The fiery crucible of sacred creation.

It was a bright blustery morning and still well short of midday, as Cadwy thundered around the dusty practice ground of his father’s triple hilled fortress of DunEil. He was riding his keenly-missed and beloved carbad and he held the reins easily in his left hand, standing with his legs apart and his hair flying wildly behind him. This stunning two-wheeled war chariot he now rode with flair and a deep, thrilling sense of excitement had been beautifully made for him, with a blend of old traditions and the new.

His emotional stresses had tested him recently and as Eirwen was now only days from giving birth, he needed distraction this morning more than anything. He revelled in the bone-jarring sense of freedom this chariot gave him as he steered it around the great enclosed ground of DunEil. He had slept well for a change and felt as fit as a hunting dog today, relishing the cold wind in his face and tearing at his hair as he charged around the big square. He led a voluminous cloud of gritty dust around his father’s arena, which was whipped aside by the sheering wind, sweeping over the palisades to scour this high hillfort.

His magnificent carbad had been lovingly made from five different sacred woods, by craftsmen endowed with generations of skill and knowledge. These royally warranted artisans had built the framework and spars from ash, which is both strong and light. Rawhide was used by those master craftsmen for lashing the joinery and a lattice-weave of this tough and durable hide made-up the flexible standing platform, on which Cadwy now stood with a superb natural balance and with an ease born of many hour’s practice.

Uniquely to Prydein these chariots are two-man in use, having a seat at the front for a driver and Cadwy’s was no exception in this regard, with a wide seat installed for Hefin for use in combat. This allowed the warrior on the rear platform to hurl his Saffwy at the enemy and fire his slingshot or his bow, before demounting and joining the battle on foot with sword and shield, and Cadwy had practised these transitional manoeuvres hundreds of times. Each side of his carbad had a slot to accept a round shield and a long, conical boot of thick leather was mounted behind each one, making a useful pair of holsters for up to six extra spears or many spare arrows. Once the warrior had delivered his weaponry in battle the driver would then circle around as his Gŵyr fought with sword and shield, before picking him up again and they would both clatter back to the ranks, to re-arm with more javelins and arrows. Then the pair would charge back into the fray and do it all over again, as was the custom of the Brythonic aristocracy.

Cadwy flicked the long, polished reins across the broad backs of these magnificent paired horses, whose coats shone a deep glowing chestnut in the morning sunlight and it made him smile, as he had prepared them both himself. Putting his booted foot on the back of the driver’s seat he gently tugged the outer of the two left-hand reins, which threaded forward to each horse through a system of beautifully crafted terrets, or metal eyes affixed to the top of the pole, all of which controlled the angle at which the reins tugged on the horse-bits in manual instruction. Duron, the left horse obeyed instantly and led his sister Doran into the turn and they made a fine curve in the dust, as they swung back toward the gatehouse in a graceful arc. These shining terrets mounted to Cadwy’s pole had been fashioned from silvered-iron in the shape of the Albion Boar, each animal facing forwards and standing on a hollow log.  A fine bronze collar had been fitted to the inside of each log forming a tube, which gleamed from the constant polishing by the leather reins which passed through them.

The wheel span of a little over four and a half feet made the carbad stable, even in the tightest of turns and Cadwy’s military chariot was expertly made, fast and extremely light. It kicked-up clouds of sandy dust behind him as he charged across the dusty quadrangle, creaking, banging and rattling as if it were a living thing beneath his dancing feet. All the shining metalwork on the horse’s straps had been manufactured with a consummate skill and artistry, giving some clue as to the status of this animated owner, as the amount of gold it must have cost to produce would have challenged all but a privileged few. All the buckles, horse bits, and the single-jointed snaffles were of matching silvered-iron and design, even the outside ring of each horse-bit had been lovingly decorated and embellished. The metal jointing finials of the chariot’s stunning bodywork gleamed with the same artistry and even the J-shaped lynchpins at the hubs which kept the wheels on the axle, had been decorated and silvered where they could be seen.

A broad and wonderfully carved dorsal yoke of ash was secured to the pole by the famous Gordian Knot; the fabled knot which had fixed the yoke to the pole of the royal chariots, ridden by the Kings of Phrygia no-less. The Gordian knot which fastened Cadwy’s yoke to this pole, had been developed by the master builders and rope-masters of Prydein into a series of links and knots, which mirrored the much-loved flowing, linked and knotted designs on the painted woodwork. The painted rear body of this chariot was suspended from a stout oak ‘Y’ post at each corner, by four thick and plaited ropes of rawhide, giving the carbad an excellent measure of suspension and enabling the seated driver to operate over rough ground, without his passenger being constantly catapulted from the rear fighting platform at every rock and bump. This driver’s bench seat was mounted with two coils of wrought strap-iron, giving it added flexibility and comfort whilst also softening the ride.

The thick twisted rawhide plaits supporting the rear platform, creaked loudly from each corner as it took a bend and the bedframe of the chariot suspended by its straps, would move outwards slightly but with practice this became a boon, making balance easier as it tilted when cornering. These creaking, plaited straps of hide underfoot also took a huge amount of the jostling out of the ride, greatly improving the aim of the standing warrior and Cadwy had learned to ‘ride the hide’ as if it was second nature.

As was common on these mornings, he was both warrior and driver and Cadwy pulled back a little on all the reins, smiling as Duron and Doran responded and began to slacken their pace, as he had spotted his Cyfail; the cabal of his closest friends, emerging onto the practice ground of this enormous Dun from behind the huge Smithy. Cadwy steered towards them, slewing sharply to his left at the last moment so the chariot skidded to a halt in front of his friends, in an ostentatious display of his skill and covering them in a fine cloud of dust. He stepped onto the driver’s sprung seat from the front of the lattice platform and dropped to the ground, as his friends coughed and spluttered, making him laugh as he stroked Duron’s quivering flanks.

His friends gathered, as Cadwy’s wonderful carbad was a thing of great beauty and of compulsive interest to them all, as they had helped him reassemble the vehicle once all the parts had been rescued from storage. They had assisted him with threading the reeds of quality leather strapping and with the greasing of the great hubs, before his cyfail had lifted the carbad easily, so he and Hefin could mount the beautiful wheels. Hefin was his battle-driver last year, when they were young men and burdened by a fraction of the responsibilities their current positions demanded and was the first to caress these wheels, smiling at the precious memories. Hefin traced the swirling design on the iron-bound, carved ash rims with a far-off look in his eyes. 

“One piece!” He said in wonder for the umpteenth time, amazed by the new method which replaced the twin-spoked, six-piece rims which had been in use for centuries.

It took a great deal of forward planning to create these new stronger rims, as ash saplings had to be bent and staked around circular formers as they grew to achieve the requisite curve. It took great skill and judgement to produce two perfectly matching circles of living ash and equal skilful endeavour, to pare back the wood to form the pre-dried shape of a perfect pair of rims correctly, allowing for the inevitable shrinkage, before joining the seasoned hoops weeks later with precise and well-formed scarf-joints. Luckily, the technique had been perfected of late and Cadwy’s unique carbad was among the first to benefit from this new development, along a few others he’d added himself, such as the shield-slots and spear holsters. 

Cadwy and Hefin had both witnessed the vital process of fitting the iron tyers to these wheels when they had been made and each had been sacred moments of great Druid-led theatre. The ceremony had taken place on the third, sacred and southernmost of these triple hills of DunEil and it had been a night they would both always remember.

A roaring fire had been built around the iron hoops, to much ceremony and a litany of ancient prayers and dedications were also offered to the Gods by the burly Smiths, overseen by the tonsured Druid priests, as they were ever the directors of ceremony. The Smith had his own incantations and prayers to Gofannon, which he’d muttered darkly as he lit the fire; 'Summer to winter, sunrise to sunset, birth to death, breath to fire, fire to wood, wood to stone, stone to iron and I close the sacred circle, in the name of Arglwydd Gofannon Mawr.’

The Smith sent the prayer before deciding if the ‘tyer’ was red-hot and glowing enough and with a curt nod from this master, each great shimmering circle of red steel was lifted with great iron tongs by the Selgofan Smiths and then prised with long levers onto the one-piece rim, the assistants nudging and knocking it all around the wheel. The heavy hammers of the Smiths were used then to tap the iron ring firmly into place before it was quenched with cold water, mixed with a splash of some unspeakable liquid from the Druid’s vial. Whereupon the tyer would shrink amidst copious chanting, hissing and voluminous clouds of odious steam, to compress, lock together and tie the various components of the wheel fast around the nave, a vital and much-evolved part of the puzzle. The nave was the hollow tube of wood which formed the core of the wheel hub and which fitted over the stub of the axle and into which, the inner ends of the spokes were fitted. The nave was a crucial piece of the wheelwright’s riddle and was made from seasoned elm, discouraged from splitting by being secured with a forged iron nave-band, sweated-on close around each open end. The naves needed to be durable and were constructed with an iron core and then expertly lined with a specially formulated copper-alloy bearing, to keep them spinning freely.

Cadwy recalled that memorable night, with Hefin at his side and the multitude of midnight stars above them in shared witness. As if it happened yesterday, Cadwy could see clearly in his mind, the leaping crackling flames rising amid the chanted prayers of the Druid, the hissing of the stinking steam bellowing and the urgent tapping of the hammers, all of which combined to create a sacred and highly charged atmosphere of creation, out of which fiery crucible was born a beautiful pair of iron-shod wheels of almost perfect balance and symmetry. 

The one-piece rims on his fabulous vehicle, along with the impressive hubs were decorated now along with all twelve oak spokes, which had been meticulously shaved and dished on the outer edges to reduce wobbling, also to allow the wheel to compensate for the expansion of the spokes. All had been carved and painted in the swirling, interlinked designs much loved by the Brythons and almost every piece of visible wood on this chariot had also been carved, painted and adorned with silver and gold foil. It was the most up-to-date, stunning and expensive war carbad in the whole Kingdom and Cadwy was immensely proud of it, never tiring of explaining the design, engineering and state-of-the-art methods of manufacture to any and all who would listen.

His friends were all inspecting the chariot now, pointing out each marvel and feature with great enthusiasm and he smiled at Hefin, as Bleddyn and the now grey-haired Gŵyr Brast ap Bwlch who had a keen interest in all vehicles poured over the machine, knowing how much incredible work and artistry had gone into its construction.

“Hefin, give Bleddyn a charge around the square first, or we won’t have a moment’s peace from him!” Cadwy offered with a wink and Hefin nodded back with a knowing smile and jumped onto the driving seat. His smile was dwarfed by the smile of their big comrade and without pause, Bleddyn climbed aboard the fighting platform.

“Let’s go Hefin you hairy-arsed farmer’s boy!” Pencampwr Bleddyn yelled at his Albion Peer with a ribald excitement and drew his immaculate sword Caled-Taro, whooping in delight and locking his knees against the frame in the proper way. Hefin flicked his long whip over the horse’s heads and Duron and Doran started, yanking the carbad forward and Bleddyn had to hold on for dear life, as it took-off like a scalded cat. Over the thunder of hooves, chariot wheels and the roaring of Bleddyn, ‘hard-killer’ cleaved the air above the carbad with a gleaming deadliness, and King Cridas’ parade ground was filled with sandy dust once more.

“All we need now Cadwy, is tunic-lifting cnuching Romans!” Bleddyn yelled, his bearded face florid with bloodlust. Cadwy’s eyes narrowed as he watched his big combrogi yelling his head off and he smiled, appreciating the man’s unique qualities and character even more now his cyfail were so reduced.

Only he could subdue Bleddyn in a training fight and that only through his guile and superior technique but when Bleddyn was really aroused, he would swell up with rage and all but the insane, would back away in alarm. Cadwy loved him as there was no guile in the man, apart from that learned for fighting but in his character, he was an open door. There was no mistaking Bleddyn’s smouldering anger either, as his face would flush and swell dangerously, his chest too and his lantern, deeply bearded jaw would protrude in challenge. Bleddyn never looked for trouble when they had been ‘out on the tref’ as younger, less encumbered men but his size had seemed to draw trouble, as most of Prydein’s young men see challenge everywhere. 

These troublemakers were almost without exception outside of the warrior class, as they sought only ale and brutal distraction. The warrior sought only Bri, and gold but mostly bri, which was irretrievably chained with forged-iron links to their honour, honesty, oath-sworn loyalty and a humility, born of the clear understanding of their higher calling. The philosophical teaching installed into all Brythonic martial students from the earliest age spoke of this higher calling, in that their life-long careers would be spent in the service of those who could not fight, those they were sworn to protect with their lives if necessary. Even if these same people didn’t understand their motives, as it was often the very mead-addled or foolish youth of the werrin they were sworn to protect who challenged them, but these misguided young men were their werrin too. All the warrior class with very few exceptions would rather walk away than brawl in the street with a civilian but there was a line. By the very nature of their existence, there is always a line with a professional fighter and one which is crossed at much risk.

Any of these young Albion men of the Tref’s alehouses that were drunk enough or foolish enough to push Bleddyn further were given ample warning to move away, as his emotions were always writ large on his broad, hairy face.  All this unexpressed anger presaged the most dangerous moment, as the gentle and boisterous giant had an anger slow to burn like oily wood but once his fire was blazing, it was incredibly difficult to snuff-out. On the rare occasion Bleddyn was pushed beyond his high tolerance limit, he could go berserk with the madness of battle and he would lay waste to everyone and everything around him. It would take six men or more to contain him before all around was destroyed and the next morning’s queue to see the Meddyg, would reach right around his enclosure. It was when the big man became suddenly still and when some of the colour left his broad face, that signalled the point before the dam actually burst and Cadwy had come to recognise it well, as it had served them all well in last year’s war against the Romans.

Cadwy spat to the parade ground then, as the anger at the northern exclusion still burned him and they could all be down south now in this chariot and others like it, attacking the yellow dog of Rome, not enjoying a pastime hundreds of miles away and his thoughts flew to the familiar south coast as it often did lately. As Hefin brought the chariot back around, Cadwy wondered how his acquaintance King Caswallawn was faring against the Roman this day, as all reports concurred that he had been suffering greatly at the hands of the foreign gwain of late.

Excerpt from Iron Blood & Sacrifice (Return of the Yellow Dog)

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