The Stolen Throne

II - Memories of Blood

II

Memoriae Sanguinis

‘Memories of Blood’

As the three horsemen broke free of Lindinis, they found themselves sharing the road with a greater number of merchants and drovers heading to the larger markets of Isca to the southwest. Many of the travellers stared at Lucius, Einion and Dagon as they passed, and so they rode at a quicker pace, able to break away and make better time.

They passed one night at a roadside tavern, and then continued on their way.

Lucius and Dagon tried not to interrupt Einion’s thoughts overmuch as they travelled, for he was determinedly silent.

What they did not know was that he had been nursing his anger, his thirst for vengeance ever since Etain, the priestess of Ynis Wytrin, had told him now was the time to reclaim his family’s lands.

Etain was, he knew, extremely powerful and aware of all that went on in Britannia, and her visions, her advice, were corroborated by scattered reports of a pestilence in the southwest, in Dumnonia.

Einion thought of the morning the priestess had called for him, to tell him the news.

“Your kingdom is dying and soon it will be no more unless you overthrow your traitor uncle.”

Her words had been plain, and terrible, but Einion had been grateful as he listened to Etain’s words.

“But how?” Einion asked.

“You are friend to dragons now,” she said, smiling at him. “And the Gods are ready to test you. Are you ready?”

He nodded.

When he had gone to think about it, to prepare himself, Briana had stayed behind to speak further with Etain, the Druid Weylyn, and the Christian priest, Father Gilmore.

“They all agree that if this pestilence is not stopped, if our uncle is not unseated from our family lands, then even Ynis Wytrin will be in danger,” Briana said from the doorway of the small home where she and her brother had taken refuge in the sacred isle for years after the m******e of their family. She nodded. “Even the children who dwell here won’t be safe.”

“Then I must go,” he said.

Einion remembered it like it was yesterday, the firelight, the pounding of his heart as he sharpened his father’s sword. It was over a week ago since that day, but the words echoed in his mind like a recurring dream. There is a pestilence in Dumnonia…the land is dying…

Each night as they lay down to sleep on the road, and every moment in the saddle beside Lucius and Dagon, Einion thought of that night long ago, when his family had been all but wiped out in one single slaughter, leaving only him and Briana to escape, having killed as many of their uncle’s men as they could before taking their horses and riding for the moors.

The face of Caradoc, their mother’s brother, floated in Einion’s consciousness like a circling vulture ready for another meal. He could see the blood of his mother and father dripping like grisly honey down Caradoc’s face, the blood of his siblings on the blade of his long sword…his smile as he watched Einion and Briana hack at his men.

The last Einion had seen of the formidable Caradoc was of him sitting upon his father’s throne, his feet upon the savaged bodies of their parents as he took his ease.

My parents had no burial… he thought sadly. Their souls will beg and be torn by hounds at the gates of Annwn.

He tried to remember their home, the expanses of green and brown, windswept and soaking, the crash of waves at the bottom of the cliffs, and the call of sea birds above the fortress walls.

But his reverie was constantly broken by the cries of his family and their servants, the crash of ceramic and slither of swords as he remembered that night.

He, Briana, and Gwendolyn had been at a fire on the far side of the fortress rock, talking of the future, of their land and what Rome would do once it came deeper into Dumnonia. They had been idealistic and excited at the prospects, for the Pax Romana had settled nicely in the south, and once more, men, women and children could go about safely, more so than they had been able to in generations.

Gwendolyn had been curled in his strong arms then, her eyes alight with the flames, her hands tracing the lines of his calloused palms.

Gwendolyn… Einion gripped his reins in white knuckles as he remembered her. She had meant more to him than anyone, save Briana, and he knew that of all lost in the m******e, he missed her the most.

When the slaughter began, it was as if a Banshee had come into their midst. Screams rang out, and the clash of weapons was immediate and shocking.

Their heads whipped around as they each grabbed their weapons, always to hand, and they ran toward the low slate buildings where shadows jumped and screamed in the flickering firelight of small windows.

“Run and hide, both of you!” Einion had said to them.

“Not likely!” Briana answered, her sword slithering free.

“I’m coming with you!” Gwendolyn answered, pulling her dagger free of her belt, her long, deep green tunic up around her knees as she ran with them.

Villagers were running from the hall, screaming into the night as men in black hacked at their backs, uncaring of s*x or age.

“My Prince! Help me!” one woman yelled as she scrambled toward Einion, her eyes wild with terror. Einion leapt forward to her, his sword slashing over her head at her pursuer who flew face forward into the woman he had been seeking to kill.

“Get her up!” Einion said. “Get her out of here!” he yelled at Gwendolyn, but the woman carried on running without help, careening dangerously fast toward the cliffs. “Stop her!”

Gwendolyn ran after the woman, disappearing into the night like a swooping owl. There was a scream then, and the sound of struggle.

“Gwendolyn!” Einion yelled, veering from the hall to pursue but stopping abruptly when Briana screamed her battle cry.

The sound of clanging swords drew him back to his sister’s side, and together they hacked at the six men who poured from the side door of the hall.

“Leave her! Or by the Gods I’ll kill you!”

They heard their father’s voice from within the hall and ran for the door.

“No!!!!” the voice yelled again, followed by clanging steel. “Fiend of -”

Just as Einion and Briana cut their way into their father’s hall, they saw him upon his knees, their uncle Caradoc towering over him, surrounded by his men, their father holding his guts in his arms as he stared down upon his slain wife, his eyes wide in shock.

Cunnomore of Dumnonia collapsed upon his wife, and the stench of blood and offal filled Einion and Briana’s nostrils as they stared in horror at their uncle, Caradoc, who sat upon the stone, fur-covered throne and put his feet upon his slain sister and brother-in-law.

“Bastard!” Einion screamed, his sword slashing through many of the men before them as he tripped over the bodies of his father’s people to get at Caradoc.

“Here he is!” Caradoc laughed, pointing at Einion and commanding his men to press in on them.

Briana reached Einion’s side, her own blade taking many lives, but the press of enemies too thick to approach Caradoc. Einion tripped at one point and fell forward upon his hands, the blood sticky upon the cobbled flooring. There, in the writhing mass of death, he spotted the hilt of his father’s longsword where he had dropped it. Einion groped for it, rose up, pulled by Briana, and slashed in a huge arc to take the heads from three of his enemies.

Briana pulled at him again and together they retreated toward the side door, over bodies and out into the night, pursued by Caradoc’s men like rabid wolves after a stag.

As Einion went out the door, he caught a glimpse of his uncle laughing at the sport, leaning back in his father’s throne.

It was only because they knew the hidden ways of the fortress rock that Einion and Briana were able to escape that night, leading Caradoc’s men to their deaths at the edges of the cliffs.

However, even with the orange-red glow of the Samhain bonfires about the rock, they almost fell from the cliffs to their deaths. They scrambled and fought their way to the rope bridge that led to the mainland where they made their way to the stables to get horses and flee for the moors.

Several of Caradoc’s men, and some of the traitorous villagers rode hard after them, but the young prince and his sister had been too swift, riding at suicidal pace over the streams and along hedgerows until the dark cloaked them completely from killing eyes.

Every time Einion sat on a horse now, he remembered that night, the ride to freedom, and the loss he had left behind in the hall of his father, and upon the windswept fortress rock.

The night before they reached Isca, the three men stopped at an inn beside a wood along the Fosse Way. They were tired from the road, but grateful for the fact that the rain that usually hampered this part of Britannia had held back. Clouds loomed in the skies like sleeping wraiths, but they never opened up.

The mansio, a place called The Chariot Wheel, was well-equipped, and busy. The u-shaped structure was surrounded by a wall at the back where it faced onto a forest. There were outbuildings for the horses, and rooms on the upper level overlooking the courtyard. Most important of all was the smell of fresh bread and roasting meat that permeated the place.

“From what you’ve told us of the landscape in Dumnonia, Einion, I think we had better enjoy sleeping with a roof over our heads before we head into the wilds of your country.” Lucius led the way off of the road and into the courtyard to a series of hitching stones on the far side of a row of wagons. “I’m paying,” Lucius added as he slid from the saddle. He stretched his back and arms, and pat Lunaris.

“If that smell is anything to go by, you’ll hear no arguments from me,” Dagon added.

“Sounds fine,” Einion said, throwing his leg over his horse’s neck and sliding down. “Though you might hear me complaining of your snoring, Dagon.”

“I do not!” the Sarmatian protested, turning to Lucius. “Do I?”

Lucius simply nodded, trying not to laugh.

“Briana hasn’t said anything to me,” Dagon mused.

“Cause she loves you, big man!” Lucius slapped him on the back and tossed a bronze as to the boy who was waiting to take care of the horses.

The three men hoisted their weapons and saddle bags, and walked toward the double front doors of the stout limestone building.

The taverna was full but for a table in a corner at the back. The clientele was mostly made up of merchants headed for Isca’s markets to sell their wares, or retired veterans who had made their homes in the vicus outside Isca’s walls. No matter who they were, a silence fell upon the room when Lucius stepped in, followed by his friends.

“Salve!” he said, looking to the tavern keeper at the far end. “Any room for three servants of Rome?”

He was not sure why he said it like that, but the feeling he had got upon entering the room urged him to play it safe after a quick scan of the faces looking in their direction.

“Come and sit!” the tavern keeper said, pointing to the vacant table. “A group just left. It’s yours if you’re willing to wait.”

Lucius approached the bar and smiled. “No rush with smells like that coming from your kitchens. We’ll take it, and food and drink for three, whatever it is you have.”

Lucius removed his cloak, the heat of the place quite intense toward the back, and the inn keeper’s eyes focused on the dragon upon his armoured breast.

“You lads off duty then?” he said, looking past Lucius at Dagon and Einion, his eyes resting on the latter.

“Yes,” Lucius answered. “Three friends travelling to Isca.”

“Hmm. I see.” The man motioned to the table once more and Dagon and Einion went to sit, dropping their bags on the floor along the wall.

“Thank you,” Lucius said before joining them.

“Friendly place,” Dagon murmured, glancing around the room to see several men staring their way, going back to their conversations when he stared back. “All Romans here?”

“Not really,” Lucius said. “Seems to be mostly retired auxiliaries and some merchants.”

“No one will bother us,” Einion said. Our fight is yet to come…

After a few minutes, a burly veteran came over to their table carrying a tray with a large clay wine jug and matching cups. He set it down on the table and stood there looking at Lucius.

“From me and the lads,” the big man said, pointing to a group of veterans at the far side of the tavern.

“I’m sorry?” Lucius answered, standing. “Do I know you, soldier?”

“No, Praefectus. But we’ve all heard about you and what you’ve been doing.” He nodded at the dragon on Lucius’ armour. “We all fought the Selgovae and Caledonii when the wall was breached thirty-odd years ago, and we know how vicious the bastards can be.”

“They are that,” Lucius answered, smiling. “But really, there’s no need to -”

“Think nothing of it, Praefectus. Now we can say we’ve bought drinks for the Dragon. Something from a few humble men of the legions.”

“I thank you…”

“Cassius.”

“Cassius. Maybe later we can trade some battle stories?” Lucius said.

The man laughed loudly and nodded, becoming quite animated all of a sudden. “Now you’re talking, lad!”

Cassius made his way back to his friends and Lucius sat down again with Einion and Dagon.

“So much for keeping a low profile,” Dagon murmured as he poured the wine for the three of them.

“I have a feeling it’s Einion who should keep a low profile,” Lucius said, looking to the Briton.

He nodded. “It would help, yes,” he said.

“You going to tell us about what happened, and what we’re up against?” Dagon asked.

Einion glanced around the room and nodded. “Yes, but after we eat,” he said as the inn keeper approached with a laden tray and placed it on the table in their midst.

The roast boar was delicious, and after some days on the road, surviving on dry rations, Lucius thought that he had never had anything so good. The steaming meat went down perfectly with the wine, fresh bread, and a plate of wild greens that dripped with juice from the roast.

They ate in silence for some time, watching more and more men leave the tavern to go to their rooms on the upper floor.

When they had finished, the inn keeper sent a boy to carry the men’s things to their room, but the three of them kept their weapons to hand.

“Don’t worry,” Lucius said to the inn keeper. “Habit. They never leave our sides.”

The man nodded and went away.

Cassius and his group were getting stuck into drinking, and cast an occasional glance in Lucius’ direction.

Lucius however, smiled, and then turned to sit with Einion and Dagon beside a burning brazier. “All right,” he said, leaning in to speak with the other two men. “Tell us.”

Einion emptied his cup and, with his elbows on his knees, his long hair hanging down a little, began his tale.

He spoke for some time of that night at Samhain, about his father’s fortress by the sea, and of the uncle who had betrayed them all, including his own sister, Einion and Briana’s mother.

Lucius was no stranger to family betrayal and murder, his father having been in part responsible for the death of his own beloved sister, Alene. However, for some reason, Caradoc of Dumnonia sounded like a much more vicious foe. Where Lucius’ father had been a cowardly politician, taken to beating his wife and younger children, Caradoc sounded like he would not shy from any fight.

“He is a warrior,” Einion said. “And a formidable one.” He gripped the hilt of his father’s longsword as he spoke, running his fingers over the worn leather handle as if he were still seeing the blood running into every crevice and crack.

“Are you worried about fighting him?” Dagon asked. “Do you think he has a lot of warriors?”

Einion was silent for a few moments, then he nodded.

“Aye… I am worried. I hate to say it. And yes, he no doubt has many warriors.”

“You’re well-trained, my friend,” Lucius added. “And you have right on your side.”

The Briton said nothing.

“Lucius and I will make sure you have your chance at him,” Dagon said. “If your people are anything like mine, it will be important that they see you defeat him in single combat.”

Lucius expected Einion to shy from this, only because he seemed worried, but he surprised them both by nodding.

“I can’t wait.” He looked directly at Lucius and Dagon, his eyes fiery in the light of the brazier. “All those years healing and training in Ynis Wytrin, behind the mists, I have thought only of avenging my family’s murder. When the Gods sent me and Briana north to find you, Lucius, I was angry at first. I thought that I would never return to Dumnonia.”

“And yet, here we are,” Lucius said. “And you are not alone.”

“No. And I know what you both risk in coming with me. But after everything that has happened, it is meant to be like this. The Gods have something in mind. What, I don’t know, but either way, there will be an end of it.”

Silence fell over their circle once more.

Lucius thought of home, of Adara and the children sleeping in the warmth of their wooden hall atop the hillfort. Now is not the time for regret or weakness, he thought. It’s time for hardened resolve to help a friend in need.

He noticed Cassius and the others looking his way again, and turned to Dagon and Einion.

“You can go up and get some rest. I’ll spend a few minutes with the veterans over there.” Lucius stood, took up his black cloak and sword, and walked over to join the retired legionaries.

“The troops seem to love him wherever he goes in this land,” Einion smiled. “I guess I’m lucky to count the Dragon as my friend,” he laughed.

“Yes,” Dagon answered. “We both are. But Lucius needs to be careful. A well-loved commander can be seen as a danger in some circles.”