by Simon Lister
‘How much can you provide?’ Arthur asked.
‘As much as you will need.’
‘You can feed all the peoples of Britain?’ Ceinwen had seen the caverns in the Veiled City where they produced the crops but she hadn’t realised they were so extensive.
‘Indeed.’
Gereint ventured a question, ‘How long will this take?’
‘We are already increasing our production. You will have the supplies as you need them.’
‘It’s how the Shadow Land City can provide for the Adren armies,’ Arthur said to his nonplussed companions before continuing, ‘You said there were two ways you could help us?’
‘Yes, the second way is with weapons. Or one type of weapon to be precise. I have an example outside.’ Terrill stood up and left to fetch the weapon.
‘We need more than food from the Cithol!’ Ceinwen said once he was out of earshot.
‘At least we can put every able person to arms,’ Gereint said reiterating the point that Terrill had made.
‘That’s if we can trust the Cithol to deliver the food,’ Ceinwen muttered under her breath as Terrill returned.
He laid a crossbow on the table.
‘We rarely hunt in the Winter Wood but when we do we use this. It takes years of training and great strength to wield your longbows but anyone can learn to use this in only a few days and a child’s strength is all that is needed.’
Elwyn was inspecting the weapon and offered it back to Terrill, ‘Show us how it works.’
Terrill took the crossbow and laid two ten inch, metal tipped darts on the table. He wound the twine back using a small handle underneath the bow and slotted a dart onto the centre groove then settling the stock into his shoulder he squeezed the trigger and the dart shot into the wall thirty-feet away. The other warriors in the hall had gathered around to watch and Terrill demonstrated once again how the handle pulled the twine back by a series of gears and how the trigger released it. The warriors passed the crossbow amongst themselves, inspecting it closely.
‘It is not as accurate as your longbows, nor is it as powerful - so its range is obviously shorter. A bowman can fire arrows at a quicker rate too, but with this a child or old man, or in fact anyone who has never used a longbow before, could kill an Adren at twenty paces and continue doing so for as long as he had darts. We can give you hundreds of these and we are making more.’
The warriors who were now gathered around the table voiced their approval. Not a single one of them would ever contemplate exchanging their longbows for these new crossbows but they could see their value. They were light, it was easy to wind the twine back with the handle and the darts would be deadly at twenty paces. With this weapon then farmers, craftsmen, mothers, children, all could take their place in the battle against the Adren.
Arthur had taken Terrill to one side away from the crowding warriors and talked to him about where to send the food trains and the weapons. He offered him a place to rest before he returned to the Veiled City but with a quick look around the hall Terrill hastily declined. Arthur thanked him for his help and urged him to keep trying to persuade Lord Venning that the Cithol were needed at the Causeway. The Adren attack would begin before anyone had the chance to train on the new crossbows and any of the Cithol who were already familiar with the weapons could help in the defence of the Causeway.
Just as Terrill was about to depart, Arthur put a hand out to stop him. They stared at each other for a second, ‘Tell Fin Seren that I do what I must and not what I would.’
Terrill looked at Arthur a moment longer then slipped out into the darkness where the cold rain still hammered down on Caer Sulis.
*
Arthur grew more impatient as spring edged closer. The peoples who had crossed the Western Seas were expected back soon but still no word of their arrival had come from the Haven. Mar’h and Lissa, whom he had sent across the seas to bring back the people earlier than was normal, would have told the King’s Council of the news from Britain but Arthur was unsure how they would react. The counsellors and people had little choice but to accept him as the Warlord of Britain but the Mercian warriors who were with them might be harder to convince. He had sent Gereint and Elwyn on to the Haven to be there when the tall ships landed so that the returning Mercians and Anglians could hear what had unfolded from their own people.
When the rain finally eased he sent supplies of both arms and food to Ruadan and the warriors at the Causeway. He kept most of the new weapons at Caer Sulis for the training and arming of the people but the thousands of arrows that had been made at Whitehorse Hill and Caer Sulis were sent on to the Causeway.
A messenger from the Uathach arrived at the Great Hall declaring that Ablach would be there in ten days’ time with fifty of his warriors for the marriage of his daughter, Gwyna, to Arthur. Time was running out and Arthur sat brooding in the Great Hall, growing ever more impatient for word from the Haven. There had been no news from the Causeway either and Arthur despatched ten warriors to set up a relay across the country so that any word of the Adren moving across the Causeway would reach him as soon as possible.
Finally he could no longer sit idly by and he decided to ride to the Haven. He left Cael, who was making a determined effort to replace the bulk he had lost whilst travelling in the Shadow Lands, to see to the arrangements for the forthcoming wedding and he rode out of Caer Sulis with Morgund, Ceinwen and Morveren.
The unseasonable rain had passed by leaving the hillsides with only patchy remnants of the winter snow. The wind was still from the southwest and it pushed against them as they left behind the warmth and smoke-filled air of Caer Sulis. Long trails of thin dissipating clouds, still carrying the vestiges of the rain from the Western Seas, streaked the dark skies. Between the tattered clouds the last stars of winter stood in defiance of the coming dawn that was already evident on the western horizon.
All four of them were glad to be on the move again and Morveren was unable to resist the urge to spur her horse into a gallop as they travelled the still frozen Westway through the hills and valleys towards the Haven. Ceinwen’s horse wanted to respond to the challenge but she checked it and the three of them rode abreast talking of the Shadow Lands, the Adren and the friends they had already lost in the fighting across the Causeway.
‘Seems to me that Terrill and the Cithol are doing everything to allow our men, women and children to stand by us in battle against the Adren without risking any of their own people,’ Morgund said during a lull in the conversation.
Ceinwen agreed wholeheartedly but kept her silence waiting for Arthur to respond. The silence extended and Morgund cast a glance at Arthur. Their horses walked on at an unhurried pace and the only noise on the Westway was the sound of their hooves on the hard ground and the gentle, rhythmic creaking of their saddles.
‘The food and weapons will make a difference,’ Arthur finally said.
‘But enough of a difference?’
‘It depends. It depends how long we can hold the Adren at the Causeway. It will take at least two months to turn farmers, fishers and craft workers into any kind of useful fighting force – even with the crossbows. If the Causeway falls before they can be brought to reinforce us then it will be too late.’
They both looked at Arthur.
‘You think the Causeway will fall?’ Ceinwen asked thinking of her brother, Ruadan, who was organising the defences there.
‘We have to hold the Causeway,’ Arthur replied flatly.
‘Against the numbers we saw in the Shadow Lands I don’t see how we can hold it forever,’ Morgund said.
‘We don’t have to hold it forever. Just long enough,’ Arthur replied and then told Morgund of the true nature of Merdynn and Cei’s quest east, to destroy whatever relic of the past it was that allowed the Adren to produce the enormous amounts of food that were needed to keep their armies supplied.
Morgund nodded when Arthur finished, ‘I thought there must have been a greater purpose than just ambushing t
he enemy food trains. Poor old Ethain. Bet that was more than he bargained for.’
‘My village, my family, Tomas, Elowen, Talan – we’ve all got more than we bargained for,’ Ceinwen pointed out.
‘How good are their chances of success?’ Morgund asked looking straight ahead.
Again long minutes passed before Arthur replied, ‘It’s our only chance of success.’ He nudged his horse ahead of them both, wishing to be alone with his thoughts of Merdynn, Cei and his sister.
Morgund watched him ride ahead then guided his mount closer to Ceinwen, ‘How will we know if they succeed or fail?’
‘If we all die then they probably failed. If some of us live then they must have succeeded.’ Ceinwen shrugged, the matter was out of their hands and they had their own course to follow.
‘Right. Good. That’s fairly clear then,’ Morgund said.
‘You sound like Merdynn,’ Ceinwen answered, laughing softly at the memory of the old man.
‘Someone has to carry his banner now he’s gone.’
Clearly Morgund shared Ceinwen’s private opinion that Cei and the others were more than likely already lying dead in the snow and ice somewhere deep in the Shadow Lands.
Arthur did not think that either Merdynn or his sister were dead. He would have been unable to explain why he thought that but he felt certain that if they had fallen then he would somehow know of it and that certainty gave him hope that they might yet succeed.
After several hours riding they caught up with Morveren who had stopped at a village that had been abandoned for the winter. She had started a fire in one of the roundhouses and they had seen the smoke rising into the night air from some miles away as it leant upwards and towards them, borne on the wind from the West that had softened to a breath. As they made their way down the main track through the village they could smell the food she had already begun to cook and they hurriedly saw to their horses’ feed as the aroma from the roasting lamb tantalised their empty stomachs.
The rugs and pelts that hung in the roundhouse were still cold and dank despite the blazing fire that Morveren had lit some hours ago so they spread their thick winter cloaks on the floor around the fire and sat down. They settled contentedly around the warmth and started on the roast meat and thick vegetable broth that Morveren had prepared. The previous summer had provided a good harvest and there had been more than enough to send with those who crossed the Western Seas and still have ample left for those who wintered at Caer Sulis.
It was not always so. About ten years ago two ruinous summers in succession had stretched the food stocks extremely thinly and everyone, except the king’s entourage, had gone hungry. The Uathach raids had been numerous and desperate; if the organised farmlands of the South were struggling then the ragged agriculture of the northern tribes would have been on the brink of collapse. If it had not been for the surplus harvests of the Western Lands that were brought back to Britain at the time of Imbolc, the festival to celebrate the return of the sun, then hunger would have slid to starvation, and if it had not been for the southern war bands then the Uathach would have plundered what little they had managed to store.
The meal was good and they paid Morveren the compliment of eating hungrily and in silence.
‘So, where’s the wine then?’ Morgund said sitting back and wiping his greasy fingers on his trousers. Morveren told him just where he could look for the wine and he laughed.
‘Did you manage to see any of your brothers before they left for the West?’ he asked her.
‘No, they’d already gone by the time we got to Caer Sulis.’
‘Do you think they’ve forgiven you yet for not marrying that farmer?’ Ceinwen asked, remembering a conversation a few weeks ago when Morveren had explained one of the reasons behind her joining the war band.
Morveren shrugged as she tied back her long black hair, ‘Probably not. They think I ought to be married already, preferably with two or three children.’
‘So why aren’t you? That Anglian, Elwyn-something-or-other, he seems decent enough for a straw head and he’s taken a liking to you, how about him?’ Morgund asked, smiling at her as a blush crept into her thin, pale face.
‘Leave the girl alone, Morgund,’ Ceinwen said coming to her defence.
Morgund cast a quick glance at Arthur, who, as rumour suggested, might have been her true father but he was lying back lost in his own thoughts and ignoring the conversation by the fire.
‘He’s a fair bit older than you,’ he pressed on enjoying himself. ‘Not that there’s anything thing wrong with having a few years behind you,’ he said, smiling at Ceinwen.
‘That’s why he acts like an adult, unlike some,’ Morveren replied then added, ‘He’s a good man.’
‘He’s a short man,’ Morgund replied, leaning back with his hands behind his head.
‘I don’t think I’d be comfortable being with a man shorter than me,’ Ceinwen said rejoining the attack.
‘You couldn’t find a man shorter than you,’ Morveren pointed out and Morgund laughed.
‘At least I don’t lose track of who I’m supposed to be with,’ Ceinwen said, turning on him much to Morveren’s delight.
He just blew her a kiss.
Arthur stretched and stood up. On his way out of the hut he put a hand on Morveren’s shoulder, ‘Would that the Adren were so easy to divide and conquer.’
She lowered her head and flicked her eyes between the other two, smiling at them innocently. Morgund grunted and placed another log on the fire. Ceinwen checked over her shoulder to make sure Arthur had left the hut then turned to the other two, ‘Why do you think the Uathach are only bringing fifty of their warriors to Caer Sulis for the wedding?’
‘I thought they were going to turn up with all their warriors and then we’d all make for the Causeway,’ Morveren added.
‘Unless they don’t plan to go to the Causeway. Maybe they’re just going to sit up in the North and hope for the best,’ Morgund said and resumed picking at his unusually white teeth with a splinter of wood.
‘Gods, that’s a sobering thought. No Cithol and no Uathach.’
‘Just us and the Adren,’ Morgund said it lightly enough but the thought settled in their minds and in the silence that followed he regretted saying it.
Morgund, like the other warriors, longed for battle, the madly unleashed joy and exhilaration simply couldn’t be matched by anything else. All the warriors were experienced in battle and confident in their abilities, and every single one of them had at some time found themselves swaggering and strutting more than usual in front of the townsfolk of Caer Sulis over the last few months, taking pride in being all that stood between them and the Adren. None of those that had been in the Shadow Lands were naïve though and neither were they empty braggarts; they knew the time was coming when the swagger and posturing would have to be justified by standing firm against the enemy who would soon attack across the Causeway.
Even Ceinwen had found she had more in common with the warriors than with the townsfolk that she met in Caer Sulis. She didn’t relish the prospect of fighting the Adren again but she knew that she couldn’t just stay behind and await whatever outcome transpired.
Over the last few weeks she had noticed, and thought it strange, that the Mercians had shown more anxiety at the prospect of fighting the Adren than those who had already done so. When she mentioned it to Morgund he had put it down to the old adage that imagining something can often be worse than the reality. They had both quietly agreed that the old adage was rubbish. When Arthur returned they wrapped themselves in their warm cloaks and slept in front of the fire.
They set out as sporadic showers drifted in from the West adding to the collecting water that stood in the fields to either side of the Westway. The western horizon was clear of clouds and already the stars there were dimming as the first streaks of dawn touched the sky. They all noted it with the same mixed emotions and picked up their pace feeling a renewed urgency to reach the Haven. They alter
natively set their horses to canter and walk and the miles slipped behind them.
For the most part Morveren kept her inclination to speed off in check and she rode with Arthur, talking and asking questions in an attempt to recapture the closeness she had felt when riding with him along the beach in Anglia but Arthur clearly had other matters on his mind and he answered her questions with an obvious patience.
At a casual pace it was another two days’ journey to the Haven even if they cut across the estuary that divided Wessex from western Mercia. The whole of the estuary was subject to tidal flooding but the moon was waxing so the wide stretch of sand and mud could be crossed with care. Every month the high tide would build up against the silt deposits, laid down over the centuries by the river that meandered in sweeping curves across the breadth of the exposed estuary bed, until it finally breached the mud moraine that had been holding it back and then suddenly the tide would race over the thirty miles of the level expanse in little over an hour; within two hours the flats would be completely covered in over forty-feet of water as the Western Sea reclaimed the estuary.
They crossed the estuary on the second day of their journey and towards the end of the third day they at last approached the long stretch of grassland that swept down to the large bay of the Haven. It was half-encircled by a headland that reached out into the sea and then around the bay like a protecting arm, curling around the town that was spread all along the shore of the harbour. The glow of winter fires lit the warren of clustered huts, pens and roundhouses that were gathered tightly together on the grassland behind the dunes. The close-packed buildings edged the curved shoreline for over a mile. The grander and more official houses stood on the low headland and looked down on the maze of huddled dwellings from their perch above the deeper water where the wharves jutted out into the dark sea.
They brought their horses to a stop and looked down on the Haven, the bay from which the tall ships sailed for the Western Lands at the onset of each winter.
