.

“I have one burden that ties me to this army,” she said, 'and after that I shall be free to help Merlin."

“Gundleus,” I said.

She nodded. “Give me Gundleus alive, Derfel,” she said, looking into my eyes, 'give him to me alive, I beg you.“ She touched the leather eyepatch and went silent as she summoned her energy for the revenge she craved. Her face was still bone pale and her black hair hung lank against her cheeks. The softness she had revealed at Lughnasa had been replaced by a chill bleakness that made me think I would never understand her. I loved her, not as I believed I loved Ceinwyn, but as a man can love a fine wild creature, an eagle or a wildcat, for I knew I would never comprehend her life or dreams. She grimaced suddenly. ”I shall make Gundleus's soul scream through the rest of time,“ she said softly, ”I shall send it through the abyss into nothingness, but he will never reach nothingness, Derfel, he will always suffer on its edge, screaming."

I shuddered for Gundleus.

A shout made me look across the river. Six horsemen were galloping towards us. Our shield-wall stood and thrust their arms into their shield-loops, but then I saw the leading man was Morfans. He rode desperately, kicking at his tired sweat-whitened horse, and I feared those six men were all that remained of Arthur's troop.

The horses splashed through the ford as Sagramor and I went forward. Morfans reined in on the river bank. “Two miles away,” he panted. “Arthur sent us to help you. Gods, there are hundreds of the bastards!” He wiped sweat off his forehead, then grinned. “There's plunder enough for a thousand of us!” He slid heavily from his horse and I saw he was carrying the silver horn and guessed he would use it to summon Arthur when the moment was right.

“Where is Arthur?” Sagramor asked.

“Safely hid,” Morfans assured us, then looked at my armour and his ugly face split into a lopsided grin.

“Weighs you down, that armour, doesn't it?”

“How does he ever fight in it?” I asked.

“Very well, Derfel, very well. And so will you.” He clapped my shoulder. “Any news from Galahad?”

“None.”

“Agricola won't let us fight alone, whatever that Christian King and his gutless son might want,” Morfans said, then he led his five horsemen back through the shield-wall. “Give us a few minutes to rest the horses,” he called.

Sagramor pulled his helmet over his head. The Numidian wore a coat of mail, a black cloak and tall boots. His iron helmet was painted black with pitch and rose to a sharp point that gave it an exotic appearance. Usually he fought on horseback, but he showed no regret at being an infantryman this day. Nor did he display any nervousness as he prowled long-legged up and down our shield-wall and growled encouragement to his men.

I pulled Arthur's stifling helmet over my head and buckled its strap under my chin. Then, arrayed as my Lord, I also walked along the line of spears and warned my men that the fight would be hard, but victory certain so long as our shield-wall held. It was a perilously thin wall, in some places just three men deep, but those in the wall were all good men. One of them stepped out of the line as I approached the place where Sagramor's spearmen bordered mine. “Remember me, Lord?” he called. I thought for a moment he had mistaken me for Arthur and I pulled the hinged cheek pieces aside so he could see my face, then at last I recognized him. It was Griffid, Owain's captain and the man who had tried to kill me at Lindinis before Nimue intervened to save my life. “Griffid ap Annan,” I greeted him.

“There's bad blood between us, Lord,” he said, and fell to his knees. “Forgive me.” I pulled him to his feet and embraced him. His beard had gone grey, but he was still the. same long-boned, sad-faced man I remembered. “My soul is in your keeping,” I told him, 'and I am glad to put it there."

“And mine yours, Lord,” he said.

“Minac!” I recognized another of my old comrades. “Am I forgiven?”

“Was there anything to forgive, Lord?” he asked, embarrassed at the question.

“There was nothing to forgive,” I promised him. “No oath was broken, I swear it.” Minac stepped forward and embraced me. All along the shield-wall other such quarrels were being resolved. “How have you been?” I asked Griffid.

“Fighting hard, Lord. Mostly against Cerdic's Saxons. Today will be easy compared with those bastards, except for one thing.” He hesitated.

“Well?” I prompted him.

“Will she give us back our souls, Lord?” Griffid asked, glancing at Nimue. He was remembering the awful curse she had laid on him and his men.

“Of course she will,” I said, and summoned Nimue who touched Griffid's forehead, and the foreheads of all the other surviving men who had threatened my life on that distant day in Lindinis. Thus was her curse lifted and they thanked her by kissing her hand. I embraced Griffid again, then raised my voice so that all my men could hear me. “Today,” I said, 'we shall give the bards enough songs to sing for a thousand years! And today we become rich men again!"