Warrior of the West by M. K. Hume Page A

maps were laid neatly on the sod floor. Odin had filled one jug with clean water and another with red wine; Targo filled a goblet of the latter almost to the rim, found a comfortable bench and drank delicately.
    Then, when he had wiped his mouth on his sleeve, he turned his attention to his master.
    ‘You’ve been brooding, boy - and counting your losses, instead of your successes. Do that too often and you’re—’
    ‘Dead,’ Artor cut in. ‘I know, Targo, I know.’
    He selected one of the maps in the chest, unrolled it and thrust it towards Targo. The old mercenary turned it in several directions, squinted at it with eyes set in deep wrinkles, and then shrugged.
    ‘Where are we?’ he asked. His eyes were too weak to follow the details of the terrain.
    ‘We are here,’ Artor pointed with one long finger. ‘And there is the water. Outside the tent you can see the Sabrina Aest.’
    ‘Hmm.’
    While Targo struggled to interpret the rough map, Artor mentally ticked off his preparations for the coming war. He had contrived to strip the fortresses of the central mountain chain of all but small, token forces of cavalry and archers. His flanks were protected by the range of mountains to the rear of Venta Silurum, and the tribal chieftains of the Silures could be depended upon to protect any retreat.
    The mountains themselves were steep, rain-swept and coldly arid, and any edge Artor could devise would be needed if his cavalry were to be effective. But where his army was going, force of arms would never be enough to take the fierce heights that the Romans had named Moridunum, with its suggestion of death. The sound of the word rolled from his tongue as he said it aloud, much like the hollow drumming of thunder.
    ‘What?’ Targo raised his shaggy grey head.
    ‘Moridunum, where we are going, old man. Or Caer Fyrddin, if you prefer its name in the old tongue. It’s at the very heart of Ironfist’s country.’ Artor pointed to a rough location on the map, and Targo grunted irritably.
    ‘The Romans knew their business, didn’t they, Artor? Look. He who holds the high ground rules the coast.’
    Artor nodded in agreement.
    Myrddion had spoken of the fortresses strung along the coast like stone beads linked by cobbled roads. The Romans had known that the Sabrina Aest gave access to the greener, more fertile fields of the south-west. The old garrisons controlled the heights from Gelligaer to Glevum, but Moridunum controlled the heights of the far west of Britain.
    The Demetae had once held the long finger of bleak mountains that reached out into the rolling grey seas of the west. But generations of Saxon incursions had cut these Celts off from their brethren, and now the Saxon influence had further weakened the traditional culture and sense of self of the Demetae tribe until they had become an embittered people who were withering in the new, perilous winds of the west. Artor had smashed the children of Hengist far into the north beyond Deva, but the flea-bitten, sullen settlements in Demetae country had been ignored.
    For now, the Saxon influence was strong, and they had become arrogant after years of domination.
    With relative ease, Artor’s warriors had moved to positions where they were within range of Ironfist’s strong right arm. Now was the time to eliminate the usurper and all his works.
    ‘We must teach Ironfist that he is the thane of a dung heap, not a nation,’ Targo growled.
    Myrddion, Luka, and Llanwith, Artor’s inner circle and the three men who had shaped his life, entered the High King’s tent bearing wine jugs, wooden cups and handfuls of nuts, dried meat and apples. With them came the pleasant scent of newly cut grass, fire smoke and sword oil, and the High King felt his spirits rise.
    Since Artor was no longer alone, Odin shrugged his way into the tent and stood, ever watchful, in one corner. He looked like a very large and excessively hairy troll. Time had barely touched the Jute, except to dull