At first light Cundelig sent Hebog up and shielded his eyes with his hand as he watched the bird’s movements to the north of them.
“Damn!” the scout cried.
“What is it?” said Arthur as he mounted his horse.
“A large host approaching from the north. They’ve seen us!”
“Ride!” shouted Arthur. “We ride straight for Din Banna and stop for nothing!”
The Wall had stopped functioning as a wall long ago. Unmanned and unmaintained, sections of it had crumbled in leaving gaping holes through which the Picts regularly slipped through to raid the kingdoms of the Northern Britons.
Straddling the road that led from west to east, Din Banna was as a rock against the tide, walled on all sides with its old Roman watch towers manned and its granaries full.
After the Wall’s garrison deserted Din Banna, the settlement on its eastern side had remained occupied and had grown after King Gurust of Rheged refortified it, making it the northernmost defence of his kingdom.
Gualchmei called out a greeting as they approached the small wooden bridge that spanned the overgrown ditch at the foot of fort’s walls. The great double arched gates creaked open to admit them and once every rider was within the ruined northern section of the fort, they were slammed shut and bolted once more.
Arthur swung himself down from his saddle and heard the relieved laughs and jests of his men at finding refuge. He wished he could share in their relief, but they were not out of the woods yet.
“Where is the camp prefect?” he demanded of a nearby soldier.
“Here!” said a short man in scale armour as he strode towards them.
“See that our horses are fed and stabled, they have had a long journey.”
“You’re Venedotians, aren’t you?” the camp prefect said. “What news from the war?”
“All but over and its last engagement is to happen here.”
The prefect’s face paled. “Here?”
Arthur directed the man’s gaze to the prisoner who was being lifted down from his horse. “That is Hueil mab Caw. We captured him in battle but were forced to flee south. There is a large band of Damnonii on our trail.”
The prefect gawked at him. “You brought Picts to the Wall?”
Arthur looked at him curiously. “I was under the impression the Wall was built to withstand Picts.”
“But, but the rest of your teulu? Where is the mighty dragon standard of Cunedag?”
“Mopping things up in our wake,” said Arthur. Caw is dead. His son is the last figurehead of the Pictish confederation. That is why we brought him here, where they cannot get at him.”
“But Din Banna is severely undermanned! Most of the garrison went with you lot to fight in the north!”
“Nevertheless, a Pictish warband a thousand strong is marching upon us. Bring everybody from the settlement within the walls. Find every bow and spear in the fort and place them in the hands of every person able to use them.”
The camp prefect cursed and hurried off to see that it was done. As the frightened villagers began to trickle in through the east gate, supporting the elderly and herding livestock, Arthur walked along the walls and surveyed the defences. Some of the towers had crumbled away but the parapet itself was in good repair. There was even a couple of catapults that seemed to be in working order.
He had barely completed his survey before the horns began to blow from the northern watchtowers. He ran the length of the parapet to its northern face.
The Picts were emerging from the trees in clusters beneath their banners. They took up a howling war cry intended to intimidate.
“Fewer than a thousand,” said Gualchmei as he and Cundelig joined him on the parapet. “Perhaps your eyes are getting tired, Cundelig.”
“There are fewer of them because they have divided themselves,” said Arthur. “They want to surround us.”
His prediction was confirmed as the warning horn was taken up on the west wall and then, after an interval, on the east.
“They have slipped through the gaps in the Wall further along,” said Arthur. “They don’t want us escaping with their precious prince.”
“Shit!” said Gualchmei as he gazed at the horde of woad-painted warriors that chanted and hammered on their shields. “They’re surrounding the fort! Can we withstand them?”
“Perhaps,” said Arthur. “But we will only last as long as the fort’s stores do.”
The Picts attacked as one, blowing their aurochs horns to signal an assault on all sides. Arthur bellowed for bowmen to be placed evenly along the walls and he and his men began distributing spears.
“Don’t let any of the buggers get their ladders close!” Arthur instructed the terrified soldiers and villagers who lined the parapets. “And hack through any grappling hooks that gain a grip. If even one of those bastards gets up here, our defences will be penetrated and the whole fort may fall.”
Arrows sailed out from the fort’s walls to disappear seemingly without significance into the mass of warriors below. The catapults hurled stones into the mob but still they came in attempt after attempt to climb the walls with their ladders and hooks. They seemed to be frantic. They knew their prince was within the fort and gleefully hurled themselves at its defences in their effort to free him and save what was left of Caw’s confederation.
The assault went on until dark. The catapults ran out of ammunition and hung slack. With the onset of night, the Picts retreated out of arrow range to rest and recover. Arthur ordered the distribution of food. He and his warriors having barely eaten since the previous night, gobbled down hard tack biscuits, bacon and beer. They were dog tired and Arthur ordered them to sleep in shifts until dawn.
The following morning the assault began afresh and the situation looked desperate. They were low on arrows, had few spears between them and the Picts had brought forth battering rams cut from trees during the night, sharpened and fire-hardened to slam again and again at the north and west doors.
“Much more of that and those doors will give way,” Gualchmei called to Arthur over the din. “We can’t spare extra men to put over the gates else we thin our defences on the walls!”
Arthur nodded grimly. It was only a matter of time. Their fates were tied to that of the fort and before a second night fell the Picts would gain entry and overrun them. He made a decision that he had been grappling with all night.
“Bring me Hueil,” he said.
Gualchmei blinked at him and then hurried off to carry out his orders.
The Pict was brought up to the walls and he surveyed his attacking countrymen with an arrogant smile. “You can’t win, Arthur,” he said. “The Damnonii believe in my father’s dream. Every true-born Pict does and will gladly water the ground with his blood in order to see you Britons pushed out of the north for good.”
Ignoring him, Arthur grabbed him by his hair and forced him to his knees, his head hanging over a stone in the parapet. “We may all die here,” he said, “but so will you. Your countrymen will never hail you as their leader. I’ll see to that”
He drew his sword and, as he gripped it with both hands, Hueil turned his head to look at him with wide eyes as comprehension dawned.
Arthur swung down with all his might, once, twice, his blade connecting with the stone on the second blow. Hueil’s head tumbled over the parapet as blood gushed from the stump of his neck to wet the stone with gore.
The act had been witnessed by hundreds of Picts and they gave up an ear-splitting cry of rage. Curses burned the air and they drove the attack harder, this time for vengeance for now that Hueil was dead, all was lost to them now. All that remained was a deep desire to bathe in the blood of the defiant Britons.
“Well, that’s that then,” said Gualchmei in a resigned tone.
“I couldn’t let them have him,” Arthur replied. “We face the last of their fury now but at least this war is done.”
They held out for the rest of the day, using their arrows sparingly. The e
nd was coming but the desire to postpone the inevitable was strong.
A little after midday the Picts on the northern side of the fort dispersed with great urgency. A bellowing of horns drowned out the war chants that had dulled the ears of Arthur and his comrades for over a day.
Mounted warriors burst from the trees, driving the Picts before them. The Britons on the walls went wild as the banner of the red dragon erupted from the green like a burning brand to drive away their attackers. Arthur roared with joy to see Cunor leading the charge with Cei and Caradog close behind amidst hundreds of their countrymen on Venedotian steeds.
The Picts fled to the western side of the fort but a group of them turned and clustered to the left of the fort’s gates, trying to form some sort of defence against the horsemen. As Cunor led the advance against them, the Picts that had fled swarmed around to outflank him.
“They’re going to try and blindside him!” Arthur cried. He gripped the stone parapet with whitened knuckles. He bellowed as loudly as he could; “Cei! Beduir! On your right flank!”
Beduir had seen them and was desperately trying to drive a wedge between the charging Picts and Cunor. It was too late. They were within spear-throwing distance and a javelin whickered through the air.
Arthur roared impotently as he saw the spear tip erupt from his foster-father’s chest in a spurt of gore, its wicked point glinting. Cunor gasped and swayed in his saddle as Beduir led his followers into the Picts and hacked them down. Cei was at his father’s side in an instant, seizing the reigns of his horse and supporting him, preventing him from falling.
“Open the gates!” Arthur called. “Let them bring the penteulu in!” He found the camp prefect and ordered him to fetch the surgeon.
Cei organised two columns of riders to protect the gate as it swung open. Leading Cunor’s horse, he galloped down the avenue and into Din Banna.
Arthur clattered down the ladder to ground level and rushed to help Cei lift Cunor down from his horse.
“The injury is serious,” said the surgeon after a moment’s inspection. “He has lost a lot of blood but from what I can see, the barb missed his vitals. I need to get him indoors so that I may treat him properly.”
“Help him,” Arthur said to two nearby soldiers. He turned to the surgeon. By the gods, you’d better keep him alive!”
The Picts had dealt the only serious blow there were able to and now most were either dead or were fleeing towards the woods. Arthur ordered the teulu to enter the fortress and the gates were barred once more.
“No point chasing Picts into the woods,” he said. “They won’t be attacking again in a hurry and we will be long gone by then. Cei, what happened in the north?”
“We won,” said Cei. “Caw’s warband are raven meat now or else limping back to their tribal lands. Leudon has returned to Din Eidyn with many prisoners. We have a few ourselves travelling with the wagons. We were meant to go to Din Eidyn but when you did not return, father ordered us to ride south with all haste. By the gods, Arthur, you’ve led us a merry dance! We found the remains of a Pictish camp on the shores of a lake and the waters red with the blood of their slain. We figured you had carried on south but all the way to the Wall, Arthur?”
“We had no choice,” Arthur said. “Hueil sent out his riders to muster the Damnonii who gave chase as soon as they spotted us. We nearly didn’t make it to Din Banna.”
“And where is Hueil?”
Arthur nodded up at the headless corpse that still leaned over the parapet, its arms bound behind it.
“Just as well,” Cei said. “He was too dangerous to be allowed to live.”
The ravens descended in droves to feast on the awful scene without the fort’s walls. Arthur organised food and water to be distributed to all and Din Banna’s occupants relaxed into their bittersweet victory.
The surgeon patched up Cunor as best he could but the penteulu was weak and barely conscious.
“We can’t stay here,” said Cei. “For one thing, the granaries won’t feed the teulu for very long and I don’t know about you, but I want to smell the mountain air of Venedotia again.”
“Can we move him?” Arthur asked, nodding in the direction of the infirmary.
“It will be a slow march, but we must.”
“Very well. We spend the night here and tomorrow, homeward.” He fumbled at the laces of his cuirass. “Gods, what I wouldn’t give for a hot bath, a warm meal and a soft bed!”
Sign of the White Foal Page 24