by C J Brown
Again, they cheered, setting the Highlander destriers and other horses to rearing and neighing.
“I am Bishkar!” He shouted, to Fergus’ surprise. “As a general of Attila’s armies, I wear the armor of the accursed heir to the Roman Empire, gifted to me by the king of Caledonia! As a Roman and a Hun, I will lead you to victory!”
The Huns shrieked, drumming their shields. Hun banners streamed in the morning wind as the thunder of twenty thousand men shouted.
“Half of the true Huns will remain here!” Bishkar went on. “Protect Pittentrail from our enemies!”
At once, half of the true Huns raised their spears and swords, while the expendables stood quiet as Bishkar charged past them, toward the first rank of Huns.
Signalmen were there, and Bishkar nodded.
At once, they raised the flags and the drums of war beat as the expendables began marching forward.
Fergus watched, angry, as fifteen thousand men began marching toward the mountain pass. Three thousand cavalry charged toward the perilous road while the expendables began running and the Huns followed. Highlander horses pulled trebuchets alongside them, thundering ahead.
The black and gold banner of the Huns streamed amidst the barbarian force as they reached the mountain pass and began streaming from the field, leaving five thousand Huns in the trenches and the wooden outpost built outside the gates of Pittentrail.
Like roaches running from a boot, the Hun army thundered towards the pass, Bishkar charging amongst them.
As they raced across the mountain, Fergus turned from the battlements and looked out at his city.
The garrison, guarding the streets of the city from the treacherous Huns, all stared at him. Civilians, too, stared through their windows, angry and hateful.
17
Fields of Brittania
Tiberius surveyed the land as his legionaries marched behind. Where green grass once was, there were only burned fields and dirt. Towns were burning, billowing columns of smoke. A Demetian banner was stuck in the ground, tattered, surrounded by fallen warriors.
Wagons lay overturned beside horses as the Roman legion traversed the field of fire and desolation.
Spears bristled beside arrows and swords littered the ground. Some of the soldiers were sick, throwing up as they witnessed the trail of destruction the Huns had left behind.
Tiberius felt himself hating the Huns and pitying the people of Britannia.
“No,” he said to himself. “This is your path to the throne.”
He shook off the thought as they passed a series of burning huts, others collapsed as piles of wood and ash.
In the distance, the ruins of a stone city could be seen burning, its walls crumbled.
As the Romans issued from the ridge, they saw the great city of Egolith, known even by the Romans of Italy. Its stone walls scorched by fire, the crumbled bricks piled amidst fallen cavalry and soldiers, heroes who defended their home from the greatest threat they had ever encountered.
Huns numbered less than the Demetians as the latter’s banners lay burned and crumpled in the mud.
Rains were flooding the craters where stones hurled from catapults had struck the ground.
The five thousand Romans closed their eyes to the destruction as they marched north.
They saw nothing but the same for the next three days.
18
Call to Arms
Arthur and Merlin sat astride by the main gate as they watched a long train of Rodwin soldiers and cavalry issue from the city, leading a column of civilians, wagons, and horses out. They were headed west, to the trading port, free to all.
“A rider and a hundred horse race to Demetia,” Merlin announced.
Arthur turned to him, surprised.
Looking around, he tried to spot them, and saw them charging with all haste.
Arthur turned and broke into a gallop, leading Merlin and the fifty Demetian riders away from the city. As they drew near to the strangers’ column, Arthur heard Merlin’s voice.
“He who leads them is Lord Galahad. He intends to speak with my father.”
“Will he join us?”
“He is afraid. He will try to convince my father to bargain with Attila.”
Arthur shouted and raced toward the lord of Astavon.
Within moments, as the Demetians thundered onto the road, some of the Astavonian men turned to see the Demetians chasing.
Shouts erupted and the column halted, dust kicked up by the horses swirling around them.
Arthur stopped, spotting Lord Galahad as Boadicea reared and Merlin stopped beside him, the rest of the Demetians stopping around them.
“Merlin!” Galahad shouted. “It was you who showed me that vision.”
His voice was a baritone rumble, his face grim.
“Yes,” Merlin said. “You wish to convince my father to make a deal with the Huns.”
“There is no other way!”
“There is,” Arthur objected, trotting toward him. “Stand and fight. Unite as one, all the tribes of Britannia.”
Galahad looked at Arthur like he was looking upon a madman.
“There is no hope against the Huns. If these things have already happened, and if this is what they are capable of, there is nothing that can stop them. The Franks fell. King Fergus has joined them. The isle is crawling with these barbarians. The tribes are distant. Some haven’t sent even messengers to each other in decades. There might be hope in unity, but there is no hope for that itself. The only way is to make peace.”
“But the Huns will not accept that!” Arthur shouted. “They are a vile people. Peace goes against everything they believe. War is their source of life, repose and peace their bane.”
“Then it would be wise to flee. You ought to as well, but first, we will try to strike a deal.”
“Don’t you understand?” Arthur screamed, one Roman general who had battled the Huns for years, seen their rise over the last two decades, to a lord who had not seen war at all. “They will only accept allegiance, and I don’t think you or your people would be willing to align with them.”
Galahad eyed him with anger.
Without a word, he turned and galloped off, headed for Demetia.
His train followed, leaving Arthur with his cloak swirling amidst the dust.
Shouting in anger, Arthur broke into a gallop and chased Galahad, followed by Merlin and the rest.
By mid-day, the horn of the city guard sounded as the Demetians and Astavonians thundered through the enchanted wood. They halted at the limits of the city, where King Megolin and Igraine were to receive Lord Galahad and their own kin.
Arthur and Merlin halted in the courtyard of the city guard, their horses striking the scorched cobblestone ground as the visitors strode in amidst broken buildings and piles of rubble.
Lord Galahad stopped before King Megolin and vaulted off.
He bowed, his cloak, bearing the rose crest of his house, flowing from his clasps.
Removing his helm as his men bowed, he rose.
“Your Grace,” he said to Megolin.
“Lady…”
“Igraine,” Arthur’s mother said.
“Lady Igraine.”
Turning back to Megolin, he said, “I have already met your son and this stranger.”
“He is Arthur,” Megolin at once responded, “son of Uther Pendragon, former heir to the Roman Empire, and my nephew.”
Everyone gasped at that, and even Arthur grew unsteady, aware of it, though it wasn’t real for him until now.
Within moments, King Megolin was listening in regret to the lord of Astavon, along with the members of his court, Igraine, Merlin, Magi Ro Hul, and Arthur.
“Concluding peace with them is the only way the peoples of the isle can survive,” Galahad argued, the goblet of wine in his hand.
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“Do you see no other way?” Megolin asked. “No way we could put aside petty differences, old wounds, and band together against a real threat?”
Lord Galahad looked away.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Fine then.”
“Your Grace?” Arthur said.
“We cannot force these people, Arthur. That won’t be unity, that will only be tyranny. Do as you will, Lord Galahad,” he said, turning back to his fellow ruler. “Look after your people, but I advise you, fleeing is better than signing a peace with them.”
Galahad bowed.
“Thank you, Your Grace. These are dark days. Perhaps, we may see the day when the peoples of the isle finally unite as one.”
Megolin nodded.
Galahad bid farewell to the royals and the court, Arthur, then turned and left.
“The horizon is bleak,” Magi Ro Hul said.
“There is hope left,” Igraine said. “Even if the other tribes do not join us, we will stand against the enemy. If we fall, know that it isn’t the end. We fight to defend this land because it is worth defending, not because it’s all there is.”
“Aunt Igraine is right,” Merlin said. “Do not let fear cloud your spirit, friend.”
Magi Ro Hul shook his head. “You may be wiser than most!” he shouted. “But you have not felt grief, nor pain, nor war. No vision will ever teach it to you. You know nothing of the world.”
Magi Ro Hul turned and stormed out before anyone could say another word.
“He is a good man,” Megolin said. “He is right to fear.”
Arthur looked on at the scene, realizing he did not want to look at the fireplace, as now flames reminded him not of warmth and comfort, but of war and destruction.
“Forgive me, Mother, Your Grace, Merlin, but I must speak with my father.”
They nodded.
“Arthur,” Igraine said, “remember, you are his son. Your father is still there, somewhere. You need to help him get past his pain. No one but you can.”
Arthur nodded, a tear rolling from his eye.
He turned and walked briskly to the doors. The guards opened them, and he left, headed to the palace adjacent to the great hall.
With hurried steps, he arrived before the doors of his father’s chambers.
“Open the doors,” Arthur told the guards, and at once they unlocked them and pushed them open.
Darkness, but for the candles placed outside his window, suspended from an iron bar, and placed there by orders from Igraine.
Uther was sitting on his straw bed, staring out at the fires of the candles.
“Father,” Arthur said, letting his tears flow.
Uther turned, his eyes burning with anger and pain.
“Gallagher is my son, the name she and I decided on before I left,” he said, his voice quiet and heavy with pain.
“Father, you are trying to right your wrongs. But I too am your son. Can you not see that? Can you not see that I and Mother have stood by your side since the beginning? No one hates you. But you have to leave the pain behind, or else you will only live to bear more regrets.”
“You are my flesh and blood,” Uther said. “I want to let this go, but I cannot. What I did is worse than any could possibly do. For a throne, a chair that has caused the empire pain for so long, that has caused people and families chaos, I killed my family. I thought I did and did not plan to spare them. So, Gallagher may have lived, but as far as I’m concerned, I killed my own flesh and blood.”
“Everyone makes mistakes, does things they regret for the rest of their lives, but that doesn’t mean they’re bad people. You know of the Hun general Alabar who defected from their ranks to join Rome without any weapons or men. From a sea of barbarians, there was one who saw truth. By that alone, he redeemed himself. And so, you are aware of your mistakes. That has redeemed you.”
“No, Arthur,” Uther said, tears rolling from his eyes. “I can never be redeemed. What I did it is beyond forgiving.”
Arthur sniffled.
“I am your son also,” Arthur said, “and Mother the woman you love. You are a man of honor, Father, of justice and wisdom. Gallagher is not. Grandfather was wrong to ask you to do what you did, but that’s because he was a corrupt man. You are not so.”
“You speak kindly to me, my son,” Uther said, smiling sadly, “but there is nothing you can do. I must stand beside my son, beside the demon I created. I ask you to flee. You will have to run for the rest of your life, but I will not see the day when I am responsible for my own son’s death. Please, do not give me more sorrow.”
A rap of knuckles on the door shook Arthur and Uther out of their thoughts.
“Lord Arthur, a crow just arrived, sent from Astavon. The city has been attacked and overrun. The people are fleeing. They are requesting aid.”
Arthur turned to Uther.
“Forgive me, Father,” he said, then turned and left, followed by the royal guard as he hurried toward the steps.
Racing out into the open, the sound of horses neighing and hooves striking the cobblestone road echoed as a column of cavalry trotted to the limits of the city.
Horns and trumpets were ringing as commanders shouted orders and three thousand men, including the Romans who followed Arthur from the continent, filed through the streets, amassing in the courtyard and along the city limits.
Megolin was standing before the great doors of the great hall.
“Your Grace,” Arthur shouted over the sound of an army preparing for war, “you plan to rescue the Astavonians. I stand with you.”
“I knew you would,” Igraine said.
Arthur nodded.
“Boadicea,” Verovingian suddenly said.
He was no squire, or aid, but Verovingian had chosen to be by Arthur’s side since the beginning. For that, Arthur was grateful.
“Thank you, my friend,” Arthur said, and vaulted up onto his horse.
“Mother,” he said, “Father is almost home.”
Igraine nodded, tears welling in her eyes.
“You are a fine man, Arthur,” Megolin said. “Were you king of a land, we would bow.”
Arthur noticed Merlin smirking beside his father.
“Please, I do not want any adulation.”
“You are wise, little man!” Magi Ro Hul bellowed.
Arthur turned and saw him approaching with his horse.
“A man who does not care for adulation is a true leader, a man of true honor. Fellows like King Megolin here don’t bother to change tradition, so they just accept it, but they don’t like it either.”
He turned to Merlin.
“Please accept my apology. I was just afraid.”
“No need. Your strange hair is a sight enough to chase away all woes.”
Arthur chuckled, the first time he’d laughed in days.
More than anything else, the promise of his father, finally returning to him, had raised his spirits. But the horizon was still dark. By this point, counting the fallen, and including the fresh recruits from the continent, seventy thousand Huns had marched on Britannia. “Magi Ro Hul,” Arthur said, turning serious, “you will lead the cavalry. Like Hannibal at the Battle of Cannae, I will lead the infantry against the Huns, then you target their cavalry, rout them, and then return and attack the infantry. But free the prisoners of Astavon first.”
“Very good, my lord,” Magi Ro Hul said and galloped off to the courtyard, where the cavalry was amassing.
Merlin jumped up onto his horse as a column of Demetian warriors marched through the street.
“I shall speak with your father while you are gone,” Igraine said. “I am a reminder of his pain, but from you I feel I may now see him.”
“Indeed,” Arthur agreed. “He needs everyone who cares about him now. Bulanid is the last person
he needs to see.”
Igraine nodded.
“Farewell, Mother, Your Grace. Should I not return, please, do not let father fade.”
“Rest assured, Arthur,” Megolin said, his voice serious, “if it be my last act alive, I will see it done.”
“I too will spare nothing to save our family,” Igraine said, holding back the tears at the prospect of losing both her son and her husband.
Arthur was about to say something else, but he could not, and turned away.
Silent, he trotted off, followed by Merlin as they passed along the column.
“Arthur,” he suddenly heard Olivie’s voice say.
Arthur stopped, looking around in shock.
“Olivie?” he said, his voice breaking.
“Arthur, I am here. I have always been here.”
Arthur found himself weeping uncontrollably as the Demetian warriors marched by.
“Do not cry, my love,” Olivie said. “I am still with you. Merlin is channeling my spirit to you. He hopes I can give you strength before the most perilous battle of your life.”
“You do,” Arthur said, his weeping stopping.
“You are a good man, Arthur. You are grieving, you are in pain. Do not be. I will always be with you. Your Father will return. Good will triumph. Since I passed, I have spent the time seeing through history, and the thing I have found is that the universe will always tend to good. Evil will fall, as it always has. Though hope seems out of reach, and we face the end, our cause will triumph.”
Arthur straightened and wiped away his tears.
“I miss you, Olivie.”
“I miss you too, Arthur.”
“What do I say to your father? He stands with the Huns.”
“That might be so, but I know my father. He will not stray from good forever. He has seen things most should never have to know. His father was king during The Great War. At just eighteen, my father led an army of twenty thousand against the Demetians and Astavonians. It was worse than any battle he had ever fought. Fifty thousand fell that day. It was almost the end of the war. Grandfather and Grandmother told me told me that he was never the same after that. My mother was around to see the prince of Caledonia transform from a happy, naive boy to a disillusioned, quiet, and depressed man of war. He understands the terrors of war and will not see them repeat.”