The Dragon's Banner (19 page)

Owin bowed deeply. "You are too kind, sire.
My life has been service to your noble house. I am yours to
command, now and always."

Leodegrance smiled. "Today my command is
simple, for if you and your band of freebooters have not yet had
your pick of loot from the camp, then I bid you take what you will,
for well have you earned it this day." A cheer went up from the
hunters and woodsmen who were close enough to hear the king's
words. Owin bowed again and walked back to his men, for while they
had indeed already plundered the camp, he thought there would be no
harm in appropriating bit more with the king's blessing.

Leodegrance, meanwhile was receiving riders
sent from across the field. The foot in the center had lost heavily
against the more numerous foe, and while the mounted companies had
fared better, still he had over 400 slain in total, and many more
wounded. It took many hours to count the enemy dead, and while
Leodegrance never knew how many wounded had fled, on the field lay
over 1,200 of the foe, most of them killed as they tried to flee.
The army of Catigern was defeated and dispersed, and it would be
many months before the south was again under serious threat of
invasion.

"We must pursue." Gareth’s tone was arrogant
and prideful. “The enemy flees in disarray."

Leodegrance sat atop his horse in silence for
a moment, as if considering his options. "Nay, Gareth, for though I
also long to follow and destroy the foe, we know not what other
forces await to the east. Indeed, the army we have just faced was
beaten largely by deception and not force of arms, and despite
their losses here today, they still outnumber us greatly. Our
appointed task is to hold the south and to protect our lands and
people, not to invade far to the east, away from our support and
supplies. I ache to give the order, but as king I must consider
more than my heart's longings. We shall return to Caerleon and
regroup. At least until we can send scouts east to truly determine
what we would face.

Gareth wore a sour expression, for he clearly
did not agree with the king, though for once, the troublesome lord
kept his tongue and obeyed without question. He took his leave of
Leodegrance and rode off to organize the Cornwall forces for the
march back to Cameliard.

Leodegrance dismounted and sat on the log
that Owin had left, and he sighed heavily. His page handed him a
wineskin, and he drank deeply from it, wiping his lips with his
tattered sleeve. Well, Uther, he thought, we have held the south
for you, at least for now. Fare thee well, my friend, in your
battles in the north.

Uther's men had marched three days, and great
was their misery, for the weather had turned colder still, and a
foot of snow fell. Men struggled to move forward, and each step was
bought with pain and perseverance. But Uther would not relent, for
since Caelin had arrived at Caer Guricon, he was resolved to save
King Urien no matter what the cost. Everywhere in the host Uther
seemed to be, rallying the men and driving them forward, and little
did it appear he slept. Nothing he asked of his soldiers that he
himself did not endure, and by this example - and by ruthless
discipline - he kept his ragged army together and moving. Over a
mile they stretched, two abreast on the narrow old road.

Each day men died, and any who fell from
fatigue were soon frozen where they lay. Faster even than the men
perished the horses, and while Uther left his castle with 400
mounted men at arms, over 100 of the great warhorses had already
succumbed. The smaller pack mules fared better, but they too were
dying, and men had to carry what load a fallen animal had
before.

Uther rode with Caelin, and all day he
questioned the young warrior regarding the siege. Again and again
he asked about the enemy's numbers, their dispositions, the state
of King Urien and the defenders within the beleaguered city. Slowly
they continued north, fighting the weather every step. Their
exertions were past the endurance of normal men, and only Uther
Pendragon's iron will held the army together until a fortnight and
a day since they'd left Caer Guricon, when even his mighty resolve
seemed no longer force enough to press the men onward.

"The ruined inn!" It was Caelin who shouted
excitedly. He pointed toward the fire-ravaged wreck of an old
building. "I passed this hulk no more than four hours after I left
Carlisle. We are but a half day's march from the city."

Uther halted the column and ordered that the
camp be made at that spot, though several hours of daylight
remained. He intended to surprise the Picts, and he would not
chance moving closer until the morrow, when they would attack. Word
spread rapidly through the army that they were near to their
destination, and the news of the early stop to the march was
greeted with great joy, tempered almost immediately by Uther's
order that no fires be set. He would not allow smoke to warn the
enemy of their presence, so he and his soldiers would endure
without.

The troops ate their cold supper and covered
themselves the best they could to pass the frozen night. For Uther,
there was no sleep, and he wandered the camp, watching the men
trying to stay warm under whatever piles of coverings they could
find. He spoke to any he found still awake, giving words of
encouragement before sending them off with orders to rest.

Uther pulled his fur cloak tighter about him
and looked up at the starry sky and the moon's tiny sliver.
Tomorrow it will be new and the night black, he thought. Perhaps
darkness is the ally I seek. We must have surprise, for we will be
outnumbered, and we cannot long stay in the north. We have other
enemies to face ere long. He fell to his knees and softly prayed.
"God, grant us victory tomorrow, and give me the strength to unite
this bleeding land. All that is important to me I have sacrificed
to this fight, and my blood also I shall give if that be thy will.
I beseech thee to instill strength into my soldiers hearts, lest
their courage fail them on the field. Help us smite the heathen
enemy whose banners are stained with the blood of thy
children."

All through the night Uther walked about the
camp, thinking, planning, strategizing. By the first flickering
rays of dawn's light, he had resolved on a course of action, and as
his lords rose he collected them, and together they broke their
fast as he laid out his plans.

It was long past midday when the army broke
camp, for Uther wanted to reach the enemy after darkness had
fallen. Before beginning the march, they did much preparation, for
each man was given a torch, and all were fully arrayed for battle
as they left camp. There would be no stop, no time to prepare later
- they would attack immediately upon reaching the enemy.

Caelin rode in front with Uther, and he
directed the army stealthily to the reverse slope of the ridgeline
south of Carlisle. Orders were passed throughout the host, and in
each company men kindled fire pots and the torches were lit.
Weapons at the ready and blazing torches held aloft, Uther's army
awaited the order to charge. They were arrayed with mounted troops
in the first line and infantry behind, and in the forefront, ready
to lead the attack, was Uther Pendragon himself.

He turned upon his horse and looked upon the
rows of flickering torches…his army ready to attack. "Now is the
time, my brave warriors. For this we have marched through snow and
ice and over the bodies of our fallen brothers. For you who fought
last year, your vengeance is at hand, for to this enemy we shall be
death incarnate. Nowhere would I rather be than here, at the head
of this fearsome host. Curse those who sit before their fires this
night drinking spiced wine, for it is we who wield God's bloody
sword. Bring me no prisoners; let not one of them live. Follow me,
and charge home crying Britannia!"

With that Uther spurred his mount and
galloped over the crest of the ridge. Throughout the host a great
war cry came up, and as one the mass surged forward. Many cried
"Britannia," as Uther bade them, yet still more screamed, "Uther"
or "Pendragon," as they surged up and over the crest and down the
hillside.

The lookouts in the Pictish camp stared in
stunned silence as a storm of fire swept over the hillside toward
them. They screamed and sounded the alarm, but then the flaming
death was upon them. First came the horse, over 200, carrying
javelins and torches. Into the camp they thundered, hurling their
spears and torches with deadly effect, then drawing swords and
slaying any they could reach. Uther's sword, the blade of an
emperor, struck again and again, and all around him were heaped the
bodies of those he'd faced.

More and more Picts emerged from burning
tents and ran from the other camps, but hundreds were cut down, and
the rest broke and fled, running back toward the city and away from
this new doom that had fallen upon them. From the battlements atop
the wounded city came a cheer, soft and ragged at first, but
growing. Soon there were hundreds of warriors on the wall screaming
wildly as Uther's men sliced through the foe, pursuing the routing
survivors as they broke right and left around the walls of
Carlisle.

Just as the fleeing Picts neared the walls,
the south gate opened, and King Urien charged out at the head of
150 men at arms, riding the last mounts in Carlisle. Trapped
between the two converging forces the enemy threw themselves to the
ground begging for quarter. Uther looked upon the miserable Picts
huddling together groveling for mercy, but his heart was ice. "To
the sword," he screamed again and again. "Put them all to the
sword. Every one." It was but a few minutes before the bloody work
was done, and nary an enemy warrior remained alive outside the
south wall, but only the wretched camp followers - women and
children who cowered and awaited their fate at the hands of the
victors.

But the battle was far from done, and Uther
rode to King Urien and hailed his royal cousin. "Well met, Urien,
my brother. Will you ride with us around your fair city? For to the
northern end we now go to finish what here we have started. Then
behind him, to the host he issued his cry. "Around the city! To the
north! For our work is not yet done this night."

Uther did not await Urien's stunned response,
for the King of Rheged was shocked to see him at the head of the
relieving army, and no words came quickly. In an instant, Uther was
gone, riding around the walls to engage the foe on the other side.
"To the northern wall," Urien called to his own men. "Follow Uther
Pendragon!" And with that Urien rode off after Uther, drawing his
sword and shouting again, "Follow Uther Pendragon!"

It was warm in the great hall of Urien's
stronghold, truly warm. The massive hearth was piled high with logs
and a roaring blaze was going. Uther realized he had hardly
remembered what it felt like not to be cold, and he savored the
wave of heat coming from the fire. He still wore his armor, and his
tunic and cloak were slashed and soaked with blood. He had a torn
rag tied over a nasty gash on his arm, where a Pictish chieftan had
scored a hit before Uther ran him through. The battle had raged all
night, for the enemy on the northern side of the city had been
warned and fought back fiercely. Once the two sides were engaged it
was a confused melee, warrior against warrior, and by midday the
field was covered with the fallen. All around the walls the dead
and wounded lay in the bloodstained snow.

Urien had sent Caelin back into the city to
bring orders for the infantry within to sally out and take the
enemy in the rear, and once again the young warrior made his way
past the foe and carried out his king's command. He and 500
infantry streamed out of the main gate, and the Picts, already
exhausted and now beset on all sides, broke and ran, with Uther and
Urien leading their mounted warriors in vengeful pursuit.

Across the frozen river they had chased the
foe, slaying all they could reach, and then they charged into the
force besieging Uxelodunum, sweeping all away. All save one band,
which stood fast under their giant chieftan, and for a time looked
as though they might become a rally point.

Uther, dismounted when his horse took a spear
to the thigh, faced the Pictish champion in single combat. It was
an epic battle, and for long they traded blows, each unable to gain
the advantage. The Pict was the stronger, but Uther the faster, and
their swords clanged loudly amid the din of battle. Finally, the
Pict slashed Uther with the tip of his sword, opening a long,
ragged gash in his arm. Uther stumbled as if he were about to fall,
but then spun around and plunged the point of his sword through his
adversary's back, shoving with all that remained of his strength.
The Pict bellowed loudly and then looked confused for a moment as
he stared down in bewilderment at the bloody sword protruding from
his chest before it finally occurred to him to die.

Uther pushed the body of his enemy to the
ground, letting it slide slowly off his blood-covered sword, and
then he raised his weapon over his head and screamed a terrible war
cry. Seeing their great chief slain, the rest of the Picts lost
heart and fled in rout. Uther's men began a half-hearted pursuit,
but they were at the end of their strength and soon returned to the
field and sank to the ground in exhaustion. Uther stood in the
center of the field, blood pumping out of his wound and dripping
into the snow. Caelin rushed to his side, and tearing a section
from his own tunic, he bound the wound the best he could. He then
bade Uther take his horse that he might ride into Carlisle with
King Urien as was his due.

As Uther mounted, a cheer arose from the
assembled warriors, his and Urien's, and even Gorlois' men from
Cornwall. All along his route back to Carlisle they chanted,
"Uther, Uther, Uther!" He waved as he rode, but finally he could
feel his strength fading, and once they were through the main gates
he slumped forward and let the horse bear him into the
stronghold.