Shadowland (30 page)

‘So
what do
you
suggest?’ cried Uther in
exasperation. ‘We’re just a little bit outnumbered here. Or hadn’t you
noticed?’
 
He clutched for the side as
they bumped over a grassy hillock, his spears rattling in their holder beside
him.

‘Well,
I liked the bit about attacking,’ said Samel, with a grin. He threw back his
head and letting out an ululating cry, snapped the reins down once more and
turned the chariot towards the wall of screaming Saxons. Behind them, the other
chariots wheeled and followed, and the horsemen raced past, screaming their war
cries to confuse the Saxon defences and draw attention away from the slower
chariots. At least this part was something for which the horsemen had trained.

Moments
before they smashed into the Saxon wall with its bristling barrier, the riders
peeled away and both horsemen and chariots loosed their first volley of spears
and arrows. It was impossible to aim from the platform of a bouncing chariot
so, just as on the training field, those in the chariots waited until the last
moment, then loosed, inflicting a wave of death that slammed into the bunched
Saxons, each spear and arrow seeking those holding the long sharpened poles. A
fraction of a moment behind the horsemen, the chariots hit the Saxon line like
a hammer slamming through the side of an ale barrel, breaching the shattered
defences in an instant. The taunting war cries were replaced by the shrill
screaming of injured horses and crushed and trampled men as the chariots
struggled to get themselves clear. Uther stabbed and slashed with Excalibur,
cleaving a path as they forged ahead into the mass of screaming humanity.

The
world had turned to madness, and it was tainted red.

Saxon
warriors rose and fell before them in a moving sea of sharp iron and blood, as
one man fell, another snarling, hate-filled face leapt in to fill the breach.
As Uther fought, he heard Samel curse and scream beside him, defying the Saxons
to come closer. When they did, it ended with him flicking blood from his axe
with a practised turn of the wrist as they fell, forever lost from sight as the
chariot rolled on.

As
for the horses, one had escaped uninjured from the poles, while the other had
suffered a bloody gash to its right flank. It was snorting, tossing its head in
pain and fear, but still moving, doggedly dragging the chariot forward as Samel
continued to bellow his defiance.

While
Uther fought, he tried to gauge what was happening around him. Standing on the
moving chariot afforded him a good perspective of the battle and the Saxons
defences. Only so many could face the chariots at once, but from the corner of
his eye he could see others crowding behind, eager for their turn. Taking the
opportunity to glance up, he could make out other chariots moving through, some
of which were already far ahead, through the fighting, and wheeling round on
the opposite side. Others, he knew, wouldn’t have been so lucky. Hindered by
fallen horses, their riders were quickly overwhelmed by the larger Saxon force.

Uther
pulled back Excalibur from where he had just thrust it into a Saxon warrior’s
chest, and kicked out at another clinging to the side, desperately trying to
get on. Beneath him, the chariot lumbered ever forward. Then, with little
warning, they were free of the battle and there was a jolt as the horses picked
up speed. It knocked them both from their feet, grabbing for the sides lest
they fall from the open back. The horses, with noses suddenly filled with fresh
air, bolted for the open ground towards the village, frantically fleeing the
world of insanity from which they had just escaped.

As
they bounced across the grassland, Samel scrabbled up from where he had fallen,
dropped his axe, and leapt over the front of the chariot. He landed between the
two galloping horses and held on as best he could before gaining his balance
and making his way down the yoke-pole between them.

‘Samel!
Get back here,’
screamed Uther,
reaching for the reins. He pulled back hard but the horses didn’t respond. The
left wheel banged hard against a tussock of tall grass and the chariot jumped,
flinging Uther to the floor again, one hand managing to grip the rail as he
fell.

Between
the horses, Samel hung on grimly. Edging slowly forward, he reached out and,
taking a good grip of each horse’s mane, dragged them round to the right. He
strained, bracing his feet against the yoke, bringing them slowly round and
under control once more. When they had slowed enough, he shuffled back to
rejoin Uther, who merely shook his head at his friend’s antics. With this small
drama behind them, the horses slowed to a walk and they took their first look
back at the battle, it did little to hearten them.

Uther
gripped his bow, pulled an arrow from the quiver slung on the back of the
chariot, set it and drew. He heard the now familiar creak of the string as his
fingers nestled at full draw against his cheek, and then released, watching as
the shaft leapt across the distance to slam into the chest of a Saxon, one of
several attacking another chariot. He fumbled for another arrow, bracing
himself against the side as the chariot jolted heavily again.

‘Hold
on, lad. We’re going back in,’ shouted Samel, over the noise of pitched battle.
It was already deafening, making him hard to hear.

‘Where,
by the spirits, is Merlyn?’ cried Uther, casting a longing glance towards the
Weald. He willed the druid to appear at the head of the huge force of
tribesmen, but again the darkness mocked him with their absence. ‘We’re not
going to win this without him,’ he continued. With a last glance round at the
village, he saw he had been right, there was indeed a road running north. ‘If
we can somehow get all our warriors clear, we can either take that road, or get
back the way we came.’

The
chariot was picking up speed again, racing back into the unprotected rear of
the Saxon forces. Uther had a chance to throw one spear, saw it miss his
intended victim but take another Saxon in the thigh, the scream lost amongst a
thousand others from all around, and then they both ducked down and braced for
impact. It came with a sickening jolt, the crunching grind of every bone broken
by the heavy oak wheels, vibrating up through the wooden frame. The chariot
slowed and they stood back up, once more amongst the madness of battle.

Samel
let go of the reins and gave the horses their heads. Bending back down, he
searched for his axe, caught it just before it fell out, and then jumped up
with a roar. With a mighty heave, he swung the axe down, cleaving it through the
raised shield of a black-bearded Saxon, dropping him out of sight. More Saxons
filled the gap as another stinging cloud of smoke drifted over them and, for a
few panic-filled moments, they fought in near blindness.

The
chariot lurched without warning as the weight changed and Samel spun around to
see that a Saxon had managed to climb up with them. The warrior was euphoric,
lost to the fever of battle. Splatters of blood covered his face, his lips
drawn back in a drooling smile of killing-madness. His eyes gleamed from beneath
a polished helm, the nose guard bent to the side from where Uther had already
hit him. The two were struggling, locked together with swords raised, Uther
wrestling against the bigger, stronger man who began laughing hysterically as he
felt his smaller opponent weakening.

There
was no room to swing the axe, so Samel jabbed the shaft into the side of the
man’s head, feeling it land with a skull-shattering crunch. When, a moment
later, they emerged from the smoke, the Saxon was no longer there, but the
madness of battle raged on.

Towards
the inner side of the fighting, they came across another chariot that had been
forced to stop. One horse was down and the other, struggled in panic, its eyes
flaring as it felt itself trapped by its fallen companion. Surrounding them was
a mob of hollering, screaming Saxon warriors, while standing high above the
chaos around them, its occupants, miraculously, still lived. Two big
Atrebates
tribesmen, both swinging axes, were inflicting
more damage than they were receiving, but they were tiring. One warrior fought
with his left arm hanging useless by his side, streaming blood from a severe
gash. The other remained uninjured as he hacked with great sweeping cuts into
the mob around them with a sword in each hand. Several horsemen had joined them
and were harrying the Saxons. Uther watched as a horseman jumped down and
attempted to cut the dead horse from the chariot’s reins.

Samel
saw their plight and picked up speed, bringing them in to slam into the knot of
attackers, trampling several as the horses forced their way through. As the
dead horse on the stranded chariot was cut free, they were able to move away,
the remaining horse pulling it, eyes rolling and straining with the effort, its
riders cheering in triumph.

‘Regroup,’
screamed Uther, as they burst free into the centre of the field once more.
Samel brought a horn to his lips and blew a long deep note. They trundled
further into the central ground and slowed, then Uther turned and counted.
Thirteen chariots were moving away with them. He couldn’t count the horsemen,
but the number had thinned considerably. From all around, the Saxons swarmed
towards them and he fought to hold down a wave of despair.

‘We
have to get through. We can’t let them trap us here!’ cried Uther, panic
beginning to edge his voice. ‘Bring us around again. We’ll make for the
northern road.’ The chariots wheeled about, and then to a chorus of yells and
curses, the horses were coaxed back up to a gallop behind the heavy chariots.

At
the front, Uther braced himself against the side of the chariot, raised his
bow, and loosed his remaining shafts. It was as he was drawing back on the
last, that he saw Horsa. The black-clad warrior chief was the only mounted
Saxon on the field. Uther stared, mesmerized, as his enemy rode up and down the
line behind his men, shouting and screaming abuse to drive them on. Another
cloud of smoke blew across the field, momentarily obscuring Uther’s view. He
raised his bow and fired the last arrow blind, sending a prayer with it that it
would find its mark. However, as they came through the smoke, the Saxon leader
was still there, drawing men in from the sides to help form a barrier in front
of the charging Tribes. Under his direction, they were gathering the sharpened
poles, raising them against the oncoming horses, once again; the Saxon wall
quickly began to resemble an impenetrable thorny bush.

At
the last moment, just before they hit, Uther screamed a curse and helped Samel
haul on the reins to bring them round, the chariot almost turning over as it
rose up on one wheel. Uther threw himself at the side to stop them turning
over, the chariot righted, and then they slammed at an angle into the Saxon
lines.

The
unexpected manoeuvre caught the Saxons unaware before the poles could be
realigned and the chariots crashed through the massed warriors causing havoc,
changing what had been the brink of disaster, into a minor victory, before
turning back to the open field. Behind them, the horsemen attacked the confused
Saxon ranks, thinning them even further, but the tribesmen still hadn’t escaped
the circle, and it was getting smaller.

The
small force of Britons retreated to the open field with the screams and cries
of the injured following them. Resting weary arms as they gathered, the riders
gazed about at the incredible number of Saxons closing in and tried to remain
undaunted. Around him, Uther saw the tribesmen looking to him for guidance, for
some hope that he,
their King, could
find some victory in this bleak defeat.

A
Saxon drum began the beat again, and others immediately took it up until the
whole field was surging. Uther laid a hand on Samel’s arm and the chariot came
to a stop.

‘This
can still be our day!’ shouted Uther, to the remains of his force as they drew
up and gathered around him. ‘The Saxons have us penned here like so many sheep.
They believe they are wolves, herding us towards our certain slaughter, but we
shall show them we are of the tribes, and we still have our teeth!’

The
men roared and raised their swords in salute.

‘In
those trees over there, are our friends and brothers. They’re waiting for us.
They promised to be here this day and they will not fail us.’ He glanced across
to the woodland, the first line of trees now sunlit and more inviting than it
had been at any other time since they had first arrived. ‘Let us deliver these
Saxon dogs to their deaths, for now this battle shall turn!’ He slapped Samel
on the back and the little Iceni cracked the whip over the horses. The chariot
lurched, and the remnants of Uther’s warriors charged the Saxon lines closest
to the forest.

Both
sides knew this would be the last charge of the tribes, and the Saxons swarmed
in from every side of the battlefield to meet them. Once the tribesmen had
shown their commitment to one direction, the long poles of the Saxons were
discarded and they swarmed forward, their bloodlust raised to a peak, to
deliver a true and certain slaughter, and they ran quickly lest they miss out.

‘I
hope you’re right about this, Uther Pendragon,’ cried Samel, as they rapidly
closed the distance. ‘But if it’s of any consequence, I admire your pluck and
wouldn’t have the end happen any other way! Pendragon!’

Every
tribesman on the field took up the cry, as they descended amid a thunder of hooves,
and the cry echoed around the battlefield ‘Pendragon!’