Ave, this is going to be a shorter piece that I'm starting due to it being testing season once again. So here it is
MYNYDD BADON
This story will be told in first person from around 12 pov's with a segment for each one at every part of the day that I choose, more pics to come once stuff starts happening
Iron courage, wisdom's years,
Youth's fury, the hand of vengeance
Winged horsemen, on thundering ground
Rippling banners streaming proud
Pendants stained red with Saxon blood
Blood of the dragon, Pendragon's banner.
At the hill Arthwyr,
Dux Britannae,
With silver sword,
Mail of gold,
Lightened helm,
A host behind him,
the Cymri.
Brothers in war, fearsome
In defense of land,
Thickened hides,
A forest of spears,
Made their way to Mynyyd Baddon.
Before them Sigehelm
Of the invaders, forty-four years
Of righteous curse,
One year of forty-four
A year of fire boldly reflected
In Spear-points
A year of fire in their eyes
A wall of wood on their left
Beyond: a wall of wood
Hastened by the dragon's coming
Untrue, on the earth,
A transferred forest
Waiting for the rain of blood
Characters, Saxon:
Oswi: high-middling warrior in Sigehelm's war-band
Deorwine: high-ranking warror
Ethelbrigt: middling warrior, elder brother to
Sebbi: youth on first raid
Beortred: Another young warrior
Characters, Briton:
Argyle: Of Dyfed, spearman descended from Irish
Bevyn: Spearman
Bret: Spearman from across the sea (Brittany)
Gwri: member of Arthwyr's comitatus
Bedwyr: member of Arthwyr's comitatus
Trahern: local levyman, farmer
Dusk, Sebbi:
I look furtively at the horizon again; it is dusk. The sun is painting the sky a bloody red and reflecting off of the river. Beortred is with me too, and it is late, too late, for we are cornered. For four days we have been hunkered on this hill, the warriors growing ever more surly - we are all strained. I look at the rope in my hands, then the dejected creature at the other end of it. Her name is Denyw, and gods but she was good to have, a pretty thing once she stopped weeping. Now, though, her usefulness has come to an end.
Dusk, Beortred:
The screams have started. I wince, turn away, and wince again and close my eyes; I can not meet the black sorrow in the girl's eyes. It is the way of war and woe to the vanquished, but for myself I will have no part in it. Still, I am gladdened to be with Sebbi here, and to see other warriors here with similar ideas.
Sigehelm thought that that first warband shadowing us would depart - it is led by Cei, and every man knows that he is but one of Arthwyr's captains. But he did not, and yester-eve Arthwyr himself arrived with all the spears the Wylisc could muster. It is a fearsome sight to behold.
We are slaughtering the captives. No food for them, no freedom but for the embrace of their God. Sebbi hands her a heel of bread and takes the cord from around her neck. She blinks in disbelief. No Samo and Esselt are they. The others mock me for my knowledge of stories, and yet they in the stories are remembered all these years past.
I step towards her and she flinches; I hold up my hands to show I mean no harm. Sebbi steps forward too and she cowers; I push him away and he frowns at me. Slowly, I hand her a few mangled silver and copper coings, then point into the oncoming darkness. "Your people are that way girl," I say, though in truth I do not know that they are her people or that they will welcome her. She can fare no worse with them.
She mumbles her thanks, then breaths "God bless you," and slips away into the darkness.
"What was that?" Sebbi asks. I shrug. "If we live, I will not miss such a small amount of silver. If we die, I'll have no need of it for I will be in the gods' hall." It is as good an answer as any, and Sebbi seems to accept it. We stand for a time, watching the camp of the Britons as their campfires spring to life, a feild of stars and embers to mark our deaths.
Oswi, dusk:
I stand on the hill called Baddon with my lord Sigehelm. The crumbling stone tower atop it was a good lookout post once, I suppose, before the forests were allowed to grow around it. Forests that hid Arthwyr's approach. But Sigehelm is no fool. He has a plan to defeat these Wylisc and send them scampering back to the west. He aches to beat Arthwyr again, as do we all.
Under Sigehelm we have known great success. I wear a coat of silver scales that glint in the sun and at night glow in the light of torches. I have a fine spear and seax, and if - no when - we return home I shall commission a fine Frankish sword made, perhaps find a wife.
Deorwine, dusk:
I know my lord. I've served with him for years, and this is once of the worst situations we've been in. Perhaps not the worst, but it's not good. A crumbling tower and washed out earthen bank with a palisade that thank the gods we were just able to reinforce in time.I know my place: I will die with my lord, hopefully before him, if that is what is necessary. Everything depends on the Wylisc for we are running out of supplies. If they attack, then we have a chance. Arthwyr's horsemen will not be so decisive then if we fight in this fort.
Ethelbrigt, dusk:
I worry I have killed my brother. I brought him along on this raid, and while we seized much wealth it could all end here. I've seen battle, but never a battle this large. I don't know what will happen. When Ceardin added his warband to ours we grew to near four and ten hundreds, one of the largest armies I have heard of.
I am sharpening my angons, heavy throwing spears. Scrape, scrape.
But it is said Arthwyr has gathered twice our numbers. Scrape, scrape
I cannot believe that is possible, and yet is seems it is. Scrape, scrape.
Please, Tiw, preserve my brother if I fight well, If I die well.
Scrape, scrape.