Words in the Heroes' Tongue

Happy Birthday Evilawyer!

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 15:58:15 GMT

Happy birthday evilawyer

10 Awesome Women Meme

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 21:12:38 GMT

Ten fictional women who I think are awesome.

(Meme gacked from sp23's LiveJournal)

01) Modesty Blaise
02) Sister Fidelma (heroine of a series of historical detective novels by Peter Tremayne)
03) Machiko Noguchi a.k.a. Da’dtou-di ( Prey, Hunters’ Planet, & War by Steve and Stephani Perry)
04) Amanda Garrett (Choosers of the Slain, Stormdragon, Sea Fighter, & Target Lock by James Cobb)
05) Niles Etland (The Demon Breed, by James H Schmitz)
06) Charity Selborne (Madam, Will You Talk? by Mary Stewart)
07) Hu San-niang (The Water Margin)
08) Emma Peel (The Avengers)
09) Viconia DeVir (Baldur’s Gate, Baldur’s Gate 2: Shadows of Amn, & Baldur’s Gate 2: Throne of Bhaal)
10) Yu Shu-lien (Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, played by Michelle Yeoh)

Narrowly missing out were Jaheira, Ellen Ripley, Vi the Vampire Slayer, Ilona Costa Bianchi, Eowyn, Tara, several Mary Stewart heroines from other books, and Beatrice (Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing). Buffy disqualified herself in an alley leading to the police station.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 14:37:48 GMT

The good: yesterday I discovered Fever Beats by Thea Gilmore. Only six years after it was released but better late than never.

The bad: I read (courtesy of a good Friend, no way would I pay for it) Buffy Season 8 issue 13. As usual it filled me with an intense hatred of Buffy. This does make it rather difficult for me to get on with writing Buffy-centric stories. It didn’t even contain any useful plot hooks for Giant!Dawn crackfic. Really the whole thing was crackfic, or even badfic, and it’s very hard to parody utter drivel.

The ugly: In order to cure my Buffy-hatred I went to Just Rewards and read some classic Spuffy fics. Unfortunately I’d had a reading spree recently in which I’d re-read all of Enigmatic Blue’s, Barb’s, Tales of Spike’s and a few other favourite authors' stories; I had to fall back on some fics by writers who are rather less skillful. I kept being jerked out of the mood by sloppy word usage. ‘Loose’ for ‘lose’, ‘loathe’ for ‘loath’ and vice versa, and one I had never seen before and which totally cracked me up; ‘in loo of’ for ‘in lieu of’. One perennial error inspired me to write the following drabble set at the end of ‘Not Fade Away’...

The Last Hurrah of the Golden... Handshake?

The e-mail was flagged as ‘urgent’ and came from the Senior Partners. Grazz’durtak, demon administrator, opened it immediately and read the message.

‘Renegade Los Angeles CEO Angel is in the alley behind the Hyperion Hotel. Send a demon hoard.’

Grazz’durtak frowned. Strange. Still, his not to reason why...

- - - - -

The rain poured down on the bedraggled band as they stared at the hoard.

“Okay,” said Gunn, “you take the thirty thousand on the left.”

“I had hoped to do more violence,” said Illyria, scooping up gold coins and gems, “but this tribute is... acceptable.”

- - - - -

“‘Hoard’? It was supposed to say ‘horde’!”

I hate April Fool

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 07:25:48 GMT

I hate April 1st. Nothing can be relied upon. People do enough stupid things the rest of the year that there is no need to do them deliberately on one particular day.

This year the home-page and RSS feed of ‘Questionable Content’ has been replaced by ‘Dinosaur Comics’. This is not good. QC is approximately 237,000,000 times better than the extremely lame ‘Dinosaur Comics’ and I am not happy about this unacceptable substitution.

I want normal service to be resumed as soon as possible.

Has it really been 22 weeks since I posted here?

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 01:22:06 GMT

I've defriended asylum_promo, as it was clogging up my F-list with hundreds of posts about new asylums dedicated to diseases in tropical fish, the history of basket-weaving in sixteenth-century Timbuktu, collecting sheep liver flukes for fun and profit, etc, etc. With that gone I can see just how few people are posting here (except about the above topics and ones that are miraculously even more obscure and boring). A few people duplicating their LiveJournal posts and kallysten posting a very good story; that's about it.

My intention had been to start posting an Insane Journal Only fic here soon. I'm not sure there would be any point, however, without linking to every new chapter on LiveJournal. I'll think about it some more.

Watched the first instalment of 'The Colour of Magic'. It was extremely good in some ways but some of the casting sucked. David Jason is, as I predicted, totally wrong for Rincewind. Sean Astin is totally wrong for Twoflower. Unfortunately they're the two central characters and are in 75% of the scenes. The girl who played Liessa was great, though, and most of the wizards were pretty good. Jeremy Irons made a fine Vetinari, at least if you assume that the Patricican in COM really is a not-yet-finalised Vetinari rather than being a different Patrician altogether. As they're combining COM with 'The Light Fantastic' we have Cohen, Herenna, and Bethan to come tomorrow!

LiveJournal sucks

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Tue, 16 Oct 2007 12:50:04 GMT

Well, my new computer is now up and running, and I have Internet access again.

What I don't have is LiveJournal access. It won't let me log in. It insists that there is an error in the password. There isn't. It's the same one that I use here and I didn't have any problem with IJ. Eventually I gave up and clicked on 'forgotten password'. An e-mail is supposed to have been dispatched to advise me of the reset - but it hasn't been. It's not a case of it being intercepted by a spam-blocker; I have been into my ISP's webmail and checked. They haven't sent it.

Bastards.

Happy birthday Kathleen!

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Sun, 02 Sep 2007 19:48:13 GMT

Happy birthday to pfeifferpack

Bring back the P0rn Day

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Sat, 01 Sep 2007 19:45:28 GMT

Apparently this is ‘Bring Back the Porn’ day on Insane Journal. I have had no chance to write anything specifically for the event and so I’m marking the occasion by posting a fic that has previously appeared on my LiveJournal. It comes from my series of Where did Olaf the Troll go? ficlets written in answer to a challenge at ‘Twisting The Hellmouth’; the idea is that Willow’s spell to banish Olaf the Troll at the end of ‘Triangle’ misfires (as usual) and sends him to a different fictional ‘verse. This time the crossover is with a classic work of erotic fiction; ‘Fanny Hill, or, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure’, written in a debtors’ prison by John Cleland and published in 1749 (this was, of course, long before his two titles in the British Touring Car Racing Championship). I have tried to replicate the style as closely as possible.

Exactly 3,500 words. NC-17 for erotica.

Fanny Troll

or,

Memoirs of a Woman of Merry Sport.

I was christened Frances Hill, born of poor but honest Lancashire stock, and my tender parents worked hard to care for me until they were both carried off by the small-pox and I was left alone and destitute when I was just arriving at a marriageable age.

I gathered up such meagre funds as they had left to me and, encouraged by Esther Davis who I thought a friend, I resolved to seek my fortune on the gold-paved streets of London. That resolution led me into a situation of which I could ne’er have dreamt. Abandoned by my travelling companion and, as I had thought, protectress, I was taken in by one Mrs Brown who gave me lodging and promised that she would find me employment as a companion.

I was grateful beyond measure and thought myself lucky in the extreme; for I was as yet altogether innocent, and it seemed to me not at all unusual that Mrs Brown should keep a house that was entirely full of young ladies. That I was to be a companion to men, and in the most carnal of ways, ne’er entered into my remotest imagination.

I was sent to share a room with Miss Phoebe, who professed herself to be of five and twenty, although in this claim she was improving the truth by perhaps ten years. When she said her goodnights to me with a kiss I thought merely that this was how things were done in London; and when her cunning fingers stole under my night-garments I knew not what to think! Yet my body reacted without the promptings of my mind, and my protests died half formed as my modesty was swept away by unknown pleasure.

Phoebe was, as I learned later, priming me for the task for which I had been unknowingly recruited; for my maidenhead was worth a good fifty guineas to Mrs Brown and she desired that I should surrender it without undue fuss when the time came. That I should be familiar with the pleasures that could be gained from lustful embraces, yet that I should remain untouched by male member, was in accordance with her plans.

All went astray, however; for the man who produced the fifty guineas for Mrs Brown was a most repulsive specimen. Mr Croft was five and sixty years of age at the least, bald, wrinkled, and pot-bellied, and a liquorish old goat of vile temper withal. I will not here recount the details of our encounter, save only to say that it was unsatisfactory in all ways to all parties, and that I was rescued at the last by Miss Phoebe when the ‘gentleman’ was attempting to take by force that which I would not surrender to him willingly.

Mrs Brown waxed wrath with me afterwards but Phoebe interceded for me and pleaded my case. Thus Mrs Brown came to realise that I was yet too innocent to understand what was expected of me and set Phoebe to educate me in such matters. Not by exciting me with her own lewd caresses, such as she had done already, but by instructing me in the manner in which acts of love were carried out between a man and a woman.

Curious to see such things for myself, before I took the plunge into those uncharted waters mine own self, I resolved to take whatsoever opportunity presented itself to spy upon one of the lewd acts that I had learned took place in the house many times each night. It so happened that the first occasion I had to pursue my voyeuristic intentions chanced to be an encounter between none other than Mrs Brown and her paramour, a stalwart Grenadier, and from a closet I was an awestruck witness to a scene of debauchery quite outside my experience.

I was filled with revulsion as the Grenadier pawed with hands like legs of mutton at Mrs Brown’s pendulous dugs, and as he heaved his bulging belly atop the woman and thrust his member into the cavernous maw of her well-used slit, and yet it was curiously exciting withal. I had ne’er seen anything like unto the staff that protruded from the junction of the Grenadier’s sturdy thighs. It seemed immense to my unpractised eyes and, when I recounted my adventure to Phoebe thereafter, I commented to her that such an organ could ne’er be expected to fit within my own delicate slit without inflicting upon me a grievous injury.

Phoebe laughed and dismissed my fears. “I have ne’er yet heard of any mortal wound being inflicted by such a weapon,” she assured me. “In truth a woman’s slit varies greatly in size, through usage and most especially through childbirth, but always it expands to accommodate the task expected of it and returns to its previous condition, or near enough, thereafter.” Her forehead wrinkled with thought. “I have it,” she declared. “As chance and your own curiosity have presented you with one such spectacle, I shall by artifice procure you another, but with the participating maid being one whose slit approximates in size to your own. You know Polly Phillips, of course, Fanny?”

“Indeed,” I confirmed, “most assuredly, for she tended to me when I was ill. I understand that she has been but little longer in this house than have I.”

“True,” Phoebe confirmed. “She has a Genoese lover, nephew of a merchant of surpassing wealth, who has taken such a fancy to her that he keeps her entirely to himself. I shall arrange for us to be in a position to spy upon their next assignation, and you shall see for yourself that your slit shall take no harm from being penetrated by the shaft of a man.”

Phoebe was as good as her word, and we hid together and spied upon the couple, and a most pleasing couple to the eye they were indeed. Polly’s slit was, as Phoebe challenged me to deny, as delicate and tight in appearance as mine own, and yet it swallowed up most easily the tremendous member of the handsome young Genoese. I was quite consumed with ardent desire after witnessing the act and, although I spent enthusiastically upon Phoebe’s fingers thereafter, I could not help but look forward with eagerness to the day when Mrs Brown would once more call upon me to part with my maidenhead for her profit – although I dearly hoped that it would be with a man resembling Polly’s Genoese lover rather than with another lecherous old Mr Croft.

Heavens! Ne’er in ten thousand years could I have imagined the fate that awaited me, or visualised the man who would be the one to rob me of my maidenhead.

Man, I say, and yet I am uncertain whether that is in fact the correct term, although most certainly he was no woman.

It came to pass that Phoebe delivered a message to me that Mrs Brown was desirous of my presence in the outer chambers, and I hastened to attend. There I found the bawdy-house proprietor in the company of an enormous personage.

Perhaps seven feet tall he stood and his shoulders seemed to stretch the breadth of the room. His skin was dark; neither the swarthy darkness of a Genoese, nor the ebony of a blackamoor, but a shade of brown that was heavily tinged with green as if he were a tree upon which moss didst grow. His head was crowned with a powdered wig in the most fashionable of styles, but from under it long straggles of bright red hair hung forth, and – most alarmingly – a pair of horns poked out through the top of the wig. He held a sword in one hand, a two-handed sword of the pattern that the wild Jacobite Scots termed a claymore, and yet in his grip it seemed no more than a duelling small-sword or a walking stick.

“Horrors!” I cried. “It is the very devil, come to devour us for our sins.”

Mrs Brown favoured me with a surpassingly fierce scowl. “Lord Olaf is no devil,” she snapped. “He is a gentleman of wealth and taste who I trust will become an important and regular customer. The time has come, Fanny, for you to repay me for all that I have spent upon you in board and cloth. Lord Olaf has bestowed upon me a hundred golden guineas and I expect you to give satisfaction. There must be no repetition of the unfortunate incident with Mr Croft or I shall be compelled to put you out.”

I quailed at the thought of being put out destitute onto the streets of London, which I had learned were in no way paved with gold but were hard and unforgiving, yet I was still stricken with terror at this strange apparition. “If no devil, then he may be a Highlander,” I protested, “for I espy the claymore in his hand. That the Scots came down into England as far as Derby is well known and who is to say that they might not have returned?”

Lord Olaf threw back his head and laughed. “Ho, this one is a nervous and flighty piece,” he said. “I would throw her back but she is indeed as attractive as you claimed. No, little one, I am from Sweden and am no Scot. This Scottish sword I took from the body of a clansman who sought to slay me with it. He was displeased with me,” he reminisced, “for I slew his puny Prince. It was his own fault. The little man was dressed as a maid and I sought only to make merry sport with him. A simple mistake that anyone could have made. The Highlanders were angry with me and I had to burn their crofts, pillage their oats and haggis, and make merry sport with Flora MacDonald before they learned that Olaf the Troll is not to be taken lightly.”

“Olaf the Troll?” What was this creature? Man or beast?

“Lord Olaf now, for the Duke of Cumberland was greatly pleased with my Viking actions in the Highlands,” the massive visitor told me. “I have gold enough to gladden my heart, and when my heart is glad my member swells. I will make merry sport with you, maiden, for you are pretty.”

I turned to Mrs Brown. “Madame,” I said, “this is a mismatch, for Lord Olaf is quite immense and his member may be of a size proportionate. I am fearful that he will do me harm.”

“I shall treat you gently, little woman,” Olaf assured me, “and you shall cry out only in pleasure as I make merry sport with you.”

“Phoebe tells me that you are not averse to playing your part and providing services to recompense me for my expenditure upon you,” Mrs Brown said, “and that you ask only that the man shall not be old and flabby and wrinkled. Lord Olaf is as far from flabby as it is possible for a man to be, and has no wrinkles, and is indeed as fine a specimen of manhood as I have seen in many a long year. He is hardly to be called old either.”

“No, for it is only eight hundred and sixty seven years since I was turned into a troll,” Olaf agreed, “and that is no great age for a troll. Especially as I spent several hundred of those years imprisoned in a jar by a witch. I hate witches. But enough of such talk,” Olaf decided. “To the bedroom, maiden, and there we shall make merry sport and you shall be maiden no more. I grow impatient and the sight of your breasts swelling beneath your shift is making me swell also to the point of discomfort. I must undress before I burst free.”

I was all a-fluster at this strange talk, and at the sight of the giant who was determined to take my maidenhead, and when Mrs Brown turned her fierce gaze upon me I could not summon up the courage to refuse. “Very well, Lord Olaf,” I assented. “I ask only that you be gentle with me.”

Thus it was that in no more than moments later we were in my room and Olaf was removing his garments. His shirt, vast enough to have served as the mainsail for a Man O’ War, came off first and revealed to me a chest the size of a cask of ale. Red hair grew thickly upon the mightily muscled expanse and through it I could see nipples of a dark green hue. He pulled off boots of furred hide; he wore no stockings or garter-laced livery and I saw that the toes of his feet were adorned with claws. Then he untied his breeches and let them fall.

I stood transfixed in awe as his gigantic member came free and was exposed to my sight. Its prodigious size made me shrink and yet I could not help but marvel to behold such a length, such a thickness, of a maypole that seemed to be crafted of living wood. Why, if that of Polly’s lover had been Genoa, this was all of Italy! The shaft was crowned with a tip like unto the size of a hen’s egg, coloured in a delicate green hue, and seemingly possessed of such velvet softness that my hand stole forth of its own accord as if to touch it. I stopped short of such boldness and my hand faltered and withdrew.

Olaf saw my action and laughed. “Shrink not back, fair maiden,” he told me. “It will not bite you.” Thus encouraged I ventured to caress the organ. It was soft yet rigid and hot under my hand. Olaf groaned in pleasure as my fingers ran back and forth along the pole. “It is time that you too were unclad, that I might feast my eyes upon your beauty,” Olaf said, and his great hands went to the fastenings of my apparel.

As I had no stays to unfasten it took but a trice to have me down to my shift. He pressed his hands to my breasts as they thrust against the cloth, and fondled me briefly, and then my shift too was stripped from me and cast aside. Naked as the day I was born, and blushing madly, I stood before him.

“Ho, maiden, you are indeed a beauty,” he declared. His thumbs went to the rosy buds of my nipples and stroked back and forth over them. The stimulation from those calloused digits seemed to go directly to my slit and I felt myself bedewed with moisture therein. He then planted his lips upon my breasts and sucked my nipples into his mouth. The bedewing became a flood and I let a moan escape my lips.

Next his mouth met mine in a kiss both demanding and tender withal. His hands moved down my body and probed for my slit, his great fingers parting the hair that shielded it and slipping within, frigging me most deliciously. His attentions brought me to such a state of excitement that I was in no whit alarmed when he lifted me from my feet and placed me upon the bed.

My legs parted as if of their own accord but Olaf did not immediately rush to plant his member within me. First he lowered his head and planted his mouth upon my slit. His tongue lapped at me as if drinking my juices. The pleasure that this gave me was such that I cried out aloud and clutched at his head, taking hold of his horns, and hanging onto them as his tongue probed within.

Yet his desires were not to be satisfied with such procedures, and he climbed onto the bed also, and placed himself between my legs. His staff pointed at my slit, a battering ram against which the defences of my castle could not hope to stand, and he moved forward and placed it against my opening.

I quivered in both fear and joyful anticipation. The tip entered between my vermillion folds. The head parted my slit and slipped inside, most pleasurably, and then he thrust forward a small degree and encountered the barrier of my maidenhead. For but an instant it resisted and then he drove forward with might and main and the obstacle was swept aside and annihilated.

I shrieked out in pain, for all that he had promised there would be only pleasure, and tears started to my eyes. “Hold, Olaf, for it hurts,” I entreated, but he was not to be denied and continued onward until the whole of his great shaft was sheathed well within me. He withdrew to the tip, then drove forward once more, and yet again withdrew.

The friction thus engendered produced pleasure that overcame the pain. As he made another stroke and penetrated me deeply I cried out once more but this time not out of discomfort. “Oh!” I called out. “Oh!” Then his lips covered mine and there was no more opportunity for words.

We rocked upon the bed, his organ plunging deep within me, sending me into very paroxysms of delight. It was a combat in the lists of love that made that of Polly and her Genoese seem a mere skirmish by comparison. For perhaps an hour we strove together and I reached the very heights of joy several times until Olaf grunted heavily and spent his seed within me. We lay still together, kissing yet and exchanging caresses, for several minutes before Olaf withdrew from me and arose.

This was far from the end of our bout. He had but paused to partake of refreshment. He called out for Mrs Brown and demanded that she serve him food and drink. A whole roast boar was brought for him and he devoured the greater part of it, save for a few choice morsels of which I partook, and he washed it down with an entire butt of sack. Thus refreshed he returned to the fray and my no longer virgin entrance was penetrated again.

I rode upon him as he lay upon his back, in the fashion that I had observed when I spied upon Polly, and drove us both into a frenzy. He placed me upon my hands and knees and took me from the rear. At the last he laid me once more upon my back and covered me as he had upon the first occasion; and thus ended my first momentous night of love.

Lord Olaf professed himself well pleased with me, and bestowed upon Mrs Brown an additional fifty golden guineas in addition to the one hundred promised, and charged her that I was to be kept for his sole pleasure. This arrangement was well in accordance with my desires and my next months in Mrs Brown’s establishment were spent in unalloyed delight.

Yet all good things must end, they say, and the day came when Olaf was called away to go to war against the French. He sailed across the sea to North America and I was left bereft.

Of the next years I will say little. I was mistress to Mr H-, who proved himself most unsatisfactory after my troll, and in the end betrayed me with a rustic housemaid and caused me to desert him. I found new employment in the bawdy house of Mrs Cole, and also sought pleasure amongst the men of London at every opportunity, so that even Mrs Cole scolded me for being too ready to open my legs; yet satisfaction found I none. For all men paled in comparison to Olaf and his majestic staff.

At long last he returned. The doors of Mrs Cole’s establishment burst open and Olaf’s towering form stood there. For a moment I hesitated, afeared lest Olaf was here by accident alone and that perhaps he no longer desired my – now well-used – charms, but he favoured me with a beaming smile and opened his arms to me. I exclaimed in joy and flew straightaway into his welcoming embrace.

Many were the adventures that he had gone through, amongst the wild Hurons in North America and then upon the Continent of Europe, and many were the battles that he had won for the Crown with his might and ferocity. Twice he had seized French generals and devoured them whole, terrifying their troops, and he was in no small measure responsible for the decision of the French to sue for peace and to sign the Treaty of Paris. Mr Pitt had prevailed upon the King to ennoble Olaf further and he was now Marquess Olaf of Villinghausen. Laden with gold from his campaigns he had purchased a country estate; and it was to that estate that we decamped, retired from war and from the bawdy house, to pass the remainder of our days in those pursuits known to country gentlefolk and our nights engaged in the delights of merry sport.

The snowball grows

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Sun, 19 Aug 2007 19:11:28 GMT

I have 100 Mutual Friends here now. For a while I was playing at adding Interests every time I was Friended, thereby keeping my Interests and Mutual Friends lists at exactly the same number, but I've had to give up on that now. I can't come up with enough Interests.

I'll have to find something else to be pointlessly obsessive about.

Tabula Avatar sneak preview

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Thu, 09 Aug 2007 01:43:03 GMT

It’s been a long time since I updated my long-running serial Tabula Avatar on LiveJournal and the last chapter left off in the middle of a desperate battle, with Willow critically injured, and with Spike in dire peril. I have been busy with other things, such as preparing for the WriterCon UK MidiMeet this weekend, and I haven’t had a chance to finish off the chapter. I have finished the fight scene, however, and here is a sneak preview for those who can’t wait for the full thing. It contains spoilers for TA, of course, and won't mean anything to those who haven't been reading that story. 1,740 words, rating R for violence and language.

Tabula Avatar

Chapter Fifty-one: Preview

Spike raised the Armor of Deep Night as a shield against Sorkatani’s thrust. It almost worked. It kept the stake from penetrating his chest, and saved him from dusting, but the sheer power behind the blow slammed the dragon-hide into him and sent him reeling back until he crashed into the wall. Sorkatani was on him before he could recover. She kicked the armor from his hands and raised the stake again.

Dawn streaked across the room, making full use of the Boots of Speed, and grabbed at Sorkatani’s arm. “Stop!” Dawn shrieked. She was jerked from her feet as Sorkatani, or Sineya, brought her stake down with irresistible force.

- - - - -

Tolgerias saw Minsc charging towards him and quailed at the berserk fury in the barbarian’s eyes. Minsc shrugged off a Power Word Stun without even slowing down and Tolgerias had to leap away frantically to avoid the swinging greatsword. He aimed a wand and activated the device. Three ogres materialized in front of him and immediately raised their clubs to attack Minsc. He roared out his battle-cry and swung his sword. The blade bit deep into an ogre’s leg, cleaving the flesh and fracturing the femur, and the monstrous humanoid toppled. Minsc stepped over the crippled ogre and lashed out at Tolgerias once more.

- - - - -

Buffy decided that Tanova posed the greatest threat to the party and made for the vampire mage at top speed. Tanova pointed a finger and a ray of green light shone forth. It struck the Slayer and her clothes turned to dust. Shreds of cloth fell away from her back and the stake in her hand crumbled into powder. Buffy was completely naked, and unarmed, but otherwise unscathed. She kept on coming. Tanova’s eyes widened and she leaped backward and away.

Lassal moved to intercept Buffy and he swung Lilarcor at her head. She ducked under the blow, noticing as she did so that Lassal was wearing a pair of very familiar gauntlets, and kicked the vampire in the stomach. He staggered back several paces and collided with the base of the Minotaur statue. Buffy turned back towards Tanova, who had used the respite to surround herself with Mirror Images, and punched the nearest form. It disappeared. Another vanished as a crossbow bolt from Anya struck it. Buffy made for the next figure and kicked it out of existence.

- - - - -

Sorkatani’s stake touched Spike’s chest… and stopped. She turned her head and looked at Dawn. “Sister,” she said. “Yours?”

“Okay, totally creeping me out here,” Dawn said. “Uh, yeah. He’s, uh, like my brother.” Her eyes suddenly became huge circles. “Tani! Look out!”

Her warning was too late. Bodhi seized Sorkatani from behind. “You hurt me, you bitch,” Bodhi hissed. “It looks as if we missed some of your power. I’m taking it now.” She plunged her fangs into the side of Sorkatani’s neck.

Sorkatani reached up with her left hand, caught hold of Bodhi’s ear, and ripped it off. The vampire screamed and her mouth opened. Sorkatani punched her in the face and Bodhi flew back ten yards. She landed on her backside on the flagstones, mouth still wide open, and put a hand to the side of her face where blood was streaming down. “You’re stronger than I am,” Bodhi gasped out. “I don’t believe it!” She jumped to her feet, reached around to the small of her back, and drew a short sword. “I’m going to cut your fucking tits off and make you eat them, bitch.” She advanced towards Sorkatani with the sword poised to strike.

- - - - -

Spike thrust the Armor of Deep Night into Dawn’s hands. “Put this on, Niblet,” he urged her. “Keep you safe, yeah?” He raised the Bone Club and looked around. He doubted if Sorkatani, or the First Slayer or whatever the hell she was, needed his assistance. Minsc was getting the better of Tolgerias but taking a pounding from the summoned ogres in the process. Spike was about to go to his assistance when Imoen, taking an active part in the fight for the first time, used a scroll to cast a spell that struck both the unwounded ogres dead on the spot. Tolgerias, hit by the same magical rays, clapped his hands to his eyes and cried out. Minsc seized his opportunity and his sword bit deep into the vampire’s body. Spike decided that Minsc didn’t need any help and he scanned the rest of the room to assess the situation.

The fight between Xander and Anomen was relatively even. Anomen had a shield, and better armor, but Xander had a powerful magic sword and he was holding his own. Spike hesitated and then decided that he would be best employed in aiding Buffy. He raced to where the Hammer of Thunderbolts lay beside the unconscious Giles, snatched it up, and was just beginning to move toward the Slayer when events in the battle made him change his mind.

Under cover of the Mirror Images Tanova had drawn a Symbol of Fear. Buffy’s advance triggered the spell and a flash of light lit up the room. Buffy was unaffected, as was Spike, and Minsc’s frenzied berserker rage made him completely immune to the effects. Dawn was in the middle of donning the Armor of Deep Night and the enchanted leather shielded her eyes and protected her. Tara was so intensely focused on tending to the critically injured Willow that she was almost oblivious to her surroundings. Giles and Jaheira were still unconscious.

The others, deprived of the rings and amulets that would have helped them to resist the spell, succumbed to the magical terror. Imoen fled screaming from the room. Anya dropped her crossbow and followed. The Flame of the North fell from Xander’s hands and he turned to run. Anomen seized him from behind, pinned him in an iron grip, and buried his fangs in Xander’s throat. Spike saw his peril and raced to the rescue.

- - - - -

Sorkatani and Bodhi exchanged blows. Sorkatani crushed Bodhi’s cheekbone with a punch and followed up with a stake thrust. Bodhi used her sword to parry and connected with Sorkatani’s forearm. The blade was razor sharp and enhanced by powerful enchantments. It sliced deep into the flesh and grated on bone. Blood gushed from the wound and Sorkatani lost her grip on the stake. Bodhi struck out again, aiming at Sorkatani’s abdomen, and the Perfect Warrior evaded the blow by leaping away.

Bodhi bared her fangs and tensed to leap after her. At that moment Dawn stabbed her in the back. The blade, enchanted to only the most basic degree, pierced Bodhi’s leather armor but went only an inch into the flesh below. Bodhi yelped and spun around. She seized Dawn’s arm and twisted. “Little bitch,” Bodhi snarled. “I’m going to cut your fucking throat.” She drew back her sword and then slashed it across in a vicious killing stroke.

The blow didn’t land. Sorkatani had snatched up Malakar, the Dueling Steel, and then leaped back into the fight. She intercepted Bodhi’s blade and halted it three inches from Dawn’s neck. Bodhi hissed and brought her sword around to strike at Sorkatani. The Perfect Warrior parried that stroke too and riposted. Dawn wriggled free and scrambled away.

- - - - -

Tanova surrounded herself with a Fireshield just as Buffy punched the last of the Mirror Images into nothingness. Lassal re-entered the fray and raised Lilarcor above his head to strike.

“Dumbass!” Lilarcor scolded. “You don’t use a sword on a hot naked chick. You’re a vampire, dude. Hello, fangs?”

Lassal, who had no interest in naked chicks regardless of how hot they might be, ignored the sword and began to bring the weapon down. Buffy was too fast for him. She caught his wrist, kicked him between the legs, and wrenched Lilarcor from his hands. She reversed the sword and took hold of the hilt.

“Yay!” Lilarcor cried. “Go Buffy!”

The Slayer handled the heavy greatsword as if it was as light as a rapier. She slashed at Lassal’s right arm and sheared it off at the elbow. The forearm, wearing a Gauntlet of Ogre Power, fell to the ground. Lassal screamed and backed away.

“Oh, boy, blood and carnage and naked Buffy,” Lilarcor gloated. “It doesn’t get better than this.”

Lassal collided with the Minotaur statue. Buffy stabbed him through the chest, pinned him against the stone, and held him there with one hand while she used the other to tear the second Gauntlet from his remaining arm.

- - - - -

Steel clashed on steel as Bodhi and Sorkatani crossed swords again. As Bodhi drew back her sword Sorkatani’s blade flickered out and tore open Bodhi’s forearm. The short sword flew from her hand and skidded away across the flagstones. Sorkatani lashed out with an offensive strike aimed at Bodhi’s throat. The vampire back-pedaled to avoid the blow but wasn’t quite fast enough. The tip of the blade caught her just above the collar-bone and drew blood. Bodhi jumped back ten feet and bared her fangs as she cast a quick glance around the room to assess the situation.

She didn’t like what she saw. Spike had freed Xander and was battering Anomen with alternate blows from the Bone Club and the Hammer of Thunderbolts. Lassal was crippled and at Buffy’s mercy. Jaheira had recovered consciousness, picked herself up, and was retrieving her bloodstained spear from where Spike had cast it aside. Tolgerias was a bloody wreck, down on his knees in front of Minsc, and the ranger was raising his sword high to deliver a coup de grace.

“Tanova!” Bodhi yelled. “Get us the fuck out of here!” She back-pedaled away from Sorkatani, who was advancing remorselessly, and a hint of panic entered her voice. “Hurry!”

Tanova didn’t waste time in acknowledging the order and began to cast her teleportation spell without delay. She was still too late to save Tolgerias. Minsc smote the vampire wizard’s head from his shoulders seconds before the spell was complete.

Bodhi, Tanova, Anomen and the maimed Lassal vanished. Air rushed into the vacated spaces with a sound like a volley of pistol shots. The white mist that had been Tolgerias drifted away and slipped through the cracks around the door.

The fight was over.

To be continued…

Nobody thrown to the wolves yet?

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Tue, 07 Aug 2007 21:13:34 GMT

I was expecting to see a LiveJournal announcement today stating that Burr86 had been dragged to the top of a step pyramid where the High Priests had cut out his heart with an obsidian knife to placate the Fandom gods.

Or else that he had been fired.

I take it that neither of those two things have actually happened?

Cat macro, pirate flag, chorus of 'Raise the colors', ferret macro...

Some thoughts about the latest LJ kerfuffle

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Sun, 05 Aug 2007 23:04:53 GMT

Two years ago I wrote a story, hardly more than a ficlet, called Smells Like Teen Spirit. I didn’t post it on LiveJournal; I put it up only on my website, preceded by a warning notice saying Warning: this story contains extremely explicit sexual references. Would be rated NC-17 in the USA. Do not proceed unless you are at least 18 years old and would not be offended by graphic sexual descriptions. I have a link to it from my LiveJournal but that is all.

It contains ‘underage sex’. Well, not according to UK law it doesn’t; all characters are over the UK age of consent. It is set in Italy and the characters are all way, way, over the Italian age of consent. But according to the laws of California, which are the most restrictive in the USA and indeed pretty much the most restrictive in the entire world, the characters are underage.

It’s a dark fic. Bleak and bitter. I believe that it is of genuine artistic merit; it certainly attracted favourable attention. herself_nyc, who is a definite BNF and who is universally acknowledged to be one of the most accomplished writers in the Buffyverse fandom, Friended me on the strength of it. She De-Friended me soon afterwards, probably when she discovered that it is not remotely typical of my writing, but for a while she was impressed.

I don’t like the story; but I’m rather proud of it.

The question is, however, what would the corporate Reacher Gilts who run LiveJournal these days make of it? They think purely in terms of balance sheets and share value. They don’t know, or care about, fandom. Would they class it simply as p0rn (totally missing the point) and use their stupid Californian laws to rule it as being obscene? Would my LiveJournal be suspended permanently, with no warning, if I posted it there rather than merely linking to it? Would the link itself be enough to get me suspended? I don’t know and I don’t want to find out.

And there is content in some of my other stories, such as Tabula Avatar, that could be regarded as underage p0rn by an insane right-wing racist religious nutter. As Viconia (jet black) is shagging Spike (blue-eyed blond), and Minsc (coffee-coloured) is becoming closer to Willow (white, Jewish) and Tara (who is not just white, she’s from a Southern state!), it would piss off the bunch of nutters who started off the whole Strikethrough disaster right from the start.

That’s one of the main reasons why I’ve created this Insane Journal (I created a Greatest Journal because of Nipplegate, but then I found that GJ is just as bad as LJ). And why I’m supporting the people who’ve been suspended from LiveJournal; even though I personally would probably find the material that they’ve posted rather repulsive, even offensive. They’re not trying to force me to see it and so I’m really not bothered what they post. And if I wait until I personally am threatened before acting – it will be too late.

They came for the Trade Unionists…

Happy Birthday Sister Broadsword of Enlightenment

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Fri, 03 Aug 2007 10:30:50 GMT

Happy birthday to cethlenn

Cold as ice

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Wed, 01 Aug 2007 19:36:02 GMT

Why is it so cold?

Happy Birthday!

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 14:18:30 GMT

Happy birthday to fangfaceandrea

Happy birthdays!

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 08:08:17 GMT

Happy birthdays to calturner and zanthinegirl

The Cloak of Mist; Chapter Eight and Epilogue

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Tue, 17 Jul 2007 07:41:22 GMT

The conclusion of ‘The Cloak of Mist’ (Chapter 8 and Epilogue). Rating ‘R’. Character Death.

Summary: The Isle of Man, 1014 AD, in the aftermath of the slaughter at the Battle of Clontarf. As the islanders mourn their dead the new Slayer, Bahey Dhone, must face a horde of undead Vikings to free the island from a dreadful curse.

The Cloak of Mist

Chapter 8

I know not how long I knelt there. Well it was for me that no dearg-dul happened upon me, for I was in no fit state to defend myself. At length I gathered myself together, and stood, and went to find my sword.

My cloak had turned to dust along with Fynlo, and without it I had no way to wear the sword concealed, but I cared not. I replaced the sword in its scabbard and walked with it plain to the eye of any that might see; let them make of it what they would.

I had great need of comfort. I wanted to feel strong arms around me, and my thoughts turned to Egil. I went to the keeil of Brother Finán, and entered, but found it empty. I was hungry, and felt weak still, and I rested for a while. I made myself a meal of soda bread and salt herring, and drank some milk, and I felt a little stronger. There was a cloak of mine at the keeil and I donned it. I fastened it with the clasp that had been a gift from Fynlo, and I wept again as I did so, and I had to splash my face with water before I felt fit to go outside.

I wondered where the menfolk were. It was important that I find them, for I knew now where Halfdan had been and what he had been doing, and it was news that Brother Finán must have without delay. Halfdan had been to Ireland, I knew, and I doubted that Fynlo would have been the only new dearg-dul to return with him. Once more we would have to contend with Brodir and perhaps a score of the walking dead besides.

I gathered up my bow, and a sheaf of arrows, and went forth to look for the two men. I chose to go on foot, for their horses were in the field, and that meant that they had intended to go no great distance. I knew they had not gone towards my home, for that was the direction from which I had come, but that still left three choices. I decided on north, towards Keeill St Connaghyn, and I walked along that path.

I had gone perhaps a hundred paces when I heard distant cries, and a clash of steel on steel, and my heart leaped into my mouth. I knew at once that Egil and Brother Finán were in peril, and I turned my head this way and that, seeking for the source of the sounds. They came from the west. I turned from the path and ran in that direction, weaving between trees, looking ahead into the mist in vain hope of seeing my friends.

The sounds faded and I could hear them no more. I stopped in my tracks. Had I been running in the wrong direction? No, I was sure that the cries had indeed come from the west. They had ceased. The fight, if fight there had been, was over.

Who had won? I prayed that it had been Egil and my Watcher. I nocked an arrow to my bowstring and advanced once more; slowly, stealthily, alert for any noise or any figure moving in the mist.

They came. I heard voices first, and laughter, but it was not the sound of innocent joy. Rather it seemed to hold a note of relish in dark deeds and cruelty. I concealed myself behind a tree and waited, bow drawn, peering round the trunk. I felt the twist in my stomach and knew that dearg-dul were approaching.

They came into sight along the path. There were six of them, five men and a woman, and all were armed. At the rear walked two men armed with bows, and they were dark of hair and wore their beards in braids, and I guessed them to be Halfdan’s Wendish servants. The others bore swords, save one who carried an axe; and I felt great fear as I saw it, for I recognised it as the beard-axe that had struck my shoulder in the fight on the mound of Tynwald, and that had been carried by Egil since then.

I shouted no challenge but loosed without warning. My first targets were the men who carried bows; they were living men, but I cared not, and my first arrow took one in the chest and drove home up to the flights. His companion saw him fall, and looked around, and nocked his own arrow. He opened his mouth to cry a warning to the dearg-dul but I loosed before his shout could pass his lips. The shaft struck his throat and he fell without a sound.

My efforts to silence the Wends were wasted, for the dearg-dul saw the passage of my shaft through the mist, and brought their weapons to the ready and charged towards me. I had time for but one hasty shaft at the nearest and then was forced to cast aside my bow and draw sword.

I was weary, and wounded, and stricken with grief and fear, and they came upon me three at once. Yet they fell before me like ripe barley before the reaper, for they could not withstand my fury. I met one sword to sword, and at that same moment the female thrust at me with a long knife, but I caught her arm and pulled her into the path of the one who wielded the axe. They tumbled in a heap, and I struck the head from the first, and fell upon the others before they could rise. I clove the arm from the axe-wielder, pinned the woman to the ground with a thrust of my sword, and drew an arrow from the sheaf at my belt and plunged it into the heart of the one who had lost his arm. The woman screamed and writhed on my blade, but there was no pity in my heart, and I pulled it free and struck to her neck.

I picked up the axe, retrieved the bow from where I had cast it aside, and moved on.

- - - - -

I walked along the path with all the stealth that I could muster, and thus it was that I came unsuspected upon them; two of the dearg-dul, and my fallen menfolk.

Brother Finán lay face down, motionless, and I feared that he was dead. His staff lay beside him, snapped in twain. Over him stood a tall dearg-dul in a short mail jerkin, a large round shield on one arm, a beard-axe held in the other hand.

Egil’s plight was yet worse, and my blood ran cold as I saw him. The shaft of an arrow stood out from his side, so little showing that I knew that it had pierced him deeply, and he was held in the grip of the dearg-dul from the Danelaw. A trickle of blood ran down the side of Egil’s neck, for he had been bitten by one of the creatures, and his captor was holding an arm to Egil’s mouth and forcing my love to drink from a punctured vein.

I could not help myself. I cried out in horror and my chance to take them by surprise was lost.

The closest stepped away from Brother Finán, raised his shield to protect himself, and advanced towards me with axe raised. The other raised his eyes to me and relaxed his grip upon Egil. My love, for such I now acknowledged to myself he was, pulled back his head and spat out the blood from his mouth upon the dearg-dul. The creature reacted with anger, seized the shaft of the arrow that was embedded in Egil, and tore it from his body. Egil cried out in anguish, as his blood gushed forth from the wound, and he fell upon his face.

I felt my lips draw back from my teeth in a snarl more savage yet than any on the face of a dearg-dul. I let the bow fall, for it would be of small use against the foe with armour and shield, and held aloft the beard-axe. I ran to meet the closest of the foe, my sword and axe against his axe and shield, and struck at him with renewed fury.

My sword was not best suited to meet the blow of his axe, and it might have shattered even my Rhenish blade, and so I took the blow at an angle intending only to deflect his axe from its course. He met my axe blow with his shield and the axe blade bit into the wood and stuck fast. I twisted my body away from the downfall of his axe and ran my sword along the haft until it reached his hands. No guard had the axe to protect his fingers, and my sharp blade severed them one by one.

I released my axe, held fast in the shield, and kicked him in the stomach as his weapon fell to the ground. He staggered away with his shield weighted down by my imprisoned axe and impossible to wield, his right hand a ruin, and I turned to face the other.

That one was old and cunning. He threw the arrow at me like a javelin, and so great was his strength that it flew almost as true and fast as if loosed from a bow. Barely did I manage to avoid it; but avoid it I did. He bared his fangs at me and snatched up a sword from the ground.

“Your time is at an end, Slayer,” he growled. “I am no new risen fledgling, but a veteran of sixty years as a draugr.”

I wasted no time with replies, but fell on him with a flurry of blows.

His skill was great, and his sword was as fine as my own. We struck at each other, and parried, and neither could gain an advantage. I did not forget about the other dearg-dul; he had withdrawn a short distance and removed his shield, and he stood upon it and took hold of the axe with his unwounded hand, no doubt meaning to draw it forth and then fall upon me from behind.

Egil, my brave and true Egil, was likewise attempting to come to my aid. He crawled to Brother Finán’s broken staff, and tried to rise with it and strike, but he was too sore hurt and fell back to the ground.

I knew that I must win this combat on my own, and quickly. Again my sword clashed against that of my opponent, and our blades were locked together. I kicked out, hard and low, and my foot drove into his knee. He howled, and his leg went out from under him, and he staggered sideways.

I whirled round and ran like the wind. From behind me I heard a roar of triumph, but I paid it no need. I fell upon the one with the maimed hand, even as he pulled free the axe, and slashed the arm from his body before he could raise it to defend himself. I kicked him aside and snatched up the axe myself. With axe and sword I turned back to my other foe.

Such a kick to the knee would have long disabled a human, but already he was standing straight once more. Yet now the advantage was mine. He faltered for a moment, and then saw another sword upon the ground, and seized upon the chance to once more set us on equal terms. He threw himself in a dive towards the sword. In so doing he brought himself close to where Egil lay, and my Icelander thrust out with the broken staff. There was no power in the thrust at all, for Egil was greatly weakened, but the forward motion of the dearg-dul drove him onto the splintered wood. It drove deep into his face, and he howled again, and his hand missed the hilt of the sword and closed upon the blade instead. He got no chance to change his grip, for I was on him in an instant. I smote him with the axe as he rose, and felled him, and pierced him with my sword, and struck one final time with the axe and that was an end to him.

The last of the dearg-dul sat on the ground and wailed, for he had but one arm, and that one had but one remaining finger. He did not resist as I went to strike off his head.

At last I could tend to my menfolk. I gave Brother Finán but a glance. He was still, and either he was dead or he was not. In either case he did not need my attention as urgently as did Egil.

His struggle to assist me in my fight had used up the last of his strength and he lay on his face on the ground. I turned him over and he groaned in pain, and coughed, and blood ran from his mouth. Not the blood of the dearg-dul but his own blood. I looked at the wound in his side, and I felt ice run through my own veins, for the barbs of the arrow had done terrible damage when it was torn out. I did what I could to stop his bleeding but knew in my heart that it would be of no avail.

“I die, Bahey,” he said, and his voice was so soft I could but barely make out his words.

“Do not say such a thing, Egil,” I urged him. “I will not let you die, for I love you. Fynlo is dead, and my heart is free, and I give it to you. I love you. Do not leave me.”

He spoke again, but I could not make out his words. I held him to me, and told him words of love, and prayed aloud for his life to be spared. His eyes closed, and I thought he had breathed his last, but then he opened his eyes once more and spoke with greater strength. “I shall die happy knowing that you love me. Grant me a last wish, Bahey. Show me your breasts, for I never…” His voice lost its strength again, but his eyes remained open.

“I was a fool not to give myself to you before now,” I told him, and I stood up. I took off my clothes, all of them, and stood before him entirely naked.

He smiled up at me. “I die happy,” he said. “You are beautiful, Bahey Dhone. I shall wait for you in Valhalla.”

I knelt beside him, and bent over him, and he raised a hand to my breast. I kissed him deeply. There was blood in his mouth but I paid it no heed. It mattered only that I proved to him that I loved him. His hand fell away from my breast. I broke off the kiss and looked into his eyes.

“Bahey,” he gasped. “I cannot see. It grows dark. I am cold.”

“Do not die!” I commanded him, and took his hand in mine. “Egil! I love you!”

“Bahey? Where are you?” he asked, and his words were but the barest whisper. “Do…” Blood ran from his mouth in a stream, and his words became only a gurgle. The flow of blood stopped and he breathed no more.

“Egil!” I sobbed. “Egil! I love you!” He did not stir. I knelt over him and wept.

“He is dead, Bahey,” Brother Finán’s voice reached my ears.

I stood up and looked to my Watcher. I was naked before him, but I cared not, for I was beyond thoughts of modesty. “Yes, he is dead. Not an hour ago Fynlo came to me as a dearg-dul and I slew him. Now Egil is dead also. I am weary, Brother Finán, and my grief is so great that I cannot bear it. Would that someone else had been Chosen, for I have not protected those that I love, and I am shamed.”

He sat up and clutched his hands to his leg, and I noticed for the first time that it was bent in no natural manner. There was a dark red mark on his pate, in the place where the bruise he had received at Cronk Keeill Eoin had but lately faded. “You need feel no shame, Bahey Dhone. Surely no Watcher in all of the world has ever had a Slayer with so true a heart. The odds against you were fearful indeed, and yet your courage has endured, and you are gentle and loving and kind. You are as a daughter to me, Bahey, and you make me proud.”

“And you are like a father unto me, Brother Finán,” I told him, for his words had indeed brought ease to my heart. I was still filled with great grief but no longer did I feel as if I was sinking into despair. “I must dress.” Even as I said those words I felt the knot in my stomach that warned of the presence of dearg-dul and I turned away from my clothes to pick up my sword instead.

- - - - -

I had dropped my bow some distance back along the path and I did not dare go back to retrieve it, for Brother Finán’s leg was useless, and I could not leave him helpless and alone. I looked about for weapons to use at a distance, and saw the beard-axe, and also arrows without a bow. I picked up the axe, and a handful of arrows, and I stuck my sword point in the soil so that it stood up with hilt ready to my hand. I did the same with the fine sword that had been wielded by the dearg-dul, and also with the sword that he had tried to snatch up, which I now saw to be Brother Finán’s sword. My preparations were hardly complete when my new foes came upon me.

Halfdan was there, and Brodir also, with five dearg-dul of lesser stature and two more of Halfdan’s Wendish warriors. “It seems my trap for you has not yet succeeded,” Halfdan said, his face grim. “You have cost me much, and greatly delayed my plans. You have slain my ally Ragnar who was Sire to my army. But it ends now. You are wounded, and naked, and alone, and cannot hope to prevail. Surrender now and I will spare your life and give you passage to another land. Orkney, perhaps.”

I trusted him not, and neither did I trust his men, for I could see lust in their eyes as they stared upon my naked body. “Why should I not prevail, Halfdan? I have bested all that you have sent at me thus far.”

Halfdan began to speak in reply but Brodir interrupted him and drowned out his words. “Foolish girl! When we fought before I was but newly come into my strength, and you escaped, but that shall not happen again. I felt the death of my Sire at your hands and I shall have my vengeance upon you. I wear the armour of Manannan and cannot be overcome.”

“Yet Wolf the Quarrelsome overcame you; not just once, but twice,” I reminded him.

Brodir’s face twisted with rage. He raised high his axe; not a beard-axe, but a great-axe, the length of a man and wielded with two hands. “I shall take your head, insolent wench!” he roared. “Kneel down before me, for I am your king.”

I was not cowed, for I felt new strength filling me from some source unknown. I knelt as Brodir commanded, and heard Brother Finán groan in dismay behind me, but then I spoke out. I uttered the dread words of the Skeab Lome. The most potent by far of all the curses of the Manx, from long before St Maughold brought us the True Faith; the curse of the bare broom. Destruction absolute.

I had no broom, but I was bare, and my hair fell uncovered to my shoulders. I held the arrows in my hand and gestured with them as I chanted the curse, as if I were sweeping, all as the ritual required; and my grandmother had told me that by ancient tradition the potency of the curse was magnified tenfold if spoken when kneeling.

“Skeab Lome, chiollagh gyn chloan, as follym faase gyn cass gyn rass, er Halfdan, er Brodir.”

(The besom of destruction upon Halfdan and Brodir. A fireside without offspring, and an empty desolation with neither root nor seed.)

Halfdan looked merely puzzled, for I think that he had never learned to speak Manx; but Brodir knew my words, and his axe shook, and he stepped back fear-stricken. “Kill her!” he cried. “Kill the witch!”

I was no witch, in truth, and I knew not if the curse would have had effect. My intent had been but to strike fear into my enemies and it seemed that I had succeeded. In stepping back Brodir had put himself between me and one of the Wendish archers. I came to my feet and at once threw an arrow at the other bowman, emulating the trick of the veteran dearg-dul Ragnar, and my strength was just as great as his. The point pierced the man’s eye before he could loose his own arrow and he reeled away clutching at his face. A second arrow I threw at the nearest of the dearg-dul, and then I turned to Halfdan.

He wore a jerkin closely sewn with iron rings, and on his head was an iron cap with a nose-guard, and I judged that a thrown arrow might strike metal and be deflected. Therefore I flung the beard-axe. It was not balanced for a throw yet I managed well enough. The blade struck him full in the face and his helmet could not withstand a blow of such force. He fell backwards with the axe buried in his head.

I snatched up my sword, and also that of Brother Finán, and met the onrush of the dearg-dul. Brodir hung back still, and the others had no such deadly a weapon, and their bodies shielded me from the remaining archer. I slashed, and blocked, and thrust, and they fell. When but two remained I threw Brother Finán’s sword at the Wendish bowman, and it drove deep into his chest. I picked up the last sword, that of the late Ragnar, and faced my foes with a sword of quality in each hand.

One of them gave way in fear, and turned, and fled off into the trees. I struck at the other twice, once with each sword, driving him back and wounding him in the body; but then Brodir stepped into the fray, swinging his great axe, and it was my turn to be driven back. I avoided two mighty swings, and then I ducked under his axe and smote him in the body. My blade glanced off the armour, and when I tried to use my knee to his groin it did no harm either, for the mail coat fell to mid-thigh and protected him from my blow. Brodir kicked in his turn. There was no great force to his kick, for the mail hampered him in that regard, but it was enough to knock me back to where his axe could strike once more.

I was filled with resolve, and my attacks slackened not, yet it was a hard fight and it was going against me. Brodir was vulnerable only at the neck, and at the lower parts of his limbs, and he was a warrior of great skill and gave me no opening to strike such a blow. The wounded dearg-dul was recovering his strength and I knew that soon I would be hard pressed indeed.

At that moment Brother Finán took a hand. The movement of the fight took Brodir close to where my Watcher lay, and Brother Finán had taken out a pot from a pouch at his belt. He removed the seal and threw the contents over the king, shouting as he did so “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost!”

It was Holy Water. Where the liquid struck Brodir his flesh burned. His scream was terrible to hear. He released the axe with his right hand, and clutched at his eyes. I did not fail to seize the advantage thus presented to me. I struck once at Brodir’s left wrist, and severed it from his arm, and the axe fell to the earth. I swung again at his neck, hard, and this time he could do nothing to resist.

My first strike was not clean, for part of the blade was in contact with the mail shirt and my blow was slowed somewhat, but my second blow was true. His head sprang from his shoulders, and turned to dust, and his body likewise; and the armour of Manannan glowed with a bright light for an instant, and broke apart, and turned in the air into flakes of ancient rust.

A wind sprang up in that moment and the mist was whirled away. It faded and grew thin, and the sun broke through, and the wounded dearg-dul cried out in despair and died in fire. From far away in the trees I heard the screams of the one who had fled; it had availed him naught, for he still perished.

The dearg-dul were cleansed from Mann.

Epilogue

I carried Brother Finán to his keeil house and took him home from there on horseback. At my home I demanded that my family tend to him. They besieged me with questions, for my clothing was soaked with blood, and telling them that it was not mine but Egil’s brought me no respite.

I was stricken with lethargy, and cast myself upon my bed, and I lay there without speaking other than to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’. This left Brother Finán to make all explanations, and there was little that he could do but to tell the truth; for there were dead bodies to account for, and I did not deny having slain all but one of them.

At length the Carls and Thingmen decided that our tale must be true, for the graves of the dead brought back from Ireland by Halfdan proved indeed to be empty. Also, Ospak returned from Ireland at last. He told of Halfdan buying up the Manx captives from the Irish, and he revealed that several of those brought back as dead bodies had been ransomed by Halfdan as living and unwounded. Although Ospak refused to take the crown his words were yet given great weight; and it was determined that I had acted properly, and that I had freed the island from a dire curse.

Egil was given a hero’s burial befitting his religion; and the beard-axe and the sword that had been Ragnar’s I laid in his grave.

I spoke afterwards to Brother Finán, being troubled. “Egil was not a follower of the True Faith. He said he would wait for me in Valhalla, but I know that there is no such place. He died an unbeliever, unshriven. Will he then go to Hell?”

“Our Lord is merciful and just,” Brother Finán assured me. “Egil strove mightily against evil, and kept his word, and died to protect the innocent. I am sure that if we pray that he be admitted to Heaven our words will be heeded. You shall be reunited there; although I hope that it will not be until many years hence.”

“Slayers die young,” I reminded him. “You hid that from me, but you have taught me to read, and I have come upon that for myself.”

“There is no law that it must be so,” he said, his expression becoming one of sadness. “It is only that they must fight again and again, and one day they will lose. I did not lie to you when I told you that there was no rule that said that you could not marry and have a family; but if you do so the demons and dearg-dul will not then cease from their attacks. It is a most unlikely chance that you shall have a long life.”

“That does not cause me grief overmuch,” I told him, and I smiled. “I will not lightly cast my life away, but the day that I see Egil once more in Heaven is not a day that I dread. Willingly will I do battle once more.”

“I doubt that such battle will be required in Mann, for a while at least, until word of your presence spreads and demons travel to this place to challenge you,” he said.

“In that circumstance I would be bringing peril upon my people and my friends,” I said. “I must leave my home.”

“You must indeed, Bahey Dhone. Come with me to Tara of the Kings, to the Council of the Watchers, and there we shall determine the place that most needs a Slayer; and we shall travel there together.”

“We shall,” I agreed. I smiled once more. “I hope only that it is a place with much sun, for I have had enough of rain and mist.”

The End

The Cloak of Mist; Chapter Seven

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Sun, 15 Jul 2007 09:24:07 GMT

Here is Chapter 7 of ‘The Cloak of Mist’. Starting to get into ‘R’ territory.

Summary: The Isle of Man, 1014 AD, in the aftermath of the slaughter at the Battle of Clontarf. As the islanders mourn their dead the new Slayer, Bahey Dhone, must face a horde of undead Vikings to free the island from a dreadful curse.

The Cloak of Mist

Chapter 7

The bow that Egil had bought at the Fair had been for me, on Brother Finán’s orders. It was not as fine a weapon as my first bow had been; but it would serve well enough, and in this mist there would be no chance to loose shaft at a great distance in any event. I did some little practice with it after the midday meal and then all three of us set off for Laxey.

Brother Finán had also instructed Egil to purchase a horse at the Fair, that we might all ride with no need to share a horse. Egil travelled a little apart from us, that it might not occasion too much gossip, but once we reached Laxey he joined with us for I was not known in that town. Neither was Halfdan known there, and so we travelled on to Hramsá.

There, at last, we found the home of our foe, for Halfdan was well known in Hramsá. We learned that he had come there from England, a dozen years before, and had settled in the town, but that he spent much time away trading and sometimes fighting in the army of King Sweyn. It was rumoured that he had learned sorcery among the Wends, and he had Wendish men in his employ; silent men, who kept themselves to themselves, and who had made no friends among the Manx. Halfdan himself was well enough liked, for he was free with his money, but we met none who claimed close friendship with him. It seemed that he was away; the people of the town told us that his ship had called briefly into the port a few days ago, but had then sailed again on May Day morn, and it had not yet returned.

We followed the directions that the townsfolk gave us and made our way to Halfdan’s house. It stood some little way outside the town, on a hillside, and it was strongly built of stone. Not a fortress, but it would not be an easy place for our small party to storm. “Can we not send to your Order for aid?” I suggested. “If they told Wolf the Quarrelsome that his enemy Brodir walks again, perhaps, would he not come to wield his axe at our side to defeat Brodir for a third and final time?”

Brother Finán shook his head. “Now that Brodir is filled with the demonic strength of the dearg-dul he would surely be the victor,” he pointed out. “We would be only granting him what he most desires, for great must be his hatred of the man who ordered him put to the slow death. Indeed, he might well turn Wolf into a dearg-dul also, and we would then have yet another terrible foe.”

“Would their enmity not persist?” Egil asked.

“It would; but a dearg-dul will obey the Sire, the one who drinks his blood and gives him blood in return to cause the change,” Brother Finán informed him. “Wolf would hate Brodir but would do as he commanded, at least until his own power grew.”

“Then that dearg-dul who gave an order to Brodir must be his Sire,” I realised. “His speech was like unto that of Halfdan. He must hail from the Danelaw in England, as does Halfdan, and they are allied out of hatred for Aethelred.”

“No doubt that is the case,” Brother Finán agreed. “If we can slay that dearg-dul it may mean that Halfdan loses his hold over the others, and indeed they may turn on him and destroy him. Yet that in itself poses a danger, for Brodir might at that point realise that he can again become king.” He chewed on his lip as he thought. “Our only course must be to slay them as chance presents itself, regardless of what may transpire later.”

“Is there other aid that your Order could send us, if not Wolf?” I asked him. “A few bowmen, perhaps? Also, I think a coat of mail of my own would not go amiss, and there are none that I know of on Mann that are made to fit a girl; but I have heard of warrior queens of the Irish. Might they have such a garment?”

“Is there none for a youth that might fit you?” asked Brother Finán.

“I can see two reasons why such a coat would not fit Bahey with comfort,” Egil remarked, and I felt myself blushing.

“Enough of such words,” I scolded. “They are not so big that it would be a problem.” I turned my attention back to my Watcher. “I saw none such at the Fair, but I shall watch out for one in the future. Perhaps a leather jerkin sewn with iron rings would serve; it would give me some measure of protection at the least. Yet you have not answered my question. Can your Order send us any further aid?”

“How would they reach us in this unbroken shroud of mist? No, Bahey, we are cut off and must manage with what we have. You are the Slayer. That must be enough.”

- - - - -

There was no-one at Halfdan’s house. It stood silent and empty. I could sense no dearg-dul in the vicinity, and we did not linger. We debated staying there to await his return, but knew not how long it might be, and so we decided to return home.

We stayed overnight with the priest at Maughold, and I prayed in the keeil there, for Saint Maughold it was who brought the word of Christ to our island and is the patron saint of Mann. The next day we returned to my home village, and to news dire indeed.

Bahey Bane was dead.

Murdered.

- - - - -

I went to see her as she was laid out, and I was cold and it seemed to me as if I was looking down upon her body from a high place far away, and all the sounds were distant. She was still, and dead, gone forever, and my last words to her had been in anger, and the tears on my cheeks were hot with remorse as well as with grief.

Ealish and Calyvorra had already viewed her, but they returned when they heard that I was back, and we sought comfort in embraces. They assured me that Bahey Bane had forgotten my words as soon as we had parted, and that she had still been my friend, and I prayed that it was the truth. We wept together, but it brought my heart no ease.

Worse was to come. I discovered that she had been slain by a man and a woman who had gone through the village asking after the Bahey who had been at the Fair. She had been with Peddyr, a young man of our acquaintance who had hoped to pay court to her, and the two strangers had walked up to them and stabbed her in the throat with no warning. The man had struck Peddyr a mighty blow and knocked him senseless, and he had not seen what then transpired, but it was no difficult guess that they had then drank her blood and perhaps forced her to drink theirs.

She had been slain by mistake for me, I would lay a wager upon it, and my guilt and grief grew apace.

Hard questions were then asked of Egil, for he too was a stranger who had gone through the town asking for “Bahey” not long before, and I had to reveal that he had been with us in Hramsá and call Brother Finán to bear witness to that effect.

This brought down upon me the wrath of Asmund, for he felt that I was betraying Fynlo, and also the anger of Ealish and Calyvorra for they accused me of lying to them. I would not defend myself, for there was justice in their words, and I only sobbed.

Then did Egil speak up, telling all that I had told him from the start that I was promised to Fynlo and had not permitted him to lay a hand upon me, but that he had resolved not to give up while Fynlo’s fate was undetermined; and he had therefore taken service with my teacher that he might stay in my company. He said that I had given him no encouragement, and had been virtuous in all respects, and should not be blamed for being the unwilling object of his attentions.

There was truth in his words, and it rang clear in his voice, although he was perhaps giving me more credit than I deserved. Ealish and Calyvorra warmed towards me again, and even Asmund could not find it in him to blame me. He warned Egil that he must leave if Fynlo returned, and Egil promised to do so without delay, and that was an end to it for the time.

- - - - -

Bahey Bane was buried that evening. After all the mourners had departed I returned to the graveyard and set two lit rush-lights by her grave. I moved to a tree a few paces away, and sat down against it, and waited. Time passed, perhaps an hour or more, and I sat still as it grew dark save for the flickering glow of the rush-lights. I grew stiff, and cold, but I moved not.

At last they came, two figures walking through the mist, and I felt that sensation in my stomach that I had felt as the dearg-dul had approached me on Tynwald Hill. I stood up, and shook the stiffness from my limbs, and stepped forward.

“Slayer!” the woman hissed. “I knew we had mistaken our victim, for her blood held not the sweetness that we were promised, and she died too easily. Never mind, for we shall now rectify that error.”

“You are right that I shall not die easily,” I told her, and withdrew my sword from under my cloak.

She stepped back in alarm, and her companion drew out a sword of his own. At that moment the earth atop Bahey Bane’s grave began to stir, disturbed by some movement beneath the soil.

I paid it no heed for the time being. I ran forward, sword high, and brought it down upon the male dearg-dul with great force. He brought up his sword and the blades clashed together. My blow was halted; but his sword shattered and the blade fell in shards. The female sought to seize me in the moment when I was still, but I kicked out and hit her in the stomach, and she was knocked from her feet.

My sword slashed across the head of the male, and he cried out in pain, casting aside the useless hilt of his own weapon. He tried to charge in under the sweep of my sword; I caught him with my left hand and tossed him over my hip as Brother Finán had taught me, sending him sprawling, and I chopped down with my blade at the female as she was clambering to her feet. Her head sprang from her shoulders and she was dust.

The male regained his feet, saw the fate of his companion, and turned to run. I was upon him before he could escape and I cut his legs from under him. My sword swept down again as he lay wounded, the edge sheared through his neck, and he was no more.

Bahey Bane by this time had climbed halfway from her grave. Her face was pretty no more, being misshapen with bulges and ridges, and her mouth was filled with sharp fangs in place of teeth. “What has happened to me?” she moaned, and raised her hand to her face. “I am dead, and yet not.” She looked upon me and her eyes gleamed yellow. “Bahey Dhone! It is good to see you.”

I was filled with horror, and did not move as she freed herself from the grave and came towards me. “I hunger,” she said, and laughed.

“Forgive me,” I said, filled with sadness, and I swung my sword again. I brushed the dust from my cloak, put away my sword, and walked from the graveyard with tears running down my face.

- - - - -

The anger that consumed me then was great; and had I happened upon Halfdan I would have slain him where he stood even had it been in front of the assembled ranks of the Thing and all of the people of Mann. I abandoned all efforts to give my family explanations for my comings and goings that would put their minds at rest, and I went abroad at all hours to scour every sheading of the island for my foes; sometimes in company with Brother Finán and Egil, but often alone.

In all my searching I found but one dearg-dul, and it was already maimed, for I had fought it at Tynwald Hill and cut the hand from its arm. I slew it with one blow, and gained but little satisfaction from the deed. That was two days after my vigil at the grave of Bahey Bane.

Two days after that I walked alone from my home, and on the path I came upon a young man walking, and I looked upon him and I saw that he was Fynlo. I felt my stomach tie itself in knots, and great joy and surprise filled me, and I ran to him.

“Fynlo!” I cried. “You have come back to me.”

“Did I not promise that I would return?” he laughed, and took me in his arms.

“And great is my joy that you are here,” I told him, my smile so wide that I feared that it might split my face. “Were you held captive by the Irish?”

“I was,” he confirmed, and he nuzzled his face into my hair. “I was ransomed by a benefactor and brought back to my homeland, and to you, in exchange for but one service.” His lips touched my neck in a kiss. “This!” he snarled, and his teeth bit deep into my throat, and they were sharp as knives.

Fool that I was! I had felt the twist in my stomach, and had thought it to be due to my surprise and the joy in my heart, and had offered myself up to death. Yet would death not be welcome? What was there now to live for? The pain had lasted only for a moment and now his bite seemed to promise me bliss. My arms were placed to throw him from me, but I held back.

Then the memory of Bahey Bane came into my mind. Her pretty face so changed, and her cry of ‘I hunger’, and her family and her friends weeping over her corpse. I thought then of my own family, and the grief they would feel; and of Brother Finán, who was like a second father unto me; and of Egil, true and brave. My resolve returned.

My leg swept behind Fynlo’s, and I pushed with my arms, and turned with my hips, and his grip was broken and his teeth came free of my throat. He stumbled away and fell on his backside. I staggered back likewise, and a wave of weakness swept over me, and I raised my hand to my neck and felt the wetness of blood.

His face was that of a demon. He sat on the ground for a moment and laughed. “Truly, Bahey Dhone, your blood is even sweeter than your kisses! It is like a fire in my veins, filling me with strength such as I have never known.” He leaped lightly to his feet. “I must have the rest. I shall drain you almost dry, and then I shall give you my blood, and we will be together for all time.”

I drew my sword, but he was on me again before I could withdraw it fully, and he knocked it from my grasp and it flew away across the fields. “Now, Bahey, would you slay your love?” He reached out to me again, but I caught his arms and held him off. Yet it took all my strength to do so, for I was weakened by loss of blood and by grief, and he had grown in power by virtue of the blood that he had taken from me. “It is useless to struggle. You shall be mine.”

“Your face frightens me, Fynlo,” I pleaded, and he relented, and his human face returned, and his smile broke my heart. “I would not die still a maid, Fynlo. Make me a woman before you make me into a dearg-dul like yourself,” I begged him.

His smile grew broader still. “Indeed I shall, for my loins are stirring mightily. We shall lie together, and I will give you great pleasure as I drink your sweet blood.”

“I shall remove my clothes, for I have been told that I am beautiful, yet no man has ever seen my naked breasts,” I said.

He swallowed, even though he had no blood remaining in his mouth, and his eyes rolled, and he released my arms and stepped back. “Yes, show me your body,” he said, his voice hoarse.

I unfastened the clasp from my cloak, the clasp that he had given me before he went off to the war, and I slipped the cloak from my shoulders, and smiled at him.

Smiling still, I tossed the cloak over his head and covered his eyes. From the back of my skirts I withdrew a stake of wood, and I thrust forward with it as he was blinded by the cloak, and I drove the stake deep into his chest and pierced his heart.

And it felt as if I were piercing my own; and I fell to my knees and sobbed as the dust settled on the grass that was damp with the mist.

Concluded in CHAPTER EIGHT & EPILOGUE

The Cloak of Mist; Chapter Six

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Thu, 12 Jul 2007 08:22:12 GMT

Here is Chapter 6 of ‘The Cloak of Mist’. Still probably just about PG-13.

Summary: The Isle of Man, 1014 AD, in the aftermath of the slaughter at the Battle of Clontarf. As the islanders mourn their dead the new Slayer, Bahey Dhone, must face a horde of undead Vikings to free the island from a dreadful curse.

The Cloak of Mist

Chapter 6

We woke to a grey day without sun. I went out from Brother Finán’s house and looked up to the sky, and it was barely possible to tell where the sun was in the sky. All around us lay a thick mist.

Brother Finán followed me out, and then Egil. “The prophecy has come to pass,” Brother Finán said gloomily. “The Cloak of Manannan lies over the island. The dearg-dul can walk by day as well as by night, and there is no safety for anyone.”

“I came so close,” I said, filled with frustration. “Had there been but two or three fewer I could have beaten them.”

“Most, if not all, of the dead that Halfdan brought back from Clontarf must have been dearg-dul not yet risen. It is no shame upon you that you could not win against such numbers. Your efforts do you great credit,” Brother Finán praised me, yet his words brought me no content.

“How can we stop them? There must be a way to break this spell. Manannan was a friend to the island; his cloak was to protect us not to shield our enemies. Will it disperse the mist if I slay Brodir? Or Halfdan? Or both? Search your books, Brother Finán, find what I must do.”

“The fog will last for ever?” Egil asked.

“I fear that it will, if we can find no way to break the curse,” Brother Finán told him.

“Might it not be a natural occurrence, and be gone as soon as a wind springs up?” the young Icelander suggested hopefully.

“Were it March, or October, then perhaps,” I replied, “but it is May Day, and not the time for such weather. All has happened as the prophecy foretold.” I turned to my Watcher. “Yet did not the prophecy say that I should not be under their dominion? There is still hope. Find me the answer.”

“I will do my best,” he promised. “Can you read, young man?”

“I can read runes,” Egil replied.

“Then perhaps you might aid me, for some of my texts of prophecy are runic manuscripts from the Northlands. If you look through those while I examine the Latin and Greek then it would be a great help.”

Egil beamed with pride and agreed gladly.

“I shall go to my family,” I announced, for I knew that I could be of little use among the books. “They will be going to the May Day Fair and if I do not join them it will occasion much talk. There will be friends of mine there that I have not seen in some time, and I might learn things of use. I shall pass off this,” I raised my right hand to point at the sling, “as the result of a fall from my horse.”

“See if you can learn what is happening about the rulership of Mann,” Brother Finán suggested. “Brodir has no heir. Will your council choose another king, or go back to owing allegiance to the King of the Isles?”

“Ragnall of the Isles is old and sick, perhaps dying,” Egil put in, “and his son Kennet was at Clontarf and I think is numbered among the slain.”

“And Sweyn Kennetson is little more than a child,” Brother Finán added thoughtfully. “I see no clear path. Find out more, Bahey.”

“Does it matter so much?” I asked. “The Thing will decide at Midsummer, and not before, for many of the Thingmen have not returned from Clontarf and more must be chosen. We must surely have broken the spell before then, or have perished in the attempt.”

“It matters,” Brother Finán responded. “If there is one with a clear claim to the rulership of Mann then that is who we should approach for aid. Yet if there is no such living person, then what is to stop Brodir from holding on to the crown even though he is dead?”

- - - - -

I arrived home to find an empty house, and so I went to the Fair and caught up with my family there. My father scolded me for riding a horse, and said that it served me right that I had fallen and hurt my arm, but there was no heat to his anger. Mother was worried about me, and also said that I should not ride, but I asked how else I should accompany Brother Finán when he travelled so far across the island, and she had no answer. They had agreed that I should take service as his assistant, and it seemed late to object now, so they held their peace.

The Fair was an occasion for joy and laughter in normal times, but that was somewhat subdued this year. The mist that filled the air was the least of the reasons. All too many of our menfolk had not returned from Clontarf; and the newly widowed, and girls like myself who had lost sweethearts, were in no mood for celebration. There was still music, and dancing, and feasting, but only the small children could enjoy themselves without their thoughts turning to more sombre matters. Only the stalls of the pedlars were the same as in other years.

I saw bowyers and fletchers among the pedlars, and I cursed myself for not remembering that they would be there, for I had need of a bow and I could not buy one. For a girl to make such a purchase would cause great raising of eyebrows and would be much talked about; and even were I prepared to draw such attention to myself, Brother Finán had not given me the coins of silver that I would need. Of course, the last time there had been a fair I had had no thoughts in my head of bows or swords or spears, being only concerned with ribbons for my hair and the like, but I was in no mood to excuse myself for thoughtlessness.

I saw my friend Ealish in the crowd. She was standing behind her man Markys, with arms folded and a frown upon her face, watching as he haggled over the purchase of a sword. I left my family and went to join her, and together we left Markys to his negotiations and walked together through the Fair. We came upon Bahey Bane, and Calyvorra who was also a friend to me, and we joined together with them, bought sweetmeats, and gossiped.

The other girls teased me about my admirer from Iceland, for word of the tall stranger asking after me had spread far and wide. I told them firmly that I had rejected his advances, for I was promised to Fynlo if only by word; but I could not deny that if Fynlo did not return then I might not be averse to the attentions of the Icelander.

“Is that not the man himself?” asked Bahey Bane, and pointed across the Fair to where a bowyer was selling his wares. Egil stood at the stall, testing the strength of a bow.

“It is,” I confirmed, my lips tight. “I told him he was not to follow me any more, and I had thought that he had heeded my words. How do you know him by sight, Bahey Bane?”

“I know many things,” she said, half-closing her eyes in a way that I think she believed gave her an air of mystery, and then she laughed. “He was sent in my direction in error when he was seeking for you; and I was disappointed when I realised that it was all a mistake, for he is as handsome and well set up a young man as you could hope to find. If your Fynlo returns then I could do worse than to try to turn your Egil’s eyes in my direction.”

“He is not my Egil,” I insisted. “I am displeased that he does not seem to accept that.”

“You may do him an injustice, Bahey Dhone,” Calyvorra put in. “He is buying a bow. He may be here only for that purpose, and not have followed you at all.”

“He probably lost his own at Clontarf, as my Markys lost his sword,” Ealish agreed. “You need not be angered at him.”

“If my father sees him, or Fynlo’s, there may still be harsh words without just cause,” I said. “Perhaps I should rejoin my family.”

“No, stay with us awhile,” Calyvorra urged. “We have other news for you.”

I smiled, and agreed, and talked with them for a while longer, but as we talked the smile froze on my lips; for they told me that other men had been enquiring after me. Although they thought it cause for jest, and that the men would be more admirers, I knew otherwise. Egil had slain the dearg-dul who knew my name, and I had thought no more of it, but it seemed the others had heard his words and remembered them.

I was being hunted.

- - - - -

I took my leave of the other girls at the first opportunity, bade them farewell, and set off back to my parents. I took a roundabout route to avoid Egil, for I desired not to be seen in his company; and so it was that I passed out of the sight of those who knew me and I was amongst only strangers when a man stepped out into my path. A man broad in the shoulders, perhaps the same age as my father, with a touch of grey in his beard.

It was Halfdan.

“You are the girl called Bahey Dhone, are you not?” he addressed me. “The Slayer.”

“I am Bahey Dhone, true,” I confirmed. I saw no point in denying it, for many at the Fair knew me well. “I know not what you mean by calling me a Slayer.”

“It is pointless to pretend, Slayer. I know who you are and what you are. Only a Slayer could have fought as you did last night.” His eyes went to my sling. “And do not try to claim that it was not you.”

“If you know what I am then you must also know that I could wring your neck like that of a chicken,” I warned him, “even with but one uninjured arm.”

“I am not here alone, Slayer,” he told me. “And neither are you. To start a battle here, with your family at risk, would benefit neither of us.”

I glared at him. “Then what do you want, Halfdan?”

“I want you to leave us alone. Do not interfere with what you do not understand.” His voice held a hint of the same guttural accent as that of the dearg-dul who had given orders even to Brodir. Presumably they hailed originally from the same place. I took note of this and resolved to mention it to Brother Finán later.

“You have summoned a mist over all of the island, and banished sunshine from our lives perhaps for ever,” I snapped. “Your allies have killed innocent people. What else do I need to understand?”

Halfdan glanced around, his face showing nervousness, but no-one around us showed any sign of having taken notice of my words. The Fair was noisy, with many people talking at once and musicians playing an accompaniment for a dance, and our conversation was therefore almost as private as if we had been alone.

“I have no desire to bring harm to the people of this island,” he said in measured tones, a smile on his lips but not in his eyes. “I need a stronghold from which I can strike against my enemy. This place fits my needs. That is all. The mist makes it safe for my forces to walk under the sun, and it hides us, so that it is not safe for enemy ships to land. I bear your people no ill will; they took me in and gave me shelter, after all. No more of them shall die unless absolutely necessary.” His voice grew harder. “Unless you interfere further in what need not be your concern.”

“The safety of my people is indeed my concern,” I stated firmly. “Their prosperity too. Without the sun how shall the barley ripen? It will rot in the fields. Are we to live on mushrooms? Disperse this mist, or perish along with your dearg-dul servants.”

“I will bring back cargoes of riches. All the barley your people could desire. Meat, and fish, too; also gold, and silver, and furs. None need starve; indeed there will be wealth for all.”

“Fine promises, but I believe you not. From where shall this wealth come?”

“From England. We shall raid the lands of Aethelred as in the old days, and take all that we desire, and spread bloodshed and death throughout his realm, and my enemy shall suffer.” His lips curled back, he waved his hands, and his eyes seemed to gleam. “With the cloak of mist to shield us he can do naught to strike back.”

“Who is your enemy?” I asked, for I thought perhaps we could seek aid from Halfdan’s foe.

“King Aethelred,” Halfdan spat the name out. “That vile murderous king. He must perish, and all his thanes, and his lands be ravished and given unto the draugr.”

I spoke softly, thinking to humour him, for I was beginning to suspect that Halfdan was smitten by a madness. “How is it that King Aethelred became your enemy?”

“He killed my wife,” Halfdan said, and his voice was filled with pain, and anger, and great grief. “He killed my children.”

- - - - -

“The St Brice’s Day massacre,” Brother Finán said thoughtfully. “It was when you were a little child, Bahey. King Aethelred the Ill-Counselled ordered the slaying of all Danes in England.”

“I have heard the tale,” Egil put in. “King Sweyn of Denmark’s sister Gunnhild was among those slain, and King Sweyn invaded England, and there has been war between them ever since. Did not Sweyn drive Aethelred into exile last year?”

“He did, but Sweyn died just before Lent, and Aethelred came back. A good thing for the Irish, perhaps, as Sweyn would have sent troops to aid Sygtrigg at Clontarf, but a bad thing for the English as Aethelred is a poor excuse for a king. An ill fortune for the Isle of Mann too, for if Aethelred had been the one to die then that would have been an end to Halfdan’s need for revenge.”

“Perhaps not, as he also seeks vengeance against all Aethelred’s thanes, for they carried out that evil order. I think that he has been driven mad and will not stop until all England is a wasteland.” I shook my head. “In a way I blame him not, for it must have been a terrible thing to return home to find his family slain. His son was only three years old!”

“His madness may destroy us all,” Brother Finán pointed out.

“I know, and I shall not shrink from slaying him if the chance comes, but my hatred has turned to pity,” I said. “Alas, he gave me no clue as to how we can dispel the mists.”

“Ah, on that score I have good news, for I may have the answer,” Brother Finán told me, but he did not smile.

“I would hazard a guess that it is not an easy answer,” I ventured.

Brother Finán nodded. “You must slay Brodir, destroy the magical coat of mail, and cleanse the realm of Manannan of the dearg-dul entirely.”

“As was my intention anyway. Yet how shall I destroy the mail coat? It withstood the axe blows of Wolf the Quarrelsome, and my arrow barely pierced it. Must I find a smith to melt it in his forge?”

“If needs be, yes. However it might be simple enough. When one of the dearg-dul is slain, and turns to dust, then whatsoever he is wearing turns to dust also. Slaying Brodir might well be enough in itself to destroy the mail.”

“That is good to know. All I have to do is to slay a dearg-dul who in life was one of the most renowned warriors among the Norse, who is now Undead and greatly increased in strength, and who is wearing a coat of enchanted mail that cannot be pierced by blade or arrow.” I smiled at him. “For a moment I feared that you were going to ask me to do something difficult.”

- - - - -

Egil stayed with Brother Finán that night, and it was agreed that he should sleep there for as long as he remained on Mann. I slept that night at home, for there was little point in seeking out the dearg-dul when I was not fit to fight, although I fretted over the lost time. My arm was much recovered by the morning, the bruises faded and turned to yellow, and I knew that it would be back to full use by the next day at the latest.

The mist again lay thick over the island, and the men of Dubhghlais cursed much, for the herring shoals would be arriving, and it was not safe for the boats to go out. Only one ship dared sail in the fog, and it was the cause of much talk, for they said that the captain must be either a great sailor or a great fool. Halfdan. He had come to Dubhghlais in his longship when he visited the Fair, and he had sailed away again in the evening, when it was both foggy and dark.

“The dearg-dul see much better in the dark than do we, and I suspect the same applies in the fog,” Brother Finán explained. “He must have one as helmsman.”

“Where has he gone?” I wondered. “Is he going a-Viking to England? He cannot yet have force enough for such an expedition, for we have slain half of his dearg-dul at least.”

“I would guess he merely returned home,” Brother Finán said. “Have you found out yet where he lives?”

“Some say Laxey, some say Hramsá,” I told him. “I shall visit both if need be.”

“We shall all go,” Brother Finán decided. “Tomorrow.”

- - - - -

I would have gone out in search of dearg-dul that evening, but my Watcher was insistent that I should wait until my arm was completely healed. Therefore another day and night passed without action, and I grew restless, but the next day my shoulder was as unmarked as it had been before the blow, and he declared me fit.

It was Sunday, and so Brother Finán and I went off to church. Egil came not, for he still followed the old gods. In truth he would have come to church with us had I asked, for he was eager to win favour in my eyes, but I was not yet free to encourage his interest. At church I sat with my family, and after the service I sought out my friends. I asked all that were there for news of Fynlo; there was still no word of his fate. His father Asmund had sent to Ireland offering ransom but there had as yet been no reply.

I caught myself thinking that even news that he had perished would be better than this uncertainty, and scolded myself for such a cruel thought. Yet Fynlo was fading slightly in my memory, and Egil was taking his place in my thoughts, and I was beginning to wonder what it would be like to kiss the Icelander. Therefore when Ealish, Bahey Bane, and Calyvorra talked with me after church, and teased me again about my admirer, I denied once more that he was more to me than a nuisance. I grew cross at their teasing and my words to them as we parted were harsh.

May God forgive me for I shall never forgive myself.

Continued in CHAPTER SEVEN

The Cloak of Mist; Chapter Five

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Tue, 10 Jul 2007 00:47:04 GMT

‘The Cloak of Mist’ continues with Chapter 5. The rating begins to climb past PG-13 and towards R in this chapter.

Summary: The Isle of Man, 1014 AD, in the aftermath of the slaughter at the Battle of Clontarf. As the islanders mourn their dead the new Slayer, Bahey Dhone, must face a horde of undead Vikings to free the island from a dreadful curse.

The Cloak of Mist

Chapter 5

We lay down to sleep for the rest of the afternoon, for it would be a long night; Brother Finán expected that our foes would attempt to perform the spell at midnight. We broke bread upon waking, and then set off for Cronk Keeill Eoin. The sun was setting when we arrived and made our way to the mound.

I had visited the Thing two years before, but not since. The place had looked very different then, for there had been crowds of people, and pedlars selling their wares, and the king come to hear the petitions of the people; also it had been a bright day in midsummer. Now it was getting dark, and there was no one about. Some sheep grazed on Tynwald field, but there was no sign of a shepherd, for he would be tucked away at home. No Manx man would be out and about after dark on Oie Voaldyn. There was a tholtan a little way away, but no sign of light from within. The priest’s little dwelling, close by the church, stood likewise silent.

The mound was made of four circles of earth, piled one on top of each other, each smaller than the one below. We left our horses tied to the nearest bush, walked to the mound, and climbed up to the top to survey the area. This was where the king would sit when the Thing was in session, and where the undead king would perform the sacrifice described in the prophecy, or so we guessed.

I scowled at the trees and bushes at the edges of the field, for they seemed much closer than in my memory, and offered cover for the dearg-dul to creep close upon us. “What say you, Brother Finán? Shall we stand atop the mound as if it were a hill fort, and deny it to the dearg-dul, or should we rather take ourselves off to hide and await them, and then fall upon them once they are here?”

Brother Finán rubbed his hand across his shaven pate and lowered his brows in thought. “The moon is waning, and I will be able to see but little once it is fully dark. We must light a fire to shed some light, and that would give away our presence, and so I think we would be best taking advantage of the height of the mound. Let us find some secure place for our horses and then we must prepare for battle.”

The priest’s house was empty, and I doubted that anyone would answer if we went to the tholtan, and so we left the horses in the churchyard tied to a cross. We gathered sticks and built a fire on the field, leaving a pile of wood nearby so that we could rebuild the fire at need, and returned to the mound. I strung my bow, placed arrows sticking point downwards in the earth in easy reach of my hand, and placed my sword where I could quickly snatch it up. We then sat down to await the coming of the dearg-dul.

- - - - -

I looked up at the dark mass of Slieau Whallian. It occurred to me that it was thick with trees, and there was no clear path down which a witch could be rolled in a spiked barrel. I said as much to Brother Finán, and he laughed. “If there has been such a punishment for a witch on your island my books do not record it,” he told me. “I think this is just a story for children.”

“I heard the tale from my grandmother,” I said. “She told me many stories, such as the tale of Fin Mac Cooil and the Buggane, and I know that to be just a story, for I slew a Buggane and it was not at all like the one in the tale. Yet I believed her about the witch, and I was full of much fear when I discovered my new strength, for I thought I would be called a witch and sentenced to the spiked barrel. Still, it would be best to not make too much display of my strength, I think.”

“I agree,” he nodded. “It is wise not to draw too much attention to yourself.” He did not speak further on the subject, and we sat in silence for a time.

“Brother Finán,” I said a little later, “we are here alone, just the two of us, waiting to face an unknown number of monsters. Would it not have been wise to gather some others to assist us? I was growing somewhat nervous, sitting in the dark, waiting for the adversaries to fall upon us.

“If only it were as simple as that,” Brother Finán replied. “Think, child. What would have happened had you gone to, for instance, your young man Fynlo’s father? Would he have sent warriors without question? How long would it have taken to convince him of the need to act? And even once convinced, would he not have forbidden you to accompany his men?”

“Probably,” I conceded. “I am but a girl, and pure Manx at that, not Norse. Not a shield-maiden. They would have sent me home to bed and gone to deal with the dearg-dul themselves.”

“And they would die,” Brother Finán said flatly. “The dearg-dul are stronger than mortal men. Even a woman rises from her grave as a match for any living warrior, and one who was in life a warrior is a deadly foe indeed. Only you have the strength, the skill, to stand against them.”

“A few men to guard my back would not go amiss,” I said.

“I know, but it would not happen like that,” he told me, and there was regret in his voice. “My biggest fear, however, is that you would be betrayed. It has happened before. The Slayer has been sold into the hands of her enemies by those she sought to protect, whether out of fear or through hope of gain. In this case, when we know that the living man Halfdan is allied with the undead, it is all too likely.”

I pursed my lips and frowned. Being ordered to stay at home safe in my bed did not seem all that hard a fate at that moment, and I could not believe that any of my people would in truth betray me to the dearg-dul. I stayed silent for a little time, and it was then that I noticed that something was amiss.

“The sheep are disturbed,” I told my Watcher. “See, they are moving away. Something comes.”

- - - - -

They came from the south, from the direction of Slieau Whallian, approaching through the trees. Two figures walked out onto the open field, and I readied the bow. I did not loose, for I worried lest they be living men, but took aim and called out a challenge. “Who is there?” I asked. My voice quavered a little, for I was nervous, and the two figures laughed.

“What is a young girl doing out so late at night, and with a man at that?” one called. His accent was that of a Norseman who had not been born among the Celts. “You are no good girl, and that is welcome, for we are not good men.”

The other one sniffed the air. “Young and fresh,” he announced. “A tasty morsel.” From his accent I guessed he had been born on the island; from his tone I guessed that he had ill purpose in mind.

They came closer, smiling, and I began to feel a strange tickle in my stomach. Suddenly I knew that they were dearg-dul, knew it beyond all doubt, and I loosed my first shaft. While it was still in the air I snatched up another arrow and drew back the bow again. The first arrow struck, hitting my target in the middle of his chest, and he cried out in pain. The other spun to face him and watched as the first crumbled into dust. It was a strange sight, and had Brother Finán not warned me I think that I too might have been frozen by surprise, but I kept my head and loosed a second shaft. My aim was true and the other dearg-dul turned to dust in his turn.

I was exultant. Two slain with two shafts! “Yes!” I cried out in my joy, and looked to the edge of the field where another three figures were emerging from a clump of bushes. I took up another arrow and nocked it, but before I could draw back the bow they had fled back the way they had come.

“They have seen your bow, and they fear it,” Brother Finán said. “Well done, Bahey, but do not become overconfident, for these were men who have fought in battle in life, and they will not lightly throw themselves into the path of your arrows.”

I recovered my composure. “I shall use my bow when I can, and I shall have my sword close to hand for when they come close,” I assured him, and watched out for movement. There was less than half a moon but between that and the light from the fire I could see well enough. I saw branches move, and heard leaves rustle, and I believed that the dearg-dul were preparing to attack me. My hearing was keen, and I could tell that they were talking, but I could not make out the words. The movement and talking went on for several minutes and the waiting became irksome.

Brother Finán saw that I was fidgeting and spoke soothingly. “Do not be discontent, for this works to our advantage. As long as we hold this mound they cannot conduct their ritual.”

“I know; but with them there I cannot keep the fire supplied with wood. It burns low, and – aha!”

They were moving, coming out from the bushes. A dozen of them, close together in a wedge formation, and some of them bore shields. Brodir formed the point of the wedge, a beard-axe in his hands, his coat of mail covering his chest.

I loosed at him nonetheless, more in hope than in expectation, and although my arrow pierced the mail it penetrated no great distance. Yet he faltered, slowing in his charge, and clutched at the arrow. The wedge was thrown into confusion; I drew and loosed once more, choosing as my target one who bore no shield, and he screamed as the arrow drove deep and turned him to dust. Brodir pulled free the arrow from his chest and came on once more; I caught up another arrow, drew the bow, but then Brother Finán shouted “Bahey! Behind us!” and I spun around.

There were more of them. Another four, in two pairs, coming at us from behind. They must have worked their way around the field and we were being attacked from all sides. I took hasty aim at one, and drove a shaft through his heart, but they were coming on at great speed and I had to snatch up my sword to meet the attack.

Brother Finán raised his staff. One end had been carved to form a sharp point, and he pointed that end towards the smaller group of the dearg-dul, bracing it like a spear. I left him to it and faced the onrushing wedge.

Brodir was upon me first, his axe held high for a mighty blow. Before it could descend I made good use of my position atop the mound and kicked him in the face with all my power. He flew backwards and tumbled down the earthen steps, taking two others of his party with him in his fall, and I took advantage of the disruption to slash neck-high at another. My blade took off his head like barley falling before the sickle. The body toppled and smashed into dust as it hit the ground; the head blew away like smoke as it was still in the air. I punched with my other hand, my fist clutched around the bow, and struck an attacker in the face as he was about to swing a sword. He toppled from the mound, and I swung the sword again, shearing the hand from another. The injured dearg-dul staggered away, crying out, and clutching the stump of his arm.

Fierce joy filled me. I shouted out a wordless battle-cry and struck once more. Another foe lost his head and went down to dusty death. Then a hand clamped down upon my sword-arm from behind, holding it fast, and I wrestled frantically to free myself.

I turned towards the one who had grappled me. I made to strike him with my free hand, but a hand clasped that arm too, and then another. I could see that Brother Finán was on his knees on the ground, his staff fallen, blood smearing his head. I kicked out sideways, striking the knee of the dearg-dul who held my sword arm, and the blow was a good one. His leg bent sideways in a way that no leg was meant to bend, and he fell with a cry of pain, but he did not release his grip upon my arm.

My leg was seized and held. Other hands closed upon my other leg and raised it from the ground. I was trapped, helpless, lifted into the air by my legs and arms, and although I struggled mightily I could not free myself.

Brodir stood it front of me with his axe raised. “This one will make a fine sacrifice,” he declared. “We can eat the other girl, for we need her not.”

“Wait!” another voice called in tones of command. Brodir frowned, but lowered his axe. “Remember what Halfdan said,” the new voice continued. “Your armour must be spread out atop the mound before the sacrifice is made, and he must be here to say the words of power.”

“True,” Brodir agreed, and lowered his axe.

“Also,” the other continued, “we have a better use for this girl than a sacrifice. She is a Slayer.” The accent of this one was strange to me. Not the same as the Manx Norsemen, but also not like that of Egil or the old Norsemen. His voice was guttural, harsh and flat, without the lilting rhythm that was in the tongues I knew.

“A Slayer?” Brodir echoed his words, his frown growing deeper.

“A mystic warrior. A girl filled by the Gods with the strength to fight our kind. There is but one at any time, and I have never seen a Slayer before, but it is said that their blood is the sweetest taste of all, and full of power. Better she be a meal than a sacrifice.”

“I can think of yet another use for her,” another spoke up. “She is uncommonly pretty and I think a virgin still. She would make good sport before we drink her blood.”

I tried again to free myself, without success, and was filled with great fear. From this position I could no longer see Brother Finán, but I heard him cry out “No!” and then heard the thud of a blow, and heard him groan in pain.

They had not yet taken the sword from my hand; I tried to swing it to strike my captors, but with my arm held still I could move the blade only with my wrist, and I could make no contact. I ceased my struggles for the moment, as they were gaining me naught, and panted for breath. There was a strong smell of smoke, and I assumed that the wind had changed and was blowing the smoke from our fire towards us.

“I know this girl, she is Bahey Dhone from Keeill Braddan near Dubhghlais,” one of the dearg-dul spoke up. “Fynlo Asmundson was courting her, and others wished to, for she is a great beauty. Should we not make her into one of us?” This must be someone who I knew in his life, but I could not recognise him for his face was much changed. His forehead was swollen with bumps and ridges, his nose was too high, and his mouth was full of fangs. The thought of being turned into such a creature filled me with such horror that I felt almost as if I was going to vomit.

“Siring a Slayer is said to bring bad luck,” the one with the unfamiliar accent told him. “Let us wait for Halfdan before we do anything we cannot undo.”

“I would see her breasts,” said the one who knew my name, and he approached me, licking his lips. He reached out his hands to me; I clenched my teeth, for I would not give him the satisfaction of a scream. Something moved behind him. I believed it to be another dearg-dul, or perhaps Halfdan arriving to join the undead warriors who seemed to hold him in some authority, and took little notice. There was a flare of light, but I paid it no heed, for hands were groping at my clothing.

Suddenly my molester screamed and staggered back clutching at himself. Flames were licking up his back. A tall figure leaped forward and struck out with a burning brand, hitting the one who held my left hand. More flames leaped up, and my arm was free. I still held the bow; I brought my arm across and slashed with the bow-stave, aiming at the face of the one who held my sword-arm, and I smote him across the nose. He yelled and let go of my arm.

My legs were still held at the height of a man’s waist, and once my arm was released my body fell backwards until the top of my head struck the ground. My skirts slid over my legs, displaying all of me to the eyes of the dearg-dul, but I could not be concerned about that for now. I slashed the sword across at ground level and hit the ankle of one of my captors. My Rhenish blade clove through leather and through bone and crippled him. He let go of my leg as he fell.

Now I lay on my back upon the ground, one dearg-dul holding my left ankle but otherwise I was unimpeded, and I waved the sword above me to keep back my foes. With my free leg I kicked hard to the knee of my last captor, sending him off balance, and I drew back my left leg then thrust it out again. He shot backwards off the top of the mound and I was free.

I rolled and came to my feet quickly as my Watcher had taught me. A foot drove into my ribs as I did so but I took no serious harm. I swung the sword in a wide circle round myself to keep back my foes as I sized up the situation.

Brother Finán lay on the next to top step of the mound, curled up and clutching his belly, groaning in pain. A dearg-dul stood over him, sword in hand, eyes fixed on me.

My rescuer with the burning brand was himself now in dire danger. Brodir had hold of the arm that held the brand, and they were wrestling, and the human was getting the worst of it. There were foes behind him and one was taking hold of him by the neck even as I looked. I recognised the man who had freed me, and my heart gave a leap; he was Egil the Icelander.

I sprang to his aid. There was no way to strike at Brodir with my sword, as his body was protected by the mail coat and his head was too close to Egil’s arm, and so I brought my blade down upon the one who had seized Egil from behind. At the same time I kicked Brodir hard in the side and knocked him from the mound top for a second time.

Egil managed to pull his arm free from Brodir’s grip and was not dragged down with him, but he dropped the firebrand and it bounced off down the side of the mound. Alas it did not fall near enough to Brodir to set him aflame, nor to any others of the dearg-dul, and Egil was left weaponless for the moment.

I sensed motion behind me and spun, bringing up my bow-stave to protect my head, and cutting across with the sword at waist level. One of my foes was swinging a sword at my head. My bow blocked his cut, but in so doing his blade severed my bowstring, and the bow sprang back into its unstrung position with such speed and force that it snapped. I cried out in surprise, and in anger that I had lost my weapon of great worth, but I wasted no time on regrets and instead I stabbed the jagged end of the broken bow into the chest of the dearg-dul who stood over Brother Finán. I jumped to my fallen Watcher and hauled him to his feet, heeding not his cry of pain, for if he stayed there he would die. I dragged him with me as I ran back towards Egil.

Egil had drawn a long knife from his belt, a good enough weapon against men but of little use against the dearg-dul. He stabbed one in the stomach, but it only grunted and struck back, punching the Icelander in the head. Egil staggered but kept his feet and stabbed again.

A new foe loomed close to me and chopped down at my head with an axe. I had no time to parry the blow, and so I went in under his strike, avoiding the blade but not the haft. It hit me on the shoulder and my left arm went numb. I could no longer hold onto Brother Finán and he sprawled onto the ground.

The dearg-dul clutched for me with his other hand and bared his fangs. We were too close for sword-work, and so I brought up my knee hard between his legs, and then drove my forehead into his face with all my might. He reeled backwards, dropped his axe, lost his footing, and rolled away down the mound. “Egil!” I shouted. “Help Brother Finán!”

He backed away from his attacker and moved to assist my Watcher, as I had asked, and I leaped to take his place. I slashed my blade across the legs of the dearg-dul and tumbled him to the ground, and then chopped down at his neck and turned him into dust.

Egil took up the axe that had struck my shoulder, swung it to drive back an approaching undead warrior, and helped Brother Finán to rise. I looked around. I counted but eight of the dearg-dul remaining, and two of those were on the ground clutching at grievous wounds. Could I win against six?

For a moment I was tempted to try. I had slain more than that many already; Egil had come to my assistance and he now wielded a beard-axe, and together we might prevail. Yet Brother Finán was helpless, I had but one working arm, and the enemy included Brodir in his mail coat. He had not charged back up the mound but was gathering the dearg-dul together. They would come upon us all at once. Could I defeat them and also protect my Watcher?

Before I could come to a decision a new element came into play. More figures emerged from the bushes and approached across the field. Six of them. One was a captive, a young girl with her hands tied behind her back, and she was being hustled along by a tall man. Another girl walked freely, and from what I could see of her face in the poor light I guessed her to be one of the dearg-dul. Two of the others could have been human or undead, but they bore weapons, and one held a bow. The other was Halfdan.

I knew then that this battle was lost.

- - - - -

We fled. Egil carried Brother Finán across his shoulders; I went behind guarding the rear, wielding the axe, my sword sheathed. We reached the priest’s dwelling unmolested and made our way inside.

The priest was not there. It was dark in the house but we found the bed and laid Brother Finán down. There was a turf-fire burning low in the hearth; Egil blew on it, and fed it with twigs, and brought it up to a flame. With that light to guide us we were then able to find the priest’s store of rush-lights and we lit two. They shed enough light for us to see to tend to Brother Finán’s hurts.

He had been struck on the head, and there was a cut running from under his hair to half-way down his shaven forehead, but it was not deep. Egil examined it and said that the skull was not damaged. Brother Finán had also been kicked in the chest and stomach, and there was much bruising, and it hurt him to breathe. I feared that his ribs were cracked. There was little that we could do to ease his pain, but at least it seemed he was in no danger of death.

“What of you?” he asked me, wheezing as he spoke. “Your left arm hangs limp, and you use it not; what hurts have you taken?”

“I was struck upon the shoulder with the haft of an axe,” I told him. “Do not concern yourself; for I will heal, as you have told me, and the pain is not so great that I cannot bear it.”

“Yet if you have a broken bone it must be supported lest it heal out of place,” he cautioned me, and sat up. At the motion he groaned with pain and fell back again. “This young man must tend to you.” He paused to cough. “My thanks for your aid, sir, for it was timely indeed. What is your name?”

“I am Egil Thorfinnson,” the Icelander announced, “I fought at the battle of Clontarf and was forced to flee from the field. My ship was overrun by the Irish and I had to swim for my life, losing my sword to the waves, until I reached a Manx longship. I met Bahey in Purt-ny-Hinshey, a few days ago, and you were also there.”

“Ah, yes, the young man who followed Bahey home,” Brother Finán said with a smile. “Glad I am that you did.”

“And you followed us here tonight, did you not?” I asked Egil.

“Not followed, I think I was here before you,” he revealed. “You told me you were to spend the night here, in the company of another man, and I was curious and came to watch over you. When you had not arrived by nightfall I sought shelter at a little farm house, but they would not let me in, and I found a place to sleep in a storehouse full of turnips and straw. I woke to the distant noise of battle and heard your voice, and I ran to your aid, snatching up a brand from a fire in lieu of better weapon. You know the rest.”

“Curious? I think you were jealous, although you have no right,” I chided him gently. “Yet I cannot be displeased, for you saved me from death at the very least.”

“Your shoulder, Bahey,” Brother Finán reminded me.

I put my hand to the clasp of my cloak and then hesitated, and I felt a blush come to my face, for I would have to reveal much of my body to the eyes of Egil if he were to examine my hurts. The clasp was a gift from Fynlo, and as I remembered that it made me even more loath to show myself. “It is not modest to display myself to a young man,” I said. “I can wait until you are well enough to tend to me, Brother Finán.”

“No, Bahey, you can not, for you will heal much faster than will I, and you risk your shoulder healing out of place,” he said firmly. “You must allow this Egil to aid you, whether it be modest or no.”

“I have seen more of you than is fit already,” Egil mumbled, not meeting my eyes. “Those men held you with your legs up, and your skirts fell before you freed yourself, and even a husband could see no more.”

My face was suddenly as hot as if it were burning. “You should not have looked!” I told him, and my voice was a squeak.

“I am sorry,” he told me. “I know I should not have stared, and indeed it would have been better had I not, for it was as I was distracted that the man in the bright mail coat seized hold of my arm. But I could not help myself.”

“You should not have looked,” I repeated.

“Your modesty does you credit, Bahey,” Brother Finán put in, “but you must put it aside. I am too bruised and sore to tend to you myself, and it must be done, for you must be fit to fight again as soon as possible. We are all in deadly peril.”

“Very well,” I said reluctantly, and unfastened my cloak. I lowered my garments to expose my shoulder, but held them up with my right arm so that I did not reveal my breasts. Egil came to me, his face red, and looked closely at the injured region.

There was much bruising, mottled red and purple, and it looked so bad that I was surprised that I had felt so little pain. Egil touched my shoulder, his hands firm but gentle, and I felt a sudden agony and could not hold back a cry. He supported my arm, and pressed gently on my shoulder, and the pain eased.

“There is a broken bone, I think,” he told Brother Finán. “I shall make a sling, for the arm must be supported, but it will be weeks before it is healed enough for battle.”

“Days,” my Watcher said. “Perhaps as soon as tomorrow night. If not, then the day after.”

Egil raised his eyebrows. “I know injuries, for I have long trained for war, and in truth it will be weeks.”

“I think the time has come for you to hear of the Slayer,” Brother Finán told him. “Bahey, put your clothes in order, for we must leave this place soon. They will come for us once their ritual is done, I fear, and I doubt we could defend this house long in our present state.”

“They cannot enter without an invitation,” I pointed out, for I was weary and had no wish to ride home that night.

“Halfdan is human,” he reminded me, “and he has warriors in his service. Also they could set fire to the thatch and burn us out. No, we must get ourselves gone. Egil, find something to serve as a sling, and whilst you are tending to Bahey I will tell you her secret and teach you of the creatures that we fight. We call them dearg-dul, but your people know them as the draugr.”

Brother Finán’s voice grew stronger as he talked, and Egil listened soberly as he worked. I replaced my clothing before he positioned the sling, for I was not going to ride with my breasts unclad, even in the dark of the night. By the time Egil was satisfied that my arm was well supported, and had finished tying the knot, he had heard enough to understand most of what was going on.

“I could tell when first I set eyes upon you that you were a most remarkable girl,” he told me admiringly. “I was more right than I knew.”

I was pleased, and smiled, although I could see that there would be trouble ahead if – when – Fynlo returned. My thoughts were interrupted by a sound in the distance.

A scream of agony and death.

They had sacrificed the girl. She was dead and I had not saved her. “They have made their sacrifice,” I said, and my words tasted bitter in my mouth. I had failed in my task.

“You can hear them?” Egil asked, surprise on his face, and I realised that my hearing was keener than theirs.

“She can hear them,” Brother Finán confirmed, his face grave. “She is the Chosen One, and has powers beyond those of mortal men.”

Then came there a sound that both men could hear without trouble, for there was a great clap of thunder, and after that a roar as of many voices crying out in triumph.

“The ritual is complete,” my Watcher said, and climbed from the bed. “To the horses. We must ride for our lives.”

Continued in CHAPTER SIX

The Cloak of Mist; Chapter Four

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Fri, 06 Jul 2007 00:31:15 GMT

Tynwald Day is now over in the Isle of Man but I shall continue to post my Manx Slayer story ‘The Cloak of Mist’. We are at the half-way point now; Part 4, rating still PG-13 (although it will go up to R later).

The Cloak of Mist

Chapter 4

For all that I knew that my dream might be a prophecy, or a glimpse of things that had happened beyond my sight, I still put it aside the next morning, and I did not mention it to Brother Finán at first. I asked him if I might look at his mirror, and he smiled and brought it for me. It was a contrivance of marvellous design, with glass set into metal in some cunning fashion, and the reflection was clearer by far than in any of the bronze mirrors that I had seen.

“It was made by the Romans, long ago, and is of great value,” he told me. “It is a tool of our work, and should not be used just for a woman’s vanity; yet you are a young girl, and it is spring, and I shall allow it.”

I stared into the glass. My skin was clear, my eyes were dark, and my lashes were long. My lips were full, my nose was without flaw, and my face was indeed as pretty as that of any of the other girls that I knew, or more so. I was lovelier than Ealish, or Bahey Bane, or Sorcha of Laxey who had twelve suitors. “I am well content,” I declared, and returned the mirror to Brother Finán.

Now that my curiosity was satisfied I moved to more serious matters, and I told him about my dream. Dead men had climbed from graves, and seized a young man and a woman, and plunged sharp teeth into their necks and drank the blood from the wounds. Then they had carried off a young woman of perhaps my own age, and bore her away to a burial mound, and King Brodir had climbed forth from the mound and feasted likewise upon the throat of the maiden, and then all the dead had run away together into the hills.

Brother Finán’s face became grave as he listened. “It seems the foretold danger is indeed at hand,” he said, frowning. “The shipload of the dead that the man called Halfdan brought across must have been infected with the blood of the dearg-dul. They will rise from their graves and prey upon the living, and will seek to turn the living into dearg-dul to create more of their kind.” He rested his chin upon his hand and sat for a moment deep in thought. “I wonder, is your dream a prophecy, or a vision of things that have taken place? We must go forth and listen for news, and we should seek out this Halfdan.”

“And visit the burial mound of King Brodir,” I suggested, and he nodded agreement. “It is well that you bought us horses.”

- - - - -

We went to Purt-ny-Hinshey first. Halfdan’s ship was gone from the harbour; it had sailed to Hramsá, we were told, or perhaps to Dubhghlais, or to Olig. We knew that it was not in Dubhghlais, from whence we had come, and it became clear to us that in truth no man knew its true destination. Nor was it clear where Halfdan resided, for each man who thought he knew told a different tale to the next.

There were but few who would even bother to answer our questions, for the people of the town were all agog with a more serious concern. There had been a murder, of a young maiden, and a boatman was missing. The word was that he had slain the maid and fled, and yet some were inclined to disbelieve this, for the girl had died by a wound in her throat like unto the bite of an animal.

“We are too late,” Brother Finán said to me. “Your dream was of things as they came to pass, not of the future, and the dearg-dul rose last night.”

“Including our late king,” I agreed. “His mound is on St Patrick’s Isle, and the boatman must have been forced to carry the other creatures and their captive across to meet him, and then to bear them away.”

“And they will have fed from the boatman, and perhaps turned him into a creature like themselves,” Brother Finán said gloomily. “The danger is upon us indeed. I had hoped we would have had a little more time, for it is tonight that is the night of ill omen, and I thought that is when the dearg-dul would have arisen.”

“I had forgotten,” I replied. “Yes, tonight is Oie Voaldyn. Easter was late this year, and it had not struck me how soon it would be upon us. My grandmother will be making crosses from twigs of the cuirn and tying them above the door tonight.”

“The customs of your people are similar to those of mine,” Brother Finán said, nodding his head. “Yes, tonight is a night when evil will be abroad. Yet this is perhaps a good thing for us, for the crosses of rowan twigs will serve well as protection. The dearg-dul cannot enter a dwelling without an invitation, and even if they trick their way into a house the crosses may hold them at bay. I would guess few of your people would willingly leave their homes tonight, and the creatures may find themselves without prey.”

“I pray you are right.” I smiled briefly, but then a fresh thought struck me and I frowned once more. “Not all of the Norse among us have chosen to follow Christ. There are still those who follow their own gods, and they do not put crosses above their doors, nor do they see tonight as a night of evil. There may be victims for the dearg-dul after all.”

“It is our task to save them,” Brother Finán announced, and then groaned. “But how? We do not know where the dearg-dul are, and it would be fruitless to ride hither and thither across the island hoping to stumble upon them by good fortune. Was there naught in your dream to give a clue?”

I recounted the dream to him once more, with every detail I could remember, until he stopped me. “Wait,” he ordered. “You say King Brodir was wearing his coat of mail?”

“He was,” I confirmed.

“Strange, for such a thing would have great value, and it could be rightly claimed as recompense for the slaying of the High King,” he mused. “You are certain?”

“I am,” I said firmly. “You are right; it would have been taken as weregild for King Brian Boru’s death. Yet see it I did.”

His brow furrowed. “Perhaps Wolf thought it to be ill omened, for indeed it brought your king no good fortune. Were it not for the armour Brodir would have died a clean death as a hero rather than being taken alive and put to death as a murderer. Wolf may have sent it back to be buried with the fallen king. Yet why would Halfdan, who we now suspect to be a villain, not have taken it for himself? The armour is ancient, from before the coming of the Norse to Mann; yet still bright, not corrupted by rust. I sense magic.”

“It is said that it was made by Manannan Mac Lir himself,” I informed him.

“If so then it will bear the traces of strong magic. There may be a way that I can detect those traces at a distance and follow the trail until we find the wearer. I must consult my books.”

- - - - -

I was of but little assistance in searching his texts; in fact I was a hindrance, for I had to say each letter aloud as I read, and I distracted Brother Finán so much that he sent me home with instructions to concoct a story that would explain an overnight absence. I remembered that Halfdan had departed from Purt-ny-Hinshey in the direction of Cronk Keeill Eoin, and I thought it likely that our expedition that night would take us to that vicinity, and so I told my family that Brother Finán and I would be staying with the priest there for the night.

My tale was met with suspicion, for I had been seen in the company of Egil the Icelander, and word had got back to my parents. They feared that my night would be spent with him, rather than with holy men, and my denials fell on deaf ears at first. I had to return to the keeil and bring back my Watcher before they would believe me, and I was angered by their distrust, for I had always behaved properly. Never had I given them cause to doubt my virtue, nor had I lied to them; save only when I had told them that we were staying with the priest at Keeill St Connaghyn when I had in truth been fighting the Buggane, and that had been on the instructions of Brother Finán.

I was angry as I set out to get Brother Finán, and that anger grew hotter when I encountered Egil on the way. “I told you I would not speak to you again,” I said to him. “Why, then, do you continue to pursue me?”

“This is a chance meeting, Bahey Dhone,” he replied. “I did not know that you would pass this way. I am gathering wood in return for a meal, for I have no great store of coin, and I must make my way by menial tasks until I can win a position in a household. Yet I count this a good day, for I am glad to see you even if your words are harsh.”

“They will remain harsh while hope yet remains for Fynlo to return,” I reminded him.

“What if he returns safe, but has married Queen Gormlaith?” Egil asked, his mouth turning up in a smile.

My anger melted away and I laughed. “It is unlikely, for he was one of the few men at the battle who had not been promised her hand,” I replied, with a smile of my own. “You have a ready tongue, Egil of Iceland, and you are not unpleasing to the eye. Had I met you before I promised myself to Fynlo who knows what might have been?”

It struck me that he would not know that Oie Voaldyn was a night of ill omen, and he might wander out of doors, where he might be set upon by the dearg-dul. “This night I shall spend at the church at Cronk Keeill Eoin, and so you shall not happen upon me again. Stay indoors tonight, Egil, for the night before May Day is an evil night, and the faerie folk and other evil creatures are at large.”

“I fear no troll or like creature,” he said with the confidence of a warrior. “Yet I shall indeed stay indoors, for I do not know my way around in the dark. What place is Cronk Keeill Eoin?”

“The site of our Thing,” I explained. “There will be a great meeting there at midsummer, but otherwise it is a quiet spot; unless the Thing is called early to debate the matter of who shall be king in Brodir’s place. There is little there except the church, and the mound on which the Thing meets, but it is my teacher’s will that we stay there tonight. Now get you gone, for my family have been told of your pursuit of me, and they are not well pleased.”

“I shall go; but I will see you again, Bahey Dhone,” he declared, and departed.

- - - - -

Brother Finán was deep in thought when I returned, his attention firmly fixed upon a book, and he gestured me to silence when I began to speak. I went out into the enclosure that surrounded the keeil and practiced with my sword while I waited for him to finish. At length he came out and explained to me why he had been so engrossed.

“There is a curious prophecy within one of my texts,” he revealed. “Perhaps you can shed light upon it, for you know more of this island than do I.” He beckoned me into the keeil, and began to read aloud.

“When the King of the Dead walks amongst the living
And grief lies heavy upon the families of Mann
Then shall the Dead King take his mail coat
The armour of Manannan
Marred not by time nor blow of axe
And lay it over all the soil of Mann.
Blood shall flow
Sacrifice be made
Words of power spoken
There at the heart.
Manannan shall respond
The Cloak of Mist he shall send out
To lie over all things
Cloud and fog hiding all
Shutting out the light of the sun
Friend turned foe.
Then shall the dead walk freely in the light
The living their cattle
All shall be in their dominion
Save only for the Chosen.”

A chill crept over me as he read. “The King of the Dead must mean Brodir,” I said. “As to the rest – you have told me that the dearg-dul can go forth only by night, for the light of the sun is deadly to them, but what if there is cloud and fog?”

Brother Finán shook his head. “I fear that it would give protection enough. The creatures would not normally sally forth by day, even in foul weather, for if a wind sprang up and dispersed the clouds they would perish. If magic held the mists in place, however, they need have no such fears, and could walk by day as freely as do we.”

“An end to sunshine,” I said gloomily. “Bleak and sad would the island be in such case, with naught but fog and rain, and monsters seeking to drain the blood of the unwary. We must stop them.”

“We must indeed,” Brother Finán agreed, “but how? If there is a clue in this prophecy as to where we must go, it eludes me. Is there some place especially linked to Manannan Mac Lir?”

“The mountain of South Barrule,” I told him, but something else was at the edge of my mind.

“Then that is where we must go,” my Watcher declared.

“Wait!” I spoke up. “Repeat the prophecy to me, for I think I have the answer.” He did as I asked, but I stopped him after a few lines. “And lay it over all the soil of Mann,” I repeated. “There is but one place where one could lay down a coat of mail and have it cover all the soil of Mann and that is at Cronk Keeill Eoin. The mound where the Thing is held was made with soil from each sheading of the island. Tynwald Hill.”

“I think you have the right of it,” Brother Finán said approvingly. “The meeting place of your parliament could be said to be the heart of your island, as Tara of the Kings is to Ireland, and a ritual at such a site would have great power. That, then, is where we shall go, and tonight. Evil is at its strongest on May Day Eve.”

“And,” I said with a grin on my face, “this means that I will have told no lie to my parents after all.”

Continued in CHAPTER FIVE

The Cloak of Mist; Chapter Three

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Thu, 05 Jul 2007 21:48:13 GMT

Continuing my Tynwald Day posting of ‘The Cloak of Mist’. Here is Part 3, rating still PG-13 (although it will go up to R later).

Summary: The Isle of Man, 1014 AD, a mixed Celtic and Viking community. In the aftermath of the slaughter at the Battle of Clontarf, with the islanders mourning their dead and anxious for the missing, a new Slayer must face a horde of undead Vikings to free the island from a dreadful curse.

The Cloak of Mist

Chapter 3

We heard the first rumours late on Easter Sunday, and on Monday I sat on a hill watching the sea, my heart in my mouth the whole time. Brother Finán gave up any attempt to continue my training, for my attention was on only one thing, and he sat with me and watched. The day was cool, and a thin mist hung over the waves, and a light drizzle of rain fell to dampen my clothes and also my spirits.

In the afternoon I saw masts out to sea. The mist shrouded them at first and I could not make out which ships they were, nor how many, but as they drew closer they became clear to me. Three ships, when there had been four from this sheading that had set out for Ireland, and not all the oars were manned.

I flew down to the harbour to await their coming. Brother Finán followed behind more slowly; but I was far in advance of the arrival of the ships, and by the time they came into the bay he had joined me. Others clustered there too, wives and mothers and sweethearts and children, anxious for their loved ones. Many of us were to have our fears confirmed.

A full half of the men who had set off had not returned. Many of those who came ashore were wounded to greater or lesser extent. Fynlo’s father Asmund was there, a bloody wound in his sword-arm bound about with rags. Olav, elder than Fynlo by two years, had great bruising about his face and had lost teeth, but he was there and alive. Of Fynlo’s eldest brother Loghlin there was no sign; nor could I see Fynlo.

I could have thrust my way through the crowd and reached Fynlo’s father before all others but I did not. I had the strength but not the right, as I was not a wife nor yet betrothed; Fynlo and I were in but the early stages of courtship. I hung back as Loghlin’s wife went to her father-in-law, talked with him, and then was folded in his embrace as she sobbed bitterly.

Ealish was there, as anxious as was I, but then she saw her man and joy came over her face. She ran to Markys and flung her arms around him, making him wince in pain for he was not unscathed, but he returned her hug and smiled. I was glad for them, yet to my shame I hated them too, for she had her man and mine was not there, and she had told me that she did not love Markys. I cast aside that unworthy thought; for her joy was not that of a woman who thought that her man would ‘do well enough’, and perhaps his absence and the worry for him had given greater depth to her feelings.

I hung back, full of fear and doubt, glad of Brother Finán’s hand upon my shoulder, until Asmund caught sight of me and beckoned me over.

“You are Machonn Kinvig’s lass, are you not, the girl that Fynlo is courting?”

“I am, sir,” I replied. “Bahey Kinvig.” My voice broke. “Is – tell me – is Fynlo – slain?”

His expression was sombre. “The news is not the worst, Bahey, but not good. Not slain, I think, but taken by the Irish. He fell stunned, perhaps wounded, and was overrun. We were driven back and could not reach him. Keep up your hopes, lass,” he urged me. “Fynlo told me you are a girl of spirit, and brave. Do not despair.”

“I confess I do not feel brave now,” I told him. I managed to hold back the tears for but a moment. “I want Fynlo to come back to me,” I sobbed.

Asmund took hold of me, and held me to his chest, and his beard fell about my face. “Courage, lass. I have left word that I will ransom him. If he is still alive we shall get him back.”

I held him for a moment, recovering my composure, and then released him. “Forgive me, for you have grief and trouble enough, and I would not add to it.”

“Indeed I have great grief, for I have lost one son, but there is still hope for Fynlo. Hold on to that hope, Bahey Dhone, and I shall send word as soon as news comes from Ireland.”

“I thank you,” I said, and drew back. I let him return to his wife and to Loghlin’s wife, now a widow, for great as was my worry and grief their need for comfort was yet greater.

Brother Finán came to my side. “I heard,” he told me. “There is good reason for hope, for a captive has value and a dead man has none, therefore they will ransom him if they can. Let us gather what news we may.”

- - - - -

We were just two of many seeking news. We talked to those who were willing, and heard part of the story of the battle; and the next day we travelled to Olrig and to Purt-ny-Hinshey and there we heard more.

We did not learn who had won the battle, for it seemed no-one knew. Brodir’s men had not won, for many were slain and the rest driven off, and Brodir himself had been taken and it was said that he had been put to death. Jarl Sigurd of Orkney was dead and many of his men too. Sygtrigg of Dublin was alive, it was thought, but most of his men had fallen. King Dunlang of Leinster, whose kingdom had allied with Sygtrigg, had also been slain. For the Norse, then, the battle had gone badly.

Yet it had gone hardly better for the Irish, for Brian Boru had been slain by Brodir, and the sons of Brian Boru had fallen, and many others besides them, and some said that all the kings of Ireland had perished save King Malachi of Meath who had hung back from the battle. Perhaps he had not known on which side to fight; for there were Irish allied with the Norse, and Norse allied with the Irish, and there had been Scots there, and English, and I could make but little sense of it myself.

Ospak of Mann had fought on the Irish side, even though he was kin to Brodir, and he had survived the battle by all accounts. This gave me fresh hope for Fynlo, for Ospak would no doubt do what he could to recover Manx prisoners, and if Fynlo had indeed survived there was a good chance he could be ransomed.

There were men in the town that had come over from Ireland that were not Manx men; some from Iceland and some from Norway. They had fled here from the battle, but they thought to stay, for they were landless men and unmarried, and there would be land and wives here and to spare, for grievous were our losses.

One young man from Iceland, by the name of Egil, approached me. His accent was strange to my ears, being like that of the old men among the Norse who had come to Mann as Vikings and had not been born here, but it was not hard to understand him. He was bold in his speech, and forward in his manner, and he openly complimented me on my beauty and asked if I had a young man. I told him about Fynlo, and I saw disappointment upon his face, but he showed courtesy and said he hoped that my man returned to me safely, and he stood back from me. I was not the only girl of marriageable age walking in the town, as there were others seeking news of men who had not returned, and I thought that Egil would turn to those other girls; but he did not. He watched me for some time thereafter, and I knew that there was no other girl as fair as myself in his eyes. It was the way that Fynlo had looked upon me the day that I had pushed him, and I felt a little sad for Egil, for he was a well set up young man and handsome, not unlike Fynlo, and it was a shame if he had fallen for a girl whose heart was already given to another. Yet I was also pleased, for it was pleasant to know that Fynlo was not the only one to think that I was beautiful.

Late in the day a shroud of mist formed over the island. I saw a ship come into the harbour at Purt-ny-Hinshey, hull almost hidden by the mist, and I could hear the crew cursing the fog. A shiver ran down my spine and I felt unease. I told this to Brother Finán, and he decided that we should take a closer look at that ship.

It was full of corpses.

- - - - -

The bodies were those of men slain in the battle, brought back to Mann for burial, and it was a man named Halfdan who had brought them. He was not a man about whom much was known, save only that he had come to the island from England years before, and he had not fought for either side in the battle. We drew near and heard him tell his tale. He said that he had sailed to fight, but had agreed with Ospak that Sygtrigg’s promises could not be trusted, and so he had withdrawn his men from Brodir’s forces. Yet he had not wanted to fight against his fellow Manxmen, and was not a Christian and so had been loath to help the Irish, and therefore had kept his ship offshore and stayed apart from the battle.

This tale met with general approval and understanding, and his deed in bringing back what bodies he could seemed to win him thanks and some measure of honour, yet somehow I felt that something was wrong. I disliked the man on sight and distrusted him. I had no proof that anything was wrong, only a feeling, and so I held my tongue and said nothing of my misgivings save to Brother Finán.

He frowned in thought. “His tale may be true, or it may be that he held back from the battle through simple cowardice, or he may have some darker reason, although I can think not of what that might be. I have been taught that the intuition of a Slayer is to be taken seriously, and he will bear watching, yet to the people of the town you are but a girl and they would not heed your words. You are right to hold your tongue. We shall take note of what he does.”

Halfdan did naught that could be regarded with suspicion. He had a list of the names of those dead men that he had recovered, a score in number, and he caused it to be read out so that their families could claim them for burial. I listened intently, filled with sudden fear lest Fynlo might be amongst them, but there were none that I recognised save one only; he had brought back the body of King Brodir.

Brodir had fallen alive into the hands of the Irish, as had Fynlo, and so again I felt fear for my man; but Brother Finán calmed my fears. Brodir had indeed slain the High King Brian Boru, and the Irish had been greatly angered by this, and so it was no great surprise that they had put our king to death in turn. Fynlo had done no like deed and there would be no such anger against him. I was glad of the reassurance, and my worry eased, and I returned to taking note of the actions of Halfdan.

Brodir’s household took charge of the body of the king and bore it away. The steward gave Halfdan a purse of silver coins as reward for his endeavour. Four others from amongst the corpses were likewise claimed by families from the town. They also gave Halfdan rewards, although of lesser measure, and perhaps this was why he had troubled himself to make a journey with so grim a cargo. He did not seem to me the kind of man who would have done such a thing without hope of reward, although this may have been uncharitable of me, for I knew nothing of him and had only my feelings to guide me.

Halfdan then asked the assistance of the local people to get carts to bear the remaining bodies and, when that had been organised, he and his men set off to transport them to other towns. Brother Finán and I also set off to travel home, for it was late, and it would be well past dark when we got there. We took a different course to the carts and soon lost sight of them. It did occur to me that carts were perhaps not the best way to carry the bodies, for all the towns on the island of any size were next to the sea, and surely it would have been easier to use the ship? Yet there was the mist, thick enough perhaps to be called fog, and perhaps that was explanation enough. I put the matter from my mind and we made the long walk home.

- - - - -

I took up my training again the next day, setting aside my worry over Fynlo, and Brother Finán was pleased with my skills with sword and bow. He was not so impressed by my progress with letters, for once I was sitting down to study my mind began to dwell on other matters once more. He scolded me, and I tried to concentrate, but it was no use. He tried to be stern with me but without success, for I was learning that he was really a kindly man, and he gave up his attempt to discipline me and instead permitted me to go into the town again. “In truth I am glad of the break,” he told me, “for we walked many miles yesterday and I am greatly weary. I shall rest awhile and then seek out a horse that I may purchase.”

I felt no such weariness, but when I thought upon it we had indeed walked a great distance, and it was no surprise that it had tired out Brother Finán. Rather was it odd that it had had no such effect upon me, and I realised that this was due to my powers as the Slayer. I was not only strong, fast, and skilful at the arts of war, but also I did not become fatigued. Being the Chosen One gave me many benefits for which I was greatly thankful.

I went into Dubhghlais town and sought for news of Fynlo, but there was still no word. I listened to more tales of the battle, and heard more about how events had unfolded, but the story shed no fresh light upon his fate.

It was now known what had happened to King Brodir and I heard that tale with interest. Brodir had fought with Wolf the Quarrelsome and had been overmatched. Our king wore a coat of mail that was said to have been made by Manannan Mac Lir himself, and even the mighty strokes of Wolf’s axe had not pierced it, but Brodir was battered and bruised and fled into the woods. He remained there as the Irish gained the upper hand and drove the Manx back towards their ships, and Jarl Sigurd was slain, and King Sygtrigg’s men were driven back towards the gates of Dublin; but then Brodir had emerged from the woods with a few men and attacked the camp of the High King Brian Boru, and had slain King Brian.

Then did Wolf the Quarrelsome race back to the camp, arriving too late to rescue his king, but in time to strike Brodir senseless and take him captive. The Irish were angered by Brodir’s deed, for Brian Boru was an old man, and they called Brodir coward and put him to a slow death. Some had seen Brodir’s body the day before, when he had been brought home on Halfdan’s ship, and they said that his stomach had been cut open. The Irish had tied him to a tree, cut him open, and left him to die.

I felt weak and sick at the thought of it happening to Fynlo. I told myself again that as one of the common soldiery, who had by all accounts acquitted himself well enough but had done no deed like unto the slaying of the High King, there was no especial cause for the Irish to be angered with him and he would in all odds be treated civilly. Even so I was frightened afresh, and I sat down upon a wall to compose my thoughts.

A young man approached and spoke to me. It was Egil the Icelander, and I was surprised to see him here.

“I asked who you were and where I might find you, and I was directed here,” he said with a smile. “Some said you were Bahey Kinvig, and some that you are Bahey Dhone. Tell me, which is your right name?”

“I am Bahey Kinvig; but they call me Bahey Dhone, for that means Bahey the brown-haired, and there is another Bahey who has fair hair, and so they call her Bahey Bane,” I told him. “Why are you following me, Egil? Did I not tell you that I already have a young man?”

He sighed. “I know this is foolish. It was my plan to find a young widow of property. There must be some such on this island after so dreadful a battle. There is nothing for me back in Iceland, for our farm is full of stones and I have three brothers, and here I thought I could win a wife and wealth all at once. Yet when I set eyes upon you all my plans flew from my head and I could think of nothing but your dark eyes and your smile.”

His attentions were not welcome to me, but I could not help but find his words pleasing. “I have no property, Egil of Iceland, and I am already spoken for. Get you gone. Seek out a widow. I could tell you of two such within this town alone.”

He shook his head. “I will not give up so easily. Never have I wanted anything as much as I want to win you. Your man is lost in Ireland. He may return to you, or he may not. Until there is definite news I shall strive to win your favours.”

“You are too soon, Egil,” I said coldly. “Away with you. I shall not speak with you again unless news of Fynlo comes to me and it is not good.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “Very well,” he said at length. “I shall do as you say, for now. Yet you shall hear from me again, Bahey Dhone.”

- - - - -

I frowned as he walked away. A year ago I had not been able to catch the eye of a single boy; yet now there were two handsome young men who thought the sun rose and set with me. Had I changed that much? Was I truly beautiful now, or were Egil’s words, and Fynlo’s before him, only flattery? I knew that the spots that had marred my complexion before were now gone, and that my breasts were larger and my waist more defined, but I did not really know how I compared to other girls. I needed to see myself in a better mirror than a still pool of water.

Brother Finán had a fine mirror, I knew, for he had told me that he carried one to aid in the detection of the dearg-dul for they cast no reflection. I went to seek him out, but he found me first, and the mirror would have to wait for; he had two horses and wanted to teach me to ride. We went out of town to a field of grass, so that if I fell off I should not strike my head upon a stone, and there I kilted up my skirts about my middle and climbed onto the horse. Again I learned quickly. I did fall off twice, and took no hurt in so doing, but before long I could ride as well as Brother Finán, and we were ready in case we needed to travel to far parts of the island in haste.

However, by the time that he was satisfied with my proficiency, it was growing dark and I saw no point in pestering him for the mirror. I fell asleep that night still wondering how pretty I was compared to, for instance, Ealish.

Yet my dreams were not of beauty but were dark and full of death.

Continued in CHAPTER FOUR

The Cloak of Mist; Chapter Two

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Thu, 05 Jul 2007 16:48:32 GMT

Posting for Tynwald Day continued; the second part of ‘The Cloak of Mist’.

The Cloak of Mist

Chapter 2

I fell in with Ealish as I travelled home, and walked with her, glad of the company. She and I had played together as children, and her young man, Markys, was sailing to war with Fynlo. We talked of our men, of course, and our hopes that they would return safe. “You are a lucky girl, Bahey, for your Fynlo is tall and handsome,” she said. “Also, he is fair and you are dark; and so if you tire of him and take a lover the colour of his hair matters not, for Fynlo would always believe any child to be his.”

I was shocked. “How can you say such things? You are not even wed and already you talk about taking a lover!”

She laughed. “I jest, Bahey. I do not love Markys, but he is a good enough man and he will do well enough for me, especially if he returns from Ireland with plunder enough to buy a tholtan as a home for us. Yet if he is slain I will not grieve over much.” She must have seen the pain on my face, for her smile went away. “I fear you are not in the same case as I, and if Fynlo falls your heart will be broken. I am sorry; I should not talk of such things. Come, tell me how it is that you are to be the servant of a holy man? He is wise, it is said, and newly come from Ireland. Has he explained to you how this war has come about? Markys has tried to explain it to me, but I did not understand, and I am not sure he understands it himself. Queen Gormlaith seems to have been promised in marriage to almost every king in Ireland and the Isles, and surely she can not marry them all.”

“She has already married two, or is it three?” I laughed, although in truth her words about Fynlo falling in battle had caused me pain, and I set aside my fears and talked with her about the plots of King Sygtrigg, in so far as I understood them myself.

- - - - -

Brother Finán had been staying with the monks of St Leoc since he arrived on the island, but now he had found a place of his own, an abandoned keeil, and I helped him to carry his belongings from the monastery and then to clean the keeil and make it a fit place for him to live. It was a small hut that had served as home and church for a Culdee, a solitary priest, who had died some years before. It was a little too far from the village, and cruelly exposed to the north wind, and so the next Culdee had built a new keeil closer to the village and this one had lain unused. We mended the thatch, and I swept the floor, and prepared a fire.

“You need not do this, Bahey, for you are not my servant,” Brother Finán said.

“Change of work is rest,” I quoted a Manx proverb. “I am not the girl to be sitting on my hands when there is work to be done.”

“Well, grateful I am that you are such a jewel among women,” he smiled. “Enough of work for now. It is time for you to move on to the next part of your training, the use of the weapons of war.” He went to one of his bundles of possessions and began to unwrap it. It was long and I knew it to be heavy, for I had carried it from the monastery, although the weight had been of little consequence to me. The source of the weight soon became apparent, for from out of the bundle he took two long swords in leather sheaths. He drew one from its sheath and passed it to me.

I looked at it in awe. I had seen few swords close at hand but I still recognised this as a weapon of quality. The blade was bright and sharp, with a pattern within the metal like unto two serpents fighting. “This must have come from the smithy of Culain himself,” I breathed. I held it out at arm’s length and swung it gently, feeling its weight and its balance.

“You handle it as if it were made for you,” Finán said approvingly. “I see that the lore of Slayers that I have been taught is indeed the truth. No, it is not from the smithy of Culain, nor any of the Gaels. It was brought to Ireland by the Lochlannach, but I think it is the work of a Rhenish smith, for their swords are highly prized. It can cut through a sword of bog-iron as if through a wooden bough.” He drew the other sword and held it out himself. “This shall I use. It is a serviceable enough weapon, but not of the same quality.”

“Would that you had given this to me before Fynlo set sail,” I said regretfully, “for although he has a fine axe, his sword is bog-iron like those of which you spoke. Had I given him this sword it could have served him well in the battle.”

“That is why I did not mention it to you before now,” he said coolly, and I glared at him with anger. “It is for none but the Slayer,” he went on. “Yet do not condemn me, for were he to bear this sword the eyes of the Irish champions would be on him, such men as Murchad, or Wolf the Quarrelsome, and he would be slain for sure. Better that he be among the common run of warriors.”

I drew a long breath. “Perhaps you are right,” I agreed reluctantly. “What else do you have hidden within that bundle? A coat of mail?”

“A bow,” he announced, and set down his sword. He completed the unwrapping of the bundle and revealed a bow-stave and a quiver of arrows. “It is cunningly fashioned by the men of Gwynned, and requires great strength to draw, but as a Slayer you have strength enough and to spare. With this you can slay the dearg-dul at a distance, for a shaft of wood through the heart brings certain destruction upon them.”

“So you have told me.” I was eager to learn to use the weapons, and my anger at his hiding the sword from me was beginning to fade. “You have talked much of such creatures, but I have seen none. Neither have I heard of any upon this island. Are they truly more than just a tale to frighten children?”

“Oh, they are real, make no mistake, but do not be eager to make their acquaintance. I greatly fear that you will face them all too soon; or, if not them, some other of the devil’s creatures.” He laid down the bow and picked up his sword once more. “Now, Bahey, are you ready to learn the use of your sword?”

- - - - -

“Mark my words, it can only be a Buggane,” Grandmother declared.

“The Buggane is but a story for children,” my father said, shaking his head. “It must be a dog gone wild.”

“And how could a dog be killing a cow?” Grandmother scoffed. “No, it is the Buggane.” She folded her arms and looked smug.

I hung up my cloak and came to join the gathering, taking up my place beside my brother and sister. “Have I missed news?” I asked.

“A cow has been killed by a wild beast near Keeill St Connaghyn, and your grandmother thinks that it was slain by the Buggane,” Father sniffed.

“Mayhap she is right, for we have no wolves or bears on Mann,” I pointed out. Father scowled, but Grandmother beamed. My heart leaped, although I tried not to show it, for here indeed might be the chance that I hoped for to put my sword to use. It was said that the Buggane was a hairy giant, fierce and with great claws and tusks, that hid in the wild places and came out to steal the stock and, for some reason unknown, to frighten widows.

“It is a dog’s work, I tell you,” Father repeated, and Grandmother spoke again to refute his argument. I did not speak again, only listening to what they said, resolved to repeat it all to Brother Finán the next day.

- - - - -

It would be a fair walk to Keeill St Connaghyn, and we guessed that the Buggane would not stir before dusk, and so I could not depend upon returning home by night. I made up a tale for my family that I was accompanying Brother Finán upon a visit to the priest, and that I would stay the night with the holy men, and they were satisfied. We made our way to the hamlets of that parish, asked directions from those who lived there, and found the field where the cow had been slain. It was near the wetlands of Kiondroghad, a good place for the peat, and my mentor bade me search for prints in the muddy ground.

“I think my grandmother had the right of it, for that is the print of no dog that I have ever seen,” I said, looking at the marks in the soil. My excitement cooled and I felt nervous, for the print was twice the size of that of a man, and the marks of great claws were clear.

“An ogre or troll,” Brother Finán agreed, “and a mighty one at that, to judge by the prints.”

“Or a Phynnodderee with enormous feet for his size,” I jested, although my heart was not in the jest.

“I know not the term,” my Watcher replied, his brows creasing in a frown. “What might that be?”

I told him of the Phynnodderee, the hairy one of the Fairy Folk, who aided lost travellers and watched over the sheep, asking nothing in return but for perhaps a dish of milk.

“Ah, a leprechaun, as we would say in Ireland,” Brother Finán smiled, “although it is not said that our leprechauns are especially hairy. I have never heard of a leprechaun tearing the throat from a cow, nor does this look like the print of one of the little folk, and I think your grandmother was correct. It is the monster that your people call the Buggane, and if it has taken to killing cattle it must be found and stopped. Your first task as the Slayer, Bahey.”

I swallowed to clear my throat and hefted the bundle in which was hidden my sword. “I am ready, Brother Finán,” I said with as much boldness as I could muster.

“Good girl. Now, it went that way, and we shall follow. Lead on.”

- - - - -

The sun had long set when we came upon the Buggane at last. The moon was not far from being full; and I could see as clearly as if it were day, for since I had become the Slayer my eyes were as sharp in the darkness as those of a cat. I saw the Buggane at a distance, lurking in a copse, spying upon a farm. A dead sheep lay at its feet and it was gnawing upon a leg.

Half again the height of a man it was, and broad, and mighty tusks stuck out from its jaws. It saw us and growled. “Woman!” it grunted, raising high the sheep’s leg, and it came out of the copse and advanced towards us.

I say ‘it’, but rather should I say ‘he’, for the Buggane’s maleness was obvious, and became more obvious as he drew nearer. “Careful, Bahey, for it would go ill for you if you should fall alive into its clutches,” Brother Finán cautioned me.

I stared at the creature as I pulled free my sword. “It would indeed. I see now why the tales say he molests mostly widows,” I said, with a little laugh, and then I blushed as I remembered that I was speaking to a man of the cloth. There was no time to say more, for the Buggane was charging forward, and in seconds he was upon me.

I met his charge and swung with my sword, striking at his head, but he parried my blow with the leg of the sheep and took no harm. The blade stuck within the meat for a moment, and I had no chance to pull it free, for he grabbed my left arm with his other hand. His claws dug into me, piercing my flesh, and I cried out in pain. In front of me I saw his member rearing erect, huge as that of a bull, and below it swung testicles as large as goose eggs. It was too good a target to pass up and I brought up my foot in a mighty kick.

His roar was so loud I thought my ears would burst. He bent double, let go of my arm, released the sheep bone, and clutched his hands to the affected part. I drew back my sword, whirled it and sent the bone flying across the fields, and struck a mighty blow. Even as hurt as he was the Buggane tried to protect himself, putting up his arm to protect his neck, but the blade bit deep and I severed his hand from his arm. I thrust with the sword as if it were a spear and pierced his chest.

“Mercy!” the Buggane pleaded, falling to his knees. I hesitated.

“Spare not the beast, child, for it is the servant of the devil,” Brother Finán spoke sharply. “Do you think that it would spare you in like case?”

“No,” I replied. “He would ravish me, slay me, and eat me. I know this.” I brought the sword across in a sweep to the neck, and the Buggane’s head flew from his shoulders. “Yet slaying one who begs for mercy does not sit well with me.”

“Your compassion does you credit, but might one day get you killed,” he scolded. “Clean your sword, and then I shall tend to your wound.”

I obeyed his commands. “You said that a danger must be coming to Mann for me to have been chosen as the Slayer,” I remarked as he bound up the wound at my wrist. “Surely the Buggane was not that danger, for truly it was not so great an opponent; nothing that a few stout men with spears or axes could not have defeated as easily as did I.”

“No, it was in truth a minor peril, although it could have been a deadly foe nonetheless,” he agreed. “I believe it had just been made bold by the absence of so many of your menfolk at the wars. Some other danger looms.”

“Well, I am blooded now, and I shall not shrink from danger,” I said confidently. “Now tell me, Brother Finán, what shall we do with the body of the Buggane?”

- - - - -

Easter came one week after the night that I slew the Buggane. Naught of consequence happened during that week. I studied letters, and practiced with my weapons, and listened to Brother Finán as he told of how to slay the various fiends and monsters, most particularly the dearg-dul. Then on the night of Good Friday I had a dream of ill-omen.

I dreamed of battle, and bright axes striking, and men fleeing into the sea and drowning in the waves. I saw King Brodir, who I knew by his hair that fell to his waist, tied to a tree. His coat of mail, of which it was said that no blade could pierce it, had been stripped from him and lay at his feet. I saw the mists that we call Manannan’s Cloak rolling down from South Barrule and spreading out over the island. Last, I saw a figure walking in the mists, a man with a strangely swollen forehead and with sharp teeth like the fangs of a cat. I recognised it from Brother Finán’s descriptions; a dearg-dul.

I was deeply troubled by my dream and sought out Brother Finán as soon as possible in the morning. He listened to my tale and his face turned grave. “The dreams of Slayers are often dreams of prophecy,” he said. “The danger that I feared may soon be upon us. What is this mist of which you speak? The cloak of Manannan Mac Lir?”

“So it is said,” I confirmed. “It takes the form of a cloud of fog, hiding the island from those who would attack, at least in stories. It seems too slow these days, for when I was a little girl the ships of King Aethelred of England raided Mann, and the cloak did not form until they were already here. Manannan is not the power that he was in the days before the Irish monks came to spread the word of God.” I faltered then as I remembered that I was speaking to an Irish monk, and I did not know how he would take my words.

“Go on,” he urged, and there was no displeasure on his face, only interest.

“That is all there is to the tale,” I went on. “The cloak of mist hides the island often in the autumn, and sometimes in the spring, but it is no true protection for us. Still, we preserve the tale that it is the Cloak of Manannan, and we watch the sea for enemies when it appears.”

“A wise thought. Keep your eyes to the sea, Bahey, for enemies may indeed be upon us soon. I fear that your vision means that the battle has not gone well for your people and the defences of the island might be weakened for some time to come.”

“Fynlo,” I breathed, and a deadly fear came upon me. “What if he has fallen?”

Brother Finán put his hand upon my shoulder and squeezed gently. “I shall pray for his safety. I suggest you do the same, and put your trust in God.”

Continued in CHAPTER THREE

The Cloak of Mist; Prologue and Chapter One

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Thu, 05 Jul 2007 09:52:09 GMT

Today is Tynwald Day; the National Day of the Isle of Man, on which Tynwald (our Parliament, the oldest in the world, dating back to 979 AD) meets at its original open-air site at Tynwald Hill.

To commemorate this day I am starting to post my Manx Slayer story ‘The Cloak of Mist’. The whole thing is 30,000 words and so I will post it in 8 instalments over the next couple of days. One of the major scenes takes place at Tynwald Hill and Manx legends and history are at the heart of the story.

It isn’t as widely read as my standard Buffy fics but those who have read it almost all rate it as the best (or at least the second-best) piece that I’ve ever done. Rating PG-13. Violence, and some nudity, but absolutely no swearing.

Thanks to my beta curiouswombat and preview readers evilawyer, Megan Peta, and zanthinegirl.

Summary: The Isle of Man, 1014 AD, a mixed Celtic and Viking community. In the aftermath of the slaughter at the Battle of Clontarf, with the islanders mourning their dead and anxious for the missing, a new Slayer must face a horde of undead Vikings to free the island from a dreadful curse.

The Cloak of Mist

Prologue

It was as winter was barely turning into spring that I first realised that I was no longer as other girls. Fynlo met me in the fields that day and accosted me.

“A kiss, Bahey,” he demanded.

“I shall not kiss you, for you are unwashed and smell like a pig,” I told him.

He laughed, and laid his hands upon me; for his father was favoured of King Brodir and my father was no one of import, and so he believed he could do as he wished. I was frightened, for it might be more than a kiss that he would take, and I pushed him away as hard as I could.

I had thought that my shove would hardly move him, perhaps make him stumble back at most, but he flew through the air and crashed down a score of feet away. I knew not what had happened, and I was frightened, for it was as if some foe invisible had seized him and pulled him away from me. I rushed to see if he was hurt, and took his hand; I plucked him to his feet as easily as if I was picking up a fallen apple. His weight was as nothing to me.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

His eyes were very wide. “No,” he said. “How did you do that? How did you throw me so far? Was it witchcraft?”

I flinched. To be suspected of witchcraft would be very bad; I might be accused of putting the blight upon our neighbours, and then I would be put into a spiked barrel and rolled down Slieau Whallian. “I just pushed you,” I told him. “You must have been off balance. I meant you no harm.” I sought to distract him. “I am sorry. You may have the kiss.”

“You are a strong girl, and you have spirit,” he told me. He stood up straight. “I will not take the kiss now, Bahey. I will bathe, and claim the kiss tomorrow.”

- - - - -

I would long treasure the memory of that kiss. Fynlo was tall and handsome, his hair golden as the ripe barley, and he had bathed and was clean and smelled sharp and fresh like a spring breeze. “Bahey, you are beautiful,” he told me. “Slender as a willow wand, and yet you are strong and brave. I would court you. I shall call upon your father.”

“If you court me there shall be no more kisses for you from any other girl but me,” I warned him.

His eyes twinkled. “There is no other girl for me,” he said, and I felt happier than ever in my life.

- - - - -

It was not to last for long. He called on my father as he had promised, and after that he came to walk with me when I had finished in the fields and there was no more light for weaving. We had walked together only a few times when he told me that he would be going away to war. Sygtrigg Silkenbeard of Dublin was rebelling against the High King Brian Boru and had sought aid from our King Brodir. The Carls of Brodir, one of whom was Fynlo’s father, were gathering their retinues for Ireland and battle. Fynlo was now of an age for war and had begged to be included.

This was not good news to me. “Why go to seek out war?” I asked. “Will it not find you in its own time? Life is hard and short enough without going out of your way to make things worse. Our time together is just beginning and you are risking bringing it to an end already.”

“I do this for you,” he told me soberly. “My father may be a ship-captain for the king, but he has hardly more land than does your father, and I have brothers. I will have little inheritance and must make a living for us. There may be wealth to be won in Ireland; or renown that will gain me a place as a Housecarl in the king’s guard.”

“And an Irishman with an axe may split your foolish head,” I warned him.

“A chance that I must take if I am to be a warrior.” He was bold and determined, and I knew I would not sway him. I knew something else. I loved him, and if he did not return it would break my heart.

Chapter 1

It was two days later that my world changed again.

My new strength I had kept to myself. I did not desire that the Christians accuse me of being possessed of a devil, or that those who still followed the Norse ways should call me a troll-child. I had tested my strength alone, picking up stones, then rocks, and then boulders, but I kept the knowledge to myself and used only that strength necessary for my work. It did not occur to me that anyone else could know of it, and yet someone did.

I returned from a walk with Fynlo to find that my family had a guest. A monk, by his robes, but his tonsure was strange; it was the front of his head that was shaven, not the top.

“Bahey, this is Brother Finán of Tara. He has come from Ireland to see you.” Father sounded puzzled and a little perturbed.

“To see me?” I echoed him. I was puzzled too, and a touch frightened. There was only one thing about me that distinguished me from any other girl, and no-one was supposed to know about that.

He smiled at me. “Indeed, girl. You have a destiny that has brought me here from across the sea.” He saw my alarm, and smiled again. “There is no need to be worried,” he assured me. That was a lie, although I did not know it at the time. “I bring good news. It is not for anyone’s ears but your own. We must go somewhere private.”

There was but the one room in our tholtan, for our farm was small, and nowhere that we could be alone except outside. My father frowned. “I am not sure that I should allow a strange man to be with my daughter without myself there, even a monk. She has a young man, Fynlo son of Asmund, and he would not be pleased should he hear.”

“Why not let the decision be your daughter’s? She is safe in my company, and I am sure she knows that.” Brother Finán gave me a look with his eyes hooded and a half smile on his lips. He knew my secret, I was sure, and I was not happy, yet I knew that only his words could be a danger to me. I had no fear of any man forcing himself upon me, for only days ago I had lifted with ease a boulder that had defeated even Magnus Quayle when he won the trials of strength at Tynwald last summer, and I was sure that I could defend myself at need.

I had to know the reason for this monk being here and so I spoke up to assure my father that he had no cause for concern. “Fynlo cannot complain if I walk near the tholtan with a holy man. We are not yet betrothed and he is going away to war against my wishes. I shall speak with Brother Finán, Father. Do not worry yourself; we shall not go far from this house.”

- - - - -

The tale that Brother Finán told me was strange indeed. Yes, he knew that I had become strong. He was not the only one; my name had been spoken in Tara of the Kings, in London, and even in Rome and in far Constantinople. Messages had been sent across the world, carried by birds with parchments tied to their legs, by men on fast horses, by swift ships, and even by sorcery.

I was the Chosen One, the Vampire Slayer. I did not know the word ‘vampire’, but he explained that it was the word in the Eastern Empire for the creatures we would call draugr or dearg-dul, the dead who walked to attack the living, and his books of Roman learning used that word as there was no Latin name for the monsters. My sudden strength had been bestowed upon me by the Holy Spirit so that I could fight and destroy the walking corpses.

Brother Finán was a Watcher. His Order sought out Vampire Slayers, trained them, and watched over them. There were Watchers all across the world. From Ireland, to Rome, to Kiev, even to the far lands of the Bulgars, they cast their net. Wherever a girl became a Slayer the nearest Watcher was sent to find her and guide her in her task. When St Brendan had sailed to the land beyond Ultima Thule, Brother Finán told me, it had been to find a Slayer among the Skraellings and Watch over her. She had died before St Brendan arrived and so the holy man had turned his skin boat around and returned to Ireland.

For there was only one Slayer at a time, and when each died a new girl was called upon by the Holy Spirit to take her place. The new Slayer would then fight the evil creatures of the devil; until she fell in battle, at which time the next Slayer would be called upon.

“And if I will not do this?” I asked him. “I did not ask for my strength. It is not my wish to be a shield-maiden and go forth to battle against men who are already dead, until I am slain in my turn. I would be courted by Fynlo, one day marry him, and have children of my own. Take back this power unasked for.”

“It is not I who has bestowed it upon you, my child,” he told me. “I have no power to remove it. If you do not learn from me the skills of a Slayer the dearg-dul shall still come for you, for nothing is sweeter to them than the blood of a Slayer, and you will not have the ability to defeat them. It is your fate, and you cannot escape it.” He patted my shoulder and spoke not unkindly. “Yet there is no rule that says that a Slayer may not marry, if she is not slain, and if your man is warrior enough to protect you whilst you are with child you may still have your wish.”

“If I am not slain,” I repeated his words bitterly. “This is a cruel fate that has been placed upon me.”

“That may be so, yet you cannot avoid it.” He sighed. “We have learned that each Slayer is chosen in the place where she is most needed. This island may seem a peaceful place, untouched by the forces of evil, and yet a danger must be coming. Heaven grant that you are ready in time to face it.”

- - - - -

There were practical matters to arrange. I could not learn the skills of a Slayer whilst feeding the geese, or gathering kindling, and the work would not do itself. Brother Finán gave my father coins of silver for a bondmaid to work in my place, and that problem was solved, yet in solving it another was created as my family could not understand why my services were so important to him.

Mother feared that he meant me to become a nun. Grandmother feared the opposite, for she had seen in her youth men with his tonsure, and she said it marked those who held to the rule of the Celtic church rather than to the rule of Rome. There was nothing forbidding the monks of the Celtic church to wed; and it was her thought that he meant to take me as a wife, or even as a bed-mate without marriage.

“I follow the Roman way,” Brother Finán said. “Our Order preserves only the tonsure from the old church. I may not marry, and if I dishonoured your granddaughter my Abbot would have me flogged perhaps to death.”

“If I did not crack that pate with a cook pot first,” I put in.

Father laughed. “Our Bahey Dhone is a spirited girl indeed, mother, and she would do just that. We need not fear for her. Yet, Brother Finán, I would still know more of why you wish our daughter to be your student. She is not the material for a saint, any more than she is for a nun, and neither is she greatly learned.”

“A wise woman came to the Abbot with a message that had come to her in a dream, and by sundry signs and tokens she proved to him that the dream was of holy inspiration,” Finán explained. “She bade him send a teacher to Dubhghlais in the Isle of Mann and let him there seek out a brown-haired girl, by the name of Bahey Kinvig, and instruct her in prayers and letters and certain cunning uses of herbs. By this means we would avert an evil that would otherwise come upon the lands of the Gael and the Lochlannach. I am merely the instrument of Abbot Colmác in this matter.” The Lochlannach, I knew, was the Irish name for the Norse who ruled the Isle of Mann and Dublin in Ireland, and so he could be referring to Ireland, the Isle of Mann, or both.

Grandmother was satisfied on that point, but still wary. “As long as you are not here as a spy for Brian Boru,” she said, determined to grumble a little more.

“There is no need for spies,” Brother Finán replied. “All Ireland knows that Sygtrigg has sought aid from your King Brodir, and from Jarl Sigurd the Stout of Orkney. There will be battle, and soon, but it is no concern of mine. My duty is to my Abbot, and therefore to your granddaughter, in obedience to his word.”

That set the minds of my family at rest, but raised new questions in my own mind. I said nothing at that time, however, waiting until the next day when I had a chance to speak with Brother Finán alone.

“How much of that pretty tale that you told my father was true?” I asked him. “Am I, then, to fight the dearg-dul with prayer and fasting, and with herbs?”

“I told them no lies.” His face was serious and held no trace of the smile that, as I had begun to learn, came so easily to his lips. “They had as much of the truth as they could understand. What good would it have done to tell them that you have been chosen by Heaven as a warrior? They would have cried out, and shut their ears to me, and tried to hide you away. The account that I gave of the wise woman was true. She is a seer with the power to find the Chosen Ones, and she is in the service of the Council of the Watchers, as are all of my Order from Abbot Colmác down. I shall indeed instruct you in letters, if you will, for it would be easier to teach you of other matters if you could read, but it is of no great consequence if you cannot learn. Prayer has some powers of protection against the creatures of the devil. Even herbs have their uses, as you shall learn. But mainly I shall teach you how to fight.”

- - - - -

We began with unarmed fighting for, as he said, “You may be caught without a sword or spear, but you always have your hands”. He told me to run at him and strike him.

I was loath to do so. “My strength is great, and I may injure you,” I warned him.

“Fear not, girl, I know what I do. If you worry that you may injure me then strike me upon the shoulder. I will take no great harm from that.” His smile showed confidence, and I decided to trust him. I ran at him, as he had bidden, and brought my fist down upon his shoulder as if it were a hammer. My blow did not land. He caught my arm, turning his body as he did so, and pulled. He stuck out his leg and I was thrown over his hip and landed on the ground on my back.

The breath was knocked from my body and I lay gasping for a moment. I recovered quickly and rose to my feet. “How did you do that?” I asked.

“It is troid-sciathaigid, battle through defence, a skill developed by the monks of Ireland in the days when they spread the Faith to the pagans and needed to travel among savage men whilst being forbidden to bear arms. I shall teach you.” He folded his arms. “The first lesson you must learn is how to fall.”

“I already know how to fall,” I grumbled, waving my hand towards the spot where I had landed. “The trick would be in not falling.”

“How to fall without taking harm, and how to rise quickly,” he elaborated. “Once you have mastered that I will teach you to throw others as I threw you to the ground. After that, how to strike with the fist, and then how to kick.”

- - - - -

I learned quickly. I found that I only needed to be shown each new thing once and then I could do it myself. This, he told me, was one of the powers I had gained as a Slayer; a natural affinity for the skills of battle. When he grew tired and began to instruct me in letters instead, so that he could rest, I found that I had no such affinity for those matters.

“It is not necessary for me to read,” I claimed. “Is that not why we have clerics?”

“Patience, child, do not expect to master it all at once. Indeed it is not as vital to you as are the arts of battle, yet still it may prove of use. Suppose you are faced with a devil that cannot be killed with sword or axe, and the secret of victory over it is in one of my texts?”

“Then I should ask you,” I said smugly.

“And if it has already torn out my throat?”

“Then I would go to the monastery of St Leoc and ask the monks to read it for me,” I answered triumphantly. He raised his eyes to the heavens, as if asking for guidance, and I relented. “And they would ask what I was doing with such texts, and take them from me, and if they read of devils they would put the parchments to the flame. Perhaps they would want to put me to the fire as well. I did but tease, Brother Finán. It seems I have no gift for letters, but I will do my best to learn.”

And learn I did, although never did I become comfortable with reading. I learned the Roman letters after a fashion, and runes as well or better, but the old Celtic writing of Ogham was never more to me than the scratchings of a chicken’s foot upon the ground. I came to speak some Latin, and read it too, besides the Manx Gaelic and Norse that I spoke already. But my tale gets ahead of itself.

In the afternoon we returned to the skills of the fight. Brother Finán taught me to fall, to throw, to punch with my fists, to kick, to strike with my elbows and my knees, and even with my head. “This is the reason why we kept to the Celtic tonsure, or so it is said,” he told me as he demonstrated butting with the head as if he were a ram. “The hair could pad a blow and reduce the impact.”

“I hope you will not want me to shave the front of my head, for I like my hair fine as it is,” I said, displeased.

“I think the hair makes little difference, if truth be told, especially with the power of a Slayer behind a butt. I think the true reason for our Order preserving the old tonsure is because of the look of the thing, for it is more martial in appearance than is the Roman style.” He held a bale of straw before him and I struck it with my head, rocking him back on his feet. “Well struck, girl. Now, I grow weary, and the light grows dim, so let that be all for today. Return to your home, Bahey, and tomorrow I shall instruct you in the use of the staff.”

- - - - -

The day came for Fynlo to set off to war; and a cold day it was, and wet. His father’s ship would sail to Purt-ny-Hinshey for the muster of Brodir’s fleet and then on to Ireland. I went to bid him farewell; we kissed long and deep, and I allowed him to put his hand upon my breast. “Take no foolish chances,” I bade him. “Come back to me with all your limbs.”

“I will not shrink from the fight, Bahey,” he replied.

“I would not ask you to. But stay within the shield-wall, Fynlo, and if you face an Irishman be sure to smite him before he smites you.”

He touched my nose with his finger. “You are a girl of strong will, Bahey Dhone, and I would not dare to disappoint you. I shall return to you, I promise.”

“You had better, or I will have no option but to become a nun.”

He laughed. “And a terrible waste that would be.” We were not yet ready to exchange rings, but he gave me a clasp for my cloak as a love token, and we kissed again before we said our farewells and he set off for the longship. I watched from a distance as they rowed out of the bay, and I felt as if I would cry, but I held back the tears and walked back to my home. I shivered as I walked, and told myself it was from the cold.

Continued in CHAPTER TWO

Disclaimer: the concept of the Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All rights reserved. No profit is being made from this unauthorised use, nor is there any attempt to claim ownership of the concept.

All characters in this work are created by me and are entirely my property.

Drabble: School Horde

speakr2customrs@insanejournal.com — Mon, 25 Jun 2007 19:45:25 GMT

Here’s another of my old fics from LiveJournal. A drabble, this time; a Spike-centric BtVS/new Doctor Who Season 1 crossover. 100 words, G.

School Horde

The TARDIS materialised atop the Great Wall of China and three travellers stepped out.

“Well, Spike, we’re here,” the Doctor said.

“Bit daft, if you ask me,” Rose said. “Don’t want to mess around with Genghis bleedin’ Khan.”

“Always wanted to do this, pet,” Spike told her. He looked out across the steppe to where the lights of a thousand camp fires blazed. Thirty thousand Mongol warriors slept, or stood on guard, or worked on the siege engines with which they would assault the gates.

He shouted a challenge. “Come and have a go if you think you’re horde enough!”