Jack Whyte - Uther

Once Lagan had arrived, however, they wasted no time on civilities. He dismounted and adjusted Uther's stirrups back to their proper length, which was clearly indicated by the deep-grooved buckle marks on the leather straps. Uther watched him, smiling but saying nothing, then swung himself up into his saddle and leaned down to clasp the other's hand one last time. A brief word of thanks and a wish to meet again soon, and he turned his horse around and headed northward, taking care to remain well below the skyline of the high land on his right, since on the other side of it, some score of miles again northeast of the Crag Fort and close to the seacoast, lay Gulrhys Lot's home stronghold of Golant.

Almost four hours later, two of which had been spent cursing uselessly at the bitter, gale-force wind that had sprung up from nowhere and had several times battered him with gusts strong enough to threaten to blow him off his horse, Uther caught sight of the long, transverse ridge that swept inland and upward from the estuary of the western river the local people called the Cam. The ridge concealed his own encampment from the southward, but nothing could have concealed the enormous, wind-torn clouds of black, heavy smoke that swept along the horizon. Fighting against the alarm that flared in his breast, he put the spurs to his horse and drove forward in a flat-out gallop, wondering what had gone wrong this time.

What had gone wrong was soon clear. A raiding party of seagoing marauders, Ersemen or perhaps Franks—Uther had no way of knowing what they were, other than Outlanders—had sailed up the small river estuary and landed looking for plunder. They had seen the cavalry encampment with a single double squadron in residence, and estimating their own strength against the party they could see, they had guessed that the wind blowing from their backs would give them a fine advantage and decrease the odds they would be fighting against. And so they had fired the long grass, thinking that the grazing horses would scatter in fright and be lost, and that they themselves could then charge right into the enemy encampment under cover of the smoke that would be blowing ahead of them. What they had failed to see was the second double squadron of Dragons riding back towards them from a patrol to the northwest, over their shoulders, and the camp of Popilius Cirro's thousand men in the bottom of a well-watered but narrow valley just beyond the cavalry encampment.

The fight had been short and sharp, and Uther, who was still some distance away and approaching rapidly, watched with approval as Garreth Whistler, in command of the returning cavalry, called off the chase that would have put an end to all of the surviving raiders. Uther doubted that they had enough men left to man their craft, and Garreth plainly had more urgent matters on his mind. The raging grass fire that the Outlanders had started was burning out of control, sparks and whirling embers blown everywhere by the wind so that the conflagration was spreading faster than a man could run. It had already crossed the Hat plain of the ridge's top and swept down into the narrow valley behind, where the wind funnelled it and led it directly to the rows of infantry tents that lined the hillsides.

The fire lasted only moments, but the damage it did in that time was appalling. More than half of the infantry's leather tents, all ranged in perfect formation and clean lines, were destroyed, along with everything in them. And two of their four remaining commissary wagons had been badly burned, the bone-dry wooden bodies and wheel spokes catching fire instantly and blazing fiercely before the vehicles could be run out into the bed of the stream that wound through the valley bottom. Everything that they contained, all the provisions and supplies, was either destroyed completely or rendered unfit to eat.

It was one more example of Uther's Luck, and the only grounds Uther had for gratitude lay in the fact that their hospital tents and wagons had been laid out and drawn up on the flat, gravelly bottomland of the bend on the far, north-facing bank of the stream. Four more large commissary wagons, long since emptied of provisions, had been turned over to hospital duties, and these were completely unharmed. There was little growth of any kind on the inhospitable ground there on the other side of the stream, for it was the flood lands of the little river, so although the storm of flying sparks and embers had swirled across the stream bed easily, the sparse grass that was there had been trodden down too thoroughly to burn fiercely.

Looking at the scene and visualizing the carnage that might have taken place had his wounded been trapped on the side of the stream nearest the fire, with its thick, dry grass, Uther sucked air sibilantly between tight lips and reminded himself that they were at the end of the campaigning season and due to go home soon anyway. Masking his disgust, he met with Popilius Cirro, Garreth Whistler, Huw Strongarm and the other officers and issued orders to break camp and form a column for one final march, to stamp out a crawling enemy column in passing, and then to head homeward to Camulod and a winter season of well-earned rest.

The march homeward was straightforward and presented them with no difficulties, despite the shortage of supplies caused by the fire. Even the enemy column, almost a thousand heavily armed men, caused them little trouble, for Herliss had been specific in his instructions, and his intelligence regarding the mercenary expedition was flawless. All of that, combined with the veteran Cornish- man's comprehensive knowledge of the terrain over which the enemy would be moving, virtually guaranteed a victory for the Camulodians.

Uther set his trap in a long, narrow, steep-sided defile that provided the only easy route between two neighbouring valleys. The place was an obvious setting for an ambush, of course, and the enemy commander scouted it thoroughly before committing his troops to advance, but Uther had anticipated that and planned for it. His own scouts lay in slight depressions on the open ground above the defile on both sides, covered by nets woven with grass torn from neighbouring clumps. From more than twenty paces, they were invisible to the enemy scouts, who were looking only for large parties of warriors. They were invisible, too, to Uther's own advance guard on both sides of the defile, until they stood up and signalled that the enemy scouts had withdrawn, satisfied that the way was safe.

Uther's Pendragon bowmen then launched themselves at the run, quickly covering the half mile from where they had lain concealed while the scouting progressed. As they approached the lip of the defile on both sides, they dropped to their bellies and remained there, concealed from everyone in the narrow passageway below until the signal came to bring them to their feet. As the bowmen sprang into view of the enemy, Uther's cavalry charged both ends of the passageway, blocking advance and retreat, and the hapless mercenaries, most of whom were on foot, rapidly fell into a confused piled of maimed men and corpses under the hissing, deadly accurate rain of long Pendragon arrows, against which they had no defence.

When it was over, Uther was well satisfied. His men had ended the campaign on a high note, with a victory that would soon resonate from one end to the other of Lot's domain. He sent men to collect the enemy baggage-and-supply train—a rich and valuable haul—and to count the slain, and he was unsurprised that they brought back a tally in excess of seven hundred dead, not one of whom was Camulodian or Cambrian. Not all of the slain had died of arrow wounds, and many had been slaughtered out of hand upon surrendering. Uther knew that well, but he made no attempt to question the report. The hundreds of wounded now left alive, he knew, would be sorely injured and would provide no further threat to him or his. The less badly wounded, who might have been inspired to fight again someday, had all been inspired instead, by their captors, to succumb to their injuries. That was the way wars were fought. Neither side had time nor resources to handle large numbers of prisoners. Local warriors, native to the land in which they fought, might reasonably expect that they would be spared to return to their own homes. Not so mercenaries. Mercenaries understood their own risks when they hired themselves out.