Uther Pendragon shivered in the early morning light and gazed about absently,
willing his mind to wake and his body to warm. It was ominously quiet in the
small copse of trees; there wasn't even any birdsong. Long shadows stretched
towards him from the distant village of Aeglesthorp, laying uneven across the
large grassy meadow glistening with morning dew. Behind the village, the
eastern sky was promising another fine day, with the first blush of sunrise
painting the scattered clouds with pastel shades of pink and orange. A cold
breeze whispered across the field, blowing softly through the long grass, making
the mist stir and dance, drawing Uther's attention for a moment. As Samel joined
him, he gathered his cloak tighter about his shoulders and shivered again,
watching his breath emerge as a cloud into the chill air.
'The river's on the far side,' said Samel, pointing towards the distant village.
Uther studied the village once more. He could just make out the dark shapes
of clustered roundhouses rising above a low stockade. Behind the settlement, the
high masts of several Saxon longboats, drawn up onto what Samel had described
as 'a small shingle beach,' showed black against the soft light of early morning.
With a sigh, Uther waved a hand towards the darkness of the forest, and then
quickly returned it to the warmth of his cloak. 'And our main force with Merlyn
should be waiting in the trees there?' The forest appeared gloomy, empty, and
home to little more than spirits, as far as Uther could see. 'Send two men to make
contact. I want to be sure they're there to back us up before we attack.' Samel
nodded and turned away.
Returning to his study of the village, Uther stood a little straighter as men
started to emerge from behind the stockade and form into their defensive shield
wall. His unease continued to grow as they carried out and divided long
sharpened stakes amongst them. It didn't take a lot of working out to realise what
these would be for, the Saxons were ready for them. When the first line of
chariots attacked, the horses would be impaled as the stakes were raised, and the
chariots quickly overcome. He continued watching as the numbers grew, until
over a thousand Saxons were crowded along the field, silently staring across at
the trees where Uther and his tribesmen waited. We're hugely outnumbered
again, realised Uther with a growing feeling of alarm. More emerged, some
moving left in front of the forest, while others turned to the right to spread
further around the intended battlefield.
As they ran out they carried weapons, a shield, and firewood, the last item
dumped in growing piles that could be torched when the battle commenced.
Well, they know we're here, thought Uther, and then he glanced about for
Samel. He saw the little Iceni making his way back through the trees, sharing a
joke with one of his men. How could he laugh at a time like this? Cupping his
hands, he hissed a warning. 'Samel… they know we're here!'
Samel frowned and trotted over. 'Shhh, be strong for your men, King Uther.
I'm well aware that they know we're here, I've seen 'em… couldn't really miss
'em, could I? Some of those Saxons from the attack yesterday must have gotten
back and given the warning, but those men over there will be just as cold and
scared as we are, more so, hopefully. They don't know how many we are and
they don't know when we'll attack. The longer we can wait the better.'
Two bowls of porridge were passed forward and the two friends indulged
themselves in silence for a while, savouring the taste and the glorious warmth
that filled them. All too soon, Samel ran a finger around his empty bowl, and
then sucked it noisily. He glanced back down to see if he'd missed any, frowned,
and then reluctantly handed it to the waiting man and returned to his study of the
Saxons.
The sun was now above the horizon and the shadows on the field were
drawing back as the sun rose, the rays that lanced through the village lending an
orange tint to the mist as it drifted over the field. Samel examined the effect with
a critical eye.
'I hadn't noticed until now, King Uther, but do you see how the mist is
lingering above certain parts of the meadow? It shows where the ground is
holding water, where it's marshy.' He pointed to a spot not thirty paces into the
field. 'Do you see there, where the mist clings to that darker patch? The grass is
taller and it'll be soft under the chariots' wheels and will bog us down if we don't
find firmer ground around it. We'll have to wait for a little more light and hope
we can see a way through.'
Uther nodded, and then glanced behind him at the chariots and horsemen
waiting patiently amongst the trees. There was a heavy tension hanging in the air
as they each contemplated the morning ahead. Some were tightening harnesses
and tending their horses, while others sharpened weapons, stones gliding slowly
along blades already keenly sharp, the sound coming as a soft rasping whisper
amongst the trees. A good number were still eating porridge or waiting patiently,
doing what Uther was doing, staring out of the shadows across the field at the
Saxons.
'How many are we?' Uther's question came out as a rush, momentarily
betraying his fears. He stopped, drew a calming breath, and gripped Excalibur
beneath his cloak. Feeling the fear crawl back down to his belly, where it seemed
to lie, ready to rise again with a rush, he smiled. 'I'm sorry, Samel. What I meant
to ask was how many are we now? Have the others caught up yet? And did we
hear anything back from Merlyn?'
'We're still one hundred and twenty chariots, and over a hundred horsemen,'
replied Samel, glancing across at the rising sun. 'There'll be another two hundred
horsemen with us before the sun climbs much higher, we should at least wait
until then before committing ourselves, and no, we haven't heard back from
Merlyn yet.'
'But you sent those men into the forest ages ago?'
Samel shrugged. 'I did, but they wouldn't necessarily have found them
straight away, would they? They'll be keeping out of sight, keeping their heads
down. Don't worry, we'll hear from them soon enough.'
Realising there was little he could do, Uther went back to observing the
Saxon side of the field and muttered a prayer to the spirits that ended in a plea
for Merlyn to have been granted safe passage with his four thousand warriors.
The forest still looked awfully dark and empty to him.
As the sun crested the village, they received word that the horsemen had
been sighted and Uther felt some of his anxiety subside. One hundred and twenty
chariots and three hundred horsemen wasn't a huge force, but it was certainly an
effective one, especially against men on foot, which was all he could see in the
Saxon lines.
The Saxons had few horses, since they arrived on the shores of Briton
without them and could only round up so many from the local settlements or on
the moors where the horses ran wild. He glanced about for Samel, finally
spotting him sitting up in a tree with one of his men.
They were pointing at the field, working out where the softer marshy parts
were and where there might be a firmer path through. He watched as they began
their climb down, and then saw them halt their descent and begin pointing
excitedly to the rear of their position. There was a muffled conversation, and
then Samel clambered down a few branches and hurriedly dropped through the
last, landing heavily.
'Mount up!' There was a flurry of movement amongst the closest riders and
the order was passed along the line and back to those that waited in the trees.
'Our horsemen have just joined us,' said Samel, reaching Uther and grasping
his tunic to steady himself. He stopped and drew in a deep breath, clutching at
his stomach, the fall having winded him more than he had first let on. 'But as we
watched them come in, we also saw Saxons. They're moving from the trees to
the south, lots of them. We would have missed them but we saw them crossing
an open patch of ground, they're surrounding us!' He dragged Uther towards
their chariot. As they mounted, a Saxon drum began to pound out a deep steady
beat that was quickly joined by more drums and then the deep mournful drone of
horns. The morning became filled with a cacophony of noise as the Saxon
warriors all around the field stood and joined in, roaring their challenges and
rattling their weapons and shields together, the sound at once terrifying and
deafening to the waiting tribesmen.
'They're coming at us,' cried Samel. He grabbed the chariot reins, all
pretence at stealth now abandoned. 'They're going to try and scatter us out into
the field and bog us down!' His face was flushed crimson with anger, and flecks
of white spittle hung in his beard as he spat out his hatred for the conniving
invaders who had out-foxed them. 'Well, they'll not catch us that easy. Out!' With
a crack of his whip, the chariot lurched and rumbled forward as Samel led them
out, searching for the firmer ground that he had spotted from his perch in the
tree. 'The bastards surrounded us!'
Uther could do little more than grip the side of the chariot and force his mind
to try and catch up. In what seemed an instant, all their plans had changed. He
hung on as they creaked and bounced over the rough, uneven ground into the
open field and away from the immediate threat emerging behind them. The lowlying sun was blinding when he glanced over towards the village, but Samel
seemed to be taking them south, away from the waiting warriors. 'Where are we
going? Do you have a plan?' Uther asked, raising his voice over the incredible
clamour from the Saxons. The fires were now alight and smoke was already
drifting across the field, adding to the confusion.
'You're the King,' cried Samel. 'I'm just taking us around the soft ground in
the centre and away from those sneaky buggers behind us!'
Uther groped for the hilt of Excalibur and scanned the battlefield. Much to
his frustration, the trees of the Weald continued to remain dark and silent, while
all around, the Saxons surrounded them, cutting off any chance of escape. As an
added danger, if they weren't careful, they would be forced into the boggy centre
of the field where the chariots would be less manoeuvrable or possibly
completely trapped. Things suddenly seemed very bleak indeed. He glanced
back, his heart racing with indecision and uncertainty. The chariots had all left
the trees now and the horsemen were following with the first Saxons screaming
out after them, the whole procession of tribesmen, flushed out like so many deer
on a day's hunt, and still the trees of the Weald remained dark and empty of any
help or inspiration.
Bringing his hand down hard upon the chariot's edge, Uther cursed. 'Damn
you, Merlyn, where are you? We have to reverse this situation before it gets out
of hand.' He attempted to calm himself as he scanned the Saxon ranks.
'Get out of hand? I would say this is already out of hand,' shouted Samel,
cracking the reins down to urge the horses through a softer piece of ground. A
cloud of smoke wafted over them, momentarily hiding the field from view.
'We have to attack and force a way through,' said Uther, as they cleared the
smoke. He scanned the field once more. 'There.' He pointed towards the village.
'If we can get through into the village, there's bound to be a road running along
the coast.'
Samel glanced across at him, with a look of concern. 'You want to leave
already? We've only just got here!'
'So what do you suggest?' cried Uther. 'We're just a little bit outnumbered
here. Or hadn't you noticed?' He clutched for the side as they bumped over a
grassy hillock, his spears rattling in their holder beside him.
'Well, I liked the bit about attacking,' said Samel, with a grin. He threw back
his head and letting out an ululating cry, snapped the reins down once more and
turned the chariot towards the wall of screaming Saxons. Behind them, the other
chariots wheeled and followed, and the horsemen raced past, screaming their
war cries to confuse the Saxon defences and draw attention away from the
slower chariots. At least this part was something for which the horsemen had
trained.
Moments before they smashed into the Saxon wall with its bristling barrier,
the riders peeled away and both horsemen and chariots loosed their first volley
of spears and arrows. It was impossible to aim from the platform of a bouncing
chariot so, just as on the training field, those in the chariots waited until the last
moment, then loosed, inflicting a wave of death that slammed into the bunched
Saxons, each spear and arrow seeking those holding the long sharpened poles. A
fraction of a moment behind the horsemen, the chariots hit the Saxon line like a
hammer slamming through the side of an ale barrel, breaching the shattered
defences in an instant. The taunting war cries were replaced by the shrill
screaming of injured horses and crushed and trampled men as the chariots
jumped and bucked as they struggled over the fallen and tried to get themselves
clear. Uther stabbed and slashed with Excalibur, as the Saxons converged on
them, cleaving a path as they forged ahead into the mass of screaming humanity.
The world had turned to madness, and it was tainted red.
Saxon warriors rose and fell before them in a moving sea of sharp iron and
blood, as one man fell, another snarling, hate-filled face leapt in to fill the
breach. As Uther fought, he heard Samel curse and scream beside him, defying
the Saxons to come closer. When they did, it ended with him flicking blood from
his axe with a practised turn of the wrist as they fell, forever lost from sight as
the chariot rumbled and rolled on.
As for the horses, one had escaped uninjured from the poles, while the other
had suffered a bloody gash to its right flank. It was snorting, tossing its head in
pain and fear, but still moving, doggedly dragging the chariot forward as Samel
continued to bellow his defiance.
While Uther fought, he tried to gauge what was happening around him.
Standing on the moving chariot afforded him a good perspective of the battle and
the Saxon's defences. Only so many could face the chariots at once, but when he
glanced about, he could see others running in, crowding behind, eager for their
turn. Taking the opportunity to look up once more, he could make out other
chariots moving through, some of which were already far ahead, through the
fighting, and wheeling round on the opposite side. Others, he knew, wouldn't
have been so lucky. Hindered by fallen horses, their riders were quickly
overwhelmed by the larger Saxon force.
Uther pulled back Excalibur from where he had just thrust it into a Saxon
warrior's chest, and kicked out at another clinging to the side, desperately trying
to get on. Beneath him, the chariot lumbered ever forward. Then, with little
warning, they were free of the battle and there was a jolt as the horses picked up
speed. It knocked them both from their feet, grabbing for the sides lest they fall
from the open back. The horses, with noses suddenly filled with fresh air, bolted
for the open ground towards the village, frantically fleeing the world of insanity
from which they had just escaped.
As they bounced across the grassland, Samel scrabbled up from where he
had fallen, dropped his axe, and leapt over the front of the chariot. He landed
between the two galloping horses and held on as best he could before gaining his
balance and making his way down the yoke-pole between them.
'Samel! Get back here,' screamed Uther, reaching for the reins. He pulled
back hard but the horses didn't respond. The left wheel banged hard against a
tussock of tall grass and the chariot jumped, flinging Uther to the floor again,
one hand managing to grip the rail as he fell.
Between the horses, Samel hung on grimly. Edging slowly forward, he
reached out and, taking a good grip of each horse's mane, dragged them round to
the right. He strained, bracing his feet against the yoke, bringing them slowly
round and under control once more. When they had slowed enough, he shuffled
back to rejoin Uther, who merely shook his head at his friend's antics. With this
small drama behind them, the horses slowed to a walk, huffing and blowing, and
they took their first look back at the battle, it did little to hearten them.
Uther gripped his bow, pulled an arrow from the quiver slung on the back of
the chariot, set it and drew. He heard the now familiar creak of the string as his
fingers nestled at full draw against his cheek, and then released, watching as the
shaft leapt across the distance to slam into the chest of a Saxon, one of several
attacking another chariot. He fumbled for another arrow, bracing himself against
the side as the chariot jolted heavily again.
'Hold on, lad. We're going back in,' shouted Samel, over the noise of pitched
battle. It was already deafening, making him hard to hear.
'Where, by the spirits, is Merlyn?' cried Uther, casting a longing glance
towards the Weald. He willed the druid to appear at the head of the huge force of
tribesmen, but again the darkness mocked him with their absence. 'We're not
going to win this without him,' he continued. With a last glance round at the
village, he saw he had been right, there was indeed a road running north. 'If we
can somehow get all our warriors clear, we can either take that road, or get back
the way we came.'
The chariot was picking up speed again, racing back into the unprotected
rear of the Saxon forces. Uther had a chance to throw one spear, saw it miss his
intended victim but take another Saxon in the thigh, the scream lost amongst a
thousand others from all around, and then they both ducked down and braced for
impact. It came with a sickening jolt, the crunching grind of every bone broken
by the heavy oak wheels, vibrating up through the wooden frame. The chariot
slowed and they stood back up, once more amongst the madness of battle.
Samel let go of the reins and gave the horses their heads. Bending back
down, he searched for his axe, caught it just before it fell out, and then jumped
up with a roar. With a mighty heave, he swung the axe down, cleaving it through
the raised shield of a black-bearded Saxon, dropping him out of sight. More
Saxons filled the gap as another stinging cloud of smoke drifted over them and,
for a few panic-filled moments, they fought in near blindness.
The chariot lurched without warning as the weight changed and Samel spun
around to see that a Saxon had managed to climb up with them. The warrior was
euphoric, lost to the fever of battle. Splatters of blood covered his face, his lips
drawn back in a drooling smile of killing-madness. His eyes gleamed from
beneath a polished helm, the nose guard bent to the side from where Uther had
already hit him. The two were struggling, locked together with swords raised,
Uther wrestling against the bigger, stronger man who began laughing
hysterically as he felt his smaller opponent weakening.
There was no room to swing the axe, so Samel jabbed the shaft into the side
of the man's head, feeling it land with a skull-shattering crunch. When, a
moment later, they emerged from the smoke, the Saxon was no longer there, but
the madness of battle raged on.
Towards the inner side of the fighting, they came across another chariot that
had been forced to stop. One horse was down and the other, struggled in panic,
its eyes flaring as it felt itself trapped by its fallen companion. Surrounding them
was a mob of hollering, screaming Saxon warriors, while standing high above
the chaos around them, its occupants, miraculously, still lived. Two big Atrebates
tribesmen, both swinging axes, were inflicting more damage than they were
receiving, but they were tiring. One warrior fought with his left arm hanging
useless by his side, streaming blood from a severe gash. The other remained
uninjured as he hacked with great sweeping cuts into the mob around them with
an axe in one hand and a sword in the other. Several mounted warriors had
joined them and were harrying the Saxons. Uther watched as a horseman jumped
down and attempted to cut the dead horse from the chariot's reins.
Samel saw their plight and picked up speed, bringing them in to slam into
the knot of attackers, trampling several as the horses forced their way through.
As the dead horse on the stranded chariot was cut free, they were able to move
away, the remaining horse pulling it, eyes rolling and straining with the effort, its
riders cheering in triumph.
'Regroup,' screamed Uther, as they burst free into the centre of the field once
more. Samel brought a horn to his lips and blew a long deep note. They trundled
further into the central ground and slowed, then Uther turned and counted.
Thirteen chariots were moving away with them. He couldn't count the horsemen,
but the number had thinned considerably. From all around, the Saxons swarmed
towards them and he fought to hold down a moment of despair.
'We have to get through. We can't let them trap us here!' cried Uther, panic
beginning to edge his voice. 'Bring us around again. We'll make for the northern
road.' The chariots wheeled about, and then to a chorus of yells and curses, the
horses were coaxed back up to a gallop behind the heavy chariots.
At the front, Uther braced himself against the side of the chariot, raised his
bow, and loosed his remaining shafts. It was as he was drawing back on the last,
that he saw Horsa. The black-clad warrior chief was the only mounted Saxon on
the field. Uther stared, mesmerized, as his enemy rode up and down the line
behind his men, shouting and screaming abuse to drive them on. Another cloud
of smoke blew across the field, momentarily obscuring Uther's view. He raised
his bow and fired one of his last arrows blind, sending a prayer with it that it
would find its mark. However, as they came through the smoke, the Saxon leader
was still there, drawing men in from the sides to help form a barrier in front of
the charging tribes. Under his direction, they were gathering the sharpened poles,
raising them against the oncoming horses, once again; the Saxon wall quickly
began to resemble an impenetrable thorny bush.
At the last moment, just before they hit, Uther screamed a curse and helped
Samel haul on the reins to bring them round, the chariot almost turning over as it
rose up on one wheel. Uther threw himself at the side to stop them turning over,
the chariot righted, and then they slammed at an angle into the Saxon lines.
The unexpected manoeuvre caught the Saxons unaware before the poles
could be realigned and the chariots crashed through the massed warriors causing
havoc, changing what had been the brink of disaster, into a minor victory, before
turning back to the open field. Behind them, the horsemen attacked the confused
Saxon ranks, thinning them even further, but the tribesmen still hadn't escaped
the circle, and it was getting smaller.
The small force of Britons retreated to the open field with the screams and
cries of the injured following them. Resting weary arms as they gathered, the
riders gazed about at the incredible number of Saxons closing in and tried to
remain undaunted. Around him, Uther saw the tribesmen looking to him for
guidance, for some hope that he, their King, could find some victory in this
bleak defeat.
A Saxon drum began the beat again, and others immediately took it up until
the whole field was surging. Uther laid a hand on Samel's arm and the chariot
came to a stop.
'This can still be our day!' shouted Uther, to the remains of his force as they
drew up and gathered around him. 'The Saxons have us penned here like so
many sheep. They believe they are wolves, herding us towards our certain
slaughter, but we shall show them we are of the tribes, and we still have our
teeth!'
The men roared and raised their swords in salute.
'In those trees over there, are our friends and brothers. They're waiting for
us. They promised to be here this day and they will not fail us.' He glanced
across to the woodland, the first line of trees now sunlit and more inviting than it
had been at any other time since they had first arrived. 'Let us deliver these
Saxon dogs to their deaths, for now this battle shall turn!' He slapped Samel on
the back and the little Iceni cracked the whip over the horses. The chariot
lurched, and the remnants of Uther's warriors charged the Saxon lines closest to
the forest.
Both sides knew this would be the last charge of the tribes, and the Saxons
swarmed in from every side of the battlefield to meet them. Once the tribesmen
had shown their commitment to one direction, the long poles of the Saxons were
discarded and they swarmed forward, their bloodlust raised to a peak, to deliver
a true and certain slaughter, and they ran quickly lest they miss out.
'I hope you're right about this, Uther Pendragon,' cried Samel, as they rapidly
closed the distance. 'But if it's of any consequence, I admire your pluck and
wouldn't have the end happen any other way! Pendragon!'
Every tribesman on the field took up the cry, as they descended. The sound
of the horses hooves hammering the ground was like thunder, and the cry that
echoed around the battlefield again and again was 'Pendragon!'
They hit the first ranks of Saxons with a crunch that was both sickening and
deafening, a cacophony of breaking bones and screams, 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 forced to slow, 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, 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.'