Read Online Web of Deceit by M. K. Hume - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. K. Hume
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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Such needless brutality! The healer was familiar with the casual cruelties of war, the fate of non-combatants caught on battlefields and the lack of mercy extended to the wounded and the weak. But, regardless of the blood he had seen spilt in the past, he was still shocked whenever he saw women and children pointlessly slaughtered.
Then the time for reflection was over as the top rungs of a crude ladder thudded against the ramparts. Praxiteles and Myrdion acted without hesitation as theypushed on each of the vertical supports and sent the first Saxon on the ladder tumbling with it to the ground.
Myrddion heard the wicked hiss of stones released from slingshots and watched a huge Saxon collapse in a boneless heap as one of the smooth river stones struck him in the temple. Along the walls, boys took aim at Saxon heads while older men used bows to equally deadly effect. The more able-bodied women and younger men who had not been collected by Uther Pendragon’s levy joined Myrddion and Praxiteles in casting down the crude rope-lashed siege ladders.
The Battle of Verulamium was short and bloody. Just when the sheer weight of Saxon numbers threatened to turn the tide against the town’s defenders, foot soldiers in disciplined phalanxes trotted into the lower township, led by men on large horses who were armed with long, bright swords. Like a deadly killing machine, the new arrivals joined battle with the Saxons, who had no answer to the Celtic use of Roman military tactics. Step by step, the Celts advanced, and although they fought with great personal heroism, the Saxons were driven back until the city wall blocked any further retreat. Then, in vicious, dour, individual contests, the remaining Saxons were cut to pieces. No quarter was asked for – or given.
Above the straining, blood-spattered figures, Myrddion waited with his satchel containing his healer’s equipment slung over his shoulder. Periodically, he patted the smooth old leather to reassure himself that his tools were safe and readily at hand. Knowing that his skills would soon be needed for friend and foe alike, he crisply ordered Praxiteles to return to the Flower Maiden with instructions to send Cadoc and Finn to him with all the equipment necessary to save whatever wounded survived in the stew of bodies that lay at the foot of the walls.
Finally, as the sunbegan to rise over the smoking ruins of the lower town, Myrddion could see the full horror of the attack in the merciless clarity of day. The bodies of dead and dying Saxon warriors lay over the corpses of the citizens who had been massacred against the city walls. Even this early in the day, ruddy shafts of sunlight reflected off bloodied blades and spear points as wounded barbarians were summarily executed. This exercise in cold-blooded slaughter might have been expedient for Ambrosius’s commanders, but the stain on the Celtic standard shamed Myrddion.
The commander of Ambrosius’s forces trotted his horse to the gates, driving the unwilling beast over the heaped bodies of the dead without compunction for either friend or foe, until he could use the pommel of his sword to batter at the wooden barricade and demand entrance. As the warrior removed his plumed helmet to wipe his sweating forehead with his mailed arm, Myrddion recognised the wildly curling, ruddy hair of Uther Pendragon, and his heart sank with dismay. Viewed from above and ignorant of Myrddion’s careful scrutiny, Uther cut a reckless, brutal figure, and the healer remembered how frightened he had been when he’d treated Prince Uther’s wound outside Londinium six years earlier.
The prince’s arms were thick with clotting blood to the elbows, so that any watcher could imagine that he had sunk both hands and forearms into a river of gore. His sword was so filthy with mud, brain matter and drying blood that no light reflected off it. Blood spatter marked Uther’s whole body, except for where his helmet had protected his face. A
Then the time for reflection was over as the top rungs of a crude ladder thudded against the ramparts. Praxiteles and Myrdion acted without hesitation as theypushed on each of the vertical supports and sent the first Saxon on the ladder tumbling with it to the ground.
Myrddion heard the wicked hiss of stones released from slingshots and watched a huge Saxon collapse in a boneless heap as one of the smooth river stones struck him in the temple. Along the walls, boys took aim at Saxon heads while older men used bows to equally deadly effect. The more able-bodied women and younger men who had not been collected by Uther Pendragon’s levy joined Myrddion and Praxiteles in casting down the crude rope-lashed siege ladders.
The Battle of Verulamium was short and bloody. Just when the sheer weight of Saxon numbers threatened to turn the tide against the town’s defenders, foot soldiers in disciplined phalanxes trotted into the lower township, led by men on large horses who were armed with long, bright swords. Like a deadly killing machine, the new arrivals joined battle with the Saxons, who had no answer to the Celtic use of Roman military tactics. Step by step, the Celts advanced, and although they fought with great personal heroism, the Saxons were driven back until the city wall blocked any further retreat. Then, in vicious, dour, individual contests, the remaining Saxons were cut to pieces. No quarter was asked for – or given.
Above the straining, blood-spattered figures, Myrddion waited with his satchel containing his healer’s equipment slung over his shoulder. Periodically, he patted the smooth old leather to reassure himself that his tools were safe and readily at hand. Knowing that his skills would soon be needed for friend and foe alike, he crisply ordered Praxiteles to return to the Flower Maiden with instructions to send Cadoc and Finn to him with all the equipment necessary to save whatever wounded survived in the stew of bodies that lay at the foot of the walls.
Finally, as the sunbegan to rise over the smoking ruins of the lower town, Myrddion could see the full horror of the attack in the merciless clarity of day. The bodies of dead and dying Saxon warriors lay over the corpses of the citizens who had been massacred against the city walls. Even this early in the day, ruddy shafts of sunlight reflected off bloodied blades and spear points as wounded barbarians were summarily executed. This exercise in cold-blooded slaughter might have been expedient for Ambrosius’s commanders, but the stain on the Celtic standard shamed Myrddion.
The commander of Ambrosius’s forces trotted his horse to the gates, driving the unwilling beast over the heaped bodies of the dead without compunction for either friend or foe, until he could use the pommel of his sword to batter at the wooden barricade and demand entrance. As the warrior removed his plumed helmet to wipe his sweating forehead with his mailed arm, Myrddion recognised the wildly curling, ruddy hair of Uther Pendragon, and his heart sank with dismay. Viewed from above and ignorant of Myrddion’s careful scrutiny, Uther cut a reckless, brutal figure, and the healer remembered how frightened he had been when he’d treated Prince Uther’s wound outside Londinium six years earlier.
The prince’s arms were thick with clotting blood to the elbows, so that any watcher could imagine that he had sunk both hands and forearms into a river of gore. His sword was so filthy with mud, brain matter and drying blood that no light reflected off it. Blood spatter marked Uther’s whole body, except for where his helmet had protected his face. A
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