All attention was brought back to the blackened clearing, now emptied of the celebrating royal families by a blast on a druid’s horn. HênDdu stood grimly in front of his altar and in the dead-centre of this circular, spiritual porthole of black and sullied grass. His three, supporting arch-druids took their positions behind him for the most vital and final part of this historic assembly. The deer horn warbled once more, and this crowd fell silent.
“Now draw near all who consider themselves honourable Prydeinig, and all who have an abiding love for our sacred islands of Prydein!” HênDdu called out, his strange voice somehow carrying to every corner of this huge plain, and these people closed in with the tension mounting in them all as the ultimate ritual drew near. The arch-druid Einion turned and lifted Belenos Hên’s sacred and ancient, spirit wreathed sword Caled-sol reverentially from the blood splashed altar and passed it with a curt bow to his master. HênDdu’s face became animated as he took this deeply sacred and iconic sword and turning back to the crowd with it outstretched before him, he presented the most revered blade in all Prydein’s long history with a savage pride. The sun sculpted and utterly beautiful bronze scabbard had been polished until it shone like old gold, and the druid held it out in front of him in his left hand. The fingers of his right fastened around the sharkskin grip of the sun adorned pommel, and he raised ‘Hard-sunlight’ to the heavens.
“Now draw near all our honoured and much worshipped deities, who so also love these scared islands of Prydein to witness our great Datganiad Gwladol!” He called loudly, before turning and presenting this sacred, legendary sword to all four corners of the world and to all who watched with bated breath. HênDdu then slowly part-drew the polished steel blade of Caled-sol before lifting his noble head, and his tonsured brow glistened in the torchlight, but it was utterly outshone by the vital gleam from just the first six, glittering inches of honed steel there revealed.
“Y gwir yn erbyn y byd, a oes heddwch neu rhyfel?” HênDdu asked them loudly with a scowl, and his challenge boomed over the multitude of heads and shining eyes gazing back at him. ‘The truth against the world, is it peace or war?’ he demanded to know, and the response was like a clap of thunder.
“RHYFEL!”
Birds squawked and flapped away in fright, and the dogs of the distant tref could be heard barking and howling at this thunderous sound, which seemed to vibrate in the air for long moments. The brif-druid stalked around his altar now in his bare and blackened feet, clearly energised by this first declaration of war, and he paced this scorched saucer of earth holding up the great part-drawn sword. His chaotic eyes blazed with a ferocious challenge now, and the front circle backed away in fear as he withdrew another twelve inches of etched and polished steel, and hard shards of torchlight bounced off Caled-sol in alarm and in all directions.
“Calon wrth galon, a oes heddwch neu rhyfel?” ‘Heart to heart, is there peace or war?’ He challenged them again now, his tremulous but uncannily powerful voice carrying to even the outer fringes of this vast gathering. The people shook the earth again with their sacred oath:
“RHYFEL!”
HênDdu smiled then, horribly and in a kind of spirit-gripped rictus. His voice deepened, and it grew ominously as it lashed across the heads of these people whilst the dogs continued their barking and their eerie howling from the distant tref.
“Gwaedd uwch adwaedd, a oes heddwch neu rhyfel?” He demanded of them lastly with a wild look in his sparking eyes now, and with spittle flying from his twisted mouth. ‘Shout above responding shout, is there peace or war?’ He demanded they complete the rite, and the very air shook with the inviolate declaration of war, as thousands of voices screamed as one:
“RHYFEL!”
The druid came back around to the front of his altar now, and HênDdu’s face was a mask of fierce, blazing outrage as he fully withdrew Caled-sol, the fabulous blade of Belenos Hên which had claimed the mighty head of Bran himself five centuries ago. He held it aloft, so that the torchlight flashed off its full, glorious length and illuminated the wondrous chasing with pure golden swirls which ran the length of this stunning, priceless blade. All the wide eyes around this circle were compulsively drawn to its stark and terrible beauty, held high in this animated prime druid’s grip.
“Ia! Oes Rhyfel!” HênDdu confirmed loudly, and war was thus declared on Rome. The bedlam that ensued was a religious and superstitious explosion of Brythonic emotions. The ground shook as these newly allied, triadic warriors of northern Prydein hysterically screamed their warcries, drowning all other sounds, even the terrified howling of the dogs.
The drums began to pound a frenetic beat again. The horns bellowed and the Brythons danced their dance of death and sang their songs of glorious battle, as these three northern kingdoms together, finally united in a sacred triad for the first time ever were going to war.
Excerpt from Iron Blood & Sacrifice (The Sons of Beli Mawr) https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0773V2W6B
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