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 its 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. '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 and there were curses and cries as they met.
Uther brought Excalibur down and it 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.
'I am Uther Pendragon, war leader of the tribes and king of all the Britons, I
will fight you.' He drew Excalibur and, cutting the air with the great sword,
brought it up in salute to his Saxon enemy.
'A child leads the tribes? Why, you still have the pimples of youth on your
face where a real man grows a beard!' The two Saxons laughed, and then Horsa
stepped forward, his face drawing into a frown. 'But I know you, don't I, boy?
We've met before, have we not?'
Uther ignored the question. 'I am going to allow your people to remain in
this land, to settle amongst us and live as Britons. But you… you I will kill.' He
saw a play of confusion turn to anger as it crossed Horsa's face, but went on
before Horsa could react. 'You killed the only real friend I had, I know it was
you, and then you killed my brother. Most would say, good enough reasons for
me to take your life and send you to the shadowland, but the main reason that
you will die today, is so that your people can live, in peace, as Britons.'
Horsa roared and swept down his blade, and Uther reacted, raising Excalibur
and catching the Saxon's sword as it curved towards him. The two blades
clashed, and then sang as they ran together.
'That wasn't much of an effort,' taunted Uther as he stepped back. 'Do you
remember killing my brother with a spear in his back? You probably murdered
my friend Cal in much the same cowardly way. It must be hard to face me like
this.'
Horsa gave another bellow of outrage, and swung his sword two-handed at
Uther's neck, putting all his strength behind the blow, but the young king danced
back out of range. Recovering quickly, the two fighters exchanged a flurry of
strikes, pressing each other in a test of strengths.
'Would it help if I turned my back on you?' Uther asked, swatting aside
another cut with ease. Horsa's face had flushed, each laboured breath evidence
that he was already beginning to tire.
The fight was moving from where the others waited and was getting closer
to the edge of the forest. With a yell, Horsa stabbed forward, and as Uther
deflected the flashing blade, the Saxon kicked out, catching him hard in the
thigh.
A cry came from Samel as Uther dropped to one knee and gazed up into the
triumphant face of Horsa. With one swift movement, Horsa raised his sword, and
then brought it down, intent upon taking the young king's head from his
shoulders, but Uther wasn't yet ready to die. Thrusting out, he rolled to his left at
the same time and felt Horsa's blade slide past, cutting empty air as Excalibur
caught his enemy above the kneecap. Uther felt the blade grind as it cut through
flesh and slid across the bone eliciting a scream from Horsa who immediately
turned, limping into the forest, clutching at his leg with blood pouring through
his fingers.
'After him, lad!' called Samel.
He heard a clash of weapons behind him as the two sides met, and then
Uther was up and slipping through the trees, trying to see some sign of where
Horsa had gone.
Once within the shadows of the forest, it was cool and silent, the memory of
the night still hanging heavy through this twilight world, rich in the earthy
aromas of life and decay. The sound of a twig breaking under Uther's foot came
unnaturally loud to his ears. He stopped, crouched down and breathed deeply,
willing his senses to pick up some sign of his enemy's flight. For several
moments, all was a soft hush but for the breeze moving through the branches
overhead, an unseen whisper of movement of air that never made it to the
shadows of the forest floor.
There… a footfall… and again! He scanned the gloom and crept towards the
sounds, being careful where he placed each foot. Another noise, like tearing
cloth, it was coming from up ahead where a lighter patch lit the forest. The trees
had thinned here and the sunlight was able to pierce the darkness, it shone
through in bright shafts that danced across the undergrowth, animated by the
movement of the leaves high above. As he neared, something caught his eye. He
crouched down and examined it, all the while keeping his senses aware of the
forest around lest he was surprised, it was a crimson smear of blood on a fern
leaf, the red stain, vivid in the dappling sunlight.
Uther crept forward, emerged from the trees cautiously, and was somewhat
surprised to see Horsa sitting in plain view on a rock in the centre of the small
clearing. The Saxon looked up and smiled at Uther as he wrapped a piece of
cloth, cut from his tunic, about his wounded leg.
'King now, eh, boy? My congratulations to you, that's one mighty leap up
from horse thief.' His eyes flickered to the trees behind Uther and the smile
returned. 'I tracked you across half this kingdom, captured hundreds of children
in my search for you, and then when I almost had you, you gave me the slip at
that villa. Of course, back then, I wasn't sure it was you, but I do remember you,
and now you've done me the favour of slipping away to die alone… how noble
of you.' He pushed himself up from the rock and tested his leg. 'But you still
needed to learn so much about leading people. Like how to avoid an early death
and when not to stray too far on your own.' To the side of Uther another Saxon
appeared from the trees, a big Saxon.
Uther took several hurried steps away from him, his eyes flitting nervously
between the two men. Horsa walked slowly towards him while the big man
laughed. It came out as a deep guttural sound, making his heavy chest shake. He
was huge. Thick red hair sprouted in tufts from beneath a round helm, far too
small for the head on which it balanced. The muscles of his massive arms flexed,
as if impatient to be unleashed, as he lumbered forward to stand beside Horsa.
'This is Gart,' said Horsa, indicating the huge warrior. 'I sent him into the
trees just before you arrived. I do hope you don't mind, it seemed a worthwhile
precaution at the time.' He leered at Uther, delighting in the turn of events. 'What
do you think… good idea?'
Uther glanced across at the towering Gart. There was a big grin spread
across the giant's face, his large fleshy lips drawn back, beneath a thick red
moustache, in a smile that exposed the black remains of what had once been his
teeth.
'Gart,' rumbled the giant happily, and then ran forward with unexpected
speed, swinging a huge rusty sword in a whistling arc as he came.
Uther didn't even attempt to block the blow, but dived to the side, rolled, and
flew at Horsa instead. He caught the Saxon chief off guard and attacked, doing
his best to keep the limping Saxon leader between him and the giant with a
flurry of blows. Horsa stumbled back and just managed to bring his sword up in
time to block Excalibur, and then Gart was behind him, trying to get past. The
two Saxons stumbled, pushing at each other as Uther continued to attack.
Finally, the giant bellowed his frustration and shoved Horsa to the side, his face
flushed in anger. Once again, Uther danced away, refusing to clash with him,
more intent upon getting to Horsa and delivering a killing blow. As the swords
sang, Gart bellowed, trying to get into the fight, then he grinned as, picking up a
huge branch, he came between the two and penned Uther in, forcing him to
finally face him and defend himself.
Uther could do nothing. While Gart tried unsuccessfully to corner him and
land just one blow, he watched Horsa from the corner of his eye as he resumed
his position on the rock, a satisfied smirk breaking through the grimace of pain.
He was aware of Horsa wrapping a strip of leather round his thigh and wincing
when he tied the knot tightly to stem the increasing flow of blood from his
wound. More blows came from Gart but he tried to sidestep the huge Saxon to
get a thrust into the unprepared Horsa, but the giant saw what he was doing and
moved to block him once again.
Gart was big, powerful, and immensely strong but was becoming angry as
the tribesman twisted and turned, dodging Gart's blade, still refusing to clash on
Gart's terms, it certainly wasn't the battle of strength Gart would have preferred.
Uther danced and weaved in intricate circles, leaving the giant bellowing in
frustration as his rusty blade repeatedly struck little more than trees or thin air.
Making the giant even madder were the growing number of small cuts and
stab wounds now decorating his arms and legs, none of which were fatal, but he
was bleeding freely from many and of course, they stung. They were enough to
make him furious, distracting him, and therefore making him sloppy in his
attempts to kill his smaller foe.
Ducking below another thundering cut, Uther slashed with Excalibur and
Gart jumped back with a bellow of rage. Seizing the opportunity, Uther chose
not to follow him but changed direction and renewed his attack on Horsa instead,
stabbing forward, seeking the Saxon's heart.
'For Odin's sake, kill this puppy!' screamed Horsa, slashing his sword across
Uther's path before dashing behind the stone to get out of the way. Drawing back
his hand, he threw a knife that missed its target, but distracted the young king
enough for Gart to storm in and shove him hard. Uther staggered backwards
unbalanced, arms thrashing, as if fending off a swarm of bees, and fell heavily to
the ground, the impact knocking the wind out of him.
'On him!' cried Horsa, but Gart needed no encouragement. He ran at Uther
and thrust down, letting out a bellow of triumph as the rusty sword stabbed
through Uther's thigh, pinning him to the ground.
Uther Pendragon screamed as his world exploded in pain, his vision flared
red then blinding white and the surrounding forest erupted with birds flapping
wildly up through the canopy in confusion and alarm. A shrill scream forced its
way past his lips and he writhed in agony, his lifeblood painting the leaves
around him as it pulsed in gouts from the savage wound. With his heart beating
loud in his ears, he managed to open his eyes and stare down in horror at the
sword protruding from his leg, watching as the blood pumped out around the
rusty blade. Throwing back his head, Uther Pendragon screamed and screamed
until there was no more and he was only left with a heaving sob. Above him
loomed Gart, who smiled and took the sword's crosspiece in both hands. Placing
his foot upon Uther's thigh, the giant heaved, ripping the old sword free. Uther
screamed again until there was no power left in his voice. He was only vaguely
aware of Horsa limping across to stand over him and gaze down at the pooling
blood with a sneer of disdain.
'Leader of the tribes and King of all Britons, wasn't it? Well now you die,
Uther Pendragon. For this is a mortal wound. You will take with you to the
shadowland the knowledge that you have failed your people. Britain will become
a Saxon land. Your people will become Saxons, or they shall die.' With a nod to
Gart, he stood back and waited for the killing blow to fall. The giant raised his
blade and Horsa studied the pain-wracked features of the young king one last
time. Then, as the blade fell, he saw the tribesman open his eyes, the pain
seeming to dissolve from his face… and a moment later, the blade was stopped a
fraction above Uther Pendragon's chest, halted by the intervention of a simple
wooden staff, its top hung with shells, leaves, and polished amber. Gart threw
back his head and bellowed in rage and frustration while Horsa's gaze travelled
along the length of the staff and fixed upon the cold blue eyes of the man that
bore it.
The newcomer regarded him calmly from beneath a fine silvery helm
decorated with bronze ornate hinges at its sides. It appeared somewhat out of
place on the old man, and was in contrast to the rest of his appearance. Dirty
brown robes, cinched at the waist with twisted bark, a long grey beard and filthy,
matted grey hair that sprouted at angles from the shining helm, surely stolen
from some battlefield corpse.
'Who are you?' demanded Horsa, trembling, barely able to keep his anger in
check.
The old man reclaimed his staff from Gart's sword with a simple twist. 'I am
the druid, Merlyn, and it was once said that my destiny was to save the life of a
king… and so, it proves to be true.' He bent down, took a wrap of bark from his
cloak, and emptied the contents onto Uther's open wound. The young king
stirred from unconsciousness, then groaned and writhed anew. While the Saxons
were distracted, Merlyn raised his staff in one fluid motion, and touched Gart
gently upon his forehead, the giant collapsed wordlessly to the ground.
A new voice floated across the open glade. 'We are meddling in monumental
events here, Merlyn. Are we sure of what we do?'
The sunlight in the clearing seemed to be dimming rapidly, yet there was no
cloud hung overhead.
Both Merlyn and Horsa turned towards the speaker as she stepped away
from the shadows of the forest. Clad in a white robe, the hood all but covering
her face, and mist twisting around her legs spreading out in frail fingers across
the forest floor, stood the Lady of the Lake.
Horsa waited, unsure of this new turn of events. The Saxons had little
experience of the druids and the only reports he had heard were confused. His
initial reaction was to seek escape, but as he gazed about the darkening forest,
more appeared, apparently flowing with the mist from between the trees, until a
circle of druids surrounded them.
Merlyn inclined his head. 'My Lady of the Lake… am I sure of what we do?
No, but then I did not intend to involve myself in these events, it was…
unforeseen.' He reached down and helped Uther regain his feet. Uther's face was
ashen and he appeared dazed as he gazed about at the assembled druids, and then
down at the bloodstained gash in his leggings, as he tested his weight on his leg,
he winced.
'Your friend plays the spirits at their own game, and wagers highly, Uther
Pendragon.' The Lady of the Lake walked forward, lowering the hood of her
cloak.
'Nineve? What's happening?' murmured Uther, his consciousness desperately
clawing itself back, trying to find some sense of reality.
She ignored him, studied Horsa for a moment, and then turned once more
towards Merlyn. Her eyes closed and the forest became silent. 'They shall fight,'
she murmured after a moment, opening her eyes, 'but no mortal may intercede
further. The spirits have decreed there shall be cause to forget. The timelines of
understanding will become confused; such shall be the cost of this intrusion.
Two shall begin, unsure of their future,
Another will remain, without knowledge of past,
… and the vanquished must walk the shores of the shadowland, without
hope of past, present, or future.'
Replacing her hood, she withdrew into the shadows and sunlight flooded the
glade once more. As the last tendril of mist whispered back between the trees,
Horsa gave a cry and swung his sword at Uther.
Now evenly matched, both warriors fought with a limping gait, the pain of
their wounds making the fight a contest of skill and strength, not speed and
dexterity. Uther felt stiff and unable to react, as he was accustomed. He could
still read his opponent's intentions, but there was no way he could turn and evade
as fluidly as he was used to. Horsa was stronger, driving Uther back with a flurry
of swinging strikes that threatened to knock the younger combatant from his
feet. Seeking an opening, the tribesman twisted on his good leg, crying out with
the pain that the move cost him. Excalibur leapt in his hands and Uther saw the
shocked expression on Horsa's face as the blade almost reached him, slicing past
just short of his throat. Without injury, Uther knew he could easily have stepped
forward and driven the blade home, ending the fight there and then… but he
didn't. With an explosion of agony, his wound flared, and pain shot up from his
leg, through his spine, and with a scream, he dropped to his knees once more.
Horsa was quick to move in, and more than ready to make the kill and be
done with these distractions. The boy was on his knees, head bowed in pain. He
glanced at the old druid, who was still watching, unmoving and without
expression, from the shadows. With a smile of victory, he stepped forward and
raised his sword to deliver the final blow… and then the tribesman's sword
seemed to leap in his hands and flew out as a blur of silver in the sparkling
sunlight. The forest seemed to hold its breath as the blade slipped beneath
Horsa's guard, entered his chest, and cut the life from his heart.
Both fighters fell to the floor. Uther Pendragon was still unaware of anything
other than the torment of his pain, and Horsa, the final moments of his life
ebbing away as his spirit prepared to seek the shadowland.
* * *
The storyteller cleared his throat, and gazed around at the expectant faces.
He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled at Calvador Craen.
'I'm getting tired, Cal. I feel… I feel as though I'm fading…'
Calvador Craen rose from the position he had occupied by the fire all
evening, and sighed. He turned and glanced round at the audience, and then to
his old friend, and nodded.
'With the permission of Uther Pendragon, once King of all the Britons, I
shall try and add the final part to his story, so that I can finally take him home.'
He smiled at the expectant faces, knowing that most of the listeners still believed
there was little more to Uther's story than the imagination of two very old men.
However, he decided he would complete the story anyway… for Uther.
'After the death of Horsa, the combined forces of the tribes travelled to
Camulod, where they …' he waved his arm in the air distractedly '… had another
battle and eventually formed a truce with the Saxons.'
Uther reached over and grasped Cal's hand. 'Slow down, Calvador, please.
Talk about my life after the death of Horsa, what happened? I took a wife, and
had a child. I remember his name… Arthur!'
'You had a wife and child, Uther. You married Igraine, which is another long
and tiresome story, and had a son, and yes, you named him Arthur. He went on
to become one of the greatest kings that this land has ever had, and then while
Arthur was still young, Merlyn arrived to complete an old promise…'