Nynniaw claims his 'Rhan y Rhyswr' - The Champion’s Portion.

King Nynniaw ap Beli Mawr - Champion of Prydein.

This great tribe arrayed before Caesar now were unusual, looking regal and superior somehow to his trained eye, and his spirits and hopes dipped. Their main battle-banner was an enormous black flag, spangled with silver stars and displaying a flaming war-hammer at its heart, above a golden crown and three tapering lanes. Two long and white, flowing pennants flanked this enormous banner with a sinuous, fire-breathing red-dragon emblazoned upon each. Their Kings were magnificent, especially the huge man in the centre who incredibly seemed to be mounted on a unicorn. A golden crest shone from the crown of his fabulous helmet and a large flaming war-hammer adorned his long, black shield. The mounted lords of his vanguard were similarly dressed in black over polished mail, carrying long, oval black shields with silver war-hammer armorials, in stark contrast to their soldiery. The glimmering army of burly soldiers standing behind them in ordered ranks, wore crimson and black chequered cloaks and trews. To a-man they sported red-dragon tattoos and voluminous drooping moustaches of enormous proportions, which did nothing to hide the murderous grins on their faces. They were stout, dark-haired men with even darker, glittering eyes and Caesar knew these to be killing men. They were all very obviously seasoned and highly experienced warriors who marched proudly behind their round, red-dragon shields and they bristled with tall, razor-sharp spears. More worryingly, they all seemed absolutely delighted to see him.

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Cadwy drew his cyfail up a small hill to the north barely sixty reeds away, to watch with bated-breath as the legendary sons of Beli Mawr joined the fray, and with a devastating downhill, v-shaped charge they split the Roman ranks. A loud clashing of steel arrived on the breeze which erupted from those battling front ranks and within a few brief minutes of determined fury, the Cymbri had effectively corralled Caesar and his officers. They were clearly attempting to allow the legendary King Nynniaw; the Champion of all Prydein to rightly demand his Rhan y Rhyswr, and all these excited witnesses were breathless in anticipation. Bright steel flashed, far swifter than the eye could follow from this distance and the Lords of Cymbri penetrated the gelyn’s ranks in fury, so that Nynniaw could claim his ‘champion’s portion’ and take the fight to Caesar himself. 

Cadwy and all the people around him watched truly entranced by what was enfolding below them on the grass of Fro Cantion, as these splendid Cymbric Lords now poured into the Roman ranks with an unsurpassed élan. Their sacred, glittering blades flashed with the utmost speed and accuracy, and many outclassed Roman soldiers were cut to ribbons before they even knew what had hit them. Black capes over dazzling mail, and a following swarm of red-chequered mantles seemed to explode into those Roman ranks and none could stand. King Nynniaw ap Beli Mawr had thrashed a space around himself with his glorious, glittering and most famous bar of steel, which all here knew without seeing was deeply engraved with its animalistic forms. It was known throughout Prydein as Weiryn y Ddraig and as Nynniaw’s ‘Dragon-Blade’ flashed like silver lightning below, Cadwy held his breath as did everyone around him.

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As Nynniaw approached the obvious knot of protective warriors around their General, the experienced looking ranks of guards closest to Caesar fought like demons in his protection, especially a tall and aristocratic looking officer who barred the way. The enraged Nynniaw would not be deflected nor would he be denied his claim, and he dropped this officer like a sack of dead rabbits at his feet with a savage blow to his neck with the legendary Weiryn y Ddraig. This mortally wounded noble was identified as one Labienus by the cries of alarm and calls for his rescue from the Romans, who dragged this man away, his neck streaming blood and his toga splashed heavily with the same. Supported by Lludd, Afalach and Nynniaw’s enraged son Gwerdded, the Red Dragons of Prydein attacked the General’s personal guard and they were unstoppable. In moments, there in front of the infuriated King and Champion of all Prydein stood the Roman General himself.

“Cymbri am byth! Prydein am byth!”  Nynniaw roared his battlecry and attacked Caesar in a heartbeat. The Romans surged to protect their general, but Nynniaw’s family had responded to his shout and they battled their way around him, dropping Romans like skittles to protect him, and to isolate the two and allow this sacred bout of mortal combat they demanded. Lludd, Afalach and Gwerdded slaughtered Romans left and right with an insurmountable ferocity as did their relentless champions, forcing back the Romans and abruptly there were two men fighting in a clearing.

Hundreds of stocky warriors, bearing red dragons on their shields and on their thick arms flooded three sides of this ground, clearing an area around them and holding back Brythonic and Roman soldiers alike, so that the finest swordsman in the land, and the chosen Red Dragon of Prydein could claim his champion’s portion and address the Roman in single, mortal combat. Nynniaw attacked Caesar again with an electric suddenness and with an enraged overhead cut, but Caesar somehow parried it, stepping away quickly. The two men began to circle each other and the air around them was suddenly filled with the roaring and cheering of both camps, as all hostilities had been wordlessly suspended.

Both were steeped in a lifetime of training and military tradition, and the fight was instantly a highly technical but brutal bout, as they lunged and hacked at each other with accurate and murderous intent. Blocking and parrying with the reactions of serpents, each looked for the slightest chink in the other’s defence and the baying of the crowd around them grew.

The deep and solid ranks of the Essyllyr who had almost encircled this fight, locked-shields now to hold back the swarming Brythons heading uphill, all careering mindlessly toward the vast mob around the fight on its crown. They were all lost to the killing madness and so had to be controlled by the red-dragon warriors of the motherland, but this caused a beaver-like dam of clamorous warriors across the western uplands of Fro Caint. These inebriated, animated warriors were all screaming blue-faced murder and shoving forward like lunatics, as more and more warriors flowed across Fro Caint to thicken their rear ranks at the foot of this hill. However bright their alcohol-fuelled ardour burned, it fell well-short of suicide and none would brave the sharp spears of the indomitable Essyllyr, as their sharp edges had no concept of race or creed. 

“Cymbri am byth! Prydein am byth!” Nynniaw roared again within this manic, almost uncontrollable circle of yelling and jostling warriors. Prydein’s Pencampwr and sword-master began to dominate the Roman general with a furious assault, Weiryn y Ddraig a shimmering blur. 

Caesar blocked and parried for his life, his head flicking from side-to-side to dodge the long, flashing steel and he retreated steadily from the ferocity of this huge warrior, his eyes wide. He flashed his gladius at Nynniaw’s eyes when he was able, but had failed to make even a fleeting contact, as there wasn’t a scrap of exposed skin anywhere on this King, as his dazzling accoutrements were of the very highest order. They clashed again then, the edges of their hugely unmatched swords biting at each other as the two men heaved and twisted for advantage, but Nynniaw was bigger and much stronger. 

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Bod.

Gŵyr Bodfyca ap Leon 'Mawr', Warden of CaerCarwyn in Bidog, Albion.

As the Prince and his Lords were away, Gŵyr Bodfyca Mawr the Warden of CaerCarwyn would not take the responsibility of risking the Dun and ordering an attack on such a large force to save the town, as he only had this small reserve garrison to command and thus constrained, was forced to bear witness to the sacking of Draenwen. 

His reputation was such every person in this fortress knew he wouldn’t stand for it, and the murderous look on his big face at that moment confirmed it, as the huge and imposing warden of CaerCarwyn simply glowed with his frustrated outrage. Gŵyr Bodfyca ap Leon was a tall, barrel-chested and grizzled old warrior who had seen active service in Cridas’ elite and celebrated Plyfyn y Baedd in last year’s Roman war, being known as a ferocious and merciless killer in his prime. Known now as just ‘Bod’ by his old comrades in the Regiment of the ‘Quills’ and Gŵyr Bodfyca Mawr; the Warden of CaerCarwyn by everyone else in Albion and Prydein. That prime was well behind Bod now, although his heroic past exploits had warranted a permanent position of authority in one of Albion’s great Caers for his retirement. Bodfyca had thought the offer of Warden of CaerCarwyn a gift from the Gods themselves, when he was first offered the position by King Cridas himself. That the King had chosen him personally to be warden to his son and heir had filled him with pride, as he was not an Albion-born man. Bod had become an Albion man that day though and for life, also becoming known more recently as Bodfyca Mawr for more obvious reasons. 

Bodfyca hailed from DunGanwy on the Aber of Afon Conwy, deep in the Decawangly territory of Cymbri but had fled that territory as a boy, when it had been invaded and destroyed by marauding Iweriu. The mercenary scots had sailed up the estuary in a fleet of ships and laid siege to the fortress, but not before his family and every single person in the Treflan below the Dun had been slaughtered, apart from Bodfyca, who had fled into the woods surrounding the fort. Running as fast as his thin legs could carry him, Bodfyca had managed to reach the tiny fishing village on Maes Ddu, the beach below Penrhyn Gogarth, where he stole a boat and escaped. As he rowed across the swirling estuary toward Penmaenmawr, Bodfyca could see the whole estuary of the Conwy was in flames behind him and for an eleven-year-old boy who had just lost everything he had ever known, it was a harrowing image he would take with him to the grave.  

Young Bodfyca had grown up hard and alone, surviving from one forest to the next like a wild animal. He lived from hand to mouth for years, until he started to fill out and grow, but once Bod began to grow, he never seemed to stop. Becoming an adept hunter through sheer necessity of survival, Bodfyca grew from the cub to the bear as he travelled this country, heading ever north almost thoughtlessly, as it was just easier. Crossing the border from Breged into Albion, the huge young man dressed in ragged skins had been filthy, lice ridden and covered in rough matted hair from head to foot. Causing uproar in Treflan Annan on arrival and labelled a ‘monster of the Gwyllion’ by an elder Gawres, Bodfyca was beaten with sticks and driven from the town by all its inhabitants and chased back into the woods. 

Shunned and driven-off from every town and village he stumbled across, Bodfyca became shy rather than vengeful and drew into himself, living in a cave and living hand-to-mouth for many years. As he matured, Bodfyca became bored with his cave and determined to strike-out once more, seeking something he didn’t yet know himself he needed. North he headed once more, dressed in deer-hide and with a bag tied to a pole thrown over one huge, bulging shoulder. 

Bodfyca’s huge size and undisguised ferocity had got him noticed however, when he eventually pitched-up at DunPeris in Enouanta a few weeks later looking for work. Despite his uncivilised appearance and the unholy stench emanating from him, the ‘Gŵyr Enouant’ had soon found employment for the huge and almost feral bear of a man.  

There had been no point in attempting to turn this enormous, almost wild creature of the woods into a swordsman, and so Bodfyca had been equipped with bronze amulets and a monstrous double-headed war axe. The massive but still growing Bodfyca Wyllt had become expert in their deadly use in no time at all, becoming the hot topic of discussion throughout the fortress. The bucket sized helm and the massive armour pieces which had to be especially made for him had cost a fortune, but he had justified the investment in his first battle, as it had been against a warband of invading scots and calling him ‘wild’ had been in hindsight, quite an understatement. 

Bodfyca had gone-on to avenge his family and his Cymbric village and the vanquished fort of DunGanwy that day and many others since, fighting Iweriu raiders on several more occasions in his military career for the northern Kingdom of Albion. It was in these emotionally-charged battles, that Bodfyca had carved huge bloody swathes through the enemy. He had written his own legend in Prydeinig history in those intervening years and done it in hot Iweriu blood, losing the ‘wild’ title and becoming the fearsome and hugely respected Bod. 

Thirty-six long and dangerous years had passed since that formative and traumatic period which had so heavily influenced this man and shaped his complex psychology, making him the belligerent and much-feared Warden of CaerCarwyn he is today. Over recent months and in his more sedentary position, Bodfyca Mawr’s belly had begun to compete with his enormous chest but it took nothing away from his capabilities, rather it added to his physical presence and authority, and the big Cymbric man did carry it well enough. 

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Unknown to these brothers, those silent men had gained the unnerving title of ‘the forlorn hope’ and these were almost the last of the fighting men from the main fortress, leaving its safekeeping to its ferocious defences and a skeleton-crew, which struggled to even rise to that risible description there were so few of them. The women, servants and porters had armed themselves and even the children of the Caer had come to stand on boxes, to take the places of those brave men on the southern and western palisades facing the town. They did this one at a time, and the replaced warriors had then assembled below in front of the gates, in the same way as their comrades had done previously, none of which had survived. However led by the enormous and fearless Bodfyca Mawr, these valiant Albion men were prepared for one mad dash to death or glory, and one desperate final attempt at grabbing the enemy’s hostage in whatever way possible. Then they had to get their beloved Princess back inside the gates of the fort somehow, and then at least the tragedies of this day will have been mitigated to a large degree.  

There were seven men hiding inside the gate, prepared to sally-forth and assist the forlorn hope in gaining its security as a last resort, as these were cooks and burly stewards, but they were armed with sharp steel and Brythonic courage. The faces of Bod and his forlorn hope were soot-blackened, their clothing dark and apart from their huge leader with his legendary axe, each carried a long spear and a round shield, also blackened with soot. They knew they would need every fleeting second if their bold plan had any chance of success, and so they crept out of the fortress and assembled either side of the huge Bodfyca and alongside the ramp, crouching among the scrub at the verge and staring down at the assembling enemy horde with fearful eyes. 

From the other side of the town, Cilwyn and Dilwyn had seen the furtive exit and assembly of those little black figures before the distant gates of the fortress and their pulses had raced, fearing another vain attempt. It was obvious even from here who was leading this last-ditch attack, as his bulk caught the eye and they were compelled to watch with bated breath, as the shadowy figures vanished into the dark ground alongside the chariot ramp and the ambush was set. 

The enemy warband eventually moved-out on foot, the same way they had arrived but now leading a small herd of stolen horses, one of which carried their Princess who had been thrown face-down over it and they marked it well. The raiders took the main curving drover’s road and headed north, uphill toward the dark and silent fortress, but its battlements were still crowded with spearmen, darkly silhouetted against the night. As the warband approached, all those soldiers at the palisades began to create a great din, crashing their spears against their shields and throwing rocks, anything to attract the attention of their enemy, so that their heroic compatriots crouching in the shadows below in ambush would have just an extra little chance. 

It seemed to be working as many of these drunken raiders responded, by gesticulating back at the indistinguishable soldiers high above them on the battlements and brandishing their weapons in victorious insult. As they climbed the hill and drew abreast of the Caer, the men in the shadows sprang into action and Bodfyca led a four-man spearhead, running straight at the rear flank of the retreating horde. This huge Cymbric legend attacked them with a mindless rage, allowing the three chosen men behind him to slide past and make directly for the horse carrying their Princess. The others then formed a single line behind their furious leader and their vanguard, who were having great initial success from the surprise, and the fact that the men tasked to lead the horses away were none too sober. Constrained by the ditched road running uphill, the great host of warriors was slow to respond to what was unfolding behind them, and even slower to turn around. 

The three retrievers were led by a shield-man with a long sword, guarding his two combrogi, who were only armed with daggers as they needed to be agile and dextrous. With the protection of their guardian before them, the two men grabbed Eirwen’s horse, as bedlam exploded behind them. One cut the rains to free the horse and then he swiftly cut the Princess’ bindings, so that she could rise-up and ride the horse straight up the ramp and through the open gate, whilst the others guarded the horse’s rear. They were alarmed when Eirwen slumped from the saddle and fell to the road senseless. The two men had to grab her by the wrists and ankles and carry her, as they abandoned the horse and made a dash for the gates. 

The enormous Bod and his compatriots roared with fury, as they fought the enemy to protect these chosen men, but they were hard pressed by the horde coming back down the hill. They had only needed moments for Eirwen to ride through the gates but that couldn’t happen now, and so the two retrievers ran for the gate with their unconscious Princess swinging between them like dinner, as Bod and his beleaguered men tried to hang on for that bit longer.  

Even the shield-man of the frantic retrievers was engaged, the fighting suddenly raging closely around them as these wild and drunken invaders had eventually woken up and sobered up, to realise what was going on. Now Bod and his brave men had awoken the beast they struggled valiantly to contain it, as the two men rushed toward the gates behind them with their prize. They almost made it, but it was the excellence of the Epidian Gŵyr which was the telling factor, especially Elgan, as he had the calm disposition and quick-thinking mind of a trained and experienced leader, and his four knights were in the habit of obeying his orders without hesitation. 

The four big men around the man-mountain from Cymbri had perished but Bodfyca remained huge and roaring, as he felled one drunken enemy after another with his awesome battle-axe. In the blink of an eye, an archer took him down with an arrow, which pierced his great heart and the enormous warrior fell without another sound.

The protective shield men and all their supporters had perished in moments, as they were massively outnumbered, whilst Elgan and his four ferocious knights had made directly for the gatehouse and got there just before the brave pair carrying their Princess did. These two reckless Albion warriors were brought up short by five unwavering blades of repute, held in steady and seasoned hands. They had no option left to them and so they lowered Eirwen slowly to the cold flagstones of the chariot ramp and put her down carefully, their eyes never leaving those of Elgan’s, which were ablaze with indignant anger.

To their eternal credit and honour, they didn’t flee as they could have and stood tall together before the prone form of their Princess on the ground, and shoulder to shoulder, they drew steel and died together. Elgan alone with his sword kept the hopelessly ineffectual amateurs from coming out through the gate to help Bod’s ‘forlorn hope’ and the little band of brave rescuers justified their tragic name, as the last one was put cruelly to the sword. 

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