Chapter 15

The Siege

Clouds were rolling in from the sea as we rode through the gates of Caer Dor to meet the High King’s envoy. Apart from Diarmuid and I who were acting as Branwen's personal guard and carrying the dragon banner, we were accompanied by half a dozen clan chiefs, all clad in shining mail and war helms with great plumes of red horsehair that billowed out behind us as we rode. My breath caught momentarily in my throat as I looked out and saw an imposing sight. To the east was a great host of warriors, stretched out across the hills with their large round shields of all colours, bearing many different motifs and decorations, their ranks bristling with spears like the quills of a hedgehog. Banners and pennants beyond counting punctuated the ranks, each one proclaiming the allegiance of a warrior chief to Vortigern's cause.

"By the tits of Danu, I've never seen so many men," Diarmuid whispered fearfully. I was too stunned to answer and instead I looked northwards to where Cynyr had said the Irish were approaching. Sure enough there were more men and my heart froze as I saw amongst their ranks the crescent banner of the Masraighe.

"Fiachu is here," I uttered grimly, nodding north.

"Dagda be with us," Diarmuid said quietly.

Ahead of us were half a dozen armed and armoured men, one of whom carried King Vortigern's banner, a white dragon on a dark green background. They waited until we stopped a dozen paces from them before one of them, a man whose face was hidden by a mail aventail that hung from his helmet trotted forwards and spoke.

"Vortimer, son of High King Vortigern wishes to address Lady Branwen Pendragon."

"Then let him come forth and speak," Branwen said firmly.

One of the men trotted forwards, flanked on either side by two formidable looking identical Saxon warriors. Behind them were another two men, one armed and clad in a coat of mail, the other frail looking and wearing only robes for protection, his head tonsured in the style of a Christian monk. I recognised this man immediately and felt my blood chill when his haughty gaze fell upon me. It was Abbot Neirin and the man accompanying him carried a shield bearing the Chalice symbol of Lord Glaesten of Ynys Wytryn.

The man who had ridden forward gave a curt bow, gazing at Branwen with protuberant, reptilian eyes. He was well dressed, with a red velvet cloak that covered his long shirt of enamelled scale armour and a polished helmet encrusted with rubies with a decorated bronze crest that ran from front to back. He had a neatly trimmed brown beard and he spoke with a clipped, precise tone.

"Lady Branwen, it is a pleasure to meet you. Despite appearances, my father does not wish to destroy you. We seek only your fealty to the High King of the Britons. Bend your knee before me and you will be spared. Refuse and you will be destroyed."

Lady Branwen gave a thin smile. "I'm sorry my lord, but you seem to have confused the noble Pendragon people for that coward Gorlois, whose lands you travelled through to get here, who no doubt even now is trembling in his stronghold at Din Tagel. Maybe word of the Pendragon has not reached your lands in the north but if it had, you would have known that the Pendragon kneel before no man. Not even the Romans could defeat us."

"There is also the small matter of the Holy Chalice, my lady," Abbot Neirin said, stepping forward with a supercilious smile. "Hand over the Chalice and the ones responsible for the cold blooded murder of God's holy servants and you will save your immortal soul from the eternal torment that awaits you."

Branwen shot the Abbot a withering glance. "And what of your immortal soul, Abbot? I have heard all about the depravities that you inflict upon others within your monastery. Save yourself and look elsewhere, the Chalice is not here."

Abbot Neirin's thin face grew taut with rage but he remained silent and turned towards the Prince. "You see, your Highness. Precisely the reaction that I expected. These pagans must be wiped from the face of God's Earth."

Vortimer’s mouth tightened and he sighed irritably. “Word has reached us that you are a stubborn people, but by no means stupid. If we cannot appeal to you, then maybe we can appeal to your lords and chieftains. None of you have to die this day. You will still hold the lands you once did, but instead you will swear allegiance to the High King and return that which does not belong to you.”

“We do not recognize the usurper Vortigern as High King of anything,” said Alwyn ap Glyn gruffly, speaking on behalf of the half dozen clan chiefs present. “Our loyalty was to Drustan Pendragon and in turn to his daughter, Lady Branwen. Do not think that because a woman has taken the throne of the Pendragon that we are any the less willing to fight. We know exactly how you and your father operate. You will usurp Lady Branwen's position, make false promises of land and riches and divide us and turn us against one another to weaken us. Then you will turn us out of our halls and take our land, just as your father has done with the lords of Cantia and Regia in the east. As for this Chalice of which you speak, none know of its whereabouts, so save yourself a lot of bloodshed and go home to your father, boy.”

Vortimer looked beyond Alwyn’s grizzled bulk at the fortress of Caer Dor with a self satisfied smile on his face. He sighed and shook his head with mock regret. “Do you really think your little wooden fence will protect you? May I introduce you to Hengist and Horsa. They are Saxon chieftains and behind us is their army, paid for by my father. I have seen what these men are capable of and I implore you one final time to see sense for your own sake.”

My eyes fell upon the twin Saxon warlords. They were immense men who would have dwarfed even Drustan Pendragon, clad in filthy bearskins with their straw coloured hair greased and tied back. Their thick arms were adorned with golden armbands and each wore a simple conical iron helm with a nose guard. Around the neck of one of the brothers hung a hammer pendant on a leather cord. They regarded us with a surly silence, their ice blue eyes calm and calculating in faces scarred and battered from innumerable battles. One of them fingered the blade of an immense war axe that hung from a thick belt at his waist, as if itching for it to taste our blood. The other sported a large sword strapped to his back and held the reins of his horse in two mighty red fists that looked as though they were capable of crushing a man’s skull. A sneer played on his lips as he stared directly at me.

I held the Saxon’s gaze unfalteringly, trying to convince myself that despite his size and formidable appearance, he was just a man and a well placed sword thrust would kill him as easily as any other man.

“My father has gold enough to pay for many times the number of men you see here today. You cannot possibly hope to win,” Vortimer continued arrogantly, brushing at the sleeve of his enamelled scale armour.

“I hope your father lives to rue the day he hired these foreign barbarians and brought them to our land,” Branwen said.  “They are like wild dogs. They cannot be tamed or reigned in. They know only how to kill and one day they will turn on you.”

One of Vortimer’s aids leaned across and whispered to one of the brothers whose pale eyes flashed murderously as Branwen’s words were translated into his barbaric tongue. He replied in his harsh, guttural language, his eyes never leaving Branwen.

Vortimer gave a little self conscious laugh and translated the barbarian's words for us.

"Hengist says that after all of his men have filled you with their seed, he will hack the ribs from your back and honour you with the death of the blood eagle."

At that time I did not know what a blood eagle was. Since then, with the coming of the Saxons, I have seen it more times than I wish to remember. It was a particularly hideous way to die.

"The time for talking is obviously over," Branwen said contemptuously. "Prepare yourself for battle, Vortimer son of Vortigern."

With that she wheeled her horse around and rode back towards the high, wooden walls of Caer Dor with the rest of us bringing up the rear.

I glanced north again, to where the Masraighe army was assembled and knew that somewhere amongst that horde of warriors was Fiachu mac Niall. Dark storm clouds were gathering to the north, rolling towards the gathered armies like an omen of death and I wondered briefly whether the storm had been summoned by Fiachu's black druids.

My hand went to the triple spiral around my neck, and I offered a prayer to Danu and to Brighid.

"I wonder what Duke Gorlois, the so called protector of Western Dumnonia thinks he is getting out of all this?" Alwyn ap Glyn said, sidling his horse up to Lady Branwen.

"He will be getting exactly what he has always wanted if they succeed, which they won't," Branwen looked ahead as she spoke, her expression unreadable. "Namely complete control over Western Dumnonia and Cerniw. He has obviously struck some kind of deal with King Vortigern, allowing his armies unhindered access through his lands. But I fear his ambitions will not stop there. I'll warrant that he is after the throne of Dumnonia itself, albeit under the high kingship of Vortigern."

Alwyn frowned. "But surely Gorlois has sworn to uphold the rule of King Erbin, just as Julianus has done in the east?"

Branwen let out a humourless laugh. "Oaths of loyalty do not hold men such as Gorlois, especially oaths made to a crippled boy king. He will do exactly what he has to do to further his own ambitions. Gold and riches are all he cares about and King Vortigern has plenty of both."

"So why wait until now to attack us?" One of the other lords accompanying us asked.

"Is that not obvious, Macsen? They saw the Pendragon weakened by the death of Lord Drustan. They think that a mere woman cannot unify her warlords and are hoping that they will defect and swear fealty to King Vortigern, especially now that he has righteousness on his side. The theft of the Holy Chalice and the burning of the church at Ynys Wytryn has given him the perfect excuse to attack. He will then have a foothold in Dumnonia from which to attack Julianus in the east. Once Dumnonia has fallen, the other lands still resistant to Vortigern's rule will capitulate. Unfortunately for him, the Pendragon remain unified."

"Then someone must get word through to King Erbin, or better still, Julianus," Macsen said. "Surely he would come to our aid if we can hold out long enough."

Branwen considered this and nodded. "My ex-husband's army is second to none. Many of them are Romans who came over with him from Armorica and they fight with the discipline of the legions of old. If he thinks his son is in danger, he will come. As for King Erbin, he is just a boy who will likely never see manhood and I fear that his advisors wield the real power and I'm not sure where their loyalties lie, but I do know that he has little love for the Pendragon. The other problem is, Vortimer has us surrounded and intends to besiege us."

"I will go, my lady," I said humbly.

Branwen, Macsen and Alwyn all turned to look at me.

"I could leave under cover of darkness and get through their lines. I will go and speak to Lord Julianus personally and get him to send aid."

"And risk getting caught by those Saxon animals?" Macsen said incredulously. "Do you know what they would do to you if they caught you, lad?"

"I am fully aware of what could happen," I replied. "But I would say we have no choice. We are outnumbered by two, maybe even three to one. If no one goes for help, then we are doomed."

“Young Fergus speaks sense,” Alwyn said with a shrug. “Duke Julianus’ forces could make all the difference to us.”

Branwen pursed her lips thoughtfully. “If it comes to it Fergus, then I may be calling upon your services. Be ready.”

I gave a dutiful nod and looked at the ranks upon ranks of spearmen assembled outside of Caer Dor as we rode up the slope towards the fortress. It was an impressive and terrifying sight to see so many warriors ready for battle, their shields forming a wall of painted limewood and I wondered briefly how our forces looked to the enemy, who were even now approaching at a steady pace from the east and the north.

From the Irish ranks to the north, I could hear the distant skirl of pipes and the thundering of war drums. From the Saxon ranks to the east came the occasional guttural, barbaric chant and the blaring of horns. My blood stirred as our own war drums began to beat in response to the enemy and our warriors began to sing one of their many battle songs, their voices lifting through the spring air and drowning out the distant foe.

Branwen drew her sword and held it aloft, riding before her assembled soldiers. Eventually an expectant silence fell as the men looked upon the daughter of Drustan Pendragon for some words of encouragement.

“Noble warriors of the Pendragon. On this day we face a foe the likes of which we have not faced since the arrival of the legions of Rome. They outnumber us and surround us, but our reputation as fierce warriors precede us. I see this not as the end, but as an opportunity. An opportunity to show our foes that they have met their match. An opportunity to send a message to the usurper Vortigern that the Pendragon will not be subjugated or beaten. That we are the descendants of a long line of proud warriors that have bled and fought for their rights to live in this land since time immemorial. Proud and noble warriors of Dumnonia, will you bleed with me now?”

A great cheer erupted from the ranks and men thrust their spears into the air and banged the shafts against the backs of their shields to create a thunderous noise that echoed through the valleys. I felt a surge of pride at being amongst such people at a time like this. The warriors of the Pendragon were feared by all and their reputation for ferocity and tenacity was well known throughout the land. The clan chiefs who had accompanied us rode off to their men, strengthened by Branwen’s words.

We rode back to the gates of Caer Dor, the ranks of cheering men parting to let us through.

"I want you to stay within the palisade," Branwen said to me. "You will help to defend the walls if the enemy comes near, I hear you are a good shot with that bow of yours. If the walls are breached you are to defend Uther with your life. Understood?"

I gave a slight bow. "Yes, my lady."

"Now I must go out and lead my men to battle. May the gods be with you, Fergus Halfhelm."

"And with you, my lady."

Branwen left to ride before her men again to more uproarious cheers while I climbed one of the ladders up to the wooden walkway on the inside of the palisade so that I could get a better view of the battle. Men waited tensely with bows, spears and slings, ready for the assault that many felt was inevitable. A couple of young boys ran along distributing sheaves of arrows behind us.

From my vantage point, I could see the enemy forces clearly. I was looking east, towards the horde of Saxons and estimated their number to be six hundred at least. To the north was a confederation of Irish and Picts, numbering around four hundred, led no doubt by Fiachu mac Niall, the sound of their pipes and drums growing ever closer. But somewhere to the west was Vortigern's main force, eight hundred men with Roman siege weapons. If they were to reach Caer Dor, our defences would be smashed in a matter of hours.

Somewhere overhead came the distant rumble of thunder as the sky blackened and the temperature dropped considerably. I felt the first spattering of rain on my face and I could overhear men muttering about bad omens. I could not help thinking that they were right and bit my lip with frustration, annoyed at Branwen's stubborn decision to reject my offer to find help.

"I've never seen so many men before," Diarmuid said with a terrified awe. He was clutching his spear and I could see his hand was shaking. "Have you ever fought in a battle this size before, Fergus?"

I shook my head. Up until then, I thought that I was a seasoned warrior, but realised that all the battles that I had fought in had been mere skirmishes compared to this.

"Don't worry lads, we'll hold them."

We turned to see the portly figure of Enfys, a seasoned veteran in his forties who had been appointed captain of the defences. He carried a burning torch in one hand and had his other hand over the head of a Frankish war axe, no doubt a souvenir of some campaign years ago on the continent.

"Those Saxons are going to take some beating, mind. They have no fear of death you see. They are taught from the moment they stop sucking on their mother's tit that the most glorious thing is to die in battle. They believe that if they die well that they will spend eternity in Valhalla with their warrior god, Woden, eating, drinking, fucking and fighting forever."

"Sounds good to me," Diarmuid said with a nervous grin.

"Well let's do the bastards a favour and send them on their way. And one word of advice. Don't let them catch you alive, they are the cruellest most ruthless sons of whores I have ever known."

The Saxons were chanting and thumping their shields as they closed the distance between our army and theirs. Suddenly, two men, naked except for bear skin cloaks, broke the Saxon ranks and sprinted forwards, hurling their spears high into the air. The spears sailed clear over the heads of our men and landed harmlessly in the ground behind.

Our troops jeered derisively at the two hopelessly long spear throws and began their own chant.

Enfys shook his shaggy, grey haired head. "Fools. They think they missed. They don't realise that those two Saxons did that on purpose."

"Why did they do that?" I asked.

"They are offering our souls to Woden. It's what they do before battle."

Our men responded with a barrage of javelins, arrows and slingshots, causing the Saxons to crouch behind their large round shields as the lethal missiles pummelled into their ranks.

They responded in turn with their own barrage and I heard several cries from our men and saw some of them drop.

Filled with anger, I knocked an arrow onto the string of my short bow and fired it in a high arc that sailed over our army and landed amongst the Saxons. Before it had landed, I had fired another one and then the other men on the ramparts were following my lead, firing volley after volley into the Saxon ranks.

Suddenly a great cry went up and the Saxons surged forwards, screaming in their guttural, barbaric language. I was glad not to be in the front line of our shieldwall. The Saxons were big, averaging at least half a head taller than the Britons, fair haired and blue eyed demons filled with battle frenzy, welcoming death like an old friend, seasoned warriors who had been weaned on war and death.

As the two opposing armies clashed there was the familiar thunderous thump of shield on shield accompanied by loud grunts as the men of both sides put their weight behind their shields in an attempt to break the opposing ranks. I raised my bow again, but Enfys stilled my arm with a hand on my shoulder.

"Too risky now, lad. You could hit our own men. Quickly, to the northern ramparts, the Irish are attacking."

We made our way along the narrow walkway to the northern end of the palisade. Here our men were spread more thinly, but were still a force to be reckoned with.

The Irish were still beating their drums and I could see the blue painted faces of Picts and Masraighe amongst their ranks. On their left flank, I could see the war banner of Wynfor, the chieftain who had declined to swear loyalty to Lady Branwen. He had brought around fifty men to the field and they stood with their shields touching.

“Treacherous bastards,” Enfys shouted at them, but his voice was lost in the clamour of pipes and drums from the Irish.

One Irish warrior stepped forwards holding aloft a sword and an axe in defiance of his enemies to the cheers and chants of his comrades.

My blood chilled when I heard the name they were chanting. That name was Fiachu, chanted over and over again whilst banging their shields with their weapons.

I looked down upon the man who had destroyed my friends and family, who had enslaved the girl that I had loved and I watched with boiling hatred as he swaggered back and forth, shouting encouragement to his men.

I drew the string of my bow back to my ear and let the arrow fly. It was a long shot and I knew that it was more than likely wasted, but anger had overcome rationality and I wanted to do something, anything even if there was only a slim chance of killing the youngest son of King Niall. The arrow shot through the air and landed in the ground at Fiachu's feet. He reached down, pulled it from the ground and snapped it, laughing derisively before returning to his men.

Suddenly the Irish ranks parted and a group of black robed druids bearing a litter came forwards. At the head of the procession was Malbach, holding his staff before him with his one hand and yelling curses at our men. Seated on the litter was Sinusa, her thin white hair flailing in the growing wind, her skeletal white arms raised to the heavens as she called down the wrath of Crom Cruach upon us.

"What's happening to the sky?" Diarmuid said breathlessly, looking up.

My eyes were drawn upwards, away from the screeching druids to the sky above. Dark clouds were swirling and boiling, accompanied by the angry growl of thunder. A cold wind whipped around us and a flurry of hail blew into our faces.

"Men of flesh and blood I can face, but this is sorcery. This does not bode well for us," Enfys said, turning his face away from the whipping hail.

"They call upon Crom Cruach to destroy us," I shouted back over the wind.

Suddenly there was a blood chilling shriek and the Pictish and Masraighe warriors charged forwards into a shower of missiles from our ranks. I loosed off several arrows before the two armies collided down below. Some of the Picts leapt up high, placing one foot on their opponent’s shield and attempted to leap over the front ranks of our men, stabbing down at their exposed backs with sword and spear. It was a tactic I had seen them use before with deadly efficiency and it was one that my own people also employed.

"What do we do now?" Diarmuid asked as we stared down at the men hacking and stabbing at one another.

"We watch and we wait," Enfys replied. "And if those bastards come anywhere near our walls, we let them have everything we've got."

The air was filled with the clash of steel on steel, the thud of sword and axe on wooden shields and the cries and shouts of men murdering one another.

I stood transfixed by the carnage below. I had never seen a battle from such a vantage point before as previously I had only ever witnessed a battle as a participant where all you see is a tangle of hacking limbs, the flash of steel blades and faces contorted with rage and pain. From where I was, I was thankful that I could not smell the smells as well; the cloying odour of spilled blood, of heaving, sweating bodies and the stench of opened bowels.

The battle raged on in the ferocious storm, hail and blood turning the ground into a quagmire of thick mud. Several times the Irish, Picts and Saxons fell back to rest and reform, unable to break our shield wall and our men jeered and cursed them, pelting them with javelins and slingstones as they fell back exhausted. Injured men were retrieved by both sides from the carpet of corpses that littered the ground and bodies were looted for jewellery and weapons by several daring individuals. During the lulls in hostilities, the moans and cries of the injured and dying rang out poignantly. Men sobbed like babies, some crying out for their mothers and wives as their lives gradually slipped away into the mud. Exhausted warriors sat on the wet ground leaning on their spears and staring into nothingness whilst women sallied forth from the fortress to tend the wounded and strengthen the troops with warm soup from a large black cauldron.

"We must break them before the main force arrives otherwise we will be in trouble," Enfys said, accepting a bowl of soup handed to him by a young boy.

The black druids were once again raining down their curses upon us and Sinusa was carried forwards again on her litter, just out of arrow shot. She had her arms raised once again and was screaming out in the Sacred Tongue to her dark god.

“I wish someone would shoot that damned witch,” Enfys said, peering over the palisade.

“Believe me, I would dearly love to, but my bow string is wet and next to useless,” I replied.

As we watched, the hail storm stopped and the thunder died away to a distant roar.

“By the gods will you look at that,” Enfys muttered in quiet amazement.

A great ring of mist was rising up from the ground before our very eyes, its spectral tendrils enshrouding and obscuring the enemy armies until they were virtually invisible, leaving us looking out incredulously at a surrounding wall of swirling white fog.

“How do we fight an enemy we cannot see?” One of the defenders on the ramparts cried out.

The men around us began to murmur nervously about sorcery and dark magic and I knew then that Caer Dor would fall unless something drastic was done.

A loud hiss filled the air and several men yelled out as a great ball of fire descended out of the mist and landed within the enclosure with a crash, setting light to the stables. Another fell and another, smashing the timber buildings and setting them alight. These were followed by a rain of flaming ballista bolts the size of spears, thudding into the walls and ground. The people down below began to panic and scatter, some seeking shelter, others seeking a means to douse the flames.

“They’re using the siege weapons!” Enfys yelled. “They used the mist to cover their advance. Now they’re just going to pound us until Caer Dor is nothing but flaming timbers.”

“We can’t just sit here and do nothing,” I said. “I must find Branwen.”

I ran along the ramparts and down a wooden ladder. On the ground within the enclosure, chaos had ensued. Animals and people ran wildly in all directions. Pigs squealed and horses bucked and panicked as missile after missile rained down upon us.

I saw Brynmor approaching across the enclosure, his sword raised in salutation. suddenly, he looked up and yelled out, pushing me aside as a flaming ballista bolt missed me by a hand's breadth and struck him in the stomach, the force of the bolt knocking him backwards and impaling him against the wall of the blacksmith’s workshop.

I ran towards him to try to help, but the flames from the spear sized shaft drove me back. They licked up his chest and seared his face as he let out an agonized, gasping scream. He tried to cover his face with his arms, but the flames caught quickly and he began to burn and soon he was shrieking in agony, begging for me to kill him.

I drew my sword and asking his forgiveness with tears in my eyes I plunged the blade into his chest, piercing his heart and killing him instantly. His flaming body slumped, pinned to the log wall of the blacksmith’s workshop and I turned away, numbed with grief, barely aware of the shouting people and the great chunks of burning pitch soaked timber landing nearby.

After a while the rain of missiles ceased, but shortly afterwards someone up on the ramparts yelled out, snapping me out of my sorrow.

“The Saxons have breached our lines! They are attacking!”

I ran over to a nearby ladder and climbed back up onto the fighting platform, putting an arrow to the string of my bow and looking down upon the battlefield.

The Saxons and the Irish had indeed taken advantage of the lull in the bombardment and using the fog as cover had managed to infiltrate our lines, surrounding our troops whilst others charged forwards with ladders ready to scale our palisade. I noticed too the Chalice banner of Lord Glaesten approaching our left flank rapidly. His mounted men, who up until now had been holding back in reserve, now came galloping out of the mist with their Chalice pennants fluttering on their lances, charging at full speed into the flanks of our army.

The shield wall was at last broken and now individuals and small groups fought isolated, chaotic battles of survival against the oncoming enemies.

Some of our men broke ranks and ran for the safety of the fortress. The gates were opened briefly to let them in, only to be closed again and barred shut with timbers as thick as a man's waist slotted into iron brackets.

I fired arrow after arrow into the horde of Saxons directly below until my fingers were raw and slick with blood from the friction of my bow string. Barrels of flaming pitch, rocks and cauldrons of boiling water were thrown down upon the besieging foe below, but still they came, breaching our defensive ditch with wooden planks and holding their shields over their heads as our missiles pounded down on them, several of our men fell screaming from the ramparts into the ditch below as the enemy fired back sporadically with arrows and sling stones.

I ran over to assist Diarmuid and another man trying to push back a ladder that had landed against our palisade, but it was too heavy to move as a number of Saxons were already climbing it with their shields held over their heads as they came.

We waited until the first man was nearly up, then Diarmuid and the other man grabbed him by his bearskin cloak and hauled him over the ramparts. I put my foot on his back to hold him down and then smashed his skull open with my sword. We hurled his limp corpse down into the enclosure below and then waited for the next man, a ferocious looking red bearded giant who leapt over the ramparts before we could grab him, swinging a great axe that splintered Diarmuid’s shield, the force of the blow knocking him off of the fighting platform and sending him tumbling into the enclosure. I looked down to see that Diarmuid had landed on the corpse of the man that I had dispatched and he was doubled over and clutching his sides, but I could not see any blood and assumed that the fall had merely cracked a few ribs and knocked the wind out of him.

The other man leapt onto the barbarian’s back, holding a dagger, but the Saxon swung him easily over his shoulder and over the palisade into the heaving mass of warriors, who hacked his body into a bloody mess.

With a bellow of rage, the huge Saxon turned to face me and swung his heavy axe in a great circle around his head. I ducked the first swing, which sailed over my head with a rush of air, but he skilfully reversed the attack and I was forced backwards to avoid his backswing.

I waited again for the split second between his powerful attacks and then lunged forwards, punching out with the iron boss of my shield and feeling it crunch against the bones of his face. The Saxon staggered backwards, spitting out shards of teeth, his beard stained with blood from his smashed nose and mouth, giving me an opportunity to bring my blade down at an angle, burying it deep between his neck and his shoulder. The man’s blue eyes glazed as he sank to his knees and I pulled the sword free with a grunt, feeling the blade squeak against bone as he toppled sideways off of the walkway. I ran back to the ladder, but more Saxons had already pulled themselves over the palisade. One of them thrust his spear at me and the tip of it snagged on my mail shirt. I felt the blade slice my flesh, but fortunately my mail had absorbed and deflected most of the blow, so that the spear head did not pierce any organs.

With a grunt of pain, I slashed down with my sword, breaking the shaft of his spear in half, quickly advancing on the Saxon warrior who now only held a splintered stick as a weapon.

I swung my shield at him, knocking him sideways off of the walkway and ignoring the pain in my abdomen, advanced into the fray ahead of me.

I saw Enfys attacking from the opposite side to me and between us, we managed to clear the ramparts of the few Saxons that had scaled the palisade, pushing the ladder aside with a grunt of effort.

“You’re hurt lad.” Enfys said, breathing heavily after the brief but desperate fight.

I shook my head, looking down at the ragged hole in my mail and the blood leaking out of it.

“It’s a flesh wound,” I replied through gritted teeth. “I’ll be fine.”

The assault continued until the sound of war horns in the distance signalled for the enemy to fall back. We cheered as they retreated, shouting insults and pelting rocks and arrows at them as they vanished into the mist to rest and reform.

I slumped down onto the walkway next to Enfys, exhausted and bleeding. He insisted that I went down to have the wound seen to, so I eventually relented and climbed down from the ramparts into the enclosure below.

Most of the fires that had been started by the pitch soaked timber missiles from the catapults and ballistae were now out or under control, but the dead bodies of men and animals lay scattered all around. Women tended to the wounded under the shelter of an old lean to used for storing firewood. I made my way over to them, my hand clasped over the leaking wound in my side.

A small woman, elderly but not old, came over and took my arm, leading me to a bale of hay on which I sat.

"Are you hurt bad my dear?" she enquired, her voice kind and full of concern.

I looked around at the scores of wounded, moaning men. Some had lost limbs or had them smashed by falling missiles whilst others had been burnt beyond recognition, or had their insides seeping out from ragged wounds caused by axe and sword and spear. I shook my head and gave her a reassuring grin.

"Such a brave lad," she said absently as she helped undo my sword belt. "Now let's get this armour off and see what we can do."

The woman cleaned, sewed and dressed my wound while I sat and listened to the war drums and pipes outside of the palisade. A loud whoosh was followed by a destructive crash as Vortimer's men resumed their bombardment of Caer Dor.

Panicked shouts went up as the missile landed harmlessly in a patch of clear ground, sending a shower of sparks in all directions. The old woman did not flinch, but carried on tending my wound.

"Where the hell have you been hiding?" Someone said, sitting on a hay bale beside me. It was Geraint, a thick, blood stained bandage tied around his head at an angle. He was chewing on a piece of salted pork with as much care as if he were attending a wedding feast..

"Manning the palisade," I replied, wincing as the woman severed the thread binding my wound with her teeth. "Brynmor’s dead." I added flatly.

Geraint turned his face away, but I could still read the emotion and grief in the tension of his body and the set of his broad shoulders.

"How?" he asked.

"Ballista bolt hit him. It wasn't quick or pleasant."

Geraint shook his head and gritted his teeth in frustration. "We can't just sit here and let them pound us like this. We won't last until sunrise."

I nodded in agreement as I watched the fiery trail of another missile come smashing into the enclosure, sending men and horses scattering for cover. I heard a familiar woman’s voice shouting orders and I saw Branwen striding through the enclosure, flanked by her bodyguard, her slender sword stained with blood.

I stood, thanking the old woman and made my way over to Lady Branwen. She turned towards me, her burning eyes and braided red hair making her look like a goddess of war.

I knelt before her, head lowered. "My lady, my offer still stands."

Branwen silenced her clamouring warriors with a raised hand.

"Do you think you can get through their lines without being caught?"

I looked up at the surrounding mist. "With this fog on my side, I think so."

She bit her lip as she considered my proposal. The crash of another missile and the sound of splintering wood seemed to sway her opinion.

"Very well. You must take Uther with you. Ride with all haste to Caer Cadwy and get him to his father at any cost. Where are your companions?"

"Brynmor is dead my lady and Diarmuid is incapacitated. Geraint is the only other who can make the journey with me."

"Then he must go with you too," she turned to one of her men. "Bring the swiftest horses you can find for these men and my son. Gather the others for an attack. We will create a diversion so that they can get away with Uther," she turned back to me again, pulling a gem encrusted ring from her finger and handing it to me.

"This was given to me by Julianus, when we were once lovers." Her mouth became twisted by the bitterness of distant memories and her eyes began to fill with tears. "He no longer cares for me, but he will come for the sake of his son. Hand this to him personally and he will know you speak the truth."

I took the ring and placed it in a leather pouch on my belt. "I will return with Lord Julianus," I said resolutely.

Branwen forced a smile. "Go then, Fergus Halfhelm. And may Lugh's blessing be with you."

In a short while, Alwyn ap Glyn had organised two score of armed horsemen ready to sally forth and assault the enemy.

I was given a sleek black stallion, whose owner had perished earlier in the day and Geraint had a chestnut mare with a white patch on its forehead, whilst Uther rode his dark brown palfrey. He was also wearing a coat of mail, custom made for his size and a helmet with a bronze faceplate, cast in the likeness of a Roman god, which also helped to disguise his identity.

The faceplate was raised and he looked at me with a desultory stare.

"When we get through the gates, stay close to me, Uther," I said, checking the keenness of my blade. "You must ride hard and fast. Don't hesitate and do not stop under any circumstances, understand?"

"I don't want to go to my father," Uther said petulantly. "I want to stay here and kill Saxons."

"You want to kill Saxons, boy?" Geraint interjected. "Then we'll leave you outside these walls with a sword and a shield. See how far you get."

Uther gave him a hateful glare but remained silent as Alwyn cantered over to me on his sturdy mount, his face hidden by an aventail of mail that hung from the eye protectors of his helm.

"Here's the plan my lad," he said, accepting a lance and shield from a retainer. "We ride out and smash through those Saxon scum like a hot knife through butter. Cynyr’s horsemen are out there as well waiting for us. They will lead the charge and we will follow. Once through, you carry on going. Ride like your arse is on fire and don't stop until you reach Caer Cadwy. Is that clear?"

I nodded in reply, taking my place near the rear ranks of the horsemen. The order was given and several men raised the thick wooden bars and the gates were opened. Alwyn ap Glyn gave the signal and one of the horsemen sounded a war horn and with a ferocious yell, we rode forth into the mist.

Next Chapter: An Excerpt from Chapter 4, Book 3: ’Dragon’s Exile’