Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

A strong, warm breeze sprang up out of the west soon after daylight and grew warmer as the sun climbed higher in the sky, so that by the time we set out, the small banners on our squadron leaders' spears were fluttering almost horizontally and our standard bearers were having difficulty with the great, square banners that proclaimed our identity: my own great silver bear, picked out on thick, black cloth, and the rampant dragon of Camulod, white on a field of red.

Our exodus seemed chaotic at first, since most of the throng who had gathered to welcome Germanus waited until we were ready to set forth, then fully half of them scattered to the winds to make their own ways homeward. By the time we had travelled half a mile, however, most of these travellers had disappeared from view and we were left alone, an arrow straight, strong column moving northward at the pace of our slowest wagons, the heavy, wide wheeled, mule drawn vehicles that housed our commissary. Here, far from any road and travelling through a countryside of gently rolling, treeless hills, these wagons were our greatest strength, since they held our supplies, and also our greatest weakness, since they were vulnerable to every hillock and declivity they encountered. The ground was firm, however, and there were few boulders on the chalky, grass covered terrain, so although the progress of the wagons was slow, they moved forward without difficulty, their wide, iron tyres leaving sharp edged impressions in the shallow soil.

We carried our travelling rations in our saddlebags and ate in our saddles at noon without pausing to rest, since our leisurely rate of travel posed no threat to our horses' stamina. Some time after that, perhaps an hour later, I smelled an elusive hint of smoke. Philip, who was riding at my side, detected it on the same gust of wind and identified it as grass smoke. I nodded, and we rode on, but the hint we had detected strengthened to an ever present, growing stink, and soon the distances ahead of us were obscured in a drifting haze through which I saw Dedalus and Benedict cantering back towards us from their advance position with our foremost scouts.

The. hills ahead, to the north and west of us, were all ablaze and burning fiercely, they reported, a blaze fanned and fed by the steady, constant western wind. They had approached the fire's leading edges, hoping to find them narrow and quickly passable, but the chalky subsoil yielded there to a deep layer of peaty roots and the fire was smouldering far beneath the surface, knee deep in places, precluding any hope of dashing across the flames to safety.

Access to the north was blocked, Dedalus said lugubriously, and we would have to swing right, towards the east, to circumvent the fires.

There was no point in complaining, and even less in growing angry. A single glance at Ded's condition—grimy, red eyed and soot stained—bore out the truth of his report. I issued orders to Philip to change the direction of our march and sent Ded and Benedict to pull our scouting parties back and away from the fires, matching our change of heading. Our train swung right immediately, heading directly east, ? and that pleased me not at all, although I kept my dissatisfaction to myself at the time. Directly ahead of us on this new course lay the Weald and Horsa's newly landed horde ' of Danes, and I had no wish to stir up that nest of wasps. '

Our change of direction produced an immediate reaction among Germanus's retinue, and within a very short time the bishop himself came riding to join me at the head of our procession. We were expected to the north, he pointed out with some anxiety, and arrangements had been made for us to pass unmolested through the lands we would traverse, but no such measures had been put in place to the eastward. How far did I intend to deviate from our planned itinerary?

I explained that we would ride east until the wind; changed and the fires to the north of us died out, and then' we would skirt the edges of the burn until we could swing west again and regain our original route. He nodded hit head in acceptance, but his frustration matched my own. Even were the fires to die immediately, direct access to the north would be denied us, since the blackened ground precluded any grazing for our horses. Our route lay now within the hands of God, in whom we must place our trust.

For the next four days we rode in a great, looping arc, headed generally east but tending to the north as much as possible. Armed scouting parties scoured the lands ahead of us in double strength, and every man in our main column was on the alert for trouble at all times. The winds died down during the night of the second day, and regular reports arrived from Ded and Benedict about conditions north and west of where we were, so that by the morning of the fourth day we had descended from the uplands and were headed north west again, through a landscape of saplings and dense brush. This route took us past surprisingly prosperous farms, carved from the bushy wilderness that formed the outer edge of a huge, forested area to the east of us. There were still no roads in this region, which had been of no use to the Romans, but there were signs of human habitation everywhere and wandering paths abounded, meandering from farm to tiny farm between the larger, impenetrable thickets.

All of the people hereabouts, Germanus informed me, were Anglians, many of whom had landed in these? parts decades and even generations earlier and were now settled peacefully, working the land and providing for their numerous progeny. I sniffed and kept my wits about me, implicitly distrusting and disliking anyone who was neither Celt nor Roman bred. I saw no signs of hostility among these folk, however, and I took note of the genuine warmth that seemed to exist between them and the bishops. I was relieved, too, when I realized that the sheer population density of these Anglians, the way they swarmed upon the land, was a form of protection for us in itself. Horsa's Danes would find no foothold here, for all the space was taken up.

On the afternoon of that fourth day, we finally intersected our original route and headed directly north again, and as the afternoon was growing late, the shadows lengthening from the setting sun, we reached a group of people who had evidently been awaiting us. As we approached them, a man and woman came forward to meet Germanus. Despite the fact that they were obviously Anglians, I was struck by the dignity and self possessed authority that marked them. The man's name, Germanus told me, was Cuthric. I could see for myself, merely from his posture, his height and the way he comported himself, that he was some kind of leader among his people. He was a tall, upright man who held himself as though on permanent display, and he moved with an easy grace and a natural sense of dignity that set him apart from everyone around him. He was richly dressed, his clothes made of a heavy, dark-green fabric that seemed luxurious beside the plain, homespun garments of his fellow Anglians. Full bearded, he seemed to flaunt a mane of thick, golden hair that hung down to broad shoulders that! suggested their owner could hold his own against any challenge to his strength. The woman was clearly his wife, almost as tall as her consort, with the same thick, lustrous, ? golden tresses, and a single, draped robe of white, edged ,; with the same dark green. She bore herself with such unconscious regality that there could be no question regarding to whom she belonged. Together, they presented a portrait of self possession and close knit probity.

Germanus's face was creased in an enormous, welcoming smile. "Pardon me, Merlyn," he murmured, then> addressed the newcomers in their own tongue, rattling the incomprehensible gibberish off as though it were Latin. I gaped, never having heard him speak this language or suspected that he might be able to. Finally the bishop turned to me again, laying his hand on my forearm.