And the Britons of Caer-Badonicus waited patiently.

Then the lookout atop the high watchtower called out, "They're shifting troops northward!"

Stirling raced up the ladder to see for himself what the Saxons were up to. They were shifting, all right, moving the bulk of their men to the spot where Briton defenses were weakest, along their northeastern flank. Stirling whistled sharply, fingers between his teeth, and caught Cadorius' attention. Stirling waved to his left, held up five fingers and pointed to their reserves. Cadorius nodded, bellowing orders. The Briton reserves, some fifty men from the rear ranks of the Glastenning, Gododdin, and Dumnonia contingents, ran for the northeastern flank, forming up behind the front-line defenders, while catapults were winched around to face the third charge. When it came, they were ready, much to the Saxons' consternation.

As the front lines came together again with a shock of weapons on shields, the second ranks leaped to the top of the fourth wall. Javelins and deadly pila hurled down from that angle forced the Saxons to lift their shields high, to guard against the deadly rain. Whereupon the front line of defenders launched a blistering attack with spears and javelins under the edges of their high-held shields. Blood ran thick as the Saxons staggered. Then a sudden shift along the Saxons' rear echelons signaled a new line of attack and Briton trumpets sang out a warning.

The Dumnonian reserves Stirling had dispatched reeled under sudden attack along their thinned ranks. Saxons poured across the outermost wall in a solid wave of spearpoints and oaken shields. Stirling skinned back down the ladder, shouting for the Gododdin center to pivot and strike the Saxons along their flank. For long, terrible minutes, all was confusion between the outermost and fourth walls. The lines swayed, crumpled, fell back to the third wall, while Saxons howled and leaped across the Briton dead. Then the catapults slapped with a crack like doom, and blazing oil, set alight before being hurled, fell in a fiery rain across the Saxons' shields. Men screamed, their leather jerkins and quilted tunics set ablaze by the flaming grease.

The contingent from Gododdin let fly a rain of arrows, like shooting pigs in a barrel. The Saxons stumbled, the momentum of their charge broken. Briton defenders poured in from both flanks, catching the Saxons along their vulnerable sides, trapping most of them between the third and fifth walls. And when the Britons drew swords and began to hack and hew at legs, arms, necks, unarmored heads, anything within reach of their deadly British blades, the Saxons fell back in total disarray, unable to match the Britons with the smaller daggers they carried—if they carried any blade at all. Most did not. Spears broken, shields afire and cast down in terror, the Saxons broke and ran. Or died under Briton blades. What remained was ground into bloody paste in the mud.

Stirling thrust and hacked at the retreating Saxons right alongside his Gododdin warriors, shouting encouragement. When the last of the survivors had fled down the hill, Stirling leaned against the third wall, gasping for breath, and scrubbed filth from his face with the back of one hand. His fingers trembled as the adrenaline rush wore off, leaving him shaking with exhaustion. Grim-faced soldiers were stripping the Saxon dead of weapons, tossing the bodies over the walls to roll them after their luckier companions downhill. Wounded Britons limped for the aid stations back amongst the women, where a glance showed Covianna Nim directing a whole host of nurses to tend the injured.

Cadorius limped his way, as spattered with gore and filth as Stirling.

"God be praised," the king of Dumnonia gasped, "I thank the Almighty you were in position to sound that warning. I didn't see their shift in time to respond."

"The Dumnonian lines held," Stirling insisted, cleaning his sword on the tunic of a dead Saxon. "Gododdin only gave them the breather they needed to regroup and hold fast, which they did. With more bravery than I've ever seen in battle, and that is no lie."

Cadorius smiled wearily. "Then let us agree to praise one another's men to the skies and be grateful that we've men left alive to praise."

"Agreed," Stirling said, offering his hand.

Cadorius clasped his forearm, then hugged him with a rougher embrace. "Come, let us see to our wounded while yon bastards try to talk their men into making another try at us!"

The Saxons gave them a respite of two hours, which they all needed, then charged the walls from the southwestern flank this time. Britons scrambled to strengthen the defenses, only to snarl curses as Saxon slingers hurled live coals onto wooden roof shingles and thatched barracks inside the hill fort. Smoke and flames blazed up from a dozen spots while soldiers dodged the children who scrambled with pails of water to douse the flames. Confusion engulfed the whole compound while the Saxon charge shattered the southwestern shield wall and poured into the hill fort itself. Stirling found himself in a desperate hand-to-hand fight for his life, slashing and stabbing with his sword, shouting orders through the chaos, trying to regroup his men in a wedge formation.

"Rally to me!" he shouted, "Rally to me! For Artorius and Britain!"

A rumbling thunder drove through the confusion. Stirling could spare no time even to glance around to see what it might be. An instant later, a mass of cavalry smashed into the Saxon lines, cataphracti mounted on armored chargers, lances held low for full-bore charge. The heavy horses shattered the Saxons' front ranks. Half a hundred of Britain's finest cavalry rode down the infantry beneath flint-hard hooves. Men screamed, horses snorted and trumpeted, lances shattered on shields and skewered yelling men on every side. More Saxons were pouring over the walls, but the momentum slowed as the cavalry drove straight through their ranks. More Britons came pouring in from the flanks, driving the Saxons slowly back across the innermost wall, across the second, the third, and finally the fourth and fifth walls. Briton dead lay trampled beside Saxon invaders, while smoke rose ominously into the sky at their backs.

Stirling waited to be certain the Saxons were, in fact, being driven back before turning his attention to the fires blazing up from the compound. Livestock bellowed and tried to break out of burning pens. Women and children hurled buckets of water onto the flames, while soldiers used axes to cut supports out from under burning roofs, toppling the structures before the flames could spread. By the time the last fires had been doused, they'd lost two months' worth of supplies, most of the grain for the horses, and shelters for nearly a third of their civilians. Cadorius, cursing under his breath, stalked through the camp shouting orders for temporary shelters to be rigged for the women and children, while Stirling and Melwas ordered the butchering and dressing of the livestock that had perished before the flames could be doused.

As the sun dropped behind the distant Mendip Hills, a single rider rode up from the Saxons' main encampment, under another flag of truce. Cadorius and Ancelotis waited in terse silence while Melwas ordered the civilians back, out of sight. The courier was not Creoda this time, but Cutha. His arrogant face wore a smug expression as he reined around beside the outermost wall, trying to survey the destruction within.

"Ancelotis, I see you have tasted the beginning of my vengeance!" he shouted across the walls.

Ancelotis didn't even bother to answer.

"I come bearing a message from my father, king of Sussex. Pay heed, for we will not repeat ourselves and we will offer you mercy only once. Surrender Caer-Badonicus to us and we will allow your women and children to leave the fortress in safety. Defy us and we will deliver to them the same mercy I showed the whores of Penrith!"