PENDRAGON
—o—
CHAPTER FIRST
FOR HONOUR
—o—
Five Years Later…
WHEN SIR ECTOR'S YOUNGEST SON HEARD THAT HIS FRIEND HAD BEEN DISHONOURED BY AN ANGLEN PRINCE, THE FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD BOY MARCHED INTO THE FORTIFIED CITY OF CAER HOEL WITH A GROUP OF HIS CLOSEST FRIENDS. Dusk crept upon the small city softly, and though most people hurried back into the warm safety of hearth and home, night was where the young lived. The one time where peasants and nobility blurred into one group— that group being a bunch of seventeens and twenty-somethings hanging around the taverns.
Lights glimmered in the alehouses, brothels and market stalls that lined the back alleyways and narrow streets, lighting a fire within the youth that hung around there tonight. Untested youths wishing to absorb some of the battle weariness of the older veterans through drink and merrymaking, and the songs of brave and gallant deeds done.
For Arthur Castus, son of Lord Ectorius, tonight was his testing. With him, his men-at-arms as you will, were sons of his father's knights, come to avenge the honour of the Princess of Tameliard. Brunor and his brother Dinadan, Erec son of Erbin, Bors son of Bornon, Morian son of Agloval, then there was Dagonet who wasn't a son of anyone, and Percival son of Pellinor marched towards the forum with fire and iron in their hearts like soldiers.
They found the dishonourable Prince Wuffa at Sir Leon's tavern, seated at a table of warriors, being merry and bawdy, and without a care in the world. The son of Wihstan who was king of the Angul Settlers in Ichen laughed haughtily with a large flagon of ale in one hand, his free grips took hold of a passing wench and forced her onto his lap. The other men with him, guffawed encouragement and tried as they could to claw and pinch and tear her bland and simple dress off.
Percival was the first to react, hands already contorted into fists, pale-haired young would be inches away from abandoning any semblance of inhibition and control. Young Percival was well known for amongst friends for being a paragon of knightly virtue, or what he was given to aspire to. But when even common decency is ignored around him, he would have tackled poor Wuffa to the ground and pummeled him into dust if not for Arthur's firm hand holding his shoulder back. Arthur wasn't a fool—seven little fifteen-year-olds were no match for even five young Angul warriors and Wuffa was by far, one of their best.
The man was all muscle, broad shoulders were draped by a curtain of golden vines tangled and braided in the Viking style, also framed an angular, handsome and beardless face, he was classically handsome. Wuffa was still young, probably Cai's age of nineteen, but still held an imposing visage to all who met him, in the battlefield or off. His entourage were not so dissimilar to their captain, with axe and sword at their side, green coats hemmed by fur at the shoulders. Aside from their primary weapons, each man had a large dagger strapped to their chests.
When Arthur approached the barbarians, they barely registered him. The tavern worker was the first one to acknowledge him, looking at him with fearful eyes. The boy said nothing but waited for Wuffa to finally notice him. "You got something to say, boy, or do you want a turn to sit upon my lap?"
Whilst the boorish prince and his lackeys guffawed, Arthur merely stared and smirked. "You are a guest here, Wihstan's son," he finally spoke but with little patience in his voice. "I'd have thought twice before antagonising King Ogyrvan by dishonouring his daughter."
The prince had to think for a while, looking at the faces of his men with confusion before it hit him. "Oh, you mean, that fiery little blonde minx that her father has sold to me. I requested a kiss and she refused. It was my right as her betrothed, thus, I thought it fair to take a trinket she was sure not to miss." He produced a golden cruciform pendant on a silver chain, a royal artifact of clan Leodegrance, and dangled it before the native youths. "Let's get this straight, little lord. We are the aggressors. It is our army what threatens to raise your pathetic kingdoms to the ground and thousands more ready to launch from Great Anglia. Frankly I'd much rather do so before Yule comes around then we won't be allowed to."
By this point, Wuffa tossed the tavern maid off of his lap and turned his seat, completely facing the boy.
"You're lucky that my father is merciful enough to even entertain peace. Not a trait that is common in Great Anglia."
"You're stalling," Arthur pointed out. "Simply give back the necklace, apologise to Princess Guinevere and we can have peace."
Typical of an Angul settler, Wuffa and his men merely laughed at the whelp. "Got a mouth on you, don't you, boy."
"Sorry," Arthur feigned. "Did I say something to offend you?"
Suddenly the laughing died and the warrior prince leaned forth, eyes steely trained on the lad. "We do not give back what we take away, bastard. This trinket is mine because I took it, because your minx was not strong enough to keep it. I have earned this victory!"
Again, Percival made to pounce on the heathens before being blocked off by Arthur's hand. A course of action that only served to excite the raiders further.
"I've heard of you Sarmatians," said one of the Angul brutes. "Is it true that you people sleep with your horses? Don't you people have women to warm your beds with?"
"I swear to God, Arthur, one more word from that cunnus' mouth and I'm going to lose it!" Arthur needed to use his entire right arm to obstruct the larger member of his crew. Bors son of Bornon was the brute strength of their band—slightly taller than him, stocky build and a head shaved near bald. The boy was Sarmatian, through and through and presented a very intimidating figure that usually helped Arthur avoid most conflicts. He doubted it would have the same effect on Wuffa's ilk though. Erec, a smaller boy, held Bors' shoulder in hopes of easing his temper.
"See, what did I tell ya, bloody mongrels the whole lot of 'em," Wuffa chuckled. "Dogs just like their Uther Pendragon."
"Alright, m'lord, why don't we settle this your way," Arthur walked up to the barbarian prince, staring into steel eyes and ignoring his infuriating smirk. "We form a square, three shields each, first to disarm."
"Huh, you think you are worthy to face me, whelp? I am a prince," the prince then drew out a broad Carolingian style sword, pointing it at the Sarmatian 'whelp' who had challenged him. "And who are you, again?"
In the face of such menace, Ector's son simply smiled up at him. A sly, cocky, lopsided grin that shielded his more apprehensive feelings. "My name is Castus, m'lord," with a single move, produced a Roman spatha from his side, unsheathing it at the ready. "Arthur Castus."
Further amused, Wuffa acquiesced the challenge and basically had every tavern patron in the vicinity form an oblong square arena in the plaza. Three wooden shields were laid out on opposing sides in the square for them.
Ector's boy held a deep scowl on his pale face as he had firm eyes trained on his opponent, swirling his sword around him to hear the sleek whistle of the blade. In truth, Arthur himself felt stiff, frozen limbs and a heartbeat as loud as the thundering waves.
Percival came over to him. "You took your father's sword?"
Arthur shrugged and Dagonet, another one of Arthur's companions answered on his behalf, "Better to ask forgiveness than permission, eh, Arthur?"
"See. Dag's got the idea, Percy," Arthur teased though distantly, still trying to get his head in the zone of battle.
Percy scoffed, shaking his head at his best friend. "You don't even know if you can beat him," he said, gesturing to the blonde-headed prince who had now taken off his leather jerkin and was now strutting around bare-chested.
"I have trained with the sword under both Cai and father."
"Yes, in the practice ring," Percival responded, voiced slightly raised. "With blunted swords!"
"You make a valid point, Percy."
Dag chuckled. "But not a rousingly positive one," he finished, fist-bumping Morian.
"Hey, shut up, Dag!" Percival snapped, shaking his head at his droll-witted friend.
"If you women have quite finished with your gossiping, perhaps we can finally fight then, Lord Arthur," Wuffa quipped and began banging his blade upon the round wood-board shield, his first shield.
Dismissing his friends, Arthur grabbed a board of his own and with his father's sword swung the first blow. It was parried easily by his opponent, catching Arthur off balance and pushing him back. Wuffa's friends chuckled and cheered while his own friends groaned.
Arthur wasn't defeated. He readied himself again and this time took position behind his round shield, Wuffa did the same and the two encircled each other. With the entire street in uproar and fanfare, the two combatants began to wail on each other though each strike was met against hard wood and iron. Each boy was almost evenly matched though the prince had the edge of height, strength and age on his side. Arthur had the advantage of speed and precision, able to dodge a decisive strike that would have taken his head and as he hopped away, spinning around to return the strike. This time the Imperial sword had sliced through his opponent's board. Wuffa's first shield.
It was the Sarmatian boys' turn now to cheer for their champion. "Victrix! Victrix! Victrix!" they bellowed, chanting in unison and thrusting their fists into the air. The chant of the Sixth Legion seemed almost sacred to the youthful among them. "Victrix! Victrix! VICTRIX!"
"Gloria ad Sextae!" Morian cried a lion's roar, almost bestial. "Gloria Sextae Legio Victrix!"
Pleased with himself, Arthur lowered his shield but this was a mistake, as the now disgruntled prince, without shield or respite, flew into a flurry of jabs and strikes. Although they seemed blind and chaotic, hitting his shield with force until his defence was broken. Wuffa's attacks were precise— a slash managed a cut him on the cheek, a jab broke through his shield and a final thrust forward ripped his gambeson, even piercing his arm slightly in an attempt to disarm him.
"Damn, wart, that looks like a hell of a scar, you got there," Wuffa jeered, a little out of breath. His pale white and clean-shaven face was glistened with the sheen of sweat, but there nothing but sheer joy in the prince's smile to unsettle Arthur.
The second shields held much the same result— neither side could claim victory over the other, least not for long. Wuffa struck Arthur's shield from overhead and then with a decisive kick, sent the young boy stumbling back.
"Hah, you've got both skill with a sword and the balls to wield it, I'll give you that, Wart." His compliments had gone mostly on deaf ears, especially as he was again, railed by blow after blow from the Angul, until finally, his second shield broke once more.
Now on his knees, Arthur crawled back to his side of the square to retrieve his last shield, all-the-while taking quite imaginative vitriol from the heathen guests. Blood trickled from his nose and the cut on his chest, smearing his face in crimson woad.
Wuffa chuckled once more while his friends guffawed, "Still, I fear your skills are found wanting—"
A chuckle began to erupt from Lord Ector's bloodied son as he stood, seemingly to join them in their merriment. His father's sword used as leverage to lift himself up and his shield left discarded on the cobblestone floor. When asked why the trounced young man was laughing, Arthur simply shrugged, whipped away the red ichor from his mouth.
"The contest is over, my lord. You have the satisfaction of beating me— however small and fleeting that is. As for me?" Arthur then presented the Princess' necklace for all to see. "I'm very satisfied with how all this turned out m'self."
The atmosphere around the street had suddenly shifted and none save the teenaged barbarians said a word. Prince Wuffa, having briefly checked his own pockets in case it was a trick charged at him, intent on reclaiming the golden trophy. The boy simply spun around, letting the barbarian pass as if he was a spectre in the wind, and crashed right into a wall of onlookers. One particular patron had his tankard of ale knocked out of his hands, drenching his equally pissed friend in the warm nectar.
Predictably, the doused young man took offense to that and sent a slobbery fist into his buddy's face. Just like that, the entire street erupted into chaos. Not out of the ordinary around the taverns—a fight broke down almost nightly there, but even Sir Leon was at a loss when everyone around his inn began to punch and kick each other. His pleads for peace and order went unheard.
Arthur made to run off but bumped into a giant fair-haired warrior, towering over him like an old oak tree, holding him by the shirt and threatening to bash his face in. Not an original threat. Arthur flinched at the thought of dying at the hands of this brute, but that was when Bors appeared beside him and caught the balled fist mid strike.
While the two behemoths stared into each other's eyes, Arthur took the opportunity to lay his own resounding thwack into the Angul's face and as soon as he hit the ground, he was beset by more barbarians. "This going to plan, Arthur?" quipped the ever dependable Bors.
"Well, I'm not dead."
Sarmatian and Angul boys found themselves pitted against each other, doing battle as their fathers and forefathers had done in the past, and the other patrons simply wanted some excitement on a quiet Saturnsday night. A symphony of broken bones and bruised flesh as the anthem of all young boys. Bors had gone off to tackle the closest barbarian he could find, Brunor was back-to-back with his brother Dinadan, wielding a broken broomstick and chair-legs for swords, while Dagonet was smashing people with the whole chair.
Then there was Percival who was fine with just getting out of people's way, letting them trip and collide with each other like headless chickens. Arthur himself had lost sight of Wuffa in all of the mayhem, instead was engaged with several other young Angul warriors—come to join the festive fight.
"Oi! What the hell is going on here?!" Arthur looked over his shoulders and spotted his brother Cai marching into the plaza with a lady-knight. They were both dressed in full Imperial armour and mantled in dark-red cloaks emblazed with the golden bull of the Sixth Legion, one of the last Imperial armies still in Prydain.
The hot-blooded Arthur cursed under his breath then shouted for Percival's attention. He gestured to the knights and watched as colour drained from Percival's face. "Percy!" Lady Dandrane voice bellowed from the crowd. When he heard it, Percy could not help but flinch and then seeing the imposingly tall armoured woman slowly yet aggressively approach him, the boy felt his body tense and freeze.
"Cripes, my sister's here," Percy announced with despair. "I'm out." With that, Percival dashed in the opposite direction, running back into the city.
Arthur made to do the same but found he was too slow. When it was his turn to hear his name fired upon him like an arrow by Sir Caius, on instinct Arthur sheathed his father's sword and shouted to his troops. "You and your brother follow Bors!" Brunor and Dinadan complied immediately but Bors had to be restrained by Dag, and yanked from battle before either of them could be apprehended. "If Morian goes down you follow Dag, you hear me, Erec?"
The lad who was the smallest among them bobbed his head obediently.
While the boys disappeared into the town of Caer Hoel, with its twisted streets that bear little logic behind its design if any, Cai followed behind in slow and deliberate strides. A shiver ran down the back of Arthur's neck at his pursuer, his brother could be very terrifying when he wished to be. They called him, Caius the Tall, because of his colossal stature, towering over most grown-ups—no points for creativity but it got the point across and many people simply fill in the blanks when they see him.
Sullen eyes scanned the narrowing streets, left deserted and quiet by nightfall. Cai did not suspect that Arthur had abandoned the streets below and had used the momentary reprieve of a street corner to climb onto the rooftops.
"Art!" Cai shouted into the dark void. "I swear to God, brother. If you don't come out this instance, I'm going to wring that skinny little neck of yours!"
His brother may know him better than others, but Arthur knew a thing or two about him. He could discern empty threats when his foster-brother made them. "Nice try Cai!" he shouted to the households below and completed his escape.
In the centre of Caer Hoel stood a castle of silver stone atop a wide hill where King Ogyrvan presided over a court of lords and nobles that managed his kingdom. Protected by a dry moat and wooden stakes and high walls of obsidian—designed to be rather impregnable. Arthur had no problems scaling the walls of Ogyrvan's Keep. He was swift and sure of foot, but with the annoying sword at his belt banging against the stone, threatened to throw him off balance, or alert the guards below.
The clan regularly passed through Caer Hoel on the passage to and from the Kingdoms of Cambria for the past seven years and in all those years, he always found himself climbing the castle, usually to visit the princess herself.
Keen eyes found protruding bricks and wedged in planks of wood to grab. Once he had gotten onto the battlements, Arthur slid into the shadows, tailing several guards, hiding behind barrels and racks of arrows and javelins, the boy knew these shadows like the back of his hand. When he got to the main stronghold, his climb began anew.
He had gotten to the farthest tower in the east where a candle illuminated the room and shadows walking within. Arthur cautiously peered through the narrow window. Inside he saw a young woman around his age, marked by the beauty of bright auburn hair and crystal blue eyes.
"Princess," he called to her, discretely, careful not to arouse any unwanted attention from anyone else in the room. The girl did not seem to have noticed him, simply gliding across her bedchambers, toward her bookcase, retrieving a small codex and bringing it to her bed. "Guinevere!"
"Arthur?!" When she finally noticed the boy's head peaking from her window, she dashed to pull him up.
"Hope I'm not intruding, m'lady."
Princess Guinevere giggled sweetly at her dashing young visitor. "You know that you are but I'll allow it."
Arthur made a show of bowing courteously before the young lady and the two embraced, a chaste moment though the princess certainly let the hug linger a little longer than he wished. When they parted, the princess noticed the cuts on his face and arms.
"Oh my God, Arthur, what happened to you?"
The boy did not answer straight away, instead gave a knowing grin and moved behind her. She would ask him what he was doing but was answered immediately by a cross pendant appearing below her neck by a golden chain.
"My mother's necklace," she breathed with abated joy.
"Bumped into your betrothed this evening. The Prince of the Anguls insists that you have this back— a token of his love and respect for you, as well as his deepest apologies, of course."
Guinevere Leodegrance skipped over to her wall mirror and giddily inspected how she looked, as though it was the first time seeing it. It may have been rather vain for her to say that she did look an awful lot like her mother. Much of her room had become a reflection of her mother. Tapestries that had been woven by her and the princess hung on the walls around her—depictions of her father's early exploits and even some of her whole family, resting in domestic bliss. There was warmth and colour wherever Guinevere went, like her private chambers, like her memories of her mother, something that Arthur pointed out himself.
"My mother raised me up in the Imperial Christian faith," she sighed to her reflection, softly caressing the gold cross with her fingertips. "Though my father attends Mass and invoked Christ, he still holds one foot in the Old Religion, carries a figure of Toranos behind his crucifix. Now that mother's gone, I feel so alone in this city."
"Well, faith is not something to be coerced or forced on," said Arthur curtly. "But your mother was a good woman to find faith in a single god."
Guinevere chuckled. "Well, my mother hated you, Arthur, despite your shared faith."
"Well then, she definitely was a good woman." Arthur placed his sword standing against the bed and sat down on the mattress.
Again, the fair princess chuckled and returned to him. She had with her a cut of white cloth sitting in a pool of partially fresh water. With some discomfort she proceeded to dab and wipe away the blood from his face and the gash on his arms. "You didn't have to do this, you know. He is my betrothed after all."
Arthur hissed at the pain of something cold touching his wounds. The princess' hands were gentle but discerning between grime and dirt from blood and flesh was not an easy task, she was discovering. Arthur then tried to focus his attention on her. "Did he request a kiss, m'lady?"
"He did."
"Did you consent?"
The young princess shook her head. "He did request a token, however."
"And were you forthcoming?"
Once again, she shook her head. She told him that he had ripped it from her neck in the markets as recompense for his damaged pride. She feared that he'd further push the boundaries with her and disrobe her then and there, were it not for Sir Cado, head of the Royal Guard then he might have. Alas Guinevere made steps to ensure her father did not hear of it.
"Then there was nothing else for it, Guinevere. It was a question of honour," Arthur proclaimed. He then lowered his head as if a bashful. "But if I overstepped then I'm truly sorry."
Once she was finished, Arthur made his way to the door, content at having returned the familiar heirloom to her, but was stopped by the princess.
"Would you stay here with me tonight?" she asked. "Talk?"
She was a good friend. They had met many years ago, the first time Arthur went with the rest of the clan to Cambria to visit his mother's family in Dyfed. As usual, from their post at Wall's End, the horse-lords of clan Victrix— descendants of the Sixth Legion's knights' division, followed Hadrian's Wall east into Rheged, then southward following the coast toward Elfed where the Kingdom of Tameliard stood as barrier into those Perilous West.
At Caer Hoel—its capital city, where the clan would stay and regroup, resupply then move on again. West but keeping as far away from the Kingdom of Gwynedd as possible. They made the journey at least once a year, and every time would have been spent in Guinevere's company.
The princess asked him about that great western country at Tameliard's doorstep. Arthur had to think on that for a moment, to describe his mother's homeland.
"It's...it's a land of mountains," he started, taking in a deep breath of the evening's cool air. "It's a bountiful land. I don't know...the grass just seems more greener there, more prominent, like it glows there. Almost magical. The air feels more older yet fresher. Ponies and sheep graze across the patchwork of green pastures between ancient cities. I've only ever visited Caer Glevum and Moridunum in Dyfed. My gran says that was where the Archmage Merlin was born."
The overly-sheltered princess hung on every word and inched in closer to him. "The only things my father says about Cambria are usually resentful, almost spiteful rants about what a dangerous place it is, filled with dark sorceresses and evil mages. My mother says that its just full of pagans, old Celts."
Arthur shrugged at this. Sure he had never actually met someone one could class as a proper mage in his visits there, his own mother told him stories of the Fae folk and how they used to live all over Prydain, teaching magic to the native Celts before being drive out by the Christians. Pushed to the West, to Cambria—to deep and dark forests and lakes and rivers.
"The mages are gone," he finally told Guinevere. "My mother says that the mages fled far, following the mystic Fae to the Realm of Avalon. Grandma Annwynn always weeps when we talk about it."
"A victory for us usually means a defeat for someone else," whispered the princess.
Arthur couldn't agree more though it still did not stop him from wondering, 'Does it have to be?'
That night, Arthur and Guinevere sat on her balcony and watched the silver moon, luminous over a sapphire sky. The boy spoke of their travels across the North, keeping it safe from the Painted Tribes and from Saxon attempts to establish a foothold in Deira.
Guinevere spoke of the tumultuous months that beseeched Tameliard. Unyielding harvest, rising death-rates not helped by the appearance of Angul raiders in and around the kingdom. Her father was desperate but Chief Wihstan had yet to offer terms and it was the prince himself who came up with the offer of marriage. Suddenly her eyes grew sombre and in her silent anguish rested her golden head upon her friend's shoulder. She had already lost her brother Gotegin to those brigands last year. Now there was only her father, her sister and herself, but between them, there was vacuum of affection that kept them apart and no matter the luxuries or the flourish of vanity she pursued in the markets, they would never be enough to remedy it.
"What if we left," she whispered into the cool emptiness. "Just vanished into the ether. Let these barbarians take what they want and choke on it."
"I don't know, princess," replied Arthur in earnest. "Have you seen how those guys eat, or drink? Their pagan gods practically drank a lake dry so I doubt a city would be enough to choke them." Not too earnest.
The two good friends chortled together, it seemed a much-needed reprieve for the princess especially and Arthur was glad he could have such an effect on her. He had wished her nothing but happiness and good-will since first he lay eyes on her. Happiness was what he offered her this night as well. Talking and laughing until he felt her dozing off on his shoulder, a look of content on her face. Then he too would slip into slumber.
DUX BELLORUM
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