429AD

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I

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25 Years Later…

A Greater-Spotted Eagle soared through the endless skies, following seven knights storming their noble steeds across an open field just north of the Humber. Each knight dressed in one form of scale armour or another yet also incorporated the standard ridge-helmet of the Romans. All save one of them, the leader who rode at the head of the group, was decked from head to toe in full Roman regalia— a chainmail, long-sleeved shirt over a black tunic, leather pteruges skirt and baltea, segmented plate pauldrons, metal greaves and upon his head he wore a cassis helmet like that worn by infantry. The man looked the typical Roman soldier—which was more or less deliberate.

This man was Artorius Castus, last remaining centurion of the Sixth Legion and leader of the renowned Sarmatian Knights. Joined the military and began his training at ten, far too young to have done so yet as he rose up the ranks, a legend had sparked around him and his knights.

At the age of fifteen he had defeated a British king who rebelled and tried to incite more insurrection across the country, so much as to lay siege upon the Roman fortress of Bredigunum at the border of Lloegyr. This king Lot had failed in this endeavour, and Arthur who had to take command of the knights after their previous commander was slain, led a chase of the rebel king all the way back to his stronghold at Din Eidyn, north of Hadrian's Wall. This victory would cement Arthur's name and the love of his knights.

From that point on, Arthur was the de facto leader of the pack. He trained with them, he fought with them, and with them by his side, he brought hell to the barbaric rebels that had unwittingly set him on his warpath.

After travelling for the better half of a day, the knights reached a hill and on the other side, a low valley all the way up to the Humber itself. Artorius raised his fist to halt, and examined the Ermine Road.

In the wide strip of clearing, an ornate coach moved on laboriously along the dirt path, its four large wooden wheels struggling through the ruts in the earth, cut there by generations of rude carts and wagons. But the rough, wood-hewn vehicle that normally passed this way from Londinium, was unlike this rolling chest of luxury. The horse-drawn coach, driven by a single armoured driver and what would appear to be a finely dressed aristocrat, was guarded by mounted Roman legionnaires: eight in front and eight tailing the rear, bearing the eagle standards of the empire. Some would say it was rather excessive, but the soldiers guarded a person of great importance to the Empire, and to Artorius himself. Excessive was a great advantage.

"Ah, the bishop's carriage," Gawain stated flatly, bearing his spear. "As promised."

"Our freedom, Bors," remarked Lancelot, decurion of the Sarmatians knights and Artorius' right-hand man. His lips, framed by a trimmed goatee and moustache, smiled from ear to ear.

Bors, the larger brutish warrior with a shaved head and a mean expression to match—raised his nose to the winds, as though he were taking in the very concept with religious reverence. A look shared by the rest of them. "Mm. I can almost taste it."

Lancelot then rode closer to his commander, tapping him lightly on the arm. "And your passage to Rome, Arthur." He and Arthur had grown close, training in the barracks and since Din Eidyn, they had been inseparable, seeing as people often couldn't tell them apart, you could make the mistake of thinking they were brothers. The centurion didn't respond immediately as his focus was trained on the carriage itself. Lancelot knew that face well, and with an exasperated sigh, pulled his spear which was lodged into the ground and held into the cradle of his arm.

Hearing the eagle cry above them had grabbed Arthur's attention for a moment and turned to one of his other knights, a raggedy man with untamed light-brown hair, beard and arrowhead tattoos on his cheeks. Out of all of them, Tristan was the one whom one would typically imagine a Sarmatian to look like— with broad shoulders and sullen eyes, his was one prone to stoicism. When Arthur dropped his head ever so slightly at him, Tristan affirmed the wordless command and drew out his composite bow at the ready.

Something wasn't right here.

He had been in this fight since he was six years old. That was when his father died at the Great Wall. He thought he'd be done losing people… then his mother was taken from him at ten. All theses years, he had grown to despise the enemy, had given him a sixth sense.

The clearing seemed to narrow between thickets of trees, with a thinner strand of the River Hull on one side. As they passed, the Roman soldiers escorting the coach started to experience some sort of trouble with their horses, who were far more sensitive to their surroundings than their masters. They sensed the impending arrival of danger—a prophecy that proved far too late regardless.

Suddenly, an arrow zipped through the air and struck the coach driver in the head. The horses squealed and jumped but in other words, they did not seem to want to leave. Even when, from the forests all around them, men and women in rugged apparel and blue warpaint adorning their faces, rushed around them. They started to pull the Romans off their horses, slaughtering the few that were too slow to draw.

"Woads!" Ector, the largest of the knights growled angrily but waited for the charging orders from his centurion. Though by the look on Arthur's face, he wouldn't have to wait for long.

"Knights, form up!"

In a single line, they marched forth in a steady gallop down the hill before picking up speed by the minute. Then when they were nearing the battleground, Arthur drew out his legendary sword, a sign for his men who then broke out of their single line and taking up an arrow formation where Arthur came in front while the rest of his knights fanned out to form a V shape, with each knight drawing their spears forth in their charge.

Within moments, the escort were engulfed and overwhelmed by the blue-faced Woads. One of the barbarian leaders came over to one of the Roman guards he had unhorsed, and with an axe, chopped the man down like lumber before butchering and severing the guard's head. He held it up like a trophy, screaming proudly as his fellow warriors cheered on with fervour. He heard the hoofbeats coming up behind him, and when he turned, he did not even have time to react upon seeing Arthur swing his sword at his neck. With the warrior slumped dead and headless as the soldier he had just killed, the momentum shifted drastically.

The chaotic jumble of crimson and browns were splintered by the appearance of blue capes as the knights came crashing in and managing to mow down quite a few on the first pass. Only Percival, the youngest of their ranks, leapt from his horse to engage the enemy in hand-to-hand instead, a form of combat that the rebel barbarians were far more experienced than the conventionally trained Romans, and Ector and Gawain following to provide some support.

Lancelot still had his spear, and drove it into as many Woads as he came across. Two precision arrow shots from Tristan and Bors brought down a pair of blue monsters clamouring for the coach itself, Tristan was even able to follow a shot from the trees and return fire, watching the barbarian archer plop out of the thickets and into the river. Bors himself then plopped onto his own feet, feeling the need to get himself dirty, pulled out two blades whose handles wound snuggly around his knuckles. He then started dropping Woads down as he moved closer toward the carriage, aiming straight for the jugular of any barbarian in his way.

The Romans were being decimated, almost embarrassingly, save for a single Roman horseman with a bright crimson crest atop his helmet. Upon his horse, standing in the middle, this deft Roman eques hacked and poked at the surrounding savages, and centurion Arthur regarded him for a moment.

Arthur himself rode Llamrei like the Roman god Mercury—swift and decisive, Celts would say he was blessed by the goddess Macha, mistress of horses. With his famed spatha, the Roman centurion sliced at the enemy, passing like a ghost in the wind. His horse did not stop, nor did it have to make sharp jerks to change directions, it was like Llamrei could foresee the path ahead, to elegantly avoid obstruction laid before them. But when Arthur noticed the coach undefended, and saw four more native savages approach with sword and axe in hand, the centurion jumped off his horse and into the air, sword drawn aloft his head. When he brought it down, he sliced right down the middle of one warrior, and without reacting to his own exhibition of barbarism, engaged the other three.

Arthur struck like lightning, with a single slash for every opponent, his swings were circular and continuously moving, each strike connecting with another, connecting strike, block and perry. He felled them down like flies beneath his feet as even more came for him. There was far more than the necessity of warfare and battle that drove his hand. The look of utter contempt and disgust betrayed his life-long and consuming hatred he held for the Woads. His swings, the viciousness in his attacks were in many ways a personally intimate letter to the one who gifted him this hatred.

Another came from behind, and if the Woad had wanted to go for stealth, then he was below the mark. After slaying down an older savage and without interrupting the momentum of his swing, brought it around to a point directly at the oncoming attacker. Fortunately for him, he was able to stop himself just before the centurion's sword point.

The man was young, perhaps only a little older than Percival, with long and tangled up hair, and his face almost completely obscured by the blue paint of his kin. The Woad wielded with him a single Celtic styled leaf sword of excellent craftsmanship. He staggered, but once the savage warrior had found his balance once more, he swung Arthur's blade away and the two men engaged in more battle.

His swings were wide and rather clumsy, Arthur could tell from his footwork himself that his opponent was not at all trained, least in sword-on-sword combat. After hitting the Celtic sword at a certain angle, Arthur swung down and cut through the archaic blade.

The young man froze in complete and utter fear, looking at the broken sword in his hands. His eyes then came upon the sword that broke it— Arthur's sword. The half-moon shaped guard and the spherical pommel were inlayed with golden laurels of the Roman Caesars, and between the fullers of the pattern weld blade were the words 'Cast me away' in old Celtic. He could not be mistaken—it was the legendary sword that the Celts had won from the first failed Roman invasion of the Isle.

With his jaw left ajar, the Woad fell down to his knees, resigning himself to his fate, especially with his enemy's blade so close to his throat.

"What's your name, boy?" Arthur spoke in Brythonic.

The Woad did not answer straight away, his eyes still transfixed on the sword, but when he finally realised that the man, the Roman was speaking to him in his mother-tongue, the young savage grew more indignant, almost as if Arthur was throwing insults upon him just by deigning to speak their language. "Tal…Taliesin… It is Taliesin, you Roman dog!"

Arthur did not react to the man's insult. Dark, brown eyes scanned the woods past the young warrior. Yet, the man did not seem a warrior at all. He stood slouched and not one ready for battle, but over-comfortability. His hands were not rough and calloused like a warrior's would be, least of all a savage Woad. By Arthur's guess, the man was no more than some pompous noble, maybe even a scholar or bard, masquerading as a freedom-fighter.

Perhaps Arthur could see Merlin amongst the tangle of leaves that he felt the need to kill the boy fade. When he looked back to the Woad, he grabbed him by the collar of his sleeveless gambeson. "Why did Merlin send you this far south?"

Again, the Woad did not seem to want to answer him. Seething some breath in, he lifted his head, as if to present the centurion with his neck. "Go on, Roman. Spill my blood with Excalibur and make this land holy again."

This time, it was Arthur who paid the Celt no heed, gazing back again to the forest on the other side of the River Hull. He knows that Merlin is there somewhere, watching; the bane of his existence.

"Ector, Percival, restrain him and tie him to a tree for his brethren to find him," ordered Arthur.

"Dead or alive?" Ector had to ask.

"Alive," the centurion replied with a coy smile. "I want to send a message, not a manifesto."

The other barbarians were now simply trying to flee back into the forests or towards the river. Tristan and a couple of the Roman equites began herding the remaining Woads between them and started hammering at them with swords and spears. As quickly as it started, the battle was over over. Bors drowned the last of the fleeing barbarians in the Hull, after which he bore his tongue out and a loud battle-cry that could be heard for miles.

"RUXS! RUXS! RUXS!" he bellowed with fire like the dragon banners they bore. Ruxs! For the Rhoxolani— the Sarmatian tribe that they all hailed from. "This is a taste of Wacuruxs, Merlin! This is a taste of Divine Light! Have you drank your fill?!"

Back at the coach, as the dreary screams and muffled complaining of their attacks simmered down to murmurs, Gawain— smeared with mud and blood, none of which were his, knelt down to pick up a discarded gladius from the ground, intent on adding it to his own arsenal. He was stopped when he heard muttering coming from beneath the carriage itself.

"Gratia plena, Dominus tecum." It was the Roman aristocrat, cowering behind one of the wheels. His hair was dishevelled, drops of blood splattered across his face and had not been wiped. His fine purple tunic was crumpled but not torn, covered by a more modest wool cloak. "Benedicta tu in mulieribus et Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus. Benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Benedicta tu in mulieribus…"

"Save your prayers, boy," Gawain suggested, though his eyes portrayed indifference, he did have some modicum of sympathy. Alas, it was one easily dismissed. "Your god doesn't live here," he concluded and then pulled the young man out and onto his feet. "Your god doesn't live here."

I

Author's Note: This is a very action-heavy chapter and I did struggle a bit with it. I'm trying to regain some footing on FanFiction, I haven't been on for a while. I wanted to add some more details to Arthur's backstory, flesh it out a bit, for all of them actually. Hope you guys enjoy it.