Shadowland (26 page)

Ahead
of them, Ambrosius and his chariots neared Vortigern. Several warriors ran
forward to intercept them, but as they clashed, the chariots scattered them and
kept on going. Others closer to Vortigern formed to stand as a group extending
their spears, ready to defend their king as he studied the chariots’ approach.

Uther
and Samel were some way behind but could clearly see Vortigern now.
He was the thin, bearded
man, surrounded by several other Britons and two large Saxons. Uther felt a
shock of recognition when he saw the one that had chased them at the Roman
villa; the one Cal
had named Horsa.
He gripped Excalibur,
longing for the chance to face his personal enemy, and then his attention
returned to Vortigern, whose gaze of surprise at seeing Ambrosius approach
changed to one of alarm as the chariots broke through the final line of
defenders.

Using the momentum of his chariot, Ambrosius
launched his long Roman javelin and had the satisfaction of seeing it strike
Vortigern in the chest, the meaty sound of its impact clearly carrying back to
Uther, forcing the pretender to collapse backwards into the arms of a cowled
druid.
Ambrosius wheeled his chariot at
the last moment, lifted his fist in triumph,
and retreated having avenged their father.
Uther slowed, ready to turn his own chariot around,
and then cried out in alarm as a Saxon spear seemed to appear out of Ambrosius’
chest, a crimson stain quickly spreading across his tunic. He continued to
watch, disbelieving, seeing Ambrosius gaze down at the spear in shock, and then
the chariot swayed precariously, as the King of the Britons collapsed over the
edge. The chariot’s other occupant managed to keep them moving as he hauled the
slumped body back inside, struggling to keep control of the horses as he did.
Uther turned and followed as
they passed, unable to accept that his brother had fallen, then glanced back to
see Horsa, having run down the slope to throw the spear, punching the air,
mocking the gesture of triumph made by Ambrosius only moments before. Uther
felt his eyes fill with tears of fury. Too far away for Horsa to hear anything
that he might shout, he pointed Excalibur at him, marking him for the next time
that they should meet, but either Horsa failed to notice, or he merely chose to
ignore him.

They rode back through the battlefield where the
fighting had all but ended. Warriors from both sides were limping away, many
helping injured companions. Women were running out
from behind the lines
to search the dead for their men folk,
competing with the crows that had already started their feast, squabbling
amongst themselves to pluck the eyes from the dead and dying.

They
arrived back at the shelters to see a knot of men converge on Ambrosius’
chariot as it came to a stop. Uther
jumped down and ran towards them, desperately
concerned for his brother. As he neared they turned, and then one after
another, dropped to one knee in front of him.

‘I
cannot be king!’ Uther rounded upon the tall druid and rubbed at the tears that
continued to come unbidden to his eyes. ‘I don’t understand any of this. My
village burns, my best friend dies, I discover I have a brother and then he dies,
and now you…
Merlyn show up, but then of
course you
used
to be called
Meryn, back when the world was just a slightly saner place.’
He shook his head.’ It’s not
happening, none of it is!’ Slumping down, he held his head, it hurt, and all he
wanted to do was wake up and have someone tell him everything had been a bad
dream.

Another voice joined in. ‘But you are King, Uther, the
start of a new line of kings and a new beginning for this land. It will be you
and your line that unites the tribes and makes this one kingdom.’

Uther glared across at the girl in the light blue
robe. ‘And don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, Clarise. Your brother died,
why do you not mourn him? Don’t you wonder what caused his death?’

Clarise rose from her place at the fire, walked
softly towards him and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Calvador has left this life,
Uther, but his spirit lives and knows we shall all meet again. Come.’ She drew
him up and before he knew where she was leading him, they were outside with the
chill night air misting his breath. ‘Look above you, Uther, a sign, written
across the night sky. It heralds the start of your reign and confirms your
right to be king. The druids foretold of this Omen, many hundreds of years ago
and we have waited, planning patiently ever since.’ They gazed up for a few
moments, marvelling at the large comet, frozen in its flight amongst the stars.
The tail, a hand-span long, was frosted at its edges, giving it the appearance
of some strange mythical creature flying overhead.

Behind them, t
he
skin of the roundhouse door was pushed aside and Merlyn emerged, spilling light
from within as he came. He walked up beside them and placed a hand upon Uther's
shoulder.
‘It
is the dragon comet, Uther, and you are to take its name. The bloodline that
you shared with your brother can be traced back to the warrior queen, Boudicca
of the Iceni, she who first expelled invaders from these shores, and from her,
even further back through the years to those who ruled with the ancestors.
Ambrosius was a good man, but through no fault of his own, he had become more
Roman than Briton. He had taken a Roman name, even if he had a Briton’s heart.
Your brother helped bring you to this point, but Ambrosius was never destined
to be king; it was always going to be you. You are Uther Pendragon, King of all
the Britons.

****

Uther
stopped speaking and gazed into the crackling fire. He remembered it all now,
remembered ruling a kingdom, remembered his wife,
Igraine
,
and his son, Arthur... and then, with a start, he remembered...

He glanced up at Calvador. ‘Am I… ?’
   

‘Complete your story, Uther,’ murmured Calvador
Craen, as he smiled down. ‘We shall leave soon.’ He turned and addressed the
rows of silent listeners. Some were white with fear, while others, such as the
farmer and his wife, still looked set to cause trouble. Cal held up his hand before any of them
could say anything. ‘My friend here has nearly finished his tale. You are
witnessing the end of a legend. Uther Pendragon shall soon leave you to return
to your history books, and then you may debate what has happened here tonight
for as long as your memories allow.’ He turned back to his friend. ‘Go on,
Uther, please.’

After a moment, the old storyteller nodded and
continued. ‘My brother had killed Vortigern, but the Saxons weren’t in any
hurry to go back to their boats and leave. Throughout that terribly cold winter
we gathered to the north where construction began on Pendragon castle.’ He
stopped to light his pipe before continuing. ‘Of course the castle would take
years to finally complete, but it was that winter that we started with the
timber construction.

‘I sent out riders to all the tribes again, asking
for more men to help drive the invaders from our shores and they came in their
hundreds, which in turn caused more problems as we learned to feed, train and
house that number of warriors. It was Beltane when we finally met the Saxons in
battle again, blossom was on the trees and the fields were alive with flowers.’
He smiled, his face creasing into a thousand lines as he remembered. ‘Of
course, Hengist and Horsa had also been busy through the winter… ’

Chapter Fifteen – Pendragon

Uther
stared out from the crest of the hill and wondered again, how has my life come
to this? Below him, at the foot of what was now commonly known as Pendragon Hill,
a town of sturdy dwellings continued to grow daily, with merchants greeting
traders as they brought in livestock and supplies to accommodate the
ever-expanding populace. Warriors from all the tribes continued to arrive,
answering their new king’s call to fight for their land against the Saxon
invaders and become a nation of Britons. Uther gazed at the construction going
on that covered the three smaller hills before him. The main group of buildings
were in the valley beside the banks of the small river and the busy road that
ran alongside it.

There were several training areas, with warriors
practising their weapons of choice, improving their skills under the
supervision of the Roman-trained fighters that had arrived with Ambrosius. It
was those trainers, with their knowledge of battle tactics, who had helped win
the battle at Mount
Badon. The memory of that
awful day filled Uther’s mind, as it did all too often. For a few moments, he
returned to the battle, hearing the awful screams and cries of pain as if he
were there once more, riding upon the chariot in the midst of a sea of
screaming humanity. The awful ugly emotions of hatred, anguish and fear,
surrounding him, carrying him away...

‘Sire... we are ready for your inspection.’

Startled from his reverie Uther shuddered and turned
to see Berin clutching a roll of parchment to his chest, smiling at him
nervously. Berin was a thin, haggard little man, his eyes pinched and
underlined with dark smudges from reading and writing reports by candlelight
for too many years. He claimed that Christian monks raised him, and that he had
spent his first twenty years in their service. However, after an introduction
from Merlyn, he had now firmly attached himself to the service of Uther and
become his much welcomed shadow, organising the camp and the construction of
the fortress, which was growing slowly behind him.

‘Yes, Berin, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.’
Uther noticed Berin blush and glance over at Merlyn. The old druid was standing
not far away, in the shade of a tall oak, quietly observing the exchange,
smiling at their obvious discomfort. A king never apologises, the memory of
Merlyn’s words came to Uther unbidden, and he had to bite his tongue to stop
himself from apologising again. Instead, he walked to the edge of the large
hole being excavated from the top of the hill, and peered down at the men below
toiling in the dirt and mud. He watched as a worker dropped down a ladder into
a deeper section in the corner; the diggers of this part were out of sight,
using ropes that led down into darkness to bring up full leather buckets that
slopped their slimy contents back on those working underneath.

‘As you can see, the well progresses, and with your
approval we can begin construction of the walls.’ Berin, who had come up beside
him, pointed to where a group of men were trimming heavy tree trunks a short
way off. Uther took it all in while Berin fidgeted, moving from one foot to the
other as he awaited some sign from Uther that he was happy with how things were
progressing with the basic layout of the building.

‘Everything looks fine, Berin. You and your men are
working faster than we expected. When do you think it will all be completed?’
He glanced across at Merlyn to see if he had said the right things and the
druid offered a slight nod as Berin beamed happily.

‘Thank you, Sire. We will be ready before the
solstice.’ He bowed and moved off towards the group of workers trimming
branches from the tree trunks and started talking and pointing towards the
hole.

Berin departed allowing Merlyn to stride over and
join Uther. ‘Come, we have a battle to plan.’ Leading Uther by the arm, he
guided the young king away.

They made their way down the hill, passing more
workers digging huge ditches, while others piled the excavated earth into defensive
mounds that would further hinder any would-be attackers to Uther’s fortress.
Picking their way through the confusion, they headed towards the largest of the
roundhouses, known as the great hall, where the chiefs and reeves had gathered.
Uther began to feel the familiar fluttering of fear in his stomach as he
thought about addressing the assembled council. Reaching to his side, he
gripped the twisted wire hilt of Excalibur, the cool touch beneath his fingers
lending him strength as he ducked down and pushed through the skins hanging
across the low doorway.

He stood behind the looming shadows of large
warriors, all facing away from him towards the centre of the great hall. It
took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim smoky atmosphere, with its
heady aroma of burning pine resin, and was thankful that he wasn’t immediately
recognised. Through the gloom above his head, he could just make out the
intricate carvings on the huge oak beams; deer, bear, boar, and of course wolf,
surrounded by twisting, beautifully rendered branches and leaves. His gaze
dropped once more to the occupants of the hall. It was noisy and several heated
exchanges were already underway as rival chiefs took the opportunity to air old
grievances. However, as the more easily identifiable figure of Merlyn entered
and stood beside him, the druid’s presence seemed to spread and the noise in
the hall slowly died down as faces turned towards him.

Lowering his hood, Merlyn strode through the crowd
towards the centre where a large fire burned fiercely beside a raised platform.
He clambered up, and stood alongside the heavy oak chair, gazing out over the
restless crowd. He made a striking figure, in every part; he was now the
epitome of a druid, instantly commanding the respect of every warrior in the
room. Grey robes cinched about a thin waist, long grey hair falling about a
strongly featured face, now blessed with a fine white beard and whiskers that
flowed onto his chest. The hand that clutched his druids’ staff was almost
skeletal.