THE DARK TOWER
…
CHAPTER THIRD
A NEW AGE, A DARK AGE
…
IN THE KINGDOM OF LLYNDIN, CITIZENS OF LUD'S TOWN GATHERED WITHIN THE CATHEDRAL SMACK IN THE CENTRE OF THE CITY. They gathered to witness a most important ceremony. Native Celts were in attendance, as well as what was left of the Imperial citizens—either by invitation or by force all of Albion had come to witness, perhaps, the dawn of a new age for the realm.
For the Imperial king Constantine had been slain, his Capital lay in ashes and his knights, decimated. This was the dawn of a new age for the realm.
Atop the chancel of the church, a distinguishable man knelt before an older, bearded archbishop who was robed in a fine cloak of white and gold, with a lofty pointed headdress adorning his balding head.
With his head lowered, the kneeling man waited as the archbishop continued his sermon. "Vortigern, son of Vitalis, are you willing to take the oath?" asked the archbishop, announcing the question aloud for the public.
The kneeling man bobbed his head in response, though he could not completely hide the hint of a smirk from his clean-shaven face. "I am willing."
"Then, be thou anointed with this holy oil." The holy man painted the liquid upon his forehead in the figure of a cross. The archbishop then gestured to some other men lined up to the side. They were the kings and druids of the various kingdoms and native clans of the island— those that were willing to bend the knee at least, though even those that were there were definitely not there of their own free will. "And do you, the leaders of the kingdoms and tribes of Albion, assent to this anointing?"
There was some hesitation all around, even some of the onlookers and guests began to murmur amongst themselves as they awaited a response. Those kings were right to be hesitant, most of them believed. It had been many years since the Imperials began to withdraw from Albion, until only their king, Constantine was left with his family to lead. They were well loved by his subjects, enough for the kingdoms to momentarily stop their squabbling amongst themselves in order to unite with their Imperial king against an even greater threat. For a time, Albion was united, for a time it was as one kingdom under Constantine and it would seem that they could prevent their own doom. Vortigern, son of Vitalis, the king's own seneschal had made his play, and it was a lucrative one.
"For Ichen, I do." Proclaimed one of the kings though he did so with some pain.
"For Mercia, I do." Said another.
"For Rheged, I do."
"For Escetir, I do."
"For Somerset, I do."
"For Dumnonia, I do."
Then there was a pause, and every eye was now on the remaining three kings of Cambria and the kings of the Old North. Each man held a look ranging from mild discontent and outright anger. The kings looked between themselves, shook their heads and without another word, turned around and marched out of the holy sanctum with their retinue of warriors.
Displeased, Vortigern rose to stop them but his blonde-haired wife held her his shoulder, holding him back. Rowena shook her head at him, whispering that he would have his time to avenge his honour in due course. He knew she was right and bade the archbishop proceed. To this, he was instructed to sit upon the golden throne, cloaked in with a purple cape, hemmed by a full wolf's pelt, Vortigern became the visage of power as the archbishop completed the image with a druidic sceptre and then a glass orb.
"So, be now, anointed and consecrated king over all the peoples of this land that our Lord thee God, has given thee to govern." The archbishop was then handed a silver crown with a white jewel set upon the front. He hovered the crown over the younger man's head with shaky hands. "And so, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I crown you… High-king."
When the circlet touched his dark red hair, he felt a breath that he had no idea he was holding, finally release, and it allowed his malicious glee to permeate from his pale face.
"Long live the King."
The cathedral burst out in cried of triumph and joy but they did not come from the Celts, or from the Imperials, instead, they came from Vikings that appeared from the shadows of the pillars and alcoves. Hundreds of large and burly men and tall, statured women dressed similar to how their new king dressed, each one armed to the teeth. "Long live the King!" they shouted and all the rest could do was shrink back into the anxiety and despair of the moment.
"Long live the King!"
…
"Those blasted lords and petty kings!" Vortigern growled as he stomped into his council chamber. "Did you see how they marched on out of there, their backs turned to me! That these pathetic excuses for royalty could strut about without fear of my wrath? The gall!"
His wife tried to calm him but the king was not having it. "Relax, my love," said Rowena and she turned him to face her. "The other kings have sworn fealty. For now, they are placated and soon we will have all the power in the world and you can visit terrible vengeance upon the rest."
"Those Celts should know when they are conquered." Aggrieved, the Imperial king smashed his fists onto the war table, whereupon was carved the entirety of his new kingdom, newly broken like a prised stallion. Eyes were fixed primarily on the far western parts of Albion, the Realm of Cambria lay past the Untamed Land, was primarily made up of three kingdoms and countless tribal mage communities. Pagus lay at the doorstep of that Untamed Land, while south of that, Godwyn governed the Kingdom of Ealdor like a petty gangster, bullying priests and torturing peasants, and held the most influence of Imperial rule in that region. In the northern lands of Cambria was Gwynedd, ruled by the warrior king Mathu son of Mathonwy, and his own son Gwydion ruled there and stood in defiance of their High-king. Gwynedd would not be easy to subdue.
King Tudwal and his ilk however, could stay up in the Old North for all he cared, Vortigern's desires lay in the West. "I should have killed them all. Had their homes torched as the Imperials had done to the mages centuries ago."
"And you will, my king. Right now, you need them," Rowena counselled. "One way or another you shall have fire and blood to wield." The High-King looked first to his new wife, radiant and beautiful, her Viking features highlighted by the light, already eclipsing Severa's by leagues in his opinion. She looked at him with some undiscernible conviction, as if she knew his mind and his heart. Twenty years of marriage and not even his dutiful Celtic wife could boast that.
Beside her was another man, a man in white, flow-fitting robes and a crown of mistletoe vine sat upon his sleek, white hair, long and straight and almost as long as Rowena's. Maugant, Druidic Archmage of Llyndin left all of his weight upon his ivory staff, inspecting the map with keen eyes, laying his ambitions bare for the king to see.
"What say you, old friend?"
The druid was always more content to think before he acted. He played it safe for the majority of his life, and he has lived a very, very long life because of it, as mages often did. He was of the Old Blood—Fae blood—a hundred years or a thousand made little difference to him.
Many years ago, he had bent the knee to the Imperials and helped them hunt down his own people. Many magical tribes had been driven west into Cambria, as far west as Dyfed, it would seem. First by the Imperials, back when they still called on the Pantheon for strength. Then by the followers of the Crucified God, started hunting them. Now, all of Albion will be called in to finish them off.
"You are correct, my liege. The Old North will be well distracted by the Painted Tribes that live beyond the Wall. With our Viking brethren keeping the other kings and lords in check, you are free to invade Cambria. The three kingdoms are divided for now but as today has demonstrated, very little is needed for them to unite."
The king sighed once more as he considered his next moves as carefully as he could. "I'm taking an awful risk, Maugant. Are you sure about the powers hidden in the West?"
The old Archmage nodded. "I have studied the ancient texts closely. Old magic dwells there. In the heart of the West where there is a cave— a crystal cave, where you will find your dragon and the power to conquer all. You must do so with haste."
And who was Vortigern to question such old powers? Aside being a powerful mage, Maugant claimed to hear the voice of gods, pagan gods, Earthbound gods, who whisper secrets in his ear. Prophet or Saint, made no different—those secrets had always had a nasty habit of coming true. The Sacking of the Imperial City, the First Viking Invasion, the rise of the Horse-Lords of the Steppes, even the ascension of Leo, all foreseen, apparently by the Archmage.
He could vividly recall the feeling of holding such power himself, that night when he took the throne of Albion from Constantine.
"You know the price, my king," said the mysterious Caelia to a Vortigern kneeling, humbled as he presented to the Dark Fae his slain wife. His brow crinkled at the thought. Kneeling?! He had to humble himself before a Fae in order to gain power.
It was a desperate need more than a want, for Vortigern to gain power free from such debasing confines. The type of power that blessed the native mages when they ruled and shaped this country.
He turned to his new paramour and inquired after the dragon he was searching for. Prime on his mind was the ritual needed to summon and tame such a creature, one he himself had not seen in person. The Saxon princess had told him once that the king of the Jutes called Beowulf had faced against a mighty fire-breathing dragon in the Northrealms. I do not intend to kill one however."
"Before you find it, you must first learn its name."
"Its name?"
The Saxon nodded. "Names hold power, Your Grace. Draconic names especially as their names are the last natural link to magic. Is this correct, Master Maugant?"
"Aye, it is," the wizard confirmed. "Speak its name to the dragon, its real name, and the beast shall be yours alone."
"Then I will entrust this task with you, my friend. I will prepare my armies for an invasion into Cambria." He walked over to the window, from which he could see the entirety of Lud's Town, his new Capital, the centre of his soon-to-be-mighty kingdom. he and Severa always loved it, then he became seneschal to Constantine and Market Hall would be their home for a while. Now he was home.
"Only one Imperial Legion managed to escape that night, carrying with them, I presume, the rest of Constantine's family." The king groaned as he leaned upon the window frame. His army was almost depleted. "All that was left was the Sarmatian knights of the Ninth Legion, way up north at the Wall." But he was apprehensive about adding more barbarians into his ranks in addition to the Vikings he'd welcomed.
Longboats had docked at the harbour on the Thames. He saw Hengist's ship, adorned with a gilded horse upon the prow, leaving the docks and going east towards open water with his main vanguard. "Hengist is bound for Dommoc in South Ichen, Master Maugant. I need you to send a message to await him there. He has his first mission to travel to Eburacum. If I'm not mistaken, Cunoricus is still Legatus of the Ninth. I'll need a diplomat to aide the Vikings and ensure the loyalty of the last legion in Albion."
To this end, Rowena smiled at her lover, bowing her head in agreement and then leaving for her chambers. But before she could say anything else, one of his servants marched on into the room, excusing himself with a curt bow. "Apologies, Your Grace, but I have received word that your son has arrived."
Vortigern perked up at the news and asked where he was or why he did not come straight to his father. When the servant informed him further, air had been squeezed from his lungs. In all this commotion he had forgotten a crucial fact. The king thanked his manservant and with Rowena's firm hand in his, made his way to a small and humble church by the river.
He found his strapping boy on his knees before the grave of his mother. Slumped and defeated in the sad cemetery beside Severa's favourite church, amongst beautiful clove pink flowers. Shaking movement of his shoulders revealed the lad crying over such tragic loss. Vortigern let go of Rowena's hand and with light steps, made his way to his grieving son. That same hand rested upon his son's armoured shoulder.
There was only silence between the two, and just as Vortigern intended to break that silence, his son discerned only four words, but they were powerful. "What have you done?!"
…
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Godwyn: King of Ealdor.
Hengis: Chief of the Viking Confederation.
Horsa: A Viking and younger brother of Hengis.
Mathu: Old king of Gwynedd.
Maugant: Archmage of Llyndin
Rowena: Daughter of Hengis and Vortigern's lover.
Ruadan: King of Pagus.
Tudwal: King of Rheged.
Vortigern: High-King of Albion.
Vortimir: Son of Vortigern and Lady Severa.