Free Warriors of Camlann by N. M. Browne

of it. It happened in an instant as if someone had flicked a switch and the whole pace of the battle changed. Dan suddenly started to attack. His speed was devastating, the sudden change in pace confused Medraut whose anger was beginning to cloud his judgement as surely as the sweat now dripping into his eyes clouded his vision. Medraut found himself stepping back from the relentless thrusting of Dan’s sword. Twice, Dan almost got through Medraut’s defences. Twice, he was stopped by the older man’s blade at the last moment. The third time Dan sliced through the protective leather tunic and drew first blood. A sharp, stinging sensation reminded him of what he already knew to be true. He would feel every blow in this contest – those he dealt and those he received. He backed off and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Medraut was bleeding freely from his upper thigh but it was a scratch, nothing more, though it initiated a new round of more enthusiastic spear thumping from the crowd. Dan wiped his right hand on his tunic, switching the blade to his left hand. Medraut rushed forward, eager to take him at a disadvantage, except that it was no disadvantage. Medraut thrust forward at his undefended right side as Dan sliced through the exposed under-arm of his opponent with a left-handed thrust and slash. Blood welled and Dan bit his lip against the pain. Medraut swayedbut did not fall. Dan knocked the sword from the man’s strong right hand, twisted, and had his own blade to Medraut’s throat. Their eyes were level. Dan experienced another strange moment of double vision: he saw Medraut keeping the fear from his eyes, defiantly refusing to yield to the pain and the recognition of defeat; and he also saw his own eyes, dark and ferocious, staring back. Dan shook his head to dislodge the unwelcome awareness.
    â€˜Be sure I can rip out your throat before you can knock the blade from my hand.’ Dan made his voice loud and threatening, but he knew Medraut believed him because it was true. Medraut’s strength was no match for Dan’s swiftness.
    â€˜Duke Arturus, I do not want this man’s death on my hands. Do you now believe my claim?’
    The Duke crossed the arena to stand alongside him, and in a very public gesture accepted Dan’s sword and proclaimed, ‘You are very welcome, Daniel Bear Sark. You are all that Taliesin promised.’
    Dan longed to deny that, longed to explain that his old berserker self would never have had to fight so hard for victory. How could he explain that even now as blood dripped down Medraut’s side, Dan felt the man’s wound in his own flesh? He needed to talk to Taliesin. There was too much he did not understand.

Chapter Nine
    Dan had been guided to the bathhouse; they were not unlike Macsen’s Roman-style baths at Craigwen. Taliesin joined him there. The blue, spiralling, druidic tattoos on his aging, too-thin frame made him resemble some strange exotic lizard. His hair grew long now and like his beard was streaked with grey; only his eyes were unchanged. These differences like so much else in his new situation troubled Dan. Still, it was good to feel the cleansing heat and to wash the bloodstains from his body, which ached with the effort of the fight and hurt where he had hurt Medraut. It was difficult to accept the evidence of his own eyes that his own flesh was whole and uninjured. He felt battered, confused, and more than a little afraid. Only some of the tension left his body in the warmth and quietness of the baths. Taliesin had sent the servants away and had been granted privacy, as a boon of Dan’s victory. Or so it seemed.
    Dan knew he needed to find Ursula but had been assured that a man with the unlikely name of Petronax had been sent to look for her. Dan had not the strength to argue. Bedewyr seemed to believe that Petronax could be trusted. Dan, bone-weary and bewildered, accepted his judgement. Dan would have no chance of