บท 10: The Clash of Titans
With the assistance of Merlin's clairvoyant intelligence, King Uther's forces successfully harassed the supply lines of the Saxon coalition, effectively disrupting their rear formations with well-coordinated cavalry marches.
They either burned the supply lines or robbed them of their provisions, mercilessly killing all logistics personnel and guards who stood in their way.
The Saxon forces, spread thinly across various directions, found their morale greatly disrupted as their essential food supplies were either incinerated or plundered by the relentless forces of King Uther.
A full month had passed since King Uther began his strategic disruption of the Saxons' rear positions.
In that time, the once-eager Saxons found themselves weakened by hunger and plagued with low morale due to the ceaseless harassment from Camelot's forces.
The expected reinforcements from their lord, Vortigern, were nowhere to be seen, leaving the Saxons increasingly desperate and vulnerable.
King Uther had already instructed Merlin to send a message to Morgan, advising her not to return to Camelot, but instead to stay and take over King Lot's kingdom. Morgan followed this directive, and along with Artoria, who had been ordered by Uther to join her, they were tasked with besieging Londinium, the capital of the Saxons.
This strategic move ensured that if Vortigern sent reinforcements to the front, his own capital would be left vulnerable to attack.
Even if Vortigern desired to eliminate the formidable combination of Morgan and Artoria, it would prove to be a nearly impossible task.
Artoria, armed with the legendary Caliburn and protected by Avalon, was an unstoppable force, especially with the powerful support of Morgan, who herself had proven to be a formidable adversary, even without the aid of any magical artifacts.
As for Melusine, who was Vortigern's twin in this world and also his cousin, no word had been received from her. Originally human, both she and Vortigern had been chosen by the island as representatives to preserve the mysterious era, a transformation that turned them into dragons.
While much about them remained shrouded in mystery, one thing was clear: after a certain incident, they had become hostile towards King Uther.
Without wise leadership to guide them, the Saxons were forced into a passive stance. In desperation, they united their fractured forces into one large army and marched toward Camelot, threatening Uther's beloved stronghold and forcing him to retreat to the capital.
Their intention was to end this prolonged conflict in a single, decisive battle by combining all their might.
The unity of their forces made it impossible for Uther's cavalry to breach their rear as it was now heavily guarded and fortified.
However, the Saxons' greatest weakness remained their lack of cavalry units and the scarcity of effective countermeasures against King Uther's relentless harassment tactics.
This very vulnerability was what drove them to gather their forces into a single mass and advance straight towards Camelot, compelling King Uther to face them in a climactic, all-or-nothing confrontation.
Fortunately, they didn't need to wait long before marching towards Camelot, as King Uther had already brought his own cavalry to meet them in the midst of their journey.
To be precise, their current location was White Mountain, near the borders of their fiefdom, Oaobeth.
This mountain stood between Oaobeth and Camelot, and served as a natural divider between the two territories.
As long as they could successfully cross the mountain, they would have a clear path straight to Camelot.
When Osla Gyllellfawr saw that King Uther had brought only 5,000 cavalrymen against their formidable force of 50,000 infantry soldiers, he couldn't help but feel a surge of contempt.
"Does he consider himself a military genius?" Osla sneered. "Does he truly believe that his so-called genius could allow him to defeat us with such a pitifully small number of men?"
His tribesmen echoed his mockery with laughter, their amusement palpable. They found it utterly absurd that Uther had the audacity to think he could best them with so few troops, even if those troops were cavalry.
So what if they were mounted? They had never feared cavalry before, and they certainly didn't fear them now.
In fact, they only desired one thing from Uther—his skull.
The hatred they felt for Uther ran deep, forged in the fires of his relentless harassment of their rear forces.
Their loathing was beyond words, beyond any expression of mere anger. It was a primal rage, fueled by the atrocities Uther had forced upon them.
Thanks to him, they had been driven to the unspeakable act of cannibalism, forced to consume the flesh of their own deceased tribesmen in order to survive and satiate their hunger.
Uther's merciless raids had left them with nothing but the corpses of their comrades, and those corpses had become their only source of sustenance, their meat cooked and rationed for the march.
The bodies that filled their makeshift rations were the remains of their own people, who had perished under the weight of Uther's relentless attacks.
The Saxons had been left with nothing but death in Uther's wake—no villages, no farmlands spared from his assaults.
This drove them to consume the very flesh of their fallen comrades, as even the animals had vanished from the land, leaving only the dead behind in the ravaged villages.
Their hunger could be sated only by what remained of those who had once fought alongside them.
Thus, when they laid eyes on King Uther leading his cavalry, their fury burned hot. They longed to tear this man apart, to rip his flesh and spill his blood.
They imagined themselves drinking wine from his skull, using it as a grotesque goblet in their victory.
"Be careful, Osla," one of the warlords, Cheldric, cautioned.
Cheldric was a Saxon leader renowned for his bravery and might, a nobleman who owned the fief of York and had seized the fief of Brechia in the south—lands that once belonged to Camelot but had now fallen under Saxon control.
"Uther is not someone to be underestimated. I sense a trap."
"I know, fool," Osla retorted with a disdainful snort. "Men, form the shield wall!"
With disciplined precision, the Saxon warriors formed a phalanx, their spears poised and ready to pierce through the cavalry charging towards them.
Their shields locked together in a solid wall, unwavering in the face of the impending attack.
But as the cavalry continued to advance, Osla's expression grew increasingly grim.
Doubt gnawed at him, and he couldn't shake the ominous feeling that something was terribly wrong.
Every thunderous hoofbeat seemed to resonate in his chest like the beating of a heavy drum, amplifying his unease.
And then, as if in answer to his fears, King Uther raised his sword high, aiming it directly at them.
"Excalibur!" Uther's voice rang out, filled with power and command.
Panic surged through the Saxon ranks as they attempted to retreat, but it was too late.
Merlin, the legendary sorcerer, had already cast a powerful spell that ensnared them where they stood, binding them in place with magic that was utterly foreign to them.
In the next moment, their once formidable coalition was obliterated in an instant.
A single golden beam of light, radiating from Uther's blade, enveloped them entirely, shattering their defenses and leaving nothing in its wake.
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