Other Excerpts
Over the Hills and Far Away
As dawn broke on one of the roads that may, or may not have led from Ballylaneen to Skellig Michael Fionn put his best foot forward and began the next stage of his journey. From the top of the hill he could see for miles and miles. Winding down through the lush green valley ahead he saw that the road turned eventually, before disappearing behind a large earth mound in the distance. Before it did it so however, it marched idly across the green fields laid out like a table cover before him. It was going to be a beautiful day, for already the sun was warm and bright.
“Travel neither by horse nor cart.” They had said to him sternly before he had set out. “Only on foot.” They had provided him with several other warnings, or possibly rules too. “Sleep under the moon on your way.” They had said. “Neither roof nor barn must shelter you. Eat and drink only what you can find on your way.” So far he had stuck to the rules, though he had not found it hard. Yet as he strode along the road he found his steps were light, his pace swift. It seemed as if he was almost dancing, and he thought that his good spirits would undoubtedly ensure he made quick and steady progress.
He knew that the narrow lane ran for miles, yet he did not pass anyone on his way, nor did anyone see him. The grass verges on each side of the path were green and dew soaked when he first set out, but as the morning proceeded and the sun rose higher in the sky the dew began to disappear, until as mid-morning approached it was all but gone, burnt off by the heat of the sun. The sky harboured a few wisps of cloud, but apart from that was a deep shade of blue. Fionn began to loosen his shirt, as it was by now becoming quite warm.
A little while later a small rabbit jumped across the path in front of him, and he stopped to look at it, but it moved too quickly for him. The rabbit jumped away into the verge and finding a small hole in the rock wall vanished into the field beyond. Disappointed as he was for missing the rabbit, he was none the less pleased to find that he had reached the turn in the road that he had noticed from his much higher vantage point earlier that morning. He saw that the road was slowly beginning to ascend up the side of the hill that he had seen earlier in the morning. Still, his spirits were high and despite the incline and the hot sunny weather he began to follow the road upwards, his pace hardly slowing at all.
Here Be Dragons!
The final sounds of battle faded around them as the last ice creature fell dead, clearing the way ahead. Rizan slumped to the floor; his blood stained great sword clattering to the ground alongside him. Breathing heavily he could hardly manage to raise his face to ensure that the rest of his comrades had come through the last battle unscathed. His swords brother Gethane was also slumped on the floor, his back propped up against the narrow brick tunnel wall behind him. He was attempting to wipe the gore from his blade, a small whetstone being placed on the floor close to hand. As Gethane noticed him taking stock he nodded once in recognition. It seemed as if even that small gesture had drained him completely of all energy. Yet still he continued to clean his sword.
To the side of Gethane stood Vix the female fire wizard. She gave him a haughty look and swallowed a small drink from a phial she had concealed up a sleeve. “That last ice fury came close to killing us all!” she pronounced haughtily, “It seemed resistant to most of the fire bolts I cast upon it.”
“True.” mumbled the cleric Legaoniel who was flitting amongst the mostly slumped forms gathered about the lit torches held by several of the warriors there. She occasionally cast an arcane gesture or ward and the recipient would take on a slightly healthier aspect. After some time however she too sloped to the floor, gathering her energy. “Strange for ice to be so resistant to fire.” Her voice faded away into the darkness. At the edge of the light Rizan could just make out the shadowy form of Varesh, the hunter. His long bow was looped across his back once more, and the shadows seemed to flicker and fade about him, as if attempting to conceal him from the torchlight.
“This is no ordinary place though.” The hunter pronounced from the almost dark. “I have heard no tales of anyone managing to descend as far into this dark dungeon as we have today.” He pointed to the end of the corridor before him which suddenly ended in a tight stone staircase that descended even further down into the darkness. “I fear however that we are not done yet.” Seven pairs of eyes followed where he had pointed as the bowman flickered back into the darkness, and Rizan knew that he would now be busy scavenging arrows from the corpses of the fallen beasts they had just slain.
Rizan began to clean his blade. “We shall rest a time to gather our energy. The Gods alone know how far we have to descend yet. Caution is the best approach from here. A journey such as this must surely herald some vast treasures concealed in the depths of the earth.”
“Yet what guards this treasure?” asked Gorvek, his dark blue cloak seeming to wrap itself around him. Rizan knew that Gorvek was the master of the elements, and could seemingly effortlessly conjure gusts of wind and water so fierce they would destroy his enemies with ease. At this moment in time however, he simply looked like a frightened old man.
“That I know not.” said Rizan wearily, “Yet we have prevailed thus far. We shall make a move when we are all ready to do so. Treasure awaits us, our bravery shall carry us onwards!” Rizan was glad to see that several of the warriors now proceeded with their preparations with a greater purpose. Nodding to Gethane he borrowed the whetstone that lay on the floor between them and continued to sharpen his sword. Calvin moved from the back of the party and sat down next to the two swordsman. In a comic whisper he said to Rizan,
“I thought it was I who was the master of mental control, trickery and illusions!” he laughed, and Rizan laughed along with his fellow warrior.
“Not this time, old friend.” Rizan replied. “No tricks from me. I shall leave that to you. I have no illusions. Just plain common sense.” Several of them gathered there chuckled at that, and Calvin made his way back to the wall from where he had approached. It was here that the last member of their band of warriors was sat. A short woman dressed all in green, her long brown hair cascading down her face. “Ethir!” pronounced Rizan, and the woman raised her face to acknowledge the dark knight of legend. “What is it?”
Rizan knew that Ethir was a child of the E’than, druids and elementalists that seemed to be able to force nature to their will. Her strange affinity with the world about her often proved useful. In truth, her prescience had saved them several times today already as they had made their way down into the dungeon, descending further and further in search of treasure and riches. This time however, when Ethir raised her face to him, Rizan knew that their greatest task still lay before them. “There is great evil below us. I feel it as if a fire has been set inside my heart. I fear for my comrades. This is power of a like I have never encountered before.”
Rizan took note of the various mutterings that seemed to arise around him. “I know, my friend” he said, and rose to put his arm upon her shoulder. “Yet I know we shall prevail.” Ethir forced her eyes to look into the mighty warriors face as he continued. “It is what we do, my friend.” he paused once and began to help raise them to their feet. “It is what we do.” he finished, and was pleased once again to notice several of his comrades beginning to gather their packs about them, checking their belongings, weapons, and so forth.
“We move out in five minutes!” He yelled and handed the whetstone back to Gethane. Rizan paused to take stock of his comrade. Though slightly shorter than himself the fighter had a broad build, heavy muscles for now concealed in the heavy steel armour that covered him from the neck down. A silver circlet was across his brow, and from where he stood Rizan could see several runes of protection and warding carved into the thick metal. All about him the warriors began to make preparations. Magic wards filled the air, boosting their resolve. The air crackled with energy. Varesh appeared from the shadows, already a arrow held on the strong of the long elegant bow ready to fire. “Keep by my side and w
e shall proceed slowly.” Grunted Rizan to Gethane as he tested the edge of his blade against the light. “At the first sign of attack stick to my assailant and we shall whittle down whatever is before us that way.” Gethane nodded and considered his blade too. A long silver sword that glittered almost blue in the semi darkness, runes of might and destruction carved about the hilt. It was, he felt, much less imposing Rizan’s long two handed great sword, the blade of which was of some dark black metal, smelted and hammered almost in to life by the smiths of the order of the dark knights. It was a fearsome weapon, yet Gethane was glad of its presence. Rizan was a mighty warrior, and Gethane stood for a moment to watch his swords brother as he moved amongst his fellow fighters. The first time he had met him Gethane would almost admit to a hint of fear. The brotherhood of the dark knights had a fearsome reputation. Rizan’s armour encased him from head to foot and seemed to have been forged from the same black metal of his large sword, though his armour was also carved throughout with golden etchings and runes. What he had not expected on that first meeting was Rizan’s finely tuned sense of humour, his generosity, but above all his leadership and his ability to get things done. Rizan was a man to admire and respect, and Gethane was happy to oblige.
Returning to the task at hand Gethane watched as Rizan mustered his colleagues. It was as if they almost found hidden depths of courage when he spoke to them he thought as their leader continued to work his way amongst the band of warriors, whispering words of encouragement and valour. By now the crackle of energy and power was almost palpable as each one of them there was enhanced by spells from the magic users, enhancing their abilities, honing their skills.
They were ready.
An Unremarkable Man.
On a petrichorian morning in May we gathered in the old church yard, the air still but slowly warming as the sun rose higher towards noon, the breeze redolent of rain yet filled with a promise of warmth yet to come. The small number of people gathered about the open grave listened intently as the tall man dressed entirely in the darkest of black, a small trilby balanced precariously on his head drew his eulogy to a close.
“Though this you could say of him. Ron was as straight as a die - old fashioned perhaps; some would say old school. But the heart of the matter, and if he were here with us now other than just in spirit, I think he would agree, is the fact that he was to all who knew him an unremarkable man. He never saw a ghost, found treasure buried in the darker wind swept places of the world, nor did he ever own a cat that talked, nor indeed did he have anything remarkable about him at all. That this was the case was his joy, and his secret too. In truth the thing that defined him most in my and many other people’s eyes was that he had no secret. An unremarkable man, that was Ron. Yet he was loved, and will be missed. Perhaps sometimes that is enough.”
The small group of people nodded as the tall man finished his speech, and I thought to myself how unusual the things were that the man had said. I touched the small old coin in my pocket almost subconsciously and smiled, for I knew that some of those things were simply not true. I forced myself back to the present and brought back into focus the soil cast on the coffin, the vicar leading away across the graveyard as I stood red rose in hand beside the grave with a woman who I had met barely an hour before who may - or may not - have been Ron’s wife. There would be no cold wind this day; no more rain. Slowly the group departed from the open grave, the grave diggers still out of sight but presumably somewhere near to hand, slowly encroaching on the hole in the ground, no doubt eager to commence filling it in.
“Tsk.” muttered the tall woman beside me. She held on to my arm tightly, and I looked back to her, almost as if waiting for permission to cast the rose into the grave.
“An unremarkable man.” she muttered, her tone more of irritation than anything. I took a second to examine her once again. The first time I had seen her was when she arrived at the church in a car that looked as if it was from another age. The long black bonnet of the four door Rover fourteen (or so it said on the large, silver polished grill plate) had swung into the churchyard in an almost movie star manner, and once it had pulled to a stop a small shabbily dressed man had jumped out of the driving seat and opened the door for the lady who now stood beside me, holding on to my arm. I thought I saw a tear roll slowly down her cheek but I could not be sure. The woman, who had introduced herself as, “Tish” was old for certain, but certainly not as old as Ron had been. She was still beautiful, her long dark hair only showing slight signs of grey. She was tall, too. Much taller than myself. I would say she was probably five foot ten or thereabouts, and I glanced at her shoes once again, and was still surprised to see that they were quite flat. So she was naturally tall then. The other remarkable thing about her was that she did not seem to be wearing any makeup at all. Yet there was a kind of English Rose quality about her. Dark red, full lips, a slightly upturned nose; large blue eyes. I thought that when she was younger she must have been quite beautiful; and I stopped in my thoughts, realising she still was. The problem I had reconciling mostly was the possibility that she was Ron’s wife, for if that was the case then she was obviously much younger than him. That and the fact that I had in all the years I had known Ron never met her at all, though Ron had talked about her all the time.
Tish caught me looking at her and she nodded to me just the once, a slight smile playing across her lips. I turned my attention back to the large hole in the ground and cast the single rose into the grave. It seemed to fall slowly and as it hit the coffin the blood red petals contrasted starkly against the handfuls of soil already cast by the thin group of mourners moments before. Several petals fell from the flower as it hit the lid of the coffin and spilled across its surface like small drops of blood. The older woman made no sound beside me as we waited; remembering. Perhaps she had much more of Ron to remember than I, for the store of recollections I had of the sweet old man were not many, but they were nevertheless cherished. The thing I remembered most of all about him at that moment in time was how his eyes used to sparkle. It was almost a cross between laughter and a slight edge of mischief playing across his face. It could do nothing else than endear you to him no matter how lost he seemed. As we stood in silence beside the grave I tried hard to recall the first time I had met him. Then it all came back, and I smiled as I remembered…
Vallum Aelium
My name is Kaeso Desticius Catulus of the Valeria Victix 20Th legion, tenth cohort to the Centuria commanded by Mithra blessed Alexis, of the Contubernium led by myself, ten days fresh from Deva and sent straight to the heathen wall.
You may call me Catulus.
The lands here are as if made of ice, wind swept and brutal. I have never felt as cold as this, the snow seeming to be a constant breath on the air, and never far from falling. The ground is hard, as if of metal and then as sharp as the edge of a knife. I have fought as an auxiliary with the legions in many places, but never in a land as remote as this, for here we are stationed on the outer edges of the known world , the Aelium frontier. Aside from the wretched animals that seem to somehow make a living from these barren lands, small field creatures, an infrequent wolf or tall antlered deer, here the only others are our legions, the cohorts of Rome and the damned Pictii.
These devils haunt our every hour, whether that be asleep or awake. They constantly harry the wall, wailing and screaming from the dark or through the thick clouds of snow. Half crazed, half naked, filthy ravenous creatures they are, armed with all forms of hand crafted weapons, or of bone. Anything they can find it would seem. The Contubernium joke that they are often smelt before they are seen, but they are not a slight foe. I have seen men ripped apart by them, the dirty, filth infested hoard falling on a man and hacking him to pieces. It is whispered amongst the men that they have a use for the fallen which may involve the use of a pot, but I cannot say. This I have never seen. Nevertheless it is a fool who does not fear the Pictii, the painted ones. They above all else are the edge of the storms of snow, awaiting to fall u
pon those they see as their enemy, which to my eyes, seems to be all men, or women, who are not Pictii themselves. I would not even put it beyond their unreasoning minds to attack even their own.
Why can there not be peace in this world? Why must there always be those who seek to subvert the will of Rome? Can they not see the gifts we bring to a world bereft of peace, and try to survive amidst the flames of ill governance and war. Why are such peoples so afraid of the might of the empire? Fools they are, say I and spit upon their corpses as we march onward, bringing the bounty of the Roman Empire in our wake. ..
That’s all for now, though I can be contacted via the links below.
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