Shadowland (31 page)

They
hit the first ranks of Saxons with a deafening crunch of breaking bones and
screams of agony, trampling the slowest and slashing out at those that tried to
escape to the sides. However, the enemy were too many and, as they were slowed,
the Saxons swarmed in. The fighting chariots of the tribes were finally brought
to a stop some thirty paces from the tree line by the sheer weight of Saxon
warriors around them. The shrill cry of the horses as the Saxons slaughtered
them rose above the noise of conflict, and the riders now trapped were brought
to battle in the tribesmen’s last stand.

Wielding
Excalibur with both hands, the blade flowing in a blurring dance of death,
Uther carved a fighting circle on their right, while Samel fought behind him
like a red-bearded war spirit. The battle became a heaving blur of screaming,
hate-filled faces, desperate to get at the occupants of the grouped chariots,
and the two friends became oblivious to what was happening further than their
immediate killing ground as they fought for their lives.

The
piercing death cry of a horse rose above the noise of battle just as Uther, for
one solitary moment, prepared himself to die, and then, in front of him, a
Saxon with a horned helm fell with a scream of agony, but from a blow that he
hadn’t delivered, and then beside the first, another fell. Other Saxons were
turning their backs on him to meet some new threat and he became aware of
warriors fighting on foot. As they swept in, he had the chance to rest his
sword arm and glance up. Merlyn’s tribesmen, a constant flow of warriors, were
swarming out of the forest and falling onto the Saxons, turning the tide of the
battle in an instant.

The
sheer number emerging from the trees forced the fighting further out into the
battlefield and away from the stranded chariots, soon leaving the remains of
Uther’s force standing on their chariots as if marooned upon islands amongst a
sea of dead and dying.
 

Uther
glanced to where the battle raged with even greater ferocity, and then to the
crows dropping from the trees, celebrating the start of their feast with
excited cries as they danced amongst the fallen.

It
was as Uther glanced up from the crows that he saw him again. ‘Horsa!’ Leaping from
the back of the stranded chariot, he ran across to a riderless horse, one of
the last that was still standing, shivering with shock nearby, and jumped up,
guiding the animal through the fallen bodies and after the retreating figure in
black. Turning back, he called to Samel. ‘Find a mount and some men, and follow
me, we have to catch Horsa.’ Without waiting for an answer, he cleared the sea
of dead then kicked the horse into a gallop towards the village and the
northern road that lay beyond.

****

Back by the crackling fire on
midwinter’s eve, the storyteller’s audience remained silent as the old man
reached down beside his chair and groped about for his mug of ale. Finding it,
he drank greedily, the ale running from the corners of his mouth, down through
his grey whiskers, and onto his chest. He drained it to the bottom, wiped a
hand across his face, and belched softly. ‘
Aaahhhh
,’
he sighed in satisfaction, then frowned, and turned his head, staring into the
fire as if he had heard something beyond the flames.

Cal
looked over, and then smiled as he saw Uther’s
attention drawn to the crackling logs.

The
storyteller raised a hand. ‘Soon... the telling is almost done.’ He shook his
head and charged his pipe for what he knew would probably be a final time. ‘That’s
the trouble with druids,’ he murmured to Calvador Craen, ‘very little patience
with the ways of man.’

Chapter Eighteen – Death of a Saxon

As Uther rode between the
Saxon dwellings of Aeglesthorp with the sound of battle receding, the horse’s
hoof beats and laboured breathing suddenly seemed loud in the comparative
silence.

The
village was all but deserted.

A
few chickens scratched at the dirt, a handcart stood abandoned between the
huts, and an old woman carrying a bundle of sticks stood watching them gallop
past, offering a vacant, disinterested expression. When a dog shot out between
buildings, scattering the chickens to bark savagely at the horse’s legs, the
horse didn’t so much as startle. It had suffered far worse this day on the
battlefield, a dog offered little threat.

The
only other sign of the Saxon inhabitants was a little girl peering round a skin
door. She followed Uther’s passing with tear-filled eyes, until a hand hastily
pulled her back into the shadows. The sight hit him harder than any Saxon blade
had that day... that this brutal race of invaders had children too. It came as
a shock, which in turn was cause for concern. That he hadn’t thought of his
enemy as a people that could have families, loves and fears of their own, that
there might be Saxon children awaiting the return of a father or brother, a
father or brother that he might have slain.

If
Britain
is to be a free country, then there has to be a truce, and an end to the war
and killing, thought Uther, and it had to include all these people who were now
calling it home.

Once
out of the village, he headed onto the northern road. It was a proper dirt
track, one on which you could feel the earth beneath your feet. Not paved and
uncomfortable like the Roman road they had travelled to get to Aeglesthorp. It
was wide enough for a single wagon, as the hard sun-baked furrows attested,
easier on the horse’s hooves than the Roman-cut stone, and felt good to ride
on.

The
dense woodland of the Weald ran along the left-hand side, while to the right,
it was grassy and clear of trees right down to the river estuary, from the
horse, he had a good view of the way ahead.

There,
in the distance, a black shape moved against the trees... Uther dug in his
heels and hung on as the horse lunged forward. As he began to close the
distance, the shape appeared to resolve into a group of three riders, possibly
four. He felt a pang of annoyance and then uncertainty at his rash flight.
Horsa had been the only mounted Saxon in the battle so he had assumed he would
be alone... ‘Damn!’

He
knew he should have waited for Samel and some of the others. Then he glanced
back. Surely, they couldn’t be too far behind. They couldn’t let Horsa get
away!

The
horse stumbled on the uneven track and began to slow. Glancing down he saw it
was tiring. It had carried its rider through a terrifying battle, forced to
confront its fear again, and again. Now, after giving it’s all, it was close to
collapse. White foam flowed in long streams from its mouth, trailing along its
flanks. Its shoulders slick with sweat, the edges crusting white, dried by the
heat of its body.

‘Come
on, horse, don’t die on me,’ pleaded Uther in despair. ‘If we stop and rest,
we’ll lose him, and if we press harder, we may catch him before your heart
gives in, but then maybe not.’ For a moment, he considered his options, gazing
along the path with the horse’s laboured breathing and hoof beats loud in his
ears, but the Saxons were nowhere in sight. The path, stretching away through
the reed beds of the estuary, was devoid of any sign of life other than a
flight of ducks, circling to land on the water, and a few dragonflies skipping
over the bulrushes. With a sigh, he reigned in and the horse slowed to a
grateful walk, huffing and blowing hard as it did so. Uther suddenly felt
weariness overtake him as the need to push himself passed.

Samel
arrived a short while later and approached warily. Uther was lying flat on his
back beneath a tree staring up at the sky through the branches. His horse was
cropping grass a few paces away, none the worse from its day of battle and
mayhem.

‘So,
are you all right? Or did the Saxon rob us of our king?’ called Samel, as the
chariot came level. He jumped down and strode over, concerned that the young
king had neither stirred nor replied. ‘Are you alright lad?’ Uther ignored him,
even when Samel stared down blocking his view, as he looked him over for
wounds.

‘It
took us a while to round up some horses... Uther... Yer eyes are open, lad, and
I don’t see anything that could be called a wound on yer body. Plenty of blood,
but I’d guess it’s nothing more than the taint of battle. What’s the matter
with yer, can you hear me or what?’

‘The
killing has to stop,’ murmured Uther, his gaze flicking across to Samel. ‘We
have to build a strong land, but the killing has to stop.’

‘One
step at a time, lad,’ muttered Samel, offering his hand. ‘Are we going to chase
down Horsa first? Or have you come to some other decision while you were lying
there searching for clouds?’ He helped Uther to his feet and brushed away the
twigs and leaf-mould that clung to the young king’s back.

Uther
sighed and looked around one final time, at the peace and serenity of the
forest. ‘No, Samel, there is no other decision. Horsa and I shall meet sword to
sword; it’s one of the events that, for some reason, cannot be changed. I wish
it could, but it will take place.’ Uther fixed Samel with a stare so intense
that the little Iceni shivered and turned back to the chariot.

‘You’re
starting to talk like a druid,’ he mumbled. ‘What do yer mean, it has to take
place?’ Spinning round, his voice rose in anger. ‘Why does
anything have
to take place?’

‘I
don’t know,’ replied Uther, ‘but this is one meeting that all the spirits are
calling to witness, and it’s going to happen soon. There’s nothing I can do
about it,’ he added softly.

Two
other chariots arrived, rumbling along the track with the riders calling out
their greetings, the excitement of victory still upon them as they brought
their horses to a stop.

Samel
held up a hand, waved, then turned back to Uther. ‘Don’t underestimate this
Saxon. The spirits may well be guiding you, but the Saxons have their
own
gods looking out for their
interests.’

‘Fear
not.’ Uther’s face broke into a grin. ‘I’m in no hurry to die. Anyway, if
spirits and gods are truly guiding us, then there’s very little we can do about
it. We stole a victory from the Saxons today, but in truth, we were very nearly
beaten. Uther jumped onto the chariot beside Samel and took the reins, the
horses skipped forward in alarm. ‘This isn’t about a Saxon or tribal victory.
It has to be a victory that will include all of us.’ He cracked the reins, and
the chariot took off.

‘Follow
us, lads,’ called Samel. ‘Our King has a meeting with destiny, and he doesn’t
want to be late!’ The three chariots thundered down the path with the whooping
battle cries of the riders swallowed up amongst the ancient woodland.

It
was getting late in the afternoon when they came across the first sign of the
fleeing Saxons, a dead horse by the side of the path with a Saxon blanket
trapped beneath it. After a cursory inspection, they continued on and caught
sight of their quarry a short while later.

Two
of the Saxons were sharing a horse forcing the whole group to travel slower.
However, when they heard the sound of chariot wheels behind them, they kicked
the horses into action, even managing a short gallop, but the horse’s energy
faded quickly and the chariots rapidly closed on them.

The
Saxons had little choice but turn and fight, with one horse down they couldn’t
hope to outpace the chariots. Horsa and his men made it to an open area on a
curved part of the riverbank before letting the horses loose and preparing for
the approaching chariots. The trees of the Weald stood just a little further
back at this point, giving them room to fan out and pull blades free of
scabbards.

As
they got closer, the chariots picked up speed and charged towards the black
dressed figure of Horsa, who stood immobile and defiant in their path. Once in
the open glade they spread out to make full use of the space and bore down on
the four standing men. There were curses and cries as they met, then Excalibur
clashed with Horsa’s upraised sword, spinning the Saxon about while beside him,
Samel cleaved his axe through the chest of another, ripping it clear in a spray
of blood as the chariots passed.

As
Uther looked back, he saw a Saxon squat down before one of the other chariots,
and with a swiping slash of his seax, hamstring one of the horses, the sharp
blade slicing the tendon of a rear leg. There was a shrill scream from the
horse and it collapsed as its weight landed on the useless leg, crashing to the
ground in a cloud of dust, dragging the other terrified horse along with it,
and the chariot somersaulted over them, flinging its riders high into the air
to land heavily some distance away. The riders lay unmoving, while behind them,
the two horses continued to struggle and scream amidst the wreckage of the
chariot.

The
two remaining chariots manoeuvred at the end of their run, trying to turn as
efficiently as possible in the confined space. Once they had completed their
turns, the two sides stopped and regarded each other some thirty paces apart,
ignoring the sound of the panicking horses between them.

‘Who
amongst you would face me alone?’ cried Horsa. ‘You chase us down but would any
of you fight me man to man?’ He said something to his two remaining companions
and they laughed.

Uther
felt Samel bristle beside him. ‘No, Samel, this is my fight, remember?’ Samel
nodded, but Uther had already jumped down and was walking towards the Saxon
chieftain.