Jack Whyte - The Lance Thrower

There came a time, and I had known it must come soon, when I began to feel, and to believe, that I was incapable of lifting my weapon above my head one more time. But he attacked again, hewing wickedly at my flanks, and one of his blows, a lateral slash, knocked aside my guardian blade and hit me at midthigh.

It was not a killing blow, for my own weapon had countered it and absorbed most of its strength, but had we been using real weapons it would have cut me deeply and been the end of me. As it was, I felt the crushing impact and my mind transported me instantly to Gaul where, three years earlier, I had been kicked in the same place, and with much the same force, by a horse. Then, as on this occasion, there was no pain, and I knew this time I would feel none until later. For the time being, however, my entire leg was numb. I could move on it without falling if I did so with great care, but I could not feel it at all.

Knowing he had hit me hard, my opponent held back instead of rushing in to finish me, and in doing so he gave the initiative back to me. I took full advantage of it, using a two handed grip to unleash a rain of blows, pushing him inex orably backward with a fierce but unsustainable attack. knew I was using the last of my reserves of strength but I ha gone beyond caring. I knew that I would be finished the mo ment my attack began to falter, but I was determined to go down fighting. And then, in jumping backward to avoid crippling slash, my opponent caught his heel on somethin uneven and fell heavily, landing hard on his backside an losing his blade in the process.

It was my victory. All I had to do was step forward an place the end of my weapon against his chest. Instead—an to this day I do not know why I did it, although I am glad did—I transferred my weapon to my left hand, grounded it and then stepped forward, offering him my right hand to pul himself up.

Only when he was standing facing me again, his righ hand still holding mine and his left gripping my shoulder did I realize that he was breathing every bit as laboriously I was. He finally sucked in one great, deep breath and held i for long moments before expelling it again, and when h spoke his voice was close to normal.

“That was well fought, sir Gaul, and it was a task I woul not care to undertake again today or any other day. Yo are …” He paused, searching for a word. “Formidable. Yes that describes you. Formidable. Now that you have thrash me, will you permit me to ask who are you and whence yo come, and who taught you to fight like that?”

He released my hand and waved away one of his men wh was trying to attract his attention, and I knew that he gen uinely wanted to hear my answers. I nodded my head. “M name is Clothar,” I said, looking him in the eye and seein the black flecks in the tawny gold of his irises. “And I am nc a Gaul. I am a Frank, from southern Gaul. A Salian F reared among Ripuarians in the south.” I saw the blanknes in his eyes immediately and knew he had no idea what I wa talking about, so I held up my hand quickly, palm outwarc to indicate that I was aware of his incomprehension.

“There are two kinds of Franks in Gaul,” I said then. “Two clans, if you like. Both drifted down into Gaul from Germania during the past hundred years and more, and each came from a different region. The clan who call themselves Ripuarians kept moving southward and settled in southeastern Gaul, and the others, who call themselves Salian Franks, settled the northern and northeastern territories. The tale of how I came to be raised among Ripuarians far from my own home is a long one and of little import here. But I was sent here to Britain, accompanied by two of my friends more than a year ago by my patron and mentor, Bishop Germanus, late of the town of Auxerre, in central Gaul. My task was to carry letters and documents from the Bishop to Merlyn Britannicus of Camulod. Sadly, the bishop is now dead, but I have completed the task he set for me.”

The entire group was listening to me now, but I kept my eyes on the man they called Magister. “As for the fighting,” I added, smiling slightly, “I learned that thanks to the Bishop, too. He was an Imperial Legate before he was a bishop, strange as that might seem … but then Germanus was a wondrous man. He was a close friend of the Emperor Honorius, too, married to one of the Imperial cousins … and he served victoriously as Supreme Commander of the Armies of Gaul in the wars against the Burgundians right up until he retired and joined the Church. So he knew well the value of training and discipline, both military and religious. I spent six years as a student at the school he founded in Auxerre for boys. They call it the Bishop’s School, and the stable master there, Tiberias Cato, is a former cavalryman who served under Germanus when he was Legate. It was Tiberias Cato who taught me to ride and to fight, and it was he who, as a much younger man, brought those spears back from the other Empire in the distant east. And now I am here in Camulod awaiting the return of Arthur the Riothamus.”

“Arthur? Why do you wait for him? Do you bear letters for him, too? And have you been carrying them about with you for a year and more?”

I smiled. “No, no letters for him. But for years I have been hearing much about Arthur Pendragon from Bishop Germanus, who heard of him through Merlyn and developed a correspondence with him personally when the king was but a boy. And now that my mission for the Bishop is complete and the bishop himself is dead, I intend to offer my sword and my services to Arthur, if he will have me.”

“Oh, he will have you. Never fear on that.”

Something in the way he spoke the words prompted me to ask, “You sounded very positive when you said that. How can you be so sure?”

He grinned again. “Because I know. I can speak without fear on behalf of the Riothamus when I say he needs good and loyal men. You said you brought friends with you?”

I nodded, “Aye, two of them, Perceval and Tristan. They are brothers. And we have a fourth with us, a servant lad called Bors, who has the makings of a fine warrior.”

“Hmm. And what of Perceval and … what was the other’s name? Tristan?”

“Aye, what mean you, what of them ?”

“Are they fighters?”

I laughed, a single bark. “Do you mean will they measure up sufficiently to be acceptable to your Riothamus? Aye, they’re fighters and they’ll stand up to anyone. Both are mercenaries of long standing and of the highest order, and they’re nobly born. Had they been with me when I chanced along here, we would have taken on all of you.”

“Hmm.” The Magister grunted again and smiled, “Tell me your name again, if you will?”

“Clothar.”

“Aye, Clothar.” He nodded, slowly, repeating it almost beneath his breath, “Clothar. It is … different. I’ve never heard that name before.”

“It is common enough where I come from, and it is purely Frankish. Am I permitted to ask your name?”

He grinned and looked me in the eye, showing me his white, even teeth. “If I tell you my name will you show me the secret of your spears?”

I knew he was baiting me, gulling me in some manner, but I could not see how and I shook my head, smiling still, but now uncertain of what was happening here. “I have already said I would. I said so before we fought.”

“That’s true, you did.” He drew himself up straight and drew in an enormous breath, and his smile was open and completely forthright. “Come then, return to Camulod with us and make me known to these friends of yours, Tristan and Perceval, who have come so far with you to join the Riothamus. I am Arthur Pendragon, and men—some men—call me Riothamus, High King of Britain. But Riothamus, no matter who says it, is a mere title. I have yet to earn the right to it, to fill in the truth behind it, and I fear I have a long way to go before I can admit to the name without feeling inadequate.”