Excerpt: Cyngen (working title)

Chapter 1 - Homecoming

In the dull gray light of an overcast morning, Cyngen map Eudaf rode through the village at the bottom of the hill from his childhood home of Dun Eudaf. It had changed much from what he remembered but then Saxons had been consistently raiding this area for the last year and war has a way of changing the landscape. Lands that were once a patchwork of small, well-tended fields and meadows full of sheep were now covered with heather and gorse. There were a few sparse crops on the outskirts of the village but they were poorly tended. The sheep were gone. There were a few in pens within the village but the large herds, once prominent in the area, were gone as far as her could tell.

Villagers stopped to stare as he rode through. There were no welcoming smiles or waves. All were hard-faced and haggard. It was no longer the friendly place of his boyhood memories.

Cyngen’s father, Eudaf Hir, had fostered him with King Dunwal Moelmut’s seneschal of Din Guardi for training with arms at the age of seven when it became apparent that he had a talent for the sword. Cyngen had returned to visit his family periodically over the last eleven years but he had not been back within the last two. He had been fighting the ever encroaching Saxons for Bryneich’s king and time away from the field had been fleeting.

Cyngen knew from the few messages he had received from his mother that his father had been holding out against the Saxons. Dun Eudaf had become a place of refuge for the farming settlements in the area when the Saxon raiders pushed through the area. Looking up toward the craggy hill top upon which his family’s home of Dun Eudaf sat, the small hill fort seemed unusually dark and desolate. It was hard to tell from this distance and angle but something was wrong with the battlements and it seemed deserted to Cyngen.

“My lord Cyngen? Be it you? The spitting image of your father you are.”

Cyngen reigned in his horse and looked down at the speaker. It took a moment but finally recognized his father’s master huntsman, Pyr. “Good day, Master Pyr. It has been a long time.”

A smile crossed Pyr’s face and he bobbed his head. “Aye it has, my lord. Happy it is to see you. No longer the boy who left here but a man, a harden warrior by the look of you. We had thought you dead battling Saxons for King Dunwal. Have you come to stay? To rebuild and take command of your birthright?”

Cyngen puzzled paused and then, glancing up at the dun, asked, “So it is abandoned then? Where is my father?”

Pyr’s face fell. “You know not? My lord, we buried him along with your mother and sisters after the Saxons broke their assault and left. We sent word to Din Guardi but when no message came back, we thought you dead. We’ve carried on here but raiders come often. There’s hardly anything to left to live on. Many families have started leaving, either for Trapain Law to the north or for Rheged to the west….” Pyr’s voice trailed off and he looked around helplessly.

Cyngen dismounted and placed his hand on the older man’s thin shoulder, “It has been two years since my last visit, old man. I last had word from my family just over a year ago. Tell me what has happened here.”

Pyr, his voice shaking, nodded, “My lord, I wish the gods had given you some other messenger for these tidings. Come, I will show you the state of things and where your family lays.” Turning Pyr led the way along the path up the hill toward the desolate hill fort telling the tale of Eudaf Hir’s last stand as he walked.

The Saxons had come with an army eleven months previous, not just a raiding party, and Eudaf Hir and his men were out numbered three to one. The neighboring settlements had crowded within the walls of the small hill fort for defense. During the first week of the siege, the Saxons constantly tested the Briton defenses and two crudely constructed catapults. Once these were ready for use the Saxons had begun lobbing Roman-style incendiaries against the hill fort. The little clay balls were filled with oil and then coated with oil, set alight, and then launched against the fort where they shattered and the oil inside would catch fire. After a day of continuous bombardment, the timbers of the hill fort were burning out of control. The Saxons then brought up battering rams and assaulted both gates of the fort simultaneously. Cyngen’s elder brother had died in the battle at the main gate. It was a hard fought battle but Saxon numbers were too great. By the ninth day they breached the gates and a section of the burned out timber battlements. They set afire the interior building of the hill fort and gave no quarter to those inside. All who could not escape were put to the sword, even the elderly, women, and children. Eudaf Hir and his few remaining people had made their last stand within the walls of the broch that had served as their home.

Cyngen listened to Pyr’s tale as they walked through the blackened ruins of Dun Eudaf. The stone walls of the fort and interior buildings were intact and vitrified but every stick of timber had been burned. The broch had been set afire and then, in berserker frenzy the Saxons had razed the tower and strewn the scorched stones across the hill top. Only the foundation remained.

Pyr’s eyes were bright with tears and his voice cracked, “Those of us who had managed to escape came back once the Saxons had gone. We buried the dead. It was hard to tell who some of them were. I recognized your mother and sisters. They must have stayed with your father in the broch at the end. I could not find your brother’s body. The flames must have taken it….” He gestured helplessly and looked out across the windblown battle ground. “The priest was among the dead. So we dug a barrow and cairn for them at the other side of the hill and buried them in the old way. We were able to put some food and wine in the grave for them to take with them into the otherworld but the Saxons looted everything of value so there was not much else we could add as befit their station.”
Cyngen laid a hand on Pyr’s shoulder in comfort as the old man gave in to his tears and then slowly walked to the barrows that had been dug for the dead. The entrance to the largest round barrow in the center was guarded by large scorched stones taken from the ruined broch. The ogham inscription identified his family members and lineage. Prayers to the local Celtic pagan gods were also offered. In deference to his family’s Christian beliefs, a cross had been carved into the stone header of the entrance. Cyngen traced his fingers over the carving as he read them. He then picked up a stone from the ground, climbed atop the barrow and added it to the cairn. Then giving in to grief and anger, he dropped to his knees and screamed his rage at the sky letting the wind carry his anger to God. Then leaned his forehead against the cairn and let his tears pour forth.

Pyr tended Cyngen’s horse and watched the young warrior grieve, waiting with tears in his own eyes. After a time, the young man’s sobs subsided. He finally sat back and then stared out across the Briton landscape. Night began to fall and lightening flashed across the sky and the wind began to pick up. Pyr approached the barrow, “My lord? A storm is coming. It looks to be harsh. We would do well to take shelter.” When Cyngen did not answer or move, Pyr climbed the barrow and laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “Come, my lord, we should get out of the storm.” Cyngen nodded and stood. When warrior turned to Pyr, the old man felt his blood run cold. Cyngen’s eyes were flat, dark, and filled with the promise of death. Cyngen strode with purpose from the barrow and the hill never once looking back. Pyr followed a respectful distance back leading the horse. “It is better not to get to close to one the gods have touched with such a dark gesa,” the old man thought.

Cyngen stayed with Pyr that night. When the old man arose at sunrise, the warrior was gone. A small purse of silver pitons sat upon the table. Pyr shivered to himself, “Like a ghost into the very teeth of the storm.”