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One Hundred and Thirty-nine

Berach's team made it through.

Reluctantly letting Rokk and MacKell's teams serve as distractions, they slipped into a concealed passageway that Roxxius no doubt uses to reach his ships. But where were the ships then?

Beneath the tower were ancient catacombs - deserted catacombs, but not disused. Many piles of treasure, Roxxius' yields, no doubt, were piled in each alcove.

But not a person was about.

Reaching the tower's base, he ordered Peter and Stig to ready their unique weaponry. "Be ready for anything," he warned, as they proceeded up the stairway, Dag first, to deflect any attach, followed by himself and Uland, while Stig, Peter and Franz were paced beyond, ready with projectile weapons if needed.

The round tower stairs left them well exposed, should anyone from the far upper floor choose the attack downward. Berach wore his heart in his throat with each sound from above.

The stairs were wide and steep, suggesting large people used them, at least when they were built.

"Giants," whispered Uland, only to be shushed by Berach.

They reached the top of the stairs, a flat trap door that stood between them and the tower's top.

On the count of three, Dag and Berach shoved against it. Expecting more resistance, the door flew upward, banged on the wall above, and bounced back, denting on Dag's head.

"Charge!" Berach ordered, not wanting whoever lied beyond to recover from any surprise.

The six men ran into the room, only to face two hideous, deformed old men, each in excess of seven feet. They stood manning a ballista less complex than Querl's, and beside them was a dwindling supply of ammunition. Just as the ballista reminded Berach of a giant bow, these projectiles resembled to him giant arrows.

"Will you not leave us alone!" One of the giants shouted, hand-throwing a projectile at them. Dag caught it, but was knocked backwards, almost knocking Stig behind him back down the trap door.

Uland and Berach made frontal charges, while Stig tossed a bottle at the stock pile. The entire projectiles burst into flames, instantly over-warming the room, and making all wince.

"Noooo!" the giants cried, backing away from the knights, throwing up their arms in front of their faces.

Surprised by their cowardice,. Berach motioned for Uland to hold his stance.

"Who are you, and why did you attack us?" the Northman demanded.

"Attack you? You came to slay us!" one said. "We are but two old men, the last of the Fir Bolg, and wish only to be left in peace!"

Fir Bolg, Stig thought. The Giants of old Fomoria.

"But you sheltered the butcher Roxxius, who slays our women and children, and takes what is not his!"

"We... know not of that. He said he was a merchant, and would protect us from those who would hunt us, as the Celts have always done?"

"Well, he led us to your door, and left you to fend for yourselves." Noting his former servitude to Tarik, Berach was somewhat sympathetic, if they spoke truthfully. But the thought of his wounded comrades also remained in his mind.

"Peter - go see if King Rokk and the others have recovered. Stig -destroy the ballista," he ordered, turning his attention back to his captives.

"You two - where is Roxxius now? Does he have more allies at hand?"

"King Coirpre mac Neill - he fights your allies on the far shore," said the other giant, pointing out to a pitched battled between the Irish and Rokk's Frankish allies - the Frankish coast, too, wanted to be rid of Roxxius, for he had raided them as well.

"He and his went with the new recruit, Jonah, to seek the Blood. We expect them back not for days," said the first.

"Any other allies?" Uland prompted.

"Aye. There is one. Saraid, queen of Munster," said the second.

"B-Brother-" the first began, but Berach's sword led him to hold his tongue.

"Continue," he said to the second.

"Saraid was our friend; her family helped first to hide our race, and she helped us make peace with mac Neill, the high king. She brought Roxxius to us as defender, but vanished when the stone came."

"The stone?" asked Dag.

"Aye. The stone the Tuatha brought to this isle centuries agone. It was used to keep the Justice of Balor imprisoned."

"We may die, but Balor's Justice will be reaped!" bragged the first.

"Imprisoned? Where?" Stig didn't like this. Balor, he recalled, was the one-eyed god of the Fomorians.

The brothers motioned downstairs, and at Berach's direction, led them to a subterranean chamber where the Stone of Virtue was now solidly embedded into the wall like a turned key, and several stones had been knocked aside - no, blown outward - from a round-shaped enclosure beyond, big enough for an orb.

A primitive wall illustration showed giants using such an orb bringing small people - the Tuatha de Danaan or Celts, presumably - to their knees with rays from the orb.

"Whatever befalls us, Saraid shall use Balor's Eye of Justice to avenge our race. She will found an empire from this emerald isle!"

One Hundred and Forty

Returning to Tintagel, the allied fleets received word that Roxxius had been defeated, sunk beneath the waves.

With their mutual quarry eliminated, the seized treasures were split between Rokk and Lucius, duke of Neustria, the Frankish province plundered hardest by Roxxius.
And the Frankish fleet went its own way.

Rokk sent his fleet back to Portus Magnus under Thom's watch, still mindful of the tensions he saw on the outbound trip to Eiru. With Thom gone, he only had to bear with Marcus' pleas for a larger share of the spoils - as if Tintagel were the sole port to feel the raider's swords.

Still, there was relaxation on the Cornish coast, and the soft violence of the waves crashing upon the rocky sea wall was invigorating to the king and his knights.

"How fare you, my lady?" Rokk asked Nura. He, Marcus and the queen were strolling the cliff-top pastures, taking in the sweeping vistas of crumbly, stony coastline. The fragments of rocky lands off shore lent credence to the tales of Ys and Hybrasil, lost beneath the waves.

The shimmering of the sun on the distant waters was the only sign of where the sky ended and the sea began.

"I... am better knowing that attacker is gone," she half-smiled. Rokk noticed her scowl at saying "that attacker," and the implication there was more than one. "Jonah, you know, did not turn traitor."

"Aye. MacKell told me. He needed to fake such to be taken into the raider's confidence. Yet it was a priest, not a knight, who ended the butchery."

Marcus smiled. "May he end the heathen Khunds so easily."

Rokk nodded. This was not the time to weigh the ethics of slaughtering for religion versus self-preservation.

"What now, my king? Does it not seem anti-climatic to chase a foe all the way to Eiru, when he is defeated at home in your absence?" Marcus pondered.

"A little. But he is dead. That is what matters. Now... we still have Khunds to worry of. And Tarik. But Derek and Brandius have been overseeing the beginnings of my new fortress, and I should like to see its progress."

"You need a fortress? Why, kinsman, I would gladly share Tintagel-"

"-A most generous offer. But I need one where we are most vulnerable to the Khunds. Tintagel is an important link to my stratagems, yes. But I need to be close to the enemy to be ready."

"Aye. Sandwiched in between the Angles and Kentish Khunds, it will be hard to be closer." The men laughed, and Marcus continued. "Have you thought of a name for your fortress?"

"Well, it will be built at Camulodunum. I feel no need to rename the city," the high king said.

"Nonsense, my boy... If you'll forgive a foolish old man's enthusiasm, sire," Marcus added, embarrassed at taking such liberties with the high king. Seeing Rokk's smile, he continued. "The city's name is fine for Roman and city folk, but consider this. The country folk, the pure Celt blood, will not well cotton to such a Roman name. Indeed, most are none too fond of Roman cities to this day."

Rokk nodded. "What would you do?"

"Shorten the name. Make it friendlier. Maybe 'Dunum,' would be better."

"Dunham? Sounds a little too countryish for my tastes. But I will consider your idea."

One Hundred and Forty-one

Querl hadn't seen the wave.

The sea had gotten choppy off shore from Exeter, and the crew was mustering to make port. He shouldn't have been on deck, but he had to see that the Computus wasn't damaged by the storm.

The deck was pitching, and it became harder to hold on. One moment the ship would be high atop a wave, looking down on the little instant valleys ahead and below, and then with a crash they'd be in one of the valleys, surrounded by white-topped peaks of water.

He took little consolation in the fact that he was not the only man to lose his grip. He'd seen several go before him, but he would not be surprised if none saw him go. The storm had grown too dark, too fast.

Tossed and thrown by the sea, he recalled the words of his teachers. "Swim upward, Querl. Seek the air. Close your eyes; your body knows the way."

It worked. He could claim a gasp of air as his own, and feel the rise and fall, anticipating each wave without seeing the ferocious sight. He kept at it, repeating it over and over again, losing track of how long...

He slept. He was vaguely aware of a sandy cushion below him, and crawling forward until water no longer lapped at his feet. The rocks and tree roots were less comfortable than the sand but it mattered not...

...Waking, the warmth of the morning sun was a welcome sight. The fairly peaceful sea kept its distance, as if in apology for its temper the previous night. The handful of clouds in the sky served as accomplices, as if saying, "What storm? Just a nice day up here. You must have confused us with another sky."

Querl laughed at the irony of such a beautiful day, one of the nicest he'd ever seen in Britain. It felt good, this day - it felt good to be alive.

His laugh was interrupted by his sneeze. Sleeping the night in wet clothes had ailed him, he hoped, not too much. He'd build a fire to make his clothing warm and dry, before making his way inland.

He guessed that he must be just east of Exeter, and should soon come across the Roman Road. If not, he knew he'd be west of Exeter, and would follow the ridge bearing to the right to reach the city.

A chill came over him - last time he'd awaken as such he was in a fairy realm. Could it be-? But no, if Mysa's tales were correct, there would be sunlight but no discernable sun if he had again crossed...

..."Over there!" the boy whispered.

His friend squinted. "It's true! We'd better tell your Da!"

Soon they'd told the entire hamlet, everyone had gathered, bringing their best breads, fruits and meats.

The smoke of their fires indeed led Querl to the thorp, but their cheers almost made him flee. Hunger and reason prevailed - they were happy to see him, or so it seemed.

Querl had avoided the local villages, preferring to stay in civilized Londinium, or failing that, either in the company of knights or a comfortable cloak, where his greenish complexion would not be noticed.

But his cloak was now gone in the sea, and there was no hiding himself - not from this assembly of several dozen smiling faces offering him food and ale.

He greeted them, and accepted their hospitality eagerly. Their stares at he ate were intrusive, but somehow - innocent and reverential. He found it both flattering and unnerving.

From their comments, apparently it was quite an honor to be visited by a green man.

To his further amazement, they had prepared sleeping quarters for him, the largest hut in the small hamlet had apparently been vacated for his use.

As tiring as the last 24 hours was, as much as his body wished to collapse and rest, his mind clawed at his situation. Why are they so friendly? It made no sense.

His thoughts were interrupted by girlish giggles. The furs that constituted a door parted, and thorp's young maidens entered.

One Hundred and Forty-two

MacKell retraced his steps carefully.

He had watched it done hundreds, maybe thousands of times over the centuries, and his belief that he could find the routes on his own proved well-founded last week en route to Tintagel, and they were proving so again today.

Waving farewell to Sir Garth, who he rode with to Glastonbury's far shore, he waded out into the shallow lake, counting his paces as he went.

He turned where the priestess' boat would turn, never once straying from the path, with only his head above water in some places. He stopped to recount his steps, and paused to reflect on the beauty of the moment: him alone, water at chin level, surrounded by mists, able to see only a few feet around himself.

He smiled.

He'd envisioned this very scene time and again for how many lifetimes? To feel water again! To shake his head, wet with water, to feel the lake trout brush against his legs!

Rather than lose himself literally, he pushed on, surprising two young priestesses tending to matters near the dock on the Priestess' Isle.

"My ladies!" he greeted them, emerging from the water, and continuing along the shore, bound for the Teachers' Isle. He was pleased that Azura herself was not present - a far less friendly high priestess than Kiwa had been, in his opinion.

After a change of clothes, he shared a midday meal with those wise elders, and greeted the priestess Zoe, now in the Teachers' care, and Beren, visiting from the Druid's Isle.

After the meal, MacKell pressed on, onto the Path of Isis, which no one but himself dared to journey with open eyes. He'd seen all it's horrors long ago, and was accustomed to the shrieks of the bainsidhes trying to trick travelers with the visages of monstrous fears, deep-rooted hates and even tortured loved ones.

The sights and sounds that had driven wise men and women to insanity didn’t at all impress MacKell. Ghouls wearing the facades of his long dead wife and children meant naught; not even the twisting and screaming of his newer friends and companions.

The image of Tinya burning and shrieking solely reminded him how little measure of affection he'd achieved with his benefactor. Perhaps it was time to let her go - as his friendship with Jonah was becoming more rooted.

He continued on, and in the time it took Garth to return to Cadwy’s fort, he was emerging into the Temple of Isis, just outside Londinium's walls.

"Good day to you," greeted one of the priests, somewhat used to visitors from Avalon emerging without notice.

"Good day to you," he returned the greeting.

Upon arrival at the palace, he had Jonah freed from the imprisonment he had acquiesced to.

He greeted the despondent queen and her ladies, and the mysterious young priest.

"Now that God has claimed Roxxius, letting him be consumed by his own greed, I may tell you my name. I am Brother Jan, last of the Brethren of Trom."

"Of course! Trom. I should have realized," MacKell responded. "I had heard of a young priest there who worked miracles." Seeing Jan blush uncomfortably, he added, "My condolences for the loss of your brethren."

"They are with our Lord. I am happy for them," he smiled. "God granted me gifts, and Roxxius slaughtered those around me seeking to use me for his own ends. Better that baptized, godly men, whose souls were already saved, perished, than unredeemed sinners who have not yet seen the light."

MacKell smiled diplomatically. He'd witnessed Eiru's conversion, but had seen both good men and bad use this new religion to varying ends.

"MacKell! Come quickly! An intruder! He's taken down a half-dozen guards!" called the watch captain.

He rushed forward, with Jonah following, ready for anything or anyone - except who he saw before him, unarmed and unarmoured, holding a fully armoured guardsmen up in the air with one hand, and no sign of strain.

"Ossian?"

"You know me? Good," the intruder let the guard down. "I meant only for an audience. There is treachery afoot."

"MacKell,, you know this man?" Jonah could believe it not.

Ossian! How can he be alive after three centuries?

One Hundred and Forty-three

"My lady Winifred," Sir Derek greeted Elmet's queen graciously. He was not surprised that she waited til he - not Jonah - was regent in Lindum.

"Sir Derek," she made no effort to thaw her frozen smile - to him or King Belinant.

With wine poured and pleasantries dispensed, Winifred went straight to the point.

"It is true that my husband led an army with the intent of attacking the high king. Our army is decimated and my husband is missing. I stand defenseless from Khund or Northman, and find myself completely at King Rokk's mercy. I shall pay whatever tribute he sees fit, that Elmet may too be defended against invaders."

"All of which would have been far simpler if King Tarik kept his allegiance in the first place," Derek reminded her.

"Aye. But he was obsessed. He-" she paused to choose her words carefully. "He knew Voxv well in younger days, and shared his grief when young Guinevere died. I know not whether Guinevere was spirited away and a changeling died in her place, if Grail or sorcery resurrected her, or if Rokk's bride is even an imposter. I care not."

"Even as your own daughter came back from the dead?" Belinant asked.

"My daughter is dead. That... wench dallying around this town is no blood of mine. It surprises me not that Gawaine should find a harlot that resembles my Tinya, and leave her, that he might join the brigands."

"Gawaine -Jonah- fought Roxxius' men with all his might," Belinant said. "Surely it was a ploy-"

"-I care not!" Winifred blurted.

An awkward silence ensued.

"Well," began Derek. "Elmet may well be short of soldiers, but it is not short of forests. I think Anglish soldiers and craftsmen can make good war-craft of its timbers," Derek said, minding his last talks with Rokk.

With Tarik and his line out of favour, Tinya stands heir to Elmet whether she likes it or not, he thought. Unless Winifred has other children?

One Hundred and Forty-four

Querl made his way eastward, taking care to avoid settlements and farm houses. Not that he was ungrateful to his benefactors, but he wished no similar occurrences in other villages.

There were knights, he knew, who might see his sort of welcome as a welcome advantage with the maidens, but beyond physical stimulation, there was none of the mental, intellectual stimulation he so craved.

Even Laoraighll, despite his strong attraction to her, could not meet that measure very well, much to his dismay. She was not stupid; far from it - but even with her above-average education by Christian holy men, she lacked the scientific and philosophic foundations he had taken for granted back on Colu.

While some of his Coluan peers afflicted with similar tastes often found company amongst themselves, Querl knew from what he did like about his Ulsterwoman that he would find such fellowship lacking - even with one such as L'ile.

As he walked, he thought. Ways to improve the Computus - particularly from ship decks, ways to improve ships, design modifications to Rokk's new castles, all these occupied his-

"-Thoughts before you die, stranger?"

Preoccupied, he did not realize that a group of brigands had successfully ensnared him in a circle.

"I am but a poor man. Let me pass."

One, presumably the leader, poked his hood off with a spear.

Several of the men gasped at his green skin.

"The Green Man!" one exclaimed. Several of his assailants looked nervous.

"Well, in the old days, it is said, the human incarnation of the Green Man would be a sacrifice, for the next season's crops," said the leader. "Green Man or not, I'll wager he'll bleed red."

"No. You shall not touch me," said Querl, frustrated, annoyed and - believing his own words. The leader stepped forward, drawing his sword, and swung - but was indeed unable to connect.

He motioned to two others. They tried and failed.

"Sorcery!"

"Now stand aside!" Querl barked, walking forward. The two men barring his path seemed to involuntarily step aside with his approach.

Whether he had mastered Druidic persuasion or whether Iaime's belt was indeed working, he knew not.

Or perhaps I now, too, am a magician, he mused.

And later that day, he reached Exeter.

One Hundred and Forty-five

Reep was impressed.

Last summer's excavations had gone well, and the stony foundations were well in place this spring. The west tower, the first defensible structure, was beginning to rise, and a temporary wooden hall would serve until a true great hall could be built.

"These Camulodunum craftsmen do fine work," L'ile commented. "The foundations for the outer walls could withstand a Roman war-machine, I dare say."

"I want Rokk to see his fortress built well, but I also want to show him progress this season," Brandius said. Looking out to sea, he continued. "There are still Khunds out there. They've gone easy last summer and this, so far, but they'll be back, and we haven't the luxury of spending a decade on this place. Aye, we start small, but we'll add on as the court shifts from Londinium to here."

"I see Tenzil's idea for gold towers has not been met?" L'ile joked.

"Nay. Local stone will have to suffice. I'll build his ruby turrets, though, if he'll front the gold for them," the older man replied.

Reep, listening to the conversation, was also observing the workers. They worked quickly and diligently, he noticed.

With Angles to the north and Khunds to the south, they must have felt abandoned here, at Britain's eastern edge. Why, Rokk's decision to build his fortress here was far more than strategy to them - it was a new lease on existence! May we live up to their faith.

Leaving his fellows, and looking around the walls, it occurred to him that many a battle would be fought here. And not all shall rise from the dead, as Garth has.

One Hundred and Forty-six

"So Saraid, proclaiming herself empress of the Emerald Isle, has driven High King Coirpre mac Neill from Tara, and used her magic orb to make her will. The court has reluctantly accepted her rule," Ossian said.

And the other kingdoms? Connaught? Meath?" MacKell asked.

"And Ulster? Aye, I recognize your accent," the man replied. "Aye. Eiru has never cared for a central high king, it's true, but keeping independence from Rome made her think the better of it. It's true Irishmen would rather fight themselves, but even there, we have limits."

"But Rome is no more."

"Not as an empire. But while independent, our good fathers have fellowship with Rome's bishops, and even far-off Byzantium sends its emissaries. They are still the Roman Empire, as far as they're concerned."

"It's called Constantinople today," MacKell said. "You're showing your centuries, my friend." MacKell also noted his sneer at "our good fathers." Ossian, although a renowned knave and prankster, was a warrior and bard of the first degree in his day - the day of pagan, Druidic Eiru, not the Christian land of today.

"You still have yet to tell us how you still live, centuries later." Imra interjected.

"And how did you get your strength," Jonah asked. The man's similarity to MacKell and Laoraighll made him wonder.

"Well, I went to stay with my love, the faerie queen Niamh, for a few days - I thought! Returning home, three centuries passed!" he laughed.

"So I gave my allegiance to Coirpre mac Neill," Ossian said. "As for my strength, perhaps the Hound's blood was wasted on too many bastards along the way. Who knows?" he winked at MacKell, perhaps guessing what few outside court knew.

"With mac Neill overthrown, will you join Rokk's service?" MacKell asked.

"Nay. I shall continue to serve King Coirpre, albeit in exile. Those who rise too quickly to power often fall quickly," he winked. "I merely came to share... information."

"So you say Queen Glorith of Man is coming here?" Imra said, still not believing the information.

"Aye. While seeking the Chalice in name, methinks she wants to size up the court - especially now that Mordru is gone," Ossian said. "She is said to be a sorceress herself."

One Hundred and Forty-seven

"Rokk has forbidden the queen from any magicks," Mysa said.

Azura nodded. "I feared as much. Young Rokk is too much the Roman after all, to abide a true queen at his side."

The two strolled the busy streets of Deva, stumbling for the next words. The thriving marketplace in the old northern Roman town made a good neutral meeting point, with neither woman holding favour.

Searching for the words that needed to be said, both began speaking at once.

"You first," Mysa said.

"No, my dear. I insist. You first."

Mysa sighed. She held no love for any of the senior priestesses, but there was a vestige in Azura from the days when as a less tight-lipped maiden, she would hare her fears and hopes with the younger maidens.

"I truly miss Avalon. The priestesses, the mists and the lake, the Tor, the Teachers.. even the Josephites. It's important for me to know all is a-right."

"But?"

"I... cannot go back. Not today, maybe not ever."

Azura sighed. Her role was difficult, filling the shoes of Kiwa, who had been high priestess for as long as any could remember. She hoped that Mysa, Kiwa's long-time hand-picked successor, would either return to her destiny, or at least help keep tradition and morale.

"You do agree your brother has gone too far in banning Imra's magicks?" Azura was fishing for hope.

"Oh, aye. If a knight lost control of his steed in a practice joust, and injured spectators by accident, penance is done and the court moves on. But with Imra-"

"-The king acts unjustly. But who shall stand with us in redressing him?"

One Hundred and Forty-eight

"Manaugh's back!"

The villagers cheered at the news. The Caledonian days were still growing long, and there would be feasts well into the evening.

The village stood at the foot of a deep and dark loch, sandwiched between mountains. The ancient forests kept it hidden from even the most brazen of Scots raiders and explorers.

"What news of the south-lands? Did you shake King Rokk's hand?" joked Tav, one of the village's farmers.

Everyone laughed, knowing what Manaugh's handshake would bring.

"Nay. I... I almost had Lot Mac Amhlaidh in my grips. But two of Rokk's knights, a man and a woman - Scots, no less, stopped me."

"Stopped you? With your power? You are our vengeance, son."

"Aye. Well, they are powerful, too. I... was wounded, I had to hide this winter, and much of the spring, healing and hiding in the Lake Country.

"Now I am home again, as home as I can be, at any measure."

With that, the villagers cheered and toasted - all but one maiden who stared at him, taking his measure, as an old wise-woman might.

Manaugh did not know her name. Despite his welcome, this was not his village, but one of several he took refuge in since his home, Angtough, met its end.

The festivities indeed continued into the dark, and as villagers drifted off, one by one or two by two, he found his chance to approach the lass.

She had wandered away from the bonfires, and stood gazing at the stars and the summer lights.

"They are wondrous, are they not? Swirls of colours, gifts from the gods, that we see their bounty not only in the earth and seas," she said, not turning to face them.

"Who are you, lass? You are no farmer's child, nor fisher's daughter. I've seen you not before, yet the villagers accept you as one of them.

"Will you not tell me your name?"

She giggled. "You have been given a gift by the Crone. Yet you waste your days hunting a handful, while the Scots still pour into our lands.

She pointed west. Beyond the silhouettes of the forest edge, a column of smoke was visible, if one knew where to look. "You see? The Scots' campfires grow closer and closer." She turned to him for the first time. "And what do you do about it Manaugh?"

"I... hunt those who betrayed us."

She nodded. "You hunt the few while the many continue without abate. When you have slain all of Amhlaidh's kin, do you think the Scot will stop? Or will this village, too, be a smouldering remnant?"

"You are wise beyond your years, lass. You are a priestess?"

"Aye. You may call me Tasmia."

"Well, Tasmia, you have spoken truths that are obvious, yet I have ignored. You have my thanks."

"Then earn it. There is prophecy that you and four others shall bring ruin to this land. Let it not be so."

Before Manaugh could speak, he found himself alone. Tasmia had slipped into the night, and there was naught but himself, the village behind, the forest ahead, and the stars and swirls above.

One Hundred and Forty-nine

"F-Father!"

Virginia pushed herself away from Dyrk.

"W-We were just-"

"-Nothing improper happened, sir," a flustered Dyrk said.

"...See that it doesn't, young man," the surprise visitor said, while seeming partially aloof. Turning to the princess of South Cymru, he continued. "Is this how Guinevere lets her court ladies behave? Like wantons?"

"No, father. T-This was… a fluke," she looked away. It never occurred to either of them that their deeds could reflect on the queen's image. "I thought you were in Cornwall. I mean, we did not expect you."

"That much is obvious," he said with a sarcastic grin. "Now, I must see the king at once."

"He's just returned from Cornwall himself. T'is a wonder you did not travel together," Dyrk said, leading him through the halls. "You have not been here since the wedding, have you not?"

"Right. Not since the wedding," he agreed.

Virginia was about to remind her father that he was here at Pentecost, but thought the better of it.

Entering the king's chamber, the trio interrupted Rokk, Reep and Garth in a hunched discussion.

"King Zendak! How good to see you," Rokk greeted warmly.

"My liege," the guest bowed. "I come here with the most serious of business."

"Then by all means, speak your piece."

"My king, I have heard that you have obtained the Chalice of the Gods."

"It is in safe keeping," Rokk replied.

"It must be. Its powers are so great, it could feed and heal the entire Khund army, if it fell to them! We must place it where none can stumble upon it!" the older men said. "Virginia, I'm sure you have duties among the ladies. I shall see you later."

"Yes, father," Virginia meekly curtsied and retreated.

"You say it is safe, my king, and I must take you at your word," continued the guest. "But what if one who knows the truth has a slip of the tongue? All of Britain could see ruin if the Chalice falls into evil hands!"

"What do you suggest?"

"We must test each who knows of the Chalice and where it is kept. Only so can we do our duty to protect this isle."

In the room beyond, Imra nodded to Mysa. "That's not Zendak any more than I."

Notes 139-148:
I'll begin with connecting the dots that I've assumed you have already, plus a little bit of irrelevant background information that probably won't come up in story.
The name Amhlaidh, as we've previously established, is the Gaelic for Auley, or rather vice-versa: Auley was an Anglicized version of Amhlaidh (but since I' writing in English, not Latin...), but the names come from the Norse Olaf.
Thus, I've decided Olaf was a young Norse prince, who marries into the court of what is now the Edinburgh area - not yet Scottish, not Pictish, but the Brythonic Celts predominant throughout central and southern Britain (kin to today's Welsh and Cornish), a matrilineal people.
But Olaf (never actually a king, only the queen's consort) and his first Mrs. bear no daughters, only sons, of which Lot is heir to the throne. He and daddy make alliances with Norse kin (called 'Northmen' throughout the story; hence the number of mixed Scandinavian/Celtic people like Stig, a Celt with a Scand name, and Berach, vice versa) to keep the land safe, and Lot begins asserting Scandinavian-style patriarchal rule - even renaming the land Lothian after himself.
By the time Auley has a daughter - Caelestia - Lot and his sons are too well entrenched (although you never know...). So what's the Legion connection?
Well, as we've seen, 'Mac' means 'son of.' Put that together with Auley, add in kids (from a later non-royal Mrs.) named Caelestia and Leyllain, and there you have it.
Onward!
139: The Fir Bolg and the Fomorians weren't necessarily the same race, mythologically speaking, but neither were they necessarily different. I chose to combine them. Balor was indeed their one-eyed god of justice, so what became of his other eye?
Also, the language/name gods smiled on me. Saraid is indeed an authentic Irish name, more fitting than a Russian- or Hebrew-sounding names I'd considered.
140: Poor Nura. Things do not get better for a while yet. And I just couldn't give Marcus credit for the name.
Neustria was indeed a region of Clovis' Frankish kingdom. Roughly the area we know as Normandy (so it made sense they'd want in on the Roxxius hunt), plus slightly farther inland.
I borrowed Lucius from MZB, but haven't yet looked to see if he's historical. Expect to see him again.
I don't remember if I've said where Portus Magnus is, although it's come up a few times. It's on Portsmouth Harbour, next to the Isle of Wight (Vectis, the isle Dyrk was trying to get to a while back).
Ys and Hybrasil are basically Celtic Atlantises
141/144: I've been meaning to explore Querl's 'Green Man' reaction for a while (since Cailleach brought it to my attention, in fact). So I knew Querl would be involuntarily on his own at some point.
I figured one from Mediterranean lands may be better versed in aquatic emergency protocols, but yes, it's probably a stretch. So sue me.
And finally I got to the Belt! I'd planned it to be earlier, but Querl wasn't ready and willing until now.
142/146: It took me a while to figure out who would fill this niche. Ossian's three centuries in Faerie are indeed out of legend, so it worked.
The Mentum was a more appropriate term than the original LSH term, although I almost went back to make it another Chalice/Grail issue. But there are plenty of them yet ahead.
143: Looking back, I'm actually surprised how little Winifred's inserted herself into the story. I'll probably get around to it eventually in the story, but I see no harm in letting on it was she in the cloak way back when Caradoc first attacked the camping trip, and her that Belinant met after placating the same knights (without Gawaine).
145: Had to get around to building the damn thing eventually!
147: Deva is Chester.
148: I had to get Manaugh off the Auley family for at least a little while!

additional forgotten comment about 140:

My description of the Cornish coast at Tintagel comes from my own experience in 1991. I was approaching by bus, and saw a shimmering in what appeared to be the sky. I came to realize it was out at sea - where the sky ended and the sea began was otherwise invisible.

One Hundred and Fifty

People screamed, running for cover.

Each impact seemed to set yet another building aflame.

"Flee you fools," laughed the sorceress. She smirked at the confusion that allowed her to escape her pursuers.

"Glorith!" A woman's voice challenged her.

"You would be... Mysa. Come no closer or I'll hurl a falling star at you, too!"

"You may fool the masses into thinking you're responsible for this. We both know you only take advantage of coincidence."

"You are less the sorceress than I'd imagined if you believe in coincidence," sneered Glorith. "Your young king may mock that he has fooled the great Glorith, but I come away with more than you realize!"

As if on cue, a falling star landed nearby, and Mysa lost sight of her quarry with the thunderous burst of impact.

What did she mean? she wondered. She had learned the Cauldron was not within Londinium’s walls, yes... but he had also taken measure of Rokk and his companions, and would not be so easily toyed with again.

Zounds! We should have intercepted the Zendak imposter before entering the palace. And we thought we had the sole grant on surveillance!

We have won the battle, but our sole spoil was embarrassing the sorceress-queen. She may hold the upper hand, and the choice of next battle!

Returning to the palace. Mysa also realized that no matter what she says, the Court - and indeed all Londinium - will believe Glorith called down the stars themselves upon the city.

One Hundred and Fifty-one

Zoe fumed.

The Teachers had promised her more challenges and duties than those she'd been mired in at the Priestess' Isle, yet even here it was more of the same.

Even worse, she seemed far more isolated than she had before. The Priestesses could at least reach Glastonbury's shore with regular ease; while the Teachers' gateway led to Londinium, it was a much harsher path to take.

On a rare late afternoon free, she strolled aver the causeway to the Tor Isle, and climbed the hill. She sat back on one of the large stones of the circle atop the Tor, and rested. Looking out over the shiny sea, she wondered what it would be like to be free, to sail away, exploring the world and hunting for treasures...

Zoe did not realize when she drifted off to sleep, but was vaguely aware of being on a large Roman ship, bound the Land of Youth far to the west.

"I'll be the first to see," she told herself, manning a forward observation post.

A boat sailed near them. "It's Brendan, returning from the Blessed Land of the Saints," cried a woman Zoe had seen at King Rokk's court - a woman who had two identical sisters.

How did she get here? Zoe asked herself, realizing she was dreaming.

She suddenly was back at the Tor, still aware she was asleep, but suddenly everything seemed crystal clear, clearer than real life felt. She stood, looking down on her sleeping body.

"Is this our life, Zoe?" she asked herself. Seeing herself clearer than any lake reflection, she noticed how she had been fashioning herself after Mysa, her one-time idol and mentor. "Is this all there is?"

"What more do you need, sister?"

Zoe turned to see a beautiful maiden before her. She had never seen the woman before, but instantly knew her.

"Arianhrod!" Zoe rushed to recite the proper ritual greeting and salutation.

The Maiden Goddess laughed. "Child, you need not bother with the priestess trapping to summon me. For I have chosen to come to you."

"My Lady?"

"Do you know the tale of the cat on the log?" the Goddess asked.

"Aye."

"Tell me."

"T-The cat is caught on a log in the river, and wants to get to shore. It passes the rock where it can leap to, but she needs to leap from one rock to another. The cat says, 'No, that way it too wet, and the current is too strong.'' The voles on the shore laugh at her, and follow along."

"The cat had other alternatives, though," the Lady smiled.

"Aye. The log comes near a fallen tree. The cat can leap off, but sees a swarm of snakes. 'I am too tired to fight those vipers,' says the cat, and she stays on the log. The voles again laugh, for they know the river, and what comes ahead."

"But then?"

"Then the log gets snagged in an eddy. The cat sees the water is still and shallow, but still does not want to get wet, even though shore is but feet away."

"What does he do?"

"She again waits. But as the log draws near the falls, she has to leap - first to a rock, then along a branch, and then has to wade through an eddy, where upon she snares the voles who chided her, making them her supper."

"The cat benefited and learned from her situation, Zoe," the Goddess smiled. "By not fleeing too soon from a temporary safety into danger.

"You will leave Avalon, Zoe, and you will do so soon. But not until you have learned what you need to. There is plenty of danger, and not just to you, if you stray from your path."

"I yearn for freedom and adventure, my Lady."

"Adventure you shall have. And freedom? Freedom is what you make of it, be it illusion or a more subtle form of snare. This world, this era, is not easy for a young woman to find freedom." Seeing Zoe scowl, she added, "You shall know a freedom, however painful it may be. That I promise you, Zoe."

She awoke with a shiver. Night was falling, and an unseasonably cold wind with it.

Mr Kent Shakespeare, you're story telling is absolutely awesome. I have read this 4 times, and cannot wait for some more. Please do not stop here.

Thanks, Karie! Sorry that work, illness and side projects have taken me away from this.Trying to get back into it.

One Hundred and Fifty-two

"In all truth, my sister, I know not that Rokk's command was wrong."

Mysa had never seen her sister-in-law so distressed. "The fevers were not your fault, Imra. Never have I seen the summoning of the Lady - in any of her forms - draw such a pox."

"How do you explain it, then?" sobbed Imra.

"Perhaps... Perhaps it was this... Terminus' doing."

"You think thus?"

"It makes as much sense as anything," Mysa said. "The god Terminus told you that you would be his agent. At the same time, the pox removed your confidence and credibility - not just to yourself, but to Rokk."

"That limits my usefulness as his tool," Imra rebutted.

"Aye. Limits. Terminus' domain is limits, is it not? If he truly wanted your agency, to manipulate you, why tell you? You'd be more effective as an unwitting pawn. Think of all Kiwa's games."

Imra nodded slowly, taking it all in. "So, why then? Did he not wanting us to learn of Manaugh's village?"

"Nay; I think not. Speaking with Father Marla and Brother Jan, I have been learning more of the Christians," Mysa said.

"And?"

"And the Church of Rome claims its authority from a lineage of the oldest established church, some three centuries or so in the past. But we know from Avalon that-"

"-Joseph of Arimathea established his church at Glastonbury more than 400 years ago." Imra blurted.

Mysa nodded. "If Terminus is still... bound to Rome, he, like the city, is throwing his lot in with the Eternal City itself, which means the Church-"

"-But if the Church of Britain predates the Roman Church-"

"-Rome's legacy and authority is undermined. Terminus wants that not, nor does Cailleach want Britain to become the center of Christianity," Mysa concluded.

"So. It really wasn't about me, was it?" Imra said with renewed confidence "With me out of the game-"

"-Rokk wins or loses on his own merits, regardless of Avalon," Mysa continued sharing sentences with the queen.

"But that means they intend to see Rokk fail, so that British Christianity does not prosper," Imra said, wondering if that end could be achieved without Rokk's fall.

"Aye. But Rokk must still defeat the Khund. The gods may not care if Britain is over-run, but we must," Mysa concluded.

"Who... Who stands with us?"

"Azura. I've also been speaking to some of the other court women. I... don't believe we should embarrass Rokk in front of the men-folk, so let the court ladies quietly make this stand as one."

One Hundred and Fifty-three

Balin stood on the shore, pondering the ruins.

The Romans had laid waste to this Druidic community centuries ago. He knew there was yet hatred for that act - a Dark Circle of hate - but he was here for other reasons.

The Irish boatman spoke poor Latin, and it took them several tries to communicate. The process was one of frustration, and Balin had thrown his arms up and walked, pacing in circles before trying to resume.

The boatman insisted on staying the night encamped at the ruins. Smelling a trap, Balin stuffed a pile of weeds under his cloak, and piled it alongside his campfire, so a nocturnal attacker would think it was he. His sleep was a cold one, between the night and his armor. He took no chances and slept lightly.

Toward morning, a group of knights - five of them, it appeared - entered the camp, calling greetings in several tongues - some he recognized, some he didn't.

The Irish boatman had led them, as he suspected. Six-to-one wasn't the best odds, but he'd have surprise on his side-

One of them, sniffing turned and looked right at him, as if he could smell him. He looked like a woodland beast, sure enough.

The others turned, too. A big, burly man, two women and a fellow with a rather large head.

"Greetings, sir knight," called the latter, speaking Latin with a Manx accent. "We come as friends."

Cautiously, he stepped forward.

Could the Irishman have misinterpreted his needs? He only wanted to get to the Island of Man - not enlist its warriors.

Still, six against a sorceress-queen were better odds than one - if he could trust them.

One Hundred and Fifty-four

"You're feeling rather brave lately."

Querl smiled at Ayla's observation. It was true; he felt more confident about venturing out beyond Londinium without being part of a full contingent.

With Genni running relay orders to the coastal forts, he surprised many by volunteering to deliver orders to Eboracum. In truth, he wanted to see Eboracum's defenses, and how a Computus would fit there - and also to see more of the isle.

Villagers still treated him with reverence, but he believed this would pass as people adjusted to him. And the belt continued to function when the occasional brigand stuck.

En route home, he and Ayla were accosted in a village that claimed to be assaulted by monsters.

Huge, strange footprints corroborated this, tracks they followed to a glade along the River Trent.

"What manner of creature is that?" Ayla whispered. The two stayed hidden behind a cluster of shrubs.

"Why, it is an elephant. A creature of Abyssinia," Querl declared. "Despite its size, it is a peaceful plant-eater, generally."

"How did it get here?"

"A merchant ship, no doubt. But I know not why." He stood and approached the beast.

"A big creature like you is nothing to be feared, is it?" Querl called out, surmising its captivity for transport must have made it sociable enough. Ayla stood in amazement.

The beast turned, and only then did Querl see the spears and axe imbedded in the other side of its head, and the feral look in its eyes.

Seeing his mistake, he began backing away.

The beast quivered and began charging forward.

Does my belt work against creatures incapable of being persuaded? Querl wondered, turning to run himself. This wasn't the place to experiment.

Ayla screamed, and sought cover herself. The forest here was not thick enough to provide much cover; the thin young trees brushed aside like weeds before the beast.
Nervously, she started to summon a burst of lightning, but then considered the likelihood of setting the woods aflame.

Just as Querl was about to be underfoot, a feral war-cry echoed through the woods, and a smaller beast - vaguely human but clearly animalistic - leapt up, seemingly from nowhere, and delivering a fierce blow to the elephant's ear.

The beast reared up, while its attacker bounced away to a nearby tree, leaping again as the small trunk swayed with his weight.

Landing on the ground, Querl saw the figure - a cross between a man and a wolf.

His growl resonated deeply, and soon even the elephant, once its rearing ceased, was cowed, and it fled back toward the river.

"My thanks, friend," said Querl.

"Mine, too," said Ayla. "I am Ayla, and this is Querl."

"You're from Rokk's court," the creature said. "I've heard of you."

"Would you like to join us?" Ayla said. "I'm sure the king would-"

"-Want no part of me, nor I of him." With that, the beast-man fled into the woods.

"Extraordinary," Querl remarked. "I wonder if he's the other beast that's afflicted the villagers."

"Querl, he saved your life! Give him a benefit of goodwill."

One Hundred and Fifty-five

"Anything else, L'ile?"

"Yes, my king. King Winn of Cumbria will be unable to attend midsummer festivities. It appears that his dragon problems are continuing."

Rokk sighed. "Again, with dragons. It has become his life's quest, it seems, to follow this beast. Perhaps I should dispatch Jonah, who knows his way around dragons, to end this problem once and for all."

"Jonah cannot be spared from Eboracum," Garth said. "And with Iasmin doing so well in training the new cavalry riders..."

"Ha! You just want to slay a dragon yourself," my friend," Rokk laughed. "Very well, then. If Winn hasn't dealt with it by midsummer, then you shall depart to do it for him." Seeing his friend's glee, he added, "But - You must be here for my midsummer festivities."

"Of course, my king. I shan't miss it."

"What other business have we before we can retire to the good supper awaiting us?"

"I've received word from Genni," Reep said. "It seems that while coastal fortifications mostly haven't met their schedules, the beacon towers are progressing magnificently."

"Splendid! We shall at least get word of a Khundish attack and respond in haste," Rokk smiled.

"And," Reep continued, "All three strategic fortresses - Eboracum, Cadwy's Fort and Camulodunum, are functional and manned."

"I've decided to rename Camulodunum," Rokk said. "I want something... less Roman, that all Britain's children may accept it.

"Camelot. How does that sound?"

Garth and L'ile eyed each other, nodding. It had a ring to it.

"What say you, Reep?"

"In truth, I am more concerned with its form than its name. I could live with a 'Dun Khund morte' if it was a defensible structure," he smiled. "Camelot. I could get used to it."

"Sir?" A page appeared at the door to Rokk's hall.

"What is it?"

"Queen Guinevere and her ladies would like an audience."

One Hundred and Fifty-six

The lad glowered.

"Hey, Bad-Coat. How fare you with those dishes?" Reep chided.

"Almost done... sir," the lad scowled. He'd been one month at the court, and had yet to earn an opportunity to prove his worth. Perhaps at the mid-summer jousts...

"Why do they call you Bad-Coat?" asked a man he had seen around but knew not.

"I came to court wearing my late father's coat, which fits me not. I am Brunor the Black, of Elmet."

"And I am Tenzil the beefeater. You came to be a knight, not a kitchen boy."

"Aye."

"I... can see if any of the knights need squires. Perhaps Sir Garth-"

"NO!" Second-guessing his harsh reaction, Brunor added, "Please, no. Sir Garth and I have settled our ill will, but I doubt either of us would be comfortable with that arrangement."

Tenzil nodded, and smiled. Rare was the lad who didn't idolize Garth, but plentiful were the family black sheep, blackguards who fell to Garth's lightning-quick sword.

At least the lad has seen the sense to serve King Rokk, rather than follow the path of villainy, Tenzil thought.

Sir Garth's head shall yet be mine, Brunor plotted.

One Hundred and Fifty-seven

"So. You all agree?"

Rokk looked around at the sea of faces. All nodded, almost in unison.

Laoraighll had been nothing but loyal, and even brought magickal artifacts to prove her worth - as if her fighting ability and legend weren't enough.

Luornu was now suddenly among Imra's fiercest defenders, despite theological differences. He still held a soft spot in his heart for her, a remnant of an adolescent crush.

Lu, who had kept her distance from Imra, had spoken eloquently of the strength of Celtic queens and chieftesses. She spoke words of wisdom to Rokk's goal of keeping all Britons united.

Iasmin, who cared for Imra not at all, came to the queen's defense admirably, admonishing without rebuking, and suggesting solutions rather than reflecting on past decisions. What an emissary she'd make, Rokk thought.

Mysa, Laurentia, Siobhan, Virginia, Genni, Drusilla, Jancel... all supported their queen, whether through word, pleas or unspoken loyalty. It took bravery to call a king wrong, and Rokk was both infuriated and impressed with Imra's ladies.

Even little Saihlough, newly returned from her self-imposed exile, stood with the womenfolk.

He sighed. "Perhaps I was hasty in my proclamation. I grant you that."

He stood and paced. There was an art to how a king could give in without losing face.

"The order I gave was based upon most of you," he added for emphasis, "were taken ill by a magickal pox. I do not lightly make such order, nor do I wish to diminish my queen's standing - to me, to the court, to Britain or the world, therefore...

"So long as any of you practice magicks... each and every one of you must take every pain to avoid ANY unforeseen effects. Saihlough, it's very good to have you back, but I fear this must apply to you, too.

"Any magicks must be made known to me before they are done, save for fair and true emergencies, such as siege. Glorith's escape does make it plain that we do need magicks on our side, but...

"Any adverse magicks must be dealt with as if they were deliberate," Rokk concluded. "If any spells accidentally kill a peasant, I must treat it as if you stabbed him yourselves. Consider that... added incentive to be careful."

"Any magicks are deliberate?" Saihlough asked.

"Any magicks will be considered deliberate," he said, eying her.

Even curses? Saihlough asked without speaking, though not the way Imra does - not an echo in the mind, but a whisper upon the wind.

Even curses, he replied. What I ask of others I must ask of myself.

One Hundred and Fifty-eight

"His name is Kartharn. He was my father's assistant, once," said the blacksmith.

"What happened to him?" Ayla asked.

"No one knows for sure. Some say he was bitten by another creature - another wolf-man. And that it overtook him, like a pox there is no root for."

Querl nodded. "I have heard of such... were-men before. But I never believed..."

"There must be some way to bring him back to humanity," Ayla pleaded. Brin was both surprised and impressed with her compassion for their strange benefactor.

"I suspect that he would reject any helping hand. Better to let him run free in the woods," the blacksmith said, not without pity.

"But the villagers-"

"All of Xun jumps at shadows and believes that goblins ruin their crops. They'll not harm anyone, I'll wager - least of all him."

"Well... thank you for your help, kind sir," Querl said, sensing they would gain no further information from the man.

"You may call me Brin. Please come by again."

Wandering away, Querl waited until they were out of earshot before comparing notes.

"I'll wager my Computus that he knows more than what he's said," Querl said.

"But how do we find out more? How do we find the wolf-man?"

"I suspect we'll find out more this very eve."

One Hundred and Fifty-nine

The court was abuzz with preparations for midsummer.

How quickly the year has passed, Mysa dwelled absent-mindedly. She sat staring out the courtyard window, letting Virginia brush her hair. The girl is eager to please. I pray Dyrk preys not too hard on her young heart.

She watched Garth stroll across the courtyard below. Last summer, he was sharing her bed. But now he was growing more distant, more bitter... more enchanted with a love he dared not reach for.

Mysa sighed. She was old enough to expect a young man's attentions and affections to wander away, yet she missed him. No, she missed being the center of his attention - and the feeling that her distraction of the knight provided a key service to the security of the kingdom. Perhaps young Virginia and I are not so different, she thought.

"What of yon Garth?" asked Siobhan. Like many of the court ladies, she was busy weaving new garments for the upcoming festivities.

"What of him?" laughed Iasmin.

"It is not well-suited that he is without a bride? Why, Sir Gaw- Sir Jonah will be wed this autumn. Should not the king's best knight?"

The other ladies laughed.

"You sound eager to volunteer, sister," chided Virginia, who knew better. She knew her sister held her own brand of unrequited love in her heart.

"Nay. Well, I would not turn an offer down, but... Well, must I say it? We all see how he looks at the queen-"

"Siobhan!" scolded Laurentia.

"Well, he does! Sooner or later, tongues will wag."

"Aye, as yours wags," laughed Iasmin. I think that's enough."

"She has a point," Luornu said. "I realize the queen is of Avalon, and not a Christian, but even so-"

"-It is best that people believe any heirs are indeed King Rokk's," Siobhan said. "Surely none can argue t'would be better for Garth to have a bride to occupy his fancies. What say you Mysa? You two were close."

"Were close. He'd only grudgingly take me for a bride, I fear, even if I were able to."

"Why not?" asked Laurentia. "Why the king's own sister? How could he do better?"

"I-I-"

"You've put Mysa on the spot, ladies," Iasmin stepped to her defense. "I dare say we should speak of other things-"

"I'd marry him," said Jancel, leaning at the window, half swooning. "I'd be his wife in a heart-beat."

The ladies laughed.

"Aye, you would, Jancel? You and half this kingdom," said Luornu.

Jancel, eh? Be careful for what you wish, child, Mysa thought. She knew Garth was heading for Cumbria after midsummer - Jancel's homeland. How hard would it be to arrange - ?

She stopped herself. That's the same sort of plotting Kiwa would do, and how I hated her for it! Yet the idea hung there. How better to keep Garth away from Imra?

Jancel had the same build as Imra, only a few years younger, and the same fair hair. The right lighting, the right magicks... who knows?