Warrior of the West by M. K. Hume Read Free Book Online

us if we cast our advantage aside out of timidity and ineptitude.’
    Targo flushed with pride, for Artor had used the voice of authority to force his message upon the great ones. All the wiser heads in council now nodded in agreement.
    ‘When Ironfist falls, the Saxons in the east will be forced to halt their advance. They will settle in the east, and they will bury their roots in our soil. They will marry Celtic women and their lives will change until the day eventually comes when all the races who inhabit these lands may be prepared to call themselves brothers. But that day has not yet come. Nor will it happen in our time.’ Artor gazed into the attentive faces of his nobles. ‘Do we let Glamdring’s aggression remain unchallenged? Do we hide in our fortresses until Ironfist and King Lot surge out of the wilderness to lay waste to our fields and rape our women? Are we in our dotage that we must accept their uncouth insults?’
    ‘No! No! No!’ roared the war council.
    You fools! Caius thought contemptuously. Artor can manipulate you at will.
    ‘Even if all of you should vote for peace, it is my intention to ride against Ironfist, even if I must go alone. Make your choices, and make them quickly, for I leave within the week, even though death may take me.’
    Then Artor strode from the hall, and the assembled nobles and warriors bowed before him. The High King’s eyes veered neither to right nor left, but were focused on the north.
    And the eyes of the shark were pitiless.
    Caius wiped his suddenly sweaty hands dry on the sides of his tunic before striding out boldly behind his foster-brother. His red lips were curved into a gentle smile of satisfaction.
    Slowly, stalwart men followed, both nobles and vassals, and the word raced through Cadbury and the villages like Greek fire.
    ‘We go to war.’

CHAPTER II
    THE LOST CHILD
    One day, the old Roman road would be called Fosse Way, a pedestrian and comforting name for something made for bloodletting. Built to facilitate the movement of men at war, the road stretched out ahead of Artor’s cavalry, straight and wide, over the gorse-covered slopes leading towards Aquae Sulis. Winter still clutched at the land, although the snow had gone, promising that the spring thaw was coming and the winds would soon blow warmer. A few shivering and naked aspens raised skeletal branches over the bare earth, while domestic animals turned their backs to the wind and grazed in places where the grasses of last autumn waved brown, withered fronds on the lee side of slow-rolling hills.
    In disciplined ranks, the cavalry had ridden out of Cadbury Tor towards the north, and then camped at the highest point of the Roman road where the signal fires were lit. As the warriors hobbled their horses and erected simple hide tents, the lights of small fires were visible over the land like fireflies clustered around a larger, glowing blaze. The silvery sound of tinkling bells sounded through the twilight as the horses wandered to find what sweet grass might be found under the trees. Throughout the night, drawn by the signal fire, riders joined the main force in small groups.
    Two days later, when Artor led his army out of bivouac astride the ancient Coal, his favourite horse, he did so with grim deliberation. Except for the dragon symbol on his shield and breastplate, he dressed carefully in the deepest sable. Peasants stared hard at the king and his similarly clad warriors as the army passed, and searched each face for a funereal sadness. They sought in vain. Rather than mourning, the army’s sombre clothing was the dress of inevitable death, so that under their dyed cowls and helmets, the warrior’s faces appeared to be leprous and skeletal in their whiteness. Even the afternoon sun was bone pale, as if it sensed that only the blood of many men would renew its vitality before the warmer months were done.
    The baggage train was small for a force of several hundred men, excluding the horse handlers