Shadowland (25 page)

No sooner had the Picts settled when the Saxons
emerged, rank after rank of them, filing out of the forest paths. Uther soon
lost count, guessing the number to be near ten thousand as they formed up in a
wall of shields around the opposite hill, and they were still coming. He
glanced down at their own forces and realised how heavily outnumbered they
were.

‘Do you see Vortigern?’ Uther asked, and Ambrosius,
who was studying the assembling Saxons with a frown on his face, pointed to the
trees on the right of the far clearing.

‘My guess would be that he’s in that group moving
towards the hill. From what I’ve heard of him, he won’t want to get too close
to the actual battle today. He has always preferred his killing to be done for
him by others,’ Ambrosius sighed. ‘The druids told me years ago it was
Vortigern who sent a Pict to kill our father. We must make him pay for that,
Uther, and, spirits willing, he will pay for it today.’

He pointed to the largest group still gathering in
the centre of the lowland. ‘These men here will be the first to attack. They’re
some of his best troops, seasoned Saxon warriors all. When we fought for Rome, we faced men such as these when they tried to cross
the great Rhine River
into Gaul. They will try to force a breach in
our lines and attempt to split our forces.’ He indicated the trees to either
side. ‘There’ll be more in there waiting to sweep in if they manage to do it.’

Uther gazed up at his brother, amazed at his
understanding of their enemy and the cool detached way he could see how the
battle would be fought. He glanced down the hill again. ‘How will we stop them?
We’re so few.’ Fear rose from his stomach, draining his mouth of moisture.
Reaching back for his water skin, he drank greedily.

Ambrosius looked at him and smiled. ‘We are Britons,
Uther. The people of this land.’ He gestured to the writhing, eager ranks of
tribesmen in front of them. ‘We are the Iceni, the Catuvellauni, the
Trinovante,
Atrebates
and
Parisi
to name but a few of the clans gathered here. What chance, you might ask, do
these Saxon invaders have against us?’

Before Uther could reply, the Saxon war drums began
to beat and the solid mass of men in the centre surged forward, hefting swords,
spears and axes high. The shield wall remained solid, each shield overlapping
that of its neighbour as they strode forward. Behind the wall the warriors
screamed their own challenges back to the waiting Britons as ale and mead were
passed along the line. On Mount
Badon the tribesmen
replied, the deep moaning call of the horns almost lost amongst the rising
battle cries and clamour as each warrior drummed their spear against shield and
stamped their feet while the chieftains tried to hold them back. The noise in
the small valley rose to a deafening roar.

‘Hold fast!’ cried Ambrosius above the clamour, as
he saw the ranks of tribesmen begin to sway and move down the hill. The order
was passed forward, and each chieftain repeated the call, reinforcing it with
savage kicks and abuse to keep the line for which they had been trained. The
Saxon horde was now halfway across the valley.

Raising his hand, Ambrosius signalled to the wooded
area on his left, and several hundred archers ran forward to form ranks on the
lower slopes. He repeated the signal to his right and more archers emerged on
that side. As the Saxons reached the base of Mount Badon,
they slowed, bunching almost to a standstill while the ones at the front began
their climb. At a signal, the archers loosed their first volley of arrows and
death rained down upon the massed Saxons, the howling screams of the injured
becoming one with the roar of battle. The archers continued firing into the
surging ranks until all their arrows were spent, and then they ran forward,
swords and axes raised, as they formed their own shield wall, eager to be the
first to meet with the enemy.

‘Return to your chariot, Uther,’ cried Ambrosius, as
he struggled to hold the rope restraining his huge war hound as it strained to
get free. Its angered barking almost lost now amongst the terrible noise all
around them.

‘Take your group and come in from the right. I will
attack from the left and we’ll strike and scatter them as the tribes join the
battle.’ He raised his free arm, and then abruptly dropped it, signalling the
chieftains to let loose the main ranks of warriors. With a roar, the tribes
attacked, screaming down the hill hurling their spears before crashing into the
wall of Saxons with a terrible clash as weapons and shields met and the
screaming began.

Dragging
himself away from the terrifying spectacle of battle, Uther forced his way back
through the confusion of men, all hurrying to mount horses and chariots, and
leapt up next to Samel.
As they came free of the crowd and brought the chariot down from the
hill, he saw Samel’s men watching, glancing up towards them, anxious to be
away. They drew alongside and skidded round as Uther turned the horses towards
the battleground, and Samel called to his men.

‘Come lads... what are ye waiting
fer
!’
The little
Iceni clung on as the chariot lurched dangerously, tipping up on one wheel,
before coming down with a thump and sliding round the base of the hill. They
continued on,
bouncing
over the rough ground, waiting for their first sight of the battle. Behind them
came the sixteen chariots under Uther’s command.

‘Steady lad!’ called Samel, over the uproar. ‘Don’t
turn us over before we get there.’ Rain returned as a steady drizzle, and he
risked releasing a hand from its steadying grip on the side of the chariot to
wipe a sleeve across his face, quickly slapping it back on the rail as the
chariot jolted.

As
they covered the ground towards the tangled mass of men, a larger group of
Saxons appeared from the forest and ran screaming out towards them. Uther
glanced back at Samel to
see if he had noticed.

‘Ignore
them,’ growled Samel, glaring across at the running men. ‘Bring us round to the
back of the main battle, lad, that’s it
…
at ‘
em
, lads!’

The bouncing chariot closed on the main group of
writhing, fighting men, and as they did, the nearest Saxons turned to see them
bearing down, their fear evident when they realised they were directly in the
chariot’s path
.
Drawing Excalibur with his
right hand, Uther gripped the reins against the edge of the chariot with his
left, and they ploughed into the solid mass of the battle, the impact
registering with a series of sickening thumps and jolts.
The horses charged on, trampling the first group of
terrified men, and then rearing up and kicking out and biting at others who
were trying desperately to escape being crushed or maimed. Now in the thick of
the fighting, Uther drew in the stink of battle, a heavy mixture of blood,
urine and fear.

They
slowed as the battle closed about them.
The chariot jumped and fell as the horses struggled
to pull it up and over fallen bodies, while in front of them, Saxons and Picts
panicked to get clear of the raised hooves and evil yellow teeth that tore
lumps of cloth and flesh from any warrior that came close enough. In these
first terrifying moments, it was all Uther could do to crouch down and hold on,
as faces, swords, and axes flashed past him, the screams and defiant battle
cries a constant and terrifying roar in his ears. With a jolting thud, an axe
embedded itself in the edge of the chariot close to where he held on. Snatching
his hand back, he saw Samel stab down with his spear, retrieving it a moment
later dripping in blood. The chariot continued on, bouncing from side to side.

‘Get up, boy! Fight!’ roared Samel.

Uther rose to see that the chariots were all still
moving cutting a swathe through the surging ranks of Saxon warriors. The
closest tribesmen were battling towards them about thirty paces away. Lashing
out with Excalibur, he felt the weapon dance in his hands, meeting the
resistance of flesh and bone, and the first Saxons fell back in a spray of
blood, wounded or dying. He tried to blank his mind to the agonised looks and
terrible screams, reasoning that these were the invaders and had to be turned
back. Still, as he fought, the small part of him that remained a boy locked
itself into a corner of his mind and wept.

The rain fell with renewed intensity and the ground
beneath the fighting warriors
was soon
churned into a thick mud
, stained rich with the blood of the dead and dying.

By midday, the battle still raged and the rain still
fell.

Keeping the chariot moving, Uther entered the thick
of the battle once more. On the far side, he caught a glimpse of Ambrosius with
the other chariots, the King standing tall above the battling warriors as they
fought their way through the enemy’s flank. Slapping the reins down on his
horses’ backs, Uther felt them lurch forward once more, dragging the chariot
back onto the Saxon shield wall.

‘
Yaaahh
!’

Then, as the clouds parted briefly spilling a ray of
sunlight down onto the bloodshed below, the two groups of chariots met and the
battle turned in favour of the tribes. With the Saxon forces, now divided, the
ferocious tide of tribesmen and the incredible power of the chariots began to
turn the battle. The Saxons may have had more men, but Ambrosius had trained
his forces well, and this battle that had been long in its planning, was
becoming a massacre.

As his chariot broke into open ground once more,
Uther wheeled about, trying to come back onto their flank. Smaller groups of
Picts and Saxons saw they had slowed to make the turn and so tried to stop
them, but Samel’s axe, alongside Uther wielding Excalibur, dealt death to all
that came within range. Then as the chariot began to pick up speed once more, a
bearded axeman ran in and, with a shrill cry, brought his blade down, catching
Uther a heavy blow to the shoulder. Uther cried in pain, then thrust out with
Excalibur, and the Saxon fell away screaming. With his shoulder pulsing in
fiery agony, he brought the chariot away from the battle and passed the reins
to Samel, then glanced down at his numb arm hanging useless at his side.

‘
T’aint
cut, boy. He
missed you with the blade, just caught you with the shaft.’ Samel turned the
chariot round again and headed back towards the knot of fighting men. ‘Here we
go again, boy. Strap yourself on and let’s prepare a feast for them crows.’ He
cracked the reins down on the horses’ backs. ‘
Yaaahh
!’

Uther just had time to strap his useless arm to the
chariot rail with a length of hemp rope, and they were back in amongst the boiling
cauldron of the main battlefield with bloody conflict stretching far out to
either side.

Time seemed to slow. The chaos of battle floating
from one moment to the next, moving before him in a blur of blood and anger,
and then came a moment that would live with him long after the battle had faded
into nightmare. A Pict, his blue-daubed face drawn in a scream of anger,
emerged from the crushing mob of fighting warriors and just as quickly, slid
from Uther’s sword spitting a foam of crimson bubbles.
As he fell away, the Pict reached out, caught him, and
clung to him, using the last of his strength in an attempt to pull Uther with him
to the ground. Trapped within the grip of the dying man’s gaze,
Uther felt himself being
drawn over the side rail of the chariot before the rope securing his arm
stopped him with a jolt. His consciousness snapped back, with the noise and
pain of the moment almost overwhelming him. Then, the strong grip of Samel
caught him as he struggled at the edge of panic, and managed to drag him back
onboard.

‘Come, boy. The horses need to rest.’ The chariot
came round and, once clear of the fighting, they headed slowly back to the
sanctuary behind Mount
Badon. Uther felt weary
to the depths of his soul. He rubbed sweat and rain from his eyes, and stared
out at the small isolated groups of ferocious fighting that remained amongst
the droves of fleeing Saxons. Hundreds lay dead or dying upon the field and he
wondered at the madness that had brought them to this day. Tentatively
unstrapping his arm, he experienced a moment of relief when he realised that,
through the pain, he could still feel his fingers and could just about move his
arm again. They made it to the sanctuary of their own lines where a group of
children met them bearing fresh water, food, spare blades, and spears.

‘Drink.’
Samel handed him a water-skin and shook his head as Uther gulped greedily.
‘Slow down, lad, you’ll make yourself sick.’ He was grinning as Uther pulled
the water skin from his mouth coughing and spluttering. ‘There, told you so... now,
are you ready?’

‘Ready? Ready for what?’ Uther glanced out to where
the fighting could still be heard, knowing what Samel was going to say but
unsure if he could summon the energy to return to the fight. Samel merely
nodded and pulled Uther back up.

They rounded the hill and saw a group of the Saxons
were attempting to rally and come back, driving Pict warriors before them. It
was only a
moment later that the chariot
slammed into them.

Twice more, Uther and Samel led the other chariots
back into the fight, helping to collapse any sense of order the Saxons managed
to muster. When they wheeled about the third time, they saw Ambrosius, with two
other chariots, break out of the battle and head towards where Vortigern and
the Saxon chieftains stood on the far rise, the long loping run of Ambrosius’
war hound leading the way. With Uther once again taking the reins, they
followed, veering to the right to attack a small group of fleeing Picts as they
went.