Chapter 1

The King was dead. Dead at the hands of his own son if the latest rumours were to be believed. Arthur had led his force of Celts into battle against the hated Picts on the field by Gifford Water in Lothian, his wizard, Merlin, overseeing all from the slopes of the nearby Lammer Law hill.

Reports suggested that Merlin must have foreseen the tragedy that was about to unfold for he had cried out piteously across the battlefield and had been seen to turn and stagger away into the wilderness. Arthur's troops had been shaken by the desertion of their magical talisman and had noticeably faltered against their foes.

The story described Arthur as being in the thickest of the battle, his mighty sword Excalibur flashing as it smote the Picts left and right. He was tall and muscular, his long black hair streamed out behind him and eyewitnesses claimed he grinned as if he revelled in the fighting. All that had changed with the appearance of an equally tall, muscular and black haired opponent.

"Mordred, my son!" Arthur was reported to have cried.

The newcomer had taken advantage of Arthur's surprise and had struck a single blow, his sword going in low and piercing the King's belly. Arthur recovered and Excalibur had flashed once more, a mighty blow that arced into Mordred's exposed neck, killing him instantly.

After that, the King had sunk to his knees and was overrun by the force of more Picts pressing forward. The disappearance of Merlin and the fall of the King had been more than the Celts could take and they had quickly yielded the field to the Picts, streaming southwards in their efforts to get away.

No one knew what had happened to Arthur's body or to Excalibur.

A young man, perhaps all of sixteen years of age, sat in front of the village campfire and listened to the various accounts of the battle and the death of the much loved king. He had tears in his eyes as he remembered how the king had looked on the few occasions he had been close enough to see him.

Arthur, King of the Britons, had worked hard to unite all of the Celts into a force to be reckoned with. From Cornwall, through Wales, here in Dalriada and in his own lands of Lothian, where fate had decided his end. The King had a vision of a strong Britain, a free Britain and he stirred the hearts of all those who listened to him, inspiring them to follow him.

He had been successful in no small part, successful in defeating the Angles and Saxons, successful in driving off the Picts. A mighty leader indeed, always leaning on the advice and support of Merlin, always with his band of trusted knights, winning victory after victory, seemingly unbeatable. And now he was dead. What now for the Celts, for the Britons? And where had Merlin gone?

The boy's name was Eoric. Like the rest of the Celts in Dalriada he had viewed Arthur as almost a god, the saviour of their people, the one who would lead them into security and prosperity. Now he mourned the loss.

Around him, the men of the village talked about what they might expect next. It was more than likely that the Picts would follow up their victory by sweeping the country to harry and slay as many of the Celts as possible. Broken, dispersed and demoralised, they would view the Celts as easy pickings now.

"We should go up into the hills, round up our stock and move to the higher ground," said one of the elders.

"Aye, it will be safer there, but Arthur counselled us that the greater safety was in numbers, uniting, not breaking up into smaller groups so the Picts can pick us off," said another

"It will be hard to stand against them now, with the Arthur gone. Who will unite us?" asked a third.

"What of Merlin? What about Arthur's knights, surely one from their ranks will rise and take the lead?" asked Eoric.

The elders peered at him over the fire, surprised that one so young dared to speak. This was frowned upon and even though he had asked reasonable questions, Eoric could sense the resentment coming from the older men. It was perhaps only due to the fact that he had some standing in the village that he wasn't openly and harshly rebuked. Eoric was training to be a blacksmith and blacksmiths were difficult to find in seventh century Britain. But in the year 614AD there was a strictly enforced order to the ways of life in a village, a hierarchy that had to be obeyed and sixteen year olds were somewhat low in the pecking order.

"Hmph, don't get ideas above your station laddie," said one of the elders.

Eoric could see he was about to get himself into deeper trouble so he stood and wandered away from the fire, thinking his own thoughts about what the future might hold. He took his blanket with him and found a sheltered spot under a large bush, making himself comfortable.

He was an orphan, both of his parents having succumbed to one of the all too common outbreaks of fever and illness that periodically swept through the villages. He was intelligent, sharp witted and an independent thinker, qualities that often got him into trouble with his elders and betters.

He made connections, saw things that others didn't and with the impetuousness of youth, couldn't stop himself from pointing things out to people. He meant well, was always trying to improve things for the village that he lived in, that sometimes provided him with food and shelter. But the fact that he was young and outspoken caused some to look on him less than kindly. As a result he hadn't been allocated one of the rickety buildings that passed for houses in the village, only managing to shelter from the cold and rain in one of the sheds used for the livestock.

The blacksmith who was training Eoric had offered to take him in, but there was a deep sense of loyalty to his dead parent's village that stopped him from leaving it. He lay now in the darkness of the May night and pictured King Arthur as he remembered him once more. The image of Merlin, with his long silver hair and beard, also popped into his head as he drifted off to sleep.

Wild cries of alarm and a woman's screams woke Eoric from his sleep. He shook his head to try and clear the fog from his mind and sat up, immediately taking in the scene. Dawn was breaking and with it, the Picts had descended on the village. There were around forty of them and they were sweeping through the houses, slaughtering the people they found indiscriminately.

Burning torches were being thrown onto the thatched roofs and the dry reeds caught fire quickly, spreading flames and smoke to add to the devastation and confusion the Picts were creating.

Eoric leapt to his feet and lifted his one and only prized possession in his hand. The sword had taken him many hours to fashion and he was proud of the workmanship he had put into it. Until now he had never had cause to use the blade, but that was about to change as he rushed forward to try and help one of the womenfolk who was being dragged from a hut by two swarthy Picts.

One of the Picts had a crude axe and the other a sword. Eoric decided the sword was the more dangerous and he struck the man holding it from behind, feeling his own blade jar his wrist as it cut to the bone on the Pict's shoulder. The savage dropped his sword and fell to the ground with a scream, the amount of blood erupting from the wound suggesting Eoric had severed a main vessel.

The second savage let go his hold on the woman and turned on Eoric, raising his axe above his head. Eoric was strong from his blacksmith work, but had no training with the sword and it was perhaps that fact that saved him. He thrust forward with his blade in a highly unorthodox attack, taking the Pict by surprise and skewering him up to the hilt of the sword. Eoric felt the warm blood flow over his fist and up close, he saw the life spark in the man's eyes extinguish.

The screaming of the first Pict attracted the attention of his fellow savages and several ran towards Eoric. The young man quickly took in the fact that all was lost in the village and chose that moment to make his escape. He ran as fast as his feet would carry him, through the bushes on the edge of the village and off towards the nearby forest. Two of the Picts gave chase, but Eoric's pace, boosted by the adrenaline of the moment, soon had him outstripping them.

Despite the fact that the sounds of pursuit quickly died away, Eoric continued to run through the forest as fast as he could. His breath was ragged and his chest and lungs felt as if they were on fire, but he ran and ran until he could run no more. After several miles he collapsed, wheezing and gulping for air, his legs suddenly rubbery. Eoric rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky, trying to control his breathing and listening for any sounds that might suggest he was still being chased. He glanced sideways and looked at the bloody sword in his hand and the rapidly drying Pictish gore covering his hand and wrist.

The sight brought back all the detail of his attack on the two men and the realisation that he had killed them began to seep into his mind. He was surprised to find there was no remorse, no regret, only satisfaction that he had fought back and tried to help his village.

"I need to make my way to the summer shielings," he thought to himself, "If anyone else survived, that's where they'll head."

After a few more minutes recuperating, he felt rested enough to get back on his feet and continue on his way. His village was close to the banks of Loch Awe and he knew he had to head north, up Glen Strae to where the high summer pastures were. The walk was perhaps three miles, but much of it up steep hillside, crossing the shoulder of Beinn Lurachan.

Chapter 2 »