Read The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2) for Free Online

and felt a bead of sweat trickle down from his brow, tickling him in a most irritating way. He couldn't get to it because his hands were tied quite securely to the saddle. Setting his mind to ignoring it, he concentrated his attention instead past the narrow nose guard of the helm, once again watching the churning throng of tribesmen as they readied for war around him. He drew in a breath, feeling the rope constraints around his chest tighten. The rope was a necessity; he knew that, but the helm wasn't. He hated the helm more than anything else. Merlyn had been smiling as he'd buckled it on, reminding Uther of when it had been passed to him by a crazy old Druid munching acorns so many years ago.
    It had been the day after they had experienced a dreaming at the bottom of the Druid's well, Uther had been a boy then, a boy named Usher.
    'He gave it to me, and I wore it at the battle of Aegelsthorpe, but I am now sure it was meant to be passed to you, Uther,' Merlyn had said. 'Truth be told I had quite forgotten that I had it, but it made itself known to me and now calls to be worn by its King in battle.' Uther had stared at the Druid, watching the white whiskered face as the buckle was fastened, rocking his head to the side as it was tightened and wondered what he still had planned for him, this man he had once called friend.
    Oh, spirits, he was tired, so thoroughly exhausted.
    Without warning, the horse broke to the side once again, dancing around in a circle as one of the men struggled to hold onto the reins whilst talking to the horse, to calm it. It was a jittery beast and no mistake, thought Uther. He heard others move in, trying to control his frightened animal and Uther resumed his own private misery, gazing out over the heads of warriors, chariots and horses as they spun past his visor.
    The rain had eased at first light following a night where it had fallen relentlessly, drumming on the fabric of the pavilion above Uther's head, lending him dreams of charging horses and thundering chariots, but now it had all but stopped. As the mass of humanity had grudgingly roused themselves, the sun had risen somewhere behind the cloak of clouds to offer a weak and feeble light that barely pushed aside the darkness to welcome this new winter morn.
    Uther sighed again, the sound loud in his ears. It was not a cold day, in fact in his layers of armour and cloaks, Uther Pendragon, High King of the Britons, was uncomfortably hot. He glanced up as best he could beneath the helm and watched as clouds in various shades of grey passed leaden and low above them. Uther felt his stomach gurgle.
Oh spirits, allow me to keep my dignity today, don't let me shit myself.
Casting his eyes past the closest horsemen to the encampment, he noticed that the same stiff breeze that was driving the clouds was tugging at the smoke as it rose from the countless fires being abandoned by the moving tribesmen. However, while the air was undoubtedly being purged, he reflected that it still remained somewhat pungent. Uther could smell the horses, the men and the mud, in fact, he realised that his sense of smell felt much sharper than he could ever remember it being before and right now he wasn't sure if this was such a good thing.
    The horse moved beneath him, and he realised they were finally setting off. His attention returned to the warriors that he could see in front of him as they formed into ranks and joined the day's march. Men and women who had gathered here, drawn together in his name.
    Riders had been sent out days before Uther's arrival. The fighting men and women of the Britons had been summoned from every tribe that remained at war and were still regularly raiding and clashing with the Saxon invaders. Even now, twenty-five years after the battle at Mount Badon, the different tribes could easily be distinguished by the way they dressed, or if their hair was worn long or cut short, how a group all wore beards grown long while another, calling and joking