‘Castle’ was perhaps too kind a word for the blackened, ruined battlements of the fort at Ayr. Mordred stamped his feet, and ordered more wood to be placed on the fires. Dawn was breaking over Scotland through mist and fog, barely bringing enough light to let the few birds remaining in the trees know that it was indeed time to wake and sing. When they did, though, their songs were mournful. Their songs echoed the hearts of the peasants, displaced and scared away when Mordred took the lands. Mordred, natural born son of Arthur and rightful heir to the throne of all lands north and south, was for once in a hale and hearty mood. The preparations for war were going well, the Sons of the Round Table had been stymied at every turn, and his own force was swollen with the wild Pictmen, Celt clans and Viking mercenaries. He had invited their leaders to break their fast together, on coarse brown bread, thick cuts of salted pork belly and black beer, but was interrupted in his meal by the appearance of his servant, Donal.
