Nanotechnology: Reborn As A Prince Of Wales

Llangollen - North Wales

The camp buzzed with the sound of men readying for battle. Steel clanged as swords were sharpened, and horses snorted in the air. Gwilym ap Tudur stood tall among his soldiers, his dark eyes scanning the line of 800 men preparing to ride out. Determination hardened his jaw as he turned to Gruffudd, who paced restlessly.

"Gwilym," Gruffudd said, his voice tense, "let us wait. The canons are nearly ready. If we wait just a little longer, we'll have a real chance. Rushing in now—it's madness!"

Gwilym snorted, gripping the hilt of his sword. "It's already summer, Gruffudd. Every day we wait, their supply lines grow stronger, their garrisons swell. If we don't strike now, we'll have no chance at all."

Gruffudd threw his arms out in frustration. "And what if we fail? What then? More lives lost, just like before. These men—our men..."

Gwilym stepped closer, his voice low but firm. "Have faith, cousin. God is with us. He wouldn't let us falter when the English stand before us."

Gruffudd's shoulders slumped as he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Faith won't stop their arrows or their gates."

Gwilym said, his tone softening. He placed a heavy hand on Gruffudd's shoulder. "This stronghold needs you if we fail. You're the one who can rally the people, keep hope alive. That's why you're staying."

Gruffudd tried to speak, but Gwilym raised a hand to silence him. His gaze drifted, distant, as if imagining the battle ahead. "Tell my brother..." he paused, his voice catching, "tell him I fought with everything I had."

The solemnity hung between them as Gwilym patted Gruffudd's shoulder once more before mounting his horse. Gruffudd watched as his cousin led the riders into the fading light, their banners rippling in the evening breeze, the heavy thud of hooves marking the march toward Chirk castle.

---

The eastern plains towards Bala stretched out before them like an endless sea of grass, the wind brushing against their faces as they marched in silence. Two hundred men moved as one, their boots kicking up dust as they made their way from Corwen to Bala. Peter rode at the front, his eyes scanning the horizon, his mind consumed with thoughts of Ieuan.

"Talog," Peter called, his voice cutting through the murmur of the march. "What do you think of this Ieuan? I want to know everything you know."

Talog, riding alongside him, looked back at the men, as if weighing the gravity of the question. His gaze darkened, a flicker of unease in his eyes. "Well, lord... I watched him kill my men, using a human body."

Peter's brow furrowed in confusion. "A body? How?"

Talog's lips curled into a grimace, the memory still fresh in his mind. "Like a hammer," he said, his voice low. "He used a man's body to crush the others, he..."

The soldiers around them snickered, the absurdity of it almost too much to believe. But Peter didn't laugh. His gaze sharpened, a spark of suspicion flickering in his chest. Could he be telling the truth? He thought.

Talog's voice broke through his thoughts. "I heard he saved a witch, and he also spends his time alone in the sun. No guards, nothing."

A soldier, eager to break the tension, teased, "Who is he, Lleu?"

Peter ignored the comment, "If we capture him alone, there's no need for any more bloodshed," he said, his voice firm, but his heart heavy with doubt.

"How many men did he kill when you confronted him?" Peter asked, his tone almost distant, as though testing the limits of the man's story.

Talog was silent for a moment, the memory clearly weighing on him. "Fifteen."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "One man, with his bare hands, killed fifteen armed men!?" He could barely wrap his mind around it.

Talog simply nodded, grim and unflinching.

Peter's thoughts churned in a swirl of disbelief and fear. He had seen the horrors men were capable of, but this was something else. What is he, really? Peter wondered, unease creeping through his bones.

"I'll go ahead," Peter said suddenly, shaking off the weight of the conversation. "I'll investigate. I will send a signal with a fire in the woodlands south, when we're ready to attack."

Without waiting for a response, Peter spurred his horse forward, riding ahead of the group, his mind focused on the task at hand. But deep down, a knot of dread tightened in his chest. Something about Ieuan didn't sit right with him.

Peter dismounted his horse as he kicked it in the back, and dirtied him and walked. He straightened up, taking in the sight of the walls being built around Bala—a tower rising in the distance, guarded by men wielding strange, long weapons. The sound of hammering echoed through the air, the rhythmic pounding of nails marking the day's labor.

The gate loomed ahead, guarded by men in stiff armor, their eyes scanning. As Peter approached, one of the guards narrowed his gaze.

"Identify yourself?" The command was sharp.

Peter raised his hands in surrender. "Friend, I haven't eaten in days. My village was sacked by the English, and I seek refuge."

The guard's expression softened, a flicker of pity crossing his face. He stepped forward, taking a good look at Peter. "You're in luck. There's plenty of work here. You look like you could use a meal."

With a coin pressed into his hand, Peter nodded gratefully. "Thank you."

As he entered the town, he couldn't help but notice the contrast. The roads were being paved, the marketplace vibrant with activity. The air smelled of fish, spices, and the faint hint of fresh bread. He made his way toward an alehouse that stood on the corner, no one tells a tale like a drunk man, he thought.

Inside, A woman stood behind the counter, eyeing him as he took a seat at an empty table. She poured him a drink, her gaze inquisitive. "Not from around here, are you?"

Peter took a long drink, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. "No. A traveler. The name's Arawn. "

She smiled knowingly, her eyes glinting with a mixture of warmth, "Well Arawn, you've come to the right place. Drinks are on me."

Peter leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I thought this town would be in ruins after Waladr's death....but its seems the town is prosperous and everyone is....generous which is such a rare sight in these harsh times."

Before she could answer, he overheard two men at a nearby table.

"The lord's looking for people who can read and write," one man said. "Pay's outrageous."

The other snorted. "Can't read for shit. But who cares? I'm off to the bathhouse. You coming?"

The first man scowled. "Baths are for women! A man must smell rough. You faggots want to smell like flowers, is that it?"

Peter's curiosity piqued, he made his way over to them. "Good day lads."

One of the men eyed him warily. "Mmh"

"I overheard you talking about the lord needing literate folk," Peter said smoothly. "Tell me more, I'll buy you a drink."

The man hesitated, then, with a nervous glance toward his companion, leaned in and whispered. "Lord's been asking for scribes, especially those who can write and read Welsh, for special work... pay's good, real good."

Peter leaned back in his chair, his mind racing.