Chapter 13: The Battle

The rest of the preparations had moved far more quickly than Aisling had expected. She had been sidelined for much it, having no set task to perform. Instead she watched the hundreds of warriors moving into position, thinking that this was a delicately controlled chaos. It was a wonder that they all seemed to know where they needed to be, certainly Aisling would be utterly lost in the bustle about her. She kept close to Merlin, all but vanishing into her uncle's shadow at times to keep out of the way of the other clan leaders and the many advisers that swarmed around them.

Her role, as her uncle had explained it, was relatively simple in nature, if a bit more difficult to accomplish in deed: watch the battlefield at Merlin's side and attempt to warn him and their people if something changed drastically for the worse at any time. And things could change for the worse, she knew. She had yet to clearly see an end to the battle. Too many lives were involved which meant too many choices that might lead to hundreds of outcomes for each individual life. She had tried to See Arthur and Cerdic's ends specifically, but her gift had not answered her deliberate call this time. She was left dependent on the more mundane messengers and scouts, just like everyone else normally was.

In the midst of the madness, she'd heard of Arthur's meet with Cerdic, and had been waiting in a panic for word that the Roman had returned safely back through the gate. She guessed a certain scout had guarded his lord from the wall, but even that assurance had been slight. They'd been lucky, she thought; there was no guarantee that the Saxon leader would keep the truce, white flag, or no. It was likely only Arthur's own challenging presence that had kept Cerdic's honor at the forefront. She knew all too well that the warrior would never be able to back down from the thought of meeting Arthur on the battle field.

And now, all too soon, they would meet.

She and Merlin now stood atop the hill where the knights had placed their standards and watched in silence as the first wave of Saxon warriors met their violent deaths just as she had seen in her visions. The strategy that had unfolded before her eyes was fascinating, if terrifying. The smoke all but cloaked most of the battle field, and it was only their superior knowledge of the ground that allowed those few mounted knights to so decimate their foes without any casualties in return. Well, only that and the Picti archers who had cut down a great deal of the Saxons, as well. The timing between the volleys of arrows and the charges of the knights had been flawless, she thought. It was a testament of the skill and tactical intelligence of both peoples.

The brilliance made it no less chilling to watch, though. She hadn't been able to pick out Tristan's form from that of the others across the smoke and the distance, but she had known without a doubt that he was slaughtering as many or perhaps more men than his fellow knights. The screams echoing from the battlefield below were a terrible reminder of just how dangerous a warrior her love, and all of his brothers, truly were. She took the few steps to reach out and run her hand over Tristan's hawk-headed battle standard, and allowed herself a moment of gratitude that her people and her love were no longer each other's enemies.

All too soon what was left of Cynric's doomed infantry were all dead. All but one battered survivor who was allowed to scuttle through to take word of the others' demise. It was a masterful stroke, Aisling thought. The brutalized Saxon would no doubt spread at least a touch of fear to his brethren before he was killed for his failure.

Arthur and his knights withdrew from the battlefield to await the Saxons next charge, and Aisling was relieved to see all truly were as unscathed as she had thought them to be. She drew her attention away from them to peer out as far beyond the wall as she could; taking a deep breath to settle herself as the distant army burst into battle cries as one. Their numbers turned the sounds into a deafening terrible noise. There were so many…

"What do you see, niece?" Merlin's voice broke into her musings and she stepped back from the battle standard to his side. She shook her head at his question.

"Nothing. I have seen nothing." He nodded slowly, seeming unsurprised.

"Still too many lives in motion." He leveled his gaze at her, dark eyes seeming to hold all the mysteries of their people. "You will see when it is needed."

The roar of Cerdic's men suddenly grew louder as they swarmed through the massive gates of the wall, and behind her Aisling heard a creak of wood and metal and turned to see Merlin's most trusted men pulling forth several of the massive war machines she'd seen in her visions.

"It begins," Merlin said with a grim glee. Aisling followed his eyes to Arthur in the knot of knights below them. The Roman raised his sword in signal, and Aisling turned to watch as a ripple of fire spread along the ranks of the Picti warriors now visible against the trees. Almost in perfect unison, the archers let the flaming arrows fly, sending them striking both the men of the Saxon ranks and the ditch full of pig fat and oil that had been so carefully concealed on the battle field. The oil burst into flame, and fire rushed down the ditch in either direction, effectively cutting the battlefield and Cerdic's army in half.

Then the warriors were rushing forward, and Aisling had only a moment to pray for the safety of her cousin running at the head of the Picti lines. There was no more time to think after that, though. Below her the knights were in motion again, and behind her Merlin's catapults were armed and sending their fiery burdens out to slam into Saxon warriors on the closer side of the field in an explosion of light and violence.

Once their ammunition had been spent, the warriors manning the massive machines rushed forward to join the battle as well, leaving only Merlin and the other older leaders to watch and await the outcome of the battle.

Aisling watched all of this in a daze. Something was stirring within her, like a swarm of bees in her skull or a hawk shrieking in her heart. Something was wrong… Something… She swayed as a the vision poured into her.

Arthur sees the Saxon leader but turns away to save his knight and his scout dismounts to bare his sword and a horse rears in anger blood on his fingers pick it up a proud knight crawling agony the hawk wheels and-

"No!" She ripped herself away from the image of Tristan's death and was running before she realized the scream was hers. "No, no, no!" she shrieked again, ignoring the sounds of raised voices behind her. She would not be stopped now, could not stop in the face of what she had seen. She could not let her love die. Not like that, not at the hands of the man who had made her a slave, who had taken her mother. Cerdic would not take Tristan from her too!

Her boots pounded the ground as she ran down the hill and across to the battle field, desperation for her love buried the reality of the sheer madness of what she was attempting. She was no warrior, was barely armed, was liable to get herself killed, but she truly could not care. It he was lost to her, she would never recover.

She reached the Saxons and Picti scattered at the edge of the battle and ducked as one shaggy warrior turned and swung his blade at her. She ducked instinctively and kept running, praying he wouldn't pursue her. He didn't, and she could only guess he thought she wasn't a threat without a weapon in her hands. With that in mind, she didn't bother drawing the knife at her side or either of those in her boots, only continued to run, ducking and dodging the battling figures around her as she moved farther into the madness.

She felt strange, as if something was awake beneath her skin. A sudden sense of almost weightlessness slipped over her, and then she knew her gift was guiding her. It wasn't the true Sight she was so familiar with, more an instinct of each coming moment than a vision of what might be. She skipped to the side and a crossbow bolt flew past, close enough that the fletching brushed her skin. She dropped to one knee and a blade swung over her head. Like it had during her flight across the lake, she could feel her awareness shifting within her, warning her of danger with each step.

She made her slow painful way across the battlefield in this way. Her run had slowed to a crawl as she tried to find safe passage between the crowds of flailing armed bodies. Tried too, to find even a glimpse of her Tristan. Her vision had only shown him, and now, now she had no clear path to his location. The violence around her ebbed and flowed like the sea she'd crossed in Cerdic's hands, and each wave left her more confused. Her gift, it seemed, was not going to help her with this task either.

She dropped to her knees again to avoid a swinging ax and mused that her gift had more than enough to do just keeping her alive. Her priority though, was Tristan. Had to be Tristan; she just prayed she would reach him in time, before his pride and need to protect his brothers sent him to face a man he could not beat.

She felt the push of her gift sending her leaping back from the swing of a sword, and for a moment she thought she was doing well, but then the crash of a stumbling Saxon behind her slammed into her back and sent her sprawling helplessly, her gift slipping away before she could guess how to call it back. She scrambled on her hands and knees, now painfully aware of how helpless she really was. There was a shout above her, and she raised her head to see the same sword she'd managed to avoid once being raised for a killing blow. There was no chance the man would miss; he was one of Cerdic's generals and a man who could not fail to recognize her. Her eyes widened, and time seemed to slow.

This… this she had not seen.

Then there was a roaring over the sound of battle around her, and a massive ax, easily as tall as Aisling, came sweeping out and beheaded the man above her with ease. Time slammed back around her as Dagonet yanked her to her feet with another yell of rage.

"Why are you here?" he demanded, tucking her against him and wielding the ax with a deadly grace. "You were supposed to be well away from the frontlines!"

Her gift suddenly renewed itself, and she ducked under his arm, and pushed him out of the path of a crossbow bolt that might have taken his eye.

"Tristan. I saw his… He's going to fight Cerdic and-" she cut off as Dagonet only nodded, and turned in a circle to sweep his gaze above the much shorter warriors around them, peering through the dissipating smoke. His axe moved constantly as he fought almost absently, trusting his instincts and hers to guard him while he searched. He grunted in what sounded like recognition, stooping to toss a screaming Saxon over his shoulder and onto another of his comrades.

Then Dagonet let out a shrill whistle, and Aisling was shocked to hear the enraged trumpet of a horse near by. Then there were shouts of fear and pain, and Aisling turned to see Tristan's massive grey rearing and biting its way toward them. It reached Dagonet and reared again, and before she could react, Dagonet reached out and tossed Aisling up into the saddle. He grabbed the reins and spun the horse around him to face another corner of the battlefield.

"He's there! Keep low in the saddle and hang on tight." Then her giant smacked at the gray's withers and jumped out of the way as the horse half reared again and then surged forward.

Aisling thought she had ridden the warhorse before, but now she was firmly disabused of that notion. The massive horse had only been a mount before, relatively docile in the hands of her scout. Calm enough that she might sit quietly in the saddle without too much fear. She had not understood the danger Tristan had spoken of, at least not beyond the simple fact that the horse was so much larger than she.

But now she knew, now she was experiencing the heady fury that was a war trained gelding determined to reach its master. Now, she rode the warhorse. It reared to strike out with its front legs, then kicked back to slam its hind hooves into an attacker's skull. It spun on its hindquarters, snapping out with its teeth to bite a shoulder and shake the man like a rag doll. And those were only the intended attacks, she realized grimly. That was nothing compared to the dozens it merely trampled straight over with hardly a pause. She forced herself to turn her eyes away from the forms of her people who joined the Saxons beneath the warhorse's feet. They had been the enemy once, and it seemed the violent animal had not been informed that they were otherwise.

She clung to the saddle and anything she could reach, frantically grasping at a mane she could not reach through the metal armor about the gelding's neck. She gripped her legs as tightly as she could against the stirrups and saddle, trying desperately to hang on and stay low as Dagonet had instructed. She'd attracted attention now, and she was an easy target compared to the horse's armored form. It was only the jarring, unpredictable movements of the horse itself that kept her from being hit by one of the many arrows she now realized were flying toward her helpless form.

She didn't dare lift her head to actually search for him. Between the arrows flying and her own shaky balance, her stillness was likely the only thing keeping her safely on the horse in the midst of all the chaos. She had to trust that Dagonet had truly seen him somewhere in this direction, had to trust that the horse would stop at nothing to reach him. She tucked herself down even lower, muttering the word for friend under her breath like a prayer.