We blocked the entrance with burning wood and fired our catapults. We had spent most of the month trapping every venomous thing for miles around and popping them into clay pots. Then we cut saplings to make crude catapults to fling our clay pots. We rained wasps, bees, hornets, scorpions, snakes, spiders, and every other nasty, poisonous, or stinging thing we had been able to catch down on them. The cave where we were supposed to be hiding was inhabited by a family of basilisks. The basilisks heard all the commotion and came out of their cave to see what was going on. They thought that the army was there to attack them. The basilisks did most of the work. It’s still known as the Valley of the Statues, though most of them have been carted off to be some wealthy noble’s parlor novelty by now. We sat up on the rim of the canyon with bows, picking off the survivors. It wasn’t very sporting…but then…what they did to my family, to my little sisters, wasn’t very sporting either. This time, he got none of them back.
The last real battle was Tir Diffaith, but we had already broken the back of his army at the Valley of the Statues. We led them into a ruined town and allowed them to camp there, making them believe we were nearby. Every night, we’d come and kill a few more of the sentries and as many others as we could without being seen. They started packing themselves in, tighter and tighter, to try to stop us. We were so successful at remaining unseen that a few of them assumed it was the work of vengeful ghosts and ran away. When we finally had them packed tight enough, we sprung our trap. We blocked most of the exits and pulled down the dam, releasing all the water and flooding what was left of Tir Diffaith.
Word of our victories trickled through our fellow citizens. They finished the last part. Instead of being massed into great armies, the last of his forces were scattered – an outpost here, a city’s guard there. Our people rose and finished off the last of Rigan’s forces. We had hoped that, with our victory in hand, we might be able to go home. That wasn’t to be. We had been living in the wild, unaware of what he’d been doing to our people. Even the great cities, which had once teemed with life and trade, were near ghost towns. We knew the minute we saw them that the Cymry were doomed. There just weren’t enough of us left to hold off our enemies. We would be overrun. We had a year at most. Our victory was ashes in our mouths. That was the most bitter and awful thing of all of them. We felt partly responsible because all the troops we had slain might have bought us more time. What we didn’t know then was that Rigan was harvesting all of us, like so much wheat to be ground into bread, so that he could devour us all. He meant to consume every last Cymry soul.
That’s when Rigan himself came looking for us. We were godless and facing a fight with an angry god. You wanted to know why a hungry wolf charging me is nothing. You wanted to know what it is that made me freeze in fear and nearly piss myself. It was my own, one-time, patron deity. Rigan found us. He captured us.
When we were all awake, he started yelling at us, “YOU DARE TO DEFY ME! YOU ARE MY SWORN SERVANTS AND YOU CANNOT LEAVE MY SERVICE! I HAVE NOT RELEASED YOU – ANY OF YOU!”
Midir…Midir spat on him and screamed back, “You are a worthless and impotent god. By your own decree, we have left you. We have carried out your edict and traveled home again because we would not serve such a vile creature as you.”
Midir, you were always the most spirited, and wherever you are, I pray a blessing on your spirit, for what happened next gave me the courage to stay the course.
With a single swish of his hand, Rigan spread Midir across the wall. He looked like nothing more than a streak of berry jam. I decided that if I was going to die, it would be on my feet and not cowering before a lunatic of a god. I called the blade of my father to me and cut myself down.
Rigan looked at me and said, “What do you think you’re doing, worm?”
“If any other Gods will hear me and aid me in this battle, I will end you. I refuse to cower before you, you pathetic excuse for a god. If I’m to die, it will be on my feet with my sword in my hand,” and that made Dian laugh. I wish Dian hadn’t laughed…he and Gwladus might have lived, but because he laughed, Rigan killed them too.
I was nearly blind with rage, but when I saw him draw my grandfather’s blade, I set myself. I danced with Rigan, but he overpowered me. He meant to make me hurt before he finally dispatched me, so he toyed with me, taking his time, measuring my life out in feints and blows. I needed him to be close, though, so I tried my best to keep pace with him, but no mortal is a match for a god. He could tell that I was beginning to tire and started to push me even harder, knowing that soon I would falter, and he would be able to strike. As we fought, I was praying to anything that would hear me for aid.
I would sell my life to take his. I could not bear what he had done to my people any more than I could bear what he had us do in his name. He drove me to the point of exhaustion, and finally, while he was making the down stroke that he meant to end my life, I called my grandfather to me. With both swords and the last of my strength, I struck him through the eye and the heart.
Even in his death throes, he nearly killed me. I think that he meant for both of us to die. You wanted to know what landed me, shredded and burnt, in the infirmary in Harito. You wanted to know what’s worse than elementals. It was the same god that consecrated me as a paladin in the first place. Morrighu found me in that place, wherever he’d been holding us, and I… I tried to send her away because I’d rather have died godless than be trapped by another lunatic of a deity. I’m afraid I was… quite rude because I wanted her to leave quickly. I was dying and already terrified of dying godless… I thought…
Stolen story; please report.
I thought that if I could drive her away, I wouldn’t give in during a moment of weakness and end up bound to what I was certain was just another lunatic of a god who was trying to trap me. She finally offered to amend my oaths so that I could leave if she became evil or went insane. When she did that, my father and grandfather both advised me to take her offer, so I did. What I learned later is that he’d been resurrecting us and killing us, over and over, for who knows how long. My only memories all seem to be of that last resurrection.
Husky and hoarse, Emlyn winds down, choking on her tears, while Atres comforts her. Sensing that she’s done, he pulls her to his chest and lets her cry while he croons soothing noises into her hair. After a time, she starts to nestle against him, and he smiles down at her. “
Oh, lass,” he says gently, “Better now?”
“Now you see why I tell you that when gods give much, they ask for even more back,” Emlyn says, scrubbing at her face.
“Come here, lass,” Atres smiles, “Let me wipe your face.”
He wipes her face with his handkerchief and hands her the whiskey glass.
“Here, lass,” Atres prompts, “Take a sip or two and steady yourself.” “
“I have a question,” Kethas frowns, “If your whole family is dead, what’s this about your father and grandfather, then?”
Reaching down, Emlyn unclips her swords and lays them on the table. “These are ancient magic, practiced by my people.”
She unsheathes one, and Kethas lets out an awed gasp of appreciation at the watered blade. “
Those are master works,” Kethas says, “Where did you get them?”
“Her family made them,” Atres answers for her.
“My grandfather is housed in this blade,” Emlyn says simply, “If you’d like to meet him, you can just grab the hilt. He’s usually up for a bit of a chat.”
Tentatively, Kethas reaches out and grabs the hilt, and immediately senses another presence, “Hrmph,” Melfyn says, “You’re not Atres. Who are you?”
“Kethas, friend of Atres and Ember. We’re trying to protect your granddaughter.”
“What’s she gotten herself into this time?” Melfyn asks wryly.
“Not entirely sure,” Kethas shrugs, “Still figuring that out, but it’s got Atres’s premonitions going haywire. At least now, he thinks it’s survivable.”
“Premonitions, eh?” Melfyn muses, “That a common thing?”
“Among his clan, yes. Those damn mages created ‘em for it,” Kethas replies, “long ago. That’s where all the dragon-blood clans come from, even my own. Takes magic to make a human-dragon hybrid. Other clans have other abilities, but that’s his.”
“That’s something to think on,” Melfyn replies, “Tell my granddaughter to talk to me when she gets a chance.”
Eyes wide, Kethas releases the hilt and sighs heavily. “He’s… no-nonsense. I’ll give you that. He says to tell you that he’d like to talk to you when you get a chance.”
Smirking slightly, Emlyn nods.
Kethas scrubs his face with a hand, “I guess your Da’s in the other one.”
“He is,” Emlyn shrugs, “but he’s… unhappy. I try not to upset him, and new people upset him.”
“Why’s he unhappy?” Benger asks.
“Because the one who survived was me,” Emlyn says darkly, “and not Delwyn or Madoc or Niefon or Lefi or even little Gwern.”
“Damn that man,” Atres grumbles, “He should be over the moon that at least one of his children survived. It’s a shame he doesn’t have a nose I can punch.”
“He blames me for all that,” Emlyn replies and sees Ember cringe, “and says that if I had just been happy with whatever lout of a husband that they’d chosen for me, none of this would have happened.”
“You know that’s not true. He was out to devour all of you. Maybe we should get you another sword for a while,” Ember says slowly, “Park him in the armory for a while until he sorts himself out.”
“Maybe,” Emlyn sighs, “I don’t know that it would help. I thought for a time that if I’d tried to warn them, maybe things might have been different. My grandfather says that someone did, and he ignored it so he wouldn’t have listened to me, either. He’s just pissed that all his sons died, and I didn’t. If they’d trained harder, they might not have. If he wants to start throwing blame around, then I’m perfectly willing to blame him for letting them be layabouts. There should have been four top-ranked fighting-age Cymry men to defend our family’s keep, instead of just my father. There were only four of us, out in the wilderness, after all.”
“There’s my lass,” Atres laughs and hugs her. Emlyn sits leaning against Atres behind her, sipping at her whiskey.
Finally, Kethas breaks the silence.
“Seems to me that bugger resurrected you one time too many for his own good,” Kethas says wryly, “No wonder a wolf is nothing. Gods above, girl! No one should have to endure all that. I knew you were a battle paladin, but… I hadn’t expected any of that.”
“We keep her out of the archives, out of the records, keep her tattoo covered up, and keep her name secret in case anything she angered by killing Rigan might still be looking for her,” Ember says to Kethas, “That’s why all the secrecy. As gods count things, the Great Conflict wasn’t that long ago, and the peace is still relatively fragile. No one wants to see that start back up again.”
“That’s why you said what you did,” Atres nods, almost to himself, and Emlyn nods in confirmation.
“Why try to drive the Goddess away?” Benger asks.
“Because of all the others that had come to us,” Emlyn explains, “All the ones who tried to trap us. I was certain it was just another trap.”
“Surely you know by now,” Benger replies, “that she isn’t like that.”
“Now,” Emlyn agrees, “but then… No. After dealing with so many, it seemed like they were all the same. It’s why I was so… forceful.”
“I’ve heard about what you said to try to drive her away,” Ember grimaces, “I doubt anyone’s ever spoken to our Goddess like that.”
“She can be a bit… umm… direct,” Atres chuckles, “when her temper’s up, but she seems to have gotten a bit smarter about dealing with it since then.”
Ember looks at Atres curiously, so Atres launches, with Benger’s help, into describing her comments to Argonath, leaving to punch a tree, and the subsequent fight in the forest. Ember sips at his whiskey and shakes his head.
“I knew Shu-Jin was impressed with you,” Ember shrugs, “Held your own with Argonath, eh?”
“Not in armor, though,” Emlyn shrugs, “The break has been good. You were right about that. I can finally get through some of the simpler practice patterns without collapsing. I need to be able to do all of them in my full kit, and I can’t yet.”
“Then we wait,” Ember shrugs, “and delay this thing until you can.”
Behind her, Atres sucks in a sharp breath, and Kethas looks over, “Another release?”
Shaking his head, Atres replies, “No, a shift of some kind.”
“That’ll mean extending the contracts,” Emlyn says, with a nudge to Atres, “I don’t know if I’ll be that fit in two months.”
Sighing, Atres nods, “Now it’s better.”
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Current Jar Total: 2 bent coppers and a button.
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Boltir’s Plea: "Basilisks?! She used basilisks as an anvil? That’s my girl! Meanwhile, Atres is 'sucking in a sharp breath' in the background. Typical. If you enjoyed the sight of an army being defeated by clay pots and giant lizards, toss a review into the Jar! I need the copper to buy a 'Guide to Flirting with Women Who Command Monsters.' It’s a very expensive scroll."
Would you have gone looking for your families or just a stiff drink after finding yourself back in Cymry territory? Let me know in the comments.