The Wolf Kings of Éire - The Sons of Carthaigh

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Chapter XV The Ire of Éire​

Conall stormed through the camp surrounding his temporary abode, his arms flailing in the air. His boot-clad feet splashed mud and horse feces in all directions, some landing on his own attire. A small entourage trailed behind him at a safe distance.

Deirdre, Ealdmund and Máél-Dúin knew better than to try and soothe the king's rage. The Boudica walked with her head bowed and an open hand shielding her eyes from the sight of the monarch's fury. Ealdmund strolled behind her in a casual manner, as if without a care in the world, unlike Máél-Dúin, whose shoulders were slouched and whose lips were contorted in regret.

'By the burning pits of hell! Who does that whelp think she is?!' roared Conall, the rasp in his voice replaced with a thunderous, reverberating baritone, each word as loud as a war cry, 'She dares rebel against me?! ME?!'

Deirdre cringed at the crescendo of the king's outburst.

Conall suddenly wheeled back to face his companions and pointed a finger at his brother.

'You! You should have never come here! Your armies were the one thing keeping that Welsh whore in check! But no. You felt it necessary to come to my aid. Unbidden!'

Máél-Dúin's teeth made a sound as he ground them together. Deirdre raised the hand that she was covering her eyes with.

'Now, Conall, that's not fair, if it weren't for Máél-Dúin...'

'SILENCE!'

The king's entourage froze where they stood. Deirdre instinctively placed two fingers on the pommel of her sword, while Ealdmund reached up and gave his face a scratch.

Conall gauged them with unrelenting eyes, his ire boiling behind their dark irises.

'Báetán is dead, because what little I left him with to guard the southern frontier came north with my dear brother,' the king's voice returned to its quiet raspiness, but his words seeped with more fury than when he had been yelling, 'As a result, half of Wales wallows in open rebellion under the banner of yet another duchess with dreams of royal grandeur. No, my friends, I will not listen to any of your excuses. I care not for what could have been, only for what is.'

Máél-Dúin cleared his throat as if to speak, but flinched into continued silence after arousing the attention of Conall's baleful gaze.

'What?'

The Earl of Cornwall swallowed what little moisture was left in his mouth and responded huskily.

'If you would allow me, I can take my men back south and quell the rebellion.'

Conall inhaled loudly through one nostril.

'You must be jesting, dear brother. You wish to depart with a quarter of our army while the Scots march on our positions? I think not. Besides, I doubt that your Italian mercenary captain would follow you anywhere. It is my coffers, not yours, that keep him loyal.'

Conall paused and took a moment to take in his surroundings. The soldiers milling about him were pretending to be busy with daily chores, but it was quite obvious that they were intent on hearing what the monarch would say next.

'No, brother. We shall finish what we started here. One queen at a time,' Conall smirked, 'I shall give each of them the attention they deserve.'

Deirdre was bewildered and her face betrayed it.

Why the angry tantrum then?

Conall glanced at her, smiled and responded to her expression, as if reading her mind.

'Revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold and I intend to savor my meal. The stew is now simmering.'

*​

Two months later, another messenger arrived at the Irish camp positioned on the shores of the Moray Firth. This time, the rider was an envoy of the One with the Silver Tongue. He rode into the camp on a limping horse and fell out of the saddle, dead, before the castle gate could be opened for him. The parchment the he gripped in his hand was stained with sweat, blood and mud, but the ink that covered it remained legible.

Máél-Dúin turned white after reading the missive. He ran up the castle keep's stairs and entered Conall's chamber without knocking. The Irish king glared at Máél-Dúin for interrupting his meal, but his face grew softer when he saw the worry on his brother's face.

The Earl of Cornwall slumped into a chair next to the monarch and handed him the letter carried by the dead messenger.

'He rode all the way from Conwy, without respite,' Máél-Dúin whispered as his brother read the message, 'Can you imagine? More than a hundred leagues.'

The Wolf King ignored his brother.

The English have declared war on the renegade queen. They have recognized Wales as an independent kingdom and are marching on Morien's capital. I have taken the liberty of not interfering in their advance as our reserves are meagre at best. Morien's forces will be decimated within a fortnight. My king, if we are to hope to regain control of southern Wales something must be done immediately. Your people need you.

Your loyal servant,
The One with the Silver Tongue

Conall crumpled the letter in one fist and smashed his hand into the dining table causing pewter dishes to jingle and a goblet to topple over. He frowned at Máél-Dúin and hit the table again.

 

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Chapter XVI A Wince and a Smile​

Conall and his entourage were shadows of their former selves. They had left the Moray Firth far behind them several weeks ago. Their army, once an awe-inspiring tide of green banners, was little more than a pitiful trickle of the most loyal camp followers, cripples and exhausted veterans. The ragged Irish column was led by a small vanguard of light cavalry encircling a core of armored knights. Conall rode at the very center of the vanguard.

His face had grown haggard from the strain of the Scottish campaign and the streaks of silver in his hair now outnumbered the dark strands that once covered his entire head. The vigor of youth had been seared from him by the arduous conflict and his eyes no longer shined with the same burning desire for power.

Although he had yet to suffer a defeat on the field of battle, the King of Ireland and what remained of Wales had been beaten. Weeks had dragged on into months without a single missive from Mariota. It was as if the queen of Scotland simply forgot that nearly half of her realm lay in the hands of an invading army.

Conall had always been spare with words, but nowadays it was hard to get him to speak at all.

'The messenger from the fleet claims they brought enough supplies to sustain twenty thousand men through the winter,' Deirdre rode up to the monarch and announced quite chirpily.

Conall let his eyes meet hers for a brief moment before mumbling something to himself.

'My liege?' Deirdre tried to present her best smile to the moody king, but failed miserably and winced instead.

'I said, it is a pity more than half of those supplies will spoil before being consumed.'

Of the nearly thirty thousand Irish warriors that had landed in Scotland at the beginning of the campaign only seven thousand remained. Their numbers were slightly bolstered by a company of mercenaries and the Welshmen that had come to Scotland with Máél-Dúin. Still, altogether the Irish in Scotland numbered fewer than ten thousand.

Conall's Army in the Winter of 1276/77​

Deirdre frowned and wheeled her mount away from her king. Conall was becoming unbearable. The doom and gloom painted on his face since hearing the news of Baetan's death was beginning to affect all the men and women around him. The morale of the Irish army was at an all time low.

The slow withdrawal from the Moray Firth to Innse Gall was not helping to raise spirits either. Just as it had taken months to cross the Scottish Highlands from west to east, so too was the trek from east to west lasting an exorbitant length of time.

Máél-Dúin glanced at Deirdre and shrugged. The Boudica pursed her lips and shrugged as well.

*​

Deirdre's father, Diarmait, rode out from Castle Finlaggan to meet Conall's army in the field. The former bishop's small retinue included a band of Scottish warriors led by a red-haired giant. Conall arched a brow when they came into view riding down the dirt path that wound its way through the forests growing east of the castle. The two groups approached each other on foot with mounts in tow.

'Tis good to see you, nephew,' said Diarmait as he clasped Conall's hand.

Conall squinted at the older man.

'Decorum, uncle, decorum.'

Diarmait appeared confused for a moment. He looked to the men and women standing behind the Irish king. Deirdre motioned at the ground with her head and conveyed a sense of urgency through her eyes.

The former bishop knelt to one knee and frowned at the ground, so that noone could see his expression. It appeared that much had changed during Conall's two-year campaign in Scotland.

'Your Highness, allow me to introduce the Duke of Caithness, Lord Regent Angus McLeod.'

The red-haired giant standing to Diarmait's right bowed before the king and leaned back with a gracefulness that seemed unnatural for a man of his stature.

'It is an honor to see the Wolf King whith me very own eyes,' the Lord Regent spoke Gaelic with a thick Scottish accent.

Conall nodded absentmindedly.

'Lord Regent, you say? Lord Regent of what?'

McLeod's face flushed a bit, but his answer did not carry any uncertainty.

'I lead the men of Caithness and the other fiefs that have raised arms against the tyrrany of Queen Mariota. I have been chosen to rule should we succeed in overthrowing the fratricidal bitch,' the giant spat to the side.

Conall rolled his eyes.

This land shall never lack for ambitious fools.

'Well then, Lord Regent, what is it that brings you to Innse Gall? I hope you do not intend to stake a claim to my dear uncle's lands?' Conall glared at the Scot with dull eyes.

'Nay, I wish to tell ye that the people of Caithness remember your kindness and harbor no ill will against ye or the Kingdom of Ireland...'

'... and Wales,' Conall interjected.

'Aye, and that we acknowledge that Innse Gall is Irish soil.'

Conall snorted.

'With all due respect, but that means little and less. What do you really want?'

Angus McLeod frowned. He turned to Diarmait as if seeking advice, but the old bishop kept his mouth shut and avoided his gaze.

'We were...' the Lord Regent began speaking with an audible lack of conviction.

'Come on! Out with it!' Conall suddenly roared at the giant.

The sight of the huge Scotsman flinching away from a man nearly three heads shorter was almost comedic. A few Irish knights, those of less than stellar manners, smirked and one or two even laughed.

'We were hoping that we might pool our resources and finally end the reign of the mad queen.' McLeod somehow managed to maintain a modicum of his dignity by fixing the claymore hanging on his back and tensing the muscles of his jaw, 'My armies march south from Caithness...'

Conall raised a gloved hand.

'No. I will not help you.'

The king vaulted onto his horse and recommenced his march to Castle Finlaggan. Angus stood and watched with mouth agape as the Irish army passed by him. Diarmait shrugged apologetically and left the Lord Regent with his problems.

Meanwhile, Máél-Dúin caught up with his brother.

'Why did you do that? We could have used his men!'

Conall did not deign to look at the Earl of Cornwall.

'Not that I need to explain myself to you, but I will. McLeod and his men will be more useful fighting their own war. They might be what we need to finally force Mariota to surrender – a domestic enemy strong enough to make her truly afraid.'

Máél-Dúin would never forget the evil grin that appeared on Conall's face while he rubbed his hands together and explained his motives.

*​

Two weeks later, in light of a massive insurrection in Caithness, Queen Mariota of Scotland surrendered Innse Gall to the Irish. Conall could finally divert his attention to Wales and the Usurper Queen Morien. The last thing the Irish king did before sailing from Finlaggan to Conwy was rename the Celtic Wolf. On January 14th, 1277, she was christened Retribution.

Duke Diarmait is Declared Lord of Innse Gall

The McLeod Rebellion of 1277​

 

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Chapter XVII The Welshman​

A cold gale swept across the inlet to Conwy's natural harbor. The wind ruffled the green banners of Ireland still proudly displayed above the Welsh castle overlooking the waterway. Dúnlaing, a Welsh knight in the service of King Conall I, scanned the horizon from a vantage point on the stronghold's battlements. The overcast, February sky looked as if it were about to burst with rain, while the sea beneath it frothed angrily against the stony shore directly below Conall's Welsh capital.

Dúnlaing's squire stood leaning against a merlon just a few steps from the knight. The boy's lower lip was raw from the way he was nervously biting it.

'What is it, lad?' Dúnlaing finally looked away from the horizon and with the slightest hint of annoyance eyed the agitated boy.

'Nothing, m'lord,' the boy shook his head vehemently.

Dúnlaing reached out and grabbed his squire by the shoulder, his gauntleted hand digging deep into the youth's leather tunic.

'I can see that something bothers you. Speak up or at least stop gnawing at that lip of yours.'

The squire looked up at his mentor. The knight had a thick black beard that covered most of his face and a pair of pale blue eyes set deep in the shadow of a pair of thick black brows and a visor-less helm. Dúnlaing was a bear of a man and the boy found it hard, even after more than a dozen months as his squire, to question his judgment. The youth mustered all his courage before finally opening his mouth.

'It is... It is just that I fear that we are making a grave mistake.'

The knight stretched his shoulders with a quick motion of his back and returned his gaze to the sea in the west.

'Why is that, boy?' the man's voice betrayed very little emotion, but the tensing of his jaws did quite the contrary.

'We do not know if the Wolf King is even coming. Maybe he and Queen Morien have come to terms.'

Dúnlaing smiled and barked out a laugh.

'I would not count on that, lad. The Wolf King is a vengeful man, or so they say. I would wager that he will not rest until he has Morien's head on a pike.'

The boy frowned and slapped his right hand against the merlon he had been leaning against.

'But by then it might be our heads that adorn a pike!'

Dúnlaing spun around and slapped the boy backhanded across the face. The metal scales of the knight's gauntlet bit into the youth's right cheek sending a splatter of blood through the air.

'Don't you ever say anything like that ever again,' the knight looked down at his squire with disgust, 'Weaker men have faced worse odds and did not speak such rubbish.'

The boy had fallen over from the blow and was rubbing his cheek. He fought back tears as he crawled back up to his feet. Meanwhile, Dúnlaing extended an arm and swung it about himself in a gesture that encompassed everything the surrounded them.

'I control the strongest castle in Wales and command an army greater than the Usurper Queen's. I do not fear Morien. And nor should you.'

Dúnlaing's Forces in Conwy
*​

Deirdre and Ealdmund slowly walked down the gangplank extended between the Retribution and a wooden pier protruding into the harbor below Castle Conwy. Conall stood at the ship's bow with his arms crossed and watched them disembark. The shadows of fatigue beneath the king's eyes were haunting and the Boudica did her best to not look back at him.

'Godspeed!' Conall called out before turning his back to them and shuffling his way to his quarters below deck.

The king would not be leading the campaign to retake Wales. News had reached him that his oldest daughter was dying of the same strange disease that had killed one of his brothers and his sister. Deirdre was actually relieved by this turn of events. She did not doubt her ruler's military prowess, but he was not fit to command anything in his current state of apathy and exhaustion. Once more, leadership over the armies of Eire was relegated to the Boudica and the Duke of Ulster, however Máél-Dúin was ordered to return to Tintagel. Conall feared that the English would strike at Cornwall to draw Irish forces away from the campaign against Morien, consequently allowing Swaefraed to take southern Wales almost unopposed.

Deirdre stopped for a moment and took in the sight of a fleet of Irish longboats bursting onto the shore to her right. Hundreds of warriors came pouring from the vessels' wooden bowels as they ground to a halt on the shores of Conwy. Opposite the disembarking men-at-arms stood a second army of what must have been at least several thousand men. The Irish newcomers raced up from the inlet to embrace the Welshmen who remained loyal to the Wolf King.

While the men at her command exchanged stories with their Welsh brothers, the Boudica and her companion made their way toward a fairly large knight with grim features, a black beard and pale blue eyes. Judging by the air of authority he emitted and his large entourage, the black beard was the leader of Welsh garrison.

'Dúnlaing of Conwy,' Ealdmund whispered into Deirdre's ear as they walked toward the commander of the Welshmen, 'Fáelán knighted his father a few decades back and granted his family lands around Conwy. The man is unquestionably loyal to the Irish Crown, he owes it much, but there be one problem.'

Deirdre arched a brow at Ealdmund.

'He and Conall, they grew up together,' the Duke of Ulster continued, 'And they don't like each other one bit. I once heard that Dúnlaing beat our king into a pulp when they were still wee little lads.'

The Boudica nodded to herself. That explained why the king did not even bother to come ashore before sailing for Dublin.

The knight greeted them with a curt nod and beckoned them to follow him. They trailed behind him while he described the situation in Wales.

'... and now Morien's army is less than fifty leagues to the south. If we march on the morrow, we might engage her forces before Sunday mass.'

'How many men do you command?' asked Ealdmund as they passed through the threshold of Castle Conwy's main gate.

'Almost five thousand have gathered around the castle and they are ready to march at a moment's notice.'

The Boudica caressed the pommel of her sword and smiled.

'Aye, then it is settled. We have not a moment to lose. We march on the morrow.'

The Welshman turned his head for a brief moment and shot Deirdre a quick glance. It appeared as if he wanted to say something, but he simply nodded instead.

Welsh and Irish Forces Marching to Engage Morien's Army, February 1277​

 

[DensleyBlair]

I'd just like to say that, whereas I don't have time to read this all right now, I will give it a read over the day I felt like I needed to give you a comment to tell you to keep going; this all looks really good!

 

[unmerged(146574)]

I'd just like to say that, whereas I don't have time to read this all right now, I will give it a read over the day I felt like I needed to give you a comment to tell you to keep going; this all looks really good!

Thanks! Let me know what you think of it when you catch up.

 

[DensleyBlair]

Thanks! Let me know what you think of it when you catch up.

I should be able to have a good read at the weekend.

 

[DensleyBlair]

This is really good! I'm liking the characterisation, and the story is really well written I will be following.

[On a side note, it's funny seeing the arms of Deheubarth above my avatar - it looks a bit different, which is odd ]

 

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This is really good! I'm liking the characterisation, and the story is really well written I will be following.

[On a side note, it's funny seeing the arms of Deheubarth above my avatar - it looks a bit different, which is odd ]

Cheers! I hope that I don't disappoint in the future.

As to the emblems - could it be that yours is from EU or something like that?

 

[DensleyBlair]

As to the emblems - could it be that yours is from EU or something like that?

No, it's definitely CK - maybe its just something to do with the image being on a shield?

I look forward to more

 

[JGD14]

Subscribed.
Fantastic so far. You have encouraged me to restart my Irish game. It took me 4 generations to unite Ireland!! I'm really looking forward to further updates.
One comment I have is that I like the screen shots showing the events (someone being murdered, usurping etc). That being said, I am really enjoying the artwork you have posted so far. So I guess, the only (weak) critique I have is maybe I'd like to see a few more screenshots of the game events. But not if it means less awesome other artwork.
Either way I'm going to keep reading as long as you keep writing.

 

[unmerged(146574)]

Subscribed.
Fantastic so far. You have encouraged me to restart my Irish game. It took me 4 generations to unite Ireland!! I'm really looking forward to further updates.
One comment I have is that I like the screen shots showing the events (someone being murdered, usurping etc). That being said, I am really enjoying the artwork you have posted so far. So I guess, the only (weak) critique I have is maybe I'd like to see a few more screenshots of the game events. But not if it means less awesome other artwork.
Either way I'm going to keep reading as long as you keep writing.

Thanks for the comprehensive feedback I can't recall how many generations it took me to conquer the Emerald Isle, but I think it was somewhere about 3 or 4 (but I was lucky and most of my rulers lived to be 70 or 80). As to the number of in-game screenshots - I try to only post screenshots that help illustrate the story in some meaningful way and am personally not a fan of image-heavy AARs (unless warranted - i.e. strategy guides on how to conquer everything :happy, but indeed you're right in noticing that I could use a few more per update :laugh: