Warrior of the West by M. K. Hume

encircled the battle chief and fought ferociously in hand-to-hand combat, but they could not prevail over Artor’s cavalry and archers. His bowmen cut down the shield wall with a rain of arrows, scarcely aimed but driving inexorably into the heart of the packed walls of Saxon flesh. Again and again, the deadly iron rain fell down on the press of men, until shields must be raised over their heads to protect the warriors from above, thereby exposing their torsos to even more volleys of arrows.
    Then, Artor ordered his cavalry to target the weakest points in the wall of shields and charge through flesh, bone and iron. As the interwoven shields crumpled under the force of tons of horseflesh, Artor whipped Coal hard into the press, searching for Katigern Oakheart. He could still remember the judder of the blow through arm and shoulder bones as Caliburn cleaved through Oakheart’s armoured head.
    Even with their leader down, the barbarians had refused to surrender, and the High King’s cavalry had been forced to kill every Saxon left standing.
    Artor tasted bile as he recalled the stench of the battlefield. The Celts had moved between heaped bodies of the dead and the dying on earth so rich in spilled blood that it was the colour of old rust, and Artor had winced each time a wounded Saxon was given the coup de grâce, for these men would neither be taken prisoner nor beg for mercy. The evening had been filled with the sounds of wounded men and dying horses. Artor had walked on the battlefield with Myrddion, who had blanched as his booted feet skidded on a slurry of blood and entrails.
    ‘How can you look on such carnage without sickening?’ Myrddion had asked his king on that bloody plain. ‘I can remember a time that you were as squeamish as I am.’
    ‘Because I must be harsh, my friend,’ Artor had replied, spreading his arms wide to encompass the muddy field and the wall of corpses. ‘I can finally understand why Uther came to hold life so cheaply, and why the suffering of others meant nothing to him. But every man who died here lies heavily on my soul, and I pray to all the gods that I do not forget what it is to remain human.’
    They died because of the rigidity of a warrior code that wouldn’t permit them to live and fight another day, Artor brooded to himself later in the safety of his tent walls. And because we adopted the notion of massed cavalry from the Romans, for which the Saxons have no tactical answer. They didn’t learn from Magnis or Pontes, so they lost once again. It was a slaughter.
    Now, sitting quietly at Venta Silurum many years later, he stared down at the flawless pearl ring upon his right thumb. It stared back up at him like a blinded eye rimmed with a crust of dried blood. How long can I keep fighting, he asked himself, when everything I have learned seems useless?
    In the darkening of day, he felt weary and lost.
    ‘You’re sitting in the dark, Artor. What ails you?’
    The High King jerked upright and his quick eyes recognized the familiar form slipping through the leather flap in the tent.
    ‘Targo! You startled me. I’ve been sitting over Myrddion’s maps for hours, and I was thinking about the battle at Eburacum . . . and how it all began . . .’
    Targo crossed to the camp desk where his master sat on a rough stool. He found the jar with its store of oil and a simple wick, and struck his flint with the economy of action that comes with years of practice. Once the tender fibre began to smoke, he blew on the tiny flame until it burst into vigorous, active life.
    Artor’s leather tent was exactly the same as those used by his warriors, except that it was much larger and was carried in the baggage train because of its tall posts. Through an open flap, Artor could see the dying sunset, so that now only the remaining banks of cloud were edged with blood-red. The simple camp furniture, light tin plates and goblets chosen for ease of transport, rather than beauty, and Artor’s chests of