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Two Hundred Eighty

The very fury of the battles that raged across the Summer-set hills seemed to taint the very sky and land; surely enough blood had been spilt to tinge air itself with a mist of death and destruction? Ravens feasted well that day, night and for days to come; surely never before had Britain seen so many thousands dead in such a short time.

The end of battle came not willingly to neither soldier nor knight alike. King Zendak had easily dispatched 30 Khunds before being felled by a deep gash into his abdomen. Querl tended to him as best he could, employing both his Mediterranean schooling and what local knowledge he’d picked up from the Druids in his time here in Britain, but there was little hope for the monarch. Genni, unused to combat and lacking game to replenish the strength her speed needed, was suddenly overcome by fatigue after slaying some 200 Khunds or more; she was a sitting duck for the blow that would keep her down. Reep, a master at subtle arts, was never the outstanding warrior that others were; he did his part, but was severely wounded rather early on.

Garth, the last of his tauranaut spent and so tired from fighting that he ached more than he drew breath, still fought as valiantly as a score of fresh warriors. But in the end his tiredness intersected with a Khundish lance. The wild beast-man Brin, never accustomed to prolonged combat despite his amazing physique and prowess, matched and outclassed the Khunds for sheer tenacity, brutality and destructiveness. But drawn away from the others and encircled by a sea of combatants all devoted to bringing him down, he too succumbed, yet not without taking at least a score down with him.

Jonah, too, was close to being overcome by numbers. Only Hart held his ground, taking on all comers and winning. Yet their spirits were low, seeing their peers fallen and the remnants of the army either slaughtered or dispersed; the roar of the new wave of combatants spotted hours ago were still approaching as well.

Yet only Hart was still standing when the next wave arrived, and to Hart’s (and Querl’s) surprise, they actually began to pick off the scant hundreds of Khunds still standing – these were Irish forces, not more Khunds as believed – and the heavy losses inflicted by the outnumbered British and fresh Irish turned the tide enough for a partial Khundish withdrawal.

Irish King Coirpre Mac Neill surveyed the aftermath, ordering his best healers to attend to the British heroes he’d come to know and respect. At least some of them would live, but fewer would if they had to be moved. It would be a difficult choice, as the Irish had to be ready for the almost inevitable Khundish counterattack. His reprieve would help save lives – but for how long?

Two Hundred Eighty-one

Kiritan’s and Pharoxx’s scouts had returned with unimaginable descriptions of the Khundish armies now marching on Londinium; it was as if they had adopted Roman formations, weaponry and siege equipment. Behind them, throngs of Khunds followed, no more than a day behind.

With the diligence of an army of beavers, they were building a bridge across the very Thames as well, avoiding Zaryan’s mistake. Rokk weighed the possibility of sending Laoraighll or a small, stealthy force to interrupt construction and burn the pilings, but this strange new Roman-style Khundish strategy meant that more than one surprise could be in store.

The king looked again at the diagrams both groups had drawn and shook his head.

“Those cannot be Khunds,” Dyrk agreed. “T’is impossible.”

“Are you suggesting a charm, a seeming, that Khundish magicks make us see what we most fear?” Berach asked.

“T’is more likely that have allies. The Allemanii are less than pleased with us ere now,” Laoraighll conjectured, reflecting on the executed former monarchs Eva and Lavarrus.

“Agreed,” Pharoxx added. “Their banners I kenned not. They were Roman of a kind, yet not to Rome proper – or the East. They were not any sort of Khund.”

“Whoever it is, they need to be met. Verily we cannot withstand such a force,” Rokk sighed.

“Sire? We cannot surrender to these… these…” Dyrk was at a loss for words.

“Nay. But a truce can buy time for reinforcements,” Rokk said. If any forces arrive from Portus Magnus or Cadwy-”

Berach sighed and looked away. He wanted to believe, but--

But Rokk’s disapproving eyes were now squarely upon him. “Have you an insight to add?” The rebuke was no softer phrased as a question.

“Given the numbers we face, I merely repeat my earlier suggestion,” Berach replied. Kiritan and Pharoxx, just back from the field and unaware of any alternatives proposed, raised eyebrows.

“Truly a last resort,” Rokk stated. “Get me MacKell. He will ride to this new Roman-style army and address them for me.”

Dyrk and Laoraighll exchanged glances.

“What?” The king was loosing patience.

“Sire,” Laoraighll began, “MacKell rode out with Iasmin and her cavalry, and the Pictish warrior Grev, late last night. He said it was on your orders.”

Two Hundred Eighty-two

“What thinketh thou?”

“I shall defeat them all,” jested Palomides, maintaining a façade of sincerity. He and Val stood atop a small hill outside of the city walls surveying the battle formations now surrounding the city. “Tortoises,” he had heard them called, a classic Roman formation of continuous shields above and before the advancing army that moved as one well-armoured beast. Palomides had seen these deployed in Asia Minor and even in Egypt, but they seemed out of place – even out of time – in far-off Britain.

Val was of a like mind; Zaryan’s armies were naught compared to these. Even the descendants of Rome in Britain had lost such a discipline generations ago.

“For what do they wait?” asked Andrew, who somehow felt at home with Val and his newcomers. They were outsiders together, in a way – all were under suspicion, it seemed, even Jonah’s own brother. Nearby, several groups of Picts, who preferred to camp outside of city walls, studied them with a mixture of curiosity and distrust.

“They are spacing themselves for their assault. Their siege towers, troops and cavalry must all move with proper timing, for both overwhelming effectiveness and to inspire the utmost fear,” Hesperos explained. “They would rather spend all day getting formation right in order to win in an hour than rush into combat without everything in its proper alignment. Very Roman, and very much a practice still alive in the eastern empire, where Rome’s ways still live.”

“Since when do Khunds act like Romans?” Andrew asked.

“They don’t,” Val said firmly, never lifting his eyes from the armies. “And if they are waiting for perfection before attacking, mayhap we can prevent them from ever attaining their desired formations.” Val began running, heading for the nearest siege tower.

“Val! Don’t! Already they question us-” Hesperos could see it was too late, and Andrew had begun to follow.

“I jested that I could take them all. T’would seem time to see if t’is so.” Palomides started to follow; Hesperos found no reason not to join in. A sudden cacophony behind him made him glance back; the Picts were stoked and charging as well.

Laoraighll and Dyrk, riding out to seek the enemy commander for negotiation, arrived to find melee already under way. “You’d better inform Rokk,” she said, forcibly handing him the white bear banner, and she set off to join the battle as well. Dyrk was dumbstruck, it was a remarkable display of bravery – but also a quite pointless gesture all of Londinium might yet pay the price for.

Two Hundred Eighty-two

Imra awoke feeling warm but safe. It was not a Druid she saw upon waking this time, nor even Luornu, but rather a young man who was quickly becoming a dear friend and confidante.

“Hello, Jan,” she smiled.

“Hello, my queen,” he returned the grin.

Weeks of fevers made her uncertain – she moved her hands down her body to be sure.

“He is fine, too,” Jan smiled. “Perhaps two months to go. What shall you name your little prince?”

“In truth I know not. Perhaps Grayhme. I feared to carry him this far, else Terminus take my child again. Mayhap Rokk should name him.”

Dag entered the room carrying something. Upon seeing her awake, he blushed and hastily bowed, trying not to spill his vessel.

Imra laughed. “T’is no need for such, Sir Dag.”

Jan took from him the vessel and turned so Imra could see it – it was the Cauldron.

“Would that not be of better service on the field of battle?” She suddenly felt ashamed that her healing must have come at the expense of so many.

“Aye, but t’is necessary to be here to. And with Beren’s aid, it shall be where it is needed rather soon.” He approached, bringing the Cauldron to her very lips. “Now drink.”

Lying to rest again, she partially fell asleep, yet her mind tracked Jan and Dag down the hall where they met Beren; Jan turned the Cauldron over to the elderly Druid.

Dag’s mind was a sea of disappointment; he was far from the front lines and his special mission was now over, it seemed. Beren would take the Cauldron to Avalon, out of his and Jan’s hands.

Jan saw these feelings in all the subtle wrinkles of his otherwise stone-like face; those who knew him not would have failed to see any of them. “It will be good to rest, my friend, and let someone else tend to the wounded. I fear we ourselves are still needed here,” Jan told him.

Two Hundred Eighty-three

Tinya had charged forward, spear in hand, and rushed along with her “fellow” Picts. With Grev missing, a woman named Tiabhaig led her band.

Parallel to her group was a larger band, led by an elder Pict of whom she had previously referred to in hushed reverent voices as Drest – an informal king of sorts, she surmised.

She had liked this attack not; it looked like Val who instigated it – she could not help but wonder: was he leading them into a trap?

She had half expected the Roman formations ahead to be some sort of phantasm – or perhaps even a troupe of civilians cajoled into serving as a distraction or trick. But no; these were trained, skilled, disciplined warriors who stood their ground against the unruly combat of more tribal people; they were truly carved out of the Rome of olde, whoever they were.

The attack went badly, of course, mirroring countless battles between Rome and barbarian over the past half-dozen or so centuries, and soon the Picts were in full retreat. Only a scant dozen, maybe dozen-and-a-half of her band survived. Tiabhaig did not; her last act was to try to re-rally the various Pict bands toward and opening Val seemed to have made. The move had been for naught; eventually Val’s men – and later Val himself – soon retreated as well. Apparently with his urging even the nigh-undefeatable Laoraighll too followed.

Was Val’s attack truly a warrior’s spontaneity? An attempt to derail diplomacy? Or merely a squandering of warriors, resources and morale? It was a huge setback for the British, intentional or not.

With even Picts seeking safety within city walls, Tinya recruited several Picts to join her for cover so she could come in close proximity to Val, to listen in on his remarks to his peers.

But whatever he might have said, nothing was as surprising as the mischievous grin on his face.

Two Hundred Eighty-four

“Your friend slew my lord, and you let him escape. My army stands in tatters, demoralized. Why should we aid you?”

“Are you so loyal to a dead man that you would let Britain itself fall?” Ayla was furious with Meleagant. “Why were you even fighting at all, if not for all of Britain?” She turned her attention to Meleagant’s troops.

<span style="font-size: 20px;">“King Rokk has fought for all of Britain. So have I. If any of us – ANY OF US – are to bring our local feuds into the very war for Britain’s continued existence, then we were all long lost before any of us picked up the sword!

“I care not who preferred Sir Thom and who preferred Sir Geraint. Each of them vowed to follow King Rokk, as did I. Both of them vowed to stand with the rest of Britain to defeat the Khund, as did I. I intend to honour my vow and theirs, and ride to Londinium, where mayhap, mayhap, we can win this war as a united isle!

“If you flee and find yourself overrun this fall or next summer when the Khund reaches your doorstep, ask not why no one rides to your aid – IF you spurn the call to stand together today. If we have one chance – ONE CHANCE – to keep our isle, our lands, that chance is now!

“Who’s with me?”</span>

The Armorican troops cheered, as did Thom’s, while Geraint’s murmured and looked nervously amongst each other.

<span style="font-size: 20px;">“WHO’S WITH ME?”</span> Ayla called again. The same results came, although even more robust, even from within a minority of Geriant’s troops.

<span style="font-size: 20px;">“Who’s with US?” </span>Meleagant called out, stepping close to Ayla in endorsement. With all doubt removed, the three armies cheered together – although cautiously; only a handful of Geraint’s hardliners drifted away – in numbers one could count on but few hands.

Amid the cheers, Meleagant kneeled in homage to the queen of Lesser Britain. “We shall ride on your command, milady.” There was bitterness layered within the resignation he offered, but he truly did want to march on Londinium as much as she – if for slightly different reasons.

Two Hundred Eighty-five

“What do we do with her?”

“She’s comely enough, but I’ll not touch her in such a state.”

“She must be with child, then.”

Lu was grateful they would not touch her; proximity was enough.

Disguised as a camp woman, she made her way around the troops, a mixture of Khunds and mercenaries. Most of the troops were out chasing her troupe; a smattering of guards, cooks and boys remained to handle duties, supplies and mind both camp and the harbour. No one questioned her coming and going; by the time the troops arrived she would be gone, but the entire camp would be infected.

Every attempt of late by Drusilla to infect foes had backfired, but she could easily infect a friend, who in turn could infect others. Now the only trick would be to survive the pox herself.

Two Hundred Eighty-six

“Greeks?”

“Aye, my liege. Macedonians, at least. Of a place called Dyrrhachium.”

“Allied with the Khunds?”

“So Hesperos tells me.”

Rokk was rather annoyed with Val just yet, for the reckless attack – and defeat – just as the king had hoped to make contact. But yet Val and his men had returned with some interesting scouting information.

Taking the silence as a good thing, Val continued. “Macedonian mercenaries were a valuable stock in Rome’s armies. Undisturbed by the Goths since Rome’s fall, the Macedonians of Dyrrhachium still train as Romans, and hire themselves out as a compleat mercenary army.”

“And how do barbaric Khunds come across such an ally, even a paid one?” It still did not ring true.

“Hesperos identified their banners, and even recognized some of their field commanders. They serve a lord of an Italian prince, it seems, or so their banners suggest. It… makes no sense to me, my lord. Yet… they merely defended their lines. They did not attack back as I expected.”

“So you pulled Laoraighll off ere they changed their minds,” Rokk sighed. He wanted to believe Val, but knew not his man Hesperos. Querl was not here to vouch for the accuracy of this news – if he could. Rokk had no choice but to hope Sir Dyrk could make contact with the opposing general despite the impromptu hostilities of late yesterday afternoon.

“Greeks and Khunds…” he pondered, dismissing Val. “Italians. Lavarrus’ people? Venetians?”

He had none of his thinkers to talk with – Querl and L’ile were in Cymru, Reep was at Cadwy – Cadwy! Did his foster-brother yet live? Imra, Mysa, not even Beren were at hand. He had none of his strategists, none of his magick-users, none of his mightiest warriors (save Laoraighll), none of his cavalry, and only a fraction of his troops. It looked good not.

That the Greeks… Macedonians – whoever they were – waited for something was worrisome – they broke ranks not even to dispense with a small, rowdy, unthinking attack.

Slightly before noon, Sir Dyrk returned and reported. The king dispensed with formalities and had the knight deliver the news with an economy of words.

“I met him. Garlach.”

“And?”

“And… he has offered us one hour to surrender.”

Two Hundred Eighty-seven

Peter expected death several times over in the past several days.

First, Khunds had taken his and Stig’s small archer band by complete surprise. They were captured, not killed in retaliation, because they’d failed to take out a single Khund attacker, no doubt. Franz’ group was similarly captured almost as easily.

What a pathetic force they’d been! The Khunds laughed at them, tortured them. Franz had been made a brutal example of, one head at a time. How one head had shrieked while the other gazed on in fear…

Ach, Poor Franz…

By the next day, the entire camp, prisoner and invader alike, were united in misery. Retching, defecating, moaning… the camp was one big death-watch; Peter could only take satisfaction that his imminent death had meaning – Drusilla and Lu’s plan had worked, even if the rest of the troupe were unintended additional casualties.

At least one Khunds blamed the pox on the newcomers – correctly, but not in the way he guessed – and took out his displeasure with a blade on the nearest captives he could reach before passing out. Peter had watched Stig inch his way to that Khund and use his own knife against him so as not to allow a repeat occurrence; through the night Stig used the blade to free the surviving prisoners – some 18, all told – in the pre-dawn hours the troupe made their way back towards the river, shivering and retching the entire way.

Among the first to reach the small river as the early morning mists were barely starting to replace the veil of night, Peter washed the fresh water into his mouth, and wiped clean his face. The caked vomit did not voluntarily give way, and Peter had to rest himself between efforts. The water-polished rock that served as his cushion was not unreasonably uncomfortable, and the water flowing against the back of his head was relaxing. All around him, his men gasped and aahed as they reached their own stretch of stone-beach riverfront, yet behind him he could hear the cries of two or three who could not muster the strength to reach water…

…Peter awoke with a start – he’s passed out! It was still early in the morning, and most of his crew were resting, whether fitfully, spasmatically or a few even peacefully, only occasionally retching or gagging; the two or three behind them had made no progress.

Feeling responsible and even refreshed, Peter tried to stand; his woozy stomach and blacksmith-pounded head openly rebelled. Still, he was strong enough to walk on all fours back to the stragglers, and even opted to carry some water in his helm to them.

He’d reached the first one, at which time he realized no less than five had given up before reaching the river! He could not aide them alone; he’d just decided he’d have to call out for help – when he heard them.

Hooves.

Heavy warhorses, from the sound of them, riding with Purpose.

Neither Peter nor any of his men were in any shape to defend themselves, let alone fight. Were they easy pickings?

He froze still, hoping none would be looking out in the riverbed. Long-distance patrols might not have even known there had been captives at all – dare he hope? Yes!

Yes, there were sounds of combat back at the camp. Who fought whom was not knowable, but Peter hoped and prayed that allies of some sort had intervened. The brevity of the combat suggested the losers had been those who were ill – even returning Khundish short-distance overnight patrols should still be ill, too.

After cessation of combat, voices called down to them – in Cornish! Peter responded as best he could, and soon riders were on the riverbed with them.

“Doo’n git too close,” he warned them.

“King Marcus sends his greetings,” the rider responded.

So th’ old loon ha’ re-netted hih’ wits, Peter mused.

Soon after, he heard Marcus’ own voice. “Greetings, friends. I suspect this plague was your doings. Then you should know you’ve succeeded in disabling the entire western Khundish front. Khunds and mercenaries from here carried the pox all the way to Cadwy’s Fort.”

“Whe’ve woon?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not yet. We have reports that the Irish reinforcements were defeated at Cadwy, and many Khunds were already marching for Londinium ere the pox could be delivered up-road.

“Rest, friends. I have sent for care-givers from yon villages. The war is over for you, I fear, but my men and I have much yet to do.”

Two Hundred Eighty-eight

The fields were now thick with barleys. Any field unplanted this season was still a lush green, a remarkable difference from the white blankets of snow during her last walk out here. But that was a winter’s night; this was a summer-like daytime, and her companions were not fear and necessity but hope, friendship and a sense of completion of sorts.

The old Roman gate gave way begrudgingly with rust and disuse, and by order of the king the field beyond is never sown nor grazed. Even the old cart-path is all but overgrown.

No Cymry come here save with Voxv’s permission, and none dared fish here no matter how their bellies might rumble and gurgle.

Imra turned to the guards. “You may wait for us here,” she told them. They looked yet uncertain. “Recall that your liege, my father gave us permission to be here, not you.”

Imra led, Jan followed, and soon they were at the small lake.

“On some level, he must know, else this acreage would not be so taboo,” she commented.

Jan nodded. “T’is not an easy thing, to let go of an innocent beloved one is responsible for.

“Where is it?” The monk looked along the shore; there were only reeds, spider-webs and a few odd lily pads.

“The shore t’was not seeming whence last I here trod, but I shall surmise…” she took her time to gage the angle of trees and the length of the field, “right there.” She pointed out toward a spot just to the far left of the lake’s centre.

“My Lord, Imra! If Voxv’s words are true, that spot is three men’s height in deepness. Even on February ice, you could have perished with ease!”

“Aye. T’was a risk I thought well warranted.”

“Because of this… Terminus?”

“Aye.”

“Did you know of the life you carry whence you did this?”

“Nay. I knew several things were amiss, but could not place all of them.”

“Yet you risked them all – and yourself.”

“Aye,” Imra did not let Jan’s rebuke bother her; he meant well – and he didn’t know Terminus. “Do you sense him?”

Jan relaxed and let his hands flow in the air like a leaf on the lake. “There’s… something.”

Imra nodded. “I made peace with Guinevere. Now she looks after my prisoner for me.”

“If this Terminus truly is a being as you describe, can he be so imprisoned?”

“Yea and nay. In Avalon, we are taught that the gods are all aspects of the same god and goddess, but also that each aspect in turn has its own aspects. The Morrigan that is MacKell’s nemesis may not be the same one that Maebhain invokes, at least not exactly. This is the Terminus that has plagued me, and as he himself is all about limits, I have used his own ways against him.”

Jan was not certain what to make of this.

“I fear that your Terminus is but a deceiver who will find a way to squirm from any trap. May I pray for you, that you may receive all the wisdom you may need, else this… solution proves to be… incomplete?”

“You may,” Imra said with a smile. All was right with the world; surely across the isle even the Khunds must be withdrawing in the light of the British gods’ bounty.

Two Hundred Eighty-nine

Garlach’s ultimatum had come and gone; almost immediately the cavalry stables were up in flames – just as Rokk had expected and even allowed for. Only the top officers knew that Iasmin and her cavalry had disappeared with MacKell, but Rokk had words spread to the contrary – hoping the loss in morale would be equaled in the benefits of surprise – if Iasmin kept her part of the mission.

The first wave were Khunds, the lead group of the massing armies that had caught up to and bypassed the Mediterranean formations. No doubt that Khunds would not think it seemly to let foreign mercenaries strike the first blow. Khunds poured out across the plain on both sides of the Thames, scaring the outside-of-wall British formations back in. They also unleashed a battery of catapults, pelting rocky projectiles at wall and city while Khund soldiers below barraged the upper walls with arrows and spears and charged with siege ladders to scale the walls. The British defenders repelled this first wave, but not without casualties; Rokk had deployed a significant percentage of the recent recruits on the wall, saving more seasoned troops for the presumed Macedonian threat still looming.

The Khunds partially retreated to new camps, camps now being set up to encircle the entire city just out of arrow range. It was dusk and they’d scored some blood; there was reason for celebrations in the camps that night, yet the drums and chants spoke more in anticipation of what was yet to come.

The Khunds had done all this under the gaze of the British – from Londinium’s walls – and from without. Meleagant’s scouting party lay watching from a hill, just southeast of the city, and Ayla’s advance guard, several hilltops south of Londinium, the safest close point, had been waiting for both darkness and for the Khunds and Macedonians to separate. With this accomplished during the initial Khundish assault, Meleagant approached the Macedonian commander while Ayla led a Cornish archer to a point as close as she could manage to the city walls, and fired an arrow with a message to the nearest captain. There were many Khundish encampments here, at the point where the south shore faced Rokk’s palace across the Thames, and faced the portion of the city that lies on the Thames’ southern shore to the immediate west; getting in and out was a challenge, even at dusk.

An hour after sunset, still sneaking back to camp, Ayla saw the signal tower message meant for her. She couldn’t help but smile. Rokk would soon be awaiting Meleagant’s signal as well.

From a parapet below and away from Rokk and Dyrk and their signal flare to Ayla were Val, Andrew and Laoraighll. They watched the Roman/Macedonian war machine begin what initially appeared to be a slow advance… but understood not that only certain units moved forward, while others went to one side or another… it was forming one massive square, not a line of blocks? Despite the sheer sea of campfires and torches, the silhouette of the massive war machines made them hard to estimate. Only Rokk and Dyrk above them knew the significance of that. Or did Val? His smile seemed to be a knowing one.

Khunds drummed and chanted for battle, but despite the posturing the Macedonians advanced not. A Khund entourage – perhaps with Garlach himself – rode to meet his Mediterranean allies, but soon left in a huff. The British observers already had known what the Khunds were only now learning – the night assault was off.

This Roman-seeming army had not been hired by the Khunds, Ayla knew. Garlach had been practical to accept their aid, but in his zeal has fooled only himself.

Would the Khunds have launched a full attack that very night? Aye, Alya thought, they would have. They hunger for this attack in their very marrow.

The attack postponed, the Khund lines continued grow thicker as evening progressed, but without the Macedonians they still not measurably worrisome on their own. The rest of the main forces would continue to arrive overnight. The Macedonian army still held the new bridge, but allowed Khund passage over it, allowing the Khunds who had marched up the southern side of the Thames access to what was shaping up to be the main battlefield.

Yet the hills of the south shore offered a strategic view for the visiting commander. Garlach, it seemed, had set up camp at the hastily-abandoned Temple of Isis, on a hill immediately across the Thames from Rokk’s very palace. From here Garlach could see the signals of Rokk and Dyrk, even if he did not understand them. But he knew something was amiss; he tripled his scouts – Rokk might have an army outflanking his men from behind.

Yet using her Kentish spies, Ayla knew the Khund’s counter-move almost as it was announced.

Two Hundred Ninety

It was quite the reunion, comrades-in-arms gathering on the very hour of battle, many of the very swords Rokk prayed would be on his side. Yet even that silver lining seemed to curry little favour in the grand scheme of the battle.

With south-shore Khunds redeployed, seemingly distracted with some sort of night battle just beyond the first ridge, the British relief army could enter the southwestern gate with little opposition. North-shore Khunds encircled on the city’s far western side could do naught but gape, taunt and jeer, although a few archers attempted to amend this deficiency.

King Rokk himself came to the gates to welcome the survivors of Cadwy’s Fort: Garth, Jonah, Hart, Genni, Querl, Brin, Zendak, and Reep, all alive and well, even if with far fewer troops than any of them would have liked. Pict, Kentish and Berach’s armies had all chomped at the bit to help break the lines to admit the new allies, but this proved unnecessary. Morale soared, especially as the young maiden Brin escorted began her duties. Dindrane was her name; she carried the Cauldron of the Gods itself, and set about healing Londinium’s wounded as if she’d done nothing else all her short life. She was a ward of the Priestess Isle, no more than about 10 or 11 years, who had relayed the Cauldron from Beren in Avalon to the Cadwy battlefield where she helped to heal the wounded, else the arriving Cadwy army would have numbered in the teens, not in the 200s.

As soon as t’was convenient, Rokk pulled aside Garth, Jonah, Genni, Querl, Brin, Zendak, and Reep. Hart was Val’s man, and not ready to know the king’s mind, and Brin required no excuse; he was still at Dindrane’s side. With their first full war council since Lindum, the presence of so many comrades-in-arms that had already been through so much in most of their short lives, the spirit that this assembled brotherhood could take on the impossible odds, and just maybe win.

Reep and Querl were impressed by the plan Rokk outlined, but Garth of course disliked hearing of his sister already engaged in such a dangerous ploy. But the hour was late, and there were no alternatives; the counter attack had to commence before the dawn put the sun right in the British forces’ eyes.

The Macedonian war machine sat still, unmoving but vigilant, yet very ominously as well. To Khund and British soldiers alike, it seemed a threat, a third side, and an unpredictable mobile fortress on a field of battle already of the highest of stakes.

Two Hundred Ninety-one

King Marcus rode cautiously; he’d not risk himself or his men to catch the very pox intended to stem the Khundish invaders.

There was little Khundish activity along the once- bustling supply route overland from the southern Cornish shore toward Cadwy and Glastonbury. Marcus’ men had not a difficult time with mopping up, setting bodies afire and counting the dead. It was quiet, too deathly quiet for any war the middle-aged king had seen thus far.

Nearing the coast, he came across combat. Exeter city forces were finishing off a newly landed Khund force, far smaller than all those who had come before. The war had shifted east, it seemed – for now. Rumours of Aivillagh allying with the Khunds were either untrue, or the crafty city nobleman had blown with fairer weather; his mighty northman Sugyn was now taking on an entire Khund brigade single-handedly, and winning.

Was it a turning tide? Or merely a calm in the storm?

There was naught to do here; Marcus turned his forces to follow the coast east. Exeter and Portus Magnus might not have been the only beachheads; it was time to try to secure all of the western shores.

Two Hundred Ninety-two

It was hours before dawn and Londinium burned.

Not all of it burned, but catapult after catapult of flaming oil barrels sailed through the air, hitting roof after roof. Alternately hurled boulders devastated the city’s buildings, and occasionally the troops lining the streets in silence. The populace hid in basements, in temples and even in the great hall of the palace, silently trusting the miraculous young king that had done so well for them time and again.

Yet still Rokk held back his forces.

Darker and darker it became; the moon was more and more cloaked by cloud. T’was a drizzly night, yet not drizzly enough to dampen any fires where oil had not spread.

The drizzle sometimes increased into a full rain, yet other times cleared entirely. Scouts reported that Khund siege machinery was being set up, even if more primitive than the Macedonian units still standing far a-field, lit up by the light of bonfires but moving not.

The southern-shore Khunds, previously distracted by Queen Ayla’s armies, were now back in position, battering at the gates of the city’s southern gates just as their peers were beginning on the north.

Soldiers and warriors of armies from across the breadth of Britain filled the city streets, waiting silently, polishing swords, chewing on hard-tack, and waiting for the orders. Fiery balls of oil occasionally hurled overhead, sometimes hitting a building, sometimes hitting troops.

Yet still Rokk held back his forces.

Had Garlach retired for a brief pre-morning rest, secure in the temple chambers? With Ayla’s offensive repelled and yet hours before a dawn assault, was there reason not to so rest? Surely there would be no fighting before early morning; Rokk had proven he was not able to muster a counterattack this eve.

One can imagine, this holy refuge built by emissaries of the East in a time when Rome ruled all, now occupied by the most barbaric of peoples imaginable. What rest would the matronly goddess of the Nile offer her guests? Did they hear voices of the past, mad spirits trapped in a dark causeway between worlds? Did they not hear the grunts and whinnies of nervous horses, hushed whispers of young men eager for combat? But what had that to do of ancient goddesses?

Amidst a Khund in a war zone, those sounds might have come from anywhere; they might be a trick, even. For hours and hours, they lingered in the background, ghosts drifting in from some distant past, perhaps, or merely from across the river or elsewhere along the lines.

In the dark of a cloudy night, in the temple of a foreign goddess, no Khund nor sleeping warlord nor well-meaning sentinel could notice the slight dark mists emanating from a singular stone archway; it so gradually grew thicker that the guards barely noticed how hard to see their very torches and campfires were becoming.

Nor did they notice the small, dark, lithe Picts almost swimming through the darkness; by the time they felt the prickle of bronze blades in their sides and tight little hands clogging their mouths, it was too late.

That Garlach awoke with a start is no exaggeration; the horses pouring out of the same archway at the temple’s centre was too much to ignore. That a Moorish woman rode an Iberian stallion onto his very bed could not fail to be a surprise; that her mace ended his rude awakening so quickly insured there was no audience left to maintain a state of being surprised, at least not in here.

Grev’s dark mists, which kept Iasmin’s riders and his warriors from being tormented by the otherworldly visions of fear that inhabit the unearthly corridor beyond the archway, were now being directed to the outer camps still unaware of the breach. MacKell, who had instructed him how to keep the bainsidhes at bay, rode with half Iasmin’s cavalry out the eastern doors and she led her half out the west.

With a Pictish whistle, the palace towers woke with fury. Khundish camps outside of arrow range were still a target for computus ballista bolts carrying flaming payloads of their own. Archers rained down their missiles upon the Khund armies gathering below. Hot oil embraced those battering the gates with a scalding embrace.

Armies throughout the streets were roused; Pict, Kentish Khund, Angle, Elmetian, Cyrmy, Cumbrian, Lothian, Orkney and Scot alike poured out of the walls in fury.

Picts led the charge out the southeast gate. The Khunds there were now sandwiched between Iasmin’s cavalry and the city armies, with nowhere to go but into lance-point, spear-point or the Thames. Cumbrian forces waded into the southwestern front, where they sandwiched their opposition between themselves and Ayla’s Armorican and Cornish armies returning from feigned retreat. Meleagant’s army did the same with MacKell’s cavalry. Querl specially calculated an array of computi for a longer shot than he’d ever tried before – bombarding the makeshift bridge with bolts of fire. With the eighth bolt, he scored a hit; by the 20th, enough different points were hit and burning that it was a lost cause.

As other city forces poured north, Coipre mac Neill’s army to the northwest and the new, fresh Manx army of Urien of Rhyged achieved similar results, thus completely outflanking all the Khundish forces.

The Macedonians moved not, nor broke ranks, but merely repelled any attack upon them; as the first lights of morning started to become visible, the siege machines were lowered and the force started moving to the south – slowly, cautiously, and almost imperceptibly, but eventually displacing combat around them.

Two Hundred Ninety-three

After the third hour of fighting, the sun was rising into a bleary-eyed sky. Khunds seeing for the first time how few of their numbers remained were began to flee in serious numbers, or else surrender.

Yes, there were still some ancillary armies advancing toward Londinium, but the tide was turning; the momentum was firmly on the British side and by early afternoon the Khunds were on the run. Some ran into the hills, and would no doubt try to blend into Kent, but for today they were defeated.

Without Garlach, a series of generals attempted to assert control, and a few did achieve some minimal results. The southern units had been more completely dispatched, but with heavy costs to the forces of Ayla, Meleagant, the Picts, and Winn’s Cumbrians, even the victorious were much fewer in number. On the north shore, several Khund generals did organize a retreat of sorts into the hills.

Rokk immediately set about pushing afterward and achieving complete decimation rather than see them return in a few seasons. Urien, the would-be king of Rhyged, had the most intact army, and proudly acquiesced to be the high king’s main force. Londinium was left in the care of Garth and the Irish, the second-strongest army present.

Despite the victory at Londinium, Rokk’s decision was not universally hailed – almost every British unit had already been pushing beyond all reasonable strengths to get this far, and many soldiers were now collapsing in relief and exhaustion that the battles appeared to be over. That Rokk was proposing to march on with the last truly full-strength unit seemed like a mighty large risk to even his closest supporters, yet he was adamant that the Khunds must be completely routed now; no suggestion that the British forces had reached their limits must return to Khundia.

Rokk pressed on. With Laoraighll, MacKell, Jonah, Iasmin’s cavalry and the Manx force, the British further trimmed the Khunds’ numbers along Gertus’ Hill, even more so at Llanghleigh Hill that evening, and relented not until severe nocturnal storms made both sides pause and seek respite. A morning battle on a plain of the north Thames was long and indecisive, as drizzle gave way to heavy rains, and Khunds retreated to a nearby hill.

But over the night, the rains let up on the hill and its eastern sides. Rokk’s army was unaware, but a new and fresh Khund army, perhaps the last of the actually landings, had bolstered and rallied the Khunds; this hill would be their stand. Rokk’s own armies, weary themselves from combat, and been marching and fighting on the adrenaline and euphoria of victory; he’d need more than that for this one last battle.

Two Hundred Ninety-four

Garth was quite surprised to receive Tinya’s field report, but Reep confirmed what little Rokk had the chance to tell him. All three were glad Jonah was with the king, and could not act on behalf of his suspect brother. Agravaine – Val – had seemed even less of Lot and Morgause’s ways than Jonah, yet something had been amiss; the Khunds had known the importance of all three fortresses, the exact location of all three cavalry stables, and how to breach all three fortresses well enough to take the stables out; only MacKell and Iasmin’s deception had turned the tables at Londinium.

Several scrolls had seen seals broken; all were in close proximity to the pilgrim knight and his peers – one had been carried by Val himself!

Val had also led the foolish attack on the Macedonians, yet gleaned valuable knowledge in doing so. A ruse, a saving of face?

There was no way to know but to follow the knight as discreetly as possible; Tinya, Reep and Saihlough were the natural choices here.

Was Reep at all surprised to see Val rise from the barracks in the thick of night, and make his way to Querl’s workshop? Tinya felt both vindicated and sick to her stomach upon hearing the crash of glass and the shattering of wood that came from behind those doors. She and Reep burst in to find Val and Hart engaged in fisticuffs, and all of Querl’s creations and equipment had paid the brutal price. The two whirled faster than Garth’s swordplay; occasionally one of them would call upon the spectators to intervene, and call the other a traitor and saboteur.

Saihlough returned in short order with Garth, Dyrk, Brin, Grev, Ayla and Berach; between the lot of them the victor, not matter how fast, would not escape.

With the last piece of Querl’s latest device smashed beyond recognition, Hart seemed to stiffen, and Val’s blows sent him cascading along the floor.

“Val? Why did thou hit me?” He seemed to be truly baffled, and struggling to gather his bearings.

Val let up not. “Thou thinks ye can foole me, Hart, after I on my word let you into Rokk’s kingdom? Are these your ‘evil spirits’ of your past, then, that make you betray our confidences?”

Hart went pale, and stopped trying to block blows. “Verily, I thought I had banished my demons. D-do with me as thou wills.”

Val hesitated slightly; his final blow came with less force than it might have, and Hart survived.

“What trickery is this?” Val asked over the unconscious Hart.

“You tell us,” Garth said with a stare. “I have seen Hart fight the Khunds with a fervour unmatched by yourself,” he said. “Who am I supposed to believe is employing trickery?”

It was Val’s turn to gape, seeing his comrades all looking upon him with suspicion. He had assumed Rokk’s doubts would fade, once he found out which of his men was the traitor-

“Agravaine speaks truly,” Saihlough said. “T’was Hart who was already destroying Querl’s work ere Lothian’s son arrived, and he truly fought the Scythian to stop his villainy. Yet Hart’s very colour of spirit shifted at the very end.”

“Meaning?” Garth still wasn’t convinced.

“Meaning the ghosts who haunted Hart’s past are done with him not, despite his time in Nanda Parbat,” said Palomides, a newcomer onto this night’s drama. “Just as we warned him.”

Val nodded. “I feared as much.”

“Perhaps,” Garth said, still soaking it all in. “But both of you shall be donjoned until the queen returns, that she may find the truth in your words and hearts. And Palomides, Hesperos and the Princess Jecka are forbidden access to you two until such a time, so that any spirits or mischiefs of any kind will be allayed and none may doubt allegiance.”

Reep nodded. “I am sure my brother will agree, and I shall support Sir Garth’s decision in counsel.”

Val smiled half-heartedly. “I cannot fault the wisdom, even if I’ve no love for cells. So be it,” he said, letting himself be led off in irons.

Two Hundred Ninety-five

The Khunds began to pour down the hill like a fury unleashed; this was no cornered animal but rather a foe that had come to realize just how much British forces had been strained to achieve the victories of the past few days.

This was a force enlivened by a certainty that the tide against them was a fluke, one easily rectifiable. Moreover, with their new and overwhelming numbers and energy compared to the British would-be mop-up unit, Rokk too recognized a shift in the wind. The war might not be ending as he and his knights had believed but two nights before; news of a Khund victory here could easily re-rally the retreating invaders elsewhere.

Rokk had Urien’s army form a united line, but be ready to break into a V shape, letting the advancing Khunds think they were successfully plowing and dividing the British army. The Manx forces would slowly back down the hill onto flatter ground, where the Khund advantage was not so great; the western flank would then break into a run, and pursuing Khunds would run straight into Iasmin’s advancing cavalry on flat ground where her troupe would be most effective.

Although with many victories already under her belt, for Iasmin this was a critical test – never before had her riders, her leadership been so critical to a single battle. If she had ever doubted her role in battle, it showed not here; all her lobbying to be allowed command, not just being a cavalry trainer, had paid off. This was the moment. This was her moment, even more so than waiting in Grev’s darkness amid a sea of screaming spirits on the Path of Isis, waiting for the signal to strike at Garlach himself.

The fleeing Manx west line ran straight at her, and she ordered her charge. On cue, Urien’s men broke to either side and resumed their stance against their pursuers, who were now themselves running into lancepoint, and Khundish line crumbled into chaos. Iasmin relished the surprised face as her lance impaled a particularly large, barrel-chested Khund; the impact of his weight on her lance sent a shiver of dreadful exhilaration up her arm and from thence up and down her spine.

Around this time, Laoraighll, MacKell and Jonah had circled around the back of the hill and begun wading into the reserve troops that would have been the second Khundish wave, thus joining the second front of a battle that would last throughout the day.

By afternoon, victory at the hill’s bottom meant the beginning of an upward assault, one aided by the instability the advance trio had created. But an uphill battle it still was, and Manx numbers had thinned so much by the last push that even Rokk was second-guessing his own strategy.

The uphill Khunds were well prepared for a cavalry assault, however, and Rokk forbade the wasting of horses and trained riders on steep terrain where a Khund with a spear could almost easily overpower a mounted warrior. The king did accept Iasmin’s proposal for her riders to mount false attacks however, veering back downhill on about two out of every three attacks, and making only brief hit-and-run attacks on the other occasions.

By the late afternoon, British infantry was nearing the hill’s top and Iasmin’s hit-and-run or scare tactics were no longer effective, but she did have the privilege of finishing off the Khunds now fleeing the hilltop battle, as they made their way to the plain.

In the end, it would be Urien’s young son, a warrior with barely 10 years named Ywain who would slay the Khund commander. Yet Urien’s own squire, a lad of comparable age, died valiantly in the battle, and Rokk named the hill and the battle after the young Manx named Badon.

Two Hundred Ninety-six

“You are King Pellam.” The young girl spoke with a wisdom, clarity and certainly that defied her limited years.

“I am,” the elder king smiled. “It is good to see you, Dindrane, my grand-daughter.”

The priestess-in-training, the so-called “Grail Maiden” smiled warmly but with poise and reserve.

She was tending to the maimed, ill and other wounded lying in the streets of Londinium and in the battlefields beyond, with the vigilant but no longer feral-looking Brin looking on, wary of any who approached her unbidden. But Brin already knew well the elderly Pellam, and allowed the kin privacy to speak.

“You do well, childe,” the elder said, slowly lowering himself to sit on the ground beside her. “Not many are the young maidens who would wade through the blood-soaked fields of combat to do such healing.”

She nodded, pouring Cauldron waters down a young Anglian warrior’s throat, and wiping clean his wound. Two city guardsmen were ferrying vats of clean water to her and to the various Druids tending to other wounded. “I do as I am able.”

No. You do far more than that, my dear.

“They say the war is over,” she said without inflection, as if commenting on weather or idle gossip.

“Aye. Or soon will be, I’d wager. Young Rokk is an able king and strategist.”

“Aye. And all the young mothers of this aisle will now welcome their menfolk home and raise new warriors for the next time.”

Pellam nodded. “None of us asked for this war.”

“Nor did poor Jancel, lain slain by assassins. I… met her, once.”

Pellam was surprised by this. “Jancel dead? Nay it cannot be. I would have known if it were true,” he said, hoping to believe the words himself. “It may be said she has perished, but much word that travels can be false. Last winter alone, King Rokk died scores of times in dozens of ways,” he smiled.

“You think my-- You think she lives?” Dindrane dared to show emotion and enthusiasm for the first time.

“I can promise naught. I can only measure by the feeling that flows through these old bones.”

Sir Dyrk was approaching with determination in his step; Pellam knew their time together drew short.

He gently but firmly put his hand on her arm. “Seek her out, when this is over. See her properly honoured, whether living or not.”

“I… know not if I shall have such leave to do so.”

Pellam smiled. “Then I suppose I should do so for you.” He began to rise.

“But your vow, grandfather?” A second emotion: concern, maybe fear.

“Bah! I am too old to be a threat to any who would take umbrage. My time draws near.” Seeing a tear in Dindrane’s eye, he continued, “No old man should overstay his welcome. I have nothing in this life to regret.” He paused to caress her face. “Well, no more, at least.”

He kissed her cheek in farewell as Dyrk neared.

Farewell, childe, one of five living grandchildren. Would that I see all of you one last time. Already I have missed my chance to see Aglovale a grown man. No more shall I put off what must be done.

“My lady?” Dyrk spoke to Dindrane. “Our scouts tell us King Rokk’s army is returning, and his wounded shall need your aid.”

And now it is over, both Dindrane and her grandsire were both thinking. Dindrane turned and picked up a still-smouldering bunch of fragrant dreamweed, and prepared to bless the next vat of water.

Two Hundred Ninety-seven

“First Aven, and now you?”

“I go because I must, Taliesin.”

“But there are too few of us as there is, Cador.”

“That fault is not mine, my friend. I said all along we need more Teachers.”

Taliesin sighed. He had no wish to resume the age-old arguments. Maybe Cador was right; the Teacher’s Isle of Avalon was largely a collection of aging scholars, clergy and bards like himself; the Druids and Priestesses no longer had the surpluses of pupils as they used to. Too long had they neglected bringing in new blood.

“Not many can teach the Olde Arts to new generations of Bretons, t’is true. But only I can aid young king Rokk with his Cornish problem,” Cador replied. “Once done, I shall be back.”

Taliesin smiled, but somehow knew it was not so. In council, from now on he would be the voice to call for new Teachers.

He saw his friend through the proper rituals and robed and blindfolded for his trip down the Path of Isis for Londinium. The spirits were particularly cantankerous, having been stymied by a Pictish dark-spell whilst receiving so many visitors on the Londinium end of the Path, during MacKell’s gambit.

Yet without those bainsidhes, Avalon itself would be an easy target for any who knew the existence of the path from the very Temple of Isis, and that secret seemed to be gone for good with this war.

Two Hundred Ninety-eight

Rokk returned to a scene that was both one of devastation but also of cheer and victory. Even those now without roofs over their heads, even those who had lost limb or kin, even those who had called him enemy but a year and a half ago were now united in a cheering welcome of the king who had led them to victory, a victory that time itself would never forget. Everywhere his new banner of the white bear was flying, and the crowds chanted both his own name, but even more predominant his new appellation.

“Urthrugh! Urthrugh! Urthrugh!”

It was almost deafening, and almost beyond the scope of his senses; it was neither reality nor a dream. The streets of Londinium were packed as his army paraded through, en route for the palace; every window, doorway, alley and speck of street was covered with appreciative subjects. That his march took all the longer as people had no easy way to get out of the army’s way bothered no one but the tired warriors.

We have won this, you and I, the bear within him who was no longer Ursiuk told him. If we want to preserve our win, we must beware the Peigh Dragh. SHE will be our undoing.

The sun still shined brightly, but a cold, shadowy pallour shaded Rokk’s line of sight. Suddenly every window and shadowy doorway was full of scheming enchantresses, familiar-looking red-haired witches whose names he should know but could not place, all looking to undo him.

Two Hundred Ninety-nine

The roll call at the High King’s feast that eve was a litany of nobles, knights and kings from across the isles of Britain, Ireland and beyond: Armorica to the south and the Orkneys to the north. Individual warriors could also be counted from the Northmen’s lands, Iberia, Italia, Gaul, Araby, the Aegean, and elsewhere. The wines and ales flowed freely, the pigs could not be roasted fast enough to sate the appetites, and the hall was so packed that it was later said that a single shove by Laoraighll or MacKell would cause at least three walls to collapse.

It took all night for Rokk to commend each and every general, monarch, or knight that he knew of who turned the tide, and there were many of which he had not yet word of; he was unaware of Sir Lu’s company remained deathly ill, or Marcus’ own mopping-up on the southern coast, still ongoing.

Ambitious knights like Meleagant and Pharoxx were in their glory receiving praise of peers, but Rokk’s official knighting of Sir Ywain stole the thunder of even the illustrious Queen Ayla.

Some whispered that Ywain was the knight destined to take the Siege Perilous – the seat dedicated to the late Iaime, but the chagrinned Iasmin was happy to learn this was not the case.

Tinya’s reunion with Jonah was one of passion and scolding – he approved not of her adventures, not even the ones she told him of, and Grev was smart and discreet enough to only commend her prowess as a warrior, scout and messenger.

The fest wound down only on the second dawn as reports came in that the Macedonians had not departed the isle as believed; Meleagant was particularly put out, as his word was now suspect.

Preparing to ride for the new Macedonian position, Rokk was approached by young Ywain.

“May I ride with you, my liege?”

“I do not see why not,” Rokk replied. “There is something else you seek to ask,” he added. Younger knights always were full of questions about battles and deeds already becoming legends, and these he expected.

“May I call you uncle?”

This one caught the king by surprise. Was this some Rhyged or Manx custom?

“Has my mother not mentioned me?”

“…Not as I may recall. Pray tell, who is your mother?”

“She is your sister, Mysa, my liege. Or so I am told.”

Rokk knew not what to say. Ywain continued.

“My father knew not the priestess’ name, ‘til he met her again last year at midsummer, when we came to your fest at Camulodunum. But I… I would meet her growing up, a woman who claimed to be my mother. T’was the same lady, so I swear.”

“She has said naught to me.” Rokk still could not believe it, but the bear within him growled, reminding him of her trickeries.

“She spoke as if she knew us not, and thought us mad. I know not why she said thus, but I know it was her.” Seeing the king’s disbelief, he regretted his admission. “I am sorry to have said this, my liege.”

“You spoke what you believe to be true. Any trickery afoot is not yours,” Rokk offered. He had not thought much of Mysa since winter, and had paid her disappearance little heed, assuming nothing more than the spat among the womenfolk was the root. But now… how many secrets and tricks were unraveling? When next he saw his sister, t’would be a time for answers.

Three Hundred

so on the word of Melegant, my brother Kenzius’ man.”

“Kenzius?”

“…perhaps you know him as Geraint,” he said bitterly. “Knew him.”

“He was a fine knight,” Rokk said, recalling Geraint’s prewar standing.

“My brother and I are of the old Cornish line, yet are more of Rome than not, t’is true. I came here at my brother’s request; he had a ruse planned to defeat the Khunds, yet with his death, I would not see it through.”

A ruse to gain kingship of Britain, t’would be more truthful, Dyrk thought.

“Still, you have my thanks. I shall honour Sir Geraint with a burial at my royal mortuary Shangalla, if it fits your approval. You are welcome to stay, as my guest,” Rokk continued.

Iarcalthus remained silent.

“Does that not please you?” Rokk tried to remain cordial.

“My brother was slain by a knight in your service. I demand satisfaction.”

Rokk nodded. “So you seek to occupy one of my towns until satisfied?”

“Two,” the man replied. Seeing confusion, he continued. “Two of your towns. We hold Portus Magnus as well. My messengers reported this very morn of our successful capture not three nights ago.”

Dyrk fumed, ready to strike the villain down. Who did he think he was?

“Both were already war-torn, and offered little resistance,” Iarcalthus sneered.

“Sir Thom has fled my kingdom for other lands. I can send men after him, but it shall take some time-”

“-Time, I do not have. Your city and armies are weak after this war. I hear reports of a plague rampant in the west. Many loyal to Kenzius would stand with me,” Iarcalthus smugly reported.

“A war then? You think you can hold one, two towns, or maybe even all of Britain with two armies, no matter how mighty, and perhaps some of the Cornish and west Bretons?”

“I would rather have your pledge, young Rokk, king of all Britain. Pledge to me that this… Sir Thom holds no claim or title in Cornwall or all of Britain, and that he is unwelcome, a villain to be hunted down should he set foot in Britain or its holdings elsewhere. Swear that his life is forfeit for slaying my brother, his liege.

“If you will do me that honour, I shall let Durobrivae go, but Portus Magnus must remain my guarantee.”

Rokk balked at the sheer audacity of the proposal. “I serve all the people of Britain, and must act fairly.
Sir Thom has done many acts of valour in the name of the Cornish, and indeed of all Britain. I cannot fulfill your request without so much as hearing his word, even ere it means yet another war.”

“A trial, then? Very well. Until this Sir Thom shows his face and submits to fair judgment, I shall hold and govern both Durobrivae and Portus Magnus guarantees of a pledge to hold this Sir Thom accountable. I shall also require a modest form of tribute.”

Rokk’s eyebrows raised.

“Nothing of monetary worth. I merely seek formal recognition of my troops right to travel unimpeded between holdings, and to and from sea. Such travel will carry no unprovoked military action from my men or myself, and we will treat all your subjects as kindly as Celtic traditions calls for the care of hostages. I will increase troop levels no more than what I need to hold these towns.”

Rokk nodded. Holding two towns, however insulting such a move was, would still be preferable to seeing his capital demolished and a new war. “And should such judgment not meet with your favour?”

“I believe I can make a strong case for justice, one that any… servant of his people could not ignore.”

Dyrk was astonished Rokk seemed to be mulling it over; as powerful as the Italian state of Nuhorra might be, how could such a distant land truly pose a threat, even with such an army still poised here?

BEYOND THE HUMAN REALM
Interlude Twenty-one: A Distant Shore

Walrus climbed up onto the rocks.

You took your time, said Erne.

I have seen no reason to rush, Walrus replied.

Enough! Narwhale was irritated. Let us attend to business.

Ursuik is gone, Puffin noted. I for one shall not be amongst those in mourning.

Is he? Beluga was not convinced. The belching fire mountain churns its venom that the Bear King has assumed human form, so the Waves tell me.

Does the belching fire mountain churn in venom – or in hope? asked Erne. These humans, I trust not. Sooner or later their Being’s voice will drown out ours.

Maybe Ursuik seeks to be king of the humans too, suggested Puffin. We should ask Peign Dragh.

Her own plans, she has, Beluga countered.

Have you not, also, Beluga? Giving free passage to the Eastern humans into the West? Walrus challenged. Eastern humans are too damaged by Horse yet to be let loose. Even now, the Easterners’ expedition brings the Western light-bringer across the sea, breaking the Olde Compact.

I sensed these Easterners were harmless, Beluga explained. Better to meet Easterners’ good intent with goode.

Encourage any, more will follow, Walrus sighed.

But what of Ursuik? Do we allow him to toy with the humans? Narwhale was still anoyed. Let us send one of our number to see what transpires on the Peign Dragh’s island.

Who? How?

I have heard of a Fir Darrig who is calling a gathering, Puffin said. I say we send… Silkie.

Interlude Twenty-two: Hybrasil

The queen of Hybrasil looked out over her kingdom.

Corah held up her newest trophy – the strange glowing box that Orin had retrieved from the eastern shallows. It hummed as she held it; if offered a strange, almost comforting warmth.

The strange symbols on it, she kenned not – perhaps another variant of the surface dwellers’ strange compulsion to scribble emblems no one else can recognize – not even amongst each other. Hybrasil’s written characters sung and danced their meanings into the very hearts and minds of its viewers; indeed the characters themselves would be quite put out if they failed to make themselves known!

The queer box offered little distraction to the monarch; she had a decision to make. After all she and her people had been through in the bloody war with Koirdachs, could she trust her only childe to the Seelie Court of the surface?

A gathering was to be held. Despite her people’s continued resolve to remain secluded from the surface world they had long ago escaped, since the box arrived her instincts had turned more and more to this one outreach. She resolved to talk to Orin. Or should she?

Mayhap I should let Fíona decide for herself, she resolved at last. But such a curious childe, she will no doubt go.

Interlude Twenty-three: A Fae Castle

That Saihlough and her new human lover had passed through his gardens so recently was a delight; it was good to hold the both of them both in his embrace, a dear old friend and a new one.

But the abruptness of her departure, to save some new Earthly king, filled him with dread and worry – was it his father whose life was in such peril? Or some brother, born and grown, raised to be king since he came here into this faerie realm?

Cymru. His homeland.

He remembered its subtle but lush greenery, its muds and drizzles that did not dissolve into silver or blood or aether as they did in this realm.

He remembered being a young boy beaming with pride at his father’s coronation. What was father’s name?

When he was a young man, there was a feud with the fae regarding the sea. His father fought and lost against the fae king; he was the hostage to keep the peace. How could he have forgotten that, of all things, in this swirling maelstrom of shifting sights and senses?

How many times had he helped those elfin warriors train, and arm themselves for the periodic sea dragon hunt. He was resigned to hid fate, and each turn of the cycle (what were they called? It began with a “Y,” didn’t it?) became more and more a shadow of himself – and more like one of them.

But suddenly the thought occurred to him – what if the blur of time meant that many years had flown by
And his father had died long ago in the mortal world?

“Zendak. Father, I remember thee,” he whispered.

He wandered the halls of this strange place he called home; often it was a castle, but sometimes an island, and once in a while a mountaintop or cloud-top citadel.

There had to be some way to get word home. Did his father even recall him?

Two silvery warriors had arrived recently to meet with his captor and hostess; they sought her attendance at some gathering. The fae queen’s handmaiden Ulie had taken a liking to him, and maybe, just maybe, she could get word out to the mortal world.