Pendragon and the Clash of Kingdoms Page 4

  But then a great horn echoed through the city.

  “Stop!” Arthur heard Bishkar bellow, far louder than any human could possibly shout.

  At once, the Huns stopped fighting, staring at their enemy with uncertainty.

  “Fall back!” Bishkar commanded.

  At once, the Hun expendables ran, pursued by Highlander and Demetian warriors.

  Many were cut down as they disappeared amidst the trees again.

  Arthur darted on foot, leading the charge through the enchanted forest.

  Archers picked off retreating Huns as the rest of them ran, screaming and disorganized, around the great fire that burned.

  Horses were galloping, some riderless.

  Soon, Arthur, the Caledonians, and the Demetians emerged in the open.

  Moon and starlight lit the grass where the light from the fires did not.

  The Huns were howling, racing away from the capital of Demetia as Bishkar led the retreat.

  Arthur returned to the courtyard.

  Surviving soldiers walked amongst the fallen. No one was cheering. For every Hun that lay dead, five Demetians were lost forever. Fires still burned. The dais from which Megolin and Igraine had attended the departure of Arthur and Merlin, just that morning, was collapsed.

  Arthur turned and saw Igraine standing with her royal guards. None of them had fallen, but they had cut down more than a hundred Huns.

  Arthur, his brow bleeding and dotted with sweat, fell to the ground.

  He heard the sound of a horse galloping and turned to see Merlin approaching.

  “Ten thousand souls lost,” he said. “Three thousand Demetians, two thousand Highlanders, and seven thousand Huns.”

  “Arthur,” Megolin rode toward them. “Are you all right?”

  Arthur nodded.

  “Where’s Magi Ro Hul?” he asked.

  “He is approaching,” Merlin announced, a moment later.

  As he had foretold, the Caledonian general walked toward them.

  An arrow protruded from his forearm.

  He pulled it out as he walked over.

  “Magi,” Arthur said.

  “Arthur.”

  “They will return,” Megolin announced. “And this time, we will not be able to defend.”

  7

  Imperial Ascent

  The rider thundered through the gates of Rome, his uniform enough to let him through.

  The hooves of his horse struck the cobblestone road as he galloped, headed for Palatine Hill.

  Halting just outside the imperial palace, columns rising up before him, he jumped down and ran up the steps, past the Praetorian Guards who watched the entrance.

  Bursting through the front doors, he raced toward the throne room, passing slaves, guards, and senators.

  He pushed open the great doors of the emperor’s throne room and heard the chatter between Lucius and Titus halt.

  “Hail Ceasar!” He said, saluting the emperor.

  “What news do you bring?” Lucius snarled, angry that his conversation had been broken.

  “General Tiberius requests your permission to join the Hun invasion of Britannia. King Attila promises Rome will regain its former territory there. But Arthur and Uther are his, the Hun messenger said. Attila is setting out from Paris with war galleys, triremes and thousands of Huns, sire.”

  Lucius eyed the man for a moment.

  “Yes,” he muttered to himself. “I will help this fool. Then I will seize the accursed Pendragons from him and annihilate his foul race.” He smiled.

  “Tell General Tiberius that he may follow the Huns. Five thousand of our legionaries are worth more than a million Huns. Go.”

  The messenger struck his chest and turned to leave.

  Lucius smiled.

  Things were going better than he had hoped.

  8

  Invasion

  Since they had occupied Paris, the Frank galleys and triremes had been modified for better landing.

  Ramps on either side of the bow would lower, allowing for most of the men to storm the beach while the rest jumped down from the deck. The galleys, with only a main deck, boasted ramps folded up at the bow, ready to be released.

  Gerlach stood at the prow of the lead galley as the slaves rowed the ship along the Sequena, leading the column of triremes, war galleys, and other Frank ships.

  Above, birds were circling, and along the banks, Franks watched as their enemy sailed to war.

  The drums were beating as the trebuchets sat ready for deployment amongst the Hun warriors who sailed the ships making for the Narrow Sea.

  Gerlach stared at the horizon with glee. Bred for war, peace was not what he desired. No, he had been trained to fight, to kill anyone who stood against him. His father, Adolphus, Attila, and the Hun king before this one had taught him that.

  If not for power, just battle alone was enough for him.

  The power of a hundred slaves rowing unceasingly, shouted at by Hun officers, and of the sails harnessing the wind, sent the ships toward the channel at a steady pace of ten knots.

  Wakes drew from the prows of the galleys and triremes.

  Forty thousand men, overcrowded and crammed into fewer than thirty ships, were ready for war.

  Gerlach knew his plan. He would land along the southern coast of Britannia, while the ships from Le Havre would land along the eastern shore and at Dornoch.

  From there, they would attack every kingdom, every tribe, every city. Only Arthur, Uther, and the Caledonians would be spared, the former to be captured and sent back to Attila.

  Within an hour, they were reaching the Narrow Sea and Gerlach looked out at the water.

  He could not see Britannia yet.

  Less than an hour later, Gerlach turned to see a fleet of thirty galleys and triremes charging to join him, carrying ten thousand Huns. Gerlach smiled at the prospect that his army would soon number fifty. The plans that were hatched earlier were falling into place nicely. The new recruits were also deployed, and the Hun’s strength had all but fully returned.

  He turned back to the isle as the galley heaved on the Narrow Sea, moving fast by the power of the oars and the wind.

  The sun was sinking lower in the sky and the shadows grew long by the time the Huns could see the plains and trees of Britannia. The thirty galleys and triremes had disappeared from sight again, and the main fleet was within trebuchet range of the shore.

  Torches burned at the bows and sterns of the ships as they rowed towards the beach.

  Gerlach, already acclimated to the darkness, stared at the coast.

  He snarled when he saw a lone rider watch the ships approach, then turn and head north.

  “Never mind,” he said to himself.

  “Prepare to land!” He boomed.

  “Ramp crews, be ready!” The captain shouted as the captain of the company aboard the flagship ordered his men to attention.

  Commotion sounded behind him as they prepared.

  Ramps meant for the trebuchets were being readied as the galley reached the shore.

  Men fell to the deck as the ship crashed into the sand.

  Gerlach held his stand and jumped down from the ship as the rest of his men recovered themselves.

  Along the beach, the rest of the triremes, galleys, and vessels were landing.

  Soldiers began storming out of holds and off the decks as they raced up the beach.

  The men of Gerlach’s ship streamed from the deck, and Gerlach watched as thirty thousand Huns stormed the shore of Britannia, the rest landing at the eastern shore.

  9

  alliance of Hate

  King Fergus sat silently in his court. The fire crackled in its hearth while the twelve members of the War Council looked at him.

  “War with Demetia has restarted,” he said.
“But we do not fight the Demetians. We fight only one man. Arthur. Because of him, my daughter is gone. Because of him, my family is gone. Gallagher will be the one to succeed me, but so my line has ended. We will try to offer terms of peace to the Demetians to surrender Arthur.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Jon responded, “but the Demetians will not agree to any terms if that is the condition. They are an honorable people. They will not give up a friend.”

  “But they risk years of war,” Fergus said.

  “That will not deter them,” the Prime Minister offered.

  King Fergus grew irritated.

  “Never mind,” he growled. “Lord Uther will be king of the neutral land. Then the Demetians will have no way to win. We will squash them like a roach.”

  The room stayed silent, the Council’s ultimate form of protest, second to treason.

  “Yes,” Fergus said, “we will crush the Demetians.”

  The sound of iron on iron echoed from outside when the great doors creaked open.

  “Gallagher,” Fergus said, rising. “What news?”

  The heir to Caledonia and the Roman Empire looked at Fergus.

  “Magi Ro Hul has betrayed us.”

  “What?” Fergus bellowed, rising from his throne.

  “He attacked us when we stopped to drink and water our horses. Then Arthur appeared with Demetian cavalry. But we were able to rout them and fought them at Demetia.”

  Fergus’ eyes flared with rage.

  “And Arthur?”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but we had to retreat. We did not apprehend the fool.”

  Fergus stared at Gallagher.

  “You dare to let go the man who caused my daughter’s death?” He bellowed.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Gallagher replied, hiding the irritation he felt for Fergus, “but we were battling two fierce armies.”

  “Fiercer than those accursed Huns?”

  Gallagher felt his anger rising when Fergus insulted his people, adopted though they may be. He did not respond.

  “How many losses?”

  “Seven thousand, Your Grace.”

  “Worthless Huns!” The king bellowed.

  “We will win next time,” Gallagher said.

  “You should hope so,” Fergus said, poison dripping from his words. “Or I will see your head beside Arthur’s. Capture Magi Ro Hul along with the Roman.”

  Gallagher nodded, and turned, leaving Fergus to fume.

  10

  Uniting A Kingdom

  Arthur stormed into King Megolin’s great hall.

  Magi Ro Hul was there, along with Merlin, Clyde, Igraine, Megolin, and other members of the king’s court.

  The ministers were filling in as Arthur ascended the dais and stood by his cousin.

  A Demetian messenger stood to the right of the group of ministers.

  “This meeting has been called for an unprecedented threat now stands before us,” Megolin said, his voice grim. The air of the great hall was sour with grief and anger.

  “Seventy thousand Huns have landed along our shores.”

  Arthur lost all expression as the hall erupted in shouts of disbelief. He realized that the Huns had recruited their numbers from the Ostrogoths ahead of arriving on the isles. Attila’s ability to raise his forces was well known across Europe.

  “Silence!” Megolin boomed.

  Quiet returned.

  “Even now, towns and cities have most likely already fallen to them. Even now, they march on Demetia. Soon the reports of raging fires, cities turned to ash, and green fields turned to wastelands will arrive. By then, it will be too late. I fear it already is.”

  He paused.

  “Magi Ro Hul, a fine man, promises that the armies of Caledonia are loyal no longer to Fergus, but to sense, and to our cause. Still, the Highlanders and we will not be able to defend against the actions of a deranged king and seventy thousand barbarians who decimate our lands as we speak. As it is, their foul faces are seen across the continent. Now they promise to shroud the land with their darkness.

  “We must find some way to defeat them. Gallagher is a Hun. He has paved the way for this to happen.”

  The king seated himself, while his ministers, generals, and advisors processed the information they had just learned, the darkest of all. Arthur was contemplating the situation.

  There seemed to be almost no hope.

  “We could flee,” one of the ministers said.

  Enraged, Megolin turned and jumped up. “Cowardice is not something that will be tolerated here! Either we fight and win, or we die fighting!”

  Magi Ro Hul eyed the king as the rest of them did. He decided Megolin was more worthy of the Caledonian throne than Fergus ever was. If Fergus was able to turn to darkness now, he was never truly wise.

  Arthur thought back to everything he knew about Britannia, everything his father had taught him about warfare, about facing grim odds.

  His thoughts led him to realize that disunity had been the cause of all this chaos, all this destruction. “What about the other fourteen tribes?” He said.

  The chatter of the ministers, generals, and advisors stopped.

  “What do you mean?” Clyde asked.

  Arthur knew what he was about to suggest would seem impossible. It was the second time he was thinking it. Perhaps he’d have a better plan now.

  “What if we all united? Fifteen tribes, hopefully Caledonia as well, band together to defeat the Huns.”

  “What you are suggesting Arthur, has not been able to be accomplished by any king for centuries.”

  “Yes, Your Grace, but perhaps this will make the lords of Britannia see reason.”

  King Fergus eyed him silently.

  “Your suggestion will be considered, Arthur. But elaborate first.”

  “I will be honest,” Arthur responded, “I know nothing of Britannia, other than it is divided by sixteen tribes who have remained peaceful for fifty years. Good relations, I hope, are maintained with them. But regardless, the threat of an invasion by the worst people known to man should turn even Fergus back to reason. I will speak with them. Send emissaries too, for we do not have time.”

  “It’s worth an attempt,” Magi Ro Hul said.

  “Relations are acceptable with the other fourteen tribes,” Megolin said. “The closest is Rodwin. Lord Lancelot rules there. He is just, wise, and will be willing to listen.”

  “Then I shall meet with him first,” Arthur said.

  The doors opened as the court considered Arthur’s suggestion.

  It was not something to just accept or disagree with immediately.

  “Lord Arthur,” a royal guard announced, “your father has awoken.”

  Arthur looked at him as the hall fell silent. He had told the guard assigned to watch over his chambers to alert him as soon as Uther woke up. He had not fully prepared what he was going to say yet.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace. Ministers,” he said. “I must leave.”

  Megolin nodded.

  Arthur turned and headed towards the doors, with the royal guard beside him. His steps almost sounded like far-off thuds to him as he focused his mind and heart. He remembered what Merlin told him about his father, and what his mother had said.

  He hoped he would be able to return his father to himself.

  Emerging from the king’s court, he saw soldiers clearing the roads. Horses and men were being carried away on wagons. Merlin had put out the fire of the enchanted wood the night before. Dawn did not arrive with any less grief, for mourning could be heard from every corner of the city. Civilians had returned to their homes where the Huns had attacked, only to find them burnt.

  Soldiers still littered the courtyard, but they were being cleared as buckets of water were used to wash away the blood.

  The s
mell of ash still lingered as Arthur followed the royal guard to the palace.

  His cloak flowing behind him, Arthur walked without armor as a cool breeze raced along the road. His tunic flowing in the wind, they reached the palace doors and entered.

  The royal guard led Arthur up to the third level and they stopped before great wooden doors at a corner, sconces lighting up the corridors.

  The guard returned to his post by the door, the other having stood watch while he left to call Arthur.

  The former heir to the Pendragon clan stood before the doors, silent.

  His eyes appeared to drift as he stared at the engraved oak. He felt lost, for one of the few times in his life.

  He opened the door and walked in. Uther was standing by the window. All weapons, all candles, all things that could possibly be used to harm had been cleared from the room. Arthur had ordered that himself. He knew what state his father was in.

  Uther did not turn at the sound of someone entering.

  Outside, horses were neighing as they pulled wagons of fallen soldiers to be buried while other soldiers cleaned the streets of blood and weapons.

  “Father,” Arthur began, and Uther spun around to see his son.

  “You!” He bellowed.

  Arthur did not want to respond with anger.

  “Father, please, listen to me—”

  “First, you insult me, then you betray me. You have renounced your Pendragon name. You are no longer my son. You are my enemy!”

  Uther lunged at him, but Arthur jumped aside.

  “Father, you are in pain.”

  “You know nothing of pain,” Uther growled.

  Arthur stood still, the wound of losing Olivie still fresh for him.

  “I do know,” he said, looking away.

  He noticed Uther’s face change. For a moment, he looked at his son without anger or malice, but with sorrow.

  But the moment of lucidity evaporated as quickly as it arrived.

  “You do not know the things I have had to do,” Uther said. “My father treated me like a slave. He ordered me to slay my son and the one I loved, or I would not be emperor.”