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Two Hundred Thirty-seven

“Go on, son.” Marla’s reassuring smile did little to settle the doubts in Jan’s heart.

Jonah put the shovels aside, as only he could make decent progress in the half-frozen ground.

And there they were — two bodies, buried as they were found, swords still in hand against each other.

“Which is which? Tinya whispered.

“In truth, I know not,” her husband replied. “Never could I tell the two apart.”

Regulus stepped forward to examine the two. Jan joined him.

“Look at this one. Mortally wounded, he tried to change back to flesh-and-blood,” Jan observed. “He’s half iron, half flesh. I dare not do anything with this one.”

“But this one!” Regulus pointed. “He is entirely of iron, or so my eyes tell me. Mayhap he is your better effort.”

“And if he is the murderer Balan?”

“Perchance these months of death have taught him the preciousness of life,” Pellam ventured. He put his hand on young Jan’s shoulder. “If it is Balin, a great wrong will be undone. If t’is Balan, mayhap he can find some Christian redemption in this world before he faces the next.”

Jan nodded.

Part of him was ready to give up his quest here and now, else attempt what was about to do. But Pellam’s words touched him, as had Regulus, Marla and Tinya’s, the latter having first-hand knowledge of the joys of second chances.

He expected similar words from Jonah, but the knight of Lothian merely advised him to follow his own heart.

“I know not the lads in question, nor the Lady Kiwa, but of her I have heard much,” Belinant had said, earlier this morning. “If it lets those whose hearts are troubled see either justice or redemption, then where’s the harm in the effort?”

Jan had hoped that a moment of divine clarity would come to him while Jonah unearthed the fallen brothers. It hadn’t.

And now, all eyes were waiting on him. He steadied himself, and hoped his voice trembled not too much.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,
Hallowed be Thy name.
In kingdom come,
Thy will be done,
On earth as it is in heaven.”

He lacked the will to continue, as a crippling anxiety washed over him. Straining, he managed, “Father, if what I am about to try is an abomination before You, then please, give me a sign.”

The chilly December airs betrayed no sign that this was anything other than a brisk but beautiful day.

At least he stood, and approached the metallic corpse before him. So intent was he on his task, that he alone was not dumbfounded by the glow that surrounded his hands.

Two Hundred Thirty-eight

Saihlough and Aord lingered in the perpetual morning glow.

“How long have we been here?” he asked at last, savoring her probing, caressing hands.

It was just him and her in this bed, strangely set down in the midst of a field, he was now certain. In recent times (last night? But there is no night. How many hours? Days? Weeks?), there were others — male and female faeries, and some he was not certain of — it was a maelstrom of sensuality that he knew on some level he should consider unseemly.

But here it mattered not.

“Does it matter?” Saihlough giggled. Humans asked the silliest questions!

“My friends shall be most worried about me.”

“Am I not your friend?”

“Aye.”

“Then worry about me.”

“Oh, I am. Seduced into the Fair Country by a pretty face. Shall I ever see my fellowes again?”

“Oh, you shall. But t’is no rush. You humans worry too much about the passage of moments. Here we have no sun and moon by which to rush about by.”

“So we’ll go back soon?”

“Aye. Soon enough anyway.”

Two Hundred Thirty-nine

“I keep telling you, I’m not MacKell. I’m just stuck in his face,” said the fellow.

“Well, pick up a spear and fight anyway,” Grev demanded.

Finding Reep and the imposter cornered, Rokk felt obliged to join the fray, even outnumbered as he was. Grev, too, joined in, regretting that they had not their own swords, only poor troll-spears, to fight with; their sole amenity was their length.

Querl, meanwhile, found time to confirm a theory. His group had circled back to Reep’s not by chance, but by design, he as certain, meaning neither hallway was the correct one.

Tugging at each loose stone, he found the one that triggered a doorway to open, one leading upstairs!

“This way, fellowes!” He called, running up the stairs to see for himself.

The stairs came up to a chamber — the base of a tower, he surmised — where a trio of trolls were fighting with Lu, and an assortment of boars, wolves and even a bear!

Hearing the upward exodus below him, Querl removed himself from the stairwell, and sought shelter behind a armoured chest.

Reep was the first up, and waded straight into the new combat, despite the wounds he’d received in the donjons. The battle was already turning without him, but his aid hurt not.

The fake MacKell was next, but his timing was poor — he ran straight into a troll’s claws as it neared the stairs to avoid the near.

“MacKell!” Lu cried, almost letting her guard down.

“It’s not him,” Reep and Querl blurted in unison, while the wolves chased a wounded troll out into the night.

But my chance for answers dies with him, Reep thought.

Grev next arrived, as the last troll found itself cornered between Reep, the bear and the newcomer. Choosing the newcomer, it thrust forward as Grev started to position his spear.

He struggled to parry against the creature as Reep stabbed at its side.

“This is how Caradoc controls the trolls!” Querl declared, as Rokk slowly made his way up the stairs, defending against the downstairs trolls in the process.

“What are you talking about?” an annoyed Grev asked.

“Trolls, I gather, generally live so far underground that people haven’t seen them in centuries. He has lured his up with this,” Querl held up a vile containing what appeared to be a thread of shadow that danced like a flame. “It must mean something to them.”

“No, that’s mine,” Grev replied, tending to a gash on his arm, as Reep joined Rokk in defending the stairwell. “It probably signifies that you’ve found the gear taken from us.”

“Hmph.” Querl was still certain Caradoc was using something for control.

The wolves long gone, the boards gave up their feasts as well, and fled out the doorway.

“I guess the charm’s worn off,” Lu said, eying the bear, and slowly edging away from the doorway.

It looked around, snarling, before backing out and disappearing.

“Where are L’ile and Tenzil? Or the others?” Rokk barked, still holding back the downstairs trolls, and sounding tired.

While Querl and Grev redistributed the prisoners’ weaponry of choice, Lu came to the stairwell top, and stabbed downward at the attackers.

“We know not. Tenzil and another were ensnared outside, but I know not where he is of late. His companion… sacrificed himself; took a blow that would have killed our friend.”

With Rokk and Reep re-sworded, the trolls retreated downstairs, closing the doorway behind them.

“Well, that’s the last of them, I guess,” Grev said.

“Don’t be so sure,” said a voice from the doorway. Caradoc.

Lu and Grev gave chase, only to see the dark silhouette of a large number of trolls encircling the entrance.

“Um. Help?” said a voice among them; Grev could make out one of the trolls holding Tenzil aloft, while two others pointed spears at his gut.

Reep and Rokk caught up, only partly aware of the sweet burning smell behind them.

“Surrender!” Caradoc bellowed. “Surrender, and half of you may yet live.”

Over the grunting trolls, Reep thought he heard the sound of hooves. “We’ve got to distract them while our rescuers arrive,” Reep whispered.

“I challenge you to a duel, one-on-one. My throne is the prize.”

Caradoc laughed. “And your kingdom shall follow me?”

“My knights gathered here will vouch for the deal,” Rokk continued. “A debt of honour all must observe. The Anglias, Lot, Voxv, Marcus… enough of my kings would observe it.”

The burning smell was getting stronger. The trolls grew restless.

Rokk, now, could also hear the sound of approaching horses — no more than two or three, he guessed, bur perhaps enough.

“Well?” Rokk continued. He could see Caradoc was giving it thought.

The trolls were grunting louder, and some were practically moaning, as the burning smell wafted through the crowd.

“My trolls! What are you doing? Stand firm! I hear horses! Slay the interlopers!”

His minions were dispersing, however. Caradoc picked up his sword and ran at Tenzil, now thrown on the ground, after his troll captors walked off.

“He’s going to kill Tenzil! Stop him!” Rokk ordered, hoping the others were less exhausted than he.

But Caradoc fell backwards, as if something hit him. Something else else did.

Caradoc swung at the air. “Show yourself, trickster!”

The least wounded or exhausted, Lu had almost reached Tenzil.

About 50 yards away, trolls’ heads were clearing, having escaped the sweet burning smell. They gathered and turned, watching with angry grunts. The silhouettes of two riders and horses passed between them and the tower.

Caradoc made contact with L’ile, and the Druid became quite visible, writhing on the ground in pain.

But with Reep, Rokk and Grev arriving on one side, and two horses on the other, Caradoc stepped backward, rethinking his options. “I suppose I should take you up on that duel,” he said to Rokk.

“You owe me first duel,” said one of the riders — Jonah. He dismounted while MacKell, expecting the villain to flee, remained mounted.

Caradoc weighed his options, and again counted his opponents. While I live there is cause for hope. And better odds. Mayhap they will imprison me at first in Lindum, where I am not without friends.

“I… yield.”

“Sire? This fiend knows nothing of honour or justice. I say we run him through here and now,” Jonah said.

“Nay. A villain he is, but he shall not bring us to his level. Querl shall make him an appropriate shackle, and MacKell shall be his guardian as we make our way to Londinium. Ah, Querl? What was that burning you made?”

“Trolls hate the surface world, I surmise, in part for its plantlife. I guessed from the woods and greens unburnt and uneaten that those were ones trolls would find unpleasant. It seems I was right.”

Two Hundred Forty

For a week, he had done nothing, ate nothing but a few crumbs, and spent the days sitting out in the cold air.

“So. I live. Now what?” It was the knight’s first words in a full week.

“Now you return to court with us, I suppose. Or return to Orkney. T’is your choice,” Jan offered. He shivered slightly in the Yuletide airs. Belinant’s gardens were still a beautiful place, even when not in bloom.

“I go back to court a murderer?”

Well, I guess that answers the question as to which brother I sit with.

“You go back a penitent man, who has already faced death for his actions, who has myself and three wise elders to vouch for him.”

“You would do that for me?”

“We are brothers in Christ, are we not?”

The Orkneyman couldn’t answer; he was less certain of anything anymore. Nearby, a swarm of cats descended on spme table-scraps a kitchen-maid left for them.

“I… am sorry if I woke you from your rest against your wishes. I should not have done so; I see that now.”

“Rest?” The man laughed. “T’was not rest for me, I fear.”

“What was it like?”

“I was stranded; caught like a fish in a net, unw- unable to move, whilst I saw all those around me swim on to where they belonged. Only Kiwa stopped to greet me.”

“What did she say?”

“She forgave me. Can you imagine? A pagan… sorceress, offering a gift of Christian charity.”

“Perhaps it is as Marla and Beren say, that all paths are not so far off from each other as we imagine.”

“Aye, perhaps.”

The silence resumed.

Regulus joined them, bringing hot wine. Both younger men appreciatively accepted.

“Your heart is heavy, my friend,” the elder priest said to the knight. “It takes a brave man to face death and come back. But back you are. So live.”

“Aye. I think I shall,” he said, perhaps believing and welcoming it for the first time.

“By what name do we call you?” Regulus asked, not having heard the last.

“Call me… Andrew.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Andrew.”

By now the cats had finished their scraps, and sought more from the nearest humans around.

But Jan, atypically anxious, as he still fought his qualms for his deed, was in no mood for them. “Begone, vermin!” He got up, shooing them away.

Regulus laughed.

“What?”

“How many of them do you reckon there were?”

“Eight or so. Why?”

“Why, then, you came within four cats of completing the impossible tasks after all!”

Jan did not let Andrew’s confusion prevent him from chuckling.

MOUNTAINS
Interlude Sixteen: The Blossom That Is Nanda Parbat

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, Sensei. T’is time for me to return home.”

“Then may the peace of the gods be with you, my young friend.”

“May Rama Kushna watch over you,” offered Maj, the guardian of the welcome fountain.

The man who no longer called himself Agravaine took one last look at the valley that had been his home for the past weeks. Never has there been a more serene place, he thought.

Nestled in between perpetually snow-capped mountains many times over as tall as those he knew in Lothian was a lush, green oasis, populated by those who sought such a perfect habitude, or those who needed its tranquility to overcome the evils they’d known in the outer world.

Many of the valley’s residents had come to se him off, including, he hoped—

But there! The sole head of blond hair in the entire valley was hard to miss — a Helvetic lad, almost as far from home as he.

“Hart! There you are!” He couldn’t leave without seeing his friend and closest peer.

“Didn’t think you could sneak off without me, did you?” The bag he hauled caught many by surprise; it was as big as Lot’s son’s.

“Is that wise to leave?” Sensei asked. “You came here—”

“—To put my past behind me. And I have. But I cannot hide here forever. What’s the good of all I learned here, if I can’t put it to good use, and leave my past buried, where it belongs?”

Despite the sea of skepticism, the elders wished him well.

Their guide was a Saracen, several years older than either of them, both young men knew well. Like Agravaine, he was a knight who gave up the sword, although his was not a permanent vow like the Caledonian’s.

Hart was pleased to see him. “Palomides! Let’s get on the trail before the snows make us stay here another winter.”

The man loaded their bags onto a lama, but keeping the thick yak skins handy, and they made their way up the valley toward the pass. The forest-garden gave way to alpine meadows, and finally rocky, lichened terrain, where the winds suddenly blew colder. The three young men could see their breaths, and saw the occasional flurry drift by.

They paused only briefly at the crest, where one sees a sliver of Nanda Parbat behind them, and the unforgiving roof of the world ahead. As the pass begins its decent, they passed the chasm where tales said, as a young man, Sensei battled a fiend named Kirau, a man so evil even the valley’s peace could not tame him.

“Tales say Kirau perished, falling into the chasm,” Hart said.

“Let us hope such evil remains lost,” Palomides said. “Some say the rock formation below forms the shape of a black dragon. Good luck in the east, they say, but it sounds none too fortunate me.”

The Caledonian knight looked down. There was too much mist and snow to see such a formation; it was just as well.

“Where do you go, once you reach the Silk Road?” Palomides asked.

“I know not,” Hart said.

“West, for me. I have a friend to see in Palestine. I may return to Britain thereafter.”

“Where you not a renowned knight there?” Palomides asked. “Why, your journeys will be most impressive there, it is not so?”

He laughed. “That’s not why I came.”

“Tell us more of Britain, o valiant knight!” Hart chided. “Mayhap I shall accompany you there.”

“Well…”

“Yes, please,” Palomides said. “We have far to walk, and it will help pass the time, Val.”

Interlude Seventeen: The Isle of Na Hearadh

Rokk was beginning to think he would never be warm again.

He arrived back on Skye with Grev as he had promised, just days before the full moon. After several days - maybe a week - of meeting Pictish clansmen and women, he and his escorts finally set out to sea to a farther island, where the test Maven had spoken of would take place.

The Picts rowed him out in a small boat, barely big enough to tack against the fierce waves. Despite the furs they gave him to wear, it was the coldest voyage of his life, as the winds blew out on the sea of Hebrides like a tempest of frozen blades.

But eventually they arrived. Through the sea spray and mists, they saw the towering peaks before they saw the actual shore below. The isle was so rocky, so barren-looking, Rokk was amazed anyone would want to come here, let alone live here. But upon landing, more Picts started coming out of the hills to greet both Rokk and the crew that delivered him.

They took him to their village, a small collection of huts built onto a hillside, practically invisible until one comes within a rock's throw of them. Beside a fire for most of an hour, he began to again feel his flesh. They offered him a bowl of a hot broth that smelled gamey - he thought better than to ask what it was.

The villagers were smaller than the average Pict, barely four feet at the tallest, but they gave him every hospitality they could offer, and seemed pleased, very pleased, that he was there.

These people spoke no Latin, and Rokk's Pictish was barely worth mentioning. One of the boatmen knew a similar sliver of Latin and a measure more of Gaelic, so with a great deal of patience a chain of communication emerged. Rokk learned that he was to remain three days and three nights in preparation, and on the fourth day, he would feast on the best of everything the that villagers had saved up all year.

Rokk didn’t like the idea of eating the villagers out of their stores, but the boatman assured him it was prepared for — and was necessary. The fourth night was the new moon, the night of Rokk’s test, and he would need every strength imaginable.

New moon already? I was on Skye longer than I believed, but I guess it all meets Maven’s plan.

He tried not to dwell on the Yuletide and Christ's Mass celebrations he’d missed; it would all be worth it, to have the Pictish clans march against the Khunds this spring.

He slept, he practiced sword-play with one of the boatmen (usually all the village would stop and watch), he ate, he aided the villagers on occasion, and he tried to learn more about his test.

The boatman would smile, and tell him “time yours comes.”

Late on the third day, the boatman brought him down to the sea, and told him to dive in.

Rokk raised an eyebrow at the presumed jest.

The boatman disrobed, and dove in, waving for Rokk to do the same.

Is this insanity, or part of the test? Which ever, Rokk duplicated the move.

Gods! It was FREEE---EEEE---ZING!!!!

He yelled aloud when his head reached the surface.

The boatman laughed, starting to climb out, and reaching a hand out.

“Whyinthenameofallthat’sholydidwe-----?????”

“To-morrows, alive-est, you will need be.”

Rokk laughed, as he dried himself off with his shirt, and began dressing.

A bunch of village children giggled, having watched the whole thing.

Interlude Eighteen: Olympus

Vidar felt light-headed as he completed the climb.

The monk who served as his guide waited patiently. Throughout the ascent, he never offered any sign of physical stress, despite his senior years.

“So. We are here. Now what?”

“The Patriarch asks this quest of all who would join the leadership of the True Church. Look around, and tell me what you see.”

“I see… a stark mountaintop. A vista of sea, shore and peaks. Clouds. I see myself,” he gestured to his limbs and torso, “and a fellow brother in Christ. But most importantly, I see His handiwork in it all.”

The monk nodded. “Do you know of the Olympus of olde?”

“I know that the heathens of old Greece considered it the home of those they falsely believed as gods.”

“Nay,” the monk said. “Those gods were real. They lived here. But mercifully, their wicked ways were their undoing. Earlier patriarchs, in their divinely inspired wisdom, had all evidence of their residence eradicated, that the unwise would not bear credence to the tales of olde.”

“I beg your forgiveness, but I cannot believe that there ever were other gods, only false idols and maybe evil spirits posing as gods.

“The Book tells us, Vidar, that He said, ‘Thou shall have no other gods before me,’ not, ‘There are no other gods.’ These old gods are fading away, t’is true, and we must never let them change their fortunes. But they exist, and they exist to do evil. We must be ever-vigilant to protect our flock against their deceptions.”

Do this monk, or the Patriarch, truly believe this? Or is this a test?

His meeting with Macedonius II, the Patriarch of Constantinople, had gone well enough. He’d considered this quest more of a formality for his new employer. But now…?


“There remains something, some evidence,” Vidar said. Hoping his false sense of confidence would bear fruit.

The monk smiled. “Go on.”

“You brought me up here for a reason. Not just to tell me there was once evidence of ‘gods’ who lived here.”

“But does Christian faith not require faith of His servants?”

“Aye. But faith in His teachings. If defenders against heresies you seek to recruit, you need to be able to show them what threats they will need to face. Also, tales of old ‘gods’ can be just as easily shared in Constantinople. Bringing initiates here would lead skeptics to doubt your tales — if there is nothing more to see.”

The monk smiled.

“Come,” he said, leading Vidar down a small trail descending from the other side of the peak. “Not every initiate gets to see this. But you will have a special mission.

“The most immediate threats to His kingdom lie on or near three isles, three large isles in the North-west of Europe. Pretanna, Airua, and Knorxha.

Britain, Eiru and… where? Vidar wondered.

The trail dead-ended near a rock wall. But about 10 paces before the trail’s end, the monk started pushing a large piece of stone, about four feet wide and three high, one of many along the steep trailside. He waved away Vidar’s move to help.

“Only those blessed with the secret may move the stone,” he said. And move it he did — revealing a small cave.

The monk lit a candle and bade Vidar to enter.

And what he saw made him weep.

Interlude Nineteen: The Isle of Na Hearadh

Rokk climbed the mountain as he was instructed, starting just after dark and reaching the summit probably about mid-night. With no moon to see by, the going was rough. The numerous snow crossings sometimes gave way, with treacherous ice beneath. Sometimes it was only the metals in the rocks the king clung to that saved him from painful descents of as much as 80 feet at a time.

He gained visibility as he climbed, although he was not certain of the source of this illumination. Did he fear that seeking it out with his eyes would prove to be a deadly distraction — or that it was faerie magick that would vanish on him?

Was Uther’s initiation at Avalon anything like this? he wondered.

Arrive he did atop the mount, scarred, battered and bruised - and cold, despite the layers of furs and skins that the the villagers had adorned him in. But now free to look up, he saw it — a maelstrom of swirling colours unlike any he had ever seen. Upon occasion, he had seen the strips of light in the northern skies — who hadn’t? — but never like this! Ribbons of vivid, pulsating reds and pinks, almost raining down on him! Flashes of yellows and oranges, like a wide, silent, horizontal lightning! Swirls of blues and violets opening and closing like irises…

He looked around at the summit as well. It seemed to pulsate, breathe almost. And each of his frozen breaths were like swimming creatures, dancing in the airs around him!

What magicks did the villagers place into my drinks and foodstuffs? He touched the symbols painted onto his face — blue body paint he had only seen before on Pictish warriors and priestesses. Who was the cloaked maiden who painted them on? She seemed but so familiar…

Should you ask not what the gods ask of you?

Who said that?

There was no answer. Rokk reminded himself that he was told to await the vision the gods were to send to him.

He looked around; the entire landscape now seemed completely visible, down to the slightest details. Were those not the waves washing up on the southeastern shores; from the direction he had climbed? Then why were there none to the northwest?

There was no movement of any kind in the seas in the direction away from Britain and Skye, was there? Or was there some under the surface, under the--

“Ice!” He blurted. “How can the sea itself be so frozen?”

And out on the ice, he saw something moving. A large creature.

Come for me! Not even The Hunter has bested me; and I have feasted on many who would be king.

A challenge, then? I accept!

Good, the voice growled hungily.

They way down the mountain heading for the northwest was much easier; he winced at having such a hard climb when he was now rushing down a fairly easy path on the mount’s far side. In under an hour, it seemed, he had reached the shore, with only minimal falls, bruises and gashes.

The creature was out on the ice, a couple hundred paces.

It was a bear - a stark, white bear - larger than any he’d ever before seen.

They eyed each other fiercely, as if they were face to face.

The bear stood tall, growling, snarling, bellowing. We are the Usru, the King if Winter, King of All Bears and Lord of the North! By what name shall we honour our meal this eve?

“I am Rokk, High King of Britain!” He held the spear the priestess had given him high and proud. “Have at thee!”

Rokk let out a primal war-cry, and charged out onto the ice.

The bear also began his charge, and the two met, some 30 to 40 paces out onto the ice.

Up-close, Rokk was even more amazed at the beast’s size, and he almost believed it literally grew as it approached. The briny ice under its feet crunched and swayed, but did not give way.

Rokk stopped short, crouching down, finding an uneven spot in the ice to anchor the spear’s base against, and propping it so the bear would charge straight into it.

It worked; the bear howled in pain and anger, but knocked Rokk more than 20 feet as it lashed out wildly with its massive paw.

Rokk found the deep gashes strangely warming out on this frigid milieu.

The bear awkwardly pulled out the spear and knocked it aside. It stood and growled, and again it charged.

As the villagers had not let him tale Excalibur, Rokk found himself with only a small hunting knife. This won’t be enough.

He pried loose a long shard of ice off of the surface, hoping it could act as a weapon. Too awkward to wield, he abandoned it, instead throwing a smaller chunk at the beast’s eyes, while dodging leftward.

It didn’t work.

The bear again swatted him, gashing him even deeper, although the hallucinogens shielded him from the worst of the pain. Knocked only a few feet, he landed face-down.

But the bear’s claws again sank into him, this time slowly, deliberately. Through his torso; he could feel his innards being punctured.

No weapons left. No weapons…

He closed his eyes and concentrated. His spear was a dozen yards away, but its point was metal.

Metal.

Could his influence reach that far? He knew not. He could only try!

Not daring to open his eyes, he imaging the spear flying straight into the bear’s skull, driving in, just as the bear claws were doing to him… he could well imagine it; his pain helped him focus, helped him visualize. Was it working, or was he dying? It was hard to tell where he ended and the bear began; he was one with both. He was Rokk. He was Usru. He was…

“Victorious, but at what price?”

He was vaguely aware of the priestess having the villagers carry him back to their abodes. It was daytime; he floated about as his soaked, half-frozen body was lifted from the northwest seas; only a few chunks of sea ice was visible near the island; and plenty of specks off at the horizon.

He was calm, at peace, sometimes forgetting who he was or whose body he followed, feeling some link to. The priestess who attended to his wounds knew her craft; she was well aided that the cold stemmed the worst of the wounds.

But she will need more than that, he thought. Help, I must seek.

Interlude Twenty: Gibraltar

“Would it not make an excellent place for a fortress?” Palomides asked.

“Aye,” the Caledonian knight replied. “See the far lands? Across the waters? T’is Africa, clearly visible from Iberia’s southern shores.”

Hart and Hesperos, more accustomed to width of the eastern Mediterranean, were amazed. Hesperos, a Greek warrior, was the newest addition to this little group, after having come to Jeka's aid in Palestine.

“To think that the gap between the lands could ever be so slight,” Hart said.

Jeka just smiled. She’d seen it before, but as the quintet journeyed westward, Ag- no, she must not call him that any longer – was the resident expert to the newcomers.

Their ship had docked overnight, as the captain had business with the local merchants. The British-bound passengers had an unusual length of time to spend on land for this voyage, so they opted to climb the mountain overlooking the bay.

Val was struck by the irony — it had seemed such a long voyage from Portus Magnus to the mouth of the Middle Sea on the outward trip last year, but now it seemed as if they were almost home. After spending all but a few months of the past 16 moons traveling, he longed for the familiarity of Rokk’s court.

Hart was much where Val was a year ago; with heavy heart of past burdens, but thrilled with seeing new, strange lands far from the Kazakh steppes of his homeland. Palomides, having finished his quest in the east and made peace with his father in Baghdad, was now eager to see what the western world offered.

And Hesperos? He smiled in anticipation of reaching Britain, and seeking his kinsman.

BOOK V:
KHUNDS AT THE GATE
Two Hundred Forty-one

“…so the unknown knight turned out to be Laoraighll, after all,” Tinya concluded.

Gaheris ate up every word, but Harlack was developing a skeptical edge. “Why didn’t the other knights recognize her by her horse, Comet?”

“Comet… was on a quest with his friends,” she ad-libbed. “You remember? MacKell’s hunting dog Cu Sidhe, the palace kitty Cramer, and Brainius V’s monkey Koko.”

Harlack still wasn’t convinced. Morgause remained focused on her weaving, and just smiled.

“Will you stay through Beltane, Tinya?” Gaheris pleaded.

“Perhaps. In any case, whilst I so miss my husband, I am in no rush to leave right now. T’would not be wise.”

“Why not?” Harlack asked.

Tinya thought better than to tell the children of the war Nura predicted - especially Harlack.

Lot entered the family chamber - in a foul mood indeed. “Husband? What is it?” Morgause didn’t like that look.

“The assassin Manaugh. He’s at it again. He’s single-handedly assailed my garrison at Tay’s Bend; left not one alive. Doesn’t he realize Picts are allies of all British now, ere on the verge of war?”

The boys gaped, while the noblewomen flinched; they’d done their best to hide that fact.

“What war?” Gaheris asked.

“Agh! It matters not,” Lot said, guessing his gaffe, looking to change the subject. “What- what news of the south?”

“King Rokk has finally returned to Londinium, after many months of healing,” Tinya reported.

“Pict, Scot, Orkneyman and Votadni alike are now all calling him ‘Uthru’ — ‘the bear,’ after his feats. They say its’ furs were whiter than snow, more than twice as large as any bear seen anywhere in Britain before; and that it now decorates Rokk’s great hall,” Lot marveled.

Tinya nodded. She silently shivered at the king’s near-death experience, and how Imra described Rokk appearing to her as an apparition himself! “Praise MacKell, that he could bring him the Cauldron so quickly.”

“What war?” Gaheris repeated.

“Is.. it with my people?” Harlack asked.

“Not with the Khunds of Kent,” Morgause said, seeing further avoidance would worsen their curiosity. “Kent stands with us against welisc invaders.”

Lot nodded. “The first landings have been fought and repelled in East Anglia and the south-central shores.”

It was Tinya’s turn to gape; she had not heard that. Was my Jonah amid these battles. Aye, I’ll wager he was. She’d always been proud of her love; but she was now beginning to hold some fears as well. Was it simply aging and maturing? Or how many of their comrades had perished already? Or had the predictions Nura had made more than a half-year ago give her more time for her fears to gather strength? Maybe t’was a combination thereof.

Two Hundred Forty-two

“Sssswear it yourssself!”

“He cannot!” Mettah insisted.

Her liege gestured toward his throat, and then picked up his quill. He gestured the young woman to the other side of the room, facing away before dipping it into the inkwell.

“King Rokk’s lepress took my voice,” he wrote, showing his hosts. Mettah spoke the same words aloud as they read them.

“By the will of the gods, Mettah hears the words I would speak, and repeats them for me,” he continued writing. Mettah repeated the words, again, without seeing them.

“And how do we… know not that thiss iss some… rehearssed ploy?” Ontier asked, adjusting his hood.

“You write something, and show it to Tarik,” Mettah said, thinking the better of letting him know she could read his thoughts as well.

Somewhat amused, Ontier complied.

“Those who cling to Rome abound with fear,
Freedom comes from midnight’s sphere.”

Ontier nodded. “I sssee. Very well.” He gestured to continue. “If Tarik of the 100 Knightsss wissshes our cccircle’s sssupport, we ssshall accccept your sssservant’sss wordssss asss yoursss.”

“Ha! More like Tarik of the Mute!” said another of the cloaked men who accompanied Ontier, earning a dire look from the elderly king.

Mettah waited for her liege to regain his focus. “I swear by the circle, upon pain of every earthy torment, that…”

Two Hundred Forty-three

Geraint surveyed the battlefield with some degree of satisfaction; those who could not move on their own accord were generally Khundish. Yet he grimaced that this was a small corner of a larger battle.

Although he arrived with a bare half-dozen cavaliers and a sole score of archers, his arrival had a rallying effect on the besieged garrison, the westernmost defenses of the city Portus Magnus. Having won the day with the likes of James and Dyrk at his side, the garrison guards were only too happy to place themselves at his command — their own commander lied dead by an archer’s bolt, and a nearby breach cut off the chain of command from the city proper.

Learning this, Geraint unleashed a bold strategy to regain the adjacent portion of the city — baiting the looters and pillagers into thinking a new division was nipping at their heels, and as they gathered in defensive formations, the archers who had been making their way across the rooftops began picking them off.

James, meanwhile, for the first time using his gifts in plain sight, began taking on the crude (by roman standards) Khund war-machines; catapults, ballista and even a particularly crude attempt to mimic Querl’s computi.

With the western breach largely contained and the lines reconnected, the central city forced, too, rallied, in a sort of domino effect. While Dyrk and James offered more than their share towards the eventual victory late that night, it was Geraint’s name being chanted by the jubilant soldiers into the morning hours.

Geraint accepted the accolades in stride, personally greeting seemingly every guardsman who was sober or unwounded enough to stand.

And although Dyrk winced at the words, he heard more than one request to remember him when the time came, in case there were British rulers too weak to stand up against further invasions.

Does he still seek only Marcus’ deposing, or is he now eying Rokk’s throne, too? The Roman knight asked himself.

“I like this not,” James whispered. “I’d heard Mysa had talked him out of his ambitions?”

“Or simply delay them?” Dyrk questioned. And what has Mysa promised Geraint for staying his hand last year?

Two Hundred Forty-four

“Thank you for seeing me.”

Derek barely looked up from polishing his sword. “Keep it brief, Regulus. T’is war-time. I haven’t time for games.”

He sat in his merchant-hall, amid tables with bolts of fine cloth, ceramic dishes, metal jewelry and other goods. On his table, a small supper of smoked fowl and apple slices lay half untouched.

“Nor I,” answered the priest of Apollo. “Whatever the outcome, The auguries tell me this war’s outcome is not in doubt. Britain will prevail, but the price will be heavy nonetheless. No, the true test of mettle against the Khunds is yet to come, no more than a dozen years out.”

“So what’s so urgent, then?” Derek smirked, recalling how poorly Regulus’ prior predictions turned out.

“Dyrk’s destiny. The one I have spoken of,” he paused to see if the merchant-warrior was still listening. Polishing, he still was, but slower, with his head slightly cocked.

“He may still yet be high king. And without betraying King Rokk. But the window is not long in the opening.”

Derek took a half-breath. He had quickly accepted that Rokk, not he or Dyrk, would be high king, ever since that day on the plains of Camulodunum. Was Regulus speaking truth or only more madness?

“You have my ear,” the elder knight spoke cautiously.

“Rokk’s star is at its height, or rather, a possible height. But after this war, there shall be a test of four knights, and maybe a handful of others. Few will survive.

“The auguries tell me both Rokk and Dyrk will be among those tested.”

“Are you saying Dyrk will kill Rokk? No, I can’t see that.”

“Not at all. But if Rokk is not up to the challenge — whatever it might be — but Dyrk is, your son’s way to be high king would be secured.”

“By outliving the king on one quest? You are mad, Regulus. Mad, I say.”

The priest nodded. “Perhaps. The auguries previously told me of the sun king ruling this isle in peace and prosperity for a generation or more. I hoped Dyrk would be Apollo’s champion against both Khund and the encroaching Christianity, that of all the true gods, Apollo’s chosen would prevail.

“And here we are. My two best hopes, you and now Dyrk, have come to hate me. The sacred trivia I hoped to put at his side have been driven from me — aye, and one lies dead. All my plans have come to naught. Unless this… ‘quest,’ as you call it, becomes even more momentous than the Khunds we now face.”

“You still cling to the hope of Dyrk again becoming your champion?” Derek almost laughed.

“Not my champion. Apollo’s. The Morgnus family’s fortunes were built by the light of His chariot, you must remember.”

“Perhaps. But if we are to survive and continue to prosper, we must be a part of the new of Britain, not the old of Rome and long-ago Athens.”

“What are you saying, Derek?”

“More and more I have seen in my lifetime, the good families of southern Britain are one by one drifting toward the Christian path. A time is coming where any decent merchant may be expected to be part of their flock, too, if he is to keep their custom.”

“Don’t be a fool!” Regulus grabbed Derek’s arm. Seeing Derek’s anger, he let go, and stormed toward the door. “I’ll show myself out,” he announced in a huff.

But Derek couldn’t resist one more jab. “One of your ‘sacred trivia’ has already embraced the Christian ways. And she is closer to Dyrk than you or I will ever be.”

The expression on the priest’s face was worth the exaggeration, Derek concluded. His sword polished and his a few quick mouthfuls of supper downed, he returned to the palace where his fellow officers would be gathered.

Two Hundred Forty-five

Jonah and several of his cavalrymen had been chasing a pair of Khund scouts for the better part of ten miles before the hunt ended as he’d intended: two lances, two impalements, and not too much noise.

But the Anglian woods were too quiet for early morn; once the bloodlust of the hunt subsided, Jonah realized something was amiss.

Genni should have reported back by now. Or have the Khunds lain sword to our best scout?

“It’s too quiet,” a cavalryman echoed his thoughts.

“Be ready for an ambush,” Jonah warned in a loud whisper. They slowly rode towards a ravine; he bade them to wait as he dismounted and stealthed up the far side. Peering over, he waived them to follow, as he stood and walked forward without care.

He walked into what had clearly been a large encampment; thin wisps of smoke still haunted the occasional fire-pit.

“There must have been thousands of them!” a knight exclaimed, while Jonah sought out the direction of their tracks.

He grimaced. Back towards Lindum. We have been fooled!

“Hurry, my fellowes!” He remounted and lead them by the rout the attackers had taken. “He shall first encounter the supply wagons; we must dispatch them most stealthily, ere we are to surprise the back lines!” If they have not already reached Lindum, that is…

Two Hundred Forty-six

Mysa sat in silence while Thora stood confidently, appearing to direct the priestesses who rowed the passage.

She does not need to preserve the illusions for me, Mysa thought, but there is tradition to honour, and the young ones must not have their focus thrown aside.

She peered out into the thick veil of cloud that surrounded them, realizing this was only the second time she had no role to play: rower or guide; the first was her very first voyage to Avalon those 15 years ago. Then, she was a scared little girl journeying into the unknown, a fearsome, solemn realm.

But now, she was going home.

The thought had been a fearful one for so long, but now it felt good. It felt right.

She recognized the priestesses-in-training who rowed the boat; they were scared little maidens only a few years ago. But did they not remember her? They gave no indication of such. Or have I become the hated oath-breaker these past few years?

But no. It was simply a priestess’ training to be aloof, to let not the face betray the thoughts behind the façade. How could I forget this? What else have I forgotten already?

As the mists parted, she gasped at seeing Kiwa there awaiting her. But no; it was Azura. How much of Kiwa’s poise she has taken on!

Azura, once one of Mysa’s pupils, was now the mistress here, and greeted her as formally as Kiwa ever greeted any visiting noble, but once in the Lady’s hut, they shared a more sisterly greeting, with hugs and intimate words.

Thora, consigned to attending to Mysa’s bags and serving her elders, scowled. Was her role as Azura’s aide and confidante in jeopardy?

She only caught portions of the conversation, coming and going with necessities, but knew they discussed Mysa’s falling with Imra and Ayla, The Cornish crown, the Khund war of course, and other particulars that she couldn’t catch all the details of. Were they discussing a mission for Mysa on Avalon’s behalf? A role for Mysa here on Avalon?

Outside the cottage, Thora broke one of the serving bowls in anger. Have I not been a good and faithful priestess and servant? Why must the legendary Mysa suddenly take my place? Who is she, to come and go as she pleases, while we the faithful should scamper aside?

It will not be so. Lady, I implore thee!

Dismissed for the night, Thora left Azura and Mysa to their warm talks, and she stewed alone in her bedding. It was a warm spring night, but she felt very cold and alone, more than she had ever felt since Kiwa died.

Imra is Avalon’s delegate to the royal court; not Mysa! If Mysa has acted unjustly on her own, Avalon should not reward her for her betrayals! By morning, Thora had all but convinced herself that Imra had been a close friend during the queen’s days on the Priestess Isle, not merely an older-priestess acquaintance, and her old friend needed an ally to avenge the wrongs done her.

Two Hundred Forty-seven

For perhaps the first time, MacKell found himself resenting his legend; it was as if everyone expected his aid at the same time.

Earlier this week, he led the fight against a small-but-significant Khundish attack on a fishing village near Eboracum, and returned to the city in time to defeat an enchanted suit of armour some fiendish sorcerer must have let loose. Even then, Queen Winifred complained he was nowhere to be found when a smaller Khundish raiding party attacked her castle; they were fended off, but toppled into the river a statue of some unknown Roman centurian who had once saved a Celt priestess no-one outside of the city even remembered.

Two days ago, he had reached the river village of Gaini, where he led villagers in putting out a large and growing fire created by a falling star, or so they said. They stopped the fire before it burned all the river villages, but a nearby Angle settlement complained that MacKell was not there to be ready for the Khunds, and were further incensed when he went instead to a village to the west, near Perilous Forest, where an invisible Roc was causing havok.

Yet today, his other tasks complete, he returned to the Angles, refortifying their weak tower just before an actual Khund attack.

Alone save for a handful of elder Angle farmers, he took out all his frustrations on the invaders — and won, despite six-to-one odds, counting three old Angles as worth a single man.

Is this all the world has come to? he asked himself, tiring of what was seeming to be a life of war after war, and no shortage of fighting between wars. In my youth, t’is true I enjoyed such sport, but in truth now, I would like nothing better than to travel and explore this world, most of which I have only seen from the skewed captivity of the cave.

But an Angle messenger came upon him: Lindum itself was under siege!

Wearily, he remounted his steed and rode off.

Two Hundred Forty-eight

“Is there not an easier route?”

Large, muscular Andrew had a hard time fitting in the small tunnel.

“I fear not,” King Pellam replied. For one, the old man’s slow pace did not slow the young knight down, as the narrow crawlspace accomplished that feat. “These tunnels were built to allow lithe priests to flee from raiders and brigands, after all.”

Pellam had room enough to crawl, but Andrew had not such a luxury. He scuffled his legs along, but mostly pulled himself forward with his arms, which were now sore and tired. “Fat priests had to fend for themselves, then?” Based on the monastery ruins where they’d camped the night before, none of any largeness would have survived, he surmised. He hoped all the gear they hid was safe.

“The order who knows of and uses this tunnel had a rather strict diet of fruits, vegetables and, upon occasion, fish. Even grains are virtually forbidden. Perhaps fitness for this tunnel is one very reason for that,” Pellam remarked, pausing before starting the curve that he knew marked the end of the journey. The curve and the coming grotto keep light from telling unfamiliar crawlers how far they have to go.

Reaching the grotto, the elderly king crawled to one side to rest before attempting to stand. These old bones have outlived their usefulness, I must admit to myself.

Andrew crawled forward, grateful for room to move his arms, stretched and let out a few deep breaths before looking around him.

The grotto was partially a cave, but in many places, one could look out into a dark thicket of forest. A two-hand-wide channel of water meandered its way through, from one wall and out the largest cave-mouth. The grotto itself was full of carvings and emblems, but the central feature was a life-size crucifix with a figure dangling from it. Andrew approached it. It was white stone, such as is common on the southern coasts. The figure, clearly intended to be Iesous, had a blank face.

“If this place was founded by the man from Arimathea, surely he of all people knew the Lord’s face?”

“That stands to reason,” Pellam said. Andrew came over to help him to his feet.

“Then why?”

“Like many of the olde orders, the Josephites believe that each and every seeker may know divinity firsthand. Idols portraying a single image, they say, are an attempt to control the image of their savior. They believe everyone can and should create their own image, in their mind’s eye.”

Andrew bowed to make a prayer, while Pellam reverently bowed his head and gave his own silent greeting.

Exiting the grotto, they passed through a garden fed by the small stream. At the garden’s center stood a thin windy tree that blossomed as Pellam approached. Andrew looked up in the sky, seeking to see the sun. Despite the amount of daylight, the sun was visible only as a diffused blur behind a layer of near-white cloud. Looking further, he could see an island the shape of the Tor at Glastonbury, only larger.

There was a smaller isle to the right. Although the figures appeared small, he was certain they were feminine. The Priestess Isle. He gulped. Where Kiwa would rule still if not for I.

At the garden gate, a brown-robed, thick-bearded man with a smile that seemed to radiate from the sun itself greeted them. “Welcome, King Pellam. The Siege Cristi of Avalon welcomes you.” He turned to Andrew, not flinching at the un-helmed, grotesque face before him. “And welcome to you, my friend.”

“I am Andrew… of Orkney.”

“I am David. Come.”

David led the two to a collection of small stone huts with thatched roofs. Several robed men stopped their crafts to greet the visitors, and those who were too involved to stop smiled and offered greetings.

The collective brethren brought the two to a man who was carving a large bowl. About 50 in age, the burdens his face hinted at made him look far older. He smiled but said nothing.

“This is Andrew,” Pellam began. “He is a good man, a good knight and a follower of Iesous, but is heavy of heart. Only you can help him.” Seeing doubt in the silent man’s eyes, he continued. “Please. For me.”

The man set down his block of wood, and carefully placed his tools on the bench. He sat still, looking straight ahead but downward, as if concentrating on a small pluberry bush not far away.

After a length of silence, Pellam nodded, and turned to Andrew. “Stay with him. He may not have gone through all that you have, but he shares enough pain that will help you with your own.”

Pellam and the brothers began walking away.

Who is he? Andrew wondered, not daring to give voice to the growing… fear.

The man’s smile told him the thought did not go unheard.

Two Hundred Forty-nine

“Thank you for coming.” Enide steadied herself, determined not to show fear or anger in front of the woman she considered her bitter rival.

Nura returned the greeting, sensing some amount of unease from the lady. She disliked traveling in wartime, but knew it was safer in Exeter – for the moment – than remaining at Marcus’ side right now.

Sheltering at a small convent, Enide had little to offer her guest, but made do with wine and apple slices offered by the mother superior.

“Your message sounded urgent,” Nura said to break the ice, taking a few slices only to be polite. Every offering by Enide spoke volumes of her years of poverty – every morsel was an inventory only reluctantly surrendered.

Before she could utter a word, the speech Enide had practiced had already fallen apart, a casualty to nervous memory.

Nura waited patiently.

“…I know of what Mysa arranged with my husband,” she said at last, accusingly. She had hoped to unnerve Nura into displaying guilt, but found herself thrown off by Nura’s affable confusion.

“Then you know more than I,” Nura laughed. “I’ve not seen my sister since last summer. Pray tell, what arrangement has she concocted now?” As much as Mysa decried Kiwa’s manipulations, Nura saw Mysa as far more of Kiwa’s breed than she herself – Kiwa’s own estranged daughter.

“Have you truly not heard, or do all tongues wag in jest?” exasperated, Enide was not expecting an answer. “Mysa has told – or so it is told,” she paused searching for the way to say it, “that if Geraint supports Rokk’s war efforts now and keeps peace with Marcus until this war is ended… that she has promised him you as his bride.”

Nura laughed. “Who is she to promise my hand? My sister, yes, but not my queen.”

“She more queen than you or I. Gorlois married Igraine because she was of the olde line of Cornwall, a distant cousin of Geraint. The old families look to her as much as they do to Geraint. Mayhap more so, as she is also sister to the high king himself. Renounced or not, her word carries more weight than she may realize.”

Nura pondered that. Mysa thought her title came from Gorlois, a Roman regent lacking in authenticity to one raised as a Celt. And Kiwa omitted telling her of Igraine’s heritage, to keep her power over her. Webs within webs. Truly, I asked Mysa to keep Geraint at bay ere the war, with the pledge that she would help him woo me. But did he negotiate a tougher deal? Nay, I cannot believe t’is so.

“I must seek my sister, that she may tell me her mind,” Nura said. “I shan’t take the words of gossip-mongers until that day.”

“T’was not gossips, I fear.” Enide looked away, turning red. “Geraint talks in his sleep.”

“So… we have his word, after a fashion, of this deal as brokered. But we have not her version.” Nura shivered, realizing she didn’t know when – or if – she would again see her sister. But I foresaw myself with Thom, not Geraint. Didn’t I?

Two Hundred Fifty

The road to Lindum was not safe for travelers, it was true – but then few if any roads were safe during this war, as nowhere in Britain was far enough from the sea. Khundish attack parties had landed everywhere from Penzance to Portus Magnus to Lothian, it seemed, and a few landings managed to reach the Cymrus as well.

With Jeka safe at Zendak’s castle in South Cymru, the quartet of newly arrived warriors braved the road, however, seeking to rendez-vous with Rokk’s forces. Val, of course, also wanted to reunite with his brother.

At Cawdy’s Fort, they just missed Garth’s cavalry, bound to intervene against a large landing at Exeter, and Geraint’s army, following as rapidly as foot soldiers could. Setting out to follow, they met Genni on the road, reporting that battle was already over, and she was bound for Lindum, where Queen Nura predicted the next wave would land.

Val was amused at his friends reaction to the Moorish messenger. Yes, he had told them of some of the strange gifts Rokk’s Legion had at its disposal, but to actually see Genni racing down the road was quite another thing.

The group followed as best as they could, opting to cut cross-country as Genni did rather than take one road east to Londinium and another north from there.

Days later, they found themselves camped at the edge of Perilous Forest.

“This Britain is not as cold and damp as you claimed,” Hart commented.

“Maybe, but it is far from as warm as daytime should be, by my measure,” Palomides added.

Hesperos nodded. Cold it was not, but there was a chill in the mornings he did not associate with late spring. Britain was a far greener place than he’d imagined, even more, in its way, than the mountain valleys of Thrace he’d called home for so long.

With camp broken, they made their way northeast once again, until they reached the Trent. Val recalled there was a ferry over the river at Gaini, and from there, it would be a fairly short trip to Lindum.

They were unprepared for the thick reams of smoke rising from the houses of Gaini. Could the Khund have attacked this village? Has Lindum fallen? Val wondered.

Throwing their gear behind some bushes, they armed and ran forward, engaging Khunds still looting and burning.

Gaini was in shambles, it was true, but there were still villagers running about – those who failed to find safety in the small castle’ walls - fleeing flames and raiders as best they could.

Val estimated maybe about 60 raiders throughout the village – a bit many for the foursome perhaps, but there was only one way to find out.

Sticking together to watch each others’ backs, they waded into the fray – Palomides with his crescent-shaped scimitar, Hesperos with one short sword in each arm, Hart with a quarterstaff and Val with his bare hands.

Val moved the quickest among the group, leaping about, kicking and stunning a half-dozen raiders without giving even one the opportunity to score blood.

Hart, unarmoured like Val, sized up his opposition, and adapted his techniques to them. Like most warriors, the Khunds relied very heavily on their swords and armour. Hart could turn those reliances into weaknesses – and did. In truth, these invaders offered very little challenge – Hart’s only sport was measuring his success against Val. The peace of Nanda Parbat was a world away now – the old combat-lust was returning, and Hart was no longer ashamed of it.

While lacking the type of training Hart and Val had, Hesperos was a classically trained swordsman – one of Constantinople’s finest, in fact – and was certainly no slouch. Although fairly conservative in his stance and delivery, he was more than a match for the raiders, even two at a time, and a more lethal one as well.

Palomides moved like a whirlwind, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. A few Khunds he faced managed to direct sword-strokes at him, only to find their swords flying away from the bloody stump where their hands were. Not all of them fully comprehended the sight before their lives ended.

Was it fully an hour? Suddenly the small village was quiet from clanking metal, only the roar of fire as wails of the survivors. With the raiders dead or fled, Val set off to have words with the castle’s guards – only to find three old men and a motley of young boys and girls manning the defenses.

The castle was little more than a tall, slightly fortified villa, with most of the village crammed into the feasting hall and the kitchen.

The lord of the castle was more merchant than knight, an inoffensive older man who no doubt neither side of the T rent, Elmet nor their rivals the Angles, would take issue with. The man doddered on and on appreciatively, name-dropping all the nights and nobles he has given fealty to. Val nodded, barely listening. The peace of Nanda Parbat was complete lifetime away.

Two Hundred Fifty-one

Dawn on Avalon brought a light drizzle, but this cleared up to a misty but sunny morning as the Josephite brethren gathered for fast-breaking.

Pellam had attended the morning prayers along the lake as a courtesy to his hosts, and out of respect, but no follower of the one-god was he.

After several days in seclusion with the quiet man, Andrew rejoined him late in the meal, smiling peacefully and greeting him warmly – as warmly as he had ever seen. Despite the old king’s certainty that he had the correct path to rekindle the resurrected knight’s heart, he took nothing for granted, and he felt his own burdens ease some.

They talked about the brethren, the weather, the events that had transpired since he left court – all the little things Andrew hadn’t evidenced any interest in ere now. Pellam sensed the young knight was holding back, and wanted to talk about his experience here, but perhaps not in front of the brethren.

“What else?” Andrew was still hungry for news.

“Well, we have discussed the rebel kings, the eight impossible tasks, Glorith, Laurentia and the Dark Circle, the Lady Mysa, Geraint…”

“What of Mysa?”

“Did I not tell you?” Pellam was sometimes angered at the tricks his memory sometimes played. Surely he had relayed the tale not 20 minutes ago? “Mysa came here, to Avalon,” he pointed across the lake “to the Priestess Isle, not three weeks ago. She and Azura, the current Lady of the Lake, are said to have settled their differences, and Mysa would return to her duties, once the lady returned to Cornwall to settle a few matters. Yet it seems the Lady Mysa vanished thereafter,” he paused. “She and the four priestesses who transported her vanished. Their boat was found, overturned, drifting in the lake on the Glastonbury side.”

“Five souls, so unnecessarily lost,” Andrew mourned. “May they rest in peace. Such a random tragedy…”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Andrew looked at him quizzically.

“I know not Azura as I knew Kiwa. I know not whether the current Lady of the Lake truly views Mysa as ally or rival,” Pellam said quietly, even though most of the brethren had departed the table, and none were in immediate hearing instance.

“You think she-” Andrew stopped himself, not wishing to vocalize the conclusion.

“I know not, if truth be said,” the old king admitted, glancing to the Priestess Isle. “But something is not a-right.”

They gathered the scant items they’d brought with them after the meal and said their goodbyes to the brethren before making their way back through the tunnel. Andrew was also administered an oath of secrecy as to the tunnel’s location. Pellam made a special thank-you to the silent man, and the two embraced.

Back at the monastery ruins, Andrew could hold back his question no longer. “Who was that man, who wields such strange gifts, and speaks with no words?”

“Did he not tell you?”

Pellam sighed. “He is my son, Pelles. But you must tell no one of this.”

Andrew nodded. “I recall Regulus mention that you had no children, but you have a son.”

“Two sons. And at least five grandchildren of which I know.” Some of whom you have met at court, he did not say aloud.

“So why the secrecy?”

“What else that Regulus tell you?”

“… That you were once almost high king of Britain.”

Pellam nodded. “But I stepped aside to keep the peace, that under Uther we could stand together against the Khunds.”

“And Uther Ambrosius did not want your sons to be able to claim the thrown.”

Pellam nodded. But Uther tricked Avalon. And me. But that dark deed has been undone at last.

Two Hundred Fifty-two

In the aftermath of the battle of Exeter, Ayla was disgusted. Although senior knight present – and a reigning monarch at that – she led the attack to relieve the Khund-beseiged Exeter. When Garth’s cavalry arrived, he deferred to her analysis of the battlefield, and he and his riders followed her orders – King Rokk’s standard protocol to utilize the most comprehensive understanding of the scenario and avoid repeating mistakes. After three days of stalemate against the larger invading force, the arrival of Geraint’s infantry was a welcome sight.

But Geraint insisted on commanding the battle himself, going so far as refusing to ordering his troops not to follow orders from the Armorican nobles nor their line officers. With the city at stake, Ayla suggested as a compromise that Garth lead the attack – but no, he blamed the presume failure of the effort thus far squarely on Garth, and if the effort was to use his men, he and he alone would be giving the orders.

Ban’s twins yielded command, agreeing t’was better to win the battle than feud among peers.

“We shall report his insubordination to Rokk later,” Garth assured her. “Geraint seeks to impress his Cornish allies no doubt, by winning a battle at the very threshold of that land.”

Ayla nodded, but liked it not. “At least it was the two of us who prevented the city from falling. We stymied the siege, even if we did not break it.”

After the battle, a bloody two days after which neither twin believed they would ever wash the smell of Khund blood from their tunics, the chants of soldiers rang ominously. “Geraint! Geraint! Geraint!”

Not ignorant of British history, Ayla knew that Emperor Constantine and other Roman warriors launched their campaigns to become emperor of all of Rome here in Britain under similar circumstances – devout soldirs and a series of impressive victories. With all of Geraint’s politicking amongst local commanders, and now two major military victories incorrectly credited solely to him, would he be satisfied merely with being king of Cornwall now?

Her own infantry had taken a far heavier toll than Geraint’s, and would need replenishing. She opted to send word to Benwick for a new conscription, and sent Genni to deliver her version of the battle to Rokk, who should have arrived in Lindum by now.

She opted to snub Geraint’s victory feast, which solely consisted of Geraint’s officers, the local Cornish merchants and the more ambitious city guard captains that pretended not to know whose forces actually prevented the city’s walls from falling.

Walking the city streets, she almost hoped for trouble. She expected it not from two women.

“Queen Ayla!” came a hushed call from an archway.

She almost missed the call – much of Exeter’s citizenry was also out celebrating in the streets, although not as vigorously as the warriors, and every so often she had to politely turn down offers of wine or sweetbreads from exuberant locals.

She looked around before answering, guessing there was secrecy about it. “Who calls me?”

Stepping forward, it was Queen Nura – and Enide!? Together, here in Exeter? Why?

Seeing Ayla’s surprise, Nura smiled. “Proper ladies shouldn’t travel during wartime, t’is true, but both of us will be in rather poor light to be found here just now. Geraint bade the Lady Enide to remain in Londinium, and Marcus knows not that I am not at Tintagel. Would you be so kind as to take us with you to Cawdy’s fort when you leave on the morrow?”

Ayla smiled. Leaving so quickly was something she had considered, but told no one. Truly only Nura knew her mind before she herself did!

“Let’s get you two to my camp. Perchance Enide may ride with Garth’s knights, ere any become too suspicious of the two ladies half of southern Britain believes to be rivals.”

Two Hundred Fifty-three

Her foolishness had paid off.

Her year as a ghost made her used to going anywhere she wished, and Tinya was not one to stay implanted at Lothian. At the first seeming break in hostilities, she made her way south to rejoin her husband at Lindum. Not completely foolish was she – she accompanied one of the Pict contingents en route south, led by the Pictish knight Grev, of whom she had heard a great deal.

Not one for conversation, Grev did not mind her company, and among his fellow soldiers were a number of women warriors. She stood out only for her fair skin and her garb, as even her most rugged travel-wear was more elaborate than any of her traveling companions. After a day or two of standoffishness, she and the women soldiers were on very basic speaking terms, and her rudimentary understanding of Pictish helped relations a great deal.

When Grev did speak, it was sometimes to mock her urban ways. Rather than react with offense as she once might of, she instead turned it to a jest. She’d seen so much, including her year of torment, to let such a little thing get to her. When her jests turned from simple deflection to return barbs, she saw Grev smile for the first time. This woman does have spirit!

Near Eboracum Tinya repaid their generosity by arranging for them stay the night at the castle of a friendly noble – one who she could count on not to go running to her mother with reports. There, in her hometown, they learned that many of the battles were now along the southlands, but none of the seasoned northerners believed their travails were over.

Eboracum itself had been spared any warfare – thus far – but most of the nearby fishing villages had been attacked, raided and burned, and the city walls were full of refugees.

If Tinya held any doubts as to whether to continue, she suppressed them. If anything, a scuffle with a brigand made Grev think her more than capable, in her own way. After he told the tale to his troops at the evening fire, she found something else she didn’t realize she’s been lacking – respect for her prowess. That night, she began spear practice with the Pictish men; the Picts learn war-craft from a teacher of the opposite gender, she learned.

Heading south, every village, every hamlet, every thorp it seemed carried tales of woe. By the time they reached Gaini, she was numb to the sight of yet another village charred and scarred.

Yet here a familiar face greeted her – that of her brother-in-law! He and a company of three other men were aiding in refortifying the village.

“Agravaine! T’is good to see you after so long! How fare thou?”

His companions laughed.

“I am well enough. In the same manner as my dear brother, I have renamed myself. Please call me Val.”

As the men worked, she filled them in on family and events since his departure, and he in turn spoke something of his journeys. “How fares Iasmin?” He asked at last.

“She leads the eastern cavalry, which last I’d heard was fighting near Camelot.”

“Cam- Camulodunum?”

It was Tinya’s turn to laugh. “I forgot to tell you of King Rokk’s new fortress, being built at Camulodunum. Why last summer-”

The conversation was interrupted by Genni – bringing word that Lindum was now under siege, and for all nearby forces to muster! She was gone in a mere moment, on to the next town, to Val’s ire. He had pulled out a scroll, shouting after her to no avail.

“What is it?”

“This scroll. T’was given to me on our return to Cawdy, just after we last saw Genni. It must get to King Rokk at once.”

As he put the scroll away, it appeared to Tinya that the scroll’s seal had been broken, and hastily re-attached. Surely Jonah’s trusted brother wouldn’t betray a royal message?

Soon after, Val and his men began to set out, and he bid her to remain at Gaini. “Traveling south with Picts is one thing, but we are entering a combat where no one but a warrior will be safe.”

She saw Val had made up his mind, and knew none of his companions well enough to press the point. Grev, on the other hand, was a completely different matter.

By the time the Picts would arrive at Lindum, Tinya would be wearing the sparse clothing of a female Pict warrior, complete with blue face-paint, spear and far less hair than she’s had in living memory. Jo will not recognize me, let alone Val! She had bonded with the small force, some 80 spear- and bow-wielding hill-warriors, and she joined in the warriors’ purification rituals, storytelling and mock combats – but she declined to join the lustful frenzy allotted to warriors about to go into battle together. That bold I am not, and t’would not be seemly for a wed noble woman… Yet these days I am so unlike myself as it is. Do I yearn for my freedom so much that I must hide to gain it?

In the dark night of the campfire, only the warriors feasting on each other’s sensuality were visible. She could only stand at the periphery and watch with both amazement and, if she were to be honest with herself, hunger. Is this what Jonah experiences, with those camp women? The lust for life in the face of battle? Tinya was suddenly aware of how Roman her own Celtic city upbringing had become – surely her own fore-bearers celebrated life itself around the campfires, on Beltane, or before battle?

The primal sexual energy of the gathering – combined with the impending battle on the morrow – resonated throughout her, tapping into some ancestral memory. The drumbeat they seemingly danced to was her own heartbeat. Gazing upon the almost agonized ecstasy on the face of the female warrior closest to her, she could feel it herself – the man with her, inside her, the shiver as the blood comes to a boil, the release---

“It’s… beautiful, is it not?”

She felt Grev’s hands on her bare shoulders. He gently massaged her. Shouldn’t she tell him not to? There seemed to be a reason, but it escaped her. Were those her own hands reaching back, caressing his sides? Why shouldn’t he pull her close? Why shouldn’t she feel anticipation for what she could feel pressed against her? She was aware of her Pict garb sliding down her and landing on her feet, taking with them the last of her doubts. She was no longer an observer of the bonfire of the night, she was its epicentre.

Two Hundred Fifty-four

It was barely first light, and Jonah paced at the city walls.

Everywhere one could look out from Lindum’s defenses were Khund encampments, from just out of arrow’s range (needlessly – there were precious few arrows left in the city) all the way to the hills and to the sea. He, Belinant and both their forces had thus far repelled all the assaults on the city, but it had been days since the last attack, and it was clear the Khunds now intended to starve them out.

Were they on their own? Or had Genni made it through those four nights ago? He’d like to believe Rokk or James or Thom were gathering their forces just a league or two away, but there was no way to be sure. Belinant, once a scheming adversary, was now his closest confidant and co-strategist. Belinant’s experience and Jonah’s intuitive boldness made an exceptional combination, forged under the intense stress of the siege. Yes, Belinant had been a ruler resigned to Jonah’s regency, but never before had the two come to trust and depend on each other.

It was certainly not for himself that he feared – he would go down fighting. But he had come to value his role as the protector of Lindum’s citizenry. They had welcomed Tinya and himself as their own, and he owed them every fibre of his strength. At least Tinya is safe in Lothian.

He joined Belinant for fast-breaking. With rationing, each settled for only a sliver of roasted pork and half an apple. They went over the latest reports on provisions. It looked gloomy. Three days at most, they agreed, before their own citizens would grow violent. Already all the known food stores had been seized, so that the city rulers could best ration resources, and that had already seen a few skirmishes. But the little allotments were already criticized, and soon the secret hordes and black markets would be extinguished.

Jonah again raised the possibility of attacking the Khunds overnight.

Previously, Belinant had argued against it – loudly, fearing to weaken the city’ defenses for no foreseeable point. Even if they cleared a route out, how long would it stay? How could it be defended? So a small force might get away – how would they get back with supplies or allies? This morning, however, a defeated Belinant sighed and nodded his heads. Never before had the king seemed so defeated – not after the kings’ revolt, not with the beginning of Jonah’s regency, nor even on the first night’s surprise attack, when a small Khund force breached the walls, killed dozens and burned the stables of the northern cavalry. At least we could recover the charred horsemeat, Jonah thought bitterly. Yet how did they know of such an important target? Or was it blind luck?

But Belinant awaited his words. “You were right,” he said at last. “We cannot risk our remaining soldiers. I propose to go out at night… alone, striking as many as I can, hitting and running throughout the encampments, making them think a massive attack is under way.” Verily, I should have done this on my own ere now, without notice. Mayhap I am getting old, placing responsibilities ahead of valour.

“You’d throw your life away so needlessly?”

“As your man Caradoc found out, I am a difficult man to kill.”

“Perhaps.” The older king reflected. “I’ll not stay your hand, but think of this city’s morale if you do fall without accomplishment.”

Jonah was about to respond when a soldier burst in. “My lords?”

“What is it?” They answered in unison.

“Combat has begun!”

So content they are not to let us starve, Belinant pondered ruefully.

“Where?” Jonah asked hastily, envisioning the western wall was the weakest. All three rushed to the tower.

“To the east and the west.”

A dual assault? Jonah cleared the top steps and dashed to the wall. The fires and arrow-volleys were not at hand, however – they were in the distance!

“Relief forces?” He looked to Belinant, not daring to hope. So Genni was successful after all!

But yes! All the nearby Khunds were rallying from their camp to dash away from the city walls!

“Wh- Who comes to our rescue?” Belinant could barely utter the words.

Jonah relaxed, trying to see great distances, as he sometimes has in the past. James he could see clearly, from his size. Faces were generally covered by helms, but the banners—

“The infantries of Cradelmant and James to the east. Wait… Iasmin and the eastern cavalry, too! And to the west… Rokk, Berach, North Cymru, and a Pictish troop, it appears.” He disliked his extended visioning, as it left him vulnerable and unfocused on his immediate surroundings. Reacclimating, he added, “It appears we have half of Britain on our doorstep!”

Belinant smiled broadly for the first time in living memory. “Mayhap now is the proper time for our own forces to join the fray.”

“Agreed!” The two men grasped hands.

“Shall you give the order?” Belinant asked deferentially.

“Nay. It should come from Lindum’s king,” Jonah beamed. He would miss being regent of Anglia, but would always think of it as a second home.

Notes I-17 to 251

I-17/19: This was supposed to be in the 230s but Caradoc took up too much room.
I-18: At this point, Vidar's adventures in the Mediterranean are basically over.
I-20: Hesperos went through several name changes before appearing on the page. Palomides is out of Arthurian lore; Hart obviously isn't.
241: Some scholars conjecture that the name "Arthur" came about from using a bear as a banner. Various forces speaking various languages may have each had their own name for their central commander (whatever his name or title), but drew a similar assiciation through the banner. Fitting for the "bear scout" himself, eh?
242: I couldn’t get away with an android interpreter, could I?
243: Geraint…
244:So…How much would it take to really push Regulus’ buttons?
245: I originally intended for Jonah to be on the outside when the siege began.
246: This is a larger turning point than it may seem.
247: A tribute to Adventure 247, sans robots and satellites.
248: I’d been meaning to show the Christians of Avalon for some time now.
249: The meeting between Nura and Enide came across about as awkwardly as it should have. It was originally planned to occur at a place Geraint was using as a stronghold, and that Enide would have to hide Nura when he came home early. But I couldn’t see Nura entering the lion’s den so readily.
250: Gaini was going to be a much briefer skirmish. It took on a life of its own.
251: The things Mysa has to do to get some chapters off! Pelles was a recent addition into my story outline; I once planned to use his father and brother, but not him. Doing refresher research, I decided he fits much better, and I even left myself an opening to insert him into his niche without really contradicting anything.

Two Hundred Fifty-five

Tinya kept impressing Grev and her Pictish allies. No more was she merely a friendly noble; she was as fully one of the regiment as any new recruit – Pict or not – could be.

She was proving her mettle as a warrior, while still serving another important service, that of messenger. She found herself crossing the battlefield with nary a Khund able to lay blade to her. She brought messages between Picts themselves, and to and from King Rokk’s central command. None of the knights she dealt with seemed to recognize her. What a little blue paint and camp-grime will do! Along with a false with a Pictish accent…

On her way back from Rokk’s command post atop a hill, the morning mists were now fully dispersed and she could marvel at the battle scene at hand. Lindum – her Lindum, as she felt very protective of the city that treated her as its own queen – was more surrounded than she’s imagined. All the peaceful fields and farms were naught but a sea of blood-letting and screams, forever tainting the quiet idles where Jonah and his lady shared wines and favours.

Heavy in heart but not shirking her duties, she pressed forward, again observing Val, who was now quite unconscious! On her way up, he had fought a dozen men without steel himself – a whirlwind of fist and foot and falling Khund.

But now a Khund had felled him with a mace, and poised to strike a killing blow! Tinya approached the fiend from behind, ready to strike – but the Khundish warrior lowered his weapon!?! As he turned, Tinya saw his devil’s smile as she thrust her spear into his neck, just as his eyes registered her.

She paused to check Val. There seemed to be no serious wound. She waived a nearby squire over, telling him to bring Val to safety.

But all the way back to Grev, something gnawed at her. Why would the Khund let Val live? She tried not to think ill of her brother-in-law, but something did not fit.