By A E Johnson
Cammbour World of War
Book One: Little Secrets
Book Two: Into the Shadows
Book Three: The Brotherhood
Book Four: The Promised king
Book Five: Annihilation
Book Six: The Battle of Thorne
Book Seven: Age of Oakwood
Cammbour
World of War
Book one
Little secrets
A E Johnson
Published by A E Johnson, Little Avalon,
Nottingham.
www.authoraejohnson.wordpress.com
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Copyright © A E Johnson 2020
A E Johnson asserts the right to be identified
as the author of this work.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The
names of characters and incidents portrayed
in it are the work of the author’s
imagination. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form
or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without prior permission of the publisher.
Prologue
e was ashamed of the man he had become, a
powerful figure among the ranks in Rome, he
H now stood small on the beaches of the land
which was once his. His father, a man of the wild
north of Britannia, beheaded, his sisters, dead, his
mother, raped and taken as slave stock to the mother
lands.
Haunting forests and woodlands greeted them.
Once tall green fir-trees now stood as skeletal remains.
Grey ash covered once flourishing grasses. Ghostly
whispers of embers crackled on woodland floors. The
remains of people lay scattered in the wake of Roman
might. Britannia was on her knees. A choking fear
hung in the air and filled the lands. Their surrender
was imminent.
Forced to take to the sword, pitchfork in hand, her
people fought, valiantly, hopelessly, callously. Violence
was not something the roman visitors claimed to want,
with every refusal, came a short sword upon flesh.
They claimed to be civilised, non-compliance would
see a civil approach, ripping skin from bone. Choice
had been removed from Britannia, she would fight the
invaders, or join them, seeing her people as slaves, she
chose to fight.
Dragons, they were a welcome visitor upon her
shores. They would bring flame and anger, feast with
her people. They had grown upon the island, their
flesh was a feast to the Romans, a delicacy. It was
barbaric to the fey, to listen to tales from the mouths
of beasts, of dragon flesh consumed, their inners
cooked and served to towns upon festival day.
She was an open graveyard now. The fey,
wanderers of the woods, born of ancient celt gods, the
fey were small creatures, pointed to the ear and fair of
face. Slender creatures who seemed to live a lifetime
longer than man. A love of the otherworld saw the fey
become a threat to Rome. Their magic had seen a
glimmer of hope before the child of the north was
taken from them.
Artnou now stood among Roman ranks. His place
would have seen him as leader of the northern tribes
of Britannia. His father was beheaded, his mother and
sisters, gone, he was nothing but a slave.
The fey knew him, they had created a leader.
Adger of the north had sired a single boy child to take
his place as northern ruler. He was tame now. The
ocean had parted welcoming Artnou home, his mind
was awash with memories of the lean trees, a soft land
of rolling hills, the frozen mountains of the north
welcoming him home. The shadow in the skies, as his
dragon Narra flew overhead, knowing he had
returned, but hating who he fought for.
Legatus Legionis, a title bestowed through bribery
and murder. His owner, an eccentric man who owned
the higher ranks of the Roman democracy. Artnou
was his boy, the body of a warrior, no gladius could
find his skin, he was fast and fair, hair of the northern
men, fair and wild. Icy blue eyes carried sadness
within them, a frozen moment in time captured in his
eyes, remembering, his brief childhood had ended,
the day his father’s head rolled along the green grasses
of his home towards his bare feet, he was taken by
them, back to the place he would be forced to call
home for gone thirty years.
The shore was narrow and bare, cold, and
winding, Artnou, still wounded by the vision in front of
him. His crimson cape was the only colour upon the
slate cold beach. The once plentiful land seemed to
have withered, the trees seemed to have turned grey in
their winter slumber. The fields were uninviting, an
eerie madness had engulfed the land. Every woodland
and forest cast a shadow of death, the sickening terror
which engulfed the air made it hard to breathe. He
was no longer welcome upon the shores of his island.
His memory stirred, of a dragon, Narra. Flashes of
white in the skies told him she was near. It was a
strange, unnatural friendship. Their closeness once
sparked a sign of hope for Britannia, until Artnou was
taken, Narra could not follow, her life would be taken
by Rome.
Her power was her beauty. Shining white scales
were each lined with glimmering silver, her long
fearsome claws spelt death for the enemies of
Britannia. With a long whipping tail and wide white
sailing wings she would glide through the skies of
Brittany, joining the clouds above. Narra had lost a
part of herself the day Artnou was taken.
Rome had beaten his mind; it had crushed his
spirit. Britannia woke him. Upon his return to the
island, Artnou set about his task of ‘Roman assault.’
He was set the task to unite the island with Rome. A
treaty was signed, Artnou beheaded the elders of his
own tribe, using the excuse, ‘He knew them, they
would never surrender to Rome’. The madness had to
end; else, it would never be over for their failing world.
A cold and desolate midnight wood slumbered in
the light of the full winter moon. The air was thin, the
stillness of the wind sent a haunting silence through
the scattered darkness, the ground was surrounded by
the brittle fallen leaves. A glisten of frost had settled on
the ground, engulfing the woodland in the icy grasp of
a dead winter. Artnou had left his camp, every secret
footstep he took into the wood se
emed to fracture the
silence. His fear of being noticed heightened his
senses. He could see the shadow he was there to meet.
Stood beside the burnt trunk of an oak tree, a face
glared towards Artnou from the silent wood. An old
fey face carried uncertain fear. Long black robes
covered the sword by his side. Alder, one of the last
remaining leaders of the fey, awaited Artnou. He
gripped the hilt of his sword, wrapping his dirt filled
fingers around it, hoping he would not have to use it.
His dark grey hair hung to his shoulders, a dirt filled
beard showed how far under boot the Romans had
forced them, sleeping in the woodland used to bring
comfort to them, but now it brought nothing but
dread.
Upon seeing Artnou approach, his stomach felt
twisted, a sickening fear had gripped him; his arms felt
weak, ‘Was he still the placid thinker he used to
know?’ thought Alder, ‘Had the small boy from the
neighbour tribe changed?’ he wondered. As he saw
him approach, he was reluctant to move, he felt his
heart tighten.
Artnou slowly crept closer to Alder with is arms
held forward, his palms pointed towards Alder, he
meant him no harm. Alder released his grip; he took a
step forward to see the eyes of the boy he once knew,
the les crackled under his boots. His face - only in his
late thirties - had already seen a lifetime of anguish. A
painful looking scar on his neck caught Alder’s
attention. His once dark blond wire like hair had even
been tamed, now neatly cut locks of shining blond, he
was different, the same icy blue eyes, the same strong
nose and jawline, but something with Artnou had
changed.
Artnou could see the fearful look which seemed to
have become a part of Alder’s face. Artnou softly
spoke, his usual course tone made way for a gentler
quality. Artnou warned, “We cannot be here for
long.”
His crimson armour seemed to offend them both,
the boy Alder knew still lingered in the face of Artnou.
He was still a Britton, even if he dressed like a Roman.
Alder remained weary, he knew how many of his own
Artnou had slaughtered, whether by choice or not.
Alder looked to Artnou’s hands, the magic of the fey
was working, he saw the ghostly drips of blood falling
from his fingertips.
“You have taken many,” said Alder, his tender
critical voice was the same one Artnou remembered.
Artnou was ashamed. “They would side with
Rome,” he explained, trying to remain quiet. “Rome
will not rest until each land belongs to her, their need
to destroy, to rebuild, it sickens me.” The winter
moon soon hid behind a gathering storm cloud, total
darkness engulfed the wood.
Alder was still weary. “Tell me you haven’t
changed, my son,” begged Alder. His look of disgust
seemed to tear at Artnou, the man who had been like
a father to him seemed like a stranger now.
Artnou shook his head, a dark look of
malevolence cast a shadow in his eyes. “I am no longer
that boy, Alder.” He lifted his head, slowly he walked
towards Alder. “I am a man, the fury of Rome flows
through me, but I am not of Roman blood. They tried
to make me, but I am of Britannia.” Within the
darkness, a whisper of cold breeze travelled beneath
their feet, revealing the hidden ash below, it stank of
the death he had brought there. Artnou slowly
blinked. He said, with a broken whisper, “I’ve
changed, fey.” He bent down, taking the black soot in
his hand he held it up to Alder, his hand shook. He
looked to Alder, through gritted teeth he told him,
“This is not me.” His mouth curled with hatred. “I
have nothing but hate for the creature I am.”
Alder shook his head, he stepped closer to
Artnou, the boy he knew, now spoke to him. Placing a
hand on Artnou’s shoulder, Alder begged, “Then
leave these lands.” Artnou’s glistening eyes looked to
Alder. “Save your people,” Alder begged, “save your
father’s memory.” Artnou’s eyes were deadened from
the bitterness the Romans had brought to them.
Artnou dropped the soot which seemed sticky in
his hand. His hands were black from the damp soot.
Softly, he gave his answer, “I will not do that.” Artnou
had thought long about his people, his father, and his
lands, ‘he must deliver this message, and the fey must
listen,’ he thought. A slate cold glare then came from
Artnou’s eyes. “I cannot leave you. If I do then they
will come,” he warned.
The danger in Artnou’s eyes sparked fear in Alder.
He asked with a low grumble, “Who will come, boy?”
He tried to remain brave, but a catch in his throat
showed the dread Artnou was feeling. “The Atlanti,”
he warned. Artnou knew the creature he spoke of and
the cruelty they would bring to the tiny island. “A new
race of warrior, too brutal for this world to contain,”
he explained. Artnou perked his head up, his breath
seemed hard to find as he pushed through the hate he
felt for the Atlanti. He shook his head as he explained,
“They will not keep slaves, only the women, children
are too much to feed, but women have other uses.”
Artnou stepped closer to Alder. “They are bigger than
us, as tall as the trees in a new summer wood, their
strength like that of the gods.” His desperation spoke
to Alder, the fear and trepidation was but a slither of
what he truly felt.
Alder tried to understand Artnou’s loathing of the
Atlanti, but he did not know them. He knew that the
once freedom loving Artnou had withered under
Roman might, the boy he knew was dead, the man
who he had become wanted revenge. With bated
breath, Alder asked, “Then what do you suggest?”
Artnou was a Britton, even if the Roman’s had
tried to change him, they were not so easily changed.
His years of suffering had turned him into a rock, void
of emotion, but as he stood in the old desolate wood
of his island, he felt a spark of magic, vengeance could
be fulfilled, and Artnou would not miss his chance.
Artnou took a step closer to Alder, he whispered,
“You taught me much, Alder.” Artnou then stepped to
his side, “of the dragon’s star, to journey to another
world. A world of peace and love and light,” he said
with a growing hope. “The dragons hold the key, and
we have a dragon.”
Alder was shaken to his core. “To take the star of a
dragon requires death, Artnou,” replied Alder, he was
disturbed by what Artnou was saying, “this would
mean that Narra - who I assume you’re speaking of -
would have to give you her star.” He then regretfully
said, “It would allow you into Cammbour, but only
you.”
Ald
er turned to leave, he had heard enough of
Artnou’s rantings, he seemed as insane as the northern
men - with what he was suggesting.
Artnou could not let the fey leave. “You’re wrong,”
he rumbled in his deep voice. “So very wrong.”
Stopping in his tracks, Alder turned to listen. With a
look of painfilled fury, Artnou made his plea. “For
many moons I have lived with them, drank with them,
fucked them,” he spoke through gritted teeth, “I hate
them.” He walked closer to Alder. The moon began
to reveal itself from behind the blackened cloud. “But
now I know how. I know how to open the world, and
never let them through, I know how to bring all of the
fey with me, and I know how to close the gate, and
lock the bastard thing, before they get through.”
Alder was intrigued, his eyes narrowed. “How do
you know this?”
Artnou’s eyes glazed over, his mouth curled. “I
know because I have seen it.” His eyes lightened, he
took Alder’s shoulders and explained, “I have seen the
dragons star, I have seen Cammbour, felt the grass and
seen the creatures.” He looked insane, the bitterness
in the woodland shook Alder, but Artnou shook him
more. Alder wanted to dismiss his claim, until he
revealed something Alder had known for many years.
“I have been there in my dreams.”
“Visions?” asked Alder.
Artnou nodded, “Visions,” he calmly replied, “so
many years have passed, Alder, I know that you did
this to me.” His voice became a soft, reminiscent
whisper. “I was the only child from my village who
came to see you, in the trees, you showed me your
magic. You gave me a gift.” His eyes widened. “To see
the world beyond, a world without hate and greed, a
world of the fey, of peace.” Artnou whispered in
desperation, “The fey knew this day would come, you
knew this day would come –” Artnou shouted, “the
day you gave those visions to me!” He was desperate
for Alder to listen to him. His voice seemed to die in
the wood, an eerie silence took over. He grabbed the
top of Alder’s cloak with both hands. “Help me save
A E Johnson Page 1