Arthur waited for Owain to rise. Both men were breathing hard and for a few seconds they watched each other, judging their chances, and then Arthur moved forward into the attack again. He swung again and again, just as he had before, and again and again Owain parried the wild blows, then Arthur slipped for a second time. He called in fear as he fell, and his cry was answered by a shout of triumph as Owain drew back his arm for the killing blow. Then Owain saw that Arthur had not slipped at all, but had merely pretended it to make Owain open his guard and now it was Arthur who lunged. It was his first lunge of the battle, and his last. Owain had his back to me and I was half hiding my eyes so that I would not have to see Arthur’s death, but instead, right before me, I saw the shining tip of Hywelbane come clean out through Owain’s wet and blood-streaked back. Arthur’s lunge had gone straight through the champion’s body. Owain seemed to freeze, his sword arm suddenly powerless. Then, from nerveless fingers, his sword dropped into the mud.
For a second, for a heartbeat, Arthur left Hywelbane in Owain’s belly, then, with a huge effort that took every muscle in his body, he twisted the blade and ripped it free. He shouted as he tore that steel out of Owain, shouted as the blade broke the flesh’s suction and ripped through bowel and muscle and skin and flesh, and still shouted as he dragged the sword out into the day’s grey light. The force needed to drag the steel from Owain’s heavy body meant that the sword kept going in a wild backswing that sprayed blood far across the mud-churned circle.
While Owain, disbelief on his face and with his guts spilling into the mud, fell.
Then Hywelbane thrust down once into the champion’s neck.
And there was silence in Caer Cadarn.
Arthur stepped back from the corpse. Then he turned sunwise to look into the faces of every man around the circle. Arthur’s own face was hard as stone. There was not a scrap of kindness there, only the face of a fighter come to triumph. It was a terrible face, his big jaw set in a rictus of hate so that those of us who only knew Arthur as a painstakingly thoughtful man were shocked by the change in him. “Does any man here,” he called in a loud voice, ‘dispute the judgment?”
None did. Rain dripped from cloaks and diluted Owain’s blood as Arthur walked to face the fallen champion’s spearmen. “Now’s your chance,” he spat at them, ‘to avenge your Lord, otherwise you are mine.” None could meet his eye, so he turned away from them, stepped over the fallen warlord and faced Tristan. “Does Kernow accept the judgment, Lord Prince?”
Tristan, pale-faced, nodded. “It does, Lord.”
“SarhaedJ Arthur decreed, ‘will be paid from Owain’s estate.” He turned again to look at the warriors. “Who commands Owain’s men now?”
Griffid ap Annan stepped nervously forward. “I do, Lord.”
“You will come to me for orders in one hour. And if any man of you touches Derfel, my comrade, then all of you will burn in a fire-pit.” They lowered their gaze rather than meet his eyes.
Arthur used a handful of mud to clean the sword of its blood, then handed it to me. “Dry it well, Derfel.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“And thank you. A good sword.” He closed his eyes suddenly. “God help me,” he said, ‘but I enjoyed that. Now’ his eyes opened “I’ve done my part, what about yours?” f
“Mine?” I gaped at him.
“A kitten,” he said patiently, ‘for Sarlinna.”
“I have one, Lord,” I said.
“Then fetch it,” he said, ‘and come to the hall for breakfast. Do you have a woman?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Tell her we leave tomorrow when the council has finished its business.”
I stared at him, hardly believing my luck. “You mean’ I began.
“I mean,” he interrupted me impatiently, ‘that you will serve me now.”
“Yes, Lord!” I said. “Yes, Lord!”
He picked up his sword, cloak and boots, took Sarlinna’s hand and walked away from the rival he had killed.