'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 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 twoabreast 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 bladder had almost emptied
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.
When they finally emerged from the Weald and rode out towards the
flickering sentry fires of Aeglesthorp, it was late. The stars were twinkling
overhead and the smell of salt water from the estuary hung heavily in the air.
Although they had been moving slowly for some time, the horses were
exhausted and unsteady on their legs. The poor animals had been pushed beyond
their normal levels of endurance and Alric had to coax his mount over the final
distance. As he stopped and jumped from its back, it staggered, dropped its head,
and gave a ragged snort. It stood, swaying slightly, refusing to move even when
a handler came forward and tried leading it gently towards the stabling area.
Alric patted its sweaty neck then strode across to Hengist's hut. Two torches
burned outside the entrance, signifying that Hengist was still awake and willing
to receive visitors. Alric thanked the gods for this one small mercy; waking
Hengist would be a sure way to die, but he would have had to do it.