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Three Hundred and Twenty-four

“You asked to see me?” The royal priest greeted his liege humbly.

“Greetings, Prefect Vidar. It appears we have guests who have accused you of sorcery,” replied Clovis, high king of the Franks. He was feeling well enough to walk on his own today, and had coughed up no blood. It was a good day.

The cleric laughed. He followed his lord and king to his petitioning chamber, where a motley of Bretons awaited.

Clovis was taken aback. Almost this same quintet had arrived on a diplomatic visit several weeks ago, but then mysteriously and rudely left without so much as a word. Yet here they were again, looking quite undiplomatic, quite unpolished, and rather worse for the wear.

Queen Guinevere stood a-centre, dressed like a servant whose gowns were ripped, torn and muddy, yet she held the stature of regality nonetheless. A bruised and battered Sir James stood beside her, trying to contain sheer anger. Querl the Greek looked barely awake, and wore the plain undyed cloth that those who had come from the Silk Road usually wore; he smelled of the smoky herbs common in that quarter. The faerie fluttered around; even she seemed less carefree than she had those weeks ago, and she clung to a large hawk feather like it was some sort of trophy.

The only one different was that it seemed King Rokk was now among them.

“My emissaries to your court were abducted and bespelled by yon villain Vidar!” he pointed in scorn. “I would have satisfaction!”

“My good King Rokk, I have long awaited our meeting, but I fear I cannot approve a duel with personal holy man and my closest advisor. This accusation is most unseemly,” Clovis was quite put out that the British king would behave so irrationally.

“The British king’s words are true, my liege.” Bedwyr stepped out from an alcove. “I have seen it myself. Your advisor bespelled them all, and had them transported to different locales, oft forgetting who they were.”

“This queen is a killer,” Vidar countered. “She posed as a noble’s house servant seeking to do evil, but when caught and exposed by another servant, she slew her in cold blood!” He shot Bedwyr a particularly dirty look.

“You dare accuse a monarch of a crime when you yourself are but a vile sorcerer?” The British king was reaching for his sword.

“Any deeds they have done were caused by the fiendish Vidar,” Bedwyr supported. “He is no man of god, only a man of great evil.”

“We have endured too much by this charlatan! He had me set to be killed by a bizarre sun-cult!” Rokk blurted.

Vidar smiled.

“I sent Sir Reep to that fate,” he smirked. “You are not King Rokk.”

Rokk’s face faded away to Sir Reep’s. “No, t’was a necessary ruse so you would admit your villainy! My lord Clovis, certainly you see?”

“I see that you deceived me into believing I was meeting a fellow monarch.”

“I am a fellow monarch, and you are meeting me,” Imra interjected.

“But even you are not what you seem, as I hear it.”

“Aye. But I am Imra, daughter of Pelles, graddaughter of Pellam, of the olde line of Britain. I am more high queen as myself than the ploy of being Guinevere, which was not of my choosing.”

“Bah! You Brtiish are too full of deceit. Away! Away with you all!” Clovis anger was boiling over.

Even Vidar, who started to smirk and gloat, had to back away. “This isn’t over,” he whispered toward his former captives.

“I doubt it not… father,” replied Bedwyr.

Three Hundred and Twenty-five

The return to Londinuim was less than glorious, and soon Reep received word that the queen was the butt of jests throughout Frankland, and the names Imra and Guinevere were now synonymous with a queen who aspired to be a house-servant, and a murderess.

Bedwyr tried to cheer her up. He seemed taken with her, but seemed equally committed to honour and chastity; absent were the leers and lusts one often read between the queen and Sir Garth.

Reep and others conjectured about the effects of Imra’s revelations on the British populace. Reep and Jonah agreed word would be better coming from her. Laoraighll would join Imra’s newfound cousin James in escorting her on a tour to meet with Britain’s nobles and explain the truths of the matter. Hopefully the years of rumours and the goodwill for Pellam would mean a lessened blow to internal British unity.

Word also trickled in about the real King Rokk fighting the ogre Validus in the northlands, the west country dog plague seemed to grow worse, and new reports of sea monsters flooded in.

The spring rains fit the mood of most of the court at Londinium. Despite last year’s victory over the Khunds and all the previous success, the slow rebuilding and now blows to morale and credibility made it seem like momentum and valour were squandered away in politicks and scandal.

And what really irritated Reep was that when all was said and done, Vidar had won this round in the most humiliating way imaginable.

Three Hundred and Twenty-six

Mordru took a strong gulp of his wine. It was a dark, rich, almost blood-thick Iberian wine. Irish High King Coirpre mac Neill had excellent tastes.

“…and so, every time the boy made a wish, he lost a year of his life, so for his own goode, Lar Chullain had to trick the boy into wishing that he made no more wishes!” Ossian concluded his tale. Both liege and wizard-guest offered enthusiastic cheers and applause.

“What news of Avalon?” Mordru asked. “I have heard much of Britain since my return from the Easterne lands, but I have heard little of those magick isles. Does Beren still rule the Druids? And what of the Priestesses? Are they still led by Azura, or has she tricked my Mysa into returning?”

The question was one of affable curiosity, but Coipre and Ossian were shocked.

“Had you nor heard?” Ossian began, wincing as his words seemed (solely to himself) almost as a stammer. Seeing Mordru’s confusion, he continued. “The Lady Mysa has vanished last year. While leaving Avalon, the barge overturned. She and four priestesses were lost, never to be found.”

Mordru grew red, first with surprise, then with anger. “If Azura knew not what to do… Did the Teachers not act?”

“No. They all considered her to have abandoned the Isles.” Ossian watched the guest grow redder yet.

“Has Rokk not pressured them enough?” The wizard was almost trembling in anger.

“He… I have not heard of him lifting a finger, I regret to say to you. And some say he has spoken only ill of her, since she bespelled Sir Garth into having his way with and marring young Jancel.”

Mordru stood suddenly, slamming both fists into the heavy oak table in a fierce rage, one he had not felt since before King Coirpre’s birth. That he spoke not – that shouted not – made it all the more fearsome.

Rokk has done nothing.

Nothing!

He stood in silence, red as a beet. His hosts knew not what to say or do. He knew intuitively that there was truth to the news; he needed not to corroborate with any others. Perhaps it was his own version of Sight, but he’d always had an uncanny sense of what messages were true – even as a boy he could always pick the accurate gossip from the baseless rumour. This sense had saved his life more than once. Aye, it had saved all of Britain more than once, truths be told.

“I… must go at once,” he eventually said in a low, even tone. “I… apologize for my poor behaviour this eve.”

Mordru departed into the night, and traveled for many days and nights in a row overland, then by sea, and finally by land again before he reached his South Cymru destination.

All the way, his anger steamed over – at Rokk, Brandius – and himself, but he’d nary admit such in even his own thoughts. He had erred in fostering his nephew with the old Gallic knight – many times over loyal to his brothers, it was true, but one too prone to the weakness of idealism. Aivillagh, perhaps should have been Gwydion’s guardian… but it was too late now.

So did berate himself for not choosing better foster-fathers 15 years ago, but also for allowing Rokk the freedom to find his own way. He’d assumed that any child of his kith would take to high kingship like a nestling instinctively knows when to fly away, but Rokk had performed all too poorly. Now even Mysa, who should have been dear to both of them, was lost.

In the hills near Caerleon he sought out the hut, hoping the man who had almost been a brother was still there.

“Iason! Iason!”

There was no response, not anyone inside. He went up to the hilltop pasture. “Iason!”

“Who? Who calls me?” A tall man with world-weary eyes approached. He was dressed as a priest, a hermit. His dark red hair betrayed a shock of white. “Who are you?”

“Do you not remember me, Iason? It is I, your friend Constans.” Seeing no recognition, he added. “I need your aid.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Iason still recognized him not.

Get me into Avalon, Mordru did not say. “Merely listen.” He began to chant. “Gone, Gone, O Form of Man…”

Three Hundred and Twenty-seven

With the coastal snows retreating, Rokk made his way to the eastern coast of Pictland, escorted by Drest, a weathered old warrior the Picts now considered their king. Rokk still wore a thick winter’s cloak of white bear, a colour the Picts now reserved solely for the use of Rokk and one other, should ever any white bears ever be seen and slain again.

It had been a productive winter, shoring up support amongst the northern monarchs and people who had been the least directly threatened by the Khunds, but who had served with zeal and ability… and who had seen but a fraction of their warriors come home from the southlands.

Rokk had paid visits to the courts at Cumbria, Elmet, Lothian, Man, Ulster, Dalraida, the new kingdom of Rhyged, and of course the Picts, the latter being the ill-kept secret reason for the trip. Reep’s word was true as always, and the priestess Lyddagh met him holding a babe with his eyes. Loholt, he had been named, the heir apparent to a newly united Pictland. Unto his second son Rokk issued a pendant with one of the giant bear’s claws – rounded off so as not to be sharp for the infant.

That the king and this priestess had a bond both of them knew well, but both were so sworn to duties neither spoke aloud of it.

Neither had to.

Their roles were well understood. He was not only the claimed high king of all Britain, but the Picts’ endorsement for that post as well. His claim in turn supported Loholt’s, in their view. Rokk shared blood and kin with north and south, and was all the more obligated to do right by both his families, a message of expectation easily readable in any Pict elder’s eyes. Rokk sent word for white bear furs to be made for Loholt, too – without his queen’s knowledge.

Lyddagh and Tasmia accompanied him throughout his travels in the north. Whether he was expected to fully enjoy the company of both he knew not, but Tasmia was standoffish, distrustful and aloof; she seemed not to expect or welcome his company and he was just as pleased to have only Lyddagh keep him warm on these winters’ nights.

Rokk had lost track of the elders and clans they had visited, as they went from highland to coast to island and back to mainland, to the high-cliffed-but-flat northern grasslands far north of any mountain.

Along the way, Rokk’s spoken Pictish improved leaps and bounds, and he learned more about both Picts and the bear-king he fought. In Pictish thought, Rokk had not merely slain Ursuik, he had become him, a revelation that echoed in the thoughts and impulses he’d felt in his very gut. The Picts saw spirits in everything, and sometimes these spirits not only existed in individual units but as a composite Being, of which this Ursuik was one.

The Picts, he learned, had once dominated all of Britain, Eiru and beyond, but were slowly being driven back. In many parts of the isles, Celt, Roman, Angle or now even Kentish Khund held some amount of Pict blood. According to Lyddagh, the blood was an anchor and stabilizer; it tied the descendents of invaders and other newcomers to the land. Britain would someday be all one clan, she said, a notion Tasmia would scoff at.

Tasmia would speak in a soft fear for her people. Even despite agreements and reparations made for the village of Angtough, Pictish lands were still being colonized and settled; prime lands were being lost. Fergus had sworn oaths, but he was now dead. Would his heirs be as honourable? Would they feel obliged to carry out vows he had made?

Pict tradition spoke of kinship among peoples who once lived in all those lands of the south, east and north across the seas. Elders now feared that just as their holding were eroding, their distant cousins must also be losing sway to the new peoples, the Goths, Suevi, Northmen, Khunds and others. There was a sadness of a cornered-but-not-conquered people. As long as there were mighty warriors like Drest, conquest would never come.

With some sadness, Rokk headed for the coast where the riding would be the best. Grounds would be frozen enough to support horse travel without having thick drifts of snow, sudden squalls in mountainous terrain, or snow-filled ravines to worry about.

That Drest offered to ride with him was an honour; that a messenger intercepted them with a request from Lot for the Pictish king to come at once to Lothian was an interesting surprise.

But a bigger surprise awaited them further down the coast, a warship flying the banner of a bandit-king.

Rokk had heard of the villain whose ship it was, and the simplest description of its captain left no doubt it was the notorious Frankish raider himself. It had been two years since Reep and the others had seen this half-monster in Eiru, now said to be hiding in the outer Hebrides of Pictland.

“Greetings, King Rokk,” the voice boomed from the deck louder than any natural voice could. “I have an interesting proposition for you.”

Three Hundred and Twenty-eight

With the coastal snows retreating, Rokk made his way to the eastern coast of Pictland, escorted by Drest, a weathered old warrior the Picts now considered their king. Rokk still wore a thick winter’s cloak of white bear, a colour the Picts now reserved solely for the use of Rokk and one other, should ever any white bears ever be seen and slain again.

It had been a productive winter, shoring up support amongst the northern monarchs and people who had been the least directly threatened by the Khunds, but who had served with zeal and ability… and who had seen but a fraction of their warriors come home from the southlands.

Rokk had paid visits to the courts at Cumbria, Elmet, Lothian, Man, Ulster, Dalraida, the new kingdom of Rhyged, and of course the Picts, the latter being the ill-kept secret reason for the trip. Reep’s word was true as always, and the priestess Lyddagh met him holding a babe with his eyes. Loholt, he had been named, the heir apparent to a newly united Pictland. Unto his second son Rokk issued a pendant with one of the giant bear’s claws – rounded off so as not to be sharp for the infant.

That the king and this priestess had a bond both of them knew well, but both were so sworn to duties neither spoke aloud of it.

Neither had to.

Their roles were well understood. He was not only the claimed high king of all Britain, but the Picts’ endorsement for that post as well. His claim in turn supported Loholt’s, in their view. Rokk shared blood and kin with north and south, and was all the more obligated to do right by both his families, a message of expectation easily readable in any Pict elder’s eyes. Rokk sent word for white bear furs to be made for Loholt, too – without his queen’s knowledge.

Lyddagh and Tasmia accompanied him throughout his travels in the north. Whether he was expected to fully enjoy the company of both he knew not, but Tasmia was standoffish, distrustful and aloof; she seemed not to expect or welcome his company and he was just as pleased to have only Lyddagh keep him warm on these winters’ nights.

Rokk had lost track of the elders and clans they had visited, as they went from highland to coast to island and back to mainland, to the high-cliffed-but-flat northern grasslands far north of any mountain.

Along the way, Rokk’s spoken Pictish improved leaps and bounds, and he learned more about both Picts and the bear-king he fought. In Pictish thought, Rokk had not merely slain Ursuik, he had become him, a revelation that echoed in the thoughts and impulses he’d felt in his very gut. The Picts saw spirits in everything, and sometimes these spirits not only existed in individual units but as a composite Being, of which this Ursuik was one.

The Picts, he learned, had once dominated all of Britain, Eiru and beyond, but were slowly being driven back. In many parts of the isles, Celt, Roman, Angle or now even Kentish Khund held some amount of Pict blood. According to Lyddagh, the blood was an anchor and stabilizer; it tied the descendents of invaders and other newcomers to the land. Britain would someday be all one clan, she said, a notion Tasmia would scoff at.

Tasmia would speak in a soft fear for her people. Even despite agreements and reparations made for the village of Angtough, Pictish lands were still being colonized and settled; prime lands were being lost. Fergus had sworn oaths, but he was now dead. Would his heirs be as honourable? Would they feel obliged to carry out vows he had made?

Pict tradition spoke of kinship among peoples who once lived in all those lands of the south, east and north across the seas. Elders now feared that just as their holding were eroding, their distant cousins must also be losing sway to the new peoples, the Goths, Suevi, Northmen, Khunds and others. There was a sadness of a cornered-but-not-conquered people. As long as there were mighty warriors like Drest, conquest would never come.

With some sadness, Rokk headed for the coast where the riding would be the best. Grounds would be frozen enough to support horse travel without having thick drifts of snow, sudden squalls in mountainous terrain, or snow-filled ravines to worry about.

That Drest offered to ride with him was an honour; that a messenger intercepted them with a request from Lot for the Pictish king to come at once to Lothian was an interesting surprise.

But a bigger surprise awaited them further down the coast, a warship flying the banner of a bandit-king.

Rokk had heard of the villain whose ship it was, and the simplest description of its captain left no doubt it was the notorious Frankish raider himself. It had been two years since Reep and the others had seen this half-monster in Eiru, now said to be hiding in the outer Hebrides of Pictland.

“Greetings, King Rokk,” the voice boomed from the deck louder than any natural voice could. “I have an interesting proposition for you.”

Three Hundred and Twenty-nine

The monster rumbled north, oblivious to the driving icy snow.

Its pursuer had been more annoying than threatening, and it only got madder and madder that it could not kill the beast-man.

But the further north it went, it heard a song, like one it had heard long, long ago. It had little in the way of memory per se, but it was drawn to this sound. It forgot all about the beast-man that had attacked it in its forest home.

North it went.

Three Hundred and Thirty

L’ile had half-forgotten the old abbot who had lived near the fire-mount.

As a child, he was warned about the “Black-Robes,” the stern order of frowning men who kept to themselves and stood watch over the very mountain that had killed them and poisoned faraway lands like Britain and Eiru.

L’ile’s people had kept hidden from these intrepid but humourless clergymen – all but one, that is. But L’ile had no wish to dwell on him just now.

As a child, L’ile and his peers had made sport out of tricking the Black-Robes: letting their animals loose from their pens in the black of night, coating the abbey steps in fish-oil that sent monks’ limbs flying outward in so many directions, or ringing the cloister bells at odd hours and interrupting the daily chore schedules. Did the brethren believe evil spirits conspired against them, in this barren (by foreign standards) land? Among his people, the art of not being seen was taught at the youngest of ages, else the Welisc could find and capture his people and their young.

It was a small outpost, an abbey in name only, it was true, and the brethren here focused all their attentions on keeping their supposed “devil” incarcerated in the mountain next door.

Did they fail, then? L’ile could not help but wonder, gazing out at the dark mountain, still a fragment of its former self.

The ruins of the small abbey had escaped the flow of fire-rivers (now hardening into rock), it was true, but the surviving scavenger birds had themselves found whatever flesh had remained by excavating the bodies from under the soot. Bones littered the ashen hillside, and L’ile regretted the ills he and his peers had visited upon these men so many years a-gone. Here, like elsewhere on this isle, Li’le was met with quite loneliness and a chilled breeze fettered by no tree between himself and the distant sea.

The young Druid was verily scared out of his wits by a groan behind him, as a skeletal form tried to find its voice.

“IIII…I… remember you, boy.”

The skeleton had but a shrunken swath of flesh covering it, and its eyes, so sunken into its head, pierced into him so deeply his voice was stolen from him.

“I remember you, though my mind told me not to see you. You stole from our garden, you scattered our lambs to the hills. You… the devil had you, boy.”

The skeletal finger, although yards away, felt sharp indeed. Li’le conjectured that this… being, the abbot, had not eaten since the Darkness began, and had kept himself alive by will and faith alone.

“Perhaps your devil owns all children, after a fashion. I… regret the actions of my youth.”

“The Devil is loose upon the land,” the skeleton said. L’ile was not certain it had heard his apology. “This is on your hands.. and hers…”

L’ile gulped. He knew who he meant, and the memory stung.

“What is to be done?” L’ile did not believe in Christian devils, but until this summer he had not believed the fire-mount would ever rain down death and destruction unto faraway lands either.

The skeletal abbot leaned to his side, and with the same boney, accusatory finger drew a symbol into the ashen terrain.

And L’ile’s face went white.

Three Hundred and Thirty-one

“You want who dead?

The mercenary was not above assassination, but expected to know why, and be even better paid.

“King Lot,” the woman of middle years replied. “He took from me my virtue, and later took our son away to be a soldier. He d-died in that silly Southlander war last year.”

I made good money fighting Khunds during that ‘silly’ war, he thought but did not say.

“Should your vengeance not be better directed towards the Khunds?” Yes, he wanted work while stuck in these northlands for the winter, but the soldier in him recoiled at interfering in what was clearly on the king’s part an attempt to groom a bastard for a key military post – especially with the headaches slaying a monarch in his own homelands would entail.

“King Lot later… in recent time, I mean… well, my daughter… she… he-he…” she burst into tears.

Okay, a daughter’s virtue was a better reason for revenge. He accepted the woman’s coin, picked up his magick axe and set out eastward for the king’s castle.

Three Hundred and Thirty-two

Domangart did not like the situation. His subjects complained frequently that they had precious little land as it was, yet they were forbidden to expand into seemingly empty Pict lands. And now the gigantic sea creature was eating away at Dalraidan shores, taking away what little lands they held!

Only months on the throne, he had no experience with such a monster – its slightest movements in coastal waters killed dozens of subjects with gigantic waves, larger than one generally sees on the open sea, let alone in otherwise sheltered bays and inlets.

The son of the late King Fergus was smart enough to know he had no experience at such a task as he faced, and with the Caledonian mountain passes still snowed in there was no safe way to send for aid. If only King Rokk was still here! He instead turned to his lover.

“I have heard of large sea monsters, but not such as you describe,” she said with half-interest, tugging urgently at his robes. “I shall dispatch it, if t’is as bad as you claim.”

“You would have me dally with thee whilst my kingdom dies?” Domangart scolded. “Let us dispatch this creature first ere t’is said we placed our own pleasures above my people.”

His lover was angered but nodded. Ordinarily he had been quite compliant, a trait she would strive to restore in the near future. She was a monarch, not a mistress. King or no, Domangart would have to learn his place.

Within hours they were upon the Dalraidan flagship, a boat that had been commissioned by Fergus himself. It would take days and truly try the mistress/deposed monarch’s patience, but once she saw the creature she doubted for the first time her ability to deal with it. Its mouth was multiple times wider than the boat’s length, but how many multiples t’was hard to gage – it so defied the eye’s ability to comprehend.

It was trawling the sea with its mouth open, catching the debris from its last attack. The seas were thick with trees, vegetation and the occasional remnant of a fishing hut. It did not seem to have noticed a boat amongst its meal.

As the creature neared, Saraid had the Justice of Balor unleash its full magicks upon it.

It seemed to notice not.

As the boat was within a few lengths of the monster (gods! It’s head now eclipsed half the sky and horizon!) the would-be empress began to fear. She again blasted the creature, specifically a nearby tooth, and used its force to push herself and the boat away from it.

The boat battered and keeled as it crashed against the trees that had been floating behind it, and it started taking on water as it crashed upon a rocky shore. The hillside above them was a cliff of jagged rocks and sifting soils and trees; the entire landscape in a semicircle seemingly a full league around them resembled a giant bite-mark.

Three Hundred and Thirty-three

“Why do they wait?” Morgause liked it not. Manaugh’s execution should be swift, before Pict sympathizers had time to interfere – or retaliate.

“I have gathered all the families of the villain’s victims to gather here. The Pict king Drest will be offered the opportunity to offer restitution in exchange for Manaugh’s life,” Lot beamed.

“You’d let the murderer run free?” Jecka was shocked.

“If you seek our aid to complete your proposed arrangement, I would advise you not be so rebuking,” the king scolded.

Morgause rolled her eyes. “Mind him not. He merely awaits the day when but one noble woman will heed his nonsense. I believe my husband’s strategy is to get Drest to endorse Manaugh’s execution, to avoid Pictish retaliation and bad blood.”

“Ahh. Drest will not be able to offer enough restitution to save Manaugh!” Now Jecka understood. “Very clever!”

Lot smiled a toothy grin, even as a messenger neared. He anticipated it was word of Drest. He was not prepared for the actuality.

“My sire? We have word. The tales of last summer are true. The beast has come ashore and devoured three fishing villages not a day’s ride up the north shore.”

“What is it?” Jecka demanded. “A sea dragon?”

Lot’s face was pale. “Not just any dragon, my dear. My grandfather’s people called it Jormangund.”

“Jorr-man-khund?”

“Close.”

“What is it?”

Lot sighed. “It is a creature so ferocious that the northmen gods kicked it out of their heaven. It is the offspring of a dangerous trickster, foretold to one day devour the world. It is so large its body stretches the length of the very ocean, a length beyond our very ken. It is the Midgard Serpent, the serpent of this world, and it is beginning to devour Britain itself.”

“Husband? Three villages does not mean it will take the entire isle. It has eaten before, and been sated-“

“Aye. Normally it eats its share and vanishes for generations or more. Whether asleep or devouring bits of faraway lands, I know not. Or so t’is said. But it has eaten steadily these past three years, in Khundia, Gaul, Eiru and here. Mayhap elsewhere, too. It seems hungrier than ever, and a fae sorceress named Medb seems to have set it after us.”

“How dost thou know all this?” Morgause was annoyed her husband had kept this all to himself.

“I only just learned this of late. Last year, there was a gathering of fae. This Medb seeks Rokk’s downfall,” Lot did not want to reveal how intimate his source was before the womenfolk.

“You… trust this source?” Morgause guessed something close to the truth.

“…Aye.”

The conversation was interrupted by a rumbling, and Lot jumped to have his men ready for action. Lothian was safe, but a small peninsula not an hour’s ride away with a village, a small castle – and even a blacksmith renowned throughout Lothian, were gone.

Three Hundred and Thirty-four

An array of computi fired as the beast drew closer, unleashing a sea of flaming oils and enough bolts that could knock down the Pharos Lighthouse of Alexandria, according to Querl; that much Dyrk could recall of the Greek’s description of the planned maneuver now actually being employed. Designed to decimate a Khund attack on Lothian, an array of towers on either side of the firth had begun a coordinated assault.

The serpent noticed not.

Annoyed, frustrated and helpless, Dyrk fidgeted with his sword pummel, yet also chastised himself – what good would a sword do against a creature like THAT?

The serpent’s head was as wide as the eastern firth, and the closer it got, the wider it made the firth as it ate away at the shores. It’s head seemed to be just as long, but blended into a long neck behind it that continued out to sea and disappeared, either eclipsed by its own mass or continuing below the waves. It was gray-green and scaly, and its teeth appeared thrice taller than even the tallest of towers. Aye, thrice taller than the forested hills in the distance as well.

He had heard of Jonah and Garth defeating dragons, dragons that were big, but nowhere near as big as this.

How do we begin to fight such a creature?

With the computi attack failed, Lot ordered an infantry attack, dual attacks from either side of the firth where the creature’s mouth met its food. But the creature ate still; advancing troops were caught up in the dislodged erupting ground beneath them before any blade could touch the creature, and the few that did stab the beast saw their swords lodged with no effect.

Again, the creature noticed not.

Lot next ordered a naval assault. It fared no better. Within the hour, Lothian’s army was in tatters, its navy destroyed and its coastal towers gone without a trace. If the creature had taken a few more bites Lothian towne itself would have been no more.

Three Hundred and Thirty-five

Torachi’s ship intercepted the trio just at they were about to round the broad head of northern Caledonia, halfway between Lothian and the Orkneys. MacKell, Marla and Andrew were quite surprised to find their monarch voluntarily on the pirate’s boat, and even more surprised to hear their tale of a giant sea serpent eating away at the firth that leads in towards the great glen itself. No longer was the northeastern Caledonia coast a gentle half-circle with coves and bays, bur was now a deep L-shape – hundreds of square leagues had been eaten away, and King Rokk and the fearsome Torachi had both been powerless to stop it.

MacKell took the time he needed to focus his vision on things afar and he scanned the seas. Soon after he confirmed the monster of geographical proportions had just retreated from Lothian’s firth, out to deep sea.

“It must like river outlets,” Torachi commented. The rivers and deep harbours must give up the foodstuffs it craves most.”

Marla was surprised to see the monstrous looking brigand so thoughtful and civil. He was half-man, half-monster as so oft described, it was true, but there was a sharp intellect – a devious intellect, behind steely eyes both human and not.

Drest, too, was baffled by the villain. He’d heard tales of Hebridean Picts being slain by the raider, yet one would not know that from his present demeanor, aside from his coldness of person. Torachi’s crew seemed an unseemly lot – but they kept their silence and politeness, apparently more out of fear and resentment than by genuine civility, though.

Torachi’s ship set a quick pace for Lothian. He seemed strangely eager to take on the monster, for reasons that made no sense to his guests.

Three Hundred and Thirty-six

“Our messengers had to return. A blizzard has rolled in from Ulster. There is no passage by land, and we dare not take to the sea,” Lot’s castellan reported.

Morgause was displeased. Lothian was vulnerable… too vulnerable. She had often resented inability to advance her family’s existing gains, but now for the first time it all seemed at risk. Jecka was glad to be kept abreast of all new information, but did not like the news either.

“Also,” the castellan hesitantly reported, “we have reports of a large ogre menacing the southern villages.

“The ogre Validus?” Jecka guessed. “I had heard it had left Perilous Forest for the north last autumn.”

“Have we not monsters enough?” Morgause angrily demanded of North Cymru’s daughter. “Must you wish for every possible ill upon us? If Midgard Serpent, Manaugh and Darkness were not enough, must Lothian receive every fiend? Why not Saraid and Torachi whilst we are wishing!?!” Lothian’s queen was getting hysterical.

“I was merely---”

“Merely wishing doom on my kingdom! You wish to belong to this family? I say NAY! Out with you! Get OUT, you shrew!”

Jecka left as dignified and diplomatically as she could, and stewed in her own regrets thereafter. If Lothian could not bear one more monster, mayhap she could handle this one herself.

Three Hundred and Thirty-seven

Andrew was overcome with a dread that ran into his very bones in empathy for his friend Val’s homeland; it was scarred and disfigured in a way that made all the recent Yuletide peace of the Orkneys seem like a chimera.

He had been to Lothian once before as a youth, and had spent a summer here with his merchant uncle. The fields where he played, where his local knights held their jousts, were now but gone – muddy sea-water stood in their place, and cliffs of dirt, stone and clay stood with uncertainty overlooking them.

Townspeople were fleeing uphill from whence their settlement had been, carrying everything they could by cart, beast or on their backs. It was not a frigid day; a northern spring breeze brought the promise but not the reality of the seasons of green. The remnants of snows here at least were not as plentiful as they had been further up the northern shore.

There were no ships to greet and escort them. Andrew felt vulnerable for Lothian, entering port with a raider like Torachi.

The moorings were a lonely place. Fishing boats were overturned, abandoned or half-sunk, as the waves the serpent had created had maimed all boats and all shore buildings. With nowhere to moor, Torachi dropped anchor, and lowered a plank into the water. It reached to shallow waters; the shore party would have to wade the last dozen or so feet.

Andrew was even more alarmed by the look of resignation in King Lot’s eyes, something that matched not the proud descriptions his sons painted of him. He heard servants in hushed whispers say that the king had refused to see his wife Queen Morgause, refused to let her see the defeat his eyes now contained. He still had that pride (or perhaps even love? Andrew knew not these royals, only their sons).

There was no way to get word to any southern armies, not even nearby Ryhged or Dalraida. Rokk, despite his growing legend, inspired no hope in the face of this menace, from noble or peasant alike – nor did the high king offer a strategy that had not been tried and failed.

Lot offered no resistance nor hope when Torachi made an audacious suggestion, one that caught even Rokk by surprise.

Three Hundred and Thirty-eight

“I knew you’d come.”

“I… thought you were dead.”

The northern seas were calm, only gently lapping up onto the large western bay of the North Isle.

“Where… where are our people?” L’ile asked hesitantly.

“Gone.” She said it with resignation but nod sadness. “Gone to the West.”

To the West. L’ile felt his throat clench. He’d been so certain they were here, hiding, waiting out the disaster. But “going West,” the direction of the setting sun, meant--

“No, mituat’ha. Really,” his companion realized his assumption. “They have truly traveled west, to a new isle.” She looked away. “Those that survived, at least.”

“Did…?”

“Your father lives. Or did, when the People left here. Your mother… I saw not.”

L’ile absorbed the news. It was a long interval before he spoke again. “We… should join them.”

“In time. Perhaps.” She turned to him and tenderly massaged his hand. “But you must first return to Pen’t’raigh’a.”

“Will you come with me, Myla?”

“I was just there. You missed me.”

L’ile was silent.

“Do you not wish to go back? You seemed quite adapted there.”

He nodded. “Perhaps more than I should be. But coming here reminds me, I am yet of The People. I would like to see my kin again.”

“You will, dear Rowan, you will.”

L’ile picked up their skins and handed one to Myla. “I will accompany you to a shore of your choosing at the southern end of the Hebrides Sea. But your path and mine must remain separate for just a while longer, dear one.”

Three Hundred and Thirty-nine

King Drest accompanied Andrew as they descended into the donjon.

Their prisoner was locked firmly in place, unable to move any limb. He smelled of human wastes.

The guard shrugged at their reactions, as if to say, “why bother? He’s not going to live that much longer anyway.”

Andrew felt some reluctant kinship towards Drest, but tried not to see any in Manaugh. Those of the Orkneys were largely a mesh of Pict and Northman, a fact many have forgotten since those isles became Lothian holdings.

“Hello Manaugh.” Drest was neither cheerful nor reproachful.

“Greetings, Drest. I hear you are our… king now.”

“I am.”

“Are you here to free me, or aid my execution and sell me out in the name of Caledonian ‘friendship’?”

“Neither, it turns out. I am here to ask your assistance.”

The prisoner cracked up laughing at the latest. “I can help no one, t’would seem.”

“Oh, but you can,” Drest continued. “I can secure your release, and you can help save this land. All you must do is swear to set aside your grudge against the clan of Amlaidh.”

“Never!”

“Then you die, and your grudge dies with you. Either way, the clan of Amlaidh has won. You can go to your grave remembered as a villain, even by your own people, or you can help save Pict and Vodatni alike.”

“Save from who?” That Manaugh was remotely curious made Andrew smile cautiously. Drest’s words were winning the battle, it seemed.

Three Hundred and Forty

MacKell returned from the west with all three items he had sought: a magic gauntlet from the Pictish priestess Tasmia, the orb called the Justice of Balor, and its wielder Saraid herself. He only hoped Rokk could later find a way out of the pledge they had to offer her, to back her as Eiru’s high queen and empress.

The Princess Jecka, it seemed, had sought to hire a mercenary to help repel the ogre Validus. She planned to use her family’s own special gifts, but needed a hired sword – and instead came up with a hired axe. Rokk and Dyrk had once fought this axe-man Chaontigh and knew his value; his allegiance was purchased less costly than Saraid’s.

Sir Dyrk had found Validus and had lured it along peacefully with the charm Torachi had given him, just as the bandit-king had promised. Torachi was playing them all as fools, MacKell knew, but hoped that he could destroy or divert the monster away from Britain. At the new encampment, Validus sat in a stupor, like a doll waiting to be played with.

Andrew and King Drest had the shortest voyage geographically, but perhaps the longest in sales – most presumed that Manaugh would prefer execution to collaboration. No one else but Drest could have pulled this one off.

Presently, Torachi began to outline his plan.

“The ten of us are capable of defeating, perhaps even slaying this Jormangund. We will do so here, on the north side of Lothian’s firth, and we shall lure the serpent here.

“The key is Sir Dyrk. Some of you may know that the crumbling Roman cult of Apollo expected a sun king to arise and restore the cult to prominence. Some of you may even know Dyrk was supposed to be that sun king. But none but Dyrk may have heard and perhaps not even he has believed that he is an actual descendent of Apollo.”

Dyrk squirmed uncomfortably; he disliked hearing Regulus’ nonsense from Regulus himself, let alone this villain.

Torachi continued. “Two days from now is the vernal equinox, the beginning of the half-year when Dyrk’s aspects align, and he can be a sun king, if he so desires. I have with me some amulets and sacred robes from the Apollonian temples of Rome and Greece that should channel his divine ancestor’s gifts, if he is willing to play his part.”

“How does a bandit-king know enough to step in and save the day?” Dyrk challenged. “Verily, your victims these past years were not so fortunate.”

“T’is true I am a raider and even a thief, and I was so when merely human flesh I wore. But the priests of the Jewes who saved my life gave me more than a monstrous half-body,” he gestured to his side, “they gave me insights into the great deeds of this era. Including the battle we now face. All my raidings in recent years have been to prepare for this very fight!” For a moment, he was almost giddy at the prospect – before his cold, scheming glare returned.

Mulling his words, Rokk recalled that Reep, L’ile Laoraighll and Ossian had encountered Torachi in proximity to the Stone of Virtue, an artifact strongly tied to Saraid’s orb.

“Jormangund is the offspring of the trickster Loki, and is drawn to the shiny and exotic. Dyrk, a sun king on the equinox, will be an irresistible target, if we can use the proper imagery and appeals, imagery the Princess Jecka is vital to provide. And the presence of Rokk, wearing the coat of Ursuik, could not hurt.

“Once summoned, we need to strike at an exact spot, a small between its eyes. We will need to step onto its head above the mouth as it bites into the land, and run almost a half-league to reach our attack point before it moves again and we are thrown into land or sea. When we get near, Chaontigh will use his axe to carve us an opening, and MacKell, the empress, Manaugh and King Rokk will hack our way inside.”

“Inside?”

“Aye. It’s scaly skin is quite impenetrable on the outside, I fear. But on the inside, if t’is like any serpent I have cut apart, there should be a cavity it may breathe through in which we can find its heart and slay it.”

Rokk could not help but compare Torachi’s thinking and insights to Querl’s. He liked the situation not, but Torachi had presented a plan that had at least a slim measure of hope.

“But why Lothian’s north firth? Why not somewhere farther from a town?” Andrew asked.

“As we have observed, the serpent prefers places where rivers flow into the seas, and deep harbours. This is the only one we can reach by equinox. Yet by diverting to the north shore, we can hopefully prevent Lothian from being destroyed.”

Andrew just knew Torachi was lying about some part of this plan, but knew not what.

Three Hundred and Forty-one

“Are you sure this will work?”

“Honestly? No.”

“I’d rather you weren’t out here.”

“Where should I be? Hiding under the bed, waiting to be eaten like all the other womenfolk and the peasants?”

“Silence. Let Dyrk concentrate.”

“Concentrate on what? He is lit up like a bon-fire. Surely the serpent would see him from the lands of the North-men.”

“I think I see something.”

“You said that before.”

“No, look!”

“It’s just distant waves.”

“You are all fools. Just perform your tasks and let us get on with it.”

“Look at the waves!”

“How long will this take? I have other… quests to perform.”

“This is your quest of the moment.”

“Se’proaghh’g south-landers.”

“Hold your tongue! With your bain hand if need be.”

“No! Look! Verily this time!”

“Calm down. It’s arrival is always preceded by-”

“-What was that?”

…

“The ground rumbled, just as before.”

“And the waves are much higher now. See how they crash upon yon shore.”

“I told you.”

“Silence. And concentrate.”

“Why? It’s here!”

“It begins its rise from the waters. Be ready, everyone!”

“As ready as you can be for a monster in all likelihood is larger than Britain itself.”

“Spare us your wit. What little there is of it.”

“Where is its lower jaw?”

“Underwater.”

“Oh.”

“Can’t Jecka flee now?”

“She won’t get far enough. Better to stay with—STAND FIRM, EVERYONE!”

“Here IT COMES!”

“Blessed Iesous!”

“Torachi! You miscounted! It’s biting over us! It’s biting-”

“Everyone clasp hands! Stay focused on Dyrk! Stay-”

“AIIIGGHHH!!!!!”

“Torachi, you bastard!”

“Get this damn gauntlet off of me!”

“OOOUFFF!”

“Hang on! Hang--”

“ <span style="font-size: 15px;">AAAA</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">AAA</span><span style="font-size: 13px;">AA</span><span style="font-size: 12px;">AA</span><span style="font-size: 11px;">AA</span><span style="font-size: 10px;">AA</span><span style="font-size: 9px;">AA</span><span style="font-size: 8px;">AA</span><span style="font-size: 8px;">AA</span><span style="font-size: 7px;">AA</span><span style="font-size: 6px;">AA</span><span style="font-size: 5px;">AA</span><span style="font-size: 4px;">AA</span><span style="font-size: 3px;">AA</span><span style="font-size: 2px;">AA</span><span style="font-size: 1px;">AA</span>…”

Three Hundred and Forty-two

“Fear is for babies and women-folk!” Harlack exclaimed impatiently. “I thought you northlanders were of sterner stuff than southland city-folk.”

“I merely said we should get to shelter, as we were told,” Gaheris said.

“Boys!” Morgause scolded. “There is nothing cowardly about getting out of the way of the warriors.” She singled out Harlack. “A warrior needs to follow orders. Ours are to get out of the way so that my husband’s men can follow their own orders.”

She led them up the hill that paralleled the plateau of Lothian Castle. “See? Even now the soldiers of Lothian prepare, should the creature resurface whilst King Rokk and his men fight the beast!”

“How can even King Rokk defeat a monster such as that?” Gaheris demanded.

“Because he isn’t a scared little boy,” Harlack shot back.

“Actually, King Rokk once prevailed as a little boy,” Morgause told them, modifying a bardic tale she’s recently heard.

The boys set aside their fears and frustrations. A good tale of knighthood was always in order.

“T’was but at Yule last year, when most of King Rokk’s knights were at home with their kin, when his messenger, the Moor Jenni, returned with word of a wizard bespelling the village of Zinth. Rokk and his knights rode to Zinth and tried to take the wizard’s magic gem away from him. But in doing so, the gem’s magic turned them into children, and they were fostered out into the castles of five evil lords.”

“Were they afraid?” Gaheris asked.

“Aren’t all children afraid sometimes?” Morgause asked. Harlack scoffed.

Just then, the sky was filled with Jormangund’s head rearing high into the air, then slamming down into the sea. A huge wall of sea-water spewed out, crashing onto every visible shore. Even where the queen, her escorts and young charges stood far inland, an echo of that blast sheeted down upon them like a drenching hammer-blow; all were knocked to the ground and soaked to the bone on this chilly winter-spring day.

Gaheris laughed at the fear apparent in Harlack’s face, but Morgause would have none of it. “Let our servants build a fire that we may become dry and warm and not catch a pox, and I shall continue my story…”

Three Hundred and Forty-three

“Hello?

“Hello?” Only a damp echo answered Rokk. This belly of the beast was huge enough that gusts of odoriferous winds blew across the surface. It was like an underground sea, salt water with a slightly acidic feel. The air and water felt thicker here, thicker and hotter. Every time the beast moved, the entire sea was tossed into an uproar. Rokk took another breath and held it as he was tossed around. None had worn armour for this quest; there was too much likelihood of it being more hindrance and no sign that it would even help.

He soon found a partially digested tree to grab hold of. It was completely dark and very eerie, with only the sound of distant gurgling. But soon there was the sound of splashing.

“Hello?”

“Over here.” The splasher had Manaugh’s voice.

“I’m on a tree. Try to make your way this way.”

A few grunts later the splasher was a few feet away. Rokk considered extending a hand, then thought the better of it – what if he’d found a way out of the shackled gauntlet without needing Torachi’s key? Manuagh climbed on board without help.

“King of all ye survey, then?”

Rokk smiled at the jest, and offered a brief chuckle since no one would see the smile.

“T’would be nice to see.”

“Let my hand free and I can set an ember on this tree.”

“Burning trees make not good rafts,” Rokk countered.

“Aye. But I can set but a small bit ablaze, that we might see a place to paddle, rather that sit in the dark awaiting to be digested.”

Rokk reluctantly agreed, and found Torachi’s lock. T’was metal, luckily. He held onto both lock and gauntlet for Manaugh, and true to his word a tiny speck of ember began on the tree’s bark. It illuminated not much but more than Rokk expected, but their acclimation to the darkness plus the stomach gases no doubt augmented their range of visibility.

There was a sea of earthen debris extending as far as the speck of light illuminated, and no sign of the others, nor even of the stomach’s walls. The duo broke off branches, picked a direction and started paddling.

Three Hundred and Forty-four

Jecka came to in a panic, recalling her sister’s fate in that North Cymru pond so long ago. She flailed and gasped, breathing in water and started to lose conciousness. When she awoke again, she was being held upside-down by a giant hand.

She heard in the darkness the grunting and mouth-breathing of the terrifying giant, and she could well imagine its nose-less face, its strange one-eye that was not an eye.

Despite its legend and size, it was not a violent creature – since she had seen it, at least. Yes, it was said to have terrorized many from here to Perilous Forest, but like a giant child it seemed to fluctuate between play and tantrum.

Presently it began to howl, perhaps tired of floating in dark waters, perhaps feeling helpless for the first time in its life. Jecka was uncomfortable using her family’s gifts of seeming. At their best they needed furnishings that aided these seemings, but a simple way of manipulating light needed only a bit of focus and perspective – to realize that darkness is as much illusion as anything else, and to look at different kinds of light.

Soon she and the ogre were awash in a violet glow not unlike moonlight, the creature’s whitish head particularly standing out.

She and the ogre looked around at the stomach waters around them; rising and falling waves looked like dancing splashes of light. Validus was almost childishly giggling at the spectacle.

Eventually, gently as it could, it placed her on its shoulder and started splashing its way in a particular direction.

It is still drawn to Torachi’s charm! She realized, hoping the others were still together.

Three Hundred and Forty-five

“What do you think?” Andrew asked, trying to stay afloat.

“I think we’re in pretty deep,” Dyrk replied, fairing slightly better. The two had managed to cling to a piece of wood, but it was small and waterlogged, and when the beast had turned they almost lost it in the swell.

To further complicate matters, Dyrk still not only glowed but the water around him gurgled into a boiling steam. Andrew found it hard to look at him, and he had to position himself as far from him as possible to avoid being cooked. If the wood debris was not so soaked, it would no doubt be aflame.

“I think I liked being dead better,” Andrew laughed.

“You may get your wish,” Dyrk laughed back.

The smoldering and damp wood was starting to give way, and the stomach sea was getting rough again. Dyrk let go. He’d not let Andrew’s lift raft burn up and leave his fellowe helpless.

“Dyrk! No!”

The Roman knight more than half regretted his decision. Treading water in boiling, steaming water was near impossible, even when one could withstand the heat.

Andrew watched in horror as the bright glow that was Dyrk vanished beneath the waves and gradually disappeared in the darkness of the deep.

Three Hundred and Forty-six

“I’d hoped to get you alone, but not like this.” Saraid’s orb emanated a green glow amid the thick darkness. Using her light, she had found the remnants of one side of a boat, and used her orb to propel it. MacKell was in no danger of drowning, but lacked mobility that the would-be empress could provide.

“My thanks,” he replied, climbing aboard.

“You are a fine Irish warrior,” she praised. “Would you not be better served defending the Irish people?”

“I go where I am needed. This British court, Rokk’s company of knights, is like one not seen in Eiru in six centuries.”

“The Craebh Ruadh,” she replied, surprising him.

“You know of it?”

“I am an Irish monarch who listens to her bards. And I know enough to see when a legend is reborne, Sentanta.” Her index finger caressed his face. “Join me, and we will make an Irish nation worthy of our ancestors!”

“…Let us find the others and slay this beast, or else any of our plans are for naught.”

Saraid let him focus his vision on seeing afar, and one by one started locating the others. He saw Torachi near both Chaontigh and Andrew, and Validus swimming after them carrying Jecka; all four were straight ahead. But looking behind them, he saw Rokk and Manaugh (where was Dyrk?) along the stomach wall, and Manaugh about to touch it.

“Hold on, Saraid! The serpent is about to-”

Three Hundred and Forty-seven

A challenge!

It had been too long since she’d had one of those.

She’d considered trying to find the invisible treasure of the Iceni, but some Trommite monk had beaten her. Torachi’s horde of treasure? Maybe… but where was Torachi’s lair these days? And whatever treasure-stores old king Bors had accumulated were well-guarded by a Bainsidhe, and probably not worth the bother, when all was said and done.

But this… this was a challenge!

“The ruins of a monastery, you say?” She sipped her wine, trying not to let on how intrigued she was.

“Aye,” said the prefect. “King Clovis is ill, and Queen Guinevere’s delegation vanished rather rudely and abruptly. The queen did admit that the British have possession of San Graal, the holy chalice of Our Lord. Or rather this heretic order called the Josephites keep it for them.

“Clovis’ very life may be at stake, Sussiah. If you can… obtain the Grail for us from this demonic other-world they call Avalon, you’ll find the Kingdom of the Franks will be quite generous.”

“Why then we have a deal, Prefect Vidar.”