A E Johnson Read online

  By A E Johnson

  Cammbour World of War

  Book One: Little Secrets

  Book Two: Into the Shadows

  Book Three: The Brotherhood

  Book Four: The Promised king

  Book Five: Annihilation

  Book Six: The Battle of Thorne

  Book Seven: Age of Oakwood

  Cammbour

  World of War

  Book one

  Little secrets

  A E Johnson

  Published by A E Johnson, Little Avalon,

  Nottingham.

  www.authoraejohnson.wordpress.com

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  Copyright © A E Johnson 2020

  A E Johnson asserts the right to be identified

  as the author of this work.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The

  names of characters and incidents portrayed

  in it are the work of the author’s

  imagination. Any resemblance to actual

  persons, living or dead, events or localities is

  entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this

  publication may be reproduced stored in a

  retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form

  or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise,

  without prior permission of the publisher.

  Prologue

  e was ashamed of the man he had become, a

  powerful figure among the ranks in Rome, he

  H now stood small on the beaches of the land

  which was once his. His father, a man of the wild

  north of Britannia, beheaded, his sisters, dead, his

  mother, raped and taken as slave stock to the mother

  lands.

  Haunting forests and woodlands greeted them.

  Once tall green fir-trees now stood as skeletal remains.

  Grey ash covered once flourishing grasses. Ghostly

  whispers of embers crackled on woodland floors. The

  remains of people lay scattered in the wake of Roman

  might. Britannia was on her knees. A choking fear

  hung in the air and filled the lands. Their surrender

  was imminent.

  Forced to take to the sword, pitchfork in hand, her

  people fought, valiantly, hopelessly, callously. Violence

  was not something the roman visitors claimed to want,

  with every refusal, came a short sword upon flesh.

  They claimed to be civilised, non-compliance would

  see a civil approach, ripping skin from bone. Choice

  had been removed from Britannia, she would fight the

  invaders, or join them, seeing her people as slaves, she

  chose to fight.

  Dragons, they were a welcome visitor upon her

  shores. They would bring flame and anger, feast with

  her people. They had grown upon the island, their

  flesh was a feast to the Romans, a delicacy. It was

  barbaric to the fey, to listen to tales from the mouths

  of beasts, of dragon flesh consumed, their inners

  cooked and served to towns upon festival day.

  She was an open graveyard now. The fey,

  wanderers of the woods, born of ancient celt gods, the

  fey were small creatures, pointed to the ear and fair of

  face. Slender creatures who seemed to live a lifetime

  longer than man. A love of the otherworld saw the fey

  become a threat to Rome. Their magic had seen a

  glimmer of hope before the child of the north was

  taken from them.

  Artnou now stood among Roman ranks. His place

  would have seen him as leader of the northern tribes

  of Britannia. His father was beheaded, his mother and

  sisters, gone, he was nothing but a slave.

  The fey knew him, they had created a leader.

  Adger of the north had sired a single boy child to take

  his place as northern ruler. He was tame now. The

  ocean had parted welcoming Artnou home, his mind

  was awash with memories of the lean trees, a soft land

  of rolling hills, the frozen mountains of the north

  welcoming him home. The shadow in the skies, as his

  dragon Narra flew overhead, knowing he had

  returned, but hating who he fought for.

  Legatus Legionis, a title bestowed through bribery

  and murder. His owner, an eccentric man who owned

  the higher ranks of the Roman democracy. Artnou

  was his boy, the body of a warrior, no gladius could

  find his skin, he was fast and fair, hair of the northern

  men, fair and wild. Icy blue eyes carried sadness

  within them, a frozen moment in time captured in his

  eyes, remembering, his brief childhood had ended,

  the day his father’s head rolled along the green grasses

  of his home towards his bare feet, he was taken by

  them, back to the place he would be forced to call

  home for gone thirty years.

  The shore was narrow and bare, cold, and

  winding, Artnou, still wounded by the vision in front of

  him. His crimson cape was the only colour upon the

  slate cold beach. The once plentiful land seemed to

  have withered, the trees seemed to have turned grey in

  their winter slumber. The fields were uninviting, an

  eerie madness had engulfed the land. Every woodland

  and forest cast a shadow of death, the sickening terror

  which engulfed the air made it hard to breathe. He

  was no longer welcome upon the shores of his island.

  His memory stirred, of a dragon, Narra. Flashes of

  white in the skies told him she was near. It was a

  strange, unnatural friendship. Their closeness once

  sparked a sign of hope for Britannia, until Artnou was

  taken, Narra could not follow, her life would be taken

  by Rome.

  Her power was her beauty. Shining white scales

  were each lined with glimmering silver, her long

  fearsome claws spelt death for the enemies of

  Britannia. With a long whipping tail and wide white

  sailing wings she would glide through the skies of

  Brittany, joining the clouds above. Narra had lost a

  part of herself the day Artnou was taken.

  Rome had beaten his mind; it had crushed his

  spirit. Britannia woke him. Upon his return to the

  island, Artnou set about his task of ‘Roman assault.’

  He was set the task to unite the island with Rome. A

  treaty was signed, Artnou beheaded the elders of his

  own tribe, using the excuse, ‘He knew them, they

  would never surrender to Rome’. The madness had to

  end; else, it would never be over for their failing world.

  A cold and desolate midnight wood slumbered in

  the light of the full winter moon. The air was thin, the

  stillness of the wind sent a haunting silence through

  the scattered darkness, the ground was surrounded by

  the brittle fallen leaves. A glisten of frost had settled on

  the ground, engulfing the woodland in the icy grasp of

  a dead winter. Artnou had left his camp, every secret

  footstep he took into the wood se
emed to fracture the

  silence. His fear of being noticed heightened his

  senses. He could see the shadow he was there to meet.

  Stood beside the burnt trunk of an oak tree, a face

  glared towards Artnou from the silent wood. An old

  fey face carried uncertain fear. Long black robes

  covered the sword by his side. Alder, one of the last

  remaining leaders of the fey, awaited Artnou. He

  gripped the hilt of his sword, wrapping his dirt filled

  fingers around it, hoping he would not have to use it.

  His dark grey hair hung to his shoulders, a dirt filled

  beard showed how far under boot the Romans had

  forced them, sleeping in the woodland used to bring

  comfort to them, but now it brought nothing but

  dread.

  Upon seeing Artnou approach, his stomach felt

  twisted, a sickening fear had gripped him; his arms felt

  weak, ‘Was he still the placid thinker he used to

  know?’ thought Alder, ‘Had the small boy from the

  neighbour tribe changed?’ he wondered. As he saw

  him approach, he was reluctant to move, he felt his

  heart tighten.

  Artnou slowly crept closer to Alder with is arms

  held forward, his palms pointed towards Alder, he

  meant him no harm. Alder released his grip; he took a

  step forward to see the eyes of the boy he once knew,

  the les crackled under his boots. His face - only in his

  late thirties - had already seen a lifetime of anguish. A

  painful looking scar on his neck caught Alder’s

  attention. His once dark blond wire like hair had even

  been tamed, now neatly cut locks of shining blond, he

  was different, the same icy blue eyes, the same strong

  nose and jawline, but something with Artnou had

  changed.

  Artnou could see the fearful look which seemed to

  have become a part of Alder’s face. Artnou softly

  spoke, his usual course tone made way for a gentler

  quality. Artnou warned, “We cannot be here for

  long.”

  His crimson armour seemed to offend them both,

  the boy Alder knew still lingered in the face of Artnou.

  He was still a Britton, even if he dressed like a Roman.

  Alder remained weary, he knew how many of his own

  Artnou had slaughtered, whether by choice or not.

  Alder looked to Artnou’s hands, the magic of the fey

  was working, he saw the ghostly drips of blood falling

  from his fingertips.

  “You have taken many,” said Alder, his tender

  critical voice was the same one Artnou remembered.

  Artnou was ashamed. “They would side with

  Rome,” he explained, trying to remain quiet. “Rome

  will not rest until each land belongs to her, their need

  to destroy, to rebuild, it sickens me.” The winter

  moon soon hid behind a gathering storm cloud, total

  darkness engulfed the wood.

  Alder was still weary. “Tell me you haven’t

  changed, my son,” begged Alder. His look of disgust

  seemed to tear at Artnou, the man who had been like

  a father to him seemed like a stranger now.

  Artnou shook his head, a dark look of

  malevolence cast a shadow in his eyes. “I am no longer

  that boy, Alder.” He lifted his head, slowly he walked

  towards Alder. “I am a man, the fury of Rome flows

  through me, but I am not of Roman blood. They tried

  to make me, but I am of Britannia.” Within the

  darkness, a whisper of cold breeze travelled beneath

  their feet, revealing the hidden ash below, it stank of

  the death he had brought there. Artnou slowly

  blinked. He said, with a broken whisper, “I’ve

  changed, fey.” He bent down, taking the black soot in

  his hand he held it up to Alder, his hand shook. He

  looked to Alder, through gritted teeth he told him,

  “This is not me.” His mouth curled with hatred. “I

  have nothing but hate for the creature I am.”

  Alder shook his head, he stepped closer to

  Artnou, the boy he knew, now spoke to him. Placing a

  hand on Artnou’s shoulder, Alder begged, “Then

  leave these lands.” Artnou’s glistening eyes looked to

  Alder. “Save your people,” Alder begged, “save your

  father’s memory.” Artnou’s eyes were deadened from

  the bitterness the Romans had brought to them.

  Artnou dropped the soot which seemed sticky in

  his hand. His hands were black from the damp soot.

  Softly, he gave his answer, “I will not do that.” Artnou

  had thought long about his people, his father, and his

  lands, ‘he must deliver this message, and the fey must

  listen,’ he thought. A slate cold glare then came from

  Artnou’s eyes. “I cannot leave you. If I do then they

  will come,” he warned.

  The danger in Artnou’s eyes sparked fear in Alder.

  He asked with a low grumble, “Who will come, boy?”

  He tried to remain brave, but a catch in his throat

  showed the dread Artnou was feeling. “The Atlanti,”

  he warned. Artnou knew the creature he spoke of and

  the cruelty they would bring to the tiny island. “A new

  race of warrior, too brutal for this world to contain,”

  he explained. Artnou perked his head up, his breath

  seemed hard to find as he pushed through the hate he

  felt for the Atlanti. He shook his head as he explained,

  “They will not keep slaves, only the women, children

  are too much to feed, but women have other uses.”

  Artnou stepped closer to Alder. “They are bigger than

  us, as tall as the trees in a new summer wood, their

  strength like that of the gods.” His desperation spoke

  to Alder, the fear and trepidation was but a slither of

  what he truly felt.

  Alder tried to understand Artnou’s loathing of the

  Atlanti, but he did not know them. He knew that the

  once freedom loving Artnou had withered under

  Roman might, the boy he knew was dead, the man

  who he had become wanted revenge. With bated

  breath, Alder asked, “Then what do you suggest?”

  Artnou was a Britton, even if the Roman’s had

  tried to change him, they were not so easily changed.

  His years of suffering had turned him into a rock, void

  of emotion, but as he stood in the old desolate wood

  of his island, he felt a spark of magic, vengeance could

  be fulfilled, and Artnou would not miss his chance.

  Artnou took a step closer to Alder, he whispered,

  “You taught me much, Alder.” Artnou then stepped to

  his side, “of the dragon’s star, to journey to another

  world. A world of peace and love and light,” he said

  with a growing hope. “The dragons hold the key, and

  we have a dragon.”

  Alder was shaken to his core. “To take the star of a

  dragon requires death, Artnou,” replied Alder, he was

  disturbed by what Artnou was saying, “this would

  mean that Narra - who I assume you’re speaking of -

  would have to give you her star.” He then regretfully

  said, “It would allow you into Cammbour, but only

  you.”

  Ald
er turned to leave, he had heard enough of

  Artnou’s rantings, he seemed as insane as the northern

  men - with what he was suggesting.

  Artnou could not let the fey leave. “You’re wrong,”

  he rumbled in his deep voice. “So very wrong.”

  Stopping in his tracks, Alder turned to listen. With a

  look of painfilled fury, Artnou made his plea. “For

  many moons I have lived with them, drank with them,

  fucked them,” he spoke through gritted teeth, “I hate

  them.” He walked closer to Alder. The moon began

  to reveal itself from behind the blackened cloud. “But

  now I know how. I know how to open the world, and

  never let them through, I know how to bring all of the

  fey with me, and I know how to close the gate, and

  lock the bastard thing, before they get through.”

  Alder was intrigued, his eyes narrowed. “How do

  you know this?”

  Artnou’s eyes glazed over, his mouth curled. “I

  know because I have seen it.” His eyes lightened, he

  took Alder’s shoulders and explained, “I have seen the

  dragons star, I have seen Cammbour, felt the grass and

  seen the creatures.” He looked insane, the bitterness

  in the woodland shook Alder, but Artnou shook him

  more. Alder wanted to dismiss his claim, until he

  revealed something Alder had known for many years.

  “I have been there in my dreams.”

  “Visions?” asked Alder.

  Artnou nodded, “Visions,” he calmly replied, “so

  many years have passed, Alder, I know that you did

  this to me.” His voice became a soft, reminiscent

  whisper. “I was the only child from my village who

  came to see you, in the trees, you showed me your

  magic. You gave me a gift.” His eyes widened. “To see

  the world beyond, a world without hate and greed, a

  world of the fey, of peace.” Artnou whispered in

  desperation, “The fey knew this day would come, you

  knew this day would come –” Artnou shouted, “the

  day you gave those visions to me!” He was desperate

  for Alder to listen to him. His voice seemed to die in

  the wood, an eerie silence took over. He grabbed the

  top of Alder’s cloak with both hands. “Help me save