Galbaginus, the Sun of Eboracum
The sun hanging in the sky was hazy, but today, it mattered little to Galbaginus. For right now, on this battlefield, a presence burned hotter and fiercer than the sun itself.
[Galbaginus!]
No one would believe that roar had come from a human throat. It devoured the entire space brimming with men's sticky cheers, curses, dying gasps, desperate struggles for life, and those base, primal urges to haul enemies out and stab or slash them to pieces. That voice was thunder, earthquake, the crashing waves of a storm-tossed sea. The sun!
“Artorius Invictus!”
The sword of radiant glory, thrust high, scattered light in every direction. Beneath the overcast sky, Galbaginus's Galatina gleamed as if glowing from within, then swung downward, issuing its solemn command. That command was named death, and the only way to refuse it was to best Galbaginus himself.
And against Eboracum's hawk—the highest soaring hawk of summer—no one in the world could promise complete victory. Save for one man alone.
[Slash!]
“Gah!”
[Slash—slash—clang—!]
He struck down with his right hand, twisted his body to dodge a spear thrusting at his waist, then tossed his sword into the air, caught it with his left, and slashed upward at an angle, cleaving through spearshaft, armor, and the man beyond.
[Whoosh—]
“Hah!”
This time, he barely sidestepped a spear aimed at his chest, deflecting it aside. Crossing his hands behind his back, he gripped the sword once more with his right and drove it into the foe's chest.
[Thud!]
“Urk—grrrgh—!”
[Slash! Spurt—gush—]
Galbaginus's eyes flashed, and a head soared toward the sky. Blood jetted in rhythm with the vigorous heartbeat that followed, while the headless body slowly sank to its knees. But there was no time to rest. Spears kept coming for him.
Yet this was precisely the fray Galbaginus craved. The place where he shone brightest. Beneath the sun, Galbaginus never lost.
[Slash! Slash! Slash!]
Spears were longer than swords by nature. But the Galatina Galbaginus wielded toyed with his opponents' sense of distance. More precisely, his footwork outpaced theirs by several moves. His elusive, hair's-breadth maneuvers tantalized like a hunter luring prey.
Hibernia's warriors charged like moths to flame, but the blade of brilliant glory traced paths of light, gradually turning the surroundings into a crimson pond. A seething heat bubbled up around Galbaginus's eyes.
As Beduerus had taught him, every motion began like the Roman eagle—from overhead. Thus, Galbaginus, in a firm two-handed overhead stance, raised Galatina high and laughed brightly.
“Hahaha!”
Eboracum's premier playboy, infamous as a wastrel though he might have been, Galbaginus chased neither women nor glittering baubles, nor drowned himself in honeyed wine. So what did this man desire?
Glory.
“Will you die to become part of my glory!? Or will you fell me and claim it for yourself!? I am Eboracum's hawk! Galbaginus of Avalonia! A knight of Dominus Artorius stands here! Is there any among you who can pierce and cleave me!?”
“Raaagh!”
“Rome! Rome!”
The lines, where men had thrust spears, clutched shields with both hands, dragged and shoved and writhed, suddenly lost balance at the center. Galbaginus's sword cleaved through shields, weapons, men entire, and blood fountains rose like mist, drifting slowly in the air.
To the Britannian center, it brought boundless courage; to the Hibernian warriors facing it, endless despair. Even beyond spear and blade range, Romans and Hibernians had grappled shields like wrestlers—but now that tangled wave tilted decisively one way.
Like a great wave devouring feeble ripples, the Romans surged as one, melting the Hibernians away. Annihilation loomed.
Knowing this best of all was Conall, who had come to the front line viewing his life as already forfeit—eldest son of King Nial. At last, he gripped sword and shield tight and let out a low sigh.
“Hoo—roooo—.”
Is this where I die?
Then he charged forward in a flash.
“Ri!? My king!”
“Damn! Follow him! Follow the king!”
“Protect your king! Honor your oaths!”
As the king led, his guards and brothers hurried after. Soon, unlike the wings still filled with cries of dying men and beasts, a vast circle formed at the center: Conall facing Galbaginus.
The encircled warriors, sensing this duel as the war's pivotal moment, tacitly widened their spacing, eyes fixed solely on the Roman Comes and Hibernia's Ri.
[Thud!]
Galbaginus eyed the approaching figure's bearing, then drove his raised sword point-first into the muddy ground. Ever observant of his lord, he rested both hands calmly atop the pommel like Artorius himself, addressing the barbarian king in his own tongue.
“Who are you?”
The words and accent differed sharply from Hibernian, but familiar enough to make Conall pause for an instant. Yet the king straightened proudly and answered the fearsome Roman commander, that warrior.
“Conall. Master of the hill you seized.”
“A king, then.”
His sword still pristine white amid the splattered gore, Galbaginus smiled just as purely.
With fluid grace, he spun Galatina in circles at his sides, then leveled it at Conall.
“I am Galbaginus, knight of Dominus Artorius. Does Hibernia's king desire single combat?”
“He does.”
Galbaginus's smile deepened; Conall steadied his breath, focusing every nerve.
“Take care, honorable king. My blade spares neither noble nor base.”
“...They say Roman warriors fight with tongues over hands. Is the rumor true?”
“Hahahaha!”
As his foe laughed heartily, Conall glanced back, seeking his brothers. Their eyes blazed red-hot, backed by kings and warriors. Trusting the enemy's honor, Conall turned to face his own warriors—great fighters who had held against Britannia's dragon to the end. Honorable men glad to die here.
And for them, Conall could gladly die.
“Sons of Nial, hear me! All who saw and heard my father Nial—hear me!”
Every red eye turned to Conall.
“I am your king! Like it or not! Eldest son of Nial, first master of the Hill of Kings!”
Why did his father's voice echo now?
[Conall, I pass to you now the greatest thing you shall inherit.]
[What is it, Father?]
[Men judge me by what I've built. But they grasp not the humiliations, shames, insults I overcame to claim this seat.]
[...]
[Endure to the last and survive. Always recall the wolves' ruthlessness. Shun honor, my son. That is what a king is. Only such a man ascends to Ard Ri.]
Father, forgive me.
What would Father have done? Sought a second chance somehow. But Conall could never become his father.
Those countless eyes on him now—he could not slaughter them to save himself.
So he bellowed with all his might.
“This is an honorable duel! If I fall here, lay down your arms, all of you! If you call me king, you must obey this command! Yogan! Loarai! Conall Crevan!”
“Yes, my king!”
“...!”
His brothers' eyes, red-rimmed and streaming tears, fixed on him. Stalwart siblings all, especially the youngest—too small and sly for this field, the fox sharing Conall's name. That Conall's gaze toward him hardened, fierce.
“Defy my command, and you defy your king! Kill any such man! Understood!?”
“...Yes, my king!”
Then Conall whirled back. Indeed, these Britons bearing Rome's name, ancient neighbors and brothers, forgot not honor. They struck not the unguarded back, but waited.
Conall met their eyes. A glance exchanged, he sighed low and stepped forward.
[Thud—thud—]
Never had his senses burned so vividly. He scanned the foe striding near, one final time simulating the fight in his mind.
A sword that devours iron.
The Romans' destructive might on the wings, where screams had faded. Especially the Pen Draig's monstrous greatsword cleaving warriors, and that jet-black blade flashing from horseback. Shocking.
But admiration must end. How to prevail? How to drive his sword into that chest?
Nothing for it but to yield something.
His left arm, shield and all? He'd heard even Beduerus, second only to Artorius among Romano-Britons, had one arm. Pity—he'd have liked to witness firsthand how a one-armed man earned such savage renown.
[Step—]
Thoughts ended. Time for the clash.
No hesitation; they closed distance. As expected, Galbaginus brought his high-raised sword slashing down in one motion. A simple overhead cut—yet truly the alpha and omega of swordplay. Far easier to invest power from above than below. Human anatomy decreed it.
Normally he'd retreat to probe, but dragging it out meant dying slowly before that iron-eating blade. Instead, Conall lunged diagonally inside the sword's arc.
[Swoosh—!]
“!”
A flawlessly clean strike. The breeze grazing his ear felt refreshing. It had been ages since he'd faced such elegant swordsmanship. Could his half-brother Ende match it? No—even Ende's talent fell short of this wind-raising edge.
He's strong.
No time to savor the thrill; Conall thrust with his right-hand sword. It should have struck chest—yet the foe's pristine smile revealed the error.
[Smack!]
[Stab!]
“...!”
Conall's sword pierced the enemy. Not chest, but left shoulder. Closing to nullify the longsword had worked. But the foe had dropped his blade, drawing a dagger to stab Conall's left chest.
“...”
“...Guh—”
Scorching heat spread from chest through body, numb prickles rang without cease, and something hot and thick spewed forth. Heat faded, vision blurred; Conall released his right hand's grip. Channeling even the strength that had rent the foe's shoulder, he gazed at him.
A plea for a promise fulfilled. And mercifully, the Roman—and Briton—who forgot not honor. He nodded low, murmuring something.
“—”
Conall heard nothing.
“...”
Last, Conall saw a colossal shadow approaching from afar. Too vast for any man. May the Pen Draig's mercy reach his brothers.
Then sound and light faded utterly.