Early Season
“Ned, Ned! Listen well. Escape through the secret passage at once.”
“Father... it's too late for—”
“Ned, my son, there's no time. It's the enemy. They've reached Muma's Caiseal. That means there's a traitor.”
“...?”
“Hah! Hah! Hngh—hah!”
I ran madly through the pitch-black, damp cave. Beyond the torchlight's glow lay only darkness. If not for the command from my great father, Conall Corc, who had led the descendants of Eogan, Ned would surely have fought and died in the Caiseal fortress.
“I'll fight, Father!”
“Ned, come here.”
The warmth of my father's broad embrace still lingered vividly around me, as if he were hugging me tight even now.
“We spent much strength conquering Muma and driving out the previous king. Muma was already weakened by his reckless expedition to Britannia. I thought the crisis, if it came, would be this winter—and so it has.”
“Who is it!? Who dares rebel against Eogan's descendants here in the Caiseal!?”
“Too many, Ned.”
“No...!”
“Holding the throne is harder than seizing it. You must learn from my failure.”
“—! Aaaagh—aaak—!”
“!?”
“!!”
“Rí! Your Majesty! You must flee! The enemy...! It's the Ulaid and Laigin mongrels!”
Ulaid and Laigin—branches from the same root, perhaps why they fought Muma's people so viciously. And they would keep fighting. As long as Ned lived and breathed, until his dying breath.
“Go, Ned. You'll emerge near the western gate. Lie low for a while, then head south along the great hill until you reach water. I've prepared a trustworthy man there. From then on, follow the waterway east.”
“Father...!”
“Eogan's name does not yield to that wretched Niall Noígíallach in Muma. Survive, and you can return. But to live from now on, you must follow Rome. Follow the Rí Artorius of Romano-Britannia.”
“...!”
“The clash of steel is too close. If they have mercy, they won't touch your mother or sisters. If not, avenge us, Ned.”
Avenge us.
“Avenge...! Hah—hah—”
Beyond the burning in his throat, Ned recalled his father's faint smile. Eogan's descendants always stood with their men, in victory or defeat. No battle for or against Muma had ever lacked Eogan's name. So if the Caiseal miraculously held today, Ned would see his father's face again. But if it fell, that smile would be his last memory.
Pushing aside such tangled thoughts, Ned ran desperately, on and on. At last, he escaped the cave, met the man his father had arranged, mounted a horse together, and gazed back at the Caiseal receding to the northwest. His ancestors had borrowed that massive rock, standing there for millennia, and made it a fortress. Unless opened from within, it would take a decade of siege to fall, or so they said.
So it was betrayal. But as his father said, Eogan's aggressive push to reclaim Muma's throne made anyone a potential traitor. They knew and still fell victim—the Ulaid and Laigin assault was too sudden, too unnatural. Why vacate their homes in winter? Even if they took the Caiseal today, would Muma's people stand idle? Word would spread, and before winter's end, warriors remembering great king Eogan would rise to slaughter the Ulaid and Laigin mongrels for revenge.
“...Mac Rí. You must go.”
“...Ah, was I stopped?”
“Hurry, you must move now.”
“Right, let's go.”
Tear tracks stained the servant's face as he looked at Ned. Ned rubbed his eyes, and the servant tugged the horse's bridle. The horse obediently quickened its pace, carrying them away from the blazing Caiseal. Like a torch in the dark night sky, Ned couldn't tear his eyes from the burning rock fortress.
“You must have had a hard journey, Drustanus.”
Snap!
“I missed the fight, Magister Militum.”
“Hahaha. There'll be plenty more battles ahead. Save your strength.”
“Yes, Magister Militum!”
Drustanus arrived leading three centuries. Now most of the 1st Legion's forces on Britannia's western front had gathered. Even so, the gradually expanded 1st Legion had enough spare men to leave two centuries at Eblana on the distant southern coast—or Black Pool, as cooperative locals called it—and one century on the sheep island.
Eleven centuries in total? Astonishingly, there were now three more legions like this. True, they couldn't match the 1st's veterans from my early days, but four legions in Britannia rivaled its peak—by legion count, at least! Never mind that old legions had fifty centuries each. Bah! We'd matched the number, hadn't we? Best forget the sad truth that all four together wouldn't fill one ancient legion. Britannia would keep advancing, our legions growing stronger. We'd catch up someday.
Anyway, twenty days had passed since quelling the surprise seizure of the Kings' Hills and the ensuing revolt(?). Despite good weather and sea travel, Drustanus's march speed rivaled my own troops'—proving this wife-stealer (Isut was once betrothed to Vortigern) had talents beyond chasing women.
“The revolt's over, the dead are dead. Tell the men not to harass local villages.”
“Yes, Magister Militum!”
“Raiders hitting supply lines or granaries are fair game. If suspicious folk appear nearby, handle them first and report later.”
“Understood!”
Drustanus had quietly wed Isut—just me, Merlinus, and our parents at a modest ceremony. No need for a grand feast dredging up knots with Vortigern or old Muma king Aril, Drustanus's father-in-law and my foe, Isut's father. They eloped anyway, so marriage was inevitable... Yeah, duty called. Perhaps that's why everyone but the couple felt awkward.
Unlike Drustanus's father—solid soldier commanding Isca Dumnoniorum—Aril, deposed Muma king and my enemy, still reeked of royalty. At the wedding, ignoring his daughter, the middle-aged man approached with sharp, lively eyes and murmured various matters.
“Magister Militum, I'm but a wretched old man living on my daughter and son-in-law's charity, and your mercy. But if Britannia keeps eyeing Hibernia, this aged body may yet serve.”
Even humbly calling himself old screamed ambition.
“How much do you know of Hibernia's state, Magister Militum? Your Britannians—even my own daughter—seem blind to how utterly different it is from here.”
In summary: Hibernia looked quartered but was truly tripartite. For near thirty years, its true overlord was Niall Noígíallach. Niall meaning the man, Noígíallach his epithet: Nine Hostages—from Hibernia's largest northeastern and southeastern kingdoms. Thus Niall ruled supreme, until dying five years ago. His sons and suppressed kingdoms rose: Ulaid, Laigin, fracturing anew. Meanwhile, subdued southwest Muma and northwest Connachta stretched, pushing back Ulaid and Laigin from Niall's old lands...
Enter Vortigern and me.
“Outdated Eogan lot still peddle ancestors' names, but it barely works now. Shamefully, Muma followed me for reason, Magister Militum. Eogan, Niall— all kings, but first landlords. Vast ones. Compare your Britannian farmers to Hibernia's. Then you'll grasp why Muma ditched Eogan for a wretch like me.”
Explaining power shifts, the man—now not King Aril but Dominus Aril—added:
“I've abandoned kingship dreams. Avalonia showed me Muma's lands mean nothing now. But... honor. It rouses this old frame. To reclaim it, if you need, Magister Militum, I'll bring Muma into Dominus Artorius's fold.”
Honor? He'd deny personal ambition or vengeance? No—Aril brimmed with both. Not honest, just keenly perceptive. Smart, capable retainer-type—with ambition, thus dangerous...
But as Aril moved, reports from Muma and Hibernia-wide confirmed his worth.
“Muma's burning, Drustanus. Your thoughts?”
“I knew Laigin's main force was absent, Magister Militum. Wondered where—turns out they hit here, then joined Ulaid for Muma...”
Drustanus pondered, then continued:
“Even Hibernian barbarians can't defy winter forever. They'll be stuck in Muma awhile, Magister Militum. Brutal forced march—exhaustion unspeakable.”
“Indeed.”
Drustanus: talented knight.
“My five centuries with me are much the same. They boast readiness, but need rest. We need guards here too.”
“But my three centuries are different, Magister Militum.”
“...”
Eager for glory. He knew this Hibernian push stemmed from his actions, entangling Muma-Dumnonii-Britannia—now his in-laws' warriors lay dead in droves. Guilt shadowed his eyes.
“No overdoing it. Start with Kings' Hills area, ease south.”
“I'll make them all kneel beneath your banner, Magister Militum.”
Clank—
The knight knelt on one knee, swearing fealty. And the next day, a herald reached the Kings' Hills: Drustanus's expedition had claimed two villages overnight.