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Two Hundred Fifty-six

Laoraighll found it quite ironic, actually – defending Khunds from other Khunds.

What little defense forces Kent had were deployed far from the Ulsterwoman, that she would not confuse enemy with ally. Once she started battering Khunds, it became onerous to try telling them apart, so any Germanic invader met her fists. With Querl’s ointments, no amount of hound’s blood could get to her! “Bring them on!” she shouted from atop a small mound of corpses, taunting a handful of boats bound for the shore.

The remaining Angle prisoners-of-war fought several miles to her east, while Thom’s infantry fought somewhere to the west.

She made her way to the shore, and set fire to the boat of the Khunds she had just slain, pushing it out to sea.

“Come on, leetle boys!” she taunted in her limited Khundish, hoping the next boat was in earshot. She was half-tempted to ride out in the flaming boat to meet them, but thought the better of it.

“Garlach’s little pissants,” she welcomed the boat as it approached. It had slowed, giving the next two more time to catch up. “Three boatloads to take on one measly girl? Or are Khunds only fit to fight with women-folk?”

Two boats flanked the third, pulling perpendicular to the shore. It appeared to Laoraighll that these would be providing archer cover. She laughed. “So be it!”

Not content to be a waiting target, she waded into the sea, heading for the incoming boat. When the warriors at the boat’s forward readied their spears, she submerged and approached the boat from below.

With a single punch as she resumed an upright stance, the hull punctured and the boat raised and tilted, with armoured Khunds alling into the sea on either side of her. This is too easy, she thought, until she realized her fist was lodged within the hull.

Pulling loose, she took on the Khunds as they made it to shore, keeping them between her and the archers, but occasionally hurling a ripped limb or head at them.

Once this boatload was dispatched, she turned to face the archers, but the other to boats were fleeing!

Aye, and I have burned one of theirs and punctured the other, she realized with regret. She ripped off a piece of the hull and pulled apart each component, until she had a large, sturdy section of support beam. It was not unlike a ballista bolt, although a curved one.

She hurled it upward in the direction of one of the fleeing boats. It hit near enough to further scare the men on board, but not close enough to do more damage. I’ll not get another shot, she realized with dashed hopes. Curses.

Two Hundred Fifty-seven

L’ile paced the castle walls, trying to think. Doing so at Camelot eased his mind, but he was not at the new fortress, he was at Voxv’s capital, Segontium, and there were too many distractions to let his mind ponder the dots in need of connection. The soldiers here faced no peril, as no Khund force had reached North Cymru and only the smallest of expeditions challenged Zendak’s walls to the south, but guards drilled, practiced and patrols as if the entire Khund force was en route. L’ile approved, of course – he just wished he could have thinking space at the same time.

Beren had his hands full; there was no talking to his old mentor. Querl, too, was busy, trying to help Beren or drilling the guards in Computus use.

L’ile slowly exhaled. Surely something would come to him. There was something familiar about the situation. He rubbed his head, recalling the headache he had when last he approached the Queen’s chambers. “The red skin plague,” he reminded himself, was the last time the Queen was this sick. That was caused by the Roman god Terminus, was it not? And last time, also, the Queen lost-

No. I must not think like that. Last time out, t’was a spurt of blood and flesh, or so I was told. This time…

The Queen had looked so proud, her belly so round, when they arrived here those weeks ago. The staff treated her as though she is indeed their Guinevere returned. Mayhap they have “persuaded” themselves she is, he pondered, before a darker thought emerged. Or has she?

Terminus. The thought returned. Or was the illness the Cailleach’s? Either way, an outside entity struck the Quen and took Britain’s heir…

Loomius, back in his former habitation, was giving Carolus and Tenzil a tour of the castle gardens. Tenzil should check her for poisons, he thought, noting that not all poisons come by way of foodstuffs. I’ll bet the Circle knows a hundred ways to poison a monarch.

Two Hundred Fifty-eight

The weary but vaguely merry aftermath at Lindum saw Lot’s eldest sons at last reunite. Sandwiched between two relief armies and a rallied city guard, many Khunds fled to sea.

Tinya, still in Pict garb, observed as subtly as she could before seeking out King Rokk himself.

The young king, for his part, did recognize her as Grev’s messenger, and occasionally stole glances as though he expected her to be someone else. Dispensing with a short queue of subordinates, he approached her, offering thanks and appreciation in his best stumbling Pictish.

She smiled and spoke in a low voice. “Those of us from Eboracum speak Latin well enough.” Amused as he came to realize who she was, she smiled and continued. “Lot’s sons are too chivalrous to be comfortable with me on the battlefield, and I’d not like it well known, my sire.” After his reflection on her comings and goings without so much as a scratch, he slowly nodded before she continued.

“My king, it pains me to say it, but there may be treachery afoot. En route here, I saw Val –Agravaine- with a scroll for you. Its seal was broken and shoddily re-sealed. He said it was an important communiqué for your eyes only.”

From Reep, Rokk thought. He remembered the broken seal, and feared the worst. He’d already sent Genni and Val’s man Hart back to Cadwy’s fort with new instructions and security measures. Hart said his unique gifts would allow him to keep up with Genni, a feat he could only do with her nearby. “I am aware of such.”

“Then, during combat, I saw a Khund strike down Val, but spare him a killing blow.”

“Mayhap he believed him dead already, or an unarmed, unarmoured foe not worth the effort.”

“Aye, perhaps. It pains me to think ill of my kinsman-”

“Rokk! Come and give a proper welcome-home greeting for my long-lost brother!” Jonah’s voice was getting closer. Tinya’s heart skipped a beat.

Rokk fudged a farewell greeting in Pictish, and made a hand-signal he hoped Tinya would recognize asking her to resume the conversation later.

Jonah, too, added a departure salutation to the Pictish messenger, slapping her but as she left. She is a fine one. Perhaps I should visit the Pict camp this eve.

“It seems Cradelmant’s men have come up with some valuable information There are to be attacks on Cadwy and Londinium by week’s end. Multiple forces are likely landing on the south shores as we speak.”

“Then we must ride at once. I shall send Iasmin’s cavalry ahead to Londinium, and follow with the Cradelmant’s army… and the Picts. Val and the rest of his companions will join me.

“You shall lead Berach’s and North Cymru’s forces to Cadwy. James and his men will oversee repairs here, and Lot’s and Wynn’s armies should be along shortly to keep defenses strong. Reep should have Garth’s cavalry and the armies of Geraint and Ayla as well, while the forces of Kiritan, Thom, and Dyrk should be in place at Londinium already.”

Jonah was pleased to be entrusted with leading the Cadwy force. “Sire? How did they learn so much of our three-fortress strategy?”

Aye, t’was more than just this scroll, Rokk thought. “I don’t know. Yet. But I will.”

Two Hundred Fifty-nine

The weeks were blurring together. Thom’s forces would ride out from Londinium, engage enemy landing parties for days on end, and return to renew weapons, supplies and men, while Dyrk’s forces would be out while his men defended and recreated in the capital city.

He sat alone at the great round table, the sounds and memories of past feasts and revelry echoing only in his mind’s eye. None of his peers were around, nor the court ladies, not even little Saihlough – where had she been all these months? His ale was bitter, and that suited his mood just fine.

Marcus had been pressuring him to marry some Cornish noble’s daughter, suddenly an urgent concern now that Geraint was positioning himself for Cornwall’s crown.

“My lord?” It was Errol the Druid. Thom waved him entry. “I’ve just come from Avalon, where Reep has sent the Lady Enide for safe-keeping.”

Safe from Geraint, at least, Thom though bitterly. Would he put her aside, or see her slain?

“Anyway…” Errol was never a confident speaker. “She sent a message. From the Lady… ah… Queen Nura.”

Enide sends a message from Nura? Is this madness – or treachery? “What message?”

“I have read it not.” Errol pulled out a scroll from his robes. Seeing Thom’s disbelief, he added, “Beren and I have just come from Avalon on the Path of Isis.”

What a communications point Avalon could make! Thom recalled that any entrant must exit by the same path he or she entered by, but still messages and supplies could be routed this way. Even the Cauldron, rather than wait for one holy-man to make his way around Britain on his pony. I must mention this to Rokk.

The seal was certainly Nura’s as was the writing, heavily rooted in Cornish local vernaculars to discourage prying eyes.

“Portus Magnus,” he blurted out to an uncomprehending Errol. “Pardon me, Errol, and accept my sincere if hasty thanks, but I must ready my forces at once.”

Two Hundred Sixty

MacKell had led the assault against the fleeing Khunds, even chasing them out to sea in the boats of Khunds too dead to object. But too many were the Khund, and too few were the Angles willing to join the effort. Land-fighters were these, and there was no telling how useful any would be in nautical combat.

Reluctantly, MacKell came ashore, expecting to greet his fellow knights. He found only James, who with Belinant apprised him of the current plans and formations.


“The Khunds not only know of our three-fortress defense, but also of the location of our cavalry stables,” he summarized, having learned of the stealth attack early in the siege of Lindum.

James was a trusted companion, and Belinant a former hostile now seemingly a willing ally. How many ears already know Rokk’s current plan? He opted to keep his own plan to himself.

After his hosts had settled in for the night, he took out his own mount, telling the guards he was lending an extra hand for night patrols.

He rode hard that night, with many miles to go before he could catch Iasmin’s cavalry – yet while also avoiding all the forces that marched with Rokk.

Two Hundred Sixty-one

Dag was happy to be useful, and as Jan’s bodyguard useful he certainly was.

Stealthily, they made their way to and from Rokk’s three main fortresses, going out to each battlefield to tend to the wounded British forces. By night, Jan would administer as many healings as he could without breaking stealth – he had no wish to be relied on, nor to be a target or a prize ot be seized.
Simple wounds were within the power of his own gifts, but he also carried the Cauldron of the Gods, and its ability to heal was far greater than his.

Last week, it was Exeter. Soon, they would reach Lindum. Already, the mobile armies had moved on, and Jan tended to those as best he could given their mobility.

To Dag, there was an inherent irony, as he normally body-guarded the lepress Drusilla. So guarding a healer was something of a change indeed.

He had heard Drusilla was at Exeter, trying to pox the Khunds from the walls above. But her gifts, still never the same since her assault on Tarik’s men, backfired, and she made an entire company of city guards too wretched to fight! She was gone by the time he and Jan arrived, alas.

From time to time, one or several brigands would try their fortunes against the duo, usually along a sparsely settled, wooded section of road. Stony Dag was more than a match for most of them, but upon occasion Jan would have to fend for himself. His latest trick was to create a spoonful of sneeze-powder in each nostril of the ruffian at hand, allowing Dag time to get around to everybody.

Dag slept lightly, and sometimes not at all. Just being around Jan (or was it the Cauldron? Surely they had the same… magickness about them) seemed enough to keep one going for days untold.

They needed that strength at Lindum – the wounded, ill and dying were not here in the tens or even the hundreds – they numbered in the thousands. Wounded soldiers, hunger-weakened citizens, maimed squires… there seemed no end to the suffering.

Here, Jan placed stealth second to getting the task done, and soon word of two mysterious visitors turning up and performing healings was widespread. A mob scene would encourage their quick departure – by invisibility, according to some accounts, so townsfolk learned quickly to restrain their enthusiasms and let the duo proceed as they would, although Dag soon found the desperate hope and blind reverence in their eyes unnerving.

They made their small camp amid the debris of one of the many army camps that littered the fields around the city, but eventually the unfortunate started seeking them out.

“Please. My daughter… she’s got the fevers…”

“…My grandfather. Every night, some devil takes its blade to his innards…”

“…Lost her leg to the Khunds…”

“… Can’t see…”

Jan took each of their requests as respectfully as he could, hether or not he or the Cauldron could do them any good, but soon the city guard would no longer turn them a blind eye. Soon, the local nobles would insist they remain… It was time to go.

One misty morning the line waited for the duo to appear. They didn’t.

“Hello?” One man called into the tent as politely as he could. Within the half-hour, a less patient man stormed in, finding it empty.

“To Londinium? Or to Cadwy?” Dag asked. Both would be military targets, he had heard on soldiers comment.

Jan shook his head. “Brocavium.”

“Brocavium? In Cumbria? But that’s far from the fronts?”

“Aye, so it is. But Wynn’s forces arrived in Lindum yesterday, and I learned of a debt of honour that must be repaid.”

Where you went, so went I. Dag thought. So what did we hear? That some noble’s daughter was ill? That takes precedence over the war?

“And who owes such a debt of honour that it delays us from healing war victims?”

“All of Britain, my friend. All of Britain.”

Two Hundred Sixty-two

Were the armies surrounding Cadwy’s fort larger than those that besieged Lindum? Hart tried to tell himself they were equal forces, but even accounting for woodland encampments at the prior battle, he knew it was not true.

As a friend of the renowned Sir Agravaine (the name Val had yet to catch on with all his old comrades), Sir Garth had welcomed him with open arms, and valued his skills highly. Hart was a cunning scout, and when caught could fight his way through a crowd to return with new intelligence.

The first few Khundish regiments had arrived from the north a mere four days ago, and bade their time on the ridge north of the hill-fortress. Garth was ready to take the battle to them when Genni and Hart arrived the next day with word of a larger attack on its way.

The southern hills’ relay towers offered no signal of Khunds coming from the south, but realization set in when routine check-in flares were unreturned. This second group of Khunds had taken the towers by stealth, and was closer than Garth had dared imagine.

Where are Ayla and Geraint’s forces? Have they already fallen? Garth was beginning to fear the worst.

Reep, already suspecting defense plans were compromised, stayed disguised as an underling and continued his own surveillance – on both Khundish and British forces, especially after the cavalry stables were burned and their guards slain late that night. The attack came after Genni and Hart had delivered word of a similar tactic in Lindum, and guards were tripled. The attack came about from within, Reep pondered. It must have. Khund magicks are not known for being subtle. The new man, Hart, was an obvious target for Reep’s eye.

A mere handful of cavalry – Cadwy’s (and Britain’s) main military advantage in the west – was severely curtailed down to a half-dozen mounts, unless Iasmin’s remaining mounted force was to magickally arrive. The following morning, two days ago, Garth sent Genni to Londinium for reinforcements, hoping Iasmin’s riders would be among them.

The Khunds advancing from the south were in no rush at all, Reep had told him – meaning yet more were on the way. North and south combined, he estimated at least 4,000 invaders already amassed – so far – more than twice the force that almost took Exeter, and about five times Cadwy’s current manpower.

But by mid-day, Hart returned from scouting to report that a large force carrying Garlach’s own banner was coming along the western road – from Exeter? Either a second force had taken the city after most British armies departed, or this army had circumvented the city. Mayhap the siege of two weeks ago was but a ruse, Garth thought. Shall we expect a force from the east, too?

A day ago, that theory was proven out, when Zendak’s South Cymru forces, along with Geraint’s army, had stumbled upon a supply line extending back toward Portus Magnus! Geraint followed its tail toward the sea, while Zendak followed the head, reaching and engaging its back lines the previous morning. The fight yesterday went poorly for the outnumbered Cyrmy, and Zendak retreated around his foes overnight to reach Cadwy’s Fort.

Meanwhile, scouts reported the northern forces continued to grow as well. Have we grown so accustomed to winning routs, that we are unprepared for such a force? Do we have any chance at all of prevailing? With a quick estimate, Garth guessed it would be two or three more days at a minimum before Jonah’s relief forces would arrive.

“Unlike Lindum, we at least have no local populous to defend,” Hart added grimly, as if seeking a bright spot from the thunder-clouds.

Last night, the campfires in all directions became plainly obvious – a clear psychological maneuver. Garth quadrupled the wall guards and ordered complete quiet, so that the sound of any foot on the moat would be heard. Several older knights volunteered to listen at ground-level – below the walls – and despite the danger, Garth could not turn them down. Cadwy’s walls were largely steep hill, and only the tops were recently constructed of proper stone. He held no doubts that a nocturnal assault was the easiest way to breach the defenses.

During the night, untold thousands of Khundish warriors began chanting and drumming, an effort they would maintain for days on end. Garth resolved not to let it have the desired effect on his men, however, and he drilled them so hard that they would sleep through any cacophony.

“They may attack today, and we must be ready. But they will likely try to wear us down over days – they know not our numbers! The battle will come, and we must be ready!” Garth told the troops at first light. “With Zendak’s men, we have the strength to hold on. Reinforcements are en route,” he paused for emphasis. “If we need them.”

Zendak nodded stoically, silently applauding Garth’s projection of confidence – and necessary deception that they were not as helpless as they were. If Garlach knew how few of us there are, he would not bother trying to sap our spirits.

Two Hundred Sixty-three

“We should be in Londinium,” Ayla said resentfully.

“We should be here,” Nura insisted. “If Portus Magnus is not regained, the Khunds have a strategic beachhead to reach anywhere in southern Britain.”

The city, never fully recovered from the last siege, was easy pickings the second time around. British forces moved from putting out one fire before moving onto the next, a system that worked well – but only while its torch-tower system was working. Cut off from the coastal towns, armies were now oblivious to conflicts raging across the isle – or just over a hill.

Ayla’s army was now across an inlet from the occupied city, and across a small channel from the Isle of Vectis. There was no chance of a daytime crossing, and little chance that her supply ships carrying fresh recruits would arrive anytime before tomorrow at the earliest.

She looked over at the isle, sighed, and spoke to a subordinate. “We relocated Kentish Khund refugees there after Roxxius’ attack. Send over a scout, and see if we find any amiable Kentish who would act on our behalf. We need spies, boat-men… and we need a place to look out for our supply ships, ere they sail into Magnus unawares.”

She next regarded an incoming Khundish boat, making its way up the inlet. “Send a scout up the inlet and see what kind of camp the Khunds have there. Even before we take the city, we can cut their lines.”

Ayla next turned to Nura. “Anything else you see us in need of doing?”

“Geraint will come from the northwest, and Thom from the northeast. I see your ships arriving tomorrow, just before evening. I see us making a pre-dawn assault on the city, giving Geraint and Thom the necessary diversions.”

Ayla nodded. Once we take the city, we – not Geraint – will claim victory, and will aide Thom’s forces more than our usurper ‘friend.’

Nura was of a slightly different mind, uncertain which of two outcomes would occur. But either way, in two days time her life would become something very different.

Two Hundred Sixty-four

Sir Lu led only a small force, but they had a great deal of success in defending against the small Khundish landings along both shores of Cornwall. She suspected that these raiders were primarily looking for quiet, out-of-the-way places to stage a large-scale landing, and 10 days ago the number of such landings trailed off. Her men rejoiced the quieting of hostilities, but Lu’s heart held dread – it meant they’d found the landing point they had sought.

Finding no signs of a landing point on the north coast, her troop overnighted at Tintagel before heading for the south shore. King Marcus was accommodating, but almost frenzied – he suspected Sir Geraint had made off with his wife, and was coming for him next. While he was himself fighting a moderate invasion party in South Cymru, it seems, Nura took off for parts unknown, and Nura’s confidante Governal eventually admitted she’d gone to meet with Enide.

“My own wife plots against me!” Marcus raged.

Lu and her lieutenant, Stig, looked to each other, not certain what to say about the monarch’s ravings.

“I… am sure that Queen Nura has no mid to betr-”

“First she looks to my son for affections, and now to that- that- upstart!” He hurled a Greek vase against a wall. Suddenly, he turned to Lu, almost as if noticing her for the first time. “You are at court far more than I. Tell me! Who does Thom spend his nights with? Who owns his heart?”

Lu was taken aback. Everyone knew that he pined for Nura, but had never—

“Mysa,” blurted Stig, regretting his answer as soon as it came out. Marcus tuned his unblinking stare toward him.

“He has kept company with the Lady Mysa,” he said, trying to sound convincing. Everyone is angry with her, and she has shamefully fled. What harm is there in easing an addled man’s conscience?

Lu didn’t like the lie, but found herself going along with it.

By fast-breaking, Marcus was boasting that Thom would wed Mysa, whose claim to Cornwall would be restored, and all would be well. He spoke as if Nura were dead, making Lu wonder how exactly she disappeared, if she did, and by whose hand.

Lu’s troop would depart later that morning, and by afternoon a messenger would arrive, summoning Marcus and his soldiers east, to Cadwy’s Fort.

“After a week, the fort is no doubt lost,” the mad king gleefully proclaimed before his men. “We go to avenge, or to our graves!” Half his men would desert before reaching Exeter.

Two Hundred Sixty-five

“You are most welcome, but your timing is not the best,” Queen Martina greeted the duo. “My daughter is quite ill, and may be near death itself.”

“That is the very reason we are here, my queen,” Jan tried to smile reassuringly. “We are here to heal her, if the Lord permits.”

Only a small force defended Brocavium castle, and all of its residents were holed up in the west tower, the easiest part to defend. The grounds were scruffied up to look abandoned, but Jan and Dag were persistent enough to eventually be welcomed – at swordpoint.

The Queen of Cumbria, her step-daughter and a handful of staff remained because Princess Jancel was too ill to move. Jan gasped at seeing her – and not only for the shade of her flesh.

“She is…?”

“Seven months,” Martina answered. “Right after the wedding, t’would seem.”

Jancel’s shallow breathing was worrisome, and he could feel the illness feeding upon her. No, not just her. He’d healed people as ill as she, but it was difficult, and did not always take. This would surely be complicated by-

“-More than one potion each day,” the apothecary was saying. Jan barely listened. He reached into his bag and pulled out the Cauldron. He would not even attempt to use his own gifts first.

Dag had fetched a carafe of water, and had readied Jan’s sacraments. With a prayer and a blessing, he began.

It was many hours later that he left her side, with a sleeping Martina still holding her hand. Dag was also asleep, in the hallway outside the door, his rocky leg preventing entry or exit without his waking.

Seeing his groggy but questioning expression, Jan smiled. “It is done, my friend. We have done as much here as we can.”

A servant slept on a bench nearby, and he woke at the whispered conversation to lead them to their beds, quietly apologizing for the bunk space in the soldier’s barracks.

“We have slept in many worse places, my friend.”

Martina greeted them warmly in the morning, apologizing for the porridge that the entire castle staff subsided on these days.

“Think nothing of it,” Dag offered. “Many nights our bellies are satisfied by far less than this,” he said, thinking better than to mention the Cauldron’s powers. “T’is wartime, after all.”

“Jancel looks much better,” Martina said.

“She should recover,” Jan said. “She and the baby.”

“Babies,” Martina sipped on her goblet of goat’s milk. Seeing Jan’s confusion, she continued. “Jancel swears she will have twin boys, and she is certainly big enough for them. She has names for them already – Garridan and Galahad.”

“My lady,” Jan struggled for the words. “The Lord has blessed me with certain gifts. Not only can I… perceive of illnesses, but I ken also other bodily healths. I am quite certain she carries only one child.”

Two Hundred Sixty-six

Rokk was less than pleased upon his return to Londinium. Geraint, Thom and Ayla – and all their armies – were not at Londinium as they were supposed to be, Iasmin’s cavalry had been diverted by a new coastal landing, and the city was in a state of near-panic. Too many nearby Khund attacks and too few knights and armies left Rokk’s capital city a bit of a mess, but the presence of King Rokk returning victoriously from Lindum rallied the people once more.

Rokk had far fewer armies immediately at hand than he had against Zaryan, but he apparently had at least a little bit time to try options he and Querl had discussed. Every able body was immediately pressed into service.

Two days after arrival, Genni arrived with word that Cadwy was about to be overrun. He and Dyrk had been strategizing at the round table, and the weight of how much needed to be done was bearing down – not only tasks for Rokk’s new plan, but also ongoing tasks Thom was supposed to see to. Communications were cut, and armies needed were nowhere to be found. On top of it all, Kiritan’s men had just returned from scouting in Khundia, and the troop projections they brought back were nothing short of staggering.

Weighing it all, Rokk could only come up with a single strategy.

“If we rush westward, we leave Londinium wide open, and may not arrive fast enough to turn the tide at Cadwy. I fear Cadwy is on its own,” Rokk reluctantly admitted. Seeing Genni’s disbelief, he added, “Cadwy is a military post only. Here, like Lindum, we have civilians to think of as well.”

He turned directly to Genni. “Intercept Jonah’s forces, and divert them here, where they may make a difference. After that, if you can reach Cadwy, tell them I order a withdrawal to Londinium. Afterward, find the armies of Thom, Ayla and Geraint and bring them here. Londinium is where we shall make our stand.”

After Genni had raced out, he added, “and may God have mercy on us all.”

Two Hundred Sixty-seven

Sir Lu found the Khund landing site just east of Exeter. The city itself was far too wounded to maintain its coastal patrols, so the Khunds had free reign of the coastal bays beyond. A well-fortified camp lined one such bay, and wooden stockades and towers were already going up. Boatloads of Khunds and supplies came ashore within Lu’s short hour of observation.

On the way back at Exeter, she, Stig, Peter and Franz schemed. All their plans required city forces, which Baron Aivillagh was unwilling to part with, fearing jeopardy to the city. He informed them Cadwy was under siege, and it was beginning to look like the war would be lost.

“In all fairness to my people, they have been put through quite enough,” he told Lu and Stig. “If what you say is true and such a Khund holding exists not a stone’s throw from here, then I must realistically begin to consider other options.”

“I understand. You are quite correct,” Lu said, surprising Stig. “I haven’t the forces to do this on my own, so we may as well join the battle at Cawdy. That is, if you can spare a messenger to deliver my findings to Londinium?”

“Of course,” Aivillagh said graciously, although Stig questioned his sincerity – and Lu’s judgment.

They took their leave. Once out of earshot, Lu whispered to him. “I’ll bet you all of Cornwall and half of Cymru that he’s already brokered a deal with the Khunds to spare his city. Once we’re outside the city walls, we break west, as either Exeter or Khund forces will be looking for all our heads.”

“Befaur we gho,” Stig offered cautiously. “Peter ha’ bin seekin an ol friend ‘oo may bhe able to ‘elp.”

That evening, they camped in a secluded coastal cave west of Exeter, and evaluated all the options with the newcomer.

“I don’t like it,” said Franz’ right head.

“What are our other options?” his left asked. “Short of crossing the Dart-Moor, we’re cut off from any other aid.”

“We’ll never make it to Cadwy, let alone Londinium,” Peter said. “Let’s at least do what we can, here.”

“For this to work, we must all play our parts,” Lu said solemnly. We have but 30 men and two women against untold numbers. Perish we may, but maybe, just maybe, we can strike a serious blow.”

Two Hundred Sixty-eight

Despite the fresh troops and supplies, Ayla’s army took severe casualties in retaking the main part of Portus Magnus, but it was all worth it. The Khunds had failed to find the hidden cache of computus aiming devices, nor had they bothered to damage the actual ballista themselves, thinking them worthless.

The city walls were bruised and punctured, but the surviving, hidden city folk stepped forward to barricade them with wood, stone, or anything at hand.

From the ramparts, she could now fire on the incoming boats, severing the supply line and sinking the new troop boats. Moreover, the northern towers could fire onto the inland battlefield, where Khunds still held the western garrison – ironically, the same one Geraint had seized in the first battle here two months ago.

“Most Khundish forces are already inland,” Nura said, “either at Cadwy or en route to Londinium. You need not spend more ground troops, Ayla. Archers and computi will give Geraint’s and Thom’s armies the leverage they need.”

“Good,” Ayla replied. “I’d hesitate to spread my troops so thin, if truths be said.”

From the walls, they could see Thom’s forces nearing the garrison. The bulk of the missile support had been to Thom’s advantage, and Ayla felt not bad at all about that.

Seeing Thom about to storm the garrison outraged Geraint, however, and he had his men make one last push to take the nearby ravine, where they could use the secret entrance he and his men used to circumvent the Khunds laying siege to the garrison.

He led his men don the narrow hallway, and pushed against the door that should open into the kitchen. He shoved. It was solid and unmoving. “It’s been barricaded! Get a ram!”

“Sir?” His lieutenant, Meleagant, looked completely baffled.

“A battering ram! Get one! Now!”

“Sir, there’s not enough room to-”

“I DID NOT ASK YOUR MIND! GET A RAM!”

Somehow, they fit a ram into the narrow hallway, but had no room at all to swing it, not even under-leg.

Geraint would not give up. “Set a fire!” he ordered.
With no where for the smoke to go, he and his men had to exit. Outside, he saw that Thom’s forces had taken the garrison. The Khunds had been finished or had fled. The sounds of combat were replaced by the sounds of cheer, for Thom, for Ayla, and for Rokk.

Geraint fumed. The Breton wench schemed all this to make me look bad.

He opted to seek her out and give her the beating she deserved. This was Rokk’s fault, not to have married her off to a man who could keep her in her place.

“Sir Geraint! My thanks for your aid to-day!” It was Thom greeting him with false modesty. He stepped out from the shade of an ancient oak.

“So, villain! This is how thou greets thy liege?” Thom, too, needed putting in his place.

“Aware I was not that you’d wed my step-mother Nura or my aunt Mysa,” Thom laughed, deliberately enraging the man.

“I AM RIGHTFUL KING OF BRIT- of CORNWALL!” Geraint bellowed. Several of his most loyal followers had gathered around. From above, some of Thom’s men watched.

“Of Britain? Perhaps thou art getting too big for thy britches! And you have yet to win Nura, let alone Cornwall. Fear not. Both are beyond your reach.” Thom knew not from where his words came, or why he was goading the man, but it was beyond his ability to stop himself.

“She will be mine!” Geraint shouted.

“I’d sooner die,” called Nura, now atop the garrison wall. She took a step forward toward the wall as if an affirmation of her pledge.

“So be it. The both of you!” Geraint drew his sword. Thom followed suit.

Both were physically weary of days of fighting, and they circled each other, sizing each other up. Some of Geraint’s men started getting their own weapons out, but a few well-placed arrows from above forestalled them.

Geraint made the first lunge, and battle was joined.

Notes 252-265:

Reminder: Portus Magnus was a major port in today’s Portsmouth/Southampton area, and at this point historically was probably a larger and more important city than Londinium.
252/263: Ayla’s dislike of Geraint wasn’t planned, but I like how it’s worked (Ironically, it came about in complete contrast to court match-making trying to line them up together). I did know Ayla would be on Thom’s side at Portus Magnus, and would figure into what comes next.
253: This is one of those ones that I actually needed multiple drafts. The original was much tamer, but bland. Once I stopped resisting where it could go, everything fell into place.
254: After having relatively easy battles against Zaryan’s troop (if not the man himself) and the rebel kings, the beginner’s luck had to run out sooner or later.
255: Tinya’s new role originated with a scene that just came to me, which I’ve yet to write. It was originally intended for Lindum, but will work better elsewhere.
256: I feel like I’ve been neglecting Laoraighll lately. I’ll have to remedy that.
257/265: This is part that I plotted out over the summer, and later forgot my original central idea. Oh well. What I’ve reconstructed of that should suffice, and with any luck it will all weave itself together.
258: Did Jonah visit the camp? How will that play out in their reunion? Heh, heh.
259: It took me a while to work out how to get word to Thom, since Nura was way off to the west. But Garth would have had time enough before his siege to get Enide to Avalon.
260: I’d initially regretted adding MacKell to the relief forces, but 247 established he was in the area, and chasing the retreat let Rokk and company get the head start they needed.
261: I initially planned on Jan going alone, but that didn’t make sense. This way, I got to explore a few tangents: how could the Grail not be used virtually to the point of taken for granted?
262: I hope this all makes sense. I didn’t want to revisit geography elements covered way back.
264: Marcus has been under a lot of pressure lately. Really.

Two Hundred Sixty-nine

She could not get within leagues of Cadwy.

There were too many patrols, too many enemy encampments, too many risks, and quite frankly after months almost constantly on the run, she was weary. She knew she wasn’t up to usual snuff, and even in top form, she doubted if she could make it through mile after mile of Khunds, knowing full well the eye of the storm would the hardest to breach. I know myself well enough not to pretend to be a warrior.

Instead, she recalled the signal towers – yes, the Khunds had seized them, and likely killed those who manned them, but where they intact? Built of wood, planned to be replaced by stone, they would be vulnerable still, but…

Racing across the southern hills, trying to stay clear of patrols, she found the southeast tower, shattered and splintered into some kind of hut. She opted not to inspect it too closely, else she discovered an occupant. The southwest tower was partially burnt, but still it stood. It was guarded by several Khunds.

Only a handful, and fast she was. She reached for her hunting dirk. Mayhap I am enough a warrior for but a handful? There’s nothing lost for the trying. I hope.

One kneeled, tending a small fire over which a rabbit roasted. Another stood at the tower doorway, occasionally scanning the hillside. But his eyes sought after armour and horses, and Genni was well hidden behind shrubbery.

Two more played with throwing-stones, oblivious to all but snaring each other’s wages. A fifth had gone inside the tower. He could be a problem.

The gamblers felt a sudden breeze just before the standing observer make a gurgling sound, and fell forward, flat onto his face.

“Zorlak! Vas aillen du?” grumbled one. Then they noticed blood spewing from his neck area. “Shiessa!” Their eyes darted around seeking archers.

They stumbled to their feet, and drew swords. One called to the fire-tender, “Olav! Uppen-zee!” But he slowly leaned further and further to the left, eventually slumping into a pool of dark crimson oozing from him.

“Helmut!” the other called into the tower. “Zound der alarmen!” He heard a clattering up the stairs as the pain in his neck registered. His vision was eclipsed with a field of stars and his hands, probing at his neck, were covered in a thick, sticky liquid. The ground rushed toward him and he barely noticed his compatriot reaching the same destination just ahead of him.

“Vas! Vas iz los!” The fifth man looked down from the tower. “Donner!” He reached for his horn with one hand and his sword with the other as the clattering below him became louder.

Enjoying a burst of energy as she’d never had before, stepping under the swinging sword became the easiest thing Genni had done all week, and her eyes were concentrated on the puffed cheeks about to sound air into the hollowed ram’s horn. Unlike the others, she aimed not for the throat but for the mouth and cheek themselves, gouging the Khund’s face before any more than a squeak emerged from the horn.

She had also come at him and impacted so quickly that her momentum carried them both through the fire-damaged wall, and she found herself atop him as they began a 40-foot plummet earthward. Everything was in slow motion, and she had all the time in the world to keep slicing at him, his neck, his sword-hand, his chest, and wherever else whim took her.

There was still 20 feet to go. Would this fall hurt her? No, it couldn’t. She was moving faster than she ever had, shedding blood like a warrior, and loving every second!

She took her time to stand up upon him, bending her knees for impact. It barely registered. She stepped off of him, wondering if she was now fast enough to race past the armies into Cadwy itself? Would her sudden extra speed last so long? No, she sensed, it wouldn’t. Fatigue was already washing into her.

There was no time for subtlety. She had seen the signal apparatus at the top was trashed. There no way to contain a fire to send code, at least in the proper way.

She gathered kindling and small branches, piling them carefully in the base of the tower before carrying a piece of burning wood from the Khund cook-fire. It would take a little time, but the entire tower would make a single flare. While the interior fire slowly built, Genni eyed the tree most imposing upon to Cadwy’s line of vision, and scaled it, carrying a bloody cloak and a length of rope, both liberated from the Khund camp below. Once the tower was engulfed, she only needed to remember the proper signal for Londinium, and hope the fort’s occupants are watching.

She signaled for as long as she could, using the cloak to replicate the opening and closing of the signal lamp as best she could, but realizing the cloak was not big enough to interrupt the view of the entire inferno.

When a nearby Khund unit began coming her way, it was time to quit. She descended the tree, snared the now-charred rabbit from the cooking fire, and did what she did best. She ran, now bound for Portus Magnus.

Two Hundred Seventy

His patience had paid off.

Unseen, L’ile had kept vigil upon the secret compartment, and in the hours before dawn, as he suspected, a suspicious figure stealthed its way for the compartment, from which Tenzil had smelled wyrmweed. Rather than breaching the compartment and potentially alerting its keeper, L’ile opted for surveillance.

L’ile followed the hunched figure through the halls toward the kitchen. The early-morning baker grunted and let the figure in, looking about before she did so in a manner L’ile also took as suspicious. How many of them are there? Is this more of the ‘Dark Circle’s’ doings?

He slowly edged the door open, hoping it would seem like just an aging, creaky door stubbornly refusing to keep closed. It worked.

“The pretendress is already ill. We shan’t need much,” the baker instructed, already reaching to close the door. L’ile stepped quickly to gain entrance without being bumped into.

It would have been too much to hope for, he realized, for the duo to spill all their secrets, but the line “pretendress” suggested these were people who did not approve of the Guinevere myth, so perhaps the Circle was not here.

The hunched figure unwrapped the package of poison, and L’ile could make out for certain that this, too, was a woman – an older woman, like the baker. So the Court of Voxv is not as united as Jeka has told us.

L’ile watched the duo sprinkle the powdery wyrmweed into the sweetbread batter. With the war, L’ile disliked having to see so much foodstuff wasted, but better to stop the poisoners in one fell swoop.

By sunrise, they would be captured and interrogated; answers would be had no matter what it took.

Two Hundred Seventy-one

Berach had met the knight and the elderly king only in passing, and only reluctantly allowed them to travel with his forces. For all he knew, Londinium could be under full siege by now, and while this Andrew could be a mighty ally (even if not all the court trusted him), bringing an elderly man into a battlefield seemed sheer madness.

But the elderly man claimed to have urgent news for King Rokk, and would share it with no intermediary. Prince Pharoxx, leading the armies of North Cymru, objected, but Jonah had placed Berach in command, not Voxv’s nephew.

Andrew held himself aloof from the troops – but not out of nobility or arrogance. The Christians of the troop looked to him as their champion, the one who struck down an evil sorceress and would similarly drive all paganry out of Rokk’s court, while those loyal to Avalon eyed him as threat, a sign of things to come: warriors of the one-god affording themselves license to take the sword to any who disagree with the would-be new order. Andrew tried to be cordial with both, but still comported himself as one with a burden to carry. At his first night’s camp with the troop, Andrew told his new peers that minds and hearts, not swords, must be path by which the Christians should multiply, a stance that satisfied neither side. Berach found fortune that most of his troops cared less for theology than for working against a common enemy.

Dispite his years, King Pellam traveled well; he complained not about the pace of travel, the food nor the camp conditions. The only thing that seemed to ail him were the court rumours from the northwest; Berach found it strange but chivalrous that the old man paid so much heed to the fate of two ill noblewomen so distant from the front lines.

Two days later, Berach’s army intercepted a small Khundish force en route for Londinium; the raiding party had taken out a messenger bound for Lindum, a patrol, and several small hamlets, although most of the residents had the good sense to seek refuge in a defensible villa – Sir Derek’s, as it turned out.

Londinium welcomed Berach’s army with gusto, joining the forces of Dyrk, Kiritan, Cradelmant and the Picts already in residence – how odd that recent Kentish and Angle enemies were now welcome inside the city! Khundish attacks were growing closer and closer, and Rokk was concentrating on defense of the city. Only Iasmin’s cavalry made any significant forays out of the capital, to engage any small forces and facilitate intelligence; too many scouts were vanishing of late.

Rokk received Berach and Pharoxx well, but fumed that Jonah had broken the spirit if not the letter of his orders.

The king was also quite disturbed by the lack of word from Cadwy or anywhere else – had Genni met some foul fate? There were unconfirmed reports of a British victory at Portus Magnus – but why were its armies not returning to Londinium? There was no denying it – the Khunds must have squashed a premature victory.

Unlike Dyrk, Berach was not one of King Rokk’s confidents, he knew. But with a lack of premier knights present, he suddenly found himself regularly in strategy sessions with the pair; only occasionally would Pharoxx, Cradelmant or Kiritan be so welcomed.

The week passed with little or no word, until Iasmin returned – with Laoraighll and MacKell – bringing word that the small raiding parties had ended, and the large armies were en route.

Londinium was about to be besieged by a force that made even the Ulster duo seek reinforcements. Portus Magnus, Cadwy, Exeter… it seemed to all that the British cause was doomed.

Two Hundred Seventy-two

They had fought for hours. Each man was weary, each man was wounded and bloody, and each man was single-mindedly focused on only one thing: the death of the other.

The circle of troop around them taunted and cheered; it was almost impossible to tell supporters of one from the other. Only the ancient oak broke the circle of onlookers. Dialects from all across southern Britain and beyond could be heard, but the two combatants heard not one thing any of them uttered.

“You have nothing to fight for,” Geraint snarled. “Even if you win, my troops will never support you. Your father will still bed your love. You will still be the laughingstock of all Britain!”

Thom was not taken in; there was no going back. Nothing else mattered – not Cornwall, not Marcus, not Rokk, not the Khunds – only killing this fiend and taking Nura somewhere safe, where warriors not politicks would ever again touch her.

“What are you smiling at?” Geraint barked. “You’ve lost your mind, have you?” He charged forward, and swordplay was again engaged.

“I know the outcome of this fight already,” Thom sneered. “Nura has seen it. That’s why I am smiling.” As he said the words, he wondered what Nura had really seen.

“I believe you not!” Geraint sneered, sounding less confident than he tried to portray. Nura was a seer, he knew – what if t’was true?

Thom pushed Geraint back, but Geraint circled about and stabbed blindly; Thom’s sword was tossed aside, but the young knight knew that not – he still felt as if his hand still grasped it.

He swung with all his might, Geraint’s troops laughing as there was no blade to swing. But as if in response to his stroke, a huge branch of the ancient oak, larger than three men put together, broke off. It toppled first onto Geraint’s sword arm and then upon the man itself. Whether the weight of the tree or the impact of his own blade, Geraint lived no longer once he hit the ground, only his life’s blood escaped toward the ravine.

“Sorcery!” shouted some. “Trickery!” said others. The crowd was turning ugly. Even Thom’s troops knew not what to make of what they’d just witnessed.

But none could life an arm against Thom as he picked up his sword and walked from the battlefield. He walked as if in a daze, not comprehending all that had taken place.

Behind him, Ayla and Meleagant tried to resume some semblance of order; it seemed another Khundish force was bearing down on Portus Magnus.

Two Hundred Seventy-three

Garth was grateful; grateful Hart and King Zendak had seen the signal to retreat to Londinium, and grateful that Reep could identify Genni as its sender. But fighting their way out of the fort would be no easy trick, even with a foggy night on their side; his troops had to stay close enough to form a tight flank, they had miles of Khundish encampments to cross.

But now the morning sky was starting to lighten, and they’d made it only a few leagues; moving almost 1,000 men took time and effort. Khunds were assembling against them, and darkness would no longer be an ally. But the Khunds also seemed disorganized – as if they were fighting another force?

By dawn itself, the way ahead was getting easier, as they found Jonah and Genni – along with Querl (!) and a wild-looking beast-man fighting their way in. With Querl in the centre, no Khund seemed able to approach the quartet, a factor which did not seem to stop the other three from dealing with the invaders.

Jonah fought like a demon unleashed, plowing though a half-dozen Khunds at once. Genni, who always claimed to be no fighter at all, moved from Khund to Khund, slitting throats with her small blade before any hand could swing a blade against her. The beat man fought with claws and a feral energy that made even the supposedly fearless Khund wet his garments.
With Garth’s taraunaut and Hart’s neigh-unbelievable fighting ability, the sextet could form a wedge to lead the retreating forces away from the fallen fort, but the army was still badly outnumbered. The now-organizing Khunds had not only cut off and refortified the route that Jonah’s quartet had created, but the emptying encampments could easily match or exceed the pace of the British forces.

They waited for our retreat, for sport, Zendak realized. We have no prayer of escape.

By late morning, despite perhaps a thousand Khund casualties, the British were down to 600. By noon, another 700 or so of the unimaginably plentiful Khunds were downed, while British forces diminished well below 400. Cadwy’s Hill was barely out of sight, and there was no way to break for rations or rest, or to treat wounds. Even the knights were tiring, and there was no end in sight.

Moreover, additional forces were now visible coming from further to the west; an entirely new army, it was clear.

Two Hundred Seventy-four

“Neither of them have poisoned anyone,” Tenzil concluded.

Voxv nodded. “Yet they intended to slay my daughter, th very high queen of all Britian,” the angered monarch regarded his treacherous kitchen employees. “So why does my Guinevere lie ill?”

“She’s not Guinevere!” shouted one of the accused, the baker. An old woman, she had been a lifelong servant of Voxv’s court, although not one sympathetic to the ruse Jeka had worked so hard to create.

Voxv waived them away, dismissing them, perhaps along with his own realization of truth. He sighed.

“So, L’ile. Beren. Tenzil. Are we certain of what they say?”

“Positive,” Beren stated. “We Druids have herb-craft that loosens the mind; lying is all but impossible to those who are not accustomed to them.”

“Could they be accustomed?”

“They did not react as so, my liege,” Beren replied.

“Your daughter was not poisoned,” Tenzil blurted, then regretting his lack of protocol. Beren paid no mind.

“Go on.”

“Queen Guinevere is ill, t’is true. But if t’was poison, I would know. I would smell or taste it, in her food or even from her discharges. Smelling discharges, I mean.”

L’ile vouched for the beefeater’s skills. “He’s detected poisons and indeed many other substances in foods, on weapons, and in almost any manner which one could imagine.”

Voxv’s castellan interrupted the discussion. “Sire? We have word from Cumbria, that the Princess Jancel was inflicted with a similar ailment as the queen.”

“And?”

“…the princess has died, my liege.”

Two Hundred Seventy-five

“So. Balan. It has been a while.”

“Yes, my liege.” Andrew decided this was not the time to inform King Rokk as to his name change.

“You are a murderer. You struck down a lady, a priestess, a friend and ally, the mother of my best knight and of two queens with nary a thought or hesitation.” Rokk’s voice betrayed no hint of emotion.

“…Aye.”

“And with tales of miracles and forgiveness you are back.”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Rokk repeated his reply, slamming an iron vase off the table without raising a finger. Its impact on the stone floor echoed through the hall. “I should run you down where you stand,” he said at last.

“Aye,” Andrew replied. “I deserve no less, truths be spoken.”

Rokk was growing infuriated over the warrior’s acquiescence. A defiant rogue he could understand, and he could have him executed without qualm. Val’s killing of Iaime was accidental, and Val’s penitence made sense; Balan’s did not.

“Truths be spoken, I need every sword-arm I can muster,” Rokk bitterly admitted. “You will serve, and you will kill Khunds. Only thereafter shall I determine your fate.”

Andrew nodded, and was dismissed.

On his way to brief Iasmin and her cavalry, the king paused to check in on the Orkneyman’s traveling companion. King Pellam welcomed him, and they exchanged warm greetings.

“I regret we had not chance for words at Shangalla last fall,” Rokk told him.

“T’was a time you had many duties to attend to. As you no doubt do now,” the elderly king smiled.

“Aye, but for the moment all is well enough in hand that I may do as I please. At least until the next squire mishandles a mare, or another of Sir Lucan’s kitchen boys seek to make knights of themselves by opening the gates to the Khund.”

Pellam laughed. “I well know of what you speak. Why in my day… But you did not come for an old man’s tired old tales.”

“But I did!” Rokk replied with genuine affection and enthusiasm. “One has not far to venture to hear tales of the man who defeated Vortigern.”

Pellam winced. “Much of what is said of Vortigern’s time is but boastful bard tales and oversimplifying what was. The truth is shrouded in the foggy river of time, lost to all but those of us old enough to recall, those of us who were there.”

“I’d like to hear the truth,” Rokk said sincerely.

Pellam nodded. “Many truly believe they do. But truth is a bitter elixir that many like the smell of but few can stomach… and the brewer is tired of being blamed for the bellyache.”

Rokk sighed. “This has to do with Mordru, does it not?” He eyed the old man for a reaction, but received only a muted one. “Mordru was one of the three brothers. If you tell me naught else, please tell me truthfully he was not my sire.”

Pellam was touched by the young king’s vulnerability. The young man indeed resembled the three brothers Uther, Ambrosius and Constans in face and hair and sometimes in intensity, but Igraine’s eyes were almost as hard to resist on the honourable youth as they had been on the wise queen of olde.

“Mordru is not your father. Nor anyone else’s, thank the gods. He was Constans, the first of the brothers to rule Britain. But he ruled poorly, and was poisoned… by a Pict in the service of Vortigern. Or so it is said,” he chuckled bitterly. “Yet Constans was of no mind to lie in his grave. The Christians say he made a deal with their devil. Those of Avalon say he dealt with some sort of a mysterious Dubh Sidhe. In any case, he rallied from death itself, fetched his brethren from exile in Gaul, and enlisted young Beren, then just a boy, to gain Vortigern’s confidence and infiltrate the court.

“But Mordru fooled us all, fooled us all…” Pellam was drifting off, and was soon asleep.

Rokk carefully exited, ordering Sir Lucan to have the elderly king properly tended to.

Pellam would wake in the middle of night and rebuke himself for not sharing word with young Rokk about his sister’s disappearance, but by morning would forget yet again.

Two Hundred Seventy-six

A barrage of arrows rained down upon them. The missile fire was getting closer and of greater intensity.

Franz ordered his half of the small troupe to raise their shields overhead. A head wound would be harder obstacle than taking an arrow almost anywhere else.

They were exposed along the base of the rocky cliff. Sneaking into the enemy camp by taking this river canyon had proven to be just as impossible as Stig had insisted it would be.

Luckily, that was the plan all along. With scouts, archers, and now infantry now focusing on them, and hopefully assuming they were the beginnings of an all-out Cornish assault, both phases of the plan could now bear fruit. As Khunds marched down the river at them, it was time to retreat, to lead their pursuers across the small river and up the opposite ravine, where Stig and Peter’s half of the troupe would be ready on high ground with flaming arrows and other fire-based missiles.

The retreat went less well than anticipated, with Franz losing four soldiers and seeing another six as walking wounded. Moreover a small group of Khundish troops, perhaps a scouting unit, was waiting to intercept them at the river. Why weren’t Stig’s forces firing? Surely it wasn’t too far to shoot? Something else else had gone seriously wrong.

And what of Lu? If this operation had failed – an elaborate ruse to allow her mission to proceed – mayhap Lu was now worse off then they. Franz had never been entirely comfortable with Lu’s role in the plan, but now she was their only hope. His men engaged the interceptors as best they could, but with the main force closing in behind them the battle would be a very short and unsatisfactory one.

Two Hundred Seventy-seven

Aord wandered the palace in a daze.

The halls were largely empty. Every able knight or soldier was out drilling. All but him.

“Winds that sing like a hundred swans!” he shouted at a lone guard, who tried his best to remain unfazed. “Ne’er will the ‘possums dance at Frankish death-feasts.” He sounded almost mournful at the last.

“Go away,” the guard managed at last. “Go away, else I catch your [i]madness.”i/i] The guard distrusted this fool, but Sir Dyrk had ordered that the daft knight would remain until some young monk would arrive to deal with him.

Aord accepted the command and nodded. “T’is a fine night for unripened sweet-rocks.” He meandered down the hall, almost in a dance, turning one last time to solemnly inform the guard one last bit of vital information.

“The knight of Belle Rose still hath not given us his due. Why hath he forsaken us? Is any cubby not unable man his station?” Aord slowly wandered out of earshot. If any in all Londinium doubted that the Manx knight’s mind was addled whilst in the realms of faerie as the tale was already being told, one by one he disabused them of any such notions.

Two Hundred Seventy-eight

“Geraint’s Cornish warriors want your head. You stole the glory he promised them. There is no other way. Go.”

Ayla was quite insistent, and in truth while Thom recently wanted nothing more than to flee with Nura, he now felt like a coward to leave Britain mid-war. The three huddled in hasty talks not far from the corpse of the dead knight. Not far away Geraint’s top men held similar talks. The mood was one of anger.

“Your presence will only serve to keep these armies divided,” Nura tried to sound persuasive. “Your forces will follow Ayla, and Geraint’s will follow Meleagant. Unless we go, Meleagant and Geraint’s army will not ride to Rokk’s aide. Are you really worth more than an army?”

Thom and Nura had easy passage out of Britain thanks to Ayla’s fleet – supply ships regularly went to and from the mainland kingdom.

Thom stepped out of the huddle and announced to all the gathered forces, “I will see Queen Nura to safety in Benwick, and then return,” Thom declared. He next ordered his men to follow Ayla.

Geraint’s men snickered and made comments, some more audible than others.

“I am no coward,” Thom rebutted several of the loudest. “I have fought Khunds the length of this aisle, and have not felt the need to claim credit for others’ victories,” he gestured with a sneer at the late Geraint. “And I shall do so again, with all possible haste. This I swear to God, King Rokk and all of you here assembled today!”

Thom walked back to his camp to make preparations, ignoring jeers and innuendoes from Cornish and west Breton alike. How fickle renown, honour and respect were! Those who hailed him mere months ago were now certain he was the worst form of man alive; never before had he realized how big Geraint’s army had grown.

His own men cheered and feted him, and saw him off in the morning. If Queen Nura hoped at all for consummation of their unspoken love, it would not come while the specter of ill repute still hung over the Cornish knight.

Two Hundred Seventy-nine

The gardens of Voxv’s castle were in full bloom as full springtime weather finally took hold in the Cymru hills. Those who strolled the gardens were generally of a mind not fully appreciative of the blooms, however – almost everyone remained concerned about the very life of the high queen of Britain, both those who truly believed the queen was Voxv’s favourite daughter and those who knew better.

There was hushed discussion of ever new rumour – that the whole southwest of Britain had fallen, that the sorceress Glorith’s ghostly essence was taking the lives of Britain’s young noblewomen in vengeance, that British forces were now in full-blown war with each other instead of aligned against the Khunds… the list went on and on.

Somehow in the lull, the long-absent Princess Jecka had returned home. After spending months holed up in South Cymru, a brave knight named Accolon – one of Zendak’s bastards, apparently – escorted Voxv’s true daughter home. Whether t’was her long absence or the prospect of losing Guinevere (again), even Vovx was putting aside his old grudge and formally if not warmly welcoming home the daughter he’d so often quarreled with.

Luornu found herself alone in the gardens one misty morning. The light rains had just let up and the vegetation seemed particularly lush, almost a glowing green. She’d woken early this morn, hours before the sun, and sat by her friend’s bedside even when the Druids tended to her. For the first time in a while, and for reasons she could tell no other, she truly believed her friend and liege would live. And so would--

“Laurentia?”

It was Carolus, truly appearing as if he’d seen her sister’s ghost.

“No, Carolus. T’is but I, Luornu.”

“I…I am sorry. It is merely that in that gown… at this hour… She and I would meet often in the early hours to wander the gardens of Londinium. I guess I still think of her when I do so. Alone, I mean.”

Whatever pain still lingered from Laurentia’s death, Carolus usually hid his pain behind a jest or one of his bouncy little dances, and it struck Luornu that in all likelihood she was the first to see him without such pretenses.

“She really thought highly of you, Carolus.” She squeezed his hand.

“If only I were a knight, not merely a jester…”

“You made her laugh, and believe in my words, an easy feat that was not. Her sharp or sarcastic words were her veils before the world. You were the only one who could lift them. She nary spoke of any man than you.”

“I… held her close once. Methinks she wanted me to take her, but I… Gods, I am truly a fool. I told her I would seek to prove myself and then seek her hand. Some gallant am I. Laurentia is gone, the queen is dying, the Khund overruns this whole isle, and I am somehow to make light of it all.”

She held herself close to him. “The queen is not dying, she will be well very soon. And we shall win this war. Have faith. The things I have seen… Here, from my heart feel my faith. Let it warm yours.”

The two stood still in the garden for an immeasurable time, arms wrapped around each other.