Pendragon and the Clash of Kingdoms Page 2

  His sabatons and cloak picking up mud as he left the palatial area, he could see cavalry trotting toward the courtyard, pennons, and the flag of Megolin streaming in the wind that chilled the city.

  The clouds were clearing, allowing moon and starlight to shine on the cobblestone and dirt roads.

  As they approached the courtyard, Merlin stopped and turned to him.

  “I must depart. A thousand cloaks for the horsemen and ourselves will be supplied momentarily.”

  Arthur nodded, and Merlin left.

  As Arthur arrived at the courtyard encircled by wooden and stone buildings, more cavalry piled in from the western and northern barracks.

  “Handpicked, my lord,” Clyde said, standing beside a guard post as he watched the cavalry assemble.

  “Good,” Arthur said.

  “My sympathies for your loss,” he added.

  Arthur turned to him.

  “I lost my wife during the last war with the Highlanders, fifty years ago. They had launched a raid. This very courtyard was burning.

  “I have learned to make peace with my loss, and not to look upon the Highlanders with hate. I assure you, my lord, it is a far better path than anger.”

  “I appreciate your words,” Arthur said, turning back to the cavalry as the last riders formed the battalion.

  Clyde motioned for Arthur to address the men.

  “Men!” Arthur shouted. “Warriors of Demetia! King Megolin has entrusted me with your lives. You are the best horsemen this kingdom has. But war or battle is not our objective. We are to reach Pittentrail. Cloaks supplied by Merlin will be used to hide our approach. You will surround the city. Do not attack even if they arrest me. Only do so if I launch a burning arrow, or if Bulanid attacks with his Huns. You will recognize their foul faces from a mile away. Uther, my father, is the man I seek to return to reason. Do not attack him for any reason. Understood?”

  “Yes, my lord,” they all shouted back.

  Merlin appeared, almost out of nowhere.

  “Wear these,” Merlin said, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

  One by one, the horsemen and their horses disappeared as they wrapped themselves in Merlin’s special cloaks, meant for their horses as well. Passed around by servants, all that was soon seen was an empty courtyard.

  “Dawn will be here in three hours,” Merlin told Arthur.

  The Roman nodded.

  “Here is your horse,” Verovingian said, walking up to them with Boadicea and Merlin’s horse. “And the horn of Demetia. Sound it thrice when you return should there be danger.”

  “Thank you, friend,” Arthur said, and walked over.

  “May Gaea watch over you,” Verovingian said.

  Arthur nodded before taking the horn, placing his armored feet in the stirrups, and vaulting up onto his horse.

  Merlin passed him a cloak just as King Megolin and Igraine appeared at the end of one of the streets leading to the courtyard.

  They stepped up to the dais.

  “May Gaea watch over you,” Megolin said.

  “Goodbye, Your Grace. Goodbye, Mother.”

  Merlin ascended his destrier and wrapped the cloak around himself.

  He disappeared.

  Arthur, seeing through his halfhelm, wrapped the glowing cloak around his torso and horse.

  He turned Boadicea around. Connected by the cloaks, he could see the horsemen again, and they cleared a path as he rode to the front.

  Merlin followed behind, and within minutes they were leading the battalion out of the forest.

  They emerged outside and beheld the rolling plains of Demetia as the moon set in the west.

  Invisible to all others, the thousand horsemen followed as Arthur broke into a gallop, headed for Pittentrail.

  3

  The Other Side of Treason

  Magi Ro Hul stormed through the doors of King Fergus’ court.

  “Your Grace,” he said, dropping to his knee.

  “Magi Ro Hul, where have you been?” The king bellowed.

  “I travel from Demetia. Olivie is no longer with us.”

  Fergus’ face turned pale as the members of his court looked at the general.

  “The arrow that hit Arthur hit her as well,” Magi said, boiling himself.

  “It was Gallagher who fired that arrow.”

  Magi looked at Fergus. “What?” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace, that was not my intention,” Gallagher said.

  Magi Ro Hul turned and saw him standing at the entrance. Just the look of the barbarian was enough to turn the great general cold. He eyed him cruelly.

  “I truly did not mean for that,” Gallagher said, ignoring Magi Ro Hul.

  Fergus stared at the heir to the Empire.

  “Is your army ready to depart?” King Fergus asked.

  “Yes, sire,” Gallagher said, much to Magi Ro Hul’s worry. “They will depart for Demetia within the hour.”

  “Magi Ro Hul,” Fergus said, “call the army to arms. March for Demetia. This time, there will be no negotiations.”

  Magi Ro Hul looked at him. The King Fergus he knew the day Arthur arrived had long since passed. He stared only at a madman. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said, tasting bile at the back of his throat.

  He turned to leave the court, followed by Gallagher.

  Passing the guards as he made his way to the stairwell, he considered what he was about to do. His king had ordered him to deploy the army. Gallagher was preparing to set out for Demetia, and he was to lead ten thousand men alongside him. Fergus knew Demetia had allied with Arthur, and the Highlander king was not hesitant to restart the war that had lasted generations and took decades to end.

  Passing the prime minister’s and the other council members’ official chambers, he reached the front doors, guarded by two dressed in gold.

  He hurried to sound the gongs and ring the bells.

  Captains and lieutenants assembled in the commanders’ hall.

  “His Grace has ordered us to march for Demetia,” he said, solemnly.

  None of the officers liked what they were hearing. He was counting on it.

  “Lord Gallagher and his army will be heading there as well. Demetia’s forces number only five thousand. They will not be able to hold out against twenty thousand Highlanders and Huns.”

  Chatter suddenly erupted as the officers realized they would be marching with Huns, the reviled rejects of the known world.

  “Silence!” Magi Ro Hul boomed, and so it fell on the hall.

  With only the sound of the fire crackling in the hearths, the Highlander general eyed his men.

  “We will march for Demetia,” he said. “And we will defend them. We will attack when the time is right.”

  The men stayed silent.

  What their general was contemplating was treason, punishable by death. The alternative was a war that would break the peace that had till now been secure.

  “Aye, my lord,” Captain Holdsbar stood up. “We will follow you, if it is for the good of our people, and for all people.”

  “Aye,” another said.

  “Aye,” the rest of the officers one by one agreed.

  Magi Ro Hul eyed the wisdom and the loyalty of his men with relief. But he knew what they were promising. Should they fail, should King Fergus fail to see reason, things far worse than death would be served to them, for these men valued honor and peace more than they did their lives.

  “However, no matter what,” Magi Ro Hul said, “do not harm Lord Uther.”

  Within the hour, horns were roaring from the watchtowers as officers shouted orders. Soldiers on foot, marching with their spears and swords, filed out of the city as cavalry trotted out. Banners and pennons streamed in the wind as the Highlander army amassed outside the gates.

  Magi
Ro Hul watched from atop his cart horse as two thousand horse and eight thousand foot marched out in three columns.

  The sun was approaching its zenith. A cool breeze rustled the trees and the grass.

  The army would be at Demetia by the witching hour.

  Magi Ro Hul turned and saw with anger that Gallagher, clad in the armor of Arthur, his cape falling from his horse, led nine thousand Hun prisoners, all dressed in Highlander attire, out of the city, with Uther beside him.

  Magi Ro Hul straightened. He knew Arthur was setting out to meet with his father.

  The Roman eagle streamed in the wind as Hun standard-bearers marched among the two legions Gallagher had divided them into.

  Magi Ro Hul turned back to his men.

  The cavalry was at the front, all holding their spears and waiting for their general’s command.

  Captains and lieutenants sat astride their horses, apart from the cavalry phalanxes, while infantry commanders stood aside from their men. All of them knew their true plan. None of them had disagreed.

  “Men!” Magi Ro Hul shouted as he rode before the cavalry. “Soldiers of Caledonia! Highlanders! Today, we attack the accursed Southrons who dare challenge our rule! They harbor a greater enemy, the lost son of the heir to the Roman Empire! Today, we seize him, and today, we fight for the glory of Pittentrail, for the honor of our fathers, and for all those who died in our wars with them!”

  “Yah!” The Highlanders bellowed. Even the guards atop the walls cheered. Soldiers beat their shields as the cavalrymen raised their spears.

  Magi Ro Hul turned to Gallagher.

  From afar, the Hun general watched the scene with anger.

  “How dare he make a claim to the glory that should be mine?” He bellowed, thinking of his hatred for Arthur.

  “They will fail,” Uther said. “The glory will be ours. Justice will be served.”

  “Quite true,” Gallagher responded as trebuchet crews emerged with their catapults.

  There was a total of a dozen, six amongst the Hun army, and six amongst the Highlander force, with wagons carrying buckets of tar following, the horses neighing as they pulled their burdens forward.

  Magi Ro Hul looked back at his men.

  He drew his greatsword, the light of the sun reflecting in the fullers of his blade and the gems that formed the eyes of the pommel, carved in the likeness of a wolf.

  He turned his horse towards the mountain pass only Highlanders knew how to traverse. Then he swung his sword toward the mountainside and broke into a gallop.

  The army cheered as the ranks of cavalry followed, their hooves shaking the ground while the infantry ran behind. The horses dragging the trebuchets and wagons of tar raced forward, trained for stamina, distance, and speed despite their burden.

  ***

  Gallagher watched as the Highlander army raced toward the mountain pass, angry that Magi Ro Hul had set out before him.

  “Charge!” he shouted.

  Uther galloped towards the pass while the Hun expendables ran after the two riders, leaving the trebuchets rolling slowly behind.

  Dropping their banners as they ran, they thundered towards the pass as if they were attacking an enemy.

  In minutes, the Highlander column had thinned to lines of ten and were steadily but hastily making their way out of the valley.

  ***

  Magi Ro Hul charged for the top of the road, his horse expertly maneuvering through the dirt, roots, and rocks. Loose dirt and smooth granite made the ascent dangerous, presenting opportunities to slip.

  But the Highlander warhorses and the men on foot knew their way and were thundering across the rolling plains by noon. The catapults arrived later, filing out of the pass one by one.

  Gallagher’s army was nowhere to be seen.

  4

  The Rise of the Huns

  Late afternoon was kind to the Huns and the Franks of occupied Paris. A cool breeze disturbed the shops along the Sequena River, where Hun soldiers and Franks themselves were buying food, clothing, and jewelry from the shop-owners. The Huns used the gold they’d looted from the city, willing to be more humane than they’d ever been.

  Merchants from Italy were buying and selling at the busy river that had caused the creation of this great city.

  The city was alive with chatter, but none of the Franks were smiling.

  Attila watched the activity of the day with impatience, waiting for news.

  Then the great doors to his chambers opened, and hurried footsteps were heard.

  Attila turned and darted back from the balcony.

  The lone Hun panted to regain his breath. “I bring news from the isle, Your Grace,” he said.

  By the tone of his voice and the look of his face, Attila knew something had gone wrong. “Speak,” he said.

  “General Lispania’s forces were defeated at Dornoch. Nine thousand were taken prisoner. We were ambushed while they were still debarking. The enemy commander told me I was to send a message.”

  “What message?” Attila asked, raging with anger.

  “‘I am Arthur.’”

  Attila stared at the messenger, his fiery eyes looking directly at the man’s soul.

  “And what of Bishkar?” He asked, quietly.

  “I know nothing, Your Grace.”

  “Sound the drums,” Attila said. “Send for Gerlach.”

  In moments, the drums were beating, calling for the assembly of the twenty-thousand Hun warriors and the twenty-thousand Frank prisoners they had made expendables. Gerlach appeared at the door. The guards recoiled at his movement, moving aside to let the Hun commander walk.

  His right eye was scarred and white. Battle scars lined his face. A section of his scalp where fire had burned him appeared gnarled and deformed. His hair was a thin layer, hanging from his head to his ears.

  Attila could smell his breath from two feet away.

  His flared nose huffed as he walked over, the Hun insignia tattooed on his face. Tattered fur cloaks clothed him. They all reeked of mead and filth.

  “Your Grace,” he said, bowing before the shorter Hun, his guttural voice echoing.

  “Gerlach, you are now general of my armies. Lispania has failed. Arthur, the same Roman filth who killed your father, killed him. You are to lead the invasion. Call the ships from Le Havre. Lead the Huns to the shores of Britannia. Find Arthur. Capture him and kill all who try to stop you.”

  Gerlach smirked. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  The seven-foot giant turned and left, while Attila returned to the balcony to see thousands of Hun warriors marching through the streets of Paris.

  The drums continued to beat as captains loaded their men onto the line of triremes and galleys, a few more having been built along the Sequena by the Frank slaves. The expendables were lashed with ropes as they walked across the gangplanks.

  Slaves, chained to their oars, sat ready to row out to the channel.

  As a crow left Paris, bound for Le Havre with a message, nine hundred men each crammed aboard the triremes and commandeered Frank ships.

  Captains bellowed orders as the Huns prepared to leave.

  Gerlach was watching the soldiers form their ranks with joy. He had been fighting for Attila since he was a tween. His father had been a general, and he was commander of the expendables. He knew not who Lispania was, only that he was just another one of the thousands he once commanded. Now, he led forty thousand Huns. By the time they landed on the coast of Britannia, the fleet from Le Havre would’ve landed as well.

  Then, he would lead fifty thousand Hun warriors and expendables. All the tribes, all the kingdoms, all the people of Britannia would bow to the mighty Huns.

  Gerlach relished the prospect. A skilled warrior, his chipped gladius, captured from a Roman general he had slain, had long been ready for battle. The long repose they had had
at Paris had turned the thirty-year-old impatient for war.

  5

  Legion of Rome

  Tiberius watched the city of Paris from his warhorse, the plume of his helmet rustling in the wind.

  His crimson cape flowed from his back, the crest of his family embossed on his cuirass. Bucephalus, as he had named his horse, neighed as he watched the Hun army preparing for departure.

  Suddenly, a Hun rider appeared a hundred yards away, thundering toward the Roman legion.

  Tiberius watched as the five thousand legionaries and cavalry stood to attention behind him, the banners of Rome’s armies streaming in the wind.

  The lone rider stopped just a few feet away.

  “His Grace, King Attila has been aware of your presence since you began tracking us,” the Hun said.

  Tiberius grew angry. It was an insult to his ability.

  “He calls you to join his forces that are now departing for Britannia. He calls you to join the attack. But Arthur and Uther are his. He promises Rome will regain the land it once held across the Narrow Sea.”

  Tiberius glared at the rider.

  “I will consult the emperor,” he said.

  “Very well. You have three days.”

  The Hun messenger turned and rode off, back to Paris.

  Tiberius turned angrily to a messenger who was already walking toward him.

  “Send word to Emperor Lucius. Ask him for approval.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the Roman said.

  Vaulting onto his Berber, he galloped past the legion, and then turned straight for Rome.

  6

  The Reckoning

  They had not stopped but to water their horses.

  Now, with the sun past its zenith, the unseen battalion still charged north.

  They were almost at Inver Ridge.

  Arthur, still raging with grief and anger, had gone ahead of the Demetian cavalry. Eagles soared above them.

  Arthur looked up and thought of Alexander who saw the eagle at the Battle of Gaugamela, perceiving that Zeus was on his side.