Augustine's Prophecy Come True

The cavalry smashed through the remaining sentries and sent fresh blood spraying up into the dawn, they flew down the avenues between the tents, cutting down unwary men crawling from their tents, crushed those below still wriggling out of their camp beds. Even from his point on the bluff Merfyn could hear the fear in the cries emitted by those dying men, it tore at his insides and made his knees tremble. Behind him, his brothers’ chant grew louder, and the abbot shouted to the heavens to strike down the Briton’s foes with a vengeance. He called for a field of skulls wrought by God’s chosen, for thunder, for lightning, for the blood soaked blade in the hand of British warriors. Below, the Britons had formed their shield wall, they had retreated from the camp and rallied behind Selyf; Iago’s banner had fallen, a desperate last stand by him and his hearthmen had ended the only way it could have. Merfyn hoped that he had sent some Englishmen to Hell before his ascent. The Britons’ wall held firm, but the English persisted in their onslaught; a phalanx of mailed thegns crashed into the Britons like waves in a sea storm smashing into cliffs. The spear-play continued and the ground between the two walls was wet with red, eventually the two sides parted.

 During the interlude, Merfyn noticed a small unit of horsemen riding up the hill towards him. He panicked, turned and shouted at the abbot, whose face went red at the interruption to his public prayer. He ordered the brothers to continue and strode towards Merfyn, his footsteps echoing the voice of thunder, ‘For what purpose do you disturb my entreaties brother?’ Merfyn had gone pale, and pointed to the fifty or so Englishmen heading for the monks. The Abbot grunted, and summoned his senior councillors. ‘Come with us.’ He ordered Merfyn as they went to meet the horsemen. One man rode ahead of the group; he was incredibly tall, and his shoulders were broad, as was his chest. He had the markings of a warrior, his face was scarred, eyes cold and blazing, and his arms knotted with muscles while a sword hung at his hip. His golden brow was crowned with a circlet of red gold, and his sword was one of the finest Merfyn had ever seen. The pommel was inlaid with swirling silver patterns and with marvellous jewels, the guard studded with just as many, and the sheath shone with red, blue and gold studs. ᴁthelfrith himself had come to meet the monks.

 ᴁthelfrith reigned in his horse as the abbot approached, and signalled his warriors to stop. ‘What is your purpose here dog?’ his voice was deep and cutting, a warrior even in tone. ‘We are here to pray for our brethren in battle.’ The abbot replied, through the aid of a translator, his second, a converted Englishman. The abbot’s voice wavered, showing the close enacts of his heart when he did not wish it to be so. ‘And your allegiance lies with which King?’


‘With the true and only King, God and God alone.’
ᴁthelfrith tilted his head and listened to the prayer. The miserable wretched were praying for his enemies! He could pick out their names from the unintelligible filth spewing from their mouths. It did not surprise him; these miserable wretches, such pitiful examples of men, were the same scum as his enemies after all. His hands curled into solid fists and his face went dark. His eyes burned with a hatred so fierce that Merfyn, who caught the eyes of the serpent, stepped back in horror. He managed to suppress a cry but it turned into a gurgle regardless. Looking at ᴁthelfrith, the man, the Demon, in the flesh, was like being in the presence of the Devil incarnate.A cold vice gripped the inside of his throat, his bowels went loose, his knees trembled and his hands shook. He felt no doubt that his brethren felt the same but he was amazed by the stout-heartedness of his abbot in the face of such evil.

‘You pray for my enemies,’ hissed the devil behind gritted teeth, ‘you dare to bring a God into this battle?’ his eyes bulged and his teeth shone, ‘Then I shall quicken your eagerness to see this God. I will bring the terror of my Gods to bear on your wretched souls and send you straight to this tortured whelp!’ He drew his sword and it glinted in the dawn, lightning in scarlet rays.

‘You will be damned if you harm us!’ Bellowed the abbot.

‘I would not care if you were this God himself!’ Roared ᴁthelfrith, ‘You may not bear a weapon to this fray, but you dare to beg aid be given to my foes! You dare to cry to your God ‘gainst us, and though you do not bear arms, you do fight us so! For that, you shall be joined with this Christ bastard of yours!’ He kicked his heels and his steed lurched forward, followed by his host.

 The abbot was first to die, losing his head to a slice from ᴁthelfrith’s blade. The blood spattered across Merfyn’s face, warm and wet it stunned him. He could not breathe, everything was happening so fast. His heart pounded behind in his ribs and his blood pounded in his skull. He could not move and his limbs were ice; shit dribbled down his leg and tepid piss trickled. Somehow, he managed to duck a blow aimed for his skull, and the horseman who would be his slayer rode on, into the mass of shrieking monks, begging for mercy in their tongue to a people who knew not the word in their own.

Merfyn ran.

 His legs pounded into the soft grass, spewing dew up onto his legs, flicking his fear out back towards his pursuers. They whooped with delight at this small sport, a hunt for life across the hill, down towards the battle. He felt air brush past his head, a fierce gust smashing past his ear, a spear leading it. The iron tipped shaft thudded into the ground and before he passed its marker another tore into him. It pierced his back flesh and crashed through his spine, rendering the marrow rings asunder. He fell to his knees, his legs failing, his nerves severed, a gasp escaping from his lips as his head darted up, towards the sky. His own blood flew above him, a red rain dripping onto his face. Pain seared through him upon impact and then was gone as his nerves died. He breathed harshly and looked down as the spearhead clawed its way past his ribcage and burst forth from his chest, spattering the luscious green with his fluid. Through his dimming vision he could see warriors below coming to help the monks, opening their shield wall to the enemy in their haste.
Silent tears dribbled from his eyes, his heart was fluttering.

The air left him, and he breathed in nothing.