Prologue
To anyone looking from the trees into the clearing, it would have looked like an old hermit muttering to himself, arguing even. He sat in front of a small camp fire, nothing sat over the flames, a lean-to looking worse for wear, behind him. If one was looking for the unusual, the fact that the grass was manicured and trimmed would have been the first of many things that would cause confusion. It was as perfect as a billiard table, or a bowling green awaiting the first bowler to roll one down.
The old man sat in front of the fire on a well-worn camp stool with his staff laying on the ground beside him. Around the periphery of the clearing several creatures that were rarely, if ever, seen sat and watch as the old man continued his internal discussion. An adolescent dragon lay with his head on the grass as if this was the most natural place to be at this moment in time. Occasionally he raised his head and sniffed the air as if keeping watch. Several squirrels played chase near the dragon, completely at ease with their huge reptile only feet away. The charms that protected the clearing made it impossible for any violence to be perpetrated in its confines. The charms were placed there by others unknown too many years ago to count, with the charms as powerful now as they were when first cast.
Looking at the old man, there was really nothing that would set him apart from any of the many wanderers and villagers that would frequent the forest and its surrounds. His eyes were hooded and his skin wrinkled and spotted with age, nails starting to yellow. But there was a presence about the man, something that seemed to flow out of him like electricity. The one physical hint as to the man's profession was the Midnight Blue robes he wore that covered him head to foot, with the most stunning gold and silver filigree that ringed the cuffs of his robe and the edge of his hood. Only one person could wear this robe, only one person that could sit in the enchanted clearing and not feel the wrath of the magic. The Master Mage, the head of the Academy of Mages. One who had spent a life time learning, practicing and refining his craft, making perfect the art of the charm, the skill of the spell and the calmness of mind. He was the master of all, but the leader of none, the keeper of truths, the seeker of knowledge long lost. Myrddin Emrys, though he had not gone by that name in too many years to count, it was the name he was born to.
The clearing had always been the one place that he could come and relax and delve deep into his mind and seek the answers that still eluded him. The animals that always congregated in the clearing only made his contentment deeper, none of them feared him, even though he could reduce them to ashes with a look. He was a protector, of sorts, when they were in the clearing they were hidden from the dangers that constantly assailed them in their lives in the forest. It was as restful for them as it was Myrddin. It was a sanctuary from the world, and the animals could come and go as they pleased. The fire was always burning and though it was small the heat would warm them in the coldest of winter nights.
Myrddin stood and stretched out, the old man's bones creaked and cracked as he did so. He looked over to one of the few trees in the clearing and saw a Parliament of owls, such a silly name he thought, and for a moment he thought that they were tittering with mirth at the aches and pains.
"You will be old and decrepit to one day, you know." He grumbled at them. But they simply stared at him with the usual unblinking stare owls were famous for.
Sighing he reached over and pulled a small package out of his satchel, his lunch and dinner for his sojourn to the clearing. A well stacked roast beef sandwich, some lovely pickles and a jug. This was a lunch that should be eaten and enjoyed with alacrity. He then noticed a small piece of paper peeking out of the wax paper, odd he thought pulling it free.
"My Lord, I must apologise for the lack of wine or beer, the King sought me out this morn and ordered me to purposely leave it out."
A flash of anger crossed his face and the animals immediately were on edge. He forced the anger down and remembered that the King was a man not to be trifled with, especially if one were an apprentice Mage. He couldn't blame the boy, not that he would allow this to go without comment, after all he was the apprentice and the Master had every right to terrorise him, if only for a moment. The dissipation the anger was felt by all in the clearing and the animals calmed and went back to whatever was holding their attention. He was still disappointed that he would have no beer or wine to wash down his lunch. God forbid he actually drank water, it could cause him a virulence.
He picked up the jug, sniffed and immediately recoiled, as he suspected, water. He thought for a moment and then mumbled something into the neck of the jug. He could hear the water fizzing and he knew that the spell had worked, sniffing again, he smiled and took a short swig of the freshly conjured wine. A fine vintage, he thought to himself, before turning his attentions back to the sandwich. The belief that he was a hard drinking lush was a deception that he happily encouraged. He had many years before realised that the power and subtly of his craft was adversely affected by alcohol, so he sought out a spell to make the effects moot. It had brought him great mirth and hilarity as he separated many a noble from their gold during ill-conceived wagers and competitions on the noble's part.
He considered the sandwich and lifted it to his mouth, only to have a flare of blue flame rise from the fire. He froze as the flame rose and stopped a metre above the small camp fire, placing his sandwich carefully down he rose and spoke:
"Failte chridheil, a bheil naidheachdan agad?" A warm welcome to you and what news have you?
"Please do not butcher the beauty of my native language, Myrddin Emrys. I know what you seek." Gwrtheyrn snapped at him.
"I speak Gaelic as well as you do." Myrddin grumbled.
"You barely speak your own tongue, you old robber." The spirit replied.
"Hmph…..Well are you only here to call me names, or do you have the answer I seek?" There was a long silence before Myrddin spoke again. "Well you bad tempered, recalcitrant, old wind bag?" the silence drew out before the voice finally spoke.
"The boy who would be King will perish in the flames of his father's funeral pyre. The sins of the brother are the harbingers of doom for this land, a darkness long since prophesied."
"Is the boy's future set?"
"No future is set, foolish Mage, time is the only flow that cannot be diverted or corrupted. Have you learned nothing?" The spirit condescended.
"I have learned that you are a rude ass….."
"Whence the hordes are defeated, the clock shall strike midnight on the King's life. Before the year is done, the King shall kneel dead at the feet of the pretender. The boy's future is only flashes of possibility and nothing more. Plan wisely Myrddin Emrys, for your actions shall determine the future of the world." The blue ball of flame exploded into a shower of fireworks and was gone.
"Arrogant old sod," Myrddin grumbled.
His mood darkened markedly as the news that his best friend and liege would die at the hands of another, very soon. There was work to be done and preparations to be made, he had no time to dally.
With a determined nod, Merlin, advisor to King Uther Pendragon, Court Mage and Master of the Mage Academy disappeared without a sound. The animals continued to gather in the clearing as the night chills began to close in, the small fire would warm them until the sun rose once more. Elsewhere, Merlin began the arduous task that lay before him, made all the more difficult by the fact that he could not tell anyone the reasons for his actions and preparations. It would be a bad year, a very bad year.
1
King Uther Pendragon stood looking over the parapet of his command post at the battle field before him. His helmet hung at his belt so he could feel the sights and sounds of the battle that raged across the fields in front of him. The booming of heavy artillery sounded in the distance, though he had no fear of it. It was his own forces pounding the Bysithian Hordes, his armies now faced, this was the battle that would decide the fate of his country and his Empire. The British forces had stopped the rampaging hordes here and this would be where they stood in victory or crumbled in defeat.
For over a year the Horde had been smashing its way east from the Welsh coast where they had made land fall, looking to overrun his brave and outnumbered forces and crush the British Empire in the name of Eviar Unaxx. Unaxx was a Muslim Wizard that drew from the royal line of the Persian Empire. He was third in line behind his brother Iqbal Bin Hussein and his beloved nephew Mordred El Hussein. As such he had gained the favour of the elder Hussein and set out with an army four hundred thousand strong to defeat the Brits and bring Uther's head to Iqbal as a gift.
While filled with confidence and bravado, he was an awful tactician and relied solely on the weight of numbers to overcome any opposition to his plans. For a while it was a real threat of succeeding, but the British Armed Forces had rallied and slowed the advance, finally stopping the Horde here at Sudeley Castle near Winchcombe. A small town, empty of the population, surrounded by fields and farm land. The River Isbourne had proven to be the stumbling block that Uther's forces needed to rein in the Hordes advance. For some reason only known to Unaxx, he sent a small force to take the bridges and secure the advance to Oxford and beyond to London. The force had simply walked into the cross fire the British Forces had put in place and the entire force was decimated in less than an hour.
It was said that Unaxx could be heard screaming his rage for miles around, a story that Uther found quite amusing. Now the bulk of his force was massing to the west of the Isbourne and it wouldn't be long before the final battle would be enjoined. There was an extreme sense of excitement at the thought of the showdown, but there were equal measures of dread at the thought of all the men and women that would meet their end at the hands of these barbarians. But this was war, and in war, people died, sometimes innocent people, sometimes bad people. But, the one constant remained, to win a war, people must die. The thought often made the King feel sick to his stomach, he knew the realities, but it didn't change the fact that he was horrified at the callous and destructive mind set of the enemy.
Uther pushed the thoughts to the darkest and most remote part of his brain, if he didn't he would not be able to prosecute the actions the way he needed to, to win. The sound of crunching footsteps came from behind him,
"You know, one day some lucky sniper or badly aimed shell is going to take that ugly head right off." Sir Percival Gifford said as he approached.
"There were times when the King would demand far greater respect from his minions. In fact some Kings would have a retainer beheaded for such an impertinent attitude." Uther snapped.
"Then there would be no-one to put up with your cantankerous moods and your terrible table manners." The shorter man shot back easily.
"Bah, it doesn't matter anyway, I know you will be standing over me yelling 'I told you so.'" At that moment, the two men found that important part of war that kept the righteous going in the darkest of hours, a smile.
"What do the latest intel reports say?" Uther asked. He knew only too well what his forces were facing, but sometimes he asked in the hope of a change for the better.
"Well after demolishing the last bottle of my finest whisky, the drunken bastard finally handed over the latest reports." He of course was referring to Merlin, Uther closet ally and friend of too many years to count. He smiled at Percival's distaste at losing a bottle of Scotch.
"Unaxx has committed the last of his reserves to the front finally, so it is a sure bet he is about to launch his big push. The final count is twenty-three divisions, seventeen of foot, three of heavy assault foot, two of light armour and one of heavy armour. His air support is gone, and he has three heavy batteries that are ear marked for aerial bombardment. We have him out matched with heavy armour and Battle Suits, but he has us on light infantry. Merlin has his battalion of senior Battle Mages ready to deploy once you give the word. That should deal with the shield that Unaxx's Wizards have up protecting his assets. If the aerial attack on his artillery succeeds, we should be able to thin out his light infantry and even the odds on the ground."
Uther listened to the report and winced when he heard the sheer weight of ground troops Unaxx would throw at the lines. The bright spot, if it could be called that, was he could bring the full weight of the Air Force to bare, as long as Merlin's Mages could bring down the shield Unaxx had erected of his ground troops.
"What of our forces, where are we on that score?" he asked. There were a number of Battalions and Divisions that were held up for whatever reasons.
"Ten full Divisions of Light Infantry, three Divisions of Battle Suits, Three Divisions of light Armour and four of Heavy Armour, seven Squadrons of Reapers and equal numbers of Hammers. Merlin's says he will have a Division and a battalion of Battle Mages, all senior and highly skilled."
"I have concerns, Percy. We are relying heavily on our Air cover and heavy artillery." Uther explained.
"We can only put forward that which we have, Uther." His friend replied.
"I know, I know, but I still worry about the unpredictability of this implacable enemy. We have the training and the discipline, but they have an uncompromising desire to destroy and slaughter." Both men knew exactly what the Horde was capable of. The wholesale slaughter of the city of Hereford would live in the hearts and minds of the British for generations. Out of a city of two hundred thousand souls, barely four thousand were able to escape and bring news of the atrocity to the rest of the country. The horror and disgust at the action saw the British people hardened to the task of defeating this plague on humanity.
"I will stop worrying when the enemy is defeated and Unaxx has gone to meet his maker." Uther finished. His hand slipped to the sword that hung at his hip, his sword, the Sword of Power. Fashioned from steel mined from the darkest depths of the Earth and thrice blessed by the Powers that ruled the light. Then finally touched and loved by the Lady of the Lake. Presented to Uther by Merlin, with the knowledge that the bearer would lead the fight against the darkness and bestow the strength of a hundred men, the power of the light and the burden that it entailed.
Merlin had gone to great pains to explain what would happen should the sword fall into the hands of the darkness. An evil would descend on the Earth that would last a thousand generations and plunge the world into a horror of fire and violence never before experienced. Only when a soul of the purest light and intent would the Darkness then be beaten back into the depths of hell. This knowledge alone was enough for Uther to want to cast the Sword into the lake to be never again brought forth to threaten the world. But, without the Sword, Humanity would face the power of the darkness with no weapon to hold back the evil. Uther was more afraid of the Sword than he was of any man or beast, but, he also knew that the Sword was the power of good that would give him the advantage he so badly needed.
"Tell me Percy, have I been the King and beacon that the people have needed?"
"You are King Uther Pendragon, the Light and the power that holds the Darkness at bay. Your people serve because they want to, not because you order it. They stand before the Horde knowing that you are there also, fighting the evil that has infected our great Country. You shadow reaches to every corner of the Empire and brings succor to the down trodden and the weak, it strikes fear into the enemy of these lands. I would lay down my life for you, as would every soldier out there." Sir Percival Gifford said with a power of commitment that lifted Uther's spirits to another level.
"Once more you remind me of my place and my duty, my old friend. Then let's be about it, Sir Percival, it is time to send these demons back to hell."
"At you command, My Liege."
Both men turned from the pock marked fields, and returned to the Command Centre to prepare the final push on the Hordes.