“Ahhhh”—a moan came from the bloodied and battered men near the King. Artos lurched out of the saddle, tottered on to pull at the High King, trying to drag him away from the horse, others elbowed him aside, unheeding of the enemy, to free their leader.

Then a shout warned them and they looked up to see Saxons running toward them. They fought a wild, desperate battle around Pendragon. And so great was their grief and rage that they paid no heed to wounds. But as if they were men of iron, who could take no hurt, they cut down the Winged Helms.

When that swirl of battle had subsided there remained only five of the Companions still on their feet. Artos crouched beside the King where he had tried to shield that body with the hacked and splintered pole of the Eagle and his own flesh. The standard was shorn of a wing and blood ran warm from his arm. His fingers were numb, unable longer to grasp a sword hilt.

The King stirred and moaned. Somehow they got him out of the press of the dead, to where he could lie straight on the ground. Artos looked around, dazed. Kai lay, his sword deep in a Saxon, but his own craggy face empty of life. Marius? Where was his father? One of those bending over the fallen king looked up.

“Artos?”

The boy could not answer aloud. Using the staff of the Eagle as a support, he hobbled to where the King lay with those others gathered around him. It was Marius who said, “This is a grievous wound, but we must get him into hiding. There is no way yet of telling how this day has gone. And they would rejoice greatly to set his head on one of their spears.”

Among them they carried him away. It was hard labor, for he was a large and heavy man and they were all spent, no man without some wound. Artos stumbled along in their wake, still leaning on his pole. But as he circled to the left to avoid a tangle of dead men and horses he came upon the Royal Standard. The pole had been planted firmly in the earth. About it the Red Dragon hung limp and lifeless, as if it would serve none but its true master. Artos could hardly see it in the twilight. He pushed the broken end of the Eagle shaft into the ground to keep it upright and pulled at the Dragon’s pole. It had been too firmly set to yield to his weak tugging. At last he went to his knees and dug in the earth with his belt knife until he could pull it free.

It was heavy and he had to rest it across his good shoulder. The folds, smelling of wood smoke, draped about his head. But he brought it with him, trailing those who carried the King.