Schlock! Webzine Vol 2, Issue 24

by Campbell, John L; Palumbo, Sergio; Betzer, Albert; Dawson, Zak

  ‘Be quiet!’ Vortigern demanded. He had lost all his respect for the woman, and only kept her with him because the wizard Saewulf was distant relative of hers, and would abandon him if he sent her away. ‘Listen to me! The wizards say that once this tower is built, it will be impregnable. We’ll be safe from the Saxons, safe from the Picts... I’ve had men sent out to find this fatherless boy, and if we sprinkle his blood on the stones...’ He broke off at the sound of shouting from the camp entrance.

  Warriors were marching across the grass, urging a nun and a young boy before them. Vortigern’s pulse raced. Was this the boy? Had his men found him so quickly? His brows creased with habitual suspicion. Surely they couldn’t be that thick on the ground, could they? Bastards, aye - he’d had cause to sow a few himself. But he’d given his men strict orders not to bring back any old by-blow, but true daimon-seed... He folded his arms, and awaited their approach.

  ‘My lord!’ called the leader of the warriors, a burly man Vortigern had instinctively disliked, although he was a fellow Gwent-man. ‘We’ve found the devil’s brat!’

  Vortigern’s eyes flickered to the two prisoners; the nun in her black habit, staring around her with righteous anger, and the young lad, swarthy and dark-haired, with deep black eyes. Somehow he looked familiar but Vortigern couldn’t place him.

  ‘How do you know him to be the boy we are looking for?’ he demanded. ‘Though I’ll admit, he has the look of the Little People. Which hollow hill did you step from, lad?’ Suddenly, he was in high spirits.

  ‘My lord,’ the warrior said, before the boy could draw breath to speak, ‘we rode through the hills as you commanded, asking at villages for a boy without a father. Many sluts thought we were jesting and offered up whole broods of bastards but none whose father was truly unknown. Until we came to a village near a nunnery where we paused to... to rest.’

  ‘To swill yourself stupid on my gold, you mean,’ growled Vortigern.

  The man shrugged. ‘That too,’ he replied without shame. ‘But it was when we were sitting outside this hovel of a tavern that we heard a fight break out between two boys. One, whose name turned out to be Diniabutius, said loudly to the other, “Why must you always try yourself against me? How could we ever be equal in skill? My blood on both sides is royal while you - why, no man knows who your father is, and no woman either - not even your mother!”

  ‘This piqued our interest, my lord, as you’ll guess. We made inquiries and learnt that this boy’s mother had retired to the nearby nunnery after giving birth to a son, despite leading what everyone agreed was the most chaste of lives. The son - this boy here - she named Ambros...’

  ‘Ambros?’ demanded Vortigern, startled. He looked at the boy closely. Now he knew of whom he’d reminded him. ‘Who was your father, boy? How were you conceived?’

  Sullenly, the boy stared at the floor, then looked at Vortigern squarely. ‘You’d be best to ask my mother that,’ he muttered.

  At this impudence, one of the guards raised a mailed fist to strike the boy, but his mother thrust herself forward. ‘No!’ she shrieked. She turned to Vortigern. ‘If you must know my shame, my lord, then I will tell you how my son was conceived!’

  ‘By all means, sister,’ said Vortigern placidly. He had little respect for the Roman faith, having been a Pelagian in his youth, and believing in little more than magic these days. But it would look good to his followers if he treated her with honour. ‘Tell us. But I will dismiss my men if you wish.’

  The nun shook her head. ‘There’ll be no need for that,’ she replied humbly. ‘I have no false pride.’ She lifted up her chin, and her face seemed very beautiful to Vortigern then, framed by the whiteness of her wimple.

  She began her story.

  ‘By my soul, my lord, I have had no relations with men of this world, and hope to die a virgin...’

  At this, there was a laugh from one of the guards.

  ‘What, are you Maria herself, to conceive Christus as a virgin?’ he heckled.

  ‘Silence!’ stormed Vortigern. ‘You’re dismissed. And give him fifty lashes!’ The guard was dragged away. Vortigern turned to the nun again, who seemed startled by his vehemence.

  ‘Continue,’ he said gently.

  ‘It happened one night,’ she said, her voice drawn. ‘I was asleep in my bed, my maids around me, when a great light shone down upon me, awakening me. I tried to look around, but found myself unable to move. It was as if a heavy weight was on my stomach, holding me down. The harsh white light burned into my brain, and I was unable to move. Then, in its brilliance, a figure appeared; a small, thin, unhuman figure with grey skin, oval eyes and a tiny nose and mouth. It moved towards me, and lifted up my shift. I felt a pain from my... my private members, as if a spear had been thrust into me, and then knew nothing more. Nine months later, I gave birth to the boy who you see before you, and it was then that I resolved to enter the nunnery. But I swear that I had no relations with any man beforehand.’

  Maugantius stepped unsteadily forward. The other were eyeing the woman and her child with amazement; Celestinus with his usual guilty excitement. Vortigern turned to them.

  ‘Is this possible?’ he asked quietly. Maugantius’ mouth was flapping open. He looked at the king, then darted another glance at the boy. Then he turned to the king again.

  ‘My lord, in many of the books of the ancient philosophers, and in the histories too, one may find references to various men born in this way. Apuleius, in his De Deo Socratis tells us that in the void between the earth and the moon dwell those spirits learned men name incubus demons, though the common folk give them other names...’

  ‘In my land we name it the Night-Mare,’ rumbled Saewulf, from Vortigern’s other shoulder, and Renwein turned away from her hungry staring at the silent boy to nod. Irritated by the interruption, Maugantius tugged at his gaudy robes, and raised his voice.

  ‘They have partly the nature of men and partly of angels, and the lust of man causes them at times to take on mortal flesh and, ahem... have intercourse, of the kind the esteemed lady describes, with women...’

  ‘But tell us more of the intercourse between you and this demon,’ Celestinus broke in hoarsely. Everyone stared at him, and he retreated, flushing hotly.

  Again, Maugantius sighed, and returned to his laboured discourse. ‘It is indeed possible, my lord, that the boy was conceived in such a way.’

  Vortigern nodded patiently. He turned back to the nun to question her further. But before he could speak, the boy broke away from his mother and strode up to him.

  ‘Why this sudden interest in me?’ he demanded. ‘Why have I and my mother been brought here?’

  Vortigern seemed taken aback by the lad’s temerity. ‘My... magicians have advised me to find a man conceived as you have been, to sprinkle the foundations of my tower with his blood and thus ensure that it will stand firm.’

  Ambros laughed. ‘You are building a tower on Din Faraon Tande?’ he asked, grinning impudently. Vortigern nodded. ‘And your wizards have no idea what has made it impossible for anyone to build there since the time of Cassivellaunos? Perhaps if they spent less time reading the books of the Greeks and Romans and listened more to the lore of the people they would learn something to their advantage.’

  ‘Why, you impudent brat!’ snapped Maugantius. ‘You claim to know more than me? I have travelled as far as Persia and India, and spoken with the Magi and Gymnosophists! I have read every treatise on the Magic Arts to be found in the library at Alexandria! You dare contest yourself with me?’

  ‘Leave my boy alone!’ demanded the nun.

  ‘Mother,’ said the boy. ‘I can hold my own against this fool who wants to wet the foundations of Vortigern’s tower with my innocent blood.’ Again he turned to Maugantius. ‘Because you have no idea what obstructs the foundations of this tower, you have told the king to sprinkle my blood on the mortar. Tell me, if you please, what was buried beneath the hill, and how you hope for the shedding of my blood to change
anything?’

  ‘Devil’s brat!’ shouted Maugantius. ‘Only the spawn of Orcus would know that!’

  The boy looked at Vortigern. ‘My lord, call your workmen. Tell them to dig in the rock where you would build your tower, and there you will find a pool. In that you will discover the creatures that have rocked the foundations of your refuge.’

  It was a steep climb to the top of Din Faraon Tande, and by the time Vortigern and his retinue reached the ridge, they were sweating and panting. But the boy, who walked alongside his mother saying nothing, his expression calm, seemed unaffected by the exertion, and when he reached the top, he stood on the highest crag, gazing at the view. From the crest of the ridge it was possible to see the entire valley and the mountains that surrounded it, from the western end where the Avon Glaslyn flowed into the wider valley that would lead it to the sea, to the eastern end, and the pass that few dared traverse, leading into the ill-omened valley beyond. Panting, Vortigern approached the boy. He pointed to the right.

  ‘Over there will you find the foundations of my tower,’ he said grimly. He led the boy over the rocks towards the edge of the eastern cliffs. He was an old man, and the climb had done him no good. But at least it had reaffirmed in his mind the tactical superiority of his tower’s position. Now if only they could get the damned thing to stay upright...

  The position of the tower was at the edge of what had been a pleasant little dell leading down the side of the hill. Now cranes, pulleys, and all the other paraphernalia of construction work littered the site, and in the centre of the rocky outcrop lay the tumbled stones that remained from the third attempt at building his tower. The boy looked down at the mess with a supercilious expression.

  ‘Tell the men to start here,’ he said, pointing directly at the cracked remains of the foundations. Vortigern sighed, and nodded to the men with picks who had followed them up the hill.

  The sun was close to setting, its rays glinting redly from the snows of Mount Eryri, by the time they broke through the rock and revealed the gaping darkness of the cavern beneath. When a large enough hole had been opened, Vortigern and the boy went over to stare down into the blackness. The king’s magicians followed uncertainly, their expressions unusually humble.

  ‘Is that water down there?’ Vortigern murmured.

  ‘Of course,’ the boy replied. ‘As I said there would be. Now, order the pool to be drained. At the bottom you will find two stones. Inside the stones will you find the creatures.’

  It was dusk by the time they drained the pool, and Vortigern ordered some of his men to hold torches over the pit as he and the boy watched the process being completed. In the last few hours, Vortigern felt he had come to know someone of great power and strength; a young boy he might be, but within him there seemed to be someone else, a man grown old in the ways of the world, and not only this one but many others beyond the king’s comprehension.

  A sudden cry from one of the workmen startled Vortigern from his reverie. He looked up as a glowing light burst from the darkness of the cave, followed by another. The first burned blood-red, the second a leprous white, and both shot up into the night-blue sky above the crowd with a pair of unearthly shrieks that seemed to shudder through the bodies of all there present; then resolved themselves into the shape of dragons!

  The white dragon flew towards the red, and grasped it in its gleaming claws, spitting fire and venom as it attacked its foe. Before its assault, the red dragon was forced back towards the west, and for a while, it went wailing into the darkness while the white dragon circled over the hill howling hideous cries of victory. But then the entranced watchers heard the leathery flap of great wings, and the red dragon came soaring back out of the night to set upon the white dragon at the height of its pride. The white dragon fell back, seemingly mortally wounded, its glowing ichor pouring from it as it flapped back eastward, and the red dragon had the field. Soon, having come to revel in the smell of blood and the roar of battle, it began to search the skies for other foes. Catching sight of its own tail from the corner of its eye, it fell upon it with savagery, and flew in circles, biting at itself, in pain and causing itself more pain as it tried to kill the thing that had begun to torment it.

  Then the white dragon came flapping silently back from the east, its wounds licked and cleaned. Seeing the red dragon in its delusion, it barked a draconian laugh and flew eagerly towards it, setting upon the scaly beast. The red dragon, still in the clutches of its own delusory enemy, found itself having to alternate between biting at the white dragon and at itself. Soon the white dragon had it almost at its mercy, and its struggles became weaker. For a space the red dragon lay unresisting in its claws, occasionally making feeble spasms but unable to win back its strength. Then the white dragon fell prey to the same delusion as its foe, and began to bite at itself, seemingly intent on ripping itself to pieces; at the height of its madness, the red dragon recovered, and broke free, catching the white dragon in its claws and straddling it.

  then together they began to grow, each enmeshed in the claws of the other, waxing vaster and vaster to dominate the world around them; now the red dragon was on top, now the white, but as they flew off into the south, it seemed to Vortigern that they were slowly growing into one mighty being...

  The red and the white dragons disappeared into the darkness of the south, and silence fell upon the hill of Din Faraon Tande. Stunned, Vortigern turned to the boy, who returned his glanced unperturbed.

  ‘What does this mean?’ the king breathed. The boy smiled.

  ‘It means many things,’ he said, in a voice suddenly as deep as a man’s. ‘It foretells the fortunes of this island, of our people and the Saxon, for the next thousand years or more. The Red Dragon of the Britons, and the White Dragon of the invaders, once buried here by Londinos Silverhand, the brother of Cassivellaunos, on the eve of the first Roman invasion; now unearthed by you, Vortigern, you whose schemes and plots have unleashed upon the nation of Hu Gadarn another lamentable invasion, that of the Saxons!

  ‘For you, the prophecy tells us of nothing but your doom. This fortress will not hold you, nor will any in the land that you betrayed, and for centuries your name will be nothing but a curse in the mouths of men, nor shall you find sanctuary amongst your people. A miserable death awaits you.

  ‘Now flee! Flee! For from the west comes the one whose father you slew, who you betrayed and exiled to the hills, and who now returns, hungry for your blood. Flee, Vortigern, and all your followers, for I tell of the coming of Ambrosius Aurelianus!’

  At that name, a great murmur rose from the crowd. The prophet nodded. ‘Aye, Ambrosius the Exile, rightful ruler of Britannia. Flee now, and you may yet escape his wrath! Cross his path again, and you shall die in agony!’

  A minute later, and the boy stood alone upon the hilltop, apart from the woman he had called his mother. The warriors and servants of Vortigern had followed their king in his desperate retreat down the cliffs towards the valley floor. The trees rustled, and a white-robed figure stepped out. He muttered a string of harsh, alien syllables, and suddenly, where the boy had been, stood a man in late middle age; Count Ambrosius himself.

  Ambrosius nodded. ‘I think that put the wind up them, Meno,’ he said. ‘I apologise for doubting you. Alright, you may return to your nunnery now,’ he told the nun. ‘My men will escort you.’

  ‘And you will restore the churches to the Roman faith when you take the throne?’ the nun asked. Ambrosius nodded.

  ‘Of course.’ He turned to the druid again. ‘Now, we’ll prepare for our ride into the lowlands. With luck, no other Britons will contend us, and we’ll be able to find Hengest and put an end to his ravaging. But first, we can hunt Vortigern down and avenge my father’s death.’

  ‘Where will we meet Artorius?’ Meno asked.

  Ambrosius shrugged. ‘I told Walwain to suggest we reunite somewhere in Gwent, Vortigern’s homeland. That’s where I expect him to retreat to next,’ he replied. ‘Assuming the Pict got through.
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