I Accepted It. You Must Too, Loerre—Even Father Couldn't Have Defeated Ardry Artorius Pen Dragon.
"I accepted it. You accept it too, Loerre. Even if Father were still alive, he couldn't have overcome Ardry Artorius Pen Dragon."
All of Father Nial's sons shared some exceptional quality or another. Among them, two in particular burned with the heart of a fierce warrior: Ende and Yogan. By age, Yogan was the second brother, but with all the tangled family hierarchy, now that the eldest had passed, Ende was effectively the head of the house. But after the complete schism and the eldest's departure, such things hardly mattered anymore.
'If we meet, I'll have to cut them down. Ende, Quierfre, Maune.' What a strange family. Not to mention the half-siblings from concubines, but the full brothers from the same womb were less close than those from different mothers. This split between the first sons and the second sons was absurd, and it brought the realization that it was bound to end this way.
In any case, coming from Brother Yogan—who always vied for the top in warrior prowess—those words hit even harder.
"Our eldest brother could have lived if he'd chosen to, but he died. I can't read every twist in his complicated mind, but one thing is certain. He sacrificed himself to save me, you, our other brothers, and the people of this land. He paid with his own blood the price that more would have spilled."
Tús olc, deireadh olc. A bad beginning begets a bad end. As the ancient proverb, as old as the gods of this land, teaches, someone had to right that flawed start. And who but the last High King of the Nial house, the firstborn heir—not Conall—could shoulder such a colossal burden?
The path forward was clear. But it led to his own death. Thus, Loerre could scarcely imagine the weight and courage his eldest brother Conall had borne. This was beyond wisdom, beyond a warrior's bravery. It was the duty of a king, a sense of responsibility, the mission of a leader. Like the heroes of old tales who embraced their fate.
And so, the last High King of the Nial line, Conall, died.
Was his sacrifice repaid?
Baaaam—!
Indeed.
Clack!
The Roman pipes, distinct from the carnyx, rang out first across the field.
Hwooooo—
Then the familiar carnyx howled like a wolf, issuing commands once more. They hadn't fully adopted Britannian ways yet, but simple orders to advance or halt were no trouble.
The Britannian army of 1,500 warriors halted as one, their synchronized steps and armor clanking like a single man's. The world fell silent. The soaring water droplets and laurel banner proclaimed Artorius of Britannia. To these Hibernian warriors, who revered strength beyond admiration into worship, that man was no different from a reborn ancient hero. Having clashed with him on the same battlefield and witnessed his might, they submitted without hesitation, pledging eternal loyalty.
And the kings? Those proud souls didn't send hostages—they hauled their heavy arses to the Hill of Kings and prostrated themselves. They kissed the High King's ring and swore fealty. Thus, the stubborn, wild land and people that Father Nial had spent his life trying to embrace—Uláid, Ráth, and all—now accepted the name 'Britannia'.
To stand beneath Artorius's banner, they gladly shed their ancient grudges. Treacherous? No. Survival had always been this land's primal concern, from time immemorial. If anything, it made Loerre prouder of his eldest brother. Truly, by dying, he had birthed a new history for this land.
'He said he'd erect a stone. Next to the sacred stones on the Hill of Kings, one to honor Big Brother's name and legacy...'
No longer Nial's sons, no longer Uláid or Ráth. Under Britannia and Artorius, Nial's firstborns would prosper. To that end, Loerre yearned to prove himself. The contest for the High King's favor had already begun.
Clack! Clack-clack!
Behind the 1,500 Britannians stood the newly minted Hibernian Britannian warriors, 5,000 strong. With 500 Britannians left at the Hill of Kings to check Conachta, and another 1,000 Hibernians, the army tallied 8,000 warriors by sheer numbers. Of course, once spring came and men returned to their livelihoods, the ranks would thin. But the young men who idolized the High King would stay, equipped and trained as the Britannian army, integrated into the auxilia legions. Then, paths would open beyond Hibernia, across the vast seas.
Loerre couldn't let this chance slip. Thus, he harbored ruthless intent. Full brother or half, obstacles must be removed. Let the gods decide the worthier through blood. Though the High King banned human sacrifice, old grudges demanded settling in crimson, didn't they?
"Rí-si. Invictus Ard Rí summons you."
"Yes, let's go."
The massive rock fortress in the distance no longer intimidated. It stood alone, isolated—like brothers refusing the changing era, stubbornly clinging to the past. It reminded Loerre of his foolish siblings: pitiable, yet vexing.
———
I'd wondered, but these people truly treated war like a festival. With life so cheap, how you lived mattered less than how you died—a mindset that surfaced now and then. Could I not understand? Not quite. This world made "winter" and "hunger" hit differently than my past life. Fifty was a ripe old age here; sixty or seventy raised whispers of fairy blood in one's ancestors. Infant mortality was beyond reckoning, and before I culled the wolves and bears, folk died to beasts as often as disease or war.
Death loomed so close that treating life like chattel wasn't incomprehensible for Hibernian warriors. Perhaps that's why they accepted me so swiftly. We'd fought a grand battle, and no matter how I spun it, I was a conqueror—yet in short order, they embraced me. Consensus spread among warriors and society alike: the fallen had died honorably in glorious war.
Simply put, it was like a family member's death in battle yielding a "receipt" or medal based on its scale, symbolism, import. I demanded recognition of existing kings' lands (save the Hill of Kings), bans on human sacrifice, adoption of Roman law and systems henceforth, and oaths of loyalty. The kings agreed to all but swapping "Rome" for "Britannia"—no real hurdles.
Thus, one massive clash involving over 5,000 warriors settled eastern Hibernian hegemony. What I gained: oaths from countless kings, 6,000 troops (numbers over quality for now), natural resources, and a vast eastern market.
And for Hibernia's kings, warriors, people? Roman medicine, education, administration, military systems rolling in this spring. But the greatest gift I could offer now: myself, Artorius—a bulwark of strength and order. That was likely what the previous king, Conall, slain by Galbaginus, had sought.
So, I resolved to honor the dead's courage and the living's oaths with all I had.
"Magister militum, all assembled."
As I pondered by the distant rock fortress, a report announced my generals' arrival. Rising from my broad chair, I turned; aides lifted the long drape. Around the round table sat our core Britannian officers, led by Caius, and the locals: Aril, Loerre, Ned at the fore.
"Tough march, everyone."
Sensing battle near, they were tense; I tossed out a needless jest to loosen things. Humor seemed to flow from rank these days—they chuckled and nodded.
Standard reports followed: troop status, scouting. Nothing unusual. From Hill of Kings to Muwa's heart at Rock Fortress took 7,500 men ten days plus three—gentle hills, no high peaks, smooth going. Weather ideal: thawed enough not to freeze, firm enough not to mire. The world seemed to urge war—eerie. No famed tangled waterways or mud hells appeared. Smooth arrival meant no incidents.
Winter solstice past, spring's first festival neared; we arrayed before Rock Fortress.
"Everyone arrived intact—good. Now, let's take that fortress. Dominus Aril, Ned Rí—share your discussions?"
With local guides navigating my mental map, I'd sketched Muwa credibly. Like most forts here, Rock Fortress was roundish, built on a massive boulder—no tunnels feasible, ladders impractical. Steep slopes defied even cannon fire on walls. Brute force meant narrow path assault: ram, hammer, axe the gate.
Surprisingly, owners changed twice in a year. How? Like old gloomy forts, it hid rat holes aplenty.
"Details for the king alone, but briefly: paths lead inside."
"Ho—"
"Oh?"
United under my banner as 'Britannia,' these kings had once rivaled endlessly: Uláid, Ráth, Muwa. Sub-tribes cooperating or competing, ever vigilant—old habits die hard? All but Aril and Ned eyed rivals' weaknesses like predators.
Under my rule, no more civil war... but their glee was amusing.
"...Details solely for our High King, yes. And my path differs from Comes Ned's. I suspect Comes Loerre knows another."
Aril tried undercutting fellow Hibernian 'Rí's. Muwa, Uláid, Ráth kings loathed each other. Before tempers flared, I interjected with orders.
"Use all secret paths. Experts lead best. Comes Aril, Ned Rí, and... Loerre Rí. Can you do it?"
Newcomer Loerre, Conall's brother. His kin were among the foes inside. A harsh command, yet he nodded without pause.
"I'll stake my life to fulfill the High King's will."
I needed talent—more, more. Conall's brothers showed promise. Prove loyalty, earn merit? I'd elevate him big—Hibernia's first knight, say.