Camulod Chronicles Book 6 - The Sorcer part 2: Metamorphosis

by Whyte, Jack

Our northward thrust pressed forward effortlessly and with complete success, and the few concentrations of the enemy that we encountered woe exterminated mercilessly by the swarming hillmen who ranged the hills above and ahead of us. Very few of them escaped the lethal hail of arm long arrows, and those who did flee with their lives lost them soon afterwards, when their inevitable descent from the heights brought them into the ken of my massed formations. Within days of setting out from Moridunum, I had joined the fighting on the high ground, leaving my heavy troopers and infantry formations far below and leading my lighter Scouts up into the hill passes. Our presence there restricted the enemy's movements to the hilltops and crests, where Llewellyn's bowmen dealt with them as farmers deal with pests, trapping and destroying them.

  For all my hard riding, nevertheless, I had blooded my sword only once, in a fleeting skirmish with some fleeing Cornishmen, by the time we reached the abandoned gold mines at Dolaucothi. Huw Strongarm had arrived ahead of us, I knew, because word had come back to me the previous day, from the leading party of Llewellyn's bowmen, who were ranging far in advance of our troopers in the valleys below. They had made contact with Huw's people, who were ranged among the hills to the north and east of the valley closest to the gold mines. Llewellyn's forces had occupied the southern and western slopes, keeping behind the crests and exercising great care to ensure that the mob of Cornish and mercenary levies in the valley remained unaware of their presence until the infantry and heavy cavalry had arrived to seal all the exits. Confident of Philip's ability to marshal our main forces, I kept to the higher valleys, in the hope of being able to bring my Scouts to a hillside position that would allow us to strike downward.

  We were within sight of the last ridge remaining between us and the site of the anticipated battle, however, when a storm of noise erupted ahead of us, and I knew that someone had been unable to wait for the proper moment I never discovered who or what caused the premature outbreak of fighting, but the rapidly swelling noise told me clearly that battle had been joined in earnest Cursing with frustration, I signalled to my men and led them forward as quickly as we could go.

  Unfortunately, the terrain in which we found ourselves precisely at that time made it impossible for us to build momentum, and our advance quickly lost all coherence as men and horses surged this way and that among loose boulders and deep scored gullies that defied efficient progress. I had an immediate lesson in why and how cavalry is useless in mountainous terrain. I set Germanicus at an ascending track that looked like a wide and much used game path, but even as his massive haunches thrust us up the hillside, the men on either side of me had to fall back as the track narrowed rapidly and finally ended at the precipitous edge of a ravine. I reined him in hard and swung him left again, downhill, and had to lean far back in my saddle, braced hard in my stirrups, as he picked his way delicately downward, following the ravine's edge. I could hear someone else coming down behind me, but I did not look back to see who it was; I was too busy gauging the confusion among the other Scouts scattered along the hillsides and the valley floor below me.

  I found a place where I could cross the ravine, and after that the going improved slightly, so that I was able to make better speed towards the crest of the ridge that concealed the fighting. I came to a tumbled rock pile just beneath the crest and Germanicus slowed again, before picking his way around the pile and gaining a flat surface that edged another ravine, this one small and shallow enough to leap. I stopped him at the lip and turned him around, leading him back as far as I could to give him at least a few paces before he launched himself. Then, as he surged forward again and settled himself for the leap, I saw a man come into sudden view above me, on a ledge above the spot where we would land. He held a spear, angled back for the throw; the leading fingers of his left hand were pointed at me as he balanced himself and then launched his missile. It was a long, heavy spear, and its shaft was warped, so that as it spun in flight, its butt end wavered in a circular motion. I saw the long, sharp, barbed head clearly as it arced towards me, and there was nothing I could do to avoid it as my mount leaped clear of the ground and sailed forward. As we rose in that great, uncoiling leap, the spear's angle of flight steepened rapidly and the weapon fell away in front of me. I had just begun to breathe a prayer of thanks when I heard it strike my horse. It hit with a solid, wrenching sound. I felt the great beast beneath me flinch in mid air as his head snapped back and he grunted in agony. Then his knees hit the ground on the far side and he fell forward, throwing me over his head.

  So stark, so agonizingly detailed was my vision of what was occurring that it seemed time itself had slowed down, enabling me to retain all of my faculties and react instantaneously. I landed, somehow, on my feet, sprawling forward but not falling; my sword hilt was already in my hand without my being aware of having unhooked it. I stripped away the scabbard and threw myself at the slope, bounding upward to where the spear thrower crouched, axe now in hand, waiting for me. I knew Germanicus, my faithful friend of many years, lay dead or dying behind me, but I did not look at him. I concentrated only upon scrambling up the steep slope to the top of the knoll. His killer rushed forward as soon as I arrived, to cut me down like a tree, but I was still possessed by the same preternatural awareness that had come upon me earlier and I skipped away easily from his clumsy, flailing rush. His scything blow came nowhere close to me, and the edge of his enormous axe hit the ground where I had been, striking sparks from the stone. The force of his swing had unbalanced him and as he staggered forward, trying to right himself, the short sheepskin vest that was his only upper body covering flapped up and forward, baring his arched back. I sprang towards him then and smashed him with a full, two handed, overarm swing that caught him clean edged and cleaved through his waist, a cut so clean and deep that, in pulling my blade away, I sliced through the guts of him and cut him in half. It may have been the rage that fuelled me, but I have never struck any other man as hard or as savagely as I did that man, and the long, sharp tongue of the skystone sword sliced through him so easily that he screamed long after he had seen his severed lower half kicking in front of him.

  I stepped back from him, unsurprised and unimpressed, and then I heard running steps approaching. I glanced over my shoulder and saw three of his companions rushing at me, one with a spear and two with short, Roman style swords. Almost without thinking I struck the head from the thrusting spear and spun on my right heel, whipping the sword about again in a complete circle to decapitate the spearman. As his body reeled off to one side, I dropped to my right knee and drew back my sword arm so that my hand almost grazed the ground by my ankle. The first sword bearer was coming on much too quickly and had realized his error, but before he could slow down he died from a long, stabbing thrust beneath his breastbone. I jerked my point free, sprang to my feet again and launched myself at the third man. To his credit, he hunched his shoulders and, throwing up the small round shield he carried, came straight towards me. He was helmetless, and I cleaved his skull before his short sword could begin to come anywhere close.

  Then I was alone on top of the knoll, whirling again to face the sound of feet scrabbling against the stony surface of the hill's flank. But even as I began to launch myself towards the sounds, my sword arm whirling high, I saw the horsehair crest of one of my own helmets and then Donuil's face surged into view beneath it. I grounded my point immediately and reached out to pull him up to join me, and we both stood wordlessly, looking at the carnage around us. Small knots of men were fighting everywhere, but the enemy were fighting with the desperation of doomed men and they were dying quickly, in large numbers, most of them picked off by the deadly arrows being fired from the ridge above us. One massive, huge bellied man, swinging a long, clumsy looking blade, was thrown into a gully by the force of an arrow that struck him just above the ear, plucking him off his feet and hurling him aside as though he were weightless.

  I became aware then that Donuil was shouting at me. There was noise everywhere, and apparently
I had been deaf to all of it for some time. I shook my head and forced myself to listen. Donuil was asking me if I was hurt, or wounded, and that surprised me until I looked down to see myself covered in crimson; my armour, my tunic, my arms and hands and the sword I gripped were all running with blood, and I experienced a surge of fear as I thought, for a moment, that all of it was mine. But I had escaped unscathed.

  I shook my head and looked about me again, this time taking better note of all that I was seeing. The fighting had died down and now only a few fierce, widely separated struggles were still being waged. Murder was being committed before my eyes, for men were throwing down their weapons, attempting to surrender, and were being killed out of hand, mainly by arrows from the ridge above. I drew a deep breath and ordered Donuil to find our trumpeter and sound the recall, and as I spoke I heard the tremor in my voice. He looked at me, wordlessly, then turned and disappeared over the edge of the knoll again.

  I walked stiff legged to the other side of the small eminence. I do not remember going down to my horse, but I found myself kneeling by his head, staring through tears at his noble face and at the milky glaze that was already forming in the one large eye that I could see. The spear had pierced him cleanly, plunging deep into his chest even before its butt lodged against the ground and the full weight of his plunging corpse fell upon it, hammering the point home to burst his great heart. For almost a score of years, this magnificent beast had borne me bravely, offering nothing but total obedience and love in return for the meagre attentions I bestowed upon him. Now the spectacle of his egregious death unmanned me completely and I sat down and wept, leaning my back against his shoulder and laying my left arm flat along his solid, silky neck. All around me, strewn among the rocks and gullies of this inhospitable place, the bodies of dead and dying men lay like discarded garments and lacked any power to move me to grieve for diem. Their deaths had been a natural consequence of their lives as warriors and mercenaries. The death of my noble and unselfish friend Germanicus, on the other hand, was intensely personal, and it overwhelmed me with a sense of loss and destitution.

  Some time later, I felt Donuil's hand upon my shoulder and I stood up, dry eyed by that time, and followed him to where he had tethered another horse for me. We rode in silence to meet Huw Strongarm.

  The victory, Huw told me later, had been much greater than I had realized. The invaders had been summoned to Dolaucothi in numbers far surpassing our expectations, gravitating towards the gold mines in large bands. Surprised from the north and the south simultaneously, however, they had been broken and routed, their ranks decimated and devastated by the Pendragon bowmen on the hillsides above them. The survivors, thousands of them despite their enormous losses, were now in full flight westward, back towards the sea, harried and pursued relentlessly by the terrifying hillmen who could strike men dead with their long arrows from nigh on half a mile away.

  Huw was in high spirits, full of excitement and enthusiasm, and he seemed larger than I remembered him, far more regal. It took me only moments to identify the change in his appearance, and he saw me notice it and broke off what he had been saying, looking at me strangely.

  "What?" he asked. "What is it? You look... Is something wrong, Merlyn?"

  "Your helmet," I replied, shaking my head. "I recognize it, though I've never seen it. It belonged to Ullic Pendragon. I've read descriptions of it in my uncle's books. But it must be a hundred years old, and yet it looks new. How can that be?"

  His eyes flared in surprise, and with both hands he removed the war helmet and held it out to me. The head of the great golden eagle that fronted it looked alive, so fierce were its eyes. The huge wings were folded on either side of the helmet's dome and the spread tail feathers fanned out and down to cover his shoulders. 'Take it," he said. "Look closely. This bird was in the air, last year. Ullic's was similar, but this is mine, new made for me." I examined the eyes, made of glass or polished stone, and the precise way the neck feathers had been arranged over the helmet's brow. "The eagle helmet is the ceremonial helmet of the War Chief of Pendragon, Merlyn, and each new War Chief receives his own. Uric and Uther were both King, as was Dergyll ap Griffyd, but only Ullic was both King and War Chief, so he had the helmet. I am the first War Chief of all Pendragon since Ullic. "

  I handed the helmet back to him with the reverence it deserved, and he led us then to where his huge new tent was being erected and his senior sub chiefs and captains were already assembling to await his next dispositions. As I listened thereafter to the details of his planning and the way he absorbed and adjusted to every new report being brought to him, I found my excitement rekindled, and I felt myself more able to accept the aching loss of Germanicus with a resigned pragmatism.

  For the following three weeks, we stormed through the mountain passes of western Cambria, leaving a trail of slaughter in our wake. We reached the western shore at the end of that time to find the remnants of Ironhair's embattled levies drawn up along the strand, facing us defiantly behind crude and hastily made fortifications. Their evacuation plans had fallen into ruin. The fleet that should have been there to carry them away to safety had failed to meet them, and there was no sign of its coming. They were vulnerable to siege, starvation and thirst, crammed into a narrow space backed with saltwater and bare of any kind of vegetation other than the wrack of seaweed cast up by each high tide. Yet still they refused to surrender, fearing, I had no doubt, the total lack of mercy shown by the Pendragon to any of their ilk.

  By the end of the third morning of the "siege, " the defenders were completely encircled and at the mercy of the Overwhelming superiority of the Pendragon besiegers.

  I sought out Huw Strongarm and asked his blessing to return with my people to Camulod. Ironhair's invasion, to my eyes and his, was over. The principals, Ironhair himself and Carthac Pendragon, had escaped unscathed, as far as we knew, their bid for mastery in Cambria having failed abjectly. As surely as Ironhair's army had expected to be rescued by a waiting fleet, I, too, had expected to see signs of Connor Mac Athol's presence in the waters off the coast. As neither fleet had been seen, my conjecture was that they had met at sea and, dependent upon the outcome of the battle, either fleet could materialize at any time. Whatever developed, however, Huw now had sufficient strength surrounding the enemy bastion on the beach to handle it. He did not need our continuing presence, or the aggravation of continuing to feed us when we might be better employed at home in Camulod.

  Huw believed that Ironhair and Carthac would be likely to return, but not for another year, at least. By that time, Cambria would, under his leadership, be unassailable. A spirit of unity among the Pendragon had been unknown for long enough now—since the death of Uther—that its nearly miraculous re-emergence gave it an exceptional fire and vigour. Should Ironhair invade again in days to come, Huw would request our assistance again, in return for his wholehearted support of young Arthur's claim to Cambria as Uther Pendragon's son. I told him then about my agreement with Llewellyn, which would bring the lad to Cambria the following year, and Huw immediately relieved Llewellyn of his current duties and released him to return to Camulod with us. We two then embraced as friends and equals, and shortly afterwards I turned my two half legions around and led them home to Camulod. We had been away from our Colony for nearly half a year.

  ELEVEN

  Autumn had already touched the trees with its mordant breath by the time we came down from the highlands and began to approach Camulod from the northwest, having made our way without incident from Dolaucothi in the central hills. We travelled down to the southern coast of Cambria and thence eastward along the littoral, collecting our holding forces from Caerwent and Caerdyff in passing. Then we forded the river mouth to the west of Glevum at low tide—a relatively simple task at summer's end—and struck inland, south and east, to skirt Aquae Sulis and find the great road running south from there to Camulod. Pleased though we were to be going home, we were nevertheless strangely subdued; an air of dissatisfaction hung o
ver us, born of the barely mentioned but inescapable conclusion that it had primarily been the Pendragon Celts, not the forces of Camulod, that had beaten the invaders. We knew we were the anvil against which the Celtic hammer had crashed down to smite and flatten the enemy; it was our solid, unyielding weight against which they had found themselves trapped and crushed. Llewellyn himself had constructed the analogy. But our Camulodian pride was not accustomed to accepting a secondary role, and so many of our number felt discontented and unfulfilled, believing themselves to have achieved nothing of moment.

  Needless to say, the mood of our army lightened as we' grew ever closer to Camulod and the comforts of home. My men were looking forward to removing their armour and taking their ease for a spell; the thought of making love to a wife or sweetheart was present in the mind of every man who rode with us, and I was no exception.

  Our homecoming was both triumphant and chaotic. Never before had an army returned victorious to the Colony with so few casualties—less than a hundred men had died in the summer long campaign, and no more than three hundred had been wounded. The chaos, meanwhile, was precipitated mainly by the arrival of thousands of hungry mouths. Notwithstanding the fact that our advent had been expected and awaited, the abrupt appearance of our swarming numbers caused immediate dismay and consternation among the Colony's quartermasters, for as Publius Tetra, my own senior campaign quartermaster, had pointed out to me days earlier, it is one thing to contemplate the existence of six thousand legionaries, knowing that they once belonged and lived in one place. It is quite another matter to overlook the fact that those six thousand have another thousand in attendance upon them, and then to see full seven thousand living men descend upon your camp, eyeing your stores and granaries.

  Thanks to the foresight of Tetra and his fellow quartermasters, however, we had been at pains to annul the impact of our arrival from that viewpoint, at least; I had sent organized hunting parties out to scour the land for game in the last five days of our approach, and we brought wagons laden with fresh meat and even grain, gleaned from the granaries of those new garrisons we had passed by. Heartened by the new strength offered them in those outlying areas, and encouraged by the prospect of a new, safe and bountiful harvest within the month, the farmers in three communities had been grateful and happy to supply us with their surplus at summer's end.