“Speak with Cataur,” he told the king, “and when you are done, however it goes, come to me on the top of the Tor. You will not wish to take the time, but you must do so. From the summit you will be able to see more than the road across the vale—you will see your way.” He held Artor’s gaze until the angry light in the king’s eyes faded and he knew that the younger man was sensing, at least a little, the ancient power that would outlast all of them and their fears.
“Look at that arrogant son of a swine, parading in here as if he had won a victory instead of plunging the land into war!” exclaimed Cai. “I know how I’d reward him if I were high king!” He frowned as Cataur approached the awning that had been set up to shade the meeting, escorted by Leo-degranus, the prince of Lindinis who was in a sense their host here. His hand drifted toward the pommel of his sword.
“Just as well you are not—” answered Betiver. “Artor will have to handle him like a man carrying coals through a hay-field, or we’ll have all the west and south aflame. This deed of Cataur’s has united the Saxons, but it could break the British alliance.”
“And Artor knows it—” Gualchmai shook his head. “He’s got a frown on him that would curdle new milk. Still, ‘tis not entirely a bad thing. With every year the Saxons have been getting stronger. Do we smash them now, we’ll not risk being too weak to do it in a few years’ time. . . .”
His younger brother Gwyhir bared his teeth in a grin. He was pale of hair and combative, like his brother only in his height. The third brother, Aggarban, was short and darker. Men said that after the first son, all of Morgause’s children had been festival got, of fathers unknown. In the north, where they held to the old ways, no one thought the worse of her. In the south they remembered that she was the king’s sister, and if they spoke of it, did so in whispers.
“I hope we will fight—” said Aggarban. “You have had your shares of glory, but I still have to make my name!”
“You sound as if we should thank Cataur for starting this war!” Betiver said bitterly.
Gualchmai shrugged. “I will not blame him. I do admit it has all been a bit unexpected, but ye must bring a boil to a head before ye can lance it. Cataur is only forcing the king to do what one way or another had to come.”
Even as Betiver frowned he had to admit that there was a certain hard logic in his words. But he remembered Oesc’s fair head next to Artor’s brown as they bent over the tabula board or stood at the butts for archery. Oesc had begun as Artor’s prisoner, but in the end it seemed to him that they had found a kind of peace in each other’s company that Artor had with no one else. The breaking of that bond must surely be hurting both of them now.
There was a little murmur of anticipation as Artor pushed through the crowd. For a moment he hesitated, glaring at the canopy beneath which Cataur waited. Then, without looking to see if his escort followed, he marched towards him. The Dumnonian prince stood up as Artor neared. His sandy hair had grown thinner, noticed Betiver. But the flush on his fair skin was probably from the heat, not shame.
The king’s warriors stepped back out of earshot, facing the men of Cataur’s houseguard. They could not make out words, but the rise and fall of the two voices came clearly, Artor’s deep and tightly controlled and Cataur’s higher, with the hint of a whine. But perhaps that was only Betiver’s interpretation. Certainly the Dumnonian’s face was getting even redder as the discussion went on.
“Say what you will!” Cataur’s voice rose. “Giving the woman back now won’t stop the war!”
“The war you wanted!” came Artor’s shout in reply. The escorts moved closer as he went on. “Send the woman to my stronghold at Dun Tagell. The chieftains of Demetia are still gathering their men. I must go north to join them. Take your own men east and hold Aelle’s forces for as long as you can. If you fail me I promise that when I have dealt with the Saxons I will come after you myself!”
He stood, and Cataur got to his feet as well, grinning tightly.
“My lord, we will do all that men can.”
The afternoon was far advanced when Merlin felt the energy that pulsed around the summit change and came back from the aery realms in which he had been wandering. Looking down, he saw the pattern of the encampment dislimning as the Dumnonians moved out. Then he became aware of a subtler alteration and knew that Artor was climbing the hill. No other would dare. Even the monks came here only on feast days to make prayers to the Archangel Michael, whom they hoped would bind the old powers that lived in the Tor.
The strengthening breeze set dust whirling in a spiral, and he smiled. Could one bind the waters that flowed through the earth, or the wind that stirred his hair? Perhaps the monks’ prayers kept them from feeling the power of the Tor, but even with his eyes open, Merlin could see the lines of power radiating out from the holy hill.
He turned as the high king appeared at the edge of the flattened oval of the summit, his hair blown, a sheen of perspiration on his brow. But the haze of anger that had pulsed around him that morning was gone. Perhaps he had worked off his fury on the climb.
“Have you brought me here to show me all the kingdoms of the world and the glory thereof?” Artor asked wryly when he had his breath again. To the north and south, hills edged the vale. To the west one could guess at the blue shimmer of the sea. Eastward the land fell away to dim distances veiled by the smoke of burning fields.
Merlin shook his head. “Glory you shall see, but not of this world. Take a deep breath—this air comes pure from the heights of heaven.”
“Cataur and Oesc are in this world—” Artor said angrily.
“Breathe!” Merlin’s voice compelled obedience. The air the king had drawn in to argue with was expelled without words. He breathed in again, more slowly, and his eyes widened.
“What is it? I feel a tingling, and there are little sparkles in the air!”
“Look at me . . .” said the druid.
“There is a haze of brightness around you,” whispered Artor after a moment had passed.
“Now, look at the land. . . .”
This time, the silence was longer. The king stood still, trembling, his eyes wide and unfocused.
“What do you see?”
“Light—” came the answer. “With every breath, light flows through the grass and stone and trees. . . .”
“Life,” corrected the druid. “It is the Spirit that you are perceiving, that moves like a wind through all that is.”
“Even the Saxons?”
“Even through them, though they do not perceive it. He who understands this mystery is part of the land. This is the power that will carry you to victory.”
Nearby, someone was groaning. Oesc roused, smelled horses and old blood and the smoke of a watch fire, and knew he was encamped with Aelle’s army. The groaning man must be Guthlaf, one of his houseguard who had taken an arrow through the thigh. But he would live, and they had won the battle. He turned over, wincing as the movement jarred stiff muscles, and gazed upward, where stars winked through a high haze of cloud. The gods had favored them with good weather for campaigning, and barring a few scratches, he had come through the fighting unscathed.
But he was tired to the bone. He tried to remember what it was like to sleep in a real bed with the soft warmth of a woman beside him. He had had Rigana for little more than a year—it was not long enough to offset a lifetime of loneliness. Is she even alive? Is the child? By day he could assure himself that Cataur would have no reason to kill her. But in the dark hours he imagined a lifetime spent grieving for her loss.
Even if Cataur had offered to give her back tomorrow, Oesc could not break the oaths that bound him to the war. That was the doom that haunted his nightmares. Living or dying, how could Rigana forgive him for not rescuing her? He had meant their marriage to join their two peoples in harmony, and instead it had led to a new and more devastating war.
It was small consolation to reflect that Cataur must be regretting his action as well. One of Ceretic’s warriors
was boasting that he had struck the Dumnonian prince from his saddle. The Britons had got their leader safely away, but it would be long before Cataur could fight again. After several preliminary skirmishes, the main forces had met near Sorviodunum, and the Dumnonians, if not quite defeated, had been prevented from retreating westward. Now the larger Saxon army was pursuing them across the plain.
Burdened with wounded, the British would go slowly. Aelle hoped to cut them off before they could join with the forces Artor was raising in Demetia.
Oesc felt a new set of muscles complain as he turned onto his side and closed his eyes once more. But the deep slumber he so badly needed eluded him. Instead he fell into a state halfway between sleep and waking in which he wandered through a landscape of waning ghosts.
At first he thought of the old story of Hild, whose curse set her father and lover to repeat their final battle throughout eternity. But this was a battle of Saxon against Briton, and it was Rigana who walked among them, shrieking imprecations. It seemed to him then that he followed after, begging her to forgive so that peace might come. And then she turned, and her face was that of a wælcyrige, one of the battle hags who choose the slain for Woden’s hall.
Oesc halted, shaking his fists at the heavens. “What do you want? When will you bring this slaughter to an end?”
And it seemed to him then that a great wind swept across the battlefield, swirling up the bodies of men like fallen leaves and flinging them across the sky. And like the roar of that wind, came the answer—
“When you choose wisdom over war. . . . When you learn how to use the Spear!”
The Britons were retreating. Cataur’s appeal had brought Artor’s forces down from Demetia to his aid, but the Saxon army was larger than anyone had expected. In the open field, the Britons could not stand against them. Several skirmishes and one pitched battle had proved that in numbers at least, the Saxons had superiority. Every villa in their path had been looted, and the ruins of Cunetio still smoked behind them. But if the defenders were being forced to fall back, at least they were doing so in good order. Their losses had been relatively light—to some, that made their retreat all the more ignominious. Only Artor seemed unconcerned.
When the murmurs became too bitter to ignore, he called his chieftains to council.
They had made camp just outside the hamlet of Verlucio, a staging post on the main road that led from Calleva and the Midlands toward Aquae Sulis. The inhabitants, recognizing that any supplies they did not share with their own side would soon be taken by the Saxons, had been generous with food and drink, and the men were in a more mellow mood than they had been when the day began.
Even Gualchmai, who had been growling like a chained hound, seemed to have been pacified by a skin of wine. But Betiver, gazing at the circle of flushed or frowning faces, still felt a hard knot of anxiety in his gut.
“What is the matter, old friend?” came a voice at his elbow. “You are looking around you like a sheep that has just heard the first wolf howl.” It was the king.
Betiver sighed. “It is not the wolves I fear just now, but the sheepdogs. They do not like to be beaten, and they do not like to run.”
“And you fear the shepherd will not be able to command them?” Artor’s eyes were as bright as if he were going into battle.
Betiver flushed. He understands what is at stake here, despite his soft words.
“Have faith. No man can guarantee victory always, but I do have a plan.”
“My lord,” Betiver answered softly, “I have believed in you since I was thirteen years old.”
It was Artor’s turn to color then. He turned away rather quickly and took his place in the folding camp chair with the crimson leather seat and back that he used as a portable throne. Gualchmai moved into position behind his right shoulder and Betiver took the left. Gradually, the men gathered before him grew still.
“Let me tell you a story—” the high king said into the silence. “Once I hunted a stag. He was an old beast, and wily, but I was confident that my dogs could run him down. But he knew the ground better than I did, and the chase went on and on. By afternoon, I was far from my own hunting runs. I had no food, and the trail was leading into the hills. But my prey was so close, I could not give up. And then, the ground rose suddenly and I looked up and saw the stag above me on a rock that jutted out from the cliff. Three dogs were killed as they tried to leap up at him. I lifted my spear, but before I could throw, the stag charged. His horns took out two more dogs as he crashed through the circle, and my horse reared and threw me. By the time I sorted myself out, he was long gone, and the dogs that remained to me were quite happy to head home. . . .”
For a long moment there was silence, then Agricola of Demetia let out a guffaw. “Is that why we’ve been bolting for the hills for the past ten-day?”
“You are trying to draw the Saxons into hostile territory?” asked Cunorix, whose Irish had, in the face of this new threat, been transformed into allies once more.
Artor let the babble of speculation run its course before raising his hand. “Aelle’s army is too great for him to carry sufficient supplies. He must live off the land, but if he splits his forces to forage they risk coming upon a larger body of our own men. The farther he gets from his own lands the worse his problem becomes.”
“And where do you propose to stand at bay?” a new voice put in.
“Aquae Sulis nestles among hills. In such broken country, the Saxons will find it hard to bring their numbers to bear. There is a hill that overlooks the Abona across the river from the town, above the place where the Calleva road joins the road to Corinium. It stands alone, and its summit is flat, big enough for our mounts and but not too big to defend. That is where I propose we make our stand. We have enough in our saddlebags to hold out for some days, and we can bring river water in barrels from the town. I have sent orders already to the people of Aquae Sulis to flee, to leave what food they cannot carry on the hill, and to take with them every scrap of food they can.”
For a moment longer the issue was in doubt. Then Cunorix grinned. “‘Tis a trap, then, that we’ll be setting for our foes.”
“It is, and we the bait and the jaws of it both!”
Cunorix half drew his sword. “Then I’d best get busy sharpening mine—” More laughter followed, and Betiver relaxed. He should never have doubted, he thought then, that Artor could handle his men.
The hill bristled against the pale blue of the sky.
At first Oesc thought the uneven line was brush or treetops, but as they drew closer he could see the stubble of cut tree trunks and bushes on the slopes above. The sides of the hill had once been covered with foliage that might have hidden ascending enemies, but now they were denuded, trunks and branches woven into a spiky rampart around the summit.
He swore softly. “Ceretic was so sure we had them on the run! But if Artor was running, this was his goal—he meant to lead us here.”
Haesta, who was marching beside him, grunted agreement. “You may know less about leading armies, but you know Artor. Aelle should have listened to you. On the other hand, Artor may not have expected quite so many of us—” He squinted up at the hill. “They’re safe for the moment, but where can they go?”
By nightfall, the hill was surrounded, and the Saxon war-songs drifted upward on the wind. On the next morning the first assault was mounted on the southern, and least precipitous, side of the hill. It was also the best defended, and the picked force that had ascended was soon retreating once more.
That afternoon they tried again with a general assault from all sides at once. In the process they discovered the hard way that the Britons had a good supply of arrows and retired with significant, though not crippling, losses. That night they tended their wounds, and in the chill hour just before dawn, sent warriors creeping silently up the western side of the hill. Just as the burning rim of the sun edged the eastern hills a second force charged the eastern side, screaming war cries, and the defenders, springing t
o the breastworks, were dazzled by the first light of day.
The western force made good use of their distraction, swarming over the piled logs and taking out the sentries, then pulling as much of the breastwork down as they could manage to give those who followed easier entry.
It should have worked. The Britons, waking dazed from sleep, thronged toward the eastern side of the hill, and the Saxons who were infiltrating from the west fell upon them from the rear with silent ferocity. Oesc, who was leading them, was the first to see the figure that reared up before them, glowing with pale light and crying out words of power in a voice that paralyzed the soul.
His warriors, not knowing what had come against them, froze in terror. Oesc recognized Merlin, but for the few crucial moments it took for the Britons to realize where the real threat lay, his knowledge of the druid’s powers incapacitated him as completely as it had his men. Then the brightness faded, to be replaced by yelling shapes silhouetted against the rising sun. Now it was the Saxons who were blinded. They turned and ran.
For a moment Oesc glimpsed Artor, clad only in breeches, the dawnlight flaming from his sword. He cried out in challenge, but caught in the midst of his fleeing warriors, he was carried back to the gap in the breastwork and down the hill.
By the end of that day, the disadvantages of maintaining a seige with a large army in hostile territory were becoming clear. Artor and his warriors were surrounded by Saxons, but the Saxons were surrounded by trackless hills from which all sources of food seemed to have disappeared.
“If we are getting hungry, then they must be too,” said Ceretic grimly. “And even if they have food, they must run out of water soon. They have horses up there, lads—tomorrow morning we’ll attack again, and keep coming until we overrun the hill. Then we’ll feast on horseflesh and offer the king’s stallion to the gods.”
They were fine words, thought Oesc, binding up a gash on his thigh, but if the Saxons did not succeed in bringing the Britons to battle, they would be eating each other soon. His gaze moved to the long, shrouded shape that lay with the rest of his gear. Until now he had not unwrapped it, for Artor had left his Sword in Londinium, safely sheathed in stone. But Merlin had used magic against them that morning. The next time the Saxons attacked, Oesc would use the Spear.
The Hallowed Isle Book Two Page 20
