Rebuilding
Inside the Manor house, Marshal Roberts and Colonel Donnell watched the demise of the flower of Hardenwall nobility in shocked silence.
“The shield wall is truly dead. Too many archers around, and these lancers give us another dimension. Did you see the way they opened the gaps? Lethal.”
“Yes, indeed. And now, Colonel, I think we need to do something to protect the Manor House.”
“What do you mean, sir? The king is secured, the guards locked away and the princess found.”
“If you think that lot will be content with a bit of murder, you’ve got another thought coming. They’ll burn the manor.”
For once, the colonel was at a loss. “We’ll have to move the king.”
“The hell you will,” said a determined voice. “I’ll fix this.”
The princess pushed past them and leaned out of the window. “JEZ! Crom Brionne.” She waved madly and caught the attention of most of the participants, the noise of battle having faded to a contented rumble. A few bows raised in her direction, but none were loosed. Jez cantered towards the Manor, and the rebels surged behind him now a mixture of blood and blue.
“We’ve secured the Manor House, all the guards are locked up. But I need a healer for the king.”
Jeremy smiled and nodded, understanding her perfectly. He turned on his horse and bellowed at the crowd.
“You heard the princess. Who’s a healer? Who knows about herbs?”
Lionel nodded as Annette pushed through the throng, waving something in one hand, her blue paps liberally smeared with blood in what appeared to be symbols. “I’m a fucking witch, I am. I can heal the bastard.”
“Come on, then,” said Jeremy. “Get in there. And leave that bloody head behind.”
“Fuck off. I’m gonna stick him where he can see me undo all his bloody plans.” She grinned at Jeremy, showing a surprising set of white teeth gleaming from a blue and bloody face, while waving the duke’s head at the crowd, who cheered. She marched for the Manor, and the Elven singer appeared behind her.
“I have a touch of different magics, Crom Brionne,” she said, with a secretive smile and her clear contralto rose above the hubbub, dimming it for a moment, as she sang the opening bars of the Triumph of the Gods, in the Uightlander tongue, into which the rebels launched with gusto.
Lionel rode up to the door of the Manor and swung down, hearing behind him an Uightlander complaining to Jeremy as the song died away.
“What about our mates in the dungeons?”
“Let’s get them out,” said Lionel, and followed the women into the Manor. A swarm of people followed, growling at the Pathfinders who made no move to stop them.
“Dungeons are this way,” said Colonel Drummond, standing just inside the main doors. “We locked the guards in the first cell and haven’t looked further.”
“Where the keys, marra?” A hulking young man, bare chested and his face bright blue with white stripes poked the colonel in the ribs with a massive hammer, leaving a trace of blood on his uniform.
“On the desk in the guard room,” said the colonel, not turning a hair. “Good job lads. Any of you want a job in the Pathfinders, let me know.”
“Och, now, I might take ye up on that, I might,” said an Uightlander, laying a shaggy arm over his shoulders. “Can we keep our plaid? We couldna join the bluidy duke’s guardsmen ‘cause he wouldna let us wear our plaid.”
“Blends in with the heather, don’t see why not. We could use the cloth for the uniforms.” The two of them went off towards the dungeons arguing as to whether Pathfinders really needed trousers.
*
The king sat up in his bed, colour in his cheeks and his eyes bright. A multitude of candles and two oil lamps lit up the spacious room. His leg stuck out with his foot on a cushion, a towel under it. The witch sat cross-legged on the bed beside his foot, holding a warm poultice on the wound and regaling the king with tales of the injustices laid on the north by the duke. The Elven singer sat beside the bed, holding the king’s hand while she sang in Elvish, a low, quiet sound, comforting in the room. Asmara sat on the other side of the king, on the bed, smiling at Annette.
Marshal Roberts and Colonel Donnell sat at a window table with their heads together, cooling cups of tea beside them.
A succession of girls came into the room bearing herbs, packages, hot water and vials, while a singularly pretty girl ground them in a mortar, adding hot water to make a paste and soak new poultices. Lionel came into the room and Annette jabbed the girl with her toe.
“There you go, love, he’s a pretty one, isn’t he? I’ve claimed him for you tonight, I have, so none of the other girls will dare touch him.”
Lionel started and coloured, while level grey eyes examined him in minute detail before returning to her work. The witch cackled and the king laughed, while Asmara frowned. The king beckoned for Lionel to approach, taking in his rider’s walk and confident expression.
“So, you are the young tyke who is my youngest colonel. And pretty lethal at demolishing shield walls, I understand. Met your brother. Are you as crazy as him?”
“I have my moments, sire.”
“So how are we going to defend our borders and cities, if you rapscallions are going to ignore shield walls, heh?”
“Better armies, sire, better trained and more mobile.”
“Hmmph. More mobile. Yes, well that leads us to your sorry lot of undisciplined rabble who molest my daughter. Got reports of the way you operate.” The king eyed Lionel, who decided not to protest any of these charges. “Bobby wants you and your men permanent, a third regular regiment after the Pathfinders and the Guards. Whaddya say, boy?”
The Elven singer fell silent, and Lionel realised the entire room waited for his reaction, including the grey-eyed girl.
“Thank you for the promotion, sire.”
“Promotion? Haven’t talked about that. You’re already a blasted colonel, youngest in the country.”
“A regiment is commanded by a general, sire. I shall discuss the details with Marshal Roberts.”
“God’s teeth, you make trouble for me, boy. What will my nobles say? And what am I going to do with your damn brother, Kingslayer they are calling him, and now Dukeslayer?” The king nodded to the staring gory head placed on the counter against the wall.
“Another of my boys, sire, struck the fatal blow. Rode straight into the thick of the line as if he were heavy horse.”
“Silly young bugger. I suppose he wants to be knighted too?”
“He didn’t make it, sire.”
“Not surprised. Did you lose many men?” The singer hummed, almost sub-vocalising a paean to the dead.
“Seven today, sire and twenty-three wounded. The Geordies we supported lost sixty-three that I know about, including twenty-four girls, and I don’t have an accurate count of the wounded yet, but it is well over a hundred.”
“Maybe you should be a general; not one of my dukes could give me a butcher’s bill so fast.”
On the bed, Asmara’s lips thinned as the door pushed open, a nervous guardsman standing to one side as two naked blue girls, each adorned with dried blood stains and bearing a bare short sword, preceded Jeremy into the room, with four identical girls at his back. The girls stopped him in the middle of the room, casting baleful glances at the officers and one positioning herself directly between Jeremy and the grey-eyed girl on the floor, identified in an instant as the main threat.
”Well,” said the king, “if it isn’t the Kingslayer, the man of the moment. Hear you’ve been busy, boy. How’d you know to raise the city? Hear you did it on your own, too.”
Jeremy hesitated. Somehow, he felt that telling the king he had been getting drunk in a brothel might detract from the lustre he was accumulating so rapidly. The Elven singer stepped in to cover his modesty.
“Crom Brionne protects the weak
Damsels his strength did seek,
When the dark duke’s son slunk out at night,
To Crom Brionne the weak did flight.”
“Oh, was that the duke’s son? I didn’t realise,” said Jeremy, desperate to interrupt her before she revealed too much. “Not a nice man, sire, and when I had words, things sort of got out of hand.”
The king bellowed with laughter, causing his leg to shake, Annette to glare at Jeremy and the king to yelp in pain.
“No doubt I will hear the full story in due course. Now, more important, what the hell is going on? Have you got control of the city?”
“Yes, sire,” said Jeremy, “pretty much. The lads are just clearing up the last of the resistance. I sent groups to secure the various gates to the city and relieve the duke’s men.”
“Relieve them, hey? And what the hell does that mean?”
“Ripping them to pieces, more than likely. There’s a lot of hate here, sir. The duke was not a good ruler.”
The king grunted, filling in the unsaid blanks. He debated asking after the duke’s family before deciding he didn’t want to know.
“Now, General Summoner, I think we will need your boys garrisoned up here for a while, until we sort out the situation.” A slow grin spread across Jeremy’s face at the word general and Lionel’s nod. “Question is, who are we going to make the new Duke of Hardenwall?”
“Crom Brionne, Lord of the North,” crooned the singer and Annette nodded.
“Give us the Crom Brionne, and the Uightlanders will come under his sway,” she said. “We all know about him and his time in Coillearcha.”
“More than I did,” mused the king before frowning at her while Jeremy preened, already looking around the Manor with a proprietary air. “You want me to make a new title, and give him the whole blasted country?”
“He’s a southerner,” said Marshal Roberts, following the conversation with interest. “Why would your wide boys accept him?”
“Crom,” sang the Elf, the word thrumming and filling the room.
“He’s a strong god,” nodded Annette. “He baint ours, but we know him, we do. If’n he wants us, we’re happy. Where the Crom Brionne strides, the god comes. We know how to worship him, we do. Danu is his sovereign, and she looks over you, too.” This said with unspoken wonderment which the king showed great wisdom by ignoring.
“Yes, by slaughtering southerners,” muttered Colonel Donnell earning a glare from the witch,
“Can you administer a duchy, Sir Jeremy?” The king pinned Jeremy with a glare and he shrugged.
“I’ll make damn sure we produce enough uisge to send you a barrel or ten.”
“Uisge? What the hell’s that?” This distracted the king.
“Water of life,” said Jeremy nodding to one of his girls who moved forward and offered the king a clay bottle. The king opened it and sniffed, his eyes watered and he coughed while Annette cackled. He took an injudicious swig and gasped, grabbing at his throat and dropping the bottle, snatched in mid-air by Annette.
“My word, that’s good,” said the king between coughs, then bellowed in agony as Annette poured a dram on his wound where it bubbled and hissed. She clung to his jerking foot with a hand of iron.
“Kills the mortification and deadens the pain. Take another dram, you’ll feel better.” The king growled at her and snatched the bottle back, sipping this time and showing no intention of relinquishing his new supply. The officers half stood in interest and the girl passed them another bottle.
“That’s what fuelled the revolution, sire,” said Jeremy. “Nothing can stop my laddies with a skin-full.”
“All right, I’ll make you Lord of the North, provisional mind, until Uightland comes to you. But you need a duke for Hardenwall. No,” he said, forestalling Annette, “I won’t send another southerner. Do you have any of the old family left? Somebody you respect to rule under the Crom Brionne and myself.”
Annette cackled again and adjusted her legs, her blue breasts swaying.
“They’ll fight each other up and down the Toon for the seat. But you put young Armstrong in the Manor, that’ll do them. Old family, follows the Old Gods. He’ll run the place all right, he will.”
“Old Gods, hey? Will make trouble down south. The Church thinks it is strong here. I need a bishop to look after their people.”
Annette swelled with anger and spat on the floor. “The Church! Evil comes with it, desecrating the Holy Woods, taking from the poor. Your church was behind our troubles, along with your count, the troublemaker.”
“Rotherstone? He’s not mine, for sure.”
Asmara leant forward. “Susan built bridges with the Church. Let me use her network to send a message to the Archbishop, ask for a bishop who will preach love and help the poor. There are good Churchmen too, lady.”
“I’m no fucking lady,” bristled Annette, “and who’s this Susan tart?”
The king’s turn to bristle at this mention of his beloved, but the Elf stopped his words with a new song.
“Aine,” she sang, the note high and golden, echoing through the room. “Queen Aine, loved by the Gods, forsaken by the King.”
Lionel and Jeremy glanced at each other, eyebrows raised in query, while Colonel Donnell shot to his feet and the king stilled. Asmara leant over the king to stare at the Elf.
“Aine? Well I never,” said Annette. “Heard she was back, I did. We’ll see the great wyrm again soon, I ‘spect, Fiotr will come back now she is abroad again.”
“She is with the Gods, with Crom himself,” said the Elf, for once not singing and would say no more, despite the king’s eagerness.
Marshal Roberts cut across the questions, his face contorted. “Sire, I rather think that is a euphemism for being dead. How else can you be with a god?”
The Elf smiled, and sang, a mournful ballad of the fairy queen, who bit off the usurper king’s ear as he raped her to deny him the throne, for only those whole of body could rule, and she returns to the land of men at times of need. The ballad described the fairy queen, described her blue eyes and blond hair, her ethereal beauty and the king slumped in his bed as the last notes of the song died away.
“Leave. Leave me,” he said, waving a hand. “Do what must be done. You too, Asmara.”
The boys left first, the Elf right behind them and the others filed out as Annette changed the poultice.
*
Dawn crept over the city, revealing smudges of smoke rising from several places, ruined villas at their base. The marshal sat at a table in the Manor garden, steaming mug in front of him and waited while his officers assembled. Jeremy arrived last, his honour guard with less woad, restricted to breast and face and now wearing short skirts, their swords scabbarded on the left hip and crossed knife belts in faithful imitation of their charge.
“Damnit, man, can’t you put some clothes on them? And where’s your blasted brother?”
“I rather like it,” said Jeremy accepting the tea given to him by one of his girls. “Go find Lionel,” he said to another and she left at the run.
“Damned disconcerting the way they don’t talk,” said Colonel Drummond watching her rotating rear.
“We need to ensure the city is running properly,” said the marshal. “Wallace, have you manned the gates?”
“We have, sir, but not sure who to let in or out.”
“Free passage,” said Jeremy. “Don’t antagonise anyone.” The marshal nodded in assent and continued.
“Drummond, what have you found out about the dead duke’s barons? And their families?”
“Nothing, sir. All gone, as if they never existed. Not even a body to show. Every house of theirs is a smouldering ruin.”
“We’ll have trouble down south. People will want to know what happened to their families. Who the hell are you?” This directed at a lancer coming up to the table and pulling up a chair.
“I’m Matt,” he said with an engaging grin and eyes twinkling through a bearded face. “Robbie heard there was a meeting and sent me to tell what we are up to. Ooh, is that tea? Yes, please. Five, Jez? Greedy sod.”
“Six, actually. One is looking for Lionel. Their choice. Where are the boys?”
“We’ve got patrols out sweeping the countryside, making sure we know what’s there. Nothing, I reckon, but we have one report of Count Rotherstone, who is heading south at speed. Cut and run, he did, when he saw it was all going tits up. City is safe, you just shout Crom Brionne at anyone looking threatening and they give you uisge. There are gangs of likely lads wandering the city, but the girls are doing their bit to get them off the streets.”
“What about the churches?” Colonel Donnell was used to irregular reports.
“Oh, they’re fine. Few people spent the night in them, and are heading home now. Most of the lads are coming back on duty, now. One helluva party last night, they sure know how to have a good time here. I haven’t slept.”
“We need to locate and discuss the situation with this Armstrong. Anyone know anything about him?”
Jeremy turned to his girls. “One of you go and get him.”
One of them stood up and stretched. “He’s my brother. I’ll get him, will take me half an hour.”
“Oh great,” said Colonel Wallace. “Great start for the new duke, to discover you’re shagging his sister.”
Four pairs of eyes frowned at him, hands going to their swords. “It is an honour,” said one, and the colonel squirmed under their gaze. They continued to view him with a mistrustful eye as Lionel arrived, the grey-eyed girl in tow, while Asmara browbeat him. Matt repeated his report while he drank tea and the others waited.
“Your lads are going to need to learn discipline,” said the marshal, to nods of agreement.
“Stow it,” said Lionel, not a morning person. “We’re irregulars and we’re effective. When we fail to do our jobs, then you can complain.” The officers sat back in their chairs, not certain how the marshal would respond, but Lionel continued. “Matt, get somebody responsible, Matty or Henry, to take a strong column north, two hundred troopers. They can split up and I want them back within the week. They are to take the word to the hamlets about the new Lord of the North and bring me a report back as to each lairds’ complaints and wants. I’m not interested in their petty squabbles, they can keep fighting with each other and they can raid for cattle as long as the raiding party is small and not organised. Tell each castle that we require a barracks and lodging, for we will be patrolling the roads of the north and hanging brigands who prey on merchants and travellers. Don’t care about moss-troopers from either side, as long as they play with each other and not innocents. Further tell them that we will stop them from taxing the merchants too much, we expect a small share of the revenue and they must keep up the roads. The extra trade will make them more money.”
He swigged his tea. “Yes, yes, Asmara, your damn fair. Tell them the King’s Fair will be held in Hardenwall at the end of August, prizes for the best fucking donkey or whatever they want to show. You know what the princess wants to do. We’ll hold a games alongside; riding, archery, wrestling, anything they want. We’ll need somebody to run it, Asmara.”
One of Jeremy’s girls leant forward, eyes gleaming. “Our John’ll do that, he will. Loves it, he does. Will be the best games ever, we’ll have dancing too; and the pipes and drums.”
“Who’s John?”
“John Armstrong, the new Duke.”
“Fine. Now, guards. We’ll need to recruit a new garrison. John can take care of that, but he’ll need to work with us. We need to look at the money, too. Did the Chancellor get chopped last night? Is there still a Chamberlain?”
Blank stares answered him and one of the girls stood up. “I’ll find out.” She went out the door while Lionel ran a hand over his head and Jeremy stroked a girl’s rump with an absent-minded hand. The marshal spoke, leaning back in his chair.
“You seem to be taking on a lot more than running a regiment, young Lionel. I thought Jeremy was Lord of the North.”
“He’s not going to fucking do it, is he?” Lionel was in excellent spirits. “All he knows about money is how to spend it and will spend all his time testing the uisge and shagging.”
Three hands went to their swords at this outrageous insult to their glorious leader, but Jeremy laughed and clapped Lionel on the back.
“That’s what it’s all about, little brother. I get the glory and you do the work. Just as we agreed. Now you’ve got it all in hand, I’m off back to bed. My head is killing me.”
“The hell you are. You need to meet your new duke and he’s on his way.”
The marshal barked a short laugh. “Well, you two have it well in hand. I shall leave you with Colonel Drummond and his battalion. Wallace, you will return to the capital with me as soon as the King is well enough to travel. Donnell, do you want to stay here and get your network back up and running, or do you need to get to the capital?”
“I should stay, sir, but I am worried what Rotherstone will get up to in our absence. I suggest that I leave tomorrow with the princess. That gives me a day to debrief my officers, introduce them to Lionel and then I will be able to get the princess up as regent running the country.”
“Makes sense. I need to stay with the king,” said the marshal.
“I want to stay with my father,” said the princess.
“The country needs you in the capital, noblesse oblige. Your wants don’t matter very much, princess.”
Trapped
Gloom filled the room, not just from the thick drapes obscuring the light, but something else, something wrong. Susan peered, just able to make out a bed, with a hump in the middle. Even in the aether she could smell putrefaction.
She glided towards the bed, seeing a figure under the covers, tossing and turning on occasion. As she neared she shied away, realising the shadows around the bed were alive. Dark clouds, billowing and changing shape, each with a tendril reaching out towards the figure in the bed.
The shadows emanated evil, silent and disgusting. She shuddered in revulsion.
A sound from the corner of the room caught her attention, and she discerned a priest sitting in the corner, half asleep while he clicked through his beads and muttered a prayer, surrounded by a sweet and sickly incense cloud. Her mouth twisted, this was the way the Church treated invalids. No wonder it didn’t work, she thought, considering the shadows anew.
The figure turned, the arm over his face falling away to reveal King Richard.
With a gasp, Susan ran forward, batting away at the shadows in fury.
“Get away, you filthy things, leave him alone.”
The shadows swirled and retreated, emanating consternation. She hovered over the bed, her astral body glaring at them, and they retreated further, uncertain before her anger and the glowing light coming from her body as she opened her portals without a thought.
A dark chuckle came from the corner of the room, opposite the priest.
“So, a little bird comes from the light. You think to upset my servants, do you? Who are you, girl? Hmmn, no protection, an innocent. Just learnt to travel, have we? Well, that was a mistake.”
An astral figure uncurled and slid into view, revealing a dark person, whom Susan felt she should know. Grim and tall, he strode closer, while Susan quailed at the touch of his power, but refused to budge from her position of protection.
“Why, I know you,” said the figure in wonder. “You are little Susan Taylor, the slut who interfered with the kingdom. I thought we disposed of you quite neatly. No matter, now you are here, you cannot escape. I shall take your soul, take it home and we shall imprison you in torment. I have many friends who will enjoy you over the eons to come.”
Susan blinked at this recognition, a quick glance down revealing that her astral body retained her old shape rather than her new magnificence. The words about protection resonated, and she clamped down on her portals, while feeling for the energy she secreted in her stomach. She stuck out her little chin and glared at the man.
“What evil creature are you, that should attempt to murder our king in such a foul and corrupt manner? You are Harrhein, I know it, yet you do this? Know you not the good he does? For the kingdom and the people? He unified the kingdom, made it the strong safe place to live that it is today.” She placed her most winning smile on her face.
The man threw back his head and laughed, delighted by her innocence.
“Oh, little waif, you are a treasure we shall enjoy. Good? The people? He is an interfering idiot with no understanding of the powers in the realm, as were you. The people don’t matter, they are sheep for the shearing. We don’t want the country safe, we want it malleable, bent to our will, and always fighting each other and conspiring, so they don’t see what we do.”
He moved a little closer, eyes gleaming in his dark astral head. Susan jerked a little as recognition surfaced.
“Why, you are Bishop Schofield! I’ve seen you with the Archbishop.”
“Indeed I am, little one. I have spent years with the Church, and next year we shall slaughter the good Archbishop and guess who will succeed him? Now, enough of this, time for play.”
He motioned with his arms, and a spectral shadow shot forward, leering into Susan’s face from mere inches away, the shadow turning into a death’s head complete with little horns. Susan jumped back without thinking, finding herself off the bed and retreating till she bumped into the wall, quivering. The spectral shadow started to dance, a rhythmic, terrifying motion with every gesture sending waves of terror into her. Susan moaned, her hands rising to ward it away, wishing for her something, anything, with which to protect herself. She thought of her staff, resting beside her bed in her room back in reality.
A swish through the aether and something thumped into her hands, the astral energy of her staff feeling smooth and solid in her grasp. Taking heart from this secure and well-loved friend, Susan launched a quick double tap attack on the shade, which seemed to shrink in front of her, backing off.
She followed up her blows, moving forward away from the wall to give herself room. She felt another shade move round behind her, and swung the staff by one end in a circle around her head. Well and truly angry now, she realised her fury kept the shades at bay and advanced on Bishop Schofield, who frowned as he came past the bed with the sick king.
“You think to frighten me, child? You cannot touch - aagh,” he said, as Susan’s staff slammed into his midriff and he staggered back. He rubbed his belly, not comatose as a real creature would be, just furious at this attempt to block his playtime. He advanced with more care, deflecting another blow with a thought, and Susan backed up again, wary but looking for an opening.
She feinted at his head, pulled back to avoid his counter and swept his legs from under him, smacking him on the floor. She danced in triumph, moving round to place herself between the bishop and the king, ready for his next move.
The door to the room slammed open, unguarded, and soldiers streamed in. The priest jumped up, to be slammed against the wall by a brawny Pathfinder. The windows flung open and an officer bent over the king. A small figure dashed in, distracting Susan further, and a girl threw herself onto the king.
Something cold slammed into her shoulder, her arm turning to ice and she moaned. The bishop rose from the floor and with a gesture of his hand sent the staff spinning to the side, where a shade jumped on it. Susan turned her head to see a darker, more intense shade latched onto her shoulder, eyes grinning malice at her while imagined teeth sank deep into her astral flesh, spreading cold and ice through her body.
She sank to her knees, only to be ripped to her feet by the bishop grabbing her hair, the pain intense. He dragged her off to the corner, while she twisted and moaned in his grip, the pain in her scalp covering the ice in her shoulder.
Bishop Schofield held her insubstantial body down, while checking on the room. His eyes narrowed at the sight of soldiers surrounding the king, who seemed to be coming awake. A dash of his hand sent his shades streaming back to feast on the king, where they gathered around his body like a flock of vultures, all scrabbling for their share of his essence.
Susan struggled beneath him, and he returned his attention to her, a grim smile stretching across his pallid face. He slapped her, and the shock of the blow was like nothing she had ever felt, echoing not through her skull but through her very soul, shaking her into immobility as she gazed at him in terror.
His hand rose in front of her eyes, long nails like talons looking black in his grey, grim astral body. She quivered, expecting them to rake out her eyes and she wondered if she would be blinded in real life - if she could ever get back to her body.
Back to her body, of course! She reached for her cord, her anchor, to pull it and escape the horror. He chuckled and a shade slid over her hand, swallowing it with an intense sensation of freezing and the feel of slime and horror welling up her arm.
The hand came down, oh, so slowly, to rest on her face, one finger sliding into her mouth, avoiding her teeth, before sliding down her chin to grip her throat, the sharp nails scratching at her tender flesh. A sudden motion, downwards, and the nails ripped through her white silk robe, slashing it open and revealing Susan’s shrinking body.
The nails scored her flesh and she screamed, her cry pulsating through the room and turning into a sob of anguish. The fingers probed lower, prying and parting her flesh, an action which caused her to relax slightly, bracing herself for the rape to come.
The Bishop chuckled again. “You think I want your filthy slit, slattern, whore? Well, think again. You might enjoy such congress; aye I can make you screech in pleasure. But you hurt me, girl, and I want you in torment, not pleasure, before I take you home and deliver you to the dark. So it is not your little crevice which I want now, oh no. I have a more subtle and delightful aim.”
Her flailing thoughts wondered how a man of God could act like this. God? Her mind grasped the thought and she spoke without thought.
“Oh Lord and Mighty, hear my prayer, succour me now in my distress. Praise God, release me from this torment and ...”
The bishop was delighted, his laughter cutting across her prayer, causing her to falter to a stop.
“Silly girl, I am the Vicar of God here. Pray to me, I shall pass on your prayers.”
As Susan’s desperation re-awakened, a sound came across from the real world. A song. In Elvish. It spoke of times of trial, and calling for the Gods, calling for Crom and his Brionne answering. Susan’s head jerked sideways and she saw an Elven girl, long haired and large eyed, standing by the bed, singing while a man played a fiddle. She looked straight at Susan, her ability to see her obvious.
Strength flowed into Susan and she prayed again.
“Crom! Here I am, in need. Danu, Diane, Diana, rescue your child, your beloved.”
“The Old Gods?” Bishop Schofield sneered. “Long dead too, you have no safety here, child, not from me.” And he bent his head to her face.
She clamped her lips shut, determined not to let him kiss her, but he clamped his hands to her jaw and fastened onto his real target, her nose. Breathing out a powerful gust, she couldn’t stop him, her lungs empty from her prayer and his breath filled her, inflating her lungs and burning like acid dripping through her throat.
The pain flamed for a moment, before turning to ice inside her and she felt herself slipping away, to where she knew not, but she became conscious of a great yawning vortex appearing beside them, a darkness from which she could hear delighted yammerings.
The bishop bent his head once more to repeat the treatment, when a golden bade slipped in front of his lips. He froze.
“Who gave you permission to play with my servant, creature? You, who serve nothing, long lost while your God lies in the dust, murdered by your predecessors before the time your memories reach. Do you not know you are lost yourself? Taken by the dark, which offers nought in return, for they are not of our world?”
Golden light filled the room, as the bishop backed up, rising to his feet as he stared at the blade, before raising his head to start in astonishment at the sight of Danu in her glory, radiating golden light and between Diane and Diana, grim visages both.
“Still alive?” The bishop gaped in wonder. “Oh, so foolish, woman, for now we know where you are and how to find you. I will leave you your plaything and return for my legions. We shall devastate you, tear you apart and send you to the pit.”
As he spoke, he grasped his own silver blue cord and pulled, a grin of triumph on his face. He shot backwards, to slam into the broad chest of Crom, whose ancient craggy face gleamed malevolent, non-human eyes at him, while grasping the cord in one hand, bent in two and pinched to stop the travel.
“See your doom, human.” The voice low and gravelly gave the Bishop pause.
“Clever, creature, but pointless. The cords cannot be broken. Now I see you, I shall find another route.”
“Creature? You are so young, you who think yourself strong, yet you have no idea with whom you deal or the eons in which we have learnt about this realm.”
Crom raised his hand and placed the cord between his teeth, giving the bishop a gentle, sad smile in complete contrast to his actions. The bishop’s face contorted to horror, as the God ground his teeth, severing the cord and allowing two ends to flap to the ground.
For a moment, Bishop Schofield’s mouth gaped in horror. An unearthly scream began, causing some of the unaware soldiers in the room to start, before his astral body jerked back into the corner. It advanced to the bed, retreated, leapt into a strange one-sided fight, before backing off and diving to the ground, dragging an invisible body back to his corner. A moment with the body before the cycle began again
Susan watched in amazement, still feeling the blackness deep in her lungs. A cry from the room drew her attention, to where an old woman, naked but for strange blue symbols and sigils marked in blood, stood at the end of the bed crying out at the shades, waving something at them which she realised was a dripping head.
The shades appeared weaker, and she realised most were no longer on the king, but drifting in uncertain circles. Before her eyes, one leapt on another, attacking and devouring it. A second fight broke out between the shades, more evenly matched as the shades winked out, one by one.
Annette looked at Susan and the Gods, before nodding and bending to her work on the king. The princess stood at her elbow, holding a bowl of steaming water, with a serious expression on her face. The Elven singer stood at the foot of the bed, face wreathed in smiles as she watched the shades die, crooning a low song in Elvish.
Susan felt warm arms wrap themselves around her, and Danu herself bent to kiss her. Warm breath flooded into her lungs, driving the darkness before it. She blinked a few times, looking up at Danu’s smiling face, before accepting her hand and getting to her feet.
“The darkness is not truly gone, my Shelagh, but it will not affect you now. You are forever marked as one who has been to the dark side, and the true golden ones will shun you, but know you may become a grey walker, one who can enter the dark without fear. The dark will think you one of their own, to bear this mark and live.”
Susan didn’t understand this, but nodded anyway, wanting to help the king and staggering towards him. Danu restrained her.
“No, child, you cannot help here. We shall call upon our good friends who will help the witch, as indeed she has called them. They work on the king’s spirit and the witch does the rest. We shall watch a while, back here in the shadows where we do not distract.”
“They cannot see us?”
“Nay, nor hear or feel us. Well, you may project love, they will feel that. Children often see us, as do animals. But only the adepts who can travel the aether, like the witch and the singer, know we are here. It is not good for a warrior to be able to see his enemy after he is slain, and most of these are warriors.”
Annette cleansed the wound, easing out the pus as the princess gagged but stayed with her. The king’s breathing became more restful and even, his eyes opening and taking in the scene around his bed.
“Hardenwall has fallen, Dad,” said the princess. “The Kingslayer raised the city and they swept away the false duke. We have control of the city and you are being treated by the best healers available.”
The king stared at Annette in amazement, while she cackled and waved the late duke’s head at him.
Danu drifted forward, turning to Crom. “Time to go, I think. She has experienced enough for today, take her home and let her recover. A few days rest before you travel again. Your training is fast as ever, my friend.”
Crom nodded, eyes twinkling deep under his heavy brow. “She surprised me a little, Lady, by working out how to travel on her own. Didn’t know where she went till she called us. All good learning, and I think she will benefit from being touched by the dark. A vision from the ancient one says she has travels and work ahead.”
“I have some knowledge of this, he has spoken with me too. Go, now. We are close behind.”
*
The sun dipped down to kiss the sea, beaming trails of gold towards the shore. Susan watched, content, as she sipped a soothing tea concocted from mint and elder. She reclined in a chair, an object of some wonder amongst the Tuatha da Danann who were not good at innovation. A Brownie had made it to her specifications, with broad feet to avoid sinking in the ground, carved with fantastic representations of what Susan now knew to be the people of the aether, although she had yet to meet any who looked anything like them.
She considered life as she reflected on the past week, content to know Harrhein fared well in her absence. Crom refused to answer her questions on the dark side and took care to avoid certain parts of the aether, as she now began to realise. She no longer needed the mushrooms to find herself travelling and often explored alone, something not exactly forbidden but she chose not to tell anyone.
Especially not about Hermodr. This confusing figure she met one night while Crom conducted one of his rites with his acolytes. She wasn’t sure which realm, but it was far and cold, and he entranced her with song and music, showing her much that was different to the knowledge of Crom and Danu.
He confessed to being a cousin of sorts, but said they didn’t know about him, thought all his line was gone and it was best so. Indeed, she received the strong impression that he spent all his time in the aether. He told her this was true for many people.
His very touch intoxicating, she knew she would let him make love to her in the aether in the near future, and thrilled at the thought. Another reason not to tell Crom about him, not that Crom was jealous, far from it. The Tuatha da Danann did not understand the concept and thought she should harvest the energy of many men, ready for ceremonies. Crom spent long hours teaching her how to collect the energies and later give them back to him for his own rituals.
Her future, that was a question. It was clear she would not remain long amongst the Gods, and she felt she would go back to Harrhein, but she couldn’t see how this would happen. In the meantime there was much to learn, not just about the aether but about the more mundane sexual activity being taught to the acolytes like Fionur, which could be used to bind ordinary mortals.
This appealed, and she wondered at the change from the shy, unassuming girl who wanted to be queen, but remained very decorous in bed. She laughed, remembering her shock at Irina’s abilities and knowing that now she far surpassed that skill. She wondered about the Seminary, whether it would be interesting to visit and see how they trained.
How was the king? She sipped her tea and decided to look in on him later, make sure all was well in the kingdom. She needed to find a witch or follower of the old ways who could see her, so she could pass messages. Not that she was allowed to visit Count Rothestone, whom Danu warned her was well protected by dark travellers.
Decision made, she relaxed, sipped her tea and smiled as the sun dipped below the horizon in a burst of red.
--ooOoo--
Mistress of the Kingdom
Susan’s story continues in Mistress of the Kingdom, due to be published in 2018, when she makes a return to Harrhein. The kingdom continues to suffer from the machinations of Rotherstone and his friends, and she begins to determine a shadowy hand behind him.
Will Redcloak and his players return to lend her employment and friendship, to the outrage of the Church which has no idea who she might be.
The Princess continues her development, studying mischief in the main to the discomfort of the court and is banned from visiting the Lord of the North. Jeremy and Lionel manage to create sufficient havoc to outstay their welcome in Harrhein and set off on a great adventure.
The king meanwhile, approves plans to build a ship....
Please enjoy the first chapter:
The rain lashed Colonel Drummond’s face as he rode up the pike, grinning at the beetling craggy face of the Hardenwall to his front, looming out of the darkening clouds. His small troop clattered into the gate, swung wide at their arrival. A bare-chested, muscled figure painted in blue sauntered out of the guardhouse.
“You’n that Pathfinder laddie, I remember you’n,” he said. “You’n yourn are areet, get on down the track to the palace, laddie. Wan’ some uisge?”
Drummond accepted the proffered leather flask with a small smile, betraying real warmth at the gift. So very different from his last arrival.
“You are a gentleman, sir, much appreciated,” he said.
The guard snorted. “Gennlem’n? We squishes those. G’arn with ye, get that down yer throat an’ warm yersel’ up fer the party at the palace.”
Drummond saluted him with the bottle, taking a hearty swig to a nod of approval, and cantered down the main road leading up to the palace. The populace milled through the streets, he noted, smiling and waving at the soldiers. A couple of girls even flashed their breasts as they passed and he reflected on the change in attitude since his last visit. The late Duke Hardenwall must have oppressed the people even more than he appreciated. He rather liked this different, friendly attitude and felt his men would be safe walking the streets at night now. He could feel his troop perking up as a similar realization spread through them. He smiled into the rain.
Wranglers waited in the palace yard, taking his horse straight to the stables as he dismounted, the boy not speaking but flashing a quick smile.
“Jenkins, I am sure these lads will look after the horses well, but follow along and double check, there’s a good lad.” The Pathfinder to whom he spoke nodded his head and followed on, leading his own horse and shrugging off the attentions of a lad. Drummond strode into the palace and made his way to the wing containing the officers mess. All the old paintings gone, he noted, different coats of arms that he did not recognize and some rather splendid old paintings of landscapes and an enormous, wingless dragon talking to some people painted in the eponymous blue.
After a moment trying to understand the painting, he pushed open the door to the mess and ducked as a knife flashed past his head.
“Silly bastard,” said a feminine voice in a broad local accent. “Why dontcha knock before coming in? Us girls mighta been nekkid.”
“Probly why he dinna,” said another, “hoping to take a peek, he is.”
Drummond found himself on the floor, his sword half drawn, with two girls glaring at him. After a moment to relax at the absence of real danger, he realized the two young girls were the only occupants of the room.
“Ah, ladies, my apologies. Last time I was here this was the Officers Mess, I sought to change from my travelling clothes before meeting with Sir Jeremy. Could you tell me…”
“You sayin’ we aint ladies?” The knife thrower brandished another knife and interrupted him. “We’uns orficers too, I’ll have ya know.”
“Real…” he bit off the word before he could finish, seeing the danger of upsetting them further, before realizing they were from Sir Jeremy’s personal guard. Of course they would have made themselves officers, bloody hell-cats thought they were the bee’s knees. “I didn’t recognize you with clothes, I mean your uniform is unique.” On his last visit, the girls wore nothing at all, just blue paint. Now they wore plaid, skirts to below the knee and a loose blouse giving plenty of room to swing an arm. Seeing the narrowing of eyes and whitening nostrils, he continued in haste. “I must say, it is very becoming. The colours set off your hair, a perfect setting for such pearls of beauty.”
The two redheads relaxed, one preening in visible pleasure.
“Why, he speaks right pretty, he does. Think he fancies us’n more with clothes on, he does, bloody weirdo that’s for sure.”
Seeing the girls relaxed and imminent danger passed, he rose to his feet, still wary. “Ah, ladies, may I ask, why the knives? Why do you throw them at me?”
“Silly bastid, if’n we were throwing at youse, we would’ve hit yer. The knife is the Brionne’s own weapon, sure it is, so we practice in here, we do.”
He glanced to his left and discovered the paintings of the late duke were being put to good use, with four knives sticking from various parts of his anatomy.
“See, here,” said the knife thrower, to his alarm manifesting right beside him and slipping a cool, slender and surprisingly strong arm around his waist, pulling him deeper into the room. “If’n you’ve come to see the Brionne, you brung orders? We goin’ to war?”
“Well,” he said, wrong-footed. “I do bear a message from the king, but it is for Sir Jeremy and I cannot possibly divulge it.” The second girl now had her arm around him from the other side and he found himself being propelled towards a chair, into which they pushed him. One sat on the arm of the chair and the other slipped onto his knee, her hand rising to fondle the back of his head.
“Oh, tush,” she said. “Ah’m Morag, and anythink the Brionne knows, I knows too. We gotta make sure he’s safe, see. Youse wanna wash before’n you see him? We kin help ya. You from Feeraigh? We likes you clean boys, we do, Miriam and me.”
Drummond considered himself a ladies man, or had when he was younger, but now he possessed a wife and child in Praesidium and had no idea how to react to these forward girls, so different to any in his experience. With a determined effort of will and body, he pushed himself upright, thinking to dump Morag on the floor but she landed on her feet. He grabbed his bag and hurried to a spare room, speaking over his shoulder.
“No, I’m from Praesidium. Married, don’t you know. Thank you for the kind invitation, quite able to change on my own.” The door closed on a sound suspiciously like giggles.
Appearing ten minutes later, the epitome of a Pathfinder Colonel in his best uniform, he found the mess deserted and strode down the corridor to the throne room.
Here he found Sir Jeremy and Sir Lionel along with half a dozen Lancers and a similar number of locals plus a fearsome, tattooed warrior, all studying a map. Morag and Miriam, as innocent as two little fawns in a woodland glade, smiled demurely from behind Jeremy.
“Drummond,” said Sir Lionel. “Welcome. You been to Spakka?”
Colonel Drummond approached the table, again wrong-footed by this dispensing of the usual etiquette and realized they studied a map of the eastern seas and Spakka. The most detailed of any in his experience.
“Ah, no sir, not yet. Are you planning a raid?”
“Sounds like fun,” said Sir Jeremy. “Getting boring here, and doesn’t look like a campaign this summer.”
‘Which,’ thought Drummond, ‘tells me exactly nothing. More to this lad than I realized.’
“Well,” he said, “there may be something in the offing.”
“Yes,” said Jeremy. “You come from the king? What does he have to say?” The girls snickered and Drummond looked askance at the many people in the room. Jeremy continued. “You can speak in front of them. No secrets amongst Lancers or the North. Not healthy, secrets.”
Drummond realized the truth of that. “The King bids you come with your brother to the capital. He has a mission for you.”
“Does he now,” said Lionel, while a small undercurrent of noise went around the interested people round the table. Matt passed Drummond a flagon, from which he took an injudicious swig before realizing it was uisge, not wine.
“What’s the mission?” Jeremy asked, leaning forward with interest. “Didn’t know we had any enemies left.”
“I am not privy to His Majesty’s thoughts on the matter,” said Drummond with as much diplomacy as he could muster in the face of a mass snort of disbelief from around the table.
“It’ll be Susan,” said Lionel with finality. “Remember how upset he was with Donnell saying she was dead? If he either doesn’t believe it or wants her body back, or wants to know what happened, somebody has to go to Coillearnacha, and who are his elf experts? Either us or the Church, and he won’t ask them.”
“I think you are probably right,” said Jeremy, musing while he stroked Morag’s thigh. Drummond took a great interest in his uisge as the girl stared at him. “What do you think, Drummond? Know anything about the girl?”
“The Pathfinders would be very happy if you were able to shed light on her whereabouts,” said Drummond. “She was adopted by us, and the regiment is not happy with the king regarding her disappearance. The men don’t accept she is dead.”
“Shut up Jeremy,” said Lionel as Jeremy opened his mouth to establish the exact parameters of ‘adopted’ from a sexual point of view, to a raised eyebrow from Drummond and frowns from the girls. Jeremy subsided in a sulk. “What time of year did she go? Early spring, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, just as we marched north to face the Spakka.”
“Hmmm, if she went while we were coming north, she would have come into Coillearnarcha before the Border Patrol would be out,” said Lionel. “Where do you think she went, Jez? Maelbelenus?”
“They all go to him. But the renegades will have picked her up. That will be tough on her, if that nasty bastard got his hands on her. What was his name, Matt? The one you had a run in with in Llanfihangel-ar-Arth?”
“Beorsach,” said Matt, his face turning as hard as granite beneath the beard. “He’ll have gone renegade for sure. The Elf girls didn’t like him one bit. He hurt Romseuch real bad. I want another crack at him, Jez, but with a sword this time.”
“You’ll need an axe, you’re crap with a sword and his head is as thick as a plank. Anyway, we won’t know until we get there and now I want a drink and it’s time to eat. Morag, go find Eleanor and tell her to string her harp, I have a mind for some Elven songs tonight.”
*
Lionel nodded to Jeremy, who made a cutting motion at his throat and Eleanor allowed her song to hang in the air, humming as it lingered and she laid down her lyre.
“Tell us about your trip back to the capital, and what happened,” said Lionel to Colonel Drummond.
Drummond blinked, coming back into the world from the woodland glade to which the music transported him. The fawn with liquid eyes, gazing at him with a fixed fascination, morphed into a girl, and with a start he averted his eyes as Morag smiled.
“Ah, the trip back,” he said, hurried by his mutinous thoughts. “Ran into some of your lads on the way, under a fellow named Jack. The Princess spoke to them, and they joined us. Said you wouldn’t mind, though they did send a rider to check.”
Jeremy nodded. “Sure, we knew. Heard a bit from the lads, wanted your side of the story.”
“Those boys can ride,” said Drummond with grudging admiration. “Fastest I’ve ever done the trip, and they muttered at our slowness. We slowed as we entered the final mile, and the Princess had words with Donnell. Discussed what we were likely to find. Donnell reckoned they would try and shut the gates on us, and I tried to think of a way in, over the wall. We could get in, but not easy if they saw us coming up the pike. And the Princess wanted to talk first, didn’t believe they would shut us out.”
The great hall fell silent as they followed his words, Drummond’s eyes unseeing as he recounted the scene.
“Princess turned to Jack, asked him if he still thought he could get in quickly. He grinned, and said no problem. She nodded and cantered off, leaving me wondering what the plan was, and, truth to tell, more than a little worried.”
“Jack’s an idiot,” said Jeremy. “He vaulted in, didn’t he?”
“Hush,” said Lionel. “Let him tell the story.”
“Well, it was my idea,” said Jeremy, annoyed.
“I did it first,” said Matt, before subsiding under Lionel’s glare.
“Princess cantered straight up to the gates,” said Drummond, not put off his story and seeing it again in his mind’s eye. “We could see them closing them as we approached, and she went straight up to the gates, back straight as a lance, determination radiating from her and looking every inch a queen. I can hear her now:
‘In the name of King Richard Starborn, open the gates of my city and pay homage to your Princess. I, Princess Asmara Starborn, Lady of High Reaches, so demand.’
“Her voice soared through a sudden silence, and in moments the parapets bristled, while along the wall windows threw open and people stared out. You could see them climbing onto roof tops to see the return of the Princess. One face stood out, very pale with a mop of blond hair. Princess knew him, didn’t she just.
‘Why Rupert, I never thought to see you in the army. And already Guard Commander. Isn’t that a little below your station? Now come along, open the gates and stop this tom-foolery.’
“Well, he went red in the face and stammered, apologized and started over. Couldn’t open the gates, been ordered by parliament to keep them closed.”
Lionel interrupted, a look of enquiry on his face. “What’s this Starborn? I thought they were the Starrs?”
“It’s a figure of speech they use when they are being formal. Anyway, I thought, that’s a turn up, who would think parliament would try something like that. Princess was well ahead of me.
‘Rupert,’ she said. ‘You know perfectly well the parliament answers to me. Now I give you a direct order. Open the gates to my city. Failure to do so makes you guilty of treason to your King and warrants a death penalty. Now open the gates!’ This last she cracked like a whip, and Rupert started, jumped he did. But he shook his head. Mumbled he couldn’t.
“Princess, she nodded, and dropped her hand. I heard the twangs, and three arrows appeared in his chest, while a couple clattered off the walls. Next thing, Jack thunders past me and the princess, standing on his horse’s back. He’s holding his lance right by the bottom end, and you can see he’s tied three lances together. As he comes up to the gate, he leans forward and sticks the point of the lance in the ground. Lance bends, lifts him up, horse peels away and next thing he is flying through the air and thumps into the wall, sliding down to the ground without a sound.”
The hall erupted into laughter, Jeremy needing a large swig of uisge to recover, tears of laughter pouring down his face. Matt fell off his chair, to the delight of the wolfhound at his feet.
Lionel banged his mug on the table, till the tumult died down.
“This is the vault,” he said. “We practice it. Jack was never very good. Who went next?”
“Not sure of the lad’s name, but he was at Jack’s heels and he went right over the wall, crashed down the other side.”
“Yes,” said Lionel. “You have to dig your point in at the right moment to get the right elevation. First two or three can get it wrong, but it helps those following to go in the right place.”
“This worked all right,” said Drummond. “All the defenders turned to look at the guy who went flying over, and weren’t ready as the next four lads landed right on the wall. Arrows flew again, and they spread out, swinging light axes. Two on the outside, protecting and giving them room, while the inner two dropped ropes over the wall. They held the top while we skinned up the ropes, Princess pushing ahead of us. Once she reached the top, it was over. The soldiers wouldn’t stand against her, throwing their halberds down.”
“Who were the lads who landed on the wall?” Jeremy leant forward, his interest peaked.
Lionel forestalled him. “Later, Jez, if Drummond knows. What happened next? Was the city up against her? Parliament in full control?”
“Oh, she’s smart, our little lady. Parliament sat in council chambers making their decisions, and for what end? To line their purses, and don’t think the ordinary people don’t know it. They aren’t stupid, never mind what the nobles think, and they were scared, scared of Spakka invasion rolling up the north and arriving on their doorstep. So first she rounds up the guard, gets them down on their knees and makes them take an oath to her. Promotes a corporal she knows to commander, first job she gives him is to hang Rupert’s body from the gate. The lads enjoyed that.”
“They would,” said Matt, with enthusiasm.
“She sets us up in parade formation, leading horses trailing Spakka banners, and two Pathfinders with trumpets. They blare out as we go, with Sergeant Murphy crying out as we go. He has a voice on him, reaches right across a parade ground to startle a soldier. He used it well, announcing the return of the Princess, the rescue of the King, the defeat of the Spakka, the conquest of the Uightlanders and the betrayal of Lord Hardenwall. The people streamed into the streets and before we knew it, they were raining flowers on us and cheering the Princess’ name.”
“Clever,” said Lionel. “Some people never think of the ordinary folks, while they are laying their plans for control.”
“So where did you go?” Jeremy asked. “To the palace or to parliament chambers?”
“To the palace. Chased out the soldiers there, all Rotherstone men, and replaced them with my Pathfinders. Sent a runner to the barracks for those we left behind, mainly long term injured, and she sent a messenger to the parliament chambers instructing them to report to her the next day. Immersed herself for an hour with those ladies from Lady Susan’s court, the Ruling Court, kicked out some fellow who claimed he was the new chamberlain and dug the old one out of the cells. Were a few people in those cells.”
Drummond paused, sipping his uisge with more care. “And that was it. Parliament boys came the next day, cap in hand, falling over themselves to show they were nothing to do with Hardenwall.”
“What about Rotherstone?” Lionel cut straight to the point.
“No sign of him. Of course he is nothing to do with the parliament.” Drummond paused for another sip. “When they first came in, these parliamentarians, nobles the lot of them, marched into the great hall, full of themselves. Asked the Princess to clear the hall so they could talk, or to move to a meeting room. She looked them right in the eye, and told them she had no secrets from the people. Told them to wait their turn and continued right on with court business. Oh, they were sore about that, but nothing they could do.”
“Clever girl,” said Lionel. “Something to remember.”
“Where do you think she learned that?” Jeremy said before answering his own question. “From Hardenwall. She saw how the people rose up and tore down the Wall. She won’t forget that, and these parliamentarians don’t know anything about it. Was the same in Coilleanarcha, remember, it’s the people that make the difference.”
“We’ll leave for Praesidium on Monday. Give us the weekend to get ready. Midir, do you want to come? Bring your likely lads.”
The tattooed warrior smiled, his long blond hair rippling down his muscled back. “A pleasure. A long time since my people visited Praesidium in the flesh. My Picts will come, they will enjoy frightening the soft southrons.”
“I want to come,” said Matt. “Never seen Praesidium. All the lads will want to come.”
“We’ll take those who fought in Coilleanarcha,” said Lionel with finality.
Historical Notes
While writing this book, I did considerable research in a variety of areas and combined results from many sources. I went back a lot further than mediaeval times...
I wanted Elves. So I thought, what caused the legends? I dug, and found they are based on the Tuatha da Danaan, the Children of Dana, the third wave of inhabitants of Ireland who conquered the Fir Bolg before being conquered by their cousins, the Milesians. Legend says they signed a truce which split Ireland in half, but they didn’t read the fine print which stated their half was underground. They were led there by the chieftain Manannan nac Lir, the Sea God. Through a portal known as a Sidhe - which became another name for the Elves.
Great! So where did the Tuatha da Danaan come from? There is no historical record so far back, just legend so we can pick the one we like. The legends say they were a red-headed and blonde race originating in the east of Europe.
So I switched to the archaeological and anthropological record. At the time of writing it is accepted that the original inhabitants of Europe were dark-skinned and green eyed. Perhaps the first homo sapiens or perhaps Cro-magnon man. Around 20,000 years ago the first blonde, pale skinned people arose in what is now Syria, developing agriculture at the same time. At a similar time, or even earlier, a red-headed mutation occurred on the borders of Mongolia and China.
There are seven tribes of red-haired people in Siberia, stretching from the east to the west, and to the credit of Russia these tribes have been allowed to continue their lives. For me they are an indication that the red-haired gene spread west... And came to the Celtic races. I suspect the Tuatha da Danaan were a combination of the two, giving rise to new thoughts and powers.
Switching back to legend and myth, the Tuatha da Danaan were a people who had no religion as such, but their wise women, healers, used drugs, alcohol and sex to transport the mind, achieving cures of many conditions, mainly mental. The origins of the modern-day shrink! One legend suggests the priestess would mix her blood with the supplicants, add psychedelic mushrooms and both would drink it. This allowed the priestess to guide the subsequent dream and heal the supplicant. Their healing and prophetic powers established such a reputation that others would come to them and in due course they became gods in the eyes of other people. Can you think of a modern religion which also has the worshippers drink the blood of the god?
We see further signs of their existence in Roman reports of white skinned slaves from the banks of the Black Sea and in the Mysteries of the Greek priestesses, no doubt their descendants.
Romania seemed to be the place of their origin, according to myth, so reports of a pyramid in Bosnia were encouraging. Unfortunately, this turns out to have no scientific backing, but I’ve purloined the idea of pyramids to be used by them! Hey, this is fantasy!
Perhaps 12,000 years ago the Aryan race arose - this is nothing like the people advocated by the Nazis, but the name for the ethnic group known as the proto-Indo-Europeans, the forebears for both Europeans and Asian Indians. How these became blonde and blue eyed is beyond me, because the Aryans conquered the blonde people and enslaved them, with their loose empire lasting 4,500 years and stretching across Europe and down into India. Please note this is myth, not established fact, but an indication of one possible past history from the archaeology. Though of course the proto-Indo-European race known as the Aryans existed, and we have a good idea of their sphere of influence, calling it an empire is an exaggeration.
Religion.
These early people did not have a religion per se, and we know little of their beliefs. Indeed, our knowledge of them comes from the archaeological record and the writings of the Greeks, which are contradictory. However, I have made assumptions based on a combination of Greek mythology, European folklore and the intrinsic beliefs of local people all over world, in particular in Bali. Some of the similarities raise the hair on the back of your neck...
The Aryans took with them to India 14 unwritten histories of mystic practices, which they may have received from the conquered Tuatha da Danaan. Three of these have survived to the present day, written down in Sanskrit as the Vedas, the forebear of Hinduism, which itself gave rise to Buddhism and Jainism when it became too expensive for the ordinary people. I suspect the Aryans brought with them not just this mysticism, but the origins of Tantra, used by the Tuatha da Danaan not for pleasure but to reach the infinite.
On this subject, we have the enigma of the Shelagh na Gig. These are dramatic carvings found on mediaeval church doorways in Ireland, Britain and Germany, possibly other countries. They depict a woman holding open her vulva. Some suggest these are to ward off evil spirits. Yet there is a myth these were the protectors of the Goddesses and this I think far more likely - for surely this is a reference to the use of pre-tantric sex to access the infinite. I link this to the legends of the Amazon warriors like Hippolyta, the wife of Theseus, who came from Scythia, modern day Romania, and again another name for the Tuatha da Danaan is Royal Scythian.
Somehow, I doubt these people just succumbed to the Aryans, for surely they were Aryans themselves. I suspect that these people, who worshipped their Goddesses as the Feminine Incarnate, inspired jealousy in men, who usurped the female role and banned the use of short cuts in achieving union with the godhead. Short cuts like sex and drugs. Certainly, we can see in much of Greek mythology the war between the sexes, especially regarding religion and the mysteries.
My descriptions of the religion of the Tuatha da Danaan are based on myth, modern research by Universities into astral travel, discussions with astral travellers and numerous conversations with spiritual people on the paranormal. I am reluctant to call them shamans, priests or healers, for although they perform all these functions; the credible ones defy allocation to some pre-defined slot. Every single one is reluctant to talk about their abilities and it takes time, knowledge and trust to discover more of their world - yet I feel it not dissimilar to the beliefs and activities of the Tuatha da Danaan from 12,000 years ago.
On the destruction of their home, many of these people fled, and I suspect went onto become gods in other countries. People like Odin, Zeus and the Celtic pantheon. In Egypt, the God of Knowledge, Thoth, created the Egyptian religion. Thoth could easily be a Tuatha da Danaan name. The Egyptian religious story continued into many others, each time with a few new wrinkles, and can be traced into Christianity.
So there we have links to the origins of all the major religions, while the minor religions tend to be so similar one wonders as to the origins. One place where I have left the clues of history for pure fantasy is with my dragons, really intelligent dinosaurs. There is no indication they were the abbots of Eastern monasteries...
About the Author
Rex is English, but was born in Java, Indonesia and has spent many years in the Far East. He speaks Indonesian and Malay, with a smattering of other languages.
He has had an interesting life - as a youngster worked his passage on a container ship to Australia where he worked as a cowboy, gold-miner, door-to-door salesman and fruit-picker, before switching from Zoology to the Army to study at Sandhurst.
He saw active service in Northern Ireland and was Logistics Officer for Operation Drake in Indonesia. A country manager for an international tobacco trader at 25, he spent two years during the Cold War with MI6 before returning to the UK where he and his wife raised his two sons while working in marketing and publishing, with forays into NLP and personal development. Now they are adult, he and his wife have moved back to the Far East where he lives in Bali, travels, writes and researches.
Recently he has been volunteering with Bali Reptile Rescue, removing snakes from peoples houses and rescuing reptiles otherwise due to be slaughtered. These include King Cobras and Salt Water Crocodiles. If you like to follow either his Instagram, Facebook Author Page or his email list, you will get to see photographs.
A film career may be beckoning - from being the Snake Zombie in Dead Squad, he now features in a programme on catching reptiles in Bali, which is being considered by some channels.
He has always had a passion for writing and this was rekindled by telling stories he made up on the spot to his sons.
His hobbies are angling, reptiles, orchids, reading and hockey, though he fears that in his late 50’s he is now a little old to keep playing the latter.
His wide experience and knowledge are interwoven into the tapestry of his writing.
If you have any questions for Rex, please feel free to use his Facebook Author page, https://www.facebook.com/harrhein/