A E Johnson

by alice johnson

  intended to injure,” he slowly replied as he walked

  towards them. He pointed to the field. “Take a

  moment, and inspect your work.”

  Three of the four soldiers walked towards the

  edge, they looked toward the field to see the poles

  protruding from the ground, impaled Atlanti horses

  struggled to get through, the ground was almost

  impossible for the enemy to penetrate, forcing them to

  attack from the west, weakening their entire force.

  “Now, you see, they aren’t there to injure, they are

  there to hinder.” It gave them a strange power,

  knowing what their work was doing forced them to

  work harder. The battle would again belong to

  Cronnin.

  Chapter Seven A Need to Know.

  onnin was a world apart from Cronnin, a place

  of mystery and wonder, of magic and life, a

  S place of the fey. The capital of Sonnin was

  filled with old dust paths winding through deep ancient

  forests, stretching far into a mountain range. Nestled

  in the heart of the ancient and mystifying forest, stood

  a tree as old as time. Surrounded by a high golden

  fence. To the front, a towering gate stood.

  The thick trunk of the tree held a solid door,

  its twisted branches stretched far into the sky,

  clawing branches stretched for several meters. The

  leaves of the old oak tree were each gilded with

  shining gold, it was the only tree that winters cold

  clawing fingers had not touched.

  The mid-afternoon sun softly graced the

  woodlands of Sonnin, melting the heavy frost,

  which glistened on the ground of the sleeping

  trees. Pine needles lined the old wood, the frozen

  ferns on the ground remain still. A feeling of

  peaceful stillness swirled in the air that day, the dry

  dirt paths were empty. The world was peaceful, for

  now.

  As the old forest slept through the cold winter,

  a call could be heard, apart from the birds, it was

  the only sound that seemed to be there that day.

  Towards the east of the city a man came running

  through the streets of Sonnin.

  Bernard was the pigeon keeper. With a note

  flailing in his hand, he ran as fast as his legs could

  carry him. He was old and no longer used to running,

  but he had orders from his queen, to deliver any

  letters from her daughter, immediately to her.

  “Open the gate!” he screamed to the guards

  standing beside the old palace tree. As Bernard flew

  towards the guard’s they opened the gate, knowing his

  face well they knew that something to startle such a

  bitter old man, must have been important. Without

  hesitation the gates flew open.

  The tree was not ordinary, it did not look ordinary,

  twisted oak branches curled towards the sky. The old

  bark of the tree was thick and filled with age. The

  roots slinked along the ground creating a path to the

  tree. As he made his way, he came to the palace door.

  Coiling patterns swirled within a door on the trunk of

  the tree, a golden glow began to form as the guard

  touched the handle in the centre of the door.

  “This way, Bernard,” said the guard as he began to

  enter.

  A long winding wide staircase met him as he

  entered. Making his way down he came towards the

  long corridor. Magic played a huge part in the lives of

  the fey, the palace tree was a centre for all things

  magic. Bernard had been there many times before, yet

  his eyes still searched the walls. As they reached the

  end they stepped into the gargantuan room. The room

  where Bernard now stood was bright and welcoming,

  guards lined the walls of the large room. Silver sconces

  lit the room holding cascading fire flowers.

  To the centre, a large round plinth, above the

  plinth was an overwhelmingly large chandelier, at the

  centre of the plinth, there she sat in all her glory upon

  her throne, his queen and Commander.

  With her long flowing caramel hair, a look of

  pure power seemed to follow her, everything about

  Harelda was the embodiment of perfection.

  Many believed she was cold and unfeeling, in

  truth, she had to be, her bitterness was from a

  lifetime of loss.

  Bernard immediately took a knee. He looked

  down; the cold marble floor chilled his old bones.

  “I have news, Majesty”

  Slowly she stood, her purple dress was flowing

  around her clinging to her perfect hourglass figure.

  She softly glided towards him. Such an important

  note was not to be handed to her; it was to be

  collected by her. It was a high honour for the lowly

  Bernard as he remained quivering on the floor. He

  did not fear his queen, he simply knew the might

  she held, and the respect she demanded. Her long

  fingers slowly took the note from his hand

  brushing his fingers as they did, it sent a cold shiver

  through him.

  Wandering back towards her throne, she

  slowly read the note. Suddenly she stopped in her

  tracks utterly frozen.

  “Thank you, Bernard,” she said in her deep

  and soft voice, “that will be all.” She held a look of

  pure wonder on her face as she continued back

  towards her throne.

  “He’s fallen,” murmured Bernard.

  In an instant her face changed; darkness fell in

  the hall, she slowly turned to Bernard. “You must

  learn to keep your words to yourself,” she said in

  her formidable voice, “else you will lie with the

  elders.” Slowly Bernard stood, still his hands were

  shaking, a cold sweat misted his brow as he waited to

  be dismissed. Her haunting dark blue eyes glared

  towards him; her tone of warning was clear. “That,

  Bernard, is all.” Her deep ghostly voice echoed

  through the halls of the palace, as he gave his final

  salute to her, Bernard left, and Harelda remained

  utterly bewildered.

  The queen knew how to compose herself. She was

  of superior breeding. Slowly she wandered back to her

  throne, looking to one of her guards, who stood in the

  hall in line with the other fifty guards. Knowing how

  his queen worked, the guard broke formation, and

  marched towards her. He took a knee.

  Slowly she walked towards him. “We send a

  second army, to Marrion,” she began to step from her

  plinth, “anything they encounter on the way, kill it.”

  The guard stood and bowed. Harelda made her

  way towards her chambers, her scribe, Borvo,

  followed behind her. Even writing letters was below

  her, the delicate fingers of the queen were not made

  for something as obscene as writing letters, even if they

  were to her daughter.

  Sat at his desk, Harris continued to work. His knee

  was healing fast, although he was still short of breath.

  His eyes remained fixed on the papers in front of him.

  “This is the longest I’ve spent with the same

 
woman,” said Harris, he was still being cared for by

  Branwen. Most of her days were spent waiting on him,

  he still struggled with stairs, steps and on some

  occasions walking, but he would not let it stop his

  mission.

  As Branwen collected a basket from the side of the

  door, she gracefully walked past his desk. Harris could

  not help but admire her figure.

  “It must be awful for you,” she said with a cynical

  tone.

  Harris cheerfully replied, “I quite enjoy it,” he

  lifted his head, “it’s what I imagine marriage to be

  like.” Giving a wide grin he looked to Branwen.

  “What are your plans, marriage, I mean?”

  Branwen seemed surprised he would ask such a

  question. “My mother had enough of us to allow me

  to keep my options open.” Her flirtatious manner only

  seemed to fuel Harris. “I suppose my mother will be

  the one to decide, of course it will be one of the

  kingdoms.”

  Harris took a bite of his sweetbread, a delicious

  bread baked with hardened sugar. “How about

  Xencliff?”

  “You are not of Xencliff royalty,” said Branwen

  with her eyes lowered.

  “Close enough,” he murmured.

  She began to take his clothes from the basket and

  place them in the wardrobe on the back wall.

  “Besides, Xencliff is not vital to Sonnin. I believe that

  Thrasia, or Elmoor would be more suited,” her ever

  growing need to enchant him was clear to Harris.

  “Elmoor?” he barked in laughter, “a mabeara,” he

  sniggered, “I can’t see it, you’re a woman, Branwen,

  you need a man, not a builder, architect or artist.” He

  could not help but laugh at the gentle kingdom of

  Elmoor, the fair fey were indeed strong. “They use

  bears as their strength, that’s it, in all honesty, you’d be

  better off sticking with Cronnin.” He looked towards

  Branwen; her perfect skin shone in the Marrion sun.

  “But until then, you’re free,” he celebrated with a wide

  smile.

  Branwen turned from the wardrobe. “I am not

  free,” she laughed, “I am untouched, and I am not

  tempted, I never have been.”

  “So, what lord would you choose then?” he asked.

  Branwen looked to Harris, her mouth was gaping, she

  did not want to answer, simply because she did not

  know. “In fact, I’ve told you quite a lot about me,

  Branwen, I think it’s time you told me a small bit

  about you.” Harris placed his quill down, he looked to

  Branwen, intrigued.

  “There is very little I can tell,” she replied, a

  flirtatious laughter seemed to flow from her.

  “Tell me about your family, what about your

  sisters, brothers?”

  Branwen seemed uncomfortable, she did not like

  speaking of them, given that she had lost so many, but

  Harris had been open with her, she owed it to him.

  “My father, Taranis, died of the black, like your

  father, so I know what it’s like, my sisters, Epona and

  Macha were also taken by it.” She placed the basket at

  the side and started to fill it with the washing she

  would need to take down. “As you probably know

  Angus was killed in Blodmoor, I believe it was shortly

  before you arrived there.” Her eyes lit towards Harris,

  knowing he had ended the battle which had taken her

  brother, warmed her. “Lugus was lost during the

  golden war in the north, Bacchus is in Bourellis, he is

  young, so he won’t be home for a while.” Her eyes

  wandered towards him; she could see the intrigue in

  his eyes. “Sirrona dedicated her service to the temples

  in Assanin, Olwen, Sulis and Brighid have dedicated

  their service in Tyrone, to the Valkarie.” She was

  proud of her sisters for their service, knowing it could

  take longer than ten years before she would see them

  again. “Camulos and Ogma, who knows, those two do

  as they please, when they please, they’re archers, so

  they could be here for all I know. Finally, there is me,

  and Xania, she is someone even you wouldn’t mess

  with, Xania is to take my mother’s place when the time

  comes, she is well versed in the art of bullshit.”

  Harris widened his eyes. “Did your parents do

  anything but fuck?”

  Branwen could not hold herself back bursting with

  laughter. “They weren’t that bad, Harris.”

  “Twelve children? come on, that’s impressive even

  by the commander’s standards.”

  “What about you?” She looked to him from the

  corner of her eye. “Do you have any children?” she

  mockingly asked.

  “Ey!” he warned, “I’ll hear none of that, and no I

  bloody don’t, children are not my speciality, can’t

  stand the little shits.”

  Flicking through the papers on his desk, Harris

  began to sit back. He leant far back in his chair as he

  stretched his arms above his head, he flinched back

  down, holding the wound in his chest, and pinching

  his eyes.

  “This is depressing,” he sighed.

  Branwen saw him flinch. “You need more time to

  heal.” Slowly she walked towards him. “I know you

  feel as though time is not on your side, but you need

  to make it.” She worried about Harris, having seen

  him watch from the window on many days and nights

  as the battle thundered below him, he was feeling

  guilty for not being there. “What is it you’re doing?”

  she asked as she saw the papers on his desk.

  Harris looked towards her from the corner of his

  eye, he did not want to tell her. “I’m doing the job of

  my chiefs, while I’m here, I might as well do all I can.

  Each night, upon the return from the field we have call

  out, we check how many are no longer with us, I then

  need to ensure that the council of Cronnin know how

  many we have lost.”

  Branwen shook her head as she walked towards

  him, “This is all what I should be learning,” she said

  with contrite. “I am nearly finished with my service

  here, when I return I will need to know everything

  about running a palace, I’ve lost two brothers and two

  sisters, with the world as tattered as it is, it’s risky to

  Xania, she is next in line but if anything happens to

  her, it falls on me.” She took a chair and sat opposite.

  “What better person to learn from, than The

  Commander?”

  “You want to know about battles?” his tone of

  doubt stirred her.

  She had a high tone as she leant forward with her

  elbows on her lap. “I need to know.”

  Harris shook his head. “What is it you need to

  know?”

  “I have spent my entire time in those camps, not

  once have I spoken to a commander, or chief, I

  haven’t spoken of war, they don’t want to hear about

  it,” she gently explained. She leant forward, her

  lavender and vanilla scent filled Harris’s nose, he sa
w

  how pert her breasts were; he could not help but look.

  He was trying to pay attention to what she was saying,

  but he was distracted by his nature. “I speak of their

  families, their homes, why they must try to carry on,

  why they must fight to live.”

  Harris could see the pain which filled Branwen, he

  had spent a lot of time, trying to know her, but truly,

  he knew nothing about the real Branwen. “I can teach

  you all I can, but battle isn’t always a set of rules, each

  day I’m sent a new letter from the Atlanti commander,

  with their terms, to end this.” Harris took a small

  parchment from the side of his desk. “Here,” he

  passed it to her. The strange lettering and writing

  confused her. “This is his note from today.” She held

  the paper flat to the desk, Harris pointed to the

  parchment. “This is a warning, he is asking for an

  extra two days, before battle, but that is only so they

  can increase their numbers, I have refused, we resume

  battle tomorrow morning. Here,” he pointed to

  another part, “he is telling us to leave and they will

  leave also, this is what we call, bollocks.”

  Branwen sat back and laughed. “Surely they don’t

  think us that stupid?”

  “Sadly, they do, and often we are.” His voice was

  soft, his eyes remained fixed with hers. “Every day, a

  thousand are sent, if we have more than five-hundred

  return, that is a victory, if we have less, that is

  catastrophe.” He took the paper and placed it back in

  his desk draw. “Since I began my campaign here, we

  haven’t dropped below five.” He did not seem

  arrogant at all; simple pride was all he seemed to

  show. “I just deal with numbers, the books in Tyrone,

  that deals with the names.”

  “I’ve seen the books of Tyrone,” said Branwen,

  her eyes filled with a sadness Harris instantly wanted

  to end. “I was just a child when I first went there.” Her

  eyes wandered towards the wooden desk. The desk

  was overused, many commanders had used the same

  space. Her finger wandered towards a small bit of

  raised wood. “You can watch the spell work, the

  names, appearing from the pages,” she shuffled in her

  chair, “when I was young, it was a book each turn

  being filled, today, they fill a book every day, one