posted
I'm loving this Kent, Jan as a priest is perfect!
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.
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Notes 125-138: 125: The Auley connection, hopefully obvious by now, was introduced with Lot back on page 2 (somewhere around chapters 11 to 14, i think). 126/127/128: the onset of plague gave me an excuse to get back to characters I've been meaning to use, but have been neglecting. 129/133: Extending the Roxxius story gave me the excuse to tie in other early Adventures pertaining to raiders and refugees. 130/134: Speaking of three-teen numbered issues of Adventure, while initially uncomfortable with Imra making such a folly, she was the natural link to delve into the plague and a cloaked figure with a "T" name. 131: This was a toughie, and I've resisted the temptation to severely edit it. I knew Roxxius would strike Tintagel, and Nura's word was needed to convince Roxxius to accept Jonah, but once they were face-to-face, the outcome seemed predetermined and obvious, much to my regret. Pet peeve time: Hollywood and Broadway aside, it's pronounced Tin-TADG-ul, not TIN-ta-Gul. Ask the locals; I did. 132: Glorith is such a pious lady, isn't she? 135: Irish history is a lot more vague than the British at this time; it took effort to figure out who was king. There were probably two competing would-be high kings at this time, and Coirpre mac Neill was one of them. For my purposes, he is sole high king, unless I later change my mind. 136: Luornu and Dyrk, obviously, never coupled in the comics, but it's really fit here in LoC. They're not done playing off each other, at least. 137: Again, Roxxius tied to other early Adventures. Even if he's not home. 138: Jan as a priest seemed natural, especially since we already have so many Druids. I use a play on words other also use to point to the Grail conspiracies- San Graal ("Holy Grail") vs. Sang Real ("Holy blood"). Early Grail stories do NOT refer to the shape of the Grail, only its powers, and its association with a chalice, especially in Britain, clearly comes from rich Celtic lore of magical chalices, including the Cauldron of the Gods I use in this work. Many have conjectured that the original Grail stories referred not to an artifact, but the descendents of Jesus, whether brought to Britain by Joseph of Arimathea or a millennia later by the Knights Templar/Masons. Is Jan of that lineage, or did Roxxius assume incorrectly? Time will tell. Maybe.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:23 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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Hope you enjoy writing this as much as I enjoy reading it, Kent. The grounding in real historical events is particularly interesting - and your notes (and the Primer) are a great addition! Nice tie-in with the King Midas fable, too.
posted
Thanks, FC! You're the first to express favor for the notes - i was wondering if they were useful or not. I gotta get back to the Primer someday, too.
So double thanks!
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Reluctantly letting Rokk and MacKell's teams serve as distractions, they slipped into a concealed passageway that Roxxius no doubt uses to reach his ships. But where were the ships then?
Beneath the tower were ancient catacombs - deserted catacombs, but not disused. Many piles of treasure, Roxxius' yields, no doubt, were piled in each alcove.
But not a person was about.
Reaching the tower's base, he ordered Peter and Stig to ready their unique weaponry. "Be ready for anything," he warned, as they proceeded up the stairway, Dag first, to deflect any attach, followed by himself and Uland, while Stig, Peter and Franz were paced beyond, ready with projectile weapons if needed.
The round tower stairs left them well exposed, should anyone from the far upper floor choose the attack downward. Berach wore his heart in his throat with each sound from above.
The stairs were wide and steep, suggesting large people used them, at least when they were built.
"Giants," whispered Uland, only to be shushed by Berach.
They reached the top of the stairs, a flat trap door that stood between them and the tower's top.
On the count of three, Dag and Berach shoved against it. Expecting more resistance, the door flew upward, banged on the wall above, and bounced back, denting on Dag's head.
"Charge!" Berach ordered, not wanting whoever lied beyond to recover from any surprise.
The six men ran into the room, only to face two hideous, deformed old men, each in excess of seven feet. They stood manning a ballista less complex than Querl's, and beside them was a dwindling supply of ammunition. Just as the ballista reminded Berach of a giant bow, these projectiles resembled to him giant arrows.
"Will you not leave us alone!" One of the giants shouted, hand-throwing a projectile at them. Dag caught it, but was knocked backwards, almost knocking Stig behind him back down the trap door.
Uland and Berach made frontal charges, while Stig tossed a bottle at the stock pile. The entire projectiles burst into flames, instantly over-warming the room, and making all wince.
"Noooo!" the giants cried, backing away from the knights, throwing up their arms in front of their faces.
Surprised by their cowardice,. Berach motioned for Uland to hold his stance.
"Who are you, and why did you attack us?" the Northman demanded.
"Attack you? You came to slay us!" one said. "We are but two old men, the last of the Fir Bolg, and wish only to be left in peace!"
Fir Bolg, Stig thought. The Giants of old Fomoria.
"But you sheltered the butcher Roxxius, who slays our women and children, and takes what is not his!"
"We... know not of that. He said he was a merchant, and would protect us from those who would hunt us, as the Celts have always done?"
"Well, he led us to your door, and left you to fend for yourselves." Noting his former servitude to Tarik, Berach was somewhat sympathetic, if they spoke truthfully. But the thought of his wounded comrades also remained in his mind.
"Peter - go see if King Rokk and the others have recovered. Stig -destroy the ballista," he ordered, turning his attention back to his captives.
"You two - where is Roxxius now? Does he have more allies at hand?"
"King Coirpre mac Neill - he fights your allies on the far shore," said the other giant, pointing out to a pitched battled between the Irish and Rokk's Frankish allies - the Frankish coast, too, wanted to be rid of Roxxius, for he had raided them as well.
"He and his went with the new recruit, Jonah, to seek the Blood. We expect them back not for days," said the first.
"Any other allies?" Uland prompted.
"Aye. There is one. Saraid, queen of Munster," said the second.
"B-Brother-" the first began, but Berach's sword led him to hold his tongue.
"Continue," he said to the second.
"Saraid was our friend; her family helped first to hide our race, and she helped us make peace with mac Neill, the high king. She brought Roxxius to us as defender, but vanished when the stone came."
"The stone?" asked Dag.
"Aye. The stone the Tuatha brought to this isle centuries agone. It was used to keep the Justice of Balor imprisoned."
"We may die, but Balor's Justice will be reaped!" bragged the first.
"Imprisoned? Where?" Stig didn't like this. Balor, he recalled, was the one-eyed god of the Fomorians.
The brothers motioned downstairs, and at Berach's direction, led them to a subterranean chamber where the Stone of Virtue was now solidly embedded into the wall like a turned key, and several stones had been knocked aside - no, blown outward - from a round-shaped enclosure beyond, big enough for an orb.
A primitive wall illustration showed giants using such an orb bringing small people - the Tuatha de Danaan or Celts, presumably - to their knees with rays from the orb.
"Whatever befalls us, Saraid shall use Balor's Eye of Justice to avenge our race. She will found an empire from this emerald isle!"
[ December 26, 2005, 07:25 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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Returning to Tintagel, the allied fleets received word that Roxxius had been defeated, sunk beneath the waves.
With their mutual quarry eliminated, the seized treasures were split between Rokk and Lucius, duke of Neustria, the Frankish province plundered hardest by Roxxius. And the Frankish fleet went its own way.
Rokk sent his fleet back to Portus Magnus under Thom's watch, still mindful of the tensions he saw on the outbound trip to Eiru. With Thom gone, he only had to bear with Marcus' pleas for a larger share of the spoils - as if Tintagel were the sole port to feel the raider's swords.
Still, there was relaxation on the Cornish coast, and the soft violence of the waves crashing upon the rocky sea wall was invigorating to the king and his knights.
"How fare you, my lady?" Rokk asked Nura. He, Marcus and the queen were strolling the cliff-top pastures, taking in the sweeping vistas of crumbly, stony coastline. The fragments of rocky lands off shore lent credence to the tales of Ys and Hybrasil, lost beneath the waves.
The shimmering of the sun on the distant waters was the only sign of where the sky ended and the sea began.
"I... am better knowing that attacker is gone," she half-smiled. Rokk noticed her scowl at saying "that attacker," and the implication there was more than one. "Jonah, you know, did not turn traitor."
"Aye. MacKell told me. He needed to fake such to be taken into the raider's confidence. Yet it was a priest, not a knight, who ended the butchery."
Marcus smiled. "May he end the heathen Khunds so easily."
Rokk nodded. This was not the time to weigh the ethics of slaughtering for religion versus self-preservation.
"What now, my king? Does it not seem anti-climatic to chase a foe all the way to Eiru, when he is defeated at home in your absence?" Marcus pondered.
"A little. But he is dead. That is what matters. Now... we still have Khunds to worry of. And Tarik. But Derek and Brandius have been overseeing the beginnings of my new fortress, and I should like to see its progress."
"You need a fortress? Why, kinsman, I would gladly share Tintagel-"
"-A most generous offer. But I need one where we are most vulnerable to the Khunds. Tintagel is an important link to my stratagems, yes. But I need to be close to the enemy to be ready."
"Aye. Sandwiched in between the Angles and Kentish Khunds, it will be hard to be closer." The men laughed, and Marcus continued. "Have you thought of a name for your fortress?"
"Well, it will be built at Camulodunum. I feel no need to rename the city," the high king said.
"Nonsense, my boy... If you'll forgive a foolish old man's enthusiasm, sire," Marcus added, embarrassed at taking such liberties with the high king. Seeing Rokk's smile, he continued. "The city's name is fine for Roman and city folk, but consider this. The country folk, the pure Celt blood, will not well cotton to such a Roman name. Indeed, most are none too fond of Roman cities to this day."
Rokk nodded. "What would you do?"
"Shorten the name. Make it friendlier. Maybe 'Dunum,' would be better."
"Dunham? Sounds a little too countryish for my tastes. But I will consider your idea."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:27 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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The sea had gotten choppy off shore from Exeter, and the crew was mustering to make port. He shouldn't have been on deck, but he had to see that the Computus wasn't damaged by the storm.
The deck was pitching, and it became harder to hold on. One moment the ship would be high atop a wave, looking down on the little instant valleys ahead and below, and then with a crash they'd be in one of the valleys, surrounded by white-topped peaks of water.
He took little consolation in the fact that he was not the only man to lose his grip. He'd seen several go before him, but he would not be surprised if none saw him go. The storm had grown too dark, too fast.
Tossed and thrown by the sea, he recalled the words of his teachers. "Swim upward, Querl. Seek the air. Close your eyes; your body knows the way."
It worked. He could claim a gasp of air as his own, and feel the rise and fall, anticipating each wave without seeing the ferocious sight. He kept at it, repeating it over and over again, losing track of how long...
He slept. He was vaguely aware of a sandy cushion below him, and crawling forward until water no longer lapped at his feet. The rocks and tree roots were less comfortable than the sand but it mattered not...
...Waking, the warmth of the morning sun was a welcome sight. The fairly peaceful sea kept its distance, as if in apology for its temper the previous night. The handful of clouds in the sky served as accomplices, as if saying, "What storm? Just a nice day up here. You must have confused us with another sky."
Querl laughed at the irony of such a beautiful day, one of the nicest he'd ever seen in Britain. It felt good, this day - it felt good to be alive.
His laugh was interrupted by his sneeze. Sleeping the night in wet clothes had ailed him, he hoped, not too much. He'd build a fire to make his clothing warm and dry, before making his way inland.
He guessed that he must be just east of Exeter, and should soon come across the Roman Road. If not, he knew he'd be west of Exeter, and would follow the ridge bearing to the right to reach the city.
A chill came over him - last time he'd awaken as such he was in a fairy realm. Could it be-? But no, if Mysa's tales were correct, there would be sunlight but no discernable sun if he had again crossed...
..."Over there!" the boy whispered.
His friend squinted. "It's true! We'd better tell your Da!"
Soon they'd told the entire hamlet, everyone had gathered, bringing their best breads, fruits and meats.
The smoke of their fires indeed led Querl to the thorp, but their cheers almost made him flee. Hunger and reason prevailed - they were happy to see him, or so it seemed.
Querl had avoided the local villages, preferring to stay in civilized Londinium, or failing that, either in the company of knights or a comfortable cloak, where his greenish complexion would not be noticed.
But his cloak was now gone in the sea, and there was no hiding himself - not from this assembly of several dozen smiling faces offering him food and ale.
He greeted them, and accepted their hospitality eagerly. Their stares at he ate were intrusive, but somehow - innocent and reverential. He found it both flattering and unnerving.
From their comments, apparently it was quite an honor to be visited by a green man.
To his further amazement, they had prepared sleeping quarters for him, the largest hut in the small hamlet had apparently been vacated for his use.
As tiring as the last 24 hours was, as much as his body wished to collapse and rest, his mind clawed at his situation. Why are they so friendly? It made no sense.
His thoughts were interrupted by girlish giggles. The furs that constituted a door parted, and thorp's young maidens entered.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:28 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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He had watched it done hundreds, maybe thousands of times over the centuries, and his belief that he could find the routes on his own proved well-founded last week en route to Tintagel, and they were proving so again today.
Waving farewell to Sir Garth, who he rode with to Glastonbury's far shore, he waded out into the shallow lake, counting his paces as he went.
He turned where the priestess' boat would turn, never once straying from the path, with only his head above water in some places. He stopped to recount his steps, and paused to reflect on the beauty of the moment: him alone, water at chin level, surrounded by mists, able to see only a few feet around himself.
He smiled.
He'd envisioned this very scene time and again for how many lifetimes? To feel water again! To shake his head, wet with water, to feel the lake trout brush against his legs!
Rather than lose himself literally, he pushed on, surprising two young priestesses tending to matters near the dock on the Priestess' Isle.
"My ladies!" he greeted them, emerging from the water, and continuing along the shore, bound for the Teachers' Isle. He was pleased that Azura herself was not present - a far less friendly high priestess than Kiwa had been, in his opinion.
After a change of clothes, he shared a midday meal with those wise elders, and greeted the priestess Zoe, now in the Teachers' care, and Beren, visiting from the Druid's Isle.
After the meal, MacKell pressed on, onto the Path of Isis, which no one but himself dared to journey with open eyes. He'd seen all it's horrors long ago, and was accustomed to the shrieks of the bainsidhes trying to trick travelers with the visages of monstrous fears, deep-rooted hates and even tortured loved ones.
The sights and sounds that had driven wise men and women to insanity didn’t at all impress MacKell. Ghouls wearing the facades of his long dead wife and children meant naught; not even the twisting and screaming of his newer friends and companions.
The image of Tinya burning and shrieking solely reminded him how little measure of affection he'd achieved with his benefactor. Perhaps it was time to let her go - as his friendship with Jonah was becoming more rooted.
He continued on, and in the time it took Garth to return to Cadwy’s fort, he was emerging into the Temple of Isis, just outside Londinium's walls.
"Good day to you," greeted one of the priests, somewhat used to visitors from Avalon emerging without notice.
"Good day to you," he returned the greeting.
Upon arrival at the palace, he had Jonah freed from the imprisonment he had acquiesced to.
He greeted the despondent queen and her ladies, and the mysterious young priest.
"Now that God has claimed Roxxius, letting him be consumed by his own greed, I may tell you my name. I am Brother Jan, last of the Brethren of Trom."
"Of course! Trom. I should have realized," MacKell responded. "I had heard of a young priest there who worked miracles." Seeing Jan blush uncomfortably, he added, "My condolences for the loss of your brethren."
"They are with our Lord. I am happy for them," he smiled. "God granted me gifts, and Roxxius slaughtered those around me seeking to use me for his own ends. Better that baptized, godly men, whose souls were already saved, perished, than unredeemed sinners who have not yet seen the light."
MacKell smiled diplomatically. He'd witnessed Eiru's conversion, but had seen both good men and bad use this new religion to varying ends.
"MacKell! Come quickly! An intruder! He's taken down a half-dozen guards!" called the watch captain.
He rushed forward, with Jonah following, ready for anything or anyone - except who he saw before him, unarmed and unarmoured, holding a fully armoured guardsmen up in the air with one hand, and no sign of strain.
"Ossian?"
"You know me? Good," the intruder let the guard down. "I meant only for an audience. There is treachery afoot."
"MacKell,, you know this man?" Jonah could believe it not.
Ossian! How can he be alive after three centuries?
[ December 26, 2005, 07:29 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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"My lady Winifred," Sir Derek greeted Elmet's queen graciously. He was not surprised that she waited til he - not Jonah - was regent in Lindum.
"Sir Derek," she made no effort to thaw her frozen smile - to him or King Belinant.
With wine poured and pleasantries dispensed, Winifred went straight to the point.
"It is true that my husband led an army with the intent of attacking the high king. Our army is decimated and my husband is missing. I stand defenseless from Khund or Northman, and find myself completely at King Rokk's mercy. I shall pay whatever tribute he sees fit, that Elmet may too be defended against invaders."
"All of which would have been far simpler if King Tarik kept his allegiance in the first place," Derek reminded her.
"Aye. But he was obsessed. He-" she paused to choose her words carefully. "He knew Voxv well in younger days, and shared his grief when young Guinevere died. I know not whether Guinevere was spirited away and a changeling died in her place, if Grail or sorcery resurrected her, or if Rokk's bride is even an imposter. I care not."
"Even as your own daughter came back from the dead?" Belinant asked.
"My daughter is dead. That... wench dallying around this town is no blood of mine. It surprises me not that Gawaine should find a harlot that resembles my Tinya, and leave her, that he might join the brigands."
"Gawaine -Jonah- fought Roxxius' men with all his might," Belinant said. "Surely it was a ploy-"
"-I care not!" Winifred blurted.
An awkward silence ensued.
"Well," began Derek. "Elmet may well be short of soldiers, but it is not short of forests. I think Anglish soldiers and craftsmen can make good war-craft of its timbers," Derek said, minding his last talks with Rokk.
With Tarik and his line out of favour, Tinya stands heir to Elmet whether she likes it or not, he thought. Unless Winifred has other children?
[ September 02, 2006, 07:49 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
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Querl made his way eastward, taking care to avoid settlements and farm houses. Not that he was ungrateful to his benefactors, but he wished no similar occurrences in other villages.
There were knights, he knew, who might see his sort of welcome as a welcome advantage with the maidens, but beyond physical stimulation, there was none of the mental, intellectual stimulation he so craved.
Even Laoraighll, despite his strong attraction to her, could not meet that measure very well, much to his dismay. She was not stupid; far from it - but even with her above-average education by Christian holy men, she lacked the scientific and philosophic foundations he had taken for granted back on Colu.
While some of his Coluan peers afflicted with similar tastes often found company amongst themselves, Querl knew from what he did like about his Ulsterwoman that he would find such fellowship lacking - even with one such as L'ile.
As he walked, he thought. Ways to improve the Computus - particularly from ship decks, ways to improve ships, design modifications to Rokk's new castles, all these occupied his-
"-Thoughts before you die, stranger?"
Preoccupied, he did not realize that a group of brigands had successfully ensnared him in a circle.
"I am but a poor man. Let me pass."
One, presumably the leader, poked his hood off with a spear.
Several of the men gasped at his green skin.
"The Green Man!" one exclaimed. Several of his assailants looked nervous.
"Well, in the old days, it is said, the human incarnation of the Green Man would be a sacrifice, for the next season's crops," said the leader. "Green Man or not, I'll wager he'll bleed red."
"No. You shall not touch me," said Querl, frustrated, annoyed and - believing his own words. The leader stepped forward, drawing his sword, and swung - but was indeed unable to connect.
He motioned to two others. They tried and failed.
"Sorcery!"
"Now stand aside!" Querl barked, walking forward. The two men barring his path seemed to involuntarily step aside with his approach.
Whether he had mastered Druidic persuasion or whether Iaime's belt was indeed working, he knew not.
Or perhaps I now, too, am a magician, he mused.
And later that day, he reached Exeter.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:32 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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Last summer's excavations had gone well, and the stony foundations were well in place this spring. The west tower, the first defensible structure, was beginning to rise, and a temporary wooden hall would serve until a true great hall could be built.
"These Camulodunum craftsmen do fine work," L'ile commented. "The foundations for the outer walls could withstand a Roman war-machine, I dare say."
"I want Rokk to see his fortress built well, but I also want to show him progress this season," Brandius said. Looking out to sea, he continued. "There are still Khunds out there. They've gone easy last summer and this, so far, but they'll be back, and we haven't the luxury of spending a decade on this place. Aye, we start small, but we'll add on as the court shifts from Londinium to here."
"I see Tenzil's idea for gold towers has not been met?" L'ile joked.
"Nay. Local stone will have to suffice. I'll build his ruby turrets, though, if he'll front the gold for them," the older man replied.
Reep, listening to the conversation, was also observing the workers. They worked quickly and diligently, he noticed.
With Angles to the north and Khunds to the south, they must have felt abandoned here, at Britain's eastern edge. Why, Rokk's decision to build his fortress here was far more than strategy to them - it was a new lease on existence! May we live up to their faith.
Leaving his fellows, and looking around the walls, it occurred to him that many a battle would be fought here. And not all shall rise from the dead, as Garth has.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:34 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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"So Saraid, proclaiming herself empress of the Emerald Isle, has driven High King Coirpre mac Neill from Tara, and used her magic orb to make her will. The court has reluctantly accepted her rule," Ossian said.
And the other kingdoms? Connaught? Meath?" MacKell asked.
"And Ulster? Aye, I recognize your accent," the man replied. "Aye. Eiru has never cared for a central high king, it's true, but keeping independence from Rome made her think the better of it. It's true Irishmen would rather fight themselves, but even there, we have limits."
"But Rome is no more."
"Not as an empire. But while independent, our good fathers have fellowship with Rome's bishops, and even far-off Byzantium sends its emissaries. They are still the Roman Empire, as far as they're concerned."
"It's called Constantinople today," MacKell said. "You're showing your centuries, my friend." MacKell also noted his sneer at "our good fathers." Ossian, although a renowned knave and prankster, was a warrior and bard of the first degree in his day - the day of pagan, Druidic Eiru, not the Christian land of today.
"You still have yet to tell us how you still live, centuries later." Imra interjected.
"And how did you get your strength," Jonah asked. The man's similarity to MacKell and Laoraighll made him wonder.
"Well, I went to stay with my love, the faerie queen Niamh, for a few days - I thought! Returning home, three centuries passed!" he laughed.
"So I gave my allegiance to Coirpre mac Neill," Ossian said. "As for my strength, perhaps the Hound's blood was wasted on too many bastards along the way. Who knows?" he winked at MacKell, perhaps guessing what few outside court knew.
"With mac Neill overthrown, will you join Rokk's service?" MacKell asked.
"Nay. I shall continue to serve King Coirpre, albeit in exile. Those who rise too quickly to power often fall quickly," he winked. "I merely came to share... information."
"So you say Queen Glorith of Man is coming here?" Imra said, still not believing the information.
"Aye. While seeking the Chalice in name, methinks she wants to size up the court - especially now that Mordru is gone," Ossian said. "She is said to be a sorceress herself."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:35 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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"Rokk has forbidden the queen from any magicks," Mysa said.
Azura nodded. "I feared as much. Young Rokk is too much the Roman after all, to abide a true queen at his side."
The two strolled the busy streets of Deva, stumbling for the next words. The thriving marketplace in the old northern Roman town made a good neutral meeting point, with neither woman holding favour.
Searching for the words that needed to be said, both began speaking at once.
"You first," Mysa said.
"No, my dear. I insist. You first."
Mysa sighed. She held no love for any of the senior priestesses, but there was a vestige in Azura from the days when as a less tight-lipped maiden, she would hare her fears and hopes with the younger maidens.
"I truly miss Avalon. The priestesses, the mists and the lake, the Tor, the Teachers.. even the Josephites. It's important for me to know all is a-right."
"But?"
"I... cannot go back. Not today, maybe not ever."
Azura sighed. Her role was difficult, filling the shoes of Kiwa, who had been high priestess for as long as any could remember. She hoped that Mysa, Kiwa's long-time hand-picked successor, would either return to her destiny, or at least help keep tradition and morale.
"You do agree your brother has gone too far in banning Imra's magicks?" Azura was fishing for hope.
"Oh, aye. If a knight lost control of his steed in a practice joust, and injured spectators by accident, penance is done and the court moves on. But with Imra-"
"-The king acts unjustly. But who shall stand with us in redressing him?"
[ December 26, 2005, 07:37 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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The villagers cheered at the news. The Caledonian days were still growing long, and there would be feasts well into the evening.
The village stood at the foot of a deep and dark loch, sandwiched between mountains. The ancient forests kept it hidden from even the most brazen of Scots raiders and explorers.
"What news of the south-lands? Did you shake King Rokk's hand?" joked Tav, one of the village's farmers.
Everyone laughed, knowing what Manaugh's handshake would bring.
"Nay. I... I almost had Lot Mac Amhlaidh in my grips. But two of Rokk's knights, a man and a woman - Scots, no less, stopped me."
"Stopped you? With your power? You are our vengeance, son."
"Aye. Well, they are powerful, too. I... was wounded, I had to hide this winter, and much of the spring, healing and hiding in the Lake Country.
"Now I am home again, as home as I can be, at any measure."
With that, the villagers cheered and toasted - all but one maiden who stared at him, taking his measure, as an old wise-woman might.
Manaugh did not know her name. Despite his welcome, this was not his village, but one of several he took refuge in since his home, Angtough, met its end.
The festivities indeed continued into the dark, and as villagers drifted off, one by one or two by two, he found his chance to approach the lass.
She had wandered away from the bonfires, and stood gazing at the stars and the summer lights.
"They are wondrous, are they not? Swirls of colours, gifts from the gods, that we see their bounty not only in the earth and seas," she said, not turning to face them.
"Who are you, lass? You are no farmer's child, nor fisher's daughter. I've seen you not before, yet the villagers accept you as one of them.
"Will you not tell me your name?"
She giggled. "You have been given a gift by the Crone. Yet you waste your days hunting a handful, while the Scots still pour into our lands.
She pointed west. Beyond the silhouettes of the forest edge, a column of smoke was visible, if one knew where to look. "You see? The Scots' campfires grow closer and closer." She turned to him for the first time. "And what do you do about it Manaugh?"
"I... hunt those who betrayed us."
She nodded. "You hunt the few while the many continue without abate. When you have slain all of Amhlaidh's kin, do you think the Scot will stop? Or will this village, too, be a smouldering remnant?"
"You are wise beyond your years, lass. You are a priestess?"
"Aye. You may call me Tasmia."
"Well, Tasmia, you have spoken truths that are obvious, yet I have ignored. You have my thanks."
"Then earn it. There is prophecy that you and four others shall bring ruin to this land. Let it not be so."
Before Manaugh could speak, he found himself alone. Tasmia had slipped into the night, and there was naught but himself, the village behind, the forest ahead, and the stars and swirls above.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:39 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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