Pendragon and the Clash of Kingdoms

by C J Brown

  “You were bound by greed,” Arthur said.

  “Greed?” Uther shouted, mad with rage.

  “You regarded the throne with greater importance than your own family. And now you seek to make things right by helping your son, no matter what he is.”

  “You think you know me,” Uther said. “You are mistaken. I am a Roman. You are nothing like it.”

  Arthur paused, feeling lost.

  “No,” he said. “I am not a Roman. The golden age of Rome has long since passed. Now, all that remains is the corruption, evil, and greed of unworthy emperors.”

  “You dare insult your people?” Uther bellowed. “The emperors?”

  “No,” Arthur said. “I speak only the truth. You saw it before. You were going to change things.”

  Uther looked like a mad dog about to attack.

  “Rome is greatest. I am its emperor, and so it shall be a city of the gods.”

  “Father, you must see reason,” Arthur responded, abandoning the debate about Rome. “Bulanid is not your son. He never was. He never knew you. He never learned from you. He was never with you. But I was. You taught me everything I know, you and Mother. You may have loved another before, but then you grew to love Mother, and if you only give life a chance, you will see that you can right your wrongs with your family, with your new life. Gallagher is not your son. His fate is not in your hands. He doesn’t love you.”

  Uther paused.

  “Where is he?”

  “Gone,” Arthur said. “He retreated with his Huns. He’s a Hun general, Father.”

  “My own flesh and blood leading the enemy,” Uther said.

  “He may be your flesh and blood, but he is nothing like you. I am. I do not want the throne. I do not even want to be heir. All I’m asking for is for the man who taught me that honor was the greatest principle, that family was the only truly important thing. And family goes beyond blood. One may be a parent, or a child, but still not be family if one does not care for other family members, or does not see family for almost forty years, at the start of which one was but a child.”

  Uther remained silent, his face showing the grief and anger he harbored.

  Arthur could feel it.

  “As we speak, seventy thousand Huns are attacking this land. They landed last night. They will lay waste to the isle. They will burn cities to the ground. Slaves will grow their army. If we do not stand together, there is no hope. If King Fergus remains lost, there is no hope. Unity, Father, is what makes a people survive. But once they are fighting each other, any chance of defeating a greater peril is lost. So, even if only for the good of the world, I beseech you, put aside your pain, and march with me.”

  Uther stared at him.

  “Lies!” He shouted. “You say this only to trick me. But it will not work.”

  Arthur closed his eyes as a tear rolled down his cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” Arthur said, and turned to leave.

  “Fool!” He shouted. “My son will return. He will free me from this prison! You will fall. This accursed kingdom will fall!”

  Arthur stormed out of the room and headed towards the stairwell. Rushing toward the front doors, he burst out of the palace within minutes.

  Running down the oaken steps, he almost collapsed as he struggled to regain his senses. He was losing his father more day by day. Arthur did not know what to do.

  “Do not relent,” he heard Merlin say. “He is Uther, father of Arthur. He will not abandon you.”

  Arthur cried at Merlin’s words, unable to see.

  “How?” He said.

  “Be his son.”

  Arthur’s eyes opened.

  Wiping away his tears, he stood back up, and walked back to the great hall, where he had first met King Megolin a lifetime ago.

  As he walked toward his seat, Megolin rose.

  “Arthur,” he said, “your suggestion is wise. There isn’t much time, so you will depart for Rodwin as soon as possible. We will send emissaries to the other lands as well. Travel light. A small contingent of fifty men will go with you.”

  Arthur hid the pain of the conversation he had just had with his father.

  “Yes, Your Grace. I shall leave at once.”

  Within moments, Arthur was donning his armor.

  He had cleaned it the night before. His sharpened sword sat on the great oak table by his bed.

  With all but his helmet fitted, he buckled his sword and walked out with his great normar on his mop of black hair.

  His Demetian cloak flowing behind him, he walked to his horse, handled by Verovingian.

  “Friend,” he said, “Gaea has something planned for you. I know not what it is, but it is something great.”

  Arthur looked at his friend, puzzled.

  “How do you know?”

  “When you are connected with nature, with the way of things, what will happen appears easily to you.”

  Arthur nodded. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Verovingian smiled.

  Arthur vaulted up onto his horse and raised his hand to Verovingian.

  Pulling the reins, he galloped toward the spot where he had seen the people of Demetia assemble to greet him, when he first arrived the day they landed at Inver Ridge.

  Trumpets were blaring from the city guard posts as fifty cavalrymen began following Arthur. Carrying pennons and a banner, the Demetians formed up before him. Emissaries were preparing beside him, all leading contingents of fifty horses. They would set out for the rest of the tribes and kingdoms.

  The sound of hooves striking the dried leaves and dirt rang loud as Arthur eyed his men.

  “We travel north, to Rodwin,” he said, “to seek an audience with Lord Lancelot. We go there in peace. Only should we see the Huns do we draw our swords.”

  “Yes, my lord,” they said.

  Arthur, his face cold, turned his horse around.

  Breaking into a gallop he charged amidst the trees, his horse jumping over fallen barks as it raced.

  Behind, fifty horses thundered after him, charging through the ash that still drifted through the air.

  11

  Darkness Rising

  The expendables roared across the plains as the Hun cavalry charged from behind.

  Arrows flew up from the streets of Egolith, the Demetian city closest to the shore.

  Trebuchets hurled stones and fireballs that trailed smoke and streaked through the dawn air as the expendables collided with the lances of the cavalry who stood guard by the main gate.

  Gerlach watched from the ridge as twenty thousand Franks battled the Demetian cavalry and infantry.

  Line upon line of expendables were falling to the will of the Demetian warriors and Gerlach grew angry.

  He hadn’t been expecting such strong resistance.

  But he would soon unleash the true force of the Hun empire, and the cities of Demetia would crumble.

  ***

  He slashed at a Frankish fellow, clad in Hun colors, as he struggled to hold the line.

  “Stay together, men!” The commander bellowed.

  He looked up and saw a fireball streaking toward them.

  It crashed just yards away, sending chunks of burning hay flying toward them.

  Horses reared as the men struggled to hold their place.

  “Archers!” Captain Simron shouted, and at once another arrow raced up into the air. Simron was a man of few words, but when he shouted, hundreds fell to his command.

  Smoke spiraled up amidst the fog as the wood-line burned, set alight by flame hurled up by Demetian catapults.

  From all around, the Huns were charging toward the city.

  Axes, swords, and spears crashed against the circle shields of the Demetian cavalry.

  Simron raised his shield and pushed aside a Hun sword.
Then he cut the Hun down with his own blade and turned to slash at another attacking his brethren just to his left.

  “Left flank!” The resolute captain shouted.

  Simron turned and saw a mass of Huns thundering toward them from the east.

  At once, the line of horses forming the left side of the phalanx turned and aimed their lances at the enemy.

  “Right flank!”

  At once, Simron turned, his sword shining from the fires that burned around them.

  “Hold the line!”

  Simron stared through his nasal helmet at the Huns as they ran, an army of darkness, of all things reviled.

  The sound of their shrieks and their stomps echoed across the burning plains of Egolith when Simron raised his sword, and they ran through the cavalry phalanx just ahead. He cut down the first Hun that crashed into them.

  Simron struck Hun after Hun till his arm burned. His shield bristled with arrows as the ranks of the enemy appeared before them like the Persian Immortals who defeated the Spartans at the Battle of Thermopylae.

  As he slashed around his horse, a stone flew through the air and struck the wall above them.

  Shouts rang out as guards atop the parapets fell with the stones. One of the watchtowers collapsed, crushing a number of the warriors behind Simron.

  The Demetian banner fell to the ground as the Huns redoubled the attack.

  Around him, his brothers fell, their horses rearing in pain as the Huns sent them retreating over the fallen rocks.

  Simron thundered into the city and watched as the Huns poured in.

  He was slashing at one of them when a spear hit his horse.

  It reared, throwing him off.

  Landing on the dirt road, he jumped up as the horse fell to the ground.

  Fighting on foot, he parried every blow and cut down Huns as they flooded the city.

  A few cavalrymen still fought with him, while the remaining phalanxes were being sent retreating back through the gates.

  Archers picked off Huns from the remaining watchtowers and the buildings, but fire and stone crashed into the houses and shops. Hun arrows took out the soldiers as Simron fought, his shield before him.

  Then an arrow hit his chest.

  He stumbled back, blood leaking from his lungs as they flooded.

  Dazed, and struggling to breathe, he lunged at a Hun soldier, cutting him down, when another arrow hit him. Bristling from his shoulder, he dropped his shield and fell to his knees.

  Slashing Huns as they ran around him, he was hit with another arrow, then another.

  Coughing up blood, he swung his blade at one of the barbarians.

  His vision growing blurry, and his lungs struggling to breathe, his eyes darted back and forth as the Huns raced through the city. Buildings were engulfed in flame as the enemy carried off gold and silver.

  A blade slashed Simron’s chest, and he fell back, his eyes staring blankly at the sky.

  12

  The Eagle Has Landed

  Tiberius led his legion through the streets of Paris, the first Roman general to walk the city in decades.

  The banner of Rome was looked on with disgust by the Franks and Huns alike, and Tiberius could feel their hatred.

  He didn’t care. He would be the emperor’s greatest general. Perhaps Lucius would appoint him heir, endowing him with the greatest power. As emperor, Tiberius would grow the Roman Empire more than any of his predecessors had. He would see Roman garrisons as far as the uncharted west. He would occupy all of Britannia, the cold lands to the north. Rome would be the greatest city for the rest of time.

  The legionnaires of Chimaerum marched with discipline. The horses of the cavalry neighed as they traversed the cobblestone road.

  A line of war galleys was awaiting them at the Sequena, along with Hun captains and slaves.

  Tiberius stopped before the gangplank of the first galley. “Make haste!” he shouted. “We leave at once.”

  “Move!” A Hun captain bellowed.

  At once the legionnaires marched with their shields over the gangplank. Filing onto the deck, five hundred of them took their place while the rest boarded the remaining ships. Tiberius would have preferred they were all galleys, but there hadn’t been enough time to build them. They’d have to make do with merchant ships, boats, and other vessels.

  Once the legionaries and the cavalry had boarded the ships, around the trebuchets that each galley carried, Tiberius turned, not looking at the Hun captain who stood beside him and galloped onto the deck.

  Jumping down, he landed with a thud as the Hun captain raced aboard and shouts were bellowed to remove the gangplanks.

  Tiberius looked north.

  He could not see the Narrow Sea, though he could in his mind.

  He envisioned a grand campaign. He would use the Huns, see them capture Arthur and Uther, then seize them and defeat the barbarians. Lucius would appoint him as heir.

  Smirking, he heard the captain shout for the sails to be deployed and for the slaves to start rowing.

  Men, broken by evil, propelled the ships out to sea amidst dawn air, just two days since the Hun messenger had forwarded Attila’s proposal. The Roman rider had returned, fatigued with travel, only to pass on the answer of the emperor and fall unconscious.

  He was left to the care of the Franks.

  Less than three hours later, a storm was brewing over the Narrow Sea as the galleys and triremes heaved.

  Tiberius looked around to see some of the boats drifting away uncontrollably while the smaller ones sank. Only the galleys and triremes made it safely to the shore.

  As rain pelted the sails and the deck, the galley halted suddenly, amongst the Hun ships that had sailed for Britannia two days past.

  High tide sent waves that destabilized the Hun triremes and galleys.

  “Debark!” The Hun captain bellowed over the storm.

  Tiberius gave no counter-order, and so the legionnaires streamed from the decks as the cavalry thundered off.

  They raced up the beach as lightning clapped above. Tiberius jumped from the deck with his horse and thundered up to the rocks.

  “March!” He shouted, as the legion assembled, and the horses formed their ranks around them.

  Drawing his sword, he turned and strode towards the forest, leading the cohorts off the beach, and marching on the lands of Britannia, the first such legion in centuries.

  13

  Sputtering Alliances

  Arthur and his contingent of fifty riders approached the walls of Rodwin as the sun shone from high above.

  Archers could be seen lining the parapets, but none of them were aiming arrows at the Demetians.

  The banner of a wreath hung above the main gate.

  Arthur stopped a stone’s throw from the raised drawbridge.

  “We arrive in peace,” Arthur bellowed at the commander above the gate.

  “Clearly,” he said. “Or else you’d be dead by now.”

  Silence grew as Arthur watched the wall and the Demetian banner flew in the wind.

  “I do not recognize you,” the man said.

  “I am Arthur. I am not of this land,” the general responded.

  “What’s your clan?”

  Arthur lost his thought for a moment, his brow losing its structure at the question that almost sent the blood draining from his head.

  “I have no family,” he said, painfully.

  The man of Rodwin looked at Arthur with pity.

  “Let them through!” he ordered.

  Arthur looked to see the drawbridge lower across the moat, filled with tar and bristling with spikes.

  The portcullis creaked as it rose upward, behind which the same man he had just spoken to appeared, and Arthur strode forward, leading the Demetian cavalry to the gate.

  They rode throu
gh the gate, amassing by the wall as the drawbridge was raised and the portcullis lowered.

  “Normally, the city is free for travelers,” the man said, “but we know what has taken place recently. The isle is no longer safe.”

  Arthur nodded.

  “I am the guardian of these borders,” the man said, to Arthur’s surprise. “State your purpose.”

  “Lord Lancelot,” Arthur said, jumping down from his horse. “The isle is about to be overrun by Huns. King Fergus has already allied with them, though he does not know it. The Highlander army has joined us, but Fergus will not relent. There is one named Bulanid Mehmet, or Gallagher. He has turned the Caledonian king against the Demetians, myself, and any who stand against him. If he continues fighting this war, there is no hope of defeating the barbarians.”

  Lancelot eyed him carefully.

  Arthur was not lying. But what was he asking?

  “If you are requesting our help, I’m sorry, but we cannot. We have hardly enough men to defend our borders from possible threats of the isle. Now that Fergus has gone mad, we must be ready to fight the Highlanders. We cannot fight the Huns as well. Let’s speak in the great hall.”

  “No, there is no time,” Arthur said urgently.

  Lancelot nodded.

  “Emissaries have been sent to the other fourteen tribes and kingdoms. It is the will of Demetia, for the good of the isle and all who live here that we band together to defeat the sixty-thousand strong Huns who remain on our shores. Turn Fergus back to reason, somehow, but we must unite, or else all is lost.”

  “The Huns are a despicable race. There is no doubt about that,” Lancelot answered, thoughtfully. “They overrun Roman legions. There’s a good chance they’ve defeated the Franks too.”

  “That’s true,” Arthur said.

  Lancelot’s face turned grim.

  “The Franks are the greatest fighting force the continent has seen, second to the Romans. The Huns are stronger than both because of their brutality, their barbaric ways, and their unmatched numbers. When they were first at their strongest, they commanded almost a million men, threatening Gaul’s borders and Italy itself. They were defeated only by the actions of a wise emperor. But long has it been since the Empire was ruled by someone worthy. Now, with almost sixty thousand warriors, they storm the isle. If there is no hope, we can only flee.”