Uther gazed up at the lifeless body of his friend and tried to summon the
emotion to deal with what he was seeing.
Samel came up beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. 'What
happened?'
Uther shifted uncomfortably. He felt sick, unable to gather his thoughts or
emotions properly. It was hard for him to comprehend, but trying to explain it to
someone who was unaware of Cal's nocturnal life in the body of a wolf was
close to impossible. Uther shrugged. 'I don't know; I wish I did. He was asleep,
he… he must have simply died in his sleep.' His mind felt numb and he just
wished Samel would leave him alone, but the little man continued.
'No, lad, there was a spear wound… I saw a spear wound in his side and his
sleeping furs were awash with blood. You must have heard… have seen
something. Did he go out last night?' Samel stared down at the body laid out on
furs, arms crossed on his chest, eyes closed as if asleep. 'Those keeping watch
say that none passed, and I believe them.' He suddenly dragged Uther around by
his cloak, forcing him to look him in the eye before lowering his voice. 'My men
say none passed to do this, Uther. The spirits have had a hand in this.' He let go
of Uther and stared back at Cal's body as it lay upon the piled branches. 'This
was not a natural death and I don't mind telling you it scares me.'
'There's nothing natural about any of this, Samel. It's been one long bad
dream since Picts raided our village and our families were murdered. Cal was
my best friend and I …' Uther choked back a wave of grief that threatened to
overwhelm him. 'I really don't know what I'm going to do without him.' He
thrust the flaming torch into the funeral pyre and stepped back as the flames took
hold, crackling and spitting in their haste to consume Cal's body.
'Goodbye, Calvador, I will sorely miss you,' whispered Uther. 'Run free until
we meet again, somewhere across the shadowland.' He stood staring at the fire,
watching as the heat drew flakes of ash high up into the grey sky and fancied he
could see his friend escaping with them, running with the breeze. He continued
to keep his vigil until long after the others had left to prepare for battle and the
fire had consumed Cal's body, dying down to hot glowing coals. It was nearing
sunset when Samel came and led him away.
'You must rest, Uther. Tomorrow we fight. Calvador's spirit will be with you,
but you need your strength. You must eat something, and then, please, you have
to sleep.' Uther nodded; unable to argue, and then felt his legs buckle under him
as a huge wave of grief finally overcame him.
* * *
The weak light of dawn brought more rain to further dampen the spirits as
the warriors they waited, sheltering under their large oval shields, the feathers
tied into their hair moving gently in the breeze. While some gathered in close
groups to stave off the chill, those blessed with a prize battle hound kept the
animal close, sharing its warmth and courage.
The Iceni were a mass of blue and green cloaks on one side, the white and
yellow of the Trinovante covered the slope to the centre, while the darker blue of
the Brigante and Catuvellauni stood further to the right, with a myriad of other
tribal colours that Uther couldn't immediately identify making up the ground in
between. Each warrior wore their spirit signs, the dreaming they personally
identified with, daubed upon their shields as a talisman and as another means to
identify friend from foe in the fever pitch of the coming battle.
The tribesmen had very little real armour shared amongst them. Some wore
tribal helms, while others had adapted Roman armour, now painted and
decorated so the spirits would recognise the wearer as a warrior of the tribes
rather than Roman and so aid his battle or ease his passing into the shadowland
should they fall to an enemy spear or blade. Uther noticed many warriors sitting
naked, daubed only in swirling spirit-patterns of blue woad as protection, the
feathers of crows and eagles hanging in their hair, their expressions vacant as
they gazed down into the misty valley before them.
Almost all had been awake since before first light, either unable to sleep in
the knowledge of what the new day would bring, or because they had been
labouring through the night to secure the hill fort, the last refuge should the
battle go badly. Earthen embankments had been thrown up against the log sides,
leaving a deep ditch to cross that any Saxon, Pict, or rogue Briton would need to
overcome before reaching the walls and those awaiting them inside. Below the
fort, other ditches protected the approach slopes to further frustrate the attempts
of any would-be attackers. Uther considered the approach and decided that
anybody expecting to get as far as the fort would require the stamina of a horse.
Shifting his weight in the chariot, he cast about the rain soaked valley. Mist
was drifting amongst the shrubs and bushes, lower down where it was still
untouched by sunlight, hidden, but rising amid the clouds. To either side, the
forest stood in shadow, clinging stubbornly to its share of the night; it seemed in
little hurry to join the misery of the day. His attention came back to the warriors
on the hillside, separated into their individual tribes, even while they waited to
fight together as Britons. The majority were waiting, half way up, seated on the
wet grass while the horsemen and chariots remained out of sight to either side of
Mount Badon. It was a grim day in many respects, thought Uther, and it
promised to become even grimmer. A trickle of rainwater ran from his helmet,
down his neck and under the mail and leather of his armour sending a shiver
through him.
The rain lessened and the quiet tension of the morning began to give way to
surges of pent-up adrenaline. As he watched, the tribesmen started rousing each
other into some order of battle readiness. There were a few practice charges
down the slope, several fights, and plenty of yelling, shouting and cursing, which
was gradually building up into a constant dull roar.
He saw a number of female warriors in the ranks, and then noticed they were
actually among the more vocal in their attempts to bring on the fighting spirit.
They were baiting the men and calling challenges to the women of other tribes,
much to the approval of their male companions.
'Is it always this way?' Uther asked.
Samel glanced over to where a woman swinging a battle-axe was screeching
abusive challenges across the empty battlefield in front of her. 'Pretty much, the
waiting is the hardest part. Our scouts have been coming back since well before
sunrise with reports that the Saxons are approaching. They're well aware that
many of them will die today, but they also know that there are only two ways to
enter a battle. You can either attack consumed with the fear of what might
happen to you, or you can attack as a warrior, bringing a terrible fear down upon
your enemy. The first of the Saxons will probably be in the forest already,
watching us right now as they wait for the rest to catch up. They'll show
themselves soon enough.'
The horses tried to pull forward, jerking the chariot as they did so, but with a
snap of the reins, Uther held them back.
'Steady, lad, they feel it as well. Keep them from breaking away for a little
longer, it won't be long now.'
'I have them,' said Uther, and then after a moment, he added. 'Do you have
no fear, Samel?'
Samel looked up at Uther, studying him for a moment. 'Of course I have
fear, lad, but it's fear that makes me the most terrifying warrior on the battlefield.
More importantly, it's fear that will keep me alive. My love of life is too great to
die here today. The secret is not to deny your fear. Everyone on this hill holds
fear in his belly. The mark of a warrior is how he deals with it. Hold it in and
pretend it's not there, and it will kill you. It'll creep up your spine, climbing with
icy fingers to whisper in your ear until you turn and flee screaming from the
battlefield with piss running down your legs. However, if you take it and
understand it, then you can use it and turn it loose upon your enemy!' He gripped
Uther's shoulder. 'Come, lad, this battle will still be some time in beginning; let's
go and find your brother.'
Uther hauled the chariot round and manoeuvred the horses up towards the
top of the hill, with horses, men and chariots parting to let them through. They
found Ambrosius easily enough; he was standing close to the hill fort with a
group of chieftains gazing out across the valley, waiting for the first sign of the
enemy forces to show themselves.
Mount Badon had been chosen as the battle site for several reasons, or so
Ambrosius had explained to Uther. Vortigern would have to pass this way if he
intended to march his forces south, and when he did, he would be all too aware
that they waited for him here. The pretender couldn't simply pass by and leave
the threat of them behind him, he would be forced to meet them and deal with
them while the opportunity was presented, there would be a battle.
The site also held significance to the druids. They had urged Ambrosius that
if he sought victory, then this was the correct place for this battle. They had
spoken to the spirits and counselled the ancestors and all their signs and visions
pointed to this being the site of a great victory for the tribes. When Ambrosius
had first visited, several weeks before, and seen that from the vantage point at
the top of Mount Badon he could look down into the valley, he had finally
agreed. From the top of the hill, the whole battleground lay before them. Below
was the undulating expanse of the open valley, with the dense, dark vastness of
the forest crowding in to either side. While at the far end stood the smaller hill,
around which Vortigern would most certainly gather his troops.
As Uther and Samel dropped from their chariot to join the group surrounding
Ambrosius, the first of Vortigern's forces began to emerge from the trees across
the valley. Uther gazed across as a group of about a hundred Picts broke from the
tree line and filed quickly across to the left of the field. The tribesmen on Mount
Badon stood and roared their challenge as the Picts formed up. The loud
moaning of horns filled the air. Then the tribesmen began hammering on their
shields with swords and axes, shouting, yelling and howling to unnerve their
hated northern enemy.
No sooner had the Picts settled when the Saxons emerged, rank after rank of
them, filing out of the forest paths. Uther soon lost count, guessing the number
to be near ten thousand as they formed up in a wall of shields around the
opposite hill, and they were still coming. He glanced down at their own forces
and realised how heavily outnumbered they were.
'Do you see Vortigern?' Uther asked, and Ambrosius, who was studying the
assembling Saxons with a frown on his face, pointed to the trees on the right of
the far clearing.
'My guess would be that he's in that group moving towards the hill. From
what I've heard of him, he won't want to get too close to the actual battle today.
He has always preferred his killing to be done for him by others,' Ambrosius
sighed. 'The druids told me years ago it was Vortigern who sent a Pict to kill our
father. We must make him pay for that, Uther, and, spirits willing, he will pay for
it today.'
He pointed to the largest group still gathering in the centre of the lowland.
'These men here will be the first to attack. They're some of his best troops,
seasoned Saxon warriors all. When we fought for Rome, we faced men such as
these when they tried to cross the great Rhine River into Gaul. They will try to
force a breach in our lines and attempt to split our forces.' He indicated the trees
to either side. 'There'll be more in there waiting to sweep in if they manage to do
it.'
Uther gazed up at his brother, amazed at his understanding of their enemy
and the cool detached way he could see how the battle would be fought. He
glanced down the hill again. 'How will we stop them? We're so few.' Fear rose
from his stomach, draining his mouth of moisture. Reaching back for his water
skin, he drank greedily.
Ambrosius looked at him and smiled. 'We are Britons, Uther. The people of
this land.' He gestured to the writhing, eager ranks of tribesmen in front of them.
'We are the Iceni, the Catuvellauni, the Trinovante, Atrebates and Parisi to name
but a few of the clans gathered here. What chance, you might ask, do these
Saxon invaders have against us?'
Before Uther could reply, the Saxon war drums began to beat and the solid
mass of men in the centre surged forward, hefting swords, spears and axes high.
The shield wall remained solid, each shield overlapping that of its neighbour as
they strode onward. Behind the wall the warriors screamed their own challenges
back to the waiting Britons as ale and mead were passed along the line. On
Mount Badon the tribesmen replied, the deep moaning call of the horns almost
lost amongst the rising battle cries and clamour as each warrior drummed their
spear against shield and stamped their feet while the chieftains tried to hold them
back. The noise rose to form a roar that echoed around the small valley, until it
was filling the air, mixing with the fear, excitement and blood lust.
'Hold fast!' cried Ambrosius above the clamour, as he saw the ranks of
tribesmen begin to sway and move down the hill. The order was passed forward,
and each chieftain repeated the call, reinforcing it with savage kicks and abuse to
keep the line for which they had been trained. The Saxon horde was now
halfway across the valley.
Raising his hand, Ambrosius signalled to the wooded area on his left, and
several hundred archers ran forward to form ranks on the lower slopes. He
repeated the signal to his right and more archers emerged on that side. As the
Saxons reached the base of Mount Badon, they slowed, bunching almost to a
standstill while the ones at the front began their climb. At a signal, the archers
loosed their first volley of arrows and death rained down upon the massed
Saxons, the sound of the arrows hitting the shields and howling screams of the
injured becoming one with the roar of battle. The archers continued firing into
the surging ranks, forcing the Saxons to bunch together, until all their arrows
were spent, and then they ran forward, swords and axes raised, as they formed
their own shield wall, eager to be amongst the first to meet with the enemy.
'Return to your chariot, Uther,' cried Ambrosius, as he struggled to hold the
rope restraining his huge war hound as it strained to get free. Its angered barking
almost lost now amongst the terrible noise all around them.
'Take your group and come in from the right. I will attack from the left and
we'll strike and scatter them as the tribes join the battle.' He raised his free arm,
and then abruptly dropped it, signalling the chieftains to let loose the main ranks
of warriors. With a roar, the tribes attacked, screaming down the hill hurling
their spears before crashing into the wall of Saxons with a terrible clash as
weapons and shields met and the screaming began.
Dragging himself away from the terrifying spectacle of battle, Uther forced
his way back through the confusion of men as they hurried to mount horses and
chariots, and leapt up next to Samel. As they came free of the crowd and brought
the chariot down from the hill, he saw Samel's men watching, glancing up
towards them, anxious for Samel and Uther to return so they could be away.
They drew alongside and skidded round as Uther turned the horses towards the
battleground, and Samel called to his men.
'Come lads… what are ye waiting fer!' The little Iceni clung on as the chariot
lunged forward and set off towards the terrible sounds of battle waiting for their
first sight of the Saxon wall. The chariot lurched dangerously, tipping up on one
wheel before coming down with a thump and sliding round the base of the hill
then they continued on, bouncing over the rough ground, the screaming,
bellowing and noise of battle becoming louder and louder the closer they came.
Uther glanced back to see the sixteen chariots under his command following
steadily, the bouncing chariots bristling with spears and savage looking warriors.
The chariot bumped again, tipping abruptly up before crashing down again.
'Steady lad!' shouted Samel, over the uproar. 'Don't turn us over before we get
there.' Rain returned as a steady drizzle, and he risked releasing a hand from its
steadying grip on the side of the chariot to wipe a sleeve across his face, quickly
slapping it back on the rail as the chariot jolted once more.
As they covered the ground towards the tangled mass of men, a larger group
of Saxons appeared from the forest and ran screaming out towards them. Uther
glanced back at Samel to see if he had noticed.
'Ignore them,' growled Samel, glaring across at the running men. 'Bring us
round to the back of the main battle, lad, that's it… at 'em, lads!'
The bouncing chariot closed on the main group of writhing, fighting men,
and as they did, the nearest Saxons turned to see them bearing down, their fear
evident when they realised they were directly in the chariot's path. Drawing
Excalibur with his right hand, Uther gripped the reins against the edge of the
chariot with his left, and they ploughed into the solid mass of the battle, the
impact registering with a series of sickening thumps and jolts. The horses
charged on as they had been trained to do, trampling the first group of terrified
men, and then rearing up and kicking out and biting at others who were trying
desperately to escape being crushed or maimed. Now in the thick of the fighting,
but still moving, Uther drew in the stink of battle, a heavy mixture of blood,
urine and fear.
They slowed as the battle closed about them. The chariot jumped and fell as
the horses struggled to pull it up and over fallen bodies, while in front of them,
Saxons and Picts panicked to get clear of the raised hooves and evil yellow teeth
that tore lumps of cloth and flesh from any warrior that came close enough. In
these first terrifying moments, it was all Uther could do to crouch and hold on,
as faces, swords, and axes flashed past him, the screams and defiant battle cries a
constant and terrifying roar in his ears. With a jolting thud, an axe embedded
itself in the edge of the chariot close to where he held on. Snatching his hand
back, he saw Samel stab down with his spear, retrieving it a moment later
dripping in blood. The chariot continued, bouncing from side to side.
'Get up, boy! Fight!' roared Samel.
Uther rose to see that the chariots were all still moving cutting a swathe
through the surging ranks of Saxon warriors. The closest tribesmen were battling
towards them about thirty paces away. Lashing out with Excalibur, he felt the
weapon dance in his hands, meeting the resistance of flesh and bone, and the
first Saxons fell back in a spray of blood, wounded or dying. He tried to blank
his mind to the agonised looks and terrible screams, reasoning that these were
the invaders and had to be turned back. Still, as he fought, the small part of him
that remained a boy locked itself into a corner of his mind and wept.
The rain fell with renewed intensity and the ground beneath the fighting
warriors and was soon churned into a thick mud, slick and stained rich with the
blood of the dead and dying.
By midday, the battle still raged and the rain still fell.
Keeping the chariot moving, Uther entered the most intense part of the battle
once more. On the far side, he caught a glimpse of Ambrosius with the other
chariots, the King standing tall above the battling warriors as they fought their
way through the enemy's flank. Slapping the reins down on his horses' backs,
Uther felt them lurch forward once more, dragging the chariot back onto the
Saxon shield wall.
'Yaaahh!'
Then, as the clouds parted briefly spilling a ray of sunlight down onto the
bloodshed below, the two groups of chariots met and the battle turned in favour
of the tribes. With the Saxon forces, now divided, the ferocious tide of tribesmen
and the incredible power of the chariots began to turn the battle. The Saxons
may have had more men, but Ambrosius had trained his forces well, and this
battle that had been long in its planning, was becoming a massacre.
As his chariot broke into open ground once more, Uther wheeled about,
trying to come back onto their flank. Smaller groups of Picts and Saxons saw
they had slowed to make the turn and so tried to stop them, but Samel's axe,
alongside Uther wielding Excalibur, dealt death to all that came within range.
Then as the chariot began to pick up speed once more, a bearded axeman ran in
and, with a shrill cry, brought his blade down, catching Uther a heavy blow to
the shoulder. Uther cried in pain, then thrust out with Excalibur, and the Saxon
fell away screaming. With his shoulder pulsing in fiery agony, he brought the
chariot away from the battle and passed the reins to Samel, then glanced down at
his numb arm hanging useless at his side.
'T'aint cut, boy. He missed you with the blade, just caught you with the
shaft.' Samel turned the chariot round again and headed back towards the knot of
fighting men. 'Here we go again, boy. Strap yourself on and let's prepare a feast
for them crows.' He cracked the reins down on the horses' backs. 'Yaaahh!'
Uther just had time to strap his useless arm to the chariot rail with a length of
hemp rope, and they were back in amongst the boiling cauldron of the main
battlefield with bloody conflict stretching far out to either side.
Time seemed to slow. The chaos of battle floating from one moment to the
next, moving before him in a blur of blood and anger, and then came a moment
that would live with him long after the battle had faded into nightmare. A Pict,
his blue-daubed face drawn in a scream of anger, emerged from the crushing
mob of fighting warriors and just as quickly, slid from Uther's sword spitting a
foam of crimson bubbles. As he fell away, the Pict reached out, caught him, and
clung to him, using the last of his strength in an attempt to drag Uther with him
to the ground. Trapped within the grip of the dying man's gaze, Uther felt
himself being drawn over the side rail of the chariot before the rope securing his
arm stopped him with a jolt. His consciousness snapped back, with the noise and
pain of the moment almost overwhelming him. Then, the strong grip of Samel
caught him as he struggled at the edge of panic, and managed to pull him back
onboard.
'Come, boy. The horses need to rest.' The chariot came round and, once clear
of the fighting, they headed slowly back to the sanctuary behind Mount Badon.
Uther felt weary to the depths of his soul. He rubbed sweat and rain from his
eyes, and stared out at the small isolated groups of ferocious fighting that
remained amongst the droves of fleeing Saxons. Hundreds lay dead or dying
upon the field and he wondered at the madness that had brought them to this day.
Tentatively unstrapping his arm, he experienced a moment of relief when he
realised that, through the pain, he could still feel his fingers and could just about
move his arm again. They made it to the sanctuary of their own lines where a
group of children met them bearing fresh water, food, spare blades, and spears.
'Drink.' Samel handed him a water-skin and shook his head as Uther gulped
greedily. 'Slow down, lad, you'll make yourself sick.' He was grinning as Uther
pulled the water skin from his mouth coughing and spluttering. 'There, told you
so… now, are you ready?'
'Ready? Ready for what?' Uther glanced out to where the fighting could still
be heard, knowing what Samel was going to say but unsure if he could summon
the energy to return to the fight. Samel merely nodded and pulled Uther back up.
They rounded the hill, the chariot rumbling and jumping beneath them, and
saw a group of the Saxons were attempting to rally and come back, driving Pict
warriors before them. It was only a moment later that the chariot slammed into
them.
Twice more, Uther and Samel led the other chariots back into the fight,
helping to collapse any sense of order the Saxons managed to muster. The horses
were nearing exhaustion now; the sharp, almost sweet smell of their sweat was
heavy in the air. When the chariot slowed, the horses' heads dropped and their
nostrils flared drawing great gulps of air into their lungs. Although foam
streamed from their mouths and their sides were heaving, they weren't staggering
so Samel judged they could keep running. They wheeled about for a third time,
and then saw Ambrosius, with two other chariots, break out of the battle and
head at a gallop towards where Vortigern and the Saxon chieftains stood on the
far rise, the long loping run of Ambrosius' war hound leading the way. With
Uther once again taking the reins, they followed, veering to the right to attack a
small group of fleeing Picts as they went.
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 with an
audible crash, scattering warriors as it came.
Using the momentum of his chariot, Ambrosius neared his rival and
launched his long Roman javelin. It seemed for some moments that everyone
present was watching, following the path of the javelin as it turned almost lazily
in the air, before seeing it drop down to strike Vortigern in the chest. The
metallic clash and meaty sound of its impact as it pierced first the man's armour,
and then entered his body, carried clearly back to where Uther approached,
watching as if in a dream as the pretender collapsed back into the arms of a
cowled druid.
Ambrosius wheeled his chariot at the last moment, lifted his fist in triumph,
and retreated having finally avenged their father. Uther slowed and made ready
to turn his own chariot around, and then cried out, 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 to hang over the edge. The chariot's other occupant managed
to keep them moving while he hauled the slumped body back inside, struggling
to keep control of the horses as he did. The stricken chariot passed and Uther
turned and followed, 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 behind Mount Badon 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, Nineve. Your brother died, why do you not mourn him?
Don't you wonder what caused his death?'
Nineve 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, the 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 struggled and 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…'