Author: M G Kizzia

M3 Gerraint: Revived Romans, part 2 of 3

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Gerraint returned to his horse and mounted, unstrapped his lance at the same time, turned the point to the front and tucked it securely in place.

“What are you doing?”  Kvendelig asked, as if he did not know.

“For Arthur!”  Gerraint shouted and he shot out of the woods at full charge.  The men behind him were a little slower, but Uwaine and Bedivere were quick enough to almost catch up.  Menw and Gwarhyr were a little quicker than Kvendelig, who swore first before he added his voice to the charge.  “For Arthur!”

The Romans still had twice the men, but Howel now had six mounted warriors on his side.  They rode through the Romans first of all, evening the odds a little as they did.  As they turned, Gerraint saw Howel and Lionel arm themselves in the confusion.  The fight was on again, but several of the Romans had quickly mounted and found spears of their own.

This was no joust such as became almost a sport in the late Middle Ages.  This was ancient men with spears, lances, clubs, swords, whatever they could find with which to kill.  This was war, and Gerraint knew the business well.  He put down the first man he faced without the other’s spear even touching him.  The second, however, grabbed the shaft of Gerraint’s lance as he fell, effectively ripping it from Gerraint’s hands.  Indeed, Gerraint knew well enough to let it go and pull his sword.

Unfortunately, with Gerraint’s progress slowed, a Roman became able to grab him by the leg.  Gerraint let go of the reins, directed the horse with his knees alone, and pulled his long knife across the face of his attacker.  The man cried out and fell away, but Gerraint got poked from the other side by another Roman with a spear.  The spear head was not strong enough to penetrate Gerraint’s armor, but the strike landed hard enough to shove Gerraint right out of the saddle.  He hit the ground, hard, and nearly got caught in his exposed face by that same spear.  He ducked in time and swung up and out with Wyrd.  The Roman spear got cut in two at the shaft.

The Roman then arched his back and his eyes glazed.  They heard the sound of whizzing and buzzing all around, as the air filled with arrows.   After barely a minute, the sounds of battle ended.

Three men, dressed in hunter green and carrying bows stepped from the trees on the other side of the clearing.  Two were rather old and grubby looking.  The third, a youngster, looked about Bedivere’s age, but clearly not one to be overawed by the men of armor he faced.  They came up to Gerraint, and the eldest bowed slightly.

“My Lord,” he said.  Gerraint pointed at Howel.

“Not me.  There’s your king.”

The man looked at Gerraint briefly and whispered for his ears only.  “The lady thought we might be better help than the dragon.”  Then he turned to the king and bowed more regally, but very much like a real, old hunter in the woods might bow to his king.

“More of yours?”  Kvendelig distracted Gerraint with the question.

“You never know,” Gerraint said, but he knew the young one was young Larchmont.  One thing seemed certain.  No three pairs of human hands wiped out twelve or fifteen Romans in the span of sixty seconds; and nearly every arrow a perfect shot.

“Odyar?”  Gerraint asked Uwaine when he came up.  Uwaine pointed at the body.

“But Bedivere is hurt, and Lionel,” Uwaine said.

Gerraint looked at Kvendelig who stood at his shoulder and shook his head.  It would not be prudent to bring a more experienced healer into the present.  At least Gerraint needed to examine the patients first.

“Master.  I am so ashamed,” Bedivere said.

“No need.”  Gerraint smiled.  The wound was not bad. “You won’t have nearly the scar I have in my shoulder.”  The bleeding got staunched.  Uwaine could see to Bedivere.

Lionel’s problem looked a little more difficult.  His leg broke and Gerraint did not imagine he had the skill to set it.  So much of that sort of thing was by feel, and he was not sure what he was feeling for.

“Will I lose it?”  Lionel asked.  Howel looked worried as well.

“Afraid not,” Gerraint said.  “Rather, it is whether you will run or limp.”  He looked around.  The hunters were still there.  The eldest caught the gist of what was needed.

“My king,” he called, and Howel stepped over reluctantly to speak with the hunter, and his guards accompanied him.  Gerraint did not wait.  He let himself slip away and Greta came to take his place.  Gerraint knew he lived as a real surgeon in the early Twentieth Century and probably set more broken legs than could be counted, but the Good Doctor felt too distant in his mind at present.  Greta, the Woman of the Ways among the Dacians, felt much closer in time and in his memory.  She also served as a healer, and a good one.

While Lionel gasped and Greta told him quietly over and over to hold his tongue, she quickly made sure her golden hair got securely hidden by her helmet.  She fluffed out her cape with the hope that from the rear no one would suspect she was not Gerraint.  Then she took Lionel’s leg, carefully, and examined it.  “A clean break,” she said.  It should heal completely if you stay off of it for a while.”

“But.”  Lionel wanted to protest at her presence, but he did not have the strength.  He struggled too hard against the pain and against passing out.

“You can talk to Bohort about it when you are better, and Lancelot if you need to, but no one else.  Do I make myself clear?”  She shot a thought to the hunters.  They instantly reverted to fairy form and flew off even as she snapped Lionel’s leg in place.  Lionel stayed busy saying yes to her question about it being clear, so that delayed his scream.  By the time he let out the sound, and Howel and the others shook themselves free from the wonder of the fairies, and came running, Greta had gone and Gerraint was home.

“Keep still,” Gerraint ordered Lionel, though Lionel had passed out at that moment.  “Have to immobilize it.”  Gerraint stood and swung his fist into the image which Greta, with her own gifts of sight, had seen.  Gerraint’s fist landed square in Menw’s invisible face.  As the man fell to the ground, dazed, he lost his concentration and became visible.  Gerraint picked him up, right off his feet, and stepped him back a couple of steps.  The others laughed, not sure what they were laughing at, when Gerraint whispered straight into Menw’s ear.  “If I catch you trying to look down my dress again,” he said.  “I’ll make you a eunuch.”  He tossed Menw about five feet to where the man fell on his rear and yelped.

M3 Gerraint: Revived Romans, part 1 of 3

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Gerraint awoke to the smell of fried eggs, biscuits and plenty of bacon.  They slept on the grass not far from the lake, but it felt quite comfortable, all things considered.  He opened his eyes, slowly.  Uwaine and Kvendelig were already up and by the fire.

“Lolly!”  Gerraint shouted and woke the rest of the crew.

“Lord.”  Lolly said without looking.  Her eyes were focused hard on the pair trying to snitch bits of breakfast before it was ready.  Kvendelig, the less experienced of the two, had already felt the rap of her cooking spoon on his knuckles more than once.

“Here.  Gerraint.”  Kvendelig protested.  “Uwaine says this dwarf female is one of yours, whatever that means.”

“And if I am?”  Lolly was also not one to take back talk or be maligned in any way.

Kvendelig drew his hand up and away from the spoon.  “I was just going to ask his majesty if perhaps he could convince you to let me have my breakfast now.  A man could starve to death waiting to be fed around here.”

“Chief Kvendelig!”  Gerraint pretended offence but he clearly smiled on the inside.  “I would not dream of asking the good woman for such a thing.  She will feed you when it is good and ready, and not one moment sooner.”

“Trouble is,” Uwaine pointed out.  “You haven’t eaten anything in four days.”

Lolly’s spoon snapped out and everyone heard Menw yelp.  “Give it up,” Gerraint said.  He imagined he could just make out the outline of the man, but then it might have been a trick of the rising sun.  Menw became visible.

“But I’m with Kvendelig,” Menw complained, as he became visible in a place Gerraint had not guessed.  “I’m starving.”  Menw sucked his wrist.

Gerraint smiled but while the others laughed his eyes snapped back to the place where he had imagined the outline of a man.  It appeared gone, but Gerraint wondered.  He might be a little slower and less agile than in his youth, but his senses were not diminished.  In some ways, they were sharper.  He had felt someone there, looking at him.  But then, he could not be sure if perhaps it was not the light after all.  He said nothing about it.

“No nun ever snapped a better ruler,” Gerraint said instead, to everyone’s incomprehension, but by then, Lolly started serving up, and in typical dwarf fashion, they had twice as much as they could possibly eat, even with three of them half starved.

“I don’t understand,” Menw said.  “My legs are like rubber, and I’m so tired.”

“I have a terrible headache,” Gwarhyr admitted.

“I remember,” Kvendelig said, plainly, and it became clear in that moment that all three remembered all at once, and they were embarrassed beyond words.

Gerraint stared them down, one by one.  “There is no way to Melwas through the lake.”

“Gwynwas,” Gwarhyr said.  “In the Welsh, its’ Gwynwas for Gwyn who guards the gate to the island.”

“It has many names,” Uwaine suggested.

“But is that certain?” Bedivere said his first words of the morning.  He still seemed a little uncomfortable, being so near the dwarf.

“Does any doubt the word of Rhiannon?”  Gerraint asked.

“The Lady Nimue?”  Kvendelig asked and Gerraint nodded.  They had imagined she was a spirit or a fairy of sorts.  They did not know going in that it was the goddess, herself.  Slowly, Kvendelig nodded, and Gwarhyr and Menw nodded with him.  “No point in arguing with a goddess once she has her mind set,” Kvendelig said, and that seemed to settle the matter.

“Now we seem to be missing someone.”  Gerraint looked around.

“No sir.”  Bedivere counted.  “All present and accounted for.”

“Ah, Luckless!”  Gerraint shouted.

“My Lord,” Luckless said as he brought in their horses, saddled and loaded with precious gifts, blankets of elfin weave, small saddlebags of silver and gold, and not a few jewels, and the weapons of the three Welsh Lords all made like new, if not replaced by better.

Luckless cleared his throat.  “The Lady of the Lake says let this be a gift for your trouble and the fine entertainment you provided for the court.  Do not return, however, or the fine things will all turn to dust.”  The dwarf did not like speeches, and immediately turned to his dwarf wife.  “Got any seconds?  Leftovers?”  He looked famished, but Gerraint felt sure he had eaten his fill before the men awoke.

“Always for you, my sweet.”  Lolly handed him the most enormous plate of all.

“Young love?”  Uwaine asked.

Gerraint nodded again.  “Quite young.  She’s only about two hundred years old.  Luckless is about three hundred.”  Bedivere swallowed on their ages and nearly choked in the process.  A sharp slap on the back by Gwarhyr was needed.

“Perhaps they are yours after all,” Kvendelig concluded.  “Always thought there was something odd about you.”

“And vice versa,” Gerraint said, but he did not explain as he got up and turned toward Luckless and Lolly.  “Many thanks,” he said.  “Will you be traveling with us?”  He asked and found himself a little disappointed when they declined.

“Little ones,” Lolly said, a little embarrassed, and Luckless puffed out his chest.

“I got me a young one to hand down the family treasure,” Luckless said, proudly.

Gerraint quickly turned to the Welshmen.  “He means iron tools, like a blacksmith or tinsmith might use, not real dragon-type treasure.”  The three Welsh faces drooped, but they understood and did not doubt.

Soon enough, the six men were off on the road, headed toward Howel’s castle and the coast.

“That was easy enough.”  Bedivere whispered when he had the chance.

“Not home yet.”  Uwaine pointed out.

That afternoon, they crossed a trail which Kvendelig said was freshly made by troops of some sort.

“Romans?”  Uwaine wondered.

“In search of what?”  Gwarhyr asked.

Gerraint looked around at those with him and shrugged.  He turned to the trail and put Kvendelig in front.  Despite his enchantment at the Lake, Kvendelig really was a first-rate hunter and tracker.

Not much further along, Kvendelig signaled them to be quiet.  He and Gerraint pushed up ahead to look and dismounted just before they came to the edge of the trees.  Howel stood there, with Lionel and three guards of Amorica.  Two other guards appeared to be dead along with three Romans, but twenty more Romans had them prisoner.  Odyar had led the king and Lionel into a trap and Odyar clearly commanded the Romans.  Neither Gerraint nor Kvendelig could hear what they were saying.  A shallow hill covered with meadow grass stood before the clearing in which the men stood.  But then, Gerraint did not need to hear what they were saying.

M3 Gerraint: To the Lake, part 3 of 3

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“The lake?”  Bedivere barely got it out when they were there, in the courtyard of a great castle such as would not be seen in that part of the world for another three to five hundred years or more.  The horses were all there too, and looked to have been just groomed.  And their own clothes were also fresh, as if they had not just ridden for several days, and sweated as prisoners or been in a fight.

“Nice trick Goreu,” Uwaine said.

“Thank the Lady,” Gerraint said, and then everyone came out of the palace to greet them.  Many looked like great men and women apart from the fact that they were nearly all young and beautiful.  These were the fairy lords and ladies and certain kings and queens among the elves.  Some looked less and less like men and women, such as the dwarf lords and gnomes, hobgoblins and the like.  These were the subjects of Gerraint in his guise as the Kairos, but there were also many present who were not his.  Many were sprites, of the water, the air, the earth and from under the earth.  Some were little spirits and lesser spirits and even a couple of lesser Gods.  The Naiad of the lake herself was there, but she looked old and said she was ready to go over to the other side.

Bedivere kept passing back and forth between utter delight and abject fear.  He nearly ran at the sight of the ogre, but Uwaine, who had some experience, steadied him.  Uwaine got frightened, himself, by some of the people, and for that matter, Gerraint did not exactly feel comfortable even though he knew that all present were subject to Rhiannon.

Shortly, they were escorted inside where, like it or not, a great feast had been prepared for them.  Gerraint quietly made sure the fairy food would not have an ill effect on his friends.  When a normal mortal eats fairy food, they become subject to the fairies, like men and women who no longer have a will of their own.

Bedivere fell to the feast like a starving man.  His every favorite dish sat in front of his place and that did away with his fears once and for all.

“But where are the Welshmen?”  Uwaine whispered to Bedivere after a few minutes.

“A fair question,” Rhiannon said from half the distance of the enormous hall away.  Through all the talk and noise in the hall, Rhiannon knew everything, every word and virtually every thought that passed by.

“Ears like Math,” Gerraint quipped while a holograph-like image appeared in the center of the hall.  Somehow, everyone could see.

The first picture was Kvendelig the hunter.  He appeared to be tracking something around a rock.  It looked like a big rock and the anticipation grew as he came all the way around and stopped.  He looked up and around and then knelt down to examine the dirt.  “Good Lord!”  Kvendelig expostulated.  “Now there are two of them.”  He started out again to uproarious laughter.

“Round and round,” Gerraint said.  “I saw that one in Winnie the Pooh.”

Rhiannon smirked and changed the picture.  This time they saw Gwarhyr, the linguist.  He sat beside a different boulder where a branch, beyond his sight, periodically scraped up against the rock and another tree every time the wind blew.  “Say that again?”  Gwarhyr was saying.  “I did not quite catch it.”  The wind blew.  The branch scraped, and Gwarhyr tried to imitate the sounds.  “I’m going to learn the language of the little people if it takes all night.”  He looked determined.

“How long has all night been so far?” Gerraint asked.

“Four days,” she answered.

“Boring!”  The noise from the crowd rose.  Rhiannon waved again and the room filled with the lively sound of music.

This was true fairy music, highly contagious to anything mortal, and Rhiannon had to immunize Uwaine and Bedivere, quickly, before they started dancing, uncontrollably.  Once they were safe, Gerraint looked and saw Menw, trapped in a stone circle, dancing up a storm.  He kept smiling, but it was clear to see he danced utterly under the spell of the music.  Suddenly, he went invisible and all they could see was the footprints and dust being kicked up.

“He has the power of invisibility, you know,” Rhiannon said.

“Ah, yes.  Quite an accomplishment for a normal mortal,” Gerraint agreed.

“Yes, he thought to sneak up on us without our knowing it,” Rhiannon said seriously, and then she laughed, deeply.

Various groups in the room began to join in the dance as Menw once again became visible.  Some placed bets on the side, and Gerraint could hardly imagine what they were betting on.  Then Menw’s head went invisible and some of the gold got picked up.  Once, Menw was visible, except in the middle, like head and shoulders hovering over a set of legs.  The dwarfs in the room especially liked when he got down to nothing showing but feet.

“Shoes!  Shoes!”  The dwarfs shouted, and a great deal of gold exchanged hands.

“Good enough.”  Rhiannon stood and clapped her hands and all the noise, the pictures, the whole crowd and the banquet disappeared altogether.  Bedivere, Uwaine, Gerraint and Rhiannon seemed the only persons in a big, empty hall.

“When can we have them back?” Gerraint asked.

“Surely not before morning,” Rhiannon said and took Gerraint by the arm and lead the three men out through a door at the back of the hall.  There were stairs, and fairy lights spaced every third step or so.  At the top, they found rooms with big featherbeds, clean sheets and plenty of blankets to crawl under.

“Is it safe?”  Bedivere wondered out loud.

“It is not safe to question the hospitality of the lady,” Uwaine responded, wisely.  “Any lady.”  He added for good measure.

“See you in the morning.”  Gerraint noticed the fairies fluttering about, beginning to dim the lights.  Rhiannon kissed his cheek with a word of love for dear Enid, and he slept well that night.

************************

MONDAY

The Welshmen  may have been stopped, but that does not mean Gerraint, Uwaine, and Bedivere are home free  Until Monday, Happy Reading

 

*

M3 Gerraint: To the Lake, part 2 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

The fight did not last long.  Both Bedivere and Uwaine killed their man, and the third Roman fled, wanting no part of it.  Gerraint’s encounter with Ondyaw was even shorter as Fate cracked the Roman’s sword on first contact and broke it in two.  Gerraint’s well aimed back swing sliced through the Roman’s jaw like it was putty, and the man’s jaw fell to the ground, his own eyes fastened on it.  “Tooth for a tooth.”  Gerraint muttered.  Then Ondyaw collapsed as Fate had also cut through most of the man’s neck.  Gerraint stirred himself, then.  He was not unaware of what happened elsewhere.

The words came from somewhere in time.  “No fire!”  He yelled in the Agdaline tongue, the command language to which all dragons were bred to obey.  “Do no harm!”  Gerraint was aware that when dragons went wild, when they generally shed their feathers and got big, the Agdaline commands did not always register.

“No fire!  Do no harm!”  Gerraint shouted again while the dragon cocked its’ head as if in confusion.  Gerraint decided it would not be worth the risk of his own skin.  Besides, there was something he needed to check out.  He found Amphitrite once more, but this time Danna pushed her way in front.  He traded places with Danna, exchanging one life in time for another.  The Don floated right up to the dragon’s face, repeated the commands for the sake of those below, but concentrated on looking for that fingerprint.  It showed there, but looked covered by another.

The dragon breathed as it faced the goddess.  Fire came, but Danna merely felt warmed by it.  She was the Mother goddess who touched the fires of the sun itself as well as the fires that ran like blood through the earth.  She was also, as Amonette, the serpent of Egypt and inclined to commiserate with this worm.  And again, she was the cold north wind and the frost that hardened the metal beaten on the anvil.

“Rhiannon.”  Danna commanded immediately as she floated back to the ground.  The goddess showed up instantly and kissed Danna on the cheek.

“Mother.”  Rhiannon said, lovingly.

“Rhiannon, dear.  What is with the dragon?”

Rhiannon looked pained for a minute.  “It was his suggestion.”

“His who?”  Danna spoke with some sternness in her voice.  “Don’t tell me this is the worm’s fault.  Eve already tried that one.”  The dragon moaned, softly and the women turned.

“Go home and take a nap.”  Danna commanded.

“Sleep?”  The dragon barely mouthed in Agdaline.

“You heard me.  No arguments.”  Danna insisted and the dragon shot flame straight up into the sky with a moan loud enough to make the few men who were still near cover their ears against the sound.  The dragon took to the sky and was soon lost in the clouds.

“He, who?”  Danna returned to the former conversation, not having forgotten.  Rhiannon had that pained look again.

“Young Abraxas,” she said, and then she struck a pose.  “Master of light and dark.  God of good and evil.  He has such an ego.”

“Sounds it,” Danna said.  “And you listened to him?”

“Well,” Rhiannon hedged.  “You were hurt and seemed in such trouble.  He suggested the dragon might help you escape.”

“Help?  It went straight for the tent where we were held prisoner.  If we had not escaped already, we would have been toast!”

“I did not know,” Rhiannon admitted.  “He is a very slick character.”

Danna stopped walking and Rhiannon stopped with her.  “Daughters don’t usually take a mother’s advice on such things.  And I don’t honestly remember if you are a granddaughter or great-great, whatever.  Not that it matters.  But he does not sound like the sort of young man a mother, any mother, would like.  Please avoid him in the future.”

“Oh, yes I will,” she said.  “Most assuredly.”

Danna leaned over and returned Rhiannon’s kiss and barely kept her tongue from saying, “You lie like an elf.”  She traded places then with Gerraint and came straight to the point.

“The Welshmen,” Gerraint said.

“I have them,” Rhiannon admitted.  “They wanted me to open a door to Avalon, Gwynwas as they call it.  Abraxas seemed keen on the idea as well.”

“You didn’t.”  Gerraint needed to hear it.

Rhiannon pretended offense.  “No,” she said.  “You have told us a million times how the Island is private, even if we are your children.  That is your place, shared with Mannanan in the old time.  Mine was in Tara, before it was deserted.”

“Yes, about that,” Gerraint said.  “I thought after Lancelot you were going over to the other side with the others?  The time of the gods is over.  What are you still doing here?”

“Galahad,” she said.  “And you did ask me to keep Meryddin under wraps for the rest of his life.

“Oh, yes.  And how is the geezer?”

“Gone.”  Rhiannon said, sadly.  “And I’ve been thinking of moving the court elsewhere.  I don’t want to stay and be reminded.”

“What is it with you and the wrong sort of men?”  Gerraint asked with some tenderness in his voice.  He wiped the tear that formed in the corner of her eye.  “But seriously, if Meryddin is now gone and Galahad is grown, why are you still here?”

“Apparently, there is one more young man.  But I do not know who it is yet.”

“Yes, well you must not dawdle.  Nearly all of the gods have already passed over centuries ago, you know.”  Gerraint still spoke with some tenderness.  Dying was hard enough when it was involuntary, not that her spirit would cease to function in the world, only she would no longer have flesh to touch the world, or eyes to see, or ears to hear.  She would be more like a force in this world, deaf, dumb and blind, and subject only to the directions of the Spirit of the Most-High God.

Rhiannon looked at Gerraint and smiled.  “Don’t worry,” she said.  “Festuscato has already scolded me enough.  “Keep away from Patrick!  You should not be here!” OH!”  Rhiannon read the look on Gerraint’s face and stopped.  “He was a past life of yours, don’t you remember?”

He remembered, but he wanted to have a bit of fun.  “Past would be the only ones you would know,” Gerraint said.  “But that doesn’t mean I know.  You know the rule.  Never tell the Kairos about any life he has not yet experienced.”

“Oh, yes, but then you trade places sometimes with the future lives,” she responded.

“Festuscato?”  Gerraint grinned, and she knew he was teasing.

“Stop it.  You’re embarrassing me.”  They came to Uwaine and Bedivere.  She named them, looked gently into their minds, and welcomed them to the lake.

M3 Gerraint: To the Lake, part 1 of 3

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They slept in the wilderness, and in the morning, headed straight for the North road.  “The main way down the center is just as quick and probably easier traveling,” Gerraint explained.  “But this way will take us by the old Cairns, the burial places of the kings.”

“You think the Welshmen came this way?” Bedivere asked.

“No.”  Gerraint spoke plainly.  “I think they must already be at the Lake, or near enough.  But we are less likely to be pursued in this direction.  I doubt any trouble would guess we even know about this road.”

“Trouble?”  Bedivere asked.  “I thought last night you said that was all cleared up.”

“Odyar,” Uwaine said.  Gerraint liked his old squire.  He had a gift in the judgment of character.

They stayed at a coastal inn that next night, and again, on the night after that.  The following evening, they had hopes of reaching the lake, but they were surprised around midday by the last thing Gerraint expected.  Instead of swords from behind, they ran smack into swords ahead.  Even as they turned to the Southeast and toward the actual lake, they were surrounded by about thirty swords of the Romans coming up from the south.  Gerraint knew the lake area was like a kind of no man’s land that separated the Romanish lands from Amorica.  He felt distressed to see the revived Romans making incursions across the border and again, he did not doubt Howel’s concerns about a possible war in the near future.

Gerraint would not let Uwaine draw his sword against such odds.  They surrendered quietly.

Ondyaw was the Captain of the Romans, despite his obvious Gallic name.  Gerraint looked at him closely and immediately saw the family resemblance.  “Odyar’s brother?”  He asked.  Ondyaw confirmed as much with a slap across Gerraint’s face.  Bedivere struggled against the ropes, but Uwaine knew better and kept still.  Bedivere only hurt his own wrists.

“And where are you headed?” he asked.  “My brother’s message was rather vague on the details and said only that I should stop you.”

“To the Lake of the Vivane,” Gerraint said.  He saw no reason to hide it.

“That accursed place.  I should take you there and dump you.  I doubt you would last the night.”

“Fluff and mirrors,” Gerraint said.  “Rhiannon just likes her privacy is all.”

Ondyaw slapped him again.  “That great Lady’s name should never touch your lips.”  Gerraint felt it in his jaw, and for a moment, he was sorry his hands were tied so he could not put his hand up to help wiggle his jaw back into place.

“Sorry,” he said.  “But I thought you were Roman.  Shouldn’t you be defending Diana and Venus instead?

Ondyaw struck him one more time just for that, or perhaps just for fun, because he could.  Gerraint decided silence was called for.  He had to pause in any case until the dizziness passed.

“Tell my brother all is well.”  Ondyaw spoke to the man who was waiting.  “The men are still watching the lake and I will send more when I know more.”  The man left and Ondyaw turned as if he had something else to say, but then decided against it.  He left and the three were alone in the tent.

“Are you all right?”  Bedivere asked while Uwaine spoke at the same time.

“Now what?”  Uwaine asked.

“Now we leave.”  Gerraint showed anger.  They had freely surrendered and honorably submitted to being captive.  They did not need to be tied.  They certainly did not deserve to be beaten, not by any standard of civilized behavior. “More like barbarians than Romans,” Gerraint said and spat out a tooth.  “Damn.  Now I’m really mad.”  He had to calm down and think for a minute.

Margueritte came immediately to mind and when he traded places with her once more, her feminine, eleven-year-old hands and feet slipped right out of the ropes.  She had on her red dress, of course, and would from then on until she changed it.

“Let me see your wrists,” she said to Bedivere.  They were chaffed raw from his attempts to tug himself free.  “Now you were so smart with the horses,” Margueritte scolded him.  “How could you be so stupid now?  How are you going to hold your sword with your wrists hurting so?”  She shook her finger at him and frowned.  Bedivere melted.

“But she’s so cute,” he said to Uwaine.

“Yes, and dangerous I’ll warrant.”  Uwaine responded.

“Not.”  Margueritte insisted, but she was getting nowhere with her young hands and fingers against the knots.  She felt obliged to trade once again with Ali.  He still wore the Armor, and though his nimble thief’s fingers would soon have them free, he pulled his long knife, not wanting to take forever.

Once Bedivere and Uwaine were up, and Ali had to say hush three or four times, they got their weapons back as they had simply been dumped in a corner of the tent. Ali then cut a small slit in the back of the tent which grew bigger as he looked and saw no one back there.  “Allow me to steal our horses,” he said.  “Must keep in practice, you know.  Be right back.”

Ali slipped from the tent and, quiet as a snake in the grass, he wound his way around the camp to where their horses were tied but unguarded.  He considered the problem, and then went back for his companions, believing the men might move more quietly than the beasts.  Perhaps they did, but they were still too loud.  The Romans would have got them but for the noise from above and the shadow that crossed over their heads.  As soon as the beast landed, the tent they had just vacated went up in flames and a roar and fire shot up into the sky.

Uwaine stared.  Bedivere screamed, though not nearly as loud as some of the Romans.  The camp turned into chaos while the dragon nosed through the burning tent.  On finding nothing edible, the dragon set its’ sights on the scattering men.

“You!”  Ondyaw saw them and pointed.  “Cursed.”  He shouted and he and three other Romans attacked.  Gerraint came back, of course, Ali having returned to his own place in time at the first sign of trouble; and none too soon as far as Ali was concerned.  Gerraint drew his sword and the long knife he had sheathed and he and his friends went at the Romans, even as the dragon contentedly swallowed a piece of charcoal which only vaguely retained the shape of a man.

M3 Gerraint: Amorica and the Suckers, part 3 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Gerraint had an idea where Howel might be, but he imagined it was late enough that Howel would likely be alone, unless the taking of Gerraint and his company prisoners had him all up and worried.  Margueritte walked the halls like a child with purpose, and almost arrived at the king’s chambers before she was stopped.  A guard wanted to know her reason for being there.  She stared at him, dumbly.

Gerraint had chosen her because she was a child and less likely to be noticed, but also because she spoke Amorican like a native.  Oddly, Margueritte came to understand that last was a mistake.  The Amorican she spoke was more like Welsh than true Amorican of the older days.  Something must have happened between Gerraint’s day and her day, two hundred years later that dramatically changed the language of the people.  It was like Amorica went away and Brittany, or Little Britain took its’ place.

Margueritte curtsied again.  She did not know what else to do.  Fortunately, king Bodanagus, of whom she had just been thinking, filled her mind with the words she needed.  Even so, Margueritte spoke haltingly to get the pronunciation just right.

“A message for his majesty from the men locked in the room below.”  She whipped up as many frightened tears as she could.  It was not hard.  This was a frightening moment.  “Please.”  She reached out to touch the guard’s wrist.  “I must tell the king personally or my father will be very angry.”

“Aw, there, little one.”  The guard grinned, few teeth as he had.  “We’ll see the king all right, and then I won’t let anyone hurt you.”  He took her hand and she did not refuse.  “Got a little girl myself, much like you, but only eight.  You twelve?  Thirteen?”

“Eleven,” Margueritte said sweetly.

“Young as that?  You look about all grown up to me.  A real lady.”  The Guard said as they came to the door.  Margueritte blushed a little and smiled.  She was actually most pleased to hear that.  It was what eleventeen-year-old girls wanted most of all, to be seen as all grown up.

The guard knocked on the king’s door, and “Come,” was the immediate response.  The door creaked open, and Lionel sat there with another man.  This was not good, but then, Howel looked worried and the curtains were drawn to block off the evening sky.

Margueritte did a quick inventory.  Arthur, Gwynyvar, Percival, Enid of course, and Uwaine, his former squire, oh, and Morgana and Bohort knew something about Gerraint and his access to other lives and times.  They called him Goreu, sometimes, as a distinction from just plain old Gerraint.  Pelenor, his old Master knew, and Meryddin figured something out quickly enough, but as far as Gerraint was aware, that was about it, unless someone talked.  Bedwyr, Kai and some of the other older ones knew something and others might have guessed something, but they hardly knew the whole truth.

Margueritte curtsied one last time while she made sure her fairy clothes would change when she did.  “A message for the king,” she said, and went home, two hundred years into the future.  She got replaced by Bodanagus, king of Amorica long ago, and he glowed, like a ghost or a Spirit of the night.

Howel jumped up and knocked over the table in front of him.  Lionel gasped, and the third man reached for a weapon, but for some reason, he did not draw it.  The guard that had been holding Margueritte’s hand jumped back and let out a brief yell.

“I am Bodanagus,” he introduced himself.  “King of Amorica and your father.”  He looked at both Howel and Lionel because the chances were reasonably good that they were his descendants.  The guard by the door wiped his hands.  He had been holding the hand of a ghost without knowing it.

“Kvendelig, Gwarhyr and Menw are meddling in something which is beyond their understanding.  Would you have them open the wrong door?  Would you have them open the door to Hell?” he asked.

“I knew it!”  Howel shouted.

“The treasures of the Celts have been shut away on Avalon and are not to be returned to this world,” Bodanagus said.  “Even in my day, I had to face Caesar on my own two feet.  I fought the Great Julius Caesar to a standstill.  Shall my descendants fight the Sons of Claudus and their shallow Romanism with dependence on magic and trickery?  For shame!”

Lionel dropped his head.  He honestly felt that shame.  He was a good Knight of the Round Table and a veteran of battles under Arthur.  Howel felt the shame, also.  The third man, however, looked angry.

“Times are different, now,” he shouted.  “We haven’t the strength of old.  We need.”

“You need nothing!”  Bodanagus cut him off.  “You have Arthur for a friend and through the Son of God, you have access to the Almighty, the Source of all things.  You need faith and a strong right arm.  You need to set free the one prisoner you have who can stop the Welsh in their madness before they bring the whole world to ruin.”  Bodanagus raised the wind in the room to blow on the fire and the torches, to whip the flames and scatter the light in every direction.  He, himself, glowed brighter and brighter in place until the men had to cover their eyes.  He raised the sound of thunder in the room, and he vanished.  He knew how to be invisible.

Curiously, Gerraint did not remember, exactly, that Bodanagus could do all of those things until he actually became Bodanagus.  His Spirit knew, though, and guided his changes from life to life.  It happened like that, sometimes.

Bodanagus opened the door of the prison room and Uwaine and Bedivere stepped back and stared, seeing no one present.  Bodanagus traded places once more with Gerraint and instantly becoming visible as he did.  Gerraint had no ability to stay invisible.

“Ready to Go?”  Gerraint asked as he returned the fairy clothes to the other world and retrieved his armor.  He called to his weapons, and they vanished from wherever they were being held and reattached themselves to his armor where they belonged.  Then the men stepped out into the other room, Bedivere’s legs being a little shaky, even as Howel and Lionel burst in, with the third man lagging behind.

“Gerraint.  Majesty.”  Howel was all apologetic.

Gerraint waved off their concerns.  “Think nothing of it,” he said.  “But I assume they have headed for the Lake?”

Howel nodded.  Lionel spoke.  “But I cannot imagine the Lady will give them what they want.”   He, with his brother Bohort knew something about Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, and his cousin, Lancelot, had been under the tutelage of the Lady and her Court when he was young.

“Of course,” Gerraint said.  “She doesn’t have what they want.”

“The ghost of King Bodanagus said the treasures were hidden on Avalon.”  Howel pointed out.  There was a practical thinking man.  Gerraint smiled.

“But she might be persuaded to open a door to Avalon,” Gerraint said.  “Rhiannon has always had a mind of her own.”

“We must go,” Uwaine said wisely.  “Too much time has passed already.”  Howel moved.  Gerraint stepped forward and looked the third man in the eye.

“Odyar.”  The man gave his name.  Gerraint nodded and they left.  They all walked together to the inn where Lionel slapped his forehead when he saw their horses, ready to travel.

“Who would have thought,” he said.  “I searched every inch of the woods.”

Gerraint laughed and slapped Bedivere on the back, but not too hard, and then Gerraint, Uwaine and Bedivere rode off while there was still some light from the moon.

************************

MONDAY

To the Lake.  Don’t miss it.  Happy Reading

*

M3 Gerraint: Amorica and the Suckers, part 2 of 3

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Amphitrite flashed back to shore and watched as they unloaded the ship.  She found the same fingerprint all over the vessel, but again, she had no idea whose fingerprint that might be.  Finally, she let it go for the present, and well under the cover of the trees where no one was watching, she changed back to Gerraint, and he thought hard about what just happened.  The fairy clothes Amphitrite had called for herself, adjusted to a look similar to the clothes Gerraint had been wearing.  In fact, he did not bother calling his own clothes back to him, he just stepped out from the trees.

Bedivere was frantic, looking for him.  Uwaine knew better, though even he looked a little worried.  “Here I am.”  Gerraint waved to get their attention.  Bedivere immediately dropped what he was carrying and came running up, breathless to make his report.

“We’ve got all of the horses out.”  He announced.

“Probably couldn’t keep them in.”  Gerraint responded as the last of the sailors came to shore.  The minute all were safely out, they heard a terrible, final cracking sound in the hull, and the ship sank quickly, and with barely a gurgle. Uwaine came up before Bedivere had finished staring.

“Welcome to the world of Goreu,” Uwaine said to the young man and patted him once or twice on the shoulder to be sure he had Bedivere’s attention.  “You might as well understand at the beginning of this journey, you will see and hear things in the next year or two that will haunt your dreams for the rest of your life.”

###

Howel seemed gracious and Lionel, with him at court.  Two things bothered Gerraint, however.  The first was that Howel said the three Welsh Lords had indeed visited, but after a few days, they sailed again for Wales, and Gerraint knew that was not true.  Gerraint and his party were not more than a week behind the Welshmen, and he felt certain they had not come to Amorica on a whim.  Whatever their business, it would undoubtedly take more than a few days.  He concluded that they were around, only where?  Either Howel had been duped, or Howel was lying to him.

The second thing that bothered Gerraint was the way Howel and Lionel kept coming up with reasons to delay Gerraint’s progress.  Bedivere pointed that out.

“I didn’t get to finish my thought aboard ship,” Bedivere said.

“Your thought?” Gerraint asked.

“Yes, the squid interrupted,” Bedivere reminded him.

“Yes, yes.  But what was your thought?”

“Oh, you said there were thirteen treasures of the ancients.  I assume they are reported to be magical in some fashion or another.  I was guessing if Howel thought Lord Kvendelig and his companions had a lead on the Cauldron, they might know where some of the other treasures are.”

“Promises are cheap,” Uwaine said.

“So, you think they may have promised Howel one of the other treasures?” Gerraint asked.

“Almost certain,” Bedivere said.

“He is facing a resurgence of Romanism under the sons of Claudus, and the Franks are barbaric, and crowding in from the East,” Uwaine pointed out.  “The Sword, or the Lance of Lugh would be a nice prize to have handy, don’t you think?”

“Unridden horses don’t take stones in the hoof unless there are stones in the barn,” Bedivere added.

Gerraint nodded.  He thought much the same thing.  “I will talk to Howel,” he said.  “Uwaine, you must convince your friend Lionel at least to stay out of it.  Bedivere, you make sure we are ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

“What about the horse?” he asked.

“See if the hoof is really stone damaged.  If it is, saddle one of Howel’s horses.  We’ll call it a fair trade.”  Gerraint stood.  No time like the present.

The conversation with Howel did not go as expected.  Gerraint’s weapons were taken from him and he found himself tossed into a room and the door locked.  Uwaine did not take long to join him.  Bedivere got sneakier, but by evening, he landed in the room as well and they only had supper for two.

“Magic is never the answer,” Gerraint said.  “Arthur has the treasure sword, or at least its descendant.  Excalibur is an excellent sword, too, but not especially magical.”

“The treasure sword?”  Bedivere asked.

“Of course,” Gerraint answered.  Rhiannon handed it to him, personally.  “Of course, Caliburn was also made by the same crew, and in some ways, it is a better sword, but it was made for a woman, a Greek Princess, actually.”

“Arthur’s first sword.  The one from his youth.”  Uwaine both explained for Bedivere and asked Gerraint for confirmation.  Gerraint nodded.

“The one from the stone,” he said.  He then thought of his own sword, Fate.  It was the last one Hephaestus made and the best of the lot, but it was not exactly magical.  Even it would only prove as good as the one who carried it.  “But, now that we are all here,” he changed the subject.  “Bedivere, report.”

“Yes.”  Bedivere understood.  “The horse had no stone, and it was a simple thing to saddle our horses and load our things for travel.  Then I had a notion that things might not be going well.  I began to hear some commotion.  I thought it best to lead the horses into the woods, you know, to hide them until we were ready to go, but as I walked and came into the town, I decided it would be better to stable them at the inn on the other side of town.  They might have found horses in the woods, you know.  But unless the innkeeper says something, and no reason he should but by accident, I imagine they will still be munching away in the morning.”

Uwaine smiled.  “I do believe you are growing a brain after all.”

Gerraint had something else on his mind.  “I have an errand first, before we go.”

“Go?”  Bedivere questioned.  “We’re locked in.  I don’t suppose we will be going anywhere fast.”  Uwaine just held Bedivere to his chair and quieted him.  Gerraint stood and thought through all of the other lives to which he currently had access.  His first and most natural choice for the job was Ali, the thief.  He traded places through the time stream.

“Hush,” Ali said to his friends before Bedivere could so much as squeak.  A quick look around the room put a pin and a comb in Ali’s hands.  He began to speak as he picked the lock, though his words were heavily accented.

“I once picked the lock in Trajan’s dungeon.  ‘Course, I had forty friends with me at the time.  We got out just fine with a little trick or two.”  The lock clicked.  “There.  You did not think Howel’s bedroom lock would prove a problem, did you?”

“But who are you?”  Bedivere could not contain himself.  “And what happened to my Master, my Uncle?”

“Hush,” Ali said again.  He needed another change to walk the halls unnoticed.  He thought long and hard, but finally decided there was no other good choice.  Ali went back to his own time and place, and Margueritte came there out of the future.  She was only eleven years old, just as Gerraint remembered her, and the armor adjusted to fit her exactly.  She knew, though, because Gerraint knew that there were other options of fairy clothing in the home of the Kairos.  She called to a plain smock dress and sent the armor home for the present.  She adjusted the color of the dress to a plain red and the shape to one more suitable to the day, all of which she could do easily, working on the fairy weave with her thoughts and simple words.  That was one of the properties of fairy clothing.  It could be shaped and colored at will.  She even added tatting around the edges to something near the dresses Gerraint had seen, but she did not add much because Gerraint was not sure.

“Boys don’t notice anything,” she complained with a little stomp of her foot.  Then she was as ready as ever.  “Stay here until I get back.”  The eleven-year-old girl spoke to Uwaine and Bedivere like she was their king.  “And close your mouth,” she added for Bedivere’s sake.  Uwaine admired her.

“You’re a new one,” he said.

“Margueritte.”  She introduced herself.   She felt she ought to curtsey.  She needed the practice, so she did.  “My Lords,” she added.  “Now, hush.”  She commanded like Gerraint.  She could not help it.  This was Gerraint’s life and so his perceptions and attitudes ruled the day. She stepped into the other room, then, and closed the door behind her as quietly as she could.

M3 Gerraint: Amorica and the Suckers, part 1 of 3

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Within the week, letters had been sent by the swiftest couriers to all concerned in the four corners of the realm, to keep a sharp watch out for certain men.  Once that was done, there was a waiting game until word came back.

It did not take long before word came from land’s end, and what remained of Lyoness, that the Welshmen, Kvendelig, Gwarhyr and Menw, had taken ship for Amorica, accompanied by Lionel.  They were ostensibly going to visit Howel, now king of Amorica since his father Hoel had passed away, but Gerraint knew better.

With that, Gerraint was able to take Enid home.  They crossed on the ferry early in June and delighted in the weather.

“I will be so glad to see Guimier,” Enid admitted.

“You are going to spoil that poor child,” Gerraint said.

“Me?”  Enid looked up.  “You’re are the worst doting father I know.”

Gerraint nodded.  “Should have given me a daughter sooner.  Or we could have another and spread the wealth.”

Enid laughed and smacked his arm.  “Bite your tongue,” she said.  “If three is four as you say, that makes my forty-two years fifty-six in your Storyteller’s day, and not inclined to go through that again.  Guimier nearly killed me.”

“Just a thought.”  Gerraint never stopped smiling.  He took her up in his arms and she eagerly loved him.

“God, I will miss you.”  She laid her head on his chest and let a few quiet tears fall.

When they reached home and little Guimier, Gerraint had a hard time keeping his mind on the task.  The month was lovely for picnics and quiet times at the beach.  Peace was a wonderful thing, and Gerraint felt more certain than ever that at his age, his adventures ought to be over.  All the same, he tore himself away, and as a result, he found his time at home seemed all too short.  It did not take long to gather what they needed and prepare to sail across the channel.  The horses gave them a little trouble, but then horses generally did.  Once loaded and ready, however, all that remained were the good-byes and last hugs.

“Come home to me,” Enid said.

“As long as there is breath in me,” Gerraint responded.

“Get up there.”  Uwaine shouted at the last horse while Bedivere tugged from the other end.  Gerraint looked up and laughed.  He admitted that Bedivere was more Uwaine’s squire than his own, but for appearance sake, his sister Cordella was too much of a snob to have her son squire to less than a king.

“I’m Pulling,” Bedivere shouted as well.

“Try coaxing!”  Gerraint shouted the loudest to be heard.  The men stopped and he had to repeat himself.  “Try the carrot instead of the stick.”  Uwaine frowned and Bedivere went back to his pulling.  They ignored Gerraint’s suggestion completely.  “So much for being king.”  Gerraint shrugged.

Enid smiled at that as well.  “Go on,” she said, before Guimier starts crying again.  Gerraint hugged his girls and went, reluctant adventurer that he was.  Guimier waved the whole time until they were out of sight and Geraint imagined she was still waving as the afternoon wore on.

The channel seemed calm enough for June.  There were no clouds on the horizon, but then, Gerraint thought, this is not exactly D-Day, is it?

“Where do you think they will be?”  Bedivere asked as he leaned on the railing.  Uwaine stayed busy throwing up.

Gerraint shrugged.  “We go see Howel first.  You must always pay respects to the king of the country first before anything else.”

“But I was thinking,” Bedivere said.  “What if Howel is in on it all?  What if Lionel is in too?”

“Why?”  Gerraint asked to get his squire to think it through.  “Why should Amorica turn against Britain just because Hoel is dead and Howel is king?  They have been our good friends since Arthur gained the crown, and Howel rode with us many times into battle.  Besides, he has the sons of Claudus on his border and their revived Roman ideas, plus the Franks pushing in hard from the East.  It looks to me like Howel may need our help soon enough.  Why would he support the idea of bringing us to civil war?  It would seem to me that would be cutting off his nose, so to speak.”

“Yes,” Bedivere said.  “I see all that.  But…”  Something bumped the boat from beneath.  Gerraint had to grab Uwaine to keep him from falling overboard.

“Get that sail up.”  The Captain shouted.  Sailors began to scurry around the deck and some of them looked frightened.

“Beg pardon, Majesty, but keep out of the way!”  The mate was not polite about it.

“Bring her about,” the Captain commanded.  “Straight for the shallows.”  They were driving the ship with every scrap of sail they could hoist.  The bump came again.  One sailor screamed.

“Buckle up,” Gerraint said.  He stepped aside when no one was looking.  He called his armor out of its’ resting place in the Second Heavens.  His comfortable clothes vanished and the armor replaced them in the same instant.  Immediately, he drew his sword which was sometimes called the sword of the gods and which he called “Wyrd,” which means, fate.  It was the last gift of Hephaestus to King Bodanagus of the Nervi before the dissolution in the time of the gods.

The bump came a third time, and it felt as if something was trying to hold the ship in the deep.  The wood boards creaked and tried to pull apart.  Several nails popped and Uwaine could only imagine it was leaking down below.  The sailor screamed again, only this time for good reason.  A tentacle came crashing down on the foredeck and by chance, grabbed the man by the leg.

The mate was a good shot with the long fish hook.  He pinned the tentacle to the deck and the man became able to pull free, but he did a lot of screaming and a lot of struggle in the process.

“Not a good idea.”  Gerraint shouted and after stumbling across the deck, he cut the tentacle off where it was pinned so it could slip back into the water.  Bedivere and Uwaine had their swords out by then and they backed away toward the center of the ship.  Bedivere’s eyes in particular were big.

‘Look out!”  Someone shouted as the ship jerked and the center mast snapped at the rigging.  Something started trying to pull the ship apart.  The ship stretched, or bulged out at the sides, but thus far held together.  The ropes whipped in the wind for a couple of frightening seconds, nearly knocked one sailor overboard and thumped another in the chest, knocking him unconscious.  Then the horrific cracking started again as, in slow motion, the mast broke at the deck and fell over across the front of the boat.  They were dead in the water, and whatever it was, it had them in its’ terrible grasp.

“Another!”  Someone shouted, as a tentacle came up over the railing on the far side of the boat.  It slapped against the deck and began to slither like a snake, looking for something soft to grab.  Gerraint counted suction cups as Uwaine and Bedivere slashed at the tentacle from opposite sides.  It reacted by whipping worse than the ropes for a second and just missed slapping Bedivere in the face before it pulled slowly back into the water.

“Good Lord!”  The Captain swore.  “Damn thing’s twice the size of the ship!”    He, too, had been counting the cups and judging their size according to what little could be seen.  “At least.”

“What’s it doing in the channel?”  The mate shouted, but all the Captain could do was shrug as he and a few others struggled to get up some kind of sail.  They heard a crunching sound and the sound of horses going wild from below.  To Gerraint, this all seemed like more than just an accident.  Something felt very wrong here, and that feeling echoed through time, confirmed over and over.

It seemed to Amphitrite, as well, that something was very wrong in the sea.  She was a life Gerraint lived nearly two thousand years earlier and while it was not his habit to trade places through time, having learned long ago that it was important to fight his own battles, when something outside of the normal course of events became determined to interfere, he saw no reason why he should not fight fire with fire.

That crunching sound came from below again, and all Gerraint could imagine was that the squid was breaking through the hull like a squirrel breaking open a nut.  The horses were utterly panicked.  One minute, he wiped his sword clean and sheathed it.  The next, he was not there at all.  Amphitrite, goddess of the sea, stood in Gerraint’s place, and the armor, which had adjusted to her height and shape, she sent home, back under the Second Heaven, and replaced it with something more suitable.

Immediately, Amphitrite calmed the squid with a thought.  As the great goddess of the sea, making the squid let go was not difficult.  All the same, she realized the ship was not at all well, having suffered a great deal of damage.  She could have repaired the ship with another thought, but that was not the way of the gods.  People needed to suffer the fate that came upon them, but in this case, perhaps a partial exception was in order.  As far as it went, the mate had been right.  A squid that big had no business being in the channel.  So she picked the ship, crew and all, into the air and deposited it eighty miles away at the dock.  That took a second.  Then she made sure it would hold together long enough to unload.  At last she rushed back to her poor squid.

“You’re more than welcome,” she thought to the captain, but her senses were entirely trained on the beast.  She wanted to know who sent it.  It had to have been sent.  It could not have come on its’ own.  Sure enough, she saw the imprint on the squid’s mind.  It had been instructed to attack their specific ship.  Oddly, she was balked from discovering the reason for it or who was behind it.  All she got from the squid was a sense of evil which felt something like a fingerprint.  She had to content herself with the fact that she would recognize that fingerprint in the mind when she found it again, and she took the animal safely back to the depths of the Atlantic where it belonged.

M3 Gerraint: Around the Table, part 2 of 2

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Most everything was fairly straight forward.  The younger men came in from the courtyard.  The squires stayed outside.  The Graal got discussed at length and every Chief, in typical Round Table style, had a chance to speak and add any information or suggestions they might have.  It turned out they had quite a lot of information about the Graal and its’ supposed whereabouts.  Clearly, the Bishops and the Churches were excited beyond words about all of this, and a great deal of money was already forthcoming to finance the various expeditions.

Gerraint looked at the younger men and thought of the squires.  The squires had not lived through thirty years of war as he and the older men had.  The squires had hardly known any adventure at all.  Surely these were exciting times for them, but somehow Gerraint just could not get up for the whole idea.  All he really wanted was Enid and some seclusion, like semi-retirement.

“I have nothing to add.”  That was his great statement, and he did his best to stay awake the whole time.  Then something happened which disturbed him greatly, and perhaps more than the others because he guessed who was behind it all.

All the light in the room went suddenly dim and ghostly hands appeared to carry a glowing object across the room and across the faces of all the men present.  The object might have passed for an oversized cup, but clearly, in Gerraint’s eyes, it was the Cauldron Gerraint felt concerned about.  One man stepped up and put his hand right through the apparition.  This seemed no magic trick, but a true vision of some kind.  Gerraint cursed, quietly, but he felt reluctant to curse his own son too severely.  That is to say, Danna’s son.  Then the hands and object vanished as quickly as they came and light once again returned to the room

People were up and shouting for a long time.  When order got restored, Arthur deftly turned all thoughts toward the Graal.  He let no word of Cauldron escape the lips around him, and then the meeting was over.  Men were excited and ready to set out that very evening.

When it was over, though, Gerraint felt like mounting the nearest horse and riding off alone for a while, despite Gwyr’s warning not to stray.  Lucky for Enid, she caught him by the door and corralled him toward the waiting supper.

Bedwyr of the South was there.  He had settled in Oxford where he could keep an eye on the Angles above him, the Saxons below him, and Lundugnum on the Thames. Kai came from Caerlisle in the North, that great fort that sat aside the ruin of Hadrian’s wall.  Loth came from York where he kept a watchful eye on the Norwegian shore.  At times, he traveled up the coast all the way to Edinburgh, to get a better look.  They were all already there with Constance, Enid, and Gwynyvar.  Gwenhwyfach, mother to Gawain and of Medrawt stayed home in York, and Kai made some comment to Loth that he was glad not to be the only bachelor at the party.

They ate, and it was pleasant enough.  There were certainly enough stories to remember that went around.  No one wanted to speak of the vision and Gerraint felt glad about that.  It was time for the sweets when Gwyr poked his head in and old Peredur, father of Percival came in.  He declined to stay and eat, but he had news for the men present.

“He came to me early this morning with a tale worth hearing,” Arthur said.  “Please tell.”  Then Arthur sat back to judge the various reactions on the various listening faces.

“It was March, last, when I was visiting my good friend Pelenor.  You know, at my age it is good to have a friend still living and it does make the winter seem not quite as harsh, when one has company.”  Arthur coughed.  “It was there that Urien of the Raven came to visit, and Gwarhyr, the Welsh poet was with him.  They spoke of this quest in terms I had not heard before.  It seems that young Gawain, on returning home, let slip word that Meryddin first spoke of the search for a cauldron, not a Graal or a cup.  Well, these men seized on this notion and have every intention of searching for the lost Cauldron of Dagda.  I spoke strongly against it.  I believe that would open wounds all over this land best left to heal.  The old gods have gone.  The true faith has come and we need to embrace the light, and not return to the darkness from whence we came.”

“You know as well as I that Meryddin was a man who clung to the old ways,” Arthur interrupted.

“Yes.”  Peredur retook the floor.  “And I believe no good will come of it.  The Samhain and Beltain are still strongly followed in the country as it is, sometimes right under the nose of the church.  I fear if there is a resurgence of the old ways, the whole country may end in civil war.”

“Surely not!”  Bedwyr coughed.

“Surely so.”  Kai countered in his old way of tit for tat.

“I would swear that was a Cauldron I saw in the vision today, only I did not say so earlier because of the king,” Loth admitted.  Silence followed, and all looked at Gerraint.

Kai and Bedwyr knew well enough that Gerraint was the right man for the job, whatever that job might be.  Arthur knew he was likely the only man for the job.  And as for Loth, what he might not have known directly, he knew indirectly.  That did not leave Gerraint much choice.

“Damn it!”  He shouted, stood and turned from the table.  “Civil war is hardly a matter of importance.  If Britain falls back into its’ pagan ways, all of history, all of the future may change.  Damn Meryddin.”  He did not explain what he meant, but then he did not look at anyone’s face.  He did not have to.  He spat the name.  “Merlin.”  He spun around at last, and Arthur knew better than to interrupt.

“Arthur, you cover Wales and your own people here.  Kai, you have the North covered.  Loth, you have the East and the Norwegian shore. Bedwyr, you have the Southeast and Lundugnum.  Peredur has Legoria and the midlands, and if I recall, Gwillim is in Southampton.  We need Gwynyvar’s brother, Ogyrvan, to cover North Wales, and perhaps Morgana with Nanters to cover the Welsh midlands.  Tristam has Devon.  I have Cornwall and Lyoness.  Nothing can be sought in all of this realm without our knowing it.  Is this not so?”

“Yes, quite.”  The men agreed.  Arthur smiled.  He had only seen his cousin this upset on rare occasions.

“Then I will track the men beyond our shores. They must be stopped.  They must be prevented from digging up things that should stay buried.  What say you, Peredur?”  Gerraint finished.

“Indubitably,” Peredur said.

“Why you?”  Loth asked.

“Alone?”  Bedwyr added.

“I’ll take Uwaine and my squire, Bedivere, but essentially alone,” Gerraint said.  “I have wings to fly…”

“That you know nothing of.”  Kai interrupted and the rest joined in the ending phrase.  “Eyes that see farther, ears that hear better, and a reach longer than ordinary men.”

“Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.”  Enid laughed.

“What say you?”  Arthur turned to Enid with some sympathy in his voice.

“I say I will miss him while he is away, and love him all the harder when he comes home.”  Her eyes teared a little and Gwynyvar teared up with her and hugged her while Constance patted her hand.

“That is the sweetest thing I have heard in a long time,” Constance said.  “Would that more women were as true.”

“Stop it, now,” Gerraint said, softly.  “Or I won’t be able to go at all.”

“Er.”  Loth clearly hated to interrupt.  “Has anyone bothered to look for Urien and Gwarhyr and ask them what their intentions are?”

“They have left Caerleon.”  Gwyr said plainly.  “They were waiting only for the meeting to pass and had horses ready.”

“And Urien came up to me just before the meeting started and all but admitted his intention.  He told me all about the Cauldron and wondered if Gawain said anything more when he first came from Amorica.  When I gave him no answer, he went immediately to whisper to Kvendelig the Hunter, Gwarhyr and Menw attending, of course,” Gerraint added.

“So, the adventure begins.”  Arthur smiled.

“I’d rather a hot bath and good night’s sleep,” Gerraint protested.  Peredur laughed, alone at first, before the others joined in the conversation about the aches and pains of age.  Peredur did join them, then, in sweets and a conversation on which he was expert.

“I think I will follow along with young Bohort and that new squire of his, the boy Galahad,” Peredur said later.  “That boy seems graced, somehow.”

“Indeed,” Gerraint said.  “Exactly right for the father of Percival.  People will remember these days.  But tell me, how is my old master, Pelenor?  You said nothing of his reaction to Urien’s visit.”

“It has been a long time since you were Pelenor’s arrogant fourteen-year-old brat.” Peredur said with a smile.  Then his smile faded.  “Pelenor concerns me.  His hanger on, Ederyn was there, too, but neither said much of anything.  They made no objections to what I said, but they hardly objected to what Urien proposed, and believe me, I am not saying civil war lightly.”

“Pelenor is rather older, now,” Gerraint suggested, noting that most of the others were listening in.

“Yes, that may be it,” Peredur said.  “His hands shake a little these days, almost like a man who has lost control of his senses.  Perhaps he was just not feeling well enough that day to get too excited about Urien’s suggestions.  At least I have told myself that.”

Gerraint patted the old man on the shoulder to reassure him, but this was yet one more thing to think about.  And who else might be in on the conspiracy to reassert the old ways, by war if necessary?

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MONDAY

Gerraint, Uwaine, and squire Bedivere chase the welshmen to the continent in Amorica and the Suckers.  Don’t miss it.  Happy Reading

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M3 Gerraint: Around the Table, part 1 of 2

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

It was May before everyone gathered at Caerleon to discuss the quest for the Graal.  Enid and Gwynyvar went off to do whatever it was the Ladies did, while Gerraint fell in with some old friends, some of whom he had not seen since Badon, three years earlier.  Kvendelig the hunter stood in the corner with his Welsh cohorts, Menw and Gwarhyr.  Old man Kai came alone, but Bedwyr brought his wife, Constance, who at fifty, made a stable older influence for the ladies.  The really old men, Pelenor and Peredur, both of whom had to be pushing their mid-sixties, sat most of the time, with their slightly younger hang about, Ederyn right there with them.

“Goreu!”  Urien came up and called Gerraint by his Cornish name which was seldom heard and which few even knew.

“Urien.”  Gerraint shook the man’s hand and stared briefly at the raven symbol blazoned on the front of his tunic. Gerraint imagined if one had to select a totem, the raven was as good as a dragon, or a Cornish lion for that matter.

“And how is the lovely Enid?”  Urien asked.

“Lovely.”  Gerraint answered, and Arawn, who stood right behind Urien, guffawed as only he could do so well.  Gerraint went on.  “With Gwynyvar, and Modron, I suspect, assuming your wife is with you.”

“Couldn’t keep her away, er, much as I might have liked.”  He laughed at his own joke.  “It was a chance to see her boys, you know.”

“That’s right,” Gerraint said.  “Your eldest, Mabon is squire to Percival and, I’m sorry, I forget your youngest and who he is with.”

“Owain, just turned fourteen and Agravain has agreed to take him on.”  Gerraint nodded, but then fell silent.  He and Urien had never been exceptionally close.

“Ask him.”  Arawn urged Urien from behind as Urien had also felt a little awkward in the silence.

“Yes?”  Gerraint showed he was paying attention.

“Well.”  Urien looked as if he did not know how to phrase it, though he had probably long since planned it all out in his mind.  “It’s about this Graal,” he said.  “Well, rumor has it that is not exactly what Meryddin said, if you’ve heard.  I was wondering.”  He paused to collect himself.  “Rumor has it Gawain came first to you on his return from Amorica.  Do you recall by chance the conversations you had with him?”

Gerraint squinted.  For all of his stumbling, Urien was a brave man and reported to be a decisive little tyrant on his home stomping ground.  Certainly, he was no fool.  “I don’t imagine there is anything I can add to what you have already heard,” Gerraint said. “Was there something specific you were wondering about?”

“Well.”  Urien rubbed his beard.  “I heard rumors that Meryddin used the word cauldron, not cup.  You don’t suppose he could have meant the Cauldron of Inspiration, do you?”

Gerraint took it as lightly as he could and showed nothing in his attitude.  “Don’t be absurd.  Why would Meryddin send men after some old pagan artifact?  Probably no more efficacious than Stonehenge, though undoubtedly less big.”  He laughed as if the whole notion was absurd.  Urien laughed with him while he excused himself, and Arawn went with him.  Gerraint watched him walk to the Welsh corner to talk to the hunter and his friends, but then Gerraint moved on so he would not be noticed, watching.

He went to the window and looked out on the young men, that is to say, the younger men outside, showing how stupid they could be, as Margueritte would say.  He recognized most of them including Percival, who was closer to his own age and older than most, Lancelot, Tristam, who was near enough his age along with Bohort, Lionel.  Then there was Gawain, Gawain’s three cousins, Gwalchemi, and, of course, his own Uwaine who were all in their thirties.  The squires, all teenagers, were further away in the outer court.

Gerraint briefly wondered if Medrawt at twenty-one was with the squires, corrupting the youth.  At least incorruptible Bedivere was there, with Mabon and what’s-his-name, oh yeah, Owain.  Gerraint’s own three sons, Peter, James and John were most certainly there, and that newly arrived and rather embarrassing son of Lancelot’s youthful tryst in the days before he crossed the channel and became joined to Arthur’s court and to Gwynyvar.  Curious how she forgave him for something that happened before her time.  What was the boy’s name?  Yes, Galahad.  About eighteen, maybe twenty, Gerraint guessed.  Couldn’t be much more since Lancelot, one of the old men of the young lot, was only perhaps forty.

Gerraint turned away.  He knew no more of the squires.  They were a generation apart, and he could not keep up with them all.  He looked again around the room he was in and he felt suddenly struck by the gray hair, missing teeth, and for that matter, the missing gray hair.  He bumped into Gwyr, Arthur’s court judge.

“Gerraint.”  Gwyr looked up.  He fumbled the papers in his hands.  Gerraint stood roughly six feet tall.  Most men had to look up to him.

“Can I help?”  Gerraint asked.

“No,” Gwyr said.  “I’ve got it.  And I have a message for you.”  Gerraint listened. “The queen and Lady Enid have arranged for you and Arthur to have a sit-down supper after the meeting.  Don’t stray.”  He underlined that and Gerraint understood there was to be a meeting after the meeting.  Then Arthur came in.