The day's hunting had gone well, the season's crops were looking good after all, and the boys were finally at an age where they were more help than nuisance.
Not even the cold rain, slowly getting heavier, was enough to spoil his humour. He smiled, thinking of all the times he cursed the island's clime, longing for the warmth of Rome, or of his homeland.
Today, even the gloom made him content. Perhaps an old Gaul can be at home in Britain, after all, he chuckled, as he dismounted. After all, it's only taken thirty years.
He unpacked the three hares he'd shot before allowing the servant boy to stable his horse. Luornu will make a fine stew of these, he thought.
The servant boy was still standing before him.
"Well? What is it?" he demanded.
"Y-You have a g-guest, milord," the boy managed.
Although new to Brandius' villa, the boy was not normally so meek as to stammer, and his master's good mood vanished at the prospect of whose company awaited him.
Mordru.
The boy nodded, surprising Brandius, who hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud.
Walking toward his residence, his step quickened at the prospect of the old wizard and Luornu being alone together inside. The cold of the rain should have sizzled on his skin from the rage now boiling from within.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:16 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Two
"Calm yourself, my old friend. I was merely admiring your ward's... embroidery."
Rather than calming her patron, Luornu could see that the sorcerer's taking the liberty to call him "old friend" infuriated the old knight. Just as Mordru knew it would.
She prayed that Sir Brandius would not be baited into being a dishonorable host. Not with anger, nor with brash accusations a man of his station should be above. She watched him collect his anger before speaking.
"Why, my sole concern, my friend, is that you're detaining her from fetching my honoured guest some wine and bread. It must have been a long journey indeed from Londinium."
Mordru's eyes gleamed like a veteran toying with new recruits in a game of throwing-stones - just before collecting all their wages.
Luornu scampered off in the direction of the kitchen.
"Come. Let us sit near the fire in the mean time," said Brandius.
"Let us do so. We have many important matters to discuss," replied the guest. He continued, but was out of Luornu's earshot, as she entered the kitchen.
"Are you okay?" demanded her sister, in a loud whisper.
"You're not supposed to be here, Lu," she replied. "What if someone sees us together?"
"But the old man. I though he was going to-"
"He was trying to get Sir Brandius to do something improper. You know, like harboring two supposedly dead girls that Bishop Vidar would like to interrogate?"
She shoved Lu toward the secret doorway that led to the back gardens. "Now go!"
[ December 26, 2005, 04:19 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Three
"Hey, Luornu! Where are you going?" called Rokk.
"Sir Brandius has a guest. I'm going to the garden to pick some berries to serve with his bread and cheese," replied the maiden, scurrying away.
"Luornu! Wait!" Rokk called again, but the lass had ducked around the corner already. "She acts very strange at times."
"You act very strange at times, I must say," jibed his foster-brother, Reep.
"At least I don't look like a changeling," Rokk shot back.
"Why, you little runt!" he shot back, playfully jabbing the younger boy.
Reep was very sensitive about his appearance. His mother, they say, was a Pict, and he had that tribe's unmistakable dark, otherworldly complexion and features, including slightly pointy ears - but with one exception, his head was completely hairless. Yet strangely, by fire or moonlight, he looked quite normal.
Raised as brothers, Rokk and Reep fought as brothers do - sometimes for spite or anger, and sometimes for sheer fun. It would latter occur to Reep that this fight was out of something else - habit.
Even in the moment, something told him this would be their last such boyish fight. He was two years Rokk's senior, and manly responsibilities would soon be placed upon his shoulders. Most likely, he would be expected to serve in the army, as his father before him had.
Rokk should have a couple more years, he thought. But something told him otherwise.
These thoughts came to Reep has he had Rokk pinned down, holding his arms to the ground, letting him giggle and kick and flail.
"Boys!"
His father's voice snapped both of them to attention, and they stumbled to their feet.
The man beside him, Reep surmised, must be the guest Luornu mentioned. The long beard and robe first made him think he must be a priest or hermit, but no, there was something else about him.
He also looked vaguely familiar, like he had seen him as a very young boy.
The guest studied him. "Is this he? The hairless one?"
"No," replied his father. "That's my son, Reep."
"Greetings, sir," Reep tried.
"Hrmph," replied the guest, who was refocusing on Rokk. "Ah. Now he. He looks like a -"
The man stopped himself. Reep's father looked on, disapprovingly.
"You were a wee babe when I last saw you, boy. I am called Mordru," said the guest. He refocused on both of them. "Two fine young boys. Ready to prove themselves as men, eh?" he asked, with a chuckle of feigned interest.
"Ready to go to war, protect your homeland? Even now, Khundish raiders are landing on British soil," Mordru continued.
"Not Rokk. He's too young," interjected Reep's father.
"Nonsense. There'll be younger on the field with him. We need everyone." he turned to his host. "Everyone, Brandius. The War Council stands united on this - all boys over 12. As a knight yourself, you understand the stakes."
Khunds? thought Reep, still chewing it over. "So, the peace of Ambrosius is truly over?"
"It began dying the day it was brokered, boy. A Khund's word is only good until the next drink," Mordru sneered.
"Then I will be proud to fight under Ambrosius," Reep declared.
"You'll fight under the War Council. Ambrosius died a fortnight ago." Mordru almost seemed pleased with the fact.
Rokk and Reep looked to each other in disbelief, then to his father. Brandius' eyes told them it was true.
"You didn't tell us, father."
"I knew he was ill, and that it was only a matter of time."
"How soon will the three of you be ready?" asked Mordru.
"We'll leave with you in the morning," Reep's father answered.
"Then let us eat well tonight, for it is soldier's rations tomorrow and on," cackled the guest.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:20 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Four
"You promise not to forget me?" Rokk asked.
"I forget nothing, you silly boy," Luornu answered.
"You forgot the berries." He saw confusion in her face. "The berries for Mordru. Yesterday in the garden you said you were getting berries to go with his bread and cheese."
"In the garden," she said, looking past him. "Oh, yes! I must have forgotten."
Rokk was slightly worried about her. This wasn't the first time she could not recall events or conversations she was part of. Moreover, those very incidents were the ones she seemed very nervous about at the time.
"I heard Khund blood is good for warding off ailments of the mind. I'll bring you some."
"Ughh! No thank you, mighty slayer of Khunds," she laughed.
Despite his brash talk, Luornu saw a tinge of uncertainty in his eyes. She hugged him. "You'll be fine. Just stab them before they stab you."
"He'll stab no one. You're only coming along to be my squire. You understand that, don't you, lad?" said Sir Brandius.
"Yes, sir." Rokk blushed at being redressed before Luornu. He was taken by her, and while she thought he was very sweet about it, she had no illusions. Her future included servitude, old maidhood - maybe the Convent if she remains lucky - but no knights in shining armour.
Sir Brandius turned to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. "You'll come with us to Corinium, and stay with the Sisters there." He looked questioningly at her.
"Yes, sir," she answered, also nodding to his unspoken question.
She placed her bag into the wagon, reaching under the canvass covering. Rokk, still standing nearby, heard someone sounding like Luornu say "Ow!" in a muffled voice. When he looked over, Luornu, looking embarrassed, said, "It's only a splinter."
Further raising Rokk's suspicion, she insisted on placing and arranging all of the wagon's cargo herself...
[ June 17, 2007, 05:05 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Harbinger on :
Faboo stuff Kent, this is great! More, more, more Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Five
"You'll be sorry, boyo!"
The shout came from a hefty, weathered old northerner, probably from Eboracum. He was drunk, spoiling for a fight, and without a Khund in sight, had set his sights on a young Breton lad.
"I apologize for bumping into you. Now let us pass, and there'll be no trouble," Garth replied.
"Oh! 'There'll be no trouble!'" mocked the man. "Laddie, you've found yourself some trouble. Now, are you man enough to use those swords, or are you just a pretty-boy out for show?"
"You'll be sorry," warned Garth's compatriot. "Even at his age, he's the best swordsman in all Lesser Britain."
"In all Lesser Britain, you say? Why then he's good enough to wipe my arse!" the man bellowed. "There's a reason they call it Lesser Britain!"
"You were warned," Garth quietly replied, drawing his sword.
The duel that followed was resolved quicker than the verbal portion had been, and it left Garth dissatisfied. Besting a drunken oaf was no challenge, and he was beginning to fear that his growing reputation might only lead to challenges from every sword that lacked a wit behind it.
"The lad moves like lightning," exclaimed one of the oaf's companions.
"Taranau," exclaimed a man, who to Garth's eyes appeared to be a nobleman.
He certainly caught Garth's attention. At home his people called him Taranaut, the local name for lightning.
"Good day to you," Garth greeted him.
"Good day, young knight. I am Marcus, duke of Cornwall. I could use another skilled arm among my officers."
"My thanks, but I am here with my brother's forces, from Lesser Britain."
"Ah. How is King Ban these days? I've not seen him in three summers, I fear," Marcus replied.
"They say those who pursue God's work the best lose track of time. My father has been dead some five years now."
Garth had never seen anyone smile and scowl at the same time, yet Marcus managed to do so.
"Well. My condolences, although belatedly. If you'll forgive me, I must take my leave." Marcus and all but one of his aides departed.
"You know your way around blades far better than you do around people, my friend," his companion said.
"Take no heed," said the last of Marcus' men. "He turns cold faster than Cornish weather. Come, let us find ale to share." The fellow was scarcely older than Garth himself.
"I am Garth of Benwick, also known as Garth of the Lake."
"I am Thom, step-son of Duke Marcus. Come, let us talk."
But the Khunds had other plans. The sentries blew their horns, signaling that the horde of invaders had been spotted. Within minutes, the encampment was virtually empty...
[ December 26, 2005, 04:23 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Six
The Khunds were very outnumbered, yes, but theirs was the side of experience.
Ambrosius' old guard was either dead, dying, or showing the strains of their ages on the battlefield. They were joined, for the most part, by lads barely sprouting their first facial hairs.
The Khundish horde, in contrast, was full of seasoned raiders, who, if not pillaging the shores of Caledonia, Britain or Gaul, were warring amongst themselves. They, too, were joined by young blood, but young men who grew up wielding swords and axes for survival - not some abstract threat, as the young lads of Britain regarded the Khunds.
This distinction was not lost on the young warriors of Lothian. In some ways they had more in common with the Khunds.
These southern boys fight as if it were a hobby, thought the eldest son of Lot. T'is a wonder they've kept the welisc at bay this long.
In a single blow, he felled two large brutes. Nearby, a young man in Roman garb saw his sword knocked aside by a Khund downhill from him.
The boy knows nothing of warcraft. He should not be here, he thought, moving to intervene.
Before he could, though, another knight interceded, cutting the Khund in half. "Well, met, knight of Lothian," called the fellow, before turning and diving into a new fray.
"Well met indeed," noted the bemused northerner, knowing the fellow was well out of earshot. "Perhaps these southerners have something to offer after all, eh?"
The Roman boy looked at him, not comprehending the words.
"Pick up your sword," bellowed Lot's son. "And tell me what knight that was. Was it the Garth of Ban's court, of whom I have heard such renown?"
"No," said the Roman. "'T'was a knight from Cornwall, based upon his crest, I'd wager."
Sir Thom of Lyoness, he thought, as he struck down another raider. Perhaps there are worthy rivals down here.
Three foes later, he swung around to find a forth, but no one stood near him.
The few Khunds he saw were fleeing, pursued by a band of those boys he thought to ineffective to win.
Even so, the field was full of moaning wounded on both sides.
"Kill me," pleaded the Roman boy. He'd tried to keep an eye on him, but the boy had to do his part, too.
Surveying the boy's wounds, he saw too many deep torso cuts. I long night of bleeding was the longest he'd survive.
"I salute you, brother," he said, before granting the request.
He gave no such salutations when picking off any wounded Khunds.
[ September 02, 2006, 03:11 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Seven
"It was here on the plains of Camulodunum where Ambrosius last fought the Khunds, and it is here that we win today," proclaimed Sir Derek.
More merchant than warrior, Derek was once one of Ambrosius' favorites, and he capitalized on that to rebuild the Morgnus family's once-glorious status among proper Londinium society.
His fellow members of the War Council had no doubt Derek's main interest in fighting Khunds was purely to safeguard his own trade - and that he would switch sides if he thought the Khunds could better fill his coffers.
"A glorious victory, indeed. May we cherish this day, and remember how to stand together when needed without quarreling amongst ourselves," agreed King Wynn of Cumbria, hoping to divert yet another pointless argument would make the best High King of Britain.
King Lot smiled, grateful that Wynn did his work for him. Surely his sons would together make Gawaine the favorite.
"Wise words," agreed Beren, the revered hierophant of the Druids. While not a member of the War Council, his counsel was held in high regard by Ambrosius, and thus none dared speak ill of him - none but Bishop Vidar, that is.
"Come, let us return to Sir Brandius' pavilion, where we may properly celebrate today's deeds," said Zendak, king of South Cymru.
They descended from the hill where they and other nobles and generals watched the battle, toward a large tent by a wooded glade along the river.
As they approached, the servants and squires alike were caught in such commotion that few noticed the return of their commanders.
"What's going on here!?" demanded Zendak, grabbing the first kitchen-boy he came across.
"The sword!" exclaimed the boy, too tongue-tied to do else but point.
As he wheeled to look, his fellow warlords were already caught agape.
Brandius' pavilion was deliberately set up adjacent to Ambrosius' rock. In his last war against the Khunds, his wounds made some whisper about who would replace him. He took his great sword Excalibur, and thrust it into the rock, proclaiming he who could remove it would succeed him as king.
Many had tried, but none had ever succeeded in the 20 years since then, even while an aging Ambrosius still lived. Not the strongest, nor the bravest, nor the purest of heart.
But today, the sword was gone.
"Who?" whispered Zendak, barely catching his breath. "Who shall be Uther's heir?"
"Where is Dyrk?" asked Derek. "Surely he must have pulled the sword. He outshines all others. Only he could have done the deed."
"Nay," said Lot. "It would have taken a hearty northerner to have done the impossible. My son Gawaine is stronger and more noble than a dozen of these southern knights."
"Not so," said Duke Marcus. "It must have been my son, Thom."
"Cease your braggartly ways, good sirs," said Brandius, arriving from the field with his boys. "T'was my foster son, Rokk, who lifted the sword."
Indeed, the knight's foster son held the ancient runed blade.
"Impossible!"
"Trickery!"
"No whelp without royal blood..."
"Brandius was correct in calling for silence," said Mordru, having arrived unseen. "Those who hold their tongues may listen and learn. Let only the fools judge without hearing."
"Speak your piece, Mordru," said Wynn.
"Thirteen summers agone, I delivered young Rokk to Brandius' care at the direction of Ambrosius himself, with orders that none were to know, until the lad proved himself."
"You're saying this Rokk is Gwydion, Ambrosius' sole heir? Trickery, old Wizard! The child died an infant!" cried Lot.
"Trickery, yes. But as the high king's will. The one Bishop Vidar -then simply Father Vidar- buried was a peasant boy who died of the fever. Ambrosius had me spirit the boy away, that he might grow to manhood," Mordru replied. "He feared someone would again try to poison his son," he said, eyeing Lot.
Lot's wife Morgause was sister to Ambrosius' wife Igraine, making Lot's family very close to the throne. Only Igraine's daughter Mysa was closer, thought Zendak, also eyeing Lot.
"There is no proof that this child is Gwydion, or that he pulled the sword from the stone," a red-faced Lot charged.
"The boy can do it again," Mordru smiled triumphantly.
At the wizard's urging, an uncertain Rokk again placed the sword in the stone. Lot tried to pull it out again, and failed.
He was followed by several others, big and strong, those who claimed the most noble of pedigrees, and those reputedly pure of heart. All failed.
Zendak, who tried it himself once as a young buck, opted not to. He took a great deal of amusement at Derek's failed effort, though - and that Derek insisted on trying himself before letting his son try.
After all the kings, nobles, knights and all their sons who chose to make the effort failed, Rokk again pulled the sword from the stone, and held to overhead.
And when he again looked down, all those around him were kneeling.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:25 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Eight
The campfires were starting to ebb, while the smell of meade grew stronger.
Most of the men were far too inebriated to notice, but Reep knew who was missing. He limped up the hill, and found his brother and liege is silence, staring at the moonlit battlefield.
Reep sat beside him. In the dark, the sound of British warriors celebrating and toasting didn't sound so far different than the day's combat had. He could almost imagine they were listening to that battle continuing in the dark below them.
"Who's winning?" he asked, hoping Rokk imagined what he did.
"Mordru," Rokk replied. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen," he blurted. "I don't think any of this is right."
"How so?"
Rokk struggled for where to begin.
Out on the field, Sir Brandius' sword had broken, and he sent Rokk back to get a replacement.
At the pavilion, he found none - too many had been taken up already. A cloaked old man (one of the kitchen staff, Rokk surmised) told him there was an extra sword stuck into the stone.
"I'd never heard of Ambrosius' tale, Reep. Really, I didn't! I wouldn't have tried if I'd known."
"It's probably a good thing, then. We'd not otherwise known you're the king."
"But I'm not! I don't think the sword pulled out because of that!"
"Go on."
"Remember that time we were playing with father's armour, and you got stuck? I didn't pull the helmet off like you thought, not exactly."
"I don't understand."
Rokk sighed. "All right, then. Remember how much better I am fencing with a real sword than a wooden one? Or all the times I caught more fish than you - with metal hooks?"
Reep looked perplexed.
"I have a strange influence over metal. It's not much. It's very subtle, and gets weaker over distance... It hasn't helped my archery as much as my swordsmanship. I've always been ashamed of it. The priests warn us about sorcery."
Reep smiled. "How do you know Ambrosius didn't have this power, too? And was counting on you to use it to pull out Excalibur? Worry not about the priests. Ambrosius was a good man and a great king. You will be, too."
Rokk frowned. "But what if it's more of Mordru's trickery? I just can't believe it all. Verily, I can't."
"If Mordru had sole possession of magic, he'd be king for all time, and we'd be fighting him, not the Khunds. Do you think I'm evil?"
"No, Reep. Of course not."
"Look at me, then." Rokk focused on his foster brother, recognizing his voice, but not his face.
Under the moonlight, the boy next to him resembled Derek's son Dyrk far more than the Reep he'd known.
"Reep! What madness is this?"
"Wait a moment," Reep replied. The facade of Dyrk faded, to be replaced by that of King Wynn.
"I understand this not!" Rokk proclaimed. "Stop this at once!"
"Yes, my liege," Reep replied, only half jesting. "See? You are not the only one with freakish aspects. I can make my face resemble others. And as your gifts are limited to metal, mine are ineffectual in sunlight. You thought you jest, but I am part changeling after all."
Rokk took several minutes to digest this news.
"Bishop Vidar would have you killed as a demon," he said at last.
"Most likely. And you, too, if you weren't king."
Studying Rokk's face, Reep saw realization seep into his brother's face.
Rokk stood, and walked over the ridge, where the remaining campfires illuminated him.
"I guess someone should rule Britain with justice, then, and keep both the Khunds and the Bishop Vidars from doing their harms."
[ December 26, 2005, 04:27 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Nine
Lot's son walked through the camp as the first light of dawn was washing onto the eastern sky.
Most were asleep or passed out. A few were still up, drinking or gambling or just talking. And, of course, a few sentries kept their watch.
The kitchen staff was awake, preparing the morning's porridge.
Some of the camp women still stumbled about, looking for the lad of which they'd heard.
They approached the young warrior. "Are you... him? My lord?" asked one. Some of them grimaced at the very wounds of which he held the most pride.
"I am not the one who claims to be our king," he said with a sneer. I could honestly tell them I am the new king's cousin and kinsman, he realized, but for once, he had no yearning for this sort of woman.
He strolled on, trying to think of all the wenches he'd wooed, all the court ladies he'd charmed, all the peasant girls he's dazzled.
But no. He was a man haunted by another sort of lady.
Luckily, thinking about his new liege provided a means of distraction.
He strolled on, into the small thatch of woods beyond Brandius' pavilion. Excalibur was once again placed into its rock for safekeeping, and Brandius' two boys were asleep, wrapped in their cloaks nearby.
I could kill you, little cousin. Father would most certainly approve.
He held the pummel of his sword for an eternity, staring at the boy, too young for even a whisker on his chin.
He turned his gaze toward Excalibur. Like many, he had tried to pull the sword that afternoon, to no avail.
For sport, he tried once again, and was not surprised when he failed.
Certainly the boy is the old wizard's choice for the throne. Does he fancy that the lad will be easier to control? Or is Brandius in on the deed?
Father was Uther's most loyal vassal. Yet here we are, the villains, if we try to stop Mordru from cheating us out of our rightful inheritance.
Damn him! Damn them all!
He slowly, quietly pulled his sword, and held it above the sleeping Rokk.
But he couldn't.
I'm not that much my father, he thought at first, then tried to erase the thought from his head, hating himself for the unspoken disloyalty.
He devised a better excuse. What if I'm playing into Mordru's hands?
"Well, young cousin. We shall see what kind of king you can be, after all," he whispered, walking away.
Reep relaxed the grip on his dagger, but remained awake.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:28 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Ten
The way that the barge moved silently across the water, not even scuffing or bristling the reeds, never ceased to amaze Jeka, even though she'd experienced it regularly for more than half her young life.
The barge was rowed by four accomplished priestesses-in-training, under her supervision, just as she had once had to row under another priestess' gaze, with no concession granted due to her title.
One could not row the route without knowing how to go. A boat would become lost in other realms, or, at best, find itself overturned on the shores near Glastonbury, where the priestess' link to the outer world lies.
To row the Passage, a priestess needed to learn all four parts with precision. Other than supervision, Jeka's role, she believed, was to make it appear to visitors that she was the one guiding the barge along the route, and distract visitors from the simple truth that the rowers' held their fate in their oars.
The mists along the route thicken, and one loses site of the shores immediately. The bells of Glastonbury then fade, and one is enshrouded entirely by mist. One cannot see or hear the water through the crucial channel, until one suddenly arrives at Avalon, on the Priestess Island's shore.
Jeka thought she would not normally need to go through the motions and rituals associated with the Passage, given that their sole passenger was Beren. If he wanted to usurp the Priestess' secrets, he'd have done so long ago.
And is it not a wonder he has not? she thought. While she bore no grudge against the old Druid, she was tiring of anything she perceived as illusions - and lately, that was almost everything.
She questioned, also, why Beren would come by barge to Avalon, when most of the Druids go directly to the Druid Isle through the Grove Path in Cymru?
Did he not want his fellow Druids to know he visits the priestesses?
Just as the mists gave way, the barge landed, and several junior students tied it to the mooring posts, while others placed the gang plank down.
And as the barge party came ashore, the mists were gone as if they'd never been. Beren and the oar crew uttered a small prayer, but to Jeka, it was just another illusion.
"Greetings, Lord Druid Beren, my old friend. Welcome back to Avalon," said Lady Kiwa, leading a procession of maidens.
"My lady!" beamed Beren. "Would that I never had to bother with the outside world, and could spend my days in your company!"
"Flatterer!" Kiwa returned.
Jeka tuned out their further flowery greetings. More illusions, she scowled.
With Beren settled in the visitor's cottage, Jeka went about her duties, overseeing trainees doing the various rituals she had learned, over and over. As one of the eldest maiden priestesses, these duties largely fell to her.
Mysa, you should be here. This is your path, not mine, she thought. The girl that had been almost her sister was gone, though, and Kiwa had simply expected Jeka to step into Mysa's place.
And now there was talk of a new king - one that Kiwa would want to hold the strings to. And Jeka suspected she was lined up to be one of those strings.
Her father, Voxv of North Cymru, was an old but beloved ruler, and he was respected second only to Uther Ambrosius. Her hand would immediately strengthen the new king's position.
It's not going to happen that way, 'My Lady,' she snarled, internally.
"Why not?" asked the maiden whose weaving she was half-heartedly inspecting.
Jeka looked at her. Has this girl seen my very thoughts?
"Yes. Yes, I have," she replied. "I didn't mean to, but very intense thoughts are hard to block out."
"Does Kiwa know of your gift?" Jeka asked. Even the senior priestesses, who have trained their whole lifetimes, had rarely developed such skill, Jeka knew.
"No. The lady Mysa implored me not to tell. I don't know why," the girl responded. "I guess I shouldn't have told you that."
"It's all right. Mysa was a good friend of mine. Is a good friend of mine."
"Mysa said she'd come back for me. I don't really understand why you're upset, though. If Kiwa wanted to marry me off to the new high king, I'd be grateful."
"Really! Well, my dear, I think we can be of help to each other," Jeka replied.
Jeka made it through her day with a much better mind. All she had to do was convince Kiwa to let her take young Imra to Londinium.
And as she expected, she was summoned to have her evening meal with Kiwa and Beren.
When asked, she apologized convincingly for her foul mood of late. She acted surprised when they told her of their plans to marry her to the young king.
She accepted the role with honor, and asked only to bring Imra along as her handmaiden.
"Why not?" scoffed Kiwa. "The girl's proven useless for the priestess life, and is always romancing about court intrigues. Her father sent her to us, I suspect, to also be rid of her. Take her with you, with my blessing."
"You're too kind, my Lady," gushed Jeka, as she exited.
Kiwa and Beren sat in silence, smiling at each other.
"My Lady, you still weave webs inside intricate webs."
"My dear Beren, is there any other kind worth spinning?"
[ December 26, 2005, 04:29 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
quote:Originally posted by Harbinger: Faboo stuff Kent, this is great! More, more, more
BTW, thanks! Anyone, feel free to add feedback en route, here.
Posted by Harbinger on :
This is great Kent! I love how you are introducing all the main characters through the Camelot mythology, very cleverly done! The politics and kiniving are great to read, your characters individual personalities have been nicely established and you've included some great old characters - Beren, Voxv etc.
I'm loving this. More, more, more please!
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
okay, I figure at 10 posts, it's a good time to add my own footnotes and comments.
Background: While I admit heavy influence by Marion Zimmer Bradley's phenomenal The Mists of Avalon, I am by no means following her exact template. I am also well versed in many other aspects of Arturian lore, including Malory's le Morte D'Arthur, and will mix and match - or outright warp - as I please.
a few notes on terms: changeling refers to old superstitions about faeries stealing human babies and leaving fae-children, changelings, in their place - not the Gar Logan type of Changeling.
Welisc means "foreigner," but was later misused by Anglo-Saxons, who used the term to describe southern Britain's original inhabitants, who were either assimilated or pushed to the west, Wales and Cornwall, where A-S peoples never fully conquered, and the term "Welsh" and "Wales" exist today, rather than the proper Cymru.
On the same note, I use Welsh words (like Taranau, which does mean "lightning") on occassion as used interchangeably as any Brythonic Celtic language - any Celt who was dwelling in today's England, Wales, Cornwall or Brittany (the latter Taranaut, adding the "T" ending, was my own device, for reasons that will become apparent later).
Anyone confused about the place names can check out this basic Roman Britain map.
Also, Cymru is Wales, Caledonia is Scotland, Cumbria is the northwestern part of today's England (i.e. the Lake district), Gaul is France, Lesser Britain is Brittany (northwestern France), and Lothian is Edinburgh and its surrounding area.
Benwick is a traditionally fictional place, and I follow other recent authors in placing it in Brittany. Lancelot's origins in French fiction make this appropriate as well.
I place Brandius' villa near today's Hereford.
A note on Ambrosius: Ambrosius was real, the last true Roman commander, and one of three solid foundations for the character of Arthur. While he held off the Saxons in the late 400s, I prefer placing Arthur in the early 500s, when the definitive battle at Baden Hill was fought - and evidence points to a brief golden age of post-Roman Britain before the Saxons resumed and evenyually won. I have chosen to combine Ambrosius and Arthur's father, Uther Pendragon, into a single character.
Parts One to Four: Mordru's visit This came out pretty much as I first envisioned the story begining, when I first brainstormed LoC several years ago. I saw Mordru coming for Rokk as Merlin did for Arthur, but Mordru's presence makes it all the more sinister.
I played around with the Rokk/Reep thing a bit, but always came back to the original brother/foster brother concept.
Luornu was a recent addition to the household, inspired by my getting back into LSH, and reading the early reboot.
I toyed around with making the unnamed servant boy a version of Chuck, but have since opted against it.
five to nine: the sword and the stone I hesitated to turn King Mark into Duke Marcus, as MZB did, but I did it for a different reason than she did.
I admit, Beren was originally put in to solely play the "good Merlin" aspect to Mordru's "eveil Merlin," but there's a germ of an idea floating around that may add something else to the old Druid.
Reep's "Who's winning?" line is a wink-and-a-nod to Terry Moore. As the later conversation reveals, I am largely toning down super powers - Arthurian stories should be more about swords than zapping people, but some metahuman activity IS definitely in order.
Ten: Avalon This part surprised me, I admit. I started writing it with Mysa in mind, but it didn't fit - it was too easy to mimic MZB here. Jeka fell into place far earlier than I planned on (despite the name, she's not a snake; I just can't see someone from that time actually named Projectra), and Imra worked her way in differently than I intended, but there they are.
While I'm tempted to ask for feedback, if the Avalon bit works, I probably shouldn't ask that until the next 10 are done - so you can make a resonably complete judgement.
Also, in addition to making my Avalon different than MZB, and melding it to Zerox, there are several isles: the Priestess', the Druids,the Teachers, the Tor, and others, and each has its own entry gate to Britain - a neccessary element for later. After all, if the priestesses are sharing Avalon, they can't own the door, can they?
Avalon IS still very much based on the hills of Glastonbury (too near and dear to my heart to be different, especially having stood atop the Tor myself under a full moon) - although enlarged a bit. I see it as G'bury is a small mid-day shadow cast upon the world, outlining the same shape as Avalon, only smaller.
[ December 20, 2004, 04:16 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Vee on :
"...and Imra worked her way in differently than I intended, but there they are." Imra always was a pushy broad wasn't she?
This is an amazingly wonderful merging of Legion and Arturian lore. Bravo! Well done, Kent! Can't wait to read more!
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
quote:Originally posted by Vee: "...and Imra worked her way in differently than I intended, but there they are." Imra always was a pushy broad wasn't she?
This is an amazingly wonderful merging of Legion and Arturian lore. Bravo! Well done, Kent! Can't wait to read more!
thanks!
al feedback is welcome, so post, everyone, and say 'hi!'
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
eleven
"My liege and dear nephew!"
His greeting was as gregarious as it was insincere. Rokk smiled, trying to hide his wince.
"Greetings, Uncle Lot."
"Salutations, King Lot, Son of Auley," offered Sir Brandius. "Is that-?"
"-My wife, Morgause, my kinsmen." Lot interrupted. "Your mother's own sister," he said, emphasizing this to Rokk.
"My lady," Rokk took and kissed her hand, as she kneeled before him.
Standing, she spoke. "I have not seen you since you were a baby, nephew. And to think we all mourned for naught for a peasant boy all those years ago - a complete stranger! My heart is gladdened all the more that you are here, alive, and a fine young man!"
To Rokk's surprise, she took the liberty of hugging him. "Long may you reign!" she said afterward.
May I be dead before night, Rokk translated. Too many had warned him that his kin were likely responsible for his attempted poisoning as an infant - not that he recalled, of course.
"Are my cousins here, too?" Rokk asked. He'd heard much of his heroic kinsman Gawaine, and a measure of good word of his brothers as well.
"The youngest two are back in Lothian, too young for such a long journey. Agravaine you will meet at tonight's feast, while Gawaine is running an errand. He will be back for the coronation," Lot replied.
And what sort of errand? Rokk wanted to say, but thought wiser of it.
"How goes things, lad? Is king-craft all you thought it would be?" Lot said, slapping the youth on the shoulder, following his wife's lead in assuming family privilege with the high king.
"Meetings and politicking and verbal arm-twisting," Rokk answered, fairly candidly. "I will be at war with one half of Britain if I try to please the other half, it seems."
Lot turned coldly serious. "Truer words you've never spoken in your lifetime, I wager, and I never lose my bets. Promise them nothing. Listen to the factions, but avoid choosing between them like your life depends on it. It may."
All four stood silently. Rokk was for the first time impressed that Lot seemed sincere, honest - and helpful?! Brandius, too, appeared to be taken aback, and eyed Lot with uncertainty. Lot continued his gaze, perhaps wondering if he'd said too much, while Morgause looked from one to the other, before finally speaking.
"Perhaps there will be better opportunities to give counsel, husband. Our nephew no doubt has more dignitaries to meet before the feast," she said.
"Bishop Vidar!" Rokk suddenly remembered. "I must beg your leave, my uncle and aunt."
"Beg nothing. You are the king," Lot laughed as Rokk and Brandius departed.
The old Roman garrison that had suddenly been turned into the high king's convening hall was crowded enough that Reep could observe much of this exchange merely by standing still. In the hall candlelight, he looked like just another messenger reviewing his orders.
While initially annoyed that he'd lost his opportunity to brief his father and foster-brother, word of Gawaine's "errand" caught his suspicion.
This matched what the young Druid had told him, and he liked it not one bit.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:34 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Twelve
Gawaine pulled his reins, ordering his steed to a stop. In a move smoother than his rough-and-tumble appearance would suggest, he dismounted with one simple, fluid motion - even as the horse had not finished its halt.
The robed figure before him was clearly a female. A noblewoman, perhaps, or a priestess.
"Greetings, Sir Gawaine," the lady spoke.
"And to you," he smiled. Looking around, he continued. "I'd imagined there would be a larger contingent to meet me. You are brave, to meet me here alone. I dare say there are some knights who should not be so trusted."
"But not you?"
"It is true that some would include me among such knights, yes. But you have naught to fear from me," he said, stowing his sword on his horse and removing his helm.
"I apologize if my disfigurement ills you, my lady."
"You are a warrior. You need not explain," she answered. Through her veil, Gawaine imagined that she smiled. "I have the blade," she said.
She opened a small chest, and from it removed a thick wad of cloth. She slowly unraveled it, and deep inside was a small hand blade, dazzled with gems and decorated with a strange bonelike substance Gawaine was not familiar with.
She opened a second package, which contained a small scabbard for the blade.
"A Druidic ritual blade recovered from the ruins of Anglesey. Hundreds of souls still cry for vengeance. Can you hear them?"
Gawaine indicated he could not. The one voice that haunts me could drown them all out, he thought.
She approached, handing blade and scabbard to him. "I trust you know what to do with this?"
"Oh course," he involuntarily smiled.
"Will you require any poisons? I have--"
"-Nothing I need," the knight sneered. "If Beren wants poison, he can procure his own."
Gawaine rode off, not a bit satisfied with himself. He spurred his horse on, racing across the fields and eventually alongside a river. He pushed faster and faster, as if he was seeking to outrun something.
He again pulled the reins, coming again to a stop, and he and beast sat at standstill beside the river.
After a while, he dismounted, pulled of his helmet, and wiped moisture from his eyes. He took the blade and scabbard, and tossed it into the river.
"Druids, find your own vengeance. Mother, find your own assassin. The 'Dark Stranger' will use me not! I'll be party to none of it!" he shouted.
A swan on the river spied him cautiously.
He collapsed on the bank, and stared at the glistening blade. Poutily, he stood, and waded into the river, kicking his feet, so silt and pebbles would cover it.
But as he did so, he had the strange feeling someone was watching.
You've done right, love, a female voice told him.
Reassured as to who - or what -was observing him, he rode on, eventually making camp beneath a large, ancient oak tree. For once, sleep came easily.
But several hours behind him, the lad who had actually been watching him had retrieved the blade from the waters.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:36 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Thirteen
Mysa awoke halfway though the night in a start, half expecting thunder and lightning to besiege the shack.
But all was quiet.
Looking around, she saw her escort fast asleep. She smiled at the irony.
The third member of her ensemble had not yet returned, it appeared.
Donning her cloak, she went outside. The first hues of blue were hugging the eastern horizon.
The woods were oddly silent. No creatures stirred, no insects chirped, nor did any breeze caress the forest canopy.
Do I yet dream? Mysa asked herself.
You do, a voice told her.
"Imra."
[i]Yes.
No one was in sight, though.
"Where are you?"
Verulamium, en route to Londinium.
"You've left Avalon?" Mysa couldn't believe it.
I'm escorting Jeka. She's to marry the high king. My time on the Isle may be done, but I still perform my duties.
Mysa felt a rebuke among her words. The dreamscape was shifting.
"Imra, I'm sorry. But I just couldn't-"
You and the gods may know your reasons. I truly don't care. You were needed. You failed us. We've adapted without you, Imra replied, now standing beside her.
They were on the Tor, overlooking all the hilly isles collectively called Avalon. It was a bright summer day, as it had the last time they met face-to-face.
"What was expected of me, no one should do. It was wrong!" Mysa exclaimed. Imra's reaction was one of pity.
Poor Mysa. How long must you make yourself the victim? Do you ever hear your own words?
"Do you!?" Suddenly it was Mordru questioning her, and the Tor erupted with soot and ash. All of Avalon was running and hiding, finding no safety from the wizard, who was suddenly sapping all of Avalon's magicks for himself.
A giant, he was almost as tall as the Tor itself. But someone within the Tor, an old legend reborn, was breaking out. One last hope.
"One last hope," Mysa told herself, waking in a cold sweat.
It was morning, and her escort was awake, roasting a small fish over the campfire.
"Bad dreams?" he asked.
Mysa shuddered. She'd never had her sister or mother's gift of sight, yet she knew there was truth to what she'd seen.
"If only they were that simple," she answered, holding herself and rocking forward and back. Sometimes she would yearn for Avalon's insulation, but she never before feared for it.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:42 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Fourteen
"I'm telling you, Bishop Vidar made many strong points." Brandius was on the verge of anger.
"Britain is a land of Romans, Celts and even Picts, of fisher, farmer, tribesman and city-folk, and believers in Christ, followers of the old ways, and even Druids and cults of Isis. I mean to be king of ALL Britain, and to rule all with justice," Rokk countered, trying not to shout at his foster-father, the only father he had ever truly known.
"Then do so, but do so as a Christian king of a Christian land!"
"I cannot and will not rule a man's conscious." Rokk maintained.
"And just who put that nonsense into your head?" Brandius was now red-faced.
"You did."
Brandius stood still, perplexed.
"What of Luornu?" asked Reep.
"Hrmp?"
"Luornu's... situation? If you're suddenly so devout to Vidar, what about her?" his son continued.
"Well, obviously I can't.... Lord, what's become of me?"
Rokk's eyes narrowed. "Vidar is very... persuasive, isn't he? Even I had a hard time debating him, while you ate up every word."
"I suppose he's a credit to his faith," Brandius managed.
"The faith you taught me was of a humble carpenter teaching justice and brotherly love. That carpenter in Vidar's church would be smiting the vendors and wagerers, if you see my analogy."
Brandius looked bitter. "What are you saying, boy?"
"Reep and I have been discussing... unusual gifts, be they from devils or from God. I think Vidar has an unnatural gift of persuasion," the young king said.
"You're accusing the top clergyman in Britain of sorcery, then? Strong words for a new king against a trusted and respected man," his foster-father countered.
"You never cared for him before," Reep said.
"Shall we fetch Luornu for him, then? Or Father Marla? If I recall some of your conversations, I'm sure your new friend Vidar would be interested," Rokk added.
"By damn, what has that fiend done to me!" Brandius said, pummeling his head. "He's a menace."
"Indeed. But whilst bedeviled, you did say one truth. We can't just accuse the church's highest holy-man with hexes and sorcery, especially when the likes of Mordru and Beren are about," Reep offered.
"Aye, for now, this stays with us. Reep, keep an eye on him, if you would. Father, you need to see Beren, and seek a potion or charm against Vidar's spell. Mayhap you can pose as one charmed, and earn his confidence," Rokk concluded. "T'is a wonder I was unafflicted. I shall-"
He stopped himself.
It suddenly occurred to him that Mordru was responsible for his immunity. But how did he know that? Was Mordru pitting them against Vidar? Or did it go deeper? "I shall see Mordru."
Reep and Brandius looked skeptical, but deferred to their king's judgment.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:44 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Fifteen
The road to Londinium was crowded, but not so much that Sir Garth failed to recognize a friend.
"Sir Thomas! It is good to see you again!" he cried, fastening his horse's pace to catch up.
"Good day to you, Sir Garth," Thom managed, with a small amount of attempted good cheer.
Garth saw the red around his eyes and somber look. "What ails you, friend?"
"I have met my heart's desire, and she will be mine never."
"Have hope, friend! Love is truly a wondrous thing! Your love-"
"-Has married my father," Thom shot back, with a snarl. "I had the duty to escort the lady Nura from Eiru. T'was love at first sight for us both.
"Yet duty prevailed, and I took her back. To Cornwall. Where my father now calls her his bride," he continued. "What fool am I."
Garth knew this was not the time to encourage Thom with tales of the maidens awaiting them in Londinium. No, the young man needed something to fight. Or someone.
Garth slapped a glove across Thom's face.
Thom looked dumbfounded.
"I challenge thee, Sir Dour of Illheart, to reclaim thine honour in a duel!"
What madness is this? Thom's face read.
"Come on! En garde!"
Thom was about to yank the reins and pull away.
"What? The legendary Sir Thomas fleeing a challenge?" Garth mocked.
Their fellow travelers were all watching with rapt attention.
Thom smiled grimly, and dismounted. Garth followed suit.
Thom began the duel half-heartedly, but Garth gave him no quarter, batting him with the flat of his sword.
Murmurs in the growing crowd triggered Thom's competitive edge, and he gave back as good as he got.
The duel would last two hours, and end in a draw. Garth's ploy had worked, and Thom's attentions were driven from his miseries, at least for now.
Tales their audience retold would soon portray the isle's two best warriors as pure equals and good friends, who fought from sunrise to sunset just to test each other.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:46 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Sixteen
Who was the 'dark stranger?' she wondered.
Her conveyance was dark, and the road was bumpy. The glow of faerie dust gave enough light to examine her treasure, however.
She lay down upon it, half expecting to be scorched. But no, it was cool to the touch, and contained no metal whatsoever. That pleased her. "That's right. I have touched it before. I picked it up, silly!"
The embedded gems were each bigger than her head. She stretched out her arms, and was barely wider than it's upper end. She could also balance her feet on its long, slender body.
"They could tie me to this like they say happened to the one-god that the scowlers worship," she laughed. "It's the right shape."
The bumping came to a stop, and her conveyance was thrust around without warning. She was thrust around, eventually landing on her petite wings.
And then the top opened. She could see Mysa's head looming above her.
"Saihlough? We're about to enter the city. Please keep quiet," she said.
Saihlough giggled. Most folks who beg cooperation from the fae regret it, but she liked Mysa. She'd try not to me toooo mischievous.
As Mysa was passing the city guard post, the little pixie exclaimed, "Dubhghall!"
The guards looked at Mysa. "Just a sneeze," she told them.
Finding a quiet spot, she again opened the bag. "What did you say?"
"Dubhghall!" answered Saihlough. "He's the dark stranger!"
[ December 26, 2005, 04:47 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Seventeen
Dyrk was wary.
"But Bishop Vidar is a good man. Why should I?"
"There's something strange going on, son, and I don't want you being ensnared by sorcery. If our new king can only count on one peer to be of keen mind, I want him to be you," Derek countered. "Now drink."
"Why is this potion not sorcery? Surely its maker is demon kind?"
"That is not a 'magical' potion. It is an elixir, made from herbs, roots and minerals that each have natural properties," said the Morgnus' guest. "Combined, their properties help strengthen the mind against-"
"-It still sounds like magicks," countered Dyrk. But drink it he did. "Gah! I think a potion would probably taste better."
"Wash it down with some wine, son," Derek gestured for his servant to bring more wine. "Would you like some, Branius V?"
"Call me Querl, please. and yes, I would like some wine."
Dyrk had swigged his down and thrust his chalice out for more. "One to get rid of the taste, and another for health," he said. "Tell me, B-, er, Querl, why do you look as you do?"
"A hereditary ailment common in my village. We are a rather isolated outpost, Colu, settled by Athens at its height. Lost and left alone, we have continued the scientific inquiries of our forbearers. The rather unfortunate drawback to out isolation is a rather jaundiced complexion, I'm afraid."
"Sorry I asked"
"Dyrk! Querl is our guest," Derek reprimanded. "And friend," he added, toasting the Greek lad.
Querl accepted the honor, but Derek could see something was bothering the lad.
"What is it, son?"
"Well, we've seen the effect of Vidar's influence on the mob this afternoon. While he has obviously long been a charismatic figure, it seems to be a recent development, this mind-magnetism. I'm trying to theorize how it came about."
"Magic," Dyrk answered.
"Well, that explains it all." Querl's sarcasm was not lost on Derek, at least.
Suddenly, something caught the scientist's eye. "My flask of formula is much emptier now than before I poured Dyrk's serum," he commented, eyeing the wine-servant. "No, not him..."
"A pitcher of water left alone will sometimes lose its volume," Derek offered. "Perhaps the same-?"
"-No," protested Querl. "It's almost as if someone entered unseen, while we conversed, and took-"
"Look!" he blurted. "A footprint on the carpet!"
"Ow" Dyrk uttered, as Querl grabbed at his sandal without warning. Checking his own, Derek's, and the servant's, none had any such mud.
"I told you," Dyrk continued. "Magick."
[ December 26, 2005, 04:49 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Eighteen
"Near as I can tell, the fewer people around, the stronger his influence."
"Go on," Rokk said.
"There are definite similarities between three incidents. Your and father's meeting with him, Wynn and Zendak's meeting this very morn, and an... incident two days ago, when two men attacked some Pictish merchants in the street, calling them 'heathens' and such," said Reep.
"A small riot ensued, and the men later swore to the city guard that they had no idea why they did it - they'd only been riled up after talking to a monk at the marketplace. The monk-"
"-Matches Vidar's description," Rokk guessed.
Reep nodded and continued. "There's more. Sporadic incidents of one or two religious fanatics running amok ever since Ambrosius' death - all churchgoers or other frequenters of the Basilica Forum area of the city."
"And now every nobleman in Britain is gathered here in Londinium. All ripe targets," Rokk grimaced.
"Also of note," Reep continued. " Vidar's sermons are getting more and more rabble-rousing. I think he's trying to use his abilities on larger groups, but not generally succeeding."
"How small a group does he need?"
"I would guess two to five, depending on the wills of those involved. Luckily, nobles are a fairly stubborn lot. I'd say two or three of those." Reep considered his interruption of Vidar's meeting with the two kings confirmation of this theory.
"Do Wynn and Zendak stand with us, then?" Rokk asked.
"As is Sir Derek and his retainers," Reep confirmed. "And Beren and the Druids."
Rokk turned to Brandius. "Spread the word to those you trust, father. No one is to accept a private audience with Vidar. No groups of less than... five, to be safe."
He read his stepfather's concerns on his face. "We can't accuse Vidar, of course, but we can't risk losing allies. Who knows who he's already talked to."
"The local lords and nobles. Those of the trucial kingdoms, too. And Mekt of Benwick, I'd wager," Reep said. "Many of the other nobles are still gathering from the farther lands."
"Then luck is on our side," Rokk said. "We have time-"
"-To tell each arriving noble not to trust the man who's going to place a crown on your head?" Brandius posited.
Reep nodded at his father's words.
"Then what do we do?" Rokk demanded.
The three men stood in silence.
"Announce a plague. Quarantine the city?" Reep suggested.
"And when there is no plague?" Rokk countered.
"Have him be 'summoned' to Rome," Brandius offered.
It can't be that simple, Rokk thought, but he could not poke a hole in the plan. Especially with time against them.
He looked up and saw Reep's devilish grin.
"Send for Father Marla, father," Rokk said, now grinning as well. "T'is a shame the good bishop shall miss my coronation."
"Reep, you may have the face of a priest, but we'll need to garb you as well," he continued.
I must send word to my kinswoman, Thay. Her husband, Senator Festus, will see to it Vidar is handled properly, Brandius thought.
Rokk was elated to find the solution to the Vidar problem, and it now appeared that his sole headache was juggling nobles long enough to be coronated.
The following day would bring its own headaches, however.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:52 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Nineteen
Gawaine had to dismount to chase his foe through the crowd.
"Stand aside!" He shouted at the various merchants, minor dignitaries and sight-seers hoping to catch a glimpse of their young king.
Gods. Has every country family in all Britain brought their homely daughters to Londinium in hopes of catching the high king's eye? he thought, dodging between peasants of wide girth.
His quarry had struck down just such as peasant girl, calling her a "godless heathen peasant harlot." They were in the quickly growing pavilion and tent city growing up outside Londinium's walls for the coming festivities, and thus beyond city guard eyes.
"Halt!" He called to his quarry, without success.
The varlet cut an entry into a pavilion, and ducked in. Gawaine followed, chasing him out through the proper exit way, with both hunter and prey startling the merchant family dwelling inside.
Out in the makeshift 'streets' between rows of tents, the chase resumed, with bystanders stepping aside with haste.
All but one, that is.
Airborne, Gawaine's chin hit the sandy ground first. He collected himself to face his attacker.
"You."
The warrior wore a green helmet and tunic over his armor. He spoke not, only raising his sword.
Gawaine stood and matched his move, bitterly recalling the cost of their last encounter.
After a few moments of sizing each other up, his opponent faked a thrust. Gawaine reacted poorly, and his foe scored first blood, a gash along his arm.
I am allowing my anger to think for me, he realized. This is no blundering Khund I face.
Rejoining the battle, the two locked swords. Each struggled to find an edge, and while a mighty kick from the northerner dislodged them, his silent foe quickly recovered.
"Why are you here?" he shouted. "To plague me? Or do the Dark Stranger's bidding? speak, villain!"
The man in green again stood, resuming combat stance.
The two barraged each other with bladework, neither able to score a decisive blow. The sound of horses led the knight to flee, from one tent and through three more. Gawaine gave chase, only to run into a crowded makeshift market square.
"Gone! Damn him. He'll yet pay," he vowed. "For you, my love. He'll pay."
He followed the sound of the horse to another clearing between pavilions, where Rokk and a red-haired peer had beaten his original quarry.
"Well, thanks for that," he murmured, approaching.
"I say the scoundrel should die!" he heard Rokk's companion say.
"Mayhap. We shall hear his case on the morrow. I suspect t'was yet another case of sorcery that made him do it. There's been a veritable plague of people acting as not themselves."
Sorcery? Aye, I have heard as much about as much from the events of three days' agone. My cousin is wise to not rush to judge. I'd have yet killed the man, Gawaine thought. He is a fair man.
Realizing he'd been avoiding meeting his cousin, Gawaine approached, ready to remedy this.
Rokk turned. "Ah, guard captain. Haul this man to the stockade. I shall deal with him after my coronation. Come, Garth." He quickly turned away, arm over his fellow's shoulder, continuing the conversation as they walked away.
He let the city guard follow Rokk's command, dwelling on the meeting.
Do I regret not trying to befriend my kinsman earlier? Perhaps. Yet I cannot blame him for keeping good company in the legendary Garth, either.
Retracing his route back to his steed, the young knight decided to was too late to regret his jealousies for Rokk or Garth.
He vowed that he must stop the Dark Stranger himself - and prove his worth, to himself and his king.
And let no green knight stand in his way!
[ December 26, 2005, 04:54 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Twenty
"You know what we need? I've heard of an Ulsterwoman with the strength of twenty, who stands a full head taller than the tallest Northman. They say she fights off Khund and Northman alike - with her bare hands!" Thom joked, taking a swig of his ale.
The three lads laughed.
"With an army of such, I can well afford to worry less about keeping the local kings happy," Rokk laughed. "While my upbringing was Roman, who teach that war-craft is solely for men, I have learned much about the warrior-women of the Celts. Perhaps we can recruit this Ulsterwoman."
"Nay," said Garth, whose face showed which of the trio was trying to be serious. "I have seen the warriors of Iberia fight from horseback. Not the mangy ponies we have here, but beautiful, magical steeds from the warmer lands, bred by people who have made an art of it.
"Give me gold and leave to purchase, say, 40 of these, and I in turn will create a fine fighting force that will prove themselves worth 4,000 foot soldiers," he said.
"Forty Ulsterwomen will be cheaper. I know, I've had a few," Thom jibed, and even Garth had to join his friends in roaring at this.
But not the one you wanted most, Garth responded in his head, but did not wish to renew his friend's melancholy.
"What if we put 40 Ulsterwomen on 40 horses?" Rokk posited.
"Mares, I hope. I wouldn't trust an Ulsterwoman around stallions," Garth shot back, outwitting the other two, for once. He relished finally earning his friends appreciative laughter.
Rokk looked up from his ale, only to see Reep waiting impatiently.
"A moment, my friends. I must speak with my brother," he said, departing the table.
The two walked down the hall, whispering until they exited into the courtyard.
"Well?"
"I have confirmed Vidar's departure, yet we have three new reports of strange behavior. Perhaps I was not wrong in saying a plague was about," Reep reported.
"Perhaps. Sir Derek brags about his new retainer, a silentist, I think he said. Supposed to be quite knowledgeable about medicine and nature, yet believes not in magicks. I'd like you to see what he may say," Rokk said.
"Ah, the scientist. One of the Druids has mentioned him," Reep said. "I'll go to him at once."
"Good." Rokk sensed something else was on Reep's mind. "What else?"
"Well, the Princess Guinevere of North Cymru has arrived. She's staying at the convent."
Rokk felt his legs quiver under him, and let out a long breath. "I'd sooner face a Khund horde single-handedly than contemplate marriage to a lady I've never seen. I swear, old kings are worse than village crones with their match-making."
"Ah, but a match by village crone can't secure the loyalty of all the western and northern kings," Reep reminded him.
Rokk thought about Luornu. He missed her. "Has-?"
"-She'll be here, too, probably by evening," Reep guessed the question. "She's traveling with Father Marla."
"Good," he said. "I trust that's all?"
"Well, no. There's a woman who claims to be your sister here to see you."
"My sister?" Rokk couldn't believe it. "I have no--- She must be a madwoman or a liar!" He was slightly angry at the prospect.
"Beren vouches for her."
"The Druids again! Perhaps I give them too much of my ear. I shall see what Morgause thinks. Even her lies can be more transparent than a Druid's truths!" he exclaimed, storming off.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:01 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Notes on parts 11-20: 11: Sometimes when writing, a character will write something themselves that totally surprises the writer. Lot does it here with his advice. BTW, Did anyone catch the very first cross-continuity hint of this section? 12: I initially had story-structural issues whether it was a lad or lass that picked the blade out. But in the end, it didn't really matter, as I opted they were all traveling together (another section hopefully made it obvious with who they traveled). Gawaine's disfigurement should be explained before I get to the Notes for 21-30. Other parts of his story might also receive at least partial explanations by then, too. 13: I know dreams are a cheap and convenient way to foreshadow, but this bit wrote itself. I'll try to keep it to a minimum in the future, or keep it "off-camera." post-14: Oops! I skipped Rokk's talk with Mordru. I'll have to reincorporate it into their next talk. 15: Lancelot and Tristan were supposed to be instant, good friends. Hence, Garth and Thom. Eriu is Ireland, in case you hadn't guessed. (For the really geo-challenged, the Ulster of #20 is northern Ireland.) 17: This was NOT the debut of the footprint-person. 18: Festus was an actual Roman senator of that time (even though the last Western emperor was already history). 16, 19, 20: They are what they are. Or are they?
[ December 26, 2005, 05:03 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Twenty-one
The door opened slowly.
She sat very still on the chair near the fireplace. She didn't even look at him right away, slowly, sometimes almost imperceptibly turning her head, as if imitating his opening of the door.
He tried to smile, but knew he must be looking very sheepishly.
"So. You must be. My-. The lady Mysa." He winced. That couldn't have sounded any more awkward if he'd tried.
"Gwydion," she whispered, and a face that had struggled not to tremble now warmed into a smile. "It truly is you."
"I'm sorry, but I don't remember you."
"No, you wouldn't. I'm not surprised. You were a babe of less than two years."
They both spoke simultaneously, then stopped short, each bending over to yield the conversation to the other. Mysa, with more years at personal politics, eventually coaxed him to speak.
"What was our mother like?"
"She was tall. Red-haired, like me, but much more beautiful. Truly a woman two kings would make war over," she said, proudly.
"You must have hated Ambrosius."
Mysa was taken aback. "Why, no. I admit, as a girl, when being punished, I would tell myself that my father would have treated me better, but in truth, both were sons of Rome, who had no use or care for daughters. Uther - your Ambrosius - did try to like me, I recall. To please my mother. Our mother."
"It still rings odd to my ears to hear Ambrosius, last of the Roman commanders, to be called Uther the Pendragon by the Celts." Rokk was warming to her.
"Oh, he was the Pendragon. He stood down his soldiers, and traveled alone to follow the old rituals of Avalon, to truly be high king of all Britain. Willingly. And all the peoples of the Old Ways embraced him. The Celts. The Picts. The Faerie."
"The faerie?" Rokk was genuinely surprised. "There truly are such beings?"
"Oh, yes. Some are closer than you might believe," she smiled.
"So, I, too, must go to Avalon to win over these peoples? Like Amb- uh, Uther did? Is that why you are here?"
"No. I am here to reunite with my brother and congratulate him on his coronation. Uther made the pledges for himself and his line to come. You need only to renew that pledge, if you choose. But that's for you to take up with Beren. I," she paused for emphasis, "Would like nothing more than enjoy the company of my long-lost brother."
While by no means ugly, she was not nearly as appealing as many of the nobles' daughters were. But her charming smile and friendly green eyes did make Rokk somewhat regret that she was kin.
They talked into the night, mostly with Mysa telling family stories he was too young to remember. With the aid of wine, she recalled and sung his favorite lullaby as an infant.
"I remember!" he said, the last few vestiges of doubt fading. "I remember..."
And he did remember. A young red-haired girl holding him, cradling him, singing that song... a red-haired woman tending him while he was sick and hurting... the same woman rushing out to greet a man on horse.
"Ambrosius," he whispered, recalling the face. NO! It's got to be a lie, he thought, imagining that same face with 20 years added to it.
Mysa, who was holding him and singing softly, lost in her own memories, immediately noticed him stiffen up. "Gwydion? What's wrong?"
"It can't be true," blurted the young man, wiping the heavy tears from his face. "It can't!"
For the second time that eve, he stormed out, with the intent of forcing truth from newfound family.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:05 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by K. Shakespeare on :
Twenty-two
Mysa gently made her way through the garrison halls. She had not yet been introduced to the staff and guards as the king's brother.
Would that he still believes that truth, she thought, given their conversation's ending. The thought of little Gwydion not only rejecting her - but thinking her a charlatan - hurt her deeply.
She crossed the dining hall, in order to continue her search in the western wing.
"Mysa of the Faeries," remarked a man sitting alone in the almost-dark hall. The fire was burning low, and he moved so little he almost blended into the support columns.
"Who is there?" she called. What man in Londinium would taunt her by her childhood nickname?
The man stood, somewhat wobbly. Clearly he was drunk. Mysa considered running, or calling for help, but her recalled her uncertain status inside the king's walls.
He stepped closer, and she got a better look at him. "Lancelot?"
He laughed. "That was Kiwa's name for me. I am Garth. Pleasesed to meet your acquaintance," he mocked, and bowing, almost fell over.
Mysa couldn't help laughing at him. "Lanc- Garth, you are drunk!"
"Yes I am," he said, as she helped him steady himself. "But in the morning I'll be sober, and you'll still be," he looked her in the eyes, "beautiful."
Mysa, flattered by the youth's desires for her, again laughed. "Come, my boy. Let me help you to your bed."
"We can't go to my bed," he slurred his words.
"Why not?"
"Itsa barract. A barrits-- a playsh where men sleep."
"And you are a man, yes?"
"But you're not." As his words were sinking in, he sloppily tried to kiss her. She evaded his mouth, and used his unbalanced state to step away while he grabbed for a column to support him.
"You think I'm going to share my bed with you?"
"Mysa. I've adored you since I was a boy." He reached out for her, one arm still holding the column.
"You're still a boy."
"Yeah, but." He started laughing for reasons that escaped her. "But I'm a biiig boy now."
"Goodnight, Garth." She started to walk away when the sentries could be heard coming down the hall.
I've done worse, she thought, realizing there was nowhere to hide. She sat on the bench and pulled Garth close to her.
The sentries passed without pausing, speaking only to comment on Sir Garth's ability to draw ladies from out of thin air.
After they were gone, she considered asking Garth to stop. But it had been too long since a dashing young man had nibbled her there, caressed her theeerre.
Ohhh.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:06 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Harbinger on :
You're really enjoying writing this Kent aren't you? It shows! This is fantastic, probably my favourite thing on the board right now, more, more, more!
[ December 10, 2004, 10:17 AM: Message edited by: Harbinger ]
Posted by MLLASH on :
Impressive, Very impressive.
I really get turned on by sentences like "The first hues of blue were hugging the eastern horizon".
Posted by Mearl Dox on :
Yet another chiming in. I just read through all of this, and it's great! I love AUs like this, and it's lots of fun to see what you'll introduce next from either Legion or Arthur mythology. Thanks for posting this!
I do hope for more appearances of the "silentist!" Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thanks, gang!
Yes, Mearl - the "silentist" will be reappearing soon.
I didn't want Rokk to be an idiot, but neither could I see him being familiar with the term scientist.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Twenty-three
"Guinevere was my sister, you must understand."
The "was" was not lost on Imra.
"I was the elder, and thus responsible for her.
"It was midwinter, and father was off at Zendak's court. Zendak had not long been king, and needed father's aid in settling a dispute with the wee folk.
"You see, the Faerie of south Cymru claimed exclusive fishing rights to the Silurian coast, claiming they had defend against sea dragons-"
Jeka realized she was diverting herself. She sighed.
"No matter. As little girls raised by a doting king are wont to do, we evaded our nannies and went out for play.
"It was just an empty snow-covered field with a pond. But to two little princesses, it was a field full of elves, prancing unicorns, handsome knights and merchant fairs full of goods from the far-off Constantinople and the Persias.
"We would play and hold imaginary court until too we became too cold, and we'd sneak back to the castle, satisfied than none knew of our adventures, or our special field.
"Looking back, any fool could have followed our footprints - and did. I knew not enough of the Art to hide our way. Our nannies were wise enough to pretend to let us escape them, only to keep a watchful eye from the hedge-rows.
"Usually.
"But one d-day..." Her voice quivered, and she took a moment to steady herself before continuing.
"I know not what caused our nannies to be distracted, to not be there. It could have been anything. Directing a messenger, dealing with a castle issue... It does not matter, I suppose. The fact remains is that for once we were as alone as we believed ourselves to be. In our games, I suppose, we lost our sense of the lay of the field."
She turned to face Imra, with a pleading look in her watering eyes. "The ice was too thin!" She began weeping. "I didn't know we'd strayed so close to the pond!"
Imra held her close, letter her sob. "Truly, I didn't know," Jeka continued.
"You didn't know," Imra reassured her. "You were just a child."
Later (was it ten minutes? an hour?), Jeka found the words to continue.
"Father, as you may imagine, was quite appalled, and I never again held favour in his eyes again. And he was only too happy to have me sent to the Priestesses. Better than the convent, I suppose.
"A-And to make matters worse, his mind snapped. He couldn't believe she was gone. He'd speak of her, first, as if she were ill and bed-ridden, but would recover.
"While in Avalon, I received word he believed her healthy and well, and would talk into thin air as if she still lived. The castle staff covered for him -he was and is much beloved - and my cousin Pharoxx encourages his madness, so he will gain the throne."
"So the other nobles don't know Guinevere is dead?" asked Imra.
"No. My family is adept at preserving the illusion. Probably why I despise lies and deception so much.
"Kiwa knows I can well play the part of Guinevere - to all but father. She expects me to be Avalon's puppet.
"And Pharoxx also counts on me. He knows I can play the part, and he controls me, too. He can blow my deception at any time, which will make me look even more evil to father - evil enough to disinherit, to name Pharoxx as his heir.
"There is only one way out. One way to have a high queen who is neither under Pharoxx' whim nor Kiwa's. A queen who will be an asset to young Rokk, not a liability."
"What do we do?"
"My illusions will make someone else be Guinevere - someone who actually wants to be high queen. All of my father's staff will vouch for her - they are with me on this. They hate Pharoxx more than I."
"But how do we fool King Vovx?" Imra truly hadn't gotten it yet.
"Why, we will create a Princess Guinevere who is adapt at the arts of the mind, who can both influence father's perception and be privy to the delusionary conversations and events that he recalls."
Imra's face went white.
"Come on, now. You did say you wanted to be queen."
[ December 26, 2005, 04:34 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Twenty-four
"You still haven't said it isn't so," Rokk stared at his most disliked benefactor.
Mordru grinned. So he does have the eye and the wit to be a good king. He may even make a fine wizard, if he applied himself.
"No, I haven't," he said at last. "Very well. I am not Ambrosius."
"But you look like him," Rokk continued his stare.
"Is that such a slight?" Seeing Rokk was not abating, he continued, for the first time returning Rokk's stare with equal intensity. "If he had any... disreputable twin, Ambrosius, as you may imagine, would not favour it being widely known.
"Ambrosius and I took every pain to keep any similarities hidden, be they coincidental or familial. He shaved Roman-style, while I allowed my face to become thicker than many forests are. Ambrosius refused to have his broken nose properly healed, that it not be compared to mine other than the standard Roman pronouncement. And I used tricks learned from thespians to add differences where there were none.
"I can speak naught else, or I would break an oath I swore to Ambrosius."
Rokk soaked up the wizard's words, not quite sure if he believed them.
The man that the woman (his mother?) rushes so eagerly toward had a beard, and no broken nose. IF a two-year-old's recollection could be trusted, he reminded himself.
Leaving out the last doubt, he challenged Mordru with this memory.
"I have never seen Ambrosius as you describe," he said. "If that's the extent of your memory, I fear I've run out of assistance to you."
Rokk paused before exiting.
"One more thing, wizard. The madnesses continue, although Vidar is gone. When last we talked, you seemed sure that he was the cause."
"Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps these are just mad times," the wizard said, dismissively. "I truly know not what contagion is afoot."
Rokk realized that he believed him, and wondered (feared?) if he was actually warming to the sorcerer.
In the hall, it struck him that Mordru, like Reep, at least partly considered the madness a pox, but Rokk couldn't strike the feeling that someone was behind it.
I should ask Reep what Derek's scholar had to say. But the hour was late, and he had the halls alone to himself and his thoughts.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:35 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Twenty-five
Reep joined his hosts in breaking their fasts on the terrace. Sir Derek's villa was magnificent, a veritable palace atop a hill near Londinium.
A plate of smoked fish, sliced fruits, bread and cheese had been set out by the servants. Reep ate sparingly, else miss a chance to enter the conversation due to a stuffed mouth.
"What you say is impossible," Querl said, slightly irritated.
"Not so. I grant that it may seem improbable, but I assure you. I have walked through a Khundish horde without being seen," replied the target of Querl's ire.
"Surely his visit to this very estate several days agone is proof enough," Derek interjected.
"Nay. We must have been distracted, like the charlatan-games the tribes of Little Egypt run on the very streets of Constantinople," Querl replied. "You belie yourself with failure to demonstrate your claims, when asked this very morn. One cannot become invisible!," he concluded, pounding his fist on the table.
"Easy, friend," Dyrk grabbed his arm.
"My apologies." The Greek was slightly embarrassed at his behaviour.
"I think what our friend is saying is that when he wishes to be unseen no one sees him," Reep said. "Not that he turns invisible."
Querl raised an eyebrow.
"We cannot see, say, Bishop Vidar, but he has not turned invisible. We merely can't see him because he's not here."
"But-"
"Please. Let me continue. And if Bishop Vidar was here, we might still not see him. He could be disguised as a green- er- Greek philosopher, he could be hiding behind yonder tree, we could be so caught up in debate that we overlook him, or we don't want to see him."
"What?"
"Think. No doubt we can all think of a case where people wanted to believe something so much that they genuinely believe it they saw it? Perhaps it's the same. Though a combination of disguise and... persuasion, not unlike Vidar's, I maintain that our friend can remain unseen if he chooses."
Reep realized he was gesturing toward an empty seat.
Querl's eye's bulged. "While we all focused on Reep's words-"
"-He vanished himself! Bravo!" Dyrk interrupted.
"Which he could not do whilst we watched him," Querl concluded. "Reep, you have won your point. I concede."
"Druid! You can return yourself!" Derek called out, not knowing which way to direct his words.
"Let us all watch that hawk," Reep suggested, "and allow him venue to do so."
"Behind our backs," Dyrk murmured in jest.
"I do feel rude calling him naught but 'Druid.' Have you a name, lad?" inquired Derek, hoping for a verbal sign before he turning to see if the vacant chair was again occupied.
"My name is sworn to secrecy. You may call me by my home, the island of the far north.
L'ile Norge, thought Derek, as the table returned to facing toward each other. He looks not like a Northman, though.
"So. Your persuasion argument also supports the madness has its roots in the mind, not a plague," Querl said, resuming the conversation. "I believe our error was assuming that Vidar was the sole person responsible."
"Who else, then?" Reep asked.
Querl continued. "If Druids are capable of-"
"Mind your tongue!" L'ile warned.
Reep intervened. "I think he only meant that if one group had mastered it-"
"-That another may. Exactly," Querl said. Looking to L'ile, he asked, "Is there any who might have stolen Druidic secrets?"
"None! The penalty is death, unless..."
"Go on."
"There is a sect of Druids of which I have recently learned. They consider themselves the avengers of a massacre of Druids that took place centuries ago, on the north Cymru island of Anglesey.
"They were the sole group not to join Uther's alliance, and indeed worked to undermine it. Mayhap this dark circle is now also targeting King Rokk."
But is this the same north island the lad himself comes from? But if so, why would the conspirator lay down all his cards? Querl wondered.
But the whole debate of persuasion, misdirection and hiding in plain sight still left Querl with the feeling that there was more to L'ile's words than he said...
[ December 26, 2005, 04:36 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Twenty-six
"...would please us greatly to continue the peace," said King Zaryan. "Not even your esteemed father, the great Ambrosius, unwove Vortigern's treaty.
"We fought on the side of the Pendragon time and time again against any invader - even Khundish. Kent will stand with Britain, if Britain will stand with Kent," he concluded.
"Well spoken, Zaryan. I will gladly say that I have no wish for war between our peoples. Yet many still question why your people would turn against your own kin? This makes no sense to my Celtic subjects," Rokk replied.
"My king, the Khunds of Kent have now been here for three generations. We were born on this isle. We are British, with no more connection to Khundia than..."
She had enough.
It was fascinating to eavesdrop on negotiations between kings, but enough was enough. She had warmed to Rokk despite herself, but Zaryan was a Khund first, and thus was less trustworthy than Morgause or her mother.
Restless, she wandered down the hall, wondering where her true love had ventured. She drifted out of the garrison.
"How could you say that of me, my love?"
"I know much of boyish love. It lasts only until the next pretty face," Mysa laughed. "Last eve was a treasure, I'm sure, but I can't have my brother's best knight at my door, else the entire court be scandalized!"
"Then marry me!" Garth pleaded, but Mysa only laughed.
Best knight? She scowled. Only because Gawaine has yet to earn his king's favour. Infuriated, she continued on, leaving the couple to their silly games.
Few were out on the city street, as the city guard had closed them to all but the nobles and military before tomorrow's ceremony.
She wandered past Ambrosius' palace, where crews were working day and night to make it ready for the new king, and the coronation celebrations on the morrow.
Continuing on toward the Basilica, she saw the arrival of the priest who is replacing Vidar. He looked not remarkable at all, yet was looking around cautiously as he ushered three cloaked girls into his rectory.
Well, now. This one has more applaudable secrets than Vidar had, she concluded.
Reversing direction, she now followed Prima Gate west, passing the Mithraeum, where one of the many kings in town for the coronation was exiting.
"Your daughter will make a most excellent high queen, my liege," said the knight at his side.
"She shall. You know, she talks of naught else," the old man agreed.
The father of this Guinevere is a follower of Mithras? Or is this more of the strange Druidic plot?
She tagged along.
They proceeded along the street until reaching one of the grand residences, where a row of escorts lining the entry stairs greeted them.
Atop the stairs were two young women, adorned as royalty.
Truly both are beautiful. Yet which is Guinevere?
"My daughters," the king warmly greeted them.
The knight looked confused.
"My father and liege," replied the younger of the two. She looked nervous to unseen eyes.
The maidens descended to meet their king and exchange further pleasantries.
Apart from the entourage, she noticed Garth had wandered upon the seen, and his eyes seemed transfixed upon the younger daughter.
Mysa was right. This 'best knight' has the conviction of a mangy cat. May he serve his king better! she thought, smug in knowing who was truly a better knight.
Turning south, she entered the Temple district, and was surprised to see Rokk and Reep walking toward the Druidic shrine.
"Are you sure about this?" Reep asked.
"No. But if Beren is out to kill me, I'd rather know tonight than in the midst of battle," Rokk replied.
She stepped ahead of them, inside the temple. She marveled that Druids would need even a simple building, yet noted this was Londinium - it's hard to have a private grove in the city.
Yet there it was - a sizeable courtyard fully gardened into a grove, with an ominous large ceremonial stone in its center.
If Beren intends harm to the king, I must serve as witness, be it sacrilege or not.
She watched Rokk enter alone, and be ushered away for a ritual bathing. As the moon rose in the sky, the ritual began, officiated by Beren himself.
The blade he wielded looked very familiar - the same one Gawaine had thrown into the river.
They are assassins! I must find Gawaine! she thought, fleeing the scene. Where are you?
She closer her eyes and let herself be spirited away.
She was out of the city altogether, in a small village a half-day out she recognized from the original trip south.
"My love! Where are thou?"
"Not now!" Gawaine bellowed, trading sword plows with a villain she recognized not.
Even if I interrupt, he'll not make it to Londinium in time.
But then she noticed that Gawaine was not alone. Saihlough had gone with him - could this be the Dark Stranger he fought?
Saihlough winked at her.
"Come, little faerie. We have a king to save!"
[ December 26, 2005, 04:41 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Twenty-seven
Garth was quite pleased with himself.
He was pleased with the garb that Sir Brandius' aides had picked out, pleased that he negotiated the maddening streets and made it to the Basilica with an hour to spare - and that he avoided Mysa.
I must find out who that princess was. Until then, let Mysa keep busy tending to the details of her brother's court.
In a complete contrast from last night, he doubted there was a single square foot of all Londinium not occupied by human eyes this day. Has even Rome ever seen such a glorious day?
The priest, a Father Marla, was going over details with Brandius, Sir Derek and others, leaving Garth with little to do but await his best friend.
Few had been allowed inside the vestry, and he found himself with no one to talk to. Not even Reep, he realized. Where are those brothers?
"My lord?" A young woman's voice uttered.
He looked up to see his princess from the last evening.
"...," he managed. Never before at a lack of words with maidens, he suddenly felt paralyzed.
"My lord and liege, I swear I shall make you a good wife, and a queen you may be proud of," she said, kneeling before him.
Garth continued to be tongue-tied, just as Rokk walked in.
"Garth! You have found a woman who truly worships you," he said.
"Rokk! My king! I-I..." Garth nervously managed.
The maiden looked up. "You're not-?" She looked back and forth between the gaping Garth and the grinning Rokk.
"My liege! Forgive me! I thought..." Imra instead bowed before him.
"Please! None of that!" Rokk exclaimed. "For a lady such as yourself to be let into the vestries, why, you must be..." Rokk's smile froze.
"Princess Guinevere, my lord." Imra's face reddened, knowingly lying to her king and future husband.
She's Guinevere. Garth’s heart sank.
"My lady! I wish that we had time to talk, but we must talk to Father Marla about the details of the Coronation. You, I gather, shall be at my side."
"Yes, of course," she replied.
Minutes later, they stood on a large dais, with thousands looking on. None of them had ever seen such a crowd, let along been the center of such attention.
Brandius and Father Marla stood across the dais with Reep and Mysa, explaining their roles to them. A handful of city guards and deacons lined the back row against the basilica wall. Slowly, Beren and the various kings came up, forming a line in front of them.
The many lords and knights enjoyed privileged locations immediately to the front of the crowd.
Garth, still eyeing Guinevere, noticed that she looked disturbed, and not just by the earlier faux pas.
"Assassins," she whispered. Then shouting. "Assassins! They're going to kill Sir Brandius!"
Without thinking, Garth and Rokk had both drawn swords, taking a step at the city guardsmen holding daggers.
The contest was never in any doubt.
But why Sir Brandius? thought Garth, once the delayed ceremony was finally under way. There's something else going on here.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:42 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Twenty-eight
"Simply amazing, by damn."
"Well, that certainly expands our repertoire of extraordinary gifts," Reep said. "Even more, looking at the one Garth wounded."
"How so, son?"
"The wound was... charred. Apparently Garth's lightning-quick swordplay may be a measure more than metaphor."
"Well, he's in good company, then," Rokk smiled, looking down at the hall of feasting guests. He took a quick head-count of the young knights gathered with extraordinary feat attributed to them, and wondered how many more were in the general populace.
"Mayhap we have a legion with freakish gifts," he said at last.
"You'd play the fool not to," Brandius replied. "I thought you better of Tacitus' writings than to ignore such an advantage. Why, such a legion would be remembered for 3,000 years!"
Above them, Saihlough smiled. This shall be fun!
Despite her intrusion in Rokk's royal anointment by the Druids, he thanked her for her concern, and liked her. And she in turn took a liking to him.
Rokk was also grateful the little faerie had not burst in during the priestess ritual that followed.
Rokk saw his long absence was being noticed. "I must rejoin the feast. Father, promise me you'll stay safe?"
"Bah! I'll not hide, for assassins can just as easily strike a quiet library as a crowded hall. And I'll not miss this celebration, not even for Rome restored to her former glory!"
As the trio returned to the feast, Reep realized that Gawaine was missing. Rokk's most celebrated cousin has made himself scarce, and now snubs even the coronation? he thought.
He recalled the 'knife conspiracy' L'ile had set up, when last Reep suspected Gawaine's loyalties. Had the knight indeed passed the test - or merely seen through it?
"Why did they go after my father?" Reep whispered to himself, disliking an unanswered question.
"Dubhghall," Saihlough answered, although out of Reep's earshot. "One king-maker's vengeance against another."
[ December 26, 2005, 04:43 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Twenty-nine
Imra was neither accustomed to all eyes being on her - constantly - nor at having to work at maintaining a lie.
She hated herself for it.
All the men - young and old -wanted her, and all the women -again, young and old - envied her.
"You're doing fine," Jeka whispered, as they moved through the crowd.
"She needs you not to know that," Voxv reprimanded. "She's become quite capable in your absence."
Pharoxx glowered, like a wild boar, caged, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness.
"Father, you know I adore you," Imra began.
"Of course, Gwen," he doted.
"If I haven't already taxed your benevolent humour once to often, I might ask of you one additional gift."
"Anything that is mine, or than I can make mine, is yours. You know that," he replied. "So what can I give my precious daughter on the day of her betrothal?"
"I would like very much, if you an see it in your heart, to see you and Jeka reconciled. I love you both, and it hurts me to see you at odds."
"Forgive Jeka? After what she did! No. no, I can't."
"But why? A childhood error, it was. Yet no irreparable ill came of it; here I am. And Jeka's now a grown woman - not that same little girl who -"
"I cannot." Tears were welling up in Voxv's eyes.
Privy to more than his words, Imra realized that part of Voxv saw through his own illusions - and she almost gave it enough strength to blow her cover wide open before him.
And part of her wished for it.
Pharoxx grinned at her, as if he knew just how close she had come.
Jeka had remained entirely quiet, so as not to betray neither her hope nor her despair.
I'm sorry, Jeka. I tried.
They entered the chambers where Father Marla waited with Rokk and his kin.
She greeted those she knew, and was introduced to his uncle Lot and aunt Morgause as well.
With serpents like these, Rokk will need every good soul he can at his side, she thought.
And nervously, she greeted Rokk. Why, he's just as nervous, yet without secrets like mine. If only we could talk before this ceremony.
It's just a betrothal ceremony. There's still time to talk before the wedding.
And then she noticed Pharoxx talking chummily with Lot...
[ December 26, 2005, 04:45 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thirty
"I told you, it's Dubhghall!" Saihlough exclaimed.
Sir Thom scrutinized the body with skepticism. "This 'Dark Stranger' some of you were so concerned with was naught but an old man?"
"Do not scoff. I know old men that are deadlier than any of us combined," said L'ile.
Reep tried to tune out his companions. His thoughts were on the conversation between cousins in the room beyond.
"If you believe me not, or cannot trust me, then I shall go to Lothian, and bother you nevermore," Gawaine said.
"It's all a bit much to take in. Why... Why don't you begin again, at the beginning?" Rokk said.
"After the battle with the Khunds, I was approached by two groups, both expressing interest in assassination. I had no interest in killing you, but I felt obligated to find out what they had to say - before a true assassin did.
"The one group, the Druidic conspiracy, you tell me was but a test. I knew that not, yet hurled their magick dagger into the river.
"Before that, I was approached by the Dark Stranger, promising me the throne if I helped. A-And he promised that my beloved would be returned to me."
"He has a hostage?" Rokk asked.
"No. No, he doesn't. She is - dead, or close to it. He said he could revive her.
"I hoped to trick him, save my love without harming you.
"I talked it over with my mother, and she agreed I should meet both parties and hear them out."
I've no doubt she did, Rokk thought.
Gawaine continued. "After deciding not to continue, I began hunting these people. Finding one trail cold, I sought the other. With the pixie's help, I fought this Dubhghall's men, and Dubhghall himself."
"Why did you not come to me, cousin?"
"I wanted to redeem myself first."
"By bringing me the body of an old man that means nothing to me."
Gawaine sighed.
"What?"
Rokk looked at him, wondering what his kinsman was reacting to.
"My love tells me that Saihlough has told her Sir Brandius would know the man."
Two weeks ago, I'd have considered him a madman. Rokk thought, recalling Saihlough said a female apparition had led her to try to interrupt the Druids.
"Very well." Rokk opened the doors to the outer chamber. "Reep, would you summon our father?"
The collection in the outer room had grown. The Greek scholar, L'ile, Mysa, Dyrk and Wynn's son James had all joined Garth and the others since the interrogation began.
"While we wait, pray tell us how you received those scars," Rokk said.
"There is a great glen that crosses northern Caledonia, and within that glen, a dark lake, inhabited by dragons.
"I fought on such dragon, who swallowed me whole, and bit on me before swallowing. I had to slay it from the inside," he said, matter-of-factly.
This knight makes dragon-slaying sound routine, Garth thought.Either he's tougher than I, or as honest as his parents.
"My father could use your help," James said. "Our kingdom, Cumbria, is also plagued by a mighty lake dragon. Father has already gone home in response to a new sighting."
"Dragon's blood has made you stronger," Saihlough quietly remarked.
"Yes, yes, it has. I am much stronger, and have been able to do things that make no sense to me," Gawaine said.
He'll fit right in, then, if we can trust him, Rokk thought.
"Telling my story to father's court, the Christians among them likened my tale to that of their Jonah. I am no good Christian, but I feel the need to rename myself," Gawaine said, looking at Rokk, "To remake myself as part of Rokk's court, not of Lothian."
"Worry you not that your sire will take it as an insult, tossing aside his name for you?" Rokk asked.
"If he is sincere in his oath of loyalty, he should have no ills. And if he has treachery in his heart, than I fully renounce him, and will say so before any court in his land."
[ He's serious, Imra told Rokk, measuring the knight unseen from an upstairs parlor. He truly regrets being caught up in his parents' deception.
Reep returned with Brandius, who exclaimed at the sight of Dubhghall. "Why. it's Doyle!"
"Who's Doyle?"
"One of Vortigern's bastards from Eriu. He sought to rally the Khunds of Kent against Ambrosius, and prevent the alliance that won the peace," Brandius replied.
"So this Doyle was able to ally with L'ile's Dark Circle, and obtain the secrets of persuasion, to again rile up Roman against Pict, Celt against Kentish Khund," Querl surmised.
"Not my Dark Circle," L'ile rebutted. "And targeting Brandius gave Doyle revenge for past grievances, while undermining King Rokk's ability to govern."
"Far better to portray a young, weak king than create a martyr that could further unite the peoples of this isle!" Querl agreed.
"Precisely," Reep concurred.
The group talked until fast-breaking on how to ferret out this Dark Circle, until one by one the warriors drifted away to rest.
"Dubhghall and I certainly had bad blood," Brandius confided in Reep. "In addition to politics, we were both rivals with your mother."
[ December 26, 2005, 05:32 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 21-30: It feels good to have gotten through both the coronation and the Doyle story! At the outset, I envisioned parts 12 or 13 - not 27-30! It's probably Imra's fault. Doyle was a gift from the Language Gods. The name comes from the Irish Dubhghall, which actually does mean "dark stranger!" Lyle, likewise, comes from L'ile, "from the Isle," and I found the similarities between Norg and Norge (the Norwegian name for Norway) too good to pass up - even if he's not a Viking. While we're on names: James for Gim isn't too far a stretch - if you're like me and always associated 'Gim' with 'Jim.' Dyrk and Derek are actually names with Anglo-Saxon origins, but I chose to overlook this. Maybe the Krauts got 'em from the Morgnas. Saihlough, obviously, is my own Celtification of Salu, still pronounced the same way. 21: Sometimes its fun just to sit back and let the characters write themselves. 22: "..but in the morning I'll be sober..." Playing on words attributed to Sir Winston Churchill, but changed from insult to flattery. 23: With this one, I think I've finally nailed down my Imra and Jeka 24: :Rokk! I am your father. Join me and come over to the dark side of the force. Nah, it's been done. 25: If Lester was Derek, it would be Breakfast at Spiffany's. 26: I don't know yet what niche Mithras is carving for himself here. Plotting out Tinya's meanderings around Roman London, (1) I needed a place for her to run across Voxv, and (2) the Mithraeum was right along her route. 27/28: Largely came across as I originally envisioned. 29: For a subplot that I was hesitant about, this one's writing itself. 30: At what point did anyone realize Gawaine was Jo? Was it obvious all along?
[ December 26, 2005, 04:48 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thirty-one
Three days of coronation festival had its share of competitions, as young knights from all around Britain and Lesser Britain - and some from beyond - sought to impress the young king.
Garth, Thom and Jonah proved to be the top three, and the only three who could beat their liege.
With his mounted maneuvers, Garth also succeeded in convincing Rokk that his cavalry concept was sound. Even so, the young king still found himself smiling, thinking of the jests he and Thom shared at his friend's expense.
He humbly excused his own defeats of other knights, saying they held back, "so as not to wound their king," while magnanimously praising the three who beat him, saying, "I'd rather have as trusted allies any who beat me."
But Rokk and several of the knights were perplexed at Sir James' strange, bulky armour and tunics, to which he laughed, saying his attire may be ill-suited to friendly combat, but has served him well in real warfare.
"I hope so," said Thom, noting James failed to defeat all opponents but one - a short, silent lad who refused to remove his helmet.
The lad wished to remain anonymous until he proves himself as a knight, said Father Marla, who vouched for the lad's good character. The king, of course, indulged the lad's wish, noting, "He yet has far to go."
He was much more impressed with the two brothers, Balin and Balan. They proved formidable fighters, each besting all but Rokk and Jonah, but succumbed so easily to their king that he jestingly questioned their efforts.
Like Marla's lad, these two always wore their own iron helmets, saying as Orkneymen, their appearances would be unsettling to gentlefolk.
"I don't like them," whispered Saihlough to Jonah. He resolved to keep eyes upon them.
Perhaps he kept too many eyes on them, the pixie thought, watching Lot's eldest be bested - and even made to look a bit foolish - by Dyrk.
The young Morgnus won most of his battles, but beating the mighty Gawaine took many by surprise. Rather than the rage he once would have shown, Jonah made sport of his embarrassment and commended the fellow's skill and ingenuity.
Lothian's sons would have the last laugh, however, as Agravaine avenged Lothian's honour by learning from his brother's loss - and seeing the limits of Dyrk's skills.
What he knows, he knows well, thought Lot's second son, But what he doesn't shall be his downfall.
Reep, his injury still unhealed, was content to play spectator see the palace set in order, and to aide L'ile in setting up reconnaissance and scouting teams. The summer was barely under way, and it was only a matter of time before the Khunds returned in numbers.
Thus far, only small bands had been seen, and easily fended off by local lords and kings. They're up to something, Reep sensed. It's only a matter of time.
Rokk's official seneschal, he had plenty of duties, everything from strategy to supervising palace staff, making sure all the guests' needs were tended to.
And his staff was being kept busy. Imra, Jeka, the ladies of Voxv's court, Mysa, Morgause, and most any noble woman who could get a word in edgewise plotted and schemed the pending nuptials, all while cheering on - or otherwise paying partial heed to the menfolk's contests.
Would that he were high king, Imra caught herself staring at Garth on the field. If Jeka saw, she said nothing.
Mysa, who had surmised why Garth was ignoring her, had been amused the young man's fickle heart - but noticing the glances between the knight and her brother's fiancée, feared the worst.
They are yet young. May they grow past these fleeting emotions else a kingdom dies stillborn.
Concerned with more concrete dangers, Rokk kept an extra eye on Brandius. It was true that no more would-be assassins had struck, and the madness seemed to have run its course among the public, yet the young king was not ready to surrender his foster-father due to his neglect.
He was gladdened by Luornu's arrival, yet she also seemed far distant - as if she and he had become strangers in the few short weeks since they hugged their good-byes.
"You have nothing to fear. Vidar has been sent to Rome," he assured her. But whatever demons plagued her seemed to be growing worse.
Rokk considered asking for Imra's aide, but then thought the wiser of it. The most invasive of tools must be the last to be taken off the shelf, he thought. Especially amongst those one cares for.
His train of thought was interrupted, however, when L'ile and Reep sought him out.
"It's the Khunds," L'ile blurted out. "Or rather what's left of some. Our patrols found the remains of three raiding boats on the Trinovantes shores."
"Did they run afoul of dragons? Or was it a storm?" Rokk asked.
"If what they say is true of a woman scorned, then aye, it was a storm," replied the young Druid. "It was the Ulsterwoman that Zendak and Beren have told me of."
"I would very much like to meet this woman," Rokk smiled. "Verily, she would be most welcome among my knights and companions."
"If she lives, you may ask her," L'ile replied.
"She was struck down?"
"Nay. At least, it appears not. I have taken the liberty to dispatch our best healers. And Querl."
"Poison, then," Rokk conjectured. "You acted wisely," he told L'ile.
"Reep, my brother, would you have my steed readied? I would ride to Trinovantes myself."
"To escape your wedding day?" his brother chided.
"Nay," Rokk laughed. "If any Khund survived, and knew the Ulsterwoman was ill, I'd hate to see vengeance taken in my kingdom."
"My lord, I beg of thee. Take a company of knights at your side," L'ile implored.
"With your patrols on hand, I have extra swords if I need them. Nay, T'is a simple matter I can handle myself."
Yet on arrival at the stables, Marla's mysterious silent knight awaited, ready for travel.
"Ready for a quest, lad?" Rokk laughed. "Very well, then, my no-named companion, we must away."
[ December 26, 2005, 04:49 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thirty-two
"It's a game our friend Querl brought back. Apparently, it's quite the rage in the East," L'ile said.
"You throw two six-sided stones, and based on the outcome, you move all your tiles from one triangle to another around the board," he continued, tying to keep up with Reep's fast pace. "But if one tile lies alone on a triangle, and your opponent lands on it-"
"Sounds like a splendid diversion, should I ever have an afternoon free again." They reached the kitchens on the lower level.
"I spend so much time down here, I should change my title to 'Kitchen Staff Supervisor,'" Reep joked.
"But how many kitchen staff supervisors also oversee security?" asked L'ile. "I've only ever heard of one, in the legendary land of Palnu."
Reep picked up a piece of cheese. "I've been so busy, I've not eaten since fast-breaking."
He was shocked to find L'ile grabbing his arm, preventing him from eating.
"I smell Wyrmweed," L'ile said, forcing his friend to drop the cheese. "A deadly poison from Scythia."
"Yes, it is," replied one of the kitchen staff, chewing and swallowing a morsel himself. "A slab of veal from the north was also poisoned.
"Amateur job, I must say. Smells like poison, and it tastes too salty," he said, helping himself to more veal.
"L'ile, meet Tenzil, our new beefeater."
"A madman, that he knowingly consumes fouled meats!"
"Nay," replied Tenzil. "A man cursed by the Faerie Queen to eat but never be sated, to taste but never enjoy, to consume any poisons but never ail."
"What better poison-tested could one wish for?" Reep beamed.
"What indeed?" L'ile agreed. "You are knowledgeable about many poisons?"
"I know poison when I taste it. And I'm fairly good at judging plant from mineral, powder from liquid, and pox from poison, even after the beast has swallowed it."
"We may need your help, then," L'ile told him. "It's been two days. The king must be en route home by now," he said to Reep.
"Then you, too, think the Ulsterwoman was poisoned?" Reep asked.
"Aye, It does seem likely," L'ile answered, before shifting his attention to the beefeater. "Good sir, once the guests' evening meal is ready, would you join me on an errand?"
[ December 26, 2005, 04:51 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thirty-three
The rain was getting harder.
Querl had accepted that Britain would be a far rainier place than any Mediterranean city he ever called home, but never imagined how rainy, damp and chilly a place it could be - even approaching midsummer.
Yet he dared not light a fire.
His cloak, along with three of the four others gathered from his late Druid escorts, made a fine enough tent, easily enough camouflaged with branches and weeds. Every so often, he'd hear the shouts of his pursuers, yet none have ventured even remotely close to his encampment.
Luckily you are far to ill too give voice to your pain, he thought, as if speaking to his guest.
She was tall, even by the standards of these northerners. During her better times, she muttered words in Gaelic, which her Greek caretaker knew far too little of to understand - even if she'd ever spoken coherently.
At least the Druids' herb-craft took measures to better your condition, he observed, feeling her forehead. You may not die this eve after all.
Lightning flashed, followed closely behind by a fearsome thunderclap. The voices outside became more distant, as the hunters, too, no doubt sought shelter.
The makeshift tent, now soaked and never seamlessly watertight, was beginning to let a noticeable amount of moisture though.
Our one chance to outrun these fiends. But only a madman would try to travel through this.
A lightning flash again illuminated the young woman. He stroked her cheek. Aye, only a madman.
He rolled his charge over on her back, before unrolling a fifth Druidic cloak, one that was more bloodstained than the others, and set it over her, clipping it in place to her belt using an extra cloak clasp.
Sitting beside her, he then lifted her over his shoulder, gradually rising to his feet with her balanced in place. Despite a few stumbles, he managed to pull it off.
My thanks to the lady that she wears no armour.
He had previously carried her several hundred feet, with great strain, yet she now seemed lighter. What madness is this? But I should reserve my complaint for another hour.
Stepping out into the driving rain, he made little headway, and after a minute's effort realized he wasn't certain which way to even go.
I should follow the stream away from the sea. From there, I go straight until I hit a road.
He could make out the stream's edge, now bloating outward into the lower woodlands. If the storm worsened, his on tent would be engulfed before long, he noted, bolstering his decision to move on.
About 30 feet en route, he had to rest, and leaned against a tree, his female cargo still providing his sole rain-block. She did not a good job; he was drenched, and it was getting harder to see.
As rested as he could get, he repeated his efforts, knowing only that he was moving against the stream's current ...which must be uphill... taking breathers every 20 to 30 feet.
He'd lost track of his progress, or even how many breaks he'd taken, and the experience was beginning to blur into a swath of wetness, nasal congestion, light-headedness and the rhythm of the merciless rain.
And then he lost consciousness...
He awoke hearing horses, and immediately assumed the worst. He reached for a stick, a stone - anything, to defend himself, and sat up, amazed to find himself holding a sword in his hand.
The two riders looked nothing like the barbarians he'd faced and evaded (yesterday?). They were fair of complexion and hair, with young, hairless faces, and fine, glistening armour. And they rode silvery horses.
"Who art thou, and how did you come upon the Claidhim Lugh?" one demanded.
"Clay-um Lou?" Querl was perplexed, but relatively certain he was awake. "You mean her?"
From their reactions, he guessed they didn't mean her.
The speaker dismounted.
"In the name of my lady, I ask you again! Who are you?"
"I am Querl of Colu, sometimes called Branius V." He was growing to hate the name, but if they'd heard of him and were to be impressed, it would be with that name.
"And how did you gain the Claidhim Lugh?" he continued.
He'll not believe that I know not. "My lady entrusted it to me for safekeeping." He gestured to his amazonian companion, still asleep.
"Wake her, that she may vouch for you."
"I cannot. I believe she's been poisoned. Now I believe it's your turn. Who are you, and where are we?"
"You are in Annwyn Annowre. We are the gatekeepers, Maigh and Dewphe, and we will now escort you to meet our mistress."
"Then make yourselves useful and see that my lady is transported." He knew he'd carried her, but strangely felt not weary at all. Still, no sense in repeating the effort, when two fine horses were here.
He also noticed he and the lady were both bone dry, and although the day was bright, there was no sun to be seen.
Realizing they waited for him, he said, "Lead on, Maigh, Dewphe."
[ December 26, 2005, 04:52 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
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 ]
Posted by Harbinger on :
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
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Forty-seven
Things were not going well.
Those supposed to be the best craftsmen in Londinium have failed to build my designs. Do expect too much of them — or myself? Querl asked himself.
Not much else was going well, either. Reep's poison expert Tenzil, who claimed he could detect hundreds of poisons, failed to determine what had been used on the Ulsterwoman. Nor did she herself know, it seemed. Have the Khunds a poison we cannot identify?
As if this wasn't enough, while he had successfully convinced Beren and L'ile to show him the basics of the persuasion techniques, this, too was going nowhere. The Druidic concept of focusing on the rhythms of the Mother Earth were at odds with his mind's workings.
Rather than spread his frustration among his crews, he's sent them home early. Better they think me a kind task-master than a tyrant, he half-smiled. And it gives me chance to think.
Think.
It seemed he'd not done as much of that as usual. This, at least, he had an answer for.
Laoraighll.
He dismissed the distraction, trying instead to identify the first problem to overcome.
If I replace the wooden frame with metal, that should give it the strength it needs to balance the payload duct.
And make it more portable.
Yes! I believe I may have someth-
"Brainius V?"
Another distraction. Damn.
"Brainius?" It was Nura -- with Laoraighll in tow.
"Please call me Querl, your highness."
"Only if you call me Nura," she smiled. "And of course you know-"
"G-Greet-ings, Bran-nius Vee," managed Laoraighll, in very basic, halting Latin.
"Dia daoibh, Laoraighll," he replied.
She smiled, more comfortable with his Gaelic than her own Latin. "Dia daoibh," she responded.
"Laoraighll wanted to-"
"Go raibh míle maith agat aire a thabhairt do me," Laoraighll interjected.
"Níl a bhuíochas ort or tá fáilte romhat," Querl replied, smiling. "Querl atá air."
Laoraighll's giggle made him realize he was slightly off in his translation. "Dia daoibh... Querl."
"I'll just leave you two to talk, then," Nura offered.
"Oh! My apologies-" Querl realized the queen of Cornwall was being neglected. "Gabh mo leithscéal," Laoraighll similarly offered.
"Ceart go leor," Nura said, smiling as she departed.
"Tu ar ais ar a seanléim?" Querl asked.
"Well e-nuff," Laoraighll managed. "Still can't ken. I? I have not been... ill, previous. Even as a leanbh."
Querl guessed this meant "child."
"Never? Only since you traveled here?"
"Travel, I have little of. My bráthair Eltrough is the traveler of family. He travels with Brendan."
Querl smiled. Crossing the language barriers had their frustrations, yet like her poisoning, they were also puzzles to solve.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:08 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 41-46: 41: I admit it, I cheated on the Latin. Rather than try to construct what Mysa would actually be saying, I took a piece of miscellaneous Latin verse that didn't mention any specific person or place, and plugged it in. Maybe any Latophiles can guess from where I stole it! As I hope is obvious, everyone is usually assumed to be speaking Latin, as actual English as we know it is a millennium or so away, and thus Mysa's bit was done to show Laoraighll's perspective, and we obviously switch languages when Imra runs into Garth. 42: The hardest part of writing Mysa is not making her too much like MZB's Morgaine. Luckily, TMK's Mordru/Mysa relationship helps a lot. Also, being chapter 42, I had to throw a nod to Douglas Adams. 43: About as cold as I envisioned, without being forced. I hope. 44: I've been looking for a way to get Luornu off the back burner, but it actually came along at a good time, as a new angle has struck me for her storyline here in the 40s. 45: Something is rotten in the state of Anglia? All the villains but one here are pure Arthurian. The camp scene, along with James' innocence, as I wrote this had me thinking of "Stand By Me." 46: Along with 45, I'm finally happy with my take on Dyrk.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:10 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
quote:Originally posted by Harbinger: 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
Thanks, and Merry Xmas to you, too!
Everyone else (I know there's at least a few more of you reading this), PLEASE stop by and say 'hi!'
It's like LSH without a letter column, otherwise!
[ December 24, 2004, 01:38 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Forty-eight
Jonah fought the Green Knight for five nights and four days.
The first night's fight began in Belinant's woods, and continued into the nearby River Trent. They fought, even while dragged along by the currents, until separated by the river's tidal courses.
Finding themselves on opposite shores as the morning's early lights arrived, they chased at each other northward toward the ferry station at Gaini, where the Roman road from Belinant's Lindum crosses for those bound to Deva, Eboracum or the North. Jonah made better time than his armoured opponent, now horseless.
Battle rejoined before mid-day on Gaini's west shore, as Jonah not only reached the crossing first, but also was able to gain the use of an extra shield that the ferry master was willing to part with.
The battle waged southwest of Gaini, with Jonah able to drive his opponent backward, striking many strong blows against his formidable foe.
The adversaries fought all through the remaining daylight, and well into the night, until a rainstorm allowed the Green Knight to slip away.
Jonah took his rest in the ruins of an old Roman farmhouse, awaking at every twig-breaking or leave-rustling committed by the many deer, hares and mice that grazed nearby.
At first light, Jonah resumed the hunt, following his quarry's tracks to the edge of Perilous Forest, where the ogre Validus was said to lurk. There, the Knight tried to ambush Jonah, and the two again fought all day, all night, and most of the next day.
Late in the afternoon, a distant pounding sound grew closer, and began sounding like a giant's footsteps. The trees shook, and he and his opponent separately took cover as the monster approached.
The encroaching darkness made the ogre naught by a ferocious shape between the trees. Had he not been fighting for days, Jonah may have had a go at the terror, but thought against it. Once the giant was gone, Jonah found his opponent had again vanished.
Finding a small cave in which to rest, Jonah awoke on the fourth day to lie low, as a band of marauders made their way through the woods. Exhausted, Jonah let them pass, as there were too many to face alone in his tired state. Unsure whether he was awake or not, he dreamed that he saw Tinya drifting through the woods, looking for him.
He awoke again midday, despite the lull of a persistent rain, barely softened by the forest canopy. From his vantage, he surmised, he could see his opponent when he returns.
Yet he was surprised when another knight wandered through the woods below him, trying to track the bandits despite the rain. Good venture, good knight. I wish I could aid -or trust- you.
Weariness overcame him, and he rested again.
A woman's scream awoke him that night. That was no dream, he was certain.
He charged out of the cave, into a rain now little stronger than a drizzle. Which way?
"Jonah! This way!" It was Tinya! She'd caught up with him.
He followed her through the woods, and came to a small encampment in a small ravine: a cloak propped up with branches to serve as a shelter, a small fire, wisely hidden by the ravine walls and nearby shrubs, various travel gear - and a small pool of blood.
But where-
Jonah!"
Out of nowhere, the Green Knight attacked.
I am too weary for this, Jonah noted, but then the knight must be, too?
He led the knight off for a half hour or more, but barely raised any offensive maneuvers at all.
The knight, too, was taking sloppy swings, as if barely able to summon the energy to continue. If Tinya had but the sting of an insect, she could finish him, he thought. One last try.[/i]
Summoning his last reserves, he lunged forward, striking the knight down, but passing out on top of him...
[ December 26, 2005, 05:12 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Forty-nine
Word of Gawaine's battles at Gaini with the Green Knight spread like wildfire.
While Thom carried word back to Londinium, James and Dyrk tried their best to follow the elder knight.
Based upon what the ferry master recalled of his visit from the knight, and a roaming Druid's sighting of Jonah while crossing the back country, they found themselves at the edge of Perilous Forest, wondering where Jonah, or even the rumoured stealthy knight who protected visitors to these woods, might be.
With too much rain of late to track accurately, they strolled in on their mounts, with Jonah's steed and gear in tow. But the hours were proving fruitless.
"Would you look at the size of that footprint!" exclaimed Dyrk. "Why, that's even bigger than yours!"
James dismounted, and measured the print with his feet. It was three boot-lengths wide, and at least seven long. "Only two toes," he remarked.
"We have ogres in Cumbria's mountains, but I've never seen one this big."
"Aye?" asked Dyrk, looking distracted.
"Oh, yes, my father's killed a dozen, so they say. Still, it's a dragon that most irks him. A rather bothersome wyrm that terrorizes the lake villages. Now, most of your lake dragons are no more quarrelsome than a wild boar. That is, unless you..."
Dyrk had tuned out the younger knight.
We are being watched.
He drew his sword.
"Did I say something wrong?" asked James.
A lone rock bounced down the hill, coming to a stop at the edge of the footprint.
"It's back!" James exclaimed in a panic.
"I doubt the creature that makes these tracks tosses small stones," Dyrk dismissed the younger man's fears. "Come on. Over that hill!"
Scarcely waiting for James to remount, Dyrk rode up and over, seeing a figure flee ahead of him.
"Halt!"
The figure stopped not.
Dyrk chased, aware that this could be an ambush, but intuition told him this was the rumoured guardian of the woods, not a blackguard like Caradoc.
The figure passed over the rise of the hill. By the time Dyrk arrived, scant seconds later, the figure was gone.
"Over here!" called a small boy, standing by a small cave on the next hillside.
There was no way the runner could have reached the cave, yet where did he go?
With James, who had caught up by now, they rode slowly toward the cave.
"Who are you boy? And to where did the one who led us here vanish?" Dyrk demanded.
The boy smiled and shrugged. "Sir Gawaine is in here!" he announced proudly.
The knights exchanged looks of suspicion. Dyrk dismounted, instructing James to watch for trouble - inside or out.
Inside the small cave, Dyrk easily made out the silhouette of Jonah, who lied beside a small campfire.
"The lady said his fever broke this morning. He should live, she says!" the boy beamed.
Feeling his comrade's forehead, he asked the boy, "What lady? May I speak with her?"
"She left. She said if other knights came, she would guide them here, but not come back herself.
"I think she's the lady of the knight who now guards the woods," he volunteered.
"Then she has earned my thanks. You may tell her if you see her," Dyrk gently patted Jonah on the cheeks. "Are you still with us, old fellow?"
Jonah awoke groggily.
"Dyrk? Where's Tinya?"
"You tell me," laughed the Roman.
"I held her, Dyrk. I really held her."
"Of course you did. Rest well, and we'll travel in the morn. I'll not have King Rokk scold me for letting his favorite cousin miss his wedding day!"
He held his lady Tinya? Either his fever made him delusional, or he was closer to the next world than I'd like to know.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:14 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Fifty
"You look well, cousin!"
"Well enough, my king," Jonah felt sheepish about his lingering illness, and even more so about his now-legendary fight with his nemesis - of which his own recollections were not the best.
In contrast from the rags that his field tunic had become, the cousins were being dressed in the finest silks for the ceremony at hand.
"You must be nervous."
"Not so much," Rokk protested, a bit too quickly to sound casual, while his fidgety mannerisms betrayed him further. Jonah laughed, and even Rokk had to grin at his own behavior.
"I WAS going to tell him," Jonah said. "Give me a chance, will you?"
The attendant took a step back. "Not you," Jonah assured him. "I was speaking with an angel."
The attendant resumed his duties, choosing to ignore the situation rather than guess its accuracy.
"Tell me what?" Rokk was curious, and pleased for a distraction. He hoped it was something strategic or militarian rather than political.
"Tinya says she saw my mother in hushed discussions with Zaryan, of all people."
"A queen may talk to a fellow monarch," Rokk posited. "Even so, you would think she's be a bit more... politick about it. Reep will let us know if she has a mind for treason."
"Aye, we hope. She's still too canny to assume the best about," Jonah said, still feeling a measure of guilt for saying such about his own mother.
"We have repelled three Khundish raiding parties this season alone. Even if Zaryan plans treachery, I cannot believe, with all Britain behind us, that we will fail."
Jonah hoped his kinsman wasn't being too trusting of his vassal kings, but held his tongue. Any alliance of all Britain would be fragile indeed, given monarchs' proclivities to feud amongst themselves.
"I thought Garth would be joining us this morn."
"Aye, he was, but he begged leave to ready himself privately. He... is not of good humour of late."
"The perpetually smiling favorite knight of the ladies? Down and out? Perhaps he actually gave his heart to one of his loves!" jested the elder.
Rokk grimaced, and Jonah realized his jest had hit the mark. While Rokk was being pushed into an arranged marriage with a beautiful princess, Garth was joining ranks with himself and Thom in receiving the searing end of the heart's iron.
"Ah, two fine young men indeed!" said a visitor.
"Father Marla" Rokk greeted. "I trust all's in order, and you're not here to tell me the lady's come to her senses and fled?" Rokk joked.
Marla laughed. "Nay, all is right. I just wanted to make sure you two were in order as well!"
"It's good to see you," Jonah greeted Rokk's longtime clergyman.
"And you, Jonah." The priest returned the warm greeting, recalling their quest together, when Rokk had him watch over his kinsman to prove once and for all his allegiances.
"My deed here done, I should let you two finish up, and I will see you shortly," the father said. "Oh, and there's a Lady Kiwa to see you? She was quite insistent?"
Rokk lit up. "Yes! Send her in!" The king turned to Jonah. "May I ask-?"
Jonah took the hint. "I shall see you downstairs."
Rokk dismissed the attendant with the other men, and waited for his benefactor's arrival.
"My lord and king!" Kiwa greeted and bowed.
"Please, my lady. I'll not ask such formalities of you."
Kiwa smiled. "I am but a humble priestess. Yet you treat me like a queen."
"As Lady of Avalon, Lady of the Lake, you are a queen, after a kind. And, I confess, while I hold few memories before I came to Sir Brandius, I must say you do remind me of my mother." Rokk eyed her, hoping to discern a reaction, but her face could bluff an emperor.
"I am flattered you think such of me. But other than swearing loyalty and support, all I have done is see your sword repaired, and adorned a scabbard for it."
"And line up a beautiful bride who shall help me keep Britain united."
"You like her, don't you?" Kiwa knew yet how young hearts worked.
"Thus far, aye. But I must ask a gift of you, here, on my wedding morning.
"I want- nay, I need -
"The truth about Mordru. As only you can give it," he said, eyeing her again. "My Lady."
[ December 26, 2005, 05:18 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Fifty-one
"I think you look just darling," Mysa cooed.
"It's a bit much, I think," Garth second-guessed.
She held him close from behind. "It's the first high court wedding in a generation. It's supposed to be a bit much."
"I know, b-but," his voice was breaking up.
"Shhh." She moved around to face him, and held him quietly. "You'll get through this day. Let me help."
He returned her hug, as if clinging on for deal life...
Having gotten that out, he was ready to face the worst. He strolled down the palace halls with Mysa on his arm, drawing gazes from all. Perhaps he still had all along these past months, but had reason not to notice until now.
They parted, Mysa to join the ladies, and Garth met his fellow groomsmen, Lot, Reep, Brandius, Jonah, and Agravaine, at the front of the crowded plaza.
Following the exchange of greetings, Jonah asked, "Who is yon lady?" He pointed out one of the young women who would soon become Guinevere's court ladies.
"She is my ward Luornu," answered Brandius.
"Has she just arrived from Elmet?"
"No. She's been here since coronation," Garth replied.
"She reminds me of the maiden who cared for me whilst I was ill."
"She often gets mistaken for others, she tells me," Brandius said. "And, as I hear it, you were rather ill?"
"Yes, I suppose I was," Jonah said, still eyeing Luornu.
She, in turn, was not bothered by his gaze - surprising her normally shy self. If anything, she suddenly felt… protective, almost motherly of the knight, even though he was clearly her elder.
Lot made a veiled comment about Jonah's name change, which Agravaine intercepted with jest. "Maybe my big brother has started a trend. Perhaps I'll change my name next!"
Garth grimaced at the sight of Khunds in the hall - even "allied" Kentish Khunds. Zaryan waved a greeting to the men, but Garth had an uneasy feeling...
Jonah caught sight of Winifred, who was sitting with the elderly king of Elmet. She scowled at him. Tinya drifted behind her and made faces, which only Jonah could see. His devilish grin further infuriated the lady.
Brandius, satisfied that he had diffused Jonah's curiosity, and glad to indirectly hear news of Lu, winked at Luornu - and at Laurentia, who had found a discreet veil and an even more discreet escort, L'ile.
Reep caught Querl's eye, and the two exchanged silent greetings. He was impressed at how relaxed and happy he seemed with Laoraighll at his side. Perhaps what they say of the Greeks is less than true. He wondered how L'ile felt about this new twist.
Agravaine, too, was curious about the Ulsterwoman, but in a totally different way. They way she fights - with hands as weapons. I must look into this further.
Lot saw his second son gazing at the woman, and surmised a different conclusion. These Ulster Scoti wild-men are moving in on my Caledonia - and my second son, my best hope, looks upon their women? What madness takes my sons, that they choose their women so poorly?
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Father Marla, meaning it was almost time...
[ December 26, 2005, 05:19 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Fifty-two
The knock on the door turned out to be King Voxv.
"Please, come in," Imra said, about to call him "father," but the look in his eyes told her not to.
"You are not my Guinevere." It wasn't a question.
"No. I am not."
"What have you done with her?"
"Nothing. You know the truth. When I asked you to forgive Jeka. Remember."
"Tell me not what to do, you harlot!" He slapped her face. "Now TELL ME!"
"As we both know, Guinevere died as a child, in an icy pond."
"That's a lie! She recovered! She grew up, into a fine young woman," he pleaded. "Don't you remember?"
It hurt her to look into his eyes. She dared not look inside his mind.
She sighed. I cannot hurt this man further on this day. Not even if it is for the best.
"I remember how proud you were to see me betrothed to the High King. I thought you'd be proud of me - that you loved me."
"I do, my Guinevere, I do. And I am so proud of you," he smiled warmly.
"Then let us not quarrel today, of all days," she smiled. "Would you walk me to my husband?"
"Yes. I think that is a most excellent idea, if you mind not being seen with such a withered old man," he jested.
"Oh, father! You must stop!" she laughed alongside him.
Jeka, at the door to fetch her "sister," stepped quickly away, so as not to be heard.
"Princess Jeka? Are you ill?" asked Morgause.
"It's my sister's wedding day. I must be overcome with joy," she replied. She grabbed onto Morgause, and let loose into a full wail while hugging the woman.
"Yes... You must," Morgause said, not certain what else to do or say.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:21 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Fifty-three
Rokk paced nervously, waiting to be summoned.
"A wedding day is a most special time. Yet it makes a man more nervous than waiting for combat, ay?"
"Hello Mordru. Shan’t you be outside?"
"I'll not mar your wedding with my presence. No, lad. I bid you greetings on your wedding day, and I'll make myself scarce."
As the old wizard started to depart, Rokk called after him.
"There were three. There was Ambrosius. There was Uther, who was not Ambrosius. And there was Constans. Which were you. Which are you?"
Rokk eyed him with deadly seriousness.
"King Constantine had three sons," said Mordru. You have named them all.
"Constans was made high king, succeeding Constantine, who was poisoned by Pictish assassins, or so they say. Constans, still a lad not unlike yourself, took on Vortigern as advisor, and Vortigern had him killed, so he could become king.
"Uther and Ambrosius fled to Lesser Britain. When Vortigern lost his grip and gave the Khund the keys to the isle, Ambrosius led the revolt, unifying all of Britain once more."
"So, all this time I'd been led to believe Uther and Ambrosius were one and the same. But they weren't, were they... Uther?" Rokk said at last.
"Call me not that name, boy." There was outright malice in Mordru's voice. "Uther -whoever he was- was made the high king of Britain by Avalon, and thus holds they key to unity.
"But he let Ambrosius rule in his place - his brother, who never made vows to the Holy Isle. We had it both ways - Avalon bound to us, but the ruling high king had no reciprocal oath. Avalon hated us for it, once they learned our deception - but could do naught, else undo the peace.
"You'd be wise to let sleeping dragons lie, boy-king." Mordru continued to walk away.
"WHICH ONE ARE YOU?" Rokk demanded, now red-faced.
"Should you not ask which was truly your father? I'll answer not your questions any longer." As he walked away, he muttered, "Three bodies, one soul."
Thom came upon them. "Rokk? It's time." He looked questioningly at Rokk's anger, and the old wizard hobbling away. "Have the guards take Mordru to the dungeons," Rokk told his knight.
At least he's no longer nervous, Thom thought.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:22 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Fifty-four
Thom returned, taking his seat between his father, King Marcus, and Sir Dyrk.
"I'm worried about Jonah," Dyrk said in a whispered hush.
"Why?"
"He looks as if he talks to himself."
"It's his ghost-love, the Lady Tinya."
"Aye, perhaps," Dyrk said. "But who else has seen her? Saihlough, the faerie? Anyone else?"
"You say he's mad?"
"Not necessarily. But suppose--
"No one's even seen this 'Green Knight' either. He supposedly first turned up way in the north, when Lady Tinya died, as I understand, then one day here in Londinium, during a chaotic chase where no witnesses were sure about who was chasing who, and then again just recently.
"I'd not be surprised to learn that the entire 'legend' people are repeating came back of the recent fight traces back to the ferry master - who else could distribute all this news?" Dyrk concluded.
"You do believe him a madman." Thom was shocked.
"I'll say it to no one else." He grabbed Thom's arm. "I beseech thee, keep watch over him. I do pray I'm wrong."
Dyrk's eyes made Thom give the concept pause. He'd been considering Dyrk the madman, but what if he was right?
Thom nodded, and leaned forward, resting his head on his arms, which in turn rested on his knees.
"Cheer up, son. The feast to come will more than make up for the wait!" Marcus said, patting him on the back.
"Great," Thom said still absorbing Dyrk's theory, "Just great."
[ December 26, 2005, 05:24 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Fifty-five
Saihlough flew around the palace gleefully.
Normally, she followed Rokk's request to limit such activities to late night hours, but the palace was almost deserted today, with everyone outside.
"Lúcháir!" she exclaimed, not caring who may hear.
She rounded the corner, building speed, and flew right over a group of a half-dozen men. "Oops!" she whispered, getting herself out of sight.
"What was that?" asked one of the men.
"Probably a pigeon."
"We should join the ceremony. We are running late," said one of the older men, who Saihlough guessed was a king.
"Agreed, brother," said another king-looking fellow. "Come along, Turquine, if you would."
"Caradoc," replied the man, of middle years.
"Ah, yes. Right. 'Caradoc,' then." He turned to his brother. "I tire of such deceptions, Belinant."
"We'll dispense of ours hence King Rokk dispenses with his," sneered the other. "Guinevere, indeed! Rokk loves ladies in lakes - especially when they are cold priestesses!"
The men laughed, and made their way outside to the ceremony.
"Why am I the only one to overhear such evil deeds," Saihlough asked herself. "Cause nobody sees me," she giggled.
Now, she had to tell someone. Where was Mysa?
[ December 26, 2005, 05:27 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Fifty-six
"It is complete."
"Yes, it is," beamed the carpenter. "Is it not glorious?"
Beren nodded. "But let us get ourselves outside, else we miss the ceremony."
"Do you not regret that a Christian priest, not a Druid, performs the rite?"
"Oh, no," replied the hierophant. " King Rokk was raised a Christian, and the priest is a longtime confidant. As you well know, on both counts."
The carpenter smiled. "It was a nice idea Voxv had, is it not?"
"If you are fishing for compliments, you should wait to see your old friend's reaction."
Saihlough flew overhead.
Mysa's not here. Who's the man with Beren? He must have been the noise-maker all morning. I could tell Beren what I've heard if not for the stranger.
The faerie flew on.
"What was that?"
"Our resident pixie. I'll introduce you later, but again, I must hasten us outside?"
"Let us go then," the carpenter said, still glancing around to catch a glimpse of the faerie.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:28 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Fifty-seven
"Settle down, girls, or I'll have you removed before the ceremony even starts!" King Zendak said in a harsh whisper.
His daughters, Virginia and Siobhan, reluctantly obeyed.
The High King entered, and the crowd burst out in applause.
"He's sooo handsome!" crowed Virginia.
"Hmph. I imagined he'd be of fair hair," said Siobhan, disappointed.
The priest and groomsmen were gathered, and the Mariti procession was lined up behind the dais. The chorus began singing, and the bride's maidens started their procession, tossing flower pedals out over the crowd.
The girls whispered among themselves, wondering which maidens and ladies were which. Their father could have told them: Jeka, Mysa, Nura, Jancel, Zoe and Morgause; but that would only encouraged more chattering.
Nearby, King Wynn and his wife, Queen Martina chuckled with amusement. Their own daughter was a similar age, and like these girls lived for all the high court gossip.
Everyone gasped at the bride's entry: a classic Roman white dress, with flame-coloured veil that surrounded her face without covering it, and matching shoes.
"What's the knot for?" whispered Siobhan, referring to the traditional Roman gown's waist-level knot.
"That's for a... more private part of the ceremony, later, and I'll tell you not to speak again!"
Although relatively close, they could not hear the words uttered, the vows and the ceremony, beyond some of the pronouncements and liturgy projectfully delivered by the priest.
The girls were squirming, straining to see, ready to ask what was going on, but one look from their father kept the peace.
When Father Marla concluded the ceremony, they would cheer, and being nobles, would stand in line to sign the witness book, and greet the couple. Then they would join the procession back to the palace, for the wedding feast...
[ December 26, 2005, 05:31 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Fifty-eight
The entire wedding party now waited upon Voxv.
The old king nodded at last, smiling, and Imra sighed in relief. Her "father" handed her over to Rokk, and Father Marla continued.
Imra felt as if she watched herself as a spectator, even while uttering her vow, "Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia."
Morgause stepped forward, joining the couple's hands, while Brandius did his part: taking the ceremonial blade, walking to the pig the guardsmen had tied up, and slit its throat.
Once Brandius was clear, they hoisted the pig in the air, its blood still spurting.
The crowd roared with appreciation.
Marla concluded the ceremony, and opened the book. The nobles lined up to sign, and to greet their high king and new high queen.
In the meantime, Tenzil and Mysa served the couple the cena, the wedding breakfast, and Brandius saw that the processional preparations were made, and the pig sent to the palace for roasting.
Noble after noble greeted the couple, a few sometimes hinting they knew of the deception by the way they said, "Guinevere."
Imra smiled, and took note of their faces. She dared not look at their minds, else alert them of her inherent gifts.
Rokk was also reunited with his childhood friend, Loomius, who came with one of Voxv's late-arriving crews. He hinted something about Voxv's wedding gift, but that took second place to the reunion.
Already overwhelmed, the couple took a look into each other’s eyes, and shared a silent laugh together.
There was more ritual and custom yet to come, but the worst was over, they knew - deceptions be damned!
I'd say we handled that well, Imra told him, with guests before them oblivious to her communication.
That's the beauty about being a monarch. You tell everybody else what to do, and you just have to make sure they do it, he laughed.
You make it sound easy, she replied, thinking about how frustrated Mysa and later Jeka would get, supervising the younger priestesses.
It's just a matter of surrounding yourself with good people. He squeezed her hand.
They interrupted the line of nobles - near its end, and embraced to kiss. The nobles, of course, minded not.
Not far away, Garth turned and walked away.
Alone.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:33 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Fifty-nine
The marriage chamber had been decorated with flowers, greenery, and fruit - all traditional symbols of fertility.
Morgause, serving in place of "Guinevere's" late mother, had helped Imra with the last of the rituals expected of a new wife, and the couple was on their own.
There was but one task left to finalize the wedding.
The party continued without them. The feasting hall was full of drunken nobles, celebrating as many probably had not in decades.
The streets, too, saw commoners drunk with good cheer. The hills all around Londinium -perhaps all across Britain- were lit with bonfires, and saw traditional fertility rites performed.
"Give them many excuse, and they'll revert to paganism," scowled Balan, watching from the palace's terrace.
"Perhaps they're feeling pagan enough to tolerate an Orkneyman's company," laughed his brother, setting out into the hills himself.
James, one of the younger and less worldly knights, was drunkenly taken with Virginia. Despite her own light-headedness from a single wine, she was almost ready to give into desire, as well - until Zendak interrupted, to take his daughters home.
"Poor boy," taunted Morgause. "A young knight needs... companionship."
Lot had already slipped away with a noblewoman's daughter.
She rubbed her hands over him, caressing his face. He smiled, even though half-passed out.
Reep scowled, and turned away, exiting to the terrace, where he found a kindred party-pooper in Balan.
Inside, Laoraighll carried a nearly passed out Querl off. Dyrk laughed, cheering them on, "Talasio!"
"Talasio!" a drunken Greek called back.
"What does that mean?" asked Luornu. "I've heard people saying that all night."
"It's a traditional Roman saying. Talasio was a popular, much-beloved Roman, and when a... worthy match was made, people celebrated, and still do - to this day."
His hand massaged hers. "Talasio," he whispered.
Luornu blushed, but did not protest when Dyrk refilled her goblet with wine.
Few were coherent enough to notice that a sudden wave of euphoria swept over everyone - a wave with a very feminine sensuality to it.
Jeka, alone with Agravaine, laughed, realizing what -or who- it was. She pulled the young knight closer.
Not long after, some of the loose metal objects began flying off the walls and tables, seemingly of their own accord, creating a few minor bruises and spilled drinks, but little other trouble.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:35 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Sixty
Saihlough did tell Mysa. And Jonah, L'ile and Rokk.
And Rokk called L'ile, Reep and the four knights who went north together, to discuss the situation.
Between the crowds and the drink, few before had noticed Loomius' and Voxv's gift: a circular table, allowing all to face each other, letting all knights sit as equals. This table has a hard fit inside Ambrosius' hall. A further sign that I must build my own hall, Rokk thought, waiting for his knights to arrive.
But arrive they did, no worse the wear after two days' celebrations.
"Kings Belinant and Cradelmant of the Anglias have petitioned for an audience on the morrow.
"They intend to make Jonah and his fellowes look the liar, by posing Caradoc's brother Turquine in his stead, and use that as further leverage to either gain lands, or break the alliance," Rokk told them.
"But why?" asked James.
"The Angles, while less combative than the Khunds, no doubt want to expand further into central Britain.
"No doubt there are others seeking excuse to end the alliance," Dyrk offered.
"Aye. I can well see my father, now forced into peace with the Picts, to break out of truce and seize more lands," said Jonah.
"What if the four knights aren't here to call the Angles liars?" suggested L'ile.
A Vidar solution, thought Rokk. "I dislike postponing problems, L'ile. They tend to come back and haunt us."
Reep stepped in. "But it may buy us time. Rokk. While we track down the real Caradoc, the alliance is preserved long enough to squelch the opposition, by showing them to be the liars, not us!"
L'ile nodded. "Too many guests at the wedding were introduced to the false Caradoc. We can delay, until the next large gathering, be it the Christian Pentecost or Easter."
"You are an optimist, to hold them off that long," Rokk said. "Yule, perhaps. We cannot hope to delay beyond that."
Jonah stood. "You may find Caradoc, but he is an expert swordsman, and you must be ready for him. Stealth alone will not win the day."
"Agreed. I shall assign Tinya, who can recognize the true villain; Saihlough, who can speak with her; and Laoraighll to the team," Rokk proclaimed.
"Cousin? I'd rather-"
"-I know you would. But so, they, too would like you on this quest."
He walked over and put his hand on his kinsman's shoulder. "Sometimes the hardest time to be brave is to trust others to win the day."
"Now you four must leave today. You have to inspect the old roman forts on the south coasts, and drill the troops there," the king commanded.
"You will all start in Portus Magnus, where you may see Sir Garth and Sir Brandius off for Iberia. Thom and James proceed west from there, while Jonah and Dyrk start eastward."
Hearing no further questions, Rokk again stood. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to see my father off."
[ December 26, 2005, 05:36 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
THE WORLD AND BEYOND
Interlude One: An Isle of Fire and Ice
The monk walked the rocky path from the abbey to the holding pens. It was time to harvest another lamb.
As he customarily did, he paused at the crest of the hill, where one could see a sweeping vista of the treeless inland plains to the left, and the Mountain of Fire to the right.
More than smoke, the mountain today was letting small bursts of fire escape.
"The devil-in-the-earth is again testing his chains," the old man concluded. Of his 100 years, 82 had been spent in this god-forsaken land, standing as the devil's keeper.
Most of those eight decades saw a bit of smoke, the occasional grumble, but rarely the spewing fire or molten waters - until the last two years.
Ever since the interloper Brendan, he thought, who claims to sail for God's glory, but not at the sacrifice of his own.
He would order the younger monks to again circle the massive peak, saying the blessings and honouring the shrines that keep the devil in check...
[ December 26, 2005, 05:41 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Two: Roma
Vidar strolled through the streets, unmindful of the Germanic guards that still roamed the city.
Today is the day that my ordeals turn around, and I begin enacting god's justice, he thought. I am vindicated at last.
Despite his persecution by the powerful Senator Festus, his faith had been rewarded, and he was assigned as bishop of Altinum.
While Altinum was a small town, it was true, it got him out of Festus' eye, and it was not far from Venice, nor from the royal court at Ravenna, where he could build alliances and do God's will.
Senator Festus, beware thine Creator, he quietly gloated. He also sneered at Festus' cadre of bishops, who like young King Rokk, place the political above the Devine.
The Day of Judgment is coming, you heathens.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:43 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Three: Toletum, Iberia
"It's like flying!"
Garth, no stranger to horses, was quite impressed with the breeds he found here.
Iaime was pleased. He'd taken a liking to the Breton lad.
"When I was a boy," he told Garth, "I would dream that I had a magic ring, with which I could fly. Now, I have finally bred a steed that satisfies my dreams."
"That you have," Garth agreed, dismounting.
The two men walked back to the young man's villa, where the shade was most welcoming. Garth was not used to such heat or intense sun, but it felt good, other than the way his exposed forehead and arms reddened and itched.
Iaime had no such problem, but had his servants fetch plant-leaves that relieve such conditions.
"Tell me, my friend. You are clearly a Moor, yet you carry an Irish surname. How came that to be?"
Iaime laughed. "Here in Iberia, we have people from all over the Roman world: the Africas, Palestine, Araby, the Balkani, Germania, and yes, the Isles of Britain. My people come from Eiru and Morroc."
His sister, Iasmin, arrived, leading the servants, who brought wine and citruses. "Our grandfather Cullen was an Irish mercenary, later a trader, who did well for Rome, and for Toletum," she said. "Does it seem strange to you, the mixing of races?"
"No, I suppose not. We just see so few of African stock in the Britains. The older knights tell is that there were many among Rome's soldiers, but who stayed and settled not. Seeing this clime, I understand better," he laughed.
Iaime laughed as well. "Yon maiden. She is of Cymru blood, as well as Araby, Roman and Moor," he pointed to the fields.
Garth was amazed! The girl was racing one of Iaime's prize stallions - and winning?!
"Who is she?" Garth marveled.
"She was named Gwenhwyfar, in the tradition of Cymru, but we call her Genni for short."
Just as well. The last thing I need is another Gwenhwyfar.
"So. You have seen my steeds' beauty and power. Shall we joust, and test its war-craft?"
[ December 26, 2005, 05:44 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Four: Khundia's shores
Q'Bahl grimaced.
He'd rather be readying a major force to land upon Britannia’s shores. The Huns were at the eastern flanks, and there was nowhere to go but to sea.
But now an ancient foe had returned, and it was gobbling up precious seafront land - literally.
He stood at the shore, a crumbly uneven inlet where once had been fields - and a village where he had kin. The new bay was longer than it was wide, and rounded - like a serpent's bite.
Jormangund, he thought.
His master attack on Britain would have to wait...
[ December 26, 2005, 05:47 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Five: Deep in Tir na nOg, the Land Promised to the Saints
"He says we must follow this river to the place where the three rivers come together, and follow it west to the City of the Mounds."
"I pray thee, thank him for us, and give him some of these." Brendan offered up more prayer beads, which all the peoples they encountered seemed appreciative of. They're natural Christians, he thought, noting also their charity and helpfulness to strangers. They just have to be taught.
Pulowech was an able guide and translator, but his abilities were taking longer and longer, the further they traveled west of Kespukwitk.
But that's only to be expected, he surmised. The Lord shall provide.
Even so, their luck had not run out, and most tribes were of Algonq stock, and seemed to have enough common traits between tongues.
While waiting for the others to resume the journey, he again toyed with the newly found Egyptian medallion, and resolved to find the Hunter before it was too late.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:53 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
okay, before we resume with chapter 61, I didn't realize I'd jumped pages, so I'll catch up on notes for 47 to 59: 47: Finally, Brainy and Laurel get to talk. The Gaelic here is strongly rooted in context: Hellos, how are you feeling, sorry, etc. 48-49: Now that this is out of the way, we can start looking for answers about Jo's nemesis. Gaini is today's Gainsborough, where the Roman Road did indeed cross the Trent by ferry. Deva is Chester, BTW. 50:Originally, I was going to gloss over the wedding, and jump right from 50 to what is now 60. But there was still too much I wanted to establish before Garth left for Iberia, and if the wedding couldn't fall on a nice clean 50-mark, 58 is a significant enough number for LSHdom. In 50, I had to play catch-up, establishing friendships of both Marla/Jo and Rokk/Kiwa. 51: Elmet was an old Celtic kingdom that stretched across the eastern Midlands, but gradually eroded away to the Angles. At this time, the Trent was probably a border between Anglia and Elmet. 52: The Madness of King Voxv. He surprised me here - I expected him to stay fully cogniscient, all the way through the wedding. 53: Despite my preference that Uther and Ambrosius were one and the same, Mordru nagged me - he wouldn't let it be simple. Plus, doing further reading on the sons of Constantine, it all fit. 54: Dyrk realizes that there are few witnesses to people Jonah alone has contact with. Is he onto something, or is there something else going on? The hints have already been planted, even before Dyrk opens his mouth... 55: I'm growing to love Saihlough. I just wish she'd turn up more often, but you can't arm-wrestle a fae... 56: Traditionally, the round table is a gift from Guinevere's father, and it struck me as a good time to introduce Loomis as well. 57: Zendak's daughters. These may be obvious crossovers here; one's name is written more ethnically correct, while the other's is taken back to its Roman (not English or French!) roots. I'm playing with the concept of different mothers, to adjust for why one has an Irish name, the other Latin. 58: Along with parts of 59, I never imagined I'd ever do research into Roman weddings, although I may have fudged a bit with the modern-ish wedding party composition. 59: There was probably more drunken debauchery, even among nobles, than history records, but if you can't party during the royal wedding of all royal weddings, when can you? By now, it's probably a bit more obvious than I intended at this stage as to what's up with Agravaine. Oh, well.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:54 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
BOOK II: A BROTHERHOOD OF STEEL
Sixty-one
Satisfied that it had eluded its pursuers, the boar trotted to the water's edge, and started lapping.
It had been a hot, dry late summer day, and it took a lot out of the poor beast to be on the run all day.
Suddenly, he smelled his pursuers! But How-
Darting and grunting, he again fled, knocking aside a Standing Beast with its Sharp Arm. It took a measure of satisfaction in the wound the Standing One took from his tusk on the charge.
They may be swift, but the boar was swifter.
He’d have gouged the Stander, but two of its kind were nearby. Their smell and the noise they made were his sole advantage, outnumbered as he was.
Night was his normal prowling time, but the Standing Ones had disturbed his den - almost killing him asleep!
There was no choice but to run and hide. The Sharp Arm cut to his side was hurting less now, but angry and scared he still was.
Suddenly he ran into a batch of reeds so thick he could hardly move. But from where did it come? How was it so strong he couldn't break free?
Yet he could see through it. The Standing Ones had thrown it at him! And they were coming for him! Two of them!
One last chance!
He mustered his remaining might, and charged headlong at the one. He would take at least one down with him!
They chattered in their bird-like way, flailing at him! The cuts from their Sharp Arms drew deeper and deeper! Yet he had the one beneath him, its Sharp Arm thrust away, and his tusks were deep into the no-longer-Standing One.
There was a sound of a branch being pushed aside, then a sharp pain in his head! And another! The pain blotted out an eye!
He flailed around desperately, trying to take out both the One beneath him, and the Stander with the Sharp Arm at his side, but the pain! Another pain onto his snout, and then a Sharp Arm through his throat! Noooo!
"Is it dead?"
"Aye."
"And Thom?"
"...It looks bad. Have L'ile and Querl summoned."
Rokk twisted and turned his blade, making sure the beast was dead.
He and Jonah pulled it off of the wounded knight, unable to tell how much blood belonged to either.
"Other than that, I was a fine hunt," Jonah attempted to joke.
Rokk smiled grimly, leaning down to Thom, gently slapping his face.
"Thom? Sir Thomas? Do you hear me?"
The knight's eyes darted around, trying to focus on the voice.
"Father?"
"Nay, Thom. It's Rokk."
"Thank God. You must stop the beast before it returns for me."
"Aye, it is stopped."
"T'is a silly way to die," Thom said.
"Die you shall not. Healers are on the way." Rokk paused. "I am sorry, Thom. We should have stuck to the small game."
"We need to stay sharp. If the Khunds are staying at home this summer-" He coughed up blood.
"Speak not, conserve your strength."
The pain had gone from sharp to numb, but returned, and overwhelmed him. He passed out.
He was vaguely aware of being carried, and placed on a boat.
"They give me a northman's funeral," he muttered.
"Quiet yourself, young knight," a young feminine voice said. He caught a glimpse of two women. One, the red-haired, he knew.
Does the boat not move? I hear no oars touch water.
He passed out again, dreaming of crows. Warriors fought a huge sea dragon, a creature whose mouth was larger than a castle.
The crows fed well. He saw their mistress looking down in approval.
She saw him and laughed.
"Be not so ready to give yourself to me, young Thom. We have much blood yet to spill, you and I."
Suddenly, they were face to face, and she kissed him, mouth to mouth. He struggled, but a reassuring voice, a woman speaking to him as if from faraway, suddenly induced a lucid thought - he was being force-fed elixirs in the waking world.
Letting go, he drifted, falling into dreamless slumber...
[ December 26, 2005, 05:55 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Sixty-two
"How fares Thom?"
"We shan't know for days, perhaps weeks. The wounds ran deep," Mysa told her.
The court ladies had accepted hospitality from the convent as Glastonbury. Mysa felt uncomfortable there, as the Christian holy communities sited there, on an isle a mirror image of Avalon's sacred geography, seemed like a pantomime of the land's true holiness.
A young girl who appeared as though she could be Imra's sister was at the spinning wheel.
"Hello, young one. I remember you from the wedding, but we did not properly meet. I am Mysa."
"I know who you are," glared the girl.
"Jancel! You do not speak to the king's own sister like that!" Imra rebuked.
The other court ladies stared at the girl disapprovingly.
"She's a harlot from Avalon!" Jancel blurted. "She givers her favours to sorcerers and devils," she said, speaking to the other ladies, "and seduces good, pure knights," eyeing Mysa for the last.
"Jancel fancies Sir Garth for herself," Jeka said, bitterly. "And she hates you, for earning his eye."
Imra winced at that. She could accept Garth settling for the plainish Mysa, but it hurt her pride to think he might prefer Rokk's sister.
Imra called the mother superior, and placed Jancel in her charge with the most unsavory of chores in the entire community - to be doubled each time she tried her tongue at any more court gossips about Mysa.
"I'm sorry you had to hear that, Mysa," Imra apologized before her ladies.
"The girl is young, and not used to watching her tongue. I saw much of that among the priestesses-in-training on Avalon."
"You were on Avalon?" Siobhan asked, disbelieving. "Was it true, then?"
"That I lie with devils and sorcerers? The ladies of Avalon are not wantons, as the Chr-, as some may have you believe.
"But there are times, rare though they are, when a priestess is called upon to for the Great Rite, a union between goddess and god, which we take as seriously as a marriage."
"Not that unlike how kings and queens make matches of princess and princesses," Jeka added.
"It does not sound custom fit for a proper Christians, in a Christian land," Virginia said.
"I suppose not. Yet outside the cities, the Old Ways remain," Mysa said.
"It is no wonder, then, that God punishes us with the Khunds, Angles, Northmen and Irish invaders. If we stood with God, God would stand with us," Virginia declared.
"If that were true, then the Christian god would have spared Rome from the Visigoths," Mysa responded.
In the silence, Virginia fumed.
"Mysa?" Siobhan said at last.
"Yes child?"
"Did you-" she glanced to Imra to see if her question was out of line. "Were you ever... called upon for the great... marriage?
"I was." Mysa refused to lie or show any shame (that would no doubt be misinterpreted), no matter how scornfully Virginia watched her. "It was many years ago."
Jeka recalled she was Siobhan's age when Mysa was called to Kiwa's cottage. And how she came back, three days later, a weeping mess.
It began then, she realized. When Mysa and Kiwa began going their separate ways.
"I know not the ways of Avalon," Luornu said. "And I try to be as good a Christian as a sinner can. But I recall the priests warning us not to judge, else be judged. I have found in my own life t'is difficult to judge another's path, when we have so little control of our own.
"I say, rather than point the finger, we join in a prayer for Thom, and for Britain to be spared the Khund."
[ December 26, 2005, 05:58 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Sixty-three
"Is it not magnificent?"
"It is very defensible, I give you that," Jonah agreed. "It appears an old hill-fort?"
"It was, well into Roman times. Until Arviragus' revolt, when Joseph of Arimathea came to Glastonbury," Rokk answered.
"So you mean to make it your castle?" Balin asked, incredulously.
"Then it needs a tower of gold!" joked James.
"With ruby turrets," added Jonah.
"Nay," laughed Rokk. "My new fortress must be closer to the eastern shores. Come. Let me tell you my mind."
He drew a rough map of southern Britain, marking all the coastal Roman forts.
"These are the forts I have ordered rebuilt or improved, taking advantage of this strangely Khund-free summer," he began.
"Yet, Khunds may make landfall in between, and be missed by patrols. Or aid from one to another fort besieged is vulnerable to coastal attacks - as are messengers, hence-"
He paused for effect.
"I propose as a second line of defense, a row of new or rebuilt forts in a parallel line inland, or in Cornwall's case, on the north shore, from Tintagel east to Londinium, then north to Lindum.
"This fort, Cadwy's Fort, would take minimal repairs, yet could support Durnovaria, Vindagladia, or even Clausentum or Exeter, if need be," he said.
"And it would provide security to pilgrims bound to Glastonbury, Avalon or even the Great Stones at Salisbury," L'ile added.
The knights nodded at the logic, but Rokk had another surprise.
Reep smiled, savoring the stratagem he, Rokk, L'ile - and even Querl, had worked on.
"Now, these hills," Rokk marked the rough position of a series of hills between the first and second lines, "can be seen from both the coastal forts - and the inland ones."
Reep scanned the knights' faces. They hadn't caught on yet.
Rokk continued. "Imagine a coastal town under attack. It lights a signal that our hill stations observe. They in turn light signals-"
"That the second-row fortresses see! Brilliant!" exclaimed Balan.
Reep jumped in. "Moreover, if Garth's cavalry effort proves successful, they can ride from, say, here-"
"-They can reach the towns whilst the raiders are still there!" interrupted Jonah.
Rokk smiled. The plan seemed foolproof - if Belinant and Cradelmant didn't ruin it.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:00 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Sixty-four
"Will you still need me? Feed me?" Thom teased his nurse-maiden.
"You are faring quite well," Zoe blushed. "Surely a brave and strong knight needs not my care much longer."
With the loss of Jeka and Mysa, the girl found herself in charge of the dwindling number of young maidens training to be priestesses, so that the senior ladies needn't be encumbered with day-to-day supervision - except to train them in the Mysteries and Magicks.
Having a handsome young knight to care for was a welcome break for Zoe, who knew she would soon be returning to more mundane tasks.
"What news of Rokk and the outside world?" he asked, as she began his cloth-bath.
"Well, Lady Mysa," it was odd to think of her as a guest here, when Mysa had long been her mentor. "Mysa tells me that Rokk has chosen to refortify the old hill fort to the south, and he's banned his knights from hunting wild boars."
Thom laughed, though it hurt his sides.
"I am sorry. I should let you rest."
"Nay. A good laugh is as healing as an elixir, my mother used to say," Thom smiled. "What else?"
"The Angle kings have arrived, a week early no less. When Rokk returns from the coast, there will be words, or so Mysa says."
Aye, there will. The true Caradoc t'is good as vanished. May the alliance last the week, he grimaced.
"Did I say something wrong?" Zoe asked.
"Nay. Wounds are like that. They grumble when you like it least. Any news of Khunds?"
"None, sir knight. The elder priestesses say t'is an ominous sign, for certain."
"Aye, it is."
"Well, they'll not find you here in Avalon."
"T'is not I to worry, but them!" beamed Thom.
"Aye. They'll look at the bed-ridden knight and turn-tail! 'Run! Flee, else he runs us through with his bandages!'"
Thom laughed again, until a new surge of pain grabbed him.
Zoe again began to apologize, but Thom just smiled. "Just teach me your magicks, lass, that next boar, I can make float away like a feather!"
[ December 26, 2005, 06:10 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Sixty-five
"Thank you for seeing me alone."
Rokk tried to suppress his grimace. He trusted neither Angle king, and could well believe Cradelmant sought to lull him into a confidence the elder king had no intentions of honouring.
"No thanks are needed. Pray tell, speak your mind," Rokk said.
"It has troubled me all summer, this game my brother plays. He sought to impeach the character of the four knights you sent us, who could identify Caradoc as their assailant."
"Go on."
"At the wedding and all public appearances since, it has been Caradoc's brother Turquine in his stead. Belinant's plan was to embarrass the knights by having accused Caradoc, but misidentify him in public."
Rokk studied him. "And you went along with this?"
"I did. I felt I owed it to Caradoc... He has been a good knight, ere now. But some grudge against Gawaine I cannot ken has made him a villain!
"T'is luck you and your knights have been so busy this season, refortifying the coasts. But Belinant says as no Khund has landed, he believes you have been delaying formally hearing the accusations against Caradoc," said Cradelmant.
"Where is the true Caradoc?" Rokk asked.
"In hiding, in Kent."
Rokk sighed. Kent! Reep and L'ile's men have scoured all Britain save the most obvious!
"So, with the hearing, what then? Four knights stand in error?"
"More than that, my king. With that supposed falsehood in place, he will next accuse your queen of misrepresenting herself. He says he has proof that the real Guinevere is long dead, and your lady an imposter."
He lays all the cards down. What turn has their game taken?
"What proof?" Rokk continued to play ignorant, even as his entire theory was laid out, confirmed.
"Two former nobles of Voxv’s court. They will swear they administered to the dying girl."
And the lies come home to roost, thought Rokk. May as well see how far this goes. "What think you, good Cradelmant?"
"I think Voxv's mind is addled. I think the girl died, and he found a peasant who resembled the lass, and convinced himself she yet lives.
"I think no wrongs were intended, it's possible your queen even remembers not that she isn't North Cymru's daughter.
"But once the northern kings learn, they will rebel. I see no way to stop them."
"Who would stand against me?" Rokk asked, still wondering what Cradelmant's trick was.
"Belinant, of course. And out of kinship, I must side with him. The king of Elmet, Tarik of the 100 knights, as well. Possibly Pharoxx of North Cymru, if he can prove his uncle unfit. A-And--"
Rokk waited.
"Lot," Cradelmant said at last.
"And the Kentish Khunds?" Rokk asked.
Cradelmant nodded. "Most likely. Lot has exchanged fosterlings with Zaryan."
Rokk sighed again. "My thanks, Cradelmant. You are truly an honorable man, and a just king. Even if we go to war, you have my respect," he said, believing it possible for the first time.
Cradelmant bowed and departed.
I hope Reep is ready with our response, the king thought. Now, the rolling of six-sided stones truly begins.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:12 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Sixty-six
"How is Thom?"
"He does very well, my sire," Kiwa replied.
"I'm far too young to have sired you," Rokk jested, again chiding her for her formality. "I hereby forbid the Lady of the Lake from resorting to honorifics in private conversation," he smiled.
She returned his smile.
"How fares our... remedy?"
"Does Thom's recovery invalidate the Magicks, you mean?" Kiwa saw through his question. "No. He risked his life against the Boar King. The sacrifice was offered, and Cailleach declined to take his life. But the sacrifice was made."
Rokk despaired. "It was meant to be me."
"Then you should have hunted alone." Kiwa had no sympathy for second-guessing the gods.
Rokk tried, but there was no point in making protests. His friends insisted in joining in, despite his admonishments.
He tried to find the silver among the tin. "So, the curse truly is lifted?"
"As long as Thom remains loyal to you, or dies whilst so sworn to you."
Rokk was assured, yet a wave of fear washed over him.
"If you wish to truly seal the deed, say the word, and Thom shall never leave Avalon." Kiwa seemingly read his darkest thoughts, and he for the first time regretted his bargain.
Thom's life or all faerie-kind? I cannot take his life for the sake of expediency; I must continue to hold his goodwill by earning it.
"I look forward to seeing Thom rejoin my companions," he said at last.
If Kiwa foresaw any error in his decision, she did not let on.
Either way, he dies by the hands of one he holds dear, she thought, but her Sight had told her no more.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:14 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Sixty-seven
Loomius was a godsend.
The preliminary tests went well, as evidenced by the large shafts of wood in close proximity to the target posts.
"Did we do well enough?" asked the carpenter.
"See posts one and two"" Querl pointed. "That's the length of a Khundish boat, generally speaking. Two out of seven bolts hit. Not bad, but we can do better."
"Hmm."
"See posts three and four? Those represent the center of a boat, and a shore party breeching a port's first wall. We hit the boat once out of five times, and the raiders twice out of five," Querl continued. "We will do better."
"I hope so." Loomius didn't seem enthused.
"Listen. Before you arrived, I couldn't hit the boat at all, because I couldn't even build a test device. This, for a first effort, is excellent," beamed Querl. And, I can now give more time to planning directional aids, while you build the second generation of test devices.
Loomius was still unimpressed.
"If it wasn't so dry, we'd be testing with fire, as well. Then you'd see the true progress we've made," Querl patted the man on his back. "C'mon. I think a celebratory ale is in order."
[ December 26, 2005, 06:15 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Sixty-eight
"Your majesty," gushed King Belinant. "It gives me great pleasure to introduce-"
"-My brother Turquine," said one of the robed monks who had been attending the guests. He pulled off the hood, exposing a grinning familiar face.
"It's him! Caradoc!" pointed Sir James.
"You bastard!” shouted Sir Jonah. Although weaponless in the presence of kings, he lunged at the man, who in turn fled down the hall.
Jonah pursued, with James on his heels. The chase disrupted a procession of monks en route to the chapel for their devotions.
"What?"
"How can it be?"
Belinant, King Cradelmant and Sir Turquine looked to each other for answers. None turned up.
"He was Caradoc? I was introduced to you as Caradoc," said Father Marla, to Sir Turquine.
Turquine began trying to return to the plan. "I-I am-"
"Sir Turquine. I remember you well," greeted Sir Dyrk. "We met at the competitions at Deva, three years agone."
The Roman made every effort to stifle a gloating grin. Reep may not have found Caradoc himself, but he had amassed enough information about the villain's brother.
"You've been introducing yourself as Caradoc all summer, Turquine. I'd say you have some explaining to do," Rokk eyed him, letting him know there was no more bluff.
Our plan is for naught, fumed Belinant. There must be a way to yet salvage this.
"M-My King. I-I" began Turquine.
"He's misled us all," bellowed Belinant, not about to let his pawn sacrifice him. "He made us think he was Caradoc."
What has bedeviled Caradoc to blow the game, pondered Cradelmant, searching Rokk's face for answers. He's outfoxed us well. A good high king, he will be, he thought, realizing Rokk already knew the ploy he'd outlined that very morning.
A good distance away, Jonah caught his quarry, both trying to keep silent their tremendous belly laughs.
"Calm down, you two! There's the second act yet to go," cautioned James.
Back at the hall, Belinant was trying to return to his script.
"There is more trickery afoot!" he crowed. "Not only was Turquine a fraud, but your majesty, I have reason to believe your queen is not who she claims to be!"
"Go on," Rokk said, patiently.
Belinant signaled his men, who brought forward an exotic-looking couple. "May I present Lord Marcos Chaing and Lady Jehanne Chu, former members of Voxv's court."
"My king," greeted Marcos. "I come to you with heavy heart. But I must tell you that the true Princess Guinevere died as a young girl. I pulled her from the frozen lake myself, and my wife tried unsuccessfully to revive her."
His Latin had an odd accent to it. Rokk guessed that they were descendants of traders of the old Silk Road, which weaved through the Persias and beyond.
"Well, then. We shall see if my queen admits such deception," Rokk said, asking Marla to fetch his bride.
He takes this well in stride, Cradelmant noted. Belinant's cause is doomed, even if I'd held my tongue. My compliments, King Rokk! He gave a knowing nod to Rokk, whose subtle smile recognized the nod.
Imra arrived, and greeted the couple as long-lost kin.
Marcos scoffed. "Do not further deceive us, she-demon! The true Guinevere died a decade ago!"
"My Lord Marcos, t'was your son, Redvik, who perished that day. Your hurt has played trick on your memories," the Queen assured them.
They looked at one another. No one save Voxv's royal family knew that Redvik met a similar fate, as they told the tale, trying to console Voxv.
The murderess Jeka, Marcos thought. She told her!
Imra went on, telling other anecdotes about family life in North Cymru - things Jeka was not privy to, only Voxv and the couple.
She had Marcos doubting himself, and she hated herself for it. I would be done with this lie, if it not meant civil war.
"My kinswoman!" Pharoxx arrived, saluting the royalty present, and kissing his cousin on the cheek.
"Prince Pharoxx! Y-You told me yourself that Guinevere was long dead!" Jehanne shouted.
Pharoxx looked at her strangely. "My lady, what ails you? My cousin is well indeed! Surely you of all people know better than to believe the evil gossips! You nursed her back to health those many years ago!"
Sorcery. That must be it, thought Belinant. But my spies told me Mordru was in Londinium's dungeons.
"I blame the lord and lady not for their errors. I am sure it was the grief of losing their own son that led them to such false witness," the queen apologized for them.
Other members of Voxv's court, still attending their Guinevere, were called on to vouch as well.
In the end, Turquine was surrendered, and Marcos and Jehanne sent on their way, to return to their current abode in the Frankish lands.
Belinant left for Lindum in a gloom, which Cradelmant feigned his best to duplicate.
"We've dodged another arrow," said Reep, now wearing his own face. "For now."
Rokk nodded. "We've kept the rebel kings at bay, at least until Yule, it seems. But we must be ready by then."
They watched as in the distance, the peasant farmers stamped out a brushfire, and felt a kindred-ness.
The dry summer was indeed a tinderbox waiting to be lit, in more ways than one.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:17 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Sixty-nine
Jonah took pride in readying Cadwy's Fort, even though he well knew it would not be his to command.
The ramparts were well built untold centuries ago, and the hilltop was well suited to contain an entire village, if need be.
The well was plentiful enough to site such a populace - and had. According to Rokk, the local village of Cadbury had been sited up here until the Romans expelled them more than four centuries ago.
He paused to listen to the wind. The Septembers blow warmer here than in Lothian - or Orkney, he thought. No wonder these south-men seem so relaxed.
He abruptly noticed a rhythm to the sound.
That's no wind - It's horses!
"Raiders!" He called, ending the rest-breaks both knight and laborer took. "Raiders on horseback!"
"We shall test this fort's abilities," Jonah announced, ordering all bowmen to man the ramparts. He'd not waste ground forces - yet.
The dry summer had one advantage - it's dust let the British see exactly where the group was. And what a cloud of dust it was! A larger raiding party Jonah had never seen. Why, there must be--
"Stand down." he barked. His men looked at him as if he'd lost his mind - especially Dyrk. "If our foes have such a large contingent of cavalry, then all is lost. I'd wager," he peered down the vale, smiling, "that these are friendly forces!"
Dyrk ran up to the ramparts, to see for himself.
And sure enough, the banner of the Pendragon was bourne by Sir Garth himself, leading a troupe of Iberia's finest!
The men cheered, and Dyrk himself was surprised by the tears that rolled down his face.
The fields of Glastonbury were to be Garth's training grounds, Jonah guessed, and Cadwy would be his fort.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:39 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 60-68 and Interludes 1-5: 60: Playing the delay game couldn't work again, could it? I initially had no intentions of doing the Rebel Kings story, but it works - so far. The Interludes: I figured I'd be introducing Brendan around this time, and it was a good excuse to catch up with Vidar, and show Garth in Iberia. The island and the Khunds were gimmes, as I was somehow convinced there should be five interludes. There'll probably be five more around 120. I-1: According to the story of Brendan (full of questionable testimony, yet one that matches real places), he did indeed report of meeting monks on the isle of ice and fire, who said they'd been there 80 years. Early Viking writings say they found Irish monks already living in Iceland as well. I-2: A gift from actual history! That's all I'll say at this point as Vidar's story unfolds. I-3: While technically too early for the cosmopolitan Moorish era, it was how I envisioned it, so, so what. This is set in Toledo, in case anyone wasn't certain. Also, I was surprised to learn that the name "Jenni" does originate from the Welsh name Guinevere. I-4: Starting out, I'm using recent Khundish names for continental Khunds and pre-boot names fro Kentish Khunds. Until I run out of one side or the other, or change my mind. I-5: Descriptions of Brendan's travels do suggest he made it to America, and Ogham, old Irish writings, have allegedly been found in Pennsylvania and West Virginia. 61: Be vewy qwiet. I'm hunting bowas. 62: It was fun just to sit back and let the girls talk as they pleased. And I finally bring in Jancel as more than a mention. Someone better keep an eye on her! 63: Cadwy's Fort, later called Cadbury Castle, was never a true castle - only an ancient hill-fort. Although long said to be the site of Camelot (apparently mostly because of the number of "Camels" in local town names), and I really wanted to have it in Somerset, near Glastonbury - archeological evidence suggests it was improved slightly during Arthur's time, but not as a castle. 64: Yes, that's a Beatles in-joke. Zoe, mentioned along with Jancel at the wedding, won't be taking a front-row role... yet. 65: I knew all along that Cradelmant wasn't 100 percent thrilled with the conspiracy, but until I started writing this, I didn't know he was going to tip off Rokk. 66: I kept putting off the curse. And like other delays, it came out for the better, I think. 67: Be vewy qwiet. I'm hunting tawget posts. 68: The sting! Pharoxx and Caradoc aren't really there, I hope it's evident. Having Asians in Britain is a stretch, I admit - but not too far-fetched. The Silk Road had long connected China with the eastern Roman Empire, and descendants of traders could well have settled in the west. If Marco Polo could maintain his fictional journey for almost a millennium, I'll allow myself some leeway, too. Although to a lesser degree than the coronation or wedding, this part has been another mental milestone looming in me head, as I've really been looking forward to what comes next!
[ December 26, 2005, 05:42 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Harbinger on :
You've had a post-a-thon and my eyes hurt after reading this Kent, but I had to keep going! Let me speak for everyone else who reads this and just say "wow!", you've taken so quite complex ideas/ plots/ historical themes/ characterisations and really made them work for you. This is an absolute treat to read and the first thing I look for when I log into Legion World.
More, more, more
Bxx
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thanks once again, Bel! It's nice to know all pays off!
quote: Let me speak for everyone else who reads this
No! Let them speak, too! Sometimes it seems I'm just writing for you (not that that isn't enough)!
Questions! Comments! What works, what doesn't-ANYTHING!
Please?
[ December 27, 2004, 04:22 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Seventy
"...So had we not slain the wizard Septimus Light-Bringer, the very Isles of Eyth would have been swallowed whole by sea dragons!"
Iaime was amazed. "You fought sea-dragons? How?"
"Nay," Garth said. "We killed the wizard before he could have the dragons do his bidding. So we did not have to fight the dragons."
"Only Jonah has fought a dragon and lived to tell," James added. "But that was only one, and smaller than these were, I'd wager."
Garth and James shared a wink. They'd let Iaime know they were pulling his leg - sooner or later.
Iaime shook his head. "These tales, the wizard and dragon, the iron monster, the gem-thief, they are true?"
"Gem thief?" James, the late arrival, had missed that tale.
He already knew the third tale was one that the bards invented - of a magic iron beast so powerful that all of Rokk's knights could defeat it not - they had to resurrect a dead Irish hero of centuries agone.
"On Coronation day, a blackguard tried to steal the royal gem handed down from Joseph of Arimathea, and replace it with a cursed one. Several of us caught the fiend, but the city guard did not yet know us, and he had to go free," Garth told him. "We'd agreed to keep that tale secret. The ales, I guess, have loosened my tongue."
"It shall go no further, my friend," Iaime assured him. James nodded in agreement, adding another wink.
For Iaime, however, it was as if the Homeric tales, the legends of Perseus and Hercules, were all true, and he was a part of it all.
The weeks of training had gone well. Iaime could teach them for years and still not run out of tricks, but he was impressed with the skills these knights held already - and how quickly and eager they put his tutelage into practice.
"Who is yonder buffoon?" asked the Moor.
Garth, in truth, could not answer. He'd seen him once or more before he departed, but on his first night back in Londinium, the jester's name eluded him.
"That is Carolus, a Frankish lad, who is King Rokk's jester," said James. "He again tells the tale of how it took the accident of a magic potion to give him his bouncy step. Ha! Years of good eating's more the truth."
"With such a dry year, he'll be lucky to eat half so well o'er the winter," James said. "We all will."
"You're getting serious, son. Have another ale," laughed Garth. While away, he worried of the adventures he'd miss, but to find that little action had transpired worried him. When will the-
"Khunds have attacked!" L'ile burst into the great hall, interrupting the revelries.
This is it. Am I one of them, or just a story-worshipper? Iaime asked himself, joining the rush to the stables.
As they rushed past Querl, Garth told him he wasn't obligated to fight.
"Nay, worry not. I have a magic belt that will protect me from all foes," Iaime said.
A magic protective belt? wondered Querl. How does one come across such a thing? still remembering his difficulties in Annowre's castle.
"From all your foes? Then I guess it's your friends you must fear," Garth shot back.
The two men laughed.
For both men it was a test - was Rokk's investment in cavalry worth it? Both men had much to prove in the days to come...
[ December 26, 2005, 05:44 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Seventy-One
T'was a nice summer, to be here again, Imra thought, relaxing on the grassy slopes of the Tor. Has it been a year since I left the Teachers' Isle for the Priestesses?
Yes, it was Samhain last year, she realized. Halloween.
The court had returned to Londinium, yet she sought to stay one more week, for old times, and so she could re-enter Avalon without scandalizing her more Christian ladies.
The lukewarm autumn breezes were thinning out like an old man's scalp, and the crisp autumn nights were getting sharper.
Yet it was not too late to return to her favourite place, her sacred space, where she used to practice Aven's meditation techniques without fear of another mind colliding with her's.
The Avalon side is warmer still, she thought, comparing the magickal isles to their earthly duplicates at Glastonbury.
She lied back, almost hugging the hill. After meditation, she would lie back and rest, and the Tor would serenade her in an olde tongue she understood not.
But doing so today, she heard it again - it was Gaelic, a tongue she only learned this year.
Imra! It called her.
Sitting up, startled, she almost lost the voice. But no, it remained. It was a man's voice.
Imra, please pay heed! There is treachery afoot!
"Who are you?! How do you know this?" Imra was frightened.
I see much, though imprisoned in my cave. I see the Khund Zaryan has laid a treasonous plan, and one of the two men who love you shall surely die.
"NO!" Imra stood, shaking her head, not wanting to hear any more.
Imra, please. Only you can hear me. I've tried for six centuries to find someone who could.
"What must I do?"
To save your men, find some means that they shall not enter the forest at Gertus' Hill, where Zaryan's trap shall be.
She nodded. "Who are you?"
I am Lar Chulain. Injured and dying, the Fae Queens brought me to this cave, til I can fulfill my bargains to them. But we shall talk again -- You must make haste!
Imra was surprised. Lar Chulain- the legendary Hound of Ulster! Here in Avalon! But why has no one helped him?
The question would remain unanswered today.
Wading across the slim channel between the Tor Isle and the Teacher's Isle, she started calling for Aven, aloud and silently.
She told him of the Hound's warning. "I must get to Londinium with haste!" she said, barely catching her breath.
"I am sure the sisters at Glastonbury will-"
"There is no time! I must use the path of Isis!" Imra insisted.
"You entered Avalon from Glastonbury's shores to the Priestess' Isle, and thence you must go! The dangers are-"
"-Known to me, and I accept them. Every hour counts, Aven. I must go, with or without your aid."
The differing gates to Avalon are no 'magic threshold' to cut the length of travels, he tried directly, one last time.
No, they are not. But I must get to Londinium, and if I can do so to-day, I will, she answered.
Still fuming, he led her to the path-house, and lit the fires for purification.
When she opened the chest of robes, he bid her to retrieve two. "There is no way I'll guide you, except in person."
She withheld her protest. It would be good to have company, and easier to navigate the path with a guide at hand, rather than to hear instructions over the noises in the dark.
Removing all wardrobe and jewelry, she donned her robe and tied her blindfold around her neck. Behind the screen, Aven did the same, before returning to begin the ritual.
Mayhap a boat-ride to Glastonbury is easier, she thought. Once complete, they covered their eyes and walked the Path, with linked minds to hear each other, no matter how loud the unearthly shrieks became.
[ September 02, 2006, 04:32 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Seventy-two
The cut-throat's body still sat on the roadway, his blood flowing slowly toward the ditch.
Dyrk just stared at him, shaking his head. Londinium was eerily quiet - too quiet.
He'd easily hear the man walking up behind him. It was no city guard, either.
"Bravo. Brave Sir Dyrk has avenged the wrongs done to this fair city's good citizens."
"Cranyac. I'd heard you'd escaped," Dyrk sneered.
"Pardoned, actually. My knowledge of Kentish defenses have made me invaluable to King Rokk himself."
"And why would your knowledge interest the high king?"
"Have you not heard? Perhaps you are ill-informed, not the coward I surmised. Zaryan has broken the treaty. Rokk rides against him - without the northern Kings at his side." Cranyac sounded almost pleased.
"If I believed you, I might not run you through as an escaped prisoner."
"If you had any courage, you'd notice there's not a knight in this city."
His words stung. Dyrk's bravado - even his strength - apexed in the summer months, and winter was now creeping in.
"We'll meet again, Cranyac." Dyrk couldn't even find much spirit to put into his pledge, as if the ebbing year sapped his passions, too.
Walking down the street, he passed the Temple of Apollo, and made his customary salute.
He should enter and make sacrifice, but he wouldn't. Not while Regulus was still the priest of this shrine.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:48 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Nightcrawler on :
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thanks, Gary!
That's Colleen Doran's pin-up from LSH #100, which I saw again the other day, and asked our tech-savy folks to post it here.
While we're on the subject:
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Seventy-three
"My dear Eva!"
King Mekt was delighted to see the lady once promised him. "Since the fall of Argentoratum four years ago, I have feared for you."
They embraced. She was a measure less enthusiastic than he, but he noticed not.
The other man cleared his throat.
"I must apologize. King Mekt of Benwick, Armorica, may I present Lavarrus, son of Boltus, of Venetia.
The two men greeted each other.
"King Lavarrus, wasn't it?" Mekt had heard of Eva's marriage to the alchemist-noble from Italia.
"King for a year, barely more," Lavarrus said. "Clovis besieged us for our entire reign. Now Alemannia is part of his empire."
"You seem not the worse for it, if you mind not my saying." Mekt motioned for his man to bring his guests wine and meat. "Pardon my hospitality. Had I welcomed you in Benwick, we would have a full feast for you both!"
Lavarrus nodded. "You are at war, and the high king has entrusted his two staunchest allies of his younger kings to guard the flanks. It is to be expected."
Indeed, Mekt's position along the lower Thames had aided the exiled royals in finding their quarry.
"Lavarrus no longer has cause to think ill of Clovis," said Eva, showing true excitement for the first time in the visit. "Nor will you, my old friend."
Mekt raised an eyebrow. Just as the Khunds raged against the British and the Franks, so too did Clovis' Franks war against the Goths of southern Gaul. Only his Lesser Britain, Armorica, was spared because of its inconsequence to the Frankish king - so far.
"Has he given you back Alemannia?" he asked skeptically.
"Not yet," smiled Lavarrus. "But he will, and more!"
"Clovis seeks to rebuild the Empire, at least here in northwestern Europa. Imagine a single, strong power to keep Khund, Goth and Northman at bay!" Eva blurted.
"He means to conquer Britain, too? Then he has a long queue to join," Mekt scoffed.
"Nay. There is no need to conquer Britain. Think," Lavarrus said, munching on a leg of mutton. "The youth Rokk has lost the support of his kings. Well, most of them. Not in outright rebellion - yet. As he loses in battle to the Kentish Khunds - let alone the continentals - his support will weaken, leaving a gap."
"Yet the northern kings and the south can all rally behind a new high king, perhaps the renowned Gawaine of Lothian, married to, say, a princess of Benwick?" Eva suggested. "Such a couple may well see the strength in joining with Clovis, as well."
"You plot treasons while my high king is at war!" Mekt was getting angry.
"Not us. We are simple messengers, here to see if a deal could be brokered," Lavarrus said. "Imagine Armorica's lands doubling? It could happen. Clovis has much land to be generous with."
"There may not be a high king to plot treason under, any day now," Eva winked. "If the Thames flank is... unguarded, and Zaryan can reach Gertus' Hill outside Londinium, the seers of St. Genevieve's order have seen it: The young man they saw on the dais at Coronation shall die before All Saints Eve."
If true, Britain must be prepared, he thought. Eva eyes him. Does her gift to guess my mind continue?
"Perhaps Mekt needs time to think," Eva said, as if to turn his thoughts elsewhere.
"Time there is not," Lavarrus said. "He is with us, or against us. The wheels are already in motion. We need only for a gap to exist in Rokk's flanks, so the way to Londinium lays open."
"Than I'd better move my troops. New orders from King Rokk," Mekt smiled along with his guests. "I must notify my captains."
Out in the brisk October air, he walked a steady pace away, as if speed would help clear his head. I cannot weave my own plot in front of her, else she sees through me.
He ordered two messages penned: one to Garth, one to King Rokk, and one to King Marcus, who guards the other flank.
And in the morning, his flank began its move...
[ December 26, 2005, 05:52 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Seventy-four
"Woo-who!" cried James, once Rokk had given the word.
The two-score strong band of heavy cavalry moved as a single unit, truly with the discipline, power and might of any Roman legion - yet one that moved far faster than any Imperial infantry ever did. Rokk's infantry, in turn, enjoyed easy pickings over what was left.
What little horse-backed Khundish warriors there were proved no match for Garth's forces, and battle after battle, they wore down and tore down Zaryan's scattered bands of warriors, who were more used to small, intimate combats.
For three nights, they had arced around Londinium, trouncing band after band, with only one fight warranting prolonged effort - at Merrow Downs.
Yet nearing the Thames again, they expected a regrouping, but found none.
The small bastion awaiting them was no army, only a band guarding a hilltop, trying their best to delay them. They were failing.
On Rokk's word, his men ascended the hill, with no single archer taking down even one of his riders.
Despite the expectation of the grand finale, the rout was a let-down.
Rokk seemed unsurprised, however, and in turn surprised his own men: splitting them in half. Jonah was ordered to hold the line, while Rokk and Garth led the remaining half- back toward Londinium?!
We've got them on the ropes, yet now we turn tail? Jonah grimaced. Yet he knew Rokk's stratagems usually had their strengths.
Rokk's team set off, once Laoraighll returned from her scouting mission, leaving Jonah's biggest problem - his brother.
Agravaine was tending the horses, grooming, mixing the grains as Iaime had specified, and checking the steadiness of the horse-shoes.
"Brother," Jonah greeted.
Agravaine, with much redness of eye, nodded, failing to meet his brother's gaze.
"Brother, will you not speak to me?"
"What words would you hear from a cut-throat?" Agravaine half-screamed.
"A cut-throat you are not. And I've known many," Jonah tried to provoke a smile.
"Well, you know one more."
Jonah strolled around the makeshift corral.
"Iaime thought his magic belt would protect him from harm."
"From his foes! Not his friends!" Agravaine said. "Not his friends..."
Half-choking on the memory, he could not help to go back to day at Merrow Downs. Several knights had to dismount, to wade into a band of Khunds who'd holed up in a dense thicket of woods.
He'd taken out many of them single-handedly, perhaps trying to prove something to his big brother - or his legend.
The last Khund was a real fighter, though, who half-dislodged Agravaine's helmet, obstructing his vision and making him an easy target.
He'd lashed out blindly, not knowing his opponent was slain already.
"Iaime was our friend and ally. He saved my life, and I repaid him by... Aye, I repaid him," he trailed off.
The young knight sobbed, leaving his brother only to provide comfort. This wound will not be short in the healing, Jonah thought, thinking how long he has blamed himself for Tinya.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:54 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Harbinger on :
Dyrk suffers from SAD - just like me then Mekt the plotter - I love it! Agravaine's anguish - great stuff!
If I could pass one criticism Sean it's the blue writing you use when Imra is telepathising - it fades on a blue background and I found it breaks the rhythm of the peice for me.
More, more and more!
Bxx
Posted by Abin Quank on :
Kent, (or Sean, if that is correct, I'm guessing here) I just found this story today, (OK Belinda told me about this story today) and I only intended to read the first few posts to see if I liked it or not. Well here I am a few hours later than I'd planned on staying up disappointed by just one thing. There's not more for me to read!
You've done a marvelous job combining the Arthurian Legends with our favorite Legion.
So To Paraphrase a certain Harbinger...
MORE, MORE, MORE!!!!!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thanks, gang!
Every once in a while, it helps to be reminded peope are reading!
Abin: yes, your'e right: Sean is my name. Call me which ever you prefer.
Bel: Point taken. Let me know how you like the yellow instead.
[ December 30, 2004, 04:14 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Seventy-five
"I still say you're nuts."
"Shut up and push!"
Querl saw the opportunity at hand as too good to pass up.
Genni had delivered word that Zaryan's warriors had somehow bypassed King Mekt's line, and were making a bee-line for Londinium.
"The Khundish forces have some horses and wagons, but no boats. Therefore, they are limited to the Thames' south shores, while we north of the river shall remain untouched, free to fire our payloads at the enemy," Querl explained. "Even if some swim across to come at us, we can be long gone before they arrive."
"And if they do, we can set fire to your ballista, that they may not use it against our forces," Loomius added.
"If it comes to that. And it's no mere ballista," Querl corrected. "I call it my Computus."
He took quiet satisfaction in the unit's mobility. He and Loomius were ably guiding it up Gertus’ Hill's gentle slope with no difficulty at all.
"Why call it 'Computus?'"
"Well, beside the ballista element you are familiar with, you see the additional apparatus?"
"Not really," Loomius said. "I didn't get a chance to examine your newest additions."
"Well, you remember how our results improved with the angle adjustment?"
"Un-huhmph," he answered. They both needed an extra push to get over an annoyingly thick root.
"Well, incorporating the dual abacus system allows us to calculate the elevation and distance variables, ensuring greater accuracy, when combined with the aiming device-"
Loomius cut off the scholar. "-I still don't see how a metal bracelet is going to improve our aim."
"That is merely the holder for a device too precious to leave with the machine," Querl started, but was distracted by the view coming into sight, now that the hill's crest and tree-line had been passed.
The two had finally arrived on the top of Gertus' Hill, where they saw the torchlight of all Londinium, Wynn's defending forces - and the approaching Khunds.
"Wow," said Loomius.
Querl nodded in agreement.
"You were saying something about the aiming device?" asked a Khundish accent.
A circle of Khunds stepped out from the woods, leaving the scientist and craftsman with nowhere to go.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:56 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Seventy-six
"That took forever."
"We can count ourselves lucky to have made it at all," Aven reminded her.
They stepped out of the cave into the ritual chamber. It was empty, without even candles lit.
"Odd," Aven commented. "What can you sense?"
Imra paused, and tried to focus, but the lingering shrieks of Those Who Must Never Be Seen remained lodged in her consciousness.
"Well?"
"I'm... trying."
"Don't try. Do."
If it's so easy, why don't you? Imra thought, annoyed that her mentor was not giving her time to adjust.
Aven glared. I have. You rushed to enter a city potentially under siege, yes? You should have been able to scout ahead before we even exited the Path. The high queen should not rush headlong into an enemy's camp.
You're right, Imra agreed, forcing herself to focus.
Soldiers loyal to Wynn and Rokk were camped nearby... awaiting an attack!
"We must cross into the city at once!" Imra cried. "The Khunds-"
"-Have yet to face Wynn's men. Calm yourself," Aven instructed.
Imra blushed at her overreaction. She had hoped to make a better impression upon her mentor.
The two made their way out of the Temple of Isis, heading for the bridge to the city.
"Spies! Halt!" cried a soldier. Suddenly they were surrounded.
"Let us pass! I am Queen Guinevere!"
Looking at her plain priestess robe, the soldier wasn't impressed. "Let me see your royal crest."
"You don't need to see her royal crest," Aven said persuasively.
"We don't need to see her royal crest," agreed one of the soldiers.
"We aren't the spies you're looking for," Aven continued.
"These aren't the spies we're looking for," said the soldier.
"We can enter the city," said Imra's mentor.
"You can enter the city," agreed the soldier.
"You should get going," Aven gently concluded.
"You should get going," ordered the soldier.
Imra, struck with a sense of deja vu, never failed to be surprised by her mentor - despite what she knew he could do, the end results were always even more amazing.
The city guard did recognize her, and escorted her to the palace, where she could again don proper attire.
"We must not loose too much time, Aven, as I mean to save both men.
"Aven?"
She turned to see a transparent Aven, fading away.
"There is a cost to breaking the rules, my dear Imra, and I chose to pay it for the both of us."
"NO!"
"Respect my last moments with you. Think again each time you make a short-cut, and before you invade another's will. Be deceived not, especially by yourself. And give not your heart so that you forget all else..." Aven faded away.
Now go save your men, and save your tears for a-later, he told her unseen, again fading one last time.
The queen made her way through her chambers, ignoring her ladies' inquiries, and stifling the tears that wanted to come.
She quietly changed into her heavy riding clothes and a dark cloak, and rushed down the back stairs to seek out whatever knight may be around.
I meant to save all the men I love, she thought. Yet I'm already one-third failed.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:09 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 69-75: 69: As Cadwy's Fort was big enough to hold a village, it was no doubt big enough to be a place to train a house cavalry. 70: Garth's tall-tales gave me an excuse to plug in stories that wouldn't really otherwise fit. And certainly the bards and minstrels would exaggerate a few tales themselves. 71: For the sake of cross-over, we'll pretend Lar is a synonym for Cu - Gaelic for "dog" or "hound." Cu Chulain = Cullen's Hound, a name the legendary Irish hero earned after accidentally killing the guard-dog of a man named Cullen, and serving in its stead until a new pup was full-grown. 72: Dyrk at least has some relation with the sun.. so far... The Colleen pin-up: Obviously, this isn't MY Camelot Legion exactly, but Saihlough's dead-on, and three others are damn close. 73: And I thought this one would be easy to write! Then I had to figure out where the royal couple's kingdom would be, whom they were directly working for, and why... I didn't intend for Clovis to pop up so soon, but somehow, it all worked. Also - I wasn't the first, obviously, to note the similarities in name between Venice and Venus, and Laevar's name was well-suited to Italification. 74: I actually hesitated about killing off Iaime so soon - but he was supposed to be the one who died that we never got to know, so I guess it's appropriate enough. Strangely, as soon as I knew he would be introduced, I knew Agravaine would be his accidental killer. 75: I knew Querl would invent the Computus, but I didn't know it would be so soon. He never tells me anything, but at least he hasn't blown up Londinium yet.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:11 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Abin Quank on :
Amazing Stuff Sean!
All I can do is beg for more!
And More! AND MORE!
Howzat fer goin' all Harbie on ya?
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Seventy-seven
"You're looking rather sorry for yourself."
"Hello, Laurentia," Dyrk managed a smile, catching her by surprise. "Yes, I know of you, and I can tell the difference. You don't look at me like Luornu does."
"And how does she look at you?"
"A bit sheepishly, in truth. She avoids my gaze... It's my own fault, I guess. We were..."
"I know what you two were," Laurentia said, still feeling shivers ripple across her body thinking about it. "But that's not why you sit around moping in an empty hall?"
She began walking the circumference of the table, wiping a line in the dust.
"I sit awaiting my orders. Neither Wynn nor Zendak trust me enough to put me to use, and unless Genni finds a way to and from Rokk's camp, here I sit... and drink."
"You've drunken enough so you smell like a Khund."
"Are you so knowing as how a Khund smells? Do you go around sniffing, as if they were flowers? Or is it like Tenzil and poisons - mayhap Lyle can use you to sniff out Khundish spies!"
Laurentia laughed, now most of the way around the table. Every move in the empty hall echoed, in stark contrast to the robust feasts that so stood out in her memory.
"Sit with me. Share my wine," he offered.
"I think not," she still laughed. "Luornu says you shine like the sun. But look at you! Are you a heathen then? A sun king who dies at Hallow's-Eve? You seem but a shadow of yourself."
"She says I shine like the sun?" Dyrk was genuinely surprised by this. "I thought she must think me the scoundrel."
Laurentia teasingly brushed his face with a finger. "Shy little Luornu is too good a Christian to not think you the scoundrel... but too much a woman not to like you for it."
Dyrk leaned toward her. "And what about you?"
"I think you're too much the little boy to take seriously," she smiled. "Is not one sister enough for you?"
There were sounds of footsteps rushing down the back stairs. Laurentia took a step away, affording proper distance from the knight.
"My Queen!" they greeted Imra as she arrived.
"Sir Dyrk! Thank the gods you are here. Come! We must ride for Gertus' Hill this very moment!"
"Gertus' Hill? Is Brainius V in danger?" Dyrk asked.
Imra tried to fathom what he meant.
"Querl's Computus device - his master weapon. He's been working on it on the hill's far side. Maybe he-"
"-Went up there earlier, with Loomius," Laurentia said. "I heard them talk as they went."
"Is he there still?" asked Imra.
"I know not."
Imra closer her eyes and focused.... "He is. But he and Loomius are taken captive by Khunds -- including Zaryan himself!"
"Damn," Dyrk said bitterly. "Are any rushing to his aid?"
"I think... the cavalry is yet too distant, about to join against the Khunds' main force. There is no---
"Wait! There is another! The knight Rokk called 'Sir Prize' is approaching." Imra gave Laurentia a shocked look. "How-?... But you're not Luornu, either!"
"Sir Prize. Great. The knight who could best no-one at tournament," moaned Dyrk. "Come, Imra. With your aid, I shall rally a company of city guardsmen to ride with me."
"With us!" Imra's look convinced him not to argue.
"Sir Prize, indeed!" he muttered as the two departed down the hall.
Miss Terious, more truly, Laurentia thought, for the first time feeling as nervous as Luornu perpetually does. I feel a chill... Somehow I knew no good would come of this Computus.
Lu, be careful.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:12 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Seventy-eight
"You can't be serious! King Rokk said-"
"-King Rokk said he was to ride alone, and so he shall. But I ride, too - also alone. It's just happenstance we take the same path," Garth said.
"It's all in your hands, James - you're my lieutenant. Make me proud!"
Garth saluted him with his sword before leading his mount into the Thames, slowly disappearing into the darkness.
"Sir James?"
Balin was awaiting orders.
"We... stick to the plan. Ready the riders. We attack on my signal," James said. Used to being the junior to the likes of Garth, Thom, Jonah and even Agravaine, it was a shock to find himself the senior knight present - and the recent death of his virtual namesake didn't do much for his morale, either.
But he refused to let it show.
He inspected the cavalry, and the supporting infantry unit in turn.
A glint of metal above told him Balan was signaling that the archers were ready uphill, as well.
This is it. Never mind that Rokk and Garth have both left us. Their fates - and ours, are in the hands of a man I know not but have to trust.
James clutched the last communication between Rokk and King Mekt, as if it could strengthen his faith.
It didn't.
Ahead, he could see the Khunds rallying to engage Wynn's meager forces. Yet the cavalry had to endure one last delay...
[ December 26, 2005, 06:15 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
quote:Originally posted by Abin Quank: Amazing Stuff Sean!
All I can do is beg for more!
And More! AND MORE!
Howzat fer goin' all Harbie on ya?
She's rubbing off on ya! thanks again!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Seventy-nine
Rokk knew he would be followed. He just never expected Garth to make as much noise.
He stood in silence, waiting for his follower... waiting... waiting-
And he leaped, knocking the knight to the ground. A self-muffled cry of surprise, the size of his opponent, and his nose told him this was not Garth.
He drew his sword. "Who are you, lass? Why follow me, and why play the warrior?"
"I AM a warrior!" she answered. Her voice alarmed Rokk.
"Luornu?"
"Nay. I am her sister, Lu, who you named 'Sir Prize."
"Well, that explains your silence. So why-"
"Queen Guinevere told me Zaryan plans a trap for you atop this hill. He and his men have Brainius V, and someone named 'Loomius' as prisoners, and Brainius V's war-machine," said Lu.
"King Mekt warned me, in part. Zaryan's wizards have bespelled him, that his slayer shall also die, and I can ask no knight to stop him else myself," Rokk replied.
"You mean to die? Why? We need you as our king!"
"Aye, I intend to die not. The Lady of the Lake's magicks, plus perhaps some of my own, may see me through this. I have better chance than any - nor can I hide from such a foe, asking another to take my place!" Rokk said. "Now go, find your way back to Londinium."
"Nay. I swore an oath to Guinevere to see you kept safe. I'll not fight you, but let us take on this foe together. Think of their numbers!"
Rokk smiled. This Lu was more spirited than Luornu, it was true. And better to have here aid than for her good intentions to inadvertently ruin his efforts.
"You shall follow my commands, to the letter," Rokk said. She nodded.
"While I distract, you shall disable the war-machine and free the prisoners. Zaryan is mine, though. I'll hear no word otherwise!"
He waited for her reluctant nod.
"Let us go then, Sir Lu!"
[ December 26, 2005, 06:16 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Eighty
"What do you see?"
"I see Laoraighll fighting like a she-devil. But the Khunds have her poison. She falls again.
"I see Zaryan tormenting Querl, seeking the answers to the war-machine.
"I see Rokk and the mystery knight, stealthing up Gertus' Hill from the south. I see Garth following his trail, while Dirk, Guinevere and a block of city guard approaching from the west."
"What else do you see?"
"I see the main Khundish force plowing straight for Wynn's forces and Londinium's gates. I see volleys of arrows from the city - and from three other directions, before the battle is truly joined."
"Go on."
"I see Zendak's forces pouring out of the city, joining ours. I see an infantry plowing down the hill, driving the Khund toward the river. I see Sir James leading Rokk's cavalry, surprising from behind. I see a complete rout of the Khunds."
"Anything else?"
"...No."
"What of Rokk? Garth? Zaryan himself?"
"I see nothing. But I see Zaryan's death - and that of one other."
"Who?"
"I know not."
Outside the pavilion, a horn blew.
"My king? It's time."
Marcus nodded. His part in the last act of Zaryan's raid was never in doubt, it seems. But what of Rokk?
"Rest, my dear. You've done well," he said, but Nura was already asleep.
As Wynn's seemingly feeble forces were about to be met, arrows from four directions indeed rained down as she said.
And on cue, Zendak's men flooded out from the city walls on Wynn's left, while Marcus' men joined from the right, making the front lines tenfold what their previous strength had seemed.
The tide was turned, even before Mekt's infantry poured down the hill.
We have you some work, Sir James, Marcus thought. But what of Rokk?
[ December 26, 2005, 06:18 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Eighty-one
I should never have brought her with us. What was I thinking - to endanger the high queen? Dyrk admonished himself.
He and the city guard were fighting Zaryan's guards head-on, a fairly even matching, numerically, if one considered mounted guards worth two unmounted Khunds.
But Dyrk fought while also protecting the queen, hindering his true fighting worth even further than his low morale of late already was.
Imra, who was near exhaustion, kept muttering about the danger to Rokk and Garth ahead.
Worry about the danger to yourself, woman! he angrily thought.
He thinks rightly, thought Imra, involuntarily hearing him and snapped back into full lucidity. I shall complete this task if it kills me.
Despite the advantage of horses, the guards fought poorly, and lost about two of their own for every three Khunds downed.
Down to a mere four guards, they regrouped near Dyrk. On his orders, they formed a circle.
"Dismount, my lady! Take shelter in the center that my arm is free to fight!"
She nodded, trying to build focus for what must come next. But she was already over-taxed this day...
"Don't move your horses! Protect... the lady!" Dyrk commanded the guard, not wanting to let on that Queen Guinevere herself could be a target to any Khund who understood Latin.
As the Khunds charged the circle, Imra focused herself, and let loose her building fury.
"Aeeeeeiiighh!," Dyrk grabbed his splitting head, as did the surviving guardsmen.
The Khunds all were falling over from the assault. Even before they hit the ground, they were profusely bleeding from their noses, and their eyes bulging from their sockets.
Ready to slice throats if necessary, Dyrk found they were dead already, unsurprisingly.
Despite her vow, Imra passed out from the effort.
"Take care of her. Stay hidden in yon forest undergrowth," Dyrk instructed, not willing to risk the queen to any possible returning patrols.
Remounting and riding up the hill, he wondered for the first time, With such power, did she compel me to bring her in the first? And keep me from seeing such whilst she remained awake?
But I must not think such of the queen. Nay, the fault for decision was mine alone.
Hearing another battle in progress, he stepped up the pace, galloping in quickly, in time to see a severely wounded Garth being knocked around by Zaryan himself.
Rokk was already sprawled on the ground.
Garth's facial expressions and the sound of hoof-beats led Zaryan to swing wildly, slicing Dyrk’s horse's head, and causing his mount to rear up! With his saddling damaged by the Khunds earlier, Dyrk plummeted to the ground, losing consciousness. Perhaps I die a year-king after all.
The last thing he saw was Zaryan closing in on the Computus, which Sir Prize was aiming right at the Khund...
[ December 26, 2005, 06:19 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Eighty-two
"It's war, my queen. People get maimed. People die."
Rokk shot James a cold stare. A capable warrior he certainly was, but he had much to learn of the heart - particularly a woman's.
He held his bride close to him, unable to stem her weeping, even though it put further strain on his own wounds.
James took the hint and wandered away. Despite the carnage he'd helped carve across the river, somehow it seemed worse over here.
L'ile tended to Querl, who was in such pain from Zaryan's tortures, it apparently hurt him to breathe. Not a good sign. Pray we lose not yet another, he thought.
Loomius sat in a daze in front of the still-smoldering ballista, and his only sign of life was his breath, as it crystallized in the misty morning chill.
"How do you feel?" James asked, sitting beside him.
"Guilty, of course. All through his torture, Querl swore I had no knowledge of how to work the Computus, but he was only partially right.
"Yet I sat there, cringing at my own wounds, but said naught! While he-he--" the craftsman began sobbing.
As a boy, James was taught that warriors must be strong, and men do not cry. Yet in the small string of battles he'd seen, he'd seen the biggest and the toughest wail over lesser wound's than Loomius.'
James spoke slowly, so as not to again speak thoughtlessly.
"My friend, what would have been the point of two of you enduring that? Nay, you were wise. It was not yours to say if what he endured would have been lessened. Place blame not on yourself, but on the fiend Zaryan."
Loomius stood, hugging himself, growing redder. As his rage grew, he ran up to the Khund's corpse, kicking it, screaming.
Most people watched with sad, understanding eyes, but Querl turned his gaze away.
James next approached the Druids, to see if he could help.
Beren was instructing his men. "...No, move him not until he wakes."
The angle of Dyrk's neck worried James; it seemed a very unnatural angle.
Seeing there was naught to do, he turned back, only to see L'ile approaching. Loomius was now weeping at Querl's side.
"Does he know about Laoraighll?" James asked.
"Not yet, but he's asked for her. In truth, I know not what to tell him," L'ile answered. "They, at least, knew the instant it happened, for better or worse," he gestured to Luornu and Laurentia, weeping over Lu's charred body.
It still dumbfounded James that they had been three Luornus - or at least three identical sisters.
"Iaime, Laoraighll, Dyrk, Lu, Garth - and even Querl. Such a heavy toll. At least two dead, yet how will the survivors ever fare?" James said, now on the verge of tears himself. "Will any of us truly be the same?"
"We must be," interjected Rokk, who was visibly not immune to the sorrows himself. "We owe it to them, to ourselves - and to all Britain. For if we give up, all this," he gestured around, "will have been in vain."
"He speaks - truly," Querl managed, barely audible of the crackles of the campfires. L'ile motioned for him to keep silent and rest.
The moment was ruined by Dyrk's scream of agony, as the hot syrups the Druids fed him took hold.
"Sir Dyrk! Move not your neck just yet," Beren beseeched.
The Druids gathered round, testing the knight's responses to pokes to various parts of his body, while Lyle cradled his head in place. They cheered with every protest form Dyrk.
"Are you all my tormentors, then?" he snapped angrily.
"My good knight," Beren said. "Each time you feel our prods let us know your injuries may be healable."
Dyrk grimaced, but resigned himself to let them proceed.
Rokk and Imra allowed themselves a brief smile, that the tide of losses could be reversing.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:23 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Eighty-three
"Easy there, lad. You're still not well."
Brandius' cautioning did little to stem Querl's determination. With painful step after painful step, he made his way to the room where Laoraighll was being cared for.
Beren was tending to the Irish woman, dabbing at her forehead, while his fellows were preparing a new elixir for her.
L'ile, unsurprised by Querl's arrival, welcomed him. "You're too stubborn to die, and persistent to let yourself get proper rest and care," he joked. "But I insist you sit. T'is a long walk you just took for one in your state."
Querl's body was not about to argue, and with Brandius and L'ile's assistance, he sat.
"How-How is she," he said at last, gasping.
"No change. I understand it not," L'ile shook his head. "We used the same herbs and remedies, yet she remains ever closer to death's edge. I-I know not what to do differently."
Querl nodded. "Tenzil has been scouring the battlefield for traces of weapon-poisons, to no avail."
Brandius shook his head with sadness. He'd just seen Dyrk that morning - the Druids were caring for him still on Gertus' Hill, afraid to move him. A pavilion was set up, with fires and fire-tenders to warm it - and ashes placed alongside him to warm the ground.
Although annoyed and in discomfort, the lad would make it, he sensed. Laoraighll gave him no such confidence.
L'ile, too, was deeply troubled. Must I lose three friends this holy day? Samhain is about honoring the dead, t'is true, but let two be sacrifice enough, he thought, helping the rested Querl to look upon the Laoraighll's face, and caress it.
"Water," Querl said, matter-of-factly, almost as if a command.
One of the Druids poured water from one of the pitchers, and handed it to Querl, who resumed his seat.
"No, not for me. Water is the one thing different. The herbs are the same, as are the healers. Yet on route from the coast, we used the waters we came across - not Londinium's waters."
The druids looked upon each other. There was wisdom in his words, yet...
"Shall we go back, retrace our springtime route, and collect from each place we drew water from? To find the right stream?" L'ile asked. He was willing, but the undertaking seemed-
"-Not yet," said Querl, interrupting his thought. "There is not just the source of water, but its receptacle to consider first - and it is much closer to us, I hope."
Brandius' eyes widened.
"The 'Caldron of the Gods!" L'ile exclaimed. Laoraighll's gift to Rokk may have been the very thing that saved her life! "I must find Reep at once!"
L'ile raced out of the room and down the hall, nearly knocking the passer-by Iasmin over.
"Son, if this does work and has healing properties, c-could it benefit Luornu? Or Garth or Dyrk?"
"Or Iaime?" asked Iasmin, having deduced enough of the conversation.
"When I came to this Isle I believed not in any magicks. Yet if this bowl was indeed crafted by Eiru's... gods, it may be of help. But what I know of Irish lore, death does not seem to be so casually reversed, even among the gods themselves... But I do believe we may prevent the death toll from growing past two."
"T'was too much to hope," Iasmin said. "But may it help the others!" She was so wrapped up in tending to her brother's corpse, she hadn't heard for certain which of the others had died.
"My lady, I have not had the chance to say how sorry-" Brandius began.
"-Iaime died fulfilling his dreams. He was a master horseman, yes, but dreamed of being the warrior he was not. He gave himself up to be part of King Rokk's legacy - in more ways than one. I intend to see his dreams continue."
They sat in silence, awaiting L'ile's return.
But Querl still thought, reflecting on what he'd learned of Rokk's own curse. If curses can be held at bay, and it was Zaryan's which killed our knight on Gertus' Hill, what aid would dispelling the curse give to letting the Cauldron do its work?
But the thought was academic until L'ile returned.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:24 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Eighty-four
"I understand this not. If it took no special ritual to save Laoraighll last time, then why-"
Beren shot James a look that said "Silence, or leave!" in a very commanding, fatherly way.
Because it is Samhain, the cycle of the year when the worlds of the living and the dying come the closest together, Imra explained to him, and several others with questions on their faces.
Not only is the danger greater, but the Druids must be certain that they do not undo a de facto sacrifice on the very day the year-king is supposed to die.
And, despite an accidental cure last spring, it is the proper way to honor another god's holy relic, she thought, but kept this silent among the Christian knights she feared would not understand.
The Druids conducted the ritual, reluctantly allowing some of Laoraighll's compatriots to be present. They consulted the auguries, and blessed all in attendance, as well as their ritual tools, the Cauldron itself, and the water as they poured it into the cauldron - and again as they poured it into her sleeping mouth.
Everyone waited with near-held breath, hoping for an instant success. Her involuntary cough led for hopes that words would follow.
They didn't.
The Druids continued praying and chanting, while their guests either continued their vigils or quietly fidgeted.
Rokk should not allow such devil-worship. If revived, who is to say Laoraighll will not turn on us, thought Luornu.
Imra restrained her anger. Although the thought was not meant for her, it was too strong to ignore.
L'ile was not of far different mind. Do the presence of the uninitiated - let alone Christians - taint the ceremony?
Maybe we should all pray for the best of outcomes, and trust that your god or gods place Laoraighll's goodness above any doubts our own hearts may hold, Imra advised all the guests.
The chanting continued, growing louder and stronger in cycles. Brandius, a lifelong Christian, was surprised at its melody, harmony and depth.
Querl just stared at the recipient of the ritual: how still and serene she looked lying there.
For a second time, the Cauldron was filled with blessed water, and following more incantation, was again administered to Laoraighll.
More coughing followed, but again no words.
The ritual continued, with Querl and other losing hope.
After a similar length, the Druids began pouring a third allotment of water - but were interrupted.
"Coisricthe!" exclaimed Laoraighll, catching all by surprise.
"Coisricthe?" asked Rokk, in a whisper.
Holy water, translated his wife.
Mysa and L'ile immediately began attending to the woman, who was perplexed to find herself amid such a gathering.
Querl stated over, too, but the Druids intercepted him, and the ritual continued, with Querl being the next recipient.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:26 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Eighty-five
"...everyone else is up at Gertus' Hill."
"Do you think the Chalice will cure Dyrk?" Saihlough asked.
"If it cured all our living survivors, then I--
"What did you call it?" Reep asked.
"A Chalice. You know, for wine?" the pixie giggled.
He hadn't thought of it before, but the round belly of the Cauldron did resemble some of the various goblet he'd seen - albeit one without a stem.
"Hmmm. I'll mention that to L'ile," he said, absently.
"Anyway, I'm more concerned with a few things. One, King Mekt's guests -and Zaryan- knew our formations. Two, they were able to recruit Mekt's lady-love. Three, they knew about Querl's Computus. Not any detail, but that it existed - and where it was," Reep frowned.
"Four, they knew Querl and Loomius were moving it to the hill-top. Five, they anticipated Dyrk's team, and ambushed them. And six," he paused for emphasis, "Zaryan's curse implies he knew Rokk -or a key knight- would be his undoing.
"Where does that leave us?" he asked Saihlough.
"Alone at a great big circle-table!" she proclaimed, proud of her answer.
Reep smiled. "Aye, perhaps. But it also leaves us with a spy in our midst."
"What about Tenzil?" Saihlough asked.
"Tenzil?" Reep was surprised. He'd investigated the beefeater himself before accepting his services.
"Laoraighll was poisoned, right? He's such a poison expert, but never found out what ailed her, yes?" Saihlough said, sounding serious, while flying erratic circles around the empty hall.
"Go on."
"Well, he also is always around, well-positioned to hear everyone's conversations. He'd be privy to almost anything."
Reep thought about this. Many of us are, too, I suppose. Mayhap the spy is one of us.
"He's also been to the court of Clovis, I've heard him say, and his father served old King Ban in Lesser Britain. He'd know Mekt and his lost love, no doubt."
"Indeed?" Reep hadn't connected Tenzil to Ban's court before this. "Saihlough, I'll need your help, as well as L'ile and Tinya to solve this, whether it's Tenzil or-"
"-Or what, brother?" Rokk returned-- with Dyrk at his side, and Luornu, in turn, under his arm.
Tenzil, remaining unseen and having overheard the previous talk from the kitchen hallway, took the moment to flee.
"You old faker!" Reep jibbed. "Had enough resting out in the country?"
"Aye! I'll not sleep comfortably on rough earth ever again, I fear," the knight laughed. As the group behind them filtered in, Reep could see of what he'd heard, but never seen - all three sisters standing together.
"Lu, is it? All your burns healed?" Reep asked.
"Aye," she answered. "T'is funny. I'd see you in the gardens or where-not - back at the villa- pretending to be Luornu-"
"-And we'd find poor Luornu not recalling conversations we'd have with her sisters!" Rokk chimed in. "We never knew!"
Aye, we didn't, Reep thought, forcing a smile. But it's what we don't know now that ails me.
"And Garth? Did the Cup work on him and Iaime, too?" Saihlough asked.
"Nay," Rokk said, saddened. "It would seem to need a still-living person to benefit."
Saihlough shook her head. She couldn't quite grasp humans' need to define life by their fragile shells. They fear not the kingdom of dreams, yet the Summer Country seems so foreign to them. Why is that?
"Yet I feel better than I ever have!" Lu beamed.
"Maybe we all should share a sip," Reep joked, but Rokk's eyes told him the idea was being considered.
"T'is blasphemy to treat the San Graal as a toy," Luornu said, testily.
"The what?" asked Reep.
"The Holy Grail. Surely these miracles are God's, despite the efforts of the Druids. Why if Father Marla had led the effort-"
"-With a relic more akin to Druidism than Rome? I think not," L'ile sneered.
"Nay! T'is the Grail! No other power but God's could be at work here!" Luornu insisted. "We should rejoice in his name! We have-
"-Enough!" Rokk shouted. "I'll not have my friends at odds over theology on this miraculous day! Now I proclaim a feast of celebration shall be held - and also to honor dear Iaime and Garth."
"Garth may not be totally lost," Querl reminded him.
"Aye, but until we make consultations, I'll not have false hope spread - no matter how much we wish it true," the king responded.
"I pray you're right, Brainius," said Iasmin. "I pray my brother's sacrifice was the sole one we shall mark this year. Although I knew him only since the month of Julius, I feel now that I have lost two brothers."
"Now, everyone, ready yourselves for the feast!" Rokk ordered.
As they disbursed, Reep filled him in on the traitor theory, but also to inquire about the cryptic remark about consultations.
"Why, the Lady of the Lake, of course. Certainly she'd like to aide her son's revival?"
"Son?"
"You knew not that he is also known as Garth du Lac, Garth of the Lake?" Rokk raised an eyebrow. "Reep, you're usually the one three steps ahead of us.
"Now you seek answers from Tenzil, while I... I make my other consultation," he said. "With Mordru."
[ December 26, 2005, 06:28 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Eighty-six
"Hello, my husband."
Mysa had waited until the guards were out of earshot before speaking.
"Hello, my good wife," Mordru answered. "I am truly sorry to hear of your paramour's demise. But now, he cannot destroy Britain."
His words stung. Mysa had been developing true feelings for Garth, and she felt half-dead herself. But I will not show that to Mordru, she steeled herself, hugging him so as not to show her face.
"To what do I owe the honour of your visit?"
"My brother, I think, will be visiting you soon."
"Oh? Change of heart, has he? or perhaps, 'Can my old beloved wizard of a benefactor resurrect my best friend?' Yes, I shall wager that is it," he chuckled.
"I believe it so. But I beg thee- tell him not we are wed?"
"Aye," Mordru laughed. "That much I can do."
An awkward pause arose.
"Mordru?"
"Yes, my love?"
"I-I must apologize. I have not been a good advocate for you, n-nor a visitor."
"No, you haven't."
"I should-"
"-Nay," he said. "It was far easier to sneak to my rooms whilst I was free. To visit me here? Why, people would talk!
"And you certainly could not argue on my behalf to your brother-king, else he suspect," Mordru concluded.
"You do understand!" Mysa was filled with relief.
"Understand?" he asked, rage building like a fast-moving thunderstorm. "Understand! I understand what a self-serving shrew you can be!
"Understand you? Aye, I do! But you do not understand me!" he bellowed. "Do you!?"
The question - the anger - and the look on his face all reminded Mysa of her dream. For the first time since she had it, she remembered the vision of a giant Mordru seemingly poised to decimate Avalon itself.
Yet with sickening realization, she and the mage had been plotting that very course all summer.
She recoiled in revulsion and terror, virtually collapsing.
"What ails you, woman?" he calmly asked, as if he'd been that way the whole time.
"...I'm truly sorry," she whimpered, before calling for the guard to be let out.
Mordru bided his time, considering his words to young Rokk, how he would apologize for his words at the wedding, while mentally chastising Mysa for provoking his rage.
And not long after, the guards returned, leading Rokk, no doubt. As they approached the cell door, he smiled.
This is one I've been savouring.
With a flash, to door sprung open before the guards even touched the lock, while a cloud of smoke had his captors coughing.
Mordru stood in the doorway, just in time for the smoke to fade.
"I just wanted to show you I could have left this cell at any time," he smiled, eyeing Rokk. "I have remained here solely out of respect for you.
"Come. Let us talk."
[ December 26, 2005, 06:29 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Eighty-seven
"This way!"
Jonah would have rather readied the troops to push into Kentish lands, but that could wait until after Rokk's feast.
But this errand was already growing tiresome. The villa looked abandoned, its owners no doubt fled with word of the approaching Khunds.
While his guide and love didn't need to stop for little obstacles like doors and walls, he did, and her annoyance at his delays in turn annoyed him.
But sure enough, just as she promised, the wine cellar was contained a hideous little Fae, a little man in a tattered coat, a long snout, beady rat-like little eyes, pointy ears and dangly limbs, with a jaundiced brown complexion to him.
"That’s him!" Tinya exclaimed.
"Uggh! What manner of creature are you?" asked Jonah.
"Ai'dh bhe moirre wourraghed abougdt uirselphe, Sier Ghamhaighne," it replied. "Oune siould bhe mhindphuille ouphe eintehrien dhe llaighrre ouphe a Pharre Dhairraigh."
A Fir Darrig, eh? This could be a problem, Jonah had heard of these creatures.
"The Iron, my love! Use the iron! And take not your eyes from him!" Tinya advised.
The darrig raised his eyebrow. "Eiyghern?"
Tinya forgets the Fae can see and hear her.
Jonah raised the great iron blade he'd procured, and pointed it at the faerie.
"Lleighdt uis knought bhe ouphe haiyste," the darrig cautioned, wiping sweat from its brow.
"I want answers to three questions. With these answers, and a vow that you'll leave the court of King Rokk and his knights alone, and you may live," Jonah threatened. "And rid yourself of the thick accent!"
"Right enough," the darrig nodded in agreement.
"Tell me how I can find the spy you've sent to court."
"When winter's come He should hear dead, But great halls' gossips He hears instead"
"That's no answer!" Tinya blurted.
"Yes," Jonah smiled. "It is."
"With you, I'd be done. What next?" asked the darrig.
"Why did you aide Britain's enemies?"
"The Khund will come But all's not lost, The circle closes Else the cross."
Tinya nodded. They both understood that one.
The darrig waited.
"All right. Who heads this 'Dark Circle?'"
"Look not to Druids, Kings or knave, She who weaves webs Is called Maeve."
"Maeve? The Irish sorceress of yore?" Tinya couldn't believe it.
If the Hound's ghost still lingers, maybe Maeve's does, too, Jonah thought. "All that remains is your pledge."
"I do so swear never to harm further King Rokk, his court or knights, so I do."
"Forget something?" asked Tinya.
"Whatever could you mean?" The darrig said. "Why, I've named-"
"Everyone but yourself, Llandrough!" She savoured the moment.
The darrig scowled. "How did you- Oh, no matter. Very well. I... Llandrough, swear..."
[ December 26, 2005, 06:31 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Eighty-eight
"You must hate me."
Iasmin wanted to tell him she didn't, but couldn't.
"Why..." No, she still couldn't. "Why do you wear that robe?"
"T'is part of the penance Farther Marla has assigned. I shall wear only a plain, un-dyed robe, drink only water and broths, and eat only bread," Agravaine explained.
"And that absolves your sin?" Iasmin could believe that not - maybe anger was better saved for the lenient priest.
"Nay. That's just the beginning, along with standing vigil overnights over both Iaime and Garth, until burial. Both Marla and King Rokk have further penance for me in store, I have no doubt."
"And much deserved it is." She understood the nature of the mistake, but couldn't forgive it.
"Aye." He met her eyes for the first time. "What... What would you have me do, my lady?"
"I..." The honesty, pain and remorse in his gaze caught her off-guard. She hadn't expected that - a remorseless northerner who knew no better, yes - even a careless ruffian - but not that.
"I don't know. I hadn't thought much on it." She turned away.
"If you think of anything. Please. I'll do anything."
Would you take your life, if I asked for it? she thought. Remembering those eyes, now searing into her mind, she realized he probably would.
His torment is as deep as mine. I must speak carefully around him... Iaime would not wish him ill, would he?
They walked in silence to the great hall. She had never before seen the entire company of knights seated around the table, but could easily picture Iaime among them.
Walking around the edge, she greeted the many knights she and her brother had been training for these past months, knights who she now must continue to train - alone.
Most chairs had names calligraphed onto their backs. She stopped short, seeing one marked "Iaime."
"The seat shall remain vacant until Iaime is reborn and joins us once more, through the eternal cycle of life, death and re-birth," Mysa explained. "Rokk has granted this at my request."
"Any who sit there do so at great peril," Rokk said. "I have ordered the death of any who do."
"And Garth's seat?" Iasmin asked, seeing it, too was empty.
"Garth may rejoin us yet," she said, trying not to smile so much it seemed like a gloat. "Mordru has conjured magicks so that if Garth's spirit wishes, he may remain rooted here until Yule, and his body will not waste away."
"Thus we have time to break Zaryan's curse," Rokk interjected.
"Please God that it should be so," Iasmin said.
Seeing Querl come in, she asked, "Was it not the Greek lad who devised the plan to save Garth?"
"It was," the king replied.
"And he found that the Cauldron would save the lives of Dyrk, Laurel and Lu," she said. "I would present a gift to him, once the feast is under way."
"Aye," Rokk agreed. "There will be plenty of commendations to be made this eve."
[ December 26, 2005, 06:20 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 76-87: 76: I couldn't resist. Once the "try/do" line came up, I remembered Aven's original Jedi trick, and decided to apply it here, too. 77: Gertus' Hill comes from an actual London Tube stop: Gants Hill, which on a too-small brochure map I misread as Gerts Hill. I have no idea what the real hill - if there is one- is like, or how old the name was, so I just made it up as I pleased. The name "Notting Hill" is less than 200 years old, so I easily opted out of using it. Besides, Gants was more or less right where I wanted it - northeast of Londinium. And I was finally dying to use the Miss Terious line! 78: I'm liking James more than I ever liked Gim, although WaK are off to a good start. 79: At last! drawing together everyone on the hill! I honestly wasn't certain if Rokk knew it was Lu all along until I got here. Yes, that was Lu after the faerie queen adventure, and in the Perilous Forest story. Go back, and you'll see a lack of male pronouns for the mystery knight. 80: I saw Nura seeing much of the goings-on from the outset (but not the outcome of the hill, of course); what i didn't know was how much would be told in the preceding chapters. 81: I wasn't happy with this one. Fast readers may have noticed the various editing jobs I did after the fact, before commencing #82. Normally, chapters flow out as-is. It also occurred to me after #77 that Imra 'influenced' Dyrk. 82: In contrast, I much liked this one - especially delaying telling who got killed - Lu or Garth. I really couldn't find out how ancients treated neck injuries (presumably they mostly resulted in death, one way or the other), so I let the Druids play it safe, albeit probably too modernish. So sue me. 83: Originally, I had Querl deduce the poison first. But that can wait - especially until the spy story is resolved. 84: It couldn't be too simple, could it? Or else you could casually duel a villain one-handed, sipping from the cauldron and never taking any serious injury. 85: da Grail. yep. Pre-Christian, Pre-Arthurian Celtic legends are full of magical healing chalices and cauldrons (that usually provide sustenance, too), while earliest Grail legends don't describe its form as a chalice. Thus, I see it as a co-option of Celtic lore, especially as modern Grail theorists describe the Grail as a bloodline of Christ, not a relic. 86: Poor Mysa! It all comes back to roost, one way or another... 87: That's not Gaelic, just an attempt to show a thick accent. Try to sound out the words aloud if you can't make them out; you'll probably get the idea. A Fir Darrig (sometimes a Far Darrig) is a type of Irish faerie, but he fit here. Brownie points for seeing his LSH connection! (Hint: remember, Tenzil fled!)
[ December 26, 2005, 06:24 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Abin Quank on :
Sean, this gets better with each chapter you add! I'm especially struck with the deft blending of Arthurian Legend with LSH Story Lines.
BRAVO!
I tried to resist going all Harbi on you this time But...
MORE, MORE, MORE!
Sorry, couldn't help myself!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Eighty-nine
"Tenzil! Where have you been?"
"In safe-keeping," Jonah answered for him. "Before you start accusations, Reep, come this way."
The three entered the great hall. Rokk called out in greeting, and started to ask about Tenzil, who'd been missing since afternoon.
"My king, my fellows, I beg thy silence. All will be explained," he said.
With the unseen Tinya, the three began peering around the room, with Reep peering as well, trying to determine what they were watching.
"There!" Tenzil whispered to Jonah.
The knight saw it, and charged up to the wall, yanking on a thin wisp of vine protruding from a corner.
"Yaaaaaaaggghhhh!" screamed the vine, shifting back into a faerie form.
"That's the spy?" Tenzil asked. "Fantastic!"
"What! The spy, but how-" Reep awkwardly said, still trying to piece together what was transpiring.
"Balan! Balin! Your assistance, please!" called Jonah.
The two knights approached, while he continued speaking. "This, my friends, is our spy - a Lesidhe. A sprite that disguises itself as foliage, plant-form. Good knights? This fellow needs to be held in nice, secure solid iron."
Balan held the faerie as it shrieked loudly, and at such pitch that all the gatherants in the hall had to cover their ears.
"Speak, faerie! Who is your contact? Whom do you spill our secrets to?" Jonah demanded.
It continued shrieking. "Cry as long as you would. You torment ends not until you speak," the knight said.
"..." The creature knew it was beat. "A woman, a deposed queen from another land. I met her not, but when she comes near to Londinium, we spoke over distance, without words."
Mekt gave Rokk a sharp look, and Rokk and Imra looked at each other.
Just how prevalent is your type of gift? Rokk asked.
Not very. Other than Aven, and myself I have only heard of two others. Mayhap she is Eva, the Arian queen of Alemannia.
Aye. Alemannia fell four years ago to Clovis, and this matches Mekt's tale, Rokk nodded.
"What shall we do with it?" Jonah asked.
"Saihlough?" Rokk deferred to the resident expert.
"A Lesidhe? Hmmm.... Is it cut off his wings? ...Heart? ...Eye?... No! It's his tail!" the pixie declared.
"NOOOOOOO!" the Lesidhe began shrieking again.
Ignoring it, Saihlough continued. "Without it's tail, it has to serve the tail's captor. But keep it where it can't be found," Saihlough warned. "It will try anything to find it and flee."
With the brothers holding the faerie firm, Jonah took his hunting knife and cut the tail. The shrieking turned to whimpering, as Jonah commanded its wail to end.
"I think that's what you do. Else, you've made it your mortal enemy," Saihlough said matter-of-factly. Seeing Jonah's expression, she giggled. "Surely you see that I jested!"
Jonah and Reep found an iron box to keep the faerie ensnare for the night, ordering it not to escape, and provided false information for it to feed its contact.
"Do you think it will obey?" Jonah asked, on the way back to the hall.
"It has to. But we must watch our commands. It will try to twist our words to its favour," Reep answered.
Returning to the hall, the knights were ribbing Tenzil for his flight.
Feel lucky that Tinya saw through this plot, Jonah thought. Say... Where has she gone?
[ December 26, 2005, 06:25 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
quote:Originally posted by Abin Quank: Sean, this gets better with each chapter you add! I'm especially struck with the deft blending of Arthurian Legend with LSH Story Lines.
BRAVO!
I tried to resist going all Harbi on you this time But...
MORE, MORE, MORE!
Sorry, couldn't help myself!
Harbi has that effect, doen't she?
Thanks again, my friend!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Ninety
In accordance with Rokk's wish, Beren consulted the auguries, learning that to bring out the Cauldron's true glory, it would take the work of priestesses.
Mysa, in turn, performed her own auguries, mapping out the ritual to come. She enlisted her old friend Jeka.
"Should there not be three?" asked Jeka. "Surely that is a more sacred number. Let us fetch Imra-"
"-Nay," said Mysa. "If there are to be three, the Lady will provide."
With Druids standing in vigil in the hall outside, they began. Purifying and blessing themselves, they did likewise for their workspace, creating a sacred space that transcended the waking world.
And they invited the goddess in.
"Arianhrod! Ceridwen! Cailleach! Maiden, Mother and Crone! Hear us! Send us the Maiden of the Cauldron, that she may do your blessings!"
And out of the ether floated a young woman with thick raven hair.
Seeing them see her, tears of joy welled out from the maiden's eyes. They parted hands to join with her, making a trio.
"I have held no human hand for more than a year," the maiden said. "Bless you, Mysa, Jeka, whatever it is that you do."
"Bless you, my Lady," Mysa smiled. "Let us continue."
The ritual went forward, and the maiden felt herself change, as the Maiden of the Cauldron was further blessed and invoked.
No longer sure where she ended and Arianhrod began, she reached for the Cauldron. Although Mysa had yet to pour the purified water, it was full!
She drank, quivering at the sensations, tasting tastes she barely recalled anymore: honey, apples, wine, berries, cheese, smoked meats, nectars...
She felt her heart pump, her blood flow... she truly felt as goddess, with no blemish or imperfection... she could taste this nectar forever....
No she couldn't. Overflowing was the warmth and love she felt, and had to share it - first with her sisters.
She raised the Cauldron to their lips, saying, "I thee bless. May you be nourished," first to Mysa, then to Jeka.
She could not stop there.
Beren and his men, out in the hall were next.
"My Lady," Beren managed, barely able to muster the words.
The Maiden drifted down the hall, giving communion to two passing guards en route to the great hall. The two stood near-paralyzed as she departed.
Her entry brought the revelry to a halt: all were transfixed, and the light of torches seemed to be replaced with a bright, soft moonlight.
She offered sips to all: servant, knight, maiden or noble, blessing them all as she gave them the Gift. It amazed her non-goddess self that each saw her as something different.
"Mother," Carolus greeted her.
"Isis," welcomed Querl.
"Brigid," said Laoraighll.
"Iasmin," Agravaine called her.
"Mary," said Luornu, making the sign of the cross.
"Mysa," said Mordru.
"Mother, you truly are as beautiful as I remember," said Rokk.
"Kiwa," said Imra.
Only Jonah, who she saved for last, saw her as she saw herself. "Tinya, my love," he wept, holding her hands rather than drinking.
"My love, you must drink, and we will be together at midwinter," she said, not knowing why, but knowing the words were true.
He kissed instead her lips, tasting the nectars from her own mouth.
And in a flash of light she was gone.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:27 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Hey!
I finally found the thread where I first told LWers about LoC:
I've only started reading, and I love it already. I guess I know what I'm doing the next couple of days...
Juan
Posted by Harbinger on :
Sean, you continue to delight us with your tale, it's excellent!
Chuck has been saying it for me but just in case you didn't guess - more, more, more!
Bxx
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thanks, gang!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Ninety-one
"That was quite a night!"
"That it was." Rokk, like most of his court, were still half-awed by the visitation they'd experienced. No doubt the Cauldron/Grail argument will again erupt in the morning, but-
Tomorrow arrives not til morning, Imra smiled at him.
"There's no idle thinking around you, is there?"
"Sorry. I didn't mean it... I just feel so good, I wanted to reach out to you-"
"-There's a better way to reach a young man's heart," he smiled, drawing close to her.
"I'll bet there is," she smiled, welcoming him.
They shared a warm, passionate kiss, and for the first time Rokk felt that everything was perfect: his court, kingdom and marriage...
...Rokk became fully awake in a split second, as if he'd been thrown into an icy lake.
He was still wrapped around Imra, who was sound asleep. He tried nuzzling up again beside her, pretending he was tired...
It wasn't working.
Sigh.
He straightened out, his left arm still beneath his wife. The moonlight streaming through the window is beautiful. Maybe my bride would like to share it with me?
He leaned close to her again. She was muttering in her sleep.
"Mmm glghdyghr hrrrwffmm... Garth."
Sigh.
He felt no ill will for his best friend, but coming from Imra after all they'd just shared truly hurt.
Carefully, trying not to wake her, he slowly pulled his left arm free, pausing every time Imra's pattern of sleep changed. It took the better part of half an hour.
Quietly, he slipped to his wardrobe room, and donned a simple tunic and leggings with warm boots and robe.
The palace was all quiet. Everyone no doubt was wrapped up warmly, savouring the magick of the evening.
Yet descending the stairs, he dwelled on Mordru's words. "You seek to restore life to the man who may cost you your bride? Your very kingdom?"
"Aye," he'd told him. ""I rule by trusting those I love, those who would stand by me."
"Then you're a fool," Mordru told him.
"A fool!" The memory echoed still, now interlaced with the passions he and his bride shared only hours before - and shattered by the realities that her heart let slip.
(Sigh.)
He stood at the balcony over the entry hall. How many mornings he'd come up here to watch the palace guards drill! He needed that, he told himself, to remember each day that he awoke not in Sir Brandius' villa, that the past eight months was no trifling dream.
Eight months ago, his sole duties were to tend the sheep, help with harvest, and mend fences. Some days he'd give it all up for such simplicity...
"What do you see?"
Iasmin startled him.
"The way people move so silently in these halls, it's not a wonder we've had a score of spies," he smiled, looking down at her. "Hold, I shall meet you there."
"I think that one gets so used to the echoes of the smallest sounds, that it gets hard to tell who is close, and who is far," she said, as he descended the stairs. "This palace must have been built from a soft stone indeed."
"This was Ambrosius' palace. When I build my palace, it shall be from harder stone, then. I like not how easily everyone sneaks up on me here."
"You already plan a palace?"
"Aye. Probably at Camulodunum, where I can be closest to the enemy."
"You... You weren't planning your palace just then, were you?" Iasmin saw in Rokk a similar look as when Iaime would pine for Morroc.
"No. I was thinking about, well..."
"Where you grew up?"
"Aye."
"When we first came ashore at Exeter, I said to Iaime, 'Why have we left the warmth and sun for this rainy, cold, damp place?' But in truth, now, despite all that's happened. This[i] is where I belong. I [i]feel it. We can still remember fondly whence we came from, but I can only bear out this time by looking forward," her voice started to quiver. "It isn't within me to reflect too much just yet."
Rokk held her.
"You are a brave, strong woman. Iaime was and no doubt is quite proud of you."
They held each other in silence for a time.
"My king? W-Where I come from, a king has... certain liberties beyond his marriage vows," her hold on him moved lower. "I'd be honored if you..." Her questioning smile let him finish the sentence for her.
He smiled. Recalling how Imra's calling Garth's name, so soon after their own endeavors, had hurt him, and he was very tempted to find solace with Iasmin.
He resisted not as she put her lips to his.
"You're a fool!" Mordru’s words came back to him - as did his own. "I rule by trusting those I love, those who would stand by me."
I cannot be the first to dishonour our vows, especially from a woman who reads my thoughts.
Sigh.
"I-I am truly sorry, Iasmin. I cannot do this. If my conscience and face give me away not, then-"
"-Queen Guinevere's gift of seeing one's bare soul will betray you. I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"
He grabbed her hand. "If I had one indication she has been untrue, I would-"
"-I know," she smiled bitterly. Looking him in the eyes once more, she kissed him again, then quietly departed, leaving him alone in the vast hall.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:29 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Ninety-two
"But where did she go? Obviously she took the cauldron with her," Reep said.
"Who was she?" asked L'ile. "She reminded me of a woman I knew long ago named Myla - but she'd long been dead."
"The woman I saw looked like our mother," Balin said.
"Nay! It was the virgin Mary holding the Grail!" Balan contradicted.
Lu shook her head annoyed. If I wanted to hear that, I'd have brought Luornu with me.
Jonah was angered. "Did any of you talk to her? NO! I did. I tell you, it was Tinya!"
The knights all paused, seeing no solution at hand.
"We'll not find out 'til we find her," said Rokk.
"My men tell me reports of 'miracles' similar to ours heading west, out of the city, and out along the western road," Reep said.
"Then we must ride-"
"-Calm down, Jonah!" Rokk shouted, surprising himself, his cousin and the others.
"No one goes charging off until we know what we're doing. Whether it was Tinya or some magicks that made us see what we wished. If she saw a horde of us riding after her, she's stay out of our sight, wouldn't she?"
The knights nodded.
"Reep and L'ile are in charge of sorting through reports. They may ask one or all of us to ride and gather information, but no one does so without their say-so. Understand?"
Again, they nodded.
"Now, Regardless of who it was -or wasn't- does anyone have any useful information to offer?"
"My king?" Jonah hesitantly spoke up. "Tinya told me she'd see me again at midwinter, and I've not seen her since around the palace. I-I usually can feel her nearby."
Dyrk rolled his eyes. He'd mostly accepted Tinya's existence, recalling instances where Jonah, Saihlough and Guinevere spontaneously had the same reactions to the ghost, but Jonah's word still carried little reassurance.
"Midwinter. Yule. When Mordru's spells to preserve Garth come to an end," Rokk noted. "Does she mean to be back to heal Garth? Nay, we can't delay on your account. I shall leave to see the Lady of the Lake."
"My sire! She's a sorceress!" Balan blurted, earning him a dire look from Rokk.
"She is my benefactor, friend and ally," the king said, with a ferocious rage building. "If you're so pious, Balan, look me in the eye and tell me you took no unchristian pleasure in tormenting the Lesidhe."
It was an abomination before God, just as Saihlough is, he wanted to say, but held his tongue. Surely the evils of women-kind are afflicting our king's heart.
Rokk continued. "I shall ride to Glastonbury with James, and hopefully we shall return with both Thom and good news."
He looked around. "I would see Querl before I leave. Has anyone seen him?"
"He left for Avalon with Beren and Tenzil this very morn. Had I known, you could have joined them," L'ile said.
"Perchance we shall meet them on the road," James said.
"Nay. They took the Path of Isis, and are no doubt already halfway to Avalon," L'ile said.
"Is there any other here who can navigate this path of which I have heard?" Rokk asked. "It would be nice to save three days' ride."
"That has been in Londinium of late, only Beren, that I know of," L'ile somberly answered, thinking of Aven's sacrifice.
"What about Mordru?"
"Mordru is... not welcome in Avalon. None have taught him the Path, I have been told."
L’ile did not say Mordru knew not the path, Reep noted. Yet if he did, has he not used it?[/i]
[ December 26, 2005, 06:30 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Ninety-three
"Welcome to Avalon, my dear!" greeted Lady Kiwa.
"It is good to be here," said Nura, stepping off the barge. "I wish only that we could have come sooner."
"My lady," greeted Marcus.
"Ah! Good duke. Welcome."
"King Marcus, my lady," he corrected, smiling politely.
"I realized not that you had also wed Queen Mysa," laughed Kiwa, leading them to the feasting hall.
"My elder sister renounced her claims to Cornwall," Nura told the priestess.
"You are Elaine?" Kiwa asked.
"That was my father, Gorlois' name for me, yes. I was raised in Eiru, where they called me Nuira, or Nura, which I have come to prefer."
Thom ran out, greeting them.
"My boy! Should you be up and about? Why, the word we received said your fevers-"
"-Were worsening, it's true. But we have had a miraculous few days, here and in Londinium," he laughed. "Remember Laoraighll's 'Cauldron of the Gods?' Well-"
"-The Cauldron's magicks were released? Oh, Thom! That is wondrous news!" Nura hugged him without thinking. After a momentary euphoria, they parted, receiving a cool stare from Marcus.
A man and a woman followed Thom's route out of the hall. Querl and Tenzil strolled behind.
"D--King Marcus and... Queen Nura of Cornwall," Kiwa said, "May I present Lady Tinya of Eboracum and..."
"Sentanta, son of Kell," said the man, with a thick Ulster accent.
"Dia daoibh, MacKell," greeted Nura.
"Dia daoibh," he returned the greeting.
Greetings continued, as the group returned inside - even in Avalon, November weather was not the most sociable. Kiwa had become strangely silent, occasionally stealing glances at Nura.
"I am hoping to see this fellow join Rokk's court," Querl said. "He's an impressive young knight."
"From whence in Eiru do you come?" asked Marcus.
"Emain Macha," he answered. "In Ulster."
"I don't believe I know the town," Marcus said, turning to his wife. "Do you?"
"No... but Ulster's capital of centuries ago had the same name," Nura said. "Back in the days of Craebh Ruadh, the knights of the Red Branch!"
The knight laughed. "That is true, the old fort is gone. Yet my homestead nearby remains."
"Your smile reminds me of a warrior-maiden, also of Ulster. Is she your kin?" Nura asked.
"T’is possible. I have so much family, I lose track. You refer to Laoraighll? We are... probably kin."
Marcus, meanwhile, was drawn to his companion. "Tinya of Eboracum? Why, you must be the daughter of Winifred!"
"Yes, I must," she said bitterly. "Pray tell me, your highness. If Queen Nura is Mysa's sister, then is she not King Rokk's sister also?"
"Nay. Despite the fairy-tale of Uther Ambrosius' seizing Tintagel and its lady over its master's corpse, in truth, jealous old King Gorlois had Igraine put aside once he even suspected his wife held Uther in her heart.
"He had already replaced her, with a new wife and child, by the time Uther and his armies came for Igraine - and the head of Gorlois. Fearing retribution, the child -Elaine- was sent to the safety of Eiru. She was Gorlois' second and final daughter," Marcus explained.
"And Nura's mother?" Tinya asked. Marcus shrugged, but she began to notice Kiwa's mannerisms around Cornwall's queen...
[ December 26, 2005, 06:33 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Ninety-four
Saihlough flew around the halls, having taken delight in playing a particularly fun prank on the guards.
Hiding keys or faking voices for patrols to flood into a cul-de-sac were fun enough, but she was particularly proud of the latest. The older guard who took his boots off to warm his feet by the fire never noticed her fill the empty boot with chilly gruel left over from evening mess.
She alternately laughed or sang a nonsensical fae-song as she flew.
Saihlough passed Agravaine, who was summoned to meet with Iasmin, or so the messenger said. His relief standing night vigil over Garth (Iaime had been buried at the Basilica before Rokk's departure) had decided to take a break himself, leaving the body unguarded in the palace chapel.
Saihlough figured this would be a good time to see if Garth's spirit had been around lately.
She flew in quietly, only to see a young woman weeping over the body, and it was neither Mysa nor the queen.
"I-I'm sorry, Garth. Why did it have to be you?"
Garth's reputation with the ladies was true! Saihlough thought, sneaking in closer.
She noticed how similar the maiden looked to Garth: similar features, accent, and even hair color!
"If only it was me instead of you. I'd do anything to have you back, my brother!" the maiden wailed.
Anything? Something about the girl touched Saihlough's heart.
Do I have enough faerie dust for this? Yes. I think I do...
"... I did wish ill on you, it is true, I see you as a truly repentant man," Iasmin said, trying not to stumble as she uttered the words she'd been practicing.
"I must do more," he said. "I fell the scales cannot be balanced so easily."
"Maybe not," she said, feeling the time and sentiment for punishment was passed. "I tell you this, if King Rokk approves....
"Besides wanting to be a great warrior in a company of knights, besides wanting to see Rokk's knights become the finest cavalry in Europa, he had another... dream. It was more daydream than goal, but," she paced uncomfortably, as if she were betraying some secret.
"He wanted to go to the Holy Lands, as a pilgrim. He wanted to help the poor, give aide to pilgrims and strangers, anonymously - with no benefit of our family's wealth," Iasmin said.
"W-Would you do this? For him?"
"It would be a great honor," he said reverently. "I pray that King Rokk agrees..."
"Agrees to what?" asked an intruder to the conversation.
Iasmin and Agravaine were stunned.
"Garth?"
[ December 26, 2005, 06:35 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Ninety-five
"I like it not."
"He's our king. What else can we do?"
The Northman itched his chin, as if it would make the answer apparent. It didn't.
"What if we deserted?" asked the Druid.
The others gave him a questioning look.
"I mean only this. We have no desire to go to war with King Rokk, do we? Well, we either fight or we flee, and mayhap we can join Rokk's ranks, and warn him of the treachery afoot," he concluded.
"Ai Don' knoo if thit's suich a woise curse of achtion," said the Orkneyman.
"Don't be so prickling," said the Pict, jibbing while maintaining his cold, serious face. "I see no better plan"
The others laughed.
"Fuir oince we agreigh," said the Scot. He didn't look up from tending the fire.
The others grunted their agreements.
The Northman nodded, taking it all in.
"All right then, lads. Come morning, Tarik of the 100 knights will find himself short a half-dozen, then."
[ December 26, 2005, 06:36 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Ninety-six
"Hounds' blood?"
"It makes sense," Tenzil said. "That's why I could taste no poison. No doubt the Khunds have taken to smearing on themselves, like war-paint!"
Breaking fast in Kiwa's hall offered only sweetbreads and fruit, leaving Marcus a bit dissatisfied.
No one else seemed to mind - Tinya and MacKell savoured each morsel like they'd forgotten what food tasted like - both with good reason. Genni, the late arrival, ate more than she spoke, having run all the way from Londinium over the past two nights and the intervening day.
"I tell you, Querl. Other than the final battle where Morrigu herself came for me, the only time I ever was ill was when Maebh's minions tricked me into eating hounds meat."
"Maeve, you said?" Tinya asked. "Jonah and I met a faerie -a Fir Darrig, that said Maeve was behind the Dark Circle."
"But how could she be alive, 600 years alter?" Tenzil asked.
"How can I?" MacKell said.
"But this conqueror-queen, surely we would have heard of her? With 600 years, she could have conquered all the Isles?" Thom asked.
"Maybe she was Boudacea!" Marcus jested, earning a round of laughter.
"Maybe she's Glorith of Man," Tinya said.
"T'is possible, so it is," MacKell replied.
"I tell you, MacKell- it still seems odd to call you that, Lar Chulain- I know not how you persevere for 600 years, stuck in one place, yet. I had enough torment for one year, and I could roam!"
"Aye, but I could see. And what sights there are in this world! There is a wall, several times Britain's length, in the land from whence the Huns came! There are giant lands covered in ice, year-round - two in the north, and one in the far south! And lands in Abyssinia where huge, strange creatures roam the plains!"
Genni nodded, having seen the latter.
Querl wanted to get back to the Ulsterians' weaknesses.
"How do we test this hounds-blood theory without risking getting you or Laoraighll sick again?" he asked.
MacKell nodded. "While the Cauldron is here, I may as well be your test-bird, Querl."
The Greek nodded. "Genni tells us Rokk and James will arrive on the morrow. I'd like to solve this by then."
[ December 26, 2005, 06:35 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 88-95: 88: Iaime being the inspiration for the Siege Perilous - the seat where no knight must sit- was actually a last-minute brainstorm. 89: The tail bit I made up, but Irish lore says Lesidhe (sidhe is pronounced "Shee" as in Bainsidhe=banshee) is indeed a foliage-dwelling trickster. 90: For the first time since #10, I heavily lean on Marion Zimmer Bradley here - but Tinya instead of Morgaine/Mysa. And Jo puts his own twist at the end - he wouldn't behave and just take a sip - would you? 91: I knew this was coming, but not when. 92: Too early for an outright Grail-quest. Balan's getting a bit testy lately, isn't he? 93: I'd been meaning to get into the Nura-Mysa-Rokk relations for a while. Wasn't certain, right up to the end, about Kiwa's role, though. Early on, Nura was going to be related to no one - but then I discovered by some legends, Gorlois (Morgaine le Fae's daddy) did have another daughter (presumably with Igraine), Elaine -- a different Elaine than the one that appears in later Lancelot stories. Sentanta was Irish legendary hero Cu Chulain's birth name. Mac means "son of" and Kell means "sacred" in Irish and "testicle" in Welsh. I figured as Cu Chulain was the son of the god Lugh, Lar would find the humor in this double-meaning name - spoofing his divine heritage. 94: Agravaine and Iasmin have taken longer to reach this point than I expected. 95:Be vewy qwiet. I'm hunting desewtews.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:37 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Ninety-seven
"I don't know, but something's not right," Dyrk said.
"How so?" Despite the Roman's previous misplaced concerns about Jonah, Reep still valued Dyrk's insights.
"It's like its him... but not him. I-I really can't nail down anything in particular, other than how little he remembers. Maybe it's best... pretend I said nothing," he got up from his chair, and paced several times before exiting.
"Maybe it's simply that we were growing to be friends, yet now he seems a stranger," he said, exiting.
Reep sat alone, pondering the situation. L'ile theorized the maiden's Cauldron-offering had a delayed effect in waking Garth. But could it not be him? He changed his face to resemble Garth. There. I've done it. And what if another has?
Reverting to normal, he set about his duties. Loomius wanted to meet about planning Rokk's new fortress, L'ile wanted to discuss a winter campaign into Kent while Khundish morale was low, and there were a litany of things to attend to.
Since sipping from the Cauldron himself, he felt better than ever. So why was it so hard to get up and out of the chair?
Something bothered Reep, and it wasn't just Garth's miraculous return.
Down the hall, Dyrk was intercepted by Luornu.
"Did you ask him?" She had an impatient smile in her eyes.
"We talked of... Garth. In all honesty, I forgot." He spoke truthfully, but knew she'd think otherwise.
"I...see. If my favour means so little to you, maybe I erred in so entrusting it," she said, storming away in a huff.
"Luornu! Wait..." he tried, but she did not heed.
"Would that the maidens were as simple to understand as swordplay, eh, good sir?"
"Go away, Carolus. I'm in no temper for jests."
"If I go away, I can't give you these to send to yon maiden," Carolus held out a small bouquet of spring flowers.
Dyrk was impressed. "Is this Mordru's magic, to have such blooms in November?" He examined the flowers, when there was a sudden burst of dust and wind, and he was holding a bunch of dead, wilted, rotting weeds.
Carolus laughed. "Sorry, good sir. I knew it not - In truth I was as amazed as you at the blossoms. Serves me to trust the Lesidhe for such a gift!"
He was going to give them to Luornu himself, Dyrk realized, picturing the floral implosion as he handed them to the maiden, and joining Carolus in a good belly laugh.
"No hard feelings, aye?"
"None," Dyrk answered. "And you may call me Dyrk."
Parting ways, he considered the illusions of faerie magic - and then reconsidered Garth in that context.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:39 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Ninety-eight
"Mac-El?"
"MacKell," corrected the Irishman. "I have no wish for there to be tales of the Hound's return, hence I have taken a new name. Now come. I shall show you the cave."
He led the way to the causeway that linked the Priestess Isle to the Tor.
"Be of care, MacKell. The walkway-"
"-Can be icy this time of morning, during the cold months," he smiled. "I've seen many a crosser fall flat, so follow Beren's instructions, my friends."
"He seems well enough," Beren whispered to Querl, having drifted toward the back of the procession.
"Aye. It seems the Cauldron has removed the contact-poison reaction to the blood, but I hesitate to suggest we try a small bit of foodstuff."
"I will not again eat dog!" MacKell snapped, stunning the entire group. Clearly only Beren was in Querl's earshot, the two had thought, while the rest looked at the Hound as if he were talking to ghosts.
"I only meant as a scientific study, to test and perhaps prevent such a poisoning in the future," Querl offered, apologetically.
MacKell nodded, then smiled. "Apologizes for reacting too harshly, then."
James strolled up next to the fellow he presumed to be one of Beren's Druids, given his priestly attire.
"I must beg your pardon. We seem to have been not introduced. I am Sir James," he said.
"Good to meet you, Sir James," the lad smiled, continuing his pace. Seeing James was waiting for a further response, he added, "I cannot say my name."
James exchanged glances with Tinya. Her face told him she'd tried as well. Neither could place his accent.
The Tor was not the steepest of hills, but perhaps of the mystical nature of Avalon, it seemed like a significant climb.
Tenzil enjoyed the crisp cold air. As far inland as his mind told him they must be - he caught the unmistakable smell of seawater.
And sure enough, as the morning fogs parted, he could see the shores of the isles as the sole land in sight - only endless sea.
"How is this possible? The shores of the Priestess Isle smells not of brine?" he asked.
"All of Avalon is an island, or a set of isles," Beren said. "But it is true that each of its isles are so in different ways.
"The Priestess Isle is an isle not unlike the small marsh islands that Glastonbury once was. The Tor is a windswept isle deep at sea. Each is different," he said.
"Just as each isle holds different entryways to our world," Querl concluded. "Just as we came by the Path of Isis from Londinium to the Teacher's Isle, you and King Rokk came across the lake at Glastonbury, James. And you must exit by the same gate you entered, else possibly meet Aven's fate."
"Or worse," Beren added.
James nodded, almost grasping it. "But by which way did Lar Chulain enter?"
Querl looked to MacKell, having wondered the same thing.
He shrugged. "I know not. I was dead," he laughed. "But what if I leave by the wrong gate," he asked, turning serious. "Tell me not that I am a prisoner of the heroes here?"
"I... know not. Either we guess, right or wrong, or entreat the Cailleach -your Morrigu- to tell us," Beren said. "If lucky you are, your rebirth here may afford you the privilege of using any path - but there, too, you must always return to Avalon by the same way. If you ever choose to return."
T'would be a shame, finding him and reviving him, only to lose him again, or see him bound here, Nura thought.
Thom, meanwhile, wondered how Rokk's talks with Kiwa were proceeding.
"There!" MacKell exclaimed, pointing to the hillside.
"I see no cave," Marcus said.
"Nor has any on Avalon's own, these centuries.”
"I see it," said the mysterious young priest. "Watch!" He waved his hand, and a cloud of mist blew aside, exposing a cave.
This fellow is a wizard! thought Thom. He must be from the Teacher's Isle.
MacKell nodded, impressed. "The lad has indeed found it! I... cannot re-enter that place. I've spent enough time in there."
Inside, the group found an amazing labyrinth, a virtual rainbow crystal. The young priest seemed to commune with each vein, and he seemed the only one at home with the place.
"To spend 600 years here..." Nura whispered. The crystals took her words, and overlapped them with a strange instant-echo effect.
Tinya shivered. It seemed that the ghosts of many hundreds still lingered here. What if she, too, were to become trapped here?
In a sudden panic, she fled the cave, running straight into MacKell's arms.
"Tinya! What is it?" he asked, as she tried to catch her breath.
"I know not. It was as if each of those crystals were a soul, and they wanted to ensnare me within them."
The others followed her out. "Tinya! Are you well?" Beren asked.
Sharing her feelings, she found that each visitor had a remarkably different type of reaction to the cave, yet only she and Querl held any negative experience.
"Tinya was not wrong. Another soul will be imprisoned there someday," Nura said.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:41 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Ninety-nine
"So what happened then?"
"Dyrk took me with him for a few tasks. He'd fallen on his face, apparently with an illness, at the market square, and asked for my assistance.
"We hunted a small fire drake out in the forest, and returned to find his enemy- Craniilus -Camius-"
"Cranyac," Imra offered.
"Yes, Cranyac. He and his men were waiting for us on the south road. We fought them, with Dyrk faring poorly, apparently still plagued by illness. It was up to me to face Cranyac."
"Did you?"
"...I faired less well than I expected. Dyrk, in his trickery, had felled two of.. Cranyac's men, and feigned difficulty with the third - actually the weakest and poorest fighter of the three. I knew what kind of swordsman I was supposed to be, yet wasn't achieving that."
"What happened next?" Imra asked, sliding back on her throne.
"As Cranyac took the upper hand, Dyrk shouted, 'Taranaut!' and I realized what he'd meant. I parried with one hand while moving my hand in the pattern I'd practiced. The lightning bolt fried Cranyac, and burned away the last of the faerie dust," she concluded at last.
"So it was then that you realized you were not Garth?" Imra said, while silently bidding Reep, who'd been listening at the door, to come back later.
"Then and only then," she blushed. "Everything we said yesterday-- I thought I was-"
"We both did," Imra said. "I pray you'll keep your confidence?"
"I shall. What is between you and my brother concerns no one else."
Imra smiled, thinking of Dyrk's ruse. He cleverly let the public believe him ill, coaxing Cranyac into making his move - and then testing the imposter's mettle. Yet he did not expect there to actually be any Taranaut, did he?
"So, we've covered everything but one. What do I call you?"
"Ayla."
"I am pleased to meet you, Ayla." She hugged Garth's sister, who unstiffened for the first time since the questioning began.
"I truly believed that Garth returned from the dead - and I knew you believed yourself to be him. Truly, I do. I hope that you'll stay, and either join my court ladies, or, as you've shown aptitude, the knights."
Ayla stared.
"Oh, come now. With Laoraighll and Lu, you'd hardly be the only lass among the lads," Imra smiled.
"I... must think on that," Ayla answered.
"Please do," Imra said, seeing her out. "Please stay with us."
Ayla walked down the hall, trying not to notice all those who stopped and stared.
Oh, Garth, she thought. Why did I ever come here?
"Oh, Garth," Imra echoed in the chambers behind. "I truly miss you. It hurts... gods. how it hurts."
[ December 26, 2005, 06:43 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred
On Gertus' Hill they all gathered.
Kiwa looked down on the young man laid out before them. She knelt and caressed his cheek. So cold, even for this December air.
She recalled Ban - handsome King Ban. The time was harsh in Lesser Britain, and the new king needed to make the Great Marriage to earn the backing of his people. I was but a young maiden myself, she thought. And what a gift the gods gave us! Twins!
Her mind drifted to memory: young Garth and Ayla visiting the Priestess Isle, not long after she herself had become its Lady. How amazed the maiden-students were to see the Lady playing with the tots! It almost eased the pain of losing Elaine. Nura.
She looked to Nura. She knows not, and this is not the time to tell her. But Ayla remembered, and came forward to hug her.
Mekt was remembering, too. As Ban's eldest and the only heir Ban's queen would birth, he took delight as a child in lording over his siblings, and tormenting them. As they grew and he reached maturity, he became their mentor and protector.
Was in really two years ago? he asked himself, recalling the strange trip along the seacoast. A storm sprang from nowhere, and the trio - separated from the servants and provisions - had to make shelter at the great stones at Karnak. No one could have foreseen what would happen. "Taranaut," he whispered. Ayla squeezed his hand.
Mysa looked and saw both the little boy who called her "Mysa of the Fairies," and the young lover who could push her inner torments aside with his smile... and dispel them with his touch...
"You love her, don't you?" I had said to him, the last time we lied together. "Yes. Yes, I do," he sheepishly replied. His worried frown faded when I leaned forward and kissed him again, reaching for more... Mysa's thoughts were interrupted by a rude stare from Imra.
Ayla recalled Garth's growing pride of being Lesser Britain's great hero, and the call to arms to meet the Khunds at Camulodunum. "Be careful," said I. "Worry not, my sister. I shall single-handedly slay the mightiest of Khunds in your honour!" he said. She sobbed at the memory. The mighty Zaryan was dead, yes, but so was Garth!
Mekt reached out to comfort her.
For MacKell, the hill was deja vu. He'd seen the entire battle from afar, but now he was here in person. He could lay out the field - where Lu was, the Computus, how Dyrk rushed in - everything. But the vision of Zaryan rushing Lu... she fired the ballista! Zaryan was knocked aside and barely breathing...
Garth, barely able to stand, shouting '"No! The curse! Let it not be her!"
He limped over to the Khund, moving his hands in a pattern... bringing the-
"Lightning. It's almost time," Rokk said, interrupting MacKell's thoughts. "No one is obligated to stay here. No one shall think the lesser of any who leave. After all, it's only for the 13 of us to risk. As long as Kiwa's spell is successful, only one of us - if any of us- will die."
Rokk himself was thinking of his meeting with Kiwa, now weeks ago. "Of course I shall help. But Khundish magicks are different. There may be a sacrifice needed," Kiwa said. Yet I cannot also recall the bitter look of the senior priestess Azura. She looked as if I'd take Kiwa's life.
Watching the lightning strikes across the sky, he thought, maybe she was not far wrong.
Jonah, L'ile, James, Iasmin... everyone pondered their beloved friend as an icy rain commenced, immediately pouring down in sheets.
Rokk and Thom passed out the metal rods that the Priestesses had been crafting for the past month.
Too many had insisted a place in the circle, so lots were drawn: Rokk, Imra, Reep, MacKell, Ayla, James, Thom, Kiwa, L'ile, Dyrk, Agravaine, Brandius and Mekt would participate. They formed a circle around Garth's body. The rest would hold vigil behind them.
Kiwa invoked the gods, but few could hear her words. Only the phrase, "Take one of us!" made it through the wail of the storm.
Luornu grumbled, but held her tongue. This is blasphemy! They threaten not only their own souls - but Garth's!
Balan's thoughts were even less charitable.
As if in response to Kiwa's invocation, lighting was striking closer and fiercer. Many were knocked around or down by the raw intensity of the storm: wind and rain, even if not the blasts themselves.
"Shield your eyes!" Nura warned, instants before lightning struck the circle. The thunderclap knocked everyone down, and it would take minutes or more to regain eyesight and hearing.
One of us was hit. But who? Rokk thought.
The wind cleared, and L'ile and James were the first to recover and relight their torches.
As everyone else recovered, L’ile found the body of the one whose life was called. "Reep! No!"
[ December 26, 2005, 06:45 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Pizza Delivery Girl on :
Hey. I've had a fun couple of hours reading through this. I like you how twisted the powers to fit in with their world... definitely one of the cooler AUs I've seen.
[ January 06, 2005, 09:51 PM: Message edited by: Pizza Delivery Girl ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thanks, P-Del!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and One
For more than a month they'd evaded their pursuers.
But no more.
At the edge of Perilous Forest, they'd walked into an ambush. A band of about 30 of Tarik's knights had cornered the deserters.
The Northman led them to retreat to a cave, where the knights could only come at them two at a time.
Frustrated with the potential stalemate, Caradoc called in.
"Every warrior gets cold feet. Tarik is not so unforgiving that you must die for your error. Come out, and I will assure you a reasonable punishment - say, guard duties on the northern coasts."
Hearing no answer, he tried again. "If you surrender not, we will have no choice to kill you all."
His scouts returned, telling him there was no trace of any other egress from the cave.
Caradoc lined up his men in the order that would proceed in, assuming 10 at the most could do the job.
The first two entered, only to run out screaming, covered in vines.
"It's only a vine mesh. A Druid trick, you fools," the leader sighed.
"Sorry, sir. It felt like snakes."
The next two entered, and also fled, screaming.
"What now?"
"I swung my sword into one of them, but it bent as if I'd hit rock. A-And then, a burst of darts hit us-"
Caradoc nodded. "The Orkneyman's dart trick. Very well, we shall smoke the out."
He ordered his men to start a fire at the cave's mouth, while others gathered heavier logs for a bonfire. As the blaze got going, a two-headed Ettin charged out screaming, frightening the men, and kicking the fire out.
One archer managed to get off a shot, but missed before the creature fled within again.
"Fools!" Caradoc raged. "The entire winter campaign is botched because you can't finish off these villains!" This wasn't entirely true- Rokk's surprise routing of the Khunds caused plans to be re-thought- but his men didn't have to know that.
"Archers, watch the cave at all times! Fire detail, build the bonfire before lighting it! And I want two knights on duty neat the cave's mouth to protect the fire-builders!" he continued.
The base was built, and larger branches were being piled on, when a burst of flame shot out of the cave, prematurely lighting the fire and setting the two fire-builders ablaze.
The two guard knights rushed up, and eventually extinguished their blazing comrades with their cloaks.
"ENOUGH!" Caradoc bellowed. He drew his sword and entered himself.
The Pict stood at his front. Caradoc guessed his stony look may be more than a look, based on the one knight's report.
"How much gold will it take to separate you from your companions?" he asked, pretending to reach for his purse, but instead threw his cloak over the man's face, and slipped by him.
The steel he met was easily enough defeated, and as he surmised, the dart and fire tricksters hadn't the time for more assaults.
He marched them outside for proper execution, only to find his men writhing on the ground.
"With the pox they have, I'd advise against touching them," said a cloaked maiden. She withdrew her hood, revealing a pale, disease-marked face.
"You made it!" the Northman beamed.
"More trickery!" Caradoc waved his sword, not certain whether to assault the maiden. Surely she could not have afflicted his men in so short a time?
"Sneeze!" she commanded, and he did - a deep, painful sneeze.
"Cough!" She commanded, and he began coughing so hard he could barely hold his sword.
"Let us flee, my comrades," she told the rebels.
"Should we not kill him whilst we have the chance?" the Northman asked.
"Nay. He did my mother a good turn once, when still an honourable knight he was," she said. "I owe him that."
But approaching closely, so he could not fail to hear, she added, "But the scales are balanced, Caradoc. Leave my friends alone, else you shall die a more painful death than you may imagine."
"Come, lads," the Northman called. "We must get to Londinium with even greater haste!"
[ December 26, 2005, 06:46 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
[this was a duplicate of #101]
[ December 26, 2005, 06:50 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Two
At last! They return home from Lothian's Yule celebrations!
He skulked along the hillside, seeking the best approach to the camp, doing his best to remain silent. Although the night was his ally and kept him from being seen, it also hid many of the branches he had to weave through.
The snow crunched softly beneath his feet - too softly, he hoped, for the night guards to hear.
He was almost within earshot.
The fire crackled, helping to cover his noise, but the horse whinnies made him take pause.
The two Novantae men chatted and joked, ignoring the horses, as means to distract themselves from the cold, and help keep themselves awake.
These are no true warriors, naught but poor mercenaries in Amhlaidh's pay, he thought. If it's Amhlaidh's gold they value above all else, then they, too, will accept death as a payment.
He crept silently to the back of the tent, grateful that the snow was more powdery where the horse and foot traffic had stirred up the surface.
The back of the tent betrayed no opening.
No matter.
He removed the faerie gauntlet from his left hand, and let his palm burn a hole in the tent-side.
May the smell of burning hides not wakes those within, he wished, not daring to pray it so.
Luck was still with him, and the woman was only starting to wake from the stench.
"W-Who is there?" she hoarsely tried to shout as the intruder entered. Unheeding, he made his way to the old man who slept beside her.
The children were starting to stir, whether it was her attempt to shout, the smell, breeze through the new back entryway.
"Amhlaidh, I name you betrayer," he silently said with sadness. There was no pleasure, no gloat to be had.
He pressed his palm onto the sleeping man's face, who awoke with a shriek of agony.
The guards rushed in with torches, and the two sleeping guards awoke as well. They saw a dark-helmed man kneeling over their master's headless body, and the smell of burnt human flesh made them gag.
The two fully awake guards pulled their swords, while the other two groggily reached to find theirs.
The woman hoarsely wailed at the sight of her man, while the children cowered.
I should have killed the first two ‘ere, he realized his mistake, in too hastily seeking his vengeance.
The first guard swung his sword, but the intruder dodged, and knocked the weapon aside, hitting the flat with his palm.
Pulling the sword back for another try, the weapon seemed lighter, and a small splash of molten steel rained down on the woman, causing her to shriek in earnest.
The two standing guards looked at each other, then ran.
"Children! Flee," ordered one of the awoken two, raising a glaive to parry off the fiend. "You, too my lady!"
This one is smart enough, the intruder thought. He reached for the blade, but hit only air, as he was anticipated. Feigning a grab by his deadly left hand, but caught the pole itself below the blade with his right.
The small wound was worth it, as the metal sizzled.
"GO!" The guard again ordered the children, realizing the mother was cornered.
"Caelestia! Leyllain! You must go," their mother ordered, as they indeed fled.
"Go. Watch over them," the head guard ordered the fourth man.
With the pole gone, he reached for his sword.
"That won't stop me," the intruder sneered.
"Nay, but it buys time."
And it did. Within a minute, it was just the intruder and Amhlaidh's bride.
"Before you kill me, please tell me why?" she whispered.
The intruder was angered.
"Not one soul in my village received such privilege!" he shouted, reaching for her face.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:51 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Three
"Let me look at you!," Tinya playfully grabbed Jonah's face, inspecting it carefully. He was only too happy to let her. "All those dragon teeth wounds are gone!"
"You ought to know. You healed them," he smiled. Spontaneously, he picked her up. Seeing her surprise, he said, "I could touch you not for a year, and could not even see your phantom for a month and a half. I'm not letting you go again!"
They laughed, and paused for a kiss.
The others passed them by, continuing the descent.
"I guess Jonah will be too busy to lead patrols into Kentish country for a while," James laughed. "How do you feel?"
"Well, have you ever awoken, having slept on your arm so soundly that you woke, but it remained limp, asleep, with no feeling - and how it stung as it awoke? Well, my whole body feels as such - only 10 times worse," Garth said, trying to smile. He walked stiffly indeed, but insisted on walking, as Beren advised.
Rokk and Imra walked close by, although Mekt and Ayla insisted on being the ones to accompany him, and offer support if needed.
"I still understand not this ploy," Rokk said.
"Well, it all started with Saihlough's trick. She saw how distraught we were with Garth's demise, and thought granting Ayla's wish would please us. Faeries don't view life and death as we do," L'ile began.
"But she used so much magic transforming Ayla, that she half-faded from the world herself. Drifting in another realm, perhaps the one Tinya dwelled in so long, she overheard the plan to 'fix' the sacrifice," he continued.
Imra appreciated that L'ile did not mention that she learned of Kiwa's plan, and intended to make the sacrifice herself.
"But why would Kiwa-?" Rokk began.
"Even though distant, she is Garth's mother. And perhaps she felt that she would rather give up her life, with her years, than see a younger person perish," L'ile conjectured.
They looked over at Kiwa, who was deep in a hushed conversation with Nura.
"Best not to disturb them. Continue, L'ile," asked Imra.
"Saihlough alerted myself and Reep, and Reep told the Lesidhe to find the rod that Kiwa specially enchanted-"
"-Which I used, along with Iaime's magic belt, to take on the lightning bolt myself - and survive!" Reep finished. "Unfortunately, the Lesidhe, still hidden inside my cloak, enjoyed no such benefit."
"I marvel that Querl let it out of his possession long enough to let you," Rokk said. Ever since Iasmin had given it to him, it was his constant companion - even more so than Laoraighll.
"We... forgot to tell he we were borrowing it," L'ile admitted. "The fewer who knew the plan, the better."
Rokk nodded.
"And praise be that the Grail is back were it belongs - in Christian hands!" Luornu announced. "May it never leave again."
Dyrk winced. He knew what was yet coming.
"It should go to Rome, there the pope himself may be its steward, as God wills," she continued.
"I have thought on this," Rokk said "Mayhap the best place to keep it is Avalo-"
"My liege! You CAN'T!" Balan erupted. "We would be remiss as Christians to let heathen hands keep watch over the Grail!"
"The Cauldron was being my gift to King Rokk. It is his to decide how used it shall be," Laoraighll said, showing off her still-improving Latin.
"Nay! T'is-" Luornu began.
"ENOUGH!" Rokk shouted, earning the attention of the entire procession, which came to a stop.
He turned to Luornu and the still-smouldering Balan. "While I believe Avalon is the best place to keep it, I have heard you." He turned to Thom. "Did you not tell me there were Christians on Avalon?"
"Aye. A community that claims descent from Joseph of Arimathea dwells on the fifth island," he said. "When I was well enough, I would visit with the priest there."
"Then that is where the Cauldron-Grail-whatever shall be kept!" Rokk announced. "Lady Kiwa, may entrust you to-"
"Trust HER!" Balan shouted. "Trust a heartless pagan priestess who seeks to corrupt the souls of our high king - and all Britain?"
"Mind your words!" shouted Garth. Although too wobbly to fight, he drew his sword.
As did Balan.
"Garth! Bother! Calm thyselves" Balin tried, but neither listened.
"You're too weak, Garth," Balan chided. "Go on. Try!" He waved his arms open to give the knight a shot, but as his arms began reflecting torchlight, Garth knew better than to try. At first he appeared to tremble, but he was only moving his fingers and lower arms very rapidly...
"Both of you! Stop this!" Rokk commanded. "This has been a day to celebrate - yet know two good knights are at each others throats? NO, I say! Stand down at once!"
The two reluctantly did so, as Balan stuck his sword into the ground.
"Now shake hands."
Their arms made pace, but not their eyes.
"Good Sir Balan, please. I beg of thee-" began Kiwa, using soft, soothing words. Mysa had seen her tame ogres with such a magical lull.
Balan trembled in anger.
"-Let us not be at odds," she continued. "Why, we can let Father Marla himself deliver the Cauldron-"
"-ENOUGH, SORCERESS!" Balan shrieked, picking up his sword and cutting her down in one fell swoop.
Everyone stood agape, as did Balan at his deed. Suddenly, he dashed off into the woods. Regaining his wits, Balin pursued.
"Mother!" Ayla said, choking on the word. L'ile and Beren knelt to tend her, but there was nothing that could be done.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:53 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Four
James's team entered the besieged city of Durobrivae without fanfare.
Since Jonah's conquest of the city almost two months ago, a heavy British infantry presence existed in an uneasy silence with the heavily Khundish population.
James was shocked at the atmosphere of naked anger. Senior troops from Londinium freely took out their rage for Zaryan's attack - openly and publicly on the streets.
Yet not a Khundish man aged 12 to 50 appeared on the streets. Did Zaryan bleed dry his best warriors? If so, then good, he thought.
The occupied Khundish settlement, their closest to the Londinium, would be the launching point for further subjugation of Kent - if necessary. The withdrawal of forces by the rebel kings made that problematic, however.
James' riders were welcomed by Sir Derek, who Rokk had charged with overseeing the occupation.
He vowed not to redress Derek in front of his men - but felt obligated to see some moderation by the troops.
They were ushered into the municipal hall, an imposing Roman structure that looked out at both bridges across the Medway - the key to Durobrivae's strategic importance.
"Greetings, Sir James," smiled the Khund.
James had to stifle a laugh, thinking of a joke Dyrk had made about why Khunds smile.
"James, may I introduce Duke Kiritan of West Kent," Derek said, doing his best to contain his sneer.
"I greet you on behalf of King Rokk," James said.
The men sat, and Derek's men fetched ale.
"If you will forgive me for cutting through the pleasantries, I wish to be frank. With Zaryan's death, his brother Galmark is now king, and he wishes peace," Kiritan began.
He nodded at the skeptical looks he received.
"Zaryan decimated our forces in a foolhardy move than most of us opposed. I know you'll believe it not, but it began with his... conversion."
That drew curious eyebrows, at least.
"Two springs ago, Zaryan accepted Bishop Vidar's invitation to attend Pentecost services in Londinium. The two became fast friends, and they talked of a mighty cathedral to be built in Kent - in Canterbury.
"While Zaryan welcomed Vidar's missionaries, they did little to win over the populace as quickly at the two schemed.
"Zaryan fumed - raged even - and I believe Vidar urged him on. Whenever the two spent time together, Zaryan returned more fixated, more zealous than before.
"Vidar's ouster to Rome confused him, yet word came that there was treachery afoot - and he aligned himself with a pair of exiled Suevi rulers - and the court of Lothian. As a pledge of alliance, Queen Morgause and Zaryan exchanged fosterlings."
The mention of Morgause made James uneasy, thinking on word from the north... but no matter.
"So, you say Zaryan, a Christian, attacked Londinium, the seat of Christianity in Britain?" James questioned.
Kiritan nodded. "It seems unwise, true. But Zaryan was near-crazed, raving about the heathens and devil-worshipping cults, as Vidar told him. He wanted to strike them down, and hurt the king who abided by it."
That certainly sounds like Vidar, James thought, cringing at the memory of Balan. Maybe Vidar's madnesses have stronger roots than we believed.
"King Rokk is prepared to make peace, contingent upon several conditions," James began. "First, you must tell us everything you know of the Suevi monarchs and their allies..."
[ December 26, 2005, 06:54 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Five
Garth stood on the terrace of the absent Sir Derek's villa, looking out at the snow. He stepped out from the enclosure, stepping out into the snow. As he did as a boy, he stuck out his tongue, to catch, taste and drink snowflakes.
"You are still a little boy!" Mysa chided. "And you'll be lucky not to catch ill if you stand out in the snow without boots!"
"That I can feel the wet snow through my leggings is miracle enough. Come! Join me out here!"
She giggled. About to object, she thought, Why not? and did so.
"Brrr!" she shivered, wading after him, trying to match his footsteps in the powder to ease her way. Finding a spot of ice mixed in the snow, she almost fell, but Garth was close enough to catch her.
"Why are we out here?" she laughed.
"Listen."
They stood there, listening to the flakes silently drift earthward.
He looked at her as if to say, "Do you here that?"
Her face silently said, "Hear what?"
He smiled. His grin was so infectious and warm, she couldn't help but join in.
"Not a bird, mouse or deer about. Not a soul," he whispered. "No breeze, no voice, no sound."
"It is beautiful, isn't it?" she whispered back. It had been so long that she had no concerns other than to enjoy a snowfall. "The world is quiet and white, and no-one here to steal it from us."
"And no one here to steal you from me, or see me do this!" He pushed her down, and leapt himself down into the snow. She protested and laughed, as they threw snow at each other.
Catching their breaths, they came face-to-face, and kissed. Despite the realization of dampness and coldness with the ceasing of motion, neither made physical comfort the priority of the moment.
One kiss turned into a series of little kisses, with Garth following each deep, passionate kiss with a short kiss upon her lower lip, as if a signature.
Finally, he paused, looking straight into her eyes.
"Marry me, Mysa."
She hadn't expected that - what to answer? What about Imra? What about Mordru? What would the court think?
But before she could gather any words, a sensation came upon her.
She sneezed in his face.
Unable to help herself, she began laughing, but managed to blurt an apology between guffaws.
Garth's embarrassment segued into his own laughter. "Let's get you beside the fireplace, my lady!"
[ December 26, 2005, 06:56 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Six
The same snowfall also covered Londinium in a blanket, although the occasional horse or patrol made temporary ripples in the peace.
MacKell, too, was as enchanted with the snowfall as Garth, tasting it, feeling it, squeezing a handful and watching it melt between fingers until only a small root-like wad remains.
Jonah and Tinya came upon him, and greeted him.
"Good day, young lovers! Is it not a glorious day?"
Indeed, the first snowfall of note since his -our- return could be no less beautiful, she thought. How strangely joyous, as it also reminds me the most of floating around unseen.
"It is indeed," Jonah agreed. "May I ask you to look after my Tinya a moment? I must inquire with Farther Marla of word from Lothian."
"T'would be a pleasure," MacKell replied, and turned his attention to the maiden. "How are you settling into court?"
"W-Well enough, I guess. It's odd, though. I know all of them well enough- mayhap too well- but they know me not at all, except Guinevere."
MacKell nodded. "We have much in common, including that. I could tell you the layout of Querl's laboratories, yet that would not make me his friend - only earn his suspicion. Perhaps that you have seen so much gives them less ease."
"You're a man of insights," she sighed. "I-I wish Jonah could be more so-" A sniffle and sob that she didn't intend to issue did so of their own accord.
He wiped her tear.
"For a year, you two loved but could touch not. Despite the pain, it also... made yours a pure, ideal love," he said softly. "Expect the bruises of the heart, now that you have each other, or..."
She waited for his words.
"...I should not say this; perhaps my thoughts are coloured by the maiden who saved my life." He looked at her, eye-to-eye, and was about to speak. "I-"
"No word at all!" Jonah returned, loudly sharing his misfortunes with any who'd listen, whether they cared to or not. "MacKell? You look as though you swallowed your heart!"
"Nay," the Irishman joked. "The worms did that 500 years ago!"
As the couple went on their way, Tinya looked back, guessing what his words would have been.
MacKell had turned the other way, returning to the palace.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:57 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Seven
Lot scowled.
The auguries said nothing of this.
This damned snowstorm stood to befoul the plan - there was no way to tell if the other armies were on schedule - if the surprise attack on Londinium had any chance at all. The storm was reaching a blinding fury, and he had no choice but to call for his men to make camp, and recall the scouts while they could still make their way back.
A day since crossing the Ouse, there was no telling how much distance they'd lost today.
"My liege?" one of his lieutenants approached.
"What news?"
"Two of the scouts encountered one of King Rokk's messengers. They attempted to capture her."
Lot did not like the word attempted. "And?"
"She outran them."
Lot nodded. "Rokk's fancy Iberian steeds, no doubt."
"No, sire. She... They said she was on foot, but still outran our mounted scouts by no small margin."
Yet another of King Rokk's freakish menagerie. Mayhap that blackguard who slew my father at Yuletide will join his ranks.
His thoughts wandered back to the offensive scheduled for tomorrow.
Belinant and Cradelmant should have reached Camulodunum road by now, and Tarik's men should have reached the western road. But in this storm, who is to say what plans are met?
Come morning, messengers would have to be sent out to the others, storm or not!
[ December 26, 2005, 06:40 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 96-106 96: Well, it wasn't going to be lead! The Cu Chulain legends do tell of the Hound being tricked into eating dog- and becoming seriously ill, so it fit - although the war-paint was more practical for casual poisoning. While I figure Genni can run very fast (not XS-fast, though - car fast) for short spurts, I figure she can do long stretches fast - but still needs rests and breaks, too. Maeve, as one might gather, was Cu Chulain's arch-nemesis. "Glorith of Man" refers to the Isle of Man, an island-nation between Ireland and Britain, where I've put the sorceress-queen. Boudacea was a Celtic warrior-queen who led an impressive rebellion against Rome (a couple centuries before this story), and was presumably a real historical figure. 97: By now I hop it's clear Luornu wanted Dyrk to help lobby to have the Cauldron sent to Rome. Reep's malady is still coming, folks. 98: The Crystal Cave was never my favorite part of Arthurian lore- but it worked for Lar's imprisonment. 99.I didn't want to overdo the Ayla/Garth thing, since everyone knew what its outcome would be. 100. I was rather uncertain how this one'd go, but I thought it went well. Okay, Mekt is half-siblings with Garth and Ayla, who are half-siblings with Nura, who is half-sister of Mysa, who is half-sister of Rokk, who is foster-brother of Reep. Who says Legion isn't about family? 101: Okay, it's probably obvious who the renegades from #95 are by now. The ettin, like the maiden are new additions since they last appeared. 102: Amhlaidh is the Scottish-Gaelic spelling of a name that was mentioned very early in this story - somewhere on the second page of this thread (chapters #11-22ish). The kids' names - and who the intruder is - should make it more obvious. 103: But is Garth really the Lesidhe now? If so, is Zendak's daughter Siobhan really a guy? 104: Durobrivae is Rochester, the last point where the Romans could put bridges over the river Medway before it joins the Thames tidal area. I'm mixing Roman and modern (Canterbury) names, so its neither too Latin nor too modern. Suevi - also called Swabs - are the Germanic peoples of Allemania (conquered by Clovis - remember Eva and Lavarrus?), who also have some land in northwest Iberia at this point. 106: All I knew going in was that I needed to show Garth enjoying being alive again. His proposal surprised me, too.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:42 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Mearl Dox on :
Just wanted to pop in and say I'm still reading and really enjoying, Kent. Phew... all authors should be so prolific! Thanks so much for keeping this story going.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
quote:Originally posted by Mearl Dox: Just wanted to pop in and say I'm still reading and really enjoying, Kent. Phew... all authors should be so prolific! Thanks so much for keeping this story going.
thanks for reading!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Eight
"Id'he still aloive?" asked the Orkneyman.
"He is. I wish we'd not let him do this, though," said the nobleman.
"Yuiw's raithar take on Tairek's armies yerself, wouldju?"
"I never said that, Stigandr. I just wish-"
"He knoos what you're be meanin, Uland," said the Orkneyman. He glanced up the hill. where he could barely make out through the snow the sitting shape of their leader, and the Druid who tended him.
Th' oiye o' the stourm, he thought. King Roekk'll noe be foorgittin his soorvice, noussir!
Up the hill, the Druid wiped the northman's forehead. If he keeps this up much longer, the fever could take him. What a gift, but what a price! he thought. If only Lady Drusilla's gift could take illness as she gives it.
He checked the thick fur, to make sure it was as secure around his charge as it could be.
Then he glanced down toward camp. Stigandr still tended and warmed the potion, and Uland and Peter yet stood vigil. And how fare Drusilla and the others? Have they engaged the enemy?
He guessed that they had. He signaled for Stigandr to bring the formula that would wake Berach from his trance.
The others gathered around helping to hold the Northman while the Druid applied the formula. It flowed slowly and thickly, and smelled like burnt honey. Berach started to gag and cough. The Druid eased off the potion and patted him on the back.
"E-Errol? Did we do it, Errol?" he asked.
"Yes, Berach. Can't you see your magnificent blizzard?" the Druid asked.
"N-No, I cannot! Why is it so hot in here?"
Peter and Stigandr looked at each other. Uland saw his leader trying to shed his furs, and he reached to stop him.
"You're feverish. You must stay warm, my friend."
"Uland? Uland! I can hear you, my friend! Where are you?"
"His soight?" whispered Stigandr to Errol.
"I pray it's temporary, like the fever," he whispered back. Yet if the others prove successful, can we not say it was worth even this foul price?
[ September 02, 2006, 05:13 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Nine
Jonah's men surprised Belinant's army easily enough; no one had suspected an assault from the back.
It was worth the effort to ferry the entire cavalry o'er the very mouth of the Thames. Even better that the snow muffles our mounts' gallops, James thought, watching with glee the shock of the few soldiers escorting the supply wagons.
After a few were cut down before they could draw a blade, the rest surrendered outright - but most of the cavalry had already ridden ahead, leaving the captives in the hands of James and two rookies.
Jonah led the cavalry westward, plowing directly into Belinant's troops, grateful for one last command before Garth would again lead the mounted force.
The Angles, tired and cold from the past two days of blizzards, looked almost as willing - if not as eager - to give up as Cradelmant’s men had been, captured just after they, too, had crossed the Thames to reach the south shore.
Yet one managed to blow his horn, warning of the attack - but not communicating how swift it came. Jonah personally cut his alarm short, without slowing his mount's gait.
Poor Thom! He misses the first battles of the year by shepherding Cradelmant’s prisoners to Durobrivae. Ha! Let him keep his new friend Kiritan!
Having decimated Belinant's rear guard, he signaled to Dyrk, who led a unit of 10 knights up the hill to take out the rogue king's archers.
Jonah's troop continued its vector, plowing forward into the infantry, still scrambling to react to the new threat.
Further down the road, Rokk smiled. He knew his frontal forces would be spotted by the scouts, and slowed his approach to let Belinant choose the battlefield - and to give Jonah time as well.
With both armies able to use woodlands to hide their numbers, his delay in advancement must have looked overly cautious and uncertain to the older king, Rokk hoped. Secure in his position, Belinant would wait him out, not realizing what he waited for.
Once the horn sounded, he ordered the foot soldiers to commence their attack.
This will be another rout, he thought, wondering how MacKell and Laoraighll were faring with Lot...
[ December 26, 2005, 06:45 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Ten
"G-Good sir? Please?"
Balin stopped at the maiden's request. Although the marketplace of Corinium was beginning to pick itself up after the storm, few had paid any attention to the knight.
"Are you a knight?"
"I am Sir Balin of Orkney, of late I am a knight of King Rokk."
"Then please, take this sword from me and use it yourself," she asked. "It was my father's, and he made me swear that I would see it delivered into the hands of a worthy knight."
Balin looked over the sword. "It is truly a worthy sword indeed," he told her. "May I escort you to your home?"
"Nay. I must yet fetch some goods from market this morn. The snows have depleted us indeed."
The maiden curtsied and departed, blending into the thin but growing market crowd.
Balin slung the second sword over his shoulder, and went on to meet the guardsmen who may have seen his brother pass through three days ago...
[ December 26, 2005, 06:47 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Eleven
Garth didn't like it one bit.
The storm was ended, it was true, and he could clearly in any direction, but something added up not.
"It's like this, Reep. One army, I can see. Not imaginative, but it keeps all your forces in one place - a great juggernaut, like a Roman army."
Reep nodded.
"Two armies, from two directions, that makes sense, too. Your main force and a diversionary force. Tacitus would approve. So, you have Lot's army from the north and Belinant from the east, along the Thames. You with me?"
"Of course."
"But Belinant sends his brother's army across the river - a big effort at the mouth of the Thames, especially in the dead of winter - to come from the southeast."
"Why divide into three - especially with the hardship of crossing the river - unless your plan needs several attack routes - when the way from the west is easier?" Reep asked.
"King Tarik is still out there, somewhere," L'ile agreed.
"Precisely!" Garth exclaimed. "I think we'd better rally the city guard."
"Genni? Do you feel up for a little scouting?" Reep asked the messenger.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:50 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Twelve
With spear in hand, the battle felt like an old friend he'd forgotten how much he missed until he saw him again.
The rhythmic fury of the battle, the blood on the snow, the battle-frenzy - it all came back, and the men of Lothian bore the brunt.
He plowed through wave after wave, just as he used to against Maeve’s Connaught warriors, and they fared no better than his foes of olde.
To his left, his grandson's grandson's grandson's granddaughter (missing how many generations? he wondered) fought with equal ferocity, albeit bare-handed.
He saw her land a sharp hand blow that pierced her foe's neck.
And all too soon, it was over. Lot's seneschal called for his master, who emerged not from his tent.
"Lot?" MacKell called, ripping open the tent, unprepared for what he saw.
"My thanks for the distraction," said the man, dark by even Pictish standards, but what stood out was the smouldering palm extended toward the cowering Lot.
"King Lot is mine. Stand aside," ordered the Ulsterman.
"I take no orders from any of the Scoti. And my hand can dissolve any of your weapons!" He picked up a sword to show as an example, which melted in his clutch. MacKell pointed his spear at him. "Finias' Spear of Victory, one of the very artifacts the gods brought to Eiru. Which will withstand - its point or your hand?"
"Who are you? What is your feud with King Lot?" demanded Laoraighll.
"I am Manaugh. Lot is the son of Amhlaidh. His family must perish, just as all mine has."
"Explain." MacKell was now curious.
"In exchange for our allegiance against the Khunds, Amhlaidh pledged that the lands of Angtough would forever remain Pictish, and he and his lineage would aide us against the Scoti. He lied, and father and son aided the invasion of Ulstermen," the man sneered. "I cannot stave off your vile kind, but I can eliminate the line of Amhlaidh!"
"You made a deal with the Morrigu for that power, eh?" MacKell guessed. "You'll find she's blessed me, too!"
He lunged at the man, who reached out for the spear. The spear sizzled with magical colours, terminating in a blinding flash that left Lot and the Scots dazed, while he got away.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:52 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Thirteen
The waters were choppy and the going was difficult.
The pure blue sky held no clouds to betray prevailing wind speeds, nor to provide any relief from the bitter cold.
Jeka left the safety of her small cabin to come on deck. Agravaine stood at the back, looking back at Britain. The white cliffs of the south-lands still amazed him.
"Will we ever see it again?" she asked.
"You may come and go as you please," he smiled bitterly. "I shall see you to Rome, whilst I proceed on to Jerusalem."
"What do you hope to find there?"
"Peace." She saw in his eyes the torment that still clung to him like an eagle clenching a thrashing rabbit.
The winter sea breeze chilled her to her bones. "Come inside with me. The journey is a long one, and you'll find me good company...?"
She thought back to midsummer, and hoped to recreate it, to perhaps ease his pain.
She cared not what the galley crew thought.
She caressed his face. He smiled at her warm hands, but politely removed them and turned away.
"I have sworn no joys, no... companionship, until I earn forgiveness," he said, staring out to the sea.
"How will you know-"
"-I may never," he curtly answered, and turned to her briefly. "Maybe I shall die trying," he managed a world-weary smile that did nothing to hide his hurt - and only shared it with Jeka. "Now go below. T'is not fitting for a fine princess to freeze out here."
She reluctantly did, and once alone, wept the tears he could not.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:53 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Fourteen
"He's as bad as Torachi, I'll wager," Kiritan grimaced.
"This... Frankish plunderer struck as far inland as Durobrivae?" Thom couldn't believe it. He brought his prisoners to the town unbeknownst that it had been overrun by refugees.
"Nay. These are refugees from Canterbury," the Khund sighed. "Ere now, he'd struck the coastal settlements - far enough from the old Roman forts King Rokk has ordered rebuilt - to hit and run each fishing village he could.
"But now," Kiritan shook his head. "Who knows what's so emboldened him? He seems to be... looking for something."
Or someone, Thom thought.
"We shall make the best of this... awkward situation. My prisoners will be put to work fixing the old Roman buildings, that they may house refugee and prisoner alike," Thom said.
"We shall get through this winter," he authoritatively told the Khundish king. "Though the drought taxed the season's crops, I daresay these Angles can be able fishermen, too. Should they wish to eat, they can help to feed everyone."
He felt confident that the cooperative King Cradelmant would put his men to good use.
How odd that the Khunds we fought scant more than two months ago, we must now aid. Perhaps a grateful Khund is better than a starving, rioting one.
Setting out to meet his surrendered king, he reflected further on the new twist. As if Khunds, rebel kings and dead knights aren't enough. This raider Roxxius makes himself a potent adversary, too, it would seem.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:55 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Harbinger on :
Good to see you're posting more of this Kent, I was going to PM you tonight to ask if there was nothing new here for us.
Your writing is definitely getting better - not that it was ever anything less than great! I'm hooked again.
More, more, more!!!
Bxx
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Fifteen
Genni did what she did best: she ran.
The snow slowed her down, it was true, but she found if she moved at her fastest speeds - normally reserved for short sprints - she could already be into the next step before sinking too far down.
It was hard, tiring work, and it made her hungry.
She carried little with her: ample coinage for necessities, a knife with which she could quickly snare game or fish (usually before they even see her), a small tinder box to light a fire, and a heavy cloak that she could either sleep in or use to conceal herself.
Running, it was just one more hindrance, and she was often too warm - even without it, even in the frigid January snows.
Her long leather boots kept out the snow, and its interior fur lining kept her feet warm. The rest of her was kept relatively warmed by motion, as if running gave her a cushion against both the winter cold and summer heat.
She ran the past thorps and hamlets that lined the western Thames. Unlike those along the Roman roads, these folk were not accustomed to seeing her speed by, and many stood and gaped at the maiden ploshing through the snows, kicking up as much powder as a playful pup might, let loose for its first winter's outing.
She ran.
And when she tired, every half-hour or three-quarters (or less - the deep snow did tire her faster), she would stop along the river, stab a fish and light a fire. Wrapping herself in her cloak, she would cat-nap for a quarter hour or so, and wake to find her fish cooked.
And she ran, chewing on her fish as she ran.
When it wasn't time to rest, she tried to stay to the upper terrain, when there was some. She followed the south shore of the Thames, so as to hopefully be opposite the enemy camp, once she spied it.
Even so, there were other things to watch out for: tree branches in the forests, ravines to cross without slipping back down, and the occasional wild dog to outrun or evade.
And after several hours, almost time for another rest and fish, she saw it: an army camp.
Or what was left of it.
Even with the cold, even from the next hillside, she could smell it.
Death.
No, not just death. Sickness, the vile smells the human body makes with the onset of plague.
Standing still, she shivered, and not from the cold.
No signs of life, no movements, nor even any battle remains could be seen. She was not about to get any closer, when she noticed it: a lone set of footprints that led up her side of the river, toward the raving ahead of her.
Did she dare encounter the survivor? Nay. He may carry this vile plague, and she wanted no part of it.
Something glistened from the forest edge below her. A sword?
She turned and began her run back to Londinium. In an hour's time, she would allow herself a slower pace and more resting time; she was weary, and it was not even mid-day.
From the ravine's edge, the man watched.
She wasn't the plague-bearer. I shan't waste time with her. The leper, the stony Pict, the elf and the ettin... They shall feel my wrath.
With one swing of his magic axe, the snow from the path before him cleared, and he followed the vague set of footprints before him southward, away from the frozen Thames.
[ December 26, 2005, 06:56 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Sixteen
King Tarik clenched his hand against his throat. The swelling had grown.
He looked about him. The rag-tag motley of knights, mostly wheezing or moaning, was all that remained of his hundred knights.
All made ill by the lepress. Gods! She must pay, he thought, for he could no longer speak his anger.
Sir Caradoc led his remnants northward, where they hoped to regroup with King Lot.
The only thing Tarik could smile about was the ax-man he'd left behind.
I'll rebuild, young King Rokk. This I swear! Your legion of freaks shall be met with its equal, and no sorceress shall cut my ranks as this harlot has!
Tarik knew that he dared not return to Elmet - Rokk's armies would besiege him there. No, he must flee to Gaul, and begin anew. His new bride, Winifred, could rule in his stead, and appease the young king long enough for the seeds of retribution to take root.
He knew the Alemanni royals had failed to sway King Mekt's allegiance, but he knew of a more certain way to win over the seemingly most loyal of Rokk's vassals.
Yes, Tarik knew the route to Mekt's soul, and like fine hops, it must be harvested at just the right time...
[ December 26, 2005, 06:58 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Seventeen
"Is he even out there?" Franz whispered.
"Quiet. He'll hear us," hushed his other head.
The others let their annoyance show nonverbally.
"I'm worried about Drusilla!" he explained.
Her breathing was shallow, and the limited shelter of the snow-cave did little to better her condition.
"Does she always get like this?" the elf asked.
"A one-on-one be-plaguing takes little out of her. Taking on an entire army camp - I don't think she's ever exerted herself like that," Dag said, trying not to twitch at the increasing discomfort he was feeling.
He and he alone held the makeshift snow cave together, arching over his friends to reach the steep hillside, while they built the shelter around him.
"Shh!" he demanded.
There were footsteps - more than one!
Did the axe-man have allies!? What would they do?
"What do you make of it?" said one voice, a young man.
"Most of the tracks belong to a single man - a large man, no doubt a warrior. Perhaps a Northman," said the other. "A single thread of tracks - a small group of four - led to the camp, then across the river, and then back to the river, where they vanish."
Dag smiled. The elf's magicks did work! He hadn't fully believed until now.
"It's King Rokk's knights!" whispered the elf.
"Shh. We can't be sure," said Franz' right head.
"I'm sure," said the elf. "I’m going to greet them."
"Oh, no you're not! said Franz' left head, with all the others, including his own right head, shushing him.
But the damage was done.
"Um. Hello?" said one of the voices, drawing closer.
Dag heard one of them draw a sword.
I'll not stand here defenseless while my friends are attacked!
"Stay still, everyone," he whispered, before breaking from his position, causing a small avalanche of snow upon his comrades, which he hoped would hide them.
"Harrgh!" he shouted, charging the two men before him. After being so still for so long - from maintaining his pose for so many hours - his legs betrayed him, cramping up in rebellion as he fell to the ground.
The others were pulling themselves out of the snow-bank, to face an armored man, a robed, priestly young man facing them.
"Who are you!" demanded Franz' left head.
"I am Sir Garth," smiled the knight. "I guess we owe you our thanks." He reached out his hand.
Still skeptical, he saw another man running at them from the opposite direction. He whirled to see that it was the Northman Berach!
"They've found you!" he exclaimed, throwing himself into a hug with his still-snowy companions. "It's over. We've won!"
Garth smiled, but held reservation. Rokk and Dyrk hunted the last man of Tarik's company, but something about the situation bothered him.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:00 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Eighteen
"Cradelmant's army surrendered without a fight. My forces decimated Belinant’s. Tarik's army wasted away from disease. Your men were stalled by the blizzard, and taken down by two knights.
"Now, my dear uncle," a red-faced high king was directly in his face now. "Give me one reason why I shan't have you gutted and hung from the city walls?"
Lot was both impressed and actually scared. The lad he had written off as a bumbling whelp held all the cards.
Even Gawaine.
He glanced toward his eldest son, who met him with an icy stare.
"King Rokk.... I must confess my role in the rebellion against you, but I can see now that I was duped. Tarik said he could prove your Queen Guinevere was a fraud, a-and that you," Lot took a gulp. "And that you took Excalibur from the stone by sorcery, not by birthright."
Rokk looked to Imra. Her nod told him that his kinsman believed his words to be true.
"So you took his word over kin?"
"I am ashamed to say I did. Ever since Vidar advised me so, I've doubted whether or not we are truly kin. And... In truth, I became jealous, that my two eldest sons entrust to you more than me."
Lot let out a deep breath. There. It's said. I can lose Gawaine no further for saying so.
Rokk met Imra's eyes.
His memory of meeting Vidar does indeed resemble Belinant's hazy blankness, she told him.
But Cradelmant was different yet? he asked.
No. He remembered Vidar as an annoyance, and seems not bespelled.
"Lot, my uncle," Rokk stated calmly. "I believe you were bespelled by Vidar's... sorcery. If you agree to be purified by my... healers, you may again hold my trust. And Lothian."
Lot smiled, gratified by the offer. Who knows? Mayhap I was bespelled, he thought. What harm can some Druidic rites do?
James led the shackled king away.
"I still trust him not," Jonah offered. "I know my sire. Vidar or no, he can't be trusted."
Rokk nodded. "But with him in power, we can watch him. And, I cannot spare you to rule Lothian in his place."
Jonah smiled. He had no wish to take up the throne just yet.
"So now what?" asked Imra.
"You and Mysa see to clearing Belinant and Lot of Vidar's influence," he paused, seeing her scowl. "She is my sister. Please. For my sake, work with her, and set aside whatever jealousy you-"
"You DARE!?" Imra was enraged that he would say such a thing before Jonah. Her anger physically knocked Rokk down.
"STOP THAT!" he commanded, getting up despite the pain. He wiped blood from his nose and returned her gaze.
Every fool with eyes knows that you moon over Garth! Even Carolus the jester chides you for it - if you'd but care to listen! he told her.
She reddened. "I shall do your bidding, then, my... liege." She stormed out.
"If that hurt me, I can't imagine what blow you just took," said Jonah, rubbing his head.
Rokk nodded. "Our knights are mighty, but how do we handle my queen, if she turns her will against us?"
"Ah. Women are like the sea," he cousin said. "After the storms, she's clear to sail where you will as if there never were a tempest, ever."
"But the tempests do come, and you can't always find a port to weather them," Rokk smiled.
The kinsmen laughed, and began the walk to the great hall...
[ December 26, 2005, 07:01 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 107-117: 107: Auguries, for those that don't know, are essentially tellings of fortunes. 108: Their real names proved difficult - the ones I pegged as Scandinavian best translated to a Celtic name (Berach); while many I pegged as Celts (or otherwise natives of Britain) best fit into Germanic or Scandinavian names. Oh, well. I guess the luck I've hit elsewhere was bound to trip up somewhere. 109. Jonah's been leading too many battlefront charges. He needs a vacation. 110. I originally intended to wrap up Balin and Balan more quickly. But new ideas plug themselves in while I'm not watching. 111. Reep and L'ile haven't been getting much screen time lately. A guess surprise attacks don't lend well to strategy sessions. 112: Amhlaidh is a Gaelic name for another name used previously (I may have mentioned that already). This should come up again by the 130s. 113: I've been trying to get them to sea for ages! They just dragged their feet 'til I made them go! 114: Roxxius, at last! Is he just a raider? a Daxamite (or would that be an Ulsterite)? Only his hairdresser knows for sure... 115: I've been looking for a way to do more with Genni. I like this one better than most of the other one-teens. 116: And so the rebel kings are crushed! Not as dramatic as Malory, but he didn't have to fit his tale into LSH lore. 117: The second voice was L'ile, I forgot to include. Not that it really matters that much.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:03 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Nineteen
The six men knelt in the presence of the high king.
"You have each performed valiantly in the service of Britain. I salute you all," said Rokk.
In turn, he went to each of the six, placing Excalibur from shoulder to shoulder, on either side of seven heads.
"Sir Berach.
"Sir Peter.
"Sir Stig.
"Sir Dag.
"Sir Uland.
"Sir, er, Sirs? Franz. I welcome you all into my companions, my Legion!"
The great hall erupted into cheers and toasts, as the victorious knights celebrated the new knights who provided the key aide to defeat the rebel kings.
"Why weren't we knighted? Errol and I, along with Berach, did most of the work," said Drusilla, watching the ceremony alongside Errol and the elf.
"Knights are warriors. We help the cause, but we're not the front-line fighters," said the elf.
"You know, Berach and Dag still half-doubted their knighting this after-noon?" Errol said. "They feared King Rokk would defer them to be squires, or at best 'substitute knights.' Can you imagine?"
Unseen. L'ile took heed of their words. She has a point. Each of us does our part. Are we not worthy of the same respect? I must discuss this with Reep and Rokk.
The victory feast began in earnest, with three of the four defeated kings, Cradelmant, Belinant and Lot, toasting the health of the young king who bested them.
Kiritan added his own toasts, while Garth, Thom, James, Imra and Virginia offered toasts on behalf of their absent family monarchs.
Thom beseeched Rokk to repeat his tale of fighting the fierce axe-man to a draw, saving poor Dyrk in the process. The magic axe proved a match for both Excalibur and Rokk's own skills, as he told it.
After the tale, Carolus lampooned the king's memoir, describing the axe as naught but a kitchen-mallet for separating heads from chickens. Rokk jokingly challenged the jester to face the axe-man himself.
With the next round of ales, Jonah was asked to retell his charge upon Belinant's army.
Garth listened intently, swaying with the tale's rhythm. He had yet to regain his ability to hold his alcohol as he could before death, and was already feeling light-headed at the near-completion of his third pint.
"When the rain of arrows started, I half-cursed Dyrk, thinking he had not done his part," Jonah boasted. "But then I realized the direction - they were ours! We'd plowed so far into Belinant's force we were on the verge of charging Rokk's line!" The crowd roared, forgiving any exaggeration.
Garth looked at Tinya, aglow in adoration for Jonah. He felt heartsick, even more so at realizing Imra's gaze upon him.
"We fought well indeed," Jonah continued. "We fought for Britain, for valour, for King Rokk!" he toasted. After the murmuring and toasting subsided, he resumed, suddenly quiet and serious.
"We fought for or nation, yes. But we also fought for those who could not fight. The elders, the children, and of course, the ladies. I fought for a lady whose hand I feared I could never again touch, yet through God's mercy, here she is."
Tinya both flinched and reveled in the sudden attention.
"And, as her father is dead and her mother seems aligned with Tarik, I instead ask you all to bear witness, and to give your blessings, that Tinya of Eboracum," he turned his gaze to her, "should be my bride."
"Let it be so, if she's fool enough to have you, kinsman!" cheered Rokk. The rest of the court followed suit. Laurentia and Siobhan pushed a radiant, red-faced, smiling Tinya to her feet, where Jonah took her into his arms, and the two kissed passionately - and for so long that Carolus joked that Jonah could only do so, having learned to hold his breath while in the dragon's belly.
"Don't kill her again, Jonah!" he chided.
Despite the cheer and good will, Garth was lonely amid it all, and suddenly noticed Mysa's absence.
He glanced to Imra, wondering how she regarded his paramour. She glanced away, joining in pleasant congratulations to Lot, Jonah and Tinya.
When she glanced back, it was his turn to look away, no longer wishing to twist the knife himself.
Looking around, he noticed Dyrk and Virginia looking friendly. And what does Luornu think of that?
"Cheer up, brother. Is this not a celebration? Certainly you of all can celebrate life?" Ayla chided him.
"You are right, my sister. What could possibly be ill on a night like tonight?"
[ December 26, 2005, 07:04 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Karie on :
This is just brilliant!!!!!!! I have sat the whole afternoon and read all twelve pages. My boss has given me dirty looks, cause i have done no work. PLease don't stop there!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Please please please!!!!!!!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thanks, Karie!
There's a LOT more to come (no pun intended).
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Twenty
"But where will you go?"
Her husband did not cease his packing while responding. "Eiru, maybe. Iberia. In truth, I know not.
"Rokk has no need of me, nor shall I ever earn his trust. His kingdom is as established as he now wishes it to be," he said, finally stopping to face Mysa. "All I can accomplish here is done. I shan't stay where I'm neither wanted nor needed, nor awaiting a new excuse to be jailed.
"Young Garth is alive, and my part of the bargain is done with. He is now more likely to cause Rokk's downfall, not I."
"Will you go to Avalon?" Mysa asked.
"Nay. Not without you. I am but an old man. My time to conquer and politick is over," he smiled, savouring his first true freedom in decades. It was an exhilaratingly unfamiliar prospect, something Mordru hadn't experienced in some time.
"But you said-"
"-For you, my dear, yes. I would take on Avalon - and win- if you only asked for it. Kiwa had wronged you, and I wished to see you avenged. Rather moot, would you not say?"
Mysa smiled bitterly.
"And you, my bride? Shall you remain and play court-maiden, paramour of knights, or shall you reclaim your destiny?"
"I..." she turned away a moment. "Azura... has asked me back, to serve as Lady. No doubt she'd like to mold me to Kiwa's path.
"No, I cannot go back. Not yet. I feel Avalon around me, like a woodsman stalking his prey, yet only here in Rokk's court do I feel a reprieve from the hunt."
"And Rokk's bride? Was she not of Avalon's doing?"
"Aye. She was from the Teacher's Isles, where they deal in the... deeper magicks. We were friends," she paused. "Once. Now we are strangers. With Kiwa and Aven gone, I truly know not what hold Avalon holds on her. Nor do I expect she will hold her confidences in me any longer."
Mordru smiled. "There's nothing like a handsome lad to drive women-friends to the ice-axes."
"Husbands usually are equally jealous, you old goat!" she hugged him.
"I've had wives enough. Mayhap it was time I shared at least one."
She playfully swatted him.
"Well, you seem occupied with Sir Handsome. Maybe I should visit the lepress Rokk has seen fit to keep company with. She could no doubt use a husband's skill, ere once in her poor, wretched life," Mordru tugged at his belt for effect.
Mysa laughed. "Best not to leave her scorned, or your manhood may itself become a leper's table-ornament!"
Mordru smiled, but grew serious. "As my parting gift to young Rokk, my dear... Watch her. She could be a powerful ally, yes, or a deadly foe. I see danger in keeping her among his court."
Mysa nodded. "Her gifts were sorely taxed in two incidents against the rebel kings, and Nura has seen that it will be years before her influence grows that strong again."
"Even so," he said, lifting his bags, "be careful, my dear. You were my very favorite wife."
Despite being an old man, she saw a little boy's vulnerability in his eyes, and reached out to hold and kiss him.
"Will I ever see you again?" she whispered.
"If you ever need me, cast the Wind spell. You know how to cast that, don't you?"
"You put your lips together, and blow," she smiled. They kissed again.
She walked him out to the gates, and helped him secure his bags to his saddle. They paused to listen to the revelry upstairs in the great hall.
"He'll do well enough," Mordru nodded. "He's got good people watching out for him." He squeezed her hand, and then climbed his horse.
"Mysa of the Faeries!" he called, pausing a dozen horse-steps away. "You are as much queen of Britain as Im-- Guinevere is, whether you rule from Rokk's side or from Avalon. Use your throne wisely, and follow your heart always."
Stifling tears, she silently blew him a kiss, and watched him ride off to the west.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:07 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
ITALIA Interlude Six: Altinum
Things were going well.
Altinum's coffers were growing stronger, the local Ostragoth lords and dukes were eager for his counsel, and unlike Britain, the masses here welcomed the Church and its authority.
Vidar took great satisfaction in his work. His gift to bring people to the Word of God was getting stronger and stronger, and with it, his reputation among Rome's elite.
As an outsider, he was neither aligned with Festus and his pro-Byzantine crowd, nor so tight with the elite of Rome - who Vidar scorned as virtually identical little old men, who almost seemed blue in complexion when fully regaled in their little red robes.
And as an outsider, the Ostragoth king of Italia, Theodoric, found him a refreshing alternative from the church politics so often heaped upon him.
So it was no surprised to find the king himself as a visitor on a fine spring day.
"Bishop Vidar, it seems that you are the sole voice of reason in all Christendom," said the king.
"Your majesty is to kind," he smiled. The two had grown close in the past year, but no so much that honorifics were dropped.
"Then let us speak not of flattery, but of your fellow clergymen. Have you heard Festus' charges against Pope Symmachus?"
"I have, my liege. Everything from paganism to immoral conduct - and the latest accusation is failing to celebrate Easter on the proper day this year, I hear. More political mechanisms by the Byzantines, it seems," he responded.
"Aye," the king nodded. "But it's causing too much havoc on Italia, and it needs to be settled."
"I'm sure Symmachus will heed-"
"-Symmachus has refused to see me. Apparently, he feels that rulers of the secular are not of merit to broach the subject with him," he laughed. "I'd make an example of him, yet I've no wish to quell uprisings," Theodoric said.
"I have called for the bishops to hold synod on the matter, and suspended the pope's authority until this is settled. But I need someone unaligned with either faction to make inquiries from Symmachus himself - and to administer the See in the interim," he continued.
Vidar's heart skipped a beat. If he could discredit both Symmachus and Festus' puppet-antipope Laurentius -- HE could be the next pope!
[ December 26, 2005, 07:08 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Seven: Roma
"Be not so foolish. You cannot venture any farther at my side."
"But I must! Don't you see?" Jeka pleaded. "I have as much to atone for as you!"
She had told Agravaine of things few outside of Imra and Voxv's court knew for certain over the course of the voyage. Sympathy had drawn him closer to her emotionally, but still he withheld the passion she longed for.
He smiled without saying a word. They strolled down the side streets, a collection of falling temples, sacked palaces and general decay.
"Fading glory," he noted, with sadness. "Not the Rome of legend I was raised on."
She nodded. "My father's old friends would visit us, regaling us with tales of old Rome. It almost breaks my heart to see what the Vandals have done to it. And the Ostragoths have no will to set it a-right - not even as they hold the very center of the world! My dear Agravaine, what is becoming of us all? Shall barbarians plunder everything civilized man has ever wrought?" She was almost in tears.
"It disturbs you to be hear that much?" he asked, surprised that she could be so overwhelmed by a city she'd spent a scant two days in.
"Yes. No... Maybe it's just that I clung to... Well, if Rome can't rebuild itself, how can we hope to maintain Britain?"
He gently squeezed her hand. "One stone at a time, if necessary."
His warm smile let her slip out of her fears, and she found herself smiling.
"Rokk' soldiers will return to Britain with the next sailing, and I've sworn never again to wield a blade," Agravaine said. "I cannot say for certain that I could defend you from all harms. The road ahead is less certain than... than, well, any of this," he gestured to the crumbling city around us. "I will fight til my bones are severed, my lady, but there is one of me, and I know not what sort of raiders may find a Cymru princess as delightful a bounty as I... would."
She laughed. "I shall have to take my chances, then."
"Then I shall ask our good host Senator Festus to find us passage for two to Palestine."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:10 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Eight: the Lazio countryside
Senator Festus stepped out of his carriage, stretched and smiled.
It was always a relief to escape the politics of Roma by retreating here to his villa, where a man could be both civilized and at peace.
Although the flat lands of the province that surrounds Roma did not have the voluptuous hills that his Tuscan homeland did, it was beautiful nonetheless. The rows of cypresses, the golden fields, the olive orchards and the vineyards were all arranged with such artistry that God himself would be impressed with his stewardship, he told himself.
His British guests were nice young folk, but he was just as glad not to have to play entertaining host just now. Theodoric had called for the synod, as Festus hoped - now all that remained was to prove the charges.
The papacy of Laurentius must be secured, he thought. [i]We must stand unified with Byzantium, if Roma and Christianity are to survive barbarianism.
Thay rushed out of the house, greeting her husband affectionately. Despite their years, he and his Gallic wife retained the spark of passion.
Following her greeting, she told him that a message had come from Ravenna - from Theodoric's court.
While she fetched him some wine, he opened the scroll.
"Damnation!"
"W-What is it?"
"The king has appointed Vidar as Visitor to the Papal Church."
"Vidar? My kinsman Brandius' foe?"
"Aye. And until the synod, he's ruling the Church. We made a mistake, letting him take Altinum; he's grown quire popular. If his base grows in Roma, the cause for union with the East could be set back by decades."
He had to see that Vidar would not keep his temporary power. But how?
[ December 26, 2005, 07:11 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Nine: Venetia
"Lavarrus! Welcome home, my son!" Boltus greeted, descending the marble staircase to greet them.
"It is good to see you, father. I trust you remember-"
"The lady Eva. Or should I say Queen Eva?"
Eva smiled bitterly. "Although I am without a kingdom, I do prefer that my station is not forgotten. I will be a queen again, and soon."
"Of course," Boltus smiled reassuringly. "Come! We have much to discuss!"
Ascending the stairs, Eva silently marveled at Boltus' assembly of statues - gods half-forgotten, or soon to be in this increasingly one-god era. The image of Saturn she immediately recognized, and smiled in approval.
"The servants mention you are receiving a guest?" her husband asked.
"He is," said a man, stepping forward from the entryway.
Lavarrus' mind rebelled, unable to acquaint this person with his family estate.
Eva, less constrained by such an attachment, was still surprised, even so. "Mekt?"
"Come inside, my friends. We have much to catch up on."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:13 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Ten: Ravenna
Theodoric sipped his wine, listening to his ministers make their reports. The northern borders were secure, relations with Byzantium and the Vandal kingdoms in Africa were going well enough. So far so good.
"What news of Symmachus, the pope?" he asked.
"His Grace has agreed to the synod, but... has refused to see your Visitor, Bishop Vidar."
"How fares Vidar in ministering the Church? Any problems?" the king asked.
"No, your majesty. The other bishops are all quite... cooperative."
Theodoric nodded. Maybe Festus is right. Maybe Laurentius' papacy should be recognized, that Byzantium can deal with church matters, not I.
He shook his head.
He'd heard rumours that Vidar had been thrown out of Britain by a young headstrong king, although Vidar never spoke of it. While he never thought ill of his friend, there were many times he wished his people had taken Iberia, and the Visigoths could bother with all the Church politics.
"Davius?"
"Yes, my liege?"
"Have Kenzius dispatched to Britain, and have him... evaluate this new king I hear of."
"Kenzius of Nuhorra?"
"The same."
If anyone could be entrusted to such a mission so far from home, it is surely Kenzius, thought Theodoric. The man lets nothing interfere with duty.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:14 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
BOOK III: CAMELOT RISING One Hundred and Twenty-one
"Tell us another story about King Rokk and his knights, cousin Mysa," pleaded Gaheris.
"Please, my lady?" echoed Harlack.
"Boys. Mysa has already told you tales about the knights fighting a legion of monsters, about an imp who seems to slay all the knights but one, and a villain who resurrects three ancient foes of old," Morgause admonished. "Enough tales for this eve, now off to bed!"
The two boys reluctantly scampered off. A third, far too young to do so, remained cradled in the queen of Lothian's arms.
"My niece, you are as saintly as any of Rome's best to be so good to the boys."
Mysa blushed. "They are just being boys. Like any, they yearn for tales of adventure."
"As if Lot's fending off of Northmen, Scots and Picts is not adventure enough, they fawn over each and every word of Rokk's court! A charismatic young man is my nephew, that even unseen, he steals my sons' hearts!"
"Speaking of that, where is your young- second youngest? Gareth?"
"You see the Khund boy, Harlack?"
"Yes?"
"I am fostering Kiritan's boy, and he is fostering Gareth."
"You trust your son to Khunds?"
"No, not really. But diplomacy is diplomacy, and the Kentish Khunds are not about to pack up and leave. Most have now been born on this island. Better tame the house dog to fend off the wild dogs."
"Vortigern's strategy," Mysa reminded her.
"Vortigern gave away the keys to the kingdom. Nay, keeping the Khunds to their limits makes far better sense," Morgause sighed.
"Is it not for the high king to decide statecraft?"
"How quick to your brother's defense! Why, I remember a young child jealous of the attention her infant brother-" Seeing Mysa's gaze, she redirected herself to the question at hand.
"Yes, it is. But last year, no one expected Rokk's reign to last through the winter, and long-term stratagems had to be readied."
"Stratagems you'll now share, of course."
"Of course." Morgause looked almost sincere in saying so. "Where is you handsome escort?" she changed the subject.
"James? He rode out to check on some of the defenses," she said, but thinking, and to seek out the remains of Angtough.
James' main mission up here in the north was to serve as regent for six months, to see to coastal defenses and monitor Lot's behavior since surrender - just as other knights were doing in Angle lands and Kent, but Rokk had asked a few extra favours of James, and James relished being counted on as one of Rokk's top knights.
"He's afraid of me, you know," Morgause said, somewhat amused by the fact.
"Why?"
"He probably thinks young Medrod is his," she said, slightly lifting the sleeping baby in reference.
"Is he?" Mysa was shocked.
"It's possible," her aunt winked. "But I suspect not."
Seeing her niece's expression, she added, "You of all people should not be so scandalized. Lot's never had cause to doubt that I've born him four sons that are his beyond dispute - you've seen them all. I've never rebuked him for any of his bastards, so he has no cause to rebuke me for this one."
Morgause gently ran her finger along the baby's face. "Younger knights can be such a joy. Eh, Mysa?" With James spending the summer, she decided that she must find a way to put the young man at ease once again.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:16 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Twenty-two
"There's really no other way, is there?"
"I'm afraid not, Querl. Better to find out this way than in a truly hostile situation," L'ile advised.
Querl sighed. He'd been through the ringer, it was true, and if Iaime's magic belt would save him future hardships, then it was worth the experiment now.
He, L'ile and Dyrk waited patiently for Garth, who indeed returned with a mercenary in tow.
"This is the man!" Garth proclaimed, pointing at Querl. "He owes me money. Kill him with your bare hands!" He tossed the mercenary a gold coin.
"A scrawny little green freak like you, this'll be no trouble at all!" he charged at Querl. Despite the scientist's best intentions to remain still, he found himself evading the brute. What if the belt needs active resistance? he queried.
"Stand still, damn you! I'll make it less painful for you if you'll just-" He successfully grabbed Querl's robe, and pulled him close with one hand, pummeling him with the other.
After landing a few blows and stunning his opponent, the mercenary secured a choke-hold for a few seconds before Dyrk's sword interrupted him.
"You've earned your coin. Now let him go," the Roman ordered.
The mercenary looked to Garth, who nodded. He followed his principal’s instruction.
"Just wanted to scare him, eh? No problem," he said, standing up. "Pay's pay. You could have told me, though."
"It had to seem truly authentic," Garth said. "You may be on your way," he flipped the man an extra coin of silver.
"Querl? Are you all right?" L'ile asked.
Coughing a little, the man replied that he was. "So much for 'magic belts.' Just as I suspected, it was Iaime's fortune - not his belt - that kept him from harm."
"Not necessarily. Maybe it requires that you believe in it," Dyrk ventured.
"Aye. Like the various persuasion techniques we've discussed," L'ile continued on his idea.
"But Querl said he's accepted that there is magic afoot here in Britain," Garth reminded.
"Aye, as a working theory with the lack of any alternative. But I guess part of my mind still refuses to accept it, and insists that there must be another explanation that fits into the natural order of the world."
"Who says magic isn't a part of the natural order?" L'ile countered. Seeing Querl starting to remove the belt, he continued, "No, Querl, leave it. There's nothing like a near-death experience to make a convert out of a man."
Querl nodded. "Perhaps my knowledge that, even though the mercenary attempted to kill me, I was never truly in danger may have failed to activate any magical protective properties."
"Perhaps. I guess the only real test will be in the field," L'ile concluded. Dyrk nodded.
"Joy is mine!" Querl sarcastically declared. "Let us get back to the palace. Reep is no doubt waiting for the next strategy session on Roxxius."
Indeed, for a second season, Khundish raiders had been scant, but Roxxius was already proving as terrifying a threat, with far fewer men.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:18 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Twenty-three
The village burned, and Roxxius smiled.
His ships were well full of all the gold, all the spices and treasures the city held, while what pathetic soldiers in the absent King Mekt's service there were here offered little resistance at all.
It was a good day, except for one thing. San Graal was not here.
Roxxius knew that one of King Rokk's allies had it, and he would not rest until it was his.
Never.
Hi ships set sail, and vanished into the spring twilight. No one would ever catch them. No one knew how.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:19 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Twenty-four
Tinya liked Lindum well enough, and it was a pleasant break from Londinium.
As glad as she was to be alive again, those she thought she knew so well, who she'd spent so many months with unseen, didn't know her as she knew them. And the fact that she may have (and sometimes did) seen them unawares in private circumstance did little to better her in their eyes.
Only Jo and the queen accepted her as one they knew - as they had known her as a phantom. Saihlough, too - but the little faerie had gone missing since midwinter, sulking perhaps at her use of magicks to disguise Ayla as Garth.
Lindum itself was a likeable city - a northern Roman town like her Eboracum, not nearly so large and impersonal as Londinium was becoming. Here only weeks, she already knew many names and faces from the marketplace alone.
And it was also a different type of city - despite its Roman architecture, it was an Angle town, with Anglish and Latin both mingled and mangled.
"Good day, milady," greeted the woman who sells ham-hocks. "Can I interest you in a fine cut of swine?"
"Good day. Not to-day, my good lady," she smiled. All the older ladies treated her like their queen - or at least a princess, as Lindum would host her upcoming wedding to Jonah.
That Eboracum did not host the event would aggravate her mother, she knew - as did her fiancé - and the thought made her smile. Let her tend to the traitor Tarik for all I care!
Jonah had well settled in here, and although Belinant's retainers had given him some trouble, he enlisted those looking to make good with King Rokk, and found his way to circumvent those who would not.
All things in consideration, things were going well. The coastal forts were being rebuilt, and again the Khundish were few between.
"There you are," she heard Jonah say from behind her, as she inspected a piece of fabric.
"Spending your moneys. Where else should I be?"
He gently grabbed her and kissed her from behind. "I'm just sorry our wedding must take back-burner to the task at hand."
"Be not silly, my love. The security of state is in the hands of King Rokk and his knights. And you are a most indispensable knight." She leaned back into his embrace, savoring the moment. A gently spring breeze tickled her hair against her face.
They made their way to the edge of the market. As the first fair of the season, the marketplace spewed out beyond the city gates, and soon they were at the woodland's edge. He clasped her hands together, and kissed them with such gentleness that Tinya knew the court ladies could never believe.
"My love." he whispered, and they lost themselves deep in each other's eyes.
He again started to speak, but his eyes darted to the right and his expression changed to one of anger - even fear.
"You." Tinya knew that anger belonged only to one foe - but there was no one to be seen.
"Jonah?"
"Stay back, Tinya. Climb a tree. Let him not get near you," he said, drawing his sword and positioning himself between her and -- no one.
"Let who get near me?"
Jonah turned briefly to her with a look of disbelief. "You cannot see him?" He turned back, only to find the spot as empty as Tinya saw.
"Keep your eyes alert," he said, slowly advancing to the place where he had seen his nemesis. "No footprints, no hoof-marks," he said. "And you saw naught?"
"No one but you and I."
He sighed. "Maybe Dyrk is partly right of me, then."
"Nay. love. When I was a ghost, I saw him, too."
"Is he part phantom, then? The ghost of some foe I've already struck down?"
The thought hung there, interrupted by three short blows from a horn, followed by a long one.
"That's the signal for Roxxius! Come, my love - there may not be much time!"
[ December 26, 2005, 07:20 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Twenty-five
"That's what the message from Lothian said?" Imra asked. "That's all?"
"All that relates to Manaugh. There was also news that Queen Morgause has another son - and is fostering a son of Kiritan," Laoraighll reported. "Reep was not pleased by the news."
Imra nodded. "Any alliance between the Kentish Khunds and Lothian does not seem like good tidings." Changing the subject, she added, "So let's review what we know."
"The Pictish village of Angtough, according to the assassin, had a pledge from Auley to remain in Pictish hands, in exchange for help against the Khunds. Angtough was a key strategic spot on its peninsula, essentially blocking Scot colonization to the lands beyond, thus many Pict tribes no doubt supported this deal."
"So why would Auley sell them out?" Imra asked.
"Maybe he didn't," Laoraighll said. "But someone did. The massacre of the village was thorough and complete - whoever did it knew the village inside and out."
"How would the Scots know? A traitor among the Picts?"
"Maybe," the Ulsterwoman said. "Maybe I betray my own kin-ties, my queen, but I... I don't believe it was Scots."
"Go on."
"The massacre happened in the early winter. An entire village raided and scorched. Same methodology we've seen in Kent, Cymru and Lesser Britain. Not Scots, not Northmen, not Khunds. Roxxius," Laoraighll concluded. "James has not seen enough of his handiwork to know, but I would. So would Thom."
"And we can spare neither of you, with the raider's attacks growing more frequent and more brazen. Meanwhile, this assassin stalks Lot, Morgause, Auley's young children from his recent wife, all of Morgause's children..."
"And who knows how many of Lot's bastards?" the Ulsterwoman added. "Half of Lothian could be killed by misplaced vengeance."
"What was it MacKell said? Manaugh admitted gaining this strange power from the Cailleach?" the queen asked.
"Aye. IF the word of a murderer is an honest one."
"Then let's ask the goddess herself. Shall we?"
[ December 26, 2005, 07:04 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 118 to 124 and I-6 to I-10. Note: I've gone back and added "Book i" and Book II" descriptions at chapters 1 and 61, hence Book III at 121. Likewise Interlude sections now have umbrella titles. 118: In Arthurian lore, Lot did take part in the rebellion, but settled down and became ally for quite awhile. 119: I couldn't not make the subs knights, just as the pre-boot subs never made sense - you had guys like Chuck and Tenzil, but people with more useful powers were excluded? The inexperience/uncontrolled excuse only lasts so long, once they proved their mettle. 120: In Arthurian lore, Merlin is actually out pretty early on. The same does not apply, of course, to Mordru in LSH lore.. I-6: Aside from Vidar, these are all historical figures, and even Vidar's role he was historical, via Bishop Peter of Altinum. In a nutshell, Festus and his faction want stronger ties to what is becoming the eastern Orthodox church, while the larger faction wants the western church, the Catholic Church, to be separate. Guess which wins? Anyway, at this point, each faction has their own pope, a not uncommon practice at times when Rome was very factional. I-7: Whatever Rome looked like back then (and it was a period of shambles), I envisioned the Palatine Hill area of Rome as my inspiration here. If you're ever in Rome, it's an area of beautiful Roman ruins next to the Coliseum. I-8: Festus, as I've said before, was real. Other than his politics, not much is known about him, but a rural villa in Lazio (the countryside around Rome) isn't unreasonable, but his Tuscan origins are my own invention. I-9: Just can't separate that trio, can you? I-10: Kenzius obviously isn’t historical; the church bits are. 121: James' Arthurian counterpart may be more obvious by now. 122: Poor Querl. My kingdom for a force-field. 123: Nuff said, for now. 124: I've been meaning to get to Tinya's alienation ad back to the Green Knight. As previously promised, the latter's about to go somewhere different than just another slugfest, as is hopefully evident here. Lindum is Lincoln and Eboracum is York. I think I've said that before, but consider yourselves reminded.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:06 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Twenty-six
"I say he's a pig!"
"How can you say that after how you've treated him?"
"Will you two calm down! Luornu, you quit him. Lu, he did seduce her for her body with no regard for anything else about her. There's blame enough to share," Laurentia said decisively.
"Hmmph. She let him have her honour, and now claims foul?" Lu grumbled.
"Enough!" Laurentia barked.
Luornu sighed. "I guess I shouldn't complain if he takes after Zendak's daughter. I just thought better of him."
"Thinking better of men gets you alone and with a big belly," sneered Lu. Seeing Laurentia's ire and Luornu's welling tears, she added, "I mean that only as concern for your well-being, sister. Young women can't just lie around as they choose, not among civilized folk."
"I know that. I just thought..." she broke down into sobs.
"Sister," Laurentia said, with a sinking feeling. "You're not...?"
"Do we not feel each other's pains anymore? What do you think?" Luornu shrieked before resuming her sobs.
Lu, at a loss for words, just held her.
Laurentia paced, struggling for what to say. It was then that she noticed the red rash growing on her arms.
No, not just hers - her sisters,' too.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:08 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Twenty-seven
"Saihlough?"
The kitchen staff gave Ayla odd look, as she scoured every nook and cranny of the palace kitchens.
There was no sign of the little faerie anywhere.
Despite her initial embarrassment and dislike of the faerie magic incident, she had come to understand that the little pixie meant to help. Unfortunately, she could not find her attempted benefactor to share these thoughts.
She went over all the stories Reep had told her of Saihlough. "If I were a faerie, I'd..."
She smiled, thinking of a tale Rokk had once told.
Ayla left the palace, and followed the streets along the river to the Druidic groves.
"Saihlough!" she called, navigating her way through the tall hedges. "Little faerie, where are you?"
"Saihlough's had enough of humans," said a little voice. Although disguised, Ayla knew it must be her.
"Then could you tell her I'm sorry? We're all sorry?"
"Sorry doesn't mend hearts."
"Yes it does, eventually. We were hurt by what Saihlough did, but with her 'sorry,' and some time to dwell on it, we realized she intended no ill."
There was no response.
"Will you tell her?" Ayla tried once more.
"You will go now," the voice responded.
Disappointed, she left, itching herself as she walked down the street. Do the Druids line their groves with poison plants? Why do I itch so? Please let it not be more faerie magic.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:09 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Twenty-eight
"There she is!" exclaimed Genni.
"What have you done to us?" demanded Iasmin.
Drusilla sat in her bed, itching herself.
"I thought she was immune to the plagues she causes?" Genni asked, itching herself furiously fast.
"She is," Errol answered. "I do not believe she has caused this. After how she taxed herself last winter, I no longer believe she is capable of-
"Lass! You must stop yourself!" he called, seeing Genni's itching was giving way to bleeding.
"I cannot!" she exclaimed.
"Grab her!" he ordered Iasmin, who tried desperately to ignore her own itch that she could aide her friend.
Errol tore Drusilla's bed-sheet, and began tying Genni's arms to her sides. "First we secure her, then we bandage her wounds."
"NO!" Genni shouted, and in a burst of energy, she freed herself and fled down the hall, itching and trailing a small amount of blood.
"What is going on here?" demanded Thom, wandering by.
"A plague, it seems, that is afflicting the women-folk."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:11 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Twenty-nine
Jonah and the city guard fared reasonably well, but they faced a foe who had stealthily entered city walls, fought well in close quarters, knew where to strike, and had mastered an art of diversion.
For each company of city guard that engaged the enemy, there were six that were misdirected - sent down the wrong street. Some companies found themselves charging each other.
Jonah was among those who did find the enemy, but even after successfully slaying the first few of a large group of the raiders, he would turn to find himself alone with the corpses.
Three times he tracked and engaged, and three times the main cluster of invaders escaped him. By nightfall, it seems they had vanished as stealthily as they had come,
Jonah stewed; it should not have gone this way. Word was already dispatched to Londinium, and he himself had requested MacKell to join him here in Lindum.
"What will MacKell do that you cannot?" Tinya asked, trying to ease his mind.
"He can take over my duties here," Jonah told her. "Roxxius cannot be stopped from this side of the walls - no matter if he strikes Londinium herself!"
"What are you planning?"
Jonah smiled. "For this to work, you must tell no one..."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:12 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Thirty
Rokk knocked before entering. He cautiously entered the ladies' salon, calling out for his wife.
"K-King Rokk!" Siobhan struggled to her feet. Every visible inch of skin was reddened from itching.
"Rest, lass. Pray tell, where is my queen?"
"She and Laoraighll went to Mysa's quarters. To find answers, they said."
He lifted her, and carried her to her bed. Her sister Virginia was already bed-ridden, and just as red.
"Rest, lass," he told her.
Striding the hall with a hasteful step, Rokk saw MacKell and Thom, and snapped for them to follow.
He kicked open Mysa's door, to find Imra sprawled unconscious on a candle-lined floor, and Laoraighll poised obliviously at the window.
"Lar Chulain. My love," she said an otherworldly voice.
"Morrigu." MacKell replied flatly.
"I prefer Cailleach, here in Britain."
"What have you done to the women-folk?" Rokk demanded, reaching for his sword. MacKell grabbed his arm.
"A king you may be. For now. But I am goddess forever." She turned to face them for the first time. "These foolishe girls thought to force answers from me. Answers have a price."
"What price, my lady?" MacKell managed.
"That is mine to know, for now. This plague will run its course, and mayhap your little priestess-girls will think twice before summoning the Crone."
That can't be all she wants, MacKell thought, thinking the better than saying it.
"The rest shall be apparent in its own time." She walked over and kissed MacKell. "Farewell for now, my sweet."
With that, Laoraighll collapsed onto him, developing red splotches.
Imra, starting to wake, heard Rokk say, "My wife must be a queen, not a sorceress. I have been very tolerant of the way of Avalon, but she is banned form any form of magicks without my direct and expressed consent."
Foolish woman, Imra scolder herself. How quickly out-of-practice I have become! Maybe it's for the best, she thought. Why am I so itchy?
[ December 26, 2005, 07:15 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Thirty-one
"Can you believe the word from Lindum? Sir Jonah -Gawaine himself- has turned traitor? He allowed Roxxius entry into the very citadel!"
"No, I can't believe it," Nura said, not letting on what she had already envisioned.
King Marcus paced about, absorbing the news. "Even luring MacKell to the north - and attacking him! What madness is this?"
A gusty wind buffered Tintagel and its castle. A storm was coming. Nura usually loved the intense beauty, passion and anger of storms, but she now shivered in anticipation. She knew something bad was coming - and even worse, she knew she was hiding something from herself about it.
Looking out to sea, they saw the village fishermen landing their boats.
"You hide yourself well, but I know you want to know if there is word of Thom," Marcus said with a sneer, misreading her apprehension. "You would do well to remember who you are wed to."
Nura was taken aback. She didn't have to ask about Thom -she knew all was well enough. "I have never given you cause-"
"SILENCE, woman! I'll hear none of your lies!" he shouted, smacking her across the face.
"Roxxius," she said, oblivious to the slap. Marcus knew what her look meant.
"What did you say?"
"Roxxius. He's coming," she said. "He's coming here!"
"With the storm looming?" Marcus said, incredulously. "Who in their senses would-"
Stopping himself, he called for the captain of his guard, barking orders to be ready, and to have the villagers flee inland.
Nura shivered with a fear she'd long wrestled, never knowing when it would materialize. A deep dread crawled up her spine, paralyzing her, making her vomit and shiver spastically.
"For God's sake, woman!" Marcus shook his head, and left her, to see to the futile defenses. Tintagel was strategically sound - but only against conventional foes.
"No, it doesn't happen here, and it's worse if there's no offering," Nura told herself, looking around the salon. She walked up to their bed chambers, and to the secret chamber beyond, where Marcus kept his most valuable treasures.
She lifted the orb Marcus had taken from Laoraighll's cache last spring. "You're not his main goal, but you'll be his soon, won't you? The Stone of Virtue."
Nura picked up a jeweled dagger - a gift, Marcus said, from King Jonn of Pasnic. She considered her options; none looked good. "No, I must survive intact. For Thom," she said, tossing the dagger aside.
She closed the door and waited, watching the battle as it neared, seeing it before hearing it.
In 10 minutes, Marcus' men would spy Roxxius' ships passing the rocky shoals, heading right into Tintagel Bay...
Within the half-hour, the first raiding party would surprise Marcus’ men, still watching the ships. The battle would go poorly...
Within the hour, Marcus would receive the wound that would ensure that Thom was his sole heir... but wait! Geraint? A name, no more. A usurper? Too far into the-
"-Future, I'd suggest you awaken and cooperate," said the figure before her. As she expected, the secret chamber was breached, and a half-dozen raiders stood before her.
"You are Roxxius," she said, quietly.
"I am. Hand me the stone, and I spare your life."
She complied.
"Now. Where is the San Graal? Aid me, and I shall spare you any other permanent harm."
"And shall your men so spare me?" She saw through his escape clause.
"And my men," he smiled. She is wiser than most.
"I can see that what I consider harm, you do not," she winced in anticipation.
"Perhaps. But I think we can both agree that scarring that pretty face would be a permanent harm. Temporary... inconveniences are less traumatic. The priests tell me it's not a sin if you don't enjoy it," he snarled.
Unbuckling himself, he said, "Now, the Graal? Can I put away my dagger?"
"I know not. But I can tell you that Sir Jonah -Gawaine- does know."
"And where do I find him?"
"...He fled Lindum a week or more ago. They say he aided your conquest."
"Where is he now?" He held the blade closer.
"I-I... Orkney. His family has holdings there."
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" he smiled, stoking her cheek.
True to his word, he sheathed his dagger.
True to his word, what followed was not permanent - physically, at least, and Nura's only solace that with Marcus wounded, she'd not have to suffer any unwanted touch for many years.
Again, the name came to her. Geraint.
She reached out into the future, to a time when Thom, shy and uncertain, would finally kiss her, pull her robe off... No, his caution and gentleness did not fit Roxxius' brutality.
Further ahead - angry words were said, and reconciliation with Thom was a passionate fury. Yes, here, she could hide herself in. The future could be safe, and she no longer had to dread when the stranger in the treasure room would appear...
[ December 26, 2005, 07:17 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Thirty-two
The woods of North Cymru are dark and deep, but Balan found them not deep enough to hide from himself.
His iron helmet, which he never once removed at court, was tossed aside, rusting a little more in each morning dews and drizzles.
Each morning, he washed his face in the brook. But one morning early in the spring, he'd seen one of the Bean-Nighe, the faerie-women who wash the blood-stained clothes of those about to die. She washed the one of the identical tunics that he and his brother wore.
"I shall never again leave these woods," he vowed, "else my brother find me, and one kills the other on account of my madness. Let my ugly face scare off any who would trespass here."
And so he passed the weeks: hunting, fishing, mending his cloak as best he could, and sturdying the little hut he'd made for himself, that he could winter in it. The few people he'd see, he'd easily scare off, and his hut was well-hidden than none knew where he slept.
So it came as a surprise, washing his hideous face this morning, to see a reflection of a beautiful woman behind him.
"Haaarrggghhh!" he shouted, turning fast to scare her off.
She smiled. "Good Sir Balan, you need not play the ogre with me," she laughed.
"If you know me, you know that I am a villain."
"You struck down an evil sorceress that has ensnared the soul of King Rokk," she said. "You are to be commended. True Christian soldiers are not many on this isle."
He knew his deeds had been wrong, though, as tempting as it was to hear her excusal.
"Leave me be, lady. I deserve no charity."
"Charity? No. I'm offering you a chance to prove yourself to your Lord and God."
"My lady? Forgive me for saying, but you look like no sister of God I've ever seen."
She smiled. "Your eyes are a-right. I am no nun; I am a queen. Come with me to my island-nation, and help me build a strong Christian kingdom in this sea of paganism.'
"Y-Your isle? Eiru?"
"Nay, nothing to grand," she laughed. "The Isle of Man."
He backed away. "Then you are the sorceress Glorith!" He reached for his sword.
"Aye. But I've found Iesous, and repented. If you believe me not, then strike me down, that my redemption may be judged by my lord."
She knelt before him, with hands outstretched, as if to welcome his sword-strike.
He hesitated, and she knew she had him.
"You speak truly, don't you?" he was still cautious.
"I am. Please, let me show you the churches we have built. My ship is not far."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:18 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Thirty-three
Lu, Garth and Thom were stunned.
"If you're not helping, then stay OUT OF MY WAY!" Dyrk shouted.
The seas were getting rougher, and Dyrk was steering them away from the coast.
"But Dyrk, we're heading out to sea," Garth insisted.
"The bay of Portus Magnus is wide indeed, but we shall reach the isle of Vectis. Must I remind you that King Rokk placed this effort under my command?"
So redressed, the knights returned to their stations.
Lu shook her head. "There is Vectis," she pointed. With the rocky waves and ocean sprays, it was difficult to see, but it did appear like a distant island.
Garth nodded. Helping Kentish Khund refugees of Roxxius' latest attack settle was one thing, and as unseemly the prospect of expanding Khund settlement west of Portus Magnus, the likelihood of being tossed by storms out in the open Channel was even less appealing.
Glancing back, the other boats still followed.
"Kent is under my watch," Thom reminded Dyrk, "and I say we turn for that island!"
"You're just jealous. Trying to undermine me," Dyrk snarled. "I want you all off my boat! NOW!"
The trio looked at each other. Did Dyrk really expect them to jump ship out in the bay?
"Calm down, all. Dyrk is right," said the priest. "We'd best do this his way."
"Thanks, nameless!" Dyrk smiled. At least someone appreciated-
As the priest put his hand reassuringly on Dyrk's shoulder, suddenly the knight grew drowsy, and could no longer stand up.
"He's been on too many duty assignments in a row, He needs rest," the priest said.
Garth and Thom looked at each other. They were grateful, but amazed at yet another magickal-seeming effort by the priest: he'd opened MacKell's cave, made a sword dissolve, made a sick child healthy - and now this.
Lu, in the meantime, ordered the boat around, that they could make landfall before the storm grew too fierce.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:20 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Thirty-four
What went wrong?
Imra asked herself that question over and over, as the fever burned her brain. Beren was the only one who could stand to be near her, as she projected her pain outward.
"Hush, child," he soothingly said, feeding her more of a honeyish elixir, the only thing that seemed to calm her.
All the other ladies of the court - and a number in outer Londinium afflicted - were now recovered. Except the queen.
Soothed by the honey, she drifted back into sleep - but not the sleep of fanciful dreams, but into a realm of True Dreams, a crystal-clear reality her teachers had spoken of. She was standing in the city. Londinium looked different - but Londinium it was not.
"Rome," she whispered to herself. But not the Rome since Vandal conquest - Rome as it had been, marble and pristine, perhaps in Augustus' time.
"Hello, child," said a voice.
"Who is there?"
An imposing figure in a purple robe, with face -if any- obscured appeared before her. "Welcome to my realm."
"You are master of Rome?"
"I am master of all. I am Terminus.
"Jupiter, Saturn, Apollo, Janus, Diana, the Caesars, all gods come and go, and bow before me as they fade. So shall the Christian's one-god, someday."
"Terminus, the Roman god of boundaries," Imra said, recalling her lessons.
"The Romans were the first to name me, t'is true, but I have always been here. I will always be here, at the end of all things."
"I am dying, then? I am entering your realm?"
"Not today. I just wanted to meet you. You shall be my agent in the world you know."
"And if I say, 'no?'"
"A choice, it was not. We will meet again."
Imra awoke in a start, the fever broken. What did he mean, I would be his agent?
[ December 26, 2005, 07:21 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Thirty-five
"Eiru," L'ile declared.
"Are you certain?" Rokk asked.
"Absolutely. Three separate sources -all reliable- affirm that Roxxius has a stronghold at Oilean Ard Neimheadh - Newath's Island, in the south-west of Eiru," Reep reported.
"And - he is paying hefty tribute to Coirpre mac Neill, the high king at Tara," L'ile added. "We can expect him to have Irish allies."
Rokk nodded. "I want Laoraighll and MacKell here as soon as possible, as our Eiru experts. Dispatch Genni to Lindum to send for him, and... bid Sir Derek to take his place in overseeing Anglia, as soon as he is able to take command.
"Send word by horse to Marcus and Nura in Tintagel, that we shall need to consult en route with Nura on Coirpre mac Neill. She'll know him better than Laoraighll, I'll wager," he continued.
"Have the fleet at Portus Magnus readied, and the cavalry stand guard here in Londinium. With the fleet dispatched, I want them ready for any Khund who seeks to profit from Roxxius' distraction."
Querl entered just as Rokk finished the last. "Ah, good, Querl. I want you to supervise the installation of your Computus on my flagship at Portus Magnus. We shall see how it fares against a most deadly of foes."
Irish allies? thought Rokk. Perhaps I can find another ally for our cause.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:23 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Thirty-six
The palace seemed empty. Those who hadn't left with Rokk were either out at the coastal forts or drilling with the cavalry.
Even Laurentia, Tenzil and Carolus were tending to the field units.
Luornu never felt so alone.
She strolled the empty halls of the palace, absent-mindedly rubbing her hand over her belly. The sickness had cost her more than a nasty spell of itches and fevers.
She had not wished for a child, but now that it was gone, she missed it, and felt nothing but guilt - for everything. For her affair with Dyrk. For being unwed and pregnant. For the shame she would have brought on Guinevere's court. For wishing her own child dead and gone - and mostly, for getting her wish.
She quietly sobbed in the hall. There was no one to give comfort. No one-
"Lady Luornu? What ails you?" It was Zendak's brat, Virginia.
"Nothing I'll share with you. Please leave me."
The only other soul in this palace, and it had to be her.
"If you are jealous because Sir Dyrk-"
"LEAVE ME!"
The girl scampered away, near tears.
"Would you treat all as such, who wish to unburden your heart?" the queen asked.
"My lady! I did not hear-"
"Rokk complains that these halls too easily muffle footsteps," she smiled. "Would you tell me your ills?" she asked tenderly.
"I... have been the harlot. I let a knight get me with child. The fever took it," she sobbed.
The queen nodded. "I, too, lost a child. Now I have two infant souls on my conscience."
"You? But it was my sin-"
"Hush," the queen ordered, choosing her words carefully with such a devoutly Christian lady. "The plague could have been prevented... I failed us all. I... can say no more of it, but for all it's value, I am to blame, and if I can be so brazen, I hope to someday earn your forgiveness."
She wants my forgiveness? Oh, what burdens can she possibly bear?
"B-Before the king left, I strolled out late in the even to see Querl's Computus, that which almost took my sister's life. I stood before it, wishing it would take me. If I knew how to operate it..." Luornu trailed off into tears once more.
"You Christians place that as a grave offence," the queen stated. Luornu nodded.
"Do not give up so easily what so many have fought so hard for. You think you carry burdens? Let me tell you of two sisters, Guinevere and Jeka, and a third girl thrown into the mix..."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:25 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Thirty-seven
The Computus fired, and hit the tower.
It seemed to do no damage whatsoever.
Querl frowned. "As I feared. The Computus must be anchored on land to be effective."
"Then do so," Rokk said. "We shall make landfall, and Thom's men shall secure the perimeter."
He wasn't about to send another team to make a frontal assault - not after Lar's team failed, and was slowly making its way back to their boat - sitting ducks out in the mossy terrain.
With the second boat landed and the Computus being moved, all appeared in order. Within minutes, Lar, Garth, Reep and L'ile could reach the safety that the rocky shore offered.
"Demons!" shouted Dyrk. "What magicks are these?"
Startled, the Rokk and the others turned to see bolts of fire flying out at their comrades.
"Madness!" Rokk shouted. "Ready the archers. We must provide cover!"
Several volleys of archers proved ineffective. A wall of fire now stood between Lar's force and the boats - and the blasts were getting loser to hitting the boats.
"King Rokk!" Lu blurted. "If we faked a frontal assault, it could distract the fiends long enough to-"
"-Let Stigandr get the knights across the fire, aye. But I'll go alone. I cannot ask anyone else to risk themselves." Rokk said. After giving Stig his assignment, he drew his sword, ready to charge - only to find Thom and Lu ready and waiting.
"No! I forbid it!"
"Three make a better distraction than one," Thom rebutted.
Rokk nodded, reluctantly accepting the truth. "We charge for 50 yards, and stop. By then, either our distraction will work, or it won't serve anyone to go forward."
They nodded. Joined by the camp in a battle cry, the charge began - only to be met by a bolt of fire.
"King Rokk is down!" Berach shouted.
A second bolt hit the Computus, knocking Querl and Loomius down.
"It's up to us then," said the Northman, eyeing the tower. I pray this is not suicide, he thought.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:26 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Thirty-eight
I've had Roxxius' boat land not far from where Cradelmant surrendered, Jonah noted, hoping any sentries noted the symbolism.
"How far to Londinium?" Roxxius growled. He still didn't trust this supposed 'rogue knight,' but this was the first man he knew who could lead him to the San Graal.
"If we had horses, we could arrive within the hour. So it shall be by afternoon," Jonah replied. Long enough for King Rokk to set a trap, he mentally sneered.
"Maybe slightly less," said Roxxius, as a strange mist enveloped them.
Is this how he enters fortresses unseen? Jonah wondered, following his employer.
The terrain around seemed blurry. When the blur faded -if not the mist- they were within Londinium's walls!
"Which way is the palace?" asked the raider.
Jonah looked around. "There!" He pointed to the Mithraeum, the most impressive building within immediate sight.
Taking advantage of the early morning quiet, the party avoided the market square and toward the temple. The mist let them through the walls, and into a large chamber.
"This is a temple, not a palace!" Roxxius bellowed.
"Aye, it is," replied a voice.
Even Jonah was surprised - it was the enigmatic nameless young priest.
"I understand you've been seeking me? The let your plundering of shore towns and villages end. I am yours."
"Yes, you are," Roxxius smiled. "Have Sir Gawaine killed," he told his men, before returning his attention to his quarry. "Without a guard? You are brave, if not smart."
He pulled the lad into the mists, leaving several of his men behind to fight Jonah.
"King Rokk left to lay siege to your lair in Eiru, but I knew you'd come here," said the priest. "Now I ask information of you. Why do you seek me? I am but god's servant."
"You are a wizard who can make me gold. Some say you are of God's bloodline, but I care only for gold."
"Sang Real? The holy blood? T'is true I have been gifted by God, but-"
"-Enough. You shall make me gold. You shall surround me in gold, and I shall at last rest!"
They arrived back at the boat, and Roxxius ordered it out to sea.
An hour out, the boat began to sink.
"Bail! Turn about! We shall return to shore and mend!" the raider bellowed.
But the bow was descending below the waves, and the oar-men complained that the oars were heavy, and falling apart.
"What have you done?" Roxxius bellowed at his captive.
"I gave you your wish," he said. The morning sun was finally clearing the clouds, and the entire boat glistened as only one metal does.
"You've killed us all!"
"Nay. I followed your wish," said the priest, walking away - atop the waves. "Rest well," he said, before turning away.
Roxxius opened his pouch of mists - but it. too was full of gold dust, not the magicks his love had given him. His boots weighed heavily as the salt water overtook him.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:27 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Queen B on :
I'm loving this Kent, Jan as a priest is perfect!
More, more, more!!!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thanks, QB!
You gotta give us more Subs too!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 125-138: 125: The Auley connection, hopefully obvious by now, was introduced with Lot back on page 2 (somewhere around chapters 11 to 14, i think). 126/127/128: the onset of plague gave me an excuse to get back to characters I've been meaning to use, but have been neglecting. 129/133: Extending the Roxxius story gave me the excuse to tie in other early Adventures pertaining to raiders and refugees. 130/134: Speaking of three-teen numbered issues of Adventure, while initially uncomfortable with Imra making such a folly, she was the natural link to delve into the plague and a cloaked figure with a "T" name. 131: This was a toughie, and I've resisted the temptation to severely edit it. I knew Roxxius would strike Tintagel, and Nura's word was needed to convince Roxxius to accept Jonah, but once they were face-to-face, the outcome seemed predetermined and obvious, much to my regret. Pet peeve time: Hollywood and Broadway aside, it's pronounced Tin-TADG-ul, not TIN-ta-Gul. Ask the locals; I did. 132: Glorith is such a pious lady, isn't she? 135: Irish history is a lot more vague than the British at this time; it took effort to figure out who was king. There were probably two competing would-be high kings at this time, and Coirpre mac Neill was one of them. For my purposes, he is sole high king, unless I later change my mind. 136: Luornu and Dyrk, obviously, never coupled in the comics, but it's really fit here in LoC. They're not done playing off each other, at least. 137: Again, Roxxius tied to other early Adventures. Even if he's not home. 138: Jan as a priest seemed natural, especially since we already have so many Druids. I use a play on words other also use to point to the Grail conspiracies- San Graal ("Holy Grail") vs. Sang Real ("Holy blood"). Early Grail stories do NOT refer to the shape of the Grail, only its powers, and its association with a chalice, especially in Britain, clearly comes from rich Celtic lore of magical chalices, including the Cauldron of the Gods I use in this work. Many have conjectured that the original Grail stories referred not to an artifact, but the descendents of Jesus, whether brought to Britain by Joseph of Arimathea or a millennia later by the Knights Templar/Masons. Is Jan of that lineage, or did Roxxius assume incorrectly? Time will tell. Maybe.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:23 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Fat Cramer on :
Hope you enjoy writing this as much as I enjoy reading it, Kent. The grounding in real historical events is particularly interesting - and your notes (and the Primer) are a great addition! Nice tie-in with the King Midas fable, too.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thanks, FC! You're the first to express favor for the notes - i was wondering if they were useful or not. I gotta get back to the Primer someday, too.
So double thanks!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Thirty-nine
Berach's team made it through.
Reluctantly letting Rokk and MacKell's teams serve as distractions, they slipped into a concealed passageway that Roxxius no doubt uses to reach his ships. But where were the ships then?
Beneath the tower were ancient catacombs - deserted catacombs, but not disused. Many piles of treasure, Roxxius' yields, no doubt, were piled in each alcove.
But not a person was about.
Reaching the tower's base, he ordered Peter and Stig to ready their unique weaponry. "Be ready for anything," he warned, as they proceeded up the stairway, Dag first, to deflect any attach, followed by himself and Uland, while Stig, Peter and Franz were paced beyond, ready with projectile weapons if needed.
The round tower stairs left them well exposed, should anyone from the far upper floor choose the attack downward. Berach wore his heart in his throat with each sound from above.
The stairs were wide and steep, suggesting large people used them, at least when they were built.
"Giants," whispered Uland, only to be shushed by Berach.
They reached the top of the stairs, a flat trap door that stood between them and the tower's top.
On the count of three, Dag and Berach shoved against it. Expecting more resistance, the door flew upward, banged on the wall above, and bounced back, denting on Dag's head.
"Charge!" Berach ordered, not wanting whoever lied beyond to recover from any surprise.
The six men ran into the room, only to face two hideous, deformed old men, each in excess of seven feet. They stood manning a ballista less complex than Querl's, and beside them was a dwindling supply of ammunition. Just as the ballista reminded Berach of a giant bow, these projectiles resembled to him giant arrows.
"Will you not leave us alone!" One of the giants shouted, hand-throwing a projectile at them. Dag caught it, but was knocked backwards, almost knocking Stig behind him back down the trap door.
Uland and Berach made frontal charges, while Stig tossed a bottle at the stock pile. The entire projectiles burst into flames, instantly over-warming the room, and making all wince.
"Noooo!" the giants cried, backing away from the knights, throwing up their arms in front of their faces.
Surprised by their cowardice,. Berach motioned for Uland to hold his stance.
"Who are you, and why did you attack us?" the Northman demanded.
"Attack you? You came to slay us!" one said. "We are but two old men, the last of the Fir Bolg, and wish only to be left in peace!"
Fir Bolg, Stig thought. The Giants of old Fomoria.
"But you sheltered the butcher Roxxius, who slays our women and children, and takes what is not his!"
"We... know not of that. He said he was a merchant, and would protect us from those who would hunt us, as the Celts have always done?"
"Well, he led us to your door, and left you to fend for yourselves." Noting his former servitude to Tarik, Berach was somewhat sympathetic, if they spoke truthfully. But the thought of his wounded comrades also remained in his mind.
"Peter - go see if King Rokk and the others have recovered. Stig -destroy the ballista," he ordered, turning his attention back to his captives.
"You two - where is Roxxius now? Does he have more allies at hand?"
"King Coirpre mac Neill - he fights your allies on the far shore," said the other giant, pointing out to a pitched battled between the Irish and Rokk's Frankish allies - the Frankish coast, too, wanted to be rid of Roxxius, for he had raided them as well.
"He and his went with the new recruit, Jonah, to seek the Blood. We expect them back not for days," said the first.
"Any other allies?" Uland prompted.
"Aye. There is one. Saraid, queen of Munster," said the second.
"B-Brother-" the first began, but Berach's sword led him to hold his tongue.
"Continue," he said to the second.
"Saraid was our friend; her family helped first to hide our race, and she helped us make peace with mac Neill, the high king. She brought Roxxius to us as defender, but vanished when the stone came."
"The stone?" asked Dag.
"Aye. The stone the Tuatha brought to this isle centuries agone. It was used to keep the Justice of Balor imprisoned."
"We may die, but Balor's Justice will be reaped!" bragged the first.
"Imprisoned? Where?" Stig didn't like this. Balor, he recalled, was the one-eyed god of the Fomorians.
The brothers motioned downstairs, and at Berach's direction, led them to a subterranean chamber where the Stone of Virtue was now solidly embedded into the wall like a turned key, and several stones had been knocked aside - no, blown outward - from a round-shaped enclosure beyond, big enough for an orb.
A primitive wall illustration showed giants using such an orb bringing small people - the Tuatha de Danaan or Celts, presumably - to their knees with rays from the orb.
"Whatever befalls us, Saraid shall use Balor's Eye of Justice to avenge our race. She will found an empire from this emerald isle!"
[ December 26, 2005, 07:25 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Forty
Returning to Tintagel, the allied fleets received word that Roxxius had been defeated, sunk beneath the waves.
With their mutual quarry eliminated, the seized treasures were split between Rokk and Lucius, duke of Neustria, the Frankish province plundered hardest by Roxxius. And the Frankish fleet went its own way.
Rokk sent his fleet back to Portus Magnus under Thom's watch, still mindful of the tensions he saw on the outbound trip to Eiru. With Thom gone, he only had to bear with Marcus' pleas for a larger share of the spoils - as if Tintagel were the sole port to feel the raider's swords.
Still, there was relaxation on the Cornish coast, and the soft violence of the waves crashing upon the rocky sea wall was invigorating to the king and his knights.
"How fare you, my lady?" Rokk asked Nura. He, Marcus and the queen were strolling the cliff-top pastures, taking in the sweeping vistas of crumbly, stony coastline. The fragments of rocky lands off shore lent credence to the tales of Ys and Hybrasil, lost beneath the waves.
The shimmering of the sun on the distant waters was the only sign of where the sky ended and the sea began.
"I... am better knowing that attacker is gone," she half-smiled. Rokk noticed her scowl at saying "that attacker," and the implication there was more than one. "Jonah, you know, did not turn traitor."
"Aye. MacKell told me. He needed to fake such to be taken into the raider's confidence. Yet it was a priest, not a knight, who ended the butchery."
Marcus smiled. "May he end the heathen Khunds so easily."
Rokk nodded. This was not the time to weigh the ethics of slaughtering for religion versus self-preservation.
"What now, my king? Does it not seem anti-climatic to chase a foe all the way to Eiru, when he is defeated at home in your absence?" Marcus pondered.
"A little. But he is dead. That is what matters. Now... we still have Khunds to worry of. And Tarik. But Derek and Brandius have been overseeing the beginnings of my new fortress, and I should like to see its progress."
"You need a fortress? Why, kinsman, I would gladly share Tintagel-"
"-A most generous offer. But I need one where we are most vulnerable to the Khunds. Tintagel is an important link to my stratagems, yes. But I need to be close to the enemy to be ready."
"Aye. Sandwiched in between the Angles and Kentish Khunds, it will be hard to be closer." The men laughed, and Marcus continued. "Have you thought of a name for your fortress?"
"Well, it will be built at Camulodunum. I feel no need to rename the city," the high king said.
"Nonsense, my boy... If you'll forgive a foolish old man's enthusiasm, sire," Marcus added, embarrassed at taking such liberties with the high king. Seeing Rokk's smile, he continued. "The city's name is fine for Roman and city folk, but consider this. The country folk, the pure Celt blood, will not well cotton to such a Roman name. Indeed, most are none too fond of Roman cities to this day."
Rokk nodded. "What would you do?"
"Shorten the name. Make it friendlier. Maybe 'Dunum,' would be better."
"Dunham? Sounds a little too countryish for my tastes. But I will consider your idea."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:27 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Forty-one
Querl hadn't seen the wave.
The sea had gotten choppy off shore from Exeter, and the crew was mustering to make port. He shouldn't have been on deck, but he had to see that the Computus wasn't damaged by the storm.
The deck was pitching, and it became harder to hold on. One moment the ship would be high atop a wave, looking down on the little instant valleys ahead and below, and then with a crash they'd be in one of the valleys, surrounded by white-topped peaks of water.
He took little consolation in the fact that he was not the only man to lose his grip. He'd seen several go before him, but he would not be surprised if none saw him go. The storm had grown too dark, too fast.
Tossed and thrown by the sea, he recalled the words of his teachers. "Swim upward, Querl. Seek the air. Close your eyes; your body knows the way."
It worked. He could claim a gasp of air as his own, and feel the rise and fall, anticipating each wave without seeing the ferocious sight. He kept at it, repeating it over and over again, losing track of how long...
He slept. He was vaguely aware of a sandy cushion below him, and crawling forward until water no longer lapped at his feet. The rocks and tree roots were less comfortable than the sand but it mattered not...
...Waking, the warmth of the morning sun was a welcome sight. The fairly peaceful sea kept its distance, as if in apology for its temper the previous night. The handful of clouds in the sky served as accomplices, as if saying, "What storm? Just a nice day up here. You must have confused us with another sky."
Querl laughed at the irony of such a beautiful day, one of the nicest he'd ever seen in Britain. It felt good, this day - it felt good to be alive.
His laugh was interrupted by his sneeze. Sleeping the night in wet clothes had ailed him, he hoped, not too much. He'd build a fire to make his clothing warm and dry, before making his way inland.
He guessed that he must be just east of Exeter, and should soon come across the Roman Road. If not, he knew he'd be west of Exeter, and would follow the ridge bearing to the right to reach the city.
A chill came over him - last time he'd awaken as such he was in a fairy realm. Could it be-? But no, if Mysa's tales were correct, there would be sunlight but no discernable sun if he had again crossed...
..."Over there!" the boy whispered.
His friend squinted. "It's true! We'd better tell your Da!"
Soon they'd told the entire hamlet, everyone had gathered, bringing their best breads, fruits and meats.
The smoke of their fires indeed led Querl to the thorp, but their cheers almost made him flee. Hunger and reason prevailed - they were happy to see him, or so it seemed.
Querl had avoided the local villages, preferring to stay in civilized Londinium, or failing that, either in the company of knights or a comfortable cloak, where his greenish complexion would not be noticed.
But his cloak was now gone in the sea, and there was no hiding himself - not from this assembly of several dozen smiling faces offering him food and ale.
He greeted them, and accepted their hospitality eagerly. Their stares at he ate were intrusive, but somehow - innocent and reverential. He found it both flattering and unnerving.
From their comments, apparently it was quite an honor to be visited by a green man.
To his further amazement, they had prepared sleeping quarters for him, the largest hut in the small hamlet had apparently been vacated for his use.
As tiring as the last 24 hours was, as much as his body wished to collapse and rest, his mind clawed at his situation. Why are they so friendly? It made no sense.
His thoughts were interrupted by girlish giggles. The furs that constituted a door parted, and thorp's young maidens entered.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:28 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Forty-two
MacKell retraced his steps carefully.
He had watched it done hundreds, maybe thousands of times over the centuries, and his belief that he could find the routes on his own proved well-founded last week en route to Tintagel, and they were proving so again today.
Waving farewell to Sir Garth, who he rode with to Glastonbury's far shore, he waded out into the shallow lake, counting his paces as he went.
He turned where the priestess' boat would turn, never once straying from the path, with only his head above water in some places. He stopped to recount his steps, and paused to reflect on the beauty of the moment: him alone, water at chin level, surrounded by mists, able to see only a few feet around himself.
He smiled.
He'd envisioned this very scene time and again for how many lifetimes? To feel water again! To shake his head, wet with water, to feel the lake trout brush against his legs!
Rather than lose himself literally, he pushed on, surprising two young priestesses tending to matters near the dock on the Priestess' Isle.
"My ladies!" he greeted them, emerging from the water, and continuing along the shore, bound for the Teachers' Isle. He was pleased that Azura herself was not present - a far less friendly high priestess than Kiwa had been, in his opinion.
After a change of clothes, he shared a midday meal with those wise elders, and greeted the priestess Zoe, now in the Teachers' care, and Beren, visiting from the Druid's Isle.
After the meal, MacKell pressed on, onto the Path of Isis, which no one but himself dared to journey with open eyes. He'd seen all it's horrors long ago, and was accustomed to the shrieks of the bainsidhes trying to trick travelers with the visages of monstrous fears, deep-rooted hates and even tortured loved ones.
The sights and sounds that had driven wise men and women to insanity didn’t at all impress MacKell. Ghouls wearing the facades of his long dead wife and children meant naught; not even the twisting and screaming of his newer friends and companions.
The image of Tinya burning and shrieking solely reminded him how little measure of affection he'd achieved with his benefactor. Perhaps it was time to let her go - as his friendship with Jonah was becoming more rooted.
He continued on, and in the time it took Garth to return to Cadwy’s fort, he was emerging into the Temple of Isis, just outside Londinium's walls.
"Good day to you," greeted one of the priests, somewhat used to visitors from Avalon emerging without notice.
"Good day to you," he returned the greeting.
Upon arrival at the palace, he had Jonah freed from the imprisonment he had acquiesced to.
He greeted the despondent queen and her ladies, and the mysterious young priest.
"Now that God has claimed Roxxius, letting him be consumed by his own greed, I may tell you my name. I am Brother Jan, last of the Brethren of Trom."
"Of course! Trom. I should have realized," MacKell responded. "I had heard of a young priest there who worked miracles." Seeing Jan blush uncomfortably, he added, "My condolences for the loss of your brethren."
"They are with our Lord. I am happy for them," he smiled. "God granted me gifts, and Roxxius slaughtered those around me seeking to use me for his own ends. Better that baptized, godly men, whose souls were already saved, perished, than unredeemed sinners who have not yet seen the light."
MacKell smiled diplomatically. He'd witnessed Eiru's conversion, but had seen both good men and bad use this new religion to varying ends.
"MacKell! Come quickly! An intruder! He's taken down a half-dozen guards!" called the watch captain.
He rushed forward, with Jonah following, ready for anything or anyone - except who he saw before him, unarmed and unarmoured, holding a fully armoured guardsmen up in the air with one hand, and no sign of strain.
"Ossian?"
"You know me? Good," the intruder let the guard down. "I meant only for an audience. There is treachery afoot."
"MacKell,, you know this man?" Jonah could believe it not.
Ossian! How can he be alive after three centuries?
[ December 26, 2005, 07:29 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Forty-three
"My lady Winifred," Sir Derek greeted Elmet's queen graciously. He was not surprised that she waited til he - not Jonah - was regent in Lindum.
"Sir Derek," she made no effort to thaw her frozen smile - to him or King Belinant.
With wine poured and pleasantries dispensed, Winifred went straight to the point.
"It is true that my husband led an army with the intent of attacking the high king. Our army is decimated and my husband is missing. I stand defenseless from Khund or Northman, and find myself completely at King Rokk's mercy. I shall pay whatever tribute he sees fit, that Elmet may too be defended against invaders."
"All of which would have been far simpler if King Tarik kept his allegiance in the first place," Derek reminded her.
"Aye. But he was obsessed. He-" she paused to choose her words carefully. "He knew Voxv well in younger days, and shared his grief when young Guinevere died. I know not whether Guinevere was spirited away and a changeling died in her place, if Grail or sorcery resurrected her, or if Rokk's bride is even an imposter. I care not."
"Even as your own daughter came back from the dead?" Belinant asked.
"My daughter is dead. That... wench dallying around this town is no blood of mine. It surprises me not that Gawaine should find a harlot that resembles my Tinya, and leave her, that he might join the brigands."
"Gawaine -Jonah- fought Roxxius' men with all his might," Belinant said. "Surely it was a ploy-"
"-I care not!" Winifred blurted.
An awkward silence ensued.
"Well," began Derek. "Elmet may well be short of soldiers, but it is not short of forests. I think Anglish soldiers and craftsmen can make good war-craft of its timbers," Derek said, minding his last talks with Rokk.
With Tarik and his line out of favour, Tinya stands heir to Elmet whether she likes it or not, he thought. Unless Winifred has other children?
[ September 02, 2006, 07:49 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Forty-four
Querl made his way eastward, taking care to avoid settlements and farm houses. Not that he was ungrateful to his benefactors, but he wished no similar occurrences in other villages.
There were knights, he knew, who might see his sort of welcome as a welcome advantage with the maidens, but beyond physical stimulation, there was none of the mental, intellectual stimulation he so craved.
Even Laoraighll, despite his strong attraction to her, could not meet that measure very well, much to his dismay. She was not stupid; far from it - but even with her above-average education by Christian holy men, she lacked the scientific and philosophic foundations he had taken for granted back on Colu.
While some of his Coluan peers afflicted with similar tastes often found company amongst themselves, Querl knew from what he did like about his Ulsterwoman that he would find such fellowship lacking - even with one such as L'ile.
As he walked, he thought. Ways to improve the Computus - particularly from ship decks, ways to improve ships, design modifications to Rokk's new castles, all these occupied his-
"-Thoughts before you die, stranger?"
Preoccupied, he did not realize that a group of brigands had successfully ensnared him in a circle.
"I am but a poor man. Let me pass."
One, presumably the leader, poked his hood off with a spear.
Several of the men gasped at his green skin.
"The Green Man!" one exclaimed. Several of his assailants looked nervous.
"Well, in the old days, it is said, the human incarnation of the Green Man would be a sacrifice, for the next season's crops," said the leader. "Green Man or not, I'll wager he'll bleed red."
"No. You shall not touch me," said Querl, frustrated, annoyed and - believing his own words. The leader stepped forward, drawing his sword, and swung - but was indeed unable to connect.
He motioned to two others. They tried and failed.
"Sorcery!"
"Now stand aside!" Querl barked, walking forward. The two men barring his path seemed to involuntarily step aside with his approach.
Whether he had mastered Druidic persuasion or whether Iaime's belt was indeed working, he knew not.
Or perhaps I now, too, am a magician, he mused.
And later that day, he reached Exeter.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:32 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Forty-five
Reep was impressed.
Last summer's excavations had gone well, and the stony foundations were well in place this spring. The west tower, the first defensible structure, was beginning to rise, and a temporary wooden hall would serve until a true great hall could be built.
"These Camulodunum craftsmen do fine work," L'ile commented. "The foundations for the outer walls could withstand a Roman war-machine, I dare say."
"I want Rokk to see his fortress built well, but I also want to show him progress this season," Brandius said. Looking out to sea, he continued. "There are still Khunds out there. They've gone easy last summer and this, so far, but they'll be back, and we haven't the luxury of spending a decade on this place. Aye, we start small, but we'll add on as the court shifts from Londinium to here."
"I see Tenzil's idea for gold towers has not been met?" L'ile joked.
"Nay. Local stone will have to suffice. I'll build his ruby turrets, though, if he'll front the gold for them," the older man replied.
Reep, listening to the conversation, was also observing the workers. They worked quickly and diligently, he noticed.
With Angles to the north and Khunds to the south, they must have felt abandoned here, at Britain's eastern edge. Why, Rokk's decision to build his fortress here was far more than strategy to them - it was a new lease on existence! May we live up to their faith.
Leaving his fellows, and looking around the walls, it occurred to him that many a battle would be fought here. And not all shall rise from the dead, as Garth has.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:34 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Forty-six
"So Saraid, proclaiming herself empress of the Emerald Isle, has driven High King Coirpre mac Neill from Tara, and used her magic orb to make her will. The court has reluctantly accepted her rule," Ossian said.
And the other kingdoms? Connaught? Meath?" MacKell asked.
"And Ulster? Aye, I recognize your accent," the man replied. "Aye. Eiru has never cared for a central high king, it's true, but keeping independence from Rome made her think the better of it. It's true Irishmen would rather fight themselves, but even there, we have limits."
"But Rome is no more."
"Not as an empire. But while independent, our good fathers have fellowship with Rome's bishops, and even far-off Byzantium sends its emissaries. They are still the Roman Empire, as far as they're concerned."
"It's called Constantinople today," MacKell said. "You're showing your centuries, my friend." MacKell also noted his sneer at "our good fathers." Ossian, although a renowned knave and prankster, was a warrior and bard of the first degree in his day - the day of pagan, Druidic Eiru, not the Christian land of today.
"You still have yet to tell us how you still live, centuries later." Imra interjected.
"And how did you get your strength," Jonah asked. The man's similarity to MacKell and Laoraighll made him wonder.
"Well, I went to stay with my love, the faerie queen Niamh, for a few days - I thought! Returning home, three centuries passed!" he laughed.
"So I gave my allegiance to Coirpre mac Neill," Ossian said. "As for my strength, perhaps the Hound's blood was wasted on too many bastards along the way. Who knows?" he winked at MacKell, perhaps guessing what few outside court knew.
"With mac Neill overthrown, will you join Rokk's service?" MacKell asked.
"Nay. I shall continue to serve King Coirpre, albeit in exile. Those who rise too quickly to power often fall quickly," he winked. "I merely came to share... information."
"So you say Queen Glorith of Man is coming here?" Imra said, still not believing the information.
"Aye. While seeking the Chalice in name, methinks she wants to size up the court - especially now that Mordru is gone," Ossian said. "She is said to be a sorceress herself."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:35 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Forty-seven
"Rokk has forbidden the queen from any magicks," Mysa said.
Azura nodded. "I feared as much. Young Rokk is too much the Roman after all, to abide a true queen at his side."
The two strolled the busy streets of Deva, stumbling for the next words. The thriving marketplace in the old northern Roman town made a good neutral meeting point, with neither woman holding favour.
Searching for the words that needed to be said, both began speaking at once.
"You first," Mysa said.
"No, my dear. I insist. You first."
Mysa sighed. She held no love for any of the senior priestesses, but there was a vestige in Azura from the days when as a less tight-lipped maiden, she would hare her fears and hopes with the younger maidens.
"I truly miss Avalon. The priestesses, the mists and the lake, the Tor, the Teachers.. even the Josephites. It's important for me to know all is a-right."
"But?"
"I... cannot go back. Not today, maybe not ever."
Azura sighed. Her role was difficult, filling the shoes of Kiwa, who had been high priestess for as long as any could remember. She hoped that Mysa, Kiwa's long-time hand-picked successor, would either return to her destiny, or at least help keep tradition and morale.
"You do agree your brother has gone too far in banning Imra's magicks?" Azura was fishing for hope.
"Oh, aye. If a knight lost control of his steed in a practice joust, and injured spectators by accident, penance is done and the court moves on. But with Imra-"
"-The king acts unjustly. But who shall stand with us in redressing him?"
[ December 26, 2005, 07:37 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Forty-eight
"Manaugh's back!"
The villagers cheered at the news. The Caledonian days were still growing long, and there would be feasts well into the evening.
The village stood at the foot of a deep and dark loch, sandwiched between mountains. The ancient forests kept it hidden from even the most brazen of Scots raiders and explorers.
"What news of the south-lands? Did you shake King Rokk's hand?" joked Tav, one of the village's farmers.
Everyone laughed, knowing what Manaugh's handshake would bring.
"Nay. I... I almost had Lot Mac Amhlaidh in my grips. But two of Rokk's knights, a man and a woman - Scots, no less, stopped me."
"Stopped you? With your power? You are our vengeance, son."
"Aye. Well, they are powerful, too. I... was wounded, I had to hide this winter, and much of the spring, healing and hiding in the Lake Country.
"Now I am home again, as home as I can be, at any measure."
With that, the villagers cheered and toasted - all but one maiden who stared at him, taking his measure, as an old wise-woman might.
Manaugh did not know her name. Despite his welcome, this was not his village, but one of several he took refuge in since his home, Angtough, met its end.
The festivities indeed continued into the dark, and as villagers drifted off, one by one or two by two, he found his chance to approach the lass.
She had wandered away from the bonfires, and stood gazing at the stars and the summer lights.
"They are wondrous, are they not? Swirls of colours, gifts from the gods, that we see their bounty not only in the earth and seas," she said, not turning to face them.
"Who are you, lass? You are no farmer's child, nor fisher's daughter. I've seen you not before, yet the villagers accept you as one of them.
"Will you not tell me your name?"
She giggled. "You have been given a gift by the Crone. Yet you waste your days hunting a handful, while the Scots still pour into our lands.
She pointed west. Beyond the silhouettes of the forest edge, a column of smoke was visible, if one knew where to look. "You see? The Scots' campfires grow closer and closer." She turned to him for the first time. "And what do you do about it Manaugh?"
"I... hunt those who betrayed us."
She nodded. "You hunt the few while the many continue without abate. When you have slain all of Amhlaidh's kin, do you think the Scot will stop? Or will this village, too, be a smouldering remnant?"
"You are wise beyond your years, lass. You are a priestess?"
"Aye. You may call me Tasmia."
"Well, Tasmia, you have spoken truths that are obvious, yet I have ignored. You have my thanks."
"Then earn it. There is prophecy that you and four others shall bring ruin to this land. Let it not be so."
Before Manaugh could speak, he found himself alone. Tasmia had slipped into the night, and there was naught but himself, the village behind, the forest ahead, and the stars and swirls above.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:39 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Forty-nine
"F-Father!"
Virginia pushed herself away from Dyrk.
"W-We were just-"
"-Nothing improper happened, sir," a flustered Dyrk said.
"...See that it doesn't, young man," the surprise visitor said, while seeming partially aloof. Turning to the princess of South Cymru, he continued. "Is this how Guinevere lets her court ladies behave? Like wantons?"
"No, father. T-This was… a fluke," she looked away. It never occurred to either of them that their deeds could reflect on the queen's image. "I thought you were in Cornwall. I mean, we did not expect you."
"That much is obvious," he said with a sarcastic grin. "Now, I must see the king at once."
"He's just returned from Cornwall himself. T'is a wonder you did not travel together," Dyrk said, leading him through the halls. "You have not been here since the wedding, have you not?"
"Right. Not since the wedding," he agreed.
Virginia was about to remind her father that he was here at Pentecost, but thought the better of it.
Entering the king's chamber, the trio interrupted Rokk, Reep and Garth in a hunched discussion.
"King Zendak! How good to see you," Rokk greeted warmly.
"My liege," the guest bowed. "I come here with the most serious of business."
"Then by all means, speak your piece."
"My king, I have heard that you have obtained the Chalice of the Gods."
"It is in safe keeping," Rokk replied.
"It must be. Its powers are so great, it could feed and heal the entire Khund army, if it fell to them! We must place it where none can stumble upon it!" the older men said. "Virginia, I'm sure you have duties among the ladies. I shall see you later."
"Yes, father," Virginia meekly curtsied and retreated.
"You say it is safe, my king, and I must take you at your word," continued the guest. "But what if one who knows the truth has a slip of the tongue? All of Britain could see ruin if the Chalice falls into evil hands!"
"What do you suggest?"
"We must test each who knows of the Chalice and where it is kept. Only so can we do our duty to protect this isle."
In the room beyond, Imra nodded to Mysa. "That's not Zendak any more than I."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:30 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 139-148: I'll begin with connecting the dots that I've assumed you have already, plus a little bit of irrelevant background information that probably won't come up in story. The name Amhlaidh, as we've previously established, is the Gaelic for Auley, or rather vice-versa: Auley was an Anglicized version of Amhlaidh (but since I' writing in English, not Latin...), but the names come from the Norse Olaf. Thus, I've decided Olaf was a young Norse prince, who marries into the court of what is now the Edinburgh area - not yet Scottish, not Pictish, but the Brythonic Celts predominant throughout central and southern Britain (kin to today's Welsh and Cornish), a matrilineal people. But Olaf (never actually a king, only the queen's consort) and his first Mrs. bear no daughters, only sons, of which Lot is heir to the throne. He and daddy make alliances with Norse kin (called 'Northmen' throughout the story; hence the number of mixed Scandinavian/Celtic people like Stig, a Celt with a Scand name, and Berach, vice versa) to keep the land safe, and Lot begins asserting Scandinavian-style patriarchal rule - even renaming the land Lothian after himself. By the time Auley has a daughter - Caelestia - Lot and his sons are too well entrenched (although you never know...). So what's the Legion connection? Well, as we've seen, 'Mac' means 'son of.' Put that together with Auley, add in kids (from a later non-royal Mrs.) named Caelestia and Leyllain, and there you have it. Onward! 139: The Fir Bolg and the Fomorians weren't necessarily the same race, mythologically speaking, but neither were they necessarily different. I chose to combine them. Balor was indeed their one-eyed god of justice, so what became of his other eye? Also, the language/name gods smiled on me. Saraid is indeed an authentic Irish name, more fitting than a Russian- or Hebrew-sounding names I'd considered. 140: Poor Nura. Things do not get better for a while yet. And I just couldn't give Marcus credit for the name. Neustria was indeed a region of Clovis' Frankish kingdom. Roughly the area we know as Normandy (so it made sense they'd want in on the Roxxius hunt), plus slightly farther inland. I borrowed Lucius from MZB, but haven't yet looked to see if he's historical. Expect to see him again. I don't remember if I've said where Portus Magnus is, although it's come up a few times. It's on Portsmouth Harbour, next to the Isle of Wight (Vectis, the isle Dyrk was trying to get to a while back). Ys and Hybrasil are basically Celtic Atlantises 141/144: I've been meaning to explore Querl's 'Green Man' reaction for a while (since Cailleach brought it to my attention, in fact). So I knew Querl would be involuntarily on his own at some point. I figured one from Mediterranean lands may be better versed in aquatic emergency protocols, but yes, it's probably a stretch. So sue me. And finally I got to the Belt! I'd planned it to be earlier, but Querl wasn't ready and willing until now. 142/146: It took me a while to figure out who would fill this niche. Ossian's three centuries in Faerie are indeed out of legend, so it worked. The Mentum was a more appropriate term than the original LSH term, although I almost went back to make it another Chalice/Grail issue. But there are plenty of them yet ahead. 143: Looking back, I'm actually surprised how little Winifred's inserted herself into the story. I'll probably get around to it eventually in the story, but I see no harm in letting on it was she in the cloak way back when Caradoc first attacked the camping trip, and her that Belinant met after placating the same knights (without Gawaine). 145: Had to get around to building the damn thing eventually! 147: Deva is Chester. 148: I had to get Manaugh off the Auley family for at least a little while!
[ December 26, 2005, 07:31 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
additional forgotten comment about 140:
My description of the Cornish coast at Tintagel comes from my own experience in 1991. I was approaching by bus, and saw a shimmering in what appeared to be the sky. I came to realize it was out at sea - where the sky ended and the sea began was otherwise invisible.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Fifty
People screamed, running for cover.
Each impact seemed to set yet another building aflame.
"Flee you fools," laughed the sorceress. She smirked at the confusion that allowed her to escape her pursuers.
"Glorith!" A woman's voice challenged her.
"You would be... Mysa. Come no closer or I'll hurl a falling star at you, too!"
"You may fool the masses into thinking you're responsible for this. We both know you only take advantage of coincidence."
"You are less the sorceress than I'd imagined if you believe in coincidence," sneered Glorith. "Your young king may mock that he has fooled the great Glorith, but I come away with more than you realize!"
As if on cue, a falling star landed nearby, and Mysa lost sight of her quarry with the thunderous burst of impact.
What did she mean? she wondered. She had learned the Cauldron was not within Londinium’s walls, yes... but he had also taken measure of Rokk and his companions, and would not be so easily toyed with again.
Zounds! We should have intercepted the Zendak imposter before entering the palace. And we thought we had the sole grant on surveillance!
We have won the battle, but our sole spoil was embarrassing the sorceress-queen. She may hold the upper hand, and the choice of next battle!
Returning to the palace. Mysa also realized that no matter what she says, the Court - and indeed all Londinium - will believe Glorith called down the stars themselves upon the city.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:33 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Fifty-one
Zoe fumed.
The Teachers had promised her more challenges and duties than those she'd been mired in at the Priestess' Isle, yet even here it was more of the same.
Even worse, she seemed far more isolated than she had before. The Priestesses could at least reach Glastonbury's shore with regular ease; while the Teachers' gateway led to Londinium, it was a much harsher path to take.
On a rare late afternoon free, she strolled aver the causeway to the Tor Isle, and climbed the hill. She sat back on one of the large stones of the circle atop the Tor, and rested. Looking out over the shiny sea, she wondered what it would be like to be free, to sail away, exploring the world and hunting for treasures...
Zoe did not realize when she drifted off to sleep, but was vaguely aware of being on a large Roman ship, bound the Land of Youth far to the west.
"I'll be the first to see," she told herself, manning a forward observation post.
A boat sailed near them. "It's Brendan, returning from the Blessed Land of the Saints," cried a woman Zoe had seen at King Rokk's court - a woman who had two identical sisters.
How did she get here? Zoe asked herself, realizing she was dreaming.
She suddenly was back at the Tor, still aware she was asleep, but suddenly everything seemed crystal clear, clearer than real life felt. She stood, looking down on her sleeping body.
"Is this our life, Zoe?" she asked herself. Seeing herself clearer than any lake reflection, she noticed how she had been fashioning herself after Mysa, her one-time idol and mentor. "Is this all there is?"
"What more do you need, sister?"
Zoe turned to see a beautiful maiden before her. She had never seen the woman before, but instantly knew her.
"Arianhrod!" Zoe rushed to recite the proper ritual greeting and salutation.
The Maiden Goddess laughed. "Child, you need not bother with the priestess trapping to summon me. For I have chosen to come to you."
"My Lady?"
"Do you know the tale of the cat on the log?" the Goddess asked.
"Aye."
"Tell me."
"T-The cat is caught on a log in the river, and wants to get to shore. It passes the rock where it can leap to, but she needs to leap from one rock to another. The cat says, 'No, that way it too wet, and the current is too strong.'' The voles on the shore laugh at her, and follow along."
"The cat had other alternatives, though," the Lady smiled.
"Aye. The log comes near a fallen tree. The cat can leap off, but sees a swarm of snakes. 'I am too tired to fight those vipers,' says the cat, and she stays on the log. The voles again laugh, for they know the river, and what comes ahead."
"But then?"
"Then the log gets snagged in an eddy. The cat sees the water is still and shallow, but still does not want to get wet, even though shore is but feet away."
"What does he do?"
"She again waits. But as the log draws near the falls, she has to leap - first to a rock, then along a branch, and then has to wade through an eddy, where upon she snares the voles who chided her, making them her supper."
"The cat benefited and learned from her situation, Zoe," the Goddess smiled. "By not fleeing too soon from a temporary safety into danger.
"You will leave Avalon, Zoe, and you will do so soon. But not until you have learned what you need to. There is plenty of danger, and not just to you, if you stray from your path."
"I yearn for freedom and adventure, my Lady."
"Adventure you shall have. And freedom? Freedom is what you make of it, be it illusion or a more subtle form of snare. This world, this era, is not easy for a young woman to find freedom." Seeing Zoe scowl, she added, "You shall know a freedom, however painful it may be. That I promise you, Zoe."
She awoke with a shiver. Night was falling, and an unseasonably cold wind with it.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:34 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Karie on :
Mr Kent Shakespeare, you're story telling is absolutely awesome. I have read this 4 times, and cannot wait for some more. Please do not stop here.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thanks, Karie! Sorry that work, illness and side projects have taken me away from this.Trying to get back into it.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Fifty-two
"In all truth, my sister, I know not that Rokk's command was wrong."
Mysa had never seen her sister-in-law so distressed. "The fevers were not your fault, Imra. Never have I seen the summoning of the Lady - in any of her forms - draw such a pox."
"How do you explain it, then?" sobbed Imra.
"Perhaps... Perhaps it was this... Terminus' doing."
"You think thus?"
"It makes as much sense as anything," Mysa said. "The god Terminus told you that you would be his agent. At the same time, the pox removed your confidence and credibility - not just to yourself, but to Rokk."
"That limits my usefulness as his tool," Imra rebutted.
"Aye. Limits. Terminus' domain is limits, is it not? If he truly wanted your agency, to manipulate you, why tell you? You'd be more effective as an unwitting pawn. Think of all Kiwa's games."
Imra nodded slowly, taking it all in. "So, why then? Did he not wanting us to learn of Manaugh's village?"
"Nay; I think not. Speaking with Father Marla and Brother Jan, I have been learning more of the Christians," Mysa said.
"And?"
"And the Church of Rome claims its authority from a lineage of the oldest established church, some three centuries or so in the past. But we know from Avalon that-"
"-Joseph of Arimathea established his church at Glastonbury more than 400 years ago." Imra blurted.
Mysa nodded. "If Terminus is still... bound to Rome, he, like the city, is throwing his lot in with the Eternal City itself, which means the Church-"
"-But if the Church of Britain predates the Roman Church-"
"-Rome's legacy and authority is undermined. Terminus wants that not, nor does Cailleach want Britain to become the center of Christianity," Mysa concluded.
"So. It really wasn't about me, was it?" Imra said with renewed confidence "With me out of the game-"
"-Rokk wins or loses on his own merits, regardless of Avalon," Mysa continued sharing sentences with the queen.
"But that means they intend to see Rokk fail, so that British Christianity does not prosper," Imra said, wondering if that end could be achieved without Rokk's fall.
"Aye. But Rokk must still defeat the Khund. The gods may not care if Britain is over-run, but we must," Mysa concluded.
"Who... Who stands with us?"
"Azura. I've also been speaking to some of the other court women. I... don't believe we should embarrass Rokk in front of the men-folk, so let the court ladies quietly make this stand as one."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:36 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Fifty-three
Balin stood on the shore, pondering the ruins.
The Romans had laid waste to this Druidic community centuries ago. He knew there was yet hatred for that act - a Dark Circle of hate - but he was here for other reasons.
The Irish boatman spoke poor Latin, and it took them several tries to communicate. The process was one of frustration, and Balin had thrown his arms up and walked, pacing in circles before trying to resume.
The boatman insisted on staying the night encamped at the ruins. Smelling a trap, Balin stuffed a pile of weeds under his cloak, and piled it alongside his campfire, so a nocturnal attacker would think it was he. His sleep was a cold one, between the night and his armor. He took no chances and slept lightly.
Toward morning, a group of knights - five of them, it appeared - entered the camp, calling greetings in several tongues - some he recognized, some he didn't.
The Irish boatman had led them, as he suspected. Six-to-one wasn't the best odds, but he'd have surprise on his side-
One of them, sniffing turned and looked right at him, as if he could smell him. He looked like a woodland beast, sure enough.
The others turned, too. A big, burly man, two women and a fellow with a rather large head.
"Greetings, sir knight," called the latter, speaking Latin with a Manx accent. "We come as friends."
Cautiously, he stepped forward.
Could the Irishman have misinterpreted his needs? He only wanted to get to the Island of Man - not enlist its warriors.
Still, six against a sorceress-queen were better odds than one - if he could trust them.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:38 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Fifty-four
"You're feeling rather brave lately."
Querl smiled at Ayla's observation. It was true; he felt more confident about venturing out beyond Londinium without being part of a full contingent.
With Genni running relay orders to the coastal forts, he surprised many by volunteering to deliver orders to Eboracum. In truth, he wanted to see Eboracum's defenses, and how a Computus would fit there - and also to see more of the isle.
Villagers still treated him with reverence, but he believed this would pass as people adjusted to him. And the belt continued to function when the occasional brigand stuck.
En route home, he and Ayla were accosted in a village that claimed to be assaulted by monsters.
Huge, strange footprints corroborated this, tracks they followed to a glade along the River Trent.
"What manner of creature is that?" Ayla whispered. The two stayed hidden behind a cluster of shrubs.
"Why, it is an elephant. A creature of Abyssinia," Querl declared. "Despite its size, it is a peaceful plant-eater, generally."
"How did it get here?"
"A merchant ship, no doubt. But I know not why." He stood and approached the beast.
"A big creature like you is nothing to be feared, is it?" Querl called out, surmising its captivity for transport must have made it sociable enough. Ayla stood in amazement.
The beast turned, and only then did Querl see the spears and axe imbedded in the other side of its head, and the feral look in its eyes.
Seeing his mistake, he began backing away.
The beast quivered and began charging forward.
Does my belt work against creatures incapable of being persuaded? Querl wondered, turning to run himself. This wasn't the place to experiment.
Ayla screamed, and sought cover herself. The forest here was not thick enough to provide much cover; the thin young trees brushed aside like weeds before the beast. Nervously, she started to summon a burst of lightning, but then considered the likelihood of setting the woods aflame.
Just as Querl was about to be underfoot, a feral war-cry echoed through the woods, and a smaller beast - vaguely human but clearly animalistic - leapt up, seemingly from nowhere, and delivering a fierce blow to the elephant's ear.
The beast reared up, while its attacker bounced away to a nearby tree, leaping again as the small trunk swayed with his weight.
Landing on the ground, Querl saw the figure - a cross between a man and a wolf.
His growl resonated deeply, and soon even the elephant, once its rearing ceased, was cowed, and it fled back toward the river.
"My thanks, friend," said Querl.
"Mine, too," said Ayla. "I am Ayla, and this is Querl."
"You're from Rokk's court," the creature said. "I've heard of you."
"Would you like to join us?" Ayla said. "I'm sure the king would-"
"-Want no part of me, nor I of him." With that, the beast-man fled into the woods.
"Extraordinary," Querl remarked. "I wonder if he's the other beast that's afflicted the villagers."
"Querl, he saved your life! Give him a benefit of goodwill."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:39 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Fifty-five
"Anything else, L'ile?"
"Yes, my king. King Winn of Cumbria will be unable to attend midsummer festivities. It appears that his dragon problems are continuing."
Rokk sighed. "Again, with dragons. It has become his life's quest, it seems, to follow this beast. Perhaps I should dispatch Jonah, who knows his way around dragons, to end this problem once and for all."
"Jonah cannot be spared from Eboracum," Garth said. "And with Iasmin doing so well in training the new cavalry riders..."
"Ha! You just want to slay a dragon yourself," my friend," Rokk laughed. "Very well, then. If Winn hasn't dealt with it by midsummer, then you shall depart to do it for him." Seeing his friend's glee, he added, "But - You must be here for my midsummer festivities."
"Of course, my king. I shan't miss it."
"What other business have we before we can retire to the good supper awaiting us?"
"I've received word from Genni," Reep said. "It seems that while coastal fortifications mostly haven't met their schedules, the beacon towers are progressing magnificently."
"Splendid! We shall at least get word of a Khundish attack and respond in haste," Rokk smiled.
"And," Reep continued, "All three strategic fortresses - Eboracum, Cadwy's Fort and Camulodunum, are functional and manned."
"I've decided to rename Camulodunum," Rokk said. "I want something... less Roman, that all Britain's children may accept it.
"Camelot. How does that sound?"
Garth and L'ile eyed each other, nodding. It had a ring to it.
"What say you, Reep?"
"In truth, I am more concerned with its form than its name. I could live with a 'Dun Khund morte' if it was a defensible structure," he smiled. "Camelot. I could get used to it."
"Sir?" A page appeared at the door to Rokk's hall.
"What is it?"
"Queen Guinevere and her ladies would like an audience."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:41 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Fifty-six
The lad glowered.
"Hey, Bad-Coat. How fare you with those dishes?" Reep chided.
"Almost done... sir," the lad scowled. He'd been one month at the court, and had yet to earn an opportunity to prove his worth. Perhaps at the mid-summer jousts...
"Why do they call you Bad-Coat?" asked a man he had seen around but knew not.
"I came to court wearing my late father's coat, which fits me not. I am Brunor the Black, of Elmet."
"And I am Tenzil the beefeater. You came to be a knight, not a kitchen boy."
"Aye."
"I... can see if any of the knights need squires. Perhaps Sir Garth-"
"NO!" Second-guessing his harsh reaction, Brunor added, "Please, no. Sir Garth and I have settled our ill will, but I doubt either of us would be comfortable with that arrangement."
Tenzil nodded, and smiled. Rare was the lad who didn't idolize Garth, but plentiful were the family black sheep, blackguards who fell to Garth's lightning-quick sword.
At least the lad has seen the sense to serve King Rokk, rather than follow the path of villainy, Tenzil thought.
Sir Garth's head shall yet be mine, Brunor plotted.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:42 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Fifty-seven
"So. You all agree?"
Rokk looked around at the sea of faces. All nodded, almost in unison.
Laoraighll had been nothing but loyal, and even brought magickal artifacts to prove her worth - as if her fighting ability and legend weren't enough.
Luornu was now suddenly among Imra's fiercest defenders, despite theological differences. He still held a soft spot in his heart for her, a remnant of an adolescent crush.
Lu, who had kept her distance from Imra, had spoken eloquently of the strength of Celtic queens and chieftesses. She spoke words of wisdom to Rokk's goal of keeping all Britons united.
Iasmin, who cared for Imra not at all, came to the queen's defense admirably, admonishing without rebuking, and suggesting solutions rather than reflecting on past decisions. What an emissary she'd make, Rokk thought.
Mysa, Laurentia, Siobhan, Virginia, Genni, Drusilla, Jancel... all supported their queen, whether through word, pleas or unspoken loyalty. It took bravery to call a king wrong, and Rokk was both infuriated and impressed with Imra's ladies.
Even little Saihlough, newly returned from her self-imposed exile, stood with the womenfolk.
He sighed. "Perhaps I was hasty in my proclamation. I grant you that."
He stood and paced. There was an art to how a king could give in without losing face.
"The order I gave was based upon most of you," he added for emphasis, "were taken ill by a magickal pox. I do not lightly make such order, nor do I wish to diminish my queen's standing - to me, to the court, to Britain or the world, therefore...
"So long as any of you practice magicks... each and every one of you must take every pain to avoid ANY unforeseen effects. Saihlough, it's very good to have you back, but I fear this must apply to you, too.
"Any magicks must be made known to me before they are done, save for fair and true emergencies, such as siege. Glorith's escape does make it plain that we do need magicks on our side, but...
"Any adverse magicks must be dealt with as if they were deliberate," Rokk concluded. "If any spells accidentally kill a peasant, I must treat it as if you stabbed him yourselves. Consider that... added incentive to be careful."
"Any magicks are deliberate?" Saihlough asked.
"Any magicks will be considered deliberate," he said, eying her.
Even curses? Saihlough asked without speaking, though not the way Imra does - not an echo in the mind, but a whisper upon the wind.
Even curses, he replied. What I ask of others I must ask of myself.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:43 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Fifty-eight
"His name is Kartharn. He was my father's assistant, once," said the blacksmith.
"What happened to him?" Ayla asked.
"No one knows for sure. Some say he was bitten by another creature - another wolf-man. And that it overtook him, like a pox there is no root for."
Querl nodded. "I have heard of such... were-men before. But I never believed..."
"There must be some way to bring him back to humanity," Ayla pleaded. Brin was both surprised and impressed with her compassion for their strange benefactor.
"I suspect that he would reject any helping hand. Better to let him run free in the woods," the blacksmith said, not without pity.
"But the villagers-"
"All of Xun jumps at shadows and believes that goblins ruin their crops. They'll not harm anyone, I'll wager - least of all him."
"Well... thank you for your help, kind sir," Querl said, sensing they would gain no further information from the man.
"You may call me Brin. Please come by again."
Wandering away, Querl waited until they were out of earshot before comparing notes.
"I'll wager my Computus that he knows more than what he's said," Querl said.
"But how do we find out more? How do we find the wolf-man?"
"I suspect we'll find out more this very eve."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:45 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Fifty-nine
The court was abuzz with preparations for midsummer.
How quickly the year has passed, Mysa dwelled absent-mindedly. She sat staring out the courtyard window, letting Virginia brush her hair. The girl is eager to please. I pray Dyrk preys not too hard on her young heart.
She watched Garth stroll across the courtyard below. Last summer, he was sharing her bed. But now he was growing more distant, more bitter... more enchanted with a love he dared not reach for.
Mysa sighed. She was old enough to expect a young man's attentions and affections to wander away, yet she missed him. No, she missed being the center of his attention - and the feeling that her distraction of the knight provided a key service to the security of the kingdom. Perhaps young Virginia and I are not so different, she thought.
"What of yon Garth?" asked Siobhan. Like many of the court ladies, she was busy weaving new garments for the upcoming festivities.
"What of him?" laughed Iasmin.
"It is not well-suited that he is without a bride? Why, Sir Gaw- Sir Jonah will be wed this autumn. Should not the king's best knight?"
The other ladies laughed.
"You sound eager to volunteer, sister," chided Virginia, who knew better. She knew her sister held her own brand of unrequited love in her heart.
"Nay. Well, I would not turn an offer down, but... Well, must I say it? We all see how he looks at the queen-"
"Siobhan!" scolded Laurentia.
"Well, he does! Sooner or later, tongues will wag."
"Aye, as yours wags," laughed Iasmin. I think that's enough."
"She has a point," Luornu said. "I realize the queen is of Avalon, and not a Christian, but even so-"
"-It is best that people believe any heirs are indeed King Rokk's," Siobhan said. "Surely none can argue t'would be better for Garth to have a bride to occupy his fancies. What say you Mysa? You two were close."
"Were close. He'd only grudgingly take me for a bride, I fear, even if I were able to."
"Why not?" asked Laurentia. "Why the king's own sister? How could he do better?"
"I-I-"
"You've put Mysa on the spot, ladies," Iasmin stepped to her defense. "I dare say we should speak of other things-"
"I'd marry him," said Jancel, leaning at the window, half swooning. "I'd be his wife in a heart-beat."
The ladies laughed.
"Aye, you would, Jancel? You and half this kingdom," said Luornu.
Jancel, eh? Be careful for what you wish, child, Mysa thought. She knew Garth was heading for Cumbria after midsummer - Jancel's homeland. How hard would it be to arrange - ?
She stopped herself. That's the same sort of plotting Kiwa would do, and how I hated her for it! Yet the idea hung there. How better to keep Garth away from Imra?
Jancel had the same build as Imra, only a few years younger, and the same fair hair. The right lighting, the right magicks... who knows?
[ December 26, 2005, 07:47 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Sixty
The winds at sea could still be a bit brisk, even though the days were approaching their lengths.
Even so, James found the chill refreshing; it helped him think. The relatively flat coasts of eastern Britain amazed him - how different they stood to the rocky, craggy costs he'd grown up alongside on the Eiru Sea coast.
No, these smooth coasts were a different animal, and no Ulster fishers nor tradesmen - nor even raiders would trouble his passage. He feared them not - he'd fought a good number of them single-handedly - but now he had valuable information to relay.
Angtough.
The thought still lingers with him. He clenched the medallion in his fist, partly to make certain it had not vanished like faerie magic - and part out of anger.
How deep does this evil take root? he asked himself, knowing he had not the answer.
Bad enough to be a raider, looting, pillaging and murdering. Bad enough indeed. But this...
He look down at the medallion, and ran his finders along its three sides. He'd seen it before. I pray thee, Laoraighll, have an explanation I can believe.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:42 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
notes 149-159: 149-150: I hadn't intro'd a counterpart for Chief Wilson, and the name didn't fit anyway, so Zendak gets double-duty for identity theft purposes. Round one with Glorith - a draw, as it should be. 151: With so many characters, it's hard to get to each, so it'll probably be a while before we get back to poor Zoe again. Plus, I wanted a more benign incarnation of the goddess to show up once in a while, not just the Cailleach, who's guaranteed plenty of screen time. 152: Joseph of Arimathea's church undermining Rome's legitimacy wasn't my invention, but it fits nicely. While previously being reluctant about fitting the Terminus Trapper in, it's working nicely. 153: They're on Anglesey, or Mona, as it was known in Roman times. Just off the northwestern shore of Wales. 154: I have no idea how early elephants were brought to Britain, but I've heard of them brought to Europe (and not just by Hannibal) before medieval times. 155: Had to edit "Eboracum" out and "Lindum" in. Got me cities confused! And further along, I managed not to write, "Let's not go there. It is a silly place." 156: La Cote Mal Taile? maybe, but not entirely. 157: Revolt of the Girl Legionnaires! 158: can't have androids, can I? 159: Everyone wants Garth in Cumbria... MZB fans can see I'm borrowing a little here, but it works too well with threads that come afterward not to use it.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:43 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Fat Cramer on :
Re: 154 - first elephant brought to Britain 43 A.D. by Claudius, according to Wikipedia. Those crazy Romans. (It piqued my curiosity, as well as Querl's....) Love this sprawling great story, Kent!
Posted by Queen B on :
Ditto what FC said, I love this too Kent. You've created a land populated with fascinating characters that are funny, whimsical, dark and fabulous!
Posted by Abin Quank on :
Kent,
No matter how long I find myself staying away from LW, It's a sure bet that when I return, and I always return, this story is one of the first threads I visit. I am always amazed by your skill and inventiveness as you seamlessly intwine the Arthurian legend with The LSH.
Bravo! and just to go all Harbi on you...
MORE! MORE! MORE!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thanks all! I apologize; it's getting harder and harder to find time to write.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Sixty-one
"So. You've heard of this... Apis before?" Rokk asked skeptically.
"Yes, my liege. In Alexandria, there are still those who keep the old ways. They have designated themselves the keeper of a 'sacred bull,' the Apis, a living symbol of three gods: Ptah, Amon and Osiris. They keep only one Apis bull alive at time, and mark it with a scarab on its tongue, a vulture on its back, a crescent moon on its right flank - and a white triangle on its forehead," replied the newcomer.
James nodded, looking at the symbol the guest had drawn. "It looks remarkably like... this," he held out the medallion.
The newcomer made gestures in the shape of a cross. "Despite Eiru's conversion, some snakes of paganism remain," he said scornfully.
L'ile snorted. "Has Rome not borrowed or co-opted anything not nailed down? Mix not your metaphors - we Druidic snakes are less venomous than some of Rome's devout."
Rokk saw a feud to avoid. "L'ile. Sir Geraint. Both of you would do well to remember that all faiths are protected in my realm."
"Forgive me," said the guest. "It seems unusual to me, having spent so long in Italia, that a civilized kingdom is not -- but again I go to far. Again, my apologies."
Querl, oblivious to the exchange, stood scrutinizing the drawings and medallion. He wished not to believe any ill of Laoraighll, but there were questions to be asked before she should be confronted.
"The medallion is clearly of Gaelic design," he observed. "Hardly an Egyptian tradition."
"That is true, but forget not that many Irish scholars have been traveling throughout the civilized world. It is not unreasonable to believe some have been to Alexandria. I myself have been throughout the East."
"Aye. And you probably know it better than you do your own Cornwall - let alone Eiru," L'ile added.
Rokk was growing annoyed. "As you posit, a group of Ulstermen, following an Egyptian cult, slaughtered the Pict village of Angtough as a sacrifice to a bull-god, and carry about medallions bragging of the deed. And I am expected to accuse a fine warrior-woman of such a deed with only jewelry and supposition as proof?"
Seeing the king's anger, James and Geraint backed away.
"My liege, please..." began Geraint.
"This requires answers," James said, trying to sound as confident as he'd felt walking in.
"It does require answers," Querl sighed. Geraint isn't telling you everything."
"What?"
"My good sir-"
"Let me continue. Yes, the bull is a symbol of fertility in many lands. The Cult of Mithras - long popular among the soldiers of Rome - also uses the bull, as a symbol of sacrifice and renewal.
"Many were the Irish who accepted Rome's coin to serve in the legions. Perhaps they came home as Mithraens - a warrior cult seeking land of its own?" Querl concluded.
"Maybe that's the way of the world now, raid your neighbors, take their land. But again, I see no connection with Laoraighll - even following a bull-cult doesn't make you a slaughterer any more than being a Christian makes you as vile as Vidar," L'ile replied.
Rokk saw Geraint wince at the comment on Vidar. So our old 'friend' has been making friends in the south. Maybe we erred in sending him so.
"But Berach found the same medallion at Roxxius' lair," James blurted.
"Summon Ossian," the king said to Reep. "If this 'white triangle' is widespread in Eiru, he will know." He was reluctant to ban any faith, but whether an involuntary sacrifice or sheer genocidal colonization, the Picts were his subjects, too.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:44 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Sixty-two
"Are you sure this is the right way?"
"Of course," Querl scoffed at the presumption of error.
Their companion Gillem grunted in disbelieve - or disapproval. One could never be too sure with Gillem, the serving-man who tended to a supply cart that the three companions were accompanying. An old, hunched man, he steered the cart's horse tem like he had a grudge against them - and against the road itself.
"Our Greek lad is never wrong. Except for the one time he thought he was wrong. But of course, he wasn't," smirked Loomius.
Despite Querl's outer snarl, Ayla sensed that Querl had warmed to the craftsman. Indeed, they had evolved an unlikely friendship.
She smiled at the jesting, but internally was still disappointed. She and Querl had tracked down the were-wolf, who had turned out to be the blacksmith Brin - the "Kartharn" persona having been fictitious.
They had invited him back to court - what's one more noble freak amongst the many? But no, he'd rejected them.
Querl wasn't very bothered, but Ayla... her heart had been touched by the blacksmith who defends the small hamlet that would just assume see him skinned, if they knew - and if they had the courage.
The ride back to Londinium had seemed a long one, even the longer to find Loomius ready to lead them to the new fortress.
The smell of the eastern sea was wafting across the fields, and the path meandered to avoid the salt marshes that pock-marked the seacoast.
And rising over one last hill, they faced the city of Camulodunum - and the new fortress rising before it, already closer to completion than any of them had guessed.
A sea of multi-coloured pavilions surrounded the walls, with banners and crests of seemingly all Britain - and beyond - present.
Beyond, a larger tent city with marketplaces sprawled, though not as big as that from coronation last year.
But the companions' eyes returned to the massive stone-scape at the centre of the vista.
"It's... amazing," Ayla said. "What is it called again?"
"Camelot, my lady," Loomius beamed with pride.
"Camelot," Ayla tasted the word as she said it.
"Camelot," even Querl smiled in approval.
"It's only a model," blurted Gillem.
"What say you?" Loomius asked.
"I... I know not why I said that," said Gillem. "Let's not go there. It is a silly place."
Ignoring the daft comments, they continued their ride, Ayla bursting into a gallop to regroup with her fellow knights, who already were beginning practice jousts a full week before the festivals would begin in earnest.
The row of pavilions bore each knight's crests, and she rode up and down the rows looking for Garth's.
"Greetings, my sister," called a voice, but not Garth's.
"Mekt!" she greeted, dismounting. "It is good to see you, my brother and liege."
He laughed. "How must I beg thee to cease calling me such? Are we not kin?"
She embraced him. "Aye. But you are rightful king of Lesser Britain, are you not?"
"He is that and more," replied a woman emerging from Mekt's pavilion. A man who appeared like a pure-blooded Roman followed.
"My dear sister Ayla, may I present Queen Eva, formerly of Alemannia, and her husband Lavarrus of Venetia. Two very good friends of mine."
Ayla shivered involuntarily, but gathered herself to exchange greetings.
She trusts us not, Eva silently said to her consort.
Then we must have Mekt... show her the error of her heart, he replied.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:47 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Sixty-three
Brunor groomed the horse, grumbling to himself.
Back home in Elmet, I would be the knight with a squire of my own, the youth thought. Yet it will all be worth it.
"You do well, Brunus," Thom commended absently, not aware he had mangled the youth's name.
"Thank you," he replied. His sarcasm was so prevalent that everyone was beginning to assume it was just his normal speech pattern and/or his local accent.
"Hello...'kinsman,'" called a voice from outside the makeshift stables.
Brunor's heart skipped a beat. Had he been found out?
"Do I know you?" Thom asked.
"Forgive me; we have never met, as I have lived in Rome these past years. I am Geraint."
Brunor watched Thom's expression fall into a gape.
"Geraint!? I'd heard you- I mean-"
The man laughed. "Yes. Since I've come home, I hear nothing but tales of my various 'deaths' at the hands of the Visigoths... All of them are true, as you can see," he waived his arms wide, mockingly.
"You... certainly resemble your uncle," Thom managed.
"You remember him?" Geraint was surprised.
"Nay. Gorlois died before I was born. But his likeness remains in sculpted form, at Tintagel, our -- Well, your castle."
Geraint laughed. "Marcus has done well guarding Cornwall in my absence. If things work well, he may remain so."
Noticing Thom's relief, Brunor correctly surmised that the newcomer's claim to Cornwall's throne was better than Marcus.'
He also assumed what Thom did not appear to - that Geraint's make-peace held no sincerity at all. The man's mannerisms were too much like Brunor's father's when someone was about to be stabbed in the back.
"I would like to settle waters before they are stirred, however. Where is thy father?" Geraint asked Thom, who in turn led the visitor off, leaving his new squire unattended.
And how much would this Geraint offer to see his rival take a plunge during the jousts? he thought, polishing a saddle's leather straps.
"Hey Bad-Coat! How are you settling in?"
It was Tenzil, his well-meaning benefactor.
"Very well, sir. I-I can't thank you enough for getting me in here."
"Excellent. A word to the wise," he came closer. "Many young squires rush off at the first sign of a quest to prove themselves. King Rokk and his knights are less impressed with squires who leave duties unattended," he said, nodding toward the mostly-concealed sword in the hay bale.
He thinks the blade is for a quest! Mayhap I needn't have bothered hiding it? "I-I guess you're right," he replied, feigning an embarrassed smile.
Geraint is not the only one plotting back-stabbing, he thought, considering the possible approaches to the hall where the knights would be drinking later.
Drink well, Sir Garth. Drink well indeed.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:48 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Sixty-four
L'ile suddenly realized that he missed Beren.
The elder Druid was not one for cities, it was true, but the lad from the north isle wished to show his mentor how much care and work was going into the defense of Britain. But he knew the old man's remaining years were growing fewer, and soon he would be going on to the Summer Country.
It was a bright, cloudless sunny day - again; the kind Britain counts on one, maybe two hands all season long.
L'ile stood alone, atop the western tower, now structurally complete. Below him, the ladies and servants were abuzz around the wooden hall, readying for the midsummer feast. The walls were sound, but Camelot was but a shell - where towers and castle would stand were but foundations and temporary pavilions.
They say Rome was not built in a year, either. Or was that day?
He sighed. Even Reep was busy tending to scouts and messengers. There was no one to talk strategy with.
It's too quiet, he realized. Few are the Khunds - again, nor are Saraid or Tarik causing trouble. Can the world be so easily made to peace? Nay, I say it cannot.
The breeze cascading in from the sea was refreshing, but something did not set well with James' talk of a "white triangle" conspiracy was part of it. James was wrong - he'd have heard of it if it existed - but there was something disturbing.
Egypt.
L'ile suddenly remembered what The Hunter had taught him, all those years ago.
Not a triangle... a pyramid. One side of those great temples.
It was a bright, cloudless sunny day, but it suddenly became very cold.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:50 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Sixty-five
"Are you happy?"
"Yes. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" Tinya blushed. They strolled through the fair, surrounded by merchants hawking fine cloths and fresh herbs and fruits.
MacKell stood silently, choosing his words carefully.
"Jonah... Gawaine... has become amongst my closest friends since my return. Truly he is a peer that any court in history would consider among the best of knights ever," he began, heart sinking as she beamed with pride.
"But... how do I say this?" he paused again. "If you were my... daughter, I might worry about his... less knightly aspects."
There. It's said, for good or for ill.
Tinya squeezed his hand. "Jonah is neither a eunuch nor a saint of the one-god, it is true. But our hearts are one, and he already treats me like his queen."
And will he do so when he sees young maidenhood elsewhere than your bed, he wanted to say but did not.
He felt a special attachment to Tinya since gaining his freedom, and these feelings had -to his surprise- become more paternalistic than amourous of late.
MacKell smiled. "I am being foolish. Heed not my words," he said, knowing she had anyway.
Looking for a distraction, he pointed up at the tower. "Someone should tell L'ile he does not well this day at remaining unseen!"
[ December 26, 2005, 07:51 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Sixty-six
"You say this King Pellam can help us?"
"Aye," replied Balin's companion. Sir Dodinel le Savage, leader of the renegade knights of Man - Lallor, in their tongue- was not one for plentiful words.
The six-knight attack on Glorith was foolish, Balin thought. He should have known better, but he was so outraged that the sorceress had ensnared his brother.
Perhaps it was her spells that led Balan to slay the Lady of the Lake? He had no answers. His fratricidal anger had ebbed since winter, but still his brother must face the judgment of King Rokk - and perhaps that of Avalon too.
While Dodinel's companions kept watch of Glorith's fleets, he and Balin were off to seek the magickal spear that a seer told them would defeat the sorceress queen.
The second prophesy, that Balin's second sword would slay the man he held the most dear, bothered him, but he hoped he could avoid a fatal duel with his brother. At least get him free of Glorith first, he thought.
Dodinel was a beastly man, who hunted with but a short dirk and ran through the woods like a wild animal chasing prey.
That he'd so quickly snared a doe was impressive enough - they had food enough to give to a woodland hermit as well.
Full from a good meal, Balin drifted off to sleep. They were within a day's ride of Pellam's castle, and Dodinel's keen senses would wake them should there be an intruder...
...Balin awoke at the sound of a shriek! A blade, a long sword that belonged to neither of them, was carving Dodinel up in a manner not dissimilar to Dodinel's carving of the doe - yet the blade had no one wielding it!
Glorith's magicks!
He sought to grab the sword away, but an unseen hand barred him - followed by an unseen shove, pushing Balin to the ground.
"L'ile? Pray tell me that isn't you!?" He drew his sword nonetheless.
With Dodinel's death rattle, the sword fell aside, and an unseen set of feet hastened away, thrashing through bush before vanishing under the uncluttered forest beyond.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:53 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Sixty-seven
Azura's entourage arrived virtually unnoticed, as she desired. Better to blend into the crowds and observe the court without the airs of diplomacy. There will be plenty of time for ceremony... later. She was not yet as visibly known as Kiwa was; she would use that as an advantage while it lasted.
A trio of Beren's Druids aided in erecting her pavilion, and would guard the tent from both the curious and the devious throughout the festivities.
Azura was content with this; she had but a single priestess along for service and assistance.
"All is in order, Thora?"
"Yes, my lady." The girl, a princess in her Iberian homeland, was a willful student. She decided Thora was too unruly to be left in Avalon - even under the senior priestesses' gaze.
The fair was routine enough, although there seemed to be more Iberian and Gallic goods than some of the northern markets she had been to of late. Perhaps our young king has restored the confidence of the sea trade, she mused.
With Thora in tow, they wandered the temporary streets of the encampment, conducting an informal survey of who was attending the first anniversary of Rokk's rule - or more accurately, his wedding to Imra.
Even without open eyes, the Christians view their king's rule as legitimate from his marriage to the matrilineal queen, she silently gloated, wondering why Kiwa kept Imra's parentage so secret - even from the queen herself.
They strolled by Picts, Irish, Cornish, Angles, and even Khunds in their journeys, witnessing bartering, singing, fighting, jestering, begging, bickering, politicking and even proselytizing.
"Do you take Iesous as your savior. Will you let him be your shepherd?" the young friar asked the old man.
"Oh, yes. G-God, yes, by my troth," the old man said, barely able to contain his weeping. He slowly stood, cautiously straightening his back, which cracked and creaked, as if straightening for the first time in decades.
The crowd murmured in approval and/or delight.
"What's happening? A charlatan 'healing' ritual?" Thora whispered.
Azura motioned or her to keep quiet. It's a time for observation, she thought.
"I did not heal that man. God did it," said the friar. "I knew not what to do, else trust Him to work his miracles." He paused to let his words soak in. "Each of our lives is like that," he kept turning to face different people. "Each of us have our own...miracles from God each and every day, if we know to look for them."
"You're well-fed, young and strong," shouted a woman worn beyond her years. "Easy words for a youth. But where is your god when my children die of pox? Where is your god when the crops are blighted? Answer me that!"
This may test his mettle, Azura smiled.
"My lady, I am sorry for the losses you feel. Yet rejoice! Your children are walking in paradise, and you will see them again in your time!"
"Will she see three years of lost crops, too?" a man jeered, prompting group laughter.
The friar accepted the jest. "Aye, maybe, in a fashion. It is not for us to know his plan," he turned to face the woman again, "Or know why we receive the obstacles and challenges we do. But they are our lot to bear anyway - and it's how we carry them that makes the difference in our lives."
With that, the friar made his impression, and the crowd began dispersing, wandering away or resuming smaller conversations.
The woman still glared at the friar. Azura moved closer.
The woman was speaking again. "You're still young. You don't know true hardship."
"I beg to differ, my lady. As a youth I saw my parents die. In the past year, my monastery - and all its brethren and servants - were wiped out by raiders. Only I lived. I have my share of pain, too - mayhap all of us but the kings and emperors do - any maybe them, too.
"I cannot give you what you've lost. And I see in your eyes that I'll probably never win you over to God's flock. But maybe you can find your own peace someday."
Only Azura noticed a slight glow of his hand directed at the woman's carrying basket.
She scowled and walked away.
"You speak well for a Christian priest," Azura told him.
"Thank you," his smile was warm. He didn't even flinch at Thora's cold stare.
"From your robes... are you from a nunnery?"
"Gods, no," the older priestess laughed. "I am Azura, Lady of the Lake, of Avalon. This is my aide Thora."
"Then I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my ladies. I am Jan, a newcomer to this isle. I have enjoyed Avalon's hospitality in my own hour of need, and the Josephites I've known have always spoken well of you."
"You were the priest Beren invited to Avalon last autumn. You helped rescue MacKell!" Azura, then Kiwa's senior priestess, hadn't recognized him from his more incognito garb of the time. "We called you 'Nameless.'"
Jan laughed. "That you did. I still hold Avalon and her ladies in the highest esteem for your hospitality and friendliness."
"Even though we're heathens?" Thora challenged.
"Especially that you are. We are all God's creatures, even if we have different ways of seeing Him. What use is God's love if not shared?"
Azura smiled. Our appreciation of the god's love is best at the summer bonfires, but I doubt we could celebrate that love, my fair friar?
The conversation was interrupted, however. a commotion rippled through the crowd, as word came of a stable boy who had just saved King Rokk's life!
[ December 26, 2005, 07:54 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Sixty-eight
Jonah had begun the day with some friendly jousting. He'd actually beaten Garth - distracted by Ayla's arrival, he claimed. He lost to MacKell, fought Laoraighll to a draw, barely bested Thom, and handily took all other comers.
And Tinya cheered him on the whole time. Reflecting on the day, her smile still warmed him. It would have been a beautiful day to take some wine, fish and cheese, and vanish along the shore - but no.
As the warriors broke for a mid-day meal, he took to wandering among the merchants, looking for something special for Tinya. Their wedding day would be approaching in a few scant months, it was true - but on a day where Rokk and Guinevere would be the centre of all attention, he wanted something to show his fiancée that she was still his queen.
He hunted all the way through the main marketplace, and even two smaller ones, coming to the edge of a small forest he hadn't remembered seeing before.
I've ridden patrols all around these hills, and never have I seen this stand. Why does Reep let it stand so close to the fortress?
And seeing a glint of metal, a sword or axe, he entered the woods.
Is this some faerie wood, that moves about the land? Shall I step outside again, into December snows in Cymru?
The glint of metal receded, looking more like a man in armour, into the deeper woods. With reservation but not fear, he pursued.
Twenty minutes later, he was certain this was no mere thicket. The glint had stopped at a bridge over a stream, and turned to face him.
"Fiend!"
He struggled to contain a primal urge to charge his nemesis. No, he'd been that route before, more than once.
"Tinya is alive. I've foiled your villainy!" Jonah jeered. "I've no vengeance left to waste on you!" He lied, but it was time to put the boot on the other foot.
"You've failed in every effort you've ever made. The only thing you've ever done is distract me!" Jonah continued.
The Green Knight stood still, sword hand trembling only slightly.
"In fact, now that I know it's only you, I needn't have bothered." He turned to walk away. Taking a few steps, he turned one last time. "Be seeing you."
Jonah walked away, sword still in hand, waiting for the reflection of motion behind him on the blade.
It came.
Jonah whirled, ready to strike, but was knocked down from the side -- not the foe before him -- a footman's axe gashed his shoulder and upper arm, and struck a blow to his head.
He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:56 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Sixty-nine
Morgause took delight in how the court ladies fawned over her fifth son.
"What is his name?" asked Jancel. "May I hold him?"
"Oh course," she smiled. "He is Medrod. The seers say he will be a great king."
"Hello, Medrod," Jancel smiled at the three-month-old.
Virginia and Siobhan gathered around as well. Virginia held a poultice to her arm, covering a bruise.
"You were the lady attacked by that vile dwarf?" Morgause asked, sympathetically.
"Girls? Don't you still have preparations to see to?" scolded Laurentia.
"We've been working for weeks," Virginia rebutted. "A few minutes to tend to a baby won't-"
"-Get things done. There'll be time for babies after the feasts."
Zendak's daughters rolled their eyes and resumed their tasks. Jancel handed little Medrod back to the queen of Lothian, or rather her wet-nurse.
"I'm sorry Queen Morgause, but we're well behind schedule," Luornu fretted. "This new hall doesn't at all match the lengths Reep-"
"-Say no more, child," Morgause beamed. "I apologize for interrupting. I was wondering if Guinevere was about?"
"She's downstairs, discussing matters with Reep and Tenzil - and Sir Lucan, who will be the royal butler."
Morgause thanked her and headed for the kitchen stairs. She smiled at Zendak's daughters, at hearing their amazement that she'd given birth at her age. They would do well to retain youth as long as I did, thought the woman who was Jonah's mother.
Downstairs, the kitchen staff hustled under Sir Lucan's command.
Reep and the high queen turned to her - with strangely sympathetic eyes. Morgause could not gage why-
Reep, meanwhile, looked none the happier to see the baby. Has Rokk told him? I'd be surprised, she thought.
Reep departed to let the queens talk.
"My dear kinswoman, I was so sorry to hear of that incident with Yder-"
"-Never mind that," the high queen interrupted "Have you not heard about Jonah?"
[ December 26, 2005, 07:57 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Seventy
Lavarrus watched Geraint armour up and ride away. Good. Yet another knight less to deal with.
While the newcomer was off avenging Guinevere and her ladies, the real menace to Britain's royalty could continue unabated.
Two more knights! he was elated. Reep and James were now departing together, with enough gear for several days out.
Lavarrus counted: Rokk, Gawaine, Geraint, Reep, James, Garth and Ayla were all out of the picture, one way or another. With little additional effort, Camelot would die stillborn...
Eva came to him. "The king is wounded. They're in a panic," he told her.
"No, they're not. Not yet," she grinned. "Not even close."
Mekt, too, smiled. He was unable to assist his friends' last venture, but this... this was perfect, and nothing could go wrong.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:50 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
notes 160-169: 160/161/164: I wasn't going to do any White Triangle stuff, but then a neat idea developed. 161/163: Geraint's been mentioned before, but I couldn't figure out where to inset him til now. He's both historical and Arthurian (where h overlaps with Sir Erec)... and of course I've added a LSH angle. 162: One of my delays in mentally plotting all this was resolving all the little things that I needed to get out of the way to get to the Midsummer story thread. Brin gets bumped off-camera as a result, alas... there were just too many loose threads not coming together... and jettisoning a few mental roadblocks has helped jump-start me again. 165: While I originally had Lar a bit smitten with Tinya, as time went on, this no longer worked for me. so I'm evolving 'them' to fit Lar's age/wisdom... more of a big bro figure. 166: Balin's tale is taking the long way 'round the barn, and Sir D (don't call him Gar Logan) died a bit earlier than I planned (in his first semi-substantial post-cameo intro, no less!). Chalk it up to the loose threads I needed to put aside. 167: This one actually wrote itself. I started out with a vague idea about Azura meeting Morgause at the fair. 168: I'm surprised the Green Knight saga has taken this long to get to this point, actually. It may even be starting to make a little sense by now - or at least to a point where an educated guess is possible. 169: Medrod is probably the closest "authentic" variation on the name of you-know-who. Sir Lucan, right out of Arthurian lore, is there to take household oversight duties away from Reep. Poor overworked guy!
[ December 26, 2005, 07:52 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Seventy-one
Rokk grimaced.
He tried, but he couldn't muster the strength. Not without bleeding again. But as it turned out, he didn't have to.
"Kneel, Brunor of Elmet."
The lad complied with the queen's order.
Imra lifted Excalibur, and pointed it at him.
"For service to your king and country," she touched the sword to each of his shoulders and his head," I dub thee Sir Brunor, knight of the round table, member of King Rokk's legion."
Rokk, from the vantage of the makeshift divan, began applauding, until the pain made him stop.
The hall erupted in cheers and applause. Various dignitaries, lords and knights all gathered to greet and commend the youth, but Imra made a point to thank Camulodunum's prefect for the use of his hall and castle. Camelot's sole hall thus far was too entwined in midsummer preparations, and Rokk wanted a proper facility to commend his newest knight.
In fact, as Camelot proper was getting overwhelmed as a site, Reep was transferring more and more operations to the modest existing civic fortress, which in future years would serve as a garrison to support Camelot.
Brunor had been nervous about appearing before Queen Guinevere. He'd heard she could read minds - tales either overblown or fanciful, it seems - or she hasn't bothered to.
All the better.
The lines dwindled down and the feast began. One good meal, and then he would take part in a new custom Rokk devised for his new fort - new knights will stand vigil at the fortress chapel all night and all day, and break fast solely with the king at sundown.
At the tables, everyone gushed and praised how he stepped in and saved the king.
But in truth, he was a bit embarrassed at his deed - intending a running start at the nearby Sir Garth, but instead hitting -
Where was Sir Garth, anyway? Brunor wouldn't slay his quarry here, but still... Where is he?
"Is there any word about...?" asked one of the court ladies.
"Still delusional. His mother hasn't left his side, I hear," answered another.
Brunor felt a pang of self-consciousness, and turned away. He'd no love for the knight he'd struck, but neither did he want to be known as the man who slew the hero of the north.
Still, the gossip was hard to evade.
"No one's even seen his so-called fiancé. Some say she and Mac-"
"-Shhh. You shouldn't talk so-"
"-Well, I heard-"
"-not the first time he turned on his kin-"
Brunor could stand no more. He left his plate half-touched, and made his way with a series of polite excuses to the street. The sticky warmth of June, eased by ocean air, let him breathe.
Patience, Sir Brunor. You're almost there, Eva told him.
"Yes. I get Garth, and you get Britain."
[ December 26, 2005, 07:53 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Abin Quank on :
<sits drumming fingers on table>
Waiting...
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
sorry.. and thanks for missing LoC! I've been running ragged with work and other things lately; it's been difficult to concentrate. I should be back before mid-June ready to rumble again!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred Seventy-Two
“Do we truly do the right thing?” James asked, very hesitantly.
“I know it seems… harsh. Cruel, even, but it must be done,” Reep replied. “And it must remain our secret, else King Rokk’s good name be smeared.”
James swallowed his distaste for their mission. He knew and trusted Reep with his life, and if something so preyed upon the Seneschal’s heart, it must be true.
They arrived at a little hut, where Reep had fresh horses and equipment ready and waiting.
Donning armours and tunics a far cry from their regular appearance, they now looked like a cross between Tarik’s Elmetian deserters and Angle brigands – too vague to be singled out for retribution. Their horses, too, were of plain Gallic stock, not the proud Iberian steed that mark Rokk’s legion.
And so they doubled back, practicing rough, barbaric grunts, before making camp near the river. Reep had already chosen a spot where the nurse would come – a spot from which he’d already spied her routines.
“She usually comes in the morning, but sometimes in late afternoon instead,” Reep explained.
James, trying to occupy himself while waiting, first tried to pretend he couldn’t hear the background roars echoing from Camelot. Failing that, he tried to pretend he was watching the day’s jousts, if not participating. It wasn’t working. He was bored with waiting.
Hours? later, Reep grabbed his arm, and he silently resumed vigil. A young woman – no a young couple, had come to the glade, seeking privacy, no doubt.
Would they ruin or scheme? Reep fretted. But their quarry turned up not.
The night was not a restful one, as James’ doubts crept back in. Could he do what needed to be done? He wasn’t so sure.
With morning’s first light, Reep awoke, and saw instantly that his friend hadn’t slept at all.
I chose poorly in my choice of accomplices. Tenzil, perhaps. Not James. Reep considered calling the mission off, but regardless of who replaced James, James would now suspect. Better his hand be accomplice, that he may keep his silence, Reep thought, hating himself for it.
While mulling it over, destiny took a hand – it was James’ turn to grab Reep’s arm.
And sure enough, the young maid carried the morning’s laundries to the riverside, along with her charge. Verily, only her mistress would deem Camulodunum’s wells not to her liking, Reep thought.
Hearing the sound of their quarry, the duo sauntered back to their mounts, before racing down the ravine to intercept the woman before she could flee.
She warily observed the approaching riders, not quite believing brigands would venture so close to the city – yet she was no trusting fool, either. She glanced backward, wondering if city guards would hear her scream.
“Scream and you’ll live not,” barked Reep, in a mock ruffian’s voice. “You are not our quarry.”
He pointed his sword straight at her, while James dismounted to pick up the babe. His heart sank. How can I see harm to one so young and innocent?
With James again in saddle and crossing the river, Reep stood guard letting him gain a distance. James rode westward, and would double north to return to the hut. Reep would ride northeast along the shore road before heading inland. With luck, the maid would recall Reep’s path, not James.
With James having a good head start, it was Reep’s turn to flee. And as he expected, the maid screamed her head off, running back for the city.
He laid a rough path for pursuers to follow – in and out of the river, zig-zagging up along crossing streams, and eventually sending the horse on alone while he followed a tributary north, the stream hiding his footprints.
When he’d reached the hut, he found James with the baby.
“Well?” Reep said, exasperated.
“I… couldn’t,” James pleaded with him. “He’s but a babe.”
Reep drew a dagger, and placed it to the child’s face. The sharp metal drew a thin line of blood. But Reep could do no more.
“Damn us!” he exploded.
“Must he truly die?”
“Aye. A child born of the blackest magicks, who is already being used as a tool to undermine King Rokk. Queen Nura of Cornwall, she who sees the future, said that the child will prove the undoing of Britain itself, should it live!”
Reep looked again at the baby. He tried to tell him he was strong enough to do what needed to be done. But he couldn’t make himself believe that untruth.
“Well,” he said at last, “We cannot remain here and be found. Let me change, and we shall ride… north, to Branodunum.”
As he and James were supposedly pursuing the fiendish Yder, to aide Geraint, and could be spared for a few days…
Near Branodunum, they would put the baby to sea, where it would meet its fate without either of them soiling their hands. Yes, that would work…
[ December 26, 2005, 07:55 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred Seventy-Three
“How fares he?”
“He improves,” Morgause replied. “I believe he shall live.”
Dyrk nodded. “T’is well indeed! But why would he so attack King Rokk?”
“Mayhap he was bespelled.”
“Aye. But between various ruses and… other incidents, some question his standing,” it hurt the Roman to put this into words.
“Do you question his loyalties – or say his mind is addled?” the northern queen snapped.
“I question neither,” Dyrk said as warmly as he could. “He is my friend, and I wish to see him cured, of whatever ails him. Where… Where is Tinya?”
“She has not been seen since the morning before… this happened. I truly thought better of her.” She sighed. And Brunor? He who so eagerly defended his king by wounding my son?”
“He… has become quite a quandary. Yesterday, King Zendak offered him a gold armband in reward for his heroism – and he rejected it! Now he seems to labour to have rival knights expelled on various grounds ranging from ineptitude to treason. Rokk has refused to hear his allegations until after tomorrow’s ceremonies, yet still…”
“King Rokk should be more wary of the vipers he allows into his home. I know many of you would include me amongst that breed,” Morgause sounded almost repentant, “but I truly believe King Mekt’s allies are up to ill.”
“Once you would have cheered them on,” Dyrk said, trying not to sound scornful.
“Aye. Once.”
With an uneasy pause in the conversation, Dyrk paced to the window.
He was about to speak one more when to door burst open. “My lady!” One of Morgause’s guardsmen blurted, “The baby Medrod has been seized by brigands!”
[ December 26, 2005, 07:57 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred Seventy-Four
After days of tracking, Geraint heard from a farmer that Yder, believing himself un-pursued into Angle territory, had intended to take part in the midsummer Sparrowhawk Tournament at Castor. He resolved to humiliate the rogue knight at the tourney, and deliver him and his vile dwarf to Queen Guinevere for her judgment thereafter.
Nearing Castor’s marketplace, he spied a beautiful maiden, who carried herself with the airs of nobility, although she was dressed as a peasant.
“Who is yon maiden?” Geraint asked a merchant. Never in all his travels, from Italia to Iberia to Britain, had he been so enchanted with a maiden. “She is clearly a lady of title, yet dresses not so.”
“She is my daughter, Enide,” the merchant replied. “We were the ancestral Celtic rulers of this land, and even as the Angles came, we held on. But no more – our holdings have been carved up by Angle lords seeking to make up for their losses against King Rokk last year, we to the streets we were forced,” he pointed to the castle no longer his.
“Good sir, I am by title and right the heir to Cornwall, and I should like your daughter for my bride. Sir Geraint am I, late of Rokk’s court.”
“I have heard of you, the step-son of Marcus?” Geraint winced at being mistaken for his famous kinsman Thom, but did not want to ruin the deal. “If you prove your worth at the Sparrowhawk Tournament, her hand is yours,” said the merchant.
[ December 26, 2005, 07:58 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred Seventy-Five
“What do you think of Brunor?”
“I think he’s a villain,” Genni said plainly. “I think he schemed his way into Rokk’s trust, and will destroy this kingdom if left to his own.”
“What do we really know of him?” Iasmin asked, trying to sort out fact from rumour.
“He’s from Elmet,” Lu answered. “I’d not heard of him, though, from my time there.”
“”If from Elmet, he may be Tarik’s man,” Saihlough ventured, flying circle-eights around the ladies. “Or Winifred’s. Blagh!”
“Well. We need more information if we’re to act,” Iasmin concluded. “The festivities are a big distraction, as we do not know if all our peers are at any moment. We haven’t seen Garth or Ayla in days… but maybe the same confusion can hide our inquiries.
“Genni… I want you to go to Lindum. Find out from Sir Derek what you can of Brunor… if need be, go to Elmet yourself,” she said.
Genni agreed, and was out on the road within minutes.
“Saihlough. I want you to keep an eye on Brunor. Follow him closely. Watch who he talks to. And hide yourself well.”
“Of course,” the faerie giggled, and flew away.
“Lu, I need you to find Garth and Ayla. I’d start with Mekt’s tents. But watch yourself. He was an ally against Zaryan, but now… who knows? And mind his lady-friend Eva. Her gifts may rival the queen’s.”
Lu nodded, and set out on her assignment.
Iasmin didn’t like circumventing Rokk, but if Eva’s Sight was as strong as she believed, Rokk and Guinevere were no doubt under constant observation. Good. That shall distract them from our roles.
[ December 26, 2005, 08:00 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred Seventy-Six
“Egypt?
Querl and L’ile nodded.
“My family adopted these medallions as our own. I had no idea from whence they came,” said Laoraighll. “Many of my extended family – cousins and kinsmen – all wear them, that any of the Gandr clan may recognize each other.”
“Yet one was found in Angtough, and another in Roxxius’ lair,” L’ile added.
“Querl has theorized that Angtough was raided by Roxxius, yes?”
“It was around the same time, yes. But still, we’re not certain,” Querl said. “Any more than we’re certain of anything, Laoraighll,” he said softly. “No one’ accusing you of anything.”
“No, but my family-“
“-May not be involved. Medallions get sold, traded-“
“NO!”
All eyes turned upon her.
“The medallions… are special. They are a promise… that Eiru shan’t be touched by the ancient evils that drove the Tuatha de Danaan to Eiru.”
An ancient evil… L’ile thought. just as the Hunter said.
“If the Tuatha were gods,” Querl posited, “How did… anyone drive them to Eiru?”
“More powerful rival gods,” L’ile answered flippantly, yet not entirely in jest. “I wonder if MacKell has seen the like in his years of seeing the world.”
[ December 26, 2005, 08:02 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred Seventy-Seven
MacKell looked around him.
Nothing.
“A wild goose-chase,” he told himself. Mekt had relayed word that Garth and Ayla needed their immediate assistance, repelling a Khund landing party on the Kentish coasts near Canterbury.
Mekt insisted on accompanying him, but MacKell assured him he’d be faster on his own, letting the king catch up at his own pace.
But up and down the shores, all was quiet.
Moreover, Kiritan’s men had seen no trace of Mekt’s siblings. Jonah’s young brother Gareth, being fostered by Kiritan, had plenty of questions, but MacKell had no time for them. Or so it had seemed.
“Mekt, you have succeeded in distracting me away from Camelot. But to what end?”
He remounted his steed, and began the return trip north.
[ December 26, 2005, 08:03 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred Seventy-Eight
Rokk was not pleased.
Yes, the festivities proceeded despite his injury, but Brunor, his newest knight, was acting rather immodestly, bad-mouthing many of his trusted knights – especially the absent Sir Garth. And now the youth was openly making accusations, that Reep and James had masterminded Medrod’s abduction!
His longtime peers were spread few and far between. A third of them seemed to be scheming, another third demoralized, and the rest- missing.
He sighed cautiously, so as not to let the wound Jonah gave him add more pain. A deep breath could yet be painful.
This morning was quiet. Oddly quiet. And his nurse had not brought him his porridge.
“My liege? Do you have a moment?”
It was Brunor.
“Come in, lad. You’ll forgive me for not rising to greet you.”
“Aye. I’d like you to meet some friends of mine,” the youngster said.
Mekt, Rokk knew. And he could guess who the Italian and Germanic woman who followed were. “King Lavarrus and Queen Eva, I presume?”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Lavarrus smiled. “I’m surprised the young friar Jan hasn’t healed your wounds, if you’ll forgive my speculations.”
“Jan’s gift is not a cure-all, I fear, He seems to sense… things lacking in one’s health, and adds them, in all due subtlety,“ Rokk replied.
“Ah. That explains why he’s retching along with everyone else,” Mekt sneered.
Seeing Rokk’s quizzical look, Eva continued. “My husband is just as skilled in… manipulating substance. Following your man Tenzil’s testing of last night’s suppers, some additional ingredients have left your court – and all your guards – in a state indeed!
“But we are prepared to offer our services to this kingdom, of course, pending a few… negotiations.”
[ December 26, 2005, 08:05 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred Seventy-Nine
Imra tossed and turned, struggling to maintain control over her bowels – and her body. Each convulsion grew worse and worse.
She could hear from the courtyard podium that Brunor had proclaimed himself king, and was challenging the “cowardly Sir Garth” to a duel of honour for the death of his elder brother.
“Do lie still, my dear. Accept that your reign is over,” Eva gloated.
NEVER!
The strain nearly made Imra pass out in pain.
“You really should exert yourself so, my young dear.” Eva stroked her hair, mockingly.
How did Aven say? Separate yourself from your physical body? Imra strained to recall her lessons. Easier said than done…
Tuning out Eva’s gloating and patronizing, tuning out the warm summer breeze, tuning out her quaking stomach and shivering innards… she found it. A place of quiet. Calm. Serenity…
It would be easy to stay here. But no.
Lu, being tortured by Mekt, knew where Garth and Ayla were. The secret was passed…
She drifted back out into the real world. Tenzil, unaffected by the poisons, was hiding, waiting for direction. She gave him an assignment…
Saihlough was spying on Brunor, who in turn was getting ready for his “duel.” The pixie had infuriated the villain by turning his prized sword invisible. Listen, little Saihlough, to what must be done…
Genni was running, on her way back from Lindum, armed with knowledge. Knowledge that would be key to turning the tide…
Tricked, MacKell was riding at full speed, returning to Camelot, but only now just outside of Londinium. He’s too far out, unless we can delay…
Garth, drugged and poisoned, was no match for swordplay, yet Lavarrus prodded and poked him, torment under the premise of “getting him ready.” Hold on, Garth! Hold on…
There is one last ally to contact, before my battle truly begins, Imra thought, feeling a degree of exhaustion already. On Avalon, she was taught how to replenish her energies, but that took a physical connection she dared not touch.
Oh, really, my dear? Why thinks thou that I shall afford you the opportunity? Eva’s interruption came as an icy wave or reality.
Weary but unwilling to give, Imra responded in kind, a silent psionic battle that caused everyone within a large radius a massive headache…
[ December 26, 2005, 08:12 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred Eighty
Only days ago, Camelot seemed the epitome of civilization. Look at it now!
Tenzil despaired at the sudden influx of mercenaries and deserters who had taken up Brunor’s call to arms. With these rogues he plans to hold all of Britain as a kingdom?!
The beefeater strolled through the crowds, sizing up Brunor’s grip on the people. Those who had come to celebrate with the king now seemed like a bloodthirsty mob – and they cared not who let blood, as long as someone did.
Their attention was now focused, of course, on the arena hastily set up, where the usurper would battle Sir Garth. He had to be ready…
“… Mother, what’s happening?” Now awake, the delirious Jonah demanded answers. His ailing mother, now collapsed in her chair, had none to give.
Did he have the strength to lift himself from the bed? No, he did not…
…Fending off his own illness, Loomius had waited for his moment. Mekt had gone on to the castle with his captive siblings, leaving the carpenter only one prisoner to free. While his accomplice distracted the guards, he cut a hole in the side of the pavilion, and as he expected, Lu was bound and gagged inside.
If they’ve fed her not as part of her torture, then mayhap she can fight our way back out again…
…Ayla looked over at her brother. Even worse than sharing the same stomach ailment, in addition to being tormented in body and spirit, it appeared that their captors had Garth drugged as well.
The carriage bumped and twisted en route to their destination, wherever that would be. She’d heard something of a duel, but how would that be possible? Garth couldn’t even hold a sword in his current state…
…Berach steadied himself, posing with sword, trying to look formidable and able. Errol’s elixirs made him feel better, almost well enough to fight. But would it come to that? Brunor was still a fellow knight, wasn’t he?
He, Dag and Franz were in the best shape. They’d set out and stop this nonsense…
“…The hour is neigh! Sir Garth, are you brave enough to face me?” Brunor taunted, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. “Even the weak King Rokk has recognized my rightful rule!”
An equal number of cheers and boos resounded. He motioned for their silence.
“King Rokk would be here to tell you himself, but I hear he’s sick.” He mocked. “Yes, I hear there’s a stomach pox about. Isn’t there always when young boys don’t want to tend to chores?” he sneered.
Berach and Dag made their way through the crowd, approaching.
“Sir Garth! Again, I challenge you!” Brunor continued, unawares.
From the nearby carriage, Mekt and Lavarrus escorted the feeble defender out. A sword had been strapped to his hand.
Seeing the state of Garth, the crowd booed.
“Give us a fair duel,” shouted one man, followed by cheers of many.
“There shall be no duel today,” shouted Berach, stepping through the crowd. The crowd booed the news, but Brunor waived the Northman toward him, sword ready.
Lu and Loomius reached the back of the crowd. “We’re too late!” she said. But Loomius saw his accomplice rendezvousing with Tenzil on the far side of the arena.
Berach steadied his blade, and began positioning himself. Focusing on both his footwork and blotting out the crowd was trick enough, he realized, let alone focusing on his blade.
Brunor charged, knocking him aside with the flat of his sword.
The crowd booed.
The usurper was playing with him, Berach realized, allowing him time to get up.
Berach again faced off against Brunor.
The carriage guards dealt with, Tenzil quickly untied Ayla. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“I’ll explain later, but we need you to take on Mekt, taranaut-to-taranaut,” replied the beefeater.
Berach charged Brunor, trying a brute-force attack. Brunor deflected him, and the knight went sailing toward the crowd. Berach’s stomach was rebelling in contempt, and he had to release some of its contents before continuing – to half the crowd’s amusement and the other half’s disgust. The acidy taste in his mouth served to reinvigorate his resolve.
Distracted by the battle, Lavarrus and Mekt noticed not the hunched figure who slowly approached Garth, or the slight glow he emanated.
With one more flat-blade attack, Brunor had Berach down face-first, and he didn’t seem to muster the ability to rise. Dag, ready to rush to his aide, was halted by a squad of big burly mercenaries.
Brunor stood above him, turning his sword point-down at the Northman. “Do it! Kill him!” were some of the cries from the crowd.
“That’s the only way you win your fights? Stabbing from behind, Brunor the Black?”
The usurper turned to face an out-of-breath Genni. “Your deeds are well known in Lindum. Your late brother, too – just another back-stabber.”
“LIES!” Brunor charged her, but by the time he swung, she’d side-stepped him, and was at the far side of the arena. Brunor in turn caused a near panic in the crowd, as they almost took the blow meant for the messenger.
“Stand still, you freak!”
“BRUNOR!” The crowd went silent as Garth stepped forward, to the surprise of both his escorts. “Your fight is with ME!”
Brunor trembled. Garth seemed fully able and aware. But how? Then he spied the young priest, who was said to be something of a healer.
He could not lose face now. Win, lose or draw, he was getting what he wanted, vengeance against the illustrious Sir Garth.
Lavarrus and Mekt, hearing a call of distress from Eva, departed hastily, assuming Garth’s appearance of ability was a ruse he could not long maintain. Jan and Ayla followed in close pursuit.
Garth and Brunor circled each other, sizing each other up, while the crowd went wild – this was the fight they wanted to see!
“Was this the right one, Imra?”
“Yes Saihlough. That was perfect,” the queen answered. She detested poisons, but since the gauntlet had been thrown – and she doubted Eva’s training could separate the body from the mind as she was able – that left her task to stall the one-time queen until little faerie faerie-darts did their work.
Brunor, taking advantage of Garth’s still-recovering sense of equilibrium, scored first blood – a cut across the cheek. That shall be your sole victory, Garth vowed.
“I think I remember your brother,” he told the usurper. “He died a coward’s death.”
By the castle steps, Mekt realized they had pursuers. “Go onward,” he said, and began summoning a lightning strike.
But Ayla had the jump on him, summoning up her own power as she ran. Her blast encompassed Mekt’s entire sphere of personal space, although he in turn managed a slight backlash against her.
“Go after Lavarrus,” she called to Jan, readying herself for the next round with Mekt.
Brunor charged in a mad rush that would have worked against the ill Berach.
But not a recovered Sir Garth,
Mimicking Brunor’s toying with the Northman, Garth simultaneously knocked Brunor flat on his face, while sending his blade flying – and delivering a gash along the villain’s thigh.
“You don’t get it, do you? I’m the blood-letter; you’re the gangrene.”
Brunor stumbled to his feet.
Inside the castle, Lavarrus sensed everything was going wrong. He’d fetch Eva and flee. Everything was set-
“Lavarrus.” The quiet tentative voice in front of him was that of Jonah. But how well was he? It was a risk not worth taking. I’ll come back for you, Eva. I promise.
Turning to flee, he saw Jan coming up behind him.
“Mekt, your hair!”
Mekt, summoning another bolt, paid her no heed.
“It’s turned white!”
Half hearing a second round of lightning strikes in the distance, Brunor was bruised and battered. This couldn’t be a fair fight. Garth must have cheated somehow!
He swung around again, trying to focus on his opponent. There wasn’t an ounce of mercy in Garth’s face, the last thing he remembered seeing. There was a sudden sensation in his chest, and the sound of water. He felt a lot lighter… and the nothing.
Lavarrus, more used to combat than the peaceful Jan, and more able than the walking-wounded Jonah, evaded his foes, and retreated into the hilly terrain where the rest of the fortress would be built.
Mekt, whose second bolt was more of light than fire, used its brilliance to flee himself. He, too, made is way toward the outer foundations.
Eva, having played dead while Saihlough and Guinevere went out to tend to Jonah, was also able to escape, making her way down a stone-mason’s ladder and out to the construction yards.
“We must flee at once!” Lavarrus said
“Brunor is dead already,” Eva added.
Mekt’s ships lay waiting, he told them, and the trio made their way to the far docks, one step ahead of the archers – and later the mounted warriors – who trailed them. The horses were catching up, but there was still time-
The trio halted, seeing the smoke rising from Mekt’s boat. Pondering their next move, they realized there wasn’t one, as MacKell stood before them.
[ December 26, 2005, 08:15 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
The EAST Interlude Eleven: Jerusalem
Jeka cleaned the wound, and wrapped it with a fresh bandage. She gently rubbed the child’s face reassuringly. “All will be a-right,” she told her, realizing the girl understood not a word.
It felt good, she realized, tending to the sick and infirm – especially the children. This city, so holy to the Christians and Jewes, had no shortage of people in need, and it well afforded her opportunity to fulfill her goals of penance.
She missed Agravaine. She thought of him often, and looked forward to again looking upon his face. But he is where he needs to be, as am I. If that remains my sole complaint, then I have naught to fear.
How quickly the months have flown by! Will I want to leave at the end of our year here? Will Ag?
[ December 26, 2005, 08:16 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Twelve: Alexandria
“I trust we understand each other?”
“Indeed,” Relnic could not help from smiling. “Alexandria was, in its time, the greatest center of learning in the world. Eiru currently boasts the center of scholarship – at least in the west,” he added, diplomatically. “It certainly makes sense to continue these traditions.”
“Even with your new sorceress-queen?”
“I have every assurance that she will be long-disposed by the time your people are ready to come to our isle,” he assured the governor.
“I sstill advisse that you consider Pariss for your sscholarss,” interjected Relnic’s rival. “If all this knowledge iss truly not to fall into darkness.”
“Eiru is at the farthest corner of the world. Who would bother with us?” Relnic retorted. He was not at ease with Clovis’ representative, or the new style of coloured discs symbolizing one’s rank in Frankish society.
“Yess, but Pariss has long links to Egypt, especcially to the cult of Ississ.”
“And Eiru, too, has links to Egypt. To the times of Moses.”
“Gentlemen! Enough,” laughed the governor. “Relnic, I give you until next year to settle your would-be empress matter. If not, I’m afraid we must chose Paris, else all these works – those that survived the Constantines – be spared from the patriarch.”
[ December 26, 2005, 08:00 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Thirteen: A small Aegean island, near Colu
Brainius IV looked out over the sea.
“He’s coming back, you know,” said her slave.
“Querl?”
“No,” she said, apologetically. “Not that I know of, that is… No, I meant … Asteri Mnima. He’s coming back.”
“You speak of ancient legends,” Brainius IV laughed. “Did you go to old Delphi for this knowledge?”
“No… Sharn Nux told me to send word. The elders of Colu are quite concerned.”
“Then they jump at shadows! The world is not a place where old myths come back to haunt us. I’ll hear no more of this.”
“…Yes, ma’am.”
[ December 26, 2005, 08:03 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Fourteen: Samarkand
“You do well, my student.”
“Thank you, sensei.”
The lad stood balanced on a large rock – on a single toe.
“Sensei?”
“Yes?”
“How long-“
“-Must you stand there?”
“No. I wondered how long do we stay here?”
“Impatient, are you?”
“Not at all. I just would like to send word to… a friend… in Palestine, who may be expecting me to return west next spring.”
“We go where the spirit guides us, young one. Perhaps to the west. Perhaps not. We shall know when it is time. Be not so concerned with time and calendars. That is a Roman way of thinking.”
“Yes, master.”
“Now cleanse your mind. Be open.”
It was easier to be open in the desert, he thought, but didn’t say. The beauty of the city Alexander once took was captivating indeed, yet was not the end of the journey, by any means.
[ December 26, 2005, 08:04 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Fifteen: Constantinople
“What news from Rome?”
Macedonius II, the Patriarch of Constantinople, was not a patient man.
“It appears that the cause of Laurentius is lost,” replied his aide.
The elder cleric sighed, and reclined into his divan.
“Tell me everything.”
“Faced with the charges raised by Senator Festus and his supporters, Pope Symmachus agreed to a general synod of bishops, but refused to accept Bishop Vidar of Altinum, King Theodoric’s appointed intermediary and investigator.
“When the synod met, Symmachus demanded a complete reinstatement before answering the charges. The synod agreed, but Theodoric did not. Symmachus relented, and set out to attend the synod, but apparently… pro-Byzantine factions attacked him, and drove him back to St. Peter's Basilica. This ended his acquiescence, and he refused further participation with the synod. With embarrassment, the synod dissolved, declaring it had no authority to judge the pope, and also that Symmachus is to be regarded as free and above of all crime.
“But Theodoric disputed this outcome, and the pro-Byzantines brought back Antipope Laurentius, declaring him the true pope.”
Macedonius nodded. “So. All is not lost, but neither have we gains toward reunification. And what of this… Vidar?”
“Bishop Vidar came to Rome and, against to the commands of king, allied with the adherents of Laurentius. Theodoric later dismissed him,” replied the aide.
“Yet as I recall, when Vidar first came to Roma, he and our friend Festus were at odds.” The patriarch thought on this.
“I would meet with this… Vidar. Arrange it.”
“Very good, your holiness.”
[ December 26, 2005, 08:06 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
notes 170-180:
First off, before I forget, now that I've gone back and re-read everything to remind myself of all my daggling threads... I've decided the "Mentum" doesn't work. I'm going to go back and edit - and tie the Grail in. Makes more sense, overall.
172: I'd initally pictured Reep, Thom and Jo... but for some reason, Reep and James worked. In some variations, there's a whole batch of babies killed... but I just couldn't go there.
171/173: Where is Tinya?
174: I've decided since the stories of Geraint and Erec overlap so much, there's no point in trying to keep them separate. And Enide's family's newfound poverty meshed well with what I was going with the Angle/Celt theme.
176: The White Triangle, a reluctant 11th hour addition, is working out to be a favorite just now - especially as it fits into other threads.
180: longer than I planned on, but it generally came out as I wanted. But I didn't get into MacKell's quick arrival - Londinium to Camulodunum in only an hour or two - there's a story there for another time.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
BOOK IV: OVER THE SEA TO SKYE
One Hundred and Eighty-one
The two knights galloped at full speed down the valley, slowing only to cross the small stony bridge near the ruins of an old Roman garrison.
Proceeding onward out of the uplands, they continued at full pace into the farmlands. Peasants stopped to look, wondering what all the fuss was about.
“T’is Sir James, home again from gods-know-where,” observed one older man.
His friend nodded. “But where does he race to?”
“The dragon’s been spotted in Ull’s Waters,” replied the first.
“Ah.”
The two knights let up not their pace until reaching a small lakeside village. They slowed, surveying the damage visible from the hillside. Villagers had lined bodies on the outlying fields, and were already digging new graves, and assembling rocks for cairns.
“We’re too late,’ James sighed.
“Aye. We were too late once word even came to us,” Garth replied. “Rather than chase each new sighting, we must chose a spot and stand firm, and wait for the dragon to come to us.”
The two dismounted, and paid their respects to the villagers. Consulting with the watch, they gathered the information they could, and departed.
Riding along the lakeside, James commented, “No one ever sees the dragon travel far from the lakes. Yet how does it get from lake-to-lake without being spotted? Attacking inland villages or leaving a wake of damages? I’ll bet these lakes are riddled with underground rivers connecting them, like a hunk of Helvetic cheese!” He tossed a crust of hard-bread into the lake in defiance.
“Your father’s surmised as much. A pity the concept aids us not. We now head north, to Brocavium, for fresh supplies?”
“Aye,” James replied, almost absent-mindedly .
“Then I’d like to send word to King Wynn, seeking to try my wait-and-catch strategy,” Garth said.
“You can probably tell him yourself. By now, he’ll have moved the court from Carlisle to Brocavium, for the nobles’ traditional hunting season.”
“Joy,” Garth said, sarcastically. In a single week’s visit to Carlisle, every noble with daughter tried their best match-making strategies on the Armorican knight, now that his reputation - and indeed legend - was now secured across the length of Britain.
James laughed. He’d encountered similar antics his whole young life. He surmised many back-woods courts were of similar ilk, but in his heart, he doubted any could surpass Cumbria’s for meddling in young lives.
“We’ve served together more than a year now,” Garth said, after a pause. “You’ve seen the phenomenal strengths Laoraighll, MacKell and Jonah, the taranaut that my sister and I have, Saihlough, the iron flesh of the brothers from Orkney… yet you still hide your own gifts, my friend. I’ve often wondered why.”
“I guess… I still think of myself as a freak,” James searched for words. “Dyrk’s asked me the same – only he and Thom, plus some Anglian brigands, have seen me in giant-form since I’ve come to court. Riding as cavalry, it isn’t very useful a gift… and I guess in the company of you and the others, I’ve wanted to prove myself as a knight, rather than a freak.”
“Yet you still wear the strange armour.”
“Aye.” James acknowledged. “See all these folds? The mails and straps are folded, so they will expand, and still provide me with some protection, in addition to the thickness of skin my size gives me. I wear this armour, yes, and if ever my… gift, as you call it, were needed, I would use it. For now though, I’m content to remain of smaller size.”
“Except with Morgause,” Garth jibbed.
James threw a chunk of hard-bread at his friend.
“You see? You are not such a freak. Most fellows can grow in size, just not all over.”
[ December 26, 2005, 08:14 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Eighty-two
“I wish I could have shown you more of Carlisle, Mysa.”
Jancel was proving an adept hostess and guide, Mysa found. She wondered how genuine her newfound friendliness was to one she regarded as such a heathen and harlot – if Mysa weren’t in a position to benefit her.
“Perhaps you may show me more before I again depart south,” she smiled. The former priestess was just as happy to settle into Brocavium. The castle was comfortable enough, an old Roman general’s villa rebuilt to suit Wynn and Martina as both a residence remote enough to escape Carlisle’s siege mindset.
The Roman generals, like the current Cumbrian monarchs, no doubt needed such a release. Carlisle, a key post along Hadrian’s Wall, was the longtime recipient of attacks from northern tribes – and in recent years, from Irish raiders.
“Are you settling in well, Mysa?” asked Martina, poking her head into the ladies’ chambers.
“Oh, very well,” she smiled. “Your daughter was just telling me about the gardens and the lake cottages.” She noticed Jancel’s scowl, but opted to wait until the queen departed to inquire.
“Then by all means join us in the gardens before dinner,” Martina invited before going on her way.
“She’s not my mother,” Jancel blurted, once Martina was gone.
“My apologies. I thought-“
“-Well, please DON’T. My mother was never as cruel as her.”
Mysa knew Martina was James’ mother, and James was older than his sister (half-sister?). Moreover, Wynn treated Jancel like no bastard-child; so how-
There was a knock on the door. “My lady? A word?”
It was Reep, wearing a face Jancel would not recognize.
“Pardon me, Jancel. And please forgive me my error.”
She followed Reep down the hall. He spoke in a low voice.
“I’ve done as you ask. From the west side of the garden, by the Janus statue, there’s a dirt cart-path leading into the woods. A disused, overgrown path branches to the left, and the pavilion has been set up in a small clearing not far along that path. There’s a small stream for water, and all the supplies have been unloaded there.”
“You’ve done well, Reep,” she whispered, offering him a quick hug. “Now we only need Garth to return.”
Returning to her chamber, she offered to brush and braid Jancel’s hair. The young girl accepted, talking about her and Garth and the idealized court life she expected in Benwick…
Foolish girl, Mysa thought, yet unable to note the girl’s growing similarities to Imra as she became more and more of a young woman. Will you truly be able to live with being the consolation ribbon?
[ December 26, 2005, 08:15 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Eighty-three
“I’m sure young King Rokk was only to pleased to send you out,” Wynn smiled.
“Well, he does want to see your dragon problem ended,” Garth said, finishing another ale.
“Aye, that, too,” Wynn winked.
Garth looked puzzled.
“I think my father’s saying that your reputation has spread – and not just for the battlefield,” James laughed.
“A reputation for the ladies is a fine thing, my boy,” Wynn smiled, but added more seriously, “but the high queen herself-“
“-I have laid not a finger on!” Garth exclaimed sharply.
“Ohhhh!” his host and peer mocked simultaneously.
“It’s true, by my troth!”
“I doubt not your word. But still, a young, handsome, unattached knight will draw rumours as well as ladies,” Wynn said. “Perhaps you should consider-“
“-I live to be a warrior. I’ll leave no widow behind.”
Father is obviously trying to play matchmaker with Garth and Jancel. But where is my sister? Does she avoid us? James pondered.
Wynn’s servants poured another round of ales.
“Think, son. Your brother’s throne is vacant. You must consider-“
“-Mekt was bespelled, I tell you. Beren and Azura shall restore his heart, you wait and see,” Garth countered.
“That’s why he was not executed, as Eva and Lavarrus were,” James added.
“My sister handles Lesser Britain well enough,” Garth added. “No, the throne’s life is not for me.”
James smiled. He assumed he and many of his peers would remain warriors for years, but eventually take on families and titles as a matter of course. Yet he could see Garth remaining wed to the warrior’s life.
Wynn laughed. “Many a young man echoed similar sentiments at your age, lad. I’ll bet you’ll meet a lady who’ll change your mind. Else you’ll bed some noble’s daughter – and be forced to wed at blade-point!”
“Spoken from experience?” It was Garth’s turn to get a jab in.
Wynn chuckled. “Aye and nay. There was a time I truly believed my beloved Martina dead… but that’s a tale for another time. I have nobles to greet next morn, and you have a dragon to hunt.” He finished his ale with a grunt of satisfaction. “Now let us get our rest, my good sirs.”
[ December 26, 2005, 08:17 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Eighty-four
“There is still time to back out,” Mysa told her. She doubted if it were true – the rituals were complete, and all the elements were in motion. Mysa couldn’t shake the belief that even if they chose to back out, that the universe itself would act upon the forces already in play.
Jancel took a deep breath. “No. This is what I want. Verily, it is.”
Mysa detested using magicks on matters of the heart. They often backfire – or worse: sometimes you get what you asked for – whether or not it was what you thought you wanted.
To cast a spell of love upon another, it comes back upon you three times over, Mysa noted. If our spell was as effective as I surmise, would you even know if it was not?
Mysa contained a shiver – how would the spell affect her? In theory, as a third-party aide, it shouldn’t – but then, she wasn’t devoid of feelings for the quarry.
But no. There is no point to worry.
All was in readiness.
Besides the spell, Jancel was made up in dress, style and scent in the appearance of Imra, and the bright moonlight of the eve as the sole source of light would abet the deception. The pavilion was adorned just as the high queen’s would be.
“Give me a half-hour,” Mysa commanded. “Then wait in the moonlight, where he may bask upon you.”
Jancel nodded quietly, betraying only a slight quiver of nervousness.
Tonight I am the pagan harlot, the princess of Cumbria thought, feeling not at all ashamed for tossing aside religious code to get her desire.
Mysa navigated her way back to the castle. Reep chose well. This will be an easy path to follow, by moonlight.
At the garden’s edge, she stopped, overhearing the men adjourning their libations, taking a moment to adjust to the figures silhouetted against .the torchlight.
Wynn was the first to get up, bidding Garth and James goodnight. Mysa drew closer.
“Why is everyone so worried about my love-life?” Garth asked his fellow, with only a slight hint of a slur to his speech.
“Maybe we’re all jealous. You have women coming out of nowhere, it seems,” James laughed. Noticing Mysa’s sudden appearance, he added, “See?”
He slapped his friend on the shoulder and turned. “My cue to leave.”
“Um. Hello,” Garth said.
“Hello.”
“You look beautiful tonight,” he told her.
“I get more beautiful the lonelier you are,” she joked with a smile.
“Oh, don’t be like that.” He moved toward her, leaning forward. “It’s been a while,” he whispered, caressing her.
Mysa could indeed feel the magicks – too well. It will be difficult to resist… She let him kiss her, and she almost gave in then and there.
“Don’t, Garth. I’m not the one you want.”
“Don’t talk about her. I want to forget her. I want to forget a lot.” He kissed her again, and secure in his arms on the teasing edge of deeper bliss, it was many minutes before she could refocus on her task.
“She loves you, too, Garth.”
“Don’t.”
“She does, Garth.” Seeing him move in for another kiss, Mysa quickly turned her head and blurted, “She’s here.” His startled pause gave her a moment to add, “She’s here for you, Garth.”
Desire, drink and magicks overrode whatever reason Garth still held, and he let her lead him to the grassy path. “Three dozen paces along the path, her pavilion is cast.” She resisted the urge to kiss him once more – she knew he’d never seek her lips again. Ever again.
How deeply was Mysa tied into the spell? Not very, she hoped, walking back to the castle.
She hoped in vein.
The July heat was intense – but not as intense as the feelings washing over her. Was it imagination, or was she tied into what the couple behind her was feeling? The intense passion of the kissing, the caressing, the joys of discovery through probing and unpeeling of garments…
Mysa made it back to the garden as the next wave hit – and how it hit! The intense but rewarding pain that signals the transformation from maiden to woman – Jancel’s own voyage cascaded through Mysa as well. Even worse, she could feel his side as well – both the phantom feelings of anatomy she didn’t have, and the unbearable intensity of his joy at communing in flesh with his Guinevere. How he shall hate me!
She found herself alone in the garden, rubbing herself against a statue of Apollo, both acting upon the sensations thrust upon her – and in trying to overcome them. It was not the first time she had to endure bliss in stealth, and she allowed herself only the quietest, hoarsest squeals of delight.
And it was over, a wonderful but excruciating time later. Hours later, based upon the moon.
She let herself collapse into the garden flora, a hiding place while Wynn and his guards marched out past her.
Reep’s timing couldn’t be better, she thought, summoning the strength to get back to her room before passing out.
Caught at an inopportune time, Garth would have no choice but to bow to honour and tradition, Mysa thought, drifting off to sleep. And with Jancel as his bride, he can keep his hands and eyes away from Imra.
[ December 26, 2005, 08:18 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Eighty-five
“My dear son! To what do I owe the honour?”
Jonah was taken aback. While he’d been aware of his mother tending to him during illness, it hadn’t struck him that Morgause’s renewed maternalistic streak was a lasting one.
“It’s good to see you, too mother,” he smiled, wanting to mean it. He welcomed her embrace.
“And you? I know it has been hard on you-“
Still holding him, he felt her stiffen. “Oh… yes. I miss the child deeply. I still haven’t given up hope that your youngest brother shall be found.”
I know my mother well enough. She again plays tricks, Jonah thought, noting Morgause’s salon was still well-adorned with towels and the basinet - and all looked in regular use. She has pulled a Mordru! The child abducted by brigands was not baby Medrod!
“But let us talk of more pleasant subjects. What news of the south?”
“Well, Geraint finally tracked down the villain Yder and his dwarven familiar, and turned them over to Guinevere for punishment. King Rokk was ready to match-make Geraint and the lady Ayla – no doubt to keep the knight away from Marcus’ Cornwall – but he’d already found a lady, a beautiful maiden named Enide. Geraint has proven an effective addition to Rokk’s legion.
“Mekt continues to resist attempts to heal him. Apparently, every sorcerer from Rome to Elmet had their hooks in his pour soul! Mayhap he shall recover, but Ayla rules Armorica in his stead, as Garth has refused to.”
“The fool!” Morgause exclaimed.
“Perhaps. Well. Coirpre mac Neill, while still seeking Rokk’s aid against the usurper, the would-be empress Saraid, has lent his man Ossian to help Rokk and his advisors solve the mystery of Angtough, and the white triangle medallions. In fact, Rokk, Ossian and a large party from Camelot shall pass through here en route to Ulster. In a week’s time.”
“Here!? Why was word not sent?”
“I volunteered to bring word, while passing through on my way north,” Jonah said, certain his mother had stopped listening to him.
“Why, we must be ready! A high king has never visited Lothian since the days of Constantine! I must prepare the staff; it must be a worthy feast. And your father must be summoned back from the Orkneys. Yes, there is much to do…”
Jonah sighed. He had not the chance to tell her of his own solemn mission, a threat he and he alone must face.
[ December 26, 2005, 08:20 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Eighty-six
“Here.”
Garth lacked all enthusiasm, in contrast to the previous outings. His choice in locales was sound – the dragon had mostly been attacking villages where mining was taking place – or where ore was being transported. Like of legends – dragons hording precious metals! James thought, with little sympathy for his comrade.
The two had chosen a small shack overlooking the village to wait for the beast. There was little to do but wait and play throwing-stones. Neither knight was in the mood to talk.
On the third day, James was the one to break the silence.
“Do you hate her?”
“Your sister Jancel? Nay. She was tricked by Mysa, just as I was. No, t’is not for her. My hate.”
James understood why Mysa had no doubt done her sorcery – his own father had unwittingly spelled out the very reasons the night of the deed. Yet he couldn’t approve. He didn’t condemn Mysa – he had let Reep talk him into doing worse – but there was something ominous about how his sister’s engagement had begun. I should be pleased to have Garth as a brother, he thought, surveying the brooding knight. Aye, I should be pleased.
On the fifth day, James was called upon by the local watch to settle a dispute between two upland farmers. He’d be gone only part of the afternoon, he promised.
Garth advised him not to be long, else he miss the fun. “You know he’s waiting for you to leave,” he laughed. Worried, he was not – the monster never struck in the mid-day, unless it was overcast - and the day was bright and sunny.
James was not gone an hour when he hear the cries – a fishing boat out on the lake was being attacked by the dragon!
Garth commandeered a boat, cursing that he had not James to help row – he’d not place a villager at risk. Mayhap my armour is ill-advised for this fight, it occurred to him, too late to act upon.
Half expecting the creature to be gone by the time he arrived, it turned to come after him! Rather than wait for it to come within sword distance, he began summoning lightning – a bigger burst than he’d ever tried before.
It was within yards when he let loose. Just as its ugly serpentine head had risen above water, ready to lunge at him, Garth struck first – and both he and the dragon were staggered by the blast. It shrieked – in anger, surprise or pain was anyone’s guess – and retreated beneath the waves, leaving Garth alone, floating passed out in his boat, unconsciously leaning off the side, partly into the lake. His heavy armour had tilted the boat enough that it was taking on water…
[ December 26, 2005, 08:21 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Eighty-seven
“Where I he? Let me see him.”
James forced his way through the crowd gathered around the hut.
“How fares Sir Garth?” he called in, having reached the doorway. He saw Garth lying, covered, in a bed, and the Druid he’d heard of attending him. Two men of the village watch were also on hand.
“He… needs rest. He will likely have fever, and I must gather the roots and herbs to tend to him,” replied the Druid. “You must be the legendary Sir James. I am Llanfair.”
“He… looks well enough,” James was reassured, recalling Sir Jonah’s scarring from his dragon.
“Looks are deceiving, I fear.” Seeing James’ reaction, he elaborated. “Whether it was his own lightning, or dragon-breath, or some other sort of… poisoning, I had no choice but to remove his arm.”
“His arm…” James soaked up the words. If Jancel hasn’t taken Garth’s freedom as a wandering knight, than surely this beast has.
[ December 26, 2005, 08:23 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Eighty-eight
“In truth, Gaels and Picts had gotten along reasonably were ere now,” Ossian continued. “Trade, intermarriage, joint settlements… the Picts have never been the most populous of folk, while we Gaels have been bulging from the seams of dear old Eiru.”
Laoraighll nodded. “My kinsmen were always going to Caledonia to trade. Some even wed Pictish lasses and stayed.”
“So, what happened?” Querl still wasn’t satisfied. He leaned carefully, so as not to let the rocking of the ship give him any surprises. Calm weather or not, he’d been there once, and had no wish to again test his fortunes.
“The people of Angtough village were indeed slain by Ulstermen, although I know not by whom. I can tell you this – they were slaughtered in a… ritualistic manner.”
“Could this be some sick Irish Druidic rite?” Lu asked. She knew L’ile and Beren well enough, but even though less Christian than her sister, she still harboured no love for Druidism. Irish rites may be less benign than British ones – just as Julius Caesar wrote of Gaul’s Druids, she thought.
L’ile scoffed. “Hardly,” he said. “Unless it was the work of that Dark Circle.” He went pale as he spoke the words. “Do you think?”
Querl and Ossian looked about. “You know more of them than we,” Querl reminded him. “It’s as good a working theory as any.”
L’ile frowned. “I’d rather we had Reep to aid us. I’d like his mind set to this as well.”
“He’ll join us as soon as he’s done surveying the northwestern forts. He should rejoin us by the time we reach the port of Credigon,” Rokk said, stoically polishing his sword.
“I pray thee, Ossian, tell us more of this place we journey to,” Thom asked.
“Lothian? A nice enough place, I’m told,” the Irishman joked. Seeing his jest drew no great amusement, he continued in earnest. “The place we go is a place that I actually gave name to, three centuries ago. A place I called ‘Giant’s Causeway.’”
“I’ve heard of it. You named it so?” Thom said, incredulously.
“Aye. My father, the legendary hero Fionn mac Cumhail, discovered it in his travels – a strange terrain of hexagonal pillars built by gods-know-who, whereupon he fought a Formorian giant. By the time I had become a bard, the court of the day demanded both an explanation for the freakish landscape, and were always seeking new tales of my sire.
“So I did what any good bard would do – I told how my father built the causeway himself, as a bridge to Caledonia, where he would fight an evil giant. But he fell asleep with the job half-done, and the giant came from Caledonia came by boat, seeking him. My mother, I said, put a blanket over him, telling the giant he was Fionn’s son – and the giant fled back to Caledonia, fearing how big father must be! The giant tore down the rest of the causeway on his way back, of course.”
The knights laughed. “Truly, you are a worthy bard,” Rokk praised. “Coirpre mac Neill has a reliable asset in you.”
“In many ways,” Laoraighll added. “Your ability to gather more accurate information is also a more than worthy trait.”
“Let us just hope we can solve this White Triangle business without drawing the attention of Saraid,” Thom added. “I’d not flee a battle, but I see no benefit it picking a fight with Eiru when we still have Khunds to deal with.”
“Forget not, young Thom, that Saraid’s grip on Eiru is still less than complete. King Coirpre shall keep the sorceress at bay for you, most assuredly,” Ossian pledged.
“And in return?” Rokk perked up.
“…Just that you consider my liege a friend an ally of yours; surely a preferable one to Saraid. His emissary, Relnic, is now in the Mediterranean seeking allies. T’would be nice to have one close to home as well.”
Rokk nodded. Nura’s recent assertion that Saraid would not rule long wasn’t fully settling to him, as he knew not how much blood it would take to see the deed done.
[ December 26, 2005, 08:22 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Eighty-nine
He rode his steed with one arm capably enough; he was used to having an arm free to use with weapons. How shall I fare, then, in warfare?
Anxious to prove himself, he was – and not just to James and his peers. He rode quickly and with furor – or rather fear that he was no longer of any knightly capacity.
Riding over a hillcrest, he saw a site of déjà vu – a decimated lakeside village. He rode up to join James – and MacKell, who had met up with James en route to the north, where he was meant to meet with Rokk and a select team, as they crossed Caledonia to depart for Ulster.
“What news?” asked the injured knight.
“Not good. Again, we came too late,” James said. MacKell tried to hide his wince at seeing Garth missing an arm.
Garth nodded. “The only plan that has borne fruit was my approach, to chose a likely spot and wait for it.”
MacKell was about to challenge the assumption, but James stepped in to vouch. “T’is true. Only by patience was Garth able to encounter the monster. I say it’s worth a try, with all three of us.”
“Then it’s agreed,” Garth said, not waiting for MacKell’s word. “I’ve also enlisted the Druid Llanfair, and we’ve chosen several good sites. We shall meet him at the village of Ambule’s Sidhe in all haste. I would be done with this fiend.”
Garth opted not to mention the one sparkle of hope Llanfair gave him. But that would have to wait until the dragon was dispatched.
[ December 26, 2005, 08:21 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Ninety
“It’s… amazing,” Lu stammered.
“Just imagine the builders of it! It must have been Ys, or Hybrasil,” Thom added.
“Did not Ossian say it was his father’s doing?” Lu asked.
“Nay. That was but a bardic tale he said he’d made up,” Laoraighll corrected.
The climbed the rocks, stepping pillar-to-pillar as if they were made as stairs.
“But why stack these pillars one against the other, with no discernable purpose?” Querl asked. Yet he couldn’t believe this was a natural formation – almost every pillar-top in sight had six almost-even sides. One who knew the geometries built this place, he marveled. He’d heard of a similar formation in Sicilia. Where they related?
Rokk took a moment to listen to the sea crash into the lower pillars. How far under the waves do these extend? he wondered.
“Interesting. But how do these relate to the white triangle business?” Reep asked.
“Well. Most visitors are so impressed with the rocks themselves that they never bother with the cave my father also found. Come.”
The knavish bard led the troupe to a sea cave, largely hidden by fallen pillars at the edge of the formation. “This is why we had to wait for low tide.” At his urging, he, Reep and Laoraighll lit torches.
There was still water to wade through, but little more than 100 yards in, the cave widened and elevated to dry terrain.
“Amazing!” Querl was already impressed, surveying the wall carvings.
“What are they?” asked Lu.
Rokk, meanwhile, found a sculpture of the sacred bull – complete with white triangle markings. The statue was old, but the adjacent candle-drippings, herbs – and blood - were not.
“Egyptian pictograms,” Querl answered. “I’ve seen the like in many places across the eastern Mediterranean. Their exact meanings are unknown, but I can hazard a guess.” He paused. “But I know not what those are.”
“An ancient form of Ogham, the Irish Druidic script,” Ossian provided, “I can make out only a little-“
“-War,” L’ile interjected. All eyes turned to him. “This was written after the Egyptian, I’d wager. The ancient Druids – or whoever wrote this – were celebrating victory over their pursuers, and some sort of… ‘Evil one.’”
Querl nodded. “What little I can make of the Egyptian refers to a warrior and a pharaoh’s daughter, and their band fleeing Egypt. The pharaoh…and perhaps priests… of Anubis? pursued them, it seems.”
“They came to Eiru amid a storm, and blamed Eiru’s inhabitants, the de Danaan, for their ill fortune,” Laoraighll said, reciting old legends. “These… Milesians took Eiru from the De Danaans.”
“Well, I’d wager Milesians and de Danaans found common cause against the Egyptians,” L’ile said, pointing toward an illustration showing an Egyptian wielding the Eye of Balor, vanquishing two types of foes – presumable Milesian and De Danaan alike. It reminded him of the more recent markings at Roxxius’ tower.
“Somehow, we need to know what happened here,” Rokk said, drawing attention to his finding. “I say that there is a direct connection between this Irish-Egyptian war and the doings of today.”
But what was it like back then? And how would we find out? L’ile pondered.
[ December 26, 2005, 08:19 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
One Hundred and Ninety-one
Garth paced, trying to calm himself.
The August moon, not yet full, was still bright in the sky, and the sole source of light for him. He paced through the stone circle, a monument already ancient by the time even the Celts came to this land, and the place whence the dragon essentially came – and from whence it must perish.
His anger was ebbing; that surprised him. Was that Llanfair’s doing? In truth, he could no longer hold a grudge against the man than he could against, say, Dyrk’s ancestors for Rome’s role in the fiasco.
Twice, he, James and MacKell had encountered the beast, and twice it fled, wounded but intact.
“Dragon!” he shouted. “You were summoned here to plague the Romans who stole and occupied this land! The Roman era is done with! Your task is done!”
Garth felt a little foolish shouting out into the night, but if it worked…
It was about an hour later when he began to hear the thrashing and grunting of something large. The dragon ‘s scaly skin scintillated under the moon as it approached.
It growled and roared, but not as a fierce menacing monster, but like an old man in pain, yearning to go on to the Summer Country.
“Dragon! Your time is done! Go back, back whence you came!”
The dragon roared louder, right into his face, and Garth understood – this was not defiance, but frustration.
“A dragon cannot leave this world with the peace of an old man nor the acquiescence of a coward. I understand. Very well, my friend, I shall give you one last fight, one last joust.”
It was not with much satisfaction that a one-armed knight slew a tired old dragon, and Garth found sad the irony that perhaps his most celebrated knightly deed was in fact the least satisfying.
With morning’s light, MacKell and James rejoined him, tending to his new wounds.
“The dragon’s hide should go to Wynn,” Garth said. “T’was his quest that we fulfilled this morn.”
Llanfair smiled in agreement. The two of them had far to go together to tend to the knight’s arm…
[ December 26, 2005, 04:19 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes I-11-15, 181-190:
I-11/14: I knew all along that Jeka and Ag would be apart for a while in the east, but I didn't imagine he'd get that far east. Ag following the Silk Road east did make sense, though.
i-12: I knew Relnic would be intro'd in this set of interludes. Until I got here, I was still not certain whether the discs would be Frankish or the Eastern Empire - but the latter's distance made the Franks a better candidate. Also, if Rome corresponds to little bluish men in red robes, then Constantinople should correspond to tall, meddling robed guys. Also - by this time, Alexandria had already been looted/trashed by the Christians, but I'm assuming there's some salvageable knowledge - and Ireland (along with Baghdad, later) was the recipient of a lot of knowledge otherwise lost during the Dark Ages.
I-13: I had originally six or seven ideas for "The East" but a couple fell through - at least one was Mordru's fault! But I've pulled some great long-term ideas out of unplanned fill-ins, and this one's already percolating.
I-15: A lot of exposition - apologies. Credit to Wikipedia for summarizing these events; it was the most expedient way to advance Vidar's story in order to fit what comes next.
181-184: For the first time in quite a while, I confess to borrowing a bit from MZB on this. But with my own twists - Reep's secret role, Mysa's unintended empathy.
181: James' growth was indeed hinted at way back when - both in his strange armour and in the forest scene, where he goes back to face the camp raiders while the others try to follow Jonah. also in the following chapter, Belinant mentions a giant in the woods, which the knights know of. I'd meant to get back to this sooner, but it hadn't fit - but will be needed soon.
Yes, I take a liberty with "Helvetic cheese" - Helvetica goes on to become Switzerland. Brocavium was an old Roman town, I believe in or near today's Penrith. A Roman road connected Carlisle (then actually Luguvallium, but Carlisle's easier), and eventually south to (Eboracum) York.
185/188/190: I realize I didn't spell it out: Rokk and company sailed up the east coast of Britain, the North Sea side, a safer and more direct route north, vs. sailing all the way around Cornwall and north near whatever fleets Saraid and Glorith may have. Not that Rokk’s a coward - but the mission was a stealthy one. They sailed to Lothian (Edinburgh), crossed the isthmus to the firth of Clyde (today's Glasgow), following an old Roman defensive wall. From there, they sail southwest to Ulster.
188: The bard Ossian is indeed credited with the oldest known tale of Giant's Causeway, and his father's (pronounced and sometimes spelled Finn McCool) role.
189: Ambule’s Sidhe is today's Ambleside, just north of Windermere. I know Romans settled there, but I couldn't find a period name.
190: I love when several tangential threads start interweaving of their own accord. I also love when I start researching background on a slim thread idea, and find plenty of supporting material, which in turn helps me brainstorm the next step.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:21 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Harbinger on :
Hey Sean, I've got quite a bit of catching up to do with this - can't wait! I'll finish reading it tomorrow and let you know what I think so far.
Glad to see I've come back to more, more, more!
Bxx
Posted by Harbinger on :
Oh well, I had to do it, just couldn't wait any longer and let me tell you it was worth reading! You're intertwined complex plots keep on throwing up surprises and it's GREAT!!!
I'll re-read it in the next week no doubt, and if you happen to post a couple of more chapters between now and then all the better
Sean, this is tremendous, more, more, more!
Hope all is well
Bxx
Posted by Karie on :
Been hoping that some more had been written. But I'm patient:)
Posted by Hey you on :
One Hundred and Ninety-two
The pharaoh smiled.
As his priests predicted, the gods provided four powerful allies to aid the cause. My daughter shall learn the error of her ways, and these children of Milesh shall know punishment indeed.
He surveyed his encampment with satisfaction. Although this strange land was damp and over-grown, there was plenty to sustain his army. Unfortunately, his foes, established for so many months, were also so benefited.
“What do the scouts report?” the Egyptian monarch demanded of a subordinate.
“The Milesians are trying to fortify their settlement – with a wooden stockade.”
Good. “We shall burn them out, then.” As we have the last three villages.
The Milesians had allies, this time – the tall, fair-haired people of this green isle, it was true, but he was certain his new servants would come up with something, and put their strange talents to good use.
“Have the green Hellenic brought to my tent,” the pharaoh ordered. “We have strategy to plan.”
The next morning, the Egyptian forced marched on the village, flames already billowing upward.
The confused Milesians tried to run for safety, but one of the pharaoh’s new allies led a company of warriors to cut them off.
“None shall escape the divine justice of your pharaoh,” he bellowed, not really certain of the tongue he spoke – but confident nonetheless in barking orders, and expecting them to be followed.
He was met by a warrior who was no more Milesian than he was – pale-skinned, but not as fair-skinned as this land’s natives – but then neither was he nor his three peers. “You shall not harm these folk while I stand!” The knight spoke this tongue as awkwardly as he did!
The two joined combat. While the Milesian defender was the better warrior, the pharaoh’s man felt he had some magical influence the very metal of their weapons…
Posted by Hey you on :
One Hundred and Ninety-three
“But why do you wish to see King Pellam?”
The withered old man at the gate smiled patiently.
“The king has a magickal spear that can defeat the sorceress Glorith,” blurted Balin, with no shortage of exasperation. For the past month, he’d faced misdirection after misdirection, and now, finally at Pellam’s door – an old man wouldn’t let him in!
“And who are you, that does not remove his helm, that would seek the sorceress’ demise?”
“I mean no discourtesy, good sir. My true face is deformed; I keep my helm so as not to alarm you. I am Balin, of the court of King Rokk. My brother Balan was bespelled by Glorith into slaying the Lady of the Lake. I mean to avenge that wrong.”
“Lady Kiwa – dead?” The old man was clearly troubled by this. “And you are Balin of the Two Swords.”
“I have been called such of late.”
The view-hole closed unceremoniously. Soon after, the gate opened.
“My thanks,” Balin said to the old man, facing him fully, person to person. “Could you take me to your master? I must apologize, but time is of the essence.”
The old man closed the gate behind him, slowly working the large iron wheel that guides the portcullis.
“Look no further, young knight, for I am King Pellam.”
Gauging Balin’s incredulity, he continued. “I am but an old king, whose lands shrink as each new monarch grows hungry for new lands. I have no sons, no guards, no servants, and nothing to offer my people, save wisdom, love and charity.”
The old king smiled. Balin could not help but do likewise; Pellam’s charisma and humility was infectious.
“I erred in coming here,” Balin said. “I cannot ask you to go on this quest with me.”
“You need my spear, not me,” Pellam beamed. It’s legend keeps the brigands away; I know not if I can even wield it anymore.”
Pellam led him to a sparse throne room, adorned by no less than 50 spears, and chose not the one Balin would guess is the magickal one. “Tell no one this is my spear; its legend can still protect this castle, if the highwaymen believe it yet remains here. They need not know no knights reside here.”
Aye, nut one shall, once this quest is done, Balin silently pledged. If I survive. Posted by Hey you on :
One Hundred and Ninety-four
He’d been overconfident.
Reeling from the attack, he struggled to escape the shock of his wound – and its deliverer. He’d strolled out into the battlefield, confident his belt would keep him from harm – but this lass had sliced his arm!
I know her, don’t I? Shouldn’t there be three of her? He picked up a dead Milesian’s shield, and tried to fend her off so he could get to his feet. Why does she fight for the enemy?
Who is the enemy? he pondered. Is this really my fight – or hers?
But it took every effort to keep her at bay, although he still found the Milesians could touch him not. He tried to use a Milesian’s spear – but she knocked it aside with ease. I must be truly impressing my allies – they’ve never seen these Celt women fight.
Yet I have? When? How?
Would the answer have come to him? His opponent landed a solid hit – with the flat of her sword, and sent him toward the ground. He moved not; and his arm-wound had made enough blood to convince her he was dead.
She moved on; there were plenty of Egyptians yet to fight.
The pharaoh had watched the green man fall, but was soon caught up in his own problems. One of the natives had fought his way through, and was within striking range. How does he fight so? The gods have blessed him, too!
The man plowed through a dozen of the pharaoh’s personal bodyguards, and there was no stopping him – except his golden-haired treasure – one of his four god-like beings.
She stepped in to save her new god and master – and fought the wild-man blow for blow! Even without weapons, she held her own, and the two traded blows faster than the pharaoh could keep track.
Elsewhere, more natives joined in, on the side of the Milesians. I shall need my own native allies, the pharaoh realized, signaling for a group of warriors to join him, and carry him back to camp.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:27 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Hey you on :
One Hundred and Ninety-five
Jonah knew he was being followed – his pursuer had no knack for woodland stealth, it was clear.
He was well into Pict territory, and no Pict, hunter or not, would be so obvious.
Is this a would-be helper, on oaf – or some kind of trick? Lot’s son wondered.
The sun was nearing the western horizon. Dusk would be a good time to expose the follower… unless the Picts get him first.
Damn it.
As the trail rounded a large boulder, Jonah pulled around behind it, and lied in wait for-
“Father Marla!?”
“Greetings, Sir Jonah.”
“Why dost thou follow me?”
“You are bound for the lake where you fought your dragon, yes?”
“…Aye.”
“”You wish to expel whatever… less beneficial gifts the dragon bestowed upon you?”
“My madness, you mean,” Jonah was not of the mind to mince words.
“Is that how you see it?”
“I know not what to think, if I may speak truly. But I tire of every loose tongue at court questioning whether my mind is addled. In truth, I cannot say it is not.”
“What does Tinya think?”
“She loves me too much to say ill, yet… Since she regained flesh, she no longer sees my… nemesis, when he turns up.”
“Go on.”
“My ‘attack’ on Rokk? To my recollect, I was turning to face this… Green Knight – not King Rokk. My foe and I, we were alone deep in the woods, not on the crowded jousting field.”
“If you seek to… expel this… dragon-demon, if that is what it is, you may lose your… special gifts.”
“So be it. I will earn my place as a reliable knight, or be not a knight at all,” Jonah said definitively. “S I must go alone.”
“If you truly distrust your eyes, you will need a second set. An impartial set,” Marla rebutted.
Jonah smiled. “Another quest together to prove myself?”
“Aye, but this time I have arranged no illusion.”
“Illusion? You mean we did not travel to Hybrasil and meet the craftsmen-god Lugh?”
“Lugh? I had you meet the Caesars!” Seeing Jonah’s eyes panic in more self-doubt, he laughed. “A jest, son. Aye, it was Lugh we illusioned for you.”
The two resumed their ride, together this time.
“How did you draw up such an illusion? It seemed very real.”
“The house of Voxv is not the only keeper of the unreal. I have friends.”
Jonah sighed. For such a Christian priest, Father Marla had more secrets and mysteries than someone like Luornu would find proper…
Posted by Hey you on :
One Hundred and Ninety-six
This is madness, he thought, sneaking through the battlefield unseen. Why do I fight for Egypt? Why is my heart filled with such dread?
One of the Milesians before him shifted faces – into the pharaoh’s!
Just like Reep can-
Who is Reep?
“REEP!” he called out, potentially endangering his only safety.
The figure turned, and squinted.
“It’s me!” he blurted, trying to recall his own name. “It’s… L’ile!”
“L’ile?” The figure looked confused. “L’ile, what are we doing?” He fought an urge to take a swing at an Egyptian soldier, confused by the face he wore.
“This isn’t our war. We’re somehow reliving the Milesians’ defeat of the Egyptians. We’ve got to get out of here before-”
The losing Egyptians were regrouping, and a new army joined them: Formorian giants, whose king was accompanied by a floating white orb, which looked like an eyeball. Emerald beams shot out of it, striking down Milesians and de Danaans alike.
“I’d say it’s too late,” Reep said, starting to grasp the situation.
“No! There’s one more thing that must be done. Come on!”
The two raced to the edge of the battlefield, and followed the shore to the Egyptians’ boats. Sneaking past sentries, they found the pharaoh’s, and saw what it contained.
“The pharaoh is waiting for victory to put this ashore and dedicated it to his gods, or put it ashore as a curse, if he loses. He must do neither,” L’ile said, as the two struggled put the boat out to sea.
It was too heavy.
“You look like you could use a hand.”
The voice was Ossian’s. The boat started moving.
“Many thanks,” said L’ile, as he and Reep boarded. “How did you know?”
“I’m a story-teller. Once I recognized the story – even one different from our presence, it was only a question of time before I figured it out,” the bard called from the shore.
Some sentries engaged him in combat, while the rest took other boats to pursue. More adept at rowing, they were catching up. In their favour, Reep and L’ile had only a strong wind moving them out to sea.
“What now?” Reep asked.
“Set the boat afire. That will sink this… thing beneath the waves!”
Reep started rubbing flint to steel. “And us?”
“We should awaken at the cave, as Querl no doubt has.”
The pharaoh’s bed was now ablaze. “I still understand this not.”
“We wanted to learn about the Egypt/Eiru war, yes? The cave’s magicks no doubt granted our wish.”
“So we are now uncounted lifetimes in the past?” Reep asked, as the two returned to the deck. The cabin behind was getting smoky.
“Nay; I believe not. I think we are reliving the lives of some who fought in those times – me, a renegade Egyptian spy, and you, a Milesian who bore a strange resemblance to the pharaoh. His son, perhaps.”
“Uh, L’ile? We’re being boarded.”
“The flames will be too far along to save this boat. We fight to keep them at bay, ere we die, and awaken at the cave,” the Druid said with confidence.
Reep wished for the same level of assurance as he drew his sword.
“And if we don’t?” The Egyptians moved in.
“…then we prevented a great evil from destroying Eiru – and probably Britain; let it remain lost beneath the waves.”
Outnumbered, the battle ended the only way it could have.
[ December 29, 2005, 07:23 AM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Hey you on :
One Hundred and Ninety-seven
Garth and Llanfair parted company with MacKell at Credigon, where the Ulster knight would await orders from Rokk, having missed their departure for Ulster.
Garth held his doubts, though - would such a small boat serve them well at sea?
“It’s an offering,” Llanfair explained. “We need the help of Manannan Mac Lir, the sea-king, in order to reach our destination. And he will only let us through, if we lie helpless before him, in his own realm,” the Druid gestured about to the endless waters before them.”
“Joy is mine,” Garth said sarcastically, glad for once not to have armour’s weight about him.
Still within close sight of land, the waves were often higher than their small sail, when they were in the vales between waves. At other times, they would be high atop a wave, and Garth marveled that the boat did not fall aside, with the wind and thin-ness of their craft.
The seas off Caledonia’s shores were rough indeed, and both men were grateful for a night’s rest on a small isle they found, one of the Far Hebrides.
The next day’s sailing was even worse; squalls of rain brought the sea washing into their craft. With the sail down and the two men tied to their boat, they could only bail and hope that they overturned not--
They hoped in vain.
Clinging to an overturned craft, watching their supplies disappear into the tempest around them, Garth struggled to hold on with his sole hand and bob upward for air.
Llanfair called out; Garth could not hear over the roaring sea.
‘Ett know?’
He couldn’t possibly mean-
“Let go!”
This time Garth heard. Has he gone mad? Looking around, he questioned the sanity of this whole effort.
In for a silver, in for the gold.
Garth let the waves take him, and hoped whatever rituals Llanfair had prepared would-
“-Help you to your feet?”
Garth awoke with a start.
They were on an island, a rocky cold shore with steep cliff walls that extended upward into the mists. The maiden before him offered him her hand; he was face-down on a beach of smooth black sand. A stone stairway led up the cliff-side, barely large enough for a child or young woman to comfortably climb, and even then, some parts looked questionable.
Garth thought about denying her aid offer and rising himself, but thought the better of refusing hospitality - if he was indeed at the home of one or more gods.
“My thanks,” he said, as she helped steady him. The rhapsodies of the seas had thrown off his balance more than he realized. “Is Llanfair all right?”
She giggled. “You are our guest this day. No other.” She led him toward the stairs.
Did I get the Druid killed in hopes I would get my arm back?
[ January 01, 2006, 04:24 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Hey you on :
One Hundred and Ninety-eight
“Did we dream, or not?” Thom repeated.
“We did, after a fashion. We shared the same dream, in fact,” L’ile said, trying to simplify his take on their experiences.
“What was that flame that shot out of the sea?” Lu asked. “It shrieked like the devil himself!”
“L’ile and I were ‘dead’ by then, but I can only conjecture that the… receptacle L’ile and I sought to bury at sea let loose a last gasp of magicks; perhaps seeking to alert its followers where it was, so they could find it.”
Querl nodded, annoyed that he was also ‘dead,’ and unable to observe the scene.
“And it had the reverse effect. With the pharaoh dead,” Laoraighll gestured to her own hands, “and the day lost, the surviving Egyptians threw in lot with the Milesians and the de Danaans, ending the war.”
“We know not that the alliance lasted.” L’ile said. “The legends-”
“-were wrong,” Ossian blurted. For many of you, your ‘dreams’ ended during or shortly after the war. I saw life continue for years after, and peace between the three groups - even an alliance against the Fomorians. As one versed in all the tales, I believe the Milesians and de Danaans became one people fairly peacefully, despite the legends of olde.”
“And the white triangle medallions became a pledge not to forget,” Laoraighll, “not to free this… monster from the sea.”
“Combined with either the cults of Apis or Mithras, some sort of sacrifice was no doubt maintained to keep the… evil at bay,” Querl conjectured.
“And Angtough?” Rokk didn’t like the missing piece of the puzzle.
“Still a dilemma. Was it the Dark Circle, taking ‘sacrifice’ to an extreme, as they take many things?” L’ile asked. “Or Roxxius, was he also seeking what we flushed into the sea - not just Jan?”
“Whether as raiding spoils or intentionally, Roxxius did have white triangle medallions at his Eiru lair,” Reep reminded. “AND the eye-orb, the ‘Justice of Balor.’”
“How did the humans stop the Fomorians, and the eye?” Thom asked Ossian.
“The gods did,” he replied. “And one lost an arm for the deed.”
“What’s next?” Reep asked.
“Saraid,” Rokk said. “With the eye-orb tied up in this, we cannot risk her learning what we know. Laoraighll’s Stone of Virtue was the key to freeing the eye, and if the legends are true, it was the key to imprisoning it ere now.”
Ossian smiled.King Coirpre will be glad to learn of this.
“Ossian, Laoraighll, L’ile and Reep will cross Eiru - as discreetly as possible, and gather such intelligence as they can, en route to Roxxius’ tower. I apologize that you may miss Jonah’s wedding, but this must be a priority.
“They rest of us will join with MacKell, and visit Angtough ourselves.”
[ December 29, 2005, 07:26 AM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Hey you on :
One Hundred and Ninety-nine
“He is Amhlaidh’s son’s son. Let me kill him,” Manaugh whispered.
“Nay. Not yet. Sir Gawaine has done this land may good deeds; and prophecy says he will again. We will but observe,” Tasmia admonished.
She motioned for the hunting party to let them pass untouched.
Obliviously, Jonah and Marla rode by below at the base of the cliff, seemingly unaware of the potential assailants some 30 feet above them, discussing where to camp for the night, given that dusk was deepening.
Manaugh and the hunters silently made their way toward the far ridge, but Tasmia remained, letting the darkness keep her hidden.
This Gawaine bears watching,she thought, as trail took the duo below away from the cliff-wall and across a clearing before retuning them to the woods.
He turned and looked straight at her - for just a moment. Did he see her? For the first time ever, Tasmia wondered if someone could see through her shadows without her consent. But no. Even if I stood solely in twilight’s shadows, he could not see me up here. One of the hunters must have kicked a loose rock.
Night did not last long in the north, and Jonah was awake early, catching fish for fast-breaking. Marla smiled; this was true fellowship - a journey of importance on behalf of a friend’s very soul.
The morning mist clung to the late later than the rising dun would suggest, and Marla could well believe that this deep, dark loch could not only be home to many strange creatures - but its surface seems to encourage sightings real or imagined as well.
“How far is to the strand where you fought the dragon?” Marla asked Jonah, who stared out across the lake.
“How far-” he started to ask again, initially assuming his young friend hadn’t heard. But then, he saw where Jonah’s eyes lingered - a knight on horse - clad in a green tunic. “Who is that? That cannot be-”
“You see him?” Jonah was surprised. Turning back, the knight was gone.
“He moves swiftly, and silently,” said Marla, who observed the knight’s ability to vanish quickly.
“Praise be!” Jonah declared. “I in truth fear no foe I can face and fight, but only those who are beyond sword’s ability to reach!”
“Will you chase him?”
“Nay. He will come to me, when he’s ready.” For the first time in months, Jonah smiled a toothy grin.
[ December 29, 2005, 07:27 AM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Hey you on :
Two Hundred
Garth winced as he watched his friends and comrades suffer.
Camelot’s walls, Avalon, the stone circle at Salisbury plain, Weyland-on-the-Hill, Aves’ Borough, Cymru’s Druidic grove… even Hadrian’s Wall had all fallen before the man whose fingers could do ungodly miracles - and cause ungodly destruction. And now the hand faced his comrades, all gathered at what would have been Jonah and Tinya’s wedding day. And Garth had front seating for these deeds.
“Jan! Kill him! Make his blood poison!” Garth shrieked - but no one could hear. “Genni! Run a blade trough him faster than he can see!”
“This fiend wants the Grail!” Lu exclaimed.
“He’ll not get it,” Rokk snarled, drawing Excalibur.
“Wait!” the queen bellowed. “It’s Garth!”
Nay, t’is not, but this… demon who uses me like his glove, Garth thought.
His comrades hesitated. Garth’ hand struck several down; some looked… dead.
“Kill me, else this fiend destroys all Britain!” Garth again pled.
“There is but one way, Garth. Fight the demon’s will, that your comrades have a chance,” said a voice. Garth recognized him as one he heard before the demon came. “But there is a price.”
“There always is. What is it?”
“You will die, and forever be remembered a villain.”
Garth looked at the comrades, already dead, wounded… they had maybe one last offense within them Else they die… Berach was bleeding profusely, Dyrk was burning alive… Ayla! She should not be here!
“I accept,” Garth said.
“Then imagine yourself fighting the demon with all the might you can. Distract him!”
Garth pictured himself hacking away at the fiend with all his strength - blocking out that it was his own body, and the fiend turned on him - and gave as good as he got! There were no shields, no armour, no bandages in this fight, and each sword-strike slashed away as a primordial wound on his psyche. He shrieked with each blow - surely no one had ever felt such pain, untempered but the padding of flesh!
It worked. His comrades subdued his physical self, and he could feel both his life and the demon’s ebbing.
“Any last words?” offered Rokk. “We should have left you for dead, like a man, the first time.”
“I spit on King Rokk, I spit on Britain!” the mouth of Garth said. The demon smiled, but Garth let up not his attack, relying on momentum more than focus at this point. Let them think as they will.
Seeing his physical body die, and the demon depart, Garth smiled and let himself drift onward…
…There was a man waiting; a man with a silver arm.
[ December 29, 2005, 07:29 AM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Hey you on :
Two Hundred and One
“King Rokk is coming here.”
Tasmia could believe it not. She had no malice toward the man who fancied himself king of the entire isle - including the Pictish lands - but immediately wondered if he came solely to carve up the northlands to peoples loyal to him.
Or - did he come to try to take the Cave of Shadows for himself!?
“What shall we do, Maven?”
“I shall meet the man who would be our king. You shall keep Manaugh away - I’ll judge him myself - without shadows of vengeance lingering about.”
Tasmia nodded reluctantly - she wanted to assess this King Rokk herself. But I’d not want Manaugh at my side, either.
With leave to depart, Tasmia gave her customary salute to Sgathach as she passed Her cave. The day was still young…
…and Jonah and Marla made good time traveling down the great glen. Breaking camp in the very shadow of Neibh’iesh, they soon made contact with the Scoti village where the lochs meet the sea.
Jonah made no effort to hide his fresh wounds, knowing Marla had seen the Green Knight’s ambush - and his retreat in defeat.
Lot’s son was immediately struck by how much more fortified the village had become. This place feels like small Anglish towns near Lindum, who live in constant fear of both Khund and Celt. Was Angtough’s seed planted here, too?
Marla noticed it, too. There were far few Pictish traders in town, and those of few of mixed blood who ventured out in public scurried away again to hide themselves from public view.
Acquiring lodgings at the village’s sole inn, they learned that MacKell - who was becoming quite the hero of the Scoti - was en route with King Rokk himself - to Skye.
What do they want on that gods-forsaken isle? Jonah wondered. “I dare say we must join him,” he told Marla.
In the morning, they hired a boat to take them north…
…where Garth found himself wash up on the shore. “Are you all right, lad?” asked Llanfair, ready to help him to his feet.
“I’m fine,” Garth said, not without déjà vu, as this arrival paralleled his last. This time, he arrived with company, and the scrappy remnants of what was once a small boat.
“Lad!” Llanfair exclaimed with joy. “You’ve got two hands!”
“…Aye,” Garth confirmed, studying his silvery limb. How much was real? Am I regarded a villain, an evil menace, back at court? Dare I show my face again?
Searching for food, the two began walking up the shore…
“…where we shall present out findings to the Pictish high priestess, who they call ‘Maven,’” Rokk said.
The red-haired elder nodded. “I have long sought such a meeting as well. And this Angtough situation makes it well over-due.”
“My thanks that you could join us, Fergus,” Rokk offered.
“King Fergus,” MacKell corrected. “He is the true leader of the Gaels in Caledonia. While limited in lands, Dalriada certainly has greater lands than some of southern Britain’s vassal kingdoms.”
“Bah!” Fergus said. “We Scoti place more in clanship than kings, as you well know.”
“Mayhap. But the Scoti need a unified voice to address Pictish concerns,” Rokk said. “And you, King Fergus, are the man - in bloodline and in leadership.”
Lu and Thom followed the discussion intently, hoping indeed that northern Britain’s feuds could be settled. Querl, half-listening, still dwelt on the information at hand - and how to present it all to the Pictish priestess.
“She’s no dullard,” Fergus said, guessing the Greek’s thought. “The Picts may be unlearned by your Greek and Roman standards,” he continued, “but many have lost their fortunes - and even lives, I must say - by wrongly thinking them.”
MacKell nodded. “One of their previous shadow priestesses, who was called Skye, taught myself, and other members of Craebh Ruadh, how to fight - and how to think and strategize.”
Thom nodded. “Even in Cornwall, we knew of Skye.”
“Skye was of the Mallor line of priestesses; all knew the arts of war, as well as the arts of shadow.”
“Indeed, the isle itself is often covered of shadow,” MacKell agreed.
Almost as if on cue, the swath of sea clouds blew over, allowing the party their first glimpse of shadowy Skye.
[ December 29, 2005, 07:31 AM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
Posted by Hey you on :
Two Hundred and two
Saihlough had taken her time, but she finally reached Anglesey.
Although honoured and thrilled to be given a quest of her own, she was still a faerie, first and foremost, so there were games to play, flowers to dance with, and mischief to be made en route from Deva, where she and MacKell had parted company, all the way across North Cymru.
But to Anglesey she did arrive, fueled by word that knights who were resisting the rule of Glorith on the Isle of Manannan had made their camp there.
Searching the isle of Anglesey, she found several fishing settlements, a number of ship-wrecks, and the ruins.
“I’ve been here before,” she told herself. “Back when they called this place Mona.” She recalled with joy the Beltane fests where she would watch the Druids and the Maidens of Spring dance! Sometimes, she would use her faerie dust and reduce a young Druid male to her size - and once, she even made herself human-sized, to try the human rites of spring herself.
“That wasn’t so long ago,” she told herself. “But it was before the Scowlers came!” So why did the ruins look so old?
Maybe there is something to how the humans must mark their days. The world has changed so little since men first came to these isles, yet now I notice how much change there has been in a scant dozen human life-times? Mayhap I have spent too much time amongst them.
She thought again of the first humans to come, who so timidly followed the receding ice northward, before the sea made Britain an island. What fun those humans were! No swords, no armour, no cities. What games my folk would play! But every child grows up in the human world, so it’s said - Even humanity itself.
Suddenly realizing she was being watched, she blended into the high grasses. Someone with Sight spies upon me. I need more than this grass-crowd…
Reaching into her pouch, she pulled out a handful of faerie dust, and blew. A temporary phantasm of herself flew back out over the ruins, and Saihlough slipped away.
She found the encampment, some three miles away.
There were four of them, two women and two men - and they were fighting one of the Orkney brothers! But was it Balin - or the villainous Balan!?
One of the women was a sorceress - she cast spells, brining logs and rocks to life, battering them against the attacking knight. The other woman had turned into a phantom - and was trying to choke the knight with the very air about him! It did not seem to hold effect, though.
One of the men, a large-headed fellow, was already down. The other, a big, burly man, it seemed, had the same gift as the brothers - he had shifted his body into living metal.
Iron! I shall not be a party to that fray, she resolved.
She instead tended to the fallen man. Battered by the Orkneyman’s fist, it seemed, there was no sword-wound - only bruising damage. That can be enough to kill, she noted.
The large-headed man’s life-glow was strong, she could see. He would be well in time; she set about gathering medicinal herbs in any case…
When she returned, the battle was over. Balan, based upon what the others had learned, had fled - using Glorith’s magicks.
Saihlough introduced herself, and presented the scroll prepared by Queen Guinevere herself.
“We would welcome the chance to talk and mayhap ally with King Rokk’s legion,” the burly man - Aord of Kaihlough - said. “But, how do I say this? There are faeries in this world who present one thing, but deliver something else.”
Oh course, silly! That’s the point, Saihlough thought while smiling. “King Rokk’s own cousin, Jonah - also known as Gawaine, marries in four weeks, in Lindum. Queen Guinevere would welcome you all as her guests.”
The women, the sorceress Siomhe of the clan Gandr, and the now-solid Taillnaeghi, both smiled at the invitation. The unconscious Seth, of course, had no way of voicing opposition.
“Allow us to leave word for our comrades, Sirs Dodinel and Balin.
Balin was here, and has already made them allies! Imra will be pleased!
Saihlough liked this Aord. He would make a fine addition to King Rokk’s companions! Posted by Hey you on :
Two Hundred and three
“And this fellow now approaching, he would be the legendary Sir Garth.”
Fergus looked confused, turning to MacKell for clarification before the lad was within greeting distance. “I thought you said he’d lost an arm fighting a dragon?”
Jonah was surprised - he’d not yet caught up on all the happenings, having just arrived within the same hour.
“He… seems to have gotten better,” MacKell smiled. My thanks to Llanfair, that his plan worked!
“In your rush to catch up with me, you must still take care not to loose limbs!” Jonah called out to the Breton knight.
“T’was only a flesh wound. I’ve had worse,” Garth shot back, and the tow greeted each other with a brotherly hug.
“Sir Garth, may I present Fergus, king of the Scots!” MacKell interjected.
“An honour, sir,” Garth saluted him humbly.
“None of that!” Fergus laughed. “I’ll not claim such title until tomorrow’s council is over and done with!”
Thom rushed into the encampment, “Where is he?” Seeing Garth, he leapt upon his friend and peer. “Garth of the Lake! T’is you! Healthy and whole!”
“Almost,” Garth replied, freeing himself from the bear-hug. “Behold!”
He withdrew his right gauntlet, revealing a silvery hand.
“Zounds!” whispered Lu.
“Amazing” agreed Querl.
Garth’s hand pulled slightly to the left. “T’is truly metal,” Rokk commented. “At least now I have some influence over where at least one of your hands strays!”
The knights laughed.
Garth removed his cloak and robe, and rolled up his chain mail enough to show that more than his hand was silver.
“Whew!” Lu whistled. “You are worth even more to the merchants of Londinium!”
Rokk and Thom laughed.
“One does not honour such a gift so lightly,” Fergus admonished. “This is something out of the tales of the Tuatha de Danaan themselves! Nuada of the Silver-Arm-”
“-was my very benefactor,” Garth declared. “With Dian Cecht’s aide, of course.”
Fergus and MacKell were clearly impressed. So was Maven, whose crows heard the conversation for her.
“T’is fortune indeed that you chanced upon us,” Querl said. “Of all the Hebrides, all the crags of Caledonia’s coast, we not only find ourselves on the same isle - but along the same bay of that isle.”
“Not fortune,” Llanfair interjected. “Yet another gift of the gods.”
“Or God,” Marla added, good-naturedly.
“In any case, I shall light a candle for the Luck Lords this eve,” Thom said. “Garth has a divinely granted arm, Jonah beat back his Green Knight - with a witness this time-” he couldn’t resist the jab. “-and we may have a peace between Scot and Pict in short order!”
What the Luck Lords give, they may take just as freely, Rokk kept the thought to himself, not wanting to be the wet blanket. Eye contact with Fergus and Marla told him he was not alone in his thinking.
Fergus is wise. He shall be a great king, and a good ally, thought.
Within the hour, Lu and Thom had caught fish for the evening’s meal, and Rokk’s messenger returned with confirmation from Maven herself that they would meet.
We were expected, Rokk couldn’t shake the feeling. For good or for ill. Posted by Hey you on :
notes 191-201 191: “I didn’t kill my wife” insisted Kimball the Dragon. “It was a one-armed man!” 192: sorry for the delay. It’s been a heckuva year. 193: The Balin/Balan story has dragged on a while; it should be resolved soon. 195/199: The Green Knight story has a few more twists yet; like many, it’s taking longer than I thought; part of the peril of having such damn huge cast! The Lugh story referred to may be back-referenced… at some point. Just before the Rokk/Imra wedding, I referenced their quest together; that’s the same one. 196: What did the boat contain? Time will tell. 197: Manannan Mac Lir was the Celtic sea-god - for whom the Isle of Man is named. The Far Hebrides, or Outer Hebrides, are a desolate, distant archipelago of islands northwest of mainland Scotland. There are indeed a few isles beyond, such as St. Kilda’s, so placing one of the various gods’ isles out there is not beyond reason. 192/194/196/198: To recap; the de Danaans are an early people who came to Ireland, presumably from the area of today’s Denmark, and where a fair-skinned folk in which light hair colors (blond, red) were not uncommon. They presumably displaced earlier folk, both small and dark peoples similar to the Picts, who perhaps became the basis for some of the Irish faerie myths. Also, there may have been some larger peoples, Fomorians/Fir Bolg, whose historical basis (if any) could have been unusual tallness (keep in mind even six feet was quite unusual before the 20th century, given health and diet issues) - not true giant-ness as tales. And, of course, there is precedent for tall peoples in northern Europe. The Milesians, by legend, did indeed flee Egypt around the time of Moses, and although this may well be a fabrication or elaboration by early Christian monks, some contact between the two is not impossible - Greeks and Phoenicians made the trip, too. “Black Irish” - Irish with dark hair and darker complexions, are generally thought to have been the result of a Spanish influx several centuries ago, but who knows? Milesian or pre-de Danaan genes could still be in the mix. For an attempt at clarity, I use Tuatha de Danaan, “children of the mother-goddess Danaan” (also spelled Dannan), to refer to the Gaelic Celt gods; and “de Danaan” to refer to the peoples themselves - although the gods may well have originated from legendary tribal rulers. I use Danaan rather than Dannan, incidentally, to avoid any associations with the yogurt brand presumably named after the goddess herself. 200: I never liked the first two Starfingers; this was a good way to pay homage and move on - while tying it into a necessary part of the story. Weyland-on-the-Hill is one of several names for one of those giant prehistoric chalk carvings that take up entire hills (I’m sure there are pictures online; the hill was also depicted in Sandman: “A midsummer Night’s Dream,” as a gateway to the Faerie court). Weyland, one of the various names for the Brythonic Celts’ god-chieftain; who was in many ways more similar to the Norse god-chieftain Odin than to the Gaelic god-chieftain(s) Nuada, Ogma and Dagda. Aves’ Borough is my extrapolation of Avebury, where an old stone circle, larger in diameter than Stonehenge but not as tall, traverses the village itself. Garth’s battle is obviously an illusion, I hope - but one he is not certain of until he regroups with his comrades. The man with a silver arm is the previously referred Gaelic god Nuada, who lost his arm in combat, was deemed unfit to rule, and was replaced by a king of both Tuatha de Danaan and Fir Bolg blood, who in turn betrayed the Tuatha. Nuada regained the thrown by proving his ability, and defeating the betrayer. DC used intro’d a female Atlantean Nuada with a similar story in the 1980s Aquaman miniseries (the one with that neat blue costume with the waves). 201: Sgathach is another name for Skye, the legendary/perhaps mythical warrior-woman who taught Cu Chulain (Lar in my story) and others to fight, including the Craebh Ruadh, or Red Branch, the order Cu Chulain joined. I’ll be adding another alias to her repertoire soon. There is debate about the accuracy of the name - whether the famous island was named for her, or for other features. I place Skye as a Pict, as Scots had generally not yet arrived anywhere in Scotland yet, although I’ve never heard of a line that followed her, it fits here, for obvious reasons. The isle itself is indeed a shadowy, but beautiful one. Neibh’iesh is my own extrapolation of Nevis (“Neh-vis”), that is Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in Britain, which lies at the southwestern end of the Great Glen, near Fort William. In Braveheart, when Mel Gibson is prancing around the mountainside with the mountain lake behind him and the helicopter-camera circling above him, that’s on a lower portion of Ben Nevis (with angles that carefully avoided the smokestacks of Fort William beyond). I don’t know that there was a Scot village at fort William, as I’ve depicted here, but why not? I think I’ve noted before, but Scoti and Ulstermen are the same people - I’m just using them differently to differentiate between those who still reside in Ulster and those who are colonizing Scotland. Fergus I of Dalriada seems to be an authentic original ruler of the Scots in Scotland; presumably at this point, mostly a number of coastal colonies in southwestern Scotland. Since today’s Scotland only a fraction Scots, I generally continue to use the Roman name Caledonia for the entire region; although the Celtic Alba or Albu would probably be appropriate as well. Based upon my research, and where I began Rokk’s reign, Fergus should have assumed kingship at almost the same time; for my purposes, he was undoubtedly the leader, but has not officially claimed a crown just yet.
[ January 01, 2006, 04:54 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Hey you on :
Two Hundred and four
“Greetings Sentanta, son of Lugh, son of Dechtire, grand-son of Connor, great-grandson of Nessa, great-great-grandson of Kell. I greet you on behalf of my ancestors.”
“Greetings, Maven, of the sacred line of Mallor, descendent of Lydea Sgathach. I greet you in the name of King Rokk,” MacKell slowly returned, focusing on his long-disused Pictish.
Maven and Fergus exchanged greetings directly, as did the priestess and Jonah. MacKell served as translator for Rokk and the others.
“King Rokk. It does you honour to arrive here in the company of the hound,” Maven spoke to Rokk. Jonah took this translation, seeing Lar’s embarrassment.
“Then I am doubly honoured, to have him amongst my companions, and to meet your acquaintance through his friendship.”
They clasped hands warmly. Rokk was touched by her sincerity and presence; she had an aura of… holiness about her.
Maven’s guards escorted Rokk, Lar and Fergus to a small hut where talks would be held. Her entourage of priestesses said naught; one made eye contact with Rokk - but only briefly. Beyond simple attraction, he could tell she knew more than was apparent. I have not Nura’s gift, but we shall meet again, Rokk told himself.
Maven took only one servant inside with them, and had her pour herself and the guests mead. After some preliminary niceties, Rokk dove into the issues at hand.
“With your permission, let me speak frankly,” Rokk said. Waiting for Lar to translate, and seeing Maven’s nod, he continued.
“Britain needs to stand as one against her enemies: Glorith, Saraid, and the Khunds,” he paused for emphasis and translation. “My most trusted seer has told me they will come in numbers few alive have ever seen - next summer. For this isle to not be over-run, we need every tribe, every faction, every warrior to come together. Roman, Celt, Scoti, Pict, Orkneyman, Angle, even Kentish Khund - all of them. All of us.
“There are those would see us divided. I have seen- MacKell and I, and my knights have seen that t’was not the Scoti who slaughtered Angtough, but a Dark Circle who would see this isle - aye, perhaps all the world - drown in a sea of barbaric invasions, with all our peoples slaughtered or driven from our homes.
“I have exacted a pledge from Fergus that the Scots will colonize no further, nor trade or explore into Pictish lands, save with Pictish blessings. All I ask is that the Picts stand with us next spring, when the Khunds seek to take this isle from us.”
Fergus nodded in solidarity.
“Also, while Fergus’ people have named him their king, he has agreed to await your consent, as a sign of alliance,” Rokk concluded.
Maven smiled. He speaks well, this young king.
“My seers have seen this… Khund invasion as well, but could not tell me whether Picts fought under the same banner as the south-landers.
“There are no true… kings or queens among my people. We have clans leaders, and clan councils, but… the word of the Mallor line carries some influence, t’is true.
“There are obstacles we must over-come. I believe not that the Scoti who have traded and intermarried with us carried out the slaughter at Angtough, but… let us be truthful. There are Scoti who have taken opportunity from the deed.”
Fergus nodded stoically.
“There must be reparation to the border villages, to start,” she said to Fergus. “Also, you have a ritual test to endure, on the next new moon. You will remain here - if you truly want our blessing to be king.”
Maven stood.
“King Rokk. You have two challenges. For the first… you have a legion of champions. We have many as well. One of ours, my very grand-son, has gone missing, whilst pursuing a brigand into the south-land. You must seek him out, and either see him back, or avenge him.
“For the second… for the Clans to accept you as their leader, for you to truly be high king of all Britain, you must return here at the first full moon after midwinter, and remain here in the north for a test that shall last until the moon again is full.
“Only then will the Clans march under your banner.”
Rokk nodded. What they ask of me can be no more than I will ask of myself - if Nura’s vision is again true. Posted by Hey you on :
Two Hundred and five
Geraint rode into Londinium like a man chased by demons.
“What word from the north?” he demanded of the first officer he encountered.
“Sir Dyrk reports that the forts of the Anglian coast have met their drill schedules, and we have at least one of Querl’s computi mounted at each fort, sir.”
“Excellent. And the Kentish coast?”
“There is no word from Berach.”
Geraint scowled. The others think well of him, but he seems the buffoon to me. At least on the south shore, all is well.
Geraint calmed himself to report to the queen. Entering the chambers, he found Iasmin already conferring with her.
“Greetings, Sir Geraint!” Guinevere welcomed. Iasmin yielded while he reported.
“You seem ill at ease,” the queen inquired.
“It seems more minds are focused on the wedding in Lindum in the coming weeks than on the Khunds!” Geraint said, with no small measure of frustration.
“Nura says the Khunds will arrive not until the March snows are receding,” the queen reminded him.
“I like not plotting strategies with sooth-saying. She could be mistaken.”
“Yet you were the first to rush out to survey the fort improvements? You’ve not yet met Nura; we’ve all become quite trusting in her Sight.”
Geraint nodded in deference to his queen. “Aye, I have not. I pray she is as good as is said.”
“And we can all feel better with your vigilance whilst we are at the weddings,” Iasmin said.
Seeing eyebrows raised by both Imra and Geraint, she added, “Had you not heard? Wynn and Martina of Cumbria have decided Jancel’s wedding would also be at Lindum, at the same gathering.”
“Who does she marry,” Imra asked, intrigued.
Iasmin felt her heart drop to the floor at having to deliver the news she assumed the queen knew. “Why… Sir Garth’s, milady.”
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Two Hundred and six
“What news from Skye?” Manaugh scowled, that he was led to the northern glens - while four villains, MacKell, Gawaine, Fergus and Rokk, came and left Skye unharmed!
“Rokk and his warriors have returned to Lothian, and onward to the south-lands. Fergus has passed Maven’s tests, and she recognizes him as king of the Scoti,” Tasmia replied.
“WHAT! Is she bespelled by these murdering Welisc, then?” He was enraged. Throwing off his protective glove, he slammed his palm against an elder oak in disgust.
The tree-top flowed downward. The branches in proximity to the hand vaporized; Tasmia fared not so well. By the time she freed herself from entanglement, Manaugh was well up the hillside, touching tree, rock and anything else he encountered.
“Manaugh! Where do you go?”
“AWAY! I’m through stilling idle when there’s blood to be spilt! I’m on your leash no more!”
Tasmia picked up his glove.
“Take at least your protective glove!”
“NO! My hand will be sheathed never again!” Posted by Hey you on :
Two Hundred and seven
“Welcome, my dear,” said Lothian’s queen.
Winifred should have realized Belinant would be hosting the groom’s parents. “I greet thee, King Lot and Queen Morgause,” she curtsied.
“Salutations, Queen Winifred of Elmet,” Lot smiled. “I am glad to see you. No one seemed certain if you planned to attend the wedding.”
“In truth, I had planned on it not. I regarded my daughter as dead - as you both well know - she was. But I must know the truth.”
Morgause nodded, and placed a sympathetic arm on Winifred’s. “When we first learned Rokk would take the thrown, we, too harboured hate, certain that our nephew was long dead. But each time I see the lad, I am more and more certain he is Gwydion, the true and rightful king of Britain.
“Meet her. See for yourself. Mayhap this is not some trick, some chimera - but a miracle, just as Gwydion’s return was!”
Winifred attempted a smile, and hoped it seemed less superficial than she felt. This woman lies to herself. Her plots and plans all ran afoul; now she plays the innocent! T’is fortune that Tinya did die ere she could wed into the family of adders!
Tarik, you were right. We must put a stop to this mirage ere all Britain pays the price!
Lot, too smiled - but for different reasons. Gawaine marries the sole heir of Elmet - and he has won the heart of all Lindum! His kingdom shall stretch from the Trent to the Forth. Posted by Hey you on :
Two Hundred and eight
“Um. Hello.” Garth winced at the awkwardness.
“Hello.” Jancel was cautious in response. She wanted to sound enthusiastic and welcoming, but Garth’s body language through her off-guard. “You… have your arm back.” She smiled. He must at least be pleased with that!
“Aye, after a fashion.” Garth felt bad about his distance. It wasn’t her fault Mysa manipulated us! He tried a smile, and embraced her. “It really is good to see you,” he tried to sound convincing.
“Really?”
“Of course. I shan’t lie to my bride-to-be; that would start us off on an ill foot indeed.” He sat down, and gestured for her to join him. Resting together on deep window-sill, they let the busy-bodies rush around up and down the castle’s main hallway, preparing for the morrow’s nuptials. Eventually, Garth even let himself relax. She is a good girl; she is already devoted. Perhaps t’is for the best, if I can accept her and no other.
Imra, seeing her ladies settled in two floors above, heard the thought, and threw a vase at the wall - surprising Siobhan and Luornu nearby.
If you play the gallant with nobles’ daughters, dear Garth, complain not when they expect you to keep honour.
Aye. T’is appropriate, a lesson in manner from one who poses as a dead noble.
“OW!” Garth and Jancel suddenly both felt a piercing headache.
I remind you, I had no choice in the fates I was dealt. YOU chose the skirt to chase that brought you to this day.
Garth focused on his anger, his humiliation and his headache. The things he could not bear to tell Imra were the truths - that he mistook Jancel for her - and of Mysa’s betrayal.
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Two Hundred and nine
“Human lives are sooo short, as it is. Why bother with this ‘marriage?’”
“Well, little one, humans need the commitment, the stability. We are not does, bearing child in the woods,” Siomhe said. “A mother needs a husband who can provide for her and the children, while a man wants to know his legacy is intact - that the child he raises is his.”
“But why make a big ceremony?” Saihlough asked, watching the morning crowds gather.
“So that all know that these two are betrothed - and that the union will be respected by others. And a royal wedding is important politically among nobles’ alliances - and it makes the common people feel their leaders are proper and right.”
“I still say it’s foolishness. The elf-maidens take what consorts as they chose. What is wrong with that? Aord, are you married?” the faerie asked.
“Nay. I am too committed to knightly duties. And, although t’is not very seemly for a knight to say, I too ask some of the questions as you do,” he said.
“Really?” Rare were the humans Saihlough thought could handle seeing the world from a faerie’s point of view; yet she now knew two. What would be the harm…?
With a flick of faerie dust, Saihlough and Aord were gone.
“Where are we?” he asked, trying to adjust his vision.
“We’re in-between,” she smiled.
“You- we’re-”
Saihlough giggled.
“-the same size!” Aord finally managed.
“Come on!” she grabbed him by the hand and ran, pulling him toward a small doorway. A small pig-faced faerie grunted as they ran past.
The doorway led to a field covered in bright flowers under a bright sunless sky. The flowers swayed in a warm breeze, singing songs in a tongue long forgotten in the mundane world. Beyond, the trees of the forest danced to the flowers’ song, swinging each other from partner to partner.
While Aord stood gaping, trying to take it all in, Saihlough wasn’t about to let a good moment lie quiet! She picked him up, straining her little wings, and carried him to a lake of milky caramel-coloured nectar. Directly over the middle - and about 50 feet up - she exclaimed, “Lúcháir!” before letting him go.
He flailed and screamed all the way down, put face-first into the lake he went! The lake surface did not ripple in his wake.
Saihlough giggled and dove after him.
Unable to swim in the nectar, Aord struggled toward the surface. Saihlough intercepted him, kissing him and wordlessly telling him, “Look below us!”
Aord looked down, to see a distorted image of the court plaza at Lindum, where the wedding procession was already under way.
“We should be there!” Aord said, realizing he could talk and breathe in the nectar-lake, not really wanting to leave, though - the lake tasted very sweet indeed.
“We can watch from here,” she announced proudly, letting him caress her petite wings. “That’s part of the fun of being fae.”
Aord realized he was getting drunk on the nectar, but with Saihlough in his arms, he cared not. Were there other fae, other arms, around them as well? It was so hard to tell…
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Two Hundred Ten
“You have nerve indeed showing yourself here!” Ayla was furious.
“Tinya asked that I be here.”
“Well I ask that you leave.”
Imra came upon Benwick’s reigning princess and her sister-in-law having words. “This is to be a day of celebration,” she scolded, although not feeling very celebratory herself. “What quarrel hast thou?”
Ayla was shocked. “You know not what foul sorcery this witch hath done? She bespelled our Garth into having his way with Jancel!”
“Mysa? Is this so?” Imra felt her rage grow.
“Aye, it is. I’ll not see my brother’s kingdom spoilt by his wife, who cannot keep eyes - or hands - away from his best knight!” There was no point in being anything less than defiant.
“You- How DARE you! You know Garth and I have never-“
“EVERYBODY sees it, Imra,” Mysa matched Imra’s tone and fury. “The deed may be unconsummated, but every tongue in all Britain knows the fire there burns.” She eyed her former protégé and current monarch. “You know it would just be a matter of time.”
Ayla and Imra exchanged quick glances. Neither had mentioned how the queen poured her heart out to Ayla while guised as Garth - but both knew how close Imra had come to casting aside her marriage vows.
“You acted from spite, that you could not keep him yourself!” Imra searched for an avenue to shift focus.
“I took him on only to keep him away from you.”
“You still betrayed Garth, behind his very back,” Ayla reminded her. “Garth had avoided betraying Rokk by choice quite successfully. You stole that choice, because you knew best. You as good as raped young Jancel yourself.”
“Avalon taught you well,” Imra drove the knife farther in.
Mysa fought the urge to respond about Jancel. “I am your villain then? So be it. Shall you dungeon me? Exile me? Very well - I shall be your scape-goat.” She kneeled before them, head bowed and arms spread wide.
“I say fair is fair,” Ayla said. “Marry her off to a filthy Khund in Kent.”
Imra weighed the idea.
“I have husband already,” she told them, while rising. “And if I chose, I could be rightful high queen of Britain. Instead, I act on my brother’s behalf - and his bride’s, although she cares not to admit such.”
Mysa turned her back on them, returning to her pony. “A compromise, then. I’ll foul your innocent presences no more. Win, lose or draw, Rokk and Britain’s fate is in your hands.”
Imra watched the pony carrying her former friend toward the city gates. She could not help but cry.
“Come. The wedding starts,” Ayla hugged her, and led her back toward the plaza. “Our absences would be noticed.”
You should have told Garth what you told me, Ayla thought.
Yes, I should have, Imra replied, startling Ayla, who meant the thought not for sharing.
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Two Hundred Eleven
“T’is a shame you and Geraint waited not. It could have been a three-couple wedding,” Tinya gushed.
Enide smiled politely, trying not to blush. Despite our title, father has not the dowry for such a fest. And it took arm-twisting indeed to get him to leave Londinium to even come here!
She continued chatting amiably with the bride, telling herself she was not jealous of the extravagance. Thank the Luck Lords a fine a knight as Geraint would wed me! And that I am now in the company of Britain’s finest nobles! Aye, that is well enough indeed.
Seeing noble after noble, and all the wives’ dresses - and even the servants’ - she was becoming very self-conscious of her mother’s hand-made gown - a gown she had treasured with pride as the most beautiful she could imagine before today.
As more ladies came to congratulate Tinya, Enide drifted back toward her husband. I shall tell him I feel a spell coming on, and shall retire. T’is not so far from the truth. She hoped he would join her.
Geraint was talking with Garth as she approached. “…Rokk had in mind for you to wed my sister, as I hear it,” Garth was saying.
“I am well-pleased not to have to worry about a court of my own!” the Cornish knight replied. “I am not certain I shan’t return to Rome someday - after the Khund is beaten back into place!”
Rome? He has said naught to me, Enide was crushed - and scared of leaving Britain. She hoped Geraint would listen to her urging, and fight for his claim to Cornwall. That would be a proper kingdom for us indeed.
“My husband? I-”
“-Silence, woman! I’ll hear none of your whining this day!” Was it the wine speaking? Geraint had never spoken so to her - at least in public. Even Garth was shocked.
“My apologies,” he said to Garth - not to her. “Go back to our quarters. I shall soon follow,” he said coldly to her, before resuming the conversation.
“You shouldn’t worry. Londinium is in capable hands indeed with Berach in charge,” Garth continued a previous thread.
“Mayhap, but- By the virgin! Who is she?!?” Enide heard her husband ask with enthusiasm - not even waiting for her to be out of earshot.
Many heads throughout the feasting hall turned to look - Queen Nura of Cornwall attended not too many social gatherings, especially this far north. Enide learned her identity through the hushed whispers of gossip wafting through the room.
She turned away, and made her way to the stairs that led to the upper castle. She turned back to see a group of men - her husband included - fawning over the late arrival. Now he takes interest in Cornwall. Not as I had in mind, she lamented.
She returned to their chambers, changed to a her-robes and slowly brushed her hair, contemplating her fate. Last year, I dreamt of a noble knight who would return me to the life of gentry. I am lucky. I should be happy. She blew out the candle, and climbed into bed. Aye, I should be happy.
She lied awake, looking at every possibility. Would Geraint put me aside, and find a younger bride? Would he slay Marcus and take this… Nura, as Uther took Igraine from Gorlois? Nay. He is a good man. T’is I who make him frenzied, with my fears and crying spells. I must behave better, and not anger him so. For him. Then he shall love me and honour me.
She had almost calmed herself to sleep, some hours later, when Geraint stumbled in - drunk again, singing some foreign soldier’s song. She was grateful for not understanding the words.
“Ye werr right, my love. We should start makin an effort to regain Cornwall. My Cornwall,” he laughed.
He climbed into bed, sloppily kissing at her. He smelled of perfumes not hers, and of womanly scents she has only smelled after Geraint had his way with her. Enide’s only consolation was that the perfumes smelled to cheap to be what she guessed Nura would wear.
He was not a gentle lover, but she let him do as he wished; what choice had she? He passed out soon after, and she wept herself to sleep.
[ September 02, 2006, 09:29 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Hey you on :
Two Hundred Twelve
The third joust showed one of the cultural divisions among Britain: those who reside in the northern lands, those with strong Celtic blood, and pagan or near-pagan traditions rooted for the underdog; while the favourite was cheered on by the Romans, Christians and Angles.
Despite Sir Dyrk’s best efforts though, he found himself first unseated, and then losing the sword-fight - losing his early edge to what he considered a spat of bad luck - first slipping in a deep mud patch, being distracted by a raven, and finally his sword breaking during a second mud-fall.
“Let not the Khunds be so ‘lucky,’ good sir!” joked the victorious Lu, offering him a hand up. But Dyrk was not in the mood for gracious loss, having already lost to Thom and Garth earlier in the day.
He stormed off the field, throwing his ribbon behind as he left.
“You so quickly throw my kerchief away?”
She spoke as if trying to imitate her more timid sister, but Dyrk knew better. He turned around and picked it up again. “T’was a fit of anger, Laurentia. I’d be grateful if you’d forget it happened.”
“Laurentia? You think I am my sister?” she feigned a hurt expression, but the edges of her mouth betrayed muscles trying not to smile. She came close to him. “Would… Laurentia welcome you into her arms?” She moved to embrace him, but he stepped quickly aside.
“I am not of a mood for games!” He resumed his retreat, leaving Laurentia virtually alone - with a backdrop of jousting spectators still facing the field behind them.
“Let him be, sister,” Luornu made her way through the crowd to join Laurentia. “He gets as this, as autumn deepens.”
“And worse,” her sister noted. “Aye, I remember him at Samhain last year. “You know how to pick your paramours.”
“Paramours? How many dost I have?” Luornu was angry, but Laurentia just laughed. “And you? Tarrying with but a court jester?”
“Carolus makes me laugh, but not so much that I have shared my bed yet. T’is bas enough one of us has played the wanton, lest two-”
Despite Laurentia’s jesting tone, Luornu threw herself in anger, pushing her sister to the ground and beating upon her. “SAY not such words!”
A small crowd was gathering, enough for Lu, seeking her sisters after the fight, sighed and guessed who was it its centre. Breaking up the fight, she led her sisters to a quiet field away from the jousts entirely.
“Laurentia, your tongue is sharper than my blade. You would do well to keep it sheathed until you’ve thought out what you do with it. Luornu, I know that you gave Dyrk your ribbon to wear into battle. After all you two have been through, do you want to be his lover - or his bride? I am amassing enough for a small dowry, and if you say the word, we can shame him into vows.”
Luornu instantly felt a need to protect Dyrk from such a scheme, perhaps from hearing of Mysa’s deed. “I’ll not have Dyrk so shamed, but he and I must have words indeed,” she said. With three of us, mayhap you should look to your own dowry first, sister, she thought, having noticed how Lu’s eyes follow MacKell.
The thought was interrupted, as the trio, closest to the road to Deva, saw Genni running toward them, outpacing a surprised provincial patrol, which was also en route.
“Slow down, Genni,” Laurentia ordered, as Genni stopped to grab a breath. “I need to see Guinevere right away! Glorith desires a meeting!”
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Two Hundred Thirteen
“We shan’t make Lindum by night-fall,” MacKell said, eyeing a good place to make camp.
Opting to miss the first day’s jousts, he agreed to accompany Querl to the coast, as the scientist wanted to see first-hand how some of his newly installed computi were faring.
The day had gone well; Querl had not only found the mechanisms well-made, but the crews manning them were competent enough. We must improve their understanding of the maths involved, or their full benefits shan’t materialize, he thought. Even so, their intuitive sense of aim still served them well.
MacKell, too, learned much of operating a computus. The complexity of the aiming levers was easily overcome, with practice, he found.
The next morning, they got an early start, as MacKell hoped to face Jonah that afternoon. But in the road, a woman stood, as if waiting for them.
“My good sirs, please pay heed!” She was beautiful, and had their attention. “On yonder cairn lies an hour-glass, that contains my dear father’s soul, trapped that it cannot go on to the Summer Country. Yet the sorceress who slew him, Glorith, cursed our family such that we cannot even touch it, else we be turned to stone,” she pleaded. “Can you?”
MacKell smiled and dismounted. “I am Sir MacKell, my lady. I shall save your father.” He walked over to the cairn, and touched the hour-glass, to lift it. After a flash of light, he staggered back, and froze in place, turning to stone - not as a statue, but as a block of stone, as one finds in old megalithic circles such as Salisbury plains.
The woman screamed, and Querl blinked not quite believing what he saw.
“You said-”
“-My family could not touch it. He must be kin.” She started bawling.
Querl nodded. That makes as much sense as anything. Unless she tricks us.
“My lady?”
“I am Lori.”
“Lori, I must ride to Lindum, where I know a sorceress who can end this curse,” he said, hoping Mysa or Siomhe were about.
“But today is autumn’s equinox! If he is not freed today, all is lost!” she sobbed.
Damn me as a fool, Querl thought, touched by her tears. He dismounted, and walked toward the cairn…
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Two Hundred Fourteen
Balan knew not why he was chosen, but took great comfort that God himself had made him His vessel.
In truth, he imagined God as the friars had described - a fatherly, white-bearded old man, but if God chose to wear purple robes and hide His face, who was he to question?
God awoke him this morning, telling him this would be the day true Christians would smite the serpents of Britain, and King Rokk would see the Light. The sinners would repent, or be purged from this land forever, and Britain would become the True See of all Christendom. Glorith, like the Magdelene before her, would be the redeemed sorceress who would be God’s tool - and he would prevent today’s Judas who would usurp and spit on God’s will.
He comes this way, God told him.
Balan drew his sword, Blessed by God himself through His vessel Glorith. He was ready for the assassin.
He heard him. The fiend moved quietly, like a hunter, but noise he still made.
It would be easy to surprise him,Balan thought. But no. I am no coward, and God is on my side.
“COME FORTH, VILLAIN!” he cried, stepping out from behind the ancient larch.
“Balan?”
It was his brother.
“Balin? Put down your weapon. Let us serve our God and Father together.”
“Look at your sword, brother. Those are magickal runes - not even of Avalon - but the black magicks of Glorith.”
“She is redeemed, as am I. Join us, or die.”
“I remember all of Brother Tomar’s teachings. I recall not any join or die!” Balan drew his two swords, and turned his flesh to iron.
Balan changed too, and a fight began that no more than one - at most - could walk away from.
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Two Hundred Fifteen
Rokk didn’t like it one bit, but Imra insisted on coming.
Well-surrounded by knights, she was, but this was Glorith.
Do we play into her hands, bringing so many knights? Rokk wondered, but there was only so much second-guessing one could do. Last time, Mysa stood with us. I know she had words with Imra - over Garth, no doubt, but I like it not that she would arrive and leave without a word to me.
“Should not the scouts have returned ere now?” he asked James.
“Aye. They are late.” Three new recruits, all locals from the village of Murragh, Aarl, Zakson and Mardin, had been eager to volunteer. Too eager.
“Something must have happened to them,” Thom said, drawing his sword.
On Rokk’s nod, all drew their swords.
The path exited the woods and came to a clearing. Dyrk, who’d rode these roads only fays before the wedding, wondered where the stone circle had come from. “Sire? I swear there was no stone circle last week - only the central cairn!”
Rokk looked. There were certainly five tall standing-stones now encircling the cairn, and an hour-glass upon the cairn itself.
James dismounted and walked up to investigate.
“Be mindful!” Dyrk called. “We face a potent sorceress!”
James knew that well. Despite what Mysa claimed, he saw Glorith cause the very stars to fall!
With sword drawn, he looked around the circle. No one was hiding. He went to the hour-glass, and reached to pick it up…
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Two Hundred Sixteen
He moved alone through the woods.
Father, thank you for such a beautiful night, and a moon to guide my way.
He knew King Rokk took his knights to the east, but he was drawn to the south for reasons he could fathom not. Rounding a huge old larch, he was unsurprised to see the two brothers from the Orkneys - one dead and the other subtly aglow, just as those about to die are.
“Nameless? It is you,” he said. “Nameless, would you absolve me my sins? T’is time for my final rights.”
“Of course,” said Brother Jan. He knelt, removing his beads from his pockets and his cross from his neck.
“Before you start, I must tell you. Yonder spear is the only thing that can stop Glorith; I see that now. I belongs to King Pellam.”
Jan regarded the spear and nodded. “You may rest now, my friend. Be blessed; His kingdom is and hand…”
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Two Hundred Seventeen
“Come out, you harlot!” Geraint called. He led a group of knights to the left of the stone circle - which now numbered six.
“Glorith! Face us!” called Dyrk, leading knights on the other side.
A fierce wind sprang up from nowhere. The knights steadied themselves, but no one could hear each others’ words.
Knights! The hour-glass! It’s going to- Imra’s last thought remained incomplete.
Glorith walked out from the woods. Her stone circle now had an outer circle - plus the beginnings of a third circle along the roadside. She gathered the confused horses, ready to led them to her encampment. I’d say that went well-
“ENOUGH!”
Glorith recognized the late arrival, Sir Jonah, but not the robed lad behind him. They saw too much, I must surmise. There shall be no tricking them, as I did poor MacKell.
As she prepared another spell, Jonah charged at her - but within the minute, he was stone.
“And you, my dear boy? She taunted the handsome blond youth. Are you here to fight, or shall you be my servant?” Only then did she note the building glow under his cloak - where his hands must be.
“Stop that!” She summoned a wind to blow hour-glass dust at him as well, but already there was movement about her - the stones were coming back to life!
Glorith retreated to the Cairn, picking up the now-empty hour-glass. “Erytreigh magh Naughiesh-” Her chant was interrupted, as Jan stabbed Pellam’s spear through the hour-glass itself!
The half-completed spell of transport sucked her away into the ether - but offered her no destination to arrive at. Her scream lingered in the air as Imra, Querl and the knights regathered their senses.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 202-215 202/209: Like Balin, it’s taken me a while to get back to the rest of the Lallorians. These four have had so little to do - and #5 is dead already (even if they don’t know that)! And it finally gave me an excuse to delve more into Saihlough, which I’ve been wanting to do. Who was spying on her, though? Salu and Ord struck me as such an odd couple in the comics, but I like the Saihlough and Aord dynamic so far. 203: I guess I skipped over closing Garth’s wondering is his Starfinger dream was real at all, but it’s conclusion was pretty obvious to everyone but Garth; and I hate flogging dead horses. And Monty Python interjects - so sue me! I can promise that Garth won’t be hauled away by 20th century police at the end, though. Dian Cecht is the Gaelic physician among the gods, who indeed gave Nuada his silver arm. 204: As I’ve previously covered, Sentanta (sometimes Sententa) was the birth-name of Cu Chuilain (sometimes Cu Chulainn or Cuchulainn, “Cullen’s Hound”), or Lar Chulain, as he is here, the son of the craftsman-god Lugh and the Ulster princess Dechtire, or Deidre. Her father, Connor mac Nessa (literally, son of Nessa) was king of Ulster and presided over the knights of the Red Branch, or Craebh Ruadh, an Irish precursor to Arthur’s knights, of which the Hound was the greatest. Kell was my own addition, to make a “Mac-El” name, but I figured rather than lie altogether, Lar would rather take an actual ancestral name, one common enough to maintain his disguise - even if Maven and Fergus obviously know better. Since the line of Skye/Sgathach is obviously the Mallors (or Malors), combining Skye herself with Lydea made sense to me. I meant to introduce Nura’s Khund prophecy when Jonah last met mom; an oversight I’ll probably edit in later. 205: Since this time, obviously, Berach turned up, and Geraint did attend. 206: Okay; Manaugh’s had enough of a breather. 207: So has Winifred. 208/210: Everyone but Mysa (and Jancel) assume Jancel had no part in the plot… so far… and thus save their hostility solely for Mysa. And if Mysa tries to make amends, the plan is unwoven. Garth, too, sees no point in letting Imra know he mistook Jancel for her. 211: Poor Enide. Legend gives her a fairy-tale happy ending with Geraint/Erec; but neither history nor I have room for that. 212: After Lu’s initial poor showing, when she lost to everyone as “Sir Prize,” she had to have some improvement before an upcoming storyline; this was a good place to show that - and catch up with the sisters. 213/215: Celtic legends are full of knights and/or giants being transformed into megaliths. It fit, more than being turned into infants - a Silver Age device I dislike. 214: If you claim to serve god; be careful which god you follow! Personally, I have a hard time seeing Jesus and Pat Robertson following the same deity; same principle here. I’ll assume it’s quite obvious who’s whispering in Balan’s ear.
[ January 01, 2006, 04:31 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Eighteen
“You took your time,” Laoraighll admonished.
“Sorry, but it was necessary. The true shame is that the Stone of Virtue was left at Roxxius’ tower in the first place,” Ossian remarked sarcastically, pushing the boat off the embankment. He punted the boat down the Shannon.
If the area’s shepherds gave them any notice - or noticed that a threesome had made camp these past weeks in the nearby marshes - they gave no indication, seemingly giving them leave to travel through the very heart of Eiru unnoticed.
“It did not appear readily removable - without much of the tower tumbling down with it,” Reep said.
“A key column of support seems to need either the Eye of Balor or the Stone of Virtue to keep it intact. Only by placing the stone delivered by Roxxius was Saraid able to free the Eye,” L’ile continued.
“Then we need an… orb of equal weight to fill the Eye’s space, that the Stone again is free,” Laoraighll offered.
“I doubt it’s that easy,” L’ile said. “The system seems designed to hold specific, magickal artifacts in both holes, else Saraid could have filled the Stone’s slot long ago.”
Ossian nodded. “That is why I made my side-trip - to visit my love Niamh.”
“For three weeks?” Laoraighll could believe it not. ”Whilst we waited in danger each hour - you played the lover?”
“Nay. T’was three weeks for you, but barely an hour for me. Remember, the world spent three centuries whilst I spent but a few days!”
“And what did that… long hour gain us?” asked Reep.
Ossian smiled and gestured to the large sack he brought with him. “See for yourselves.”
Reep and L’ile looked to each other, while Laoraighll ventured forth. Sure enough, there was a large white orb, and she could make out part of a black circle outlined by a green iris pointing toward the lower portion of the sack.
“You think this shall serve?” she asked.
“My lady,” Ossian paused. “There is but one way I know of to try.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Nineteen
“I regret that I have naught else to offer in hospitality,” King Pellam smiled apologetically, while presenting a plate of cheeses and hard-bread. His eyes hid not his heavy heart, though.
“I require no earthly trappings to show fellowship, my liege,” Jan replied. “Verily, your welcome is fealty enough.”
Pellam smiled warmly this time. “You do good service to your religion, friar.”
“And you to yours,” Jan returned. Seeing Pellam’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “After the raider Roxxius destroyed my brethren and out monastery, I took refuge in Avalon, where you are held in high esteem indeed. My sole wish is that I had better cause for seeking you out,” he gestured to the spear Balin had borrowed.
“He was a good knight, Balin of the Two Swords,” Pellam sighed. “What burial hast he?”
“King Rokk wanted to return him to Londinium, where he would be buried on a hill where he hast decreed all honoured warriors shall be buried, from now on. He would be buried alongside Iaime, who helped to create our cavalry; the Lady Kiwa, who there would be no kingdom of Britain without; and the warriors who died defending Londinium from Zaryan, and the rebel kings.
“But none could tell the difference ‘tween Balin and Balan, and we could not tell which body to honour and which to leave for the rats. So we buried both in Lindum’s woods, and will honour Balin with a monument on the hill, which will be named Shanghalla.”
Sinn Gaolach, Pellam thought. How very appropriate.
“I would see this hill, my young friend. I would like to pay my respects to the noble Sir Balin, and to my old friend Kiwa,” Pellam said. Looking about, he realized he would not be returning to this decaying old castle.
If this lad is to be the new face of Christianity, mayhap it could serve as a home to his order. Truly, there is more to this cult of the one-god than that fool Vidar.
“I would accompany you there, but another will have to see after you from there. I have a new quest to begin.”
“A priestly quest, aye?”
“Yes. Though some both Christian and pagan would call me crazed, I say Britain shall be a land that welcomes both.”
“Then you intend to pick up the old wizard Math’s challenge?”
“Aye. I intend to complete all eight impossible tasks - in the name of God - no matter what by what name you call Him.”
Or her, Pellam smiled. With their Mary, even the one-god cult recognizes the Lady.
[ January 01, 2006, 04:29 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Twenty
No matter what his witches and wizards do, King Rokk shall not bespell me again! Mekt resolved. Beren and the Druids, Mysa - even the fraudulent Queen Guinevere herself - each had tried to seduce him with their lies.
They killed Eva.
No amount of spells could ever dispel that truth.
Even Ayla - on route home to Benwick from Garth’s wedding, she said, spouted Rokk’s lies. He spit at her, cursed her. She likes ruling in my stead. She, too, betrayed me.
For months, he had languished in the dungeon at Londinium - Camelot’s walls were far from finished - and for months, he allowed his captors to believe they made progress.
It was autumn now, and his cell grew colder. Soon, the water that covered the floor - their effort to contain his taranaut - would freeze over. Then, nothing could contain him. He had it all planned out.
The new guard eyed him regularly. This one has wits about him. I must watch him. And sure enough, at mean time, he and the guard eyed each other. But with eye contact came no revulsion on the guard’s end!
“Be ready. Tomorrow, my friends and I set you free.”
“Did Eva send you?”
“Eva is dead. But friends you have. A circle of them.”
The conversation ended abruptly, as other guards looked on. But the next day, a different guard came to feed the king of Benwick - only to find an empty cell.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Twenty-one
“What do we do?”
The quartet expected not to find Roxxius’ tower so well-guarded - and a huge war-ship anchored off of the small isle.
“I can slip in under their noses,” L’ile offered.
“And if the Stone area is well-guarded? Bespelled even? You could be caught without a sword-arm to back you up,” Ossian grumbled. “Nay we wait for early morning. Before the sun, there will be enough fog to cover us, and once inside, we stand a chance.”
Unless Saraid herself awaits us inside. Has our safe-passage been but a ruse?
Ossian took last watch, and woke the trio just as the dawn star appeared in the eastern sky. It was a cold morning, and no one had dared light a fire - only body heat and thick cloaks kept each other partially warm.
Silently, they pushed the same boat they’d portaged for two days out into the sea, with Ossian and L’ile paddling as stealthily as they could. Sound will echo in the fog, L’ile recalled, wincing every time an inopportune sound arose. Luckily, the muffled voices of the watchmen ahead helped to cover their sounds.
Undetected at the island’s shore, they heard the watchmen joke around the beckoning fire. Now was the time for a scout.
The guard talked and jabbered on about gambling, women and drink. Hearing a sneeze, one of them uttered a customary Roman blessing!
Did I sneeze? I recall it not! thought other - the recipient of the blessing, checking his nose.
Only then did L’ile realize they’d been speaking Latin the entire time! These are not Irish- they are Frankish! What plot is afoot here? Wiping his nose, he opted not to press his luck, and returned to his allies to relay the news.
“Laoraighll has found the back entrance, which Berach used last time,” Ossian reported, having hid the boat in the reeds of a small tidal marsh. “Our friends have not found this route, else they would guard it. Let us make haste,” he whispered. The eastern sky was starting to lighten, but everything else was still cloaked in darkness.
One of the watch investigated a slight noise he’d heard - a whisper, or a hiss? - but found naught. And they say there are no snakes in Eiru, he thought, still testing his nose for moisture. I hate snakes.
Inside, the foursome saw a scene the expected not - a showdown - which they were not a part of.
One man clutching a small bundle stood beside a beautiful woman, and they were surrounded by Frankish mercenaries, under the command of a strange-looking… was it a man? It was hard to tell by the torch-light.
But then he stepped into better light - he was half-man, half… something else, monstrous!
“Prefect Ionas. Again, I prove that there is nothing you can find which I cannot seize!”
“Hello, Torachi,” said the outnumbered man. The mercenaries took his crossbow and whip from him. Torachi stepped forward, and seized the bundle, unwrapping - a large, golden Egyptian ankh.
Ionas! L’ile thought. “I’ve heard of him!” he whispered to Ossian. “He robs temples, steals religious artifacts for the Church of Rome - and often destroys all else that he cannot carry! Entire temples, even! He’s little better than Torachi himself.”
Not realizing how the whisper carried through the underground chamber, Torachi heard the noise. He ordered his men to flush out the source of the noise and seize it.
Ionas used the distraction as an opportunity to again seize the ankh - and run. “It belongs in a cathedral!” he bellowed, leaving his lady struggling to catch up to him.
Ossian and Laoraighll dove forward into the approaching mercenaries, but Torachi and most of his men were already pursuing Ionas.
With the whole tower substructure shaking, Reep and L’ile took the sack to where the Justice of Balor was removed. They inserted the faerie orb, which seemed slightly too small.
But whatever guardian lurked within the wall seemed to accepted it, and the encasement surrounding the Stone of Virtue released its treasure. With a sigh of relief, Reep removed it…
… but the wall began to vibrate, and the entire tower began to quiver.
“Run!” shouted Ossian, finishing off the last mercenary. Small pieces of rock started raining down as they rushed back to the hidden entrance, hearing Ionas’ woman screaming in the distance.
Fleeing up the tower to escape Torachi, Ionas and his woman found the tower itself began crumbling. Why does this always happen to me? he thought, as the stairs collapsed underneath him. “Maria! Don’t look!”
As the tower came crashing down behind them, the quartet made their way to the boat, and were rowing back to shore before the first sliver of the sun arose from the sea. Torachi’s men were oblivious to their departure, trying to aide their master’s escape from the rubble.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Twenty-two
“How fare our drills?” Rokk asked. Disappointed that Camelot could not be finished before the attack, he reconciled that Londinium would remain his capitol during the coming war, and Ambrosius’ hall would remain his command centre.
“Our main cavalry is now 60-strong,” Iasmin reported. “We have 36 veterans of the original 40, 52 new trainees - who have done outstanding - and another 17 cadets who ride well enough, but would not be as effective as our main force. In short, 60 ready with mounts, 28 fully trained back-ups who would still have value riding lesser horses., and 17 who I would keep out of the infantry. They, too, may be ready by spring.”
Rokk regretted only getting 24 new Iberian stallions this year. “Can we get more steeds from Iberia ere spring?”
“I have already sent inquiries. In truth, I know not.” She hesitated, but there was no reason to hide a fact that had to be aired. “There is demand from Clovis for Iberian stallions. I know not whether he is building his own cavalry - or simply seeks to undercut us.”
Rokk nodded. Clovis again. “Geraint?”
“With other knights now assisting Berach, Dyrk and I, we have all coastal forts drilling. Garth is ready to drill his cavalry from Cadwy’s fort to the coasts, as is Jonah in Lindum, and I guess I will see to Londinium’s forces?”
Iasmin was taken aback. “Sire? I was to lead Londinium’s cavalry!”
Geraint scoffed. And what shall I do? Stand around like some fool on the hill?
“Iasmin, are you truly ready for war? Indeed, you would be irreplaceable as our trainer,” Rokk tried to be diplomatic. “Think on it. If you can convince me you are ready, so be it, else you can lead the back-up force, which should back-up all units.”
Iasmin nodded and asked for her leave, trying not to betray her anger and hurt. This must be my chance to ride to war - for Iaime!
“What news of Mekt?” Rokk asked James. With Reep gone, James had picked up most of the espionage duties, as best he could.
“We are interrogating the guards, who saw nothing. All have been switched to septic duties, until one divulges something we can use. None have been reported with extra wages to spend, or unusual gambling stock.”
Rokk sighed. Clovis again? Will he be an adversary worse than the Khunds? “Any news of Mysa? Or Saihlough?”
The question was interrupted, as Berach burst in. “King Rokk! Traitors have seized the city wall’s south tower!”
“Surround them! We must take the tower by force!” Rokk was angry - more traitors at a time when he needed unity!
All the men took an involuntary pause as a loud impact hit the palace.
“The computus!” Geraint shouted, breaking the shocked silence. “They have turned it upon us!
By the time Rokk mustered the knights and regained the tower, eight fiery bolts had been set forth - and several residences’ thatched roofs burned into the night.
It was the wee hours before the situation was controlled, homes found for families, and casualties and damages assessed. Rokk condemned himself for not being able to take the traitors alive - with one slain, the other jumped to his death, screaming “death to King Rokk! For Mona!”
Mona, Anglesey. This was the ‘Dark Circle’ striking again. Did they free Mekt, too?
Returning to the palace, Rokk heard wailing - male and female - from the neast wing, where the bolt hit. But how? The palace looks undamaged - it is of thick stone, with nothing to burn.
He rushed up the stairs anyway, hearing a crowd in the ladies’ chambers - and a trail of blood leading to it from a window. The shutters were but wood-scraps - as was a small table the ladies would put flower-baskets on. The enormous bolt came through the window. Who did it hit? He was filled by dread, reaching the chambers.
Imra, Siobhan, Virginia, Iasmin, Genni, Drusilla… many of the ladies were gathered, as were Beren and Tenzil, without a dry eye among them. Two of the triple sisters stood together, holding each other, sobbing, while Carolus himself wailed as well.
Laurentia.
He forced himself to walk forward and look upon her. They’d tried. They pulled loose the bolt, and burned the wound, but that was not enough. He caressed her face. It was already cold. A single tear descended the king’s face. I’m sorry, Laurentia.
You should be. He was surprised by Imra’s anger. If we kept the Cauldron here, Laurentia might be alive this morning. Even with MacKell rushing back to Avalon on the Path of Isis, he is too late!
Aye. And if we kept it here, would it still be here? Or would these new Dark Circle traitors have stolen it? Or Glorith? Would she be a greater menace today, instead of gone from the very world? We cannot second-guess should-have-beens, my wife. You speak of anger, not fact. Let us not hate each other for the deeds of villains, else we blame ourselves for Kiwa’s death, too.
Imra looked away, unable to give up her rage so easily.
An out-of-breath MacKell soon returned with the Cauldron, but he, too, collapsed in despair when he saw a corpse, not a patient.
[ January 01, 2006, 04:42 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Twenty-three
“Dyrk reports that he safely escorted Siomhe and Taillnaeghi back to Man, ere he returned to Londinium. Seth stayed to search for Aord and Saihlough. He postponed his inspection tour of the western forts until… afterward,” James quietly told Geraint. “Querl has begun devising a modification for the computi, to limit how far from the field of battle they can be turned.
“Also, I have located the prisoner we seek. Lucius, duke of Neustria, had him locked away in his dungeons. He won’t part with him, but will let us interrogate him.”
“We shall leave in short order,” Geraint nodded.
With Father Marla’s eulogy said, they watched Dyrk, Carolus, Tenzil, Brandius, MacKell - and Rokk himself - carry Laurentia’s body into the tomb. James looked left - and saw Iaime’s tomb, with Balin’s new monument between them. T’is too soon, that we again visit here, the Cumbrian thought.
It was a drizzly October day, but as warm as could be expected under these circumstances. Most of Rokk’s legion, the court ladies, and a smattering of southern nobles were gathered. Such an outpouring - for but a poor girl who once took refuge with Sir Brandius! But aye, she was more than that. He regarded the two living sisters. Aye. Aren’t we all more than titles, more than positions? We are all peers in blood and the travails of life, from the noble to the serf.
Rokk was of a similar mind.
“Laurentia was no warrior, no sorceress, no spy, no nun nor craftswoman. She was our friend. She aided as she could, and her laughter and wit were the salve when our minds strayed toward frenzy. Although she killed no Khund nor dragon, she was one of us, and as part of the team, she earned her place of honour,” he eyed Geraint in particular. The knight looked away. “Here, on Shangalla hill,” Rokk continued.
Errol looked over at the old king nearby. Ancient but regal robes… how many years has he? Could that indeed be Pellam? Verily, it is, he concluded, and broke his stare, so as not to make the elder king ill at ease. He must be o’er 70 by now… maybe 80. T’is a shame, one who came so close to being high king himself, lost his sons to Vortigern, and his-
The king continued. “I have long regarded all my companions as peers; the knight, the Druid, the spy, the scientist, the messenger, the holy-man. You are all my Legion, and together, we shall protect this isle - and all her peoples. We do so in the names of Laurentia, and all that go on before us. All that we fail - and all who give their lives that others may live.”
Fine words, thought Pellam, seeing the young high king for the first time. And is that- He felt a lump in his throat seeing the woman at his side. T’is Imra! She is Guinevere!
Rokk was embracing the two sisters. The third was their sister? Why they must be-
“King Pellam?”
It was the young friar, Jan.
“I… shall be departing soon. I have asked Father Marla to see to it you have an escort to return home.”
“Nonsense! If you are going to do the eight, you need a witness. Grant this old man one last request, eh?”
Ignored by most, another man stepped forward, a mid-aged, bearded, priestly man. “Math’s eight impossible tasks? I, too, would like to serve as witness.”
Jan was at a loss for words.
“Forgive me. We have not been formally introduced. I am Regulus, priest of Apollo.”
“I am Brother Jan of Trom. This is King Pellam.”
“Pellam! An honour, sir!” Regulus bowed with sincerity, before returning his attention to Jan. “A friar? Is this quest solely for Rome’s glory, then?”
“Nay. T’is to show all the peoples of Britain can be brothers. So you are welcome as well, Regulus. I shall complete all eight by Yule, Christ’s Mass, and do so with two witnesses.”
“Three.” Marla was the late arrival. “Think not that you shall leave me out.”
Other attendees had broken down into smaller groups. Dyrk scowled that Regulus would dare show his face here. Yes, he apparently knew the sisters before the fire, but they - and Dyrk - regarded him little better than Vidar. Scanning about, Dyrk also saw Geraint approach Nura.
“My lady, I would like to talk-”
“-Keep away from me!” Nura recoiled.
Marcus stepped to her aide, glaring at Geraint. “Perhaps you should speak with me,” the king offered briskly. Thom, too, looked on with no charity for his peer.
“Aye, perhaps I shall. Your claim to Cornwall is based upon Gorlois, who was but a regent for-”
“Husband? This is not the time.” With Enide’s almost timid rebuke, Geraint almost appeared ready to strike is bride. But then, he looked around, and saw a sea of disapproving eyes.
“Yes. You are right.” He turned to leave, but faced Marcus again. “We will have words, Duke Marcus - and soon.”
He stormed away, oblivious to the threads of gossip floating about as he passed.
“-said that she miscarried Sir Thomas’ son-” “-young wife gave his only daughter to Avalon-” “-heard he likes the fellows, if you follow-” “-Sir Dyrk was courting one of them, but I don’t know-” “-knights missing. Some do go on quests, you know-” “-some sort of fire years ago. I’d heard Bishop Vidar tried to save the girls-” “-was called something else in Italia-” “-that Regulus. Way I’d heard it, he thought Dyrk would become the next-”
Geraint was fuming red by the time he arrived at his chariot. After the Khunds come in the spring, I claim Cornwall as my reward. Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Twenty-four
Saraid was ready for Coirpre mac Neill, it was true.
The Eye started blasting his infantry the moment they poured down the western slope of the Shannon’s valley.
But Coirpre was ready for Saraid, too.
An infantry of Cymru-men poured out of the eastern woods - with Saraid’s army sandwiched between. Eye or no, no one wins when defending on two fronts - let along three, thought Coirpre.
From the south, Sir Garth rode in, leading Britain’s own western cavalry up along the Shannon’s shore.
The ploy worked; Saraid ordered her army to flee north - toward the village - and the closest defensible structures.
As the back of her army was cut apart by the attackers, the front lines found the villagers had piled tables, boats, wagons - anything they could move - blocking direct entry. Some of Saraid’s troops began trying to climb the stockade walls - while others tried to plow through the impromptu barricades.
Saraid aimed the Eye at one such barricade, and blasted it apart.
As the debris cleared, there stood two - a man and a woman.
“Hello, Saraid,” said the man. “Former queen on Munster, and former would-be empress of Eiru.” The woman snickered in agreement.
“Who art thou that so mocks me?” Saraid demanded. “I should like your deaths to be memorable!”
Her men were flooding into the village around her - only to be beaten down by the couple - with their bare hands.
“They are Ossian and Laoraighll,” said a third member of the group, which somehow Saraid hadn’t noticed before. He held-
“The Stone of Virtue,” Saraid paled upon seeing it. She turned to run - but Garth’s cavalry left little room.
Seeing a slim corridor to escape, she yanked her reigns and was off.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Twenty-five
“…So Coirpre mac Neill again rules Eiru, but Saraid escaped. Ossian, Laoraighll and L’ile are giving chase, and she seems to have gone… north. Maybe to the Far Hebrides,” Reep quietly explained - in rough Cymruish - as they descended the narrow stairs.
He thought well of James, for handling his duties as best he could - and for sending Genni to collect him, that he could arrive in Neustria at the same time as the queen’s visit.
James and Geraint feigned a laugh, to make it seem Reep told them funny tale. Their Gallic escorts didn’t seem to react, one way or the other. The pungent smell of dampness, mold - and especially human waste was not becoming, nor did the knights expect any better.
At the far front of the procession, the castellan had a cell unlocked, and gestured to his British guests. The guards cleared room for them to pass forth.
“Gentlemen, may I present… Kivun. Kivun, these good sirs would like a word.”
The trio surveyed their quarry. “This is the brother of Roxxius?” Reep couldn’t believe it.
We wanted to ask him about Angtough, the white triangles and the Dark Circle. We shall be lucky to get him to speak his name!
The whimpering mess before them quaked and quivered, but never moved from its corner of the cells. There were blade-marks and perhaps bite-marks a plenty - his own, perhaps. Else they breed giant rats with human-shaped mouths in here.
“Was he always like this?” Geraint asked the castellan.
“He’s actually a lot calmer, now. At some point, he either jumped ship - or was dumped from his brother’s crew - on Trom. Whether t’was there, or before, his mind is well snapped.”
Geraint and James looked at each other.
“Good sir?” Reep asked. “It appears we shall need Queen Guinevere to join us down here after all. Would you send a runner upstairs?”
The castellan’s eyebrow raised. They expect a beautiful young queen to set foot down here? Maybe this new breed of British we hear of are indeed of strong stuff.
Imra let no sign of disgust break her guise, and even Duke Lucius himself felt obligated to escort her down.
“Kivun,” she spoke, reaching to his face. Two guards positioned blades, just to be safe.
Kivun. You can’t hide from me.
At that, the prisoner lunged, knocking the queen down before being pinned backward - by bloody sword-point. He glared at her, apparently unfazed by his new wounds.
“He’s like an animal,” James noted.
Lucius was ready to pull the plug. “Mayhap it was a mistake to bring-”
“-No, no. I’m fine,” the queen said, surveying the finger-nail and slight bite marks the prisoner had made.
So you are aware… Good.
We are going to talk, you and I… about your brother, about Angtough, about the white triangles… She saw him wince at this.…and of course, Mona, San Graal, and how it all fits together. Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Twenty-six
Oh, how she laughed! How she danced! How long had she been here? It mattered not… the sky never darkened, and her worldly burdens were looong gone.
She was starting to notice that many who had been here when she arrived had drifted on, into the Deeper Lands. Soon, it would be her turn; but for now, there were new faces to dance with.
She breathed in deeply, and smelled burning wood, spices and apples. It is harvest-time somewhere, she smiled, recalling her long-ago youth.
She also recalled what else autumn held. Samhain. When the veil between worlds is thinnest. I shall look out, one more time upon the world, before I, too, retreat into the Deeper Lands. I am ready to grow young again.
She could recall her own name not - but could, with great effort, recall the place for which she had toiled all of her life. Avalon. The name brought memories both happy and bitter.
She drifted closer to the Veil, and saw the hills alit with Samhain bonfires. Burn well, burn bright, young ones. I shall see Avalon, and I must see Nura.
But there was a man at the Veil - a man who moved not. She reminded her of another who entered recently, a twin? She knew him - had they been lovers? No. Just the opposite.
“Kiwa,” he called her name, snapping her memory almost to where it had been but a year ago.
What an ephemeral thing, a name is - it means so little, but carries such power.
“I am. You… are Balan? I thought you were too much Christian to come to the Summer Country.”
“I… come no farther. I remain here, unable to go farther. I… saw one of the three sisters come this way. She saw me not, and faded away.”
Kiwa nodded. “At the Border, one can see many crossing over before they fade onto their own paths. She saw what her path showed her. No more, no less. T’is the same for any of us… Yet here you are, unable - or unwilling - to move?”
He gestured toward his leg. He took a step, but the ether around him moved backward, leaving him - stuck.
“You are of the form of iron, which is anathema to the Subtle Places. You must shift to flesh to continue on.”
“I… cannot.”
“I have seen you do it,” she laughed. “Up close.”
“HOW can you LAUGH at my crimes!” he howled. “I am a villain, a murderer of my own brother, and I see my crimes only now, when it is too late for redemption.”
“I see it now.”
“What?”
“Why you are here. The Christians preach of final judgment; and redemption through your… savior. You deem yourself unworthy; or fear that your deeds are too unredeemable. Hence, you came here - the path of life, death and rebirth your ancestors for times untold have come.”
She took a step closer. “Very well, young Christian. I forgive you.” She hugged him and kissed his helmet. “You will do better next time.”
He remained stiff. “Your… murder… was not my sole crime.”
“Your brother.”
“Aye.”
“He has moved on already; I have seen it. He is haunted not. Learn from him; he would want you to.”
“That… is not enough. I must do something to right my wrongs.”
Kiwa sighed. “You still cling to the same problem you always did. You decide what you see is right, and cling to it - until it is too late. That is part of what you must give up. Nothing is so stoic, so static. Everything grows, everything changes. Last year’s storm damage grows over, and is renewed.
“Remove your helmet.”
“What?”
“Go on.”
“My lady? I… am hideous beneath. Even by Orkneyman standards.”
She laughed, and reached up, pulling it off.
“Dear, sweet Balan. The burdens of the world are beyond us. Let go.”
She tossed the helmet into the Veil, and leapt after it. One last visit, one last Samhain, and then I go on to rebirth. It will be good to forget. Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Twenty-seven
Luornu tossed and turned - again. While pregnant, she had wished the computus would kill her. Instead, it kills my sister. While pregnant, she had wished her own baby dead - and got her wish, no matter what the queen - Imra - said. The fire, too, was her fault - she if hadn’t run from Vidar-
And Balan. The knight she should have tended to. Slain by his brother - bespelled by Glorith. If she hadn’t relied on Dyrk to argue that the Grail-
be sent to Rome. Her theory fell apart. Balan would still have met the same fate.
Dyrk. He chases after me, and I let him. Laurentia was right. I am the harlot! Even Balan stopped sitting with me at cathedral. He was a good Christian. How could Glorith taint him so?
The wind blew open her shudders, and knocked something metal down; she was sure she’d secured them. All Hallow’s Eve. May the dead bother me no more, she thought, latching them again.
On her way back to bed, her foot hit the metal object. A can? Lighting a candle, she saw it - Balan’s helmet.
It was cold, icy cold. She took it to bed, and wrapped it with her under the blankets. With the coldness gone, she put it on. This is how the brothers saw, she realized. This is how I see.
She fell asleep wearing the helmet, and dreaming of the knight Balan would have become, had he lived.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Twenty-eight
“He will be here next week.”
“Where?”
“Here, in Cornwall. A small village o the south coast,” Nura said.
Marcus walked to his trophy wall, and picked out his finest sword. “We’ll see what sort of talking he’ll do, then.”
“He comes with allies. Toraigh, Mardus, Eldor, Hainscoombe, and others have flocked to his side. Or will.”
“Damn him! Damn them! Why!?”
“He spoke thus. To the old families, even my claim to Cornwall is regency. To them, he is their true king returned.”
Marcus was sweating. What he had spent a life-time building was falling apart - too quickly.
“I’ll not let him take Cornwall so easily!” He turned to his wife. “I’ll not let him take you so easily.”
For the first time in many months, there was tenderness in his kiss.
But he soon rose, and went out to do his own recruiting.
He only makes it worse, she saw. Those he seeks to rally to his side, his anger shall drive to Geraint’s camp.
Difficult times were ahead, not even counting the Khunds…
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Twenty-nine
With the first snows across the midlands, Jonah was pleased indeed to welcome Jan and his elders to Lindum.
“We here of the young friar and his three wise men making their way around Britain, doing amazing miracles,” Tinya laughed.
Jan smiled, settling into the cozy hall that was once Belinant’s. “Not I, but God.”
“Perhaps,” Jonah said. “So tell us, how fares your quest? Four? Five?”
“Seven,” said Marla, with pride.
“Six,” corrected Regulus.
“Are the maths so different between religions?” Tinya joked.
“After a fashion. Math, the ancient Cymru wizard, issued eight challenges, but we have two different translations of one,” Regulus said.
King Pellam explained. “Jan has already ridden a jabberwocky across Cornwall, found the invisible treasure of the Iceni, told a riddle that a faerie queen could not solve, caught a hawk with his bare hands, walked across fire, and saved a five-legged cow from an ogre.”
“He also created fire where none had burned ever before,” added Marla.
“And there, we argue,” Regulus resumed. “For I say, t’was not the feat, but a mis-translation. I say the feat is to breath life where there was none.”
Jonah laughed. “That one does sound more impossible than making fire when none has ever been. And what’s the eighth?”
“Getting twelve cats to do the same thing at once,” Pellam said, “something no king has ever done, or can ever do, truly.” The others laughed.
“So, good Sir Jonah,” Pellam continued. “The reason we are now here, with but a week before Jan’s Yule deadline, is because Math’s original challenge as written on scroll is in Belinant’s library.
Tinya and Jonah looked to each other. “While the terms of his surrender allow us free reign,” Jonah said, “in truth, Belinant and I have developed a good working relation. I shall ask if we may so impose upon him.”
Posted by Harbinger Girl on :
Sean, this is as great as it was before, thank you for continuing!
There's too many good parts to comment on (hey, I'm not being lazy it's late here!) but killing Lu was a shocker, Jans quest sounds like fun - will you be filling in the details of the tasks he's completed already? I particularly liked that the last one (and presumably the hardest) was geting twelve cats to do the same thing at the same time - brilliant! Though does lying down to sleep in front of a fire count? Mekt's escape doesn't bode well for the knights (though does for us, the reader - yippee! Mekt's coming back!) and the Emerald Empress must return soon, she is such a vibrant character!
More, more, more
Soon please
Bxx
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Thirty
Querl was annoyed.
Not only did my belt fail against Glorith, but it failed me again.
He hadn’t the strength to rise; his beating was still too fresh. His very ribs ached. I shall be lucky indeed if I arise from this floor again.
It was a cold, stone floor, and castle walls did naught to keep out the icy winter breeze. Without a blanket - or even his cloak - he was susceptible to any number of other maladies as well.
When the breeze let up, he could smell animal scents, and that of human waste.
Through the wall, he heard another wail of pain. A northerner, he thought, suspecting an Eboracum accent. But t’is hard to tell, gauging only from cries of torment.
How many are here captives? Am I the only with friends and allies who would seek me? Querl hoped his gambit had paid off.
L’ile and Reep are smart enough to find my trail. If only they are seeking me. If only they know where to begin.
The cold wind and the throbbing pain throughout his torso served to keep him awake. Good. I fear if I let myself slumber, I shall not survive this night.
Over and over, he reviewed all the details of his capture - and all the details of his prison he was able to observe. Little enough, but maybe enough to count…
Had he fallen asleep? Or did he pass out from pain?
Either way, a thin beam of sunlight penetrated his cell, and a raggedy old blanket covered him. He itched as well - feeling the bite of tiny cellmates.
Fleas? How delightful, he scorned. A bucket of steaming gruel was set just inside his door. It smelled rancid.
Dare I move? He took a deep breath, and with the stab of pain, opted not to.
…Later in the day, he heard what sounded like guards dragging in a new captive. How many does this villain hold here? Looking to the walls, he saw plenty of unused wall-manacles. At least I am not strapped to the wall. Yet.
The new arrival screamed in torment, as guards laughed. It sounded like he was being chained to the wall in the next cell. So the northerner now has company. If he had none before, that is.
Several muffled comments accompanied the installation, occasionally greeted by a growl, making Querl suspect his captors may not be human.
With their task finished, the guards locked up the neighboring cell, and walked toward his. But before they reached his door, a human voice immediately outside door said, “He’s settled in? Good! I’m ready to see our Greek lad now.”
How long was he standing there, quietly? Was he observing me?
With a clangy metallic ruckus, his door opened. He looked up to see a grinning villain. Why, our friend Brainius V is awake!”
“Caradoc.”
“Aye,” he said, entering. He was followed by two growling humanoid figures - tall, three-eyed and with reddish, scaly skin. “With friends. Trolls make the very best of dungeon-guards, I find. They can literally smell tunnels, hear the sounds of tampering with bars and doors, and feel emotions like anticipation and hope. Those stand out like sore thumbs here, I’m afraid.
“Get some fresh gruel,” he commanded his trolls. “Querl needs to be kept well.”
To serve as bait, Querl guessed.
[ August 10, 2006, 11:35 AM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 216-229: 216: The brothers hadn’t seen Jan since before Roxxius. But which brother outlived the other? I myself didn’t know until later. 217: Okay, not protoplasm; still she had to serve as both herself and the physical manifestation of the robed guy. “Erytreigh magh Naughiesh” is my own made-up nonsensical spell words. 218: I don’t usually re-write too much, but this one did, as the Niamh avenue didn’t come to me until the original draft was half-written. Many posts just flow out as-is. With minor fine-tuning thereafter. 219: I’ve been planning to introduce Pellam for quite a while; he’s got quite a story behind him. Shanghalla, or Sinn (pronounced “Shin” like “Sinn Fein”) Gaolach, means “beloved people,” appropriately enough. Math was a Welsh wizard of old legend. I wasn’t going to do anything with the Eight Impossible Missions, until a really neat idea cropped up. 120: Mekt was originally going to be a prisoner-trade with Lucius for Kivun. They way worked out better. 221: Well, I can promise no Ionas sequels… I didn’t want them to have too easy a time, but it wasn’t right to have Saraid there, either. Once I settled on Torachi, the rest fell into place… And L’ile sums up my opinion of Ionas’ inspiration’s archeological ethics - destroying priceless sites in his wake. In comics and adventure film, nobody (except Cerebus, once) ever has a cold! Have you ever noticed? It’s either perfect health, or a life-threatening ailment, it seems. Torachi did escape, BTW - and could have done it without his henchmen’s help. 222: There’s an obscure song reference in there that could only run in this post; even if the fit isn’t 100 percent accurate, the association is widespread if archaic enough. 223: Doing research for what’s coming next, I was surprised when Regulus fit in perfectly - earlier than I really planned to use him (other than the occasional cryptic reference) at all. Oops! Department: I’ve been forgetting to use chariots! D’Oh! We all envision knights on horseback, but Romans and Celts were both big on chariots. 244 (+245): An easy win… too easy? Of course Saraid has to escape - north. 245: I originally had just the three guys, but realized I’d need Imra, and realized the guys would have realized that, to, so it was just as easy to have her “upstairs.” Why Kivun? I forgot I needed someone alive when I wrote Roxxius - but I’d already thought up Kivun for a later story before I needed him here. S’true. 226/227: I’ve been looking forward to this one since I planned it… during the week. I’d originally planned several Samhain (pronounced “Sow-wayne”) visitations, but that seemed like overkill. 228: I gotta get this story along before the movie comes out. I was also going to write Kiwa’s visit to Nura - and started to - but it really went nowhere. 229: As I wrote 223, the “three wise men” bit occurred to me; it was too good not to use. The eight feats obviously don’t and can’t parallel the LSH ones - especially since Jan went solo (his role on that cover had me envision the story as I needed it, before even looked at the details, so its more of a homage than a retelling. I guess I’ve done that a few times already). The Iceni were the tribe of warrior-queen Boudeacea, who led a very impressive rebellion against the Roman occupation centuries before. The cats are a nod to Neil Gaiman.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Thanks, Bel!
Sorry; I won't be going into more detail on the first six feats... but Saraid won't be gone for too long!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Thirty-one
The pain came less often, but it stabbed through Querl like a jolt of lightning; indeed, the pain blinded him as it came on, and afterward, his vision took its time to return. Red returned first, with little bubbles of colour joining in.
Caradoc must have thought him recovered, as the floor was no longer his domain. He was now chained up on a wall, alongside the voiced he’d heard often these past days (weeks?).
There was a Pict, an Eboracum warrior - a mercenary, by the look of him, and a Druid who looked to have been here long enough to see his mind addled. He muttered to himself, as if trying to remember a verse, but to all eyes he seemed the madman.
Querl was ladle-fed his gruel now, two ladles per day, earning jealous glances from his fellow prisoners, who only received one. To them, he was worse than his captors, no doubt.
No matter. Half my meal dribbles down my body, he realized. His nose and sinuses congested, being fed seemed almost like drowning, yet he dared not turn his head away.
On his fourth day on the wall, Caradoc’s trolls brought in a new prisoner, tossing him on the floor for all to see, inspiring exclamations and oaths from the others.
Struggling to open his eyes after coughing, sneezing and clearing mucus all night, Querl was wide-awake upon seeing the new prisoner.
“MacKell!” How in Isis’ name did they capture him?
“You see? The mightiest of King Rokk’s knights are no match for me,” Caradoc gloated, kicking his new captive, who in turn whined meekly. “If King Rokk wishes me to be the villain, so I shall be!”
“Nhe’ll Cub for uf,” Querl managed.
“Aye, I’m sure he will,” said Caradoc, as his trolls mounted MacKell into a set of wall-shackles. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Thirty-two
“-And so sirs Garth and Gawaine defeated the bizarre duplicate knights, and all was well in the land,” Mysa concluded.
“Bravo!” Gareth cheered. “Tell me more! Tell me another tale of the animals!”
What to tell him? Mysa wondered. Morgause and Lot’s youngest son loved the tales she weaved about MacKell’s hound, Laurel’s steed, Guinevere’s cat and Brainius V’s monkey as much as his older brother Gaheris did.
And away at the court of Kent under Kiritan’s watch, he was quite happy for a visit from his elder cousin.
“Well, I guess-” she began, but a knock on the door interrupted her. “Yes?”
“My lady? There is a visitor for you?” It was an elderly Khund, Kiritan’s castellan.
Who knows that I am here? I asked Derek not to-
Seeing the Khund waiting, she smiled. “Of course. If you’d be so kind? “ She turned to Gareth. “I shall return ere you are sent to bed.”
The halls of Kiritan’s castle echoed with the rowdy libations of what few Khundish soldiers stood on duty. Boys, really, Mysa noted, realizing she was old enough to be mother to some. Zaryan’s folly has trimmed their numbers greatly. Good.
The old man led Mysa to a chamber, where a man was feasting on bread and cheeses. His face brightened up upon seeing her. “My lady Mysa!”
“Governal!” Mysa was overjoyed at seeing her childhood tutor again, and threw herself into a hug just as she had as a young girl in Gorlois’ court. He in turn laughed at her spontaneous regression.
“What- How- Why-” She had a thousand questions, but sighed and gave up trying to spit one out. “It is good to see you.”
“And you, my little faerie,” he laughed. Even as a girl, her lithe form and otherworldly mannerisms fostered her nickname of later years. Guessing her questions, he spoke first. “Your sister Nura foresaw that you would be here at Kiritan’s court. She regrets not seeing you in Lindum at the weddings.”
Nura. Of course, Mysa smiled bitterly. It was good to hear news of her sister, but she winced internally at recalling the feud at Lindum’s gate.
“She is well?”
“Well enough. For now,” Governal said ominously.
“What is it? What doe she foresee?”
“Geraint. Although more Roman in upbringing than even King Rokk, he is of the olde royal line of Cornwall. Indeed, the people have been awaiting that line’s return since the Romans first came.
“And as you well know, Marcus was but a duke, a regent appointed by Ambrosius - a Roman. And even Nura’s claim to Cornwall comes from Gorlois - another Roman,” said the messenger.
As does mine, Mysa thought. T’is good I have renounced Cornwall’s throne.
“So Nura has come to enjoy being queen so much?” Mysa remembered her younger sister as a child in Eiru, who was much more interested in herb-craft and the harp than court intrigues. She also saw how her sister stole glances at Thom, not that she found fault with that.
“T’is more than that,” Governal said with a hint of exasperation - or fear. “Geraint seeks not only Cornwall, not only Tintagel - but Queen Nura herself!”
Geraint knows Rome’s ways well enough to consider women as chattel. No doubt he already plans to put Enide aside, regretting he married a lady without land, she thought. “What do you seek of me?”
“Talk to Geraint. With war against the Khunds coming with the spring, there is no room for this feud.” He held her hand firmly, as he did in her youth when trying to show her the importance of a lesson. “Tell him… if he stands down until summer, it will give you a chance to win Nura’s heart over for him. All eyes know now that Nura avoids Geraint like a pox. Tell him he is your choice for Cornwall - and your sister.”
“My choice? Why me?”
Governal looked away. “Already… those with tongues for the wagging talk about the wedding of Sir Garth.” Mysa’s heart sank as he continued. “They say since you could not have the prize knight for yourself-”
“-That my sorcery drove him to Jancel’s arms,” Mysa finished the thought for him. “So of course I am the seemly villain to work with Geraint.”
“Mysa, I-”
“T’is all-right. I should have expected such,” she said, letting out a lone tear. “For Nura, I shall do this… but what do we do whence comes summer?”
“We wait, and we plan,” Governal took both her hands, and put them together. “Mayhap the Khund war solved our ills for us.”
[ August 10, 2006, 11:36 AM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Thirty-three
L’ile and Reep were right, Rokk noted, as he attempted to defeat the large, red, three-eyed humanoid creature before him. Ambushed! By… what manner of strange creatures!?
He and his group had become separated from most of his knights, who he had dispatched in response to a reported Khund raiding party on the central Angle coast. Surely he and Reep were warriors enough to keep L’ile and Tenzil safe en route to Londinium?
But no. These monsters — trolls, L’ile called them — attacked out of nowhere, and more than outnumbered them.
And the battle was going badly. Reep was down, L’ile was pinned, and Tenzil’s best efforts to bite and spit at his assailant proved unsuccessful. Unable to score a decisive blow, Rokk could barely keep his trio of attackers at bay, hoping only for an opening—
The king regained consciousness in chained to a wall in a cell, surprised to see Querl and MacKell among his fellow prisoners, along with the three he came with, and three he knew not. It was a crowded little cell, and smelled badly of human waste not cleaned off of prisoners unable or no longer willing to care for themselves. The bruises and bites he remembered were ebbing; the ones he didn’t still throbbed.
He tested his shackles; he was weak, but decided he could escape, if he could make an uninterrupted effort. Was this the time?
The sound of a key in the lock was a definitive ‘no.’
Troll guards entered, along with an unsurprising face — Caradoc’s — although he had taken to dying his face red, and he sported a painted third eye on his forehead, making him look a bit more like his trolls.
“Trying to prove Jo-- Gawaine wrong, then that you could sink no further?” Rokk sneered at the rogue knight, earning himself a spiked-glove punch.
“So you’re the whelp who fancies himself high king, eh?” Caradoc punched him again.
Rokk was tempted to turn the glove’s spikes inward, but wasn’t ready to show his cards yet. He settled for subtly smoothing their edges.
“Gawaine will yet get his due,” the captor continued, turning his attention to his other prisoners. Those feigning unconsciousness were battered out of it; those genuinely so received similar treatment, as Caradoc thoroughly sought out fakers.
MacKell whimpered as the captor approached him. Rokk was genuinely surprised; he’d never seen this legendary knight so — was it because he was again a captive? I thought him made of sterner stuff.
Reep, now also awake, drew a differing conclusion. His voice wavers differently, higher than the true knight. And his words sound more like a Northerner than an Ulsterman. Outright sorcery, or is he like me?
Querl, having a head start, had already deduced the latter, although the man was either committed to his deception, or unable to change. He and the Pictish prisoner had been exchanging hand and face signals all week long, gradually learning to converse a range of details without guards overhearing. In the presence of their captors, they could still manage a few subtle facial signals; he pointed out that the main troll-guard again kept his keys hanging from the same belt-nook; one immediately to the left of his sword. Potentially an important detail.
After his beating, Tenzil turned his head towards a chain, as if recoiled from his attacker. He let his saliva drip onto the chain. L’ile was legitimately unconscious.
The remaining prisoner, the Eboracum warrior, remained silent.
Caradoc made what was becoming a customary rant about how he was once a great hero, but had been wronged, particularly by Rokk and Gawaine. Pledging to destroy Rokk’s court and all his knights, he departed, pleased with himself.
Alone in their shackles, Rokk, Reep and Tenzil freed themselves, and began freeing the others.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Thirty-four
“Even I cannot do that.”
“How do you know if you’ve never tried?” Regulus patted the lad on his shoulder kindly.
Jan looked down. “I… did try, once.” He took a breath, and again met his comrades’ eyes. “I was young and foolish. A man, a friar, he was a dear mentor to me, had died. I had done some healings by then and… I tried. I went not well.” He let out a long breath. “The flesh… Lord, I still remember the smell.”
Father Marla nodded. “T’is a rather disrespectful task, is it not? Returning the departed ere their time.”
Belinant, Jonah and Tinya listened on, silently.
“The eighth task, of the twelve cats, would be difficult, nigh impossible, as well,” King Pellam added, resigning himself that the quest was finished, incomplete.
“A man I knew in Rome claimed to have seen it done,” Regulus added. “Kenzius was his name. I have seen him in Londinium of late.”
“What if…?” Pellam began. The others turned to him. “What if the body of the deceased was not one of flesh?”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Thirty-five
“How do we get out of here?” the man who was not MacKell asked. Reep had a thousand questions for him, but this was not the time.
Having dragged the two troll bodies into the cell, Rokk and the man from Eboracum, Kade, returned, while L’ile surveyed the halls. “A labyrinth of sorts. The halls are swept clean of tracks; there’s no way to tell where to go.”
“Worthy of the minotaurs of olde,” Querl commented.
“We’ll go in groups of two or three,” Rokk said. “Grev, I pledged your kinswoman Maven that I would see you to safety. You and Querl are with me. L’ile, you take our would-be MacKell, and Reep will take the mad Druid as best he can. Each group will have a warrior that way.”
“That leaves us,” Tenzil said to Kade. “Let’s go.”
“Mark your route,” Querl told them, picking up a piece of loose stone and making a crude mark low on a wall. “Low enough where our captors may not notice. A different symbol for each group, that we may know who passes.”
With signs sorted out, the groups picked their halls. Tenzil was surprised when he and Kade quickly came to a crumbled wall that seemed to lead to sunlight, not far from an intersection of four doored passageways.
“Mayhap we can call out to the others, ere they wander too far?” the beefeater suggested.
“Let us see where it leads first. It may be a trap,” Kade replied, climbing up to the opening.
It led to a field, right below a stone tower. “We shan’t get out this way in daylight. Yet we may have no choice,” Tenzil said. “Let us find the others.”
But back at the intersection, the door they had come through was locked, and they heard troll-grunts from the other side.
Kade examined the door. “Solid Elmetian oak. I’ll not be able to breach it.”
They bided their time, keeping eyes on both the door and the hall leading to the opening. How long until they seek us out? Tenzil wondered, expecting a more active hunt than locking a door. Are the others already recaptured, that our escape holds urgency not?
As night arrived, they crept up the opening again, and hearing no guards, they climbed out. After a half-dozen steps toward the forest, a huge ring of fire erupted around them; they could make out the silhouettes of a dozen or more trolls between them and the ring.
[ September 02, 2006, 10:04 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Thirty-six
Lu had been about to give up, actually, until she saw them — Tenzil and another man trapped in a circle of fire.
She had found the ambush site easily enough — the ground was still littered with blood and debris — but the tracks she’d followed had long given out, covered over by an expert. In truth, intuition more than tracking led her here, to the ruins of an old castle destroyed no doubt by Romans. In daylight, she’s seen the rebuilt tower looked none too new; again, a stealthy covering of tracks. It was only the unnatural quiet of the place — and a feeling of dread — that bade her to stay and observe.
The creatures circling Tenzil and his companion like vultures were human-ish in shape, but clearly not human, and not just by their large frames. How many were there? Did she stand a chance against one, let alone all?
Where were Dyrk and the other knights? Not close enough to be summoned, she wagered. Did she have time to go for aide?
But wait! Something was happening! The creatures were shooting something afire — arrows? — at the duo. One fell, set ablaze! But which?
Either I charge in there alone, prove myself no coward but succeed not, or I use my wits. Which shall it be?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the grunting of a woodland creature nearby. Do the local boars not care for our foes then?
If only she could recall that basic animal charm spell Errol tried to teach her! It could only work once for her, she recalled, and could bring unpredictable results, but just maybe…
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Thirty-seven
“Go on, son.” Marla’s reassuring smile did little to settle the doubts in Jan’s heart.
Jonah put the shovels aside, as only he could make decent progress in the half-frozen ground.
And there they were — two bodies, buried as they were found, swords still in hand against each other.
“Which is which? Tinya whispered.
“In truth, I know not,” her husband replied. “Never could I tell the two apart.”
Regulus stepped forward to examine the two. Jan joined him.
“Look at this one. Mortally wounded, he tried to change back to flesh-and-blood,” Jan observed. “He’s half iron, half flesh. I dare not do anything with this one.”
“But this one!” Regulus pointed. “He is entirely of iron, or so my eyes tell me. Mayhap he is your better effort.”
“And if he is the murderer Balan?”
“Perchance these months of death have taught him the preciousness of life,” Pellam ventured. He put his hand on young Jan’s shoulder. “If it is Balin, a great wrong will be undone. If t’is Balan, mayhap he can find some Christian redemption in this world before he faces the next.”
Jan nodded.
Part of him was ready to give up his quest here and now, else attempt what was about to do. But Pellam’s words touched him, as had Regulus, Marla and Tinya’s, the latter having first-hand knowledge of the joys of second chances.
He expected similar words from Jonah, but the knight of Lothian merely advised him to follow his own heart.
“I know not the lads in question, nor the Lady Kiwa, but of her I have heard much,” Belinant had said, earlier this morning. “If it lets those whose hearts are troubled see either justice or redemption, then where’s the harm in the effort?”
Jan had hoped that a moment of divine clarity would come to him while Jonah unearthed the fallen brothers. It hadn’t.
And now, all eyes were waiting on him. He steadied himself, and hoped his voice trembled not too much.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy name. In kingdom come, Thy will be done, On earth as it is in heaven.”
He lacked the will to continue, as a crippling anxiety washed over him. Straining, he managed, “Father, if what I am about to try is an abomination before You, then please, give me a sign.”
The chilly December airs betrayed no sign that this was anything other than a brisk but beautiful day.
At least he stood, and approached the metallic corpse before him. So intent was he on his task, that he alone was not dumbfounded by the glow that surrounded his hands.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Thirty-eight
Saihlough and Aord lingered in the perpetual morning glow.
“How long have we been here?” he asked at last, savoring her probing, caressing hands.
It was just him and her in this bed, strangely set down in the midst of a field, he was now certain. In recent times (last night? But there is no night. How many hours? Days? Weeks?), there were others — male and female faeries, and some he was not certain of — it was a maelstrom of sensuality that he knew on some level he should consider unseemly.
But here it mattered not.
“Does it matter?” Saihlough giggled. Humans asked the silliest questions!
“My friends shall be most worried about me.”
“Am I not your friend?”
“Aye.”
“Then worry about me.”
“Oh, I am. Seduced into the Fair Country by a pretty face. Shall I ever see my fellowes again?”
“Oh, you shall. But t’is no rush. You humans worry too much about the passage of moments. Here we have no sun and moon by which to rush about by.”
“So we’ll go back soon?”
“Aye. Soon enough anyway.”
[ August 10, 2006, 11:41 AM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Thirty-nine
“I keep telling you, I’m not MacKell. I’m just stuck in his face,” said the fellow.
“Well, pick up a spear and fight anyway,” Grev demanded.
Finding Reep and the imposter cornered, Rokk felt obliged to join the fray, even outnumbered as he was. Grev, too, joined in, regretting that they had not their own swords, only poor troll-spears, to fight with; their sole amenity was their length.
Querl, meanwhile, found time to confirm a theory. His group had circled back to Reep’s not by chance, but by design, he as certain, meaning neither hallway was the correct one.
Tugging at each loose stone, he found the one that triggered a doorway to open, one leading upstairs!
“This way, fellowes!” He called, running up the stairs to see for himself.
The stairs came up to a chamber — the base of a tower, he surmised — where a trio of trolls were fighting with Lu, and an assortment of boars, wolves and even a bear!
Hearing the upward exodus below him, Querl removed himself from the stairwell, and sought shelter behind a armoured chest.
Reep was the first up, and waded straight into the new combat, despite the wounds he’d received in the donjons. The battle was already turning without him, but his aid hurt not.
The fake MacKell was next, but his timing was poor — he ran straight into a troll’s claws as it neared the stairs to avoid the near.
“MacKell!” Lu cried, almost letting her guard down.
“It’s not him,” Reep and Querl blurted in unison, while the wolves chased a wounded troll out into the night.
But my chance for answers dies with him, Reep thought.
Grev next arrived, as the last troll found itself cornered between Reep, the bear and the newcomer. Choosing the newcomer, it thrust forward as Grev started to position his spear.
He struggled to parry against the creature as Reep stabbed at its side.
“This is how Caradoc controls the trolls!” Querl declared, as Rokk slowly made his way up the stairs, defending against the downstairs trolls in the process.
“What are you talking about?” an annoyed Grev asked.
“Trolls, I gather, generally live so far underground that people haven’t seen them in centuries. He has lured his up with this,” Querl held up a vile containing what appeared to be a thread of shadow that danced like a flame. “It must mean something to them.”
“No, that’s mine,” Grev replied, tending to a gash on his arm, as Reep joined Rokk in defending the stairwell. “It probably signifies that you’ve found the gear taken from us.”
“Hmph.” Querl was still certain Caradoc was using something for control.
The wolves long gone, the boards gave up their feasts as well, and fled out the doorway.
“I guess the charm’s worn off,” Lu said, eying the bear, and slowly edging away from the doorway.
It looked around, snarling, before backing out and disappearing.
“Where are L’ile and Tenzil? Or the others?” Rokk barked, still holding back the downstairs trolls, and sounding tired.
While Querl and Grev redistributed the prisoners’ weaponry of choice, Lu came to the stairwell top, and stabbed downward at the attackers.
“We know not. Tenzil and another were ensnared outside, but I know not where he is of late. His companion… sacrificed himself; took a blow that would have killed our friend.”
With Rokk and Reep re-sworded, the trolls retreated downstairs, closing the doorway behind them.
“Well, that’s the last of them, I guess,” Grev said.
“Don’t be so sure,” said a voice from the doorway. Caradoc.
Lu and Grev gave chase, only to see the dark silhouette of a large number of trolls encircling the entrance.
“Um. Help?” said a voice among them; Grev could make out one of the trolls holding Tenzil aloft, while two others pointed spears at his gut.
Reep and Rokk caught up, only partly aware of the sweet burning smell behind them.
“Surrender!” Caradoc bellowed. “Surrender, and half of you may yet live.”
Over the grunting trolls, Reep thought he heard the sound of hooves. “We’ve got to distract them while our rescuers arrive,” Reep whispered.
“I challenge you to a duel, one-on-one. My throne is the prize.”
Caradoc laughed. “And your kingdom shall follow me?”
“My knights gathered here will vouch for the deal,” Rokk continued. “A debt of honour all must observe. The Anglias, Lot, Voxv, Marcus… enough of my kings would observe it.”
The burning smell was getting stronger. The trolls grew restless.
Rokk, now, could also hear the sound of approaching horses — no more than two or three, he guessed, bur perhaps enough.
“Well?” Rokk continued. He could see Caradoc was giving it thought.
The trolls were grunting louder, and some were practically moaning, as the burning smell wafted through the crowd.
“My trolls! What are you doing? Stand firm! I hear horses! Slay the interlopers!”
His minions were dispersing, however. Caradoc picked up his sword and ran at Tenzil, now thrown on the ground, after his troll captors walked off.
“He’s going to kill Tenzil! Stop him!” Rokk ordered, hoping the others were less exhausted than he.
But Caradoc fell backwards, as if something hit him. Something did.
Caradoc swung at the air. “Show yourself, trickster!”
The least wounded or exhausted, Lu had almost reached Tenzil.
About 50 yards away, trolls’ heads were clearing, having escaped the sweet burning smell. They gathered and turned, watching with angry grunts. The silhouettes of two riders and horses passed between them and the tower.
Caradoc made contact with L’ile, and the Druid became quite visible, writhing on the ground in pain.
But with Reep, Rokk and Grev arriving on one side, and two horses on the other, Caradoc stepped backward, rethinking his options. “I suppose I should take you up on that duel,” he said to Rokk.
“You owe me first duel,” said one of the riders — Jonah. He dismounted while MacKell, expecting the villain to flee, remained mounted.
Caradoc weighed his options, and again counted his opponents. While I live there is cause for hope. And better odds. Mayhap they will imprison me at first in Lindum, where I am not without friends.
“I… yield.”
“Sire? This fiend knows nothing of honour or justice. I say we run him through here and now,” Jonah said.
“Nay. A villain he is, but he shall not bring us to his level. Querl shall make him an appropriate shackle, and MacKell shall be his guardian as we make our way to Londinium. Ah, Querl? What was that burning you made?”
“Trolls hate the surface world, I surmise, in part for its plantlife. I guessed from the woods and greens unburnt and uneaten that those were ones trolls would find unpleasant. It seems I was right.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Forty
For a week, he had done nothing, ate nothing but a few crumbs, and spent the days sitting out in the cold air.
“So. I live. Now what?” It was the knight’s first words in a full week.
“Now you return to court with us, I suppose. Or return to Orkney. T’is your choice,” Jan offered. He shivered slightly in the Yuletide airs. Belinant’s gardens were still a beautiful place, even when not in bloom.
“I go back to court a murderer?”
Well, I guess that answers the question as to which brother I sit with.
“You go back a penitent man, who has already faced death for his actions, who has myself and three wise elders to vouch for him.”
“You would do that for me?”
“We are brothers in Christ, are we not?”
The Orkneyman couldn’t answer; he was less certain of anything anymore. Nearby, a swarm of cats descended on spme table-scraps a kitchen-maid left for them.
“I… am sorry if I woke you from your rest against your wishes. I should not have done so; I see that now.”
“Rest?” The man laughed. “T’was not rest for me, I fear.”
“What was it like?”
“I was stranded; caught like a fish in a net, unw- unable to move, whilst I saw all those around me swim on to where they belonged. Only Kiwa stopped to greet me.”
“What did she say?”
“She forgave me. Can you imagine? A pagan… sorceress, offering a gift of Christian charity.”
“Perhaps it is as Marla and Beren say, that all paths are not so far off from each other as we imagine.”
“Aye, perhaps.”
The silence resumed.
Regulus joined them, bringing hot wine. Both younger men appreciatively accepted.
“Your heart is heavy, my friend,” the elder priest said to the knight. “It takes a brave man to face death and come back. But back you are. So live.”
“Aye. I think I shall,” he said, perhaps believing and welcoming it for the first time.
“By what name do we call you?” Regulus asked, not having heard the last.
“Call me… Andrew.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Andrew.”
By now the cats had finished their scraps, and sought more from the nearest humans around.
But Jan, atypically anxious, as he still fought his qualms for his deed, was in no mood for them. “Begone, vermin!” He got up, shooing them away.
Regulus laughed.
“What?”
“How many of them do you reckon there were?”
“Eight or so. Why?”
“Why, then, you came within four cats of completing the impossible tasks after all!”
Jan did not let Andrew’s confusion prevent him from chuckling.
[ September 02, 2006, 10:08 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
MOUNTAINS Interlude Sixteen: The Blossom That Is Nanda Parbat
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, Sensei. T’is time for me to return home.”
“Then may the peace of the gods be with you, my young friend.”
“May Rama Kushna watch over you,” offered Maj, the guardian of the welcome fountain.
The man who no longer called himself Agravaine took one last look at the valley that had been his home for the past weeks. Never has there been a more serene place, he thought.
Nestled in between perpetually snow-capped mountains many times over as tall as those he knew in Lothian was a lush, green oasis, populated by those who sought such a perfect habitude, or those who needed its tranquility to overcome the evils they’d known in the outer world.
Many of the valley’s residents had come to se him off, including, he hoped—
But there! The sole head of blond hair in the entire valley was hard to miss — a Helvetic lad, almost as far from home as he.
“Hart! There you are!” He couldn’t leave without seeing his friend and closest peer.
“Didn’t think you could sneak off without me, did you?” The bag he hauled caught many by surprise; it was as big as Lot’s son’s.
“Is that wise to leave?” Sensei asked. “You came here—”
“—To put my past behind me. And I have. But I cannot hide here forever. What’s the good of all I learned here, if I can’t put it to good use, and leave my past buried, where it belongs?”
Despite the sea of skepticism, the elders wished him well.
Their guide was a Saracen, several years older than either of them, both young men knew well. Like Agravaine, he was a knight who gave up the sword, although his was not a permanent vow like the Caledonian’s.
Hart was pleased to see him. “Palomides! Let’s get on the trail before the snows make us stay here another winter.”
The man loaded their bags onto a lama, but keeping the thick yak skins handy, and they made their way up the valley toward the pass. The forest-garden gave way to alpine meadows, and finally rocky, lichened terrain, where the winds suddenly blew colder. The three young men could see their breaths, and saw the occasional flurry drift by.
They paused only briefly at the crest, where one sees a sliver of Nanda Parbat behind them, and the unforgiving roof of the world ahead. As the pass begins its decent, they passed the chasm where tales said, as a young man, Sensei battled a fiend named Kirau, a man so evil even the valley’s peace could not tame him.
“Tales say Kirau perished, falling into the chasm,” Hart said.
“Let us hope such evil remains lost,” Palomides said. “Some say the rock formation below forms the shape of a black dragon. Good luck in the east, they say, but it sounds none too fortunate me.”
The Caledonian knight looked down. There was too much mist and snow to see such a formation; it was just as well.
“Where do you go, once you reach the Silk Road?” Palomides asked.
“I know not,” Hart said.
“West, for me. I have a friend to see in Palestine. I may return to Britain thereafter.”
“Where you not a renowned knight there?” Palomides asked. “Why, your journeys will be most impressive there, it is not so?”
He laughed. “That’s not why I came.”
“Tell us more of Britain, o valiant knight!” Hart chided. “Mayhap I shall accompany you there.”
“Well…”
“Yes, please,” Palomides said. “We have far to walk, and it will help pass the time, Val.”
[ August 10, 2006, 11:48 AM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Seventeen: The Isle of Na Hearadh
Rokk was beginning to think he would never be warm again.
He arrived back on Skye with Grev as he had promised, just days before the full moon. After several days - maybe a week - of meeting Pictish clansmen and women, he and his escorts finally set out to sea to a farther island, where the test Maven had spoken of would take place.
The Picts rowed him out in a small boat, barely big enough to tack against the fierce waves. Despite the furs they gave him to wear, it was the coldest voyage of his life, as the winds blew out on the sea of Hebrides like a tempest of frozen blades.
But eventually they arrived. Through the sea spray and mists, they saw the towering peaks before they saw the actual shore below. The isle was so rocky, so barren-looking, Rokk was amazed anyone would want to come here, let alone live here. But upon landing, more Picts started coming out of the hills to greet both Rokk and the crew that delivered him.
They took him to their village, a small collection of huts built onto a hillside, practically invisible until one comes within a rock's throw of them. Beside a fire for most of an hour, he began to again feel his flesh. They offered him a bowl of a hot broth that smelled gamey - he thought better than to ask what it was.
The villagers were smaller than the average Pict, barely four feet at the tallest, but they gave him every hospitality they could offer, and seemed pleased, very pleased, that he was there.
These people spoke no Latin, and Rokk's Pictish was barely worth mentioning. One of the boatmen knew a similar sliver of Latin and a measure more of Gaelic, so with a great deal of patience a chain of communication emerged. Rokk learned that he was to remain three days and three nights in preparation, and on the fourth day, he would feast on the best of everything the that villagers had saved up all year.
Rokk didn’t like the idea of eating the villagers out of their stores, but the boatman assured him it was prepared for — and was necessary. The fourth night was the new moon, the night of Rokk’s test, and he would need every strength imaginable.
New moon already? I was on Skye longer than I believed, but I guess it all meets Maven’s plan.
He tried not to dwell on the Yuletide and Christ's Mass celebrations he’d missed; it would all be worth it, to have the Pictish clans march against the Khunds this spring.
He slept, he practiced sword-play with one of the boatmen (usually all the village would stop and watch), he ate, he aided the villagers on occasion, and he tried to learn more about his test.
The boatman would smile, and tell him “time yours comes.”
Late on the third day, the boatman brought him down to the sea, and told him to dive in.
Rokk raised an eyebrow at the presumed jest.
The boatman disrobed, and dove in, waving for Rokk to do the same.
Is this insanity, or part of the test? Which ever, Rokk duplicated the move.
Gods! It was FREEE---EEEE---ZING!!!!
He yelled aloud when his head reached the surface.
The boatman laughed, starting to climb out, and reaching a hand out.
“Whyinthenameofallthat’sholydidwe-----?????”
“To-morrows, alive-est, you will need be.”
Rokk laughed, as he dried himself off with his shirt, and began dressing.
A bunch of village children giggled, having watched the whole thing.
[ December 27, 2006, 03:14 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Eighteen: Olympus
Vidar felt light-headed as he completed the climb.
The monk who served as his guide waited patiently. Throughout the ascent, he never offered any sign of physical stress, despite his senior years.
“So. We are here. Now what?”
“The Patriarch asks this quest of all who would join the leadership of the True Church. Look around, and tell me what you see.”
“I see… a stark mountaintop. A vista of sea, shore and peaks. Clouds. I see myself,” he gestured to his limbs and torso, “and a fellow brother in Christ. But most importantly, I see His handiwork in it all.”
The monk nodded. “Do you know of the Olympus of olde?”
“I know that the heathens of old Greece considered it the home of those they falsely believed as gods.”
“Nay,” the monk said. “Those gods were real. They lived here. But mercifully, their wicked ways were their undoing. Earlier patriarchs, in their divinely inspired wisdom, had all evidence of their residence eradicated, that the unwise would not bear credence to the tales of olde.”
“I beg your forgiveness, but I cannot believe that there ever were other gods, only false idols and maybe evil spirits posing as gods.
“The Book tells us, Vidar, that He said, ‘Thou shall have no other gods before me,’ not, ‘There are no other gods.’ These old gods are fading away, t’is true, and we must never let them change their fortunes. But they exist, and they exist to do evil. We must be ever-vigilant to protect our flock against their deceptions.”
Do this monk, or the Patriarch, truly believe this? Or is this a test?
His meeting with Macedonius II, the Patriarch of Constantinople, had gone well enough. He’d considered this quest more of a formality for his new employer. But now…?
“There remains something, some evidence,” Vidar said. Hoping his false sense of confidence would bear fruit.
The monk smiled. “Go on.”
“You brought me up here for a reason. Not just to tell me there was once evidence of ‘gods’ who lived here.”
“But does Christian faith not require faith of His servants?”
“Aye. But faith in His teachings. If defenders against heresies you seek to recruit, you need to be able to show them what threats they will need to face. Also, tales of old ‘gods’ can be just as easily shared in Constantinople. Bringing initiates here would lead skeptics to doubt your tales — if there is nothing more to see.”
The monk smiled.
“Come,” he said, leading Vidar down a small trail descending from the other side of the peak. “Not every initiate gets to see this. But you will have a special mission.
“The most immediate threats to His kingdom lie on or near three isles, three large isles in the North-west of Europe. Pretanna, Airua, and Knorxha.
Britain, Eiru and… where? Vidar wondered.
The trail dead-ended near a rock wall. But about 10 paces before the trail’s end, the monk started pushing a large piece of stone, about four feet wide and three high, one of many along the steep trailside. He waved away Vidar’s move to help.
“Only those blessed with the secret may move the stone,” he said. And move it he did — revealing a small cave.
The monk lit a candle and bade Vidar to enter.
And what he saw made him weep.
[ December 27, 2006, 03:17 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Nineteen: The Isle of Na Hearadh
Rokk climbed the mountain as he was instructed, starting just after dark and reaching the summit probably about mid-night. With no moon to see by, the going was rough. The numerous snow crossings sometimes gave way, with treacherous ice beneath. Sometimes it was only the metals in the rocks the king clung to that saved him from painful descents of as much as 80 feet at a time.
He gained visibility as he climbed, although he was not certain of the source of this illumination. Did he fear that seeking it out with his eyes would prove to be a deadly distraction — or that it was faerie magick that would vanish on him?
Was Uther’s initiation at Avalon anything like this? he wondered.
Arrive he did atop the mount, scarred, battered and bruised - and cold, despite the layers of furs and skins that the the villagers had adorned him in. But now free to look up, he saw it — a maelstrom of swirling colours unlike any he had ever seen. Upon occasion, he had seen the strips of light in the northern skies — who hadn’t? — but never like this! Ribbons of vivid, pulsating reds and pinks, almost raining down on him! Flashes of yellows and oranges, like a wide, silent, horizontal lightning! Swirls of blues and violets opening and closing like irises…
He looked around at the summit as well. It seemed to pulsate, breathe almost. And each of his frozen breaths were like swimming creatures, dancing in the airs around him!
What magicks did the villagers place into my drinks and foodstuffs? He touched the symbols painted onto his face — blue body paint he had only seen before on Pictish warriors and priestesses. Who was the cloaked maiden who painted them on? She seemed but so familiar…
Should you ask not what the gods ask of you?
Who said that?
There was no answer. Rokk reminded himself that he was told to await the vision the gods were to send to him.
He looked around; the entire landscape now seemed completely visible, down to the slightest details. Were those not the waves washing up on the southeastern shores; from the direction he had climbed? Then why were there none to the northwest?
There was no movement of any kind in the seas in the direction away from Britain and Skye, was there? Or was there some under the surface, under the--
“Ice!” He blurted. “How can the sea itself be so frozen?”
And out on the ice, he saw something moving. A large creature.
Come for me! Not even The Hunter has bested me; and I have feasted on many who would be king.
A challenge, then? I accept!
Good, the voice growled hungily.
They way down the mountain heading for the northwest was much easier; he winced at having such a hard climb when he was now rushing down a fairly easy path on the mount’s far side. In under an hour, it seemed, he had reached the shore, with only minimal falls, bruises and gashes.
The creature was out on the ice, a couple hundred paces.
It was a bear - a stark, white bear - larger than any he’d ever before seen.
They eyed each other fiercely, as if they were face to face.
The bear stood tall, growling, snarling, bellowing. We are the Usru, the King if Winter, King of All Bears and Lord of the North! By what name shall we honour our meal this eve?
“I am Rokk, High King of Britain!” He held the spear the priestess had given him high and proud. “Have at thee!”
Rokk let out a primal war-cry, and charged out onto the ice.
The bear also began his charge, and the two met, some 30 to 40 paces out onto the ice.
Up-close, Rokk was even more amazed at the beast’s size, and he almost believed it literally grew as it approached. The briny ice under its feet crunched and swayed, but did not give way.
Rokk stopped short, crouching down, finding an uneven spot in the ice to anchor the spear’s base against, and propping it so the bear would charge straight into it.
It worked; the bear howled in pain and anger, but knocked Rokk more than 20 feet as it lashed out wildly with its massive paw.
Rokk found the deep gashes strangely warming out on this frigid milieu.
The bear awkwardly pulled out the spear and knocked it aside. It stood and growled, and again it charged.
As the villagers had not let him tale Excalibur, Rokk found himself with only a small hunting knife. This won’t be enough.
He pried loose a long shard of ice off of the surface, hoping it could act as a weapon. Too awkward to wield, he abandoned it, instead throwing a smaller chunk at the beast’s eyes, while dodging leftward.
It didn’t work.
The bear again swatted him, gashing him even deeper, although the hallucinogens shielded him from the worst of the pain. Knocked only a few feet, he landed face-down.
But the bear’s claws again sank into him, this time slowly, deliberately. Through his torso; he could feel his innards being punctured.
No weapons left. No weapons…
He closed his eyes and concentrated. His spear was a dozen yards away, but its point was metal.
Metal.
Could his influence reach that far? He knew not. He could only try!
Not daring to open his eyes, he imaging the spear flying straight into the bear’s skull, driving in, just as the bear claws were doing to him… he could well imagine it; his pain helped him focus, helped him visualize. Was it working, or was he dying? It was hard to tell where he ended and the bear began; he was one with both. He was Rokk. He was Usru. He was…
“Victorious, but at what price?”
He was vaguely aware of the priestess having the villagers carry him back to their abodes. It was daytime; he floated about as his soaked, half-frozen body was lifted from the northwest seas; only a few chunks of sea ice was visible near the island; and plenty of specks off at the horizon.
He was calm, at peace, sometimes forgetting who he was or whose body he followed, feeling some link to. The priestess who attended to his wounds knew her craft; she was well aided that the cold stemmed the worst of the wounds.
But she will need more than that, he thought. Help, I must seek.
[ December 27, 2006, 03:29 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Twenty: Gibraltar
“Would it not make an excellent place for a fortress?” Palomides asked.
“Aye,” the Caledonian knight replied. “See the far lands? Across the waters? T’is Africa, clearly visible from Iberia’s southern shores.”
Hart and Hesperos, more accustomed to width of the eastern Mediterranean, were amazed. Hesperos, a Greek warrior, was the newest addition to this little group, after having come to Jeka's aid in Palestine.
“To think that the gap between the lands could ever be so slight,” Hart said.
Jeka just smiled. She’d seen it before, but as the quintet journeyed westward, Ag- no, she must not call him that any longer – was the resident expert to the newcomers.
Their ship had docked overnight, as the captain had business with the local merchants. The British-bound passengers had an unusual length of time to spend on land for this voyage, so they opted to climb the mountain overlooking the bay.
Val was struck by the irony — it had seemed such a long voyage from Portus Magnus to the mouth of the Middle Sea on the outward trip last year, but now it seemed as if they were almost home. After spending all but a few months of the past 16 moons traveling, he longed for the familiarity of Rokk’s court.
Hart was much where Val was a year ago; with heavy heart of past burdens, but thrilled with seeing new, strange lands far from the Kazakh steppes of his homeland. Palomides, having finished his quest in the east and made peace with his father in Baghdad, was now eager to see what the western world offered.
And Hesperos? He smiled in anticipation of reaching Britain, and seeking his kinsman.
[ June 18, 2007, 01:57 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
BOOK V: KHUNDS AT THE GATE Two Hundred Forty-one
“…so the unknown knight turned out to be Laoraighll, after all,” Tinya concluded.
Gaheris ate up every word, but Harlack was developing a skeptical edge. “Why didn’t the other knights recognize her by her horse, Comet?”
“Comet… was on a quest with his friends,” she ad-libbed. “You remember? MacKell’s hunting dog Cu Sidhe, the palace kitty Cramer, and Brainius V’s monkey Koko.”
Harlack still wasn’t convinced. Morgause remained focused on her weaving, and just smiled.
“Will you stay through Beltane, Tinya?” Gaheris pleaded.
“Perhaps. In any case, whilst I so miss my husband, I am in no rush to leave right now. T’would not be wise.”
“Why not?” Harlack asked.
Tinya thought better than to tell the children of the war Nura predicted - especially Harlack.
Lot entered the family chamber - in a foul mood indeed. “Husband? What is it?” Morgause didn’t like that look.
“The assassin Manaugh. He’s at it again. He’s single-handedly assailed my garrison at Tay’s Bend; left not one alive. Doesn’t he realize Picts are allies of all British now, ere on the verge of war?”
The boys gaped, while the noblewomen flinched; they’d done their best to hide that fact.
“What war?” Gaheris asked.
“Agh! It matters not,” Lot said, guessing his gaffe, looking to change the subject. “What- what news of the south?”
“King Rokk has finally returned to Londinium, after many months of healing,” Tinya reported.
“Pict, Scot, Orkneyman and Votadni alike are now all calling him ‘Uthru’ — ‘the bear,’ after his feats. They say its’ furs were whiter than snow, more than twice as large as any bear seen anywhere in Britain before; and that it now decorates Rokk’s great hall,” Lot marveled.
Tinya nodded. She silently shivered at the king’s near-death experience, and how Imra described Rokk appearing to her as an apparition himself! “Praise MacKell, that he could bring him the Cauldron so quickly.”
“What war?” Gaheris repeated.
“Is.. it with my people?” Harlack asked.
“Not with the Khunds of Kent,” Morgause said, seeing further avoidance would worsen their curiosity. “Kent stands with us against welisc invaders.”
Lot nodded. “The first landings have been fought and repelled in East Anglia and the south-central shores.”
It was Tinya’s turn to gape; she had not heard that. Was my Jonah amid these battles. Aye, I’ll wager he was. She’d always been proud of her love; but she was now beginning to hold some fears as well. Was it simply aging and maturing? Or how many of their comrades had perished already? Or had the predictions Nura had made more than a half-year ago give her more time for her fears to gather strength? Maybe t’was a combination thereof.
[ August 14, 2006, 08:17 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Forty-two
“Sssswear it yourssself!”
“He cannot!” Mettah insisted.
Her liege gestured toward his throat, and then picked up his quill. He gestured the young woman to the other side of the room, facing away before dipping it into the inkwell.
“King Rokk’s lepress took my voice,” he wrote, showing his hosts. Mettah spoke the same words aloud as they read them.
“By the will of the gods, Mettah hears the words I would speak, and repeats them for me,” he continued writing. Mettah repeated the words, again, without seeing them.
“And how do we… know not that thiss iss some… rehearssed ploy?” Ontier asked, adjusting his hood.
“You write something, and show it to Tarik,” Mettah said, thinking the better of letting him know she could read his thoughts as well.
Somewhat amused, Ontier complied.
“Those who cling to Rome abound with fear, Freedom comes from midnight’s sphere.”
Ontier nodded. “I sssee. Very well.” He gestured to continue. “If Tarik of the 100 Knightsss wissshes our cccircle’s sssupport, we ssshall accccept your sssservant’sss wordssss asss yoursss.”
“Ha! More like Tarik of the Mute!” said another of the cloaked men who accompanied Ontier, earning a dire look from the elderly king.
Mettah waited for her liege to regain his focus. “I swear by the circle, upon pain of every earthy torment, that…”
[ June 18, 2007, 02:09 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Forty-three
Geraint surveyed the battlefield with some degree of satisfaction; those who could not move on their own accord were generally Khundish. Yet he grimaced that this was a small corner of a larger battle.
Although he arrived with a bare half-dozen cavaliers and a sole score of archers, his arrival had a rallying effect on the besieged garrison, the westernmost defenses of the city Portus Magnus. Having won the day with the likes of James and Dyrk at his side, the garrison guards were only too happy to place themselves at his command — their own commander lied dead by an archer’s bolt, and a nearby breach cut off the chain of command from the city proper.
Learning this, Geraint unleashed a bold strategy to regain the adjacent portion of the city — baiting the looters and pillagers into thinking a new division was nipping at their heels, and as they gathered in defensive formations, the archers who had been making their way across the rooftops began picking them off.
James, meanwhile, for the first time using his gifts in plain sight, began taking on the crude (by roman standards) Khund war-machines; catapults, ballista and even a particularly crude attempt to mimic Querl’s computi.
With the western breach largely contained and the lines reconnected, the central city forced, too, rallied, in a sort of domino effect. While Dyrk and James offered more than their share towards the eventual victory late that night, it was Geraint’s name being chanted by the jubilant soldiers into the morning hours.
Geraint accepted the accolades in stride, personally greeting seemingly every guardsman who was sober or unwounded enough to stand.
And although Dyrk winced at the words, he heard more than one request to remember him when the time came, in case there were British rulers too weak to stand up against further invasions.
Does he still seek only Marcus’ deposing, or is he now eying Rokk’s throne, too? The Roman knight asked himself.
“I like this not,” James whispered. “I’d heard Mysa had talked him out of his ambitions?”
“Or simply delay them?” Dyrk questioned. And what has Mysa promised Geraint for staying his hand last year? Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Forty-four
“Thank you for seeing me.”
Derek barely looked up from polishing his sword. “Keep it brief, Regulus. T’is war-time. I haven’t time for games.”
He sat in his merchant-hall, amid tables with bolts of fine cloth, ceramic dishes, metal jewelry and other goods. On his table, a small supper of smoked fowl and apple slices lay half untouched.
“Nor I,” answered the priest of Apollo. “Whatever the outcome, The auguries tell me this war’s outcome is not in doubt. Britain will prevail, but the price will be heavy nonetheless. No, the true test of mettle against the Khunds is yet to come, no more than a dozen years out.”
“So what’s so urgent, then?” Derek smirked, recalling how poorly Regulus’ prior predictions turned out.
“Dyrk’s destiny. The one I have spoken of,” he paused to see if the merchant-warrior was still listening. Polishing, he still was, but slower, with his head slightly cocked.
“He may still yet be high king. And without betraying King Rokk. But the window is not long in the opening.”
Derek took a half-breath. He had quickly accepted that Rokk, not he or Dyrk, would be high king, ever since that day on the plains of Camulodunum. Was Regulus speaking truth or only more madness?
“You have my ear,” the elder knight spoke cautiously.
“Rokk’s star is at its height, or rather, a possible height. But after this war, there shall be a test of four knights, and maybe a handful of others. Few will survive.
“The auguries tell me both Rokk and Dyrk will be among those tested.”
“Are you saying Dyrk will kill Rokk? No, I can’t see that.”
“Not at all. But if Rokk is not up to the challenge — whatever it might be — but Dyrk is, your son’s way to be high king would be secured.”
“By outliving the king on one quest? You are mad, Regulus. Mad, I say.”
The priest nodded. “Perhaps. The auguries previously told me of the sun king ruling this isle in peace and prosperity for a generation or more. I hoped Dyrk would be Apollo’s champion against both Khund and the encroaching Christianity, that of all the true gods, Apollo’s chosen would prevail.
“And here we are. My two best hopes, you and now Dyrk, have come to hate me. The sacred trivia I hoped to put at his side have been driven from me — aye, and one lies dead. All my plans have come to naught. Unless this… ‘quest,’ as you call it, becomes even more momentous than the Khunds we now face.”
“You still cling to the hope of Dyrk again becoming your champion?” Derek almost laughed.
“Not my champion. Apollo’s. The Morgnus family’s fortunes were built by the light of His chariot, you must remember.”
“Perhaps. But if we are to survive and continue to prosper, we must be a part of the new of Britain, not the old of Rome and long-ago Athens.”
“What are you saying, Derek?”
“More and more I have seen in my lifetime, the good families of southern Britain are one by one drifting toward the Christian path. A time is coming where any decent merchant may be expected to be part of their flock, too, if he is to keep their custom.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Regulus grabbed Derek’s arm. Seeing Derek’s anger, he let go, and stormed toward the door. “I’ll show myself out,” he announced in a huff.
But Derek couldn’t resist one more jab. “One of your ‘sacred trivia’ has already embraced the Christian ways. And she is closer to Dyrk than you or I will ever be.”
The expression on the priest’s face was worth the exaggeration, Derek concluded. His sword polished and his a few quick mouthfuls of supper downed, he returned to the palace where his fellow officers would be gathered.
[ June 18, 2007, 02:22 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Forty-five
Jonah and several of his cavalrymen had been chasing a pair of Khund scouts for the better part of ten miles before the hunt ended as he’d intended: two lances, two impalements, and not too much noise.
But the Anglian woods were too quiet for early morn; once the bloodlust of the hunt subsided, Jonah realized something was amiss.
Genni should have reported back by now. Or have the Khunds lain sword to our best scout?
“It’s too quiet,” a cavalryman echoed his thoughts.
“Be ready for an ambush,” Jonah warned in a loud whisper. They slowly rode towards a ravine; he bade them to wait as he dismounted and stealthed up the far side. Peering over, he waived them to follow, as he stood and walked forward without care.
He walked into what had clearly been a large encampment; thin wisps of smoke still haunted the occasional fire-pit.
“There must have been thousands of them!” a knight exclaimed, while Jonah sought out the direction of their tracks.
He grimaced. Back towards Lindum. We have been fooled!
“Hurry, my fellowes!” He remounted and lead them by the rout the attackers had taken. “He shall first encounter the supply wagons; we must dispatch them most stealthily, ere we are to surprise the back lines!” If they have not already reached Lindum, that is… Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Forty-six
Mysa sat in silence while Thora stood confidently, appearing to direct the priestesses who rowed the passage.
She does not need to preserve the illusions for me, Mysa thought, but there is tradition to honour, and the young ones must not have their focus thrown aside.
She peered out into the thick veil of cloud that surrounded them, realizing this was only the second time she had no role to play: rower or guide; the first was her very first voyage to Avalon those 15 years ago. Then, she was a scared little girl journeying into the unknown, a fearsome, solemn realm.
But now, she was going home.
The thought had been a fearful one for so long, but now it felt good. It felt right.
She recognized the priestesses-in-training who rowed the boat; they were scared little maidens only a few years ago. But did they not remember her? They gave no indication of such. Or have I become the hated oath-breaker these past few years?
But no. It was simply a priestess’ training to be aloof, to let not the face betray the thoughts behind the façade. How could I forget this? What else have I forgotten already?
As the mists parted, she gasped at seeing Kiwa there awaiting her. But no; it was Azura. How much of Kiwa’s poise she has taken on!
Azura, once one of Mysa’s pupils, was now the mistress here, and greeted her as formally as Kiwa ever greeted any visiting noble, but once in the Lady’s hut, they shared a more sisterly greeting, with hugs and intimate words.
Thora, consigned to attending to Mysa’s bags and serving her elders, scowled. Was her role as Azura’s aide and confidante in jeopardy?
She only caught portions of the conversation, coming and going with necessities, but knew they discussed Mysa’s falling with Imra and Ayla, The Cornish crown, the Khund war of course, and other particulars that she couldn’t catch all the details of. Were they discussing a mission for Mysa on Avalon’s behalf? A role for Mysa here on Avalon?
Outside the cottage, Thora broke one of the serving bowls in anger. Have I not been a good and faithful priestess and servant? Why must the legendary Mysa suddenly take my place? Who is she, to come and go as she pleases, while we the faithful should scamper aside?
It will not be so. Lady, I implore thee!
Dismissed for the night, Thora left Azura and Mysa to their warm talks, and she stewed alone in her bedding. It was a warm spring night, but she felt very cold and alone, more than she had ever felt since Kiwa died.
Imra is Avalon’s delegate to the royal court; not Mysa! If Mysa has acted unjustly on her own, Avalon should not reward her for her betrayals! By morning, Thora had all but convinced herself that Imra had been a close friend during the queen’s days on the Priestess Isle, not merely an older-priestess acquaintance, and her old friend needed an ally to avenge the wrongs done her.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Forty-seven
For perhaps the first time, MacKell found himself resenting his legend; it was as if everyone expected his aid at the same time.
Earlier this week, he led the fight against a small-but-significant Khundish attack on a fishing village near Eboracum, and returned to the city in time to defeat an enchanted suit of armour some fiendish sorcerer must have let loose. Even then, Queen Winifred complained he was nowhere to be found when a smaller Khundish raiding party attacked her castle; they were fended off, but toppled into the river a statue of some unknown Roman centurian who had once saved a Celt priestess no-one outside of the city even remembered.
Two days ago, he had reached the river village of Gaini, where he led villagers in putting out a large and growing fire created by a falling star, or so they said. They stopped the fire before it burned all the river villages, but a nearby Angle settlement complained that MacKell was not there to be ready for the Khunds, and were further incensed when he went instead to a village to the west, near Perilous Forest, where an invisible Roc was causing havok.
Yet today, his other tasks complete, he returned to the Angles, refortifying their weak tower just before an actual Khund attack.
Alone save for a handful of elder Angle farmers, he took out all his frustrations on the invaders — and won, despite six-to-one odds, counting three old Angles as worth a single man.
Is this all the world has come to? he asked himself, tiring of what was seeming to be a life of war after war, and no shortage of fighting between wars. In my youth, t’is true I enjoyed such sport, but in truth now, I would like nothing better than to travel and explore this world, most of which I have only seen from the skewed captivity of the cave.
But an Angle messenger came upon him: Lindum itself was under siege!
Wearily, he remounted his steed and rode off.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Forty-eight
“Is there not an easier route?”
Large, muscular Andrew had a hard time fitting in the small tunnel.
“I fear not,” King Pellam replied. For one, the old man’s slow pace did not slow the young knight down, as the narrow crawlspace accomplished that feat. “These tunnels were built to allow lithe priests to flee from raiders and brigands, after all.”
Pellam had room enough to crawl, but Andrew had not such a luxury. He scuffled his legs along, but mostly pulled himself forward with his arms, which were now sore and tired. “Fat priests had to fend for themselves, then?” Based on the monastery ruins where they’d camped the night before, none of any largeness would have survived, he surmised. He hoped all the gear they hid was safe.
“The order who knows of and uses this tunnel had a rather strict diet of fruits, vegetables and, upon occasion, fish. Even grains are virtually forbidden. Perhaps fitness for this tunnel is one very reason for that,” Pellam remarked, pausing before starting the curve that he knew marked the end of the journey. The curve and the coming grotto keep light from telling unfamiliar crawlers how far they have to go.
Reaching the grotto, the elderly king crawled to one side to rest before attempting to stand. These old bones have outlived their usefulness, I must admit to myself.
Andrew crawled forward, grateful for room to move his arms, stretched and let out a few deep breaths before looking around him.
The grotto was partially a cave, but in many places, one could look out into a dark thicket of forest. A two-hand-wide channel of water meandered its way through, from one wall and out the largest cave-mouth. The grotto itself was full of carvings and emblems, but the central feature was a life-size crucifix with a figure dangling from it. Andrew approached it. It was white stone, such as is common on the southern coasts. The figure, clearly intended to be Iesous, had a blank face.
“If this place was founded by the man from Arimathea, surely he of all people knew the Lord’s face?”
“That stands to reason,” Pellam said. Andrew came over to help him to his feet.
“Then why?”
“Like many of the olde orders, the Josephites believe that each and every seeker may know divinity firsthand. Idols portraying a single image, they say, are an attempt to control the image of their savior. They believe everyone can and should create their own image, in their mind’s eye.”
Andrew bowed to make a prayer, while Pellam reverently bowed his head and gave his own silent greeting.
Exiting the grotto, they passed through a garden fed by the small stream. At the garden’s center stood a thin windy tree that blossomed as Pellam approached. Andrew looked up in the sky, seeking to see the sun. Despite the amount of daylight, the sun was visible only as a diffused blur behind a layer of near-white cloud. Looking further, he could see an island the shape of the Tor at Glastonbury, only larger.
There was a smaller isle to the right. Although the figures appeared small, he was certain they were feminine. The Priestess Isle. He gulped. Where Kiwa would rule still if not for I.
At the garden gate, a brown-robed, thick-bearded man with a smile that seemed to radiate from the sun itself greeted them. “Welcome, King Pellam. The Siege Cristi of Avalon welcomes you.” He turned to Andrew, not flinching at the un-helmed, grotesque face before him. “And welcome to you, my friend.”
“I am Andrew… of Orkney.”
“I am David. Come.”
David led the two to a collection of small stone huts with thatched roofs. Several robed men stopped their crafts to greet the visitors, and those who were too involved to stop smiled and offered greetings.
The collective brethren brought the two to a man who was carving a large bowl. About 50 in age, the burdens his face hinted at made him look far older. He smiled but said nothing.
“This is Andrew,” Pellam began. “He is a good man, a good knight and a follower of Iesous, but is heavy of heart. Only you can help him.” Seeing doubt in the silent man’s eyes, he continued. “Please. For me.”
The man set down his block of wood, and carefully placed his tools on the bench. He sat still, looking straight ahead but downward, as if concentrating on a small pluberry bush not far away.
After a length of silence, Pellam nodded, and turned to Andrew. “Stay with him. He may not have gone through all that you have, but he shares enough pain that will help you with your own.”
Pellam and the brothers began walking away.
Who is he? Andrew wondered, not daring to give voice to the growing… fear.
The man’s smile told him the thought did not go unheard.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Forty-nine
“Thank you for coming.” Enide steadied herself, determined not to show fear or anger in front of the woman she considered her bitter rival.
Nura returned the greeting, sensing some amount of unease from the lady. She disliked traveling in wartime, but knew it was safer in Exeter – for the moment – than remaining at Marcus’ side right now.
Sheltering at a small convent, Enide had little to offer her guest, but made do with wine and apple slices offered by the mother superior.
“Your message sounded urgent,” Nura said to break the ice, taking a few slices only to be polite. Every offering by Enide spoke volumes of her years of poverty – every morsel was an inventory only reluctantly surrendered.
Before she could utter a word, the speech Enide had practiced had already fallen apart, a casualty to nervous memory.
Nura waited patiently.
“…I know of what Mysa arranged with my husband,” she said at last, accusingly. She had hoped to unnerve Nura into displaying guilt, but found herself thrown off by Nura’s affable confusion.
“Then you know more than I,” Nura laughed. “I’ve not seen my sister since last summer. Pray tell, what arrangement has she concocted now?” As much as Mysa decried Kiwa’s manipulations, Nura saw Mysa as far more of Kiwa’s breed than she herself – Kiwa’s own estranged daughter.
“Have you truly not heard, or do all tongues wag in jest?” exasperated, Enide was not expecting an answer. “Mysa has told – or so it is told,” she paused searching for the way to say it, “that if Geraint supports Rokk’s war efforts now and keeps peace with Marcus until this war is ended… that she has promised him you as his bride.”
Nura laughed. “Who is she to promise my hand? My sister, yes, but not my queen.”
“She more queen than you or I. Gorlois married Igraine because she was of the olde line of Cornwall, a distant cousin of Geraint. The old families look to her as much as they do to Geraint. Mayhap more so, as she is also sister to the high king himself. Renounced or not, her word carries more weight than she may realize.”
Nura pondered that. Mysa thought her title came from Gorlois, a Roman regent lacking in authenticity to one raised as a Celt. And Kiwa omitted telling her of Igraine’s heritage, to keep her power over her. Webs within webs. Truly, I asked Mysa to keep Geraint at bay ere the war, with the pledge that she would help him woo me. But did he negotiate a tougher deal? Nay, I cannot believe t’is so.
“I must seek my sister, that she may tell me her mind,” Nura said. “I shan’t take the words of gossip-mongers until that day.”
“T’was not gossips, I fear.” Enide looked away, turning red. “Geraint talks in his sleep.”
“So… we have his word, after a fashion, of this deal as brokered. But we have not her version.” Nura shivered, realizing she didn’t know when – or if – she would again see her sister. But I foresaw myself with Thom, not Geraint. Didn’t I? Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Fifty
The road to Lindum was not safe for travelers, it was true – but then few if any roads were safe during this war, as nowhere in Britain was far enough from the sea. Khundish attack parties had landed everywhere from Penzance to Portus Magnus to Lothian, it seemed, and a few landings managed to reach the Cymrus as well.
With Jeka safe at Zendak’s castle in South Cymru, the quartet of newly arrived warriors braved the road, however, seeking to rendez-vous with Rokk’s forces. Val, of course, also wanted to reunite with his brother.
At Cawdy’s Fort, they just missed Garth’s cavalry, bound to intervene against a large landing at Exeter, and Geraint’s army, following as rapidly as foot soldiers could. Setting out to follow, they met Genni on the road, reporting that battle was already over, and she was bound for Lindum, where Queen Nura predicted the next wave would land.
Val was amused at his friends reaction to the Moorish messenger. Yes, he had told them of some of the strange gifts Rokk’s Legion had at its disposal, but to actually see Genni racing down the road was quite another thing.
The group followed as best as they could, opting to cut cross-country as Genni did rather than take one road east to Londinium and another north from there.
Days later, they found themselves camped at the edge of Perilous Forest.
“This Britain is not as cold and damp as you claimed,” Hart commented.
“Maybe, but it is far from as warm as daytime should be, by my measure,” Palomides added.
Hesperos nodded. Cold it was not, but there was a chill in the mornings he did not associate with late spring. Britain was a far greener place than he’d imagined, even more, in its way, than the mountain valleys of Thrace he’d called home for so long.
With camp broken, they made their way northeast once again, until they reached the Trent. Val recalled there was a ferry over the river at Gaini, and from there, it would be a fairly short trip to Lindum.
They were unprepared for the thick reams of smoke rising from the houses of Gaini. Could the Khund have attacked this village? Has Lindum fallen? Val wondered.
Throwing their gear behind some bushes, they armed and ran forward, engaging Khunds still looting and burning.
Gaini was in shambles, it was true, but there were still villagers running about – those who failed to find safety in the small castle’ walls - fleeing flames and raiders as best they could.
Val estimated maybe about 60 raiders throughout the village – a bit many for the foursome perhaps, but there was only one way to find out.
Sticking together to watch each others’ backs, they waded into the fray – Palomides with his crescent-shaped scimitar, Hesperos with one short sword in each arm, Hart with a quarterstaff and Val with his bare hands.
Val moved the quickest among the group, leaping about, kicking and stunning a half-dozen raiders without giving even one the opportunity to score blood.
Hart, unarmoured like Val, sized up his opposition, and adapted his techniques to them. Like most warriors, the Khunds relied very heavily on their swords and armour. Hart could turn those reliances into weaknesses – and did. In truth, these invaders offered very little challenge – Hart’s only sport was measuring his success against Val. The peace of Nanda Parbat was a world away now – the old combat-lust was returning, and Hart was no longer ashamed of it.
While lacking the type of training Hart and Val had, Hesperos was a classically trained swordsman – one of Constantinople’s finest, in fact – and was certainly no slouch. Although fairly conservative in his stance and delivery, he was more than a match for the raiders, even two at a time, and a more lethal one as well.
Palomides moved like a whirlwind, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. A few Khunds he faced managed to direct sword-strokes at him, only to find their swords flying away from the bloody stump where their hands were. Not all of them fully comprehended the sight before their lives ended.
Was it fully an hour? Suddenly the small village was quiet from clanking metal, only the roar of fire as wails of the survivors. With the raiders dead or fled, Val set off to have words with the castle’s guards – only to find three old men and a motley of young boys and girls manning the defenses.
The castle was little more than a tall, slightly fortified villa, with most of the village crammed into the feasting hall and the kitchen.
The lord of the castle was more merchant than knight, an inoffensive older man who no doubt neither side of the T rent, Elmet nor their rivals the Angles, would take issue with. The man doddered on and on appreciatively, name-dropping all the nights and nobles he has given fealty to. Val nodded, barely listening. The peace of Nanda Parbat was complete lifetime away.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Fifty-one
Dawn on Avalon brought a light drizzle, but this cleared up to a misty but sunny morning as the Josephite brethren gathered for fast-breaking.
Pellam had attended the morning prayers along the lake as a courtesy to his hosts, and out of respect, but no follower of the one-god was he.
After several days in seclusion with the quiet man, Andrew rejoined him late in the meal, smiling peacefully and greeting him warmly – as warmly as he had ever seen. Despite the old king’s certainty that he had the correct path to rekindle the resurrected knight’s heart, he took nothing for granted, and he felt his own burdens ease some.
They talked about the brethren, the weather, the events that had transpired since he left court – all the little things Andrew hadn’t evidenced any interest in ere now. Pellam sensed the young knight was holding back, and wanted to talk about his experience here, but perhaps not in front of the brethren.
“What else?” Andrew was still hungry for news.
“Well, we have discussed the rebel kings, the eight impossible tasks, Glorith, Laurentia and the Dark Circle, the Lady Mysa, Geraint…”
“What of Mysa?”
“Did I not tell you?” Pellam was sometimes angered at the tricks his memory sometimes played. Surely he had relayed the tale not 20 minutes ago? “Mysa came here, to Avalon,” he pointed across the lake “to the Priestess Isle, not three weeks ago. She and Azura, the current Lady of the Lake, are said to have settled their differences, and Mysa would return to her duties, once the lady returned to Cornwall to settle a few matters. Yet it seems the Lady Mysa vanished thereafter,” he paused. “She and the four priestesses who transported her vanished. Their boat was found, overturned, drifting in the lake on the Glastonbury side.”
“Five souls, so unnecessarily lost,” Andrew mourned. “May they rest in peace. Such a random tragedy…”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Andrew looked at him quizzically.
“I know not Azura as I knew Kiwa. I know not whether the current Lady of the Lake truly views Mysa as ally or rival,” Pellam said quietly, even though most of the brethren had departed the table, and none were in immediate hearing instance.
“You think she-” Andrew stopped himself, not wishing to vocalize the conclusion.
“I know not, if truth be said,” the old king admitted, glancing to the Priestess Isle. “But something is not a-right.”
They gathered the scant items they’d brought with them after the meal and said their goodbyes to the brethren before making their way back through the tunnel. Andrew was also administered an oath of secrecy as to the tunnel’s location. Pellam made a special thank-you to the silent man, and the two embraced.
Back at the monastery ruins, Andrew could hold back his question no longer. “Who was that man, who wields such strange gifts, and speaks with no words?”
“Did he not tell you?”
Pellam sighed. “He is my son, Pelles. But you must tell no one of this.”
Andrew nodded. “I recall Regulus mention that you had no children, but you have a son.”
“Two sons. And at least five grandchildren of which I know.” Some of whom you have met at court, he did not say aloud.
“So why the secrecy?”
“What else that Regulus tell you?”
“… That you were once almost high king of Britain.”
Pellam nodded. “But I stepped aside to keep the peace, that under Uther we could stand together against the Khunds.”
“And Uther Ambrosius did not want your sons to be able to claim the thrown.”
Pellam nodded. But Uther tricked Avalon. And me. But that dark deed has been undone at last. Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Fifty-two
In the aftermath of the battle of Exeter, Ayla was disgusted. Although senior knight present – and a reigning monarch at that – she led the attack to relieve the Khund-beseiged Exeter. When Garth’s cavalry arrived, he deferred to her analysis of the battlefield, and he and his riders followed her orders – King Rokk’s standard protocol to utilize the most comprehensive understanding of the scenario and avoid repeating mistakes. After three days of stalemate against the larger invading force, the arrival of Geraint’s infantry was a welcome sight.
But Geraint insisted on commanding the battle himself, going so far as refusing to ordering his troops not to follow orders from the Armorican nobles nor their line officers. With the city at stake, Ayla suggested as a compromise that Garth lead the attack – but no, he blamed the presume failure of the effort thus far squarely on Garth, and if the effort was to use his men, he and he alone would be giving the orders.
Ban’s twins yielded command, agreeing t’was better to win the battle than feud among peers.
“We shall report his insubordination to Rokk later,” Garth assured her. “Geraint seeks to impress his Cornish allies no doubt, by winning a battle at the very threshold of that land.”
Ayla nodded, but liked it not. “At least it was the two of us who prevented the city from falling. We stymied the siege, even if we did not break it.”
After the battle, a bloody two days after which neither twin believed they would ever wash the smell of Khund blood from their tunics, the chants of soldiers rang ominously. “Geraint! Geraint! Geraint!”
Not ignorant of British history, Ayla knew that Emperor Constantine and other Roman warriors launched their campaigns to become emperor of all of Rome here in Britain under similar circumstances – devout soldirs and a series of impressive victories. With all of Geraint’s politicking amongst local commanders, and now two major military victories incorrectly credited solely to him, would he be satisfied merely with being king of Cornwall now?
Her own infantry had taken a far heavier toll than Geraint’s, and would need replenishing. She opted to send word to Benwick for a new conscription, and sent Genni to deliver her version of the battle to Rokk, who should have arrived in Lindum by now.
She opted to snub Geraint’s victory feast, which solely consisted of Geraint’s officers, the local Cornish merchants and the more ambitious city guard captains that pretended not to know whose forces actually prevented the city’s walls from falling.
Walking the city streets, she almost hoped for trouble. She expected it not from two women.
“Queen Ayla!” came a hushed call from an archway.
She almost missed the call – much of Exeter’s citizenry was also out celebrating in the streets, although not as vigorously as the warriors, and every so often she had to politely turn down offers of wine or sweetbreads from exuberant locals.
She looked around before answering, guessing there was secrecy about it. “Who calls me?”
Stepping forward, it was Queen Nura – and Enide!? Together, here in Exeter? Why?
Seeing Ayla’s surprise, Nura smiled. “Proper ladies shouldn’t travel during wartime, t’is true, but both of us will be in rather poor light to be found here just now. Geraint bade the Lady Enide to remain in Londinium, and Marcus knows not that I am not at Tintagel. Would you be so kind as to take us with you to Cawdy’s fort when you leave on the morrow?”
Ayla smiled. Leaving so quickly was something she had considered, but told no one. Truly only Nura knew her mind before she herself did!
“Let’s get you two to my camp. Perchance Enide may ride with Garth’s knights, ere any become too suspicious of the two ladies half of southern Britain believes to be rivals.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Fifty-three
Her foolishness had paid off.
Her year as a ghost made her used to going anywhere she wished, and Tinya was not one to stay implanted at Lothian. At the first seeming break in hostilities, she made her way south to rejoin her husband at Lindum. Not completely foolish was she – she accompanied one of the Pict contingents en route south, led by the Pictish knight Grev, of whom she had heard a great deal.
Not one for conversation, Grev did not mind her company, and among his fellow soldiers were a number of women warriors. She stood out only for her fair skin and her garb, as even her most rugged travel-wear was more elaborate than any of her traveling companions. After a day or two of standoffishness, she and the women soldiers were on very basic speaking terms, and her rudimentary understanding of Pictish helped relations a great deal.
When Grev did speak, it was sometimes to mock her urban ways. Rather than react with offense as she once might of, she instead turned it to a jest. She’d seen so much, including her year of torment, to let such a little thing get to her. When her jests turned from simple deflection to return barbs, she saw Grev smile for the first time. This woman does have spirit!
Near Eboracum Tinya repaid their generosity by arranging for them stay the night at the castle of a friendly noble – one who she could count on not to go running to her mother with reports. There, in her hometown, they learned that many of the battles were now along the southlands, but none of the seasoned northerners believed their travails were over.
Eboracum itself had been spared any warfare – thus far – but most of the nearby fishing villages had been attacked, raided and burned, and the city walls were full of refugees.
If Tinya held any doubts as to whether to continue, she suppressed them. If anything, a scuffle with a brigand made Grev think her more than capable, in her own way. After he told the tale to his troops at the evening fire, she found something else she didn’t realize she’s been lacking – respect for her prowess. That night, she began spear practice with the Pictish men; the Picts learn war-craft from a teacher of the opposite gender, she learned.
Heading south, every village, every hamlet, every thorp it seemed carried tales of woe. By the time they reached Gaini, she was numb to the sight of yet another village charred and scarred.
Yet here a familiar face greeted her – that of her brother-in-law! He and a company of three other men were aiding in refortifying the village.
“Agravaine! T’is good to see you after so long! How fare thou?”
His companions laughed.
“I am well enough. In the same manner as my dear brother, I have renamed myself. Please call me Val.”
As the men worked, she filled them in on family and events since his departure, and he in turn spoke something of his journeys. “How fares Iasmin?” He asked at last.
“She leads the eastern cavalry, which last I’d heard was fighting near Camelot.”
“Cam- Camulodunum?”
It was Tinya’s turn to laugh. “I forgot to tell you of King Rokk’s new fortress, being built at Camulodunum. Why last summer-”
The conversation was interrupted by Genni – bringing word that Lindum was now under siege, and for all nearby forces to muster! She was gone in a mere moment, on to the next town, to Val’s ire. He had pulled out a scroll, shouting after her to no avail.
“What is it?”
“This scroll. T’was given to me on our return to Cawdy, just after we last saw Genni. It must get to King Rokk at once.”
As he put the scroll away, it appeared to Tinya that the scroll’s seal had been broken, and hastily re-attached. Surely Jonah’s trusted brother wouldn’t betray a royal message?
Soon after, Val and his men began to set out, and he bid her to remain at Gaini. “Traveling south with Picts is one thing, but we are entering a combat where no one but a warrior will be safe.”
She saw Val had made up his mind, and knew none of his companions well enough to press the point. Grev, on the other hand, was a completely different matter.
By the time the Picts would arrive at Lindum, Tinya would be wearing the sparse clothing of a female Pict warrior, complete with blue face-paint, spear and far less hair than she’s had in living memory. Jo will not recognize me, let alone Val! She had bonded with the small force, some 80 spear- and bow-wielding hill-warriors, and she joined in the warriors’ purification rituals, storytelling and mock combats – but she declined to join the lustful frenzy allotted to warriors about to go into battle together. That bold I am not, and t’would not be seemly for a wed noble woman… Yet these days I am so unlike myself as it is. Do I yearn for my freedom so much that I must hide to gain it?
In the dark night of the campfire, only the warriors feasting on each other’s sensuality were visible. She could only stand at the periphery and watch with both amazement and, if she were to be honest with herself, hunger. Is this what Jonah experiences, with those camp women? The lust for life in the face of battle? Tinya was suddenly aware of how Roman her own Celtic city upbringing had become – surely her own fore-bearers celebrated life itself around the campfires, on Beltane, or before battle?
The primal sexual energy of the gathering – combined with the impending battle on the morrow – resonated throughout her, tapping into some ancestral memory. The drumbeat they seemingly danced to was her own heartbeat. Gazing upon the almost agonized ecstasy on the face of the female warrior closest to her, she could feel it herself – the man with her, inside her, the shiver as the blood comes to a boil, the release---
“It’s… beautiful, is it not?”
She felt Grev’s hands on her bare shoulders. He gently massaged her. Shouldn’t she tell him not to? There seemed to be a reason, but it escaped her. Were those her own hands reaching back, caressing his sides? Why shouldn’t he pull her close? Why shouldn’t she feel anticipation for what she could feel pressed against her? She was aware of her Pict garb sliding down her and landing on her feet, taking with them the last of her doubts. She was no longer an observer of the bonfire of the night, she was its epicentre.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Fifty-four
It was barely first light, and Jonah paced at the city walls.
Everywhere one could look out from Lindum’s defenses were Khund encampments, from just out of arrow’s range (needlessly – there were precious few arrows left in the city) all the way to the hills and to the sea. He, Belinant and both their forces had thus far repelled all the assaults on the city, but it had been days since the last attack, and it was clear the Khunds now intended to starve them out.
Were they on their own? Or had Genni made it through those four nights ago? He’d like to believe Rokk or James or Thom were gathering their forces just a league or two away, but there was no way to be sure. Belinant, once a scheming adversary, was now his closest confidant and co-strategist. Belinant’s experience and Jonah’s intuitive boldness made an exceptional combination, forged under the intense stress of the siege. Yes, Belinant had been a ruler resigned to Jonah’s regency, but never before had the two come to trust and depend on each other.
It was certainly not for himself that he feared – he would go down fighting. But he had come to value his role as the protector of Lindum’s citizenry. They had welcomed Tinya and himself as their own, and he owed them every fibre of his strength. At least Tinya is safe in Lothian.
He joined Belinant for fast-breaking. With rationing, each settled for only a sliver of roasted pork and half an apple. They went over the latest reports on provisions. It looked gloomy. Three days at most, they agreed, before their own citizens would grow violent. Already all the known food stores had been seized, so that the city rulers could best ration resources, and that had already seen a few skirmishes. But the little allotments were already criticized, and soon the secret hordes and black markets would be extinguished.
Jonah again raised the possibility of attacking the Khunds overnight.
Previously, Belinant had argued against it – loudly, fearing to weaken the city’ defenses for no foreseeable point. Even if they cleared a route out, how long would it stay? How could it be defended? So a small force might get away – how would they get back with supplies or allies? This morning, however, a defeated Belinant sighed and nodded his heads. Never before had the king seemed so defeated – not after the kings’ revolt, not with the beginning of Jonah’s regency, nor even on the first night’s surprise attack, when a small Khund force breached the walls, killed dozens and burned the stables of the northern cavalry. At least we could recover the charred horsemeat, Jonah thought bitterly. Yet how did they know of such an important target? Or was it blind luck?
But Belinant awaited his words. “You were right,” he said at last. “We cannot risk our remaining soldiers. I propose to go out at night… alone, striking as many as I can, hitting and running throughout the encampments, making them think a massive attack is under way.” Verily, I should have done this on my own ere now, without notice. Mayhap I am getting old, placing responsibilities ahead of valour.
“You’d throw your life away so needlessly?”
“As your man Caradoc found out, I am a difficult man to kill.”
“Perhaps.” The older king reflected. “I’ll not stay your hand, but think of this city’s morale if you do fall without accomplishment.”
Jonah was about to respond when a soldier burst in. “My lords?”
“What is it?” They answered in unison.
“Combat has begun!”
So content they are not to let us starve, Belinant pondered ruefully.
“Where?” Jonah asked hastily, envisioning the western wall was the weakest. All three rushed to the tower.
“To the east and the west.”
A dual assault? Jonah cleared the top steps and dashed to the wall. The fires and arrow-volleys were not at hand, however – they were in the distance!
“Relief forces?” He looked to Belinant, not daring to hope. So Genni was successful after all!
But yes! All the nearby Khunds were rallying from their camp to dash away from the city walls!
“Wh- Who comes to our rescue?” Belinant could barely utter the words.
Jonah relaxed, trying to see great distances, as he sometimes has in the past. James he could see clearly, from his size. Faces were generally covered by helms, but the banners—
“The infantries of Cradelmant and James to the east. Wait… Iasmin and the eastern cavalry, too! And to the west… Rokk, Berach, North Cymru, and a Pictish troop, it appears.” He disliked his extended visioning, as it left him vulnerable and unfocused on his immediate surroundings. Reacclimating, he added, “It appears we have half of Britain on our doorstep!”
Belinant smiled broadly for the first time in living memory. “Mayhap now is the proper time for our own forces to join the fray.”
“Agreed!” The two men grasped hands.
“Shall you give the order?” Belinant asked deferentially.
“Nay. It should come from Lindum’s king,” Jonah beamed. He would miss being regent of Anglia, but would always think of it as a second home.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes I-17 to 251
I-17/19: This was supposed to be in the 230s but Caradoc took up too much room. I-18: At this point, Vidar's adventures in the Mediterranean are basically over. I-20: Hesperos went through several name changes before appearing on the page. Palomides is out of Arthurian lore; Hart obviously isn't. 241: Some scholars conjecture that the name "Arthur" came about from using a bear as a banner. Various forces speaking various languages may have each had their own name for their central commander (whatever his name or title), but drew a similar assiciation through the banner. Fitting for the "bear scout" himself, eh? 242: I couldn’t get away with an android interpreter, could I? 243: Geraint… 244:So…How much would it take to really push Regulus’ buttons? 245: I originally intended for Jonah to be on the outside when the siege began. 246: This is a larger turning point than it may seem. 247: A tribute to Adventure 247, sans robots and satellites. 248: I’d been meaning to show the Christians of Avalon for some time now. 249: The meeting between Nura and Enide came across about as awkwardly as it should have. It was originally planned to occur at a place Geraint was using as a stronghold, and that Enide would have to hide Nura when he came home early. But I couldn’t see Nura entering the lion’s den so readily. 250: Gaini was going to be a much briefer skirmish. It took on a life of its own. 251: The things Mysa has to do to get some chapters off! Pelles was a recent addition into my story outline; I once planned to use his father and brother, but not him. Doing refresher research, I decided he fits much better, and I even left myself an opening to insert him into his niche without really contradicting anything.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Fifty-five
Tinya kept impressing Grev and her Pictish allies. No more was she merely a friendly noble; she was as fully one of the regiment as any new recruit – Pict or not – could be.
She was proving her mettle as a warrior, while still serving another important service, that of messenger. She found herself crossing the battlefield with nary a Khund able to lay blade to her. She brought messages between Picts themselves, and to and from King Rokk’s central command. None of the knights she dealt with seemed to recognize her. What a little blue paint and camp-grime will do! Along with a false with a Pictish accent…
On her way back from Rokk’s command post atop a hill, the morning mists were now fully dispersed and she could marvel at the battle scene at hand. Lindum – her Lindum, as she felt very protective of the city that treated her as its own queen – was more surrounded than she’s imagined. All the peaceful fields and farms were naught but a sea of blood-letting and screams, forever tainting the quiet idles where Jonah and his lady shared wines and favours.
Heavy in heart but not shirking her duties, she pressed forward, again observing Val, who was now quite unconscious! On her way up, he had fought a dozen men without steel himself – a whirlwind of fist and foot and falling Khund.
But now a Khund had felled him with a mace, and poised to strike a killing blow! Tinya approached the fiend from behind, ready to strike – but the Khundish warrior lowered his weapon!?! As he turned, Tinya saw his devil’s smile as she thrust her spear into his neck, just as his eyes registered her.
She paused to check Val. There seemed to be no serious wound. She waived a nearby squire over, telling him to bring Val to safety.
But all the way back to Grev, something gnawed at her. Why would the Khund let Val live? She tried not to think ill of her brother-in-law, but something did not fit.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Fifty-six
Laoraighll found it quite ironic, actually – defending Khunds from other Khunds.
What little defense forces Kent had were deployed far from the Ulsterwoman, that she would not confuse enemy with ally. Once she started battering Khunds, it became onerous to try telling them apart, so any Germanic invader met her fists. With Querl’s ointments, no amount of hound’s blood could get to her! “Bring them on!” she shouted from atop a small mound of corpses, taunting a handful of boats bound for the shore.
The remaining Angle prisoners-of-war fought several miles to her east, while Thom’s infantry fought somewhere to the west.
She made her way to the shore, and set fire to the boat of the Khunds she had just slain, pushing it out to sea.
“Come on, leetle boys!” she taunted in her limited Khundish, hoping the next boat was in earshot. She was half-tempted to ride out in the flaming boat to meet them, but thought the better of it.
“Garlach’s little pissants,” she welcomed the boat as it approached. It had slowed, giving the next two more time to catch up. “Three boatloads to take on one measly girl? Or are Khunds only fit to fight with women-folk?”
Two boats flanked the third, pulling perpendicular to the shore. It appeared to Laoraighll that these would be providing archer cover. She laughed. “So be it!”
Not content to be a waiting target, she waded into the sea, heading for the incoming boat. When the warriors at the boat’s forward readied their spears, she submerged and approached the boat from below.
With a single punch as she resumed an upright stance, the hull punctured and the boat raised and tilted, with armoured Khunds alling into the sea on either side of her. This is too easy, she thought, until she realized her fist was lodged within the hull.
Pulling loose, she took on the Khunds as they made it to shore, keeping them between her and the archers, but occasionally hurling a ripped limb or head at them.
Once this boatload was dispatched, she turned to face the archers, but the other to boats were fleeing!
Aye, and I have burned one of theirs and punctured the other, she realized with regret. She ripped off a piece of the hull and pulled apart each component, until she had a large, sturdy section of support beam. It was not unlike a ballista bolt, although a curved one.
She hurled it upward in the direction of one of the fleeing boats. It hit near enough to further scare the men on board, but not close enough to do more damage. I’ll not get another shot, she realized with dashed hopes. Curses. Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Fifty-seven
L’ile paced the castle walls, trying to think. Doing so at Camelot eased his mind, but he was not at the new fortress, he was at Voxv’s capital, Segontium, and there were too many distractions to let his mind ponder the dots in need of connection. The soldiers here faced no peril, as no Khund force had reached North Cymru and only the smallest of expeditions challenged Zendak’s walls to the south, but guards drilled, practiced and patrols as if the entire Khund force was en route. L’ile approved, of course – he just wished he could have thinking space at the same time.
Beren had his hands full; there was no talking to his old mentor. Querl, too, was busy, trying to help Beren or drilling the guards in Computus use.
L’ile slowly exhaled. Surely something would come to him. There was something familiar about the situation. He rubbed his head, recalling the headache he had when last he approached the Queen’s chambers. “The red skin plague,” he reminded himself, was the last time the Queen was this sick. That was caused by the Roman god Terminus, was it not? And last time, also, the Queen lost-
No. I must not think like that. Last time out, t’was a spurt of blood and flesh, or so I was told. This time…
The Queen had looked so proud, her belly so round, when they arrived here those weeks ago. The staff treated her as though she is indeed their Guinevere returned. Mayhap they have “persuaded” themselves she is, he pondered, before a darker thought emerged. Or has she?
Terminus. The thought returned. Or was the illness the Cailleach’s? Either way, an outside entity struck the Quen and took Britain’s heir…
Loomius, back in his former habitation, was giving Carolus and Tenzil a tour of the castle gardens. Tenzil should check her for poisons, he thought, noting that not all poisons come by way of foodstuffs. I’ll bet the Circle knows a hundred ways to poison a monarch. Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Fifty-eight
The weary but vaguely merry aftermath at Lindum saw Lot’s eldest sons at last reunite. Sandwiched between two relief armies and a rallied city guard, many Khunds fled to sea.
Tinya, still in Pict garb, observed as subtly as she could before seeking out King Rokk himself.
The young king, for his part, did recognize her as Grev’s messenger, and occasionally stole glances as though he expected her to be someone else. Dispensing with a short queue of subordinates, he approached her, offering thanks and appreciation in his best stumbling Pictish.
She smiled and spoke in a low voice. “Those of us from Eboracum speak Latin well enough.” Amused as he came to realize who she was, she smiled and continued. “Lot’s sons are too chivalrous to be comfortable with me on the battlefield, and I’d not like it well known, my sire.” After his reflection on her comings and goings without so much as a scratch, he slowly nodded before she continued.
“My king, it pains me to say it, but there may be treachery afoot. En route here, I saw Val –Agravaine- with a scroll for you. Its seal was broken and shoddily re-sealed. He said it was an important communiqué for your eyes only.”
From Reep, Rokk thought. He remembered the broken seal, and feared the worst. He’d already sent Genni and Val’s man Hart back to Cadwy’s fort with new instructions and security measures. Hart said his unique gifts would allow him to keep up with Genni, a feat he could only do with her nearby. “I am aware of such.”
“Then, during combat, I saw a Khund strike down Val, but spare him a killing blow.”
“Mayhap he believed him dead already, or an unarmed, unarmoured foe not worth the effort.”
“Aye, perhaps. It pains me to think ill of my kinsman-”
“Rokk! Come and give a proper welcome-home greeting for my long-lost brother!” Jonah’s voice was getting closer. Tinya’s heart skipped a beat.
Rokk fudged a farewell greeting in Pictish, and made a hand-signal he hoped Tinya would recognize asking her to resume the conversation later.
Jonah, too, added a departure salutation to the Pictish messenger, slapping her but as she left. She is a fine one. Perhaps I should visit the Pict camp this eve.
“It seems Cradelmant’s men have come up with some valuable information There are to be attacks on Cadwy and Londinium by week’s end. Multiple forces are likely landing on the south shores as we speak.”
“Then we must ride at once. I shall send Iasmin’s cavalry ahead to Londinium, and follow with the Cradelmant’s army… and the Picts. Val and the rest of his companions will join me.
“You shall lead Berach’s and North Cymru’s forces to Cadwy. James and his men will oversee repairs here, and Lot’s and Wynn’s armies should be along shortly to keep defenses strong. Reep should have Garth’s cavalry and the armies of Geraint and Ayla as well, while the forces of Kiritan, Thom, and Dyrk should be in place at Londinium already.”
Jonah was pleased to be entrusted with leading the Cadwy force. “Sire? How did they learn so much of our three-fortress strategy?”
Aye, t’was more than just this scroll, Rokk thought. “I don’t know. Yet. But I will.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Fifty-nine
The weeks were blurring together. Thom’s forces would ride out from Londinium, engage enemy landing parties for days on end, and return to renew weapons, supplies and men, while Dyrk’s forces would be out while his men defended and recreated in the capital city.
He sat alone at the great round table, the sounds and memories of past feasts and revelry echoing only in his mind’s eye. None of his peers were around, nor the court ladies, not even little Saihlough – where had she been all these months? His ale was bitter, and that suited his mood just fine.
Marcus had been pressuring him to marry some Cornish noble’s daughter, suddenly an urgent concern now that Geraint was positioning himself for Cornwall’s crown.
“My lord?” It was Errol the Druid. Thom waved him entry. “I’ve just come from Avalon, where Reep has sent the Lady Enide for safe-keeping.”
Safe from Geraint, at least, Thom though bitterly. Would he put her aside, or see her slain?
“Anyway…” Errol was never a confident speaker. “She sent a message. From the Lady… ah… Queen Nura.”
Enide sends a message from Nura? Is this madness – or treachery? “What message?”
“I have read it not.” Errol pulled out a scroll from his robes. Seeing Thom’s disbelief, he added, “Beren and I have just come from Avalon on the Path of Isis.”
What a communications point Avalon could make! Thom recalled that any entrant must exit by the same path he or she entered by, but still messages and supplies could be routed this way. Even the Cauldron, rather than wait for one holy-man to make his way around Britain on his pony. I must mention this to Rokk.
The seal was certainly Nura’s as was the writing, heavily rooted in Cornish local vernaculars to discourage prying eyes.
“Portus Magnus,” he blurted out to an uncomprehending Errol. “Pardon me, Errol, and accept my sincere if hasty thanks, but I must ready my forces at once.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Sixty
MacKell had led the assault against the fleeing Khunds, even chasing them out to sea in the boats of Khunds too dead to object. But too many were the Khund, and too few were the Angles willing to join the effort. Land-fighters were these, and there was no telling how useful any would be in nautical combat.
Reluctantly, MacKell came ashore, expecting to greet his fellow knights. He found only James, who with Belinant apprised him of the current plans and formations.
“The Khunds not only know of our three-fortress defense, but also of the location of our cavalry stables,” he summarized, having learned of the stealth attack early in the siege of Lindum.
James was a trusted companion, and Belinant a former hostile now seemingly a willing ally. How many ears already know Rokk’s current plan? He opted to keep his own plan to himself.
After his hosts had settled in for the night, he took out his own mount, telling the guards he was lending an extra hand for night patrols.
He rode hard that night, with many miles to go before he could catch Iasmin’s cavalry – yet while also avoiding all the forces that marched with Rokk.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Sixty-one
Dag was happy to be useful, and as Jan’s bodyguard useful he certainly was.
Stealthily, they made their way to and from Rokk’s three main fortresses, going out to each battlefield to tend to the wounded British forces. By night, Jan would administer as many healings as he could without breaking stealth – he had no wish to be relied on, nor to be a target or a prize ot be seized. Simple wounds were within the power of his own gifts, but he also carried the Cauldron of the Gods, and its ability to heal was far greater than his.
Last week, it was Exeter. Soon, they would reach Lindum. Already, the mobile armies had moved on, and Jan tended to those as best he could given their mobility.
To Dag, there was an inherent irony, as he normally body-guarded the lepress Drusilla. So guarding a healer was something of a change indeed.
He had heard Drusilla was at Exeter, trying to pox the Khunds from the walls above. But her gifts, still never the same since her assault on Tarik’s men, backfired, and she made an entire company of city guards too wretched to fight! She was gone by the time he and Jan arrived, alas.
From time to time, one or several brigands would try their fortunes against the duo, usually along a sparsely settled, wooded section of road. Stony Dag was more than a match for most of them, but upon occasion Jan would have to fend for himself. His latest trick was to create a spoonful of sneeze-powder in each nostril of the ruffian at hand, allowing Dag time to get around to everybody.
Dag slept lightly, and sometimes not at all. Just being around Jan (or was it the Cauldron? Surely they had the same… magickness about them) seemed enough to keep one going for days untold.
They needed that strength at Lindum – the wounded, ill and dying were not here in the tens or even the hundreds – they numbered in the thousands. Wounded soldiers, hunger-weakened citizens, maimed squires… there seemed no end to the suffering.
Here, Jan placed stealth second to getting the task done, and soon word of two mysterious visitors turning up and performing healings was widespread. A mob scene would encourage their quick departure – by invisibility, according to some accounts, so townsfolk learned quickly to restrain their enthusiasms and let the duo proceed as they would, although Dag soon found the desperate hope and blind reverence in their eyes unnerving.
They made their small camp amid the debris of one of the many army camps that littered the fields around the city, but eventually the unfortunate started seeking them out.
“Please. My daughter… she’s got the fevers…”
“…My grandfather. Every night, some devil takes its blade to his innards…”
“…Lost her leg to the Khunds…”
“… Can’t see…”
Jan took each of their requests as respectfully as he could, hether or not he or the Cauldron could do them any good, but soon the city guard would no longer turn them a blind eye. Soon, the local nobles would insist they remain… It was time to go.
One misty morning the line waited for the duo to appear. They didn’t.
“Hello?” One man called into the tent as politely as he could. Within the half-hour, a less patient man stormed in, finding it empty.
“To Londinium? Or to Cadwy?” Dag asked. Both would be military targets, he had heard on soldiers comment.
Jan shook his head. “Brocavium.”
“Brocavium? In Cumbria? But that’s far from the fronts?”
“Aye, so it is. But Wynn’s forces arrived in Lindum yesterday, and I learned of a debt of honour that must be repaid.”
Where you went, so went I. Dag thought. So what did we hear? That some noble’s daughter was ill? That takes precedence over the war?
“And who owes such a debt of honour that it delays us from healing war victims?”
“All of Britain, my friend. All of Britain.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Sixty-two
Were the armies surrounding Cadwy’s fort larger than those that besieged Lindum? Hart tried to tell himself they were equal forces, but even accounting for woodland encampments at the prior battle, he knew it was not true.
As a friend of the renowned Sir Agravaine (the name Val had yet to catch on with all his old comrades), Sir Garth had welcomed him with open arms, and valued his skills highly. Hart was a cunning scout, and when caught could fight his way through a crowd to return with new intelligence.
The first few Khundish regiments had arrived from the north a mere four days ago, and bade their time on the ridge north of the hill-fortress. Garth was ready to take the battle to them when Genni and Hart arrived the next day with word of a larger attack on its way.
The southern hills’ relay towers offered no signal of Khunds coming from the south, but realization set in when routine check-in flares were unreturned. This second group of Khunds had taken the towers by stealth, and was closer than Garth had dared imagine.
Where are Ayla and Geraint’s forces? Have they already fallen? Garth was beginning to fear the worst.
Reep, already suspecting defense plans were compromised, stayed disguised as an underling and continued his own surveillance – on both Khundish and British forces, especially after the cavalry stables were burned and their guards slain late that night. The attack came after Genni and Hart had delivered word of a similar tactic in Lindum, and guards were tripled. The attack came about from within, Reep pondered. It must have. Khund magicks are not known for being subtle. The new man, Hart, was an obvious target for Reep’s eye.
A mere handful of cavalry – Cadwy’s (and Britain’s) main military advantage in the west – was severely curtailed down to a half-dozen mounts, unless Iasmin’s remaining mounted force was to magickally arrive. The following morning, two days ago, Garth sent Genni to Londinium for reinforcements, hoping Iasmin’s riders would be among them.
The Khunds advancing from the south were in no rush at all, Reep had told him – meaning yet more were on the way. North and south combined, he estimated at least 4,000 invaders already amassed – so far – more than twice the force that almost took Exeter, and about five times Cadwy’s current manpower.
But by mid-day, Hart returned from scouting to report that a large force carrying Garlach’s own banner was coming along the western road – from Exeter? Either a second force had taken the city after most British armies departed, or this army had circumvented the city. Mayhap the siege of two weeks ago was but a ruse, Garth thought. Shall we expect a force from the east, too?
A day ago, that theory was proven out, when Zendak’s South Cymru forces, along with Geraint’s army, had stumbled upon a supply line extending back toward Portus Magnus! Geraint followed its tail toward the sea, while Zendak followed the head, reaching and engaging its back lines the previous morning. The fight yesterday went poorly for the outnumbered Cyrmy, and Zendak retreated around his foes overnight to reach Cadwy’s Fort.
Meanwhile, scouts reported the northern forces continued to grow as well. Have we grown so accustomed to winning routs, that we are unprepared for such a force? Do we have any chance at all of prevailing? With a quick estimate, Garth guessed it would be two or three more days at a minimum before Jonah’s relief forces would arrive.
“Unlike Lindum, we at least have no local populous to defend,” Hart added grimly, as if seeking a bright spot from the thunder-clouds.
Last night, the campfires in all directions became plainly obvious – a clear psychological maneuver. Garth quadrupled the wall guards and ordered complete quiet, so that the sound of any foot on the moat would be heard. Several older knights volunteered to listen at ground-level – below the walls – and despite the danger, Garth could not turn them down. Cadwy’s walls were largely steep hill, and only the tops were recently constructed of proper stone. He held no doubts that a nocturnal assault was the easiest way to breach the defenses.
During the night, untold thousands of Khundish warriors began chanting and drumming, an effort they would maintain for days on end. Garth resolved not to let it have the desired effect on his men, however, and he drilled them so hard that they would sleep through any cacophony.
“They may attack today, and we must be ready. But they will likely try to wear us down over days – they know not our numbers! The battle will come, and we must be ready!” Garth told the troops at first light. “With Zendak’s men, we have the strength to hold on. Reinforcements are en route,” he paused for emphasis. “If we need them.”
Zendak nodded stoically, silently applauding Garth’s projection of confidence – and necessary deception that they were not as helpless as they were. If Garlach knew how few of us there are, he would not bother trying to sap our spirits. Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Sixty-three
“We should be in Londinium,” Ayla said resentfully.
“We should be here,” Nura insisted. “If Portus Magnus is not regained, the Khunds have a strategic beachhead to reach anywhere in southern Britain.”
The city, never fully recovered from the last siege, was easy pickings the second time around. British forces moved from putting out one fire before moving onto the next, a system that worked well – but only while its torch-tower system was working. Cut off from the coastal towns, armies were now oblivious to conflicts raging across the isle – or just over a hill.
Ayla’s army was now across an inlet from the occupied city, and across a small channel from the Isle of Vectis. There was no chance of a daytime crossing, and little chance that her supply ships carrying fresh recruits would arrive anytime before tomorrow at the earliest.
She looked over at the isle, sighed, and spoke to a subordinate. “We relocated Kentish Khund refugees there after Roxxius’ attack. Send over a scout, and see if we find any amiable Kentish who would act on our behalf. We need spies, boat-men… and we need a place to look out for our supply ships, ere they sail into Magnus unawares.”
She next regarded an incoming Khundish boat, making its way up the inlet. “Send a scout up the inlet and see what kind of camp the Khunds have there. Even before we take the city, we can cut their lines.”
Ayla next turned to Nura. “Anything else you see us in need of doing?”
“Geraint will come from the northwest, and Thom from the northeast. I see your ships arriving tomorrow, just before evening. I see us making a pre-dawn assault on the city, giving Geraint and Thom the necessary diversions.”
Ayla nodded. Once we take the city, we – not Geraint – will claim victory, and will aide Thom’s forces more than our usurper ‘friend.’
Nura was of a slightly different mind, uncertain which of two outcomes would occur. But either way, in two days time her life would become something very different.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Sixty-four
Sir Lu led only a small force, but they had a great deal of success in defending against the small Khundish landings along both shores of Cornwall. She suspected that these raiders were primarily looking for quiet, out-of-the-way places to stage a large-scale landing, and 10 days ago the number of such landings trailed off. Her men rejoiced the quieting of hostilities, but Lu’s heart held dread – it meant they’d found the landing point they had sought.
Finding no signs of a landing point on the north coast, her troop overnighted at Tintagel before heading for the south shore. King Marcus was accommodating, but almost frenzied – he suspected Sir Geraint had made off with his wife, and was coming for him next. While he was himself fighting a moderate invasion party in South Cymru, it seems, Nura took off for parts unknown, and Nura’s confidante Governal eventually admitted she’d gone to meet with Enide.
“My own wife plots against me!” Marcus raged.
Lu and her lieutenant, Stig, looked to each other, not certain what to say about the monarch’s ravings.
“I… am sure that Queen Nura has no mid to betr-”
“First she looks to my son for affections, and now to that- that- upstart!” He hurled a Greek vase against a wall. Suddenly, he turned to Lu, almost as if noticing her for the first time. “You are at court far more than I. Tell me! Who does Thom spend his nights with? Who owns his heart?”
Lu was taken aback. Everyone knew that he pined for Nura, but had never—
“Mysa,” blurted Stig, regretting his answer as soon as it came out. Marcus tuned his unblinking stare toward him.
“He has kept company with the Lady Mysa,” he said, trying to sound convincing. Everyone is angry with her, and she has shamefully fled. What harm is there in easing an addled man’s conscience?
Lu didn’t like the lie, but found herself going along with it.
By fast-breaking, Marcus was boasting that Thom would wed Mysa, whose claim to Cornwall would be restored, and all would be well. He spoke as if Nura were dead, making Lu wonder how exactly she disappeared, if she did, and by whose hand.
Lu’s troop would depart later that morning, and by afternoon a messenger would arrive, summoning Marcus and his soldiers east, to Cadwy’s Fort.
“After a week, the fort is no doubt lost,” the mad king gleefully proclaimed before his men. “We go to avenge, or to our graves!” Half his men would desert before reaching Exeter.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Sixty-five
“You are most welcome, but your timing is not the best,” Queen Martina greeted the duo. “My daughter is quite ill, and may be near death itself.”
“That is the very reason we are here, my queen,” Jan tried to smile reassuringly. “We are here to heal her, if the Lord permits.”
Only a small force defended Brocavium castle, and all of its residents were holed up in the west tower, the easiest part to defend. The grounds were scruffied up to look abandoned, but Jan and Dag were persistent enough to eventually be welcomed – at swordpoint.
The Queen of Cumbria, her step-daughter and a handful of staff remained because Princess Jancel was too ill to move. Jan gasped at seeing her – and not only for the shade of her flesh.
“She is…?”
“Seven months,” Martina answered. “Right after the wedding, t’would seem.”
Jancel’s shallow breathing was worrisome, and he could feel the illness feeding upon her. No, not just her. He’d healed people as ill as she, but it was difficult, and did not always take. This would surely be complicated by-
“-More than one potion each day,” the apothecary was saying. Jan barely listened. He reached into his bag and pulled out the Cauldron. He would not even attempt to use his own gifts first.
Dag had fetched a carafe of water, and had readied Jan’s sacraments. With a prayer and a blessing, he began.
It was many hours later that he left her side, with a sleeping Martina still holding her hand. Dag was also asleep, in the hallway outside the door, his rocky leg preventing entry or exit without his waking.
Seeing his groggy but questioning expression, Jan smiled. “It is done, my friend. We have done as much here as we can.”
A servant slept on a bench nearby, and he woke at the whispered conversation to lead them to their beds, quietly apologizing for the bunk space in the soldier’s barracks.
“We have slept in many worse places, my friend.”
Martina greeted them warmly in the morning, apologizing for the porridge that the entire castle staff subsided on these days.
“Think nothing of it,” Dag offered. “Many nights our bellies are satisfied by far less than this,” he said, thinking better than to mention the Cauldron’s powers. “T’is wartime, after all.”
“Jancel looks much better,” Martina said.
“She should recover,” Jan said. “She and the baby.”
“Babies,” Martina sipped on her goblet of goat’s milk. Seeing Jan’s confusion, she continued. “Jancel swears she will have twin boys, and she is certainly big enough for them. She has names for them already – Garridan and Galahad.”
“My lady,” Jan struggled for the words. “The Lord has blessed me with certain gifts. Not only can I… perceive of illnesses, but I ken also other bodily healths. I am quite certain she carries only one child.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Sixty-six
Rokk was less than pleased upon his return to Londinium. Geraint, Thom and Ayla – and all their armies – were not at Londinium as they were supposed to be, Iasmin’s cavalry had been diverted by a new coastal landing, and the city was in a state of near-panic. Too many nearby Khund attacks and too few knights and armies left Rokk’s capital city a bit of a mess, but the presence of King Rokk returning victoriously from Lindum rallied the people once more.
Rokk had far fewer armies immediately at hand than he had against Zaryan, but he apparently had at least a little bit time to try options he and Querl had discussed. Every able body was immediately pressed into service.
Two days after arrival, Genni arrived with word that Cadwy was about to be overrun. He and Dyrk had been strategizing at the round table, and the weight of how much needed to be done was bearing down – not only tasks for Rokk’s new plan, but also ongoing tasks Thom was supposed to see to. Communications were cut, and armies needed were nowhere to be found. On top of it all, Kiritan’s men had just returned from scouting in Khundia, and the troop projections they brought back were nothing short of staggering.
Weighing it all, Rokk could only come up with a single strategy.
“If we rush westward, we leave Londinium wide open, and may not arrive fast enough to turn the tide at Cadwy. I fear Cadwy is on its own,” Rokk reluctantly admitted. Seeing Genni’s disbelief, he added, “Cadwy is a military post only. Here, like Lindum, we have civilians to think of as well.”
He turned directly to Genni. “Intercept Jonah’s forces, and divert them here, where they may make a difference. After that, if you can reach Cadwy, tell them I order a withdrawal to Londinium. Afterward, find the armies of Thom, Ayla and Geraint and bring them here. Londinium is where we shall make our stand.”
After Genni had raced out, he added, “and may God have mercy on us all.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Sixty-seven
Sir Lu found the Khund landing site just east of Exeter. The city itself was far too wounded to maintain its coastal patrols, so the Khunds had free reign of the coastal bays beyond. A well-fortified camp lined one such bay, and wooden stockades and towers were already going up. Boatloads of Khunds and supplies came ashore within Lu’s short hour of observation.
On the way back at Exeter, she, Stig, Peter and Franz schemed. All their plans required city forces, which Baron Aivillagh was unwilling to part with, fearing jeopardy to the city. He informed them Cadwy was under siege, and it was beginning to look like the war would be lost.
“In all fairness to my people, they have been put through quite enough,” he told Lu and Stig. “If what you say is true and such a Khund holding exists not a stone’s throw from here, then I must realistically begin to consider other options.”
“I understand. You are quite correct,” Lu said, surprising Stig. “I haven’t the forces to do this on my own, so we may as well join the battle at Cawdy. That is, if you can spare a messenger to deliver my findings to Londinium?”
“Of course,” Aivillagh said graciously, although Stig questioned his sincerity – and Lu’s judgment.
They took their leave. Once out of earshot, Lu whispered to him. “I’ll bet you all of Cornwall and half of Cymru that he’s already brokered a deal with the Khunds to spare his city. Once we’re outside the city walls, we break west, as either Exeter or Khund forces will be looking for all our heads.”
“Befaur we gho,” Stig offered cautiously. “Peter ha’ bin seekin an ol friend ‘oo may bhe able to ‘elp.”
That evening, they camped in a secluded coastal cave west of Exeter, and evaluated all the options with the newcomer.
“I don’t like it,” said Franz’ right head.
“What are our other options?” his left asked. “Short of crossing the Dart-Moor, we’re cut off from any other aid.”
“We’ll never make it to Cadwy, let alone Londinium,” Peter said. “Let’s at least do what we can, here.”
“For this to work, we must all play our parts,” Lu said solemnly. We have but 30 men and two women against untold numbers. Perish we may, but maybe, just maybe, we can strike a serious blow.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Sixty-eight
Despite the fresh troops and supplies, Ayla’s army took severe casualties in retaking the main part of Portus Magnus, but it was all worth it. The Khunds had failed to find the hidden cache of computus aiming devices, nor had they bothered to damage the actual ballista themselves, thinking them worthless.
The city walls were bruised and punctured, but the surviving, hidden city folk stepped forward to barricade them with wood, stone, or anything at hand.
From the ramparts, she could now fire on the incoming boats, severing the supply line and sinking the new troop boats. Moreover, the northern towers could fire onto the inland battlefield, where Khunds still held the western garrison – ironically, the same one Geraint had seized in the first battle here two months ago.
“Most Khundish forces are already inland,” Nura said, “either at Cadwy or en route to Londinium. You need not spend more ground troops, Ayla. Archers and computi will give Geraint’s and Thom’s armies the leverage they need.”
“Good,” Ayla replied. “I’d hesitate to spread my troops so thin, if truths be said.”
From the walls, they could see Thom’s forces nearing the garrison. The bulk of the missile support had been to Thom’s advantage, and Ayla felt not bad at all about that.
Seeing Thom about to storm the garrison outraged Geraint, however, and he had his men make one last push to take the nearby ravine, where they could use the secret entrance he and his men used to circumvent the Khunds laying siege to the garrison.
He led his men don the narrow hallway, and pushed against the door that should open into the kitchen. He shoved. It was solid and unmoving. “It’s been barricaded! Get a ram!”
“Sir?” His lieutenant, Meleagant, looked completely baffled.
“A battering ram! Get one! Now!”
“Sir, there’s not enough room to-”
“I DID NOT ASK YOUR MIND! GET A RAM!”
Somehow, they fit a ram into the narrow hallway, but had no room at all to swing it, not even under-leg.
Geraint would not give up. “Set a fire!” he ordered. With no where for the smoke to go, he and his men had to exit. Outside, he saw that Thom’s forces had taken the garrison. The Khunds had been finished or had fled. The sounds of combat were replaced by the sounds of cheer, for Thom, for Ayla, and for Rokk.
Geraint fumed. The Breton wench schemed all this to make me look bad.
He opted to seek her out and give her the beating she deserved. This was Rokk’s fault, not to have married her off to a man who could keep her in her place.
“Sir Geraint! My thanks for your aid to-day!” It was Thom greeting him with false modesty. He stepped out from the shade of an ancient oak.
“So, villain! This is how thou greets thy liege?” Thom, too, needed putting in his place.
“Aware I was not that you’d wed my step-mother Nura or my aunt Mysa,” Thom laughed, deliberately enraging the man.
“I AM RIGHTFUL KING OF BRIT- of CORNWALL!” Geraint bellowed. Several of his most loyal followers had gathered around. From above, some of Thom’s men watched.
“Of Britain? Perhaps thou art getting too big for thy britches! And you have yet to win Nura, let alone Cornwall. Fear not. Both are beyond your reach.” Thom knew not from where his words came, or why he was goading the man, but it was beyond his ability to stop himself.
“She will be mine!” Geraint shouted.
“I’d sooner die,” called Nura, now atop the garrison wall. She took a step forward toward the wall as if an affirmation of her pledge.
“So be it. The both of you!” Geraint drew his sword. Thom followed suit.
Both were physically weary of days of fighting, and they circled each other, sizing each other up. Some of Geraint’s men started getting their own weapons out, but a few well-placed arrows from above forestalled them.
Geraint made the first lunge, and battle was joined.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Notes 252-265:
Reminder: Portus Magnus was a major port in today’s Portsmouth/Southampton area, and at this point historically was probably a larger and more important city than Londinium. 252/263: Ayla’s dislike of Geraint wasn’t planned, but I like how it’s worked (Ironically, it came about in complete contrast to court match-making trying to line them up together). I did know Ayla would be on Thom’s side at Portus Magnus, and would figure into what comes next. 253: This is one of those ones that I actually needed multiple drafts. The original was much tamer, but bland. Once I stopped resisting where it could go, everything fell into place. 254: After having relatively easy battles against Zaryan’s troop (if not the man himself) and the rebel kings, the beginner’s luck had to run out sooner or later. 255: Tinya’s new role originated with a scene that just came to me, which I’ve yet to write. It was originally intended for Lindum, but will work better elsewhere. 256: I feel like I’ve been neglecting Laoraighll lately. I’ll have to remedy that. 257/265: This is part that I plotted out over the summer, and later forgot my original central idea. Oh well. What I’ve reconstructed of that should suffice, and with any luck it will all weave itself together. 258: Did Jonah visit the camp? How will that play out in their reunion? Heh, heh. 259: It took me a while to work out how to get word to Thom, since Nura was way off to the west. But Garth would have had time enough before his siege to get Enide to Avalon. 260: I’d initially regretted adding MacKell to the relief forces, but 247 established he was in the area, and chasing the retreat let Rokk and company get the head start they needed. 261: I initially planned on Jan going alone, but that didn’t make sense. This way, I got to explore a few tangents: how could the Grail not be used virtually to the point of taken for granted? 262: I hope this all makes sense. I didn’t want to revisit geography elements covered way back. 264: Marcus has been under a lot of pressure lately. Really.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Sixty-nine
She could not get within leagues of Cadwy.
There were too many patrols, too many enemy encampments, too many risks, and quite frankly after months almost constantly on the run, she was weary. She knew she wasn’t up to usual snuff, and even in top form, she doubted if she could make it through mile after mile of Khunds, knowing full well the eye of the storm would the hardest to breach. I know myself well enough not to pretend to be a warrior.
Instead, she recalled the signal towers – yes, the Khunds had seized them, and likely killed those who manned them, but where they intact? Built of wood, planned to be replaced by stone, they would be vulnerable still, but…
Racing across the southern hills, trying to stay clear of patrols, she found the southeast tower, shattered and splintered into some kind of hut. She opted not to inspect it too closely, else she discovered an occupant. The southwest tower was partially burnt, but still it stood. It was guarded by several Khunds.
Only a handful, and fast she was. She reached for her hunting dirk. Mayhap I am enough a warrior for but a handful? There’s nothing lost for the trying. I hope.
One kneeled, tending a small fire over which a rabbit roasted. Another stood at the tower doorway, occasionally scanning the hillside. But his eyes sought after armour and horses, and Genni was well hidden behind shrubbery.
Two more played with throwing-stones, oblivious to all but snaring each other’s wages. A fifth had gone inside the tower. He could be a problem.
The gamblers felt a sudden breeze just before the standing observer make a gurgling sound, and fell forward, flat onto his face.
“Zorlak! Vas aillen du?” grumbled one. Then they noticed blood spewing from his neck area. “Shiessa!” Their eyes darted around seeking archers.
They stumbled to their feet, and drew swords. One called to the fire-tender, “Olav! Uppen-zee!” But he slowly leaned further and further to the left, eventually slumping into a pool of dark crimson oozing from him.
“Helmut!” the other called into the tower. “Zound der alarmen!” He heard a clattering up the stairs as the pain in his neck registered. His vision was eclipsed with a field of stars and his hands, probing at his neck, were covered in a thick, sticky liquid. The ground rushed toward him and he barely noticed his compatriot reaching the same destination just ahead of him.
“Vas! Vas iz los!” The fifth man looked down from the tower. “Donner!” He reached for his horn with one hand and his sword with the other as the clattering below him became louder.
Enjoying a burst of energy as she’d never had before, stepping under the swinging sword became the easiest thing Genni had done all week, and her eyes were concentrated on the puffed cheeks about to sound air into the hollowed ram’s horn. Unlike the others, she aimed not for the throat but for the mouth and cheek themselves, gouging the Khund’s face before any more than a squeak emerged from the horn.
She had also come at him and impacted so quickly that her momentum carried them both through the fire-damaged wall, and she found herself atop him as they began a 40-foot plummet earthward. Everything was in slow motion, and she had all the time in the world to keep slicing at him, his neck, his sword-hand, his chest, and wherever else whim took her.
There was still 20 feet to go. Would this fall hurt her? No, it couldn’t. She was moving faster than she ever had, shedding blood like a warrior, and loving every second!
She took her time to stand up upon him, bending her knees for impact. It barely registered. She stepped off of him, wondering if she was now fast enough to race past the armies into Cadwy itself? Would her sudden extra speed last so long? No, she sensed, it wouldn’t. Fatigue was already washing into her.
There was no time for subtlety. She had seen the signal apparatus at the top was trashed. There no way to contain a fire to send code, at least in the proper way.
She gathered kindling and small branches, piling them carefully in the base of the tower before carrying a piece of burning wood from the Khund cook-fire. It would take a little time, but the entire tower would make a single flare. While the interior fire slowly built, Genni eyed the tree most imposing upon to Cadwy’s line of vision, and scaled it, carrying a bloody cloak and a length of rope, both liberated from the Khund camp below. Once the tower was engulfed, she only needed to remember the proper signal for Londinium, and hope the fort’s occupants are watching.
She signaled for as long as she could, using the cloak to replicate the opening and closing of the signal lamp as best she could, but realizing the cloak was not big enough to interrupt the view of the entire inferno.
When a nearby Khund unit began coming her way, it was time to quit. She descended the tree, snared the now-charred rabbit from the cooking fire, and did what she did best. She ran, now bound for Portus Magnus.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Seventy
His patience had paid off.
Unseen, L’ile had kept vigil upon the secret compartment, and in the hours before dawn, as he suspected, a suspicious figure stealthed its way for the compartment, from which Tenzil had smelled wyrmweed. Rather than breaching the compartment and potentially alerting its keeper, L’ile opted for surveillance.
L’ile followed the hunched figure through the halls toward the kitchen. The early-morning baker grunted and let the figure in, looking about before she did so in a manner L’ile also took as suspicious. How many of them are there? Is this more of the ‘Dark Circle’s’ doings?
He slowly edged the door open, hoping it would seem like just an aging, creaky door stubbornly refusing to keep closed. It worked.
“The pretendress is already ill. We shan’t need much,” the baker instructed, already reaching to close the door. L’ile stepped quickly to gain entrance without being bumped into.
It would have been too much to hope for, he realized, for the duo to spill all their secrets, but the line “pretendress” suggested these were people who did not approve of the Guinevere myth, so perhaps the Circle was not here.
The hunched figure unwrapped the package of poison, and L’ile could make out for certain that this, too, was a woman – an older woman, like the baker. So the Court of Voxv is not as united as Jeka has told us.
L’ile watched the duo sprinkle the powdery wyrmweed into the sweetbread batter. With the war, L’ile disliked having to see so much foodstuff wasted, but better to stop the poisoners in one fell swoop.
By sunrise, they would be captured and interrogated; answers would be had no matter what it took.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Seventy-one
Berach had met the knight and the elderly king only in passing, and only reluctantly allowed them to travel with his forces. For all he knew, Londinium could be under full siege by now, and while this Andrew could be a mighty ally (even if not all the court trusted him), bringing an elderly man into a battlefield seemed sheer madness.
But the elderly man claimed to have urgent news for King Rokk, and would share it with no intermediary. Prince Pharoxx, leading the armies of North Cymru, objected, but Jonah had placed Berach in command, not Voxv’s nephew.
Andrew held himself aloof from the troops – but not out of nobility or arrogance. The Christians of the troop looked to him as their champion, the one who struck down an evil sorceress and would similarly drive all paganry out of Rokk’s court, while those loyal to Avalon eyed him as threat, a sign of things to come: warriors of the one-god affording themselves license to take the sword to any who disagree with the would-be new order. Andrew tried to be cordial with both, but still comported himself as one with a burden to carry. At his first night’s camp with the troop, Andrew told his new peers that minds and hearts, not swords, must be path by which the Christians should multiply, a stance that satisfied neither side. Berach found fortune that most of his troops cared less for theology than for working against a common enemy.
Dispite his years, King Pellam traveled well; he complained not about the pace of travel, the food nor the camp conditions. The only thing that seemed to ail him were the court rumours from the northwest; Berach found it strange but chivalrous that the old man paid so much heed to the fate of two ill noblewomen so distant from the front lines.
Two days later, Berach’s army intercepted a small Khundish force en route for Londinium; the raiding party had taken out a messenger bound for Lindum, a patrol, and several small hamlets, although most of the residents had the good sense to seek refuge in a defensible villa – Sir Derek’s, as it turned out.
Londinium welcomed Berach’s army with gusto, joining the forces of Dyrk, Kiritan, Cradelmant and the Picts already in residence – how odd that recent Kentish and Angle enemies were now welcome inside the city! Khundish attacks were growing closer and closer, and Rokk was concentrating on defense of the city. Only Iasmin’s cavalry made any significant forays out of the capital, to engage any small forces and facilitate intelligence; too many scouts were vanishing of late.
Rokk received Berach and Pharoxx well, but fumed that Jonah had broken the spirit if not the letter of his orders.
The king was also quite disturbed by the lack of word from Cadwy or anywhere else – had Genni met some foul fate? There were unconfirmed reports of a British victory at Portus Magnus – but why were its armies not returning to Londinium? There was no denying it – the Khunds must have squashed a premature victory.
Unlike Dyrk, Berach was not one of King Rokk’s confidents, he knew. But with a lack of premier knights present, he suddenly found himself regularly in strategy sessions with the pair; only occasionally would Pharoxx, Cradelmant or Kiritan be so welcomed.
The week passed with little or no word, until Iasmin returned – with Laoraighll and MacKell – bringing word that the small raiding parties had ended, and the large armies were en route.
Londinium was about to be besieged by a force that made even the Ulster duo seek reinforcements. Portus Magnus, Cadwy, Exeter… it seemed to all that the British cause was doomed.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Seventy-two
They had fought for hours. Each man was weary, each man was wounded and bloody, and each man was single-mindedly focused on only one thing: the death of the other.
The circle of troop around them taunted and cheered; it was almost impossible to tell supporters of one from the other. Only the ancient oak broke the circle of onlookers. Dialects from all across southern Britain and beyond could be heard, but the two combatants heard not one thing any of them uttered.
“You have nothing to fight for,” Geraint snarled. “Even if you win, my troops will never support you. Your father will still bed your love. You will still be the laughingstock of all Britain!”
Thom was not taken in; there was no going back. Nothing else mattered – not Cornwall, not Marcus, not Rokk, not the Khunds – only killing this fiend and taking Nura somewhere safe, where warriors not politicks would ever again touch her.
“What are you smiling at?” Geraint barked. “You’ve lost your mind, have you?” He charged forward, and swordplay was again engaged.
“I know the outcome of this fight already,” Thom sneered. “Nura has seen it. That’s why I am smiling.” As he said the words, he wondered what Nura had really seen.
“I believe you not!” Geraint sneered, sounding less confident than he tried to portray. Nura was a seer, he knew – what if t’was true?
Thom pushed Geraint back, but Geraint circled about and stabbed blindly; Thom’s sword was tossed aside, but the young knight knew that not – he still felt as if his hand still grasped it.
He swung with all his might, Geraint’s troops laughing as there was no blade to swing. But as if in response to his stroke, a huge branch of the ancient oak, larger than three men put together, broke off. It toppled first onto Geraint’s sword arm and then upon the man itself. Whether the weight of the tree or the impact of his own blade, Geraint lived no longer once he hit the ground, only his life’s blood escaped toward the ravine.
“Sorcery!” shouted some. “Trickery!” said others. The crowd was turning ugly. Even Thom’s troops knew not what to make of what they’d just witnessed.
But none could life an arm against Thom as he picked up his sword and walked from the battlefield. He walked as if in a daze, not comprehending all that had taken place.
Behind him, Ayla and Meleagant tried to resume some semblance of order; it seemed another Khundish force was bearing down on Portus Magnus.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Seventy-three
Garth was grateful; grateful Hart and King Zendak had seen the signal to retreat to Londinium, and grateful that Reep could identify Genni as its sender. But fighting their way out of the fort would be no easy trick, even with a foggy night on their side; his troops had to stay close enough to form a tight flank, they had miles of Khundish encampments to cross.
But now the morning sky was starting to lighten, and they’d made it only a few leagues; moving almost 1,000 men took time and effort. Khunds were assembling against them, and darkness would no longer be an ally. But the Khunds also seemed disorganized – as if they were fighting another force?
By dawn itself, the way ahead was getting easier, as they found Jonah and Genni – along with Querl (!) and a wild-looking beast-man fighting their way in. With Querl in the centre, no Khund seemed able to approach the quartet, a factor which did not seem to stop the other three from dealing with the invaders.
Jonah fought like a demon unleashed, plowing though a half-dozen Khunds at once. Genni, who always claimed to be no fighter at all, moved from Khund to Khund, slitting throats with her small blade before any hand could swing a blade against her. The beat man fought with claws and a feral energy that made even the supposedly fearless Khund wet his garments. With Garth’s taraunaut and Hart’s neigh-unbelievable fighting ability, the sextet could form a wedge to lead the retreating forces away from the fallen fort, but the army was still badly outnumbered. The now-organizing Khunds had not only cut off and refortified the route that Jonah’s quartet had created, but the emptying encampments could easily match or exceed the pace of the British forces.
They waited for our retreat, for sport, Zendak realized. We have no prayer of escape.
By late morning, despite perhaps a thousand Khund casualties, the British were down to 600. By noon, another 700 or so of the unimaginably plentiful Khunds were downed, while British forces diminished well below 400. Cadwy’s Hill was barely out of sight, and there was no way to break for rations or rest, or to treat wounds. Even the knights were tiring, and there was no end in sight.
Moreover, additional forces were now visible coming from further to the west; an entirely new army, it was clear.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Seventy-four
“Neither of them have poisoned anyone,” Tenzil concluded.
Voxv nodded. “Yet they intended to slay my daughter, th very high queen of all Britian,” the angered monarch regarded his treacherous kitchen employees. “So why does my Guinevere lie ill?”
“She’s not Guinevere!” shouted one of the accused, the baker. An old woman, she had been a lifelong servant of Voxv’s court, although not one sympathetic to the ruse Jeka had worked so hard to create.
Voxv waived them away, dismissing them, perhaps along with his own realization of truth. He sighed.
“So, L’ile. Beren. Tenzil. Are we certain of what they say?”
“Positive,” Beren stated. “We Druids have herb-craft that loosens the mind; lying is all but impossible to those who are not accustomed to them.”
“Could they be accustomed?”
“They did not react as so, my liege,” Beren replied.
“Your daughter was not poisoned,” Tenzil blurted, then regretting his lack of protocol. Beren paid no mind.
“Go on.”
“Queen Guinevere is ill, t’is true. But if t’was poison, I would know. I would smell or taste it, in her food or even from her discharges. Smelling discharges, I mean.”
L’ile vouched for the beefeater’s skills. “He’s detected poisons and indeed many other substances in foods, on weapons, and in almost any manner which one could imagine.”
Voxv’s castellan interrupted the discussion. “Sire? We have word from Cumbria, that the Princess Jancel was inflicted with a similar ailment as the queen.”
“And?”
“…the princess has died, my liege.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Seventy-five
“So. Balan. It has been a while.”
“Yes, my liege.” Andrew decided this was not the time to inform King Rokk as to his name change.
“You are a murderer. You struck down a lady, a priestess, a friend and ally, the mother of my best knight and of two queens with nary a thought or hesitation.” Rokk’s voice betrayed no hint of emotion.
“…Aye.”
“And with tales of miracles and forgiveness you are back.”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” Rokk repeated his reply, slamming an iron vase off the table without raising a finger. Its impact on the stone floor echoed through the hall. “I should run you down where you stand,” he said at last.
“Aye,” Andrew replied. “I deserve no less, truths be spoken.”
Rokk was growing infuriated over the warrior’s acquiescence. A defiant rogue he could understand, and he could have him executed without qualm. Val’s killing of Iaime was accidental, and Val’s penitence made sense; Balan’s did not.
“Truths be spoken, I need every sword-arm I can muster,” Rokk bitterly admitted. “You will serve, and you will kill Khunds. Only thereafter shall I determine your fate.”
Andrew nodded, and was dismissed.
On his way to brief Iasmin and her cavalry, the king paused to check in on the Orkneyman’s traveling companion. King Pellam welcomed him, and they exchanged warm greetings.
“I regret we had not chance for words at Shangalla last fall,” Rokk told him.
“T’was a time you had many duties to attend to. As you no doubt do now,” the elderly king smiled.
“Aye, but for the moment all is well enough in hand that I may do as I please. At least until the next squire mishandles a mare, or another of Sir Lucan’s kitchen boys seek to make knights of themselves by opening the gates to the Khund.”
Pellam laughed. “I well know of what you speak. Why in my day… But you did not come for an old man’s tired old tales.”
“But I did!” Rokk replied with genuine affection and enthusiasm. “One has not far to venture to hear tales of the man who defeated Vortigern.”
Pellam winced. “Much of what is said of Vortigern’s time is but boastful bard tales and oversimplifying what was. The truth is shrouded in the foggy river of time, lost to all but those of us old enough to recall, those of us who were there.”
“I’d like to hear the truth,” Rokk said sincerely.
Pellam nodded. “Many truly believe they do. But truth is a bitter elixir that many like the smell of but few can stomach… and the brewer is tired of being blamed for the bellyache.”
Rokk sighed. “This has to do with Mordru, does it not?” He eyed the old man for a reaction, but received only a muted one. “Mordru was one of the three brothers. If you tell me naught else, please tell me truthfully he was not my sire.”
Pellam was touched by the young king’s vulnerability. The young man indeed resembled the three brothers Uther, Ambrosius and Constans in face and hair and sometimes in intensity, but Igraine’s eyes were almost as hard to resist on the honourable youth as they had been on the wise queen of olde.
“Mordru is not your father. Nor anyone else’s, thank the gods. He was Constans, the first of the brothers to rule Britain. But he ruled poorly, and was poisoned… by a Pict in the service of Vortigern. Or so it is said,” he chuckled bitterly. “Yet Constans was of no mind to lie in his grave. The Christians say he made a deal with their devil. Those of Avalon say he dealt with some sort of a mysterious Dubh Sidhe. In any case, he rallied from death itself, fetched his brethren from exile in Gaul, and enlisted young Beren, then just a boy, to gain Vortigern’s confidence and infiltrate the court.
“But Mordru fooled us all, fooled us all…” Pellam was drifting off, and was soon asleep.
Rokk carefully exited, ordering Sir Lucan to have the elderly king properly tended to.
Pellam would wake in the middle of night and rebuke himself for not sharing word with young Rokk about his sister’s disappearance, but by morning would forget yet again.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Seventy-six
A barrage of arrows rained down upon them. The missile fire was getting closer and of greater intensity.
Franz ordered his half of the small troupe to raise their shields overhead. A head wound would be harder obstacle than taking an arrow almost anywhere else.
They were exposed along the base of the rocky cliff. Sneaking into the enemy camp by taking this river canyon had proven to be just as impossible as Stig had insisted it would be.
Luckily, that was the plan all along. With scouts, archers, and now infantry now focusing on them, and hopefully assuming they were the beginnings of an all-out Cornish assault, both phases of the plan could now bear fruit. As Khunds marched down the river at them, it was time to retreat, to lead their pursuers across the small river and up the opposite ravine, where Stig and Peter’s half of the troupe would be ready on high ground with flaming arrows and other fire-based missiles.
The retreat went less well than anticipated, with Franz losing four soldiers and seeing another six as walking wounded. Moreover a small group of Khundish troops, perhaps a scouting unit, was waiting to intercept them at the river. Why weren’t Stig’s forces firing? Surely it wasn’t too far to shoot? Something had gone seriously wrong.
And what of Lu? If this operation had failed – an elaborate ruse to allow her mission to proceed – mayhap Lu was now worse off then they. Franz had never been entirely comfortable with Lu’s role in the plan, but now she was their only hope. His men engaged the interceptors as best they could, but with the main force closing in behind them the battle would be a very short and unsatisfactory one.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Seventy-seven
Aord wandered the palace in a daze.
The halls were largely empty. Every able knight or soldier was out drilling. All but him.
“Winds that sing like a hundred swans!” he shouted at a lone guard, who tried his best to remain unfazed. “Ne’er will the ‘possums dance at Frankish death-feasts.” He sounded almost mournful at the last.
“Go away,” the guard managed at last. “Go away, else I catch your [i]madness.”i/i] The guard distrusted this fool, but Sir Dyrk had ordered that the daft knight would remain until some young monk would arrive to deal with him.
Aord accepted the command and nodded. “T’is a fine night for unripened sweet-rocks.” He meandered down the hall, almost in a dance, turning one last time to solemnly inform the guard one last bit of vital information.
“The knight of Belle Rose still hath not given us his due. Why hath he forsaken us? Is any cubby not unable man his station?” Aord slowly wandered out of earshot. If any in all Londinium doubted that the Manx knight’s mind was addled whilst in the realms of faerie as the tale was already being told, one by one he disabused them of any such notions.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Seventy-eight
“Geraint’s Cornish warriors want your head. You stole the glory he promised them. There is no other way. Go.”
Ayla was quite insistent, and in truth while Thom recently wanted nothing more than to flee with Nura, he now felt like a coward to leave Britain mid-war. The three huddled in hasty talks not far from the corpse of the dead knight. Not far away Geraint’s top men held similar talks. The mood was one of anger.
“Your presence will only serve to keep these armies divided,” Nura tried to sound persuasive. “Your forces will follow Ayla, and Geraint’s will follow Meleagant. Unless we go, Meleagant and Geraint’s army will not ride to Rokk’s aide. Are you really worth more than an army?”
Thom and Nura had easy passage out of Britain thanks to Ayla’s fleet – supply ships regularly went to and from the mainland kingdom.
Thom stepped out of the huddle and announced to all the gathered forces, “I will see Queen Nura to safety in Benwick, and then return,” Thom declared. He next ordered his men to follow Ayla.
Geraint’s men snickered and made comments, some more audible than others.
“I am no coward,” Thom rebutted several of the loudest. “I have fought Khunds the length of this aisle, and have not felt the need to claim credit for others’ victories,” he gestured with a sneer at the late Geraint. “And I shall do so again, with all possible haste. This I swear to God, King Rokk and all of you here assembled today!”
Thom walked back to his camp to make preparations, ignoring jeers and innuendoes from Cornish and west Breton alike. How fickle renown, honour and respect were! Those who hailed him mere months ago were now certain he was the worst form of man alive; never before had he realized how big Geraint’s army had grown.
His own men cheered and feted him, and saw him off in the morning. If Queen Nura hoped at all for consummation of their unspoken love, it would not come while the specter of ill repute still hung over the Cornish knight.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Seventy-nine
The gardens of Voxv’s castle were in full bloom as full springtime weather finally took hold in the Cymru hills. Those who strolled the gardens were generally of a mind not fully appreciative of the blooms, however – almost everyone remained concerned about the very life of the high queen of Britain, both those who truly believed the queen was Voxv’s favourite daughter and those who knew better.
There was hushed discussion of ever new rumour – that the whole southwest of Britain had fallen, that the sorceress Glorith’s ghostly essence was taking the lives of Britain’s young noblewomen in vengeance, that British forces were now in full-blown war with each other instead of aligned against the Khunds… the list went on and on.
Somehow in the lull, the long-absent Princess Jecka had returned home. After spending months holed up in South Cymru, a brave knight named Accolon – one of Zendak’s bastards, apparently – escorted Voxv’s true daughter home. Whether t’was her long absence or the prospect of losing Guinevere (again), even Vovx was putting aside his old grudge and formally if not warmly welcoming home the daughter he’d so often quarreled with.
Luornu found herself alone in the gardens one misty morning. The light rains had just let up and the vegetation seemed particularly lush, almost a glowing green. She’d woken early this morn, hours before the sun, and sat by her friend’s bedside even when the Druids tended to her. For the first time in a while, and for reasons she could tell no other, she truly believed her friend and liege would live. And so would--
“Laurentia?”
It was Carolus, truly appearing as if he’d seen her sister’s ghost.
“No, Carolus. T’is but I, Luornu.”
“I…I am sorry. It is merely that in that gown… at this hour… She and I would meet often in the early hours to wander the gardens of Londinium. I guess I still think of her when I do so. Alone, I mean.”
Whatever pain still lingered from Laurentia’s death, Carolus usually hid his pain behind a jest or one of his bouncy little dances, and it struck Luornu that in all likelihood she was the first to see him without such pretenses.
“She really thought highly of you, Carolus.” She squeezed his hand.
“If only I were a knight, not merely a jester…”
“You made her laugh, and believe in my words, an easy feat that was not. Her sharp or sarcastic words were her veils before the world. You were the only one who could lift them. She nary spoke of any man than you.”
“I… held her close once. Methinks she wanted me to take her, but I… Gods, I am truly a fool. I told her I would seek to prove myself and then seek her hand. Some gallant am I. Laurentia is gone, the queen is dying, the Khund overruns this whole isle, and I am somehow to make light of it all.”
She held herself close to him. “The queen is not dying, she will be well very soon. And we shall win this war. Have faith. The things I have seen… Here, from my heart feel my faith. Let it warm yours.”
The two stood still in the garden for an immeasurable time, arms wrapped around each other.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Eighty
The very fury of the battles that raged across the Summer-set hills seemed to taint the very sky and land; surely enough blood had been spilt to tinge air itself with a mist of death and destruction? Ravens feasted well that day, night and for days to come; surely never before had Britain seen so many thousands dead in such a short time.
The end of battle came not willingly to neither soldier nor knight alike. King Zendak had easily dispatched 30 Khunds before being felled by a deep gash into his abdomen. Querl tended to him as best he could, employing both his Mediterranean schooling and what local knowledge he’d picked up from the Druids in his time here in Britain, but there was little hope for the monarch. Genni, unused to combat and lacking game to replenish the strength her speed needed, was suddenly overcome by fatigue after slaying some 200 Khunds or more; she was a sitting duck for the blow that would keep her down. Reep, a master at subtle arts, was never the outstanding warrior that others were; he did his part, but was severely wounded rather early on.
Garth, the last of his tauranaut spent and so tired from fighting that he ached more than he drew breath, still fought as valiantly as a score of fresh warriors. But in the end his tiredness intersected with a Khundish lance. The wild beast-man Brin, never accustomed to prolonged combat despite his amazing physique and prowess, matched and outclassed the Khunds for sheer tenacity, brutality and destructiveness. But drawn away from the others and encircled by a sea of combatants all devoted to bringing him down, he too succumbed, yet not without taking at least a score down with him.
Jonah, too, was close to being overcome by numbers. Only Hart held his ground, taking on all comers and winning. Yet their spirits were low, seeing their peers fallen and the remnants of the army either slaughtered or dispersed; the roar of the new wave of combatants spotted hours ago were still approaching as well.
Yet only Hart was still standing when the next wave arrived, and to Hart’s (and Querl’s) surprise, they actually began to pick off the scant hundreds of Khunds still standing – these were Irish forces, not more Khunds as believed – and the heavy losses inflicted by the outnumbered British and fresh Irish turned the tide enough for a partial Khundish withdrawal.
Irish King Coirpre Mac Neill surveyed the aftermath, ordering his best healers to attend to the British heroes he’d come to know and respect. At least some of them would live, but fewer would if they had to be moved. It would be a difficult choice, as the Irish had to be ready for the almost inevitable Khundish counterattack. His reprieve would help save lives – but for how long?
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Eighty-one
Kiritan’s and Pharoxx’s scouts had returned with unimaginable descriptions of the Khundish armies now marching on Londinium; it was as if they had adopted Roman formations, weaponry and siege equipment. Behind them, throngs of Khunds followed, no more than a day behind.
With the diligence of an army of beavers, they were building a bridge across the very Thames as well, avoiding Zaryan’s mistake. Rokk weighed the possibility of sending Laoraighll or a small, stealthy force to interrupt construction and burn the pilings, but this strange new Roman-style Khundish strategy meant that more than one surprise could be in store.
The king looked again at the diagrams both groups had drawn and shook his head.
“Those cannot be Khunds,” Dyrk agreed. “T’is impossible.”
“Are you suggesting a charm, a seeming, that Khundish magicks make us see what we most fear?” Berach asked.
“T’is more likely that have allies. The Allemanii are less than pleased with us ere now,” Laoraighll conjectured, reflecting on the executed former monarchs Eva and Lavarrus.
“Agreed,” Pharoxx added. “Their banners I kenned not. They were Roman of a kind, yet not to Rome proper – or the East. They were not any sort of Khund.”
“Whoever it is, they need to be met. Verily we cannot withstand such a force,” Rokk sighed.
“Sire? We cannot surrender to these… these…” Dyrk was at a loss for words.
“Nay. But a truce can buy time for reinforcements,” Rokk said. If any forces arrive from Portus Magnus or Cadwy-”
Berach sighed and looked away. He wanted to believe, but--
But Rokk’s disapproving eyes were now squarely upon him. “Have you an insight to add?” The rebuke was no softer phrased as a question.
“Given the numbers we face, I merely repeat my earlier suggestion,” Berach replied. Kiritan and Pharoxx, just back from the field and unaware of any alternatives proposed, raised eyebrows.
“Truly a last resort,” Rokk stated. “Get me MacKell. He will ride to this new Roman-style army and address them for me.”
Dyrk and Laoraighll exchanged glances.
“What?” The king was loosing patience.
“Sire,” Laoraighll began, “MacKell rode out with Iasmin and her cavalry, and the Pictish warrior Grev, late last night. He said it was on your orders.” Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Eighty-two
“What thinketh thou?”
“I shall defeat them all,” jested Palomides, maintaining a façade of sincerity. He and Val stood atop a small hill outside of the city walls surveying the battle formations now surrounding the city. “Tortoises,” he had heard them called, a classic Roman formation of continuous shields above and before the advancing army that moved as one well-armoured beast. Palomides had seen these deployed in Asia Minor and even in Egypt, but they seemed out of place – even out of time – in far-off Britain.
Val was of a like mind; Zaryan’s armies were naught compared to these. Even the descendants of Rome in Britain had lost such a discipline generations ago.
“For what do they wait?” asked Andrew, who somehow felt at home with Val and his newcomers. They were outsiders together, in a way – all were under suspicion, it seemed, even Jonah’s own brother. Nearby, several groups of Picts, who preferred to camp outside of city walls, studied them with a mixture of curiosity and distrust.
“They are spacing themselves for their assault. Their siege towers, troops and cavalry must all move with proper timing, for both overwhelming effectiveness and to inspire the utmost fear,” Hesperos explained. “They would rather spend all day getting formation right in order to win in an hour than rush into combat without everything in its proper alignment. Very Roman, and very much a practice still alive in the eastern empire, where Rome’s ways still live.”
“Since when do Khunds act like Romans?” Andrew asked.
“They don’t,” Val said firmly, never lifting his eyes from the armies. “And if they are waiting for perfection before attacking, mayhap we can prevent them from ever attaining their desired formations.” Val began running, heading for the nearest siege tower.
“Val! Don’t! Already they question us-” Hesperos could see it was too late, and Andrew had begun to follow.
“I jested that I could take them all. T’would seem time to see if t’is so.” Palomides started to follow; Hesperos found no reason not to join in. A sudden cacophony behind him made him glance back; the Picts were stoked and charging as well.
Laoraighll and Dyrk, riding out to seek the enemy commander for negotiation, arrived to find melee already under way. “You’d better inform Rokk,” she said, forcibly handing him the white bear banner, and she set off to join the battle as well. Dyrk was dumbstruck, it was a remarkable display of bravery – but also a quite pointless gesture all of Londinium might yet pay the price for.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Eighty-two
Imra awoke feeling warm but safe. It was not a Druid she saw upon waking this time, nor even Luornu, but rather a young man who was quickly becoming a dear friend and confidante.
“Hello, Jan,” she smiled.
“Hello, my queen,” he returned the grin.
Weeks of fevers made her uncertain – she moved her hands down her body to be sure.
“He is fine, too,” Jan smiled. “Perhaps two months to go. What shall you name your little prince?”
“In truth I know not. Perhaps Grayhme. I feared to carry him this far, else Terminus take my child again. Mayhap Rokk should name him.”
Dag entered the room carrying something. Upon seeing her awake, he blushed and hastily bowed, trying not to spill his vessel.
Imra laughed. “T’is no need for such, Sir Dag.”
Jan took from him the vessel and turned so Imra could see it – it was the Cauldron.
“Would that not be of better service on the field of battle?” She suddenly felt ashamed that her healing must have come at the expense of so many.
“Aye, but t’is necessary to be here to. And with Beren’s aid, it shall be where it is needed rather soon.” He approached, bringing the Cauldron to her very lips. “Now drink.”
Lying to rest again, she partially fell asleep, yet her mind tracked Jan and Dag down the hall where they met Beren; Jan turned the Cauldron over to the elderly Druid.
Dag’s mind was a sea of disappointment; he was far from the front lines and his special mission was now over, it seemed. Beren would take the Cauldron to Avalon, out of his and Jan’s hands.
Jan saw these feelings in all the subtle wrinkles of his otherwise stone-like face; those who knew him not would have failed to see any of them. “It will be good to rest, my friend, and let someone else tend to the wounded. I fear we ourselves are still needed here,” Jan told him.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Eighty-three
Tinya had charged forward, spear in hand, and rushed along with her “fellow” Picts. With Grev missing, a woman named Tiabhaig led her band.
Parallel to her group was a larger band, led by an elder Pict of whom she had previously referred to in hushed reverent voices as Drest – an informal king of sorts, she surmised.
She had liked this attack not; it looked like Val who instigated it – she could not help but wonder: was he leading them into a trap?
She had half expected the Roman formations ahead to be some sort of phantasm – or perhaps even a troupe of civilians cajoled into serving as a distraction or trick. But no; these were trained, skilled, disciplined warriors who stood their ground against the unruly combat of more tribal people; they were truly carved out of the Rome of olde, whoever they were.
The attack went badly, of course, mirroring countless battles between Rome and barbarian over the past half-dozen or so centuries, and soon the Picts were in full retreat. Only a scant dozen, maybe dozen-and-a-half of her band survived. Tiabhaig did not; her last act was to try to re-rally the various Pict bands toward and opening Val seemed to have made. The move had been for naught; eventually Val’s men – and later Val himself – soon retreated as well. Apparently with his urging even the nigh-undefeatable Laoraighll too followed.
Was Val’s attack truly a warrior’s spontaneity? An attempt to derail diplomacy? Or merely a squandering of warriors, resources and morale? It was a huge setback for the British, intentional or not.
With even Picts seeking safety within city walls, Tinya recruited several Picts to join her for cover so she could come in close proximity to Val, to listen in on his remarks to his peers.
But whatever he might have said, nothing was as surprising as the mischievous grin on his face.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Eighty-four
“Your friend slew my lord, and you let him escape. My army stands in tatters, demoralized. Why should we aid you?”
“Are you so loyal to a dead man that you would let Britain itself fall?” Ayla was furious with Meleagant. “Why were you even fighting at all, if not for all of Britain?” She turned her attention to Meleagant’s troops.
“King Rokk has fought for all of Britain. So have I. If any of us – ANY OF US – are to bring our local feuds into the very war for Britain’s continued existence, then we were all long lost before any of us picked up the sword!
“I care not who preferred Sir Thom and who preferred Sir Geraint. Each of them vowed to follow King Rokk, as did I. Both of them vowed to stand with the rest of Britain to defeat the Khund, as did I. I intend to honour my vow and theirs, and ride to Londinium, where mayhap, mayhap, we can win this war as a united isle!
“If you flee and find yourself overrun this fall or next summer when the Khund reaches your doorstep, ask not why no one rides to your aid – IF you spurn the call to stand together today. If we have one chance – ONE CHANCE – to keep our isle, our lands, that chance is now!
“Who’s with me?”
The Armorican troops cheered, as did Thom’s, while Geraint’s murmured and looked nervously amongst each other.
“WHO’S WITH ME?” Ayla called again. The same results came, although even more robust, even from within a minority of Geriant’s troops.
“Who’s with US?” Meleagant called out, stepping close to Ayla in endorsement. With all doubt removed, the three armies cheered together – although cautiously; only a handful of Geraint’s hardliners drifted away – in numbers one could count on but few hands.
Amid the cheers, Meleagant kneeled in homage to the queen of Lesser Britain. “We shall ride on your command, milady.” There was bitterness layered within the resignation he offered, but he truly did want to march on Londinium as much as she – if for slightly different reasons.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Eighty-five
“What do we do with her?”
“She’s comely enough, but I’ll not touch her in such a state.”
“She must be with child, then.”
Lu was grateful they would not touch her; proximity was enough.
Disguised as a camp woman, she made her way around the troops, a mixture of Khunds and mercenaries. Most of the troops were out chasing her troupe; a smattering of guards, cooks and boys remained to handle duties, supplies and mind both camp and the harbour. No one questioned her coming and going; by the time the troops arrived she would be gone, but the entire camp would be infected.
Every attempt of late by Drusilla to infect foes had backfired, but she could easily infect a friend, who in turn could infect others. Now the only trick would be to survive the pox herself.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Eighty-six
“Greeks?”
“Aye, my liege. Macedonians, at least. Of a place called Dyrrhachium.”
“Allied with the Khunds?”
“So Hesperos tells me.”
Rokk was rather annoyed with Val just yet, for the reckless attack – and defeat – just as the king had hoped to make contact. But yet Val and his men had returned with some interesting scouting information.
Taking the silence as a good thing, Val continued. “Macedonian mercenaries were a valuable stock in Rome’s armies. Undisturbed by the Goths since Rome’s fall, the Macedonians of Dyrrhachium still train as Romans, and hire themselves out as a compleat mercenary army.”
“And how do barbaric Khunds come across such an ally, even a paid one?” It still did not ring true.
“Hesperos identified their banners, and even recognized some of their field commanders. They serve a lord of an Italian prince, it seems, or so their banners suggest. It… makes no sense to me, my lord. Yet… they merely defended their lines. They did not attack back as I expected.”
“So you pulled Laoraighll off ere they changed their minds,” Rokk sighed. He wanted to believe Val, but knew not his man Hesperos. Querl was not here to vouch for the accuracy of this news – if he could. Rokk had no choice but to hope Sir Dyrk could make contact with the opposing general despite the impromptu hostilities of late yesterday afternoon.
“Greeks and Khunds…” he pondered, dismissing Val. “Italians. Lavarrus’ people? Venetians?”
He had none of his thinkers to talk with – Querl and L’ile were in Cymru, Reep was at Cadwy – Cadwy! Did his foster-brother yet live? Imra, Mysa, not even Beren were at hand. He had none of his strategists, none of his magick-users, none of his mightiest warriors (save Laoraighll), none of his cavalry, and only a fraction of his troops. It looked good not.
That the Greeks… Macedonians – whoever they were – waited for something was worrisome – they broke ranks not even to dispense with a small, rowdy, unthinking attack.
Slightly before noon, Sir Dyrk returned and reported. The king dispensed with formalities and had the knight deliver the news with an economy of words.
“I met him. Garlach.”
“And?”
“And… he has offered us one hour to surrender.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Eighty-seven
Peter expected death several times over in the past several days.
First, Khunds had taken his and Stig’s small archer band by complete surprise. They were captured, not killed in retaliation, because they’d failed to take out a single Khund attacker, no doubt. Franz’ group was similarly captured almost as easily.
What a pathetic force they’d been! The Khunds laughed at them, tortured them. Franz had been made a brutal example of, one head at a time. How one head had shrieked while the other gazed on in fear…
Ach, Poor Franz…
By the next day, the entire camp, prisoner and invader alike, were united in misery. Retching, defecating, moaning… the camp was one big death-watch; Peter could only take satisfaction that his imminent death had meaning – Drusilla and Lu’s plan had worked, even if the rest of the troupe were unintended additional casualties.
At least one Khunds blamed the pox on the newcomers – correctly, but not in the way he guessed – and took out his displeasure with a blade on the nearest captives he could reach before passing out. Peter had watched Stig inch his way to that Khund and use his own knife against him so as not to allow a repeat occurrence; through the night Stig used the blade to free the surviving prisoners – some 18, all told – in the pre-dawn hours the troupe made their way back towards the river, shivering and retching the entire way.
Among the first to reach the small river as the early morning mists were barely starting to replace the veil of night, Peter washed the fresh water into his mouth, and wiped clean his face. The caked vomit did not voluntarily give way, and Peter had to rest himself between efforts. The water-polished rock that served as his cushion was not unreasonably uncomfortable, and the water flowing against the back of his head was relaxing. All around him, his men gasped and aahed as they reached their own stretch of stone-beach riverfront, yet behind him he could hear the cries of two or three who could not muster the strength to reach water…
…Peter awoke with a start – he’s passed out! It was still early in the morning, and most of his crew were resting, whether fitfully, spasmatically or a few even peacefully, only occasionally retching or gagging; the two or three behind them had made no progress.
Feeling responsible and even refreshed, Peter tried to stand; his woozy stomach and blacksmith-pounded head openly rebelled. Still, he was strong enough to walk on all fours back to the stragglers, and even opted to carry some water in his helm to them.
He’d reached the first one, at which time he realized no less than five had given up before reaching the river! He could not aide them alone; he’d just decided he’d have to call out for help – when he heard them.
Hooves.
Heavy warhorses, from the sound of them, riding with Purpose.
Neither Peter nor any of his men were in any shape to defend themselves, let alone fight. Were they easy pickings?
He froze still, hoping none would be looking out in the riverbed. Long-distance patrols might not have even known there had been captives at all – dare he hope? Yes!
Yes, there were sounds of combat back at the camp. Who fought whom was not knowable, but Peter hoped and prayed that allies of some sort had intervened. The brevity of the combat suggested the losers had been those who were ill – even returning Khundish short-distance overnight patrols should still be ill, too.
After cessation of combat, voices called down to them – in Cornish! Peter responded as best he could, and soon riders were on the riverbed with them.
“Doo’n git too close,” he warned them.
“King Marcus sends his greetings,” the rider responded.
So th’ old loon ha’ re-netted hih’ wits, Peter mused.
Soon after, he heard Marcus’ own voice. “Greetings, friends. I suspect this plague was your doings. Then you should know you’ve succeeded in disabling the entire western Khundish front. Khunds and mercenaries from here carried the pox all the way to Cadwy’s Fort.”
“Whe’ve woon?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not yet. We have reports that the Irish reinforcements were defeated at Cadwy, and many Khunds were already marching for Londinium ere the pox could be delivered up-road.
“Rest, friends. I have sent for care-givers from yon villages. The war is over for you, I fear, but my men and I have much yet to do.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Eighty-eight
The fields were now thick with barleys. Any field unplanted this season was still a lush green, a remarkable difference from the white blankets of snow during her last walk out here. But that was a winter’s night; this was a summer-like daytime, and her companions were not fear and necessity but hope, friendship and a sense of completion of sorts.
The old Roman gate gave way begrudgingly with rust and disuse, and by order of the king the field beyond is never sown nor grazed. Even the old cart-path is all but overgrown.
No Cymry come here save with Voxv’s permission, and none dared fish here no matter how their bellies might rumble and gurgle.
Imra turned to the guards. “You may wait for us here,” she told them. They looked yet uncertain. “Recall that your liege, my father gave us permission to be here, not you.”
Imra led, Jan followed, and soon they were at the small lake.
“On some level, he must know, else this acreage would not be so taboo,” she commented.
Jan nodded. “T’is not an easy thing, to let go of an innocent beloved one is responsible for.
“Where is it?” The monk looked along the shore; there were only reeds, spider-webs and a few odd lily pads.
“The shore t’was not seeming whence last I here trod, but I shall surmise…” she took her time to gage the angle of trees and the length of the field, “right there.” She pointed out toward a spot just to the far left of the lake’s centre.
“My Lord, Imra! If Voxv’s words are true, that spot is three men’s height in deepness. Even on February ice, you could have perished with ease!”
“Aye. T’was a risk I thought well warranted.”
“Because of this… Terminus?”
“Aye.”
“Did you know of the life you carry whence you did this?”
“Nay. I knew several things were amiss, but could not place all of them.”
“Yet you risked them all – and yourself.”
“Aye,” Imra did not let Jan’s rebuke bother her; he meant well – and he didn’t know Terminus. “Do you sense him?”
Jan relaxed and let his hands flow in the air like a leaf on the lake. “There’s… something.”
Imra nodded. “I made peace with Guinevere. Now she looks after my prisoner for me.”
“If this Terminus truly is a being as you describe, can he be so imprisoned?”
“Yea and nay. In Avalon, we are taught that the gods are all aspects of the same god and goddess, but also that each aspect in turn has its own aspects. The Morrigan that is MacKell’s nemesis may not be the same one that Maebhain invokes, at least not exactly. This is the Terminus that has plagued me, and as he himself is all about limits, I have used his own ways against him.”
Jan was not certain what to make of this.
“I fear that your Terminus is but a deceiver who will find a way to squirm from any trap. May I pray for you, that you may receive all the wisdom you may need, else this… solution proves to be… incomplete?”
“You may,” Imra said with a smile. All was right with the world; surely across the isle even the Khunds must be withdrawing in the light of the British gods’ bounty.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Eighty-nine
Garlach’s ultimatum had come and gone; almost immediately the cavalry stables were up in flames – just as Rokk had expected and even allowed for. Only the top officers knew that Iasmin and her cavalry had disappeared with MacKell, but Rokk had words spread to the contrary – hoping the loss in morale would be equaled in the benefits of surprise – if Iasmin kept her part of the mission.
The first wave were Khunds, the lead group of the massing armies that had caught up to and bypassed the Mediterranean formations. No doubt that Khunds would not think it seemly to let foreign mercenaries strike the first blow. Khunds poured out across the plain on both sides of the Thames, scaring the outside-of-wall British formations back in. They also unleashed a battery of catapults, pelting rocky projectiles at wall and city while Khund soldiers below barraged the upper walls with arrows and spears and charged with siege ladders to scale the walls. The British defenders repelled this first wave, but not without casualties; Rokk had deployed a significant percentage of the recent recruits on the wall, saving more seasoned troops for the presumed Macedonian threat still looming.
The Khunds partially retreated to new camps, camps now being set up to encircle the entire city just out of arrow range. It was dusk and they’d scored some blood; there was reason for celebrations in the camps that night, yet the drums and chants spoke more in anticipation of what was yet to come.
The Khunds had done all this under the gaze of the British – from Londinium’s walls – and from without. Meleagant’s scouting party lay watching from a hill, just southeast of the city, and Ayla’s advance guard, several hilltops south of Londinium, the safest close point, had been waiting for both darkness and for the Khunds and Macedonians to separate. With this accomplished during the initial Khundish assault, Meleagant approached the Macedonian commander while Ayla led a Cornish archer to a point as close as she could manage to the city walls, and fired an arrow with a message to the nearest captain. There were many Khundish encampments here, at the point where the south shore faced Rokk’s palace across the Thames, and faced the portion of the city that lies on the Thames’ southern shore to the immediate west; getting in and out was a challenge, even at dusk.
An hour after sunset, still sneaking back to camp, Ayla saw the signal tower message meant for her. She couldn’t help but smile. Rokk would soon be awaiting Meleagant’s signal as well.
From a parapet below and away from Rokk and Dyrk and their signal flare to Ayla were Val, Andrew and Laoraighll. They watched the Roman/Macedonian war machine begin what initially appeared to be a slow advance… but understood not that only certain units moved forward, while others went to one side or another… it was forming one massive square, not a line of blocks? Despite the sheer sea of campfires and torches, the silhouette of the massive war machines made them hard to estimate. Only Rokk and Dyrk above them knew the significance of that. Or did Val? His smile seemed to be a knowing one.
Khunds drummed and chanted for battle, but despite the posturing the Macedonians advanced not. A Khund entourage – perhaps with Garlach himself – rode to meet his Mediterranean allies, but soon left in a huff. The British observers already had known what the Khunds were only now learning – the night assault was off.
This Roman-seeming army had not been hired by the Khunds, Ayla knew. Garlach had been practical to accept their aid, but in his zeal has fooled only himself.
Would the Khunds have launched a full attack that very night? Aye, Alya thought, they would have. They hunger for this attack in their very marrow.
The attack postponed, the Khund lines continued grow thicker as evening progressed, but without the Macedonians they still not measurably worrisome on their own. The rest of the main forces would continue to arrive overnight. The Macedonian army still held the new bridge, but allowed Khund passage over it, allowing the Khunds who had marched up the southern side of the Thames access to what was shaping up to be the main battlefield.
Yet the hills of the south shore offered a strategic view for the visiting commander. Garlach, it seemed, had set up camp at the hastily-abandoned Temple of Isis, on a hill immediately across the Thames from Rokk’s very palace. From here Garlach could see the signals of Rokk and Dyrk, even if he did not understand them. But he knew something was amiss; he tripled his scouts – Rokk might have an army outflanking his men from behind.
Yet using her Kentish spies, Ayla knew the Khund’s counter-move almost as it was announced.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Ninety
It was quite the reunion, comrades-in-arms gathering on the very hour of battle, many of the very swords Rokk prayed would be on his side. Yet even that silver lining seemed to curry little favour in the grand scheme of the battle.
With south-shore Khunds redeployed, seemingly distracted with some sort of night battle just beyond the first ridge, the British relief army could enter the southwestern gate with little opposition. North-shore Khunds encircled on the city’s far western side could do naught but gape, taunt and jeer, although a few archers attempted to amend this deficiency.
King Rokk himself came to the gates to welcome the survivors of Cadwy’s Fort: Garth, Jonah, Hart, Genni, Querl, Brin, Zendak, and Reep, all alive and well, even if with far fewer troops than any of them would have liked. Pict, Kentish and Berach’s armies had all chomped at the bit to help break the lines to admit the new allies, but this proved unnecessary. Morale soared, especially as the young maiden Brin escorted began her duties. Dindrane was her name; she carried the Cauldron of the Gods itself, and set about healing Londinium’s wounded as if she’d done nothing else all her short life. She was a ward of the Priestess Isle, no more than about 10 or 11 years, who had relayed the Cauldron from Beren in Avalon to the Cadwy battlefield where she helped to heal the wounded, else the arriving Cadwy army would have numbered in the teens, not in the 200s.
As soon as t’was convenient, Rokk pulled aside Garth, Jonah, Genni, Querl, Brin, Zendak, and Reep. Hart was Val’s man, and not ready to know the king’s mind, and Brin required no excuse; he was still at Dindrane’s side. With their first full war council since Lindum, the presence of so many comrades-in-arms that had already been through so much in most of their short lives, the spirit that this assembled brotherhood could take on the impossible odds, and just maybe win.
Reep and Querl were impressed by the plan Rokk outlined, but Garth of course disliked hearing of his sister already engaged in such a dangerous ploy. But the hour was late, and there were no alternatives; the counter attack had to commence before the dawn put the sun right in the British forces’ eyes.
The Macedonian war machine sat still, unmoving but vigilant, yet very ominously as well. To Khund and British soldiers alike, it seemed a threat, a third side, and an unpredictable mobile fortress on a field of battle already of the highest of stakes.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Ninety-one
King Marcus rode cautiously; he’d not risk himself or his men to catch the very pox intended to stem the Khundish invaders.
There was little Khundish activity along the once- bustling supply route overland from the southern Cornish shore toward Cadwy and Glastonbury. Marcus’ men had not a difficult time with mopping up, setting bodies afire and counting the dead. It was quiet, too deathly quiet for any war the middle-aged king had seen thus far.
Nearing the coast, he came across combat. Exeter city forces were finishing off a newly landed Khund force, far smaller than all those who had come before. The war had shifted east, it seemed – for now. Rumours of Aivillagh allying with the Khunds were either untrue, or the crafty city nobleman had blown with fairer weather; his mighty northman Sugyn was now taking on an entire Khund brigade single-handedly, and winning.
Was it a turning tide? Or merely a calm in the storm?
There was naught to do here; Marcus turned his forces to follow the coast east. Exeter and Portus Magnus might not have been the only beachheads; it was time to try to secure all of the western shores.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Ninety-two
It was hours before dawn and Londinium burned.
Not all of it burned, but catapult after catapult of flaming oil barrels sailed through the air, hitting roof after roof. Alternately hurled boulders devastated the city’s buildings, and occasionally the troops lining the streets in silence. The populace hid in basements, in temples and even in the great hall of the palace, silently trusting the miraculous young king that had done so well for them time and again.
Yet still Rokk held back his forces.
Darker and darker it became; the moon was more and more cloaked by cloud. T’was a drizzly night, yet not drizzly enough to dampen any fires where oil had not spread.
The drizzle sometimes increased into a full rain, yet other times cleared entirely. Scouts reported that Khund siege machinery was being set up, even if more primitive than the Macedonian units still standing far a-field, lit up by the light of bonfires but moving not.
The southern-shore Khunds, previously distracted by Queen Ayla’s armies, were now back in position, battering at the gates of the city’s southern gates just as their peers were beginning on the north.
Soldiers and warriors of armies from across the breadth of Britain filled the city streets, waiting silently, polishing swords, chewing on hard-tack, and waiting for the orders. Fiery balls of oil occasionally hurled overhead, sometimes hitting a building, sometimes hitting troops.
Yet still Rokk held back his forces.
Had Garlach retired for a brief pre-morning rest, secure in the temple chambers? With Ayla’s offensive repelled and yet hours before a dawn assault, was there reason not to so rest? Surely there would be no fighting before early morning; Rokk had proven he was not able to muster a counterattack this eve.
One can imagine, this holy refuge built by emissaries of the East in a time when Rome ruled all, now occupied by the most barbaric of peoples imaginable. What rest would the matronly goddess of the Nile offer her guests? Did they hear voices of the past, mad spirits trapped in a dark causeway between worlds? Did they not hear the grunts and whinnies of nervous horses, hushed whispers of young men eager for combat? But what had that to do of ancient goddesses?
Amidst a Khund in a war zone, those sounds might have come from anywhere; they might be a trick, even. For hours and hours, they lingered in the background, ghosts drifting in from some distant past, perhaps, or merely from across the river or elsewhere along the lines.
In the dark of a cloudy night, in the temple of a foreign goddess, no Khund nor sleeping warlord nor well-meaning sentinel could notice the slight dark mists emanating from a singular stone archway; it so gradually grew thicker that the guards barely noticed how hard to see their very torches and campfires were becoming.
Nor did they notice the small, dark, lithe Picts almost swimming through the darkness; by the time they felt the prickle of bronze blades in their sides and tight little hands clogging their mouths, it was too late.
That Garlach awoke with a start is no exaggeration; the horses pouring out of the same archway at the temple’s centre was too much to ignore. That a Moorish woman rode an Iberian stallion onto his very bed could not fail to be a surprise; that her mace ended his rude awakening so quickly insured there was no audience left to maintain a state of being surprised, at least not in here.
Grev’s dark mists, which kept Iasmin’s riders and his warriors from being tormented by the otherworldly visions of fear that inhabit the unearthly corridor beyond the archway, were now being directed to the outer camps still unaware of the breach. MacKell, who had instructed him how to keep the bainsidhes at bay, rode with half Iasmin’s cavalry out the eastern doors and she led her half out the west.
With a Pictish whistle, the palace towers woke with fury. Khundish camps outside of arrow range were still a target for computus ballista bolts carrying flaming payloads of their own. Archers rained down their missiles upon the Khund armies gathering below. Hot oil embraced those battering the gates with a scalding embrace.
Armies throughout the streets were roused; Pict, Kentish Khund, Angle, Elmetian, Cyrmy, Cumbrian, Lothian, Orkney and Scot alike poured out of the walls in fury.
Picts led the charge out the southeast gate. The Khunds there were now sandwiched between Iasmin’s cavalry and the city armies, with nowhere to go but into lance-point, spear-point or the Thames. Cumbrian forces waded into the southwestern front, where they sandwiched their opposition between themselves and Ayla’s Armorican and Cornish armies returning from feigned retreat. Meleagant’s army did the same with MacKell’s cavalry. Querl specially calculated an array of computi for a longer shot than he’d ever tried before – bombarding the makeshift bridge with bolts of fire. With the eighth bolt, he scored a hit; by the 20th, enough different points were hit and burning that it was a lost cause.
As other city forces poured north, Coipre mac Neill’s army to the northwest and the new, fresh Manx army of Urien of Rhyged achieved similar results, thus completely outflanking all the Khundish forces.
The Macedonians moved not, nor broke ranks, but merely repelled any attack upon them; as the first lights of morning started to become visible, the siege machines were lowered and the force started moving to the south – slowly, cautiously, and almost imperceptibly, but eventually displacing combat around them.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Ninety-three
After the third hour of fighting, the sun was rising into a bleary-eyed sky. Khunds seeing for the first time how few of their numbers remained were began to flee in serious numbers, or else surrender.
Yes, there were still some ancillary armies advancing toward Londinium, but the tide was turning; the momentum was firmly on the British side and by early afternoon the Khunds were on the run. Some ran into the hills, and would no doubt try to blend into Kent, but for today they were defeated.
Without Garlach, a series of generals attempted to assert control, and a few did achieve some minimal results. The southern units had been more completely dispatched, but with heavy costs to the forces of Ayla, Meleagant, the Picts, and Winn’s Cumbrians, even the victorious were much fewer in number. On the north shore, several Khund generals did organize a retreat of sorts into the hills.
Rokk immediately set about pushing afterward and achieving complete decimation rather than see them return in a few seasons. Urien, the would-be king of Rhyged, had the most intact army, and proudly acquiesced to be the high king’s main force. Londinium was left in the care of Garth and the Irish, the second-strongest army present.
Despite the victory at Londinium, Rokk’s decision was not universally hailed – almost every British unit had already been pushing beyond all reasonable strengths to get this far, and many soldiers were now collapsing in relief and exhaustion that the battles appeared to be over. That Rokk was proposing to march on with the last truly full-strength unit seemed like a mighty large risk to even his closest supporters, yet he was adamant that the Khunds must be completely routed now; no suggestion that the British forces had reached their limits must return to Khundia.
Rokk pressed on. With Laoraighll, MacKell, Jonah, Iasmin’s cavalry and the Manx force, the British further trimmed the Khunds’ numbers along Gertus’ Hill, even more so at Llanghleigh Hill that evening, and relented not until severe nocturnal storms made both sides pause and seek respite. A morning battle on a plain of the north Thames was long and indecisive, as drizzle gave way to heavy rains, and Khunds retreated to a nearby hill.
But over the night, the rains let up on the hill and its eastern sides. Rokk’s army was unaware, but a new and fresh Khund army, perhaps the last of the actually landings, had bolstered and rallied the Khunds; this hill would be their stand. Rokk’s own armies, weary themselves from combat, and been marching and fighting on the adrenaline and euphoria of victory; he’d need more than that for this one last battle.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Ninety-four
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.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Two Hundred Ninety-five
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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Two Hundred Ninety-six
“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.
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Two Hundred Ninety-seven
“First Aven, and now you?”
“I go because I must, Taliesin.”
“But there are too few of us as there is, Cador.”
“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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Two Hundred Ninety-eight
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.
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Two Hundred Ninety-nine
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.
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Three Hundred
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?
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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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Interlude Twenty-two: Hybrasil
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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Interlude Twenty-three: A Fae Castle
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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Interlude Twenty-four: the Court of Niamh
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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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.
“Jormangund.” Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Book VI: A PICTISH CURSE
Three Hundred and One
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.”
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Three Hundred and Two
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.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Three
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“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.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Four
All the fisher-folk tales, all the stories of Irish, Scot, Pict and even the odd visiting Northman trader alike had led L’ile to one inescapable conclusion. He had to go home – and see if home still existed.
He had talked his king out of sending a large expedition. Instead it would be merely himself, MacKell and Father Marla sailing in a boat far smaller than most fishermen would think seemly. Yet he knew, and MacKell agreed, that by passing archipelago to archipelago the route to the North Isle from which he took his name would be a reasonable voyage.
Reep accompanied the trio as they made their way up the eastern Caledonian coast, parting company along a rocky, craggy cove from whence Rokk’s foster brother would depart for the Pictish inlands. He wanted to personally follow up on word of the monstrous Frankish raider Torachi landing in Ulster, and wanted to offer Picts aid on the high king’s behalf should the raider menace Caledonia – but he also had personal motivations for his northward trek.
For the other three continuing on without him, the August sea skies were only occasionally blustery. L’ile and MacKell both knew the way, L’ile from personal experience and MacKell from his centuries of imprisonment, where only his magick vision let his eyes wander and explore where he could not go. Past the Orkneys they went, past the rocky cliffed isles where only birds dwelt, past the mossy crags of isles where the Northmen fisher-folk summered and out into open ocean waters where sea monsters danced with impudicity. Some swam so near the small craft they seemed to threaten to knock the three men asunder; one even rubbed up against the craft and let forth a spewing forth a cloud of mist. Yet t’was no foul or fiery dragon’s breath, but only a burst of briny water. On a hot day as this, t’was a welcome attack.
“The monsters of the northern oceans are generally not man-eaters,” L’ile told his compatriots. “And a small hamlet of fisher-folk indeed can winter on the meat, flesh and fats of but one of them.”
But as the trio journeyed north, the seas were less bucolic. More and more dead sea-life and ashen debris was afloat, and the sea itself smelled slightly of brimstone.
Blue skies gave way to light greys with charcoal clouds growing more and more numerous. Only the sea wind provided relief from the coatings of fine grime that gradually accumulated on cloth, hair and exposed skin.
After several days on the open seas, MacKell was the first to see land. L’ile was horrified but less than surprised: the perpetually snow-capped mountains of his homeland were now blackened with soot – and the massive peak that dominated the entire southeastern shore was but a piece of its former self. A small river of bright reds and yellows flowed out of the mountain onto a new peninsula pointing away from the landmass. MacKell could not help to note this new jut of land resembled a blade pointing directly at Britain itself.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Five
Brin had long ago retreated into Perilous Forest, and few men and no knights had seen him since the war’s end. By early autumn, the village folk of Gaini spoke in hushed whispers of a battle between a ferocious beast-man and the great ogre Validus. Within weeks, there were reports of the vicious giant ripping its way through Hadrian’s Wall far to the north – had it fled its longtime abode of Perilous Forest or was it chasing Brin? There was no way to tell.
Querl had made one last effort to seek him out, still grateful for his aid to relieve the Cadwy forces, and still mindful of Queen Ayla’s concerns for the reluctant hero.
He wanted to bring Ayla good word as he, Marcus, Reep and Ayla were to meet to discuss the Macedonian occupation of Portus Magnus and Durobrivae – and how to explain to the Cornish king how his missing wife and step-son passed through Armorica without hindrance. He also found time in the woods to be a refreshing experience after having to sort through the wreckage that Hart (bespelled or not) and Val had made of his workshop.
With Marcus and the Macedonian/Nuhorran occupational armies seeking Thom’s head, Sir Meleagant was suddenly quite the pivotal figure who had a disproportionate say over any policy affecting the southern coast – and luckily for friends of Sir Thom he had no incentive for a speedy resolution to the situation.
Ayla took congratulations on aunt-hood well in stride, and quickly delved into the issues at hand before Marcus arrived: protocols for dealing with the foreign troops, for which Querl could prove invaluable; how to satisfy Meleagant’s ever-growing appetite for power; and how to stall Marcus’ and the Nuhorrans’ repeated calls for Sir Thom to be found, captured and returned.
Marcus was certainly calmer than when he first learned Thom and Nura had fled together. His new man Cador, a cousin of Nura’s, had made great strides in settling down the Cornish monarch, although he still had the melancholy of a man betrayed by all he trusted most.
The Kentish Khunds liked it not that foreign occupiers were their new neighbours – did they see competition for expansions into areas they expected to someday hold sway? Their dislike could be a valuable asset in ousting the foreigners, if that proved necessary – yet too much accommodation could undermine Rokk’s authority in Kent as well.
T’is good Mekt’s bespelling came to light earlier, Ayla regretfully admitted to herself. These negotiations are enough to make any monarch into a madman – Praise Iesous Mekt was not here to become unhinged at such a critical council. Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Six
The smoke seemed like a veil. No, it seemed to be lifting a veil, a veil Reep had grown up with and never before realized was there.
He knew not what plants his hosts had been burning. It seemed to be a combination of northern thistles and heathers, with a touch of something sweet-smelling, almost honey-like.
The smoke and the quiet, now-almost-imperceptible drumming, was further augmented by the drink, some kind of fermented berry – again, with a honey-like element. This berry-wine was passed around the circle in a wooden drinking bowl. Reep had not fully understood the Pictish words used for the ceremonial elements, but was beginning to understand enough of Maebhain’s pointed questions. Grev stood ready to translate, but the matron held her hand to order his tongue remain still.
“Being you are?” Maebhain asked. She spoke not in the regular Pictish, but a separate dialect, a sacred dialect. It took only slight adjustment, but was a further complication on top of his already poor Pictish.
The words seemed to wash across the hut like water; thicker wisps of smoke seemed to be break-waters upon which the words crashed and resonated. The words that reached Reep’s ears seemed to have both the power and the natural serenity of the tide washing into a narrow cove.
“Being Reep, being son of Brandius. Being brother of Rokk ere blood.”
The younger priestess with them was new to Reep and spoke not. Tasmia, Maebhain had called her. She eyed Reep with more suspicion than any other Pict had.
“Being YOU are?” Maebhain seemed to be in the habit of asking questions three times. Reep guessed that he was to expand upon previous answers, or at least add more practical substance. As time went on, Reep’s head was feeling lighter but calmer.
“Being warrior of Rokk, listening and seeing of… for Rokk, keeping Rokk’s counsel.”
Only now did Reep realize he was giving answers with his head. His words were not flowing through the smoke as the priestess’ words were. An incoming tide can be met with an outflowing river. He was being invited to blend waters, yet he was refusing to get wet. He waited not for the third time for the question to be asked.
“I… being Reep of Pictish mother… Knowing… not knowing, who being I.”
“Knowing who the southlanders making you.” It was not a question.
“Aye.”
“Choosing this? Being all you are?”
The words, the smoke, the tide… this was a swell, a current, and Reep was but a twig unsure of which way to flow – if he truly had a choice.
“… knowing not, I.” It felt like the first honest thing he had ever told anyone.
The elder priestess smiled. “Knowing not knowing. Being important thing for knowing.”
Reep suddenly felt very uncomfortable, like someone was right behind him but could not be seen – someone who could do him harm. Had he erred in coming here? He was not learning about his mother – or was he?
After a long silence Maebhain again spoke. “Learning, we are offering some. Remembering, we are offering more.” Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Seven
“Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“It is our honour to host our king and liege,” Azura, the Lady of the Lake, bowed graciously.
Beren smiled as well. It seemed the Priestesses had grown much more insular under Azura than they had under any prior Lady of the Lake that he could recall – and his memory was a lengthy one.
The sacred landscape of Avalon was such that each of the isles reached different places across Britain – and beyond, Beren recalled, if the tales of long-sunken islands were true, and rather than being an archipelago of seven mystical isles, it was once thirteen.
The elder Druid had led the high king to Avalon via the Druid’s Grove of northern Cymru, a route Rokk had never taken before. Teaching the young king the route through the brambly maze was a gift Druids had never before offered any monarch, but Beren was convinced the trust was warranted, perhaps necessary.
The high king had previously come to Avalon via the Path of Isis from Londinium, which leads to the Teachers’ Isle, and via the lake that connected Glastonbury with the Priestess Isle. These three outer world gateways were days or sometimes weeks distant from each other, but less than a league apart from each other in Avalon.
Having entered through the Druid’s Isle, Rokk had paused to greet the Druids there. With little state business pressing down on him, he could well afford to make a leisurely tour of all the isles, while back in Voxv’s capital Segontium, his court packed for its homeward move southeast.
Having supped with the Druids, word had been sent for Azura to expect him in the morning. The following day he would meet the Josephites, who were his appointed keepers of the Cauldron, and the Teachers thereafter.
Azura was welcoming, almost as much as Kiwa always was, and her unpleasant aide Thora was thankfully nowhere to be seen.
The day was a pleasant one. In a small but stately ceremony, Rokk commended the maiden-priestess Dindane on her wartime service, and gave salutation to the other priestesses gathered there – a giggly horde of young women blushing over the kind words of a handsome young king. For all the trained discipline Imra often described of the priestesses of Avalon and even their priestesses-in-training, these were still young girls scarcely different than Virginia of Siobhan. Or had Azura failed to keep order as Kiwa and those before her had?
In the privacy of Azura’s huts, the Lady spoke bluntly on what she assumed was the king’s visit.
“It is true, my liege, that your sister Mysa was here last year, and that she vanished upon leaving. I lost four priestesses that day along with her when their boat overturned rowing the Passage to the outer world, five priestesses I find hard to do without. And Mysa, Mysa was a friend and mentor. It pains me that she has vanished just as we had renewed our friendship.”
Rokk nodded. He had not realized Mysa was lost, not merely absent, nor had he worried at all for her safety that he could recall – and only now wondered why he had not. It seemed that they had been close earlier in his reign. “I know you, and respect your service to all of Britain. You and Kiwa before you have been naught but beyond reproach, and in truth it never occurred to me to place blame for what was clearly an accident.”
Azura was not the stone façade of emotion that Kiwa was; her relief was quite palpable.
“She was searched for, by Priestess, Druid and Josephite,” Beren assured him.
“Mysa… chose her own path in the world. I hope she is well wherever she has gone, or if she lives not, that she perished painlessly. I am not worried about her. Maybe I sense somehow we shall meet again.” He opted not to let on that he was primarily interested in answers from his sister – about Yvain, Garth and Jancel, and any other secrets she’d kept from him.
Azura let a polite, warm and friendly face materialize, while concealing her new angst: If Rokk takes her disappearance so lightly, then the kinship ties we bargained on to keep the high king on Avalon’s path were but a mistake! We are all only on as firm a footing as Rokk’s whim to tolerate us! Thora was right. We will need to act.
But Rokk was of a different mind; his mind was wrestling with a bear that would not surrender a memory he knew should be there, and it troubled him that he could not recall Mysa’s very face.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Eight
Sir Lu was still unsteady, but finally able to walk on her own two feet. With Luornu, Sir Dyrk and two nuns spotting for her, she made it from the great hall, a dining hall-turned-hospital ward, to the eastern gardens where she took her midday meal. The autumn air was warm but not hot, and the breeze was gentle and forgiving, even if her conscience was not.
There were yet signs of the Khund attack all around them. The monastery and small nunnery were never a prime military target, and hidden chambers and passages below the complex protected the clergy while their chapels were raided of anything of value.
Dyrk was bored, Luornu knew well. His fidgeting mannerisms never said anything but, yet he held his tongue and offered civil and soothing words to her sister. For that she was grateful.
Lu did not ask about MacKell, and Luornu did not speak of Carolus, or about Dyrk’s surprising renewed interest in her. There was still a gulf of discomfort. They used to talk about everything, the three of them, but two sisters together were only reminded of she they missed.
That night, Luornu said her prayers for her sisters, and asked her god for insight into closing that gap.
There was a knock on her door, the chief matron of the nuns.
“My lady Luornu?”
“I am hardly a woman of land or title.”
“Nevertheless, you are a member of the court, and a trusted ear of Queen Guinevere.”
And when he was younger, King Rokk used to follow me around with puppy’s eyes, she thought of saying. By Nassereth! Am I now with Laurentia’s sharpe wit-of-tongue?
“I am.”
“And you are a child of Iesous.”
“I try to me, milady.”
“Then you of all should know the Holy Grail, which King Rokk entrusts to a little girl who knows no better than her heathen ways, should be here, at Glastonbury.”
“Aye. I have made that case to King Rokk, but-”
“-But Our Lord does not give up on us, yes? Then we cannot give up on Him.”
“The Christian brothers on Avalon known as the Josephites are the custodians of the Grail, they-”
“-Are heretics and share an unholy land with witches and Druids, who had to be shamed into aiding the ill of this pox. Your sister’s pox, as you yourself have said.”
My sister’s pox.
“Childe, I mean you no woe. I merely cannot believe The Lord would place his Chalice so close to the grasp of His believers and intend for us to see it for what it is whilst the heathens do not, and intend not for us to hold His Grail for Him.”
“Aye,” Luornu offered up tired resignation. But later in the night she thought of Balan – Andrew – and how Jan himself had brought him back to life. Mayhap t’was time to remind the court and her monarchs of Iesous’ hand on all the good works beyond mortal capabilities going on in this land.
When Dyrk would come to her pavilion during the nights on the voyage home, she would have the strength and righteousness to deny him this time.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Nine
Sir Palomides volunteered to serve as King Pellam’s bodyguard, accompanying the elderly monarch first to a stone cottage hidden at the southeastern edge of Perilous Forest, then to Carlisle and finally to North Cymru.
Perilous Forest was perhaps the most frustrating. He was ordered to stay at camp while the elderly monarch twice visited a small farmhouse at the forest’s edge. The first day’s visit left the old king disappointed and untalkative, while the second day’s visit was brief and perhaps slightly happier. At least Palomides got to go hunting while his charge visited gods-know-who.
At Carlisle, they were received extremely warmly by the court of Wynn and Martina, including sirs James and Garth, and the young mother Jancel. Whatever words were said from Pellam to Jancel went unheard by the Saracen knight or by any other, but the princess was clearly moved, touched by his words. The following day, Palomides went a-hunting with Sir Garth, and Sir James and King Wynn volunteered to show the elder monarch around. That afternoon, Pellam saw the baby Galahad, gave him a blessing of some sort, and the next morning he and Palomides departed.
The two caught up with Rokk and Imra just as they were readying the court for the move back to Londinium. Here, Pellam received an almost identical greeting. Palomides was not out of earshot when the very high queen of Britain met the ancient king, but after a few pleasantries the conversation between the two became a wordless one, as he had heard the queen sometimes held. The next morning, as the court was due to begin its move, Palomides found Pellam had gone on ahead with a smile of contentment on his face.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Ten
“King Pellam was a kind man, a just and noble ruler, truly a man who put British unity ahead of personal ambition,” Rokk spoke as eloquently as he could. “When two competing claims for the high kingship of this isle came about and threatened war amongst Britain’s peoples at a time when we needed unity, when Rome’s strength was ebbing and the Khunds started landing, he stepped aside so that my own family could serve. I hereby bestow upon him in death the title he declined in life, that of High King of Britain.”
At Shangalla hill, the largest gathering of knights, monarchs, soldiers, merchants and peasants stood, the largest gathering since Rokk’s own coronation. For many, it was a culmination of the sacrifices endured in the recent war and Darkness – a living beacon of virtue, humility and past glories was gone.
King Wynn spoke next.
“Many of us may recall the sacrifices King Pellam made to help rid this land of Vortigern and his ilk. Fewer people knew that he was my father, a fact he or I could speak of not. I too renounce any claims to the high kingship, and fully support King Rokk and his heir.
“I say this not for prestige or glory, but so that I might honour my father in death as I could not give voice to in his life. Under King Rokk, we all have the Britain my father spent his whole life working for, and I am proud of the foundation my father built onto which King Rokk has built a mighty fortress! Rest well, father, and enjoy your time in the Summer Country. I know you will not be able to stay away for long.”
Dindrane wanted to step forward to speak, but knew she couldn’t. I spoke with him only a few times, mostly on his visits to Avalon, and only since his last visit had I learned who he was, she rehearsed one more time the words she was forbidden to speak. I spoke with him in Londinium as the war was ending, and was glad to share heartfelt words with him. I am proud to call him grandfather, as should my brother, half-brother and cousins, if only they knew him as I did.
A large man wearing grey clerical robes looked right at her as if he’d heard the entire thing. He wore the weight of the world in his eyes, but gave her an appreciative smile and nod.
Others stepped forward to pay their respects: King Lot and Queen Morgause, Sir Brandius, Sir Derek, King Marcus, King Zendak, King Voxv, the elderly Pict leader Drest, and even emissaries Relnic and Bedwyr from the Irish and Frankish courts of Coirpre mac Neill and Clovis, respectively. Beren and Azura offered the final words and blessings, and the venerable king was buried.
The entourage of knights and nobles lingered at the royal necropolis, one that had too quickly grown these past two years, before slowly drifting back to the encampment of pavilions, where servants were preparing wine and sweetbreads. Many gossiped about the Macedonian occupiers, about sea serpents supposedly still stirred up since the Darkness, or about new expansions and threats by Clovis on the Continent.
En route, Rokk’s queen and the Princess Jancel were huddled together, sharing their first civil words since Garth’s seduction. Rokk assumed it was a bond of fellow new mothers. He was wrong.
Do you think it’s true? Jancel thought, eyes locked with Imra’s.
Aye. He invited me to see the truth in his mind. Addled, he was not. T’is true.
Jancel sighed. So what do we do about it?
Nothing.
Nothing?
Aye, nothing. T’was his dying secret. WE know; t’is enough. For now at least.
Should we not tell our husbands?
Do you really believe they tell us all they should? They can find out when they need to.
You really enjoy your deceptions, don’t you?
Judge me not, childe.
You play at being Guinevere, you weasel your way into being High Queen-
-Neither of which were my choices. And as we now both know, my deception is not so inaccurate as some believed.
And maybe King Rokk would be furious if he knew.
Nay. He is quite adept at grappling the unseemly.
And you are nothing but unseemly!
Spare me thy sharp tongue. I know what I am doing.
And I know what I shall do. I shall tell Rokk – if you don’t.
Why is it that you are such the keeper of my conscience? Why dost thou care about what I tell my husband?
I still have forgiven you not for stealing my Garridan.
WHAT?
T’is true, and you know it. I carried two babies, Galahad and Garridan, up until your friend Jan paid me a visit. Since then, I only had one. Yet you miraculously give birth on the same day to MY son – your Amhar is MY Garridan. You could not have Garth for yourself, so you had one of his babies stolen from my very womb!
Are you mad, woman? How could I do such a thing, even if I wanted to?
You grew up on Avalon, and know all their sorceries. If you couldn’t do it, you know someone who could. I know not how you corrupted Jan, but I know it in my heart that YOU did this.
You are so beside yourself for losing what you believed to be a second son that you are addling yourself. Let go of such malignant thoughts, else they drag you further into madness.
Jancel stood in anger. Tell me not what to do. You may be kin in blood after all, but you are no sister to me!
Jancel-
STAY AWAY from ME! And enter my thoughts never-more! With this, Jancel stormed away, seeking out her husband’s comforting arms.
Imra remained in place, shocked beyond coherence.
She is young, and will grow out of this bitterness. It was a man’s thoughts coming to her unbidden.
Who said that? Imra looked around, and saw only a swarm of nobles locked in socialization; none did more than glance at her, despite Jancel’s theatrics.
You know who I am. There was no malice to the voice, but perhaps a hint of regret.
I believe I do. Where are you? I would like to meet you.
Not here. Not yet.
But I’ve waited so long! I’ve never even laid eyes upon you.
Yes. You have. Be patient.
Have I not been so already?
Haven’t I? I was bidden not to seek you out, and I have not, even when I believed I knew where you were. Have I not been patient?
There was no answer.
In a short span of time a young woman who grew up thinking herself kinless had become a mother, a granddaughter, a sister, a niece, a cousin… was it too much to ask to be a daughter too?
[ May 15, 2010, 01:12 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Eleven
It had been almost a year since Rokk had last ventured north, but now at Reep’s urgent bidding he returned.
By now, sunsets were no doubt coming earlier and earlier and the Caledonian valleys were now more likely to see frosts by morning than not, Jonah surmised. With Garth away in Armorica, allegedly hunting Thom (or so Marcus and the occupational forces were told), Jonah oversaw both the repairs to Londinium and helped Querl and Loomius plot out manpower for construction to resume at Camelot in the spring. The unfinished fortress had seen little wear and tear during the war, mainly thanks to Laoraighll’s defense of the southeastern coasts.
A more somber Reep had resumed his own duties, rebuilding communications procedures, patrols and building informant networks in the occupied towns. He seemed moody, apprehensive at times and excited at other intervals, but kept his own counsel.
As December progressed, Reep reported that the plague in the southwest seemed to be ebbing, but a rash of strange dog attacks had begun in some towns there; in other places dogs were dying.
Tinya, too, was not herself. First, she had become routinely been dismissive of his admonishments about traveling alone during the war, and then one evening not long after Pellam’s funeral she and the newcomer Hesperos had sharp words; he had heard him imply he knew something… about the Picts? It made no sense to him. Mayhap she was ill at ease that the queen and Jancel had born their men sons, but she had not? Maybe it was time to remedy that.
With the queen’s arrival at court, Agravaine – Val – was finally freed from his cell, and after several sessions Hart agreed to a permanent exile. Val, Hesperos and Palomides saw him off for Colonia from the port of Camulodunum, which was now of even greater importance with Portus Magnus occupied.
Imra was getting more involved in strategies than she had been as well, suggesting moves against the Macedonians, and possibly recruiting Lucius of Neustria yet again as an ally, this time against the occupiers. Lucius had remained aloof during the Khund war, it was true, but it was worth consideration.
The queen also began accompanying Dyrk or Jonah himself, first on their inspections of the palace guards, and later on city guards and the standing army. It seemed unwise until she had Reep seize the occasional guard as a Dark Circle minion; after the fact it seemed only the shame no one had thought to use her gifts so beforehand.
But one day, Errol the Druid vanished without word, and the most recent Circle minion, the only one not yet executed, was missing from his cell. The queen had missed a key traitor, it seemed. Or had she?
Jonah could only wonder if Rokk would recognize his court, with his queen now acting as much as monarch as he ever did.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Twelve
The ocean waters were cold, but that did not faze MacKell.
L’ile’s rituals had worked; one of the sea monsters was coming close to shore. According to L’ile, it was offering its life for them. All that was required was an able hunter and the ability to haul the carcass to shore.
He swam out, with only his magick spear. Normally, crews of dozens rowed out to hunt these beasts, but there were no dozens of hunters, only ash.
With full strength, he lunged his spear repeatedly into the creature’s front, near its eyes and mouth. If this was anything like other game, that would be sufficient to kill it.
Despite its ferocious size, it offered almost no resistance. How could such a monstrous beast be so acquiescent, so gentile?
MacKell hauled the dead creature ashore, and L’ile led the way in carving it up: skins to protect against a winter’s cold, a thick layer of fat that could insolate a mere mortal from the deadly cold northern seas, and meats below. Its large bones were also of use for tool-making or even to frame out a rudimentary hut – there were no trees on the North Isle. The ground, already almost frozen, and the chilly ocean winds were enough to keep the meats fresh. Their existing pavilion was enough to keep the only scavengers – sea birds large and small – from getting at it.
With the beast butchered, the trio sat down for their first meal that was not merely Father Marla’s boiled fish and root stew. Sea monster was surprisingly not at all fishy in taste or texture; it looked like roast pig but had the consistency of a fine slab of beef; its tenderness surprised both MacKell and Marla.
The night was coming earlier and earlier, no one could deny, and the river of flowing fire, now dwindling to a trickle, offer the only distant illumination in the night sky. There were no stars, no moon, no swirls of colour that the northern skies so often saw that L’ile himself had grown up with but southerners considered a rarity. The clouds of dusty ash in the air still blotted out all celestial nocturnal illumination.
On windless days, the trio took cover from the descending dusts all day and night in the pavilion, but their coastal camp usually saw enough wind to allow exploration and chores without coughing fits.
L’ile was morose but intent on doing what needed to be done. There was no sign of his people, whether dead, sheltered or fled.
It was three months now and the dark, smoky clouds were growing thinner and more infrequent, and rare was the day when the trio was trapped in their pavilion, but colder were the days and nights.
They had found several of the bays where L’ile’s people usually wintered, but as he said they often moved from cove to cove, these results proved nothing.
Li’le knew the winter seas would be harsher traveling, and even the spring seas could be icy and dangerous. “T’is time for you two to return to Britain without me,” he said one day.
“And leave you here alone?” MacKell doubted his ears.
“There is no other way. Mayhap my people hide from us, fearing you two as strangers.”
“I would see them,” MacKell responded.
“Mayhap, Mayhap not. There is more to my people than even you might perceive.”
“But we came in only one boat,” Marla challenged. “We shall strand you if we leave now.”
“We of the North Isle are never stranded,” L’ile smiled confidently. “With the sea monster butchered, MacKell has given me all I need to survive, and to return to… to Britain.” He internally winced at almost referring to Britain as home. Could that be why his people hid from him?
It was a clear but cold day as MacKell and Marla set sail south, carrying only the meats and skins they needed.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Thirteen
No snows had fallen in Armorica, but the merriment for the Yule festivities was in no way dampened.
Queen Ayla welcomed noble and peasant alike into her castle. Her renovations since Roxxius’ raid now complete, she was using the holy-day to officially rename the palace Joyeux Garde.
The queen rebuked not in words her brother’s visitation; he seemed to use any excuse to avoid his bride, and prolonging his less-than-halfhearted hunt for Thom seemed to be his license to remain near his hometown and bask in the admiration of his one-time peers.
On the day of Yule, as custom dictated, old grudges could not be acted upon, and unkind words were to be avoided at all costs, else one dishonour the day of the new year’s birth, and jinx one’s fortunes in the coming year. Even outlaws were not to be hunted unless they did evil deeds on this day.
Ayla and Garth graciously welcomed their guests, and Garth took particular delight in showing all the village boys some fancy sword-work, even letting a few mock-duel him.
An evening of greetings and feasts vanished into a swirl of cheer and wassail, and Garth vaguely recalled being picked apart and devoured by a swarm of Benwick’s young ladies. How he escaped he knew not; perhaps they took pity upon him and let him be.
But with sudden clarity Joyeux Garde was as quiet as a graveyard. Not a creature stirred, not even a vole. Garth wandered the halls stunned by sensation, occasionally hearing from a window the sounds of isolated continuing revelries continuing somewhere across town or out in the hills. At windows above the stables, he could hear the sighs and groans of more intimate revelries.
He felt lonely. He could have any young woman in this kingdom (perhaps he had? His memory of most of this longest night now nearing its end was foggy), but none could do more than scratch the itch of his lust.
I should be with my son, he thought, half-regretting his avoidance of his bride. This was not his first self-chastisement, nor would it be his last.
He entered his sister’s great hall, where the Yule log still occupied the hall’s centre; spilling out, too big for the hearth for days to come. The hall was littered with debris of the feast of hours ago; candles still burned and spilt wine puddle the floor.
A silhouette stood between him and the hearth’s centre. It was an old man, and it seemed familiar.
“Greetings, Sir Garth. I am surprised a young father stays so far from home this time of year.”
Garth’s heart almost stopped.
“H-hello, Mordru.”
Garth’s dealings with the old wizard had been limited, but only of late had he learned that Mysa was his wife – the same Mysa he had so long dallied with in recent years.
The wizard remained silent.
“I hope you found our food, drink and hospitality here in Benwick satisfactory on this Yuletide eve.”
The wizard chuckled, but still turned not to face him. “Oh, yes. The roast elvabird was quite succulent. And I’ve not had as fine a wassail in many long years. But we have other matters to discuss.”
“Mysa?”
The wizard seemed startled. “What of her?”
“I… know not. I just assumed you had something to say.”
“No. I came to speak of Clovis. Has Ayla told you?”
“Told me what?”
“Clovis demands tribute of Armorica, both in gold and allegiance, if it is not to be absorbed into the Frankish kingdom,” Mordru said. “He knows Britain and Benwick are still weak since the Khund war, and there are none who will stand against him.”
“No, we have not talked much of statecraft since I returned. I have been out on a quest.”
“Hunting your friend.”
“…After a fashion.”
“Britain cow-tows to occupiers while Clovis drools over getting Armorica, and maybe even Britain itself, on a silver platter.” Was it anger or enthused amusement in his voice? It was hard to tell.
“I am glad you are still interested in Britain’s well-being.” And Rokk’s, he hoped.
“I have no love for him,” Mordru guessed the correlation, “nor all in his court. Nor have I wish to see my life’s work so easily squandered while Britain’s king squanders his time satisfying lusts.”
Does Mordru know something – or merely assumes the worst about the king he once aided? Garth wondered.
“What do you suggest? Truly fighting Clovis would be unseemly just now.”
“Aye. But two vital British towns allowed to be occupied? It makes Britain look far weaker than it is. And you pretend to hunt your own friend at their behest.”
“It… buys us time.”
“Time, you have little.”
“You will help us?”
“Nay. I gave young Rokk my aid with only a begrudging of thanks. I helped you yourself return to life without a word of thanks. Rokk wins or loses on his own merits, but if he cannot do his job, I can yet find another, even if I must force Rokk out to do so.”
“Yet you sought me out to warn us.”
“Aye.”
“So you do aid Rokk, after all.”
“No. I aid you.”
[ April 04, 2009, 08:39 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Fourteen
Dyrk was pleased that Londinium’s forces were rebounding quicker than expected. With Durobrivae within a hard day’s ride the city had to be ready for any Macedonian or Nuhorran trickery.
He was both pleased and put out that Jonah had taken on so much of that readying himself. Jonah was a better trainer offering a more dynamic persona, skills and charisma. Dyrk’s own troops were never so motivated and inspired – but just not by him.
These conflicting thoughts roamed through his head as he walked about Londinium’s streets. He was entirely unprepared to run into Regulus.
The somber priest looked at him with disdain. “Sir Jonah has seized your command here, it seems.”
“And thank you for rubbing it in.”
“I merely point out that when destiny seals off one path, a new one is there for the taking.”
“Where? I see it not. Nor do you.”
Regulus sighed. “I regret pressures I have placed on you in the past. I expected too much of you. I expected too much of myself, truths be spoken. If you are no sun king, so be it. You are no high king. So be it. But wherever you go, whatever you do, you can still be Sir Dyrk of the family Morgnus, and you measure up well indeed in the eyes of all – except your own.”
Dyrk did not know what to make of Regulus’ earnestness; it was quite unlike him. Perhaps the priest of Apollo saw that conclusion in his face.
“The time I spent with the young knight Andrew has left me with a keener understanding of my own failings,” Regulus continued. “I pray you find such honesty whilst you still have your youth, and do not waste as many years as I have.”
The knight said nothing as his former priest walked away, but his words haunted him as he returned to the palace.
Who was his source of honesty? Only one name came to mind. Only one who held his trust, even if he’d been annoyed with her of late for not being her pliable self. Luornu. His step quickened as he sought her out.
It was not quite jealousy he felt seeing Luornu and Carolus walking intimately together, as it might have been on another day or time. It was a recognition of truth. She was more than the dalliance he treated her; he always knew that, but never found words for it. He had come to her and found truth, the truth he needed – she was not sitting around waiting on his every move as he sometimes fancied she was, and he was actually relieved by that truth.
Growing up, Regulus always lectured him about his supposed grand destiny. Even after his falling out with the priest, the day of the sword-drawing at Camulodunum still had Dyrk half-believing, but since then he had felt cheated and lied to – by himself, for even half-believing Regulus.
He was still a good knight and captain of Londinium’s defenses. But if Jonah, even with all good intentions, was stepping upon his turf, then maybe he in turn could find an opportunity on Jonah’s turf! Ha! Regulus was right for once!
For several days, Reep, Jonah and the queen would be too busy arguing about the occupational forces and Meleagant to notice Sir Dyrk and his stallion would be missing, and it would be at least weeks before they would learn which direction he rode.
[ April 04, 2009, 08:40 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Fifteen
Andrew returned home to the Orkneys for the winter, his first visit since he and his brother answered the War Council’s call for soldiers that quarter-decade ago.
He traveled with Val, who went not as a member of the family that rules those northerly isles but merely as one of the many fellow knights from across the lands. Andrew found that Sorcsis the local hermit, his friend and priest, had since died.
Despite the good efforts of Marla, Regulus, Pellam or Pelles, Andrew felt regret that the Christian clergyman who’d known him all his life could not hear first-hand of his terrible deeds. Had Sorcsis died knowing brother had slain brother? Nay, Andrew’s mother told him, he had not learned of that dark deed. Half the community shunned him – including his own father – while the other half at least listened and considered the weight of Val’s word as well.
Val liked the small, rocky, northern isle. Its temperature, remoteness, starkness and volatile weather reminded him of the World’s Roof, when he and others would forsake the perfection of the blossom valley of Nanda Parbat. Only the stars were not as bright, as summer’s smoky haze remaining in the air yet into winter.
But one cold but crystal-clear night, the smoke was gone, the stars were bright again, and even the bright bursts and curtains of colours returned. Andrew took this as a sign to return south, and expected Val to be of a like mind. That Val was not ready for a change made him doubt this sign, but all doubts dissolved when a boat carrying MacKell and Father Marla southbound arrived the next day.
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Three Hundred and Sixteen
“Who was she?” Tasmia’s curiosity was piqued.
Grev grinned mischievously. “A southerner who served in my unit. She was quite a woman.”
“I should wager.” She was not about to let Grev escape a little knife-twisting. “Not woman enough to winter in the highlands, though.”
“No. I suppose not.” He knew if she had stayed at his side he’d be bored with her by now. It was only her distance and absence that made her weigh on his mind.
He and his priestess kinswoman made their way to the lochside village, where the clans were gathering. The priestess Lyddagh was there with her swaddling, as were elders from across the land, and even the Far Orkneys, who came to speak of a sea serpent eating away at their isles. Highland Picts of the east shore also told of such a creature. Many elders spoke in fearful voices of the prophesy.
Tasmia doubted it, at least as of yet. The prodigal would have to fully betray them to fulfill the prophecy. Thus far he had only resumed his hunting in Lothian.
Still, this new fear resonated widely. Even the Yakka-Mahor had set aside their enmity for other clans to attend the gathering.
Despite the cheer of young Loholt’s birth, fear of this serpent, fear from the Darkness, fear of the prophecy all coalesced, and they turned to the leadership of the one revered elder whose heart held no fear at all: Drest. In fact, he had tried to dissuade fears, to calm sentiment, to preserve the clan system rather than emulate the southerners’ system of kings. But in the end, all the young men and women who had fought alongside the southerners saw in him what he did not see in himself: King of the Picts.
Tasmia looked at Grev in a new light as he chanted and cheered for his leader. This was something new, something of the south intruding in the north far more than the memories of some pretty wench. She had no name for this, but she sensed the change, and for the first time the prophecy felt real.
She left the camp to wander up the hill. She saw Lyddagh, and approached her. She smiled at her, at the gathering downhill, and of course at her son.
“You are not disturbed by all of this?” Tasmia sought confirmation of her sudden dread that the winds of change were not blowing a-right.
“Nay. With Drest as king, with our people as one, we can stand against southerners as they come for our land. We will not be like the Yakka-Mahor, forced from their own lands of Eiru to here. And with Drest as our king, Loholt will learn to be a good king after him.”
“Even though he was sired by a southerner.”
“Especially so. For the rest of this isle will not be able to deny his royal blood, and may even call him their king, too.”
Tasmia eyed her fellow priestess skeptically. “They say he came to see you.”
“Aye,” she said. “He recognizes his own childe, and pledges him lands in the south.”
“So we are to become southerners all? Shall we forsake the land of our ancestors to live amongst crowds and know not the freedom of the peaks and seas?” Tasmia stood in anger and departed in a huff. With the slightest exposure to the south, her people were turning into something she understood not.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Seventeen
The winter winds of southern Caledonia pierced the visiting princess as if she was swimming against the current in a river of invisible daggers. No matter for tightly she pinned her heavy wool cloak and wrapped furs around her neck, the icy wind found a way to penetrate her garbing and flail her flesh as only a cruel step-mother can.
She and her escort Sir Dyrk had ridden long days, and managed to stay reasonably warm with motion, usually finding a local noble or merchant to overnight with along the way. But last night they had found themselves in the northern end of the Rhyged mountains, too far from Urien’s castle, and too far from any town, village or castle. Dyrk had cast the small winter pavilion in a sheltered, wooded ravine, but even with the knight’s best fires, tended for half the night or more, Jecka awoke with a chill in her bones that would just not let go. It was the wrong cold, a wet, heavy cold that set in after day upon day of travels, wading through snow-covered fields struggling to keep sight of where the roadway enters the woods in the distance, and riding into a moist, driving snow-squall, and wondering why it had seemed so important to make this trip in a late winter that would only linger longer the farther north they rode.
But at long last, arrive they did at Lothian, where the princess and the knight found welcoming quarters to rest beside the hearth and be nurse-fed warm mead and broths.
Morgause was amused, impressed and mildly, silently rebuking that Cymru’s princess would make such a trip at a time so notorious for foul weather. She correctly guessed that it was herself Jecka was seeking out, but gave the younger woman time to recover wits and health before she would coax her into attending to the important matters she had guessed were at hand.
Instead, they chatted about gossips and news, about Sir Garth’s avoidance of his bride, the bastard Rokk was said to have sired among the Picts, and all manner of affairs.
Sir Dyrk on the other hand sought out King Lot – and found him a day’s ride west of Lothian. The king was returning with a prisoner, bound and hooded for a public execution, shacked and stockaded prone on a cart drawn by six draft horses, with a special restraint keeping the prisoner’s left hand suspended upward, where it touched naught.
Sir Dyrk gladly joined the procession of knights and soldiers, greeted with cheers at Lothian; the villain who had haunted the kingdom for neigh on two years was captured.
Manaugh was to be executed!
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Eighteen
“…so I implore thee, my lady, my liege. Deliver the Grail into Christian hands.” The noblewoman of Verulanium spoke eloquently and convincingly – if one conceded the common Christian assumption that the ancient Cauldron of the Gods was the chalice of Iesous’ legendary Last Supper.
Imra knew better, but was politick enough to offer the proper non-committals and pledges to discuss the matter with King Rokk. Christians were a small but influential constituency especially among many nobles and some measure of placation was in order; keeping the Cauldron with the Christian Josephite brotherhood on Avalon seemed no longer enough.
Sir Lucan showed the noblewoman out, and Imra called on Carolus to find ways to deflect the discussion should it arise at the evening’s dinner. There was no way to dis-invite a visiting noble, no matter how annoying they made themselves.
Moreover, Siobhan and Virginia had been making similar pleas of late. Imra sensed an organized campaign. When she asked Luornu, she admitted such. “I am pledged to lobby you, t’is true. I know thou thinks it of the ancient Celtic worlde, but how could it be anything but the Grail? Joseph of Arimathea did come from Palestine to Britain; we know that. How could such a miraculous goblet not be the Grail?”
Imra pondered Luornu’s words as she drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, a Frankish messenger arrived. High King Clovis was ill, and was seeking to be administered to with this Grail of which he had heard so much about.
Imra’s heart jumped in anticipation – she had leverage to negotiate an alliance against the Macedonians and to secure Armorica’s border!
She, Reep, James, Querl and Saihlough departed the two days later.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Nineteen
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Twenty
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.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Twenty-one
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?
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Twenty-two
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.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Twenty-three
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.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
(oops! duplicate post)
[ April 11, 2009, 08:30 PM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Twenty-four
“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.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Twenty-five
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.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Twenty-six
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…” Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Twenty-seven
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.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Twenty-eight
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.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Twenty-nine
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.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Thirty
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.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Thirty-one
“You want who dead?
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 ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Thirty-two
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.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Thirty-three
“Why do they wait?” Morgause liked it not. Manaugh’s execution should be swift, before Pict sympathizers had time to interfere – or retaliate.
“I have gathered all the families of the villain’s victims to gather here. The Pict king Drest will be offered the opportunity to offer restitution in exchange for Manaugh’s life,” Lot beamed.
“You’d let the murderer run free?” Jecka was shocked.
“If you seek our aid to complete your proposed arrangement, I would advise you not be so rebuking,” the king scolded.
Morgause rolled her eyes. “Mind him not. He merely awaits the day when but one noble woman will heed his nonsense. I believe my husband’s strategy is to get Drest to endorse Manaugh’s execution, to avoid Pictish retaliation and bad blood.”
“Ahh. Drest will not be able to offer enough restitution to save Manaugh!” Now Jecka understood. “Very clever!”
Lot smiled a toothy grin, even as a messenger neared. He anticipated it was word of Drest. He was not prepared for the actuality.
“My sire? We have word. The tales of last summer are true. The beast has come ashore and devoured three fishing villages not a day’s ride up the north shore.”
“What is it?” Jecka demanded. “A sea dragon?”
Lot’s face was pale. “Not just any dragon, my dear. My grandfather’s people called it Jormangund.”
“Jorr-man-khund?”
“Close.”
“What is it?”
Lot sighed. “It is a creature so ferocious that the northmen gods kicked it out of their heaven. It is the offspring of a dangerous trickster, foretold to one day devour the world. It is so large its body stretches the length of the very ocean, a length beyond our very ken. It is the Midgard Serpent, the serpent of this world, and it is beginning to devour Britain itself.”
“Husband? Three villages does not mean it will take the entire isle. It has eaten before, and been sated-“
“Aye. Normally it eats its share and vanishes for generations or more. Whether asleep or devouring bits of faraway lands, I know not. Or so t’is said. But it has eaten steadily these past three years, in Khundia, Gaul, Eiru and here. Mayhap elsewhere, too. It seems hungrier than ever, and a fae sorceress named Medb seems to have set it after us.”
“How dost thou know all this?” Morgause was annoyed her husband had kept this all to himself.
“I only just learned this of late. Last year, there was a gathering of fae. This Medb seeks Rokk’s downfall,” Lot did not want to reveal how intimate his source was before the womenfolk.
“You… trust this source?” Morgause guessed something close to the truth.
“…Aye.”
The conversation was interrupted by a rumbling, and Lot jumped to have his men ready for action. Lothian was safe, but a small peninsula not an hour’s ride away with a village, a small castle – and even a blacksmith renowned throughout Lothian, were gone.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Thirty-four
An array of computi fired as the beast drew closer, unleashing a sea of flaming oils and enough bolts that could knock down the Pharos Lighthouse of Alexandria, according to Querl; that much Dyrk could recall of the Greek’s description of the planned maneuver now actually being employed. Designed to decimate a Khund attack on Lothian, an array of towers on either side of the firth had begun a coordinated assault.
The serpent noticed not.
Annoyed, frustrated and helpless, Dyrk fidgeted with his sword pummel, yet also chastised himself – what good would a sword do against a creature like THAT?
The serpent’s head was as wide as the eastern firth, and the closer it got, the wider it made the firth as it ate away at the shores. It’s head seemed to be just as long, but blended into a long neck behind it that continued out to sea and disappeared, either eclipsed by its own mass or continuing below the waves. It was gray-green and scaly, and its teeth appeared thrice taller than even the tallest of towers. Aye, thrice taller than the forested hills in the distance as well.
He had heard of Jonah and Garth defeating dragons, dragons that were big, but nowhere near as big as this.
How do we begin to fight such a creature?
With the computi attack failed, Lot ordered an infantry attack, dual attacks from either side of the firth where the creature’s mouth met its food. But the creature ate still; advancing troops were caught up in the dislodged erupting ground beneath them before any blade could touch the creature, and the few that did stab the beast saw their swords lodged with no effect.
Again, the creature noticed not.
Lot next ordered a naval assault. It fared no better. Within the hour, Lothian’s army was in tatters, its navy destroyed and its coastal towers gone without a trace. If the creature had taken a few more bites Lothian towne itself would have been no more.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Thirty-five
Torachi’s ship intercepted the trio just at they were about to round the broad head of northern Caledonia, halfway between Lothian and the Orkneys. MacKell, Marla and Andrew were quite surprised to find their monarch voluntarily on the pirate’s boat, and even more surprised to hear their tale of a giant sea serpent eating away at the firth that leads in towards the great glen itself. No longer was the northeastern Caledonia coast a gentle half-circle with coves and bays, bur was now a deep L-shape – hundreds of square leagues had been eaten away, and King Rokk and the fearsome Torachi had both been powerless to stop it.
MacKell took the time he needed to focus his vision on things afar and he scanned the seas. Soon after he confirmed the monster of geographical proportions had just retreated from Lothian’s firth, out to deep sea.
“It must like river outlets,” Torachi commented. The rivers and deep harbours must give up the foodstuffs it craves most.”
Marla was surprised to see the monstrous looking brigand so thoughtful and civil. He was half-man, half-monster as so oft described, it was true, but there was a sharp intellect – a devious intellect, behind steely eyes both human and not.
Drest, too, was baffled by the villain. He’d heard tales of Hebridean Picts being slain by the raider, yet one would not know that from his present demeanor, aside from his coldness of person. Torachi’s crew seemed an unseemly lot – but they kept their silence and politeness, apparently more out of fear and resentment than by genuine civility, though.
Torachi’s ship set a quick pace for Lothian. He seemed strangely eager to take on the monster, for reasons that made no sense to his guests.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Thirty-six
“Our messengers had to return. A blizzard has rolled in from Ulster. There is no passage by land, and we dare not take to the sea,” Lot’s castellan reported.
Morgause was displeased. Lothian was vulnerable… too vulnerable. She had often resented inability to advance her family’s existing gains, but now for the first time it all seemed at risk. Jecka was glad to be kept abreast of all new information, but did not like the news either.
“Also,” the castellan hesitantly reported, “we have reports of a large ogre menacing the southern villages.
“The ogre Validus?” Jecka guessed. “I had heard it had left Perilous Forest for the north last autumn.”
“Have we not monsters enough?” Morgause angrily demanded of North Cymru’s daughter. “Must you wish for every possible ill upon us? If Midgard Serpent, Manaugh and Darkness were not enough, must Lothian receive every fiend? Why not Saraid and Torachi whilst we are wishing!?!” Lothian’s queen was getting hysterical.
“I was merely---”
“Merely wishing doom on my kingdom! You wish to belong to this family? I say NAY! Out with you! Get OUT, you shrew!”
Jecka left as dignified and diplomatically as she could, and stewed in her own regrets thereafter. If Lothian could not bear one more monster, mayhap she could handle this one herself.
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Three Hundred and Thirty-seven
Andrew was overcome with a dread that ran into his very bones in empathy for his friend Val’s homeland; it was scarred and disfigured in a way that made all the recent Yuletide peace of the Orkneys seem like a chimera.
He had been to Lothian once before as a youth, and had spent a summer here with his merchant uncle. The fields where he played, where his local knights held their jousts, were now but gone – muddy sea-water stood in their place, and cliffs of dirt, stone and clay stood with uncertainty overlooking them.
Townspeople were fleeing uphill from whence their settlement had been, carrying everything they could by cart, beast or on their backs. It was not a frigid day; a northern spring breeze brought the promise but not the reality of the seasons of green. The remnants of snows here at least were not as plentiful as they had been further up the northern shore.
There were no ships to greet and escort them. Andrew felt vulnerable for Lothian, entering port with a raider like Torachi.
The moorings were a lonely place. Fishing boats were overturned, abandoned or half-sunk, as the waves the serpent had created had maimed all boats and all shore buildings. With nowhere to moor, Torachi dropped anchor, and lowered a plank into the water. It reached to shallow waters; the shore party would have to wade the last dozen or so feet.
Andrew was even more alarmed by the look of resignation in King Lot’s eyes, something that matched not the proud descriptions his sons painted of him. He heard servants in hushed whispers say that the king had refused to see his wife Queen Morgause, refused to let her see the defeat his eyes now contained. He still had that pride (or perhaps even love? Andrew knew not these royals, only their sons).
There was no way to get word to any southern armies, not even nearby Ryhged or Dalraida. Rokk, despite his growing legend, inspired no hope in the face of this menace, from noble or peasant alike – nor did the high king offer a strategy that had not been tried and failed.
Lot offered no resistance nor hope when Torachi made an audacious suggestion, one that caught even Rokk by surprise.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Thirty-eight
“I knew you’d come.”
“I… thought you were dead.”
The northern seas were calm, only gently lapping up onto the large western bay of the North Isle.
“Where… where are our people?” L’ile asked hesitantly.
“Gone.” She said it with resignation but nod sadness. “Gone to the West.”
To the West. L’ile felt his throat clench. He’d been so certain they were here, hiding, waiting out the disaster. But “going West,” the direction of the setting sun, meant--
“No, mituat’ha. Really,” his companion realized his assumption. “They have truly traveled west, to a new isle.” She looked away. “Those that survived, at least.”
“Did…?”
“Your father lives. Or did, when the People left here. Your mother… I saw not.”
L’ile absorbed the news. It was a long interval before he spoke again. “We… should join them.”
“In time. Perhaps.” She turned to him and tenderly massaged his hand. “But you must first return to Pen’t’raigh’a.”
“Will you come with me, Myla?”
“I was just there. You missed me.”
L’ile was silent.
“Do you not wish to go back? You seemed quite adapted there.”
He nodded. “Perhaps more than I should be. But coming here reminds me, I am yet of The People. I would like to see my kin again.”
“You will, dear Rowan, you will.”
L’ile picked up their skins and handed one to Myla. “I will accompany you to a shore of your choosing at the southern end of the Hebrides Sea. But your path and mine must remain separate for just a while longer, dear one.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Thirty-nine
King Drest accompanied Andrew as they descended into the donjon.
Their prisoner was locked firmly in place, unable to move any limb. He smelled of human wastes.
The guard shrugged at their reactions, as if to say, “why bother? He’s not going to live that much longer anyway.”
Andrew felt some reluctant kinship towards Drest, but tried not to see any in Manaugh. Those of the Orkneys were largely a mesh of Pict and Northman, a fact many have forgotten since those isles became Lothian holdings.
“Hello Manaugh.” Drest was neither cheerful nor reproachful.
“Greetings, Drest. I hear you are our… king now.”
“I am.”
“Are you here to free me, or aid my execution and sell me out in the name of Caledonian ‘friendship’?”
“Neither, it turns out. I am here to ask your assistance.”
The prisoner cracked up laughing at the latest. “I can help no one, t’would seem.”
“Oh, but you can,” Drest continued. “I can secure your release, and you can help save this land. All you must do is swear to set aside your grudge against the clan of Amlaidh.”
“Never!”
“Then you die, and your grudge dies with you. Either way, the clan of Amlaidh has won. You can go to your grave remembered as a villain, even by your own people, or you can help save Pict and Vodatni alike.”
“Save from who?” That Manaugh was remotely curious made Andrew smile cautiously. Drest’s words were winning the battle, it seemed.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Forty
MacKell returned from the west with all three items he had sought: a magic gauntlet from the Pictish priestess Tasmia, the orb called the Justice of Balor, and its wielder Saraid herself. He only hoped Rokk could later find a way out of the pledge they had to offer her, to back her as Eiru’s high queen and empress.
The Princess Jecka, it seemed, had sought to hire a mercenary to help repel the ogre Validus. She planned to use her family’s own special gifts, but needed a hired sword – and instead came up with a hired axe. Rokk and Dyrk had once fought this axe-man Chaontigh and knew his value; his allegiance was purchased less costly than Saraid’s.
Sir Dyrk had found Validus and had lured it along peacefully with the charm Torachi had given him, just as the bandit-king had promised. Torachi was playing them all as fools, MacKell knew, but hoped that he could destroy or divert the monster away from Britain. At the new encampment, Validus sat in a stupor, like a doll waiting to be played with.
Andrew and King Drest had the shortest voyage geographically, but perhaps the longest in sales – most presumed that Manaugh would prefer execution to collaboration. No one else but Drest could have pulled this one off.
Presently, Torachi began to outline his plan.
“The ten of us are capable of defeating, perhaps even slaying this Jormangund. We will do so here, on the north side of Lothian’s firth, and we shall lure the serpent here.
“The key is Sir Dyrk. Some of you may know that the crumbling Roman cult of Apollo expected a sun king to arise and restore the cult to prominence. Some of you may even know Dyrk was supposed to be that sun king. But none but Dyrk may have heard and perhaps not even he has believed that he is an actual descendent of Apollo.”
Dyrk squirmed uncomfortably; he disliked hearing Regulus’ nonsense from Regulus himself, let alone this villain.
Torachi continued. “Two days from now is the vernal equinox, the beginning of the half-year when Dyrk’s aspects align, and he can be a sun king, if he so desires. I have with me some amulets and sacred robes from the Apollonian temples of Rome and Greece that should channel his divine ancestor’s gifts, if he is willing to play his part.”
“How does a bandit-king know enough to step in and save the day?” Dyrk challenged. “Verily, your victims these past years were not so fortunate.”
“T’is true I am a raider and even a thief, and I was so when merely human flesh I wore. But the priests of the Jewes who saved my life gave me more than a monstrous half-body,” he gestured to his side, “they gave me insights into the great deeds of this era. Including the battle we now face. All my raidings in recent years have been to prepare for this very fight!” For a moment, he was almost giddy at the prospect – before his cold, scheming glare returned.
Mulling his words, Rokk recalled that Reep, L’ile Laoraighll and Ossian had encountered Torachi in proximity to the Stone of Virtue, an artifact strongly tied to Saraid’s orb.
“Jormangund is the offspring of the trickster Loki, and is drawn to the shiny and exotic. Dyrk, a sun king on the equinox, will be an irresistible target, if we can use the proper imagery and appeals, imagery the Princess Jecka is vital to provide. And the presence of Rokk, wearing the coat of Ursuik, could not hurt.
“Once summoned, we need to strike at an exact spot, a small between its eyes. We will need to step onto its head above the mouth as it bites into the land, and run almost a half-league to reach our attack point before it moves again and we are thrown into land or sea. When we get near, Chaontigh will use his axe to carve us an opening, and MacKell, the empress, Manaugh and King Rokk will hack our way inside.”
“Inside?”
“Aye. It’s scaly skin is quite impenetrable on the outside, I fear. But on the inside, if t’is like any serpent I have cut apart, there should be a cavity it may breathe through in which we can find its heart and slay it.”
Rokk could not help but compare Torachi’s thinking and insights to Querl’s. He liked the situation not, but Torachi had presented a plan that had at least a slim measure of hope.
“But why Lothian’s north firth? Why not somewhere farther from a town?” Andrew asked.
“As we have observed, the serpent prefers places where rivers flow into the seas, and deep harbours. This is the only one we can reach by equinox. Yet by diverting to the north shore, we can hopefully prevent Lothian from being destroyed.”
Andrew just knew Torachi was lying about some part of this plan, but knew not what.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Forty-one
“Are you sure this will work?”
“Honestly? No.”
“I’d rather you weren’t out here.”
“Where should I be? Hiding under the bed, waiting to be eaten like all the other womenfolk and the peasants?”
“Silence. Let Dyrk concentrate.”
“Concentrate on what? He is lit up like a bon-fire. Surely the serpent would see him from the lands of the North-men.”
“I think I see something.”
“You said that before.”
“No, look!”
“It’s just distant waves.”
“You are all fools. Just perform your tasks and let us get on with it.”
“Look at the waves!”
“How long will this take? I have other… quests to perform.”
“This is your quest of the moment.”
“Se’proaghh’g south-landers.”
“Hold your tongue! With your bain hand if need be.”
“No! Look! Verily this time!”
“Calm down. It’s arrival is always preceded by-”
“-What was that?”
…
“The ground rumbled, just as before.”
“And the waves are much higher now. See how they crash upon yon shore.”
“I told you.”
“Silence. And concentrate.”
“Why? It’s here!”
“It begins its rise from the waters. Be ready, everyone!”
“As ready as you can be for a monster in all likelihood is larger than Britain itself.”
“Spare us your wit. What little there is of it.”
“Where is its lower jaw?”
“Underwater.”
“Oh.”
“Can’t Jecka flee now?”
“She won’t get far enough. Better to stay with—STAND FIRM, EVERYONE!”
“Here IT COMES!”
“Blessed Iesous!”
“Torachi! You miscounted! It’s biting over us! It’s biting-”
“Everyone clasp hands! Stay focused on Dyrk! Stay-”
“AIIIGGHHH!!!!!”
“Torachi, you bastard!”
“Get this damn gauntlet off of me!”
“OOOUFFF!”
“Hang on! Hang--”
“ AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA…”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Forty-two
“Fear is for babies and women-folk!” Harlack exclaimed impatiently. “I thought you northlanders were of sterner stuff than southland city-folk.”
“I merely said we should get to shelter, as we were told,” Gaheris said.
“Boys!” Morgause scolded. “There is nothing cowardly about getting out of the way of the warriors.” She singled out Harlack. “A warrior needs to follow orders. Ours are to get out of the way so that my husband’s men can follow their own orders.”
She led them up the hill that paralleled the plateau of Lothian Castle. “See? Even now the soldiers of Lothian prepare, should the creature resurface whilst King Rokk and his men fight the beast!”
“How can even King Rokk defeat a monster such as that?” Gaheris demanded.
“Because he isn’t a scared little boy,” Harlack shot back.
“Actually, King Rokk once prevailed as a little boy,” Morgause told them, modifying a bardic tale she’s recently heard.
The boys set aside their fears and frustrations. A good tale of knighthood was always in order.
“T’was but at Yule last year, when most of King Rokk’s knights were at home with their kin, when his messenger, the Moor Jenni, returned with word of a wizard bespelling the village of Zinth. Rokk and his knights rode to Zinth and tried to take the wizard’s magic gem away from him. But in doing so, the gem’s magic turned them into children, and they were fostered out into the castles of five evil lords.”
“Were they afraid?” Gaheris asked.
“Aren’t all children afraid sometimes?” Morgause asked. Harlack scoffed.
Just then, the sky was filled with Jormangund’s head rearing high into the air, then slamming down into the sea. A huge wall of sea-water spewed out, crashing onto every visible shore. Even where the queen, her escorts and young charges stood far inland, an echo of that blast sheeted down upon them like a drenching hammer-blow; all were knocked to the ground and soaked to the bone on this chilly winter-spring day.
Gaheris laughed at the fear apparent in Harlack’s face, but Morgause would have none of it. “Let our servants build a fire that we may become dry and warm and not catch a pox, and I shall continue my story…”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Forty-three
“Hello?
“Hello?” Only a damp echo answered Rokk. This belly of the beast was huge enough that gusts of odoriferous winds blew across the surface. It was like an underground sea, salt water with a slightly acidic feel. The air and water felt thicker here, thicker and hotter. Every time the beast moved, the entire sea was tossed into an uproar. Rokk took another breath and held it as he was tossed around. None had worn armour for this quest; there was too much likelihood of it being more hindrance and no sign that it would even help.
He soon found a partially digested tree to grab hold of. It was completely dark and very eerie, with only the sound of distant gurgling. But soon there was the sound of splashing.
“Hello?”
“Over here.” The splasher had Manaugh’s voice.
“I’m on a tree. Try to make your way this way.”
A few grunts later the splasher was a few feet away. Rokk considered extending a hand, then thought the better of it – what if he’d found a way out of the shackled gauntlet without needing Torachi’s key? Manuagh climbed on board without help.
“King of all ye survey, then?”
Rokk smiled at the jest, and offered a brief chuckle since no one would see the smile.
“T’would be nice to see.”
“Let my hand free and I can set an ember on this tree.”
“Burning trees make not good rafts,” Rokk countered.
“Aye. But I can set but a small bit ablaze, that we might see a place to paddle, rather that sit in the dark awaiting to be digested.”
Rokk reluctantly agreed, and found Torachi’s lock. T’was metal, luckily. He held onto both lock and gauntlet for Manaugh, and true to his word a tiny speck of ember began on the tree’s bark. It illuminated not much but more than Rokk expected, but their acclimation to the darkness plus the stomach gases no doubt augmented their range of visibility.
There was a sea of earthen debris extending as far as the speck of light illuminated, and no sign of the others, nor even of the stomach’s walls. The duo broke off branches, picked a direction and started paddling.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Forty-four
Jecka came to in a panic, recalling her sister’s fate in that North Cymru pond so long ago. She flailed and gasped, breathing in water and started to lose conciousness. When she awoke again, she was being held upside-down by a giant hand.
She heard in the darkness the grunting and mouth-breathing of the terrifying giant, and she could well imagine its nose-less face, its strange one-eye that was not an eye.
Despite its legend and size, it was not a violent creature – since she had seen it, at least. Yes, it was said to have terrorized many from here to Perilous Forest, but like a giant child it seemed to fluctuate between play and tantrum.
Presently it began to howl, perhaps tired of floating in dark waters, perhaps feeling helpless for the first time in its life. Jecka was uncomfortable using her family’s gifts of seeming. At their best they needed furnishings that aided these seemings, but a simple way of manipulating light needed only a bit of focus and perspective – to realize that darkness is as much illusion as anything else, and to look at different kinds of light.
Soon she and the ogre were awash in a violet glow not unlike moonlight, the creature’s whitish head particularly standing out.
She and the ogre looked around at the stomach waters around them; rising and falling waves looked like dancing splashes of light. Validus was almost childishly giggling at the spectacle.
Eventually, gently as it could, it placed her on its shoulder and started splashing its way in a particular direction.
It is still drawn to Torachi’s charm! She realized, hoping the others were still together.
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Three Hundred and Forty-five
“What do you think?” Andrew asked, trying to stay afloat.
“I think we’re in pretty deep,” Dyrk replied, fairing slightly better. The two had managed to cling to a piece of wood, but it was small and waterlogged, and when the beast had turned they almost lost it in the swell.
To further complicate matters, Dyrk still not only glowed but the water around him gurgled into a boiling steam. Andrew found it hard to look at him, and he had to position himself as far from him as possible to avoid being cooked. If the wood debris was not so soaked, it would no doubt be aflame.
“I think I liked being dead better,” Andrew laughed.
“You may get your wish,” Dyrk laughed back.
The smoldering and damp wood was starting to give way, and the stomach sea was getting rough again. Dyrk let go. He’d not let Andrew’s lift raft burn up and leave his fellowe helpless.
“Dyrk! No!”
The Roman knight more than half regretted his decision. Treading water in boiling, steaming water was near impossible, even when one could withstand the heat.
Andrew watched in horror as the bright glow that was Dyrk vanished beneath the waves and gradually disappeared in the darkness of the deep.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Forty-six
“I’d hoped to get you alone, but not like this.” Saraid’s orb emanated a green glow amid the thick darkness. Using her light, she had found the remnants of one side of a boat, and used her orb to propel it. MacKell was in no danger of drowning, but lacked mobility that the would-be empress could provide.
“My thanks,” he replied, climbing aboard.
“You are a fine Irish warrior,” she praised. “Would you not be better served defending the Irish people?”
“I go where I am needed. This British court, Rokk’s company of knights, is like one not seen in Eiru in six centuries.”
“The Craebh Ruadh,” she replied, surprising him.
“You know of it?”
“I am an Irish monarch who listens to her bards. And I know enough to see when a legend is reborne, Sentanta.” Her index finger caressed his face. “Join me, and we will make an Irish nation worthy of our ancestors!”
“…Let us find the others and slay this beast, or else any of our plans are for naught.”
Saraid let him focus his vision on seeing afar, and one by one started locating the others. He saw Torachi near both Chaontigh and Andrew, and Validus swimming after them carrying Jecka; all four were straight ahead. But looking behind them, he saw Rokk and Manaugh (where was Dyrk?) along the stomach wall, and Manaugh about to touch it.
“Hold on, Saraid! The serpent is about to-”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Forty-seven
A challenge!
It had been too long since she’d had one of those.
She’d considered trying to find the invisible treasure of the Iceni, but some Trommite monk had beaten her. Torachi’s horde of treasure? Maybe… but where was Torachi’s lair these days? And whatever treasure-stores old king Bors had accumulated were well-guarded by a Bainsidhe, and probably not worth the bother, when all was said and done.
But this… this was a challenge!
“The ruins of a monastery, you say?” She sipped her wine, trying not to let on how intrigued she was.
“Aye,” said the prefect. “King Clovis is ill, and Queen Guinevere’s delegation vanished rather rudely and abruptly. The queen did admit that the British have possession of San Graal, the holy chalice of Our Lord. Or rather this heretic order called the Josephites keep it for them.
“Clovis’ very life may be at stake, Sussiah. If you can… obtain the Grail for us from this demonic other-world they call Avalon, you’ll find the Kingdom of the Franks will be quite generous.”
“Why then we have a deal, Prefect Vidar.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Forty-eight
“Can you reach him?” Torachi was annoyed.
“I’m a mercenary, not a wet-nurse!” an exasperated Chaontigh responded. His arms were painfully hot as it was; only that they were submerged in water prevented them from burning completely. With one thrust the big mercenary grabbed the limp body of the Roman knight and tossed him onto the mucous-covered stomach lining. The mucous sizzled a little when Dyrk landed on it, but thankfully there was no new movement on Jormangund’s part.
“He’s out of the drink, then, Torachi. What now? I say he looks like a drown sailor. If sailors glowed like the sun, ha.”
“If he lives he may yet be useful,” the bandit-king replied.
“Is he really a sun god?” Chaontigh was no theologian, but was mildly curious. “I’ve never met a god before. They say all the old gods are dead, and now there is only one.”
“They say in some quarters that the moon is but a sliver of bread,” Torachi said. “Bother me not with what fools say.”
Chaontigh was about to challenge the remark, but the sound of something large spashing closer made him stop.
“Torachi? Something’s getting closer.”
“So it is,” Totachi said, half-interestedly. His human side was pressed against the stomach mucous. “The beast seems to be settling down.”
So as not to slip on the mucous, Torachi carefully stepped closer to the water, arms extended for balance – and to be ready for a fall. He walked towards the splashing, but waited for it to approach the water’s edge. With Dyrk’s brightness behind him, he could almost make out a darkened silhouette upon the water.
“Validus… carrying two passengers, it seems,” he said. “Good. This makes as good a starting point as any.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Forty-nine
“You really trust this Torachi?” Manaugh asked.
“No. But we’ve no choice, do we?” Rokk was curt but honest.
“How long do we wait?” Saraid was growing impatient.
“Until Torachi’s team is ready,” Rokk replies. “MacKell?”
The Ulsterman focused his vision. “Andrew is rousing Dyrk. Everyone else is present and accounted for. Should be soon.”
With Saraid providing mobility and MacKell the vision, this duo had been able to rendezvous with Torachi to learn the new plan, seek out Rokk and Manaugh in the aftermath of their attempt to burn a hole in the beast’s stomach, and together they all returned towards the beast’s head. MacKell told them the beast was now at rest at the sea’s bottom, fortunately lying horizontal so returning to the head was not a difficult chore.
The air itself felt heavier than before, as if he could feel the weight of the sea above through Jormangund’s skin. Were they so deep that none would live through this? It did not matter – if they were victorious.
“Now!” MacKell declared, interrupting his chain of thought.
At once, Excalibur, MacKell’s magic spear, Saraid’s orb and Manaugh’s hand all hit the wall of Jormangund’s throat, just as several miles away Chaontigh’s axe pierced the side of its stomach.
Did the distraction work? There was no way to tell. Suddenly the quartet were all airborne, and there was no way MacKell could retain his focus of vision.
Rokk’s head screamed to him; the change from deep-sea pressure to a sudden high altitude felt like it was enough to make his head, his lungs, his very heart explode. But the bear within him took control, keeping death at bay even as his own stomach emptied itself.
At almost the same time Rokk realized he no longer smelled the stomach-acid sea of Jormangund he also realized he was still airborne and looking at a sea of stars. Some were drawing closer while others were not. Only in one area far to his right were stars absent; there a snakelike figure squirmed and twisted.
He had been thrown miles clear of Jormangund but was now falling like an arrow out towards the sea. He had no idea where the others were, or how he would survive his landing.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Fifty
Jormangund howled and thrashed, but not before Chaontigh and Torachi had made it all the way inside.
With the stomach ripped open, Andrew had positioned himself as a wedge to keep it open while Jecka, Torachi and Chaontigh climbed through. Dyrk was again tossed asunder and vanished into the churning of the giant stomach, while Validus merely hung onto the rip for dear life. In doing so, the rip widened, and Jecka lost her grip. Validus let go to reach out for her, and both vanished into the maelstrom.
“Jecka!” Andrew bellowed.
With Torachi well attached to a gigantic blood vessel, Chaontigh reached back for Andrew. “Come on. We can’t waste this chance!”
Andrew let himself be dragged forward.
The trio took their breaths and dove into the blood vessel, with Chaontigh lightly scoring the vein as they pushed along; even the slightest pressure could now open the whole vessel.
Andrew was the first to run out of breath, but Chaontigh and Torachi carried him along nonetheless.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Fifty-one
Father Marla walked along the shore, not certain what he could do that all of Lot’s men could not. The Lothian shores were a desolation zone of debris, death and despair. The very sea carried a film of blood.
The night Rokk’s team disappeared, an ungodly caterwauling sound had come from the sea. The next morning was quiet, too quiet, and blood started coming ashore.
The next few days were also quiet, leading some to believe the beast was dead, but so too were the heroes. For all daylight hours the shores were scoured for survivors, and by the third day Lot had boats out looking as well.
MacKell was the first to be found – alive, just barely. He was found in a pasture halfway to Hadrian’s Wall, bruised, battered, with a head swelling with puss.
Saraid was found next, just as bruised and battered, but lifeless, washing up on shore an hour’s ride east of Lothian.
Jecka turned up the next morning, gently lying on a flat rock, the remnants of a coastal tower. Large footprints led to and away from her toward the sea.
A week later, King Rokk was found at sea, legs broken and bloody but awake, conscious and almost cognitive.
What of Dyrk? What of Andrew? wondered the cleric. Had his friend found something of the redemption he had hoped for? Aye, perhaps he had.
There were no bodies for those two, nor Torachi, Manaugh or the axe-man Chaontigh, and certainly none for the serpent itself. There was no certainty to this grand battle. Rokk knew not the outcome, nor did Jecka, once she’d woken, and MacKell was still in the impenetrable slumber of those close to death.
Yet there was too much blood for even all of Jormungund’s victims all put together. Lot’s sailors themselves said the bloody film extends well beyond the sight of land.
Another week passed, and Val came to court from the north. Picts, Dalraidans, Rhygedians, Elmetians and others were lining up to aid Lothian and reaffirm solidarity with Rokk’s strong, united Britain.
Yet day after day, Marla walked the coast, refusing to give up hope. One day, he was joined by Regulus.
The priest of Apollo spoke nary a word, but joined him. Perhaps he spoke not for fear of giving voice to the betrayal of hope – or to give voice to all those years of discord between himself and young Dyrk.
Dindrane also arrived, carrying the Chalice, and soon Rokk was up and about, although still sore and stiff. MacKell slept still, but the Druids no longer feared for his life. Other casualties were tended to as best as the maiden could reach them, and Val, feeling guilty for not defending his homeland, stood by her as bodyguard.
“Was it worth it? All the years of prophesy? How long did you know this was a-coming?” Rokk asked Regulus with an old man’s stare.
“I know this much. Everything I knew, everything I thought I knew, has all come to naught. I… know not the details, nor do I know if I could have changed this if I had.”
King Rokk led the priest go with that. Perhaps it was his own frustration he took out on the priest.
After three weeks, much of the ocean blood had receded, but what was left seemed concentrated on a single peninsula. Marla and Regulus were among Lot’s men when they found it: a bloody, pulpy, gooey mound of flesh larger than a small castle, hacked and slashed across its outside (and clearly severed from a larger body). It took days more to carve it up and burn it, for fear it might grow back, and in doing so, Lot’s men found a metallic body wedged in, holding an axe.
There was initially no way to tell if Andrew was really dead, but over the summer his iron body would gradually start to return to flesh, and not the flesh of the living.
Marla and Regulus maintained vigil over their fallen friend, that he might be properly honoured and buried completely as a man. Rokk planned to inter him at Shangalla, but the residents of the peninsula where he was found, a land just as scarred by Jormangund as any, insisted he be buried there.
They renamed their land Sinn Andrew, "Our Andrew," in his honour.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Fifty-two
King Drest and many of his followers aided Lothian as best they could, but with heavy heart.
All the optimism for things to come was marred by this devastating attack on all Caledonia. Hope was gone; foreboding had replaced it. For as bad as thing were, prophecy said it would only get worse.
And Manaugh, the still-missing Manaugh, would be at its centre.
This… Regulus. This southlander. Roman. He knew some of the prophecy, too, or so it was said. Regulus was a friend and guide to Andrew, the Orkney warrior Drest had met and found to be of good heart. Could Regulus be an ally?
Or by looking more and more to the southlanders to we aid the prophecy we seek to overcome?
There were no answers to be had in this Lothian. But Regulus, he must meet with him.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Fifty-three
Upon hearing that Imra was casting aside her guise as Guinevere, Azura, as Lady of the Lake, rushed to her side. There would be ramifications and politicking to ease the confusion and accusations; any fool could see that.
But the Lady took young Elwinda as her aide – not Thora. Since Mysa’s disappearance, Azura trusted less and less in her senior priestess. She never accused Thora, but any trust that had existed was gone.
Thora sat by the lakeside, cursing Mysa’s name. It must have been her fault!
Thora!
She ignored the voice. Surely it must have been anger, or imagination.
Thora!
No, someone was definitely calling her, using the Wind spell. It was a man’s voice.
“Who calls to me?” She replied angrily. Was Azura’s scorn not enough? Had she earned the interference of a Teacher or Druid now?
It is but an olde king, someone who once courted the favour of Avalon but like you was stabbed in the back.
“Speak your name, and pray tell me what you want.”
I want justice. I want Avalon to have the rightful Lady of the Lake. I want Azura gone, and your aid to help me.
Thora’s heart skipped a beat. Was this somehow the ghost of Pellam? She dared not so hope.
“You still have not told me your name.”
I cannot, right a-now, else all the wardings of the Teachers ruin our plot. Take the barge to the outer world. Bring whatever escort you see fit. Meet me at the tavern where the Glastonbury Road meets the Exeter road.
Thora thought a bit on whether to trust this voice, but eventually convinced herself there was no harm in hearing the mystery-king out.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Fifty-four
The ruined monastery was the hardest part, as between Roxxius, the Khunds and even wild Irish, there were more ruined monasteries than standing ones.
But Sussiah had quickly narrowed the field down to western Britain, east of Cymru, west of Perilous Forest, south of Deva and well north of Bath or Glastonbury.
Peasants told that monks were again more frequent, sometimes escorting a young maiden, going to and from ruins long thought to have been abandoned.
The ruins themselves were well-overgrown with flora of all the local varieties: grasses, shrubs, and young trees taking shape where once an order had kept order.
There was no apparent well-worn path or tell-tale sign, but to the trained eye, a central well appeared to be the common point of foot traffic. Descending the well, she found, as she expected, a thin side tunnel. That tunnel took her to a grotto, which in turn spilled over to a garden. She quickly threw over herself the dark robes that resembled a sister’s, and began to reconnoitre.
She spent a full day cautiously getting the lay of the land, a small island with a concentrated collection of huts, many gardens, a humble church and a path leading to a small dock, the closest point to the other islands. What treasures does the rest of Avalon hold, she wondered. But now that she knew a way in… all in good time.
The next day, she got close enough to hear two elders talking, and she learned that her quarry had yet to return from Lothian.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Fifty-five
“You must be pleased,” Iason said without a trace of enthusiasm.
“After a fashion,” Mordru admitted. He had three pawns lined up already, far easier than he had ever imagined. He should have taken Avalon whilst Kiwa was alive, so she could know the despair she had caused him!
He and his unwilling servant were in central Cymru waiting out a rainstorm, using a pavilion King Zendak’s men had set for them.
Their Cymru guardsmen were roasting a rabbit for evening’s supper. In the meantime the old wizard-king contented himself with ale and some larded bread.
Iason ate not. His stomach still rebelled at the service asked of him already – and what was yet to come.
He had eaten only a few crusts of bread since once again being himself, and even that was a reluctant and regretted occurrence.
“So… who are we after this time? And if Avalon is our target, why dost we tarry so?”
“Druids,” he answered, before taking another swig of ale. “One does not simply march into Avalon and take command. Even the Romans failed at that. One must lay the groundwork first.’
“Dost thou really need me for yon next meet?” he asked, hoping Mordru could do without him. Or rather, without his other self.
“Possibly,” Mordru said between nibbles, barely paying him mind at all. “but he does make a rather impressive entrance, even you must admit.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“No. No, you wouldn’t have.” He put his hand kindly on Iason’s shoulder. “Well, trust me on this.”
The jest was a cruel one. Iason had no temperament to even smile.
The rain had let up only slightly when the Cymru scout returned. “They are arriving even now, mesire!” he reported.
Mordru had Zendak’s men leave the tent, and forbade them to enter no matter what they heard – or do not here.
There was a chant, a scream, some unearthly laughter, and an odd buzzing sound, followed by hours of silence.
A while later, the sounds of distant screams echoed through the woods.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Fifty-six
L’ile stepped onto British soil with a mixture of joy, dread and regret. Myla spent a night with him before returning to the sea, leaving the young Druid to return to court alone. How much had happened? What had changed? He wondered these and other thoughts, seeking to keep the foul news at hand afar from mind until it needed to come out, at such time as he could share it with his fellows and liege.
At Deva, he learned of the battle against Jormangund at Lothian, and the heavy cost of lives and friends. Rokk had departed for court, whiles Imra – Queen Imra! had made the rounds of nobles to explain her case. There were rumblings of discontent – some still had sore memories of the rebel kings war, but too much had happened since to truly unite Britain under Rokk’s banner.
On the road for Londinium, L’ile could not help but feel watched. He tried to find seclusion so that he could better make use of his gifts, but nowhere he went could he not feel eyes upon him.
He slept not that night, and considered heading back to Deva, or to seek out any local Druids for aid. He did not feel himself at all; still dazed he was from all his experiences in the north. Even being back in Britain after most of a year scarcely seemed credible in his mind.
But no blackguard took arms against him not interfered with him at all.
The second night, he resolved to feign slumber and await any who came near him. To his surprise, he awoke in mid-morning, unaware of having drifted off, nor were any of his possessions or his person touched or harmed.
He walked all the next day, still feeling watched.
When the road neared Perilous Forest, it occurred to him that his observer was either a coward or benign. He opted to enter the forest, in hopes a coward would not follow.
Again he stayed awake, this time successfully feigning slumber. No one approached him.
Walking through the woods the next day through thick brush, he was certain he heard someone following him, someone less stealthy than he.
“Show yourself, for Spraigch’s sake!” he bellowed.
The footsteps stopped.
Variations of this cat-and-mouse continued all day, and L’ile decided not to stop this eve at all.
Early into the evening, he tried one last time to catch the assailant, charging at where he thought he was, and pushing him into a nearby tree.
His quarry slipped from his grasp, just as L’ile realized t’was not a tree they had slammed into, but a leg.
With a loud growl, Validus looked down at him. There was no opportunity to become unseen.
“I’m sorry I’ll never see you again, Myla,” he whispered.
In his last moments, he could swear he heard a reply whisper. “I’m sorry, too, dear Rowan.”
Posted by cleome on :
Well, it's always nice to see this updated, even if I'm still way back at the week after the Royal Couple got married. [cough]
Hey, Kent, once you're unpacked, I hope you'll consider updating this over at ff dot net, too. I know they're kind of a pain, but their format is a little easier on my rheumy old eyes.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
thanks for the comments! a few people used to add feedback, but it's been lonely in here of late.
maybe a blog is the way to go...
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Fifty-seven
“Marla! Father Marla! Thank Iesous you have returned!”
“Calm down, Carolus. What ails thou?” The cleric had returned home very late last eve, but the jester looked as pale as sour milk this early morn.
“Twas a most wicked dream. Yet it was… more than a dream, I fear.”
Marla had his young guest settle into his study, and bade him tell his tale of recent slumbers.
“I was on an isle. How I got there I know not. This strange isle had all manner of strange, pointy plants and colourful birds, and the sun’s heat was worse than any summer’s day.
“There was a man. H-he said he had drawn me there, and he – he hunted me! He said I was more sport than any beast!”
“What did he do when he caught you?”
“That’s just it. Verily by chance, I killed him! Me, but a fool! I am no knight, yet I have taken the life of another! How can I be at peace with my Lord now?’ Carolus was truly upset by this – as if he’d done the deed he dreamed of.
“Calm yourself, my friend. Dreams are seemings, not truths. Well, maybe for Queen Nura, but not for you and I. Let’s start with your isle. It was an island, but not one you recognize. Yes?”
Seeing the young man’s nod, he continued. “And you self in danger by this huntsman. Surely what your dream portended was a fear of Britain becoming something you knew not, and you no longer fit in. King Rokk has grown more serious in the past year and a half. Verily, who has not? But rest assured, you do not need to fear for your head, my friend. Why on our journeys south, King Rokk himself told me he looked forward to your mirth after all this torment of the Midgard Serpent. Fear not.”
Marla’s words were soothing, and Carolus was almost himself by the time the cleric’s housekeeper served them a berried porridge for fast-breaking.
Two weeks later, Marla would be thrown for a loop when Reep reported of news from the islands southwest of Iberia – word that the Hunter had returned from the far seas, and was killed while on a hunt.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Fifty-eight
The devastation of Lothian was staggering in terms of structures, but the Jormangund attack had left relatively few wounded – dead or fled to higher grounds were the more common states among the Vodatni and other residents of Lothian.
Noble, soldier and peasant alike worked together to restore some semblance of order. Pavilions were cast, sod huts erected, and now wooden dwellings began to take form. Warriors had set down swords in favour of axes and hammers, while women made communal stews out of whatever was at hand. Some had retrieved spinning wheels and fabrics from the ruins of the town, and made clothing for those who had nothing but what they wore while fleeing.
Week in, week out this continued, and slowly a sense of progress took shape. Enough at least that Jecka did not feel guilty spending time sewing for her own purposes.
When it was ready, she sought out Rokk, who had alternated between directing the excavations of the ruins and tending to the fears and needs of the populace. Despite the healing from the Cauldron, his legs were still not up to par, but he was not one to sit around.
She found him tending to MacKell, who was still unconscious. Both were in a Druid pavilion, one of several set up to attend to matters of healing.
“Do you think he shall awaken again?” Her king asked. She did not realize her entrance had been audible.
“Of course I do. He’s MacKell. Lar Chulain. The Hound. He will get better. He has to.”
Rokk nodded, trying to believe. As king, even among his peer knights, he was often at a loss for true understanding. MacKell was a living legend in his own right, to whom he was merely a king, a current king, not the king, the only high king most of the peers had ever really known personally. Rokk felt around few other than MacKell that he did not have to play any part – even among his family he had not that luxury.
Now, everything was changing, and he wondered if losing MacKell was a part of that.
“I… have something for you. Something I made.”
He turned slowly, carefully, trying not to misstep or move in such a way that would cause a shooting pain to ricochet up his spine. The Cauldron had regrouped his shattered leg bones and bound them, but they still needed care to retain that binding, he found.
Jecka bowed down and presented her gift.
Rokk was stunned. “It looks like…”
“It is.” She felt warmed by his childlike joy at the gift. It was his scabbard, presented to him by Morgause at his coronation, a scabbard sown by his mother for Excalibur when his father Uther Pendragon wielded it. He had feared it lost in the battle with Jormangund, but here it was - with an odd reddish-brown tint to its leather, like a lacquer coating seeped into the skin.
“I am no King Pellam, craftsman for precious relics, but I am schooled in the ways of Avalon,” she continued. “We have a saying, What we survive strengthens us. I used blood from the serpent’s heart and spellcraft in repairing the scabbard. If my magicks worked, you should be impervious from attacks that pierce, whether a serpent’s bite or a blade.”
“I… truly know not what to say,” Rokk beamed. “Would that we all had such charms!”
Jecka laughed. “Magicks are far harder than that, my liege.” Indeed, this gift had cost her far more than she would ever tell him.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Fifty-nine
“Why hath King Rokk not attended the funerals?” Cornish King Marcus was rather put out. “I thought he was close with all of us.”
“Perhaps he is still in the far north, recovering from combat with the serpent of which we have heard so much,” Cador volunteered, not wanting to burst his liege’s bubble.
“The graves are to be tended every day,” Marcus reminded a subordinate. He stepped forward again. “My son. My bride, my beautiful bride. You both betrayed me in life, but I thee forgive in death.” He sprinkled fresh dirt upon the freshly piled plots.
“Come, Cador. Let us retire inside.”
The banners throughout Tintagel village and castle were all replaced by black, and servants humored their liege as best they could. After an evening of toasting, reminiscing and wailing, Cador had the king’s butler put Cornwall’s lord to bed. Cador in turn commended each of the servants for their loyalty.
“He has grown madder and madder, so he has,” Governal whispered to him in the courtyard that eve.
“Aye,” Cador replied. “Truly tis sad for such a valourious and noble king to be taken by his own ailing wits. For his own sake, and that of Cornwall, no state business must come before him, ere all this land remember him for his illness.”
“But who shall rule in his stead?”
“You know who as well as I, but neither Marcus nor the Macedonians must know.”
They walked past the pair of freshly dug plots of earth, which no one but Marcus truly considered to be human graves. In truth, twas Marcus’ prized hunting dogs, stricken dead by the malady sweeping the land’s hounds, buried beneath the dirt. “It may take weeks for word to get through,” Governal replied. “You and I must handled Cornwall’s affairs until then.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Sixty
It had been less than a year since Queen Imra had left Segontium, and her past dread of dishonesty was scantly softened in comparison to the dread of how Guinevere’s father would react to the truth.
She rode with Sirs James and Bedwyr, the Celtic warrior Laoraighll, Lady Azura of the Lake, and a host of companions, but in truth she felt alone. The joy of lifting the veil of deceit had come easily court after court, but now she had to face North Cymru King Voxv – the man she let think she had been the daughter of.
Prince Pharoxx rode out to meet the company. He seemed more civil than usual; perhaps his title as admiral of the western fleet sated his appetite for recognition – at least enough that he would be less of the scheming weasel than he had been to date.
Pharoxx’s half-sister Elyzabel, newly returned from Eiru, helped the queen and her ladies settle into their quarters. With the absence of any daughter of Voxv in residence at the moment, she was the sole lady of standing to play hostess as such. If either Pharoxx or Elyzabel had caught word of what the other courts had already been learning, neither showed any sign the high queen could detect.
Imra elected to first approach Voxv alone. Verily, that much I owe him. The castellan led her to the king’s favourite gardens, where he was trimming the spring blossoms.
“Greetings, King Voxv, my-” she had to fight her own impulse to play to his delusions of being her father. “My dearest and most beloved of elders.”
Voxv turned to face her not.
“Your gardens are looking magnificent this year. I hope only that the gardeners of Londinium…” she trailed off. She received no response.
“I-I only meant that-- No… I really need to tell you. I am truly sorry for what I must tell you.” She paused as her voice fell apart into a stifled sob.
Vovx turned to her not at all, but startled her with his words. “King Marcus mourns a bride who is dead not, and they call him a madman. I both mourned and denied mourning a daughter who I lost but tried not to lose. Which do you suppose the wicked tongues of all Britain consider the most daft?”
“…My Lord Voxv…”
“You… gave an old man hope. You tried to show me the truth, time and again. But you are Pelles’ daughter. You have his gifts of the mind. I… should thank you, or beg your forgiveness, for being such a cross for you to bear. But forgive me if I cannot bring myself to look upon you, else I again allow myself to believe that my Guinevere breathes yet.”
Imra’s legs trembled, and her self-rehearsed speeches continued to disintegrate before they found voice.
“GO!” He bellowed, trying to disguise pain inside of anger. Pride he still had. He no doubt felt quite foolish, having caved into his delusions for so long.
There was so much she had wanted to say – to again beg for a reconciliation between him and Jecka. But heart a-pounding, she found herself leaving the garden with a mixture of relief, regret, guilt and light-headedness.
[ July 25, 2009, 08:56 AM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
ISLE DE LA CITI
Interlude Twenty-six: Knights without armour
“You’re sure no one shall detect us?”
“Stop worrying. I’m Frankish and you’re a Saracen. Neither of us are widely associated with the British court.” At least, that was what Bedwyr hoped. He departed Paris in the spring to see the British delegation off, but that he’d not returned should not arouse too much attention as he was well-known to visit countryside locales in search of adventure.
Palomides was guised as a merchant, and drew upon skills and mannerisms he had picked up from his uncle, a spice trader in Baghdad. He felt awkward having no spice to sell, as he knew such inquiries would be directed at sooner or later.
Bedwyr got them though the city gate easily enough, and soon they were amid the teeming marketplace on the city island.
“Are you a Saracen?” asked a boy of around 10 years, of African stock.
Palomides laughed. “Aye, I am.”
“I’ve never met a Saracen before.”
“And I’ve never been to Paris before so we’re even.”
“I’ve never been to Paris before, either.”
Bedwyr was annoyed by the youth, and kept eyes for an accomplice. Surely this innocent child line of questioning must be a distraction for a cut-purse?
But Palomides went on for a good while, talking about snakes and monkeys and magick carpets of his homeland.
A maiden arrived to take the child away, and apologized for his behavior. Again, Palomides laughed, and the duo resumed their search. It took much of the late-morning and early afternoon.
Palomides must have been a magnet for fellow out-of-towners. An Irish maiden had come into the marketplace to get some health potions, but had lost her sense of direction and knew not where to meet her driver. Bedwyr gave her directions, but her eyes never left Palomides.
The incident would be one the Saracen would repeatedly remind the Frank about. The jest took the edge off of Bedwyr’s frustrations about chronic interruptions; a Saracen woman would yet again delay them just before they found they quarry.
“There!” Bedwyr was the first to spot them. Palomides nodded.
For a northern European city, there were a surprising variety of faces one saw, from all over the Mediterranean and beyond. But few in number were the faces from the lands beyond the Silk Road, and in Paris one could count them on two hands.
“Greetings, my friends. I am Sir Bedwyr. You may recall me, from whence I assisted you with the green man who was your guest? He asked me to visit you again, in hopes we could conduct some trade.”
[ July 25, 2009, 08:46 AM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Twenty-seven: The ailing king
“Duke Lucius! Good day to you, my lord!” The royal butler greeted, raising an eyebrow at the lady in his carriage. Lucius gave his driver instructions and turned to face him.
“Greetings to you, my good sir. The king has summoned me on a matter of some urgency, I understand?”
Not so urgent for you to pick up a new mistress. I pray for you she proves less troublesome than the last, the butler thought. “Of course. Right this way.”
Clovis’ palace looked like a monument to the Rome of old; one would not have guessed Clovis’ Germanic barbarian roots. Lucius, of old Roman lineage, was both amused by his liege’s (and others like him) adoption of Roman culture and annoyed by it. If barbarians conquer Rome as barbarians, so be it – but pretend not to be Romans after the fact, he had once opined one such hybrid civil servant.
He found the king in bed, being tended to by his spiritual advisor, the priest Vidar, upon whom Clovis had recently bestowed the royal title of “Universeau.”
King Clovis looked paler and weaker than he was used to – not deathly so, but clearly not the man who conquered nation after nation over the past couple decades. He looked not his 36 years at this moment.
“Ah, Lucius, Duke Lucius,” Clovis smiled. “Tis good of you to come. Have you met…?”
“Yes, several times,” Vidar said, trying to seem pleased. In truth, little seemed to please Vidar – he was very much not a Frank, and shunned the pleasures that every Frankish noble held dear. He had barely been in Paris a year but had already entrenched himself firmly into the kingdom’s power structure.
“A pleasure as always, your excellency.”
“Lucius, you stand alone as my single-most trustworthy vassal. My illness may likely take me away from certain duties, and I need someone I can trust to attend to them.”
“My lord! I am most honoured.” His decades of service were finally being recognized as they should.
“You will be working closely with Vidar, my Universeau. He is my other most trusted advisor. I do hope you two will get along exceedingly well.”
“I am certain Lucius and I shall find a way to see eye to eye,” Vidar smirked confidently.
[ May 15, 2010, 11:48 AM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Twenty-eight: The heir of Gaunnes
“Why do we have to sneak around the city?” Bors asked. “My cousin would not sneak around.”
“Because King Clovis would have you killed if he knew you were here. You are not your cousin. He is a mighty knight, and you are not.”
Marya didn’t like having the boy with her, but he hadn’t given her much choice, having stowed away on the supply wagon. But even at his age, he could handle himself – she feared for his two siblings left alone with only her aging grandmother back up north.
“Remember, whatever you do, attract no attention to yourself. Do you understand?”
“…Yes.”
Boys his age yearn for adventure and seeing new places, and she did not blame him for being tired of the ramshackle woodland tower they called home.
They went about the shopping Marya needed to do – spices, roots, cloths and crafts-goods she could not get at the local market. Nowhere did Marya let Bors out of her sight – until they reached the apothecary, and Marya knew the old man would frown on a young one being inside the shop.
“Wait out here, speak to no one and look like you belong here, like you are here all the time. Understand?”
Bors nodded.
She conducted her business as quickly as possible, but the woman ahead of her had a complicated order to fill for an dying relative, and her Latin was rather poor. When Marya cane out she saw Bors talking to a Saracen merchant, a big burly man from the looks of him. His associate looked like a local, but seemed nervous.
“You’ve never been to Paris before either? I find it to be a most interesting place,” the Saracen was saying.
“I’ll bet you’ve seen a lot of cities and marketplaces!”
“I have indeed!” As Marya drew near, the Saracen smiled and bowed to her. “I could tell you about the monkeys that run loose in the markets of Damascus, or the snake-charmers in the Medina of Cairo!”
“Snake charmers?”
Marya wanted to interrupt, but the boy would only find worse trouble later, she was certain. Maybe the Saracen would sate his need for adventure – for today at least.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Twenty-nine: The Irish noblewoman
Elyzabel was grateful for the transportation. Her half-brother had written Lucius, duke of Neustria, of her arrival, and he had graciously delayed his own trip to Paris in greet her and accompany her.
During the carriage ride, Lucius spoke warmly about the year he had spent in her native Leinster, and his admiration for her distant kinsman King Coirpre mac Neill. He also bragged about the good relations he had cultivated with Britain, and how important her other home of North Cymru was to that relationship.
“Queen Imra – Guinevere – whatever she decides to call herself, she was once a guest of mine,” he bragged. “She is quite a woman. She herself descended into my worst dungeon to interrogate a dangerous madman.”
“I’ve met her but briefly, and know her not well at all.” Elyzabel had only of late met the queen, and heard different tales of the Guinevere deception.
“You’ll make a far better queen than she,” he remarked. “The court of Clovis is a fine place to meet a fine lord of your own.”
“You are far too kind, but I am far too minor a noble. I am here to tend to my ailing uncle, not to seek a husband.”
“Ah, yes. Connor mac Diarmod. One of Clovis’ favourite poets. I do hope he recovers. I’d love to host him – and you – at my summer estate.”
“Again, you are too kind,” she blushed. “Far too… kind.” His face was now very close to hers.
“You said that already, my dear.”
She could feel the warmth of his breath tickle her neck, and pulled him closer.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Interlude Thirty: The spirit of Khemet
Word had come and gone of the Hunter’s death, yet Par-Isis believed it not. Or rather, she believed not that he was forever dead; had he not died and risen before?
But this was a new era, the era of the one-god, even here in the city of the one goddess. More and more, those of old Khemet were departing, and coming back not.
She decided to leave the sanctuary and wander the streets above. Her city was not hot and dry with grand buildings like a city should be, rather it was small and crowded, with only a few temples of remotely large scale. The heat was never long-lived not as intense as was proper, and much of the year was too cold to dress properly.
Although she dressed nothing like these Parisians, her magicks made no one take notice. Her magicks also directed her to witness the most important event of the day, a meeting of two knights who were not today knights. She heard the elder, dressed as a merchant, tell the younger about the warmer lands, where he – and she – were both from. Separated by centuries, the lands sounded unchanging yet.
She could not help herself but to track down the elder knight again and talk to him about her home. She realized not how lonely, how alone she was, and for the knight’s reminiscence she bestowed onto him a blessing. For good measure, she tracked down the boy, too, and blessed him.
That evening, a poet from a land even colder than here offered her a prayer of sorts, as he had oft before. He was one of the few who saw her as she was, a city, a lady and a goddess. But the poet was dying, and she responded by giving him one last gift, a poem about the intertwining of lives at the marketplace as had happened on this very day.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
BOOK VII: RETURN OF THE QUEEN
Three Hundred and Sixty-one
Luornu knew Carolus had been bothered by something, and knew she should feel regret for not being at his side, but felt literally paralyzed by despair as it was. Andrew, dear Andrew was dead – again – and she had again failed to convey in words what she had wanted to for the long-suffering knight. And Dyrk, truly a lost soul himself, Dyrk too was missing, probably dead as well. Andrew was a Christian, at least, and would likely find favour with his saviour, but Dyrk still clung to a heathen mixture of allegiances – how would even the merciful Iesous look upon such a sinner as he?
Where was Dyrk? It hurt not knowing his fate. Andrew at least should be at peace, having earned his reward by now. Whatever penitence he sought in renewed life, he had earned it. No, she had no worries for Andrew, only Dyrk, possibly lost to the very pits of heathendom. She could almost see him, lost and alone…
..floating along like a helpless babe. Fish avoided him. Seabirds too. How he managed to stay afloat baffled him; he could see naught beyond the column of steam he generated. There had been a battle of some sort, but the memory – perhaps his sole memory – taunted him. Yet it offered no clues. He could not tell you his name or why he was out upon the ocean waves, but he felt oddly safe, at peace.
Days and nights wafted by in a waking slumber, until one day a pair of arms pulled him on board a boat, a barge capable of holding several score but occupied only by one man. He was clearly a Celt by the look of him.
“Greetings, my friend,” said the man in a tongue he recognized as an obscure dialect of Gaelic, a tongue he knew but none of, but yet understood completely. “What am I to call you?”
“I…” He took a moment before clinging onto the first name that came to mind. “I am Apollo.”
“Welcome, then, Apollo, Roman god of the sun. We go now to meet some kindred spirits.”
His host moved not a muscle and had no crew, but the boat suddenly changed direction and picked up speed, even as its sail rose into place.
[ May 15, 2010, 11:53 AM: Message edited by: Kent Shakespeare ]
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Sixty-two
“…seven Kentish Khunds slaughtered, my lord,” the messenger reported.
Sir Jonah was angered. Maybe it took Macedonian occupiers to get Bretons to think of Kentish Khunds as peers, or perhaps it was Kiritan’s steadfast diplomacy and apparent loyalty. But even now, there were rumblings that Kent would no longer tolerate the Macedonians – even if King Rokk continued to. The arrival of the dog plague to the Kentish lands was taken by many Khunds as an ill omen to lay at the occupiers’ feet – with so many men lost in the wars of recent years, dogs were vital guards, hunters and sometimes food.
Jonah knew full well the limits of his authority as governor of Londinium in Rokk’s absence. As much as he hungered to force the Macedonians out himself – single-handedly, if need be, he accepted the stewardly role he was in; this was not his kingdom to rule.
Jonah found Sir Garth and Lady Iasmin at the royal stables, still only a fraction of what it had been before last year’s war. Cavalry strength was nowhere near where anyone wished it to be, but it could make an effective assault on the caravans that the Macedonians made to resupply Durobrivae as they periodically did.
It truly galled British of Celt, Roman or Khundish background that two key towns were occupied by Mediterranean forces – and that they sought the renowned Sit Thom as their ransom.
Both Garth and even Iasmin were antsy; both favoured action, and regretted that Rokk was not back to lead or at least order an attack yet.
“I have reports of Kentish being slaughtered,” Jonah reported.
Garth nodded. “I have heard as much, and confronted the Macedonian emissary. He insists these were Kentish who attacked their men, or otherwise started trouble. Twas not the first such encounter, either.”
Jonah nodded. “I am prepared to order the Macedonians to surrender one of their own for each Kentish harmed,” the knight of Lothian said. “To stand trial, of course.”
“They will refuse, and respond yet again that we have not supplied Sir Thom to them,” Iasmin sighed.
“Aye,” Jonah smiled through his bitterness. “Mayhap such refusal would be enough to seize the next relief ship? Surely it must be due by early next week.”
Garth looked thoughtful, and presently added his own tentative smile. “ Then we should obtain their refusal, if we want such an excuse.”
“And we must be ready to keep the Durobrivae force contained in said city,” Iasmin added.
“You, Garth, shall go with Berach and lead a force ready to take the ship. Kiritan and I will lead the containment of Durobrivae, and Iasmin, you and your cavalry shall intercept any messengers between the two, or overland to Portus Magnus. Agreed?”
He took the others’ smiles as agreement. If any held qualm about acting without Rokk, or even consulting his brother Reep, no one gave voice to it.
After the evening’s meal, the plan fermented itself, drawing also upon the resources of Querl, Jan and other members of the court.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Sixty-three
The world blurred by like a waterfall – as if from behind the falls looking out. Sometimes it sped by, while others it seemed to slow to a crawl, as if the blur before her eyes was a painted tapestry only slowly peeling away to reveal another layer beneath.
Sometimes she felt as if she floated in a calm vat of blossomed waters. Other times she felt as if entombed in the smallest of burial vaults.
But now it seemed as if she was a guppy slowly approaching some mystic lake’s surface, trying to glean what went on in the world above. Was it really a lake? It was so hard to tell. She told herself it must be one, and she replied that it made as much sense as anything.
Above her, upon the lake’s surface, she saw Dyrk. He was shining with confidence and charisma and the burning aura of a sun god, and proudly adorned in golden armour, a mix of Celtic and classic Greek design. His eyes no longer held the disengagement of the past – somehow, he seemed like he was no longer even himself…
…the image faded. A new one slowly formed, as if a bed of kelp were shedding fragments and leaves to the surface, providing the tapestry for an image to form onto.
She saw Imra, her queen and one-time friend, visiting the humble cottage of a Christian hermit, in North Cymru. She seemed quite friendly and at ease with the little old priest of the one-god, even deferential. This did not fit. What would a woman of Avalon be doing there? Yet this vision held no trickery, she knew.
The image unwove into the shimmering waves of a lake-like surface, and a new one formed in its place. This transformation of image had happened hundreds of times, she guessed, yet only snippets of revelation remained in her grasp. This time, she saw her husband – conspiring with the villainess who must have done her in! Them, together!? What madness could this mean? Betrayal! Her rage caused the visions to disperse like a swirling cloud of stirred up mud across the lake surface, and she forced herself upright with great strain.
Settle down, childe. You’ll soon forget whatever has stirred you.
She had forgotten she was never alone in this strange lake.
No! I want to remember this! I need to!
Remembering has its price. Every time you have stirred before, you have been unwilling to pay it.
Maybe. But I need to, now!
Do you remember the price?
…no.
The voice sighed. Right, then. Here is what you have to do for us…
She felt the pit in her stomach as the deal was outlined to her. She internally winced as she agreed to the terms.
Upward she plowed herself through waters as thick as chilled honey, with a fury that pumped through her veins whilst yet fighting to keep from losing it from memory. Deal or no, this lake was no friend to retention of thought-lines.
Breaking the surface, her gasp for air turned into a cry of anguish – except that her vocal chords were numb from disuse. A thin rattle was all that escaped from her lungs.
With pounding head, she began to cope with the reality of air, wind, and cold. These sensations were real, hard, harsh… everything existence below the lake’s surface had not been.
She was now quite drenched, still mostly immersed in a pool of milky, shimmering waters – a well, perhaps, given the detailed stonework that surrounded her. A lonely but steady trickle of water dripped down upon her from a small stone lion’s head, and a metallic grate separated her below from a green-tinted world above. The songs of birds were her sole accompaniment.
“Um. Hello?” She hoped her words were as loud on the outside as they sounded to her inside the well.
A small, dark man, wrinkly and grey-haired, peered down at her, then departed. Before she could muster a scream, he returned with a lantern. Studying her face for a virtual eternity, a smile of sorts accompanied his nod, and he backed away with a grunt. Whether the smile was one of evil satisfaction or benevolence, she could fathom not. Her observer was of an age where many expressions could be read as a frown.
Soon after, he returned with two knights, who lifted the grate off of the well and lifted her out. She was in a gardened courtyard under a sky as green as glass, and a regally dressed man of middle years approached her. A handful of unkempt strands of wiry, silvery-white hair (whose? she could not fathom) draped down over her face.
“The currents of the worldstream were none too kind to you, my Lady,” he bowed. His guest placed her hands over her own face; where the smooth skin of youth and fullness of cheek should have been, there were wrinkles clinging to a face of bone, and an odd bump or two.
“How… how many years have passed?” she managed at last, trying to contain the scream yearning to escape. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“Not but a year and a half, I fear. You are in the Kingdom of Gorre. I am king Bagdemagus. Welcome back to the land of the living, my Lady Mysa.”
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Three Hundred and Sixty-four
Val arrived in Lothian to find a sea of refugees, shambles where many a stone building once stood, confusion and a calm bitterness that followed such an epic battle of which had had heard much. As soon as word had reached the Orkneys he rushed down, and even with the Chalice-bearer Dindrane and the Druids tending to the maimed there was still much carnage.
He felt guilty for not having joined Andrew and aided the effort. Now his friend and many of his countrymen were dead, his liege and even the mighty MacKell had been severely wounded so much that the Chalice aided their healings less than completely.
Rokk, still weak in the legs, was being carried about by Lothian soldiers, and Val found him inspecting the wooden huts and stockades being hastily built to house and defend Lothian’s populace. The high king greeted him stoically and set him to work, offering none of the rebuke Val almost wished for.
He set out working amongst his countrymen, demanding nor expecting any concession as their prince. “There is too much to be done to worry about formalities,” he told them. He worked, ate and slept alongside the common soldiers and able-bodied peasants, and was grateful for the honest labours rather than facing his kin.
Once or twice, he spied the Princess Jecka tending to the peasantry, and avoided her. He was both glad to see her alive and well, and embarrassed that his sometime-paramour had been there to fight the monster when he had not.
Word eventually filtered up to the nobles of his deeds, and he was summoned before his father as his military encampment on the inland plateau near the ruined city.
“You return to Lothian but shun your family?” King Lot asked with quiet concern and even warmth. Despite everything that had happened, it was good to see his son.
“I… When I arrived, I merely saw how much needed to be done,” he blurted. “In truth, I am ashamed that I was not here to help fight the beast.”
Lot nodded. “And mayhap you would have been among the dead. This was no beast for a mere warrior, let alone one who spurns the sword, to have fought.”
“But had I fought-”
“-You would have felt less the coward than you do now.” Lot embraced his second son, an uncharacteristic move for the man. “No warrior can be there for every fight, son. Tis no use feeling guilty for things beyond your control. You’ve carried enough guilt as it is, from what I hear.
“Come. Your mother and the Princess Jecka have heard you are about, and addle their minds as they concoct reasons why you hide from them. Come; put their hearts at rest.”
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Three Hundred and Sixty-five
The battle was over almost as soon as it began. Macedonian supplies were already en route to Kentish families who had lost members to Macedonian skirmishes, Macedonian steeds were appropriated for the Londinium cavalry, and the troop escorts were pressed into hard labours and sent a-marching to the northwest, where the walls of Camelot slowly continued to ascend.
All these deeds were signed into writing by the signature of the Macedonian vice prefect Mantos, a braggartly but cowardly scrip-counter assigned to supervise the regular supplying of Durobrivae. All these deeds were ordered by Sir Jonah – with his sword just inches from Mantos’ throat.
With the last of the caravan disbursed, Jonah had Mantos and the non-combatant members of the caravan continue to Durobrivae on foot, with a stern warning to the commanders to stop harming British citizens. Mantos muttered a vow of vengeance under his breath upon his humiliating departure.
“We’ll be back, in greater numbers,” he found the courage to shout aloud.
Jonah smiled and waved, infuriating the clerk even more. That’s just what we’re counting on, he thought.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Sixty-six
“I cannot believe Avalon schemes as you imply,” Cador was quite insulted. “I have only left Avalon since the Khund war, and cannot believe it has changed as you say.”
“But it has,” Governal insisted. “Azura and Mysa have feuded, and Mysa has vanished by treachery. Imra has cast aside her guise as Guinevere, and listens more to the Christian priests than to Avalon. Rokk has aligned with the Bear-King of the Picts, or so they say, and Azura has cursed him. And Avalon has aligned with the fae-queen calling herself Maeve, who summoned the great serpent to Britain just weeks ago.”
Cador could not lightly dismiss the word of Governal, who was the sage to the Cornish court since before even Gorlois’ father was born.
“I… should return to the Teacher’s Isle, then, to see if what you say is true. But verily, I cannot ken that it could be. I trust you can manage without me for the time being?”
Governal nodded. “Marcus’ melancholies rise and fall with the moon, or so it seems. The moon is now a-waning. It will be weeks before his mania again is at its peak.”
Cador rose. “I must retire early, then, my friend, if I am to start for Glastonbury in the morning.”
“If I might as one boon?’ Governal waited for Cador’s nod. “I have an amulet. It was the Lady Kiwa’s. It should be in Avalon, not among an old man’s memorabilia. But if Azura is not to be trusted-”
“-Then I can have the Teachers hold it until the Priestesses again are ruled by a Lady of quality.” Cador smiled. He accepted the amulet and departed.
Alone, Governal walked the halls of Tintagel castle, pondering his lost pupils, especially Mysa, and whatever had happened to her. “Well, Mysa, I’ve done as Mordru wished. I hope he finds the answers – or satisfaction – from Avalon that you would require,” he whispered to himself.
The night carried distant sounds to the castle walls. Above the steady pattern of waves crashing ashore, he could hear a dog in the nearby fishing village. It moaned and wailed in pain, another dying victim of the plague.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Sixty-seven
By July’s end, Dindrane had done as much as she could in Lothian and the surrounding coasts. She and the Druids had even toured Dalraida to tend to victims. They also transported with them the physically healed but still asleep Ulster knight. There, the King Domangart was a thankless host, acting as if his lands had taken the brunt, not Lothian. He demanded to know the whereabouts of the Justice of Balor, but refused to name why he was so interested.
She was quite weary and ready to return to Avalon. It was a long road back, through Rhyged, Cumbria, Deva (where her party met Queen Imra’s on its journey eastward) and North Cymru. The high queen was quite disturbed to see MacKell with them, still lacking consciousness, mobility and awareness.
Prince Pharoxx and Beren awaited them at Segontium, Voxv’s capital. North Cymru would be providing an armed escort to the sacred grove that served as the gateway to the Druid Isle of Avalon, as Beren reported a host of Druids had been slain by a strange creature who spoke in rhymes.
The Cymru woods, long a place of comfort and safety to the young priestess, now felt claustrophobic. Every tree could be hiding the fiend that laughed as it struck down the priests of the forest.
It was late morning in the dark forest when they reached the edge of the grove. A thunderstorm had been slowly following them, but now lightning crashes were getting closer and louder.
The grove itself was still surrounded by an impenetrable hedge of thorns, impassable unless one was accompanied by a Druid of rank who knew how to call for the branches to part and open the way. Beren was among a half-dozen with Dindrane who could, and presently where a mesh of magickal, razor-sharp thorns had blocked the way there was now an arched hallway nearly 20 feet high and at least four (maybe six or seven) times as long through the barrier.
A lightning directly flash above them briefly illuminated the otherwise opaque brambles, and despite her shock at the light and deafening thunderclap, she could see deep in the hedge the metallic remnants of invaders who tried to hack their way through the hedge: Irish spears, Northman battleaxes, Roman armour, swords of various types. None any more than 25 feet deep into the hedge. What little bone was left was largely intertwined into the brambles. It was both comforting and chilling to think of the hedge as carnivorous, but it was. Necessarily so, after what the Romans had done to the Druids of Mona.
The inner courtyard of the Druids contained a stone circle at least as large as the one on the plains of Salisbury, each adorned (and some overgrown) with specific plants of which she, despite all her instruction, could only identify a handful.
But more unusual on this visit were the remaining bloodstains. Druids had been slaughtered here, despite the hedge’s defenses. Dindrane glanced around nervously, wondering how the creature got in – and where was it now?
The rain began in a torrent, and Dindrane was almost ready to seek shelter. Beren placed a calming hand on her shoulder, as if to say, “no. We must not rest here.”
The continued, into the hedge maze that leads to Avalon.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Sixty-eight
Reep and Querl finished setting up the modified computi structure early in the morning, hopefully secure beneath the brush that concealed them. Reep felt vulnerable, working at ground level so close to the town walls, but there was no other choice. The Saracen knight Sir Palomides, Sir Brek and Dag were their sole defenders should they be spotted prematurely.
It was an in-the-field experiment, Querl conceded. Never before had he and Loomius concentrated multiple computi components into a single structure, let alone with flammables. A miscalculation or misfire could ignite the entire battery.
Reep wished L’ile was back from the far north isle. They had much to discuss: recent news, strategies, construction of Camelot, and of course the ongoing Dark Circle and White Triangle matters.
Not challenging the Macedonians right after the Khund war was wise, Reep had agreed – but leaving them for almost a year was a mistake, and he questioned his foster-brother’s wisdom in getting so entangled in other matters. Getting wounded in Lothian battling sea creatures could not be helped, twas true… but he felt uneasy about conducting an operation he knew Rokk would want to lead himself.
Jenni was tackling Macedonian scouts and relaying messages, and Iasmin’s cavalry was ready just a half-league away beyond the ridge. A hastily assembled West Country force led by Sir Garth was watching for riders or detatchments from the other Macedonian regiment at Portus Magnus, and nearly half of Kiritan’s men had been filtering into occupied Durobrivae via the river Medway itself since last night. The other half were in the opposite brush, hundreds of yards away, awaiting a success from Querl’s modified unit. So much was in his, Querl’s and Stig’s hands.
Without scouts, and surrounded by a strange shift in Kentish morale, the Macedonians would be anticipating trouble, and drilling – but the question was, did they think they could hold the walls and the citizenry at the same time?
Jonah was marching with Londinium’s army into plain view of the walls. It would soon be time to deliver the surprise Jonah’s plan relied upon.
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Three Hundred and Sixty-nine
Sir Lu returned to Londinium early. The Queen’s retinue was continuing across the north to Rhyged, Dalraida and Lothian, but she felt an inexplicable need to regroup with her sole surviving sister.
Londinium was beginning to swelter with the first of the summer’s heat, and she could not help but be appalled by the number of dog corpses she found herself stepping over. Some had been left out to die, some had been killed.
She had heard of the plague during her own recovery in Glastonbury, of course, and could not help but feel guilty. But all she had seen was a notable absence of dogs in Britain south of Deva, none or few in the numerous villages, hamlets and thorps, and maybe a weak hound lying in the green whimpering. Only in Verulamium had she seen a tall hunting dog looking at her in desperate hope, shivering despite the early summer warmth, too skinny for health’s sake, and standing over a set of pups too weak to do any more than twitch.
Londinium was quiet. Few guards, soldiers or knights were out on Lu’s first visit since the war, and she had to wonder if the festive city she had known had faced too much in too few years’ time to ever recover itself.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Seventy
Even as a priestess, Mysa had learned to travel the country trails and avoid the roads where merchants, brigands, mercenaries, soldiers and nobles might travel. It was safer, often easier, and ones passings often went unnoticed except to the country folk who hosted and honoured the priestesses and kept their travels secret.
Now in the involuntary guise of a crone, Mysa found travels even easier – none paid attention to her at all, lest alone those who might be conflicted by whether to keep her confidence – or Thora’s.
She found herself tiring easy, and was grateful for the pony Bagdemagus had granted her. With a little lard, it looked too mangy for even a highwayman to bother with taking from a little old lady.
Mysa instinctively knew she needed allies in Avalon. If Thora and Mordru plotted treachery, then they had already rendered Azura irrelevant. She could not go to the Priestesses – any priestesses. Whose word would they take? Azura could be clueless about what transpires right behind her back.
There was Beren, of course. In some ways, she thought of him as who Mordru could have been. Beren would listen and investigate. The Teachers were too self-absorbed and removed from the schemes of one like Mordru.
Mordru.
She shivered. She had loved him, and she had even joined him once in plotting how to take Avalon. He too knew that Beren and the Priestesses would be they key links between Avalon and the outer world; she could be blind-sided already if she approached the Druids unprepared.
Not Beren, then. Pellam.
Surely the kindly old king, Kiwa’s old friend, was enough of a wise and influential soul to help her warn Avalon as to what was to come.
Pellam’s castle was at most a few days north from Corinium. Even taking the byways, she should make it within the week.
Posted by Karie on :
Brilliant! Please sir... Can we have some more?
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Seventy-one
Sussiah could not believe the sheer ease of her quest thus far.
Of all the isles of Avalon, no one at all seemed to bother with one adjacent to the Brethren, an isle of short brushy plants but nary a tree. Here she could make her camp, watch her for quarry while even catching fish or small game to live on. All it took was patience, resolve and wit not to be caught.
Neither the Brethren nor Druids ventured here, and the farther isles of the Priestesses and Teachers were far easier to remain unseen from.
Some nights, Sussiah would sneak close to the Brethren to gain a better lay of the land she would later need, and nights near the full moon were especially aglow in Avalon. She wagered that she could probably enter the priests’ very huts and look through their possessions, but as tempting as that was, she was here for a larger prize than any prayer beads or manuscripts.
Yet sometimes, whether close to the Brethren or on the Isle of Heath (as she later learned they called it), she sometimes felt that a man was watching her – a big, silent man who watched her like she was an amusing girl-childe playing in her mother’s ribbons. But when she turned, there was never anyone there. Well, almost never – once on the Isle of Heath, she turned and saw in the distance and there on the isle of the Brethren he stood watching her – a tall, large-framed man of older-middle years, exactly as she’d imagined. He looked at her as if to say I know who you are and what you’re planning, and she could tell he was smiling, like an indulgent parent knowingly letting a child get away with only so much.
It was almost enough to make her give up, or at least to rethink her plan. Could he actually stop her, when the time came?
In the drizzle of the next night, she thought and rethought, fearing even to sleep more than the odd catnap.
The daylight offered no answers, nor the night or morning that followed.
But the afternoon that followed brought a commotion on the Druid Isle – a large contingent of Druids and knights.
This in and of itself was not of Sussiah’s concern – until she saw the maiden with them. Her heart skipped a beat! If this was her, then her prize had returned with her!
The time for hunting game was over; the time for acting had arrived!
And on the isle of the Josephite brethren, Pelles watched Sussiah with sadness, no longer a smile.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Seventy-two
Queen Imra and her entourage reached Lothian in mid-July, not long after word had reached Rokk of the doings at Durobrivae.
He greeted his bride coolly.
“Jonah, Garth and Reep think themselves capable enough to wage wars without consulting me. My wife conducts botched diplomacy, casts aside state secrets and announces them in person to every court in the land. I should be pleased that everyone feels the whim to let their king know these things after the fact, I suppose.” He was calm and collected in his sarcasm, at least.
“My lord husband, I-”
“Am I not king of this land? Have I not fought, bled and nearly died time and again for this land and all its people?” Now his ire began to appear.
“..You have.”
“Have I not been friend and ally to Avalon and Church, to pagan and Christian, to Roman, Celt, Kentish Khund, Angle, Cymry, Pict, Irish and Manx?”
“Aye.”
“So why… Why is it every time I slay one beast, solve one riddle, thwart one war, I find my friends and family have invited five more in its stead?”
Imra had enough. “Maybe you spend too much time amongst your Pictish friends siring bastards that you have forgotten that your kingdom extends south of Lothian!”
“If my wife didn’t moon after the oh-so-pretty Sir Garth, mayhap my attentions need not so wander! I have seen my brother Reep but thrice since Jormangund – and you and he returned from Paris at the same time. Perhaps this newcomer Sir Bedwyr retains your interest more than your liege and husband?”
“The evils from your tongue betray only the evils in your heart! I have not cast aside my fidelity for anyone, let alone some cave-dweller!”
Rokk was startled. “Thou speak truly?”
What cause hath I given that thou should so doubt me? Why hast thine heart grown so darkened since ere before the Khund war?
“I… am not sure. I thought perhaps that I had merely cast aside my youthful notions, that I had learnt of how men and kings truly must act in this world, but sometimes…” He sighed. “Sometimes it seems everything slips away from me. And everyone.” He turned and walked to the window. Outside, work continued as normal on rebuilding Lothian, oblivious to his marital difficulties.
Imra came up behind him, easing up against him and placing her hand over his on the sill.
“I have been busy, tis true. But I should not have neglected my husband. Maybe… maybe I felt that with you so long in the North, that I could serve your duties in Londinium. I know, tis foolish, when spoken aloud…”
“No. Except for this Clovis business, you did well enough, my wife. In truth, maybe I am mad that I cannot be everywhere I am needed.”
“You’ve done what you can here. Tis time to return to Londinium. Time for us to move on from all this.”
“Aye,” he conceded. “Our son still travels with you? I would very much like to see him.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Seventy-three
The old woman paused in front of the graves.
They were clearly set in a place of particular honour. But who could be here buried? Certainly not Geraint!
Mysa caught her breath at the unsavoury concept that crossed her mind. Marcus was addled, it was well-known, and she had certainly heard many tales of his madness en route. But could he have murdered her sister and Sir Thom?
Peasants and merchants she had known passed by her with no heed. They would have recognized the young woman who had once been their queen, but not the withered old figure they now barely noticed.
“Fear not. There is no one in those graves,” a young man said as he passed, presumably a tradesman doing business at the castle. “Our mad liege thinks his son and love are under the dirt though.” He tossed her a coin. “Please spoil not the secret should you see him a-ranting out here, eh?
Mysa picked up the coin and began to wander back toward the village. On the way, she learned from the gossip of outbound farm folk that Queen Nura had fled Britain with Sir Thom. Pellam dead, Nura exiled, Imra probably still hated her… who was there to turn to? Traveling tired her more than it should; she was an old woman in more than just appearance. There was a nice smooth rock that would be good for a rest…
…It was late in the afternoon; she had nodded off and not realized. She rose and made her way into the village when she happened upon an elderly man also making the half-mile walk from castle to village. He seemed familiar.
“Governal?”
He turned, offering an affable smile.
“Yes?” He clearly saw her not as anything but one of the local old hens who knew all the castle staff, yet was not individually known in turn.
“Governal, it’s me,” she knew better than to expect him to recognize her. When last they met some 20 months ago, she was a yet a woman in her last phase of turning young men’s heads. “It’s Mysa.”
The recognition in his eyes took barely a second. “Mysa! Tis you!” He was overjoyed, even as concern washed over him. “But what has befallen you? This is no disguise, no seeming, is it?”
“No, tis not. Come, my old mentor. Let us find someplace that we can share counsels. We have much to discuss.”
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Seventy-four
“And you say the kingship of Drest has changed us,” Tasmia scoffed.
“Priestess of Shadows you may be, but Shadows have not protected us from Jormangund nor the Irish,” Grev admonished. He and the other warlords who won acclaim in the Southlands had presented their new king with their idea, and he agreed – so long as they could muster support from the clans.
Thus far, most had agreed, he noted. “Only the Yakka-Mahor have refused us. Yet even they will be welcome within our walls. It will be a magnificent fortress, guarding the south end of the Great Glen. Fit for any people in any place.”
“Fit for any king?” Tasmia scoffed. “You see how the Southlanders value their nobles, whether or not they are of their own Folk. Now we adopt their kings, their fortresses. What is next? Shall it be their women carrying the seed of our menfolk? Or vice versa?”
It was Grev’s turn to scoff. “If you had seen how the fortifications of the Southlands had held off a single force of Khundish invaders than there are Picts in all the lands, you would see the need. Spears and stone-axes will do naught when invaders come with catapults, siege towers and computi. If we do not adapt to the tools of others, those tools will destroy us!”
There was a truth to the words, but Tasmia was uncomfortable with that. “Or do we just become Southlanders, saving them the trouble of conquest?”
She stormed off, regretting directing such anger at her kinsman. He had seen the Southlands, it was true. Perhaps he and the other warlords were just in building walls and fortresses… but she couldn’t help but feel the shroud of prophesy falling upon the land.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Seventy-five
She watched.
She watched the Druids with pomp and ceremony bring her prize to the Josephites brethren, and the brethren accept with a humble air of ceremonial of their own.
She followed from a distance as the brethren returned the prize to a resting place, a secret compartment hidden behind the lion’s head of the very well she passed upon entering this magickal land. So much the better!
Giddy with how easy the kind, generous and naïve priesthood had been, she merely waited a half-hour for them to return to their suppertime chores before helping herself to the prize; she would not even bother to return for her camp supplies.
The secret compartment opened with ease – surely in this hidden land where all but herself was sacred and oath-bound no one would need elaborate locks, or maybe locks of any kind at all.
Sussiah paused to admire the prize. Cauldron, Chalice, Grail, whatever it was, it was small, golden, and easily carried, either formally, levelly with two hands or more sloppily with one. Sussiah’s sack made an even better vessel. She paused, and was off, back down the grotto tunnel by which she had arrived.
Pelles stopped chopping the greens for the evening meal and without a word bolted towards the grotto.
His brethren were perplexed, and one stepped up to take over the duty, assuming he would be back in moments. Pelles was a good man and good brother; no doubt he would sheepishly make up for his erratic moment with extra chores.
It never occurred to any of them that they would never see Pellam’s son again.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Seventy-six
Mysa was delighted to have Governal’s aid in catching up on matters. He, too, was delighted to reunite with his former charge and student, even if she was now of an age with him.
They shocked each other as well. He was shocked at what she had gone through, and that the mythical land of Gorre was still an active participant in the world. She in turn was shocked that Mordru and his aid Iason (why did that name and description seem so familiar?) were moving on Avalon in retaliation for wrongs done to her, and that Governal had himself aided this effort.
“Still, everything will be set a-right. Cador will help us, once he returns from the Teachers,” he platonically squeezed her hand in his mentorly-but-familial way.
“Cador,” she repeated. She recalled him from Avalon, but knew him not so well as Governal. She recalled his Cornish accent more than his face to be honest, and she could only hope her beloved mentor’s trust was not misplaced.
The weeks continued to breeze by. She was made quarters in the castle, and welcomed as a peer of Governal and Cador. Marcus rarely left the keep these days, whether deep in melancholy or outbursts of mania, and she helped to tend to him.
One day a knight turned up seeking hospitality. Governal knew him well; he was of South Cymru and his name was Accolon. He was dark in features, clearly of olde blood. He greeted her like a queen, and looked at her not as a withered old woman.
“I have some traces of the Sight,” he explained to her one day as they walked along the cliff-top pastures, as they were doing more and more often of late. “More then men-folk are supposed to. Or so I am told,” he smiled.
“And they say men who have womanly qualities are not real men,” she laughed. “Yet you are every bit the knight, the man anyone could ask!”
He smiled. “And you, every bit the woman. I see you despite the enchantment forced upon you,” he turned and looked at her with a warmth and zeal she was taken aback. “And I know that you did not get free of the Far Realms just to accept life as the sage-crone.”
She nodded. “I am hoping that the Teachers-”
“-The Teachers and indeed all of Avalon do nothing, while those of the one-god steal our island out from under us! Come with me, Mysa. My lord and I are gathering those who would remind King Rokk that Britain is the Dragon’s Isle, not the Cross’s.” His passion was infectious, and Mysa could not help but be intrigued – and attracted.
“You have earned my ear,” she smiled.
“With Marcus’ dementia, you are queen of Cornwall in all but name. The people will follow you. You can undo the influences of Geraint. The West Country must be the heart of noble olde Britain again, and in your service, we can do it!”
The warm summer evenings brought forth wines and music, and the courtship political and romantic continued. Governal caught on; one night he whispered a comment that Garth was not the only younger knight seeking her skirts, even despite her aging, before retiring for the evening.
Did he really see her as a younger woman? Or did he see the same withered appearance everyone else did, but merely see that it was but a façade? The way he caressed her, stroked her hair, she felt young again, and in the dark she could at last forget her skin was not an old woman’s.
Three days later, they rode off together, bound for Exteter.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Seventy-seven
Laoraighll had escorted the queen across all of Britain and back, with few courts unvisited by Laoraighll, and none missed by the queen or the rest of her escorts. It was necessary work protecting the queen from villains who had been few and far between.
Rokk and Imra had ruled ably enough, and the lineage and death of Pellam led tongues that several years ago had fueled the conspiracies of the rebel kings were now welcoming and conciliatory. Britain was as united as it ever had been, possibly more so, and Imra was accepted as herself as part of that.
Despite the necessity of the task, the Ulsterwoman was bored.
When Imra left Dalraida to go east to Lothian, Laoraighll had gone west, home to Ulster. It was unsettling, a reminder of how much she was changing, becoming at home in Britain – those of Ulster laughed at her accent, her styles and mannerisms. Going home in body is nae the same as going home in the heart, she realized.
She rejoined the royal procession at Eboracum, with King Rokk now a part of the troupe returning to Londinium. They arrived to find that the celebration of Durobrivae’s liberation had come and gone. Now, all were waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Laoraighll had no patience to hear Rokk screaming at his officers, that they initiated a military campaign without him (let alone successfully), and departed – without leave. An odd humour set about her, and she felt almost queasy.
In the morning, Lu found her in bed shivering, vomiting, unable to speak.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Seventy-eight
Sir Reep inspected the site. Construction was going well. It would take years to complete Camelot, of course, but the portions already built, additions to the original garrison, were impressive, and the preliminary outer walls facing the coast had already earned their keep.
It was just past dusk, near the foundations of the west tower that Reep heard the screams.
“Help! Help! Get it off of me!” It was an old man’s voice.
Reep drew his sword and charged.
A man in robe with long flowing white hair (did he seem familiar?) was trying in vain to fend off – a monstrous creature trying to latch onto the man’s head – to consume him, no doubt!
Reep drew his sword and charged. “What manner of creature art thou?”
“It’s a demon!” the old man blurted. Old man?!? – it was Mordru!! Surprised by the victim’s identity, Reep was knocked groundward by the demon, his sword flying as well.
Reep pulled his dirk and tried again. “Begone, vile fiend! You have no place in this place, the fortress of King Rokk!” Somehow he had imagined demons would be yellow-skinned and breathing fire, but this one--
He swung, but the fiend was gone. It was suddenly attacking him from behind.
“‘King’ Rokk, you say? And who made him king?” The creature asked in a low, grumbly voice.
Reep swung, but the creature parried.
“He is the son and heir of the High King Uther the Pendragon, recognized king by the Church, the Druids and the Lady of the Lake!”
The creature shoved him and was gone again. Suddenly it attacked him from overhead.
“Some watery tart lying in ponds distributing scimitars is no basis for a system of government,” the creature said while fighting with its array of small, miscellaneous limbs. “Now in my realm, we govern ourselves by collective-”
Reep managed to score a cut into the bug-like demon, and it yelped as it vanished in a circle of darkness.
Reep looked around, expecting it to be back. Cautiously, he made his way to his sword before greeting the wizard.
“You have my thanks,” Mordru smiled. “Where- where am I anyway?”
“At Camulodunum. How did you get here, without knowing?” Reep was suspicious.
“As you know, my wife Mysa has been missing for the past year and a half. I have been seeking her out, by looking in every otherworldly place I can think of, where those lost in the lake of the worlds may come ashore.”
Wife? Reep didn’t know that. “We are far from Glastonbury.”
“Aye, so we are. But the Far Realms do not behave as our maps would have us believe.”
“So why here?”
“There was a… gateway I was going to explore, here, at the marsh’s edge.” Mordru glanced around and pointed. “It only materializes at dawn and dusk, but it will appear over near where the tower’s foundation is laid.”
“We’re building our fortress on a gateway to God-knows-where?”
“To Avalon, it turns out. I suspect the wards preventing me from entering summoned up that demon against me. So I’ve wasted my voyage here. I’m forbidden from even checking out the gate by stepping through it and back again.”
“Well, I wish you luck. I hop you fid her. I… miss her.”
I’m glad someone at court does, Mordru thought. “I owe you a boon. Here,” he held out an amulet. “Should you choose to check out the Avalon gate yourself, this will help you find your way through and back.”
Reep was still deeply suspicious, but took the amulet.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Seventy-nine
Word had spread of Jonah’s victory at Durobrivae, which nobles from across the isle attributed to a master plan of Rokk himself. His knights magnanimously said nothing to the contrary. Rokk in turn would accept the situation so long as he was not circumvented again. Noble after noble either visited court themselves or sent messengers of nobility themselves, and by early autumn the victory was celebrated all over again.
But the Macedonians had gotten the message to. The Portus Magnus force was tripled almost immediately, Jenni reported, and reprisals against locals were increasing.
Where did they get the troops so quickly? Tis not an short voyage from the Middle Seas, Rokk wondered. He sent word for Reep to rejoin him from Camelot. With L’ile absent and Querl, like Loomius still recovering from their burn wounds, he needed his foster-brother’s advice on strategy.
Rokk took advantage of the visiting nobles to lobby for a new force to remove the invaders once and for all. Vassal after vassal pledged such support, and offered everything from tactical advice to an expeditionary force to Nuhorra itself.
On the fourth day of feasts and plans, a messenger arrived from Neustria. Rokk expected the messenger would request a private audience, but no, the messenger wanted to address them all.
“Greetings, lords, ladies and knights of Britain. Lucius, Duke of Neustria and its Northern Territories salute you. We bring greetings also from our kind and just liege, Clovis, King of the Franks.
“As you know, relations between ourselves and your court have been quite cordial, and we wish it to remain so. Bretons and Franks alike must stand together as the Khund continues to bear down upon us all.
“Therefore it is imperative that such cooperation continue. On Britain’s behalf, we have petitioned Clovis to forgive the trespass done by a shameless hussy who will claim any noble lineage her quick tongue finds-”
At this point, the messenger was shouted down by the assembled court, and Imra returned hard the stare from Jancel, who had spoken not to her since Pellam’s funeral.
Rokk called for order and for silence, particularly calling upon Jonah to sheath his dirk. “Harm not the messenger for the folly of his masters!’ Achieving order, he motioned for the messenger to continue.
“Our just and wise lord has consulted with Symmachus, Bishop of Rome and Pontiff of the Living Church of Iesous. Our wise fathers are in agreement that in order to save and protect all good Christians from the heathens of Khundia, the North and elsewhere, the time has come to reunite the Empire under the banner of Clovis.”
Rokk had to hush a wave of negative reaction yet again, although this one was less irate than the prior round.
“With the blessings of Clovis, the young King Rokk may remain king of Britain as vassal to Clovis-”
This time, the messenger continued as no tongue would be spared at verbally flaying Lucius, Clovis and the messenger himself. Few heard his next words:
“On the conditions that he put aside his current woman and wed a proper Christian bride of true nobility, surrender the villain Sir Thom to our good and noble allies of Nuhorra, and offer such tribute as your liege deems fitting.”
The crowd had simmered down enough for more to hear his conclusion.
“Should young King Rokk fail to satisfy these reasonable expectations and refuse to rule as a responsible Christian, then we, by royal appointment of Clovis and with the full approval of Symmachus, shall be the true and proper ruler of the province of Britain within the restored Empire. In such an unfortunate event, Rokk and any warrior who stands with him will be sentenced to hard labours as the Emperor sees fit. With much joy and love, Lucius, Duke of Neustria.”
“I’LL show you JOY AND LOVE, villain!” James was ready to strike down the man.
“No messengers shall be slain in my name!” Rokk commanded. “Yon man is no warrior. He is a courier of messages, and with his approval I would like to send one to Lucius.”
“My lord expected as much, your highness,” he replied.
“Greetings and salutations, Lucius of Neustria. We continue to be appreciative of mutually beneficial efforts of the past, and are disturbed that any lord like Clovis who would claim the mantle of a Christian emperor would harbour a dangerous heretic like the would-be cleric Vidar, who uses the name of our Saviour only to disguise his evils. It would be unseemly to offer the just Sir Thom, even if it were actually reasonable to do so, while such a villain preys upon the court of Clovis. We understand that Clovis’ impressions of our bride and queen were influenced by this viper as well, so thus we cannot honour such a request as it was made in haste, ignorance and deceit that are the very hallmark of Vidar himself. While many sons of Rome here in Britain would welcome a return to Empire and a united front against the Khunds, it would be nothing less than an affront to our Lord and Saviour Iesous Cristi to do so with His enemies whispering in the very ear of he who would be our emperor. With all our blessings for peace and unity untainted by evil, Rokk, King of Britain."
“Did you get all that?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then go in peace. Sirs Berach and James? Would you escort the messenger safely from our shores?”
Kiritan was the first to speak when the guest had left. “T’would seem we know now where the new troops at Portus Magnus have come from.’
“Aye, they’d likely have been sent even if we’d never taken Durobrivae. They’ve been looking for an excuse to push us.”
“They made a mistake, giving us this year to catch our breaths. I want Portus Magnus back in British hands before the messenger reaches Neustria!” Rokk commanded, receiving a tempest of cheers.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
Three Hundred and Eighty
“Ah! My ‘Wild Huntsman’ returns!” Aivillagh greeted Sir Accolon. “And you must be—” The lord of Exeter was taken aback. “M-my Lady Mysa! But you’re so-
“Forgive me,” he recovered himself.
“Tis all-a-right. I am still not used to the reflection I see in the washing bowl,” she laughed.
“No matter. We are all here for one purpose,” Accolon sought to move beyond the faux pas.
‘We must save Avalon from Mordru,” Mysa agreed.
“And from itself,” Aivillagh added. “Beren ages and slows, with none in sight to replace him. The Teachers remain aloof. Azura’s authority over her own priestesses began to wane the day you vanished.” He waved for his servants to bring in wine and bowls of fish stew for his visitors.
“She met with King Rokk a few weeks later, I’ve learned. After this, she began attending more to the Queen than ever, as if she no longer saw Rokk as worth trifling with,” Accolon added.
“They say he turned his allegiance away from Avalon, to the Pictish priestesses last winter,” Aivillagh said. “He has even sired a bastard up there, tis said.”
“I cannot believe that!” Mysa had to protect her younger brother.
“Boys grow up and learn the ways of men. Kings especially have to learn faster. He’s changed since you’ve last met. They call him the bear-king now.”
“Even so, I’ll not hear such words until I see it with my own eyes!”
“Of course. My apologies, my Lady,” Aivillagh backed down. “Tis only my lament for seeing the Olde Ways erode. I once saw King Rokk as Avalon’s ally, whilst now Avalon itself falls into slumber.”
“You mentioned there are none to replace Beren? What about Llanfair? Taidg? MacCullough?”
‘Truthfully – could any of them ever serve as Beren has? As Azura falls short of Kiwa, so too must any who follow Beren, I fear,” Aivillagh sighed. “Avalon long trained generation after generation of this land’s best. First, we started losing them to Rome. And now to the Christians. Avalon used to turn away pupils, we had so many seeking to learn its ways. There were enough to stay, to commit to Avalon, but even those who went home again remained in her service.”
“I… need to see my brother. His bride and I feuded and I left court, but I must see him. I cannot be part of any conspiracy against him, I tell you that.”
Aivillagh was hurt. “We- I- merely want him to remain true to the Avalon of Beren and Kiwa, that the traditions of Britain persevere. I do not wish to move against him, my Lady! Mind also that myself and many others regard you as our queen.”
“An honour I cannot accept whilst Marcus yet lives, nor while Nura and Thom are exiled.”
“They will never serve,” Aivillagh said. “Thom won’t, in any case. Too many still begrudge him for Geraint.”
“Even though Geraint’s brother holds Portus Magnus hostage,” Accolon added.
“Aye. But in death Geraint is purified of that, or so it seems in my talks with my fellow West Countrymen,” Aivillagh replied.
“We seem to have drifted from the issue of finding allies. What of Imra? Was she not raised in Avalon, and of the Olde line?” Accolon asked. “Even if she and Mysa are at odds, cannot someone approach her?”
“Imra… consorts with Christians these days. To what extent I know not,” Mysa offered.
“Yet Azura was with her of late, helping to smooth the waters with nobles. She cast aside her guise as Guinevere, you know,” Aivilalgh reported.
Mysa nodded. “I cannot approach her, or even enter court, not knowing where I stand with either of them. I shall approach Sir Brandius instead. Governal tells me he spends little time at court just now.”
“Tis true,” Aivillagh nodded. “I heard him say as much at Pellam’s funeral. He jested that Rokk does not need his foster-father peering over his shoulder.”
“Then there I shall go.”
“I have made the acquaintance of the queen last year in Cymru. Perhaps I could go.” Accolon suggested.
“Nay. Imra’s Sight is such that if you so much as think of me, she will know. Seek out Beren – but be prepared that Mordru may expect it. Governal and Cador will warn the Teachers. We need someone to alert Imra or the Priestesses without Thora knowing.”
They sat in silence, save for the sound of the guests dabbing at their stews.
“I… have a new acquaintance, an ally of a like mind who already knows the queen, and is on good terms already. I shall send him.”
“Who?” Mysa was intrigued.
“He was Sir Dyrk, but now calls himself Apollo. He is out hunting with my Northman knight Sugyn.”
“You are building quite the court of knights yourself, then,” Mysa observed.
“I have no wish for numbers at the expense of quality. A dozen pure of heart I would be satisfied with.”
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Eighty-one
The complete rout at Portus Magnus surprised even King Rokk, who had anticipated a greater challenge against the Macedonians and their Frankish allies. But rather than offer them a conventional battlefield where their superior training and equipment would win out, he caught them by surprise and made them fight in the streets of the city – streets his British warriors were still better accustomed to than any occupiers, especially those newly arrived from the Frankish kingdom.
Mobile computii and the occasional burst of taranaut barraged Macedonian/Frankish-occupied towers and rooftop archers, minimizing the advantage of building height the occupiers enjoyed. Although ill, Laoraighll also leapt from rooftop to rooftop, taking on adversaries up-close with such efficiency that it seemed that more enemy bodies were airborne than were enemy arrows. Portus Magnus had been lost and re-taken so often in Rokk’s short reign that his men were almost following routines as they retook strategic locations. Rokk resolved to do something about the civic defenses soon – while there was still a city to defend.
The sheer number of British forces, from all quarters of the isle and fighting as one, had created an unstoppable force – one that struck terror into the surviving Franks who fled to the seas. Kentish Khund, Pict, Angle, Celt, Roman, Cymry, Cornish and Scot fought as brothers; any past internal quarrel now behind them, it seemed. Even the Cornish who had been loyal to the traitorous Geraint now fought against his brother’s occupation; according to what Sir Garth had heard, Duke Aivillagh of Exeter had some witchy old woman speak to the troops, and this somehow smoothed some waters – Geraint’s own adjutant Meleagant stood by her side. This old woman looked at him seemingly with eyes that knew him well – yet she was but a stranger to him.
Iarcalthus himself, the very instigator of the Nuhorran/Macedonian occupation, had been in Paris and was neither leading his own defenses nor among those captured. Indeed, Frankish propaganda would later try to portray the British as lying in wait for the “rightful” governor of the city to vacate before their attack when in fact Rokk had hoped to make an example of the arrogant Nuhorran. Sir Jonah achieved a measure of satisfaction for capturing the Nuhorran chamberlain Mantos, who had vowed revenge on the British earlier that summer.
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Eighty-two
“You were right, Vidar,” Duke Lucius admitted. “Young King Rokk has shown his true colours. And to think I had once considered him a friend and ally.”
“We… we all make mistakes, Lucius,” Clovis’ thought was interrupted by a coughing spell. “I too had hoped Rokk would mature into a wise leader, not merely one lucky on the battlefield.”
Vidar smiled, and gave himself the luxury of being a reasonable voice of dissent. “Perhaps young Rokk knew not that Iarcalthus was away, or that Frankish troops had been deployed to Portus Magnus.”
“Oh, come now, my Universeau,” Clovis’ passion prompted a new round of coughing and wheezing. His retainers waited patiently for the bed-ridden king to resume. “Not only have your words helped us glean the workings of the British court, but our… other informant describes Rokk’s spy network as second to none.” A servant brought him a new elixir to drink. “He knew. By the gods, he knew.”
Vidar winced at his liege’s lingering paganism. It seemed to demonstrate itself more often when the king was tired or particularly sicker than usual. He hoped his agent could return soon with the artifact he’d hired her to fetch.
“And forget not Bedwyr,” offered Hart. “Your own son, seduced by that mind-witch.”
Vidar nodded glumly. Yet still he clung to hope that the lad might come to his senses.
“Rokk has made plain he is ready for war’” Clovis refocused the discussion. “Our question to-day is how we respond, and how we… incorporate Iarcalthus’ suggestions in with our own strategy.”
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Eighty-three
After a full week without rest, even Sussiah was exhausted beyond the point of collapse. Every time she had thought she had foiled her pursuer, every time she thought she could sleep for but an hour, he was there – the big burly priest who had chased her all the way from Avalon.
He could be amazingly quiet at times – yet whenever he came within earshot of her hiding place, he grew louder and louder. If she stayed in place whether night or day, he would thrash around in circles all along one side, sometimes coming very close while others circling far enough away – far enough to let her escape. He was playing with her, she finally realized – he was driving her toward the mountainous vales east of Cymru and west of Perilous Forest.
She was tired – and she’d had enough. This time, she had made her resting spot above a fierce river, one that cascaded down a steep hill valley into a small pond; at the base of the falls was a whirlpool that fed much its the water into some netherworldly chasm – the river continued on as only a fraction of itself above ground.
It was approaching dawn as her pursuer began thrashing closer and closer, playing out his game once again Sussiah almost groggily stumbled toward her feet and made her way to a chalky limestone cliff overlooking the falls. “Come on out, holy man! Show yourself, or your prize goes down into the bowels of the world!”
The priest’s thrashings stopped. For an interminable spell Sussiah glanced about her, looking for the priest to be sneaking up at her whilst fending off her own weariness; her blinking and her determination to glimpse the priest were in combat against each other.
“Come on out. NOW!” She stepped closer to the cliff.
“I will throw it. Verily, I shall!”
That is your choice. That is why I brought you here.
“Show yourself, by damnation!”
Yes, by damnation indeed. A holy relic is better lost to this world than misused for greed. Throw it, if you will.
It must be a trick, mustn’t it?
Sussiah lifted the Chalice from its sack and held it high above her, angling it towards the edge. “You really think I shall not? You really think I’d believe a holy man would so easily part with such a vital relic?”
Iesous gave His life for us, my childe. For all of us. With no thought for His own regard. Can we cling to possessions, no matter how wondrous, and ignore His example? We are not merchants hoarding things for worldly value.
There was still no one in sight to accompany the disembodied voice that placed his words directly into her head.
“If I can’t have it, no one can!” She started to hurl the Chalice away – but found she could not! The metal, gold but not gold, silver but not silver, glowing but not glowing, with all its fine detail, was just too precious a prize to be lost – when it could just as easily be restolen some later day.
She lowered her arm, still gazing at her prize. Its warm energy was in fact the only thing keeping her awake after so many days.
The gentle, good-natured laughter right behind her startled her almost enough to fall over the cliff herself. She had so shifted her focus, she was so tired, that the priest was now close enough to seize her, seize the chalice, or seize them both.
I could take away your spoils here and now, my childe. But I shall not – if you accompany me on a short journey to a castle not a-far from this very place.
Sussiah later could not remember the details of the conversation that followed, but she slept for more than a full day and awoke to the priest – Pelles, he called himself – preparing a fast-breaking on some subsequent morning, a meal of woodland berries and a single small trout for them to share.
As he had promised, the Chalice was still in her hand upon her waking.
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Eighty-four
The villa but a day’s journey from Corinium was nestled into a picturesque valley of hills covered by apple orchards and small lowland fields of grain surrounded by wooded peaks that only a southern Breton could truly call mountains
Mysa let her little pony lead her up the path past apple trees and spidery grape lines towards the villa ahead. She could well imagine her young brother growing up here, with a happy childhood insolated from the strifes of the outer world. In some ways, this place seemed as removed from the mundanities of politics and war as Avalon itself! Tis appropriate that Rokk’s very homeland is just as magickal, in its own way.
The farm hands paid no mind to an old woman passing through. Between midwives, rural healers, beggars and petitioners, she looked no different from many who traveled the roads these days. Indeed, there was a line up ahead of her – a line stopped in place. Mysa dismounted and approached.
A small crowd was listening to Sir Brandius himself lecturing a lad bandaged in red-stained cloth on the proper handling of axe. He calmly and patiently explained where the youth had gone into error by carrying the axe wrong, running with it, and even in the way he swung it, all while trying to obtain firewood for his family. The crowd was appreciatively awed and charmed by their local lord.
One by one, those ahead of her petitioned Brandius for some boom or judgment, and Brandius held court comfortably and affably in the partial shade of his orchards. With a gentle warm breeze, it was hard for any to be of dour mood.
One woman wanted her neighbour to repay a small loan. A man sought to clear up a besmirching of his family’s honour. A mother who had traveled all the way from the western edge of Perilous Forest sought the return of her son, who had run away and been working in Brandius’ kitchen, hoping to earn squiredom or even eventually knighthood. Two brothers quarreled over their inheritance. And so it went.
Finally it was Mysa’s turn, yet more had gathered behind her. She would not have a private moment as she had hoped. She had avoided interrupting the line ahead, hoping Brandius would spy her and slowly glean who she was without her having to make the case for recognition. Her hopes were for naught.
His smile was warm and affable, but his eyes showed no connection, no sign that the elder knight saw anything more than an elderly peasant woman before him.
“My good Sir Brandius. It has been too long.” She spoke at last, hoping to recapture enough of the essence of her own voice and poise to spark her brother’s foster-father’s wit.
“I fear the advantage is yours, my dear lady,” he spoke politely – too politely, lacking the familiarity she sought.
She chuckled dismissively, as if the disconnect were the simplest of errors. “I fear the curse upon me makes me less than obvious. Tis I, the Lady Mysa, your foster-son’s own sister. I fear the magicks-”
“Have addled your head, my dear lady,” Brandius replied patronizingly. “The real Lady Mysa is a much younger lady.”
Mysa started to reply, but Brandius cut her off. “You are not the first addled mind to claim to be the high king’s missing sister, but I give you credit, you are the eldest, and most imaginative.”
Mysa was taken aback – and not just by hearing of imposters. She had truly thought Brandius would see the real her, as Governal and even Aivillagh had.
“My lady,” he continued. “I would see my kitchen avail you with a bowl of stew ere your departure. You are clearly not from around here, and it would grieve me to see you traveling without a meal whilst in my gardens.”
The words she had practiced had fallen from her mind into a fog. Mysa nodded slowly as an underling ushered her away, hoping she could find away to again try to appeal to her brother’s most trusted aide.
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Eighty-five
The labour that rebuilt Portus Magnus was that of soldiers from the breadth of Britain. But the plans, the improvements of fortification, were the designs of but men: High King Rokk, Sir Derek, Querl and Duke Kiritan. These minds planned a new wall structure that would better repel attacks from Khund, Frank or even Roman; Rokk would no longer let Britain’s second city be the most-oft seized fortress in his domain.
Meleagant, whose sway over Cornish and southern forces was vital, and Prince Pharoxx of North Cymru, who as commander of Rokk’s navy would be based from Portus Magnus, were of course consulted, and Rokk even managed to make them think that they had made significant contributions to the overall plan. But Derek was as surprised as anyone upon later reflection how Kiritan had gone from being leader of a defeated, distrusted faction to being a key defender of a vital British port. Necessity had turned Kentish Khunds from targets of occupation to a lynchpin in the island’s defenses, and part of Derek wondered if Rokk was only duplicating Vortigern’s failed strategy of decades agone.
The youngest, greenest companies in all British forces were Kentish Khunds, all the youngsters who had been too young to fight under Zaryan, combined with a handful of their surviving elder veteran peers.
Derek surveyed them with a caution too ingrained in his generation, who fought battle after battle with Khunds of both Britain and far-off Germania. Yet this week it was Latin-speaking Khunds toasting and feting a Roman-British king for besting a Frankish-Macedonian alliance. Rokk, who had personally bested Jormangund, a creature born of the Khundish gods, was now as much their king as any son of Britain or Rome. Derek was, in truth, not entirely pleased by this development at all.
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Eighty-six
Sussiah had been unaware of how deep her hunger had grown until she feasted at the grand table. This place, this castle, was a realm of miracles; everything gleamed of gold, silver and jewels of every hew in this warm, comfortable, beckoning palace where the breeze whispered song, the colours on the tapestries danced like a stalks in a field of grain, and an air of good humour permeated ev’ry corner. There was no palace staff to wait on them, yet the palace was sparkling clean, and the dishes gently floated toward them through the air like leaves upon a slow-moving river of the most soothing clarity.
The source of their feast was the Grail itself. Pelles’ prayers had cause it to brim forth full of fine stews and meats, wines and breads. They fed themselves and quenched the hungers of many days, yet as full as they were they could yet enjoy the next dish without bloat.
Carbonek, her host had called this place. She recalled an old nursery rhyme about a place of the same name (but could it not be this very place?), the magickal heart of Britain itself. She would have to take some of its gold with her, she absent-mindedly resolved; it was hard to concentrate here.
Sussiah knew she was giddy and light-headed, but resisted the overbearing spirit of goodwill that gnawed at her. Truly any other heart would be so overcome by these enchantments of good will as to give up claim to the prize which she had so rightfully seized. Surely Pelles was counting on the magicks of feast and castle to win her over. She could only giggle with joy at so fooling her host!
“I knew this… Grail… was good for healings. Yet how can it provide us with foods as well?” She finally asked.
The Cauldron, this Grail if you will, is the vessel of life. It may merely preserve it in a spot of difficulty, or it can bring one to the very pinnacle of life’s bounty, he replied without speaking.
“All pinnacles of life’s bounty?” She replied, tugging at his robes.
Did the magicks affect him as well? Could even a priest be as giddy and overtaken by these magickal euphorias as she was? His toothy grin answered her question as he pulled her close.
In the blissful throes of passion that followed, Sussiah was quite surprised at how Pelles’ mind seemed like a detailed tapestry to her. It was an ensemble of images from all his deep burdens of self-fear, hurt and loss that have accompanied him for all of his days. All his attempted and failed reaches for self-control – and the all too appealing juicy family secrets (oh, Queen Imra! What a plaything for many masters you have been!); they were all on display for the immediate world to see.
Fear overtook her that the reverse might be true and all her secrets would be unwoven for him… but no. It had been well over a decade since Pelles had last cast aside his shields with abandon; he was too deep in the experience – and the relief – just now.
If anything, if Pelles’ normal mind-magicks were like listening to the whispers within another’s ear, then Pelles himself was now shouting without scruple, completely unmindful and unheeding of the whispers of Sussiah.
Sussiah found herself tempted to surrender herself into the blissful torment of coitus, but even more tempting was the prize that Pelles’ heart and mind was letting loose. She was well used to seizing physical trophies, but now she could pilfer this onetime prince for all his worth – even as her flesh quivered and danced with his. He has bottled up his man’s spirit so long he now spills it too freely for his own wellness, she thought, but the magicks of castle and touch could not let her hold him in the contempt she normally would.
Pelles had hoped to win her over with the magicks of Carbonek, that its purity would inspire a conversion within her. Had he been entranced by her beauty enough to hope to win her heart for himself, even while he had lied to himself that he was seeking to win her for Iesous? Aye, he had. But Sussiah had seized the courtship on her own terms. It was the secrets of his heart she would mine, steal and use, secrets that held together this kingdom called Britain.
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Eighty-seven
Genni should have been on her way back ere now, and met us with the Grail.
Sir Berach fretted – with good reason. He had erred on the side of slowness for the sake of his charge, assuming the swift Moorish lass would be on the return by now.
Genni had been ordered to reach Avalon via the Priestess gate, the lake passage at Glastonbury, and return with the Grail – first to tend to the ailing Ulsterwoman Laoraighll – and then to the wounded at Portus Magnus. Berach’s mission was to slowly and safely transport Laoraighll toward Glastonbury, in hopes of reducing her suffering time; Querl insisted that every day, even every hour, was of the highest need.
The Ulsterwoman had been ill since not long after the dog plague had come to Londinium and the whole of southeastern Britain – yet she had insisted upon fighting at Portus Magnus. Now she gasped and spasmed like a dying dog, her skin almost appearing to bubble in places. Like the dog-poisons the Khunds had once used against her, this canine pox also afflicted her, perhaps more severely.
Grail healing or no, King Rokk had ordered Laoraighll to go to Avalon anyway, as Querl had linked her current ailment to the dog plague. The king argued and Querl concurred that she should spend her recovery time away from any dog in the land, and the mystical, otherworldly archipelago of Avalon held not one.
Querl was more and more frenzied by the half-day – the speed of travel could further injure his beloved, but so too could travel delays. The Greek scholar took out his own changing moods upon Berach himself; the knight tried to handle the scientist as best he could.
Like many, Berach had become overly confident in Genni’s swiftness – not mounted rider ran as fast as the lass. Thus he had his company move quite slowly so as not to add harms onto the Ulsterwoman. He had expected that they would meet Genni on her way back well before they would reach the great stones of Salisbury plain… but he was wrong. The hills just east of Cadwy’s Fort were now visible, and this close to Glastonbury there was still no sign of her.
Berach checked upon Laoraighll, and found Querl silent and paralysed in panick, staring with the eyes of a defeated old man. Laoraighll looked closer to death than any Berach had seen ever return to so much as speaking. He gave the order for the company to ride just a bit harder; they could make the lake’s shore by evening if the good weather held.
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Eighty-eight
Sir James was grateful for the leave-taking. After all his time on duty while Rokk was in the North, it felt like years since he had visited his family. True, he would only be visiting his parents at Sir Derek’s villa north of Londinium, but for the first time in what seemed like years he felt like he could relax. If he gave any thought to the last time he felt like this – the ill-fated dragon hunt with Sir Garth – he let it not interfere with his spirits.
Along the road between Portus Magnus and Londinium, a patrol intercepted him – they reported a strange old man and his aide harassing soldier and commoner alike, looking for the ruins of some old Celtic hill-fort lost since Boudicea’s time. With a sigh, James made a slight detour and scoured a few hamlets looking for the duo. After all the hubbub, he found it to be Mordru and some manservant of his! Mordru told the Cumbrian knight he was looking for his wife Mysa, and declined the young man’s offer of assistance.
Continuing on through Londinium, he spent the night at Rokk’s fortress, and caught up on the news. Beren had sent word that L’ile had been sighted back on British soil, but had already vanished again. Sir Brandius reported an old hag harassing and attempting spellcraft against him. And Domangart of Dalraida had threatened and briefly imprisoned a knight of King Urien of Rhyged.
James summoned Sir Lucan, King Rokk’s butler. “As soon as Genni arrives from Portus Magnus, have her take these messages to King Rokk at Portus Magnus,” he ordered.
“It shall be done,” the man confirmed. He hesitated before leaving. Seeing James’ nod as confirmation to continue, he said, “We have no word for certain, but merchants newly arrived from Colonnia are telling us of retribution by the Franks.”
“Go on.”
“Tis Prince Pharoxx’s half-sister. Elyzabel. She, so the merchants say, has been… imprisoned by Clovis for espionage. And Sir Bedwyr has been banished, on pain of death ere he returns.”
“I see. No doubt Clovis’ messenger is en route with the official notices and demands and the like.”
“No doubt, sir.”
James pondered for a moment. “We… cannot wait for Genni. Word must be sent to Rokk at once. Who is your swiftest rider?”
Sir Lucan paused. That would be… Dbron, I surmise.”
Dbron! What an oaf! “No, this is too important. I shall return to Portus Magnus at first light,” James decided. He could not enjoy his leave when his very gut told him there was more to the news than words conveyed.
And where was Genni? Surely she had been to Avalon, back to Rokk, by now and should have been here.
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Eighty-nine
“Do you like our lodgings?” The old man in truth cared not about his companion’s opinion.
“I’ve had better, but cannot recall when,” Iason confided. “The view’s not much to speak of.” He gestured out the window to the stone wall not 30 feet away, but continued to gnaw at the chicken in his hands, above his plate.
“That, my friend, is the wall of the palace of Londinium itself. Young King Rokk’s prize fortress, built by my own hands, stands right outside our window!”
“You sound proud.”
“Nay,” Mordru replied. “Not as you imply. Yet consider the temple we have observed right across the river from here”
“The Temple of Isis? Strange, how the Romans so welcomed cults of realms from the farthest reaches of the world.”
“Not so strange, in the grand design of all things. The Druids tell us that all gods are the same god, and all goddesses are the same goddess.”
“I have heard such said, but it means little to me,” Iason sneered. “Surely Ceridwen is not Isis nor is Cernunos Jupiter.”
“No, of course not,” Mordru smirked. “Yet let us consider our prize: Avalon. Druids and Priestesses are of a line that long predates the Romans on this isle, yes?”
Not even waiting for Iason’s nod, he continued. “The Druids are of the Celt, and share the bond of wisdom, lore and music with the Celts of other lands. The Priestesses are a far older order, left over from a people who were here long before the Celt. Ys, Hybrasil… these are but Celtic shadows of lore the Druids latched onto from their predecessors. Just as the Christians begin to borrow from the pagans.”
“The Josephites,” Iason blurted. “They too came to this isle – and to Avalon, as did the Druids of long ago.”
Mordru nodded. “As did others, long before, who are best forgotten and unnamed. Like the Josephites, the cult of Isis also came from afar. The Teachers have sought to blend the traditions of Britain, Eiru, Greece and Egypt. What is the pattern? What is missing?”
“The Romans themselves.”
“Aye.” Mordru took a swig of his ale. “Just as the Romans came with the sword, to rule, not to join, so too did their priests refuse to pay homage to the Dragon that is this isle. The Roman god Terminus is a particularly jealous one. Yet these Romans have provided us with the very tools we need. To save the heart of Britain from the sword of Rome, Avalon was removed from sword’s reach, and lies safely beyond the gates we have been visiting,” Mordru spoke softly, even though no one else was in earshot.
He pulled a sheet of parchment to the table. “Observe as I mark out on the map. The west Cymru grove here holds the very gateway that leads to the Druid’s Isle in Avalon. The ruins here in south Cymru lead to the Isle of the Josephites. The lake at Glastonbury leads to the Priestess Isle. The long-sealed gateway of the Tor Isle used to lead to here, to the great standing stones of the Salisbury Plain. That’s four out of seven.
“Now look again. At Londinium, the Path of Isis leads to the Teacher’s Isle. And at Camulodunum, the marshland gate now being built over by Rokk’s west magnificent tower leads to the Isle of Heath. Now tell me, Iason, what can you discern?”
“They are all spaced out in intervals along a curved line. But there is an uneven gap between the Salisbury Plain and Londinium? Thence is the hill-fort which we were seeking?”
“Well observed. We can presume seven gates, one each for the seven isles of Avalon. Clearly that lost hill-fort must be the entry to the Forbidden Isle, somewhere not far off of the very road to Portus Magnus.
“But despite our best efforts these past few weeks, another task now takes precedence,” Mordru said, his voice lacking any pleasure.
“So are we to finally enter Avalon and attack? Via the Path of Isis, here in Londinium?”
“P’fah!” Mordru scoffed. “Of course not. Your lacking memory clearly recalls not our military campaigns together. One does not invade when your enemy can gain reinforcements from many different fronts. For right now, we need to be able to close all doorways to Avalon when we are ready to strike.” He snapped his fingers for effect.
“Our allies, wittingly or not, have been placing my specially prepared charms near each of the gates. With demons out to get the Druids, they needed military escorts. Our Cymry prince, of course, led this very protective effort, and visited Avalon via the Druid gate. He also personally helped see Rokk’s magick cup returned to the Josephites, and thus planted my charm there, too. The Tor gate is already sealed, and while few mortals are privileged to come and go to Forbidden Isle as they choose, I dislike chance and would seek to charm that gate too. Sir Reep was kind enough to carry my charm through the Camulodunum marshland gate. Thora has unwittingly placed her charm near her own island’s gate, although not the charm she thinks she has. Governal has had Cador deliver the charm for the Teachers’ Isle. That just leaves the entry to the Forbidden Isle.”
“So what now? Why have we then given up?”
“We are not giving up. We are waiting for the one who can find the last gateway for us.” Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Ninety
Imra’s unique ability to interrogate prisoners made her an invaluable asset at Portus Magnus – she even foiled three escape plots among the prisoners. But now as summer days slowly shortened into the warm rains of August, she was as relieved as any to be leaving the battleground coastal city.
Rokk had withheld word of Elyzabel’s imprisonment (especially from Pharoxx) until verification could be achieved. He dispatched a royal messenger to Paris, and sent James back to Londinium in his stead. Sir Brandius was a different matter, one he would see to personally. It had been too long since he had spent time with the man who had raised him, and any alleged witchery against him was a good excuse for a visit.
The royal party, complete with retinue, made decent time along the Glastonbury road, yet Rokk was of ill humour – his instructions to be informed of Laoraighll’s healing had come to naught. At Glastonbury, the ensemble would turn north, but Rokk resolved to make inquiries with the Priestesses since they were so close to his route. As he largely expected, Azura, the Lady of the Lake, awaited his arrival and anticipated his queries.
“My liege, the Lady Laoraighll is resting with all comfort and being treated will every available herb, spell and prayer. The Josephite brethren most deeply apologize that the Cauldron is not in their keeping to-day.”
“Where is it? Has Dindrane been summoned back to Lothian?” Indeed, the king had wanted her and the relic in Portus Magnus to attend to the wounded – once Laoraighll was healed. “And where is Genni?”
“The brothers believe that one of their own, Pelles, received a sacred vision and took the Cauldron with him. None have seen it since he left Avalon in a haste. We have told Genni the location of the Josephites’ gate into South Cymru, so she could to find Pelles ere he travels too far.”
Pelles. Imra’s heart felt the jab. The father she had no memory of had been in Avalon – her Avalon – the whole time she grew up – and she had never known. It was both a joy to know he had probably kept an eye on her all those years, but also a wrenching pain that he had never eased her fears and loneliness at the same time.
“My liege?” the Queen asked her husband. “As much as my heart yearns to see Sir Brandius again, perhaps I would be of better use tending to Laoraighll.”
Rokk nodded. With MacKell still gone, Laoraighll was his best fighter, yet through his loyalty to his friends and fellow warriors he wanted to see her restored to health even if she never fought again. He found no fault with hid bride for the decision, nor in truth with Genni. Anyone could run messages to and from Londinium, but if she could find Pelles, her efforts could yet save many. Indeed, she had anticipated the decision he would likely have made, and all too often he had been faulting his own knights for doing such.
Presently the royal entourage divided, largely by gender, with Imra’s ladies either accompanying her to Avalon, or else waiting for her under Luornu’s watch at the nearby Glastonbury convent. Brother Jan, Imra’s primary confidante, remained at Imra’s side, while at Azura’s urging, Rokk took her aide Thora along with him. If spellcraft was afoot Rokk would not be without an aide.
Imra reentered Avalon for the first time openly as both herself and the queen – no more deceptions to any. With Britain as united as any could imagine, not even the most pious Christian would dare rebuke her now, or so she chose to believe.
She and her ladies settled in among the priestesses and the maidens-in-training; it alarmed the Queen how many fewer students there now were compared to even a decade ago. She would make a point to address recruitment to Azura later on. Perhaps it was time to bring in Picts, Scots and Kentish Khunds.
Imra visited Laoraighll as soon as she could. The Ulsterwoman remained unawares, and Querl and the senior priestesses cared for her as best they could. Querl’s eyes asked the question she couldn’t answer – she knew not her father’s location at any time in her life, save for her grandfather King Pellam’s funeral. Ordering Querl and the others to allow her the privacy, she reached out to the ailing woman’s mind, and offered her own will toward the woman’s fight for her life.
That evening, Azura welcomed her with a sparse priestess meal – indeed, she would have been disappointed with anything else. She and Azura had known each other all their lives, yet now neither were mere girls who aspired to be priestesses – they were priestesses, and in their own way both were queens. Azura welcomed her suggestions on recruitment, but bristled more at the notion of Picts than even of Kentish Khunds.
“There have been prophesies, even within the Picts themselves,” Azura warned. “The Olde Ways as we know them might be more threatened by those who will rule the Picts than by all the Vidars in Christendom.”
Imra nodded, and seized upon the opening. “The sway that one such as Vidar held, and may yet again, needs to change. I… had it in mind for Brother Jan to establish a chapel in Avalon. On the Isle of Heath, as none have used it in many ages,” she told her hostess.
Azura was taken aback. Yes, she knew Jan had become a close and trusted advisor of the queen but still---
“You do not think it to be wise? Please, my friend. Speak your mind freely,” the Queen invited.
“I am surprised,” the priestess said slowly as she gathered her thoughts. “You know well that it is not my word alone that is needed. The others will ask, I am sure… are there not Christians here enough, with the Josephites?”
“The Josephites are a sect of Christians unto themselves. Over time they have les and less in common with the Christians of the outside world. There are two strains of Christendom I see in Britain, and neither resembles the Josephites in anything but name. There are Christians who act as soldiers of Rome and of Clovis, who would use their Iesous as a banner for war and conquest, and there are Christians like Brother Jan for whom service and kindness are the tools of their Christ-god. If we do not welcome the latter into the very heart of Britain, I fear we will see more and more of the former.”
Azura nodded. “I have seen the duality you speak of. You know… as queen, as a priestess and as royalty of the old line, your word will carry much weight throughout Avalon. I pray that you are certain of what you ask before the others hear of it.”
Posted by Fanfic Lass on :
I have decided to start catching up on other people's fanfics, and chose this one as the first.
I just finished reading up to the scene where Rokk removes Excalibur from the stone.
Great stuff, Kent.
I'm curious (and forgive me if you already talked about this in a post I haven't read yet) -- what are your favorite Arthurian movies?
Posted by Kent on :
in all honesty, I've been fairly disappointed by most Arthurian movies I've seen. Monty Python and the Holy Grail is probably the sole exception - and not for its faithfulness to the mythos, of course.
I've just started watching the TV adaption of Mists of Avalon and so far it's not too bad (aside from the standard historical deviations and anachronisms).
glad you're liking it!
Posted by Dev Em on :
I'm ascared of this thread, but as a fan of Arthurian related things, I'm going to dive on in...tomorrow night.
Posted by Fanfic Lass on :
Dev, it's well worth it. I'll be catching up some more with it this morning.
Kent, I might watch Mists of Avalon, too, although I don't like the lead actress. Monty Python and the Holy Grail is, of course, a delight, and I think Graham Chapman actually gives Arthur some honest-to-goodness gravitas (all the more remarkable when one considers that Chapman had hit rock bottom with his alcoholism at the time of filming.) As for other Arthurian movies, I agree most of them don't cut the mustard, but I think John Boorman's Excalibur, despite many goofy moments, does at least capture some of the magic of the legends.
Posted by Kent on :
I found Excalibur to be an unwatchable piece of crapola, but I do realize it has many fans, for reasons that escape me. It makes Clive Owen's recent King Arthur look good in comparison (I could actually sit through that, and admire the attempt to put it in late-Roman times).
Posted by Fanfic Lass on :
Ha ha ha ha ha
To each their own.
I'll admit that when it comes to the cinema, I have a weakness for style over substance, and I think Excalibur has great cinematography.
Haven't watched the Clive Owen one. I'll have to check that out.
Posted by Kent on :
It has it's share of groan-moments, but it tries to recast the essence of the mythos into a period-appropriate setting, with no magic (except for typical Hollywood shortcuts of story trumping physics) and only a handful of anachronisms.
Posted by Dev Em on :
Clive's version isn't bad for what it tried to do. I honestly think I like the music of Excalibur better than the actual movie.
Monty Python is just beyond good, and deserves to be loved by every living soul.
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Ninety-one
The witch-woman had convinced many of Brandius’ tenants that she was a priestess and of royalty of the old lineage, but unlike her efforts on Brandius, she never tried to convince them that she was the king’s sister. Her sudden disappearance, the very morning before Rokk’s arrival, angered the king. If some old woman wanted to claim false kinship among the gentry, he wanted to make an example of her, and he told this to the man who raised him.
“You care more of someone using her name than you do of her very absence?” Brandius probed.
“I… I know I do not recall her as fondly as I should. I but rarely can recall our moments together,” he confided a truth he rarely let on to himself.
“She left court right after having words with your bride. Do you think yon Imra’s gifts may be influencing your heart?”
“Mayhap. I sometimes know not who I am any a more.”
Brandius nodded. Young men change as they become young men. Even if they are not kings.”
“Tis as if something has crawled inside my gut and drives me to be something other than as I am,” Rokk confessed.
“You’re not the first to say such,” Brandius commented. Seeing Rokk was looking for more, he continued. “Mordru. When he was Constanz, he was a kind and trusting king. Poisoned by a Pict, he was closer to death than even Sir Garth or Sir Andrew were, ere their returns. When he came back to us… he was still as he was, but he had changed. The joys he once held now showed themselves when he pained others.”
Rokk absorbed this. “Am I doomed to walk my uncle’s path? Poisoned by fact or by heart? Mysa feared that t’would be Imra and Garth who would poison this land, and myself.”
The elder nodded. “Perhaps. But none can carry your burdens but you. You walk your own path. Let not Mordru, Mysa, Imra or me steer you to a place you know is wrong.”
“Reep often said as much. I miss him.”
Brandius nodded. ‘I pray you find him soon. Mayhap he is to be ransomed by some blackguard.”
“Mayhap.” Rokk recalled his own time imprisoned in the faerie realm Annwyn Annowre. If Reep was lost in some magick realm, it might be impossible to find him.
Late that evening, Rokk wandered out into the gardens where he and Reep so oft played. The forest insects of August serenaded all who would listen, and Rokk let the sounds lead him out into the fields.
“She’s scared, you know.” It was Tenzil.
“Who is?” He couldn’t picture arrogant Thora to be scared of much.
“The old woman calling herself Mysa.”
“You spoke with her? When? Where?”
“She called to me, not long after we supped. An aged old crone she is, in truth, so withered she could be an aged visage of most any woman. Yet she knew me by name and by sight. Many of us. Those Mysa would have known, she knew. Those who have joined your company since Mysa has been gone, she seemed not to know.”
“Sayest thou you think itwas her?” Rokk felt he had been quite tolerant of his beefeater’s quirks, but now his irritation was returning.
“I say only that she seems to truly believe so, and she knew things few but Mysa would.”
“Witchery.”
Tenzil nodded. “Verily the best of wagers, some form of it. She… she asked me to relay something to you, and if I did so, she vowed to bother Brandius no more.”
“Speak, then.”
“ ‘My dearest brother-’”
“Surely you might sever those words of merit from those without,” Rokk snipped.
“My liege,” Tenzil apologized. “She said that she was ambushed leaving Avalon by Thora, that Thora and Mordru conspire against you, and that plenty still loyal to the Olde Ways yearn for your leadership. She fears that the Pictish bear-king has bespelled you-”
“ENOUGH!” Rokk was almost angry enough to pummel Tenzil. “Where did you two meet?” Rokk demanded.
“By yon pond,” Tenzil jestured. No pond was visible in the night, yet Rokk’s feet knew well the way even without illumination, and stopped two feet short of the water.
“Witch!” he called out. “Witch, I know not who you are or what plot you follow. But know this. Bother me, bother any member of my court with your presence or your lies, and I will gut you myself, if I have every priest, Druid or soldier on this isle hunt you down! BEGONE, whilst you still can!”
Rokk would never be certain whether or not he heard or imagined a muffled sobbing between the notes of the crickets’songs.
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Ninety-two
Sir Lu was pleased to be chosen by Sir Garth to patrol the southwestern coasts. The knowledge and experience she had gained during the Khundish war made her something of an expert on the region’s coasts, and Garth hoped to identify Frankish landing sites as quickly as possible.
In truth, both of them wanted to take the war to Frankish soil, a move King Rokk seemed willing to pursue. Rokk and Jonah would begin raising armies throughout Britain in the months to come. They found warm receptions everywhere they went, even among those who seemed ready to follow the would-be usurper not so long ago; the legacy of Geraint finally seemed to be ebbing. Yet Lu was scarcely more enthused by the support they found had since been garnered for the man who helped broker the peace, a name who she considered no more trustworthy than the Cornish usurper slain by Sir Thom. The mystery queen one heard occasional word of helped not Lu to trust the duke in question.
“You don’t trust this Aivillagh.” Garth restated.
“Nay. I still think he was in league with the Khunds.”
“Yet we have no real sign of this?”
“Nay. My small company snuck away to avoid the betrayal I expected. The proof would have been our slain bodies, we avoided.”
“Yet we cannot accuse the man on that alone, I fear.”
“No, I glean not.”
“I suggest we pay a visit and smooth some waters, perhaps foster the idea of winning some conscripts.”
“And sleep with one eye open,” Lu added, earning a laugh from the Breton prince.
Riding toward Exeter, they saw a rider coming the opposite way along the old Roman road. Both knights marveled at the gleam of the man’s armour – until he drew close and they saw it was not the armour that so gleamed but the man himself.
“Greetings, my friends!” the voice was unmistakable, even if it seemed to carry a quality of richness that defied one’s ability not to be awed. Beyond the voice, beyond the glow, was Sir Dyrk, a sun king more than Regulus ever hinted at.
“My friends! I have a most important message for Queen Imra. I would that you join me on my quest to Londinium!”
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Ninety-three
Luornu would have almost rather have gone to Avalon than again face the clerics of Glastonbury, but rather than wait for the inevitable, she opted to seek out the chief matron of the nunnery herself.
“My dear Lady Luornu!” the abbess cooed. “How are the Queen’s ladies settled in?”
“Quite well, milady,” she replied. After going through some pleasantries and sharing news, she read the unasked questions on her hostess’ face. “The Queen had business on Avalon, including seeing a new Christian church built there.”
“In a heathen netherworld?” the matron scoffed.
“Are we all not heathens ere we learn to love the Lord?” Luornu rebutted. “If the Disciples did not bring the word out into pagandom-”
The abbess waived her commentary aside. “What news of the Grail?”
“A Josephite monk has taken it on a quest.”
“Mmmm, Josephites” she said disapprovingly. “There is enough paganism among those who call themselves Christian as it is.”
She stepped closer, speaking commandingly and unflinchingly. “And you, Luornu? How have you handled the vow you made to God, in this very hall?”
“If you refer to my pledge regarding the Grail, I pledged to you, not God. And I have relayed the message – all I ever vowed to do.”
The matron was almost brewing over in anger. “You. DARE. In this place-”
“I have seen good men and women do God’s will and fight the evils of this world! If your hospitality here is such that it reduces me to your puppet, then I shall gladly renounce your hospitality!”
“Mind you place, maiden! Speak not of God-”
“Methinks those who try to speak for God have lost track of to whose heart they are listening – and for who they are trying to speak.” Luornu turn and walked out, ignoring the abbess’ bellicose appeals.
Word spread quickly, and soon no nun was meeting Luornu’s eyes. Even Virginia and Siobhan looked at her with a mixture of awe, fear and shock. She declined the nuns’ foodstuffs and minded the maidens under her charge.
The next morning, she was summoned before the priest.
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Ninety-four
The pony meandered almost aimlessly down the byway, its mistress barely heeding its course.
She had made her way back towards Exeter avoiding towns, and lost in her own hurt. It was not with intent that she found herself along the southern ridge of the Mendip hills, looking wistfully at the cluster of hills to the south.
Glastonbury.
The shape of the hills could not help but evoke their otherworldly, parallel twins in Avalon. How close they could seem, this instant.
Coming off of the hills, the path blended into a wider cart path used by countess farmers to get to the marketplace at Bath. No merchant took this route – there were too many fens, streams and morasses, and too many dead-ends and twists. This was not a through road for anyone but the intrepid or foolhardy, and brigands found it too unprofitable to bother with. But even an old woman had to keep an eye for armed men. Luckily, the one ahead was a familiar one.
“Fret not, my love!” he said. It was Accolon, with a most winsome grin and such a sparkle in his eyes it was almost contagious.
“Oh mighty seducer of crones! What old wise-woman’s heart has been stolen in our time apart?” It was easier to respond in jest than to cry on his shoulder, as much as she wanted to give her despair voice.
“None but any emptiness you feel without me, I pray.” He dismounted and approached her, kissing her hand. “No fortune with Sir Brandius, I presume?”
“No. I… wish not to speak of it further. I… failed.”
“Yet you won the beefeater Tenzil’s ear.’
How did he know? Hast he been spying on me?
“Even he has his doubts.”
“For now. We’ll start convincing him, now that we are together.”
“And how shall we accomplish that?” She was not about to return to the villa – or to court.
‘He will meet us in Corinium. Next week, if the gods are gracious,” he grinned mischievously.
“You followed me? And convinced him to come along?”
“Not so. Returning from Perilous Forest, I met a woman and her son who told me of how Brandius had so dismissed you. Riding further, I learnt that Tenzil had been accidentally shot during an archery contest, and had to remain behind. After Rokk left, I visited the man and learnt his mind on your meeting. As he was not as harmed as first it seemed, I invited him to Corinium, where I have an ally.”
“And he just agreed to this?”
“Well… I pulled rank on him.” With that, the features on Accolon’s face began to morph. “I suppose I should have spoken of this earlier.”
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Ninety-five
Garth was even more suspicious by the time he and Lu arrival with their guest at court.
Londinium was all abuzz at the seeming return of Sir Dyrk – or Apollo, as he now called himself. There was also much gossip of Luornu’s near-excommunication, but few ears would listen to Garth’s fears.
Apollo was Dyrk, but not Dyrk. He was what Mysa would without doubt call a “sun king,” a living incarnation of what a more religious man than Garth might call a sun god. Gath surprised himself by thinking of Mysa with anything but scorn. She was still his favourite person to blame for his shackles.
It was not that Apollo was merely so radiant, so charming, especially with the ladies (indeed, whereas so many, even Dyrk himself, had failed to seduce the chaste Sir Lu, it was not a difficult one for Apollo); his entire set of loyalties was now suspect. It was not only that he spoke of Rokk as an equal (at best), and as if all others held worth only in relation to him – it was that one believed it, the longer one spent with the transformed knight. If this version of Dyrk was the destiny Regulus had so long hinted at, Garth wished it had never come – or that he had stayed dead to never see it. Something was wrong; something unlike a Khund or Nuhorran menace that could not be driven off with armies.
Apollo had charmed the Queen and indeed all the ladies of the court, and it was only because of Garth’s insistence to triple the guard – and Apollo’s bemused acquiescence – that he was not an overnight guest in the quarters of the Queen and her ladies. Perhaps it was his own feelings for the Queen that finally let him break Apollo’s charm.
But the Queen insisted on holding a feast for the return of the presumed-dead knight, and not a company of soldiers could have pried either of the twin sisters from Dyrk’s side.
When Sir James returned from leave, Garth was delighted to have a kindred ear to speak to.
“…so such is my quandary,” he explained. From James’ expression, it was hard to tell if he’d heard a word. “What thinks thou?”
“If he’s not Dyrk, reveal him for what he is. Like Dyrk, when he found out Ayla’s enchantment, when we thought she was you.”
“How do we do that?” Garth was glad James had taken an interest after all.
“Follow him back to his lair. Seek Regulus’ aid. I don’t know!” James was suddenly irritable. “For once, use your wit for something other than wooing the ladies!”
As James stormed away, Garth was left puzzled. If James was irked by his – and Dyrk/Apollo’s – successes with womenfolk, it never seemed apparent that James was not holding his own. Garth smiled; he’d have to arrange a more fulfilling leave for his brother-in-law soon, it seemed. Surely there were plenty of pretty faces in Brittany to distract his friend from whatever smile had bespelled him.
Turning his attention back to Apollo, he noticed Carolus scowling at the new arrival. Garth long suspected the jester had more to him than appeared. Maybe it was time to find out how much more.
Posted by Candle on :
Ohhhh, I've only gotten as far as chapter 6! I've wanted to read this story for a while now but it's so long I was a little discouraged! But, now that I've started, I'll keep going as much as I can. (Wednesday I'm teaching at my church, but after that I have almost a month kinda free.)
This is great, Kent. Do you mind if someone posts some pictures here? If I find some that apply, anyway. ?
[ June 12, 2010, 10:10 PM: Message edited by: Candle ]
Posted by Dev Em on :
Read the first ten chapters...the first page of this thread Great stuff.
I cannot wait to see where it goes. I have a lot of ground to cover.
Posted by Kent on :
Thanks guys!
Candy, feel free to add pics.
Posted by Candle on :
Hurrah! And thank-you. I'm on chapter 15 now, by the way. Posted by Candle on :
Here's how I see your Lu, especially in the early years, where I am currently in the story. This one is so beautiful that I've had it saved for awhile, just for me.
posted by irenkesabo It's a very little picture, but the animation is complicated. If it takes too long to upload, I'll go back to the source and try to find the picture again and post a link.
Posted by Sarcasm Kid on :
How beautiful! This rather cheered me up!
Posted by Set on :
I only got to 106 or something, before my eyes gave out, but I'll get back to this soon!
I'm impressed beyond the telling of it at all the historical / mythic detail, and the uses of gaelic, latin, etc. and real world locations.
And I love all the little shout outs.
"My castle will be made of gold!" "And have ruby turrets!"
Heh. Awesome.
So many characters, too! Wow, I fall apart if I use too many, but I'm not even a third of the way into it, and I'm already seeing a quartet of Subs, at least one member of the Fatal Five, etc. Cool.
This is, bar none, the most impressive Legion fic I've seen.
Posted by Dev Em on :
I'm through 20 now. Really great things being done with the interweavings of the lore and the Legion. Great figuring out who veryone actually is in this reality.
Most impressive.
Posted by Kent on :
thanks, all!
great pic, Candy!!!! thanx!
Posted by Candle on :
The young and beautiful Imra(Gwen), when she was soon to be King Rokk's betrothed and the love of Garth's life:
posted by Irenkesabo
I've read through chapter 30 and comments. sigh
[ June 15, 2010, 07:12 AM: Message edited by: Candle ]
Posted by Fat Cramer on :
I'm really enjoying Luornu, with her challenging the matron. Such spirit!
The Dirk/Apollo transformation is quite fascinating, with his uber-attractiveness to everybody. Danger ahead, no doubt!
Posted by Candle on :
A beautiful drawing of Avalon and it's magical inhabitants, in this case, Mysa, Tinya and possibly, Lu's older sister in a happy momemt before so much tragedy struck their lives:
posted by Irenkesabo
[ June 18, 2010, 08:33 AM: Message edited by: Candle ]
Posted by Karie on :
Ok, so I'm re-reading this again
But I do have a question. Around chapter 100 there is mention of a conversation between Imra and Ayla, now is that something you are still going to bring up? Or am I in need of some new glasses cause I cant actually find the conversation anywhere. Or is this a reference to something that was brought up in one of the Legions comics, and I just dont have that particular issue?
By the way... awesome pictures Candle Posted by Candle on :
quote:Originally posted by Karie: Ok, so I'm re-reading this again
But I do have a question. Around chapter 100 there is mention of a conversation between Imra and Ayla, now is that something you are still going to bring up? Or am I in need of some new glasses cause I cant actually find the conversation anywhere. Or is this a reference to something that was brought up in one of the Legions comics, and I just dont have that particular issue?
By the way... awesome pictures Candle
I sometimes only hint at things that happened 'off-camera.' One of these includes one or more conversations Imra had with Ayla while Ayla seemed to be Garth (remember, Salu's magics made her look like Garth, and think she was him); the implication being that Imra, overjoyed at Garth seeming to be back from the grave, and may have said more than was appropriate, thinking she had the opportunity to say to Garth what had been unsaid.
As a result, Imra and Ayla both had a bit of dealing with the after-the-fact awkwardness of said situation, including Ayla having a much better idea than anyone else of Imra's true feeling for Garth (and the memory of having had those feelings directed at her).
I try to strike a balance between telling too much and not enough; I prefer to leave Imra's words for Garth unspoken at present.
Posted by Kent on :
More great stuff, Candy! Glad you're so inspired.
I've been on the road, but will add more sections soon.
Posted by Karie on :
Ah... that is what you were doing.
Kee 'em coming!
Well, when you have some free time ofcourse Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Ninety-six
“The hag was right about one thing. You and Mordru are conspiring against me, aren’t you, Thora? You hold no trust nor respect in me, your liege. You have offered nothing but ill counsel on this entire trip,” Rokk charged.
The barge upon Glastonbury lake was now approaching, and the priestess would soon take leave of him. There was no longer opportunity for any nocturnal backstabbing or spellcraft, so Rokk felt safe making time to have words.
“I have no love for you, my liege. But I do not work against you. My only contact with Mordru has been to help him in his quest to find the real Mysa. I thought that our quest as well. If I am less cordial than other priestesses, perhaps my experiences with the ways of men have left me so.”
“The hag blames you for Mysa’s disappearance. I’m not convinced she was wrong.”
A feigned expression of hurt appeared on Thora’s face. “My liege! You do me a wrong! She was my friend, a fellow priestess!”
“Know this,” Rokk said with all the intensity he could muster. ‘If Azura did not trust and value you so, I would have no problem seeing you donjoned for questioning. You know things you do not say; of that I am certain. That I cannot place trust in what you do say, I am also certain. I have been glad to be an ally of Avalon and its Priestesses under Azura and Kiwa. I do not believe that good will could possibly continue if you ever become Lady of the Lake, my ‘lady.’”
Then mayhap a new king is in order, she thought, but did not say. But the barge was now almost within earshot and more than she feared the king, she feared her reputation among the other priestesses.
“I… swear upon the great mother goddess Ceridwen and the crone Cailleach, taker of life, that you shall have naught to fear from me. I pledge by the gods of all Britain that no harm shall come to you by my hand. So may I perish!” With the last, she slashed her arm, and let her blood cover the knife blade, first one side, then the other. She wrapped the bloody blade in a cloth and presented it to the king, before tending to her own wound.
Rokk knew enough of Avalon to take the vow seriously, and Thora already regretted vowing so much, made just on the account of the approaching priestesses. Mordru will just have to handle the whelp-king without me. Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Ninety-seven
He awoke with a start, and found his limbs numb from disuse.
The rattle of surprise that escaped his throat must have been louder than the raspy cough it sounded like. Maidens rushed to his aid and surrounded him, checking his wounds and asking him a deluge of questions his still-struggling voice could not keep up with. They forced their elixirs and salves into and onto him, and to their credit the spasming pains of his brokenly awakened flesh soon ebbed. He was almost afloat inside of a calm, cool, herbally fragrant coating and massaging.
It was night; of that he was certain. The cool air, the maidens entering by candlelight, the harmony of the unseen insect choir outside… he was safe, and he could resume his slumber…
Morning came with lances of sunlight piercing his hut. He could slowly make out the structure; it was newly, hastily built. Or perhaps it was deliberately built to allow airs to more readily weave through his sick-bed chamber. The many openings in the hut were covered with un-dyed embroidered cloth of patterns he had seen before – he was in the care of the Priestesses of Avalon. The realization both pleased him and scared him – he had spent far too many lifetimes trapped in Avalon as it was, and he preferred to spend little enough time there. But Avalon held the Cauldron of the Gods, the artifact that would speed his remedy. And probably had already.
He rested easily that morning, and the maidens came early to offer a thin fast-breaking soup to tame the hunger that roared within his innards. He had presumed to have slept but weeks, as it seemed like no more than late spring, but he had seen the Priestesses apply such a regiment of foodstuffs before – he must have slept far longer than he’d believed.
“H-how long?” he managed at last. The maiden, who almost looked Khundish, just smiled shyly and retreated from the hut without a word.
Later that morning, a familiar face appeared at the entry to his hut.
“Brother Jan! Verily it is good to see you!”
“Not half as good as it is to see you awakened at last, my friend. Welcome back to the land of the living, Sentanta Mac Kell.”
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Ninety-eight
“Beren ages. The Druids will be ready for a fresh leader,” Errol pled.
Norack entertained the idea. After nearly nine months since the young Druid had freed a Circle initiate, he was still not trusting of the man – there was too much knowing of Rokk’s court the man had been unable to reveal.
Norack had initially considered Errol to be an unwitting spy for the crown – perhaps bespelled, even. But more and more the likelihood that this Errol really was an unobservant, well-meaning oaf seemed credible.
“You have helped us on many simple tasks, young Errol. It is time for you to prove your worth, if you really wish to be a priest in the Circle of the New Moon.”
“What would you have me do? I am most willing.”
Norack stood and paced. “Beren’s best hope is the lad from the North Isle… Rowan.” Seeing the young Druid’s confusion, he restated. “L’ile, he is known at court.
“Some say he is dead, since not long after the Glorious Day of Darkness – the very day so many like you have seen quite correctly as a sign from the gods to ally with the Circle. Some say he has returned, but remains in hiding. Find him. Either bring him here as a recruit, or make certain he cannot succeed Beren at all.”
Norack handed the man a bundle of cloth, Unwrapping it, Errol found a crystalline dagger.
“It will prevent Rowan from hiding from you,” Norack continued. “The very last survivor of Mona crafted it with his dying breath.” Norack grabbed the hand with which Errol held the blade. “Honour him. Honour us. Honour yourself--”
“Honour Mona,” Errol interrupted with a rueful smile.
Holding the blade, he could well hear the voices of those martyred Druids who were slaughtered by Romans on that isle so many generations ago.
Errol well recalled his conversations with L’ile. As fellow young Druids, he was privy to many things the rest of the court was not – yet never once had his friend and peer told him his real name. The hurt was lessened by the importance of his mission – and he rode northeast for Perilous Forest.
Posted by Kent on :
Three Hundred and Ninety-nine
Laoraighll tossed and turned, weaving in and out of consciousness. It pained her forbear to see her in such agony, and it seemed even worst those fleeting moments where she achieved awareness of self and her company.
“She fares far better now than when ere she first arrived,” Jan assured him. “I have faith she will recover in the coming months.”
“What ails her? Why hast the Cauldron not been sent for?”
“Since the Khund war, a strange dog plague has afflicted all the land. Few hounds have survived. We fear that just as you two were affected by the Khunds dog-blood war-paint, so too do you succumb to the pox.”
“All the lands?” MacKell was sickened to again be a prisoner here in Avalon, if this plague again made all the lands beyond his reach. When – if – he could again roam the world, he would no longer be content merely to remain in Britain.; he knew well how wide the world truly is.
“Aye. And the Grail… the Cauldron… is missing. A Josephite brother named Pelles has taken it on some unknown quest.”
“And he shall return it yet? Certain art thou that he is no thief, or bespelled by some fiend?”
“He is son of King Pellam, father of Queen Imra, and an elder among the Brethren for many a year,” Jan replied. “No-one has found the reason for his departure. Genni searches for him.”
MacKell sat in silence as he contemplated his exile in the mystical realm of Avalon. Seven islands, four holy orders, and the cave in which he was once a prisoner; this was his world, for as long as the plague ran its course.
Jan realized his need for solitude, and left the Ulster knight, who was gently squeezing the hand of his ailing kinswoman.
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred
King Urien looked up expectantly at the portal, hoping his messenger had returned from Londinium with good news. He disliked relying on High King Rokk to solve his feud with the upstart, young and inexperienced King Domangart of Dalraida, but did not want to shatter the peace for which his liege had worked so hard with rash retaliation.
As he sat in his gardens, enjoying the ebbing September summer day, he looked out over the mountains that marked his northern border. Rhyged was a land of green mountains, in which his people had eked every fertile acre of every valley possible into farmland. The harvests were proceeding nicely, and he had no wish to pull the young men away to fight the Scots – not when both nations should be reading their men for a winter war against the Franks.
The portal failed to produce a messenger, no matter how many times he looked toward it. Frustrated, he left the garden to walk the orchard path down to the village.
As he walked, he heard the sound of a harp. Was a Druid, a bard, visiting? Or had some noble chosen, like him, to appreciate the beauty of his lands and escape the walls whilst the weathers still allowed?
He left the path to seek out the harper. He was not surprised to see that the player was a woman; the music had a feminine flair to it. She wore flowing white robes, and her head was turned downward toward the harp. He saw not her face but her rich, thick head of red hair, with few but well-placed braids and ribbons. It reminded him of-
“Hello, my love,” the woman said. It was a voice that paralysed him, a voice he knew and missed.
No words found voice within him. It was struggle enough to remind his heart to beat.
“No words of greeting?” Even if Urien was not already captivated, the sultry melody of her voice would have ensnared him anew.
Could it be a trick? No, as soon as she turned her head, he knew her – she was still as young and beautiful as he remembered, those dozen years ago.
“I-I greet you, my love, my lady,” he finally managed. “You are most welcome in my kingdom. O-Our son is a fine lad, already a great knight,” he told her.
She nodded as she set down her harp. She seemed to float, not walk, toward him, and embraced him in what felt like a wind of silk. “I am gratified. Perchance we should have another.”
“Mayhap we should wed,” he said. “Y-you are the king’s own-” Her fingers to his lips stopped the thought.
“Were we not already wed, beneath a sky of the brightest stars? Come, my love. Let us… reacquaint where we shall not be bothered.”
The woman found Urien too easy a sport to fully enjoy. But he was a useful pawn in what must come next.
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and One
Mysa brushed her stark white hair in the mirror, reprimanding herself for sleeping away the prior day. There was much to be done, and she could not afford to nap like the old woman she seemed to be whilst others did her work for her.
Aivillagh’s queries had led to the same result; a smattering of impersonators had been reported over the past seven months.
Apparently it took a full year for the charlatans of Britain to realize she’d even been missing.
Tenzil had disliked being tricked into traveling to Exeter on what had turned out not to be King Rokk’s orders. But Accolon had proved to be right – the loyal beefeater had become convinced that Mysa was Mysa after all. He too recalled the scornful words that her half-brother had shouted at her, and felt responsible for being a less-than-convincing intermediary when Mysa attempted to contact Rokk at Sir Brandius’ villa those weeks ago.
Coming down to Duke Aivillagh’s parlour for fast-breaking, Mysa learned that Apollo (it was still hard not to think of him as Dyrk) had returned late last night.
Presently he was telling her allies of his talks with the court.
“King Rokk had ridden north to encourage conscripts for the Frankish war,” he was telling things they had already heard. “I met with Queen Imra and Azura, the Lady of the Lake. Both were truly aghast at the idea that the court or Avalon were failing to uphold the Olde Ways.”
Accolon was overcome with dread. “I hope you did not accuse-”
“No, no, no.” Apollo grinned. “Queen Imra hopes to build better bonds with the more tolerant of Christians, and has proposed that Brother Jan start a sect on the Isle of Heath.”
“Blasphemy!” Aivillagh blurted.
Mysa liked Jan, but felt the proposal to be an intrusion. “Did you dissuade her?”
“Aye, I think I have. Azura pledged to keep a stricter eye on Thora, and to call all the nobles who adhere to the Olde Ways to gather at Avalon, that we may redress allegiances to one another.”
“Verily, it has been too long!” Aivillagh was in his glee. “In the olden days, nobles did this each year. But then the Romans-
“But I am lecturing. Continue, Apollo.”
“Both Imra and Azura are concerned with Rokk. Imra, whose gifts of the mind magicks offer a unique view of the situation, believes Rokk himself wrestles with something within him. She knows not what to do about him.”
“I know how she feels,” Mysa shivered, and told the group her own fears and suspicions – and her proposed remedy.
“But what of Mordru?” Accolon chimed in.
“Azura wants to meet with you, my Lady Mysa, ere she accuses her aide of any wrong-doing. If it is pleasing to you, I can arrange-”
The conversation was interrupted by the sound of combat. Rushing out to the square behind the others as quickly as her aged bones would allow, Mysa arrived to find Aivillagh’s Northman Sugyn pinning Sir Garth. Accolon had rushed into the fray as well, and intercepted Garth’s would-be savior – Carolus!
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Two
MacKell walked the six islands like a caged beast pacing at the bars, looking for any gap through which his head was wide enough to escape the bars.
He had long since caught up on old news – he and the others had been successful in besting the great serpent Jormangund, and he was quite pleased. Death would have been a satisfactory price to pay, but imprisonment seemed far worse a fate.
Pleased he was of the eviction of the Nuhorran/Macedonian occupiers. He would have liked to have aided the effort – and to aid the coming war. Yet here he was a prisoner again.
He walked all the isles. And re-walked them. He discovered the remnants of an encampment on the Isle of Heath, overlooking the Brethren Isle. None knew whose camp it was, or where its originator had gone. MacKell’s enhanced senses told him a woman had stayed there, but Thora denied any Priestess could have, and none would accuse a Teacher of a false denial.
He helped with the harvest and the fishing, but these too brought little relief from his sense of enclosure. He helped tend to Laoraighll, who little by little did seem to be improving.
The harvest season ebbed and news came in from outer Britain that even many young pups who had previously avoided the plague were now whimpering and bloating. MacKell grimaced. He would find no freedom before winter; that much was clear.
Each time he walked the isles, he walked closer and closer to the seventh isle, the one every voice admonished him not to venture to. Some islands were connected by short bridges, some by marshy paths, and some by stepping-stones. In other places, one could wade through shallow waters from one isle to another. The Forbidden Isle, a hill almost always cloaked in mists, abutted none of the others. It always seemed a quarter-mile away from the three northernmost islands, and the same rocky peninsula on that distant isle seemed to always point towards the viewer, no matter where in the archipelago one stood.
Frustrated and feeling cornered, MacKell picked up his spear, the ancient, magickal Spear of Victory, one of the very treasures Laoraighll had first brought to court. In a fit of anger, he hurled the spear at the mysterious isle before him.
He watched it make landfall, onto a stony black beach none but he could see with clarity. In the channel between that shore and the place where he stood, the waves of presently grew rougher; the clash of the fiercest of these waves clashed into a frothy seam that slowly reached from the shore in front of the spear to the one in front of his feet. Out of the froth slowly rose a stony causeway, a land-bridge of interlocking hexagonal stones not unlike those which the British knights had seen on the Ulster shore. This new causeway was wide enough for a man to walk upon, so he did.
If the Forbidden Isle welcomes me, who am I to refuse? Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Three
Rokk was annoyed by yet another Mysa sighting – this time by a vital vassal king of a vital northern kingdom. He had settled the feud with the Scots – for now – and acquired recruits from all the northern lands. Even battered Lothian was eager to contribute, if only to vent its ire at being so helpless before Jormangund. If Pharoxx’s naval preparations were ready, Rokk could well attack Neustria before Yule.
Rokk permitted himself a brief rest in Rhyged, and hoped to ride with the first of the southbound armies. But he hoped not to hear of its king belabouring about his visions of his own sister.
“My father has a single weakness – for my mother,” Ywaine explained. “None but her sorcery can distract him from duty and kingdom.”
Rokk liked the young knight – more of a fighter at 10, and now 12, than he had been at his first battle at 14. “You really think it is her? Your mother?”
“I would know not. I have no memories of her. But I do known that father believes it to be her. Your sister, Mysa.”
“She would have been very young to be mother to you,” the king said.
“As so you say, my liege. I approve not of her, nor the witchery she is said to hold to her heart.”
“My sister was a Priestess of Avalon. In their own way, they are as pious as we Christians.”
“So you say. But it seems very ungodly to me. If you mind not me saying, my king.”
Rokk nodded. “This world carries more to it than any single philosophy, I have found, no matter what the priests may say.”
Ywaine’s father joined them presently “I regret, my liege, that your sister could not join us for our evening meal. She misses your company dearly.”
“I am certain she does,” Rokk said diplomatically. Either King Urien’s Mysa was a fraud or a phantasm – and Rokk had his fill of both.
Pity the next false ‘Mysa’ I chance upon. Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Four
Taliesin would have rather attended to his students, but more and more the fears Cador gave voice to could not be avoided.
While he and the other Teachers preferred to let the rest of Avalon tend to their own affairs, Azura’s grip on the Priestesses was waning, none could deny. Mysa had vanished, and treachery by a Priestess was likely. The camp that the Ulster knight found suggested someone was keeping something secret – but what, here, of all places? This was Avalon, not some tawdry Frankish court!
To make matters worse, the answers that had been found ailed his heart as well. Young Zoe had confirmed that the spirit of the Bear-King dwelt in the high king’s heart – but which truly held sway? Sorcery had brought the great serpent to Britain, yet no trace of Medb could be found. Against the avalanche of ill omens, even Cador’s claim that dear Imra, beloved pupil of all the Teachers, was in league with the zealots of the one-god could not lightly be dismissed.
The Teachers had listened, and had taken their time to reach a consensus. Cador, who never was one for the full deliberative process, had left for Cornwall in frustration. And now that his peers needed him, he was not here.
But just as the Teachers approached a point of action…
A causeway suddenly opened to the Forbidden Island. An unprecedented event in all the centuries since Avalon was severed from the outer world.
Was it a good omen, or an ill one? It was enough to put the Teachers back into more weeks of deliberations, but even Taliesin was approaching the point of shouting “enough!”
But still the Teachers talked. And talked. And talked.
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Five
Mordru surveyed the small pile of stones.
“That is it? That is all that is left?”
“Aye,” Marla told him. “The Romans wanted no trace at all of Boudacea or her rebellion. It took the greatest amount of stealth for her surviving followers to erect even this cairn.”
“And this leads to the Forbidden Isle?” Iason asked, unmindful of Mordru’s gaze, a look that silently shouted, “Silence!”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Marla lied, amused by the assumption. Suddenly he felt less culpable about being coerced by his one-time liege. “All I know is that it was a route to Avalon, but has not been used since Boudacea herself collapsed the tunnel.” Marla was not about to provide useful information for the wizard’s mysterious scheme when he could ramble on about old lore any local villager could recite.
Mordru surveyed the ground, patiently probing the ground all around the cairn. “There are passageways below.”
“How can you be certain?” Iason asked, earning laughter from both his companions.
“I am surprised you asked, as you bore witness to so much, Twas Mordru who gained the confidence of Vortigern by warning him of the dragon that dwelt below his own castle,” Marla reported.
“Iason remembers little, I fear,” Mordru countered. “For his own wits, I say tis for the best.”
The trio headed back for Londinium. Mordru shushed many of Iason’s inquiries until Marla parted, else too many ears begin to glean the pieces of his designs.
Mordru kept a low enough profile in Rokk’s capital, he hoped. Yet the evening before he and Iason were to depart, he found a dour-hearted Sir James waiting at his door.
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Six
“Dyrk is both descendent of Apollo, and also Apollo himself. Potentially speaking,” Regulus shouted, so as to be heard through the rain. “The liturgy of my order tells us our god can and does incarnate among us from time to time. And all the signs, since years before Dyrk’s birth, made it clear that he would be the last great incarnation of this age.”
Rokk considered himself lucky to encounter the Apollonian priest who was also journeying south, after spending the entire summer in Lothian and Pictland. The priest had been among those who had scoured the sea-shores and gathered Andrew’s metal bones for burial on the Caledonian coast, at the shrine of his death, Sinn Andrew.
Regulus was both pleased to hear of Dyrk’s survival, but totally a-fluster at the news from the south of a Dyrk aglow like the sun itself calling himself Apollo. “In truth, it could be the culmination of all my hopes. Yet all my prophesies have fallen like shards around me.”
“You once wanted Dyrk to be high king,” Rokk said pointedly.
“Once. But my greatest failing was both that I recognized yet failed to interpret the will of my god. Now I merely hope to see where the path leads, rather than pretend to lead that path. I… am nearing the end of my priestly duties, I fear.”
Rokk, Regulus and the Rhyged army passed through Cumbria, where the king was perturbed that no progress had been made on raising an army.
King Wynn has been delayed in the south yet again, the castellan told him – just has he’d been told the same weeks ago.
“James should have been sent for!” the king scolded the official. “Summon your nobles. I will instruct them, if the family of Cumbria is so unwilling! If Wynn hadn’t been such a staunch ally in the past, I vow I would carve up this kingdom to-day!”
Rokk had the army fed as he took the extra day among the nobles. With the young king’s growl came the pledge of a thousand men within the week.
Four days further south, just outside of Deva, Rokk learned that Sir Garth and others were apparently captives of Duke Aivillagh – who had proclaimed himself vassal of the queen of Cornwall – yet another of those posing as Mysa. Dyrk/Apollo was also of their number, it seemed.
The army changed course for the road to Corinium and the southwest coast.
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Seven
“I believe it not.” Garth would not even look her in the eye.
“You, who used to beg to wed me. You, who was blessed by the gods with thine arm. You, for whom I would make puppets for you to play soldier as a little boy, when Kiwa sent for you. LOOK at me! Tell me you see me not!”
Garth slowly turned, as if the very sight of the old woman would turn him to stone. “I see an old woman, who I’ll wager learned many a secret from the queen she may have murdered, for all I know. I’ll not be a party to your magicks at all.” He spoke quietly but with a simmering anger, and turned his head back.
After a long quiet she spoke again. “Jancel. It’s her, isn’t it? You will not give me even the satisfaction of my ear because of her.”
Garth spoke not a word, but merely tugged at his bonds as best he could.
“I truly am sorry,” Mysa said. “I, who for so long vowed not to manipulate as Kiwa did me, did just the same to you and her.” She let out a sob. “You must be quite pleased with the curse now upon me.”
“I am pleased of little, more and more. If you so repent what you did to Jancel and I, then why did you so transform Dyrk?”
So he did accept who she was!
“I did nothing to Dyrk.”
“Liar! You, who always spoke of men as gods. Now Dyrk thinks he is one, too!”
“I am not so all-powerful that I cause all changes and miseries in this world, Garth. Plenty transpires well without me.”
“What other deeds have you done?”
“What?”
“You hinted oft, when we were lying together, of things you had done for which you held shame. I… would hear them, then. Until then, tell me not what you didn’t do, for I shall assume you did all else.”
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Eight
Laoraighll stepped outside of her hut for the first time on a chilly October morning, but it would be three days before she could walk farther than a nearby bench that Jan had built.
On that third day, she made it down to the water’s edge, and sat meditatively looking out on the misty lake. In the distance she could hear the priestess’ barge rowing the waters on their way to Glastonbury’s shore in the outer world.
Jan joined her not long after her arrival, bringing warmed broth and moistened bread, which she devoured quickly.
“Lar’s gone, isn’t he? He hasn’t come to see me in more than a week.”
“Aye. He was growing quite melancholy being trapped here in Avalon. We are fairly certain he went to the Forbidden Isle.” He opted not to tell her of the causeway, for fear she might attempt something ill-advised herself.
“What other news? Tell me something more pleasant.”
“Azura and the Teachers have sent Thora on a quest. The young maidens are quite pleased to see the Lady back in charge after spending so much time traveling with the Queen this past year.”
“What else?”
“Aivillagh has claimed the crown of Cornwall for an old woman he claims is the rightful monarch there. King Marcus is apparently riding to challenge him.”
Laoraighll scoffed. “Sounds like two madmen to me.”
Jan chuckled. “Prince Pharoxx is quite irate. The Franks have imprisoned his sister, or so tis said, and no-one at court deigned to tell him.”
“Zounds!”
“Aye. Well, Rokk should be back from the north soon, and set him a-right. Or re-align him toward the Frank, rather than his own men.”
“Ha! I would be surprised not at all if Pharoxx does not start the war without Rokk!”
“Aye,” Jan said. “That does not seem unlikely, does it?”
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Nine
“I apologize for your captivity. You are free to go,” Aivillagh told Garth, Tenzil and Carolus.
“For what hast this all been a-foot?” Carolus demanded.
“You and Sir Garth attacked my court. Had you but asked for fealty, you would have been made more than welcome,” the duke explained. “I have no wish to feud with the high court. But nor do I entertain knights who behave like brigands!” For a brief second, Aivillagh looked so red and angry that Carolus could imagine him sprouting horns.
“Tis my guess that King Rokk’s entire army is about to bear down on you and you think you can avoid the spanking you deserve,” Garth taunted.
“Such a thought is quite unseemly for a nobleman, Sir Garth. As a son of a Lady of the Lake yourself, you would be better served making amends with those of kindred hearts.”
“I am no kindred to you!”
“Both of you! Cease you quarrel!” Mysa had enough.
“I merely came because I distrusted your ‘sun-god.’ Keep him away from court, and I shall quarrel with either of you no more.” He couldn’t resist one last stab at Mysa. “I hope you accept your curse as justice for all your wrongs, my lady. Kiwa would be proud of you.”
The three men left Exeter upon horses, Garth upon his own and the others upon gifts of the duke.
“That really was Mysa?” Carolus asked, once they were well out of the city.
“Aye, it was,” Tenzil replied. Garth offered no denial. His companions soon found he was of no humour for jest or even conversation as they rode.
At that evening’s camp, Garth resolved to stop blaming his wife for Mysa’s deeds against them both. He also wondered to himself, for the first time, if his own avoidance of Jancel was a weakness akin to the very one Mysa saw in him – when she sought to separate him from the Queen. Would we really have fared so well, Imra? Would we not have found our embrace whence you learned of Rokk’s Pictish bastard?
He liked his companions well enough, but these were no Sirs Thom or James or even Jonah to share confidences with.
The campfires burned low. Garth stared long into the night at the dancing embers. They were easier tormentors than thoughts or dreams were of late.
He was unused to making his camp along this stretch of the Exeter road – this close to the sea on an open plain. Only the gentle hills shielded the winds. Alone, he could have likely made it halfway to Glastonbury, had he the motivation to do so – yet this trio was scarcely one-quarter of that distance.
Garth figured roughly the number of days this trip should take, given his fellowes’ lesser experience on horseback. It would be a lonely journey, all the more so with the weight his reunion with Mysa had laid upon his heart. A long voyage indeed…
But the next day, word from the king would halt their voyage, and they would begin their return to Exeter much sooner than any of the three had expected.
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Ten
Errol had ridden the western periphery of Perilous Forest several times, but found no trace of his quarry. Out of sheer desperation he visited a lone cabin, almost as invisible as L’ile himself. Only a Druid would recognize the deliberate and skillful placement of foliage that both disguised the house and also looked to less observant eyes as nothing unordinary from the rest of the woodlands, meaning only a Druid had planted them.
Errol called out to the cabin, but yielded no response. He walked around it, and seeing no-one, he entered and called again. Again, no response. Lacking options, he set himself down in plain site and began playing his wood-flute, hoping in his heart not to attract the dread ogre Validus said to lurk these woods.
After less than an hour, he stopped, and lied back, studying the forest canopy. Soon, he felt like he was being watched.
“You’re Errol. You’re a Druid,” said a boy of about 10 or so.
Errol was impressed with the lad’s silence, but to live in Perilous Forest, one would have to be. “Yes, I am, he replied. And who are you?”
“My friend told me all about you,” the boy continued. “He knows a lot about everything.”
“Who is your friend?” Errol asked. “Is he a Druid like me? Can I see him?”
“I’m Peredur,” the boy said. “And I’m going to be a great knight someday.”
“You are NOT!” said an unpleased matronly voice behind him. Turning, he saw a quite peeved middle-aged woman pacing directly at them. “Go inside at ONCE!” she ordered the boy.
“State your business,” she demanded of Errol.
“I mean you nor your son any harm. I am looking for a Druid named L’ile. Or Rowan.”
“Are we here for your amusement, then? My son tells you of his imaginary friend, and now you must share in the jest? I did not chase my son to halfway to Cornwall and disabuse him of his foolish dreams of knighthood just for every foul forest-wanderer to mock me! Go, for the sake of all that is virtuous, just GO!”
Errol left, but encamped nearby. L’ile – Rowan – was nearby! His quest was nearly over.
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Eleven
Luornu felt as if she had been naught but the complete fool.
She had long ago ceased to be Dyrk’s paramour, and sought instead to seduce him to the banner of Iesous. But then he had seemingly died – like Andrew – and how she mourned them both! But now Dyrk had returned as a some sort of pagan devil, a false god, and she had given in to him with a will – nay, a lust – that was barely her own.
Even worse, she had not only taken him to bed, but her sister had come along too! Could that not be a sin without parallel? Was this not her punishment for defying the will of God, as revealed to her by the matron at Glastonbury? Had she not been so proud and willful to think that she knew better? But now she knew the fallacy of her ways. Wretched, cursed peasant girls are not in God’s good graces, nor true ladies of good lineage, simply because they associate with real nobles. Surely Laurentia’s death was also a clue she had been too proud to see for what it was.
As fondly as Luornu thought of Father Marla, he was far too lenient on sin, and espoused forgiveness more than he did repentance. So many times he had forgiven her, yet time and again she had fallen back into sin. Luornu prayed for a sign, and the next morning she learned that Sir James was bound for Exeter with a company of men! Surely it was the Lord’s doing – bestowing upon her yet another chance she deserved not. It took little coaxing for James to agree to see her to Glastonbury along his route.
Her friendship with so many pagan ladies and knights… her acceptance of the queen’s own sorcerous ways… all had led to no good at all. And her own sharp tongue (how like dear Laurentia she had become of late!) had almost gotten her excommunicated!
No more. She would seek forgiveness and repentance among those whose counsel she should have been following all along.
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Twelve
James’ troop arrived at Exeter unprepared to see the sprawl of northern armies encircling it. For a moment, the knight thought the Franks had seized it and Rokk was re-taking it. But there was no siege, although some of the men seemed to expect one.
His heart was heavy, and he had none to unload it onto. If he could muster the courage, he would speak his ills to his liege.
Once inside the city walls, he saw Garth arguing with Dyrk/Apollo. But Carolus interrupted the new arrival’s observance of that quarrel, and the jester informed him that King Rokk was awaiting him at Aivillagh’s castle.
“Sir James,” Rokk greeted him almost as an after-thought. “I need you to ride to Cumbria at once and gather the armies I requested.”
“I shall gather the nobles and-”
“-That has been done, by me. You merely need to follow up. I want them here before Yule.”
“Here? Not Portus Magnus?”
“Must all my decisions be questioned?” Rokk was not of a good temper – again. “Everyone expects Portus Magnus to be the launching point, because it always is. Let us give the Franks something they expect not – if that meets your approval?” The sarcasm was not lost on the knight.
“You look as if you want to say something else. What is it?” Rokk said with more annoyance than interest.
“T’is nothing, my liege,” he said, exiting. “Nothing at all.”
No burdens would be let loose to-day; the king was clearly of no mind to hear his ills.
Outside, James briefly encountered Garth, who chastised him for his ill hunour of late. “Let us find you a maiden to get your heart back in place,” he slurred, already several pints into the evening – and it was only afternoon.
“Aivillagh has re-pledged loyalty to King Rokk,” Garth told him. “Rokk stays loyal to Avalon, and Exeter aids the war. Not so much as a ‘sorry for imprisoning your best knight, or seducing another with magicks.’”
James abandoned Garth to his cups, and walked the narrow city streets in search of peace. He was rather surprised to see Rokk himself, dressed as a common knight, summon him to a side alley with far kinder words than the king had used of late.
“Pray tell, do you recognize this lady?” his summoner asked.
It was an older woman, yet one vaguely familiar. As he stared in part confusion, she began a slight smile that gave her away.
“My Lady Mysa! T’is a wonder I have recognized you!” his joy was genuine; certainly she of all people could aid him, where even Mordru would not!
“T’is a wonder indeed, as so few have done so,” she replied. “Pray tell, can you help us escape this city?”
“Since when does the high king and his sister need to-”
His thought was cut short as his summoner’s face had shifted into a visage he knew not.
“Reep?”
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Thirteen
“What did she want?” Rokk continued his interrogation of his host.
“She wanted to remove the curse of agedness upon her person, to reunite with you, her brother, and to resolve any ill will ‘twixt your court and herself,” Aivillagh replied. “Having failed with Sir Brandius, I confess it was my idea to restore her claims to Cornwall, that if her people accepted her, you might come around as well.”
“But now she has fled.”
“Aye. She heard you threaten harm, ere you look upon her, that her life would end.”
Rokk fumed. He had said those words, when he believed her a fraud. The bear inside him rebelled against his regret; it needed a new target.
“It is said King Marcus rides here to make war on you for pledging loyalty to Mysa.”
“He will have a lonely ride. My allies have already stripped him of his troops. They still ride here, but for your war effort.”
“How so?”
“Mysa’s presence this summer has done much to remove the last vestiges of Geraint’s leadership. The people of Cornwall – her Cornwall – crave a leader of the olde line – not Marcus, not Gorlois, but a true descendant of Llir. Even Geraint’s blood was not as good as Mysa’s. Or yours, but the people of Cornwall are jealous – they want their own monarch, not just a high king of their lineage.”
“There is more you say not,” the high king gleaned.
“Aye. Suffice to say, you will only hold Cornwall and the southeast with your sister’s blessing – and she has endorsed a requirement I expect of you for that to happen.”
“YOU… require…?!?” The bear within Rokk growled loud.
“We support you in this war without condition. But continued support beyond this – and we both know there will be more wars, Khunds if none other – shall require a demonstration. Bear-King you may be, but many of the Olde Ways need to know that you are still the man we coronated in your heart of hearts. A man loyal to Avalon, as your father Uther pledged for his line to come.”
Rokk was angry enough to run the man through, there and then. But promises to underlings were made to be broken – if even the good duke even survives the coming war.
Tempted Rokk was to inform Aivillagh that it was Ambrosius, not Uther, who had made the pledge to Avalon… Or had he? Was Rokk mis-recalling Mordru’s words, so long ago? Which of the three brothers had made the pledge? Ambrosius, Uther… or Mordru himself?
“Very… well…” Rokk heard himself slowly saying, choosing his words with as much precision as his suddenly racing heart could muster. “But to make such a demand of one’s liege is not to be done lightly. I require something of Avalon as well.”
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Fourteen
“I am pleased that your journey was successful,” Cador beamed as he bowed. “T’is good to see you, my queen.”
The early autumn evenings on the Tintagel coast were a delight. With only a slight chill in the air, the two nobles could comfortable walk and talk privately along the rocky shore, and return when they needed warmth to the fire pits where servants were roasting a pig to feed the visiting monarch. The smell of roasting apples and spices competed with the briny smell of the sea out along the cliff-top path.
“I fear I cannot be your queen just yet,” the beautiful young woman before him said, “else southern Britain is again at its own throat.”
“But my vile kinsman Geraint’s name no longer commands the respect it one held. It is safe. All is well.” Cador knew well that only his distant kinship to Geraint was why he and he alone had been able to smooth the waters between Marcus and the nobles who had stood with the would-be usurper.
“No. Even if Cornwall is mollified by Mysa’s words, the Summer Country and beyond are not. Meleagant was Geraint’s man, and he hath no love for us.
“Marcus will not go quietly, and too many will remember my love as his slayer, too. We cannot let Meleagant use us to divide this land, for him to become the next Geraint.”
“What do we do? Who shall rule Cornwall? Until Rokk and Mysa settle their feud-”
Cador’s guest shushed him with two gentle fingers to his lips. “There is much I must tell you, and we must pray all unfolds as it must. You stepped in as but a temporary peacemaker, tis true. But Cornwall is not yet done with you, I fear.”
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Fifteen
Carolus was no tracker, woodsman nor spy, but he tried his best to follow Sir James and his small group of fellow knights on their westward journey – two knights and a robed woman accompanied the Cumbrian. This choice of directions further added to the jester’s suspicions; he had personally heard Rokk order James home to Cumbria – yet deeper into Cornwall they went! Knowing the word of a jester was secondary to a knight, he resolved to keep following as best he could.
Several times he lost them, and several times he stumbled again onto their path. Indeed the latest time he had found himself so hopelessly lost that he thought he was returning to Exeter in shame – when he stumbled onto his quarries by accident!
So surprised was he that he was unable to pretend to be discrete; he was too close to their camp that they called him toward them to share an ale.
“Why hast thou journeyed into Cornwall?” Sir Palomides asked him good-naturedly. Surely no knight would suspect the jester was trying to keep watch on any of them. Upon closer inspection, he could make out the identities of the entire party; Aivillagh’s man Sir Accolon, and as he suspected, Queen Mysa.
“Cornwall? I was truly lost, then. I thought I had taken the road north, for Deva and Cumbria. Were…” he paused to feign an innocent confusion. “Were you not also bound there, Sir James?”
“Aye,” James offered distantly, hiding the recollection that Carolus had directly heard his orders. “But there is another matter that, for the sake of all Britain, must be resolved without Rokk knowing of. Important matters of statecraft,” he stressed as convincingly as he could.
The ploy seemed to work, and Carolus began to doubt his resolve; surely the exalted Sir James knew what he was doing? No rogue was he, sneaking off in the night. Mayhap there is a reason jesters walk a separate road than knights.
Carolus rode with them the next day to a field where two opposing lines of troops, both Cornish, faced each other. Nay, they intently faced two men, specks in the distance to the new arrivals. But they were clearly two men with swords, circling each other warily. Surely a duel was beginning, and Carolus could only fear the unknown significance. This bodes well not, on the eve of war. Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Sixteen
For Sir Hesperos, the past month had been almost as if a most vexing of dreams – a blur of insanity not his own.
The quest had been straightforward enough – help King Marcus rally his troops for the coming war. But Marcus had been a manic figure, one day ordering troops together and the next having them diverted to move stones or hold ceremonies declaring victory over far-off lands even the Greek knight wasn’t sure actually existed.
Two days from reaching Exeter, the ever-dwindling army of Marcus stood face-to-face with a larger opposing force. It was less clear to Hesperos than to the troops of both sides that there were kin and friends on both sides, and neither had the will to fight the other.
“Geraint!” Marcus called out. “Show yourself, you cowardly traitor! Ye who hath slain mine own son!”
“Geraint is dead. By my hand, father,” a man resembling Sir Thom stepped forward from the opposite line.
“Trickster!” the addled king shouted. “My son is dead!” Even his own troops began to murmur and break rank.
“Let an elder king have his dignity!” Thom shouted. “Let him meet his end as a proud warrior, not a raving madman!” In an instant, the Cornish knight and presumed heir commanded the respect Marcus had so oft let slip away.
Slowly, the two armies fell in to feign opposition, with many of Thom’s own men switching sides to bolster the elder’s feeble numbers. All those gathered today, even those who had taken arms for Geraint, would remember the moment as one where all doubts about Sir Thom were erased – verily the legendary Thom of Cornwall had returned, in all ways imaginable.
There was no doubt about the outcome – or that Marcus’ day was past. Better to let him live in one last battle than wither away as a ghost on the well-meaning Cador’s leash; none wanted to remember Marcus as the man who had given voice to every phantasm a dying mind can glimpse.
Thom allowed his step-sire the first blows, and even the first blood – a slice to the leg. The elder knights were quite impressed with the lengths the younger would go to allow his father the sweet fruits of combat.
And when the time came to end it, Thom was swift and merciful. And even the late arrival Meleagant was surprised by the sight that followed – Sir Thom weeping over his sire’s body.
If any knight of Cornwall or the Summer Country had been given an order to finish off Sir Thom when combat ended, none followed it. Nor did any of the expectant eyes watching Meleagant receive any such signal from the man who had ordered Thom’s head on a pole.
Sir Thom planted his sword firmly before his one-time liege, saluted, and walked off between the assembled front lines. No hand moved until well after his departure. Never had any seen so many men assembled with so little sound made.
As the soldiers began to mill about and vocalize their awe for what had just happened, Hesperos caught sight of his old friend Sir Palomides, who was standing near James and some other familiar faces.
They greeted each other, and exchanged their own appreciation for Thom’s honour, and the coming assault on Frankish soil. A select guard of Cornish nobles began digging a grave; there was no point in sending the body to Tintagel or Sinn Gaolach on the eve of war.
After a spell, the conversation was interrupted. “Good sirs? Pray tell, where has Sir James gone?” Carolus intruded.
“He went to speak with some old Cornish noblewoman,” Hesperos volunteered, annoyed at the interruption. He waved the fool away to continue their much more important discussion. Surely it mattered not whatever token greetings were being delivered to some old crone, on the very hour when King Marcus was put out of his misery and Thom would no doubt be Cornwall’s next king. Why, just a dozen yards away, Sirs Garth and Meleagant were meeting civilly, no doubt with the peace of all southern Britain waiting on their words.
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Seventeen
Cador knew what was to happen, yet paced frantically until the messenger arrived confirming everything his guest had told him.
She had departed early that morning to meet with the most important gathering of Cornish nobles to assemble in a generation, and at her urging, he remained behind, else he look too ambitious for any Teacher of Avalon to be, even in the politics of his ancestral lands.
Governal was sleeping later and later; the years were catching up on the man who had been mentor and teacher to so many of Cornwall’s noble sons and daughters. By now, Cador was quite familiar with all the castle staff, yet at the same time he had never felt more alone. Among the Teachers he held authority, it was true – but there he was one of a dozen voices; nothing there fell solely on his shoulders as it did here. This should have been his late brother’s task; he had reveled in courtly matters. Not Cador.
Cador waited for Governal to break fast, and he filled the elder in on his conversation off the night before.
“I had hoped she would tell us all is a-right tween Mysa and King Rokk,” Governal said. “What said she when aft she silenced you?”
“She said, ‘You must rule Cornwall, in all of our steads, Cador. I will be in Leinster, where I grew up.’” Cador paused in quiet contemplation for an interval. “As we parted for the eve, she added, “‘Long live the regency of Cador the Wise,’ and she kissed my cheek. ‘It begins in truth with Marcus’ death on the morrow,’ she prophecized.
“‘Long live Queen Nura, and… King Thom,’ I whispered back. ‘May Eiru’s shores keep you both safe.’”
Governal nodded. “Meleagant will agree to you. Mayhap in time he and Thom will gain each other’s trust.”
“Some say Meleagant should hold no one’s trust.’
“Aye, but he is the heir of Gorre, and that is not to be brushed aside lightly.”
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Eighteen
Mysa quietly said her good-byes to Sirs Thom and Meleagant, and watched from the sidelines as the two swore loyalty to and acceptance for the regency of Cador before the assembled knights and nobles. The two would jointly petition High King Rokk for his blessing – and for his bestowal of title upon the regent.
As the armies, now as one, marched toward Exeter to unite with the other British forces, no one but a jester noticed Two knights and an old woman break for the northeastern coastal path.
Sirs Hesperos and Palomides had appointed themsleves as aides-de-camp of Sir Thom, who was most welcoming of two of Rokk’s own knights at his side. He had the will of Cornwall and peers at his side; surely Meleagant could plot no backstabbing just yet.
If James had regarded Carolus as an accidental shadow ere now, the jester’s continued following left no doubt. He let the fool believe in his own success – to a point. When it became necessary to save the would-be spy from brigands, James lectured the man and left him at Corinium, instructing the city guard to have him sent safely back to Londinium.
Carolus had accepted his fate with good humour, and let the knight think he had gotten the better of him. Carolus knew he was no tracker, but his own well-meaning bumbling had led to an ally who could do the job he could not.
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Nineteen
Enide and her knightly escort finally found the village; it had changed much in the past two years.
Her father had fled Castor towne not long after her wedding, she had recently learnt. The Angles continued to seize Breton lands, and more and more local lords gave into the newcomers, with promises of rewards and marriages into good Angle families.
Her father’s merchantile had been burned and looted, and old friends who dared not approach her in the streets told her in hushed whispers in the alleys of her father’s failed quest to achieve audience with the high king.
King Rokk knew her only as wife to a traitor; she could not imagine him thinking any the better of her poor father. Rejected from the court at Londinium, who knew where her sire might flee? A lowly merchant in lesser wares, his pride at being of Iceni noble descent was his sole source of pride – save for her daughter’s brief era as a Cornish noble. Enide knew well the descent his heart must be now sunken into.
With the aid of the knight at her side, she scoured every village in her homelands and beyond, and was ready to pour through every hamlet ‘tween Kent and Perilous Forest if need be.
But the trail led here, an overlooked motley of huts not two leagues from Castor’s stockaded walls. Less than a dozen huts made from little more than twigs, one solid storm away from being a pile of inland driftwood. She recognized the outline of figure and profile more than the unkempt hair, the posture of resignation and the blank stare.
“Father?” As she spoke the words, a brief uncertainty came about her. What if it wasn’t him at all? Surely there were many of Celt stock with similar features… But no. Coming closer and studying the visage, no doubt could harbour shelter in her heart. “Father, tis me. E-Enide. Home, I have returned…”
She looked around at the shanty. Hers was the only voice, the only action. The few bodies within sight made no motion, spoke no words, lifted no finger. Some of the huts were so poorly made that they held no secrets about their occupants – at mid-day, they lied still inside, from idleness, illness, drink or even death.
She again surveyed her sire. He was one of them now; there was none of his vivance left in his eyes. He not even recognized her presence, and she could not contain her tears. An apology garbled away into a train of sobs.
“Come, Enide. There is naught for you here now,” her escort said softly. He gently took her hand. “He has died in all but fact. Allow him the dignity of recalling him as he was.”
Enide reluctantly nodded and let herself be led away to his waiting mount. He had risked death for her and asked nothing; they were kindred spirits – outcasts within Rokk’s Britain. Even though he came from a distant land, his was a British soul – and she would follow him to his lord-in-hiding, in the peaks beyond Elmet.
Posted by Kent on :
Four Hundred and Twenty
“Rowan told me you’d be waiting here.”
Errol stopped playing his lyre and looked up. It was the boy. The Druid had deliberately camped a quarter-league away from the forest house, in hopes that the boy, not his mother, over-protective like a she-bear, would spy upon him. “I came here to find… Rowan. He’s a friend of mine,” he said.
“You knew him as L’ile,” the boy said matter-of-factly. It was not a guess – nor a question. Verily, the boy has seen his quarry – and had not merely chosen coincidental names for some imaginary friend.
“Yes, I did. By what name shall I call you?”
“I am Peredur. I am going to be a great knight someday. Someday soon.”
Errol smiled at the lad of no more than 11 years. Twas not beyond belief. Ywaine of Rhyged was already a knight at a similar age.
“I doubt it not, though your mother may.”
“She is still mad at my father,” Peredur said, “for leaving her. But I think it was some wizard’s fault, not his.”
“Mayhap it is,” Peredur agreed. “Where is Rowan – L’ile – now?”
“He’s right here, beside me,” Peredur announced. “Can’t you see him?”
Errol smiled. “He cannot be seen, unless he wishes to be seen,” he said to Peredur. “L’ile? Why dost thou not show thyself to me, your friend Errol?” he called out in the direction Peredur gestured.
Peredur giggled.
Errol’s face his none of his confusion and exasperation.
“He says we have a quest to fulfill before you will know why,” the boy said. “I have stowed away a sword and shield by yonder knoll. Come, let us go forth!”
Peredur plodded forward, looking perplexed when Errol hesitated to follow.
Errol was at a loss – mayhap the child was lost in imagination ere all? But he had come this far; he may as well continue.
“Tell me then, my friend. What is our quest?”
Peredur reached his cache and removed a short sword, nay a dirk – one that has been tinged on one edge by rust. The shield, but an armlet, really, was little better.
“They’re not much, tis true. But they are the best I have found, since my mother destroyed my last set of metals.” He put his dirk into a makeshift scabbard, a fragment of leather that was probably once a boot, as solemnly as he imagined a true knight would. He slung the shield over his shoulder, and picked up a small pack of provisions. He turned to errol with a look that said, “let’s go.”
“Our quest, good sir knight?” Errol asked once again.
“Rowan tells me we have a princess to rescue! Let us go north!”
Posted by Karie on :
Just a gentle bump... I never get tired of reading your LoC Sean!
[ October 29, 2010, 09:36 PM: Message edited by: Karie ]
Posted by Karie on :
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
sorry, Karie (and anyone else lurking in), but grad school has been pretty dang busy. I do plan to get back to this someday... maybe as soon as May, knock on wood.
Posted by Kent Shakespeare on :
PS is was a nice surprise seeing this on page one, just taking a glance at Bit for the first time in ages.
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