Dragon's Child (39 page)

Both men would have headed towards another brazier, dimly visible through the damp mist of rain at the south gate, but Targo mimed a throat-cutting action and the shambling Rufus disappeared like a ghost into the fine drizzle.

One by one, the last of the scum landed, light-footed and undetected, on the ramparts.

A sweet sappy scent of newly-sawn timber rose in the rain, a comforting smell that was alien to the dark task ahead. Artorex dispatched two groups of six warriors with the sole task of securing the north and south gates for the entry of the attacking horsemen, while four bowmen with a plentiful supply of arrows were positioned at strategic points on the ramparts to support the attack.

With his small force in position and ready to attack, Pinhead joined Artorex high above the Great Hall of the Saxons, surrounded by its attendant sod huts.

‘You have the warning arrow safe and dry? And ready to fire?’ Artorex hissed.

Pinhead nodded.

‘Then light it and let it fly - come what may.’

Pinhead grinned through blackened teeth, and freed a short bow from an oilcloth wrapping, and strung it effortlessly. A bundle of arrows wrapped in very dirty cloth soon followed, and Pinhead was obliged to use his whole body to protect them from the thin mist of rain. He gripped the first arrow shaft in his disreputable teeth.

A tinderbox was produced from somewhere on his verminous body, and Artorex marvelled at the natural skill with which Pinhead struck the flint against stone. The noise did not travel far in the still, fog-shrouded night, and Artorex trusted to his luck and the lightly-falling rain to mask any sounds. Again and again, Pinhead worked the flint until a few weak flames leapt up and he thrust the arrowhead into the feeble conflagration.

What Pinhead had used to fuel his signal arrow, Artorex had no desire to know, but the cloth caught fire immediately, even in the light rain. Pinhead inserted the arrow into his bow, pulled back on the gut string and the signal soared high into the air, trailing fire, until it dropped away into the swamp.

Then, just as Artorex thought that he had avoided the worst possible outcome - immediate detection - a long ululating cry went up from the south gate and Artorex knew that Rufus had failed to kill the sentries silently. The scream was cut off as it reached an inhumanly high note, but the damage was already done.

Warriors in various stages of undress boiled out of the sod and reed huts and from the entrance to the Great Hall. Their long, unbound hair streamed out in the firelight which suddenly rose to reveal the flattened earth below the ramparts.

The Saxons seemed to cast impossibly long shadows as they poured from the doorways like ants. Most were naked and they appeared fearsome with huge swords and axes that they swung with manic eagerness.

Gods, there are too many of them, Artorex thought to himself, as a bolt fired from Pinhead’s bow sped past his ear. A Saxon warrior, wearing only a fur cape and a fierce grin, fell before he reached the ladders leading up to the ramparts.

The scum sped towards the gates as they fought toe to toe with the Saxons to gain every foot of advantage. Smaller but faster, they fought savagely with the knowledge that they would die horribly if the gates remained obstinately closed.

But twenty men, even rat-cunning veterans of a hundred campaigns, could not hope to defeat over one hundred Saxons, not counting their women, who fought even more viciously than the men.

A horn echoed through the steadying rain from the north, echoed by the brazen cry of its mate to the south. Artorex scarcely had time to recognize the sudden drumming of hooves out of the forest to the north before the Saxons were upon him. Pinhead fired arrow after arrow while Artorex protected the smaller man from attack. Every dirty trick that Targo had ever taught him in his youth was employed, as Artorex lashed out against unprotected body parts so he could bring the dragon blade across suddenly undefended throats.

In the narrow confines of the ramparts, Artorex had his edge, but Pinhead was almost out of arrows and still the Saxons swarmed towards them. Artorex attempted to move forward in the direction of the southern gate that had borne the brunt of the fighting so far, with Pinhead using the last of his arrows as his shield. The pace was pitifully slow.

Artorex had never experienced the true carnage of battle. Targo had tried to prepare his pupil for difficult ground that was slick with blood and spilled entrails, but nothing his tutor had described prepared him for the smell. Even over the rain, the hot reek of blood steamed like brass and clogged the back of his throat. The smell of vomit, urine, pierced bowels and the rank stench of frightened, sweating men created a terrible stew of odours that made Artorex’s gorge rise. All he could see was the face of the man before him as he cut, parried and slashed, until that face fell away and another took its place.

A long bull roar rose over the howls, curses and screams of desperate fighting men.

Odin.

The gods themselves seemed to answer as a rumble of thunder appeared to shake the sodden earth. Then Artorex realized that horses were within the confines of the fortress, crushing friend and foe alike, and the mailed fist of Ban rose over the troop like a green flame.

‘Artorex!’ Pinhead screamed as he raced up the ladder to the top of the parapet. ‘Artorex!’

Both Saxons and Celts looked up, for the small man had tied Artorex’s dragon flag to his bow like a makeshift banner, and in the flaming thatch of sod huts, hissing in the rain, the beast seemed alive and malevolent. The Saxons at the north gate fell back in superstitious dread until Ban’s horsemen hunted them down.

But the battle was still balanced on a knife edge.

Twenty cavalry and the remnants of the scum were still outnumbered three to one by the Saxon defenders, and Ban’s forward momentum started to waver.

At the northern gate, Odin still swung his axe in a wicked parabola of reddened steel, as he protected Ban’s flank with the small detachment of scum that had been sent to join him.

But at the southern gate only a few warriors fought on, hopelessly outnumbered, against a swell of yellow-haired Saxons.

‘We must get Llanwith in through the southern gate or we will be slaughtered,’ Artorex shouted over the screams of dying men.

Ignoring the feeble movements of the wounded, he leapt through the mêlée of horses, his sword and dagger dancing in a crisp interplay of movement that allowed him to continue the momentum of his headlong rush.

At the southern gate, the dead were heaped in a grisly half wall around Luka and four of the scum who fought back to back, and were now, with every blow, being forced nearer to the closed wooden gate.

‘To me! To me!’ Artorex roared.

Targo looked up, his sword still held protectively over his body.

Two powerful slashes felled two Saxons before him, and Artorex forced a bloody passage through the press of enemy and confronted them alongside his scum. Beside him, his men were bleeding from many wounds and Artorex could tell that they were almost spent.

Eight Saxons were pressing forward towards their prey.

‘Open the gates! Open the gates - now!’ Artorex screamed, as he slashed at the press of warriors before him.

At first, the enemy warriors seemed to seriously outnumber the scum, even allowing for Artorex’s arrival at the gate. But all he needed was a few seconds’ respite, time for Targo to remove the massive plank that was proving to be such a major obstacle to achieving their objectives.

He killed one Saxon with his sword, piercing the pagan’s throat with the dragon blade and neglecting to even watch the man fall.

Oblivious to everything other than the groaning protests of the great timbers as the bar on the gate slowly rose, Artorex fought on at the head of his men.

And then, as quickly as it had started, the gate was open and the battle was over.

Llanwith pen Bryn cantered his troop into this bloodstained charnel house and, caught between two troops of cavalry, the Saxons began to give way.

They fought to the last man and woman, but they were outmanoeuvred and outmuscled by the weight and power of the horsemen, leaving the Britons to develop a crucial edge over the battle-weary Saxons.

Eventually, exhausted and driven before their Great Hall, the remaining Saxons died in a fusillade of arrows. Every wounded Saxon was mercilessly put to the sword.

And Anderida was won.

The cost was fearsome and, once his blood had cooled, Artorex experienced the full horror of comforting those of his men who were mortally wounded and about to die for their cause.

Artorex looked at his shaking, bloodstained hands, and repressed a shudder of revulsion. How many men had he killed? Targo had been correct. A well-trained warrior moves instinctively, his body following patterns that were almost unconscious. Other than the smell, Artorex had scarcely felt a moment of disgust but, then, he hadn’t really thought of the men who came at him as being fully human.

It was now time to fulfil his duty to the dying.

Inside the Great Hall, where the Saxon chieftain had fought until he was pierced with many arrows, Myrddion tended to the wounds of the surviving impossibles. There, with needle and catgut, and potions made from poppy juice, Myrddion attended to the living and eased the passing of the dying.

And wherever Myrddion went, Artorex followed to give a word of cheer, the promise of a share of the plunder and to hear the last words of the dying. He swore to each man that his kin would hear of his noble ending; he vowed that wives would receive the portion of coin that should have been theirs and he held back useless tears so that he shouldn’t shame the sacrifices given by these brave men.

Llanwith sought him out during this grim duty.

‘Targo won’t rest his wounds until his scum have picked the bones of Anderida clean. They were promised spoils, and spoils they’ll have, except for a one-tenth share to the High King, a one-tenth share for you, and a one-tenth share distributed between the captains.’

‘The men may take my share,’ Artorex sighed. ‘I’ll not profit with a single piece of gold from any man’s death.’

‘Don’t allow your foolish scruples to override your common sense, my young hero,’ Llanwith replied scornfully. ‘How will you raise an army without funds? How will you dress, feed and arm your warriors? Or do you plan to send the last of the scum back where they came from? To starve, or to beg.’

Artorex managed to look both confused and mulish, and Llanwith remembered that the young man was barely out of his youth. He’d just fought his first battle, and was still learning the heavy responsibility that came with command. Only Targo and six of the scum remained alive, and all carried wounds.

‘Targo is your man, and he’ll do all that is necessary. Now come, for Ban is dying.’

‘Ban?’ Artorex gasped. ‘Ban? How? He was on his horse. How did the Saxons catch him unawares?’

‘Ban was always a little mad, Artorex. He took risks, and he pressed his luck. Myrddion believes that he wanted to prove his worth after being defeated by a stripling such as yourself. ’ Llanwith paused. ‘I saw him as he charged the shield bearers that were guarding the Saxon chieftain. None could have doubted his intention - but one of the Saxon women gutted his horse and it fell. Ban was at their mercy.’

‘So his men loosed their arrows on his killers and, in so doing, they robbed those Saxons of a warrior’s death,’ Artorex guessed, with the satisfaction of a victor.

‘Exactly, my boy. War isn’t fair, and there’s little enough glory to go around. We must be grateful for the gifts that men like Ban bring when they pay us the honour of riding with us.’

Myrddion had ensured that Ban was as comfortable as possible on a nest of discarded furs, but even Artorex’s untutored eye could see that the wounded man was near to death. The worst of the blood from sword cuts to the body had been staunched, but Ban’s torso was literally held together by his own armour.

A lesser man would already be dead, Artorex thought sadly.

He schooled his face into some semblance of a smile.

‘Still abed, Ban? Don’t you realize you’ve won us a great victory? Your banner stands before the Great Hall of the Saxons even as we speak. It is our personal tribute to your service.’

‘You have difficulty lying, Artorex, for all your skill with a sword,’ Ban whispered wryly, each word forced from his filling lungs with great pain. Bubbles of blood were forming at his mouth, so one of his warriors wiped them away gently with a clean cloth.

‘You must listen, Artorex, to the words of a man who is now one of your few, true friends. The High King will kill you, if he is able. But before Uther Pendragon becomes worm food himself, many false men will vie for the privilege of betraying you. You must remember this . . . and beware.’

The warrior’s eyes were filming over, and only with the greatest of effort did Ban force back death for a few brief moments.

‘My orders were to kill you during the attack,’ he gasped. ‘I couldn’t . . . I must know . . . that my death has some . . . purpose . . . take the throne.’

‘I am not meant to be a king,’ Artorex stated.

‘Answer . . . me fairly,’ Ban demanded with all his old fire. ‘My eyes are as good as those . . . of Uther. Uther . . . your sire.’

His words struck Artorex like body blows.

‘If the kingship should be offered, I will take it.’ Artorex’s voice was firm, but his eyes were moving restlessly as they hunted for escape. ‘I swear this to you on the lives of those who died at Anderida.’

Artorex told himself that he was swearing a harmless lie, and he smiled down at Ban with something akin to fondness.

‘I’ll remember your lesson, my friend,’ he said softly. ‘So fly to the heights, Firebrand of the West, to set the abode of heroes ablaze with your coming.’