A slight change in direction and genre, just introducing myself to some new characters and a new world.
1877, Thursday 4th October, 11.15pm
DSI Smythe crouched down by the body, its shroud stained by the blood seeping from beneath. He reached out to take the corner of the sheet between his thumb and forefinger and gently lifted it up, revealing the face down corpse. The back was mutilated beyond belief, reminding Smythe of a wild animal attack. The red tunic had offered little protection against what was obviously a frenzied attack, in places, Smythe could see the unfortunate man’s ribs and spine.
“What do we have here then?” he enquired of no-one in particular. Mulholland answered anyway.
“A Tommy, though there is not a lot left of him. I can’t tell what regiment he is from, but Constable Perkins here,” he jabbed a finger at one of the constables holding a lantern, “reckons that he’s a Flyer. On account of his sit-upons.”
“That’s good knowledge, Constable Perkins.” Harris offered, then explaining further for DSI Smythe who had turned to look enquiringly. “Light blue trousers, Sir. Only members of the Royal Flying Corps wear them. Dark blue piping, so I would hazard a guess at one of the Dirigible Squadrons based at Hounslow. Have you identified our man yet, Inspector?” He addressed Mulholland
“Constable Higgins had a rummage through his pockets, but he couldn’t find his card.”
“Any witnesses?”
“None, whatsoever. A young moll found him, she went to raise the alarm down at the King’s Head and run into Constable Howard here. Lucky for you, he managed to keep the locals from looking in.”
DSI Smythe stood up, tapping his cane against the side of his shoe, and holding the stained sheet to one side completely. With a look of disgust at how the man had died, he passed the sheet to one of the constables.
“Very well, Inspector. We’ll take it from here. Sargeant, if you could prepare my equipment.”
“Bloody Necros!” muttered Constable Perkins as he turned away. Harris rolled his eyes as he knew far to well what was coming next. Smyth turned to address him.
“Constable! You and I both know that that is not the case. The 1865 Sorcery and Occult Practices Act and the later 1871 Use of Magic in Judicial Enquiries Act, specifically excludes the use of necromancy in any form, for any purpose. It is both illegal and unethical. Once a person has passed away, it is only right that their soul rests in peace, and we, as members of Her Majesty’s Police Force, must toil to uncover the reasons for, methods and perpetrators of their demise.
“Every member of the Division upon elevation to our ranks, swears an oath not to partake in such diabolical practices. So, please refrain from such petty and insolent remarks.” Perkins looked a little taken aback, his cheeks reddening as Smythe spoke to him. He didn’t shout, that was not his style. He just spoke calmly and with a heavy dose of authority. Harris had been on the receiving end of it a few times, and had felt that he had regressed to childhood, akin to an elderly aunt admonishing him for not washing behind his ears.
“Now, the world as we know it is changing. Just as we are exploring the skies with the use of airships and the like, as our carriages and modes of transport become more mechanized, Magic has become a part of detective work. As with all these changes, you may not like it, but you should accept it.
“Inspector! Thinking about it now, DS Harris and myself may need another pair of hands. I do believe Constable Perkins is volunteering to assist. Would that be acceptable to yourself?”
Mulholland looked crossly at his constable. There was enough petty rivalry in the force as it was, without the need to antagonize those bloody ‘necros’ anymore.
“Aye, but his shift finishes at 2am. We haven’t been able to collect overtime for several months due to the cuts, so be decent enough to bear that in mind.” He turned to go, but added with a look over his shoulder, “Yes, the world is changing, DSI Smythe, but I still don’t like it. Witchcraft and flying? It’s abhorrent.” With that, Mulholland withdrew, along with the remaining uniforms.
“We’ll open with Elvish Sight.” Smythe offered, it seemed more to himself than his companions. He dug around in his bag and took out a small vial and a spectacle case. Flicking the case open, he took out a pair of half-moon spectacles, which he placed reverently upon the bridge of his nose, and hooked the temple pieces over his ears. He placed his hand through the strap on his cane, so it hung loose about his wrist.
“You suspect an occult perpetrator?” Harris enquired, more for Perkins benefit than his own. He had, afterall worked with Smythe for over a year now.
“Of course. Nothing on this earth could deal those wounds – and then have the temerity to leave him here discarded like mullock. A wild beast would have partly devoured him, not slashed and gashed like this.” Harris kept his eye on the constable as Smythe explained. The young man whitened at the words.
Smythe uncorked the small vial, and tipped some of the powdery contents into the palm of his free hand. Adeptly, he corked the vial and dropped it into his jacket pocket. Drawing in a deep breath, he blew the dust over and around the corpse. Intently, he watched as the myriads of specks floated in the air and settled slowly.
“Faerie dust,” Harris explained to the onlooking constable. “This particular powder will be attracted to anything not of this world, or dimension. The spectacles are made of elvish glass and will help DSI Smythe focus on the evidence.”
“Anything not of this world? What could be not of this world?” Perkins asked.
“You should be praying right now that you do not find out.”
Smythe seemed to pick a few pieces of evidence up with a pair of slim tweezers and deposited them into individual petri dishes. These he placed gently back into the bag and then slowly circled the body, the ivory handle of his cane held to his lips as he drifted in pensive thought.
“Now for the Candles of Akatos, Robbie, if you please.” Taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, he quickly inscribed four small inscribed pentagrams about the body, one each at the head and feet, with one either side. He muttered under his breath as he did so, just loud enough for Perkins to hear, though the constable heard only unintelligible gibberish. When he had completed the final one, he turned to Harris, who had Smythe’s doctors bag open in front of him. From it, he had retrieved a silver tray and had placed four, short stubby candles upon it. Each candle was dark red, a deep carmine, in colour and was mounted upon a roughly hewn chunk of quartz-like rock the size of a man’s fist.
Harris carried the tray solemnly to Smythe, who took each candle and placed it in the centre of each pentagram. When they were all placed, he crouched down at the head of the body, placing finger and thumb on either side of the candle’s wick and muttered a single word incantation.The wick lit with a lambent white flame, but the light from the flame seemed to shine downwards through the candle into the rock below. He moved to the candle at the feet, and lit that, followed by the final two. The rocks woke with the impurities fused into them millennia ago reflecting light or casting shadows as appropriate to their material make-up.
With the candles lit, DSI Smythe moved to stand next to Harris. He tapped his cane against his shoe before addressing Perkins.
“Constable Perkins, hold the lantern up, if you please, and keep it steady. I am ready to begin.” He raised the handle to his lips once more, then exclaimed one word, throwing his arms out wide.
“SOTH!” His voice rent the air and the flames of the candles danced high before extinguishing themselves. The rocks under each still glowed with the ambient light, and from each wick a thin tendril of smoke rose into the night air, all four drifting to form a figure that stood between the corpse and the entrance to the alleyway.
A few health and work issues since my last post have set me back a bit, but almost ready to get back on the proverbial horse – only the proverbial one, mind you, the real one is going to take a few months more.
Over a week in quarantine waiting for an operation, then a couple of weeks recuperating, I set myself to look forward to a productive period of reading and writing. But a busy few weeks at work, with every task taking me twice as long to do, left me disappointed. Three weeks – and only one book read (two if you count a Slaine graphic novel!). What a let down!
Though, to be honest, it was a damn good read and I would thoroughly recommend it to all fans of crime thrillers. Though with a title like ‘Lockdown’, you might want to give it a miss for a few years. As well as a top notch thriller (Fantasy is my number 1 genre, but any good thriller comes a close second), Peter May’s ‘Lockdown’ is a good lesson for many authors.
London, the epicentre of a global pandemic, is a city inlockdown. Violence and civil disorder simmer. Martial law has been imposed. A deadly virus has already claimed thousands of victims….. At a building site for a temporary hospital, construction workers find a bag containing the bones of a murdered child.
Written initially in 2005 after the Bird Flu was touted to be the next big pandemic, it was turned down by British publishers as the portrayal of London under siege to a global pandemic, an invisible killer ‘was unrealistic’. May filed the novel away in his project drawer, only to revisit it 15 years later when COVID 19 reared its ugly head. The lesson – it may not be the right time for that novel to be published, your brand might not be right, or simply, the world is not yet ready for it! But there could be a time when its perfect for publication.
The pandemic is a lot grimmer in May’s Lockdown, than in our own present, with the army patrolling the streets of London, enforcing the curfew with deadly force. Every aspect of the quarantine seems to have been explored and detailed, from the crosses painted on doors of the housing estates in a throwback to when the black death ravaged the country to the no-go areas walled off from outsiders and guarded by the clean folk within. The site of the crime, a building site for a temporary hospital is a terrifying prediction of the Nightingale Hospitals that have sprung up around the country in our own efforts to contain the disease.
All in all, well worth a read. His protagonists vary the pace of the story, Jack MacNeil is the detective, chasing down leads and ruffling feathers. Amy Wu counters Jack’s hotheadedness with a calm attitude towards forensic science. Even the grim backdrop of the pandemic hanging over London doesn’t obscure the fact that a child has been murdered and that MacNeil and Wu will do anything it takes to get to the bottom of whatever conspiracy they uncover.
If you don’t read it now, give it a year or two, then read it.
So, a few days ago, I dotted the final ‘i’s, crossed the last ‘t’s and added a concluding full stop. After six years of writing and re-writing (and several years before that of procrastinating and planning), the first draft of my first novel is completed. Untitled, but complete. Done, Fini, Finito, well – until a rewrite. The file is saved and is with my writing mentor.
He left the temple and moved back onto the Street of Souls. The night had started to become foggy and gave the darkness and appropriate eeriness. Tomorrow was Sanda Sweven, the Feast day of the Dead, reputedly when the ghosts of those who were passed away revisited the mortal plane to commune with families and descendants. He looked up and down the wide street and concluded that he was the only soul out in the city that night. As the tall spires and domes of the temples loomed out of the mist, his mind conjured up a disturbing thought – maybe he was the only living soul out that night but maybe there were other souls abroad. Now when he looked down the wide boulevard ahead, the Street of Souls seemed less deserted. The candles and beacons that would normally illuminate the way for the pious and nervous to prayers and absolution now lit the way for the souls of the dead to dance again. Figures seemed to swirl in the mist and shadows, merging together then breaking apart in a macabre dance of death.
It may have been his mind, almost delirious with the cold and hunger, or just years of solitude and despair on the dangerous and dirty streets of Jacarna, but to Gudnar the spirits really were there – and they wanted him. He squealed with fear, his old legs shaking more now, but not just from the icy wind and he ran – ran as fast as he could down the long temple highway.
I say planning but that might be a slight exaggeration. The story started in my head long before I put pen to paper. I did no formal planning – which did not help at all. It came to a point where the story needed to be written down, and so I started. As each page progressed, the story evolved and changed. Some characters cast aside only to be given another chance.
I decided to write in a forgotten tongue, and didn’t bother with the PC
She watched in amazement as the flame on the brand crackled with renewed energy, and the whole thing burst into flame, engulfing first the arm of the creature and then its body. Bex struggled to free herself from the grip of the creature as the flames raced down the other arm towards where the creature held her fast. She looked on, face aghast, as her wrist and forearm blistered and ignited. She screamed, unable to escape the blaze.
The two guards stopped dead in their tracks as they saw her now completely engulfed in flames. She could hear Yab screaming and laughing and calling for more guards. The pain that the arrow had brought her was nothing to the searing agony of the fire. For a few seconds she was conflagrant with the creature and they locked eyes together. The creature smiled, her eyes were balls of fire and flames danced upon her head in a mockery of human hair. She now looked like a human chiselled from living fire, her skin patterned with movement like molten lava flowing from the earth, as she sat phoenix like surround by the licking flames.
And then, abruptly, the pain stopped, and she felt cold. The creature had disappeared, the floor of the cage scorched black from the heat and now she seemed odd. Her whole body ached, as if she was being crushed. Her skin was now red, and flames still writhed over her skin, yet she felt nothing from them.
I learnt the writer’s curse well. Some days, the words came easy, others not at all. Work took its toll and words dried up, for a week at first, then a month and then longer. Salvation came in the guise of a writing group. My long-suffering partner, anxious to read the finished story – and not just endless rewrites of chapters 1 to 5 – enrolled me into a ‘Novel in a Year’ group. This was a godsend, giving me the impetus, the big kick up the proverbial, and some advice, tips and training to get to the end.
At the crest of a nearby hill, Bex was met with a wondrous sight. They stood above a canyon carved from the land below, formed by a steep cliff on the side they stood. To one side the valley ran away into the distance. To the other, the cliffs from either side met to form a basin. Cascading from that were numerous cataracts of molten magma, pouring down into a lake of liquid fire below. The lake fed a river flowing away through the canyon. A river of molten rock.
As if the sight was not impressive enough, the opposite face of the canyon was terraced. Carved into the walls of the terraces were ornate buildings that seemed glazed and polished. As the rays of the huge sun hit them, they flashed and radiated in a brilliant multitude of colours.
Ishtara said one word and Bex noticed a feeling of elation and happiness in her voice, though tinged with a hint of regret.
“Home.”
But, what do I feel now; Excited and exhausted – this has been an extremely busy period at work and I have still managed to add a good 50,000 words, tidy up the rest and add bits in so it makes sense. I’m also relieved to get it finished. It has been a long time coming! Obviously, there is a long, long way to go before it is properly completed, but getting that first draft completed really helps.
Exhilarated, yet anxious, to find out how the characters and story are accepted, not just by family and my peers, but by the reading public. Anyone who knows me would be well aware that my superhero alter ego would be Introvert Man, with that great superpower of social awkwardness, so even contemplating these next steps is a great leap forward for me.
And finally, trepidation. Trepidation, in that this is only part 1 and the story needs to continue. I worry about that, and hope that I can do Bex and the other protagonists justice in telling the next part.
But first, a bit of a break. Although, without reading it, I am still thinking of tweaks or words and phrases I need to check. The list is growing, but I am still happy!
The Thirteen Treasures of the Island of Britain are a very interesting set of magical items written down in late medieval Welsh literature. Interesting, in that only one is a weapon, whilst the others have a diverse range of abilities, most of which, would come in very handy for use (or misuse) during this Covid-19 lockdown.
There are several dedicated to food, all very handy when the local supermarket has a queue a mile long to get in, or when someone has cleaned them out of tinned beans:
The Hamper of Gwyddno Garanhir (if food was put in it for one man, it would increase a hundredfold),
The Horn of Bran Galed (whatever drink that might be wished for, would be found in it),
The Knife of Llawfrodedd the Horseman (which would serve for twenty-four men at the table),
and theCrock and the Dish of Rhygenydd the Cleric (whatever food might be wished for, would be found in it).
Unfortunately, not the Horn of Bran Galed
Obviously, these point to a time when a poor or mediocre harvest would have far ranging effects on the populace, and the items gave the bearers at the time (5th – 8th centuries) immense power or reputation.
Bored in lockdown?
Fancy a game of chess but don’t know how to play? Why not use TheChessboard of Gwenddoleu ap Ceidio – its silver pieces play against themselves.
Already completed your exercise for the day but you still want to go out? Why not use The Mantle of Arthur, an invisibility cloak?
What’s that? You would like to visit the beach? Just jump in The Chariot of Morgan Mwynfarr for a quick transportation to wherever you wish for.
The Halter of Clydno Eiddyn would appeal to many of my horsey friends. Stapled to the end of his bed, he would wish for a horse and would wake to find the horse within the halter.
These treasure all appeal as power items, horses and chariots were for the rich and noble only, whilst an invisibility cloak could insinuate the wearers ability to be anywhere and everywhere without being noticed. The last four treasures (the Crock and the Dish above count as two!) are specific to the divination of a person’s standing, worthiness and bravery. Without social media followers to count, the ancient Celts and Britons had to have another way to distinguish the worthiness of their people. Hence these last four treasures.
The Sword of Rhydderch the Generous. Called White-Hilt or Dyrnwyn, it would burst into flame if a well-born man drew it. Rhydderch was very generous (hence his name) and would offer the sword to any man who asked for it, but on being told its power, they would all reject it.
The Whetstone of Tudwal Tudglyd. If a brave man sharpened his sword on it and then drew blood, his victim would certainly die, if a cowardly man sharpened his sword, then the blade would never draw blood.
The Coat of Padarn Redcoat. Relieved to find out that this had nothing to do with Butlins. If a well-born man put it on, it would fit correctly, but if a churl or low-man tried it, it would not fit at all.
Lastly, The Cauldron of Dyrnwch could distinguish between the brave and the cowardly by whether meat placed in it to boil, did so fast or not at all.
To deal with this lockdown in the modern age, we have the new Treasures, The Internet; the oracle of everything factual and non-factual, important or unimportant ever created. It also allows us to talk to friends and family on the other side of the world. Netflix et al, a theatre in our own abode that allows you to watch almost anything. Next day delivery services, anything delivered to your door (well, maybe behind your wheelie bin instead) from anywhere – almost as fast as The Chariot of Morgan Mwynfarr!
What would Arthur, Rhydderch and the others have made of these?
When we say ‘Glamour’ nowadays we tend to mean an attractive or exciting quality that makes certain people or things seem appealing or a beauty or charm that is sexually attractive. We only have to open a fashion or gossip magazine to see a million articles or photographs that allude to this, but did you know that even these are not so far away from the original meaning of the word.
Glamer or Glamour came into use in English courtesy of our cousins north of Hadrian’s Wall in the 18th century. This referenced a magic, enchantment or charm ‘on the eyes, making them see things differently from what they really are’ (New Standard Illustrated Dictionary). The School of Witchcraft goes a bit further to say, ‘altering the awareness of a physical form in order to trigger certain emotions ’.
There are two schools of thought as to the origins:
It could derive from the Middle English word grammar, which stems from the Latin grammatica, both of which were used to refer to education and teaching. It has been said, that due to most learning being undertaken in Latin and Greek at that time (which was not spoken by the poorer, uneducated classes), that these words also became synonymous with the occult and dark arts. It then became corrupted to the Scots above.
Or it could derive from Old Norse Glamr, a word for the moon, which then forms glám-sýni or glam-sight, glamour or illusion. (An Icelandic-English Dictionary, 1874, Cleasby).
Given the effect Old Norse has had on English (and Scots), I would bet on the second option. However, the Latin grammatica, also gave rise to the Old French grammaire, originally meaning any book written in Latin, but then corrupted to grimoire, a book of spells, instructions on how to cast magical spells and charms.
So now back to Glamour, 20th and 21st century definition. We can take the definition from the School of Witchcraft, change one phrase and get to where we are today – Glamour is a form of Magic, an illusion based on a projection of one’s magical energyphoto manipulation altering the awareness of a physical form in order to trigger certain emotion(s).
Now, what has this got to do with a blog based on Fantasy works, I hear you ask. Well, this short story, ‘The Glamouring of Brond Col’ is an introduction to Brond Col, who was, is and will be, an agent of the mysterious Wanderer. BrondCol will be one of several characters who will all have some connection with this mysterious figure, and they will all wander in and out of each other’s stories and tales.
The idea of this story came from a seed sown by Pat Mills in ‘Dragonheist’, a story of the celtic hero Slaine in the comic 2000AD back in the 80s, where he meets and defeats a dragon called the Mata, that glamours and bewitches a widow into thinking it is her dead husband.
He stared. If truth were to be told, then Brond Col had not seen anything as beautiful as the view he saw now. The soft rocking of the ship did little to hide the rhythmic rise and fall of the young woman’s bosom as she slept. She was the epitome of beauty, with porcelainlike skin and a face of innocence framed by the golden hair, so common in the Rabic Isles. The young woman, she was younger than his seventeen summers, slept on. And he carried on staring, afraid that if he turned away, she would disappear or at the very least, when he placed eyes on her again, her beauty may have degraded.
“Don’t even think of it, lad.” The voice cut into his reverie. He finally tore his gaze from beauty and turned them to the beast. Krodar was a brute of a man. Both ugly and immense. He stood on the other side of her bed, his back to the hull like Brond’s, guarding and facing the door to the cabin.
“She’s the Bride of Rhaygan. And the Bride is meant to be a virgin on her wedding night. If she isn’t,” the old mercenary shrugged, “if she isn’t, then we are all up to our necks in shit.” He took his eyes of the door for a second to stare at his younger companion.
“The last swords for hire that interfered with Rhaygan’s girl are still wallowing at the bottom of the king’s dungeon. Every now and again, he wheels them out for a bit of torture. That was before ye were born, lad. And they are still alive, if ye call it that. They brought ruin and bad luck down on the islands for a few years”
Brond blanched slightly. Krodar’s voice had dampened his ardour somewhat and he was relieved to be thinking of something else.
“Does she know what’s going to happen to her?” The young mercenary asked. He had been the last to add his name to the list next to the job offer at the docks in Amat. That had been a month ago, and since then, the small company had travelled by sea, through the Gold Archipelago and then to the Rabic Isles. They were several hundred leagues past the Archipelago and consisted of two inhabited islands and a smaller, third island.
“Of course, she does. She’s known it since she was born.”
“Everything?” Brond’s voice crept an octave higher.
“Aye, lad. Everything.” Krodar looked at the younger man. They were as chalk and cheese. Brond was youthful and toned, his young face could be described by some as handsome. Krodar was taller than Brond’s height of six foot, broader over the shoulders but most of his muscle laid beneath a layer of excess. There wasn’t many that would call Krodar handsome, maybe only his mother. His nose had been broken not once or twice, but numerous times. What teeth he had left were crooked and the scars on his face seemed to etch out paths through his stubble.
“Is she really going to be his bride?” The youth spoke up and instantly regretted his question.
“Ye can’t really be that dumb, lad. Rhaygan is a fucking dragon. There is only one thing that he wants with sweet, tender meat like that; and that ain’t the same thing that ye want.”
“But look at her, she isn’t scared at all.”
“Her people see it as an honour. Well, that’s the story anyway.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Krodar was about to give his response when a knock at the door indicated that the shift was changing. As their replacement took their positions, Krodar turned to Brond, clasping him on the shoulder.
“Let’s get an ale up on the deck, my lad. Young and enthusiastic you may be, but the world ain’t all black and white.”
The sea was calm, just a gentle lapping of small waves against the copper plated hull. The moon light reflected from the crests of the ripples. The crew of the small ship busied themselves with their work, adjusting sails where needed. Off to each side of the bow, Brond could make out the silhouettes of the guardships that accompanied them. Four pike men stood on guard at the wheel to the ship, their uniform of quilted gambesons in the royal burgundy of the King of Rabic gave them some protection against the dropping temperature. They were among a number of regular soldiers on board, no doubt to keep the mercenaries in check.
“What did you mean back there?”
Krodar looked out to sea before answering. The ale he supped was weak and tasteless, but it was the only drink on board except for water and, of course, the fine wines reserved for the officials of the Throne.
“In the past, Rhaygan claimed these islands as his own, then he did what all dragons do. Slept for centuries, no doubt on a horde of gold and treasure. When it was time for him to wake, he found man now living on his islands. He tried to drive them out like ye would rats from your house. Then he made a deal with them. He would let them live on two of the islands, that’s North and South Rabic. The third island is his. No-one from Rabic is allowed to set foot on it, not that they would want to. Except for his Bride.”
“That’s her, below.”
“Yes, every five years the Rabics deliver up a young girl, pure of heart and body, to be his bride. Along with a shit load of coin as well. In return, he doesn’t burn them to buggery.” He raised the drinking horn to his mouth and took another swig of his ale before continuing.
“The Rabics work it on a cycle. In their calendar, this is their Bridal Moon. Every girl born in this month is delivered without fail to their temple on South Rabic. There they live in isolation, being schooled and instructed what lays ahead of them. About how they are keeping their islands and loved ones safe. The beauty of their sacrifice. As they reach fifteen summers, they decide on the worthiest, the most beautiful. Then she gets put on a ship with the likes of us and we go and put her on a plate for her ‘husband’.”
“Now, nature as it is, some of the girls get scared. Between you and me, I’m not afraid to tell ye, I would soil my breeches if I got up close and personal to a dragon. Ye would as well, I know. Now some of the girls end up being sold abroad, they are the ones that aren’t going to make muster, if you know what I mean. Not like that one down below decks. They are a bit rough, not the natural beauty. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind if they wanted to keep me warm at night, but Rhaygan is a bit fussy.”
“They ones that do get to those final years, if they try to cause any trouble, then their families are dragged in for a bit of persuasion. Funny how a mind can turn when a loved one is threatened. As well as the stick, there is also the carrot. The girl chosen, now their family gets a big chest of gold. Enough to settle their debts, buy some nice land somewhere on the island, whatever. Not sure it’s enough to replace a daughter though.”
He downed his ale and wiped the froth of his stubble.
“So ye see, me lad. She knows. She has known that this would be her last night alive since she was born. You and me, we don’t know what tomorrow brings. She does and she is facing it braver than most men I know.”
Brond sipped at his ale, now finding even less taste in its bitterness.
“Why do we have to be here. There are enough guards here to take her to the temple on the island. Why us and not them?”
“Weren’t ye listening, lad. No one from Rabic is allowed to set foot on his island, apart from his Bride. I don’t know why, but that’s the word they spat upon.”
He belched loudly.
“I’m going to get some sleep. Tomorrow’s the day we earn our coin.”
He left the younger mercenary alone on the deck, hands resting on the railings looking out to the calmness of the world.
The next morning was not as calm, the two small rowing boats rising and falling in rhythm with Brond’s stomach. The small company of mercenaries were split evenly between the two boats, Brond finding himself in Krodar’s group. The girl sat facing the island as they approached it. The swell was too much for one of the mercenaries who, green-faced, vomited overboard. The mercenaries were lending their arm to the sailors in each boat on the oars.
Brond was relieved to jump overboard and wade the last few metres, dragging the boat in as far as the draught would allow. The sand felt good under his feet even though it gave way under his weight as he heaved. The skirt of his brigandine jack bounced against his leather clad thighs as he ran up the beach. From the centre of the island rose a rocky mountain that was topped by a smoking crater. The wisp of grey smoke rose vertically, the absence of wind or breeze taunting the party as they sweated in the morning heat. About three-quarters of the way up the mountain, they could make out a small plateau that jutted out from the mountainside. Upon it were what appeared to be the ruins of an ancient temple, columns pointing to the sky like arms calling out to the gods.
The golden sands of the beach swung round in an arc and were edged by ferns and palms. The foliage neither swayed or emitted any sounds of creatures or birds. Close to where they had landed, a small pavilion had been set up, with gaudy red and yellow silks draped over it. It covered a small table upon which sat a small chest.
The King’s Official that had sat in the other rowing boat rose and gingerly stepped into the lapping surf. He pulled the edge of his robes up to keep them dry, his sandaled feet making slight depressions as he displaced the water from the sodden sand. He strode to the pavilion and opened the chest, nodding as he checked the contents and then shut it, locking it with a key that he produced from his purse. He picked it up and carried it reverently to the rowing boat.
“Unload the dowry!” He called to the sailors in the boat. They laboured as they picked up the chest within and handed it over to the four waiting mercenaries, who in turn raised it to their shoulders and carried it to the pavilion. They placed it down on the sand and returned to the boat to pick their equipment and swords up. The official addressed Krodar.
“Rhaygan will appear for his bride just before dusk. You will need to escort her to the altar there,” he pointed up to the ruins, “and secure her to it. Place the chest on the smaller altar. Then I would suggest that you return here. We will be anchored out to sea to await you return. Your payment is in the rowing boat.”
Krodar nodded, his thumbs hooked into his belt as he listened.
“What happens if he wakes early?” one of the mercenaries called out.
“Although Rhaygan waits in trepidation to meet his new Bride, he knows the word of the contract. He will only approach at dusk. I would suggest though, that you aren’t on the island at that time.”
“Okay, old man. But what’s to stop anyone of us taking everything now, even that dowry.” Brond looked at Krodar as the old warrior spoke. He knew he wasn’t that stupid, and the question was for the benefit of the other mercenaries.
“How fast can you row?” he asked, looking around at the soldiers, barely flinching in his reply. “Is it faster than a dragon can fly?” He turned and carefully climbed into his boat. The sailors pushed it back out before climbing over the side, leaving the beach to the eight men and the young girl.
“Let’s make a move then.” Krodar beckoned them to order. At the pavilion were two stout poles that were designed to fit through the iron loops on the chest, making it easier to carry. Four of the men carried the chest, slung between the two poles. Krodar walked next to the girl, whilst Brond took the lead as he had been raised in the mountains.
“I’m going to miss the rain most of all,” the girl spoke to Krodar, although her soft, lilting voice seemed to carry to all of them. “Apparently it doesn’t rain here.” The path leading through the jungle was obvious to follow and soon started to incline. The foliage on each side started to thin out to small clumps of grasses and ferns and the path started to turn into a treacherous mix of dry sand and loose shale. The four carrying the chest swore and cursed as each missed their footing several times. The path started to wind up the side of the mountain, leaving a drop on one side that fell vertically in places and gently sloping in others.
“What do think Rhaygan will think of me? Do you think he will be pleased?” The girl continued, her face starting to show more than a hint of nervousness.
“Shut up, girl!” Krodar exploded, grabbing her wrist and spinning her round. “Keep that little mouth of yours shut! Don’t make this any harder than it is for us.”
Brond skipped back along the path, placing his arm between the two, careful not to touch the old soldier. The others had stopped, unsure what to do as the girl looked terrified.
“Come now, Krodar. Maybe it’s my turn to walk here. It’s a bit quieter at point.” He could see that Krodar was troubled and not just angry. He nodded and released his grip on her, turned and wiped his eye as he moved forward.
“Are you okay?” he asked the girl. She nodded and they walked on, with the others following. She stayed quiet for a while and then addressed Brond.
“I hope I please him. How does a girl please her husband? It will be my first time.”
“I am sure he will be understanding. Everyone is nervous on their first time, even me!” he smiled at her for the first time since he had seen her, she smiled back.
“Take care on this path,” he changed the subject. “It looks very dangerous.”
Suddenly his foot stumbled against something that wasn’t there a minute ago and he staggered forward. He very nearly regained his balance when he felt a push on his side, though not a push exactly, more of a gust of wind. It caught him and he sprawled headfirst down the slope. It wasn’t a steep fall, but neither a gentle rolling slope. He crashed and clattered down the shale, bouncing off rocks on his way down. He finally came to a halt laying on his front, staring over the edge of a steep drop and his feet pointing back up the slope.
“Shoem’s balls!” he exclaimed, invoking the patron god of the mountain land that he had been raised in. His whole body ached like he had been caught in a stampede. He could hear the others calling, way back up the slope and he started to get up.
“Keep still!” a shrill voice whispered below his face.
“What?” his eyes struggled to focus on who or what had spoken to him.
“I said, keep still!” He blinked again and went to stand up when something hit him hard over the head, sending everything black.
He awoke a few minutes later to find himself staring at a small girl who sat upon the ledge beneath the drop. Except it wasn’t a girl but an adult woman who was no higher than the length of his forearm. Two pairs of small, gossamer wings sprouted from her back, similar to a dragonfly’s. She had bright red hair and was perfectly proportioned, wearing a skin-tight tunic of leather that accentuated her figure. If anything, he thought, she was as beautiful as the Bride of Rhaygan was. Except for her size.
He blinked again but she was still there. Was he actually dead or just mad? Maybe his head had hit something really hard on the way down.
“Are you going to stay still?” The voice was soft but high pitched.
He nodded, slowly.
“Now listen, you aren’t mad, or dead. I am really here, and I caused you to stumble and fall. I can easily cause you to fall forward again, and that wouldn’t be a good idea would it?” She pointed over the edge of her ledge. Here the slope changed to a vertical drop some thirty metres high. His armour wouldn’t offer any protection for that and he ached all over, so he just shook his head to acknowledge it.
“Your friends aren’t waiting. They think you are dead.”
“Am I?”
“Are you stupid, or deaf. I already told you that you aren’t mad or dead.”
“Who, or what are you?”
“I am Andellin. I suppose I am what you men would call a fae or faerie.”
“Faerie? I am mad.” He felt his head, but she ignored his comment and peered over the edge of the cliff back up the slope to see where Krodar and his men were.
“They have gone, we need to move. Then I need to show you something and then we need to talk.” She fluttered her wings and hovered above the crown of the cliff, starting to flutter in a series of swoops up to where Brond had fallen from. He clambered up and followed her. Once they had returned to the path, she retraced his steps back along the path towards the jungle. The mountainside on the other side of the path was more of a gentle slope upwards here and she indicated that Brond should climb up the incline. He clambered on all fours, desperately trying to catch up.
His chest pounded as they ascended further. It felt good for him to be back on a mountain. It was almost as if he was a child again, chasing his sheep and goats. A feeling of sadness washed over him though as he remembered the reasons he left.
“Hurry, we are almost there.” Andellin called, and he redoubled his efforts to finally catch her. He crept forward to where she crouched beneath a scrubby tree on a ledge. He gasped. Where they had climbed to was above the plateau where the altars were. He could see them clearly, two great rectangular stones in the centre of the circular clearing. One was much larger than the other. He could see that the area had once been a great temple, the ground was paved with stone blocks that once fitted neatly together, but now were haphazard, pushed up by the roots of bushes and trees nearby. Five great columns had once held a roof up, but only two stood fully, parts of the others laid strewn about like a toddler discarding building blocks.
He could see Krodar and the others with the girl on the path leading to it. The Bride was in more distress now. Either Krodar had lost patience with her again or she had been upset seeing him fall. Not that he pretended that she had any feelings for him, just he remembered how he felt when he had seen someone die for the first time.
“So, what is this all about? What did you want to show me?”
“First, look out to sea.”
He looked, not knowing what she was referring to at first, and then it clicked. The ships were on the distant horizon. They had been tricked and deserted.
“Those filthy bastards! I have to warn Krodar!”
“No! It is far too late for that. Wait now and watch!”
He gave a sigh and laid down next to her. He looked down as the mercenaries entered the temple. The four carrying the chest settled it on the smaller of the altars and withdrew the poles, casting them aside. Krodar circled the temple with his sword drawn. The other mercenaries dragged the girl to the larger altar. She was now screaming and trying in vain to kick herself free. One held her arms, stretching them out over her head, whilst the other two held a leg each. Attached to the altar were chains that they strapped her down with, placing the links over spikes driven into the stone.
The earth shook and Brond could see small stones slip and slide down the mountainside. There came a sound of strong wings flapping and a shape flew overhead leaving a shadow flittering over the temple below. The mercenaries started shouting, with some of them fanning out to shelter by the columns. The Bride screamed as her husband to be hovered overhead, his big, leathery wings flapping in the midday sun. His black scales shone with an iridescent green and the grey of his underbelly and chest swelled as he gulped in air. Long white horns stuck backwards from his head and a wisp of smoke was expelled from his nostrils with every exhale.
The dragon came to a rest on one of the half columns, his claws gouging out great streaks in the marble. The ground shook as Rhaygan roared, moving his head from side to side and letting out a huge blast of flame. Brond could feel the heat from where he was and could see the haze created.
“He came early! The official lied!”
“Of course, he did, he had to. Your friends aren’t meant to get out of this.”
He turned to Andellin.
“What do you mean?”
“The contract isn’t just for the Bride, its for eight mercenaries as well.” Andellin rummaged through her belt pouch and drew out a small piece of fabric. She held it out to Brond who took it. As he held it, it trebled in size.
“What is it?”
“A Faerie veil. If you hold it to your eyes, it will uncover any glamour.”
“Glamour?”
“A powerful enchantment, that affects the senses of those who watch. It makes things appear different to those that are subject to it. You might call it an illusion but its far more than that.”
Brond raised it to his eyes, the soft pink material didn’t completely obscure the view but what he saw through the material made him gasp. The dragon wasn’t there, instead half a dozen faeries flittered about. These were bigger that Andellin, perhaps twice or three times bigger. They were also male and wore chainmail. As they danced about, they waved short wands dispatching bursts of energy towards the soldiers. One by one the mercenaries started to fall. He slipped the veil away and Rhaygan re-appeared. One of his old companions was aflame, whilst four more lay dead. He was pleased to see Krodar standing in front of the altar the Bride was chained to, holding his sword ready and challenging the great beast to attack him.
He carried on watching, alternating between the veil and without. The mercenaries soon all lay dead and the Bride writhed in terror on the altar. The dragon alighted on the floor with a heavy thump. As Brond watched transfixed it leant in with its snout towards the girl and it sniffed her. Rhaygan glowed, the scales turning to bright blue and then the dragon disappeared, a human figure taking its place. He was dressed in an ornate, black gown and his long black hair was tied back in a ponytail. Even from the distance away that Brond was, he could see the figure was extremely well groomed. He strode forward, releasing his Bride from the chains and taking her up in his arms.
Brond flipped the veil over his eyes and saw one of the faerie men holding the girl under her armpits as he flew up into the air. The others picked the stricken swords for hire up and followed the first one. Brond rolled onto his back, handing the veil back to Andellin.
“What in Shoem’s name was all that?”
“Rhaygan the dragon does not exist, as you can see. The true Rhaygan is the King of the Faeries and it was he that made the contract with the old King of the Islanders all those years ago. The legend of Rhaygan the dragon was born to make sure that no one trespassed here. This subterfuge was arranged to make sure the Fae folk had access to what they wanted.”
“Which is what? I’m not sure what, if any of that was real or, what did you call it? A Glamour?”
“What you saw through the veil was real. Those Fae men were real. They are the warriors of our race.” Andellin spoke, but there was something about her tone that made Brond question her.
“They are much bigger than you. Why is that?”
The faerie girl sat down and sobbed, holding her head in her hands.
“It is because they are hybrids. A warrior born of human mother and faerie man. It helps to give them strength and ferocity in war.”
“A human mother,” Brond repeated her words and then the realisation dawned on him. “So, the Bride is really a bride for Rhaygan? She isn’t eaten?”
“Eww, of course not!” Andellin answered indignantly. “She will breed with Rhaygan and be a mother to many warriors. They will help to defend the island from the Fomors, the demons from the sea.”
“Why does the contract call for the mercenaries. Why kill them and what do they have to offer you?” Brond asked.
“Oh, they are not dead, just stunned. They are needed in a different way. They are milked for their blood and their essence. Their very vitality is taken as an important ingredient in our magics. It imbues our weapons, and our runes that we defend our land with. We also manufacture it into a vitality draught that we give back to the King of the Islanders as part of the contract. I have to say, it is not a very pleasant process. You were lucky that I saved you from it.” She added in a matter of fact way.
“Thank you, I think. That was another glamour at the end, the man in black?” the faerie nodded. “Will that glamour carry on? I mean, will she feel loved and adored for the rest of her life?”
“Yes,” Andellin replied. “You humans are a very complex race. You only knew her for a while, yet you are concerned about how she will live. I was right to choose you.”
“Choose me?”
“I noted how you went back to reason with your companion who was frustrated with the Bride. I realised that you had compassion as well as strength. That is why I made you stumble, just a very simple cantrip.”
The little faerie woman stood and dusted herself off, storing away the Faerie veil in her pouch.
“Now, I have to ask a favour from you.”
Brond blushed.
“We don’t have to… er.. you know, do we?”
“Eww, definitely not! No, I want your help and silence as repayment for my help and continued silence. I saved your life, but I could call for help any second. You’ll then face the same fate as your one-time companions. No, I want you to help me escape from these islands. I want to see the world. I want to feel alive rather than be imprisoned here unfulfilled. There, I have said it. We are in each other’s debt now. To leave this island is a sin, punishable by death. There is now no going back for me.”
The enormity of what Andellin had said sunk in to Brond. This was now a matter of life and death for both of them. If they were caught before leaving, then they would face the same penalty. To Andellin though, a weight seemed to have lifted from her tiny shoulders.
“I have heard a little of the outside and want to see the beauty of it. I can show you where a boat is. I have it stocked with water and food already.”
“To me, it seems like this is the perfect end to this day.” He said bluntly, rising slowly to his feet.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because all day long, things have happened to me that I had no choice in. What’s one more? I can’t stay here, can I?”
“Good, you can thank me some more for saving your life.” Andellin giggled and rose into the air.
He chuckled to himself as he started to make his way back down the mountainside.
“What do you find amusing?”
“Because it’s not only Faeries that can cast a Glamour. Whichever God made the world managed to cast a pretty good one as well. I’ll show you it, but I think you might be disappointed. I just hope you are half as satisfied with it as you think you will be.”
Dutte reached the roof and made his way towards the next warehouse. The moon illuminated his way to the edge and the narrow gap between the two buildings. As Fferyll had said, a short board made of planks bridged the gap and he gingerly tested it by tapping it with one foot. Despite it looking older than the city itself, it seemed to be strong enough and he gulped heavily before stepping forward.
He swore as a small gust of wind caught his cloak, causing him to hurry the few steps across. Dutte reached under his cloak and touched the bulging purse double tied to his belt, to reassure him that it was still there. He crouched on the far side as he jumped down from the low parapet and surveyed the rooftop. There was a small shed that possibly allowed access to the roof from the warehouse below, and this cast a shadow across the wooden boards. There weren’t a lot of overlooking roofs nearby, making it a perfect site for clandestine meetings. No doubt, there were several escape points at either edge.
However, Dutte was alone. He rose and stepped forward towards the centre of the roof. He slowly made his way circling the shed took centre stage, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Still no-one, just a few tattered tarps and a pile of old boards, tied down against any wind. He sat down and waited, cursing Brant, Fferyll and the lineage of House Barstt under his breath. Twenty minutes passed, twenty long minutes that might have been hours as he waited for his meet. Finally, he stood and turned to make his way back down.
As he did so, a shadow seemed to rise from the pile of tattered tarpaulins. The dark shape shifted into the figure of a man, taller but more slender than Dutte. He took a step forward and Dutte saw that he was garbed in black leather armour, segmented in bands about the torso and shoulders to allow more flexibility. A stiffened cowl that came forward in a short point covered his head, whilst a half mask obscured the lower part of his face.
“There is no need for your sword, Client.” The figure whispered, standing his ground and holding his hands to out to his sides to show he wasn’t bearing a threat to Dutte.
“I am not your client yet. We haven’t a contract.” Dutte took umbrage at the figure almost immediately, especially at the length of time he had waited and that he had been there all along.
“Then we do not need to be here, Client.” The figure turned to walk away. Dutte cursed and started forward after him
“Wait! I have the fee.” The leather clad man turned back to face Dutte, now face to face.
“Good, then we talk. But a warning. Do not approach a member of the Brotherhood of Karnast like that again. Should you wish to disrespect the guild then our retribution will be swift and ruthless. We address you as Client out of respect of your anonymity, but we do know who you are.”
Dutte stepped back, annoyed at himself for being so reckless. What was he thinking? He had no doubt that this man, a member of the guild of assassins, would be able to best him even without a blade. He didn’t think words would carry much sway with the figure that faced him, so acknowledged his comments with a nod.
“Show me your coins, Client. I have other work to do tonight before the sunrise.”
Dutte slowly moved his hands to push his cloak back and then unlaced the purse from his belt. Relieved to be shed of its weight, he held it out and the assassin reached out and took it. He slipped it into a bag strung across his back by a cord over his shoulder and looped back under his belt.
“Aren’t you going to count it?”
“As I said, Client. We know who you are, not many people double cross the guild.” He held out his hand, having palmed a small vial from the bag when placing the bag of coins there.
Dutte took it and held it up, the vial was the size of his first two joints of his little finger. As he peered at the contents in the light of the moon, he noticed it was a little under a quarter full.
“It isn’t a lot for a thousand gold coins, is it?”
The assassin harrumphed, knowing that the purchaser knew the value of the vial and its contents but was just acknowledging the power encapsulated within.
“A thousand coins gets you whatever you get following your enemy’s death, Client. That is the most potent toxin known to man. Cultivated from a flower in Thesh, that small vial represents a thousand hours of work and has cost several lives so far.
It is a contact irritant that kills within seconds of touching bare skin. I would recommend gloves whilst administering it. It will stay potent in the air for an hour before becoming ineffective in its primary use.”
Dutte tucked it inside his belt pouch and nodded his acknowledgement.
“Thank you.”
He turned and crossed over the plank bridge, looking back when he had jumped down the other side. But the figure had already gone, melting back into the shadow world.
Why this journey and why ask you to accompany me? Well it would be easier to start with why Fantasy? Back in the day, when I was at lower school (that’s ages 5 – 9) I used to gorge on historical non-fiction from the school library and the scholastic book catalogue. Stories of Rome, Vikings and Crusaders entertained me on many an evening. My heroes at the time were, Caesar, Scipio, Leif Erikson and Richard Coeur de Lion. And then there were the weird ones. Books covering UFOs, mysteries, Loch Ness, myths and legends. Greek gods, Norse gods and Roman gods were my weekend reads. I am sure you can see where this was going. But at the time, I couldn’t – Not until my Form 6 teacher read Alan Garner’s ‘The weirdstone of Brisingamen’ to us.
Oh
my
word
…..
From the intro I was spellbound (did you see what I did there?). Cadelin Silverbrow keeping watch over the sleeping knights in Fundindelve, ready to waken and save the land. The characters were both fantastic and believable, as believable as my historical heroes. And the main protagonists; Colin and Susan, were just like me – well, Colin was, Susan was slightly different. I felt I was being sucked into the world that Garner had woven, just as Colin and Susan were drawn into the mystical battle between Cadellin and his allies and the forces of the Morrigon. It felt to me that Garner’s world could have been under any hill, in any wood or anywhere. But after a while I came to realise that it wasn’t that. The world of Cadellin and Fundindelve, like so many others in the Fantasy genre, can be found at the turn of a page.
Since then countless other books took pride of place on my shelves – Howard, Burroughs, Leiber, Le Guin, Harrison, Tolkien, Eddings, Feist et al. All were fantastical worlds to be lost in, worlds to replace the humdrum of daily life. But all had the ability to be perceived as more realistic than a world where nurses are paid a pittance whilst sports and entertainment starts are paid millions, reality TV stars can be elected as presidents, and the world’s most powerful tool is used to watch videos of people falling over (which I will admit, can be quite funny).
As a footnote to The Weirdstone, some thirty odd years later, I named a character in an online RPG as Brisingamen in homage to the book. I met some fantastic people as Brisingamen, and after a few years I went to visit a great couple only to found myself driving past Alderley Edge a few miles outside their town of Macclesfield, the scene of the final cataclysmic battle in the book. It was as if the circle was complete.
A long time ago, in a land far, far away, I was introduced to a whole universe of magical worlds, the creation of countless authors and scribes throughout the years. After wasted years of pondering and procrastinating, I am aiming to join them.
Chained to my writing desk in my scriptorium, I am nearing the completion of my first work. My candles are burnt low and quill shavings pile upon the floor. But I want to chronicle my thoughts, ideas and works – mainly to inspire myself, but also hopefully – should you join me on my adventure – you also.
Here I will collect ideas; simple plots, pictures, articles and words that are just seeds and acorns now but, with a little nurturing, will turn into mighty beanstalks or oaks. Also, I will share my influences (past and present) along with the sagas that I am reading now – and will look forward to your recommendations.
The Elven Scroll 