“My Dear Chieftains, Attacking Britannia Is Madness.”
“My dear chieftains. To conclude, striking Britannia would be utter madness.”
The Elbe River. A land the Romans saw as eternally frozen tundra. A place they believed spat out every evil thing under the sun. Even here, spring winds arrived in due course. Amid fields of unbroken white, patches of green appeared now and then. And green was a good sign. It meant war was coming soon—a delightful prospect.
Tribes stretched long to the north of the Elbe. Others held the gorges linking south to the Weser River, then split west and east. Countless chieftains united under the great banner of the Seax gathered today at the sacred ritual site in the middle of the Elbe. To celebrate spring.
They had already slit the throats of pure white horses and beasts offered as sacrifice. Hot blood soaked the awakening earth. This spring would be bountiful. Much blood would flow.
“Artorius. You’ve all heard the name.”
“...”
“...”
Was it because the sacrificial rite had just ended? These chieftains, who should have been guzzling ale, roaring with laughter, and grabbing slaves like beasts to sate their urges, all fell silent. The rising excitement of the feast plummeted straight into an icy pit.
All because of that name.
“...I’ve heard it, Great Chieftain Hengst. Word is a warrior greater than any Rome has ever known has risen in Britannia.”
“Ay, I’ve got something to say on that too. My own kin joined the last Britannia raid and barely made it back. On Artorius Britannicus, what hasn’t been told is more than what has. He’s no drunkard’s ravings or a child’s idle dream.”
The chieftains’ eyes—born opportunists all—gleamed with cold calculation. They were tallying profits and losses in their heads. This spring raid could be the greatest plunder in Seax history. Every Seax tribe from the Elbe down to the Weser and beyond would join. If the targets struck back hard, it’d turn into all-out war.
When the stakes were this high, you had to win. Lose, and no chieftain here would keep their head.
Lately, the south stirred uneasily. Whispers of another great tribe fleeing harsh horsemen’s tribute demands and marching south. Times demanded strength. And paradoxically, the best way to build yours was to steal another’s—people, gold coins, what have you.
“So I back the Great Chieftain. We could hit Britannia, but victory’s no sure thing. I’d rather not face Artorius Britannicus on the field.”
“Shunning a warrior like that ain’t dishonor. Charging in blind is just stupid.”
“Ay.”
“Well said.”
“The fool can’t tell wisdom from courage.”
Hengst watched them nod and drink, his brother Horsa’s massive frame looming shadow over his face. Beyond it, pale blue eyes flashed.
“But we’re owed our full share from Romano-Britannia, ain’t we? Time to collect what that fool Roman, Vortigern, promised—half of it all.”
“...”
“...”
Horsa rose from the shadows, stepping forward from his seat a notch higher than the others.
“Heard our old Frankish neighbors been buzzing about lately. Acting like they rule every tribe east of the Rhine.”
“Ha!”
“Half-measures, the lot.”
“Arrogant cowards.”
Romans lumped all east of the Rhine as barbarians, but inside, divisions ran deep. Angles and Saxons differed; so did Franks and Saxons. Had they been peaceful, they might’ve been friends. But with warrior traditions etched in blood, conflict was inevitable.
Franks of the Rhine. Saxons of Elbe-Weser. These giants never stopped clashing.
“Facing Britannia’s Artorius across the sea? Honestly daunting. No wise man would. But the Franks? We know them and their chief, Hlodowig, inside out. And they’re split north and south, squabbling among themselves. Cocky bastards... What say you? They look like fat deer ripe for the hunt to me.”
No tribe lacked internal rivalries. They seemed united now, but most Seax chieftains would stab Hengst in the back at the first chance. Still, the Seax had coalesced for now. The Franks? The world knew they’d fractured north-south. They’d grown strong leeching Rome, but Rome’s poison always brought side effects.
“Franks? I know ’em well. Oh yeah...”
“This time, I’m more keen on killing than looting.”
“Agreed. I back the Great Chieftain.”
“Agreed.”
“Hunting Franks? Don’t even ask. I’m in.”
Outward grudges masked finished calculations as they voiced assent one by one. Unanimous. Thus began yet another war between Seax and Franks.
The difference? Eastward Suebi had crossed the Rhine long ago; southward Burgundians were tangled in Rome’s civil wars, blind to this front. At last, the Franks faced the Seax alone.
“The gods watch this gathering. Any against, speak now.”
No one did.
“One month. In one month, we feast with warriors in the south’s sacred woods. Ale will flow, women’s laughter unending.”
Then, march. Frankish warriors’ screams and women’s wails would echo ceaselessly. Those who named themselves free (frankaz) would die or become slaves to seax-wielders. The Rhine would burn again.
Emerging from the Rock Fortress (Ceshel), Ned—once briefly king of Muwa and lord of the Rock—had wandered Muwa’s southeast with loyal retainers, cautiously gathering strength. Then this news hit.
The Hill of Kings taken? By whom? How had Nial’s wretched sons lost Hibernia’s holiest site? Had Conachta, lurking northeast, finally struck?
Ned, heir to Conall, agonized. Could he turn this to opportunity? What would Britannia make of the chaos? He’d sent word by ship—when the reply? Could he reclaim his father’s throne as Muwa’s king and Rock lord? And... revenge?
Nial’s sons had beheaded his father, dumped the body in the marsh, and spiked the head at the gates. All who passed trembled at the severed face. Stay idle, and his father’s soul couldn’t reach the gods. That head on the walls would rot first.
Winter waned into spring. Corpses rotted fastest in spring sun. He had to hurry.
Scant sleep, Ned dispatched messengers everywhere. Warriors who remembered Yoghan, come to me. Heroes to reclaim Muwa’s heart from Ulstermen and Leinster scum, hasten!
Soon, 500 to 600 gathered. Pitiful against 2,000 foes. But more would come as winter passed. Time was the enemy. Before his father’s head skeletonized, revenge.
His Avalonia letter wouldn’t have arrived yet. So Britannia’s dragon had crossed long ago.
Ned rushed toward the Hill, but Nial’s sons—marching from Rock to Hill, one bearing his father’s name, Conall—blocked him. Still, with swelling ranks nearing 700, he aimed to harass Ulster-Leinster rears. As forces mustered, fresh unbelievable word:
How? 6,000 fighters—7,000 with noncombatants—gone in one clash? Ned couldn’t fathom. Beyond his grasp.
Seasons-spanning upheavals dazed him, but one truth stood: Hibernia’s old order was dead. Ancient feuds of same names for centuries crumbled utterly.
Where did that leave Ned? Yoghan, Nial, prior kings, gods—realigning how?
The answer lay close.
“Artorius, Invictus.”
“Fit to be king.”
[Kiss]
A strange rite. Kissing a ring. Yet under myriad eyes, vowing with his own mouth felt weightier, more solemn than any oath Ned knew.
Above all, those eyes gazing down. One glance from the chief dragon (Pen Dragon) sufficed. All else lost meaning. He felt the era of warring kings end vividly. Soon, one alone worthy of kingship on this soil.
No guess, no prophecy—raw reality.
“Your late father, King Conall—a tragedy. We could’ve done much together.”
“Thank you, my king.”
“I know Muwa’s plight. You’ve led its stout warriors to me; I must repay. One month. In one, the Rock falls.”
“...!”
Another might’ve enraged Ned—daring scorn Muwa, the Rock? But Artorius’s words rang true. Why? He’d landed with barely 1,000, smashed 7,000 with 2,000. Pure force, head-on, undeniable.
And look at the man beside him. If Ned’s eyes held, that was Loar—brother to Rock’s fallen king Conall. Behind, Romans in garb, but faces or traits Ned knew from kings.
How many Hibernian warriors had Artorius absorbed? Truly chief of savage dragons.
“For the Rock, I’ll need your aid. Talk strategy with my man here?”
The great king gestured; a shadow yielded a figure.
“You... you’re...”
“Grateful for the floor, great king... Aye, long time. Little Yoghan. That secret passage you used to oust me—still intact?”
Muwa’s exiled prior king, hair cropped short, beard shaved clean. Aril smiled faintly at Ned.