M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon by M. K. Hume

King Gawayne.’ Bran bowed towards the old man who had seen it all: the drawing of the sword from the stone at Glastonbury, the battles to free the west, and the whole tragedy and glory of King Artor’s reign. ‘We are honoured by your presence, my lord. You and your sons have travelled far to be with us, and we welcome you to this union.’
    Polite grunts were aimed in Gawayne’s general direction, which caused his sons to bridle a little at their lack of respect. But Gawayne grinned with the old insouciance that had won Queen Wenhaver’s heart, and the intrinsic honesty that had made him so valuable to the success of his uncle’s rule.
    ‘Continue, Bran. We are listening to you.’ Gawayne’s blocked nose blurred his commanding voice, but the king of the Otadini tribe was incapable of speaking without the unmistakable confidence of power. As an aged aristocrat with a sense of humour and innate charm, Gawayne retained the gravitas that had made him a legend in his glorious youth.
    The kings settled back into their seats, and in the back rows, where the women watched with quiet interest, Anna sighed gently. She knew that Bran would never have the force of personality that would silence strong and greedy men with a simple word or an irate glance. It was the truth; and it would always be Bran’s weakness.
    ‘Before we deal with the difficulties of our relationship with the Saxon invaders, we have some unfinished business to conclude.’
    The crowd hushed. They understood exactly what Bran meant by unfinished business , and each man present felt a twinge of relief that Bran’s quiet, reasoned animosity wasn’t turned in his direction. In his coldness, the king of the Ordovice was palpably Artor’s descendant.
    ‘Mark of the Deceangli tribe forgot his oath of loyalty to King Artor and the council of kings, and chose to follow his personal path of greed and resentment. In doing so, he allied himself with Modred the Matricide and our enemies, the Picts, in order to steal your lands, kill your men, lay waste your towns and burn your crops. He has been brought to Deva to be judged by you, the kings of those tribes who have suffered because of his treason.’ Bran turned to the four warriors standing behind him. ‘Guards! Bring out the traitor.’
    Bran might not have possessed gravitas, but he had a spectacular sense of drama. The guards had been ordered to await his direct instructions before dragging Mark before the kings. When his dry, cold voice gave the cue, their footsteps were clearly audible to everyone in that tall, circular space. The dragging noises that accompanied their crisp march went some way towards preparing the audience for the filthy creature that was hauled into their presence.
    Months below ground in the worst prison the Romans could devise had irreversibly changed the erstwhile king of the Deceangli tribe. His thin, narrow frame had always been elegant and self-contained, but now it was bent and skeletal. The black hair with the heavy swathes of white had always possessed an avian distinction, coupled with the long, prominent nose, jutting chin and ironic black brows, but the vile thing that entered the hall was no longer a hunting bird, or even a corvine scavenger. It was a travesty of a man, and each of the kings present was forced to turn away from what the jailers of Deva had created.
    Mark’s skin, his hair and the single ragged blanket that covered his genitals were the same uniform shade of grimy grey, as if even his colouring had deserted him. His emaciated body could barely stand, so that his guards were forced to half carry, half drag him to a stool where he could sit. The muscles in his legs and arms were wasted, so that his skin fell in loose folds over his bones. His belly was hollow, and every rib and vertebra was clearly visible. Partly healed cuts and scrapes covered his limbs and torso and his filthy grey beard had grown outwards before straggling down over his sunken chest. The