DunAer - Dundee
The unrelenting
hammering echoed through the passageways and chambers of this cold and ancient
inner-keep like a mason’s worst nightmare. Somebody had been banging on the
distant door for long minutes and it was like the persistent knocking of a
woodpecker on his skull. With his swimming head held in one hand, Conal was
about to roar out for someone to answer it when the hammering suddenly stopped,
apart from the pulse behind his bloodshot eyes, which continued with its
irritating beat.
It wasn’t long
before Towy his old arwein ambled in
through the door to his private chamber in his uniquely indolent way. The title
of Squire was a bit of a stretch, but
the dishevelled old crone had been with him since Conal could remember and
wouldn’t leave, even as he had dismissed him several times over recent years.
Towy it seemed had become part of the few remaining fittings in this Caer,
which had a desolate feel about it of late. DunAer and Bryn Aer itself seemed
deserted now, as almost all his servants and indentured workers had vanished
over the preceding few days. In-fact it seemed that the villages all around
DunAer and the harbour town itself had emptied of people and even a number of
his soldiers were noticeably absent. Conal didn’t need to be a genius to work out
that it was mostly the men who had married locally who had deserted their posts
and he bore them no real malice, as the great host rumoured to be heading here
would make even the most seasoned old campaigner nervous, but it was the
politics which had in reality undermined their loyalty to him.
News of this
debacle had swept the country and the calamitous results of his past decisions
were obvious now, from the abandoned posts, the lack of staff and the general
quietness of the town and port below. He and every one of his subjects in
Tawescally had been expecting this dark day, yet it had still come as a
surprise to Conal this morning. This crushing hangover stopped him thinking
straight, something he hadn’t done in some time, but he didn’t need to be particularly
lucid either to know, that this particular bright spring morning he was in dire
trouble.
“Nêr Etyn is here
Lord.” The elderly manservant informed him, with about as much interest as when
he was picking his nose, which was often. Conal grunted and just nodded once,
not bothering to look at his arwein and Towy just shuffled off out of the room,
his sheepskin slippers dragging on the worn and filthy goatskin flooring. He
returned a few moments later in the same disinterested way and left the visitor
standing in the doorway, shuffling off without a word.
“Well?” King
Conal growled, still not looking up.
“The initial
reports were accurate Lord. There are hosts approaching us under arms from each
of the four passes and more than twenty ships have landed and taken the port.
We shall have to sue for peace with Ederus Lord, as there is no way out for any
of us!” The soldier told him, his voice rising and breaking a little at the
end.
Conal looked up
then and the bleak expression on his face was mirrored in his red eyes.
“Oh, is that what
we shall have to do Etyn?” Conal
glowered at him, stifling a belch and the flare of anger.
The portly King
got up then and searched the table for a drink, finding nothing but stale and
empty jugs and he swept the table clear with his right arm, roaring with his
anger and fighting his impulse to recall Towy for more wine. With drinking logs
and knives bouncing off the flags and crockery shattering all around him, Etyn
stood pale but unmoved amid the shower of shards. Conal seemed to calm himself
then, with a deep breath before turning to the young captain once more with a
curt nod.
“Continue.” He
said flatly and sank back into the armchair with a sigh.
“Ederus leads a
host of his spearmen through Cwm Lundy my Lord, as his Gadwyr proceed through
Cwm Monicy and are perhaps half an hour from here. Galwyn approaches too from
the north Lord, through Cwm Teal with a thousand men from Fachomagia and King
Galan comes east in support and is passing through Cwm Gowrie as we speak, with
a large host of his celebrated winged-knights. We cannot hope to stand against
such odds and against such vaunted forces my Lord!” Etyn’s report had ended as
a plea but Conal didn’t even blink.
“What of that ratling Dylan, is he with Ederus? Is his
cursed father Lleu?” The King demanded of the young Captain, as he had a bad
feeling about what might occur here at DunAer today but Etyn looked bewildered
at the question and could offer no answer. “Never mind.” Conal interrupted him
with a hand up, as the man was about to respond. “You can instruct the troops
which remain loyal to me, to man the battlements but they are to do nothing
without my personal orders – clear?” Conal barked, finally waking up to what
this day was bringing him, and his Kingdom of Tawescally. Nêr Etyn nodded and
left to his duties without a word but with a decidedly glum look on his face.
Eight years he
had toiled without rest to prove his claim to Wenyllon, which was as valid
today as it had always been and overruled anything Ederus’ council had managed
to conjure-up, to allow them to take it from him. They had handed that jewel of
a Kingdom to Rianaw ap Beli Mawr, when his legendary father and the high-king
of all Prydein had been killed those same eight long years ago. ‘Didn’t the
sons of Beli Mawr have enough? Didn’t those eminently wealthy aristocrats have
enough territory, enough Caers, enough warriors and enough good and bounteous
farmland across this country? What was he left with?’ These questions still
rolled around his consciousness unanswered, like trapped pebbles in a
shore-side cave, around and around they went achieving nothing, apart from
wearing themselves out and abrading their surroundings.
Tawescally’s
stone heart was the great north-eastern range known as the Mynyddoedd Goch and which formed their western boundary. Their
flanks were draped in white mantles for much of the year and their peaks always
dusted with ice and snow, even in summer. Although the incongruously named Red Mountains protected Tawescally from
much of the western storms which assailed this crescent of land each autumn and
winter, they were of little use to today’s crop farmers. The Red Mountains
region had bred a strong-limbed hearty and ferocious people in Tawescally’s
early history, when the forests were full of game and they were known to have
been fearless warriors to a man and to a woman. Tawescally’s Druids and their
ancient traditions insist that their overlord King Ederus’ distant predecessor;
ArdFergus Fawr the first High-King of Galedon, had been very lucky to vanquish
Cyn Hîr; Conal’s honoured descendant in his ancient throne-challenge. If the
tall and elegant Prince Cyn of Tawescally hadn’t stumbled on that day so long
ago, he; Conal ap Cynal would be King of all Galedon not Ederus. He shook his head
and growled at the long-burning injustice.
His Kingdom, his Tawescally lowlands in
reality amounted to no more than a curving strip of coastal scrub-land,
sweeping north from the bulb of Wenyllon and terminating at the broad cape
below the Linn Morwyl, which thrust ever north-east into the great North German
Ocean. Compared to the fruitful bowl of Wenyllon’s green pastures below them,
Tawescally’s farmers had always struggled in the sandy and stony ground, having
to process huge mountains of seaweed just to add some vital nutrition to the
meagre earth so that it could sustain a crop of oats each year. Conal’s Kingdom
had always been forced cap-in-hand to their southern border with Wenyllon in
times of bad harvest and Conal felt it was a crime against him and against his
people, not to have been allowed the bounty of Wenyllon’s fecund crop fields
when its throne-line had failed. Now it looked as if he might actually lose
Tawescally too today, and it burned, far more than the hangover ever could.
He should have
known he would be dragged into that cattle-raiding fiasco, even as he had taken
a great many precautions to keep it from happening. Ederus’ stolen cattle had
been sailed all the way over his peninsula to the Aber of the Morwyl and to a
fishing village known as Treflan Arain, which the westerners called Dyngwal. From there, they had been herded through
the mountain passes to Ulapul on the coast, for their onward voyage to the
Fairhead Cape off the Rhobogdian Peninsula of north-eastern Iweriu. Even his
own Tawescally men that he had given leave to join that mercenary band had been
dressed just like them, and really all he had done was offer temporary shelter
to an unknown band of travellers in his lands and in the heart of winter. Even
Conal wasn’t blind to that particular bit of dishonest nonsense, as it wouldn’t
take a genius to figure out he had been involved, but to what extent could
anyone prove his involvement? This at least is what he had considered pivotal
back when the gleam of gold still made his heart gallop, but a lot had happened
since then.
Elgan and his
impressive Epidian Gŵyr were staunch and steadfast he was sure, so it must have
been one of those scots who had
talked. It was what they were good-at in his disdainful experience but if his
reports were accurate, they had paid the ultimate price for their candour,
however involuntary. It had seemed like a fantastic idea when the Epidian
champion had outlined the clever plan to him and apart from bringing him a
veritable sack full of gold in profit, it had allowed him to take a vicarious
swipe at Ederus. The double Jute sack was still half-full of Iweriu ring-gold
and the bag sat before him on this great table, amid the detritus of days of
drinking and several recent meals. He could see the shiny golden curves of the
top rings glinting at him from the crumpled open neck of the sack, but he got no
joy from the gleaming metal today.
“Huh!” Conal
reproved himself, catching the mocking yellow sheen of the gold again, which he
realised with a smirk was of very little use to him now. Shrugging his great
shoulders, the ruler of Tawescally rose from the big chair but had to grip the
arms tightly, as he swayed for long dizzying moments, the room swimming or his
head reeling he wasn’t quite sure which. His head cleared with a few deep
breaths and he grabbed the heavy bag of gold and crossed the room slowly, still
holding his pounding forehead in the palm of his right hand.
With a quick
glance at the door, Conal popped the
wooden panel at the side of the big cupboard with his fist and it turned on a
dowel, revealing a long dusty space behind it. He stuffed this sack of gold
into the void and closed the panel before rising with a grunt, still clutching
his hammering head in his hand.
Washing at a deep
pot basin, he towelled off with a grubby sheet of linen, his protruding belly
beginning to grumble from neglect.
“TOWY!” He
yelled, instantly wishing he hadn’t, as his eyes nearly popped out of his head,
which almost exploded in his hand.
He was still
dressing moodily in his undergarments when his wheezing page ambled in.
“Fetch some food,
some half-ale and my armour – my fighting
armour!” He qualified brusquely giving his old squire a pointed look, expecting
perhaps some glib remark. Towy didn’t even blink, he just turned on his heel
and shuffled out.
With a scowl,
Conal stood in his long woollen underwear and moved back across the dusty room,
throwing open the woollen drapes and both sets of shutters to one big window,
allowing daylight and fresh air into this chamber for the first time in many
weeks. He didn’t linger at the opening and the snowy, mountainous panorama it
revealed but began to pace the room, ignoring the icy blast and rotating his
huge muscular shoulders and dropping into single-leg lunges, describing an
undulating circle around his long oak table. He may have looked vaguely comical,
but he couldn’t have cared-less as it had been several weeks since he had
exercised last and he needed it. He had a growing feeling in the pit of his
great empty stomach that he was going to need to be physically ready today, if
not spiritually and mentally.
Towy returned and
shuffled through the doorway, carrying a wooden tray with both hands and he
made his slightly unsteady way over to the table and plonked the food and ale
down with a recalcitrant clatter. Conal ignored him, completely missing the two
glances the old arwein made as quick as a bird; one to the dusty mark on the
table where the bag had sat and the other, to the long wooden cupboard by the
far wall. Without a bow or even a glance his King’s way, Towy shuffled off with
his eyes glittering, leaving the vaguest whiff of barley liquor behind him like
a wraith.
“I will be back
with your armour Lord, when my grandson has scrubbed the rust from it.” The man
said deadpan from the doorway and without pausing or turning, he wandered off
down the passageway in his ragged clothing and dragging his sheepskin slippers.
Conal curled his
lip and bit-off the caustic words which were about to erupt from him in temper.
‘Which bloody old fool had allowed his expensive armour to become rusty?’ The
irony wasn’t completely lost on Conal and so he was glad he had stilled the
words, he couldn’t take it out on old Towy as it wasn’t fair on the old goat.
He had served his father Cynal well and had even served Conan Fawr his Taid as
a boy Paige, but his constant and unbending attitude of complete disinterest
galled him at times, today even more so. Old Towy possessed a vast knowledge
and years of experience in all matters courtly and could have been of real
value to Conal and his governance, if the old goat had given an owl’s hoot
about any of it.
Indifference
seemed contagious in Tawescally, as Conal’s son and heir Cydwal had deserted
him last autumn, leaving with the sun to seek his fortune down south. He could
have done with Cydwal at his side today but with a bleak expression, he
realised he didn’t really want him inveigled in this scandal or to be found
culpable in any way, as it was all his own doing. Conal shrugged, accepting
that whatever indignity or toll this bright morning would thrust upon him he
would face it alone.
Conal put his
absent son and the disobedient old servant out of his mind, as after today he
could well be seeking alternative employment, whereas Cydwal knew his hiding
place and if he perished this day, at least his son would have the wealth to
continue ruling Tawescally when he returned to assume the throne.
Picking up Draen Dur Hoer
in its beautiful bronze decorated, oak and leather scabbard, he drew ‘Cold Steel
Thorn’ from the greasy fleece of the lining and the polished and honed steel
sparkled in the morning sunlight, which was streaming through the window now.
He flashed it around absently in the cold but dusty air, re-familiarising
himself with its pristine and stunning beauty. It had been Cynal’s sword of
course and Conan’s and every King of Tawescally before him. Its balance was
unmatched in any blade he had picked up after it and none had ever come near to
its ancient and deadly beauty. It exuded its own cold and merciless power, from
the giants who had wielded it and from the spirits of the fallen warriors
killed with it, long before he was born. Conal revelled in it this morning,
needing the magnificent sword’s energy and feeling it coursing through his
fingers and up his forearm, to set his whole body aglow.
He was still posing with the sword in
his underwear when Towy returned with a cough from the doorway, his arms laden
with his light fighting armour. The old arwein was clearly trying to suppress
his mirth but not too much, to Conal’s chagrin. The King of Tawescally stood
upright with a scowl and leaned on the sword as Towy shambled in.
His heavy mounted armour was still draped over the timber former in the
stables, acquiring its own red cloak of rust no-doubt but his light foot armour at least was cleaned,
greased and looked ready. Towy’s reedy grandson Rhŷs followed in his Taid’s
wake, carrying his warboots and long hose and the boy seemed to have adopted
his grandfather’s slow ponderous way of shuffling about and had about him, the
same couldn’t care-less attitude. At least his boots had a lick of lanolin on
them and looked presentable and he nodded at the boy, who couldn’t have been
more than five summers old.
The King took the gold cygil ring
from his right index finger with its Vixen
cygil and tossed it to the boy, who caught it in a trice, sank his feral little
teeth into it and then pocketed it in a flash, a big grin breaking across his
filthy face. Expressionless, Towy completely ignored this exchange and together
with his grubby grandson, they proceeded to prepare their King for the battle
they were sure was coming and dress him in his fighting vixen armour.
Their pale and serious expressions
were identical now, apart from the destruction of five decades to Towy’s narrow
face, but their grim demeanour was mirrored. It seemed to reflect the doom felt
by all his subjects and it struck Conal now for the first time to his eternal
shame, the toll his ‘reduction of Ederus’ had already levied on his own people
and what more was to come? He curled his lip but said nothing, as he was tugged
and pulled into the armour, amulets and greaves.
Once he was replete and ready for
armed combat and his leather and bronze armour with the snarling vixen embossed
on the plates were strapped tightly down, Conal had Towy close the shutters. He
then dismissed them both, before sitting back at his huge table alone again to
eat the food and quaff down the warm, poor ale. The sustenance hardly
registered and his mind was furious as he chewed morosely, considering his
perilous position.
His eyes were distant and he was
still chewing the stale eggs and greasy bacon, when the thunder of thousands of
horse’s hooves pounded up Bryn Aer to approach his gate house.
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