Ban Talah

by A. L. Duncan

  Talah looked to her companions. Mac shifted his weight in the saddle and grinned to Brodie and Moya, who all gripped their reins tightly with the urgency to fight. “God bless this day in our favor for I will to eat hearty tonight!” exclaimed Mac.

  Talah smiled. “Rally the drums, Brodie,” she ordered through the raging throng of voices.

  Talah turned Lugh around and spurred him onward. Together, Talah and Sidric led their massed armies toward the mythical Lake of the Cross that lay in the drifts of the tumultuous frontier. Groves of armor and spear, battle axe, sword and bows, they marched on behind the magnetism that was Ban Talah, her spirit an echo indeed, not of gods, but of mortals.

  Chapter Thirteen

  MARSHES WERE ICED over and streams, frozen in their ripples, cracked under the swift footfalls of Welsh scouts. A southern Welsh warrior halted before another and spied Ban Talah’s forces driving near the swell. His head lifted and stark, white eyes glared from under the hood, drawing to tiny slits to the ridge before him. Standing like a specter, Ban Talah’s figure was seen atop the far ridge, staring right through him, vaguely apparent through the flowing veils of fog and snow. Talah was certain she felt the flush of fear in him. Her sword drawn and face blue with Pict war paint, Talah overlooked the valley for more southern Welsh warriors below.

  Juetta could not have picked a better class of warrior to defend her precious hostage. The Welsh did not fear confrontation even when unarmed. The many hordes of Juetta’s forces strongly fortified their positions by their mass alone. Even with her host of thousands, Talah knew they were small compared to what Juetta may have acquired. She couldn’t see them all through the falling snow and mist, yet her instincts inspired her to believe Juetta had amassed legions.

  Talah walked along the front line of her armies that had drawn atop the ridge and halted halfway from Sidric’s lines, as all souls breathlessly awaited her command. She grit her teeth and drew an eye to Sidric. Receiving a confident nod, she inhaled deeply. Come together, here in this very place, the infinite and the infallible, the fibers of all measures had cast their heavenly eyes upon this very moment. Here, mortal blood was simply a shadow resembling the very thing it wished to illustrate: the power of force. The moment was decided. Talah bent down and grabbed hold of a rock at her feet that was as black as the hearts they all were about to meet.

  In the valley, the roaring horde was ecstatic at the mass of flesh and weapons above them. They looked at Talah’s army with the gnashing teeth of beasts hungry for the feast, but this quickly turned to gasps in heated anticipation to Talah’s outstretched arm, stone held firm. Talah’s warriors held their breaths and the world stopped turning. It seemed as if the winds too halted their ire for this one moment that all stood still. As the casting of day to night, eyes were on the stone as it fell from her open fingers. Images passed quickly through Talah’s mind of all that had passed before her up until this moment. There was no doubt in her heart that this was her duty to Britannia and to all Celtic-Christians.

  The stone fell hard in the snow with a thwap. The battle had begun.

  Now, from a flanking distance ran Sir Humphrey’s squire with Lugh toward Talah. Talah ran and leapt. With the squire’s hands to lift her, she flung herself into the saddle, grabbed hold the reins and shot off down the slope, disappearing into the throng that spilled toward the lake like liquid mercury. Knights and warriors from both sides yelled their cries, the soil and snows trodden down by the thunderous pounding. The threads of all souls immersed themselves in the fabric of the battle’s worldly fiber with a pandemoniac colliding of spears, the snapping and splintering of limbs and clash of swords. Axe and sword belted down upon helmets and armor, splitting skulls and driving into the ferocious rush of Juetta’s armies.

  Sidric held his northern Welsh back slightly and formed a wing of kneeling archers on either side of the prow. Streams of arrows dashed and sung through the air, pelting the rear horde that tried fighting their way through their own to get to the prow of Talah’s host. The crowded fighting was chaotic and the white eyes of the horde only made them look even more cruel and devilish. Talah knew Juetta’s spell forced them to die before yielding, causing many to be quickly slain. Bodies fell or were impaled as deadly arrows from both sides flew into the thicket.

  “Shields!” Sir Richard cried.

  The teardrop wooden shields each foot soldier carried only protected so many bodies.

  Young Sir Thomas fought bravely, swiping his blade into a helmet before an arrow seared through his thigh and lodged into the flesh of his horse. Man and horse shrieked in agony. Sirs Richard and Angus fought their way to him but not before a spear drove into Thomas deeply and took both he and his horse down among a throng of swords all impaling him. The two knights desperately stood by Sir William and fought on foot, for spears and arrows had taken their horses early on into battle.

  Juetta’s Welsh horde continually tried to break through the reinforced host of Talah’s warriors but the prow formation held, pushing ever onward onto the frozen lake. A forest of axe and sword swayed bodies viciously as Talah and Moya fought near each other, each one brandishing the blood of the merciless white-eyed armies. A great cloud hung low over the lake region and continued to spill snow and sleet down upon them, Talah’s face feeling the cold sting freeze the sweat of her brow.

  Talah fought on relentlessly and paid the storm no heed, losing sight now of the knights. She shouted to her armed host and urged them forward. It was then something happened that threw all, even Talah, into a panic. Somehow, cloaked by the mirage of gray and white sky and landscape around them, her host had managed to point the prow formation away from the lake. Such a miscalculation left their backs wide open for a rushing counterassault from Juetta’s horde. A great cry went up from those who noticed, repeating Talah’s orders to turn about.

  Sir Wayne appeared and grabbed Talah by the arm, shouting, “We must fall back and regroup!”

  As soon as the last word came out of his mouth, his eyes widened. Wayne shoved Talah aside. Blade in the air he clashed metal from an opponent twice his size, sending sparks to fly. And with a tremendous down sweep, the two parted and thrust their blade tips into each other’s midriffs.

  Talah scrambled to her feet, screaming in horrified affliction and charged at two attackers, cutting them down quickly. She fell to her knees aside Sir Wayne with tear-swollen eyes.

  “Go!” he ordered with failing breath. He grabbed hold of her tunic and shook her in his rage. “Find that witch!”

  Desperately, Talah clung to the fading life of Sir Wayne, his eyes glassing over as his hand released her to a dead thump upon the frozen lake. She cradled his head in her misery until the pain turned into anger, and anger into a tempest. She released him to the cold earth and came up with a savage vengeance.

  With sword aflame she struck wildly at the masses, the skies finally recoiling at the immortal life of Ban Talah, lightning grazing the heavens a wrath never before heard. She clambered over bodies and fought her way into the onslaught, slicing this throat or driving into that belly. Picking up a mace ball, she gripped tightly its wooden handle and swung it about with one hand while using Lisula in the other. She deflected spear and arrow and hammered several assailants off his or her feet.

  Talah turned and leapt into the crushing current of the densely packed battle, finally breaking through a surge and staggering on the snow and ice encrusted lake. The only sound heard was her hard breath. She had all but wiped the trickling blood from her face, a cut above the eye, when she halted to an eerie silence. All the armies had vanished. Turning on her heel again, she squinted into the reaches of mist and snow. She was alone.

  Talah keenly recalled her vision of the ice. She began walking until the monolithic pillars of ice arose on either side of her. Talah gripped her sword tightly and grit her teeth knowing at the end of this was the monolith with the Lady of the Land, and Juetta. And indeed, Juetta appeared.

  It was a seductive voice
whispering and wafting past Talah’s ears, speaking a poem in her French tongue.

  “At last my lover comes, at last from battles end

  Embrace me, caress me, and tarry no more.”

  With venom in her eyes, Talah drove Lisula into the ice and called out to Tlachtga, Goddess of the thunderbolt, sending lightning to pierce the sky and strike her form. Through her ignited flesh Talah then threw her arms outstretched, causing the lightning to surge from her fingertips and rip asunder every monolith in pairs on down the line. In fury, Ban Talah strode with Lisula through the falling shards of ice raining in shattered pieces, her piercing raven eyes upon the chestnut-haired enemy. Juetta stood haughtily near the only monolith that wasn’t destroyed, that which held the imprisoned Goddess.

  With Lisula gripped in both hands, Talah swung high over her head, meeting Juetta’s relish and blade, steel sparking. Juetta pushed away and withdrew a long dagger from her belt. The two dodged and parried each other’s cuts and thrusts. Juetta savored every stroke with limber confidence, dancing about Talah’s heavy-handed mettle as if taunting her wiles.

  The more Ban Talah fought, the lighter Juetta’s steps became. Juetta circled Talah with a gleam in her ice-green eyes and concocted a whirlwind of electric current that matched airs of green vapors to swirl around their figures in a demented dance. Talah paid the veils no heed, colliding instead with the malice of a most terrible and powerful duel. The heavens were surely looking down upon the scene with envy that two mortals could shake the very firmament of stars above with their absolute hatred.

  Talah swiped with a backhand, knocking Juetta off balance, and using the moment to connect a fist to her jaw. Juetta staggered and deflected a blow, kicking Talah in the ribs then attacking with fresh vigor a slicing blade that Talah was only too quick to parry. With a kick of her own, Talah sent her off her feet. Suddenly, Talah’s sword fell from her grip as a strange weakness and physical disorientation made her fall to her knees. Her breathing was erratic and body shaking before she began to comprehend.

  “Bran.”

  Visions now came to Talah. Bran had started the ceremony for Danann, sprinkling oils and herbs over her linen-wrapped figure. Assistants held her body over a cauldron as Bran chanted in a mysterious language. The transformation of life for a life had begun.

  Juetta pulled herself to her feet and glared down upon Talah’s weakened form viciously. “An ageless immortal, or just an old woman?” Juetta let the sword drag the ice as she prowled upon her. “Allow me to put you to rest.”

  Talah raised a disdainful scowl and rolled aside, with the tip of Juetta’s steel ripping across her shoulder. Twisting about, Talah pulled the Old Woman’s special dagger from her boot and embedded it deep into her opponent’s calf. Juetta screamed in agony and stumbled away as Talah was swift to pull the dagger back.

  This was the moment. With Juetta’s mind distracted, the moment had to be now. Fury urged Talah’s body on despite more weakness. In one explosive move, Talah was on her feet and running toward the monolith that entrapped the Goddess. Juetta howled in rage as the small dagger was thrown from Talah’s fingers and struck the monolith deeply. In a searing flash and triumphant detonation, shards of ice and crystal shattered and melted in a fiery boom. It was as if the heat of the sun was upon the earth and rippled across the plains like rings of water. The blast was so powerful it seared across the land, the icy scape ceasing to exist. The Lake of the Cross was again a fabric of warm waters.

  Talah could now see in the distance the southern Welsh armies, the spell broken and their minds awakened from the wicked blackout. As the winds changed, the newly awakened beings stood terror stricken at Talah’s army. Cloud and fog dissipated, and the surrounding meadows were able to be seen for the first time. For a moment, no one dared move for fear it was another trick of the sorceress. Those caught in the waters quickly drowned or made their way to shore.

  Keeping herself afloat in the deep waters, Talah felt the surrounding sense of calm was disturbing. She searched about for Juetta. She had disappeared. The depths around her, however, soon began to glow a phantom green and the surface began to bubble as if heated by a torch. Shards of emerald light ripped and spewed from the lake a tremendous light. Over her shoulder, Talah witnessed a most terrible sight.

  Rising through a tornado of lake water and steam, Juetta’s green figure shape-changed into an emerald dragon. The dragon threw its head back and lurched toward Talah. Quickly, Talah submerged back underwater and barely swam far enough to escape the speared tail that cut through the depths. Again and again the dragon swiped at her. Talah then reached inside the Crane Bag and pulled out the faery’s wing. As she surfaced again, the dragon’s immense eyes glared, and the beast drew breath.

  Talah’s body and mind fevered in a seizure. Within another moment she floated limp, her senses numb to the faint sound of bubbles around her.

  A gentle voice called to her, “Use the faery’s wing, Ban Talah.”

  Drawing all her strength, she managed to reach for and raise the iridescent faery’s wing over her body before flames of white-hot fire spewed atop her, licking over the edges of the wing, boiling and steaming the water around her. Gaining a short amount of strength, Talah then dug out the rainbow colored spider web and tossed it before her like a fisherman’s net. Magically, it spread out onto the lake and drew down into the water’s depth, opening wide into a black chasm. The abyss emitted so much force around it, all the lake began to drain into it like a whirlpool. The dragon attempted to push away from the lake, but the gale-force winds grabbed hold its massive flailing wings and sucked it down. Talons clawed at the swirling surface before being pulled into the abyss.

  Talah was drawn into the great chasm, but managed to grab onto the dangling edges of the web. The torrent of destructive force was deafening, with waters cascading all about her. Too weak to oppose the waterfall, Talah endured the pounding surge as Bran’s voice echoed through her conscious.

  “A life for a life.”

  “Don’t let go,” the voice of Marion whispered to her. “Don’t let go.”

  Her head swarmed seeking the darkness below. She closed her eyes and recalled the image of Queen Liadona. How the Queen’s touch ignited her passions, her smile touched her heart. A sudden pang of fear touched Talah’s being, of passing from the veil of this life. She was not ready to leave. She wanted this life. She wanted to keep her mortal life. Hand over hand Talah reached for a higher interlacing on the web and began pulling herself up.

  A great hand clasped desperately onto her foot, the weight unbearable to Talah’s failing strength. Talah agonized from the dragon’s weight, writhing and screaming. It was all she could do to hold on. The dragon transformed back to the features of Juetta, her frightened form drawing mercy from Talah.

  “Please, Isadora, help me!” Juetta screamed through the agonizing winds. “Don’t let me die this way!”

  Talah glared at the eyes that once captivated her very soul, and features that drew sighs of lust. Now, she fluttered about like a battered standard, symbolizing its ruin, as a hand reached out for a last desperate attempt.

  “Isadora!”

  Talah swallowed hard, her own strength lapsing into the din. The moment of dualities seemed to last forever. Yet with one sweeping gesture, she reached down and lifted Juetta enough to grasp hold of her own separate thread. As her senses were fading, visions of her companions flashed before her mind, and the memory of Marion became her only vision.

  “A life for a life,” Marion whispered to her.

  Juetta had begun to climb up the web toward the opening in a desperate attempt to save herself. Yet, her breath of relief grew to gasps of terror as Talah appeared beside her and snatched her arm. Dangling with one arm, Juetta screamed in terror, the abyss howling to her like a giant mouth. Talah flicked the Old Woman’s dagger from her belt.

  “What are you doing?” Juetta shouted through the cascading falls.

  “A life for a life,” Talah sh
outed through the deafening floods without remorse. “And it will not be mine!”

  Juetta’s face chilled with the clutch of dread as Talah swiped the short blade, severing Juetta’s thread. Violently Juetta tumbled into the darkness, her screams muted finally by the water’s raging roar.

  As quickly as it happened, the black abyss began to close in with the last of the lake waters draining around Talah. The empty chasm began filling itself with the earth’s soil, and now Talah was helplessly caught in its tide, knowing her only chance was to climb out before it closed around her, burying her alive. Her skin tingled with strength anew but her complexion paled knowing in her soul she wasn’t going to make it. The force of the earth’s mending was too powerful. In one moment Talah’s hand reached for the open air. In another, the abyss was sealed forever.

  THE WATERS THAT were the mythical Lake of the Cross had recessed and disappeared before the eyes of Talah’s armies. Only the visible sway of soft meadow grasses remained, as if no water had ever crept upon the land.

  Truly, Juetta’s spell had been broken and the woman was no more. Yet, in her wake she left a devastated landscape of lifeless bodies and blood-soaked marshes to be the finishing touch in her vain attempt to control a power beyond her own humanity.

  With such gruesome debris, Moya’s mind quickly reeled with concern to the still absent figure of Ban Talah.

  “Has anyone seen Talah?”

  The voice of Sidric startled Moya from behind. “She did what was necessary,” he said. “It was her fate.” The last, the Marcher Lord spoke with absolution.

  “Why do you mark her a figure in past tense?” Moya staggered with a pained scowl. “Ban Talah does not die. True be it so many precious here gave their life blood for this end, but must you be so callous to believe in your heart Ban Talah would not rise above death as she has always done?” She looked around to Mac and others standing near, scoffing at the thought. “Surely, you know very little of her ways, Lord Sidric.”