The Heirs of Britain - Game Twenty Four

The Heirs of Britain

Session 24: 487, She Sells Sea Shells

_____ Session 24: The Walking Wounded _____

Sir Uhtred bangs, just twice, on the heavy door; the hilt of his heirloom axe casts a resounding echo through the hall. Within, a figure stirs in the dark. It reeks of old sweat, food, and alcohol; a tinge of infection adds a repulsive colour.

“…Hwuuh? Whoe’sit?”

The massive Berroc grunts, and shoulders open the door with little worry.

“What’r.. the…. The’fuc?” a mumble from within; a clumsy hand thrust upward, shielding bloodstained eyes from new light.

Uthred stomps forth, and in three strides is upon him; he shakes firmly, a thick hand on tired shoulder: “Up”, he orders.

“Get offaa mee… ugh…”

“UP. Were thee so incapable when Iwan was thy squire? Up, I say!”

“Wh.. Iwan? Iwan’s dead.. ey!” he mumbles painfully, Uthred wrenching him once more, “E’s dead! Dead!”

The figure throws an arm out weakly, slapping feebly at the huge man.

“Yes. Iwan is dead,” Uhtred rumbles, “and his will I have inherited. It would be his wishes, I figure, to keep thee alive, Sir Myles. Up.”

The shaking is unreleting, Myles’ pained whines and groans accentuate each jerk. Eventually, his eyes peel open, stuck tightly at the corners. They squint, the dull light burning like the summer sun.

“Who’re you!? I’ll…. I’ll..” he lurches for a sword, leaning limply too far away; his weak arm slapping the floor clumsily.

“You ainn’t half an Iwan, you’r …” he slurs.

“No,” the younger man interrupts, “I am not. I was his squire.”

“No y’self!” with a drunken spit; “Iwan’as my squire”

Uhtred rumbles forth his frustration, his disgust: “A KNIGHT!” he roars, “He was a Knight. For many years. Or do you not remember that much?”

“A good knight!” Myles extends, eyes broader, more focused, looking his attacker up and down.

“Waiyt… Yer.. that Saxon fella, huh? Yeah yea… nevr unnerstood why e’ kep a Saxon around….. why’r you ‘ere, eh? Wh…. Wait. Your name is. Waiwaiyt. No no no, I know thee…”

“Yes” Uhtred sighs, “we’ve met several times.”

“Don’t tell me.. no no.. no.. hmuuu……Uhtred! Uhtred, yeah. Lo, standeth Uhtrred. I know thee. Wh’re you ere?”

“Check on you. Iwan’s behalf.”

Uhtred casts his eye around the room; empty bottles, tankards, scattered plates, old food, dark stains: “Should’ve done it more, and sooner.”

Myles groans again, “Iwan sent ye? Are thee… speaking with him? You ‘ear ‘is voice?”

“No,” Uhtred grunts, “but he would’ve wanted this. Well. Not this.”

Myles sinks disappointed into his chair; he reaches for an empty tankard, shakes it, sighs, and tosses it limply.

“Iwan needn’ worry ‘bout that. Nor thee, knight. I’m alive. I ‘ave my sword. Iss Winter, I don’ ‘ave to fight for... Well. God knows ‘ow long. Leave me be.”

Uhtred walks slowly around the room, bothering not to put things in their proper place; simply walking, looking.

“Tell me the truth, Sir Myles. How badly were ye beaten?”

“’E put me in the dirt; what can I say? I’m not fit to be a knight.”

A pause. Myles kicks out his leg, rips up a trouser leg, and reveals a long, ragged scar up the calf, across the shin. Uhtred watches quietly.

“’E carved me up, Uhtrd. I’m surpraasisd th… well… God ‘ad mercy, to let me keep walkin’. But I’m not th’same’s I was.”

“His name?” the giant asks simply.

“No idea. I din’t evn see him. I did chargeth forth, lance seeking Sir Blains, the coward. Next thing I beheld, I was out of mine saddle, one foot caught in the harness, dragged and damn near stomped by mine own steed” he spits, coughing.

“I knowtth not” he continues, “someone managed to pull it back, turn it ‘round, I dunno. Woke up in some bed; cramped dark hall. And my leg was cockentrice.”

“I understand” Uhtred nods, “You fought a man straight, in single combat, and this craven struck thee from aside.”

A pause.

“Spose that be’eth one take of it.” He shrugs.
“But we were all armed; I should’ve seen him. I dunno.”

“Live and learn, Sir Myles. Thou ought only do better with thy next chance.”

Myles looks into the fire a short moment; “... next chance?”

“Thou art not dead. Myles.”

“No. Wish’I was, some days; but I see thou speaketh true” comes Myle’s quieter reply.

“Blains doth live still; and his champion too. Hence: we have people to kill. Up.”

Myles sighs, coughs, and braces himself. With a grunt and a lurch, he thrusts from his chair, stumbling, wincing, and, bracing once more on Uthred’s arm, tumbles into a second chair.

“Fucking… FUCK. Might as well be maimed!”

Uhtred regards him for a moment: “Seems you are.”

“No no no… it just… jus hurts. Fucking hurts. Fuck.”

Myles exhales deeply, sets his jaw, and pushes himself back to his feet, favouring one side. He stabilises awkwardly, and stands tall; a small triumph, with a small wince.

“Gimme my sword, where the fuck is it, fucking…”

Uhtred retrieves and delivers it.

Myles nods, holding his eye a moment and, using the sword as a cane, limps past the fire to another door; “Get th’fuck outta here” he says to someone unseen within; he is gone a moment, and returns with a cup, and a jug of ale.

Uhtred stays the man’s hand, mid pour.

“The fuck’s yer problem, Saxon?”

“I will let thee drink, in a moment. But promise me a thing, Sir Myles. I will return on the morrow. And ye will be sober. And I will train with ye, and be thy company. And one day we will slay Blains, and his Champion, together.”

“Why!? Why not jus’ leave me ‘ere, and YOU go off an’ do it? Why waste the time training with… with…. Ugh!” He scoffs, gesturing to his leg.

“My bes’ fighting days are over, Uthred,” he sighs, collapsing into his chair.

“A warrior doth deserve to die in combat. Thou wert my master’s master, in his own time. And he would want for thee to meet God in glory, not shame. And he would wish not to see thee like this.”

Myles looks at him, and then looks away, and down. He fills his tankard, drinks, wipes his mouth, and thinks:

“Visit if thee wish it, Uthred. But I cannot promise thee what state I will be in.”

He fills another cup and passes it to the huge man. It is taken in a large fist, with a resigned sigh.

…

Returning the next day, Sir Myles is in a slightly better state. Sleepy, and a little of cups, but up. After some effort, The drunken, wounded warrior  is urged to some small practice. It is little, and unimpressive; one wonders how much of his incompetence is injury, drink, or heart. But it is a start.

Weeks pass. And a day doth come when Sir Uhtred arrives, and Sir Myles is not drunk.

 

They train, and more weeks pass.

Myles’ progress is not even, and there are as many peaks as troughs, but it is steady. Myles’ leg, it seems, is mangled more in mind than body. He moves a little shy on the back foot, and in part unsteady, but serviceable. He will recover, and he will fight.

__________ Family Matters __________

Sir Vandar is married to the beautiful Lady Elaine; she has given birth to a healthy baby girl: Elinia. The two, deeply in love, are known widely for their public adoration and joy.

Guests arrive in the Winter; travellers displaced by war. A Cymric man, his roman wife, their children, and nephew. They are not particularly wealthy; recently unlanded nobility of good stock. They have come, for they heard of the handsome Aquitanian’s defeat of the barbaric Chief Basa. Their own lands were taken by that barbaric warlord, their knightly brother butchered, his knightly colours added to Basa’s patchwork banner - the banner that now hangs in Vandar’s hall, a symbol of Cymric unity and resilience. This family offers for Sir Vandar to squire their nephew, who is of age for such service. He has gear and supplies, and is trained well. Moreover, if he is taken into service, they'll send the money needed to keep him. The boy is quiet, but seems a good enough sort. Vandar accepts, and offers the family hospitality for as long as they need.

Soon thereafter Vandar visits Sir Vandagild's family and manor at Winterbourne. Things are well - sturdy walls kept have kept the family safe from raids, and a good harvest blessed the lands. Vandagild’s brother, Sir Vandimund, keeps the land safe, while a skilled steward manages the villages. Father Perticus makes regular visits to the children. The eldest twins, Vandric and Vandemir, are approaching paging age; a small relief, as the steward and midwives have a hard time taking care of them energetic swarm.

The youngest do not really understand what has happened; but the absence of Sir Vandagild is being felt. Vandar is honest about the situation - he knows not if Vandagild is dead, but believes he has been called on a quest by God.

“Uncle,” begins little Vandric, “my friend Egil said that if papa never comes back then I get to run the house, and I will be in charge, and the stinky steward has to do what I say!”

“The steward is regent, and you will do is he says,” comes the stern reply.

As the weeks pass, Vandar visits regularly. He trains with the boys, and his own family stay for weeks at a time. He builds the steward’s authority, hoping to keep some stability in the troubled family…

__________ Secrets of Sarum __________

The weight of the Royal court is notably absent, but the city has not yet recovered. The vast fields that housed the Kingdom are now unused, but unrecovered – weeds sprout and seed, and fields of mud remain throughout the well-churned earth. The outer buildings of Sarum, damaged by the wayward energy of the youth and the bored, remain trashed or in disrepair; things are worn out. It will be some time before the lands, granaries, and coffers heal.

Around the court, bubbly murmurs speak to the excitement of a rumoured campaign to the continent! The hopeful speak, with greedy eyes, of the riches that abound there - they have castles filled to the ceiling with gold!

“I heard the Frankish King is so wealthy that his SHIP is wrought of golden planks!”

Many knights are excited by the prospect. After the crippling economic siege of recent years, and the ruthless raiding of the wretched Sir Blains of Levcomagus, it is not just the young and gullible that take stock in such rumours. Many a noble is keen to recover their lost cash.

In the whispering circles and quieter cliques, darker things come in smaller words. Lady Eliri's death is still blamed on Sir Statirius by Sir Hywell, her grieving father, who now has no direct heir. The question of his inheritence is now unanswered, and many schemes emerge. The unscrupulous seek to exploit this chaos.

Some say that Hywell may simply give his wealth and land away, divesting himself of the weight of responsibility among the terrible waves of grief. If so: he is a knight of Sir Roderick, and thus the holdings may revert to the Earl’s control. But did not Sir Hywell have more distant family? Or do the lands turn to the King Uther himself? But yet, the blackest voices wonder aloud if there is not some plot or agreement for the wily widower Sir Statirius, which might set him to inherit, even after the loss of his former wife, Lady Eliri...

Sir Uhtred spends his Spring finding, and conversing, with the knights that support Sir Hywell. He eagerly hears, and shares their words, and it is soon clear to all interested that he has taken a side. Sir Hywell himself has ten knights under his banner, who each support his accusation of Statirius. Sir Rhodri, in particular, stands out: an older knight, he is well-respected, but not wealthy, and terminally unlucky. Sir Uvan, former squire and brother-in-law of Sir Vandagild, is a passionate supporter of the aging Hywell. Uhtred, well acquainted with the young man, speaks at length with him.

Uvan is frank about matters: he simply takes Sir Hywell at his word. Statirius has clearly done something awful, and is making some kind of play at Hywell’s wealth and power. The few times he's witnessed Statirius hismelf, he thought him a suspicious character, and likely up to no good. Statirius, he thinks, is a little too clean, at times, a little too slick. For a hunter like Uvan, he stinks.

For his part, Sir Vandar worries not for such intrigues. He inquires about the Frankish campaign, for he is eager to such treasures as might repair and grow his new lands. Alas, in the excitement he can only discover that someone from Logres will lead a fleet to fight there. Apparently, King Uther promised the Roman Praetor Siagrius that he would lend his army, to aid the Roman recapture of Frankland. With their minds set on gold and glory, Sirs Vandar and Uhtred volunteer. Of course, they are not the only to do so. Indeed, most knights are keen, including the brightest knights of Salisbury, who did help Merlin acquire the King’s fabulous sword: Sir Edar, Sir Garnoc, and Sir Aeren.

__________ Easter Feast __________

At Sarum, the Easter fare is nourishing but modest. All know why, after the King’s choking siege; None are insulted. As servants deploy the first humble courses, Earl Roderick calls the court’s attention.

“I have heard great interest for the Frankish campaign. My knights, I tell thee: wouldst I like nought more than for each of thee to fight whither, and fill thy coffers with riches. God doth know that Salisbury has need for such gold as she can fairly get, for we have suffered… unfortunate circumstances.

“Alas: This campaign will not require all hands. Prince Madoc himself will lead the army, and he hath made his will clear: T’will be but a half-muster, for he will have not the ships for greater. Despite the keen and welcome interest for such an expedition, he simply cannot accommodate all of thy bold and eager hearts. These are the wishes of the King and the Prince.”

Sir Vandar glances at the High Table, and there spies the uncommon absence of the Prince in question…

“Thus, and however, there will be a certain force number of men who will accompany Sir Elad thither. As my marshal, and representative on the campaign, Elad will be spots for those of ye who might demonstrate, or have already proven, their loyalty to himself, and Salisbury at large,” he concludes, nodding at the stalwart, greying man across the table.

This sets the room to murmur, but a raised hand quickly ends the erupting conversation.

Alas, throughout the feast all talk is now so drawn: Who will be chosen for the riches? There are few words that do not soon lead to Frankish Gold.

…

Sir Uhtred does not like his chances of being picked; he is a new knight, with as yet few chances to prove his loyalty. Some well-known knights will simply be chosen, of course. But what soon becomes clear, by subtext and intrigue, is that the available positions are being sold - knights can pay upfront, or promise some portion of their gains to the Earl, for the chance to fight. In veiled words, the going rate is dispersed down the tables: The earl asks fifty percent of each knight’s portion. Sir Uhtred, fighting more for glory than gold, quickly accepts the deal. He bullies his way forth to inform Sir Elad, and is soon announced as a warrior of the campaign.

Sir Vandar, who owes loyalty to both King Uther and Baron Duach, has higher hopes for his own initial chances. In his recent duel he vanquished the powerful Royal Constable, Sir Elizier, and thus hopes he sits freshly in King’s mind: indeed, Elizier's still-healing scar may remind the King of Sir Vandar's prowess. However, the handsome knight first approaches Baron Duach, to whom he first swore and has loyally followed, to request his chance to fight.

Baron Duach, in his way, is blunt: he will not be attending the campaign. Sir Duach hath been curiously exempted from many of Uther's campaigns, and seemingly this is one of them.

“That said”, the Baron continues, “you are a good man, Sir Vandar. If you would fight, I will speak with the Earl Roderick. My word carries weight, and I could have you ride with him, in his unit. This, I would do for you.”

Thus, the favour is asked and given; the Baron speaks well. Vandar’s position is conditionally accepted: Duach’s share of the gains will go instead to Sir Roderick.

Sir Vandar is troubled, and questions if the price is too steep; he wishes not to take advantage:

“Sir Vandar” Duach smiles, “Blessed am I by our great God; I am a fortunate man. I need not for thy treasures. Go. Fight. Give thy dues to the good Earl, as he does demand and deserve; I ask only in return for thy continued loyalty.”

Vandar is gracious in his thanks, and leave the table with an eager grin.

__________ A Tale of Two Tales __________

Before departing, Sir Vandar spends time with his and Vandagild's families, telling them tales of the treasures and glory he will return with. Mustering at Hantonne, Prince Madoc is thither found. speaking with several admirals. As the days pass, more men arrive, each keen. Men boast of their past and future exploits; others pray to their Gods; others drink, game, or wait in peace.

The army is assembled, and yet days pass in stillness. The ships roll idle in the ports; days pass, and the ships sail not. And more days pass. And idle men itch, and grumble, and do not sail.

Word trickles from Sir Elad: we wait for the right tide, and wind, to cross the channel. This will take as long as God deems fit. This time will not count for each knight’s service. Finally, to further caution to the dissenters, he adds sharply: One cannot rush God.

Thus, and hence: Waiting continues; the tides and winds, or God, apparently cruel or elusive. Fully half of the mighty army of Logres is here; half the King’s Horses and half the King’s Men, and yet all are waiting on the weather again.

And there is much time spent waiting around.

While they wait, Sir Vandar tells stories of the continent and faeries. Spake he a tale, learned when he was young, of Undead Kings who roam the Frankish wilderness. These ancient Kings, be they Gaul, Frank and Aquitanian, are doomed each to hunt, forever unto eternity. Each king roams widely in the forests and mountains, and this prey they hunt is whomsoever they find – man, woman, man or monster.

One of these Kings, a Vandal conqueror, is King Elerix, whose armies sacked Rome. These dastardly kings each hunt with a loyal hound of Hell, flaming monsters from an evil place.

A tale of terror and caution, Sir Vandar, whose deep voice is melodious and pleasant, turns to darkness and despair, and thus tells it well. His charming accent giving a continental weight to his fearsome, rumbling tones; his strange, silver eyes twinkling in the firelight. Men from other counties come to listen, enjoying the frightful tales. Uthred sits nearby, somewhat awed; not by the tale, for he believes not such things, but for the man’s skill in the telling. He notes well the tricks, hoping to glean some skill of tale-telling from his Aquitanian peer.

Sir Vandar is asked, again and again, to retell it. But on one occasion, after many days, people leave mid-tale, for another is being told, of some greater thing…

… 

Hence: A different campfire, a different tale: Three men, who slew a giant, claimed a blade from a lake, and gave it to the King:

“…thus we defeated the Nukalayvee, and with that final stroke against the strange water beast, it did vanished into the ground, just as does the gentle rain. Yet: As we sheathed our dampened blades, and returned unto the Arch-Druid Merlin, we found him in a ship, nay, a rowing vessel; paddling calmly to the centre of the misty lake. And lo: it was there that he did stop, Merlin; and he stood in the boat, clad in his robe and the awe of his power and station. Magic radiated from him; friends, I can only tell you of the feeling, for it is indescribable to mortal tongues.

“From the pristine waters, rose a hand; I tell you no lie! Gentle and delicate, wet and elegant, this beautiful thing – no doubt the maiden that bore it was the finest of things; there is no doubt! And in that hand; clutched softly but surely we did spy it: The Sword of Victory! Yea, that same blade, wielded by King Uther, God defend him. Which will lead us, men of Logres, men of Britain, to Glory!

“O! Friends; If only ye were there, to see it; wouldst ye truly know. I think it that we were touched by God that day; I do. And I think I do speak true, for the each three of us, and our fallen companion, when I say that truly our King, too, was Chosen by God.”

The tale concludes to great cheer, and the teller, none other than the slickly spoken Sir Aeren, is drowned in questions of Merlin and Monster.

…

Yet it is, Sir Garnoc, of similar size to Vandar, who responds to the bombardment:

“He is remarkable, Merlin; I know not the limit of his power. We did not touch the sword, of course; it is not for such men as we. But we first beheld its beauty; and in that lake it shone brighter than any mundane thing.”

Sir Vandar’s strong voice cuts through the murmurs:

“And who, praytell, is the brave knight that fell, beside thee? Is he honoured by God, as ye claim thou art?”

There is a brief silence; and the third knight, Sir Edar, answers:

“Yea, Sir. It was uh.. a brave knight. Indeed. His uh... His name was Sir Cai. He was a skilled fighter but... well.. he is in God's hands now.”

He raises his drink; “and May he find warmth wherever he lay now.”

“To Sir Cai, and yeah, to all our fallen companions,” Vandar adds, raising his own chalice, “like those slain by Chief Bassa; that wretched warlord who slew… so, so many of our colleagues and kin, and whose banner now hangs in my hall!”

Many eyes turn to Sir Vandar, at the mention of Chief Bassa – his cruelty has touched many, and the powerful stories have brought emotions to surface.

“To our fallen kin!” the cheer arises!

“Tell us Vandar! Tell us how he fell! Tell us how you slew that dog, and spare no detail!”

And so, he does. With fire in his heart, the silver of his eyes takes fully to his tongue: The story is told to perfection; men are in tears, with the thought of their slaughtered kin. And hence, when Vandar tells of the felling blow, and the flinging of Basa’s head to Prince Madoc, the unknowable pain of familial grief roars forth in the mens’ cries of victory! Sobbing men embrace one another, and Vandar, who is showered in thanks and glory for his felling of that great enemy, and his moving account of the tale.

 

Men line up to ask if their, or their family’s, heraldry is on the banner.

“You’ll come, good Sir, when we return! You will see the banner for yourself, and we will share in fine Aquitanian wine, and yea: we will cry for thy dear kin! And too, will thou see, that I am the most blessed of men: for my Elaine is the finest Lady in all the land! And thanks to God!” Vandar smiles.

Sir Aeren, for his part, is upset; arms folded petulantly, he dismisses the story. Offhand comments, vile in their intent but feeble in execution, spill forth to unwelcome ears.

“Yes, come to visit Salisbury!” Aeren interjects; “and… and! While in Salisbury, why don't ye come to Devizes, to Sir Edar's fine castle, to see the head of a giant! Didst thou know that eating the marrow from its bones grants thee a giant's strength!?”

“Sir Edar,” he continues, “do not thoust think it would be a display of, of… great Christian hospitality, to let these fine knights drink of this giant's bone?”

Sir Edar, mid drink, lowers his cup, and looks at the man with veiled confusion;

“Ahhh.. Ahh! Y.. yea! Yea, friends… Come and uhh.. feast, drink of the giant's skull!”

“Ha!” Vandar laughs, “The strength of a giant, is it? Incredible! What an ally God has granted us. Surely a demonstration, good Sir? Please, I beg of thee! Here then” he stands, whispers to his squire, and continues, “lift my horse, ye great man! My good squire brings it hence!”

Sir Aeron, normally a beacon of confidence, is flat-footed. Vandar, keen eyed, smiles at the hiccup.

“Ahh.. yes!” the former slaps the imposing Sir Garnoc – “Sir Garnoc, thou hath drank of the skull, yea? Heartily, I do recall? Tell them it is so! Surely, thou canst lift more than any of us! Why don't you show us?

Garnoc slowly lowers his own drink; his own confusion is obvious:
“Uh.. sure? What errr... what wouldst thou have me lift?”

“Well! Mine squire, good lad as is he,” Vandar stands, “is a tardy fellow, so… Well now; each of us hath heard tale of how Giants fight whole with trees? It is true, how they wield them like great clubs, to crush strong men whole in their armour. If such strength haveth thee, Garnoc Skulldrinker, why dost thou not pluck yon beech from the earth? It is but a small one…” he calls, gesturing to a nearby tree.

Sir Aeron cannot keep the anxiety from his face:

“Ha ha ha… well... now, Sir Garnoc is not yet a proper giant, Sir Vandar, ha ha… He has only been drinking a short while now! But… but, yes! He… I’m sure he could… The skull does give great power…”

Garnoc shrugs and stands, locking eyes at even high with Sir Vandar, each towering above most normal men.

“I’ll give it my best effort.”

“That’s all any of us can ask, good Sir” comes Vandar’s cheery reply.

And he turns, to see beside him the bearded chin of massive Sir Uhtred, with his Saxon blood, who has the greater of them both. Up, and up, he looks, nodding in respectful recognition of his bigness.

Hence, mighty Sir Garnoc approaches the designated bole; he squats deeply, claps his hands in the dusty earth, and wraps his long arms around the beech, wrapping half the trunk. He plants his feet, and pulls straight up, groaning and roaring, but the enormous trunk does not budge. He steps back, takes a breath, and tries again; with the second effort he rocks the great tree but a little; tiny cracks mark the dirt as the canopy sways, everything in his body tense and shaking... He roars, hefting with all the might at his command… but the tree does not budge!

Breathing heavily, he steps back.

“Well. It doth seem I have not yet quite all the strength of a giant. But lo, I did shake it, and one day I shall the strength!”

“Indeed!” Vandars mirthful reply, “Keep drinking! Keep drinking, Sir Garnoc.

“And well,” he continues, shrugging, dusting his own hands in the dirt, “perhaps the slaying of Mighty Chief Bassa has imbued me with some strength, by Grace of God, if He values such virtues. What harm is there in wondering such things…” he waves on the crowds encouragement as he now approaches the tree himself.

With similar grunts, and shaking, and heaving, Sir Vandar makes his attempt; and the cracks do widen, and leaves do fall as the tree is rattle and wrenched… and though his showing is the greater, he too, cannot shift the sturdy beech!

“Ahh well. Perhaps we are only human, after all, hm?” Vandar huffs.

But eyes are not on him, for Sir Uhtred, the largest of men, quietly strides past him. With no word, nor fanfare, nor huff, he wraps his arms around the bole and heaves… and heaves… and heaves! And the tree lurches, and takes an angle, as earth bursts around the roots…. But it does not, alas, come loose!

The groan of the crowd as he releases it is a cheerful one; not many believed it possible, and Uhtred’s effort was more than any had hoped. Men bring new chalices to Vandar and Uhtred, clapping the larger on the shoulder for his relative victory, and once more thanking Vandar for his stirring recitation. The handsome Aquitanian thanks them all, and the fire of competition goes out in all men. Vandar feels the victor of the eve, having struck many hearts, and defused the upstart Sir Aeren’s adventurous tale.

...

The next morning, at very long last, the fleet is loaded properly, and the muster of Logres sets sail for the continent. Soon the salty spray of the winds and waters bathes the knight's faces, as they sail south for war, and adventure… 

_____

King Arthur Pendragon 5.2

Art is all AI. Sorry, I know. I can't write all this and do the pictures.

 

 

 

The Heirs of Britain - Game Twenty Three - Part Two

 

The Heirs of Britain

Session 23 Part 2: 487, The Best Defence…

_____ Session 23 Part Two: The Realm Refocused _____

Elated by the slaughter of Sir Trillo, his allegedly treacherous vassal, King Uther immediately sets about pursuing more blood. Though the Saxon spy is seemingly dead, slain by his own hand, he bids his son, Prince Madoc, to lead an attack on the barbarous invaders. The Prince will lead a small force on ships, south and east around the coast of Britain: He is to seek the Saxon boats, burn as many as he can, and kill those who try to stop him.

There is no room for steeds, but there ought be no need for them: The Cymric force is to move swiftly, striking unexpectedly, and face little resistance. The goal is not to slaughter Saxons, per se, though there is much joy in such a thing; the goal is to destroy ships. The Wolves of Logres volunteer; Sir Elvorix, Sir Uhtred, and Sir Vandar in the stead of his maddened cousin Vandagild.

In late summer, the mustered forces arrive at Hanton, in the south. A hundred knights gather: Not a great force of nobles, but bolstered with soldiers, rowers, and men-at-arms. Boarding with little trouble, the raiding force sails east, along the southern British coast.

As they sail, the three men talk of their lost friend and cousin, fled in mindless passion into the woods of Salisbury. The wily Sir Elvorix is pragmatic – the passion of knights is well known, and virtuous; Vandagild is no exception, nor immune to such things. He is long gone, and his keen talent for woodsmanship will render him unfindable, should he wish it. Sir Vandar is worried for his cousin, but sighs in agreement with Elvorix’s insightful take. Once before, these men chased a lost man into the wilds, and the scars, of flesh or heart, are still borne by each. He will trust to God to return his family.

The massive Sir Uhtred, a Berroc man of few words, shrugs it off; he cares little for the matter. There is work to be done, and Vandagild has abandoned it. He fights with those who remain. To this, Sir Vandar grits his jaw and nods, reasserting his focus. A towering man himself, and handsome, Vandar still stands shorter than hulking Uhtred. The latter spares a sidelong glance at his companion; he holds it a moment. He chews once, and grunts, seemingly satisfied. He tosses some salted meat to his companion, and sets for the taffrail to view the sea.

The raid is undetected: Landing at Anodrida, Sussex, the vile invaders are caught off-guard. Resistance is minimal; the hundred knights butcher the few continental defenders, while lesser men of Logres set torch to the grounded Saxon ships. The Wolves of Logres fight well; Sir Uhtred wields his family’s masterwork great-axe, his companions their sword and shield. They are uninjured, and bring violent death to their shocked foe. The force swiftly reembarks, and sail onward, leaving smoke and blood behind.

Bolstered by the victory, the fleet sets off in high spirits: Thereafter the British vengeance falls upon Port Dubris, a major harbour in Sussex. The glorious Britons sail into port, leap heartily off their bows and onto the salty docks. Though the Saxon guardians are plentiful, they are unprepared. Though they scramble hastily to the fight, they match poorly the knights of Logres, who do bear the initiative and greater force. All around Dubris, ships conflagrate, and men are rent asunder. Once more, the three men fare well; their blades are well wetted when they clamber aboard once more. The aggression of the Logres assault bears ripe fruit; the Saxons have neither time nor means to respond, and the Cymric force builds on the confidence of each victory. Prince Madoc leads well; the blood of the Pendragon is truly thick in his veins! His father Uther, once the mightiest warlord of his brother High King Aurelius, has placed well his trust in the Prince.

_____ Blood and Essex _____

Essex; at the confluence of the Blackware and Colm river. On approach, a wall of Saxon ships lines the sandy beach. The men of Logres murmur: This must be, or has been, a major port of ingress for the hated Saxons; How many must they be? If we crush them here, we can cut them from their homeland and drive them into the sea!

As the sea-spray and weather thins, clearer eyes spy Saxons in full arms arrayed in good order on the shores; a coordinated defence awaits! Have they sharp scouts, sending rapid word between their ports? Has the oily smoke of previous victories given warning? There is but little time to discuss; the knights find their companions and arm, waiting only briefly in eager anticipation of the violence ashore.

Under hails of disciplined arrows, the Prince’s ships slam into the makeshift fortress of Saxon ships with a grinding crunch: As one the knights rush forth, roaring their battle cries and fury! Salty winds whip wet banners and hair alike, the armoured knights leaping forth onto the boats and boards of their enemy! The grey air is soon sprayed with blood, as the barbaric foe howl in kind, charging in their own brutish way.

Sir Elvorix is among the first aboard, rushing to do battle with a burly Saxon seaman. The man wields a great-spear, and benefits from the prepared defences of the Saxon ship-wall: He lurches forward as the Roman knight makes landfall; the long weapon strikes home in the flank of the leaping Elvorix, slipping past his shield and drawing blood through the maille. Elvorix, wounded by his hated Saxon foe, lets the fury of his rage spill forth, a ragged cry of wrath! Alas, he is still outdone by the wily foe, and suffers a second smaller wound! Desperate to regain momentum, frustrated and embarrassed by his cunning foe, Sir Elvorix fogoes his defence, rightly trusting his armour holds against the spearman's blow; the Roman cuts hard, and his lunging foe drops grunting to the ground; wounded but alive! Once more the knight of Salisbury lashes out, pressing has advantage; as the Saxon rises on a knee, Elvorix's blade meets his armoured skull, knocking the man bloody and senseless!

Sir Vandar, beside him, fights confidently, shoving aside his own foe’s long spear and chopping his blade down hard on the man's collar; the Saxon collapses to the deck, gasping, but not yet out of the fight. The tall knight, perhaps overconfident, is caught-out by his standing opponent, who slips the point of his spear into the large Aquitanian's maille to little effect. Grunting, dispassionate, Sir Vandar twists beyond the shaft of the Saxon's spear, and buries his blade to the hilt in the man; they lock eyes until the lesser man slips from life.

Uthred, huge and swollen with exalted rage for his hated foe, Hacks down on his man as he lands, dropping him to a knee, and horrifically cleaving him in twain before he can stand. A booming laugh punctuates the clash and screams of battle, as the enormous Berroc warrior laughs in the joy of slaughter! Sir Uhtred steps to open the gap in the line further, cleaving his great axe with utter rage into another warrior, holding the breach in the line with more wounding hacks!

Before long, the last organised foes fall, and the horn sounds! The enemy are defeated, the boats are burning, and the men of Logres withdraw before more Saxons can rally... 

_____ Among the Reeds… _____

Embarked once more, the knights share stories of their fights and duels, comparing feats and wounds. Talk of victorious battle justify the careful stitches of priests and companions who apply aid, and playfully denigrate their companions boasts. Alas, some Cyrmic warriors will not fight again on this campaign; others will never fight again. Nonetheless: A substantial victory has been achieved, but the task is yet incomplete. Thus they sail onward, northeast to the border between the Saxon Shore and Essex; a Saxon landing near Vigor.

This last raid is set to destroy the last major store of Germanic ships, preventing the escape of the Saxon invaders, in preparation for a crushing assault by King Uther’s knights of Logres. At long last, the invaders will be ground into the sea!

The men sail now up an inlet and river, lead boats scouting the riparian corridors for signs of the foe… Though the men are keen eyed, the Saxons have now had time to prepare: An ambush! Hidden in a tributary, concealed in rushes, a surge of reed-covered Saxon boats rushes to engage the British fleet! Along the embankments, barbarian archers slink from from the shrubs to loose waves of arrows into the knights and soldiers! The Cymric army shouts too-late warnings, sending men scrambling for arms and cover! Arrows rain into the defender’s boats, strike the two larger knights, Sirs Vandar and Uhtred, among many other; Vandar's armour holds, but a well-aimed arrow sinks into Uhtred's flesh! The offending archer jeers, sending lewd gestures at his bleeding enemy, before he nocks another shaft…

The enemy ships, adorned with the standard Saxon trinkets and banners now engage, slamming hard into the British force. One ship, in particular, carries a distinct banner, larger than the others: It is an array of different colours and patterns, haphazard, chaotic… keen eyes lay clear its meaning: It is a British Banner, or rather, a collage of torn and bloodied things, sewn together! A detestable sight, covered in countless arms unrecognisable to most. Sir Elvorix, however, has family who were from the Saxon Shore; he spies, among the mosaic, the arms of a grandfather! He roars with rage, eager to avenge the memory of his fallen family!

_____ Head of the Sea Snake _____

One of the British sailors calls out in some concern: “Chief Basa!"

Sir Elvorix, senior knight on his boat, sounds the order to intercept the ship;

“Lo! There, boatman! Attack! Vengeance! Yea, row hard, men! Mine vengeance must be sated, sail into the fray! Have at them!”

The crew twist the oars, heaving them through the bloodied river, and slam into the side of the Saxon ship! The enemy are ready, however, and are natural sea-men: They leap at once, flinging recklessly from their own decks and onto those of the knights of Logres!

Sir Elvorix has led his fellows sharply, however, and knoweth well the reckless heart of the Saxon: His men are ready, and his counterattack violent: They catch the Saxons disordered and flat-footed!

Chief Basa boards alongside his men, showing no fear to fight anyone in his way. He is mad, calling strongly for Prince Madoc, in the tongue of the land he invades:

"MADOC!! Prince Madoc!?!? I come for thee, Princeling! I will slay thee, and to mine banner I will add the remnants of thine! Hide not, whelp, and face thy death bravely!"

Sir Uhtred growls, and his rumbling roar spits back in Saxon: “FILTHY, UNKEMPT DOG! Mind thy betters! Thy eyes will but see my Prince when I do show him thy severed head!”

Basa whips his head around, cutting down an oarsmen with little regard: He spots his aggressor, and strides forth to meet the challenge. He spits over the intervening men landing a great gob of filthy saliva on Uhtred's chest. Two burly guards, with shields and axes, flank him, with two more men besides; large unarmoured men with greataxes, frothing and raging with their love of battle.

Sir Elvorix, a veteran swordsman, engages the bodyguards, fighting to hold them at bay, while his larger companions tangle the greataxemen, hoping to cut them down quickly...

Sir Vandar leaps forward with great power, burying his blade in the wild warrior's skull; he gasps once; an axe clatters from twitching fingers; a bloody mess flops to the deck. Hulking Uhtred, too, quickly bests his man: Silent but enraged, the massive man’s flashing axe whips aside his foe’s weapon, and snaps back to open a broad wound; but his foe fights on. Sir Elvorix, with careful work, holds one attacker beyond the reach of his blade, but the tattooed bodyguard snakes a skilled slash past his distracted defence, cutting his thigh through the maille.

The Roman grimaces: "That's it? I knew not that Saxons sent mothers to battle!"

Sir Vandar steps in beside him, free of his own foe: The Roman’s jibe bites hard, but his blade bites harder: The enraged Saxon leaps forth, and Elvorix’s ready blade whips out; It catches the skilful Saxon through the jaw, spinning him to the floor in a whirl of blood! The man still yet lives and, spitting blood, starts to rise to fight on. But there striketh the lofty Aquitanian: His steel cuts deeply through the man’s ribs; but yet he stands, drenched in his own blood, coughing. The Saxon shakes free his shock; slamming his shield against his own head; Bang, Twice, Thrice, to find his focus and fight for his life! Beside them, mighty Sir Uhtred finally finishes off his unarmoured foe, cleaving through his collar and drenching the deck in his blood!

Before them, Chieftain Basa has already cut down two knights, his skill and power undeniable! The Cymric lines falter before his terrible advance, as men rise and fall to hold! Behind him, more Saxons leap across the boats to exploit his breach! One of them, a screaming beast wielding an engraved great-axe, dives forth to battle Sir Uhtred!

Sir Elvorix takes advantage of his fallen foe, decapitating him as he stands awkwardly from his stunning blow. Beside him, Sir Vandar grips the blade he has buried in his foes rib, and, wedging his shield on the far side, pulls, drags and saws the blade through the man's spine. 

Sir Uthred, alas, finds the limits of his fortune, and his destructive rampage is hindered: A hacking blow from the enemy's great-axe fractures the maille of his thigh, and a torrent of scarlet bursts forth: He grits his teeth to remain consciousness from the cruel wound!

But still, the assault continues: Basa's bodyguards are cut down, and the terrible Chieftain finishes off his own knightly opponent with his hefty mace. He roars in brief celebration, and turns with malice to face Sir Vandar and Sir Elvorix.

“Uhtred!” the Roman calls; “I come! Hold, my friend!”

He leaps to help his younger friend, who breathes rapidly, and bleeds heavily from his terrible gash. The Roman’s blade slashes at the Saxon Berzerker, drawing blood from his collar, but it is Sir Uhtred, enraged and bleeding, who buries his own axe in the man's rib and spine, felling him!

Sir Vandar steps forward, his stance wide, edging forward into melee… and then he feints, leans, and thrusts; Basa’s long mace clatters off the ducking Aquitanian’s shield, while the latter’s blade lances under the swing; Slash, defend, counter, step! The men reset at safer range, but it is Basa who is bloodied in the exchange. He spits again, while Vandar carefully manoeuvres for advantage…

Another armoured great-axeman leaps aboard, but wily Elvorix is swift, and the Saxon’s chest takes his steel before he lands! The wound is modest, but the attacker twists, wrongfooted in the movement, and tumbles awkwardly to the reddening deck. Brave Uhtred meanwhile, though paling and sorely wounded, steps up to battle the relentless Basa, dwarfing even great Vandar beside him! His guards bested quickly, Basa is now outnumbered: The vile chieftain fights aggressively to even his chances: Uhtred is the slower man, alas, hindered by his wound: The Saxon’s mace crashes into him, smashing free his helmet, and sending his immense, unconscious form skidding slickly to the deck! Woe!

Yet, vengeance in his heart, Sir Vandar once more has the Chieftain's measure! As his friend collapses beside him, he closes in behind the swinging mace and slams his blade into the collar of Basa’s maille, knocking him to the ground and ripping through muscle, the Chieftain grimaces, but turns to face him with renewed focus!

_____ Last Blood _____

 The deck is covered in dead and dying men, slick with the blood and sea; whatever strategies were once schemed and debated are now drowned in this morass; fates now hang in the grit and skill of the battered, striving warriors.

Sir Elvorix stands over the wounded Great-axeman;

Sir Vandar stands over Chieftain Basa.

An axe flashes up; a sword down; steel is shattered, wood splintered; a fallen man tries to scramble backward, away, arm outstretched to fend off a flashing blade…

Basa, nearby, lunges and lashes out from his knees; Sir Vandar lifts his leg over the sweeping, lunging in behind it with his knee. The chieftain is crushed under his weight, his mace-arm pinned between them, the weapon itself pinned to the deck by a knightly shield. The men struggle for a few moments: One holds control, his weight, maille, and shield, aiding him; for the other, the moment last an eternity: He scrambles for freedom and life, snatching, heaving, squirming... So entangled, Basa snarls, and roars in frustration, unable to stop the Aquitanian knight from slowly burying his blade through his neck, pushing, as the roar turns to a burble, and a splutter, wedging the steel in the deck beneath. He levers, once to-, and once-fro; Thus, he takes the chieftain's head.

He stands, holds it aloft, and roars for his Prince:

“Your Highness! My Prince, Madoc! Behold!”

The Prince hacks through a Saxon sailor, and looks about; he catches his knight’s eye, and hence the handsome Aquitanian flings the sanguine trophy across the water to Madoc's feet.

Madoc sheaths his blade and gathers the thing: Sir Vandar raises his sword, nods at the Prince, and returns to subduing the now surrendering Saxons.

The Prince of Logres yells his glory, leaps in three steps atop a higher deck, and shows the head to the Saxons broadly! The heroic display precipitates a broader surrender from the ambushing force, and the Saxons fling themselves into the water, onto their boats, and away from the battle. The front ships of the British have made short work of the Saxons around them, and in short order the battle is won!

Sir Elvorix, who famously detests the Saxon invaders, show no mercy: He butchers the surrendering man at his feet, repeated, savage blows, delivered with little tact but great wrath. He is pulled from the man by companions, but takes Basa's cursed banner. Sir Vandar, letting the slaughter fall to others, checks on Sir Uhtred, who still yet breathes, though shallow. The Roman, eventually calm, returns to his friends, and drapes the captured banner over the three knights, who enjoy the glory and accolades of their fellows. The Prince Madoc gives an acknowledging nod to the men.

Many men here note now the Banner:

“Burn it!” some call, built to rage at the sight of the insulting, abominable thing.

Still others see it is a trophy, to be claimed as an honour to the fallen. 

Sir Elvorix gifts the banner to Sir Vandar;

“Here, Vandar! I have this for thee; You did slay that man, yea, and thy new home is in need of such gifts worthy of thy deeds!”

“Skilful Elvorix! I applaud thy generosity, and praise thy skill! You have my thanks for this; it is a fine thing. I am grateful, and be’eth thee a good man. I would welcome thee to my hall whenever thee might wish for it!

“Yea, friend; the Prince and I will come, and yea, we will partake of thy fine Aquitanian wine. Soon enough!”

Vandar nods, again, and turns to the gathered crowd.

“Warriors of Logres! I hear thee! And yea, held in mine hand is this great banner, terribly wrought by wretched hands. But Lo! Those hands are now dead, and the head of their foul bearer held aloft by our fine Prince, who hath led us to great victories on this campaign! Look about thee; counteth, if thee can, the butchered Saxons. Slain by thee, ye mighty, in this great battle! Would thee, in thy rage, burn this memory of our fallen families, those good men and women cut down in the Saxon shore? I would not; and I beg thee harken for the why.

“This”, he says, holding the banner high, “telleth our story! Once broken, are we of Logres, and put to patchwork by betrayal, barbarians, and brutality. Scattered, to foreign shores, driven from homeland were we… but, looketh thee once more, around thee: We are together! Cut down, do we, those who might wish to break us, and rebuildeth, do we, our homes, with the good blood of those who might best live here! Once broken, torn apart, we are united once more, and stronger for it!

“And now,” he crouches a moment, soaking up the blood of fallen Basa with the great banner, “we are bound by the blood of our enemies! Together, we fight, for the memory of fallen friends! For Logres! For the Prince!”

Thus, with great cheer, the men consolidate, reorganise, and set out for the final port. There, there is little opposition; it seems the foe were counting on Chief Basa to hold. More ships are burned, and the men of Britain sail back to Sarum. 

_____ Autumn, 487 _____

The knights return to Salisbury. A contingent of men is sent to Cornwall, to repay the generous supplies provided by the good Duke Gorlois and Sir Brastias. Alas, Sir Myles on patrol in the northeast, was met by a raiding party led by, of course, Sir Blains. The latter has a new champion; it seems and, in a rage for everything that has happened, Sir Myles charged the man, to trade lances! Alas, he loses out, and takes a grievous wound. He recovers, well enough, but now walks with a limp. He speaks now, of Sir Blains, with a particular venom. Blain's raid is not stopped, of course, and many manors and farms are damaged.

Elsewhere, news reaches of Lady Eleri, daughter of the sturdy Banneret Sir Hywell, and former lover of the Modest, Handsome and late Sir Iwan: She has passed this season. While the circumstances of her death are left quite vague; it seems the larger question is: What will happen to Sir Hywell's lands? The cunning Sir Elvorix and, strangely, the crude Sir Uhtred, find more information or, rather, a lack: Almost no-one knows anything, and rumours are empty. Those who speak of it become elusive, and cannot be pressed. Sir Hywell, at least, is furious; he is blaming Sir Statirius for the death.

Others know, however, that Hywell loved Eleri more than anything; he was very pleased to have her inherit his entire estate, and he had no desire to try to make another heir. Some of these folk consider that he may just be lashing out with madness and grief at her loss; for these, it is unfortunate that Statirius must be the victim of this.

Earl Roderick, meanwhile was taken with King Uther to visit King Cadwy. Sir Elvorix recalls their first meeting - the King went in with great bluster, but emerged dejected and subdued. This time, however, it seems that Uther has managed to get the better of Cadwy. Not much is said or known about the proceedings, but two rumours are heard: Firstly, the Earl will not be receiving the Hundreds that Cadwy took from him, though he will keep Castle Devizes. That surrounding land is now affirmed, by Uther, to be in King Cadwy's hands. Secondly, a knight, Sir Aran, one of those who retrieved Uther’s sword for Merlin, was involved in some dispute in Summerland. It is said that he defeated three of Summerland’s knights in head-to-head duels! Aran, however, is a proud man, and perhaps prone to boast. Nonetheless, King Uther has managed to convince Cadwy to send troops to muster.

Word also emerges that there was a fourth knight with Sir Edar, Sir Aran, and Sir Garnoc, when they retrieve the sword, but he was killed. His name is not known, nor do the three openly speak of it. Strange…

Finally, the King, with Roderick in tow, finished their progress at Lindsey, to see their "friend" Duke Corneus; he is, though previously on the border of rebellion, apparently, now very content to serve King Uther… Curious…

__________

King Arthur Pendragon 5.2

All images created with Bing image creator