Jack Whyte - Uther

Within moments of the death of his commanding general, a lacklustre nonentity called Dennys ap Corfyl found himself promoted, ipso facto, to the rank of senior surviving chieftain in a trapped army. The hapless fellow, caught flat-footed, was overwhelmed by circumstances beyond his control or understanding. To young Ullic Pendragon, who had only recently celebrated his seventeenth birthday, it was evident that the man was totally at a loss. What few wits the fellow possessed were by that time thoroughly addled, and the faces of the men around him, who looked to him for leadership and salvation, were beginning to show strain and signs of panic.

Ullic reacted immediately and without thought, springing forward from where he stood and using a nearby boulder to help him jump up to a rocky ledge where all could see him and know who he was. For the first time ever, he raised his great voice to draw all eyes to him, and then he began to issue orders, crisp and terse and succinct. It never crossed his mind, after that first step, that anyone would seek or wish to gainsay him, and the men he harangued accepted his command immediately and instinctively, moving to obey his fast-flying instructions without the slightest hesitation.

He called on all of them to form up in their clan groups behind him and to follow the moves of his uncle's own personal guard of clansmen, over which he then assumed undisputed control. As he took his place at their head, they cheered him once, loudly and deeply, as their kinsman and commander, and then he led them forward, directly towards the left centre of the enemy army that had outflanked them. Inspired by his fiery enthusiasm, they smashed through the extended enemy formation facing them and then wheeled back to left and right, the sheer mass of their numbers and the fury of their determination rolling the enemy up in confusion, battering at them and pressing them back upon themselves so that they hampered each other in their dense-packed closeness.

There was nothing Roman about the way Pendragon warriors fought. They fought as their ancestors had, in small, tight-knit groups of individuals who knew and trusted each other completely. Capable of combining with other groups to form heavy and dense formations, they preferred to preserve the integrity of their small units, guarding one another's back and generally combining their weight and initiative to achieve the ultimate in ferocity and, with that, victory. Ullic, they quickly learned, could lead them with the sureness of a master, inspiring all of them with his flamboyant leadership, his courage, his immense strength and his great roaring voice. Within a very short space of time on that first day, the Pendragon forces went from being outflanked and close to defeat to being utterly dominant, sending their attackers reeling and finally routing them completely.

That afternoon when the battle was over and the last of the fleeing enemy survivors had disappeared, one of his father's senior veterans brought Ullic the dead War Chief's great helmet, and backed by the cheers and applause of the army, he insisted that the young man put it on. It was against tradition, for no one ever presumed to wear the Eagle Crown of a dead War Chief, but the day had been special, and Ullic felt he had acquitted himself well and given honour to his uncle and his kinsmen, and so he held the helmet above his head, straight-armed, and then lowered it gently over his brows, shouting his father's name.

At that moment, as the weight of the heavy helmet settled on his brows, young Ullic felt the truth at last: his uncle was dead. The knowledge must have overwhelmed him. Unable to speak, he removed the helmet at once and held it up in front of him, blinking his eyes rapidly until they grew clear enough for him to see and appreciate what he was looking at. The Eagle Crown was the personal symbol of the War Chief of the Pendragon Federation. Each one was different, just as each man who held the post was different, and for the making of each crown a golden eagle, the greatest and most majestic of all birds of prey, had to die.

The body of each Eagle Crown was a curved, conical helmet of fine iron, larger and more massive-looking, although actually less thick than a regular war helmet. Specially crafted to be an exact fit for the head of the new War Chief, its interior was padded and filled, then lined with a wide, thick, comfortable leather headband. High on the front of this huge helmet, the eagle's head was affixed, cunningly worked and furnished with gleaming, wicked eyes of glass above the polished, viciously curving beak. Beneath that the feathers of the neck and breast swept down to cover all sign of the helmet's iron forehead. The wings, folded but partially open, their pinions not quite at rest, were then fitted carefully on each side, and the magnificent tail feathers were attached behind, meticulously set, arranged and spread so that they swept outwards and down to cover the shoulders of the wearer. It was as though the wearer carried a living eagle on his head, poised to take flight. Each Eagle Crown was a superb work of art, a tribute to the man who wore it and to the skills and energy of the craftsmen who fashioned it, and this one had belonged to Daffyd Pendragon. He would never wear it again, nor would Ullic ever see him again. He turned away, holding the crown out to the man who had brought it to him. The other took it in silence, and Ullic walked away; the onlookers watched him leave in utter silence.

Ullic Pendragon became the most admired War Chief the Federation had ever produced. His armies never suffered a defeat in all the years of his command, and his fame was widespread, his name known and respected far beyond the boundaries of his own lands. Even the Roman Overlords, as they used to call themselves, admired and respected Ullic for what he was.

Now Ullic's grandson, Uther, could feel the weight of the legacy of his forefathers lying heavily on his soul. Five generations of his direct ancestors, one after the other, had borne the title King of the Federation. Would his be the hands to lose their grip on the title?

Uther kicked his horse into motion and hurried to join his men, who were taking a well-deserved rest at the top of the hill.

Once the troops had fed and watered their mounts and enjoyed a brief respite from their saddles. Nemo Hard-Nose, the decurion in charge, barked the order to remount. Uther stirred himself, brushing away the crumbs of dried nuts and grain that had fallen on his breast as he ate from the small bag of food in his scrip. He pulled the drawstring tight, slipped the leather bag back into his pouch and rose to his feet, making his way to his horse without having said a word to anyone since he dismounted. For once he was completely unaware of the looks on the faces of the men as they filed past him, until one wag barked out, "King's escort. Commander!"

Uther's head jerked at that, and then he barked a solitary note of laughter before swinging up into his saddle, kicking his horse into motion and riding forward alone, passing the forty men of his squadron and delivering an occasional offhand remark to one or another of them until he rode at their head again.

The ground over which they now rode was utterly different from the thickly forested land at the bottom of the steep ascent they had just climbed, and they made swift, easy progress riding across a treeless, gently sloping plateau that fell away to the west and southwest, covered with long, tasselled grasses that reached as high as their horses' bellies. The terrain was studded in places with high, solitary granite tors that reminded Uther of menhirs, the ancient upright monoliths that his people believed were the dwelling places or the resting places of their gods. A movement caught his eye in the distance below, and for a time he watched the moving dot that he knew to be a returning scout making his way towards them. When less than a hundred paces separated him from the man, Uther held up his arm to halt his column and rode forward alone to greet the newcomer.