Fractured Thrones
“Victory!!”
“Ruuu! More Rui Gan! Dag Dasi!!”
“Where is the seed of Yogan!? Bring him here at once! We must hurry and offer him as sacrifice! The gods are watching!! Our ancestors demand it!”
Muwa was ablaze. More precisely, Keshel, the heart of Muwa, burned fiercely. The very word Keshel meant a fortress of stone. To be even more exact, it had begun as people settling atop a massive rock, which over time they turned into a stronghold. So when Keshel burned, it meant the possessions of the people atop that rock—and the people themselves—were burning.
Among all that Ulaid and Laigin had torched today, the most precious prize was surely Muwa's pride.
“Ugh...”
The seed of Yogan, dragged forth—Conall, whom they had hailed as Muwa's new king just two seasons ago when they sent envoys—was already at death's door. One side of his face was caved in from a blow by a blunt weapon, thick blood dribbling from his mouth. His mind was clearly addled; without those holding him up, he would have collapsed and died slowly right there.
But kings who fell in this land of Eire could not die so easily.
“Hurry!”
“Stand back, all of you! He's the sacrifice! Louder with the victory cries! Even louder! Brothers bound by Niall's seed! All who have tasted even a single grain of Niall's harvest!”
“Yoganhakta ends today! Muwa ends today!”
A beast dragged to the slaughterhouse at least thrashes about, but Conall, selected as the living offering, was already half-dead and couldn't even move. Muwa and Conall suffered such humiliation today partly because their warriors had been depleted by successive expeditions and civil wars, but mainly because the eastern kingdoms, locked in strife with Rome, had seized the winter to invade all at once.
Conall had tried to tend to Muwa's weary people amid the endless battles, but that compassion may have become his fatal weakness.
“Father! Gods! Behold this place! I offer you the king of Muwa!!”
“In with him!”
“Toss him!”
Before warriors mad with fervor, a man drew his sword and approached Conall slowly. Leaning close to the ear of the captive, head bowed low, the man murmured softly.
“Still, as one king to another, I'll grant you this final mercy.”
[Stab!]
“Guh—”
The long blade pierced Conall's body at a precise angle, threading between bones. Conall's form twitched faintly before going limp, and the man withdrew his sword, severing the head in one swift stroke.
[Thud! Roll!]
“Toss it!”
The headless body plunged deep into the bog, cleared of thin ice and adorned with symbols of myriad gods. The severed head's eyes stared vacantly. A strong hand gripped the long hair tightly, thrusting Conall's head high toward the heavens. At that, eyes wild with frenzy flashed as one, erupting in monstrous howls.
[——!]
It was truly a moment of grand victory. The vast shadow Yogan had cast over this land finally seemed to fade. And at last, like the heroes of ancient legends, the name Yogan would become mere tale.
In contrast, from this day forth, Niall's name would stretch forth magnificently. So they thought, as time passed in idleness, feasting, plundering, burning, seizing women, and killing at whim.
The kings of Ulaid and Laigin knew surprisingly well that they could not linger here long. Some whose home bases had already fallen to the Romans seemed to think differently, but kings were fundamentally bound to their lands. They had to return before winter fully passed.
Thus, it was perhaps a natural outcome that those eager to pack up loot and slaves and depart clashed with those who wanted to stay longer.
“Spring! Who will bring spring...? How long must we stay here?”
“What awaits us back home but more brawls with the Romans? Better to make this our base.”
“Our? Since when were you and I bound by ‘our’? Don't delude yourself. This is just a temporary alliance. I know full well you're eyeing us next after the Romans.”
“Is that so? Then why not settle our old grudge right here?”
“You think such threats work on me? It's what I want.”
Niall was famed for holding nine hostages, but those were only from major tribes; in truth, far more came to the kings' hill, sometimes willingly. In other words, he needed those hostages just to barely hold his banners together.
Five years after Niall's death, the released kings predictably fought over every trifle. Unhappily for the late Niall, this held even among his sons—his own brothers.
“Endae, Coirpre. The frenzy fades now; it's time to prepare for spring. Let us speak calmly.”
“Big brother.”
“Conall mac Ruaidri.”
Niall had lived with as many wives and concubines as hostages. Naturally, he had acknowledged and unacknowledged sons and daughters aplenty. Among them, the sons from his four chief wives were all deemed exceptional.
The firstborn of the first wife—Conall, sharing the name of Muwa's king who had just perished days ago—had so delighted Niall at birth that he granted him prime northern lands as a kingdom, even naming it Tirconall after the boy. Excluding the hill of kings, it was Niall's true power base, so the firstborn's prestige endured effortlessly while his father lived.
But with his father gone, and Niall's second sons now conquering Muwa's heart, the lofty firstborn from the first mother no longer seemed quite so exalted.
“Since you've broached it... brother. Why call only the second sons of each mother?”
Endae, Conall's full younger brother, raised his voice. The solemn room's brothers divided sharply into two camps: those glaring at such insolence toward the first wife's firstborn (the first sons of each wife), and those challengingly lifting their chins (the second sons, once again).
Conall, Yogan, Loegaire, and the youngest, Conall Cremthainne (the fox), who looked uncomfortable. Opposite: Endae, Coirpre, Maune. The fourth wife had died birthing Cremthainne, leaving no second son.
“Endae, you. Since when do you speak to big brother that way?”
“Yogan, since when have you, second mother's son, been glaring at first mother's son like that?”
“You plundered and killed with glee, raging like beasts. I saw it all too clearly—defying Father's teachings utterly.”
“And you? How long will you just yap? Drop the nonsense about not killing brothers.”
“Brother Endae, your words are too harsh—”
“Enough.”
Conall, who had squeezed his eyes shut with furrowed brow, half-opened them and spoke lowly. The resemblance to their father was uncanny; the brothers, heating up, forced their mouths shut. But their eyes still stabbed and slashed at one another.
In the end, it came to this, Father.
The firstborn always claims the largest share. Their father, with his many wives, had been no different; each wife's first sons received much—lands, honors. The seconds got less.
Thus, the seconds were loath to leave Keshel, while the firsts could stay no longer. Even without Romans invading, the great Connachta tribe lurked northwest, ever watchful. Now it was civil war. Had the Romans stayed away, Ulaid and Laigin would have splintered further, tearing at each other.
To mend this, someone would need to coax and soothe the kingdoms like Father, taking hostages or many wives. But kings who had tasted Niall's reign wouldn't easily yield freedom again.
Look at Conall's brothers: were they not blood, someone would have slain another long ago.
“Stay if you wish.”
“Brother...!”
Niall's heirs would now divide.
“I'll depart in two days. The slaves we took are yours. But think carefully, Endae, Coirpre, Maune. If you kill and enslave Muwa's people at will, who in this land will accept your rule?”
“That's for us to handle now, brother.”
Same father, even same mother—yet Endae glared at Conall with more enmity than any other brother there.
Conall no longer knew where it had gone wrong or how to untie the knot. He merely shook his head and left.
After that day, firsts and seconds parted without facing each other. Other kings and warriors read the mood even better; the “Niall coalition” split into factions in an instant.
Returners vs. Muwa occupiers. Or so one might divide them. As interests, desires, and ambitions ebbed and flowed, dire news arrived from the northeast—where it shouldn't have.
“Return at once!”
“To the hill of kings...!”
Rome had seized the hill of kings. The garrison shattered, nearby villages all bowed to the new overlords. And the Roman army marched south.
Leading them: none other than Artorius.
Artorius Pendragon had set foot on Eire far sooner than expected. Watching the first brothers and other kings flee in haste, the seconds left in Keshel—and kings who had already lost lands or influence to Romans—sneered.
The dragon of Britannia was no longer their problem.
For now.
“Then, shall we discuss our shares?”
“Too many kings in this land, aren't there, brother?”
The seconds, inheriting Niall's cruelty, deepened their plotting.
“Oh dear, oh dear... What a pity. Someone from Arelate begged me most earnestly to deliver this letter to Dominus Invictus, Magister Militum per Britannias, Artorius Camulodunensis. Haha.”
That slimy face had slithered in from across the sea again. Galbaginus, handling cavalry recruitment and training in Eboracum, had arrived in Avalonia on Merlinus's urgent summons—ten, no, twenty days ago? Odd that it was Merlinus calling, not Dominus noster Artorius.
Upon arrival: Dominus had walked into the lake and emerged from the far west in an instant; war had erupted in this winter. All baffling tales, but with Merlinus, Uterius, and even Beduerus wearing grave faces, Galbaginus's killer jokes fell flat. No one who would normally roar with laughter cracked a smile, confirming every wild rumor as truth.
He had hustled to assemble an expeditionary force for departure when this oily intruder appeared. Lancearius's news had drawn everyone busy in Avalonia to the Round Table.
“...Constantinus spouts madness.”
The letter—to Dominus Artorius—had passed from Uterius to Merlinus to Beduerus. Beduerus, disgust plain on his face, finally handed it over. Galbaginus read the ornate script slowly.
Halfway through, his expression mirrored Beduerus's; he set it down.
“They flee when they like, now beg aid. Against whom? For what?”
“Ah—obvious, isn't it, Comes Galbaginus?”
A smooth voice cut in, answering.
“Alaricus is dead, so Ravenna's fat arse finally stirs. What matters to us isn't saving Constantinus—it's what we extract from that desperate fool. Right?”
Galbaginus had crossed paths with him at Londinium and Avalonia banquets, but today he was certain: he and this Lancearius would never be friends. Exactly his type of irritant.
“What does Constantinus offer us?”
Unlike Galbaginus, Merlinus—the utter cold-blood indifferent to personality—asked. Lancearius smiled.
“A pretender risen on bluff offers only lies. Useful ones, though. ‘Full rights to northern Gallia’... Vague enough to interpret as we please, no?”
“Quintessential Constantinus.”
Merlinus, devoid of faith in humanity, smiled coldly.