Jack Whyte - Uther

"That's true, we might have cut Lot's forces here permanently by two hundred men. Now, look me straight In the eye, Mucius, and you others, pay attention." He waited briefly until he was sure all of his small, mounted party was listening to him. "I want none of you to look at him, but there is a man approaching us now who has reason to know how merciful King Lot can be when he is displeased. Don't look at him if you value my friendship. We don't want him to think we find him worthy of our notice, for if he does, he will surely start to act as though he were. Now here is what I wish you to hear, so listen carefully.

"I have no idea of what this man and I might say to each other, but he is a man of power, and close to Gulrhys Lot. If I should find that I have things to say to him for his ears only, I will raise my right hand, like this . . . The moment I do so, I want you all to turn and ride away, leaving us alone to talk without fear of being overheard." He turned his head quickly, catching the eye of one of the two remaining uniformed officers beside him. "Believe me, Philip, I will be in no danger. Now, watch me closely. Everything will depend on how I feel in my gut about this man."

Herliss approached the command group slowly, flanked by two guards with drawn swords, and he held his head high as he glowered up at the mounted newcomers. He had watched them arrive and had seen the fellow Huw receive his orders, after which, summoning two of his troopers, the big warrior had come straight to where Herliss stood. He had paused along the way only long enough to issue orders of his own to one of his subordinates, who had then moved away immediately, evidently full of purpose, thrusting his head and one shoulder through his long, strung bow so that the stave hung down his back, summoning others as he went. Already Herliss could see a gathering process among and around his train of wagons.

Huw had said nothing to Herliss when he reached him. He had merely stood silently as his men flanked the enemy commander, one on either side, and indicated that he should accompany them. They had not laid hands on Herliss, but one of them, waving his drawn sword gently towards the distant group of horsemen, had made it plain that they wanted him to start moving in that direction. Herliss had not allowed his face to betray any hint of what he was thinking or how he felt. He had merely begun walking, holding his head high and resisting the urge to look down at the rough, uneven ground beneath his feet. Better to trip on a tussock of grass and fall, he thought, than to walk with a bent head and appear dejected and beaten.

Herliss kept his unbroken gaze fastened on the big leader mounted on the enormous horse. This must be Uther Pendragon, he knew. He had seen the man's eye light upon him once, briefly, and then move on, ignoring him. He had thought that the fellow had said something to the fat, older man sitting the horse next to his, but the big man's face was shadowed in the recesses of the ornate Roman helmet he wore, and so Herliss could not be sure, and none of the men in the mounted group even glanced in his direction as he approached.

Only when Herliss had come to a halt and was gazing up defiantly at Uther did the Pendragon leader turn his head to look down at him, and then he brought his great horse around, sidestepping delicately, until he was gazing down at the Cornishman from directly over the animal's head between its ears. Thereafter, he sat motionless for a time, his face shadowed in the recesses of his helmet, but his eyes gleaming as he stared down at the enemy leader.

Herliss was an enormous man, although lacking the commanding height of Uther Pendragon. His wide, heavily muscled shoulders were more than three times as broad as the width of his head, and the tight-skinned planes of his face looked as though they had been shaped from slabs of clay. His great, pale-brown eyes were almost feminine in their size, but there was no hint of femininity or weakness in the way they blazed from the deep recesses beneath the massive height and breadth of his forehead. A thick band of rich yellow cloth, woven with gold wire, encircled his brow, and above it his hair was light brown and thick, with only a hint of silvering, in spite of his nearly sixty years. Two long braids hung over his shoulders and down onto his breast, interwoven and tied with ribbons of the same gold-laced cloth that bound his brow. The nose that dominated his craggy, rugged face was wide and cruel-looking, broken at some time in the far distant past. A full moustache, but no beard, finished the face off, emphasizing the deep-channelled grooves that swept down from the broad nose to bracket his wide, tight-lipped mouth on either side.

Uther had no illusions about the calibre of the man who faced him. The fierce face would have proclaimed its owner a nobleman and a warrior, but his clothing, too, drew attention to the man's singularity. His garments were rich, with the lushness that bespoke wealth, privilege and ease of access to the far-from-ordinary. Lacking only a helmet, Herliss wore armour that was almost as Roman-looking as Uther's own, consisting of a breastplate made from overlapping layers of heavy, toughened bull hide and studded with metal lozenges, and a skirt of overlapping straps of the same thick leather that hung from his waist and protected his groin and thighs, its panels also strengthened with the same kind of metal plates, pierced at the corners and sewn to the leather straps with iron wire. Thick, heavy greaves, shaped to the length and contours of his lower legs, completed his armour and fitted snugly over the tops of heavy, Roman military boots. A thick cloak of equally rich, deep- red wool, edged with deep-piled fur, hung down his back from his shoulders, secured across his chest by a chain of wide, heavy silver links and held back by his bound arms.

Uther waited in silence until he was sure that his adversary would say nothing before being addressed, and then, just ahead of the point at which the silence might have become a battle of wills, he nodded his head once and spoke in Latin, knowing well from his long talks with Balin that his brother Herliss was proficient in the tongue.

"Herliss, I have heard much about you. I wish we had met under better conditions."

Herliss said nothing, but his nostrils flared and he raised one eyebrow high in disdain. Uther ignored the look.

"I am Uther Pendragon."

"I know who you are." The voice was a deep, leonine growl, the Latin flawless and fluent. "The Trickster."

Uther frowned, then blinked, his body inclining slightly forward. "The what? What did you call me?"

"The Trickster. Why not? It is your name. You would deny it?"

"You have me confused with someone else. I am no trickster, nor am I known as such."

Herliss sucked in his cheeks as though he might spit, but then he merely swallowed what was in his mouth.

"Why lie about it when the whole world knows you for what you are? Do not treat me as you would one of your own fools. Did you not spirit a woman out of a locked and guarded room, and was it not witnessed by a multitude?"

Uther had stiffened in anger as Herliss began this response, but before it was done he had slumped back in his saddle, and now he threw back his head and laughed aloud, tugging his horse's head down with one hand, so that the great beast snuffled and stamped in protest.

"Ah, Herliss, now I understand your error, even though you do not. Time and distance can warp even the truth of truth, it seems. It was my cousin, Merlyn Britannicus of Camulod, who dreamed up that escapade and made it happen, earning the reputation you now attribute to me. Merlyn's your Trickster, not I. And he became the Trickster simply by being cleverer by far than anyone and everyone else who dealt with him, including myself."