For King and Country

by Robert Asprin

  A glance back toward their own rear lines showed him the women busy tending Briton wounded, but there were far fewer than he'd expected after such a clash, which heartened him considerably and left Ancelotis jubilant. Then the signal horns called the charge again and the enemy's front ranks pounded up the hill once more. Any serious worries Stirling had, that they faced Britons this time, evaporated when the defenders struck with even greater ferocity than before. Never underestimate the power of hatred, when a man stands face-to-face with a traitor, Ancelotis grunted, scanning their lines from Cadorius's contingent on his far left flank to Melwas's on his far right.

  They drove the attacking gewisse back with a steady hail of javelins and pila. As the traitors of Wessex fell, their front lines wavered and collapsed backwards, until the entire charge faltered and reversed itself back down the hill. Stirling, leaping once more to his vantage point atop the inner wall, could see King Aelle and Cerdic of Wessex snarling at one another beside the platform where their charred pavilion had been replaced with a much shabbier affair. For the next hour, the Saxons licked their wounds and rethought their strategy.

  And the Britons of Caer-Badonicus waited patiently.

  Then the lookout atop the high watchtower called out, "They're shifting troops northward!"

  Stirling raced up the ladder to see for himself what the Saxons were up to. They were shifting, all right, moving the bulk of their men to the spot where Briton defenses were weakest, along their northeastern flank. Stirling whistled sharply, fingers between his teeth, and caught Cadorius' attention. Stirling waved to his left, held up five fingers and pointed to their reserves. Cadorius nodded, bellowing orders. The Briton reserves, some fifty men from the rear ranks of the Glastenning, Gododdin, and Dumnonia contingents, ran for the northeastern flank, forming up behind the front-line defenders, while catapults were winched around to face the third charge. When it came, they were ready, much to the Saxons' consternation.

  As the front lines came together again with a shock of weapons on shields, the second ranks leaped to the top of the fourth wall. Javelins and deadly pila hurled down from that angle forced the Saxons to lift their shields high, to guard against the deadly rain. Whereupon the front line of defenders launched a blistering attack with spears and javelins under the edges of their high-held shields. Blood ran thick as the Saxons staggered. Then a sudden shift along the Saxons' rear echelons signaled a new line of attack and Briton trumpets sang out a warning.

  The Dumnonian reserves Stirling had dispatched reeled under sudden attack along their thinned ranks. Saxons poured across the outermost wall in a solid wave of spearpoints and oaken shields. Stirling skinned back down the ladder, shouting for the Gododdin center to pivot and strike the Saxons along their flank. For long, terrible minutes, all was confusion between the outermost and fourth walls. The lines swayed, crumpled, fell back to the third wall, while Saxons howled and leaped across the Briton dead. Then the catapults slapped with a crack like doom, and blazing oil, set alight before being hurled, fell in a fiery rain across the Saxons' shields. Men screamed, their leather jerkins and quilted tunics set ablaze by the flaming grease.

  The contingent from Gododdin let fly a rain of arrows, like shooting pigs in a barrel. The Saxons stumbled, the momentum of their charge broken. Briton defenders poured in from both flanks, catching the Saxons along their vulnerable sides, trapping most of them between the third and fifth walls. And when the Britons drew swords and began to hack and hew at legs, arms, necks, unarmored heads, anything within reach of their deadly British blades, the Saxons fell back in total disarray, unable to match the Britons with the smaller daggers they carried—if they carried any blade at all. Most did not. Spears broken, shields afire and cast down in terror, the Saxons broke and ran. Or died under Briton blades. What remained was ground into bloody paste in the mud.

  Stirling thrust and hacked at the retreating Saxons right alongside his Gododdin warriors, shouting encouragement. When the last of the survivors had fled down the hill, Stirling leaned against the third wall, gasping for breath, and scrubbed filth from his face with the back of one hand. His fingers trembled as the adrenaline rush wore off, leaving him shaking with exhaustion. Grim-faced soldiers were stripping the Saxon dead of weapons, tossing the bodies over the walls to roll them after their luckier companions downhill. Wounded Britons limped for the aid stations back amongst the women, where a glance showed Covianna Nim directing a whole host of nurses to tend the injured.

  Cadorius limped his way, as spattered with gore and filth as Stirling.

  "God be praised," the king of Dumnonia gasped, "I thank the Almighty you were in position to sound that warning. I didn't see their shift in time to respond."

  "The Dumnonian lines held," Stirling insisted, cleaning his sword on the tunic of a dead Saxon. "Gododdin only gave them the breather they needed to regroup and hold fast, which they did. With more bravery than I've ever seen in battle, and that is no lie."

  Cadorius smiled wearily. "Then let us agree to praise one another's men to the skies and be grateful that we've men left alive to praise."

  "Agreed," Stirling said, offering his hand.

  Cadorius clasped his forearm, then hugged him with a rougher embrace. "Come, let us see to our wounded while yon bastards try to talk their men into making another try at us!"

  The Saxons gave them a respite of two hours, which they all needed, then charged the walls from the southwestern flank this time. Britons scrambled to strengthen the defenses, only to snarl curses as Saxon slingers hurled live coals onto wooden roof shingles and thatched barracks inside the hill fort. Smoke and flames blazed up from a dozen spots while soldiers dodged the children who scrambled with pails of water to douse the flames. Confusion engulfed the whole compound while the Saxon charge shattered the southwestern shield wall and poured into the hill fort itself. Stirling found himself in a desperate hand-to-hand fight for his life, slashing and stabbing with his sword, shouting orders through the chaos, trying to regroup his men in a wedge formation.

  "Rally to me!" he shouted, "Rally to me! For Artorius and Britain!"

  A rumbling thunder drove through the confusion. Stirling could spare no time even to glance around to see what it might be. An instant later, a mass of cavalry smashed into the Saxon lines, cataphracti mounted on armored chargers, lances held low for full-bore charge. The heavy horses shattered the Saxons' front ranks. Half a hundred of Britain's finest cavalry rode down the infantry beneath flint-hard hooves. Men screamed, horses snorted and trumpeted, lances shattered on shields and skewered yelling men on every side. More Saxons were pouring over the walls, but the momentum slowed as the cavalry drove straight through their ranks. More Britons came pouring in from the flanks, driving the Saxons slowly back across the innermost wall, across the second, the third, and finally the fourth and fifth walls. Briton dead lay trampled beside Saxon invaders, while smoke rose ominously into the sky at their backs.

  Stirling waited to be certain the Saxons were, in fact, being driven back before turning his attention to the fires blazing up from the compound. Livestock bellowed and tried to break out of burning pens. Women and children hurled buckets of water onto the flames, while soldiers used axes to cut supports out from under burning roofs, toppling the structures before the flames could spread. By the time the last fires had been doused, they'd lost two months' worth of supplies, most of the grain for the horses, and shelters for nearly a third of their civilians. Cadorius, cursing under his breath, stalked through the camp shouting orders for temporary shelters to be rigged for the women and children, while Stirling and Melwas ordered the butchering and dressing of the livestock that had perished before the flames could be doused.

  As the sun dropped behind the distant Mendip Hills, a single rider rode up from the Saxons' main encampment, under another flag of truce. Cadorius and Ancelotis waited in terse silence while Melwas ordered the civilians back, out of sight. The courier was not Creoda this time, but Cutha. His arrogant face wor
e a smug expression as he reined around beside the outermost wall, trying to survey the destruction within.

  "Ancelotis, I see you have tasted the beginning of my vengeance!" he shouted across the walls.

  Ancelotis didn't even bother to answer.

  "I come bearing a message from my father, king of Sussex. Pay heed, for we will not repeat ourselves and we will offer you mercy only once. Surrender Caer-Badonicus to us and we will allow your women and children to leave the fortress in safety. Defy us and we will deliver to them the same mercy I showed the whores of Penrith!"

  Melwas, striding up to join them, clenched both fists and started forward with a snarl of hatred. Cadorius grabbed his arm and slung the younger king to a forcible halt. "No. Let the jackal speak."

  Cutha smirked at them from across the five walls. "Give this jackal your decision, old man."

  Cadorius stared levelly into the Saxon's eyes. "I will answer the puppy of Sussex when it suits me. Return here in a quarter hour and I will give you an answer."

  Cutha's lips twitched and he lifted fingertips in a mocking salute. "By all means, confer with your brother kings."

  He set spurs to his horse's flanks and the animal leaped away, tossing its head unhappily at the steep descent. Cadorius turned a brooding gaze toward Ancelotis. "We have lost much that we needed to hold out."

  "Artorius will come. He cannot be far away, now. Tell Cutha when he returns that you must persuade others to surrender, as the safety of the women and children is your greatest personal desire."

  Cadorius' eyes flashed. "Surrender is the furthest thought from my mind, Ancelotis!"

  "And from mine. But two can play the game of lies that Cutha delights in so greatly. Unless I am very much mistaken, we can strike them a blow at dawn they'll not soon forget."

  Cadorius frowned, clearly unhappy, but nodded. "Very well. After these past few days, I trust your judgement and cunning implicitly."

  When Cutha returned, Cadorius called his answer across. "It is in my mind to accept your offer of clemency, Saxon, but my brother kings need more persuasion. Grant me the night to confer with them and I will give you our combined answer with the dawn. But look you, I will not give such a reply to mere princelings and go-betweens. If Aelle of Sussex wants to hear terms of surrender, he must come to these walls and take them in his own person."

  Cutha's smirk was a mortal insult. "Of course. My father, King of the Saxons, will greet you at dawn. Take very great care that you do not disappoint him." He put spurs to his horse's flanks and galloped recklessly down the steep hillside once more. Melwas sent an obscene gesture after him, then spat out, "Terms of surrender?"

  Cadorius smiled tightly. "You will please note that I carefully did not say whose."

  A bark of laughter broke from the younger king. "Very well. Let us go and discuss how to force the Saxons to their knees."

  Ancelotis and the other kings made the rounds of the hill fort, making sure the wounded were being properly succored, seeing to it the children and women were fed, overseeing the repairs to structures only damaged while work crews labored to clear the charred wreckage of destroyed structures out of the way, should rapid troop movements be required again. They had just retired to the assembly hall for discussion of the Saxons' ultimatum when the lookout in the tower high overhead gave a shout and came skinning down the ladder, bursting a moment later into the room.

  "Come quick!" he gasped, snatching at Ancelotis' arm. "A signal light!"

  Ancelotis raced outside, climbing the ladder in haste. The lookout shinnied up behind him and pointed to the northwest, where a light blazed in the darkness atop the highest of the Mendip Hills. The light flickered in a definite pattern. Ancelotis counted flashes, translating numbers in his head.

  "Artorius is camped at the edge of the Salisbury Plain," he said tersely. "He plans a charge at the Saxons' northeastern flank at dawn. Besides infantry numbering five hundred, he's brought more than a thousand heavy cavalry. Fetch me a lamp, quickly."

  The sentry vanished into the darkness, returning a few moments later with a lit oil lamp. Stirling shielded the light with the edge of his cloak while his host took a moment to compose his reply, then used a corner of the woolen cloak to occlude the lamp in his own coded series of numerical flashes.

  "Dawn charge acknowledged. Saxon command halfway to summit, southeast flank. Greatest force to southeast, two thousand strong. They are without supplies and grow evil-tempered. Aelle demands surrender by dawn. Signal your departure, we will coordinate surprise attack."

  The light flashed back from Mendip's heights. "Message acknowledged. We ride at dawn."

  When Stirling turned, he found Cadorius perched on the top rung of the ladder, peering northward, his cloak whipping like a maddened snake in the rising wind.

  "What is it?" Cadorius asked tersely.

  Ancelotis pointed. "Artorius' signal, in code. He camps at the edge of Salisbury Plain and will charge the Saxon flank at first light."

  "That's the best news I've had in days."

  Ancelotis chuckled, albeit a trifle grimly. "Indeed. Come, we still have much to prepare. And I, for one, could do with a hot meal and a cup of ale to wash it down with, if anything fit to eat survived the fire."

  Cadorius smiled wanly in the starlight. "A keg or two, at any rate."

  They downed hot stew while issuing orders for a double watch through the night, to prevent the Saxons from copying their own night-sortie tactics. "We'll need to bunch them up, in the morning," Stirling said around a mouthful of boiled beef, "which shouldn't be too difficult, under the circumstances. I'm willing to bet Cerdic and Creoda, not to mention Cutha, will insist on being present for the surrender. And they'll bring a fair number of their ranking eoldormen and thegns with them, as a show to their own troops, demonstrating their high status."

  Melwas snorted. "Aelle doesn't travel anywhere without at least twenty of his picked favorites riding guard around him. Doesn't even trust his own peasants, that one."

  "Which works to our advantage," Cadorius nodded. "At one blow, we can cripple their entire leadership."

  "Precisely. Covianna—" Ancelotis glanced across to where the master healer sat at the edge of their council. "How goes it with our wounded?"

  She answered gravely, "Not so badly as I had feared. Some two score and ten have suffered serious wounds that may yet prove fatal. We've had to take shattered arms and legs in a few cases, but no more than eighteen have been so maimed, to my knowledge." She bit one lip. "The worst is perhaps three dozen men with the onion sickness, for whom I can do nothing. No healer in Britain could save them."

  Onion sickness? Stirling frowned. What the deuce is that?

  Ancelotis answered grimly, The women feed onion soup to men with gut wounds. If the scent of onion comes out the open wound, the bowel has been penetrated. Such men will die sometime within the next two to three days. In the old days, victims with the onion sickness were given merciful release with a knife at the throat. Since the coming of Christ, such mercy is called murder, so the poor wretches die slowly. Their sole comfort is the hope of heaven, rather than hell. The women dose them liberally with alcohol and herbs, to keep them as comfortable as possible while they wait for death.

  Stirling winced inwardly. In the twenty-first century, even a fourth-year medical student knew enough surgical procedures to save such men. In the sixth century, however... "Thank you, Covianna. I'm sure you will do whatever you can to ease their last hours."

  She bowed her head in silent assent.

  Cadorius said, "We've lost some hundred more, killed at the walls. Our fighting strength is down to slightly more than five hundred men-at-arms. How fared your archers, Ancelotis?"

  "Very well, indeed. I lost one archer in the night operation and two more at the walls during that last charge. That leaves three score and nine remaining. More than enough to gift the Saxon commanders with our barbed reply."

  Grim smiles ran through the council chamber.

&nb
sp; "In that case," Cadorius grunted, rising to his feet, "the best thing we can do for our troops and ourselves is get a fair night's sleep. Even with Artorius on the horizon and the tricks we've prepared for the bastards, tomorrow will not be an easy day."

  Of that, Stirling was absolutely certain.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The clans of Belfast added four warships to Dallan mac Dalriada's flotilla.

  Foul weather dogged them all the way down the long reach of the Irish Sea, past the jutting coastline of Wales and south to the storm-battered tip of Cornwall. Brenna managed well enough until they rounded the long, narrow arm of land that comprised the Cornish coast. The bulk of Ireland itself had sheltered them from the worst of the storms, but once past the southern edge of County Cork, the full fury of the Atlantic burst across their ships. Squalls black with rain swept across the Irish convoy, buffeting them with terrific wind and towering waves. Nausea struck Brenna and Morgana so completely, even fear of capsizing in the maddened sea held no real terror. Medraut was a bit green, as well, although he bore up under the rough weather better than Morgana and her unseen guest.

  "We'll go ashore at the border of Caer-Durnac," Medraut shouted above the roar of wind and thunder. "March inland from somewhere along the edge of Lynne Bay!"

  That ought to put them right about Weymouth, if Brenna remembered her English geography accurately. From there it was twenty-five, perhaps thirty miles to the hill fort Morgana called Caer-Badonicus, which victorious Saxons and their descendants still referred to as Cadbury. "Wonderful," Morgana moaned, too ill to muster any enthusiasm at all. "If I survive this wretched seasickness, I'll build a church at Weymouth Bay and dedicate it to Holy Mary, Mother of Mercy."

  Medraut grinned. "A fine idea. Here, let me pull this blanket round your shoulders."

  He fussed solicitously until she waved him away. "Go, lad, go and help your father-in-law guide us safely to shore."

  Keelin, disgustingly hale and hearty despite the pounding of the waves and the incessant pitching and yawing of their little ship—which bulked no more than forty feet from stem to stern—placed a bucket at Morgana's side and periodically emptied it over the gunwales. By the time they reached Weymouth Bay, destined by Brenna's time to become one of Britain's most favored seaside resorts, Morgana was exhausted. Once out of the worst of the battering wind and waves, the Irish flotilla made fine speed across the wide harbor, throwing anchors overboard within a yard of shore. Medraut and Dallan mac Dalriada had to lift her over the side and carry her to solid ground. She felt like kissing the stony beach. She did sink down to sit above the tideline while the Irish offloaded horses and weapons.