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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."

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...

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.

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?"

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...

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.

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.

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...

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."

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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!

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

Thanks once again, Bel!
It's nice to know all pays off!

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?

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...

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.

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.

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:

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...