PENDRAGON
…
PROLOGUE
An Age of Darkness
BROTHER GILDAS TRIED HIS BEST NOT TO CURSE UNDER HIS BREATH. As a man of the cloth, he should do well to observe the sanctity of God's might and majesty, and not tempt His wrath idly. Yet, the vexed young monk would be lying if he thought that rummaging through old ruins and rubble were not beneath them. Alas, he could not disobey the instructions of the archbishop, especially being fresh out of the College of Thoedosius. These were dangerous days and God forbid if he were to make enemies of a bishop of the Church or of the nobility for that matter.
"For all the power and influence that Lord Ulfius has at his disposal, how is it that he could not get a local peasant or slave-hand to sort through all of this rubbish." A few feet away from him was Father Archimedes, the priest who had chosen him and brought him over from the Vale in southern Cambria.
"Honest labour, keeps a man of faith honest himself, Father." Gildas decided, swallowing his own displeasure as the disgruntled monk crouched down to pick at some of the old pieces of timber with a stern yet humbling sigh, then throwing them into their shabby old cart.
"Well, in these dark times, we all need to be doing our part, I suppose." Unlike Archimedes who was already old, frail and embittered, Brother Gil held the vigour of youth still within his veins, and the naïve wonder within his eyes, a trait he said would be useful in Lloegyr. Archimedes had brought him over to Ulfius, who was the good, God-fearing seneschal to King Uther Pendragon.
They were to build a monastery in a small village just outside of Lud's Town, capital city of Lloegyr, it would be where they intended to house their young priory— a small hamlet on an eyot where the river Tamesas had split to form a small spit of mostly flat land and populated by old houses of stone, stick and straw. Hide pavilions and thatched public buildings likes Roman Baths were reduced to ruins. Only the destitute or the wicked made this heap home. What better place was there to set up a church, a centre of salvation to these lost souls.
When the priest and his monk arrived upon that eyot, accessible by a series of narrow bridges on all but one side, they found it home to marauders, shamelessly rummaging through the trash like vultures. Most of them wore tattered clothing hidden by leather or iron armour. Probably the remnants of a raiding party or—God-forbid, deserters from Uther's warband. The king hated nothing more than traitors and deserters, next to the Anguls that is. They harassed and the poor and disenfranchised citizens of the hamlet, extorting money and favours of whatever livelyhood God had left for them.
An old peasant woman fell to young Gildas' feet begging for coin. Regretably, the monk had to explain quickly that he had no such luxuries. She was left to the raiders who immediately drew upon her. The servant of God could do nothing but trudge on. But who could truly blame such debasing behaviour. The land was sick. It was ruled by weak kings, devoid of conviction and morality. They were without those great heroes of old.
"I am too old for this, young Gildas," the old man then grunted, taking his time to straighten and crack his aching back to illustrate. "Too old to be in the field, too old to be so far from home." These are dark times indeed. Looking down river, the old man could see the silhouette of Lud's Town, glowing against the clear blue sky. Its tall, Roman walls hid away the sophisticated splendour of an old city that once acted as seat of Imperial power in Prydain. Though with the red dragon banners not flying from the battlements, Uther himself was probably still at Camulodunum. Comparing those bustling metropolises to the downtrodden hellscape just outside its walls— where would-be-reavers scavenged through corpses and rubble.
He was too old to be ignorant.
As the holy men ventured deeper into the ruined hamlet, the elder priest could not help but reminisce. He knew this place though not as well as others of his time, being those who were directly affected by High-King Vortigern's policies. "Nothing was ever so pernicious to the Prytani. Nothing was ever so unlucky; those very people, dreaded more than death itself were invited to reside—one may say, under the self-same truth."
"You are referring of the Angul Invasion?"
"Do not speak of it as though it is passed, or downplay that travesty which befell these lands." Archimedes hissed, bitterly, shooting a broken plank at a group of scavengers that scattered around like frightened rats. "Anguls occupy Ichen while Croeda and his Saxon pirates threaten everything below the Tamesas, destroying Celtic temples and defiling churches alike. No, the invasion still stands and we are being assaulted on all sides now."
"Apologies, Father. I forget myself sometimes."
"Oh, do not worry yourself, boy. Live with a scab for long enough and it becomes a part of you. The Painted Tribes of the Old North still venture south to visit evil upon the land and now—rumours of Eirish Ogres invading from the west, compared to these threats, the people seem to have forgotten the Anguls. Vortigern's sin continues to ooze out puss and corruption and the land suffer its reek." He saw sadness behind his superior's hard exterior, sadness and a festering frustration. Some deep seeded regret that he could only guess at. "No, I speak in particular, of that dreaded night the bards call the Treason of the Long Knives. Rosy words for what I would simply call: The Massacre of the Elders."
Gil had heard of those songs. Of how Vortigern, the Usurper who invited the Angles and the Saxons into this country was deposed, and how Ambrosius Aurelius, the rightful king ascended to the throne. For a time, the land saw an era of peace and prosperity. Ambrosius defeated the Saxon invaders at every turn and finally at Badon, drove them out.
But they wouldn't stay away for long. The Treason of the Long Knives?
"Upon that circle of stone in Sorviodunum Plain, that our ancestors revered," the old priest began again. "High-King Ambrosius held an armistice with the Saxon invaders. They all came with white flags under the pretense of peace; every king, queen and tribal chief in Prydain and their retainers. One would be forgiven in believing that those heathens knew a spit of honour in those days, that an olive branch would be respected. Ambrosius was a fool… We were all fools. They butchered every elder in attendance for the Celts and the Imperials came without weapons. Ambrosius fell and this kingdom was without a ruler once more. Now the land grows ever darker, it grows more barren with every harvest..."
Young Gildas cocked his head at this; Prydain was in quite the contrary situation now. Kings and queens rose up every other day now and there seemed to be a new kingdom popping up on the map between them. Upstarts with small armies who think that by subjugating towns and cities makes them statesmen.
"With each passing day, I feel like God's light is diminished in the Isles." The old man, his wizened eyes staying fixed on Lud's Town continued to brood. "Hard for me to say it, boy, but at times I find I miss Merlin and his blasted mages. At least with them here this land was strong and the ground was yielding. God's majesty was still felt and respected."
"Careful, Father. Somehow that sounds sacrilegious."
Archimedes chuckled under his breath but agreed. "Domine, dimitte peccata mea." He made gestures of the the sign of the cross on his temple, chest and shoulders before turning to the heavens and half expecting a bolt of lightning to affirm his forgiveness or damn his offenses.
Brother Gildas mirrored the gesture, muttering the Latin, "Gressus meos firma in sermone tuo et non des potestatem in me universae iniquitati," then, looking back to the ruin of their country he began to wonder of those dark days and the kings that brought it about.
They saw riders in the hills—zig-zagging across the field before turning toward the village. They appeared to be flying banners but too far away to discern their identities.
"Saxons?" the monk chanced.
"This side of the river?" Archimedes shook his head. He told him that the Saxons, Jutes and Anguls were seafarers, pirates by most accounts, and mercenaries as history tells it. "Saxons are not horse-riders, least of all not to battle. It is probably just a gang of young hooligans looking for trouble and adventure."
They continued to work, paying no further heed of the oncoming band. Ill-intent or not, they wouldn't go out of their way just to disturb Men of God minding their own business.
"The country is bereft of new heroes," Archimedes breathed and then began to rummage through more debris as he had done before. "And the ones we have now are stagnant, so consumed with their own power and desires. Very un-Christian if I am being perfectly honest."
"The Lord tests His children in many ways, father— unique and unfathomably complex in their designs. Perhaps we need but look for the signs."
"Wise words, young Brother Gildas," the jaded priest sighed. "There was once a dream, my boy. A dream of Albion, uniting the many fractured kingdoms that pollute this isle like cracks on a vase. But perhaps you are right, and I pray for that sign every night."
Close to the centre of the island were a series of buildings, the only ones still standing upon stern yet volatile foundation. In one structure, small and unevenly square, with a section of the roof having collapsed on itself. But Gil saw a small glint shining, glowing from the cracks in the wood plank walls. It grabbed his attention wholly, guiding his steps to it.
"What is it, young Brother?"
He did not answer and simply walked on.
Judging by the horseshoes and hammers littering the ground and shelves of unused metal ingots, they discerned the it must have been a blacksmith's workshop, long past its use. The torn banner of a white dragon upon a night sky lay discarded in the muck to be trod upon. Archimedes commented that it was the flag of High-King Vortigern. Gil recognised the strain in the old priest's eyes trying as hard as God would grant him the restraint not to spit at the accursed albino dragon.
The four horsemen came galloping into the town from the north bridge, scattering the remainder of the vagrants into hiding in their wake. They were not raiders or bandits it would seem but knights.
"Lord Ulfius." The elder priest inclined his head before a noble man, tall and broad. Dressed in fine, emerald clothing fit for such a man, with allusions to Imperial armour on those shoulders.
"Father Archimedes, my old friend," greeted the seneschal atop his horse, draped in a white cloak with a red dragon upon it— the sigil of the Roman House of Pendragon. "I expected to hear of your progress a lot sooner. What is keeping you?"
Archimedes wanted to rebuff with a complaint of no help of serfs and slaves but Gil instead pointed to the smithy doors, relaying that he had seen something glistening from within, a bright star-like shine and he presumed it might have been valuable, especially in amongst the dirt and muck. By Ulfius' command, one of his horsemen leapt off his steed and kicked in the stubborn obstructions.
When they marched into the abandoned workshop, but were stopped in their tracks at what lay before them. Upon a large grey rock, covered in moss and vines, held an iron anvil, and embedded steadfast in the anvil was a sword. A classical Imperial spatha, probably first century Anno Domini— with a red jewel pommel that was ringed by a golden serpent devouring its own tail. Below the hilt and guard, the blade stuck exposed a little less than half a meter from the base of the anvil, engraved along the fuller were words in the old Prytanic script that neither of them could read.
They were all stunned into place and it was Lord Ulfius who would ultimately move first, approaching carefully, face filled with of excited bewilderment. "I know this sword, I thought it lost in the Treason of the Long Knives," said the Steward of Lud's Town with a low gasp. "This is the sword of High-King Ambrosius. This is Clahrent, The Light-Bringer."
From the slightly exposed ceiling let flow a single ray of sunlight shining upon the silver blade, disturbed dust and lint were floating in orbit around the sword, giving an ethereal, other-worldly impression. Curiously, the young monk stood above the sword in the stone and clutched the hilt with two hands. Then, with a mighty heave, tried to pull the sword free of its iron scabbard, but to his surprise, though Gildas would swear he saw it coming, the sword did not budge. "It's stuck. I can't budge it."
Suddenly the ferric anvil began to glow blue, or at least a small section near the surface did. An engraving in the common tongue was highlighted to those in witness. They all gasped as they read it, and the light began to grow in intensity.
.
whoso pulleth out this sword
of this stone and anvil
is rightwise born
High-King of
Albion
.
DUX BELLORUM
...
