TREVANE AND NATIVA

  A Novella by James Dennis

  Published by Midland Imperial Books

  First Edition

  December 2022

  To Lizzie

  For everything you do. I love you.

  1 – Trevane

  Tintagel Castle stood proud against the clouded sky, its dark grey stone a stark, defiant bastion against the roiling sea. The sea was grey, chipped with white, the harsh wind from the ocean whipping it into waves eight feet tall which smashed into the cliffs below the castle. Torches flickered in the castle windows, guttering lights in the autumn storm. The rain came down in stinging sweeps, lashing the castle walls, but still Tintagel stood immoveable, as it had for generations, seemingly immune to the elements.

  Tintagel was the capital of Dumnonia, the last free kingdom in south Britannia. To the north, across the sea they called the Mȏr Hafren, were the lands of Gwent, Gwynedd and Powys. In the far north, Rheged, Strathclyde, Gododdin and Alba occupied the lands where the Romans had feared to tread. Together, they were Logres, the free kingdoms.

  King Constantine looked out of his tower window at the courtyard below. Constantine had ruled Dumnonia for all of his adult life, having ascended the throne at only sixteen. Now, he was nearly sixty, but didn't look a day over fifty. His face was lined and wrinkled with the cares of a lord, and his beard and hair were grey like iron. Cold blue eyes, shining like flint, gazed out at the world, and his arms were still thick with muscle. Constantine ruled with surety over the kingdom he had forged.

  The castle bustled with life and activity, as grain was brought into the wagonload to be stored in the castle's ample granaries. The reserves of grain would see the people through the winter, and more than ever, they feared the long dark. All in Britannia had learned to fear the night over the last century, and winter's nights were the longest.

  Constantine's brow furrowed, and his hand fell instinctively to his hip, his old but strong fingers gripping the hilt of the sword that hung at his waist.

  Feragoth.

  The word echoed in the King's mind, and he hated it.

  Dumnonia was free, but that freedom had been won at the cost of terrible bloodshed, and an even higher price which had to be paid every year. The harvest was the beginning of that. It should be a time of joy, of happiness, of celebration… instead, harvest marked the march into winter, and the Long Night.

  No one knew for certain where they came from. Some said they came from the bowels of the earth. Others said they descended from the sky. Others said they appeared out of the mists of Time itself. It mattered not. They had come, the Feragoths, and the world had changed.

  They had come howling out of the east, burning and sacking everything in their path. With the old Roman Empire in ruins, the world was ripe for conquest, and the Feragoths had seized the chance. It was lamented throughout the free kingdoms that the old legions could have opposed them, but Constantine knew better. He had seen the host of Feragoth. He had seen their deathly soldiers, the Sicth'Hqar. He had seen their dread Emperor, Corin, he who called himself Blood-King and Sorceror. No army could stand against such demons.

  The Feragoths were Hellspawn – immortal demons that fed on the blood of the living. They ravaged and plundered across the land, enslaving men and women to be farmed like cattle in fields of blood. Those who were bitten by them were turned, by foul magic, into Wights, shells of humanity, neither living nor dead, but possessed of the same hunger, the same thirst. The Wights could be killed by fire or sword. Constantine clenched his teeth grimly at the memory of how many of them had fallen beneath his own blade.

  The Feragoths themselves, though – the purebloods, the Sicth'Hqar… they were not so easy to deal with. They could be struck down by steel, their bodies could be burned… but their souls could not perish. They would flee, formless, back to the Emperor's dark tower in the far east, and there would be reborn. Death, to them, was nothing more than an inconvenience.

  Amidst the ashes of the Empire of Rome, a new power had risen in the east, across Europe and south east Britannia, in lands which had once been free. That nation was a Kingdom of Blood, a Dominion of Evil.

  The Empire of Feragoth.

  Logres had resisted the creatures. Under the leadership of kings like Constantine, they had managed to cling on to the scraps of land they held dear. They had kept the demon hordes at bay, and had eventually forced the Empire to terms. Dumnonia and the other realms of Logres were free, but paid tribute to Feragoth in exchange for that freedom. Part of that tribute was a portion of the harvest now being brought into the castle granaries.

  Constantine grimaced. He despised Feragoth, and he despised having to purchase his subjects' freedom with the fruits of their labour. The Emperor and his demons had no need of grain for themselves, but they used it to feed the poor souls that they farmed. It sickened the old King, knowing that he could not raise a sufficient force to drive that foul Empire out of Britannia. Dumnonia's only hope was to eke out an existence in Feragoth's shadow.

  He watched as more food was brought in – apples and pears, carrots and other root vegetables, which when kept cold and dry, would last for months through the winter, until the spring flowers began to bloom again. Salted pork, lamb and beef were also brought into the courtyard, ready to be packed into the castle's cellars.

  'Father,' a voice sounded behind him, and Constantine turned, seeing his youngest son, Uther, standing in the doorway to his chambers. Uther was tall like his father, but his hair and eyes were black, with the shadow of light stubble covering his cheeks and throat. He was twenty-five, unmarried, and dedicated to his father and his country. Constantine smiled at him.

  'Uther,' he said. 'How goes the harvest?'

  'Almost done, sir,' replied the young Prince, 'although it grieves me to know so much of it must go to those murdering swine.'

  Constantine nodded. 'I was just dwelling on it myself,' he said. 'The price of freedom is always high. Though I begrudge the payments of meat and grain rather less than those of flesh and blood.'

  Uther fell silent at that. Constantine knew his son shared his own frustrations, but there was nothing for it. All they could do was pay their tribute when the Emperor's ambassador came, and hope that it was enough to prevent further attention.

  'When will he come?'

  'The Winter Solstice, as ever,' murmured the King. 'The Long Night.' He stretched his arms and shook his stiffened legs, defying the dull ache of age in his joints. 'I take it your brother was helping you with the harvest?'

  Uther's face fell into a scowl. 'No, sir,' he replied. 'Ambrosius told me he was… busy. That the harvest was best left to farmers, soldiers, and minor lords.'

  Constantine's face darkened. 'A Prince of Dumnonia is no minor lord,' he almost spat. 'I will remind your brother of that.' His face was lined with angst. 'I love your brother dearly, Uther… but I wonder if he will ever be ready to be King.'

  Uther smiled. 'I will always be there to advise and help him, Father.'

  Constantine laughed. 'That you will, my son,' he said. 'Come, let us speak with Prince Ambrosius, and remind him of his obligations.'

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  Trevane lifted a barrel of salted pork off the wagon, heaved it onto his shoulder and began the slow, steady walk across the castle courtyard to the High Tower, the King's residence in Tintagel. Below the Tower, cold cellars were sunk deep into the hard rock of the island cliff on which the castle was built. Now that Feragoth's tribute and the winter stores had been made ready in the castle's other storerooms, the King's personal supplies would be made safe.

  The rain whipped down into the courtyard, stinging as it hit Trevane's face and bare arms. He ignored it – a lifetime of work outside had made him used to the squalls that came howling out of the north off the sea.

  Trevane was a young man, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years of age. He didn't know exactly – his mother had died in childbirth, and no one knew who his father was. His black hair was shorn close to his skull, the same length as the stubble which covered his cheeks. Dark eyes gazed out at the world. His arms bunched with tight muscle, but he didn't have the thick chest or strong shoulders of a swordsman.

  Trevane was a slave in the King's household. He had been born into slavery, and he would die in it. He lived only to carry barrels up and down the steep, narrow stairs within the High Tower, and to heave slabs of stone or boles of wood for the castle's stonemasons and carpenters.

  Despite his bondage, he was not badly treated – at least, not compared to some. He never complained or baulked at his treatment. The sentence for doing so would be more backbreaking labour in Dumnonia's fields and mines. Even more severe punishment would be execution, or worse, exile.

  Exile from Dumnonia meant only one thing… Feragoth.

  Trevane shuddered. Like all men in Dumnonia, he despised the cruel Empire which stretched its shadow over the kingdom. He may be a slave, but he would rather be a slave in Dumnonia than cattle in Feragoth.

  Trevane's foot slipped in the thick mud which covered the courtyard floor, and suddenly he felt himself slipping backwards. The barrel fell off his shoulder and landed on the floor with a crash, and Trevane landed on his back and shoulders. Pain lanced through his chest as the air was knocked from his body, and his eyes bulged wide open at the grey, indifferent sky as he fought to draw breath. The rain continued its driving, unconcerned by his suffering.

  Finally, after what seemed like an age, Treva

ne dragged a thin, wheezing breath into his lungs. He gasped, spluttered and coughed, rolling over onto his hands and knees, tears running from his eyes and mixing with the cold rain on his cheeks. The raindrops began to wash the mud from his forearms and back, and he glanced across at the barrel he had dropped, fearing the worst.

  He sighed in relief as he saw that the barrel was not broken, just spattered with mud. He grabbed it with both arms, pulling it towards him and starting to lift it back onto his shoulder.

  'You there!' A voice echoed across the courtyard, and Trevane turned suddenly in its direction, thinking to see Áedán, his master and one of the King's Chamberlains. He would no doubt get a thick ear for dropping the barrel, but Trevane was simply relieved the barrel hadn't split. He would have been whipped for that.

  Trevane felt a cold spike of fear cut through him as he saw the owner of the voice. It wasn't Áedán.

  Standing by one of the gatehouse towers was a tall man, nearly six feet, with blonde hair, blue eyes, thick leather boots, a short sword hanging from his waist, and armour in an almost Roman style. His was in his late twenties, and his face was filled with cruelty and malice.

  It was Prince Ambrosius, heir to the throne.

  Trevane closed his eyes and murmured a silent prayer. The others in the castle courtyard, who had largely ignored Trevane's fall and carried on with their work, now fell silent.

  'Your Highness,' Trevane nodded deferentially, as he picked the barrel back up, and heaved it onto his shoulder.

  'Stop, slave!' shouted Ambrosious, as he stalked across the courtyard. Trevane stood still, holding the muddy barrel on his shoulder. He could feel the rain making the curved wood slippy under his grasp, and the mud running between his fingers. He gripped tighter. I will not drop it again, he thought.

  'What do you think you are doing?' demanded Ambrosius and he stopped right in front of Trevane, blocking his path to the High Tower. 'Bringing supplies into His Grace's cellars,' murmured Trevane, ducking his head slightly. 'With Your Highness's leave.'

  'It seems to me that you are throwing my father's supplies across the courtyard!' shouted the Prince.

  'Begging your pardon, Your Highness,' replied Trevane, 'I accidentally dropped the barrel. But no harm is done – the seal is intact. I will clean it before it is stored.' He took a step as if to move around the Prince, but Ambrosius side-stepped to block him again and drove his fist hard into Trevane's stomach.

  Trevane gasped and doubled-over with the pain, but held onto the barrel for dear life. Every muscle in his body strained against the weight of the thing, fighting Nature's desire to pull it to the earth.

  'Don't try to sidestep me, slave,' spat Ambrosius. 'You'll leave when I dismiss you, you impudent wretch!'

  'As you say, Your Highness,' gasped Trevane, and slowly pulled himself upright again. 'I meant no offence.'

  'You meant no offence?' sneered Ambrosius. 'Your mere presence offends me, slave. Your existence offends me! I should have you whipped! No, I'll teach you a lesson myself!'

  There was a whicker of metal as Ambrosius drew his sword. Trevane felt a dull panic rise up in him, his heart beating madly as a cold, sick feeling slowly churned his stomach. Fighting against the dread and fear, he closed his eyes…

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  The world seemed to slow, and in the darkness, he found that he could still see. He could see the Prince, holding his sword to beat him with the flat. He could see the anger in his heart – the cold, impotent, cruel rage burning inside him. He could see inside himself, he could see the fire there. Not a cold, weak fire like that inside Ambrosius, but a roiling, choking fume of black cloud, an inferno burning within. He could hold that fire, he could touch it, feel it, and direct it. He directed it at Ambrosius…

  No! Trevane shouted to himself. Not the Prince, for the sake of God! The fire surged into the Prince's sword…

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  Ambrosius screamed in sudden surprise and dropped his sword into the mud, clutching at his palm. Trevane opened his eyes in shock, wondering at what he had done. Ambrosius spread his palm wide, screaming in pain at the blisters rising there. The sword hissed in the mud as the blade cooled.

  Trevane looked dumbly at the sword, and then back at the Prince. Ambrosius's eyes narrowed in fury, and he raised his fist to Trevane again. Trevane closed his eyes, bracing himself for the blow…

  'Ambrosius!' Another voice roared across the courtyard, this time from behind the Prince. Ambrosius turned to face the entrance to the High Tower and saw his father, King Constantine, standing there. Uther stood by his side, glaring quizzically at his older brother. The King's face was rent with anger. 'What are you doing?'

  'Teaching this impertinent thrall a lesson,' retorted Ambrosius. 'He is weak, lazy and… and…'

  'He has been working all day in the pouring rain, stocking cellars to fill your belly throughout the winter,' said Uther, standing next to his father. 'You would flog him, or cut him, for the sake of one barrel of salt pork?'

  Ambrosius shot a lethal glare at his younger brother, still nursing his burned hand. Constantine glanced at his younger son, but did not chastise him for his remonstration. 'Leave him be, Ambrosius,' the King said impassively. 'I have Chamberlains to discipline slaves. I note it is only now you see fit to monitor the stocking of the cellars, whereas you have left the task all day to your brother?'

  Ambrosius lowered his eyes in the presence of his father. 'It should not be the duty of Princes to attend such matters,' he muttered.

  'It is the duty of Princes to obey their King!' shouted back Constantine, tiring of his son's petulance. 'Leave the slaves to their work – they have nearly finished. Come to me.'

  Ambrosius reluctantly walked towards his father. Trevane stood still, trying not to gape at the humiliated Prince, or at the sword, still cooling in the mud.

  'What is wrong with your hand?' asked Uther, suddenly noticing his brother favouring it.

  'He did it!' shouted Ambrosius, pointing at Trevane. 'He bewitched my sword when I drew it!'

  Silence filled the courtyard for a moment, and Trevane swallowed in terror as all eyes fell upon him. The King and Prince Uther looked from him to Ambrosius and then back again.

  Constantine threw back his head and roared with laughter. Uther's face split into a smile at the same time, although he tried to remain stoic. Immediately, the others in the courtyard returned to their business. Ambrosius shouted again, childlike. 'He did! He did, Father!'

  Constantine stopped laughing and grabbed his older son's arm in a vice-like grip. 'Enough!' he shouted, losing his temper. He slapped Ambrosius across the face with his other hand, the blow ringing out in the sudden silence of the courtyard. 'I give you the most important task in all Dumnonia to attend to, and you shirk it and leave it to your brother. When I finally find you, you are bullying slaves who have done more work in one day than you have done in your entire life!'

  Ambrosius glared at him in anger and humiliation. The others in the courtyard were transfixed by the scene in front of them. Ambrosius was not loved in the castle, and it was well-known that Constantine was frustrated with his elder son's behaviour. But they had never seen the King strike the Prince before. Those watching felt almost embarrassed at this window into the royal family's private affairs.

  Ambrosius stirred, almost as if to strike Constantine back, but the King slapped Ambrosius again, and the Prince recoiled with anger. Constantine slapped him a third time, his face fixed in a mask of rage. The third blow drew blood from a broken lip, and Ambrosius cried out.

  'Look at you,' the King sneered. 'Weak, feeble child. You are not fit to ascend my throne. I have been too soft on you, it is clear. But no longer, Ambrosius. I will make you fit to rule, by the rod and the sword, though I am late to the task. When I am gone, you will be King, and God-willing, by that time, you will not need your brother's guidance. Though he will be there all the same.'

  He dragged the Prince into the shadow of the High Tower's doorway. 'Finish up here,' he ordered Uther, 'and see that the slave is dried and fed. He will freeze in this rain.'

 

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