M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon

by M. K. Hume

  ‘The Britons cannot be allowed to control this devil’s brew. Up till now, we’ve made it easy for them to use it against us, because we have kept our troops away from theirs. The fire itself makes no distinction between Saxon or Briton. Look, Cynric – just two containers of devil’s fire did this.’

  Cerdic’s arm swept across the scorched ground around the well, and the blackened lumps that lay beneath the scattered piles of soil used to drown the fire, fists raised and skulls opened like strange flowers of bone as the brains boiled within them. Anything human in those lumps of carbon had vanished in a slice of the Christian hell transported to earth.

  Besides the destruction of most of their supplies, too many men had perished for Cerdic to forgive his enemy. The devastation was far beyond the normal losses inflicted during warfare. Bran had turned this war into a personal conflict, and Cerdic and his son would not rest until the Britons paid the full blood price for their hideous murders. Over two hundred men had died – a fraction of his force, but a terrible blow to the morale of the rest.

  ‘They will not be able to use this weapon on our warriors if we can gain entry to Calleva, or if we can force them to fight us at close quarters in the ditch and on the mound. I doubt they are prepared to kill their own men.’

  Cynric waited patiently. He understood the sharpness of his father’s wits, and appreciated that Cerdic’s decisions would almost certainly determine the fate of his army in the next phase of the battle.

  ‘The reserves to the south of the eastern gate are to be placed under Havar’s command and he must be ordered to take the northern sector of the ditch and mound at all costs. Do you understand, Cynric? Havar must win.’

  ‘Yes, Father. I will ensure that Havar is told of your orders. But what shall we do with the reserves to the south-west?’

  ‘They must be ready to move as soon as they are ordered into the attack. I want them to maintain pressure on the ditch where it is thinly protected along the southern section, at the points where Havar has yet to mount a sustained offensive. You, son, are in charge of penetrating the ditch and the mound. Once through the defensive line, you will destroy the command tents and crush the British reserves that remain behind the mound. Let Havar absorb the main thrust of the British defences while you set your men into a wedge and break through. Is that understood? Everything will depend on it. You must break through their lines. I am putting almost every man into the fray, so don’t fail me.’

  Cynric looked dazed. ‘But we’ll be risking everything, including our lives and our freedom, on these worthless fields, Father. There’ll be no reserves, and no support. What if Havar fails? What if I fail?’

  ‘You must not fail, Cynric! The devil’s fire must not be used upon us again. You must be so close to the Britons that they won’t be able to use that . . . that monstrous potion without killing their own warriors. We’ve stood toe to toe against Bran of the Ordovice on many occasions. He’s not the Dragon King – and we outnumber the Britons by about two to one. What more do you want? They might have the advantage through the firestorm at this moment, but nothing is certain in a battle.’

  Cynric agreed, but every instinct told him that his father was wrong. Cerdic had panicked because of the nature of the weapon used against them and the hellish deaths it had caused. But Cerdic was the bretwalda. Who was Cynric to question his father’s decisions? Cerdic had earned the right to call himself king of the Saxons through skirmish and battle, although Cissa had vied with him for the title. But Cissa was dead, and Cerdic now ruled the lands that stretched from the Wash to the Litus Saxonicum. He would be obeyed without question, even if he led his warriors to destruction in this new and grotesque hell. But nothing in Cynric’s orders demanded that all of his force should attack at once. Cynric determined to divide his troops into two groups and keep half of his men beyond the range of the Celtic bowmen until he was sure that Cerdic’s strategy would work.

  Yes, he would wait. After all, how could that hurt?

  Two hours is an eternity on the battlefield, especially if you are waiting for your enemy to make up his mind. The Jutes beat their sword hilts against their shields and screamed insults at the Britons, inviting them to leave the safety of their little ditch and fight them man to man, instead of hiding behind their shields and their bowmen. Meanwhile, the Britons stood or sat in their rows, bolstered by the unseen men from their reserves who were waiting behind the mound. The veterans drank copiously from their ale or water bottles, and took what pleasure could be got from gossip, singing or telling ribald stories about their officers or the tribal kings.

  Arthur had gradually come out of his odd period of weakness and had shaken his head when he saw the bloody piles of dead stacked at the northern end of the ditch. Much evidence of the conflict had soaked into the ground, or had been scattered on the churned earth. An earring torn out of the lobe that had held it was trodden into the mud. Across a puddle of half-congealed blood, a broken sword waited for the familiar hand of its owner to lift it once again. Arthur stared at the relics of violent death and began to vomit.

  After Arthur’s stomach had emptied, Gareth used a clean corner of the ruined red cloak to cleanse his mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Arthur said, and realigned his blood-spattered chest plate. ‘I must have killed many men to find myself in this state, but it’s only now that I realise how much butchery we’ve carried out this day. I’m not making much sense, am I? This was your first battle too, Gareth, but you’re not acting like a silly child. So what’s wrong with me? I vaguely remember losing my shield and using the Dragon Knife instead. Someone else seemed to be fighting inside my body. I don’t understand.’

  Germanus heard the ragged edges in Arthur’s voice. The enemy was still very close, far too close for his charge to have self-doubts at the start of another sortie. He knew they would come again – there was no doubt of that – so Arthur must be patched together or he’d perish while worrying whether he was, in fact, a madman.

  ‘Every warrior is different when he first stands shoulder to shoulder with his friends and tries to kill his enemies. Some, like Gareth, see it as a task that must be completed. For him this battle is the culmination of years of training with his father. His mind is razor sharp because he has been prepared to expect every detail.’

  ‘I was also trained, as well you know,’ Arthur interrupted. ‘I was prepared just as carefully as he was. You were my master.’

  ‘And I passed on to you everything I learned over twenty years of killing and surviving. But other factors came to light on the battlefield today, factors that do not concern Gareth. You are the son of a warrior, the grandson of a warrior, the descendant of warriors back as far as you care to look along your bloodline – and all those warriors were kings. You are measured by a higher standard than Gareth. Those members of your family who were too generous, too caring or too sensitive died before they could father children. Even the women of your blood are warriors. But you, Arthur, are a good, kind and happy man at heart. You don’t love the killing fields, and you draw people to you because you have no real desire to inflict harm on anyone.’

  Arthur looked to one side. Germanus had been making sense until the last part of his explanation. A flake of dried blood marred Arthur’s thumbnail and he flicked it away in disgust. Good? Kind?

  ‘Some part of you is determined to survive and to do what must be done to ensure it. It is your heritage and it is an inescapable part of you. If the conscious part of you shudders from killing, the deeper, atavistic part of you will do it willingly. What do you think the berserkers are? They are men who deliberately call on that hidden, deeper part of their souls so that they feel no wounds and can draw effortlessly on their training. You were a kind of berserker when you fought earlier. You acted consciously at first, but then you fell back on your instinct for survival when you lost your shield. You may find what I say hard to face, but almost every part of you, from the wild hair that protects your skull to your long, flexible f
eet which keep your body balanced, is bred for warfare.’

  ‘Yes, I understand what you’re saying,’ Arthur murmured slowly. ‘I remember the killing as if someone else was doing the fighting.’

  ‘When the enemy comes against us again, you’ll know what to expect and you’ll fight with the full knowledge of what you do. Don’t worry, Arthur. I’ve never lied to you, and I won’t start now.’

  Arthur looked a little happier. He had remembered his voice, that itch at the back of his head, the screaming that warned of danger, and he wondered if it was his training taking over when he was in a kind of shock composed of fear and dread. Had that inner instinct come out to save the body that nourished it? He shuddered at the thought, but he could understand such intervention.

  Like his birth father before him, Arthur was fearful of madness, for his kinfolk were fully aware of the manifold weaknesses that had been apparent in the bloodlines that produced Uther, Morgan and Balyn. He had often been reminded that he should never forget the violence inherent in his family. Nor should he forget the blessings he had received from them, such as his great height. Inwardly, Father Lorcan and Germanus had disapproved of the constant emphasis placed by Anna and Bran on his mental state, for it had made the boy determined to be generous, reasonable and kind; to prove to himself that he hadn’t been cursed by the family flaws.

  In the light of his new-found knowledge of King Bran’s feelings towards him, Arthur began to wonder whether the king had meant to cause him harm from the time when he first became aware of Arthur’s birthright. Neither Bedwyr nor Elayne had spoken of this seam of cruelty within Arthur’s bloodline, and both swore that Artor had been the fairest ruler of his age. But any man can be killed without a blow being struck if he is convinced that he suffers from a debilitating flaw or weakness. Survival in battle depended on one’s ability to handle violence: perhaps Arthur had been taught to distrust his own capacity in that regard so that he might be slaughtered when he faced an enemy for the first time, and thus pose no threat to his kin? Would Anna do such a thing to her brother?

  Regretfully, Arthur put the thought of family betrayal aside. He had no choice if he wanted to survive. More was at stake than the life of a landless warrior whose only distinction was that he looked like the Dragon King.

  Done with talking, Germanus, Arthur and Gareth unslung the leather pocket of food each carried on the back of his belt, where it would be out of the way during combat. Wise soldiers refreshed themselves in any pause during a battle, for who could say when another opportunity might come to fill their bellies, and Lorcan had insisted that they take bread, the last of the cheese, an apple and a handful of nuts from their store. Around them, other Britons ate and drank in a mood reminiscent of a grim picnic, a strange comparison given that they were in sight of a huge pile of Jute bodies. Their own dead and wounded had been taken through the narrow gap in the mound and were now in the care of the healers and the priests. Arthur wondered briefly how Lorcan was faring.

  Two men in helmets came from the causeway dividing the ditch and walked the length of the line, passing on various pieces of information to the British warriors. They eventually reached Arthur, Germanus and Gareth, who recognised the messengers as Ector and Idris ap Cadwy. Ector’s face had aged in the course of the day, and Arthur was just thinking how glad he was not to be in a position where he was forced to make decisions which cost so many lives when he was called out of the line and Ector draped one arm affectionately around his shoulder. As his kinsman spoke, Arthur watched a small force, not much more than two hundred men, positioning themselves in front of the southern sector of the ditch.

  ‘The mirrors tell us that the Saxons are moving. One contingent is being sent towards Havar, so Father presumes that his enlarged force will attack here, where your force will be standing at the front of the ditch. It is the point where the majority of our losses have been suffered so far. Incidentally, Arthur, please accept our congratulations. Father is very pleased. You and your men inflicted massive casualties on Havar – enough to keep him smarting for some time, but we’re sure he’ll be back to get his revenge as soon as Cerdic gives the order to attack again. That Saxon bastard keeps all his thanes and allies on short leashes. Cerdic’s other reserves, the group you see stretching from the western gate down to the southern gate, are also preparing to move forward. We presume they will attack the southern end of the ditch, where we have placed another three hundred men.’

  Arthur smiled wryly. Ector’s estimates seemed optimistic, because he was sure there weren’t three hundred poor sods positioning themselves along the southern part of the ditch. Even if there were, they would already be outnumbered, judging by the size of the Saxon bivouac south of Calleva’s western gate, but Arthur would eat his left boot if there were two hundred Britons on the line, all green young men like himself, expected to hold back a thousand or more fully trained warriors.

  The itch began in the back of Arthur’s skull.

  ‘We’re keeping the bulk of our reserves to link with your force so that your wounded can be replaced,’ Ector said, as if he could read Arthur’s mind. ‘They must be used to prevent the Saxons from breaking through. The plan is to engage all of Cerdic’s forces on the field, so we’ll be hideously outnumbered in every defensive position.’

  ‘So? We will just fight until they run, or we die,’ Arthur said softly. The situation was dire, and it was no time for self-delusion. For some reason, Bran was keeping most of his experienced warriors in reserve while those that filled the front lines were mainly of tender years. Why?

  ‘No. Once Cerdic’s troops are committed to an attack, our warriors must start to leave through the gap in the mound, not quickly at first or else the Saxons will smell a rat; they should give the impression they are deserting their posts from fear of their attackers. The southern troops will go round the end of the ditch and take up a defensive position to stop the Saxons from outflanking our line and surrounding us. But your troops here must run through the gap and take up positions behind the mound. You’ll hear our trumpets sound and that’s your cue to retreat, and may God help you if you can’t get through, for we’ll be throwing the containers of Marine Fire into the ditch, where the water will help to spread the liquid. That’s all the detail you need to know, but you must appreciate the urgency of that trumpet call. Make sure you move, kinsman, for that liquid fire is a hellish way to die. I saw it during the cavalry charge and it’s something I’d like to forget. And promise me you’ll be careful, for I’d miss you if anything were to happen to you.’

  Arthur stared into Ector’s eyes and acquitted him of any desire to harm him. Germanus, Gareth and Arthur had already discussed their positioning in one of the most dangerous positions on the whole battlefield and decided that Bran’s actions were odd at best, but Arthur was determined that he would bring no shame to his father’s name by disobeying an order or complaining of the dangers involved. Good men stood around him who could not demand a safer role. However, Ector’s eyes were free of any guilt and they met Arthur’s even gaze without shame. If Bran wished harm to Arthur, then he’d not shared his decision with his son.

  Nodding, Arthur swore to stand until the trumpet call, when he would personally ensure that those Britons who had not already escaped ran for their lives. He was smiling, but only Germanus realised how shallow that smile was and that his eyes, more grey now than green, showed no hint of amusement or affection. Arthur was going through the motions while his mind burrowed away at the problem of avoiding the barrage of Marine Fire that would soon be unleashed. As soon as Ector and Idris had departed to speak to the southern contingent, he crouched close to the ground and drew a plan of the battleground on the cold, wet earth. Germanus immediately placed his finger on the discrepancies in Bran’s arrangements.

  ‘He expects six hundred men to run through one gap? King Bran is mad. It’ll take half an hour to get the troops through the mound to safety. What’s more, the way round our end of the ditch is partial
ly blocked by the Saxon and Jute dead stacked there.’

  Arthur called the section commanders to an impromptu meeting, where he explained the problem with the use of his drawing on the cold earth. ‘There’ll be fuck-all time to get away once those trumpets sound, so we have to retreat in good order if we want everyone to reach safety.’

  ‘Agreed,’ a grizzled veteran replied. ‘But you just can’t fit that number of men through that space in that short a time. Can’t be done!’

  ‘Then the men at the end must go round the piles of Saxon corpses. If needs be, our stragglers may have to hide themselves among the Saxon dead. But no one will get out of this trap if we are all trying to pour through one narrow entrance.’

  Germanus added his bit. ‘Have you noticed the odds we’re up against? Something doesn’t make sense and this old soldier’s nose smells something rotten under Bran’s planning. It makes me wonder what the hell is happening here.’

  ‘You too?’ the veteran, whose name was Eanraig Four-Fingers, replied with a sour expression around his drawn-down mouth. ‘Count the number of men sent to guard the southern part of the ditch.’

  ‘There’s not many of them,’ Arthur answered, scanning the thin ranks from his greater height.

  ‘Fewer than two hundred and fifty! And there are fewer than four hundred of us here to defend our bit. That tells me we’re expendable, and part of the story is being left out. By my guess, Bran is determined to keep us in the dark.’

  ‘I’ll find out,’ Arthur snapped, his slow temper igniting at last.

  ‘You shouldn’t go,’ Gareth protested. ‘Bran could say you’re deserting your post.’

  ‘No, he won’t! Don’t worry about it! I’ll find out what’s going on.’

  Arthur strode through the narrow gap between the northern and southern sections of the ditch. He had barely covered twenty feet before Taliesin appeared out of nowhere and gripped his arm so hard that Arthur was certain the skin would be bruised.