The following is the Barn Isarno of Crown Prince Dylan of Wenyllon in 54 BC.
A fictional excerpt from Iron Blood & Sacrifice (Return of the Yellow Dog)
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Crown Prince Dylan ap Lleu ap Rianaw ap Beli Mawr, of Wenyllon & Galedon.
Six Champions of Epidia with their infamous Captain Sel out front, broke from their comrades and made King Galan’s personal guard, as half a dozen Fachomagian Pencampwyr did much the same from the opposite side in support of their King Galwyn. The two royal combatants now dressed casually and loosely for individual combat, stood to another blare of horns and the tension on the faces of all these men was apparent. As both parties sombrely approached the great white circle of shining stones on the ground, a loud clatter of horses’ hooves was heard on the paved ramp outside and scattering the loudly protesting werrin, a royal party of late arrivals came galloping through the gatehouse and came to a rude and sudden stop at the edge of the parade ground.
All eyes were drawn to the fit young aristocrat who vaulted off the first foam-slathered horse and was recognised instantly by his Tawescally countrymen, but was unknown to the masses as he had been absent for some time. This infamous Prince had left Galedon some years ago to seek his fortune down south, as so many disillusioned northern youngsters had over the years. ‘Cydwal ap Conal has come for his kingdom!’ was the excited declaration on the Tawescally werrin’s lips and breathlessly passed about, like a parcel of smoked meat. ‘Cydwal ap Conal has come for his kingdom!’
There was a flurry of movement in the northern corner of this Epidian fortress and under some very famous banners. The ‘Perched Wren on a Winged Dagger’ cygil of Lleu Llaw Gyffes was known the length and breadth of this land but the largest of the supporting minor flags around it, was a new and contentious one, bearing a ‘Vixen pierced with Winged Dagger’ cygil. This graphic illustration of Conal’s defeat was thought by some to be purposely controversial and designed not only to declare Dylan’s ownership by conquest of DunAer but also to elicit perhaps a reaction here today, or some other foreseen day in the future. This new banner’s stark symbolism and bold proclamation wasn’t lost on the late arrival either and when Cydwal saw the detail in Dylan’s provocative flag, he lost his composure and stormed toward the Wenyllon camp, arrayed in splendour below the palisaded north corner watchtower.
Lleu looked grave at his son’s side but brushed aside his bristling Pencampwr and stepped up to meet the young Prince himself, who was clearly furious.
“Draen Dur Hoer! My family’s sword – who has it?” Cydwal demanded, carelessly breaking the Druid’s circle with a misplaced footstep but he was clearly past caring. Lleu looked for a moment as though he was about to pass a glib remark but a shift in his blazing blue eyes bespoke the change in his mind and he relaxed, becoming languid as he stepped up to the furious young Prince.
“I have your sword Cydwal ap Conal and it has been well cared for!” He told him casually, looking down his aristocratic nose at the young Prince before signalling an awaiting squire, who had been quickly given the sword by a Gŵyr of Lleu’s Wrens. This serious young Macwy stepped forward and presented Cydwal his heirloom long-sword with a curt bow. This smooth gesture seemed to take the wind out of the young man’s sails momentarily, but his anger could not be ignored or placated so easily and so Cydwal grabbed the sword and turned on Lleu.
“I am here too for my other family possession and my inheritance – my Caer!” He demanded loudly and Lleu stiffened. “You, the all-powerful sons of Beli Mawr cannot curb your greed, can you? It’s like a sickness with all of you! Was my father’s humble Caer so vital to your vast estates that you had to slay him to take it?” He charged Lleu recklessly, his voice rising with the obvious emotion and there were many gasps from the surrounding crowd at his rashness. Cydwal looked around at these spectators now, perhaps in search of support but if anyone here did support his claim they stayed silent, as with the legendary warriors involved in this quickly escalating debacle, it was more than their lives were worth to voice it.
“Your father was a scurrilous, oath-breaking rogue and if King Lleu hadn’t disposed of him like a rank amateur that day, I would have removed his lying head myself!” The host King Galan erupted, roaring at Cydwal with his war face emerging finally and revealing perhaps the stress he was under this day. Galan took an ominous step forwards but Lleu put his hand up with a discreet nod, forestalling the Epidian’s outrage. The Wenyllon King then quickly forestalled Cydwal too, by stepping up smartly and tightly gripping his sword arm, as it was clear the angry young man was about to draw the blade in response to Galan’s tirade.
“Don’t be a bloody fool!” Lleu growled at him, stopping his hand. “Galan is the King of Epidia boy and is here for a sacred throne-challenge, which you cannot interrupt or interfere with in any way – on pain of death, as you well know!” Lleu held his angry gaze and forced Cydwal to listen and look at him, but the young man’s fury was now overflowing, and he would not be calmed. Cydwal threw off Lleu’s hand but his sword remained sheathed for now.
“I have no quarrel with Epidia but with Wenyllon!” Cydwal roared back at them, ignoring Galan and refocusing his anger, pointing out Lleu and his murderous looking Gŵyrd, who were staring daggers back at him from under their banners. “I am no boy and I have come here to claim what is my birth-right to claim, the sarhaed of mortal combat!” He yelled, his voice breaking with the emotions coursing through him and flushing his face. In confirmation, Cydwal tore Draen Dur Hoer from its scabbard finally and the polished steel of ‘Cold Steel Thorn’ glittered as it caught the sunlight, making the breath catch in many onlooker’s throats from its stark beauty and the sound that ushered from them, was one of surprised excitement. The tension around them rose alarmingly, as Lleu’s face turned to stone.
“I will answer your sarhaed!” The King of Wenyllon growled, and a dangerous blue light fired deep in those cerulean eyes but Cydwal looked hard at Lleu and sneered, glancing at the infamous bejewelled dagger at his right hip.
“Yes you would Lord Lleu of that I’m sure, anything to prevent your precious son and heir risking his skinny neck! And I know you would love to make your Triad of Tawescally heads this day too, would you not King Lleu ap Rianaw?” Cydwal challenged him boldly and Lleu blanched, becoming suddenly very still in that dangerous way of his, drawing every wide eye in this crowd, but the embittered Tawescally Prince was remorseless. “No, I claim my sarhaed from your bookish puppy Dylan, as it was he who arrogantly took possession of DunAer – my Caer for himself, was it not?” Cydwal blustered on, looking around himself for support once again and a few were nodding now, as this was a widely known truth. Since the fall of Conal’s hilltop Caer, Dylan and the Gŵyrd of Wenyllon had not shied from boastful gloating, the kind of ale-house bragging which had not gone unnoticed in certain parts of Galedon.
Dylan looked pale and fearful one pace behind his father but the harsh planes of his pinched young face gave an insight to a determination and a realisation, born no-doubt from expectation of this very event, and Dylan reached out to touch his father’s arm.
“You cannot deny his challenge father and we both knew this day was coming.” Dylan told his father soberly and Lleu’s expression in response was unfathomable, as he surveyed his young son and heir with a bleak look.
Dylan was a fine student with a quick and receptive mind, delighting all his tutors apart from two. Well in advance of his years in all the academic subjects, his son was found to be a superb linguist and a very creative poet, gaining a growing reputation among the current crop of revivalists. Not counting himself, the only mentors Dylan had repeatedly disappointed throughout his young life however were his two venerated Martial Masters, as although his heir was the issue of the greatest Brythonic swordsman ever to have stalked this earth, Beli Mawr’s great grandson was no natural fighter. He had struggled all his life with the tools of warfare and given a free hand, Dylan would never choose to pick up a weapon as they held no mystique for him, being just another tool. He was far happier playing his harp, or reciting his latest poem in Latin or Greek to his equally studious group of friends, than he ever was sweating on the 'maes y cledd' and it made poor preparation for the cruel demands of this cold day.
Lleu hid his deep and growing concerns for his son, as although his skills with the sword had improved dramatically as he approached manhood, he had never been a gifted swordsman regardless of the dragon’s blood coursing through his veins and unusually, Dylan had no love for combat. This had taken Lleu by surprise in those early years, but Dylan had proved he had so much more to offer than the brute-force ability to kill over those same enlightening years. His burgeoning intellect was astonishing already but Lleu spat to the cold parade ground of DunAdda, knowing none of that mattered this morning, as Dylan was about to be tested on how much he had learned at the sword-post and his very life now depended on it. He nodded to Cydwal then and took a backward step signifying his withdrawal, before he turned his back on this enraged challenger to face his son.
The man behind him; Cydwal ap Conal was no student of the arts that much was evident to all, just from his ripe language. Those who knew the family well had not been surprised when the young Prince had flown that particularly dysfunctional nest. He’d lived a hard and fast life down south apparently, making his dubious name around the mean streets of LludsDun by all accounts and earning much gold from his efforts, most of which was earned the hard way – the iron way.
Lleu held his son’s gaze for long moments now, keeping a relaxed, calm attitude and an easy smile playing on his lips, utterly denying the mushrooming turmoil he felt within.
“You know what to do Dylan as you’ve had the very finest tutors, so believe in yourself son. Empty your mind, leave all outside the arena and squeeze every ounce of mercy from your heart, as make no mistake my son, that young rogue has come here to kill you!” Lleu’s eyes bored into Dylan’s at that crucial, pivotal moment and he was buoyed by what he saw in them. He saw the dragon’s fire ignite deep in his son’s identical blue beacons and they blazed now with an elemental, in-bred flame which was so familiar and thrilling to Lleu, it caused his heart to gallop.
“I am ready father and I will fight like I have never fought before, for the honour of my family and all of Wenyllon but mostly father, for you!” Dylan growled and although his painfully young and unblemished face was pale, there was no trace of bluster on it. Nor was there any hint of performance in the gravel of his words and Lleu swelled with pride.
“For Arglwydd Camulo, Beli Mawr and the glory of Wenyllon!” Lleu snarled the oath for them both as he clasped Dylan’s hand, before enveloping him roughly in a bear-like paternal embrace. “Gut the common little toad Dylan and make your Hêndaid smile on his Underworld throne!” Lleu growled in his ear before releasing him and Dylan turned to face his fate.
The Druids were flapping about like fox-spooked geese, squawking about what took precedence over what but Cydwal ap Conal decided the issue, by stepping into the combat circle properly and striding into the centre of the arena, pointing Dylan out.
“Dylan ap Lleu of Wenyllon!” He roared. “I challenge you to the royal sarhaed of mortal combat, for your presumption and your greed in taking what was not yours to take – my DunAer! So, come out from behind the legs of your infamous father and face a real swordsman – if you dare!” Cydwal added with a sneer, slashing Tawescally’s sword around himself, confirming his intentions here today in no uncertain terms.
Dylan responded, striding purposefully into the glittering circle of the arena and the sound swelled from the crowd as he drew Grafangau yr Eryr with a sibilant whoosh. ‘Eagle’s Claw’ glittered in the weak sunlight with its malevolent promise, as Dylan’s inherited long-sword was infamous and its legend manifest, being a Penderyn blade of the very finest quality.
As an angry Galan stumped back to his campaign chair below the white stallion banner shaking his head, the experienced Epidian Gŵyr around him exchanged knowing looks. They were in privileged positions and knew that if Cydwal ap Conal defeats Dylan ap Lleu here today and reclaims his Caer and his lands, the look on their King’s face at that moment told them, that the reckless Tawescally Prince’s troubles would just be beginning.
Dylan was just as pale and worried looking, as he parried the first furious onslaught of the enraged Cydwal but his technique and footwork were sound and so he was able to survive this initial attack. Dylan’s superb training was countering Cydwal’s ferocity largely and his face no longer had that haunted expression about it, just the serious and sharply focused look he had when at his studies.
Lleu’s pride was overflowing as he watched with baited breath, his hopes and aspirations for Dylan mounting steadily as his boy put up a tremendous fight. His breath caught sharply in his throat then, as Dylan was struck a savage blow, high across his chest as he moved a fraction late to parry and it sounded like the crack of a stockman’s whip. Having had no time to dress his son in the Morddyl vest before the bout, he feared the worst and the shocking sound which echoed around DunAdda pierced Lleu’s soul. He groaned inwardly as his son fell, Eagle’s Claw flying from his numb fingers and Lleu’s spirits tumbled with it into a bottomless pit of anguish, weakening his legs. His heart and chest seemed to be gripped painfully by the clawed hand of some inner monster and a savage roar erupted from the crowd around him then, matching his escalating agony. This rushing and swelling sound swirling around him was a raw mixture of surprise, anger, joy and an undisguised blood-lust and amid this dizzying bedlam of raised voices, Lleu saw that young Cydwal was standing over his fallen son and his face was flushed with his victory.
From the grainy and sandy dirt of DunAdda’s cold earth, Dylan struggled to ignore the white-hot agony which blazed across his chest and left shoulder. The blow had totally immobilised the arm and he felt as though he was drowning, as his chest had locked-up tight and he couldn’t draw a breath to save his life at that shocking moment. Feeling the hot flow of his blood running down his quivering ribs and soaking his undershirt, his eyes were swimming and looking up, Dylan saw that a flushed Cydwal was standing over him crowing and holding his sword high.
“I Crown Prince Cydwal ap Conal ap Cynal ap Conan Fawr of Tawescally, I claim back my father’s throne, his Caer and all his lands!” He yelled hoarsely, spittle flying from his ragged lips at the hysterical oath and his eyes were wild with his triumph.
Dylan roused himself and shook his head, throwing the droplets of sweat from his eyes and fighting the debilitating pain which coursed through his upper torso. Cydwal bent to run him through and finish the fight but Dylan still had his right arm.
“Say hello to Lug Ddu you ratling, for I now send you over the bridge of sw – uh?” Cydwal’s fiercely grinning victory speech was abruptly interrupted by the merest chinc of sound, as Dylan moved like a snake beneath him. Inspired by his father in all things and with a downward grip of his dagger, he had parried the clumsy, over-confident, downward thrust of Draen Dur Hoer toward his heart in a flash and then plunged his blade up to the cross-guard into Cydwal’s left eye, just as he was bending forward into it.
“Just like your fat fool of a father!” Dylan growled, the leather grip of the dagger flying from his fingers, as Cydwal was propelled violently backwards by the savage killing stroke. Tawescally’s orphaned sword made a harsh sound as it clattered to the hard ground, landing dead-centre of this sparkling white circle of destiny, and with its tip pointing directly at the victor as it trembled into a profound stillness. “You talk too much!” Dylan finished the insult with a snarl and propped up on one elbow, his blue eyes were blazing. He watched the already dead Cydwal kick and spasm on his back on this parade ground, his bejewelled dagger still vibrating in his challenger’s skull, killed instantly by his legendary father’s infamous stroke; ‘the peck of the wren’.
Crown Prince Dylan had won his bout of mortal combat, ending Tawescally’s ancient blood line forever, securing the kingdom for himself and earning the title of Tywysog, in which fight was deemed his ‘Barn Isarno’ and confirming him as a Brythonic ‘Warrior-Prince’. Rising finally to manhood, Tywysog Dylan became listed among the vaunted descendants of great Beli Mawr himself and all he had to do now was survive this terrible wound.
The noise washed over Dylan then along with the pain, and careful, loving hands reached him, lifting him up. The last thing brave Dylan saw before he succumbed was his Tad’s beaming face.
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