Shadowland (18 page)

A heavy traffic of sheep, cattle and people had
churned the street into thick mud and there was little escape from it even at
the sides where the stalls stood; Meryn quickly became coated to the knees.

‘New knife, my friend? Needles, or some pins for
your good lady?’ Meryn shook his head at the trader and pushed on, passing
others making similar offers, from benches laden with a variety of items. There
were tools, some of which he noted were poorly made, some items of clothing
offered by two young girls who gazed at him open mouthed as he passed, and a
number of stalls heavy under the weight of vegetables, pies, and pots. He
stopped and watched with interest as an older man bartered some sheep for three
Roman coins, a sack of grain and a short sword, and then moved on in search of
the warriors’ lodgings. Thunder rumbled closer now and the rain began to fall
in earnest. Around him, people scurried for cover and Meryn picked up his pace,
eager to get warm and dry. At last, he saw three chariots outside a large barn
and guessed he was at the right place. A boy was leading two horses away from
the closest chariot, and he could hear raised voices coming from within.

Dragging open the door in anticipation of a warm
fire, he was about to walk inside, when a huge warrior came storming out
towards him, forcing him to jump back out of the way. It took a moment to
realise the warrior wasn’t simply pushing past, but had been forcibly ejected
by the small knot of fury and muscle that followed him out.

‘Don’t yer ever take the name of the Iceni ‘n’
blacken it with yer foul tongue,’ spat the little man as he stood over his far
larger opponent. He reached up and straightened the band of polished bronze he
wore round his brow to keep in check a tangle of red hair, hair matched in its
fiery colour by a long flowing beard. His eyes, behind a myriad of wrinkles,
flashed light blue as he began menacingly shifting a large axe from one hand to
the other, obviously waiting for the right moment to plant it in the other
man’s head.

The aggressive little man was dressed in the manner
of the eastern Iceni tribe. Leather leggings, a heavy linen tunic and a coarse
woollen cloak, pinned with a decorated brooch. The torque at his throat was
thick and heavy, and looked to be made of some precious metal. The cloak, in
comparison, appeared to have been made for a man of larger stature, as much of
it was trailing behind him in the mud. Meryn decided that if the slurring of
his words was any way to judge a man, then he was heavily into his cups.

‘I meant no disrespect, Samel,’ the fallen man
stammered, as he got to his feet to tower over the bristling Samel. ‘
I’s
only said …’ but the big man had no time to finish as
Samel noticed Meryn for the first time and promptly forgot his present
troubles.

‘Meryn, Meryn Link!’ He pushed the big warrior out
of his way with the edge of his axe and the man wandered back into the barn,
muttering incoherently.

‘As I live and breathe,’ continued Samel, beaming up
at Meryn. ‘Meryn Link, and here ready to join with his oldest friend in
battle.’ He held out his arm and Meryn gripped it. They stood like this for
several moments, forearm to forearm, happily slapping each other on the back in
the pouring rain.

‘Well met, Samel,’ said Meryn, clearly delighted to
have found the little man. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘It has indeed. Come. Drink with me,’ said Samel, as
they broke apart. ‘You’ll know a few of the others inside and you’re sorely
needed if we’re to hold our heads high in battle over the coming weeks. Some
among us still believe hulking size is the only requirement of a great
warrior.’ His face creased into a grin as he gazed up at Meryn, and tapped the
side of his nose while lowering his voice to a loud whisper. ‘Sometimes I need
to cut a few of those big oafs down a bit, just to let them know who the real
warriors are! Remind them that we’re all the same size when lying in the mud,
eh?’

He turned for the door as thunder crashed overhead
and the rain tipped down in torrents, seemingly doing its best to remove the
little hair left on Meryn’s head before they got inside.

Meryn had known Samel since they were young and
foolhardy enough to be part of a small raiding party that had regularly
attacked Roman supply columns. They had hunted and been hunted up and down the
land for years, until Meryn had judged he was too old to keep going, tried his
hand at farming. To be back in the little man’s company was like revisiting the
past, and the two friends spent until late into darkness, drinking, talking and
laughing together.
    

Meryn learned that Samel and his band were heading
towards the growing army of someone called Ambrosius, and that they were sorely
disappointed not to have found him already.

‘It’s confusing, to say the least,’ moaned Samel.
‘We’d set out to join with Vortigern, when we heard tell of this Ambrosius, and
that he has returned as our true king, eldest son to old King Clarens, so they
say. Anyway, now that you’re with us it’ll be like old times again.’ Samel
beamed at Meryn, before tipping up his leather tankard and then gazing about
for something palatable with which to refill it.

‘I have to find my young friends before I do
anything else. ’
Tis
a thing of honour, a pledge of
safety that I made and need to be able to keep, I have to find them.’ Meryn
pushed a flagon of mead towards Samel. ‘It’s a strange thing, but the spirits
drew us together, and ever since then, there have been little things to remind
me that there’s something special about these young people.’

‘Like your meeting with the druid? Or perhaps the
birthing in the forest?’ said Samel, grinning happily.

Meryn cringed. He had only just finished telling how
he had finally found his way out of the forest. ‘Well, maybe not delivering the
child, but meeting the druid, yes, and then also finding that old sword. I
mean, what would I want with a rusty old sword?’ He took a long drink then
belched softly as he lowered the tankard. ‘Then there are those Picts that were
taking such an interest in them. It may have been coincidence the first time
with the raid on their village, but the same group catching up with them a
second time?’

‘They’re rounding up children all over, or so we’ve
heard.’ Samel drew a dagger and stabbed it down into the table and his face
took on a darker look. ‘If my boys and me catch any, we’ll put paid to them;
you can count on that.’ He pulled the dagger free and returned it to his belt.

‘So where do you think these kids of yours have got
to?’

Meryn’s face creased in a frown. ‘I wish I knew. The
druid sent us south, said we’d meet a man and know him if we saw him.’

‘That’s just the sort of vague advice to be expected
from a druid.’ Samel spat out the word ‘druid’ with obvious distaste. ‘Maybe
it’s me yer meant to find!’ he continued happily, but Meryn shook his head.

‘It’s a pleasure to find you, Samel, but I think the
druid was talking to the boys. Apparently, my task is to save a king, but I
think I was meant to stick with them to do that.’

The little man’s bushy red eyebrows rose in
surprise. ‘Saving a king is a worthy task if ever there was one, and another
reason for you to join with us. We aim to join the army of a king, King
Ambrosius. Maybe it’s him you’ll be saving?’

Meryn shook his head. ‘No, I’ve messed everything
up. First sending those poor boys away, and then losing the girl, they may all
be dead for all I know. I’ll get no chance to save any king as the druid
foretold, and who knows... Britain
may fall to the Saxons because of it.’ He hung his head in his hands and Samel
looked on in pity, shaking his head.

‘You poor
ol
’ fool, but
then, maybe the spirits have just nudged you back on track, by pushing you into
me? In my experience, that’s just the sort of thing spirits will do. Don’t
explain nothing clearly, but push and pull a man till he’s all messed up trying
to figure them out, best to just let it all happen, I say. Tomorrow, we’ll ride
to join Ambrosius and find yer that king to save, eh? Now stop yer whining and
find us another flagon of mead.’

It
was late in the morning when the three chariots rode out of Rudge. The rain was
still falling without let and it didn’t appear as if it was going to stop any
time soon. The chariots were heavy, uncomfortable contraptions that the horses
slipped and struggled to pull through the thick mud of the village. As they
left, they found slightly firmer ground, but it was still all Meryn could do to
hang on to the side of the bouncing frame, trying to control the contents of
his stomach. When they made it onto the main path beyond the village, the ride
smoothed out and they picked up speed, however, it remained a discomfort with
three men in a chariot designed to carry only two.

Samel
appeared little affected by the previous night’s drinking as his chariot led
the small group towards the Roman road and regularly cracked his whip over the
backs of the two dark brown mares; the powerful little horses drawing them
along at a smart pace.
As the morning wore on, Meryn became accustomed to the ride, his
stomach settled down and he began to enjoy the experience a little more. Even
his worries were beginning to fade a little. He was still heading south, and at
this pace, his hopes began to rise that he might still catch up with the boys
before they got into any harm. He consoled himself with the knowledge that he
had seen the black Saxon and two of the Picts return to the forest camp without
captives, and that maybe the boys had actually won through. The fate of
Clarise, however, was still causing him concern. If she was with the druids, as
he suspected, then she would at least be safe from the Picts. However, if she
had somehow become lost in the forest… Meryn elected not to follow that train
of thought and concentrated on the road ahead.

The
rain set in and fell without let for three full days of travel. Thankfully, the
Roman road proved to be free of mud, unlike the local roads, and although the
journey was somewhat miserable, it at least allowed the chariots to continue at
a good pace.
Towards the end of the third day, as the light was beginning to fade from the
slate-grey sky, they left the hard surface of the Roman road, crested a rise,
and saw the collection of huts and shelters that housed the hopes of the
Britons. They had finally found Ambrosius and the collected might of the
tribes.

****

Uther
glanced up at the small group of chariots that had topped the rise behind where
he and Cal were practising weapon skills with Ambrosius and some of the others.
Groups of warriors from the various tribes had been drifting in for days now so
it was only a momentary distraction. Sometimes a large group came in, but more
often, it was smaller groups of two or three at a time, and then chariots and
cavalry like those he had just seen, coming from one of the larger tribes or
bands that had been part of the Roman army before it departed.

‘Come on, Uther, concentrate!’

Uther snapped back in time to see the wooden sword
flash towards him. He stepped to the side at the last moment and deflected the
blow as Ambrosius had taught him, but his arms and shoulders were tiring. His
guard dropped long enough for Ambrosius to jab him in the ribs and he fell to
his knees, waiting for the pain to subside. As he crouched there, he wished he
could go back into the warm roundhouse and dry out, but the practice would
continue as it did every day while the army waited to do battle.

‘You’re doing better, little brother, but in battle,
that sword would be real and it would have killed you.’ Uther nodded, stood up,
and launched himself at Ambrosius with a flurry of blows that drove the
startled king stumbling back. When he had recovered himself, Ambrosius smiled
in delight, acknowledging a good combination of moves and some definite
improvement from Uther.

****

The
atmosphere around the storyteller reflected the smile upon his face.

‘I remember old Meryn telling us about delivering
that baby.’ Uther smiled as he gazed about at his audience. ‘Anyone here born
on a rainy day in the middle of the forest? No, well I don’t think there’s many
that can say that they were.’ He smiled again. ‘Those were harsh times and with
winter about to set in properly, it was getting harsher. We trained and trained
until the blisters on our hands hardened over and became part of our armour.
The force being assembled was a sight to see. However, what we didn’t know at
that point was what the pretender Vortigern and the Saxons had been doing.
However, we were to find out, and at a terrible cost.

Chapter Eleven – Nightmares, dreams, and
reality

Cal
awoke with a start. In a
distant corner of his mind, the howl of a wolf was slowly fading while the rich
earthy scents of the forest continued to linger in his nostrils and the memory
of a chill wind blowing through the trees still swam before his eyes. He was
cold, but his body was slick with sweat.

Wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, he
exhaled the breath burning his lungs and stared up into the darkness of the
communal roundhouse. A lasting vision still played across his mind, of a new
moon peeking from behind the clouds to reveal a company of wolves. He tried to
dismiss it, but the vision stubbornly remained.