by Daniel Diehl
Letting out a huge breath, Jason leaned back against the wheel of the cart and plunged into his narrative. “Earlier, you told me that we have two war bands with three hundred men apiece and about one-hundred-fifty mounted equites. Do I have that right?” Ambrosius scowled, nodded and crossed his massive arms over his chest as though he had already decided just how bad this newcomer’s idea was going to be. “Ok. For what I have in mind you will need to redeploy them. We need three groups of foot soldiers with two hundred men in each one. Divide the equites into two equal groups of seventy five.”
Ambrosius grunted. “And what do you propose we do with these tiny armies? Send them against the Saxons one at a time to be slaughtered?”
“Uncle, please. Let him finish.” Nodding and smiling toward Jason, Arthur simply said “Continue.”
Jason picked up a stick, smoothed out a spot in the dust with the sole of his shoe and began sketching as he spoke. The first thing he drew was a straight line, which he said represented the Saxons, lined up the way Ambrosius had explained. Next, pointed directly at the center of this line was an inverted letter V. Tapping the V with the point of his stick, he explained.
“This is one group of two hundred men. You have to keep them in tight formation, shoulder to shoulder, so they can help push each other forward. The ones along the outside edges of the V formation have their shields overlapped like the scales on a fish. All the men in the body of the formation hold their shields over the heads of the man directly in front of them. This makes a wedge-shaped formation surrounded by a solid wall of wood that the Saxons can’t stab through or hack through with their axes. We’re going to call this a ‘flying wedge’, and we will use it to punch a hole through the center of the Saxon line.”
When Jason glanced up, he saw that Arthur was leaning forward, staring intently at the sketch. Ambrosius had cocked his head to one side, obviously unconvinced, but at least paying attention. On each side of this wedge, Jason drew two short, straight lines. He continued his explanation by tapping one of the lines closest to the inverted V.
“These two, the units next to the wedge, are the remaining foot soldiers. Arrange these the way you always do, four men deep with the front row forming a shield wall and the men behind throwing spears.” A quick glance told him he still had everyone’s attention and he pressed on, tapping one of the outermost lines. “These two groups on the outside edge are the equite divisions. Now when…”
“Hold on, young man.” Ambrosius leaned forward, shaking his shaggy head from side to side, pointing an accusing finger at the diagram. “Are you seriously suggesting that the equites ride right into the enemy line?”
“Yes, general, that is exactly what I’m proposing.”
“It’ll never work.”
Determined not to be shot down for no valid reason, Jason gritted his teeth. “Of course it will work. Horses are amazing weapons. They move faster than men, they can push the enemy out of the way and force them to move wherever you want them to. Their hooves can do terrible damage when they rear up on their hind legs, and as long as you put the equites with my new stirrups at the front of the line they can make their horses do anything they want.” When the old general grunted and settled back, Jason continued with his explanation. “Don’t wait for the Saxons to attack you. Seize the moment and attack them; this allows you to start the battle when the sun is to your best advantage and it gives you the element of surprise.” Suddenly, amazingly, both Arthur and his uncle were nodding. “The biggest challenge is going to be keeping the front of your lines even. The point of the flying wedge absolutely must be the first thing to hit the enemy. Drive the wedge into the enemy, split their line and keep pushing forward. Don’t stop to fight. This will not only divide their forces but their commander…what’s his name?”
“Colgrim.”
“Colgrim. This forces Colgrim to one side or the other of the wedge, and he loses control of half of his force.” Arthur was now staring intently at the crude lines in the dirt and even Ambrosius Aurelianus was leaning forward. “Once the wedge penetrates all four ranks of the Saxon line, our left and right flank – the equites - should start closing in; swinging inward, toward the center like closing a door.”
Jason rubbed out the straight lines on either side of the wedge and redrew them, pivoting the lines forward and inward, so Arthur’s formation now looked like a letter W.
“This will crush the Saxons into a smaller and smaller space. They won’t be able to swing their axes and they’ll start stumbling backwards, falling all over each other. Once their line breaks down completely, our men in the wedge can open up their shield wall and join the fight. At this point the Saxons will be trapped between two lines of enemy and their rear line will start to break and run away. That’s when the equites spread out so some of them can come in around behind the Saxons and completely encircle them. All you have left are two little pockets of panicked enemy troops trying desperately to find a way out of the trap.”
Arthur stared at the sketch for a long moment, leaned back and addressed his commander. “Uncle?”
“I’ll admit it looks great in theory but how do we know it will work?”
Merlin held up one finger for attention. “The two sides are very evenly matched; so even, in fact, that a straight-on battle along traditional lines gives no advantage to either side. The outcome will be a matter of attrition. While I don’t claim to be a military expert, I have to believe that a surprise tactic – particularly one which splits the enemy forces and uses the equites in a new and unexpected way – will offer us a decided advantage.”
“I suppose your wizard is right, Arthur.” Ambrosius ran one hand across his weather-beaten face. “Maybe we should give something new a try. Something that might actually give us a decisive victory over those swine.”
The tension drained out of Jason to the point where he thought he would have collapsed if he hadn’t been sitting down.
“How do we divide command, Uncle?”
“I’ll stay in the center, behind this wedge formation.” Flicking his eyes toward Jason, he grunted “I have to admit, I like that flying wedge idea.” Turning back to Arthur, he continued. “You, nephew, I want commanding the left flank; you can have that annoying pretty boy to command your equites – what’s his name?”
“Llewellyn. His name is Llewellyn, uncle.”
“Right. You take him.” Counting positions off on his fingers, Ambrosius continued down the chain of command. “I want Griffudd to command the foot on the right and Bedwyr can direct his equites.” Looking at his king, he scowled. “Any problem with that, nephew?”
“I wonder if we should exchange Llewellyn and Bedwyr. Bedwyr isn’t as experienced in command as Llewellyn and if he’s on my side I can keep an eye on him.”
“Whatever you want. Honestly, I think the trouble will start on whichever side that slimy pig Colgrim ends up when we split their line. He is one hard bastard and he’ll try to find a way to break through our lines if he only has one man and two dogs to work with.”
“Then I suggest we practice these formations now, before we go into battle.”
With that, Arthur stood up, stretched, and offered his uncle a hand. Shaking his head, Ambrosius rejected the offer and grunted as he heaved himself to his feet. It took nearly an hour to get the new sub-commanders and their battle orders sorted out, and another two for the troops to be informed of the changes and everyone assigned to a specific unit. By the time the army had drilled to the point where Ambrosius was satisfied that each man knew what to do, it was after midnight. Five hours later, as the first glimmer of light broke over the roof tops of Vaddon, seven-hundred-and-fifty weary soldiers were putting their armor back on and lining up to meet their enemy. A mile and a half away, across a wide swath of land dotted with tiny cottages, animal shelters and soft green fields, the army of the Saxons was doing the same thing.
Chapter Eleven
After watching the struggle between the armies of the Britons a
nd Saxons escalate in intensity and brutality for almost two hours, Jason started to vomit. The battle had begun just the way he had envisioned it. By his best estimation, the Britons had marched onto the field around 6:30 in the morning, heading toward the Saxon camp in full formation. Considering that they had only practiced the flying wedge and its flanking units a few times in the near dark, Jason was impressed both by how well they kept their lines trimmed and by the Saxons’ reaction. The enemy was obviously unprepared for such a direct assault and even while they were scrambling to fend off the attack, it was clear that they were confused by the weird formation their enemy had assumed in its relentless march forward
When the two sides clashed, Arthur’s wedge worked exactly as Jason had planned. The Saxons’ assault with their nasty, long handled axes had virtually no effect on the impenetrable wall presented by the Britons’ shields, and their insistence on pushing forward, rather than standing and fighting, sent disarray through the Saxon ranks. No more than ten minutes after the two sides met the Saxon line cracked, Arthur’s wedge pushed through, and the flanking lines of soldiers and cavalry to begin the squeezing process that Jason hoped would guarantee a swift, decisive victory.
So far, so good, but from Jason’s point of view the conflict quickly became eerily surreal. First there was the sound of the battle or, more particularly, the lack of it. In Jason’s mind battles were overwhelmingly noisy things; explosions rocking the ground, rifles chattering, fighter planes screaming and vehicles rumbling across the landscape. But none of those things existed in this world, so the only sounds were the distant clinking of swords and the screaming. And there was lots and lots of screaming. Still, things didn’t get unbearable until the Britons dropped their shield wall and engaged the Saxons in hand-to-hand combat. The tactic worked, but the ensuing slaughter was worse than anything Jason could have imagined in his most horrible nightmare. The left side of the Britons’ line, led by Arthur and Bedwyr, attacked the Saxons before they could regroup after being separated from Colgrim, who was trapped on the right side of the wedge. With swords, spears and horses, Arthur and his men pressed so hard that the Saxon’s could barely swing their axes. Stabbing, stabbing, stabbing and always advancing, the dying Saxons’ screams were as clear to Jason and Merlin from their observation point more than a quarter mile away, as if they had been in the midst of the fray.
After half an hour of close-quarter fighting the ground was red and soggy with blood, the coppery tang so thick in the air that it reached all the way to where Jason stood, watching in horror as both sides tripped and stumbled over the bodies and entrails of the dead and dying. Even for someone who had spent years studying the past this up close, hand-to-hand warfare was incomprehensibly savage. And if fighting on the left flank was horrible, on the right it was at least as bad and getting worse by the minute.
The Britons’ right flank had two major disadvantages; they did not have Arthur to lead them and they were facing the section of the Saxon line containing Colgrim. Griffudd and his men fought valiantly and, at first, their enthusiasm seemed to more than compensate for the fact that they were facing the enemy’s war chief. It was not until Llewellyn and his equites stretched their line in an attempt to surround a group of Saxons intent on breaking out for a rear assault that things started to go terribly wrong.
Released from the confined space they had been forced into by the Britons’ pincer movement, the Saxons immediately started to wield their great axes. Swinging like they were possessed by every demon in hell they began hacking at the Britons, and their horses and pressing forward nearly as fast as the Britons could push them back into containment. Even from his safe vantage point, Jason could literally see the arms, legs and heads of Griffudd’s men being lopped off and falling to the ground, followed by incredible fountains of hot, red blood spraying high into the air.
The stench of spilt bowels and urine clawed at the pit of Jason’s stomach, clogging his nostrils and searing his throat. His system rebelled and now he was hunched over, hands on knees, emptying the contents of his stomach on the dewy morning grass.
Merlin did not embarrass Jason by telling him it was alright to be sick, or that everyone was overcome by their first sight of battle. Instead, he waited quietly until Jason stopped retching and handed him a skin of wine to wash out his mouth.
“Are you alright?”
Jason bent forward, the palms of his hands pressed hard against his eye sockets. “I think so.” His voice was small and strained, little more than a horse whisper. When he finally stood up, wiping his eyes, Merlin was staring at him. “I don’t think my idea worked so good.”
“On the contrary, lad. Half of the Saxon line has been virtually wiped out. And despite how it may look at the moment, the other side is barely holding its ground. I think Arthur just needs a little help.”
“It isn’t Arthur that needs the help, its Griffudd, that is, if he’s still alive.” Again Jason hid from the butchery by turning his face away from the battlefield and focusing his attention on Merlin, who had begun pacing back and forth, alternately rubbing his chin and his head. “Can’t you do something?”
“I’m thinking.”
“How about some of those fireballs you used against Morgana’s thugs in Mongolia?”
“I would have just as much chance of hitting our own men as I would hitting the Saxons, and it could make things worse rather than better.”
“That would suck.”
“What?” Merlin snapped out of his reverie, swinging around to face Jason.
Jason looked blank. “What, what?”
“What did you just say?”
“I just said ‘that would suck’.”
“That’s it. Why didn’t I think of it before?” Merlin flailed his arms in the air, pulling the cuffs of his wide, batwing sleeves above his elbows.”
“What’s ‘it’? What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about sucking up the Saxons. Now stand back and observe.”
With the extended index finger of his left hand twirling in small circles, Merlin raised his right hand and began scribing runes in the air. Chanting in Latin, the movement of his hands increased in speed and intensity; the airy shapes taking on intense colors as his fingers moved so fast it was impossible for Jason to focus on them. As the ochre, crimson and violet designs flashed into existence and slowly faded from sight, the twirling index finger of his other hand created a tiny vortex in the air – a miniscule twisting of the morning breeze that grew into a small, self-sustaining whirlwind with just enough energy to pick up a few grains of sand and dirt, turning them into a laughing dust devil, dancing around in front of Merlin as though it was putting on a show for the old man.
As the chanting grew in intensity, volume and speed, the dust devil grew in size until it was waist high, jumping and leaping like a dog chasing a butterfly. As suddenly as he had started invoking the odd phenomenon, Merlin ceased chanting and, with the smallest wave of a hand, sent the whirlwind careening across the meadow toward the spot where the two armies stood chopping each other to pieces. Following his creation with one eye, Merlin turned to Jason and smiled knowingly.
“Watch this.”
“Won’t this be as dangerous as a fireball? I mean, how can you control it?”
Pointing across the field, Merlin grinned and winked. More than a thousand feet away, the whirlwind danced toward the embattled right flank of the Britons’ line. As it approached, it grew ever so slightly, becoming just large enough to throw a wall of dust into the eyes of everyone in its path, bringing the battle to a shuddering halt, causing men on both sides to fall back, creating a small gap between the lines. Skittering through the opening, the little maelstrom passed through the Saxon hoard until it was well behind their ranks. As the combatants scrambled to clear their eyes, reform their tattered lines and lunge toward the each other again, the whirlwind suddenly grew until it was as tall as a man. When it accumulated enough power it leapt upward, doubling, tripl
ing, quadrupling its size, until it stood like a towering, twisting shaft reaching skyward.
With the Saxons now thrown into complete confusion, the whirlwind enlarged yet again, transforming into a full-blown cyclone. As though trying to emulate its distant cousin who had ripped Dorothy Gale’s house from its foundations and hurtled it away to the land of Oz, the churning column plucked dozens of screaming, flailing men off of the ground, drawing them into itself before they disappeared from sight forever. Two minutes after it waded into the battle, the tornado scurried away, skipping lightly across the landscape to some destination known only to itself and Merlin. In its wake, the vastly depleted, disoriented and terrified Saxon troops succumbed to the renewed onslaught of the Britons and in less time than it takes a hungry man to eat his dinner the blood-drenched Battle of Vaddon came to an end.
When Arthur turned toward Merlin and Jason, waving Excalibur over his head, Merlin ordered the baggage boys to move the supply wagons onto the battlefield. Then, turning toward Jason, he said “We should go, too.”
Jason cringed at the thought of wading through a field covered with bloody corpses and the screaming wounded. “Oh, God, Merlin, I don’t think I can go down there.”
As the first of the two-wheeled wagons trundled past, Merlin clapped Jason on the shoulder. “Come on, lad. No one wants to do this, but they need all the help they can get with the wounded.”
“No prisoners. We don’t have room for them and I’m in no mood.” Spying his wizard and his new engineer coming toward him, Arthur separated himself from his officers, continuing to shout orders over his shoulder. “Uncle, send two of those Saxon dogs home to tell their king of what happens when they try to invade my kingdom.” After a pause, he added. “Kill the rest.”
Approaching Merlin and Jason, a broad grin broke out across the king’s blood splattered face. Appalled, Jason could not take his eyes off of Arthur. He looked like someone had dumped a bucket of red paint over him. From his hair to his boots there was blood everywhere, and when he clapped Jason and Merlin on the shoulder, Jason cringed.