The mighty Gadwyr come to Albion.

The rugged and rectangular central keep of DunAlclwyd was festooned with banners and bunting for today’s historic arrival, whilst the main street and lanes of Tref Alclwyd were thronged with the werrin, who had turned out in force to witness the coming of King Ederus and his infamous host. Beyond DunAlclwyd’s fearsome ditch system and nestled between the two rocky hills of the peninsula, Prince Berwyn’s ancient and central keep dominated the centre of his palisaded fortress and it looked misshapen and truly ancient. DunAlclwyd’s sightless, gate-mounted eyes stared bleakly at the distant forest in anticipation, as they had for uncounted generations.

At dusk, the Great curving forest of Albion to the north-west and its distant majestic green margin drew every eye here this day, a common thing at this fraught time of year. Set aside to the east was a broad and lush pasture, still glowing from the dying light and which bordered the distant edge of the forest and the rich, well-tended grassland before it. The land had been divided many generations ago by tall blackthorn hedgerows, to provide shelter and holdings for the large herd of cattle and the even bigger, adjoining herds of hardy mountain sheep. A number of round thatches had been built next to these fields, to house the stockmen, the indentured labourers and slaves who tended and protected these valuable stock animals. These thatches were deserted this evening, as was every farm and croft in the region, as the werrin of Damnonia and northern Albion were gathered in this town to celebrate and witness the historic event, but their motives were belied by the nervous glances they continually stole along the darkening forest road. Most had clearly come for the security of the Dun, for an uncertain and historic event involving the old enemy at Lughnas, which was always the season for war and all knew the procedure would be stalked by danger.

The high, stone-built towers of DunAlclwyd behind them also faced the impressive twin towers of its main gates, which met in the middle and were mounted with an enormous bronze shield boss in the centre of each black slab. They currently barred the way to the Galedon advance, each being as tall as three men and as thick as a tree. Each massive gate was mounted to an enormous granite pillar a reed taller than the gates they supported, and these colossal blue stones also served to support the two timber gate towers, towering over them. These had been built on deep stone foundations and each supported a roofed observation post, large enough to accommodate the three shifts of three watchmen, whose daily focus was the vivid green curve of that great forest in the distance. Both observation posts atop these gate towers were festooned with torches and packed with watchmen tonight, as was the roofed killing gantry stretched between them over the gates.

Generations of people had toiled in the building of DunAlclwyd’s rough-hewn, but nonetheless impressive additional stonework to form the road and assembly area that opened out ahead of the Dun. It formed a great sweep of paved ground, where dozens of chariots and hundreds of warriors had gathered this evening in their various defensive formations. This paved crescent led naturally inland to an area of lowland pasture beyond the outer perimeter of the Dun and to the industrious fishing village that huddled around the fort, mainly along both sides of the peninsula but none had strayed too far from the sanctuary of the great Dun’s gates when they had dug their ring-ditches. This day however was different, as ostensibly it was a day for celebration and festivities, but this ideal had done nothing to ease the mounting apprehension on every soul within the Rock of the Brythons, as tonight they awaited the arrival of Ederus and the hên gelyn no-less.

It was DunAlclwyd; the venerated Rock of the Brythons which had always guarded their northern borderlands and the forbidden, coast-to-coast barrier which snaked across this hostile land. The border lay just east of this great border fortress in the prohibited zone, where the dreaded, Druid-led opening of the powerful ghost fences will take place at midnight tonight. The weight of these responsibilities began to make themselves felt in the tension around his neck and shoulders now and Cadwy prepared himself for this momentous occasion, with his nervousness slowly building.

Cadwy had been introduced to the enormous, beautiful horse just a few short weeks previously and their relationship was still as new as one could be between man and beast, which did nothing for his nerves. This had concerned Cadwy initially as his treasured but ferocious war-horse Tywysog was entirely unsuitable to the peaceful, ceremonial requirements of the day as his name ‘warrior-prince’ suggested, so Cadwy had been forced to persevere these last weeks of summer with this purely ceremonial horse he’d been given by the order. He was very glad now that he had, as Amr was a proud Epidian Horse-Lord and his glossy coat shone a stunning silver-grey under the growing starlight.

Every eye was drawn to the magnificent horse and his stunning, highly unusual colouring. Even in the dark, Amr’s glossy new black and silver tack seemed to emphasise his fabulous elderberry-wine colour and his glorious silver mane. Cadwy felt suddenly very proud of his new mount and discovered that Amr had the perfect stature and temperament needed for these ceremonial duties he had been destined for, from the moment these traits were identified by the horse-masters in DunAdda. This handsome horse under him was a stoic and unflappable character from a world-renowned blood stock and Cadwy was beginning to understand him now, and he Cadwy. A gentle touch with both knees spurred Amr onwards in his slow and specific, dignified walking manner, each fore-leg held high for the briefest fraction of a moment and this trained affectation gave him a ceremonial way and tempo of walking, making him the envy of all who beheld his regal beauty this night. These rare animals were considered among the very best horses Epidia produced and were much sought after and Amr proved why tonight, as rightly for the Godebog yr Anrhydedd of Albion he strutted proudly, and his coat shone. His noble and beautiful head was held high and he was simply magnificent, as he led Albion north now under a velvet dome of a bottomless black, strewn with endless swathes of glittering diamonds.

Bleddyn rode behind him to his right hand as Cadwy’s Pencampwr, and the huge young man with the florid face and the uncontrollable hair which seemed to spring from everywhere on his body was in close attendance. Pencampwr Bleddyn sat upright in the saddle of his big bay mare, taking the appointment of Cadwy’s Champion very seriously, his eyes constantly scanning the crowds of werrin lining this broad drover’s road for any threat to his Lord. This long and dusty road, rutted by the passing of uncountable cart wheels and cattle hooves, bent from east to north as it approached the disused head of the ancient north-south road, which terminated at Albion’s great border divide ahead. In physical form, this barrier was made-up of one of the two half mile-wide swathes of cleared land in that dense forest, which swept from west coast to east and which formed the mighty border. These ghost fences now spiritually guarded this historically contentious and blood-soaked zone, ensuring its abandoned sanctity and they sliced through this vast forest like twin curving slash-cuts, from two ancient and giant swords.

As the broad spread of cleared ground ahead of Albion’s ghost fence came into view, Cadwy halted, feeling Hefin come up on his left hand and his honour guard halt behind them. All were now in place and their eyes were trained to the far side of this clearing, across to Albion’s own ditch fronted ghost fence at the distant treeline.  All here knew the approaching forces had breached their own ghost fence earlier and now everyone’s gaze was focused on the far side of this half-mile wide clearing, where lay the shadowed and mist-wreathed edge of the great forest of Galedon. Two long lines of flaming torches had been erected by the Druids, forming a broad avenue for Galedon’s advance and they stretched from their position, all the way down to the forest’s edge in the night-shrouded distance. This impressive and fabulously attired honour guard of Albion waited under the starlight, staring at the no-man’s land ahead with fatalistic expressions, as it had been cleared of their own ghost fence at midnight this morning by an army of Druids.

Looking to his left and to the west down the broad tract carved through the trees, Cadwy could just see in the gloom and backlit by the low western stars, that a tall and wide expanse of wicker panelling had been recently erected roughly half a mile away and affixed to a long row of tall poles. Unseen and behind this temporary screen in the darkness, stood the continuation of the long line of truly ancient, pole-mounted skulls that stretched all the way to the distant west coast. This was the newly built and sacred western terminal, or gate-post of Albion’s Adwy y Derwydd. To Cadwy’s right stretched the darker eastern avenue of their borderline, which was blocked in a similar manner tonight with another large panel of wicker squares. These physical terminals formed the posts of the ‘Druid’s Gate’ through the Albion ghost fence, and it was roughly a mile from physical and symbolic post-to-post across. It was Lughnas the season for warfare after-all and the physical, the symbolic and the spiritual gates to an apprehensive Albion had all been thrown wide open, as Brythonic life is ever a triad.

Cadwy turned in his saddle, nodded to Bleddyn and smiled, seeing his Pencampwr’s eyes glittering with emotion and Bleddyn grinned back wolfishly, giving him a wink in support. The two Officers of the ‘Order of the Honour Keepers’ behind Bleddyn, who led the twin companies of honour-guard cavalry behind the nobles, carried two brightly flaming torches and they were both sitting upright in their saddles. The greying, middle-aged senior officer and his burly subordinate ignored Cadwy’s nodded greeting, remaining aloof and looking more than a shade resentful for some unknown reason. Cadwy made a mental note of this rancour and the minor insult, before turning to his left to Hefin on his lovely chestnut stallion, and he nodded to him with another engaging smile.

Hefting his long and newly whetted spear, Hefin made his war-face at Cadwy and grinned back at him, but the sudden sounds of the onlookers around them drew Cadwy’s eyes back up to the northern tree-line in the distance. It was just in time, for he saw something that had never happened before in Albion and it was a rare sight regardless of this location, one which all who had witnessed it in past times of war had but a few minutes left in this world to wonder at.  A row of monstrous, axe-swinging warriors had broken from the distant trees and there was rank after rank of these gigantic and wild legends of war emerging from the hazy forest. They broke into the clearing at a low, menacing run between the tall rows of burning torches and they kept coming. A nervous murmuring flitted through the crowded werrin at this terrifying scene, many women’s hands finding their mouths without thought, just as their men’s fingers found their weapons without command. Rows of these almost identical and merciless looking warriors materialised from the gloom to fill the clearing and all trembled, as the mighty Gadwyr had come to Albion for the first time ever.

All of Albion’s warriors had been read the riot-act and the tension from being thus restrained, in full sight of this blatant onslaught by this new strike-force of the hên-gelyn was felt by all, but they were under threat of death to remain passive. Death however held no fear for most of these seasoned, long-blooded warriors, and their eyes glittered darkly like wet river pebbles at the sight of the ‘old enemy’ entering Albion again. This time however it was in the form of these legendary and fast-approaching lords of war in this, the age-old season for warfare and their aching fingers caressed the grips of their swords compulsively.

These mysterious northerners who seemed to move as one huge, terrifying entity were massively muscled to a man and were all uncommonly tall. Their massive heads were adorned with long braided red hair and drooping red moustaches, the same coarse and fiery red hair that burst from every part of them in tangled profusion. They were intricately tattooed all over their marble white bodies in oak-gall ink, with their swirling blue-knotted patterns and mythical symbols of writhing creatures. Every one of these brutes swung an enormous double-headed battle-axe in each paw-like hand, and they set these spinning now as they trotted forwards in their low, sinuous and oh-so-deadly manner.

The lithe, animalistic movement of these warriors spoke of immense fitness, huge endurance and their swollen, leather-crossed chests were like Iberian wine barrels. Golden lights glinted in their fiery plaited hair and beards, from the moonlight and stars above. These were their only concession to ceremony, as all Gadwyr used their gold coins to melt down and coat the knuckle bones from the right hands of their enemies, and these they proudly threaded into their wiry red hair. These legendary warriors needed no introduction and the impossibly large and broad leader out front and at the centre of this terrifying host needed none either. That almost mythical figure of the recently victorious and raised Gŵyr Brith Fawr of the Gadwyr looked simply invulnerable and almost God-like, as with the most murderous expression twisting his granite features, he pioneered his infamous brotherhood through the avenues of torches and into Albion.

His hair and beard were burdened with gold as were his huge neck, arms and fingers and once all nine hundred of his attendant Gadwyr were in the open, Gŵyr Brith Fawr held up his right-hand axe flat, and the long bronze amulet of his tribe glinted in the starlight. His awe-inspiring army came to a halt together as one-man behind him with a resounding thud, and all the werrin and nobility of Albion looked-on in stunned awe as these legendary warriors presented themselves. Gŵyr Brith’s left-hand axe shot up to join the other, also in the flat position and his Gadwyr drew an enormous, collective breath. Brith twisted his wrists, ominously turning the blades forward and he and his warriors prepared to roar their ancient, tribal challenge.

As the infamous Chieftain lowered his twin axes threateningly toward the Gŵyrd of Albion in ancient and imperative challenge, the Gadwyr bent their knees and their battle-cry erupted from their throats, shattering the starlit sky above them.

“Gadwyr GrutArd! Gadwyr GrutArd! Gadwyr GrutArd!” They roared in unison, brandishing their terrible battle-axes, making the very ground and the air shake with the oath, and all were awestruck at the thundering sound. Brith then turned to face his men and pointed his axes toward the northern tree line behind them, and this was the signal for them to turn back and face the dark northern highlands. A shard of light glinted then, from the edge of the distant forest on some as-yet unseen, mirrored thing. Suddenly, King Ederus and his Lords broke the treeline on their mounts, glittering as they moved into the light and they were magnificent. Brith and his Gadwyr all raised their axes before bellowing an unexpected, deeply honouring welcome to their liege lord, as his vaunted Bri had become theirs.

“Ederus Galedon! Ederus Galedon! Ederus Galedon!” They roared as one, pumping their weapons in the air as the celebrated Gŵyrd y Gogledd; the ‘Lords of the North’ rode into Albion in all their dazzling finery. Every soul who was fortunate enough to witness this event would remember it until their last breath in this world, as even the most cynical old campaigner among them was moved to an awestruck expression of wonder. Many tears were shed by the wide-eyed werrin around them, as they ever longed for peace.

Galedon came south, its mounted warriors following their overlord King into Albion and they kept coming. From the dark shadows of the forest, rank after endless rank of fit and seasoned looking warriors did the previously unthinkable; they rode into the border zone of Albion and beyond unchallenged. Yet these were just the vanguard of the cavalry, as thousands of spearmen marched behind the invisible rear ranks of this impressive mounted force. The Gadwyr peeled apart, to make the two sides of an honour guard avenue and King Ederus ap Ewin ap Ewin ap Durstus Fawr approached. The sonorous and rising voices of his Bards then arrived too, soaring across the cold night air to wash over the Albion spectators.

“White shields they carry in their hands and with emblems of the palest gold, they come. With glittering blue swords and mighty stout horns, they come. Riding so swift and bold, adorned with hooded mail, they come. With their tall grey spears of everlasting fame, they come. Behind the hard shields of steel and lime, they come. Pale-faced, curly-headed bands of Galedon’s most valiant ancient line do come. Stand fast all ye Gelyn, for now in arms the Galedonau do come!”  This was Galedon’s battle-englyn and to the harmonised, sonorous singing of these ancient words they did indeed, come in-arms to Albion. 

The flames, the moon and the stars above shone from Ederus’ armour and his gleaming, golden ringed and stag-mounted helmet, as he rode majestically into the lands of his old-enemy on the most stunning charger, as black as coal. The King of Galedon’s wondrous silver shield flashed like a warning from Lord Fwlch himself as he rode south on this magnificent, gleaming stallion and all trembled at this infamous Lord of War’s shimmering arrival.

Cadwy snapped out of his wide-eyed gazing then, as with a rising hot-flush he remembered his duties. He nudged Amr and the beautifully trained and intelligent horse stepped out slowly in style. Cadwy’s four royal honour guards rode out behind him, to meet King Ederus and his Princes and Lords, who approached equally carefully.  As Cadwy approached them sedately, the Galedon Gŵyrd y Cyfarchiad broke from the vanguard of mounted Princes and Lords around Ederus, and these selected ‘Lords of the Salutation’ came forward to meet him. They halted twenty reeds away within an enormous circle of blazing torches, dismounted and approached Cadwy and his Gŵyrd on foot. Cadwy did the same and the men of Albion dismounted to stride forward, closing the gap. 

This august group approaching were led by the infamous and enormous Tawescally King Conal ap Cylan, with his Snarling Vixen cygil emblazoned on his shield and armorials. This broad-shouldered and portly northern King was supported by his approaching Gŵyrd, including the Pencampwr of all Galedon; Gŵyr Lloerig ap Irfon of the House Wenyllon, in his infamous Ram’s Head helmet. This fabulous creation with its deeply scalloped and ridged curling horns of silver at the sides, caught every eye and this famous cygil was mirrored by the Galedon Champion’s shield and breastplate. Formerly the Wenyllon Pencampwr of King Lleu Llaw Gyffes, Lloerig was a large, broad-shouldered man in the usual mould of the victorious warrior and he had recently been selected to be Ederus’ Pencampwr. The Pencampwr of all Galedon was a truly envied position among the warrior class, as Arfon Mawr Ederus’ previous champion had defied the staggering odds and had survived his profession. An icon now to all champions, Gŵyr Arfon Mawr had been elevated to a landed Tumon in fine ceremony and was now enjoying his retirement, governing a huge farming estate in picturesque northern Enouanta. This new champion of Galedon looked at least to be worthy of the appointment, as the set of his cerulean eyes bespoke a lively intelligence, which mitigated the obvious challenge to some degree of his ferocious countenance. Those same crystal blue eyes never left those of Bleddyn’s to Cadwy’s right and Cadwy was sure he could feel the heat from his Pencampwr’s face on the back of his neck. 

Both parties bowed deeply to each other and Bleddyn took his position at Cadwy’s right hand, taking the first step forward for the introduction. He was blushing furiously but stepped-up valiantly to the fabulous Galedon Princes, their burly Lords and huge grisly champions, bowing with the utmost respect.

“Your Royal Highness King Conal ap Cylan of the honourable House of Tawescally and honourable Gŵyrd of Galedon, please allow me to introduce to you His Royal Highness Crown Prince Cadwy ap Cridas of the House Selgofa, and Godebog yr Anrhydedd of Albion!” He said proudly for all to hear and he bowed deeply to the western Galedon King again. The imposing figure of Gŵyr Lloerig ap Irfon the grisly champion of Galedon stepped forward then, dwarfing Bleddyn and he bowed to Cadwy.

“Your Royal Highness Crown Prince Cadwy ap Cridas of the House Selgofa and honourable Gŵyrd of Albion, please allow me to introduce his Royal Highness King Conal ap Cylan of the honourable House of Tawescally and Galedon!” The man growled as if he was being strangled, before bowing deeply to Cadwy again. The niceties at least had been observed and all were free now to greet each other cordially, but the words seemed to dry up and the two groups just stood there looking at each other.

Three other huge warriors made up Galedon’s Gŵyrd y Cyfarchiad, two were obviously lords of Ederus’ personal guard with their chest-plates gleaming in the torchlight, their extravagant helms and blood-red cloaks marking them out, but one extremely dangerous looking man stood languidly at the back, remaining partly hidden in the flickering shadows. He wore no armour just a dull brownish mantle and bracs, woven in a strange pattern with indeterminate edges and which seemed magically to fade in and out of the background. This man was half a foot taller than his comrades and he bore the legendary blue, long-toothed cat tattoo of the ghost-warrior at his throat. A silver cat-skull brooch pinned his unusual, focus-evading mantle and he was far and away the most formidable man Cadwy had ever seen in his young life. Cadwy was coldly certain that he was looking at none other than the fabled figure of Nêr Olwydd Hîr the infamous ghost-warrior and legendary tracker, the man being one of his and Prydein’s greatest heroes.

Cadwy felt like pinching himself, as just a few reeds away from him stood a hunter-assassin of the highest water and despite him being one of the old-enemy, he was one of Cadwy’s life-long heroes. He was well-aware of some of this infamous warrior’s exploits, as was every young Brython in the land and try as he might, he couldn’t drag his fascinated gaze away, taking-in every minutia of what he could see of the legend and the man. Olwydd Hîr swayed to his left a little then, revealing more of himself and his pale eyes suddenly locked onto Cadwy’s, and he felt the warmth rise up his throat at the overt challenge in that merciless gaze. The pitiless face above his unnerving, screaming blue cat was chiselled from granite below dark hair, that was plaited with iron warrior rings and his fingers were thick with the same, but he wore no beard, just a finely shaped pair of drooping moustaches. The pale and brutal eyes seemed to strip away Cadwy’s mental defences in layers, as if he was peeling an onion and the man’s Bri was like a colossal mountain around him. His eyes never left those of Cadwy’s and he felt locked in their dread, serpent-like gaze.

This ghost-warrior’s indomitable character and his legendary abilities oozed from every relaxed, liquid limb of his powerful body and this menacing killer of men grimaced then at Cadwy, showing his teeth and giving him a wink, but Cadwy felt no welcome in either gesture, only a savage rush of sudden and mortal fear. Finally, he found the strength to tear his wide eyes away and steeled himself to bow deeply to Ederus’ Captains, noticing glumly that Ederus played no part in this ceremonial meeting. Even though he had striven to get his attention so that he may display his deepest respects, Galedon’s imperious King had not looked at him once, remaining cold and aloof throughout the procedure. This did not bode well for his secret agenda and although Cadwy’s spirits tumbled, he lifted his head and with a proud but aching heart, went about his important ceremonial duties. There was no idle talk between these two groups of men this day, as ‘old enemies’ was a phrase commonly used privately by both and old habits die hard, so they stood for long moments coolly appraising each other. The Druids exchanged votive gifts to one side of the group, mostly white crystal pebbles, bones and such things they hold valuable.

Cadwy broke the stale-mate of the ‘Gŵyrd’ and strode forward to exchange token banners, handing the T-mounted banner of Albion, with its highly stylised hump-backed Boar cygil to an iron-faced Guardsman. He collected in return a similar token banner of Galedon, with its blood-red background and the famous swirling, rearing golden stag. Cadwy held it aloft with honour and due reverence, just as he’d been instructed and practised repeatedly at DunAlclwyd. He turned then and strode back to Ioddo and the horses, with Hefin and Bleddyn at his sides and the lords of Albion remounted. Cadwy used just his knees and Amr responded dutifully and wheeled around, before heading back to his new home at his elegant, easy pace.

 Crown Prince Cadwy ap Cridas, newly made Tumon of Bidog, Brif-Siryff y Gorllewin of Selgofa and the Honourable Godebog yr Anrhydedd of Albion led the massed warriors of the old enemy south into his country, in peace this significant time and every soul in Albion seemed to exhale at that moment. Old men put away their spears and many hands fell-away from sweaty sword grips.  A small glimmer of hope flared bright in these onlookers suddenly as all came to realise at last, that the mighty and powerful Federation of Galedon come in all its dazzling glory, was finally an ally. This multitude of warrior-spirits assembling here in this majestic part of Gogledd Prydein, soared with a shared feeling of immense power, as the infamous northern Brythons were united at last and on the march to war. Thousands of marching spearmen began clearing the treeline to the north and these, stretched way back into the darkness of the distant forest. Still miles away and unseen to all these animated people, dozens of ox-drawn carts trundled along in the dust, kicking it up again with their own and bringing up the rear, carrying with them the chattels and dis-assembled chariots of the Gŵyrd. They rattled and rumbled south along those broad northern lanes with the rest of this great army’s mountain of baggage, followed as always by many women with children, hopeful soldier-wives and about the usual number of soldier-whores.

The wisest among the remaining spectators, who watched these unfortunate women drag themselves along in the dust in pursuit of a hot meal and a tent to sleep in for the night, realised that life was the same for all Brythons and that Albion was going to have to take the good along with the bad.

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