The Galedonian glimmer-men.

The Gadwyr had fired the walls of the barracks and the back of this fortress, once all the soldiers in it had been chopped to pieces in their rage, before they charged through the fortress slaughtering every living thing they came across. Leading the six ghost-warrior’s, the diversionary force of roaring and grinning Gadwyr had poured through the fortress killing all, and the corridors were left looking like a butcher’s shop on market day morning.

They had burst into the central compound with their blood soaked double-headed axes spinning, where the remaining defenders had assembled in shock and awe. They were hopelessly outclassed, and these defending tribesmen seemed to bounce off the mighty Gadwyr to land shattered to the dirt-packed timbers. Any who survived this massive initial collision were swiftly dispatched by the wickedly sharp blade of a following ghost-warrior’s dagger. These unstoppable Galedonians angered beyond all reason by what they had witnessed, forged forwards without check in this stunning way and none of the defenders could stand. As the wildly animated and blood-splattered Gadwyr charged the inside of the gatehouse with the most blood-curdling screams and their teeth shining white through their red beards, the few scruffy defenders who were huddled around it scattered.

The bar was soon lifted and removed, and the heavy timber gates thrown open, revealing the long torch-lit causeway ahead and freedom. To one side crouched the valiant band of chosen men awaiting them, who had also clearly been successful this night as they surrounded their royal prize, in an arc of three long curving blades of glittering Brythonic steel. The roaring, crackling sound from the swelling conflagration behind them could be heard clearly now and a dark column of smoke rose into the starlit sky from the back of this fortress.

With a recovered Eirwen securely ensconced in the centre, they all made their way back along the pier in a long tight group, with the Gadwyr out front and the last man toppled the rows of torches behind him, setting the whole causeway alight. They gained land in a rush and were about to vanish into the nearby woods as the fire took hold of the timber crannog fortress behind them with a roar, when without warning, a large, mounted enemy force crested the hill from the south and thundered down the drover’s road toward them.

At the head of this armed force was the black veiled hag and it was immediate to her what was going on, as they heard the Witch scream from where they stood. Cadwy was about to yell for them to head for the trees when astonishingly, the Gadwyr exploded into action.

With one guttural word from Brith, they charged forwards toward the horses without a moment’s hesitation, roaring bloody murder and swinging their huge axes without pause. There were almost thirty horsemen now galloping straight at them and they were armed with long but crude looking spears and clutched the ubiquitous round shield of leather and lime-wood, but these had been smeared with some foul black stuff, in honour of their deplorable Queen no-doubt. Most foot soldiers would have scattered in terror at the approach of this thundering cavalry, but these were Gadwyr and the legendary Gadwyr turned from no gelyn alive, and they paused for no force on this earth.

The opposing charge of the Gadwyr although breath-taking, looked suicidal to Cadwy as he, his cyfail and the six ghost-warriors who encircled Eirwen watched in awe, as those ultimate northern giants rushed-in. Those eminently professional warriors were no fools and capitalising on their uncommon size, they had a long-standing and well-developed set of moves for attacking a mounted force. The world and his wife know that the only thing capable of turning a cavalry charge is a well set-up shield wall or a cliff. The Gadwyr proudly carry no shields apart from their heavy bronze amulets and so they made their own shield-wall this day, whilst charging forward into battle with what they carried with them. These twelve enormous, valiant northern warriors surged forwards in a spread ‘V’ formation, with the giant Brith Fawr at the head. Those watching fearfully saw the Witch draw back into the enemy’s numbers at this inconceivable development, calling men forward to the attack at the sight of these grinning, flame-haired monsters of legend, doing the impossible and running at them.

At a signal from Brith and just yards now from the quickly closing enemy, they lifted their huge bulging arms as-one, crossing their axes above their heads and they began to clash their bronze amulets together. This rolling shield-wall made a terrific din, and this was no bluff, nor was it any form of diversionary performance. The fearsome surprise of this instant, seemingly suicidal attack was greatly added-to by their sheer size and their great roaring battle-cry, which bellowed out at this unnerving moment, striking terror into the leading horses and their riders.

‘Gadwyr GrutArd!’ They bellowed at the tops of their voices, clashing their great bronze amulets together and charging the enemy horsemen without pause. The first of the horses reared up in fear from these dauntless leviathans and in a heartbeat, it was chaos, the kind of chaos these monstrous Brythons revelled in.

Watching from the roadway, Cadwy got the distinct impression that if the horses hadn’t reared up in fear at the Gadwyr’s counter-attack, Brith and his men would have just bowled them over with a shoulder charge, but their immensely courageous tactic worked, and the cavalry charge faltered, the lead horses throwing their heads back in terror. Equine fear was clearly as infectious as its human counterpart, and Brith sprang into much-practiced action at that chaotic moment as did the colossal, grinning men behind and alongside him, with their wild eyes blazing a savage and primeval joy.

The first cut was with the right axe and it slashed the rearing, leading horse’s throat to its spine. Then a quick step to the left and Brith’s left-hand axe was raised and ready for a parry if necessary. This rider posed no immediate threat, as he was flailing and trying to remain in the saddle and so Brith chopped down with it into the rider’s right thigh, severing the leg completely. The heavy axe blade even penetrated the rib cage of the dying horse under him and it sagged to its knees, throwing the rider forward again. Brith then threw the right-hand axe forwards for the final step. He was half a step too close to decapitate the man as planned, so gripping the shaft tightly, he slammed the heavy iron head of the axe into the oncoming rider’s face, killing him instantly and knocking him backwards, clean off his dead horse. This three-step manoeuvre was repeated by all these warriors and the unique, terrifying chaos of the Gadwyr ensued.

Horses died rearing and screaming whilst hosing great gouts of blood from their torn throats, amid the swirling, slashing bedlam, as did their outclassed and completely outmatched riders. As the momentum of the cavalry charge had been stolen by the Gadwyr’s unique action, these mounted warriors were stalled and forced to mill around each-other and they made themselves vulnerable to these spinning, slashing leviathans. Directed by their screeching black Witch, a detachment of these riders broke away from the rear of this chaos and galloped toward Cadwy’s meagre force, but Olwydd and his six ghost-warriors had their own equally brave way of dealing with enemy horsemen and ran forward to meet them.

As the riders approached, the Galedonian glimmer-men seemed to explode into action and they were a blur, so quickly did they move. Each ghost-warrior side-stepped like a mountain goat and then leapt into the air as a horse came at them, neatly slipping the clumsy thrust of the spear. In the blink of an eye, they were sitting astride the horse and behind the astonished rider. Six of them died with that shocked look upon their faces, as their throats were cut wide open before they were rudely shoved off their mounts. Whilst more-subtle than the great Gadwyr’s direct approach, the ghost-warrior’s spectacular athletic counterpart had the added benefit of a ‘gift horse’, which should by popular wisdom never be looked-at in the mouth. These wise ghost-warriors of Galedon made the most of their new mounts and set about the other riders in this group, leaving Cadwy and his men to deal with them once they were unhorsed. The six ghost-warriors wheeled their unfamiliar mounts with great skill then, their unnatural mantles swirling around them as they charged headlong into the Gadwyr’s fray to relieve their heroic allies.

Brast and Hefin strode forward in their wake and dealt swiftly with the last two enemy horsemen who had been knocked from their saddles, leaving Bleddyn standing to Cadwy’s right-hand, sword ready and with Eirwen standing behind them, a loaned dagger held before her in trembling fingers. Three rider-less horses were milling about and rolling their eyes in fear, from the din of battle and the great roaring fire from the nearby fortress, whose heat could be felt from the road. Bleddyn had to help Hefin and Brast corral them, as they were dangerous and unpredictable in this panicked state, but more importantly they were going to prove invaluable.

Cadwy and Eirwen watched enthralled as the now mounted ghost-warriors joined the Gadwyr and tore into the remaining enemy, unseating many for the Gadwyr to pounce on and annihilate. The rest they slew expertly from the saddle with their long killing blades and these Iweriu mercenary soldiers had no answer to their deadly expertise, hitting the dirt hard one after the other. Eirwen’s eyes filled with tears at this fearless heroism on her behalf and she was almost bursting at the seams with pride, as she watched the last of the hated enemy vanquished on the dusty road before her. These glorious, hot tears of salvation rolled down her face and she dabbed at them with a square of linen. The tears almost obscured the sudden movement to her left, but she caught a glimpse of ragged black wool, a fleeting moment before the decrepit smell of the hag reached her nostrils.

“CADWY!” She screamed, as the Witch had crept out from the trees to their left and now she rushed at Cadwy, a big filthy antler-pick raised for the killing blow above her head.

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Lludd Llaw Ereint hunts his prey.

Fro Elái was stunning in the rosy glow of this embryonic dawn and although the royal guard were held far enough back from the river by strict orders, one extremely careful aristocrat had secreted himself soundlessly into the bushes on the bankside, so that he could actually see his prey. He held his breath and remained perfectly still, weapon of choice in-hand, as this was the crucial moment when this hunter would discover if his quarry would go for the bait or perceive some flaw in its authenticity and move away.

Lludd had set out in the misty darkness hours ago to be here at this moment and his eyes narrowed sharply as he detected the slightest movement, mere reeds from his hiding place and his eyes blazed in the growing light of this new day’s dawn. He was confident this morning, not just from his vast experience in all the terrible ways in which man can prepare ambush but as he was on home-ground, knowing every inch of this chosen battle-ground and this beautiful stretch of his river Elái.

Finally the moment had arrived and infinitely slowly, Lludd lowered the long and slim, beautifully crafted rod of ash and gave the silk line dangling from its tip, an expert flick with his left wrist. The frayed muddle of woollen fibres and fragments of pheasant feather had been tightly bound around a sharp hook before being smeared with lanolin and it made the slightest plop, when it met the rushing waters of the Elái and it was instantly gripped by the current, making the tip of the long rod quiver in a sympathetic rhythm. His aim was true, and in a flash the artificial fly was gripped by something else entirely and Lludd’s grin was a fierce one, as the largest of the Elai’s legendary brown trout had put a fine bow in his rod. It was thrashing around on the end of his line, firmly hooked by its fat and bulbous bottom lip.

It was never going to be easy single-handed but Lludd had planned this event for several weeks, ever since he’d spotted the huge fish glide past him one day when he was out walking his dogs and he was well prepared for this momentous battle. The fight was long and courageous but as expected, Lludd vanquished this King of fish and up to his chest in rushing water, he landed it with the custom-made net, strung around a wicker hoop and made with a handle which mirrored the handle of most Brythonic shields, so he could wield the net with his silver hand. In just a few short but furious minutes, a glossy twelve-pound trout lay flapping in indignant surprise on the bank, alongside a soaked but smiling Lludd and he had caught his record fish.

The slow plod back to his Capital fortress was made through the most delightful glade and for an indulgent Lludd, it was a ride of pure pleasure in the rising warmth of this day, his matchless prize hanging from his saddle for all to see and wonder at. His farmer’s fields around him were all overflowing their boundaries with their crops which were approaching maturity, as this summer steadily did the same. It was obvious that the harvest wasn’t too far away, all across this island of Prydein and it was as well that this year’s crop would be a bounteous one, as all these farmers knew that at least ten percent of their finished grain, would be heading east to the beleaguered werrin of war-torn Caint. All of Cymbri’s thoughts and hopes, lay toward that fraught southern mainland in these warm and peaceful days, where many hundreds of their archers had gone in patriotic fervour and where one of Cymbri’s infamous sons and this famed High-King’s brother, was furiously prosecuting a brave but controversial war against the Roman invaders. As he clattered up the paved ramp to the tall main gates of his Caer, Lludd looked forward to a fine lunch before delivering the great fish to his taxidermist. Then he would have plenty of time to bathe and change, before the arrival of a very important and influential guest.

As a cool dusk descended softly outside, the great hall of CaerAulidar was filled with animated people, talking across the tables to each other amid the detritus of a fabulous feast and the noise was loud, competing with the lively group of musicians in the corner with their harps and reed pipes. The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly, smoky and beery and this long stone-built thatch stood on the foundations of a truly ancient keep, the roots of which go back almost two millennia. Lludd Llaw Ereint’s hall reflected this ancient beginning, as it too was far older than most people could comprehend. The carved roof posts were almost black with the soot of ages, as was the thatching held up by them and the armorials on the wall plotted the High-King of Cymbri’s ancestral precession back to King Dyfnarth Fawr himself, who ruled this Caer almost three centuries previously and that infamous warlord had been the great King Beli Mawr’s HênGorendaid. The earlier armorials tracing back Lludd’s ancestry to the procreators of the Brythons themselves and the Godly Belenos Hên were long lost in the sundered keeps which had been built here, three or more times in the intervening centuries but nobody knew for sure, and so Lludd’s impressive great hall was just the latest in a long line of CaerAulidar’s thatched constructions on this truly ancient location.

The top table on the dais was a more serious affair than the festive atmosphere among the long rows of tables before it, as their guest sitting alongside the King this evening was a taciturn man by reputation and his legend would take Lludd’s Bards all night to recite. So General Cadallan ap Cadall the infamous ruler of the Carfetau was an honoured and much welcomed guest in this Capital fortress, rising from the heart of glorious Essyllyr. The six large-framed and hugely respected Gŵyrd of the Leaping Deer who accompanied their general everywhere, were gathered around the table to the right and at the front of the dais, cramming their faces with the meat and ale on offer, as the voyage by sail around Cymbri from Breged and the subsequent two-hour horse ride had left them ravenous.

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Ederus follows his heart.

Ederus had noticed a change in all these warriors who had answered his personal call, those valiant men and women who had gathered here to swear their oaths to him and he could see it in their eyes and in their postures. They should now be heading south for Breged and to make the great Triadic oath in preparation for the next Roman war they knew was coming, had they not answered the King’s personal call to arms. This wasn’t an all-out bloody defensive war against the aggression of a foreign nation, this sanctified endeavour was entirely different and far more honourable. 

There were more busy priests rushing about and more smudge-bowls could be discerned smouldering in their niches these last two days and a sepulchral atmosphere now permeated a fragrant CaerCiaran. These soldiers had stopped cursing and using foul language strangely and it was this alone which had drawn Ederus’ attention to this spiritually charged atmosphere which now pervaded this unfamiliar minor Caer. It seemed to be an unspoken thing that had manifested between them, but this sense that they were on a holy mission had gripped all these men concurrently, or perhaps it was the knowledge that it would probably be their last mission on this earth, it was hard to tell. This was however was the rescue of a Princess against insurmountable odds and a sacred, deeply honourable undertaking, something these vaunted warriors had come to accept as nothing less than a gift from their Gods. 

To a man they knew they were destined for Camulo’s Mincer this summer and very few of these warriors would be returning north from the war against Caesar. If even half of the stark rumours about the size of his burgeoning fleet and the outlandish things that Roman General was preparing for his second invasion were proved to be true, no one could be sure of returning. This unique endeavour offered them a chance at glory and everlasting Bri, that elusive prize which cannot be purchased anywhere, as it can only be bestowed to the warrior class by one’s peers and represents a priceless fortune. Bri is the distilled essence of renown and personal distinction, being the very shiny brooch of reputation, honour and all-important respect. Every warrior sought Bri and bathed in its warm and eternal golden glow once achieved. It has always been this way and will be, until the end of days. 

This was the kind of legendary accomplishment their ever-honoured predecessors would have jumped-at and the kind of bri-laden, principled endeavour the glorified warriors of old had excelled at. It was this 'against-all-odds', reckless and almost suicidal type of endeavour which had inspired their ancient Bards to write about their fearless progenitors, and to sing to their glory forever. The younger warriors were fired by this and their imaginations, into spiritual fanaticism and lurid dreams of rescuing a goddess-like Princess and the bri-dripping glory, awash with the gold which was assured them. Whilst the ones with the grey showing in their plaits and in their beards, took it as one last golden opportunity for glory and immortality. Even the most cynical amongst them became imbued with the spiritual aspect of this impending mission and many a grisly old campaigner could be found on his knees, mumbling in front of a smoking altar.

This morning, shortly after Bel had soared up from behind the hills of the mainland a most disconcerting message had arrived, and this by an oath-sworn Cennadwr Marchog, bearing the galloping gold brooch on his fir-green mantle as proof of his highly regarded position. The rolled and wax-sealed strip of goatskin bore the cygil of a tusked boar’s head pressed into the wax, proclaiming the royal warrant of Albion and the news was too important to send by bird, coming directly from King Cridas to King Ederus and it beggared belief. 

The official request for allied assistance from the sacred northern Triad, Druid-sworn and ready to decamp south as they were, had never arrived. In fact they had received news at Bellnor’s CaerUswer, that King Caswallawn of the Southern Brythons did not intend to call them south again in defence of Prydein. In his hubris and arrogant delusion, the man had declared his southern armies could defeat Caesar’s impending invasion alone and without their assistance. The infamously ambitious son of Beli Mawr himself, declared that he had built ample fortifications all along Caint and that the Tafwys and his brother’s LludsDun were impregnable due to his endeavours. Furthermore in the southern King’s preposterous opinion, there would be no room at any of the coastal approaches in Caint to allow their great northern host to be brought to bear without fouling up Caswallawn’s own planned operations, negating their need to journey south and to be involved in the second war at all. 

Bellnor and Cridas were creating a huge storm of protest in Breged at this exclusion and had sent a delegation of diplomats south in all haste to change the southern King’s mind; that he would make the official request at least, so that the Triad can move south to an assembly point away from the coast, if it relieves any perceived congestion. Once encamped in some corner of Caint, the Northern Triad can be called upon if required by Caswallawn, or not as he sees fit but to ignore the Triad and exclude these valiant northern men who had proved so invaluable in the first invasion, would be a grave and blatant insult. It would be seen as an equally grave error in judgement, in the opinion of just about every soul living north of DunBorthmyn. The Arch-Druids of the three northern nations had sent urgent messages to their Brif-Druid across in Gallia, begging him to return and resolve the situation. The great man was needed to wrest the vital unity from the Nations of Prydein again, as he was the only living person capable of it and to achieve the Undeb required to repel the might of Rome once more. No response had been received from Gallia however and it was as if HênDdu had become distant to all Prydein’s worries. 

Ederus had been incandescent with rage at the unbelievable news, crashing about his guest lodges and throwing things about with a dreadful clamour. Nobody would dare venture near the great oak door to his chambers, until the racket eventually died down and Erran was seen scurrying for food and ale. The shocking report was disseminated throughout this great assembly of men in no time at all, packed as they were like eels in a wicker trap in this modest fortress. Although all were amazed at the hubris of the southern King they were glad to be here, rather than facing the long and meaningless march home. Buoyed too by the knowledge that their sacred, Gods-sworn trial which had now become so important to these warriors was still ongoing, it sustained the fire in their hope for glory. For now it seemed fate itself and all the Gods of Prydein together had blessed this perilous rescue attempt, and their historic part in it.

*   *   *   *   *

His duty complete, an exhausted and wind-battered pigeon gained the stoop to his loft, gratefully slipping into his home nest and pecking hungrily at the loose corn among the straw on the floor.  Returning east against the wind and from a foreign country, this fatigued bird rearranged his ruffled feathers now on tired legs and took a much-needed drink at the trough, his peers and family members welcoming him home with familiar clicks and coos. This pigeon loft had been constructed away from CaerGlâs’ dovecot for obvious reasons, as that provided eggs, meat, feathers bones and sinews, whereas these Colomen y Cerrig as they had become affectionately known, provided an absolutely vital service. They did this via a system of dependable messaging stations, established across the country by the aristocracy and the military of Prydein. Any system is like a chain, being only as strong as its weakest link and the weak link in this particular communication chain, snored gently in the corner, slumped in his wicker chair. 

This new fortress of King Berwyn’s Damnoniau had been founded on an ancient enclosed village and within an equally ancient set of ditches, alongside which trudged the winding, sluggish trickle of Nant y Moel. Old King Cylan Wyllt had finally succumbed to his old head injury and his soul had departed to seek out his long-lost wits, leaving his son and heir Crown Prince Berwyn to take the walk against the sun and accede to Damnonia’s ancient throne. One of King Berwyn’s first commissions was the founding of CaerGlâs on the westerly Aber of the Clwyd and its sharp palisades were as fresh and bright as the thatches of its interior buildings. History had recalled the name of this boggy maes as ‘Green Hollow Camp’, giving CaerGlâs its name and it lay just half a mile from the Aber of Arglwydd Clwyd, where the Moel paid grudging but everlasting tribute. 

This vitally important pigeon loft still smelled of sawn pine and the thatching over it was fresh and yellow. It had been built alongside the southern battlements and pale-yellow light spilled out from under the drooping thatch and through the long row of small openings, illuminating the foreground but there was no human movement inside this crucial hub of communication this evening. Had old Griff Adar known the import of the tiny scrap of bark shaving, tucked into the little leather boot on this new arrival’s leg, the Feis y Taflod would have awoken in a sweat-soaked nightmare, but for now he slept soundly, snoring and dribbling in blissful ignorance.

*   *   *   *   *

Ederus mounted the gangplank and boarded the biggest vessel, among the last to embark this great fleet of ships he had gathered. The tide had turned, the wind was fair and all in this invasion force knew the moment had arrived and it was now or never. The men had all been taken through the cleansing and religious rites for spiritual protection by a veritable flock of Druids, who had sacrificed a whole herd of goats in votive supplication to their Gods at midnight, and under the stars of their fate. Arglwydd Camulo had been especially worshipped, which they did by slaughtering an enormous black bull, as being so hopelessly outnumbered they would need the blessing of their great red God of War this uncertain day. 

The rain had stayed clear, remaining largely inland and it was a fine, blustery morning in Western Galedon. The stiff canvas sails cracked, and these ponderous ships heeled with the favourable wind which propelled them out of Ciaran Bay, past the little island of Dafâr and into the Sound of Bran, where they headed south toward the rushing waters of Culfor Gogledd. A raucous flock of pristine herring gulls followed this fleet of forty-two ships on their canted wings, as it passed through the Sound of Sanddu. Ederus’ Captain in the flagship steered the fleet to the right, once past the larger island of the same name and where the fleet caught the irresistible flow of the channel proper. Ederus’ ships tacked west around the bulbous and mountainous tip of Cul Pentîr and then rode this favourable wind north toward the distant crown of northern Iweriu. 

They would then need to curve west over the Rhobogdian Peninsula, to sail around Rathlyn Island and on down the northern coast to Porth Talar and there off a tiny island in the lee of the long rocky peninsula in the sound, Ederus would moor this fleet. Regardless of rumour he would stubbornly follow the procedure, by sending an emissary ashore to finalise the details of the exchange, before making a landing himself on the beach alongside the port. He’d played enough Bones in his time to know when to force your opponent into revealing his pattern and he was determined to play his part today, forcing the Iweriu to make the trade or to show their treacherous red hand. 

The King of Galedon stumped down into the hold of his ship, gripping the timbers as it caught the rearing waves of the channel proper and he took his seat with a scowl.

*   *   *   *   *

A dashing Cennadwr Marchog controlled his fabulous horse with his heels, as they clattered down the pass between the hills and to the cliffs at the bell-end of Cul Pentîr. This professional rider with his gold brooch of service worn proudly on his fir-green mantle, was in no hurry and let his magnificent, sure-footed horse pick its way down through the gorse to the snowy pathway around the cliffs at the head of this towering isthmus. He turned them right along the headland path but soon came to a stop at a widening in this narrow footpath, where a nearby scout’s hut had been erected and it was clearly a well-used vantage point for the lookouts and with good reason, as the views across the glittering northern channel to distant Iweriu were stunning, especially on such a glorious spring morning. Despite the enervating panorama laid-out before him, his expression under the wide-brimmed hat was doleful, as he watched Ederus’ great fleet gain the wind below him and head slowly up the channel. He had done his duty to the best of his ability, even setting a new record for the last leg of his neck-breaking journey. He had arrived early at CaerCiaran, laying at the head of this long, tortuous and freezing peninsula but ultimately, he had failed in his endeavour. 

His message had been initiated from CaerGlâs at the aber of Afon Clwyd and as no message birds were kept between these old-enemy fortresses, a messenger-knight had been sent-for in all haste. Although this capable man had no idea of its contents, he had been informed and could tell by the animation of all involved, that his relayed message this cold and windy day contained the most shocking news and was of most vital import to the King of Galedon and all northern Prydein.

He watched the little sailing boat down to his left and far below, fight its way from the Sound of Sanddu and venture into the seething channel, bravely trying to catch up the now distant fleet with the message he had carried here at such reckless haste in his satchel. He knew it was too late however and the boat would never draw near enough to the departing ships now to deliver it, as the fleet was already beginning to curve around to the west and would soon disappear from view behind enemy land.

He could only guess at the import of the missed intelligence as he sat languidly in the wafer-thin saddle, watching the fleet vanish around the Fair Head Cape into the distant freezing mist. His priceless charger scraped the snow with a hoof and cropped the short grass beneath it, as he shook his head and spat with frustration. This messenger-knight could only offer a forlorn hope and a prayer to Arglwydd Cornonnyn now, the great Horned-God who sustained him and every member of his honoured brotherhood. He offered up a sincere plea to the terrible and eternal horned-one, that the lost message wouldn’t make too much of a negative impact on the King’s valiant attempt at rescuing his beloved daughter, but he was a pragmatic and experienced man and he spat to the icy turf again, before tugging the reins. He knew even the smallest, most incidental piece of knowledge can often make all the difference in war, occasionally being the very crucial final fragment of information which can decide the day and secure victory. This elite professional was in a unique position to understand this and a sinking feeling of foreboding took hold of him, as he led his equine comet back up the pass at a sedate walk, between the snow-laden hills and toward CaerCiaran, his billet for this freezing day and the night ahead.

His pessimism was reflected in the slump of his shoulders beneath the green wool of his mantle and his head hung, as he pulled the big collar up against the bite of the wind. This knight of the ‘galloping green’ rode solemnly uphill and back through these lanes to his duties and freezing, ice-crusted Cul Pentîr became deserted once more.

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In enemy hands.

Eirwen awoke with a start in the cold, realising that she must have fallen asleep despite struggling against it for hours, as the fire had dwindled, and the temperature had fallen sharply in this poorly-built and draughty thatch. DunSandaél her prison, had been built atop a small hill in the lowest part of this broad valley and it caught all the wind which was funnelled down it. When it was freezing and windy, icy lances would penetrate the gaps in this poor thatch to prick her exposed skin and the temperature in it would plummet, especially if the fire was unattended, as it had been last night. The last thing she could remember was her breath pluming through the iron bars and watching entranced, as her breath magically transformed into trembling droplets of water on the cold metal, which then grew opaque almost immediately, before twinkling into crystals of ice before her tired eyes.

With her fingers in her mouth and shivering now in spite of the extra blanket, she heard footsteps approaching down the corridor, the timbers creaking as they always did and her heartbeat and breathing accelerated alarmingly. ‘Was this the rescue?’ She thought, her breath pluming into the frigid atmosphere. Sitting up now and not even feeling the icy bite of the iron at her ankles she frowned, as those heavily booted footsteps were not the gossamer ‘tap-tap’ of her co-conspirator’s little feet, and their bold approach was unnerving. Eirwen watched with wide eyes, as three guards sauntered in and began to unlock her cage.

Fear spurted in Eirwen then, as this was no rescue and she was man-handled out of the cage, her freezing iron manacles a sudden savage reminder of her captivity.

“What’s going on? Where are you taking me?” She asked her captors politely and got a stinging, back-handed slap in answer.

“Shut your hole!” Was spat in her face and they grabbed an arm each, and she was hauled out and along the passageway with her face glowing and her bare, manacled feet dragging on the filthy timbers. With her painful chains clinking as coldly as the blood in her veins, Eirwen was carried under the split-tree rafters and to a big oak door, where she was suddenly terrified and not just for herself and her baby, but for Rèdan. Tonight’s escape plan must have been discovered somehow and her spirits tumbled.

This solid and riveted oak door led outside and she was dragged out through it and into the open space of the central enclosure and it was snowing heavily. Her terror built with every step of her captors as for some unknown reason, she was now sure her time had come in this life. Between the long, thatched barracks and on across the paddock they marched through the downpour of snow, the burly and malodorous guards carrying her between them and heading toward the stables. Her fears began to fade, as it soon became clear that she hadn’t been summoned before the Witch and that she was actually being moved for some reason.

The iron shackles were removed and replaced with rope alternatives and this alone was such a blessing, it lifted her spirits. A thick woollen mantle was fastened around her shoulders and she was offered a skin of water and a decent looking horse. To her added relief, Eirwen was allowed to ride it properly in the saddle, lifting her spirits even more as it would be far less of a burden on her and her child. Still in the dark about the forestalled escape plan, Eirwen was faced with an evening ride somewhere and regardless of the blizzard, she relished the cold fresh air, the stars above her and this glorious, enervating feeling of freedom. Looking up, she let the falling snow patter on her face and they were large and heavy flakes, which soon melted and washed the grime from her cheeks. Taking two big mouthfuls of the fluid of life from the skin and shaking out her filthy and knotted hair for the first time in many days, Eirwen felt alive for the first time in weeks.

As she and her two guards rode slowly out through the gatehouse and between the tall watch towers, they joined a number of bedraggled looking white-dusted riders on the road. These were mounted on donkeys and an ox-drawn cart, this loaded with goods and covered by a great sheet of waxed double-linen, upon which the silent snow was mounding slowly but inexorably. Eirwen’s heart did a flip and her spirit soared, as she spotted Rèdan on one of these donkeys and it seemed for now at least, their subterfuge remained undiscovered. She daren’t look at the girl and Rèdan studiously ignored her and so they set off in the white-out, to the soft plodding footsteps of the horses and donkeys, over the low and muted rumbling of the solid cart wheels in the snow.

The snow had abated over an hour ago but by the slow arc of the moon above them, Eirwen had calculated they had travelled slowly west for around four hours when they came across the lake and its floating fortress. As this little caravan made its way down the pass between two wooded hills, it was clear that this crannog fortress was to be her new place of incarceration. Eirwen studied it well, along with the lake, its attendant village and both approaches as they trundled down the hill.

The two spearmen came to attention before the outer gates, which clearly guarded the incongruously long timber pier. This fortified causeway stretched all the way out to the circular palisaded fortress, with its impressive entrance barred by two massive gates. The round and thatched stronghold seemed to float on the surface of this broad lake, which was calm and unruffled this night. The sacred surface was as still as a mirror and the countless stars above were reflected upon it in their brilliance, and Eirwen took a moment to appreciate the unfamiliar lake’s stunning beauty as her horse ambled toward it.

No more than an hour had passed since her arrival and Eirwen looked around at her new surroundings with a measure of hope, as although the cold iron manacles were once again biting her wrists and ankles, there was no adjoining chain and they had been fastened with her hands in front of her. The biggest blessing was that there was no slave cage in this much smaller thatch, which had become her new prison. She still didn’t have a clue if the escape plan now lay in ruins, until Rèdan had brought her some food and this time it was proper food, not discarded and chewed scraps. Whilst the Witch was away apparently the mice would play, and this small, lake-bound fortress had a more relaxed atmosphere in her absence which they took full advantage of, as no-one knew how long it would be until her next dreaded and startling visit.

Rèdan informed Eirwen that she had been brought here, as it was much closer to the coast and the location where the royal-trade will be acted out. She may need to be displayed whole and healthy, to get Ederus to land and commit to the fake trade and his own ambush, the site for this occasion being only an hour away on horseback. The little angel had brought a big piece of honeycomb wrapped in a dock leaf and the vital nutrition offered by this liquid gold, could make all the difference to her unborn baby. Her eyes shone with gratitude as she thanked the girl, gorging on the honey and slurping the nectar from the big dock leaf which she would keep once it had been licked clean, as it was good for pain relief.

Seeking out every glorious morsel of honey on the knobbly leaf and with her mouth reacting painfully to the sweetness, she listened to her little saviour. In Rèdan’s cheerful opinion the escape was still on, as it had to be! Neither wanted to be here when the Witch arrived as she surely soon would, as this fortress lay near her ancient temple and it was where she was most in control, away from the tribe’s Capital. The little undercover Princess seemed comforted by the more unperturbed attitude of this stronghold’s guards and warriors in the Witch’s absence and she told Eirwen that she had friends and a family member in the small adjacent lakeside community. Unfortunately, things changed around here in an instant when the Witch arrived completely unannounced, as was her custom and so any time they might have was a completely unknown measure. Rèdan went on to inform her with a scowl, that the chosen substitute for her escape had to be left behind when they were packed-off here, and now they would have to find another girl of similar build, who looks enough like Eirwen and with long auburn hair for the rescue attempt to go ahead once more.

This came as quite a shock to Eirwen, as she hadn’t dreamt that someone else would have to take her place in this appalling captivity, so that she could be free. Rèdan assured her that the girl had been quite prepared, indeed honoured to have been able to help free a Princess in such a way, especially one expecting a baby and possibly a future King, but it was now academic as she hadn’t been included in this group of servants and slaves.

Finding a replacement with long auburn hair wouldn’t have posed Rèdan any difficulty ordinarily and didn’t seem like much of a challenge here in Hibernia on the face of it, but time could be horribly short.  She would know more later tonight after visiting her friends in the village and she had promised to return with news and more food.

Rèdan had exited the crannog fortress sometime later and traversed the long timber causeway through the outer gates without challenge, as she was a known visitor to the tiny nearby village, supported by the fresh water fish in this spring-fed lake and the flax growing around the marshy fringes to the west. The little servant slipped away under the stars and vanished into the lanes and back alleys like a lake-born local.

With the golden moon above still in the same quadrant, Rèdan reappeared and trotted back alongside the shore of the familiar lake and as she neared the edge of the forest heading back for the torch-lit causeway, a strong arm sprang from the undergrowth and captured her.  A huge and horribly powerful hand was suddenly pressed over her entire face, stifling her terrified scream and she was hauled backwards into the blackness of the forest by an unseen giant. Her heart leapt in her chest, as she was sure the ‘horned-one’ had come for her and that her days on this earth were done. Suddenly the huge hand was partly removed, restoring her vision and several ghosts appeared through the trees and she had to focus to keep them in her view. Chillingly, they seemed elusive to the eye and hard to pin-down in some strange way, as they flitted from one trunk to the next in a blink. In moments, she was faced with a group of enormous, iron-faced warriors and incredibly, there were a few infamous, almost mythical legends among them.

Rèdan had heard of Galedon’s Gadwyr – who hadn’t, and there were a number of those colossal, barrel-chested and blue-swirled men squatting here before her and her legs trembled at the sight of them. The glimmering warriors with their screaming blue cat tattoos however unnerved her in a way she couldn’t explain, and she thought the name ghost-warrior apt, as they seemed ethereal somehow and they terrified her to her very soul.

One of these mountainous and ghostly men leaned over her then and she couldn’t help it but let out a gasp and a spurt of urine, which ran scalding hot down her cold and trembling legs. The ghost-warrior looked down and smiled, causing her terror to escalate sharply as he suddenly looked even more terrifying, but Rèdan was far from slow-witted and in a flash, she knew these men’s intentions and their reason for being here.

“Flaithan Eirwen!” She blurted and was rewarded with more smiles from these ghostly giants but perhaps they were a little less terrifying now. The harsh planes on the faces of these warriors relaxed then and a younger, very serious man pushed his way forward, crouching to face her. Although he had a great healed scar across his forehead and in spite of her fear she thought him incredibly handsome, and he had the most lovely, sparkling eyes. In another intuitive flash, her own eyes opened wide. “Prince Cadwy!” She breathed and Cadwy smiled, his big shoulders dropping, as the tension clearly fell from them.

Rèdan, the bedraggled waif of a servant-slave proceeded to introduce herself to the Prince and his men amid the undergrowth and in the most formal and courtly way, causing a great many more smiles to erupt from them, at her natural charm and obvious upbringing. Rèdan went on to delight these men further with her real identity and her undercover mission here, also with her sharp mind, her obvious courage and her knowledge of Eirwen’s predicament, claiming friendship and so much more. Their faces turned to stone with the horror of the little girl’s words, as they conveyed the real truth behind the proposed trade and what the Black Witch who controlled this territory had in store for their Princess, her baby and this little spy’s royal Aunt. They had become alarmed at the news of Conair Mór’s continued existence, even more so at the news of his greater goal and the planned massed ambush and annihilation of Ederus and his Gŵyrd.

They had all become quickly refocused when Rèdan had outlined her grandfather’s rescue plan and many heads were bent in quiet discussion around the diminutive figure in the dark undergrowth, now completely committed to the same bold plan.  Thanking all their Gods that they had one homing pigeon left, they took their time composing the space-restricted message, as so much now depended on it.

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First Contact.

The relief from the cessation of incoming missiles was like a tonic itself to these men, but all eyes constantly returned to stare across the sea with a regular glance, as to a man they longed to see the remission offered by Roman sails appearing over the misty southern horizon. Over those same days, every outward foray was a trying and extremely dangerous enterprise and angered at losing so many small hunting parties, Caesar was forced to contemplate foraging in numbers, just for the men’s safety. Not being able to use his missing cavalry even once was a biting frustration but starvation was not an option.

Caesar and his officers had managed with great stealth and luck, to assemble parts of the 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th Cohors of the 7^th Legion, totalling almost fifteen hundred Legionaries and two part-Cohorts of Macedonian Auxiliaries of a further nine hundred men in support, making the foraging force a total of almost two and a-half thousand men. They had managed to get off the beach and into the open countryside at around three in the morning, on a moonless, cloud-covered night and they had been forced to crouch for over half an hour on the pebbles, until their night vision had come to the fore. That operation alone had been fraught with possible dire consequence but the pressing need to feed themselves was imperative. It had necessitated this great risk, but their escape had gone-off as well as could be expected and without any obvious alarm. The procedure had also brought into sharp relief how almost impossible it would be, to get all his remaining soldiers off these ships and off this Dis-cursed beach without some other major development or diversion. He needed desperately to get all his troops into some broad space of land and the big cliff looming to the east with its domed grassy top would be a good place to start, but access to it was only through the unseen Prittanic forces behind this beach and those who may be lying in wait behind them. It was obvious he couldn’t risk his whole army to chance, as he had done with that large force when the time came for them all to move, but he did have an iron in the fire in that regard. 

Caesar longed for open ground where he could march his army in proper formation and meet whatever was thrown at them as it presented itself, which is what the Roman army excelled at. The tactical ingenuity required to effectively operate this army at that endeavour was what he excelled at, and Caesar chaffed at the bit to discharge his latent but currently shackled powers.

Following two days out hunting and collecting what grain they could find and steal, the break-free cohorts of the 7th Legion got a little lost on their return when they ventured into the Kantish countryside a little too deeply, to reap whatever corn they came across and gather supplies. Although they had returned to this coast simply enough with the aid of the sun and retracing their steps, they had taken a western route around a familiar hill in error and found themselves approaching their beachhead from a slightly different direction. This foraging force should have been advised by their long scouts of this but were not, and so they ploughed-on in ignorance and were but a few miles from their beach when they came across the farmstead.

Their scouts had been removed from this earth a short time previously and so these remaining soldiers had unwittingly come across a large expanse of burnt crop stubble, adjoined to the burned-out ruin of a large thatched farmstead enclosure. It was clear the locals had hurriedly gathered their unripe grains before setting the field ablaze, to deny them the food and they had then destroyed their own home and out-buildings from sheer spite. The air was still rank with the after-smell of a damp fire and not a single bird or creature moved on the land. There was an almost pensive hush surrounding the abandoned property and the fields around it and not even a bird was tempted to break it. However in stark and welcome contrast, the field beyond the blackened enclosure glowed with a glorious sunshine yellow. It was still filled with a million tall stalks of wheat, adorned with fat golden tops, which all glowed in the summer sun and they weaved enticingly in the breeze.

Empty bellies do rash soldier’s make and these hungry men of the 7^th Legion were drawn inexorably to the golden, beckoning wheat like trout to a fly-hatch and were just as careless in their advance. They were careless in forging forwards toward this huge and bounteous field-crop before prudently awaiting the return of their scouts and the all-clear, which of course was never coming. Some of the men broke ranks and started to run across this stinking black stubble toward the golden wheat with hopeful faces, each encumbered by a large leather foraging satchel slung around his neck. The officers chose not to yell-out and recall them, as their highly attuned senses were stirring, and there was a strange, malevolent atmosphere hanging over the whole place and not just from the stale and damp stench of burning. They looked around themselves nervously from their saddles, hands creeping towards their swords, as they carefully checked the tree lines in their vision but absolutely nothing stirred, not even a cricket and it was this unnatural silence which worried them the most, but it was already too late. Halfway across this blackened swathe of stubble, the hundreds of hunger-blinkered legionaries of the Seventh along with two Cohorts of their Auxiliaries were neatly ambushed. A large Prittanic host revealed itself abruptly from the treeline, swarming under three huge and flowing tribal banners. One large flag displayed sharp white teeth in the snarling face of an angry brown bear, whilst the central and larger banner was a broad T-mounted flag, bearing a strange and mystical, long-spined boar of outrageous proportions. That hideous boar pennant was flanked by a far more elegant standard of beautiful design, showing a crowned and rearing white stallion. This large opposing force which had appeared from the trees so suddenly was flanked by dozens of two-man chariots, with the snarling brown bear painted on each of the front panels.

Even at a distance it was clear there was a solid mass of spearmen in the centre of this host, most being long-haired brutes of large proportion, with long drooping moustaches and round, gaudily decorated shields. Compared to their own precise and geometrical formations, these Prittanic warriors presented themselves as an indistinguishable, amorphous mass of untidy, hairy humanity with round or oval shields and tall spears. As they advanced from the trees, more and more of them were revealed and they held their chariots to their wings as Roman generals held their cavalry, which it seemed the Prittans had none this day, as their equites had obviously chosen to war in vehicles.  Any barbarian charioteer who didn’t want to run over his own men would do the same and form on the flanks, as it required no great reasoning to organise it thus.

Although on closer inspection, there were some clear dissimilarities in their clothing and shield designs which obviously denoted the families within the tribe, they meant nothing to these soldiers. Sections of the long ranks facing them had different coloured chequered cloaks about their shoulders and even from a distance, they could see that some had longer spears than others, also giving some clue to the diversity within this brutish looking opposing force. Some had their hair comically spiked-up with some kind of white, chalky paste to make them look fiercer perhaps, whilst the majority did not. What was most obvious and unsettling however, was that they were all smiling terribly to a man and surprisingly, to a woman.

Many animated whispers flitted through these troops at the sight of women in the enemy approaching, as it was a rare sight. Whilst there was only a small percentage of ferocious-looking females in this host, their overt and colourful differences separated the Prittans in appearance and even as they were in ordered groups, this gave no clue as to their martial variations, but two things were abundantly clear; there was no way around them and they hadn’t come to chat about the weather.

“Ad Aciem!” Neleus roared at them and they formed up to his orders, but not quite quickly enough for this Centurion now the enemy was in sight. “Lemanus!” He yelled, slapping the vine-wood baton into his left palm ominously. “Get your fuckin’ men to pull the lead from their caligae, or they’ll feel my vicus I warn you!” He shouted at the Optio Principalis, as the Cohorts of the 7th fell into formation and dressed-off in their lines, their auxiliaries forming up hurriedly behind them. “Intente!” Neleus roared once all were fell-in and with a crash, they came to attention.

“Right you lot!” Neleus snarled, his terrible war-face emerging from under his gleaming helmet. “Listen-in as I will say this only once! You’ve all been gobbing off about wanting a crack at the hairy-arsed Prittans - well there they fucking-are by Jupiter’s great cock!” He roared at them, his face filling with blood as he pointed across the burnt grass at the Prittans, still advancing slowly across the stubble toward them, step by step. This glittering Centurion stalked the front ranks fuming in his red cloak and polished armour, wrathfully brandishing his knobbly baton and throwing dark curses at the enemy, and at that precise moment these soldiers were far more afraid of him, than they were of the approaching tribesmen who had ambushed them.

This well-known and highly decorated Centurion; Neleus of the 7th, caught the eye of many experienced soldiers he knew, those who had fought alongside him many times before and he nodded to these grisly men now, needing their courage and support and these invaluable veterans took-up the shout;

“Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!” They crashed their fists to their chest-plates at each shout, and every soldier joined them, making Centurion Neleus growl his pleasure at the thumping, metallic crescendo.

“We know what to do with those stupid long-swords don’t we lads!” He yelled at them over the din and they shouted their agreement back. His men knew from long and bloody experience that with practice, the Gaulish long-swords could be trapped between their shields, just long enough to allow someone with a pair of plated leather gauntlets, or a javelin shaft to bend them which wasn’t difficult, especially with the older or poorer forged ones and it rendered them almost useless.

“Just watch the fuckin’ axes and those farmer’s sickles coming over the top, and the spears underneath! Always keep one eye on me lads and listen-out for my commands and whistles. Do your duty, obey your orders and fight like Romans!” He demanded of them. “And we’ll give these hairy-arsed, ugly barbarians the worst kick in the fuckin’ balls they’ve ever had!” He roared this at his men and they roared with him, as their enemy approached them without pause across the stubble, giving them a clearer impression of what now approached them in arms.

“See that big ugly cunnus in the middle, I’m going to gut the hairy pig and piss on his entrails!” A growl came from the front ranks and Neleus didn’t even have to turn his head.

“You Carpus, my excellent and battle-eager Miles Gregarius will leave that big ugly cunnus to me and that’s a fuckin’ order!” His Centurion growled and there was much laughter in the ranks, over Carpus’ low growling.

“He would pluck off your head Carpus, as if he were pulling a petal from a daisy!” Didacus’ cultured drawl drew more laughter, causing Carpus’ misshapen face to darken at this slight to his prowess.

“I’ll pluck your fucking head off Didacus you knob-polisher, and shit on the stump of your scrawny neck!” Carpus growled in response, the blood rising up his throat, along with his escalating temper.

“Enough!” Neleus barked and they fell silent. “The enemy is over there! If the big ugly cunnus kills me Carpus, you have my permission to gut him and to piss on his entrails!” Neleus said casually and the men laughed again, the consummately relaxed attitude of their Centurion facing mortal combat, bolstering their courage. Eolus, Tycho and Agapitus their Optios stood behind the rear rank with their prods, securing that same courage. These three veteran officers would closely inspect the men arriving back down the lines for damage or missing and broken weapons, as the ranks rotated and the exhausted legionaries tacked-on behind. The Optios were also the driving force behind these men, literally.

“Consider it done my honourable Centurion.” Carpus growled again, screwing up his eyes then and scowling at the oncoming barbarians, choosing another target for his escalating fury. As they had done so often in their past, Sisera his Decanus stood to his right in front of the Aquilifer and their venerated banner, alongside the brutal Balorin and with Ӕlianus beyond him. Gabinus stood firm to Carpus’ left before Balius, with the tall Didacus alongside him and the ferocious looking Ferox standing next in line along the front rank, their best man with a Pili. These mess mates had marched across Gaul and Germania together for years and they prepared for battle again now in Prittania, together.

“Let’s give ‘em a fucking slotting they won’t believe lads!” Sisera snarled at his men and they rumbled back their response.

“Parati!” Centurion Neleus barked, standing stiffly to attention and the men of this steadfast Contubernium opened their legs, along with all the other soldiers in the front ranks and shifted their stances, turning side-on. “Pila Tollite!” Came the next order and they selected their first javelin. “Pila Parati!” Came the quickly followed command from their imperious officer and the 3^rd of the 7^th gripped their Pilli, preparing themselves for this fast-approaching Prittanic onslaught.

*   *   *   *   *

This large Brythonic taskforce was an alliance of Albion and Galedon warriors, sent here as an organised test by Pendragon Cadallan ap Cadall to see how the warriors of the old enemy fared, fighting together for the first time against a common enemy.

Albion fielded a full Battalion of warriors, including a four hundred strong Brigade of the Plufyn y Baedd; the intrepid and battle-seasoned, specialist spearmen of Albion. These ferocious warriors were known for good reason as the ‘Quills of the Boar’ and they were led here today by their enormous and already victorious Captain. The huge leader of these men who has a contoured crest of stiff boar-quills running down the centre of his helmet, and who sports a bone-white boar-tusk mounted to each cheek-piece was the God of war personified this day. This chiselled warrior had a huge jutting jaw which gave him a permanently challenging and belligerent look, one which sat well with his war-like personality. He was an impressive, dangerous looking man with the easy air of the merciless and the quick to kill. This enormous brute of a man known and feared throughout Albion and Prydein, was one Gŵyr Tŵyr ap Garth, who had already seen successful action on the beach against the Romans and had gloriously claimed the life of the infamously furious Centurion. This famous man-killer of Selgofan and Albion legend, had escaped the black wings of death countless times and he was as ferocious and pitiless in battle, as his scarred face suggested. Looking as if he had survived some form of hideous and primeval selection process, Tŵyr ap Garth was a lantern-jawed man of immense muscular build. Surviving many years as a 1st rank spearman in countless brutal shield-wall battles, this man-mountain’s reputation and Bri were almost insurmountable. He and his men of the ‘Quills’ were not only armed with the slender, two-foot longer and snag-free spears of their Brigade, but also with their unique three sided and triple-edged stabbing swords, which is a long and honoured tradition of theirs. Their ancestors’ triple-edged swords had all been cast in bronze and it is only their own revered smiths who can now forge these fearsome blades correctly from steel, and their master forgers are well protected by necessity. The real quills of the boar are their long and sleek spears, which were rightly named the Plufyn y Baedd. Their equally unique triple-swords however are called their Plufyn y Cwt by these superbly trained warriors, and represent the shorter, stiffer spines found on the tail-end of the ridge-back of a wild male boar. Each of these men also carried a unique oval shield, which bore a snarling boar’s-head cygil and had a semi-circular void cut-out of the lower right-hand edge of the rim, through which their comrades behind plunged their specialist spears.

Crown Prince Cadwy ap Cridas of Selgofa and Albion, along with his allies of a newly crowned King, several Princes and nobles led this Army today, which included two thousand of his own spearmen of Selgofa, alongside four hundred of the legendary ‘Quills’; his father’s very finest, elite warriors. Cadwy’s force was supported by thirty-three war carbad of Prince Berwyn’s highly skilled Damnoniau, who were arrayed to the flanks and prepared for glory. King Galan of Epidia represented Galedon here today, with two Alau of his glorious cavalry not yet come to the field and totalling six hundred of his peerless mounted warriors.  The spectacular and newly crowned King of Epidia also led a hundred vassal cavalry and a token force of thirty-thee chariots, coming from King Lleu’s wild Wenyllon and completing Galedon’s host this day.

Since his late brother’s recent but short-lived rebellion, Galan had unified Epidia by erasing Wrad’s black cygil from his Kingdom and making the celebrated Druid-led walk against the sun at midnight. His oath to share the country as two equals with Wrad was just a memory now and Galan had taken his father’s beautiful crown, a heavy circlet of golden galloping horses and had become King Galan ap Cerwyn of the ancient and honourable, unified House of Epidia. Here today, even as he was a King and Cadwy a Prince, and even though Galan was older and battle-tested, Epidia and Galedon had officially ceded power in today’s battle to the Crown Prince of Selgofa and Albion. It was Albion men who made up the infantry, the main bulk and shield-wall of this allied task-force and their beloved Crown Prince was thus declared senior.

In view of Galan’s somewhat supportive role, many were surprised at him taking a back-seat to the young Albion Prince, until they recalled or were reminded exactly who this fortunate young Tywysog was about to marry. He was soon to be their Liege-Lord and King of all Galedon’s son-in-law and it was this undeniable fact, which had made the chain of command here today acceptable to all concerned. In fact this pending royal handfasting had in some way, galvanised these northern families of entirely analogous Brythons from two historically perennially warring tribes, into a single-minded fighting force, assembled here on this burnt and stinking stubble field as an examination by their Pendragon.

Pendragon Cadallan on behalf of the five glorious Kings of Prydein, and all the great nobility of this country had hoped for just such a meeting of minds and attitudes. This was the defence of the nation no-less and with the import of that alone, it was time that the phrase old-enemy was once and for-all consigned to Prydeinig history in the north.

This action too today represented to many veterans in Selgofa, the Barn-Isarno of a certain famous young Prince of the Boar and his challenge to become a Tywysog. These seasoned soldiers of Albion and Galedon knew however, that the proof of the blood-pudding lies always in the eating and today would most certainly prove if Cadwy was up to that title.

Cadwy sat easily on his magnificent chestnut war-horse Tywysog and to his right-hand the glorious Epidian King sat astride Epona herself come-to-earth, in the snow-white and pristine form of the dazzling Horse-Lady Galwena. She stood imperiously, flicking an ear in impatience and easily outdoing the iconic representation flapping in the breeze above her; the dazzling white cygil of the gold-crowned and rearing stallion of ‘unified’ Epidia. This beautiful flag fluttered alongside an allied pennant of a ‘Wren perched on dagger in-hand’, representing King Lleu’s notorious horsemen and charioteers, who had travelled more than four hundred miles from wild Wenyllon to be here. These eye-catching banners shared pride of place in the centre of this mighty force, with the Brown Bear of Damnonia and the fabulous and swirling hump-backed, long-spined and monstrously tusked Boar banner of Albion in the centre.

Under his fearsome Albion banner and sitting at Cadwy’s right was his big Pencampwr Bleddyn ap Arawn who sat upright in the saddle of his big bay mare, as was his custom. His champion nodded then and grinned at him like a mischievous child. Cadwy winked back at him with a grin of his own and each man could feel the other’s building excitement.

As this allied Battalion came to a crunching halt, a huge man in a black bearskin cloak with the sun-bleached skull of a bear strapped to his head, stood tall on the back of a big chariot to the left flank. This obvious leader lifted one muscular and beringed arm, making a clear signal and the effect was immediate.  Abruptly his charioteers sped from both flanks and tore across the black stubble, charging the Romans with a reckless abandon. The Damnonian drivers cracked their long whips and the vehicles shot forward, rattling and banging as their occupants attacked the enemy valiantly and directly, achieving much success initially with the loose troops, those who were caught in midfield and who had tried belatedly to scamper back to their ranks. They were too slow, and many fell, tripping over their big leather bags or the uneven, hand-cut and burnt stalks to be speared by dozens of accurately thrown spears. The unluckier of these were run-over by the thundering carbads of Berwyn, to much-applause and wild cheering from the ranks of their combrogi.

These fantastic Damnonian charioteers made a great sport of running over these Romans the living and the dead alike, bouncing into the air as the wheels struck the body. A howl would erupt from both occupants as they clung-on, laughing madly and a cheer would erupt from their on-looking ranks of bristling spearmen. When placed correctly, a wheel would decapitate a man with a crunching ‘snap’ and the head would fly-off high into the air, trailing streaks of blood behind it. The driver would then make a sharp skidding turn, with his passenger clinging to the wildly canting rear with one hand, whilst leaning down and out with the other. A clean pick-up of the same head was cheered loudest of all, as the claiming of enemy heads was still seen by many as a deeply honourable achievement. They would then hold their trophies high and hang them with a leather lace around the necks of their horses, before the next mad dash into peril and glory. 

As the Romans reassembled, retreating slowly and in-formation from these fast and deceptively agile chariots and the bold and accurate spearmen within, the ground they reversed over proved far too rutted for them to follow. Some did and many a spear-thrower was catapulted off the rawhide lattice of a chariot’s rear platform, to sail into the air and crash in a heap to the turf, spilling all his Bri on the grass in front of the Roman gelyn, to much-cheering and ribald abuse from his own comrades. The sprung-seats saved the drivers from a similar ignominious decant but only just, and they also flew into the air each time, holding-on tight to the reins and howling at the sheer fun of it. Their outwardly propelled partners would jump to their feet quickly and sprint for their chariots as the drivers swung back around to get them, as the air around them would suddenly become thick with dangerous whizzing things. Once aboard again, the cheering would get louder from the ranks and these men would turn and attack again immediately with great courage and verve, the warrior drawing a fresh spear from the leather boot on the rail and loosing it at the enemy, both men or women grinning like fools as they clattered past the Romans.

 A number of overgrown ditches had proved almost catastrophic for a more adventurous phalanx of these charging carbads, who had crashed over them with a tremendous series of loud bangs and numerous noble spearmen had been thrown headlong into a ditch. One unfortunate had been facing the rear when her chariot hit the first ditch and the rawhide slatting under her foot had sprung, allowing her left leg to drop between them. Facing backwards and with the front of her thigh held tight against the rear rail, her left heel caught the top of the next ditch as the chariot clattered over it and it snapped her leg above the knee like a twig. Her scream was loud but short, as a Roman javelin flew down her open mouth to appear at least two feet from the back of her head and her long blonde hair, in a crimson welter of blood and brains. The Damnonian Gawres flopped backwards with a foreign spear protruding from her mouth and her broken leg dangled horribly below the bed of the chariot, as it hobbled back to its lines on buckled wheels.

Two men limping along this low and overgrown ditch were dragging an injured comrade with them and keeping their heads down, as slingshot buzzed around their heads like huge and angry superfast bees, as these battle-mates knew they carried more than just a sting. They were collected by their drivers on chariots which didn’t quite run right anymore, and they trotted their dazed horses back to sanctuary. These reckless charioteers had been forced to withdraw from the field before they doomed themselves in their ardour, and the Damnoniau clattered around to the rear now, where the battle-pairs dismounted and abandoned their carbads, to re-join the ranks on foot. A huge roar erupted from this host then, as they all joined their voices in ferocious challenge; ‘Prydein! Prydein! Prydein!’ They roared in one enormous voice at these foreign trespassers and the air shook with their shouts, as thousands of spears punctured the air, shaken in dire demonstration and murderous threat.

The Roman invaders had formed up quickly into their fighting block formations roughly fifty reeds away, with their dark skins and polished steel plates stark against their blood-red cloaks, and with their weapons glinting in the weak sunshine. Two tall and fabulous leaders stalked the front ranks of the enemy in the most amazing armour, shouting at their men in their unfamiliar words and preparing them for this impending battle.

Cadwy swept his gaze across that row of steel, leather, wood and wool ahead of him, made-up of men standing in precise machine-like furrows of polished metal and it looked so alien to him. They were all so identical and seemed so inhuman, especially their glittering Centurions and Cadwy spat his nerves to the grass. Turning in his saddle, he nodded then to the Major on his right and this seasoned, beautifully dressed and now familial officer, in-turn made a signal to his big Sergeant-Major mounted to his right. Meyrug made a brief signal to an observant young cornwr, who had to emulate his Prince and spit his nerves to the ground, before he was able to blow the strident call to advance. To this blaring and rising clarion call, the old enemies of Albion and Galedon marched forwards together for the first time into battle. 

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