by C J Brown
Her father and mother looked at her warily. Perhaps they imagined she was crazy.
“I now know why I have these powers. I’ve never known what they meant or where they were from. They’re Katyana’s. That night when I was born, Enya and Toryen were talking about how the Huns would attack Britannia now. They said that I needed to live, that one of them needed to answer your prayer, or else dark things would follow, and the darkness of the Huns would never be defeated. And now I know why. I have to revive Arthur.”
Merlin felt relief. For the first time, he trusted that the light would shine, and that the darkness would retreat, but Guinevere did not know how to revive someone. Guinevere had, until now, known nothing more than how to conjure creatures and launch energy. Merlin knew a great deal more, and he did not know how to revive Arthur.
“If this is true,” De Grance said, “you must do this. Your mother and I have always known that you were destined for something great. Ever since you were born, you have not been like any other child. But do you know how to revive someone?”
“I can teach her the spells,” Merlin said, “but the magic must be hers. And she must be able to heal Arthur. Right now, Arthur does not want to return. And all the magic of the most powerful could not revive him if he does not wish to live again.”
“So, how do I stop his suffering?” Guinevere asked.
“I don’t know,” Merlin said.
“But we’ll all figure it out. We have to. Because if Arthur does not return, the world is doomed. Even now, Gallagher is attacking from the north. Cities and towns are being torched. The green fields are turning to desolate wastelands. Gerlach and his foul soldiers are marching toward Gilidor. Demetia is a ruin. And a million more Huns are forming up at ports along the Continental coastline. King Fergus is still allied with them. An army unlike anything the world has ever seen is marching for Land’s End.
If we lose this war, the darkness will never be defeated. Whatever chance light finds to shine, it will be snuffed. The North will fall as well, and the Hun banner will fly without opposition.
Winter is near, and if the Huns are not defeated, the cold shall freeze the Isle for all of time.”
17
Change of Heart
On the Continental Coastline
Attila stood on a knoll overlooking the Narrow Sea. Even though the Demetians had been soundly beaten and were on the run, the war was not decisively over. Attila was not conqueror, and the anger he felt of not being the one who drew Arthur’s life from his body drove him to new heights.
“I know what I must do,” he whispered to all those in his presence, although none of them heard it. They stood there, tired and confused.
Bishkar was still in the north and making his way south without regard to the toll on the size of his forces. By the time they reached the end, there would hardly be any men left, if Attila guessed aright.
It was time to raise a larger army and put all this to bed.
Stepping back into his tent, he turned to his field commanders and said, “I have had enough of this piecemeal effort. It is time to end this war.”
“You want to leave, Sire? You want to return to Germania after we have gotten this far?”
“No, you fool. I want to end this war in our favor. I want to bring more men and end the life of every single peasant on that god-forsaken land.”
“You want to raise a new army, Sire?” a faceless general who had recently been promoted to his position asked.
“What is your name?” Attila barked, feeling an unfamiliar presence in his court.
“Din Gar Chuk, sire. I am general of the rear forces. We just got here.”
“So, you have yet to see any battle on this land?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Then why do you look as tired as if you have just lost a battle?” Attila asked, disgusted at the man’s weakness.
“We just traveled, Sire. We are weary from the journey.”
Attila was not impressed. He looked around his tent, a makeshift royal court, in the midst of a command post. With mud for floors and fresh animal hide as roof, the stench was still palpable in the air.
The faces he wished to see were absent. As much as Biskar annoyed him with his impetuous arrogance, he was like a son to him. Adolphus, now gone, buried along a roadside, tramped by thousands, was the face he truly missed. Adolphus knew how to command men and speak to Attila’s heart.
Attila searched the faces around him. In the corner of his tent stood a man different from the rest of the Huns and expendables. He stood, tired, yet polished. His breast plate was not polished, but well maintained. He had seen battle recently, but he was also not one of the Hun forces.
“Who are you?” Attila asked. “You do not look like one of us.”
“Indeed, my liege,” the stranger answered. “I am not yet one of you, but if you will have me, I would very much like to be. You will find that I can be of great use to you.”
“How can you be of use to me?” Attila asked, his voice now tempered by his curiosity.
“First of all, I speak your tongue, as you can witness now, and I also speak the tongue of the Romans. So, the next time you negotiate with them, they will not be able to mock you to your face as you stare ignorantly at their pale faces.”
Attila had no response.
The stranger to continued. “I also know the strategy of the enemy. I know where they plan to hide, how they plan to raise more men, and I know how Arthur thinks,” the skinny man added.
“You know Arthur, or you know of Arthur?” Attila asked, now more suspicious of the man who had paced up to the front of the tent as he spoke.
“Both. I know him well. I used to stand with him until three nights ago.”
“You are from the Isle?” Attila asked, testing his hypothesis of who the stranger might be.
“No. I came to this god-forsaken island not long ago. I left the comfort of my life to follow my general and my king, but now I have had to part ways with him.”
“Who is your king and general?”
“You are, my liege,” the man answered.
“Not at this minute, but before you came to me.”
“Lucius was my emperor, and Arthur, my general. I was there when he killed Adolphus.”
At the sound of this, Attila rushed to the stranger and stood within a breath of him.
“You are Arthur Pendragon’s aide, are you not? The man who has been riding next to that creature since his first day as a soldier.”
“Yes, my name is Vipsanius, my liege.”
“Spy. Arrest this man,” Attila shouted.
The guards that stood beyond the walls of skin enduring the cold air and the soft mud rushed into the tent and surrounded the stranger.
“You can arrest me, torture me, or kill me. I will accept one or all three options. But one way or another I had to try. I can no longer spend another day on the losing side of this equation. I could have joined the ranks of the Romans who have joined you and fought with them if I were a spy. I could have lied about my true identity and blended in, if I were a spy. Instead, I chose to speak truth and join your cause.”
Attila eyed him, looking for any hint of deception. The man looked tired, but well trained. Unlike the rest of the Huns who were already tired from the journey, this man seemed to be able to hold his composure even if he was from the losing side.
“Why should I take in a loser?” Atilla asked.
“Because if I were on your side, I would be a winner. Take me, use me, allow me to make a living. If you find me unworthy, kill me at any time, even if it is just for amusement or sport.”
Attila liked that idea, and there was one way he could maximize this good fortune. “Ride with me and tell me all you know of Arthur and his plans.”
“Yes, my liege. Where are we going?”
“To
raise the largest army the world has ever seen.”
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About the Author
C.J. Brown has a lifelong passion for fantasy books, and she quit her career in marketing to pursue her dream of becoming an author. Legends and myths in particular strike her fancy, and she loves putting her own spin on them. An adventurer at heart, when not writing, she can be found exploring the old mystical Northwoods around her home, where she finds much of her inspiration.
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