For King and Country

by Robert Asprin

  It was a beautifully simple plan.

  And in the later versions of Arthurian myth, Lancelot had wandered the land as a religious hermit, doing penance for his disastrous adultery with Guinevere. What if Lancelot wandered the land, instead, as an organizer of strategic supplies, using religion and the parable of Joseph and the seven years of famine as a "sign from God" that the people of Britain were meant to lay aside foodstuffs against future emergency? Stirling realized with a chill that it would probably work. And it would probably change history irrevocably.

  And with Cedric Banning's interference in Dalriada having doubtless already damaged time's fractural planes, the notion of stepping in to prevent further devastation from falling on these people was singularly attractive. He might never get home again, if he tried. And he might never get home, anyway, if Banning's mass murder of the Dalriadan Irish had changed history sufficiently. He wouldn't know the answer to that for nearly a year. If that year came and went and he was still trapped here, with history too fractured to return to his plane of origin, there would be plenty of time to prepare for the wasteland years. Close to four full decades.

  It was rare that one man, in place at precisely the right time, could alter the fate of thousands of people with one simple action. Stirling knew he would likely never be given another chance to match it. The thought of returning to the twenty-first century without even trying was utterly repugnant. He had taken an oath to defend his people—and in a very real sense, these Britons were his people, his ancestors on the Welsh side, if not the Scottish side. To refuse to act seemed to Stirling cowardice of the greatest magnitude, a betrayal of all he believed in and had fought for, since joining the SAS to fight terrorism and the other forms of twenty-first-century madness threatening civilization itself.

  Here, in the sixth century, he was embroiled in yet another war to protect civilization. He didn't think it was possible to walk away from this one, when damage had already been done by perpetrators from that other, once-and-future war. He could no more walk away from this than he'd been able to walk away from that flat in Belfast, without carrying the child of an IRA terrorist to safety through a burning building. God forgive me, he sent a tiny prayer winging heavenward, but I have to try. I wouldn't be fully human, if I didn't.

  Ancelotis of Gododdin, thankful for any help his guest from the twenty-first century could render, expressed a gratitude too deep for words, a gratitude which wrapped around their shared heart like healing balm. It felt, God help him, like the right choice.

  But first, they had to survive the battle of Badon Hill.

  As they entered the broad expanse of the Salisbury Plain, the weather grew steadily worse, with fields of half-harvested, rotting crops churned into slurry where farmers—desperate for silage to feed their herds—had turned cattle loose to graze on what was left of the ruined crops. Stirling shivered. Ancelotis was worried, too. Very much so. As they rode through the southern reaches of Glastenning, they passed whole villages standing empty, their inhabitants having already fled for safety in the distant, cave-riddled Mendip Hills.

  Stirling had never actually been to Cadbury Hill. He knew about it, of course; only the dullest, least diligent of British schoolchildren failed to learn something about Cadbury Hill and its ancient fortress. But he'd never actually seen it, save in photographs, and the impact of mere photos was virtually nil compared to riding across a rain-battered landscape of flat fields toward an immense fortified shape that rose up from the flatland like a great, grey battleship riding a stormy sea. Prickles ran down Stirling's borrowed back. Even Ancelotis, who had seen plenty of other massive hill forts in the north, shared Stirling's sense of awe.

  'Tis a veritable city, Ancelotis breathed silently. I've seen nothing like it! Why, there's no wondering at all why the Saxons mean to strip us of its ownership. An army could hold out there for weeks, months, perhaps, if supplies were properly laid in, ahead of the need.

  Concentric rings of stone circled the summit, five of them, lost at times in the low-scudding rainclouds that raced across the plain, their underbellies torn open by the hill fort's pike-studded walls. By the time they reached the base of the hill, its summit towering five hundred feet straight up, darkness was nearly upon them. Cookfires, sheltered beneath canvas tent flaps to protect them from the rain, blazed in a ragged river of light where workmen and wagoners and soldiers had paused in their work for the night. Ancelotis and his contingent of cataphracti were greeted by a perimeter guard riding diligent patrol despite the foul weather and darkness.

  "Where can I find King Cadorius and Emrys Myrddin?" Ancelotis asked the guard.

  "You'll find Cadorius at the summit, along with King Melwas," the man pointed toward the walls high overhead, "but Emrys Myrddin has gone to Glastenning Tor with Covianna Nim. He left near dawn this morning, although we expect him back within a day or two."

  Ancelotis frowned. It wasn't like Myrddin to abandon a task before completion. "Was there news of attack at the Tor, that Emrys Myrddin's presence was required there?"

  "If there was, we've heard nothing of it. The kings might know more."

  Ancelotis intended to ask them.

  A five-hundred-foot climb up a steep, muddy hillside in a blinding downpour was not Stirling's notion of a good time; such a climb made in utter darkness proved treacherous in the extreme. Ancelotis instructed the rank-and-file cavalrymen from Gododdin to find a sheltered spot to bivouac until he could meet with Cadorius about battle strategies. The ranking officers of the cataphracti followed Ancelotis as he reined his horse around and began to climb. The horses slipped and slid and groped for footing while the riders kept their animals centered more or less steadily along a steep path that led toward one of the wooden gates set into the outermost wall. The gate would have been completely invisible, but for the sheltered lantern set atop one post, marking the way in. Ancelotis and Stirling were challenged by sentries, who swung the gate open just enough to let Stirling, Ancelotis' officers, and their shivering horses slip through.

  What lay on the other side startled him.

  There was no open space between one wall and the next. The gate opened into a narrow trench which ran along the inner edge of the outermost wall.

  "I'll lead you through," one of the sentries said quietly, picking up a lamp, its flame protected from the rain by thin sheets of mineral mica, nearly as clear as glass and far less prone to breakage. "The horses will put a foot wrong, else, and end with broken legs—or worse."

  Stirling needed the guide, too, as they snaked through a maze of narrow passages and gates leading gradually inward as well as around the upper slopes of the summit. There was just enough room for the horses to crowd their way through, single file. Sentries had been posted every yard or so along the route. By his guide's lantern light, Stirling and Ancelotis could just make out broad, flat paving stones that formed a roof of sorts, covering most of the width of ground between the five walls. These hidden roofs were invisible from lower down the hill's slope because they were recessed some twelve or thirteen inches below the walls' uppermost edges.

  "What's inside these?" Ancelotis asked as they snaked their way past the fourth wall, crossing to another gate that took them around the northern slope of the hill toward a gate in the fifth and final wall. A fierce wind battered them, sweeping across from the northwest, a cold wind blowing in from the North Atlantic, driving rain squalls ahead of it. "And why are there other wooden gates with no apparent function?"

  The sentry turned his head to call back, "It's Emrys Myrddin's surprise for the Saxons. These," he patted the stone "roof" with one hand, "are full of water. Cisterns to hold the rain pouring off the summit and even more water brought up from the plain by waterwheels."

  Water? Stirling frowned. With that much water stored, the Britons must be preparing to hold out for several months under the Saxons' anticipated siege, a prospect he found somewhat less than delightful. Then he made the connection between all that water and the false woo
den gates set into the walls. Sluice gates! Ye gods, the man's a genius! Even Ancelotis grinned, albeit wearily.

  They finally reached the final gate which would lead them out onto the hill fort's open summit. Beyond this, Stirling could make out the shape of buildings, dark structures made of stone and brick, serving as barracks rooms, storage for supplies and weapons, shelters for civilians, workshops for the armorers whose hammers still rang and clashed despite the increasing lateness of the evening. There were few windows, but doors stood partially open here and there, giving them glimpses of the work under way within.

  Stirling had never seen so many blacksmiths in one place in his life. Several of the structures proved to be stables for the cavalry horses and holding pens for livestock—pigs and goats, mostly, along with chickens and geese, too many to easily count in the darkness. Smokehouses and slaughtering pens sent an unpleasant mix of smells drifting through the wet night, where the hogs were being converted with efficient industry into sausages, hams, rendered lard, and pigskin leather.

  They found the kings of Glastenning and Dumnonia in the centermost building, which boasted a squat, brick watchtower that would be perfect, Stirling realized, for scanning the northern hills for Artorius' signal. Stirling and the officers of Gododdin's cataphracti slid out of wet saddles, turning their horses over to half-grown boys who led them off to a nearby stable. Ancelotis pushed open a wooden door, stepping into a roomful of warmth, where a cheerful fire crackled in a hearth set into the northern wall. Wood lay stacked along the entire width of that wall, piled higher than Stirling's head. Another wall bore a large oxhide with a map of southern Britain drawn carefully in black ink, marked with important river crossings, hill forts, towns, and the borders of the southern kingdoms—including those currently held by the Saxons. Cadorius paused in whatever discussion was under way and received them with a glad armclasp, although his face was haggard from strain and lack of sleep.

  "You are most well come, Ancelotis, most well come, indeed! But is Artorius not with you?" he added, peering at the cataphracti officers at Ancelotis' back.

  "No, he rides with the bulk of the army, including the infantry, which will slow him considerably. He is perhaps a full week's march behind me, maybe as much as eight or nine days, given the condition of the roads in this weather."

  Cadorius frowned. "Then he will reach us well after the Saxons do. We expect the Saxon army to lay siege within five days, at most. Refugees are flooding into Glastenning ahead of them."

  "The sentries tell me Emrys Myrddin has gone to Glastenning Tor?"

  Cadorius nodded, gesturing to a servant, who brought hot stew and wine. As Ancelotis tackled the meal with enthusiasm, Cadorius brought him up to date.

  "Melwas and I didn't want him to leave Caer-Badonicus, but he insisted. Covianna was afraid for her kinsmen, who would be unprepared if the Saxons broke through here. Myrddin agreed to ride with her to the Tor, to offer his suggestions for defenses. My greatest worry for his safety is the bandits on the roads, taking advantage of all this turmoil, looting empty villages and abandoned farmholds. Such cutthroats care nothing for which set of masters they rob. And we win this war, I'll be after cleaning them out with fire and hangmen's ropes."

  "What of our defenses here? Are we ready to meet the enemy?"

  Cadorius nodded. "We've laid in a good supply of food. Water," he added with a snort of wry humor, glancing at the ceiling where rain rattled and danced, "is not a problem. A week to nine days, you said, before Artorius arrives? We could hold them off at least ten times that long, and we've deliberately built of stone and brick, as much as possible, so they can't burn us out with fire arrows. We could use some of our shelters, for there wasn't time to roof everything in stone shingles. But we're nowhere nearly as vulnerable as the defenseless villages they've used that tactic against."

  "I've some ideas of my own, to add to the defenses." Stirling nodded toward the officers of his cataphracti, men with Asiatic features, who watched and ate in alert silence, many of them wearing the Sarmatian tribal badge embroidered on their tunics, a naked sword thrust through a stone. "There's no force in all of Western Europe to match my Sarmatian bowmen. Come the dawn, I'll work out a few nasty surprises for the Saxons, to teach them the damage Sarmatian archers can inflict."

  The officers grinned, several of them lifting fingers to brow in a jaunty salute. "It will be a pleasure," one of them chuckled, "a very distinct pleasure."

  "There's little more to be done, tonight," Ancelotis nodded in satisfaction, mopping up the last of the stew with a hunk of bread. "If you've spare cots someplace, my officers and I need to steal at least a few hours' sleep. We've been riding hard these last few days, and the lack of rest is catching up to us."

  Cadorius had a servant guide them across the wind-blasted summit toward the barracks. The cataphracti officers were shown to quarters with others of their rank and Ancelotis left them making plans to check on their men, to be sure the rest of Gododdin's forces had found a good spot to bed down and had found plenty to eat. Ancelotis and Stirling were escorted to another building, where the royalty of half a dozen Briton kingdoms had taken refuge for the duration. Ancelotis recognized several princes, sent by harried fathers to direct the troops lent to Glastenning for the coming conflict. There was even a scattering of royal daughters and queens who preferred the safety of the hill fort to the uncertainty of the Lowlands. Ancelotis halted in dismay when Ganhumara gave a glad little cry and rushed forward, flinging herself into his arms.

  "Thank God, you've come in time!"

  He placed firm hands on her shoulders, forcibly moving her a step backwards. She peered up through long, coppery lashes, feigning hurt with a masterful pout. "Is this any way to greet the queen of Caer-Guendoleu?"

  "What are you doing here?" Ancelotis demanded bluntly.

  She tossed her long hair across one shoulder. "If you must know, I was kidnaped."

  "Kidnaped?" he echoed, disbelieving.

  "By Melwas! Cadorius rescued me. Oh, he was so gallant!"

  Ancelotis glowered down at her. "I refuse to believe that King Melwas was so great a fool as to kidnap you, Ganhumara. Let the story stand as a salve to your reputation, if you must, but do not attempt to fool me with it. I would strongly suggest you find some way to beg your husband's humble pardon for your continued foolhardiness when he arrives."

  Ganhumara's eyes flashed, defiant and proud. "I will beg nothing from Artorius!" she hissed. "He is nothing but the son of commoners and whores! Never will I forgive my father for binding me in marriage to a half-blood bastard of a Sarmatian!"

  She whirled and stalked away, stiff with rage.

  Ancelotis scrubbed his face, too weary to deal with her tempers and peccadillos.

  "Is she always like that?" a quiet voice at his elbow startled him.

  He found a troubled, grey-eyed gaze locked on the retreating queen of Caer-Guendoleu, a quiet gaze which turned to meet his forthrightly. Ancelotis didn't recognize her, but she wore a torque of royalty, so he supposed her to be of the royal house of one of the southern kings.

  "Unfortunately, yes. She is. And often worse."

  "Then I pity Artorius. The Dux Bellorum has enough to worry him, without a wife like that to damage the peace even further."

  "I must beg your humble pardon," Ancelotis murmured, "but I do not know you, dear lady. I am Ancelotis of Gododdin," he added.

  Her lips twitched into a slight smile. "Yes. The news of your arrival spread like wildfire through brambles. It gave us heart, when all has been gloom for so long. I am Iona, last survivor of the royal house of Ynys Weith."

  Ancelotis' eyes widened. "Dear God, I thought the whole family dead! I thank God in heaven that you were spared. But how?"

  Tears welled up in her eyes. "The Saxons came in the night, led by traitors among the fisherfolk. They slaughtered my whole family as we slept. A servant, one of the old men from the stables who had seen the Saxons arrive, dragged me from my bed, threw old clothes
across my nightdress, hid me in the kitchen. I crouched for hours in the hearth, covered with ash and shaking with terror. The Saxons came through the kitchen, guzzling wine and ale until they could scarcely stagger to the cesspits."

  Princess Iona was trembling. The look in her eyes chilled Ancelotis' blood. "Just before cockcrow, the stableman led me down to the strand, where loyal fishermen hid me beneath their nets and took me to safety in Caer-Durnac. When the Saxons came across the border into Caer-Durnac, I fled into the marshes, where I hid for months, eating raw fish and learning to survive by my wits." She gazed down at her hands, visibly roughened and red, even by lamplight. "It took more courage than I thought I had left, to come out of those marshes and seek asylum with Cadorius and Melwas. But I had to come, to warn the other royal houses of Britain what the Saxons are capable of, when they set their sights on a victim."

  Ancelotis reached up with gentle fingertips to wipe tears from her cheeks. "Thank you, Iona, for your courage. And for reminding us that creatures like Ganhumara are the rare exception, among Britain's royal ladies. I sorrow for your losses. Please consider Gododdin a place of refuge for you, should you ever need a home."

  The tears came faster, but she managed a tremulous smile. "I am honored, Ancelotis of Gododdin. Thank you. And I fear I have kept you too long from your bed. If there is anything I can do, on the morrow, to help you and your men prepare, please ask it of me."

  He offered her a formal bow, then found an unoccupied cot and collapsed onto the straw-filled tick, asleep within moments. Morning found him outside the circumvallation, walking the steep, muddy hillside in the company of the Sarmatian commanders of Gododdin's cataphracti. Stirling pointed down the lee side of the hill. "According to Cadorius, Emrys Myrddin expects the bulk of the Saxons to camp along here, protected from the weather. Frankly, I agree. What I want is for someone to pace off known distances from the outermost wall, beginning with the farthest range of a bowshot and coming back toward the wall in stepped increments, three paces at a time. Put up small wooden posts to mark the known distances."