The day's hunting had gone well, the season's crops were looking good after all, and the boys were finally at an age where they were more help than nuisance.
Not even the cold rain, slowly getting heavier, was enough to spoil his humour. He smiled, thinking of all the times he cursed the island's clime, longing for the warmth of Rome, or of his homeland.
Today, even the gloom made him content. Perhaps an old Gaul can be at home in Britain, after all, he chuckled, as he dismounted. After all, it's only taken thirty years.
He unpacked the three hares he'd shot before allowing the servant boy to stable his horse. Luornu will make a fine stew of these, he thought.
The servant boy was still standing before him.
"Well? What is it?" he demanded.
"Y-You have a g-guest, milord," the boy managed.
Although new to Brandius' villa, the boy was not normally so meek as to stammer, and his master's good mood vanished at the prospect of whose company awaited him.
Mordru.
The boy nodded, surprising Brandius, who hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud.
Walking toward his residence, his step quickened at the prospect of the old wizard and Luornu being alone together inside. The cold of the rain should have sizzled on his skin from the rage now boiling from within.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:16 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
"Calm yourself, my old friend. I was merely admiring your ward's... embroidery."
Rather than calming her patron, Luornu could see that the sorcerer's taking the liberty to call him "old friend" infuriated the old knight. Just as Mordru knew it would.
She prayed that Sir Brandius would not be baited into being a dishonorable host. Not with anger, nor with brash accusations a man of his station should be above. She watched him collect his anger before speaking.
"Why, my sole concern, my friend, is that you're detaining her from fetching my honoured guest some wine and bread. It must have been a long journey indeed from Londinium."
Mordru's eyes gleamed like a veteran toying with new recruits in a game of throwing-stones - just before collecting all their wages.
Luornu scampered off in the direction of the kitchen.
"Come. Let us sit near the fire in the mean time," said Brandius.
"Let us do so. We have many important matters to discuss," replied the guest. He continued, but was out of Luornu's earshot, as she entered the kitchen.
"Are you okay?" demanded her sister, in a loud whisper.
"You're not supposed to be here, Lu," she replied. "What if someone sees us together?"
"But the old man. I though he was going to-"
"He was trying to get Sir Brandius to do something improper. You know, like harboring two supposedly dead girls that Bishop Vidar would like to interrogate?"
She shoved Lu toward the secret doorway that led to the back gardens. "Now go!"
[ December 26, 2005, 04:19 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
"Sir Brandius has a guest. I'm going to the garden to pick some berries to serve with his bread and cheese," replied the maiden, scurrying away.
"Luornu! Wait!" Rokk called again, but the lass had ducked around the corner already. "She acts very strange at times."
"You act very strange at times, I must say," jibed his foster-brother, Reep.
"At least I don't look like a changeling," Rokk shot back.
"Why, you little runt!" he shot back, playfully jabbing the younger boy.
Reep was very sensitive about his appearance. His mother, they say, was a Pict, and he had that tribe's unmistakable dark, otherworldly complexion and features, including slightly pointy ears - but with one exception, his head was completely hairless. Yet strangely, by fire or moonlight, he looked quite normal.
Raised as brothers, Rokk and Reep fought as brothers do - sometimes for spite or anger, and sometimes for sheer fun. It would latter occur to Reep that this fight was out of something else - habit.
Even in the moment, something told him this would be their last such boyish fight. He was two years Rokk's senior, and manly responsibilities would soon be placed upon his shoulders. Most likely, he would be expected to serve in the army, as his father before him had.
Rokk should have a couple more years, he thought. But something told him otherwise.
These thoughts came to Reep has he had Rokk pinned down, holding his arms to the ground, letting him giggle and kick and flail.
"Boys!"
His father's voice snapped both of them to attention, and they stumbled to their feet.
The man beside him, Reep surmised, must be the guest Luornu mentioned. The long beard and robe first made him think he must be a priest or hermit, but no, there was something else about him.
He also looked vaguely familiar, like he had seen him as a very young boy.
The guest studied him. "Is this he? The hairless one?"
"No," replied his father. "That's my son, Reep."
"Greetings, sir," Reep tried.
"Hrmph," replied the guest, who was refocusing on Rokk. "Ah. Now he. He looks like a -"
The man stopped himself. Reep's father looked on, disapprovingly.
"You were a wee babe when I last saw you, boy. I am called Mordru," said the guest. He refocused on both of them. "Two fine young boys. Ready to prove themselves as men, eh?" he asked, with a chuckle of feigned interest.
"Ready to go to war, protect your homeland? Even now, Khundish raiders are landing on British soil," Mordru continued.
"Not Rokk. He's too young," interjected Reep's father.
"Nonsense. There'll be younger on the field with him. We need everyone." he turned to his host. "Everyone, Brandius. The War Council stands united on this - all boys over 12. As a knight yourself, you understand the stakes."
Khunds? thought Reep, still chewing it over. "So, the peace of Ambrosius is truly over?"
"It began dying the day it was brokered, boy. A Khund's word is only good until the next drink," Mordru sneered.
"Then I will be proud to fight under Ambrosius," Reep declared.
"You'll fight under the War Council. Ambrosius died a fortnight ago." Mordru almost seemed pleased with the fact.
Rokk and Reep looked to each other in disbelief, then to his father. Brandius' eyes told them it was true.
"You didn't tell us, father."
"I knew he was ill, and that it was only a matter of time."
"How soon will the three of you be ready?" asked Mordru.
"We'll leave with you in the morning," Reep's father answered.
"Then let us eat well tonight, for it is soldier's rations tomorrow and on," cackled the guest.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:20 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
"I forget nothing, you silly boy," Luornu answered.
"You forgot the berries." He saw confusion in her face. "The berries for Mordru. Yesterday in the garden you said you were getting berries to go with his bread and cheese."
"In the garden," she said, looking past him. "Oh, yes! I must have forgotten."
Rokk was slightly worried about her. This wasn't the first time she could not recall events or conversations she was part of. Moreover, those very incidents were the ones she seemed very nervous about at the time.
"I heard Khund blood is good for warding off ailments of the mind. I'll bring you some."
"Ughh! No thank you, mighty slayer of Khunds," she laughed.
Despite his brash talk, Luornu saw a tinge of uncertainty in his eyes. She hugged him. "You'll be fine. Just stab them before they stab you."
"He'll stab no one. You're only coming along to be my squire. You understand that, don't you, lad?" said Sir Brandius.
"Yes, sir." Rokk blushed at being redressed before Luornu. He was taken by her, and while she thought he was very sweet about it, she had no illusions. Her future included servitude, old maidhood - maybe the Convent if she remains lucky - but no knights in shining armour.
Sir Brandius turned to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. "You'll come with us to Corinium, and stay with the Sisters there." He looked questioningly at her.
"Yes, sir," she answered, also nodding to his unspoken question.
She placed her bag into the wagon, reaching under the canvass covering. Rokk, still standing nearby, heard someone sounding like Luornu say "Ow!" in a muffled voice. When he looked over, Luornu, looking embarrassed, said, "It's only a splinter."
Further raising Rokk's suspicion, she insisted on placing and arranging all of the wagon's cargo herself...
[ June 17, 2007, 05:05 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
Faboo stuff Kent, this is great! More, more, more
-------------------- "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 shout came from a hefty, weathered old northerner, probably from Eboracum. He was drunk, spoiling for a fight, and without a Khund in sight, had set his sights on a young Breton lad.
"I apologize for bumping into you. Now let us pass, and there'll be no trouble," Garth replied.
"Oh! 'There'll be no trouble!'" mocked the man. "Laddie, you've found yourself some trouble. Now, are you man enough to use those swords, or are you just a pretty-boy out for show?"
"You'll be sorry," warned Garth's compatriot. "Even at his age, he's the best swordsman in all Lesser Britain."
"In all Lesser Britain, you say? Why then he's good enough to wipe my arse!" the man bellowed. "There's a reason they call it Lesser Britain!"
"You were warned," Garth quietly replied, drawing his sword.
The duel that followed was resolved quicker than the verbal portion had been, and it left Garth dissatisfied. Besting a drunken oaf was no challenge, and he was beginning to fear that his growing reputation might only lead to challenges from every sword that lacked a wit behind it.
"The lad moves like lightning," exclaimed one of the oaf's companions.
"Taranau," exclaimed a man, who to Garth's eyes appeared to be a nobleman.
He certainly caught Garth's attention. At home his people called him Taranaut, the local name for lightning.
"Good day to you," Garth greeted him.
"Good day, young knight. I am Marcus, duke of Cornwall. I could use another skilled arm among my officers."
"My thanks, but I am here with my brother's forces, from Lesser Britain."
"Ah. How is King Ban these days? I've not seen him in three summers, I fear," Marcus replied.
"They say those who pursue God's work the best lose track of time. My father has been dead some five years now."
Garth had never seen anyone smile and scowl at the same time, yet Marcus managed to do so.
"Well. My condolences, although belatedly. If you'll forgive me, I must take my leave." Marcus and all but one of his aides departed.
"You know your way around blades far better than you do around people, my friend," his companion said.
"Take no heed," said the last of Marcus' men. "He turns cold faster than Cornish weather. Come, let us find ale to share." The fellow was scarcely older than Garth himself.
"I am Garth of Benwick, also known as Garth of the Lake."
"I am Thom, step-son of Duke Marcus. Come, let us talk."
But the Khunds had other plans. The sentries blew their horns, signaling that the horde of invaders had been spotted. Within minutes, the encampment was virtually empty...
[ December 26, 2005, 04:23 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
The Khunds were very outnumbered, yes, but theirs was the side of experience.
Ambrosius' old guard was either dead, dying, or showing the strains of their ages on the battlefield. They were joined, for the most part, by lads barely sprouting their first facial hairs.
The Khundish horde, in contrast, was full of seasoned raiders, who, if not pillaging the shores of Caledonia, Britain or Gaul, were warring amongst themselves. They, too, were joined by young blood, but young men who grew up wielding swords and axes for survival - not some abstract threat, as the young lads of Britain regarded the Khunds.
This distinction was not lost on the young warriors of Lothian. In some ways they had more in common with the Khunds.
These southern boys fight as if it were a hobby, thought the eldest son of Lot. T'is a wonder they've kept the welisc at bay this long.
In a single blow, he felled two large brutes. Nearby, a young man in Roman garb saw his sword knocked aside by a Khund downhill from him.
The boy knows nothing of warcraft. He should not be here, he thought, moving to intervene.
Before he could, though, another knight interceded, cutting the Khund in half. "Well, met, knight of Lothian," called the fellow, before turning and diving into a new fray.
"Well met indeed," noted the bemused northerner, knowing the fellow was well out of earshot. "Perhaps these southerners have something to offer after all, eh?"
The Roman boy looked at him, not comprehending the words.
"Pick up your sword," bellowed Lot's son. "And tell me what knight that was. Was it the Garth of Ban's court, of whom I have heard such renown?"
"No," said the Roman. "'T'was a knight from Cornwall, based upon his crest, I'd wager."
Sir Thom of Lyoness, he thought, as he struck down another raider. Perhaps there are worthy rivals down here.
Three foes later, he swung around to find a forth, but no one stood near him.
The few Khunds he saw were fleeing, pursued by a band of those boys he thought to ineffective to win.
Even so, the field was full of moaning wounded on both sides.
"Kill me," pleaded the Roman boy. He'd tried to keep an eye on him, but the boy had to do his part, too.
Surveying the boy's wounds, he saw too many deep torso cuts. I long night of bleeding was the longest he'd survive.
"I salute you, brother," he said, before granting the request.
He gave no such salutations when picking off any wounded Khunds.
[ September 02, 2006, 03:11 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
"It was here on the plains of Camulodunum where Ambrosius last fought the Khunds, and it is here that we win today," proclaimed Sir Derek.
More merchant than warrior, Derek was once one of Ambrosius' favorites, and he capitalized on that to rebuild the Morgnus family's once-glorious status among proper Londinium society.
His fellow members of the War Council had no doubt Derek's main interest in fighting Khunds was purely to safeguard his own trade - and that he would switch sides if he thought the Khunds could better fill his coffers.
"A glorious victory, indeed. May we cherish this day, and remember how to stand together when needed without quarreling amongst ourselves," agreed King Wynn of Cumbria, hoping to divert yet another pointless argument would make the best High King of Britain.
King Lot smiled, grateful that Wynn did his work for him. Surely his sons would together make Gawaine the favorite.
"Wise words," agreed Beren, the revered hierophant of the Druids. While not a member of the War Council, his counsel was held in high regard by Ambrosius, and thus none dared speak ill of him - none but Bishop Vidar, that is.
"Come, let us return to Sir Brandius' pavilion, where we may properly celebrate today's deeds," said Zendak, king of South Cymru.
They descended from the hill where they and other nobles and generals watched the battle, toward a large tent by a wooded glade along the river.
As they approached, the servants and squires alike were caught in such commotion that few noticed the return of their commanders.
"What's going on here!?" demanded Zendak, grabbing the first kitchen-boy he came across.
"The sword!" exclaimed the boy, too tongue-tied to do else but point.
As he wheeled to look, his fellow warlords were already caught agape.
Brandius' pavilion was deliberately set up adjacent to Ambrosius' rock. In his last war against the Khunds, his wounds made some whisper about who would replace him. He took his great sword Excalibur, and thrust it into the rock, proclaiming he who could remove it would succeed him as king.
Many had tried, but none had ever succeeded in the 20 years since then, even while an aging Ambrosius still lived. Not the strongest, nor the bravest, nor the purest of heart.
But today, the sword was gone.
"Who?" whispered Zendak, barely catching his breath. "Who shall be Uther's heir?"
"Where is Dyrk?" asked Derek. "Surely he must have pulled the sword. He outshines all others. Only he could have done the deed."
"Nay," said Lot. "It would have taken a hearty northerner to have done the impossible. My son Gawaine is stronger and more noble than a dozen of these southern knights."
"Not so," said Duke Marcus. "It must have been my son, Thom."
"Cease your braggartly ways, good sirs," said Brandius, arriving from the field with his boys. "T'was my foster son, Rokk, who lifted the sword."
Indeed, the knight's foster son held the ancient runed blade.
"Impossible!"
"Trickery!"
"No whelp without royal blood..."
"Brandius was correct in calling for silence," said Mordru, having arrived unseen. "Those who hold their tongues may listen and learn. Let only the fools judge without hearing."
"Speak your piece, Mordru," said Wynn.
"Thirteen summers agone, I delivered young Rokk to Brandius' care at the direction of Ambrosius himself, with orders that none were to know, until the lad proved himself."
"You're saying this Rokk is Gwydion, Ambrosius' sole heir? Trickery, old Wizard! The child died an infant!" cried Lot.
"Trickery, yes. But as the high king's will. The one Bishop Vidar -then simply Father Vidar- buried was a peasant boy who died of the fever. Ambrosius had me spirit the boy away, that he might grow to manhood," Mordru replied. "He feared someone would again try to poison his son," he said, eyeing Lot.
Lot's wife Morgause was sister to Ambrosius' wife Igraine, making Lot's family very close to the throne. Only Igraine's daughter Mysa was closer, thought Zendak, also eyeing Lot.
"There is no proof that this child is Gwydion, or that he pulled the sword from the stone," a red-faced Lot charged.
"The boy can do it again," Mordru smiled triumphantly.
At the wizard's urging, an uncertain Rokk again placed the sword in the stone. Lot tried to pull it out again, and failed.
He was followed by several others, big and strong, those who claimed the most noble of pedigrees, and those reputedly pure of heart. All failed.
Zendak, who tried it himself once as a young buck, opted not to. He took a great deal of amusement at Derek's failed effort, though - and that Derek insisted on trying himself before letting his son try.
After all the kings, nobles, knights and all their sons who chose to make the effort failed, Rokk again pulled the sword from the stone, and held to overhead.
And when he again looked down, all those around him were kneeling.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:25 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
The campfires were starting to ebb, while the smell of meade grew stronger.
Most of the men were far too inebriated to notice, but Reep knew who was missing. He limped up the hill, and found his brother and liege is silence, staring at the moonlit battlefield.
Reep sat beside him. In the dark, the sound of British warriors celebrating and toasting didn't sound so far different than the day's combat had. He could almost imagine they were listening to that battle continuing in the dark below them.
"Who's winning?" he asked, hoping Rokk imagined what he did.
"Mordru," Rokk replied. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen," he blurted. "I don't think any of this is right."
"How so?"
Rokk struggled for where to begin.
Out on the field, Sir Brandius' sword had broken, and he sent Rokk back to get a replacement.
At the pavilion, he found none - too many had been taken up already. A cloaked old man (one of the kitchen staff, Rokk surmised) told him there was an extra sword stuck into the stone.
"I'd never heard of Ambrosius' tale, Reep. Really, I didn't! I wouldn't have tried if I'd known."
"It's probably a good thing, then. We'd not otherwise known you're the king."
"But I'm not! I don't think the sword pulled out because of that!"
"Go on."
"Remember that time we were playing with father's armour, and you got stuck? I didn't pull the helmet off like you thought, not exactly."
"I don't understand."
Rokk sighed. "All right, then. Remember how much better I am fencing with a real sword than a wooden one? Or all the times I caught more fish than you - with metal hooks?"
Reep looked perplexed.
"I have a strange influence over metal. It's not much. It's very subtle, and gets weaker over distance... It hasn't helped my archery as much as my swordsmanship. I've always been ashamed of it. The priests warn us about sorcery."
Reep smiled. "How do you know Ambrosius didn't have this power, too? And was counting on you to use it to pull out Excalibur? Worry not about the priests. Ambrosius was a good man and a great king. You will be, too."
Rokk frowned. "But what if it's more of Mordru's trickery? I just can't believe it all. Verily, I can't."
"If Mordru had sole possession of magic, he'd be king for all time, and we'd be fighting him, not the Khunds. Do you think I'm evil?"
"No, Reep. Of course not."
"Look at me, then." Rokk focused on his foster brother, recognizing his voice, but not his face.
Under the moonlight, the boy next to him resembled Derek's son Dyrk far more than the Reep he'd known.
"Reep! What madness is this?"
"Wait a moment," Reep replied. The facade of Dyrk faded, to be replaced by that of King Wynn.
"I understand this not!" Rokk proclaimed. "Stop this at once!"
"Yes, my liege," Reep replied, only half jesting. "See? You are not the only one with freakish aspects. I can make my face resemble others. And as your gifts are limited to metal, mine are ineffectual in sunlight. You thought you jest, but I am part changeling after all."
Rokk took several minutes to digest this news.
"Bishop Vidar would have you killed as a demon," he said at last.
"Most likely. And you, too, if you weren't king."
Studying Rokk's face, Reep saw realization seep into his brother's face.
Rokk stood, and walked over the ridge, where the remaining campfires illuminated him.
"I guess someone should rule Britain with justice, then, and keep both the Khunds and the Bishop Vidars from doing their harms."
[ December 26, 2005, 04:27 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Lot's son walked through the camp as the first light of dawn was washing onto the eastern sky.
Most were asleep or passed out. A few were still up, drinking or gambling or just talking. And, of course, a few sentries kept their watch.
The kitchen staff was awake, preparing the morning's porridge.
Some of the camp women still stumbled about, looking for the lad of which they'd heard.
They approached the young warrior. "Are you... him? My lord?" asked one. Some of them grimaced at the very wounds of which he held the most pride.
"I am not the one who claims to be our king," he said with a sneer. I could honestly tell them I am the new king's cousin and kinsman, he realized, but for once, he had no yearning for this sort of woman.
He strolled on, trying to think of all the wenches he'd wooed, all the court ladies he'd charmed, all the peasant girls he's dazzled.
But no. He was a man haunted by another sort of lady.
Luckily, thinking about his new liege provided a means of distraction.
He strolled on, into the small thatch of woods beyond Brandius' pavilion. Excalibur was once again placed into its rock for safekeeping, and Brandius' two boys were asleep, wrapped in their cloaks nearby.
I could kill you, little cousin. Father would most certainly approve.
He held the pummel of his sword for an eternity, staring at the boy, too young for even a whisker on his chin.
He turned his gaze toward Excalibur. Like many, he had tried to pull the sword that afternoon, to no avail.
For sport, he tried once again, and was not surprised when he failed.
Certainly the boy is the old wizard's choice for the throne. Does he fancy that the lad will be easier to control? Or is Brandius in on the deed?
Father was Uther's most loyal vassal. Yet here we are, the villains, if we try to stop Mordru from cheating us out of our rightful inheritance.
Damn him! Damn them all!
He slowly, quietly pulled his sword, and held it above the sleeping Rokk.
But he couldn't.
I'm not that much my father, he thought at first, then tried to erase the thought from his head, hating himself for the unspoken disloyalty.
He devised a better excuse. What if I'm playing into Mordru's hands?
"Well, young cousin. We shall see what kind of king you can be, after all," he whispered, walking away.
Reep relaxed the grip on his dagger, but remained awake.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:28 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
The way that the barge moved silently across the water, not even scuffing or bristling the reeds, never ceased to amaze Jeka, even though she'd experienced it regularly for more than half her young life.
The barge was rowed by four accomplished priestesses-in-training, under her supervision, just as she had once had to row under another priestess' gaze, with no concession granted due to her title.
One could not row the route without knowing how to go. A boat would become lost in other realms, or, at best, find itself overturned on the shores near Glastonbury, where the priestess' link to the outer world lies.
To row the Passage, a priestess needed to learn all four parts with precision. Other than supervision, Jeka's role, she believed, was to make it appear to visitors that she was the one guiding the barge along the route, and distract visitors from the simple truth that the rowers' held their fate in their oars.
The mists along the route thicken, and one loses site of the shores immediately. The bells of Glastonbury then fade, and one is enshrouded entirely by mist. One cannot see or hear the water through the crucial channel, until one suddenly arrives at Avalon, on the Priestess Island's shore.
Jeka thought she would not normally need to go through the motions and rituals associated with the Passage, given that their sole passenger was Beren. If he wanted to usurp the Priestess' secrets, he'd have done so long ago.
And is it not a wonder he has not? she thought. While she bore no grudge against the old Druid, she was tiring of anything she perceived as illusions - and lately, that was almost everything.
She questioned, also, why Beren would come by barge to Avalon, when most of the Druids go directly to the Druid Isle through the Grove Path in Cymru?
Did he not want his fellow Druids to know he visits the priestesses?
Just as the mists gave way, the barge landed, and several junior students tied it to the mooring posts, while others placed the gang plank down.
And as the barge party came ashore, the mists were gone as if they'd never been. Beren and the oar crew uttered a small prayer, but to Jeka, it was just another illusion.
"Greetings, Lord Druid Beren, my old friend. Welcome back to Avalon," said Lady Kiwa, leading a procession of maidens.
"My lady!" beamed Beren. "Would that I never had to bother with the outside world, and could spend my days in your company!"
"Flatterer!" Kiwa returned.
Jeka tuned out their further flowery greetings. More illusions, she scowled.
With Beren settled in the visitor's cottage, Jeka went about her duties, overseeing trainees doing the various rituals she had learned, over and over. As one of the eldest maiden priestesses, these duties largely fell to her.
Mysa, you should be here. This is your path, not mine, she thought. The girl that had been almost her sister was gone, though, and Kiwa had simply expected Jeka to step into Mysa's place.
And now there was talk of a new king - one that Kiwa would want to hold the strings to. And Jeka suspected she was lined up to be one of those strings.
Her father, Voxv of North Cymru, was an old but beloved ruler, and he was respected second only to Uther Ambrosius. Her hand would immediately strengthen the new king's position.
It's not going to happen that way, 'My Lady,' she snarled, internally.
"Why not?" asked the maiden whose weaving she was half-heartedly inspecting.
Jeka looked at her. Has this girl seen my very thoughts?
"Yes. Yes, I have," she replied. "I didn't mean to, but very intense thoughts are hard to block out."
"Does Kiwa know of your gift?" Jeka asked. Even the senior priestesses, who have trained their whole lifetimes, had rarely developed such skill, Jeka knew.
"No. The lady Mysa implored me not to tell. I don't know why," the girl responded. "I guess I shouldn't have told you that."
"It's all right. Mysa was a good friend of mine. Is a good friend of mine."
"Mysa said she'd come back for me. I don't really understand why you're upset, though. If Kiwa wanted to marry me off to the new high king, I'd be grateful."
"Really! Well, my dear, I think we can be of help to each other," Jeka replied.
Jeka made it through her day with a much better mind. All she had to do was convince Kiwa to let her take young Imra to Londinium.
And as she expected, she was summoned to have her evening meal with Kiwa and Beren.
When asked, she apologized convincingly for her foul mood of late. She acted surprised when they told her of their plans to marry her to the young king.
She accepted the role with honor, and asked only to bring Imra along as her handmaiden.
"Why not?" scoffed Kiwa. "The girl's proven useless for the priestess life, and is always romancing about court intrigues. Her father sent her to us, I suspect, to also be rid of her. Take her with you, with my blessing."
"You're too kind, my Lady," gushed Jeka, as she exited.
Kiwa and Beren sat in silence, smiling at each other.
"My Lady, you still weave webs inside intricate webs."
"My dear Beren, is there any other kind worth spinning?"
[ December 26, 2005, 04:29 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
This is great Kent! I love how you are introducing all the main characters through the Camelot mythology, very cleverly done! The politics and kiniving are great to read, your characters individual personalities have been nicely established and you've included some great old characters - Beren, Voxv etc.
I'm loving this. More, more, more please!
-------------------- "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 |
posted
okay, I figure at 10 posts, it's a good time to add my own footnotes and comments.
Background: While I admit heavy influence by Marion Zimmer Bradley's phenomenal The Mists of Avalon, I am by no means following her exact template. I am also well versed in many other aspects of Arturian lore, including Malory's le Morte D'Arthur, and will mix and match - or outright warp - as I please.
a few notes on terms: changeling refers to old superstitions about faeries stealing human babies and leaving fae-children, changelings, in their place - not the Gar Logan type of Changeling.
Welisc means "foreigner," but was later misused by Anglo-Saxons, who used the term to describe southern Britain's original inhabitants, who were either assimilated or pushed to the west, Wales and Cornwall, where A-S peoples never fully conquered, and the term "Welsh" and "Wales" exist today, rather than the proper Cymru.
On the same note, I use Welsh words (like Taranau, which does mean "lightning") on occassion as used interchangeably as any Brythonic Celtic language - any Celt who was dwelling in today's England, Wales, Cornwall or Brittany (the latter Taranaut, adding the "T" ending, was my own device, for reasons that will become apparent later).
Anyone confused about the place names can check out this basic Roman Britain map.
Also, Cymru is Wales, Caledonia is Scotland, Cumbria is the northwestern part of today's England (i.e. the Lake district), Gaul is France, Lesser Britain is Brittany (northwestern France), and Lothian is Edinburgh and its surrounding area.
Benwick is a traditionally fictional place, and I follow other recent authors in placing it in Brittany. Lancelot's origins in French fiction make this appropriate as well.
I place Brandius' villa near today's Hereford.
A note on Ambrosius: Ambrosius was real, the last true Roman commander, and one of three solid foundations for the character of Arthur. While he held off the Saxons in the late 400s, I prefer placing Arthur in the early 500s, when the definitive battle at Baden Hill was fought - and evidence points to a brief golden age of post-Roman Britain before the Saxons resumed and evenyually won. I have chosen to combine Ambrosius and Arthur's father, Uther Pendragon, into a single character.
Parts One to Four: Mordru's visit This came out pretty much as I first envisioned the story begining, when I first brainstormed LoC several years ago. I saw Mordru coming for Rokk as Merlin did for Arthur, but Mordru's presence makes it all the more sinister.
I played around with the Rokk/Reep thing a bit, but always came back to the original brother/foster brother concept.
Luornu was a recent addition to the household, inspired by my getting back into LSH, and reading the early reboot.
I toyed around with making the unnamed servant boy a version of Chuck, but have since opted against it.
five to nine: the sword and the stone I hesitated to turn King Mark into Duke Marcus, as MZB did, but I did it for a different reason than she did.
I admit, Beren was originally put in to solely play the "good Merlin" aspect to Mordru's "eveil Merlin," but there's a germ of an idea floating around that may add something else to the old Druid.
Reep's "Who's winning?" line is a wink-and-a-nod to Terry Moore. As the later conversation reveals, I am largely toning down super powers - Arthurian stories should be more about swords than zapping people, but some metahuman activity IS definitely in order.
Ten: Avalon This part surprised me, I admit. I started writing it with Mysa in mind, but it didn't fit - it was too easy to mimic MZB here. Jeka fell into place far earlier than I planned on (despite the name, she's not a snake; I just can't see someone from that time actually named Projectra), and Imra worked her way in differently than I intended, but there they are.
While I'm tempted to ask for feedback, if the Avalon bit works, I probably shouldn't ask that until the next 10 are done - so you can make a resonably complete judgement.
Also, in addition to making my Avalon different than MZB, and melding it to Zerox, there are several isles: the Priestess', the Druids,the Teachers, the Tor, and others, and each has its own entry gate to Britain - a neccessary element for later. After all, if the priestesses are sharing Avalon, they can't own the door, can they?
Avalon IS still very much based on the hills of Glastonbury (too near and dear to my heart to be different, especially having stood atop the Tor myself under a full moon) - although enlarged a bit. I see it as G'bury is a small mid-day shadow cast upon the world, outlining the same shape as Avalon, only smaller.
[ December 20, 2004, 04:16 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
"...and Imra worked her way in differently than I intended, but there they are." Imra always was a pushy broad wasn't she?
This is an amazingly wonderful merging of Legion and Arturian lore. Bravo! Well done, Kent! Can't wait to read more!
-------------------- "Hey Jim! Get Mon out of the Zone!! And...when do we get Condo back?"
From: Paragon City on patrol | Registered: Jul 2003
| IP: Logged |
Hyperpath: Email this page to someone!
Printer-friendly view of this topic | Subscribe To Topic
![[Big Grin]](biggrin.gif)
