posted
Interlude Seventeen: The Isle of Na Hearadh
Rokk was beginning to think he would never be warm again.
He arrived back on Skye with Grev as he had promised, just days before the full moon. After several days - maybe a week - of meeting Pictish clansmen and women, he and his escorts finally set out to sea to a farther island, where the test Maven had spoken of would take place.
The Picts rowed him out in a small boat, barely big enough to tack against the fierce waves. Despite the furs they gave him to wear, it was the coldest voyage of his life, as the winds blew out on the sea of Hebrides like a tempest of frozen blades.
But eventually they arrived. Through the sea spray and mists, they saw the towering peaks before they saw the actual shore below. The isle was so rocky, so barren-looking, Rokk was amazed anyone would want to come here, let alone live here. But upon landing, more Picts started coming out of the hills to greet both Rokk and the crew that delivered him.
They took him to their village, a small collection of huts built onto a hillside, practically invisible until one comes within a rock's throw of them. Beside a fire for most of an hour, he began to again feel his flesh. They offered him a bowl of a hot broth that smelled gamey - he thought better than to ask what it was.
The villagers were smaller than the average Pict, barely four feet at the tallest, but they gave him every hospitality they could offer, and seemed pleased, very pleased, that he was there.
These people spoke no Latin, and Rokk's Pictish was barely worth mentioning. One of the boatmen knew a similar sliver of Latin and a measure more of Gaelic, so with a great deal of patience a chain of communication emerged. Rokk learned that he was to remain three days and three nights in preparation, and on the fourth day, he would feast on the best of everything the that villagers had saved up all year.
Rokk didn’t like the idea of eating the villagers out of their stores, but the boatman assured him it was prepared for — and was necessary. The fourth night was the new moon, the night of Rokk’s test, and he would need every strength imaginable.
New moon already? I was on Skye longer than I believed, but I guess it all meets Maven’s plan.
He tried not to dwell on the Yuletide and Christ's Mass celebrations he’d missed; it would all be worth it, to have the Pictish clans march against the Khunds this spring.
He slept, he practiced sword-play with one of the boatmen (usually all the village would stop and watch), he ate, he aided the villagers on occasion, and he tried to learn more about his test.
The boatman would smile, and tell him “time yours comes.”
Late on the third day, the boatman brought him down to the sea, and told him to dive in.
Rokk raised an eyebrow at the presumed jest.
The boatman disrobed, and dove in, waving for Rokk to do the same.
Is this insanity, or part of the test? Which ever, Rokk duplicated the move.
Gods! It was FREEE---EEEE---ZING!!!!
He yelled aloud when his head reached the surface.
The boatman laughed, starting to climb out, and reaching a hand out.
“Whyinthenameofallthat’sholydidwe-----?????”
“To-morrows, alive-est, you will need be.”
Rokk laughed, as he dried himself off with his shirt, and began dressing.
A bunch of village children giggled, having watched the whole thing.
[ December 27, 2006, 03:14 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Vidar felt light-headed as he completed the climb.
The monk who served as his guide waited patiently. Throughout the ascent, he never offered any sign of physical stress, despite his senior years.
“So. We are here. Now what?”
“The Patriarch asks this quest of all who would join the leadership of the True Church. Look around, and tell me what you see.”
“I see… a stark mountaintop. A vista of sea, shore and peaks. Clouds. I see myself,” he gestured to his limbs and torso, “and a fellow brother in Christ. But most importantly, I see His handiwork in it all.”
The monk nodded. “Do you know of the Olympus of olde?”
“I know that the heathens of old Greece considered it the home of those they falsely believed as gods.”
“Nay,” the monk said. “Those gods were real. They lived here. But mercifully, their wicked ways were their undoing. Earlier patriarchs, in their divinely inspired wisdom, had all evidence of their residence eradicated, that the unwise would not bear credence to the tales of olde.”
“I beg your forgiveness, but I cannot believe that there ever were other gods, only false idols and maybe evil spirits posing as gods.
“The Book tells us, Vidar, that He said, ‘Thou shall have no other gods before me,’ not, ‘There are no other gods.’ These old gods are fading away, t’is true, and we must never let them change their fortunes. But they exist, and they exist to do evil. We must be ever-vigilant to protect our flock against their deceptions.”
Do this monk, or the Patriarch, truly believe this? Or is this a test?
His meeting with Macedonius II, the Patriarch of Constantinople, had gone well enough. He’d considered this quest more of a formality for his new employer. But now…?
“There remains something, some evidence,” Vidar said. Hoping his false sense of confidence would bear fruit.
The monk smiled. “Go on.”
“You brought me up here for a reason. Not just to tell me there was once evidence of ‘gods’ who lived here.”
“But does Christian faith not require faith of His servants?”
“Aye. But faith in His teachings. If defenders against heresies you seek to recruit, you need to be able to show them what threats they will need to face. Also, tales of old ‘gods’ can be just as easily shared in Constantinople. Bringing initiates here would lead skeptics to doubt your tales — if there is nothing more to see.”
The monk smiled.
“Come,” he said, leading Vidar down a small trail descending from the other side of the peak. “Not every initiate gets to see this. But you will have a special mission.
“The most immediate threats to His kingdom lie on or near three isles, three large isles in the North-west of Europe. Pretanna, Airua, and Knorxha.
Britain, Eiru and… where? Vidar wondered.
The trail dead-ended near a rock wall. But about 10 paces before the trail’s end, the monk started pushing a large piece of stone, about four feet wide and three high, one of many along the steep trailside. He waved away Vidar’s move to help.
“Only those blessed with the secret may move the stone,” he said. And move it he did — revealing a small cave.
The monk lit a candle and bade Vidar to enter.
And what he saw made him weep.
[ December 27, 2006, 03:17 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Rokk climbed the mountain as he was instructed, starting just after dark and reaching the summit probably about mid-night. With no moon to see by, the going was rough. The numerous snow crossings sometimes gave way, with treacherous ice beneath. Sometimes it was only the metals in the rocks the king clung to that saved him from painful descents of as much as 80 feet at a time.
He gained visibility as he climbed, although he was not certain of the source of this illumination. Did he fear that seeking it out with his eyes would prove to be a deadly distraction — or that it was faerie magick that would vanish on him?
Was Uther’s initiation at Avalon anything like this? he wondered.
Arrive he did atop the mount, scarred, battered and bruised - and cold, despite the layers of furs and skins that the the villagers had adorned him in. But now free to look up, he saw it — a maelstrom of swirling colours unlike any he had ever seen. Upon occasion, he had seen the strips of light in the northern skies — who hadn’t? — but never like this! Ribbons of vivid, pulsating reds and pinks, almost raining down on him! Flashes of yellows and oranges, like a wide, silent, horizontal lightning! Swirls of blues and violets opening and closing like irises…
He looked around at the summit as well. It seemed to pulsate, breathe almost. And each of his frozen breaths were like swimming creatures, dancing in the airs around him!
What magicks did the villagers place into my drinks and foodstuffs? He touched the symbols painted onto his face — blue body paint he had only seen before on Pictish warriors and priestesses. Who was the cloaked maiden who painted them on? She seemed but so familiar…
Should you ask not what the gods ask of you?
Who said that?
There was no answer. Rokk reminded himself that he was told to await the vision the gods were to send to him.
He looked around; the entire landscape now seemed completely visible, down to the slightest details. Were those not the waves washing up on the southeastern shores; from the direction he had climbed? Then why were there none to the northwest?
There was no movement of any kind in the seas in the direction away from Britain and Skye, was there? Or was there some under the surface, under the--
“Ice!” He blurted. “How can the sea itself be so frozen?”
And out on the ice, he saw something moving. A large creature.
Come for me! Not even The Hunter has bested me; and I have feasted on many who would be king.
A challenge, then? I accept!
Good, the voice growled hungily.
They way down the mountain heading for the northwest was much easier; he winced at having such a hard climb when he was now rushing down a fairly easy path on the mount’s far side. In under an hour, it seemed, he had reached the shore, with only minimal falls, bruises and gashes.
The creature was out on the ice, a couple hundred paces.
It was a bear - a stark, white bear - larger than any he’d ever before seen.
They eyed each other fiercely, as if they were face to face.
The bear stood tall, growling, snarling, bellowing. We are the Usru, the King if Winter, King of All Bears and Lord of the North! By what name shall we honour our meal this eve?
“I am Rokk, High King of Britain!” He held the spear the priestess had given him high and proud. “Have at thee!”
Rokk let out a primal war-cry, and charged out onto the ice.
The bear also began his charge, and the two met, some 30 to 40 paces out onto the ice.
Up-close, Rokk was even more amazed at the beast’s size, and he almost believed it literally grew as it approached. The briny ice under its feet crunched and swayed, but did not give way.
Rokk stopped short, crouching down, finding an uneven spot in the ice to anchor the spear’s base against, and propping it so the bear would charge straight into it.
It worked; the bear howled in pain and anger, but knocked Rokk more than 20 feet as it lashed out wildly with its massive paw.
Rokk found the deep gashes strangely warming out on this frigid milieu.
The bear awkwardly pulled out the spear and knocked it aside. It stood and growled, and again it charged.
As the villagers had not let him tale Excalibur, Rokk found himself with only a small hunting knife. This won’t be enough.
He pried loose a long shard of ice off of the surface, hoping it could act as a weapon. Too awkward to wield, he abandoned it, instead throwing a smaller chunk at the beast’s eyes, while dodging leftward.
It didn’t work.
The bear again swatted him, gashing him even deeper, although the hallucinogens shielded him from the worst of the pain. Knocked only a few feet, he landed face-down.
But the bear’s claws again sank into him, this time slowly, deliberately. Through his torso; he could feel his innards being punctured.
No weapons left. No weapons…
He closed his eyes and concentrated. His spear was a dozen yards away, but its point was metal.
Metal.
Could his influence reach that far? He knew not. He could only try!
Not daring to open his eyes, he imaging the spear flying straight into the bear’s skull, driving in, just as the bear claws were doing to him… he could well imagine it; his pain helped him focus, helped him visualize. Was it working, or was he dying? It was hard to tell where he ended and the bear began; he was one with both. He was Rokk. He was Usru. He was…
“Victorious, but at what price?”
He was vaguely aware of the priestess having the villagers carry him back to their abodes. It was daytime; he floated about as his soaked, half-frozen body was lifted from the northwest seas; only a few chunks of sea ice was visible near the island; and plenty of specks off at the horizon.
He was calm, at peace, sometimes forgetting who he was or whose body he followed, feeling some link to. The priestess who attended to his wounds knew her craft; she was well aided that the cold stemmed the worst of the wounds.
But she will need more than that, he thought. Help, I must seek.
[ December 27, 2006, 03:29 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“Would it not make an excellent place for a fortress?” Palomides asked.
“Aye,” the Caledonian knight replied. “See the far lands? Across the waters? T’is Africa, clearly visible from Iberia’s southern shores.”
Hart and Hesperos, more accustomed to width of the eastern Mediterranean, were amazed. Hesperos, a Greek warrior, was the newest addition to this little group, after having come to Jeka's aid in Palestine.
“To think that the gap between the lands could ever be so slight,” Hart said.
Jeka just smiled. She’d seen it before, but as the quintet journeyed westward, Ag- no, she must not call him that any longer – was the resident expert to the newcomers.
Their ship had docked overnight, as the captain had business with the local merchants. The British-bound passengers had an unusual length of time to spend on land for this voyage, so they opted to climb the mountain overlooking the bay.
Val was struck by the irony — it had seemed such a long voyage from Portus Magnus to the mouth of the Middle Sea on the outward trip last year, but now it seemed as if they were almost home. After spending all but a few months of the past 16 moons traveling, he longed for the familiarity of Rokk’s court.
Hart was much where Val was a year ago; with heavy heart of past burdens, but thrilled with seeing new, strange lands far from the Kazakh steppes of his homeland. Palomides, having finished his quest in the east and made peace with his father in Baghdad, was now eager to see what the western world offered.
And Hesperos? He smiled in anticipation of reaching Britain, and seeking his kinsman.
[ June 18, 2007, 01:57 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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posted
BOOK V: KHUNDS AT THE GATE Two Hundred Forty-one
“…so the unknown knight turned out to be Laoraighll, after all,” Tinya concluded.
Gaheris ate up every word, but Harlack was developing a skeptical edge. “Why didn’t the other knights recognize her by her horse, Comet?”
“Comet… was on a quest with his friends,” she ad-libbed. “You remember? MacKell’s hunting dog Cu Sidhe, the palace kitty Cramer, and Brainius V’s monkey Koko.”
Harlack still wasn’t convinced. Morgause remained focused on her weaving, and just smiled.
“Will you stay through Beltane, Tinya?” Gaheris pleaded.
“Perhaps. In any case, whilst I so miss my husband, I am in no rush to leave right now. T’would not be wise.”
“Why not?” Harlack asked.
Tinya thought better than to tell the children of the war Nura predicted - especially Harlack.
Lot entered the family chamber - in a foul mood indeed. “Husband? What is it?” Morgause didn’t like that look.
“The assassin Manaugh. He’s at it again. He’s single-handedly assailed my garrison at Tay’s Bend; left not one alive. Doesn’t he realize Picts are allies of all British now, ere on the verge of war?”
The boys gaped, while the noblewomen flinched; they’d done their best to hide that fact.
“What war?” Gaheris asked.
“Agh! It matters not,” Lot said, guessing his gaffe, looking to change the subject. “What- what news of the south?”
“King Rokk has finally returned to Londinium, after many months of healing,” Tinya reported.
“Pict, Scot, Orkneyman and Votadni alike are now all calling him ‘Uthru’ — ‘the bear,’ after his feats. They say its’ furs were whiter than snow, more than twice as large as any bear seen anywhere in Britain before; and that it now decorates Rokk’s great hall,” Lot marveled.
Tinya nodded. She silently shivered at the king’s near-death experience, and how Imra described Rokk appearing to her as an apparition himself! “Praise MacKell, that he could bring him the Cauldron so quickly.”
“What war?” Gaheris repeated.
“Is.. it with my people?” Harlack asked.
“Not with the Khunds of Kent,” Morgause said, seeing further avoidance would worsen their curiosity. “Kent stands with us against welisc invaders.”
Lot nodded. “The first landings have been fought and repelled in East Anglia and the south-central shores.”
It was Tinya’s turn to gape; she had not heard that. Was my Jonah amid these battles. Aye, I’ll wager he was. She’d always been proud of her love; but she was now beginning to hold some fears as well. Was it simply aging and maturing? Or how many of their comrades had perished already? Or had the predictions Nura had made more than a half-year ago give her more time for her fears to gather strength? Maybe t’was a combination thereof.
[ August 14, 2006, 08:17 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Her liege gestured toward his throat, and then picked up his quill. He gestured the young woman to the other side of the room, facing away before dipping it into the inkwell.
“King Rokk’s lepress took my voice,” he wrote, showing his hosts. Mettah spoke the same words aloud as they read them.
“By the will of the gods, Mettah hears the words I would speak, and repeats them for me,” he continued writing. Mettah repeated the words, again, without seeing them.
“And how do we… know not that thiss iss some… rehearssed ploy?” Ontier asked, adjusting his hood.
“You write something, and show it to Tarik,” Mettah said, thinking the better of letting him know she could read his thoughts as well.
Somewhat amused, Ontier complied.
“Those who cling to Rome abound with fear, Freedom comes from midnight’s sphere.”
Ontier nodded. “I sssee. Very well.” He gestured to continue. “If Tarik of the 100 Knightsss wissshes our cccircle’s sssupport, we ssshall accccept your sssservant’sss wordssss asss yoursss.”
“Ha! More like Tarik of the Mute!” said another of the cloaked men who accompanied Ontier, earning a dire look from the elderly king.
Mettah waited for her liege to regain his focus. “I swear by the circle, upon pain of every earthy torment, that…”
[ June 18, 2007, 02:09 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Geraint surveyed the battlefield with some degree of satisfaction; those who could not move on their own accord were generally Khundish. Yet he grimaced that this was a small corner of a larger battle.
Although he arrived with a bare half-dozen cavaliers and a sole score of archers, his arrival had a rallying effect on the besieged garrison, the westernmost defenses of the city Portus Magnus. Having won the day with the likes of James and Dyrk at his side, the garrison guards were only too happy to place themselves at his command — their own commander lied dead by an archer’s bolt, and a nearby breach cut off the chain of command from the city proper.
Learning this, Geraint unleashed a bold strategy to regain the adjacent portion of the city — baiting the looters and pillagers into thinking a new division was nipping at their heels, and as they gathered in defensive formations, the archers who had been making their way across the rooftops began picking them off.
James, meanwhile, for the first time using his gifts in plain sight, began taking on the crude (by roman standards) Khund war-machines; catapults, ballista and even a particularly crude attempt to mimic Querl’s computi.
With the western breach largely contained and the lines reconnected, the central city forced, too, rallied, in a sort of domino effect. While Dyrk and James offered more than their share towards the eventual victory late that night, it was Geraint’s name being chanted by the jubilant soldiers into the morning hours.
Geraint accepted the accolades in stride, personally greeting seemingly every guardsman who was sober or unwounded enough to stand.
And although Dyrk winced at the words, he heard more than one request to remember him when the time came, in case there were British rulers too weak to stand up against further invasions.
Does he still seek only Marcus’ deposing, or is he now eying Rokk’s throne, too? The Roman knight asked himself.
“I like this not,” James whispered. “I’d heard Mysa had talked him out of his ambitions?”
“Or simply delay them?” Dyrk questioned. And what has Mysa promised Geraint for staying his hand last year?
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Derek barely looked up from polishing his sword. “Keep it brief, Regulus. T’is war-time. I haven’t time for games.”
He sat in his merchant-hall, amid tables with bolts of fine cloth, ceramic dishes, metal jewelry and other goods. On his table, a small supper of smoked fowl and apple slices lay half untouched.
“Nor I,” answered the priest of Apollo. “Whatever the outcome, The auguries tell me this war’s outcome is not in doubt. Britain will prevail, but the price will be heavy nonetheless. No, the true test of mettle against the Khunds is yet to come, no more than a dozen years out.”
“So what’s so urgent, then?” Derek smirked, recalling how poorly Regulus’ prior predictions turned out.
“Dyrk’s destiny. The one I have spoken of,” he paused to see if the merchant-warrior was still listening. Polishing, he still was, but slower, with his head slightly cocked.
“He may still yet be high king. And without betraying King Rokk. But the window is not long in the opening.”
Derek took a half-breath. He had quickly accepted that Rokk, not he or Dyrk, would be high king, ever since that day on the plains of Camulodunum. Was Regulus speaking truth or only more madness?
“You have my ear,” the elder knight spoke cautiously.
“Rokk’s star is at its height, or rather, a possible height. But after this war, there shall be a test of four knights, and maybe a handful of others. Few will survive.
“The auguries tell me both Rokk and Dyrk will be among those tested.”
“Are you saying Dyrk will kill Rokk? No, I can’t see that.”
“Not at all. But if Rokk is not up to the challenge — whatever it might be — but Dyrk is, your son’s way to be high king would be secured.”
“By outliving the king on one quest? You are mad, Regulus. Mad, I say.”
The priest nodded. “Perhaps. The auguries previously told me of the sun king ruling this isle in peace and prosperity for a generation or more. I hoped Dyrk would be Apollo’s champion against both Khund and the encroaching Christianity, that of all the true gods, Apollo’s chosen would prevail.
“And here we are. My two best hopes, you and now Dyrk, have come to hate me. The sacred trivia I hoped to put at his side have been driven from me — aye, and one lies dead. All my plans have come to naught. Unless this… ‘quest,’ as you call it, becomes even more momentous than the Khunds we now face.”
“You still cling to the hope of Dyrk again becoming your champion?” Derek almost laughed.
“Not my champion. Apollo’s. The Morgnus family’s fortunes were built by the light of His chariot, you must remember.”
“Perhaps. But if we are to survive and continue to prosper, we must be a part of the new of Britain, not the old of Rome and long-ago Athens.”
“What are you saying, Derek?”
“More and more I have seen in my lifetime, the good families of southern Britain are one by one drifting toward the Christian path. A time is coming where any decent merchant may be expected to be part of their flock, too, if he is to keep their custom.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Regulus grabbed Derek’s arm. Seeing Derek’s anger, he let go, and stormed toward the door. “I’ll show myself out,” he announced in a huff.
But Derek couldn’t resist one more jab. “One of your ‘sacred trivia’ has already embraced the Christian ways. And she is closer to Dyrk than you or I will ever be.”
The expression on the priest’s face was worth the exaggeration, Derek concluded. His sword polished and his a few quick mouthfuls of supper downed, he returned to the palace where his fellow officers would be gathered.
[ June 18, 2007, 02:22 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Jonah and several of his cavalrymen had been chasing a pair of Khund scouts for the better part of ten miles before the hunt ended as he’d intended: two lances, two impalements, and not too much noise.
But the Anglian woods were too quiet for early morn; once the bloodlust of the hunt subsided, Jonah realized something was amiss.
Genni should have reported back by now. Or have the Khunds lain sword to our best scout?
“It’s too quiet,” a cavalryman echoed his thoughts.
“Be ready for an ambush,” Jonah warned in a loud whisper. They slowly rode towards a ravine; he bade them to wait as he dismounted and stealthed up the far side. Peering over, he waived them to follow, as he stood and walked forward without care.
He walked into what had clearly been a large encampment; thin wisps of smoke still haunted the occasional fire-pit.
“There must have been thousands of them!” a knight exclaimed, while Jonah sought out the direction of their tracks.
He grimaced. Back towards Lindum. We have been fooled!
“Hurry, my fellowes!” He remounted and lead them by the rout the attackers had taken. “He shall first encounter the supply wagons; we must dispatch them most stealthily, ere we are to surprise the back lines!” If they have not already reached Lindum, that is…
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Mysa sat in silence while Thora stood confidently, appearing to direct the priestesses who rowed the passage.
She does not need to preserve the illusions for me, Mysa thought, but there is tradition to honour, and the young ones must not have their focus thrown aside.
She peered out into the thick veil of cloud that surrounded them, realizing this was only the second time she had no role to play: rower or guide; the first was her very first voyage to Avalon those 15 years ago. Then, she was a scared little girl journeying into the unknown, a fearsome, solemn realm.
But now, she was going home.
The thought had been a fearful one for so long, but now it felt good. It felt right.
She recognized the priestesses-in-training who rowed the boat; they were scared little maidens only a few years ago. But did they not remember her? They gave no indication of such. Or have I become the hated oath-breaker these past few years?
But no. It was simply a priestess’ training to be aloof, to let not the face betray the thoughts behind the façade. How could I forget this? What else have I forgotten already?
As the mists parted, she gasped at seeing Kiwa there awaiting her. But no; it was Azura. How much of Kiwa’s poise she has taken on!
Azura, once one of Mysa’s pupils, was now the mistress here, and greeted her as formally as Kiwa ever greeted any visiting noble, but once in the Lady’s hut, they shared a more sisterly greeting, with hugs and intimate words.
Thora, consigned to attending to Mysa’s bags and serving her elders, scowled. Was her role as Azura’s aide and confidante in jeopardy?
She only caught portions of the conversation, coming and going with necessities, but knew they discussed Mysa’s falling with Imra and Ayla, The Cornish crown, the Khund war of course, and other particulars that she couldn’t catch all the details of. Were they discussing a mission for Mysa on Avalon’s behalf? A role for Mysa here on Avalon?
Outside the cottage, Thora broke one of the serving bowls in anger. Have I not been a good and faithful priestess and servant? Why must the legendary Mysa suddenly take my place? Who is she, to come and go as she pleases, while we the faithful should scamper aside?
It will not be so. Lady, I implore thee!
Dismissed for the night, Thora left Azura and Mysa to their warm talks, and she stewed alone in her bedding. It was a warm spring night, but she felt very cold and alone, more than she had ever felt since Kiwa died.
Imra is Avalon’s delegate to the royal court; not Mysa! If Mysa has acted unjustly on her own, Avalon should not reward her for her betrayals! By morning, Thora had all but convinced herself that Imra had been a close friend during the queen’s days on the Priestess Isle, not merely an older-priestess acquaintance, and her old friend needed an ally to avenge the wrongs done her.
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For perhaps the first time, MacKell found himself resenting his legend; it was as if everyone expected his aid at the same time.
Earlier this week, he led the fight against a small-but-significant Khundish attack on a fishing village near Eboracum, and returned to the city in time to defeat an enchanted suit of armour some fiendish sorcerer must have let loose. Even then, Queen Winifred complained he was nowhere to be found when a smaller Khundish raiding party attacked her castle; they were fended off, but toppled into the river a statue of some unknown Roman centurian who had once saved a Celt priestess no-one outside of the city even remembered.
Two days ago, he had reached the river village of Gaini, where he led villagers in putting out a large and growing fire created by a falling star, or so they said. They stopped the fire before it burned all the river villages, but a nearby Angle settlement complained that MacKell was not there to be ready for the Khunds, and were further incensed when he went instead to a village to the west, near Perilous Forest, where an invisible Roc was causing havok.
Yet today, his other tasks complete, he returned to the Angles, refortifying their weak tower just before an actual Khund attack.
Alone save for a handful of elder Angle farmers, he took out all his frustrations on the invaders — and won, despite six-to-one odds, counting three old Angles as worth a single man.
Is this all the world has come to? he asked himself, tiring of what was seeming to be a life of war after war, and no shortage of fighting between wars. In my youth, t’is true I enjoyed such sport, but in truth now, I would like nothing better than to travel and explore this world, most of which I have only seen from the skewed captivity of the cave.
But an Angle messenger came upon him: Lindum itself was under siege!
Wearily, he remounted his steed and rode off.
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Large, muscular Andrew had a hard time fitting in the small tunnel.
“I fear not,” King Pellam replied. For one, the old man’s slow pace did not slow the young knight down, as the narrow crawlspace accomplished that feat. “These tunnels were built to allow lithe priests to flee from raiders and brigands, after all.”
Pellam had room enough to crawl, but Andrew had not such a luxury. He scuffled his legs along, but mostly pulled himself forward with his arms, which were now sore and tired. “Fat priests had to fend for themselves, then?” Based on the monastery ruins where they’d camped the night before, none of any largeness would have survived, he surmised. He hoped all the gear they hid was safe.
“The order who knows of and uses this tunnel had a rather strict diet of fruits, vegetables and, upon occasion, fish. Even grains are virtually forbidden. Perhaps fitness for this tunnel is one very reason for that,” Pellam remarked, pausing before starting the curve that he knew marked the end of the journey. The curve and the coming grotto keep light from telling unfamiliar crawlers how far they have to go.
Reaching the grotto, the elderly king crawled to one side to rest before attempting to stand. These old bones have outlived their usefulness, I must admit to myself.
Andrew crawled forward, grateful for room to move his arms, stretched and let out a few deep breaths before looking around him.
The grotto was partially a cave, but in many places, one could look out into a dark thicket of forest. A two-hand-wide channel of water meandered its way through, from one wall and out the largest cave-mouth. The grotto itself was full of carvings and emblems, but the central feature was a life-size crucifix with a figure dangling from it. Andrew approached it. It was white stone, such as is common on the southern coasts. The figure, clearly intended to be Iesous, had a blank face.
“If this place was founded by the man from Arimathea, surely he of all people knew the Lord’s face?”
“That stands to reason,” Pellam said. Andrew came over to help him to his feet.
“Then why?”
“Like many of the olde orders, the Josephites believe that each and every seeker may know divinity firsthand. Idols portraying a single image, they say, are an attempt to control the image of their savior. They believe everyone can and should create their own image, in their mind’s eye.”
Andrew bowed to make a prayer, while Pellam reverently bowed his head and gave his own silent greeting.
Exiting the grotto, they passed through a garden fed by the small stream. At the garden’s center stood a thin windy tree that blossomed as Pellam approached. Andrew looked up in the sky, seeking to see the sun. Despite the amount of daylight, the sun was visible only as a diffused blur behind a layer of near-white cloud. Looking further, he could see an island the shape of the Tor at Glastonbury, only larger.
There was a smaller isle to the right. Although the figures appeared small, he was certain they were feminine. The Priestess Isle. He gulped. Where Kiwa would rule still if not for I.
At the garden gate, a brown-robed, thick-bearded man with a smile that seemed to radiate from the sun itself greeted them. “Welcome, King Pellam. The Siege Cristi of Avalon welcomes you.” He turned to Andrew, not flinching at the un-helmed, grotesque face before him. “And welcome to you, my friend.”
“I am Andrew… of Orkney.”
“I am David. Come.”
David led the two to a collection of small stone huts with thatched roofs. Several robed men stopped their crafts to greet the visitors, and those who were too involved to stop smiled and offered greetings.
The collective brethren brought the two to a man who was carving a large bowl. About 50 in age, the burdens his face hinted at made him look far older. He smiled but said nothing.
“This is Andrew,” Pellam began. “He is a good man, a good knight and a follower of Iesous, but is heavy of heart. Only you can help him.” Seeing doubt in the silent man’s eyes, he continued. “Please. For me.”
The man set down his block of wood, and carefully placed his tools on the bench. He sat still, looking straight ahead but downward, as if concentrating on a small pluberry bush not far away.
After a length of silence, Pellam nodded, and turned to Andrew. “Stay with him. He may not have gone through all that you have, but he shares enough pain that will help you with your own.”
Pellam and the brothers began walking away.
Who is he? Andrew wondered, not daring to give voice to the growing… fear.
The man’s smile told him the thought did not go unheard.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“Thank you for coming.” Enide steadied herself, determined not to show fear or anger in front of the woman she considered her bitter rival.
Nura returned the greeting, sensing some amount of unease from the lady. She disliked traveling in wartime, but knew it was safer in Exeter – for the moment – than remaining at Marcus’ side right now.
Sheltering at a small convent, Enide had little to offer her guest, but made do with wine and apple slices offered by the mother superior.
“Your message sounded urgent,” Nura said to break the ice, taking a few slices only to be polite. Every offering by Enide spoke volumes of her years of poverty – every morsel was an inventory only reluctantly surrendered.
Before she could utter a word, the speech Enide had practiced had already fallen apart, a casualty to nervous memory.
Nura waited patiently.
“…I know of what Mysa arranged with my husband,” she said at last, accusingly. She had hoped to unnerve Nura into displaying guilt, but found herself thrown off by Nura’s affable confusion.
“Then you know more than I,” Nura laughed. “I’ve not seen my sister since last summer. Pray tell, what arrangement has she concocted now?” As much as Mysa decried Kiwa’s manipulations, Nura saw Mysa as far more of Kiwa’s breed than she herself – Kiwa’s own estranged daughter.
“Have you truly not heard, or do all tongues wag in jest?” exasperated, Enide was not expecting an answer. “Mysa has told – or so it is told,” she paused searching for the way to say it, “that if Geraint supports Rokk’s war efforts now and keeps peace with Marcus until this war is ended… that she has promised him you as his bride.”
Nura laughed. “Who is she to promise my hand? My sister, yes, but not my queen.”
“She more queen than you or I. Gorlois married Igraine because she was of the olde line of Cornwall, a distant cousin of Geraint. The old families look to her as much as they do to Geraint. Mayhap more so, as she is also sister to the high king himself. Renounced or not, her word carries more weight than she may realize.”
Nura pondered that. Mysa thought her title came from Gorlois, a Roman regent lacking in authenticity to one raised as a Celt. And Kiwa omitted telling her of Igraine’s heritage, to keep her power over her. Webs within webs. Truly, I asked Mysa to keep Geraint at bay ere the war, with the pledge that she would help him woo me. But did he negotiate a tougher deal? Nay, I cannot believe t’is so.
“I must seek my sister, that she may tell me her mind,” Nura said. “I shan’t take the words of gossip-mongers until that day.”
“T’was not gossips, I fear.” Enide looked away, turning red. “Geraint talks in his sleep.”
“So… we have his word, after a fashion, of this deal as brokered. But we have not her version.” Nura shivered, realizing she didn’t know when – or if – she would again see her sister. But I foresaw myself with Thom, not Geraint. Didn’t I?
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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The road to Lindum was not safe for travelers, it was true – but then few if any roads were safe during this war, as nowhere in Britain was far enough from the sea. Khundish attack parties had landed everywhere from Penzance to Portus Magnus to Lothian, it seemed, and a few landings managed to reach the Cymrus as well.
With Jeka safe at Zendak’s castle in South Cymru, the quartet of newly arrived warriors braved the road, however, seeking to rendez-vous with Rokk’s forces. Val, of course, also wanted to reunite with his brother.
At Cawdy’s Fort, they just missed Garth’s cavalry, bound to intervene against a large landing at Exeter, and Geraint’s army, following as rapidly as foot soldiers could. Setting out to follow, they met Genni on the road, reporting that battle was already over, and she was bound for Lindum, where Queen Nura predicted the next wave would land.
Val was amused at his friends reaction to the Moorish messenger. Yes, he had told them of some of the strange gifts Rokk’s Legion had at its disposal, but to actually see Genni racing down the road was quite another thing.
The group followed as best as they could, opting to cut cross-country as Genni did rather than take one road east to Londinium and another north from there.
Days later, they found themselves camped at the edge of Perilous Forest.
“This Britain is not as cold and damp as you claimed,” Hart commented.
“Maybe, but it is far from as warm as daytime should be, by my measure,” Palomides added.
Hesperos nodded. Cold it was not, but there was a chill in the mornings he did not associate with late spring. Britain was a far greener place than he’d imagined, even more, in its way, than the mountain valleys of Thrace he’d called home for so long.
With camp broken, they made their way northeast once again, until they reached the Trent. Val recalled there was a ferry over the river at Gaini, and from there, it would be a fairly short trip to Lindum.
They were unprepared for the thick reams of smoke rising from the houses of Gaini. Could the Khund have attacked this village? Has Lindum fallen? Val wondered.
Throwing their gear behind some bushes, they armed and ran forward, engaging Khunds still looting and burning.
Gaini was in shambles, it was true, but there were still villagers running about – those who failed to find safety in the small castle’ walls - fleeing flames and raiders as best they could.
Val estimated maybe about 60 raiders throughout the village – a bit many for the foursome perhaps, but there was only one way to find out.
Sticking together to watch each others’ backs, they waded into the fray – Palomides with his crescent-shaped scimitar, Hesperos with one short sword in each arm, Hart with a quarterstaff and Val with his bare hands.
Val moved the quickest among the group, leaping about, kicking and stunning a half-dozen raiders without giving even one the opportunity to score blood.
Hart, unarmoured like Val, sized up his opposition, and adapted his techniques to them. Like most warriors, the Khunds relied very heavily on their swords and armour. Hart could turn those reliances into weaknesses – and did. In truth, these invaders offered very little challenge – Hart’s only sport was measuring his success against Val. The peace of Nanda Parbat was a world away now – the old combat-lust was returning, and Hart was no longer ashamed of it.
While lacking the type of training Hart and Val had, Hesperos was a classically trained swordsman – one of Constantinople’s finest, in fact – and was certainly no slouch. Although fairly conservative in his stance and delivery, he was more than a match for the raiders, even two at a time, and a more lethal one as well.
Palomides moved like a whirlwind, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. A few Khunds he faced managed to direct sword-strokes at him, only to find their swords flying away from the bloody stump where their hands were. Not all of them fully comprehended the sight before their lives ended.
Was it fully an hour? Suddenly the small village was quiet from clanking metal, only the roar of fire as wails of the survivors. With the raiders dead or fled, Val set off to have words with the castle’s guards – only to find three old men and a motley of young boys and girls manning the defenses.
The castle was little more than a tall, slightly fortified villa, with most of the village crammed into the feasting hall and the kitchen.
The lord of the castle was more merchant than knight, an inoffensive older man who no doubt neither side of the T rent, Elmet nor their rivals the Angles, would take issue with. The man doddered on and on appreciatively, name-dropping all the nights and nobles he has given fealty to. Val nodded, barely listening. The peace of Nanda Parbat was complete lifetime away.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Dawn on Avalon brought a light drizzle, but this cleared up to a misty but sunny morning as the Josephite brethren gathered for fast-breaking.
Pellam had attended the morning prayers along the lake as a courtesy to his hosts, and out of respect, but no follower of the one-god was he.
After several days in seclusion with the quiet man, Andrew rejoined him late in the meal, smiling peacefully and greeting him warmly – as warmly as he had ever seen. Despite the old king’s certainty that he had the correct path to rekindle the resurrected knight’s heart, he took nothing for granted, and he felt his own burdens ease some.
They talked about the brethren, the weather, the events that had transpired since he left court – all the little things Andrew hadn’t evidenced any interest in ere now. Pellam sensed the young knight was holding back, and wanted to talk about his experience here, but perhaps not in front of the brethren.
“What else?” Andrew was still hungry for news.
“Well, we have discussed the rebel kings, the eight impossible tasks, Glorith, Laurentia and the Dark Circle, the Lady Mysa, Geraint…”
“What of Mysa?”
“Did I not tell you?” Pellam was sometimes angered at the tricks his memory sometimes played. Surely he had relayed the tale not 20 minutes ago? “Mysa came here, to Avalon,” he pointed across the lake “to the Priestess Isle, not three weeks ago. She and Azura, the current Lady of the Lake, are said to have settled their differences, and Mysa would return to her duties, once the lady returned to Cornwall to settle a few matters. Yet it seems the Lady Mysa vanished thereafter,” he paused. “She and the four priestesses who transported her vanished. Their boat was found, overturned, drifting in the lake on the Glastonbury side.”
“Five souls, so unnecessarily lost,” Andrew mourned. “May they rest in peace. Such a random tragedy…”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Andrew looked at him quizzically.
“I know not Azura as I knew Kiwa. I know not whether the current Lady of the Lake truly views Mysa as ally or rival,” Pellam said quietly, even though most of the brethren had departed the table, and none were in immediate hearing instance.
“You think she-” Andrew stopped himself, not wishing to vocalize the conclusion.
“I know not, if truth be said,” the old king admitted, glancing to the Priestess Isle. “But something is not a-right.”
They gathered the scant items they’d brought with them after the meal and said their goodbyes to the brethren before making their way back through the tunnel. Andrew was also administered an oath of secrecy as to the tunnel’s location. Pellam made a special thank-you to the silent man, and the two embraced.
Back at the monastery ruins, Andrew could hold back his question no longer. “Who was that man, who wields such strange gifts, and speaks with no words?”
“Did he not tell you?”
Pellam sighed. “He is my son, Pelles. But you must tell no one of this.”
Andrew nodded. “I recall Regulus mention that you had no children, but you have a son.”
“Two sons. And at least five grandchildren of which I know.” Some of whom you have met at court, he did not say aloud.
“So why the secrecy?”
“What else that Regulus tell you?”
“… That you were once almost high king of Britain.”
Pellam nodded. “But I stepped aside to keep the peace, that under Uther we could stand together against the Khunds.”
“And Uther Ambrosius did not want your sons to be able to claim the thrown.”
Pellam nodded. But Uther tricked Avalon. And me. But that dark deed has been undone at last.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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