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One Hundred and Ninety-two

The pharaoh smiled.

As his priests predicted, the gods provided four powerful allies to aid the cause. My daughter shall learn the error of her ways, and these children of Milesh shall know punishment indeed.

He surveyed his encampment with satisfaction. Although this strange land was damp and over-grown, there was plenty to sustain his army. Unfortunately, his foes, established for so many months, were also so benefited.

“What do the scouts report?” the Egyptian monarch demanded of a subordinate.

“The Milesians are trying to fortify their settlement – with a wooden stockade.”

Good. “We shall burn them out, then.” As we have the last three villages.

The Milesians had allies, this time – the tall, fair-haired people of this green isle, it was true, but he was certain his new servants would come up with something, and put their strange talents to good use.

“Have the green Hellenic brought to my tent,” the pharaoh ordered. “We have strategy to plan.”

The next morning, the Egyptian forced marched on the village, flames already billowing upward.

The confused Milesians tried to run for safety, but one of the pharaoh’s new allies led a company of warriors to cut them off.

“None shall escape the divine justice of your pharaoh,” he bellowed, not really certain of the tongue he spoke – but confident nonetheless in barking orders, and expecting them to be followed.

He was met by a warrior who was no more Milesian than he was – pale-skinned, but not as fair-skinned as this land’s natives – but then neither was he nor his three peers. “You shall not harm these folk while I stand!” The knight spoke this tongue as awkwardly as he did!

The two joined combat. While the Milesian defender was the better warrior, the pharaoh’s man felt he had some magical influence the very metal of their weapons…

One Hundred and Ninety-three

“But why do you wish to see King Pellam?”

The withered old man at the gate smiled patiently.

“The king has a magickal spear that can defeat the sorceress Glorith,” blurted Balin, with no shortage of exasperation. For the past month, he’d faced misdirection after misdirection, and now, finally at Pellam’s door – an old man wouldn’t let him in!

“And who are you, that does not remove his helm, that would seek the sorceress’ demise?”

“I mean no discourtesy, good sir. My true face is deformed; I keep my helm so as not to alarm you. I am Balin, of the court of King Rokk. My brother Balan was bespelled by Glorith into slaying the Lady of the Lake. I mean to avenge that wrong.”

“Lady Kiwa – dead?” The old man was clearly troubled by this. “And you are Balin of the Two Swords.”

“I have been called such of late.”

The view-hole closed unceremoniously. Soon after, the gate opened.

“My thanks,” Balin said to the old man, facing him fully, person to person. “Could you take me to your master? I must apologize, but time is of the essence.”

The old man closed the gate behind him, slowly working the large iron wheel that guides the portcullis.

“Look no further, young knight, for I am King Pellam.”

Gauging Balin’s incredulity, he continued. “I am but an old king, whose lands shrink as each new monarch grows hungry for new lands. I have no sons, no guards, no servants, and nothing to offer my people, save wisdom, love and charity.”

The old king smiled. Balin could not help but do likewise; Pellam’s charisma and humility was infectious.

“I erred in coming here,” Balin said. “I cannot ask you to go on this quest with me.”

“You need my spear, not me,” Pellam beamed. It’s legend keeps the brigands away; I know not if I can even wield it anymore.”

Pellam led him to a sparse throne room, adorned by no less than 50 spears, and chose not the one Balin would guess is the magickal one. “Tell no one this is my spear; its legend can still protect this castle, if the highwaymen believe it yet remains here. They need not know no knights reside here.”

Aye, nut one shall, once this quest is done, Balin silently pledged. If I survive.

One Hundred and Ninety-four

He’d been overconfident.

Reeling from the attack, he struggled to escape the shock of his wound – and its deliverer. He’d strolled out into the battlefield, confident his belt would keep him from harm – but this lass had sliced his arm!

I know her, don’t I? Shouldn’t there be three of her? He picked up a dead Milesian’s shield, and tried to fend her off so he could get to his feet. Why does she fight for the enemy?

Who is the enemy? he pondered. Is this really my fight – or hers?

But it took every effort to keep her at bay, although he still found the Milesians could touch him not. He tried to use a Milesian’s spear – but she knocked it aside with ease. I must be truly impressing my allies – they’ve never seen these Celt women fight.

Yet I have? When? How?

Would the answer have come to him? His opponent landed a solid hit – with the flat of her sword, and sent him toward the ground. He moved not; and his arm-wound had made enough blood to convince her he was dead.

She moved on; there were plenty of Egyptians yet to fight.

The pharaoh had watched the green man fall, but was soon caught up in his own problems. One of the natives had fought his way through, and was within striking range. How does he fight so? The gods have blessed him, too!

The man plowed through a dozen of the pharaoh’s personal bodyguards, and there was no stopping him – except his golden-haired treasure – one of his four god-like beings.

She stepped in to save her new god and master – and fought the wild-man blow for blow! Even without weapons, she held her own, and the two traded blows faster than the pharaoh could keep track.

Elsewhere, more natives joined in, on the side of the Milesians. I shall need my own native allies, the pharaoh realized, signaling for a group of warriors to join him, and carry him back to camp.

One Hundred and Ninety-five

Jonah knew he was being followed – his pursuer had no knack for woodland stealth, it was clear.

He was well into Pict territory, and no Pict, hunter or not, would be so obvious.

Is this a would-be helper, on oaf – or some kind of trick? Lot’s son wondered.

The sun was nearing the western horizon. Dusk would be a good time to expose the follower… unless the Picts get him first.

Damn it.

As the trail rounded a large boulder, Jonah pulled around behind it, and lied in wait for-

“Father Marla!?”

“Greetings, Sir Jonah.”

“Why dost thou follow me?”

“You are bound for the lake where you fought your dragon, yes?”

“…Aye.”

“”You wish to expel whatever… less beneficial gifts the dragon bestowed upon you?”

“My madness, you mean,” Jonah was not of the mind to mince words.

“Is that how you see it?”

“I know not what to think, if I may speak truly. But I tire of every loose tongue at court questioning whether my mind is addled. In truth, I cannot say it is not.”

“What does Tinya think?”

“She loves me too much to say ill, yet… Since she regained flesh, she no longer sees my… nemesis, when he turns up.”

“Go on.”

“My ‘attack’ on Rokk? To my recollect, I was turning to face this… Green Knight – not King Rokk. My foe and I, we were alone deep in the woods, not on the crowded jousting field.”

“If you seek to… expel this… dragon-demon, if that is what it is, you may lose your… special gifts.”

“So be it. I will earn my place as a reliable knight, or be not a knight at all,” Jonah said definitively. “S I must go alone.”

“If you truly distrust your eyes, you will need a second set. An impartial set,” Marla rebutted.

Jonah smiled. “Another quest together to prove myself?”

“Aye, but this time I have arranged no illusion.”

“Illusion? You mean we did not travel to Hybrasil and meet the craftsmen-god Lugh?”

“Lugh? I had you meet the Caesars!” Seeing Jonah’s eyes panic in more self-doubt, he laughed. “A jest, son. Aye, it was Lugh we illusioned for you.”

The two resumed their ride, together this time.

“How did you draw up such an illusion? It seemed very real.”

“The house of Voxv is not the only keeper of the unreal. I have friends.”

Jonah sighed. For such a Christian priest, Father Marla had more secrets and mysteries than someone like Luornu would find proper…

One Hundred and Ninety-six

This is madness, he thought, sneaking through the battlefield unseen. Why do I fight for Egypt? Why is my heart filled with such dread?

One of the Milesians before him shifted faces – into the pharaoh’s!

Just like Reep can-

Who is Reep?

“REEP!” he called out, potentially endangering his only safety.

The figure turned, and squinted.

“It’s me!” he blurted, trying to recall his own name. “It’s… L’ile!”

“L’ile?” The figure looked confused. “L’ile, what are we doing?” He fought an urge to take a swing at an Egyptian soldier, confused by the face he wore.

“This isn’t our war. We’re somehow reliving the Milesians’ defeat of the Egyptians. We’ve got to get out of here before-”

The losing Egyptians were regrouping, and a new army joined them: Formorian giants, whose king was accompanied by a floating white orb, which looked like an eyeball. Emerald beams shot out of it, striking down Milesians and de Danaans alike.

“I’d say it’s too late,” Reep said, starting to grasp the situation.

“No! There’s one more thing that must be done. Come on!”

The two raced to the edge of the battlefield, and followed the shore to the Egyptians’ boats. Sneaking past sentries, they found the pharaoh’s, and saw what it contained.

“The pharaoh is waiting for victory to put this ashore and dedicated it to his gods, or put it ashore as a curse, if he loses. He must do neither,” L’ile said, as the two struggled put the boat out to sea.

It was too heavy.

“You look like you could use a hand.”

The voice was Ossian’s. The boat started moving.

“Many thanks,” said L’ile, as he and Reep boarded. “How did you know?”

“I’m a story-teller. Once I recognized the story – even one different from our presence, it was only a question of time before I figured it out,” the bard called from the shore.

Some sentries engaged him in combat, while the rest took other boats to pursue. More adept at rowing, they were catching up. In their favour, Reep and L’ile had only a strong wind moving them out to sea.

“What now?” Reep asked.

“Set the boat afire. That will sink this… thing beneath the waves!”

Reep started rubbing flint to steel. “And us?”

“We should awaken at the cave, as Querl no doubt has.”

The pharaoh’s bed was now ablaze. “I still understand this not.”

“We wanted to learn about the Egypt/Eiru war, yes? The cave’s magicks no doubt granted our wish.”

“So we are now uncounted lifetimes in the past?” Reep asked, as the two returned to the deck. The cabin behind was getting smoky.

“Nay; I believe not. I think we are reliving the lives of some who fought in those times – me, a renegade Egyptian spy, and you, a Milesian who bore a strange resemblance to the pharaoh. His son, perhaps.”

“Uh, L’ile? We’re being boarded.”

“The flames will be too far along to save this boat. We fight to keep them at bay, ere we die, and awaken at the cave,” the Druid said with confidence.

Reep wished for the same level of assurance as he drew his sword.

“And if we don’t?” The Egyptians moved in.

“…then we prevented a great evil from destroying Eiru – and probably Britain; let it remain lost beneath the waves.”

Outnumbered, the battle ended the only way it could have.

One Hundred and Ninety-seven

Garth and Llanfair parted company with MacKell at Credigon, where the Ulster knight would await orders from Rokk, having missed their departure for Ulster.

Garth held his doubts, though - would such a small boat serve them well at sea?

“It’s an offering,” Llanfair explained. “We need the help of Manannan Mac Lir, the sea-king, in order to reach our destination. And he will only let us through, if we lie helpless before him, in his own realm,” the Druid gestured about to the endless waters before them.”

“Joy is mine,” Garth said sarcastically, glad for once not to have armour’s weight about him.

Still within close sight of land, the waves were often higher than their small sail, when they were in the vales between waves. At other times, they would be high atop a wave, and Garth marveled that the boat did not fall aside, with the wind and thin-ness of their craft.

The seas off Caledonia’s shores were rough indeed, and both men were grateful for a night’s rest on a small isle they found, one of the Far Hebrides.

The next day’s sailing was even worse; squalls of rain brought the sea washing into their craft. With the sail down and the two men tied to their boat, they could only bail and hope that they overturned not--

They hoped in vain.

Clinging to an overturned craft, watching their supplies disappear into the tempest around them, Garth struggled to hold on with his sole hand and bob upward for air.

Llanfair called out; Garth could not hear over the roaring sea.

‘Ett know?’

He couldn’t possibly mean-

“Let go!”

This time Garth heard. Has he gone mad? Looking around, he questioned the sanity of this whole effort.

In for a silver, in for the gold.

Garth let the waves take him, and hoped whatever rituals Llanfair had prepared would-

“-Help you to your feet?”

Garth awoke with a start.

They were on an island, a rocky cold shore with steep cliff walls that extended upward into the mists. The maiden before him offered him her hand; he was face-down on a beach of smooth black sand. A stone stairway led up the cliff-side, barely large enough for a child or young woman to comfortably climb, and even then, some parts looked questionable.

Garth thought about denying her aid offer and rising himself, but thought the better of refusing hospitality - if he was indeed at the home of one or more gods.

“My thanks,” he said, as she helped steady him. The rhapsodies of the seas had thrown off his balance more than he realized. “Is Llanfair all right?”

She giggled. “You are our guest this day. No other.” She led him toward the stairs.

Did I get the Druid killed in hopes I would get my arm back?

One Hundred and Ninety-eight

“Did we dream, or not?” Thom repeated.

“We did, after a fashion. We shared the same dream, in fact,” L’ile said, trying to simplify his take on their experiences.

“What was that flame that shot out of the sea?” Lu asked. “It shrieked like the devil himself!”

“L’ile and I were ‘dead’ by then, but I can only conjecture that the… receptacle L’ile and I sought to bury at sea let loose a last gasp of magicks; perhaps seeking to alert its followers where it was, so they could find it.”

Querl nodded, annoyed that he was also ‘dead,’ and unable to observe the scene.

“And it had the reverse effect. With the pharaoh dead,” Laoraighll gestured to her own hands, “and the day lost, the surviving Egyptians threw in lot with the Milesians and the de Danaans, ending the war.”

“We know not that the alliance lasted.” L’ile said. “The legends-”

“-were wrong,” Ossian blurted. For many of you, your ‘dreams’ ended during or shortly after the war. I saw life continue for years after, and peace between the three groups - even an alliance against the Fomorians. As one versed in all the tales, I believe the Milesians and de Danaans became one people fairly peacefully, despite the legends of olde.”

“And the white triangle medallions became a pledge not to forget,” Laoraighll, “not to free this… monster from the sea.”

“Combined with either the cults of Apis or Mithras, some sort of sacrifice was no doubt maintained to keep the… evil at bay,” Querl conjectured.

“And Angtough?” Rokk didn’t like the missing piece of the puzzle.

“Still a dilemma. Was it the Dark Circle, taking ‘sacrifice’ to an extreme, as they take many things?” L’ile asked. “Or Roxxius, was he also seeking what we flushed into the sea - not just Jan?”

“Whether as raiding spoils or intentionally, Roxxius did have white triangle medallions at his Eiru lair,” Reep reminded. “AND the eye-orb, the ‘Justice of Balor.’”

“How did the humans stop the Fomorians, and the eye?” Thom asked Ossian.

“The gods did,” he replied. “And one lost an arm for the deed.”

“What’s next?” Reep asked.

“Saraid,” Rokk said. “With the eye-orb tied up in this, we cannot risk her learning what we know. Laoraighll’s Stone of Virtue was the key to freeing the eye, and if the legends are true, it was the key to imprisoning it ere now.”

Ossian smiled.King Coirpre will be glad to learn of this.

“Ossian, Laoraighll, L’ile and Reep will cross Eiru - as discreetly as possible, and gather such intelligence as they can, en route to Roxxius’ tower. I apologize that you may miss Jonah’s wedding, but this must be a priority.

“They rest of us will join with MacKell, and visit Angtough ourselves.”

One Hundred and Ninety-nine

“He is Amhlaidh’s son’s son. Let me kill him,” Manaugh whispered.

“Nay. Not yet. Sir Gawaine has done this land may good deeds; and prophecy says he will again. We will but observe,” Tasmia admonished.

She motioned for the hunting party to let them pass untouched.

Obliviously, Jonah and Marla rode by below at the base of the cliff, seemingly unaware of the potential assailants some 30 feet above them, discussing where to camp for the night, given that dusk was deepening.

Manaugh and the hunters silently made their way toward the far ridge, but Tasmia remained, letting the darkness keep her hidden.

This Gawaine bears watching,she thought, as trail took the duo below away from the cliff-wall and across a clearing before retuning them to the woods.

He turned and looked straight at her - for just a moment. Did he see her? For the first time ever, Tasmia wondered if someone could see through her shadows without her consent. But no. Even if I stood solely in twilight’s shadows, he could not see me up here. One of the hunters must have kicked a loose rock.

Night did not last long in the north, and Jonah was awake early, catching fish for fast-breaking. Marla smiled; this was true fellowship - a journey of importance on behalf of a friend’s very soul.

The morning mist clung to the late later than the rising dun would suggest, and Marla could well believe that this deep, dark loch could not only be home to many strange creatures - but its surface seems to encourage sightings real or imagined as well.

“How far is to the strand where you fought the dragon?” Marla asked Jonah, who stared out across the lake.

“How far-” he started to ask again, initially assuming his young friend hadn’t heard. But then, he saw where Jonah’s eyes lingered - a knight on horse - clad in a green tunic. “Who is that? That cannot be-”

“You see him?” Jonah was surprised. Turning back, the knight was gone.

“He moves swiftly, and silently,” said Marla, who observed the knight’s ability to vanish quickly.

“Praise be!” Jonah declared. “I in truth fear no foe I can face and fight, but only those who are beyond sword’s ability to reach!”

“Will you chase him?”

“Nay. He will come to me, when he’s ready.” For the first time in months, Jonah smiled a toothy grin.

Two Hundred

Garth winced as he watched his friends and comrades suffer.

Camelot’s walls, Avalon, the stone circle at Salisbury plain, Weyland-on-the-Hill, Aves’ Borough, Cymru’s Druidic grove… even Hadrian’s Wall had all fallen before the man whose fingers could do ungodly miracles - and cause ungodly destruction. And now the hand faced his comrades, all gathered at what would have been Jonah and Tinya’s wedding day. And Garth had front seating for these deeds.


“Jan! Kill him! Make his blood poison!” Garth shrieked - but no one could hear. “Genni! Run a blade trough him faster than he can see!”

“This fiend wants the Grail!” Lu exclaimed.

“He’ll not get it,” Rokk snarled, drawing Excalibur.

“Wait!” the queen bellowed. “It’s Garth!”

Nay, t’is not, but this… demon who uses me like his glove, Garth thought.

His comrades hesitated. Garth’ hand struck several down; some looked… dead.

“Kill me, else this fiend destroys all Britain!” Garth again pled.

“There is but one way, Garth. Fight the demon’s will, that your comrades have a chance,” said a voice. Garth recognized him as one he heard before the demon came. “But there is a price.”

“There always is. What is it?”

“You will die, and forever be remembered a villain.”

Garth looked at the comrades, already dead, wounded… they had maybe one last offense within them Else they die… Berach was bleeding profusely, Dyrk was burning alive… Ayla! She should not be here!

“I accept,” Garth said.

“Then imagine yourself fighting the demon with all the might you can. Distract him!”

Garth pictured himself hacking away at the fiend with all his strength - blocking out that it was his own body, and the fiend turned on him - and gave as good as he got! There were no shields, no armour, no bandages in this fight, and each sword-strike slashed away as a primordial wound on his psyche. He shrieked with each blow - surely no one had ever felt such pain, untempered but the padding of flesh!

It worked. His comrades subdued his physical self, and he could feel both his life and the demon’s ebbing.

“Any last words?” offered Rokk. “We should have left you for dead, like a man, the first time.”

“I spit on King Rokk, I spit on Britain!” the mouth of Garth said. The demon smiled, but Garth let up not his attack, relying on momentum more than focus at this point. Let them think as they will.

Seeing his physical body die, and the demon depart, Garth smiled and let himself drift onward…

…There was a man waiting; a man with a silver arm.

Two Hundred and One

“King Rokk is coming here.”

Tasmia could believe it not. She had no malice toward the man who fancied himself king of the entire isle - including the Pictish lands - but immediately wondered if he came solely to carve up the northlands to peoples loyal to him.

Or - did he come to try to take the Cave of Shadows for himself!?

“What shall we do, Maven?”

“I shall meet the man who would be our king. You shall keep Manaugh away - I’ll judge him myself - without shadows of vengeance lingering about.”

Tasmia nodded reluctantly - she wanted to assess this King Rokk herself. But I’d not want Manaugh at my side, either.

With leave to depart, Tasmia gave her customary salute to Sgathach as she passed Her cave. The day was still young…


…and Jonah and Marla made good time traveling down the great glen. Breaking camp in the very shadow of Neibh’iesh, they soon made contact with the Scoti village where the lochs meet the sea.

Jonah made no effort to hide his fresh wounds, knowing Marla had seen the Green Knight’s ambush - and his retreat in defeat.

Lot’s son was immediately struck by how much more fortified the village had become. This place feels like small Anglish towns near Lindum, who live in constant fear of both Khund and Celt. Was Angtough’s seed planted here, too?

Marla noticed it, too. There were far few Pictish traders in town, and those of few of mixed blood who ventured out in public scurried away again to hide themselves from public view.

Acquiring lodgings at the village’s sole inn, they learned that MacKell - who was becoming quite the hero of the Scoti - was en route with King Rokk himself - to Skye.

What do they want on that gods-forsaken isle? Jonah wondered. “I dare say we must join him,” he told Marla.

In the morning, they hired a boat to take them north…


…where Garth found himself wash up on the shore. “Are you all right, lad?” asked Llanfair, ready to help him to his feet.

“I’m fine,” Garth said, not without déjà vu, as this arrival paralleled his last. This time, he arrived with company, and the scrappy remnants of what was once a small boat.

“Lad!” Llanfair exclaimed with joy. “You’ve got two hands!”

“…Aye,” Garth confirmed, studying his silvery limb. How much was real? Am I regarded a villain, an evil menace, back at court? Dare I show my face again?

Searching for food, the two began walking up the shore…


“…where we shall present out findings to the Pictish high priestess, who they call ‘Maven,’” Rokk said.

The red-haired elder nodded. “I have long sought such a meeting as well. And this Angtough situation makes it well over-due.”

“My thanks that you could join us, Fergus,” Rokk offered.

“King Fergus,” MacKell corrected. “He is the true leader of the Gaels in Caledonia. While limited in lands, Dalriada certainly has greater lands than some of southern Britain’s vassal kingdoms.”

“Bah!” Fergus said. “We Scoti place more in clanship than kings, as you well know.”

“Mayhap. But the Scoti need a unified voice to address Pictish concerns,” Rokk said. “And you, King Fergus, are the man - in bloodline and in leadership.”

Lu and Thom followed the discussion intently, hoping indeed that northern Britain’s feuds could be settled. Querl, half-listening, still dwelt on the information at hand - and how to present it all to the Pictish priestess.

“She’s no dullard,” Fergus said, guessing the Greek’s thought. “The Picts may be unlearned by your Greek and Roman standards,” he continued, “but many have lost their fortunes - and even lives, I must say - by wrongly thinking them.”

MacKell nodded. “One of their previous shadow priestesses, who was called Skye, taught myself, and other members of Craebh Ruadh, how to fight - and how to think and strategize.”

Thom nodded. “Even in Cornwall, we knew of Skye.”

“Skye was of the Mallor line of priestesses; all knew the arts of war, as well as the arts of shadow.”

“Indeed, the isle itself is often covered of shadow,” MacKell agreed.

Almost as if on cue, the swath of sea clouds blew over, allowing the party their first glimpse of shadowy Skye.

Two Hundred and two

Saihlough had taken her time, but she finally reached Anglesey.

Although honoured and thrilled to be given a quest of her own, she was still a faerie, first and foremost, so there were games to play, flowers to dance with, and mischief to be made en route from Deva, where she and MacKell had parted company, all the way across North Cymru.

But to Anglesey she did arrive, fueled by word that knights who were resisting the rule of Glorith on the Isle of Manannan had made their camp there.

Searching the isle of Anglesey, she found several fishing settlements, a number of ship-wrecks, and the ruins.

“I’ve been here before,” she told herself. “Back when they called this place Mona.” She recalled with joy the Beltane fests where she would watch the Druids and the Maidens of Spring dance! Sometimes, she would use her faerie dust and reduce a young Druid male to her size - and once, she even made herself human-sized, to try the human rites of spring herself.

“That wasn’t so long ago,” she told herself. “But it was before the Scowlers came!” So why did the ruins look so old?

Maybe there is something to how the humans must mark their days. The world has changed so little since men first came to these isles, yet now I notice how much change there has been in a scant dozen human life-times? Mayhap I have spent too much time amongst them.

She thought again of the first humans to come, who so timidly followed the receding ice northward, before the sea made Britain an island. What fun those humans were! No swords, no armour, no cities. What games my folk would play! But every child grows up in the human world, so it’s said - Even humanity itself.

Suddenly realizing she was being watched, she blended into the high grasses. Someone with Sight spies upon me. I need more than this grass-crowd…

Reaching into her pouch, she pulled out a handful of faerie dust, and blew. A temporary phantasm of herself flew back out over the ruins, and Saihlough slipped away.

She found the encampment, some three miles away.

There were four of them, two women and two men - and they were fighting one of the Orkney brothers! But was it Balin - or the villainous Balan!?

One of the women was a sorceress - she cast spells, brining logs and rocks to life, battering them against the attacking knight. The other woman had turned into a phantom - and was trying to choke the knight with the very air about him! It did not seem to hold effect, though.

One of the men, a large-headed fellow, was already down. The other, a big, burly man, it seemed, had the same gift as the brothers - he had shifted his body into living metal.

Iron! I shall not be a party to that fray, she resolved.

She instead tended to the fallen man. Battered by the Orkneyman’s fist, it seemed, there was no sword-wound - only bruising damage. That can be enough to kill, she noted.

The large-headed man’s life-glow was strong, she could see. He would be well in time; she set about gathering medicinal herbs in any case…

When she returned, the battle was over. Balan, based upon what the others had learned, had fled - using Glorith’s magicks.

Saihlough introduced herself, and presented the scroll prepared by Queen Guinevere herself.

“We would welcome the chance to talk and mayhap ally with King Rokk’s legion,” the burly man - Aord of Kaihlough - said. “But, how do I say this? There are faeries in this world who present one thing, but deliver something else.”

Oh course, silly! That’s the point, Saihlough thought while smiling. “King Rokk’s own cousin, Jonah - also known as Gawaine, marries in four weeks, in Lindum. Queen Guinevere would welcome you all as her guests.”

The women, the sorceress Siomhe of the clan Gandr, and the now-solid Taillnaeghi, both smiled at the invitation. The unconscious Seth, of course, had no way of voicing opposition.

“Allow us to leave word for our comrades, Sirs Dodinel and Balin.

Balin was here, and has already made them allies! Imra will be pleased!

Saihlough liked this Aord. He would make a fine addition to King Rokk’s companions!

Two Hundred and three

“And this fellow now approaching, he would be the legendary Sir Garth.”

Fergus looked confused, turning to MacKell for clarification before the lad was within greeting distance. “I thought you said he’d lost an arm fighting a dragon?”

Jonah was surprised - he’d not yet caught up on all the happenings, having just arrived within the same hour.

“He… seems to have gotten better,” MacKell smiled. My thanks to Llanfair, that his plan worked!

“In your rush to catch up with me, you must still take care not to loose limbs!” Jonah called out to the Breton knight.

“T’was only a flesh wound. I’ve had worse,” Garth shot back, and the tow greeted each other with a brotherly hug.

“Sir Garth, may I present Fergus, king of the Scots!” MacKell interjected.

“An honour, sir,” Garth saluted him humbly.

“None of that!” Fergus laughed. “I’ll not claim such title until tomorrow’s council is over and done with!”

Thom rushed into the encampment, “Where is he?” Seeing Garth, he leapt upon his friend and peer. “Garth of the Lake! T’is you! Healthy and whole!”

“Almost,” Garth replied, freeing himself from the bear-hug. “Behold!”

He withdrew his right gauntlet, revealing a silvery hand.

“Zounds!” whispered Lu.

“Amazing” agreed Querl.

Garth’s hand pulled slightly to the left. “T’is truly metal,” Rokk commented. “At least now I have some influence over where at least one of your hands strays!”

The knights laughed.

Garth removed his cloak and robe, and rolled up his chain mail enough to show that more than his hand was silver.

“Whew!” Lu whistled. “You are worth even more to the merchants of Londinium!”

Rokk and Thom laughed.

“One does not honour such a gift so lightly,” Fergus admonished. “This is something out of the tales of the Tuatha de Danaan themselves! Nuada of the Silver-Arm-”

“-was my very benefactor,” Garth declared. “With Dian Cecht’s aide, of course.”

Fergus and MacKell were clearly impressed. So was Maven, whose crows heard the conversation for her.

“T’is fortune indeed that you chanced upon us,” Querl said. “Of all the Hebrides, all the crags of Caledonia’s coast, we not only find ourselves on the same isle - but along the same bay of that isle.”

“Not fortune,” Llanfair interjected. “Yet another gift of the gods.”

“Or God,” Marla added, good-naturedly.

“In any case, I shall light a candle for the Luck Lords this eve,” Thom said. “Garth has a divinely granted arm, Jonah beat back his Green Knight - with a witness this time-” he couldn’t resist the jab. “-and we may have a peace between Scot and Pict in short order!”

What the Luck Lords give, they may take just as freely, Rokk kept the thought to himself, not wanting to be the wet blanket. Eye contact with Fergus and Marla told him he was not alone in his thinking.

Fergus is wise. He shall be a great king, and a good ally, thought.

Within the hour, Lu and Thom had caught fish for the evening’s meal, and Rokk’s messenger returned with confirmation from Maven herself that they would meet.

We were expected, Rokk couldn’t shake the feeling. For good or for ill.

notes 191-201
191: “I didn’t kill my wife” insisted Kimball the Dragon. “It was a one-armed man!”
192: sorry for the delay. It’s been a heckuva year.
193: The Balin/Balan story has dragged on a while; it should be resolved soon.
195/199: The Green Knight story has a few more twists yet; like many, it’s taking longer than I thought; part of the peril of having such damn huge cast! The Lugh story referred to may be back-referenced… at some point. Just before the Rokk/Imra wedding, I referenced their quest together; that’s the same one.
196: What did the boat contain? Time will tell.
197: Manannan Mac Lir was the Celtic sea-god - for whom the Isle of Man is named. The Far Hebrides, or Outer Hebrides, are a desolate, distant archipelago of islands northwest of mainland Scotland. There are indeed a few isles beyond, such as St. Kilda’s, so placing one of the various gods’ isles out there is not beyond reason.
192/194/196/198: To recap; the de Danaans are an early people who came to Ireland, presumably from the area of today’s Denmark, and where a fair-skinned folk in which light hair colors (blond, red) were not uncommon. They presumably displaced earlier folk, both small and dark peoples similar to the Picts, who perhaps became the basis for some of the Irish faerie myths. Also, there may have been some larger peoples, Fomorians/Fir Bolg, whose historical basis (if any) could have been unusual tallness (keep in mind even six feet was quite unusual before the 20th century, given health and diet issues) - not true giant-ness as tales. And, of course, there is precedent for tall peoples in northern Europe.
The Milesians, by legend, did indeed flee Egypt around the time of Moses, and although this may well be a fabrication or elaboration by early Christian monks, some contact between the two is not impossible - Greeks and Phoenicians made the trip, too. “Black Irish” - Irish with dark hair and darker complexions, are generally thought to have been the result of a Spanish influx several centuries ago, but who knows? Milesian or pre-de Danaan genes could still be in the mix.
For an attempt at clarity, I use Tuatha de Danaan, “children of the mother-goddess Danaan” (also spelled Dannan), to refer to the Gaelic Celt gods; and “de Danaan” to refer to the peoples themselves - although the gods may well have originated from legendary tribal rulers. I use Danaan rather than Dannan, incidentally, to avoid any associations with the yogurt brand presumably named after the goddess herself.
200: I never liked the first two Starfingers; this was a good way to pay homage and move on - while tying it into a necessary part of the story. Weyland-on-the-Hill is one of several names for one of those giant prehistoric chalk carvings that take up entire hills (I’m sure there are pictures online; the hill was also depicted in Sandman: “A midsummer Night’s Dream,” as a gateway to the Faerie court). Weyland, one of the various names for the Brythonic Celts’ god-chieftain; who was in many ways more similar to the Norse god-chieftain Odin than to the Gaelic god-chieftain(s) Nuada, Ogma and Dagda. Aves’ Borough is my extrapolation of Avebury, where an old stone circle, larger in diameter than Stonehenge but not as tall, traverses the village itself.
Garth’s battle is obviously an illusion, I hope - but one he is not certain of until he regroups with his comrades. The man with a silver arm is the previously referred Gaelic god Nuada, who lost his arm in combat, was deemed unfit to rule, and was replaced by a king of both Tuatha de Danaan and Fir Bolg blood, who in turn betrayed the Tuatha. Nuada regained the thrown by proving his ability, and defeating the betrayer. DC used intro’d a female Atlantean Nuada with a similar story in the 1980s Aquaman miniseries (the one with that neat blue costume with the waves).
201: Sgathach is another name for Skye, the legendary/perhaps mythical warrior-woman who taught Cu Chulain (Lar in my story) and others to fight, including the Craebh Ruadh, or Red Branch, the order Cu Chulain joined. I’ll be adding another alias to her repertoire soon. There is debate about the accuracy of the name - whether the famous island was named for her, or for other features. I place Skye as a Pict, as Scots had generally not yet arrived anywhere in Scotland yet, although I’ve never heard of a line that followed her, it fits here, for obvious reasons. The isle itself is indeed a shadowy, but beautiful one.
Neibh’iesh is my own extrapolation of Nevis (“Neh-vis”), that is Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in Britain, which lies at the southwestern end of the Great Glen, near Fort William. In Braveheart, when Mel Gibson is prancing around the mountainside with the mountain lake behind him and the helicopter-camera circling above him, that’s on a lower portion of Ben Nevis (with angles that carefully avoided the smokestacks of Fort William beyond). I don’t know that there was a Scot village at fort William, as I’ve depicted here, but why not? I think I’ve noted before, but Scoti and Ulstermen are the same people - I’m just using them differently to differentiate between those who still reside in Ulster and those who are colonizing Scotland.
Fergus I of Dalriada seems to be an authentic original ruler of the Scots in Scotland; presumably at this point, mostly a number of coastal colonies in southwestern Scotland. Since today’s Scotland only a fraction Scots, I generally continue to use the Roman name Caledonia for the entire region; although the Celtic Alba or Albu would probably be appropriate as well. Based upon my research, and where I began Rokk’s reign, Fergus should have assumed kingship at almost the same time; for my purposes, he was undoubtedly the leader, but has not officially claimed a crown just yet.

Two Hundred and four

“Greetings Sentanta, son of Lugh, son of Dechtire, grand-son of Connor, great-grandson of Nessa, great-great-grandson of Kell. I greet you on behalf of my ancestors.”

“Greetings, Maven, of the sacred line of Mallor, descendent of Lydea Sgathach. I greet you in the name of King Rokk,” MacKell slowly returned, focusing on his long-disused Pictish.

Maven and Fergus exchanged greetings directly, as did the priestess and Jonah. MacKell served as translator for Rokk and the others.

“King Rokk. It does you honour to arrive here in the company of the hound,” Maven spoke to Rokk. Jonah took this translation, seeing Lar’s embarrassment.

“Then I am doubly honoured, to have him amongst my companions, and to meet your acquaintance through his friendship.”

They clasped hands warmly. Rokk was touched by her sincerity and presence; she had an aura of… holiness about her.

Maven’s guards escorted Rokk, Lar and Fergus to a small hut where talks would be held. Her entourage of priestesses said naught; one made eye contact with Rokk - but only briefly. Beyond simple attraction, he could tell she knew more than was apparent. I have not Nura’s gift, but we shall meet again, Rokk told himself.

Maven took only one servant inside with them, and had her pour herself and the guests mead. After some preliminary niceties, Rokk dove into the issues at hand.

“With your permission, let me speak frankly,” Rokk said. Waiting for Lar to translate, and seeing Maven’s nod, he continued.

“Britain needs to stand as one against her enemies: Glorith, Saraid, and the Khunds,” he paused for emphasis and translation. “My most trusted seer has told me they will come in numbers few alive have ever seen - next summer. For this isle to not be over-run, we need every tribe, every faction, every warrior to come together. Roman, Celt, Scoti, Pict, Orkneyman, Angle, even Kentish Khund - all of them. All of us.

“There are those would see us divided. I have seen- MacKell and I, and my knights have seen that t’was not the Scoti who slaughtered Angtough, but a Dark Circle who would see this isle - aye, perhaps all the world - drown in a sea of barbaric invasions, with all our peoples slaughtered or driven from our homes.

“I have exacted a pledge from Fergus that the Scots will colonize no further, nor trade or explore into Pictish lands, save with Pictish blessings. All I ask is that the Picts stand with us next spring, when the Khunds seek to take this isle from us.”

Fergus nodded in solidarity.

“Also, while Fergus’ people have named him their king, he has agreed to await your consent, as a sign of alliance,” Rokk concluded.

Maven smiled. He speaks well, this young king.

“My seers have seen this… Khund invasion as well, but could not tell me whether Picts fought under the same banner as the south-landers.

“There are no true… kings or queens among my people. We have clans leaders, and clan councils, but… the word of the Mallor line carries some influence, t’is true.

“There are obstacles we must over-come. I believe not that the Scoti who have traded and intermarried with us carried out the slaughter at Angtough, but… let us be truthful. There are Scoti who have taken opportunity from the deed.”

Fergus nodded stoically.

“There must be reparation to the border villages, to start,” she said to Fergus. “Also, you have a ritual test to endure, on the next new moon. You will remain here - if you truly want our blessing to be king.”

Maven stood.

“King Rokk. You have two challenges. For the first… you have a legion of champions. We have many as well. One of ours, my very grand-son, has gone missing, whilst pursuing a brigand into the south-land. You must seek him out, and either see him back, or avenge him.

“For the second… for the Clans to accept you as their leader, for you to truly be high king of all Britain, you must return here at the first full moon after midwinter, and remain here in the north for a test that shall last until the moon again is full.

“Only then will the Clans march under your banner.”

Rokk nodded. What they ask of me can be no more than I will ask of myself - if Nura’s vision is again true.

Two Hundred and five

Geraint rode into Londinium like a man chased by demons.

“What word from the north?” he demanded of the first officer he encountered.

“Sir Dyrk reports that the forts of the Anglian coast have met their drill schedules, and we have at least one of Querl’s computi mounted at each fort, sir.”

“Excellent. And the Kentish coast?”

“There is no word from Berach.”

Geraint scowled. The others think well of him, but he seems the buffoon to me. At least on the south shore, all is well.

Geraint calmed himself to report to the queen. Entering the chambers, he found Iasmin already conferring with her.

“Greetings, Sir Geraint!” Guinevere welcomed. Iasmin yielded while he reported.

“You seem ill at ease,” the queen inquired.

“It seems more minds are focused on the wedding in Lindum in the coming weeks than on the Khunds!” Geraint said, with no small measure of frustration.

“Nura says the Khunds will arrive not until the March snows are receding,” the queen reminded him.

“I like not plotting strategies with sooth-saying. She could be mistaken.”

“Yet you were the first to rush out to survey the fort improvements? You’ve not yet met Nura; we’ve all become quite trusting in her Sight.”

Geraint nodded in deference to his queen. “Aye, I have not. I pray she is as good as is said.”

“And we can all feel better with your vigilance whilst we are at the weddings,” Iasmin said.

Seeing eyebrows raised by both Imra and Geraint, she added, “Had you not heard? Wynn and Martina of Cumbria have decided Jancel’s wedding would also be at Lindum, at the same gathering.”

“Who does she marry,” Imra asked, intrigued.

Iasmin felt her heart drop to the floor at having to deliver the news she assumed the queen knew. “Why… Sir Garth’s, milady.”

Two Hundred and six

“What news from Skye?” Manaugh scowled, that he was led to the northern glens - while four villains, MacKell, Gawaine, Fergus and Rokk, came and left Skye unharmed!

“Rokk and his warriors have returned to Lothian, and onward to the south-lands. Fergus has passed Maven’s tests, and she recognizes him as king of the Scoti,” Tasmia replied.

“WHAT! Is she bespelled by these murdering Welisc, then?” He was enraged. Throwing off his protective glove, he slammed his palm against an elder oak in disgust.

The tree-top flowed downward. The branches in proximity to the hand vaporized; Tasmia fared not so well. By the time she freed herself from entanglement, Manaugh was well up the hillside, touching tree, rock and anything else he encountered.

“Manaugh! Where do you go?”

“AWAY! I’m through stilling idle when there’s blood to be spilt! I’m on your leash no more!”

Tasmia picked up his glove.

“Take at least your protective glove!”

“NO! My hand will be sheathed never again!”

Two Hundred and seven

“Welcome, my dear,” said Lothian’s queen.

Winifred should have realized Belinant would be hosting the groom’s parents. “I greet thee, King Lot and Queen Morgause,” she curtsied.

“Salutations, Queen Winifred of Elmet,” Lot smiled. “I am glad to see you. No one seemed certain if you planned to attend the wedding.”

“In truth, I had planned on it not. I regarded my daughter as dead - as you both well know - she was. But I must know the truth.”

Morgause nodded, and placed a sympathetic arm on Winifred’s. “When we first learned Rokk would take the thrown, we, too harboured hate, certain that our nephew was long dead. But each time I see the lad, I am more and more certain he is Gwydion, the true and rightful king of Britain.

“Meet her. See for yourself. Mayhap this is not some trick, some chimera - but a miracle, just as Gwydion’s return was!”

Winifred attempted a smile, and hoped it seemed less superficial than she felt. This woman lies to herself. Her plots and plans all ran afoul; now she plays the innocent! T’is fortune that Tinya did die ere she could wed into the family of adders!

Tarik, you were right. We must put a stop to this mirage ere all Britain pays the price!

Lot, too smiled - but for different reasons. Gawaine marries the sole heir of Elmet - and he has won the heart of all Lindum! His kingdom shall stretch from the Trent to the Forth.

Two Hundred and eight

“Um. Hello.” Garth winced at the awkwardness.

“Hello.” Jancel was cautious in response. She wanted to sound enthusiastic and welcoming, but Garth’s body language through her off-guard. “You… have your arm back.” She smiled. He must at least be pleased with that!

“Aye, after a fashion.” Garth felt bad about his distance. It wasn’t her fault Mysa manipulated us! He tried a smile, and embraced her. “It really is good to see you,” he tried to sound convincing.

“Really?”

“Of course. I shan’t lie to my bride-to-be; that would start us off on an ill foot indeed.” He sat down, and gestured for her to join him. Resting together on deep window-sill, they let the busy-bodies rush around up and down the castle’s main hallway, preparing for the morrow’s nuptials. Eventually, Garth even let himself relax. She is a good girl; she is already devoted. Perhaps t’is for the best, if I can accept her and no other.

Imra, seeing her ladies settled in two floors above, heard the thought, and threw a vase at the wall - surprising Siobhan and Luornu nearby.

If you play the gallant with nobles’ daughters, dear Garth, complain not when they expect you to keep honour.

Aye. T’is appropriate, a lesson in manner from one who poses as a dead noble.

“OW!” Garth and Jancel suddenly both felt a piercing headache.

I remind you, I had no choice in the fates I was dealt. YOU chose the skirt to chase that brought you to this day.

Garth focused on his anger, his humiliation and his headache. The things he could not bear to tell Imra were the truths - that he mistook Jancel for her - and of Mysa’s betrayal.

Two Hundred and nine

“Human lives are sooo short, as it is. Why bother with this ‘marriage?’”

“Well, little one, humans need the commitment, the stability. We are not does, bearing child in the woods,” Siomhe said. “A mother needs a husband who can provide for her and the children, while a man wants to know his legacy is intact - that the child he raises is his.”

“But why make a big ceremony?” Saihlough asked, watching the morning crowds gather.

“So that all know that these two are betrothed - and that the union will be respected by others. And a royal wedding is important politically among nobles’ alliances - and it makes the common people feel their leaders are proper and right.”

“I still say it’s foolishness. The elf-maidens take what consorts as they chose. What is wrong with that? Aord, are you married?” the faerie asked.

“Nay. I am too committed to knightly duties. And, although t’is not very seemly for a knight to say, I too ask some of the questions as you do,” he said.

“Really?” Rare were the humans Saihlough thought could handle seeing the world from a faerie’s point of view; yet she now knew two. What would be the harm…?

With a flick of faerie dust, Saihlough and Aord were gone.

“Where are we?” he asked, trying to adjust his vision.

“We’re in-between,” she smiled.

“You- we’re-”

Saihlough giggled.

“-the same size!” Aord finally managed.

“Come on!” she grabbed him by the hand and ran, pulling him toward a small doorway. A small pig-faced faerie grunted as they ran past.

The doorway led to a field covered in bright flowers under a bright sunless sky. The flowers swayed in a warm breeze, singing songs in a tongue long forgotten in the mundane world. Beyond, the trees of the forest danced to the flowers’ song, swinging each other from partner to partner.

While Aord stood gaping, trying to take it all in, Saihlough wasn’t about to let a good moment lie quiet! She picked him up, straining her little wings, and carried him to a lake of milky caramel-coloured nectar. Directly over the middle - and about 50 feet up - she exclaimed, “Lúcháir!” before letting him go.

He flailed and screamed all the way down, put face-first into the lake he went! The lake surface did not ripple in his wake.

Saihlough giggled and dove after him.

Unable to swim in the nectar, Aord struggled toward the surface. Saihlough intercepted him, kissing him and wordlessly telling him, “Look below us!”

Aord looked down, to see a distorted image of the court plaza at Lindum, where the wedding procession was already under way.

“We should be there!” Aord said, realizing he could talk and breathe in the nectar-lake, not really wanting to leave, though - the lake tasted very sweet indeed.

“We can watch from here,” she announced proudly, letting him caress her petite wings. “That’s part of the fun of being fae.”

Aord realized he was getting drunk on the nectar, but with Saihlough in his arms, he cared not. Were there other fae, other arms, around them as well? It was so hard to tell…

Two Hundred Ten

“You have nerve indeed showing yourself here!” Ayla was furious.

“Tinya asked that I be here.”

“Well I ask that you leave.”

Imra came upon Benwick’s reigning princess and her sister-in-law having words. “This is to be a day of celebration,” she scolded, although not feeling very celebratory herself. “What quarrel hast thou?”

Ayla was shocked. “You know not what foul sorcery this witch hath done? She bespelled our Garth into having his way with Jancel!”

“Mysa? Is this so?” Imra felt her rage grow.

“Aye, it is. I’ll not see my brother’s kingdom spoilt by his wife, who cannot keep eyes - or hands - away from his best knight!” There was no point in being anything less than defiant.

“You- How DARE you! You know Garth and I have never-“

“EVERYBODY sees it, Imra,” Mysa matched Imra’s tone and fury. “The deed may be unconsummated, but every tongue in all Britain knows the fire there burns.” She eyed her former protégé and current monarch. “You know it would just be a matter of time.”

Ayla and Imra exchanged quick glances. Neither had mentioned how the queen poured her heart out to Ayla while guised as Garth - but both knew how close Imra had come to casting aside her marriage vows.

“You acted from spite, that you could not keep him yourself!” Imra searched for an avenue to shift focus.

“I took him on only to keep him away from you.”

“You still betrayed Garth, behind his very back,” Ayla reminded her. “Garth had avoided betraying Rokk by choice quite successfully. You stole that choice, because you knew best. You as good as raped young Jancel yourself.”

“Avalon taught you well,” Imra drove the knife farther in.

Mysa fought the urge to respond about Jancel. “I am your villain then? So be it. Shall you dungeon me? Exile me? Very well - I shall be your scape-goat.” She kneeled before them, head bowed and arms spread wide.

“I say fair is fair,” Ayla said. “Marry her off to a filthy Khund in Kent.”

Imra weighed the idea.

“I have husband already,” she told them, while rising. “And if I chose, I could be rightful high queen of Britain. Instead, I act on my brother’s behalf - and his bride’s, although she cares not to admit such.”

Mysa turned her back on them, returning to her pony. “A compromise, then. I’ll foul your innocent presences no more. Win, lose or draw, Rokk and Britain’s fate is in your hands.”

Imra watched the pony carrying her former friend toward the city gates. She could not help but cry.

“Come. The wedding starts,” Ayla hugged her, and led her back toward the plaza. “Our absences would be noticed.”

You should have told Garth what you told me, Ayla thought.

Yes, I should have, Imra replied, startling Ayla, who meant the thought not for sharing.

Two Hundred Eleven

“T’is a shame you and Geraint waited not. It could have been a three-couple wedding,” Tinya gushed.

Enide smiled politely, trying not to blush. Despite our title, father has not the dowry for such a fest. And it took arm-twisting indeed to get him to leave Londinium to even come here!

She continued chatting amiably with the bride, telling herself she was not jealous of the extravagance. Thank the Luck Lords a fine a knight as Geraint would wed me! And that I am now in the company of Britain’s finest nobles! Aye, that is well enough indeed.

Seeing noble after noble, and all the wives’ dresses - and even the servants’ - she was becoming very self-conscious of her mother’s hand-made gown - a gown she had treasured with pride as the most beautiful she could imagine before today.

As more ladies came to congratulate Tinya, Enide drifted back toward her husband. I shall tell him I feel a spell coming on, and shall retire. T’is not so far from the truth. She hoped he would join her.

Geraint was talking with Garth as she approached. “…Rokk had in mind for you to wed my sister, as I hear it,” Garth was saying.

“I am well-pleased not to have to worry about a court of my own!” the Cornish knight replied. “I am not certain I shan’t return to Rome someday - after the Khund is beaten back into place!”

Rome? He has said naught to me, Enide was crushed - and scared of leaving Britain. She hoped Geraint would listen to her urging, and fight for his claim to Cornwall. That would be a proper kingdom for us indeed.

“My husband? I-”

“-Silence, woman! I’ll hear none of your whining this day!” Was it the wine speaking? Geraint had never spoken so to her - at least in public. Even Garth was shocked.

“My apologies,” he said to Garth - not to her. “Go back to our quarters. I shall soon follow,” he said coldly to her, before resuming the conversation.

“You shouldn’t worry. Londinium is in capable hands indeed with Berach in charge,” Garth continued a previous thread.

“Mayhap, but- By the virgin! Who is she?!?” Enide heard her husband ask with enthusiasm - not even waiting for her to be out of earshot.

Many heads throughout the feasting hall turned to look - Queen Nura of Cornwall attended not too many social gatherings, especially this far north. Enide learned her identity through the hushed whispers of gossip wafting through the room.

She turned away, and made her way to the stairs that led to the upper castle. She turned back to see a group of men - her husband included - fawning over the late arrival. Now he takes interest in Cornwall. Not as I had in mind, she lamented.

She returned to their chambers, changed to a her-robes and slowly brushed her hair, contemplating her fate. Last year, I dreamt of a noble knight who would return me to the life of gentry. I am lucky. I should be happy. She blew out the candle, and climbed into bed. Aye, I should be happy.

She lied awake, looking at every possibility. Would Geraint put me aside, and find a younger bride? Would he slay Marcus and take this… Nura, as Uther took Igraine from Gorlois? Nay. He is a good man. T’is I who make him frenzied, with my fears and crying spells. I must behave better, and not anger him so. For him. Then he shall love me and honour me.

She had almost calmed herself to sleep, some hours later, when Geraint stumbled in - drunk again, singing some foreign soldier’s song. She was grateful for not understanding the words.

“Ye werr right, my love. We should start makin an effort to regain Cornwall. My Cornwall,” he laughed.

He climbed into bed, sloppily kissing at her. He smelled of perfumes not hers, and of womanly scents she has only smelled after Geraint had his way with her. Enide’s only consolation was that the perfumes smelled to cheap to be what she guessed Nura would wear.

He was not a gentle lover, but she let him do as he wished; what choice had she? He passed out soon after, and she wept herself to sleep.

Two Hundred Twelve

The third joust showed one of the cultural divisions among Britain: those who reside in the northern lands, those with strong Celtic blood, and pagan or near-pagan traditions rooted for the underdog; while the favourite was cheered on by the Romans, Christians and Angles.

Despite Sir Dyrk’s best efforts though, he found himself first unseated, and then losing the sword-fight - losing his early edge to what he considered a spat of bad luck - first slipping in a deep mud patch, being distracted by a raven, and finally his sword breaking during a second mud-fall.

“Let not the Khunds be so ‘lucky,’ good sir!” joked the victorious Lu, offering him a hand up. But Dyrk was not in the mood for gracious loss, having already lost to Thom and Garth earlier in the day.

He stormed off the field, throwing his ribbon behind as he left.

“You so quickly throw my kerchief away?”

She spoke as if trying to imitate her more timid sister, but Dyrk knew better. He turned around and picked it up again. “T’was a fit of anger, Laurentia. I’d be grateful if you’d forget it happened.”

“Laurentia? You think I am my sister?” she feigned a hurt expression, but the edges of her mouth betrayed muscles trying not to smile. She came close to him. “Would… Laurentia welcome you into her arms?” She moved to embrace him, but he stepped quickly aside.

“I am not of a mood for games!” He resumed his retreat, leaving Laurentia virtually alone - with a backdrop of jousting spectators still facing the field behind them.

“Let him be, sister,” Luornu made her way through the crowd to join Laurentia. “He gets as this, as autumn deepens.”

“And worse,” her sister noted. “Aye, I remember him at Samhain last year. “You know how to pick your paramours.”

“Paramours? How many dost I have?” Luornu was angry, but Laurentia just laughed. “And you? Tarrying with but a court jester?”

“Carolus makes me laugh, but not so much that I have shared my bed yet. T’is bas enough one of us has played the wanton, lest two-”

Despite Laurentia’s jesting tone, Luornu threw herself in anger, pushing her sister to the ground and beating upon her. “SAY not such words!”

A small crowd was gathering, enough for Lu, seeking her sisters after the fight, sighed and guessed who was it its centre. Breaking up the fight, she led her sisters to a quiet field away from the jousts entirely.

“Laurentia, your tongue is sharper than my blade. You would do well to keep it sheathed until you’ve thought out what you do with it. Luornu, I know that you gave Dyrk your ribbon to wear into battle. After all you two have been through, do you want to be his lover - or his bride? I am amassing enough for a small dowry, and if you say the word, we can shame him into vows.”

Luornu instantly felt a need to protect Dyrk from such a scheme, perhaps from hearing of Mysa’s deed. “I’ll not have Dyrk so shamed, but he and I must have words indeed,” she said. With three of us, mayhap you should look to your own dowry first, sister, she thought, having noticed how Lu’s eyes follow MacKell.

The thought was interrupted, as the trio, closest to the road to Deva, saw Genni running toward them, outpacing a surprised provincial patrol, which was also en route.

“Lu!Luornu!Laurentia!WhereisQueenGuinevere?I’vegottoseeheratonce!”

“Slow down, Genni,” Laurentia ordered, as Genni stopped to grab a breath. “I need to see Guinevere right away! Glorith desires a meeting!”

Two Hundred Thirteen

“We shan’t make Lindum by night-fall,” MacKell said, eyeing a good place to make camp.

Opting to miss the first day’s jousts, he agreed to accompany Querl to the coast, as the scientist wanted to see first-hand how some of his newly installed computi were faring.

The day had gone well; Querl had not only found the mechanisms well-made, but the crews manning them were competent enough. We must improve their understanding of the maths involved, or their full benefits shan’t materialize, he thought. Even so, their intuitive sense of aim still served them well.

MacKell, too, learned much of operating a computus. The complexity of the aiming levers was easily overcome, with practice, he found.

The next morning, they got an early start, as MacKell hoped to face Jonah that afternoon. But in the road, a woman stood, as if waiting for them.

“My good sirs, please pay heed!” She was beautiful, and had their attention. “On yonder cairn lies an hour-glass, that contains my dear father’s soul, trapped that it cannot go on to the Summer Country. Yet the sorceress who slew him, Glorith, cursed our family such that we cannot even touch it, else we be turned to stone,” she pleaded. “Can you?”

MacKell smiled and dismounted. “I am Sir MacKell, my lady. I shall save your father.” He walked over to the cairn, and touched the hour-glass, to lift it. After a flash of light, he staggered back, and froze in place, turning to stone - not as a statue, but as a block of stone, as one finds in old megalithic circles such as Salisbury plains.

The woman screamed, and Querl blinked not quite believing what he saw.

“You said-”

“-My family could not touch it. He must be kin.” She started bawling.

Querl nodded. That makes as much sense as anything. Unless she tricks us.

“My lady?”

“I am Lori.”

“Lori, I must ride to Lindum, where I know a sorceress who can end this curse,” he said, hoping Mysa or Siomhe were about.

“But today is autumn’s equinox! If he is not freed today, all is lost!” she sobbed.

Damn me as a fool, Querl thought, touched by her tears. He dismounted, and walked toward the cairn…

Two Hundred Fourteen

Balan knew not why he was chosen, but took great comfort that God himself had made him His vessel.

In truth, he imagined God as the friars had described - a fatherly, white-bearded old man, but if God chose to wear purple robes and hide His face, who was he to question?

God awoke him this morning, telling him this would be the day true Christians would smite the serpents of Britain, and King Rokk would see the Light. The sinners would repent, or be purged from this land forever, and Britain would become the True See of all Christendom. Glorith, like the Magdelene before her, would be the redeemed sorceress who would be God’s tool - and he would prevent today’s Judas who would usurp and spit on God’s will.

He comes this way, God told him.

Balan drew his sword, Blessed by God himself through His vessel Glorith. He was ready for the assassin.

He heard him. The fiend moved quietly, like a hunter, but noise he still made.

It would be easy to surprise him,Balan thought. But no. I am no coward, and God is on my side.

“COME FORTH, VILLAIN!” he cried, stepping out from behind the ancient larch.

“Balan?”

It was his brother.

“Balin? Put down your weapon. Let us serve our God and Father together.”

“Look at your sword, brother. Those are magickal runes - not even of Avalon - but the black magicks of Glorith.”

“She is redeemed, as am I. Join us, or die.”

“I remember all of Brother Tomar’s teachings. I recall not any join or die!” Balan drew his two swords, and turned his flesh to iron.

Balan changed too, and a fight began that no more than one - at most - could walk away from.

Two Hundred Fifteen

Rokk didn’t like it one bit, but Imra insisted on coming.

Well-surrounded by knights, she was, but this was Glorith.

Do we play into her hands, bringing so many knights? Rokk wondered, but there was only so much second-guessing one could do. Last time, Mysa stood with us. I know she had words with Imra - over Garth, no doubt, but I like it not that she would arrive and leave without a word to me.

“Should not the scouts have returned ere now?” he asked James.

“Aye. They are late.” Three new recruits, all locals from the village of Murragh, Aarl, Zakson and Mardin, had been eager to volunteer. Too eager.

“Something else else must have happened to them,” Thom said, drawing his sword.

On Rokk’s nod, all drew their swords.

The path exited the woods and came to a clearing. Dyrk, who’d rode these roads only fays before the wedding, wondered where the stone circle had come from. “Sire? I swear there was no stone circle last week - only the central cairn!”

Rokk looked. There were certainly five tall standing-stones now encircling the cairn, and an hour-glass upon the cairn itself.

James dismounted and walked up to investigate.

“Be mindful!” Dyrk called. “We face a potent sorceress!”

James knew that well. Despite what Mysa claimed, he saw Glorith cause the very stars to fall!

With sword drawn, he looked around the circle. No one was hiding. He went to the hour-glass, and reached to pick it up…