Garth was quite surprised to receive Tinya’s field report, but Reep confirmed what little Rokk had the chance to tell him. All three were glad Jonah was with the king, and could not act on behalf of his suspect brother. Agravaine – Val – had seemed even less of Lot and Morgause’s ways than Jonah, yet something had been amiss; the Khunds had known the importance of all three fortresses, the exact location of all three cavalry stables, and how to breach all three fortresses well enough to take the stables out; only MacKell and Iasmin’s deception had turned the tables at Londinium.
Several scrolls had seen seals broken; all were in close proximity to the pilgrim knight and his peers – one had been carried by Val himself!
Val had also led the foolish attack on the Macedonians, yet gleaned valuable knowledge in doing so. A ruse, a saving of face?
There was no way to know but to follow the knight as discreetly as possible; Tinya, Reep and Saihlough were the natural choices here.
Was Reep at all surprised to see Val rise from the barracks in the thick of night, and make his way to Querl’s workshop? Tinya felt both vindicated and sick to her stomach upon hearing the crash of glass and the shattering of wood that came from behind those doors. She and Reep burst in to find Val and Hart engaged in fisticuffs, and all of Querl’s creations and equipment had paid the brutal price. The two whirled faster than Garth’s swordplay; occasionally one of them would call upon the spectators to intervene, and call the other a traitor and saboteur.
Saihlough returned in short order with Garth, Dyrk, Brin, Grev, Ayla and Berach; between the lot of them the victor, not matter how fast, would not escape.
With the last piece of Querl’s latest device smashed beyond recognition, Hart seemed to stiffen, and Val’s blows sent him cascading along the floor.
“Val? Why did thou hit me?” He seemed to be truly baffled, and struggling to gather his bearings.
Val let up not. “Thou thinks ye can foole me, Hart, after I on my word let you into Rokk’s kingdom? Are these your ‘evil spirits’ of your past, then, that make you betray our confidences?”
Hart went pale, and stopped trying to block blows. “Verily, I thought I had banished my demons. D-do with me as thou wills.”
Val hesitated slightly; his final blow came with less force than it might have, and Hart survived.
“What trickery is this?” Val asked over the unconscious Hart.
“You tell us,” Garth said with a stare. “I have seen Hart fight the Khunds with a fervour unmatched by yourself,” he said. “Who am I supposed to believe is employing trickery?”
It was Val’s turn to gape, seeing his comrades all looking upon him with suspicion. He had assumed Rokk’s doubts would fade, once he found out which of his men was the traitor-
“Agravaine speaks truly,” Saihlough said. “T’was Hart who was already destroying Querl’s work ere Lothian’s son arrived, and he truly fought the Scythian to stop his villainy. Yet Hart’s very colour of spirit shifted at the very end.”
“Meaning?” Garth still wasn’t convinced.
“Meaning the ghosts who haunted Hart’s past are done with him not, despite his time in Nanda Parbat,” said Palomides, a newcomer onto this night’s drama. “Just as we warned him.”
Val nodded. “I feared as much.”
“Perhaps,” Garth said, still soaking it all in. “But both of you shall be donjoned until the queen returns, that she may find the truth in your words and hearts. And Palomides, Hesperos and the Princess Jecka are forbidden access to you two until such a time, so that any spirits or mischiefs of any kind will be allayed and none may doubt allegiance.”
Reep nodded. “I am sure my brother will agree, and I shall support Sir Garth’s decision in counsel.”
Val smiled half-heartedly. “I cannot fault the wisdom, even if I’ve no love for cells. So be it,” he said, letting himself be led off in irons.
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The Khunds began to pour down the hill like a fury unleashed; this was no cornered animal but rather a foe that had come to realize just how much British forces had been strained to achieve the victories of the past few days.
This was a force enlivened by a certainty that the tide against them was a fluke, one easily rectifiable. Moreover, with their new and overwhelming numbers and energy compared to the British would-be mop-up unit, Rokk too recognized a shift in the wind. The war might not be ending as he and his knights had believed but two nights before; news of a Khund victory here could easily re-rally the retreating invaders elsewhere.
Rokk had Urien’s army form a united line, but be ready to break into a V shape, letting the advancing Khunds think they were successfully plowing and dividing the British army. The Manx forces would slowly back down the hill onto flatter ground, where the Khund advantage was not so great; the western flank would then break into a run, and pursuing Khunds would run straight into Iasmin’s advancing cavalry on flat ground where her troupe would be most effective.
Although with many victories already under her belt, for Iasmin this was a critical test – never before had her riders, her leadership been so critical to a single battle. If she had ever doubted her role in battle, it showed not here; all her lobbying to be allowed command, not just being a cavalry trainer, had paid off. This was the moment. This was her moment, even more so than waiting in Grev’s darkness amid a sea of screaming spirits on the Path of Isis, waiting for the signal to strike at Garlach himself.
The fleeing Manx west line ran straight at her, and she ordered her charge. On cue, Urien’s men broke to either side and resumed their stance against their pursuers, who were now themselves running into lancepoint, and Khundish line crumbled into chaos. Iasmin relished the surprised face as her lance impaled a particularly large, barrel-chested Khund; the impact of his weight on her lance sent a shiver of dreadful exhilaration up her arm and from thence up and down her spine.
Around this time, Laoraighll, MacKell and Jonah had circled around the back of the hill and begun wading into the reserve troops that would have been the second Khundish wave, thus joining the second front of a battle that would last throughout the day.
By afternoon, victory at the hill’s bottom meant the beginning of an upward assault, one aided by the instability the advance trio had created. But an uphill battle it still was, and Manx numbers had thinned so much by the last push that even Rokk was second-guessing his own strategy.
The uphill Khunds were well prepared for a cavalry assault, however, and Rokk forbade the wasting of horses and trained riders on steep terrain where a Khund with a spear could almost easily overpower a mounted warrior. The king did accept Iasmin’s proposal for her riders to mount false attacks however, veering back downhill on about two out of every three attacks, and making only brief hit-and-run attacks on the other occasions.
By the late afternoon, British infantry was nearing the hill’s top and Iasmin’s hit-and-run or scare tactics were no longer effective, but she did have the privilege of finishing off the Khunds now fleeing the hilltop battle, as they made their way to the plain.
In the end, it would be Urien’s young son, a warrior with barely 10 years named Ywain who would slay the Khund commander. Yet Urien’s own squire, a lad of comparable age, died valiantly in the battle, and Rokk named the hill and the battle after the young Manx named Badon.
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“You are King Pellam.” The young girl spoke with a wisdom, clarity and certainly that defied her limited years.
“I am,” the elder king smiled. “It is good to see you, Dindrane, my grand-daughter.”
The priestess-in-training, the so-called “Grail Maiden” smiled warmly but with poise and reserve.
She was tending to the maimed, ill and other wounded lying in the streets of Londinium and in the battlefields beyond, with the vigilant but no longer feral-looking Brin looking on, wary of any who approached her unbidden. But Brin already knew well the elderly Pellam, and allowed the kin privacy to speak.
“You do well, childe,” the elder said, slowly lowering himself to sit on the ground beside her. “Not many are the young maidens who would wade through the blood-soaked fields of combat to do such healing.”
She nodded, pouring Cauldron waters down a young Anglian warrior’s throat, and wiping clean his wound. Two city guardsmen were ferrying vats of clean water to her and to the various Druids tending to other wounded. “I do as I am able.”
No. You do far more than that, my dear.
“They say the war is over,” she said without inflection, as if commenting on weather or idle gossip.
“Aye. Or soon will be, I’d wager. Young Rokk is an able king and strategist.”
“Aye. And all the young mothers of this aisle will now welcome their menfolk home and raise new warriors for the next time.”
Pellam nodded. “None of us asked for this war.”
“Nor did poor Jancel, lain slain by assassins. I… met her, once.”
Pellam was surprised by this. “Jancel dead? Nay it cannot be. I would have known if it were true,” he said, hoping to believe the words himself. “It may be said she has perished, but much word that travels can be false. Last winter alone, King Rokk died scores of times in dozens of ways,” he smiled.
“You think my-- You think she lives?” Dindrane dared to show emotion and enthusiasm for the first time.
“I can promise naught. I can only measure by the feeling that flows through these old bones.”
Sir Dyrk was approaching with determination in his step; Pellam knew their time together drew short.
He gently but firmly put his hand on her arm. “Seek her out, when this is over. See her properly honoured, whether living or not.”
“I… know not if I shall have such leave to do so.”
Pellam smiled. “Then I suppose I should do so for you.” He began to rise.
“But your vow, grandfather?” A second emotion: concern, maybe fear.
“Bah! I am too old to be a threat to any who would take umbrage. My time draws near.” Seeing a tear in Dindrane’s eye, he continued, “No old man should overstay his welcome. I have nothing in this life to regret.” He paused to caress her face. “Well, no more, at least.”
He kissed her cheek in farewell as Dyrk neared.
Farewell, childe, one of five living grandchildren. Would that I see all of you one last time. Already I have missed my chance to see Aglovale a grown man. No more shall I put off what must be done.
“My lady?” Dyrk spoke to Dindrane. “Our scouts tell us King Rokk’s army is returning, and his wounded shall need your aid.”
And now it is over, both Dindrane and her grandsire were both thinking. Dindrane turned and picked up a still-smouldering bunch of fragrant dreamweed, and prepared to bless the next vat of water.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“That fault is not mine, my friend. I said all along we need more Teachers.”
Taliesin sighed. He had no wish to resume the age-old arguments. Maybe Cador was right; the Teacher’s Isle of Avalon was largely a collection of aging scholars, clergy and bards like himself; the Druids and Priestesses no longer had the surpluses of pupils as they used to. Too long had they neglected bringing in new blood.
“Not many can teach the Olde Arts to new generations of Bretons, t’is true. But only I can aid young king Rokk with his Cornish problem,” Cador replied. “Once done, I shall be back.”
Taliesin smiled, but somehow knew it was not so. In council, from now on he would be the voice to call for new Teachers.
He saw his friend through the proper rituals and robed and blindfolded for his trip down the Path of Isis for Londinium. The spirits were particularly cantankerous, having been stymied by a Pictish dark-spell whilst receiving so many visitors on the Londinium end of the Path, during MacKell’s gambit.
Yet without those bainsidhes, Avalon itself would be an easy target for any who knew the existence of the path from the very Temple of Isis, and that secret seemed to be gone for good with this war.
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Rokk returned to a scene that was both one of devastation but also of cheer and victory. Even those now without roofs over their heads, even those who had lost limb or kin, even those who had called him enemy but a year and a half ago were now united in a cheering welcome of the king who had led them to victory, a victory that time itself would never forget. Everywhere his new banner of the white bear was flying, and the crowds chanted both his own name, but even more predominant his new appellation.
“Urthrugh! Urthrugh! Urthrugh!”
It was almost deafening, and almost beyond the scope of his senses; it was neither reality nor a dream. The streets of Londinium were packed as his army paraded through, en route for the palace; every window, doorway, alley and speck of street was covered with appreciative subjects. That his march took all the longer as people had no easy way to get out of the army’s way bothered no one but the tired warriors.
We have won this, you and I, the bear within him who was no longer Ursiuk told him. If we want to preserve our win, we must beware the Peigh Dragh. SHE will be our undoing.
The sun still shined brightly, but a cold, shadowy pallour shaded Rokk’s line of sight. Suddenly every window and shadowy doorway was full of scheming enchantresses, familiar-looking red-haired witches whose names he should know but could not place, all looking to undo him.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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The roll call at the High King’s feast that eve was a litany of nobles, knights and kings from across the isles of Britain, Ireland and beyond: Armorica to the south and the Orkneys to the north. Individual warriors could also be counted from the Northmen’s lands, Iberia, Italia, Gaul, Araby, the Aegean, and elsewhere. The wines and ales flowed freely, the pigs could not be roasted fast enough to sate the appetites, and the hall was so packed that it was later said that a single shove by Laoraighll or MacKell would cause at least three walls to collapse.
It took all night for Rokk to commend each and every general, monarch, or knight that he knew of who turned the tide, and there were many of which he had not yet word of; he was unaware of Sir Lu’s company remained deathly ill, or Marcus’ own mopping-up on the southern coast, still ongoing.
Ambitious knights like Meleagant and Pharoxx were in their glory receiving praise of peers, but Rokk’s official knighting of Sir Ywain stole the thunder of even the illustrious Queen Ayla.
Some whispered that Ywain was the knight destined to take the Siege Perilous – the seat dedicated to the late Iaime, but the chagrinned Iasmin was happy to learn this was not the case.
Tinya’s reunion with Jonah was one of passion and scolding – he approved not of her adventures, not even the ones she told him of, and Grev was smart and discreet enough to only commend her prowess as a warrior, scout and messenger.
The fest wound down only on the second dawn as reports came in that the Macedonians had not departed the isle as believed; Meleagant was particularly put out, as his word was now suspect.
Preparing to ride for the new Macedonian position, Rokk was approached by young Ywain.
“May I ride with you, my liege?”
“I do not see why not,” Rokk replied. “There is something else you seek to ask,” he added. Younger knights always were full of questions about battles and deeds already becoming legends, and these he expected.
“May I call you uncle?”
This one caught the king by surprise. Was this some Rhyged or Manx custom?
“Has my mother not mentioned me?”
“…Not as I may recall. Pray tell, who is your mother?”
“She is your sister, Mysa, my liege. Or so I am told.”
Rokk knew not what to say. Ywain continued.
“My father knew not the priestess’ name, ‘til he met her again last year at midsummer, when we came to your fest at Camulodunum. But I… I would meet her growing up, a woman who claimed to be my mother. T’was the same lady, so I swear.”
“She has said naught to me.” Rokk still could not believe it, but the bear within him growled, reminding him of her trickeries.
“She spoke as if she knew us not, and thought us mad. I know not why she said thus, but I know it was her.” Seeing the king’s disbelief, he regretted his admission. “I am sorry to have said this, my liege.”
“You spoke what you believe to be true. Any trickery afoot is not yours,” Rokk offered. He had not thought much of Mysa since winter, and had paid her disappearance little heed, assuming nothing more than the spat among the womenfolk was the root. But now… how many secrets and tricks were unraveling? When next he saw his sister, t’would be a time for answers.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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so on the word of Melegant, my brother Kenzius’ man.”
“Kenzius?”
“…perhaps you know him as Geraint,” he said bitterly. “Knew him.”
“He was a fine knight,” Rokk said, recalling Geraint’s prewar standing.
“My brother and I are of the old Cornish line, yet are more of Rome than not, t’is true. I came here at my brother’s request; he had a ruse planned to defeat the Khunds, yet with his death, I would not see it through.”
A ruse to gain kingship of Britain, t’would be more truthful, Dyrk thought.
“Still, you have my thanks. I shall honour Sir Geraint with a burial at my royal mortuary Shangalla, if it fits your approval. You are welcome to stay, as my guest,” Rokk continued.
Iarcalthus remained silent.
“Does that not please you?” Rokk tried to remain cordial.
“My brother was slain by a knight in your service. I demand satisfaction.”
Rokk nodded. “So you seek to occupy one of my towns until satisfied?”
“Two,” the man replied. Seeing confusion, he continued. “Two of your towns. We hold Portus Magnus as well. My messengers reported this very morn of our successful capture not three nights ago.”
Dyrk fumed, ready to strike the villain down. Who did he think he was?
“Both were already war-torn, and offered little resistance,” Iarcalthus sneered.
“Sir Thom has fled my kingdom for other lands. I can send men after him, but it shall take some time-”
“-Time, I do not have. Your city and armies are weak after this war. I hear reports of a plague rampant in the west. Many loyal to Kenzius would stand with me,” Iarcalthus smugly reported.
“A war then? You think you can hold one, two towns, or maybe even all of Britain with two armies, no matter how mighty, and perhaps some of the Cornish and west Bretons?”
“I would rather have your pledge, young Rokk, king of all Britain. Pledge to me that this… Sir Thom holds no claim or title in Cornwall or all of Britain, and that he is unwelcome, a villain to be hunted down should he set foot in Britain or its holdings elsewhere. Swear that his life is forfeit for slaying my brother, his liege.
“If you will do me that honour, I shall let Durobrivae go, but Portus Magnus must remain my guarantee.”
Rokk balked at the sheer audacity of the proposal. “I serve all the people of Britain, and must act fairly. Sir Thom has done many acts of valour in the name of the Cornish, and indeed of all Britain. I cannot fulfill your request without so much as hearing his word, even ere it means yet another war.”
“A trial, then? Very well. Until this Sir Thom shows his face and submits to fair judgment, I shall hold and govern both Durobrivae and Portus Magnus guarantees of a pledge to hold this Sir Thom accountable. I shall also require a modest form of tribute.”
Rokk’s eyebrows raised.
“Nothing of monetary worth. I merely seek formal recognition of my troops right to travel unimpeded between holdings, and to and from sea. Such travel will carry no unprovoked military action from my men or myself, and we will treat all your subjects as kindly as Celtic traditions calls for the care of hostages. I will increase troop levels no more than what I need to hold these towns.”
Rokk nodded. Holding two towns, however insulting such a move was, would still be preferable to seeing his capital demolished and a new war. “And should such judgment not meet with your favour?”
“I believe I can make a strong case for justice, one that any… servant of his people could not ignore.”
Dyrk was astonished Rokk seemed to be mulling it over; as powerful as the Italian state of Nuhorra might be, how could such a distant land truly pose a threat, even with such an army still poised here?
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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posted
BEYOND THE HUMAN REALM Interlude Twenty-one: A Distant Shore
Walrus climbed up onto the rocks.
You took your time, said Erne.
I have seen no reason to rush, Walrus replied.
Enough! Narwhale was irritated. Let us attend to business.
Ursuik is gone, Puffin noted. I for one shall not be amongst those in mourning.
Is he? Beluga was not convinced. The belching fire mountain churns its venom that the Bear King has assumed human form, so the Waves tell me.
Does the belching fire mountain churn in venom – or in hope? asked Erne. These humans, I trust not. Sooner or later their Being’s voice will drown out ours.
Maybe Ursuik seeks to be king of the humans too, suggested Puffin. We should ask Peign Dragh.
Her own plans, she has, Beluga countered.
Have you not, also, Beluga? Giving free passage to the Eastern humans into the West? Walrus challenged. Eastern humans are too damaged by Horse yet to be let loose. Even now, the Easterners’ expedition brings the Western light-bringer across the sea, breaking the Olde Compact.
I sensed these Easterners were harmless, Beluga explained. Better to meet Easterners’ good intent with goode.
Encourage any, more will follow, Walrus sighed.
But what of Ursuik? Do we allow him to toy with the humans? Narwhale was still anoyed. Let us send one of our number to see what transpires on the Peign Dragh’s island.
Who? How?
I have heard of a Fir Darrig who is calling a gathering, Puffin said. I say we send… Silkie.
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The queen of Hybrasil looked out over her kingdom.
Corah held up her newest trophy – the strange glowing box that Orin had retrieved from the eastern shallows. It hummed as she held it; if offered a strange, almost comforting warmth.
The strange symbols on it, she kenned not – perhaps another variant of the surface dwellers’ strange compulsion to scribble emblems no one else can recognize – not even amongst each other. Hybrasil’s written characters sung and danced their meanings into the very hearts and minds of its viewers; indeed the characters themselves would be quite put out if they failed to make themselves known!
The queer box offered little distraction to the monarch; she had a decision to make. After all she and her people had been through in the bloody war with Koirdachs, could she trust her only childe to the Seelie Court of the surface?
A gathering was to be held. Despite her people’s continued resolve to remain secluded from the surface world they had long ago escaped, since the box arrived her instincts had turned more and more to this one outreach. She resolved to talk to Orin. Or should she?
Mayhap I should let Fíona decide for herself, she resolved at last. But such a curious childe, she will no doubt go.
[ May 15, 2010, 01:38 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
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That Saihlough and her new human lover had passed through his gardens so recently was a delight; it was good to hold the both of them both in his embrace, a dear old friend and a new one.
But the abruptness of her departure, to save some new Earthly king, filled him with dread and worry – was it his father whose life was in such peril? Or some brother, born and grown, raised to be king since he came here into this faerie realm?
Cymru. His homeland.
He remembered its subtle but lush greenery, its muds and drizzles that did not dissolve into silver or blood or aether as they did in this realm.
He remembered being a young boy beaming with pride at his father’s coronation. What was father’s name?
When he was a young man, there was a feud with the fae regarding the sea. His father fought and lost against the fae king; he was the hostage to keep the peace. How could he have forgotten that, of all things, in this swirling maelstrom of shifting sights and senses?
How many times had he helped those elfin warriors train, and arm themselves for the periodic sea dragon hunt. He was resigned to hid fate, and each turn of the cycle (what were they called? It began with a “Y,” didn’t it?) became more and more a shadow of himself – and more like one of them.
But suddenly the thought occurred to him – what if the blur of time meant that many years had flown by And his father had died long ago in the mortal world?
“Zendak. Father, I remember thee,” he whispered.
He wandered the halls of this strange place he called home; often it was a castle, but sometimes an island, and once in a while a mountaintop or cloud-top citadel.
There had to be some way to get word home. Did his father even recall him?
Two silvery warriors had arrived recently to meet with his captor and hostess; they sought her attendance at some gathering. The fae queen’s handmaiden Ulie had taken a liking to him, and maybe, just maybe, she could get word out to the mortal world.
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Niamh was surprised to feel the ebb of time speeding up around her; it was invigorating, heart-pounding and fearsome all at once!
The fae queen of Eiru took satisfaction that her realm was above the politicks that so many of the realms seemed to be mired in; it was hard to be too interested when their elaborate affairs came and went in the blink of an eye to her, and she no longer even bothered to note the changing landscape within the greater Seelie Court around her.
But now, scarcely hours since her beloved Ossian had so briefly visited and had a special orb forged, word had come from Britain – her sister Annowre had been slain by Britain’s young king.
A knightly messenger of the Seelie nobility came himself. His very presence in her realm altered its normal flow of time, something that had happened once before.
That this King Rokk had slain her last sister was of little concern. That he might be in league with the Bear King did not bother her in the slightest. But that this upstart Rokk had dared to grant safe harbour to the villain Tenzil, she could not abide, and for the first time in more than a week – or 300 years in mortal time – she left her own realm to visit the place her sister had called as Annwyn Annowre.
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posted
Interlude Twenty-five: Return to Annwyn Annowre
“I guess you are all wondering why I called you here.” The speaker was fae, but half Pict as well, or so she seemed. She had claimed a long dead Irish witch-queen’s name, taken Annwyn Annowre for her own, and made its guardians Maigh and Dewphe her own. The long table of the castle’s great hall was packed with a motley assortment of beings, each noble in their own fashion.
“The young human King Rokk stands poised to be not only of the very aether of legend for humans for all time to come, but his kingship shall set under way human encroachment into all the Subtle Places. No corner of this world will escape what begins on the Dragon Isle under our very gaze.
“No underwater kingdom, no sea peoples, no faerie realm, no far-off land on this world will be untouched.”
“King Rokk has assembled a veritable Legion of humans with gifts of the gods, demi-gods in their own rights who stand with him as one,” Ulie agreed. “My mistress speaks that the both the Pendragon magicks and the Fold of Three are at their peaks. Both work to his advantage.”
“And he has the Bear King spirit,” Niamh interjected, ready to use any tool to aim past Rokk at Tenzil, even if she trusted not this hostess who claimed to be Medb herself.
Several other fae nobles spoke, eschewing intervention in human matters, or refusing to ally with olde foes among fellow fae. Fíona sat quietly, taking it all in; as one of the few humans present, she felt ill at ease about speaking on matters of which she knew little. But surely one surface-worlder king could not reach below the waves!? The seat across from her remained vacant yet, and she had to wonder just who had spurned the invitation.
“We must avoid the temptation to rush into matters that will no doubt resolve themselves , as they have time and time before,” said Enkenet, matriarch of a nomadic seafaring group of sidhe. Stratha of the stone spirits nodded quietly in agreement.
“There is more that you do not know,” a late arrival commandingly spoke. All heads turned her way; she was a beautiful human-looking woman, pale but well-sunned, with raven-black hair, yet with a mystical quality betraying a nonhuman essence as well. “Where is the darrig?” she demanded.
“Aigh aimme hheigheir,” it replied, a small, plump dark little sidhe with pointy features and a grin that would give a child nightmares for a lifetime. It suddenly occurred to Fíona that while she had vaguely been aware of its presence at the table, but would not have remembered anything but a wisp of an impression had the newcomer not called him out.
“Did you not swear on your very name not to interfere with this Rokk?”
“Aigh didde,” it reluctantly confirmed.
“Then you admit you are breaking your vow.” Whispers of “oath-breaker” were on the lips of many.
“Aigh meagherligh cahall’t fuir ai meet, thaght whe mai discuiesss thegh staight ouve oull Fphaedomm,” he replied. “Gnoet to einterr-veign fuir uur aign’ Keingg Roekk.”
“Liar!” challenged Ulie. “Maigh and Dewphe told myself and my mistress that you instigated this whole matter!”
“Myla of the North Ilse. You speak out of turn,” the hostess who called herself Medb attempted to restore control. It was too late.
“Bréagadóir!” “Fealltóir!” “Blackguard!” The table was erupting into an ocean of anger. Maigh and Dewphe, who had started to step forward and challenge the newcomer, now had to step back.
“You are fortunate you did not try your ploy in the Seelie Court, Llandrough. They would have flayed your very spirit asunder,” Myla of the North Isle calmly scolded. The darrig spasmed in discomfort, yet this was only the first of many truly painful taunts from the use of his real name. She smiled and stepped back; with his real name announced and the anger of the gatherants chanting his name in disdain, the darrig’s moments of free existence were numbered.
Fíona made her way around the table to approach the newcomer. Niamh had already reached her, and was critiquing her about causing the meeting to fail, whilst still leaving the Rokk issue unaddressed. But where had the hostess “Medb” gone? Fled, but leaving behind a scroll unfurled on a side table, written in the strange Ogham writing of the surface dwellers. As Fíona neared the scroll it started to burn; yet she could make out one serpentine emblem before it too darkened and smouldered.
The month of Julius of the third summer of King Rokk’s reign came in four waves of roughly a week each: nine days of almost continuous sun, a week of occasional thunderstorms, a half-week or so of clouds and gusty winds, and 10 days of chilly, smoky darkness.
Clouds of charcoal darkness had eaten the very sky! At its height it was hard to tell day from night, especially the farther north one was. Some feared, some prayed, some wondered or pondered. No one felt at ease.
Sir Reep would later collect the stories that wafted in from all over the island and some from beyond. On the same day the darkness would later arrive, the people of the Orkneys spoke of the very ground rumbling beneath them. Later that day, Orkneymen, Picts and Connacht Irish weaved tales of huge waves coming ashore, even washing away some of the lower-lying hamlets or dwellings that faced the open seas of the north. Fishermen who at the outset had ventured into far northwestern waters told of chunks of fire raining down into the sea, fiery rocks that would crash into a burst of steam and float aglow upon the very waves – those who came back alive, that is. Over the next days and weeks, dead birds – some burnt, some not – would float up on shore; all smelled of brimstone.
The first few days of darkness brought a layer of soot upon the land, especially upon the northern lands, but even traces reached as far south as the Kingdom of the Franks. Summer’s greens were covered with thin wisps of ash throughout southern Britain, while in some of the Caledonian highlands the ash might be deep enough to cover a man’s fist, and summer’s heat vanished into a near-wintery chill with airborne soot stealing both the sun’s light and warmth. Lesser amounts of ash fell for another week, but by the end of the month the sun was again something more than a vague, diffused disc behind the smoky sky. Throughout late July, the only scant rains were those of wet ash.
For the very old, the feeble young and the lame, those clinging to life with the thinnest of tethers, the coughing – the tainting of the very air – was enough to push them onward to the Summer Country. Others of poorer health would retain their wheezing and coughing for most or all of their lives. Healthier folk were able to relight their hearths, find firewood under the woodlands’ ash, and keep themselves warm. Yet their hearts feared this strange unknown; they feared for their lives, their futures, their crops, and the infirm dying among them only added to these fears. For southwestern Britain, still recovering from Drusilla and Sir Lu’s wartime pox, the people were as hard-hit as the northern lands where the smoke and ash was much thicker.
The first of Augustus brought two nights and one day of a heavy cleansing rain to many parts of Britain. The skies of the second day were bright and sunny – but grey, not blue. The green of the plants were again becoming visible between puddles of grey slush – those that were not choked by ash, at least.
The sunrise of the second brought a renewed spirit of hope among those who had feared the worst – among all but one. In Cumbria, a young mother-to-be, who since her illness had lingered for months under the belief that she was bearing twins, now felt something was completely wrong, and she was certain the darkness had been to blame.
Garridan and Galahad. Those had been the names of her sons. Only now did she know to be true what the young monk Jan had claimed months before – that there would only be one child from her womb.
The Princess Jancel went into labour in late morning. By late afternoon she held in her hands the only son she would ever bear. To most of Britain, that she and one son had even lived was a surprise and a blessing; Jan had spread word during the war that she had died in order to dissuade the still-unknown would-be assassins from again afflicting her. Word of her death had spread like wildfire. Word of her survival seemed nothing short of miraculous.
Her husband Garth was joyous at both seeing her alive and her being with child; all the uncertainty of their young marriage seemed to have vanished. Britain’s best knight held his son, his pride, his future, her gift to him in his hands and she could almost forget that there should have been two.
“Galahad,” Garth said. “That was what you wanted to call him?” He let his wife’s smile serve as an affirmative before returning his attention to the placid, quizzical, wrinkly bundle of human flesh in his arms. “Galahad. You shall be a fine man, a brave warrior, and the finest of knights. And the ablest of horsemen. I see it all in your little, little eyes.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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That Imra and Jancel resembled each other has raised a few eyebrows over the past year or two. That both were linked in rumour or fact to Sir Garth raised more than a few eyebrows. That both were pregnant at the same time caused tongues to wag in jest, speculation, or both. That both gave birth not only on the same day, but apparently at the same hour, on the first sunny after the phenomenon already being called “The Darkness” not only swept aside rumour and innuendo but placed it firmly in the realm of Providence – these two young sun kings of near-twin mothers who survived some mysterious conspiracy to see them dead were no doubt destined to lead Britain out of the darkness and uncertainty of the post-Roman world into a new epoch.
To the British public still recovering from a devastating war, young Prince Galahad, heir of Benwick and Deva, and Crown Prince Amhar were without doubt the first of a new generation of heroes, destined to end the Khund menace once and for all.
King Voxv beamed with pride at the child he believed to be his grandson, a future high king of his own bloodline. Elsewhere, Amhar’s true maternal grandfather allowed himself the briefest of smiles. Any satisfaction he could hold his head high with was balanced and outweighed by secrecy and guilt – and the other young sun king was only one portion of that.
Farther north in Lothian, Queen Morgause heard the news with disdain. Her youngest child (which she incorrectly believed to be her nephew King Rokk’s) should be the royal heir, as far as she was concerned, but he was now that much farther removed from the inheritance she craved for her son – indeed for all her sons. The infant Medrod was more than one year old; how would he fare with his younger half-brother gaining his rightful inheritance? Must all her sons be so cheated, just as Morgause herself was cheated out of being high queen? Igraine had the early spoils, but died young – Morgause often clung to the hope that her much longer life would compensate for her early setbacks. But no, even in death her sister and descendents thereof still thwarted her.
When Rokk – Gwydion – was a baby, Morgause had convinced herself it was in all of Britain’s best interests to see High King Ambrosius’ sickly whelp dead and buried, so that Uther’s stronger child would be the more seemly choice for heir. Did her husband Lot ever suspect that Gawaine was not his? Nay. Morgause was wiser in concealing her choice of lovers than Lothian’s king; these northerners did not care as much as Romanized Britain as to whom the king sired children with.
Her third son Gaheris and the Khundish boy Harlack were growing to be brothers as only fosterlings can be. They would be able sword-arms for their younger brother’s claims. The Christians would frown on a royal heir of aunt-and-nephew coupling. Medrod’s name must be as golden as Sir Garth’s, and his rival Amhar must be shown to be incapable. Morgause had no more stomach to see more babies slain, not after brigands had slain the child of Medrod’s very wet-nurse who mistook him for the royal child.
Gawaine (he would never truly be “Jonah” to her) and Agravaine, now back from the East, she would see at Yule, she hoped, but she thought often of her other son, Gareth, being fostered in Kiritan’s court in Kent. No; Yule would not do. Now, with war’s end and no further invasions, she must find reason to go south.
Morgause was one of the relatively few people unhappy with the new royal births. Her late father-in-law Amhlaidh’s young widow also found the gossips too distasteful, even in distant western Ulster. Her young, Caelestia and Leyllain, were well hidden from the butcher Manaugh, she hoped. None from the legion of feted young kings and knights had listed so much as a finger to end the villainy of the Pictish assassin. Mayhap only Lot would.
And at a stone cottage hidden at the southeastern edge of Perilous Forest, a lady once of renown, grace and beauty but now of bitterness and reclusion greeted the news of the two new princes with a shrug. She knew how fickle young kings could be, how quickly her own lover who had promised her the world and his very kingdom had turned on her. He cast her out when that witch turned up alive after all – and she and their two children were cast out to the wind and rain. Her daughter was safe in Avalon, and her son whom she could not bear to be apart from, he would not be a knight of any sort, unlike his older half-brothers.
Elsewhere, Garth’s three young cousins, two fine boys and a baby girl, also grew up in seclusion, at an old castle in Gaunnes, one of the small kingdoms that until recently littered northern Gaul. Here, a nobleman from the Moorish lands who had won both a small kingdom and the hand of King Ban’s sister, who had fought and was wounded alongside Ambrosius, had lived out his days in relative peace, but his death led Clovis to annex the lands for his own growing empire. Yet the Frankish high king’s men were unable to find and slay King Bors’ heirs; the few search parties that had found the hidden castle were driven away by what many believed to be bainsidhes.
In Rhyged, in Urien’s new kingdom rising up out of Glorith’s mainland holdings in between Lothian and Cumbria, the young heir Ywain was already making a name for himself, a warrior of only 10 years of age. In Dalraida, King Fergus was barely dead and buried as his grown son Domangart took the throne; Fergus’ grandson Comgall would soon be the youngest king on the entire island of Britain.
Then there was Dindrane, a maiden of only 11 who braved two of Britain’s worst battlefields to deliver healing to Britain’s warriors. Many said Sir Garth himself would not be alive today without her; she was being called the Grail Maiden. There would come another maiden, a young half-sister of the Greek knight Hesperos; her wiles would be a knight’s undoing but Britain’s salvation. There was also the strange, exotic young girl even now traveling eastward with the Irish explorer Brendan.
As summer started to give way in southern Britain, autumn was already entrenched in Caledonia. There, a baby boy named Loholt would be celebrated by the first gathering of Pictish clan elders since the outset of the springtime war. But one fulfilled prophesy of a great king born means that a less desirable prophesy must first bear fruit…
Farther into the future, there would be a newborn silkie… a sleeping princess… and another mighty warrior of Ulster stock – a baby girl who would grow up in Italia, Colonia, and among Kiritan’s court.
Then would come the knight Galeshin – no, she could not think of him just yet. But these were just vague, passing images that gave way to another more stable vision.
Nura (she thought of herself as queen no more) dreamt of all of these young lads and a few lasses as she slept fitfully. Summer in the Iberian interior was hot and dry and less than ideal for sleeping. Benwick had been but a temporary refuge, one too compromising for Rokk and too close to Marcus and Cornwall for safety. She had accepted exile well enough; being at Thom’s side was enough, even though he moped at perceived disloyalty, at deserting during wartime. Tonight Nura’s own spirits were being dashed; she knew no son or daughter of Thom’s would ever stand among the future court she dreamt of, a young cadre of warriors and others who would take their place amongst an older but still recognizable legion of the heroes she knew and admired.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“Calm yourself, childe.” I was hard to argue with Jan’s endearing smile.
Jan, the Glastonbury monks, the Druids, the priestesses of Avalon and even the normally reclusive Josephites had done their best to stem the pox over the past few months. Many were healed but many more had perished, even before the Darkness had fallen upon the land.
Drusilla had vanished in shame, Peter had said. Too great was her remorse at the total loss of control of her abilities – and its effect upon the civilian populace.
But Lu… Lu had focused solely on defeating the massive Khundish army with only 32 people. She had chosen to use Drusilla’s poxes as a weapon, and now she felt responsible for the screaming orphans that filled the halls of the Glastonbury monastery around her.
She herself was ill yet. She was the only one to lie sick and bedridden for so long without recovering or perishing, or at least so it seemed to those who tended the ill.
With young Dindrane escorted by Laoraighll, the Cauldron had made its way back to Glastonbury where Britain’s clergy could best use it for this pox’s victims, yet even multiple rounds of blessed water did no good for Lu. Truly, her heart ails, not her flesh, Jan thought. And where sacred artifacts failed, only words could be tried.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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