King Conal’s day of reckoning arrives. (Part 2).

Pencampwr of all Galedon Gŵyr Lloerig ap Irfon looked as huge as Conal, except around the midriff where Conal won hands-down. A sprawling mass of mounted and foot soldiers had gathered outside the great gates of DunAer, which were thrown wide open and King Conal ap Cynal of Tawescally stood square in the centre of the entrance legs apart and sword in hand, but he was alone. A great semi-circular space around these gates was delineated by a ring of spectators, soldiers and civilians alike and the throng stretched all the way down Bryn Aer to the Plain of Rhŷnd and the Port below. Even the long timber bridge over the Aber of Linn-That to Craig the southern headland was thronged with the gathering werrin, as the land was alive with news of the arrival of such a celebrated host and an important, even historic occasion was surely in the making. Its import was not lost on the worried people of Tawescally and they had gathered like flies on a corpse to witness whatever was about to befall them this uncertain day.

King Ederus ap Ewin ap Ewin ap Durstus Fawr, High-King of all Galedon and his distinguished senior Gŵyrd y Gogledd were mounted front and centre outside the twin gate towers. They were amassed under their allied pennants, supporting the King’s golden-stag banner in the centre and all were grave and silent. They had surrounded the high fluttering vixen banners above Conal in his gatehouse and in every conceivable way, vassal DunAer was under siege. The five other rulers of the Houses of Galedon were too drawn-up outside Tawescally’s Capital in response to Conal’s stupidity and the portly, recklessly ambitious King would answer to the Federation and his peers this day.

Ederus looked magnificent on the back of his legendary stallion Caddogddu and the glittering King of Galedon was chuckling bitterly at Conal’s blustering and his ludicrous proposition of single-combat ‘sarhaed’. It wasn’t the swordfight which had elicited this dark sarcastic humour from the King, as he had come here to claim Conal’s head this day, and however it was removed from his treacherous and double-dealing body it was all the same to him, as long as it was bouncing on his horse’s shoulder when he departed.

Conal couldn’t just be hauled out and slaughtered like a goat in public, as he came from a long and honoured lineage and it would likely cause an uprising among his people, just from the disrespect. So, the last-resort of single-combat sarhaed had not only been expected by Ederus and his Gŵyrd, it would have been welcomed as a quick and easy solution to what would have otherwise been a tense and fraught public hanging. The conditions Conal had demanded for the bout had been risible however and had caused much laughter among the ranks. Not only did the florid and overweight fool want to live if he won the bout, he wanted to retain rule of Tawescally and more, the arrogant fool wanted Wenyllon too! Ederus shrugged, understanding Conal’s position in a way, as he had absolutely no leverage at all and nothing left to lose and so he may as well have bayed for the moon.

“Vanquish Lloerig by some absurd miracle and I will grant you your worthless life Conal but that is all, you back-stabbing bastard!” Ederus spat at him, seething with his anger.

“What life would that be Ederus, living as a homeless, landless thief in exile?” Conal snarled back at the King unmoved.

“Are you not a thief then Conal?” Ederus roared back at him, sitting up in his saddle but Conal just scowled back with a belligerent challenge on his face and said nothing, firing Ederus’ renowned anger. “I should just have you hanged from your own gates for your duplicity and I only agreed to Lloerig slaughtering you, out of respect for your father! You have given up your right to rule Tawescally and I cannot speak for Wenyllon, so take your choice Conal!” Ederus demanded loudly of him with a scowl but was abruptly forestalled.

“I can speak for Wenyllon!” Came a cultured voice and every eye was drawn to the tall and broad aristocrat, who broke the front ranks of the Gŵyrd and casually strode forward to stand in front of Gŵyr Lloerig, shocking many civilian observers. 

To usurp a champion already nominated, stood-to with sword in-hand and in a heightened state of readiness was a reckless thing for anybody to do, but Lloerig could offer no protest at this blatant trumping of his position, nor could he voice his primary claim to the ‘Ran y Rhyswr’ as this man was not only a King, he was the infamous Wŷr of great Beli Mawr himself and so the ‘champion’s portion’ was now unattainable to Lloerig. 

A murmur of approbation and whispered caution, flitted around the huge crowd of onlookers surrounding the open gates of the Dun at his sudden and unexpected appearance. King Lleu Llaw Gyffes, grandson to the greatest of all Prydein’s Kings was clearly not with his uncle in Aremorica as believed, as he was standing nonchalantly before Conal in the gateway of DunAer, shimmering in his rare and deadly brilliance. 

King Lleu ap Rianaw ap Beli Mawr of Wenyllon and Galedon was impeccably dressed as ever, in beautifully tailored brown leather riding bracs and tall matching boots this morning with a crisp white linen shirt above them, open at the neck. Over the white linen Lleu had thrown the most intricate and delicate mail shirt anyone had ever seen and this long-sleeved mantle, glimmered with the exotic and lightweight alloys it had been created from. This was Beli Mawr’s legendary Morddyl vest and it had been fashioned by Gwyn ap Nudd’s infamous alchemist generations ago and its legend was manifest. Apart from resisting all manner of corrosion or stain, mythical Morddyl chain-mail was said to be invulnerable to a blow from any steel-bladed weapon and it drew every warrior’s wide eye here this sunny morning, bright with the terrible gleam of compulsive envy. 

Lleu looked aloof and magnificent, displaying a friendly and relaxed attitude as he approached the open gates of DunAer. The sun shone like liquid gold on the flowing, rippling surface of the vest as he strolled forth to face the glowering Conal in his combat stance, who made no effort to hide his enduring hatred of him. Lleu looked like his brother Lludd to those here who knew both men and a well-known, somewhat cynical smile played around that familiar and engaging mouth. The crystalline, fearsome blue eyes were the same as those of the Brif-Dewin of Prydein however and the eye-catching King of Wenyllon looked just as dangerous. 

Lleu’s eyes today were as flat and uncompromising as the blue sky above him, blazing with the awakening spirit of his own inner dragon. A beautiful circlet of sculpted gold sat at a jaunty angle on his noble head and it was formed into a delicate row of standing Wrens beak-to-tail, the noble bird which was Lleu and Wenyllon’s talisman. It was the same ancient, alluvial gold which made-up the fabulously intricate and twisted torc around his neck, both terminals finished with the protruding silver head of a Wren. The same sacred Wren, which perched on the embroidered winged-dagger cygil sewn onto the front of his priceless Morddyl vest.

Conal eyed his old adversary with a hateful scowl, as he came to stand before him in that bird-crown and those ridiculous clothes; ‘Who did this peacock think he was?’ With his long golden plaits, and constantly twirling a bejewelled dagger in the fingers of his right hand without any obvious thought? He was everything a true warrior was not in Conal’s given opinion and he stood relaxed and smiling now in front of him with an easy grace, but one which belied his rumoured potential. This fastidious young King smiling at him always seemed more dressed for dancing than fighting and it had always galled him.

“I speak for Wenyllon do I not Conal, regardless of your ire and your persistent denials. And so it is I who will accept your ludicrous sarhaed and all its unjustified caveats!” Lleu told him easily and there was such a collective sharp intake of breath from so many around them, it was like a visiting sprite of sceptical wind. 

Conal’s red eyes grew at this astonishing offer, as he had only demanded Wenyllon so that he would have somewhere to fall back-to; the retention of Tawescally. His life no longer meant much to him if he failed in that, his honour being his last and most valued asset, and that was all he had been sure of keeping this critical day. Now however this arrogant fool in his courtier’s clothing had offered him everything! This idiot of a show-cockerel had leaned on the fame and reputation of his predecessors far too long and too often in Conal’s excited opinion, his pulse quickening as the import of the man’s words sank in. He had actually acceded to all the terms of the sarhaed in public, now all Conal had to do was crush him and all of eastern Galedon would be his and there was nothing Ederus could do about it! 

He looked up at Ederus then on his horse across this big semi-circular space and the King just glowered back at him, but he couldn’t disguise the lines of concern around his piercing eyes. Conal looked back to Lleu, who was casually inspecting the fingernails of his left hand, whilst still twirling the gleaming dagger in his right, without even looking.

“So if I beat you here today boy, Tawescally remains mine and Wenyllon becomes mine?” Conal challenged him loudly so that all could hear, and he couldn’t help but cast another bold glance at Ederus.

“Certainly Conal my dear chap!” Lleu responded with an ominous smile, looking Conal in the eyes for the first time and the flashing dagger never stopped rolling between his fingers, or spinning on the knuckle of his thumb, as if it had a life of its own. 

It was so distracting, try as he might to resist the impulse, Conal was compelled to glance down at the whirring steel and at that exact moment, the dagger flew up into the air. Conal’s and more than a thousand other eyes followed its glittering arc, as it spun end-over-end above Lleu’s head. Then it fell, still spinning and the grip landed surely with a slap into Lleu’s outstretched hand. His hard, cerulean eyes hadn’t left Conal’s for one instant throughout the dazzling display and applause rippled through these watching warriors, as the dagger began its mesmerising spinning again, and the flamboyant skills of Lleu the agile-handed were undeniable.

Conal’s temper flared again at this supremely self-assured and carefree attitude, as he’d had just about enough of that from his aged arwein. Lleu’s consummate and relaxed confidence just stoked the flames of his building fury but it was the condescending smile which tipped the scales, and Conal roared as he slashed the air with his sword, before pointing it at Lleu’s heart and the tip remained rock-steady.

“Fetch your sword boy, for I am about to give you a lesson in swordsmanship that all these fine Lords of Galedon will be talking about in their dotage!” He challenged him hoarsely the blade not moving, but Conal’s warface was emerging and filling with blood, matching the colour of his eyes. 

Lleu didn’t flinch at Conal’s roaring challenge, or the long sword pointing unerringly at his heart, but his dagger had stilled its tantalising movement and it was now pointing dangerously and unwaveringly at Conal.

“Sword? I didn’t bring my sword old chap, well I didn’t think I’d be needing it on such a glorious spring morning. It’s still glorious isn’t it Conal?” Lleu asked him with that smile but continued blithely without waiting for an answer. “Especially in this delightful corner of the country!” Lleu declared with that enigmatic smile still playing on his lips, looking around with pleasure at the natural, snow-draped beauty surrounding Bryn Aer and Conal’s great Dun. His compliments and consummately relaxed attitude seemed to infuriate his opponent even more and the frustrated rage was coming off the red-faced Conal in discernible waves.

“Will someone lend this insufferable fop a proper bloody sword!” Conal roared at the surrounding crowd of his besiegers. “So we can get this bloody show on the road!” He bellowed and several notable Gŵyr stepped forward but Lleu held up his finely manicured hand, forestalling their generous advance.

“Don’t worry gentlemen, I won’t be needing a sword.” He said absently, inspecting the nails of his fingers again.  

Confusion showed all around, and it was mirrored on Conal’s rugged and flushed countenance, but the same question was on all; ‘Was King Lleu ap Rianaw ap Beli Mawr himself, actually about to commit cowardice of the highest order and in the glare of the public? Was he really going to refuse a mortal challenge of sarhaed before his peers and the aristocracy of all northern Prydein and gift Conal his Kingdom?’ It was only the foolish, drunk or unthinking in this crowd who passed-on or gave any weight to this rumour, which flashed through them like faugh lightning.

“Oh this old dagger will do admirably I think, to deal with blustery old Conal Têw and his blunt and ancient cattle-prod!” Lleu laughed at him in his deep and musical voice, as did every warrior watching but Lleu’s laughter never reached his blazing blue eyes, which never left Conal’s. 

Conal charged him, roaring his uncontainable rage at the unforgivable insult to his heirloom sword, as a blunt cattle-prod it was not. He could care less that Lleu had called him fat, but he would kill him for the slur against ‘Cold Steel Thorn’. As he rushed in, he raised the Tawescally legend for the killing stroke and put all his weight behind the savage downward cut. There was the merest chink of sound and Conal was suddenly alone and stumbling forwards, as Lleu had parried easily with his dagger and skipped away. 

As Conal turned and attacked again, Lleu put his fingernails away finally, apparently satisfied with their condition and then he moved like a flash of lightning again, leaving the lumbering Conal slashing at vacated thin-air once more, much to the derision of the crowd. 

Lleu was waiting for him three reeds away in a languid pose with one knee bent and he looked completely unruffled, with that irritating smile still playing around his lips and it infuriated Conal. The Tawescally Monarch lost all reason then in the face of this insulting ridicule and the increasing laughter of the crowd, blazing in again with his sword flashing and once more there was a ‘chink’ of steel deflecting steel, but followed abruptly this time by a distinctly solid and wet thunk, which was heard by everyone and which made the watching veterans wince.

Conal hadn’t overshot into space this time making himself look foolish again, but had frozen in mid-stride, his back to the crowd still. Lleu walked away from him casually, once more inspecting his immaculate fingernails and the sharp-eyed few in the crowd, noticed that the King of Wenyllon was suddenly unarmed. Conal’s sword fell to the ground and he followed it, collapsing to his knees on the threshold and facing his own Caer, before folding over backwards so that his shirt lifted, and his belly ballooned out in front of him. His upside-down head came to rest on his heels in the dirt and facing the hushed crowd, with his tortured mouth wide open. 

Conal was dead before the back of his head hit the worn heels of his warboots and the Tawescally King in the final throes of his sudden death, revealed where Beli Mawr’s unmatched grandson had left his fabulous dagger. It was buried six inches into Conal’s skull and stood proudly from his sundered right eye socket. The handle of the dagger pointed directly at King Ederus and the polished ruby set into the pommel, twinkled in the sunlight as the body under it ticced and twitched in death. Lleu’s infamous killing stroke had become known as the ‘Peck of the Wren’ by Wenyllon’s Bards, since the day Lleu had killed the Gŵyr of this man laying at his feet, those years ago when he had picked up the nome-de-guerre of Lleu Llaw Gyffes; the agile-handed. 

The roar of the surrounding crowd penetrated Lleu’s consciousness then and he looked up absently from his fingernails, to see a vast circle of smiling celebrating faces and even the werrin of Tawescally were smiling and cheering. The soldiers on the sun-washed palisades of DunAer were celebrating too, along with a recently very wealthy, aged Arwein and a grubby but cheerful little boy.

At sunset and in great ceremony, Prince Dylan with his regal father King Lleu ap Rianaw ap Beli Mawr and their glimmering Wenyllon Gŵyrd rode forwards on their fabulous horses, through the open gates and under the split-tree roof timbers of the fighting platform. Between the fluttering vixen flags on the impressive gatehouses of DunAer, they trotted in possessive advance and they were magnificent in their star-lit, shimmering glory.

Finally after much luck and many decades of careful planning and very little blood spilled, Tawescally had become part of the prefecture of the sons of Beli Mawr.

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