Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (85 page)

Nila studied the dog. ‘Poor thing’s been tied up there all day … shook like a leaf in a breeze as soon as the battle started.’

‘The noise
was
incredible,’ said Modlen as she stirred the cauldron of stew before her. ‘Even here, half a mile from the fighting, the ground shook.’ A smile that barely lifted the corners of her mouth came to her face as she gave Nila an impish look. ‘Talking of incredible men, how did yours fare today?’

‘Survived, as if you need to ask,’ said Nila, reciprocating the look and smile. ‘He came to me before, and we talked a while, but then he had to go and talk tactics with Arthur.’

‘Does Flint know what’s happened between you two?’

‘Not yet. The situation worries Dom, though. Worries him to think Flint will see him as stepping into Bran’s shoes.’

‘And you?’

‘I told him there’s no point even thinking about the consequences. Tomorrow may be the last day for us all.’

‘Not for
us
if Arthur has anything to do with it. He wants us out and away at first light. Gus, for his part, positively
insists
I leave, not that I need any persuasion—our orphans wait at Brythonfort.’

‘Art, Ula, Cate and now little Cara,’ said Nila. ‘They are a joy and brighten up my day when I see them.’ Sadness fell upon her. ‘They help me deal with the loss of my precious boy, Aiden, and the absence of Maewyn, they do.’

‘Cara can come to you when we get back,’ said Modlen, taking Nila’s hands in hers. ‘She’s a sweet little thing and hasn’t bonded with us yet. Gus mentioned how unfair it was to take the little dear when you have lost so much.’

The very notion made Nila smile. ‘Yes … it
would
be wonderful to care for and love such a dear child.’ They were silent a moment as they thought of the children awaiting them at Brythonfort. Before long, reality rushed at Nila like a wild stampede. She dropped her head, her eyes troubled. ‘But why do we even discuss this when tomorrow may bring the destruction of everything we value.’

‘Because if we don’t talk of normal things when surrounded with this horror we will go mad, Nila—absolutely mad.’

THE BATTLE — DAY THREE

A raggedy, low mist lingered in the Afon valley. Horrified to find that hell rather than the plough was before them that day
,
Arthur’s men awoke to a grey dawn. Coughing and hawking resounded along the ridge as stiff bodies rose reluctantly from beds of clay and struggled into armour. A sinister tension—almost a silence—infused the air as men picked up shields and checked assorted weaponry.

Behind the hill, many defecated, some vomited, all were in fear. The sound of horses had them turn as Arthur and his entire cavalry rode up to the summit.

As the first horn-blast rose forebodingly from the valley, Arthur peered into the mist below. An outbreak of barking followed. ‘They start early, Withred,’ he said. ‘Damn this mist. Of all mornings we could do without it.’

Withred turned in his saddle as shouts of
‘Muster!’
and
‘Make the wall!’
broke out behind him. ‘At least we still have most of the men with us,’ he said.

‘How many ran into the night?’

‘Fifty or so, Flint reckons.’

‘We chose well it seems. Mars knows,
I
would be hard pushed to go back into that wall after the horrors of yesterday. It’s a wonder they—‘

An undulating, high-pitched shriek came from the valley. All became still. Men shivered as cold horror seeped through them. Horses shifted and snorted cold air from dilated nostrils. Moments later, an answering whoop sounded—eerie and nerve-jangling in the dank air of the mist. Now the valley erupted with yelps, squeals and howls.

‘Druids,’ growled Withred. ‘First the death riders and now walking ghouls. Just what the men need—wild-haired skeletons spitting their venom at them.’

‘They’ll be Guertepir’s,’ said Arthur. ‘He still believes in the old ways; not for him the uncompromising deities of Rome.’

‘Nor the sweet nature of Nerthus or the nailed God, Jesus.’

‘Pray he doesn’t adopt
them
; he would soon have them as bile-spitting demons.’

Gherwan joined them. ‘The men are four hundred wide and four deep as advised,’ he said. ‘The desertions didn’t hit as hard as I feared.’ He looked downwards towards Aquae Sulis. ‘The mist breaks. See—they are but a half mile away.’

Below them, the miasma swirled, occasionally shifting to reveal the opaque forms of men.

‘Their shieldwall is formed already from what I can see,’ said Withred as he did a rough count. He shot a brief glance of admiration to Gherwan. ‘And eight hundred wide or thereabouts as you anticipated.’

‘Then we can approach the day as planned,’ said Gherwan.

Hereferth and Smala trotted out of the mist and back up the hill. ‘Thought we’d take a closer look!’ shouted Hereferth. ‘We Angles like to know what we’re dealing with, don’t we Withred?’

‘As long as we don’t get our heads knocked off when doing so,’ chided Withred.

Hereferth gave a humourless little chuckle. ’
That
, I think might happen. Many of their shields bear the sign of the juniper—Cunedda’s emblem. There were few junipers yesterday, so these must be fresh and rested men.’

Guertepir sat bestride his heavy horse. With him were Cunedda and two of the Saxon chiefs. The shieldwall was before them and had started to advance. At its flanks, the cavalry lurked, led by Abloyc on the right and the gold-adorned Cenhelm on the left.

Further ahead still, beyond the shieldwall and spread out in a line as they walked into the mists, were Guertepir’s caterwauling Druids. Central to the line was Muirecán wearing his ankle length, white habit. His face as ever lay hidden in the shadow of his cowl. From the hood, his dark shock of hair flew wild in the stiff breeze.

Like some parody of a Christian brotherhood, the other druids, all doppelgangers of Muirecán, chanted their incantations as they headed fearlessly upwards across the killing ground. But these gave out no enchanting madrigals to the Lord Jesus. Instead, they emitted an awful, strident cacophony of hate. No crosses did they carry. In the place of such holy relics, they held before them the body parts—heads, torsos, feet and hands—of those taken from the field of combat. Muirecán’s trophy, though, was small … almost weightless. Thrust out before him, held by its ankles, was the infant Girard’s headless corpse—the cadaver’s torso adorned with an intricate rune. Muirecán’s screeching ululation intensified to an ear-splitting level as the rest of his acolytes took up the chant.

‘Woden service me roughly from behind!’ Hrodgar winced as he listened to the clamor. ‘They’re enough to make Grendel itself run away and shit in a ditch.’

‘It’ll soften the Britons up before the fight,’ said Guertepir as he heeled his horse forward to keep up with the advancing shieldwall.

‘Hope it has more luck than the death riders,’ said Wigstan. ‘We expected some of the British to run from them, but most stood firm yesterday.’

‘The druids will cast their magic, that’s the important thing,’ said Guertepir. ‘Their spells and the bodies they carry speak to the lords of the earth itself. They will bring us good fortune this day.’

‘Be that as it may,’ said Hrodgar with some scepticism, ‘but before the sun sets the outcome of this battle needs to be decided. This can not go on to another day. Today their knights must feel the cold iron of Saxon fury.’

Cunedda, pale-faced and grim, made to ride to Abloyc. ‘My best men front the shieldwall this morning so the fight
should
be brief and decisive,’ he said. ‘A scout tells me the British line is narrow, unable to meet us along our entire width, so this will be over quickly.’ He gave Hrodgar a disparaging glance as he wheeled his horse away. ‘Yes, they will fall to Saxon
and
Votadini tenacity this day.’

‘And don’t forget the Hibernian contribution to all of this,’ said Guertepir. ‘A sight to behold it will be. The engagement of our full resources at last. And just wait until we throw our winning dice, the bastards won’t know what’s hit them.’

Augustus, as the day before, stalked along the front of the line, shouting instruction and encouragement to the men. His humour was dark and ironic, causing many to smile and titter. ‘Listen to them, they must have sent their scolding wives to berate us!’ he shouted in response to the approaching wall of noise coming from the druids. ‘Not ones to fondle under the sheets, though. These Hibernian mares are ugly enough to soften even my dick.’

A ripple of nervous laughter broke out from those in earshot, but many had started to stare beyond Augustus as the mist in the valley had thinned to a mere milky haze. Augustus turned to look down the hill. The look of confident bonhomie he had displayed to his men fell immediately from his face. As big and threatening as the day before was Guertepir’s shieldwall. The druids, who walked before it, had halted. A line of arrows, sent by Dominic and his crew, stuck from the ground at their feet, indicating the limit of their safe advance. Now, unable to intimidate at close quarters, the druids shook the body parts before them and screamed out their incantations with a renewed fury.

Dominic and his archers rode past Augustus and advanced a way down the hill. ‘This time we’ll shut their wretched noise once and for all!’ shouted Dominic, through the clamour of horns, drumbeats and shrieking. Augustus watched as the mounted bowmen, all armed with composite bows of unequalled power, stood in saddles and sent a shower of death towards the druids.

Many of Guertepir’s holy men fell to the first wave of arrows. The remainder turned and fled, scrambling under the shields and away from the theatre of war.

Dominic’s group quickly sent another flock of arrows skywards. After describing a high, looping trajectory, the arrows fell upon the men at the back of the shieldwall. The action provoked a response from the cavalry at the flanks and a detachment peeled away towards Dominic and his men.

As the archers fled—their role being to skirmish, rather than fight head-on with armed horsemen—Augustus and the other fifty tacticians did as the Druids had done and ran towards their own wall. The shields parted, allowing them to enter and take positions at the front.

Three British horn blasts sounded (the signal to meet advancing horse), and soon spears were passed from the back of the line to stick outwards from every shield.

A detachment of sixty Votadini cavalry hurtled towards the centre section of the British wall. Two of the younger riders, driven by battle fever and eager to prove themselves, rushed at the spears. Cunedda, who led the group, attempted to check the progress of the pair but his cry was unheard in the furore.

Augustus winced as he readied himself for the collision. When it came, it sent him backwards three steps, causing his teeth to judder, but his section of wall held. His spear flew from his grasp, half its length sticking from the horse’s chest. The animal reared upwards, before falling backwards and dead, its rider landing in a heap at Augustus’ feet. The man next to him thrust his spear into the stricken rider, killing him. Down the line, the other horse and rider had met a similar fate.

Arthur dwelt on the right flank of the shieldwall. With him, Flint, Withred, Dominic and three hundred and fifty cavalry sat ready to go. On the opposite flank, some four hundred paces away, Gherwan, Hereferth and an equal number of riders waited. Lightly caparisoned, the cavalry wore armour made of tough fabric or leather—garb suited for mobility and freedom of movement. Shields, painted with Arthur’s unicorn or Hereferth’s lynx, accompanied all.

Arthur eyes blazed from the eye-slits of his plumed helm as he rode between the men. He shouted above the roar of battle. ‘Remember your role is to rush the overlapping flank of their wall! DO NOT attempt to break it—their spears will put an end to you if you do! Our purpose is to draw their cavalry from the outer edges and so expose the shieldsmen there to our archers!’

He pointed to Dominic, who was addressing his men a distance away. ‘They have their own role, and will be our support. Flint counts five hundred mounted Votadini, Saxon and Hibernian riders on each of their flanks, so we
will
be outnumbered! Few of them, though, are used to fighting from the saddle, and that’s where we’ll press our advantage!’

He looked to Withred and Flint. The pair sat pale but resolute. Withred was dressed in a black, studded leather tunic; his head enwrapped in an iron-grey helm with purple plume. Flint wore a composite bronze cuirass, consisting of breastplate and backplate. A Roman-style riveted helmet completed his armour. His arms, like Withred’s and Arthur’s, were bare from shoulder to fingertip. The sight of the pair filled Arthur with hope. Both nodded to him. Both were ready to go.

Arthur stood in his saddle and raised
Skullcleft
, his sword, skywards. On the opposite flank, Gherwan took up the signal and reciprocated Arthur’s stance. Horses snorted, whinnied and stamped as the raw, sizzling energy of the morning infused their very bones.

A distance away Dominic had finished his parley to his mounted archers. His instructions had been clear: each group was to send death to Saxon archers, Votadini shield, and enemy riders on both flanks. Next to Dominic, bestride a piebald pony, sat Tomas. Both men (because Tomas had become a man) had ditched the helms supplied by Arthur, deeming them to cumbersome and restrictive. Now they wore their wolf heads; now they were hunters again.

The archers formed into two groups—eighty men would harass Arthur’s protagonists on the right flank of the enemy shieldwall, and eighty harass Gherwan’s on the left
.
All knew their task. All were eager to go.

‘TO WAR!’ Arthurs cry rang out sudden and clear. Gherwan, on the opposite flank, echoed the command.

Dominic held his archers back as the knights thundered away. He looked over to the left, where an able man named Harvey, some four hundred paces distant, awaited his signal.

Dominic watched as Arthur and Gherwan closed upon the shieldwall, prompting Guertepir’s riders to break from the edges. ‘It’s worked,’ he said. ‘Now we can start to sting them.’ He gave Harvey the signal to move and rode into the field of battle.

Arthur twisted in his saddle as he jerked Storm’s muscular neck backwards and away from the Votadini spears that spiked from the rowan-emblazoned shields. Withred, beside him, pointed towards the approaching enemy cavalry. He shouted above the clamour. ‘They come to engage and so leave their backs exposed to Dominic’s arrows—so far so good!’

Arthur cast a glance behind him along the entire length of the shieldwall. ‘Gherwan’s troop has drawn them out as well!’ he shouted. Turning back to Withred, he readied himself for the onrushing first wave of attack. ‘Get ready, here they come—‘

Withred’s darting eyes had caught sight of the hurtling spear. Flung from the back of the shieldwall it headed for Arthur. He pushed at his lord, almost knocking him from the saddle. The shaft brushed Arthur’s head as it passed.

Wheeling his horse around, Withred looked out for further projectiles. ‘Nerthus! The bastards nearly picked our purses at the first encounter! We must get away from these shields and fight them nearer to our own line!’

Before he could respond, Arthur was forced to engage the slashing sword of a Saxon rider who had come quickly upon him. Another rider—a Hibernian, wielding an ax and holding his shield close—went for Withred. The Angle, whose preferred weapon on horse was the longsword, parried the smash with his shield. He screamed inwardly as a jolt shot up his arm, but answered the assault with a sideways slash at the Hibernian. The man barely met the parry, his shield splintering such was the power of the blow. Withred dropped his body to the neck side of his horse to avoid an immediate, retaliatory, overhead swipe from the Hibernian. The hack bit into his beast’s withers causing it to rear.