M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (50 page)

‘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 feet 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 partially 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.

‘What are you doing here, Arthur? You’re supposed to be on the front line.’

Organised chaos reigned behind the mound as five small wooden machines were pushed into place halfway up the incline and wooden chocks placed against the wheels to ensure they remained stable.

‘What are they?’ Arthur asked, his face darkening.

‘Catapults – ballistas. They’ll throw the Marine Fire out at the enemy when they’re about halfway between here and the walls of Calleva.’ Arthur blinked. He’d been told that the liquid fire would be used in the ditch.

‘When will the trumpets sound to indicate that it’s time to begin our withdrawal from the line? I don’t much care for the idea of being burned alive.’

‘I’ve not heard about any trumpets. The front lines are expected to run when the catapults fire the first of the containers. They’ll allow for a count of fifty to give you time to escape before volunteers on the mound start to throw containers of Marine Fire into the ditch. The enemy will be caught between two fires. Don’t you know this? You’re volunteers, after all, and Bran says you are the pride of the army because you’ve chosen to risk yourselves for your homeland. You will be luring the Saxons into making a full frontal attack into the throat of our newly acquired weapons, and Bran will achieve a great victory at little cost. After your escape, all that will be needed is for the cavalry to mop up the survivors.’

‘It’s a pity, then, that no one told us. It seems odd that we weren’t actually given the opportunity to volunteer!’ Arthur’s voice rasped as if it belonged to a man twice his age.

‘What do you mean? Bran said that . . .’

‘I don’t care what Bran says. He lies! We were told to wait until the trumpets sound before we retreat, and now you tell me there are no trumpets. Six hundred good men are expected to get through one narrow escape route because the space at the northern end of the ditch is effectively blocked by Saxon corpses – put there on Bran’s instructions! We make very effective bait, and we’re expected to die for the sake of realism. Thank you for your honesty, Taliesin. I’ll go now and warn my troops that we’ve been deemed expendable.’

Taliesin now looked thoroughly alarmed. ‘You’ll need to smear earth all over your bodies. It might stop some of the fire sticking to you. I swear I had no knowledge of any of the bad aspects of this plan. Take care, Arthur, because our men need you.’

‘I don’t think our leaders feel quite the same way,’ Arthur replied sardonically as he started to make his way back to the ditch and the forward line. To make matters worse, the Saxon and Jute troops were beginning to stir like a vast ant nest tormented by a giant child with a large stick. There was too little time left to avoid the annihilation of the entire front line.

Arthur quickly outlined the real battle plan to Eanraig and his small corps of veterans. ‘Our departure from the field must look like a poorly disorganised retreat rather than a planned strategy, so don’t hold your breath waiting for that trumpet call. It won’t come. As soon as the catapults throw the containers into the air, move the back two rows of the northern defenders through the gap in the mound at a run. The southern contingent must run towards the far end of the ditch as if the Christian Satan was pursuing them, and the front rank of the defenders on the north side should make a rush round the pile of Jute corpses. They’ll probably have to fight their way out of the trap. But I have just been informed by Taliesin that Bran’s warriors on the mound intend to hurl the next containers directly into the ditch behind us – at a count of fifty after the catapults fire the first salvo! We will be caught between two lines of fire. You must be ready to run as soon as I give the order, for this treachery has already been arranged by our glorious masters. Taliesin believed that we knew of Bran’s intentions, and that we had volunteered to risk our lives for the greater good.’