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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!

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.

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!

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?

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...

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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 else else 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.

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...

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.

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...

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.

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?"

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!!!!!!!

Thanks, Karie!

There's a LOT more to come (no pun intended).

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.

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!

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."

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?

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."