Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (83 page)

‘I’m glad to see the dog joining in,’ said Arthur. ‘It’ll give them practice for what comes later.’ He surveyed the British shieldwall. ‘They’ve spread our own men eight hundred wide, as well. There can’t be any overlap, but we are left a mere three men deep along the line.’

‘It will have to do,’ said Withred, his oiled leather armour creaking as he turned in the saddle to watch the muster. ‘We can only hope this hill cancels out their advantage.’

Arthur shouted to Hereferth, the Angle. ‘Take three hundred and fifty of your men to guard the left flank and give me the rest.’

As Hereferth and a company of his riders, all bearing the lynx-emblazoned shields of their tribe, rode away along the hill, Arthur turned to Dominic. Gone was the wolf hat, replaced now with a close-fitting helmet of steel. Cheek pieces covered his craggy face and his eyes blazed out determined and brutal from under the shallow peak of his helmet. Tomas, similarly attired, sat beside him.

‘Your role is a free one here, Dom,’ said Arthur. ‘How many archers have you?’

‘One hundred and eighty men—Britons and Angles,’ replied Dominic.

‘Roam free and skirmish,’ instructed Arthur. ‘Go wherever you’re needed—who knows what you’ll come up against.’ He surveyed the entire battlegrounds, frowning as he took in the gathered masses below him. ‘Gods, we could use some back up here.’

‘Any sign of Robert or Simon yet?’ asked Dominic, sharing Arthur’s concern.

‘No sign at all. As soon as—‘

The blaring of horns from below took on a rhythmic, repetitive brashness, causing Arthur and the rest to look down the hill. Accompanied by a patterned drumbeat, a line of five riders had ridden in front of the Saxon wall where they again waited to parley.

‘This should be interesting,’ said Arthur. With Gherwan, Withred, Dominic, and Flint, he descended the hill to meet Guertepir and his captains.

‘They’re not dressed for compromise,’ said Dominic to no one in particular as they neared the group. ‘We should get this over with and cut the talk.’

Before them, all armoured and helmeted, sat Guertepir, Diarmait, Cunedda, Hrodgar and Cenhelm. Their shields bore the symbolism of their people: Guertepir’s and Diarmait’s the white bull, Cunedda’s the juniper tree, Hrodgar’s the rabid dog, and Cenhelm’s the prancing horse.

‘Your last chance, Arthur!’ shouted Guertepir, his voice barely audible above the clamor. ‘Pack up and go home! You are outnumbered … we know that now! Why sacrifice your men for a lost cause?’

‘You have taken my city and slaughtered my people’—Arthur’s face twisted in disgust—‘even stooped so low as to slaughter an innocent babe, you outrage of a man. I say to you this, Guertepir: I
implore
you to send your men up the hill, because I intend to send them to Woden, Jesus or whichever other nonsense they grovel to. And when they no longer stand between you and the city, I will come down and drag you from your hiding place, for you have neither the courage or vitality to face me man to man. Then I’ll send you to the hellish underworld which awaits the arrival of your twisted soul!’

A groaning and murmuring of fear came from the Saxon shieldwall as it parted to let the death riders through. Guertepir glanced at his captains, exchanging a smile with them. ‘As you will,’ shouted Guertepir as forty black horses trotted balefully up the hill to join him. ‘The rules of combat dictate I offer you mercy and you have refused. Now it is time your men had a flavour of what they’re letting themselves in for.’ At this, he turned, and with the rest rode back through the approaching sinister troop.

Dominic intake of breath was sharp—driven by his repulsion at the sight before him. The others, their faces grey with fear, and horror in their eyes, were transfixed for a moment. ‘They are armed and many,’ said Arthur, at last able to speak. ‘Let us leave this place.’

Abloyc grinned, then gagged and vomited, as he watched Arthur and his guard rush back up the hill. He was
more
than happy to act the role of death rider. With blackened face, he was covered head to foot in mud-darkened attire and wore the decaying, naked corpse of Cardew. To the Britons on the hill it appeared that a rotting ghoul now rode up towards them; and worse still, Cardew’s grinning skull sat atop Abloyc’s spiked helmet. Intending to display the grim spoils of war to the British shields and so break their fighting spirit, nineteen other riders, all wearing the decomposing corpses of female, child or male, rode beside Abloyc.

‘
It’s sure to make one in three turn and run from the line. Endure the stink of the corpses and watch as they flee
.’ Hrodgar’s words went through Abloyc’s mind as he spurred his ebony horse up Badon Hill. Behind him and the other riders, the Saxon shields had also started their ascent, their progress slow but resolute. One hundred of Guertepir’s horsemen had appeared on the left flank of the wall, one hundred of Cunedda’s had gone to the right, their purpose for now to protect the death riders from attack by Arthur’s cavalry.

As the gap narrowed between the opposing masses, Abloyc could see the British shield bearers in more detail—the vision filling him with hope. Most of them were rustics, with just a thin scattering of what appeared to be experienced fighters seeded amongst them. Some were fearful … some nauseated … most horrified … as he approached their line. A quick glance to the flanks told Abloyc that an impasse, for now, existed between the opposing cavalry; so, free to ride along the British line at will, he screamed his loyalty to Aeron, the god of slaughter, whilst tearing Cardew’s body parts from him and throwing them over the palisade of British shields. The other death riders did the same, promoting a groan of repulsion and a step backwards from the shield bearers.

Augustus and the other tacticians now stood behind the wall, prowling its length and looking for weaknesses. Each of them oversaw a width of sixteen fighters. Augustus picked up a man whose abhorrence of the sight before him had caused him to jump backwards and stumble. ‘On your feet man and get ready to push at the signal!’ he shouted as he heaved the man back into the line. ‘Save your fear for the live ones—they’ll be here too soon!’ 

A disturbance and whinnying had him turn. Twenty paces back and spreading along behind the line, were Dominic and his archers. As he watched, they pointed their bows skywards and let fly, and so began the real battle of Badon Hill.

Abloyc’s first warning of the attack was a darkening of the air above him as one hundred and eighty arrows swished a low arc over the shields. Half of the death riders went down injured or dead, victim to the first wave. Two horses also fell, pierced through head and neck. Abloyc’s own horse took two arrows in its rump causing it to rear. Still uninjured and knowing he now occupied a death zone, he dragged his horse groundward and made to leave. He ripped Cardew’s head from above him and threw it back over his shoulder towards the British. As he heeled his horse into a gallop back down the hill, the head took a high trajectory, falling short of the shields.

As the surviving death riders fled from the field, nothing remained between the opposing forces other than a slope scarred by brook and hedge and body parts.

Flint broke from the cavalry and joined Dominic. Close by, a British trumpeter gave out three piercing blows on a goat’s horn. ‘The blares tell them to stand steady!’ shouted Flint. ‘It is but one of many signals they recognise! Shouting at them from distance is futile in this noise! For now, they await the Saxon wall, but Arthur thinks you could do something now!’ He stood in his saddle, looking over the heads of the men, and pointed to the slowly approaching horde some five hundred paces distant. ‘They’ll break their line in a moment when they come to the hedges! Arthur and Hereferth guard the flanks against the Saxon and Hibernian cavalry but no moves have come yet!’

‘Would it not be better if he attacks their wall, then, when it flounders at the hedges?’ yelled Dominic

‘No, they have spears ready for such a move; and spears and shields kill horses! A distant strike would be far more effective against them!’

Dominic, now aware of his next role, beckoned his archers to him and arranged them into two groups. Then they rounded the wall of British shields and entered the killing ground between the armies.

Raedwald dithered as he trudged onwards and upwards—the press of bodies behind him leaving him in no doubt that he was in a situation beyond his control.

Having little say over his own movement, he lurched forward as he reached a ditch, his shield going to ground and smacking against the wet earth. He managed to scoop his hand through its loop as he was pushed towards a hedge. For the first time since his placement in the shieldwall, the man beside him had gone from his elbow. The line was now ragged and some of the men were on their knees as Dominic’s arrows began to slap into them. Raedwald gasped as more by luck than judgment, his shield protected him from three rapid arrow strikes. The attack continued until he heard the approach of horses from behind. He turned to see Hibernian mounted archers who had ridden up to protect the advance. Soon the British bowmen began to retreat as retaliatory arrows started to fly. A quick glance along the line told Raedwald that Dominic’s raid had been quick but effective. Scores of the shield had fallen, but as the last of the hedges were either climbed or trampled, the wall came together again.

Dominic cursed as he retreated from the field and headed back to his own line. ‘I guess we lost twenty or so!’ he shouted to Tomas who rode beside him. ‘I should have got us out before their archers were in range!’

‘It’s war Dominic; men fall I war, you are not to blame!’ shouted Tomas, wind in his hair as he rode low in his saddle. ‘The raid was a success, we dropped at least sixty of them. I took out seven shield bearers myself; you must have slaughtered twice as many!’

‘Still—they’ll pay for killing my men!’ shouted Dominic as he galloped wildly to the British flank.

Pwyll was glad to hear Augustus’ voice boom out behind him. That the giant was nearby and in charge of his group comforted him. Yet Pwyll’s body remained spring-tense and quivering as he watched the Saxon wall approach. The business with the corpses had repulsed him, as it had the others, but now it was over and done with he was ready to fight. His three-foot shield was made from wood and covered in metal, and bore no emblem, having been hastily constructed for purpose. Like every other man in the front line, Pwyll also carried a short stabbing sword, but these weapons were in meagre supply. Behind him in the second line, men would attack over the shields with longer swords and spears, and further back still, the supporting, pushing men carried scythes, axes, clubs and mattocks—self-supplied weapons to protect them should a breakthrough occur.

As the gap narrowed to thirty paces, the uproar intensified. Horns blasted to a new level and drums pulsated within the guts of all. Saxons had started to shout threats to the British and allegiance to their gods. Pwyll and the man next to him exchanged a fearful glance as two blares of a single horn sounded behind them—the signal instructing them to prepare for the weight of the Saxon push.

Aware of the importance of forming a continuous, solid line, Pwyll checked that his shield overlapped with the men next to him. Satisfied, he turned and peered over its rim at the Saxon wall—now only ten paces away. Like the British, the Saxons carried shields void of any heraldry, and like the British, the men who approached seemed fearful and inexperienced.

When the walls came together it seemed that hell itself had pushed up through the bloody turf of Britannia. No training in the world could have prepared Pwyll for the drive which lifted him from his feet. But the Saxons could not sustain such pressure against the steep slope of Badon Hill. Slowly, its potency ebbed, and the British wall held.

Pwyll’s feet touched the ground again and he found himself a nose-width away from his opposing man—a mustachioed and gnarled hunter who snarled and spat at him. Shield to shield, both men were locked into immobility. The man behind Pwyll managed a spear thrust over the shields and was able to knock the hunter’s helm to one side. Enraged, the man—a Hibernian—yelled his fury towards them, his ale-laced breath gusting into Pwyll’s face.

Pwyll ducked low under his shield, away from the man’s fury, just as an answering jab of steel flashed towards him from the second row of the Saxon wall. A scream behind had him turn. The spearman had taken a sword wound to his face and now bled outwards, his tongue and lower jaw razored by the strike. The man remained standing and dead, supported b
y
the absolute weight of the press.

As the push and sway continued with no significant shift either way, Pwyll’s shield parted slightly from the man’s beside him. Grimacing as he attempted to free the arm that held his stabbing sword, he gave a futile push forward. After a struggle, his arm came free. Through the gap in the shields he spotted the crimson leather of the hunter’s tunic. He knew the opportunity to strike at an unprotected torso would be brief, so he thrust his sword immediately through the breach. With a
‘citch!’
the sword slid through the leather and into the man’s gut. Pwyll followed the first lunge with three more strikes
—‘citch!
’
‘citch!
’
‘citch!’—
before the coming together of shields effectively ended his attack.