The Dragon's Banner

by Jay Allan

  "This is what we shall do!" From under the table he retrieved a long dagger, and with one stroke he thrust it so forcefully through Vortigern's back that the tip of the blade protruded from the old man's chest. Vortigern's head turned, and for a second he looked in disbelief at Hengist. Then he spasmed once, coughing up a mouthful of blood, and crumpled to the ground at his killer's feet.

  Even as Hengist struck his blow, Saxon warriors poured into the room from every entry, axes and swords swinging wildly as they fell upon the unarmed Britannic lords. The melee was brutal, for men facing death will fight savagely, though drunk and unarmed. The table was overturned with a loud crash, and all around the hall, with chairs and dinner knives and silver goblets...and even with bare hands...the victims fought futilely against their attackers. But their effort was in vain, and surprise and superior arms quickly put an end to things. When it was done, every Britannic lord in the great hall of Canterbury was dead.

  Hengist looked over the room, now a blood-soaked wreck. His voice was firm, though his hands shook and his heart beat rapidly. "Collect their heads. We will deliver these to King Uther when he arrives and make our peace. These men were the last of his enemies, and by our hands they have been defeated."

  In the courtyard, and in the fields around the stronghold, Hengist's men streamed from hidden spots and attacked the retinues of the lords, which were camped all about the walls. Some of the defenders were able to arm themselves, and the battles raged for a time on the hillsides around Canterbury. The Britons were incensed at the treachery and fought for their lives with elemental savagery. But they were outnumbered and overmatched and, while they made the Saxons pay a price, they were soon wiped out.

  Hengist's plan had been a complete success. Vortigern and his allies had been taken by surprise, and they were no more. Now he had to deal with Uther Pendragon.

  It was late morning as the army of Uther Pendragon emerged from the forest path and began to surround Canterbury. In the van rode the high king himself, with his veteran horsemen from Powys and the best of the heavy cavalry of the other contingents. They were followed by the forces of each of the kings. First were the levies from Powys, and behind them the troops of King Leodegrance of Cameliard. Next was King Urien, leading the men of Rheged, veterans hardened in the brutal early battles against the Picts. Then came King Rience, whom no one liked or trusted, leading the forces of Gwynned. King Pellinore marched next in the procession, and behind his warriors of the Isles came Vortiporius and the contingent from Dyfed. The men from Cornwall followed, and in the last position was King Lot, mostly healed and returned to the field, with the soldiers of Luthien.

  The army had conducted many sieges and assaults, and they quickly took up their positions around Hengist's stronghold. Uther had declared that, once again, no quarter would be given, so they did not bother with heralds or messengers. But there was surprise among the host as the gates of Canterbury opened, and an embassy emerged, flying before them a flag of truce.

  At first, Uther would not hear their entreaties, for he was set in his decision that none would be spared among those warriors in Canterbury. But Merlin prevailed, and the king agreed to admit the ambassadors. He would not ride out to meet them nor appoint his own emissaries to do so. If they would speak to him, they would come to his tent and trust to his honor regarding their temporary safety.

  Uther sat upon an oaken seat at the end of his tent, with ten of his greatest warriors arrayed around him. Among those present were Leodegrance, Urien, Caradoc, and Merlin, and these all stood silently along the side of the tent, watching the proceedings.

  Hengist had sent two of his closest advisors, and these were accompanied by six warriors, carrying three large wooden chests. One of Hengist's ambassadors waved for the soldiers to set down the boxes then he turned and bowed to King Uther. He was tall and broad, with long hair and a beard, which had once been blond, but were now mostly gray. "The most honorable greetings to the High King Uther. I am Aric, and I am come to treat with your majesty. My master, King Hengist wishes me to express his deepest respects to you, great king, and his most profound regrets that we have fought as enemies in this war."

  Uther did not move or even glance over at the visitors. He sat impassive, like a statue hewn from marble, and his response was icy. "We need not have fought against each other had your master remained in his homeland. But he chose to invade this nation, and once here to proclaim his allegiance to a foul usurper. For this his condemnation is decreed, as is such for all who have followed him. You may now leave us, so that you may prepare to meet your doom in such a way as seems fitting to you."

  Uther waved his hand in dismissal, but Aric bowed his head and again spoke. "King Uther, I beseech thee to receive these gifts, which my master has sent to..."

  "I desire no tribute from your master. The time for such niceties is long past. I bid thee one last time, go now while still I am willing to allow it." Uther turned his head and glared at the emissaries with a gaze so withering even his own men quaked at the sight of it.

  But Aric remained steadfast, though his voice was wavering and his hands shook. He waved for the warriors to open the chests, and he reached into one and pulled out a small bundle. "Behold, High King of Britannia, the head of your enemy, Vortigern. This is the gift of my master, as are these..." - he pointed to the other chests - "...which contain the heads of all of the lords of Britannia who had sworn loyalty to the usurper."

  There were gasps of shock throughout the room, though of them all, only Merlin had actually seen Vortigern before. Uther glanced at his advisor, who acknowledged the king's unspoken question with a small nod. This was indeed the head of Vortigern.

  Aric stood expectantly, awaiting Uther's reaction. When it came, he was utterly unprepared for its ferocity. The king leapt to his feet, yelling with a level of cold hostility beyond anything the emissaries had ever experienced. "What thinks your chieftan?" - Uther would not grant Hengist the title of king, even just in speaking - "That treachery wipes away treachery? These lords and kings were marked to die, but by the lawful judgment of the high king, not by the deceits and trickery of a barbarian warlord."

  Uther walked toward Aric until he stood but a few feet from the Saxon, who cowered before the will and onslaught of the king. The men at arms moved to follow Uther and to place themselves between him and the enemy warriors, but he waved them back forcefully. He stared directly at Aric and continued his withering speech. "Could Hengist truly believe I would treat with a heathen invader because he slew these men? He has but added to his crimes, for though Vortigern was my enemy, Hengist was sworn to his service. Your master is a betrayer and a traitor, and he is fit only to be devoured by the crows. Go now and be gone, for this is my last mercy. Go to your chief and tell him to prepare, for his end is upon him."

  Uther gestured to the warriors along the back of the tent, and they moved forward, drawing their swords. Aric and his companions bowed low and hurried out of the tent. Once outside, they ran back toward the fortress, seeking the relative safety of the walls before the king changed his mind and slew them at once. Uther turned to face his advisors, his face contorted with rage. "Assemble the troops. We attack at once."

  All along the walls of Canterbury, the scaling ladders of Uther's men were raised, and warriors climbed quickly to the battlements. Atop the walls, the defenders pushed down ladders and dropped rocks on the climbing soldiers, but the ferocity of the attack had unnerved them, and their fragile morale was quickly broken.

  Near the main gate, Uther Pendragon himself, ignoring the pleas of his advisors and men, climbed one of the ladders and was the first to reach the top. On the battlement he fought like a man possessed, throwing three Saxons over the edge and felling two more with deadly sword strokes. Behind him came Caradoc and next Kelven, and once atop the battlements, these three great warriors slew all who came against them, while their comrades poured up the ladders and into the fortress.

  A similar scene took place a few
hundred yards down the wall, where Leodegrance and Urien led their men in a ferocious charge, taking one of the towers and opening the secondary gate. The armies of Cameliard and Rheged poured through the captured entry and into the main courtyard. In the slowly fading light they slaughtered all who stood before them.

  Throughout the corridors and towers of the massive stronghold, men battled viciously in small groups. The defenders tried to flee, but they were everywhere pursued by Uther's men, and the orders of the high king had been clear. The Saxons fought with the desperation of doomed men, but they were overwhelmed, and by nightfall every defender in the keep was slain, save those barricaded in the last tower.

  Atop that tower, surrounded by his last few guards, was Hengist, self-proclaimed king of Kent. Once the leader of 10,000 veteran warriors, the Saxon chief was now trapped in the last bastion of his stronghold with barely a score of men. His plan to negotiate had failed utterly, and in his final moments he was at a loss to understand. Uther Pendragon was the most coldly relentless force he had ever encountered. In his last desperation he muttered softly to himself. "What drives him with such brutal resolve?"

  Hengist leaned out the window and looked down to the base of the tower. The attackers had battered down the door, and Uther's men were pouring inside. His mind raced, but he could see no way to escape his doom. Octa was not in the room. He must have fallen, Hengist thought, fighting on the battlements. I will be with you soon, my son. He girded himself and drew the greatsword from his scabbard. He wore a mail shirt, but no helm, for on his head was the crown of Kent. He would die as a king.

  The men in the room, scarcely two dozen, waited silently, weapons drawn. Within a few minutes they could hear fighting outside, and then the sounds of something heavy banging against the great oaken door. Finally, the door burst off its hinges and fell to the floor inside the room. There was a loud thud as the attackers dropped the stone column they had used as a ram, followed by shouting from both sides as Uther's men stormed into the room and the melee was joined.

  The doorway was narrow and in the confined space of the room it was some time before the attackers' numbers began to tell. The Saxons fought with the ferocity of men with naught to lose, and they made the Britons pay dearly for the victory. In the center of the room fought Hengist, and he had struck down half a dozen enemies. Finally, Eldol, one of Uther Pendragon's champions, strode up to the Saxon chief. The two engaged in a great battle, as all around them more warriors poured into the room. Hengist's men were losing their desperate fight. Other Britons had rushed to take Hengist from behind, but Eldol called them off, for he was determined that the Saxon leader would be his tribute to his sovereign. At last, when there remained but a handful of defenders standing, Eldol's broadsword found its mark. Hengist, chieftan of the Saxons and would-be king of Kent, fell to the floor, mortally wounded.

  When Uther entered the room a few moments later there was not a live Saxon left. His men began to cheer, first in the room where the last defenders had fallen, then in the stairwell of the tower. Soon the entire army was chanting Uther's name. Amid the growing din, the high king praised Eldol for slaying Hengist, and proclaimed him a lord of Powys.

  Then he strode down the stairs, past the shouting soldiers and out into the courtyard, waving as he walked, acknowledging the acclaim of the army. This is what it must have been like for my grandfather, he thought, when his army proclaimed him emperor. Yet Uther felt no joy beyond the grim satisfaction that he had completed his task. Now he faced the true burden of the high kingship, for he must maintain the loyalty of the kings when they were no longer faced with mortal peril from outside. This, he suspected, would prove more difficult, and he hoped the firmness he had displayed in the war would stay the hands of would-be traitors.

  The men had gathered and lit bunches of straw or sticks, and the seething, joyful mass turned into a torchlit procession that followed Uther out through the gates and back to camp. Though the king himself soon retired to his tent, the lords and men sang and drank well into the night. The war was over.

  The victory at Canterbury had been complete. Indeed, only two warriors escaped from the fortress. Octa had been knocked from the wall early in the battle, and while the fight raged he was lying unconscious, half buried in straw. When he finally woke, the battle was almost over, and he could see it was lost. Let me die in arms, he thought, as he prepared to run toward his father's tower, even then being assaulted. But he did not charge out as he willed himself to do. Whether it was good sense or cowardice or the desire to live to gain revenge one day, none could ever know. He slipped quietly into the keep and down the stairs to the hidden passage that led out of the fortress and into the woods. Though Hengist did not know it when he breathed his last breath, his dynasty lived on.

  The other survivor had escaped before Uther's men even reached the fortress. Vortimer had plunged into the melee in the courtyard the previous night, joining his father' ambushed men. Though he fought well, he was soon overmatched and knocked to the ground, and his last recollection was a sharp pain in his head. When he awoke he was in the forest, slung over the shoulder of Wendel, one of his father's most loyal soldiers. A giant, almost seven feet tall, Wendel was wounded multiple times and covered in blood. Yet still he had managed to escape the keep and carry Vortimer to safety before he finally fell to the ground. Vortimer crawled over to aid his benefactor, but the big man's wounds were obviously mortal, and just a few moments later, he died. Vortimer sat long next to his body, and there was but one thought in his mind. Revenge. Against Hengist and his traitorous race. And against Uther Pendragon.

  Uther returned to Caer Guricon amid tumultuous celebration, but though he played his role, in his heart he was joyless. War, at least, had given him a purpose, and now he had returned to an empty castle and endless days to ponder his loss. Certainly there were warriors and advisors and servants in Caer Guricon, but Uther's father and brothers were dead, and the woman he loved was far away, married to another. It was to a life of duty and loneliness the last of the Pendragon had returned.

  The great army had dispersed, and men who had fought and bled together bade each other tearful farewells, for many were like never to see each other again. In the villages and castle halls the victorious warriors were welcomed with quiet, joyful celebrations. Their cheer, though strong, was restrained by the losses they had borne, for they had fought in a dozen battles and countless skirmishes and sieges. They had battled Picts and Saxons and Britons from many kingdoms, and they had beaten all. But they paid dearly for their victories. Barely half those who had marched away to follow Uther Pendragon returned home, and those who survived came back to withered farms and fallow fields. Their comrades lay buried in graves across Britannia, and the homecoming, though joyful, was also bitter for the many empty chairs.

  They had fought to unite Britannia under one high king, and they had done so. Now, they wondered, would their indomitable war leader rule justly? Would the land recover and prosperity return?

  Chapter Eight

  Igraine

  488 AD

  Caer Guricon, Capital of the Kingdom of Powys

  Uther Pendragon had been high king of Britannia for a decade, and the country was restored to prosperity. For years now, the harvests had been bountiful, and the storehouses were bursting with grain. The shortages from the war years had been made up, and the famine and pestilence that had ravaged the land were increasingly distant memories. The dead had been buried, and fresh pain of loss had given way to fond memory of fallen heroes.

  Uther's warriors rode throughout the kingdom, enforcing the king's laws and driving Saxon raiding parties back into the sea. For ten years the land had seen a level of peace and prosperity unknown since the legions had departed. Some of the kings might have resented the loss of independence, but none dared challenge Uther, for all knew he was quick to anger and totally without mercy to any who opposed him. That much they had seen during the war, when he had made good on his oath to slay all who
had fought with Vortigern.

  Fresh from victory, Uther had traveled widely throughout Britannia, visiting all the kingdoms and accepting the fealty of the kings. But as the years passed he became more reclusive, until finally he rarely left the castle at Caer Guricon.

  Throughout the land there was one great concern - the high king had no heir. He had been offered many daughters and sisters of kings, but he would take no wife. The entreaties of his closest friends and advisors were to no avail, for Uther was a stubborn man, and once his mind was set, none could change it. Thus was there a pall hanging over the prosperity, for few could doubt that if Uther died without an heir, the kings would again be fighting among themselves for position, and the land would once more bleed. The high king was young, it is true, but as the years went by and still he would not marry, the worries became greater.

  The usually grim atmosphere of Caer Guricon was replaced with mirth, for Merlin had returned after an absence of five years, and Uther joyfully welcomed his friend and advisor back. Merlin had always come and gone with little predictability and even less explanation, but he had been away long this time, and Uther had missed him greatly.

  They sat together well into the night before the fire in the great hall, talking as they had in years past. Merlin was one of the few people who knew why Uther refused to take a wife. He also understood just how obstinate the king could be, so he approached the issue with great caution. "My friend, we have spoken of many trivial matters, but we must discuss the important issue. You have terrorized everyone else so they will not dare mention it, but you know as well as I do that you must have an heir. Indeed, all you fought for, all your sacrifices, would be in vain were the high kingship to fail. Would you have the thousands who died to have done so in vain? Would you consign thousands more to die in future strife?"