The Prophecy of the Dragons

‘There weren't always dragons in the Valley,’ Ambrosius stated quietly. His voice was tinged from emotion as he stared down the river. The water gleamed and sparkled in the evening, disrupted occasionally by outcrops of rock to form gentle rapids as it swirled and bubbled downstream, flowing into the lake or Llyn Dinas as it was referred to in the native Celtic tongue of the Kingdom.

Dominating the Valley’s southern end was Dinas Emrys; a solitary hill, a Tor standing 250 feet proud, formed of rock, and covered in the deciduous trees native to the British Isles and to this part of Northern Wales or Powys as it was known in those times. On top of the hill stood a fort erected generations ago by Ambrosius’ Roman ancestors and then strengthened by his grandfather and father in turn, to create a Castle protecting the walled town that was their seat of power in Powys.

‘But the dragons came, didn’t they uncle?’ the boy standing next to him enquired.

‘They most certainly did,’ the older man murmured, ‘and now it’s the time that you learnt the reason why.’

‘But Father! ‘ exclaimed the boy.

‘Your father was a fool not to have told you himself!’ Ambrosius snapped, his voice breaking, and tears glistening in his eyes.

The boy’s eyes widened: ‘was!’ The word echoed around his mind. He stepped back as if he had been physically pushed by the force of that single word, his stomach tightened, and cold fear ran through his veins. ‘Was? He echoed, his voice barely a whisper.

His uncle’s response was to draw him in to an all-enveloping hug. Holding him tight against his purple robes as sobs racked through both of their bodies. ‘I am so sorry, so sorry,’ he whispered as he kissed the top of his nephew’s head.

‘How?’ the boy murmured; he could still only speak in mono-syllables and his voice cracked with emotion.

In response Ambrosius sat down, positioning his back against the trunk of the tree that they had been standing under and gently pulled the boy down still embracing him, wrapping him in his cloak. They sat together, looking down the river through tear-stained eyes as the last of the evening’s sunlight glittered on the ripples in the water as it traversed its way down to the lake.

‘Taliesin arrived barely an hour ago,’ Ambrosius began, ‘he brought the news that your father and his Warband were led into a trap. He had heard news of a gang of Saxons roaming and destroying the outlying farmsteads, but it was a deceit of Modred, and they were trapped, encircled, and destroyed to a man. Only Taliesin survived who your father ordered to take the news of his betrayal back to us.’

‘Mordred!’ the boy spat the name. His emotions turning from grief into hot anger, his elder brother who had renounced his ties to his father and taken up with the accursed Saxons.

‘Yes Mordred.’ Ambrosius confirmed grimly, ‘You have heard many tales about him I do not doubt. Some of what you have heard may have been true but now it is the time for you to have the whole truth and for you to understand your inheritance and your place in the world. I had urged Uther to tell you himself, for it should have come from him rather than me, but he was a stubborn sod your father and he was adamant that you would not need to know until you came of age.’

The boy was secretly elated that his uncle was going to confide in him despite his grief. He was on the verge of manhood; his frame was lanky but there was potential for it to develop and become that as of his father: one of a warrior. His hair was long and blond falling over his shoulders in waves and already generating admiring glances from the girls in the Court. But as well as inheriting the best of the physical characteristics of his Father, he was blessed to have been bequeathed the intelligence and wisdom of his uncle which sparkled behind his blue eyes.

Ambrosius sighed and began his tale; ‘We must be getting back soon before the light fades completely, there is so much to tell, and you will be given the full details in due time but for now let us go back twenty or so years. I wasn’t much older than you are now, maybe a couple of summers more. I had passed my rights of passage and was a spearman in the Castle’s militia. Your Father who by then was the Captain of the Border Guard (as it was your Grandfather’s wish that all of whom were of an age were to serve in the defence of the realm regardless of their birth status).’ The boy nodded impatiently. He knew this and was looking forward in a years’ time for his chance to train and learn the ways of a Warrior of Powys.

‘The irony was that your Father was away south on a border patrol when the calamity struck.’ The boy could see the pain reflected in his uncle’s eyes as he recalled those dark times. ‘Vortigern, the Tyrant’ had fallen foul of a deal he had struck with the Saxon King Hengist. Initially he had tried to align himself with the invaders so that he could overrun the weaker kingdoms on the Island. But he had lost his Kingdom of Kent in the far south and east of the Isle to Hengist after a disagreement about the spoils of a previous victory against the Angles.

‘Vortigern had fled north but still with enough force to overwhelm your Grandfather Constans’ defences and claim Powys for himself. I was knocked unconscious by the first wave of the invasion and Constans was killed, giving his life to defend his kingdom which Vortigern claimed for himself.’. Ambrosius looked down at the boy and added in a cold matter of fact tone, ‘And we now know that he also claimed your mother that very night; thus, Mordred was conceived!’

‘No!’ the boy exclaimed in shock, ‘that cannot be. Mordred is my brother or was until he renounced our family name!’, he protested further.

‘Unfortunately not,’ his uncle replied shaking his head. ’Your father claimed him as his own to protect you and your mother Mowgase’s reputation. Mordred is only your brother on your mother’s and not your father’s side; but there is much more I need to tell you,’ he added keeping a restraining arm on the boy as he attempted to scramble to his feet.

‘Please tell me!’ the boy begged, hot flushes of anger and grief and confusion crossed his face.

‘I will,’ his uncle promised, ‘sit back and listen and I shall tell you of how the Prophecy of the Two Dragons has prescribed your destiny.’

’The prophecy …,’ the younger one started to question.

‘Shh …,’ Ambrosius hushed him, ‘listen.’ Ambrosius began his story:

* * *

Vortigern was a cunning man, maybe an evil man, but he was not a stupid man. After his initial victory he instituted a harsh but not an unfair regime in managing the Kingdom of Powys. Your father was reduced to the status of a bandit. He did not have enough force to reclaim the town and Castle so retreated to the hills in the South of the Kingdom where he led a frugal existence surviving on the fruits of the earth and harassing the forces of Vortigern as much as possible. In reality, he was unable to do much more than plan and wait for his opportunity to strike back.

The winter passed and Vortigern consolidated his position. Imposing taxes and calling up all young men of weapon bearing age to his militia to quell any chance of rebellion. He then turned his focus to strengthening the defences of the Castle in case Hengist decided to turn his attentions northwards. Vortigern’s plan was to extend the Castle walls so that they encircled the whole of the top of the Tor in the event of Hengist arriving; he could pull back his troops into an impregnable position.

Plans were made, and construction needed to start prior to mid-Summer in order that it could be completed before the autumn storms came raging in from the Irish Sea, which came early in this part of the world. All the local stonemasons were engaged, and slave labour of captured Irish, Pict and Saxon were used to extract and haul the stones from the quarries a dozen or so miles away. Foundations were dug and initial progress was good. The walls gradually rose a few feet for each course of stone. When they were twice the height of a man, disaster struck. In the early hours of a summer morning an hour or so before the sun was due to rise, a loud rumbling issued from the top of the Tor. When dawn light came it became apparent that the walls had been reduced to rubble. Vortigern flew into a rage when he inspected the damage. The engineers quailed in front of him and protested that all had been done to ensure its safe construction.

Despite his anger Vortigern was wise enough to trust his engineers; they had served him well through the years, and he had lived many summers to understand that nature could not be easily tamed by man. So, arrangements were made and as much stone was recovered and stored away. The rest of the summer was spent preparing so that construction could begin as soon as possible the next Spring.

However, when almost the exact same thing happened on mid summer’s day the following year, the tyrant’s rage could not be contained! He ordered his war chief to bring him the head of his chief engineer. Whilst that rotted on a pole behind his throne, he demanded of his Shaman as to what possibly could have offended the gods so that his plans be disrupted so. The Shaman consulted many auguries and proclaimed that there resides in the Kingdom a boy who was born without a natural father. The Shaman concluded that to appease the gods the boy should be sacrificed upon the wall’s foundations.

Vortigern discussed the matter with his chief steward and organised for spies to be sent out around the Kingdom to confirm if such a boy existed. Months passed and the summer descended into autumn, and as autumn was turning into winter, news came back that there were rumours of such a child, a boy of only thirteen summers, who was believed to live in a cave in the low land hills, on the Kingdom’s borders. Bands were sent out to search and bring the boy back. Finally, early the following spring one of the dispatched groups trotted back through the town’s gate dragging behind them on a wretched hill pony, a boy dressed in barely more than rags. He was tall, very thin with hardly any sign of muscle on his scrawny frame and wild greasy hair framing a face wise beyond his apparent years. However, the most arresting thing about him was his piercing green eyes, taking in every detail of his surroundings whilst the rest of him remained eerily calm.

The King ordered the boy to be stood upon a great block of stone. This stone was set to be the base of the new foundations for his third attempt at building his wall. Behind him stood the captain of the guard his long sword drawn; next to him the Clan Shaman naked apart from a loin cloth made from bear skin. His body was almost emaciated daubed in chalk and blue paint, and his thin strangly hair was decorated with bones. Finally at the end of the row was Vortigern himself clad in a golden robe, fine ermine surrounding the collars and cuffs, and a golden crown a top his brow.

The whole town had assembled in the central square, including me. I stood on the edge of the crowd and watched as Vortigern strode forward and proclaimed, ‘This is our sacrifice to the gods of the hills to ensure that Our Defences will remain true!’

‘WAIT!’ a strong commanding voice resounded from behind him.

The King stopped mid-step and whirled around to see who would dare interrupt him and to his surprise realised that it was the boy he intended to sacrifice.

‘I am Merlyn!’ the boy exclaimed, ’I am the seer! I see through the mists of the future. I know why your walls fail!’

Despite himself, the King could not stop but to enquire ‘What do you mean boy?’

‘The reason why your walls fail,’ the boy began, ‘is that you are trying to build upon the Den of the Dragons! The Dragons symbolise the fate of our Island. Beneath Dinas Emrys resides the Red Dragon which represents the Blood of our nation: the true heirs of this land. And its opponent is the White Dragon, symbol of the Invader, the Saxons a Canker which attempts to subvert our Blessed Realm!’

‘You mock me boy!’ Vortigern chided, a sneer upon his face.

‘I do not mock,’ Merlyn retorted, ‘the battle between the dragons will determine the fate of our lands! The two have fought in secret for many years but now the invader has come into our realm the fight shall now be for all to see!’ He stopped and listened, ‘Hark, dracones evigilare!’

All were silent, and then they heard a slow rumbling which grew and grew and finally manifested itself in an almighty crash, as the west side of Dinas Emyrs seemed to collapse in upon itself. There was a terrific gust of air and I was knocked flat on my back! Then a huge cloud of dust encased all of us as we laid prone in the courtyard. I managed to stagger to my feet wiping the dust from my eyes and coughing it out of my lungs. As the dust settled, I saw that Merlyn was standing serenely in the centre of the courtyard, on the foundation block, seemingly untouched by the debris that coated everyone else. He rose both arms above his head and exclaimed in a voice far more powerful than one would have expected from his frail frame.

‘DRACONES ERUNT!’

All eyes followed the thrust of the Druid’s arms and there was a collective intake of breath. The side of the hill had collapsed, revealing a cross section of the mound and under the very point where Vortigern had tried to build his defences was a giant cave! No wonder the foundations wouldn’t hold. At the bottom of the cavern splitting the chamber in half was a large pool of water.

On the right-hand edge of the pool, emerging from the shadows, an enormous reptilian head (far bigger than the biggest bull anyone had ever seen) appeared. It’s scaly skin glistened a deep crimson red. The rest of the body was hidden by the shadows of the cave, but it gave a sense of enormity. The creature leaned back on its hind quarters and bellowed out a colossal roar! All bar Merlyn cowered back looking for some shelter as the roar was answered by an equally horrendous cry. From the left-hand side of the cave appeared the White Dragon!

‘The gods!’, I thought, ‘the boy was right!’ I looked across the courtyard where Vortigern and his bodyguard were crouching behind a wagon. The two massive reptiles faced off against each other, pacing from side to side trying to gain the high ground. This task was made difficult by the nature of the terrain as rocks and dust crumbled against their wicked claws. Then with another frightful scream the White Wyrm leapt at its foe, jaws wide open obviously looking to gain a quick victory by ripping out the throat of his opponent. The Red Dragon responded with outstanding speed by turning its immense body and flicking his hips and tail so that his enemy only succeeded in crashing to his huge flank and the White lizard was catapulted down the slope! The Red turned defence into attack leaping after the White snapping his razor-sharp teeth at its exposed underbelly and drawing blood!

The White reared back in pain and then slipped backwards falling down the mountain pulling the Red back on-top of him. The two gargantuan creatures tumbled and slid, snapping and biting at each other as they cascaded down the hillside bringing boulders and brush tumbling after them in a mini landslide. Then With an almighty thunderous splash, the two gigantic dragons crashed into the river. The townsfolk rushed to the walls and as the waters settled, they saw that the White lay lifeless: its neck clearly broken. The Red stood rampant, its front claws on-top of its defeated foe, it threw back its head and gave out a cry of triumph. Then to the amazement off all it crouched down on its haunches and with a thrust of its powerful legs launched itself into the air, expanded its leathery wings and glided down the valley. We watched as it flew with an awesome grace, following the line of the river and circling Llyn Dinas before settling on a distant mountain top on the far end of the lake, the evening sun glittering crimson on the magnificent beast’s scales.

‘The Red Blood of the Celts has triumphed!’ Merlyn pronounced in his disturbingly commanding voice, ‘The White Invader has been thrown down and shall be eradicated from our Lands!’ Everyone then looked at Vortigern and at this point the Town Gates burst open, and it was your Father, Uther leading his warband on top of his faithful white charger, clad in his scale mail and holding in his right hand a wicked looking lance.

‘Vortigern!’ he roared, and with a flick of his reins, standing tall in his stirrups he urged his steed into a canter and closed the distance to the hated warlord in a matter of seconds. One of Vortigern’s bodyguard tried to intercept Uther but was brushed aside by the charging warhorse. The son of the murdered king set his lance, focused upon his target, and his aim was true! The keen point of the lance crashed into Vortigern’s breastplate and knocked it aside, plunging deep into the upstart King’s body and pushing through so that Uther lifted him off of his feet and then with a skilful turn of the wrist dumped down the lifeless corpse into the centre of the courtyard at the base of the block on which Merlyn still stood. The rest of Uther’s warband took strategic positions around the Town’s Walls and I supervised the surrender of Vortigern’s men with the help of the Town militia.

When all was calm, I brought your mother down from her quarters she rushed over to and held her husband in a tight embrace. Their eyes locked with shared unspoken thoughts (the four-year-old Mordred had been kept back in the bedchamber with his nurse).

Uther stood on the block alongside Merlyn and addressed the town’s people. ‘People of Powys!’ he cried.

‘Uther King!’ they shouted in response, ‘long live Uther the King!’ He held his arms aloft and appealed for silence, but the cry went on for minutes and reverberated around the town walls until finally he could make himself heard again.

‘For nearly four long years you have suffered under the yoke of traitor, the Saxon collaborator’ Uther began, ‘But now we have seen the tyrant overthrown and Our Royal line has been restored, and by the events of today we now know it is a Line of Dragons!

‘Hail Uther! Uther Head of the Dragons!’ the crowd roared in response.

At this point the boy Druid stepped forward and bent his knee, bowed and cried out; ‘Our King; Lord Uther Pendragon! He who’s blood is that of the Dragon and who’s heir shall unite all the Kingdoms of this Island under the banner of the Dragon!’

At this point Ambrosius ended his narration and looked down to his nephew, who stared up at him with wonder in his eyes.

‘But Uncle,’ he stammered, ‘that means …’ he whispered his small voice full of doubt.

‘It means Arthur,’ his uncle confirmed, ‘that you too have the blood of the Dragon and that you are destined to become King of the Britons!’