And, as if in answer to her prompting, Arthur took a quick backward step, and Amilcar, suspecting a trick, hesitated. That momentary lapse was all Arthur needed; indeed, I saw now that he had cultivated it, using the Vandal's devious nature against him. A man who employs deception always looks for it in others, and Amilcar thought he saw it now.
But Arthur used no trick. His quick step backward was but preparation for an honest and open attack and, like Arthur's altered appearance, it caught Amilcar unaware.
Arthur stepped back, releasing his sword and letting it fall to the ground. His arm swung out and his hand closed on the spear he had planted. He whipped his arm forward. The Black Boar, flat-footed in hesitation, made to dodge aside. But too late. The spear struck Amilcar's shield square in the centre.
It was a supremely well-executed throw, but I wondered at its prudence – it had done no hurt to the Black Boar and now Arthur lacked a spear. 'No, no, no,' Gwenhwyvar groaned.
But we were wrong. Arthur's ploy was genius itself: the spearhead was deeply embedded in the centre of Amilcar's shield where he could not easily reach it. To rid himself of the nuisance, Twrch must either lower the shield or somehow swipe at the spear with his own and try to knock it off. He could not leave the spear where it was-an unbalanced shield was too awkward and his arm would soon grow tired just trying to steady the unwieldy thing.
The Black Boar was in trouble, and the look of incredulous anger creasing his face said that he knew it. He made an ineffectual swipe at the infuriating spear with the butt of his own weapon. Arthur was ready; he scooped up Caledvwlch and darted forward, swinging the great blade through a tight arc as if to sever Amilcar's spear hand.
This brought a howl of exasperation from the Black Boar, a roar of approval from the Britons, and a yelp of delight from Gwenhwyvar. 'Good!' she cried. 'Well done, Bear!'
Amilcar evaded the stroke with a quick side-step, but Arthur pressed his slight advantage. Moving closer, sword slicing the air above the upper rim of his adversary's shield, he weighed in against the Black Boar, forcing him back and back.
Amilcar, desperate, his face fixed in a snarl of rage, thought to use the bothersome spear against Arthur. He threw his shield before him, heaving the protruding spearshaft into Arthur's face.
Arthur, unencumbered by the weight of leather and mail, ducked easily under the shaft and charged headlong into Amilcar as the shield swung wide. The Black Boar's chest and stomach were momentarily exposed and Arthur's swordpoint found its mark.
Amilcar made a futile chop with his spear as he fell, rolling onto his back. Arthur lunged at him to deliver the killing blow.
But Amilcar released his useless shield and hurled it up into Arthur's face. The protruding spear deflected Arthur's strike, allowing Amilcar to squirm away as the blade bit into his hip. He regained his feet in an instant and backed away. He had saved himself a terrible gash, but now faced Arthur without a shield, and bleeding from two wounds. Neither injury was mortal, but the steady loss of blood would fatigue and weaken him.
The balance of battle had tipped towards Arthur; he had placed his opponent in a critical, if not grievous, position. What would Amilcar do? The next move would likely augur the end.
Gwenhwyvar realized this, too. I suddenly felt her hand on my arm, fingernails digging into my flesh. 'Take him, Arthur,' she urged, eyes bright, her brows lowered against the sunlight. 'Oh, take him quickly!'
Knowing himself in dire distress, Amilcar's reaction was immediate and decisive. He attacked.
Like the boar cornered by the pursuing hound, he gave an ear-splitting shout, lowered his head and charged. I could but marvel at the daring. 'Truly,' I murmured, 'he is a very boar of battle. I see that his name is well earned.'
Gwenhwyvar did not care for my approval. Her mouth bent down; she gave a derisory snarl and removed her hand from my arm.
The Black Boar's attack on Arthur lacked nothing: an act of concentrated fury, its ferocity was breathtaking. A stone hurled from a sling is not more relentless or unswerving. Nor less swift.
Amilcar drove in behind his lance, broad back and shoulders hunched for a mighty thrust. Straight and true, he charged, risking all on this one feat.
Arthur caught the blow square on the shield. I heard a loud crack as the thick Vandal lance shattered. Arthur staggered, and almost went down. Amilcar threw the splintered shaft into Arthur's face, drew his short sword, and, before Arthur could move, charged again, hurling himself forward with an ear-splitting scream of rage and desperation.
But Arthur did not meet this attack; at the last moment, he stepped aside and allowed the Black Boar to pass unscathed. I wondered at this. It is not like Arthur to permit even the slightest opportunity to slip by… but…
He seemed to be having difficulty with his shield… his arm hung down…
'No!' groaned Gwenhwyvar suddenly. 'Please, God, no!'
Then I saw it, too. And my heart clenched like a fist in my chest.
FOURTEEN
Amilcar's lance had penetrated the stout oak of the High King's shield and embedded itself in Arthur's arm. Blood cascaded freely down the inside of the king's shield. Skewered, his forearm pierced, Arthur could not free himself.
Desperate to make the most of this unexpected advantage, Amilcar seized his sword hilt and leaped at Arthur, loosing a furious rain of double-handed blows upon the wounded arm beneath the shield. Again and again, the blade rose and fell, each stroke hammering at the broken spearpoint, forcing it deeper into the wound.
Arthur reeled, his body convulsing in agony each time Amilcar struck the point. He tried to fend off the blows, swinging Caledvwlch in powerless, futile strokes. The Black Boar swung hard and struck the sword from Arthur's hand. The blade spun from his grasp and landed in the blood-spattered dust at his feet.
Gwenhwyvar groaned, but did not look away.
Staggering back and back, no longer able to respond to the Black Boar's assault, Arthur swayed under the blows. Glimpsing his chance at victory, Amilcar lifted his voice in a growling shout of triumph.
Leaping, driving, striking again and again… again… again… again – wild, savage, ruthless blows, each one falling with bone-shattering impact.
Dearest God in heaven, what keeps Arthur on his feet?
Chips of wood from Arthur's shield flew into the air. Blood splashed from the split shield-rim in a steady rain, pelting into dust.
My throat seized. I could not swallow. I could neither watch nor look away.
Crack! Crack! The great shield began to break under the shattering attack. Chunks of splintered oak dropped to the ground.
I saw the point of Amilcar's lance protruding from the inside of Arthur's arm. The blunt blade had passed between the bones, making any movement of the arm impossible. Arthur was fixed to the shield.
Amilcar, terrible in his fury, raised his heavy blade over his head and brought it down on the rim of the broken shield. Arthur's head jerked back, his features twisted in agony.
Shoulders heaving, the Black Boar threw the blade high and brought it down with all his strength. Crack! The shield rim burst and the oak split top to bottom.
Another such stroke and the shield would break completely.
'Arthur!' Gwenhwyvar screamed. 'Arthur!'
Twrch Trwyth bore down mercilessly. The Vandali filled the air with a clamour of encouragement for their king – a sound to strike terror into the stricken British.
Again the short black sword rose and again it fell.
Arthur collapsed.
His legs had given way beneath him and he went down heavily, landing on his hip. He rolled, as if trying to crawl away. But Amilcar was on him instantly, striking furiously. Another massive chunk of Arthur's shield came away.
Amilcar howled. He hacked at Arthur with a savage, demented glee. Arthur, struggling to rise, kept the broken shield over him. Every warrior who saw it knew he was only delaying the terrible, inevitable, final fatal thrust.