The King of England will stop at nothing to prevent the fulfilment of a prophecy he receives whilst at war in Scotland. Even if that means committing genocide against the Celtic people.
Armed with the power of the Celtic Deities they have descended...
"We... have... won." Edward fell to his knees as the strained words barely left his lips. The syrupy mire clung to his armour as he lay in it, exhausted from the battle that had just taken place. The imperial army had triumphed over Clan Carlyle, so the lands of Caer-Luil now belonged to the King of England.
"To your feet Prince Edward." The Knight Commander of the King's guard, Firmin, emerged from the ashen fog that had consumed the battlefield. A miasma of rotten flesh stung the back of his throat as he spoke, clinging to the stale air around him.
A sharp pain hit Edward's stomach with the intensity of a steel-tipped arrow, causing him to paint the boggy ground below him a crimson red. It appeared that the copious volume of wine he had drunk before the battle had made a reappearance. The Commander solemnly shook his head as he began to help Edward to his feet.
"Come on lad, your father wants to see you," said Firmin sympathetically. He had trained Prince Edward in the way of the sword since he was old enough to hold one, and seeing him alive after such a bloody battle brought an acute sense of relief. Using the last of his strength, Edward wiped the vomit from his blood-stained face, and uneasily stood to his feet.
"Firmin, we have won," he repeated wearily, leaning heavily on his mentor for support. The pair were a stark contrast to one another, this was Edward's first battle, and the horrors of war had not yet consumed his youth. It was too late for Firmin, having served Athelstan for 15 years.
He had committed countless atrocities in the name of the Butcher King, and it showed. No signs of life peered from his restless eyes, as if his soul had exited his body long ago. Pronounced wrinkles surrounded his eyes, intertwining with the deep creases along his forehead, each wrinkle like an abstract brushstroke painted on the canvass of his face.
"Let's get you looking more presentable," said Firmin wiping the pooled blood from under Edward's eyes and rustling his matted ginger hair into a semblance of normality. They set off towards the mound in the distance, where Athelstan had perched for the entirety of the battle. Looking up for the first time, Edward felt the urge to vomit again as he surveyed the aftermath of the chaos.
A few Englishmen wandered gauntly through the sea of corpses - awash of tartan, iron chainmail, and leathered hides with demonic horns -prodding anything that groaned or whined with the sharp end of their swords.
They continued to trudge through the mud and the bodies till their eyes were drawn by the carcass of an enormous bull. Arrows littered its body and a silver-tipped spear pierced through its imposing skull, making it appear as though it had three horns.
Edward gasped, "The Chief of Clan Carlyle... is dead." As soon as he said it he noticed the mass of deceased English soldiers strewn around the bull, probably fifty in total. Each bore a mortal wound that could have only been inflicted by the bull, their armour was torn through like the scar left by a cannonball fired against a castle wall.
Firmin felt divided between relief and despair as he recalled inflicting the fatal blow on Carlyle, slowly watching the fiery blaze in his eyes fade from existence. Yet, he could not forget witnessing the bull rampage through his comrades that lay before him, who now served as nothing but nourishment for the soil they would soon return to.
His innocence had long since been shattered, but he was still human. Nightmares of past wars relentlessly plagued his disturbed slumber, and surely the scenes he was witnessing now would further add to his torment.
Lies. All of it. Peace... a mere illusion to justify slaughter. It only serves to give hope to the powerless.
Like all noble-born families, Firmin's upbringing indoctrinated him with the notion that nobility were chosen by God as special peoples; with the King as the righteous leader and ruler of all men. He remembered listening to Athelstan's grand speeches as a child. Talk of the monsters across the border, how they killed innocent women and children, and the brave Knights that were sent away to fight them. Firmin watched the armies of silver soldiers march to war with adoration, swearing that he would grow to be the strongest Knight that ever lived. He would defend the weak. Thrust his sword into his enemies. How naive, he thought as his mind wondered back to his childhood.
He grunted, pulling Edward away from the bull towards the direction of the King.
*****
"My son... I had feared you had not survived." Athelstan had a vacant look plastered on his face, his insincerity clear to all those around him. He reluctantly cast his line of sight down to the foot of the mound, looking at his son who had crumbled from exhaustion.
"With royal blood flowing in your veins, I expected more of you Edward."
"Father..." said Edward unable to formulate a response.
"Guards, get him to his tent, but first throw him in the river and wash that putrid smell off his body," the King exclaimed whilst turning his nose up in disgust.
"My King." Firmin knelt on one knee in front of Athelstan. "This has been a decisive victory for the crown, Caer-Luil now belongs to you."
"It has always belonged to me," snapped Athelstan. "We have simply removed the beasts that inhabited it," he began to gesture dismissively. "Leave me at once."
Firmin once again performed a deep bow, and set off with two of the other guards, carrying the now unconscious Edward off towards the river. The King took one last gaze over the wasteland.
"Hmmph, filthy animals," he muttered under his breath. "Send out a party of twenty fresh men and execute any stragglers," he barked at the remaining knights that stood before him. "I want to ensure any remnants of this clan are scourged from my land!"
"Yes, my liege," one of the Knight's said agreeably, leaving for the encampment below.
Athelstan was not particularly tall or muscular, but his sculpted golden armour gave the impression of immense power. Few dared gaze in his direction, let alone set eyes on his chiselled features. Blazing red hair exploded from the top of his head, consuming the adorning crown that perched upon it, like ivy that clambers up the trunk of a great oak. He returned to his imperial tent in the centre of the sprawling English camp. It sprung up through the river of cloth that surrounded it, emanating its dominance over the others.
Nervously waiting for the King in his Chambers was a young servant boy, around sixteen. The King did not acknowledge him upon entering but extended his arms allowing his servant to remove his armour. The boy trembled as he untied the weathered leather straps that bound the armour to the King's body. The first right arm piece was removed and suddenly clattered the ground.
"Careful boy, this armour is worth more than your life ten times over." Athelstan's words were full of malice as he barked them in the direction of the servant. Tears welled in the boy's eyes as his shaking intensified, this was not going to be an easy task.
Without further incident, the servant left with his life-and the King's regal armour-intact. Tired from the successful day and a belly full of wine, Athelstan began to retire for the evening.
*****
I wonder if this chapter can get more votes than the Clan Cheif of Carlyle had arrows stuck in his side?
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