This damned snowstorm stood to befoul the plan - there was no way to tell if the other armies were on schedule - if the surprise attack on Londinium had any chance at all. The storm was reaching a blinding fury, and he had no choice but to call for his men to make camp, and recall the scouts while they could still make their way back.
A day since crossing the Ouse, there was no telling how much distance they'd lost today.
"My liege?" one of his lieutenants approached.
"What news?"
"Two of the scouts encountered one of King Rokk's messengers. They attempted to capture her."
Lot did not like the word attempted. "And?"
"She outran them."
Lot nodded. "Rokk's fancy Iberian steeds, no doubt."
"No, sire. She... They said she was on foot, but still outran our mounted scouts by no small margin."
Yet another of King Rokk's freakish menagerie. Mayhap that blackguard who slew my father at Yuletide will join his ranks.
His thoughts wandered back to the offensive scheduled for tomorrow.
Belinant and Cradelmant should have reached Camulodunum road by now, and Tarik's men should have reached the western road. But in this storm, who is to say what plans are met?
Come morning, messengers would have to be sent out to the others, storm or not!
[ December 26, 2005, 06:40 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
Notes 96-106 96: Well, it wasn't going to be lead! The Cu Chulain legends do tell of the Hound being tricked into eating dog- and becoming seriously ill, so it fit - although the war-paint was more practical for casual poisoning. While I figure Genni can run very fast (not XS-fast, though - car fast) for short spurts, I figure she can do long stretches fast - but still needs rests and breaks, too. Maeve, as one might gather, was Cu Chulain's arch-nemesis. "Glorith of Man" refers to the Isle of Man, an island-nation between Ireland and Britain, where I've put the sorceress-queen. Boudacea was a Celtic warrior-queen who led an impressive rebellion against Rome (a couple centuries before this story), and was presumably a real historical figure. 97: By now I hop it's clear Luornu wanted Dyrk to help lobby to have the Cauldron sent to Rome. Reep's malady is still coming, folks. 98: The Crystal Cave was never my favorite part of Arthurian lore- but it worked for Lar's imprisonment. 99.I didn't want to overdo the Ayla/Garth thing, since everyone knew what its outcome would be. 100. I was rather uncertain how this one'd go, but I thought it went well. Okay, Mekt is half-siblings with Garth and Ayla, who are half-siblings with Nura, who is half-sister of Mysa, who is half-sister of Rokk, who is foster-brother of Reep. Who says Legion isn't about family? 101: Okay, it's probably obvious who the renegades from #95 are by now. The ettin, like the maiden are new additions since they last appeared. 102: Amhlaidh is the Scottish-Gaelic spelling of a name that was mentioned very early in this story - somewhere on the second page of this thread (chapters #11-22ish). The kids' names - and who the intruder is - should make it more obvious. 103: But is Garth really the Lesidhe now? If so, is Zendak's daughter Siobhan really a guy? 104: Durobrivae is Rochester, the last point where the Romans could put bridges over the river Medway before it joins the Thames tidal area. I'm mixing Roman and modern (Canterbury) names, so its neither too Latin nor too modern. Suevi - also called Swabs - are the Germanic peoples of Allemania (conquered by Clovis - remember Eva and Lavarrus?), who also have some land in northwest Iberia at this point. 106: All I knew going in was that I needed to show Garth enjoying being alive again. His proposal surprised me, too.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:42 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
Just wanted to pop in and say I'm still reading and really enjoying, Kent. Phew... all authors should be so prolific! Thanks so much for keeping this story going.
From: Colu | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
quote:Originally posted by Mearl Dox: Just wanted to pop in and say I'm still reading and really enjoying, Kent. Phew... all authors should be so prolific! Thanks so much for keeping this story going.
thanks for reading!
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
"He is. I wish we'd not let him do this, though," said the nobleman.
"Yuiw's raithar take on Tairek's armies yerself, wouldju?"
"I never said that, Stigandr. I just wish-"
"He knoos what you're be meanin, Uland," said the Orkneyman. He glanced up the hill. where he could barely make out through the snow the sitting shape of their leader, and the Druid who tended him.
Th' oiye o' the stourm, he thought. King Roekk'll noe be foorgittin his soorvice, noussir!
Up the hill, the Druid wiped the northman's forehead. If he keeps this up much longer, the fever could take him. What a gift, but what a price! he thought. If only Lady Drusilla's gift could take illness as she gives it.
He checked the thick fur, to make sure it was as secure around his charge as it could be.
Then he glanced down toward camp. Stigandr still tended and warmed the potion, and Uland and Peter yet stood vigil. And how fare Drusilla and the others? Have they engaged the enemy?
He guessed that they had. He signaled for Stigandr to bring the formula that would wake Berach from his trance.
The others gathered around helping to hold the Northman while the Druid applied the formula. It flowed slowly and thickly, and smelled like burnt honey. Berach started to gag and cough. The Druid eased off the potion and patted him on the back.
"E-Errol? Did we do it, Errol?" he asked.
"Yes, Berach. Can't you see your magnificent blizzard?" the Druid asked.
"N-No, I cannot! Why is it so hot in here?"
Peter and Stigandr looked at each other. Uland saw his leader trying to shed his furs, and he reached to stop him.
"You're feverish. You must stay warm, my friend."
"Uland? Uland! I can hear you, my friend! Where are you?"
"His soight?" whispered Stigandr to Errol.
"I pray it's temporary, like the fever," he whispered back. Yet if the others prove successful, can we not say it was worth even this foul price?
[ September 02, 2006, 05:13 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Jonah's men surprised Belinant's army easily enough; no one had suspected an assault from the back.
It was worth the effort to ferry the entire cavalry o'er the very mouth of the Thames. Even better that the snow muffles our mounts' gallops, James thought, watching with glee the shock of the few soldiers escorting the supply wagons.
After a few were cut down before they could draw a blade, the rest surrendered outright - but most of the cavalry had already ridden ahead, leaving the captives in the hands of James and two rookies.
Jonah led the cavalry westward, plowing directly into Belinant's troops, grateful for one last command before Garth would again lead the mounted force.
The Angles, tired and cold from the past two days of blizzards, looked almost as willing - if not as eager - to give up as Cradelmant’s men had been, captured just after they, too, had crossed the Thames to reach the south shore.
Yet one managed to blow his horn, warning of the attack - but not communicating how swift it came. Jonah personally cut his alarm short, without slowing his mount's gait.
Poor Thom! He misses the first battles of the year by shepherding Cradelmant’s prisoners to Durobrivae. Ha! Let him keep his new friend Kiritan!
Having decimated Belinant's rear guard, he signaled to Dyrk, who led a unit of 10 knights up the hill to take out the rogue king's archers.
Jonah's troop continued its vector, plowing forward into the infantry, still scrambling to react to the new threat.
Further down the road, Rokk smiled. He knew his frontal forces would be spotted by the scouts, and slowed his approach to let Belinant choose the battlefield - and to give Jonah time as well.
With both armies able to use woodlands to hide their numbers, his delay in advancement must have looked overly cautious and uncertain to the older king, Rokk hoped. Secure in his position, Belinant would wait him out, not realizing what he waited for.
Once the horn sounded, he ordered the foot soldiers to commence their attack.
This will be another rout, he thought, wondering how MacKell and Laoraighll were faring with Lot...
[ December 26, 2005, 06:45 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Balin stopped at the maiden's request. Although the marketplace of Corinium was beginning to pick itself up after the storm, few had paid any attention to the knight.
"Are you a knight?"
"I am Sir Balin of Orkney, of late I am a knight of King Rokk."
"Then please, take this sword from me and use it yourself," she asked. "It was my father's, and he made me swear that I would see it delivered into the hands of a worthy knight."
Balin looked over the sword. "It is truly a worthy sword indeed," he told her. "May I escort you to your home?"
"Nay. I must yet fetch some goods from market this morn. The snows have depleted us indeed."
The maiden curtsied and departed, blending into the thin but growing market crowd.
Balin slung the second sword over his shoulder, and went on to meet the guardsmen who may have seen his brother pass through three days ago...
[ December 26, 2005, 06:47 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
The storm was ended, it was true, and he could clearly in any direction, but something added up not.
"It's like this, Reep. One army, I can see. Not imaginative, but it keeps all your forces in one place - a great juggernaut, like a Roman army."
Reep nodded.
"Two armies, from two directions, that makes sense, too. Your main force and a diversionary force. Tacitus would approve. So, you have Lot's army from the north and Belinant from the east, along the Thames. You with me?"
"Of course."
"But Belinant sends his brother's army across the river - a big effort at the mouth of the Thames, especially in the dead of winter - to come from the southeast."
"Why divide into three - especially with the hardship of crossing the river - unless your plan needs several attack routes - when the way from the west is easier?" Reep asked.
"King Tarik is still out there, somewhere," L'ile agreed.
"Precisely!" Garth exclaimed. "I think we'd better rally the city guard."
"Genni? Do you feel up for a little scouting?" Reep asked the messenger.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:50 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
With spear in hand, the battle felt like an old friend he'd forgotten how much he missed until he saw him again.
The rhythmic fury of the battle, the blood on the snow, the battle-frenzy - it all came back, and the men of Lothian bore the brunt.
He plowed through wave after wave, just as he used to against Maeve’s Connaught warriors, and they fared no better than his foes of olde.
To his left, his grandson's grandson's grandson's granddaughter (missing how many generations? he wondered) fought with equal ferocity, albeit bare-handed.
He saw her land a sharp hand blow that pierced her foe's neck.
And all too soon, it was over. Lot's seneschal called for his master, who emerged not from his tent.
"Lot?" MacKell called, ripping open the tent, unprepared for what he saw.
"My thanks for the distraction," said the man, dark by even Pictish standards, but what stood out was the smouldering palm extended toward the cowering Lot.
"King Lot is mine. Stand aside," ordered the Ulsterman.
"I take no orders from any of the Scoti. And my hand can dissolve any of your weapons!" He picked up a sword to show as an example, which melted in his clutch. MacKell pointed his spear at him. "Finias' Spear of Victory, one of the very artifacts the gods brought to Eiru. Which will withstand - its point or your hand?"
"Who are you? What is your feud with King Lot?" demanded Laoraighll.
"I am Manaugh. Lot is the son of Amhlaidh. His family must perish, just as all mine has."
"Explain." MacKell was now curious.
"In exchange for our allegiance against the Khunds, Amhlaidh pledged that the lands of Angtough would forever remain Pictish, and he and his lineage would aide us against the Scoti. He lied, and father and son aided the invasion of Ulstermen," the man sneered. "I cannot stave off your vile kind, but I can eliminate the line of Amhlaidh!"
"You made a deal with the Morrigu for that power, eh?" MacKell guessed. "You'll find she's blessed me, too!"
He lunged at the man, who reached out for the spear. The spear sizzled with magical colours, terminating in a blinding flash that left Lot and the Scots dazed, while he got away.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:52 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
The waters were choppy and the going was difficult.
The pure blue sky held no clouds to betray prevailing wind speeds, nor to provide any relief from the bitter cold.
Jeka left the safety of her small cabin to come on deck. Agravaine stood at the back, looking back at Britain. The white cliffs of the south-lands still amazed him.
"Will we ever see it again?" she asked.
"You may come and go as you please," he smiled bitterly. "I shall see you to Rome, whilst I proceed on to Jerusalem."
"What do you hope to find there?"
"Peace." She saw in his eyes the torment that still clung to him like an eagle clenching a thrashing rabbit.
The winter sea breeze chilled her to her bones. "Come inside with me. The journey is a long one, and you'll find me good company...?"
She thought back to midsummer, and hoped to recreate it, to perhaps ease his pain.
She cared not what the galley crew thought.
She caressed his face. He smiled at her warm hands, but politely removed them and turned away.
"I have sworn no joys, no... companionship, until I earn forgiveness," he said, staring out to the sea.
"How will you know-"
"-I may never," he curtly answered, and turned to her briefly. "Maybe I shall die trying," he managed a world-weary smile that did nothing to hide his hurt - and only shared it with Jeka. "Now go below. T'is not fitting for a fine princess to freeze out here."
She reluctantly did, and once alone, wept the tears he could not.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:53 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
"He's as bad as Torachi, I'll wager," Kiritan grimaced.
"This... Frankish plunderer struck as far inland as Durobrivae?" Thom couldn't believe it. He brought his prisoners to the town unbeknownst that it had been overrun by refugees.
"Nay. These are refugees from Canterbury," the Khund sighed. "Ere now, he'd struck the coastal settlements - far enough from the old Roman forts King Rokk has ordered rebuilt - to hit and run each fishing village he could.
"But now," Kiritan shook his head. "Who knows what's so emboldened him? He seems to be... looking for something."
Or someone, Thom thought.
"We shall make the best of this... awkward situation. My prisoners will be put to work fixing the old Roman buildings, that they may house refugee and prisoner alike," Thom said.
"We shall get through this winter," he authoritatively told the Khundish king. "Though the drought taxed the season's crops, I daresay these Angles can be able fishermen, too. Should they wish to eat, they can help to feed everyone."
He felt confident that the cooperative King Cradelmant would put his men to good use.
How odd that the Khunds we fought scant more than two months ago, we must now aid. Perhaps a grateful Khund is better than a starving, rioting one.
Setting out to meet his surrendered king, he reflected further on the new twist. As if Khunds, rebel kings and dead knights aren't enough. This raider Roxxius makes himself a potent adversary, too, it would seem.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:55 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
Good to see you're posting more of this Kent, I was going to PM you tonight to ask if there was nothing new here for us.
Your writing is definitely getting better - not that it was ever anything less than great! I'm hooked again.
More, more, more!!!
Bxx
-------------------- "Tempus Fugitive" the final part of the Adventures of Dream Boy series, set in the Three-Boot Universe. Read it only in the Bits o' Legionnaire Business Forum.
From: here, more often than not | Registered: Sep 2003
| IP: Logged |
The snow slowed her down, it was true, but she found if she moved at her fastest speeds - normally reserved for short sprints - she could already be into the next step before sinking too far down.
It was hard, tiring work, and it made her hungry.
She carried little with her: ample coinage for necessities, a knife with which she could quickly snare game or fish (usually before they even see her), a small tinder box to light a fire, and a heavy cloak that she could either sleep in or use to conceal herself.
Running, it was just one more hindrance, and she was often too warm - even without it, even in the frigid January snows.
Her long leather boots kept out the snow, and its interior fur lining kept her feet warm. The rest of her was kept relatively warmed by motion, as if running gave her a cushion against both the winter cold and summer heat.
She ran the past thorps and hamlets that lined the western Thames. Unlike those along the Roman roads, these folk were not accustomed to seeing her speed by, and many stood and gaped at the maiden ploshing through the snows, kicking up as much powder as a playful pup might, let loose for its first winter's outing.
She ran.
And when she tired, every half-hour or three-quarters (or less - the deep snow did tire her faster), she would stop along the river, stab a fish and light a fire. Wrapping herself in her cloak, she would cat-nap for a quarter hour or so, and wake to find her fish cooked.
And she ran, chewing on her fish as she ran.
When it wasn't time to rest, she tried to stay to the upper terrain, when there was some. She followed the south shore of the Thames, so as to hopefully be opposite the enemy camp, once she spied it.
Even so, there were other things to watch out for: tree branches in the forests, ravines to cross without slipping back down, and the occasional wild dog to outrun or evade.
And after several hours, almost time for another rest and fish, she saw it: an army camp.
Or what was left of it.
Even with the cold, even from the next hillside, she could smell it.
Death.
No, not just death. Sickness, the vile smells the human body makes with the onset of plague.
Standing still, she shivered, and not from the cold.
No signs of life, no movements, nor even any battle remains could be seen. She was not about to get any closer, when she noticed it: a lone set of footprints that led up her side of the river, toward the raving ahead of her.
Did she dare encounter the survivor? Nay. He may carry this vile plague, and she wanted no part of it.
Something glistened from the forest edge below her. A sword?
She turned and began her run back to Londinium. In an hour's time, she would allow herself a slower pace and more resting time; she was weary, and it was not even mid-day.
From the ravine's edge, the man watched.
She wasn't the plague-bearer. I shan't waste time with her. The leper, the stony Pict, the elf and the ettin... They shall feel my wrath.
With one swing of his magic axe, the snow from the path before him cleared, and he followed the vague set of footprints before him southward, away from the frozen Thames.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:56 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
King Tarik clenched his hand against his throat. The swelling had grown.
He looked about him. The rag-tag motley of knights, mostly wheezing or moaning, was all that remained of his hundred knights.
All made ill by the lepress. Gods! She must pay, he thought, for he could no longer speak his anger.
Sir Caradoc led his remnants northward, where they hoped to regroup with King Lot.
The only thing Tarik could smile about was the ax-man he'd left behind.
I'll rebuild, young King Rokk. This I swear! Your legion of freaks shall be met with its equal, and no sorceress shall cut my ranks as this harlot has!
Tarik knew that he dared not return to Elmet - Rokk's armies would besiege him there. No, he must flee to Gaul, and begin anew. His new bride, Winifred, could rule in his stead, and appease the young king long enough for the seeds of retribution to take root.
He knew the Alemanni royals had failed to sway King Mekt's allegiance, but he knew of a more certain way to win over the seemingly most loyal of Rokk's vassals.
Yes, Tarik knew the route to Mekt's soul, and like fine hops, it must be harvested at just the right time...
[ December 26, 2005, 06:58 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Her breathing was shallow, and the limited shelter of the snow-cave did little to better her condition.
"Does she always get like this?" the elf asked.
"A one-on-one be-plaguing takes little out of her. Taking on an entire army camp - I don't think she's ever exerted herself like that," Dag said, trying not to twitch at the increasing discomfort he was feeling.
He and he alone held the makeshift snow cave together, arching over his friends to reach the steep hillside, while they built the shelter around him.
"Shh!" he demanded.
There were footsteps - more than one!
Did the axe-man have allies!? What would they do?
"What do you make of it?" said one voice, a young man.
"Most of the tracks belong to a single man - a large man, no doubt a warrior. Perhaps a Northman," said the other. "A single thread of tracks - a small group of four - led to the camp, then across the river, and then back to the river, where they vanish."
Dag smiled. The elf's magicks did work! He hadn't fully believed until now.
"It's King Rokk's knights!" whispered the elf.
"Shh. We can't be sure," said Franz' right head.
"I'm sure," said the elf. "I’m going to greet them."
"Oh, no you're not! said Franz' left head, with all the others, including his own right head, shushing him.
But the damage was done.
"Um. Hello?" said one of the voices, drawing closer.
Dag heard one of them draw a sword.
I'll not stand here defenseless while my friends are attacked!
"Stay still, everyone," he whispered, before breaking from his position, causing a small avalanche of snow upon his comrades, which he hoped would hide them.
"Harrgh!" he shouted, charging the two men before him. After being so still for so long - from maintaining his pose for so many hours - his legs betrayed him, cramping up in rebellion as he fell to the ground.
The others were pulling themselves out of the snow-bank, to face an armored man, a robed, priestly young man facing them.
"Who are you!" demanded Franz' left head.
"I am Sir Garth," smiled the knight. "I guess we owe you our thanks." He reached out his hand.
Still skeptical, he saw another man running at them from the opposite direction. He whirled to see that it was the Northman Berach!
"They've found you!" he exclaimed, throwing himself into a hug with his still-snowy companions. "It's over. We've won!"
Garth smiled, but held reservation. Rokk and Dyrk hunted the last man of Tarik's company, but something about the situation bothered him.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:00 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Hyperpath: Email this page to someone!
Printer-friendly view of this topic | Subscribe To Topic
