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

who moved a herd of spare mounts in the wake of the dark-robed cavalry. Later, a growing contingent of foot soldiers and archers from Ratae and Venonae swelled the force that pushed ever northwards, without making any attempt to disguise their movements.
    ‘I want Ironfist to be warned that I am coming for him,’ Artor told his captains. ‘And if human blood runs through his veins, he will begin to sweat under all his bravado. We will let him wait, with his nerves stretched taut, until we make camp on his soil. He made our emissaries suffer, so we will do the same to him. Imagination plays tricks on the bravest man, and when I am on his soil, Ironfist will know that I intend to exact my revenge. When we enter the Saxon lands, we will paint our faces in the old Pictish ways. Each man will wear the mark of a skull under his visor when we eventually meet up with Ironfist and his warriors. I want him to understand, irrevocably, that he is facing an army of the dead.’
    Some of Artor’s captains were nonplussed by his plan that they should wear blue woad and white clay on their faces. ‘Does Artor admit to the possibility of failure before we strike even a single blow?’ some of the warriors whispered over their flickering campfires.
    But Myrddion walked from fireside to fireside, explaining that their Saxon opponents were deeply superstitious men. They should suffer before they faced just retribution for their crimes.
    ‘Your king wants our warriors to mimic the wights of those men that Ironfist murdered,’ he said. ‘And he hopes that the Saxons will believe that those defenceless victims have returned and are multiplied a hundredfold. It is better that Ironfist is afraid, not us, for we are the death-bringers, and the harvesters of fear.’
    Whenever he spoke, Myrddion gave heart to the most superstitious of men, so that the veterans came to think of the disguise as a great joke and a fitting tribute to the dead ambassadors.
    When the growing army reached the outskirts of old Aquae Sulis, the population met them with exuberant joy. Broad, open fields on the banks of the river offered water and feed for the mounts and the baggage animals. Artor and his captains rode onward, through ever-broadening streets, until they reached the original Roman walls that encircled the administrative heart of the city. There, the chief magistrate and the city councillors awaited them.
    The High King was greeted with due pomp and ceremony, for neither Artor nor the city dignitaries would countenance any lack in common courtesy. In fact, the chief magistrate, who had been woken from an afternoon nap by news of the king’s arrival, appreciated the honour that Artor offered by paying his respects to the city fathers before he made camp. Such small details, Artor knew, were crucial elements that firmly cemented his alliances with his subjects.
    ‘I welcome you, my lord,’ the magistrate, Drusus, intoned solemnly. ‘The city is yours to do with as you choose.’ His obeisance was low, but not subservient.
    ‘As always, it is a pleasure to rest at Aquae Sulis, for it reminds me of the joys of my youth,’ Artor responded as he warmly embraced the Romano-Celt. ‘My brother, Caius, will beg your assistance in the provisioning of my combined forces.’
    ‘Of course, Your Majesty.’ Drusus smiled, knowing that Artor’s war chests were always deep and that the king would never quibble over details of payment. ‘I will order our scribes to hold themselves ready to receive instructions from Lord Caius.’
    ‘My commissary will be hard at work long before dark,’ Caius said courteously with a low bow. ‘My thanks to the citizens of Aquae Sulis for the assistance that is always given to Lord Artor’s servants so willingly.’
    The magistrate flushed at Caius’s fair words and Artor smiled with a certain element of sardonic humour that Caius was finally learning the value of flattery. His foster-brother’s smiles were far more effective