by M. K. Hume
‘So what comes next?’ he asked.
‘I shall send Lot’s warriors to the Octapitarum Peninsula at speed, and Llanwith will proceed to some gruesome place called Glandovery. At least, I think that’s what it’s called.’
‘You’re insane!’
Targo’s understanding of military strategy rejected the concept of dividing an effective fighting force into smaller, less effective units that were vulnerable to attack from an enemy force with a strong tactical advantage. The attack on Anderida had involved the division of forces that approached one site from different directions. But, on this occasion, Artor was proposing to send his cavalry all over southern Cymru, to the east, west and north, while leaving his main force without protection.
‘Ironfist will almost certainly mount an attack on our main force, and he could easily defeat them if they are unsupported.’
‘Normally I would agree with your assessment, and I have no desire to either lose or to die. Once I’ve sent my units to carry out the tasks I assign to them, I intend to sit and wait beside the river that comes down from the heights. We will have the water behind us on at least two sides and, from Ironfist’s perspective, we will have nowhere to run and hide.’ Artor turned to Targo and challenged him with a gentle smile. ‘Each day, I will send Ironfist a freed Saxon with a gift. I’ll also send a special, personal message from me that will enrage him.’
Targo’s horse stirred to nervous life as it sensed the sudden excitement of its old, timeworn rider.
‘The purpose of my daily messages is to incite Ironfist to the point where he will charge out of Caer Fyrddin and attack me with what he believes is a superior force of men. I am gambling that his temper is as volatile as Ulf has described to us.’
Targo realized that his protégé was gambling for dizzyingly high stakes.
‘So it’s likely that Ironfist will kill you,’ he grunted. ‘How do you propose to sit on the coastal plain and hold off hundreds of lice-ridden savages who all want your head? And my head, of course, will be an extra bonus to those barbarians.’
‘That’s where Gawayne, Lot and Llanwith come into play.’
‘But they aren’t going to be at the river battle, are they?’ Targo pointed out.
‘I hope Ironfist forgets about them, or at least considers them to be too far away to constitute a threat. In theory, assuming that my smaller forces can hold this position, then Moridunum is loosely surrounded. But I intend that the three absent columns will return to the river and reinforce my command once the battle with Ironfist is joined.’
He paused to assess the effect of his statement on Targo.
‘Before you say a word, my friend, I am well aware that the three forces will take some time to return to my command and must ride at speed to join me. So, until they arrive and swell our ranks, I will use the Saxon’s own tactic, the wall of shields, as my prime defence. With this in mind, I will strip my defensive force of its horses. These will be given to each of Lot’s warriors so that they have a second mount to speed their return. They have the furthest distance to travel if they are to relieve my force, so they will need fresh mounts. Llanwith’s column, and Gawayne’s troop, can return in a relatively short time once they get a signal that their presence is needed. For our part, we must live or die on the courage and ability of our bowmen who will be positioned behind my warriors at the edge of the river.’
‘I’m suddenly glad that old Pinhead is with us,’ Targo muttered. ‘I never mention it overmuch, but I once had to “hunker down”, as the Romans called it. We were in Illyricum at a place that didn’t even have a name, a little to the north of Herculia. The ground was dead flat and the barbarians were unpleasant. There were arrows coming in constantly, by day and by night.’
‘It’s obvious that you managed to survive. What did your commander do? How did he protect you from bowmen and a surrounding force of savages?’
The two men moved off the low knoll and slowly walked their horses parallel with the main body of the army. Away from the press of pack animals in the column, the sucking discomfort of mud was minimized, and the rain had diminished to the odd sprinkle of drizzle. Targo emerged from his hide cocoon like a wizened and ancient turtle.
‘All I can remember of my tribune is that his name was Sisto. He was an ordinary man without any particular intelligence, but I recall that he was stubborn and dour. He was told to hold the camp until relieved, so he planned to retain every square foot placed under his control and carried out his orders to the letter.
‘We formed the fighting square after he had explained to us that if we broke, we were finished. We knew. The inevitable fate ahead of us stiffened our spines and strengthened our arms. We were packed tightly around our baggage train, and we used our shields above as well as to the side. Yes, Artor, you really must endure, without complaint. A fresh man must fill the shoes of every dead man, like clockwork. No wounded or dead can be abandoned to the enemy, because the savages will commit the most vicious atrocities just to weaken the resolve of your warriors. You must be prepared to die for something as useless as a baggage train or a dying man. You “hunker down”, and you work on surviving the next five minutes, then the next hour, then the next day. This strategy is like a war of attrition to find out who has the strongest nerves.’ Targo cleared his throat and laughed in his croaking fashion.
‘Sisto didn’t particularly expect to live, but he was simply too stubborn to submit. We called him Old Sour Guts, but when we needed a boost of confidence, we only had to look at old Sisto, and he raised our spirits. He never smiled, and he never laughed, but his lack of passion of any kind meant there was nothing much to worry about - yet. We were still waiting for Sisto to tell us things were really bad when we were eventually relieved. Amazing, really, how much a commander can matter.’
Artor understood the message in Targo’s words. ‘The Saxons don’t use bows often, and rarely do they give up the glory of hand-to-hand combat for the more sensible use of long-range weapons. No. If Ironfist does come forth, he’ll surround us and try to batter our defences down by brute strength.’
‘So we must hold our ground until Lot and Llanwith return to the battlefield,’ Targo said. ‘There’s no help for it. Once you embark on this strategy, you must repel the Saxons until you are relieved.’
‘By which time,’ Artor concluded, ‘Ironfist’s warriors should be enclosed in our net, and he will be like a ripe plum to pluck, to taste and to devour.’
‘If we are besieged on ground of our choosing, then we’ll be out of the rain but we’ll have to contend with mud instead,’ Targo added encouragingly. ‘And I love mud. It slips the enemy up, and slows him down.’
‘You’re the eternal optimist, Targo.’
‘But I’m still here, aren’t I? And I’ll be here after Moridunum. Wait and see. We’ll crack them like lice.’
As Artor rode down to call his captains together for their briefing, Targo sank back into his uncomfortable hides. The afternoon was giving way to an evening of poor visibility, incipient fog, and bone-numbing cold.
The Celts stopped their forward impetus at a small tributary of a river where grass and water were plentiful. In the ordered manner of all well-trained soldiery, the horses were watered first, and then tied to long tethering ropes that allowed them to graze under the sleepless eyes of the watch. Units of fifty men then organized fires, cover and cookery, while on every vantage point, silent men on horses parted the shadows like wisps of smoke, and lights appeared like small red eyes where cooking and heating fires sent out glows of comfort.
Targo made his way to the heart of the host, where Artor’s travelling tent was already raised and Odin was supervising a rabbit stew that he had somehow acquired on the march. Gruffydd was abroad in the hills, scouting and watching, and only old Targo seemed to be wandering without purpose.
The Roman thought carefully again about Artor’s plan of action. Yes, it could work, as long as Celtic scouts were loose in the hills, either indivi
dually or in pairs. For any chance of success, the Saxon lines of communication must be cut, so the only messages that reached Ironfist were those that Artor wanted him to receive.
Targo tied a knot in the leather strings that secured his rainproof cloak to remind himself to suggest this tactic to Artor.
‘The lad has the hearts of his warriors in his hands,’ the Roman murmured to himself as his eyes tried to penetrate the developing fog. ‘So he’ll be careful to give them the will to hold their positions on the river. But it wouldn’t hurt if I put the fear of Mithras into the Saxons at the same time. At least, it’s something I can do on my own initiative.’
When he spoke softly into the night, Targo never expected a response, so he turned white and his hand reached for his weapon when Luka silently materialized out of the fog beside his horse.
‘Are you feeling sorry for yourself, old man?’
‘Shite, Luka, you scare me shitless sometimes. And who are you to call me an old man? You’re not so nimble yourself these days.’
‘I’m still younger than you are, Targo. If even half the tales you tell are true, you’re older than Caer Fyrddin itself. ’ Luka chuckled, a rolling laugh of amused friendship.
‘Are you checking the dangers of the land, King Luka?’
‘It’s the habit of a lifetime,’ Luka replied economically. ‘What’s Artor about?’
‘He’s sharing his suicide strategy with Gawayne, Lot and Llanwith. I guess you’ll be with us as we stick our necks out obligingly in an invitation to have our heads severed from our bodies.’
‘I’ll accept his strategy if Artor has planned it, for his mind is sharper than ten of Ironfist’s axes. We may suffer losses, but I’d lay a wager that we’ll not lose the final battle. Mark my words, old soldier. Artor dearly wants the head of Ironfist as a trophy, and his revenge will prevail even if we suffer massive losses in the process.’
Targo felt his hackles rise in Artor’s defence. ‘I’d swear you hated our king sometimes, Luka. How can you judge the boy so harshly? You’ve known him for as long as I have.’
‘Because I love him - and I believe in him. I see him as he really is, as a boy who didn’t want to kill me when I tested his strength some twenty years ago. But, even then, I knew that he’d have filleted me if he’d had to, because he has always been ruled by his brain rather than by his feelings. Shite, Targo. You taught him that dying needlessly was stupid, and the only time I’ve known him to embark on a fruitless quest was when he wanted to return to Aquae Sulis to save Gallia. Perhaps he could have saved her . . . but if we had assisted him to do so, then he’d not be High King and we would most likely be long dead.’
Targo drew his hand over his eyes. ‘I still harbour regrets about that incident, my friend,’ he replied softly. ‘I was the one who closed that door for him forever. Don’t misunderstand me, though, because I’d do it again if I had to. Not for the Britons, and not for the people or the land, but because of my love for the boy.’
‘If there is collective guilt to be paid for what happened on that day, then we are all guilty and I should bear the lion’s share. In my drunkenness, I was the one who blurted out that Artor was married, and that piece of news soon filtered through to Uther, may he scream in the shadows for eternity. But, even so, we shouldn’t blind ourselves to the real Artor. I serve him because he’s human, and because he fights to win. He uses that mysterious and wonderful brain of his to puzzle out solutions to problems that are beyond us lesser mortals. He has been a formidable High King, but perhaps we should pity him, rather than glorify him. He can never know peace.’
‘After I’ve kicked his arse into the dirt more times than I can remember? No, Luka, I don’t glorify him. I glory in him, and I’ll go to my grave feeling the same way.’
Luka’s white teeth flashed out of the gloom in his cheeky smile, so ludicrous in the face of an ageing autocrat.
‘Then we’ll agree to remember him as two different men, Targo. Shite, we’re probably both correct in our assessment of Artor anyway, for a king must be everyman for his people. I’m glad I wasn’t called upon to be the Warrior of the West.’ He smiled reflectively. ‘I married a sweet woman and, unlike Artor, no one cared whom I wed. I was fortunate enough to father sons. My feelings are my own so I am free to hate whom I choose, and love in the same way. I can be bad-tempered if I want to be, and no one cares a jot if I insult someone I don’t like. Artor doesn’t have that luxury, and he is forced to flatter King Lot and his poisonous half-sister who have insulted him in every way possible for years, all for the sake of cementing an alliance.’ Luka pursed his lips. ‘No, I don’t want to be the Warrior of the West. Ruling my squabbling tribe is difficult enough.’
‘That’s true, my friend,’ Targo agreed. He smelled the air like an old hound. ‘I think he’s about to turn us towards the south now until we strike the sea.’
‘I never liked the water overmuch,’ Luka said crisply, and headed off towards the tree line.
Targo watched as Luka slid into the shadows, becoming less than a flicker of moonlight on the edges of the trees.
The great hall of Caer Fyrddin lacked both height and dignity. The Saxons had re-used several Roman-built walls in its construction, and had formed the rest of the structure from what trees were found on the surrounding hillsides. The rafters of the hall were charred almost black, the thatch was mouldy and smelled of rot, while the straw on the sod floor was filthy and lice-infested.
Bedwyr toed a heavily-boned mastiff out of the way so he could clean a rough table that was deeply stained with old ale, wine and food scum. Years before, he had learned to control a revolted stomach so that the sights and smells of Caer Fyrddin no longer made his gorge rise.
The young Celt had been raised in the hall of a minor chieftain of the Cornovii tribe near the deep, velvet forests of Arden. At that time, he had been a sturdy youth who had shown a talent for combat of all kinds, although he was not overly tall for a warrior. His brown eyes and even browner hair were set in a face that freckled so easily that, even in his twenties, he still looked like a mischievous boy.
When he was twenty-one, and had reached full manhood, he had begged his father to give him leave to serve in King Llanwith’s city of Viroconium, where he knew he would see more of the world. The Roman roads met at Viroconium, and Bedwyr hoped to catch a glimpse of the great Artor and the legendary figure of Myrddion Merlinus. Mad for glory, Bedwyr convinced himself that, if Artor saw him fresh from sorties against the Saxons, he would be deemed suitable to serve as a warrior at Cadbury Tor, a wonderful place that Bedwyr could scarcely imagine.
Bedwyr was a joyous young man who loved to rove the Ordovice country, and even serving on the borders of the Demetae had been a thrilling and an exciting period of his young life. He had learned his woodcraft in Arden Forest before he was ten years old, and so he made the Western Mountains his own hunting preserve by roving on foot with a tread so silent that rabbits, birds and fallow deer fell to the accuracy of his sling and his bow with ridiculous ease. Bedwyr was a gifted, light-hearted killer with an intimate knowledge of the terrain.
He did not really learn the nature of the Saxon menace until his fate was sealed. The Ordovice clans had ruled the hills of Caer Sivii and Castell Collen so completely that the Saxons avoided their territory. Perhaps he would have retained his innocence far longer, or would have died before his time, if he had not gone hunting one late afternoon above the troop’s base camp in a small, green valley near Castell Collen. His young compatriots were, as always, keen to eat whatever crossed Bedwyr’s path.
His skill in the lengthening shadows was so well-honed that he soon had a brace of coney and a fox that had been uncharacteristically rash. Bedwyr was searching for deer when he smelled smoke on the slopes above the valley camp.
He was drawn inexorably towards its source.
Bedwyr snaked through the underbrush directly above his camp with scarcely a rustle of leaves to betray his passage. The tents were afire a
nd flames rose bloodily over the cooking hearth. The young man was trying to peer through the turgid smoke when the screams began, followed by a smell that made Bedwyr’s stomach begin to churn.
The sharp stench of seared human flesh was hideous and unmistakable.
The screams were terrible, rising out of the lower valley with an awful, pain-fuelled volume. Something twisted and contracted in the flames, but Bedwyr tried not to recognize the details of a man tied to a tree trunk as he roasted in the middle of the fire pit.
But there was no escaping the inhuman agony of those wailing, pulsating cries.
Bedwyr drew his knees up to his chest as he crouched under the low cover. The screams shivered up his spine and reverberated through his bones. Unbidden and unwelcome, the faces of his companions in the troop came striding into his thoughts. Was the burning man Callwyn, or Octa, or Berrigan, or Melwai? Against his will, Bedwyr began to vomit uncontrollably so that he did not hear the slither of careful feet on the pebbled slope, or see the faint glitter of metal off to his right.
When his stomach could heave up only bile, Bedwyr managed to master his nerves, gather up the coneys and the fox, and rope their limp bodies through a cord attached to his belt. After checking for his knife and his bow, Bedwyr slid out of the low cover - straight into two very large Saxons. He barely had time to utter a small exclamation of surprise when a rock crashed against his temple and his wits deserted him.
When he awoke, he realized that his limp body was hanging over the rump of a horse, and he slowly became aware that his hands and feet were tied together under the belly of the animal. His tendons screamed from the strain and his head thudded in an insistent echo of the movements of the animal’s flexing and bunching muscles.
Once again, he vomited bile weakly from his abused throat and stomach.
