The Invasion.
“Men,” Fitzroy bellowed as he patrolled the sands, his gleaming armor catching the waning light.
All his preparation time had been spent, and the invasion was imminent.
His final task before war was to address his two-thousand-strong army, stretched haphazardly along the beach.
I’d positioned myself between Bash and Fletcher, peering through shifting gaps between twenty restless rows of heads ahead.
“My band of brothers, let us fight bravely together,” Fitzroy declared, his voice commanding.
“And if we shall fall, let us fall with honor.” He pounded his gauntlet against his chest plate, producing a resounding clang.
“When the blasts of the battle are ringing in your ears, remember who you fight for. Today, we wage necessary war to protect our kingdom from evil. May the gods ensure that good prevails. Come on!” Fitzroy roared, punching his fist into the air.
Even in the gloom, Fitzroy shone—skin glowing, hair shining, teeth gleaming—as if he were the light guiding his soldiers out of the darkness.
The men responded with cheers and shouts, many gritting their teeth, chomping at the bit for battle.
Fitzroy unsheathed his sword, directing his blade toward the assembled troops. “The time for revenge is upon us. Make haste to the ships. Let us defeat our enemy. For Lyonesse!” he chanted, charging his sword skyward.
“For Lyonesse!” the men echoed in unison.
Even I joined the chorus, searching for a sliver of bravery within myself.
With that final rallying message, Fitzroy departed.
The men destined for the ships marched down to the shoreline, boarding small boats that ferried them to the grand vessels waiting offshore.
Knights were clad in impenetrable armor, whereas the soldiers and sailors were lucky to be wearing a chain-mail shirt for protection.
As the daughter of a blacksmith, I understood how important armor was in combat.
Countless hours had been spent mending dented plates for blessed survivors—which is why the sight of Bash made me nauseous.
He gazed solemnly at the waves, equipped in a long coat that did little to protect him from sea spray.
“I guess this is goodbye,” Bash said, turning to me with a dazed look in his eye.
“Don’t say that,” I replied, shaking my head in defiance.
“Not a final farewell,” Bash reassured me, resting a hand on my shoulder—a gesture that offered me little solace. “Even if I don’t return from the water, I’ll see you on the other side.”
“If the gods permit you entrance into the afterlife,” Fletcher quipped with a wry smile.
Arthur exhaled anxiously, his fingers quivering as they combed through the sparse white wisps atop his head. “It’s too late for repentance now.”
“Cheerio,” Fletcher added, ruffling my hair before sprinting down the beach. He clutched his cap to his head, armed with only his bow and arrows for protection.
“Bash,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Don’t die.”
“What about me?” Arthur interrupted, fiddling with his belt until his sheathed sword sat snugly against his thick thigh.
“You don’t seem to care if I come back or not.
” His brows furrowed, while tears welled at the corners of his eyes—but I’d never know if they were from the biting winds or unnerving fear.
“May the gods bless you all,” I said, patting Arthur’s cloak-covered shoulder—offering some reassurance.
Arthur, wearing a face full of fret, gave me a forced smile before thumping after Fletcher.
Bash remained still while his white hair sailed the salty sea breeze, blowing in front of his face. I met his heavy gaze with an ache of longing. I wanted to hold him, to breathe in his familiar scent that had become a comfort, but I was frozen.
The clouds briefly parted, teasing the blue skies beyond the usual gray, while the winds calmed to a gentle blow—as though we were in the tranquil eye of the storm.
“I’ve an awful feeling about this,” I admitted, overwhelmed by a sense of foreboding.
Bash chuckled softly. “I’d be worried if you weren’t anxious for war.”
“Oi!” Fletcher called from the shoreline, beckoning Bash toward the sea.
“Until we meet again,” Bash said, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze.
Sick with nerves, I never said a final farewell. My feet sank slowly into the wet sand as I watched Bash walk away, silently praying to the gods that I’d see him return.
The sailors, knights, and soldiers boarded the ships, which drifted slowly toward the distant Isle of Annwn.
Bash was on deck, tending the ropes as the ship’s sail billowed out, catching the wind.
I savored the sight of him at work, uncertain if this would be my final memory of my friend from the Headlands.
When the ships had sailed too far to distinguish faces, I regrouped with the smithy workers, keeping a safe distance from the shoreline. Tom trembled like a sapling in a storm, while Red stomped his feet in a steady rhythm, thumping the sands like a war drum beneath him.
I gazed past the foot soldiers guarding the coast, taking a moment to admire the breathtaking view.
A purple sky met blue water at the horizon, the setting sun melting into the sea like it was made of butter.
As the daylight dimmed, the ships looked like ghostly silhouettes, journeying someplace the living weren’t permitted.
“Look,” Tom said, interrupting my reverie.
He pointed to a yellow flag waving high from one of the ships. My eyes darted across the shoreline to Fitzroy, who stood among his metal-clad knights. His face was hidden within his helmet, but the way his right hand lingered on the hilt of his sword filled me with unease.
Red stepped forward, his body tense with anticipation. “There’s an enemy in the water,” he said.
I copied Fitzroy’s stance, gripping the handle of my sheathed sword as braver soldiers marched down the beach. A loud horn blared, warning us of an imminent threat—the advancing troops came to an abrupt halt.
In the distance, thick black rain clouds followed a rival ship, dulling the once beautiful sunset to a bleak shade of gray. Atop a tall mast, an ensign bearing an unfamiliar crest fluttered in the sea breeze—a counterinvasion was approaching Cambas.
Tom turned to me. “D-do you think they’re heading our way?” he asked, his voice thick with fear. “We were told the shores would be safe.”
I glanced back at Fitzroy, knowing his battle plan made only minimal provisions for a counterstrike of any magnitude.
His sword was already in hand, gripped tightly in both fists as though he expected a battle on the black sands.
I exhaled shakily, fear pooling in my chest. Something wicked was coming.
At first, the enemy appeared to be sailing on a small boat, with the foe on board looking large enough to topple the watercraft with a sneeze. But as they disembarked, I realized these fighters weren’t the size of grown men.
“By the gods’ bones,” Red gasped, unsheathing his sword. “Ogres.”
Colossal manlike beings marched onto the beach. The brutes wore only kilts but had enough hair on their heads, chins, and chests to keep them warm. They held no weapons, only clenched fists, which told me their fighting strategy was bestial.
Brave soldiers charged at the invaders, swords raised high, their battle cries ringing through the air.
I stood frozen in horror as ogres picked up the men, devouring them in four bites or less.
They spat out fragments of chain mail and bits of bones while reaching hungrily for their next mouthful of soldier.
I didn’t wait to become a meal. My feet sank into the shifting sands as I scrambled inland. Tom followed, seeking safety. We took refuge behind a mighty piece of driftwood, and I peered over the top of the makeshift fortress, acting as our lookout.
Any man who stayed on land was a fool for thinking he’d be safe.
On one side, an old hag with algae-green skin dragged screeching soldiers from the sands, drowning them in the sea.
Her long, sinewy arms wrapped around their legs like pondweed, holding them beneath the water until they floated, face down, like bobbing apples.
As I took shallow, ragged breaths—aghast at the savagery unfolding—a deafening screech pierced the air. Clutching my ringing ears, I looked beyond the sands. Despite the rain pattering upon my face, I saw a shape soaring over the ships, heading our way.
“A dragon,” Tom gasped, pointing at the unmissable white beast.
Drawn by a mix of dread and curiosity, I left the safety of the driftwood. The white dragon belched fireballs that engulfed the ships beneath in a hellish blaze. Charcoal-colored figures dove overboard, their agonizing screams painful to hear. I silently prayed Bash wasn’t on that ship.
Archers fired arrows at the dragon, but their projectiles were as effective as knitting needles, bouncing off its impenetrable, scaly underbelly.
“I thought it was fiction, but it’s true,” Tom said, transfixed by the desolation in the distance. “They can breathe both fire and acid.”
Unscathed, the dragon spat bright green phlegm, singeing all that survived its fire-breathing.
“Smith, look out!” Tom yelled.
I tore my gaze from the dragon to see an ogre charging toward us. We sprinted as it swung, narrowly missing my head. The stench of its body odor engulfed everything beneath its matted, bushy armpit.
When the ogre reached toward me again, I stabbed my sword upward. The ogre grunted and licked the blood beading from its wound.
I ran.
“Tom, we need to get off this beach. ” I panted, pushing forward.
But Tom didn’t reply. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him standing between me and the charging ogre, sword drawn.
“Run!” I screamed.
Yet Tom remained steadfast, holding his sword firmly, poised to strike the beast as it closed in.
“No!” I wailed.