The Dragon's Banner

The Dragon’s Banner

By Jay Allan

The Dragon’s Banner

Jay Allan

Copyright © 2012 Jay Allan Books

Published by System 7 Publishing at
Smashwords

Marines (Crimson Worlds I)
The Cost of Victory (Crimson Worlds
II)

A Little Rebellion (Crimson Worlds
III)

The First Imperium (Crimson Worlds
IV)

The Line Must Hold (Crimson Worlds
V)

To Hell’s Heart (Crimson Worlds VI)
The Shadow Legions (Crimson Worlds
VII)

Even Legends Die (Crimson Worlds
VIII)

Fall (Crimson Worlds IX)
(Coming Soon)

Crimson Worlds Prequel Novellas
Tombtone

Bitter Glory

The Gates of Hell

War Stories (all 3 in one volume)

Portal Wars Series

Gehenna Dawn (Portal Wars I)

The Ten Thousand (Portal Wars II)
(September 2014)

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"God, why hast thou forsaken us so?"

Elwin looked heavenward, tears streaming from
his raw, red eyes as wrinkled hands grasped the crude wooden cross
of the altar. He grieved not for himself, for he had seen sixty
winters and was tired in body and soul, ready to depart the world
and its endless pains. His tears were for his flock; for the babies
impaled on spikes in the village green; for the maids, whose
wretched cries filled his ears as the filthy, blonde-haired
invaders took them one after another to satisfy their lust; for the
mothers driven to madness as they clung to the blood-soaked bodies
of murdered children, before they too were dragged off to be
ravaged and slain.

For three decades Elwin had served the
village, and he had found contentment in caring for his people and
joy in a simple life. He had often thought to retreat to the
monastery to live his final years in solitude and reflection. But
he could never bring himself to leave his children, and now, if
this was to be their bitter fate, he would share it with them.

The invaders had come before, savage and
terrifying like God's own wrath, but never in such numbers. Always
they had raided along the coast, killing and robbing, then sailing
back across the sea with their slaves and booty. Even when they
stayed, they claimed only lands far to the east. Now they had
crossed the narrow sea in many of their dragon-prowed boats, and
they cut like a scythe deep through the unresisting countryside.
They had come this time to stay, and blood and tears were their
legacy for the conquered.

The village was small and poor, not worth
conquering, so torment and death became the villagers' fate. A
ragged cluster of cottages grouped around a small, muddy green, the
village itself was dying too. Thatched roofs were ablaze, filling
the air with thick, acrid smoke. The enemy's first charge had
scattered the small force of townsfolk who'd stood in defense, and
the flimsy wooden stockade that had been the village's only
protection was dashed and broken, its splintered remains strewn all
around.

Elwin prayed softly, beseeching God Almighty
to welcome his children. "Forsake them not, Lord, if their faith
deserts them in their final torments. For they are simple folk and
cannot grasp thy purposes. To thy wisdom and mercy I commit my body
and soul, and I pray that my faith protect them if theirs should
fail."

The invaders ran through the tortured
village, shouting their war cries and, with torches alight, they
put to fire every house, every hut, every barn. They were angered,
driven to rage by the fruitlessness of their expedition. For they
had plunged farther inland than ever before, determined to sack
Londinium. But instead of a rich Roman capital they found an
abandoned ruin, with nary but a handful of families living a poor
existence in the old villas. Denied their plunder, they focused
their wrath on the villagers for no other reason than these
unfortunates were the ones standing in their path.

Those of the townsfolk who were able to reach
the chapel had sought refuge inside, barring the door with wooden
benches. Perhaps they thought the attackers would respect the
sanctuary of God's house, or possibly it was just blind fear that
drove them to the one place of comfort in their hard and bitter
lives.

Elwin knew better, and he could already smell
the smoke, heavier, closer than before. He knew the sanctuary would
soon be little more than the charnel house of the village, burned
remains of the townsfolk buried under blackened beams and ash. The
invaders were not here for slaves, and the village had little of
value. They would let the miserable peasants burn in their house of
worship, sending them to their god with fire.

Some of the village folk had escaped and fled
to the old Roman fort on the bluff. Elwin prayed silently that they
find the strength to hold out against the invader, though in his
heart he knew it to be hopeless. They were too few to man the
crumbling stone walls of the fortress, and the villagers were
herders and farmers, not soldiers.

The warriors were gone, dead or off fighting
each other. Since the Breaking of the Council and the death of the
High King, the land had been at war with itself. For a generation,
Briton had slain Briton in an orgy of self-destruction. Brother
spilled brother's blood at the behest of petty lords striving for
power, while the barbarians from across the sea ravaged the land
unopposed and enslaved the people.

A group of invaders was roasting villagers
one at a time over a fire, demanding to know where the town's
treasures were hidden. The tortured, dying peasants screamed out
what few locations contained anything of value, but it availed them
little. They were left to the heat and fire and cheated of the
promised rewards of their confessions.

Elwin knew it would soon be over, for he felt
the heat, then the flames as they began to engulf his body. The
pain was great, but he cared little and endured in silence. In just
a moment he would stand before God, to whose grace he had remained
faithful through a life of trial and testing. His only real
torments were the cries of the villagers as the flames took them.
Be merciful, heavenly father, he thought, both to your faithful
servant and to your people who lived in this place and now die
here.

He could see the blazing section of thatch
from the roof begin to fall toward him. With his last breaths he
spoke softly, his regretful words barely audible. "I have failed
thee, Merlin, for I have no strength to protect the child. I have
done all I could, little though it was. Alone I placed him, on the
last horse in the village, and sent him westward, though for
protection he has only the grace of God and the amulet he wears
bearing his name...Arthur."

Uther Pendragon stood in the center of the
fighting circle, alone and unbeaten, long hanks of dark hair
framing his sun-baked face, moist with perspiration. Around him,
prostrate on the ground, were his bruised and battered adversaries,
those of the local warriors who would dare fight him in the
tournament. Five he had faced, and all he had bested. Now he
extended a hand to each to help them to their feet, for Uther
respected courage above all things, and these men had matched with
him when others had feared to do so. The metallic taste of blood
was on his lips, for Cowen of Celtiborne had landed a blow before
Uther took him down with a strong strike to the shoulder. With a
smile, Uther pulled Cowen to his feet and gave him a hearty slap on
the back.

Uther took his leave of his opponents and
walked from the fighting circle across the castle courtyard. At the
well he stopped and poured the bucket of icy water over his head.
Thus refreshed, he stood and looked out over the town below, and
the rolling, green hills of his homeland.

Tall was Uther, and strong, though he had
seen only sixteen winters. It was said he could lift a bull, though
such were only tales shared in the villages and inns of his
father's kingdom, where legends of the young prince were told and
retold over flagons of ale. Proud he was too, haughty and noble,
with the arrogance of a warrior who had never been bested. His
first man he'd slain at thirteen, when he had hid himself among the
host and followed his father and older brothers to war.

He was old enough to be married and, as would
be expected for the son of a king, there were many high noblemen
ready to offer daughters and dowries, though for different reasons
both father and son had shown little interest.

For Uther there was only the call of battle,
cold steel in his hand, and the brotherhood of comrades in arms.
Already he was the sword of his people, and it was on the bloody
field he served them, where he had already slain a score of foes in
Powys' wars. He had normal desires, strong ones indeed, but willing
village girls and tavern wenches were enough to satisfy his lusts,
and he had no stomach for romantic dalliances or the distractions
of hearth and home.

His father Constantine, King of Powys, had
his own plans for the boy. The youngest of his father's sons, Uther
was originally destined for the church, where a bishop's robes
awaited him when his theological studies were complete. But Uther
would have none of it. Four times he had fled the monastery, and
each time he was brought back, he silently endured the Father's
beating while planning his next escape.

Finally, after the thirteen year-old boy
plunged from his hiding place among the camp followers into the
thick of melee, slaying three of the Saxon invaders, his father
relented. Henceforth, Uther joined his brothers on the field of
battle, and he grew into the scourge of Powys’ enemies. Still
though, Constantine clung to the hope that Uther would find his way
back to the clergy and, with three older sons, all married, he
could indulge the thought that Uther's wife might yet be the mother
church.

The foes of Powys were many, and war was
continuous. The land was divided and without a true king. It had
been a man's life since the legions departed, and Britannia had
bled, savaging itself as local noblemen styled themselves petty
kings and fought their neighbors for hegemony. Fields lay fallow,
or crops were trampled under warriors' feet, and hunger and
pestilence often ravaged the land. To the east, invaders from
across the Narrow Sea, tall blond savages with blood-chilling war
cries and terrible battleaxes, plundered and conquered, enslaving
the peasants and driving the local lords from their lands.

The Pendragon had the greatest claim to high
kingship, indeed, the only one that was not a fabrication built
from false lineage. Son and namesake of a governor of Britannia who
had become an emperor of Rome, King Constantine had fought in Gaul
in the army of Flavius Aetius and returned to wrest control of the
largest of the Britannic kingdoms from the usurper Vortigern.

Vortigern, with help from the Saxon invaders,
to whom he had offered large swaths of the Britannic coast, had
slain the old monarch, Brochwel, and forced the king's daughter to
marry him. But the slain king had been ward and friend to
Constantine, who returned from the Battle of Chalons with a band of
veteran warriors and swore to unseat the usurper. Rallying the old
king's retainers with a cry for vengeance, Constantine marched on
Powys. At Pengwern, in a battle that lasted from dawn to darkness,
his army routed Vortigern's host, giving quarter to none who fell
into their grasp.

Ariene, King Brochwel's daughter and only
child, he was too late to save, for she had been murdered by
Vortigern soon after he'd taken the throne. True vengeance also
evaded Constantine…the usurper escaped the field and fled into
exile and the protection of his Saxon allies.

Constantine's victory, lineage, and years of
wise and noble kingship gave him great renown and respect among the
petty kings, but not suzerainty. Though all knew Britannia bled
because of its fragmentation and the invaders could only be
repelled by a single strong king, none would yield his power or
bend the knee to another. Unity would not come free, it would be
bought with blood, and the Pendragon would need to bring their
adversaries one by one to heel. Such was their creed and battle
cry, and to this quest, Constantine and his sons had committed
all.