by David Noel
The Centurions:
The Dragon’s Prophecy
By
D.W. Noel
Explore the world further at:
The World of the Centurions
Copyright © 2019 David W. Noel
Alethe Publishing
Our Website
Dedicated to:
Everyone fighting a spiritual battle in their life right now. Put on the full Armor of God so that in the end you may stand.
Soli Deo Gloria
Special thanks to:
My daughter Melody who got to put her English degree to work helping me revise and edit this book.
Leonardo Guinard who created the book cover and dramatic artwork within the book.
Husni Bramantyo who created the maps and technical artwork in the glossary.
Explore the world further at:
The World of the Centurions
Contents
Preface
Maps
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Appendix A: Glossary
Armor and Shields
Gambeson
Chain Mail
Lamellar
Mail and Plate
Round shield
Scutum
Weapons
Bow, Self:
Bow, Composite:
Francisca
Gladius/Gladia
Glaive
Messer
Seax
Centurion Steel
Centurion Medicine
Castle Parts
Preface
Inspired by the Chronicles of Narnia, this book is first and foremost an adventure book written for young people. Set in 946 A.D., near the end of what would be considered the "Early Middle Ages", it is a time of knights and castles, mythical creatures and foreign and invaders. Technological innovation is once again advancing and Christianity has been established throughout Europe.
The Order of the Centurion is a Christian, military order created by Charlemagne's Twelve Peers to protect Christendom. It is built around families so that both men and women serve as knights and shieldmaidens. The story is told from the perspective of its Christian characters and asks questions about faith in times of crisis as the characters try to head off an invasion and defeat a dragon.
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Maps
The World of the Centurions: 946 A.D.
Charlemagne’s Empire of the Franks is falling apart. His vision of recreating the western Roman Empire under the leadership of the Frankish people has faded in the century since his death and Francia has split into smaller kingdoms. Moors to the west, Vikings to the north, and Hungarians and Bulgarians to the east all threaten the Christian kingdoms of central Europe and the Eastern Roman Empire. Technology is advancing and trade with China is thriving on routes that pass through Constantinople and India. Pirates infest the seas, knights fight battles for conquest and glory, dragons rule the wild places, werewolves haunt the forests, and darker things prowl the edges of civilization. This is the world of the Centurions, a Christian, military order founded by Charlemagne's Twelve Peers to protect Christendom from all that threatens it, both human and monstrous.
Castle Warrick: Home to Sir Gerard, Lady Evelyn, Miss Portia, and Miss Marcia. It is the headquarters for the Order of the Centurion in the Eastern Marches. It is a technical marvel that is centuries ahead of its time. It is one of the first stone castles built at a time when nearly all other castles were made of wood. It has running water and a simple sewer system. Most of the time the castle has a complement of 20-25 knights and shield maidens, 25-30 squires and handmaidens, and about 100 men-at-arms. Add 50-60 support personnel and the castle's normal population is about 200-220 people. It has an extremely large bailey that can serve as a staging ground for over a 1,000 troops when the Order prepares for major military operations. It would be a very large castle in any era but it is enormous by the standards of the 10th century.
Chapter 1
“Never underestimate the patience of the Black”
The Centurion Book of Beasts – Folio IV: Dragons
She lay in the darkness waiting with the terrible patience of her kind; her thoughts were cold and hard. The faintest sound of scratching came from within one of her eggs and she uncoiled to examine it. A tilt of her ear and a sniff through her nostrils confirmed what she already knew, it was hatching. She allowed herself the tiniest spark of joy.
The first egg cracked as the tip of a claw broke through it from the inside and began to rip it apart. Its scent was spicy and potent, she knew it well, it was the Red. That was to be expected, hatching first was the way of the Reds. Another moment of thrashing and tearing and it had freed itself from the last remains of the eggshell. It blinked at her in the dim, bluish light and tried to focus on her face. She purred at it with the incredibly deep purr that only a dragon could produce. Satisfied, it turned and began to stumble clumsily around the cavern, sniffing and flapping its wings. The other eggs began to break open one by one, each in its own way and time. Next was the Orange, then the Yellow, the Green, the Blue, and the Violet. She inspected each one happily, watching them crawl over and snap at each other. All were healthy. That was a good sign, it showed that the fates were with her. She watched the last egg hatch. It was the Black of course; this was the way of the Black, to be the smallest and the last, the weakest and the craftiest. She inspected it closely and was pleased to see that it too was healthy; it would make an excellent meal for the rest. She crushed it beneath her great claw, ripped it apart, and began to feed it to its brothers and sisters who fought over each morsel hungrily.
There were those on the Council who had called for allowing every newborn to live. Too many dragons are dying at the hands of men, they said, our numbers are declining. But the Black held to the old ways, only a fool allowed a competitor of one’s own color to grow up under one’s own feet. Besides, the other’s needed to eat. She smiled to herself, the waiting was almost over; it was time to begin planning.
Chapter 2
“The difference between retreating from a battle and withdrawing from one depends upon which side you are on when it happens.”
The Centurion Guide to Practical Advice – Chapter 1: Proverb 7
Brendan saw the tree root just in time. In the gathering twilight most people would have missed it but he was used to working in the shadows. He brought his right foot down short and leapt for a low hanging branch, his left foot barely clearing the root as he swung over it. The rough bark tore the skin o
ff his hand but he had more important things to worry about at the moment. He landed in a large patch of mud on the far side of the root and slipped but managed to avoid going down. Somehow, he was able to keep his feet under him and keep running. His heart pounding, he sucked in a breath. He wasn’t dead yet. He heard a sharp thud and a string of curses from behind him. At least one of his pursuers had not cleared the root. A moment later there was the sound of a branch breaking then another hard thud followed by more grunts and cursing. It was impossible to say for sure, but Brendan guessed that a second pursuer had tried to jump over the fallen body of the first, grabbed for the branch, and then landed on his companion when it broke under his weight. With a little luck, whoever was on the bottom would be out of the chase for a while.
“You better say your prayers now because I am going to kill you when I catch you, boy!” Came a gasping shout from behind him as Brendan sped on.
Right, thought Brendan, like I’m going to waste my breath on prayer.
The voice sounded like Marcus, so maybe luck was with him. Marcus was the only member of the gang with any brains and if he was one of the two who had gone down then Brendan just might be able to escape into the encroaching darkness after all.
Brendan rushed on. Anger fueled their speed, but desperation fueled his. Marcus, like the rest of the toughs, was only a year or two older than Brendan but he already fancied himself a man, so he took any insult to his shadowy manhood very seriously, especially when it came to money. His little gang was only capable of rolling drunks and robbing old women on their way to the market but in his mind, they were a band of cutthroats that nobody in the town dared to cross. Nobody, that is, until a wandering thief who was just passing through saw them being sloppy with their money. Brendan had separated them from their meager collection of silver and copper coins and would have gotten away with it if small towns weren’t so good at noticing strangers passing through. Marcus and his gang had jumped to a conclusion which, in this case, had turned out to be correct. This was the problem with having no home, no family, and no honest skills, he was always on the move and the worst kinds of people were always trying to teach him respect.
The sun was setting, and the shadows cast by the trees were getting longer and deeper. Outside of the forest it was still twilight but within the gloom of the woods, nightfall had already arrived. Brendan knew that he couldn’t keep running, he would trip over another root or run into a tree in the darkness and that would be the end of the pursuit. As soon as he was sure that he was completely enveloped in the shadows of the trees he ducked to the right and stopped hard. Silently, he eased his way through the deep pools of twilight to the next tree over and squatted down to reduce his profile.
Brendan’s clothes were both dark and non-descript, perfect for blending into a city crowd or forest shadows. He shrank back even deeper into the gloom, pulled the wide brim of his hat down over his face, and disappeared. His lungs were screaming for air, but he had been in too many situations where the difference between being silent and being almost silent was the difference between being alive and being dead. He mastered his lungs and the quiet was complete.
He could hear his pursuers blunder past him deeper into the woods, but he dared not look up.
“I think we’ve lost him!” called one of the boys. It sounded like Rizzo.
“Keep on looking!” Yelled Marcus. “He must be around here somewhere; we’re only about a couple of furlongs from the river. He can’t go back, and he can’t go forward, he can only go north or south. Giovanni, take Albi and Simon and go north, Thomas and Pipp, head back the way we came, the rest of you come with me and we’ll catch him when he comes out of the woods. Do you hear me, boy?” Marcus asked in a loud voice, “there’s no escape!”
Brendan had been holding his breath the entire time that the gang had been standing there, barely five yards from his hiding place. Now his lungs were screaming at him trying to explode. Through sheer willpower he forced himself to slowly breathe out and take the quietest of breaths. A mosquito landed on his neck, but he had to be still and let it sample his blood since any movement could give away his position. He could hear the thugs moving off in their assigned directions, slapping and cursing at the swarms of mosquitoes that were beginning to come out in abundance in the approaching twilight. Eventually, he was sure from the sounds of their movements, that the gang members were far enough away for him to be safe. Brendan relaxed and let his lungs drink in the air that his body so desperately needed.
“There you are!” Marcus crowed.
Marcus had fooled him and Brendan cursed himself for his stupidity, he was not the only one who knew how to stay silent and hide in shadows. It had all been a ruse to flush him out of hiding. Marcus was head of his little gang of thieves for a reason.
Brendan took off straight ahead as hands grabbed at him. Marcus had a strong grip, but a desperate twist of his entire body managed to free Brendan’s arms momentarily from the bigger boy. Rizzo, Marcus’ lieutenant, lunged for him and missed. Brendan was off in a flash with Marcus and Rizzo only steps behind him.
On the positive side, there were only two young men pursuing him now as the others had moved off to make Brendan think that he was safe. On the negative side, both toughs were fast enough to catch him. One-on-one, Brendan thought he could take either boy in a fight, he was even willing to take his chances in an unarmed fight against both together. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be an unarmed fight since both gang members had their daggers in hand while Brendan’s dagger had been lost in Venice and his throwing knives were packed in his bag. Besides, Marcus was no fool, he had seen Brendan fight, he would simply stay out of reach and stall for a couple of minutes until the others came back and when that happened it would all be over. Brendan knew he was better off trying to escape.
He caught a glimpse of light through the trees and ran toward it. Travelers oftentimes camped by the river as they made their way through this territory and while his odds of getting help from a complete stranger were small, they were better than his odds of getting mercy from Marcus and his gang. At the very least, they might be a useful distraction.
The young thief tried to put on one last burst of speed from his exhausted legs but there was nothing left. Luckily, Marcus and Rizzo were in the same position. As Brendan came out of the trees, he saw a road and a small camp set up between it and the riverbank. He made a beeline for it, but the longer legs of the older boys began to close the gap in the wide-open space of the clearing. Brendan had almost made it to the road when he felt a hand grab him by the collar.
“At last!” Marcus huffed as he dragged Brendan to the ground, landing on top of him. Marcus tried to stab the younger boy with his dagger, but Brendan managed to grab his wrist and deflect the blade into the dirt. Brendan’s ground skills were pretty good, but he was exhausted and the other boy’s size and weight were a big advantage. Marcus grabbed Brendan’s throat with his other hand and began choking him. Rizzo began kicking him in the ribs.
“Here now! What’s going on?” An old man barked as he came trotting over with a staff in his hands. Rizzo stepped back, keeping his dagger in his hand and a wary eye on the stranger.
Marcus lifted himself partway off of Brendan but kept him pinned to the ground with a knee in his chest so he couldn’t get away. “None of your business, you old warthog! This is between him and us.”
Just as Marcus finished speaking, he was hit in the chest by the end of the old man’s staff. The thug found himself lying flat on his back with a look of total surprise on his face and the wind knocked out of him. Before he could catch his breath, another flick of the staff knocked the dagger out of his grasp. Rizzo tried to parry the staff with his dagger and rush the old man but a counterstrike with the staff knocked the dagger out of his hand as well. The traveler sidestepped his charge and tripped him as he ran by.
Rizzo rolled to his feet but a jab from the old man’s staff to his jaw, bloodied his mouth and knocked him down again. He co
uld see now that he was no match for the old man without his dagger so he leapt to his feet and ran off into the darkness as fast as his exhausted legs would carry him. The old man watched him go for a moment and then turned his attention back to Marcus who was still struggling to breathe.
“Be thankful that I didn’t put my staff up alongside of your head and lay you out until morning,” he growled. Brendan saw his own chance to escape and rolled to his feet ready to take off running in the opposite direction until he suddenly found himself lying face down in the road with the old man’s staff in between his ankles. “Whoa son, you’re not going anywhere either until I hear the full telling of this story. I know that he was attacking you, but I don’t know that you were innocent.”
Marcus struggled to his feet and looked like he was trying to decide what to do. The looming presence of a very large man walking up who looked like a block of granite but moved like a wolf seemed to answer the question for him and he bolted for the woods. Brendan had never seen such a large man move so quickly but in three steps he had caught up with the tough, grabbed him by the neck, and effortlessly directed him toward the campfire with a grip of iron.
