Clash of Kings (48 page)

But not yet. She could endure a little longer, until the battle between the two kings was joined and her husband won or lost on the field. Her future hung on a mortal struggle to be fought by strong, thoughtless and eternally childish men.

No, not yet. But soon.

Myrddion requisitioned every man that he could find with experience in carpentry. As in the past, Cadoc was invaluable. The amiable, sardonic young man seemed capable of producing tools, men or coin for supplies at will. Nothing that Myrddion desired was too difficult for Cadoc to purchase or, more usually, purloin. Even the foot soldiers who were ordered into the Forest of Dean to cut lumber treated the task like a holiday, setting off with axes, saws and carthorses into the dim, green mysteries of the forest with whistles and songs. Each band of warriors brought back long, straight tree trunks, dragged by the heavy workhorses once the smaller limbs had been trimmed off.

The logs were roughly sawn in half or quarters over pits, while blacksmiths used the plentiful waste wood to fire their forges as they produced long iron spikes to nail the sawn logs together. Myrddion’s tall platforms weren’t pretty, but they were strong, even though rope was used where necessary to lash the timbers together. Speed was essential.

Over the course of a single week, five tall platforms of wood were built, with walls at the front to protect up to five men in each line, standing shoulder to shoulder, and protected by the roof overhead so that ten lines of men could shelter under the unseasoned oak beams. Huge circular wheels were also constructed, although Myrddion decided that time didn’t permit the manufacture of iron collars to strengthen the rims. The platforms wouldn’t be able to travel very far, nor would there be a need once they had served their purpose. However, he insisted that the long axles should be made of iron, and that these should be fixed to the main frame by interlocking collars and pins of the same metal. Because of the size and weight of the platforms, chains would be attached that allowed them to be dragged into position by teams of carthorses. With the judicious use of heavy grease between axles and wheels, the landlocked leviathans would soon be ready to move.

Myrddion gazed at his creations with satisfaction, and Cadoc slapped a tall wheel with one calloused hand.

‘What shall we call these beauties, Master Myrddion?’ He grinned cheekily. ‘The men want to paint their names on the front panels, but they asked me to consult you first. None of them know how to write, so they want you to make the letters for them.’

‘Why not just paint a figure to represent a name?’

‘You could use a drawing of a stag’s head to represent Cernunnos,’ Finn Truthteller suggested, and Cadoc clutched his amulet at the very thought of the Horned God who led the Wild Hunt.

‘Thank you, Finn.’ Myrddion stroked his chin. ‘I like that. And, even though it gives me the shudders, you’re right. If a stag’s horn on a wooden machine could cause me concern, it’ll scare Vortimer’s scum shiteless.’

Soon after, Cadoc wandered off to give the carpenters Myrddion’s suggestions.

So, a week and a day after he first sketched the outlines of a war machine for Vortigern, the children of his brain set out for the lowlands by the river, drawn by teams of horses and oxen. One sported the stag-headed god, while another displayed a running horse for Rhiannon. The owl was inscribed crudely on another, and a hawk for Llew Llaw Gyffes, son of Gwydion, the trickster god, who was represented by a self-satisfied pig in a field of mushrooms. Myrddion’s only contribution was a serpent for the Mother, which frightened the foot soldiers a little, but, as Cadoc explained: ‘My master’s a Demon Seed, so if I was in the front line with him, I’d want to shelter behind his symbol.’

What Vortimer’s scouts made of the boxy structures that came trundling and crawling down into the river valley and stopped a safe distance from his war machines was unknown. His engineers probably divined their purpose, but even they must have laughed at such ungainly means of defence.

‘They’ll be aiming their catapults at our platforms, that’s for sure,’ Cadoc told Myrddion as they stared across the river where the huge wooden siege machines towered among the vast army that Vortimer had raised to pursue the conflict with his father. Each catapult sat on a box-like framework with four wooden wheels. The front of the machine was a braced rectangle of heavy timber that supported a slightly curved, notched beam that ran from front to back, from the top at the front to the bottom at the rear. While he concentrated on interpreting the workings of this insect-like wooden structure, Myrddion was already imagining its graduated notches and how a long wooden pole could be ratcheted into the throwing position and then released with incredible force. Even now, with its huge iron pot empty and dangling from the end of the pole, Myrddion could visualise hot coals, burning oil, rocks, pieces of metal and even nasty spikes of wood hurled from the pot when the tension was released and the firing pole sprang back into the upright position.

‘The Romans were clever,’ he murmured. ‘A hail of death – and all from a safe distance. I wonder what the range is?’

‘We’ll soon know, for there seems to be activity around the catapults and the ballistas.’

‘Now we’ll see who can hold their nerve longest,’ Myrddion whispered as Vortigern’s platforms were pushed to the fore and began to move at the head of his army. Fifty men stood within each structure, with at least another fifty warriors following close behind. The front and side rows of men inside the machine provided the muscle power to move the cumbersome carts.

Once again, the army came to a halt. Myrddion paused before ordering his medical tents to be raised by a crew of servants. He looked back towards the valley, and heard a strange sizzling noise as a flaming ball of fire soared over the river, trailing a pall of smoke through the still air. The burning object spun as it streaked across the space between the two armies, as if thrown by a giant hand. The projectile hit the ground with a dull thud and blazing oil splashed outward in burning droplets for a radius of well over twelve feet. Hot metal fell like fiery, red ice, and the men on the hillock imagined how those small pieces of hot iron would burn through leather, flesh and bone.

‘We don’t seem to be in range yet,’ Cadoc said cheerfully. ‘From now on, it’ll become a pissing contest between father and son.’

Myrddion issued a list of rapid orders and servants began cutting swathes of long grass for pallets and setting up the folding tables that were necessary for amputations and wound care. The female assistants unpacked the many pottery jars of herbs and curatives, rags for swabs, bandages and Myrddion’s tools of trade. Cadoc took himself off to oversee the process, a task he completed with a type of genius peculiar only to himself, until the healer’s tents were humming with organisation and ready for patients when the two opposing armies chose to engage.

From his vantage point high above the massed ranks of foot soldiers, the healer was aware of the silence, as if even nature held its breath and waited upon some terrible event. The sky was pale blue with a promise of spring, while the waters of Sabrina Aest could be seen to the right of the battlefield, blue-grey in the hesitant sunshine. In a nearby thicket, a bird warbled sweetly.

Then, as if determined to shatter this fragile peace, the platforms began to rumble forward again, powered by the men who sheltered behind the thick planks. At this distance, Myrddion couldn’t hear the groan of timbers or the grunting of straining men as they forced the platforms closer and closer to the burned field where the dried grass still sizzled. Behind them, the bulk of the army waited, poised like a bowman with an arrow nocked and ready to fire. Myrddion could almost feel the tense anticipation that ran through hundreds of legs as they waited to be released, like the arrow flying towards its target.

‘He’s a wily old fox,’ Finn murmured.

Myrddion had almost forgotten that Truthteller still stood beside him. ‘Who? Vortigern? Yes, he is. The platforms will become the targets for the catapults and the ballistas. Meanwhile, Vortigern will count. Those machines take time to rearm and the king is hoping that Vortimer will set all his long-distance weaponry firing in unison to smash the platforms in one swift bombardment. It’s a risky strategy, for the platforms will probably have to withstand at least two salvos, so they must keep moving steadily towards the river. If Vortigern’s calculations are correct, he should be able to move his army up to a point where the catapults will have to be repositioned and recalibrated if they are to retain any accuracy. With luck, our warriors will move very quickly while Vortimer’s engineers are preparing for their next assault. Hopefully, our foot soldiers will be so afraid of the burning oil that they’ll have wings on their heels. If so, the army could be out of range before Vortimer can bring his weapons to bear again. Meanwhile, the bulk of our army will cross the valley with only minor casualties.’

In the greening valley below, the slow, inexorable trundle of the platforms had generated a mad flurry of activity around the catapults.

‘They’re loading – and all at once,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘I’ve read that those machines work best when the target stands still, as in sieges. But an experienced commander can pull the catapults back and reposition them to keep their enemy within the firing arc.’

‘But if he does, he’ll leave his own warriors in the line of fire, so he’ll have to pull them back as well,’ Finn shouted. ‘Look! The platforms are within range now, so we’re about to see a particularly Roman kind of orderly killing!’

The noise of catapults releasing their deadly loads was clearly audible on the hillock. Suddenly, flame bloomed on the roof and front of the central platform, but although the huge wooden structure faltered for a moment it slowly resumed its forward movement, blazing dully as it continued to trundle along. Another platform was struck by a salvo of rocks, but the platform scarcely shuddered at the impact.

The ballista fired and a vast bolt struck the much-targeted central platform with enormous force. On the hillock, Myrddion felt the sudden backward force that its soldiers experienced as their feet were literally swept from under them. Yet, slowly and painfully, trailing plumes of black smoke and wearing the bolt of the ballista like an insect antenna, the platform resumed its lurch into forward movement – albeit a little crookedly. Now, the leviathan left a small pile of crumpled bodies behind as it continued its march towards Vortimer’s lines.

‘Again!’ Finn screamed, his voice hoarse with excitement and emotion. ‘The engineers are loading again.’

But Myrddion was counting and assessing the time needed for the war machines to fire their second salvos, just as he knew the old king was, while making mental preparations to welcome the maimed and injured once they had been collected by the bearers. The minutes stretched out as small, ant-sized men scurried around the catapults in a flurry of mad activity while they reloaded the iron pots with deadly missiles.

Then the second salvo was fired, but now the platforms were closer to the firing point so the rocks, fire and shrapnel overshot their targets and barely clipped the roof of the central platform. However, as the platforms continued to move forward unscathed, the warriors sheltering at the rear of the machines were caught on the edges of the strike. Their screams chilled Myrddion’s blood, but, seen from above and freed from its stink and blood, the battlefield appeared like a giant chessboard where the gods moved the pieces.

‘Prepare for wounded!’ Myrddion shouted, and both men turned away from the spectacle of war to take up their positions in the tents where the fruits of war were soon to be brought home to them in all their filth and squalor.

The healer missed Vortigern’s attack orders. The moment the second salvo was fired, the old king ordered the body of the army to cross the killing fields before the next hail of death could be rained down on his warriors. At full stretch, men ran as if Death itself was trying to outpace them and scythe them down. The platforms stood below the arc of fire of the catapults, their movement slowed as they waited for the bulk of the army to catch up with them.

Vortigern again called a halt so the rearguard didn’t move. Burned earth, with small piles of dead and wounded, was all that was left to show the path of the catapult missiles. The salvo was repeated, but the range was too long now and the rocks fell on those Celts who were already dead and dying. The screams sounded as insubstantial as the cries of the birds in the thicket, but Myrddion was no longer on the hillock to hear them. Then, on a signal from Vortigern, the rearguard charged and the platforms began to move once more.

Vortimer realised that the deadly effectiveness of his war machines was over, and they were now so much useless timber. The angle of the catapult could be changed to shorten the range, but with each readjustment Vortigern’s army drew closer to the river under the protection of the platforms. They were damaged – but were mostly intact.

What to do? What to do?

Vortimer didn’t dare to utter his fears aloud, but the calm brain that had visualised the piles of his father’s dead, stacked like cordwood where the catapults left them, was now confused and indecisive. If Vortigern’s warriors were allowed to cross the river, could he crush them without his machines, or would his father prevail?

What to do? What to do?

When in doubt, do nothing. How the Romans would have laughed at Vortimer’s inability to act. And how Vortigern
did
laugh!

As his son hunkered down on the riverbank, his war machines spent, Vortigern’s army reached the opposite bank. Shouted insults from Vortigern’s warriors made Vortimer quail in a shell of inadequacy that increased his indecision. He had always hated and feared his father, as is so often the case with weak men.

Meanwhile, Vortigern was hard at work.

The platforms were dragged to the rear and disassembled by the carpenters and a large team of labouring warriors. The ten large panels that remained after the carpenters had sawn off the wheels and heavy frames were dragged downstream along the riverbank to a spot where the old king intended to establish a new crossing point. There, those Celts who could swim took long lengths of strong rope across the river, secured them to trees along the opposite riverbank and then towed each of the platforms into place to form a makeshift bridge.