The Dragon’s Blood – by Carl Davis         CHAPTER 1

   Griffith ap Llewellyn strode purposefully across the low hills leading to the sea. He led a grey horse on whose back sat a boy of about eight or nine. Slightly ahead of him were his two dogs, a large boarhound whose ancestry could be traced back to the fighting dogs of the Roman arenas, and a tall wolfhound, a present from a grateful kinsman in Ulster. On his left side hung a well-used heavy bladed sword; on his right a dagger. Other weapons were carried by the horse - a seven foot long carefully weighted spear, a bow with a quiver full of arrows fletched with eagle feathers, and a metal bossed battle shield. At twenty six years old with muscular build, brown hair reaching half way down his back and his face heavily bearded, Griffith was in his prime. He had fought countless battles and skirmishes since the age of twelve. Saxon raiders from the east, Irish pirates who harried the coastal settlements, Hibernian and Pict had also fallen to his blade and side by side with Ulster’s king, Brian O’Conner. For Griffith was a Celt from the land of Yr Wyddfa the land of the Cymru, and he was going to war.

   He’d passed through burnt, blackened villages, all inhabitants dead save the youngster astride the horse. In each settlement the villagers had put up a brave fight but they were heavily outnumbered and could only offer a token resistance. Griffith carried on towards the sea. He topped the last hill and gazed down on the sight before him. He was careful not to be seen and used a small spinney as cover. “Quiet” he growled at the dogs. The boy was about to scream. Griffith’s hand shot out and clamped over the boys’ mouth. “We’ll have our revenge,” he said softly to the shaking child, “Not yet, not today but I promise you the time is nearly here.”

   The bay was crowded with fearsome dragon-headed boats; the terrible war boats of the Norsemen, the Vikings, from a land where, so it is said, the sun never sets far to the north. He’d seen them once before, when he was ten, from a safe vantage point behind thick bushes on the bank of a river where he and his brother had hidden as the dragon-boat was rowed up river to some unsuspecting village. Soon after that Griffith wanted to know more about these golden haired giants from the north. He walked for five days until he came to a settlement were lived Caethwas an escaped Viking slave. Caethwas taught him the Norse tongue, their sagas, their fighting methods, of Valhalla and of Odin and Thor. Griffith never forgot any of this. He climbed onto his horse; the boy clung on behind him. Griffith blew on his bullhorn. A thousand heads looked up. Norsemen!” he bellowed in their own tongue, “Prepare for death, prepare for Valhalla.”

   Griffith wheeled his horse and galloped away from the response of the Vikings. He didn’t need to listen to their boasting, their taunts, their bragging, or observe their gestures. He knew that turning his back on them would send them into a frenzy. He’d issued a challenge. The die was cast.

   Thunder clouds gathered over the dark brooding mountains as Griffith rode into the camp. Fires were lit and the smell of roasting wild boar filled the air. Several men hailed him and beckoned him over to share meat and ale. Griffith shook his head and proceeded through the camp. “Griffith ap Llewellyn!” a stentorian voice came from behind him. Griffith turned. Standing before him was a tall heavily set man; scarred face, grey bearded and clothed in wolf fur. A double-headed axe swung from his belt. For this was Owain, Clan Battle Chieftain of the North.

   Behind Owain stood a beautiful young woman - Owain’s daughter, Megan. Her hair was the colour of honey - light brown with hints of gold; Her hazel eyes saw everything, missed nothing, her body lithe, her smile beguiling. Griffith was enthralled. His mind called on the gods to make her his. He whispered softly to himself, “Megan”.

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CHAPTER 6

   Griffith sat beside Megan’s cooking fire staring into its hot embers, his thoughts on the coming carnage that would occur tomorrow. Almost absentmindedly he cut of a slice of meat from the pork being slowly turned on a metal spit straddling the fire. Megan watched him.

   All day Owain’s camp had been a hive of activity. Scouts, outriders on fleet-footed ponies, and watchers had been coming and going bringing news of the Viking army to the Battle Chieftain and his inner council; they knew of Bedwyr’s victory before he brought the remnants of his force into the camp.

   The plan was now ready - fully prepared. If only Owain could curb the natural impetuosity of his Celtic army there would be a fair chance of success. He had chosen his battle site well. The Celts would be on a slightly higher point than the Vikings, who would have to cross bog land on their right hand flank to engage their enemy. A deep fast running mountain stream on their left would funnel the Norsemen to their centre thus allowing the Celtic archers to work their deathly-devastating craft whilst the Celts would be able to span out giving the Norse bowmen a much harder target.

   Cigfran returned to the camp, spoke briefly to Owain and then wandered over to Griffith and Megan. On Megan’s insistence he called over his war party. They ate well that night - pork, fresh bread and ale. Then Megan, Griffith and Cigfran talked long into the night. Lwcus came to their group and quietly settled down next to Megan. He pulled Griffith’s cloak round his shoulders and gave him meat. His eyes wide open with awe of the surrounding spectacle he spoke for the first time, “Not Lwcus, Bran, my name is Bran,” he said in a clear voice. The three adults stared at him for a second then smiled. Bran said no more, he curled up and fell asleep. Megan looked at the two warriors. “That’s a good omen, for out of the devastation of the villages by Norse death squads a clear voice rings out, small but solid,” she said.

  Megan then turned her attention to the forthcoming battle and said to Griffith, “Tomorrow, before the battle starts as you well know the Vikings will send out a champion to do single combat. He will roar a challenge. You must accept. The Viking champion will defeat the first two to do battle with him. You must fight whoever they put forward and you must be the Third One. The omens for the last two days have decreed it so. Last night an owl failed in his first two attempts to catch prey, then caught a fat mouse. Yesterday three herons flew over the western tarn, returned and flew over again. Three times three. Lastly, three prods in the belly of the Norsemen; Griffith’s battle challenge, Cigfran’s calling card from Hell and Bedwyr’s defeat of Jorund.”

  The two men nodded in agreement for they knew the wisdom of Megan’s words.

   Cigfran finished his drink, stood up, and stretched, remarking that he was getting old and needed sleep. Griffith laughed, for it was said that Cigfran needed no sleep, and if he did he slept with his eyes open. Megan rose with two sheepskin rugs under her arm. With her free hand she beckoned to Griffith. Leaving the boy sleeping soundly with Griffith’s two hounds curled up next two him, they walked, arms around each other, to a peaceful, secluded spot. Megan chose to ignore the fact that a cloud had partly obscured the moon. She shrugged her shoulders, lay out on rug on the ground, and pulled Griffith down beside her.

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