Annar sonur Óðins er Baldur, og er frá honum gott að segja. Hann er svá fagr álitum ok bjartr svá at lýsir af honum, ok eitt gras er svá hvítt at jafnat er til Baldrs brár. Þat er allra grasa hvítast, ok þar eptir máttu marka fegrð hans bæði á hár og á líki. Hann er vitrastr ása ok fegrst talaðr ok líknsamastr.
The second son of Odin is Baldr, and good things are to be said of him. He is best, and all praise him; he is so fair of feature, and so bright, that light shines from him. A certain herb is so white that it is likened to Baldr's brow; of all grasses it is whitest, and by it thou mayest judge his fairness, both in hair and in body. He is the wisest of the Æsir, and the fairest-spoken and most gracious…
- Snorri Sturluson, Gylfaginning, c. 1200 AD. English translation by Brodeur.
"And therefore [art thou] Arthur's sister?" asked the King.
And then the Queen made answer, "What know I?
For dark my mother was in eyes and hair,
And dark in hair and eyes am I; and dark
Was Gorloïs, yea and dark was Uther too,
Wellnigh to blackness; but this King is fair
Beyond the race of Britons and of men…"
- Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Coming of Arthur, 1859-85.
As darkness fell, Arthur shivered in his cloak and pulled the fabric tighter about him. Holgier and his men did not seem to mind the cold at all.
They were in a clearing, seven of them in total. The biting smell of sap was in Arthur's nostrils, and the closeness of the forest unnerved him, for he remembered that the Druids held mastery here. A little distance away he could hear the burbling of a creek, as well as the cries of birds. Was it his imagination, or had the beasts of these woods become bolder after Merlin had sent the dragon away?
They had been walking for hours. Arthur had removed his chainmail and was now almost as lightly clad as his companions, but he must have less endurance than them. His bones were weary. Had he been relying on riding too much? He did hunt on foot occasionally, but the Danes had the look of men who could run all day and night. A chevalier like Arthur was not supposed to go on foot - the whole rank and grandeur of the highborn lay in their skill on horseback - but there were places horses could not ride freely. Places like this dense forest, where the Danes would have every advantage over Arthur's knights.
"We should be cautious," Arthur said. "Merlin asked the dragon to avoid men. But she will take prey from the woods. We should avoid encountering her if possible. Best to return to camp, or to Earl Gallien's castle."
"The forest," said Holgier, "is the home of hunters. We belong here as much as the dragon does. And she has as much chance of becoming our prey as we hers."
Holgier was almost as tall as Percival, and even broader. His long, braided hair, though presently tied back, added to his bulk when it was left loose, falling around his shoulders like a cape. He had surprisingly large blue eyes, and his strong jaw was accentuated by a carefully groomed beard. He would have been comely, Arthur supposed, if he didn't cut such an outlandish figure.
Like all of his men, Holgier was lightly armoured. The Danes carried sturdier equipment in their packs, but each of them wore linen tunics, as huntsmen or bandits, and there did not seem to be leather armour under their clothes. Arthur wondered how they dared to stray so far from their camps. All Brythons knew and feared the prowess of the northern warriors, who had overwhelmed whole villages and fortresses since the time of the ancient kings. But surely an all-out offensive was no substitute for self-protection. How would the Danes fare against a knight in full plate armour?
Unless these Danes thought they didn't need armour. Arthur remembered Holgier saying that his men were no ordinary warriors. He had mentioned the word berserker. In the tales, the berserkers were impervious to steel weapons and fire. Some of them even went into battle naked to terrify the enemy, like Arthur's ancient ancestors among the Brythons.
Arthur's disposition was not of the kind that lent credence to fairy tales. True, he had seen incredible feats of magic, and he no longer doubted that sorcerers were capable of anything. A mere warrior, however, was a different animal. Arthur understood swordplay in a way he didn't understand sorcery. There was no mystery, no existential terror for him in a fellow fighter, regardless of how dreadful his reputation. He had gone up against too many men from too many nations to be unnerved by their skills.
And yet, in this gloomy wood, surrounded by strangers, with the memory of the dragon fresh in his mind, he felt fear skitting around the edges of his heart.
Why was he here?
Holgier could have let me die when we faced the dragon. He can mean me no harm. There was no benefit to him in saving my life only to bring me out here to injure me.
Unless…
Arthur remembered the battle stories his father had used to terrify him with as a child. Before the Vykings had accepted the grace of the Redeemer, they had followed harsher gods, who had demanded of them great sacrifices. Sometimes those sacrifices were slaves, or prisoners taken in raids. They had suspended these hapless people on trees, and crucified them, as the Palatine Empire had done to its most heinous criminals. Even the Palatines, however, might have blushed at the grisliness of the Vyking blood offerings.
Uther had said that on special occasions, such as before a great battle, the Vykings would pour out a special oblation to their gods. The blood of princes and kings was deemed of high value…
Arthur told himself his chills were caused merely by the rising night winds.
"You still haven't explained," said Arthur, "what we're doing out here. Or what you meant to show me."
"You have many questions, Pendragon," said Holgier. "Yet you are entitled to ask them."
"Why are you still here, Master Holgier? You saw my Herald face down the dragon. None else could stand against her. Surely this creature is a problem for our people. You have no obligation to remain. Why risk your lives?"
Holgier looked scornful. "Do you think we came to this island merely for trinkets? Had we wanted the wealth of your Earl Gallien, we could have taken it in the old way. We did not need to become his errand boys."
"But you took the contract."
"We agreed to fight the dragon. The earl's payment is mere formality. The real reward is the dragon herself."
Arthur shook his head. "I don't understand."
"You heard the dragon speak. Prior to that, what did you think she was? A mindless beast? A force of destruction? From the outside, perhaps, that is all she appears. But once you begin to see the world as she does, you understand she has a deeper purpose.
"Dragons are like men. They have many ends. Some, like this queen, exist to hunt, to crush, to slay. We, too, have a deeper purpose. We are hunters also. We challenge the dominion of the elder beasts over men. And those of us who are with breath still, are so because we were victorious."
"So," said Arthur, "you would continue hunting this dragon, just for the sake of it?"
"You sound surprised," said Holgier. "The hunt is no idle thing, no amusing diversion. It is the life's work of the warrior. Men are divided into two kinds: hunters and prey. In this, our ancestors were of one heart. You southerners understand that hunting is what elevates a man to the rank of nobility. You have dressed up the brutality of this law, adding pageantry, and polite manners, and games of courtesy to your hunts and jousts. But you jealously guard the hunt and the arms of chivalry from the peasants, because you remember that hunting and warfare are the essence of lordship..."
Arthur could not deny the truth in what Holgier said. The laws of chivalry were now extravagant and decadent. Combat and hunting in Brython had evolved from their primitive state into something highly ritualised and regulated, which no Brythonic warrior of old would recognise. A knight was supposed to be courteous as well as a killer, and motivated by higher and gentler ideals than thirst for combat. When he met fellow knights there were rules and witnesses, designed to take the murderous edge off the unfortunately necessary custom of warfare. So, too, had hunting transformed into a spectacle, an occasion for merriment and feasts and revelry, something that pages and noblewomen played at.
But essentially, the customs of the warlike Danes and the knights of Camelot were the same, even if the Danes clung to the older and purer way. Could Arthur call these men foolhardy for wanting to pit their lives against a dragon, when the knights of Camelot were expected to prove themselves in quests and adventures equally dangerous? Was wanting to hunt a dragon to prove one's worth any different from what Uther had done, or Arthur himself had undertaken in his quest to the Perilous Lands?
"The dragon moved me," said Arthur. "I saw beauty in her, beauty my father never saw. I would not repeat his errors."
"It would be a mistake to think all dragons evil," said Holgier. "It would also be a mistake to refuse to fight any of them, even those who are pledged to destroy you. Dragons are creatures of domination. They duelled each other frequently, in the old days. They consider some men worthy of the challenge of duelling, also… This Dragon Queen knows our kind of old, for her people, if they can be said to feel fear, fear Northmen alone among the race of Men."
"But the dragon has agreed to a truce for Merlin's sake. If we break it, we could jeopardise his mission."
"If you slay the dragon first, his mission will be unnecessary. Wouldn't that be more fitting?"
Arthur shook his head. "I don't know that I want to kill her. My family has enough dragon's blood on its hands."
"Arthur Utherson," said Holgier. "We mean to challenge this dragon, before your Herald returns. We have certain… skills, which I am willing to share with you. Without these, you will never stand against a dragon. If you take this opportunity, you may subdue the dragon without killing her. You may even, if you are half the warrior I think you are, subdue one of us. In which case, you could challenge us for the right to dispense with the dragon as you wish.
"What is the alternative? To walk away? To let us slay this beast ourselves, and have everyone believe the King of Camelot so impotent, that he must let strangers from the north repair his mistakes? Magic attracts magic, Arthur Utherson. There are greater beasts than the dragon, and they are coming to this island, now that magic is returning. What will you do against them? Rely on your magician to fix everything for you? Then why be king? Surrender the crown to him.
"Your wizard knows his art requires understanding. He knows to go to the Druids, and dragons, and High Priestesses, to augment his power. Do you know your arts, Arthur Pendragon? Have you learnt all there is to know of the ways of war? Will you scorn to learn from us Northmen? Or are you, too, ready to learn?"
Arthur, his fingers interlaced, had been staring at the ground. Now he raised his head, and looked Holgier full in the face.
"What would you have me do? What could you teach me in two weeks? What could possibly increase my strength so much that I could stand against a dragon in that time?"
Holgier looked satisfied, and his eyes flickered towards the other Danes, as if they had all been waiting for this.
"It is not what we shall teach you, Arthur," said Holgier, "but what you shall learn yourself. We do not have time to make you one of us fully. But some of the customs must be observed. That you have courage, none of us doubt. Even in the North we have heard of your strength of arms. But there must be a proving. Gunnar!"
Gunnar came forward, swung a pack from off his back, and began to fiddle with it. He was around Arthur's age and of similar height, narrower in the shoulders, but well-muscled, and with a lean, hard look. The sharp angles of his face lent a sinister air to what would otherwise have been a pleasant countenance. He had soft brown eyes and his fawn hair was shorter than Holgier's, with less elaborate plaits in it. He also wore fewer rings on his fingers.
I wonder, thought Arthur, if he has killed fewer men than Holgier. Maybe he wants me to be the next braid in his hair, or the next ring on his finger. Wouldn't that be a prize, a dragon ring from a fallen Pendragon monarch to thread through this youthful warrior's locks. Holgier said a hunter must prove himself, and killing me would also be slaying a dragon, after a kind.
Other men came forward now, and laid their own burdens on the ground, at the side of the clearing. Arthur saw the gleam of weapons, and an array of shields.
Not so unarmoured as I thought, he reflected.
"Are you challenging me to a duel?" Arthur said.
"Yes," said Holgier. "But do not expect me to pluck a silk glove from my hand and throw it at your feet like a womanly southerner. Gunnar has laid out the arms for you. As our guest, the choice of weapons will be yours."
Arthur glanced towards his own belongings, but Holgier shook his head.
"No mail," he said. "No body armour. You and Gunnar will fight as you are."
"That's hardly a fair contest," said Arthur. "I wasn't prepared for this. Your men are skilled at fighting with light arms. You know that I'm a knight. I train in plate armour, or chainmail, or on horseback. I don't usually duel in anything less than mail.
"If I challenged one of you Northmen to a joust on horseback, I would knock you out of your saddles each time, but it wouldn't be a true demonstration of your skill. There would be no honour in it."
"On the contrary," said Holgier. "There is always honour in seeing a man as he truly stands, with all the instruments he has come to rely on stripped away. I know you are accustomed to fighting in suits of steel, and striking from the backs of horses. You southerners love your horses more than your wives. But what are you, Arthur Pendragon, when your armour and lance are taken away? What makes you a king? The silks and jewels you wear, which are so rich they would make a Danish maid blush? Or does something of the warrior's heart beat in you still, even out of its iron cage?
"How boldly you ran towards that dragon, even knowing it was certain death. Was that courage inspired by your horse, or your ringmail, or the men around you? Was none of it native to your own heart? Will you cower before a boy like Gunnar, after facing down a Dragon Queen?
"It were better you were not prepared for this duel. Our greatest trials come upon us without warning, and a warrior must be ever ready to meet death, however suddenly it springs."
Arthur knew that Holgier was goading him with his words, for he did the same thing with his own knights. Yet despite this, he let himself rise to the taunt. The truth was that part of him did miss the simplicity of his life before kingship. He had always been somewhat constrained by his role as prince, but when Uther had lived, the older Pendragon had taken on the lion's share of governance, leaving Arthur to his role as the First Knight.
Long nights had King Arthur spent poring over parchments, listening to the droning of grey haired ministers, judging disputes over the boundaries of some estate or another. He tried to restrain his youthful impulses by practicing the wisdom and patience the people needed in a king. He had inherited a world of injustices and tangled allegiances from his father, and the problems facing the crown were so complex that a king could not act directly, relying instead upon the tedious machinery of the state bureaucracy.
He had never sat comfortably on the throne. He was a knight, not a politician. And he saw the rise of magic, and the threats of enemy sorcerers, as portending something grave for Camelot that he could not engage with directly. For in a world where men were as powerful as Merlin or Morgana, what use were knights? Weren't his skills obsolete? What was his role to be then, to sit in his castle beside Rhodri like an aged nun, telling his beads, wringing his hands over his father's crimes, and confessing his own sins? Was he to be a ceremonial ruler, who stamped parchments and presided over feasts, while Merlin, and Morgana, and the dragons, fought magical battles for supremacy over Brython?
The encounter with the Dragon Queen had shaken him more than he had realised. He had come closer to death than he had in many months, apart from the encounter with the Druid boy in the forest. It was the manner of the encounter with the dragon which had upset him. Death in battle he could face, for at least against a knight, or an opposing army, he understood the terms, and there was some manner of sense to the combat. Death from the Dragon Queen was as irresistible and meaningless as death by earthquake, or pestilence. She rendered warriors' arts obsolete, and those arts were the cornerstone of Arthur's world. There was no resistance to this new magical enemy. He felt powerless, like the universe was slipping further and further from his grasp.
But the Danes? He understood them. Wild though they were, they were distant kin to the knights of Camelot. And now they offered Arthur a return to a world he understood, a world that might be brutal and dangerous, but which gave a warrior some chance to take his destiny into his own hands. God, how good that would be, after years of sorceries, and politics, and magical beasts he couldn't grasp, to stand in an arena governed by a warrior's rules, even for a moment.
It was neither wise nor politic to wager a king's body in combat like this. Yet what did wisdom and policy mean in a world that was increasingly turning upside down? Perhaps this was a childish act of rebellion, but Arthur wanted to feel in control of his destiny again, even to the point of wagering his life, away from the restraints of his court, away from his duty to his people.
Arthur stepped up, and began looking over the equipment laid out on the ground. The shields were much the same as each other, varying mostly in size, and he took one up and hefted it in his left hand. The shield was circular, and had a metal boss in its centre, to which the handle was attached. The surface was covered in hardened leather, stretched over a wooden body, probably ash. Arthur had chosen one large enough that when he held it in position, its upper edge protected his neck, and the lower extended almost to his mid-thigh. He was more used to the knights' shields, which commonly had a flat upper edge, and tapered downwards, coming to a point. These round ones had a different balance, yet another disadvantage to him.
He then looked over the arms. Holgier had said the choice would be his, which implied that Gunnar would match whatever Arthur took up. Arthur passed over the war-axes, which he seldom used. The spears were smaller than he was accustomed to, and they were not his favoured weapon at close quarters. That left the swords.
He chose one which had suitable proportions, and hefted it. Once again, the balance was unfamiliar to him - perhaps he had been spoilt by fighting with arms forged for him by Elyan and the previous royal smiths. This blade would do, however. It had a white pommel, perhaps of bone, which was carved in the shape of a dragon's head, which he decided to interpret as a good omen. The dragon had garnets for eyes, glowing with red fire, red as the standards of Camelot.
Red as my father's hands, and mine. But Holgier speaks truly. Kings' hands have never been clean. It is only in our age of romance and gentle manners that we draw a cloak of virtue over our murderous deeds. A knight is a killer with a code of ethics. Why should I be ashamed of what I am? Didn't my father take his kingdom from his kinsmen on the point of his own sword? Only… if I am a killer, let me not kill without purpose. I must remember the knight's code as well, else I am not better than a common cutthroat.
Nodding his satisfaction, Arthur returned to the centre of the clearing. Gunnar, following his lead, took up a shield and sword, which he handled with much more familiarity and dexterity than Arthur had done, and went to a position opposite to Arthur's, facing him. The other Danes hastened to light torches, and surrounded the two combatants, forming the circumference of an invisible circle. Somehow Arthur knew that to be pushed beyond these borders would be to lose ground in the challenge, perhaps the match itself.
The circle inscribed by the spectators, like the clearing itself, was the same shape as the arena in Camelot. In place of stands filled with onlookers were the silent trees of the forest. There was no king to salute, no priest to add his blessing to the proceedings. Nor were there proud beauties of the fair sex to inspire the fighters to greater valour, waving their silken kerchiefs in admiration, or loudly voicing their acclaim.
In this space there were but two men and two blades. And two wills.
"Gunnar," said Holgier. "You know the way. Fight with your man-strength only, but do not hold back. The southerners keep the old ways no longer, and if a man is slain, his kin may demand the blood-geld. A man's blood-geld is of no concern to us here, whether a king's or a thrall's. And steel is only known when it is thrust into the fire. So do not stay your hand."
"I know what I must do, Holgier," said Gunnar.
"Arthur," said Holgier, "your titles mean nothing here. In this circle, a man has as much rank as he can balance on the edge of his blade, no more and no less. Anointing by priests, and crowns of gold placed on your brow, mean naught here. Lordship demands proof by steel and sinew. Do not fear to strike Gunnar. If any man touched a hair of Gunnar's head outside this challenge, his brothers would avenge him sevenfold. But within this circle, if you slaughtered our own children, we would bear you no grudge. Make your strength known to us."
"I will," said Arthur. He glanced about him. The darkness was almost fully upon them, the orange light of the torches now replacing the soft gloom of dusk. The wind sighed through the branches, and the birds and beasts seemed to have fallen silent, as breathless as any spectators at a tourney. The soil of the clearing was uneven, but no more so than the grounds Arthur had trained in. Strange as these men, these rituals and this place were to him, why did they feel so familiar?
"I recognise this," said Arthur. "I believe your ways were known to my forebears. I will fight as truly and manfully as my opponent. This is nothing but a knight's duel, with everything external stripped away, as you said. Though there is no judge or priest to officiate, this must be a trial by combat, and Providence will intervene on the side of the victor."
Holgier made a noise of amusement. "There judges and priests among us, too, Arthur Utherson," he said. "Those with the Holy Ghost or knowledge of the Law are powerful in their ways. But there was a time when warriors alone made both the laws and the offerings to the Heavenly Father. You do not need your bishop here to whisper your prayers for you, as if you were a mute. The gods, old and new, are always watching, especially where men of war are gathered.
"Out here, the sky is our chapel. The wind is our confessor, and the hawk and raven carry our prayers to heaven. The bear in his den is our cloistered monk, and the wandering wolves are our barefoot friars. The herds of deer are our congregation, and the nightingales sing sweeter than any choir of sisters. Our swords take the Host, for they bite the flesh of our enemies and drink of their blood… Listen, Arthur. A warrior's blade, baptised in the heart's blood of your foe, is as powerful as any priest's consecrated staff. Heaven is in the palm of your hand, wherever you go… "
And Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, and felt the truth of Holgier's words settle on him. What did it really matter that he couldn't injure dragons or oppose his sorcerous sister? Was he really helpless against his foes because he couldn't conjure up magic like Merlin? In the society of warriors, the blade itself had its own magic. There was power in him, which had been held back by fear for too long.
Someone began to beat a drum with rhythmic, steady blows, as if sounding the pulse of the forest. Another struck up a tune on a lute, and began to sing in a low, haunting voice, words in a speech Arthur understood not, and yet somehow the meaning was plain. Arthur's ear was accustomed to the gentle voices of women choristers, and the cultured ballads of minstrels. There was something alien, wild and rough in the Dane man's voice, yet it was also dreamlike and pure, the notes cascading across one another like the frozen fires of heaven in the northern sky, all studded with silver stars. The song held Arthur's heart, and he knew the double-edged blade of the warrior's life: honour and glory in battle, sorrow at death on all sides, the gain of treasure and the loss of kin, a name that endured forever, and a life that ended in the space of a blood-choked breath.
Arthur opened his eyes, and his gaze met Gunnar's. Arthur had no visor to raise, so he lifted his sword instead, holding it up beside his head in a makeshift salute. Gunnar nodded at him, raised his own sword in return, and kissed the blade just above the hilt. Then he let the weapon fall, and his stance shifted, the sword and shield moving to a ready position. Arthur also dressed his shield and hefted his sword, again slightly put off by the balance of both.
They said the Northmen had ice flowing in their veins. Arthur would show that the Pendragons had fire flowing in theirs, fire hot enough to melt even the frosty hearts of these proud northern barbarians.
Seeing that both contestants stood ready, Holgier shouted a single word, and Gunnar launched himself towards Arthur with inconceivable speed, his tanned limbs flashing, blade gleaming.