The Dragon's Banner

  The Dragon’s Banner

  By Jay Allan

  The Dragon’s Banner

  Jay Allan

  Copyright © 2012 Jay Allan Books

  Published by System 7 Publishing at Smashwords

  Also By Jay Allan

  Marines (Crimson Worlds I) The Cost of Victory (Crimson Worlds II)

  A Little Rebellion (Crimson Worlds III)

  The First Imperium (Crimson Worlds IV)

  The Line Must Hold (Crimson Worlds V)

  To Hell’s Heart (Crimson Worlds VI) The Shadow Legions (Crimson Worlds VII)

  Even Legends Die (Crimson Worlds VIII)

  Fall (Crimson Worlds IX) (Coming Soon)

  Crimson Worlds Prequel Novellas Tombtone

  Bitter Glory

  The Gates of Hell

  War Stories (all 3 in one volume)

  Portal Wars Series

  Gehenna Dawn (Portal Wars I)

  The Ten Thousand (Portal Wars II) (September 2014)

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  Prologue

  495 AD

  East of the Ruins of Londinium

  "God, why hast thou forsaken us so?"

  Elwin looked heavenward, tears streaming from his raw, red eyes as wrinkled hands grasped the crude wooden cross of the altar. He grieved not for himself, for he had seen sixty winters and was tired in body and soul, ready to depart the world and its endless pains. His tears were for his flock; for the babies impaled on spikes in the village green; for the maids, whose wretched cries filled his ears as the filthy, blonde-haired invaders took them one after another to satisfy their lust; for the mothers driven to madness as they clung to the blood-soaked bodies of murdered children, before they too were dragged off to be ravaged and slain.

  For three decades Elwin had served the village, and he had found contentment in caring for his people and joy in a simple life. He had often thought to retreat to the monastery to live his final years in solitude and reflection. But he could never bring himself to leave his children, and now, if this was to be their bitter fate, he would share it with them.

  The invaders had come before, savage and terrifying like God's own wrath, but never in such numbers. Always they had raided along the coast, killing and robbing, then sailing back across the sea with their slaves and booty. Even when they stayed, they claimed only lands far to the east. Now they had crossed the narrow sea in many of their dragon-prowed boats, and they cut like a scythe deep through the unresisting countryside. They had come this time to stay, and blood and tears were their legacy for the conquered.

  The village was small and poor, not worth conquering, so torment and death became the villagers' fate. A ragged cluster of cottages grouped around a small, muddy green, the village itself was dying too. Thatched roofs were ablaze, filling the air with thick, acrid smoke. The enemy's first charge had scattered the small force of townsfolk who'd stood in defense, and the flimsy wooden stockade that had been the village's only protection was dashed and broken, its splintered remains strewn all around.

  Elwin prayed softly, beseeching God Almighty to welcome his children. "Forsake them not, Lord, if their faith deserts them in their final torments. For they are simple folk and cannot grasp thy purposes. To thy wisdom and mercy I commit my body and soul, and I pray that my faith protect them if theirs should fail."

  The invaders ran through the tortured village, shouting their war cries and, with torches alight, they put to fire every house, every hut, every barn. They were angered, driven to rage by the fruitlessness of their expedition. For they had plunged farther inland than ever before, determined to sack Londinium. But instead of a rich Roman capital they found an abandoned ruin, with nary but a handful of families living a poor existence in the old villas. Denied their plunder, they focused their wrath on the villagers for no other reason than these unfortunates were the ones standing in their path.

  Those of the townsfolk who were able to reach the chapel had sought refuge inside, barring the door with wooden benches. Perhaps they thought the attackers would respect the sanctuary of God's house, or possibly it was just blind fear that drove them to the one place of comfort in their hard and bitter lives.

  Elwin knew better, and he could already smell the smoke, heavier, closer than before. He knew the sanctuary would soon be little more than the charnel house of the village, burned remains of the townsfolk buried under blackened beams and ash. The invaders were not here for slaves, and the village had little of value. They would let the miserable peasants burn in their house of worship, sending them to their god with fire.

  Some of the village folk had escaped and fled to the old Roman fort on the bluff. Elwin prayed silently that they find the strength to hold out against the invader, though in his heart he knew it to be hopeless. They were too few to man the crumbling stone walls of the fortress, and the villagers were herders and farmers, not soldiers.

  The warriors were gone, dead or off fighting each other. Since the Breaking of the Council and the death of the High King, the land had been at war with itself. For a generation, Briton had slain Briton in an orgy of self-destruction. Brother spilled brother's blood at the behest of petty lords striving for power, while the barbarians from across the sea ravaged the land unopposed and enslaved the people.

  A group of invaders was roasting villagers one at a time over a fire, demanding to know where the town's treasures were hidden. The tortured, dying peasants screamed out what few locations contained anything of value, but it availed them little. They were left to the heat and fire and cheated of the promised rewards of their confessions.

  Elwin knew it would soon be over, for he felt the heat, then the flames as they began to engulf his body. The pain was great, but he cared little and endured in silence. In just a moment he would stand before God, to whose grace he had remained faithful through a life of trial and testing. His only real torments were the cries of the villagers as the flames took them. Be merciful, heavenly father, he thought, both to your faithful servant and to your people who lived in this place and now die here.

  He could see the blazing section of thatch from the roof begin to fall toward him. With his last breaths he spoke softly, his regretful words barely audible. "I have failed thee, Merlin, for I have no strength to protect the child. I have done all I could, little though it was. Alone I placed him, on the last horse in the village, and sent him westward, though for protection he has only the grace of God and the amulet he wears bearing his name...Arthur."

  Chapter One

  The Council of Kings

  475 AD - Twenty Years Before

  Caer Guricon, Capital of the Kingdom of Powys

  Uther Pendragon stood in the center of the fighting circle, alone and unbeaten, long hanks of dark hair framing his sun-baked face, moist with perspiration. Around him, prostrate on the ground, were his bruised and battered adversaries, those of the local warriors who would dare fight him in the tournament. Five he had faced, and all he had bested. Now he extended a hand to each to help them to their feet, for Uther respected courage above all things, and these men had matched with him when others had feared to do so. The metallic taste of blood was on his lips, for Cowen of Celtiborne had landed a blow before Uther took him down with a strong strike to the shoulder. With a smile, Uther pulled Cowen to his feet and gave him a hearty slap on the back.

  Uther took his leave of his opponents and walked from the fighting circle ac
ross the castle courtyard. At the well he stopped and poured the bucket of icy water over his head. Thus refreshed, he stood and looked out over the town below, and the rolling, green hills of his homeland.

  Tall was Uther, and strong, though he had seen only sixteen winters. It was said he could lift a bull, though such were only tales shared in the villages and inns of his father's kingdom, where legends of the young prince were told and retold over flagons of ale. Proud he was too, haughty and noble, with the arrogance of a warrior who had never been bested. His first man he'd slain at thirteen, when he had hid himself among the host and followed his father and older brothers to war.

  He was old enough to be married and, as would be expected for the son of a king, there were many high noblemen ready to offer daughters and dowries, though for different reasons both father and son had shown little interest.

  For Uther there was only the call of battle, cold steel in his hand, and the brotherhood of comrades in arms. Already he was the sword of his people, and it was on the bloody field he served them, where he had already slain a score of foes in Powys' wars. He had normal desires, strong ones indeed, but willing village girls and tavern wenches were enough to satisfy his lusts, and he had no stomach for romantic dalliances or the distractions of hearth and home.

  His father Constantine, King of Powys, had his own plans for the boy. The youngest of his father's sons, Uther was originally destined for the church, where a bishop's robes awaited him when his theological studies were complete. But Uther would have none of it. Four times he had fled the monastery, and each time he was brought back, he silently endured the Father's beating while planning his next escape.

  Finally, after the thirteen year-old boy plunged from his hiding place among the camp followers into the thick of melee, slaying three of the Saxon invaders, his father relented. Henceforth, Uther joined his brothers on the field of battle, and he grew into the scourge of Powys’ enemies. Still though, Constantine clung to the hope that Uther would find his way back to the clergy and, with three older sons, all married, he could indulge the thought that Uther's wife might yet be the mother church.

  The foes of Powys were many, and war was continuous. The land was divided and without a true king. It had been a man's life since the legions departed, and Britannia had bled, savaging itself as local noblemen styled themselves petty kings and fought their neighbors for hegemony. Fields lay fallow, or crops were trampled under warriors' feet, and hunger and pestilence often ravaged the land. To the east, invaders from across the Narrow Sea, tall blond savages with blood-chilling war cries and terrible battleaxes, plundered and conquered, enslaving the peasants and driving the local lords from their lands.

  The Pendragon had the greatest claim to high kingship, indeed, the only one that was not a fabrication built from false lineage. Son and namesake of a governor of Britannia who had become an emperor of Rome, King Constantine had fought in Gaul in the army of Flavius Aetius and returned to wrest control of the largest of the Britannic kingdoms from the usurper Vortigern.

  Vortigern, with help from the Saxon invaders, to whom he had offered large swaths of the Britannic coast, had slain the old monarch, Brochwel, and forced the king's daughter to marry him. But the slain king had been ward and friend to Constantine, who returned from the Battle of Chalons with a band of veteran warriors and swore to unseat the usurper. Rallying the old king's retainers with a cry for vengeance, Constantine marched on Powys. At Pengwern, in a battle that lasted from dawn to darkness, his army routed Vortigern's host, giving quarter to none who fell into their grasp.

  Ariene, King Brochwel's daughter and only child, he was too late to save, for she had been murdered by Vortigern soon after he'd taken the throne. True vengeance also evaded Constantine…the usurper escaped the field and fled into exile and the protection of his Saxon allies.

  Constantine's victory, lineage, and years of wise and noble kingship gave him great renown and respect among the petty kings, but not suzerainty. Though all knew Britannia bled because of its fragmentation and the invaders could only be repelled by a single strong king, none would yield his power or bend the knee to another. Unity would not come free, it would be bought with blood, and the Pendragon would need to bring their adversaries one by one to heel. Such was their creed and battle cry, and to this quest, Constantine and his sons had committed all.

  Allies they had as well as enemies, and many of these were even now guests at Caer Guricon, come for the council called by King Constantine. All about the castle and town were the tents of their retinues, and from the battlements of the stronghold flew a row of seven banners - the coats of arms of the kings here assembled. Alone, above all the others was hung the great silver and blue standard of the Pendragon, flapping furiously in the wind.

  All about, there was a whirlwind of activity, for the morrow was Easter, and King Constantine had declared a great celebration to inaugurate the council. All, it was said, would be feasted, from the kings to the lowliest camp follower, and on this holiest of days all would pray to God that Britannia's wounds be healed.

  Come for the council was another man, old and stooped with age, yet agile of mind and spirit. Not a king, not a warrior, yet all assembled would hear and respect his words, and those who did not respect would fear. Uther had many companions, but the old man was his closest friend. He would come in his own time, sometimes not for several years, but usually every few months. No man held dominion over Merlin, who had helped many lords but bended his knee to none. Some called him a wizard who could summon great devilry, whispering that no good would come from his visits. But most regarded him as a wise and learned counselor. There were even those who believed he came from far off Rome itself, to guide its lost people back into the Empire's embrace and bring back the days of happiness and plenty.

  Long into the night would his father and Merlin sit in counsel, discussing what, Uther could only guess. Constantine met with Merlin alone. Grave tidings the traveler usually brought, and his warnings were heeded by the wise. Whether one thought him wizard or advisor or kingmaker, only the foolish ignored his counsel.

  Merlin was fond of Uther, and he had always had time to sit with the boy, telling him tales of battles and great deeds from long ago. Uther was excited to see Merlin again, for it had been nigh on a year since the traveler had last visited Caer Guricon. But Merlin was deep in conference with his father and, his tournament battles over, Uther was bored. He wandered through the camps, seeking out comrades from past battles, for the Pendragon had been allies with all of these kings at one time or another. His great friend, Leodegrance, he found, just arrived in the company of his father, the king of Cameliard. Leodegrance had fought alongside Uther on the field of battle and had struggled against him in the tournament circle, for he was one of the few warriors who could match the young prince of Powys.

  "Welcome, Prince of Cameliard." Uther bellowed cheerfully to his friend. "For Powys shall ever be for you a second home."

  Leodegrance turned, and his face erupted into a broad smile. "Uther Pendragon! Ah, 'tis good to see you, old friend."

  Uther warmly embraced his old companion. "Come, my friend, for you must be ravenous. Begone with this camp food, for heaping plates of mutton and casks of good ale await. I pray thee, let thy servants fight with tent poles and stakes, for when you and I war, it is against different foes than these."

  Leodegrance laughed deeply, and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Uther, my comrade, I daresay I could eat a whole sheep myself, so I accept your invitation with joy."

  The two of them made their way to the castle, talking and laughing as they walked up the winding path. Together they raided the kitchens, devouring slabs of mutton, two large geese, and loaves of bread, washed down with cups of strong wine.

  Uther and Leodegrance had known each other for many years, and Powys and Cameliard were close allies. They had been born within a few days of each other, though Leodegrance was his father's only son and destined for kingship, while Ut
her had three elder brothers.

  Though they had sworn to eat the kitchens bare, finally they had to admit defeat, for not another morsel could either of them manage, though the larders were still bursting. The two sat long, talking of many things, until a messenger came to Leodegrance, delivering him his father's bidding that he return to the camp. With regret, but a full stomach, he took leave of his friend and trod back down the hill to answer his father's summons.

  Uther sat long in the kitchen, silently thinking of all that was taking place. He longed to join his own father in counsel with Merlin, but he had fought this battle before and lost. He walked past the heavy oak door, which he knew would be bolted shut from the other side and, with a heavy sigh, he wandered down the path back toward the town. The miller's daughter would help him pass the time.

  Behind that heavy oaken door, the king of Powys was deep in conference with his friend and most trusted advisor. At a great wooden table they sat, on which a spread of meats and other foods had been set on great silver platters. It was a kingly feast, but neither had eaten a bite.

  "If this is true, Merlin, then we must move at once, for it may already be too late." King Constantine was an old man, his wrinkled and careworn face framed by thick lengths of steel-gray hair. Late in life did he marry, and fifty summers he had already seen when Uther was born. His own father, the emperor, he did not remember at all, for the great man had been slain in Gaul when Constantine the Younger was but a year of age.

  The other man in the room was old too, though it seemed that all men saw Merlin differently. White as snow was his hair, some said, while others claimed it was iron gray mixed with black. Some saw a man stooped with age who walked with a stick; others a strong and active one who carried his staff like a weapon and could ride or march all day. Perhaps those who knew him best saw him truest, for in Constantine's watery eyes, Merlin appeared ageless, somehow both old and young, and certainly neither weak nor infirm.