At that moment, as the weight of the heavy helmet settled on his brows, young Ullic felt the truth at last: his uncle was dead. The knowledge must have overwhelmed him. Unable to speak, he removed the helmet at once and held it up in front of him, blinking his eyes rapidly until they grew clear enough for him to see and appreciate what he was looking at. The Eagle Crown was the personal symbol of the War Chief of the Pendragon Federation. Each one was different, just as each man who held the post was different, and for the making of each crown a golden eagle, the greatest and most majestic of all birds of prey, had to die.
The body of each Eagle Crown was a curved, conical helmet of fine iron, larger and more massive-looking, although actually less thick than a regular war helmet. Specially crafted to be an exact fit for the head of the new War Chief, its interior was padded and filled, then lined with a wide, thick, comfortable leather headband. High on the front of this huge helmet, the eagle's head was affixed, cunningly worked and furnished with gleaming, wicked eyes of glass above the polished, viciously curving beak. Beneath that the feathers of the neck and breast swept down to cover all sign of the helmet's iron forehead. The wings, folded but partially open, their pinions not quite at rest, were then fitted carefully on each side, and the magnificent tail feathers were attached behind, meticulously set, arranged and spread so that they swept outwards and down to cover the shoulders of the wearer. It was as though the wearer carried a living eagle on his head, poised to take flight. Each Eagle Crown was a superb work of art, a tribute to the man who wore it and to the skills and energy of the craftsmen who fashioned it, and this one had belonged to Daffyd Pendragon. He would never wear it again, nor would Ullic ever see him again. He turned away, holding the crown out to the man who had brought it to him. The other took it in silence, and Ullic walked away; the onlookers watched him leave in utter silence.
Ullic Pendragon became the most admired War Chief the Federation had ever produced. His armies never suffered a defeat in all the years of his command, and his fame was widespread, his name known and respected far beyond the boundaries of his own lands. Even the Roman Overlords, as they used to call themselves, admired and respected Ullic for what he was.
Now Ullic's grandson, Uther, could feel the weight of the legacy of his forefathers lying heavily on his soul. Five generations of his direct ancestors, one after the other, had borne the title King of the Federation. Would his be the hands to lose their grip on the title?
Uther kicked his horse into motion and hurried to join his men, who were taking a well-deserved rest at the top of the hill.
Once the troops had fed and watered their mounts and enjoyed a brief respite from their saddles. Nemo Hard-Nose, the decurion in charge, barked the order to remount. Uther stirred himself, brushing away the crumbs of dried nuts and grain that had fallen on his breast as he ate from the small bag of food in his scrip. He pulled the drawstring tight, slipped the leather bag back into his pouch and rose to his feet, making his way to his horse without having said a word to anyone since he dismounted. For once he was completely unaware of the looks on the faces of the men as they filed past him, until one wag barked out, "King's escort. Commander!"
Uther's head jerked at that, and then he barked a solitary note of laughter before swinging up into his saddle, kicking his horse into motion and riding forward alone, passing the forty men of his squadron and delivering an occasional offhand remark to one or another of them until he rode at their head again.
The ground over which they now rode was utterly different from the thickly forested land at the bottom of the steep ascent they had just climbed, and they made swift, easy progress riding across a treeless, gently sloping plateau that fell away to the west and southwest, covered with long, tasselled grasses that reached as high as their horses' bellies. The terrain was studded in places with high, solitary granite tors that reminded Uther of menhirs, the ancient upright monoliths that his people believed were the dwelling places or the resting places of their gods. A movement caught his eye in the distance below, and for a time he watched the moving dot that he knew to be a returning scout making his way towards them. When less than a hundred paces separated him from the man, Uther held up his arm to halt his column and rode forward alone to greet the newcomer.
The scout had nothing to report. He and his companions had seen no signs of life within a clear hour's ride, ahead or on their Hanks. About a mile below, he reported, the meadow Uther and his men were crossing ended suddenly at the edge of a ridge, concealed from view now by a fringe of scrub. Beyond that the ground fell more precipitously, and from the bottom of the scree slope there was a narrow path to follow, little more than an animal track winding among and between low hills. Here and there it was almost choked with bush and thorn, and so might present difficulty for the horses. Apart from that, the scout reported, there was nothing: no human presence, no danger, no signs of life.
Uther thanked the man and raised his hand in the signal that the decurion behind him had been waiting for, and he heard, without looking, the sound of the relief troop of ten scouts separating from the remainder of the group. They would ride back now with the man who had brought the report and would relieve the men who had been scouting the land ahead since before daybreak, leaving the weary scouts either to return to the following troop or to rest for a while until the troop came up to them. Uther waved the remainder of his squadron back into motion before the departing group had ridden a hundred paces, and he beckoned to Garreth to ride with him.
As they paused at the crest of the ridge that fell away beneath them, Uther became conscious of the heat of the early-afternoon sun against his armour, and he hitched his shoulders uselessly against the itchy trickle of a bead of sweat that suddenly broke free and made its way down between his shoulder blades. He reached up and loosened his chin strap, pulling his heavy helmet off and blotting sweat from his face with the sleeves of his tunic. Uther kicked his horse's flanks, and he and Garreth began to ride down the treacherous slope, leaning backwards so that at several points their animals' rumps almost touched the earth.
By the time they reached level ground, the two men found themselves alone again, because the first bend in the narrow path before them had already taken the others out of sight and hearing. They loosened their reins and spurred their mounts to a canter to catch up, but they were surprised at how long it took to overtake them, for the tightly twisting path on which they now rode was narrow and constrictive, offering no room for the horses to extend themselves, and frequently doubled back upon itself so that at times they seemed to be riding back the way they had already come. When they did catch up, they were constrained to ride behind the others for what Uther estimated to be a mile, breathing in the dust stirred up by everyone who had preceded them along the stone-strewn, dusty trail that led them, in some places, between high walls of solid rock. It was slow going, but eventually they passed through the last of these rocky defiles, and the pathway opened up sufficiently for them to pass on up to the head of the column, and thereafter they rode in relative comfort.