THE DRAGON
Sons of Camelot #3
by
Kim Dragoner
Also by Kim Dragoner
THE SONS OF CAMELOT SERIES
The Knights (Book 1)
The Quest (Book 2)
The Dragon (Book 3)
The Wizard (Book 4)
The Dragon
Published by Rain Press
Copyright © 2016 by Kim Dragoner
All rights reserved.
Ebook Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The Dragon
Prologue
512 A.D.—The Thirteenth Age of the Glastenning Sisterhood
Red Ditch,
Warwick’s Shire, England
It had been a delightful reunion in spite of all that had taken place, especially the loss of his older brother Richard. Still, John of Dumnonia was delighted to spend a little time with his cousin Rhys and his beautiful wife, Naida in their new home. Rhys had broken with tradition and given his home the title of Itheilwen, just as he’d sworn to do. The list of guests who had passed through in those days after the completion of the home had been distinguished. Even the king had come to put his blessing on the abode.
Though still grieving for the loss of his brother, John had stayed on long after all the others had left. Feeling the deep emptiness of his own home without Richard’s presence there did not appeal to him. Another of the distinguished guests was the newly knighted Erasmus who had, for such a very long time, served the sons of Camelot with humility, but who had provided such a great service to his king and country that his contribution could not be ignored.
It was Erasmus who, as the quiet of the new home was restored, drew them all aside to tell them a tale of how the Dumnonia and Tywysog families had become known as the House of the Dragon. “I’d spent some time in Pembroke in my younger years and had the distinct privilege of sitting under the tutelage of one who was a student of the distinguish Druid, Eriu,” his story had begun.
Rhys, Nadia and John had listened to his story without missing a single word of it. When the tale had been told, John had been so moved by it that he found new purpose for himself. In fact, he knew that if he did not seek out the very stone and the very place that Erasmus mentioned in the story, he would never be at peace. So, it was with firm determination and with the rising sun at his back that he rode out from Itheilwen and began his journey.
It wasn’t common for a man of John’s class to ride alone, but he had resolutely insisted upon it and his well meaning friends were forced to yield. His purpose for riding west, was not only to seek out the blessed place which marked the birth of the Dumnonian line as well as the beginning of the Tywysog lineage, but it was also a way of sorting through his grief.
Richard had been more than a brother to him; he had been his first playmate and friend. Their bond was both broad and deep. His loss hung like a water-soaked, wool blanket about his shoulders. He felt no purpose and no direction left to him. For John, when that pain was at its greatest height, dying and living were of equal value to him.
It was nearly ten days later, with the story of Erasmus still fixed firmly in his mind, that John of Dumnonia found himself riding into the Preseli Hills in Pembroke Shire and casting about for the Dragon’s Spire. The setting sun had brought an end to another, weary day and he had settled in beside a crackling fire. With dread for whatever painful visions might enter his dreams, he was fighting off sleep, just as he’d done so many nights before.
The eyes of the gods above winked at him from the empty depth of the great beyond. He’s cursed them, mocked them and pleaded with them for so many nights, but he’d come to the point where he came to ignore their indifference with a numb indifference of his own.
“Can I sit by your fire, my good man?” a voice called out to him.
“Come if you must,” John sighed. It was a bold move for a man of his status to invite a stranger into his camp and ill advised at best, but John did not care.
A man with hair that reached well past the mid-section of his body and the same bright hue of snow stepped from the darkness and into the light of his fire. His cloak was long, covered him from his neck to his feet and was made of heavy wool, but it was also tattered and covered in varying shades of cloth where attempts had been made to cover over its holes.
“I don’t mean to disturb you,” he smiled as he moved toward the fire. “These old bones of mind could use a little warmth from your fire and then I’ll be on my way.”
“You are welcome to it,” John responded in a quiet tone.
The old man stood with his back to the fire, allowing its heat to soak through him and gazed up at the stars. “Particularly brilliant this evening, aren’t they?” he commented.
John followed his gaze toward the heavens, but quickly turned it back to the fire without comment.
“You’re a quiet one aren’t you,” the old man chuckled.
“I find little desire for the use of words these days,” John replied, trying not to sound too surly. He was, after all a gentleman of Arthur’s kingdom.
“Where are the rest of your companions?” the old man asked.
“I have none,” John replied.
Sensing the heaviness of heart in him the old man held his speech for a space of time and then finally commented. “A man of your status alone ought not to invite strangers into his camp,” the old man warned. “They might do you harm.”
“I do not fear harm from strangers. Especially, chatty old men,” John replied. He’d allowed his surliness to poke through a bit.
“No doubt you’re one of Arthur’s finest, but there ought to be a page with you and some attendants for your horses, such magnificent creatures in these hills might just wander off in the night…”
“Please, old man,” John interrupted. “Share my fire, but don’t disturb my peace.”
The old man spoke no more. He continued to warm himself for several more minutes and then he moved away from the fire, but before he stepped out of the circle of light and into the darkness, he spoke once more. “When the sun rises, ride toward it and turn into the valley on your right. You’ll find the Dragon’s Spire at the head of that valley.”
John suddenly snapped out of the stupor in which he’d cast himself and sat up, calling out the old man. “How did you know that I seek the Dragon’s Spire?”
Only silence greeted him from beyond his circle of light. The old man was nowhere to be found.
Chapter One
Silures,
Roman Occupied Wales,
395 A.D.
“They are destroying our land,” Owain growled, his voice rose higher in pitch and volume as he let go of his anger. “They rape it and take what they want, just as they have done with our women and our God. We have lived under their oppression for more than three and a half centuries and we will live under it no more!”
“They are too strong for us,” one of the men in the small group that was huddled around the fire responded. “Our ancestors fought them for more than a century and it changed nothing. It only sent them to meet our God sooner.”
“A pitiful lot of lasses ye er,” Cairn the Scot snorted, clenching his teeth and he looked into the faces surrounding the fire. “Hike up yer undergarments an’ stiffen yer spines. They’re men like all others. They bleed when ye stick sharp steel through them. The lads in the hills of Scotland never bowed a knee to these wretched sons of the Dark One.”
The faces about the fire weren’t pleased with being insulted, the fierceness of the Scot made them hold thei
r tongues, though they riddled him with sharp daggers from their eyes. The group, which was only one man short of a dozen, sat around the fire, in the deepest part of the woods where they could not be discovered. It was an ancient place with four stone pillars which market the direction of the four winds. They’d each been summoned from their village by Owain of Silures, the man who would be their chief, if they still had a tribe.
The smith who had spoken before had the courage to speak again in spite of the fact that the fierce Scot so obviously stood with Owain. “Why should we make widows of our wives? For what cause? Let them have their gold and their metals, we have little need of them. As long as we keep our heads bent to our work, they cause us no harm.”
“No harm?” Owain responded. He held up his hand toward Cairn, who had leapt to his feet. The Scot had become an eager ally and faithful companion, but he gained no ground among the proud men who still called themselves Silurians after the name of their ancient people. “The gold they require of you every month, where would it go if you didn’t have to turn it over to the governor, who in turn, sends it away to Rome?”
“I for one would feed my children,” one of the others in the circle called out.
“If you’d leave that poor woman of yours be for more than a fortnight you wouldn’t have so many to feed,” one of the others called out.
They all roared with laughter. When it became silent again, another man spoke.
“I’ve a beam in my roof that’s needed replacing for nearly a decade now.”
The others voiced their agreement; a few of them even added certain needs that their families had.
“It’s not just the taxes,” another added. “My daughter…” The man froze as both anger and grief surged through him and he could not bring any more words from his mouth.
The others knew what had happened to the man’s daughter. They’d stood with him over her grave. She’d been a beautiful, sweet and kind youth, carefree and full of vibrant life until a Roman soldier caught sight of her alone as she was returning home from a visit to her grandmother. The other men had daughters as well and they seethed when they thought of how they would exact their revenge if it happened to one of their own, but all they did was seethe. The soldiers would make short work of them if they did anything more.
Owain did not speak for several moments. He knew what each of them were thinking and feeling. Even the smith could do little to hold back his anger. When he spoke again, it was in a low tone; a menacing tone. “There are men, just like you in every village in our land that have buried their daughters and continued paying their taxes to the same wretched dogs that took those daughters from them. Our ancestors buried their sons and daughters as well and spilled their blood in an attempt to throw off their chains, OUR chains, to live free as our people lived before.”
“But they are strong, their weapons, their garrisons, their horses and their vast numbers are all too much for us,” the smith responded. “I’m as much for freedom as the next, but putting me in the ground and covering me over with rocks does little for my wife and my little ones.”
The Scot snorted and started to speak, but held his tongue when he saw the subtle shake of Owain’s head.
“Their time and their strength is coming to an end,” Owain replied. “More and more of their resources and their men are being committed to their lands to the east of Rome. There are divisions among their leaders and usurpers dividing up their empire. All across the land to our east and north they are recruiting men to fight in their wars in foreign lands. They are abandoning their garrisons and there is no one to reinforce them.”
“But Britons, Celts, Saxons and even Scots,” the smith glanced toward Cairn as he said it. “All fight with them now. They need not be reinforced from Rome or their other garrisons; they can be reinforced from our own people.”
“Then we need to lead the way for our people. We must be the example that leads all of them toward freedom. I won’t lie to you. Our blood will be spilled. Perhaps even my own blood. Within a fortnight, you might be piling stones over my lifeless form and cursing me for having led you into such an impossible task, but you might also be raising OUR banner over THEIR abandoned garrison and rallying more men to storm the others until our land is rid of them.”
He paused a moment and looked around at their faces. There were doubts in their minds, he could see it in their eyes, but he could also see a glimmer of hope beginning to grow in them; even in the eyes of the smith, perhaps more so.
“What price would you pay so that your sons and daughters could live in peace? What price would you pay for the return of our simple way, with our laws, our customs and our God back in OUR land? Tis true that our brothers to the far north have never been ruled by these invaders, but they’re no fiercer than we are. They’re no stronger than we are. They’re no more numerous than we are. I plead with you, your people plead with you, the very ground which has soaked up the blood of our ancestors plead with you. Join us and take back our land!”
Chapter Two
Fort Caerleon,
Roman Occupied Wales,
395 A.D.
Lucius Civilis wasn’t comfortable as he watched the hooded figure that entered the chamber. Though it was to be a private audience, he hadn’t dismissed the two men who stood within the length of a sword behind his left and right shoulders. Commander of the garrison at Caerleon, he was untouchable from any threat by the pagans that populated the land around him, but the one that was coming toward him had a different quality about him; something sinister and otherworldly.
“You requested a private audience,” he said in his usual, commanding tone. He would not show weakness, even if Satan himself had walked through the door. “You’ve got it. Speak your mind. I have other matters that require my attention.”
“You’ve no matters-sss greater than the one which I have come to make you aware of.” The sound came from deep inside the hood.
The faceless voice reminded Lucius of a serpent’s hissing. For a moment he allowed his mind to wonder if the same serpent who had spoken to Eve in the garden was standing before him. He would prefer to see his face and know his identity before he spoke to him further.
“Remove your hood and speak your name,” he commanded.
“A name, I’ll give, but the hood remains-sss,” the figure responded.
For a moment, Lucius considered forcing his command to be carried out, but decided that there was little need for it and it would delay the bath that he had planned with a certain, pale-skinned native. He sighed, “Fine, your name and where you’re from, then.”
“My name is-sss Takud and I come from Arcadia.”
“I don’t know Arcadia,” Lucius replied, wrinkling his brow as he tried to recall every corner of the land that was under his supervision.
The strange, voice let out a frightening sound that was, perhaps, a mirthless chuckle, but had an eerie effect to it that Lucius didn’t want to ever hear repeated. “Arcadia is-sss well beyond your reach.”
Lucius wasn’t certain if it was impatience of fear that had gotten him in its grip, but he was suddenly intent on getting the audience with the strange, hooded figure over with. “Very well, state the purpose of your audience.”
“I’ve information that might be of great interest to you,” the serpentine voice said, rising in pitch, which made it sound even creepier.
“Go on,” Lucius responded, swallowing the thick lump that had grown in his throat. He glanced over each of his shoulders to make certain that his two guards were still in position, but avoided their eyes.
“We can both profit from a mutual arrangement.”
Lucius had heard stories of certain individuals selling their souls to the Dark Master, but he wasn’t eager to make the same error as they had. “I’ll make no arrangements with you. State your purpose or be on your way.”
“You have yet to hear my proposition.”
“I doubt it will interest me, but get to it or I’ll have you remo
ved forcibly.”
The eerie chuckle that followed was not a comforting sound. Takud did not seem to be worried by the threat.
“What if I tell you of a rebellion that is beginning in your western lands-sss and of he who leads-sss it?”
Lucius had heard of no rebellions from the garrisons in the west, but then, rebellions and their plans weren’t typically shared with those from which they were rebelling. As commander of all of the garrisons to the west, he would be shirking his duty if he did not listen to the rumor and investigate it. “Go on,” he said.
“I would like you to hear my terms-sss first.”
“I will hear your terms, but withhold granting them until I can judge the value of and verify the information you have for me.”
“Fair enough.” Takud replied. “There is a certain bit of land, inconsequential, really, a wood, to be exact. It lies on the other side of the channel from your garrison at Cardiff, but further out to sea. I would like it to remain unoccupied by Roman, Celt and Brit alike.”
Lucius knew the land that was being talked about. It would hardly be a loss to grant the hooded figures request anyway, but giving in too quickly might cost him valuable information, if there really was a rebellion in the works. “I’ll take it into consideration. Tell me what you know.”
With no further hesitation, Takud delivered his information. “There is a certain Silurian by the name of Owain. He is a descendant of the tribal leaders of old and, consequently, has the respect and the ear of the people. Lately, he has been gathering them in small groups and drawing them into his rebellious ranks. I’ve not overheard a definitive location or date as yet, but I am led to believe that this rebellion will begin within a fortnight.”
When he heard the word Silurian, his mind quickly skipped to a saying, non atrocitate, non clementia mutabatur, the tribe had remained unchanged by either cruelty or clemency. There was some disagreement among historians, even those who tended to paint Roman in a favorable light, as to whether the Silurians had ever been conquered or had just agreed to peacefully coexist. In any case, the historian were clear that the bloodiest battles outside of Caledonia and the Picts had occurred when the Legions faced the Silurians. If there was a rebellion from them in the works, he needed to get ahead of it quickly. Reinforcements for a drawn out conflict would be very difficult to come by.
The Dragon (Sons of Camelot Book 3) Page 1