Shadowland (32 page)

‘I
am Uther Pendragon, war leader of the tribes and king of all the Britons, I
will fight you.’ He drew Excalibur and, cutting the air with the great sword,
brought it up in salute to his Saxon enemy.

‘A
child leads the tribes? Why, you still have the pimples of youth on your face
where a real man grows a beard!’ The two Saxons laughed, and then Horsa stepped
forward, his face drawing into a frown. ‘But I know you, don’t I, boy? We’ve met
before, have we not?’

Uther
ignored the question. ‘I am going to allow your people to remain in this land,
to settle amongst us and live as Britons. But you... you I will kill.’ He saw a
play of confusion turn to anger as it crossed Horsa’s face, but went on before
Horsa could react. ‘You killed the only real friend I had, and then you killed
my brother. Most would say, good enough reasons for me to take your life and
send you to the shadowland, but the main reason that you will die today, is so
that your people can live, in peace, as Britons.’

Horsa
roared and swept down his blade, and Uther reacted, raising Excalibur and
catching the Saxon’s sword as it curved towards him. The two blades clashed,
and then sang as they ran together.

‘That
wasn’t much of an effort,’ taunted Uther as he stepped back. ‘Do you remember
killing my brother with a spear in his back? You probably murdered my friend
Cal in much the same cowardly way. It must be hard to face me like this.’

Horsa
gave another bellow of outrage, and swung his sword two-handed at Uther’s neck,
putting all his strength behind the blow, but the young king danced back out of
range. Recovering quickly, the two fighters exchanged a flurry of strikes,
pressing each other in a test of strengths.

‘Would
it help if I turned my back on you?’ Uther asked; swatting aside another cut
with ease. Horsa’s face had flushed, each laboured breath evidence that he was
already beginning to tire.

The
fight was moving from where the others waited and was getting closer to the
edge of the forest. With a yell, Horsa stabbed forward, and as Uther deflected
the flashing blade, the Saxon kicked out, catching him hard in the thigh.

A
cry came from Samel as Uther dropped to one knee and gazed up into the
triumphant face of Horsa. With one swift movement, Horsa raised his sword, and
then brought it down, intent upon taking the young king’s head from his
shoulders, but Uther wasn’t yet ready to die. Thrusting out, he rolled to his
left at the same time and felt Horsa’s blade slide past, cutting empty air as
Excalibur caught his enemy above the kneecap. Uther felt the blade grind as it
cut through flesh and slid across the bone eliciting a scream from Horsa who
turned, limping into the forest, clutching at his leg with blood pouring through
his fingers.

‘After
him, lad!’ called Samel.

He
heard a clash of weapons behind him as the two sides met, and then Uther was up
and slipping through the trees, trying to see some sign of where Horsa had
gone.

Once
within the shadows of the forest, it was cool and silent, the memory of the
night still hanging heavy through this twilight world, rich in the earthy
aromas of life and decay. The sound of a twig breaking under Uther’s foot came
unnaturally loud to his ears. He stopped and crouched down, willing his senses
to pick up some sign of his enemy’s flight. For several moments, all was a soft
hush but for the breeze moving through the branches overhead, an unseen whisper
of movement of air that never made it to the shadows of the forest floor.

There...
a footfall... and again! He scanned the gloom and crept towards the sounds,
being careful where he placed each foot. Another noise, like tearing cloth, it
was coming from up ahead where a lighter patch lit the forest. The trees had
thinned here and the sunlight was able to pierce the darkness, it shone through
in bright shafts that danced across the undergrowth, animated by the movement
of the leaves high above. As he neared, something caught his eye. He crouched
down and examined it, all the while keeping his senses aware of the forest
around lest he was surprised, it was a crimson smear of blood on a fern leaf,
the red stain, vivid in the dappling sunlight.

Uther
crept forward, emerged from the trees cautiously, and was somewhat surprised to
see Horsa sitting in plain view on a rock in the centre of the small clearing.
The Saxon looked up and smiled at Uther as he wrapped a piece of cloth, cut
from his tunic, about his wounded leg.

‘King
now, eh, boy? My congratulations to you, that’s one mighty leap up from horse thief.’
His eyes flickered to the trees behind Uther and the smile returned. ‘I tracked
you across half this kingdom and then you gave me the slip at that villa. Of
course, back then, I wasn’t sure it was you, but I do remember you, and now you’ve
done me the favour of slipping away to die alone... how noble of you.’ He
pushed himself up from the rock and tested his leg. ‘But you still needed to
learn so much about leading people. Like how to avoid an early death and when
not to stray too far on your own.’ To the side of Uther another Saxon appeared
from the trees, a big Saxon.

Uther
took several hurried steps away from him, his eyes flitting nervously between
the two men. Horsa walked slowly towards him while the big man laughed. It came
out as a deep guttural sound, making his heavy chest shake. He was huge. Thick
red hair sprouted in tufts from beneath a round helm, far too small for the
head on which it balanced. The muscles of his massive arms flexed, as if
impatient to be unleashed, as he lumbered forward to stand beside Horsa.

‘This
is Gart,’ said Horsa, indicating the huge warrior. ‘I sent him into the trees
just before you arrived. I do hope you don’t mind, it seemed a worthwhile
precaution at the time.’ He leered at Uther, delighting in the turn of events.
‘What do you think... good idea?’

Uther
glanced across at the towering Gart. There was a big grin spread across the
giant’s face, his large fleshy lips drawn back, beneath a thick red moustache,
in a smile that exposed the black remains of what had once been his teeth.

‘Gart,’
rumbled the giant happily, and then ran forward with unexpected speed, swinging
a huge rusty sword in a whistling arc as he came.

Uther
didn’t even attempt to block the blow, but dived to the side, rolled, and flew
at Horsa instead. He caught the Saxon chief off guard and attacked, doing his
best to keep the limping Saxon leader between him and the giant with a flurry
of blows. Horsa stumbled back and just managed to bring his sword up in time to
block Excalibur, and then Gart was behind him, trying to get past. The two
Saxons stumbled, pushing at each other angrily as Uther continued to attack.
Finally, the giant bellowed his frustration and shoved Horsa to the side, his
face flushed in anger. Once again, Uther danced away, refusing to clash with
him, more intent upon getting to Horsa and delivering a killing blow. As the
swords sang, Gart bellowed, trying to get into the fight, then he grinned as,
picking up a huge branch, he came between the two and penned Uther in, forcing
him to finally face him and defend himself.

Uther
could do nothing.
 
While Gart tried
unsuccessfully to corner him and land just one blow, he watched Horsa from the
corner of his eye as he resumed his position on the rock, a satisfied smirk
breaking through the grimace of pain. He was aware of Horsa wrapping a strip of
leather round his thigh and wincing when he tied the knot tightly to stem the
increasing flow of blood from his wound. More blows came from Gart but he tried
to sidestep the huge Saxon to get a thrust into the unprepared Horsa, but the
giant saw what he was doing and moved to block him once again.

Gart
was big, powerful, and immensely strong but was becoming angry as the tribesman
twisted and turned, dodging Gart’s blade, still refusing to clash on Gart’s
terms, it certainly wasn’t the battle of strength Gart would have preferred.
Uther danced and weaved in intricate circles, leaving the giant bellowing in
frustration as his rusty blade repeatedly struck little more than trees or thin
air.

Making
the giant even madder were the growing number of small cuts and stab wounds now
decorating his arms and legs, none of which were fatal, but he was bleeding
freely from many and of course, they stung. They were enough to make him
furious, distracting him, and therefore making him sloppy in his attempts to
kill his smaller foe.

Ducking
below another thundering cut, Uther slashed with Excalibur and Gart jumped back
with a bellow of rage. Seizing the opportunity, Uther chose not to follow him but
changed direction and renewed his attack on Horsa instead, stabbing forward,
seeking the Saxon’s heart.

‘For
Odin’s sake, kill this puppy!’ screamed Horsa, slashing his sword across
Uther’s path before dashing behind the stone to get out of the way. Drawing
back his hand, he threw a knife that missed its target, but distracted the
young king enough for Gart to storm in and shove him hard. Uther staggered
backwards unbalanced, arms thrashing, as if fending off a swarm of bees, and
fell heavily to the ground, the impact knocking the wind out of him.

‘On
him!’ cried Horsa, but Gart needed no encouragement. He ran at Uther and
stabbed down, letting out a bellow of triumph as the rusty sword pierced
Uther’s thigh, pinning him to the ground.

Uther
Pendragon screamed as his world exploded in pain, his vision flared red then
blinding white and the surrounding forest erupted with birds flapping wildly up
through the canopy in confusion and alarm. A shrill scream forced its way past
his lips and he writhed in agony, his lifeblood painting the leaves around him
as it pulsed in gouts from the savage wound. With his heart beating loud in his
ears, he managed to open his eyes and stare down in horror at the sword
protruding from his leg, watching in fascinated terror at the blood pumping out
around the rusty blade. Throwing back his head, Uther Pendragon screamed and
screamed until there was no more and he was only left with a heaving sob. Above
him loomed Gart, who smiled and took the sword’s crosspiece in both hands. Placing
his legs to either side of Uther, the giant heaved, ripping the old sword free.
Uther screamed again until there was no power left in his voice. He was only
vaguely aware of Horsa limping across to stand over him and gaze down at the
pooling blood with a sneer of disdain.

‘Leader
of the tribes and King of all Britons, wasn’t it? Well now you die, Uther
Pendragon. For this is a mortal wound. You will take with you to the shadowland
the knowledge that you have failed your people. Britain will become a Saxon land.
Your people will become Saxons, or they shall die.’ With a nod to Gart, he
stood back and waited for the killing blow to fall. The giant raised his blade
and Horsa studied the pain-wracked features of the young king one last time.
Then, as the blade fell, he saw the tribesman open his eyes, the pain seeming
to dissolve from his face... and a moment later, the blade was stopped a
fraction above Uther Pendragon’s chest, halted by the intervention of a simple
wooden staff, its top hung with
shells, leaves, and polished amber
.
Gart threw back his head and bellowed in rage and frustration while Horsa’s
gaze travelled along the length of the staff and fixed upon the cold blue eyes
of the man that bore it.

The
newcomer regarded him calmly from beneath a fine silvery helm decorated with
bronze ornate hinges at its sides. It appeared somewhat out of place on the old
man, and was in stark contrast to the rest of his appearance. Dirty brown
robes, cinched at the waist with twisted bark, a long grey beard and filthy,
matted grey hair that sprouted at angles from the shining helm, surely stolen
from some battlefield corpse.

‘Who
are you?’ demanded Horsa, trembling, barely able to keep his anger in check.

The
old man reclaimed his staff from Gart’s sword with a simple twist. ‘I am the
druid, Merlyn, and it was once said that my destiny was to save the life of a
king... and so, it proves to be true.’ He bent down, took a wrap of bark from
his cloak, and emptied the contents onto Uther’s open wound. The young king
stirred from unconsciousness, then groaned and writhed anew. While the Saxons
were distracted, Merlyn raised his staff in one fluid motion, and touched Gart
gently upon his forehead, the giant collapsed wordlessly to the ground.

A
new voice floated across the open glade. ‘We are meddling in monumental events
here, Merlyn. Are we sure of what we do?’

The
sunlight in the clearing seemed to be dimming rapidly, yet there was no cloud
hung overhead.

Both
Merlyn and Horsa turned towards the speaker as she stepped away from the
shadows of the forest. Clad in a white robe, the hood all but covering her
face, and mist twisting around her legs spreading out in frail fingers across
the forest floor, stood the Lady of the Lake.

Horsa
waited, unsure of this new turn of events. The Saxons had little experience of
the druids and the only reports he had heard were confused. His initial
reaction was to seek escape, but as he gazed about the darkening forest, more
appeared, apparently flowing with the mist from between the trees, until a
circle of druids surrounded them.

Merlyn
inclined his head. ‘My Lady of the Lake... am
I sure of what we do? No, but then I did not intend to involve myself in these
events, it was... unforeseen.’ He reached down and helped Uther regain his feet.
Uther’s face was ashen and he appeared dazed as he gazed about at the assembled
druids, and then down at the bloodstained gash in his leggings, as he tested
his weight on his leg, he winced.