Golden War-Horn.
It was a dark, overcast night in Breged and
the rain lashed the stone walls of its enormous inner keep incessantly. Deep in
the bowels of this great fortress of the Cornafau Calon sat a conclave of dark
mantled warriors, meeting in secret in one of the large underground chambers. A
long wooden table dominated the centre of this rectangular, windowless room and
it was surrounded by fourteen deeply carved, high-backed chairs of a beautiful polished
wood. One large Baronial chair in the same design but clearly the leader’s
chair occupied the head of this table, facing the huge oak door and the only
way in or out of this forbidden chamber. The tall backrest of this impressive
throne-like chair was carved with the design of a big, curving war-horn, the
decorated rim of which was visible over the noble head of the chair’s occupant;
King Iddel ap Madoc.
At the opposite end of this table stood a
similar chair of equal artistry but built smaller in size, and it was occupied this
night by the High-Marshall of the order and a man who needed no introduction.
The gleaming silver hand of his legend rested on the oak table before him, confirming
his famous identity. This pure silver prosthetic matched the silver
magnificence of the stunning war-horn and heavy chain he now wore around his
neck, in place of the usual Gorddofic War-Hammer. This badge of office proclaimed
him Pencampwr of this ancient order,
it’s venerated champion and military leader. Tonight High-Marshall Lludd, the iron-faced legendary warrior of the Cymbri
looked refreshed and relaxed but deeply concerned.
Two rows of high-backed chairs flanked this
long table, and all displayed the unbalanced
cygil of a crossed sword and stone-axe, the unique symbol of this secretive
order. Iddel was the head of this mysterious group of chosen warriors, a group
which represented this very old and secret order of the ‘Warchodwyr yr Arfau’, or simply the Guardians of the Armaments.
Long banners hung on the walls between the wall-mounted torches, each bearing
the war-horn cygil and the crossed sword and axe cygil alternatively, and the
yellow glow in the room flickered with the light of these smoking torches, each
mounted to the soot-smudged stone blocks of these ancient walls with a thick,
wrought-iron becket.
The Kings of the Cornafau Calon were ever the
‘Benadwr’ of this order and Iddel was the current ruler and wearer of the
black-hooded cloak of this office. The King was bare-headed this evening and
the fabulous, gem studded crown of his wealthy House rested under guard in his
lodge. His shining chestnut hair fell in a loose plait around his throat as
usual but he wore this magnificent black sable cloak tonight and a golden
war-horn. This priceless artefact hung from his neck on a thick golden chain,
just as it had his father and his father’s father before him for many
generations. The swirled tooling and engraving of this pure gold horn showed
its inestimable age and gleaming on the finest black sable, it was magnificent.
Its owner and the leader of these notorious men, carefully surveyed his
subordinate guests and friends he had assembled around this table.
Three of the assembled Gŵyr were ghost
warriors and Iddel nodded to Olwydd Hîr, Fuanladd and Cadwr Tâw, who sat
together to his left hand and the three ghost warriors nodded back in respect,
their screaming cat-skulls bobbing at their throats. Iddel wore no Torc either
on these occasions, as he was Lord Benadur
of the Warchodwyr tonight not King Iddel per-se and these assembled warriors
around this long table, were hand-picked men of the very highest order. Three
of these warriors were Cornafau officers of Iddel’s own elite guard, sitting to
his right-hand in their familiar damson weave and bronze breast-plates fashioned
in the old design. Another three chairs were reserved for King Bellnor of
Breged’s renowned and feared Royal Guards, only one of which was present
tonight and he was a big, lantern-jawed warrior with the stone-cold eyes of an
experienced campaigner. His contoured, mirrored steel breast-plate and scarlet
mantle proclaimed his position in life and he looked immensely capable but
unapproachable. The three chairs opposite him were set-aside for three of the
legendary Ailyr of Albion, arguably
the best hunters on the face of this earth but only two of these were filled
this night.
One of these mythical hunters present was a
slim and cunning looking man with deep-set, restless eyes and a drawn face,
adorned with an assortment of animal bones plaited into his hair and reed-long,
untrimmed beard. He wore the hooded cloak of otter fur over a black leather coat,
bracs and boots which immediately declared his infamous, nomadic lineage and his
leadership status. He had a brutal, dangerous set to his narrow features but
was dwarfed by the enormous man sitting next to him, who more than made-up for
the empty chair and this giant sat more than a foot taller and broader than his
compatriot. This chieftain’s otter-fur cloak was trimmed at hood, hem and cuffs
with the speckled white ermine of the winter stoat and the huge face above this
royal cloak, was a granite façade of unquestionable character and untamed
ferocity. This imposing Gŵyr of the Ailyr was known as King Anwar Hoer and he had a buckskin patch
strapped over his left eye, which interrupted the view of a huge, buckling and
vertical scar, which divided the left side of his face in the horrific and cloven
remains of a terrible past injury. This historic wound had ruined the man’s
face and clearly claimed his left eye, but his right blazed with a legendary fury,
framed as it was by his plaited, bone-threaded hair and long beard, also
plaited into two stalactites of dark, grey-streaked hair. Anwar the ‘Cold’ was
clearly livid and this shared and deeply felt outrage was evident on every face
in this underground room. The news was appalling and they were drawn here to
discuss the ramifications of recent events in the strictest secrecy, as they
had all failed miserably in their oath-sworn duty.
It was known that a young Arwein had spotted the fallen stone, lying at the bottom of the
deep ditch which curved around the foot of the eastern battlements of Iddel’s
fortress. The low square hole from where this stone block had fallen, gaped
blackly in the wall of the eastern quarter-tower, which towered above the huge
storerooms and the gated entry to the Caer’s treasury. A sleepy mason had been
eventually summoned, who had inspected the four-sided orifice from the top of
his ladder but returned quickly and with a worried, superstitious look on his
pale face. A Gŵyr was summoned by the mason and was shown what the square hole
in the wall revealed. This young Gŵyr scratched his head and went in search of
the Druids in their lodges. Drech, the tonsured priest the Gŵyr came across
first had to be coaxed from a petulant mood, as he had been disturbed at his
repast, but had followed the Gŵyr nonetheless with the unmistakeable air of one
who’s time is being squandered but will go anyway. He’d scrambled down the
steep sides of the ditch, irritably lifting the now mud-splattered hem of his
white gown to climb the half-dozen steps up the ladder. Drech had paled at the
sight of the three identical runes, carved deeply into the face of the stone
block at the back, now revealed by the mechanical ejection of the fallen
cap-stone which was now grasped in the mason’s rough hands below him. The Druid
had sent a fleeting prayer to Lug in the stygian depths below before scurrying
away to the Arch-Druid’s lodge, as although he didn’t know exactly what the
ancient rune of the old people meant, he was experienced enough to know, that
there was a clear and urgent animation to the three identical old shapes on
that long-hidden stone, and there was a tangible energy about them too which
compelled action but no-one knew what action to take yet, as nobody knew what
they meant.
Gandwy the tall Arch-Druid of Breged with his
long bony face, his even longer grey hair and beard had known immediately what
those primeval runes had screamed to all who beheld them. ‘Tuga! Tuga! Tuga!’ Stolen! Gandwy had immediately assumed the
authority of the keys himself, taking the ring of the Caer’s keys personally
from the belt of the Feis y Bysell.
When the true, colossal scale of the incredible larceny was discovered, the
Caer had been galvanised as though it was being besieged, with stewards and
guards shouting ‘calamity’ and rushing about the place, whilst the ‘Master of
Keys’ now sat in the guardhouse under close house-arrest, with a bewildered
look on his chubby face.
The news of this sacrilegious plunder of their
most revered and ancient relics had sent an icy shudder through the lands of the
Cornafau, as nothing travels faster than bad news. It had flown like a pair of
sorrow-laden black arrows, both north and south to their sister Houses and it
was as though someone had torn the heart from the three tribes. Spirals of
votive smoke could be seen rising throughout the land, as the Druids were
fraught with their divinations.
This appalling robbery had thus drawn these
secret members of this ancient order together this night, as they were
oath-sworn to protect those irreplaceable but stolen icons. That pair of
legendary weapons were the very foundations of this ancient people’s enduring
culture and identity, and these serious men now held themselves culpable and
remiss in their sworn duties to protect them. Their appointments although taken
very seriously were largely positions of ceremonial duty, which strove to
continue and preserve the ancient traditions and tenets of their order and to
honour the uncountable numbers of their predecessors. Not a single member would
have thought their roles would ever be needed in earnest, as those sacred
relics they were sworn to protect had not moved in the fourteen generations
that they had lain there, in honoured and secret repose. Their existence had
all-but passed from the living memory of the werrin of Prydein, apart from the
members of the Triad Cornafau tribes and to them these icons from a bygone era
were a cherished, national treasure and a vital link to their honoured
ancestors. Although rarely thought-of, the very existence of GrutArd’s
monstrous battle axe and Caleborno’s stunning blade, sustained the werrin’s
memories of their glorious history, being the popular subjects of many of their
songs and englyns.
Only a handful of trusted people outside of
this chamber knew that only one treasure had in-fact been stolen. Grutimon’s almost
mythical, meteorite-iron battle-axe had been the prize spirited away but
Caleborno’s once stunning blade had remained, clearly discarded by the thief,
as it was a ruin. Very little remained of that revered and ancient Lord’s blade
in reality, but this was not for public consumption as the news was bad enough.
King Bellnor had responded quickly to secret and urgent bird messages from
Iddel and had sent south a long-forgotten, but clearly a once-legendary sword
of the old style with a Captain of his personal guard and two fast horses.
This magnificent long-sword, in its beautiful
bronze scabbard was one which Bellnor’s father had given to him as a young man
but it had never been Bellnor’s sword. In fact Bellnor hadn’t even known the
spirit-name of this wondrous blade, as it had been a small part of the war
plunder won by his Hên Gorhêndaid; his great, great grandfather. Nor could it
have been his Tad King Capoir’s famous blade Gweiryn Blaidd, as ‘Wolf-Blade’ had been sent to the Underworld via
the sacred waters of Llŷn
Cerrig Bach on Môn. Following the death of King
Capoir, the Goddess Sulis who inhabited the scared waters there had received
his glittering blade with eternal gratitude and so wolf-blade now lay beyond
any man’s hand. Bellnor had been pleased to donate this anonymous sword to his
vassal King however, as the deplorable robbery of their most sacred relic had
shocked all of Prydein and so Ederus considered its donation a small service
and besides, the blade was no loss to him as he had hundreds of wondrous, legendary
blades at his disposal.
This fabulous, clearly ancient and pristine
sword had been presented to the werrin of the Cornafau Calon, as clandestine
substitute for the long-corrupted blade of Caleborno, which served to calm the
superstitious fears of the people and restore their morale. Ostensibly at least,
half of their sacred treasure had survived the looting and the midland people
of the war-horn were thankful for it. There was a price of ten gold coins
offered by royal declaration for the return of Grutimon’s legendary battle-axe
and every bounty-hunter, cutthroat, mercenary and pirate across all of central
Prydein was on the alert, for anyone foolish enough to attempt the open sale of
that priceless icon. Every unemployed hunter and tracker were joined by just
about every rogue and blackguard across Breged and beyond, all searching for the
legendary, black-iron battle-axe of Grutimon, as ten gold Staters was a fortune
of a lifetime to most. It was Iddel’s gold that was put up in reward and it was
he who had called this ancient order together, to investigate the shocking burglary
and to discuss its horrifying implications. No-one knew exactly when the
robbery had been committed, as nobody could clearly remember the first time
they had seen the black hole, from whence the stone had been ejected.
At the bottom of this long and sturdy table Lludd
was in a thoughtful mood, as three hours of discussion had led them down
several very disparate routes and it was clear no-one had any clue as to the
perpetrators. He cleared his throat then and it was enough to silence the group
around the table, all eyes turning to him.
“Has a certain Corryn Ddant-Aur been here lately?” He asked casually of nobody in
particular and Iddel snorted.
“That whoremonger! Yes he’s been here, he runs
two brothels in the Tref, down by the wharf I’m told but what bearing could
that common little weasel have on this situation Lord Lludd?” Iddel asked him from
the far side of this long table, his brow creasing.
“I’m not sure yet Lord Benadwr but he is ever
an ambitious little spider.” Lludd replied with a tilt of his head. “And I do
have business dealings with the odious creature, but he’s a man who always pays
his debts and usually in gold or silver, so I don’t mind bringing to Prydein
that which he desires, along with my regular
imports.” Lludd said this more to himself here and it was clear he was working
this line of enquiry out, on the hoof. “But I met him four days ago and he was
trying hard to hide his excitement about something he was involved in.” Lludd
paused again and looked around the table at the questioning faces before
continuing. “He is a cowardly, base thing but if you want a scurrilous task
done in the dead of night, with no thought or care to the manner in which the
task is done or in who may get hurt or killed in its execution, Corryn the
spider is the man you want.”
“Not exactly evidence my Lord Lludd.” Iddel
interrupted him dismissively still frowning, but Lludd ignored it, in deference
to the weight of expectations he knew was burdening the man, so he carried on
regardless.
“He was in his cups at the end of that evening
we met, and he could hardly contain himself Lord, talking of commissioning
ships through me no-less, to import full ship-loads of milk of the poppy.” This
caused some grumbling around the table, as the members tried to figure out the
cost of such a purchase these days. “But I tell you being in his company is no
easy coin, as he has the worst badger’s breath I have ever been subjected to,
and I always try to stand up-wind of the creature, even when he’s paying me!”
Lludd added absently, his lip curling with the distasteful memory.
“It’s not unthinkable that a whoremaster could
accrue such coin surely, especially Corryn the spider with the silver teeth,
who seems to have a dog-iron in almost every fire!” Iddel queried and Lludd
nodded in agreement.
“I thought as much too Lord, but he went-on to
say that he had much gold coming to
him and would not admit to how he had earned this impending fortune, nor who
would be providing the same and he even talked of having his own ships built
and crewed!”
“Now that takes real money!” Olwydd declared.
“How much gold would be needed for such an endeavour Lord Lludd?” He asked
turning to the High-Marshall, who nodded slowly as his brain flashed through
some finances.
“I think you would need at least forty gold
Staters Olwydd to commission the build, have it proved seaworthy and then crew the
vessel and who knows how much a ship-load of poppy milk would cost now, with
the price fluctuating so much recently. With Roman bribes to be considered over
all this, I would have to guess at least another thirty to forty gold pieces.” He
nodded, pleased with the accuracy of his calculations. “However one storm and
he could lose the lot, so it would be quite a gamble considering how dangerous
Gallia is these days.”
“Eighty Gold Staters! My Gods’ that’s a King’s
ransom!” Olwydd breathed. “I can’t even comprehend owning that much gold!” He
added with wide eyes.
“That is for each ship and crew, and the spider said ships!” Lludd clarified
pointedly and the monstrous Ailyr Chieftain opposite him laughed.
“His women must have magical gwain to earn him
that much gold!” He chuckled and the throaty burble he made, sounded more like
an agonised death-rattle than anyone’s amusement. All around the table nodded
in agreement though, as all knew the loathsome Corryn and his reputation for
low industry but that much wealth just
didn’t sit right.
“I tried to probe his mind but it simply
doesn’t work with some people and that harbour-rat just happened to be one of
those!” Lludd added morosely but Lord Benadwr Iddel sat up then in his imposing
throne.
“As Lord Lludd has just informed us, Corryn
Ddant-Aur said he was expecting new
fortune soon, which points to a recent activity on his part, rather than coin
he has accrued, and this fact alone implicates him in this sacrilege!” Iddel
spat, his anger bubbling to the surface. “And the fact that he has been in my
Caer around the time of the break-in, makes the case for his guilt even more
compelling!” He added and all around the table nodded darkly in agreement.
Lludd stood then suddenly, pushing back his chair.
“I need to send some bird-messengers Lord on
this subject and the sooner I do it, the sooner I get answer to my query, so
please excuse me gentlemen, and I will be back forthwith.” He bowed to all and
every man stood to return the bow and Lludd left the room in some haste.
“Let us take this time to discuss other
intelligences and rumours gentlemen, as although it looks damning in
circumstance, I am not yet totally swayed that Corryn Ddant-Aur could carry-off
such a thing!” Iddel declared seriously and all remaining heads leaned in.
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