Shadowland (24 page)

Horsa saw him and screamed.
‘Wolf!’
then took a mighty leap and stabbed his spear down in
a vicious arc.

Baring his teeth in a snarl, Cal sprang to the side, dodging the
spear-tip as he tried to get past and down into the forest. Horsa corrected his
thrust and quickly stabbed again, narrowly missing Cal, who spun just in time.
A bush blocked his way and Cal
had to turn to the side giving Horsa the opportunity to strike again. The metal
head of the spear caught him, grazing his back leg as it passed making him
yelp.

‘
Yaaahhh
!’ Horsa screamed,
and thrust the burning branch into Cal’s
face,
singeing his fur in a noxious cloud
of smoke,
but
fear only gave him more energy and he managed to push past. Another series of
high-pitched yelps from higher up the hill signalled the end of the wolves in
the net, and Cal
dashed on, panic now overwhelming him. Turning at the last moment, he narrowly
avoided another Saxon waving flames, and then a blue-faced Pict loomed up from
behind a bush and loosed an arrow. The arrow missed, but Cal realised he was fast running out of options;
they were boxing him in. Another wolf ran past; ignoring him in its frantic bid
for freedom, providing a distraction that Cal took advantage of. With a mighty leap,
he soared over the head of the Pict, and landed below the killing ground. A
rush of relief ran through him as he sped for the tree line,
but then a shock of confusion ran through him as his
back legs collapsed beneath him and his energy seemed to melt away
. He rolled to a stop,
barely conscious, stunned to find himself down and unable to move.

A
blinding wave of pain finally caught up and flared through him and for some
moments, his vision became lost within a blistering white light. Gradually, it
receded into a calm release as he exhaled his last breath and gazed in despair
at the moonlit trees. The smell of damp grass was rich in his nostrils and he
could feel his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth, he suddenly felt
thirsty again. With his vision slowly dissolving into a red mist, he watched
absently as Horsa bent down to stroke his fur.

He was floating above the body of a poor dead
wolf... and then... he wasn’t.

****

‘Well,
if he died, how come he’s sitting there blocking the heat from the fire?’ The
farmer laughed and his wife joined him with a shrill cackle. Several others
stood up to leave and there was a muttering about proper stories and how the
storyteller had ruined what could have been a nice tale; they were meant to
have happy endings. It wasn’t right, especially for the children.

Calvador Craen shot to his feet and rounded on the
noisemakers.
His hand shot out towards
the door that someone had already unbolted, and it banged shut, each bolt
slamming home with a crack that
reverberated around the room. ‘Silence!’ His eyes flashed yellow in
the firelight as people hastily found their seats again. ‘Open your minds and
cease your foolish prattle... peasants, lest I show you how much of the wolf
remains.’ He bared his teeth and a low animal growl filled the room. Seeing
everyone was returning to their seats, he took a deep breath and forced himself
to relax. ‘Continue, Uther. Tell these fools about my death, but do not ask
them to pity, nor mourn me, reality is something larger than their small minds
could ever hope to grasp.’

Chapter Fourteen – Mount Badon

Uther
gazed up at the lifeless body of his friend and tried to summon the emotion to
deal with what he was seeing.

Samel came up beside him and placed a hand on his
shoulder. ‘What happened?’

Uther shifted uncomfortably. It was hard for him to
comprehend, but trying to explain it to someone who was unaware of Cal’s nocturnal life in
the body of a wolf was close to impossible. Uther shrugged. ‘I don’t know; I
wish I did. He was asleep, he… he must have simply died in his sleep.’ His mind
felt numb and he just wished Samel would leave him alone, but the little man
continued.

‘No, lad, there was a spear wound... I saw a spear
wound in his side and his sleeping furs were awash with blood. You must have
heard... have seen something. Did he go out last night?’ Samel stared down at
the body laid out on furs, arms crossed on his chest, eyes closed as if asleep.
‘Those keeping watch say that none passed, and I believe them.’ He suddenly
dragged Uther around by his cloak, forcing him to look him in the eye before
lowering his voice. ‘My men say none passed to do this, Uther. The spirits have
had a hand in this.’ He let go of Uther and stared back at Cal’s body as it lay upon the piled
branches. ‘This was not a natural death and I don’t mind telling you it scares
me.’

‘There’s nothing natural about any of this, Samel.
It’s been one long bad dream since Picts raided our village and our families
were murdered. Cal
was my best friend and I …’ Uther choked back a wave of grief that threatened
to overwhelm him. ‘I really don’t know what I’m going to do without him.’ He
thrust the flaming torch into the funeral pyre and stepped back as the flames
took hold, crackling and spitting in their haste to consume Cal’s body.

‘Goodbye, Calvador, I will sorely miss you,’
whispered Uther. ‘Run free until we meet again, somewhere across the
shadowland.’ He stood staring at the fire, watching as the heat drew flakes of
ash high up into the grey sky and fancied he could see his friend escaping with
them, running with the breeze. He continued to keep his vigil until long after the
others had left to prepare for battle and the fire had consumed Cal’s body,
dying down to hot glowing coals. It was nearing sunset when Samel came and led
him away.

‘You must rest, Uther. Tomorrow we fight. Calvador’s
spirit will be with you, but you need your strength. You must eat something,
and then, please, you have to sleep.’ Uther nodded; unable to argue, and then
felt his legs buckle under him as a huge wave of grief finally overcame him.

****

The
weak light of dawn brought more rain to further dampen the spirits as the
warriors they waited, sheltering under their large oval shields, the feathers
tied into their hair moving gently in the breeze. While some gathered in close
groups to stave off the chill, those blessed with a prize battle hound kept the
animal close, sharing its warmth and courage.

The Iceni were a mass of blue and green cloaks on
one side, the white and yellow of the Trinovante covered the slope to the
centre, while the darker blue of the
Brigante
and
Catuvellauni stood further to the right, with a myriad of other tribal colours
that Uther couldn’t immediately identify making up the ground in between. Each
warrior wore their spirit signs, the dreaming they personally identified with,
daubed upon their shields as a talisman and as another means to identify friend
from foe in the fever pitch of the coming battle.

The tribesmen had very little real armour shared
amongst them. Some wore tribal helms, while others had adapted Roman armour,
now painted and decorated so the spirits would recognise the wearer as a
warrior of the tribes rather than Roman and so aid his battle or ease his
passing into the shadowland should they fall to an enemy spear or blade. Uther
noticed many warriors sitting naked, daubed only in swirling spirit-patterns of
blue woad as protection, the feathers of crows and eagles hanging in their
hair, their expressions vacant as they gazed down into the misty valley before
them.

Almost all had been awake since before first light,
either unable to sleep in the knowledge of what the new day would bring, or
because they had been labouring through the night to secure the hill fort, the
last refuge should the battle go badly. Earthen embankments had been thrown up
against the log sides, leaving a deep ditch to cross that any Saxon, Pict, or
rogue Briton would need to overcome before reaching the walls and those
awaiting them inside. Below the fort, other ditches protected the approach
slopes to further frustrate the attempts of any would-be attackers. Uther considered
the approach and decided that anybody expecting to get as far as the fort would
require the stamina of a horse.

Shifting
his weight in the chariot, he cast about the rain soaked valley. Mist was
drifting amongst the shrubs and bushes, lower down where it was still untouched
by sunlight, hidden, but rising amid the clouds.
To either side, the forest stood in shadow,
clinging stubbornly to its share of the night; it seemed in little hurry to
join the misery of the day. His attention came back to the warriors on the
hillside, separated into their individual tribes, even while they waited to
fight together as Britons. The majority were waiting, half way up, seated on
the wet grass while the horsemen and chariots remained out of sight to either
side of Mount Badon. It was a grim day in many
respects, thought Uther, and it promised to become even grimmer. A trickle of
rainwater ran from his helmet, down his neck and under the mail and leather of
his armour sending a shiver through him.

The rain lessened and the quiet tension of the
morning began to give way to surges of pent-up adrenaline. As he watched, the
tribesmen started rousing each other into some order of battle readiness. There
were a few practice charges down the slope, several fights, and plenty of
yelling, shouting and cursing, which was gradually building up into a constant
dull roar.

He
saw a number of female warriors in the ranks, and then noticed they were
actually among
the
more vocal in their attempts to bring on the fighting spirit. They were baiting
the men and calling challenges to the women of other tribes, much to the
approval of their male companions.

‘Is it always this way?’ Uther asked.

Samel glanced over to where a woman swinging a
battle-axe was screeching abusive challenges across the empty battlefield in
front of her. ‘Pretty much, the waiting is the hardest part. Our scouts have
been coming back since well before sunrise with reports that the Saxons are
approaching. They’re well aware that many of them will die today, but they also
know that there are only two ways to enter a battle. You can either attack
consumed with the fear of what might happen to you, or you can attack as a
warrior, bringing a terrible fear down upon your enemy. The first of the Saxons
will probably be in the forest already, watching us right now as they wait for
the rest to catch up. They’ll show themselves soon enough.’

The horses tried to pull forward, jerking the
chariot as they did so, but with a snap of the reins, Uther held them back.

‘Steady, lad, they feel it as well. Keep them from
breaking away for a little longer, it won’t be long now.’

‘I have them,’ said Uther, and then after a moment,
he added. ‘Do you have no fear, Samel?’

Samel looked up at Uther, studying him for a moment.
‘Of course I have fear, lad, but it’s fear that makes me the most terrifying
warrior on the battlefield. More importantly, it’s fear that will keep me alive.
My love of life is too great to die here today. The secret is not to
deny
your fear. Everyone on this hill
holds fear in his belly. The mark of a warrior is how he deals with it. Hold it
in and pretend it’s not there, and it will kill you. It’ll creep up your spine,
climbing with icy fingers to whisper in your ear until you turn and flee
screaming from the battlefield with piss running down your legs. However, if
you take it and understand it, then you can use it and turn it loose upon your
enemy!’ He gripped Uther’s shoulder. ‘Come, lad, this battle will still be some
time in beginning; let’s go and find your brother.’

Uther hauled the chariot round and manoeuvred the
horses up towards the top of the hill, with horses, men and chariots parting to
let them through. They found Ambrosius easily enough; he was standing close to
the hill fort with a group of chieftains gazing out across the valley, waiting
for the first sign of the enemy forces to show themselves.

Mount
Badon
had been chosen as the
battle site for several reasons, or so Ambrosius had explained to Uther.
Vortigern would have to pass this way if he intended to march his forces south,
and when he did, he would be all too aware that they waited for him here. The
pretender couldn’t simply pass by and leave the threat of them behind him, he
would be forced to meet them and deal with them while the opportunity was presented,
there would be a battle.

The site also held significance to the druids. They
had urged Ambrosius that if he sought victory, then this was the correct place
for this battle. They had spoken to the spirits and counselled the ancestors
and all their signs and visions pointed to this being the site of a great
victory for the tribes. When Ambrosius had first visited, several weeks before,
and seen that from the vantage point at the top of Mount Badon
he could look down into the valley, he had finally agreed. From the top of the
hill, the whole battleground lay before them. Below was the undulating expanse
of the open valley, with the dense, dark vastness of the forest crowding in to
either side. While at the far end stood the smaller hill, around which
Vortigern would most certainly gather his troops.

As Uther and Samel dropped from their chariot to
join the group surrounding Ambrosius, the first of Vortigern’s forces began to
emerge from the trees across the valley. Uther gazed across as a group of about
a hundred Picts broke from the tree line and filed quickly across to the left
of the field. The tribesmen on Mount
Badon stood and roared
their challenge as the Picts formed up. The loud moaning of horns filled the
air. Then the tribesmen began hammering on their shields with swords and axes,
shouting, yelling and howling to unnerve their hated northern enemy.