Prince of Dreams
	Copyright 2003 Nancy A. McKenzie

Excerpt from Chapter Two: Marhalt

    A mistake, thought Tristan. Outright defiance would gain Constantine nothing. He was outnumbered. The Welsh were ready, organized and well led. Who would stand for Constantine? Gerontius­a good fighter but a poor substitute for Mark­Tristan of Lyonesse, Dinadan of Dorria, and the princes of Dumnonia who had served Cornwall for generations. They were, all told, perhaps three hundred strong. And it was foolishness, pure idiocy, to go to war with one another with the barbarian Saxons barely out of earshot.
    No sooner had the thought passed through his head, than Tristan heard it voiced aloud.
    “My lords all, this is unseemly.” Peredur’s commanding voice cut through the protests. “We are allies, after all. We are all thatís left of Britain. We were once greatósome of us here can remember the days of Arthur, and what it was like to live in peace. If we fight among ourselves we do all Britain a disservice, for the Saxons wait poised to pick apart our leavings.”
    “How do you propose to settle this then?” cried a Cornish voice. “Do you withdraw your insolent opposition?”
Peredur waited for silence. “That we cannot do. We oppose Markion because he has shown himself to be a greedy, selfish leader, who thinks only of his own aggrandisement, and not of Britain.” He raised his hand to forestall the storm of protest. “I'm sure it looks quite differently to you. You are happy to grow more powerful at our expense. But that is how it looks to us. And it is not, and never was, Arthur’s way.” He paused. “Many of us do not wish to serve King Markion. We want a leader who honors men beyond his own borders. We propose Percival of Gwynedd.”
    “Ha!” sneered Constantine. “Your own nephew, by all thatís holy! What a surprise!”
    “Yes, my own nephew,” Peredur acknowledged calmly. “But a man who has seldom taken my own advice, when I wished to see Gwynedd rise to prominence among the kingdoms. Instead of Gwynedd, he has always thought of Britain first. He remembers Arthur.”
    “Oh, certainly, and wants his crown!”
    “No.” Peredur spoke sharply. “That has never been his amibition. It is our ambition for him. He does not even know we propose him.”
    This news silenced everyone.
    “Then how do you know he will accept it?” someone asked. Constantine snorted, and fell into a coughing fit. Peredur waited until there was silence.
    “If Britain chooses him, he will serve. I know him well. Not even his enemies doubt his prowess as a warrior. He was one of the Twelve who survived Camlann.“
    “My son Meliodas was another,” Constantine spat.“There are heroes beyond your borders, Peredur!”
    “My lord King, no one denies it. Had Meliodas lived to be your heir, we would not be here asking you to choose another.”
    In the dark, Dinadanís hand found Tristanís arm, and squeezed it.
    Constantine’s breath was short. “I will not choose another. Markion is as able as his brother.”
    “We contest that choice,” Peredur said gravely.
    “How? If, as you claim, you do not want civil war?”
    “We will select a champion to fight in single combat, on Percival’s behalf, against anyone you put forward for your defense. If our man wins, we choose the heir; if he loses, you do. We swear, all of us, tonight, on whatever gods we each hold holy, we will abide forever by this decision.” Utter stillness blanketed the company. “There are three conditions. Both champions must be kings’ sons, both must be men of honor, Britons born. And both must volunteer.” He paused. “Is this acceptable?”
    “Grandfather!” whispered a nearby voice, “let me do it! Let me fight for my father!”
    “Hush, Gerontius,” Constantine growled. “Have you forgotten your ankle? It’s as big as a melon. If you stand up, you’ll fall down. Damn Markion! Why isn’t he here?”
    “Is this acceptable?” Peredur repeated. “Or isn’t there anyone who wants to fight for Cornwall?”
    Tristan ducked out of the tent and pulled Dinadan with him. He shivered with excitement, breathing fast.
    “Don’t you want to see what happens?” Dinadan objected furiously. “Why, the future of Britain is up for grabs!”
    “Quick! There’s not a moment to lose! Run to the tent and fetch my sword!”
    Dinadan stared at him. Tristan scooped up great handfuls of mud and smeared it over his chest and arms and legs.
    “What in God’s name are you doing?”
    “Quick! In another second it will be too late! Get me my sword!”
    “What on earth for?”
    “Fetch my sword and I’ll tell you. Now, Din! If I go myself, there won’t be time!”
    Shaking his head, Dinadan disappeared into the darkness. Tristan smeared mud into his hair until it was one thick, glossy mass, and tied it behind his head. He covered his face, his neck, his shoulders, then rolled to cake his back. He stood, rubbing the thick ooze well into his legs. Thank God he had come barefoot! When Dinadan returned Tristan was so perfectly dark his friend could not see him, and actually called his name aloud.
    “I’m here, oaf, at your elbow.”
    “My God!” Dinadan jumped. “What have you done to yourself? Have you gone mad?”
    “I don’t need the swordbelt. Just the sword.” He drew his weapon from the scabbard, hefted it in his hand, loving the way it felt, cool and balanced and familiar. “Promise me, Din, that whatever I say, youíll back me.”
    “First tell me what in God’s name youíre going to do.”
    Tristan smiled. His white teeth were the only part of him Dinadan could clearly see. “I’m going to defend my uncle Mark.”
    “No! Oh God, Tristan! Theyíll kill you!”
    “Listen.” Tristan went suddenly solemn. “Do you think I don’t know what they say behind my back? Do you think I’m deaf? Everyone, even you, thinks my uncle Mark has played me for a fool. This is my chance, Dinadan, to do him the greatest service of his life, and to reclaim my birthright. If I win his battle for him, he must make me King of Lyonesse or be known all over Britain for a blackguard. It is his test, as well as mine. We will know, after tonight, the kind of men we are.”
    Tears ran down Dinadan’s cheeks. “You will be dead, Tris, that’s what kind of man you’ll be! Let Gerontius do it!”
    “He can’t. He’s injured.”
    “It’s certain death! I know who they will choose! Marhalt the butcher!”
    Tristan shrugged. “Every man has a weakness. I’ll find his. And he has more to lose. I am unwed, I am unpromised, I have no kingdom. And even if I die, well, it will be something new I’ve never felt before.”
    “Oh God!” Dinadan wept. “You and your damned sensations! Just once, why can’t you think like other men? I love you, Tristan, but you’ve lost your wits! Let me do it, then! I’m older, I’m a king’s son, I’ve as much right as you!”
    Tristan threw an arm around his shoulders and hugged him quickly. “Your heart wouldn’t be in, my friend. Mine is.”
    He turned and strode to the entrance to the tent. The sentries cried out in fear, and drew their swords.
    Mumbling the password, Tristan pushed past them into the smoky light. Faces turned to him; eyes widened; men gasped. He stood still before them all, sword raised.
    “I accept Peredur’s challenge on behalf of King Markion of Cornwall!”
    Someone laughed. Others grinned. But Peredur, standing alone in the center of the gathering, regarded him gravely.
    “Are you a kingís son?”
    “Yes, my lord.”
    More laughter. “King of the swamp, that is!” “He’s blacker than a Spaniard’s whore! King’s son, indeed!” “Worse, he’s blacker than a Pict!” “Be gone, you savage!” “Go back to your cave, animal!”
    Peredur raised a hand and stilled them. “Your fatherís name?”
    “Meliodas of Lyonesse. King of Cornwall.”
    The laughter died. Peredur’s blue eyes narrowed, and a smile touched his lips.
    “He was a king, indeed. Your name?”
    “Tristan.”
    Peredur bowed his head in greeting. “Welcome, Tristan. How old are you?”
    “Age was not among the qualifications, my lord. I am a Briton born. Bred and raised by King Meliodas, trained by Markion . You will find me a man of honor.”
    Peredur eyed him thoughtfully. “I believe you.” He turned. “King Constantine, is the lad acceptable to you?”
    Constantine glared at Tristan, clutching Gerontius for support, but he said nothing.
    “No one else,” Peredur ventured quietly, “has volunteered.”
    Constantine nodded sharply. “He is my grandson. Of course he is acceptable to me.” He shrugged. “If heís fool enough to take your bait!”
    “Very well, Tristan. I regret I placed no condition upon age, but as I did not, I must accept you.” He turned and gestured behind him. “This is the man you will face. His name is Marhalt.”
    Out from the shadows stepped the biggest man Tristan had ever seen. Tall and thickly built, with arms and legs the size of tree trunks, and hands that could encompass a man’s waist, Marhalt’s blue eyes bulged as he stared at his young opponent.  Tristan’s first startled thought was to wonder what horse had been able to carry him from Wales, or had he walked? The irrelevance of his thought made him smile, and Marhalt frowned.
    “Find me funny, do you, Tristan?”
    “Not at all, my lord.”
    “Then quit your grinning. I’ll make mincemeat of you!”
    Tristan turned to Peredur. “I make one condition, my lord.” Around him, men sniggered. Peredur raised a hand for silence.
    “And what is that?”
    “Sir Marhalt may choose the weapons. I choose the time and place.”
    “It must be done before we depart this valley, and not three years hence.”
    “Agreed.”
    Peredur nodded. “Fair enough. Eh, Marhalt?”
    Marhalt stared hard at Tristan, and nodded. “Agreed.”
    “Very well. Marhalt­”
    “Wait!” someone cried from the back of the tent. Gerontius hobbled forward into the light. “Tristan! Cousin! Please do not take this upon yourself! My noble cousin! By rights this duty should fall to me. Let me fight him! It is my own father’s honor that is challenged.”
    “You are injured, Gerontius. It would be unfair.”
    “Unfair!” Tears sprang to the prince’s eyes. “Do you call this fair? My lords, my lord Peredur, he’s only sixteen, only been a year in the army!”
    “Thanks, cousin, for your praise of me,” Tristan muttered between clenched teeth.
    “And yet this very day, my lord,” a voice cried from the tentflaps, “Tristan has slain a hundred Saxons with only thirty men!” Dinadan stepped forward, clad in boots and leggings, strapping on his swordbelt. “If that doesn’t make him worthy to fight this lecherous dog, I don’t know what does!”
    “Ha! Ha! Lecherous dog!” Cornish voices cried, as the Welsh jumped to their feet.
    “Silence!” bellowed Peredur, turning towards his own countrymen. “We do not  want civil war! Let Marhalt do the fighting!”
    “Please, Tristan,” Gerontius begged, “you take on too much. You cannot defeat this man. It is better I should die, than you.”
    “How so? Certainly your father would not think so. Take heart, cousin. Perhaps I will defeat him.”
    Gerontius shook his head. “Tristan, how can my father ever repay you for this noble sacrifice?”
    Tristan took his eyes off Marhalt and looked at his cousin. “If I die, he can give you Lyonesse. If I live, he can give it to me.”
    Gerontius gasped. “It’s yours anyway, Tris. He was only waiting until you returned from this one battle. It isn’t necessary to do­this.” He gestured with his arm towards the Welsh giant.
    “I’m doing it to prove that Mark is a man worth dying for. They don’t believe that now. Many of our own men don’t believe it. But after tonight, whatever happens, no one will be able to deny it. Don’t you see? Itís Cornwall’s future that’s at stake, as much as Britainís.”
Gerontius leaned forward and kissed him. “Bless you, Tristan.”
    “All right. So it is decided.” Peredur again commanded everyone’s attention. “Marhalt, what weapons do you choose?”
    Marhalt smiled disdainfully at the naked boy. “I choose one weapon only. The sword.”
    “And Tristan? When shall this fight be fought?”
    “Now, my lord. Here. Outside this tent.”
    “Now?” Marhalt stared. “In the pouring rain?”
    “Now.”
    “But­” Marhalt turned towards Peredur. “Must I?”
    Peredur frowned, glancing sharply at Tristan. “The time and place were of his choosing. Yes, you must fight now.”
    Marhalt’s voice rose in agitation. “May I not even have ten minutes to don my armor?”
    Tristan bowed. “I will give you five minutes for preparation. Meet me outside.”
    Another smile touched Peredur’s lips, this time of admiration, as Tristan turned and strode out, Dinadan at his heels.
    “Quickly!” Tristan whispered, dragging his friend aside. “More mud! Cover me with it, nice and thick. It’s drying out. Pray, Dinadan, for a light rain, or a mist!”
    “By the looks of it, you’ll get both. This is a night for fog if I ever saw one.”
    “I hope so. Marhalt’s near-sighted.”
    “Good God! How do you know?”
    “I watched his eyes. And he’s left-handed. And he isn’t very bright.”
    “Well, that wouldn’t surprise me, but how on earth can you tell?”
    Tristan grinned. “His wife leads him around by the nose, for one thing. Oh, come, Dinadan, didn’t you see that rape story for what it is? But if that wasn’t clue enough, what commander worth his salt dons armor for a fight in the mud and rain?”
    “He would be better off in nothing but a loincloth, like you?”
    “Much better off.”
    “Tristan, one swordstroke will kill you.”
    “Dinadan, one of his swordstrokes would kill me, no matter what mail I wore. I might as well be naked.”
    Dinadan shook his head. “I’ll be damned if that sounds like a battle strategy to me.”
    “At least I’ll be able to move! Just picture him in his leather tunic studded all over with brass, and leather leggings, too, with any luck. After today, they should be good and wet. What will they feel like to wear? He’s probably had them drying before a fire, getting stiff. What will it feel like to move? He’ll be as slow as a sea turtle in all that gear.”
    “God, Tristan, you’re the only one who cares what anything feels like,” Dinadan grumbled, slapping on the mud. “That bonehead won’t even think twice about it. He’ll just put it on and come after you.”
    “Let me live half an hour and his arms will feel it. And his legs. That’s fine, Din, I’m coated all over. Now give me a moment to myself. I need to think.”
    Dinadan withdrew as Peredur emerged from the tent, followed by the Welsh lords, with King Constantine leaning on Gerontius, and all the Cornishmen. Twenty of them lit torches and stood in a large circle outside the tent. The muddy turf was trampled and torn up from the passing of many feet. Puddles reflected the torchlight, dimpling as a steady drizzle began to fall.
    While they waited, Tristan walked slowly around the circle, digging in his toes, testing the footing. Constantine scowled, Gerontius wept silently, the Welshmen smiled and nudged each other, nodding at the witless boy. Peredur stood apart from his countrymen and said nothing.
    Marhalt arrived in his damp leather armor, looking just as stiff and  uncomfortable as Tristan had predicted, and just as oblivious of discomfort as Dinadan had foretold. He glared at Tristan.
    “Don’t yield to me, boy. It won’t do you any good. We fight to death.”
    Tristan raised his sword to his forehead in salute. “I have said my prayers. I am ready.”
    Peredur gave the signal and the fight began.
    They circled warily. While his mind was on Marhalt, watching how he moved, timing his feints, gauging his nimbleness, Tristan’s senses were alive to the thickening mist and the dim haloes around the torches. In another twenty minutes, if he could stay alive that long­the sword flashed, Marhalt lunged, Tristan leaped aside, blocking the blow. Marhalt whirled, struck out, barely missing; Tristan dove, sommersaulted, spun, nicked the giant in the arm. Marhalt spat. He was fast for a big man, surprisingly fast. And unbelievably strong. Just crossing his blade nearly tore the swordhilt from Tristan’s grasp!
    They circled again. Predictably, Marhalt lunged the other way; Tristan parried, dodged, cut him through the armor on the thigh, a light cut, but a bleeder. Given time­again the blade came at him, hacking down; Tristan leaped aside, the giant’s hand came out to catch him but caught a fistful of mud instead as the boy slithered free. The first fingers of mist drifted into the circle. Tristan heard the Welshman grunt, saw him shake his head. Use your ears and nose, he told himself, not your eyes! Hear him, smell him! Listen to his feet! The sword glinted, swinging sideways; he jumped back, staying balanced, knees bent, toes digging in for purchase. The sword swung up, Tristan darted in, hacked, then out, whirling away as the giant bellowed. Through the flickering mist he saw a dark rivulet run down the Welshman’s arm from the shoulder. The great shadow loomed, coming fast, beating him back, right and left, beating him down. He backed, and backed again, hard up against the soldiers forming the circle. They backed away as the deadly sword approached.
    Gods of the high hills, gods of the moving deep. Tristan stumbled, rolled away as the sword fell. Gods of the living forests. Feinting, dodging, striking, twisting. Gods of the burning sands.  Marhalt lunged, his thick boots sliding in the mud. Diving sideways, Tristan cut him well across the thick part of his arm. Blood soaked his leather tunic, splashed upon the ground­how much, how quickly! Marhalt turned, hissing, and attacked. Tristan’s sword was brushed aside, again and again, as if it were merely an annoyance. He could not stand against the giant, but circled backwards, digging in his toes, nimble in retreat. Gods of the birthless sky and deathless night, hear my plea! Again and again the sword caught the light, flashed, came down. Again and again Tristan dodged, dove, leaped and scrambled out of its way, now and then scratching his opponent, a nick here, a cut there. Would this bleeding ox never feel his pain? Wonderful Mother, I am a mosquito!  Irritated, Marhalt rushed, slipped and fell to one knee; Tristan landed a blow to his shoulder, but brass and leather dulled the stroke and Marhalt came up swinging. He locked blades and with a mighty shove threw Tristan hard up against a soldier in the circle. The man staggered, Tristan fell; on hands and knees he crawled into the dark beyond the reach of the smoking torches. Marhalt bellowed: “Cheat! Coward!” and came after him. The circle shattered. Men began to shout. Tristan slithered in the mud, his face clogged with damp, struggling to stand. Damn the noise! He could not hear the giant! He rose; Marhalt was there, breathing fast in the night mist, staring blindly, calling for light.
    “Coward! Devil! Show yourself!” Marhalt bellowed.
    The man could not see his mud-blackened body in the dark! Mithra, Bull-slayer, bless my sword!  Tristan braced himself and struck, slashing with all his might. It was like striking a stone wall; his whole body jarred, his wrist loosened; Marhalt gasped once, and nearly tore the sword from his grip. He fell back, tripping on a tree root, whipping his body sideways as the blade slashed down. Missed! He pulled himself to his feet, shaking, and leaned for a moment against the tree. He could not feel his hand!
    “I knew you were a coward, you dirty Cornishman! Whore’s son! You’ll die for this!”
    The voice was very close; he gripped the sword with his other hand, and crept silently to his left. Lights were coming downhill towards them, singly and in pairs. Where was the giant? Light gleamed from a brass stud­there! He dove, rolling on his shoulder, stabbing at the knee. Marhalt whirled, kicked out, caught him in the hip and sent him flying, smashing up against a tree. Tristan cried out as the breath left his body. Marhalt shouted in exultation and came at him. His wrist and back screamed at him­no time to listen! He threw himself sideways and clawed at the tree to stand. Dimly Tristan saw the blade coming, thrust his weapon out to block it, felt it give, twisting, wrenched away. He stepped back, too slow, the sword raced at him, something jarred him, freezing his breath. He crumpled, his body alive with pain, hot, searing, wet; his legs buckled. He fell hard against the unforgiving ground. His mouth gaped, breathless, sucking air. Jesu Christ, who knows the pain of death, forgive me all my sins.
    “Aiiiii-eeee-aaaah!” Marhalt shrieked his victory, leaped forward and slipped as his knee gave way. He fell hard against the boy’s body, sword flying wide.
    Tristan screamed as the man’s weight hit him. His eyes blazed with stars, blinded by fire and pain. He could not breathe. The big hands encircled his neck, sliding against the mud, squeezing hard. Jesu God! No time for prayer or breath, he could not move, or think. His body hammered at his thoughts, do something! Act now! Life was ebbing fast, he could feel his strength sinking, his youth dying, all his hopes unfathomed, all his songs unsung! The fleshy fingers slipped, he grabbed air, heard the foul Welsh curses through the cold mist as the cruel hands found their grip once more. He had no strength, no hope, only dumb, blind terror. Deep within him, he revolted. It could not end like this! His fingers twitched helplessly in the mud, groping for something, anything, while the light left his eyes and he struggled, desperate, against rising oblivion. There! The cold firm feel of forged steel. A swordhilt! Blind, breathless, he forced himself to hold hard with both hands, slowly tighten every sinew, slowly raise his arms above his head, and then, strike down! Down! Down with all his might! The blade hit hard, shattering his wrist, a dull thud followed by a loud roar, and then, on the edge of sound, a scream. His scream.