The Gates of Atopia

By Colin Litten-Brown

Magic is not dead, it is merely hidden. For a millennia and a half the Nemetonum society, descendents of the ancient druids of England have protected an incredible power, carefully writing history to eradicate all memory of it. Now, from the forgotten darkness of the past, an old enemy returns, hungry to wield the might of the fabled Gwydion Stones. Are the stones truly magic, or is there more to them than anyone has suspected, an explanation that science can reveal? Manoeuvring herself onto what appears to be a simple research project, Hannah Chappel-Jones uncovers a sinister plot by a powerful industrialist to wrest the power from the Nemetonum society at any cost. Who can she trust and can the paltry band of scholars and academics help her defend against the ruthless might of the forces that amass against them? Beneath all of this, what is the deeper secret that lurks in the heart of the moors of Devon that threatens to tear reality itself apart? From the dark ages to the present day the story unfolds to its dramatic climax as the two sides prepare for the final battle that will determine the fate of all mankind.

Colin Litten-Browns debut book, The Gates of Atopia, is a science-fiction thriller set in the backdrop of present-day England and the first in the Atopia trilogy.

For more information visit www.colinlittenbrown.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 2, 2010
• ISBN: 9781456770815

Colin Litten-Brown

Colin Litten-Brown has misspent the last twenty-six years of his career developing household and personal care products. He has the following books published: The Gates of Atopia, Williams’ Wonder Wax, The Warriors of Atopia, The Legacy Conspiracy, and The Legend of the Hyper-Worm. The Cult of the Hyper-Worm is his latest work. He still develops household and personal care products mainly to keep the house tidy! Colin lives in Kent, England, with his wife, Jennie, and his three children, Mia, Josh, and Iona.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The field had fallen silent, save for the distant rushing of water over the falls at Camlann. The pause could only have been a fraction of a second in reality but to Ambrosius Aurelius the moment drew out like silk. The adrenaline of the imminent battle had drained from his veins leaving behind an eerie tranquillity. Aromas he had never before truly acknowledged danced around his nostrils, the morning dew on the grass mingled with the slight musky animal scent of the nearby pastures. Even the air itself carried a faint mixture of leather, sweat and oiled metal from the assembled armies. He remarked to himself in a curiously abstract way at what a bright morning it was after the years of poor seasons. The sun had pierced the clouds and crepuscular rays knifed through the dusty air, spattering the field with brilliant pools of light. It would have been fitting, he thought if one of the beams had alighted on his sturdy form, bathing him in regal radiance but it was not the case. No gods heralded his end in a blaze of light. No sunbeam shone on the stricken king. His ears still echoed with the metallic ring the sword had made as it pierced his armour.

Calmly, Ambrosius glanced down at the bloodied blade protruding from his chest. The shape of the point was unmistakable and he did not need to turn to identify the assassin. In the transparency of his mind it finally made perfect sense and he smiled in disbelief that he had not seen the truth of it before. Drawing his face up again, he scanned the Saxon hordes ranged ahead of him. The pang of familiarity now coalesced into recognition as he saw many of Medraut’s soldiers disguised among the invading mass. The trap had been set and he had marched his force boldly into it without question. Lost in the depths of his love for his illegitimate son, he had blinded himself to the truth of Medraut’s nature, despite the warnings of those closest to him.

Myrddin, he thought sadly, you tried to tell me, old friend! How I have failed you, who have been most loyal of all.

Shame and regret overcame him, as if generations of his Roman ancestry cried out at his folly. He could feel the presence of all those great warriors standing around, chastising the fog his love had brought over his judgement but at the same time reaching out to him, drawing him to the world beyond, full of sadness and pity.

The cold grip of death crept into his limbs, smothering the warmth of his life in its icy embrace and he slid gently to the ground. Medraut held his sword tight, the blade issuing a loud metallic scrape against Ambrosius’ armour that rasped across the battle field. He watched with cold satisfaction as his father fell without a word.

The moment was shattered by a howl of disbelief from Bedwyr at the head of the massed forces behind.

Betrayer! Bedwyr screamed. We are betrayed!

Ambrosius’ army roared in anger as the unbelievable truth hit them and the momentary paralysis of shock that had held them evaporated. Medraut turned; his face contorted in an evil scowl of sheer contempt, and cast the bloody sword to one side.

Ambrosius Aurelius! Bedwyr cried, drawing his sword even as he surged forward. Like an avalanche, his army took up the cry and charged ahead, driven by sheer animal madness in the grip of their unified blood lust.

Myrddin’s heart was pounding as he charged through the oak forest as fast as his old legs would allow. Even though he was advanced in age, he remained fit and sturdy but the distance he had to cross was great and the terrain difficult. Branches slapped at his face and brambles tore at his limbs but he cared not a bit for the pain. Not only had the old farmer he had been urgently called to tend not been at the point of death, he had actively tried to bring about the untimely demise of the old druid himself. It was only because the farmer had mistakenly taken Myrddin’s advanced age as a sign of frailty that he had underestimated his quarry. Years of experience and wisdom had alerted Myrddin’s senses to the danger and he had managed to stun the man with a handy log.

May the god Caber grant me his speed! Myrddin gasped the plea out loud as he ran, Grant that I still have time.

A few leather cords to tie the farmer’s limbs and the threat of a pitchfork, backed up by the feral look in the face of his supposed victim had been enough for the man, a coward at heart, to explain how he had been paid to waylay the old druid. Leaving him tied, Myrddin had set out immediately for the distant encampment in the desperate hope of warning his liege before the unspeakable happened.

He glanced at the sky. The morning sun had already climbed high into the cloudy sky by this time and the village was some miles from where Ambrosius was camped. Despite the agony in his chest, he quickened his pace. Myrddin thought back to whom it was who had sent him on his errand of mercy, of the insistence of his king acting on his son’s advice that he try and save the stricken farmer. Even though all his instincts had cried out at the look of satisfaction on Medraut’s face he had not allowed himself to see through the deception. Medraut had been a difficult student but Myrddin had tutored him because of the love Ambrosius held for his only son. Although he had voiced his concerns over the way the boy was developing he had held back sharing his true fears. He had let the love of his king cloud his judgement.

He knows of the stones! The realisation made him run all the more quickly, careless of his own safety even though he risked impaling himself on a branch at any moment. Years of seemingly unimportant and unconnected incidents fell into place to paint the whole, terrible picture in the druid’s mind. The depth of Medraut’s ambition was now obvious, as were the steps he was seemingly prepared to go to achieve them. The imminent threat of the Saxon invaders; it was Medraut who had alerted Ambrosius to the danger, Medraut who had planned the battle so far north of their kingdom, Medraut who insisted that he would stand alone by Ambrosius’ side at the head of their army. Despite Myrddin’s extreme caution, the sly youth had somehow through the years discovered that most precious and dangerous of secrets.

Medraut stood his ground, examining the charging horde dispassionately, as if they were no more threatening than a confused swarm of wood lice. Behind him, his own men stood in grim silence as they had been instructed. The first of the charging men reached the small boulder he had carefully placed as a distance marker. It was time. From his belt, he pulled a long leather gauntlet into the palm of which had been fixed a flat, round-edged pebble. Without haste he pulled it onto his right hand, flexing his fingers so that it fitted snugly. A second gauntlet, similarly adorned, he slid onto his left hand, carefully drawing back the leather flap that covered the stone it bore. For a second, he stared in awe at the swirling, oily surface of the strange rock. Not for the first time he marvelled at the apparent lack of weight. If it had not been for the fact that he could clearly see it in his palm he would be otherwise unaware it was even there.

With confidence, Medraut turned to his men and gave a sharp nod. They responded by bracing themselves for the charge with a single, loud grunt and clatter of weapons, crouching low, coiled to spring at his command. Snarling contemptuously, Medraut turned back to the approaching horde and, bracing his left foot in the ground behind him, raised his arms. With a cry, he smashed his hands together in an open-handed clap, his fingers splayed out towards Ambrosius’ army. The instant the stones connected a huge concussion blasted outwards, a shock-wave that rippled the ground as it swept over the army, bowling them to the floor like skittles before ripping into the woodland behind in a wave of destruction. Even as Ambrosius’ men were crashing to the ground, shocked and confused, Medraut steadied himself from the recoil of the detonation and screamed the command to his own men to charge.

Despite the shock, Bedwyr rolled with the blow and was instantly back on his feet, his years of instincts kicking in automatically.

Ware! he cried, to your swords! Many of his men were in too much of a state of shock to react but several managed to struggle to their feet, bringing their weapons to bear as the first wave of attackers smashed into their ragged lines. Not for the first time, Bedwyr rued the loss of his left hand as he hacked at the enemy with his other. The shield strapped to his handless arm slowed him down as he was unable to cast it aside. The first attacker he beheaded in an instant, using the man’s momentum to increase the force of his stroke. As the stroke of his blade followed through he gutted the man behind, spinning as he withdrew his weapon to slash across the face of the third. The full onslaught then hit and he was surrounded by slashing metal. He fought valiantly for several seconds before something hard crashed into his face and the world exploded in white as he fell to the ground.

Bedwyr could hear the sounds of battle raging all around him but as if from a distance. He was partly aware of activity all around him, the occasional kick or stamp as combat raged over his felled body, the screams of the dying. Somehow, it was as if he were no longer there. Some part of his consciousness wondered if he were already dead and that it was his spirit that was observing the battle before making its final journey to the greatest mystery of all. Already, a pile of bodies had accumulated around him and he was conscious that the focus of the battle was gradually moving away. Then, the concussion took him and everything went black.

Lungs screaming for air after sprinting up the last hill, Myrddin reached the edge of the forest and gazed out across the slope at the two armies facing each other. For a moment, he frowned, confused by the silence. The two assembled hordes seemed to be merely staring at each other as if waiting for a signal. Then, the rasp of metal rang out as Ambrosius slumped to his knees and pitched forward, dead, to the wet grass. His heart turning to ashes, Myrddin also dropped to the ground, exhausted and broken in his despair, weeping uncontrollably. Bedwyr’s cry brought his head up with a snap and he peered through the undergrowth. Medraut had turned to face Ambrosius’ men but cast his sword aside. Horror gripped the old man as he saw the leather gauntlets.

Hammer stone! he hissed. There was only one place where this could have come from, the isle over the water to the north east, that ancient grove of the Druidae that had so long ago been the site of the last great battle with the Roman invaders and the massacre of so many of his kind. Despite the savagery of the Roman onslaught, the grove itself and the secret it held remained intact, only to be now desecrated through an act of betrayal by Medraut and his followers. The fate of the Druidae there was in no doubt and Myrddin wept for their souls.

The shock-wave blasted out and Myrddin could not help himself but to stare in wonder. In all his long years and for all his lore, he had never actually seen the stones used to such devastating effect. He realised just how right they had been to keep their existence so secret.

We should have buried them in the deepest hole we could find.

He saw the look of sheer ecstasy on Medraut’s face, the hunger for the power he now wielded. The sounds of panic from Ambrosius’ men merged with the crashing of branches as the woods absorbed the impact of the hammer stone’s might. Birds flew up in terror as branches and leaves rained all around him and he could hear the crashing of startled deer and boar desperately fleeing this new danger.

He will not be content with that. Medraut thought. If he knew of the hammer stone he must know of the others.

Finally, the fog of his thoughts began to clear. Now was not a time to mourn, now was a time to act. He knew that Medraut had not had time to raid the many sacred groves to the south having only recently come from that way himself. Whether he had attacked the smattering of sites north and east was debatable but unlikely, some word of a marauding band of men would most likely have been brought to his attention by now. The hammer stone had given Medraut the best advantage and its proximity meant that he could retrieve it and return before word of his treachery reached the ears of Ambrosius. It would have been his intent to rid himself of his father’s potential threat first and foremost, after which he could seize his power base at Tintagel and only then come after the Druidae.

Myrddin realised how precarious his own situation was. Fortunately he had not blundered out into the field in his haste but even so he was right at the tree-line and only hidden by a relatively thin layer of foliage. His travel clothing was of dark leather and earthy fabrics so offered a degree of camouflage in their own right. The fighting had somewhat moved towards him so it was not inconceivable that someone would notice him lurking in the undergrowth. To move would have been suicide so he simply crouched down as low as he could and waited, praying to the gods of the forest that they would protect him.

The battle raged on, soaking the field in blood and gore. Medraut’s initial advantage had already tipped the balance but it was still set to be a savage, drawn-out fight. Myrddin had seen his fair share of bloody conflict but he had never been able to overcome the sickening revulsion he felt as he saw the savagery unfold.

So many lives wasted Men he had known since birth, some he had delivered himself, dead or dying before his eyes and himself helpless to do anything about it. He tried to focus on the larger picture of the battle, to gauge the greater dynamics. Medraut had fallen back, towards the far side of the field, still engaged in personal conflict but safely away from the melee that engulfed the bulk of his forces. Today was a day for allowing his men to spend their lives on his behalf, not for unnecessarily risking his own.

Myrddin scanned the field for his own kind, the band of Druidae and other peripheral folk that would naturally hover around the battle, waiting to tend the wounded and to relay messages. It did not take long to spot them cowering like sheep among the trees near to where he stood. Fortunately for them they had not been in the direct path of the hammer stone strike and the battle seemed at present to be ignoring them. He knew he had to try and reach them, to at least draw them deeper into cover to allow them some hope of survival.

Fate finally dealt the Druidae a kind hand. A cry went up as a small group of Ambrosius’ men split away from the main group, charging towards where Medraut stood, their intention of bringing the fight back to him clear. There were too many of his men in range to loose the hammer stone again and he suddenly found himself under serious threat. The confident expression fell from his face and barking frantic commands he raised his sword to meet the first attacker. The cry was taken up across the attacking force and the direction of the fight swung away from the edge of the woods. Myrddin took the opportunity and carefully backed away, crouching low until sufficiently deep within the safety of the trees and undergrowth that he could hasten towards where his fellow druids stood. So terrified were they that he risked approaching them unheard, forcing him to make more noise than he wished so they would notice him and not be startled into revealing their presence. Silently, he waved for them to join him.

Myrddin, thank the gods it is you! Robert who addressed him looked pale and sick. He was young though this was not his first battle. The son has betrayed the father.

I know my brother. Myrddin replied quietly.

What is to be done? asked another, terror on his face. What was the power Medraut wielded?

The others began to speak, questions welling up on their lips in a flood of panic. He heard the words sorcery and devil among their mutterings. Myrddin held his arms up sharply. It was unfortunate that none of the men present were old enough to have been taught the essence of the lore surrounding the Gwydion stones.

Silence! he hissed. We must leave this place now.

"The King’s men? Robert turned to gesture back to the battlefield. We must tend the wounded.

Myrddin looked grave. There will be no wounded.

No… Myrddin cut Robert off.

"This battle was lost before it started. There is no time to explain to you but be assured this is only the beginning of a greater evil. We can counter it but only if we act now and if you do exactly as I tell you. We will meet again soon and we will have time for understanding and for mourning the dead."

It took but a few moments to give the frightened men their instructions. Myrddin was thinking clearly now, back in control and planning ahead. Medraut had taken the upper hand by planning ahead and it was time to match intelligence with intelligence.

You all understand what you must do? Myrddin glanced at each of the trembling white faces, pausing on each until they nodded acknowledgement. Then go without delay.

The men glanced at each other in silent farewell before scurrying away purposely in different directions.

Myrddin knew he should also make haste but he had to see how the battle was going. There was always the possibility that someone would land a lucky blow on the traitor and solve the problem for him. Carefully, he crept forward through the thorny bushes until he reached a good vantage point. Medraut stood alive and arrogant, the charge against him already crushed. Although the main battle still raged it was obvious to the old man that the advantage was overwhelmingly with the King’s treacherous son. The hammer stones had forged too great a shock to the defending men and the initial onslaught had decimated their numbers. The rally had been brave and fierce but it was not enough. For each of Ambrosius’ surviving men there were at least half a dozen opponents and this ratio was getting worse. With each second more and more of the warriors he knew so well were hacked to the ground and the pressure on the survivors increased. It would not be a long battle now.

With horror, he saw his worst fears being realised. Some of the attacking warriors, no longer needed in the battle, were already passing around the periphery of the field, kicking the fallen bodies and impaling those that stirred. No survivors. Myrddin was glad he had sent the young ones away before they had seen this; it was something he doubted any of them would be able to see and sleep soundly ever again. He knew his own nights would for evermore be filled with demons.

Something moved in the undergrowth near where he stood and he froze. Cold sweat beaded his brow and his heart thudded so hard he feared the whole battle would hear him. For seconds he held his breath, gearing himself for flight.

The sound came again, this time a dragging accompanied by a grunt of pain. Slowly, Myrddin turned his head in the direction of the noise. Someone was attempting to crawl through the bushes but not in a way to conceal their approach. It could only be a wounded warrior from the battle but from which side? He knew he should back away as quietly as possible, escape to enact the plan he had set in motion and put the good of the country ahead of the good of one man. This he knew with absolute certainty but still his hand automatically reached for the herb pouch that hung from his belt.

I am Druidae, he whispered, I can help you.

Druidae? Myrddin, is that you? The raspy voice was familiar.

Bedwyr! He hurried to where the wounded man lay and pulled him through the bush into relative safety, glancing up to see if they had been noticed.

Myrddin, forgive me. Bedwyr was weeping, his tears mingling with the blood trickling down his forehead. He was evidently concussed but a quick examination showed that he was otherwise unhurt. Myrddin started unbuckling the warrior’s battered armour. Bedwyr struggled to resist.

Still, my friend, we are all at fault. His voice was calm and soothing. Your battle is over and we must travel with haste. From his pouch he drew a small flask of water and pulled the stopper from the end. He took a handful of dried leaves and herbs, carefully selecting a few which he rubbed vigorously between his hands to crush them together before tipping the contents into the flask.

Drink. He ordered, lifting Bedwyr’s head so he could take the flask to his lips and draw deeply on the bitter liquid.

It tastes as foul as all your remedies, old man. Bedwyr hissed. I must return to the fight!

And with age comes wisdom, old warrior. Myrddin retorted. Be still! Taking the flask, he poured a little of the water onto a wad of cloth before handing it back to Bedwyr, motioning him to drink again. The warrior curled his lip but did as he was instructed while the old druid examined his head wound, dabbing the bloodied flesh with the poultice before securing it in place with a strip of cloth.

The skull is not broken and the wound is clean. For the first time in what seemed an age, Myrddin allowed himself a small smile. Medraut made his first mistake when he allowed me to live; now he has made his second. Holding his hand out, he helped the one-handed warrior to his feet, patting him on the arm. The smile faded as quickly as it had come.

It is a black day but there is greater evil abroad. He paused to gauge Bedwyr’s reaction and was heartened to see that the warrior was already alert, his strength returning.

Explain.

Not here. Myrddin glanced back over his shoulder to the battle still raging. You must trust me but we have to leave.

Leave my men to die? Bedwyr’s face was fierce.

If their deaths are to have any meaning, yes Myrddin matched his look with earnest sincerity. If you love everything Ambrosius Aurelius stood for, yes. If you want to get your revenge on the traitor Medraut, yes. He paused. Or you can go back out there and throw your life away for nothing.

Bedwyr regarded the old druid for a moment. Finally, his face softened. Forgive me, old friend, my blood still boils.

As does mine. Myrddin replied quietly. Come, we must go. All will be for naught if we are caught here.

They fled in silence, the sounds of battle receding behind them. Bedwyr did not question that Myrddin drew them away from their camp and supplies, towards the crashing of the Rhaeadr Dhu falls. The route was the most direct but also had the advantage of difficult terrain for armed warriors and the roar of the water to cover the noise of their own passage. Eventually, even these sounds fell behind them as they once again entered woodland. They pushed on until night began to fall, Myrddin constantly examining their route and checking their progress with the setting sun. Eventually taking refuge in the hollow formed from a felled oak tree, beneath which they found a leather pouch containing food and cloaks.

Spying the questioning looks on the old warrior, Myrddin grinned. We all have our strategies, old friend. I knew I would not have time to gather supplies so instructed one of the healers I sent ahead to leave provisions here.

Bedwyr looked around him and began to pick out carved figures in the trees. Sacred grove!

An ancient one, long since abandoned so we will not be sought here. Myrddin unfastened the pouch. We will have to share, I was not anticipating company. Tossing Bedwyr a chunk of hard bread he smiled, though I am glad of it. I will start a fire.

For a long time they ate in silence, huddling around the meagre blaze Myrddin had started. The flickering light cast eerie shadows around the grove but enough light for Bedwyr to realise that the thick undergrowth and heavy trees meant that they were very well secluded.

Ambrosius sent his son ahead with a small force to scout for the invading force. Bedwyr stared into the fire as he began his tale. That was a week ago. I was against the boy leading the party but his father was keen for his son to prove himself and gave his consent.

Medraut chose his own men, I assume?

The warrior nodded. Ambrosius gave him his pick of fifty. Medraut has always been popular among the soldiery, a quality his father encouraged. It was inevitable that the fifty included the boy’s closest and most trusted.

Myrddin nodded, "It is certainly true that his scholarly pursuits suffered in favour of his training, or so I believed. What then?"

We were about to send out a search when the scouts reported back that Medraut had been sighted alive. Of the fifty that set out, seven returned, bloodied and weary. They spoke of ambush and a frenzied battle but most importantly they brought intelligence of the attacker’s position and strength of arms.

Presumably true on the former point but false on the latter

Indeed. Reaching for a stick, Bedwyr poked the fire aimlessly. Even without the men who betrayed us their numbers bested ours two to one. The Judas had evidently spent the time with his new allies preparing their stratagem.

I think not. Myrddin took up the tale. I myself had been diverted many days before, as you know, to tend a farmer in need of succour.

Yes, I remember there was some urgency at your departure.

Of course, it was Medraut who brought the emergency to his father and guided his thinking that I would be obliged to go. The reflection of the fire burned in his eyes. I was alerted to the danger as soon as I arrived. The wretch was obviously unfamiliar with his surroundings and it was clear to anyone that he was no farmer. The animals showed signs of neglect and there were no other family members around. He was, of course, a murderer in the pay of Medraut but made the mistake that many have made that my age equates to frailty. His attack was based on surprise and in this I had the upper hand. Years of handling livestock and uncooperative wounded soldiers have given sinew to my limbs, he flicked a wry glance at Bedwyr, and I was the better of him. The man was as are many of his inclination, a coward at heart and it took merely the threat of violence to extract his story.

Did you kill him? A concerned look sat on Bedwyr’s face.

Myrddin looked sad. Of course not and I am shocked that you could even ask that. I trussed him like a goose then informed the neighbouring farmer of what had occurred and that there were animals that needed urgent attention. I assume the villagers will in time find the bodies of the farmer and his family and extract appropriate justice from the man.

Bedwyr grunted in satisfaction. I know the kind of justice some of those farmers can deliver. I would not wish to be that man now!

"I knew at once that treachery of the worst kind was afoot and that Medraut was to be found at the centre of it all. By this time Ambrosius would have taken his force far to the north and I knew time was against me to try and reach him in time. Fortunately, such a horde does not travel insignificantly or swiftly and it was simple to regain your trail. Alas that my old bones do indeed show signs of frailty and I was not able to regain your position in time.

What is this power that felled us? Bedwyr frowned, shaking his head. What work of sorcery is that?

The explanation to that lies in what befell Medraut when he left you. Something rustled in the bushes beyond the grove and they both froze, alert, relaxing only when the startled face of the deer peered through the undergrowth at them before vanishing in fright. Pausing for a moment to allow his pumping heart to relax, the old druid continued. I have no doubt that some of the traitor’s time was spent plotting with the army you faced but it is clear he had a more urgent purpose. Do you know of the isle across the waters in these parts?

The isle to the north and west? Bedwyr glanced in that general direction. Yes, I know of it though I have never been there. It is a place of significance for you Druidae, is it not?

It is. Myrddin’s eyes went glassy as tears welled up. In ages past it was a great place for my kin, a holy place of such importance you cannot imagine. Then the Romans came and with them their Christian God. They saw the Druidae as a barrier to their plans for conquest, branding us savages, portraying us in their writings as cannibals embarking on dark rituals and sacrifices. In fact they recognised our significance as advisors and arbitrators with the tribal kings and the threat that our position held. They made it their mission to exterminate our followers from these islands, as they were also doing across the water to the east. They nearly succeeded. From those dark times, only a handful remained but that handful preserved a secret so great, so powerful that had the Romans discovered it they would never have left these shores in the manner that they did and their great empire would almost certainly not have collapsed.

The stone of power that Medraut wielded.

It is one of the stones of Gwydion…

ONE? Bedwyr stared wildly, You mean there are more.

Nodding his head, Myrddin continued. Many more, all of them stones of great power. Ancient lore surrounds the stones but that is a tale for another time. It is sufficient at this moment for you to know that there are many such stones, each of which has its own unique elemental power. The Druidae have for centuries kept knowledge of their existence the closest of secrets, the location of the stones known only to a handful of most trusted elders. We long recognised from bitter experience that the power of the Gwydion stones corrupted even the purest of hearts. Ambrosius himself was unaware of them, even in myth. We could not destroy them so our only alternative was to hide them and protect them. It seems that we have failed, that somehow Medraut has gained knowledge of the stones and the power they offer.

But how could this be? Anger and confusion were welling up in Bedwyr.

Was the man Mark one of the seven that returned?

He was. Bedwyr’s rage abated but his confusion remained.

Mark had once been an acolyte in our order but was a sly and untrustworthy figure more suited to the sword than to matters of healing and nature. We expelled him some years ago but he has always born a grudge against our kind. I would say with the benefit of hindsight that he had somehow gained knowledge of the stones and, recognising the boy’s ambition, passed that knowledge to Medraut in return for personal gain.

He is the boy’s closest confidant and benefits widely from his favours. Bedwyr nodded. It would seem likely.

However Medraut discovered the secret, it was enough to turn an already susceptible young man. At what point he hatched his scheme I doubt we will never know but be assured this has been long in the planning. With the promise of such power he undoubtedly saw the limitless possibilities and this set in motion the deeds we have witnessed today. How wide his knowledge of the stones is we cannot say but the location of one of the stones was clearly known to him. To raid any of the sacred groves would be to reveal his purpose so he would need to do so only when the advantage was needed imminently. When he left Ambrosius I would say he marched as fast as possible to the northern shore where he by some means gained the island. What force he took is unclear but even the seven he returned with would have been sufficient to overcome the few old men who protected the hammer stone. Are protection has always been through secrecy rather than through arms. In doing so, they set themselves on a path from which there could be no return. With their advantage gained, they acted upon it quickly as we have witnessed today but it is clear that Medraut is still uncertain of the power he wields. He used the stone once only and then for what I would say was the first time. After that he relied on brute force to win the battle and he did not draw on any other powers to achieve victory.

So you are saying he does not yet hold the other stones? His brow furrowed as he absorbed all the fantastic information, Bedwyr began to see where the old man was heading.

I would say it was unlikely, certainly from anywhere south of where we currently sit.

But he will try and gain them as a matter of priority? Bedwyr jumped to his feet. We must stop him!

Rest yourself my friend. Waving for the old soldier to be seated again, Myrddin smiled calmly. My ancient mind may have been clouded up to this point but I am not done yet. Acolytes have already been dispatched to every grove in the area to alert the Druidae of the impending danger and these men in turn will alert more. Before a week has passed, there will not be a grove within range that has not been forewarned. The stones will be moved to a location of safety.

But what happens then? Bedwyr frowned again, the tactician in him examining the simple plan. Medraut will not rest until he discovers the location of the stones.

Then he will not have long to wait. We will allow him to know where the stones are to be found.

Are you mad? Bedwyr jumped up again and this time drew his dagger. Do you rave old man?

He could not help himself but laugh. No, you old goat, I do not rave. Medraut has cunning and intelligence but he lacks experience and lore. With that we will defeat him.

The point of his knife dropped. I do not understand.

And I cannot explain. Myrddin’s expression became hard. What has to be done has not been achieved for many generations and I alone possess the knowledge. If I succeed it will be the end of Medraut and his forces but also the end of the Druidae. What I am attempting is an extreme measure and I cannot ask anyone to join me in death.

At the word death Bedwyr’s eyes widened. Death? What is this lore?

Myrddin looked down. I alone can bring about this chain of events, the knowledge is far too dangerous to share. There was a long pause while they both contemplated their own internal thoughts. Finally, Myrddin looked up again, his face sad and tired. For the love of Ambrosius, I need your help Bedwyr.

And you will have it without further meddling questions. Bedwyr re-sheathed his dagger in shame. What must we do?

We must achieve the settlement on the moors near Tintagel as soon as possible; this is where I have instructed my people to assemble.

Then we have several days journey ahead of us. Bedwyr said. But despite our age, we two old fools should be able to move faster than an army laden with weapons and supplies.

Myrddin smiled as he stood up, placing his hand on Bedwyr’s shoulder. I knew you would not fail me.

Their talk moved to practical matters regarding their journey. Despite the fine day the signs were that the weather was going to turn for the worst. The seasons had been poor for several years, unbeknownst to them due to the heavy volcanic activity that had thrown up so much dust into the atmosphere. Foul weather was common. This would be bad for them but of greater disadvantage to Medraut’s forces who would make slow progress even assuming they started out immediately. Medraut would also be forced to use the old roads and negotiate passage through the kingdoms to the south unless he wished to fight all the way to the great dyke bordering Ambrosius’ lands. No doubt such arrangements had already been anticipated and secured through coin or bargains. Rivalry among the kingdoms was common and convoluted and there were many who would benefit from the disposal of Ambrosius.

Both men slept little that night. The cold wind cutting from the north chilled them as they struggled with their nightmares. Eventually, long before dawn, they both rose in silence to set about their journey.

The two men spoke little over the