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Author Topic: Legion of Camelot
Kent Shakespeare
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Thirty-four

"Yes, so they were Khunds. What of it?"

"But look at their weapons, their tunics, father. See how different they are from the bodies of the Khundish raiders along the shore? How much better their armour is? All British items."

"What's your point, lad? Khunds have long raided Britain and taken such goods." King Marcus was losing patience.

"Aye. Those raiders mix and match, it's true. A Frankish sword, a Gaulic helm, a British shield. But these are entire outfitted in British equipment - and unlike raider's mismatched booty, each’s wares seemed fairly well tailored to the wearer," Thom concluded.

"If you accuse the Kentish treaty lands of treachery, you'd better have stronger arguments to make," warned his father.

Thom nodded.

Marcus turned his attention to his wife. "What of this Irish hussy you saw?"

"She was taken by the green man into Sidhe," Queen Nura replied. She bristled at the implied insult. Although Cornish in origins, she grew up in Eiru.

Marcus rolled his eyes. "The Romans were right in dealing with those little-"

"Father!"

Marcus was surprised. Thom was not one to reproach his lord and father, but the young man was gesturing for him to silence himself.

"If we are near a Faerie dwelling, t'is best not to be insulting." Thom turned to his new step-mother, trying not to look into her eyes. "Is she in the same realm Lady Kiwa said King Rokk was in? How do we get there?"

"'We' do not. You follow the path of flat stones in yonder stream," she pointed toward a small ridge, deeper in the forest.

Marcus nodded. He had no intentions of entering their realm again. He smiled, that his bride's Sight could be crisp enough to anticipate that his son would take this trip alone.

"We'll guard the entrance," he announced, coming across less reassuring to his son than he intended.

The three crossed the ridge, stopping only to examine some pieces of cloth that lay beneath a pile of twigs, branches and weeds. There was also a smooth stone, with an Irish Druidic rune on it. Marcus kept that for himself - and for Nura, of course. Finding no bodies, they proceeded to the stream.

"Lad!" called Marcus. His son turned quizzically. "You'd better hand us any iron you may have on you?"

"It would make a bad impression, wouldn't it?" Thom smiled.

Once the task was complete, he stepped to the first flat stone, and turned to ask Nura, "How will I know when I'm there?"

"You'll know," she told him, smiling.

Without thinking, he let himself make eye contact with her, and they found themselves staring soul-to-soul - again. Her polite distance and his avoidance of her were cast off like masques hurled aside at the end of a carnival, and nothing else in the world mattered but-

"Get on with it, boy!" barked Marcus.

"Y-Yes, of course. Farewell," he smiled politely, as did Nura. The carnival masques returned, it seemed, albeit without the freedom from inhibitions that such fests allow.

Thom stepped from stone to stone, counting the first dozen, then two dozen, amazed that there would be so many stepable flat stones in a row. "How many do you think there are?" he called back.

Receiving no answer, he turned around, only to see a huge glistening sea behind him, deep blue waters with ripples that glittered like gems. The waves, smelling more like rose pedals than salt, lapped gently aw the stones beneath his feet.

Looking forward again, he had three steps to go before a pure platinum-sand beach awaited him. A variety of winged creatures, mostly small, drifted between the thick, mighty trees beyond the beach.

Once on the shore, he saw a path lead into the woods. Although the beach was pristine, the path beyond had plenty of recent footprints - human, equestrian and other.

"This must be the way, even if the way is an ambush," he concluded, entering the woods.

Back at his starting point, Marcus was still amused by his boy. "I think he's taken a liking to you," he jibed.

"Yes, he has."

"A pity. A young man's heart can create so much sadness, so needlessly."

"Yes. It can only end badly," Nura agreed, turning her head to hide a tear.

[ December 26, 2005, 05:01 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Kent Shakespeare
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Thirty-five

Querl awoke starving.

He looked at the tray of food before him, then looked away. He knew enough legend not to eat food in the Faerie realms, else be bound there for years.

He didn't necessarily fully believe the tales, but this isle of Britain seemed out to prove him wrong about everything.

He again tested the door to his room. Still locked. Curses. He paced around, feeling antsy, as if he was missing something important.

Better find some action else I lose my wits to my hunger, he thought, annoyed at his helplessness.

He nearly injured himself yesterday trying to squeeze through the widow bars far enough to see the courtyard below, but the sound of combat outside inspired him to try again.

He lifted himself up to the lone, high window, delicately balancing in the thin ledge between bars and gravity. There was but one tempting gap between bars wide enough to get his head through, although there were still sharp spikes to avoid, designed to discourage the effort.

Querl rubbed his scar along his cheek and neck from yesterday in recognition of this before slowly, carefully attempting it again.

It worked! Comfortable it was not, but he could clearly see King Rokk below, fighting Maigh and Dewphe, and not fairing too well. He felt better about his own defeat, even wielding a "magic" sword.

Just as he saw another figure charging out of the woods at the king, he slipped, slicing his upper right ear and part of his head on a spike as he bumped on bars, ledge and soon after, the floor of his cell.

"Noooooo!" he called on the way down, both at his own fall, and an attempt to warn the king of the interloper.

And I am useless to him up here, he thought, checking how deep the gash was this time.

He ripped yet another length of his outer tunic and held it against his head. For better or worse, King Rokk fights alone.

Alone.

He wondered what had become of the Irish woman. Had their "hostess" harmed her?

With uncharacteristic anger, he hurled himself again at the door, again straining his lithe frame.

Lying on the floor panting, he flailed around to regain his bandage, disturbed the amount of blood now pooling.

"If I die, it shall not be on this floor!" he shouted at the evil door, knowing full well he was irrationally ranting - a trait he despised. What was wrong with him?

The door suddenly exploded backward, adding another to Querl's collection of bruises, winging him as it hurled toward the far wall.

Several splinters of wood rained down as well, remnants of the barricade that had held the door fast.

He looked up, to see the Ulsterwoman standing tall, surprised to see him on the floor.

She said something incomprehensible in Gaelic before lifting him. Despite his cry of pain, she carried him off toward the stairwell, stroking his cheek as he had done to her back at the tent.

"Rokk... The king needs you help," he told her. She smiled at him, uncomprehending, continuing down the stairs as he passed out.

[ December 26, 2005, 05:02 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Thirty-six

"Have you anything to say, lady?"

Thom had never seen Rokk so angry; the high king was quivering with anger as he said the words.

The woman looked up at him. "I love you," she said, and recognizing something in the way she looked at Rokk, Thom believed her.

Rokk slapped her face. "You... DARE... say that to ME?"

"My liege..." Thom began.

"DON'T-" Rokk snapped, redder than an August sunset. "You know not what she has done, Thom. She must die. She will die."

"Let us be done with this," she continued. "My love."

"If my knight were willing to execute you, I would deny you the privilege of execution by my hand," Rokk said. Hearing nothing from Thom, he continued. "Lie still, and this may hurt you less."

Excalibur swung steadily, and Annowre's head bounced thrice before rolling to a stop. The sap-like bright red fluid that the Fae have for blood flowed like a syrup, rather than the splattering that similar human wounds create.

Rokk took several deep breaths, whispering, "It's over. Thank Iesous. It's finally over."

Rokk walked to the parlour's doorway, and out onto a balcony. He stood there and stared.

Thom joined him.

"There." Rokk pointed. "You go 70 paces into the woods, and there's a rocky outcropping. A burrow of rabbits dwells just beyond, and there is other fine hunting.

"There." He pointed in another direction. "Beyond yonder berry bush, a trail can lead you either to a river of wine, the ruins of an old hill-fort, or the Shimmering Village. You can take the same path every day, and reach dozens, maybe hundreds of places. It is different each time."

"How do you know this?" Thom was having trouble believing Rokk could have seen so much of this realm in so few days.

"There." Rokk pointed to a hill rising over the forest canopy. "The hill is not always there. Sometimes it is plush with game, while others it is blighted. I once found a band of pixie musicians there -akin to dear Saihlough's people. They sang a song of hope and love. That was so long ago..." He was almost in tears.

Thom counted the days since the king's departure from Londinium, then began worrying for his king's mind. Then he recalled where they were.

"H-How long? Have you been here?"

"I lost count of the months." He turned to Thom, looking the knight squarely in the eyes. "Tell me, how fares Britain? Who rules in my stead? Gawaine?"

"You... You haven't been gone long enough for the question to be posed. I saw you last one week ago, the day after your coronation."

"The day after... last week." The information soaked into Rokk.

"Every day. Every day I would wake, having forgotten I was not in my own castle. I would go into the woods and hunt. I would meet two of my knights - sometimes you, many times Garth, Ga- Jonah, any of them. All of them.

"They would betray me, Thom. They would turn on me when they'd gain my back, and beat me senseless. They'd bring me before Annowre, who would again ask me to lie with her.

"And I'd remember all the times it happened before, and I'd spit at her. And over it would begin the next day.

"But yesterday, Thom. Yesterday, I cursed her. I cursed her, and all of Faerie-kind. What have I done?

"S-She in turn ordered my death. Her two man-servants were to kill me, when you stopped them. In truth, I thought you another traitor when I saw you charge."

Rokk wept openly now, and Thom held him. "Saihlough," Rokk blubbered. "What have I done, Thom? Have I betrayed Britain's oldest peoples?"

Even now, he concerns himself with Britain, not his own torments, Thom marveled. "Then we shall endeavour to have this curse lifted," he assured this king.

Nura foresaw no curse, he reminded himself. Yet.

[ December 26, 2005, 05:04 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Kent Shakespeare
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Thirty- seven

I failed him.

That's all that the knight could think, standing on the ridge, watching the reunion of the various figures.

King Rokk greeted Marcus, while his beautiful young queen talked with the tallest woman the knight had ever seen, both speaking in what sounded like Gaelic. L'ile and Tenzil tended to Querl, while Sir Thom looked on, ready to offer his aid.

Only Thom had approached the knight Rokk had dubbed "Sir Prize," reassuring that following Rokk's last orders to keep watch was the right thing to do. Thom even joked that he would rather be "Sir Prize" himself - to be less recognized at court! The knight's vow of silence limited the conversation, of course, and Thom drifted back to Querl's group, occasionally stealing glances at Marcus' bride.

Even as a guard, I missed the arrival of Thom's group while I hunted for food. They must think me a complete coward.

Rokk was making much of the three gifts the tall Ulsterwoman, Laoraighll, had brought: Three artifacts said to have been brought to Eiru by the legendary Tuatha de Danaan: Claidhim Lugh (the sword of the craftsman god Lugh), the Spear of Victory, and the Cauldron of the Gods.

A fourth item, a "Stone of Virtue" was apparently lost during her illness.

She, already a renowned warrior, did this to prove her worth, the knight pondered.

Prove her worth.

Rokk had tied up with one conversation after another, but finally found a moment to approach the quiet knight, to make assurances that more valourous duties would come about.

But when he turned, the knight was gone.

[ December 26, 2005, 05:05 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Thirty-eight

The rider charged straight at her, and leveled his lance, ready to run her though.

He urged his horse onward, building yet more speed, massing more force with which to assail his target.

She smiled.

Her arms were poised, ready and waiting...

The lance was within seconds of impact...

She was ready...

But the rider suddenly shifted the lance, aiming not at her heart, but her thigh.

She was quick, it was true, and tried to change her intercept, but all she could do was deflect the weapon, not snare it.

The rider passed, still holding his weapon, he slowed, and came to a stop at the end of the field.

"Chugainn!" she called, challenging him to try again. "Féadann tú é a dhéanamh má thugann tú faoi."

The rider again leveled his lance, and prodded his mount in her direction again.

She expects trickery this time, he thought. Why then, she must have it.

The lance again was aimed at her heart...

She rubbed her palms with her fingers in anticipation...

Watching for any signs of what trick he would try this time...

The lance remained straight on. She grabbed it, thrusting its point into the ground, expecting the rider to be dislodged from his mount, just as the other were ---

-- but there was no extra weight or resistance!

Slightly imbalanced, she regathered her wits to see the rider that let go of the lance, and had drawn his sword!

With no time to move, the flat of the blade cracked upon her arm, knocking her to the ground.

"Bithiúnach!"

From the pavilion, a battered and bruised assortment of warriors cheered. Each of their humiliating losses were being avenged at last, it seemed.

The rider dismounted, approaching on foot.

"Amadán," she sneered. "Tabhairt faoi!"

Her opponent's sword kept at her like an unrelenting swarm of wasps, yet she evaded his thrusts, ducking, leaping and virtually dancing around him.
She gave as good as he did - her foot or fists coming as close to connecting as his swordplay did to her.

Until a glancing blow knocked the fellow over. If that's a veritable miss, I'd rather not feel her full strength, he marveled.

She could have easily finished him off, but waited for him stand. He could see she was enjoying this.

"Arís eile!"

He picked up his sword, and they resumed the dance - albeit slower - each now accepting the other as an equal, and eyeing each other for weaknesses or openings.

"Firinscneach?" she taunted.

Just as well I don't understand, he thought.

Hoping she had adjusted to a slower rhythm, he began a new assault, trying a pattern he'd practiced but never had opportunity to try on an opponent.

With his blood pumping so loud he could hear his heart, he took satisfaction at his opponent's surprise, as she began backing away from him.

Finding himself in a state of keen euphoria, he realized he was swinging the sword faster than he could see ---

--And there was a blinding flash.

"Splanc thintrí!"

She was knocked backwards by the blast. The other knights ran out from the pavilion, and all gaped at the smoking hole under where Garth's sword had been. A snake-like pool of molten metal drained into the hole.

Garth stared at his hands - now exposed. Most of his gloves had burned away, and what was left was charred.

But his hands were unscathed.

"Taranaut!" he whispered to himself. "So it wasn't just a dream."

"Garth! What happened!" called Rokk.

"Taranaut." His sole word hung in the air, awaiting explanation, but Garth just walked away, leaving a legion of gaping mouths in his wake.

[ December 26, 2005, 05:07 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Kent Shakespeare
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Thirty-nine

"So it's not lightning?"

"Not exactly," Querl answered. "Lightning, my people believe, is a result of too much energy-" seeing the lack of comprehension, he sighed, and revised his approach. "Too much... fire, accumulating in the clouds above. Just as the clouds grow big and dark from holding too much water, and let loose as rain, many times they also weight too heavily with... this type of fire, and let this loose, too, as lightning.

"Thus, lightning by definition is, well, a transfer of fire from clouds back to the earth. Sir Garth is not a cloud, therefore he produces no lightning."

L'ile and Reep nodded, absorbing the theory.

The scientist turned to Rokk.

"You've said before that Sir Garth 'moves as quick as lightning?'"

"Yes. He's even earned nick-names for it: Taranau, here in Britain; Taranaut in Lesser Britain; and Laounschliet among the Kentish Khunds.

"His sword-work indeed has created what appear to be small flashes of lightning."

"Bet never before an actual discharge of en-- fire."

"No."

Garth, still silent, nodded in agreement, but looked away sharply.

Querl returned to facing them all again.

"I believe this lightning-like effect, then, results from the speed of his sword, based on the information at hand." Eyeing Garth, he continued. "You yourself said you'd never swung your sword so fast."

Garth nodded.

"Then I'd advise against it, unless you wish to melt another sword."

Seeing his audience was still perplexed, he continued. "When you were children, did any of you take a running fall on a carpet?"

He saw enough nods to continue. "The carpet was neither sharp nor on fire, yet you received a wound not unlike a burn, yes?"

More nods. "A similar concept here. Speed contributing to a burn without fire, but a greater speed and a greater burn."

"If Garth were to wield Claidhim Lugh, the sword of the craftsman god, would it not be impervious to Garth's lig--eh, fire?" Thom asked.

"Rokk awarded it to you for your service," Garth returned. "I could not accept the sword that you so clearly deserve."

"Moreover, would you really want to risk such an important gift by so testing it?" Querl asked.

"So as long as Garth doesn't reach that speed again, all is well?" Rokk asked.

"So it appears," Querl nodded.

"Then I may go to Iberia after all!" Garth exclaimed, smiling for the first time since the incident.

"Bring back 40 fine steeds, my friend. And such tutelage as we shall need."

"My liege, it shall be my pleasure!"

Garth almost ran from the room, full of enthusiasm.

Seeing Querl's raised eyebrow, Rokk added, "Sir Brandius shall accompany him, should any Iberians be dismissive of a young knight."

"I also seek a boon," Querl asked. "You have asked me to devise and improve your weaponry. I have some ideas to try, but I need some of your bowyers and fletchers."

"Then you shall have them. If you will pardon us, I have a meeting with our Irish women."

Rokk and Thom departed.

"Are you really certain it's not lightning? I say if you'd seen it you may think differently," Reep said.

"As certain as I can without having seen it up close."

"But what caused it?" L'ile asked.

"While it's certainly not your power of persuasion, a secret you Druids still cling to, I am theorizing that this very island is now the epicentre of... for lack of a better word, a 'magical storm.'"

"Go on," L'ile was clearly intrigued.

"Eras in which... impossible tales attributed to gods, wizards or magical creatures often seem unbelievable centuries later. My own Greece, for instance, had its era, just as the tales the Christians tell of miracles and winged beings with swords I'd previously dismissed as nonsense.

"But now that I'm observing such events here in Britain – occurrences that I would have deemed impossible last month, I now theorize that magic may indeed be like the clouds - but clouds we do not always see, and thus cannot differentiate the dry, cloudless droughts from days of light cloud cover - the two types I believe most of the world usually sees.

"And like a seacoast, certain areas are rainier than others, usually as drizzle, while certain areas may be more prone to light magic, if I may continue my comparison."

"So you see Britain as being in the centre of a storm," L'ile concluded.

"Precisely."

"There's one thing I don't get," the young Druid said. "You say until now, you believed not in magic or gods or faeries, but yet you belong to the Cult of Isis?"

"We do not... worship gods the way, say, Mithras' flock, or the Christians do. Isis... is a way to place the spirit of reason and intellect into a human form. She's a conceptual muse for inspiration, a desire to put a face on something otherwise faceless, if that makes sense. Like a ship crew calling their boat 'she,' while knowing it is not female in the animal sense. Reason is the substance, the name and face is just a way to personalize her."

L'ile nodded. You're not so far from Druidism as you say.

Reep saw it was time to lighten the conversation. "So show us this back-gamming of which you have spoken."

"Back-gammon. Yes, of course. It's quite the rage in Persia and Araby..."

[ December 26, 2005, 05:09 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Kent Shakespeare
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Forty

Morgause despaired.

All my plans are for naught. Gawaine hates me, and Agravaine will follow his lead. Gaheris and Gareth are yet too young. While young Rokk plays out his fantasies, Britain is truly doomed. Even now, the Khund is at the door.

She lit the candles, lit the incense, and locked the door. Her maid-woman had already given her the ritual bath. The moon was full, and the mushrooms were harvested and blessed properly.

She was ready in all ways but one.

Do I do right? I can end the sham marriage with but a word, but is that the right way to proceed? Her growing contempt for her nephew was building. Little things out of place convinced her that his spies had been in her quarters.

Lady of Twilight, I cannot make the decision, I leave it with you. I shall be your vessel, your hand. So it shall be.

She began the ritual, reconstructing from memory her lessons as a youth in Avalon.

Outside, the crows gathered...


... The Goddess walked down the hall.

All she saw were little boys, barely tested in battle. They will learn, and soon. Won't you, my children?

"Rokk tells me Laoraighll has done extensive scouting - on Khundish soil-" The young Druid stopped. "My lady," he greeted, seeing only the queen whose guise she wore.

The green man beside him followed suit, and she returned the proper greeting. These city folk may know the Greek's complexion is explicable, but how would the country-folk react to seeing their Green Man? Oh, such sport could be had...

She continued down the hall.

"Hello, mother." An emerald dragon disguised as the queen's eldest stood before her.

"You scorn me, but you will yet be the undoing of that which you most cherish." She turned to the apparition shimmering at his side, the remnant of the tart from Eboracum her son so fondly mourns.

"And you shall be his undoing, lingering here, not going on to the Summer Lands."

The two stood speechless as she went on her way.

Looking out at the courtyard, the guard and knights were shouting and suddenly fleeing indoors at the sudden swarming of crows.

"T'is a poor omen," exclaimed a larger of the louts. Even pretty young James was ensnared by fear. What little it takes to get children to hide in the cellars.

"Morrigan!"

She turned to face her caller. It was the Cornish woman strong with the Sight.

"You may call me that, if you wish. But neither of us are today in Eiru. Call me Cailleach, as we are in Britain. Or Hecate. I always liked the rhythm of that name. But whatever you call me, be prepared to face the consequences."

"I beg of you to leave that woman. She is not yours to take!"

"Oh, but she gave herself freely, and asked a boon of me. Would you stand between a Goddess and her task? I pledge thee that neither your husband, sister nor pretty boy shall be harmed by my hand. But you knew that already, Elaine."

Nura retreated, her strength to challenge the Lady shattered.

The Goddess was having fun. There was potential here, to make sport with warriors as she hadn't done in some six centuries. Not since Craebh Ruadh and the Hound...

But I've given the lad time enough. We shall snare your Rokk with his own right arm, my Morgause.


She retraced the route back to her apartments.

Thrusting open the door, the changeling was there. In a panic, he'd thrown on the face of one who carried the authority to be here, his brother. The goddess could see through him. But I pick and choose what I shall let Morgause recollect.

"So, my good and noble nephew. What brings you to visit me?" She seductively put her arm on his shoulder, and started playing with his illusionary hair.

"M-My aunt!"

"Oh, hush now. We're royalty. There are some... wonderful traditions to observe. Did you not know? There are things a young king must... know before his wedding day." Her other hand played with his chest, finding the way past his tunic.

"I-I have already-"

"Enjoyed the wenches? Perhaps. But it takes a real noblewoman to properly instruct her king." She playfully kissed his cheek, but let her mouth linger near his.

"You are a real king, aren't you? Not some changeling Mordru conjured up?"

I've got him now. His loyalty to protecting Rokk ends his protests, thought the Goddess. And mayhap Morgause can think... more fondly of her king.

[ December 26, 2005, 05:11 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Notes 31-40:
This will be the last notes grouped in 10s. To save me from flipping around between pages, I'll do them by page from here on out.
31: I'm not pleased how this one came out, and I may revise it. I wanted to drift in and out of various scenes (without Tinya this time), but it came out too disjointed, I feel. And I forgot the first "Sir Prize" reference! Rokk was supposed to add the name at the end.
32: I was disappointed that it was a little too early to have Querl bring Chess to Britain, but Backgammon was indeed fair game (barely), historically.
The Cerebus in-joke is, of course, less historically accurate, as Dave Sim didn't start Cerebus until the 12th Century
Scythia was an old nation near today's Czech republic, probably overrun by Huns by this point. Wyrmweed is my own invention, as I couldn't find good enough references for historical poisons and their applications.
Tenzil's role as poison-tested made more sense than a cook - if he can eat unusual things, why would he be any good at cooking for the rest of them?
33: Claidhim Lugh is my translation to Sword of Lugh. I'm not fluent in Gaelic, so I don't rally know if I've got the right contexts - but at least the two words are accurate.
Annwyn Annowre- Annwyn is Welsh for a faerie place, usually a hill-fort or castle; Annowre was its mistress, out of Arthurian lore, although I probably introduced her too early into Rokk's kingship, but I deal with this via Rokk's "Groundhog Day" syndrome later.
Maigh and Dewphe are named solely for the pun, I'm sorry to say.
34: By Malory, the Lady of the Lake sends Tristan to save Arthur from beheading. Here, Nura and the off-stage Kiwa pick up the slack.
Duke Marcus is now King Marcus, for reasons I hope can be answered by connecting the dots.
35: Laurel always did hurt Brainy, didn't she? And he of course hurt himself as well. I didn't intend this to symbolize that, but after a related-but-unrelated chat with Mearl, I realized that the theme is definitely applicable.
36. I hope Rokk's turmoil truly comes across. Not sure if the transition to the "pointing" works well enough.
37: I wrote this not realizing the Sir Prize name was omitted from 31.
All four artifacts come right out of Irish mythology, even the stone Marcus pocketed. He helped me out; there were four artifacts by legend, but three that Laurel/Kara traditionally digs up.
I was disappointed that there was nothing vaguely appropriate to call Laurel, so Laoraighll was my own invention.
38: Laoraighll is indeed speaking genuine (modern) Irish, and this time, at least, the phrasing is fairly accurate - even if I stretched a context or two.
"Chugainn!" is "come on," more or less. The following phrase roughly means "give it a try"
"Bithiúnach!" is "scoundrel." "Amadán".. "Tabhairt faoi!" is basically "coward" ... "try it"
"Arís eile!" is "again," if I remember right.
"Firinscneach" means masculine. I'm hoping the ? makes her point clear.
"Splanc thintrí!" means "flash of lightning"
39: I knew there'd be another fat-chewing talk with Querl, Reep and L'ile, but it kept getting delayed. It inserted itself at the right moment, I think.
40: This is one of those, "finally!"s... I've been dying to get to this one since Morgause was introduced.

[ December 26, 2005, 05:13 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Forty-one

"Tale non audivimus nec fuisse credimus

5 in terrarum spatio a mundi principio.

Tale numquam factum est sed neque futurum est."

"What does she sing, Guinevere?" asked Laoraighll.

As Nura was not present, translation fell to Imra.

"She's telling the children the story of Torachi."

"The Frankish bandit-king?"

"The same. She's telling them how, while setting out to raid Colonia, he wound up fighting Khunds, unintentionally saving the city's Jewes, who the city guard had abandoned." Imra whispered, so as not to intrude upon Mysa's delicate harp-playing.

"I'd heard that he perished in Colonia," Laoraighll nodded.

"But he didn't. At least, so the bards tell us. The rabbis- the priests of the Jewes- found him dying, cut in half. Believing they found their champion, they went to their most secret magicks, the Qabalah.

"They set out building a man of clay - a golem, which they would fuse to their dying 'hero.' It worked - he was healed, but half-man, half-golem. He killed them for their generosity, and terrorized all of Colonia: Roman, Frank, Jewe and Khundish invader alike."

The Ulsterwoman whistled in appreciation. "If true, he must be a ferocious creature indeed."

Joining them to hear the tale's conclusion, Nura nodded in agreement.

"Are there many in Ulster as mighty as you?" asked Imra.

"Nay. I'm the first in generations to have the power of The Hound."

What hound?she was about to ask, but Mysa was concluding the song, and she looked directly at Imra.

I've done as you requested. You will meet my brother this very after-noon.

Very good. My thanks, Mysa.
It then struck Imra. Has Rokk already found out? Does he suspect?

I have volunteered nothing. But yes, I believe he suspects,
Mysa replied.

The knot in Imra's stomach tightened. I have delayed this far too long.

Leaving Laoraighll in Nura's capable hands, she departed. Mysa is hiding something, she told herself, trying to drown out the thought.

Bumping into Sir Garth in the hall, she apologized in Gaelic, still used to talking to the Ulsterwoman.

She laughed at his confusion. "I'm sorry. I have been almost solely speaking with Laoraighll all morning long."

"Think nothing of it. But you are obviously in a hurry..."

"No! Oh, no. I solely need to catch some airs. Would you join me, sir knight?"

"It would be my honor, lady."

They strolled out of the palace, down along the river.

"I'm not keeping you from seeing Mysa, am I?" Imra suspected her favorite knight was seeing her fiancé’s sister, and that suited her just fine. Better that he should look elsewhere than me.

Garth was clearly embarrassed by her question. He struggled for words, but she leaped to his rescue. "It is all right. T'is better that all Londinium not believe you disinterested in the ladies. As you speak more of steeds than maidens these days, idle tongues might wonder!" she jibed.

Reddened, he laughed with her anyway. Growing serious in the silence that followed, he blurted, "I love her not."

"You are this kingdom's best knight, and the king's own sister would be a good match indeed. This is statecraft, not love. Why else thinks you that I-"

She turned away. I've said too much.

"Guinevere, I-" He said, but she shook loose from the hand he'd put on her shoulder.

"I must wish you good travels to Iberia. You leave after the wedding?" The subject changed as smoothly as a summer snowstorm.

"Aye," he said. Perhaps before.

[ December 26, 2005, 05:17 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Forty-two

"So. Have you discovered the answer to the secrets of the universe, then?"

The old man chuckled. "I have yet to find the question."

He reached out for a hug. "How are you, my dear?"

Mysa hesitated, but hugged him anyway. "Well enough."

"Come! Sit and talk with me." His room was dark and cramped, full of papers, drawings, and jars of everything ranging from dead frogs to faerie dust to glistening pebbles.

"So. You have come to court. At your bidding - or Kiwa's?"

"I have left Avalon. I am no longer Kiwa's puppet."

"The two are not mutually exclusive. There is the Teacher's Isle-"

"I work with Beren at times, but between Druids, Priestesses, and the Teachers, I have had enough of Avalon's manipulations of Britain!"

"So you come to the court of the high king?" he laughed. "You'll find no intrigues and manipulations here, nooo!" he mocked.

She threw a scroll at him. "Would you make yourself invisible, like L'ile!"

"You came to see me, my dear," he reminded her.

Mysa smiled. Despite their distance, she still saw the laughter in his heart that no one else did. And she in turn, drew out that part as no one else did.

"I saw her. Kiwa.

"She was here for coronation, and will remain for the wedding, no doubt," she said. "She was polite, of course. We spoke pleasantries, but I... I, who knew her so well, once... I could not... read her. How she now feels about me."

"You left her. She feels betrayed, and keeps you at the distance she reserves for strangers and kings."

Mysa nodded. "I'd have rather seen scorn in her eyes, though, or have her reproach me."

"She'll do neither. You are no maiden priestess-in-training."

"I suppose not. But it hurts, Mordru! She was more mother to me than Igraine ever was! A-And now..." She hugged him, letting the tears flow.

"We all make our choices, my love," he said at last. "You came to me, not your Sir Garth."

"Art thou jealous?" She hoped he was.

"You help keep two foolish young hearts from destroying a kingdom. How can I reproach you that? And," he paused, caressing her face and toying with her braids, "having a younger lover has its charms, doesn't it?"

"It does, you old goat!"

"And Rokk gets his queen, the young mind-mage from the Teacher's Isle."

"You know?"

"I remember the real Guinevere's death - I had accompanied Voxv home from South Cymru. Of course I knew. But how will your brother react?"

"Well know soon enough. They're talking as we speak." Mysa's heart went out to her friend. She cuddled closer to the wizard.

"Before the wedding? Brave girl."

"And to think, Kiwa wanted Jeka to be high queen."

"Why do you think that?" Mordru asked.

"Well, it was Jeka's idea to switch-" She stopped herself with realization. "It was Kiwa! She brought Imra from the Teachers' Isle, knowing Jeka would use her! But why-"

"To get Jeka's cooperation," he answered. "It had to seem-"

"-Like Jeka's own idea! Brilliant. Devious... Exactly why I left!" She shifted in his arms, pulling her face closer to his.

But self-doubt crossed her face. "Did I truly leave Avalon of my own accord, or did she again choose my path for me?"

"Live your life, Mysa. Find your path. You can't second-guess every decision based on what you think Kiwa is up to. In the end, you give her more power over you."

She was warm and safe in his arms. With him stroking her hair, she could stay here forever...

"There is another alternative open to you, my good wife," he said gingerly, "Oppose Kiwa. Take Avalon for yourself! Support Rokk's reign by making Avalon his ally, not his mistress! End Kiwa's game before it grows out of control!"

Dare I? At that moment, she searched her soul, and found not one reason not to...

[ December 26, 2005, 05:18 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Forty-three

"So... You knew all along?"

Rokk nodded. "Well, not all along. Reep, L’ile and I pieced it together.

"I knew, recalling the assassination attempt, that you were no villain, but at the same time, I needed to hear it all from you."

"A test, then," she said. While a weight had been lifted, it seemed the satisfaction was tainted somehow.

"Yes. I make no apologies for that," Rokk met her gaze. "Which secret outweighs the other, maintaining a deception or letting that deception play itself out?"

He said it without malice. For that, at least, she was thankful.

"So. What now?"

"We marry at midsummer, as planned. If you continue to be kind and honest with me, you'll find me a good husband, I should imagine. If not..."

Unconsciously, Imra held her breathe. The room seemed very cold.

"We shall not be the first pair of strangers to maintain a fiction of a marriage for the sake of statecraft. And if you provide me sons, we can live well separately in peace."

"And if I cannot?"

“...We shall see."

She did not need her gift to see what he meant. Once he'd proven himself to the vassal kings, he needed not the goodwill of Voxv, and could replace her with a bride of his choice.

She shivered - partly out of fear, but part of exhilaration - she and Garth could-

He was staring at her, she suddenly realized.

"I swear before you here and now that I shall tell you no lies," she declared, not certain why she uttered her words, or the need to further prove herself. "I may not be royalty of the house of Voxv, but I count royal lineage from Avalon itself."

Rokk smiled for the first time since the conversation began.

"Well, then, my lady," he took her hand, kissing it. "There may be hope for us yet."

[ December 26, 2005, 05:20 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Forty-four

Laurentia sat in the tub, thinking it over.

"What if Lu was right?" she said.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, ever since the incident, two of us have been struggling to stay out of sight, while you played kitchen-maid to Brandius."

"Bishop Vidar and his minions think two of you died in the fire. I say let them think so," said Luornu. "T'is better than them seeking our blood as sorceresses, and his minions still lurk."

"Agreed. But rather than hide away, what if we went our separate ways for a while? You stay at court, Lu chases her dream... maybe I'll go to Rome."

"What?"

"I've heard Princess Jeka say that once her sister Guinevere has settled in as high queen, she will go to Rome. Maybe I shall go with her," Laurentia declared. "I should like to see the world."

Luornu shivered. "But what shall I do without the both of you?"

"Aye, you'll still worry like a mother-hen. But you do that anyway," her sister teased.

She rose from the tub, fetching a towel. "You could try to enjoy court life without worrying what your sisters are doing."

"Perhaps." Luornu saw wisdom in her words, but still held fear in her heart. "You heard what the priest of Apollo said, though. We are one soul in three bodies."

"Forget Regulus! Forget Vidar! Forget any priest-kind -- What have they done else try to control us?"

Laurentia was right, Luornu knew. She hugged her sister, and helped her dress. "Father Marla has been kind, you must say."

"Aye," Laurentia acknowledged. "He's still a priest, though, and sooner or later, he may turn on us."

Luornu doubted that. She couldn't imagine that at all.

The two walked toward the kitchens, where breads and stew were roasting for the evening meal. Only in Father Marla's parsonage could the identical sisters walk around together.

"Luornu! Laurentia!" Father Marla greeted them, as they checked on the evening foods.

"Let me introduce Carolus, a Frankish lad who shall soon be King Rokk's court jester."

"Father Marla?"

"All is a-right, ladies. Carolus is trustworthy."

"Beside," added Carolus, "Who would take merit from the words of a jester?" He kissed their hands.

Over dinner, the sisters learned that Carolus had yet to prove his place as jester - and had to do so to entertain the guests at the wedding feast.

The young man, quite rotund, had a keen air of humour about him, and kept Marla and the sisters laughing through the meal - without even delving into his actual routine.

At their urging - and his own desire to have more practice- he donned a costume that made him look even wider and rounder, and his routine of humour, deprecation of self and others, and his bouncing style of dance had them all hurting from laughter well into the evening.

Far away, deep in the woods, Lu felt pain in her sides, and feared for her sisters' safety.

[ December 26, 2005, 05:22 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Forty-five

"Tell me again? What's the difference between an Angle and a Khund?" James asked.

"The Angles are our allies. More or less," Dyrk answered.

In truth, he trusted the Angles no more than the Kentish Khunds, but the invaders who were settling the northeast coast, ,at least, were showing no signs of breaking Ambrosius' treaties. Yet.

"Kings Belinant and Cradelmant are honorable men," said Jonah, stoking the campfire.

"Then why do we have to play fetch-boy and talk them down from - what call they their kingdoms?" James thought any of Britain's many local kings would have come to see the coronation of the high king, but these two were the most significant hold-outs.

At Rokk's request, the four honored knights were to deliver personal invitations to the wedding, and to hold private talks with the new king.

"Anglia and East Anglia," answered Thom. He secretly hoped that the trip would prove more adventurous than simple diplomacy. His melancholy was again growing, and he needed a target for swordplay that he didn't need to hold back against.

The thought of Nura and his father --- Uggh!

"Your heart seems heavy, friend," Jonah put a reassuring hand on the fellow's shoulder. "Who is she?"

"Who?"

"The woman who preys on your heart."

Thom resisted. "What makes you think-"

"What else could trouble a young man so?" laughed Jonah. "I know what misery a woman can cause." The northerner knight, several seasons elder than the other three, suddenly looked past him. "Don't be so fragile!"

Jonah didn't seem to be talking to him, yet there was no one else in sight.

"I'm sorry. I love a lass, and she me, but she has wed another. How could it be any worse?"

Jonah stepped past him, facing the dark forest, speaking to Thom with his back to him. "She could be... dead, or as close to it as your mind can ken. You could see her near everywhere you go, and you reach out to touch her, yet grab only air.

"You can dream you hold her, kiss her, but when you wake, all you can do is recall what you've lost, what you shall never hold again..."

He stood there, silhouetted by the fire, reaching out as if trying to grasp wisps of smoke.

Thom weighed his own burden in light of this, while James' attention was finally drawn away from the mission.

"A woman can make you feel like that?" he asked.

Dyrk, still polishing his sword with the precision of a Roman soldier, nodded, silently. He'd previously considered Jonah a bumbling northern barbarian himself, little better than the raiders they fought, save that his people, the Votadni, were truly a British people.

"Who was she?" asked the Roman noble.

"Her name was Tinya. She was the daughter of Eboracum's Duchess, Winifred. She... died... Killed by the wretched Manx sorceress, Glorith. While I... I could do nothing."

The men sat in silence. Three knew not what to say, while Jonah's rage grew.

Unable to contain it, he cried aloud, and ran at a tree.

With a punch, he felled it.

Dyrk and James stared in amazement, but Thom had seen Jonah arm-wrestle Laoraighll - and almost win.

The Cornish knight recalled how Garth had challenged him to distract him from his gloom, but something told him the same trick would not work on Jonah.

"She's the apparition," Dyrk said at last. "Your Tinya."

"How know you that?"

"L'ile told me that the pixie almost interrupted King Rokk's ceremony with the Druids on her urging. Saihlough had been tracking the Dark Stranger with you, ergo-"

"Your mind is sharp, city-dweller. Yes, she is here, around us. She rarely drifts far from my side."

"Still talking to ghosts, Sir Gawaine?" The sneering voice caught all of them by surprise.

"Caradoc" Jonah answered. "Draw thy weapon!"

"Find me," sneered the villain, fleeing into the woods. Jonah followed.

"Jo! Wait!" called Dyrk. "Can you not see he means to trap-" It was too late.

Thom grabbed his sword and followed. There was no time to don armour, all he -they- could hope to do was catch up.

Unseen in the woods beyond, the cloaked figure smiled. All four had taken the bait. The figure signaled for the guards to gather up their equipment, and leave the camp bare.

The trail led to a narrow bridge some 80 feet in length, and Caradoc took his stance at the halfway point. Jonah charged him, and the combat was joined.

Although both were armourless, neither could score a decisive blow for the better part of an hour. Thom, Dyrk and James, meanwhile, had sniperous archers and ambushing swordsmen to deal with, delaying them from matching Jonah's pace.

Jonah scored first blood, with a cut across Caradoc's upper right arm and bicep.

"That's your only blood tonight, boy," the villain sneered.

Dyrk knew his blades. He could hear the would-be back-stabber approach behind him, even while he dueled two in front. As the coward made his attack, Dyrk leaped left, grabbing a study branch to swing away, and letting the assassin run headway into the frontal duo.

As dark as these woods are, none can be too reproachful that my foes mistake one another for me, thought Dyrk. Whatever ever was left of the three were easy pickings.

Caradoc scored a solid hit which should have cut deep into Jonah's thigh. It didn't. Jonah smiled. "This will be as fair to you as our last fight was to me!"

Thom pretended not to see the man on the branch overhead as he ran underneath, stopping short directly under the branch, and taking a half-step back.

The net landed where he would have been had he continued. When his would-be assailant leaped down to finish off his prey, Thom was ready. They make not highwaymen of wit here in the mid-Isle.

"Trickery!" shouted Caradoc. "You use magicks to steal my victory!"

"And you used a sorceress' skirts to hide behind, when last we met," Jonah answered angrily. Knocking his foe down, he raised his sword high overhead, only half-noticing the sound of a horse...

James had lagged behind the others, and noticing how early the trio were assailed, doubled back. If they lay in wait so close, they must know our camp is ripe for pillage.

True enough, he found six men sifting though their belongings, and a thin cloaked figure -a woman- directing them.

"Halt, blackguards!"

The men laughed. "And you mean to stop us all by yourself, stripling?" taunted one.

James let the anger flow; he welcomed it...

The Green Knight charges across the bridge, knocking Jonah and Caradoc off into the river, one to each side.

This fiend does follow me! Jo concluded. He stood, and forced his way against the current to face his nemesis.

"I WILL HAVE ANSWERS FROM YOU!" he shouted. The knight waited patiently for him, saying not a word.

I must use my wits. He is my equal when we are both equally armed, yet here I have but a sword to his arms, armour and steed. What can I do...

Caradoc let the current carry him downstream before wading out on the far side. Gawaine's magic shall be his undoing whence next we meet, he vowed.

Thom and Dyrk, running out of foes, found signs of combat but no trace of Jonah at the bridge, and no signs beyond.

But retracing their steps to the camp, they found a bigger surprise waiting awaiting them...

[ December 26, 2005, 05:24 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Forty-six

"I am troubled that three of the high king's esteemed companions would be set upon within my borders."

King Belinant seemed sincere, Thom and James thought, but Dyrk wasn't so sure. The king's halls were welcoming, it was true, and the foods were of quality, but Dyrk was accustomed to men of power hiding -or at least filtering- their true intentions.

"Four, your majesty," he said. Seeing Belinant's confusion, he continued. "Sir Jonah, who you may know as Gawaine, was with us also. There were signs of a duel, and horse tracks, but the trail led into the river, and we've yet to learn the outcome."

"Gawaine is a fine young knight. He has earned this kingdom's thanks several times over," the king replied. "And you say Caradoc was his assailant?"

"That was the name Jonah -Gawaine- called the first intruder into our camp."

"And he would well know," Belinant nodded. He turned to his captain. "Have Sir Caradoc summoned. Tell him I need him to escort me to Londinium for the high king's wedding."

The captain departed, and the king could see the question on the knights' faces.

"It is true. Whilst mulling over whether to go, I had considered Caradoc my first choice as guardsman for the trip. And, he can explain himself to the high king as well."

He smiled at the lads. Brave yet innocent. They know not how to hide their wiles.

"I will send word to my brother, King Cradelmant, to join us here, that we may together convince him also to attend. And so, we may stay here and concentrate our efforts of finding Sir Gaw-- Jonas, as you call him. Better we should stay in close quarters - word has it there is a giant about!"

Dyrk shot his peers a look that said, Keep your silence! The other two stifled what would have otherwise been knowing smiles. Too knowing to show before this adder-of-a-king, Dyrk thought.

"If you'll excuse me," Belinant said, leaving the knights to continue their meals.

After seeing to the message being sent, he called upon his other guest.

"My lady!" he greeted her.

"King Belinant!" How good of you to see me."

"Please dispense with the formalities, my dear. Pray tell me, what went wrong last night?"

[ December 26, 2005, 05:25 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]

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Kent, you continue to amaze me with this! Mysa and Mordru - yick! Though also very telling! I found the scene with Lu to be really touching - nice characterisation, I like how savvy you've allowed Dyrk to be, and then there's Gawaine vanishing - oh dear! More, more, more! And have a merry Xmas too

Bxx

--------------------
"Tempus Fugitive" the final part of the Adventures of Dream Boy series, set in the Three-Boot Universe. Read it only in the Bits o' Legionnaire Business Forum.

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