The Hallowed Isle Book Two (21 page)

When Oesc came to himself again the clouds had wrapped the hillside in a damp embrace; everything beyond a few feet was dissolving into featureless grey. His horse stood a few feet away, one foreleg barely touching the ground. With a groan Oesc got upright, made his way over to the animal and gently felt the limb. It did not seem to be broken, thank the gods, though it was clearly a bad sprain. When he tugged on the rein, the horse followed, on three legs only, after him.

Their progress was painfully slow. It hardly mattered, thought Oesc grimly, since it was becoming increasingly apparent that he was lost. Even if he had known this countryside, the mists would have made everything seem strange. And yet to keep moving, even with no goal, was better than bleating like a lost sheep in hopes that someone would find him.

He could see nothing but the shadows of tree trunks in the mist, but downhill, he knew, the forest grew thicker still. His only hope was to struggle up to the bare open slopes that crowned the Downs, where he might strike the ancient track that crossed them. Local legend held that these hills had been well-peopled in ancient days, when the world was warmer and there were no iron ploughs to turn the heavier lowland soils. One still sometimes found the marks of ancient round houses in the soil. Even today, Oesc might hope to encounter a shepherd, or a pack-man trudging across the hills.

Once he found the track he could follow it back to the river, and have a good laugh at his escort, who must be quite frantic by now. But he had his bow, and had learned which of the spring greens could be eaten. He might be separated from his friends, but at least there were no foes hunting him. He was still better off than he would have been in Artor's army.

The same storms that pounded Cantuware had drenched the north as well, saturating the soil and exposing Artor's army to attack by the elements as well as the enemy. Rising waters lapped the raised Roman causeways, wagons bogged down in the sticky mud and animals went lame. Rain spoiled the rations they carried, and though water surrounded them, it was thick and foul. The fact that these hazards had been anticipated did not make them easier to bear. More than once men wished for Merlin to magic the clouds away, but the sorcerer was in the north on some errand of his own.

The Anglians, well aware of their danger, made good use of the country's natural defenses. And yet, though bowstrings stretched and leather rotted, still the Britons came on. In a battle near the ruins of Lactodorum they faced the Eslinga Saxons and had their first victory. Artor took oaths and hostages from their leaders and sent them eastward to Durolipons to garrison the fens against their former allies. Two more muddy skirmishes, hardly worth dignifying with the name of battle, could be counted as victories, since it was the Anglians who retreated when they were done.

Artor led his army along the old legionary road beside the Blackwater. By the feast of Pentecost the royal forces could see the smoke of Anglian cookfires in Lindum across the marshes to the northwest, where the Blackwater, curving into the lowlands, had breached its banks and made a lake of the land. Even in high summer the country of the Lindenses was largely water meadow and marsh. In a wet spring, it seemed an inland sea, in which the scattered bits of higher ground stood like islands. To beseige the city, surrounded by marsh in the midst of hostile territory, was not an attractive prospect, given the problems the Britons had already experienced with supply. But perhaps Icel, unfamiliar with both cities and seiges, would not be aware of Artor's difficulties.

Two days after Pentecost, the king sent one of his captured Saxon chieftains with a challenge. If the Anglians would wager all upon one battle, the Britons would abide by its outcome—to take back all the Lindenses lands if they won, and to abandon the campaign and cede the territory to Icel if their foes had the victory. When the delegation had gone, Artor ordered his army to make camp. The cooks began preparing the first hot meal they had had for a fortnight, and every warrior was set to repairing and preparing weapons and gear.

For three days they remained in camp, waiting for an answer. Then, leaving the baggage train on the high ground, they set out once more upon the road to Lindum.

“Be thankful, man—it could still be raining!” Gualchmai's beard and mustache glittered with fine droplets as he grinned. The clouds still hung low, but the weather had warmed, and the earth was giving back its excess moisture in the form of patchy mists that drifted among the trees.

“What's this, then? Liquid sunshine?” growled Betiver, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle. His thighs were chafed from riding in wet breeches and his nose was stuffy. But he was luckier than some, for the flux, plague of armies, was beginning to thin their line.

“Man, it would be counted a fine day in my own country!”

Betiver shook his head, wishing they had stayed in camp a day longer. But they might stay for a week and still be plagued by bad weather, while in the meantime the Anglians could be filling Lindum with supplies and men. Here, the Blackwater ran to their right, more or less paralleling the road. But soon, as he recalled, it would make a bend to the westward, where it flowed through the marshy valley. The Romans had made a ford there, so that the road could continue straight along the narrow neck of higher ground that led towards the town.

“Soon we'll be over the river, and then a straight march to Lindum it will be!” said Gwyhir, peering ahead. The mist had thickened. Only the ring of hooves on stone assured them they were still on the road.

“If the floods haven't washed the ford away,” grumbled Betiver. Artor's companions headed the column, though the king himself had stayed near the middle to hearten the men. There were scouts out ahead somewhere. He hoped they hadn't gotten lost in this gloom. His stuffed nose was turning into a headache, and his back and shoulders hurt as well.

“Nay, they went out to look last night, remember, and reported that it was still whole,” Gwyhir replied. He was, like his brother, exasperatingly cheerful in weather that made everyone else complain.

“If I were Icel, I would set stakes in it, or tear out the stones. He knows we must pass this way . . .”

“What's that?” Gualchmai checked his mount, peering ahead. Betiver strained to see, wishing he were taller. A touch of damp air on one cheek was echoed by a shift in the intensity of the greyness before them.

“The fog is lifting—” he began. A flicker of light rippled through the mist. He stiffened as the wind strengthened, rolling back the mist to unveil the road before them, where morning sunlight gleamed from the well-honed points of a host of spears. With each moment the size of the army that faced them grew clearer. A British horn bugled alarm.

Betiver let out his breath on a long sigh. “It would seem that Icel has given us his answer, after all.”

Hooves clattered, and Artor pulled his big black horse to a halt beside them.

“Well. Now I know why our scouts did not return.” He was scanning the foe, calculating numbers and dispositions. The Anglians had formed up on the other side of the ford, on the last broad piece of solid ground before the land narrowed. “They've chosen well. The ground's too soft for our heavy cavalry to flank them. Icel wants to force us into a slugging match. . . . we need some way to improve the odds.”

The king's tone was detached, as if he were considering a board game. Could he really be that calm?

“Use your archers to soften them up, then,” suggested Gualchmai. “They're mostly unarmored.”

“Not yet—” Artor frowned. “First, let's try a parley.”

“Do you think it will do any good?” Gwyhir asked.

“No, but I need a better estimate of their numbers, and a check on the state of the ford.”

“I'll go—” offered Gwyhir.

“Nay, that you will not! You've not the experience—” retorted his brother. The king shook his head.

“The task is for neither. Your eloquence is all in your sword arm, Gualchmai—” Artor grinned. “This requires sweet talk and flattery, so Icel won't realize I'm playing for time.” He looked at Betiver, who sighed.

“I understand. Let me wear that white cloak of yours with all the gold embroidery and I'll flatter him like an emperor.”

It was amazing, thought Betiver as he splashed through the ford, how the imminent expectation of a spear in the gut put other pains in perspective. He could hardly feel the aches with which he had begun the day.

At least the ford had not been damaged. Perhaps, he thought as he looked around him, the Anglians had considered that precaution superfluous. There were certainly a lot of them, drawn up in groups surrounding their chieftains. Icel sat his white stallion in the middle of the line. He was a big man with a fair mustache, glittering in a shirt of ringmail and a spangenhelm inlaid with figures of gods and heroes in gold.

Meeting that cold grey gaze, Betiver found that respect came easily. Icel's homeland might be small compared to the empire, and poor, but he traced his descent, father to son, through a line of kings that went back to the god Woden, and that was an older lineage than either Artor or the emperor in Byzantium could claim.

“The king of the Britons has good warriors, but they are wet and weary. My men are fresh and strong,” said the Anglian king when Betiver had stated Artor's terms. “It is not for him to demand surrender. This is our land now, and we will defend it. Eight hundred spears stand ready to prove my words—” He gestured. “We have heard much of Artor's battles and are eager to fight him. Go tell him so—”

As Betiver rode back towards the British lines it occurred to him that the Eslingas and Middle Saxons had been eager too, and Artor had beaten them, but Icel had spoken truly, and his own side, battered and muddy, seemed a rag-tag excuse for an army next to the barbaric splendor of the warriors surrounding the Anglian king.

But though Betiver's embassy had been fruitless, Artor had made good use of the delay. The British were armed and ready, their heavy cavalry in the middle, the archers positioned in the wings. The king was cantering along the lines, his red cloak bright against the black horse's flanks, his armor gleaming dully in the sun. He listened to Betiver's report with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

Then he wheeled the horse and came to a halt before the first line.

“Men of Britannia—” His voice was pitched to carry. “You have marched a weary way. But Lindum is in sight, and the Anglians have come out to make us welcome!” He waited for their answering laughter. “We have faced their kin three times already and beaten them. But Icel's own warriors have not encountered our like before. We are the heirs of Rome and the children of this island. Draw up strength from this sacred soil, and we will prevail. One more battle, lads, and we will break them. The way to Lindum lies before us—win this one, and tonight we'll lie in soft beds with roofs to keep out the rain!”

After the past few weeks, thought Betiver, dry beds sounded better than gold. He jerked the chin-strap of his helmet tight, wondering wistfully if the baths of Lindum were still usable. Artor was right. He would kill for the chance at a hot soak at the end of the day.

Artor lifted his hand and the air rang to the bitter calling of the horns. The enemy ran to meet them, intending to close the distance so there would be no room for a charge. A ripple of movement swept through the ranks of mounted men, and then the column was moving forward and Betiver's awareness narrowed to the area above his horse's ears through which he could see a glittering line of spearpoints that grew more distinct with every stride.

The air darkened as the archers let fly. The riders splashed through the ford. A horse went down on the right, where the bottom was treacherous, but the others kept their feet and labored up the far bank. An Anglian, outstripping his companions, cast a spear that sped past Artor's shoulder and gashed the flank of the horse behind him. The animal squealed and lurched, but its rider kept it going. Gualchmai plucked a javelin from its loop and cast, and the Anglian went down.

First blood to us
—thought Betiver, but now all his vision was filled with grimacing enemy faces. He dug his heels into the horse's sides, striving for the momentum they would need to smash the Anglian line. More spears flew and he heard cries. One after another he reached for his own lances and threw. Then they were crashing into the first group of enemy warriors; for a moment the charge faltered, then they drove onward.

A spear jabbed up at him. Betiver swung his shield around to deflect it and pulled his sword from the sheath. It was all blade-work now, as their pace was slowed by crowding foes. But still they pushed onward, and then they were through. Artor called to them to form up again and hit the enemy from the rear. Light flared from his sword. In that moment of freedom Betiver heard shouting from the flanks. He blinked in confusion as figures rose up like ghosts from the misty waters. Then a familiar war cry shrilled above the clamor of battle and he laughed as Cunorix and his wild Irishmen emerged from the marshes and fell upon the foe.

Artor yelled again, and Betiver's mount, catching the excitement, lurched into motion after the others. His sword arm swung up, and screaming, he charged back into the fray.

The bay horse lifted its head, ears flicking nervously, and Oesc stilled, listening. In another moment his duller ears caught the bleating of sheep. He let out his breath in a long sigh, only then admitting his fear that he might have wandered somehow into Nebhelheim, and would never find his way back to Middle-Earth again. Through the thinning mists a ewe gazed at him with a flat, disapproving stare that could only belong to the sheep kept by humankind. Then the herd dog caught his scent and dashed forward, barking.

“There, boy, down—I mean no harm—”

The dog, a brisk black-and-white beast with a plume of a tail, did not seem convinced. It continued to advance, growling, and he looked around for the shepherd.