Pendragon, p.7
Pendragon, page 7
‘So we run like whipped dogs?’
Arthur turned and grabbed Balin’s arm. ‘Would you rather kill a few Saxons today and die gloriously, only to lose the war and see Britain become a Saxon kingdom? Or live to fight another day? Who is fighting this war but us, Balin? Our kings wait behind their walls for the war to come to them. We are the only ones who take the fight to the enemy. Just us with our hundred spearmen. We all want to charge into the Saxons and strike at them and avenge the dead boy. But there is no cunning in dying today. Our deaths here are a waste of our spears. Spears we can drive into the enemy when the time is right and we can win. Would you have Elmet fall just as Bernicia did?’ Arthur turned to Dewi and sheathed his sword. ‘Order the retreat. We make for the ditch yonder.’ Arthur pointed south of the farm, where the high grassland fell away into bog and wetland, where a small wooden bridge crossed the waterway to grazing fields on the far side.
Balin roared at the sky and swung his swords in frustration, but he followed Arthur towards the barn. Still more of the enemy breasted the rise, and Arthur formed a dozen of his men in a retreating line, shields towards the enemy, Arthur at the centre. The farmer’s wife wailed like a night fetch as she hugged her dead son, and Arthur’s men had to pull away and drag the desperate mother towards the marshes. Retreat into the waterways was Arthur’s only hope of escape. To stay was to die. He could lose the enemy in the marsh. Then return and strike at them in a different, more favourable location.
‘Can you navigate the bogs?’ Arthur asked the farmer, but he just stared blankly at his son’s corpse and the advancing Saxons. Arthur shook him by the shoulder. ‘Can you guide us through the flood lands?’ Arthur shouted, and the man snapped from his daze. He nodded, part of his consciousness locked in shock at his son’s death, the rest aware of Arthur’s question. He nodded again and pointed towards the lowlands. Anthun helped the churl and his wife hurry towards the bridge and timber walkway which straddled the flooded marshland.
‘The riders, lord,’ said Dewi, and pointed his spear to where the enemy riders galloped their horses around the farm’s flank.
‘They want to cut us off,’ Arthur said. ‘Hurry.’
The black cloaks ran towards a flooded field surrounded by tall reeds. Becan led Llamrei and Balin’s mare towards the walkway and Cavall followed. The field’s brown water shook and rippled beneath the heavy rain and the riders came about the farmhouse, whooping for joy at the prospect of a fight. Across the rise, two hundred Saxons came on in ragged formation. Arthur swallowed the gnaw of fear in his gullet. To be caught here was to die, and he moved faster, urging his men onwards.
‘Any sign of our scouts?’ Arthur called.
Balin shook his head. ‘Saxons must have killed them.’
Arthur never camped without scouting the surrounding territory and he cursed at the thought of more black cloaks fallen to Saxon blades. Boots banged on timber as the black cloaks ran across the walkway made of pine laths over stakes set deep into the mire. The walkway covered the deepest stretch of marshland leading on to a raised island of wildflowers and brush. From there, other walkways spread out in different directions, connecting eyots and islands rising from the stale brown water like the backs of sea beasts. The boards rattled as warriors ran into the bog and that thudding mixed with the jangle of iron, the screams of the farmer’s wife, her children’s wailing, the patter of rain and the baying howl of two hundred charging Saxons.
Arthur and a dozen men formed a protective ring of shields around the bridge and walkway to protect the retreat. Half of his men were across the walkway to the safety of the island beyond, when hoofbeats rocked the earth beneath Arthur’s feet like a tremor.
‘They are not Saxons,’ said Becan, pointing at the twelve riders reining in twenty paces away from Arthur. They howled and shook their spears in frustration at not cutting off Arthur’s retreat. The riders carried smaller shields than usual for Saxons, and one of those shields bore a familiar sigil.
‘Britons fighting alongside Saxons?’ Balin spat. ‘Wait…’
The riders fanned out and urged their mounts towards Arthur’s line of shields. Their leader wore his silver hair long and loose and his face was a mass of scar tissue around a missing left eye. He carried a faded shield, and Arthur peered at the sigil just as the scarred man threw his spear with lightning speed. Men rarely fought on horseback. It was a precarious business, with only a horse blanket and reins to keep a man steady. But the scarred warrior launched his spear overhand, with barely any back lift, and the weapon sliced through the air. The spear thudded into the warrior next to Arthur, crunching into his chest, killing the warrior instantly.
‘Balan,’ Balin said, as though in a trance. He stepped forward with his two swords levelled, and then Arthur saw it. The sigil upon the scarred man’s shield was the fox of lost Bernicia, the same sigil Balin and his few surviving Bernicians wore with pride. It was Balin’s brother, come at the head of a Saxon war band to attack Elmet and destroy Arthur’s warriors.
Balan slid from his horse and drew his sword. His scarred face twisted in what could have been smile or snarl. His twelve riders followed, each one clad in bright chain-mail and carrying fine swords. Their shields all bore faded sigils, the beasts of lost kingdoms, the birds and growling predators of once proud realms fallen to Saxon invaders. They were all big men. Silver glittered at their arms and necks, and their forearms were tattooed blue with warrior rings.
‘Brother,’ Balan said, flicking the tip of his sword in salute at Balin. ‘Still a masterless man? Roaming the countryside with beggars and brigands? Are you ready to die?’
‘Bastard,’ Balin hissed. Saxons thronged the farmyard. Too many for Arthur’s ring of shields to fight. But a strange look fell upon Balin’s face. As though the world stood still, as though everyone and everything disappeared except him and his brother. ‘I have searched for you. Many years I have waited for this moment.’
‘Do you remember Father’s sword?’ Balan held up his sword for Balin to see. ‘He would have preferred you to have it. I was never good enough for him. But now the old bastard rots beneath the earth with slugs and snails crawling in his skull and I have his blade. Me, the black sheep, scorned and whipped by a father who showed me nothing but cruelty. I am the one who carries the blade of our forefathers in my hand. Come then, brother. You hate me, and with good reason. Here I am.’
‘Balin, no,’ Arthur warned. Every black cloak had made it across the bridge and walkway, all save Arthur, Balin and the ten black cloaks in the protective line. If they ran now, they could defend the walkway as they went and escape. Arthur looked out at the Saxons, some already ransacking the farmhouse and barn, the rest massed before Arthur and his men, murder in their eyes and weapons in their fists. ‘We must go, now.’
Balin took two steps towards his brother, and Arthur hauled him back. Balin tried to shake Arthur off, his eyes never leaving his brother’s ruined face.
Balan laughed. ‘Do you need your lover to hold you back? You were always weak, brother. Just like our father, just like our people. Why do you think I joined with Vortigern?’
Balin thrust Arthur away from him and raised his swords. ‘Because you are a traitor, a raping whoreson too frightened to fight for his people.’
‘I am a winner. I joined with the victors! Now I own vast estates in the kingdom of Kent, and sit on the councils of kings! What do you own? What do you do but scrabble around in the dirt fighting thieves and vagabonds? When Elmet falls, Octha will pay me a fortune in silver and slaves. That is my price to bring my men to his fight. My warriors, my victorious fighters who will make him a king. You are a fool who fights for a dying dream. What do the people care to whom they pay their tithes? What difference does it make to them if a tenth of their surplus goes to Gwallog, the idiot in his rusty Roman armour, or Octha? You think the common folk yearn for Gwallog, or Urien, or Uther? You are as much of an empty head as our father was. Are you ready to meet your wife and daughters in the afterlife, brother?’
Arthur sheathed Excalibur and leapt at Balin just as he lunged to strike at his hateful brother. He wrapped two arms around the warrior’s shoulders and dragged him towards the walkway.
‘No!’ Balin roared, and he bucked in Arthur’s arms like a wild horse. The black cloaks folded around Arthur and Balin as Arthur struggled to drag his friend backwards towards the marsh. Balan gestured to his twelve men, Britons all, and they advanced towards Arthur’s protective shield wall. Balan lunged at a black cloak, feinting low and then striking high. The man took the blow upon his shield, but at the same time, Balan kicked the black cloak’s legs out from under him. The warrior fell with a grunt, and Balan’s sword snaked out with lightning speed, stabbing hard down into the fallen man’s gullet. Balan’s twelve traitors attacked, throwing their bulk at the black cloaks in a furious assault. They fought like demons, bullying Arthur’s men across the walkway. They were the last survivors of dead kingdoms, men who had turned their cloaks to fight for the hated invader. Warriors whose long-dead lords lay beneath the earth with the twelve traitors’ broken oaths rotting beside their corpses. They hacked at shields and their blades struck with precision and strength.
Three of Arthur’s men died in that brutal assault, splashing into the filthy water and eking their lifeblood into the bog. Men Arthur knew like brothers. Brave warriors who had fought with honour for their people. Six more fell back injured, so that the fight to retreat became a desperate battle for survival. Arthur tried to strike at them, but the twelve traitors used their shields and swords with precision, defending every blow and lashing out with strikes of their own. His men pulled back, and the twelve traitors dragged the injured black cloaks from the walkway. Arthur and his men wailed in agonised frustration as the twelve bastards gathered about the captured warriors. They pulled them from the walkway, made a circle around them and beat them mercilessly with iron-banded shields. They hammered at Arthur’s wounded warriors, kicking them, spitting at them and battering them to bloody ruin. There were too many of the enemy for the black cloaks to advance, though the enemy taunted them to do it, the twelve rogues beat Arthur’s wounded men to death to provoke Arthur and Balin to charge and it was a monumental effort to keep back and protect the walkway so that the bulk of Arthur’s men could get away.
‘Come and fight me, brother,’ Balan taunted, waving his bloodied sword. He stalked to where Arthur’s injured warriors lay dead, their bodies beaten to bloody heaps of meat. Balan put his boot on the chest of a man still breathing, a young man, breath whistling from his shattered mouth and chest. Balan laughed at him. He swung his sword with such force that it sliced through the young warrior’s neck as if it were made of cheese. Balan kicked the gory head towards the walkway and spat upon the headless corpse. Arthur gasped at the horror of it, the sheer brutality and disrespect. His men broiled, first one man surging forward, only to be dragged back by his comrades, and then another as Balan and his twelve traitors goaded them. ‘You fear me, Balin, you always did. I was always the stronger brother, you always the lickspittle, grovelling to Father like a slave. Your children screamed like pigs when they died, and your wife moaned as I took her. She would have come with me, I think, so much did she enjoy my loins. But I killed her. She was a fool of a whore and she got what she deserved.’
‘Bastard!’ Balin screamed, a heart-rending sound of utter pain and hate. He broke free of Arthur’s grip. Balin charged through the shield wall and hurled himself at his brother. The brothers clashed in a whirl of blades. Balin roared with visceral hate, forcing his brother backwards. Balan parried each blow with sword and shield, and Balin fought on, swords striking with impossible force and speed. Arthur ran after his friend, but Balin pressed forwards. He battered Balan’s shield with his two swords until his brother fell to one knee, and for a moment, it appeared Balin would claim his vengeance. Then, Balan whistled like a shepherd to his dogs and his traitors surged forwards.
Balin had not realised how far he had driven his brother back, and before Arthur could react, the twelve treacherous Britons closed in around Balin with their shields. They battered him, clattering and driving Balin down. They pinned him with linden wood and iron so that his arms became trapped and he could not raise his swords. Arthur charged towards him, but Balan darted around his trapped brother and swung his sword with such speed that Arthur had to fling himself to the ground to avoid it. The sword point came again, stabbing at Arthur’s midriff, and he rolled away. Balan kicked Arthur hard in the groin, and he fumbled at Excalibur, unable to draw the weapon whilst on the ground, sprawling in the rain-soaked mud. Just at the moment Arthur thought he would fall to Balan’s blade, black cloaks swirled around him, and their large shields forced Balan to retreat.
‘I’m coming for you, Arthur ap Nowhere. Ector’s whelp,’ Balan snarled, his single eye shining in triumph. ‘I will crush your legend under my boot. You are the shit which clings to a sheep’s arse, pigs’ vomit and toad gristle. Merlin’s pet, who brings men to his banner with lies. I want your sword and I want your soul. I’m coming for both.’
Balan backed off. He turned and cracked the hilt of his sword off Balin’s skull, and Arthur’s friend went limp between the press of enemy shields. Balan and his twelve traitors dragged Balin away from the fight, his boots dragging in the dirt. Arthur’s own men hauled him across the walkway, fighting furiously as the Saxon horde descended upon them. Arthur drew Excalibur and fought with them, striking across the shields at an enemy who came on in a wall of fearsome axes and stabbing spears. The black cloaks retreated, taking small steps backwards as they fended off overwhelming enemy numbers. Saxons jumped into the foul marsh water and tried to hack at the legs of Arthur’s men, and Arthur cut at their faces and necks with Excalibur’s blade until they came no more. A long-handled Saxon war axe clattered onto the walkway as Arthur cut through its owner’s wrist. He sheathed Excalibur and hefted the heavy weapon in both hands.
‘Get back. Now!’ Arthur ordered his men. Four had died on the walkway, whose timbers were now slick with blood. The dead slumped in the dark waters, and as Arthur’s men surged away, he chopped the mighty axe down hard, shearing through a Saxon’s boot and on into the lath beyond. He hacked until the walkway broke and its planks collapsed into the floodwater. Saxons howled in frustration and tossed spears at Arthur’s men, who escaped onto the island. The Saxons could not follow. The waters were too deep to cross, and if they tried to swim, Arthur’s men would cut them down as they came.
Arthur ran with his men, fleeing for his life across the brush-covered eyots, chopping through walkways as he went to hinder the enemy’s pursuit. There were too many Saxons, always too many, and Balin was lost. Arthur’s comrade of the sword captured by his hated brother, his greatest enemy, and Arthur ran from battle with a head full of sorrow and a heart full of hate.
7
The black cloaks retreated through the night, stumbling through bogs, briars, thickets and marsh. Arthur trudged through the darkness with ice-cold feet in sodden boots as relentless rain lashed them like a cold whip. The Saxons followed. They skirted the marshland, coming wide around its southern edge until darkness fell and Arthur’s scouts reported the Saxons camped for the night on a knoll ringed with silver birch trees. Arthur pushed his men on in the dark, though they slipped on unsure footing, squelching into mud. Men fell into foul water and huddled together, shivering in their soaking clothes. The heavy ground stole their strength and drank their hope. They went in grim silence, stunned by the attack on the farm, the night seeming to last an eternity.
Eventually, morning broke. The rain stopped, fat drops dripping from leafy boughs as Arthur ordered his men to rest within a hilltop grove. The lowlands swept away before them, fields half flooded where birds waded in the high waters, and their song filled the chill morning air. Arthur sat heavily beside Dewi and Anthun, clothes clinging to his shivering flesh, teeth chattering and hands shaking. Anthun, his single, long eyebrow bent into a frown, fumbled at his striking stone and knife, trying to scrape a spark into a pile of damp kindling.
‘Balin,’ Dewi whispered, staring as Anthun’s knife scraped down the stone over and again. ‘I thought no one could beat him. He was the greatest swordsman in Britain.’
‘Is,’ said Arthur. ‘Is the greatest swordsman.’
‘Yes, lord.’
Cavall whined and nudged his muzzle into Arthur’s shoulders, and he draped an arm around the hound. He couldn’t believe Balin was gone either, captured by the very man he hated above all things.
‘Saxons,’ said Becan, pointing south with his spear. The black cloaks groaned, because Becan was right. A hundred Saxon spearmen loped through a distant field, splashing through the floodwaters towards where Arthur’s men rested.
Arthur pushed himself to his feet, bones weary and aching from lack of sleep and the terrible night march. His shoulders ached and his eyes itched like nettle stings. His men sat with heads hung low, their cloaks, weapons and armour filthy. In the desperate flight from the farmhouse, they had left the wains and supplies behind, so that there was nothing to eat or drink for men who had marched for a day and a night through grim conditions.
‘Fall back to Loidis,’ Arthur said, his gaze fixed on the Saxon war band. ‘March north from here, and march hard. If you can keep ahead of this pursuing war band, you shouldn’t meet any more Saxons on the road. The marsh protects the way, and the enemy is still in the east.’
‘Yes, lord,’ said Dewi, and he began to rouse the men. Nudging the last warriors to rise with his boot. ‘Stay and die if you wish, you lazy curs. On your feet, come on. Time to move.’
‘Take my shield and spear to Loidis, and the farmer and his family.’
‘Where are you going?’ Dewi paused, glancing at the Saxons and then back at Arthur. ‘It’s impossible, lord.’ He suddenly understood Arthur’s plan, but before he could object any further, Arthur placed a hand on his shoulder.
