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Three Hundred and Forty-eight

“Can you reach him?” Torachi was annoyed.

“I’m a mercenary, not a wet-nurse!” an exasperated Chaontigh responded. His arms were painfully hot as it was; only that they were submerged in water prevented them from burning completely.
With one thrust the big mercenary grabbed the limp body of the Roman knight and tossed him onto the mucous-covered stomach lining. The mucous sizzled a little when Dyrk landed on it, but thankfully there was no new movement on Jormangund’s part.

“He’s out of the drink, then, Torachi. What now? I say he looks like a drown sailor. If sailors glowed like the sun, ha.”

“If he lives he may yet be useful,” the bandit-king replied.

“Is he really a sun god?” Chaontigh was no theologian, but was mildly curious. “I’ve never met a god before. They say all the old gods are dead, and now there is only one.”

“They say in some quarters that the moon is but a sliver of bread,” Torachi said. “Bother me not with what fools say.”

Chaontigh was about to challenge the remark, but the sound of something large spashing closer made him stop.

“Torachi? Something else else’s getting closer.”

“So it is,” Totachi said, half-interestedly. His human side was pressed against the stomach mucous. “The beast seems to be settling down.”

So as not to slip on the mucous, Torachi carefully stepped closer to the water, arms extended for balance – and to be ready for a fall. He walked towards the splashing, but waited for it to approach the water’s edge. With Dyrk’s brightness behind him, he could almost make out a darkened silhouette upon the water.

“Validus… carrying two passengers, it seems,” he said. “Good. This makes as good a starting point as any.”

Three Hundred and Forty-nine

“You really trust this Torachi?” Manaugh asked.

“No. But we’ve no choice, do we?” Rokk was curt but honest.

“How long do we wait?” Saraid was growing impatient.

“Until Torachi’s team is ready,” Rokk replies. “MacKell?”

The Ulsterman focused his vision. “Andrew is rousing Dyrk. Everyone else is present and accounted for. Should be soon.”

With Saraid providing mobility and MacKell the vision, this duo had been able to rendezvous with Torachi to learn the new plan, seek out Rokk and Manaugh in the aftermath of their attempt to burn a hole in the beast’s stomach, and together they all returned towards the beast’s head. MacKell told them the beast was now at rest at the sea’s bottom, fortunately lying horizontal so returning to the head was not a difficult chore.

The air itself felt heavier than before, as if he could feel the weight of the sea above through Jormangund’s skin. Were they so deep that none would live through this? It did not matter – if they were victorious.

“Now!” MacKell declared, interrupting his chain of thought.

At once, Excalibur, MacKell’s magic spear, Saraid’s orb and Manaugh’s hand all hit the wall of Jormangund’s throat, just as several miles away Chaontigh’s axe pierced the side of its stomach.

Did the distraction work? There was no way to tell. Suddenly the quartet were all airborne, and there was no way MacKell could retain his focus of vision.

Rokk’s head screamed to him; the change from deep-sea pressure to a sudden high altitude felt like it was enough to make his head, his lungs, his very heart explode. But the bear within him took control, keeping death at bay even as his own stomach emptied itself.

At almost the same time Rokk realized he no longer smelled the stomach-acid sea of Jormangund he also realized he was still airborne and looking at a sea of stars. Some were drawing closer while others were not. Only in one area far to his right were stars absent; there a snakelike figure squirmed and twisted.

He had been thrown miles clear of Jormangund but was now falling like an arrow out towards the sea. He had no idea where the others were, or how he would survive his landing.

Three Hundred and Fifty

Jormangund howled and thrashed, but not before Chaontigh and Torachi had made it all the way inside.

With the stomach ripped open, Andrew had positioned himself as a wedge to keep it open while Jecka, Torachi and Chaontigh climbed through. Dyrk was again tossed asunder and vanished into the churning of the giant stomach, while Validus merely hung onto the rip for dear life. In doing so, the rip widened, and Jecka lost her grip. Validus let go to reach out for her, and both vanished into the maelstrom.

“Jecka!” Andrew bellowed.

With Torachi well attached to a gigantic blood vessel, Chaontigh reached back for Andrew. “Come on. We can’t waste this chance!”

Andrew let himself be dragged forward.

The trio took their breaths and dove into the blood vessel, with Chaontigh lightly scoring the vein as they pushed along; even the slightest pressure could now open the whole vessel.

Andrew was the first to run out of breath, but Chaontigh and Torachi carried him along nonetheless.

Three Hundred and Fifty-one

Father Marla walked along the shore, not certain what he could do that all of Lot’s men could not. The Lothian shores were a desolation zone of debris, death and despair. The very sea carried a film of blood.

The night Rokk’s team disappeared, an ungodly caterwauling sound had come from the sea. The next morning was quiet, too quiet, and blood started coming ashore.

The next few days were also quiet, leading some to believe the beast was dead, but so too were the heroes. For all daylight hours the shores were scoured for survivors, and by the third day Lot had boats out looking as well.

MacKell was the first to be found – alive, just barely. He was found in a pasture halfway to Hadrian’s Wall, bruised, battered, with a head swelling with puss.

Saraid was found next, just as bruised and battered, but lifeless, washing up on shore an hour’s ride east of Lothian.

Jecka turned up the next morning, gently lying on a flat rock, the remnants of a coastal tower. Large footprints led to and away from her toward the sea.

A week later, King Rokk was found at sea, legs broken and bloody but awake, conscious and almost cognitive.

What of Dyrk? What of Andrew? wondered the cleric. Had his friend found something of the redemption he had hoped for? Aye, perhaps he had.

There were no bodies for those two, nor Torachi, Manaugh or the axe-man Chaontigh, and certainly none for the serpent itself. There was no certainty to this grand battle. Rokk knew not the outcome, nor did Jecka, once she’d woken, and MacKell was still in the impenetrable slumber of those close to death.

Yet there was too much blood for even all of Jormungund’s victims all put together. Lot’s sailors themselves said the bloody film extends well beyond the sight of land.

Another week passed, and Val came to court from the north. Picts, Dalraidans, Rhygedians, Elmetians and others were lining up to aid Lothian and reaffirm solidarity with Rokk’s strong, united Britain.

Yet day after day, Marla walked the coast, refusing to give up hope. One day, he was joined by Regulus.

The priest of Apollo spoke nary a word, but joined him. Perhaps he spoke not for fear of giving voice to the betrayal of hope – or to give voice to all those years of discord between himself and young Dyrk.

Dindrane also arrived, carrying the Chalice, and soon Rokk was up and about, although still sore and stiff. MacKell slept still, but the Druids no longer feared for his life. Other casualties were tended to as best as the maiden could reach them, and Val, feeling guilty for not defending his homeland, stood by her as bodyguard.

“Was it worth it? All the years of prophesy? How long did you know this was a-coming?” Rokk asked Regulus with an old man’s stare.

“I know this much. Everything I knew, everything I thought I knew, has all come to naught. I… know not the details, nor do I know if I could have changed this if I had.”

King Rokk led the priest go with that. Perhaps it was his own frustration he took out on the priest.

After three weeks, much of the ocean blood had receded, but what was left seemed concentrated on a single peninsula. Marla and Regulus were among Lot’s men when they found it: a bloody, pulpy, gooey mound of flesh larger than a small castle, hacked and slashed across its outside (and clearly severed from a larger body). It took days more to carve it up and burn it, for fear it might grow back, and in doing so, Lot’s men found a metallic body wedged in, holding an axe.

There was initially no way to tell if Andrew was really dead, but over the summer his iron body would gradually start to return to flesh, and not the flesh of the living.

Marla and Regulus maintained vigil over their fallen friend, that he might be properly honoured and buried completely as a man. Rokk planned to inter him at Shangalla, but the residents of the peninsula where he was found, a land just as scarred by Jormangund as any, insisted he be buried there.

They renamed their land Sinn Andrew, "Our Andrew," in his honour.

Three Hundred and Fifty-two

King Drest and many of his followers aided Lothian as best they could, but with heavy heart.

All the optimism for things to come was marred by this devastating attack on all Caledonia. Hope was gone; foreboding had replaced it. For as bad as thing were, prophecy said it would only get worse.

And Manaugh, the still-missing Manaugh, would be at its centre.

This… Regulus. This southlander. Roman. He knew some of the prophecy, too, or so it was said. Regulus was a friend and guide to Andrew, the Orkney warrior Drest had met and found to be of good heart. Could Regulus be an ally?

Or by looking more and more to the southlanders to we aid the prophecy we seek to overcome?

There were no answers to be had in this Lothian. But Regulus, he must meet with him.

Three Hundred and Fifty-three

Upon hearing that Imra was casting aside her guise as Guinevere, Azura, as Lady of the Lake, rushed to her side. There would be ramifications and politicking to ease the confusion and accusations; any fool could see that.

But the Lady took young Elwinda as her aide – not Thora. Since Mysa’s disappearance, Azura trusted less and less in her senior priestess. She never accused Thora, but any trust that had existed was gone.

Thora sat by the lakeside, cursing Mysa’s name. It must have been her fault!

Thora!

She ignored the voice. Surely it must have been anger, or imagination.

Thora!

No, someone was definitely calling her, using the Wind spell. It was a man’s voice.

“Who calls to me?” She replied angrily. Was Azura’s scorn not enough? Had she earned the interference of a Teacher or Druid now?

It is but an olde king, someone who once courted the favour of Avalon but like you was stabbed in the back.

“Speak your name, and pray tell me what you want.”

I want justice. I want Avalon to have the rightful Lady of the Lake. I want Azura gone, and your aid to help me.

Thora’s heart skipped a beat. Was this somehow the ghost of Pellam? She dared not so hope.

“You still have not told me your name.”

I cannot, right a-now, else all the wardings of the Teachers ruin our plot. Take the barge to the outer world. Bring whatever escort you see fit. Meet me at the tavern where the Glastonbury Road meets the Exeter road.

Thora thought a bit on whether to trust this voice, but eventually convinced herself there was no harm in hearing the mystery-king out.

Three Hundred and Fifty-four

The ruined monastery was the hardest part, as between Roxxius, the Khunds and even wild Irish, there were more ruined monasteries than standing ones.

But Sussiah had quickly narrowed the field down to western Britain, east of Cymru, west of Perilous Forest, south of Deva and well north of Bath or Glastonbury.

Peasants told that monks were again more frequent, sometimes escorting a young maiden, going to and from ruins long thought to have been abandoned.

The ruins themselves were well-overgrown with flora of all the local varieties: grasses, shrubs, and young trees taking shape where once an order had kept order.

There was no apparent well-worn path or tell-tale sign, but to the trained eye, a central well appeared to be the common point of foot traffic. Descending the well, she found, as she expected, a thin side tunnel. That tunnel took her to a grotto, which in turn spilled over to a garden. She quickly threw over herself the dark robes that resembled a sister’s, and began to reconnoitre.

She spent a full day cautiously getting the lay of the land, a small island with a concentrated collection of huts, many gardens, a humble church and a path leading to a small dock, the closest point to the other islands. What treasures does the rest of Avalon hold, she wondered. But now that she knew a way in… all in good time.

The next day, she got close enough to hear two elders talking, and she learned that her quarry had yet to return from Lothian.

Three Hundred and Fifty-five

“You must be pleased,” Iason said without a trace of enthusiasm.

“After a fashion,” Mordru admitted. He had three pawns lined up already, far easier than he had ever imagined. He should have taken Avalon whilst Kiwa was alive, so she could know the despair she had caused him!

He and his unwilling servant were in central Cymru waiting out a rainstorm, using a pavilion King Zendak’s men had set for them.

Their Cymru guardsmen were roasting a rabbit for evening’s supper. In the meantime the old wizard-king contented himself with ale and some larded bread.

Iason ate not. His stomach still rebelled at the service asked of him already – and what was yet to come.

He had eaten only a few crusts of bread since once again being himself, and even that was a reluctant and regretted occurrence.

“So… who are we after this time? And if Avalon is our target, why dost we tarry so?”

“Druids,” he answered, before taking another swig of ale. “One does not simply march into Avalon and take command. Even the Romans failed at that. One must lay the groundwork first.’

“Dost thou really need me for yon next meet?” he asked, hoping Mordru could do without him. Or rather, without his other self.

“Possibly,” Mordru said between nibbles, barely paying him mind at all. “but he does make a rather impressive entrance, even you must admit.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“No. No, you wouldn’t have.” He put his hand kindly on Iason’s shoulder. “Well, trust me on this.”

The jest was a cruel one. Iason had no temperament to even smile.

The rain had let up only slightly when the Cymru scout returned. “They are arriving even now, mesire!” he reported.

Mordru had Zendak’s men leave the tent, and forbade them to enter no matter what they heard – or do not here.

There was a chant, a scream, some unearthly laughter, and an odd buzzing sound, followed by hours of silence.

A while later, the sounds of distant screams echoed through the woods.

Three Hundred and Fifty-six

L’ile stepped onto British soil with a mixture of joy, dread and regret. Myla spent a night with him before returning to the sea, leaving the young Druid to return to court alone. How much had happened? What had changed? He wondered these and other thoughts, seeking to keep the foul news at hand afar from mind until it needed to come out, at such time as he could share it with his fellows and liege.

At Deva, he learned of the battle against Jormangund at Lothian, and the heavy cost of lives and friends. Rokk had departed for court, whiles Imra – Queen Imra! had made the rounds of nobles to explain her case. There were rumblings of discontent – some still had sore memories of the rebel kings war, but too much had happened since to truly unite Britain under Rokk’s banner.

On the road for Londinium, L’ile could not help but feel watched. He tried to find seclusion so that he could better make use of his gifts, but nowhere he went could he not feel eyes upon him.

He slept not that night, and considered heading back to Deva, or to seek out any local Druids for aid. He did not feel himself at all; still dazed he was from all his experiences in the north. Even being back in Britain after most of a year scarcely seemed credible in his mind.

But no blackguard took arms against him not interfered with him at all.

The second night, he resolved to feign slumber and await any who came near him. To his surprise, he awoke in mid-morning, unaware of having drifted off, nor were any of his possessions or his person touched or harmed.

He walked all the next day, still feeling watched.

When the road neared Perilous Forest, it occurred to him that his observer was either a coward or benign. He opted to enter the forest, in hopes a coward would not follow.

Again he stayed awake, this time successfully feigning slumber. No one approached him.

Walking through the woods the next day through thick brush, he was certain he heard someone following him, someone less stealthy than he.

“Show yourself, for Spraigch’s sake!” he bellowed.

The footsteps stopped.

Variations of this cat-and-mouse continued all day, and L’ile decided not to stop this eve at all.

Early into the evening, he tried one last time to catch the assailant, charging at where he thought he was, and pushing him into a nearby tree.

His quarry slipped from his grasp, just as L’ile realized t’was not a tree they had slammed into, but a leg.

With a loud growl, Validus looked down at him. There was no opportunity to become unseen.

“I’m sorry I’ll never see you again, Myla,” he whispered.

In his last moments, he could swear he heard a reply whisper. “I’m sorry, too, dear Rowan.”

Well, it's always nice to see this updated, even if I'm still way back at the week after the Royal Couple got married. [cough]

Hey, Kent, once you're unpacked, I hope you'll consider updating this over at ff dot net, too. I know they're kind of a pain, but their format is a little easier on my rheumy old eyes.

thanks for the comments! a few people used to add feedback, but it's been lonely in here of late.

I actually did post some of the early sections there, but got so annoyed with format that I gave up.
(#7ON LIST: http://www.fanfiction.net/comic/Legion_of_Super_Heroes/14/0/1/1/0/0/0/0/0/1/)

maybe a blog is the way to go...

Three Hundred and Fifty-seven

“Marla! Father Marla! Thank Iesous you have returned!”

“Calm down, Carolus. What ails thou?” The cleric had returned home very late last eve, but the jester looked as pale as sour milk this early morn.

“Twas a most wicked dream. Yet it was… more than a dream, I fear.”

Marla had his young guest settle into his study, and bade him tell his tale of recent slumbers.

“I was on an isle. How I got there I know not. This strange isle had all manner of strange, pointy plants and colourful birds, and the sun’s heat was worse than any summer’s day.

“There was a man. H-he said he had drawn me there, and he – he hunted me! He said I was more sport than any beast!”

“What did he do when he caught you?”

“That’s just it. Verily by chance, I killed him! Me, but a fool! I am no knight, yet I have taken the life of another! How can I be at peace with my Lord now?’ Carolus was truly upset by this – as if he’d done the deed he dreamed of.

“Calm yourself, my friend. Dreams are seemings, not truths. Well, maybe for Queen Nura, but not for you and I. Let’s start with your isle. It was an island, but not one you recognize. Yes?”

Seeing the young man’s nod, he continued. “And you self in danger by this huntsman. Surely what your dream portended was a fear of Britain becoming something you knew not, and you no longer fit in. King Rokk has grown more serious in the past year and a half. Verily, who has not? But rest assured, you do not need to fear for your head, my friend. Why on our journeys south, King Rokk himself told me he looked forward to your mirth after all this torment of the Midgard Serpent. Fear not.”

Marla’s words were soothing, and Carolus was almost himself by the time the cleric’s housekeeper served them a berried porridge for fast-breaking.

Two weeks later, Marla would be thrown for a loop when Reep reported of news from the islands southwest of Iberia – word that the Hunter had returned from the far seas, and was killed while on a hunt.

Three Hundred and Fifty-eight

The devastation of Lothian was staggering in terms of structures, but the Jormangund attack had left relatively few wounded – dead or fled to higher grounds were the more common states among the Vodatni and other residents of Lothian.

Noble, soldier and peasant alike worked together to restore some semblance of order. Pavilions were cast, sod huts erected, and now wooden dwellings began to take form. Warriors had set down swords in favour of axes and hammers, while women made communal stews out of whatever was at hand. Some had retrieved spinning wheels and fabrics from the ruins of the town, and made clothing for those who had nothing but what they wore while fleeing.

Week in, week out this continued, and slowly a sense of progress took shape. Enough at least that Jecka did not feel guilty spending time sewing for her own purposes.

When it was ready, she sought out Rokk, who had alternated between directing the excavations of the ruins and tending to the fears and needs of the populace. Despite the healing from the Cauldron, his legs were still not up to par, but he was not one to sit around.

She found him tending to MacKell, who was still unconscious. Both were in a Druid pavilion, one of several set up to attend to matters of healing.

“Do you think he shall awaken again?” Her king asked. She did not realize her entrance had been audible.

“Of course I do. He’s MacKell. Lar Chulain. The Hound. He will get better. He has to.”

Rokk nodded, trying to believe. As king, even among his peer knights, he was often at a loss for true understanding. MacKell was a living legend in his own right, to whom he was merely a king, a current king, not the king, the only high king most of the peers had ever really known personally. Rokk felt around few other than MacKell that he did not have to play any part – even among his family he had not that luxury.

Now, everything was changing, and he wondered if losing MacKell was a part of that.

“I… have something for you. Something else else I made.”

He turned slowly, carefully, trying not to misstep or move in such a way that would cause a shooting pain to ricochet up his spine. The Cauldron had regrouped his shattered leg bones and bound them, but they still needed care to retain that binding, he found.

Jecka bowed down and presented her gift.

Rokk was stunned. “It looks like…”

“It is.” She felt warmed by his childlike joy at the gift. It was his scabbard, presented to him by Morgause at his coronation, a scabbard sown by his mother for Excalibur when his father Uther Pendragon wielded it. He had feared it lost in the battle with Jormangund, but here it was - with an odd reddish-brown tint to its leather, like a lacquer coating seeped into the skin.

“I am no King Pellam, craftsman for precious relics, but I am schooled in the ways of Avalon,” she continued. “We have a saying, What we survive strengthens us. I used blood from the serpent’s heart and spellcraft in repairing the scabbard. If my magicks worked, you should be impervious from attacks that pierce, whether a serpent’s bite or a blade.”

“I… truly know not what to say,” Rokk beamed. “Would that we all had such charms!”

Jecka laughed. “Magicks are far harder than that, my liege.” Indeed, this gift had cost her far more than she would ever tell him.

Three Hundred and Fifty-nine

“Why hath King Rokk not attended the funerals?” Cornish King Marcus was rather put out. “I thought he was close with all of us.”

“Perhaps he is still in the far north, recovering from combat with the serpent of which we have heard so much,” Cador volunteered, not wanting to burst his liege’s bubble.

“The graves are to be tended every day,” Marcus reminded a subordinate. He stepped forward again. “My son. My bride, my beautiful bride. You both betrayed me in life, but I thee forgive in death.” He sprinkled fresh dirt upon the freshly piled plots.

“Come, Cador. Let us retire inside.”

The banners throughout Tintagel village and castle were all replaced by black, and servants humored their liege as best they could. After an evening of toasting, reminiscing and wailing, Cador had the king’s butler put Cornwall’s lord to bed. Cador in turn commended each of the servants for their loyalty.

“He has grown madder and madder, so he has,” Governal whispered to him in the courtyard that eve.

“Aye,” Cador replied. “Truly tis sad for such a valourious and noble king to be taken by his own ailing wits. For his own sake, and that of Cornwall, no state business must come before him, ere all this land remember him for his illness.”

“But who shall rule in his stead?”

“You know who as well as I, but neither Marcus nor the Macedonians must know.”

They walked past the pair of freshly dug plots of earth, which no one but Marcus truly considered to be human graves. In truth, twas Marcus’ prized hunting dogs, stricken dead by the malady sweeping the land’s hounds, buried beneath the dirt. “It may take weeks for word to get through,” Governal replied. “You and I must handled Cornwall’s affairs until then.”

Three Hundred and Sixty

It had been less than a year since Queen Imra had left Segontium, and her past dread of dishonesty was scantly softened in comparison to the dread of how Guinevere’s father would react to the truth.

She rode with Sirs James and Bedwyr, the Celtic warrior Laoraighll, Lady Azura of the Lake, and a host of companions, but in truth she felt alone. The joy of lifting the veil of deceit had come easily court after court, but now she had to face North Cymru King Voxv – the man she let think she had been the daughter of.

Prince Pharoxx rode out to meet the company. He seemed more civil than usual; perhaps his title as admiral of the western fleet sated his appetite for recognition – at least enough that he would be less of the scheming weasel than he had been to date.

Pharoxx’s half-sister Elyzabel, newly returned from Eiru, helped the queen and her ladies settle into their quarters. With the absence of any daughter of Voxv in residence at the moment, she was the sole lady of standing to play hostess as such. If either Pharoxx or Elyzabel had caught word of what the other courts had already been learning, neither showed any sign the high queen could detect.

Imra elected to first approach Voxv alone. Verily, that much I owe him. The castellan led her to the king’s favourite gardens, where he was trimming the spring blossoms.

“Greetings, King Voxv, my-” she had to fight her own impulse to play to his delusions of being her father. “My dearest and most beloved of elders.”

Voxv turned to face her not.

“Your gardens are looking magnificent this year. I hope only that the gardeners of Londinium…” she trailed off. She received no response.

“I-I only meant that-- No… I really need to tell you. I am truly sorry for what I must tell you.” She paused as her voice fell apart into a stifled sob.

Vovx turned to her not at all, but startled her with his words. “King Marcus mourns a bride who is dead not, and they call him a madman. I both mourned and denied mourning a daughter who I lost but tried not to lose. Which do you suppose the wicked tongues of all Britain consider the most daft?”

“…My Lord Voxv…”

“You… gave an old man hope. You tried to show me the truth, time and again. But you are Pelles’ daughter. You have his gifts of the mind. I… should thank you, or beg your forgiveness, for being such a cross for you to bear. But forgive me if I cannot bring myself to look upon you, else I again allow myself to believe that my Guinevere breathes yet.”

Imra’s legs trembled, and her self-rehearsed speeches continued to disintegrate before they found voice.

“GO!” He bellowed, trying to disguise pain inside of anger. Pride he still had. He no doubt felt quite foolish, having caved into his delusions for so long.

There was so much she had wanted to say – to again beg for a reconciliation between him and Jecka. But heart a-pounding, she found herself leaving the garden with a mixture of relief, regret, guilt and light-headedness.

ISLE DE LA CITI

Interlude Twenty-six: Knights without armour

“You’re sure no one shall detect us?”

“Stop worrying. I’m Frankish and you’re a Saracen. Neither of us are widely associated with the British court.” At least, that was what Bedwyr hoped. He departed Paris in the spring to see the British delegation off, but that he’d not returned should not arouse too much attention as he was well-known to visit countryside locales in search of adventure.

Palomides was guised as a merchant, and drew upon skills and mannerisms he had picked up from his uncle, a spice trader in Baghdad. He felt awkward having no spice to sell, as he knew such inquiries would be directed at sooner or later.

Bedwyr got them though the city gate easily enough, and soon they were amid the teeming marketplace on the city island.

“Are you a Saracen?” asked a boy of around 10 years, of African stock.

Palomides laughed. “Aye, I am.”

“I’ve never met a Saracen before.”

“And I’ve never been to Paris before so we’re even.”

“I’ve never been to Paris before, either.”

Bedwyr was annoyed by the youth, and kept eyes for an accomplice. Surely this innocent child line of questioning must be a distraction for a cut-purse?

But Palomides went on for a good while, talking about snakes and monkeys and magick carpets of his homeland.

A maiden arrived to take the child away, and apologized for his behavior. Again, Palomides laughed, and the duo resumed their search. It took much of the late-morning and early afternoon.

Palomides must have been a magnet for fellow out-of-towners. An Irish maiden had come into the marketplace to get some health potions, but had lost her sense of direction and knew not where to meet her driver. Bedwyr gave her directions, but her eyes never left Palomides.

The incident would be one the Saracen would repeatedly remind the Frank about. The jest took the edge off of Bedwyr’s frustrations about chronic interruptions; a Saracen woman would yet again delay them just before they found they quarry.

“There!” Bedwyr was the first to spot them. Palomides nodded.

For a northern European city, there were a surprising variety of faces one saw, from all over the Mediterranean and beyond. But few in number were the faces from the lands beyond the Silk Road, and in Paris one could count them on two hands.

“Greetings, my friends. I am Sir Bedwyr. You may recall me, from whence I assisted you with the green man who was your guest? He asked me to visit you again, in hopes we could conduct some trade.”

Interlude Twenty-seven: The ailing king

“Duke Lucius! Good day to you, my lord!” The royal butler greeted, raising an eyebrow at the lady in his carriage. Lucius gave his driver instructions and turned to face him.

“Greetings to you, my good sir. The king has summoned me on a matter of some urgency, I understand?”

Not so urgent for you to pick up a new mistress. I pray for you she proves less troublesome than the last, the butler thought. “Of course. Right this way.”

Clovis’ palace looked like a monument to the Rome of old; one would not have guessed Clovis’ Germanic barbarian roots. Lucius, of old Roman lineage, was both amused by his liege’s (and others like him) adoption of Roman culture and annoyed by it. If barbarians conquer Rome as barbarians, so be it – but pretend not to be Romans after the fact, he had once opined one such hybrid civil servant.

He found the king in bed, being tended to by his spiritual advisor, the priest Vidar, upon whom Clovis had recently bestowed the royal title of “Universeau.”

King Clovis looked paler and weaker than he was used to – not deathly so, but clearly not the man who conquered nation after nation over the past couple decades. He looked not his 36 years at this moment.

“Ah, Lucius, Duke Lucius,” Clovis smiled. “Tis good of you to come. Have you met…?”

“Yes, several times,” Vidar said, trying to seem pleased. In truth, little seemed to please Vidar – he was very much not a Frank, and shunned the pleasures that every Frankish noble held dear. He had barely been in Paris a year but had already entrenched himself firmly into the kingdom’s power structure.

“A pleasure as always, your excellency.”

“Lucius, you stand alone as my single-most trustworthy vassal. My illness may likely take me away from certain duties, and I need someone I can trust to attend to them.”

“My lord! I am most honoured.” His decades of service were finally being recognized as they should.

“You will be working closely with Vidar, my Universeau. He is my other most trusted advisor. I do hope you two will get along exceedingly well.”

“I am certain Lucius and I shall find a way to see eye to eye,” Vidar smirked confidently.

Interlude Twenty-eight: The heir of Gaunnes

“Why do we have to sneak around the city?” Bors asked. “My cousin would not sneak around.”

“Because King Clovis would have you killed if he knew you were here. You are not your cousin. He is a mighty knight, and you are not.”

Marya didn’t like having the boy with her, but he hadn’t given her much choice, having stowed away on the supply wagon. But even at his age, he could handle himself – she feared for his two siblings left alone with only her aging grandmother back up north.

“Remember, whatever you do, attract no attention to yourself. Do you understand?”

“…Yes.”

Boys his age yearn for adventure and seeing new places, and she did not blame him for being tired of the ramshackle woodland tower they called home.

They went about the shopping Marya needed to do – spices, roots, cloths and crafts-goods she could not get at the local market. Nowhere did Marya let Bors out of her sight – until they reached the apothecary, and Marya knew the old man would frown on a young one being inside the shop.

“Wait out here, speak to no one and look like you belong here, like you are here all the time. Understand?”

Bors nodded.

She conducted her business as quickly as possible, but the woman ahead of her had a complicated order to fill for an dying relative, and her Latin was rather poor. When Marya cane out she saw Bors talking to a Saracen merchant, a big burly man from the looks of him. His associate looked like a local, but seemed nervous.

“You’ve never been to Paris before either? I find it to be a most interesting place,” the Saracen was saying.

“I’ll bet you’ve seen a lot of cities and marketplaces!”

“I have indeed!” As Marya drew near, the Saracen smiled and bowed to her. “I could tell you about the monkeys that run loose in the markets of Damascus, or the snake-charmers in the Medina of Cairo!”

“Snake charmers?”

Marya wanted to interrupt, but the boy would only find worse trouble later, she was certain. Maybe the Saracen would sate his need for adventure – for today at least.

Interlude Twenty-nine: The Irish noblewoman

Elyzabel was grateful for the transportation. Her half-brother had written Lucius, duke of Neustria, of her arrival, and he had graciously delayed his own trip to Paris in greet her and accompany her.

During the carriage ride, Lucius spoke warmly about the year he had spent in her native Leinster, and his admiration for her distant kinsman King Coirpre mac Neill. He also bragged about the good relations he had cultivated with Britain, and how important her other home of North Cymru was to that relationship.

“Queen Imra – Guinevere – whatever she decides to call herself, she was once a guest of mine,” he bragged. “She is quite a woman. She herself descended into my worst dungeon to interrogate a dangerous madman.”

“I’ve met her but briefly, and know her not well at all.” Elyzabel had only of late met the queen, and heard different tales of the Guinevere deception.

“You’ll make a far better queen than she,” he remarked. “The court of Clovis is a fine place to meet a fine lord of your own.”

“You are far too kind, but I am far too minor a noble. I am here to tend to my ailing uncle, not to seek a husband.”

“Ah, yes. Connor mac Diarmod. One of Clovis’ favourite poets. I do hope he recovers. I’d love to host him – and you – at my summer estate.”

“Again, you are too kind,” she blushed. “Far too… kind.” His face was now very close to hers.

“You said that already, my dear.”

She could feel the warmth of his breath tickle her neck, and pulled him closer.

Interlude Thirty: The spirit of Khemet

Word had come and gone of the Hunter’s death, yet Par-Isis believed it not. Or rather, she believed not that he was forever dead; had he not died and risen before?

But this was a new era, the era of the one-god, even here in the city of the one goddess. More and more, those of old Khemet were departing, and coming back not.

She decided to leave the sanctuary and wander the streets above. Her city was not hot and dry with grand buildings like a city should be, rather it was small and crowded, with only a few temples of remotely large scale. The heat was never long-lived not as intense as was proper, and much of the year was too cold to dress properly.

Although she dressed nothing like these Parisians, her magicks made no one take notice. Her magicks also directed her to witness the most important event of the day, a meeting of two knights who were not today knights. She heard the elder, dressed as a merchant, tell the younger about the warmer lands, where he – and she – were both from. Separated by centuries, the lands sounded unchanging yet.

She could not help herself but to track down the elder knight again and talk to him about her home. She realized not how lonely, how alone she was, and for the knight’s reminiscence she bestowed onto him a blessing. For good measure, she tracked down the boy, too, and blessed him.

That evening, a poet from a land even colder than here offered her a prayer of sorts, as he had oft before. He was one of the few who saw her as she was, a city, a lady and a goddess. But the poet was dying, and she responded by giving him one last gift, a poem about the intertwining of lives at the marketplace as had happened on this very day.

BOOK VII:
RETURN OF THE QUEEN

Three Hundred and Sixty-one

Luornu knew Carolus had been bothered by something, and knew she should feel regret for not being at his side, but felt literally paralyzed by despair as it was. Andrew, dear Andrew was dead – again – and she had again failed to convey in words what she had wanted to for the long-suffering knight. And Dyrk, truly a lost soul himself, Dyrk too was missing, probably dead as well. Andrew was a Christian, at least, and would likely find favour with his saviour, but Dyrk still clung to a heathen mixture of allegiances – how would even the merciful Iesous look upon such a sinner as he?

Where was Dyrk? It hurt not knowing his fate. Andrew at least should be at peace, having earned his reward by now. Whatever penitence he sought in renewed life, he had earned it. No, she had no worries for Andrew, only Dyrk, possibly lost to the very pits of heathendom. She could almost see him, lost and alone…

..floating along like a helpless babe. Fish avoided him. Seabirds too. How he managed to stay afloat baffled him; he could see naught beyond the column of steam he generated. There had been a battle of some sort, but the memory – perhaps his sole memory – taunted him. Yet it offered no clues. He could not tell you his name or why he was out upon the ocean waves, but he felt oddly safe, at peace.

Days and nights wafted by in a waking slumber, until one day a pair of arms pulled him on board a boat, a barge capable of holding several score but occupied only by one man. He was clearly a Celt by the look of him.

“Greetings, my friend,” said the man in a tongue he recognized as an obscure dialect of Gaelic, a tongue he knew but none of, but yet understood completely. “What am I to call you?”

“I…” He took a moment before clinging onto the first name that came to mind. “I am Apollo.”

“Welcome, then, Apollo, Roman god of the sun. We go now to meet some kindred spirits.”

His host moved not a muscle and had no crew, but the boat suddenly changed direction and picked up speed, even as its sail rose into place.

Three Hundred and Sixty-two

“…seven Kentish Khunds slaughtered, my lord,” the messenger reported.

Sir Jonah was angered. Maybe it took Macedonian occupiers to get Bretons to think of Kentish Khunds as peers, or perhaps it was Kiritan’s steadfast diplomacy and apparent loyalty. But even now, there were rumblings that Kent would no longer tolerate the Macedonians – even if King Rokk continued to. The arrival of the dog plague to the Kentish lands was taken by many Khunds as an ill omen to lay at the occupiers’ feet – with so many men lost in the wars of recent years, dogs were vital guards, hunters and sometimes food.

Jonah knew full well the limits of his authority as governor of Londinium in Rokk’s absence. As much as he hungered to force the Macedonians out himself – single-handedly, if need be, he accepted the stewardly role he was in; this was not his kingdom to rule.

Jonah found Sir Garth and Lady Iasmin at the royal stables, still only a fraction of what it had been before last year’s war. Cavalry strength was nowhere near where anyone wished it to be, but it could make an effective assault on the caravans that the Macedonians made to resupply Durobrivae as they periodically did.

It truly galled British of Celt, Roman or Khundish background that two key towns were occupied by Mediterranean forces – and that they sought the renowned Sit Thom as their ransom.

Both Garth and even Iasmin were antsy; both favoured action, and regretted that Rokk was not back to lead or at least order an attack yet.

“I have reports of Kentish being slaughtered,” Jonah reported.

Garth nodded. “I have heard as much, and confronted the Macedonian emissary. He insists these were Kentish who attacked their men, or otherwise started trouble. Twas not the first such encounter, either.”

Jonah nodded. “I am prepared to order the Macedonians to surrender one of their own for each Kentish harmed,” the knight of Lothian said. “To stand trial, of course.”

“They will refuse, and respond yet again that we have not supplied Sir Thom to them,” Iasmin sighed.

“Aye,” Jonah smiled through his bitterness. “Mayhap such refusal would be enough to seize the next relief ship? Surely it must be due by early next week.”

Garth looked thoughtful, and presently added his own tentative smile. “ Then we should obtain their refusal, if we want such an excuse.”

“And we must be ready to keep the Durobrivae force contained in said city,” Iasmin added.

“You, Garth, shall go with Berach and lead a force ready to take the ship. Kiritan and I will lead the containment of Durobrivae, and Iasmin, you and your cavalry shall intercept any messengers between the two, or overland to Portus Magnus. Agreed?”

He took the others’ smiles as agreement. If any held qualm about acting without Rokk, or even consulting his brother Reep, no one gave voice to it.

After the evening’s meal, the plan fermented itself, drawing also upon the resources of Querl, Jan and other members of the court.

Three Hundred and Sixty-three

The world blurred by like a waterfall – as if from behind the falls looking out. Sometimes it sped by, while others it seemed to slow to a crawl, as if the blur before her eyes was a painted tapestry only slowly peeling away to reveal another layer beneath.

Sometimes she felt as if she floated in a calm vat of blossomed waters. Other times she felt as if entombed in the smallest of burial vaults.

But now it seemed as if she was a guppy slowly approaching some mystic lake’s surface, trying to glean what went on in the world above. Was it really a lake? It was so hard to tell. She told herself it must be one, and she replied that it made as much sense as anything.

Above her, upon the lake’s surface, she saw Dyrk. He was shining with confidence and charisma and the burning aura of a sun god, and proudly adorned in golden armour, a mix of Celtic and classic Greek design. His eyes no longer held the disengagement of the past – somehow, he seemed like he was no longer even himself…

…the image faded. A new one slowly formed, as if a bed of kelp were shedding fragments and leaves to the surface, providing the tapestry for an image to form onto.

She saw Imra, her queen and one-time friend, visiting the humble cottage of a Christian hermit, in North Cymru. She seemed quite friendly and at ease with the little old priest of the one-god, even deferential. This did not fit. What would a woman of Avalon be doing there? Yet this vision held no trickery, she knew.

The image unwove into the shimmering waves of a lake-like surface, and a new one formed in its place. This transformation of image had happened hundreds of times, she guessed, yet only snippets of revelation remained in her grasp. This time, she saw her husband – conspiring with the villainess who must have done her in! Them, together!? What madness could this mean? Betrayal! Her rage caused the visions to disperse like a swirling cloud of stirred up mud across the lake surface, and she forced herself upright with great strain.

Settle down, childe. You’ll soon forget whatever has stirred you.

She had forgotten she was never alone in this strange lake.

No! I want to remember this! I need to!

Remembering has its price. Every time you have stirred before, you have been unwilling to pay it.

Maybe. But I need to, now!

Do you remember the price?

…no.

The voice sighed. Right, then. Here is what you have to do for us…

She felt the pit in her stomach as the deal was outlined to her. She internally winced as she agreed to the terms.

Upward she plowed herself through waters as thick as chilled honey, with a fury that pumped through her veins whilst yet fighting to keep from losing it from memory. Deal or no, this lake was no friend to retention of thought-lines.

Breaking the surface, her gasp for air turned into a cry of anguish – except that her vocal chords were numb from disuse. A thin rattle was all that escaped from her lungs.

With pounding head, she began to cope with the reality of air, wind, and cold. These sensations were real, hard, harsh… everything existence below the lake’s surface had not been.

She was now quite drenched, still mostly immersed in a pool of milky, shimmering waters – a well, perhaps, given the detailed stonework that surrounded her. A lonely but steady trickle of water dripped down upon her from a small stone lion’s head, and a metallic grate separated her below from a green-tinted world above. The songs of birds were her sole accompaniment.

“Um. Hello?” She hoped her words were as loud on the outside as they sounded to her inside the well.

A small, dark man, wrinkly and grey-haired, peered down at her, then departed. Before she could muster a scream, he returned with a lantern. Studying her face for a virtual eternity, a smile of sorts accompanied his nod, and he backed away with a grunt. Whether the smile was one of evil satisfaction or benevolence, she could fathom not. Her observer was of an age where many expressions could be read as a frown.

Soon after, he returned with two knights, who lifted the grate off of the well and lifted her out. She was in a gardened courtyard under a sky as green as glass, and a regally dressed man of middle years approached her. A handful of unkempt strands of wiry, silvery-white hair (whose? she could not fathom) draped down over her face.

“The currents of the worldstream were none too kind to you, my Lady,” he bowed. His guest placed her hands over her own face; where the smooth skin of youth and fullness of cheek should have been, there were wrinkles clinging to a face of bone, and an odd bump or two.

“How… how many years have passed?” she managed at last, trying to contain the scream yearning to escape. “Where am I? Who are you?”

“Not but a year and a half, I fear. You are in the Kingdom of Gorre. I am king Bagdemagus. Welcome back to the land of the living, my Lady Mysa.”

Three Hundred and Sixty-four

Val arrived in Lothian to find a sea of refugees, shambles where many a stone building once stood, confusion and a calm bitterness that followed such an epic battle of which had had heard much. As soon as word had reached the Orkneys he rushed down, and even with the Chalice-bearer Dindrane and the Druids tending to the maimed there was still much carnage.

He felt guilty for not having joined Andrew and aided the effort. Now his friend and many of his countrymen were dead, his liege and even the mighty MacKell had been severely wounded so much that the Chalice aided their healings less than completely.

Rokk, still weak in the legs, was being carried about by Lothian soldiers, and Val found him inspecting the wooden huts and stockades being hastily built to house and defend Lothian’s populace. The high king greeted him stoically and set him to work, offering none of the rebuke Val almost wished for.

He set out working amongst his countrymen, demanding nor expecting any concession as their prince. “There is too much to be done to worry about formalities,” he told them. He worked, ate and slept alongside the common soldiers and able-bodied peasants, and was grateful for the honest labours rather than facing his kin.

Once or twice, he spied the Princess Jecka tending to the peasantry, and avoided her. He was both glad to see her alive and well, and embarrassed that his sometime-paramour had been there to fight the monster when he had not.

Word eventually filtered up to the nobles of his deeds, and he was summoned before his father as his military encampment on the inland plateau near the ruined city.

“You return to Lothian but shun your family?” King Lot asked with quiet concern and even warmth. Despite everything that had happened, it was good to see his son.

“I… When I arrived, I merely saw how much needed to be done,” he blurted. “In truth, I am ashamed that I was not here to help fight the beast.”

Lot nodded. “And mayhap you would have been among the dead. This was no beast for a mere warrior, let alone one who spurns the sword, to have fought.”

“But had I fought-”

“-You would have felt less the coward than you do now.” Lot embraced his second son, an uncharacteristic move for the man. “No warrior can be there for every fight, son. Tis no use feeling guilty for things beyond your control. You’ve carried enough guilt as it is, from what I hear.

“Come. Your mother and the Princess Jecka have heard you are about, and addle their minds as they concoct reasons why you hide from them. Come; put their hearts at rest.”

Three Hundred and Sixty-five

The battle was over almost as soon as it began. Macedonian supplies were already en route to Kentish families who had lost members to Macedonian skirmishes, Macedonian steeds were appropriated for the Londinium cavalry, and the troop escorts were pressed into hard labours and sent a-marching to the northwest, where the walls of Camelot slowly continued to ascend.

All these deeds were signed into writing by the signature of the Macedonian vice prefect Mantos, a braggartly but cowardly scrip-counter assigned to supervise the regular supplying of Durobrivae. All these deeds were ordered by Sir Jonah – with his sword just inches from Mantos’ throat.

With the last of the caravan disbursed, Jonah had Mantos and the non-combatant members of the caravan continue to Durobrivae on foot, with a stern warning to the commanders to stop harming British citizens. Mantos muttered a vow of vengeance under his breath upon his humiliating departure.

“We’ll be back, in greater numbers,” he found the courage to shout aloud.

Jonah smiled and waved, infuriating the clerk even more. That’s just what we’re counting on, he thought.