“We will take the main force at the gate,” Elphin said. “One column will go in first with support from either side. Heridd and Nerth, stay behind and guard our backs. We may need fresh reserves later.” Battle plans laid, they remounted their men and continued to the fort.
It was as the scouts had said: at least five hundred invaders massed before the main gate, and another five or six hundred deployed around the square’s stone-and-timber walls, busily keeping those inside the fort occupied with the defense of those walls. Stones and arrows flashed through the air, clattering against the long, narrow shields of the raiders.
“Look at them,” muttered Elphin in amazement. He had never seen a Roman fort under attack, Irish Scotti dodged to and fro, loosing their long spears upon those on the ramparts; around them naked Picti and Cruithne, their skins bright blue from the woad, darted and danced, filling the air with their short, sharp arrows; Attacotti, slim dark bodies gleaming in the sunlight, threw themselves at the gates armed only with iron axes.
“Those big ones” Cuall said, pointing to a rear echelon made up of large-limbed, beefy men dressed in skins and leather, their fair hair hanging in long braids.
“Saecsen,” said Taliesin. “They are all here.”
“And will soon wish they were not!” The king turned in his saddle. “Column ready!” he bawled. There was a rustling along the ranks as spears were readied for the charge.
“Speak a victory for us, Taliesin,” said Elphin, gathering his reins.
“I will uphold you,” Taliesin replied.
The column charged up the hill as a straight line, flaring out at the last instant to form a sharp-pointed wedge. They rode straight for the gate where the battle was thickest. Too late the enemy heard the thunder of their horses as death swooped over them. They turned to meet the charge only to be swept backward before it and pinned against the burning gates and wall of the fort they were trying to destroy.
The spears of the Cymry thrust and thrust again, blade-tips running red as they scythed through the melee. Here and there men were hauled from horseback to disappear under a swell of flashing blades and clubs. Those in the forefront of the attack feinted back, moving to the side to allow their comrades who had regrouped to charge into the mass again.
Taliesin, along with Heridd, Nerth, and their squads, watched the fight, and waited for Elphin’s signal. The horses charged and charged again. Spears thrust and hooves flashed and the enemy fell by the score, but for every one that fell, three more took his place. Eventually exhaustion forced Elphin’s company to retreat and let fresh troops take the field.
“Ride in twos!” the king cried as his mount came pounding in. “Keep your horses! Each man protect his neighbor!” Panting and sweating, he motioned the replacements into the fray.
“It is worse than I expected,” Elphin told Taliesin when they had gone, wiping blood and grime from his brow. All around them men gasped from their deadly exertion. The king spoke low so those close by would not overhear. “They mean to die this day, and it fills them with desperate courage. They fight like men gone mad.” He shook his head. “And there are so many of them.”
Without a word Taliesin turned his horse aside and rode through the sheltering trees, back across the stream to the hill opposite the one on which the fortress was built. He rode to the crest of the hill and stopped on the barren height overlooking the scene of battle. He dropped his reins and, slipping from the saddle, drew out his oak staff and his blue robe. He threw the robe over his shoulders, walked a few paces from the horse, and planted the staff firmly in the ground.
Then he set about gathering good-sized stones, which he heaped into a small pile at the place where he had driven in his staff. Taking up more stones, he proceeded to pace off the dimensions of a large circle, placing a stone every third step. Then he plucked his staff from the ground and, raising it, closed his eyes, his lips forming the words of the incantation.
As he stood murmuring, the sun, already dim with smoke, shrank away as the smoke thickened and spread its darkness over the sky. The sound of battle-harsh clash of arms, terrified whinnying of horses, curses and cries of wounded and dying-came to him across the small valley.
Taliesin opened his eyes and saw his father’s warband surrounded by the enemy and halted as they tried to force a way through to the burning gates, Elphin himself at their head, hacking away with his short sword.
Twice more Taliesin repeated the conjure and when he looked again, the foe was pressed tight around Elphin’s forces six deep, and more were streaming around the walls, their angry axes flashing dull red above their horn-helmeted heads.
The barbarians, by diot of superior numbers, had stopped the king’s onslaught and were forcing the warband back. Frustration growing, Taliesin turned and stared wildly around, eyes lighting on his black horse. He ran and grabbed the reins and pulled the horse into the center of the crude stone circle he had constructed. He climbed into the saddle and stood on the horse’s back.
Then, raising the oak staff over his head, he repeated the incantation. This time he felt his awen descend like a radiant cloak; the air around him shimmered. He spoke and felt the power of his words take shape on the wind. They were not mere words anymore-they were the wind and the power behind the wind. Words flew from his lips, snatched from his tongue by the force of their own volition. An icy blast whirled around him in a spiraling vortex that gathered and raced by, flying down the hill. This strange and sudden chill blew across the valley to where the fighting raged most hotly.
King Elphin’s men felt the cold wind sting their faces and looked up. There on the opposite hill they saw the lean, tall figure of a man standing on a black horse, a long staff raised over his head. “Taliesin!” someone cried. “Our druid’s sent a wind to save us!”
The enemy too felt the cold wind and saw the dark sky. They turned wide, astonished eyes upon the mysterious hill-figure and faltered in their attack.
That was all the warband needed. Refreshed by the sight of the long-haired Saecsen and their minions falling back, Elphin’s troops wheeled and charged into the reeling mass. The cold wind howled high above the bloody battleground, and within moments the enemy was fleeing down the slope to the shelter of the woods. A tremendous shout went up from the legionaries on the walls. The gates opened and the soldiers came flooding out to give chase.
Not long after, Elphin stood in the compound facing an exhausted Magnus Maximus, his face smeared with soot and sweat. “I never thought I would see the day when a Roman legion would require the aid of an ala to stave off defeat.” He paused and added, “But, as ever, I am grateful for your help, King Elphin.”
“We sent twenty-odd boatloads to their doom this morning or we might have been here sooner.”
A servant came running with a carafe of wine and a cup for the tribune. Maximus handed the cup to Elphin and poured out the wine, saying, “A bad day all around, and it is far from over yet. Still, you must have the first drink; you have worked the harder.”
Elphin gulped down some of the raw red wine. “Where did they all come from?” he wondered, handing the cup back to Maximus. “I have never seen so many in one place, and never all of them together.”
“Whores’ whelps, the lot of them!” Maximus washed his mouth with wine and spat it on the ground. “Taking on a fort! They must be bewitched!”
They were still talking when a rider appeared on a stumbling horse; the beast was lathered and nearly lame. “What in” began Maximus, who took one look at the device on the horse’s harness and cried, “By Caesar! Luguvallium!”