Ezekiel

Chapter 1: "To have faith is to have purpose, and purpose in life is what defines a man, and makes him steadfast and resolute."

It is 6^th century Britain. War is a commonplace in this kind of land. This land called Britain. For the last hundred years, tens of thousands of warriors had been placed in the field of battle. Lucky for me however, for only thirty of these years have I been a first had witness. The elders, who are old enough to tell the tale of the Breaking, are truly holy in this tribal society. The year of Breaking varies from tribe to tribe, due to the fact that it affected different places at different times. After some research, I have found the true Year of Breaking to be 423 A.D. This is not long after the Roman's left our lands to ourselves. They had helped instigated the uniting of Britain by slavery and war, but without this common enemy, we fought amongst ourselves. Dozens of tribes, which were previously allied, made war with each other in an attempt to gain control of the land. This greed led to our downfall as a unified nation. Few who kept true to their alliances were only backstabbed. And the cunning leaders who betrayed their nations grew in power, and corruption. Instead of treating captured fellow tribesmen with the respect their code called for, they were enslaved.

Torture, backstabbing, blood, steel and famine plagued the land. It was only a matter of time before a single tribe would raise themselves above all the rest. For the next 45 years, unchecked civil war raged throughout Britain. Among the tribes to be completely decimated were the Carvetii, a small farming tribe, Taexali, a tribe of coastal villages, and Demetae, a relatively unmilitaristic nation. When the year 468 A.D. dawned, it was clear that one tribe was the victor: the Regni. This tribe was the friendliest with the Roman Empire, and thus was given the most technology. Better yet, many Roman Legionaries settled in the Regni regions. When the Breaking of Britain came about, to protect their families and land, these Roman veterans fought with the Regni. They were the key in defeating the surrounding tribes and establishing a foot hold on the west peninsula of Britain. In 470 A.D., the battered Regni tribe had spanned across much of Britain. Like a spreading brush fire, territory grew exponentially as submitted tribes were forced to fight. It was dirty business, but we prevailed.

The Regni had one sure ally throughout the war, the Dorsaetas. The Dorsaetas had protected the massive fortress that housed the Regni's chieftain, and the rest of his household. This castle was built by the Romans, and then given to Cogidubnus, our kind King who befriended them. He cooperated with the Romans in their takeover of Britain. The reward was great, but during the Breaking, the Regni was attacked the most viciously for our betrayal. Not soon after the Regni tribe dominated Britain, did Caledonia attack. This elusive barbarian horde resided in the northern most regions of Britain. The Caledonians were aggressive and very graphic. They practiced the demonic teachings of some rejected Pagan gods. When prisoners were caught, these satanic worshipers would perform rituals of great evil. For whatever reason they did this, you do not want to be a prisoner of Caledonia. The horde pushed halfway across Britain until they were stopped by the brittle alliance formed to wall the threat. The Regni was at its weakest at this point, and all the other tribes knew this. Maybe one tribe knew it better than another. Being on the most vulnerable south east side of the Regni Empire, the Silures would push their autonomy inward. With enemies on two fronts, Regni territory shrank rapidly. The Caledonians and the Silures were not allies, but they put their differences aside for the sake of conquering as much land as possible. After 4 years of atrocious warfare, an uneasy peace finally settled. But, when everyone though it ended, war decided to dawn anew.

A new enemy, called the Saxons started their invasion of Britain. The Caledonians were an easy target for the Saxons, who attacked from the far north. Hiberni, the country off the west coast of Britain was conquered first. The Saxon attack was so feeble, there was no eye diverted at first. They attacked every four years for the next fifty. Their numbers increased, as well as the experience of their soldiers. The Regni would be the second to encounter this barbarian race, and this is where my story begins. My parents were descendants of Christian Romans, and taught me all my life about Jesus and the Lord. Although the Regni were mostly followed Paganism, I believed in Christianity, and took it as lessons for life to live by. Growing up in a village constantly attacked by Saxons, activities never ceased. I learned the way of the warrior from a village elder, named Arthur. He was a pureblood Brython. These Brython consider themselves apart of the common "Britain" collective due to their keener understanding of war. My parents told me I was born in 544 A.D., soon after the largest Saxon advance yet. My village was able to defend against an entire army until the Regni cavalry could ride in and save the day. My father, along with Arthur led the men of the village, young and old, to victory. The only casualty was an old man, filled to the brim with alcohol and happiness. I trained for twenty years, literally my entire life, but no different from any other man during this time. Well, the Saxons kept attacking all three nations. A common enemy, much like the Roman times, once again united Britain. The Silurians called upon the Regni for a quick peace.

I have retold my lands past hundred years, as any man should: with truth and dedication. I apologize before hand, for I am neither a scholar, nor a teacher. The path of the soldier has very little peacefulness, and I write when possible. Although the art of writing was taught to me when I was a child, it is a wonder I can even write at all. The other warriors can barely read. Taking myself as lucky, I look at the calendar on the wall in front of me: the Year is 577A.D. It is the the 37^th day of summer. It is warm, but still raining. I sit on my primitive desk and chair in the Palace of Cogidubnus. My name is Ezekiel, son of Mathwy, God's Man, Slayer of Darkness, and Champion of the Regni.

Chapter 2: "Faith keeps him true, and, even in the darkest hours, illuminates him like a candle flame. Faith guides him surely, from birth to the grave. For a man without faith will no longer be true, and a mind without purpose will walk in dark places."

Dawn has come. Weary, and tired, I rose from my make shift tent and slip my arms through the light tunic. I remember that day crystal clear, as it is embedded into my memory like a brand on a cow's arse: always present, and always painful. I roused the rest of my troops from their sleeping mats, and slowly made my way to the commander's outpost. His name was Numitz, a beast of a man, but not very smart. I figured the only reason he received a promotion was through intimidation. The freshly dewed grass pricked my body awake as I finished donning the rest of my attire. Numitz was conferring with his strategy advisor about today's plan. Secretly I thought his advisor was sent to sabotage our work.

Numitz proudly called from his desk. "Ah! Ezekiel, my man," He was tired of his advisor though, I noticed, and was eager about my entrance. He was not usually this kind to men he despised. One night when he was filthy drunk, he chose to pick a fight with me. After humiliating him in front of his men, the rivalry between us was never going away. I did not care about the fat bastard, or for his position. I merely was looking for survival. As tired as any soldier was, I was equally tired but lost the thirst for battle that many younger recruits still retain.

To counter his quick disrespect, I casually replied with "What are your orders?" Now, commanding twice as many soldiers have he did, it is a wonder how he is still able to command my army. His rank denotes that, yet I am trusted to handle the victory.

"You attack today." responded Numitz with added happiness. I knew that the Saxons landed today at the beaches with over four thousand men. We barely had over a hundred. I commanded eighty, and Numitz lead thirty. Even though I knew Numitz was a numb-tit, I was sure his conscious would look after his own corpse. Attacking a massive army such as that would be absolute suicide. I wondered about his mischievous looking advisor.

"Sir, that is not an option. We do not stand a chance!" I contended.

"No. You will attack today. The Saxon army advances, and with all our supplies, we can't be caught in the back. You will deter the Saxons long enough so we can report back to Fishbourne." Numitz answered smugly. He would love to send me to my death. This was his perfect chance.

"You fool! My men will die! They will shatter us! We will be a ready carcass under their boots!" I shouted angrily. I noticed Numitz' guards behind me fall into the tent. Numitz for saw my anger.

"Then while they feast on your bones we will escape." Numitz said. He had the most dastardly smug look on his face. Like the first stage of his master plan had been completed successfully.

"You stool-eating idiot!" And before I knew it, the bodyguards grabbed my arms and threatened me with a sword to my neck. I couldn't fight them, for risk of them accidently slicing my throat, so I listened to the man inching above my face.

"You will obey my order. Or you will die. Do you understand?" I spat in his face. "Good. Give him my armor. Good luck Ezekiel." I was seething with anger. The only reason his guards obeyed him was because he promised an escape. Numitz' bodyguards knew that they had no reason to restrain me. It was right for me to kill a fellow officer if his judgment was not safe to three fourths of his men. So, I took it to my men. Having told them of my orders to attack the invasionary army, every single one of them protested. Weapons that were at the ready were now on the ground. Most of the armor pieces had been stripped off, and most men were about to walk away. After much persuasion however, we marched into battle. As preparation I prayed to my Christian God with a few of my men. I believed he would protect me, and my men. God is a loving entity, but has different uses for everybody. When my village was attacked, I was certain that I am the savior who was entrusted by God to protect the dimming light in the world.

The forest was teeming with enemies. My men were all demoralized, and disheartened. I could feel the tension as the Saxons closed in. Justin told me he would be happy to join the Saxons, as long as it gave him the right to slit Numitz' throat. Our shield wall was planted on top of a hill, directly in front of our advancing rival. I stood in the middle of it all, adding my own spear to the porcupine. The Saxon horde had no use for spears, but did have javelins, axes, broadswords, maces, and great little bows that could pierce chainmail. They were a rowdy bunch, especially the moments before the battle. Our enemy abruptly stopped behind the tree line. The hill we stood on was cleared of trees. It gave a good advantage of sight. A single man rode out on a horse to the bottom of the slope. He wore a horned helmet and chainmail torso armor.

"Any of you, who wish not to die, may flee. We will not pursue!" The man, now illuminated by the sun, was dressed in brilliant green colors of Saxon, and held a long white lance. The lance was probably ransacked from the eastern tribe of White Knights. Putting two and two together, and estimating that the battalion of Saxons from the east probably joined with the landing party, I was sure their army would be severely swelled. God's favor determined by logic, was not on our side.

"We are men of Regni. We do not surrender!" Justin shouted after a brief pause. None of my men abandoned the shield wall. The men behind the shield wall were all young. Fierce but stoic faces prepared their soul for death. Our continuous jeering and mocking of the enemy urged them to charge. The first wave was of light swordsmen, who were easily cut down. I thanked God for the easy victory, and prayed for continued support, but felt my grip on life slipping away. The second wave consisted of axmen and broad swordsmen. These were tougher, but coupled with arrows, impossible to break. They cut down my first men in the front, and plowed into the line. To the left and right of me, men died by arrow or steel. I hacked and slashed, but in vain. Looking around, I could see the rest of the Saxon army just ignoring the light skirmish and running around the hill. Young men panicked and were cut down. Justin blew on the horn reform the line. Some men who fell inward on the flanks pushed into the enemy, temporarily giving us an advantage. When it seemed we would be victorious, with our spears pointing towards the next wave, we became surrounded. The rest of the remaining men broke. God's fingers touched my legs, giving me the energy to rush into the trees like a stallion. "Come with me!" I yelled as loud as I could, but my men broke into another direction. They were already cut off. I heard my name being called a few instances, but were then drowned in blood curling screams. Wings felt like growing on my ankles, and I flew across the land. I ran west and prayed for a nearby village or outpost to save my tired legs.

It grew darker yet, as daylight slipped away. I had stopped running after knowing the Saxons lost me, but continued to walk. I was becoming unsure of my direction until I reached the top of a hill. Looking out onto the horizon, I saw a plume of smoke. It wasn't that of a town, but maybe a small group of soldiers. There was no longer any light in the sky as I neared the camp. A few figures danced naked around a campfire. The timbers from the fire similarly danced to the beating drums. Immediately then I knew that I had run into the wrong direction. God's guidance has far from left me, but I felt it, at that moment, slip away. Instead of running west, my legs took me north. I supposed the heat of battle racked my brain, and the sun being highest in the sky, made it hard for me to discern between west and north. The figures in front of me were neither with the Regni nor the Silures. Dread filled my already draining face as I said out loud: "Caledonians." Their satanic rituals surely cancelled out God's care after me. I knew that if I was discovered I would be a lost soul. Slowly backing out of the camp onto the hill, my worst nightmares were fulfilled. The image of a frightening, tattooed warrior was stamped behind my eyelids.

I woke with a fright. They laid me down on a thin mat of cloth on the ground in front of a dying fire. I had learned the language of the Saxons, and almost all dialects of tribal British, but Caledonian speak always baffled me. It has become more of grunts and whistles, rather than characters and spoken language. God's will deemed these barbarians too inferior to even be paid attention to, but Satan gave them the power of strength and body. As long as they keep sacrificing worthy souls, the rumors say, they get to keep their gifts. I, a man of God, am the most valuable type of sacrifice. I dared not stir; however, I knew that if they discovered the torque that held the cross around my neck, I would be dead within an hour. Three men around the campfire were eating, but I did not see any weapons. A human skull lay down next to a burly Numidian. These Numidians were dark skinned monsters. They possessed great power and skill in combat, having been trained almost their entire lives. Their British counterparts are men like me. The night still prevented me from catching sight of any other men, but I took my chances with these. I quickly rolled to my right, gripping my sword and pulling it in front of me as I rose. All three men stood up the same time I did. They were ready. Even though I was the only armed man, I was intimidated by their body and facial tattoos. One of the white Caledonians had a horse and and the other, a snake. The Numidian had none I could see.

Their blue markings seemed to roar when they flexed their muscles. A tall, probably handsome man drew a deafening scream and attacked. He lunged at me with an open palm, but I beat him with my handle to the ground. Looking behind me, I saw the horse had gathered a skinning knife from the ground and charged at me. The snake grabbed my shin and bit in, paralyzing my leg with pain. With my left side pinned, I shuffled and sliced at the horse, slitting his wrist. He dropped his knife but swung his free arm at me. All the while the Numidian stood watching and chuckling. As the snake's bite dug into my calves, I felt the sword in my hand plunge deep into his neck. I knew the strike was fatal because his body went limp immediately. The horseman was soon dead, after a few final strokes. The Numidian whistled and I was suddenly surrounded with another thirty or so Caledonians all with a different animal on their chest. They obviously wanted me alive for the ritual because they knocked me out again.

"You will submit to Kybele! Let him draw you to his caves! Into the depths you go, bright soul!" I reflexively spat into the direction of the voice. Kybele was the Caledonian god of the Underworld. Although, this man was trying to make Kybele sound more Satanic than the brutes give him credit for.

"Submit! You are a man of God, yes? God will never forgive you for coming to this place willingly! Kybele is generous! Allow yourself into his dimension! Submit!" The voice was very grave. Grave in the way that his own life is in danger, and like he was convincing me to say what he wanted. I slowly opened my eyes to see the man, but I was dripping wet. They tried pouring water over me, I guessed, but they gave up and figured I would wake in the middle of the ritual. In the many lessons of religion I was taught that for your soul to be sealed by Lucifer, he needs your consent. Nobody can force you to submit, but persuasion is always an option. The damn Caledonians had me up on a crucifix. They dare not harm me, because torture is forced consent. They tied me up with rope and put me through lectures about the old man's preaching. This went on until mid day. Hours of discomfort and malnutrition disheartened my resolve to resist, but I kept faith. Maybe one of my wishes was granted, because not one of the Caledonians came near me.

Until one of them cut me down. In the middle of the night, three or four others pushed me toward a circular orifice coming out of the ground. I felt the stinging gripes from the beatings on my head, but it alerted me enough to know the danger in front of me. The Caledonians led me to a death pit. The awkwardly mangled bodies already in the pit had jagged splinters of wood protruding from them. Strong arms grabbed my neck and started to push me down onto my knees. They pulled my hair and de-clothed me. I might have put up a mediocre struggle, but their numbers always just seized me again. Looking into the pit, some of the bodies still moved. Some even were able to cry out the occasional moan or "help". I felt sympathy not for those who died, but those who lived. I prayed for a quick death. The brutes tilted my body horizontally and pulled my legs up. Then a whistle cooed from behind me. Scared, the men pulled me back from the pit and parted to let the shaman pass. He was an "elder", and a smelly one at that.

"Excuse my fool tribesmen," The man said in broken British. "But they have no knowing of proper sacrifice ritual." His accent was purely Caledonian. Different from the Satanic Preacher, I thought there could be no man worse. The shaman gave a cold stare to the surrounding tattooed men and they finally backed off. Even though I knew I could physically beat the shaman who was now alone, the thought did not comfort my soul. God had deserted my soul for gone, but the Devil was the one who saved me.

"We won't kill your body, of course!" the man chuckled. "It will be useful to us later. But your soul is a different story."

"You are a man of God, am I right? A Christian?" He continued. "Well you will be treated gentler, I promise that." Proceeding to sprinkle me with some kinds of smelly herbs that made me very delirious, he laughed again. I tried to blow it away, but with my tied hands and my depleting strength, it was no use. The ground seemed to treble and split below me as the witch doctor stamped his feet and chanted. I knew it was only the poison, but my imagination kept playing tricks. Now, this moment I will try to describe as best as I can. Have you ever heard of an out-of-body-experience? Well this black magic separated my soul from my physical body. I actually witnessed myself rising as a spirit looking down on my body. It was still staring adamantly at the dancing and hollering shaman.

The barbarians moved to encircle me. The charmer was the only man who was not naked, wearing a loin cloth and bundles of animal skin. He inspected me closely: sniffing, pondering, and poking. That was the only moment I saw there were other prisoners. The two of them were brought out with the same zombie movements that my body made. They were both of the Regni tribe, clean shaved and tattoo-less. The Silurians had tattoos, but small and usually reserved to their chests. Saxons had long Slavic beards and small marks on their arms. I was too far to notice any details, but it felt that there were other souls around me. I tried to talk, but found no sound came out of my mouth. This was my first hand experience of dark enchantment. I kept repeating in my mind: "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. We beseech thee through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. From the snares of the devil, Deliver us, O Lord." As I attempted to say this, the shaman might have caught on to my life line. I know God would help me in this time of need, but the only thing blocking my prayer was the shaman's magic. The chanting barbarians continued to march towards my body.

"You are a fighter, I can tell!" The same old shaman shouted in British. "Well, if I can't talk it out of you, then we'll have to take, it out of you." The same smug smile that grinned over Numitz' face bore into this man's. Oh how badly I wanted to kill every last one of those demons, but unless I could escape, there would be no hope. One thing that was kept however was my determination to live.

I could not talk, and therefore could not pray. I repeated the lines over and over until a crack of my voice came back. The shaman burned some kind of incense that made my throat dry. It also sent a cold tendril up my spine to the base of my neck. It felt like the slithering evil of Satan's Sin climbing aboard a mortal being in order to drag him away from God's mercy. These few moments were absolute torture, because my mind told my body to give in. Fire and brimstone seemed to burn in my heart. The Devil ushered my voice to shout yes. The pureness ushered my voice to shout no. This battle would be fought in my psyche. I am a man of God, and I will crush down all enemies of my Church. The moment I felt my spirit had gone far enough from the shaman's magic, my spirit went back to my physical being. I guess heaven didn't accept me just yet.

I repeated the same lines, and actually heard my own voice amidst the rhythmic music. "Deliver Us, O Lord!" And the shaman drove his blade into my breast. My screams could not fill the forest with more pain. Blood stained the already soaking shirt, and the agony was unbearable. I caved the man's face in with a single punch. "You shall not be my end! Deign, Oh great Lord, to grant us thy powerful protection and to keep us safe and sound. We beseech thee through Jesus Christ Our Lord." I yelled at the top of my lungs.

Suddenly, white men came in from the trees with beaming armor and weapons. They seemed to glide through the air and only aimed to destroy the Caledonians. "And the Lord shall deliver thee!" I heard behind me through the grove. It was a deep, commanding voice, spoken in perfect British. Later I was told it was King Daniel. Another voice claimed that the prisoners were friendly. These glimmering Angels, was what I called them at that time, tore apart the unarmored barbarians with the power of God himself. Blood and carnage was everywhere as the lustrous warriors killed anything that moved. The Caledonians put up a worthy fight with sticks and fists, but victory was not awarded to them this day. I did not realize my depletion of strength. A man, by the name of Antares, which I was later told, took me on his horse and led me back through the woodland. I believe he was a monk. As the gentle trotting of the mare lullaby me to sleep, I lost track of time and drifted into the world of dreams.

Chapter 3:"Faith shows him the path, and prevents him from straying into the lightless thickets where insanity awaits. To lose faith is to lose purpose, and to be bereft of guidance."

Dyrham is a castle. Nay, it is a fortress. It rests above a rocky quarry, and a hilled terrain. The southern wall was built on top of a fifty meter cliff, while the fortification itself stood twenty meters high. And the towers rose even higher than that. Spread about eighty meters apart, the turrets swelled to nearly twenty more meters above the walls. Massive stoned structures and the sound of marching could keep anyone except for the keenest invaders out. Upon arrival of Dyrham, the sun had yet to show itself. The morning mist along the ramparts gave the eerie feeling of a ghost castle. It was anything but. Behind the colossal walls life was teeming. Many peasants and nobles alike lived in Dyrham, hoping to save themselves from the Saxon onslaught. Perhaps the current celebrity to live within the castle today is King Cynlas.

I got up drowsily from a nearby abbey overlooking the castle. Through the window I noticed the stunningly gorgeous structure looming in the distance. I knew a lot about this castle since I was a boy. It is the "Castle of Fame". It is where all the heroes ever lived will live and forever will stay. Arthur Pendragon, Gildas of Mercia, Ida of Bernicia, Aelle of Sussex, and dozens more have all lived and prospered in that very castle. I was blessed to be this close, and blessed if I ever get the chance to enter it.

"Ah! So I see you know the Castle Dyrham!" The voice behind me startled me, but it was so merry, I barely took notice.

"Yes, Father Antares," I replied. Turning around, and donning a bright smile, he nodded happily. He brought food through the door into the quiet cell in which I stayed the night for.

"Well, well then. You are now a scholar!" Chuckled the poor old monk. I had high respect for the man. He had such sadness in his eye, such pain. Any veteran of war could instantly tell, but Antares chose to hide the suffering. I only hoped he opened to the Lord when he deemed it fit not to willingly share with another man.

"I am terribly sorry for all your time I have wasted, Father." I quickly blurted. Subsequently, he smiled. "I mean, you healed me, gave me a room... with a view much less!"

"It's the least I could do for a fellow devotee."

"Thank you." The bandages were right. An impressive amount of blood that stained the cloth still was displayed.

Antares' expression filled with memory. "You know, I do wish it were the Angels of God that saved you last night."

"They weren't?" I questioned.

"No. Commanded by King David of the Kentishmen, the White Knights saved you." He replied with a giggle. "The King told his men, who I followed around being their preacher, that God directed his mission. Everybody had faith in David, but after two days of straight marching, we almost lost hope. That night while camping, we heard drums and screaming. As the men assembled we heard even Christian prayers; your prayers, Ezekiel." So God had not abandoned me after all.

"How do you know my name again?" I wondered. "Sorry for intruding..."

"No worries, boy. I asked you, and you replied. It was the only way I could keep you conscious until we arrived at the abbey." Antares slowly made his way to the small wooded cabinet and set the tray of food on top.

"I don't really remember... anything after the King David charged the camp." I touched my dressings again.

"Oh yes. I thought so. Not one of his knights was injured. Not only that, but we did not even know the Caledonians came this far south. As we speak King David speaks with Cynlas in Dyrham." Smiling, he left me to myself. After I consumed the bread and soup, I prayed for forgiveness and gratitude. I really felt guilty for the Antares. I knew monks did not receive more food than needed, and I deduced he probably gave me his lunch this day.

After swearing to pay the man back someday, I took my tunic and leather drawers. The only goal I had in mind was to visit Dyrham. I took the scenic view, walking on the west wing, facing the shores of Britain. And yes, from the open windows of the abbey, you could see the British Channel. The green meadows dipped sharply to yellow beaches and blue ocean. This, in my opinion, was the absolute most perfect spot for a monastery. It was fit for heaven itself. I reached a flight of stairs, routing me to the front gates, but it was filled with monks. I saw Antares in the midst of the crowd. A man in Silurian chainmail was desperately trying to control his frightened warhorse.

"Stop! No! Antares! He is an ally!" I shouted out of panic. The Silurian reared his horse and backed away from the crowd. It had seemed the monks, carrying their makeshift weapons did not even attack the soldier. I should not call it a warhorse even. It was only a mare. Nobody turned to face me, they only parted. Their heads were bowed as I passed through the aisle.

"Are you of the Regni Clan?" The Silurian asked in partial Britain. He dismounted his horse and displaced his helmet, but kept his sword drawn. The red came signified royalty, but I believed it to be fallacy.

"You should put that toy away, before you hurt yourself, boy." I dictated in perfect Silurian. The young warrior did look like a boy, not even into his twenties yet, thus analogical to his young mare. "What is your name?"

"I am sorry, sir." He stammered, sheathing his sword. The boy had trouble saying the word "sir". "My name is Herald. Son of-"

"King Bran of Siluria. Where is your entourage?" I demanded. The Prince probably did not have anyone else talk to him that way. I scared the rascal I believe. He looked over his shoulder when I reminded him of his Royal Bodyguard.

"I rode ahead, to deliver the message myself." Herald quickly retorted, keeping an eye on a young monk with a pike in hand.

"What message?"

"Saxons, eight thousand strong, and Caledonians, two thousand strong are two days march from Dyrham; with speed, one day." I gave Herald my sword, which he bagged on his mare, and took place behind him.

"We ride to Dyrham."

Herald merely nodded and galloped away from the stone abbey. There was a clear path that led towards the castle, facing its western entrance. The fortress looked impregnable, but I would be soon disproved. The south wall was protected by a sheer drop cliff, the north wall defended by the most elite guards in all of Britain, the east wall had a vantage point over a square league of flat land, and finally the west had rows of ramparts and an army of White Knights on the horizon.

We gained unrestricted access into the beautiful castle. As I dismounted from the Prince's horse, we made our way to the doors of the palace. Another wooden gate separated the outer walls from the inner walls. From above, I imagined the castle to be a square shape circumscribed about a series of circles. The smallest circle was being the Palace, and the largest was the commercial region. I passed through many merchant stalls, inns, apprentice halls, and homes on my way to the gate. Some peasants cheered at the Prince's arrival, but I was relatively unknown. A man walking with only a tunic and tights did not win as much renown as a fully dressed and armed Prince.

The gates opened majestically as soon as the guards saw Herald. I could hear the faint gallops of what I suspected to be the boy's bodyguard as soon as the conduit closed. Herald turned to me and smiled. We finally entered the Keep. My prayers were answered, for I now walked where Heroes of past walked. I was embarrassed, being not dressed for the occasion, but the situation was dire. The Prince seemed calm enough, but he was only a boy looking for fame or battle. King Bran, King Cynlas, and King David all sat at a wide table, drinking water and pondering over a laid out map.

"Lord 'Numitz' of Regni is a coward. Did you hear, he abandoned his men at Winchester! He will find an excuse not to commit. I promise you that," said the deep voice that I heard last night. It was of King David. David reigned over Eastern Britain, or Kent. They specialized in their elite Cavalry corps. In combination with Regni spears, the alliance was a double threat.

"Is the rest of your armies in western Regnenses this cowardly, King Cynlas?" This man's demeanor was accusing, yet slightly pleading. Worry with a tint of hatred. It was full of bravery, but withdrawn and lonesome. King Bran of the Dorsaetas tribe, the oldest ally of Regni. It was surprising that he would use such a tone against his own brother. Of course they were not blood brothers, but Kings of alliances were considered family. The Dorsaetas tribe controlled Central Britain, and therefore had the most trouble defending their lands. Then again, it was not surprising that he had such an outburst. He was a kind man; I would come to know, and cared for his people deeply. All these men cared for their people.

"Nay! We defend our coasts every morning and night against these Saxons! I have no forces to recall except for our tribesmen in the woods of this region here. And even then they only venture to gather wood and stone for our defenses. Forgive me Bran, but my army is not what it used to be!" Inspiring, yet smart. King Cynlas. He ruled over the entire Regni territory, which were West Britain and all its coasts. The three most powerful men in Britain all in their evening gowns discussing plans in front of me was a blessing. I was graced greatly enough to be in their halls, but to be in their presence!

"Father! I return with a Silurian... General?" Herald suddenly interrupted. The men's faces were weary, but slightly relieved at the little misunderstanding.

"I am sorry for the misunderstanding. But I am not Silurian," I quickly interjected. Herald glared at me accusingly. "My name is Ezekiel of the Regni. I overheard you talking about Numitz."

"Yes. That filthy coward." King Cynlas replied. He obviously was as hateful of the man as me. I did also believe Numitz turned out nation into a blubbering pile of lazy idiots. Men like that should be burned on the stake.

"Well I led the detachment that was ordered to cover his retreat. I believe I am the only survivor."

"How can you prove this? Where is your armor, your weapons, man?" I was not surprised at King Bran's suspiciousness. His fathers before him had been betrayed too many times in previous trusts. Bran would not make the mistake of repeating their stupidity.

"I can vouch for him," spoke King David. "I led my army through the forests of Winchester looking for this man. God led me to him, and I liberated him from the prisoner camp the Caledonians held him in. If it not were for this man, I would not have discovered the army of those beasts I have come to tell you about just now." The man still had his helmet on the floor, and the heavy bright white armor under the table. I could see now why I had mistaken him for Saint Michael. He looked at me with fierce respect. He too was Christian, and I gave a bow of thanks.

"I understand. Ezekiel of Regni, I give you two hundred of my men. You will hold the south wall from the Saxons. You have experience with the bow?" Cynlas ordered. He leaned over the table and handed me a folded note.

"Yes, sir," I bowed and took the note.

"Good. Fifty of them are archers. Give this to Lord Gildas."

I gaped in excitement as he said the name. After being dismissed by the three Kings, I went off in search for Gildas, Darkness Bane, and Champion of Dorsaetas. He was half the man in battle, due to his old age, but his mind had not faltered for a second. His strategic planning actually sharpened even more with experience. I found him in the Palace Library at a table with a middle age officer.

"Ha! Victor, you are getting old!" Ironically, Victor had brown curly hair and an outstanding demeanor. He sat straight up, but I knew he had no skill at Halcyon.

"Lord Gildas?" Both men looked at me. Victor stood up, as if to defend the man. The old man seemed to read me, much like a I read people. We looked eyes for a moment. I was about to apologize for the disrespect but the old Hero responded first.

"Well met, friend. I am this 'Lord Gildas' you speak of," the man said. With whiting gray hair, and thinning muscles, it seemed almost impossible that this man fought through an army of Saxons in a cave with nobody else but his four companions. They call him Darkness Bane because of this. He also commanded the men that defended Fishbourne palace from Caledonian siege, giving him the title Champion. Throughout his life, he moved from town to town, giving aid and defending strategic points when needed. All his experience would lead up to this point. His final battle was afoot.

"Lord Cynlas told me to give this to you," and I handed him the note. After a moment of quiet contemplation, the old man stood up and walked past me.

"Come, Ezekiel of Regni. We must prepare."

And so we did. I addressed my new army of three-hundred, and with it, a promotion. I felt proud of my new responsibility, but had that shadow looming over my figure. The shadow of what was to come. Faith had guided me true so far, but will it help me again? God is great, god is good, and we thank him for our food. But will he save our lives when most appropriate? I believe so. He saved mine.

I perched on the innermost wall as the new day came, spectating the business of Dyrham's worried citizens. The first tier of the castle, the commercial center, was tiled with black roofs. It was teeming with moving bodies and very little noise. The second tier contained a white barrier of calm. Few guards inhabited the crosswalls, but it served as a defense purpose only. The original design of the crosswalls could only be described as an obtuse V shape. The angle pointed toward the east end of the castle, while the basin faced the west. The strategy was that men would try to file into the gate as fast as possible. But when met with a bottleneck, the archer ports could half clear shots on the enemy. It was ingenious, and developed by Gildas himself. Behind the crosswall were the barracks and tents belonging to our faithful warriors. Silurians, Kents, Dorsaetas and Regni alike were all encamped to defend their Kings. Gildas and I calculated five hundred expert bowmen from Siluria; three hundred White Knights from Kent, as well as another detachment of four hundred spearmen; a thousand swordsmen and archers from the Dorsaetas; and an army of spears from the Regni, eight-hundred strong. A thousand archers, twenty-two hundred men on foot, and four hundred men on cavalry defended the castle of Dyrham. We also took in account of the peasants, who were equally as important to the warriors. There were about ten-thousand farmers, traders, and specialists living a normal life behind the walls, but they had to be extracted from their homes and transported to the nearest town, Badbury.

Such a castle was always built in the popular board game, Halcyon. Its black and white striped board symbolized the different tiers of a castle, and each player had to move their troops, archers, and cavalry accordingly in order to capture the fourth tier of the enemy's keep. Gildas was the genius at it, he practically invented the game. Although it was imported as a game from Rome before even Christ was born, Gildas had managed to learn its secrets and infinite strategies. The old strategist put the Dorsaetas swordsmen and archers on the northern wall. It did not have a cliff, and was most susceptible to siege weapons by the Caledonians. They were sure to bring ladders, which were probably given to them by the Saxons. I was placed in charge of three hundred out of eight hundred Regni spearmen. The rest would wait at the cross gates, for horn that would call them for reinforcements. A man by the name of Herod, Champion of the Silurians was given one, the Dorsaetas Champion, Gildas was given one, and I, God's Man, of the Regni was given one. They all had different tones, which denoted the gate they would run to. I did not want to be the one to signal the call.

With my full battle armor, shield, spatha and spear, I stood waiting. My men were also vigilant. Thankfully, not as young as the previous band of men I commanded, but equally as energetic. These Royal Guards had flashy yellow chainmail and skirts that looked pretty, but was questionable in battle. I did not want to test my men's mettle, for if they failed, it would mean death. This was a battle forced upon us, you see. And we were prepared.

The Northern wall was guarded by Dorsaetas. The Eastern wall was guarded by my army and me spear. The Southern wall was guarded by Siluria. The Western wall was guarded by Kent. We were a small band, yet experienced and ready. I could not say for our enemy, but we would soon find out.

The first signs of Saxons came about early morning. Mist still had befallen the country, which gave them the opportunity to sneak on our archers. The white clouds always came from the ocean, and with that, Saxon landing parties. They had waited until last night to depart, I reckon, knowing the morning mist would hide their attack. But we had it covered. We dug ditches around the castle walls to the south, ensuring their advance to be a noisy one. Silurian archers opened fire before the Saxons even caught a glimpse of Dyrham. The second attack came from the east. I could hear war drums, and the footfalls of thousands of men nearing. The Saxon army that I had encountered in my deployment in Winchester with Numitz had come back. It seemed the spirits and ghouls of Satan's army came back from the depths of my memory. The black robed spearmen were thrown at us to test our strength. They brought small siege ladders. We fired no arrows, and spilled no blood, except to throw down the ladders they had cast. The Caledonians did not show yet.

When the nebula cleared, the Silurians could see the entire Saxon army. I was told it was massive, maybe eight-thousand strong. With the eight-thousand we had at our wall, the enemy had a five to one man ratio. We watched the Silurian bows shoot volley after volley at the advancing Saxon army. They could not hope to scale the wall, so they took a detour west into the Kents.

The dark figured Saxons charged our wall with ladders and ballistae. It only took a moment for their massive arrows to reach us, but thankfully only three existed in their ranks. Devoid of targets, the Silurians quickly moved to our wall and fired onto our targets. Men cheered and sang with joy. When the first Saxon climbed over the ladder, my men were ready. With spears out and shields up, Saxon men fell be the dozens. Whether impaled by the porcupine of iron or harassing rain, their casualties skyrocketed. Then a lucky ballista brought down a tower. A few archers had not yet bailed out when it fell. Those were our first casualties. In a cloud of rubble and stone, the Saxons redirected their attack on the breeched wall. If the Saxons poured in from the walls, and the hole, there would not be enough men to hold the first tier.

The Silurians retreated to higher ground as axmen and berserkers with spears blotted the beautiful city like ink. I flew down the stairs and dove at the first Saxon I saw. The men were invigorated. Having thrown my spear at the crowd of men, which I saw pierced the man through his breast, I drew my spatha. It is a short iron sword, perfect for messy fights like these. My men tried to surround the horde and contain the leak, but it was no use. Soon I would have to call in my brethren. My sword lanced a berserker through the neck, and cut another at his waist. I placed my shield over my head and blocked a blow from a stone club that could have crushed every bone in my skull. Around me men of different ranks fell. In the heat of battle, only kills counted. We could not train for this type of psychological impact. Officers were regular soldiers who forced themselves to think straight when in dire situations. That is what separates leaders from the average.

God's will was exacted on this blasphemous filth. I severed many limbs, and hewed many men that hour. The detachment of about a hundred or so spearmen I ordered to seal the gap was dwindling to fifty. I took a place behind my men and sent a scared boy to bring help from Dorsaetas. We retreated into the commercial section. A few minutes had passed, and by then I didn't know the spread of the Saxon fire. The Silurians had reached the crosswall safely, and I was about the sound the Horn when the Dorsaetas swordsmen arrived. My tired men happily pulled back and switched placed with the fresh. We ran around to cover the swordsmen's flanks. The streets were packed with blood and soldiers. Some Regni spearmen holding Saxons in a narrow alleyway, or a flanking party stopping the ransack of a store. This part of the city was not meant for war. But it was perfect for the Regni. I sounded the horn and made my way through the streets inward. My men and I spotted the furthest Saxon advance, and two hundred strong, we created a shield wall blocking their escape. I ordered the reserve spearmen to defend the wall.

But what I had not foreseen was that it had already fallen. Another lucky ballista missile scored a direct hit and toppled the entire wall. Half of my reserves had disappeared in an instant. The Dorsaetas were farther away, but routed when they saw the wall had collapsed. The happiest thought it my mind was that I was glad to move at the last second. The five hundred spears had come back relatively unscathed and asked for orders. I was trembling at the news, but I had to keep objective. To sound the general retreat, I told them. Another messenger came in to tell me that the Dorsaetas had begun fighting with Caledonians on the north wall. I had to make the decision that would save Dyrham, or destroy it. Should I rescue the surrounded Dorsaetas, and maybe risk the entire castle, or leave my brothers to die while I save what is left of the men? I took a detachment of eighty men and told the rest to sound the general retreat. Some protested, but I told them I had to do the right thing.

So I led them to the North wall. The Dorsaetas had our backs to us. And we saw Saxons creeping up the stairs to catch them where their pants are down. I called for Gildas. A group of men surrounding his body looked at me. Their sad, worn expressions told it all. So as I screamed for my men to attack, I laid the path. Every Saxon climbing those stairs was touched by my sword at least once. Rage took me over as I saw the fallen Hero on the castle walls. I looked down at the Caledonians, and then I spit. My shield didn't help me at all now, so I threw it into the mass at the bottom. With the help of a fellow Dorsaeta, we carried Gildas' body safely into the crosswall gates. It was a rough journey, being attacked from all sides by Saxons and Caledonians, but nobody else touched him. I looked back on the wall from the stairs that led to the division between the black and white stripe: it was flooding with savages. The rescued Dorsaetas thanked me for my bravery, but I did it because Gildas was in that battalion. He was the risk that I took.

Eight hundred Dorsaeta footmen had survived: four hundred swordsmen and four hundred archers. As for my army, only six hundred spears remained. When I entered the keep carrying Gildas' corpse, the surviving warriors led me into the keep. They asked if I wanted a replacement. Someone could wear my army, a man volunteered. I denied. I wanted revenge.

The crosswall gates were now closed. The Stone of Saturn, it was called, after the Roman god. No enemy of the Regni, Dorsaetas, Kent, or Siluria had ever crossed this holy strip of land. The only way they could enter now was via the thick wooden gates. It was supported with iron and bronze bracing, much like the Romans did. Invulnerable to conventional weapons, but can break down over time. As I came back out to the courtyard, I saw all the men assembled again. The Silurian archers crammed on the walls due to the fact that no other siege weapons could be brought to bear. Any other infantry took positions with tips at the gate. It was a sight to behold.

For the next few hours, enemy after enemy broke themselves against our walls. Thousands of Saxons and thousands of Caledonians working in unison still failed to break through. We so smoke pyres rise from the commercial section, they were plundering it. The Stone of Saturn did not fall. But it was late in the evening and I could see that the Silurians had run out of missiles. We parted the gate. I think the enemy was surprised at that, as we no longer took defensive position. Their numbers dwindled so much that we reckoned that this risk was safe. Swordsman, spearmen and pike men all rushed out of the gate to seek and destroy. I personally led the second wave.

Gildas eventually awoke to find himself in our infirmary, alive and well. He owed his life to me, and after claiming he should actually be dead, passed the title of Champion. We had defended Dyrham from the attacking Saxons and Caledonians, defending our Kings and our people. Many warriors had died this day, but their deaths were not in vain. Not only had I been awarded the title, but I had inherited the reputation. Champion of Britain, they call me, all because I saved a man. They claimed I saved Britannia. I kept her culture and her vibrant beating heart of British warriors and peasants away from the gnawing jaws of terror and paganism. My warriors are faithful, and we had prevailed. It was the will of God, I knew. From birth I was devout, and until death I am devout. God's will, always prevails.