Pendragon and the Clash of Kingdoms Page 6

  “To where?” Arthur said, not trying to be sarcastic.

  “The great ocean is not the end of the world,” Lancelot said. “There must be something there for the people of this isle, and for any who may escape the rule of the Huns.”

  “We must fight,” Arthur repeated.

  “I’m sorry, Arthur,” Lancelot said.

  Arthur looked at the lord of Rodwin with anger and fear.

  “Then perhaps the people of Britannia will find hope elsewhere.”

  Vaulting up onto his horse, he heard Lancelot then order the guards to raise the gate and lower the drawbridge.

  Arthur watched the iron gate creak upward, anger and sorrow burdening his mind and heart.

  Once the portcullis was just above the height of a spear held by a cavalry warrior, Arthur broke into a gallop and thundered out, followed by the Demetian riders.

  Lancelot watched the Demetian envoy leave, his heart and mind heavy.

  Arthur raced silently back to Demetia.

  Along the way, other Demetian riders were seen racing back to the city, envoys returning from the kingdoms closest to Megolin’s.

  Arthur feared they too had failed.

  An hour before sunset, three of the envoys who had departed Demetia thundered to a halt within the city.

  King Megolin was there, as was Igraine and Merlin. Magi Ro Hul stood by them as they watched Arthur and the other emissaries stream into the city. Buildings still lay crumbled and burned, but the rest had been cleared.

  “Your Grace,” Arthur said, “Lancelot will not join us.”

  “Nor will Gawain, Your Grace,” another said, bowing before Megolin.

  “Or Galahad.”

  “Neither will Geraint.”

  Megolin looked solemn, as did Merlin.

  Igraine was pondering the implications of this failure and remaining strong amidst her family.

  “Lord Lancelot says they do not have enough men, that they will flee if they must, but now they must defend against the threat of Fergus.”

  “Lord Geraint said that his people do not want war. They too will flee if there is no other choice, but they will not fight. Centuries of war have taught them that peace, no matter what, is worth more than anything.”

  “But there shall be no peace when evil rules the world,” Arthur objected.

  “And Galahad hopes that he might strike a deal with the Huns. Anything to survive without war.”

  “Let us speak to them again, Father,” Merlin said. “I can show them what even we have not seen with our own eyes. A Roman legion will land at the coast two days hence. The city of Egolith has fallen, overrun by Huns.”

  Arthur straightened at the news.

  “Be strong, my son,” Igraine said. “You must not let fear cloud your judgment.”

  Arthur nodded.

  “How is Father?”

  “He has not sent for anyone. He is resting.”

  Igraine did not want to tell her son that the guards had heard him muttering to himself, sounding like a madman as he roamed the almost empty wooden room.

  “Rest. Break bread. Then head back out. The Huns will be here within the week,” Megolin said.

  An hour later, Arthur was finishing his meat and cheese with Magi Ro Hul, the first Highlander to ever sit at the Demetian royal table.

  Then he donned his helmet, said farewell to the king and his mother, then left with Merlin and fifty riders.

  Charging out of the forest, they headed straight for Rodwin.

  14

  Enemies Aligned

  Bishkar watched the ships approach, the evening breeze drifting over the rocks.

  A few wharves, meant to host the ships of the Caledonian fleet that numbered only ten galleys, were not enough for the forty ships that now charged toward the coast, while the other twenty landed at Demetia’s eastern shore.

  King Fergus watched from his horse as the Hun force approached.

  “I will confess,” Gallagher began, “I am also Hun.”

  “What?” Fergus boomed, before an army of three thousand royal guards.

  “Yes, but I do not seek to occupy your kingdom, nor does King Attila. We only wish to vanquish Arthur and Uther. Demetia will fall. Every kingdom here but yours will fall. You may claim any you wish, but the land Rome once occupied will be returned to them. Only Arthur and Uther are Attila’s.”

  Fergus eyed Gallagher with anger.

  “It was your arrow that hit Arthur and my daughter,” Fergus said. “Do not test my restraint further.”

  Gallagher eyed Fergus carefully.

  He was treading on thin ice. He had already angered the king more than any other. There couldn’t be any more surprises.

  Moonlight shone off the waves as they crashed against the rocks and the ships approached the only safe harbor.

  The first galley, bristling with hundreds of Huns, halted by the first quay, shouts sounding from the deck. As they began to debark, other galleys and triremes planted their oars by the wharves, and barbarians began streaming off. Further out, the bulk of the fleet halted beyond the dock.

  Huns waded through the frigid water as King Fergus watched the barbarians begin to walk up the path to the green fields, within sight of where Gallagher had cut down a thousand Huns and their commander.

  The horses neighed at the smell of the Huns reaching them. With their chipped blades and hodge-podge shields, the barbarian army of twenty thousand ascended the rocks.

  The royal guard immediately encircled the king, while the bulk of the three thousand cleared a path for the Huns.

  Rows of three, stretching from the dock, where Highlander guards and soldiers watched the Huns with anger, streamed past the king.

  “They will be commanded by General Gerlach,” Gallagher said, looking through spears and lances that passed between them. “He leads the force that is currently attacking Demetia. This group will attack from the north, while the other ten thousand attack from the east coast, leaving nowhere to run. I request a camp outside Pittentrail to host five thousand of these men, as a garrison. The rest will begin the campaign at dawn.”

  King Fergus eyed him quietly, fog drifting around him.

  “Should any of them appear to harbor hostile intentions against my people,” he said, calmly, “none of them will be spared.”

  Gallagher nodded. He knew what the Highlanders could do. This wasn’t an empty threat.

  “The other kingdoms of the isle will most likely stand against you, Your Grace,” Gallagher said. “I suggest we attack them first.”

  “Very well,” Fergus responded. “Of the fifteen tribes, Caledonia shall claim three. You may keep the rest. I hope to negotiate with the emperor about Demetia, though, for that land is a realm my fathers have desired since the days of The Great War. It is not something I, nor my people, can let go.”

  “I fear you will find no success there,” Gallagher argued, enraging the Highlander king. “Emperor Lucius is greedy for power. He will not easily give up land, especially that which he was promised.”

  “Then I will fight him for it.”

  Gallagher eyed the king, then turned back to watch the rest of the Huns stream from the ships.

  A few hours later, the Huns were setting up camp outside Pittentrail.

  Campfires lit up the walls of the city as the guards assembled, training arrows at the foul allies. King Fergus was not going to leave anything to chance.

  Gallagher eyed the archers atop the wall as the men sat by their fires, roasting meat and drinking mead. Laughter sounded from the camp as the men talked of the war ahead.

  Gallagher, alone, sat astride his destrier near the main gate, where Arthur had escaped with Olivie less than a week past.

  The warmth of the campfires could be felt from where he watched.

  But hatred and
anger proved the greater fires that warmed him that the cold night, with winter approaching. He thought of Uther, and the pain he had caused him, of Attila and the kindness he had shown him. Attila had been more a father to him than any man had ever been, but for the Anatolian husband his mother had wed after Uther left, Bishkar surmised, only to return to slay his own son.

  Bishkar found himself raging with bile and anger when the gate opened.

  Shaken out of his thoughts, he turned and saw a captain leading men carrying shovels and equipment.

  “Move!” he shouted. “There is much work to do!”

  Horses neighed as they dragged wagons bearing wooden planks and logs.

  Gallagher realized they were building a trench system for the five thousand Huns.

  It was a good idea. They would be safe and would be able to repel any attack that was launched against Pittentrail.

  Near the camp, the trebuchet crews were lining the catapults behind the tent city, with the wagons of stone and tar by their side.

  The horses were encircled by wood and rope that formed makeshift barriers.

  The smell of food drifted up from the camp, while the city guard watched.

  15

  The Vision

  Fifty-two riders approached the gates of Rodwin.

  The guard keeping a watchful eye on the plains around the city recognized the Demetian banner and sent for Lord Lancelot.

  Arthur stopped once again before the moat, his horse neighing.

  The Demetian cavalry stopped behind him, their beasts rearing and snickering.

  The Demetian banner and pennons streamed in the cold breeze that rolled across the grass. Winter was near, and with it, the nights were growing cold and merciless.

  “Let them through!” The captain of the guard ordered, eyeing the yellow eyes and glowing robes of the rider beside Arthur.

  At once, the drawbridge lowered, and the portcullis creaked as it rose.

  Arthur strode through the gate and stopped in the courtyard as the rest of the riders followed.

  Their hooves striking the dirt road, the city’s garrison stood silent around the Demetian envoy.

  All of them had heard the conversation between him and Lord Lancelot earlier that day.

  Since then, guards had shifted their feet more often. When their shifts ended, they hurried to their homes. The fires of the watchtowers were kept raging, and archers were on guard.

  The cavalry was ready to assemble at a moment’s notice, and the soldiers were restless, unable to eat, with their swords beside them.

  “Lord Lancelot will meet you in the great hall,” the captain of the Lord’s Guard said.

  “Leave your horses here and follow me.”

  Arthur nodded to the Demetians and got down from his horse.

  A number of guards approached them to lead their horses away.

  In silence, Arthur, Merlin, and the fifty soldiers followed the captain of the Lord’s Guard.

  Passing the stone and wooden buildings, they walked the dirt road, passing a tavern from which no laughs were heard, homes where civilians kept their windows closed.

  Arthur, with his greatsword at his side, marched beside Merlin, whose cloak, glowing blue, swept the street.

  Within half an hour, Arthur spotted the great hall, a humble stone building rising three levels. Four towers rose like spires from the corners of the building, where guards watched the city and the fields beyond, great fires raging before them, like the eternal flame of the gods from which Prometheus had stolen to bless mankind with light and warmth.

  Two of the guards at the great hall nodded and turned to raise the iron bar that kept the doors shut.

  Pushing them open, a long corridor was revealed. The aisle leading to Lord Lancelot’s seat was decorated with red and gold carpet. Benches sat on either side of the aisle, like the pews of a church. The banner of the lords of Rodwin hung from anchors along the walls. Like great curtains, they lay still, flanked by torches that burned steadily.

  A great fire raged to warm the hall, the steps of Arthur and Merlin almost quiet as they walked over the rich carpet.

  “You remain outside,” the captain said to the fifty riders.

  Arthur turned and nodded.

  The first Demetian rider who had stepped in walked back out and the great doors were shut.

  Two more guards stood by the doors inside, eyeing the visitors.

  Arthur nodded at Merlin and turned to see Lord Lancelot rise from his seat.

  “You seek an audience for the second time this day. Pray tell, why do you return to a place where you will not find what you are looking for?”

  “I am Merlin, son of King Megolin,” the warlock said, bowing before the lord of Rodwin.

  “And what business brings the heir to the throne of Demetia hither?” Lancelot asked, still standing amidst the empty chairs of his court.

  “I have seen what the Huns have already done to the isle, and what will come to pass should they succeed. I wish to show it to you.”

  Lancelot eyed him suspiciously.

  All beyond the borders of Demetia were unbelieving of the magic its people wielded, and of the ability of those who just believed in it.

  Arthur remembered he once stood where Lancelot now did, not understanding the abilities of some.

  “Very well,” Lancelot said.

  Merlin closed his eyes.

  Arthur watched as the warlock did nothing.

  But then Lancelot stumbled back, his eyes white and glowing.

  Shrouded in light, he saw Hun armies thundering through the city of Egolith, a bustling trade city where merchants and traders from the continent regularly traded along the Blue Stream. Fires raged. A Hun slashed a man running from the barbaric horde.

  Suddenly, the vision switched to a land burning with flame, the green fields turned to wastelands, the Hun armies marching, the drums beating, against the city of Demetia, the enchanted wood ablaze, the city in ruins, of Pittentrail falling to darkness, of slaves shackled to oars and standing by furnaces, fashioning weapons of war.

  Arthur was watching it too, his heart racing. Suddenly, the vision turned to a flash of light and both he and Lancelot stumbled back, falling to the ground.

  Arthur, ten yards from the lord of Rodwin, sat on the carpet, breathing fast, like when he had awoken from that dream the morning he defeated Adolphus’ men within range of the Alps.

  Lancelot was recovering from his fall, his eyes closed.

  “That is what shall be should the Huns triumph. The rule of the Romans, as insufferable as it was, will be nothing compared to the tyranny of the Huns. The vile Attila will see this land turned to ash. He promises the land Rome once held returned to them, but he is not a man honor. No corner of the isle will be safe. And with the power the Huns will have, no corner of the continent.”

  Lancelot fell into the throne of his father, his grandfather, and his ancestors of old, the eyes of the first lord of Rodwin, staring above him from the painting that hung above and behind.

  Arthur stood back up, his mind almost distant.

  “My people will flee,” Lancelot said, to Merlin and Arthur’s dismay. “We have but five thousand warriors, far less than what is required to defeat these barbarians. We must leave by dawn.”

  “Lord Lancelot, I beseech you, stand and fight. The Highlanders stand with us. Together, we have already defeated almost ten thousand, even though they were slaves sent to war, broken by evil, torture and without a will to live. But it shows that we can fight, if only we decide. Now, I’m begging you, my lord, for all that is good in this world, for peace, we must fight.”

  Lancelot shook his head.

  “There can no peace, no triumph against the Huns. Roman legions, Frankish spirit, and Demetian warriors have already fallen to them. Nothing can stop them now but a miracl
e. I’m sorry, Arthur, Merlin, but I will not risk the lives of my people for a glimmer that is too dim. Stay for the night, if you will. But by the morrow, my people will have left.”

  Arthur stood silent before the lord of Rodwin, regretful.

  Closing his eyes, he held back the pain and loss he was enduring.

  “That vision you saw,” Merlin said, “has been seen by all the lords of Britannia. They will either join us, or all will fall.”

  Merlin turned, his robe glowing crimson as he strode toward the doors. The guards opened them, and Arthur turned to follow.

  By dawn, six days would remain till forty thousand Huns reached Demetia.

  16

  Peril from the North

  With sunrise, the Hun armies assembled before the walls of Pittentrail.

  The expendables amassed as a line of ten thousand, armed with weapons of all kinds, boasting shields of Gallic tribes and helmets of Germanic, Roman, and Gaulish origin.

  Franks, Romans, Italians, Illyrians, Prussians, and Danes, enslaved, tortured, broken, stood before the ranks of true Huns, screaming, shrieking as dawn broke over the horizon. Beating their shields, they watched Gallagher as he thundered by the first rank, clad in Roman armor.

  “Huns!” He shouted. “Warriors! The greatest the world has ever seen, today you fight for your king, for your people, for the Empire! The finest race of godlike blood, you are the chosen ones!”

  Roars echoed off the mountains, spilling out over the mountain pass as the barbarians cheered, and Fergus watched from the walls, disgusted.

  “The lands of Demetia lay open! All the isle shall fall! Forty thousand men, led by an able general, march north, laying waste to the land. So, you must do the same, must do better! Raid every town! Slay every man. Steal every coin! Blood and glory await you!”