Authors: C M Gray
He
stood and drew Excalibur, the sword ringing with a shrill cry as it came free
from its sheath.
Holding
the blade aloft, Uther gazed out across the crowd of fierce, excited warriors,
the energy within the roundhouse so palpable that he could feel it flowing
through his body, raising the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck,
before surging out to join the room once more.
‘This is our time… let us take back what is ours.
Let us finally claim this land as our own!’
****
‘What
witchcraft is this? You speak of times long since dead; of times we call
history, yet you speak of these things as if they have only just happened and
that it was you who lived them. You mock us poor folk an
t’aint
right.’ The farmer’s wife stood, eyes blazing, and glanced about for support.
‘I do not fear you, storyteller, nor do I fear your strange friend there,
neither.’
Uther gazed up from his leather chair by the fire,
his old eyes appearing anxious and confused, but she didn’t give him a chance
to say anything before she went on.
‘I know of this time you speak of. My grandfather
used to tell us about when one of my ancestors fought at Badon Hill, but that
was twelve hundred years ago. You silly old fool, this is the year sixteen
hundred and eighty-three. Not four hundred eighty-three. All these people you
speak of are dead... long dead.’
For a moment, the storyteller seemed to fade a
little. It was as if a pulse of life lifted him away and then set him back
again, something within changed. He ignored the irate old woman and leaned
forward to place an arm on the stooped shoulder of Calvador Craen.
‘Something went wrong... is that right, Cal? What
happened?’
Calvador Craen glanced over his shoulder at the old
woman and then back to Uther. ‘The hour is late, Uther. We still have more of
your story to tell, and then we can finally go home. We owe these good people
an ending, an ending that has been so long in coming. Don’t you agree?’
Uther nodded. ‘I think I know how this ends.’
Still complaining, the farmer’s wife was persuaded
back to her seat by her husband and friends, and the story allowed to go on.
‘I
cannot pass… ’ Cal’s
voice sounded hollow in his ears, without strength or substance. Feathery
fingers of mist swirled around him as he stared up at a large bleak gateway. It
was a tall structure obviously of immense age, crudely constructed from rough,
axe-cut timber and overgrown with ivy and moss. It stood as an impassable
barrier before him.
Awareness was slowly descending upon him. It felt as
if he had been wandering in a dream for ages, possibly days, he wasn’t sure. It
was all so confusing. First there had been pain, then fear and regret, and
finally here, this place. He knew he should be able to move on, that there was
somewhere drawing him towards it, but when he pushed on the gate, it didn’t so
much as sway.
A feeble whine sounded from by his side and he
glanced down at the big, silver-grey wolf. It gazed back and pushed closer to
his leg, obviously as lost and confused as he was. Reaching down, he stroked a
hand through its soft fur, and then glanced back up as the wolf looked past him
into the mist and began to growl.
A voice, speaking slowly, dry and old as if
contrived from all the many incarnations of man came as a breath through the
mist. ‘Calvador, your patience has been requested before you are allowed to
pass these gates, and once more enter the realm of spirit.’
The speaker, a tall form, hidden beneath a dark,
ragged cloak, emerged from the shadows, a cold white hand clutching a staff in
a tight grip the only clue as to what lay beneath the folds of cloth. As the
figure moved slowly towards them, it became evident that time itself couldn’t
number his years.
‘There is one who has requested your presence,’ continued
the gatekeeper, ‘One who has asked that you may be allowed to journey once more
from the shadowland, to once more walk amongst the host of man.’ The gatekeeper
lifted his staff and pointed, inviting Cal
to turn and look behind him. Moving through the mist was someone he was at once
familiar with and he felt a surge of emotion as his mind fought between spirit
and the memory of flesh.
Cal’s
head snapped back around as the gatekeeper’s staff struck the ground, the sound
reverberating as a low roll of thunder between dimensions. The spectral figure
raised its head and the void within the hood gazed past Cal at the approaching druid.
‘Merlyn. You have interceded in the passing of this
spirit. Take him, but know you that his spirit beast shall remain. He has but
one night of your choosing before he must return to these
shadowlands
and pass this gate.’
Merlyn nodded. ‘As shall it be.’ They watched as the
gatekeeper faded back into the mist, then the old druid turned to Cal. The wolf gazed up
at both of them, still pressing close to Cal’s
leg.
‘Cal...
I have a little problem with Uther.’
****
‘Alric!’
Alric opened his eyes and stared up through a
fluttering green canopy of leaves. He was comfortable and had been dozing,
quite content to spend a few hours of their patrol lazing about and resting. It
was, after all, a beautiful day, one of only a few that this wet and windy land
had yet to offer and for once, for just a short space of time, he had been
feeling content.
‘Alric,’
hissed
the voice again, ‘riders coming.’
Stirring
from his reverie, Alric rolled over and lifted up onto one elbow. Taking a deep
breath, he focused his attention, listening, his mind unconsciously sifting
through the sounds of the breeze in the trees and the furtive movements of his
men around him, and then his eyes flashed open as the rattle of a harness and a
distant murmur of voices reached him. Cramming his helmet onto his head, he
searched down the wooded slope to the old Roman road.
‘Where?’ he murmured softly,
glancing across to where his second,
Osric
, was
pointing west with the blade of his seax.
Osric
turned and grinned, his
mouth scarred and twisted, exposing the stumps of shattered teeth, a wound
earned from a skirmish with the Jutes some years before. ‘Local tribesmen... probably
another small war party.’
‘Be ready!’ Alric stood, drew his sword, picked up
his shield, and leaned against the closest tree, waiting for his first glimpse
of the enemy. To either side, word passed up and down the line of waiting Saxon
warriors. They were a large party of twenty-eight, more than a match for a
bunch of roving locals. The Britons tended to travel in smaller mixed groups of
between ten and fifteen male and female warriors, half of which, would
hopefully be slain in the first moments of their attack.
Movement between the trees and he eagerly sought for
detail to see what would emerge. It looked like a wagon, maybe two, then came
the crunching grind of heavy wheels to confirm it, followed by the whinny of a
horse. He smiled. Wagons would mean richer pickings than just a raiding party.
With a wave, he sent
Osric
down the line to command
the flank, bows were drawn and he signalled his men on. They crept forward
silently, seeking cover from tree to tree, impatient now to fall upon the
enemy.
However, as they began to run and the first arrows
were loosed, Alric realised there must be more than two wagons. Then, as they
emerged from the trees, he became aware of just how many more there were... and
that they weren’t wagons.
It
had been a long day and the steady rumble of the chariots’ wheels had cast a
soporific effect upon Uther. The ride was too bumpy to actually fall asleep,
but the warmth of the sun and the chance for his mind to relax and wander after
so many months caught up in the stress of duty was somewhat, sublime.
In the last two days, they had passed several
settlements, mostly small Catuvellauni villages, but now closer to the coast,
the last few communities had been mixed with Saxons, the two groups struggling
together for a peaceful coexistence. Soon they would be entering the more
hostile territory claimed by the main Saxon invaders and word had been passed
to be vigilant, but it wasn’t easy on a day such as this.
Uther’s chariot was in the middle of the line with
sixty chariots in front, a similar number behind, and over a hundred mounted
warriors positioned to the rear. Sharing his chariot was Samel, who since
setting out had chattered incessantly about the land, the weather, chariot
tactics and ‘the bastard Saxons,’ but even he had lapsed into silence as the
day had worn on.
An indistinct cry from the lead chariots was the
first thing to shatter the peace of the afternoon, quickly followed by a
high-pitched scream from one of the horses. Then, from the shadows of the
trees, came a flight of arrows, one of which embedded itself in the side of
Uther’s chariot with a heavy thunk, and the line of chariots exploded into
action.
‘Where are they?’ cried Uther, as he craned to see
around the confusion of jumping horses and moving chariots. The clash of metal
from the front of the line answered him before Samel could and he felt the
chariot lurch beneath him as Samel pulled the horses round. Shouting at others
to move aside, Samel guided them at a trot down the line towards the sounds of
battle. As he did, several of the horsemen galloped past.
A roar of Saxon battle cries erupted from the forest
and several Saxons came running from the tree line. The sight of them coming
towards them, big bearded men wearing the familiar Saxon helmets, each
brandishing a sword or axe and screaming out their challenges, brought back the
horrific memories of Mount
Badon to Uther. Drawing
Excalibur, he immediately felt fear turn to resolve. However, before he could
do anything, he realised that there couldn’t be more than about thirty of them.
He lowered his sword and searched the darkness between the trees to either
side, but no hidden troops came screaming to the aid of their fellows. The
Saxons were ridiculously outnumbered, and sure enough, the attack faltered
before it had really started. A few continued to run on, but most, seeing the
number of warriors they were attacking, had already turned and were fleeing,
desperate to reach the safety of the trees, for most it was too late, the
chariots and horsemen were already upon them. A flurry of arrows took down
several and then the lead chariots wheeled round and, picking up speed, charged
back on them and any of the Saxons still standing were caught in a killing
ground.
The chariot horses had been battle-trained to keep
moving forward when they clashed with a man, so the first run of five chariots
broke into the small group of Saxons, trampled many and chased the few
survivors back into the trees. Uther felt a wave of nausea as he watched the
slaughter, but it was over quickly, too late to be brought to a halt.
As several survivors ran past, Samel thrust the
reins into Uther’s hands and leapt from the moving chariot before Uther could
cry out and stop him. Bellowing his battle cry, the little Iceni brought his
axe down into the back of the closest Saxon as he scrambled, panic-stricken in
retreat up the slope to the trees. Quickly, heaving his blade clear, Samel was
up and disappearing into the forest after another.
Uther returned Excalibur to its scabbard and gripped
the side of the chariot to support himself as the horses moved, then glanced
back up the line. Most of the chariots and horses had remained unmolested on
the path; their riders unable to do any more than shout their support. The
chariots could not manoeuvre on the road, it was too confining. He felt lucky
there weren’t more of them. Samel soon reappeared from the trees and jumped
back up beside Uther, a grin spreading under his red whiskers. ‘We got most of
them, but you can be sure a few will have escaped to spread news of our coming.’
‘Why would such a small group attack us?’ Uther
asked, handing back the reins. ‘I don’t understand. They came with no chance
other than being slaughtered.’
Samel shook his head. ‘Don’t know why, lad, maybe
because they’re stupid and deserve to be butchered and thrown back into the
sea? Who can tell how the mind of a Saxon works?’ He shrugged. ‘Actually, I’m
guessing they didn’t count on there being so many of us. Did you see the looks
of surprise when they saw us? They were expecting someone else.’
The chariots reformed, and this time, at Uther’s
order, they did so two-abreast and moved on, a little more vigilant of the
trees and bushes that crowded the road. Several times during the day, they came
across parties of Saxons, but they were small groups that turned and scattered
rather than encounter the larger force.
The day ended, with light to spare, in an easily
defendable area where the horses could graze. Sentries were set at the
perimeters, and the camp tried to rest in the knowledge that the following dawn
would bring them very quickly to Aeglesthorp and the main Saxon camp.
****
Alric
cursed as an unseen branch whipped across his face. It wasn’t the first; his
face and arms were already sore from the punishment inflicted by the forest. As
the light faded, they had been forced to slow their flight, six riders, all
that remained of his patrol, limping home. Although tempted to stop and tend
the wounds carried by several of his men, he was unwilling to rest for the
night. He had to get back to warn Hengist that a massive force, with hundreds
of chariots and mounted warriors, was closing on them. The horses were
beginning to tire, if they started dropping it would end the matter, but it
couldn’t be much further.
The sting of
the branches hurt as they reached out to scratch at him, but what really burnt
was the voice in his head constantly asking how he could have been so stupid?
How could he have been so
undisciplined? He had come out of the trees, expecting to see a couple of
wagons and a few guards, only to be presented with a line of chariots
stretching as far as he could see. At that awful moment, he had believed he’d
attacked the whole of the tribal nations with only twenty-eight men... fool! He
could vividly recall the moment his blood had run cold and that instant of
certain knowledge that he had condemned his men to death. For the thousandth
time, he cursed his stupidity and wondered how he could present it to Hengist
and not have his throat cut.