Pendragon and the Clash of Kingdoms

by C J Brown

  Pendragon

  and the

  Clash of Kingdoms

  C.J. Brown

  Pendragon Legend Book FOUR:

  Pendragon and the Clash of Kingdoms

  Copyright © 2021 by C.J. Brown. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Contents

  1. The Dawn of War

  2. Pyres and Goodbyes

  3. The Other Side of Treason

  4. The Rise of the Huns

  5. Legion of Rome

  6. The Reckoning

  7. Imperial Ascent

  8. Invasion

  9. Alliance of Hate

  10. Uniting a Kingdom

  11. Darkness Rising

  12. The Eagle has Landed

  13. Sputtering Alliances

  14. Enemies Aligned

  15. The Vision

  16. Peril from the North

  17. Fields of Brittania

  18. Call to Arms

  19. Spirit of Rome

  20. Treachery

  21. The Face of Honor

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  1

  The Dawn of War

  A great fog hung over Pittentrail as a light rain turned the dirt roads to mud. Sand washed away from the cobblestone paths as fires warmed the guards who manned the watchtowers.

  King Fergus sat furious in his court, a fire crackling in the hearth and the sconces.

  Suddenly, the great wooden doors opened, and the captain of the guard ran in, tired from the run from the wall to the palace.

  “Your Grace,” he said, dropping to his knee, “the trespasser escaped. But we hit him with an arrow.”

  “What?” Fergus bellowed. “What happened to my daughter?”

  The captain did not look at the Highlander king.

  “She is gone, Your Grace, captured by the trespasser.”

  King Fergus remained silent. His anger boiled as his eyes showed the fire of his soul. He stared at the captain.

  “We will find them,” he swore at last.

  “Arthur was the trespasser, Your Grace,” the captain said. “It was Lord Gallagher who hit him.”

  Arthur?” Fergus said. “Arthur was the trespasser?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “How did your men not know he was here?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace, they just couldn’t see him.”

  “Arrest them,” Fergus said. “Then resign your post.”

  The captain looked at his king.

  Fergus was boiling with rage. Only great will kept him from drawing his sword and cutting the captain down where he knelt.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” the man said, and withdrew.

  “Gallagher,” Fergus said, “my spies tell me Arthur’s band left Inver Ridge for Demetia. You will lead an army there. Burn his body and bring me his head.”

  Gallagher smirked.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  2

  Pyres and Goodbyes

  IArthur remained still as the cart horse walked on, Merlin with his horse just a few yards away, watching the scene.

  Arthur knew what had happened.

  Blood still poured from his wound that hurt every time the horse moved and when he breathed.

  The mild rain diluted the blood as it dripped to the grass.

  Arthur’s eyes showed the loss, the pain he was feeling. It was nothing like he had ever felt before. No battle wound, no insult, had ever hurt Arthur as much as the loss of the only woman he had ever loved.

  As the horse approached Merlin, the wizard retrieved another cloak that glowed crimson from his robe.

  “Here,” he said. “It will not be long before they find us.”

  Covering Arthur and Olivie with the cloak, they disappeared as the horse continued to walk.

  “We make for Demetia,” Merlin said.

  The horse suddenly began galloping towards the mountain pass that led to the open plains.

  Merlin followed.

  By sunset, the two horses were at the enchanted forest.

  Verovingian appeared to greet them, along with Magi Ro Hul.

  By the look on Merlin’s face, things had gone terribly wrong.

  “Where are Arthur and Olivie?” Magi asked.

  Merlin turned and removed the cloak.

  “No,” Magi Ro Hul said, looking at Arthur and Olivie, seeing the arrow that had hit them.

  Merlin turned to Arthur, his cloak still crimson.

  “Arthur, I have to remove the arrow,” he said.

  Arthur did not respond. His eyes were closed.

  Merlin, still astride his horse, reached over, held Arthur with one hand, and pulled the arrow with the other.

  The former Pendragon winced as the blade cut through his flesh again but held Olivie to keep her from falling.

  His eyes open, he looked first at Magi Ro Hul, who was fuming with rage and grief.

  Arthur got down from the horse, holding Olivie in his arms. Placing her on the grass, he knelt amidst the trees that shielded them from the storm.

  He collapsed.

  He awoke and saw the ceiling of the wooden structure. A hearth burned brightly near the foot of his bed. Sconces illuminated the room, and two windows allowed Arthur to look out at the night. Rain and mist blurred the sight of the city outside.

  At first, having forgotten what had happened, the memories of the day then rushed back to him.

  Tears welling in his eyes, he tried to keep his composure. But he could not, not against a pain beyond any by which he had ever been tested.

  He wept.

  But a knock on the wooden doors to his right stopped him.

  He wiped the tears away.

  “Enter,” he said.

  Merlin stepped in.

  “Friend,” he began, “it is time. My father, your mother, the entire court, and the citizens have gathered. The armor of a Demetian general has been prepared for you.

  Arthur nodded, understanding.

  “I’ll be out in a moment.”

  Merlin nodded and left.

  Arthur rose from his bed, surprised to find his wound already healed. How long had it been?

  Walking to the stand where his Demetian armor was, he eyed the polished iron.

  Donning the chainmail, the greaves, and the sabatons, he fitted the cuirass and then picked up the great halfhelm. Inspired by the Spartans, it was symbolic of the Demetians’ ability to fight.

  He wore the helmet, and then buckled on the greatsword, swearing to use the blade to fell Bishkar, and all who had destroyed his family.

  Emerging from his room, he found the wooden corridor empty and walked to the stairwell at the other end. He hurried down the steps, lit by sconces.

  He emerged into a common area, where two tattooed guards manned the entrance.

  They cleared the way of their spears to let Arthur pass, t
hen turned to follow him.

  Outside, rain was pouring. Thunder roared overhead as lightning clapped.

  A great torrent bathed the land, but the city of Demetia was shielded from the worst of it by the enchanted forest.

  A solemn choir song was sounding from the distance, where a ring of sconces burned. More than a thousand people were standing there, their heads bowed.

  Arthur moved with rage and grief, followed by the two royal guards. No chatter was maintained by the crowd.

  As Arthur approached the site, he saw King Megolin standing by his seat, atop a dais. Igraine was there too, as was Merlin, and Magi Ro Hul.

  As he walked toward them, Merlin turned to see him.

  Arthur reached the crowd, who began moving to clear a path to the dais.

  He walked toward the platform and stepped up.

  He stopped when he saw Olivie, surrounded by flowers. Her wound could not be seen, but she was pale, absent.

  Merlin said nothing as Igraine watched the scene with sorrow.

  Megolin felt Arthur’s pain as well. His own beloved had left him decades ago, felled by a sickness not even his father, the greatest of Demetia’s warlocks, could cure. It was a sickness of the mind, one that Igraine had been there to see.

  For Igraine, the way Arthur felt about the loss of Olivie was the way she had felt when she left Uther. He was just as lost.

  Arthur stared at the only woman he had ever loved as he walked to stand beside Magi Ro Hul.

  Silent, he stared at the closed eyes of Olivie, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

  The pain of his broken family, of his lost father, of the tragedy Bishkar had brought upon his family, all rushed to his attention.

  The choir completed their solemn verses and the high priest stepped forward from a dais adjacent to the royal platform.

  “Gods, warlocks of old, ancestors of King Megolin of Demetia, we call upon you to bless the soul of this fallen princess. A foreigner, she is yet a child of Gaea. Thus, she passes to the afterlife with your blessing. But for her honor, we call Magi Ro Hul, a friend, to bid farewell according to the customs of the Highlanders.”

  The priest, his robe an ocean blue, his long hair a simple gray, motioned to Magi Ro Hul.

  The Highlander warrior, the first northern general to visit Demetia in fifty years, descended the dais, and stood a foot from Olivie.

  Wiping the tear that rolled from his eye, he raised his hands, and looked up at the rustling canopy, the sound of the rain lessening as thunder continued to roar.

  “All gods of nature,” he said, “a life is lost. Dear to many, her soul now joins the souls of all who have passed. She was felled not by sickness nor by grief, but by the arrow of one of her own people.”

  Magi Ro Hul lowered his arms.

  “I swear vengeance,” he said.

  Magi Ro Hul turned to return to his place.

  “Now, Arthur, the loved one of Olivie,” the priest said.

  Arthur turned to Magi Ro Hul as he stood beside him, his face cold.

  With his Demetian cape trailing behind, Arthur walked toward Olivie.

  His armor clinked as he walked, the hilt of his longsword reflecting the fires that crackled around Olivie.

  Passing between two of the torches, he stood a foot from her.

  A long silence reigned, broken only by the falling rain and the song of crickets.

  “Please forgive me, my love,” he finally said. “May the gods have mercy on my soul, for I will not rest till Bishkar, till the man who killed you, till all those who have destroyed my family have paid.”

  He removed his gauntlet and held her hand, both of her arms folded and resting, holding a lily.

  Unable to hold back his tears, he wept silently.

  King Megolin remained silent.

  Merlin observed. He had never seen anyone grieve like this. Even when his own mother died, his father had not been like this. His father just continued being king. Peace was still being negotiated with the Highlanders at the time.

  The neutral land between Demetia and Caledonia was being established. Megolin had had no time to weep. Merlin had grieved in his own way, focusing on practicing his spells, his magic.

  But never had he seen a man grieve like Arthur was grieving now.

  Arthur turned and returned to the dais.

  Igraine looked at him, tears rolling from her eyes. She knew it was the greatest pain her son had ever endured.

  “Be strong,” she said to him.

  He nodded but did not otherwise respond.

  Igraine felt there was almost nothing she could do now. Arthur needed time, and all the support he could have. Against a derailed father, a reviled half-brother, without a name, and lost, Arthur would not be the same person he was when they sailed for Britannia, just a moon ago.

  “Light the pyre,” the priest said.

  A pair of royal guards picked up two torches, walked to the pyre, and held the flame to the wooden twigs. It took a moment for the fire to reach the dry layer. Then the pyre began to burn, and smoke rose up.

  Arthur’s tears reflected the fire as he felt his rage rising, and his hand gripped the hilt of his longsword.

  Less than an hour later, while the fire continued to burn, Arthur hurried to King Megolin’s great hall.

  Merlin and Megolin followed, along with Igraine. Magi Ro Hul was with them too.

  Standing before the throne of King Megolin, the lord of Demetia seated himself in his place. Merlin stood beside him, flanked by Igraine, and Arthur before them, with Magi Ro Hul to his side.

  The dry hall, warmed by the sconces and great hearth, was silent but for the crackling of the fire.

  Arthur remained silent for a moment. All of them did.

  Then he removed his halfhelm. “Your Grace,” he said, kneeling before the king, “my father, Uther Pendragon, has allied with the Hun general, Bulanid Mehmet. He has been renamed Gallagher Pendragon. King Fergus betrothed Olivie to him. Uther sees me as his enemy. He sees my mother as his enemy. Anyone who opposes him is his enemy.

  “There is a good chance Attila still plans to invade Britannia. Olivie told me how Bulanid defeated a Hun army at Dornoch, slaying their leader, Lispania. Those ten thousand, most of whom are now his prisoners, his warriors, are expendables. They are just the men the Huns use to weaken their enemy before attacking with the main force.

  “That is the army Attila will send to attack the isle. Uther will most likely use Gallagher to attack me and those friendly to me. War is brewing, and the Hun invasion cannot be stopped if we are fighting the Highlanders.”

  Arthur returned to silence as the rest of them contemplated what he was saying.

  “We have to warn King Fergus, then,” Megolin said.

  “I’m afraid he will not listen,” Arthur responded. “He will blame me for Olivie’s death. He has grown close to Gallagher, respectful of that snake’s staged victory. He has grown close to Uther, as Gallagher is his heir. He will stand against us.”

  “We cannot afford a war with the Highlanders,” Merlin added.

  “I assure you, our armies and our people wish it not,” Magi said.

  “You must return your father to his senses,” Igraine said. “Your father is the only one who can stop the war between our people and the Highlanders from resuming. If he advises Fergus against it, he may listen. But it will be a difficult task. Your father has strayed far from the path of wisdom and honor. He now seeks only revenge. Motivated by pain, he will not stop till what he perceives has caused that pain is gone. You must return your father to himself.”

  Arthur nodded, realizing the difficulty of the task at hand. “Yes, Mother.”

  “I will head back to Pittentrail,” Magi Ro Hul said. “My men are loyal to me. I will make sure they do not go to war against Demetia or you. We will focus our e
fforts on the Huns. But I do not control our fleet. Admiral Muireach is loyal to Fergus.”

  “Do your best,” Arthur said.

  “Aye. I shall leave at once.”

  The Highlander general bowed before the royals and left by the great doors.

  “King Megolin,” Arthur said, after a moment. “If I may, I request a thousand of your best soldiers, all horse. We will head to Pittentrail. We will avoid fighting as much as we can. The mission is for me to speak with my father and bring him back.”

  Megolin pondered the request. It was a great risk. War was not something Demetia could afford.

  “Fine,” he finally said.

  “Call General Clyde to the great hall!” He shouted to the guards at the door.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” one of them said, and left.

  In a moment, the general marched into the hall, his sabatons striking the wooden floor as his cloak trailed behind him, his helmet held between his arm and his side.

  “You sent for me, Your Grace?”

  “Transfer a thousand of your best cavalrymen to Arthur,” the king said. “Prepare them to leave in an hour.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Clyde said, bowing his head as a drop of water fell from his long, silver beard.

  The general left and the doors closed.

  “I take my leave,” Arthur declared, to the royal Megolin family.

  “I shall follow,” Merlin said. “A thousand cloaks will be supplied to shield our force.”

  “Yes,” Megolin agreed.

  “Be careful, Arthur,” Igraine said. “The lives of all those here, and all who inhabit this isle are now uncertain. What happens henceforth is in your control.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Arthur said, the weight of the responsibility he carried growing painful on his shoulders.

  Arthur bowed to Megolin.

  Then he rose and walked to the doors as Merlin followed, his cloak glowing red.

  Outside, the rain had stopped. The neighing of horses could be heard as Clyde bellowed the command to assemble in the courtyard.

  The smoke of Olivie’s pyre could be seen in the distance, but Arthur could not look.

  Still, he felt his anger rise, and he walked toward the courtyard, following Merlin.