Frankish Fury and the Lion's Blade
[Boom!] "What in the blazing hells is that supposed to mean? Speak more—now!" A massive fist slammed down uncontrollably onto the long banquet table in the vast feasting hall. The knuckles were thick with dense hair. The blow was so fierce that the spring delicacies piled high on the table seemed to leap into the air. The warriors, who had been chattering boisterously about the spring festival at the king's house, all fell silent in an instant.
Beneath the enraged king's glare, the messenger who had brought the grim tidings bowed his head repeatedly and cried out. "The Saxones barbarians have come swarming in all at once! Beacon fires rose from the villages guarding the northeastern borders—especially the coastal fortresses. Survivors fled and brought word of it! Our shores are burning! Kuning...!"
"Those dog-beasts, worse than wolves!" [Boom!] "Cowardly raiders who know nothing but ambushes! Oath-breakers! Idiots! Barbarians!" [Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!] With each insult came another thunderous fist. King Hlodowig of the northern Franks, the shaggy-haired behemoth, flushed beet-red with fury. Unlike his son Merowig's lighter brown locks, this giant king had eyes of an even sharper, piercing blue—passed down to his boy. At his roaring presence, the warriors reacted as one.
The peaceful folk who had been laughing over trade and festivals were gone. In their place remained men toying with hand-axes and daggers, heads tilted, eyes gleaming with dangerous intent.
"Merowig! Merowig, where are you?"
"Here, Father."
Merowig, who had early recognized the rising star of Britannia's Artorius and forged strong ties, was already deemed to have solidly secured his place as heir to the northern Franks. When ruling a tribe—not just family wealth—the king's will mattered less than the tribe's. And that meant this golden-haired warrior commanded the gaze of the entire northern Frankish tribe.
"You go yourself! Take these gathered warriors and halt that pack of coastal wolves first! I'll summon every Frankish fighter and march forth. This time, we'll settle things with those Saxon mongrels for good!"
"I'll depart at once, my king. Have you all heard our king's command? Gather your warriors and assemble at the north gate—now."
The warriors nodded and scattered. Amid them, Merowig exchanged a few low words with his father before hurrying from the hall. King Hlodowig, still fuming and clutching his hot head, was surrounded by his wife and concubines trying to calm him, while his daughters hovered fearfully nearby. Meanwhile, Merowig's younger brothers who could fight followed him to the armory for armor and weapons; the too-young ones stayed in the hall, watching their father warily or trailing Merowig to help their elders arm themselves.
In the midst of the sudden chaos, Merowig slipped calmly into his chamber, where his wife awaited, and pressed his lips to hers.
"...War?"
"Aye."
The weight of being the king's eldest son left no room for a farmer's simple love. His elders had arranged his marriage at birth to a predetermined house, as was expected, so his bond with his wife was neither passionately hot nor coldly distant. There was affection, not false, but not the sort to give one's all. Duty fulfilled, mutual—that described it well enough.
[Clink—click—clink—] As she tied the straps of his backplate, secured belts for several hand-axes, a dagger, and a longsword, his wife murmured softly.
"Merowig..."
"Hm?"
Merowig, mapping out the Saxons' potential attack routes in his mind—advance paths, defenses—tilted his head slightly at the quiet call of his name. There, he noticed his wife's unusually anxious expression, so unlike her usual calm.
"What is it?"
"...It's only been a few days, and I wasn't certain, so I hadn't said..."
"Said what?"
"I... I think I'm with child."
"What?"
What? His defense plans evaporated from Merowig's mind in an instant. What? He stared blankly at his wife, repeating it inwardly like a fool. They had just been discussing how his lack of heirs had the elders and his father suggesting concubines. Merowig might have accepted it as natural, but seeing Britannia's Artorius had given him pause.
A child? Heirs? Instinctively, Merowig placed a hand on her belly. She covered it with both of hers. Then she spoke.
"Aversion to food, moods rising and falling like waves day and night, dizziness, and my monthly cycle suddenly gone awry..."
"This is..."
"So you must—must come back to me, no matter what."
Her hands trembled with anxiety, their gazes locked and hardened. Merowig pulled her into his remaining arm, vowing he would. Thus, a new resolve bloomed in the Frankish heir.
[Thud—... Thud—... Thud—] A shockwave like the earth itself rumbling spread rhythmically. The epicenter of these quake-like pulses lay at the heart of the Hibernia-Britannia-Gallia Northern United Army under one sovereign—what folk now called Avalonia-Britannia to distinguish from Rome.
[Thud—] In Avalonia's very center stood Artorius's mansion, begun as a humble lakeside hut. From that inner keep—now grand enough to bear the name—a steady pulse like a solemn drumbeat emanated.
[Thud—] Pilgrims to the lake, seekers of a glimpse of Artorius—all knew the source. This was the sound of Britannia's ruler, the Patricius, wielding a massive smith's hammer like Hephaestus himself to forge a divine artifact.
[Clang—clang-clang—clang!] Drawing nearer revealed Artorius, shirtless, muscles bulging demonically across his back, steaming with heat from utter focus. Power incarnate dwelled in his smithing hammer, anvil, the glowing red iron in his off-hand, the forge, even the lake—all faintly glowing blue. But Artorius's mind was locked on the hammer's rhythm, blind to it all.
[Thud!] Others witnessed it fully. Artorius hid nothing; those worthy of the Round Table gathered to etch the sight into their eyes: their lord forging a godly relic. Even the clerics from Gallia, come with Lancearius to discuss church lands and relief, stood mesmerized. They had seen their lord emerge glowing from the lake. Some had doubted tales of his instant crossing from western Hibernia to Avalonia's shore. No longer.
Future chronicles would surely mark this day: Rome—or at least Britannia—had returned to the mythic age of heroes.
No. Not returned. A new path.
[Thud!]
[Hiss—] The superheated iron, kissed by hammer and quenched in the lake's mystery, took sword-form. With each dip and strike—tweaked by small hammer, gripped by tongs, reheated, hammered, cooled—it shaped itself eagerly. Artorius discarded the great hammer for fine work, and at last, by his measure a short longsword—or respectably long by average builds—glowed fully red.
"Another one done... faster this time?"
A natural genius in body control and divine talent, Artorius had mastered smithing swiftly. Amid duties, he'd trained under Britannia's finest, elevating the craft to new heights. Handling mysteries as a smith, it rivaled Hephaestus's—unprecedented in this world.
The blade was extraordinary at a glance. Iron, yet it flexed languidly like a spear-haft.
[Thwack—] Before the heat faded, Artorius swung. A test iron sword cleaved like snowflakes.
"Good enough?"
[Ring——] Fingertip to blade, it wailed as if in pain.
"Just needs hilt and guard... lion's head, for the lion-like knight... Peredir."
Gallia's nobles would sell their souls for this relic. Artorius tossed it casually onto the table like dusty armory scrap, rummaging a corner for junk. The rack opposite held several more, forged similarly. Their owners? Easily guessed.
Avalonia's knights, those seated at Artorius's Round Table.
"Close enough? One, two, three, four..." Counting, Artorius nodded, trudged to the lakeshore, and rinsed off. Late winter into early spring, but Britannia's dawns still breathed frost. He dunked head to toe, swam, emerged indifferent.
Guinevere awaited from the mansion with a towel, drying him, draping a robe, their laughter blooming together.
"..."
"Shouldn't you head back to Rotomagus soon? Young Lancearius."
"Y-yes? Ah—yes, indeed, Dominus Merlinus."
Lancearius, northern Gallia's envoy—now formally Comes of Rotomagus—snapped back to reality after days in Avalonia. The sight before him was pure myth. Yet this seat was real; Merlinus sat beside him. How did the man remain so serene amid gods walking the earth?
Avalonia fused legend and now. Everything rang strange: those apple trees, fruiting even in late winter.
"You look lost in thought, young Lancearius."
"Ah—"
"Don't overthink or presume. Just see, hear, accept as is."
"Those... things?"
"Hm."
Merlinus set down a paper from the table's stacks, eyed Lancearius—whose gaze drifted dreamily to the cooling blade. With a soft sigh, Merlinus lifted the paper again.
"Soldiers and their swords—lose their wits every time. Your name's on our Dominus's list, young Lancearius, so fret not and head back. We've business in Gallia soon enough?"
"Indeed, quite so, Dominus Merlinus."
Light returned to Lancearius's dazed eyes. With dual emperors distracted, now was prime for laying groundwork.
"Then upon return, the 4th, 5th, and 6th Legions of Gallia shall heed the Patricius."
"They're invaders anyway—strike first, weaken the barbarians. A true Roman thought, young Lancearius."
"Too kind, Dominus Merlinus."
Their cool gazes turned south, crinkling in unison.