The Wolves of Eidyn

Chapter Preview from my Upcoming Anthology, and a New Reconstruction.

The anthology is now finished. I am pushing back the publishing date by a few weeks, as I was not able to get preview proofs in time for both the Hardback and the Paperback. I apologize for the unfortunately delay, but the new date is set for November 14th. Below is the first glimpse at Arthwys within the anthology, with the Battle of Tribruit featured. I have included a new reconstruction of Garwlwyd as the Chieftain of early theoretical Angle ‘Berserkers’. I hope you enjoy the story, as well as the illustration.

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The Wolves of Eidyn

The sun was pale above the valley of the Tribruit, slanting through the late morning mist in spears of gold and white. The river curved like a silver hook below, swollen from the rain, curling westward where the lands of the Gododdin fell away to peat and forest. Across the river, the host of the Coeling waited.

Bran ap Dyfnwal stood at the edge of their makeshift war camp. The standard of his grandfather Garbanion flapped in the wind, a boar worked in red thread upon a field of grey. A voice from his childhood rose unbidden, words his father had once told him. “If the wind forgets your banner, your men will forget their courage.”

The wind blew. The Boar stood defiant.

Bran was seventeen, the oldest of Dyfnwal’s sons. His lorica was new, his father’s second-best maille, fitted for him by his grandfather’s smiths at Ebrauc, and his sword hung low at his hip. The boy was not yet accustomed to wearing it. He was too untested to ride with his grandfather’s teulu, but not too young to witness.

Mist pooled in hollows, rising off the grass like breath. Across from Garbanion’s warband, Bran could see the Angles gathering, shields in tight ranks, long-handled spears bristling like a thicket of pine. Their lord stood before them on a rise. No banner flew. He wore a wolf-skin mantle, ears still on, the brow matted with frost. His beard was thick. It was whispered that he would feast on the hearts of his defeated enemies.

Garwlwyd, they called him.

Bran’s cousin, Arthwys, sat his horse at the head of the Coeling line. His golden helmet, crested with an array of swan feathers and fine lorica of bronze-scales echoed the Roman Dux of years long gone. Caledfwlch hung at his side, a lance of iron and ash in his hand, and his reins and shield in his left. Caledfwlch would stay in its scabbard until their charge broke through the enemy ranks.

Garbanion’s teulu stood behind Arthwys, Two-hundred men, all mounted, all armored. Men of Din Guarie and Caer Ebrauc, noble sons all, born to the saddle. They carried round shields painted with the Christ-Symbol. Their horses were not the squat ponies of the northern hills, but heavy-boned chargers bred of Roman stock for war. You could hear them breathing, even from the ridge.

“They mean to take the ford,” said Hyfaidd, a lean spearman who had fought under Bran’s father before he had been born. “The king of Gododdin hired the Saeson to test us. We’ll break them here and then set out for Din Eidyn.”

Bran did not answer. He was watching Arthwys.

The young prince turned to his men and raised his spear. A horn sounded. Once. Then again.

Then they moved.

Two-Hundred horses surged towards the Saeson host, hooves beating the sodden earth. Bran saw the cavalry form into a wedge behind Arthwys, how the flanks tucked in tight, the way his father had taught him. The Coeling had always fought like this. Not with numbers, but with discipline. With speed, iron and thunder.

The Angles stood their ground, grim behind their tall shields. Bran could hear their guttural cries echoing off the river. Garwlwyd stood still, the wolf-skin streaming behind him. Then he roared.

It was not a man’s roar. It was the howl of something older, of cold woods and blood-moon nights. Three-dozen men surged ahead of the line beside him, bare-chested, wearing only braies and wolf-skins, wielding axes, spears, and swords. They moved like beasts, not men.

“Blaiddgwn,” someone whispered.

Bran felt a chill down his spine.

But it made no difference.

Arthwys and his riders crashed into the crazed warriors, engulfing them, pushing forward into the main Angle host, line buckling at once, shields splintered, men thrown back like straw before the wind. Horses trampled them underfoot. The teulu struck, passing spearpoints and shield with practiced precision, wheeled, and struck again from the flank.

Garwlwyd’s surviving berserkers clambered to their feet and turned for the horsemen, who were now breaking back through the spearmen’s lines. The wolf-pelted warriors howling, biting shields, swinging madly looking to break the oncoming charge. One of the blaiddgwn leapt at a rider, dragging him from the saddle, only for Llenneac to wheel and drive a javelin through the man’s spine.

The valley churned with screams and iron.

From the hill, Bran could see it all. The Angles fell back toward the trees, their line shattered. Garwlwyd stood in the midst of it, axe slick with blood, roaring for a rally. But Arthwys came for him.

There was no poetry in it, no duel under heaven, no flowery speeches. Just a clash of horse and man. Arthwys’ spear skewered shield, maille, and flesh, the blade tearing through the pelt hanging from the big Angle’s back. The wolf-headed lord howled once more, then dropped, lance still in his chest.

Bran watched, mouth dry, heart pounding. The mist had cleared now. The sun struck the river full, gleaming on shield-bosses and wet iron. Then Caledfwlch shined above Arthwys’ head, bright as the sun itself.

A cheer rose from the Teulu, first: “GARMON! GARMON!” … then one man started “ARTHWYS!”

The new chant quickly rose around the Pen-Teulu. The boar still flew on the wind, but the fame of the bear grew.