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Two Hundred Sixteen

He moved alone through the woods.

Father, thank you for such a beautiful night, and a moon to guide my way.

He knew King Rokk took his knights to the east, but he was drawn to the south for reasons he could fathom not. Rounding a huge old larch, he was unsurprised to see the two brothers from the Orkneys - one dead and the other subtly aglow, just as those about to die are.

“Nameless? It is you,” he said. “Nameless, would you absolve me my sins? T’is time for my final rights.”

“Of course,” said Brother Jan. He knelt, removing his beads from his pockets and his cross from his neck.

“Before you start, I must tell you. Yonder spear is the only thing that can stop Glorith; I see that now. I belongs to King Pellam.”

Jan regarded the spear and nodded. “You may rest now, my friend. Be blessed; His kingdom is and hand…”

Two Hundred Seventeen

“Come out, you harlot!” Geraint called. He led a group of knights to the left of the stone circle - which now numbered six.

“Glorith! Face us!” called Dyrk, leading knights on the other side.

“Something else else’s dreadfully wrong,” Imra said. Rokk nodded. “No, Rokk. Really wrong. KNIGHTS! SHE’S ABOUT TO-“

A fierce wind sprang up from nowhere. The knights steadied themselves, but no one could hear each others’ words.

Knights! The hour-glass! It’s going to- Imra’s last thought remained incomplete.

Glorith walked out from the woods. Her stone circle now had an outer circle - plus the beginnings of a third circle along the roadside. She gathered the confused horses, ready to led them to her encampment. I’d say that went well-

“ENOUGH!”

Glorith recognized the late arrival, Sir Jonah, but not the robed lad behind him. They saw too much, I must surmise. There shall be no tricking them, as I did poor MacKell.

As she prepared another spell, Jonah charged at her - but within the minute, he was stone.

“And you, my dear boy? She taunted the handsome blond youth. Are you here to fight, or shall you be my servant?” Only then did she note the building glow under his cloak - where his hands must be.

“Stop that!” She summoned a wind to blow hour-glass dust at him as well, but already there was movement about her - the stones were coming back to life!

Glorith retreated to the Cairn, picking up the now-empty hour-glass. “Erytreigh magh Naughiesh-” Her chant was interrupted, as Jan stabbed Pellam’s spear through the hour-glass itself!

The half-completed spell of transport sucked her away into the ether - but offered her no destination to arrive at. Her scream lingered in the air as Imra, Querl and the knights regathered their senses.

Notes 202-215
202/209: Like Balin, it’s taken me a while to get back to the rest of the Lallorians. These four have had so little to do - and #5 is dead already (even if they don’t know that)! And it finally gave me an excuse to delve more into Saihlough, which I’ve been wanting to do. Who was spying on her, though? Salu and Ord struck me as such an odd couple in the comics, but I like the Saihlough and Aord dynamic so far.
203: I guess I skipped over closing Garth’s wondering is his Starfinger dream was real at all, but it’s conclusion was pretty obvious to everyone but Garth; and I hate flogging dead horses. And Monty Python interjects - so sue me! I can promise that Garth won’t be hauled away by 20th century police at the end, though. Dian Cecht is the Gaelic physician among the gods, who indeed gave Nuada his silver arm.
204: As I’ve previously covered, Sentanta (sometimes Sententa) was the birth-name of Cu Chuilain (sometimes Cu Chulainn or Cuchulainn, “Cullen’s Hound”), or Lar Chulain, as he is here, the son of the craftsman-god Lugh and the Ulster princess Dechtire, or Deidre. Her father, Connor mac Nessa (literally, son of Nessa) was king of Ulster and presided over the knights of the Red Branch, or Craebh Ruadh, an Irish precursor to Arthur’s knights, of which the Hound was the greatest. Kell was my own addition, to make a “Mac-El” name, but I figured rather than lie altogether, Lar would rather take an actual ancestral name, one common enough to maintain his disguise - even if Maven and Fergus obviously know better.
Since the line of Skye/Sgathach is obviously the Mallors (or Malors), combining Skye herself with Lydea made sense to me. I meant to introduce Nura’s Khund prophecy when Jonah last met mom; an oversight I’ll probably edit in later.
205: Since this time, obviously, Berach turned up, and Geraint did attend.
206: Okay; Manaugh’s had enough of a breather.
207: So has Winifred.
208/210: Everyone but Mysa (and Jancel) assume Jancel had no part in the plot… so far… and thus save their hostility solely for Mysa. And if Mysa tries to make amends, the plan is unwoven. Garth, too, sees no point in letting Imra know he mistook Jancel for her.
211: Poor Enide. Legend gives her a fairy-tale happy ending with Geraint/Erec; but neither history nor I have room for that.
212: After Lu’s initial poor showing, when she lost to everyone as “Sir Prize,” she had to have some improvement before an upcoming storyline; this was a good place to show that - and catch up with the sisters.
213/215: Celtic legends are full of knights and/or giants being transformed into megaliths. It fit, more than being turned into infants - a Silver Age device I dislike.
214: If you claim to serve god; be careful which god you follow! Personally, I have a hard time seeing Jesus and Pat Robertson following the same deity; same principle here. I’ll assume it’s quite obvious who’s whispering in Balan’s ear.

Two Hundred Eighteen

“You took your time,” Laoraighll admonished.

“Sorry, but it was necessary. The true shame is that the Stone of Virtue was left at Roxxius’ tower in the first place,” Ossian remarked sarcastically, pushing the boat off the embankment. He punted the boat down the Shannon.

If the area’s shepherds gave them any notice - or noticed that a threesome had made camp these past weeks in the nearby marshes - they gave no indication, seemingly giving them leave to travel through the very heart of Eiru unnoticed.

“It did not appear readily removable - without much of the tower tumbling down with it,” Reep said.

“A key column of support seems to need either the Eye of Balor or the Stone of Virtue to keep it intact. Only by placing the stone delivered by Roxxius was Saraid able to free the Eye,” L’ile continued.

“Then we need an… orb of equal weight to fill the Eye’s space, that the Stone again is free,” Laoraighll offered.

“I doubt it’s that easy,” L’ile said. “The system seems designed to hold specific, magickal artifacts in both holes, else Saraid could have filled the Stone’s slot long ago.”

Ossian nodded. “That is why I made my side-trip - to visit my love Niamh.”

“For three weeks?” Laoraighll could believe it not. ”Whilst we waited in danger each hour - you played the lover?”

“Nay. T’was three weeks for you, but barely an hour for me. Remember, the world spent three centuries whilst I spent but a few days!”

“And what did that… long hour gain us?” asked Reep.

Ossian smiled and gestured to the large sack he brought with him. “See for yourselves.”

Reep and L’ile looked to each other, while Laoraighll ventured forth. Sure enough, there was a large white orb, and she could make out part of a black circle outlined by a green iris pointing toward the lower portion of the sack.

“You think this shall serve?” she asked.

“My lady,” Ossian paused. “There is but one way I know of to try.”

Two Hundred Nineteen

“I regret that I have naught else to offer in hospitality,” King Pellam smiled apologetically, while presenting a plate of cheeses and hard-bread. His eyes hid not his heavy heart, though.

“I require no earthly trappings to show fellowship, my liege,” Jan replied. “Verily, your welcome is fealty enough.”

Pellam smiled warmly this time. “You do good service to your religion, friar.”

“And you to yours,” Jan returned. Seeing Pellam’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “After the raider Roxxius destroyed my brethren and out monastery, I took refuge in Avalon, where you are held in high esteem indeed. My sole wish is that I had better cause for seeking you out,” he gestured to the spear Balin had borrowed.

“He was a good knight, Balin of the Two Swords,” Pellam sighed. “What burial hast he?”

“King Rokk wanted to return him to Londinium, where he would be buried on a hill where he hast decreed all honoured warriors shall be buried, from now on. He would be buried alongside Iaime, who helped to create our cavalry; the Lady Kiwa, who there would be no kingdom of Britain without; and the warriors who died defending Londinium from Zaryan, and the rebel kings.

“But none could tell the difference ‘tween Balin and Balan, and we could not tell which body to honour and which to leave for the rats. So we buried both in Lindum’s woods, and will honour Balin with a monument on the hill, which will be named Shanghalla.”

Sinn Gaolach, Pellam thought. How very appropriate.

“I would see this hill, my young friend. I would like to pay my respects to the noble Sir Balin, and to my old friend Kiwa,” Pellam said. Looking about, he realized he would not be returning to this decaying old castle.

If this lad is to be the new face of Christianity, mayhap it could serve as a home to his order. Truly, there is more to this cult of the one-god than that fool Vidar.

“I would accompany you there, but another will have to see after you from there. I have a new quest to begin.”

“A priestly quest, aye?”

“Yes. Though some both Christian and pagan would call me crazed, I say Britain shall be a land that welcomes both.”

“Then you intend to pick up the old wizard Math’s challenge?”

“Aye. I intend to complete all eight impossible tasks - in the name of God - no matter what by what name you call Him.”

Or her, Pellam smiled. With their Mary, even the one-god cult recognizes the Lady.

Two Hundred Twenty

No matter what his witches and wizards do, King Rokk shall not bespell me again! Mekt resolved. Beren and the Druids, Mysa - even the fraudulent Queen Guinevere herself - each had tried to seduce him with their lies.

They killed Eva.

No amount of spells could ever dispel that truth.

Even Ayla - on route home to Benwick from Garth’s wedding, she said, spouted Rokk’s lies. He spit at her, cursed her. She likes ruling in my stead. She, too, betrayed me.

For months, he had languished in the dungeon at Londinium - Camelot’s walls were far from finished - and for months, he allowed his captors to believe they made progress.

It was autumn now, and his cell grew colder. Soon, the water that covered the floor - their effort to contain his taranaut - would freeze over. Then, nothing could contain him. He had it all planned out.

The new guard eyed him regularly. This one has wits about him. I must watch him. And sure enough, at mean time, he and the guard eyed each other. But with eye contact came no revulsion on the guard’s end!

“Be ready. Tomorrow, my friends and I set you free.”

“Did Eva send you?”

“Eva is dead. But friends you have. A circle of them.”

The conversation ended abruptly, as other guards looked on. But the next day, a different guard came to feed the king of Benwick - only to find an empty cell.

Two Hundred Twenty-one

“What do we do?”

The quartet expected not to find Roxxius’ tower so well-guarded - and a huge war-ship anchored off of the small isle.

“I can slip in under their noses,” L’ile offered.

“And if the Stone area is well-guarded? Bespelled even? You could be caught without a sword-arm to back you up,” Ossian grumbled. “Nay we wait for early morning. Before the sun, there will be enough fog to cover us, and once inside, we stand a chance.”

Unless Saraid herself awaits us inside. Has our safe-passage been but a ruse?

Ossian took last watch, and woke the trio just as the dawn star appeared in the eastern sky. It was a cold morning, and no one had dared light a fire - only body heat and thick cloaks kept each other partially warm.

Silently, they pushed the same boat they’d portaged for two days out into the sea, with Ossian and L’ile paddling as stealthily as they could. Sound will echo in the fog, L’ile recalled, wincing every time an inopportune sound arose. Luckily, the muffled voices of the watchmen ahead helped to cover their sounds.

Undetected at the island’s shore, they heard the watchmen joke around the beckoning fire. Now was the time for a scout.

The guard talked and jabbered on about gambling, women and drink. Hearing a sneeze, one of them uttered a customary Roman blessing!

Did I sneeze? I recall it not! thought other - the recipient of the blessing, checking his nose.

Only then did L’ile realize they’d been speaking Latin the entire time! These are not Irish- they are Frankish! What plot is afoot here? Wiping his nose, he opted not to press his luck, and returned to his allies to relay the news.

“Laoraighll has found the back entrance, which Berach used last time,” Ossian reported, having hid the boat in the reeds of a small tidal marsh. “Our friends have not found this route, else they would guard it. Let us make haste,” he whispered. The eastern sky was starting to lighten, but everything else was still cloaked in darkness.

One of the watch investigated a slight noise he’d heard - a whisper, or a hiss? - but found naught. And they say there are no snakes in Eiru, he thought, still testing his nose for moisture. I hate snakes.

Inside, the foursome saw a scene the expected not - a showdown - which they were not a part of.

One man clutching a small bundle stood beside a beautiful woman, and they were surrounded by Frankish mercenaries, under the command of a strange-looking… was it a man? It was hard to tell by the torch-light.

But then he stepped into better light - he was half-man, half… something else, monstrous!

“Prefect Ionas. Again, I prove that there is nothing you can find which I cannot seize!”

“Hello, Torachi,” said the outnumbered man. The mercenaries took his crossbow and whip from him. Torachi stepped forward, and seized the bundle, unwrapping - a large, golden Egyptian ankh.

Ionas! L’ile thought. “I’ve heard of him!” he whispered to Ossian. “He robs temples, steals religious artifacts for the Church of Rome - and often destroys all else that he cannot carry! Entire temples, even! He’s little better than Torachi himself.”

Not realizing how the whisper carried through the underground chamber, Torachi heard the noise. He ordered his men to flush out the source of the noise and seize it.

Ionas used the distraction as an opportunity to again seize the ankh - and run. “It belongs in a cathedral!” he bellowed, leaving his lady struggling to catch up to him.

Ossian and Laoraighll dove forward into the approaching mercenaries, but Torachi and most of his men were already pursuing Ionas.

With the whole tower substructure shaking, Reep and L’ile took the sack to where the Justice of Balor was removed. They inserted the faerie orb, which seemed slightly too small.

But whatever guardian lurked within the wall seemed to accepted it, and the encasement surrounding the Stone of Virtue released its treasure. With a sigh of relief, Reep removed it…

… but the wall began to vibrate, and the entire tower began to quiver.

“Run!” shouted Ossian, finishing off the last mercenary. Small pieces of rock started raining down as they rushed back to the hidden entrance, hearing Ionas’ woman screaming in the distance.

Fleeing up the tower to escape Torachi, Ionas and his woman found the tower itself began crumbling. Why does this always happen to me? he thought, as the stairs collapsed underneath him. “Maria! Don’t look!”

As the tower came crashing down behind them, the quartet made their way to the boat, and were rowing back to shore before the first sliver of the sun arose from the sea. Torachi’s men were oblivious to their departure, trying to aide their master’s escape from the rubble.

Two Hundred Twenty-two

“How fare our drills?” Rokk asked. Disappointed that Camelot could not be finished before the attack, he reconciled that Londinium would remain his capitol during the coming war, and Ambrosius’ hall would remain his command centre.

“Our main cavalry is now 60-strong,” Iasmin reported. “We have 36 veterans of the original 40, 52 new trainees - who have done outstanding - and another 17 cadets who ride well enough, but would not be as effective as our main force. In short, 60 ready with mounts, 28 fully trained back-ups who would still have value riding lesser horses., and 17 who I would keep out of the infantry. They, too, may be ready by spring.”

Rokk regretted only getting 24 new Iberian stallions this year. “Can we get more steeds from Iberia ere spring?”

“I have already sent inquiries. In truth, I know not.” She hesitated, but there was no reason to hide a fact that had to be aired. “There is demand from Clovis for Iberian stallions. I know not whether he is building his own cavalry - or simply seeks to undercut us.”

Rokk nodded. Clovis again. “Geraint?”

“With other knights now assisting Berach, Dyrk and I, we have all coastal forts drilling. Garth is ready to drill his cavalry from Cadwy’s fort to the coasts, as is Jonah in Lindum, and I guess I will see to Londinium’s forces?”

Iasmin was taken aback. “Sire? I was to lead Londinium’s cavalry!”

Geraint scoffed. And what shall I do? Stand around like some fool on the hill?

“Iasmin, are you truly ready for war? Indeed, you would be irreplaceable as our trainer,” Rokk tried to be diplomatic. “Think on it. If you can convince me you are ready, so be it, else you can lead the back-up force, which should back-up all units.”

Iasmin nodded and asked for her leave, trying not to betray her anger and hurt. This must be my chance to ride to war - for Iaime!

“What news of Mekt?” Rokk asked James. With Reep gone, James had picked up most of the espionage duties, as best he could.

“We are interrogating the guards, who saw nothing. All have been switched to septic duties, until one divulges something we can use. None have been reported with extra wages to spend, or unusual gambling stock.”

Rokk sighed. Clovis again? Will he be an adversary worse than the Khunds? “Any news of Mysa? Or Saihlough?”

The question was interrupted, as Berach burst in. “King Rokk! Traitors have seized the city wall’s south tower!”

“Surround them! We must take the tower by force!” Rokk was angry - more traitors at a time when he needed unity!

All the men took an involuntary pause as a loud impact hit the palace.

“The computus!” Geraint shouted, breaking the shocked silence. “They have turned it upon us!

By the time Rokk mustered the knights and regained the tower, eight fiery bolts had been set forth - and several residences’ thatched roofs burned into the night.

It was the wee hours before the situation was controlled, homes found for families, and casualties and damages assessed. Rokk condemned himself for not being able to take the traitors alive - with one slain, the other jumped to his death, screaming “death to King Rokk! For Mona!”

Mona, Anglesey. This was the ‘Dark Circle’ striking again. Did they free Mekt, too?

Returning to the palace, Rokk heard wailing - male and female - from the neast wing, where the bolt hit. But how? The palace looks undamaged - it is of thick stone, with nothing to burn.

He rushed up the stairs anyway, hearing a crowd in the ladies’ chambers - and a trail of blood leading to it from a window. The shutters were but wood-scraps - as was a small table the ladies would put flower-baskets on. The enormous bolt came through the window. Who did it hit? He was filled by dread, reaching the chambers.

Imra, Siobhan, Virginia, Iasmin, Genni, Drusilla… many of the ladies were gathered, as were Beren and Tenzil, without a dry eye among them. Two of the triple sisters stood together, holding each other, sobbing, while Carolus himself wailed as well.

Laurentia.

He forced himself to walk forward and look upon her. They’d tried. They pulled loose the bolt, and burned the wound, but that was not enough. He caressed her face. It was already cold. A single tear descended the king’s face. I’m sorry, Laurentia.

You should be. He was surprised by Imra’s anger. If we kept the Cauldron here, Laurentia might be alive this morning. Even with MacKell rushing back to Avalon on the Path of Isis, he is too late!

Aye. And if we kept it here, would it still be here? Or would these new Dark Circle traitors have stolen it? Or Glorith? Would she be a greater menace today, instead of gone from the very world? We cannot second-guess should-have-beens, my wife. You speak of anger, not fact. Let us not hate each other for the deeds of villains, else we blame ourselves for Kiwa’s death, too.

Imra looked away, unable to give up her rage so easily.

An out-of-breath MacKell soon returned with the Cauldron, but he, too, collapsed in despair when he saw a corpse, not a patient.

Two Hundred Twenty-three

“Dyrk reports that he safely escorted Siomhe and Taillnaeghi back to Man, ere he returned to Londinium. Seth stayed to search for Aord and Saihlough. He postponed his inspection tour of the western forts until… afterward,” James quietly told Geraint. “Querl has begun devising a modification for the computi, to limit how far from the field of battle they can be turned.

“Also, I have located the prisoner we seek. Lucius, duke of Neustria, had him locked away in his dungeons. He won’t part with him, but will let us interrogate him.”

“We shall leave in short order,” Geraint nodded.

With Father Marla’s eulogy said, they watched Dyrk, Carolus, Tenzil, Brandius, MacKell - and Rokk himself - carry Laurentia’s body into the tomb. James looked left - and saw Iaime’s tomb, with Balin’s new monument between them. T’is too soon, that we again visit here, the Cumbrian thought.

It was a drizzly October day, but as warm as could be expected under these circumstances. Most of Rokk’s legion, the court ladies, and a smattering of southern nobles were gathered. Such an outpouring - for but a poor girl who once took refuge with Sir Brandius! But aye, she was more than that. He regarded the two living sisters. Aye. Aren’t we all more than titles, more than positions? We are all peers in blood and the travails of life, from the noble to the serf.

Rokk was of a similar mind.

“Laurentia was no warrior, no sorceress, no spy, no nun nor craftswoman. She was our friend. She aided as she could, and her laughter and wit were the salve when our minds strayed toward frenzy. Although she killed no Khund nor dragon, she was one of us, and as part of the team, she earned her place of honour,” he eyed Geraint in particular. The knight looked away. “Here, on Shangalla hill,” Rokk continued.

Errol looked over at the old king nearby. Ancient but regal robes… how many years has he? Could that indeed be Pellam? Verily, it is, he concluded, and broke his stare, so as not to make the elder king ill at ease. He must be o’er 70 by now… maybe 80. T’is a shame, one who came so close to being high king himself, lost his sons to Vortigern, and his-

The king continued. “I have long regarded all my companions as peers; the knight, the Druid, the spy, the scientist, the messenger, the holy-man. You are all my Legion, and together, we shall protect this isle - and all her peoples. We do so in the names of Laurentia, and all that go on before us. All that we fail - and all who give their lives that others may live.”

Fine words, thought Pellam, seeing the young high king for the first time. And is that- He felt a lump in his throat seeing the woman at his side. T’is Imra! She is Guinevere!

Rokk was embracing the two sisters. The third was their sister? Why they must be-

“King Pellam?”

It was the young friar, Jan.

“I… shall be departing soon. I have asked Father Marla to see to it you have an escort to return home.”

“Nonsense! If you are going to do the eight, you need a witness. Grant this old man one last request, eh?”

Ignored by most, another man stepped forward, a mid-aged, bearded, priestly man. “Math’s eight impossible tasks? I, too, would like to serve as witness.”

Jan was at a loss for words.

“Forgive me. We have not been formally introduced. I am Regulus, priest of Apollo.”

“I am Brother Jan of Trom. This is King Pellam.”

“Pellam! An honour, sir!” Regulus bowed with sincerity, before returning his attention to Jan. “A friar? Is this quest solely for Rome’s glory, then?”

“Nay. T’is to show all the peoples of Britain can be brothers. So you are welcome as well, Regulus. I shall complete all eight by Yule, Christ’s Mass, and do so with two witnesses.”

“Three.” Marla was the late arrival. “Think not that you shall leave me out.”

Other attendees had broken down into smaller groups. Dyrk scowled that Regulus would dare show his face here. Yes, he apparently knew the sisters before the fire, but they - and Dyrk - regarded him little better than Vidar. Scanning about, Dyrk also saw Geraint approach Nura.

“My lady, I would like to talk-”

“-Keep away from me!” Nura recoiled.

Marcus stepped to her aide, glaring at Geraint. “Perhaps you should speak with me,” the king offered briskly. Thom, too, looked on with no charity for his peer.

“Aye, perhaps I shall. Your claim to Cornwall is based upon Gorlois, who was but a regent for-”

“Husband? This is not the time.” With Enide’s almost timid rebuke, Geraint almost appeared ready to strike is bride. But then, he looked around, and saw a sea of disapproving eyes.

“Yes. You are right.” He turned to leave, but faced Marcus again. “We will have words, Duke Marcus - and soon.”

He stormed away, oblivious to the threads of gossip floating about as he passed.

<span style="font-size: 10px;">“-said that she miscarried Sir Thomas’ son-”
“-young wife gave his only daughter to Avalon-”
“-heard he likes the fellows, if you follow-”
“-Sir Dyrk was courting one of them, but I don’t know-”
“-knights missing. Some do go on quests, you know-”
“-some sort of fire years ago. I’d heard Bishop Vidar tried to save the girls-”
“-was called something else in Italia-”
“-that Regulus. Way I’d heard it, he thought Dyrk would become the next-”</span>

Geraint was fuming red by the time he arrived at his chariot. After the Khunds come in the spring, I claim Cornwall as my reward.

Two Hundred Twenty-four

Saraid was ready for Coirpre mac Neill, it was true.

The Eye started blasting his infantry the moment they poured down the western slope of the Shannon’s valley.

But Coirpre was ready for Saraid, too.

An infantry of Cymru-men poured out of the eastern woods - with Saraid’s army sandwiched between. Eye or no, no one wins when defending on two fronts - let along three, thought Coirpre.

From the south, Sir Garth rode in, leading Britain’s own western cavalry up along the Shannon’s shore.

The ploy worked; Saraid ordered her army to flee north - toward the village - and the closest defensible structures.

As the back of her army was cut apart by the attackers, the front lines found the villagers had piled tables, boats, wagons - anything they could move - blocking direct entry. Some of Saraid’s troops began trying to climb the stockade walls - while others tried to plow through the impromptu barricades.

Saraid aimed the Eye at one such barricade, and blasted it apart.

As the debris cleared, there stood two - a man and a woman.

“Hello, Saraid,” said the man. “Former queen on Munster, and former would-be empress of Eiru.” The woman snickered in agreement.

“Who art thou that so mocks me?” Saraid demanded. “I should like your deaths to be memorable!”

Her men were flooding into the village around her - only to be beaten down by the couple - with their bare hands.

“They are Ossian and Laoraighll,” said a third member of the group, which somehow Saraid hadn’t noticed before. He held-

“The Stone of Virtue,” Saraid paled upon seeing it. She turned to run - but Garth’s cavalry left little room.

Seeing a slim corridor to escape, she yanked her reigns and was off.

Two Hundred Twenty-five

“…So Coirpre mac Neill again rules Eiru, but Saraid escaped. Ossian, Laoraighll and L’ile are giving chase, and she seems to have gone… north. Maybe to the Far Hebrides,” Reep quietly explained - in rough Cymruish - as they descended the narrow stairs.

He thought well of James, for handling his duties as best he could - and for sending Genni to collect him, that he could arrive in Neustria at the same time as the queen’s visit.

James and Geraint feigned a laugh, to make it seem Reep told them funny tale. Their Gallic escorts didn’t seem to react, one way or the other. The pungent smell of dampness, mold - and especially human waste was not becoming, nor did the knights expect any better.

At the far front of the procession, the castellan had a cell unlocked, and gestured to his British guests. The guards cleared room for them to pass forth.

“Gentlemen, may I present… Kivun. Kivun, these good sirs would like a word.”

The trio surveyed their quarry. “This is the brother of Roxxius?” Reep couldn’t believe it.

We wanted to ask him about Angtough, the white triangles and the Dark Circle. We shall be lucky to get him to speak his name!

The whimpering mess before them quaked and quivered, but never moved from its corner of the cells. There were blade-marks and perhaps bite-marks a plenty - his own, perhaps. Else they breed giant rats with human-shaped mouths in here.

“Was he always like this?” Geraint asked the castellan.

“He’s actually a lot calmer, now. At some point, he either jumped ship - or was dumped from his brother’s crew - on Trom. Whether t’was there, or before, his mind is well snapped.”

Geraint and James looked at each other.

“Good sir?” Reep asked. “It appears we shall need Queen Guinevere to join us down here after all. Would you send a runner upstairs?”

The castellan’s eyebrow raised. They expect a beautiful young queen to set foot down here? Maybe this new breed of British we hear of are indeed of strong stuff.

Imra let no sign of disgust break her guise, and even Duke Lucius himself felt obligated to escort her down.

“Kivun,” she spoke, reaching to his face. Two guards positioned blades, just to be safe.

Kivun. You can’t hide from me.

At that, the prisoner lunged, knocking the queen down before being pinned backward - by bloody sword-point. He glared at her, apparently unfazed by his new wounds.

“He’s like an animal,” James noted.

Lucius was ready to pull the plug. “Mayhap it was a mistake to bring-”

“-No, no. I’m fine,” the queen said, surveying the finger-nail and slight bite marks the prisoner had made.

So you are aware… Good.

We are going to talk, you and I… about your brother, about Angtough, about the white triangles… She saw him wince at this.…and of course, Mona, San Graal, and how it all fits together.

Two Hundred Twenty-six

Oh, how she laughed! How she danced! How long had she been here? It mattered not… the sky never darkened, and her worldly burdens were looong gone.

She was starting to notice that many who had been here when she arrived had drifted on, into the Deeper Lands. Soon, it would be her turn; but for now, there were new faces to dance with.

She breathed in deeply, and smelled burning wood, spices and apples. It is harvest-time somewhere, she smiled, recalling her long-ago youth.

She also recalled what else autumn held. Samhain. When the veil between worlds is thinnest. I shall look out, one more time upon the world, before I, too, retreat into the Deeper Lands. I am ready to grow young again.

She could recall her own name not - but could, with great effort, recall the place for which she had toiled all of her life. Avalon. The name brought memories both happy and bitter.

She drifted closer to the Veil, and saw the hills alit with Samhain bonfires. Burn well, burn bright, young ones. I shall see Avalon, and I must see Nura.

But there was a man at the Veil - a man who moved not. She reminded her of another who entered recently, a twin? She knew him - had they been lovers? No. Just the opposite.

“Kiwa,” he called her name, snapping her memory almost to where it had been but a year ago.

What an ephemeral thing, a name is - it means so little, but carries such power.

“I am. You… are Balan? I thought you were too much Christian to come to the Summer Country.”

“I… come no farther. I remain here, unable to go farther. I… saw one of the three sisters come this way. She saw me not, and faded away.”

Kiwa nodded. “At the Border, one can see many crossing over before they fade onto their own paths. She saw what her path showed her. No more, no less. T’is the same for any of us… Yet here you are, unable - or unwilling - to move?”

He gestured toward his leg. He took a step, but the ether around him moved backward, leaving him - stuck.

“You are of the form of iron, which is anathema to the Subtle Places. You must shift to flesh to continue on.”

“I… cannot.”

“I have seen you do it,” she laughed. “Up close.”

“HOW can you LAUGH at my crimes!” he howled. “I am a villain, a murderer of my own brother, and I see my crimes only now, when it is too late for redemption.”

“I see it now.”

“What?”

“Why you are here. The Christians preach of final judgment; and redemption through your… savior. You deem yourself unworthy; or fear that your deeds are too unredeemable. Hence, you came here - the path of life, death and rebirth your ancestors for times untold have come.”

She took a step closer. “Very well, young Christian. I forgive you.” She hugged him and kissed his helmet. “You will do better next time.”

He remained stiff. “Your… murder… was not my sole crime.”

“Your brother.”

“Aye.”

“He has moved on already; I have seen it. He is haunted not. Learn from him; he would want you to.”

“That… is not enough. I must do something to right my wrongs.”

Kiwa sighed. “You still cling to the same problem you always did. You decide what you see is right, and cling to it - until it is too late. That is part of what you must give up. Nothing is so stoic, so static. Everything grows, everything changes. Last year’s storm damage grows over, and is renewed.

“Remove your helmet.”

“What?”

“Go on.”

“My lady? I… am hideous beneath. Even by Orkneyman standards.”

She laughed, and reached up, pulling it off.

“Dear, sweet Balan. The burdens of the world are beyond us. Let go.”

She tossed the helmet into the Veil, and leapt after it. One last visit, one last Samhain, and then I go on to rebirth. It will be good to forget.

Two Hundred Twenty-seven

Luornu tossed and turned - again. While pregnant, she had wished the computus would kill her. Instead, it kills my sister. While pregnant, she had wished her own baby dead - and got her wish, no matter what the queen - Imra - said. The fire, too, was her fault - she if hadn’t run from Vidar-

And Balan. The knight she should have tended to. Slain by his brother - bespelled by Glorith. If she hadn’t relied on Dyrk to argue that the Grail-

be sent to Rome. Her theory fell apart. Balan would still have met the same fate.

Dyrk. He chases after me, and I let him. Laurentia was right. I am the harlot! Even Balan stopped sitting with me at cathedral. He was a good Christian. How could Glorith taint him so?

The wind blew open her shudders, and knocked something metal down; she was sure she’d secured them. All Hallow’s Eve. May the dead bother me no more, she thought, latching them again.

On her way back to bed, her foot hit the metal object. A can? Lighting a candle, she saw it - Balan’s helmet.

It was cold, icy cold. She took it to bed, and wrapped it with her under the blankets. With the coldness gone, she put it on. This is how the brothers saw, she realized. This is how I see.

She fell asleep wearing the helmet, and dreaming of the knight Balan would have become, had he lived.

Two Hundred Twenty-eight

“He will be here next week.”

“Where?”

“Here, in Cornwall. A small village o the south coast,” Nura said.

Marcus walked to his trophy wall, and picked out his finest sword. “We’ll see what sort of talking he’ll do, then.”

“He comes with allies. Toraigh, Mardus, Eldor, Hainscoombe, and others have flocked to his side. Or will.”

“Damn him! Damn them! Why!?”

“He spoke thus. To the old families, even my claim to Cornwall is regency. To them, he is their true king returned.”

Marcus was sweating. What he had spent a life-time building was falling apart - too quickly.

“I’ll not let him take Cornwall so easily!” He turned to his wife. “I’ll not let him take you so easily.”

For the first time in many months, there was tenderness in his kiss.

But he soon rose, and went out to do his own recruiting.

He only makes it worse, she saw. Those he seeks to rally to his side, his anger shall drive to Geraint’s camp.

Difficult times were ahead, not even counting the Khunds…

Two Hundred Twenty-nine

With the first snows across the midlands, Jonah was pleased indeed to welcome Jan and his elders to Lindum.

“We here of the young friar and his three wise men making their way around Britain, doing amazing miracles,” Tinya laughed.

Jan smiled, settling into the cozy hall that was once Belinant’s. “Not I, but God.”

“Perhaps,” Jonah said. “So tell us, how fares your quest? Four? Five?”

“Seven,” said Marla, with pride.

“Six,” corrected Regulus.

“Are the maths so different between religions?” Tinya joked.

“After a fashion. Math, the ancient Cymru wizard, issued eight challenges, but we have two different translations of one,” Regulus said.

King Pellam explained. “Jan has already ridden a jabberwocky across Cornwall, found the invisible treasure of the Iceni, told a riddle that a faerie queen could not solve, caught a hawk with his bare hands, walked across fire, and saved a five-legged cow from an ogre.”

“He also created fire where none had burned ever before,” added Marla.

“And there, we argue,” Regulus resumed. “For I say, t’was not the feat, but a mis-translation. I say the feat is to breath life where there was none.”

Jonah laughed. “That one does sound more impossible than making fire when none has ever been. And what’s the eighth?”

“Getting twelve cats to do the same thing at once,” Pellam said, “something no king has ever done, or can ever do, truly.” The others laughed.

“So, good Sir Jonah,” Pellam continued. “The reason we are now here, with but a week before Jan’s Yule deadline, is because Math’s original challenge as written on scroll is in Belinant’s library.

Tinya and Jonah looked to each other. “While the terms of his surrender allow us free reign,” Jonah said, “in truth, Belinant and I have developed a good working relation. I shall ask if we may so impose upon him.”

Sean, this is as great as it was before, thank you for continuing!

There's too many good parts to comment on (hey, I'm not being lazy it's late here!) but killing Lu was a shocker, Jans quest sounds like fun - will you be filling in the details of the tasks he's completed already? I particularly liked that the last one (and presumably the hardest) was geting twelve cats to do the same thing at the same time - brilliant! Though does lying down to sleep in front of a fire count? Mekt's escape doesn't bode well for the knights (though does for us, the reader - yippee! Mekt's coming back!) and the Emerald Empress must return soon, she is such a vibrant character!

More, more, more

Soon please

Bxx

Two Hundred Thirty

Querl was annoyed.

Not only did my belt fail against Glorith, but it failed me again.

He hadn’t the strength to rise; his beating was still too fresh. His very ribs ached. I shall be lucky indeed if I arise from this floor again.

It was a cold, stone floor, and castle walls did naught to keep out the icy winter breeze. Without a blanket - or even his cloak - he was susceptible to any number of other maladies as well.

When the breeze let up, he could smell animal scents, and that of human waste.

Through the wall, he heard another wail of pain. A northerner, he thought, suspecting an Eboracum accent. But t’is hard to tell, gauging only from cries of torment.

How many are here captives? Am I the only with friends and allies who would seek me? Querl hoped his gambit had paid off.

L’ile and Reep are smart enough to find my trail. If only they are seeking me. If only they know where to begin.

The cold wind and the throbbing pain throughout his torso served to keep him awake. Good. I fear if I let myself slumber, I shall not survive this night.

Over and over, he reviewed all the details of his capture - and all the details of his prison he was able to observe. Little enough, but maybe enough to count…

Had he fallen asleep? Or did he pass out from pain?

Either way, a thin beam of sunlight penetrated his cell, and a raggedy old blanket covered him. He itched as well - feeling the bite of tiny cellmates.

Fleas? How delightful, he scorned. A bucket of steaming gruel was set just inside his door. It smelled rancid.

Dare I move? He took a deep breath, and with the stab of pain, opted not to.

…Later in the day, he heard what sounded like guards dragging in a new captive. How many does this villain hold here? Looking to the walls, he saw plenty of unused wall-manacles. At least I am not strapped to the wall. Yet.

The new arrival screamed in torment, as guards laughed. It sounded like he was being chained to the wall in the next cell. So the northerner now has company. If he had none before, that is.

Several muffled comments accompanied the installation, occasionally greeted by a growl, making Querl suspect his captors may not be human.

With their task finished, the guards locked up the neighboring cell, and walked toward his. But before they reached his door, a human voice immediately outside door said, “He’s settled in? Good! I’m ready to see our Greek lad now.”

How long was he standing there, quietly? Was he observing me?

With a clangy metallic ruckus, his door opened. He looked up to see a grinning villain. Why, our friend Brainius V is awake!”

“Caradoc.”

“Aye,” he said, entering. He was followed by two growling humanoid figures - tall, three-eyed and with reddish, scaly skin. “With friends. Trolls make the very best of dungeon-guards, I find. They can literally smell tunnels, hear the sounds of tampering with bars and doors, and feel emotions like anticipation and hope. Those stand out like sore thumbs here, I’m afraid.

“Get some fresh gruel,” he commanded his trolls. “Querl needs to be kept well.”

To serve as bait, Querl guessed.

Notes 216-229:
216: The brothers hadn’t seen Jan since before Roxxius. But which brother outlived the other? I myself didn’t know until later.
217: Okay, not protoplasm; still she had to serve as both herself and the physical manifestation of the robed guy. “Erytreigh magh Naughiesh” is my own made-up nonsensical spell words.
218: I don’t usually re-write too much, but this one did, as the Niamh avenue didn’t come to me until the original draft was half-written. Many posts just flow out as-is. With minor fine-tuning thereafter.
219: I’ve been planning to introduce Pellam for quite a while; he’s got quite a story behind him. Shanghalla, or Sinn (pronounced “Shin” like “Sinn Fein”) Gaolach, means “beloved people,” appropriately enough. Math was a Welsh wizard of old legend. I wasn’t going to do anything with the Eight Impossible Missions, until a really neat idea cropped up.
120: Mekt was originally going to be a prisoner-trade with Lucius for Kivun. They way worked out better.
221: Well, I can promise no Ionas sequels… I didn’t want them to have too easy a time, but it wasn’t right to have Saraid there, either. Once I settled on Torachi, the rest fell into place… And L’ile sums up my opinion of Ionas’ inspiration’s archeological ethics - destroying priceless sites in his wake. In comics and adventure film, nobody (except Cerebus, once) ever has a cold! Have you ever noticed? It’s either perfect health, or a life-threatening ailment, it seems. Torachi did escape, BTW - and could have done it without his henchmen’s help.
222: There’s an obscure song reference in there that could only run in this post; even if the fit isn’t 100 percent accurate, the association is widespread if archaic enough.
223: Doing research for what’s coming next, I was surprised when Regulus fit in perfectly - earlier than I really planned to use him (other than the occasional cryptic reference) at all. Oops! Department: I’ve been forgetting to use chariots! D’Oh! We all envision knights on horseback, but Romans and Celts were both big on chariots.
244 (+245): An easy win… too easy? Of course Saraid has to escape - north.
245: I originally had just the three guys, but realized I’d need Imra, and realized the guys would have realized that, to, so it was just as easy to have her “upstairs.” Why Kivun? I forgot I needed someone alive when I wrote Roxxius - but I’d already thought up Kivun for a later story before I needed him here. S’true.
226/227: I’ve been looking forward to this one since I planned it… during the week. I’d originally planned several Samhain (pronounced “Sow-wayne”) visitations, but that seemed like overkill.
228: I gotta get this story along before the movie comes out. I was also going to write Kiwa’s visit to Nura - and started to - but it really went nowhere.
229: As I wrote 223, the “three wise men” bit occurred to me; it was too good not to use. The eight feats obviously don’t and can’t parallel the LSH ones - especially since Jan went solo (his role on that cover had me envision the story as I needed it, before even looked at the details, so its more of a homage than a retelling. I guess I’ve done that a few times already). The Iceni were the tribe of warrior-queen Boudeacea, who led a very impressive rebellion against the Roman occupation centuries before. The cats are a nod to Neil Gaiman.

Thanks, Bel!

Sorry; I won't be going into more detail on the first six feats... but Saraid won't be gone for too long!

Two Hundred Thirty-one

The pain came less often, but it stabbed through Querl like a jolt of lightning; indeed, the pain blinded him as it came on, and afterward, his vision took its time to return. Red returned first, with little bubbles of colour joining in.

Caradoc must have thought him recovered, as the floor was no longer his domain. He was now chained up on a wall, alongside the voiced he’d heard often these past days (weeks?).

There was a Pict, an Eboracum warrior - a mercenary, by the look of him, and a Druid who looked to have been here long enough to see his mind addled. He muttered to himself, as if trying to remember a verse, but to all eyes he seemed the madman.

Querl was ladle-fed his gruel now, two ladles per day, earning jealous glances from his fellow prisoners, who only received one. To them, he was worse than his captors, no doubt.

No matter. Half my meal dribbles down my body, he realized. His nose and sinuses congested, being fed seemed almost like drowning, yet he dared not turn his head away.

On his fourth day on the wall, Caradoc’s trolls brought in a new prisoner, tossing him on the floor for all to see, inspiring exclamations and oaths from the others.

Struggling to open his eyes after coughing, sneezing and clearing mucus all night, Querl was wide-awake upon seeing the new prisoner.

“MacKell!” How in Isis’ name did they capture him?

“You see? The mightiest of King Rokk’s knights are no match for me,” Caradoc gloated, kicking his new captive, who in turn whined meekly. “If King Rokk wishes me to be the villain, so I shall be!”

“Nhe’ll Cub for uf,” Querl managed.

“Aye, I’m sure he will,” said Caradoc, as his trolls mounted MacKell into a set of wall-shackles. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”

Two Hundred Thirty-two

“-And so sirs Garth and Gawaine defeated the bizarre duplicate knights, and all was well in the land,” Mysa concluded.

“Bravo!” Gareth cheered. “Tell me more! Tell me another tale of the animals!”

What to tell him? Mysa wondered. Morgause and Lot’s youngest son loved the tales she weaved about MacKell’s hound, Laurel’s steed, Guinevere’s cat and Brainius V’s monkey as much as his older brother Gaheris did.

And away at the court of Kent under Kiritan’s watch, he was quite happy for a visit from his elder cousin.

“Well, I guess-” she began, but a knock on the door interrupted her. “Yes?”

“My lady? There is a visitor for you?” It was an elderly Khund, Kiritan’s castellan.

Who knows that I am here? I asked Derek not to-

Seeing the Khund waiting, she smiled. “Of course. If you’d be so kind? “ She turned to Gareth. “I shall return ere you are sent to bed.”

The halls of Kiritan’s castle echoed with the rowdy libations of what few Khundish soldiers stood on duty. Boys, really, Mysa noted, realizing she was old enough to be mother to some. Zaryan’s folly has trimmed their numbers greatly. Good.

The old man led Mysa to a chamber, where a man was feasting on bread and cheeses. His face brightened up upon seeing her. “My lady Mysa!”

“Governal!” Mysa was overjoyed at seeing her childhood tutor again, and threw herself into a hug just as she had as a young girl in Gorlois’ court. He in turn laughed at her spontaneous regression.

“What- How- Why-” She had a thousand questions, but sighed and gave up trying to spit one out. “It is good to see you.”

“And you, my little faerie,” he laughed. Even as a girl, her lithe form and otherworldly mannerisms fostered her nickname of later years. Guessing her questions, he spoke first. “Your sister Nura foresaw that you would be here at Kiritan’s court. She regrets not seeing you in Lindum at the weddings.”

Nura. Of course, Mysa smiled bitterly. It was good to hear news of her sister, but she winced internally at recalling the feud at Lindum’s gate.

“She is well?”

“Well enough. For now,” Governal said ominously.

“What is it? What doe she foresee?”

“Geraint. Although more Roman in upbringing than even King Rokk, he is of the olde royal line of Cornwall. Indeed, the people have been awaiting that line’s return since the Romans first came.

“And as you well know, Marcus was but a duke, a regent appointed by Ambrosius - a Roman. And even Nura’s claim to Cornwall comes from Gorlois - another Roman,” said the messenger.

As does mine, Mysa thought. T’is good I have renounced Cornwall’s throne.

“So Nura has come to enjoy being queen so much?” Mysa remembered her younger sister as a child in Eiru, who was much more interested in herb-craft and the harp than court intrigues. She also saw how her sister stole glances at Thom, not that she found fault with that.

“T’is more than that,” Governal said with a hint of exasperation - or fear. “Geraint seeks not only Cornwall, not only Tintagel - but Queen Nura herself!”

Geraint knows Rome’s ways well enough to consider women as chattel. No doubt he already plans to put Enide aside, regretting he married a lady without land, she thought. “What do you seek of me?”

“Talk to Geraint. With war against the Khunds coming with the spring, there is no room for this feud.” He held her hand firmly, as he did in her youth when trying to show her the importance of a lesson. “Tell him… if he stands down until summer, it will give you a chance to win Nura’s heart over for him. All eyes know now that Nura avoids Geraint like a pox. Tell him he is your choice for Cornwall - and your sister.”

“My choice? Why me?”

Governal looked away. “Already… those with tongues for the wagging talk about the wedding of Sir Garth.” Mysa’s heart sank as he continued. “They say since you could not have the prize knight for yourself-”

“-That my sorcery drove him to Jancel’s arms,” Mysa finished the thought for him. “So of course I am the seemly villain to work with Geraint.”

“Mysa, I-”

“T’is all-right. I should have expected such,” she said, letting out a lone tear. “For Nura, I shall do this… but what do we do whence comes summer?”

“We wait, and we plan,” Governal took both her hands, and put them together. “Mayhap the Khund war solved our ills for us.”

Two Hundred Thirty-three

L’ile and Reep were right, Rokk noted, as he attempted to defeat the large, red, three-eyed humanoid creature before him. Ambushed! By… what manner of strange creatures!?

He and his group had become separated from most of his knights, who he had dispatched in response to a reported Khund raiding party on the central Angle coast. Surely he and Reep were warriors enough to keep L’ile and Tenzil safe en route to Londinium?

But no. These monsters — trolls, L’ile called them — attacked out of nowhere, and more than outnumbered them.

And the battle was going badly. Reep was down, L’ile was pinned, and Tenzil’s best efforts to bite and spit at his assailant proved unsuccessful. Unable to score a decisive blow, Rokk could barely keep his trio of attackers at bay, hoping only for an opening—

The king regained consciousness in chained to a wall in a cell, surprised to see Querl and MacKell among his fellow prisoners, along with the three he came with, and three he knew not. It was a crowded little cell, and smelled badly of human waste not cleaned off of prisoners unable or no longer willing to care for themselves. The bruises and bites he remembered were ebbing; the ones he didn’t still throbbed.

He tested his shackles; he was weak, but decided he could escape, if he could make an uninterrupted effort. Was this the time?

The sound of a key in the lock was a definitive ‘no.’

Troll guards entered, along with an unsurprising face — Caradoc’s — although he had taken to dying his face red, and he sported a painted third eye on his forehead, making him look a bit more like his trolls.

“Trying to prove Jo-- Gawaine wrong, then that you could sink no further?” Rokk sneered at the rogue knight, earning himself a spiked-glove punch.

“So you’re the whelp who fancies himself high king, eh?” Caradoc punched him again.

Rokk was tempted to turn the glove’s spikes inward, but wasn’t ready to show his cards yet. He settled for subtly smoothing their edges.

“Gawaine will yet get his due,” the captor continued, turning his attention to his other prisoners. Those feigning unconsciousness were battered out of it; those genuinely so received similar treatment, as Caradoc thoroughly sought out fakers.

MacKell whimpered as the captor approached him. Rokk was genuinely surprised; he’d never seen this legendary knight so — was it because he was again a captive? I thought him made of sterner stuff.

Reep, now also awake, drew a differing conclusion. His voice wavers differently, higher than the true knight. And his words sound more like a Northerner than an Ulsterman. Outright sorcery, or is he like me?

Querl, having a head start, had already deduced the latter, although the man was either committed to his deception, or unable to change. He and the Pictish prisoner had been exchanging hand and face signals all week long, gradually learning to converse a range of details without guards overhearing. In the presence of their captors, they could still manage a few subtle facial signals; he pointed out that the main troll-guard again kept his keys hanging from the same belt-nook; one immediately to the left of his sword. Potentially an important detail.

After his beating, Tenzil turned his head towards a chain, as if recoiled from his attacker. He let his saliva drip onto the chain. L’ile was legitimately unconscious.

The remaining prisoner, the Eboracum warrior, remained silent.

Caradoc made what was becoming a customary rant about how he was once a great hero, but had been wronged, particularly by Rokk and Gawaine. Pledging to destroy Rokk’s court and all his knights, he departed, pleased with himself.

Alone in their shackles, Rokk, Reep and Tenzil freed themselves, and began freeing the others.

Two Hundred Thirty-four

“Even I cannot do that.”

“How do you know if you’ve never tried?” Regulus patted the lad on his shoulder kindly.

Jan looked down. “I… did try, once.” He took a breath, and again met his comrades’ eyes. “I was young and foolish. A man, a friar, he was a dear mentor to me, had died. I had done some healings by then and… I tried. I went not well.” He let out a long breath. “The flesh… Lord, I still remember the smell.”

Father Marla nodded. “T’is a rather disrespectful task, is it not? Returning the departed ere their time.”

Belinant, Jonah and Tinya listened on, silently.

“The eighth task, of the twelve cats, would be difficult, nigh impossible, as well,” King Pellam added, resigning himself that the quest was finished, incomplete.

“A man I knew in Rome claimed to have seen it done,” Regulus added. “Kenzius was his name. I have seen him in Londinium of late.”

“What if…?” Pellam began. The others turned to him. “What if the body of the deceased was not one of flesh?”

Two Hundred Thirty-five

“How do we get out of here?” the man who was not MacKell asked. Reep had a thousand questions for him, but this was not the time.

Having dragged the two troll bodies into the cell, Rokk and the man from Eboracum, Kade, returned, while L’ile surveyed the halls. “A labyrinth of sorts. The halls are swept clean of tracks; there’s no way to tell where to go.”

“Worthy of the minotaurs of olde,” Querl commented.

“We’ll go in groups of two or three,” Rokk said. “Grev, I pledged your kinswoman Maven that I would see you to safety. You and Querl are with me. L’ile, you take our would-be MacKell, and Reep will take the mad Druid as best he can. Each group will have a warrior that way.”

“That leaves us,” Tenzil said to Kade. “Let’s go.”

“Mark your route,” Querl told them, picking up a piece of loose stone and making a crude mark low on a wall. “Low enough where our captors may not notice. A different symbol for each group, that we may know who passes.”

With signs sorted out, the groups picked their halls. Tenzil was surprised when he and Kade quickly came to a crumbled wall that seemed to lead to sunlight, not far from an intersection of four doored passageways.

“Mayhap we can call out to the others, ere they wander too far?” the beefeater suggested.

“Let us see where it leads first. It may be a trap,” Kade replied, climbing up to the opening.

It led to a field, right below a stone tower. “We shan’t get out this way in daylight. Yet we may have no choice,” Tenzil said. “Let us find the others.”

But back at the intersection, the door they had come through was locked, and they heard troll-grunts from the other side.

Kade examined the door. “Solid Elmetian oak. I’ll not be able to breach it.”

They bided their time, keeping eyes on both the door and the hall leading to the opening. How long until they seek us out? Tenzil wondered, expecting a more active hunt than locking a door. Are the others already recaptured, that our escape holds urgency not?

As night arrived, they crept up the opening again, and hearing no guards, they climbed out. After a half-dozen steps toward the forest, a huge ring of fire erupted around them; they could make out the silhouettes of a dozen or more trolls between them and the ring.

Two Hundred Thirty-six

Lu had been about to give up, actually, until she saw them — Tenzil and another man trapped in a circle of fire.

She had found the ambush site easily enough — the ground was still littered with blood and debris — but the tracks she’d followed had long given out, covered over by an expert. In truth, intuition more than tracking led her here, to the ruins of an old castle destroyed no doubt by Romans. In daylight, she’s seen the rebuilt tower looked none too new; again, a stealthy covering of tracks. It was only the unnatural quiet of the place — and a feeling of dread — that bade her to stay and observe.

The creatures circling Tenzil and his companion like vultures were human-ish in shape, but clearly not human, and not just by their large frames. How many were there? Did she stand a chance against one, let alone all?

Where were Dyrk and the other knights? Not close enough to be summoned, she wagered. Did she have time to go for aide?

But wait! Something else else was happening! The creatures were shooting something afire — arrows? — at the duo. One fell, set ablaze! But which?

Either I charge in there alone, prove myself no coward but succeed not, or I use my wits. Which shall it be?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the grunting of a woodland creature nearby. Do the local boars not care for our foes then?

If only she could recall that basic animal charm spell Errol tried to teach her! It could only work once for her, she recalled, and could bring unpredictable results, but just maybe…