AERONS FLAME

Part one. Lighting the fire, Myrddyn, Arthur, Caladwyllch and Aeronwen the Lady Of The Lake.

This work is dedicated to my daughter's, my three Ravens, Queens in their own right.

And

My son who was my inspiration for young Arthur in the story. A courageous knight from birth.

A note on pronunciation:

The names are Cymraeg ( Welsh)

DD is th

Y is e

F is v

W is double u, oo.

UE is oo-ay

Myrddyn is Mer-then

Nimue is Neem-oo-ay

Aeron is Air-on

Bedwyr is Bed-oo- ear

Gwynyffyr is Gwen-ih-ffer

Gawain is Gow-in.

†††CHAPTER 1 †††

Mist played about the surface of the stream. Swirling above the surface of the waters, dancing among the stones. The air still, heavy with the morning dew. Birds sang the dawn song. Peace and beauty entwined ,a perfect symmetry.

Myrddyn moved wearily, an anomaly of sorrow amidst the wonders that surrounded him. The stone he carried stained with his tears and the blood of his torn and bleeding hands. Along the path to the cave he labored, as he had through the long night.

The wall he had been building across the caves entrance was nearly complete. Only a narrow opening remained. A doorway he carefully moved through to place this, the final stone on the floor inside the cave now walled in, A tomb he has built, a resting place.

Myrddyn looked one last time at the fading light, one last drink from the sacred spring, then squeezed in through the narrow way and by the frail light of the tallow lamp, he placed the stones closing the way.

Tiredly, hands still torn and bleeding he climbed upon the bed, and in the flickering faint light of the tallow lamp, he curled around the body of Nimue and lay himself down at last for the final rest, the dream of eternity with his beloved.

Myrddyn lay, cradling Nimue. He held her desperately, holding onto the remnants of his heart, the embodiment of his soul. Tears flowed freely as he silently willed his spirit to take flight. He would spend eternity with her. Wherever her spirit flew, he would find her and he will be with her forever.

The white raven watched all of this, a silent tear falling. The outer darkness fell on a moonless night and the white raven watched silent, waiting. Until at last the play of shadow and light faded. The tallow lamp guttered and failed bringing the sealed cavern into darkness.

The white raven ruffled and shifted into a mist, a mist that eddied and seeped between the stones into the cave where it coalesced into her true form of the Goddess. Aeron quietly unlaced the wineskin from her girdled belt, and reverently cradled Myrddyn’s head sprinkling drops of the sacred mead between his lips. He struggled, protesting, resisting but the mead worked her will. “ Fear not my beloved, she has not fled, she shall be with you always.” Myrddyn fell into a sleep of the ages. As He slept, Myrddyn dreamed, dreaming he remembered.

With a nod, Aeron shifted form into mist again, lingering only to swirl about the forms of Nimue and Myrddyn, she seeped her way back out into the world transforming once more into the white raven. She cawed the spell of rebirth and awakening then took flight. Inside the cave, Myrddyn held Nimue close to dream the dreams of healing, the mysteries of ages yet to come.

Nimue found herself lost in a place shrouded in mists, timeless , swirling without form. Eddying possibilities whirled about her. “Where am I? Have I passed between the worlds?” She spoke aloud, challenging, questioning. “ You have passed into the eternity between my faithful daughter.” A voice answered. “I have not yet finished with you .

” Nimue looked about trying to see who had spoken. There was nothing to see except for the mist. The echoes of the words hanging in the air. She felt herself changing, shifting, becoming, something new.

The mist faded. Nimue found herself standing upon a stone, looking at the entrance to the cave. Myrddynn had finished the wall she thought. Then, realizing her last memory before the strange place of mist. A memory of fading, of weakness, the burning in her chest as she fought for breath. Her heart breaking as she watched Myrddyn assemble the stones, as he told her of his plans, that they would be together always.

Awareness dawned. She tried to scream as she realized Myrddyn lay inside and she was here, outside the cave. A loud echoing caw emerged. She tried to reach out to remove the stones and join him. She had no hands, only sleek ebony feathered wings. In confusion and panic she hopped about crying out, until an answering caw spoke to her.

“I told you, I was not yet finished with you .” A great white raven landed next to her.

That same damned bird had haunted her throughout her adult life. Nimue was enraged and began to curse the white raven. The white raven cawed in laughter. “ You were well matched my daughter. Myrddyn spoke so to me as well.” Taking brief flight the white raven settled upon a low oak branch. “Your task is to guard him, to watch him. Myrddyn sleeps and when he wakes, you shall accompany him until his task is finished. Once I am done with him, you shall join him. You will be together, eternity, just as promised.”

The white raven spread her wings and took flight, leaving Nimue there to watch and wait. Guarding this repository of hope and dreams.

There in his crystalline cave, Myrddyn slept dreaming.

Myrddyn dreamt of his youth. Of A time before Gods, before Arthur Riothamus. Myrddyn had been proud, a bright shining warrior, a lord of battles, a slayer, a hero, and a poet of renown.

***†††***

He was very tall, with red-gold hair that hung past his shoulders tied in braids. His fringed brat, was checked in blue and white and his leine was dark forest green. His Breeks were checked in scarlet and black, he was bare of foot. A heavy gold dragon headed torque twisted around his neck.

Woad dragons writhing on his forearms as he raised the drinking horn to his lips drinking deeply of the winter mead. Sweet from herbs and fiery from the spices that soothed as they burned their way down his throat. He upended the dregs in libation and carefully placed the ornately knot worked horn next to the intricately worked lap harp that he had lain on the deep peridot dew scattered grass at his feet.

Abruptly he cast his brat aside drawing forth the bright long sword fluidly, gracefully as if in a dance. Standing quietly, an arrogant smile playing at his lips, he waited. The moment had come, he was unafraid. He was still, outwardly calm, empty, inside. Cold like the cool breeze gathering before the storm. His lightning swept eyes glittering madly. Inside he raged, fury’s flames pumping through his veins.

Myrddyn moved smoothly advancing towards his foe’s striking blade as it struck. The blade of his target meeting only a deflecting strike and empty air. Laughing Myrddyn gathered his will striking his now exposed target s shield with an direct thrust, knocking it aside while fluidly continuing strike, cutting deeply into the upper chest with a strike of lightning and thunder. Crimson splashed, like liquid flames.

Myrddyn had transformed, becoming the hammer of the gods, the cold cruel cut of fate. With a flick of his wrist, he shook the blood and gore from his bright blade and simply turned away. The Saecsen, eyes already glazing in death, collapsed loosely to the ground. Myrddyn had become deaths herald. He was vengeance, the balance of the scales. A hero and poet born to the sword. He is Brigante. He is slaughters bright and shinning whore. Laughter and tears, sorrow and rage. Myrddyn gathered up his things, and walked away calling for his hounds as he went.

Three large Ravens ruffled their feathers and cawed amongst themselves. Contemplating the scene below them as they perched in an ancient oak.

” Oh He will do! He will most assuredly do!” the largest raven spoke aloud, her eyes glittering black and greedy as she settled to the ground for her feast. Noisily slaking her thirst upon the sacrifice laid before her. The other two shared a glance as the fiery sapphire eyed one abruptly flew away following the warrior. Aeron the emerald eyed one remained perched in amongst the mistletoe. Silently thinking, a single silvered tear crept slowly from her eye. Andraste, the ebon diamond eyed raven cried out, joyously cawing while she feasted in victory, drunk on the wine of violence.

Brigantia, the sky eyed one, flew in victory, the shadow of her wings succoring the warrior as she flew. Aeron wept in grief. For it is from her tears, that the fullness of her name is drawn.

Aeron bright flash of the striking sword. Aeronwen, Sacred carnage, the bright sacred one. Aeronowy the bright river of slaughter. Her tears of sorrows form that lake and river with it’s white rapids that carry her name.

She is mistress of both warriors and poets. The bright Goddess of inspiration. The lady of the lake, queen of sovereignty and fate.

Poetry is forged through pain, in madness, grief and loss. On the anvil of the broken heart, tears are forged. Wound wept blood the ink that shapes poets words.

Andraste is victory, who’s price is pain and death. Brigantia wields the hammer that forges as it tests. Aeronowy bleeds the tears that bring the poets awen. The prophetic verse of awe.

Myrddyn dreamed on, wandering, remembering. The sword, oh yes the sword shone magnificent. red-gold pommel and hilt shone, writhing with intertwined dragons in the ancient style. The pommel set with a single smooth polished emerald, the size of a small hens egg. The grip, nearly two hands width in length, and Myrddyn did not have small hands.

The blade, by all the gods, the blade, fully the length of Myrddyn’s out stretched arm. Pattern welded, the twists and folds mesmerizing, intoxicating in their patterns. The blade writhed with ripples like some fast flowing stream flash frozen, shaped into a bright shining blade. Nevertheless lying still on the stone shelf. It seemed to move to dance and flow in place.

Myrddyn stared in awe. He was frightened to touch it. Instinctively he knew that everything would change. His entire world would be altered the moment he touched that magnificent sword. He dropped to his knees, he could not turn away, Myrddyn was truly afraid for the first time in his life.

Myrddyn had known fear, all of the tribes had come to know fear in the time since the Romans had abandoned Britain and the Sasanachs had come. This was a different form of fear, a fear for his very soul. He was hesitant, unsure of what to do.

“It is yours to take up Myrddyn.” He whirled about at sound of the voice only to freeze in place and gape at the apparition before him.

She was indescribably beautiful, taller than most men, with blood-red hair plaited in intricate braids that hung to her slim waist. Her eyes shone, lightning swept emeralds that burned like the swords pommel, a brilliant summers grass green.

“You are wise to be afraid. She will indeed change everything. She is yours to take up and yours to lay down again. She is why you were made.” The sound of her voice echoed in Myrddyn’s mind driving cold chills that ran both up and down his spine. Stammering Myrddyn replied, ” Milady , I am no great warrior, I am only a small chieftain, a bard at best. I cannot take up this blade of gods and kings! ”

” Only A bard!” She exclaimed as she drew him to his feet pulling him into a close embrace. She kissed him full on the lips. Myrddyn being married as well as a Brigante, was by no means chaste. This, this was no mere kiss. This was fire and lightning, it was flames and ice, madness and joy. Power washed over and through him in that eternal moment. Lightning enchanting his mind, bright flashes that opened his eyes to awe.

He knew her name. What bard, what warrior did not know Aeronowy, bright river of slaughter, Aeronwen , Sacred carnage, Goddess of battle and of the rivers white foaming rapids, bright awe of the bards, lady of the sword, mistress of fate. The Gwynyffyr.

Before he could whisper her name, she was gone. leaving Myrddyn alone with that magnificent sword. Her taste still warm, burning like hot spiced mead on his lips. Myrddyn reached out grasping the sword, Becoming one with his blazing dain.

Fate, is never imposed by the gods, it is merely offered, one must choose whether or not to accept the challenge, a hero must freely choose the sacrifice. Myrddyn, had made his choice, he had chosen his path, fate chosen, sealed with a kiss.

The favor of the gods is the heroes reward,

Tragedy by any other name.

††† CHAPTER 2 †††

Myrddyn sat by the fire watching the trout sizzle on the hot stone. A white raven perched in the old oak above him. Watching him, cocking it’s head one way then another, and softly cawed. Chuckling to himself, Myrddyn followed what had become the evening ritual, he picked up the steaming trout, tore a large piece off, and took a bit as he tossed the rest casually over his shoulder. The raven cawed as it took wing and snatched the fish from the air, landing close to the fire. Myrddyn studied the raven as it hopped about pecking at the steaming fish. ” I have guessed who You are you know. You are wise not to wear that other face, fair as it is. Ygrainne would be most unhappy if you followed me home in that form.” The white raven paused from her eating, cocked her head and laughing spoke. ” Too true my Myrddyn, Ygrainne is one of my daughters just as you are one of my sons. She would flay us both alive. I need you whole and live for your task. " Shaking his head Myrddyn asked “And what exactly is this task?” The raven gulped the last of the trout, ” We shall see.” was all that she said.

Wood smoke dusted the air and mixed with the tang of the sea. Myrddyn was sure he could smell meat roasting for the evening meal. He was almost home. Of their own accord his feet hurried. Caer Dubh was not large, barely a village in fact. Built in and around an old Roman legionary outpost. Old Roman earth works, in good repair and a sturdy stone keep. The people filled the grounds with low, peaked round houses bright with new thatch. Assembled in no easily discernible order. It was only when Myrddyn saw the heavy oak and iron main gate, broken and burning, that Myrddyn knew something was wrong.

The white raven called and wheeled over head as Myrddyn drew the sword and charged through the ruined gate. The village was a charnel house, dead and mutilated animals lay randomly slaughtered between the houses and along the wooden corduroy walkways. There were no people or even their bodies in sight. Running towards the keep, calling for Ygrainne.

Myrddyn found them. All of them it seemed, stacked like sheaves still burning on the assembly grounds before the keep. Myrddyn fell to his knees retching, sickened by the cooked meat stench.

Wildly Myrddyn arose and ran into the keep. Vainly calling and searching for some sign of Ninaine, his mother, Ygrainne, his wife or Ygerna his young daughter. The keep was empty, stripped of everything but the smoldering rushes covering the floor.

When he reached the top of the tower, Myrddyn gazed out across the desolation of Caer Dubh. He found his family, or what remained of them rather. The sight would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. Myrddyn had run past his family and not even recognized them, or saw that they were even human.

They had been laid out beside the eastern gate. The sasanachs had sacrificed them, mutilating them in what the savages called blood eagles. The sasanachs had come, and stayed awhile, leaving their mark, taking everything living from Myrddyns heart and soul with them.

Myrddyn quite simply lost his mind. He fled in horror to the deepest darkest recesses of his mind, to gibber and howl in horror, grief and rage. Something else came to the fore front. Something new and terrible, a creature of madness and fury howled. The white raven circled the keep, weeping.

For seven full years the body of Myrddyn raged and slaughtered the sasanachs wherever he found them. His sword ran red and dripped with gore, while Myrddyn gibbered and wept and screamed inside, unaware of anything save the depths of his rage and grief.

Myrddyn was wandering through the forests of Lothian, when a band of warriors found him. They were Celts, warriors of king Maelgwyns band. With gestures they convinced him to follow. They were wary and kept their distance. Morgaine, their queen, had sent them searching for Myrddyn. Morgaine was his sister, though she had married Maelgwen while Myrddyn was still a young boy.

Morgaine and Maelgwen had been out hunting, running deer with their deer-hounds when rumors of a gore draped demon in the forest reached them. Morgaine knew it had to be Myrddyn.

As Myrddyn madly glared into His sisters eyes. She recoiled in fear and revulsion. Myrddyn’s hair was wild and long, matted with rotting gore. all of his armor was blood stained and splattered with rotting effluvium as well. He was a nightmare reeking of Annwfyn. Something even the fair folk, the Y Tylwydd Teg would run screaming from.

The white raven swept low, flying between Myrddyn and the crouching Morgaine, calling aloud as she passed.

” Myrddyn come out! AWAKE!!” Instantly Myrddyn was aware, aware of everything finally, the loss of his family, and the horrors he had committed wreaking terror among the sasanach… he had become the stuff of nightmares, the fear whispered of by warriors and herdsmen huddled around campfires.

The sheer horror of it all swept over him, Myrddyn screamed, whirling about. As the warriors fell beck, Myrddyn plunged the gore spattered sword into a large stone. The blade slid into the stone as if it were water. The stone rippling and flowing as the blade penetrated it. Myrddyn released the hilt and collapsed, weeping and retching onto the exposed stone. The assembled warriors stared in silent wonder.

The white raven cawed as she settled down to perch on the pommel of the sword. Then cried aloud, “This is the sword of kings, Caladwylch, who so ever draws this sword from the stone, is the rightful Riothamus of Britain.” Myrddyn screamed wordlessly as he leapt to his feet, fleeing into the forest. The white raven ruffled her feathers then took flight. Closely following Myrddyn as he disappeared through the trees.

Myrddyn ran blindly until he could no longer lift his feet. The white raven watched as he fell and rolled in the decomposing leaves.

The morning sun found Myrddyn following a tiny stream. He ranted and raved as he walked. Venting his fury at the white raven. She remained silent, listening, She had earned it after all. She fully deserved every curse and agreed with him.

The stream widened into a shallow pool at the base of a small steep hill. The stream flowed from a cave near the top of the hill. Myrddyn flung himself into the pool, shrugging off his armor, until naked, he scrubbed himself clean with the bottom sand in the stream bed.

Still naked, but clean now, Myrddyn climbed the hill, crawled into the cave, and went to sleep. The White raven watched over him in silence, weeping.

Long years passed. Years of madness and sorrow. The white raven labored , working to weave together the torn and tortured threads of Myrddyn’s mind and soul.

A mans mind is incredibly more complex than even the most intricate or woven plaids. The white raven persevered through the curses and ravings and the tears. Through the times of stony silence, until finally the pattern took shape. Like a phoenix Myrddyn was born anew from the ashes of despair. The white raven was well pleased.

††† CHAPTER 3 †††

Wrapped in a tattered woolen cloak. Over layered with a patchwork of uncured skins. The old man shuffled along. His left hand clutching an ash staff, cut from an old spear shaft. His right, held close to his body. He cradled a small black piglet.“The gods are all mad little pig, They cannot be trusted. We are but their pieces, they play with abandon.“Myrddyn murmured to the piglet. ” "Mad they call me! Wild man of the forest…what else would the blind call the sighted man I ask you little pig?” The piglet wriggled, trying to get closer, snuggling for warmth. The late after noon was already cold. Samhain was close upon them.” I have seen little pig. She cursed me with the honey tongue you know.” The white raven ruffled her feathers, perched on his shoulder pecking at Myrddyn beard. Plucking at bread crumbs. “She is the betrayer of heroes, The sow that eats her young, you cannot trust her little pig. She will make bacon of you.”

The white raven had listened to Myrddyns incessant digs for many years. They still hurt her, for she loved him dearly, though there was always a price for her love. ” The white lady walks among us little pig. A Gwynyfyr, a white phantom, none more beautiful. She is not just the lady of the lake little pig, she is queen over the mountains that touch father sky Taranis who’s thunderbolts bring forth the rains, The life’s blood of Tuetates. The rivers that feed the lakes, where Esus hangs. Be careful little pig that you do not get burned. She is mistress of the forge. The forger of heroes. The sparks of her forge birth dragons. Borne of the torment of men, as she twists and hammers them into her tool. The bright flash of her sword, is where star light is made. She gathers up her harvest of tears from the battle field and gifts us rain.”

Myrddyn stepped into the tiny stream. Freezing in place, one foot on land, the other in water. There caught between worlds The Awen fell upon him. ” The Thames shall reverse her appointed course. The dragon will awaken and shake the earth. Fair Lyonesse will arise anew from the hungry sea. The planets will flee back along their heavenly paths. Pendragons burning in Caer Arianrhod then shall The spirit of the Rio-Thamus return to lead us.” Myrddyn shouted ecstatically. The scribes, frantic to catch the prophetic words. Their stylus moving frantically, scratched on their wax pads.

Each night Myrddyn would sing the tale of Caladwylch and the RioThamus Arthur to the attentive little black pig. Singing his heartbreak and despair. The white raven nuzzling at his tear stained cheeks. Drinking deeply of those tears until Myrddyn would drift off to sleep. Dreaming his memories. The white raven followed Myrddyn even there.

Dreaming, Myrddyn remembered. The white raven flew through his tortured dreams. Blessing every misery, sanctified beneath the shadow of her wings, baptised, in her own tears.

Myrddyn dreamed, his memories, murmured tales, shrieks of agony and outrage punctuated the remembered scenes. So much pain, fury and grief amidst brief moments of and majestic joy, ecstatic poetic release.

Tragedy, defined in spirit and in truth.

"The truth against the world. What does that mean Myrddyn?” The young boy asked as he hurried to keep up with the vigorous long legged stride of the middle aged Myrddyn. ” It means that the whole world opposes truth little pig. The world prefers darkness to light, and lies to truth. Thus the world seeks to hide the truth. To destroy truth. But truth cannot be hidden or destroyed.”

The boy considered this in silence. They walked on, Myrddyn pausing to gather herbs, or occasionally to check a snare.

“Why would the world prefer lies to truth?” The boy asked, troubled and perplexed. “Because men fear the truth of themselves and their deeds. Men lie to themselves, to hide from their fears and their shame. To hide themselves from thesight of Celu” Myrddyn answered. “That’s stupid! How can anyone hide from the eye of the creator or from themselves ?” The boy muttered, deeply offended “Precisely little pig, precisely!” Myrddyn chuckled.

The white raven , perched on Myrddyns shoulder, in her now long accustomed spot, ruffled her feathers and cawed in agreement. “Why do you call me little pig Myrddyn?” the boy asked, in the midst of his continual questioning of everything. Myrddyn paused, “Because you root for answers like a little pig in the roots of an old oak, snuffling for treasures.” The boy grunted and followed Myrddyn.

” Celu is the source of all little pig. The hidden secret one. He who spoke his name, I Am because, I am, The pure loud tone, The sound and cause of creation. He who brought everything into being with his word. We and all that surrounds us are but echoes, like ripples on a pond, of the word of creation. ” The young boy idly tapped a hammer on the anvil he stared at. ” We are words Myrddynn?” he asked. ” More like the noise you are making with that hammer lad, leave off little pig.” Myrddyn replied, massaging his temples. ” We are words, yes Little pig, words of power and full of grace. Full with the probability of all possibilities.”

Arthur climbed onto the anvil, His toes scarcely brushing the dirt floor. ” Like the rocks we have been smashing and burning. You say they will become Iron and steel. And I can fashion anything I wish from that.” Arthur said doubtfully. Myrddyn smiled at the boys quick mind. ” Yes little pig, we are like those rocks, We can be anything, and thus are everything, until the smith chooses the form we take. Then we become that thing. From imagination to choice, to action, Stone into iron, Iron into plow, or sword or hammer. The boy contemplated this, turning a misshapen, burned black lump of slag about in his hands.

” Words are powerful lad. Understanding and manipulating the meanings behind those words. That is the true power of the druids little pig” Arthur dropped the rock, and looked hard at Myrddyn, brows creased In concentration. Clearly struggling with thoughts. “Illusions are mastered with whispers of night.” Myrddyn murmured. At Arthur’s blank look, Myrddynn laughed. ” My master, Dinys, said that little pig, I am sure I had the same look that you are wearing myself when I first heard that." Myrddyn paused, to frame his thoughts. "You see, Power is an illusion. The power of a king exists only in the minds of the people. The Bards, shape the minds of the people, with the songs, poems and stories. The histories and tales of the Gods, are parables, molding our behavior, our very thoughts.” “Then the Bards hold the power? Then why bother with kings?” Arthur scuffed the dirt with his bare toes ashamed by his own rude interruption. “Kings serve to unite the people, to be the living symbol of the people. To set the example that the people follow. Kings serve also to protect the people, leading the armies, administrating the laws. Most importantly, kings serve the people.” Myrddyn continued, amused by the boys chagrin, pretending to ignore it.

The anvil rang, singing with the hammer blows that shaped the bright, glowing iron. Myrddyn watched, amazed at the focus and intensity of the boy now nearly a man, at his task. The boy was forging a pattern welded axe head. A gift he had said. For one of the wood cutters, who’s sole treasure, a good iron axe. Had been misplaced or stolen somehow. The boys inherent kindness and generosity brought a smile to Myrddyn’s face. The boy was crafting an axe fit for a king, to gift a casual friend.

The brine barrel hissed and steamed when the glowing axe head plunged in to temper and harden. ” I think I understand Alexanders secret, Myrddynn.” He quietly spoke. ” Oh? What secret is that Arthur?” “It came to me as I worked. The Hammer and the anvil, with the iron between. King Phillip refined the phalanx by deepening the ranks and longer spears. Alexanders genius was to use this as an anvil with his heavy cavalry becoming the hammer with the Persians crushed between. The Romans sort of did the same thing with the Maniples. Catching the enemy between formations, crushing them." Myrddyn never ceased to be amazed at the brilliant insights of the boy’s mind. Even though Myrddyn and the white raven had labored long and hard to shape that mind.

The white raven perched above watching with a demanding approval. She startled Arthur when she cawed and loudly spoke. ” It is time! He must learn the dance of spear and sword.” Myrddyn sighed loudly. He had dreaded this moment. Since the time of his madness, Myrddyn had shunned iron. refusing to even touch the metal in any form. All of his daily tools were good flint or antler and bone or bronze ” We must go into the land of the Brigantes. Where I have prepared a place for Arthur.” The white raven explained. Arthur stared open mouthed at the white raven.

Three full generations had passed since the final Roman military withdrawal. In the north west of Britain, Logres properly. The Brigantes had been little troubled , They had reverted to tribal rule with the hated Romans gone. With little more than the occasional Irish sea raiders to contend with. The numerous Brigante had little to unite them. The Angles and Jutes, along the eastern coast troubled them only slightly.

Even so, the Rio-Brigante had an impressive force larger than any of the chieftains. The high king of Brigantia held court in the abandoned Roman colonial town of Mamucium. It was there that the white raven led them. Arthur’s face showed only curiosity gazing with a clear eyed intensity at everything around him. As they entered the Stone and timber gate, The city was laid out like a roman camp. It had started life as a roman garrisons camp. The earth works deepened and raised higher over the years, layered in timber and stone were well manned.

The soldiers were in mail with cuirbouilli loricas. Though Roman in initial appearance, the ravens beak helms and flame tongued belly spears marked them as Celts. Arthur was drawn to the Long swords hanging on their baldrics. He had never seen a sword before. His hand itched to reach out and touch one. But Arthur was too well mannered to do so.

††† Chapter 4 †††

"Always leave the opponent a way out. It is easier to deal with a broken and fleeing enemy, than with a desperate foe with no hope. A desperate man will fight to the death.”

“Move as the wind, Strike with lightning and thunder.” ” Do nothing Insignificant, be decisive and direct.”

" Death is lighter than a feather, Duty, is heavier than a mountain. My soul, unto the mountain. "

Bedwyr, three years Arthur’s senior, repeated the maxims continually, as if desperate to believe them. Reciting them under his breath as they sweated, struggled and trained. The two of them had started their training at the same time though Arthur was at least two years younger than most of the other grunts, as the new recruits were called. Yet he stood a full head taller than even most of the veterans that relentlessly drilled them in maneuver, sword and shield, hours on the pell with sword as well as spear. Arthur had never worked so hard in his life. The 20 mile forced marches, walking all day with full kit and Mail was excruciating at first.

Hardened by time at his small forge and the many days spent hunting deer. Along with moving heavy stones at Myrddyns whim. Arthur had noticed that none of the great henges had needed "adjustments". he was sure Myrddyn had him rearrage, and reposition stones simply to keep him occupied and to have quiet time from Arthurs continual questions.

Arthur soon adapted to the regimen, in truth, he excelled, soon becoming the favored leader during the training skirmishes with the veterans. His instructors took special notice when Arthur’s troops began winning consistently.

The years of reading Caesars conquest of Gaul, and Hannibal’s campaigns in the Punic wars along with tales of Alexander and the march of the ten thousand, reinforced by Arthur’s charisma and fearlessness brought many victories. Arthur enthusiastically adapted and thrived in this new world.

The Cave, and spring of Myrddyns forest home would forever be Arthurs favorite childhood home of the heart, the truth was, here, among the warriors, Arthur truly felt he had finally found his home, a home for both heart and soul. The hammer had always felt good to Arthurs hand, the sword, now that was another thing entirely.

Then, their were horses. The horses stole Arthurs heart, their proud bearing, their swiftness, the feeling of power and freedom. These things nourished his soul. Companions, friends, expanded his heart. In all things, Arthur thrived and grew. Myrddyn watched, enthralled, proud as any father could be. Though, he was not young Arthurs father. The white raven observed it all, the task of forging the hero, and a true king was well in hand, Aeronwen was well pleased.

Screaming in terror the woman died, hacked apart by the sword and axes of Pictish raiders while the Angles were busy entertaining the men below the rath walls. The Angles had pulled back, drawing the men away from the rath, while the Picts had waited, scaling the earth walls easily once the men were engaged on the field below. The Picts went about their bloody work with a savagery. Gawain saw the smoke first, calling to Arthur and Bedwyr, he pointed. Cai called the company to a halt while the officers conferred. Deciding to investigate. Arthur dispatched Bedwyr with half of the companies mounted scouts. To spy out just what the smoke was about.

Less than an hour later, Bedwyr returned full gallop. He reported, ” Angles, at least one hundred. The rath is taken. They are finished there. “I think there are Pictii with them.” he stated flatly. Arthur was not going to allow this outrage to go unanswered. After confirmation, that the Angles were unmounted, light infantry, Arthur, knowing the terrain from over a year of patrolling and hunting, foolishly chose to divide his forces. Thinking the hammer and anvil tactic would suffice to defeat and disperse the raiders. Not his last mistake for that day.

The Angles were not caught unaware. They had planned and prepared a trap hoping to lure Brigante forces into a trap. Formed and battle ready they stood assembled, waiting before the broken gates of the smoking rath. Only the earth wall remained of the small hill fort. All of the wooden structures had been burned, fragments still smoldered here and there. The battle was short. Arthur led his men, breaking through the shield wall first, while ordering his men to wheel in support of Bedwyr’s following forces, The Pictii fell upon them from behind and flanking them. Slamming into Bedwyrs command from the rear. Suddenly, Arthur and his fifty men were enveloped by at least a hundred Angles while Bedwyr and his command were trapped by a like number of the Pictii.

Things were not going well. The Britons were overwhelmed. It was a disaster. Arthur’s first combat command, was being destroyed. Calling for withdrawal, telling his men to flee, Arthur desperately tried to disengage orderly and strike back,instead it became a route. Only a handful of the one hundred men Arthur had led into battle escaped alive. Cai, Arthur, Gawain and Bedwyr linked up, having fled into the forest. Lothian had plenty of forest. The combined Angle and Pictii forces pursued doggedly, tracking, hunting the survivors down.

Two days of running and hiding had led Arthur and his friends to the shrine of the sword. Now abandoned, the massive stone, with Caladwylch embedded in it, had been excavated years before in an attempt to move the wonder. It had been discovered that the stone was in fact, the capstone of a large cromlech, a nemeton, ancient and sacred. The earth had been cleared away revealing the three upright stones, supporting the massive capstone. Fearing the wrath of the Y Tylwydd Teg, the good folk, all work was halted, though offerings of butter, honey, barley, beer and mead were often left there now. Caladwylch flashed, shimmering with it’s own light, ensconced in the great capstone.

Arthur Scrambled up onto the cap stone. His friends followed quickly behind him as a combined group of Pictii and Angles surrounded them. It was a good place to stand and die. Fitting for a song. At least a score of the Pictii and Sassanach had had found them. Using their long spears the Angles thrust and stabbed while the Pictii held back. Their short spears, swords and axes did not have the reach needed to get at the Britons. The Angles weapons had clear reach advantage.

Arthur slipped, twisting away from a spear thrust. Instinctively Arthur grasped at the sword to steady himself. The sword moved, coming free of it’s stone scabbard. Arthur gasped as he realized that Caladwylch was free, that he held the magnificent sword. None of the others noticed the sword that Arthur now held. Then four spear heads, neatly cut from their shafts, clattered onto the stone.

The Angles fell back dismayed. The Pictii, recognizing the sword, fled. Cai and Gawain seeing Caladwylch in Arthur’s hand, shouted ” The sword!” Bedwyr turning to see what was the matter, did not see the spear hurled by one of the Angles at his exposed back. Arthur did, Caladwylch flashed, and another spear head clattered onto the bloodied stone, along with Bedwyrs hand, still holding his Spatha.

Bedwyr stared wide eyed at the pulsing stump of his sword arm. Cai tackled him, while Gawain removed his tattered cloak. Arthur, not seeing what had befallen Bedwyr, leaped from the cromlech, laying about with Caladwylch. The Angles fell back. Wherever Arthur struck, he maimed or outright killed. The shields and mail of the Sassanach were no hindrance to Caladwylch's vicious cuts.

The white raven with her sisters, swept in cawing, assaulting the remaining Angles. The Sassanach broke and ran, following their Pictii allies, terrified, leaving at least a dozen dead men behind. Arthur looked about at the carnage, exhilarated, the battle madness slowly fading.

Arthur was heart broken when he saw what he had inadvertently been done to his best friend, Bedwyr. The white raven landed, hopping about cawing, she seemed to flow upward, expanding into the form of a beautiful red haired woman. Cai and Gawain backed away, afraid of magic.

As she approached, Arthur dropped to his knees holding up the bloodied sword to her, ” Help him milady.” He implored. She knelt beside the gray and fading Bedwyr. Cai and Gawain had been unable to stop the bleeding. Touching Bedwyrs wound briefly, she swept him up, easily lifting and carrying the wounded man murmuring softly to him, She walked into the cromlech and They disappeared. She had taken Bedwyr into the sidhe. Into the summer lands.

Cai knelt and began reciting Christian prayers. Gawain merely stared at the cromlech.

††† CHAPTER 5 †††

There was the feel of warm honey, soft on his lips. A sweet taste of fire, like cinnamon, that lingered, and roses, the scent of roses. Bedwyr opened his eyes. She was still close, just pulling back from the kiss. Her hair fell like flames around him as he looked up into her eyes. It was like staring into lightning swept skies. Eyes widening in surprise, she sat back with a quiet “Oh”.

She had not really meant to kiss him. Bedwyr smiled, reaching out to touch her amazing hair. It was like fire, flames cascading and enveloping her. He had to touch them. Lightly running his fingers through a strand, he realized, he was touching her with his right hand. The one Caladwylch had claimed.

He had his arm back, whole, healed. Bedwyr knew it was dream at that point. He had his arm, and nothing as beautiful as this woman could possibly exist outside of a dream. This was either a dream, or he was in Tir Na Nagogh. the Isles of summer. Either it was a fever dream, or he was dead and in paradise.

Looking at this woman, Bedwyr decided he didn’t care. Smiling arrogantly, Bedwyr called out to her, ” Hello Beautiful!” Before she could catch herself She smiled back. Bedwyr noticed as she recovered, assuming an neutral expression. She felt oddly nervous, a bit shaky inside. ” That’s good, you are awake! It’s about time!” Standing and moving to the kettle, steaming over the fire, “Have some broth, it will restore you. You lost much blood.” She dipped a bowl into the kettle and returned with it.

Bedwyr ignored the proffered bowl , staring at her. Fascinated by her hair. It changed as she moved. The light playing and flowing across it, like fine spun copper and gold. Sighing, she pushed the bowl into his hands. ” Drink it slowly.” she commanded. Then quickly began twisting that awesome hair, back into her accustomed braids. Bedwyr watched transfixed, only sipping at the heady broth after she had finished.

Standing and walking away, she moved with a smoothness that brought a light of it’s own into Bedwyrs eyes. She could feel his hungry gaze upon her. It did peculiar things inside of her. Rising to follow her, Bedwyr collapsed to the ground, too weak and unsteady to move more than a few steps. She turned back to him, lifting him back onto the piled furs, Her touch was intoxicating. She was intoxicating. Bedwyr leaned into her as she laid him back down, kissing her. She surprised herself by kissing him back.

Aeron had been the inspiration for uiscebha.

Nearly a century before, in a pique of boredom she had amused herself by tormenting a young monk of the Ceili Dei. Aeron knew little of what it was these strange priests believed, but she did know of their odd vows of chastity. She had been impressed with the simple dignity of the rituals she had watched, The metaphor seemed a bit mixed to her eyes, and the symbolism confusing, Now calling upon Ceridwen, Then Celu, and the Y Llev Velus, the ceremonies seemed purely symbolic.

Though a few of the monks did have a certain mystic glow, as they ate the pieces of bread, and sipped the shared cup of wine. That glow had brought the monk to her attention. On a random whim, she decided to test the chastity of this handsome dark haired young man. She was bored, feeling playful. She had not had much to occupy her since the Romans had settled in, and The Pax Romana held Britain.

Following him about in her guise as the white raven, for a full moon turn taught her much of the man. Learning his name, his habits, his reputation. She sought a weakness to exploit. He was kind, soft spoken, he labored hard and long daily, caring for those in need. His honesty was spoken well of, in fact, no one spoke ill of him. The only flaw she could learn, was his fondness for strong drink. Quaffing hard cider and ale at every opportunity, he never appeared to be intoxicated. Always in control. She was seriously intrigued.

She spent most of a year, obsessed with seducing him. Never once did he succumb to her attentions. She was shocked, more than a little offended. When she could stand it no more, She boldly kissed him. His response, after enthusiastically kissing her back shocked her even more. The monk, after breaking from the kiss, had fled, running straight away to his bishop, confessing everything that been between them over the year. Professing his love for her, the monk demanded that the bishop accompany him back to her, and bishop in tow, he returned to where she waited , promptly proposing to her. He asked her to become his wife.

The monk, had thought her a camp follower, and he wanted to take her as wife! He sought to show her all of the honors he was capable of. She was quite surprised. she had thought she would seduce him and be done with it. She had never expected that the monk would seek to make her his wife. She had no idea what to say or do. No one had ever proposed to her before and she had become quite fond of the young man. When the bishop offered to perform the marriage. She panicked, changing into her white raven and flew away.

The monk and the bishop, fainted dead away. The young monk began drinking the moment he awoke. He never stopped. Knowing his heart had flown away on the white ravens wings. Seeking stronger drink, trying to forget the beautiful red haired Goddess that had stolen his heart, and soul. In time, brewing ever stronger drink, the monk stumbled drunkenly onto the art of distillation. He invented the water of life, uiscebha. Though, he never could get drunk enough to forget her, or her kiss. The monk, had been the only mortal, to ever touch her heart in that way. Until now.

Aeron found herself gazing into Bedwyr’s dark blue eyes. She found that she could not remember the name, or the face of that monk. The only thing she could think of, was kissing Bedwyr again. She did so, decisively.

Bedwyr broke the kiss, gasping for air, breathing in the scent of her, roses, cinnamon, summer and spring. Her taste hot upon her lips, gazing into her eyes, Bedwyr found himself falling into a storm. Aeron was enthralled, it was as if she were both here and there. Inside herself looking out at Bedwyr, and there, outside, watching herself. She tried to stop herself nevertheless her hand reached out to stroke his cheek, drifting down, caressing his neck, tracing down onto his chest. she was leaning closer, their lips met. Nothing else mattered.

††† CHAPTER 6 †††

Bedwyr was sure he had dug the entire outer ditch all by himself. Twice. Not that it was a hot spring day, but his light linen siarc was plastered about his legs. soaked through in his sweat. Digging chalk was not easy work in any temperature. First came the pick, chopping into the hard packed chalk. Then came the shovel, to scoop the broken stuff away, then into the bag to be lifted up and deposited to build up the defensive inner ring. Others followed, setting sharpened stakes upright along the ditch. Bedwyr led the digging effort. Single handed it seemed to him.

Bedwyrs father, King Dhomnaille, had a theory. Bedwyr was sure his father intended to kill him in the proving of it. Or at least work him to death. ” A man should live by his wits. Hard work will teach anyone that.” Bedwyr had been set to digging until he understood that, ” You can stop digging when you can tell me the difference between man and beast boy” His father had ordered.

Bedwyr hadn’t set out to create such an uproar. Though in truth the cattle raid had been his idea. The plan had been to raid a neighboring Brigante farm, steal a few cows, and show his father that they were old enough to accompany the war band. The six of them set out. At thirteen summers, Bedwyr was not the oldest. Gawain at fourteen was eldest and largest. Already taller than most men, Gawain was a force in his own right already. Gawain led the boys troop in image only. Bedwyr called all the shots.

The six of them had gotten lost, turned about when the heavy fog rolled in from the Irish sea. Rather than sneaking into Brigante territory, unable to see moon or stars. The boys fell upon one of Dhomnailles outlying client farms. Old Caw Crennog, the Ordivician farmer that Bedwyr and his “Raiders” had struck. Had raised a horrible outcry. Claiming that the Brigante had invaded.

King Dhomnaille marched out with his war band to meet the threat. Only to find six boys huddled around a smoking fire, wet and cold with a score of frightened cows hobbled and grazing about them. “Honor is the reward of courage.” Dhomnaille lectured. ” Courage is simply doing what needs to be done regardless of how frightened you are. All men piss themselves in battle lad.” Bedwyr and his friends had wakened to discover the truth of that last comment themselves.

The war band had surrounded their sorry camp, after learning that the ferocious Brigante, were in fact a handful of boys. Dhomnaill decided to make a point to them. He certainly succeeded in making an impression. All six of the boys pissed themselves when the war band, woad painted, hair limed, surrounded them and screaming their war cries, charged. The boys came instantly awake. Bedwyr and Gawain snatched up spear and shield while the others just stared, pissing themselves. To be fair, Bedwyr and Gawain were the oldest, they pissed their kilts as well. But, Dhomnaille noted, they had armed themselves and stood. They did not abandon their men.

As furious as Dhomnaille was with Bedwyr. He knew without asking who’s idea it had been. Still, he was proud of the way his son, clearly terrified, had stood when the war band charged. So, Bedwyr had been tasked with digging. Repairing the ruined outer ditch of the very rath he had led the raid on. Old Caw Crennog made sure to come and stare at him daily. taunting him. Bedwyr wasn’t sure which was harder. The back breaking work of digging through packed chalk or enduring old Crennogs taunts and stares.

Bedwyr had also been burdened with memorizing the entire, “Instructions of king Cormac”. He was to recite it before Fedlimid. Bard and Brehon of the Setantii. Two full moons of bone grinding labor sunrise till sunset without break. followed by hours of memorization till he dropped of exhaustion each night passed before it finally clicked. It was not that Bedwyr was slow of thought. Far from it. The problem was Bedwyrs pride. Bedwyr found himself reciting the Instructions as he worked. Beginning a life long habit of reciting maxims to himself .

Sweat drenched and streaked in chalk dust. It came together for him. He had not been thinking of anything but himself. He paid no thought to the repercussions of cattle raiding, let alone the risk of angering the Brigante. A much larger tribe than the Setantii. “A man thinks first. Planning and working things out first” he realized. “A beast merely acts to satisfy it’s hunger. that is the real difference between a man and a beast.” He told his father his revelation. Dhomnaille laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. ” You cost me a silver torque and armband boy!” ” I was sure it wouldn’t take you a week. Fedlimid thought maybe two. No one guessed two full moons! The best lessons are hardest learned eh Lad?” Bedwyr was embarrassed. Cheeks burning he stared at the floor. Wishing he could slide through the cracks between the polished planks.

Seeing the look on Bedwyrs face, Dhomnaille shoved his mead filled horn into Bedwyr’s hands. ” Drink lad, Drink!” he ordered. “All in, that ill begotten little raid you hatched was a service. Though old Caw isn’t the sort to forget how badly you embarrassed him. He raised the countryside swearing the whole Brigante kingdom had invaded. Everyone knows him for the fool that he is now. He won’t likely forgive that.” Drinking deeply, Bedwyr studied his father. ” Son how did you boys scare his guards so badly anyway? There were only the six of you, correct?” Bedwyr couldn’t help but smile. The geese had been inspired. He had hatched that little scheme all by himself. It had worked beautifully.

Caw kept far more geese than he did cattle. Subduing the goose boys had been simplicity in itself. One look at the six of them, woad painted and hair limed, the goose boys surrendered. Fighting warriors was outside their capability. They even tore down the wicker wall, while Bedwyr and his raiders each caught a goose. Tying a long piece of twine about one their legs, an oil soaked rag on the other end of the line. Setting the rags afire and releasing the panicked geese began pandemonium. When the boys, crying war cries and banging their spears on shields, charged the frightened flock, hundreds of geese exploded out of the pens. Scattering throughout the rath.

One of the burning rags ignited hay in the stables completing the confusion. The boys had simply then gathered the cows they could and walked away with them. Caws panicked scurrying people merely assumed they were moving the cattle to safety from the spreading fire. The Boys simply waked out the gates with a score of cows, and kept going. Headed due south as they reckoned it, back to the safety of Setantii lands. The stolen cattle were not noticed until late the next day. They would have gotten away as well, had they actually been in Brigante lands. Being lost, they headed deeper into Setantii lands directly into the path of Dhomnaille and his war band.

Aeron smiled, riding Bedwyrs memories was her secret pleasure.

Next to Bedwyr’s first memories of her, this one was her favorite. She approved of Dhomnailles methods and message. Seeing herself through Bedwyrs thoughts was bewildering. To learn that the poetry he spoke to her was real was thrilling beyond measure. To feel the fire in his veins, his heart pounding in passion. The taste of copper on his tongue. Her taste on his lips. That was how she fell in love with him. Watching him as he healed. Feeling his hunger and need of her caused her to shiver. Aeron was not sure if she was pleased, or worried or what. This was entirely new for her. The Gods are not supposed to fall in love with mortals are they? Sure that this will not end well, she smiles and kisses him gently.

Chapter 7

Victory had been complete. The Angles with their allies from Dane land, Frisians and Jutes, had been annihilated. Only a few chieftains, badly wounded and abandoned by their fleeing war bands had survived. The route and destruction of the Sassanach had been complete.

Arthur ordered that these survivors be cared for, their wounds tended, and all respects shown. There were some grumbles, but he was obeyed. Arthur wanted some survivors to carry the tale, in order to spread terror among the Sassanachs.

The Angles and their assembled allies had been caught on the south banks of the Aire river, scant days after the sack of Eborarcum.

The Danes had rowed up river to meet the Angle host just north of Eborarcum.

Arthur had moved his army with a speed never before seen in the world. Using the old Roman net work of roads, moving at an virtually unimpeded gallup, the four wheeled war chariots of his Brigante heavy Cavalry and his entire horse Cavalry had reached the smoking devastation of Eboracum two days after the sack. Arthur turned and followed the Angles north, catching them at the River Aire.

Each Brigante war chariot carried three warriors and the driver plus weapons, armor and some supplies. Arthur had five hundred drawn by the small Celtic ponies. An additional thousand horse cavalry gave him a total of four thousand five hundred effective combatants. An additional five thousand heavy infantry followed along with the supplies at a forced march a good day behind. The Sassanach host had something over fifteen thousand men.

The Sassanach barely had time to begin to form a line when the war chariots slammed into them. The Horse Calvary harried the flanks, and took the Sassanach host in the rear. It could not have been called a battle, there was only slaughter. The sassanachs, surprised, and their line broken, panicked and broke ranks, with Arthur’s army in their midst, leaping from the war chariots and forming into the old Celtic arrow formations. Hewing as if at harvest, scything the barley.

Like scythes Arthur’s army mowed the Sassanach down. The horse cavalry ruthless in their pursuit of the few that ran. No mercy or quarter was given. The only survivors were the few chieftains still breathing, laying where they had fallen, found when Arthur’s men were searching for comrades amongst the dead. Arthur ordered the weapons of the Sassanachs gathered, and hurled into the river, the bodies piled on the drawn up long ships, and burned.

Twelve odd thousand dead Angles, Jutes, Frisians, and Danes, covered the long ships completely. Though not all of the long ships were burned. The twenty largest, Arthur ordered to be saved, and he called for volunteers with sea experience. these twenty long ships were crewed by British and Irish volunteers disguised as Angles, Jutes and Saxons. Sent to ravage and burn their way down river, then along the shore. This was to sow distrust and confusion among the Sassanach, in order to prevent the Saecsen and Angles from finding common cause.

After the raiders had been dispatched on their mission Arthur ordered general assembly of his army. The assembled men cheered ” Hai-aton, Rio-Thamus!” as the Sassanach burned. When the flames subsided, Arthur dismissed the men, and called for council. The council lasted through the night.

The council was chaos. Flush with such an overwhelming victory, the petty rivalries resurfaced. Shouting threats, bullying and posturing reigned among the assembled Celtic tribal kings. Enraged, Arthur brandished Caladwylch. ” I will not reign by the sword!” He thundered.

“I will reign by justice and right! Not with cowardly fear and bullying, forcing men to cower! I will have my people on their feet, free men! Not on their knees! Or I will not rule at all!” Arthur whirled and hurled Caladwylch into The Aire river. He then stalked away from the gaping council of kings. Shocked beyond speech the kings stared. At length, the bickering began again. The self serving maneuvering and divisions that had divided Britain and allowed the Sassanach to gain their footholds. The same divisions that had allowed the Romans to conquer the Celts resumed.

Throughout the night the arguing and petty posturing continued. Periodically the kings called for Arthur to return to council. Arthur responded to each demand with silence. Morning found Arthur still awake. His anger and disgust at the selfish and petty posturings of the so called council of kings had allowed Arthur no rest. When a messenger ordering Arthur to return to the council or incur their wrath, Arthur could stomach no more.

" Bedwyr, Gawain, call general assembly. Assemble the army. I will await the men before the sassanach pyres.” Arthur coldly ordered. The two men that had waited through the night with Arthur leapt to obey. Arthur was mounted, burnished armour blazing in the early morning sun. The polished bronze scale barding of his war horse flashed as his three great hounds flanked and paced him while Arthur rode back and forth before the army. Red eared, white Branwen, black Cabhal and red Gwen pranced proudly as he rode.” Combrogi, Cymru, friends I call you. You have called me Rio-Thames, am I your king?” Arthur called. Clashing swords and spears on shields and stamping their feet the army cried assent. ” Cymru , my friends, I will have you as friends not servants, if I am to be your king, I would lead a free people! I will have no slaves or servants among my followers! Will you be free men and follow where I lead?”

The army cried as one. ” Hai aton Rio-thamus lead us!” ” Then swear oath to this, as I swear oath to you my Cymru” Arthur shouted as he dismounted, kneeling before the army. Drawing his dagger Arthur slashed his right palm, and holding his bleeding hand above his head, palm open and dripping his blood freely. Arthur swore the ancient three fold oath of the Celts. ” May the skies shatter and fall upon me! May the Earth split open and swallow me! May the seas rise and drown me If I am forsworn! My blood and my life I give you my Cymru!” Arthur stood, as to a man, the army knelt and took blood oath.

The white raven circled observing all of this. Then, wings folded, plunged into the river.

A woman robed in blue and white. Red hair hanging to her waist in warriors braids wearing an ancient Celtic war helm peaked with a raven emerged from the river. Caladwylch in her hands. Shouts of Brigantia, Andraste, Morrigu, Aeronwen, Boudiga rose from the ranks. Arthur turned to behold a wonder emerging from the river. He fell to his knee, “Milady...” Arthur looked up at her, she was taller than most men. She kissed the sword, blade and hilt, raised it high overhead, and drew Arthur to his feet. Smiling she said, ” I would not have my anointed kneel.” hooking her free arm around Arthurs neck she kissed him fiercely. Power raged over and through Arthur, heat, cold, fire, lightning. Arthur staggered when she released him, placing the hilt of Caladwylch in his trembling right hand. She shimmered, and a large white raven took wing, circling and cawing. Myrddyn watched from a distance murmuring to himself. ” Careful lad, that’s how she caught me...”

Arthur stared at Caladwylch for a few heartbeats, brandished it high and called out, ” Cymru, I ride for Ebarorcum , follow me my friends! “ The men of the horse cavalry raced for their mounts, Bedwyr and Gawain in the forefront, hurrying to follow their king.

The council saw all of this, thunderstruck and furious, as the army hurried to break camp and follow Arthur. The army completely ignored them as it marched away leaving them behind. Maelgwen was furious. His entire warband had ridden away with Arthur. Lothian was defenseless. Rhys, of the Brigante, laughed, tears shinning on his cheeks. The rest of the kings watched in consternation, they could not grasp what was so funny. The situation was dire for them.

Rhys looked at his fellow kings,“We thought to raise a tool for our use, we raised a king instead. We thought him a harmless pup that we could train up to our use. When all along he was a wolf, and we were the sheep.“ In one fell swoop, Arthur had dramatically stripped power from the petty British kings making them completely dependent upon him. The combined warbands of all of Britain, were now Arthurs. All of Britain below the wall belonged to Arthur. Now, to unite them all. Arthur had a long hard job ahead, uniting the various tribal kingdoms and autonomous Roman towns. The thing that made this possible was that Arthur had stripped all of the major kings and quite a few minor kings of their was bands. Without an army, it is kind of difficult to raid and war with your neighbors. The Goddess, Aeronwen, so publicly declaring him as king when she gave him Caladwylch and kissed him had guaranteed the loyalty of the army. The rest was merely theater, Arthur had become King, RigoThamus, in fact.

At Eborarcum, Arthur set his infantry to refurbishing the Roman built town. Repairing a deep ditch and earthen rampart completely around the town. While his horse cavalry, carried out raids on the near by settlements of the Angles. Eborarcum would become Arthur’s base in the north. Arthur was merciless in the drilling of his army. Training them to act as one. Forging them into a likeness of his own mind. Quick, agile, decisive.

Among Arthur’s “Guests”, the survivors of the victory on the Aire river, Was Aelle, Cynrig, or king of the Angles. As Aelle slowly recovered, He watched Arthur and that Army, training. It was a sobering sight. Aelle became convinced that Arthur could wipe out all of the Angles in Britain with impunity. Those thoughts led him to approach Arthur.

Arthur had known from the beginning who Aelle was. It was always Arthur’s intention to set Aelle free. To return to his people and to tell what Aelle had seen. To Know that Arthur was capable of mercy, so that there would be some hope to temper the despair. Arthur hoped Aelle would take a desire and hope for peace back to The Angles.

Judging Aelle fit and hale, Arthur set him free. Sending him away with gifts, a new sword, a wolfhound and a war horse Arthur could ill afford. It was a gamble. Aelle was impressed. promising to stop the incessant cross raiding. Promising to tell all he had seen and experienced. Aelle planned to return with all of his chieftains in six weeks, to talk, and hammer out a peace. Arthur was pleased. Whether Aelle returned as friend or foe, Arthur would be prepared.

Beacon fires warned of Aelles return some five weeks latter. The news was welcome. Aelle approached Eborarcum with 200 men, and a train of women folk from the reports. This was no war hosting. Arthur ordered his cavalry to maneuver outside the new earth works of the town. timing the display to match Aelles arrival. The Angles were awed. Aelles chiefs had never seen such a display. Clearly their king had not exaggerated in his telling of the defeat. Arthur greeted Aelle as a fellow king and friend. Clasping forearms, the two kings embraced before the refurbished gates.

††† CHAPTER 8 †††

Caladwylch was the first they say, The very first serpent bladed long sword ever made. Forged for Bran the blessed by the Y Tylwydd Teg. The bars of steel, Folded and twisted upon them selves, many times, with many chanted spells. Then hammer welded together into a magnificent blade. One of those bars had come from a dragons egg. A star fallen from the heavens.

Caladwylch could cut any sword. Cleaving the softer iron blades as if they were made of clay. A magic sword that brought victory. Only the rightful Rio-Thamus could wield her. For Caladwylch is a willful blade. Why is this sword called as a woman you ask? Because anything that sinuous and so beautiful, could only be a woman. Myrddyn chanted, the echoing beats of the bodhran , the war drums of the Celts. Bespelling the great hall in the way of bards.

" Caladwylch was forged for victory, to protect the people. She cannot be used for anything else, or she will turn against the hands that wields her. It has been said, that Caladwylch had turned against Boudicca after the sacks of Roman Londinium, and Camulodunum. It has been told, that Boudicca fell upon Caladwylch after the destruction of her army. It has been told that Maecsen Wledig carried Caladwylch When he brought the flower of the Britons forth on his quest for Rome. And Caladwylch turned in his hand. Bringing defeat and death. Caladwylch was carried back to britain from far away Rome, to be hidden away safely concealed in Lynn Cerrig bach. To await the Riothamus.

There the magnificent sword lay, until a mad prince carried her forth. In his madness, This mad man, plunged Caladwylch into a stone. The Gwynhyfyr, The white Phantom, Called the Lady of the lake Caused the words, ” Whoso draws Caladwylch from this stone is the rightful Rio-Thamus of all Britain..” Then she changed into a White raven, flying away. Many men tried to Draw the sword. many men failed. Until one day,

A boy in a moment of need, drew her from the stone. Arthur the son of the dragon, Rio-Thamus! “ The Celts stamped their feet, Crying “RioThamus! Caladwylch.!”

Aelle sat back. Magic, how do you fight magic? These people believed. They would harry the depths of the underworld for their king. Myrddyn moved to his accustomed place at Arthurs right hand. Aelle locked eyes with the white raven always perched on Myrddynn’s shoulder. The large bird stared back. Aelle looked away, Badly unnerved. There was something strange about that bird. I cannot stand against magic he thought to himself. How can I ask my men to fight magic? The gathered Angle chieftains thought the same thoughts. They drank more quietly and brooded.

Aelle feared magic. Having heard the story of Caladwylch, Aelle studied the beautiful sword hanging on the wall beside Arthur’s dragon emblazoned shield. Aelle recognized the sword. He had seen that sword when he’d been a much younger man.

There were twenty of us he remembered. We had been called to the great hosting of Hengist and Horsa. The Romans had returned from across the sea and overthrew Vortigern, burning him, his wife and his heir alive in Vortigerns new tower. As the father in law of Vortigern, Hengist was claiming regency over the west. An ambition that brought only death to both Hengist as well as Horsa.

Constans the Roman, had become the new Rio-Thamus. With his two sons, Ambrosius and Uther commanding his army of Romans and Armoricans along with Cymru that had risen against Vortigern. Constans quickly destroyed the Saecsen and Angle hosts. Aelle never made it to that hosting however. No one from his crew had.

They had made camp for the night. Seven men had gone hunting small game. The rest, relaxing after a long days march and setting camp.

A demon fell upon them. Howling, stinking of blood, rot and death. Cutting down three men and disappearing back into the forest, before they knew what was happening. The warriors tended the dying men, ten of them had snatched up their spears and pursued the demon. None of them returned. Thirteen men that first night.

The hunters returned empty handed , only to be dismayed at the the carnage. They buried their dead while waiting for the the sunrise when the seven of them set out for the hosting. They were on the march when the demon returned. Rising out of the tall grass that had grown close to the old Roman road. Then disappearing back into the forest. Leaving two dead men and a badly wounded Aelle in it’s wake. None of their swords or spears had been blooded.

Leaving their fallen crewmen where they lay. The four unwounded survivors fashioned a stretcher from two spears and two cloaks taken from the fallen men. Deciding to keep to the road, they set out again until finding a farm stead the survivors paid the farmer and left Aelle to their care. Aelle did not remember the anything until he awoke in a enclosed bed. In the farm house. The demon had stalked and killed them. Aelle awoke to a charnel house. The only intact body was that of a huge black wolfhound. A spear through it’s massive chest. The others were in pieces. Aelle was the only survivor.

Shivering at the memory. Aelle studied the sword. Then looked long at Myrddyn with the white raven perched on his shoulder. There had been a white raven then as well he remembered. It had been shadowing them. They had even fed it bits of food, thinking it an omen from Odin.

Staring once again at the sword, Aelle considered Arthur’s demonstration the day before. The message was clear. Arthur’s victory on the Aire, was no chance thing. The Rio-Thamus could repeat that performance at will.

A shield wall of straw men had been arranged, two hundred paces in length and four deep. The carynx sounded and the Brigante war chariots charged, in the jagged Celtic arrow formation. While the infantry, in three roman squares, advanced at a run.

The chariots, equipped with blades on their axles, and heavy cross bars in front of the horses, also with spikes and blades attached. Rode over and through the shield wall. Great holes in the shield wall, simply appeared in the wake of the chariots. Warriors leapt out of the back of the four wheeled war chariots. Forming into The arrow formation, then charging into the rear of the shield wall, as the Infantry hit from the other side.

Arthur’s horse cavalry, held in reserve, then charged, rolling up the flanks of the shield wall. The men then neatly formed back into their ranks, and moved back to their starting points. This time facing the well repaired Roman road, and Aelle’s party.

The Angles had watched all of this, understanding the implications perfectly. They were beaten. The Angles could not match Arthur’s army.

Expecting the worst, Aelle had been surprised when Arthur greeted him as a friend. Offering bread, salt and mead with his own hands. Arthur had honored Aelle as a close friend rather than a conquered enemy. Aelle didn’t know what to make of that. He had come with his faithful chieftains expecting hostages to be taken and terms dictated, not to be feasted and treated as friends. The impressive military demonstration aside. Arthur’s courtesies clearly demonstrated his honor and strength. Arthur’s treatment of Aelle showed confidence and power.

Aelle knew full well that many of Arthur’s people had to oppose any good treatment of the Sassanach. The Celts and the Romans wanted revenge. Arthur clearly had other plans. His will was obeyed. Honor, courage, confidence, power. These things Aelle understood. Magic however, gave him the horrors. How can you fight magic? Aelle knew demons were real, he had met one, carrying Arthur’s sword. Wondering what sort of man could command demons and magic as well as men. Aelle studied Arthur, and drank deeply calling for more of the heady winter-mead. Wishing for ale, and worrying. Silently watching as Arthur moved among his people. They were without a doubt, his people. They loved him dearly it was plain enough to see.

Soon the hall was cleared and the trenchers set for the feast.

10

Rowena’s hair was like living flames. Gold of every shade mixed with fiery reds that fell in waves across her shoulders. The dark green of the knotworked overdress a sharp contrast to the soft safron of her close fitting underdress. The silver of her belt flashed in the fire lights of the hall.

Arthur tried, quite unsuccessfully, not to stare. Bedwyr was surprised. Arthur usually ignored women. Not that Arthur disliked women, he simply did not have the time. Bedwyr coughed for Gawains attention. Openly pointing at the bespelled Arthur. Gawain grinned at the look on Arthur’s face, smile broadening until Gawain saw who Arthur was so enamored with. ” It figures it would be trouble...” Gawain grimaced and muttered to Bedwyr.“Does he know who she is?” Bedwyr asked. “He doesn’t care.” Gawain flatly stated as he walked away, looking for Myrddyn.

Myrddyn had already seen. The white raven had already warned Myrddyn that she had prepared a queen for Arthur. Myrddyn left the hall. He was not needed, as nature was clearly taking it’s course.

The day before, Rowena had seen Arthur, wondering who the tall Celt rough housing with the giant wolf hounds was. Arthur had not seen her yet, busy with being knocked about by his joyous hounds. Now she knew.

Rowena realized after a bit, that Arthur was not going to approach her. He was openly staring at her. It was embarrassing. Rowena’s mother, queen Branwen had noticed as well. Branwen was smiling, she approved. When Rowena could stand it no longer, she stalked over to Arthur. ” It is rude to stare. Has no one ever taught you that? At the least you should say hello if you would take such liberties!” She snapped in flawless Latin.

Arthur, the honey tongued, who’s eloquence had won himself an army Stammered” um...You have the most amazing eyes...” Blushing when he realized he’d said that aloud. He was looking directly into her eyes. Her left eye was blue, like polished lapis, and the right was a cut emerald. Arthur was sure he was drowning. Rowena was truly spectacular.

Of those gathered, only Arthur was taller. Arthur took her hand and kissed her finger tips. ” Forgive me milady. I forgot myself. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I am Arthur, and you must be Rowena, Cynrig Aelle’s daughter.” Rowena was nonplussed. From a courtier, such words were mere flattery. The intensity of Arthur’s gaze made her believe he meant it. Blushing, she murmmered ” Thank you milord. Thank you for gifting my father back to us as well” she murmured as she stared back into his eyes. They kept changing she thought, hazel green into blue and back , shifting in the light. Like magic she thought to herself. Arthur was speaking but she had not heard a word, lost in his eyes.

Cynrig Aelle with his queen, Branwen. Watched unsmiling. “This could be trouble...” Aelle sighed, unknowingly echoing Gawain. Branwen looked on, watching closely. Rowena was not being her normal outspoken headstrong self. Deciding there was nothing to be done about the clear attraction between Rowena and Arthur, knowing her daughters stubborn, single minded wilfulness Branwen smiled and watched.

Arthur and Rowena spent the rest of the feast absorbed in conversation. Ignoring everyone else in the hall. When Aelle noticed that neither Arthur or Rowena had touched their mead cups nor the food before them. Aelle sighed and grumbled to Branwen ” I thought we had come to make peace between us not make a wedding.” “Can you think of a better way to make the peace?” Branwen replied. Musing, Aelle chewed it over in his mind. There were certainly some advantages to the Rio-Thamus as son in law Aelle decided.

Of course, just as most of Arthurs decisions and actions, the marriage created outrage among some of the Britons though not with the majority.

††† Chapter 9 †††

" A wolf can only know that it is a wolf.. It is instinctively proactive and decisive in action.” Bedwyr had the annoying habit of repeating maxims when fighting. Almost as if lecturing his opponents. Breathing deeply, Bedwyr met the challenge. “ Shall we dance?”

He was motionless, blade held low almost touching the ground between his feet standing relaxed. His opponent confidently aggressive cut at Bedwyr’s exposed head. Bedwyr stepped forward into the attack, flicking his wrists lifting his sword he deflected the strike on the flat of his blade then finishing his strike Bedwyr fluidly ran the fool through. Meeting an opponents strike with a strike provides both offense and defense simultaneously. The trick is to ignore the opponents intent and close while striking. Closing and striking interferes with pretty much anything the opponent is trying to do. All you need focus on is your action. Never remain static, that only encourages the opponents ability to control the initiative. Never try to block and then counter. That only keeps your opponent one move ahead of you.

Turning and facing his second opponent off line, Bedwyr pivoted on the balls of his feet, stepping forward a half step, the longsword over head, he used the thunder strike, striking off line, cutting deep into the Irishman’s unarmoured chest before the surprised man could react to the sight of his still falling friend. Beginning to end Bedwyr moved in a singular flowing motion never stopping until cutting down the second opponent. Blink three times rapidly and the entire movement would be missed.

The fight was over, lasting barely a dozen heart beats from the moment Bedwyr had drawn his sword , answering the challenge of the two dead men.

" Never let them work together. Isolate your opponents, then strike decisively. A house divided cannot stand.” He whispered, wiping his bloodied blade with a piece of a cloak from one of the men at his feet. Then laughing as he sheathed his sword, Bedwyr addressed the dead men. ” If you dinnae want the thorns, yae should never hae plucked the rose.” as he walked away. To report what he had just done to Arthur.

Arthur was surely not going to be pleased that Bedwyr had just left two dead men at the gates of the town.

Arthur met the news sardonically, having already received a report before Bedwyr found him. By all reports, The two men had been insulting the queen. Bedwyr had objected most strenuously to those insults, tho not drawing steel until after they had drawn on him. Insulting the queen was ill advised in Bedwyr’s presence.

“You will pay their Eraic. Bedwyr, straight away. I want no disputes with their clans.” Nodding in assent, accepting the right of it, Bedwyr turned to leave. ” Can you please simply wound them Bedwyr? I need every sword I can find. Should You continue depleting my ranks then where is my army?” Grinning Bedwyr walked away from his king. ” Och, Yae only want the best now do you not? ” affecting the lilting accent of their old sword master.

Arthur smiled at his retreating friend. If anyone could weld the Angles, all infantry, together with the Brigante cavalry, and the Dal Riata , it would be Bedwyr. A Setantii, they claimed descent of Cu Chullain. A race he sired while studying with Scathac on Skye, the sacred Isle. Knowing Bedwyr, Arthur could believe it. The Brigante loved him, holding only Arthur higher.

The Angles respected him. Bedwyr would be the perfect commander of Arthur’s northern Army. While Arthur concentrated on the south west. The Dumonii and Dematae, with the Silures and Cornovii, had only ponies, and Infantry. Arthur would bring heavy cavalry that none of them had dreamt of before. A year of training together should make them ready. Then Arthur could catch the south Saecsen between two armies. The east Saecsen of the old Icenii territory. Would be left for last. Surrounded and isolated.

Gawain would go to Armorica. King Ban, was Arthurs cousin through Uther and Ambrosius. With The Venetii ships, combined with Angle long ships. Control of the sea passage would be complete. Britain as well as Amorica would be free of the Saecsen invaders.

Badon was an accident.

After a brilliant sneak attack on Rutapaie, and a quick advance to Londinium. Arthur and his Amorican allies, caught the Sassanach completely unawares. So Arthur had thought at first. Bedwyr was supposed to link up at Londinium, and together, Arthurs northern army of Brigante, Rheghed, Gododdin, Dal Riata, and Angles, with the Romano Brittish army of Ambrosius and Uthyr and The Amoricans. Arthur would sweep through the territories the South Saecsen held. That was the plan at least. Instead, Arthur met a combined Saecsen-Frank army at Londinium, laying siege to the city. Bedwyr never did make it to Londinium. Bedwyr ran into the host of the east Saecsens while en route. The northern army fought three running battles before finally scattering the saecsen host, instead of pursuing and destroying the saecsen, Bedwyr set out immediately for Londinium.

When Bedwyrs scouts reached Londinium, Arthur, and the sasanach had already gone, Bedwyr turned following the Armies, three days behind them. Arthur fought a total of six battles in this time. All were purely cavalry engagements. Arthur sent all of his infantry at forced march back to the south west.

With three hundred horse calvary, Arthur raided and harassed the Saecsen/Frankish host. He was trying to draw the Sassanach back to his southern base of operations. Camel-Lod was perfect. An ancient Celtic hill fort of immense size. Room for a small town at the highest level. A maze of earthen walls and ditches to navigate up. Perfect for snarling up the Saecsen foot soldiers. Just as it had done the Romans centuries before. Lacking the Roman siege engines, the Saecsen would be easily held at bay.

Bedwyr managed to arrive before the sassanach could over run Arthurs position. Not far away was another immense hill fort on Badon hill. Arthur planned on snarling the sassanach there as well. To give his northern army and the other kings of Britain time to come. The siege lasted three days. The balistae and mules earned their keep. Doing terrible damage to the lightly armored Saecsen. After a few balistae hit both horses and riders with solitary bolts. The Franks kept their mounts far out side the range of the arm length heavy bolts.

Three days Arthur had led the Sasanch across south Britain. Three days Arthur held at Badon. The morning of the fourth day, Bedwyr arrived with the Brigante  cavalry and the Angles. Taking the Franks afoot, and the Saecsens from the rear. The Sassanach broke. The northern army even managed to capture most of the Frankish horses. This wasn’t supposed to happen at all. This summer, the plan had been to break the south Saecsen. Next summer would have been the east Saecsens turn.

The majority of the Franks surrendered. The Saecsen fought desperately. To their destruction. Beltane had scarcely passed and Arthur had two victories to contend with. The headaches of victory can be worse than the pains of defeat it seems. Now with two, Arthur was a bit overwhelmed.

In a fortnight of campaigning Arthur and Bedwyr had managed to subdue all of the Saecsen in Britain. Arthur was twenty four years old when he became Riothamus of all Britain and Armorica. Something no other had ever accomplished before. That was also the summer Caradoc was borne. Of the two miracles Arthur viewed his son Cerdic, Caratacus ap Artur Pendraeg, as the true wonder.

††† CHAPTER 10 †††

The plan had been to break the south Saecsen. Next summer would have been the east Saecsens turn.

The majority of the Franks surrendered. The Saecsen fought desperately. To their destruction. Beltane had scarcely passed and Arthur had two victories to contend with. The headaches of victory can be worse than the pains of defeat it seems. Now with two, Arthur was a bit overwhelmed.

In a fortnight of campaigning Arthur and Bedwyr had managed to subdue all of the Saecsen in Britain. Arthur was twenty four years old when he became Riothamus of all Britain and Armorica. Something no other had ever accomplished before. That was also the summer Cerdic was borne. Of the two miracles that summer Arthur viewed his son Cerdic, Caratacus ap Artur Pendraeg, as the true wonder.

Born on the solstice. Cerdic came into the world easily. Being married for four years, Cerdic was their first child. Arthur and Rowena would prove quite fertile. Their two daughters, Branwen and Gwynyffyr, were twins, near identical in many ways, with the exception, that Branwen had deep dark red hair. Gwynyffyr was flame haired like her mother Rowena. The twins otherwise were near spitting images of their mother. Cerdic was a big lusty boy with the Red gold hair of his father, and color shifting eyes, shared by all three of his sisters. Arthur’s stamp upon his children. “I have a son!” Arthur had cried in awe, when holding the bundled first born child tenderly.

Staring at the tiny face, feeling the wonder of it all being permanently burned into his heart. It had been the same intensity with all three of his daughters. Myrddyn smiled, trying in vain to get an opportunity to hold the babe, or at least get a clear look at the little wonders face. It would be days before Arthur began to settle down. Myrddyn wondered how Rowena coped with Arthur’s frantic hyper attentive over protective state. Probably with silent forbearance he surmised. The queen was head over heels for Arthur as Arthur was for her. Arthur loved with the same intensity of focus, and determined, decisive attitude that he approached everything else.

Britain was firmly in Arthurs hands. The wars had paused. Arthur began turning camel- lod into a town. Moving the bulk of his army to a nearby hill fort long abandoned. Settling in to raise his children, thinking thoughts of peace, when the Romans came calling. Arthur was twenty eight years old when the Roman emperor Procopius Anthemius asked for his help against Euric and his Visigoths.

AVALLON

Sidonius sat, stewing, muttering softly. The curses he muttered were certainly not what he had written. A letter, a humble request Ricimer had, suggested.“Be polite. Rome needs that cavalry, do anything you have to!” Anthemnius ordered. ” Get on your knees and beg if it comes to it!” Ricimer added.

Anthemius creeked and popped his way to his feet. Time and the friction of existence wears all men down, even the Emperor Procopius Anthemius of Rome. As the emperor left, Ricimer with Sidonius had stood up from the low couches they had been reclining on. Sidonius no longer had the sweet after taste of wine soaked figs and olives. That joy had turned to bitter ashes with the Emperor’s instruction.

To think, he must beg! Rome must beg help from an upstart arrogant barbarian. Especially the Riothamus Arthur, who had been a serious thorn in his side these last few years.

Sidonius drank the last in his cup, now silently rereading the letter. Ricimer, supreme commander of Romes Armies was thouroughly enjoying himself, watching that pretentious pig struggle. This was now the fourth attempt by Sidonius.

Stretching out his arm, Ricimer plucked the letter from the desk, reading it quietly. ” This is better, where is your apology? It seems to be missing.” Spluttering Sidonius nearly choked, ” I cannot apologize to that , that, that thief!” Ricimer chuckled, ” Such rage over a few escaped slaves? I would never have expected you to notice such trifles.”

Over the last Three years slaves had been running away, north to Amorica. Word had gotten out that the new King had banned slavery, any slave that reached that peninsula would find freedom. ” The Riothamus had refused to return any of the slaves that had fled to his realm. He had even been recruiting the fit among them for his army. “Trifles?! You call five thousand slaves over the last three years trifles? The landowners are screaming for me to march up there and take back their property, I have been writing letters demanding he return the slaves.” Raising an eyebrow at the number of escapees, Ricemer replied in a cold voice that tied Sidonius insides into knots. ” I do not care if he has stolen your wife and all of the slaves in Gaul, I do not care if he had raped and beaten you and your entire family in the ampitheater for amusement before the gladiators graced the sand. You will apologize, make it believable, and humble now, or you will be wearing slaves chains in the market. I will put you for sale to the lowest bidder myself!," Sidonius , head bowed, muttering as he went to work again.

Why could he not make himself write those words? Ricimer stood, snatching up the tablet as he turned on his heel to leave, ” Never mind I will write it, and we will deliver it in person so that you may speak your apology from you knees in his court.”

Sidonius called for a fresh tablet and more wine, ” Do not water it!” he ordered impatiently. Feeling the claws of panic at his throat, he sat thinking. That damned half Visigoth half Vandal upstart barbarian Ricimer was not one to disobey. Ricimer had arranged the replacement, of the last two emperors though he had yet to acquire a firm grip on this new one. As magister militum he held the loyalty of the legions.

A fresh pitcher of wine had found itself in Sidonius hands. Hands trembling ever so gently. With a grunt that faded into a resigned sigh, Sidonius began scratching away on the fresh wax tablet. As the visions of Ricimers threats played through his mind, he found inspiration. A short time later, he ordered a slave to deliver the tablet to his scribe to be copied by hand onto a fresh scraped vellum. Now , there was only the waiting. Waiting for Eurics horde to seize all of Gaul or the coming of this Riothamus. Sidonius randomly wondered for a moment, What kind of man is this king of the Britons. Are the rumours and whispers about him true or exaggerations?

The vellum was hurled into the brazier. Arthur watched it blacken and burn on the coals. ” That for his command!"

Gawain nudged Bedwyr into speech. ” Arthur, you could secure the western coastlands all the way to the mountains. Ahhh Gods! You could demand all of Hispania and they would have to do it after they had licked your arse clean.”

" Aye Bedwyr, I probably could tho we will save the arse licking for you.” Sipping from the horn, of spicy now luke warm mulled mead he continued ”I do not care about Hispania. I do care about beating the Saecsens in their own lands.We do not have the forces to do so at once. If I must whittle them down one town or petty King at a time for the next decade or so, that would cost us as much as their raids in Britain has cost since the time of the Vortigern. ”

Arthur waved his hand motioning for Bedwyr to sit on one of the camp stools that nearly filled Arthurs pavilion. Taking a seat Bedwyr asked him, ” What is that sick dog of a governor demanding now?” “He demands that I return all of the escaped slaves, every single one. Give Rome our Horses. And all of Amorica or it will be war and Rome will take it back. He then proceeds to curse and try to insult me. My answer is the same, No, not today tomorrow or ever!”

" We cannot give them our horses, nor our lands. Is he that stupid to think we would even consider it?” Arthur returned to his pacing. The two old friends concentrated, each in their own private word. Arthur was frustrated because he knew that he really had no choice. With the Saecsen raiding westward into Armorica, the rampaging Goths pillaging their way across Gaul, Arthur knew there was war. How to avoid two fronts at once? How to stop Euric should he move towards Armorica. The Britons with the Dal Riata, the Armoricans as well as Aelle’s men all together were not enough to fight both. In truth, while Arthur knew he could crush the Saecsen with the forces at his disposal. He was still sadly out numbered by Eurics forces.

Autumn turned to frost early that year. Ricimer sent the letters of Sidonius along with one of his own to Arthur. The courier rode through the early morning fog. He could not see more than an arms length around him. The fog was dense and freezing. Leaving an icy rime on everything it touched. The courier kept his eyes to the road. As long as he stayed on the road he would not get lost in this fog. He wondered why anyone would want to live in this place at the edge of the world. When Arthurs patrol challenged him, a great relief swept over him. Deliver the saddle bag, and wait for the reply. The courier hoped for a warm fire, some hot mulled wine and that Riothamus would take awhile to answer.

Upon opening the saddle bag, an oath ring tumbled out along with the sealed messages. Reading Ricimers message first, anything from Sidonius could wait, Arthur raised both eyebrows as a smile spread across his face. He offered the vellum to Bedwyr then eagerly opened the ones from the right and proper:

“Senator Gaius Sollius Nodesrus Apollinaris Sidoniu: Prefect of Rome, Comes of Gaul, Bishop of Averna greets you Riothamus Arthur King of the Britons.” Arthur read aloud. Bedwyr and Gawain laughed at the long mouth full of titles. Arthur continued over the occasional laughter. “My lord, I write to you in the greatest of hope that you could forgive my short sided arrogant insulting letters. It was beyond my station to address the Riothamus in such a manner especially concerning such trivial matters. Should you require it, I Gaius Sollius Nodesrus Apollinaris Sidoniu will journey to your kingdom at your whim in order to humble my self and beg of your forgiveness and mercy upon my knees.

Sealed by

Senator Gaius Sollius Nodesrus Apollinaris Sidoniu: Prefect of Rome, Comes of Gaul, Bishop of Averna

Arthur laughed as he threw the second letter from Sidonius onto the brazier. The other one however he would make a keepsake. Arthur looked at his friends smiling. ” It is war. Ricimer has promised a legion along with the Auxiliaries in Gaul to reinforce Arthurs forces. Further promising that he, Ricemer would be coming to the party with all of the legions under his command. He was taking all of the troops in Cisalpine Gaul along with forces from Dacia and Hispania. Let Euric sit for the winter, come the spring all will be ready and together, they would trap Euric between them. After Euric is defeated and sent in chains to the emperor Anthemius in Ravena. Together Arthur and Ricimer would subdue the Franks, and the Saecsens. It was a wonderful plan. Upon reflection, Arthur should have known better. When the universe hands you all you desire, there is always a catch.

" Riothamus a messenger!” one of the guards announced. “Is he swarthy and short?” Arthur asked, feeling a bit irritated at the interruption. The guard stood at attention , eyes forward ” Not at all my king ” he replied. Before he could continue, The other Guard on post flew though the drawn curtain entrance, landing face first nearly striking the brazier. Myrddyn was right behind him. ” We have no time to argue amongst ourselves ”

Stopping a few feet away from Arthur, ” We must strike soon, or we need not worry about Britain or any of our allies.” Arthur stood , and stretched. ” Myrddyn, we have 11,000 cavalry, the bulk of our infantry here are untrained escaped slaves., Altogether we can field only about sixteen thousand men. Euric has all of the Visigoth people with almost seven times that. They have Calvary, they know Roman tactics, we are out matched. I will not send my men into a needless suicidal slaughter. Make no mistakes, attacking Euric without the promised auxiliaries and legions Rome promised us is suicide. Where are they? Sidonius wanting us destroyed, that I understand, General Ricimer failing is a mystery.

The problem was that Anthemius did not trust Ricimer. Sidonius had been writing him warning of Ricimer’s alliance with Arthur and that Ricemer planned to declare himself Imperator, together with the Riothamus they would seize Ravena deposing Anthemius. The emperor believed him. Anthemius began Ordering the legions to move into Dacia to prevent Ricimer from using them. Anthemius then fled Ravena for the ruins of Rome to hide until he could raise or find legions loyal to him not Ricimer.

Anthemius’ victories had been long ago. The legions no longer remembered them. The legions, were loyal to Ricimer. None came to aid the Emperor, leaving him to hide in the wreck of Rome. Ricimer was furious. Ricimer was in Dacia organizing the chaos Anthemius had managed to wreak when Arthur and his forces sailed up the Loire river, on his way to Avallon, there to join with Ricemer.

The white raven launched from her perch on Myrddyns shoulder, landing on the make shift tent entrance, hesitating in thought only a moment, she launched into the crisp night air.

Arthur looked up at the two guards, thought a moment deciding to send the one that was somewhat worse for the wear. “Cambrogi, go amongst the new men, ask if any of them know about a place called Avallon. If any do, bring them back here, as quickly as possible. Turning to his best friend and Commander of the armies, ” Bedwyr, We must prepare for a war.” With a smile Bedwyr left to be about the business of the commander. He detested the record keeping, the endless briefings on supply, inventory. Bedwyr much preferred the chaos of war, the uncertainty, the challenge, and the release of victory. Aahch, but First we must know what we have so we may know what we need. Bedwyr began calling for his quarter masters the engineers, he was content in the moment of action. It is the waiting Bedwyr cannot abide.

The White raven cawed as he left the tent. She thought for a moment about going with Bedwyr, sighed and resigned herself to stay. One she made her choice to stay, she hopped off the edge of the table, transformed before her feet touched the ground.

Aeron stretched as she looked down at the map.

" I assume you already have a plan? Will you share it with us miLady? ” Aeron brushed a wayward braid back over her shoulder. ” Yes, I do. ” she answered. Arthur and Myrddyn watched her in silence awaiting a more informative answer While she was focused on the maps. Arthur cleared his throat, ” Not to disturb you Milady, but, are you going to share more with us? What is it that must do?” “Go to Avallon. Leave as quickly as you can.” With that she changed back into the White Raven, dodging between the flaps at the entrance, free into the sky. Spotting Bedwyr, she circled down cawing , Bedwyr cawed back as she settled onto his shoulder and began nuzzling his neck. ” That is too distracting Anwlyd.”

Bedwyr whispered to her as he tried to focus on the task at hand. She was having none of it. Speaking softly , directly into his ear, ” Go on then, give your orders, then let your staff follow them. Come away Fy n ghariad I have need of you, they do not.” Bedwyr did not try and talk her out of it. If he tried she would only pester him ceaselessly nipping at his ear, head butting his jaw, pecking at his head. He had learned that lesson already. There was no telling her no when she desired ...anything. He gave out the orders, for inventory, and assembly, then asked her, “which way Anywlyd ?” She transformed to walk next to him. ” It matters not. choose.”

Oh great, now he has to figure out where an immortal Goddess would want to go. Bedwyr shrugged and asked her “What is your need?” Aeron smiled her terrifying smile. Bedwyr shuddered. She has this evil predatory, I am smiling because I am eating your heart after I nail you to a tree and set you on fire. That, I just crushed your army, sacked your city, sold your people into slavery, isn’t life grand smile.

Blindly walking, he set out.

Aeron enjoyed teasing Bedwyr. Being around him had awoken her mischievous aspect. However she could not get distracted so she must focus on her task. She had a plan.

Everyone must play their part to perfection , or , the world would be changed into a thing of disease, madness, meaningless wars, horrors that a death Goddess could not fathom. Now, this time, it will work she told herself, this time all is ready. She was certain that everything in her complicated multi dimensional web was doing exactly as she had instructed them.

Not like before.