The Frankish knight ceased his prayers; something did not set right.
He had been a few hours or so behind his quarry, content to follow the wheel-marks and observe from a distance the man, cart, mule and mysterious cargo that wound its way up the rugged mountain path.
He had been gaining too much ground that afternoon, and numerous times he had to come to a stop and wait for the cart to round the next turn. He did not want to be seen, and the steep mountainside held not enough brush for him to remain unseen – unless a turn in the mountain road accomplished that for him.
When he reached the monastery, he had paused for a break. There was no point in continuing – it was a long straightaway along a ridge of lower peaks before the road entered the high ranges, with nowhere to hide. He greeted the brethren, and joined them in prayers and ales. But by the time he estimated enough time had passed, a freak thunderstorm had rolled in; there was no continuing on this eve.
And where did his quarry shelter?
Morning prayers came not easily, and he sheepishly backed out of the chapel for some fresh air. But Lo! His quarry happened by, riding on his mule back in a downhill direction – without the cart! What was the mystery cargo, and where had the knave deposited it?
Secure in the knowledge that he and his charger could catch up with the villain later on, he set out across the ridge at a gallop, ready to seek out the cart wherever it had been left. Tracks in the new mud would identify how far the knave had returned, he hoped, and he minded the abbot’s warnings that the mountain crags ahead held demons of the worst sort imaginable.
[ April 10, 2009, 06:32 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Saihlough sat in darkness, letting the chambers around her glisten in magick, magick aided by the limited torchlight around her.
Gold. It was an impressive enough metal in its own right, but in these catacombs in this lighting, it resonated with the magicks of an ancient land, an ancient life.
Saihlough looked around at the carvings, the symbols, the decorations. Some symbols looked familiar, like those she had seen in Eiru long ago. Others depicted people and objects she kenned not, but recognized from the stories told that they reflected an ancient land where humans and gods interacted largely without fae.
Khemet.
But she was not in some far-off golden river valley, was she? Nay, she was underneath the city of Clovis, the Isle of Paris-
“The Isle of Par-Isis. The City of Isis.” It was a woman’s voice.
“Who said that?” It was unusual for Saihlough not to perceive those around her, whether or not they could be seen.
“It is just I.” She walked silently out of the dark doorway, only her voice echoing down the hallway behind her. As the white of her robe and the gold of her jewelry began to reflect torchlight, the sound of little bells began to take shape as well; they issued their rattle-like ensemble of clangy rings as she walked. They were around her ankles and toes.
Her white gown was somewhat transparent, more so than any Breton woman would wear, and made no secret of the slim body beneath. She had golden sandals, waistband, necklaces, rings, bracelets, anklets, earrings and tiara, many including the latter offered snake-like imagery. Her complexion was dark, not like a Moor but like a Saracen. Her eyelashes were dark and thick like a market-faire performer, but done with a flair that suggested royalty rather than vernacular amusement.
“This,” she gestured around, “is the heart of the city that you visit. You are the first in a long time who could perceive the way in. Come, let me show you around.”
The strange woman led the faerie around the catacombs and chambers, a more elaborate complex than she’s realized. There was a garden that grew buildings, miniatures of the city slowly growing above them. There was gold of all shapes and sizes, lining the walls, on tools, and as statues and strange large boxes with golden human faces carved and painted on. There were statues of dead kings, queens and half-forgotten gods that seemed to be both inanimate but alive at the same time. One of them, a man with a bird’s head, almost seemed to be watching her, and it made her ill at ease.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
It took several days for the Frankish knight to find it, and he had given up hope of catching up with the knave he had initially followed.
From off of the Iberian Road, the empty cart had been abandoned in a mountain gully. A large team of people had hauled its cargo up the mountainside away from the roadway, leaving an obvious dragged path to follow.
Too obvious. It led to a cliff-side. The splintered remains of a coffin-size box lay hundreds of feet below. There was no easy way down the crevasse – or back up, even if he did try.
Instead he retraced his route for an hour back down the path, and found an expertly hidden trail up the mountain. A true master had wiped clear all traces of the foot traffic that had come this way, and the Frankish knight himself recognized the trick only because he remembered so well the mountain goat tracks that were now partially missing.
For that first day and part of the next he ascended into the high peaks, and by midday had stumbled onto an elaborate system of walkways and bridges, so subtle one could not even notice them from but a hundred feet or less below.
But that network seemed to go in circles. Only on the fourth day did he find the temple, and from the looks of it, just in time.
Sir Reep appeared to be in a daze; they had no doubt drugged him. He was garbed not as a knight, but in dyed blazing red and orange robes. One arm was chained to a large central sun dial, while another man, a young man also in the same robes, danced closer and closer to him, wielding a dagger that looked carved from gemstones. The duo were surrounded by a crowd of chanting priests, giving melody to the dance and suggesting a blood-lust even the intruding knight could not ignore the potency of.
There had to be some way to save the British knight. But how?
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
She remembered not her name nor rank, but she knew she did not belong here.
With water and soaps, she scrubbed the entryway to her mistress’ villa. She had but a scant hour or so to finish before she would have to aid the cook with the evening dinner.
She was never so exhausted in all her life.
She had come here, to Paris, with others, but knew not why. The other servants considered her worthless, a new and beautiful maiden who had never worked in her life. They taunted her, calling her “princess” and “seigneura” and any number of names, and she read the distain on their faces – but only on their faces? Shouldn’t she be able to-
“You lazy wench!” It was the elder servant-woman. “I told you to finish than hours ago! And look!” She knocked a vase onto the floor, shattering it and unleashing a mixture of vegetation and moist soils onto her clean floors. “Don’t be so clumsy! The mistress will be quite displeased. Now hurry up and clean up your mess!”
She closed her eyes and winced at the hate and frustration she felt. It seemed to vanish in a burst that made her light-headed. When she opened her eyes her co-worker was slumped against the wall, blood flowing out of her nose, mouth and ears, and welling up in her eyes. Did she do that?
She may not know who she was, but she did know it was time to flee.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
The captain surveyed the body, now lying limp at the bottom of the cliff. His ruse had succeeded, and the giant had been pushed back over the cliff with siege machinery.
“What that the one the British call Validus?” his lieutenant asked.
“Nay, T’is Sir James of Cumbria. I met him when he visited Duke Lucius’ very court, a year or two ago.”
“Is he dead?”
“If not, he soon will be.”
The captain ordered his men to make their way down to the rocky beach. It was almost a league east to an opening where one could easily descend to the beach, leaving only sentries at the cliff’s top.
But when he and his men arrived at the body of the unconscious giant, he found a knight of Clovis’ court intercepting him.
“The giant is mine. You and your men shall leave him to me,” said Sir Bedwyr. Another knight was with him who spoke not, and he did not lift his helm.
“I shall not. This British knight attacked myself and my men, and slew a half-dozen! T’is an act of war by the British. This is no time for mercy.”
“The knight was bespelled. He knew not what he hath done,” said the other knight, raising his helm. The captain recognized him as British King Rokk, and had served with him in Eiru against Roxxius.
“My lord!” He knew his liege Lucius had been on good terms with the British king, but that tensions were mounting with Britain’s ally Armorica. Indeed, the very town he and his men guarded, St. Malo, was a bone of contention between Lucius and Queen Ayla.
“If we are correct,” Bedwyr began, “Sir James was bespelled by a villain hiding in Clovis’ court, and he is the one driving our nations to war.”
“Lucius shall have compensation for his losses, one way or another,” Rokk said, “We shall ride to take the matter to Clovis himself.”
The captain deferred to the visiting king’s goodwill, and watched the duo rouse James, who now seemed not belligerent at all, but confused that his liege was not in the northlands. The trio rode off towards the Frankish capital.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
“You asked to see me?” The royal priest greeted his liege humbly.
“Greetings, Prefect Vidar. It appears we have guests who have accused you of sorcery,” replied Clovis, high king of the Franks. He was feeling well enough to walk on his own today, and had coughed up no blood. It was a good day.
The cleric laughed. He followed his lord and king to his petitioning chamber, where a motley of Bretons awaited.
Clovis was taken aback. Almost this same quintet had arrived on a diplomatic visit several weeks ago, but then mysteriously and rudely left without so much as a word. Yet here they were again, looking quite undiplomatic, quite unpolished, and rather worse for the wear.
Queen Guinevere stood a-centre, dressed like a servant whose gowns were ripped, torn and muddy, yet she held the stature of regality nonetheless. A bruised and battered Sir James stood beside her, trying to contain sheer anger. Querl the Greek looked barely awake, and wore the plain undyed cloth that those who had come from the Silk Road usually wore; he smelled of the smoky herbs common in that quarter. The faerie fluttered around; even she seemed less carefree than she had those weeks ago, and she clung to a large hawk feather like it was some sort of trophy.
The only one different was that it seemed King Rokk was now among them.
“My emissaries to your court were abducted and bespelled by yon villain Vidar!” he pointed in scorn. “I would have satisfaction!”
“My good King Rokk, I have long awaited our meeting, but I fear I cannot approve a duel with personal holy man and my closest advisor. This accusation is most unseemly,” Clovis was quite put out that the British king would behave so irrationally.
“The British king’s words are true, my liege.” Bedwyr stepped out from an alcove. “I have seen it myself. Your advisor bespelled them all, and had them transported to different locales, oft forgetting who they were.”
“This queen is a killer,” Vidar countered. “She posed as a noble’s house servant seeking to do evil, but when caught and exposed by another servant, she slew her in cold blood!” He shot Bedwyr a particularly dirty look.
“You dare accuse a monarch of a crime when you yourself are but a vile sorcerer?” The British king was reaching for his sword.
“Any deeds they have done were caused by the fiendish Vidar,” Bedwyr supported. “He is no man of god, only a man of great evil.”
“We have endured too much by this charlatan! He had me set to be killed by a bizarre sun-cult!” Rokk blurted.
Vidar smiled.
“I sent Sir Reep to that fate,” he smirked. “You are not King Rokk.”
Rokk’s face faded away to Sir Reep’s. “No, t’was a necessary ruse so you would admit your villainy! My lord Clovis, certainly you see?”
“I see that you deceived me into believing I was meeting a fellow monarch.”
“I am a fellow monarch, and you are meeting me,” Imra interjected.
“But even you are not what you seem, as I hear it.”
“Aye. But I am Imra, daughter of Pelles, graddaughter of Pellam, of the olde line of Britain. I am more high queen as myself than the ploy of being Guinevere, which was not of my choosing.”
“Bah! You Brtiish are too full of deceit. Away! Away with you all!” Clovis anger was boiling over.
Even Vidar, who started to smirk and gloat, had to back away. “This isn’t over,” he whispered toward his former captives.
“I doubt it not… father,” replied Bedwyr.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
The return to Londinuim was less than glorious, and soon Reep received word that the queen was the butt of jests throughout Frankland, and the names Imra and Guinevere were now synonymous with a queen who aspired to be a house-servant, and a murderess.
Bedwyr tried to cheer her up. He seemed taken with her, but seemed equally committed to honour and chastity; absent were the leers and lusts one often read between the queen and Sir Garth.
Reep and others conjectured about the effects of Imra’s revelations on the British populace. Reep and Jonah agreed word would be better coming from her. Laoraighll would join Imra’s newfound cousin James in escorting her on a tour to meet with Britain’s nobles and explain the truths of the matter. Hopefully the years of rumours and the goodwill for Pellam would mean a lessened blow to internal British unity.
Word also trickled in about the real King Rokk fighting the ogre Validus in the northlands, the west country dog plague seemed to grow worse, and new reports of sea monsters flooded in.
The spring rains fit the mood of most of the court at Londinium. Despite last year’s victory over the Khunds and all the previous success, the slow rebuilding and now blows to morale and credibility made it seem like momentum and valour were squandered away in politicks and scandal.
And what really irritated Reep was that when all was said and done, Vidar had won this round in the most humiliating way imaginable.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Mordru took a strong gulp of his wine. It was a dark, rich, almost blood-thick Iberian wine. Irish High King Coirpre mac Neill had excellent tastes.
“…and so, every time the boy made a wish, he lost a year of his life, so for his own goode, Lar Chullain had to trick the boy into wishing that he made no more wishes!” Ossian concluded his tale. Both liege and wizard-guest offered enthusiastic cheers and applause.
“What news of Avalon?” Mordru asked. “I have heard much of Britain since my return from the Easterne lands, but I have heard little of those magick isles. Does Beren still rule the Druids? And what of the Priestesses? Are they still led by Azura, or has she tricked my Mysa into returning?”
The question was one of affable curiosity, but Coipre and Ossian were shocked.
“Had you nor heard?” Ossian began, wincing as his words seemed (solely to himself) almost as a stammer. Seeing Mordru’s confusion, he continued. “The Lady Mysa has vanished last year. While leaving Avalon, the barge overturned. She and four priestesses were lost, never to be found.”
Mordru grew red, first with surprise, then with anger. “If Azura knew not what to do… Did the Teachers not act?”
“No. They all considered her to have abandoned the Isles.” Ossian watched the guest grow redder yet.
“Has Rokk not pressured them enough?” The wizard was almost trembling in anger.
“He… I have not heard of him lifting a finger, I regret to say to you. And some say he has spoken only ill of her, since she bespelled Sir Garth into having his way with and marring young Jancel.”
Mordru stood suddenly, slamming both fists into the heavy oak table in a fierce rage, one he had not felt since before King Coirpre’s birth. That he spoke not – that shouted not – made it all the more fearsome.
Rokk has done nothing.
Nothing!
He stood in silence, red as a beet. His hosts knew not what to say or do. He knew intuitively that there was truth to the news; he needed not to corroborate with any others. Perhaps it was his own version of Sight, but he’d always had an uncanny sense of what messages were true – even as a boy he could always pick the accurate gossip from the baseless rumour. This sense had saved his life more than once. Aye, it had saved all of Britain more than once, truths be told.
“I… must go at once,” he eventually said in a low, even tone. “I… apologize for my poor behaviour this eve.”
Mordru departed into the night, and traveled for many days and nights in a row overland, then by sea, and finally by land again before he reached his South Cymru destination.
All the way, his anger steamed over – at Rokk, Brandius – and himself, but he’d nary admit such in even his own thoughts. He had erred in fostering his nephew with the old Gallic knight – many times over loyal to his brothers, it was true, but one too prone to the weakness of idealism. Aivillagh, perhaps should have been Gwydion’s guardian… but it was too late now.
So did berate himself for not choosing better foster-fathers 15 years ago, but also for allowing Rokk the freedom to find his own way. He’d assumed that any child of his kith would take to high kingship like a nestling instinctively knows when to fly away, but Rokk had performed all too poorly. Now even Mysa, who should have been dear to both of them, was lost.
In the hills near Caerleon he sought out the hut, hoping the man who had almost been a brother was still there.
“Iason! Iason!”
There was no response, not anyone inside. He went up to the hilltop pasture. “Iason!”
“Who? Who calls me?” A tall man with world-weary eyes approached. He was dressed as a priest, a hermit. His dark red hair betrayed a shock of white. “Who are you?”
“Do you not remember me, Iason? It is I, your friend Constans.” Seeing no recognition, he added. “I need your aid.”
“What do you expect me to do?” Iason still recognized him not.
Get me into Avalon, Mordru did not say. “Merely listen.” He began to chant. “Gone, Gone, O Form of Man…”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
With the coastal snows retreating, Rokk made his way to the eastern coast of Pictland, escorted by Drest, a weathered old warrior the Picts now considered their king. Rokk still wore a thick winter’s cloak of white bear, a colour the Picts now reserved solely for the use of Rokk and one other, should ever any white bears ever be seen and slain again.
It had been a productive winter, shoring up support amongst the northern monarchs and people who had been the least directly threatened by the Khunds, but who had served with zeal and ability… and who had seen but a fraction of their warriors come home from the southlands.
Rokk had paid visits to the courts at Cumbria, Elmet, Lothian, Man, Ulster, Dalraida, the new kingdom of Rhyged, and of course the Picts, the latter being the ill-kept secret reason for the trip. Reep’s word was true as always, and the priestess Lyddagh met him holding a babe with his eyes. Loholt, he had been named, the heir apparent to a newly united Pictland. Unto his second son Rokk issued a pendant with one of the giant bear’s claws – rounded off so as not to be sharp for the infant.
That the king and this priestess had a bond both of them knew well, but both were so sworn to duties neither spoke aloud of it.
Neither had to.
Their roles were well understood. He was not only the claimed high king of all Britain, but the Picts’ endorsement for that post as well. His claim in turn supported Loholt’s, in their view. Rokk shared blood and kin with north and south, and was all the more obligated to do right by both his families, a message of expectation easily readable in any Pict elder’s eyes. Rokk sent word for white bear furs to be made for Loholt, too – without his queen’s knowledge.
Lyddagh and Tasmia accompanied him throughout his travels in the north. Whether he was expected to fully enjoy the company of both he knew not, but Tasmia was standoffish, distrustful and aloof; she seemed not to expect or welcome his company and he was just as pleased to have only Lyddagh keep him warm on these winters’ nights.
Rokk had lost track of the elders and clans they had visited, as they went from highland to coast to island and back to mainland, to the high-cliffed-but-flat northern grasslands far north of any mountain.
Along the way, Rokk’s spoken Pictish improved leaps and bounds, and he learned more about both Picts and the bear-king he fought. In Pictish thought, Rokk had not merely slain Ursuik, he had become him, a revelation that echoed in the thoughts and impulses he’d felt in his very gut. The Picts saw spirits in everything, and sometimes these spirits not only existed in individual units but as a composite Being, of which this Ursuik was one.
The Picts, he learned, had once dominated all of Britain, Eiru and beyond, but were slowly being driven back. In many parts of the isles, Celt, Roman, Angle or now even Kentish Khund held some amount of Pict blood. According to Lyddagh, the blood was an anchor and stabilizer; it tied the descendents of invaders and other newcomers to the land. Britain would someday be all one clan, she said, a notion Tasmia would scoff at.
Tasmia would speak in a soft fear for her people. Even despite agreements and reparations made for the village of Angtough, Pictish lands were still being colonized and settled; prime lands were being lost. Fergus had sworn oaths, but he was now dead. Would his heirs be as honourable? Would they feel obliged to carry out vows he had made?
Pict tradition spoke of kinship among peoples who once lived in all those lands of the south, east and north across the seas. Elders now feared that just as their holding were eroding, their distant cousins must also be losing sway to the new peoples, the Goths, Suevi, Northmen, Khunds and others. There was a sadness of a cornered-but-not-conquered people. As long as there were mighty warriors like Drest, conquest would never come.
With some sadness, Rokk headed for the coast where the riding would be the best. Grounds would be frozen enough to support horse travel without having thick drifts of snow, sudden squalls in mountainous terrain, or snow-filled ravines to worry about.
That Drest offered to ride with him was an honour; that a messenger intercepted them with a request from Lot for the Pictish king to come at once to Lothian was an interesting surprise.
But a bigger surprise awaited them further down the coast, a warship flying the banner of a bandit-king.
Rokk had heard of the villain whose ship it was, and the simplest description of its captain left no doubt it was the notorious Frankish raider himself. It had been two years since Reep and the others had seen this half-monster in Eiru, now said to be hiding in the outer Hebrides of Pictland.
“Greetings, King Rokk,” the voice boomed from the deck louder than any natural voice could. “I have an interesting proposition for you.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
With the coastal snows retreating, Rokk made his way to the eastern coast of Pictland, escorted by Drest, a weathered old warrior the Picts now considered their king. Rokk still wore a thick winter’s cloak of white bear, a colour the Picts now reserved solely for the use of Rokk and one other, should ever any white bears ever be seen and slain again.
It had been a productive winter, shoring up support amongst the northern monarchs and people who had been the least directly threatened by the Khunds, but who had served with zeal and ability… and who had seen but a fraction of their warriors come home from the southlands.
Rokk had paid visits to the courts at Cumbria, Elmet, Lothian, Man, Ulster, Dalraida, the new kingdom of Rhyged, and of course the Picts, the latter being the ill-kept secret reason for the trip. Reep’s word was true as always, and the priestess Lyddagh met him holding a babe with his eyes. Loholt, he had been named, the heir apparent to a newly united Pictland. Unto his second son Rokk issued a pendant with one of the giant bear’s claws – rounded off so as not to be sharp for the infant.
That the king and this priestess had a bond both of them knew well, but both were so sworn to duties neither spoke aloud of it.
Neither had to.
Their roles were well understood. He was not only the claimed high king of all Britain, but the Picts’ endorsement for that post as well. His claim in turn supported Loholt’s, in their view. Rokk shared blood and kin with north and south, and was all the more obligated to do right by both his families, a message of expectation easily readable in any Pict elder’s eyes. Rokk sent word for white bear furs to be made for Loholt, too – without his queen’s knowledge.
Lyddagh and Tasmia accompanied him throughout his travels in the north. Whether he was expected to fully enjoy the company of both he knew not, but Tasmia was standoffish, distrustful and aloof; she seemed not to expect or welcome his company and he was just as pleased to have only Lyddagh keep him warm on these winters’ nights.
Rokk had lost track of the elders and clans they had visited, as they went from highland to coast to island and back to mainland, to the high-cliffed-but-flat northern grasslands far north of any mountain.
Along the way, Rokk’s spoken Pictish improved leaps and bounds, and he learned more about both Picts and the bear-king he fought. In Pictish thought, Rokk had not merely slain Ursuik, he had become him, a revelation that echoed in the thoughts and impulses he’d felt in his very gut. The Picts saw spirits in everything, and sometimes these spirits not only existed in individual units but as a composite Being, of which this Ursuik was one.
The Picts, he learned, had once dominated all of Britain, Eiru and beyond, but were slowly being driven back. In many parts of the isles, Celt, Roman, Angle or now even Kentish Khund held some amount of Pict blood. According to Lyddagh, the blood was an anchor and stabilizer; it tied the descendents of invaders and other newcomers to the land. Britain would someday be all one clan, she said, a notion Tasmia would scoff at.
Tasmia would speak in a soft fear for her people. Even despite agreements and reparations made for the village of Angtough, Pictish lands were still being colonized and settled; prime lands were being lost. Fergus had sworn oaths, but he was now dead. Would his heirs be as honourable? Would they feel obliged to carry out vows he had made?
Pict tradition spoke of kinship among peoples who once lived in all those lands of the south, east and north across the seas. Elders now feared that just as their holding were eroding, their distant cousins must also be losing sway to the new peoples, the Goths, Suevi, Northmen, Khunds and others. There was a sadness of a cornered-but-not-conquered people. As long as there were mighty warriors like Drest, conquest would never come.
With some sadness, Rokk headed for the coast where the riding would be the best. Grounds would be frozen enough to support horse travel without having thick drifts of snow, sudden squalls in mountainous terrain, or snow-filled ravines to worry about.
That Drest offered to ride with him was an honour; that a messenger intercepted them with a request from Lot for the Pictish king to come at once to Lothian was an interesting surprise.
But a bigger surprise awaited them further down the coast, a warship flying the banner of a bandit-king.
Rokk had heard of the villain whose ship it was, and the simplest description of its captain left no doubt it was the notorious Frankish raider himself. It had been two years since Reep and the others had seen this half-monster in Eiru, now said to be hiding in the outer Hebrides of Pictland.
“Greetings, King Rokk,” the voice boomed from the deck louder than any natural voice could. “I have an interesting proposition for you.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
The monster rumbled north, oblivious to the driving icy snow.
Its pursuer had been more annoying than threatening, and it only got madder and madder that it could not kill the beast-man.
But the further north it went, it heard a song, like one it had heard long, long ago. It had little in the way of memory per se, but it was drawn to this sound. It forgot all about the beast-man that had attacked it in its forest home.
North it went.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
L’ile had half-forgotten the old abbot who had lived near the fire-mount.
As a child, he was warned about the “Black-Robes,” the stern order of frowning men who kept to themselves and stood watch over the very mountain that had killed them and poisoned faraway lands like Britain and Eiru.
L’ile’s people had kept hidden from these intrepid but humourless clergymen – all but one, that is. But L’ile had no wish to dwell on him just now.
As a child, L’ile and his peers had made sport out of tricking the Black-Robes: letting their animals loose from their pens in the black of night, coating the abbey steps in fish-oil that sent monks’ limbs flying outward in so many directions, or ringing the cloister bells at odd hours and interrupting the daily chore schedules. Did the brethren believe evil spirits conspired against them, in this barren (by foreign standards) land? Among his people, the art of not being seen was taught at the youngest of ages, else the Welisc could find and capture his people and their young.
It was a small outpost, an abbey in name only, it was true, and the brethren here focused all their attentions on keeping their supposed “devil” incarcerated in the mountain next door.
Did they fail, then? L’ile could not help but wonder, gazing out at the dark mountain, still a fragment of its former self.
The ruins of the small abbey had escaped the flow of fire-rivers (now hardening into rock), it was true, but the surviving scavenger birds had themselves found whatever flesh had remained by excavating the bodies from under the soot. Bones littered the ashen hillside, and L’ile regretted the ills he and his peers had visited upon these men so many years a-gone. Here, like elsewhere on this isle, Li’le was met with quite loneliness and a chilled breeze fettered by no tree between himself and the distant sea.
The young Druid was verily scared out of his wits by a groan behind him, as a skeletal form tried to find its voice.
“IIII…I… remember you, boy.”
The skeleton had but a shrunken swath of flesh covering it, and its eyes, so sunken into its head, pierced into him so deeply his voice was stolen from him.
“I remember you, though my mind told me not to see you. You stole from our garden, you scattered our lambs to the hills. You… the devil had you, boy.”
The skeletal finger, although yards away, felt sharp indeed. Li’le conjectured that this… being, the abbot, had not eaten since the Darkness began, and had kept himself alive by will and faith alone.
“Perhaps your devil owns all children, after a fashion. I… regret the actions of my youth.”
“The Devil is loose upon the land,” the skeleton said. L’ile was not certain it had heard his apology. “This is on your hands.. and hers…”
L’ile gulped. He knew who he meant, and the memory stung.
“What is to be done?” L’ile did not believe in Christian devils, but until this summer he had not believed the fire-mount would ever rain down death and destruction unto faraway lands either.
The skeletal abbot leaned to his side, and with the same boney, accusatory finger drew a symbol into the ashen terrain.
And L’ile’s face went white.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
The mercenary was not above assassination, but expected to know why, and be even better paid.
“King Lot,” the woman of middle years replied. “He took from me my virtue, and later took our son away to be a soldier. He d-died in that silly Southlander war last year.”
I made good money fighting Khunds during that ‘silly’ war, he thought but did not say.
“Should your vengeance not be better directed towards the Khunds?” Yes, he wanted work while stuck in these northlands for the winter, but the soldier in him recoiled at interfering in what was clearly on the king’s part an attempt to groom a bastard for a key military post – especially with the headaches slaying a monarch in his own homelands would entail.
“King Lot later… in recent time, I mean… well, my daughter… she… he-he…” she burst into tears.
Okay, a daughter’s virtue was a better reason for revenge. He accepted the woman’s coin, picked up his magick axe and set out eastward for the king’s castle.
[ June 01, 2009, 07:45 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Domangart did not like the situation. His subjects complained frequently that they had precious little land as it was, yet they were forbidden to expand into seemingly empty Pict lands. And now the gigantic sea creature was eating away at Dalraidan shores, taking away what little lands they held!
Only months on the throne, he had no experience with such a monster – its slightest movements in coastal waters killed dozens of subjects with gigantic waves, larger than one generally sees on the open sea, let alone in otherwise sheltered bays and inlets.
The son of the late King Fergus was smart enough to know he had no experience at such a task as he faced, and with the Caledonian mountain passes still snowed in there was no safe way to send for aid. If only King Rokk was still here! He instead turned to his lover.
“I have heard of large sea monsters, but not such as you describe,” she said with half-interest, tugging urgently at his robes. “I shall dispatch it, if t’is as bad as you claim.”
“You would have me dally with thee whilst my kingdom dies?” Domangart scolded. “Let us dispatch this creature first ere t’is said we placed our own pleasures above my people.”
His lover was angered but nodded. Ordinarily he had been quite compliant, a trait she would strive to restore in the near future. She was a monarch, not a mistress. King or no, Domangart would have to learn his place.
Within hours they were upon the Dalraidan flagship, a boat that had been commissioned by Fergus himself. It would take days and truly try the mistress/deposed monarch’s patience, but once she saw the creature she doubted for the first time her ability to deal with it. Its mouth was multiple times wider than the boat’s length, but how many multiples t’was hard to gage – it so defied the eye’s ability to comprehend.
It was trawling the sea with its mouth open, catching the debris from its last attack. The seas were thick with trees, vegetation and the occasional remnant of a fishing hut. It did not seem to have noticed a boat amongst its meal.
As the creature neared, Saraid had the Justice of Balor unleash its full magicks upon it.
It seemed to notice not.
As the boat was within a few lengths of the monster (gods! It’s head now eclipsed half the sky and horizon!) the would-be empress began to fear. She again blasted the creature, specifically a nearby tooth, and used its force to push herself and the boat away from it.
The boat battered and keeled as it crashed against the trees that had been floating behind it, and it started taking on water as it crashed upon a rocky shore. The hillside above them was a cliff of jagged rocks and sifting soils and trees; the entire landscape in a semicircle seemingly a full league around them resembled a giant bite-mark.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Hyperpath: Email this page to someone!
Printer-friendly view of this topic | Subscribe To Topic
