DunAdda in Epidia, Galedon - Dunstaffnage Castle, Oban, Scotland.
Ynys Epona was in an uproar, with stewards and servants
rushing about as if DunAdda’s secondary but adjoined island fortress was aflame.
Apart from the blazing hearths, the only fire in DunAdda this freezing cold
morning was the one lit under these frantic workers by their King. Regardless
or perhaps because of the impending throne-challenge, Galan had gone through
this fortress as a Rhingyll goes
through his barracks at dawn and everybody had jumped to his barked-out orders.
On the lugubrious tour of his Caer, the King of Epidia had declared that the renovation
of the royal stables was long overdue, and it had galvanised the inhabitants of
both these island-fortresses. Since Ederus’ death, Galan had been virtually
unapproachable by all but his closest Gŵyr and family members and had kept
his own company leading up to this unfortunate day.
All the stewards, indentured servants and a whole army of
slaves had been kept busy throughout this Capital Caer and it now shone with
the attention lavished upon it. Cartloads of dirty straw and dung had trundled
over the long timber causeway which joined these two island forts and then
wound their way around DunAdda’s perimeter, to pass over the great fortified causeway
to land. This convoy of carts passed noisily through Tref Adda and once they
reached the correct enclosure at the outskirts of the town, the farm labourers
at this processing facility would unload this fertilizing gold from each cart
with their long wooden forks and another notch would be cut on their
supervisor’s tally-stick.
DunAdda and Ynys Epona with their two linked umbilical cords
of cut timber, seemed to float serenely on the ruffled iron-grey and frigid
surface of the great Sea Loch Linne this icy morning and a squadron of
startling white herring gulls encircled the great Caer from on-high. The dotted
line of ox-drawn carts made their return journey over the long timber jetty and
across the main causeway, each loaded down with fresh clean bedding straw and
their rumbling transit over the oaken planks sounded like rolling thunder over
the water.
The wide hearth fire blazed in the great hall of this island
Capital and this long and thatched, ancient chamber was clean and had been
recently swept. It was filled now with the assembled Gŵyrd of Epidia and a great many other notable warriors and
nobles who had arrived from across greater Galedon. The Federation was
represented here in all its factions and in one quiet corner sat a group of
taciturn ghost-warriors, who also awaited the results of this portentous day.
Even the mighty Gadwyr were present, led by the legend that was Gŵyr Brith Fawr and there was a comfortable space left around
their tables, made for the comfort of everybody else rather than these
enormous, muscular warriors, as there was an earthy whiff of decay emanating from them which reminded everyone of death.
The malodorous Gadwyr made these long, benched tables look like children’s
furniture, and they hulked over them and their logs of beer on their elbows
with their fiery red hair catching the firelight. They echoed their combrogi’s
interest in today’s outcome and adopted too the ghost-warrior’s silence. None
of them seemed approachable and so they were left alone in their funk, to wait
and glower at everyone through the smoke.
Galan sat imperiously on his ‘Kneeling Stallions’ throne chin
in hand, studying the bone-board before him and discussing all that was in play
here in his Caer and in wider Prydein with his Gŵyrd, especially the events on the
south coast of Caint. Reaching out, he slid one of the silver-dipped knuckle
bones along two positions to support another and Galan looked up to his Pencampwr
Gŵyr Gryffen with a smirk.
“Get out of that without moving!” Galan chortled, and his
burly Champion just shook his head, throwing up his hands.
“One day Lord, I will beat you!” Gryffen ap Garnant growled
still shaking his head and staring at the board, in a forlorn attempt to comprehend
his swift and unexpected demise.
“Let us hope that Roman bastard is just as blind to
subterfuge Gryffen, or there won’t be much left of Afarwy’s Trinobanta for
Caswallawn Fawr to plunder by the
time Caesar leaves.” Galan told the man with an arched eyebrow, drawing another
smirk from his Champion.
From latest reports, King Caswallawn of the Southern Brythons
was acquitting himself well and intelligently despite the forces arrayed
against him, demonstrating excellent control over his tribal warriors
especially in engaging and disengaging from the enemy, which had always been a
huge problem given the almost uncontrollable way in which many Brythons fought.
From all accounts he had trained the core of his army well throughout the
winter, and this prepared army of Caswallawn’s had met the Romans again at the Afon Gryffdŵr crossing. The southern King had used chariot
warfare to good effect reportedly but following a hard-fought battle, was flanked
by Caesar’s cavalry and forced to withdraw tactically, tempting the Romans to pursue
him and his army into the woods but at a terrible cost to themselves. It was
undeniable however, that the Romans had the best of it at day’s end.
King Galan’s latest reports pointed out that Caswallawn had now
adopted the long-planned scorched-earth, guerrilla style of warfare he had
developed through the winter with much expert advice and counsel. As of three
days ago, he was destroying local food sources and using his chariots to harass
the Roman legions if they drew too close, or if any strayed from the host. So
far and despite his losses, the bold southern King was staying ahead of the
Roman but there was a great deal yet to accomplish before Julius Caesar could
be persuaded to leave.
“The Roman bastard should have been thrown back into the sea
the day he landed and if we had all been….ah dog’s balls to it! There’s just no
point in moaning about it anymore….why do we keep picking at the wound?”
Gryffen scowled, mirroring all his men’s attitudes. “That arrogant, insulting
bastard’s made his bracken, so he must now lie in it and I for one don’t give a
hoot what happens to bloody Caswallawn!” The Epidian champion finished with a
snarl and Galan regarded him with a measure of surprise, as his Champion was
normally a taciturn man, but the warrior had voiced the very thing which had
divided this great country like nothing else before.
None of these Epidians were impressed by Caswallawn’s
repulsion of Cwnfelyn Rhyfeinig so
far, as in their scornful opinions Caesar had become encouraged by his
perceived victories. Many had fought against his machine-like legionaries last
year and had vanquished them, proving they were indeed ferocious warriors but
human and vulnerable nonetheless. Now aware of the southern King’s restrictions
and inabilities, they were even more furious at their exclusion and a few here
couldn’t have cared less what happened to those soft southerners now. The hard-won but crucial Undeb they had achieved last year had united all Prydein but that
had all been turned on its head by the southern King’s notorious northern
exclusion and now the reverse was true, southern Prydein had never been so
fractured and divided. Sadly those egocentric, selfish beliefs had stretched
north, like long cynical fingers of disunity.
These northerners also agreed and were comforted by the firm
belief, that however ambitious and daring the ‘Yellow Dog of Rome’ was, he
wasn’t stupid enough to march north and poke a hornet’s nest. Given enough time
to become bored down south, not an uncommon experience to many a northerner,
they expected Caesar to return to Gallia soon anyway and if all southern
Prydein was in flames when he left, King Caswallawn would get precious little
sympathy from these injuriously side-lined northern warriors.
Stewards began to close the inner shutters and feed the
hearth fires in this great hall, as a few of these hard northern visitors had begun to shiver. It was officially
summer time but that felt like a nasty joke in these parts, as all were wrapped
in furs against the bitter wind, those that could afford such luxuries. This
cruel wind had sharp teeth this day, whistling and howling ominously through
any crevice in this building with each gust outside and a mournful chorus would
usher from the walls, competing with and occasionally complementing the dark
words spoken by these serious people.
The bone-board was put away and discussion on the Roman war
ended abruptly, as a well-known visitor entered DunAdda’s great hall and
respectfully approached the dais once more. With a nod from Galan, the visitor
stepped up to the white rod on the ground to deliver his entreaty with a deep
and formal bow.
“He had no choice in the matter Lord I can assure you! This
is the last thing King Galwyn wanted you must know this Lord, as he has held
you in the highest regard all his life. He was given no alternative from Oric
Gwyn even to give the ground, for as
you know Lord our priests in Fachomagia are powerful!” The Fachomagian emissary
told Galan earnestly in support of his King, before bowing again with all
deference and all here knew his words to be true, as his King was indeed an old
friend and admirer of this King before him. However the value of that
friendship, had today been placed in the balance of life and death itself and
it was this acting Diplomat’s duty here this fraught day, to add whatever
weight he could to Galwyn’s side of the scales.
Galan just waved his hand at the man in moody response as
he’d heard it all before, but he studied the man’s familiar face, appreciating
the deep lines of concern and stress around his eyes which revealed little hope
in their blue depths. The tense body language too spoke volumes of the man’s
distress, as all knew any throne-challenge was a clash of both tribes in-reality,
sparking many all-out wars between feudal families in the past. The emissary
himself was familiar to Galan and his Gŵyrd, being a frequent and friendly visitor
to Epidia in the normal calendar of events and all here were familiar with him.
Peaceful and respectful trade and even intermarriage had been common between
these two eastern and western Galedonian tribes for several generations and
their young and energetic monarchs had become firm friends, but it seems now as
though religion may drive a wedge between them, far bigger than the Kingdom of
the Galedonau which separate them on the land. It was perhaps this worried
man’s duty to ensure that peaceful relations remained whatever took place on
the field of combat shortly, but internecine diplomacy was ever a difficult
path to negotiate.
All Galedon seemed to have descended on this rugged and
fractured coastline of Epidia and Galan’s resplendent capital Fortress, to
witness no doubt what this ominous day would bring. This was Gŵyr Ieuan’s last, in a long line of recent and increasingly tense
diplomatic missions to DunAdda in an attempt to calm the situation, as the
werrin of both tribes had been difficult to contain in these last few days
leading up to this potentially cataclysmic event. The two opposing cabals of tribal Druids did
nothing to alleviate the situation, doing just the opposite with their
accusations and counter-accusations, and even the land itself seemed to tremble
now in anticipation.
Galan was volubly furious with Fachomagia for its
self-seeking dissent and he surveyed his honoured and familiar visiting emissary
then with a bleak look, a caustic remark on his lips perhaps but he relented
from the diplomacy this man represented, nodding glumly to acting Diplomydd Ieuan and changing the words
which finally emerged.
“It’s alright Ieuan Geiriog
you can stop sweating needles, whatever happens here this forlorn day, my Gŵyrd have sworn an oath not to perpetuate any notion of
sarhaed should I fall. I have insisted that peaceful relations with Fachomagia
will continue and I know your King Galwyn is of similar mind. I understand too
that this was not Galwyn’s choice, whom all know I have been a personal friend-to
for many years, nor was this deadly throne-challenge the desire of his
honourable Gŵyrd, but the results will remain the same will they not Ieuan?
One Galedonian King must perish here today because a mead-addled old Druid had
a dream?” Galan spat out the complaint, hiding none of his animosity toward the
priesthood of Fachomagia. He was echoing perhaps his disappointment and
frustration with all Prydein’s venerable
religious leaders of late, as the jarring vacuum left by the passing of HênDdu
still felt like a dark and bottomless pit under these superstitious northern
people, as if the Brif-Druid’s black portal still gaped and had been left painfully
open at his shocking death. When the Brif-Druid of all Prydein was sacrificed
by his own brotherhood in Gallia recently, it had infuriated the worshipful
werrin of these northern highlands and they suspected treason from those
Galliad priests. Their anger had dissipated somewhat when the full report from
Aremorica was shared, in that almost all those priests had paid the ultimate
price for their folly in the resulting bloodbath on Ynys Trebes. Roman steel
had been awash with holy Galliad blood that dark day when Caesar had sailed
north in his fleet of conquest, leaving a broken people and a sundered religion
in its vast imperial wake.
The rage of these northern werrin had risen sharply once more
however when all the sordid details emerged, in that HênDdu had been needlessly
slaughtered long after the pivotal moment had passed, due largely to the
interminable vicissitudes of the priesthood elite and to no effect on Caesar’s
departure whatsoever. Galan’s Druids looked shamefaced behind him on the dais
and shuffled their feet in the awkward silence which punctuated the diatribe against
them. They remained sensibly and knowledgeably silent in this fraught
atmosphere, as they knew the unseen stars above them all revolved without end in
the heavens, counting down the remaining minutes. Lacking the vision, wisdom
and guidance of their national leader; the legendary and irreplaceable HênDdu,
the disparate cabals of Druids and Druidens of northern Prydein had begun to
polarise and began to promote their own individual interpretations of the
Druidic religion, often finding themselves in complete opposition and dire
competition. Today was a perfect example of the fractured, self-promoting and politicised state of the religion
currently in these cold and increasingly cynical northern extremes.
Acting diplomat Ieuan Geiriog
had no answer to any of this and remained silent in the face of Galan’s anger,
knowing himself that there was very little he could have done anyway, as the
Druids had already decided today’s outcome. The forlorn look on Ieuan’s long
face at that moment gave sight to the heart-break he was feeling, and this was
shared by everyone in this great hall, as all knew too that time had run out
for him and his fated King Galwyn.
For once, ‘wordy’ Ieuan was lost for words but his blushes
were saved by the tall bronze horns of the Druids, which blew long and stark
into the cold air outside.
This portentous, vibrating lament carried far and wide,
echoing for miles down the length of the sea loch and many who had gathered to
witness this historic event shivered at the deep melancholic lowing, which
seemed to sum-up the gloomy mood of these intensely apprehensive people today.
No comments:
Post a Comment