“The Picti!” he whispered, sucking in air. “They’ll be . . . at the outer gate before long . . . a thousand at least.”
“You didn’t lead them here?”
“No . . . they’ve besieged Luguvalium, so Bedwir and I spied . . . overheard their . . . rear guard discussing plans.”
“Father, preserve us,” Eira murmured.
“Sound the alarm.” Natalenya ran from the hall, the sharp, dry grass pricking her bare feet and the hot air making it ever harder to breathe. There was a bell tower on the northern end of the main stables, and Natalenya ran to its rope, untied it, and pulled. This bell was only allowed to be rung in the direst of emergencies, and everyone in the valley knew what was required.
Down she pulled. Clang! The rope jerked upward. Clangk!
Again and again, the bell pealed across the valley, resounding from the mountainsides.
Soon there was commotion everywhere. Women and children emerged from their crennigs and ran toward the fortress with as many essentials as they could carry. The men ran to the fields to gather the horses. Natalenya knew that these would be taken south, away from the fortress, through the secret mountain passes in hopes of saving them. All of the sheep would be left behind in an effort to fool the Picti and delay them long enough to get the horses away.
Only once before in the memory of the elders had this evacuation been required — when a British king had attacked from the east. Then it had ended in disaster, with only a few of the villagers surviving. The horses were captured and never returned. Replenishing the stock and rebuilding Rheged’s power took many long years.
Natalenya ran back to her uncle’s hall. She scooped up the hand of the crying Tinga, holding tightly to the little squirming female puppy, Gaff. Aunt Eira and her servants had gathered the last of the foodstuffs while Caygek recovered his breath, and together they made a run for the stairs leading to Dinas Crag. Taliesin carried Gruffen, the little male puppy, and the mother hound followed behind, sniffing the wind as if some odor defiled the air from the direction of the lake.
Farther down the valley flowed the waterfall, and at the end lay the gates that would now prove fairly useless to defend. Designed to conceal them at best, and stop a small raiding party at worst, the gates would never withstand the power of an invading army. The valley’s inhabitants would now have to rely on the hill fort.
And from below, old Brice cupped his hands and called upward from his lookout. “They’ve come! Everyone, to the fortress!”
Bedwir joined them from where he had been resting. There was a bloody gash on his left arm, and a scratch across his forehead.
But Natalenya’s breath was short, and her legs felt numb. She tripped on Tinga’s blanket. Falling headlong, she twisted to the side and fell into the dirt, jerking Tinga down as well. Aunt Eira and Caygek helped them up, but her skirt was horribly dirty.
“C’mon!” Taliesin said.
Placing one shaky foot upon the first step of the stair, Natalenya began the long, difficult ascent to the fortress. And as she did so, a quiet wail escaped her lips. With so few warriors to defend the walls, there was no way they could hold out against the Picti. And so her deepest fear had caught her and was dragging her down with its painted, sinewy hand.
She would be a slave once more, along with her children.
As Merlin remounted his horse, he saw Fodor astride his own and looking angrily at his soiled hat. He held it out with one hand and pinched his nose. “How in a Saxen spring am I supposed to carry this?” he asked.
After untying the knot holding Gogi’s dung hauler in place behind his saddle, Merlin threw it to Fodor, who caught it. “Here, put it in there . . . it’s the perfect place.” And then he laughed, but it was hollow, for he didn’t feel mirthful.
Fodor warily sniffed the dung hauler and threw it down in disgust. Instead, he pulled two woven strings from within his hat and tied the filthy thing to his saddle.
Together they rode out the east gate of the ruined city.
“I’m not going with you,” Fodor said.
“Fine,” Dwin said with a smirk. “Then we won’t smell your hat.”
“A son of Fercos is not to be scoffed at.”
“Nor sniffed, apparently,” Culann said.
“Stop that! I demand to be addressed only by Artorius. He is the only civil one among you boors.”
Arthur rode up beside the envoy and pointed to his golden lion pin. “Well then . . . we’re riding to join Vortigern at Dinas Marl, and you’re welcome to join us.”
“Not even tempted. I’ll find my own way.”
“You saw how the people of Glevum died, didn’t you?”
Fodor lifted his chin and looked away.
“Whoever did that may be hiding anywhere.”
“Quite improbable.” But he glanced around warily.
“You’d be safer with us.”
Fodor sniffed the air. “That is utterly in doubt.”
“As you like.”
Arthur galloped off. Merlin and the others followed him.
“Stop . . . wait!” Fodor yelled as he urged his mount to keep up.
“I thought you weren’t riding with us,” Merlin shouted.
“Don’t address me. But as to your insult, you happen to be traveling my way, and I might as well keep you out of trouble.”
They rode out Glevum’s south gate, as Merlin had directed, refilled their waterskins, and abandoned the road to cut across open country. Their goal was to find the trader road leading from Aquae Sulis to Dinas Marl, and the fastest way was to head east. En route they crossed another road, the ditch-dug Fossa, a Roman road that went from Corinium to Aquae Sulis and all the way down to Isca Difnonia, but this road didn’t suit their needs either, and they continued eastward.
The fact that fighting had come so close to Glevum worried Merlin. Had the Saxenow already taken so much? After awhile, curiosity got the better of him and he turned to Fodor.
“With the Saxenow fighting Vortigern at Dinas Marl . . . what of Lundnisow? Does it still stand against them?”
Fodor shook his head and trotted his horse faster.
Merlin kept up with him.
“If we’re going to help Vortigern, we need to know what we’re up against. What of Lundnisow? Have we lost it?”
“What concern is the port city of the Romans to you? Your accent shows that you have no heritage there, and we do not call it Lundnisow — a despicable, provincial name. It is called Londinium by all who know its luxuries.”
“Londinium, then. No news has come north to us. Please . . . I need to know. Does it still stand?”
“If you must know, the great city fell last month.”
The words smote Merlin like a spear.
“But don’t think it was a massacre. The fine citizens survive and even prosper, for their excellent upbringing has given them the wisdom to cooperate — ”
“You mean capitulate.”
“It was that or die, most likely.”
“Those that capitulate with the Saxenow most likely will die. Ignore that to your peril.”
“I never capitulate.”
“And those that cooperate with those who do will also likely die.”
“Fuss, fuss.”
In the course of the hours of travel, Merlin extracted other pieces of information from Fodor, and guessed at much more. Such as the tenacity of the Saxenow advance. Sixteen years ago they had started small, with only a few villages in the southeast, but each year more of them came ashore and took land, like a snarling dog that refuses to let go of a bone. But their real trick was never overreaching into lands they couldn’t hold.
Vortigern, the simpleton, had only slowed their advance rather than drive them out of Britain completely. Year after year, the Saxenow pushed Vortigern back. Based on what Fodor told him, Merlin sensed in the past this had been more for show — a game. But now that the Saxenow approached closer and closer to Glevum, Vortigern had begun to fight in earnest. But it was
too late. The Saxenow had grown too strong.
And Dinas Marl? Fodor confirmed Merlin’s own knowledge, passed on from Colvarth, who had required exhaustive memorizations about the strengths and weaknesses of Britain. Dinas Marl was one of many important hill forts that protected the ancient trade route that ran along a spine of hills crossing the south of Britain like a belt, from northwest of Lundnisow all the way to the edge of Aquae Sulis. Unfortunately, the walls of the fortress were made only of tall wooden staves, and they hadn’t been maintained properly.
It took two days to find the forest road, and as they traveled east Merlin noted that the land was even drier here. The sun blazed, and the sky looked perpetually burnt, as if the two had conspired together to suck the very life from the world. What had once been verdant fields, peopled and happy, were now brown and dead as far as the eye could see. The land had been abandoned, save for mocking crows and razor-beaked vultures who slit the thin, dead cattle into strips and gulped them down.
Early one morning, Merlin spotted in the distance a great gathering of birds sailing and circling in greedy anticipation of a gory feast. There was a battle afoot, and Arthur seemed invigorated as he led them to a high hill where they could survey the scene.
At the base of the wooden walls of Dinas Marl stood rank upon rank of British warriors, perhaps three thousand men. The front line was a great mass of foot soldiers with spear and sword, followed by chariots and horsemen. The sun glinted sharply from their weapons, and their red and yellow cloaks flapped in the hot wind.
Against these, about thirty paces away, stood an army of Saxen warriors. Each was bare chested, with brown leather leggings, tall boots tied up below their knees, and broad belts with bright buckles. Their army was organized like the Britons, with their foot soldiers in front, followed up by a line of chariots. Overall, they had fewer horsemen, but many more foot soldiers, perhaps five thousand, with their small shields and their long spears.
At the very front of the British forces, a lone, gilded chariot rode out to the middle. The man riding it was wearing the purple, and his magnificent steeds were dappled brown.
“That would be Vortipor,” Fodor said, causing Merlin to stiffen. “Britain’s best battle chieftain.”
“He has a peg leg!” Dwin said, clearly seeing farther than Merlin could.
“He lost his foot three years ago fighting horseback. But he always leads them to victory, he does.”
Arthur whistled. “Against so many Saxenow?”
“Ah, yes, but one with such an illustrious ancestry can’t lose, can he? And look, there he is — the Lion of Britain, protector of both fortress and city, Vortigern — looking down upon his future victory from the glorious battlements of Dinas Marl.”
Indeed, Vortigern leaned over the wall to survey the coming battle, along with a large number of advisers and archers. His hair was almost white now, showing his advanced age. Like Vortipor, he also wore the purple, only his cloak was more audacious, and his polished torc sparkled golden in the sunlight.
“What kind of a fortress is this?” Culann asked, for the wooden wall was ill-maintained and some parts of the outer defenses sagged where the wooden supports had rotted.
“Yes, it could certainly use a few repairs,” Fodor said, “but it has a long and famous history, Dinas Marl does. My great-grandfather once fought there, and he told me — ”
Culann swore. “Vortigern’s really going to try to defend that dump against so many?”
But movement down the field of battle drew their attention away. The Saxen ranks parted, and two chariots rode forth, each pulled by white horses. These men were larger than most of the other Saxen warriors, and over their forearms were worn long gold bands that matched their yellow hair.
As the two chariots rolled forward, the warriors began to slam their shields together in unison, and the sound filled the valley and roared up the hillside.
The two met Vortipor in the center, and the parley was hardly more than a series of violent gestures. After a short period of this, Vortipor and the two Saxenow circled each other twice then rode back to their own warriors. The battle was about to start.
Arthur began to cinch up his scaled leather armor. “Let’s get down there.”
Culann, Dwin, and Peredur did the same.
Merlin unwrapped his harp. His role would be different here — to lift up the men in prayer while he felt with his soul and hands the beat, pluck, and tune of the battle. It was a true story unfolding before him, and his fourfold goal, as Colvarth had taught him, was to glorify God with all the skill he could muster, preserve the battle in the memory of the people for all time, remember the courageous men who died, and to praise the skill of those who lived and fought skillfully.
Even in regard to Vortipor, he supposed, his skills would need to do him honor.
Arthur drew his sword and looked to Merlin, son to father still. He winked.
“Let’s go!”
And he led the way, galloping at full speed down the hill, heedless of the danger and death that waited below. Always Arthur, always reckless.
Merlin prayed.
Excitement pulsed though Arthur’s limbs as he rode downhill, and the tension made him want to squeeze Casva’s sides tightly with his knees, but he relaxed instead as he had been taught. Balancing, he let his body flow with the horse, feeling the steed’s God-given power as it stretched forth its front legs, floated for an instant of precious time, and — full contact. A shock. They connected, like a statue with the hard, dry earth, and then the muscles rippled beneath him and the cycle repeated itself. Fast. Faster. Until the world was a blur and all he knew was the hot breath of the wind biting his face. Arthur held to the reins, the mane, and the neck in breakneck descent to the valley below. Casva could break a leg at any moment and send him hurtling to his death — and this is what made it all worthwhile.
But the descent was soon over, and the time to race had come. Power. Speed. Shouting. Pulling his shield from where it bounced at the horse’s side. Drawing his sword. The valley floor fell behind him as the armies crashed, clashed, and struck each other. The warriors loomed larger and larger, closer and closer. Upon the exposed left flank of the Saxenow he attacked, with Culann and Dwin at his sides, and Peredur behind.
Arthur used Casva as a weapon, as the stallion had been trained. Crashing into the man in front, the horse rode the enemy down. The man’s long spear, pointed at the foot soldier in front of him, couldn’t be turned fast enough. But there was a man to Arthur’s right, and he slashed him in the head, and he fell, screaming. The next man turned too late, and he fell too. And now Culann was on Arthur’s left, and Dwin on his right, and they cut the men down, one after another.
A spear came thrusting toward him from his right, past Dwin, who was swinging at his own warrior.
Arthur had to lean back to avoid getting hit in the jaw. The spear jerked away and came back again, this time lower.
Arthur used his blade to shove it forward and away, and then Dwin delivered a fatal blow to the spearman.
Culann lunged his horse forward, next to Arthur, a whirl of blades, for he had discarded his shield and now swung and blocked with a long sword as well as a short. With these, he was able to dispatch many warriors and even break the tips of their spears off in a double cut.
On they plunged, a terror to the Saxenow, who didn’t expect an attack from two sides at once and perpetually had their long spears pointed in the wrong direction.
A growing, rumbling roar filled Arthur’s ears, the sound of horses galloping, of wheels crunching and jolting on the hard earth. The foot soldiers parted to avoid the onrush, and Arthur found himself in the middle of four chariots — two each from the opposing armies — rushing toward each other.
The British chariots contained two men, one bearing a shield who controlled the reins, and the other a warrior, while the Saxen chariots contained only a warrior who had the reins tied to his waist so he could free his hands at will if needed.
/> “Turn!” Arthur yelled, and he pulled his horse until it reared up and to the right.
The chariots nearly collided in front of him, their horses veering to the side just in time. But it was the Saxen warrior who was victorious, for his spear sliced through the shield bearer’s shoulder and then gutted the British warrior with a blow so fierce it came right through his armor.
The shield bearer fell down, clutching his wound while the other convulsed on the spear point.
Arthur tore his gaze away from the carnage just as a Saxen warrior made a jab at him. Almost without thought, he shoved the spear point away with his sword and then kicked the man in the face. Sheathing his sword, Arthur grabbed the man’s spear, turned toward the victorious charioteer, and threw the spear at his chest.
The spear missed.
The man wrenched his own spear from the dead Briton and turned to face Arthur, his lip curled in a snarl. He turned his chariot straight toward Arthur and snapped his reins.
Strength pulsed in Arthur’s limbs as he kicked his horse forward.
The Saxen leveled his spear, the deadly tip vibrating through the air as the horses pounded forward.
Arthur drew his sword, ready to strike, and raised his shield. There was a great crash. Arthur was floating. The sky was white. The clouds dripped blood. Culann’s face appeared, sideways. Dwin’s shouting dimmed in his ears. The neighing of horses. A shock of pain smashed through his upper back. He gasped for air. The hooves of horses slamming the ground next to his head. He had fallen from his saddle!
Casva reared up and then bolted off into the battle.
Arthur tried to stand, but he was dizzy, and sucked in air.
“Get up!” Peredur yelled. The three of them surrounded him, driving back the Saxen and buying Arthur time.
“Stand . . . stand!” he told himself, but his words didn’t avail him. He lay back, breathed, and let warmth return to his limbs. Shakily, he sat up, and when he did so, his hand rested upon his blade, which had fallen next to him.
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 15
