The King's Wizard (9 page)

The fighting that followed had been brief and apathetic, and ended with the lordling who had held the
castle hanged from the highest tower while his men-at-arms pledged themselves to Uther.

Now secure behind Winchester’s walls, Uther gathered his resources and drilled his army, and blessed the winter that kept
him safe from enemy attack. Vortigern’s army was ten times the size of Uther’s. He needed time to prepare.

“Can we count on your people for supplies, Cornwall?” he asked. Uther’s knights were gathered in the throne room, having come
from early Mass to hear the reports of the army scouts.

Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, looked up from the letter he was reading. “They will do what is right, Your Grace, in the name
of Christ our Lord.”

Gorlois’s wife Igraine held Tintagel Castle against attack while Gorlois—a loyal and sometimes overdevout Christian knight—was
here. Uther counted on Cornwall for food as well as men-at-arms, though he knew Gorlois was ambitious and hoped for Cornwall’s
independence once Uther triumphed.

Suddenly the door of the Great Hall opened. A servant crossed the room to whisper into Uther’s ear. His lords looked on curiously
at the figure standing in the doorway, awaiting permission to enter.

The man who stood there was about Uther’s age. In comparison to Uther’s Romanesque armor, he was dressed like some wild Pict
from over the Wall, in a long cloak trimmed with shining black feathers and tiny animal skulls.

“You’re welcome to Winchester Castle, Merlin,” Uther said urbanely. A man who wished to challenge
a warlord such as Vortigern must be prepared to take his allies where he found them.

“Oh, are you Merlin the wizard?” Gorlois asked with false surprise. A ripple of tension went through the men in the room.
Uther saw Lord Ardent—he had brought his troops over to Uther after Vortigern had sacrificed his daughter Nimue to the Great
Dragon—whispering intently to Sir Boris.

“Wizard?” Sir Boris said indignantly, stepping between Merlin and the king’s throne. “We’re all good Christians here! We don’t
believe in your blasphemy!”

The young man—or wizard—smiled gently, refusing to be insulted. “That’s your choice, sir,” he said, bowing in acknowledgment.
“But Christian or Pagan, I hope you believe in fresh news.”

“Well, is it good or bad?” Uther asked, sitting back and crossing his legs. This wizard looked as if he’d at least be more
interesting than another dull day spent reviewing battle plans.

“It depends on how you use it,” Merlin said smoothly. He walked toward the king, one hand upon the hilt of the sword at his
hip, and the lords who were gathered about Uther fell back.

“Vortigern will attack you within days,” he said.

The tension in the room dissolved as the nobles laughed loudly, dismissing Merlin’s words as those of a madman or a fool.

“No one fights in the winter,” Gorlois said, his pale eyes boring into Merlin’s. He fingered the golden cross at his throat
as though it could protect him from Merlin’s wizard-magic.

“It isn’t done, sir!” Sir Boris blustered. He was a round, redheaded man whose small suspicious eyes gave him the look of
a pig. “Rules of war. We fight in the summer and rest in the winter. It’s
tradition!
” His tone was condescending, as if he thought Merlin could not be expected to understand the ways of civilized men.

“Vortigern isn’t interested in rules or tradition,” Merlin answered evenly. “He wants to win. If circumstances were different,
I’d favor him.”

He ignored the jeering nobles and spoke directly to the Young Prince. He was the only one in the room who mattered. Uther
understood the necessity of kings. He would listen because he had to. Now that he had returned to Britain, he must win at
all costs.

“His army’s already on the march. Take it or leave it.” He shrugged, turning away from the throne.

Before Merlin had gone more than a few steps, Uther had risen from his throne to follow him. He put a hand on the shoulder
of the young wizard, turning him away from the gathered nobles as they walked together.

“Why are you telling me this?” Uther asked in a low voice.

“Vortigern is the friend of my enemy, Mab, so my enemy’s enemy is my friend. Besides, I’ve seen the Red Dragon defeat the
White, and I think you might make a fair to decent king,” Merlin answered simply. It was no more than the truth.

Uther smiled, taken off guard by Merlin’s presumption of treating him as no more than an equal. Raised in a French court,
he’d never before seen any
of the wizards and wonders that Britain was said to abound in. He found himself liking this Merlin-the-wizard.

“You think so, do you?” Uther jibed.

“King Constant wasn’t,” Merlin continued in that same confidential tone. “You’ll have to do better than your father. But I
offer you my services as a wizard.”

Uther laughed, and held out his hand. After a moment, Merlin took it.

The bargain was sealed.

The next morning, Merlin, Uther, and his two closest companions, Lord Gorlois and Sir Boris, rode out to scout the territory
over which they were soon to fight. When they reached the edge of the river that flowed south of the city, Merlin dismounted
and walked out onto the ice. The surface of the river was as flat as a table, covered with snow and frost. It seemed as if
Merlin were looking for something.

The other three watched him closely. Sir Boris thought that Merlin’s mere presence in Uther’s army was heresy; Gorlois worried
about that and also feared that Merlin would give Uther more power than was good for him. Uther ignored them both. Scouts
had ridden into Winchester at dawn, bringing the same news that Merlin had delivered the previous day: Vortigern’s army was
marching toward Winchester.

“Merlin, I owe you an apology,” Uther called cheerfully. “You were right about Vortigern.”

“What a fool,” Sir Boris grumbled. “Fighting in winter!”

“Perhaps I was the fool, thinking winter would make me safe,” Uther answered slowly. “But we’ll be ready for him now.”

“We must choose our battleground, Sire,” Gorlois said, impatient with Merlin’s slowness.

“Here,” Merlin called back to them from across the ice. The cold of the north had frozen the water into ice at least a foot
thick, strong enough to bear the weight of horses and men.

“You mean by this river?” Uther asked, puzzled. He would have chosen a site farther from his own stronghold, to keep Vortigern
from besieging it with a second force during the fighting.

“
On
it!” Merlin answered. “Vortigern has to come down here through the pass and cross on his way to Winchester.”

Uther looked at his companions. Neither of them trusted the wizard at all, and, despite the warning about Vortigern’s plans
he had brought, Uther himself wasn’t quite sure about Merlin the wizard.

“Uther, this is where you meet Vortigern—and crush him!”

Merlin’s words had the force of a prophecy—or a vow. At last Uther nodded. Here he would meet Vortigern … and pray that his
new wizard spoke the truth.

It was Christmas Eve. Tomorrow morning, Vortigern’s army would meet Uther’s. Though many
hoped and prayed and conjectured, no one truly knew what the outcome of that battle would be.

King Vortigern—for whom Christmas was just another day—lay resting upon his bed in the royal tent. Though his eyes were closed,
he wore full armor, and clasped the hilt of his naked sword against him much as if he were posing for the lid of his own sepulchre.
Later he would go and rally the troops for tomorrow’s battle. They would fall upon Winchester like wolves upon a fat and unsuspecting
lamb, and by nightfall his crown would be secure once more.

Sometimes he wondered why he bothered.

Just as his mind shaped those words, he felt a breath of cold air fill the tent.

“Uther knows you’re going to attack,” a familiar voice hissed above his head. “He’s waiting for you.”

Vortigern didn’t bother to open his eyes and look; he knew who it was. “I wonder who told him I was coming?” he said mockingly.

“Merlin.” Mab spat the name as if it had a bad taste.

“The dragon didn’t kill him?” Vortigern was mildly surprised. Draco hadn’t eaten a single peasant in the last six weeks, and
Vortigern had assumed it was resting up after a big meal. “What about the girl?”

“She’s alive,” Mab admitted. She turned away from the bed and stalked to the far end of the tent.

“So much for your magic.” Vortigern opened his eyes and sat up. “It doesn’t matter. I never believed in it anyway.”

Mab turned and glared at him. She was dressed
as if for battle, her hair braided up into a Medusa’s nest, her eyes painted wide and dark and her body sleek in a tight corselet
of gleaming silvery leather. Jeweled bracers were laced onto her forearms, and her boots were long and sleek. A shimmering
cape of violet silk hung from her shoulders. She looked as beautiful and as dangerous as a venomous serpent.

“You’re a very brave man, Vortigern—but so stupid! You
have
to believe in something now!” she cried in her harsh voice.

“Like what?” Vortigern scoffed.
Why does everyone keep calling me stupid? First the wizard and now Mab. You’d think they weren’t afraid of me!
He stabbed his sword at the carpet that covered the floor of the tent. Its sharp blade sliced through the weave, into the
earth below, and Vortigern smiled. He liked destroying beautiful things.

He folded his hands over the hilt and looked at Mab for a long moment before he spoke again. “I’ve been king for twenty years.
I’ve never been defeated, and I didn’t use any magic. I did it with my bare hands.”

And just as well, in Vortigern’s opinion. The one time he’d dabbled in magic, it had cost him a valued ally. After he’d given
Nimue to the Great Dragon, Ardent had gone over to Uther’s side. Deep down, Vortigern was sure that Mab had tricked him to
her own advantage somehow, and his enemy was the stronger for it.

Looking at the Queen of the Old Ways across the length of the tent, Vortigern thought he could see tears well up in her eyes.
There was a glitter as something
fell, and when Mab approached him, there was a tiny oval jewel in the palm of her hand. It sparkled like sunlit ice, casting
bright shadows against her skin.

“What is it?” Vortigern asked. For the first time since he’d known her, the Queen of the Old Ways looked less than confident.

“It will protect you,” Mab answered.

“What are you afraid of, Madame?” Vortigern asked. He took the hand that held the jewel, and drew her down to sit upon his
knee. Her face was inches from his own.

“The world is passing you by, leaving you behind,” Vortigern said, answering his own question. “Old ways—new ways—it will
all come together in the end. I’ve never been afraid, and I never will be.”

And if he must die tomorrow, he would not try to elude his fate. He would meet it with eyes open, as he always had. With a
quick gesture, he plucked the crystal teardrop from her hand and flung it into the brazier that sat at the foot of his bed.
There was a spark, a sizzle, and the talisman was gone.

Mab gazed into his eyes, and now there was sorrow instead of fear in her stare. “Vortigern—” she said, and her voice held
a last despairing warning. “Vortigern, it’s your pride that condemns you.”

“No,” the king said quietly. “You’ve shaped my whole life, but you never trusted me enough to give me victory. If I die tomorrow,
Madame, it is you who have been my executioner.”

* * *

It was still dark when Uther’s army took its place on the bank of the frozen river. There’d been some grumbling from the men
at taking orders from a wizard, but in the end they had all done what they were told. Merlin placed them carefully: pikemen
in the first rank of the center wing, archers behind them. What little cavalry Uther had was evenly divided between the left
and the right. He held back no reserves. If they were to win this day, it would not be through a contest of endurance.

The Bishop of Winchester had come out to say a Mass and bless the troops. His elaborate jeweled robes sparkled as if they,
too, were made of ice, and the censer trailed clouds of fragrant incense that hung upon the air like fog.

Merlin had withdrawn from the others, not wishing to give offense to the Christian priest. He stood now on a high hill overlooking
the river valley. Though he could not see them, his magic told him that Vortigern’s forces were just beyond the ridge.

His magic. It was such an easy thing after all these years to fall back into using the powers Mab had given him. All that
his renunciation of his abilities had done was doom the woman he loved to a travesty of life and validate his path. Mab had
been so certain that using his magic would make him return to her, but he was using those powers to fight her. Because Mab
wanted Britain to return to the Old Ways, Merlin would set a Christian king upon its throne. Everything Mab wanted, Merlin
would work to destroy.

It had become as simple as that.

* * *

“What if they don’t come?” Godwin, a young archer in Uther’s army, stared out into the dark nervously. This was his first
battle. His friends said that was lucky for him, because this was Uther’s first real battle as well and he would share the
Prince’s luck.

“They’ll come,” the man beside him said. “And all too soon.”

But as the sky lightened and the sun rose, it began to seem as if Vortigern’s army would not come, and Uther’s soldiers had
lost their Christmas feast for nothing.

“Look!” someone shouted, pointing toward the ridge across the river.

Vortigern’s army lined the horizon, its numbers stretching as far as the eye could see.

King Vortigern sat easily in the saddle of his war-stallion, indifferent to the tension of the knights around him. His battle-standards—a
white pennon embroidered with red runes and a ram skull mounted on a long pole—were displayed prominently in the front ranks
of his troops. They were Pagan symbols, but those members of Vortigern’s army who followed the New Religion did not think
it wise to object to their presence.