Hi argenianpoet, thanks for taking the time to read and leave detailed comments on the story, much appreciated, although, rough as it is I'm not sure if I'll do a rewrite.
Here's the rest....
“The same then?”
“Yes uncle, the same vision.”
Myddrin sat on the chest near the fire, looked into it, sighed. “You see why I couldn’t be at your side, don’t you”
“Yes Myddrin.”
“You could not be seen to be my creature, my puppet king, a boy unable to think, or act without consulting his sorcerous uncle.”
Myddrin stood again he seemed already recovered from his seer’s fugue, he started to pace round the small fire.
“ So you became a man did you?”
Artgywr heard Myddrins distaste, for his peoples idea of manhood.
“Yes I went to Uist, to learn from the Irish women.” Said Artgywr and sighed.
Myddrin cuffed him, his mood seemed lighter. Artgwyr always had that affect on him.
“So that made you half a man, what about the rest?”
“I killed a Sais in a raid, we knew they were coming so we planned an ambush.”
“We planned an ambush. What Dour Ector, and his dullard son Cei, planned something other than dinner, hah!”
“I planned it, and Ector is not dour. He is a plain simple spoken man, and neither is Cai a dullarrd. Yes he does most of his thinking with a fist. They have always been there for me, protecting me, supporting my right to be heard. So leave them be old man!”
Myddrin took Artgwyrs head in his hands and kissed the Boy on his forehead.
“And that boy, is why the people will love you!”
Artgwyr wondered if his uncles brain had gone.
“So boy, apart from the mighty Cei, and redoubted Ector, who is with you?”
“Well most of the north is against us, Lot in northumbria, Uriens in Powys. Most of the lords with me are younger men just come to their power. All the important lords are against me.”
“ Of course, the young lords want a young high king to follow, the old Lords want to make themselves high king. Each chief, each lord each king, captain, and lowly saergent is getting ready. They know there will be coin, women, ale, and glory to be had Along with all the death and vilonce, so beloved of our people.”
“While the Saisons watch us fight among ourselves, and wait patiently, for a good time to strike.”
“Hah! Any Briton could eat 4,000 Anglish! There will be time enough to deal with the Anglish and the Sais.”
“I need the northern lords. we must be united as a people, as a nation. They think I’m a boy untried in war. Most of the older lords who support me think the same.”
“We know different don’t we boy.”
”Lot is the key. He leads them in council, and in war, yet his force is mere token. He has left most of his forces gaurding the north, against the Picts. Without Lot’s troops, the Picti would be over the borders, so Lot does us all a service keeping them at bay, but mainly himself and his fellow northern lords.”
“Yes Lot is a fox. So hwo will you snare him?”
“I’m going to take us around Lot and the northern army. Push on to Lot’s Kingdom with all our horse. We’ll take Lot’s defenders by surprise,”
“And then what will you do? With the Picts watching from one side, and Lot at the head of all the northern warrior, marching home to fight for his kingdom.”
“Simple, I’ll tell him he can have his kingdom back, if he swears fealty and bows before me as high king.”
“And if he refuses?”
“Then I will execute his men. Burn his fortress, and abanden his kingdom to the mercy of the Picts, take the army west, into his neighbour Uriens lands. When he realises he can’t fight me and the Picts, and keep his army fed. Then I’ll take his surrender.”
“But you know it won’t come to that don’t you.”
“Yes. I think Lot risks little for much in his present adventure, when he stands to lose his kingdom, I see him being much more cautious in his decsions.”
“Well then boy, you know your game.”
“I had a good teacher.”
“Then It is time to make you a king.”
“More of your magic Uncle?”
“Stagecraft boy, just politics and stagecraft.”
Myddrin pulled his rags off, and threw them onto the fire. Then with some dignity, walked into the cold lake to bathe.
He returned moments later, blue, shivering, and swearing profusely, but clean. He opened the chest that he had sat on, pulled out a brilliant white purple lined toga. He threw the roman robes over his shoulders, let them fall around his old frame. He slipped ankle length roman sandals onto his feet, knotted his already wet hair behind him, and placed on his head a crown of holly, and missilletoe.
When Artgwyr came out of the lake, Myrddin tended the future king.
Chanting, reciting Artgwyr’s lineage, telling stories of the old gods and the old heroes, he anointed Artgwyr in oil, as if he were an eastern emperor. Then he readied his king for war.
First a woolen tunic and trews, died a lush red. Black, soft leather riding boots, and then a black, hardened leather curiass and plaited kilt, again in the roman style. Last dark roman mail. So rare a treasure, that Artgwyr did not belive it could be his, even as Merlin dropped it over his shoulders.
The weight of it felt good on his shoulders, better when Mydrrin tightened belt and baldric on him.
He gave him a large round shield, leather bound oak, with a bronze boss, and thin bronze edging, that even in the greyness of the winter day was bright and well matched the dark red dye of the shields leather. It was better than anything Art had ever shouldered before.
Finally the old man drew from the chest a helmet, it was of a superb level of craftmenship. Artgywr had never seen such work. It was polished steel, conical with a mail neck, hanging cheek guards, a leather tie to secure it under the chin,.and an astonishing facemask. It was a warriors face, a fierce yet noble visage.
Wrapped around it was a thin golden band, a war crown, wrought of the good Welsh gold, beloved of the Romans.
Best of all was the Dragon perched on the crest of the helm. Small but perfect, he could even see its fangs, there in its open angry maw.
Artgwyr sighed.
Solemnly Myddrin crowned Artgwyr, warrior king of the Britons.
“Come with me to the lakeside, bring your sword.” There was revereance and command in the old mage’s voice.
Artgwyr took up his sword, and followed Mydrrin to the lake’s edge. Myddrin murmed an incantation to Sulla. Without being asked, Artgwyr knew exactly when to hand his weapon over.
Myddrin held the Sword in the flat of his two hands, spoke over it, lifted it to his lips kissed the blade, sank to his haunches, and let it slip silently into the water.
Still chanting the old man reached into the murky water and with some effort and great will dragged from the lake, a thin long stone.
Artgwyr couldn’t help noticing, that the stone was almost the perfect size for a sword. He crowded close to his uncle, excited despite his sense of occasion.
Myddrin, felt round the miniture sarcophagus, until he found the place he was looking for, and with a suprisingly little effort, the lid came off.
Artgwyr marvelled at it. It was just like the Roman stone coffins he had seen. Hard granite stone, lead lined, with groves on the base and nodules on the lid so that the join was tight.
Inside wrapped in damp, milldewy raggs, a shape that could only be a sword. Artgwyr was silent and still, as if in a trance. He dared not move, he dared not speak.
He knew he did not posses the sight as his uncle Myddrin did, but they shared the same blood, maybe it was that ,maybe it was the mood Myddrin’s solem rituals had created, but Artgwyr sensed this sword come from stone and lake, held his destine, as firmly as he would hold the sword.
Myddrin, lifted it from its coffin, and unwrapped the weapon from its ragged funeral shroud.
It looked plain. A brown leather sheath, no decoration, no kingly flouishes. Protruding from the sheath, a perfectly ordinary, dull metal pommel, and a leather bound hilt. It seemed to Artgwyr, a sword such as any captain might own, little better than the one he had just sent to the Goddess.
Myddrin holding the sheath two handed, went down on one knee, and head bowed offered the handle to Artgwyr.
Artgwyr reached for the hilt, that the prostrate Myddrin held before him. His arm felt leaden, his hand grew slick with sweat, and his mouth dried. He paused before his hand touched it, he half expected it to bite his outstretched fingers. He felt a dread wash over him, and knew that once he drew this waepon, it was a turning point.
His hand glided over the cold, oval metal pommel, and his fingers, wrapped round the hilt. He felt nothing, no jolt, no bite and was almost dissapointed.
There was a rightness about the feel of it in his hand, yet still the dread. He didn’t have to take it, he reasoned with himself. After all Myddrin offered it to him, he did not bid him take it, he did not command it.
Artgwyr felt sickened, weak bodied, aware of the sweat forming under the rim of his new helm. He loosened his grip on the handle.
He imagined himself telling the gathered lords, that Lot had the right of it, he was after all only a ******* boy. Let one of the older, wiser lords rule. He was young, soon it would be summer, and he could ride into the summer country, then beyond to Kernow, where his mothers people lived. Maybe he would marry, find a plump farm girl, settle grow crops and sire children, season after season. Live a life in peace.
No. His mind snapped back into focus. There was no peace in this land.
He tightened his grip and drew the Sword. The blade flew from the scabbared. Fast and smooth, fluid and graceful.
Joy surged through his body. He was alive with power. It felt like living fire ran with his blood. The blade sang in his mind, in his soul. A song of the Gods, heady and overpowering.
Artgwyr lifted the blade skyward, and the golden sunlight broke though the cloud, and spilt from the edges of the blade, an impossible cascade of light. As if the shinning one himself, Llew the sun God, had blessed the sword with his kiss.
“It is mine.” Artgwyr spoke dreamlike, his uttereance both question and affirmation.
“Yes.” Said Myddrin rising to his feet his eyes wide, “the sword and the land.”
“She is beautiful Myddrin.”
“She is a Goddess among swords boy. Her name is Caledvwlch.”
“Hard Lightening.” Artgwyr mouthed the swords name reverently, then he laughed with the pure joy of it.
“Yes Caledvwch, hard lighting. She is the sword of kings and emperors, but more important, she is the sword of this land.”
Artgwyer took the sheath that Myddrin offered, hung it on his belt, and slid Caledvwch home.
The gloom returned, as if Llew had but dreamed that summer was here.
Though he no longer felt the surge and joy of her, something of Caledvwlch power lingered within him.
He Looked at Myddrin, who smiled his secret smile at the boy, then the smile was at gone, the uncle vanquished the kings sorcerer returned.
“I Myddrin pledge myself to you, Artgwyr king of Briton. Henceforth you are my master, my liege, you command me my Lord.”
He took Artgwyr’s hand and kissed it keeping his head bowed before the youth.
“Then rise and servre me. Lead me to my lords, and announce me as their king.”
“As you command sire.” Myddrin turned and headed towards the woods.
“Wait will you not ask a boon of your new King?”
Myddrin turned on Artgwyr with a dread smile, and an evil look in his eyes.
“Do you not know lord king, how dangerous it is to offer a gift of a boon to a wizard born?”
For a moment Artgwyr felt unsure , then caught the sparkle in Myddrins eye.
“Gracious king I command as favour from you, that you will raise up my friend as chief amongst your knights.”
“What friend?”
Myddrin’s laugh echoed across the lake. He pointed at pig, who looked to his master.
“The beast shall be your first knight, Peryv-Twrch, Lord Pig.”
Pig seemed to know this name and came running.
“Uncle, it shall be as you say.” Said Art laughing.
The waiting men had watched the unimposing youth, trot his cob into the woods, then had swiftly, seperated into two factions.
Between them stood Cei, and his father Ector.
Soon the two factions fell to arguing, shouting across at each other, with Cei refereing the truculent youths, and his father managing the surly elders.
Cei was glad of his fathers cool head, and wise words. Left to him, every time he heard the words ‘*******’ and ‘boy’ he would have roared across and drove his fist into whoever’s lips had spoken the insults. Be they lord or king.
The two groups where in the middle of a particularly heated exchange, when the clouds lifted, and sun splashed across the field, bathing them in light. A hush descend upon the company.
“Look” Cei pointed towards the forest.
There on his own, stood a tiny piglet. He dropped his head, as if to charge the warriors. The men all looked on this was strange indeed, perhaps a portent, a sign.
The little wild boar seemed to change his mind, he turned and wandered back into the forest. He was lost from sight for just a second, then from where he had dissapered, Myddrin strode from the trees, tall stiff backed and grim faced, his white robes shinning in the sunlight.
The men became hushed and fearful, some made the sign against evil. Myddrin’s name, went from mouth to mouth, in a rustling murmur.
“Men of Briton.” Myddrin hissed the words at them. “Men of Briton, we fight like dogs over offal, while the Saison steal our land from us, farm by farm.”
The company looked about them, nodded at the sense of the old druids words. Many said ‘aye he’s right’ others merely said ‘aye’.
“No more, for now we have a leader to unite us. A high king to rule us. A warlord to lead us!” His voice had risen, and he cast it well.
The men roused to his speech, welcomed his counsel, were eager for his final testament.
“Behold!” Shouted Myddrin.
From the tree-line Artgwyr burst. Siting high in the saddle, his black pony easing into a run. He pulled hard on Llamrei’s reins, and the well trained, feisty little, welsh cob, rose to his hind legs, whinneyed, and kicked out with his forelegs.
At the same instant, Artgwyr drew Caledvwlch, and held his singing, shining blade aloft.
The awestruck men fell to theie knees.
“Behold men of Briton. Artgwyr ap Uther, the lord of war, the Pendragon!”
With Myddrins last cry Artgwyr sword still held high, pushed Llamrei into a gallop across the field, along the line of men.
As one the Britons began to chant.
“Pendragon! Pendragon! Pendragon!”
Only Myddrin noticed pig wonder out from the forest, snuffling and farting. The old man threw back his head and laughed.
