The Dragon's Banner (26 page)

Vortigern did not answer his son at first,
but instead kept riding silently for another moment. Finally, he
turned to face Vortimer. His eyes, once icy and calculating, were
wild and glittering with madness. "Hengist would not dare betray
me, my son. He will not risk my wrath. With the Frankish army, we
shall defeat Uther Pendragon and restore our position in
Britannia."

He is mad, Vortimer thought. This last
terrible defeat, following on the misfortunes that preceded it, has
been his undoing. But what shall I do? "Father, the Franks have
never been allied with Hengist. Does it not seem strange to you
that they would intervene now, after our cause has so
withered?"

The path narrowed as they rode deeper into
the forest, and the party halted to reorder into single file to
proceed. Vortigern did not reply to his son's question, but just
quietly sat his horse as Vortimer organized the men-at-arms. When
half the men had ridden forward, he motioned for his father to ride
ahead, and he fell in behind, followed by the rest of their
men.

He is past my reaching him, Vortimer thought
grimly. I must be on my guard during this visit, for though I
cannot divine what trickery he is planning, I do not trust Hengist.
Nor do I believe that Clovis has allied with him. We should be
planning to escape from King Uther, not trusting to fantasy
alliances to salvage our cause.

For long they rode, and finally they camped a
half day's journey from Canterbury. There was little talk, and
silently they sat around their fires and ate. The men-at-arms were
Vortigern's most loyal followers, and while they had not deserted
their master, their morale was broken, and none expected but to
meet their deaths in futile defense of their lord.

The air was thick with acrid smoke, as the
army of Uther Pendragon prepared to break camp and march south.
Before them lay the stronghold of King Gavin writhing in its death
agony, wooden ramparts and towers still ablaze. Uther's army had
stormed the castle at dawn, taking it quickly and, as they had done
at every stronghold they had assailed, putting the defenders to the
sword. All save one, for the king himself had been hanged like a
common thief. He had begged for mercy, but Uther was unmoved. "You
chose this fate when you swore yourself to the usurper." Thus was
all he said to the crying old man, and he turned his back and
walked away.

Since their victory at Verulamium, Uther's
men had marched east and north, attacking the remnants of their
enemies' forces and, one by one, assaulting their strongholds. Some
castles they found abandoned, but even those that were staunchly
defended quickly fell.

Uther's will had hardened into iron, and he
resolutely refused to take any prisoners from those who had
supported Vortigern, the usurper. Even his grimmest veterans were
weary of the rivers of blood that flowed everywhere they marched.
But none would dare resist his commands. Finally, Leodegrance bade
him show mercy to King Gavin, for he was aged and sick and swore
that he was truly repentant.

Uther stood unmoving, his gaze not even
shifting in response to his friend's entreaties. "I proclaimed that
the lives of all who joined with the usurper and the invaders would
be forfeit, and so it shall be." His tone conveyed unshakeable
finality.

When Uther walked throughout the host a hush
fell over the assembled men. The soldiers held their high king in
awe, for he had led them from the brink of defeat to total victory
and the annihilation of their enemies. Their trains were rich with
the spoils of sacked castles and their purses bulged with gold and
silver. Though the men were levies of eight different kingdoms,
Uther had forged them into one terrible weapon, and they looked to
him as their leader.

The kings were joyful at the victories, but
their discontent was growing as they saw their warriors chanting
Uther's name before battle. Though they all hailed Uther as high
king, they were protective of their own powers and perquisites, and
they began to feel their own positions threatened by the stature of
King Uther. But none would dare challenge the high king's
authority, for they all feared his terrible wrath.

Now they would march south to Canterbury,
Hengist's great fortress. King Gavin's keep had been the last of
the Britannic monarch's strongholds to fall, though many of the
lords themselves had fled, presumably to make a last stand with
Vortigern and Hengist.

The army moved silently and in good order,
for they were all veterans now, and Uther had maintained tight
discipline throughout the ranks. They marched first through Repton,
the village adjoining Gavin's fortress, and the terrified peasants
hid in cellars and barns until they had passed. Uther's men had
earlier ransacked the town, pulling cowering soldiers from their
hiding places, but the villagers were left unmolested. The high
king was not making war on the peasants, only on the lords and men
at arms who had committed treason, and he would not tolerate any
indiscipline among his troops. He had not hesitated to hang his own
men on more than one occasion when they disobeyed his command and
raped or robbed among the townsfolk.

Uther had become unapproachable, for even his
adoring soldiers feared him, and many a veteran man at arms quaked
at the king's very approach. Though Uther commanded the loyalty of
thousands, only four men still remained close companions to the
cold-blooded monarch. Merlin, his advisor and lifelong friend,
still counseled Uther, and he was the one most able to influence
the king's actions, though more through clever manipulation than
persuasion. Perhaps most of all Uther's companions, Merlin
understood the terrible resolution within the king, both its cause,
it usefulness…and its dangers.

Leodegrance found himself disapproving of
many of his old companion's actions, but his loyalty was steadfast.
Though he influenced Uther less than he once had, he swore there
would never be a day when he feared to approach his old friend. And
he knew in his heart that whatever road Uther chose, Leodegrance of
Cameliard would follow.

Caradoc the Visigoth had served the high king
faithfully, and he had fought like a lion in Uther's wars. His name
was known and feared throughout Britannia, and it is said that even
he had lost count of the men he'd slain. He was, in mind and
spirit, Uther's man, and perhaps more than any other he seemed
undeterred by the king's coldness. Unlike the others, Caradoc was
not at all troubled by Uther's unrelenting brutality, and he calmly
and grimly carried out the king's commands. Caradoc had personally
hanged King Gavin, as he had several of the others.

Kelven, for many long years the captain of
the guard of Caer Guricon, was born into the service of the
Pendragon, as was his father was before him. His simple
unquestioning loyalty impressed Uther, and his service was valued
and appreciated. Among the entire host, Kelven alone could say that
he had saved the high king from enemy swords, for only once had
Uther seemed like to fall in battle, and it was the captain whose
blade intervened. Though he had tired of war and bloodshed, his
sword would serve House Pendragon as long as God gave him the
strength to wield it.

The army marched far each day, for the men
were hardened by long service in the field, and they had travelled
only a few days before the scouts reported that they were but a few
hours' journey from Canterbury. The sun was already low in the sky,
so Uther ordered a halt, and the men began the business of making
camp.

All knew that the morrow would bring the
final confrontation. Only here, in Canterbury, were there still
enemies in arms. Once these were defeated, the men would return
home to castles and farms and villages. When this last battle was
won the rivers of blood would cease, and peace and prosperity would
return. Throughout the host, the men sat quietly and ate their
evening meal, and when they were done they talked of the war and
the battles they had seen.

When the war began, the armies of the
different kings were separate forces. They marched and ate and
camped among themselves. But now the men were forged together as
one, and they were like brothers. Around many a campfire sat men
wearing different heraldry - men who would have fought against each
other but a few years before. Would their brotherhood last, or
after they returned home would they again find themselves fighting
each other to settle petty disputes between the kings?

Uther, who had recently been dining alone,
invited his four friends to share his table. The meal was a simple
one, but appealing. In the center of the table was a large game
fowl, well roasted and surrounded with vegetables. In addition
there was cheese and fruit, along with fresh bread and a large bowl
of nuts. When his guests had taken their seats, Uther raised his
goblet. "Welcome, my truest companions. It is a simple joy to share
a meal with one's dearest friends. Alas, the sort of pleasure for
which we have had little time these past months."

They all took their cups in hand and raised
them in a toast before drinking. When they had finished, it was
Merlin who spoke first. "Indeed, Uther, there have been far too few
moments such as this. Our quest has been a difficult one, and in
many ways yours has been the darkest road. Yet, here you stand on
the brink of victory. On the verge of peace. Your father would be
proud of you."

Uther smiled, something his companions had
not seen in some time. "You mean he would be surprised, Merlin. My
father was like to expect to find me brawling in an inn rather than
leading the armies of Britannia."

"Nay, Uther.” Merlin’s voice was heavy with
emotion. "Though you and your father often clashed, he knew well
your worth."

"To my father, Constantine Pendragon. And my
brave brothers, all slain by the treachery of these Britannic
fiends you would have me spare." Uther was trying to be mirthful,
but the bitterness and resentment was difficult to hide.

They all ignored the barb and raised their
glasses. Leodegrance drained his goblet and placed it down on the
table. "Tomorrow, my friends," he said. "Tomorrow victory shall be
within our grasp." One of the servants refilled his cup, and he
raised it high. "To victory. To peace."

All those assembled repeated his words. "To
victory, to peace."

Uther forced another smile for the benefit of
his friends, but his own thoughts were darker. Victory? Perhaps, he
mused. But peace? Is such a thing even possible? Do I even
care?

There was a long table set upon trestles in
the great hall at Canterbury, and seated around it were all those
lords and kings allied to Vortigern who yet lived. They were
well-feasted, for Hengist had ordered a great banquet to be
prepared for his guests even though the fortress was on a siege
footing. There were roasts and game birds and every manner of
delicacy, with copious amounts of ale and wine to wash it down.

The guests were sated, and most were more
than a little drunk, but they were becoming impatient, for Hengist
had promised them all emissaries from King Clovis of the Franks,
and none had yet appeared. Vortigern himself spoke to calm them,
for he had so given himself over to the hope offered by Hengist
that he believed in it whole-heartedly.

Vortimer was less convinced, and as the night
wore on with little but Hengist's excuses, his suspicions grew. He
had drunk little, and he had all his wits about him. Finally,
feigning illness, he left the hall to return to his chambers.
Twice, as he made his way down the corridor, he thought he heard
scraping sounds on the stone floors behind him, but each time he
turned about to look the way was clear. At last, he reached his
door and calmly entered the dimly-lit room. He was ready for
trouble, but the chamber was empty. Cautiously, he closed the door
behind him and retrieved his sword from where it was laying against
the wall.

Thus, he was ready when the door began to
slide open slowly and, as his would-be assassin entered, Vortimer
ran him through without pause. The black clad figure reached out as
if trying to grab the wall for support and slumped forward onto the
floor of the chamber. Hastily, Vortimer dragged the body all the
way into the room, closing and bolting the door behind him.

A trap, he thought grimly. I knew...in my
heart I knew, and yet I have walked into it right beside my father.
I must get aid. The men, they are camped in the courtyard. I must
rally them to rescue father and the lords. Yanking his sword free
of the body, he unbolted the door and slowly pried it open. The
hall was deserted, and Vortimer slipped through the door, closing
it tightly behind him. He made his way to the end of the corridor,
where a stone circular stair rose the full height of the fortress.
He ran down to the ground level as quickly as he could and rounded
the corner to emerge into the courtyard...just as all hell broke
loose.

From the stables and the other buildings
surrounding the yard, armed and armored Saxon warriors ran toward
the Britannic soldiers sitting around fires eating their evening
meal. Their surprise was total, and few of Vortigern's men were
able to draw weapons before their attackers were upon them.
Vortimer shouted a bitter curse and charged into the melee.

"So, my friends, at last we come to the
purpose of our gathering." Hengist stood at his place at the end of
the table and addressed his guests. "For no doubt, many of you have
wondered what plan we might devise to face the force of Uther
Pendragon." He gestured to Vortigern, who was seated at his side,
and bid the old man to rise and stand beside him.

"This is what we shall do!" From under the
table he retrieved a long dagger, and with one stroke he thrust it
so forcefully through Vortigern's back that the tip of the blade
protruded from the old man's chest. Vortigern's head turned, and
for a second he looked in disbelief at Hengist. Then he spasmed
once, coughing up a mouthful of blood, and crumpled to the ground
at his killer's feet.