By Force Alone

by Lavie Tidhar

  ‘I see gold,’ she says, and her eyes grow large, for Maggs, as Guinevere well knows, is a greedy old woman and no mistake. ‘I see so much gold that the shine it gives is blinding – no!’ she cries, and she throws the glass ball away and covers her eyes, and Guinevere sees a flash of burning light burst out of the glass and sear the wall, for just a moment before the glass smashes into bits.

  ‘Maggs!’

  But Maggs is huddled on the floor, hiding her face. ‘Beware, Guinevere!’ she says. ‘Not all that glitters is gold.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Beware that which is false, and beware, most of all, the attentions of kings.’

  And she says no more. And Guinevere cannot rouse her. And so, at last, she leaves her there, and ventures outside to see her girls.

  *

  That night they feast in that little safe haven, but they take little of the mead and beer and, in the night, they slip away and watch, and wait. And Guinevere is not entirely surprised to see a force of men creep up on the village, until they stand surrounding the chief’s hall.

  Nasty, brutish men in metal helmets, armed with swords.

  ‘Betrayed,’ Enid says, with loathing.

  Guinevere calms her with a touch of the hand. ‘We can bribe them all we want with cinnamon and salt,’ she says. ‘But an argument of kings is only ever settled with a sword.’

  ‘I will burn their houses down and dance upon their graves,’ Enid says; but she lacks conviction.

  ‘Come, sisters, we have the information that we need. So while they hunt us here we will journey north, and strike them where they least expect it.’

  ‘What did the madwoman say?’ asks Laudine.

  ‘She isn’t a madw—’ Guinevere reconsiders. ‘She said she saw gold. Lots and lots of gold.’

  ‘Gold is good,’ Isolde says.

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Let’s just go,’ Luned says.

  They mount their horses.

  ‘To the Dolorous Tor!’ Isolde says.

  They ride out of there.

  Behind them, the sky is aflame with fire; the Aetheling’s men, having failed to find the Choir of Angels, have carried out the same punishment on the villagers as Enid had wished.

  ‘Goodbye, Maggs…’ Guinevere says; but softly.

  39

  The kingdoms of Deira and Bernicia lie on opposite sides of the River Tyne, and in truth there is not much difference between them now to when they were ruled over by Britons. They are still mostly farmland, inhabited by farmers, trappers, fisherfolk and small craftworkers, it’s just that now some villages are native and some are of the newcomers.

  There is also, in truth, plenty of space for everyone, for the island is big and its population is somewhat sparse.

  The newcomers arrived in stages. They are a tribal peoples from Germania on the continent, and some arrived with Hengist and Horsa as mercenaries, or so Guinevere was told, while others came as farmers speaking of an apocalypse, that is to say, an uncovering, for their lands have been invaded by floods and the sea until their peoples starved and they were forced to migrate. These boat people have been fleeing Europa to these shores for the past two decades, where they have mostly formed colonies of their own. Some of their colonies war with the native population, and some war with each other, and some just try to get along.

  They work hard, on the whole. And they keep themselves to themselves.

  They do not speak the common tongue but their own harsh Anglisc, a language truly of demons and half-men, a language so barbaric no one should ever have to speak it or, worse, write a story in it.

  It doesn’t even have an alphabet. To write in it they steal the Latin script of Rome. It is an awful thing, to have to think in Anglisc. One may as well speak in the tongue of dogs.

  Or so they say. But Guinevere has grown in Pons Aelius, which is situated on the Tyne between the two spheres of influence, and for all that she has her Latin and the common tongue she also knows her Anglisc and the manners and customs of these newcomers, for she was raised in their midst. Perhaps, she sometimes thinks, one day all of this land will speak in Anglisc, and they’ll resurface the old Roman roads and ride down them in horseless chariots, like dragons belching smoke, and somehow sit inside the belly of the beasts while voices in the air sing for them in many voices.

  Sometimes she thinks she has the gift of sight, like Maggs. But then again, perhaps she’s crazy.

  But I love you, the worm whispers, far away.

  The Choir of Angels ride down track roads and skirt the villages. They sleep under the stars, build small fires, catch hares for their supper. They pass through woodland, over hills, until one day they reach the Tyne and cross it.

  Growing up in Pons Aelius, Guinevere had seen what seemed like a certain present become a horrifyingly unknown future. She never knew her mother, who died giving birth to her. Her father vanished on a sea journey when she was three. She has only one memory of him still, of strong arms lifting her up, a scratchy beard, the smell of smoke and sweat, and something like love. She was raised by the nurse-woman, Maggs, while her uncle Cador ruled from the castle. For a time she knew the world and the world made sense. Then the newcomers began to come, a few at first up the Tyne, then overland from the southern shores, and more and more, and when Cador died the newcomers’ man was in place to take over.

  How Cador died wasn’t entirely clear. A hunting accident, some said. Others muttered darkly that it was no accident, and that a Saxon wizard turned him into a wild boar, slit his throat with a scythe and bled him into the earth until the grass and flowers all around the body shrivelled and died and nothing ever lived in that spot again. Guinevere had gone riding into the woods once where they said the black spot was, but she never found it. Still. There might have been some truth in it.

  So Guinevere… adapted. She learned Anglisc, and she watched the Angle women, some of whom were fierce. They taught her knife work and the sword and how to gut a rabbit and how to slaughter pigs and how to sew a wound. And one moonless night she rode out into the forest, into the deepest part where no light broke and the creatures that moved in the mulch were nameless, and there she channelled all her rage and her despair, for the mother she never knew and the father who vanished at sea, for a family and a kingdom lost, for a language and a way of life slipping away, forever – she took it all and fed it, into a wordless scream.

  She also cut herself, but she’d been doing that a lot back then. A way of, somehow, asserting control, in a world where she had none.

  Her blood fell on the black, fertile ground.

  Her scream vanished into the thickness of the trees. It fed into the roots and soils.

  And out of the darkness, something came back.

  A small, helpless little animal slithered out of the dark and came to rest by her feet.

  Guinevere knelt there in the dark. The thing glowed white. She cupped it in her bloodied hands and lifted it up and stared at it, entranced.

  I love you, the worm said.

  And Guinevere said, ‘I love you too.’

  *

  I love you… the worm says.

  ‘I love you too,’ Guinevere murmurs. Too many days on a horse, and the land had changed once they crossed the Tyne, became a wilderness of feral forest, routes that led nowhere and roots that tripped the animals and branches that lashed at the Choir of Angels as though the land itself, somehow, rose against them.

  ‘What does it look like?’ she whispers.

  Many nasty men… Fires that burn in many colours, and evil smoke… A terrible stench.

  ‘You’re really not selling me on this, are you, worm?’

  Eat them?

  A note of hope, and longing.

  ‘Not a good idea…’ She mulls it over. ‘Not after last time.’

  Hungry… Miss you.

  ‘I miss you too, worm.’

  ‘Who are you talking to, Guinevere?’

  ‘What? No one.’

  ‘Talkin
g to yourself again?’

  The other girls laugh.

  She pays them no mind. As they crossed the Tyne she peered into the water and saw something impossible: a troupe of pale women swimming in the depths, carrying swords. They looked up at her and waved and smiled, and mouthed the words, Hello, sister.

  Now they ride through a land that is green and yet shows signs of sudden, failing health. Dirty bogs where once clear pools of water stood. Blackened trees with twisted branches drooping to the ground, scattered here and there amidst the healthy ones. Some sort of a selective plague had touched them, maybe. And here and there the bodies of birds that fell from the skies.

  The air, too, is hazy with something that is not quite smoke, too thick and too sweet. As they ride they begin to notice, and avoid, the patrols and the watchmen who guard the approach to the Dolorous Tor. It is easy enough for the girls at first, but then they pass through the last of the forest, suddenly, and see the hill fort rise overhead.

  The Dolorous Tor is a black mass against the sky. It is built as though multiple architects have got together, taken a bunch of Goblin Fruit and then each designed a section of the fort without paying any consideration to the others or, indeed, to the rules of common sense or Euclidean geometry. It is like a black hole punched through reality, distorting the air around it, like a wound that pulsates, both repelling and drawing the eye.

  Smoke rises high into the air and the fires below burn in many colours, and a weird chanting emanates from that high place, and Isolde says, ‘Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.’

  ‘It’s a terrible idea,’ Laudine says firmly. ‘But it’s the only one we’ve got.’

  They see the patrols, then. Men in chainmail riding dark horses, their faces obscure.

  Guinevere scans the approach. The hill is steep and the only path leading up is guarded at several checkpoints. There is little vegetation to offer cover and the ground is burned black and there are evil sharp rocks everywhere.

  Luned says, ‘Unless you can turn into a bird and fly there, I don’t see how else we can get in.’

  ‘Oh, we can get in,’ Guinevere says darkly. ‘Now, take off your clothes.’

  ‘You what?’

  The others exchange amused glances.

  *

  The naked woman runs screaming towards the approaching patrolmen through the forest. They rein their horses, and two of them even climb down to assist her, and this is their undoing. Laudine’s arrows whistle through the air and the other girls fall on the men from the high branches and stick their knives through the eye holes in the helmets and toss the screaming men from their horses.

  Then the remaining men charge and it is each girl for herself, and Enid gets a nasty gash on her arm but they all have swords now and, what’s more, they know how to handle them. One of the men, horseless, turns to run, but no one can be allowed to get away and warn them up on the hill and, on the horses now, they catch up to him and string him like a fish.

  They bury the corpses in a shallow grave under an oak, and keep the one prisoner tied up as Enid nurses her wound and Laudine builds a small fire and heats up her knives. The forest is dark, and small blind things crawl in the earth and there is just something so wrong about the air. Guinevere kneels besides the soldier. He is not so scary now, but it is hard to look scary when you’re nude and your shrivelled junk is dangling between your legs and your balls are trying hard to crawl all the way up back inside you. Besides, he’s young. And Guinevere takes one of the hot knives and holds it close to him, just enough to feel the heat it’s putting out.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she says, in Anglisc.

  ‘S… Selwyn,’ he says. He stares at her with what he thinks is defiance. It just makes him look more scared and small.

  ‘Listen, Selwyn,’ Guinevere says gently. ‘It doesn’t have to go down bad. It can be over quick, quick as you like.’ She makes one motion with her hand across her throat. ‘Won’t even feel a thing. I promise.’

  Then she shows him the hot knife. ‘Or it can go down slow. It can go down hard. I don’t want it to. You don’t, either. But it’s your choice. I just need you to tell me the password for the checkpoints, and the way things are up there. Simple stuff. One way or the other it won’t matter to you anymore.’ She strokes his short-cropped hair. ‘What do you say, Selwyn? The fast road, or the slow?’

  He stares at her in bewilderment and hate. ‘F… Fuck you, you witch!’ he says.

  So Guinevere applies the knife.

  *

  They bury him with the others and dress for the part. Five patrolmen on five horses depart the forest and start up the road to the Dolorous Tor. Guinevere marvels at the workmanship on the helmet, all anyone can see of her is her eyes. They reach the first checkpoint and give the password and pass through. The road winds up the hill and black clouds amass at the top but it never rains, and the air feels suffocating and heavy.

  ‘This is going smoothly so far,’ Laudine says dubiously.

  ‘Keep your eyes open and your hand on your sword,’ Guinevere says. ‘I don’t like the smell of this place.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s kind of…’

  ‘Dolorous?’ Luned says.

  ‘Melancholic,’ Laudine adds, in Latin. ‘What?’ she says, to their looks. ‘Everyone knows the melas kholé or black bile in the balance of the humours leads to feelings of fears and despondencies and unreasonable torpor. It’s all in Galen.’

  ‘If you say so…’ Isolde says.

  ‘It’s all in Galen…’ Enid says, and they all laugh.

  They’re hailed at the last checkpoint before the castle by a burly captain. ‘Hey, Edwyn! You’re a few men short!’

  Guinevere, thickening her voice: ‘They’re down hunting a trespasser, captain. Some crazy woman, possibly a witch.’

  ‘A witch? The lord will not be pleased. You sound strange, Edwyn. What happened to your voice?’

  ‘I feel a cold coming upon me, good captain. It is nothing, really. We better hurry up to see the lord.’

  The captain frowns.

  ‘You don’t seem quite yourself today, Edwyn.’

  ‘I must hurry,’ Guinevere says. ‘The lord will want the news.’

  She waits; still on the horse, forcing her hand to remain steady and not creep to the hilt of the sword. Trying to work out how many they could kill before the soldiers got them. The others waiting too, the horses neighing, the guards watching, not yet suspicious, perhaps, but ready to act on order.

  ‘…True,’ the captain allows. He waves them to pass. Guinevere sighs inwardly with relief. As they ride up to the tor she risks a glance back. The captain’s frowning, looking after them.

  Guinevere raises her fist in salute.

  *

  The Dolorous Tor is even more foreboding up close. Those walls are hewn out of black rock not native to the area. The towers rise misshapen high into the air. The fires burn with a smell like cannabis and opium. Rare medicines, imported from across the water. She doesn’t know what’s happening here, only that she doesn’t like it.

  They ride into the courtyard…

  The gates close behind them.

  She looks around her.

  Archers stand overhead with their bows at the ready.

  Warriors emerge out of the shadows and ring them with swords.

  A small, black-clad figure emerges out of the doorway. It is a man of unremarkable features but for a scar across his face, thinning hair, a pleasant smile.

  He nods.

  ‘Guinevere’s coming…’ he says mockingly.

  She thinks – Oh, shit.

  She removes her helmet. The others follow her lead. They stare at this man – this Aetheling.

  ‘Lord Pelles, I presume,’ she says.

  ‘Lady Guinevere. You honour my halls.’

  ‘I’ve come to kill you.’

  He shakes his head. ‘A fool’s errand, surely.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  He regards her quizzically
. ‘Well, I would like to think you an honoured guest. Please. Dismount and come inside. I shall have food prepared, and hot water for you to bathe – it must have been a while since you’d had a shower, no offence.’

  ‘None taken, I’m sure,’ she says coldly.

  But she has no choice. It is a trap, has always been a trap. It must have been. She dismounts from her horse and surrenders her sword and her weapons. The others follow suit. They go inside. Black halls, cold stone, the whisper of steel. They are shown to quarters that are lavish enough, but a jail cell all the same.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Isolde says.

  ‘If he had wanted us dead, we would be dead by now.’

  ‘This is ignominious,’ Laudine says.

  Enid washes and cleans her wound, her face tight.

  ‘He wants something.’

  ‘Sure, but what?’

  Guinevere shrugs.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Luned says.

  A clear bell rings. A guard shows up at the door.

  ‘The Aetheling of Deira will see you now,’ he says.

  He unlocks the door and they follow him to the king’s hall.

  40

  A harpist plays soft, beautiful music. Four musicians play the bone flute. It sounds like birds chasing each other in the wind.

  A table is laid with food. Boar and hares, apples and cheese, bread, beer. Guards watch them impassively. The Choir of Angels fall on the food. It’s been a while, and a girl is better ready when she’s full, or so Enid is fond of saying. Guinevere stuffs her face until grease runs down her chin.

  ‘Enjoy,’ the Aetheling says.

  He’s sitting with another man. A Briton, and kingly with it. A fire burns and herbs burn in the fire and the flames have many colours and the shadows dance queerly on the walls. Guinevere palms a paring knife, then notices the man watching her. He smiles.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Guinevere says.

  ‘My name,’ he says, ‘is Leir.’

  She knows the name and she grows still. He rules the ridings from the old Roman town of Eboracum on the River Ouse. He’s nothing much to look at, but for his eyes, which burn with power.