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

the redness of his beard.
    ‘Shite, lad,’ Targo hawked, and dropped the map on the table. ‘This terrain’s even bleaker than Deva, and the gods know that the north is a freezing pimple on the arse of the world. I suppose it rains on each and every day.’
    On cue, a light drizzle swept in from the sea, gradually becoming heavier until the leather roof began to sag under the weight of water collecting faster than it could drain away.
    ‘Stop complaining, Targo, and have some more wine,’ Luka offered, pouring the old legionnaire another cup, and passing him a rough pottery bowl of dried apples.
    Twelve years had turned Luka and Llanwith into ageing men, and countless days in the saddle had cured their skins to the texture and colour of seasoned oak, but Luka, in particular, still retained the grace of a hound, whether on foot or astride a mount. Both men wore kingly beards liberally streaked with grey, and lifetimes spent in battle gave their torsos thick roped strength, although Llanwith carried too much weight on his belly to be nimble. The heirs of both men guarded their tribes at home, but younger sons served as captains in Artor’s cavalry.
    Only Myrddion defied time. His hair was now mostly silver, except for the odd, disconcerting streak of black, still with the bluish hue of a raven’s wing. His face remained taut and smooth except for deep frown lines between his dark eyes, which still possessed all of their lustre and brilliance. He did not look young, yet he did not appear old. Rather, to the Celts of Artor’s Britain, Myrddion was simply Myrddion. He was a force of nature in his own right.
    ‘Have you any thoughts yet?’ Artor asked Targo who was relishing an apple with the last of his yellowed fangs.
    ‘I know that this coast is shite ground for horses.’
    ‘Would you prefer to walk then, my friend?’ Artor grinned with a flash of his own still-youthful, white teeth.
    ‘As if I could. My days of forced marches in the sodding rain with a full pack are long gone, thanks be to Mithras.’
    ‘Do you have any other suggestions, Targo?’ Myrddion asked the old soldier silkily, not entirely to defer to his experience or to flatter him. ‘You must have fought in the mountains often enough.’
    ‘Your sodding map speaks out the problem, clear as clear, or at least what I could see of it,’ Targo retorted, his wrinkles deepening around his sharp, raisin eyes as he squinted in the half-light. ‘It’s the damned high ground. The Saxons will always try to command the high ground, Artor. Caesar may have beaten that heathen Vercingetorix when he sulked in his fortress on the high ground in Gaul, but Caesar always had the devil’s own luck. And he had soldiers from the legions who were trained to obey him without question. And, if you’ll pardon me, my lords, Celt warriors aren’t a patch on the soldiers of the legions when it comes to discipline.’ Having said his piece, and ruffled the feathers of every man present except for Artor and Odin, who were impossible to insult, Targo gulped a mouthful of wine and grinned evilly.
    ‘Granted, friend Targo, but horses are capable of charging uphill.’ Luka may have been provoking Targo deliberately, but his affection for the Roman shone from his narrow, bearded face.
    ‘Would you like me to list the number of ways a good strategist can repel cavalry from above?’ Targo looked around the assembled faces. ‘The very first weapon I would consider is the use of rocks and stones.’ The old man gestured bluntly, and the listeners could picture a tumbling avalanche of scree engulfing men and horses on the hillsides. ‘Even children can throw stones - and, all told, horses are surprisingly fragile creatures.’
    Targo’s eyes did not smile although he spoke as if in jest.
    ‘If I was in the Saxon positions, I’d dig deep pits full of nice, sharp stakes to impale you as you charge up the hill. Then I’d regroup on another steep grade, and do it all over