The Hallowed Isle Book Two (27 page)

Burdened with wounded, the British would go slowly. Aelle hoped to cut them off before they could join with the forces Artor was raising in Demetia.

Oesc felt a new set of muscles complain as he turned onto his side and closed his eyes once more. But the deep slumber he so badly needed eluded him. Instead he fell into a state halfway between sleep and waking in which he wandered through a landscape of waning ghosts.

At first he thought of the old story of Hild, whose curse set her father and lover to repeat their final battle throughout eternity. But this was a battle of Saxon against Briton, and it was Rigana who walked among them, shrieking imprecations. It seemed to him then that he followed after, begging her to forgive so that peace might come. And then she turned, and her face was that of a wælcyrige, one of the battle hags who choose the slain for Woden's hall.

Oesc halted, shaking his fists at the heavens.
“What do you want? When will you bring this slaughter to an end?”

And it seemed to him then that a great wind swept across the battlefield, swirling up the bodies of men like fallen leaves and flinging them across the sky. And like the roar of that wind, came the answer—

“
When you choose wisdom over war. . . . When you learn how to use the Spear!
”

The Britons were retreating. Cataur's appeal had brought Artor's forces down from Demetia to his aid, but the Saxon army was larger than anyone had expected. In the open field, the Britons could not stand against them. Several skirmishes and one pitched battle had proved that in numbers at least, the Saxons had superiority. Every villa in their path had been looted, and the ruins of Cunetio still smoked behind them. But if the defenders were being forced to fall back, at least they were doing so in good order. Their losses had been relatively light—to some, that made their retreat all the more ignominious. Only Artor seemed unconcerned.

When the murmurs became too bitter to ignore, he called his chieftains to council.

They had made camp just outside the hamlet of Verlucio, a staging post on the main road that led from Calleva and the Midlands toward Aquae Sulis. The inhabitants, recognizing that any supplies they did not share with their own side would soon be taken by the Saxons, had been generous with food and drink, and the men were in a more mellow mood than they had been when the day began.

Even Gualchmai, who had been growling like a chained hound, seemed to have been pacified by a skin of wine. But Betiver, gazing at the circle of flushed or frowning faces, still felt a hard knot of anxiety in his gut.

“What is the matter, old friend?” came a voice at his elbow. “You are looking around you like a sheep that has just heard the first wolf howl.” It was the king.

Betiver sighed. “It is not the wolves I fear just now, but the sheepdogs. They do not like to be beaten, and they do not like to run.”

“And you fear the shepherd will not be able to command them?” Artor's eyes were as bright as if he were going into battle.

Betiver flushed.
He understands what is at stake here, despite his soft words
.

“Have faith. No man can guarantee victory always, but I do have a plan.”

“My lord,” Betiver answered softly, “I have believed in you since I was thirteen years old.”

It was Artor's turn to color then. He turned away rather quickly and took his place in the folding camp chair with the crimson leather seat and back that he used as a portable throne. Gualchmai moved into position behind his right shoulder and Betiver took the left. Gradually, the men gathered before him grew still.

“Let me tell you a story—” the high king said into the silence. “Once I hunted a stag. He was an old beast, and wily, but I was confident that my dogs could run him down. But he knew the ground better than I did, and the chase went on and on. By afternoon, I was far from my own hunting runs. I had no food, and the trail was leading into the hills. But my prey was so close, I could not give up. And then, the ground rose suddenly and I looked up and saw the stag above me on a rock that jutted out from the cliff. Three dogs were killed as they tried to leap up at him. I lifted my spear, but before I could throw, the stag charged. His horns took out two more dogs as he crashed through the circle, and my horse reared and threw me. By the time I sorted myself out, he was long gone, and the dogs that remained to me were quite happy to head home. . . .”

For a long moment there was silence, then Agricola of Demetia let out a guffaw. “Is that why we've been bolting for the hills for the past ten-day?”

“You are trying to draw the Saxons into hostile territory?” asked Cunorix, whose Irish had, in the face of this new threat, been transformed into allies once more.

Artor let the babble of speculation run its course before raising his hand. “Aelle's army is too great for him to carry sufficient supplies. He must live off the land, but if he splits his forces to forage they risk coming upon a larger body of our own men. The farther he gets from his own lands the worse his problem becomes.”

“And where do you propose to stand at bay?” a new voice put in.

“Aquae Sulis nestles among hills. In such broken country, the Saxons will find it hard to bring their numbers to bear. There is a hill that overlooks the Abona across the river from the town, above the place where the Calleva road joins the road to Corinium. It stands alone, and its summit is flat, big enough for our mounts and but not too big to defend. That is where I propose we make our stand. We have enough in our saddlebags to hold out for some days, and we can bring river water in barrels from the town. I have sent orders already to the people of Aquae Sulis to flee, to leave what food they cannot carry on the hill, and to take with them every scrap of food they can.”

For a moment longer the issue was in doubt. Then Cunorix grinned. “‘Tis a trap, then, that we'll be setting for our foes.”

“It is, and we the bait and the jaws of it both!”

Cunorix half drew his sword. “Then I'd best get busy sharpening mine—” More laughter followed, and Betiver relaxed. He should never have doubted, he thought then, that Artor could handle his men.

The hill bristled against the pale blue of the sky.

At first Oesc thought the uneven line was brush or treetops, but as they drew closer he could see the stubble of cut tree trunks and bushes on the slopes above. The sides of the hill had once been covered with foliage that might have hidden ascending enemies, but now they were denuded, trunks and branches woven into a spiky rampart around the summit.

He swore softly. “Ceretic was so sure we had them on the run! But if Artor was running, this was his goal—he
meant
to lead us here.”

Haesta, who was marching beside him, grunted agreement. “You may know less about leading armies, but you know Artor. Aelle should have listened to you. On the other hand, Artor may not have expected quite so many of us—” He squinted up at the hill. “They're safe for the moment, but where can they go?”

By nightfall, the hill was surrounded, and the Saxon war-songs drifted upward on the wind. On the next morning the first assault was mounted on the southern, and least precipitous, side of the hill. It was also the best defended, and the picked force that had ascended was soon retreating once more.

That afternoon they tried again with a general assault from all sides at once. In the process they discovered the hard way that the Britons had a good supply of arrows and retired with significant, though not crippling, losses. That night they tended their wounds, and in the chill hour just before dawn, sent warriors creeping silently up the western side of the hill. Just as the burning rim of the sun edged the eastern hills a second force charged the eastern side, screaming war cries, and the defenders, springing to the breastworks, were dazzled by the first light of day.

The western force made good use of their distraction, swarming over the piled logs and taking out the sentries, then pulling as much of the breastwork down as they could manage to give those who followed easier entry.

It should have worked. The Britons, waking dazed from sleep, thronged toward the eastern side of the hill, and the Saxons who were infiltrating from the west fell upon them from the rear with silent ferocity. Oesc, who was leading them, was the first to see the figure that reared up before them, glowing with pale light and crying out words of power in a voice that paralyzed the soul.

His warriors, not knowing what had come against them, froze in terror. Oesc recognized Merlin, but for the few crucial moments it took for the Britons to realize where the real threat lay, his knowledge of the druid's powers incapacitated him as completely as it had his men. Then the brightness faded, to be replaced by yelling shapes silhouetted against the rising sun. Now it was the Saxons who were blinded. They turned and ran.

For a moment Oesc glimpsed Artor, clad only in breeches, the dawnlight flaming from his sword. He cried out in challenge, but caught in the midst of his fleeing warriors, he was carried back to the gap in the breastwork and down the hill.

By the end of that day, the disadvantages of maintaining a seige with a large army in hostile territory were becoming clear. Artor and his warriors were surrounded by Saxons, but the Saxons were surrounded by trackless hills from which all sources of food seemed to have disappeared.

“If we are getting hungry, then they must be too,” said Ceretic grimly. “And even if they have food, they must run out of water soon. They have horses up there, lads—tomorrow morning we'll attack again, and keep coming until we overrun the hill. Then we'll feast on horseflesh and offer the king's stallion to the gods.”

They were fine words, thought Oesc, binding up a gash on his thigh, but if the Saxons did not succeed in bringing the Britons to battle, they would be eating each other soon. His gaze moved to the long, shrouded shape that lay with the rest of his gear. Until now he had not unwrapped it, for Artor had left his Sword in Londinium, safely sheathed in stone. But Merlin had used magic against them that morning. The next time the Saxons attacked, Oesc would use the Spear.

At sunset it was the high king's custom to make the rounds of the breastworks unescorted, stopping at each guard post to hearten the men on duty there. On the evening of the second day of the seige, Merlin fell into step beside him. He had been waiting for the right moment, when the king, driven to the limit of his resources, would be willing to hear his words.

“Have you come to point out my foolishness, as you used to do when I was a boy? I gambled that if I took refuge here, Aelle would be forced to raise the seige, and my pride may have lost not only the war, but Britannia,” Artor said bitterly as they moved along the breastwork. “Tomorrow we must try to break free.”

“You did not choose so badly. This hilltop has been a fortress before—” Merlin replied.

“What do you mean?” asked Artor. He paused to greet the men who were leaning against the tangle of logs at the post on the eastern side. Torches on tall poles cast an uncertain light down the slope, a garland of fire that was matched by the larger necklace of watchfires below. Between them, dark shapes lay among the stumps; bodies that neither side had dared to retrieve for fear of arrows from above or below.

“Did you think the gods had leveled this summit in foreknowledge that one day you would need a refuge?” Merlin said as they moved on. “Men lived here before the Romans came. That is why the top is flat and the edges so sheer. Your breastworks are built on the remains of the ramparts they raised to protect their village.”

“I wish they were here! I speak words of cheer, but this morning we lost men we could not spare.”

“What makes you think that they are not?” said the druid. “Now, in the hour between dark and daylight, all times are one. Open your ears and listen—open your eyes and see. . . .”

As Artor turned, frowning, Merlin touched his forefinger to the spot on his brow just between his eyes. The king staggered, blinking, and the druid held him, his own sight shifting. Overlaid upon the shapes of hide campaign tents he saw round houses of daub and wattle with conical roofs of thatch. The ghostly images of earthen ramparts crowned by a palisade veiled the breastwork of piled logs. And among the warriors of Artor's army moved the figures of men and women and children dressed in the striped and checkered garments of ancient days.

“I see . . .” whispered the king, his voice shaking. “But these are only memories.”

“By my arts I can give such substance to these wraiths as will send the Saxons shrieking. But you must call them—”

“In whose name? To what power that they would recognize can I appeal?”

Merlin drew from his pouch a bronze disc with a woman's face in bas-relief. “This is an image of the Goddess—one of those they used to sell to folk who came to bathe in the waters of Sulis. The ancient ones will know it. Fix it to your shield and summon them in the name of the Lady of this land.”