EPILOGUE
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“Arthur.”
“Myrddin?”
“Arthur.”
“Myrddin! I am the strongest! I am the one!”
The rider raised his helmet, revealing his face to the man in the cloak. Around them there was nothing save effusions of blood and fire, and the passing of an age, terrible in its death-throes, although neither man knew it yet.
“The sword! You promised me the sword!”
“And you shall have it! But to heal, not to hack! Tomorrow, a truce! We meet at the river.”
“Talk! Talk is for lovers, Myrddin! I need the sword to rule!”
And the horseman sped away, disappearing into the ambuscade. And there was nothing save blood and fire for the remainder of the night.
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The next day, by the river.
Two armies stood along the stream, each facing the other defiantly. The rider sat upon his steed, his hand resting gently upon a pommel.
The wise man said, “Show them the sword!”
And he drew it, and held it with its point towards Heaven above. And upon the sword were written the words ENSIS·ARTVRII·AVRELIANI·EX·CHALYBEIVS, and both parties stood amazed at the sight.
“Behold, the sword of Arthur! Forged from the sword drawn from the stones!” said Myrddin.
And the crowd murmured amongst themselves, as they remained in awe.
The rider spoke. “One land, one king! That is my peace!”
The leader of the opposing cohort replied, “If I yield to the authority so spoken by your sword, what shall you yield?”
“Me, yield?!” Arthur shouted in response.
Myrddin whispered to him, in a harsh tone. “He has given! Now you must!”
Nodding, Arthur spoke. “The land from here to the Wall shall be yours again, if you enforce the king’s will!”
After a pause, Mynyddog Mwynfawr nodded, saying, “Done!”
And there was a great cheer in the multitude, as many hands left their sword-belts, and their grips upon their bows and the shafts of their spears slackened. And thereafter both parties feasted together in Din Eidyn, the castle which lay in the shadow of Mons Agned.
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Many months thereafter, on the banks of the river Camleon.
A multitude of corpses lay upon the marshy soil, embedded forever into the silts, dampened by water mixed with blood. Some of the men groaned in agony, but were already dead, for the end had come for all of them, regardless of whether they were men of the Miathi, the Goddodin, or the Scots of Dal Riata. They were all dead, or soon to be.
Of the Goddodin, all three hundred of them had been slain to man, no matter how noble or how craven; Cynon, whose horses they rode, and Heinif, savage and sudden on his horse’s back, and even Gwawrddur, the bulwark of the front line, who had glutted many blackbirds on the walls of Catraeth with the gore of men and beasts. But even then he was no Arthur.
Arthur himself lay gasping for breath even as the life was drawn from him with every sigh, for he had been dealt a mortal wound, but had slain his killer with a final exertion. Beside him was his steward, who among the scarce seven who had survived was the only one who had done so not merely by fortune, but by the strength of arms.
With gravely laborious breath Arthur spoke. “Take my sword. Bring it to the Isle of Glass, in the summer country, and cast it into the sea there if the abbey atop the tor no longer stands, for if even that has fallen, the sword shall never be safe upon this island.”
“No!”
Even as he lay dying, he gathered the strength to rebuke his steward. “Obey me, Derfel!”
“But the sword cannot be lost! Surely, other men-”
Again he rebuked me, saying, “Do as I command! One day, a king will come. And the sword will rise…again.”
And so I, Derfel the son of Hywel, took up the sword forged from the sword of steel, drawn from the stones by Arthur the son of Uther, and rode to the Summer Country, and cast it into the waters there. And so perished Arthur the son of Aedan, and great-grandson of Arthur, last of the Britons, and no man has seen him since.
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HISTORIA ARTURII AURELANI
THE HISTORY OF ARTURIUS AURELIANUS
COMING THIS DECEMBER
