by Jack Whyte
"It's going to rain. Coming right towards us."
Dedalus glanced up at the clouds. "Showers, no more."
"Mayhap, but we don't need wet grass under our horses' hooves. Can you see any sign of anyone in charge over there?"
Dedalus leaned forward in his saddle, peering towards the enemy, his eyes shaded with one hand. "No, I can't, but that means nothing. Wait a moment, though. You see that group of bright colours on our left, on the hill above and behind them? That must be the commanders, whoever they are. Colour's a sign of rank among these Ersemen. The brighter the colours, the more important the man."
"I wonder what they're waiting for?"
"Guts. I told you, they're afraid to attack us. They have us out- manned, two or three, perhaps even four to one, but they know it's not enough."
"No!" Uther shook his head. "No, Ded, it's not that. They might not have our discipline, but they've no lack of guts. They're waiting for something."
"Runner coming in, sir, from the south. One of yours."
The shout came from behind him and the King turned to peer over his right shoulder. Sure enough, the returning scout was plainly visible, one of Uther's Pendragon bowmen, running through the long grass on the valley bottom, far to the south of where they stood, straight towards the ranks of the men drawn up closest to him. Uther watched him for a few moments, his lips drawn into a thin line. It was plain, even from this distance, that the runner was exhausted, for he was weaving as he ran, and at one point he stumbled and almost fell headlong.
"That man has important tidings," Uther said, almost to himself. "Were they less so, he would be kinder to himself. Let's hope he brings word of Lagan Longhead's coming." He turned to one of his aides. "Take an extra horse and go and meet him, then bring him here to me as quickly as you can. He won't want to ride, won't know how, but tie him into the saddle if you must."
Another shout came from behind him, but this one was more distant, coming down the hill from above, from the tree-covered summit at his back.
"Go now." Uther waved the aide away on his task and turned immediately to gaze up towards the hilltop. The trees up there were small and bushy, mainly hawthorn and hazel, but they provided very effective concealment from below. Uther scanned the entire hillside as far as he could see, but nothing seemed to be moving up there, despite the fact that there were a hundred of his own bowmen among the trees.
Then he saw a sudden Hash of movement and a man came bounding down the hillside, leaping hugely and carrying his long Pendragon bow above his head in one hand while he clutched his arrow quiver tightly beneath his other arm. It was a man called Brock, whom Uther had known all his life. He reached the plateau and came running to where Uther and the others sat waiting for him, but there he had to pause for breath, gulping air into his lungs. Finally he shook his head and pulled himself erect, his voice unsteady with effort.
"We're being attacked up there, Uther. Hundreds strong, coming up the hillside from the back. We need more arrows."
Uther turned immediately to another of his aides. "See to it, Spartek, quickly. Two squads of men, each with two bundles of arrows. Get them up there immediately." He looked then to where Huw Strongarm stood listening. "Huw, I need you to detach a hundred more of your bowmen to reinforce the men up there. Take fifty from each flank and move them up to the summit as quickly as you can. If there are hundreds attacking us up there, as Brock says, the people we sent up are sorely pressed."
Huw turned and moved quickly away, speaking hurriedly with his own deputy commander before they split up and headed down the hill, one to each side.
Uther spoke to Brock again. "Hundreds, you said?"
"Aye. Hundreds of them. Outlanders, they are, Uther. Real Outlanders. Black faces, some of them. And they've got bows, Wicked little things, strangely bent but strong."
"Where have they come from, do you know?"
"No, but I know where they're trying to get to, and that's the top of this hill. If they reach there, it'll be because we'll all be dead, and they'll be coming down about your ears, so I'd better be getting back."
Uther nodded. "Good man, and tell your mates up there another hundred bows are on their way to share the fight with them. Go now, and may the gods protect you. But send back word to me as soon as you can see how many are coming against you up there."
As Brock turned away, Uther spoke again to Dedalus. "Ded, form another unit of your men and get them up there, too, quick as you can. Take fifty from each of the three groups in reserve down below. We might not need them, but we've no way of knowing what the situation is on the other side of the summit. I don't know who these black-faced whoresons are or where they came from, but we can't afford to run the risk of losing the summit and having an enemy above us."
"Right." Dedalus summoned three runners and rapped out commands to all of them, sending them down the hill at the run. Then he turned and gazed up towards the summit above them, within easy bowshot. "How many armies does this gutter-spawned whoreson have, Uther?"
"Too many. What happened to that messenger from the south?"
Dedalus pointed with one raised arm. "Here he comes now." Together, he and Uther watched the newcomer approach them.
wide-eyed with apprehension as he clung tightly to the horn of his tall mount's saddle. The fellow made no attempt to hide his relief on sliding down to the ground, where he nodded to Uther, almost but not quite making a gesture of acknowledgment and submission. Uther smiled slightly, a mere tugging at one corner of his mouth, and nodded.
"We saw you coming and guessed you had important tidings. Were we right?"
The man nodded. "Aye, King Uther, you were. Ill tidings, though. You won't like them."
"Let me be the judge of that. What have you?"
"An army, lord, coming up from the southeast, three, perhaps four hours distant."
"Whose army? We are expecting allies, an army of Cornish clansmen risen in revolt against Lot's tyranny. This might be them."
The man scowled, and Uther remembered his name was the same as the Whistler's, Garreth.
"I didn't see them myself, King Uther, but from what I was told by those who did see them, they're no Cornishmen. These are Outlanders, differently dressed and armoured than any clansmen from these parts. They march in formation, I was told, and they bear the banner of the Boar."
"Damnation!" The boar was Lot's own symbol, and Uther felt anger and frustration welling up in him. "How many are they, do you know?"
"Thousands strong is the word I heard. The man who brought it was almost dead from running. He said their strength was beyond counting, but that they had been found last night by the lights of their campfires, and they were on the march by dawn. Three leagues behind him, he said they were, and he was the sixth runner in the chain. I'm the seventh, and I left him almost a full league behind me."
"You ran a whole league? Three miles?"
"Aye, or most of it. Had to stop twice to rest. There should have been another man waiting halfway to take over from me, but I couldn't find him, so I waited as long as I could to catch my breath and then ran on."
"Good man!" Uther reached out, showing the man none of his anger, and gripped him by the shoulder. "Get you up on that horse again and go to the quartermaster's wagons below. Eat and drink. You've earned a rest."
He swung away then and lowered his voice to speak to Dedalus, whose face was blank, showing nothing of his thoughts.
"Four leagues. Twelve miles. They'll be here by noon."
"It's less than that. They've been moving since the first runner set out, so they've probably covered several miles already. Say they're nine, perhaps ten miles away. But if there are thousands of the whoresons they won't be moving very quickly, unless they send a faster moving force ahead of their main army. But why would they do that? They don't know we're here."
"We don't know that, not with certainty. I said just moments ago that those others down there, the Ersemen, were waiting for something. It could be that they've already made
contact with these newcomers, probably the same way we have, using scouts and runners. If that's the case, we're in dire straits." Uther turned back to the messenger, who had refused to mount the horse again and was just beginning to move away on foot.
"Garreth! The route you took to come here, was it the only one you could have taken?"
The man frowned, thinking before he answered, then shook his head. "I think so. It's a long valley, straight and narrow, and I had to stick to the path along the centre. No other place to go. No gaps in the hills . . . none that would offer an easy crossing, anyway. Long straight lines of hills on both sides. So yes, I'd say I came the only way I could from where I was to here."
"My thanks. Go now."
"What are you thinking, Uther?" Dedalus's voice was low- pitched, close to Uther's shoulder.
"About what to do, what else? A long, narrow valley, he said, a league long, with no way out."
"Aye, but we can't block it, not with that Erse mob at our back."
"No, but we have three hours, perhaps four, and as you said, the Ersemen have little stomach for facing our cavalry. We could hit them now, the way we did before—scatter them and send them running north, their tails between their legs."
Dedalus looked dubious and turned to gaze at the distant enemy. "I think not, not this time. We scattered them the day before yesterday because we had them in the open with no place to hide. Look at them now. There's a narrow valley at their backs, so they won't try to escape through there. They might be Erse and stupid, but even they could see that would be suicide, jamming together in that narrow entranceway. My guess is if we attack them now, they'll scatter sure enough, but they'll scatter uphill, into the trees on both sides, where they can shoot down at us and our cavalry won't be able to reach them. What think you, Philip?"
The cavalry officer agreed with Dedalus, who nodded in acknowledgment and kept speaking. "Besides, if you're right and they've been in contact with this new rabble coming up from the southeast, they have no reason to run—hide in the trees, certainly, and wait until the others come, but run away? No, Uther. That makes no sense. I think we're better where we are, standing fast and waiting for them to come to us."
"And if they don't come to us? It doesn't look as though they will. And I don't like the thought of simply standing here and waiting for another army to come. Damnation! What's happening up there, and where are those reinforcements?"
A loud tumult of fighting had broken out on the hill crest above them, the sounds of clashing blades and raised voices carrying clearly down to where they stood, and Dedalus moved to look down into the valley. He spoke over his shoulder.
"Strongarm's bowmen are here now, on their way up on both sides. My lads had to be regrouped. They're just reaching the base of the hill now."
A glance confirmed that the reinforcements were on their way, but Uther was not convinced that they would be in place soon enough. He raised a hand and the leader of the Cornish clansmen moved towards him. Uther explained what was happening and asked the fellow if he would take his followers up above to help out, and the Cornishman nodded and wheeled, waving to his men, who were moving rapidly upwards into the trees mere moments later, evidently relishing the prospect of a fight. Uther barely paused to watch them go. His eyes had fixed upon the Queen's blood guard of Scots, and Dedalus seemed to read his mind.
"We ought to get those women out of here, Uther. Down the hill to the wagons or clean away, because there's no safety here with an enemy storming our rear. If anything spills over from the crest up there we'll be hard put to defend them."
Uther looked around at him, one eyebrow raised in a query. "Clean away? To where?"
"Southwest, over the flank of the hill and down into the valley that runs parallel to the one your scout used, behind the ridge of hills he said he couldn't cross. They have their own guards, and we can send an escort of our men with them for extra protection. But they'll have to move quickly if they're to escape without being seen."
The King nodded and dismounted, heading straight to his tent.
Uther found Ygraine wailing for him. He told her tersely what was developing, that he was beset on all fronts and facing a major battle, and that he was sending her out overland with her women, on foot and away from trodden paths, towards the coast to meet her brother. With her would go her own Erse guard, an escort of Camulodian troopers to carry their baggage and a strong party of Pendragon bowmen. The women must carry only minimal burdens, leaving most of their possessions here in his camp, and he would also send some of the Cornish clansmen with them to guide them safely to the River Camel and from there to the meeting place on the coast.
Ygraine was not at all pleased with the prospect of leaving him there, but she accepted the situation and made some suggestions of her own. She would meet Connor, she said, and embark on his vessel as planned, but she would then keep her brother there, riding offshore and safe from attack, for two days. When Uther had won his battle, he should come to her on the coast and either take her home with him to his own kingdom or bid a temporary farewell to her and his son and make arrangements for them to join him again at a later date, once his campaign in Cornwall was completed.
Uther promised to follow her as soon as he could, perhaps even overtaking her, if the gods were kind, before she reached the coast.
They were hugging each other closely in a last embrace when the woman Dyllis emerged from the rear of the tent, carrying the baby Arthur, and Uther straightened, staring at her and pushing Ygraine gently away to arm's length, turning her towards Dyllis, who stood staring back at him.
"You will have to change your clothing, Ygraine, you and all your women. Look at Dyllis. That yellow gown she is wearing would be visible for miles. Half a score of brightly dressed women like that would draw pursuers like flies to honey. Call all your women to you now. Tell them to remove everything bright and colourful and dress themselves in drab hues. They won't like that, I know, but if they want to live and get out of here safely, that's the price they'll have to pay. Now, my love, move quickly. Every moment is urgent. There's no time to lose. I'm going directly to speak to your cousin Alasdair. Your father charged him with your safety, and the time has come for him to see to it." He pulled her close and kissed her one more time, long and deep, then took his infant son from Dyllis and kissed him, too.
"I've never been a praying man, Ygraine, but I'll assail the heavens with cries for your safety until I see you again. Now hurry, and may the gods go with you."
The party that finally left the plateau on the hillside numbered close to a hundred, but they vanished quickly among the trees, unseen either from below or above. They would move along the hill side, well below the fighting on the summit, until they could safely strike upward and cross the crest of the long ridge of hills that stretched to the southeast, making their way down into the valley behind. Uther's heart was sore and his stomach sour as he watched Ygraine turn to cast one last look back at him before she disappeared from sight. Beside her, her cousin Alasdair, the captain of her guard, paused to wait for her. On his back, Alasdair carried his newest cousin, Uther's son Arthur, carefully swaddled and securely fastened in a leather satchel slung between his shoulders. Uther felt as though he were watching a vital part of himself being torn away as mother and son vanished beneath the canopy of leaves.
Another runner had arrived from the south, and Dedalus spoke into Uther's torment, informing him that the enemy army was now less than an hour's march away and coming on in good order. Uther ignored the news until all signs of Ygraine's party had vanished, and then he turned back to overlook the valley below him.
"In good order, eh? Well, I think we might put an end to that. We're as ready for them as we'll ever be, and we'll give them a fight to remember, those of them who are left alive. What I'm wondering, though, is what in Hades has happened to Nemo and Longhead."
Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT
Nemo, who was less than two miles from Uther and his army, might have consi
dered Hades to be a very apt description of where she was, had she enjoyed either the wit or the time to wonder about it.
She had lost track of the days she had spent looking for Lagan Longhead, despite the fact that he was travelling with an army of men and ought to have been easily traced, but she had counted ten days of constant searching before simply resigning herself to the daily hunt. She discovered that, with the countryside swarming with Lot's mercenaries, Lagan had taken to keeping his forces in concealment in the deep woods during the daylight hours, and then moving to spread havoc by night, launching brilliant and ferocious attacks against any mercenary installations he could find. Nemo travelled the length of Cornwall searching for him, gleaning information on his movements from those few local clansmen who dared or were willing to speak to a stranger. But each time she went to a place where he had been. Lagan had already moved on.
She finally found him by accident when she was taken captive late one evening by a patrol of his scouts after she had made her camp for the night, and only the fact that she was unarmed and unarmoured saved her life—that, plus the fact that she carried his token, and it was recognized by one of her captors. They took her directly to their Chief, then, and Nemo found a man far different from the amiable Lagan Longhead she had met months earlier.
Nemo had heard about Lagan's recent losses from Uther and knew that his father, his wife and his only son had all been killed on
Lot's orders within a few short days of each other, but being Nemo, she had not thought about what that entailed and had made no effort at all to comprehend the effect the triple tragedy might have had on the man. Now, by his small campfire in the gathering dusk, she saw the evidence with her own eyes, and the changes penetrated even her indifference.
Lagan Longhead had always been a comely man, tall, strongly built and richly dressed, with open, wholesome, fine features and a ready smile that reflected his friendly, outgoing nature. But the Lagan Longhead facing her now was another person altogether. Still tall and strong, this man seemed stooped and older than his years, and much of the firm flesh and heavy muscle had withered from his frame, leaving him thin and ill-looking. But it was his face that showed the ravages of what had been done to him. He was hollow- cheeked and gaunt, his face deeply lined and heavily bearded where he had always been clean-shaven. His beard was dirty and untrimmed, too, as was his hair, and his eyes were deep-sunken, glittering beneath his frowning brows with a hectic but icy fire that whispered of madness.