They found a rough little hut, perhaps the shelter of some holy man who had chosen to dwell in the wilderness alone, as some did nowadays. Someone had kindled a fire, and by its light they were easing off the King’s armor to examine his wound.

No man with the true healing knowledge was there. But they had been long enough at war to know the look of hurts men could take. Marius sat back on his heels, his face a dark mask. Artos turned away his eyes.

“Marius?”

“Caesar!” He bent again over his lord.

“This is my death hurt—”

“I have seen men take worse and live.”

“Use such words for a child, Marius. This is the dark road after all. But truss me up as best you can. I shall hold to life until I know—know how it fares with Britain. Let me know how went the day—”

“Be sure you shall!” Marius turned to the others, all wounded. “Sextus, Calyn, Gondor—see what you can learn!”

They were the least hurt of that company and they went swiftly.

“At least that traitor Modred is dead!” Marius spat.

“All deeds—bring—their—own—reward,” the High King said. “Is—there—aught—to drink?”

“There is a mere beyond.” Marius got to his feet. “It is doubtless scummed, but it is still water.” He pulled off his helmet, crestless where its plume had been cut away, and went out. Artos leaned the heavy pole of the banner against the wall, slipped down to sit with his back against the rough surface. His wound had stopped bleeding, but his arm was still numb.

It was a long night, but the King spoke now and then. Sometimes Artos could hear his words clearly, sometimes they were only a murmur, faint and far away. Marius tended his son’s wound and bound it with a strip torn from his cloak, ordering him to sleep if he could.

Men came, to glance within the hut and look upon the King. Some he greeted by name, one or two came to kneel beside him for a space. But they all remained without as a guard about the hut. Slowly news came, too, Modred’s forces had melted away when the story of the Prince’s death reached them. The Saxons had been driven back to the shore by fresh troops come too late for the real battle. But the war host that had followed the Caesar of Britian, the Companions of the Red Dragon, had been so rent and destroyed that it could never ride as an army again.

When the dawn came, and with it the news that the Saxon host was taking to ship under the harrying of the new levies, the High King listened greedily. Then he turned to Marius and spoke, his voice a little stronger, as if he had been hoarding his strength against this time.