by M. K. Hume
‘You will spare greybeards, women and children wherever you can, but you must not risk the lives of any of your warriors in doing so. Young children must be allowed to live, Gawayne, for they are the future citizens of our nation and aren’t old enough to bear lifelong grudges. All other decisions in the field are left to your discretion. Your goal is the total destruction of the settlement at Nidum.’
Gawayne was essentially a simple young man with an elementary, if steadfast, view of the battlefield. While he drew breath, he would not fail Artor, for his brother’s sacrifice had bound him to the High King’s cause for the remainder of his life.
‘The most difficult task goes to you, Lot. Your command will proceed along the Octapitarum Peninsula to a fortified camp at a place called Castel Flemish. I have never seen this place, so your battle plan will depend on your assessment of its weaknesses. You must take the fortress, and it must fall to your force with speed, for you will have the furthest distance to travel when you return to our defensive position. We will be relying on your cavalry to encircle Glamdring’s warriors and contain them inside the trap. Should the Saxon thane act as I expect, he will have stripped Castel Flemish to replenish his own troops before you even arrive at your destination. Glamdring’s imprudence will make your task a little easier.’
Lot nodded in assent. He understood that success or failure in the larger campaign hinged upon the revenge-hungry Otadini warriors that he led. Once Lot would have revelled in Artor’s dilemma, but now the retribution he desired from Ironfist ensured that his vows to Artor would be upheld.
‘Your men will be taking a full complement of spare horses to speed their return journey. They can rotate their horses and travel without having to rest their mounts. Your command will leave the bivouac tonight under cover of darkness, but try to be as noisy as you dare so that Glamdring will not be completely ignorant of our intentions. He must be forced to make false assumptions.’ Artor paused. ‘Are my instructions clear? Have I forgotten anything?’
Lot was confident that his warriors could take any Saxon fort, for the highlands were their natural home, and ferocity was bred into them through the privations of life in the frigid winters of their lands.
‘Nay, Artor, I am content.’
Artor turned to Llanwith. ‘Llanwith, old friend, your task is not easy. Your road lies north, and you must skirt around Caer Fyrddin until you reach Glandovery. Your orders are to strike at the Saxons in country that they believe is their safe haven, forcing them to look sideways at every tree and behind every rock. You have lost men in the past near Glandovery, so I assume you have personal knowledge of the terrain and an equally personal interest in the success of your task.’
‘Such a mission would be very personal, Artor.’
‘Then our battle strategy is decided. My plan is relatively simple: your men will attack his outposts, while I will send unpalatable messages to Glamdring Ironfist. He will not come out of Caer Fyrddin for some time, for he will not see any need. Even as we squat on this river bank, I am sure we are watched, so I’ll keep some cavalry to hunt out Saxon prisoners who can deliver my insults. I’m convinced that if I push him hard enough, Ironfist will eventually lose his self-discipline. And when he sets foot outside his fortress, my cavalry will provide an early warning of his march, before riding north and west to alert your forces and hurry you home. I’ll hold the Saxon forces at bay until you arrive to relieve the main army.’ Artor stared fixedly at Lot, for the Otadini king could have the throne of the High King simply by being tardy in his response to Artor’s need.
‘I know what you risk, Artor,’ Lot stated. ‘And I understand the stakes. I’ve given my word, so I will come.’ He smiled at Artor. ‘A shield wall held by Celts,’ he said with dry humour. ‘They’ll not expect you to do that, Artor, and they’ll be over-confident when they come to meet your forces. Yes, I’ll be back long before Glamdring is crushed, for my queen would never forgive me if she missed such a slaughter.’
‘I believe you, Lot. You were ever an honest man, for all that we held differing opinions, and I am happy to accept your word.’
‘But you may have to repel the Saxons for days, my lord,’ Llanwith muttered, cracking his great knuckles with worry. ‘Ironfist will only come out from his fortress if he outnumbers you, and we Celts have forgotten how to hold a single, untenable position to the death. What if Lot and I come too late?’
‘Then you’ll be responsible for our burial rites,’ Artor replied with an attempt at humour. ‘But Targo tells me that his Roman friends occasionally held impossible situations with little more than stubbornness and willpower. I will emulate them, and we will survive until your arrival.’ He smiled, exuding confidence. ‘Now, enough has been said.’
Artor moistened two fingers and pinched out one of the oil lamps. The tent darkened.
‘Tomorrow you ride, and Glamdring Ironfist will be forced to watch four fronts rather than one. Pray to your gods that we don’t fail.’ Artor raised his cup and drained it in one smooth draught. ‘Until we meet in victory.’
‘In victory,’ the captains repeated, and upturned their empty cups on the table.
They filed out of the tent and returned to their waiting troops.
Before first light, the blackness was filled with the deeper shadows of men and horses milling around the dying campfires. Torches were lit and flared their phosphorescence over the black arms of the fighting men who slowly walked their horses in three different directions, carrying packs loaded with sufficient provisions to last for at least a week. The night was alive with the sounds of harness jingling and the dull thud of hooves, for Artor did not choose to hide his actions from the enemy. By the time first light came creeping up to the camp, the Saxons could see the tails of three columns moving purposefully away from the main body of the host.
Ironfist’s spies dispatched couriers to Caer Fyrddin, and the game began.
Artor’s harriers, under Luka’s expert command, began to rove the foothills. They muffled the hooves of their horses, and their bodies were wrapped in black cloaks. If they saw a Saxon scout, they rode him down, and then shepherded him back to the main camp.
Three days passed in fruitful waiting.
Artor had set his men to work, shaping and preparing spare arrows, even if they didn’t have sufficient arrowheads. The shafts alone, heated at the point over a fire, could still inflict damage on human flesh. And with a piece of fat-soaked lint attached to the point of the shaft, the archer had a fire arrow that could light the hidden pits of dead wood soaked in pitch that Myrddion had prepared as a defensive barrier. Ever the planner, Myrddion had anticipated the need to illuminate the field of combat during the depths of night, so that darkness would not benefit Glamdring Ironfist’s warriors during any sneak attack.
Each evening, a prisoner would be selected from those unfortunates captured during the day. Those who spoke the Celtic tongue were drilled in the message they would be forced to deliver; if they spoke only Saxon, they would receive their instructions from Gruffydd in their own tongue. Then a blood-soaked bag was tied around their necks. Only Artor and Odin knew for certain what these bags contained, but it was clear that Artor was sending a message that could not be misunderstood by Glamdring Ironfist or his Saxon horde.
At midnight on the first night, the first Saxon was released on the edge of camp and sent to Caer Fyrddin with his poisonous message.
‘Any sensible person would throw away the bag and take to his heels,’ Targo muttered as the Saxon disappeared into the darkness beyond the torches.
Luka admired the poetry and justice of Artor’s actions. ‘If they don’t carry the message to Glamdring, and he wins, they will be executed for treason. If they report to Glamdring, they risk being killed because they carried a message that he didn’t want to hear. Either way, they cannot win.’
‘But our methods are just as barbaric as those used by Glamdring,’ Myrddion said sadly.
‘Myrddion, old friend, sometimes you
can be an old woman.’ Luka smiled. ‘What other choice does Artor have?’
‘Oh, he has little choice, I agree, but I deplore the means by which we are smoking Glamdring out.’
‘Deplore away.’ Luka laughed. ‘I don’t think Artor cares.’
Artor did care, in the deepest part of himself. Sometimes, he hated what the king in him had to do. The slaughter of a man in the dead of night, even the least noble of the Saxons, weighed heavily on his already burdened heart, but he could not allow a hint of his self-disgust to show when Odin beheaded each spitting, cursing Saxon on the banks of the river. The corpse was consigned to the tides and the sea, but the head was bagged and sent to Glamdring. If Artor was disturbed by the orders he issued, he was not prepared to show his followers a weak and sickly face, for now was the time for courage.
Spies had reported the Celtic troop movements to Glamdring almost as soon as Artor divided his forces.
The Saxon chieftain sat in the gloomy hall that Bedwyr now cleaned every day. He worked unobtrusively, watching and waiting, trusting to Fortuna to give him a sign.
‘What does Artor intend to do?’ Glamdring puzzled. ‘Does he mean to starve us out? Can he believe that he can burn and pillage all of Dyfed and the Saxon villages?’
His captains looked bemused at their master’s rhetorical questions and offered no advice, but Wyrr cautioned Glamdring to exercise patience. The gods would make all Artor’s strategies plain in the days to come.
Covertly, Bedwyr watched Glamdring finger the hilt of the Arden Knife, reassuring himself that it still hung safely in its protective scabbard round his neck.
Glamdring is rattled. He’s not the sort of man who has the patience to sit and wait, Bedwyr thought as he served horse stew in rich gravy to his master.
Glamdring cuffed his slave casually as gravy spilled on to his leg and disturbed his concentration on Artor’s tactical moves. Bedwyr lowered his head and maintained his fragile control.
The next day, shortly after noon, the first courier loped up to the gates of Caer Fyrddin at a slow, tired trot. Terrified by his task, the captive had fully intended to flee, but one of Glamdring’s patrols had discovered him only hours after Artor sent him on his way. The odorous leather bag, the staining of the courier’s shirt and his obvious fear had convinced the Saxon troop that Glamdring must be immediately informed of their discovery. The patrol had escorted the cringing warrior back to Glamdring’s citadel.
Glamdring strode from the hall with a thunderous face when word reached him that one of his scouts had returned. A woman howled by the wall, and the still air waited on the thane’s arrival. Bedwyr crouched at the great, wooden-planked door of the hall and listened with the panting hounds that rested behind him.
The scout was lathered with sweat and streaked with blood where the bag had leaked down his furs and his cloak. His eyes were pale pits of anger and fear. Glamdring snatched the bag from the courier and peeled back the leather to expose the countenance of the fleet-footed Wulf, a childhood friend. He clenched his strong teeth and demanded the message.
‘To Glamdring Ironfist of Caer Fyrddin. I bear gifts in memory of Prince Gaheris, son of Lot, and of the emissaries who were slain by you in defiance of a flag of truce. We will watch from Hades as you hide in fear within your fortress while you collect more and more heads taken from your warriors. These tokens are all you will get from King Artor. Not one foot of Celtic earth will feel the imprint of your cowardly heel.’
The scout stammered over the last words and flinched at the red points of light in his master’s eyes.
‘By the gods!’ Glamdring cursed, but he kept his head. ‘Take this idiot out of my sight. Men who allow themselves to be captured are of no use to me. He can collect the wood for Wulf ’s funeral pyre instead.’
The scout ran to obey his master; he had feared painful retribution and death from the thane but, unaccountably, he had managed to survive.
Twenty-four hours later, another scout arrived bearing an identical bag. The message this man carried was briefer.
‘Artor, High King of the Celts, is merciful, so he will permit you to live if you relinquish Caer Fyrddin. He scorns to send more such messengers; each will cost you a hundred warriors if you wait too long. You must decide - and you must make your choice very soon.’
The scout blanched as Glamdring’s cheeks flushed wine-red with temper.
‘My lord,’ he stammered, ‘I brought the head of my companion back to his home to ensure he receives a decent burial. His body floats on the grey tide as we speak. I ask that you do not silence the mouth that brings these foul messages.’
Wyrr padded up to Glamdring and hissed up at his glowering master.
‘Think, my lord, for Artor always acts with a purpose. Does he wish to distract you with these vile slurs? Where are his other troops? Does he wish to blind you? You must think of these things, my lord.’
Gradually, the red glow of rage dissipated from Glamdring’s eyes, and he set the scout about the same task as his fellow from the previous day.
‘Yes, you’re right, my friend. I must think. Artor is playing games with me, but I won’t fall into his traps.’ Glamdring’s muttered words seemed designed more to convince himself than others, but Wyrr patted his arm affectionately to placate him.
Glamdring smiled at the small, misshapen wizard, and a shared moment of intimacy passed between the huge Saxon and the albino.
Bedwyr swore under his breath but, as the hours passed, he saw that Glamdring’s confidence was wilting perceptibly. Just before noon, Glamdring would start to pace up and down his hall, his fists would clench and unclench, while his wary eyes flickered towards the flagged yard and the view of the rocky path leading up to the fortress.
By the third day, Bedwyr began to realize that Glamdring was listening for the sound of a scout returning with another head and another message, and he smiled under the shadow of his beard. He did not believe that the thane had become a frightened man, but he sensed that Glamdring was disconcerted by Artor’s tactics, and the forced inactivity was putting him on edge.
Bedwyr was aware that his own hatred for the thane was swelling as the Saxon’s anger and frustration grew. Glamdring’s nerves were fraying, and he displayed his anger with fists, sticks and his boots whenever a slave, a woman or even a dog crossed his path.
How long can you squat here, Glamdring Ironfist? Until the High King loses patience and comes to root you out of your hilly sty? And will you sit here like a fat pig avoiding the butcher’s knife?
But no answers came to Bedwyr’s silent questions, only a steady stream of bloody couriers.
When the fifth head was brought to Glamdring, his control snapped. As the scout uttered the hateful message in a quaking voice, Glamdring roared, and slashed at the poor man’s throat without thought. The courier died in shaking spasms as his blood pumped out in an uncontrolled jet of bright red.
Surprised, Wyrr hurried towards his lord and tugged at his sleeve, but Glamdring held up one forceful hand.
‘No!’
‘Lord, think! Do not—’
‘No, Wyrr! I have waited long enough. Even though our scouts have yet to discover the whereabouts of Artor’s three troops, I’ll wait for them no longer. Tomorrow, for good or ill, we march on Artor’s timid Celtic army and we’ll drive them into the sea. If they won’t come to us, then we will go to them.’
‘Lord, this is not the way—’
‘No!’ Glamdring shouted, his brows drawing down in his ire. ‘I wait no longer.’
Wyrr realized that he had chosen the wrong moment to speak.
That night, the darkness seemed full of eyes. Most men were silent as they honed and oiled their weapons into brightness. Their hearts were filled with a fierce joy, for the Saxons were fighting for their homes, as were the Celts. The women wept, as women always do when their men go to war. But Bedwyr was long past any sympathy for them. He thought of the Celtic women captives who had been enslaved, raped and f
orced to live the most menial of lives within the fortress of Caer Fyrddin. Years of his own pain and humiliation filled his mind and he longed for the death of all his tormentors.
Having made his decision to attack Artor’s force, Glamdring suddenly seemed happy, relieved and excited, and Bedwyr exulted in the thane’s impulsiveness. The brute is overjoyed to be back in action, for he has hated having to sit and wait. Clever, clever Artor, to goad him into following a foolish course of action.
But Bedwyr feared that Glamdring’s force of eight hundred fighting men was a frighteningly vast number for any army to face. It was entirely conceivable that the Saxon thane could overrun even the strongest defensive position.
As the darkness deepened, Bedwyr fretted that Artor would be attacked unwarned. Glamdring was unlike his fellow Saxons, for the man had no superstitious fears about making a night attack. Whatever plan the High King had devised could easily be imperilled by Glamdring’s sudden, lightning-fast tactical changes.
‘It’s time for Dog to vanish so I can become Bedwyr again,’ the slave muttered into the straw of his pallet as he feigned sleep.
Long after midnight, the fortress began to settle after the initial feverish preparations for battle, and stillness enveloped the spirits of the men who sheltered within its walls.
Carefully, Bedwyr stirred in the straw. Until this last, desperate moment, he hadn’t perceived any value in throwing his life away on the slight chance of gaining his freedom through escape. But now was the time for Glamdring’s dog to flee and, if need be, to die as a Celt.
As silently as any beast stalking its quarry, Bedwyr slid from the hall, hugging the deep shadows of the walls. For three years he had watched the sentries change guard and he had studied the mechanism of the gate and knew the noise it made when it was opened. Two nights previously, in expectation that his time may have come, he had rubbed pig fat into the hinges and the metal flanges that held the bar in place, risking discovery to meet the necessities of a later, desperate plan. Now, slipping from one pool of darkness to the next, the Celt thanked his foresight and made his way ever closer to the watchtower overlooking the gate.
