SWORD & ANVIL
—o—
CHAPTER THIRD
SERVE AND PROTECT
—o—
AN HOUR PAST MIDDAY AND CAIUS WAS TO REPORT TO LORD CATHAL AT THE STABLES, WITH ARTHUR IN TOW. The sun was full and white when Arthur left the inn, but barely out the door before his brother dropped his effects and equipment into his arms. His career as a squire begins.
At this time of the day, Caer Hoel saw its streets bustling and crowded, both within the hillfort and the town below. The market stalls that lined the main road was drowned in a sea of merchants and shoppers, newly come to the city, forming a train up the ramparts and through the fortress gates. They come from every corner of the isle bringing furs, leather, jewellery that looked like they were made by Vulcan himself, and cloth dyed in the brightest of colours. Being on the crossroads of the kingdoms of Prydain, as well as controlling the roads in and out of Cambria, has made the city wealthy. One of the reasons it was so heavily sought after by kings and generals, and still sought after in most cases.
Urien Rheged and the Brigantes were known to lead raiding parties into Cornovia quite often, perhaps that was why the guards that they passed looked on edge. Arthur liked to believe it was the imminent arrival of the Anguls into their city.
After pushing past the melting pot of people, the two Castus brothers met up with Percival and Dagonet in the forecourt of the king's palace. Each also had bundled in linen cloth sheathed swords, daggers and the riding gloves of their sirs.
"Why, if it isn't Lord Artorius himself," it was in mock and jest that Dag hissed at his arrival but Arthur couldn't help but feel the jab of shame and guilt.
"I'm sorry I got you all into this mess, lads." Arthur spoke lowly, with his head down, though risking a look up, he spotted Princess Guinevere amongst the nobles and peasantry going about their day. She had been shopping with her maidservants and noblewomen, each with a wicker basket full of flowers and silks. She was smiling, happy, and that was all he ever truly wanted for her.
Before turning a corner, the princess captured his eyes once more and the two shared an intimate moment of warmth from across the cobblestone street. It ended with a wave and an apologising smile and then she vanished in the crowd.
Arthur sighed and turned back to his friends, who themselves had been sharing knowing looks with each other, regarding Arthur of course. "I'm sorry. After our patrols, I'll ask father to pardon you all. I'll take full responsibility and punishment. Father was right— should have left well enough alone."
"Mate, Princess Guinevere is our friend too," Dag countered in consolation. "But if you'd decided not to go… hell, we might have gone ourselves. Those pricks had it coming."
"I know you would," said Percy, jabbing Dagonet with the hilt of his sister's sword. "I'd have gone straight to Lord Ector with this, or to the Captain of the Guard. That would have been practical and far more effective."
"Nah. In these tumultuous times? Cathal probably would have just kept it to himself, if not laugh at your face," Arthur reasoned. When their sirs began walking down toward the gates, on Arthur's gesture, the others followed themselves. Ogyrvan's soldiers—now relegated to the duty of city guard, wore grim, almost defeated faces. Some try to smile at the common folk as they pass but those smiles fall just as quickly. "All of the city's police know that Ogyrvan 'White-Hair' is trying to broker an alliance with the Nordfolc Anguls. Safe to assume it requires some oversight."
"Hah!" Dag smacked him hard on the back of his shoulder. "In that case, we would have thought that you'd get done in, Arthur. Erec reckoned that you'd at least get the stocks."
"I bet your head would roll," Percy added with some half-hearted conviction in his venom. He was perturbed about last night's debacle and though he was always a forgiving child, he wasn't kidding anyone if he drew openly with ire and anger at Arthur Castus.
"I have immense faith in you too, Percival," he replied jovially, which only proved to vex his friend all the more.
When they got to the stables adjacent the hillfort's large, iron-framed gates, Lord Cathal was already waiting for them inside. Only five stalls were occupied and the rest were emptied bare. At the very end of the stable was his brother's brown stallion, Gwyneu, the horse he had broken in as all Sarmatians did when they came of age. Sagramor and Dandrane did the same and retrieved their respective mounts while Master Cathal was busy fiddling with the fastens of his own horse to really notice them.
Master Cathal, captain of the City Guard was only a year or two, older than Kay but he was already showing hints of grey and white behind his ears, a fact that Arthur and the boys often poked fun of. Cathal himself was never one so shrewd that he'd shrug off jovial fun or mirth, but that evening, the man meant serious business—bearing the lion sigil of the Gawr Clan upon the clasp that held his cloak.
Dagonet was paired up with Sir Sagramor Vlask, a tall and heavily muscular man with skin as pale as the dead and eyes that were just as light, yet salient. In the convoy, he would ride the flanks close to the head. It was also Sagramor that started Arthur's training at the tender age of ten. "A complete failure," he had said of Arthur's progress and all but abandoned his training.
Percival son of Pellinor, as fortunate as he was, loved by God and all of that, was rewarded for his faithfulness by becoming squire to his own sister. Tall, stocky and eternally dour, Lady Dandrane's glare beamed over her little brother like the breath of draconic fire. Percy kept his eyes down as he'd gone up to his sister.
Throughout the entire walk, Caius was rather untalkative, no doubt still sour about having to be chained to his baby brother for a year—but when he saw Dandrane and Sag approach, a small smile cracked in the corner of his mouth. Unlike Cathal who was armoured only in a leather jerkin and bracers over each wrist, the three knights were much better equipped. Shirts of steel scale-mail, forearm-length bracers and greaves as well as the segmented pauldrons that marked the legions of Rome for centuries.
When it looked like the boys had forgotten their duties, Sir Kay indiscreetly cleared his throat which clicked everyone into action. Arthur, Percival and Dagonet began attaching the gear of their sirs onto the saddle of their horses, as well as a rucksack of provisions for the night.
"Looks like I am to be saddled with you lot, this evening," Cathal complained as he retrieved a steel sword from the rack.
"You have Sarmatian warriors at your service, Cad," said Caius in response. "I'd be a bit more grateful if I were you."
The captain groaned as he himself attached his sword to his horse. "I told you not to call me that, Roman!" Then both he and the knights erupted in hysterical chortling. At first, the younger boys looked at each other in awkward silence, then slowly started to join them… then Cathal and the others stopped, abruptly. Raised brows and angered eyes were levelled at the boys, at Arthur especially. With the mood murdered, the captain turned serious again. "The road to Caer Manguid is usually patrolled by a single regiment… a squad really," Cathal corrected. "Deva's road northward is the same. As is the road south to Caer Uricon—"
"Caer Uricon?" Percival asked.
"Viroconium," Arthur informed him. "City of the Wolf-Man."
"My liege would not like me to say this, but Mawgan son of Pasgan has more or less formed his own bloody kingdom." Cathal spoke in hushed whispers, as though just its utterance would damn him but it was much too important to keep hidden. "Caer Uricon is his capital. Another bloody mess for my men to deal with, and with the Pendragon taking half of them…"
"Take it up with the High-King, not me," said Caius as he pulled his horse to the mouth of the stable.
Cathal chuckled dismissively. "Hardly a king at all, let alone a High-King of the Prytani, if you ask me."
Feeling somewhat uncomfortable with the treasonous nature of the conversation, Caius pivoted back to the work at hand. "I can send Sir Sagramor to guard the Deva Road and Lady Dandrane will take the road to Caer Manguid, which I am guessing refers to Mancunium. That leaves the road south to Viroconium, to me. Surely, should we encounter Mawgan, then surely my father's seal would grant us some amnesty."
Cathal agreed, and also brought to attention a matter of unpaid taxation. "A farmstead halfway to Caer Uricon, has failed to pay at least two-years-worth of taxes: three-fifths of all holdings, so that's in… sacks of grain and barley, stacks of hides and fleeces, and twelve ounces of gold for this particular farmstead."
"We're tax collectors now?" Arthur asked indignantly.
"Actually, I'll be doing the collecting, if you don't mind. Winter is coming and we all need to pay our dues."
"Besides, do you have something better to do, brother?" Kay dared him and leapt onto Gwyneu, pulling the reigns until he was ahead of the group. Sagramor, Dandrane, Dagonet and Percival rode in behind. "We all have our assignments. I'll see you all tomorrow."
"Wait!" raised Arthur when he noticed that they were short a horse. "Am I to walk on patrol?"
"Arthur, each man here have already gone through their Breaking, they each have a horse," his brother replied coldly.
"I have a horse. Father bought him last week—"
"Llamrei is a wild horse, unbroken," Kay pointed out. "Without training, there's no telling how he'll react. He could buck, or rear, you could fall and be crushed on the heel of your own foolishness."
"Then how am I supposed to get there, dickhead!"
That sudden outburst earned him one very stern look from Caius, had shrunk him into a toddler again and his brazen posture followed. Arthur wasn't fishing for sympathy but if he did look somewhat pathetic, it did start to work on his older brother. Caius sighed, shaking his head at nothing, and gave Cathal a nod who resigned to sighing himself before vanishing out the door. When the Cornovian captain returned he hauled with him a rope, and on the end of it…
"You've got to be joking, right," Arthur looked to the two leaders incredulously. Caius on the other hand, finally cracked a smile.
They called him Achilles, one of the toughest creatures in Cornovia— strong and bulky hindlegs carried a body of pure muscle and ferocity. He was also a Catt Island pony and even riding him, Arthur's feet could still touch ground.
With no other choice for him, Arthur, though crossed was forced to suffer in silence. Achilles was unruly, a little stubborn, but even the young Arthur was able to bring him to heel…eventually.
Arthur was no stranger to embarrassment, but to parade down the road on a pony smaller than he, was pushing it a little. Clopping through the hillfort filled with highborn civilians, he shrank into his shoulders as Achilles' very appearance drew attention at his expense— some laughed, others pointed at his steed. Throughout the ride, Arthur had to check the crowds that formed for any sign of Guinevere, though he questioned whether it would have been a good thing for her to witness his shame.
"Hfft!" Achilles whinnied.
Oh shut-up, Arthur thought to himself as though the tiny horse could hear his mind. They rode out through the Western Gate. Much like any other hillfort of the Celts, Caer Hoel had three levels of ramparts carved into the hill where stood layers of stone and wooden walls to enclose it. Each level had at least four watchtowers though not all of them were manned. It usually fell to Ector's men to take up duties where Gawr's own soldiers could not.
Down the slope they passed more trade caravans on their way to the inns in the market squares, some looked like they had come from across the sea, from the Continent itself. He saw men from Gallia, both soldiers and the tradesmen they worked for, hauling a chain of slaves, probably the result of war spoils in some distant land. He saw wine merchants from Hispania with a trailer of sweetened wine, and even Greeks and Egyptians with a cart of scrolls and inks and colourful feathered pens though they seemed the poorer. Arthur would have to remind himself to check them out, especially if Josephus was among them, with some rare documents in his possession, it would pique his own interests. Though they were newcomers, tomorrow would still be the last market-day before winter settled in.
Then, a sight which flared up Arthur's own anger marched up the slope. Saxons with a cart of furs and pelts and trunks of golden jewellery. Unlike the Saxons that raided the lands south of the Tamesas, these ones were not warriors but merchants, dressed in fine garbs and cloaks unfit for blood and gore, not a weapon among them. That did not stop the suspicious eyes of the locals however, who had their full attentions.
But that would not hold Arthur's or the other knights for long.
The town that sprouted below the hillfort was far from sprawling, not like the civitas of other Roman cities like Eboracum or Lud's Town with their tall, stone bricked walls, the straw thatched rooves of these simple, single-floored homes had wrapped themselves around the hill like a moat. Peasants and farmhands and smithies that worked on common things like horseshoes and hinges live down here, and they were more than content with their lot, after all, if it enriched Caer Hoel, it enriches the township at her feet.
Riding down the muddy, puddle-filled roads saw no critical eye on him. The town markets were closing already and merchants were returning to the encampments on the outskirts.
Passing them by were those farmhands and labourers making their way home. They were battered and tired, yet still in high spirits as their quiet and subdued singing showed.
.
There is my sweetheart down in the orchard,
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
Oh, how I wish that I were there myself,
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
There is my cottage, there is my barn;
There is the door of my cowshed opened.
Ffaldi radl didl dal
Ffaldi radl didl dal
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
.
There is a gallant, branching oak tree,
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
With a vision, so lovingly crowned upon it.
Tw ryn di ro dym di radl didl dal
In her shade I will stand by
Until my sweetheart comes to meet me.
Ffaldi radl didl dal
Ffaldi radl didl dal
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
.
I set my mind on a kind-heart maiden,
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
She who would try to break my heart
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
And it was the same a case for her
To weep as she were somewhat for me.
Ffaldi radl didl dal
Ffaldi radl didl dal
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
.
Dacw'r elyn, dacw'r tannau.
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
Dacw'r feiwen hoenus fanwl.
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
Beth wyf gwell, heb neb i'w chwarae?
Beth wyf well heb gael ei meddwl?
Ffaldi radl didl dal
Ffaldi radl didl dal
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
.
There is my sweetheart down in the orchard,
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
Oh, how I wished that I were there m'self,
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
.
They caroled a merry band all the way to their doors, greeted with kisses from their wives and the joyous laughter of their children. The sun was setting and home is where the working-class man ought to be at this time. Winter was coming, and last season's harvest brought hope to their families. The granaries were full, fruits and vegetation collected, and livestock sheltered in the communal barn or else in the small pens behind every man's house. This settled Arthur's heart as he smiled but elsewards paid them no more heed.
Clopping on, the band of knights left the more tighter streets of the town, passed the merchant camps and into the fields which were already starting to show the first hints of winter locked away in the foliage-covered grass, disturbed by the crunching footsteps of their Sarmatian brethren in heavy training. Chests opened bare to the elements, they were only the trousers and tunics around their legs. Battalions training in sword fighting: working on stance and strength, slicing the air and listening to the sounds their blades made. It was almost religious.
Another group of knights sharpened their marksmanship with arrows and bows. Impressive still were the horsemen for which they were famed. Fighting by sword or shooting arrows into small ringed targets on horseback. Their discipline was absolute.
It was written that in the year one-hundred and seventy-five of Our Lord, the Stoic Emperor, Marcus Aurelius defeated the Yazig tribe of Sarmatians, Horselords of the Steppe. Their name evoked devotion and sacrifice, and for this, the Imperium incorporated them into the Roman military as knights. The best of them were sent to Prydain under the banner of the Legio VI Victrix.
For close to four centuries, those knights served Rome at Hadrian's Wall, and when Rome withdrew from the West, those knights remained to defend the Isle from the barbarian tribes of the Old North.
Though they often called Wall's End, Eboracum or the castles along the Wall of Hadrian, home, they preferred their ancestral 'nomadic' lifestyle and spent most of their days roaming the lands west of the Humber. In this capacity they were the ever present yet elusive hand of Uther Pendragon.
"We serve the Isle under a strict code," his lord-father had taught him. "A knight must observe piety in himself and his brothers. A knight must see charity with ease in whatever form it takes. A knight must be chaste, to protect his honour and the honour of the women. A knight must observe courtesy in his character, in manners and etiquette, and most important of all— a knight must observe the physical and spiritual wellbeing of his brotherhood."
Those were the five knightly virtues that made up the pentangle: Piety, charity, chastity, courtesy and fellowship. Lord Ector had those words engraved into his head with an Imperial discipline. He could see his father now, standing under an elevated pavilion, arms behind his back, legs firmly planted on the wooden stage as he oversaw the training and preparations of his men, as well as some Cornovii soldiers who participated. Beside Ector was their own bishop, Alaric, a man of a simple fashion, acting in the same role as Dubricius for Ogyrvan—the constant voice of Christ in Ector's court and an ear to depend upon.
The old centurion stood there, a proud smile on his face as he bore witness to the making of battlemasters. He caught a glimpse of his youngest son riding the smallest pony he'd ever seen and when the two stared at each other and Arthur thought that the slightest hint of a smile shone on his weathered face. His lord-father bowed his head slightly, almost nudging him forward with encouragement.
At a crossroad, there was a horse-drawn cart waiting, with an old simpleton at the helm. Here was where the party split as planned— the road to Deva was heavily used so it was the much easier post, which definitely pleased Dagonet when he left with Sir Sagramor. Percival's was a different story however. Mancunium was a farther stretch of road with little to no posts in between. The chance for thieves and brigands and criminal scum to attack was high. Percy would sooner see more fighting that night…but not as much as he would.
Arthur didn't think that Viroconium would have been a terrible job, it was a powerfully well protected city, it was still within Cornovii lands. This should have been a walk in the park, but the news that some form of civil unrest was imminent, threw all of that out the door. The captain climbed into the cart beside the driver and off they all went, with the two riders at the head and the rear, which with Achilles, want that hard.
It seemed that once again. Caius was determined to isolate his brother, refusing to even speak to him above commands for him to hurry along. For Arthur, however, the silence lent more intensity to the power of Escetir Forest. The sun was still glowing, it baked the forest in a cool warmth that trickled through the tightly laid trees like ribbons. These were strange and old ashes, their bark-laden trunks like armour against the mysterious dark. It was said that Merlin Emrys, the Archmage of Prydain, went mad in these forests— when Uther Pendragon outlawed magic after the death of Queen Igraine, he vanished, and magic along with him.
There were also rumours that the Usurper, Vortigern Vorteneus built a castle here, which then went up in flames with him inside. Arthur's mother had said that she could still hear the Usurper's wailing his defence to the gods. Though that was usually when she would burst out laughing. All that Arthur knew for sure was that he never really liked to stay in the old forest for longer than necessary.
"Don't daydream, Arthur," Kay shot a small pebble onto the back of his head, finally breaking his silence. "This isn't a joyride like rounds on the Wall. This isn't a game. When will you learn to take things seriously and grow up?"
"Oh, come off it!" Arthur scoffed in response. "You and Danny used to do a whole lot worse when you were my age."
"Right, and you meant to learn from my mistakes, not to follow in those footsteps of make new ones."
"Ganieda says that everyone has to make mistakes sometimes—"
"Ganieda isn't a knight, Arthur," Kay shot back. "She isn't a soldier in the king's legion. She isn't duty-bound to fight for Prydain in her hour of need or die for her glory."
When the lad saw there was no reasoning with the older knight, Arthur fell silent once more and resigned himself to sulking at the rear of the party.
Kay dared a look back at his squire. With pouty eyes, wandering into the trees around them, not wanting to meet straight ahead, brows furrowed opposite frowning lips, had forced the knight to relent. He sighed and slowed his horse to ride alongside Arthur's pace. He could feel the heat of purpose about to pour out of his brother's mouth.
"If you're thinking about giving me a pep-talk, Kay, I don't want to hear it."
"You never do."
"Well, what am I supposed to get out of it?"
Kay let out a patronised chortle. "Perhaps some freaking humility," he hissed and began to speed up again, regretting the empathy he'd thought to show. "Dad wants you to learn some respect and take some responsibility for once. Is that such a tall order to ask?"
"Oh, and what responsibilities are in store for me?" He wasn't entirely unserious. If his brother could offer an answer that would help, he would take it, or so he'd tell himself. He grew solemn. "I am not heir in father's eyes, Caius Ectorius Castus. I am Arthur ap Neb, son of 'nobody'. What responsibilities can there be for a 'No-Name'?"
Sir Kay abruptly pulled his horse to a stop. "You are not of the House of Ectorius, Arthur, but you are of father's house," he declared firmly, almost angrily, like he had blashpemed by even entertaining the idea of a 'No-Name'. "Roman, Sarmatian and Prytani share a common ancestry. It was said that when Troy fell, Aeneus of Troy survived and his descendants founded Rome. It was said that Brutus, another survivor ventured further west and settled in Prydain. You may not be of the House of Ectorius, the Trojan prince who fought Achilles...the demigod, not the pony, but we are both of the House of Troy."
Arthur was left speechless and if Achilles wasn't more smarter, he would have halted himself.
Caius wanted to say more but Cathal's bellowing call tore through the air between them. They had reached the farmstead of Master Killian and his household. A few strides off the main road, his manor lay within a stone wall that was broken at several places and stitched together by sticks and old pieces of timber. The rest of his property which consisted of livestock paddocks, the horses grazed in the fields with a stable in the middle, beyond that were fields of freshly harvested wheat and barley, already gathered and bundled into stacks on a lonely wagon.
One of the servants announced their arrival and Master Killian himself appeared from the manor, a sturdy two-storey building which, like Caer Hoel, had its Roman features replaced by straw and thatch. His wife and young daughter soon joined him outside, where they awaited the knights.
"Hail the trusted men of King Ogyrvan," Killian bowed and his women followed suit as the cart came to a still before them. The man was as old as Dubricius, an old warrior who actually fought against clan Gawr, but he swore an oath to Ogyrvan and after a decade of service was allowed to retire. "Well met, Lord Cathal. I see that old 'Lleudd' finally got my message."
"Killian, you old fart!" Cathal roared as he dismounted. The Cornovii guard captain approached the old warrior and the slight punch on the arm told him he was more or less coming as a friend. "Caer Hoel is barely a day way and I haven't seen you in months. You haven't been to market."
Killian stuttered for a second but assured him that he had written a formal request to their king regarding some pressing matters.
With a thud, Kay jumped off of his great horse while Arthur merely had to hop.
"You're a couple of years late on your taxes, Killian." Cathal's change in tone was scary, his brows which were raised as high as his spirits had dropped to a furrow, narrowing in on the old farmer. "Third year's coming up and we haven't seen a single bag of wheat, no furs, no fleece, no livestock of any kind…and most importantly, no gold."
"My lord," Killian raised his hands in defence of himself. "My lord, that's what I was writing to the king about…I better show you."
They followed the old farmer to the servant's quarters where three dead bodies were laid out over a table. They were bloodied, desecrated with bits and pieces of them taken out, gnawed upon like Christmas roast.
"These are not my servants, they're the farmhands and cattle-drivers I employ from Caer Hoel. I also have four or five of my cows and my sheep killed almost every season now," Master Killian explained. "Now I've counted for the occasional appearance and attack of wolves in the past, quite easy enough to dispatch. But these few years…they're different."
Kay took a closer look at the corpses, studying the wounds and missing limbs. "How are these wolves different," he inquired.
"Normal wolves come after livestock it's true, but come at them with a torch and a blade, wither axe, sword or pitchfork and they'll run. These monsters however are…they are bigger, they're smarter, and their far more aggressive. At first, they came after the sheep at night, then they killed two of my cows. Then just last week the whole pack came by and killed these three while they were working the fields. I can't explain it—it's like they were possessed by Satan himself."
"Perhaps," was all that Kay could say, too engrossed in the corpses themselves. Old-man Killian showed them to the grazing fields outside where there was a pile of half devoured sheep, left in a huge mess of flesh and blood. In the cool air they still gave off heat. "These ones were attacked last night," said Killian. "I checked the carcasses already…and…this is freaky, but nothing is eaten, partially or otherwise. I watched the wolves from the window myself and thought that was what they were doing but…they did not eat the hides, they did not eat the ribs, the muscle linings, not even the bones…instead it looked like they performed surgery on them."
"Now you're talking nonsense, Killian," the captain remarked. Throughout all of this, Arthur noticed Cathal's patience slowly diminish. Pacing around with his hands behind his back like only a pompous aristocrat would. Arthur watched his hands carefully, especially when they began to hover over the hilt of his weapon.
"We'll go look for them," young Arthur declared. "We'll go hunt the wolves down. Has anyone been tracking them?"
Old-man Killian let out a boisterous laugh, Cathal shook his head with a nasty grin and Kay gave his trademark sigh of exasperation. "Pay no heed to my brother, Master Killian. He's only a squire."
"Well, hold on," the old man pleaded a halt. "I've thought about this for a while. There's a cave by a wide stream. Beyond my farm, you follow the waters down and you will see idols. It used to be a pagan temple, like the Giant's Dance. I've been there only once as a child. I can't confirm this but I've seen them wolves running in that general direction."
Lord Cathal narrowed in on the old codger with distrust. "This isn't just a ploy to avoid paying your taxes, is it, my friend?"
"Lord, I have sent letters pleading with the king to clear the woods and create vigils over the farmlands, sentries, watchtowers," old-man Killian told him. "And mine isn't the only farm who's had to deal with them. Five other properties between here and Caer Uricon have also been attacked. Even Aelle the Angul saw a whole year's-worth of crop yield and livestock ravished in the night. Why won't the king—"
The captain bleated like an enraged ram. "Don't even go there, old man. I'm losing men to Uther Pendragon's cause daily. I could barely keep Caer Hoel running and now you want me to worry about your part too?"
"Relax, Cathal." Now it was the Kay's turn to groan with frustration. "My brother and I will go and take a look at the caves. If by God, we come across the wolves, we'll deal with them. You'll stay here until sundown to protect the farmstead. Are you still any good with a blade, Killian?"
The old man simply smiled at him, told Kay everything he needed to know. Much like their mother, his ancient Celtic blood had yet to smolder.
Arthur and Kay set off immediately though with Achilles, it was still taking longer. Evening gathered quickly. When they found the stream—a runoff of the Sabrina River most likely, night had all but chased the sun away, and Kay and Arthur were to continue on foot, trailing their mounts behind them.
The stream followed beside the mountain range where the sun was quickened further. Winter's chill had come prematurely, and Arthur was beginning to regret leaving his furs in the inn. Kay didn't seem to mind the cold but Arthur's joints had frozen stiff. Looking at his hands, being robbed of colour, something then dawned on him.
"Wait…there will certainly be fighting," he exclaimed to his brother. "Kay, I need a sword, a weapon."
"You don't need a weapon, Arthur, I am here," he replied and marched on with angry strides. And that would have appeared to be the end of it—Kay was still pissed off at him, and it wasn't that denying him a sword was out of malice or pettiness. Kay's steps softened and the Roman looked back at him and sighed. "You are one lucky bastard, you know that."
He would hand him a weapon, but a dagger and no more. When Arthur moved to raise objection, Kay was swift to shut him down.
"Be grateful, brother. That is all I ask and it isn't much."
The boy took the measly weapon without further question. They followed the stream down flow as Killian had instructed and as stated, they came across a statue of a stag, crowned with magnificent antlers coated with gold. They did not inspect it further as soon enough. The sound of howling filled the air. Wolves were close and the knights pressed on.
Next came a statue that depicted an antlered wolf, and the wolf, with the courage of a savage warrior followed too, a striped badger, also with the antlers of the stag behind his ears. Then they came across the statue of a fox, small and meek, yet in similar manner, its strange horns lifted him up and made the fox appear a king though it too followed another creature. For all their great crowns they followed a boar. A wild boar was tusked and like the rest, horned.
Arthur smiled when gazed back at the statues, set up sequentially in such a way that invoked some memory of his. His father was Christian but Lady Gwanwynn was a Celt, a pagan, and it was a pagan's words that suddenly rang through his head. The statues were leading the two knights towards an opening in the mountain.
"They pray to the Horned King," Arthur muttered and even Achilles became increasingly unsettled. "God of the Cornovii."
Kay scoffed. "Pagan madness," he responded.
A loud scream tore through the darkness, echoing from within the cave. The shrill screams of a damsel in distress jolted the two knights into action, pushing their mounts to great speed through the forest, even Achilles with his short legs made exceeding use of his will power to answer the distress. Over the ridge the two came to a stop and with keen, practiced eyes, spotted a group of women— a tall woman in dark emerald robes and four shorter maidens. They were surrounded on almost all points by big black wolves, with fur as wild as the forests themselves and eyes red with hunger.
"Help!" she called and the brothers looked at each other knowingly, looks of affirmative action, climbed onto their mounts and drew out their weapons.
The knights found the entrance and through the crack in the mountain wall, found themselves in an expanding cavern overrun by greenery from the outside. The ceiling of this cave was opened, letting in a cool light that shone onto a lonely figure at the very back— another grey statue, but this time, of a man with a magnificent beard, seated upon a throne, and like his subjects outside, his head was also adorned by two massive, tree-like antlers.
In the centre of this open-aired grotto, was a large rock, a growth of stalagmite that has more or less overrun what must have been the nave of the temple. On the mound, there was a group or four women huddled together while a pack of hungry-eyed wolves snapped and clawed at them from below. Every attempt to scale the mound was thus far met with physical rebuttal from an older woman, who whacked the head of any wolf that crossed her, and with some measure of skill, Arthur noticed.
"Someone, help us!" called out a little red-haired girl, clutching at the older woman's dress as the grip of a wolf's jaw caught the hem of her green dress and began pulling. "Please! Someone help!"
"Hang in there, my Lady!" Arthur bellowed and compelled the great Achilles to charge forth in fury, leaving Kay behind.
Growling and chomping at the air before the women, before one of the girls grabbed a stick from the ground and starting whacking away at them.
"…I'll lead them away!" the little girl cried and bolted through a gap in the pack that she had callously exploited.
"No, princess!" one of the others shouted after her.
Kay groaned when they saw the renegade draw three wolves on her tail, running for the cave mouth, leaving the other five with her companions. "Arthur, you go after our runaway and I'll stay with the larger group." From the pouch connected to his scabbard, Caius produced a silver dagger only a few inches shy of a full gladius and handed it to his squire.
Arthur then reigned his pony into a full gallop after the 'princess' and her furry hunters. Back out in the open, across the running stream that slowed all of them down. They didn't get very far when they reached the circle of adult-sized standing stones in an elevated clearing. The girl, draped in royal purple, stood with her back against the crow of the Triple Goddess etched upon the stone, the divine consort of the Horned King himself.
Armed with her branch, the distressed princess held it like she would a sword, swinging carelessly at the wildling hounds who growled and barked at her.
Kicking the pony on, Arthur made his way down but before he could make it to her, another wolf, a grey one, pounced on him, knocking him off. He landed right at the girl's feet.
"Good evening, M'lady," Arthur said, wryly.
"Who are you?"
"At your services, of course."
To his feet, he drew out his dagger in full health and rearing to go. His pony however was not so fortunate. Achilles found himself swarmed by two wolves, each tearing at his neck and legs. The tiny horse screamed as he was decimated, killed right before them. Arthur cursed aloud but he knew he could not mourn at that moment as he now faced the rest of the wild hounds. Among them was that grey menace— larger, fur of luminous grey like the silver of the moon.
With his knife, Arthur crouched down as low as he could and the grey wolf did the same. The knight-squire stared into the wolf's eyes— its big golden eyes singled him out as the alpha. When it bared its teeth and fangs, Arthur met him in kind.
"What in Hell are you doing?" the girl asked.
"Challenging the alpha," replied Arthur.
"You do know there are other wolves around us."
Two wolves joined the alpha and began to pace around them, licking their teeth with anticipation. Arthur kept his stance low, urging the princess behind him. The monstrous curs with their crimson orbs leapt forth but it was at that moment when he heard a resounding voice carried in the wind— a woman's voice, melodic and sweet but drew upon words of power.
"Tan-eto!"
A bright light brought Arthur and the little princess' eyes to a figure atop a hill a few feet away, holding the light of fire in her hands like a torch. In the light, even from afar, he could see the face of the stranger, or at least the slender outline of her figure. A young woman, probably as tall as he was, perched against a darkening sky, dressed in a miss-matched array of black and green and purple. While one hand held that ball of light, the other grasped steadily a long staff that reached just above her head and capped with a crystal headpiece.
"Colbh!" she bellowed and with a flick of her wrist, hurled the ball of fire down like God's biblical wrath. She was a mage.
The fire fell between them and their predators, chasing some of the wolves away immediately. It was a magnificent sight and Arthur was in awe but the alpha wolf was not deterred. The golden-eyed wolf sprang at him, leaping over the flaming pit and right at him.
"Stand back, M'Lady!"
For the next minute or two, the young squire fought the wild beast as though he were wild himself— wrestling, struggling and shoving. A large paw bearing razor-sharp claws struck at him, tearing at his tunic. To get the wolf from him, instinct had the squire swipe his dagger up and across its face, the blade snatched the alpha's left eye. Howling and wreathing in pain, the wolf leapt back, growled one final time at him and slowly backed away.
The squire rushed back to his feet and still presented an aggressive stance against the mongrel as he faded away into the brush. The last he'd seen of the alpha was that one good eye, golden and luminescent, and then it was gone.
Freed from his engagement, Arthur turned to search for the mage on the hill but, though he was not too surprised to see she had vanished, he could confidently say he was rather disappointed. Ganieda said that after the battle of Arfderydd, where the Celtic mage clans blew up into all-out civil war, High-King Aurelius Ambrosius fought to suppress it. The mages who were already struggling as a dwindling minority, were driven further out of the realm, for the war was monumental and threatened to plunge the country into utter chaos.
The end was a massacre and for this trouble, the High-King outlawed magic, the remaining mage population was exiled and with the Archmage Merlin missing, there was none left to speak for them. Even in Cambria, sorcerers were either rare or naught but legend. The woman on the hill must be the last of her kind still practicing in Prydain.
He had the mind to go hunt her down himself, friend or not, magic is still a crime punishable by death. That was when Arthur turned to see the princess pull down her hood, revealing a head of red hair like his, only darker and plaited in a single tail that fell over her shoulder. Blue eyes ornamented a pale, beautiful face made flush by the cold. "You have my gratitude, Sir knight."
"Like I said, My Lady. I am at your service." Arthur bowed with his hand to his heart. "My name is Arthur Castus and I am not a knight but a squire."
"Castus?" she inquired curiously. "Of the Sixth Legion?"
"Yes. Caius Ectorius Castus is my lord-father."
This time it was the lady's turn to present some decorum, curtseying before her saviour. "I am Anna, daughter of King Uther Pendragon of Lloegyr."
Taken aback, Arthur quickly scrambled to his knee in submission. "Apologies, Your Grace. Had I known who you were—"
"You would not act any different, I hope."
Back from where they had come, Kay came riding in, the taller woman from before sitting passenger behind him. This woman immediately hopped off and ran to them. "Anna!" she cried.
The princess seemed to know what was coming, eyes closed she awaited as the taller woman snatched her up into a great big hug that deprived her of breath. "I'm fine, sister, I'm fine. Thanks to Sir Arthur here."
"Arthur?"
"My expression exactly," Ana laughed sheepishly.
"Ma'am," Arthur bowed his head courteously.
The woman then pulled down her own hood. She was black of hair, though most of her dark locks held strips of grey. She was no longer middle-aged nor could she be seen as old, her beauty was timeless and she held herself with regal poise. Yet, for reasons Arthur could not fathom, the woman raised the hairs on his arms, a tinge of fear brushing past his heart. "Do you know who I am, boy?"
"Sorry, ma'am, but I honestly cannot say I do." Decidedly and prudently, Arthur started to watch his words very carefully in her presence.
"I am Lady Morgan Cornwall of Dumnonia, Uther's step-daughter. Anna is my sister," said the woman, she too bowed her head to her two rescuers. "I am eternally grateful for the rescue, the both of you..."
"Sir Caius Ectorius, my Lady," Caius bowed. "Son of Caius Ectorius Castus, and this here is my brother, Arthur."
"Arthur?" Immediately the Lady of Dumnonia cocked her head slightly at the name—a smile, evocative, almost wistful, formed on her cold face. "Forgive me," she started when she realised she'd been staring a little too intently at the young boy. "It's just...my father's name was Arthen— my birth-father that is. The Wild-Bear of Dumnonia they called him. I did not expect to find it in a Roman."
"Well... my name is actually Artorius, Ma'am— I mean... My Lady."
"Ah, that makes sense," she sighed. "Cymric mother?"
The boy nodded, and Caius then turned to him. "You two are unharmed, I assume? The wolves were dealt with?"
Arthur walked up to his brother with a serious look in his eyes. "Aye, we chased them away, but I had some help and I could scarcely believe it."
"What happened?"
At first he looked back, glancing at the Lady Morgan for a spilt second and in doing so glimpsed again the standing stones of the Old Gods. When he turned back to his brother, he answered with a whisper, "There was a mage...up on the hill…."
Suddenly, felt a scorching pain around his heart. He let out a howling scream, clutching his chest where the wolves had torn away his shirt and some flesh along with it. The fourteen year-old fell to his knees and then into his brother's arms. "Arthur!" his brother cried, eyes wide and flooded with tears. "My Lady, please help him!"
Through blurry eyes fading away shape and edge, Arthur could only make out the colour of her raven hair as the Lady Anna knelt over him. She started to incant in a strange language that most people might not pick up on. Arthur knew. Old Prytanic.
Then…all came to black.
...
Arthur felt himself spinning on a cold, hard floor. Flooded on all sides by a terrible grumbling noise, like an earthquake, that shook him awake. The boy found himself in a dark and desolate world when he got up onto his feet, like it was in a perpetual state of decay. Surrounded by tall mountains of grey and a dark and cloud sky that far exceeded those commonly had in Prydain, even in winter.
Where was he?
Had he died and passed into the Kingdom of Heaven, or the Otherworld of Arawn?
A shrill, raspy voice in the air swiped his attention to a specific mountain range in the distance. "The born-king rises to meet a Holly-King. With legend of the sword to sing." Upon that mountain there was a singular that stood brazenly atop its summit— a tower, like a lighthouse, with fire burning at the top. "It shall ring the lost song of old Prydain, to bring the dream of Albion again." Grumbling like thunder, like God's holy wrath. It shook him to the bone, a searing pain that forced him onto his knees. "Take up the sword, O king of Summer. Or cast away er' wrent asunder…"
III
…
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
This is an edit of chapter third. I was originally going to split it for chapter fourth as well but found I was more or less milking the story needlessly. Perhaps I was just too unsure with myself. I thought to include a section from Anna's point of view but found it became superficial and redundant.
Sorry it has taken so long but I am trying to keep to a schedule as best I can. Of course, you won't be able to prevent every calamity, overcome every obstacle, but like I said, I am trying. I was also thinking about writing a more realistic depiction of the Arthurian mythos, in particular 'Le Morte d'Arthur', at least to try and explore that story through a less magical lens, think Bernard Cornwell's Warlord series, but I don't know.