

Eve of the Serpent

Jon Jacks

Other New Adult and Children's books by Jon Jacks

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Text copyright© 2015 Jon Jacks

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

Thank you for your support.

Throw a stone, a pebble, into a pond.

Count how many circular ripples, how many waves, you make.

If you find them hard to count, don't worry.

I can tell you how many there will be.

There will be seven.

And there are reasons for this.

Seven reasons.

Olwen of the Six Hands

*

# Chapter 1

'Ah, here you are again, little fox: what do you need to know tonight?'

'I have no assignments,' the little vixen answered miserably. 'No one I've met recently wishes to know their future.'

'Everyone wants to know the future: they're just fearful that they're not being told the truth. That they're being fooled to relieve them of their money.'

'I've never knowingly taken their money with the intention of fooling them.'

The little vixen's face screwed up a little in distaste.

' _I_ know _you_ haven't, little fox. But many do, for so few have your talent. A talent you waste, I must say.'

The lady turned from working on her tapestries to chidingly peer at the vixen who, sitting on its haunches, was patiently waiting for her to finish.

The lady worked on three tapestries at once, one representing the past, one the present, the third the future. She worked rapidly, her arms and hands a blur, so that anyone seeing her would remain unsure as to how many pairs of hands she actually had.

She weaved her creations from the threads of life, from the weft and waft of intertwining lives. As she worked, the sinews of the tower around her sang and hummed, picking up the world's emotional vibrations as if it were a vast harp. The threads resonated, trembled, sensing the delicate touch of a lover, the wailing of a babe freshly thrown into the world, the last breath of a life too shortly lived.

'It's good that, tonight at least, your time won't be wasted with me.'

The lady smiled. Her hands never stopped working on her tapestries.

The three she was working on were nearing completion. At first glance, one showed a ship crossing a stormy ocean, the second the ship docking in a port, the third a boy not much older than Prytani breathing life into birds he'd made of clay.

'This is a tale more interesting than most,' the lady calmly continued. 'For the coming of the boy heralds my own end: perhaps even my death.'

*

# Chapter 2

When Prytani woke, she shivered, the cold penetrating through her thin clothes despite the warmth offered by Tamesis's fur and body. The little vixen smelt warm and comforting, and Prytani briefly hugged her tighter before unenthusiastically rising to her feet.

She had better move quickly, before she was found here. She carefully touched the bruise on her forehead, recalling how painfully the stone had struck her when she'd been chased off a farm the previous night.

'Little tramp!" the woman had gleefully called after her. 'We don't need your thieving sort round here!'

Thieving!

She never stole _anything_!

Well, not unless she absolutely had to, anyway. She had to eat, didn't she?

As she'd told the lady, she'd found it hard recently to persuade people she really could offer them advice on any impending problems or anxieties. The people around here seemed to have been tricked by too many charlatans, too many false seers pretending to have the gift. They didn't take kindly to anyone promising them a real insight into what their future held for them.

The thrown stone was just one injustice she'd suffered. She'd also been chased off with sticks, set on by dogs (with poor Tamesis only just managing to get away with her bushy tail completely intact), whipped with the dripping wet blankets the washerwomen had been beating clean on the riverbank.

She and Tamesis now both smelt heavily of the old, pitched rope they'd used as their bed for the night. In every other way, it was useless rope, shredded and weak, now fit only for caulking between a hull's planks. But if anyone found her here, they'd accuse Prytani of causing damage, of spoiling any of the goods stored in the ramshackle warehouse.

They took turns clambering out through the hole in the wall's rotting boards. It was a tight squeeze, even for Tamesis. This brought them out into the maze of dank, narrow alleyways running between the harbour's warehouses. Shaking themselves down, they set off for the dockside.

Overnight, a new ship had docked. Prytani recognised it immediately.

It was the ship from the tapestries.

The ship bringing the boy.

*

# Chapter 3

Whenever the lady showed Prytani her tapestries, she didn't tend to explain what they meant, what story they told; Prytani could see the story unfolding before her, as if the woven pictures flowed, moved, like waves upon a sea.

Yes, Prytani was well aware that all this took place purely within her dreams, when she and Tamesis merged to become one, yet she had never found cause to doubt whatever the lady showed or told her.

This time, however, it was the lady herself who had expressed doubts about the third tapestry; the tapestry that told truths of times that have yet to take place, sometimes lying far ahead of their own time.

'It shows the boy when he was younger still,' the lady had warned. 'For it is a story that will be told only long after he has begun to change the world.'

The boy was playing by a brook, taking the clay and fashioning it into twelve sparrows. But his father was angry with him, for today was a religious day, when no one should work or toil. So the boy clapped his hands, the birds sprang into life, and then flew away.

The boy has come from a land on the farthest side of the inner sea, accompanying his uncle, who's here to purchase tin mined in the area for the Great Empire. As befits such a long, arduous journey, his uncle's ship is larger by far than any of the home grown boats surrounding it in the harbour. It boasts a single, high mast, a gigantic sail that captures the wind and transforms it into the power that moves the ship across the vast oceans. Its prow is elaborately carved, and endowed with the eyes enabling it to see its own way as it fights its way through high waves, through the most fearsome storms.

As Prytani admired the ship, a boy came out on deck, the boy she'd already seen in the lady's tapestries. He stared about him curiously, as if intrigued, excited, by this new land he found himself in.

Suddenly, a large leather-gloved hand clamped down hard on Prytani's shoulder. She tried to duck and break free of the powerful grip, as she normally did in such situations. But it was useless; the hand refused to budge.

She whirled her head around.

No wonder the man's grip was so powerful, so unbreakable: he was a warrior, clad in leather armour and heavy cloak. Around him, there stood five more grim-faced soldiers, their swords drawn.

'You, you need to come with us!' the man holding her commanded gruffly.

*

Prytani was swiftly trussed up around her wrists, then carelessly hoisted up onto the back of tired-looking old donkey. Here she was tied in place yet again. Tamesis hung around the donkey's hooves, her face and tail drooping low in concern and worry,

One of the soldiers made to chase the little vixen off, but the leader of the men stilled his hand.

'No: we've been told the fox has to come too.' He turned to the other men. 'Keep an eye on the fox. If it looks like she's planning on making a bolt for it, we'll need to capture her, tie her up too.'

Prytani considered telling Tamesis to run, to save herself. She held back, however. She knew Tamesis wouldn't want to leave her. Moreover, Prytani felt reassured by Tamesis's presence; if they were allowed to lie together tonight, she might be able to seek the help of the lady.

Or, at the very least, see what her future held for her.

*

# Chapter 4

Wherever they were taking her, the men seemed to be in no rush to get there.

Their horses leisurely ambled alongside the slowly moving donkey, even though each one appeared more than capable of taking their riders swiftly into battle, should the need arise. The men themselves sat astride their mounts as if out for a pleasant ride, rather than being on some bizarre mission to arrest some vagabond girl.

The way they had tied her up, the way they were heavily armed, they were treating her as if she were some powerful sorceress – rather than a girl who only just managed to prevent herself from starving, by disclosing a few pearls of wisdom to those willing to part with a few coins.

She ate better on this journey than she'd ever eaten. The men were wealthy, as could be witnessed from the expensive trappings on their horses, their own adornments of brooches and bracelets. Their swords alone were worth a few years' wages of the average miner.

They passed lakes and rivers in which uprooted trees had been planted upside down, the underworld of roots raised up to the heavens, the branches of life spreading out beneath the surface into the realms of death. They passed the great circles of immense stones, with their surrounding copses of rowan trees, their platforms of interwoven twigs, the wattles of knowledge were the seers would lie as they penetrated and explored the otherworld.

It was already dark once again by the time they arrived at a village where the men authoritatively demanded and were given lodging for the night. A stream that ran through the village had been dammed to create a small pond, and here eight candles had been placed in its midst, lit in honour of the Triple Goddess. Prytani knew the meaning and purpose lying behind this small circle of candles: Cailleach the Crone, Goddess of Winter, of burial mounds and dark places, has drunk from the well of youth to emerge as the young virgin Brigit. It gave her hope that the lady was still watching over her, that tonight, as she lay with Tamesis, she would be able to visit her tower once more.

It was not to be, however. Although the men installed her in a room better than she had ever slept in – though, once again, they tied her firmly if thankfully loosely to a curved metal spike brutally hammered into the floor – she and Tamesis were kept apart. Tamesis had been allowed to bed down in the ancient hay of a deserted barn, the warriors having finally accepted that the small vixen wasn't going to run off as long as they held Prytani captive.

As she slept, Prytani tried to take command of her dreams, to find the tower in her dreamscape. She had seen it so many times, she knew what to look for.

She didn't appear directly within the tower, alongside the lady, as she now usually did. She appeared outside it, far outside, the way she had when she'd first discovered she could make these journeys.

The hill on which the tower stood was of glass. That was the most amazing thing about the scene, although it was just one of many amazing things. The hill was entirely surrounded by water, water strewn with lilies. It could only be passed over using the small boat that, appearing as if by magic before you, would guide you safely across.

Tonight, there was no boat waiting for Prytani.

It wasn't the only obstacle preventing her from reaching the tower, of course.

Round the bottom of the hill, there was a thick thorn hedge, as thickly and as expertly intertwined as one of the lady's tapestries. As a fox, Prytani could easily make her way through this hedge, particularly as the branches slithered aside, giving her easier access.

The tower itself, standing on the very highest part of the glass hill, was made entirely of wood. Perhaps, however, the term 'made' was the wrong one. It looked, rather, as if the tower had grown, much as a gigantic tree would. It's similarity to a tree was enhanced by the protrusions extending from the tower's sides, from which vast tapestries hung like gorgeous, multi-coloured banners. The tower's twin flight of steps, too, gave the whole thing a thickly curling trunk effect, for they alternately spiralled both around and inside it. At times, they sprung out into the open air, at other times disappeared back inside the tower through a welcoming hole.

Prytani and Tamesis had only ever taken the spiralling steps that deposited them on the inside of the lady's room, but they had seen that the second flight brought you out onto a balcony running around her room. They had frequently watched in awe as one of the many animals or people perpetually ascending or descending the stairs would alight here, step forward as if the walls didn't exist – and abruptly vanish, as if they themselves had never really existed either. None had appeared frightened, however; rather, they seemed pleasantly surprised, at least until they vanished.

The lady's room was ablaze with light, glistening moon-like high above Prytani. Music came from the tower, like strings being plucked, like the steady vibrating of a drum – like the wind whistling and singing gleefully as it flowed through the entire building, as if the whole thing were fluctuating with the movement of the world.

It all seemed so inviting.

So foreboding.

But without Tamesis, Prytani wasn't going anywhere near it anyway.

And so her dreams descended into the nightmares normal people suffered while asleep, full of fears of what would happen to her when the sun rose once more.

*

# Chapter 5

When she awoke, the fears Prytani had imagined within her dreams hadn't materialised, of course.

In fact, as they rode along the dusty track once more, Prytani found herself smiling happily. Tamesis was running along close by, gladly snapping at and hungrily devouring any food the men threw her way.

Prytani had missed the warmth and comfort of Tamesis's body last night. Yet, seeing her running so close, seeing the brightness and intelligence of her eyes, Prytani sensed a connection between them that granted her the sense of security she'd lacked throughout the night.

She still hadn't asked any of the men where they were headed. She hadn't asked why she'd been taken, either.

What was the point?

Would they tell her?

And if they did, what good would it do her?

Prytani accepted her lot, as she always did. That way, she avoided being disappointed in her life.

She remained silent, but not sullenly so. Whenever one of the men looked her way, she smiled. Whenever they passed people on the road, she smiled.

What good would being miserable do her?

She was tied up. There was nothing she could do about that.

Nothing she could do about anything just yet.

A time would come, surely, when she'd have an opportunity to escape?

*

The more they travelled, the more nervous the men around her became.

Prytani thought this odd, in many ways.

They didn't appear to be the type of men to frighten easily. The previous night, as the sun had set around them while they were still out on the road, they hadn't displayed the anxiety Prytani usually detected in people travelling between the safety of villages. They had laughed at, even relished, the thought that a band of brigands might make the mistake of attacking them.

Now, however, even though they must now be closer to their home than they had been before setting off, they glanced about themselves warily. Usually, the nearer a person was to home, the land and people they were familiar with, the more secure they felt.

What's more, it would be a full moon tonight, lighting up the land around them almost as brightly as a daytime sun, albeit with a mysteriously hazy, silver glow. Anyone attempting to attack them would be brightly illuminated, any attempt at surprise or instilling panic ruined.

'We could ride faster,' one of the men suggested, trying to hide the edge in his voice.

The leader glanced down at Tamesis, silently trotting along behind the horses.

'And risk losing the fox? More than our lives are worth, I reckon.'

'Hah, there's much easier prey for this supposed beast to hunt down.'

The third man laced his comment with a sceptical chuckle. The first glowered at him.

'You haven't seen the bodies after one of these attacks. Half eaten, gored so that they're unrecognisable. There's a beast out there all right.'

'That witch in the tower: she's the one responsible for all this, I'll bet.'

Prytani started in surprise. Surely this fourth man who'd spoken wasn't referring to the lady in the tower? The lady only existed in Prytani's dreams, not in reality. Besides, the lady could hardly be described as a beast. She was hardly the type, too, who would go around killing people.

She could ask the man, of course.

But she'd look stupid.

He'd tell her it was none of her business anyway.

'It wouldn't do any harm to burn her out, whether she's responsible or not.' The first man guffawed, happy to have been given the chance to regain his composure and pride.

'She's out of bounds, we know that. Who knows what attacking that dire old witch would unleash?'

She wasn't old, Prytani thought. So they couldn't be talking about the lady in the tower after all.

'It's been tried. No one's got past that evil lake, or the thorns. Both seem to come alive when anybody's foolish enough to try and burn her out.'

'Aye, she's safe, as long as she remains on the Isle of Glass.'

It _was_ the lady they were blaming for these attacks!

And that meant she wasn't just a character in Prytani's dreams.

She was _real_. She _really_ existed.

*

# Chapter 6

Despite the similarities between the witch the men were describing and the lady in the tower, Prytani still couldn't believe that she would be responsible for any attacks as a beast.

Admittedly, the transformation of men and women into animals was a common occurrence within the tower. This, after all, was how Prytani herself managed to make her own visits there. She had also seen bears, deer, rams, badgers and birds, many of which had briefly transformed back into human form, particularly when they'd alighted on the final step bringing them out into the lady's room. The ones who frowned uncertainly would turn, head back down the stairs. The ones who remained, however, would become an animal again, watching patiently as the lady wove her tapestries.

Yet none of these creatures had solidity. Prytani could pass through them as if they were nothing but creatures of the imagination. They could pass through her, too, as if she were purely spirit, not body. Indeed, it was only when Prytani concentrated, when she deliberately chose to see if anyone else was in the tower with her, that she managed to get even the odd glimpse of these animals.

She hadn't come across any creature that looked in anyway dangerous, even the bears, the lions. They padded around the tower as if in a daze, unsure where they where, or where they were ultimately headed.

They sought knowledge, understanding, not prey.

As the sun gradually lowered in the sky, the people on the roads around them, even in the villages they passed through, increasingly hurried about their business. The oxen of heavily laden carts were vigorously whipped to gain an extra turn of speed out of them. The more wayward geese of flocks being herded to market were abandoned to their own foolishness. Children were scolded and dragged inside, if necessary by a firm grip to their ears.

The farmers and townsfolk rushing home glanced back at the relatively languidly moving men as if they were crazy, or at best imprudently brave.

Shutters were snapped closed on windows. Doors rung to the sound of thick wooden bolts being slammed home.

'Maybe...maybe we should seek shelter? Just for the night?'

The man grimaced as his spoke, immediately regretting his display of cowardice. The leader of the group shook his head determinedly.

'We wasted time finding the girl. We can't delay delivering her any longer.'

'Give me the beast to facing the wizard's wrath,' agreed another sagely.

'How could I show my face after admitting running for cover from a beast that terrifies shepherd boys and idiot tinkers?'

The sun sank beneath the horizon in a blood-red glow. The moon took its place, shining as brightly as a thousand blazing torches. Its grey sheen spread out across the land, as if it were washing everything in a viscous quicksilver, giving it all a ghostly presence.

The horses whinnied, neighed, stumbled.

'They're picking up our own nervousness, that's all,' the leader declared hopefully.

Prytani looked back towards Tamesis. Tamesis had come to a sudden halt, her snout held high in the air.

'What's wrong, Tamesis?' Prytani asked.

'What is it girl?'

'What do you see, witch?'

The men instinctively slid their swords from their sheaths. They each unhooked the shield fixed to their mount's harness, lifted it up into a defensive position.

'Do you see the beast?'

As if made of quicksilver itself, as if nothing more than a beam of the moon's light, something rushed out of the darkness towards the men at unbelievable speed.

That something, whatever it was, leapt, growled. It hit one of the men full on, even though he was still seated high in his saddle. By the time the man struck the floor, his head was twisted at an ungainly angle, his eyes bulbous in surprise and lifelessness.

Without a break in his moves, this something had leapt up onto another horse, had dispatched a warrior with the slash of a taloned hand. This time the man slumped back in his saddle, his throat cut to the bone, the head dangling and almost severed.

The troop's leader didn't bother reaching towards this something with his sword. Instead, he brought a horn up to his lips, blew on it as if his lungs would burst.

The horn's wail rushed out across the deathly–looking landscape, the response nothing but a hollow echo of its own plaintive cry.

Spurring their horses on, forcing them to ignore their natural fear and inclination to flee, the other two men rushed to surround the something that had attacked them; the something they assumed must still be somewhere close, going by their dead comrade still limply seated on his mount. Their swords lashed down, sliced through the air – but this something was a blur as it moved, as it ducked, curled and spun.

Whinnying in terror, one of the horses shied, stumbled, buckled. Its hind quarters abruptly dropped to the floor as its leg tendons vanished in a violent riving of talons and a splatter of blood.

The rider swung out with his sword, raised his shield, hoping the movement he'd detected in the air around him was something to do with this something that was effortlessly clawing its way through them all. He felt his sword strike nothing, his shield brace itself against nothing. His leather breastplate split open, so deeply that blood and guts readily spilled out of it.

Fortunately for him, for his pride, he didn't recognise the shrill shriek he heard as being his own. Rather, he heard it as the shrill cry of the dragon horns being fiercely blown in reply to their troop's own call for help.

Hearing the lowing call of the dragon horns, the troop's leader blew on his own horn all the louder, his chest once again expanding until fit to burst. Burst it did, too, when that something whirled in the air, slammed its iron-hard fist against his rib cage, made it crumple as easily as breaking reeds.

With a last wail, the horn fell from the man's lips, from his hand. It toppled along with him into the hoof-churned dust of the road.

The dragon horns were louder now. The lowing vibrated, oddly trilled, the sure sound of horns being blown by riders on horseback, riders riding pell-mell, rushing to the rescue.

With a snarl, the something sprang towards the last warrior. The man's sword arm snapped, the sword flying uselessly up above them all. A clasped, clutching hand tore off his face, cast it aside as if it were a shredded patch of unwanted clothing.

At last, the something stilled, halted in its moves as it pricked its ears, listened to the dragon horns drawing nearer with every minute. It glowered with intelligent, knowing eyes at Prytani.

It was waiting for Prytani to do something.

The donkey was petrified, refusing to even move its tail, rigidly frozen in a catatonic shock. As dumbstruck as her mount, Prytani stared at the beast.

It was monstrous. Had the surviving horses not already fled, it would have towered over them. It stood on its hind legs, man-like, yet in every other way it was far more wolf than man.

A werewolf.

Prytani had heard of them, believed them to be nothing more than creatures of the imagination, of myths and stories to frighten the gullible.

Tamesis hissed threateningly if vainly at the looming beast. She had bravely if stupidly positioned herself in front of the frozen donkey.

Ignoring the hissing, spitting Tamesis, the werewolf cocked its head, listening once again to the lowing horns, the thundering hooves of a great many, galloping horses that now unmistakeably lay beneath the wailing. The wolf stared at Prytani once more with those frighteningly shrewd yet bestial eyes.

'Shoo!' the werewolf bizarrely said to the donkey, flipping his taloned paws as one would to scare away a bothersome cat. 'Shoo, damn you!'

Prytani and Tamesis swapped puzzled glances.

Where the road rose then fell away on a nearby ridge, the first of the oncoming riders appeared, the pennants on their raised spears fluttering like flames.

The werewolf spun elegantly on its hind legs. It loped away in the opposite direction to the rapidly approaching cavalry, its speed at least that of the swiftest horse. As if not already uncatchable, Prytani watched in complete amazement as the wolf sprang forward, as if diving into a welcoming pool of water. It vanished into an eddying, silvery-sheened mist that now swirled and flowed just above the cooling earth.

The riders thundered past her, their spears now lowered, seeking out a target to skewer. Only a few of the mounted warriors slewed to a halt around her, taking the reins of her own mount. They glanced down at the dead men splayed across the ground, glanced about them nervously as if weighing up the chances of the beast returning.

'Quick; sling each one over the back of a horse,' one of the men curtly ordered. 'We can't leave them lying here for the beast to devour at his leisure.'

*

When the rest of the riders returned from their fruitless chase of the werewolf, Prytani told them what she had seen; the beast simply disappearing, as if blending into the very air itself.

She had wondered if she should tell them. Her instinct, whenever surrounded by people she didn't trust, was to remain silent, at least to say as little as possible. To give nothing away, not even how much you feared what was happening to you.

In this case, however, she was hoping to be reassured that she hadn't imagined what she truly believed she had seen. Hoping that the men around her would nod in understanding; yes, this was one of the many fearful qualities of a werewolf, one which most people fortunately remained unaware of.

Instead, they laughed, if rather edgily.

'As if there isn't enough fear around! We've now got a witch scaring everyone all the more, with tales of attacks by _wraiths_!'

It had been no wraith that had so effortlessly slashed and gored the bodies of their dead friends, Prytani wanted to retort. But she kept quiet, of course.

The riders could see for themselves the work of their 'wraith': the bodies of their friends, slumped across the back of their horses. Bodies that were horrifically gored, the flesh riven apart, the muscles shredded, the bones cracked and splintered. Blood dripped down the flanks of their mounts, slipped to the floor, splattered onto and rapidly dried amongst the dirt of the track.

Keeping quiet enabled Prytani to learn far more than any longwinded jabbering would. She listened into the disgruntled mumblings of the men, picking up on their displeasure at being taken from the comfort of their beds, their women, to fruitlessly patrol the villages and farms. The werewolf, they agreed, might not be a wraith; but his success at avoiding them and all the other patrols sent out each full moon would be expected of a far more spectral foe.

The attacks had started months ago. At first lone men, out on the roads late at night or working on the edges of farms or villages, were suspected of being abducted by brigands – until their bodies were found, gored and half eaten. Traveling or working in protective huddles only brought them their first sightings of the beast; immense, terrifying, powerful, fearless. It still made off easily with its food for the night, while leaving behind the dead and wounded who had foolishly hoped their increased numbers would ensure their safety.

The farms and villages they passed or trotted through were locked down for the night, eerily silent and apparently empty. Doors and shutters were bolted, all light snuffed out, all chatter from inside kept to a minimum, lest the werewolf realised you were home.

Pitchforks and scythes were kept close at hand, Prytani heard from the ever-watchful men riding beside her: for yes, even behind their walls of wattle or even stone, no one was safe from a monster that could smash through wood as if it were nothing but woven twigs.

There was light from neither candle nor lamp on their long journey until, just a little before dawn, Prytani spotted the glow of torches lying far ahead of them. Immediately on spotting the blaze of the torches, one of the riders raised one of the troops' tall dragon horns to his lips, the bejewelled eyes of the sculpted dragon's head glittering, the streamers of its mane flowing behind it. The mournful lowing spread out before them, announcing their arrival.

The dragon horn's cry received a responsive call, another plaintive lowing from another dragon horn. The rider lowered his own horn with a smile of satisfaction, slotting the long, serpentine-like instrument into a sheath on his mount's harness.

'Home at last,' he breathed with relief. He glanced forlornly at the horribly gashed body laid across the flanks of a nearby horse. 'But I wonder how many others the beast has taken from us tonight?'

*

# Chapter 7

It wasn't just a village they had arrived at, but one safely nestled behind a formidable stockade, expertly constructed from heavy, hewn timbers. Moreover, it wasn't just populated with the usual farmers and artisans, for there was also a sizable stable there, one obviously built for housing a large number of horses.

Such a great number of horses implied wealth, power. The well-armed men who had opened the stockade's great doors had greeted the troop of riders as if familiar with each and every one of them. Obviously, Prytani realised, this stockade was their home too, the home of numerous warriors.

The confidence and sense of security this presence of the armed men gave the village was plain to see. Unlike the other villages they had passed, here candles and lamps were alight in the windows of the houses where the occupants were already rising and preparing for the day's labours lying ahead of them. Doors were still closed, but in most cases, windows remained unshuttered.

All but two of the riders directed their horses towards the stables. The two remaining with Prytani and the ever-faithfully following Tamesis led them silently through the gradually wakening village. They trotted past a great hall, one decorated with a multitude of elaborate carvings, portrayals of brave warriors vanquishing huge boars, towering bears, even vast-winged dragons. Like a few of the buildings here, it boasted lower walls of stone, a sure sign of prestige, of people of great importance.

Even the low lying structure that Prytani was taken to and locked inside was better made than any other building she'd previously had to take shelter in. It felt relatively windproof and warm, and thereby strangely comforting, despite it being her prison.

Best of all, she had Tamesis with her once again.

They lay down in the old straw that had been strewn across the floor, curling up together, Prytani's long hair hardly different in colour to the vixen's fur. Anyone catching them sleeping like this could be forgiven for failing to easily determine where the girl began and the other ended.

They could have been one.

And in Prytani's dreams, of course, they were.

*

The lady, as always, was spinning, and weaving, all at the very same time.

The threads appeared to come from the very air itself, to fly into the woman's hands, then fly once more across the room to curl and entwine, becoming the gorgeously rainbow-hued tapestries. The threads snaked through these creations as if alive, as if actual serpents, or even the umbilical cords that linked mother with new-born child. They slithered, they writhed, they finally settled as portraits, landscapes, seascapes, or a mix of all three.

As all this happened, the uncountable strings and threads that ran up through the centre of the tower sang. They were being strummed by the wind, by life itself, by the past, present and future. The lady was drawing towards her all the life threads of the dying, reforming it, reusing it, recreating new life, stretching it out and casting it all once more back into the world. Mixing in obvious truths, merging it all with less obvious lies, blending it all until it became the substance of new life.

How many hands, how many arms, did the lady have? Once again, Prytani couldn't be sure.

'I missed you last night, little fox.'

The lady didn't avert her gaze from her work. She didn't need to.

She knew Prytani was there once more, sitting patiently on her haunches, awaiting instruction.

'Are you the wolf?' Prytani asked calmly. 'The wolf killing all these people?'

The lady chuckled. She turned on her seat to face Prytani. Her arms, her hands, however, didn't seem to drop away from her work.

'No, I'm _not_ the wolf, little fox!'

She sounded amused rather than offended.

'Although I _do_ realise many people are spreading that rumour. It's convenient, for them to lay the blame elsewhere.'

At last, her hands left off from her work. Even so, the threads continued to warp and writhe, the tapestries continuing to form as if their existence were the only things holding the very fabric of the universe together.

As the lady gracefully rose from her seat, it was obvious to Prytani now – as it always was on any of the rare occasions when the lady broke off from her tasks – that she only possessed one pair of arms, one pair of hands, like any normal woman. And yet, and yet – there was always a blur of movement surrounding her, as if her hands could never, ever really afford to stop their work. As if they continued their important work no matter where the lady was standing.

'This wolf, though: _that's_ involved in the task you'll soon be set.'

'The wolf? And you're setting me a task?'

'Little fox, little fox: haven't you learned by now that you should ensure you only ask one question at a time? Then any answer you receive will be clear to you, rather than simply adding to your confusion.'

It may have been an admonishment, but it was lightly delivered. The lady had swept past Prytani, heading towards the top of the stairs that came out into the interior of the room.

Prytani obediently followed after her.

'What will my task be?' she asked.

'It won't be a task set by me,' the lady replied, her long dress swishing on the steps as she began to swiftly descend them. 'And I, of course, cannot tell you _too_ much about your own future.'

Prytani understood. She had been told on a previous visit that knowing too much of your own possible future was dangerous, at best counterproductive, and leading only to chaotic outcomes.

'It makes sense to approach our own lives only point by point, otherwise our intentions have only unintended consequences. Either creating the future we feared, or changing it such that everything around us becomes unrecognisable. A seer should not seek to see her own life spread out before her.'

On the stairs, other creatures wandered up and down as if unseeing, as if they were climbing some other flight of steps they had never encountered before. They might as well have been in the most confusing labyrinth for all the bewilderment that crossed their faces or affected their obviously uncertain movements.

'Be careful on the way down,' the lady warned, looking back at Prytani over her shoulder with obvious concern. 'It will always be the most dangerous part of your journey, the part where you are most likely to fall; and the ascent, of course is always dangerous enough!'

As the steps curled onto the exterior of the tower, Prytani glanced out towards the surrounding hedge of thorns, the lake lying beyond it that transformed the whole hill of glass into an island. Wherever the stairs curled back inside, they were lit by glowing, brightly coloured orbs of light, the sparkle of glistening metal, each one completely different on each level.

A mermaid swam past them, effortlessly heading upwards as if flowing through the clearest of water. The lady noted Prytani's interest, the way the little fox's gaze followed after the rising mermaid as if envying her easy mode of travel.

'Descendants of the original seven Abgal, who were themselves half human, half fish,' the lady explained. 'They swim in the astral flow of the apsû, many unfortunately no longer aware that their forebears were responsible for bringing the moral code of the Me to mankind.'

The lady only halted in her descent at an incredibly low level, where the sparkling sphere of light shone like the bright red glow of Mars, the surrounding metal reflecting it all with the coruscating sheen of polished iron. Here a fearfully perplexed magpie fluttered from one side of the staircase to the other, as if trapped within a cage, as if it remained unaware of the route lying behind it, let alone the route that would take it upwards.

'Welcome once more, little fox, to the Netherworld of Gugalanna.'

The lady watched the panicked fluttering of the magpie with undisguised enjoyment.

'Not everyone who reaches this point deserves to do so,' she added a little bitterly. 'They seek change in their condition, yes: but only so they may gain power, not true understanding.'

She held out a hand for the magpie to alight on. It rested their, yet still appeared unsure of its surroundings. It could have landed on nothing more than a branch, little more than a rock, for all the attention it gave the closely watching lady.

'Fortunately, many of these false seekers remain here, erroneously flattering themselves that they have achieved so much, that they are so very very close to full understanding. And yet they are also, at last, fully aware – so frustratingly for them – of the limits of their world, the restrictions placed in their way. They also sense, however, that the beginnings of the Path to enlightenment lies within their grasp.'

She flipped her hand aggressively, casting the magpie aside so that it was frantically fluttering within the confines of the staircase once more. This time, though, the magpie went through a swift transformation in its panicked flurry of wings, rapidly growing and taking on human form.

A man standing, eyes closed, within a complicated diagram drawn upon the floor. Candles and lamps are lit here and there. Fumes rise from burning bowls.

On a nearby desk there are ancient tracts, written in all manner of languages, some composed of dashes and dots, some purely of pictures.

'You'll be meeting him soon.'

The lady elegantly circled the man, studying him closely.

'His parchments, he believes, will lead him to achieve what you, my little fox, achieve so naturally, so instinctively.'

With a wave of an arm, she changes the scene slightly. Now the man is seated at the desk, poring over old manuscripts and scrolls, flicking the pages, unwinding more of a roll, making notes with a sharpened feather regularly dipped in an ink of berries and eggs.

'He's bought them all at fabulous expense. Many from those lands close to where the boy comes from. Most, indeed, have been sourced from the boy's uncle. This wizard – for that is how he sees himself, how he terms himself – believes these lands and the ancient parchments produced there provide the answers not just to all the world's secrets, but to _the_ secret of the world: how man can leave that world behind, soaring up the heavens themselves while still remaining alive.'

'And this is possible?'

'This _is_ possible: yes.'

*

# Chapter 8

Prytani and Tamesis both woke together with a start, when the door to their prison was thrown open with a noisy crump.

A tall, broad warrior strode inside. He casually clutched the handle of his sheathed sword as if purely to draw attention to it, a warning that he wasn't prepared to put up with any trouble. With a sneering glance down at the drowsily waking girl and fox, he stood aside from the door, allowing a second, smaller man to enter behind him.

With a flurry of wings, a large magpie followed him inside. It landed almost silently on the second man's outstretched arm, its talons biting into the thick leather guard he wore.

It eyed first Tamesis then Prytani with strangely knowing eyes. Its bulbous eyes possessed a strange intelligence that Prytani had only ever come across once before in an animal, and that was in Tamesis.

Prytani recognised the magpie. She recognised the second man too.

She had seen them both last night, in her vision, in the lady's tower.

She looked up at the man suspiciously. Tamesis briefly hissed at the magpie, rose up on her feet as she arched her back; then unconcernedly lay back down amongst the straw.

Just as unconcernedly, the magpie looked away from Tamesis.

The man, however, stared at the fox with obvious distaste.

'You should thank me girl,' the man said. 'You're fox would have been killed, had I not given specific instructions that she should be spared.'

'Thank you.'

Prytani said it blandly, meaninglessly.

'I heard she was trouble.' The warrior glowered at her. 'And we still don't know why the wolf spared _her_!'

The other man ignored him. He gave a dismissive wave of a hand.

The warrior withdrew from the small cell, bowing low through the doorway.

'Don't act so uncaring, girl,' the man spat. 'I know how important the fox is to you! Without her, your gift is redundant!'

Just as the man glowered angrily at Prytani, the magpie abruptly stared irately at Tamesis.

'Unless, of course, you're nothing more than a vagabond; claiming talents you could never truly hope to possess.'

The lady had warned Prytani that the wizard would need reassurance that she was able to regularly visit the tower. He had no real proof, after all, of her capabilities. He'd based his judgement only on tales that he'd heard, tales from foolish, unimportant people he was more inclined to disbelieve than trust.

He had had other seers imprisoned here before. And, when he had discovered they had no particular talents after all, he had had them killed for wasting his precious time.

'That's what the lady said you'd say.'

'Lady?'

Like his magpie, he cocked his head with interest.

'The lady who lives at the top of the tower.'

The wizard and his magpie exchanged glances.

'You've seen her? This lady? This tower?'

Prytani nodded.

'Tell him whatever you wish, whatever you need, about me, about my tower,' the lady had said to her the previous night. 'We must keep you alive: and therefore I will help you provide the help he believes he needs.'

'She said there was a tale – no, not a _tale_ , an important _history_ – I must tell you,' Prytani said to the wizard.

'For _me_?'

He made an effort to hide it, but the wizard was visibly excited. His back straightened, his eyes widened, his mouth just about fell open.

'She's passing on an important history to me? Through _you_?'

He smiled in satisfaction.

He looked towards his magpie.

'It seems at last, Cructan, that we chose wisely!'

*

# Chapter 9

The Seven Veils

Inanna, Queen of Heaven, wished to visit the underworld to attend the funeral rites of Gugalana, the Bull of Heaven.

She knocked at the first gate, and demanded to be admitted.

The gatekeeper Neti appeared.

'Who are you?'

'I am Inanna, Queen of Heaven. On my way to the East.'

'You must wait, while I deliver your message to your sister Ereshkigal,' Neti told her.

Now Ereshkigal, the wife of Gugalana, hated her sister Inanna. Whereas Inanna symbolised fertility and erotic love, Ereshkigal was bound by the laws of her own kingdom of the underworld.

She cannot leave to visit the other gods. And they cannot visit her in the underworld, for fear of never being able to leave.

'Bolt the seven gates of the underworld,' Ereshkigal told Neti. 'Then open them one by one by just a crack. As Inanna enters each one, remove one of her royal garments. Let the holy priestess of heaven enter bowed low.'

So Neti tells Inanna that, to enter the first gate, she must first hand over her lapis lazuli measuring rod.

'Why?' asks Inanna.

'It is just the ways of the Underworld,' Neti insists.

Now Inanna had dressed elaborately for her visit.

As well as her lapis lazuli measuring rod, she wore other representations of the powerful Mes she possessed: a turban, a wig, mascara, a lapis lazuli necklace, an ornamental breastplate, beads upon her breast, a golden ring on her hand, the 'pala' ladyship dress.

And as she passed through the seven gates, Inanna had to hand over seven of her garments, until she stood naked and bowed in the throne room.

And there the Anna, the seven judges of the underworld, passed judgment against her.

*

# Chapter 10

After hearing Prytani's tale, the wizard frowned thoughtfully.

He stared at Prytani intently.

He glowered in disappointment.

'That's it? _That's_ the secret I seek?'

Prytani shook her head.

'You cannot be told everything all at once. You need to work out what each tale means at the correct stage.'

The wizard nodded, narrowed his eyes; yes, that made sense, his expression said.

'The tales cannot be solved in isolation, the lady warned. Rather, they are aids to help you understand the great ancient tract you've obtained from the boy's uncle. For these tales are even more ancient than those scrolls.'

'Even _more_ ancient? Is that possible? And who is this boy, this boy's uncle you talk of? Do you mean Joseph? He's the one providing all these scrolls and texts.'

Prytani wished that the wizard knew of the lady's advice that you should keep your questions simple.

She nodded.

The wizard rubbed his hands gleefully. He stepped farther away from the door, waved a hand inviting Prytani to leave her cell.

'You are free to wander the village.' He tried to smile, but it came across to Prytani as a pained grimace. 'You will find it impossible to leave the stockade anyway,' he added, this time managing a delighted grin.

Even his magpie, Cructan, seemed to grin along with him.

*

Despite its size, and the presence of so many armed men, so many horses, the rest of the people living in the village were much like those Prytani had come across when she'd stayed in or passed through other villages. There were farmers, labourers, carpenters, seamstresses, milkmaids. The blacksmiths were, of course, unusually busy, with armour and weapons to forge and expertly hammer into shape.

No one seemed either happier or unhappier that any other villagers she had ever met, despite the aura of safety provided by the stockade, and what appeared to Prytani to be an unimaginable level of wealth and good living. Every one eyed Tamesis suspiciously, but once again this was far from unusual: it was expected of a fox to either snap viciously at any passer-by, or steal any food left unattended.

Prytani begged something to eat for both her and Tamesis. First burnt and hardened scraps from a bakers, then stale fish from fishermen heading off for a fresh catch. Once again, these people seemed no more generous nor meaner than any one she had met on her wanderings around the countryside.

Would she, she wondered, be allowed to earn money here telling fortune and future? Or would she have to beg daily just to stay alive?

Alongside her feet, Tamesis suddenly halted. Her sharp nose was even more pointed than normal, for she was intently staring at a short wall of wood boarding.

Tamesis's hissing was unusually strained and aggressive, Prytani thought; until she realised it wasn't emanating from Tamesis, but from behind the wall.

A horse whinnied in terror. The boarding of the wall shook violently, a series of hard crumps and bangs that set the wood vibrating, even splintering in parts.

Prytani and Tamesis sprinted to the other side of the wall. They were greeted by a scene so unusual that Prytani had never seen anything like it before.

A large carthorse had been tied to the boarding in such a way that it was difficult for it to move. Ropes were looped around its neck, waist and legs at various points. Seven men wearing heavily padded clothing had surrounded it, taking turns to draw close, to wait a split second, then quickly step back.

Each time a man did this, the horse's panic increased, its eyes white and globular in their fear, its mouth slavering with foam. It tried its best each time to shy away, to kick out with its hooves, to rear up in defence or attack; but each time the restraining ropes prevented it from making any of these attempted moves with any degree of success.

'Stop that! Stop that!' Prytani screamed, rushing towards one of the heavily padded men, grabbing him by his arm, whirling him around.

Prytani jumped back in shock.

The man's whole face was hidden behind a heavily padded mask.

And within his hands he was holding a viciously snapping, hissing snake.

*

The snake struck out at Prytani, baring its long, venomous fangs.

Fortunately, the man moved swiftly, jerking his arms backwards so that the snake bit at nothing but empty air.

Frustrated, the snake spun within the air, curled back, and bit deeply into the man's padded face mask, its deadly venom draining into and darkening the material.

'Go! Go, you stupid girl!' the man shrieked angrily, his voice heavily muffled behind the mask. 'You'll get us all killed!'

He waved a free hand at her, half push, half command to leave at once. With his other hand, he kept a firm grip on the furiously writhing, still biting serpent.

Beyond the man, Prytani watched in growing horror as another man approached the terrified, thrashing horse. He held out the serpent in his own hands, let it strike out, let it bite deeply with its venomous fangs into the poor horse's flesh.

The horse only partially managed to rear up on its hind legs, to lash out with its hooves. Its teeth were completely bared, whether in fear or agony Prytani couldn't tell. Its eyes bulged.

Its flesh was drenched in sweat, and marked here and there with other bites, other puncture marks, each of which dripped sickeningly with either blood, venom or a mix of the two.

This last strike of a serpent was too much for the horse. Its legs began to buckle. It whinnied as if lost, as if having abandoned all hope.

Its whole body shook, its flanks quivering as if rippling with the movement of oceans and seas. With a last sigh of hopelessness, it crumpled to the ground, the ropes at last loosening enough to allow this to happen.

The men stood back, staring down at the dying horse from behind their masks. Masks that hid what must be, Prytani surmised, evilly satisfied grins.

Other men, those who had been controlling the tautness of the restraining ropes, rubbed their hands with the relish of men who have successfully completed a particularly difficult task.

There was nothing Prytani could do now for the dying horse.

She fled, Tamesis running alongside her heels.

She needed somewhere quiet where she could cry.

*

# Chapter 11

How could men be so cruel?

What was the point of torturing that poor horse?

Tamesis lay curled up in Prytani's lap, offering the crying girl whatever comfort she could. The vixen's eyes were wide, warm, full of concern for both Prytani and the dying horse.

Prytani stroked the warm fur, drawing a welcome sense of reassurance from the regular rhythm of Tamesis's steady breathing.

She felt a hand lightly touch her shoulder. She glanced back.

It was the boy. The boy she'd seen on the deck of the ship. The boy she'd seen in the lady's tapestries.

He smiled: a sad smile. One full of concern and understanding.

'Why are you crying?' he asked. 'Is there anything I can do? Anyway that I can help?'

Prytani shook her head miserably.

'It's a horse,' she spluttered between her tears. 'I just saw a horse die.'

'The one back there, by the wooden wall?'

He looked back along the route Prytani had taken to walk here, back towards where she had watched the men torture and kill the horse.

Prytani nodded, again miserably.

'You know, I don't think the horse is dead,' the boy said.

'How could it live after _that_?' Prytani sobbed.

'After that? I didn't see what caused its illness,' the boy admitted. 'But the men surrounding it are treating it well. They've covered it in warmed blankets. They're treating its fever with both cold and hot water.'

Prytani was confused.

It made no sense. Why would the men deliberately kill the horse, and in such an awful manner too, only to then put in such strenuous efforts to revive it?

'Are...are you _sure_?'

She couldn't keep the sense of uncertainty from her voice.

The boy nodded, gave her a warm smile again. His eyes sparkled with innocence, with honesty.

How could Prytani read so much in someone's eyes? She just could, that's all. And she wasn't sure if it was anything to do with her own abilities, or the boy's own remarkable qualities.

She simply felt that she could trust him. That he possessed none of the ultimately selfish, envious characteristics more usually found lying beneath the surface of any man.

It didn't seem to be in his nature to try and exert his own will over other people, to try and manipulate a situation to his own benefit.

It was an awful lot to read into such a brief exchange, Prytani knew; and yet, she felt this deeply, that this boy was not like any other person she had previously met.

'You can speak our language?' she asked.

'My uncle taught me. He visits your land regularly: for the tin.'

'Hah, yes, of course.'

Tin was mined everywhere around here. It was precious, being an indispensable constituent of bronze, from which everything from bowls to weapons and armour were made

'You're here to learn his trade?' Prytani continued.

The boy chuckled, shook his head.

'My uncle is far too important. Nobilis Decurio: a minister of mines for the Roman Empire. I've no hope of ever reaching his high position.'

He smiled once more, this time at Tamesis. The little vixen was watching him intently, as if she, too, sensed something remarkable about the boy.

'Then why did you accompany him here? I can't see that there would be anything in my land of interest to someone from the Great Empire.'

'My father's what we call a nagar; perhaps what you might call a builder, possibly even an architect, or a learned man? I'm learning the secrets of numbers and proportions. My uncle told me of the great circles of stones that still exist here.'

'The ones we use for our ceremonies? You don't have them back in your own land?

The boy shook his head.

'No longer, no: or at least, not where we know of their existence any longer. But it's written in our chronicles that great men in our past – Moses, Joshua – built circles like these. Gilgals, they were called, consisting of twelve great stones.'

'But I'd heard that you have great temples to your gods in your land?'

'To _one_ God alone in _my_ land,' he corrected her good naturedly. 'My father took part in the building of our great temple,' he added, without any sense of the natural pride a normal boy would usually display when making such a declaration. 'Ten thousand skilled craftsmen were employed by King Herod in its construction.'

Once again, Prytani wondered if he'd added this as a qualifying statement diminishing the role of his father, rather than the boastful pronouncement more usually expected of such a young boy.

Leaning forward, the boy tenderly patted Tamesis.

'He – or is it a she? – seems unusually tame. You've trained her well.'

'No, I'm not responsible for her being this way,' Prytani modestly admitted. 'That's just the way she is. She's like a sister to me.'

'Bit young, for a fox, to be a sister, isn't she?' the boy chuckled, ruffling and massaging Tamesis's neck affectionately.

And, before she realised what was happening, Prytani was telling the boy the story that she rarely told anyone else.

*

# Chapter 12

The Dead Legion

The village had had to move a number of times now.

Each time, stronger clans than theirs, less accomplished at farming but more accomplished at war, had envied the productivity of their land. Either unwilling or incapable of undertaking the work required to transform previously wooded areas into arable land, these other clans had simply taken what they desired, what they believed was rightfully theirs. Why, didn't their own people need it for their own survival?

The villagers soon learned that it was pointless to try and fight back. They would lose. Every time.

They were farmers, not warriors.

The more they resisted, the more lives they lost. The harder they fought, the fewer possessions the victorious clan would allow them to leave with.

Better, rather, to simply retreat. To vacate their village, their land. To recreate the village somewhere else.

Unfortunately, that new somewhere was always more inhospitable than the last place they'd lived in.

It took longer, and evermore exhausting labour, to clear the land. To hack down trees. To uproot great stumps and roots, with harshly driven teams of oxen. To remove great boulders, and whole cartloads of sharp stones. To prepare the soil with a mix of burnt wood and manure.

And then, after all that, the most backbreaking work of all was irrigating the new fields. Protecting the young crops from pests, harsh winds, torrential rain, freezing snow and ice. Harvesting it in weather that transformed even twigs and grass into blades that cut deep into the flesh.

While all this was going on, they lived in leaking, incredibly cold hovels. Only when the land had been tamed could they afford the time to rebuild their homes and the village itself.

Despite all their strenuous efforts, this last place they had chosen to live in was by far the worst they had ever been forced to try and transform into their home.

The surrounding woods seemed forever dark, with little sunlight streaming down through the densely packed branches and twigs, the closely set trees. When the wind coursed through it, it set the branches creaking and cackling, like old, gossiping women. The wind itself howled and wailed, like perpetual complaints, agonised musings.

The little game that came from the woods was itself famished and scrawny. Their eyes were wide, but from hunger or fear, no one could tell.

One night, a man walked from these woods. His gait was a steady shuffle, one leg dragging slightly, as if from a badly healed wound. And the closer he drew towards the village, the more wounds he was revealed to be suffering.

An arm was tied to his breast, as if it had been snapped, and was now useless. His other arm was severed badly, as if by numerous sword cuts. Worst of all, however, was the wound to his head, the top of his skull cleaved so badly that it was almost hanging by nothing more than a flap of his scalp.

No one approached the man to offer aid. Everyone hung back. His blazing, resolute glare alone was enough to make them step back in horror.

He smelt of death, of long-rotting flesh.

He strode through the village as if familiar with its layout. He headed directly for the main hall, were most of the villagers gathered each night to eat, drink, talk.

As the man strode into the hall, everyone stopped eating, the morsel held halfway to their mouth, the drink spilling down stunned lips.

He stood in the very centre of the hall, the best place to address everyone there.

'Most of you here know me.' His voice was a harshly angry croak. 'Though you all disowned me; falsely blamed me for the punishments served on you.'

It was true: many in the hall that night recognised the crippled man standing before them.

They recognised the vicious wounds to his body, if nothing else.

They recognised them because they were so bad, his body had almost fallen apart as they had hastily buried him.

*

Dubhan had been the last of the village chiefs to lead them in a resistance against the invaders who constantly blighted their lives.

He had died, many of the men had died. And many of the women had later paid with the molestation of their own flesh for the men's foolishness.

Never again, the villagers had declared. We must always parlay with the invaders, beg for their mercy. At least that way we can decide which of us will be taken away into slavery.

Dubhan still carried the wounds he had earned himself that day. Still carried himself like the warrior he had declared they must all aspire to be like, if they were to hold the lands they had rightfully claimed as theirs.

As he stood before them, his pose became even more rigidly resolute. His wounds faded, mended before their very eyes, until he was once again whole and completely uninjured.

'I've only been allowed to stand here before you tonight because I begged to be given a chance to help you see the error of your ways.'

'And what error would that be, Dubhan?' Although he would have preferred to remain silent, the new village chief saw that he had little choice but to represent his fellow villagers and talk to this horror that stood before them. 'Seeing that _we_ are still amongst the living – while you, quite obviously, are not!'

He guffawed at his own nervous witticism, but only a few joined him in his laughter.

Dubhan didn't appear offended.

'You have fled too far from your enemies,' he thundered. 'You are _not_ amongst the living – you _are_ amongst the dead! _That_ is why I speak with you tonight. You have encroached into lands that the dead have already declared as theirs!'

The exchanged looks between the assembled villagers ranged from terror to disbelief.

Yet what Dubhan said would explain the eerie wailing that constantly emanated from the nearby woods. It would explain the increasing sense of unease everyone had experienced, the fear of going into the woods, the way that even working in the fields generated a feeling of complete isolation and despair.

Yes, what Dubhan said made sense.

'We didn't know,' someone cried out.

'How _could_ we know?'

'Tell them we meant no harm!' another pleaded.

'No harm?' Dubhan replied with a mocking chortle. 'The harm is already done. You have brought life – crops, herds – to land set aside purely for the dead.'

'We'll leave!'

'Leave _tonight_!

'We'll destroy all the fields. Salt them so nothing grows there again!"'

'What can we do?'

'Do?' Dubhan contemptuously laughed. 'There is only _one_ payment than can be made for such an intrusion!'

'What payment do you mean? We'll pay _anything_!'

'Good!' For the first time, Dubhan spoke with a sense of satisfaction. 'For once, you must die bravely! Then, and only then, you may be spared _some_ form of life: if not the life you obviously wish for!'

The villagers rose from their seats in uproar, every voice raised, each voice inaudible amongst all the others.

'That's the payment?' The village chief finally made himself heard. 'Our _deaths_?'

'Do you have a _better_ idea of what you could pay?' Dubhan sneered dismissively, before adding more thoughtfully, more compassionately, 'You won't win; you'll lose. But this time, the easier you give in, the _more_ you lose. So fight, damn you; or be damned for ever!'

Drawing his sword, he brought the blade up in front of his face in salute. Then, spinning on his heels, he strode towards the hall's doors.

The doors sprang open before him, letting in a whirl of cold, night air.

'Wait, wait!' the village chief urgently called after him. 'How long do we have to prepare?'

Dubhan briefly turned, said;

'How long do you need to prepare to die?'

*

It could have been the wailing of the woods that they were familiar with, yet had never become accustomed to.

It could have been the elongated lowing of a battle horn.

Whatever it was, it made the villagers rush out from the hall. Called out those sitting in their homes. Woke those who had gone to sleep, including every child.

As Dubhan strode towards the edge of the village, the moonlight was flickering through the woods in a way the sun had never managed. The light reflected off brightly glistening branches, split then merged with the shadows.

It was this interplay of moonlight and darkness that gradually gave birth to the Dead Legion.

Each mounted man began to take form, the light being that reflected from his armour and weapons, the darkness the hard shadows of hidden faces, of nightmare-black horses.

Such a horse was patiently waiting for Dubhan. He lithely swung up into the saddle.

The ends of the raised spears glinted. The pennants fluttered, the noise like the beats of faltering hearts.

'Arm everyone: even the children,' the village chief ordered grimly, adding urgently, 'Quickly!

At least the silently waiting troops gave them this grace, the time to arm themselves.

The villagers grabbed and hurriedly shared out scythes, hammers, staffs: anything that could serve as a weapon. Women sternly took hold of them too, weighing them up in their hands, getting the balance right. Bleary eyed children, freshly woken, cried as hoes were shoved into their hands.

The battle horns, the woods, wailed.

*

Dubris had an extra reason to fight more bitterly than most.

Surely her unborn child couldn't be held accountable for their transgression of land properly belonging to the dead?

Surely she could protect her baby, if not herself?

Was that possible?

Of course, she didn't have time to think things through.

All around her, friends were falling, dying, despite the way they valiantly fought back against the rampaging riders. Her own husband was amongst those who had already dropped, exhausted and terribly wounded, to the floor.

Those that more immediately died rose from the ground only moments later, but only to find their own night-black mount waiting for them, only to join the legions of the attackers. Thereby, every death amongst the villagers led to a weakening of their own resistance, a strengthening of the already irresistible attack.

How could you kill someone who was already dead? The riders shrugged off every stroke, every slash of a scythe, even fighting on after being expertly beheaded by the strongest and largest amongst the farmers. The dead's own swords curved down remorselessly, deeply cleaving into or hewing off arms, legs, even chunks of waist. Their spears skewered and pinioned man, woman and child alike, the victims left writhing in agony amid the carefully tilled ruts of their fields.

The scythe Dubris wielded was a fearsome weapon against normal riders. It could be used to curve around a rider and drag him from his horse, to cut away the legs of his mount, to simply hack at body or limbs and slice them as easily as a sheaf of hay. Against these dark riders, though, it was useless.

Dubris found herself being forced back towards the river, her feet slipping in the mud lining the banks. It only added to her difficulties in swinging the scythe, her exertions already having exhausted her to the point where she could hardly lift the shaft any longer. Within, her child whirled, protested, lashing out with violent kicks.

A dark rider urged his mount into a charge, darted forward, his sword curling down in a perfectly executed stroke.

As the blade carved into the top of her skull, Dubris looked up into the dead eyes of her husband.

She fell back into the pooling water behind her. A splash, plumes of water. Waves sent rippling outwards across the pool.

She sank, watching the blood swirling about her head in complete surprise and wonder.

The child sensed the change in her mother. The quickening of the heart. Of the blood being pumped into the womb. The sharp, painful straining of muscles.

Dubris's scream gurgled in the water around her as she gave life to her child, the globules of air rising like glowing, miniature planets.

The baby girl exited with her birth waters, moving in one easy motion from womb to river.

The river took her, rolled her, span her around and around. It buffeted her, dragging her down and down and along, threatening to instantly take away her new life; then, as if playing with her, it would briefly throw her up towards the surface, allowing a sudden gasp of air, a cry.

The current became a whirlpool, became a seemingly endless spinning, an ever-downward spiralling. Then the child, at last, was spat clear at the very bottom, just as she would have thought (if she could have thought such a thing) that her rapidly emptying lungs could take no more.

She rose up towards the surface, the planets of air swirling about her, the moonlight strikingly bright as it was magnified by the clear, undulating waters. She felt a sharp pain to the back of her neck, felt herself being dragged backwards through the waters.

She coughed, spluttered, as the vixen opened her jaw, let the child fall into the riverbank's mud. Alongside her lay two fox pups, one saved, barely alive like the girl, the other dead, drowned, like the girl's mother.

The vixen raised them as siblings. Feeding them. Keeping them warm. Teaching them how to scavenge.

And within their first week as sisters, they had both, as one, visited the lady in the tower.

And she, too, taught them many things.

*

# Chapter 13

Prytani stumbled awkwardly as the man almost threw her into the room.

'Here she is!' the man growled, staying by the door, 'As you warned me, she was more trouble than she was worth,' he added gruffly, turning to leave as soon as he'd disposed of his charge, letting the door swing to behind him.

The wizard glanced up from studying a large stone set on the floor to one side of his room.

'What kept you?' he sneered sarcastically. 'Oh, I see,' he added, noticing the large bruise down Prytani's temple. 'You required a little persuasion, did you?'

'He said Nechtan wanted to see me,' Prytani scowled miserably. 'I said I didn't know any Nechtan.'

'That's me, fool.' Moving away from the large stone, Nechtan let a blanket fall across the elaborate carvings he'd been closely observing. 'Who else would want to see you?'

As Tamesis slinked in alongside Prytani's heels, she glanced up warily at Nechtan's magpie, Cructan. The magpie looked down imperiously upon the whole room from his high perch above a window. He squawked threateningly, flapped his wings aggressively: but after this brief display, satisfied himself with nothing more than the odd glare of a probing eye.

Nechtan pointed to a table, a plate of bread and cheese, a bowl of what looked like raw meat.

'For you both,' he said, adding mischievously, 'Though I wasn't too sure which plate or bowl you would choose.'

'We've eaten.'

Prytani refused to be thankful for his offering. Even so, she eyed the meal with yearning. She knew from painful experience that what they'd eaten wasn't enough to keep them from feeling hungry later on in the day.

'But we can take it with us, I suppose.'

'As you wish.'

Nechtan smiled wryly. Prytani's craving for the food hadn't gone unnoticed by him.

'Now, this tale you told me: of the seven veils? I've been pondering its meaning.'

He studied Prytani's response intently, saw that her face remained blank.

'Do _you_ know what this tale means?' he asked.

Prytani shook her head, her face still revealing little interest in knowing any meaning lying behind the tale.

'I'm surprised you don't understand what it means.' Nechtan stared back at her curiously, even a little doubtfully and suspiciously. 'Obviously this lady, this lady you've met in the tower, believes it _is_ important; important enough, in fact, to utilise you to ensure I know of its existence.'

He said this last part with particular pride. With a wave of a hand, he indicated the vast array of aging tracts and scrolls stored in every available space his room could offer.

'Do you know how many sevens of this, or sevens of that, appear in all these ancient texts?'

Once again, he was amazed by Prytani's lack of either knowledge or interest in this fact. Striding towards another table, one crowded with open texts, he reverently placed his hand on a particularly large set of scrolls.

'The seven days of creation. Seven times the righteous man falls and gets up. The menorah, the lampstand, has seven branches, seven lamps; the eyes of God, the course of the seven planets, an intimation of the Decani, the seventy divisions of the planets.'

His hands moved across to two other scrolls, which he once again almost caressed in his reverence for the knowledge they contained.

'The Talmud: the world rests upon the seven columns hewn out of rock by wisdom. The Merkabah; there are seven heavens, seven temples, through which we must travel to arrive at the throne of God.'

Yet again, Prytani's expression said to him that she couldn't see the relevance of this knowledge.

'You obviously know none of this, do you?' His tone was edged with frustration, even bitterness. 'And yet it is you, not I, who's risen so high as to meet this lady who possesses so much secret knowledge! Fortunately she, at least, seems to be aware of the unfairness of this situation, and is aiding my own ascent as much as she can!'

'He knows your power is more natural than his,' the lady had informed Prytani on their last meeting. 'He's envious of this. He hopes he can use your abilities to help his own ascension. To inform him of what you already know. To warn him of any pitfalls. Perhaps even prepare the way for him. So, be careful: for men such as this wizard see nothing wrong with abusing such powers to their own ends. And I fear that even your capabilities won't be enough to satisfy him.'

'Now this seven veils of the tale,' Nechtan continued excitedly. 'I think it's linked to these other sevens, yes?'

Once again, he vainly waited for the light of understanding to appear in Prytani's eyes. He grimaced in disappointment.

'But I also think it's something more specific. We must shed our earthly vestments if we are to make our way through the seven levels of the underworld! Now this you _must_ know – are there _seven_ levels? How did you pass through the seven levels?'

Now he vainly tried to hide the desperation in his voice.

'I'm sorry: I really don't know,' Prytani admitted.

'You don't know?'

He sounded dumbfounded, disbelieving. He stared down at Tamesis, as if wondering if she might be more helpful. He looked back towards Prytani, his brow furrowed, his eyes blazing with irritation.

' _How_ can you _not_ know? You're at the _top_ of the tower. I'm on the second level! The _second_ level! That's all!'

He screwed up his hands into fists in frustration and fury.

'I don't think I _am_ at the top.'

Prytani wondered if she was admitting too much, if her honesty might endanger her. Hadn't the lady said she feared even Prytani's capabilities wouldn't satisfy the wizard?

'I mean, yes, I've reached the top of the tower: yet I sense there's an even higher point to reach. One only accessed by the second flight of stairs.'

'The second flight?' The wizard paused, considering this new information with renewed excitement. 'Yes, yes! I've heard of _this_ : read of it before. But I've never seen them for myself – have _you_ seen them?'

His voice had taken on the hard edge of envy once more.

Prytani nodded.

Nechtan slammed a clenched fist down hard on the table, making the scrolls laid across it shake. When he looked up again, however, his face was distraught.

'I have so far to climb!' he wailed despondently. He now appeared perplexed, pleading. 'Why? Why is this gift given so freely to _you_? Someone who fails to realise how such a gift can be utilised! Yet someone such as I – who spends an entire life seeking it, accumulating knowledge – _I'm_ made to suffer _endlessly_ in my searching!'

The magpie cawed loudly in agreement. Nechtan glanced up towards his companion with a leering grin.

'Why, Cructan, have these girls been sent to torture me?'

'Girls? You have other girls helping you?'

'Helping me?' Nechtan scornfully chortled. 'How _little_ you understand, girl! This other girl, like you, is a _vexation_ to my very _soul_!'

'Has she ascended higher than me in the tower?' Prytani asked innocently.

'The tower?' His chuckle was once again full of scorn. 'This girl doesn't need to be anywhere _near_ the tower to cause me untold agonies. She's one of the reasons, girl, why I requested your presence here.'

Prytani could have pointed out that she had actually been dragged here against her will, but thought better of it. Her dubiousness must have shown on her face, however, for Nechtan chastised her apparent nonchalance.

'You think this is of no concern to you girl? The king of a kingdom is tied in with his land, with his people: and no, I don't mean through mystical means. I speak purely rationally, and of practicality. A king has to marry for political ends, not love: least of all lust, infatuation. Marriage is a route to an alliance with an equally powerful kingdom, perhaps even an enjoining of those two kingdoms to become one under their offspring. But this girl, this supposed princess – and oh yes, she came with the large entourage of a princess, I'll grant her that, and she certainly has the right airs and graces – but she has been here less than _one month_ : and the king is bewitched! And yes, I do not use the term bewitched lightly!'

For the first time since meeting the wizard, Prytani detected a hint of nervousness in him in the way he glanced about himself, as if fearing that someone might be listening, someone wishing to bring about his downfall. That, no doubt, she reasoned, was why all his suppressed anxieties were suddenly urgently spilling from him. Until now, he would have had no one to voice his worries to, lest they wilfully misinterpreted his concern for words of treachery.

'Where is she from, this supposed Princess Sabea? Why, from the land, too, of Sabea, she claims – hence her name.'

Prytani looked around at all the manuscripts seemingly chaotically spread about the room.

'You mean, there's no such place?

'Of _course_ there's such a place. If she were here to fool the king, would she make such an elementary mistake? Ironically, I've acquired a stone from that very place only this very day!'

His hand loosely waved in the general direction of the stone carving he'd been studying when Prytani had first entered.

'But it might as well be on the other side of the world, it's so far away. How long would it take to send a message, to wait for its return, to verify her claims? Even King Cadeyrn retains a modicum of sense to know he cannot fully trust her. And yet their wedding's already arranged, the king's so eager to marry sword and sheath. The invitations have already been sent out to his lords, demanding their attendance!'

'Sword and sheath?' Prytani frowned doubtfully.

Nechtan gave a dismiss wave of a hand.

'Pah, there's no time to explain everything here! But our king already possess Siren...'

He paused for a brief second, looking towards Prytani as if expecting a sense of recognition of the name.

'Sparta's Sword?' he added, as if hoping this additional information would result in a better response from Prytani.

His face screwed up in disgust when he realised she wasn't aware of either the sword's fame or powers.

'This sword can kill even those who are already dead!' He was irritated that he had to explain such a commonplace fact. 'But when combined with its sheath–'

'Its powers increase? And this princess has this sheath, yes?'

'Yes!' At last, his face lit up with relief. Perhaps, his reassured expression said, this girl wasn't such a fool after all. 'How she came by it, no one knows. But the king, of course, can't wait to bring these two great artefacts together. And this woman insists it can only happen on their wedding night! Hence the king's headlong rush into marriage!'

This time as he spoke, Nechtan rooted urgently through a pile of clothes thrown across a chair. From the pile, he pulled out a dress.

'Here, you'll need this,' he declared, thrusting the dress towards Prytani. 'Don't worry; the girl who wore it before you was reasonably clean.'

Prytani observed the crumpled dress with distaste. It was richly made, better by far than anything either she or Tamesis had managed to steal for her to wear. But they had always gone for breeches, jerkins, right from the very first set they had found drying outside an isolated farm when Prytani was only three. The clothes she wore now had become like a literal second skin to her, as she hardly took them off, hardly ever washed.

Seeing her growing resistance, Nechtan pushed the dress hard into her chest.

'Put it on!' he demanded. 'I want you to tell me what you think of our princess!'

*

# Chapter 14

On their way across the yard towards the great hall, Prytani already felt entranced by the enchanting singing she could hear emanating from it.

If this was how the princess sang, it was little wonder that everyone believed she had bewitched this King Cadeyrn.

Prytani felt ridiculously awkward in the dress. She felt even more at odds, however, even more naked, by Tamesis's absence.

Nechtan had insisted that the little vixen wouldn't be allowed into the hall. He had also insisted on tying her up, particularly as he had been commanded to tie Cructan to a perch with jesses whenever he vacated his room.

'All because she tried to protect my precious texts from some nosy child!' he had bitterly explained.

Prytani, however, had adamantly declared that parting them was bad enough, that if Nechtan went ahead with tying Tamesis up, then she was staying here too.

'If anything here suffers damage, then you will both be staying in the same grave together!' Nechtan had warned, casting a wry glance towards Cructan. 'Keep an eye on this fox; let me know immediately if she starts wandering where she shouldn't.'

He gave the impression that he and his magpie retained a connection beyond a purely mystical one. Prytani knew that wasn't impossible.

The singing was almost ethereal in its gently exquisite wavering, its trembling modulations. On entering the hall, however, Prytani saw immediately that the girl singing was remarkably young, that another, far more beautiful girl was sitting alongside the king.

The king hardly appeared to be listening to the glorious song. All his attention was directed towards the girl sitting next to him. Even Prytani was aware that being allowed to sit next to the king was an honour in itself: but here, that honour had been extended to providing a seat hardly smaller than the king's great throne.

Moreover, the back of her throne had been decorated with a wondrously made cloak of wren feathers, just as the king's own throne was covered in a huge wolf pelt. It was wildly believed that when a king or queen wore such a cloak, they took on the better attributes of the animal chosen, a warrior garbing himself as a wolf, bear, or wild boar, a beautiful queen as a swan or peacock, or even a perfectly white mare.

The hall was crowded, the smells horrendous: sweat, rancid ale, rotting food spilt from platters and trodden into a paste underfoot, the smoke from the previous night's fires. There was also the pungent scents of damp pelts, clothes, of the great dogs who wandered royally through the crowd, with no one daring to challenge this right.

Grabbing Prytani tightly by her upper arm, Nechtan half led, half pushed her towards the back of the crowd, up close against one of the walls.

'Stay towards the back: just observe,' he hissed.

He stretched his neck to get a better view through the crowd of the laughing princess.

'What do you make of her? Our princess?' he whispered.

'She's very beautiful.'

Prytani answered distractedly, her own gaze no longer on the girl but on the boy, who was also standing amongst the crowd. He was standing next to a tall, exotically dressed man. His uncle, perhaps?

'That's it?' Nechtan glanced back at her with a dismayed frown. 'Something anyone can see? I'd expected more of you girl!'

He stepped away from her, making his way through the crowd, heading closer towards the twin thrones.

Even as he vanished into the gathering of proudly-posed lords and heavily made-up ladies, there was an altercation of raised voices and awkwardly mumbled protests just off to one side of the king's throne.

The hall fell silent. Even the angelic singing drifted away as the poor girl realised no one was listening anymore.

With a scornful glance off to where the minor scuffle had taken place, the king gave a casual wave of a hand, an indication that someone should step out of the crowd and stand before him. He smiled, however, as if more amused than offended. With a similarly casual wave of his other hand, a cry of 'Haden!', he called over one of the large dogs still nonchalantly loping through the gathered people.

Sensing the growing tension the sudden silence in the room had engendered, Prytani craned her neck in a fruitless attempt to get a clear view between the heads of the much taller people standing in front of her.

She looked back towards the nearby wall, saw a large wooden chest. Hitching up her skirt, she stepped up onto the chest and, at last, she had a better view of the throne.

The boy saw her. He looked her way, grinned sheepishly.

A huge man was now standing before the twin thrones. Like the king, he was a heavily muscled warrior, a man who stood rigidly upright as he faced his king.

'Brendan, my old friend.'

The king spoke kindly. His eyes sparkled warmly as, alongside him, he welcomed the dog he had called over with a tender pat, a gentle massaging of the great hound's long neck.

The dog sat on its haunches alongside the throne, its tongue happily lolling as the king continued to gently massage its neck.

'For those of you here who do _not_ know,' the king continued, addressing a crowd who chuckled along with him as he said this, 'Brendan is, perhaps, my oldest, greatest friend!'

The gathering responded with cries and hurrahs of agreement.

'As loyal to me, too, as my favourite hound Haden!'

He gave the dog's neck a kindly, vigorous rub and shake.

The crowd laughed warmly once more. Brendan grinned in appreciation, shuffled a little as if with modesty.

The king smiled at Brendan, his gaze never leaving him as his vigorous shaking of the dog rapidly became more violent, more painful for the poor hound.

Suddenly, the dog tried to break free of the king's brutal grip, to snap and snarl in warning that he was being hurt and wouldn't stand for it much longer.

Prytani was taken completely by surprise by how swiftly and lithely the king moved.

Leaping to his feet, the king withdrew a double-handed sword that had been sheathed across his back. Wielding the sword with just one hand, as if it were weightless, the king curved it swiftly down then up, cleaving the dog's neck.

The hound's head rose into the air, its tongue still happily lolling, dripping saliva. It bounced across the floor, where it was instantly hungrily leapt upon by the other dogs. Picking up the dog's torso, the king cleaned the sword's blade upon its fur.

'Now Brendan,' he said calmly, tossing the bloodied body off towards the pack of ravenous dogs, 'what was this matter you wished to raise with me?'

*

Siren.

This was the sword Nechtan had spoken of, obviously.

In the king's hand, it had appeared to be no heavier than a feather, despite its amazing size. He had wielded it as if it were a simple extension of his arm, even of his mind.

It had whistled joyously as it had cleaved the air, the flesh, the muscle, the bone, the inflections of its song changing as it struck and effortlessly severed every material it encountered as if they were no more substantial than water. In its way, its song had been as hypnotically entrancing as the girl's.

The girl wasn't singing any longer. She was in tears. In shock. Her body wracked with sobs, shaking with fear.

The princess giggled. Her eyes shone at the excitement of it all. She congratulated the king with a tender touch of his arm as he sat down beside her once more.

Siren was back in its sheath on his back. The throne, Prytani reasoned, must be especially carved to take its bulky form comfortably, to allow its great length to slip down a hole at the rear of the seat.

Brendan had eased back into the crowd, drinking uneasily from his horn. He glanced edgily now and again towards the throne, a grimace on his face beneath his pleasant smiles and grins that spoke of thoughts on how he might regain favour, or at least forgiveness.

He stepped out of the crowd once more, raised his horn in salute, and this time cried out heartily for the king to tell them all once again how he had acquired Siren.

'Tell them, my lord, of that day when we landed on the sirens' isle!'

The gathered people took up the cry, the calls growing for the king to entertain them with a tale of his bravery.

The king bowed his head diffidently, waved a hand as if to dismiss such calls as foolishness.

At last, to cheers, he rose to his feet.

As before, he moved swiftly, this time spinning around on his heels to grab the wolf pelt off the back of his throne. In the same easy move, he threw the pelt over his shoulders.

His back arched, his head rose, his neck extended.

He growled, howled, snarled.

The transformation was almost immediate.

In the blink of an eye, he was taller by at least another head, even more powerfully built, leaner and yet more muscular than ever.

He was half man, half wolf. Parts of his skin sprouted fur. His face was disfigured with a huge, powerful jaw, a semi-snout, eyes that flamed a fiery amber.

Prytani had never, ever seen an animal pelt have such a magically horrific effect on its wearer. Such pelts were only meant to instil courage, a hoped for if admittedly false sense of invincibility when in the midst of a battle.

The only time Prytani had ever seen anything like this was the attack of the werewolf. Indeed, if she hadn't seen first one, the werewolf, and then this other, this transformation of the king, she would have presumed it was a werewolf she was seeing before her now.

Yet there _were_ differences: the king retained more human qualities; he wasn't quite so huge, quite so monstrous.

Even so, Prytani felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck, sensed the fear surging through her, telling her to flee, to save herself.

She knew that everyone around her must be suffering this very same instinct to flee, too. They danced edgily on their feet. Eyes were bulbous, bloodshot. Teeth were gritted.

No one, however, made a rush for the door. It was as if, despite their understandably natural feelings of dread, of alarm, they managed to control them, the transformation having been wholly expected rather than a shock.

'Behold your Wolf King!' the king proclaimed with an elated, snarling guffaw.

He spoke in a harsh, grating voice.

'Just in case anyone here required proof of my ordeal.'

He finished with another howling laugh, whipped off the pelt with a flourish – and, in an instant, was purely man once more.

Throwing the pelt over the back of his throne once more, he sat down, grinning in appreciation as the princess admiringly stroked his arm.

'Brendan,' he said, inviting his friend with a welcoming wave to come out to the front of the assembled crowd. 'I think you tell this tale best.'

*

# Chapter 15

Siren's Song

We'd spent weeks at sea.

Our old ship creaked in protest. Her eyes were faded, tired. She sighed endlessly. She had lost her way in an earlier storm, and was struggling to find once more the signs and sights she usually used to guide us safely home.

We were also tired. We had fought for over three months, killing at least seven times our original number. Our courageous King Cadeyrn alone had killed over a hundred men.

Fifty thousand men had taken part in that war.

Far less than a five hundred came out of it entirely whole.

We ourselves were down to just twenty five men and this one ship, the sea journey home taking its own toll on those who had survived the war.

We were short of water, of provisions. The wood of our ship was splintering, the sails irredeemably tattered. For all those weeks, we had seen nowhere, no land, where we could put ashore to make repairs and restock.

And then the sea sang, like countless weeping whales.

At last, the cry went out: 'Land!'

An island was lying directly ahead of us!

And then our ship, fair _Hafren_ , began to turn. To turn away from the island, from our salvation.

What witchcraft is this, we wondered? Why is even fair _Hafren_ betraying us in this way?

Yet we were wrong. For no matter how much fair _Hafren_ turned and raced, apparently attempting to avoid the island, that magical isle always remained in sight, always ahead of us.

And we were drawing closer with the passing of each moment.

The island itself was moving, we were sure of it! It was the song of the sea, that glorious sound of wind-filled sails, of windblown birds, that was manipulating the very waves and currents themselves, propelling the isle towards us!

And then the sirens sang, like countless weaving wedding-maidens.

It was the most beautiful music we had ever heard.

It was full of promise, every promise you could wish had been made to you.

Surely this must be paradise lying before us? Had we died, at some time during our sleep, when we weren't aware of it, and now we had been called to heaven? Was this an island of the purest virgins, lustfully awaiting our long prophesised arrival?

Only wise King Cadeyrn realised how endangered we were.

Reaching for his charmed wolf pelt, he slipped it about his shoulders – and, behold, the Wolf King stood before us! Half man, half wolf. Powerful. Immense. A champion amongst all warriors!

And, as half wolf, it gave him the power to resist the haunting song of the sirens'.

Even so, despite the orders of our brave King Cadeyrn to steer away from the isle, despite even fair _Hafren's_ attempts to save us from our foolishness, we each took up an oar, plunged its blade into the waves, and rowed with every ounce of strength we could muster towards our own deaths. The nearer we drew to our demise, the more we desired it. That glorious singing was more entrancing still the louder it became, and soon we caught sight of those glorious singers themselves – the most beautiful maidens you have ever seen, could even imagine, waiting for us upon the isle's many rocks!

Now shrewd King Cadeyrn, he had seen that his own admonishments weren't enough to save his men from the sirens' supernatural lures. They would cast themselves upon the rocks in their eagerness to be embraced by these enchantresses.

Wresting the steer oar from the enraptured man deliriously directing us towards our doom, wise King Cadeyrn helped poor _Hafren_ head towards the safer beach. At the last moment, too, _Hafren_ raised her fair body enough to stop it suffering too much damage as our vigorous rowing drove her into the edges of the sand.

Immediately on striking land, valiant King Cadeyrn leapt ashore with Fairburn, his sword, already in his hands.

Many of the beautiful maidens had already moved from their seats upon the rocks towards the beach, apparently, as we saw it, to warmly greet us. Their diaphanous dresses rustled in a slight breeze, revealing half naked bodies, licentious poses. Their smiles were full of promise.

And the sirens sang, like countless whispering virgin-wives.

What we saw next was, to us, madness; a madness we thought must have been inflicted on our triumphant King Cadeyrn by envious gods. He rushed through these beautiful, unarmed maidens, hacking at them as if they were the most fearsome warriors he had ever seen.

We cried out in horror at his murderous onslaught against these innocent ladies.

He rushed up the beach, up the rocks, his incredible swiftness taking everyone by surprise. He was heading, we realised with growing dismay, for their queen; a woman more beautiful than any other maiden here, and more richly dressed too!

Reaching her in a few athletic bounds, he immediately raised proud Fairburn to her throat – but this time, thankfully, he didn't kill her.

Instead, he held her prisoner, grabbing her by her hair, wrenching her head back until her throat arched against Fairburn's eager blade.

'Tell them to stop!' he snarled. 'Stop their singing – or die!'

And the sirens sang like a waning Venus, the song fading, fading, until it was no more.

The enchantment broken, we at last saw the sirens for what they truly were – more eagle, more lion, than woman: and even that part hideous beyond belief. They were slavering, not with lust, but hunger. They didn't desire us as lovers, but as a feast!

We would have set fair _Hafren_ about and left the isle there and then, as hurriedly as we could. Fortunately, our King Cadeyrn was far more astute: he realised that setting back out to sea before we'd restocked with fresh provisions would simply place us back in the same peril we'd been in for weeks now.

'My men need food, fresh water,' he growled at his captive queen. 'See to it that they receive it, _now_!'

For added emphasis, he lightly scraped an overly eager Fairburn along her exposed throat.

'We also need canvas for a sail, wood for our ship,' he barked.

The sirens, fearing for their queen's life, rushed about the island, bringing as quickly as they could everything brave King Cadeyrn had demanded. All this we hurriedly stored aboard a gratefully creaking _Hafren_.

The siren queen, of course, was furious that she had been so humiliated by our great King Cadeyrn. She struggled to break free of his grip, a grip that no normal man could have ever hoped to maintain even for a brief second, let alone for so long.

She had the strength of a lion, the ability of an eagle to fly upwards towards the sun itself. And yet, here she was: a prisoner, in her own land!

Never, ever, had this siren queen found herself confronted by such strength, such power, such sheer force of will.

She was well aware that, for the very first time in her life, that life was in danger.

'Spare me,' she pleaded, 'and I will give you a sword like no other. One that can kill even the dead.'

Those of us in close hearing started in surprise.

Could she really be referring to Sparta's Sword?

We had all heard of the legend, of course.

Amongst all true warriors, who hasn't dreamed at some point in their lives that such a legend might be true?

And here was this siren queen declaring that she had the actual sword: Sparta's Sword!

Strangely, it was a declaration that seemed entirely conceivable. After all, if this sword was in anyone's possession, who would be more likely to own it than a siren queen, living on an island powered by song, a song that could lure even the proudest warrior to his doom?

'Bring it,' our great King Cadeyrn commanded. 'Bring me this Sparta's Sword: and I promise you I will spare your life.'

*

The great sword was so heavy, so gigantic, that it had to be borne by seven sirens.

It was wrapped in a number of protective veils, seven in all, all of which were ceremoniously cast aside until this legendary sword was at last revealed.

The sword was ludicrously simple in its design. It carried no ornament, no unnecessary embellishments. The blade, however, was a glorious decoration in its own right, made of a metal the like of which none has ever been seen before or since, with a rippling sheen that sparkled like the captured waves of a crystal clear pool.

Yes, yes; such a blade could indeed be that fabled, most deadly sword.

To a renowned warrior, its lure was every bit as entrancing as a siren's song!

King Cadeyrn reached out for it, briefly letting go of the siren queen's hair.

She took her chance. If not as swiftly as the king, she could move faster than any other man alive.

She grabbed the blade of proud Fairburn; and crushed and shattered it as if it were forged from nothing but ice!

As soon as they saw that Fairburn's sharp blade was no longer held at their queen's throat, the treacherous sirens launched into an attack upon us all. They literally flew at the men already aboard _Hafren_ , they rushed down the sands towards those still on the beach. With their great maws, their evilly taloned feet, they ripped and rived at our flesh.

The siren queen and two of her closest attendants threw themselves as one at our brave King Cadeyrn. But he moved equally if not even more swiftly, raising the great Sparta's Sword as if weightless.

And the sword sang, like countless wrathful vengeful-angels.

The blade sliced deeply through a siren's wing, took the legs off another. Then, with a twirl of Sparta's Sword, King Cadeyrn partially severed the queen's neck, such that her head hung at a sickening angle.

'To the ship, back to the ship!' King Cadeyrn cried urgently to us all.

We needed little urging. We fled – yes, fled – towards the patiently waiting _Hafren_. We fought back as well as we could, but against such monsters, our swords were as useless as a lady's discreet dagger.

Only King Cadeyrn could hold his own against these monstrous beasts, and even he was in grave danger of being overwhelmed. Thankfully, he had had the presence of mind to only fatally wound rather than kill the queen outright. This distracted a great many sirens, who had to tend to her wounds in the hope of saving her.

Thankfully, too, we had already stored aboard everything the sirens had brought us. We took up our oars, while a handful of us remained on the beach, pushing against _Hafren's_ bows to free her of the sand.

Aided by fair _Hafren's_ own exertions, we pulled back out into the sea. Even now, though, we continued to suffer constant, horrific attacks from the sirens, who would swoop down at us from out of the sky, lashing out at or picking up a man with their claws.

Fortunately for us all, the magnificent King Cadeyrn seemed truly invincible that day. He hacked and cleaved his way through siren after siren that tried to block his path back towards us.

It seemed to us, watching from _Hafren_ , that one hundred times they came at him.

And one hundred times, King Cadeyrn's sword sang.

Sang like countless wailing wraiths.

After lying redundant for so long, Sparta's Sword rejoiced at being held once again by a fearless warrior.

And the sword sang, like countless whirling wings.

And the sword sang, like countless wheeling winds.

And the sword sang, like countless wind-wracked willows.

At last, he leapt aboard _Hafren_.

We strained all the more at our oars, pulling _Hafren_ back out into the welcoming waves. And, at last, the constantly swooping sirens had met their match: with a whirling of his great sword, King Cadeyrn took off wings, feet, heads.

And the sword sang, like countless woeful widows.

Screeching in frustrated fury, the sirens had to satisfy themselves with wheeling around the top of our mast, none daring to come close to the king's deadly, life-devouring blade.

And we rowed for our lives.

*

It was only when we were fully clear of the island that King Cadeyrn deemed it safe to shed his charmed wolf pelt.

Only then, when he'd returned to human form, did we realise the full extent of his grievous injuries.

Lacking the strength the wolf pelt gave him, he collapsed on deck. He had lost so much blood, so much severed flesh, that he had to be carefully carried to his bed, where he could be expertly tended.

'I should have stayed,' he boldly insisted. 'I should have made sure those terrible creatures can never entrap any innocent sailor ever again!'

Once he was well on his way to recovering, he similarly boldly insisted that we should search for the island. But no matter how far we travelled, how strenuously we looked for it, we never found that evil isle again.

At least, though, our brave King Cadeyrn was now the rightful owner of Sparta's Sword.

In honour of his achievements – the way he had fought so relentlessly against those monstrous harridans, the way the sword had sang more wondrously than even they – we, his men, made another bold insistence that day: that Sparta's Sword be renamed.

It's new name – Siren!

And Siren sang, like countless writhing vipers.

*

# Chapter 16

As Brendan finished his tale, the hall erupted in raucous cheers. Drinking horns were raised. Fists were banged on hard breastplates.

With a show of modesty, the king lowered his head slightly, raised a hand as if to still this unexpected ovation.

Alongside him, the princess reached over to excitedly grasp his hand. She looked at him adoringly. He looked back to her with a pleased, leering grin.

The cheers, the fist banging, increased.

As the noise finally receded, Nechtan stepped closer towards the thrones, pausing a while as he waited for permission to speak.

With a gracious wave of his hand, the king indicated that the wizard was free to speak.

'With such an interesting tale behind the acquisition of Siren, I wonder if the princess would favour us with a telling of how she came to be the holder of the sword's equally remarkable sheath?'

The hall erupted once again, this time with cries of agreement.

Nechtan smiled, Prytani noticed, yet his gaze remained narrowed and devious. The princess's expression was hardly less false, her pleasant smile for the wizard somehow laced with suspicion and malice, seemingly hidden to almost everyone but him and Prytani.

'Unfortunately, my dear wizard–' she managed to deliver this last word with a most remarkable degree of scorn – 'it isn't a tale of bravery, courage, and fortitude against impossible odds, as we have just heard. It is simply one of a precious object reverently handed down through generations of my family.'

'Oh, that's such a shame, my lady.' Nechtan pursed his lips in disappointment, as if dismayed that he'd been denied hearing a wonderful tale. 'But...' He paused, as if thinking this out carefully, as if unsure how to word his next question. 'If you can't _really_ be sure about the sheath's history, then...I mean, could it be _possible_ that some _ancestor_ of yours was _misled_ about this sheath?'

He said it all with good humour, enough to raise a few laughs of agreement from amongst the crowd.

'How many people here, promised heirlooms in last testaments, have discovered to their dismay that the object in question isn't what they had hoped for?'

There were more chuckles, along with nods of recognition of the truth of this.

As he'd spoken, the princess had called over and spoken quietly to one of her personal attendants. With a nod of understanding, this young girl had disappeared at a fast trot, making her way through a door at the rear of the hall.

'I assure you, wizard,' the princess retorted confidentially, 'that my sheath is the real thing, not some copy as you suggest.'

'My lady, I assure _you_ I was not in _any way_ suggesting–'

The princess quietened Nechtan's protests with an irately raised hand.

'Fortunately, wizard, it is easy to vouch for the veracity of my sheath: for do we not have here its mate, its husband?'

She deftly moved her hand towards the handle of the great sword protruding from behind King Cadeyrn's back.

The young girl attendant had returned with three other young girls. At first, they ran into the hall, only to instantly change their pace to one of a reverential procession. They carried between them a long, tapestry-wrapped object.

'My lord,' the princess said to King Cadeyrn, 'if I may trouble you? Would you allow Siren to vouch for the honour of both me and my family?'

'My lady, I–'

This time Nechtan's protestations were halted by an indignantly raised hand from the king. As a part of the same move, King Cadeyrn reached over his shoulder, grabbed hold of Siren's handle, and curved it up and over his head in one easy swing.

Nechtan stepped back anxiously as the blade swooped down only a hand's length before his face.

The girl attendants placed their package down before the king, curling back the edges of the tapestry with a flourish. The tapestry was exquisite, a work of art involving gold and silver thread. It portrayed a famous scene from the legend of Sparta's Sword, the one where the pregnant lady protects her lord with her own body, while he fights off streaming hordes of heavily armoured men.

Of course, even such a wonderful tapestry was hardly proof that the sheath was the genuine article. Anyone close enough to see the sheath, however, would later remark upon the similarities in its construction to that of the sword: perfectly utilitarian, perfectly simple. It had absolutely no adornments other than one that appeared to be a natural result of its legendary formation, a ripple-like pattern that engendered a sense of a multiple wrapping of veils melded together.

Yet there was a proof that this was the genuine article even greater than this.

As King Cadeyrn brought Siren closer towards the sheath, the blade sparkled, even vibrated excitedly.

Siren sang once more. And this time, it was a wooing, the whisperings of love.

*

Princess Sabea could have glared triumphantly at Nechtan.

Instead, she only had eyes for King Cadeyrn.

And King Cadeyrn couldn't mistake what was in those eyes. Like Siren, her eyes had their own deep song: a love, a longing to come together as one, for marriage.

Princess Sabea took King Cadeyrn's free hands in both of hers.

'When you place your blade in its soft grip my lord, you will find it so wondrously tight fitting, such that it will be held lovingly and firmly in place.'

Letting go of his hand, she indicated with a wave of her own hands that her attendants should lift and bring the sheath up towards the king's waiting blade.

Siren sang louder and more excitedly than ever. And then its glorious voice was first eased, then muted, then completely silenced as the attendants slowly slipped the sheath along its great length.

King Cadeyrn grinned exultantly.

'Now, at last,' he breathed excitedly, his voice deep and low yet still quivering with eagerness, 'we can take on the Dead Legions without fear!'

While still holding Siren by its handle, he also grasped it by its sheathed blade, with the obvious intention of withdrawing it once more.

He frowned, perplexed.

He gave the sword another sharp tug, another attempt to draw them apart.

Again, however, the blade remained firmly embedded within the tight grip of its sheath.

'What trickery is this?' stormed Nechtan, voicing the fears of everyone in the hall.

'The sheath merely ensures no one can take Siren from you, my lord.'

To ensure she reassured everyone, the princess spoke calmly, moved casually.

'If I may, my lord?'

She tenderly placed her hands on the sheathed Siren, an indication that she wanted to briefly hold it.

King Cadeyrn let her take it from him. She brought the sheathed blade up to her lips, as if about to kiss it.

Rather, she whispered ever so quietly to it.

When she took hold of Siren's handle, the sword came easily and willingly from the comforting warmth of its sheath.

It sang with contentment, with pleasure.

As the princess raised the bared blade, however, those amongst the crowd who had smiled with relief as blade and sheath parted now gasped in horror.

Even King Cadeyrn glanced edgily at his princess and the raised blade.

With an innocent smile, the princess passed Siren to King Cadeyrn.

The king took hold of the great sword's handle with a relieved smirk.

'We should remember that it is because the sheath is _wedded_ to the blade,' the princess said, handing the sheath back to her assistants, 'that they draw their remarkable combination of talents together.'

King Cadeyrn grimaced in frustration as he forlornly watched the princess's attendants tenderly wrap the sheath in its tapestry covering. He looked out towards the crowded hall.

'Then our wedding must take pace _sooner_!' he declared. 'Send messages out to my lords immediately; I expect them to attend our wedding a month earlier than originally intended!'

*

# Chapter 17

That night, when Prytani and Tamesis merged, the girl asked the little vixen what she had discovered in Nechtan's room.

She saw everything as if through Tamesis's eyes.

The frantically squawking Cructan, flying as far as his restraining jesses would allow him.

The low angle, a view almost from the floor, as Tamesis moved swiftly yet silently around the room.

First, there was the mysterious stone.

Taking a corner of the veiling blanket in her mouth, Tamesis moved the covering aside, revealing the stone's elaborate carvings. They portrayed a stylised tree, with three branches to either side, and a serpent coiled around its trunk. It was shown growing from a shortened triangle at the base of the stone, as if this were the top of a mountain or some similar structure.

The top of the tree itself was graced by what could have been a bull's horns, partially wrapping around a full disc that could itself have easily been mistaken for a representation of the sun.

Prytani knew differently, however.

It was a symbol of two of the most important phases of the moon: the full, brightly illuminated moon, together with the crescent formed when the sun's light only strikes the moon's base. The rest is only dimly lit by the Earth's reflected light, giving the impression that the moon's face is veiled.

Using her teeth yet again, Tamesis pulled the covering back over the stone.

Cructan continued to squawk in protest at the little vixen's action. Tamesis ignored him, realising that there was little he could do while he was still firmly tied to his perch.

Let him squawk!

Let him tire himself out with his useless, frantic fluttering!

Tamesis leapt up onto a nearby table.

Cructan squawked all the louder. He vainly tried to fly towards the little vixen, but was brutally dragged back each time by his restraining jesses.

There were a large number of scrolls and parchments on the table. Of more interest to Tamesis, however, were a number of discs made of ivory, brass, stone. On each of these, there were similar symbols to that carved upon the stone: a raised pole, with the crescent and full moon image gracing its very top. In a few cases, the moon appeared to be emanating seven rays, making it look even more sun-like: but these, Prytani realised once more, were just depictions of the moon encircled by its seven dove-like stars.

Nearby, there were notes that appeared to have been made by Nechtan upon a scrap of parchment. Prytani could read these, having gradually yet almost instinctively learnt how to read when studying the lady's tapestries.

Nechtan knew, it seemed, that the carving and discs were representations of the moon.

'The queen who remains invisible, sought by the king's sons.'

'When only partly visible, it is the daughter of the king himself, taking up residence in the lower world, having been exiled there.'

'The daughter rules in the lower world, but really belongs in higher realms.'

Once again, Prytani somehow recognised these odd statement as being references to phases of the moon.

Reflecting the light of both sun and stars, the moon acts as a funnel, collecting energy and pouring it out over the earth. For three days, though, it is dark, a descent into the underworld before its resurrection as the new moon on the third day.

Death and rebirth. Waxing and waning. A steady, inexorable rhythm. An unvarying cycle of order, wisdom, fertility, immortality. Rhythms, according to further notes of Nechtan, 'tied in with the natural blood sacrifice of women', its ebb and flow 'controlling the spume of sea and man'.

Prytani didn't understand everything Tamesis uncovered or looked over. In fact, she understood less than she did understand. Tamesis leapt from table to table, from one wooden chest to another, everywhere she wandered encountering ancient texts carelessly scattered or even left open, as if Nechtan was constantly referring to them in an agitated search. Everywhere, too, there were hastily scribbled notes he had made.

One whole table was given over to Nechtan's search for the meaning behind a legend of a 'Halo Crown'. His notes were florid, rushed, as if with particular elation or, in some cases, frustration, the sentences angrily crossed out, or endlessly corrected in ever darker, more heavily put down words.

The notes made little sense to Prytani. Many of the scrolls or texts lay partially open, but as they all lay partly on top of each other, only the odd line or paragraph was clearly revealed to her. In most cases, each explanation of how to call forth a guardian, or how to answer the questions he would ask, confusingly completely contradicted each other. Other texts claimed that the wearer of the Halo Crown had been a Roman, who had used it to defeat a vast Persian army. Another spoke of a Gaul who had wiped out the invading Roman legions.

They were speculations, that was all. Not one of the authors seemed to know for sure, despite his protestations to the contrary.

There was one thing they did all appear to agree on, however.

If anyone summoned the guardian and answered his corrections correctly, they would be anointed with the Halo Crown.

And that would give him command of one of the most feared divisions of the Dead Legions.

*

# Chapter 18

'He wants to know more about you.'

'Does he now, little fox?'

The lady gave an amused smile.

'He sees knowledge as power,' she continued as she worked on her tapestries. 'He sets out to find out everything he can about everything, everybody. And I, of course, am no exception.'

'He's also interested in something called the Halo Crown.'

'Yes, yes; this is what I feared.'

Her smile vanished.

'And this girl, this Princess Sabea: he wants to know more about her, yes?'

Tamesis nodded.

'And yet he has no interest in the boy, as yet?'

The lady said it more as a statement rather than a question.

'Which only goes to show how little he really knows!'

She chuckled gaily.

'The Halo Crown; does it exist?' Tamesis asked worriedly.

The lady half spun around on her seat, her hands never leaving off from the way they so deftly flowed over the tapestries coming to life beneath the whirling moves of her fingers.

'Little fox! You disappoint me, for once. Even _you_ think this is more important than the boy?'

It was an admonishment, but one lightly, laughingly delivered.

Tamesis remained silent, hanging her head ashamedly.

'But, in answer to your question – and of course, I understand why this would be of importance to you – yes, I'm afraid this Halo Crown really _does_ indeed exist. And yes, it gives the wearer command of a Dead Legion.'

'Why, as a wizard, would he want this power? Does he intend to grant the crown to King Cadeyrn?'

The lady chuckled again.

'Secretly, our wizard laughs at his king and his foolish bravado with his wolf pelt and great sword. Nechtan knows that these are relatively minor items in the great, supernatural armoury available to those who seek out its more powerful devices. His loyalty is only to himself: yet, for the moment, he relies on the king's patronage. Therefore he fears that this princess might come between him and his king.'

'So how do we distract him from achieving this crown?'

The lady stared at Tamesis with a playful pout of disappointment.

'Little fox! _Again_ you fail to see which are the really important issues at stake here! We can use his seeking of these mystical powers to distract him from his demands that you find out more about this girl.'

Tamesis was perplexed by the lady's reply, yet trusted her enough to know she shouldn't question her judgement.

'Nechtan's more recent acquirements from Joseph include this stone carving and the great testament relating the history of Joseph's own religion. So, how happy will he be when you return with the secret knowledge that links them both?'

*

# Chapter 19

Prytani and Tamesis were once again woken up by the banging of a door carelessly thrown open.

Once again, too, an armed man strode into the small cell they'd had to sleep in once more.

'Saddle up!' the man gruffly ordered. 'You can ride, can't you?'

He didn't wait for an answer. He immediately strode out of the cell, obviously expecting Prytani and Tamesis to diligently follow him.

They did, and in a rush too. Out in the yard, a large number of horses were being prepared for a patrol. Many of the riders had already mounted up, including an exhilarated King Cadeyrn and a miserably scowling Nechtan.

Prytani was directed towards a thankfully small horse. Even so, she needed help to get onto its back.

Outside the stockade, a low, morning mist hung like a grey veil over the ground. The sun had hardly risen, it's already dim glow further muted by the mist, spreading the yellow light out across the land as if it were a dreadful disease.

Both men and women, even children, were already out in the field, sowing the furrows they had carefully tilled. A few of them, generally those children on the cusp of adulthood, were cutting sprigs from hedgerows bursting with blossom. Some bushes were burgeoning into the succulent berries they would tempt the gathering birds with.

'Why we've been conscripted into this fool's mission, I _don't_ know,' Nechtan grumbled as he rode alongside Prytani, his own mount having to nervously avoid stepping on the closely following Tamesis. 'But, knowing our king, it doesn't bode well.'

He added his last comment in a whisper, ensuring no one nearby could hear it. They were all heavily armoured and armed men, as if heading out to battle.

Riding far up ahead, near the front of the column, the king had Siren sheathed across his back. He wasn't wearing his wolf pelt, however; this, Prytani reasoned, was stored in the package wrapped securely to his horse's flanks.

'The king...'

Prytani began to speak unsurely. She was even more uncertain about continuing, but forced herself to come out with the question that had been troubling her since the meeting in the hall.

'He's _not_ the wolf _troubling_ the villages?'

She chose her words as carefully as she could. Despite this, as she'd feared, Nechtan appeared to deliberately misinterpret her question.

'You _do_ realise,' he chuckled mischievously, 'that to accuse your king of such a thing is treachery?'

'He's not _my_ king.'

Even as Prytani said this, she knew it would be regarded as a moot point easily dismissed by any trial.

'A werewolf cannot control his change, which happens every full moon,' Nechtan pointed out. 'The king is in full control of his own transformations.'

'Where did he get this magical pelt?' Prytani asked.

'I think, girl, that you seem to have forgotten how our relationship actually works!' Nechtan snapped. 'I'm the one who asks _you_ the questions: such as, what did you learn last night, on your visit to the tower?'

'A link between the great testament Joseph brought you, and this Sabean stone.'

Nechtan's eyebrows rose; he was impressed by Prytani's knowledge.

Prytani hid her sigh of relief. She had feared that any mention of the stone would lead to an accusation from Nechtan that he had seen, through Cructan, Tamesis wandering amongst his texts and artefacts.

Perhaps the connection between the wizard and his magpie wasn't as close as that between her and Tamesis.

'The wandering of the Israelites?' Prytani asked innocently. 'What do you know of that?'

*

'So, you're saying that it's pointless to try and work out where the Israelites journeyed? That it simply represents a giving up of their other gods?'

Having stopped at a spring of bitter water at Marah, the Israelites had carried on towards Elim, where there were twelve springs of water and seventy palm trees. From here, they passed through the wilderness of Sin to briefly settle in Riphidim.

As first the lady and now Prytani had explained, Marah is the benevolent water goddess, daughter of Athirat, and Anat's twin sister – but her name would come to stand for bitterness, even venom.

Elim is an ancient word for gods, the Great Mother Goddess Asherah giving birth to seventy divine children and twelve gods, her symbols being those of the palm and the spring.

Sin was a onetime god of the moon, while Riphidim is also called Massah or Meribah, other names for Marah – and so Moses will produce drinkable water from the rock for the thirsty Israelites.

Strangely, it isn't a complete rejection of all the old gods.

Moses made a bronze snake, placing it on a pole, such that anyone bitten by a serpent who looked at it would live. And this serpent continued to be worshiped even in Solomon's temple for almost two hundred and fifty years. Reforming kings finally removed it, along with the Asherah poles – Asherah herself being linked to healing and immortality through the twin serpents she usually holds, one in each hand.

'All this is in Kings, yes?' Nechtan interrupted excitedly. 'The women were weaving tapestries for Asherah in the temple: to drape on the poles as her marriage clothes?'

Prytani more or less ignored him, trying to clearly remember everything the lady had told her.

'She was Queen of Heaven, married to El. Her power is shown by the way she rides upon the back of a lion, her links to the moon by her crescent horns encompassing a full disc. Naked, she sometimes holds in each hand not serpents but palm leaves, as all those eating from her tree will find wisdom and life.'

'The Tree of Wisdom and the Tree of Life?'

'They are one and the same: Wisdom shall be a Tree of Life to all who lay hold on her.'

'Proverbs?' Nechtan said with obvious satisfaction. 'Yes, yes; Joseph's testament speaks of all these things!'

'And doesn't it also speak of the menorah, itself a stylised tree, with cups to be shaped in the form of almonds? Well, according to the lady, the Greek for almond, _amugdale_ , comes from an older form in Joseph's language, _m gdlh_ – or Great Mother.'

Nechtan briefly paused as he pondered this, perhaps comparing it against his own knowledge of other languages.

'Anything else?' he said eagerly. 'What else are you to tell me?'

'As before, she said you must absorb what you are told on each telling, before she can tell you anything more.'

Nechtan nodded, as if seeing the wisdom of this. He looked about him at the landscape they were passing through with rapidly growing boredom.

Prytani smiled to herself. She had met other people like Nechtan who, failing to see the beauty and wonders of nature, wished only that they were back in a room, thinking they could learn everything they needed to know purely from books.

Groups of people were gathering around a holy well, a small portion of them actually circling it a number of times. At some point, everyone would dip a finely coloured piece of cloth in the waters, then drape it across the branches of a nearby hawthorn tree, gifts for the spirits believed to live here.

Tamesis nosily rushed amongst them, watching their actions intently.

Nechtan frowned, sighed, seeing only the long journey stretching out ahead of them.

He glanced Prytani's way, pursed his lips thoughtfully.

Once again, Prytani smiled inside. She had seen expressions like this many times before.

He was wondering if talking to her would be slightly less of an ordeal than letting his bored mind fester over his regrets at having to leave all his books of learning behind.

'The wolf pelt,' he said finally. 'You wanted to know a little more about it?'

Prytani nodded gratefully.

'It was created, so I've heard, by hunting down a huge wolf who had been terrorising a vast area; taking away grown men, eating up children as if they were nothing more than tasty morsels. When the king caught it – a king from long ago, when such magic was more commonplace – he had it boiled in magical potions while it was steadily skinned alive.'

'So it was left as an heirloom to King Cadeyrn?'

Nechtan chortled wickedly.

'I suppose you could put it that way, yes. Although, personally, I'd tend to put it that our king achieved his goal through a more limited if equally effective form of magic.'

Prytani detected a hint of pride in Nechtan's tone. She stared back at him knowingly, fully aware that he was eager to let someone else know of his genius, despite any danger it might place him in.

'A _simple_ potion: one that slightly addled the brain.'

Obviously, Prytani thought, he doesn't think I'm in a position to be able to turn this information against him.

He knows he has too much power over me, over whether I live or die.

Besides, who would believe me?

Who would be interested, anyway, when the original owner of the pelt is dead, and probably equally powerless?

She looked Nechtan's way again, her expression one of interest, wanting to know more.

'You've got to realise,' Nechtan continued, keeping his voice low, 'that the _original_ pelt had even greater powers: it could _completely_ transform the wearer into a huge wolf, leaving only the _mind_ human. Cadeyrn was the then-king's brother. He came to me for the potion that made the king forget he was human.'

'So he would remain a wolf?'

'Well, he would have done if Cadeyrn hadn't tricked the king's own men into hunting him down. He wanted the pelt for himself, you see.'

'But...'

Nechtan nodded, seeing the horror on Prytani's face.

'He had his own brother skinned. And even then, after all that, he was disappointed.'

'Why? The pelt–' She paused, feeling a little sick as she thought of how the pelt had been created. 'The pelt transforms him into a wolf, doesn't it?'

'Only partly. The human part of him, though – that's not _entirely_ Cadeyrn.'

'You mean–' Prytani had to pause again. The more she thought about all this, the worse it all sounded. 'You mean it's his _brother_? When he wears the pelt, Cadeyrn takes on some of the aspects of his own _brother_?'

Again there was a nod from Nechtan, this time accompanied with a wry leer.

'King Cadeyrn hates it too. Can you imagine being partly merged with the brother you've had skinned alive?'

' _Alive_?'

'How else could Cadeyrn be sure the pelt would retain its powers? Particularly as he no longer had the necessary potions. We had to make do with oils, herbs, whatever we could think of that would help preserve the skin.'

' _We_? You _boiled_ him _alive_?'

Nechtan shrugged, grinned sickly if unapologetically.

'Cadeyrn was now my king, remember? Besides, we all have to make use of whatever abilities we have to create our own ascension, don't we?'

'And the cloak of wren feathers – is _that_ magic too?'

Prytani felt a sense of relief surge through her when Nechtan shook his head. She realised she wouldn't have liked to hear how such a cloak could have acquired its own supernatural powers.

'No one can recall the potions or spells required to create such a cloak anymore, unfortunately.'

'And his sword? Is _that_ tale true?'

'Ha, the one about Sparta's Sword? Or the one our king tells?'

'There are _two_ tales?'

'Of course! The legend of how the sword and sheath came to be: that, I'm sure, is undoubtedly true. As for our king's account of how he came by Siren – well, it's true to _some_ extent.'

He chuckled quietly then, as if believing he'd been somehow tricked into divulging too much, he abruptly stared at Prytani suspiciously.

'You know, girl, sometimes curiosity can bring us down rather than rising us up! Here I am again, the one informing _you_ rather then you informing _me_!'

'They were innocent questions–'

' _They_ are most often the most dangerous! Think, girl, before you ask a question! Otherwise, you may be delving into areas you're best leaving well alone!'

'Then there's no point ever asking you _any_ questions?' Prytani replied mischievously.

He gave her a leering grin.

'A trade, then girl: even though you're not really the one in a position to trade, it amuses me that you seem to think you are.'

'So, what do you wish me to trade?'

'This boy who has come with Joseph: what do you make of him?'

Prytani pouted as she thought how best to answer this question.

'He seems – intelligent, kind.'

Nechtan frowned in disappointment at her.

'That's it? Intelligent, kind?' he said scornfully. ' _Anyone_ could have told me that! You, girl, you can see his future! Find out what you can about him!'

Although pursing her lips doubtfully, Prytani responded with a nod of her head. She looked Nechtan's way with a questioning stare.

'And so – the sword and sheath?' she asked hopefully.

He laughed disdainfully, flattering himself that he had tricked her.

'Perhaps, one day, I'll tell you such a tale. But I think there's a tale you'll find far more interesting: for it involves our lady and her tower, and how _they_ both came to be.'

*

# Chapter 20

Olwen of the Six Hands

A long, long, long time ago, not long after the White Goddess had walked across the empty universe – her every footprint leaving behind a glowing hawthorn petal, creating the great milky band of stars we now see every night – a master builder and his wife were lamenting their lack of children.

'Soon I will be too old to have children,' the woman said, recalling how hopeful they had been, the plans they had made, when she was still a young maiden.

'From maiden to crone without being a mother,' she wept. 'Why would the Great White Goddess treat us so harshly? What can we possibly have done to offend her?'

Her husband shook his head sadly. He couldn't think of any reason why the Goddess failed to favour them with the child they wanted so badly.

They were good people. They worked hard. They helped those less fortunate than themselves.

'We entreat the Goddess for her help every night,' he pointed out miserably. 'But, it seems, as we ask the Maiden, the Crone takes offence that we failed to ask her. If we ask the Mother, the Maiden acts as if she's the one snubbed. That's the only reason I can think of for our lack of a child we can love!'

His wife anxiously grabbed his hands, her eyes wide with panic.

'Lothan,' she scolded him, glancing about the room with the fearful expectation that the Goddess herself would appear before them, 'don't wish ill upon the Triple Goddess! It will only rebound on you, striking _you_ in the heart!'

'I'll beg her forgiveness,' he promised his tearful wife. 'I will plead with her once again to have mercy on us. And, this time, I'll find some way to ensure I don't slight her in any way!'

*

By the light of a waxing moon, Lothan asked the Maiden for permission to cut away a branch of willow.

By the light of a full moon, he asked the Mother for permission to cut away a branch of hawthorn.

By the light of a waning moon, he asked the Crone for permission to cut away a branch of elder.

He carefully chose, each time, a particular shape of branch, one where the tree forked to sprout into other branches. In this way, he knew, he was allowing the branch itself to indicate and ultimately take the form it aspired to.

To these carefully selected branches, he added white birch, representing what the Lady knows, taking care to remember, too, the beneficial associations of elm, rowan, hazel, apple, alder, ash, yew, cedar and oak. These he would expertly blend into his three carvings, using these and only these to create texture and colour, such that they would be purely of wood yet appear truly alive.

Each statuette was of the young girl he and his wife, Ebur, had always hoped and prayed for.

The first portrayed the girl in a lively dance, her arms reaching out to hold the hands of the Maiden.

The second showed her confidently standing, her arms outstretched in eagerness to embrace the Mother.

In the third, she was on her knees, wringing her hands in her lap, beseeching the Crone for understanding.

Ebur placed these three depictions of their longed-for daughter in the window of their home. Here, each night, the moon would bathe them in its milky glow, the light and shadows granting them a sense of life; a semblance of life that differed with each aspect, waxing, full, or waning.

And each month, Ebur would offer in her outstretched hands a gift of an apple, a sign of her heart, leaving the window open for the birds of the night to feast upon.

*

Ebur was worried that the birth would be a difficult one.

All through her pregnancy, she had been anxious for the wellbeing of her child, as any mother would be.

But, of course, this was a long-awaited child. Moreover, she was a gift from the Great White Goddess. To harm her in anyway would be like hurting the Great Goddess herself.

Yes, Ebur was sure her child was a girl. Often, now, she had felt her child move inside her. Not kicking, but, rather, caressing the inside of her womb, with delicate, tender hands.

At great expense, Lothan employed a renowned midwife to attend the birth, an old crone who had helped bring hundreds of new-born babes into the world.

This midwife reassured Ebur, saying that all new mothers worried in this way: there were no complications, as far as she could tell. She expected nothing less than a regular birth and, under such auspicious circumstances, she had successfully delivered the very healthiest of new babes.

And when the child came, the midwife smiled.

'See, everything's fine,' she playfully scolded Ebur, picking up the newly born child and gently handing her to her mother.

Ebur looked at her daughter in horror.

'What? What's wrong?' the midwife chuckled unsurely.

And then she saw what Ebur saw. Saw what, for some reason, she had been unable to see only a moment ago.

The child had three pairs of arms.

*

'She's a monster!'

The midwife was no longer smiling.

She was horrified.

Terrified.

'Don't worry: I can take her out, get rid of her for you. Bury her, so that no one need ever know.'

It was Ebur's turn to be horrified.

'No!'

She was tending the naked child, no longer seeing the extra arms, seeing only a beautiful, vulnerable baby.

As Lothan watched Ebur, saw the love she had for her child – _their_ child – he, too, no longer saw the extra arms.

He saw the most beautiful little girl he had ever seen.

He knelt by his wife, smiled happily at her, stroked the bared head of his daughter.

This was their wish: a daughter.

He glanced over towards the three statuettes in the window.

Yes, this beautiful girl was indeed what they had asked for. The three beautiful girls in the window, here made manifest.

What right had they to complain?

'She's...wonderful!' he said joyously.

The midwife was amazed.

'What are you intending to do with her? Bind her arms so one ever sees them? Don't you think people will hear of this?'

Lothan looked from the old crone to the new born child, so lovingly cradled by her mother.

It was strange, he thought, the way the extra arms seemed at times to vanish from sight. Yet the midwife had spotted them as soon as she had been made aware of them by their own, ridiculous sense of horror.

If she told anyone, then...

'Is there any reason why anyone _should_ hear of this?' he asked the old crone.

The midwife took in every aspect of their room with envious eyes.

'Things _have_ been difficult for me recently,' she said with a false innocence. 'You live an enviable life here. You're _so_ lucky, when compared to a poor woman like me.'

Lothan rose from kneeling beside his wife's side.

He knew what he had to do.

He placed an arm around the old crone's shoulder, leading her outside.

'Come with me,' he said with a smile. 'You _do_ deserve to be relieved of your suffering.'

*

Lothan prepared the old crone's grave at the very summit of a hill, beneath a waning moon.

He realised, though, that he would have to do much more to hide the secret of their child.

They would need a new house, where their daughter could hide away. One situated on the top of a hill like this one, from where they would be able to see anyone coming to call.

He saw a new use for the crone's old, previously useless body.

Her pounded bones, her collected blood, would help make the most perfect mortar.

Her shredded flesh and muscles, her threaded veins and innards, would form the powerful binding of a strong base.

And her sacrifice, naturally, would be the spiritual foundation for a tower he would dedicate to the Great Goddess herself.

Her spirit, the life that had been hers, would suffuse the whole construction, adding to its strength, its own, new life.

Once again, Lothan went into the local forests.

By the light of a waxing moon, he asked the Maiden for permission to cut down her willow.

By the light of a full moon, he asked the Mother for permission to down her hawthorn.

By the light of a waning moon, he asked the Crone for permission to down her elder.

To these great timbers, he added carefully chosen woods such as birch, elm, rowan, hazel, apple, alder, ash, yew, cedar and oak.

He had in mind a great tower, one that stood like a great tree in its own right.

The stairways (for there would be two, should they ever need to flee anyone coming up the other staircase) would twist like two great serpents around the tower's great trunk. They would also curl first in then out, allowing either him or Ebur to see whoever was making their way up towards them.

Of course, he couldn't hope to construct such a great tower purely by his own devices.

He reminded the Great Goddess that this beautiful daughter was as much a creation of theirs as of his and Ebur's.

The Great Goddess must have agreed: for the tower rose as if growing from the very land itself, drawing as much power from the spirits of the hill and the surrounding lake as it did from Lothan's spirited labour, rising in ways that he would have previously found impossible to imagine.

*

Lothan and Ebur's daughter grew as if she, too, were drawing her beauty and grace from the spirits of the hill and the surrounding lake, rather than purely from her parents.

Strangely, too, she didn't require the binding of her extra arms beneath a veiling, voluminous dress. Just as no one can see all three aspects of the Great Goddess all at once, no one could see all Olwen's arms at once either.

Stranger still, yet more worryingly, some people would see the actions of one pair of arms that was hidden to others, while these other people would see the arms hidden to everyone else.

And, of course, there was always that fear of Lothan and Ebur's that someone would see all three pairs at once, cry out in horror, and bring them to the immediate attention of everyone else.

So, as a precaution, Olwen's visits to the nearby village had to be restricted after all.

Fortunately, Olwen was happy enough staying at home, where she would work diligently on creating the most gorgeous tapestries. These tapestries became famed for their expertly detailed work, their life-like portrayals of scenes and objects, their use of weft and warp that finely mingled as if embracing each other like long lost lovers.

Of course, it might seem entirely obvious that a girl born with so many extra hands would be so adept at weaving. But there was an extra advantage Olwen possessed, one that astounded even her parents.

If they brought any flower, any bowl, any implement, up into the room, then with a touch Olwen would sense its vibrations, its flux, its connections with all life around it: and, as in a swirling of stars, like hawthorn blossom stripped and raised higher and higher in a whirling wind, its very threads of being would leap into her hands. One pair would draw out this flax-like presence, the other would spin, the third would cast it as weft and warp, threading it into her latest creation.

She had never dared try it, of course, on any animal, still less a person.

These, however, she could conjure up surprisingly realistically in her mind and, with a caressing of palms, a twirl of fingers, similarly transpose the flux of thought into her portrayals of life.

And, once entwined in such a scene, it appeared for all the world like that person was meant to be there, had always been there, the landscape around them utterly dependant on their presence: a tweak of a thread here, a pull of one there, influencing and changing all intertwined, connecting threads.

And did those threads really end at the edges of her tapestries?

They hadn't _started_ there, after all.

*

There was a piercing shriek, the sharp clump of something heavy being dropped on the floor.

Olwen partially spun around on her seat, her hands never breaking off from her work.

Her mother, Ebur, was looking down in dismay at the large book she had dropped.

'It was an accident!' She looked, sounded, weirdly horrified. 'I didn't mean to do it! I was just scared, that's all!'

Leaving off at last from her tapestries, Olwen strode over towards the dropped book.

'Poor little thing,' her mother said sorrowfully. 'How _silly_ of me to be sacred of it.'

Kneeling down by the book, Olwen lifted it up by an edge, cautiously peered beneath it. Another pair of hands tenderly retrieved the poor, dead shrew she saw there.

It was so incredibly tiny.

So amazingly beautiful, in its own, odd way.

It was still warm. But there was no throbbing heartbeat. No pulsating of blood. No rise and fall of its little chest. No breathing.

And yet...and yet...

In Olwen's highly sensitive hands, there was another kind of responsiveness, another form of life.

The throbbing, the pulsating, of the breath of the universe.

She felt the little shrew's eagerness to live again.

It should, perhaps, have been a terrible sight. The way the shrew, curled up in the warm, caressing cocoon of Olwen's many hands, quivered, rippled, spiralled; but you must imagine it as it really was, as it really happened – like an abrupt shedding of that which was no longer necessary, a revealing of the brightly burning flame within, a spreading out and strengthening of that glow until the flame itself was also no longer required.

These ripples of illumination, these threads of spirit, of life, eased their way under Olwen's deft handling and direction into her latest scenes.

And here, threaded into a new life, a new being, the shrew lived once more.

*

The presence of the shrew in Olwen's tapestries only added to her fame.

Not because, of course, anyone was aware of how the little shrew had come into being.

No: if they had known that, they would no doubt have been horrified.

They wouldn't realise, of course, that the shrew was alive once more. For it was a life ultimately lying beyond even these tapestries.

A life yet to be lived.

Instead, those viewing the tapestries marvelled at Olwen's dexterity, her skill, at portraying life in such a difficult medium to master.

Finding the shrew, wherever it was hidden amongst her landscapes and scenes, all became part of the joy of seeing or owning such a tapestry. It ran, it ducked, it scampered through many of the tales she portrayed, now living a life far more amazing than the one it had left behind, each thread linked to and therefore in some way also an indelible part of another tale.

Alas, such wondrous works of art should never be created by a creator who wishes to hide away. No matter how secretive you wish to be, someone with the will and means will find you.

And so, one day, there was a heavy, demanding knock on the door to the tower.

A knocking that wouldn't go away, no matter how much Lothan and Ebur tried to ignore it.

With a warning to Olwen to stay where she was, to stay away from the tower's high balcony, Lothan miserably clumped down the many steps leading to the door.

For Olwen, however, this call was far from unexpected.

Naturally, her tapestries had already informed her that a prince would come seeking her out.

A prince she would fall in love with.

And he with her.

And so, despite her father's warning, she went out onto the tower's balcony.

And she curiously peered over the edge of the rail.

At this very same instance, as if sensing her presence (her vibrations of being, the expanding ripples of her interest), the handsome boy below looked up.

Olwen immediately ducked back in surprise, her heart beating furiously, hoping that he hadn't seen her.

But she knew that he had.

That it was too late

That they were both in love.

*

'You _can't_ just fall in love like _that_!'

'Love doesn't _happen_ that way!'

'You need to _really_ know someone!'

'Otherwise, how can you know they'll be _right_ for you?'

Olwen didn't contradict her parents.

She knew all this was true.

'I know, I know!' she said. Yet, thinking of her tapestries, added truthfully, 'But it really _is_ as if I've known him for so much of my life!'

Then again, what other woman can honestly say they've felt the tremors of their intended's love threading through their palms, their fingers? Utilising these emotional threads, caressing them and thrilling at every aspect of their existence, she had created her most heartfelt tapestries. And he too, in his way, had sensed that constant caressing of his very being, his soul.

And so he, too, felt that he had known her for far longer than their brief encounter would suggest.

Lothan had only managed to persuade the prince to leave after the most forceful protestations that he would have to call at a much later date, that his daughter wasn't seeing anyone, no, not even a prince.

'It cannot be: even if you _are_ in love!' Ebur insisted.

'You'll be _discovered_!' Lothan said, more directly.

'He _loves_ me! He won't _mind_!'

'You can't _expect_ love!'

'He...he would be _horrified_!'

There; they had spoken the truth.

No matter how hurtful it was.

Because to marry someone, someone who would eventually see you for who you really are, would be far more hurtful still.

They all, all three, felt wretched.

They all loved each other. Yet they had said the most _hateful_ things. _Because_ they all loved each other.

Olwen realised her parents only meant the best for her. Forlornly, she also realised she couldn't disobey them, not over this.

Besides, weren't they only spelling out the truth? Hadn't even a tapestry, the one showing her and her prince embracing, caressing, lying naked together, troubled her for some undefinable reason?

No matter how hard she'd tried, she hadn't ever been able to make whatever it was she feared completely clear.

It remained a _sense_ that something wasn't quite right, nothing more.

Seeing your own future, that was always the hardest thing: so many of your own, meandering thoughts getting in the way, your own hardening beliefs of what you hope really lies ahead for you. It was so hard to just relax, let the truth flood through you – particularly when you wanted to deny that truth.

Had her tapestries ever been wrong, ever lied to her?

No.

But here she just couldn't be sure that they were telling her _everything_.

And so it might have been that, for once, her tapestries had presented a false future to her. A future in which there would be no lovers, at least in her life.

However, not long after her argument with her parents, Lothan died. Only a few days later – as so often happens with long-married couples, their lives having become so indelibly intertwined, one life overlapping and supporting another – poor Ebur followed after him.

Olwen wasn't surprised: they had both been incredibly old when they had finally managed to achieve their deepest wish and have a child. She was, of course, deeply saddened, her life now completely devoid of the presence of love.

She had them buried next to each other. As they deserved, as they would have wished. They wouldn't want to be parted, even in death. He was the warp, she the weft.

As Olwen walked away from the funeral, back towards her now lonely tower, she spotted someone waiting by the door.

It was the boy. Her prince.

*

Like any girl, she believed that the love between them was like no other love.

Even her tapestries, of course, only showed her what she wanted to see.

It wasn't that there was anything wrong with the boy. Far from it. He was wonderful in so many ways that she would have previously found impossible to imagine.

She couldn't let go, however, of the forebodings her parents – with the best of intentions, her own wellbeing being their main consideration – had so forcibly instilled within her. Before their forthcoming wedding took place, she decided, she would have to reveal her secret to him.

Otherwise, once they were married, he would feel unfairly trapped. He would say that he had been fooled. That she had bewitched him.

And he would hate her for it.

Better, then, to tell the truth. And accept the consequences.

Like any man, of course, he wilfully misinterpreted her desire to reveal her innermost secrets to him before their wedding night. He climbed the many stairs with growing anticipation, increasing eagerness.

She, equally eagerly, was waiting for him. Behind her, brightly shining through the windows, were the glittering horns of an earthshine crescent moon.

She was dressed in a series of diaphanous veils, each of which she intended to take off one by one, revealing herself only slowly.

The boy breathed heavily. He had never seen a more beautiful sight. A sight more wondrous than he had ever believed possible.

He frowned a little in puzzlement, a little in amusement.

It was strange, the way the light shone through the multiple veils. It gave her the appearance of, well...

He laughed.

That, of course, _was_ impossible.

He rushed towards her. Threw his arms around her.

Her arms wrapped around him.

Caressing. Stroking.

Tickling. Teasing.

Holding tightly. Holding tenderly.

He sighed with pleasure. With gratitude.

She was his lover.

The girl who would be mother to his children,

The woman he would gratefully grow old with.

And then, of course, he saw her for what she was.

*

'Monster! You're a monster!'

The boy wrenched himself backwards. Out of her arms.

He looked at those arms, the many hands, with revulsion, horror.

He felt sick. Sick that _those_ hands had been caressing him

Sick that he'd been fooled into thinking he loved... _this_!

As he pulled farther and farther back, Olwen half danced towards him, reaching out to hold his hands again.

Realising this only made him back away all the more, she stood resolutely still, opening up her arms imploringly, begging him to return.

But he ignored her. He didn't even want to see her.

He turned, ran for the door.

Ran down the many, uncountable steps.

Eventually, Olwen heard the door crash shut behind him.

As her legs gave way beneath her, she fell to her knees, wringing her hands in her lap.

'Olwen!'

It was a cry coming from far below her. She raised her head, trying to make sure that she had heard correctly.

That it wasn't just her imagination, a product of nothing but wishful thinking.

There was a knocking on the door. Another cry she couldn't clearly make out.

Full of hope, she ran towards the edge of the balcony.

She peered over the rail.

At this very same time, he looked up at her.

'Olwen! Open the door!'

She elatedly tripped lightly down the many steps. They seemed endless, she was so eager to embrace him once more.

She threw open the door, threw open her many arms in welcome.

He came at her with his knife drawn.

'Monster!' he shrieked, all reason having left him, now replaced by madness.

If she had raised her many arms to protect herself, she might have been able to fight him off for a while, at least deflect the blow aimed at her heart.

But a part of her wanted this, wanted to die.

They fell apart from this deathly embrace, these onetime lovers. One who was now full of hate. One who was still flooded with love for the one who would kill her.

He frowned, half in bewilderment, half in confused amusement.

There was no dagger in her heart.

She was reaching out to him once more, her horror-struck eyes wide and pleading.

The dagger, strangely, was protruding from his own heart.

'No, no!' she whispered as she steadily approached him. 'I'm sorry, I don't know how...'

She caught him as his body crumpled, easing him gently to the floor.

Her arms embraced him tenderly, lovingly. Her hands caressed him, both sensing and also somehow fearing the final tremors of his rapidly passing life.

'You shall live!' she breathed excitedly, knowing what she should do, must do. 'You can live in ways previously thought unimaginable!'

The pulse of life was leaving him.

Olwen took it, spun it in her many hands. Threw it upwards, upwards, drawing on more and more of it. Cast it higher and higher, watching gleefully as it continued its ascension, rising like glistening, angelic strands through the tower's very centre, stretching and reaching out towards the light of the moon shining through the windows.

Like a heavenly harp, the threads of life quivered, sang their own, particular song. A song of lost connections, of new ones being forged.

The tower itself rose and grew along with this new sense of life. It sprouted many new ways, it burgeoned with new, spiritual fruit.

The hill it stood on became as glass, as transparent as any soul.

Around its base, however, like a sheen of covering flesh, a milky band of hovering hawthorn blossom threw out branches that spread, intertwined, weaving into an almost impassable barrier.

Olwen sadly ascended the many, uncountable steps.

Her tapestries were calling for her.

*

# Chapter 21

Could this story be true? Prytani wondered.

Was this the true history of her lady in the tower?

Or was it _just_ a story?

A story created to scare children. Or, even, created by Nechtan, just to scare her.

Nechtan smirked, satisfied that this had set her wondering. Doubting.

In the fields they were passing through now, the villagers were stacking wood in twin piles, preparing the great fires that would be lit later tonight. After their long winter confinement, cattle, sheep, pigs and horses would be purified by passing them between these frighteningly huge, roaring fires. Then, as the fires finally died down, the villagers themselves would jump over the last of the flames, hoping to draw on their vitality, hoping for good fortune or, perhaps, a child.

The column of riders had slowed and, as more and more of the mounted men found themselves coming closer and closer to those just ahead, it soon came to a complete halt. As it was, they were crammed onto a narrow path, with thickets to their left, a wide, tumultuous river off to their right. Those gradually clustering closer around Prytani mumbled uncertainly, wondering what the delay could be. Heads were raised in curiosity as an urgently galloping rider thundered down one side of the halted column.

The rider brought his horse to an abrupt halt just by Prytani, its hooves slithering in the dust, Tamesis having to leap out of the way to avoid being trampled.

'Wizard!' the rider yelled rudely. 'We need you up front: now!'

Without waiting, the rider spun his horse around and, with a sharp jab of his knees, urged his horse back into a gallop, this time racing back towards the head of the column.

With a fleeting glance Prytani's way, a twitch of his head to indicate she should come with him, Nechtan calmly urged his own mount to more languidly trot after the rider.

At the head of the halted column, the reason for the delay was obvious. The king had dismounted, standing close by his speckled grey stallion as he clung on tightly to its reins. The horse shuffled fretfully from leg to leg, but took care how it set down its left, hind leg.

'He stumbled badly,' the king declared with a hard grimace of frustration. 'A loose rock. He's not lame, thankfully, but he's injured a muscle.'

Nechtan awkwardly slipped down off his own horse. He limped a little painfully himself, after sitting so long in the saddle.

Kneeling down by the horse's injured leg, he quickly, expertly, ran his hands up and down its length, feeling the tension in the muscles. The stallion whinnied in agony, shuffled wildly on its feet. It would have perhaps unintentionally trampled Nechtan if King Cadeyrn hadn't maintained a taut hold on its reins, tried to calm him by pressing a hand down hard on its slavering snout.

Tamesis kept her distance, perfectly aware that she could startle the already nervous stallion. Even so, as usual, she watched all the proceedings with growing interest.

'It's swollen: the muscle's damaged.' Nechtan glanced up towards the impatiently waiting king. 'I suggest you ride another horse for a few days, my lord. By then, everything will have settled down.'

'We already know that, wizard!' King Cadeyrn snapped furiously. 'Do you think that's why I've had you brought up from the column? To tell me the obvious? I need him now! Not in few days!'

Nechtan's eyes narrowed in surprise at the king's anger.

'It would be dangerous to–'

He paused in midsentence, his face white, draining of blood. Prytani followed his gaze, which was directed to the other side of the swiftly flowing river.

On the other bank, a small troop of riders emerged from the thickly set trees that ran close to its edges.

Despite the heavy armour they wore, the heftiness of their great warhorses, the mounted men were remarkably, even deathly quiet. Only their fluttering pennants could be heard, a noise like faltering heart beats.

Pennants that fluttered in a breeze that only existed in another realm, another world.

They were the scouting party of a Dead Legion.

*

# Chapter 22

There were only a handful of the dead to the fifty of their own column.

But in any fight, their numbers would increase as their own were steadily diminished.

Moreover, how many more of the dead were riding somewhere in those thick woods? A legion, at least.

Maybe far more. They were on the very borders of the realm of the dead. Was there any kingdom that didn't heavily patrol its borders?

They seemed assured, Prytani thought, observing the way they calmly brought their horses to a halt, the riders' unnervingly unblinking eyes locked on the actions of the men closest to her. Didn't they need to scan the entire column, checking for any suspicious moves elsewhere up the line? It didn't seem so. Did that mean they could sense movement, rather than having to see it taking place? Even if you don't see or hear someone throw a pebble into a pool, you can see or feel the ripples the action creates.

'Yes? It would be dangerous?' The king brusquely reminded Nechtan that he had been speaking, only to halt before finishing. ' _What_ would be dangerous?'

King Cadeyrn didn't seem to be at all surprised by the presence of the dead riders. Neither did he appear in anyway perturbed by the way they were carefully studying him.

'I mean, my lord, I can cure it _briefly_.' Unlike the king, Nechtan was very uneasy. 'But it may well – probably _will_ – result in death for your horse.'

' _Do_ it then!'

With a resigned creasing of his brow, Nechtan indicated to Prytani that he needed her to reach into the saddle bag strapped to her horse's flank. Inside, she found an even smaller bag, which Nechtan wanted her to throw to him. He caught the bag with surprising deftness, opening and taking out a small box and thick gloves.

Quickly slipping on the gloves, he pulled back a small compartment door on the box. He quickly reached inside. When his hand appeared again, he was holding a frantically writhing serpent, having grasped it tightly just behind its head.

The nearest horses neighed and shied nervously, until brutally brought back under control by their riders.

'Wait!'

With an abruptly raised hand, the king stopped Nechtan from going any further. Prytani sighed with relief: she had already seen how much a horse suffers when struck by venomous snakes.

'How long before it takes effect?' the king asked Nechtan casually. 'How long will it give me?'

Nechtan shrugged uneasily.

'You can never be sure, my lord. But, whatever it is you intend to do, I would suggest you do it as soon as you feel your mount is at ease once more.'

He nervously glanced across at the silently waiting warriors, his face whiter than ever, as if he already had an idea of what the king intended to do.

'A crossing place?' The king was studying the length of the bank, gazing much farther down the river. 'How far to a crossing place, do you think wizard?'

So this was why they'd brought Nechtan along, Prytani reasoned. He would have a better understanding than any warrior that the river bordering the dead realms couldn't be crossed by any normal means

'It's never easy to discover, my lord. It's never a regular ford, as most people expect.'

Nechtan was edgier than ever. He was playing for time, Prytani realised. He didn't want to show the king a crossing place.

The serpent in his hand hissed furiously. The riders were struggling to keep their horses from bolting.

The king wasn't listening to Nechtan. He was distracted by something he'd seen much farther down the bank.

'That's the girl's fox, isn't it?' he said curiously.

Tamesis was standing close by the edge of the flowing waters, inquisitively sniffing the bank where a small hawthorn bush had sprouted.

Prytani instinctively knew why.

Tamesis had sensed a crossing place.

And the king knew it.

'Do it _now_ , wizard!' the king ordered triumphantly. 'Let your serpent do its work!'

*

A crossing place. That also meant the dead could easily cross over too.

'Why aren't we getting out of here _now_?' Prytani mumbled to herself, glancing fearfully at the silently waiting warriors once more.

Looking at them now, so much more intently than she had before (when she had worried that staring too hard might somehow draw them over towards her), she thought she actually recognised one of them. He had the same proud bearing, the rigidly upright way of riding, that she'd admired in one of the men who had originally taken her.

One of the men so expertly and brutally killed by the werewolf.

Like the others, though, he had those strangely incredibly curious yet ultimately empty, motionless eyes. It gave her the impression, once again, that they didn't see the same way she did. There appeared to be nothing lying beyond those eyes, even though they seemed to effortlessly take in everything around them, sucking up life, only to instantly negate it, absorbing then throwing it all into a bottomless void.

Their faces remained expressionless. Did they ever smile? Did they ever get enjoyment from life? Did they ever suffer?

She had heard, of course, that they often laughed. But always scornfully, mockingly, it seemed.

Nechtan had pressed the head of the serpent against the edge of a small glass phial he'd taken from another compartment in the box. Forcing the snake's surprisingly long fangs against the inside of the phial, he'd begun to extract venom that poured into the bottom like a thick, grey milk.

'Hold him hard!' the wizard said to the king and his squire, in his urgency forgetting to be respectful, his voice muffled by a knife he'd placed between his teeth.

Suddenly, while the venom was still freely running, he pulled the snake's head free of the phial – and plunged the exposed fangs into the flanks of the king's stallion.

The horse, its eyes almost bursting with terror, bucked wildly. The king and his squire held on tightly to its reins and harness, however, preventing it from bolting, gradually easing it down from its urge to frantically lash out.

Ignoring the panicked thrashing of the horse, Nechtan took the knife from his mouth. He brought its sharp blade down in a hard, curving sweep, deftly cleaving the serpent's head from the rest of its body.

As equally deftly, as if well practised, he dropped the knife and, in the same movement, caught the still writhing body before it fell to the ground. As blood spouted from the snake's severed body, he let it run into the phial he still held in his other hand.

With an expert swirl of the phial, he mixed serpent blood with serpent venom.

'Force him to take it,' he ordered the squire, handing him the phial containing the darkly crimson drink.

The squire needed the help of a number of men to hold the horse's mouth open while the drink was forcibly poured down its throat. The men had also had to help when, only moments before, the squire had been similarly ordered to make the poor horse swallow a number of dark red, pebble-like pills Nechtan had withdrawn from his box.

The serpent's head appeared to be clinging onto life, injecting its own imminent death relentlessly into the horse's flank. After leaving it like this for what seemed an age to Prytani, Nechtan at last pulled the snake's head clear. He tossed it aside as casually as he had the box and, once he'd drained what he'd needed, the serpent's body.

'Walk him around a little, until it begins to take effect,' Nechtan declared with satisfaction to the squire. 'It will numb the pain.'

With a thrilled grin, an admiring nod towards Nechtan, the squire lead the stallion off on an unhurried walk along the edge of the river bank. The king walked with them, elated that the horse's limp seemed to have already eased a little.

Turning, Nechtan walked not towards his own horse but Prytani's, where he went through the motions of rifling through a saddle bag. Being careful to hide his actions from everyone else there, he grimaced up at her. He fleetingly glanced the king's way with what could only be disgust.

With his head lowered once more, as if intent on retrieving something from the bag, Nechtan whispered to Prytani as quietly as he could,

'So that's why he wanted us here; to help find him a crossing place into the realm of the dead!'

His eyes briefly locked with the empty gaze of one of the dead warriors. They were patiently observing the stalled column with what appeared to be complete disinterest, going by their blank expressions, their lack of any responsive movement.

The pennants on their raised spears continued to gently flap in their very own wind, the odd snap of a banner mixed in amongst the sound of fluttering, like the pop of a cleanly hewn skull.

'He's fool enough to attack them, you know that?' Nechtan continued in a bitter hiss. 'Ever since that damn girl arrived with her sheath, he's talked of nothing else!'

'He has the sheath?'

Nechtan shook his head with a harsh chuckle.

'No; but his blood's up. He's seeking blood for Siren to taste. Or whatever it is the dead bleed, anyway.'

'But surely some–'

'Surely someone knows how they die for the second time?'

He chuckled bitterly once more, shook his head again.

'Perhaps somewhere way back in Siren's history, someone's witnessed it. That's how the legend started, I hope. Unless that's all it is – a baseless legend.'

'You're saying no one's really sure it _can_ kill the dead?'

'How would anyone know? To see if it's true, you'd be putting your life at risk – and, even worse, if it _does_ work, you'd just be starting a war with the dead.'

He give a sidelong glance over to where he'd last seen the king. What had been a hateful glare, however, instantly transformed into a welcoming smile. The king was excitedly heading back towards them, leading a stallion that was now gracefully prancing once more. The squire was walking alongside the rear of the horse, hurriedly unstrapping a bundle tied behind the saddle.

'He's fine!' King Cadeyrn cried out joyfully. 'Well done, wizard!'

Appreciating the praise, Nechtan grinned, a grin that slowly became a sickly smile as he watched the squire finally pull the bundle clear of the horse's rear.

With a snap of his hands, the squire fully opened up the wolf pelt.

The king really was intending to go into battle against the dead.

*

# Chapter 23

'Everyone stays here! I won't need your help against just five!'

King Cadeyrn continued walking past his line of men, still dismounted, still leading his gaily prancing horse. Only the squire accompanied him as he made his way towards the crossing place.

As they approached, Tamesis pulled back from the river. She raced back towards the column of men, rushing past the looming riders until she just about ran beneath the legs of Prytani's horse, only to suddenly veer off and lie upon the ground.

On the other side of the river, the dead had begun to move again, exactly matching the king's pace as he made his way towards the crossing. They displayed no urgency, reaching the ford connecting the two realms at the same time as the king and his squire.

They lined up on the edge of the water, their faces remaining blank, expressionless. They could have been readying for an attack, or preparing to defend against one. There were none of the usual signs of either eagerness or nervousness that would normally help an opposing force determine what they intended to do.

Even as the king made a great show of slipping Siren out of its sheath, they refused to respond in any noticeable way. Freed of its confinement, Siren's great blade began to sing joyously.

The dead showed no sign that they could hear the eerie singing. They remained unmoved, unmoving.

With the help of his squire, King Cadeyrn slipped on the charmed wolf pelt.

The abrupt transformation from man to immense wolf hybrid unnerved every horse in the column. They skittered anxiously, brought back under control only by the firmest – in some cases callously brutal – handling.

Neither the dark horses of the dead nor the riders themselves reacted to the transformation. They waited, unimpressed rather than unnerved, if it could be said that they showed any emotion at all.

King Cadeyrn's stallion most have grown accustomed to his master's terrifying changes. It showed not even a glimmer of the horror it had exhibited when confronted by the serpent. Even as the Wolf King drew closer, lithely swinging up into the saddle without letting go of his sword, the stallion remained composed.

It now dawned on Prytani why the king had insisted on Nechtan's effective yet cruel treatment of the stallion. No other horse would allow the transformed king near, let alone allow him to mount up.

'With his sword and skin, he thinks he's invincible!' Nechtan breathed sourly. He was still standing close by Prytani's horse, still making sure no one but she could hear him. 'Once he has his sheath, he thinks they'll be no problem he can't master. But what about us? Everyone else is going to end up dead!'

The squire ran back towards the head of the column.

The king raised Siren high in the air.

And then he charged across the ford leading into the underworld.

*

An immense wolf-like man, riding a stallion stung into action by a venomous serpent. A sword that sang with glee as it readied itself to wreck, to taste, death.

A sparkling river lying between and connecting the realms of the living and the dead. A ford you could cross, moving from this world into the otherworld.

A foe silently, calmly, waiting for the attack. An enemy who doesn't fear death. Warriors who are already dead.

Could even Siren taste the death of those who have died once before? Surely, at least, it wouldn't be tasting blood.

These were the thoughts coursing through Prytani as she watched the king launching his attack. Glancing about her at all the anxious faces, she reasoned that these – or something similar – were also the thoughts of everyone surrounding her.

The dead were too nonchalant, too confident.

Siren curved down, humming the chords of a triumphant chorus. Its glistening blade cleaved through spectral flesh, ghostly bone, an odd, wraithlike spirit.

The rider fell from his horse, striking the ground hard yet, curiously, without a sound.

From the watching column, however, there were gasps of surprise, cheers, and an elated rattling of spears and shields.

No one had ever seen anything like it. A soldier of the dead, brought down. Killed.

It was possible after all!

As King Cadeyrn's men had roared their approval, his rapidly swirling sword had already brought down another rider. This one slumped forward on his horse, his head hanging loosely, then slowly slipped to the floor.

The dead troopers had been too complacent.

The king's remarkable strength and suppleness, the swiftness and power he brought to his blows, had taken them by surprise. Even more surprising to them, of course, was that Siren could actually hurt them, kill them.

Realising this, the remaining warriors of the dead at last began to fight back. They urged their dark mounts to surround the king, hacking at him with their own grey swords, having cast their spears aside. For a brief moment, it looked as if the king would be submerged beneath such a vicious onslaught.

Once again, though, Siren sang. Its great blade whirled, spun, slashed, plunged home.

One of the attacking warriors fell aside, dropped backwards out of his saddle, struck the ground as quietly as his already twice-dead companions. A second joined him a moment later.

Despite this, the third fearlessly continued his attack upon the king.

Did the dead ever realise when their position was hopeless? Prytani wondered. Did they ever care?

Do they still believe that they will rise again?

This last warrior of the dead managed to land a few more of his own fierce blows on the king before finally falling to a sweeping strike from Siren. His fall from his horse to the ground would no doubt have been every bit as silent as the others but for the jubilant melody emitted by Siren.

King Cadeyrn whirled his stallion around. Facing his men, he rose as high as he could in his saddle, raising Siren high into the air.

Siren sang.

The king's men sang and cheered along with it.

'Strange, isn't it,' Nechtan grumbled fearfully alongside Prytani, 'how men welcome the oncoming of a war they can't possibly win?'

*

# Chapter 24

The waters of the ford to the otherworld spumed around the king's stallion as he proudly rode back to the bank of the living.

Behind him, on the shores of the dead realm, there now lay five twice-dead men, the pennants of their fallen spears mutedly fluttering. Riderless, their mounts galloped off into the surrounding forests, doubtlessly heading back towards the legion they'd originally set out from.

What would the dead say, what would they do, when these horses returned minus their riders?

No one alive could possibly know. No one alive had ever seen or heard of it happening within living memory.

As Nechtan had worriedly hissed, it could only mean war. A war the living couldn't hope to win.

Even Siren couldn't hope to kill _all_ the dead.

'You said that the king's tale of how he acquired Siren isn't _quite_ true?'

From her high position seated in her saddle, Prytani looked down at Nechtan. The wizard smiled wryly.

'I see my warning about curiosity has fallen on deaf ears, girl! But, in answer to what I suppose is a reasonable question...let's just say he shouldn't have said _sirens_. It should have been _mermaids_.'

'There's a difference?'

Once again, Nechtan gave a droll chuckle.

'You heard how the sirens turned into vicious beasts? Well, mermaids can only transform into women who are half fish when they're attacked. And oh yes, they were the ones attacked!'

Nechtan smiled warmly at the king as he glanced their way. The king was still wearing his wolf pelt, accepting the roaring congratulations of his men with great satisfaction. His squire was cleaning Siren, who whispered sadly now he was about to be returned to his sheath.

As more men came up to compliment the king, causing him to look away, Nechtan continued his tale.

'These mermaids had actually saved the king and his men, setting out on the astral waters to help _Hafren_ find their isle. A mermaid in human form suffers great pain, such that they can't maintain the guise for long; yet still they welcomed and entertained the king's men.'

At last, the squire was helping the victorious King Cadeyrn to remove his wolf pelt. As the king became a man once more, the column of men erupted in yet more gasps of surprise: as a human, he was at last revealing the wounds he'd received in his epic battle. This made his victory all the more notable, for he had been badly gashed a number of times. The swords of the dead had their own particular sting, too. Even a minor wound could fester if left untreated, as if the flesh had somehow been tainted by the underworld, and was already beginning to rot.

Nechtan's expression was a strange mix of pleasure and disgust, one that seemed to say he thought the king deserved these wounds.

'On the mermaid's isle, the king flattered himself that it would be good sport to wear his wolf pelt too. He and his men had decided that these beautiful women had been provided purely for their baser pleasures. Those mermaids who managed to transform in time would at least have frustrated their attackers' original desires. Unfortunately, I've heard, the queen wasn't one of them: the Wolf King had been far too quick for her.'

'Wizard! The king needs your skills! Urgently!'

The king had slipped to the floor, sweating badly. Indicating that he wanted Prytani to get down off her horse and follow him, Nechtan turned to head towards the fallen king.

'Besides,' Nechtan said as a last hissed aside, 'it doesn't sound too good, does it? A sword called _Mermaid_.'

'Those damn swords of the dead!' the king exhaustedly declared to Nechtan as they drew closer, Tamesis keeping by Prytani's heels. 'They hardly touched me, would you believe? Yet look at me! Brought low by trickery and charms, not fair fighting!'

The grey stallion had also now crumpled to the floor. Men were tending to it, but it was shivering uncontrollably, its eyes wide and globular with fear.

'Behold the victors over death!' the king laughed sardonically. 'Is this how they reap their revenge? Not with the sword, but with a vengeful pestilence?'

As he knelt down by the king, Nechtan shook his head doubtfully.

'Your mount is simply suffering the final effects of the venom, my lord. I _did_ warn you that–'

'Yes, yes.' The king didn't appear concerned by the suffering of his horse. 'What a tale it will be though, hey wizard? My brave warhorse, dying beneath me in battle!'

With a last quivering snort, the stallion's head dropped to the ground with a thud.

'He's dead my lord,' one of the men sadly announced.

The king looked up, gazing directly into Nechtan's eyes.

'What really concerns me, wizard, is: will _I_ die?'

*

Lying between if just slightly beyond the dead mount and the king, there was a large stone, carved with the portrayal of an almost naked woman. She was standing on a lion, holding lotus blossom and serpents in her hands. Above her head, there was a disc and crescent.

'Girl?'

From his kneeling positon by the king, Nechtan was looking up at her questioningly.

'Yes?'

'The king? Can _you_ answer his question?

Will he die? How was she supposed to know the answer to that. He appeared close to death, that was certain.

As she couldn't be sure if he would live or not, she was about to shake her head in answer to Nechtan's query. She stopped herself; a shake of her head would be misinterpreted. It might be taken as an indication that the situation was hopeless: that the king _would_ die.

'I can check tonight when I–'

'Tonight?' The king glared at her as if he thought she must be completely stupid. 'Do you really think I can wait until the morning, fearing throughout the night that the dead I've just killed will be coming to claim me at any moment?'

His voice was rasping. His face was white, almost drained completely of blood.

'I thought you said this girl had special abilities?' he snapped accusingly at Nechtan, his breathing heavy and forced.

'You _will_ know your fate, my lord,' Nechtan assured him. 'And before the sun sets too!'

He glowered at Prytani, while still reassuring the king.

'She does have special abilities, my lord! She just hasn't realised them all yet! She remains unaware that there are means of inducing a journey to the otherworld.'

Slinking between Prytani's legs, Tamesis whimpered anxiously.

Asking permission from the king to leave him for a moment, Nechtan rose to his feet. Slipping an arm around Prytani's shoulder, he led her away from the sorely suffering king

'It's his _spirit_ that's wounded.'

Nechtan had waited until they were out of the king's hearing before speaking.

'It can only be treated in the otherworld. The swords of the dead cut cleanly through his flesh, injuring only the spirt. But his spirit is so wounded, his flesh is already effectively dead: it only seems alive to us because we're being given glimpses of his spirit. We have to restore the spirit; and then the flesh will grow around it once more.'

He pulled a small leather pouch out of the inner fleecing of his jerkin. Loosening its thong and opening it, he poured out into his hand two dark-red pills.

'If you take these, you'll soon be transported to the otherworld.'

Prytani recognised them immediately. They were the same kind of pebble-like pills that had been forced on the poor stallion.

The _dead_ stallion.

'They...they've just killed a _warhorse_!' a horrified Prytani stammered.

'That was the _venom_ , fool! Not _these_! These lessened the effects of the venom.'

'So they _are_ the same pills you gave the horse?' Far from being reassured by Nechtan's words, Prytani was more frightened than ever. 'And it died anyway!'

'You saw how I was forced into a hurried, inadequate treatment!' Nechtan angrily protested. ' _You_ haven't just been struck by a serpent, girl! _That's_ what killed that poor stallion! Not these pills!'

He forced one of the hard pills into her hand.

'Think about it!' He was insistent. 'When a serpent devours its prey, why isn't it poisoned by the presence of its own venom?'

Nechtan's explanation implied that Prytani's suspicions had been correct.

'They're _made_ of serpent venom?' she gasped.

The wizard raised his eyes in exasperation.

'Yes, yes: of course!' he answered irately. 'But it's venom mixed with the serpent's own blood, together with the blood of a horse that has recovered from its bite!'

Prytani's eyes widened with a mix of sudden understanding and growing fright.

'The horse I saw being deliberately killed with serpents!'

'Not killed! What would be the point of that? It's nursed back to good health. Then we set the serpents on it again–'

'Again! How many times?'

'As many as we deem necessary, depending on the size of the horse. Then it's sacrificed–'

'So you _do_ kill it!'

'Will you stop interrupting, girl? We've got a _king_ who's dying, or have you forgotten that? How many animals do you think are sacrificed in religious ceremonies, placating this god, or that god? This sacrifice allows us to _speak_ to the gods!'

'How?' She stared doubtfully, worriedly, at the crimson pebble she held in her hand. 'How is a strange little stone like this supposed to aid you meet with the gods?'

'How many shamans do you know who use potions, extracted from the hawthorn, or mushrooms, or whatever other plant they know can help them ascend to another plane? But _this_ is far more potent than any of those!'

He held up the pill he still held in his own hand, observing it with awe.

'It's said a serpent's immortality and fertility comes from consumption of the Tree of Life. It can only die if struck violently, otherwise it consumes itself at its appointed measure of age. Someone long, long ago must have been bitten by a serpent, thinking his end was near. Instead, he soared up to the gods! And he recovered, and wanted to emulate that incredible experience once more. And this, girl, is the result: a pill of dried and hardened venom and blood!'

'I don't need them to–'

Nechtan glared furiously at her.

'No more refusing, girl!'

He leered at Tamesis.

'If you're no use to me in this way, then neither is your pet – unless I make her into a rather nice pelt to keep my shoulders warm!'

Prytani glanced down at Tamesis. She saw in her bright, anxious gaze that she was far more worried for Prytani than she was for her own life.

That made Prytani's decision easier.

She swallowed the pill.

*

# Chapter 25

As Tamesis, Prytani found herself standing on a winding flight of stairs.

She dimly recognised it from the time the lady – Olwen? – had taken her down and down uncountable steps until they had drawn up alongside a confused looking Cructan.

The stairs were ridiculously busy, however, a seemingly endless flow of traffic consisting of every type of creature Prytani had seen, heard of, or never, ever encountered before.

Tigers, lions, horses, badgers, mice, other foxes.

Whales, dolphins, trout, salmon, mermaids.

Eagles, geese, swans, swallows, doves.

People of every colour, every size and type. Dressed in every way you could think of, from being fully naked to being decked exotically with feathers.

There were insects too, those flying such as butterflies, moths and dragonflies, those she had to be careful she didn't step on, like sapphire coloured beetles, spiders, even ants.

The creatures she didn't recognise included horses with stripes of black and white, massive grey animals with tails at either end, a gigantic bird with short wings and long legs, and what could have been a colourfully speckled deer with elongated legs and neck.

The confusion was made all the worse for Prytani because they merged and mingled endlessly, for none seemed to be aware of the other's existence. They ran and flowed through each other as if nothing but images made of water.

For the first time ever in the tower – or at least, for the very first time she could remember – Prytani felt confused, lost. She was in a bewildering daze, where nothing would focus correctly, hardly anything seemed to make sense. Rather, it all faded in and out of her mind as if ultimately and forever intangible and elusive.

She attempted to recall how the tower was constructed, how the steps and the glowing orbs gave the correct direction, the right judgement.

It should have been obvious, of course. The steps led upwards, didn't they? Yet, bizarrely, now that she tried to think where she should be heading, steps leading upward appeared around her shooting off in every direction.

She had been judged unworthy, not ready, she realised forlornly – and so her own judgement was badly clouded, imperfect. She might as well have been incarcerated in the most complicated maze ever devised.

'Ah, _there_ you are, little fox!'

A beautiful lady had appeared before her on the steps.

'I thought I detected your presence somewhere within my tower,' the lady added with a pleasant smile.

Prytani narrowed her eyes, furrowed her brow, hoping to see this lady more clearly. Hoping her meandering, wayward mind could come back under her control.

'Olwen?'

Prytani said it doubtfully. There was a connection between this lady and the name, but she couldn't be sure how that connection worked.

Yes, that was right! _This_ was the lady who had brought her down through the tower, down the countless steps!

'Ah, so someone told you.' The lady smiled again, this time a little sadly.

'Is it true?'

Prytani wasn't sure why she had to ask that. Her mind wasn't working right. She knew she had to _do_ some things, but couldn't remember _why_.

'Now that depends which story you were told, doesn't it?' The lady stared at Prytani with wry amusement. 'I don't eavesdrop on _every_ conversation.'

'My Lady Olwen sounds nice.'

'Thank you; though you don't _really_ need the "my lady" part.'

Walking past Prytani, she continued heading down the stairs.

'Come with me,' she said.

'Shouldn't we be heading up?' Prytani asked uncertainly.

'What you seek today lies at the very base of my tower.' The lady continued lightly tripping down the stairs. 'Perhaps it's for the best that you turned up so low down in my tower. It save's you having to travel too far in your dreadful state.'

'The base? Why would we need the base?'

Somewhere, deep in the back of her bewildered mind, a muffled voice seemed to be trying to tell her they had to head upwards.

'The king?' The lady turned around on the steps to face her. 'You came here to save the king, as I recall.'

Turning back, she began to rush a little more quickly down the winding flight of stairs.

'We don't have much time, I'm afraid.'

*

As the lady had said, the king was at the base of the tower.

Only, it wasn't the king that Prytani had been expecting: a mortally wounded spirit lying upon the floor, awaiting treatment.

Rather, this was the king broken apart into all his many characteristics. The boastful man, the secretly frightened man, the lustful man, the thoughtful man, the cruel man, the kind man, the cunning man, the fool – and many, many more, some stronger than others, some far, far weaker.

There were many that Prytani couldn't accurately identify, those that she could being recognisable to her only because they glittered to differing degrees with rainbow hues of envy, anger, jaundice, tranquillity, and bile.

And they were all battling each other, the king's spirit at war with itself.

The calmest qualities of all, the ones standing in the midst of them all yet refraining from getting involved in this violent squabble, were the lingering presences of the wolf and the king's brother. These two each moved slowly, perplexedly. They weren't fully there at the moment, of course, being only spiritual overshoots that had gradually become an indelible part of the king.

Like the spirits Prytani had already seen wandering throughout the tower, each part of the king was ultimately insubstantial, passing unhindered through its close neighbours, only the ones it was tussling with being aware of its existence.

'A complicated soul, isn't he?' the lady said sardonically.

The whole scene of the fighting kings was made even more confusing by the quivering cords stretching up through the very centre of the tower like a looming, living backbone. It writhed serpent-like, as if reacting to the presence of the battling kings, perhaps even somehow responsible for their presence: detecting and replicating his rapidly ebbing life, recording and reflecting it here for Prytani to see.

'What do I do?'

Prytani couldn't see how the king could be helped to recover. Some of his weaker characteristics – his kindness, his tenderness – were already succumbing to their stronger brothers, at times simply blinking out of existence.

' _Which_ of them do I treat? _How_ do I treat him?' Prytani wailed despondently.

'Tut tut; so _many_ questions!' the lady gently scolded her. 'How can you possibly hope to help a confused man when you yourself are confused?'

The lady's sly sidelong glance, her narrowed eyes, implied that this was the only help she was willing to give Prytani at the moment.

Prytani had to work this out for herself!

As she looked, more and more of the king's better characteristics were being torn apart by his more callous qualities.

'How do I stop this? There'll be nothing left of him soon!'

'Not a particularly bad thing in itself, of course.' The lady nonchalantly watched the warring constituents of the king. 'Such a shame, however, that it's his better qualities that are suffering so badly. Thankfully, that's no great loss in this man; he had so few of them anyway, and they were always weak and vulnerable.'

'We have to stop them fighting.'

The lady glanced her way again, her smile somehow urging Prytani to continue this direction of thought.

'Draw them all back together, as one,' Prytani added. 'Rather than the many, tearing at each other.'

The lady still refused to help.

'They need something they can all agree on...to _live_! The king is dying, and he needs to live!'

Prytani was excited. It all seemed so obvious now.

The lady drolly pursed her lips.

'His constituent parts obviously seek that already.' She drew Prytani's attention to the boastful man now lashing out at the cunning man. 'They want to live at the expense of all the others, failing to realise that they only live through their support.'

This was all so confusing, Prytani thought miserably.

Her mind was a whirl of contradictory questions and answers. She had to bring her own mind together. Bring her own conflicting thoughts under control.

She just needed _one_ answer, after all.

Which meant _one_ question.

A common thought.

'A common thought!' she declared elatedly. 'They need a common thought – a common _purpose_! A _goal_ they can all identify with, something they can all aspire to.'

The lady said nothing. She simply watched the ferociously battling spirits.

'The sheath! They all want the _sheath_ , to go with the sword!'

Above the melee, a small glittering light appeared, growing, increasing in brightness.

For the moment, it was only a shadow of the beautifully glowing orbs attached to the cords reaching up through the tower. These orbs swirled, fluctuated, there being at least six, from what Prytani could see. The nearest to the base was surrounded by encircling rings, a larger version of the brilliant light Prytani had seen before on the higher-most landing of the stairs, the one before the last flight led you up into the lady's room.

Apparently drawing power or substance from these great, blazing orbs, the small, hovering light flowed, swirled, grew, becoming increasingly more obvious and drawing the attention of some of the fighters below, even as they continued to fight.

'It promises them health, wellbeing, despite his warlike intentions.' Prytani was trying to reassure herself that she'd made the right choice, setting out the reasons behind it. 'And he can accomplish his goal of conquering the kingdom of the dead.'

'Such a vison!' the lady sarcastically declared.

The flickering light flowed, elongated, transforming into a glowing image of the sheath. Now more of the warring kings were staring up at it, at last breaking off from their battling. As they reached up for the sheath, they merged with those nearest to them who were also reaching for it. Even the wolf, shrinking, slipped into this gradual merging of the king's many parts, becoming just one soul, aspiring to possess the sheath.

No, not just _one_ soul, Prytani realised. The tortured spirit of the king's brother remained partially separate, slowly writhing as if attempting to slither free of its entrapping confinement.

'Is that it?' Prytani asked the lady.

As she spoke, king and sheath vanished.

'Will he live?'

'He'll live.' The lady didn't sound in anyway relieved. 'He'll slowly recover, his flesh regaining life.'

Turning, she started to ascend the stairs.

'Thankfully, a more fitting death awaits him.' She said it indifferently. 'But, for the moment, there's much to play out just yet.'

The steps didn't seem as busy as they had only moments before. Even so, a multitude of creatures were passing by Prytani and the lady as they slowly made their own way up the stairs.

Does, squirrels, rabbits, mares, dogs, pigs, cats, centaurs, minotaurs. Ravens, owls, robins, falcons. Pike, stickleback, octopus, lamprey.

Of the creatures that had expressions Prytani could recognise and interpret, those rushing up the steps past them appeared blissful, ecstatic. Those passing them heading the other way, however, were downcast, perhaps even cast down.

None seemed to see either Prytani or the lady. Each one slipped through them as if they weren't actually there, just as they effortlessly moved through every other creature milling on the crowded stairs.

On the first landing they arrived at, some of these creatures were intently studying the glowing orb of light floating above them, as if waiting for it to speak, even divulge some important information to them. The coruscating light was gorgeous, entrancing. However, it was only when they reached the second landing, where the orb burned a rich red, that Prytani finally understood the role of these glittering spheres.

They were the chief stars in the night sky, the gods themselves.

They were guides, perhaps ultimately even means of judgement – who would rise, who would fall. This was – as the Great Empire termed them – Mars. Below had been Venus. Above, if she remembered correctly, was the Sun, then Saturn. And the lady's room? The Moon?

Yet that wasn't all the planets. There should be seven. Where was Mercury? Jupiter? They could, of course, be on the second flight of steps. But if the other flight was a mirror image of this one, it would also have four landings: so what globes of light lit up the remaining two?

'So many, many steps.'

The lady sighed, implying she was exhausted. Prytani didn't think she looked even slightly tired, however. In fact, the lady smiled, like someone amused at their own joke.

'This Moses I spoke of earlier, from the great testament brought by Joseph for the wizard: he climbs a mountain to see his god. Why would that be, do you think? Why climb a mountain?'

'To get closer: closer to the guiding stars?'

'To get closer.' The lady nodded, as if considering this. 'In this case, too, because it was a holy mountain. Referred to in this great testament by a number of names that all mean the same place; Horeb, Mount Sinai, even Mount Bethel, beth-El meaning "house of god" – he lives, in other words, on this mountain.'

'And this mountain really existed?'

' _Exists_. In Petra, a place not far from Joseph's own land. It will later be called Jebel Madhbah, or Mountain of the Altar. At its foot, there's a spring, called the "Spring of Moses", just as we are told that Moses brought water from the ground. There are also great boulders at its base, just as Moses erects twelve pillars. There are natural caves, even the Tomb of Aaron lying here, just as we are told that there are hidden caves in the Mountain of God. The testament speaks of a paved level of sapphire stone, and a gateway leading to a High Place. The gem we know as sapphire wasn't mined until the time of the Great Empire, but here we see shiny blue slate paving a terrace leading to a shrine on a ridge.'

'They had rituals? They really saw their god here?'

'Jacob is said to have set up a pillar where he saw a ladder to heaven. On the mountain, there are towering obelisks taller than three men standing on each other's shoulders. A great king called Solomon placed copies of the twisting pillars found here in his temple; one, Jachin, topped with a bowl of earthly fire, and meaning "God Shall Establish", the second named Boaz, "In It Is Strength", and topped with a bowl of celestial water.'

'This Moses, he saw this god as well?'

The lady nodded. She didn't appear weary, even though they were still climbing the many, uncountable steps.

'In what is falsely called a "burning bush". In Joseph's language, that would be "kiy sench", but it actually says "mikvah sench" – a "bush that burns". On Jebel Madhbah, only one bush grows: and that's the thornapple, or moonflower.'

'Ah,' Prytani breathed, understanding now.

In the past, a great many other shamans and seers had attempted to persuade Prytani to experiment with the potions they used to attain their own voyages to the otherworld. The thornapple, she'd heard, was fiery to taste, causing sweating and burning.

'So he might not _really_ have seen his god at all,' she said.

To Prytani's surprise, they had already reached the top of the tower. She had assumed that their languid pace, the ridiculous length of the stairway, would mean they would take much longer to reach here.

Outside, shining in through the windows and brightly illuminating everything inside the room, was a vast if incomplete moon.

'No, he _did_ see his god,' the lady corrected Prytani. 'The high alter at Beth-El is adorned with what many people mistakenly believe are bull's horns. Once again in Joseph's language, Mount or rather Har Sinai means Moon Mountain.'

'A mountain sacred to the moon god? Then the bull's horns are the crescent of an earthshine moon.'

'Moses was known to carry a serpent staff; the way a serpent sheds its skin to grow young again itself linked to the moon's rhythm of death and rebirth.'

With a graceful wave of a hand, the lady changed the shape of the moon outside, creating the large, upturned crescent of a moon lit only on its underside by the sun.

Prytani was horrified. What would everyone think when they saw this abrupt change in the moon? They would fear that it might be the end of the world or, at the very least, as a sign of calamity to come.

'Don't worry, little fox.' The lady had noted Prytani's anxiety. 'Only we can see this.'

She drew Prytani's attention back to the crescent moon outside.

'We're told that Moses is forbidden to see god's face. God only displays his "achowr", or back-side, the phases of the moon seen as a rotating from front to back, or head to rear, then back again. The moon's face is only dimly lit by the earth's reflective light, as if god's face is veiled.'

With another elegant wave, she made the moon shine as brightly as it had before.

'That's all he saw? An earthshine moon?'

Prytani was disappointed. So was the lady: disappointed by Prytani's reaction.

'Oh no! Of course not, little fox! Has that potion you've taken addled your thinking? _You_ really don't need it: it will only add to your confusion. Remember, this was where Jacob ascended his _ladder_ to heaven. The pillars I spoke off? These weren't constructed like any normal pillar: they were hewn from the rock, the whole top of the mountain hacked away around them.'

'Weren't the pillars of wisdom hewn from rock?'

The lady smiled, impressed by Prytani's recalling of the phrase. She nodded.

'There were seven. As it says in Joseph's testament, "Wisdom has built her house; she has hewn out its seven pillars".'

*

# Chapter 26

The king's flesh was no longer a crinkled, deathly white.

Not that anyone had noticed this before. It was just so much more obvious now that he was beginning to recover; the flesh warm not drenched in a cold sweat, the muscles full and rounded, rather than withered and loose.

'He still requires careful handling,' Nechtan declared, after giving orders that the king needed to be lifted up onto and tied to a horse, 'but he'll live.'

The surrounding land was now much darker, the sun almost set.

The great bonfires that had been prepared earlier were now lit, the roaring red flames lighting up the people encircling them in a blood-red glow, transforming them into denizens of the netherworld. Oxen and heifers of every type and size were being nervously led between the fiercely blazing fires, the beating flames stretching out a flick of a long finger to caress their sides and hurrying them through.

By the time they had drawn near to the nearest village large enough to provide a building suitable for the ailing king – one that was reasonably wind proofed, adequately warm – a few of these fires had died down to a point where the bravest amongst the encircling watchers began to leap across them, laughing exultantly at every successful jump. The village itself was in no less an excited state, potions of every kind being sold or handed around, charms promising everything from better health to pain-free birth.

There were also a number of shamans, men and women, many preparing to go into a trance, some already under, already traveling, journeying into the otherworld. Seemingly suffering a nightmare-wracked sleep, these latter shuddered, moved oddly, sometimes going through the motions that someone awake would make if opening a door, running, or fighting off hordes of frightening demons. Eyes trembled wildly beneath only half closed eyelids, what could be seen of them white and pupil-less.

Those who needed them clutched tightly to their familiars or, if the creature was too large, it lay beside its master or mistress, suffering an equally uneasy, heavily-drugged sleep. Prytani though she recognised at least two of the entranced seers, having sensed a similar fluctuating presence within the tower.

The shamans still awake were preparing for their own journey, laying out a comfortable place to sleep, setting aside an area for their familiar, mixing a potion from the plants and berries they'd gathered. A few of these were also instructing apprentices in their art, others even urging and helping the curious – at least, those in whom they'd detected a certain natural capability – to experience a brief trip to the netherworld.

A woman was smearing an ointment over the rounded ends of broom sticks handed to her by giggling girls, whispering her own instructions, all of which set the girls embarrassedly chuckling all the more. Tonight, Prytani thought with a wry grin, these girls would be off flying on their broomsticks.

The head of the village reacted quickly and efficiently to the arrival of the king and his men. He provided the best accommodation his village had available, along with food, drink, and any potions Nechtan believed the king might require.

Even Prytani was given a warm, comfortable place to stay. She had never before experienced such an incredibly soft place to sleep in.

Wrapping up close together, the curving shapes of their bodies melding, Prytani and Tamesis were soon asleep.

' _Another_ visit? And so _soon_ after your other one, too!' the lady said in warm greeting. 'Perhaps tonight, then, we should satisfy ourselves with a tale.'

*

# Chapter 27

Gilgamesh and the Seven Uraei Snakes

Gilgamesh, the King of Uruk, was distraught after losing his great friend, Enkidu.

Deciding that he must seek out Utnapishtim, who had been made immortal by the god Enlil, Gilgamesh travelled to the very shores of the Great Ocean, where the Waters of Death also flowed.

Here a young woman called Siduri lives beneath a great tree. Gilgamesh approached her, asking directions to cross the Great Ocean.

'Who other than the Sun can cross the Ocean?' Siduri replied. 'The passage is difficult. What will you do when you come to the Waters of Death, which flow so deeply?'

Even so, she took pity on him.

'Utnapishtim, whom you seek, has a ferryman. You will find this ferryman down in the wood; with him are the holy things, the seven stone-giants. He is fashioning the serpent prow of the boat, and you might be able to cross the waters with him.'

When Gilgamesh went into the woods, however, he was overtaken by a spontaneous rage and, with his axe and dagger, he destroyed the stone-giants.

(Why this is so, the original story doesn't explain. Perhaps there's a clue in his choice of weapons. He may – not unreasonably – have mistaken the stone-giants for the Sebettu, the children of the God of Heaven who circle the moon. For they _also_ hold daggers and hatchets in their hands.)

'You have destroyed, the only creatures who can cross the Waters of Death,' the ferryman complained, 'for they prevent the Waters of Death from touching me. Along with them, you have also destroyed the Seven Uraei Snakes.'

Under the ferryman's orders, Gilgamesh cut down one hundred and twenty trees, fashioning them into punting poles. In this way, they reach Utnapishtim's island. Here Gilgamesh is challenged by Utnapishtim to stay awake for six days and seven nights – but a mist of sleep soon drifts over him.

Utnapishtim said to his wife, 'He's seeking to overcome death, yet cannot even conquer sleep.'

So each day, Utnapishtim's wife baked a loaf of bread, placing it by the head of the sleeping Gilgamesh. When Gilgamesh was finally woken by Utnapishtim, he claimed he had only just fallen asleep: but the seven loaves, in various states of decay, proved otherwise.

Even so, Utnapishtim took pity on Gilgamesh.

'Take Gilgamesh to the washing-place,' he commanded the ferryman, saying to Gilgamesh as they launched the boat and boarded it, 'I'll reveal a secret, a mystery of the gods. A plant grows under the water, with a prickle like a thorn, like a rose, that will wound your hand. If you succeed in taking it, however, then your hands will hold that which restores a man's lost youth.'

Hearing this, Gilgamesh let a sweet water current carry him out to the deepest channel. With heavy stones tied to his feet, he sank down to the waterbed, where he saw the plant growing. It pricked him as he took it in his hands, but when he cut the heavy stones from his feet, the sea carried him and threw him onto the shore, returning him via the gate through which he had come.

Spying a well of cool water, Gilgamesh went to bathe, unaware that a serpent was lying deep within this pool. Sensing the sweetness of the flower, the serpent rose out of the water and snatched it away, immediately sloughing its skin and returning to the well.

'Did I wring out my heart's blood for this: nothing?' Gilgamesh wept. 'Now the beast of the earth enjoys it.'

Gilgamesh watched the stream carry it away, taking the plant of life back to where he had found it.

'I found a sign,' Gilgamesh wailed, 'and now I have lost it.'

*

# Chapter 28

After the long journey home, with all its necessary boringly tiresome stops to ensure the king wasn't suffering too much, most of the men were exhausted as they approached the stockade.

Prytani had frequently invited Tamesis up to share her saddle with her, the horse only shying a little nervously the first time, but settling down once he realised the little vixen meant no harm.

The doors to the stockade were open. There isn't a full moon tonight, Prytani thought: there's no fear of any attack from the werewolf.

Far off to one side of the stockade, Prytani saw flames and trailing smoke rising from the great circle of stones that stood there, all signs that a ceremony was taking place. Despite her own exhaustion, she would have liked to walk over there, to take part. She found herself wishing for this all the more when she noticed the boy heading across the low hills towards the circle.

Nechtan was busy tending to the king. She might be able to slink off for a while, without him noticing. As the column unpacked and dismounted in the yard, however, her resolution deserted her: Nechtan was glancing her way every now and again, checking that she was still with them.

The princess and her attendants rushed out of the main hall to help the injured king down from his horse. They fussed over him, wrapping him in furs, the princess taking particular care as she hugged him warmly in greeting.

'My lord, my lord! What have you done? We received your messenger earlier, and have prepared your bed to help your recovery! But how badly–'

The king stopped her with a mocking, harsh guffaw.

'I'm not an invalid, woman! How did this damn messenger of mine inform you of what happened yesterday at the Battle of the Ford to the Netherworld?'

He looked about him, as if searching out the messenger from all the other villagers clamouring around the unpacking column.

'Didn't he tell you of my great victory? My amazing heroism? Killing five of a Dead Legion! _This_ is what the tale he told you should have been about! _This_ is how the tale will be told many, many years from now!'

He grabbed the princess about the waist, pulling him towards him lustfully despite the faltering wheezing of his breath.

'I'll recover from my injuries soon enough,' he growled. 'And in good time for our wedding night tomorrow too!'

'Come come, my lord! If you're still struggling for breath tomorrow night like this, yes, I'll be taking you to your bed; but only to ensure you're relieved of your pain as soon as possible!'

'My pain?' The king stepped back from her, glaring furiously. 'And why is that, my lady, that I suffer pain after my battle? If I'd had Siren's sheath, do you think I'd have suffered _any_ injury at all?'

'Perhaps the sheath could now–' Nechtan began hopefully, only to be curtly interrupted by the Princess.

'Naturally, the sheath doesn't work in that way!' she declared imperiously. 'It prevents injury to its _wearer_ : but, of course, it can't cure _any_ injury sustained by _anyone_ else.'

' _Now_ you tell me, woman!' the king chortled bitterly. 'All the more reason why you should have allowed me to _wear_ it!'

'My lord!' The princess's eyes widened as if hurt, bridling at what she obviously thought was an unfair accusation. 'I was under the impression that you and your men were going out _hunting_! Not waging _war_ on the dead!'

She moved quickly across to the king's horse, expertly withdrawing Siren from the sheath strapped to the harness. The blade sang a sad lilt that immediately blossomed into an ecstatic refrain as an attendant rushed forward with Siren's real sheath.

As deftly as if it were a well-practised move, the princess slipped the sword into the sheath being held by her attendant.

'There, my lord! And there it should stay, keeping you safe until our wedding night!'

King Cadeyrn grinned hugely.

'I suppose I can wait.' He gave a rich chuckle. 'It's only tomorrow night anyway!'

'Good! I don't want you receiving any more–'

Like everyone else around her, the princess's head whirled. There had been a terrified shriek from just by the stockade gates. More horrified screams immediately followed it.

The men unpacking their mounts, the women and children who'd rushed forward to greet and help them; all began to edgily move aside, clearing a way between them. Even the horses shuffled nervously aside, whinnying, shying, some of the men having to hold tightly to their reins to stop them rearing or bolting.

A man unhurriedly walked through this parting of the sea of people.

He was a warrior, wearing the heavily padded jerkin, the helmet, and carrying a spear with a softly fluttering pennant.

A pennant that snapped and curled in a completely different direction to every other banner fluttering in the village.

The man's back was wrenched into an odd angle, as if badly broken. His face was terribly gashed, his throat opened wide to reveal his innards. His stare was unyielding, his eyes milky.

Prytani knew this man.

She had watched him being brutally killed by the werewolf.

One of the men who had snatched her from the port.

One of the men whom King Cadeyrn believed he had killed only yesterday.

*

# Chapter 29

King Cadeyrn recognised the oncoming dead man. Not as a man whom he had only recently killed, but as a man who had recently served him as a fine soldier.

'Cuamena!' The king hailed the dead man heartily, uncertainly opening his arms in greeting. 'So your new lord allows you to come and visit your old homestead! We must thank him for his _remarkable_ benevolence!'

'Thank him you surely shall, King Cadeyrn.' The dead man's voice was strangely hollow, an echoing created by the huge gouge in his throat. 'But in ways, I think, you won't find the slightest bit pleasurable!'

'Is this how you reward your king's greetings?' Nechtan demanded angrily.

'Not my king anymore, wizard! And he greeted me and four of my friends with his blade!'

'I wasn't to know _you_ were there, Cuamena!' The king kept up his contrived affability, controlled his wheezing. 'Obviously, I would have stood aside for an old friend: even one who sought to block my crossing of a ford bordering my own realm!'

'Why do you sound so resentful, Cuamena?' Nechtan added. 'Here you are, untouched by any blade. And, I presume, your four friends are now every bit as alive as you are?'

'Of course! This Siren; it is undoubtedly a remarkable blade, to lie the dead low, if only briefly. But twice dead is, still, only dead.'

'Then we have had good sport, at no expense to anyone!' The king grinned.

'At no expense? And this tale, King Cadeyrn, of your battle against the dead: are you saying it won't be told and retold, each time increasing the numbers of the dead? The dead you face: when, I wonder, will that be five times its real number? How many dead will the tale say you killed for a second time? Twenty? A hundred? We all know how these tales take on a life of their own, always so much better in the retelling. And do you think my own lord should feel no shame in this? To be made the fool in a tale that will be retold countless times?'

'We can temper the telling of the tale,' one of the king's men protested hopefully. 'How could we honestly say, anyway, that the dead lost any of their number, when we can also clearly see you have returned to us once more, Cuamena?'

'Honesty? And what role does this play in any tale, Windioran?'

'What can we do, Cuamena, to make amends?'

The king's grin had long faded. He was beginning to realise that some payment was expected of him.

'You'll soon be receiving reports, King Cadeyrn, that offshoots of the Dead Legions are already encroaching on your lands.'

As Cuamena announced this, there were gasps of fear from all those who had heard his fluttering, rasping voice.

'Yes, they are marching already, the pennants of their raised spears fluttering, their sound that of the heartbeats they will soon still.'

Cuamena had a satisfied leer, relishing the sense of fear he felt growing around him.

He likes embellishing his own tales, Prytani thought, noting his elated if horrifically disfigured expression.

'Remembering the ties that used to exist between us,' Cuamena continued, looking about him at the trembling villagers, 'those _better_ times we once shared, I would _so_ like to tell you that you have nothing to fear.'

He glanced the way of a pretty, particularly aghast woman. Was this his widow? Prytani wondered.

'In all honesty, though, I _cannot_ tell you this.'

As he used the word 'honesty', he smiled maliciously at Windioran.

'You have to realise, your king has attacked us! Sullied our name!'

He paused, taking in the pale, worried faces surrounding him. The princess had grasped the king's hand, perhaps seeking some form of reassurance.

'Even so, my own lord is willing to forgive – provided adequate recompense is made!'

There was a visible relaxation of the way everyone had been holding themselves so tensely, so rigidly straight backed. Strained faces relaxed a little, many eyes went back to a normal rather than a rushed, uneasy blinking for the first time in ages.

Only the king and Nechtan maintained their edgy stances: only they realised the price expected of them would be high, perhaps impossible to comply with.

'What are his demands?' the king asked, grimacing uncertainly.

'You must replace those you killed.'

The king's pained grimace was immediately replaced with a satisfied grin.

'We killed _none_!' The king chuckled at his own brilliance: he had seen the error in their ridiculously ill-thought out demands! 'Your very presence here, Cuamena, is the proof of that!'

'No, King Cadeyrn: you have killed _fifteen_.' The dead warrior was firm and assured in his reply. 'Or so, at least, we hear in the tale of your "victory" that is already spreading.'

King Cadeyrn smiled wryly, apparently pleased that the numbers of dead were already growing.

'And as the tally in this tale increases,' Cuamena continued calmly, 'so shall your payment: the price forever rising.'

The king breathed a sigh of relief.

'Fifteen men?' he said with a dismissive wave of a hand. 'So be it: we'll let them chose amongst themselves, perhaps by use of a lot.'

'Fifteen _lords_ , King Cadeyrn.'

' _Lords_?' The king laughed in disbelief. 'I only _have_ fifteen lords!'

Cuamena shrugged; this was not _his_ problem.

'But wouldn't we be stupid to pay this, my lord?' Windioran, being a lord himself, was horrified by this idea of payment. 'He's saying we need to sacrifice our own people, so they join their own ranks of warriors and–'

'No!' Cuamena bluntly interrupted.

'No?'

'Not to join the _warriors_. To become our servants, our slaves.'

From the whole crowd there rose gasps of fear, aghast cries of, 'No, no!'

'This is _too_ high a price!' The king frowned sternly.

'Indeed, at first glance, it may appear so.'

Cuamena half turned, preparing to leave. The discussion, he was declaring in his actions, was coming to a close.

'And yet, if you refuse to pay it, there is an even higher price to pay: your own land, King Cadeyrn, will become a realm of the dead.'

*

# Chapter 30

The stockade doors remained open.

Cuamena had left, with no one, of course, attempting to bar his way.

Alongside Prytani, Tamesis sniffed the air unsurely, still picking up that long-lingering stink of death. Even when the dead remained walking, even fighting, they retained an odour that somehow reminded you of the fate awaiting you. That was why that stench was so fearful, so distressing and disgusting.

One day, we too will reek that way. And there's nothing we can do about it.

Nechtan, still tending King Cadeyrn through his last stages of recovery, had gone inside the great hall, along with the princess and her attendants. Prytani saw little reason to stay here.

She headed for the open gates, wondering if anyone would stop her.

No one did. She stepped out beyond the stockade walls without their even being the slight murmur of disapproval from the men guarding the entrance, let alone the angry cries she had expected.

A series of small fires were still burning around the great circle of stones. The boy had been heading that way.

Prytani followed in his footsteps, making her way towards the ceremonial circle.

Although she couldn't make out what they were, she could see that the sacred objects originally placed around the outer edges of the vast circle had now been carried towards the centre. In fact, a great deal of the ceremony had already taken place. Perhaps sensing this, or maybe because he had lost interest, the boy was walking away from the circle.

He grinned in welcome when he saw Prytani and Tamesis more or less walking towards him.

'So, what did you think?' Prytani asked the boy, joining him as he made his way over to a thicket of bushes. 'Of the ceremony?'

'It seems we all need our priests to save us from everything that's bad in the world. They raise up their gods so high that, soon, it is only through them that the people can converse with the gods. That way, the priests have power over the gods themselves, putting their own words – their own ideas of piety, of what ideals their followers should aspire to, what rules they must follow – into the mouths of gods. If any such god were to come to earth, would he recognise his own teachings?'

'Hmn.' Prytani hummed doubtfully. 'I don't think the White Goddess has fallen completely under their control just yet.'

She stopped by a hawthorn bush, mumbling a quiet prayer, asking permission of the Goddess before carefully snapping off a gorgeous sprig of pure white blossom. The boy watched with growing amusement as she threaded the thin stem into a buttonhole of his jerkin, transforming the burgeoning spray into a highly decorative brooch.

'The bridal gown of the White Lady,' she said with a shy smile. 'The union of sun and moon: of man and woman.'

She indicated the trees and bushes around them, the muddy banks of a languidly trickling stream.

'These are _her_ sacred places. The trees, rivers, wells, hills. We can see her just about anywhere we choose to look: she's made manifest in many forms and ways.'

The boy knelt in the mud by the river, careless of the mess it was making of his shoes. He picked up a small handful of the most clay-like substance he could find amongst the mud. Swiftly, deftly, he moulded it in his hands.

On a nearby boulder struck by a bright sun ray, he placed an accurately rendered statuette of Tamesis.

'For you.' He grinned bashfully, glanced back at his work with a disappointed frown. 'Sorry: I'm not sure the sun's hot enough to bake it, as it would in my country.'

'Why, I...thank you!' Prytani was enthralled by the incredibly accurate image of Tamesis. 'It's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever given me!'

She knelt down beside the boy, close to the little statuette. She wanted to reach out for it, pick it up and take it with her right at this very moment. But she could see that touching it while it was still wet, still freshly moulded, would only ruin it. Tamesis, however, sniffed around it unsurely.

'I think you'll have to wait a while before it dries,' the boy said apologetically.

Prytani didn't have the heart to tell him she was leaving. It seemed such a shame to leave behind this unfinished work of the boy's. It was beautiful. Apart from its size, its lack of colouring, it seemed so real, so lifelike. It had been specially made for her. And by the boy too.

She wished it were finished, complete. Then she could leave with it right now.

'There's a story I've heard about you,' she said uncertainly to the boy. 'That you made birds from clay; gave them the breath of life.'

The boy raised his eyebrows in surprise. He chuckled.

'Well, if that were true, I'd breathe life into this for you right now,' he said, turning to look at the little clay fox. He turned back, smiling at Tamesis. 'Though, I'm not sure your own little fox here would appreciate having a rival for your affections.'

'It's not possible, then?' Prytani couldn't hide the disappointment in her voice. She had hoped that some elements of the tale were true. 'To give life to something made of clay?'

The boy shook his head sadly.

'I doubt it; not here on Earth, anyway.'

He stared intently into her eyes.

'We can't just hope to overrule or avoid all the problems the Earth sets us, can we?'

It dawned on Prytani that she would be returning to the stockade after all.

Instinctively, she knew that she'd been brought here by forces other that Nechtan's.

She had a role to play here.

Whatever that role was, she wasn't sure.

But one thing she did know – it wasn't complete just yet.

*

# Chapter 31

Re-entering the stockade, Prytani headed straight for Nechtan's room.

She wanted to have a look at these ancient texts herself, to see if there was anything Tamesis might have missed.

Well, there were so many texts in there, _anyone_ could overlook an important piece of information.

'There are so many intrusions from your side already!'

Prytani stopped at the door to the room: Nechtan was already in there, talking to someone. Cructan? Was he talking to his magpie, like she frequently talked to Tamesis?

'How many times must I reassure you that the payment is already in hand?'

The door was open. Prytani peered through the crack formed between the hinged edge of the door and its frame.

She almost jumped back in surprise, almost made a noise alerting them to her presence.

Nechtan was talking to Cuamena!

He was conversing with the dead!

Strangely, Cructan wasn't squawking wildly, as she'd expect. That could only mean one thing: Nechtan wasn't just visiting the tower, he was also making regular trips into the Dead Realms.

Cuamena mumbled a gruff reply that Prytani couldn't hear clearly enough to understand. It sounded like a promise that 'we won't let the girl escape, as agreed.'

So, it was fortunate that she hadn't tried to leave the stockade after all. Nechtan had made a bargain with the dead, entrapping her here.

'Soon I'll have the means to make this even greater crown mine!' Nechtan exulted. 'And once crowned, I'll lay siege to that damn tower! And when I take it, what's to stop me _then_ from reaching the very top?'

Once again, Cuamena's voice wasn't fully audible. From his tone alone, however, Prytani detected more than a hint of doubt.

He rose to leave, made his way not towards the door but just off to one side of the window. Bending and taking hold of a metal handle sunk into the wooden floor, he pulled up a trapdoor.

As he disappeared into the hole in the ground, Cuamena could have been descending into his own grave.

He pulled the trapdoor shut after him. Quickly, Nechtan covered it by dragging a heavy chest back into its original place below the window.

Just as animatedly, Nechtan lifted and threw open the chest's lid. Reaching in, he withdrew a stoppered ceramic jar, a small ivory flask.

He had his back to Prytani, and her view was limited by the narrowness of the crack she was peering through. Yet he seemed to open the jar, pour its contents into the flask.

Putting the stopper in the jar once more, but not bothering to close the chest's lid, Nechtan strode over to his bed.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he reverently raised the flask before him.

'You shall not surely die!' he breathed blissfully.

He drank from the flask, licked his lips, placed the flask on a nearby table overflowing with ancient texts and scrolls.

He lay back on his bed.

Then he slipped into a trance, beginning his journey into the otherworld.

*

Once again, Prytani appeared on the stairs rather than in the lady's room.

Once again, she found herself standing by the narrow crack of an open door, eavesdropping on Nechtan.

This time, however, it wasn't Nechtan who was present. It was Cructan, his magpie.

This time, too, it wasn't Nechtan who was speaking. It was the lady.

Cructan was listening patiently, enraptured. His head was cocked, a beady, probing eye focused hungrily on the lady.

No wonder: Lady Olwen was telling him how he could achieve the Halo Crown.

She told him how to summon the guardian.

And how to respond to his strange appearance.

She told him the questions the guardian would ask.

And how he, Nechtan, should answer.

She told him that immortality would be his.

And how it would be even more remarkable than he presumed.

Prytani was shocked that the lady was telling Nechtan all this.

Was this the greater crown Nechtan had spoken to Cuamena about? The one that would enable him to lay siege to and capture this very tower?

The lady had finished speaking. She smiled warmly at Cructan, turned back to her work on the tapestries.

With a dull flap of his wings, Cructan rose into the air. Whirling in the air with a dark flutter of wings, he turned towards the door, the steps where Tamesis was still in hiding. He swooped low over her, didn't see her, was oblivious to her – and then, fading, he vanished.

Tamesis slipped quietly into the room.

'Ah, hello little fox.'

The lady didn't turn away from her work, her deft handling of the threads, the coming together of the most gorgeous scenes.

'What did you think of our conversation, between your wizard and I?'

'You told him how to achieve the Halo Crown? You must know he means to use it to lay siege to you?'

'Of course.'

The lady nodded, turned around to face Tamesis.

'It needed to be done. Trust my judgement on this, little fox.'

'How did he reach here so quickly? Your room, I mean. He was struggling to reach higher when we saw him far below. Was it the serpent potion?'

The lady nodded again.

'Though, you do realise, he wasn't prepared to take it until he'd got you to try it?'

'It was dangerous?' Then, thinking of how the pills had only made her feel confused, she added, 'It had a different effect on him.'

'He gave you a dried version, rather than the potion. Plus, didn't I already say you don't need it?'

'Will he come again, now he knows he can?'

'He's expecting to, but he won't. He needed to feel that he'd achieved something by coming here, so I also told him of another tale: The White Tiger, Green Dragon, and Seven Star Powder.'

'Do I need to know that tale?'

'Of course not! What you need to know is more of what was happening on Moon Mountain.'

'The Seven Pillars of Wisdom?'

'Seven giants, each topped with globes representing the planets; but not the seven you might immediately think of.'

Fortunately for Prytani, she didn't have to try and imagine what these pillars might have looked like. With a wave of her hands, a drawing in of energy, of the fluctuations of life, the lady created them around the little vixen.

'On the way to the higher shrine, an aspirant passes through these earth-bound representations, the first set out like the five dots on a die, with Ninurta, Enlil, Gugalanna, Enki – or Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Mercury – at the corners, the Sun Utu at its heart. Next come the two positions of Inanna, the Evening and Morning Stars of Venus, or Solomon's Jachin – unity, judgement – and Boaz – redemption, mercy.'

'No Moon?'

'No Moon: not yet, anyway. These seven giants act as guides, leading us to the Moon in its own two phases. Remember how Solomon's columns spiralled upwards, like rising serpents? Well, the higher shrine has an unusual socket at its centre, cut to a hand's depth. What could it be for, do you think?'

Prytani frowned in puzzlement.

'Think of the Sabean stone,' the lady offered helpfully. 'Or of the discs, and their portrayal of a lady standing on a mountain top.'

'An Asherah pole?'

'The Tree of Life: topped with a crescent and full moon, two serpents coiled around it, crossing each other seven times along its spine. Place this in the shrine's socket, look back towards the seven giants: and the serpents show us the routes to take.'

As the lady spoke, the images of the pillars vanished to be replaced by glowing, planetary orbs. Overlaying these flaming spheres were two writhing serpents, one more prominent than the other.

'First, with Earth as our foundation, we must desire change and follow the path of the Evening Star; dying to the world, lamenting our condition. Descending to the Netherworld of Mars, we realise the world's limits and restrictions.'

The fiercely blazing orb representing the Sun, originally lying at a crossing point of the two serpents, moved as if traversing the Great Ocean, first setting then dying as it slipped into the underworld.

'Our awakening consciousness, like the Sun, becomes our judge, decreeing our fate yet also giving us the hope helping us move onto the honesty of the Sun of the Night, Saturn, and foresight of our destiny.'

Saturn's revolving rings shivered, flowed, and changed into the weathered yet wise face of an old man, perhaps a shaman or a hermit. This itself changed into the face of an eagle that, spreading, growing, became an eagle in flight: an eagle that, with a firm flap of its vast wings, flew towards and through the windows, heading for an earthshine moon suddenly illuminating the entire room in its bright gaze.

'Beyond all these,' the lady continued, 'is the rising of the Crescent Moon and victory over the self.'

The glow of the first serpent faded even as the second coiling serpent brightened and dazzled. The Moon outside darkened, vanished. As before (though this had only just dawned on Prytani), there was just the emptiness of a starless night sky.

'We start again from Earth – where else? – but now from a position of strength in our desire for purification.'

There had been a slight change to the positions where the coiling serpents crossed each other, for these points now glowed with colours similar to those of the planets, with Saturn at the base.

'The glory of withstanding temptations, the Morning Star, leads us up to the intelligence of Mercury and a sensible response to life's trials.

On the move again, ascending from its night's sojourn in the netherworld, the Sun rose, its brilliance like an actual dawn.

'The Sun, again, this time bringing clarity and insight, instilling the compassion and magnanimity leading to Jupiter's wise, merciful understanding of man's purpose.'

This time the light beyond the window was an intense milky white, forcing Prytani to shield her eyes from the pain of looking directly at it.

'Behold, little fox, the otherwise Invisible Queen of Heaven: the ultimate wisdom of accepting her will.'

Thankfully, the brilliant light was instantly snuffed out.

Outside, it was now just a typical night sky.

*

# Chapter 32

The hunters were returning with all manner of game: hare, deer, rabbit, boar, pike, trout, duck, pheasant. Local farmers too were bringing in their own livestock to be slaughtered: oxen, cows, geese, sheep. Blood ran everywhere into the stockade's floor of dust and mud. A terrified bleating, lowing and cackling flowed everywhere about the village.

Other men were dragging in the great logs that would be needed for the fires, the ones that would cook all the food required for the wedding, the ones that would blaze away in and heat the great hall. The women who weren't sweating over the roasting cooking fires were dressing everything they could in boughs burgeoning with blossom or berries, adding bright flowers from the fields to their decorations.

The yard was incredibly busy, the local lords and ladies arriving with their own retinues, all of whom had to be provided with lodgings befitting their station for the night. Some of the villagers had been moved out of the better homes, moving in for a while with their neighbours.

Prytani wasn't allowed to take any part in the preparations.

She didn't know anyone in the village. Wasn't really regarded as being a part of it.

Besides, Nechtan had other plans for her.

'Tonight,' he declared excitedly, 'I need you to rise even higher than you have ever risen before!'

Before her, on the table he'd seated her at, he placed the jar containing the potion, the ivory flask he'd used to drink it.

'What is it?' Prytani asked innocently, hoping to give the impression that this was the very first time she'd ever seen these objects. 'It's not like those pills you gave me, is it? They only confused me: they didn't help.'

With a dismissive wave of a hand, as if casting the pills aside, Nechtan grimaced scornfully.

'Pah!' he said. 'Those were a trial: a dried version of this, the true potion, which I'd hoped I could carry around with me!'

'They'd never been used before?' Prytani pretended to be aghast.

Nechtan waved his hand dismissively once more.

'They were safe, based on the formulae of similar pills that _have_ been used in the past! I don't want to _kill_ you girl! Not as long as you're of use to me anyway!'

He pushed the jar and flask closer towards her.

' _This_ works! I've tried it myself!'

He made no attempt to hide his excitement, his satisfaction – his _ecstasy_.

'I rose higher than ever before! I met the lady _myself_ last night.'

He leant across the table, intently staring into her eyes, challenging her to doubt him.

'I don't need you for _that_ anymore!'

His glower became a triumphant gaze, his eyes sparkling with exultation.

'Then I can leave?' Prytani kept her own expression firmly under control.

Tamesis, however, recognising Prytani's relieved, happy tone, glanced up. What passes for a smile on a fox lighted up her face.

Nechtan furiously glared at Prytani once more. He pushed the jar and flask even closer towards her, pushing them hard into her chest.

'I've made the _first_ accession!' His lips formed into a snarl. 'I've talked, at last, with the lady, with Olwen of the Six Hands. But I'm not one of those stupid fools who thinks that's it: that they can't rise any higher! I _know_ there's a second, more important ascension. One in which we rise to have conversations with the gods themselves! And how long will it be before I'm ready for that? Years maybe, if I'm lucky. But you, _you_ girl: _you_ could achieve this. You can light the way for _me_ , tell me what to expect, any tricks I might fall for!'

Prytani pushed the potion jar and flask farther away from her with a disgusted grimace.

'It's a potion made of serpent venom: that's _poison_ , not _potion_.'

Tamesis backed away a little, a sure sign to Prytani that she'd sensed her own anxiety.

Nechtan pushed the potion hard into her chest, held it there forcibly.

'You flatter yourself you've reached the pinnacle of any rising, girl!' Nechtan growled furiously. 'You neither seem to realise your full capability, nor your own limits! The power of this serpent potion will make up for your failings. Let me tell you a tale the lady herself told me.'

*

# Chapter 33

The White Tiger, Green Dragon, and Seven Star Powder

A certain Chen Yongbo obtained a method for making Seven Star Powder and, taking it, he vanished within the cycle of one moon.

Discovering this Seven Star Powder, Chen's eleven-year-old-son also took it; and he also vanished within the cycle of one moon.

It was said of this method of producing Seven Star Powder that anyone taking it would attain transcendence – and then depart.

So, what do we now know of this method?

Mostly, the method seems lost to us.

However, the Zhuangzi, Huainunzi, and Liezi texts all tell us that the process includes seven steps of cosmic significance. More importantly still, we know that Zhang Daoling had the face of a youth at sixty!

How did he achieve this?

First, he captured and placed in a box venomous creatures such as the snake, scorpion centipede, spider, and toad, compelling them to yield their venom to aid in the formation of the elixir of life.

When a white tiger appeared before him, carrying a scroll of sacred scripture in its mouth, he left his high post at the Emperor's court to live in a cave. It was here, much later, that he heard the cry of the white crane; and he knew he would soon attain enlightenment.

A year later, when stoking the fires of the furnace incubating the elixir, the cavern was illuminated with a shaft of red light.

A year later still, a white tiger and a green dragon came to sit by the cauldron and guard the elixir.

A year after that, the elixir was completed.

Zhang Daoling, however, didn't take the elixir. He didn't think he was worthy

Now the Twelve Jade Maidens – the six Jia and the six Ding spirits – are the divine women who will come to serve you and inform you of all matters under Heaven. And it was the Jade Maidens of Purity and Harmony who taught Zhang Daoling how to exhale and inhale the pure and harmonious Vital Breath, so that after practising for one thousand days, he saw the bodily elements allowing him to invoke the deities.

In this way, Zhang Daoling defeated all the demons of the heavens.

And at the age of one hundred and twenty three, on swallowing the pill of immortality, he ascended to the heavens.

*

# Chapter 34

By the time all the lords and ladies had moved into the great hall to take part in the wedding celebrations and feast, most people were already drunk, singing songs of heroism, of great battles, of love and loss.

At this point, Nechtan had made his apologies and left, saying he had some urgent work only he could attend to – while his apprentice Prytani was perfectly capable of taking his place at a dining table!

Prytani felt uncomfortable amongst these boisterous, boastful people, despite the elegant dress Nechtan had forced her to wear once more. Worse still, she'd had to leave Tamesis behind in their little cell. Without the little vixen by her side, Prytani felt weirdly naked and vulnerable.

She didn't know anyone seated by her on the long table. She didn't know anyone on any of the long tables that had been set out in the hall, laden with all manner of meats, vegetables, berries and fruits.

It was only when one of the princess's young attendants began to sing that she felt herself relaxing and enjoying the meal. The singing, the glorious, lilting melody: it was all every bit as beautiful and entrancing as the first time Prytani had heard the girl sing.

One by one, the lords and ladies began to still their own singing and chatter. Soon the whole hall was silent but for the girl's enchanting tune, flowing about its charmed listeners as comfortingly as cooling waters.

The princess leant closer towards the king, whispering something to him that made him grin expectantly. She rose from her seat, elegantly ducked behind it, and quickly but lightly tripped towards the door leading out to their bedchamber.

Not only Prytani had spotted this. A handful of lords, a few of their ladies, had witnessed it too. Like their king, they smiled knowingly, hiding their mischievous chuckles.

As if already lamenting the loss of innocence of her lady, or perhaps celebrating the arrival of a knew, enlightening knowledge, the girl's singing became evermore wonderful. Rising, falling, its calming waves washing across everyone, its drifting melodies were taking them elsewhere in their minds, transporting everyone there across foreign seas and great oceans to more exotically beautiful lands.

Only the king seemed unaffected by the singing, his own mind obviously focused on other matters. He leapt up from his throne, reaching for the wolf pelt draped over its back. He held the pelt close, a wicked smile on his face, as he made for the door leading out of the hall.

Even in their semi-dazed states, the lords who saw this lightly guffawed, while the ladies gasped in horror. In a moment, though, even these drifted back into a relaxed trance. The girl's singing had been enhanced by equally wonderful voices as the rest of the princess's attendants entered the hall.

The harmonious voices intertwined, spreading out throughout the hall, bourgeoning now and again into crescendos that then faded away into soothing streams. Prytani sensed that she was becoming drowsy, causing her to briefly suspect that Nechtan might have slipped a dose of the serpent potion into the fruit and berry drinks she had limited herself to.

She was only partially, even half-dreamily aware that the man seated next to her had dropped his drink, the wine oozing across the table top like spilled blood. It looked like it might run towards her, spill into her lap, yet she didn't feel any need to leap out of its way.

More drinking horns were dropped, more wine spilled. But no one cared. They listened, enraptured, to the glorious song weaving its way around the hall.

And Prytani found herself woven into Tamesis, running up the tower's stairs.

*

She didn't go to the lady's room.

Rather, Tamesis found herself being drawn to a window overlooking the land stretching out beyond it. Sitting here, on the window's broad sill, Tamesis seemed to be soaring across that land, as swift as a swallow.

The swallow squirmed in through one of the many small holes many homes have between walls and roof. She became a mouse, scurrying along roughly hewn beams, silent and secretive. She found a comfortable perch, one looking down into the room below.

She was in a bedchamber. Below her, in a large fur-covered bed, the princess waited.

Prytani didn't want to be here. She was embarrassed.

She wanted to look away.

She couldn't.

The princess smiled hungrily as the door to the bedchamber swung open. When the king stepped inside the room, his grin was every bit as hungry as the princess's.

With a malevolent chuckle, he slipped on the charmed wolf pelt.

And, as he transformed before her, the princess's eyes widened in awestruck terror.

*

# Chapter 35

Prytani wanted to tell Tamesis to leave the bedchamber.

But she still couldn't converse in any way with her. She couldn't speak. She couldn't control her.

She couldn't control even herself.

Because, yes, strangely, she _was_ still herself.

Still the Prytani who was seated, entranced, within the hall.

The bewitching singing still held everyone in its wonderful spell. No one was moving, as if rooted to their seats. They could have been frozen, they were all so still.

Only their eyes moved, allowed to witness and be aware of everything that was going on around them. Including the awareness that they had absolutely no influence on what was happening.

Without even a change in the beat of their singing, the young girls stepped down from their position by the thrones. Separating, they moved languidly and silently towards the crowded tables.

Each of the seven girls stood behind a seated lord. Reaching over a shoulder of each petrified lord, each girl picked up the dagger that lay alongside the dinner platter.

The girls continued to sing, their voices full of innocence, grace, blissfulness, the song truly angelic in its unmatchable beauty.

Then, expertly, with just one quick blur of a hand, each one slashed the throat of the lord seated before her.

*

# Chapter 36

Within the bedchamber, the princess's expression turned from one of horror to one of amusement.

'My lord,' she said brightly, 'if I'd known _this_ had been your intention, I could have prepared myself better.'

The eagerly advancing Wolf King stopped by the side of the bed, perplexed by the princess's gaiety.

'You appear surprised by my acceptance of your transformation, my lord,' the princess calmly continued, having noted the king's puzzlement. 'Yet, it proves to me only that we are indeed ideally matched.'

And with that, with a satisfied smile, she changed into an immense, ferocious wolf.

*

# Chapter 37

The blood that spurted from the slashed throats spilled across the table, swirling into and happily merging with the already spilled wine.

The men gurgled as they slumped forward in their seats, their strained, surprised faces falling into their platters of juice-soaked meats.

Alongside them, their women wept. Some even managed a muted moan, a pained wailing. Thankfully, it didn't detract in anyway from the most wondrous song that the girls continued to exultantly sing as they moved on to the next seven lords.

The knives slashed once more. The blood fountained, spilled, ran, like previously stilled waters disturbed by the casting of pebbles.

Prytani wished she could be anywhere else but here.

Anywhere else, that is, but in the king's bedchamber.

*

Wolf and Wolf King were evenly matched.

They chaotically tumbled about the room, fiercely clutching each other in an unforgiving embrace, each attempting to unbalance, or to even throw, the other. When they separated, they swung taloned hands that rived fur and flesh, that tore gashes spouting streams of blood.

They leapt at each other, barged hard against chests, pinioned arms back until they were painfully wrenched free. Maws opened wide, snarled, bit.

It could have been an endless battle.

Desperate to break this impasse, the king briefly leapt clear of the fight.

He spotted the sheathed Siren, laid across the bedchamber's great chest. Yes, the sheath held it tightly: but surely, in his desperate need, with all the power and strength he possessed as the Wolf King, he could finally pull the blade free?

He reached for the sword, grabbed its handle, pulled – and Siren slipped free of its embracing sheath.

He turned back to face the wolf, triumphantly holding Siren aloft, all ready to strike, to deal the death blow that no one, not even a werewolf, could resist.

The wolf, the princess, stared at the bared blade in disbelief.

She began to back away, frightened for the very first time in her life.

With a cackling laugh, the Wolf King slowly advanced on her, backing her up closer and closer towards the wall.

Then, abruptly, the wolf halted her retreat.

'It's not singing,' she pointed out with a pleased, rasping laugh. 'Siren: it's not _singing_!'

The king glanced at the sword in his hand with a puzzled, irate frown.

It didn't feel right in his hand. Didn't feel as light as it should.

'It's not Siren!' he growled, briefly tempted to contemptuously throw it aside.

Then, thinking better of it, he lunged forward, bringing the blade down hard as he aimed for the wolf's head.

Caught off guard, the wolf tried to dance aside. She was just a little too late. The sharp blade caught her down the side of an arm, slicing off a large chunk of flesh.

She howled in agony.

'Hah! Who needs Siren?' the king exclaimed gruffly, surging forwards once more, curving the blade before him.

He had speed, grace, the power of a wolf. And now he had an extension of his reach, one as keenly edged as any talon.

The wolf backed away once more, this time swiftly, lithely, bending as she moved her body out of the way of each swinging curve of the blade. Now, however, she's the one who's desperate, clambering over the chest, over the bed, over chairs she picks up and flings to no avail.

The Wolf King unexpectedly dives forwards, coming in low, the sword protruding out before him like a tightly held lance.

The wolf, slips to one side, avoiding the striking blade.

But it was a feint. The king brings up a fisted hand, backed by the muscles of a bull. It smacks the wolf hard in her muzzle.

She's dazed, everything swimming about her. Her knees give, her legs crumpling.

She drops heavily to the floor. Before she has a chance to recover, let alone rise, the king's standing over her, raising the sword slightly before swiftly bringing it down towards her exposed chest.

And there the blade stops, a mere finger's width from slicing into her bosom.

The wolf glances up into his face in surprise.

Has he changed his mind about killing her after all?

Yet his face is as surprised as hers.

He can't understand it! He _wants_ to kill her!

And yet, he can't!

Sweat forms on his brow, runs down his muzzled face. The blade quivers, like it's being held there by some invisible force against his wishes.

'Brother?'

The Wolf King whispers this in disbelieving fear.

'You're exhausted, you've been severely weakened.' The Wolf King whispers again, but it's another, slightly different voice. 'I've waited so long for this moment.'

The shaking blade gradually swings back across the wolf's heavily breathing chest. The Wolf King himself shudders, quakes, fighting against this turning of the sword.

Despite this inner battle, the king is slowly turning his own sword against himself. His eyes bulge, as white as mistletoe berries in his terror.

Watching in awe, the wolf wonders if he'll really go ahead with it – kill himself with his own sword.

But she hasn't got time to watch this play out. Slipping out from beneath the hovering blade, she athletically rises to her feet.

She swings out viciously, slashing his throat.

As the Wolf King falls to the floor, he manages a grimacing smile.

'Thank you, sweet princess,' the king's brother says gratefully.

*

# Chapter 38

'A bad day's work.'

Quietly approaching Tamesis from behind, the lady fondly stroked the warm fur of her head.

'Or is it a good day's work? Who's to say? Not me, that's for sure.'

She stared through the window, out across the land, as if she too has witnessed everything taking place.

Tamesis turned around on the window sill.

'You've shown me far greater treachery,' she said, Prytani at last regaining a better sense of connection between them, 'many times throughout man's history.'

'The gods, too,' the lady replied nonchalantly. 'They have no right to take a morally superior positon over this. There's an overlap between the two, of course: at man's own creation. Only for tales to be used to veil the truth.'

And so Tamesis listened very carefully to what the lady had to say.

The great text brought by Joseph tells how god creates first man, then woman.

Only this is a _second_ account of the creation. For within the same text, there is an earlier, more veiled description.

There Elohim's creation is in 'our' image: which isn't really so surprising, for Elohim means 'gods', not 'god'.

Like their new creation, made in 'our image', these gods are male and female.

'Did I conceive all this people?' Joseph's text says elsewhere, even, 'you forgot the God who had given you birth.'

Indeed we _have_ forgotten her (for, of course, only a woman truly gives birth).

Beth-El, remember, is the house of god. And to the Canaanites, El was married to Asherah, Mother of All Living.

Before El, it was Ea who was married to the Mother of All Living.

And before Ea, there was Enki, married to Ninhursag – which means, again, Mother of All Living.

Before all this, there was the sacred merging between Apsû and Tiamat, the primeval ocean and Life Mother (and who, as Thalattē, is also the Moon).

And before Tiamat?

Without a beginning in time, there was just the endless primeval sea in which the universe floated.

This is Namma, Mother of Everything, who gave birth to heaven and earth from her own body.

Now even Joseph's god, we read in the opening words of the text, passes over 'the deep'. Or, as it originally said, 'tehom', their word for Tiamat, for Namma.

In the very oldest parts of this text, the oldest Psalms, their god is simply called Yh, written in Negev script as >—–O. A snake's head with a striking, forked tongue. To arrive at 'Yhwh', we have to add 'hwh' – which means both Mother of All Living and snake

Two serpents, male and female.

But what happened to this 'hwh', this Mother of All Living, this serpent of wisdom, this Tree of Life?

She was exiled, of course, along with man, Adam.

Mother of All Living in Greek is Eve.

*

# Chapter 39

Within the hall, every man lies dead. His throat cut. His face ingloriously smothered in his last meal.

His lady bends, weeping, over him. Their wailing isn't anywhere near as beautiful as the girl's singing, Prytani finds herself bizarrely thinking.

The girls have gone. Just as she had seen the werewolf dive into the air as if into a pool and vanish, the girls had similarly leapt forwards and disappeared, like they were slipping into invisible waters.

At last, the doors of the great hall are thrown open, the sons of the dead lords charging in, only just realising that a weirdly silent – or rather, accompanied to heavenly music – massacre has been taking place under their very noses. Nechtan follows straight after, but he ignores the mourning women, the bloodied men with torn throats, the sons swearing vengeance, yet secretly relishing the reins of power being thrust into their own hands

Nechtan heads straight for the bedchamber.

Of course, Prytani knows what he will find there. But she's not supposed to know, of course. So she follows him anyway when he asks a few of those in the hall to come with him.

She knows, too, off course, that the princess won't be there, won't be captured. Like her attendants, like the werewolf she is, she'll have dived and vanished into those mystical waters.

The king, still in his transformation as a wolf, lies across the marriage bed. Like all his lords downstairs, his throat is slashed. The blood seeps off to either side, darkening the bed's fur coverings.

'Send men to our borders: make sure this princess can't leave the kingdom.' Nechtan sternly orders, turning to one of the newly appointed lords. 'Take her alive.'

'Why alive?' one of the men asks.

'Because your new king needs a wolf pelt, of course,' Nechtan snaps, glancing down at the dead king with disgust. 'And as this one's dead, I can't get it from _him_!'

'But how will we know it's her?' another lord asks.

Nechtan briefly looks around, reaches for a small fur slipper at the end of the bed, hands it to the man.

'How many girls do you know with feet _that_ small?'

*

# Chapter 40

The village yard is busy again, this time with men preparing their horses for a long trip. At their head, Nechtan is mounting his own horse, Siren strapped across his back in its sheath.

Cructan has his own special perch, a padded wooden rod fixed on the horse's flanks. He sits here proudly, his eyes round as dark berries, taking in everything, missing nothing.

Unlike the other troops of men sent out the previous night, Nechtan and his men won't be hunting for the girl. There are more than enough men set doing that now, Nechtan had declared, having made sure that each group carried with them one of the princess's many shoes or slippers.

'Bring them _all_ to me!' he'd said of the girls whose feet fitted the shoes. 'I'll roast every one, if I have to!'

'Girl,' he shouts out now, calling Prytani over to his mount's side as the rest of his men finish sliding into their saddles. 'I hope you were paying attention when I told you the tale of the Seven Star Powder.'

'Of course,' Prytani answers as she walks over to him, Tamesis faithfully following on by her heels.

'Of course?' Nechtan chuckles scornfully. 'You say it as if you always listen to my instructions. And yet I _can't_ trust you, can I, girl? You didn't take the potion I'd left with you, did you?'

Prytani shakes her head.

'I'm sorry: it's just that–'

'Yes, you will be sorry, girl! If you can't be trusted, you're of no use to me!'

Swiftly reaching behind his back, swiftly whispering the charm to release Siren, he draws the great blade, swinging it as part of the same motion in a low, sweeping loop.

Siren sings.

And slices deeply into Tamesis's side.

*

# Chapter 41

Prytani lay with Tamesis.

The little vixen was dead, Prytani knew that.

But she hoped, she dearly hoped, that if they could visit the lady, _she_ might be able to help.

Prytani stroked the little vixen's fur. It was no longer warm, like she was used to. No longer, either, did the little fox make those odd little noises that Prytani always thought could have been laughter.

Her chest didn't rise and fall as she breathed. Instead, it was wet; wet with her own blood. Prytani had had no chance to stop it pouring from the deep gash, no matter how many blankets or strips of cloth she'd wrapped Tamesis in.

Prytani shut her eyes tightly, thinking that when she opened them, she and Tamesis would be in the lady's tower.

She'd tried it a number of times now.

But nothing was happening.

They were still lying together in their little cell.

Prytani tried to recall all the advice she'd heard shamans and seers giving their apprentices.

'Just as we enter the world by being born,' one had said, long ago, 'we have to travel back through the womb.'

'Drift up on the waves: return as a drop of water returns to the ocean.'

It didn't really mean anything to her, she realised despondently.

And the tale that Nechtan had told her about making the potion? The one he'd said he hoped she'd remembered? Well, that was just his cruel joke, wasn't it?

His way of telling her that, once he'd killed Tamesis, her only option would be to take the serpent potion, like he'd ordered her to.

But she'd disobeyed.

And Tamesis had paid the price for _her_ disobedience.

There _must_ be another way! A way of reaching the tower without taking the potion!

Leaving Tamesis's body nestled in the hay covering the cell's floor, Prytani rushed towards the wizard's room. It was locked, of course.

He couldn't have just anyone searching though his ancient texts, his secret potions, could he?

Bending her knees, she peered through the lock's large key hole. She could see the window, the chest that usually lay beneath it slightly moved off to one side.

She recalled the trapdoor leading into the room, the one she'd watched the dead Cuamena descend into. Had Nechtan had another visit from the dead? Had he declared that the dead lords were payment in full?

That was why he'd allowed all the lords to be killed, Nechtan had told Prytani: to buy off the wrath off the dead. Besides, he'd added with a satisfied chuckle, their sons were ambitious, eager to take over the lands of their fathers – and, more importantly, they were loyal to Nechtan, especially after he'd shown them how he could release Siren from its sheath. Which, of course, he'd also swapped for a more regular sword, just to ensure the king was killed by the princess.

Naturally, he had worked out the true identity of the princess, Nechtan had boasted. She'd secretly moved close to the king's stockade months earlier than her official arrival, giving the impression they were facing a regular werewolf, one who could only hunt beneath a full moon. That way, even if anyone had begun to suspect her real nature, what problems could there be with a wedding being held when there was no full moon? But the wedding was important to the princess, because it drew together all those she wished to kill.

Prytani stared wistfully at the trapdoor leading down into the tunnel used by the messengers from the dead.

She could use the tunnel to get into the room herself. But she had no idea where the other end of the tunnel came out.

She angrily kicked the bottom of the solid door in frustration. It gave an odd, unexpected rattle.

Glancing down at her feet, Prytani saw that a small wooden box had been placed to one side of the door's base. Bending, picking it up, she opened it to find a small jar inside.

Along with it were a few small, pillow shaped pieces of baked clay. They were heavily patterned, but only with closely packed rows of indented lines at multiple angles.

It could be a form of writing, she realised, but one she would never have any hope of interpreting.

Then, below the clay tablets, she noticed a folded piece of parchment, lined with equally closely set rows of writing (the writer being careful with how much expensive parchment he used).

But this writing she could read. They were Nechtan's notes.

They were his translation of the clay tablets.

*

# Chapter 42

The Tree, The Serpent, and The Eagle

Being childless and wanting an heir, a king built a tower including a shrine.

Now in the shade of that shrine, a poplar was growing, with an eagle nesting in its crown, and a serpent settled at its roots.

When the eagle asked the serpent to be friends, the serpent agreed, saying, 'Let us swear an oath to Utu.'

And so they swore an oath before Utu the Sun god.

The eagle was not to be trusted, however.

'I will eat the serpent´s children,' he thought, 'and I will go up and dwell in heaven.'

And so he descended and ate up the poor serpent's children.

Of course, the serpent complained to Utu.

Utu captured and killed a wild ox for the poor serpent, telling him, 'Open its insides and set a trap. When the eagle comes to eat, seize him by his wings, pluck him, and cast him into a bottomless pit.'

And so the eagle ended up in a pit as dark as the underworld.

'Am I to die in a pit?' he would complain each day, beseeching Utu to help him.

At the very same time, King Etana was also regularly beseeching Utu to show him the plant of birth that grows in the heavens, enabling him to have an heir. For Queen Muanna had seen and heard of this plant in her dreams.

Finally, Utu showed Etana a path leading to the mountain where the eagle was trapped within the pit.

'The eagle will reveal to you the plant of birth that grows in the heavens,' Utu promised Etana.

So Etana began to fill in the front of the pit, to help the eagle escape. But when the eagle flapped his wings, he fell back.

So Etana threw some more soil into the pit. But still the eagle fell back again.

This happened seven times, so it was not until the eight month that the eagle was finally brought over the edge of his pit, by which time his feathers were fully grown once more.

'Tell me whatever you desire, and I shall give it to you,' the eagle elatedly declared.

And Etana said, 'Open up my eyes to things that are hidden. I need to find the plant of birth that grows in the heavens.'

'Through the power of Inanna,' the eagle said, 'put your hands against my wing feathers.'

And so, carrying Etana, the eagle soared high into the sky.

When they were so high that the land looked but a fraction of its size, the eagle said, 'Look! The vast sea looks like a paddock.'

When they were so high that the land looked like a garden plot, the eagle said, 'Look! The vast sea looks like a trough.'

When they were so high that they could not see the land, Etana said, 'I cannot see the vast sea! My friend, please set me down! I won´t go up to heaven!'

So for the first time, the Eagle dropped Etana – and then, plunging down, caught him in his wings.

For a second time, the Eagle dropped Etana – and then, plunging down, caught him in his wings.

For a third time, the Eagle dropped Etana – and then, plunging down, caught him in his wings.

Finally, for a fourth time, the Eagle dropped Etana – and then, plunging down, caught him in his wings.

The eagle said to Etana, 'We did obeisance together, and passed through the seven gates of the gods.'

Seeing a palace with no seal, Etana went inside. The throne was guarded by lions: and, seated upon it, was an imposing, beautiful girl.

She was the Beauty of God.

She gave Etana the plant of birth that grows in the heavens. She also told him how to cultivate and use it.

And so Queen Muanna gave birth to a son, who was named Balih.

*

# Chapter 43

A plant of birth.

Could that help Tamesis?

Hadn't the lady spoken of a Tree of Life?

Prytani was confused, distraught.

She'd realised by now that Nechtan had deliberately left the box by the door for her: that the jar no doubt contained the serpent potion.

She unstoppered the jar.

She drank the venom.

*

The venom rushed through her.

If she had been a tree, it would be the sap, flooding up through her at remarkable speed, seeping into every area, every branch and finest twig.

She was at the base of the tower. Where she had seen the king battling other aspects of himself.

She was alone, however.

There were no other Prytani's to take out her anger and frustration on.

There were no other visitors to the tower that she could see either.

There was no lady to greet her.

And, of course, no Tamesis.

Above her, stretching up and up, were the quivering, whispering cords, the glowing globes, the planets rising up before her.

All the planets, apart from the Moon, which lay beyond them all, beyond the lady's room.

And the Earth, for that was where she was standing. Where she had no choice but to set off from.

The cords writhed, serpent like. The tower's backbone.

What was a serpent, but a living, moving spine?

The orbs shimmered, trembling and glowing all the more as Prytani observed each one in turn.

Saturn, at the base of the spine.

Jupiter, the spleen (which she had seen cut from many dead warriors as an affront to their dignity).

Mars, the navel.

Sun, the heart.

Mercury, the throat, from where we really speak.

Venus, the brow, the third eye.

The Moon within her very head, so painfully bright, more like a captured sun.

Her skull was far, far too small to contain it. It was expanding rapidly, too quickly to be controlled, to be eased back.

If she tried to control it, she could only lose her head.

Her only hope was to expand with it. To let herself go.

To forget the one who she believed she was. To be, instead, one with everything else.

She spread out across the land, through the sky.

She rippled and rippled, expanding as fast as flooding water, as an intensely burning light.

She saw so many, many things. She _was_ so many, many things.

And yet there were so many many more things that remained veiled.

*

She now knew where the entrance to the tunnel was.

It was in the thicket, not far from where the boy had made the clay figurine of Tamesis.

A coincidence? That depends on what you believe a coincidence really is.

Perhaps, really, a coincidence is a pointer, a means of direction in the way we want to live our lives.

Perhaps she'd been intentionally looking for the tunnel's entrance.

Perhaps that was why any ultimate vision had been denied her.

Yes, that was why she'd returned to being Prytani.

Because she hadn't been able to completely forget that she _was_ Prytani.

Because, after all, she was still too tied to the Earth.

Still putting the concerns of the earthbound Prytani before all others.

Still locked within the body that she still continued to think defined her and made her who she really was.

Before she arrived at the thicket, she came across the boy again. He was pacing up and down a low-lying field, marking out positions with variously sized rocks he'd collected earlier and placed in a nearby pile.

'Prytani,' he said in greeting, looking up. Leaving his work behind him, he walked over to her. 'I'm sorry: I heard about Tamesis.'

'It's a pity that what they said about you isn't true.' Prytani managed a sad smile. 'I mean about giving the clay birds life: then, maybe, you could do the same with the clay Tamesis you'd made for me.'

With an ashamed smile, the boy shrugged.

'Sorry.'

'No, no, _I'm_ sorry,' Prytani answered quickly, 'I didn't mean to imply it was your fault, somehow. Sorry.'

On the floor, the boy had scratched the plans of a building into the dust. It was a small scale version of the plan he was setting out using the boulders. Circular, with twelve smaller circles surrounding it.

'You're building here?' Prytani asked.

'No, not here. Joseph's been given land in Inis Wytrin. I'm just working out how it will look. A church, dedicated to my mother.'

Kneeling down by the small scale plans, he pointed to the twelve smaller circles.

'These will be smaller huts, serving as chapels.'

'You've learnt so much since you arrived here.'

The boy shook his head, chuckled good-naturedly.

'No, it's not all learnt here. Just across the valley from where I live in my land, they've been building a major city from the time just after I was born: Sepphoris. I wish you could see it, Prytani. Beautiful mosaics, the most wonderful buildings. All following the ideal of harmonious measurements and proportions to create a sacred space.'

Prytani looked at the boy's circular design, its twelve smaller offshoots.

'It seems we all look for ways of reaching up to the gods and conversing with them,' she said with another sad smile.

*

# Chapter 44

As soon as she was in the thicket, Prytani began collecting wood from the various trees, gaining permission from each one before removing it.

Next she collected up the clay figurine of Tamesis, placing it carefully within a protective blanket.

The tunnel entrance was hidden beneath a low yet wide-spreading bush. She slipped into it, making her way along the dank tunnel by feeling her way rather than using any light.

She had feared that the trapdoor leading into the wizard's room would be locked, but it opened up easily. Normally, of course, the heavy chest placed across it would block any unwanted intruders from entering.

Placing the clay figurine and the collected pieces of wood on a table, Prytani began to quickly rush around the room, gathering up all the ancient texts and parchment and throwing them onto the stone hearth were Nechtan lit his fires. As soon as she'd piled up as much as she could there, she began to use the wood she'd brought with her to build a wickerwork platform on top of it all

Getting out of Nechtan's room wasn't a problem. Prytani found a spare key. No one stopped her as she made her way across from Nechtan's room to her own small cell. Carefully picking up Tamesis, she carried her back to the room, placing her with equal care upon the platform she'd built.

Alongside her, she placed the clay figurine.

Then, using a flint, she lit the fire.

*

# Chapter 45

The wheat and barley in the fields was being reaped. Other crops were being dug up, gathered and stored, along with hay to feed the animals.

Within the great stone circles, Prytani watched the ceremonies, a wheel representing the turning year passed around until, later, it was lit and sent rolling down the hillside, symbolising the descent towards winter.

She was hungry. Without Tamesis to aid her, she could no longer tell people their future for a small payment of food. She had to steal to live. Now it was cold, she'd also had to steal a hooded cloak, dying it with crushed red berries to alter its appearance.

She had been travelling for months, but she was sure she was at last drawing ever close to where the werewolf lived.

Of course, the princess was always on the move, having to keep ahead of the troops pursuing her. Even so, Prytani _sensed_ that she was heading in the right direction. It was something, she believed, to do with the way she'd seen the princess's attendants dive into an invisible stream.

When she'd overheard Nechtan asking the dead to stop the girl from leaving, it hadn't been herself he'd been talking about. It was the princess. He'd obviously realised that he would need the help of the dead to stop her fleeing along these unseen rivers of energy.

If the princess could travel along these streams, could she also help Prytani contact the lady?

The unfortunate girls the soldiers came across whose feet fitted the slippers were no longer being transported back to the king's home. The king and his men hadn't returned from their quest for the Halo Crown, and so now the girls were simply and immediately killed.

Nothing had been heard back from the king. He and his men had simply vanished. Many searches had been sent out, but every one had come back with nothing but rumours and tales, none of which had any real substance.

Even the shamans, asked to look out for the king on their journeys into the otherworld, would return with no word of what might have happened to him.

The whole kingdom was now suffering from the squabbles amongst the new lords, every one professing that only he knew what the king would desire, every one secretly hoping to wrest ultimate control.

When Prytani had finally removed the hard-baked figurine of Tamesis from the little vixen's funeral fire, the only thing left of Nechtan's collection of texts had been a charred remnant of his own notes.

'Yesod: the fire of the holy ghost is at the base of the spine.'

'Sulam Yaakov: Jacob's ladder had 12 steps, with 2 humans flanking the base.'

Thinking about this now, Prytani realised that the routes through the stars the lady had shown her had had twelve stages, including its two starts, its two ends. The two humans could also represent the two routes to ascension.

Had the king vanished, Prytani wondered, because he had finally discovered the secret of the Seven Star Power?

*

Every so often, Prytani would come to a village full of terrifying tales of an unusually horrifying wolf attack. She would move on as soon as possible, realising that this, of course, was what the wolf would also have done.

The princess wouldn't be here any longer. She would be far away, much farther than Prytani would be able to walk in a day. The princess, as a wolf, would move far swifter, far more tirelessly.

Whenever she heard tales of nearby villages that had suffered such attacks, she avoided them, for the same reasons.

She heard even more tales of the poor girls who, once they had tried on one of the princess's shoes and found it fitted perfectly, had been excited that they would be taken to live in the king's hall. Unfortunately, of course, these girls had been fooled by the stories told of the earlier girls who'd ended up there: now the girls were instantly struck down with a sword strike to the head, right in front of their horrified parents.

Rather than the tales she heard, Prytani preferred to rely instead on the strange tingles she would experience in the base of her spine. It wasn't a sign that the princess was near, she'd reasoned, but it seemed she still retained some form of weak connection with the otherworld, or at least the energy streams that in every other way she could not sense, neither by sight nor touch. That slight vibrating of her spine told her she was close to and following one of these meandering flows.

Nechtan had said that he believed the princess was really the daughter of the mermaid queen and the Wolf King: a _mer_ wolf. That was why she could change at will, rather than just under a full moon. Why, too, she was able to walk around endlessly on her feet without showing any obvious signs of pain. As for her attendants, they could relieve each other, taking turns to seek relief in a brief return to the apsû's astral waters.

It was just such a winding current that led her through a ridiculously dark forest, one that was as expertly woven together as a tapestry. There was little room between each tree, the branches reaching out, intertwining with their closest neighbours as if drawing all their life and energy from them. She would never have found her way in such a damp, dark place if the serpentine flow hadn't shown her the only track, one well-trodden by some other person apparently aware of the coursing energy.

She came, eventually, to a small house hidden deep within the woods.

Covered in animal skins of every kind, it looked at first glance as if it were itself a strangely exotic creature, large and possibly edible. Whereas other houses were decorated with elaborately carved woodwork, this was ornamented with glisteningly white bone, all of which had been painstakingly and tirelessly formed into the most glorious shapes. A birdcage made of interlocking ribcages hung by the small porch, but its door was open; the bird had flown.

It was the perfect place for a wolf to live. And yet such a house could only have been constructed over a long period of time.

The door to the house was unlocked. Prytani stepped inside.

The furniture and furnishings were once again made of bone and animal hides, the bone as skilfully worked as any wood by a carpenter. There was some sort of game, all the pieces wondrously carved, each one a beautiful work of art in its own right. She picked one up, admiring its incredible detailing, the smoothness of its surface.

'They belonged to a woodsman.'

Prytani whirled around.

The princess was standing in the doorway, blocking off any escape for her.

Naturally,' the princess continued calmly, unhurriedly drawing closer towards Prytani, 'I killed and ate him.'

*

# Chapter 46

'Some people who still depend on nature for their livelihood, like this woodsman, they still possess a weak contact with the astral streams.'

Anyone who wasn't aware of the princess's secret would wonder why such an incredibly beautiful and elegant woman was standing here in this hideously formed room. They were at completely opposite ends of the spectrum, the perfectly proportioned princess and the malformed house.

'Originally, that was good for him,' the princess continued, moving ever closer to Prytani even as she tried to back away. 'Later, though, not so good: it led me here, when I was ravenous too.'

Prytani urgently glanced everywhere about her, looking for anything she might be able to use as a weapon.

Why had she come here? It was such a ridiculously mad idea.

'The currents led you here, too, I think. I really can't get rid you, can I, no matter how hard I try?'

'You _know_ me?' Prytani asked, puzzled that the princess seemed to know her even though they had never really met before. 'You want to get _rid_ of me?' she added more fearfully.

'Not _now_!' The princess emphasised the 'now' as if she thought Prytani was being ridiculous. 'It's way too late for _that_!'

'I...I don't understand? What do you mean, it's too late?'

The princess broke into a tinkling, mischievous laugh.

'Do you mean you don't _want_ it to be too late? Do you _want_ me to kill and gobble you up?'

'Well, no...I mean–'

'No need to explain. I'm hungry so–'

Prytani jumped out of the way as the princess suddenly seemed to reach out to grab her.

She squirmed with embarrassment when she saw the princess had only been reaching for a loaf of bread after all.

'Oh, we _are_ nervous aren't we?' the princess chuckled again. 'Don't worry! I was only going to ask if you'd eaten too! You don't _look_ like you have!'

'Then you...?'

'Eat human flesh? Yes, of course, I used to. But I'm hoping the woodsman is the last one I have to kill.'

She broke off a large piece of the loaf and handed it to Prytani, who bit into it hungrily. As the princess broke off another piece for herself, she indicated the room with a casual rolling of her eyes.

'This place, it's so well hidden, so far away from any other humans, I can risk staying a wolf for longer and hunt enough deer and boar to keep me well fed.'

She seemed to guess the next question Prytani was about to ask.

'You need far more animals than you do humans. Maybe it's something to do with the types of blood and flesh being more adapted to a werewolf's makeup.'

'And the bread?' Prytani asked, pointing to the thick, crusty loaf as the princess handed her another piece. 'How does a princess learn to cook bread?'

'Why, from the same place you've learned so many things, of course: from Olwen of the Six Hands.'

'The lady in the tower?' Prytani burst out excitedly. 'You can get to the tower?'

'Not anymore.' The princess shook her head despondently. 'The dead are watching for me along any streams heading that way. My attendants were allowed out, but none are now allowed back in – it's me they want, obviously.'

The princess couldn't fail to notice Prytani's obvious disappointment.

'But you can get there with your little–'

She halted, looking down towards Prytani's feet for a silently seated Tamesis, suddenly realising she wasn't there.

'Where is your little fox?' she added worriedly, full of concern. 'Has she–'

Prytani had tightly held in her sorrow over Tamesis's loss for so long. She had had no one to talk to about how deeply lost she felt without Tamesis by her side. It wasn't just a hole in her life – it was vast, deep, unfillable hole within _her_.

Now all that tightly constrained sorrow was all welling up inside her, rushing up and up from below her stomach (which was empty, so hollowly empty!), up and up towards her chest (where it hurt _so_ much, like a great weight crushing her, preventing her from breathing!), up and up through her throat (such that it seemed she was being choked!), up and up to her brow (so, so hard to think straight, so much stabbing pain!), up and up into her head where, unable to go any farther, it rushes back upon itself, churning and churning endlessly, sending her towards the edge of madness, the agony like great, interminably pummelling waves.

Her head would explode, she was sure. And it did: she exploded into tears, an uncontrollably prolonged sobbing that painfully wracked her body.

The princess stepped closer towards Prytani – and hugged her in a way no one had ever held her.

*

# Chapter 47

The high hill was part of the great forest. Rising up from densely packed woodland with its own thick growth of trees, it was like the swelling of a horsefly's bite on a mare's hide.

Comfortably seated within the wide crook of a tall tree, Prytani and the princess could look out towards where the impenetrably dark mass of the forest became the rolling hills of more cultivated areas. It was land which itself transformed here and there into the ramshackle wickerwork of small villages.

Everywhere they looked, huge bonfires blazed. Some had been burning so long that they had collapsed in upon themselves, now little more than glowing embers that only just illuminated the people circling them. Taking the ashes of the fire, the villagers were forming it into a circle surrounding the fire. Then, each taking a pebble, they placed this within the ashes towards the circle's edge, hoping it would remain undisturbed there until morning – for, if it was found that it had been moved out of place, this would be a bad omen for the family.

There's no moon. No moon to light up Tamesis, even though she sits on the sill of the window, where the night's changing light and shadows often seem to bring the little clay figurine to life.

No moon, either, to distract us if we wish to venture into the netherworld. Sometimes, if we are to see into the otherworld, our mortal sight has to be obscured.

Around them, they can hear the Crone, cackling in the wind-stroked twigs, the patter of the rain that's just beginning to fall, the leaves beyond their own dry shelter that bend beneath the striking of each drop.

Prytani is happy here. Happy living with the princess, Sabea. She still misses Tamesis, misses her visits to the lady. But this is wonderful in a different, unexpected way.

She has seen the princess as a mermaid, diving into the pools of water they bathe in. She has never seen a more wonderful, more beautiful sight.

Her scales flash bright green and blue, like the flash of a kingfisher, the swish of water burbling around a sun-struck salmon fighting its way upstream. Her hair is a captured beam of the moon itself, so white, so sparkling. Her lips are Mars, deliciously, frighteningly red, opening to reveal a darkness she would willingly let devour her. Her eyes are Venus, the irresistible glow of the Morning Star, the Evening Star, transporting Prytani to a better world each time Sabea joyously glances her way.

She has been born anew. This is life. Before, she was dead.

Sabea smiles, takes her hand.

How can a hand be at once so cool and yet so incredibly warm? So light, so delicate, so weak, yet hold her so strongly in its grip? A grip on her that she hopes will never, ever let go.

They needed to share the small house's only bed – was that wrong?

'Why didn't you go?' Sabea asks mysteriously. 'I mean, the day I tried to rescue you from the men bringing you to Nechtan?'

It seems so long ago. Prytani can't remember. Yes, she knows what Sabea means; the night she attacked as a wolf, telling Prytani – what _did_ she tell her? To go?

'I was on a _donkey_ , remember?' Prytani laughs, clenching Sabea's elegantly slender hand harder. 'It couldn't outrun _me_!'

'I was worried you'd know my secret. I thought you must have seen me in Olwen's tower: sensed who I _really_ was!'

'I'd seen mermaids there. I'd never realised any were _you_.'

Strangely, Sabea pouted disappointedly, yet chuckled richly anyway.

'Hah! I must admit – silly as it sounds – I was hoping, hoping you'd say, you know; that, perhaps, we were _supposed_ to meet?'

Their hands instinctively clenched all the harder.

'You mean,' Prytani whispered hopefully, 'like the sword and sheath?'

'Let me,' Sabea whispered hoarsely back, 'let me tell you the tale of the sword and sheath.'

*

# Chapter 48

Sparta's Sword

In the time when great cities rose seemingly endlessly from the earth, it was, even so, a time when envy, bitterness, and avarice ruled men's hearts.

As such, these great cities were almost permanently at war with each other, wreaking destruction on any that failed to grant the subservience another believed its rightful due.

Premier amongst these great states was proud Sparta. Not for them the pursuits of other cities: elegant poetry, wondrous sculpture, philosophical thought. Their every thought, every action, revolved around the pursuit of war.

What use a poem, unless it was to tell of the brave deeds of a victor, lament the failings of the vanquished?

Who desired a carving commentating their humiliating defeat and subjugation, as opposed to a towering celebration of triumph?

What philosophy ultimately counted, but the power of the sword?

Once you had conquered another city, you had more than enough slaves who could provide you with poems, sculptures, or explanations of how the world works.

Foremost amongst Sparta's battle formations, in every way, was the phalanx led by King Charilaos. The best trained troops amongst troops that were better trained than any others in the known world.

An elite of an elite. Well disciplined, courageous, innovative, cunning, irresistible, ruthless, and, it would seem, ultimately unbeatable.

Thus, in any invasion of another state, any siege of a walled city, any attack on a battle line, Charilaos' phalanx would be at the fore, striking deep into the enemy force.

They would thrust far into enemy territory, shattering any resistance, sapping their will to fight.

They would hack at a wall's defenders, cleaving apart the most resolute formations, the first inside any city.

They would carve effortlessly through a foe's own battle-hardened warriors, making them flee like the rawest recruits.

Hence, Charilaos and his phalanx both acquired their own, shared epithet – _Sparta's Sword._

And then one day Queen Cynisca, Charilaos' wise and beautiful queen, announced that she was al last pregnant with a long-awaited heir.

In his joy Charilaos put down his sword, his anger, his bitterness at the world.

His men were astonished, the vast majority even disappointed. War was their trade, their way of life. But their wives, their children? For them, this was the most wonderful of times. No longer would they be at home while the men were at war, stoically putting to the back of their minds their worries that this would be the time their husband, their father, wouldn't be returning.

No longer would they have to prepare to put on display their very own form of bravery, remaining tearless while they pretended to celebrate an heroic death.

So much fear that they had previously suffered in silence was, thankfully, no longer present in their life.

Charilaos' enemies, however, even his close friends, his allies, laughed behind his back at the descent of his city into what they mocked as sybaritic splendour.

Those enemies, of course, should have breathed a sigh of relief, perhaps even been joyously grateful, that Sparta's Sword had been sheathed. Instead, they resented the violations of the past. They wanted revenge. And, in his inaction, they saw a chance to bring that vengeance down on him.

Why had we feared him so, they began to wonder?

Look at him now; a coward, refusing to fight.

A man who only wants to talk peace. To come to a compromise.

The ploys of a man beset by weakness.

Only one state seemed to truly welcome Charilaos' adoption of peace in all its forms.

They sent their own emissaries of reconciliation. Men who wished to iron out trade agreements. To work out fair shares of sea routes and water courses. To arrange an annual tournament of sports, in which the men of both states could display their prowess in a means far less injurious than war.

Indeed, the latter was carefully arranged to avoid any hint of warlike actions. What were most sports, after all, but another form of military training? Archery, spear throwing, chariot racing, horse riding, even the discus: all had their roots in preparing for battle.

Each event would be a test of physical prowess, and nothing more: running, jumping, swimming, climbing, lifting weights, a limited form of wrestling. Wherever the tournament itself would be held, all weapons or even anything that could be utilised as a weapon – farm implements, cooking knives, certain builder's tools – had to be removed.

So it was that Charilaos' own city, chosen as the very first venue for the games, was rapidly striped of the weapons that had made it famous and feared. Their rivals in the games also arrived with neither weapons nor armour. Even the gathering crowds were checked, no one being allowed to carry anything that could be used to harm another.

The bread being sold in the now crowded shops and inns had to be broken, not cut. The only utensils allowed to prepare and cut food where sharpened pieces of flint, as if harking back to a more innocent age.

As soon as the games started, it was obvious to everyone that the teams were far from being equally matched. The physical attributes of Charilaos' men were superior in every way, having been trained on a daily basis to wield heavy swords and shields, to run in full armour, to fight throughout a full day with neither sustenance nor water.

Yet their rivals took their loses with surprisingly good grace, their athletes warmly congratulating the winners, the crowds from this other land cheering on anyone who was performing well.

Charilaos was pleased that the games were such an obvious success. Perhaps here at last was a model for how bickering states could come together in friendship, working out their differences around tables rather than battlefields.

Under any other circumstances, Charilaos wouldn't have wished to leave such an amazing event. But Queen Cynisca was lying in her bed, close to giving birth. When word came that her waters had broken and spilled, Charilaos made his apologies and left: he needed to be there when his son and heir came into the world.

And so it was that Charilaos was warmly embracing his wife in his palace when every Spartan remaining at the games finally realised they had been tricked after all.

*

The changes, when they came, were swift, horrifying.

With a pained grunt or groan, an athlete's arm or leg would transform, one moment flesh and bone, the next a glistening black or scarlet, extending, narrowing, hardening. Within the crowd, too, these terrifying transformations were taking place, a seated man abruptly sprouting huge, gossamer wings. Sometimes it was the head, growing, apparently solidifying; becoming what could have been its own helmet, frequently with sharp horns or even angrily snapping pincers.

The Spartans gawped in alarm at these horrendous transformations taking place amongst their neighbours.

Were they being punished for some undisclosed crime by the gods?

Was it witchcraft?

Only when each metamorphosis was complete did it dawn on the nearest Spartan that, if any punishment was being meted out, it was to them. If any witchcraft had been utilised, it had been invoked at the instigation of and to aid the Spartans' enemies.

Men who had only moments before being their friendly neighbour on a stadium bench, or a poorly competing athlete, now loomed over each Spartan as half a warrior, half gigantic insect.

Their armour was entirely natural, with helmets, breastplates and greaves of glistening emerald, scarlet, sapphire, amethyst, and an amber glowing like captured suns. Their weapons were arms burgeoning with talon-like hairs, clacking horns and pincers that severed waists with one snap, or tongues that erupted from mouths like spears and hungrily sucked life from a man,

What use was a well-practised, impregnable phalanx if you have no time to form it, no shields to build its armoured wall, no spears to create its many barbs?

The Spartans, the proud men, women and children once honoured with the name Sparta's Sword, fled or died.

*

King Charilaos comforted Queen Cynisca with a fierce, loving embrace, the great mound of belly lying between them.

The queen had been struggling to give birth. Yet still the child hadn't come. She was exhausted.

She gripped Charilaos' hand tightly.

'Soon, soon! He'll be here _soon_!'

Her attendants had left to fetch fresh sheets, towels, hot water. Charilaos and Cynisca were on their own in the bedroom.

There was a fearful shriek from outside. Another scream immediately followed, then cries, the sound of people running.

Charilaos and Cynisca exchanged curious, anxious glances. Charilaos was about to rise form the bed and take a glance out of the window when, suddenly, the double doors to the room were brutally flung open.

The insect warriors charged in.

Perhaps any queen but a Spartan queen would have quivered in fright. Maybe any king but a Spartan king would have wasted valuable time wondering who these people were, what could be happening.

'We must end our embrace,' they both exclaimed as one, separating and leaping apart.

Of course, there were no weapons to hand.

Charilaos reached for the brass statuette of a rearing horse that stood on a table near the bed. In his other hand, he also picked up a many-branched candelabra of flaming oils.

Cynisca, springing up from the bed despite her agony and tiredness, reached for the double-handled shallow bowl of water prepared for the birth. She also picked up a thick, heavy towel, grabbing an end in one hand.

The insect warriors rushed towards what they presumed would be easy prey.

Charilaos brought his equine statuette down hard on his nearest attacker. Far from being a wild blow, however, it was carefully, skilfully aimed. The horse's curved forelegs hooked on the very edge of the breastplate-like skin of the hybrid warrior. With a sharp, brutal backward jerk, Charilaos pulled the hardened skin away from the rest of his assailant's body. It took with it muscles and innards, raising a shriek of agony from Charilaos' mortally wounded foe.

Cynisca aimed her towel with equal precision, casting it as if it were a net, fully encasing the head of another attacker. Both blinding and confusing her attacker, she then gave the towel a vicious sideways jerk, sending him stumbling and falling to the floor. A sharp kick of her bared foot to his head snapped the thinner, weaker neck.

Charilaos defended himself with thrusts of the flaming candelabra towards faces and eyes, Cynisca by deflecting clicking mandibles with the now emptied bowl.

Expertly working together, they were killing and holding off far more assailants than anyone could have reasonably expected. But even as a wall of dead steadily built up around them, their attackers continued to pour into the room.

It was only a matter of time before they finally succumbed to such an irresistible onslaught.

Besides, their physical and mental strain was proving too much, especially, for their child.

Cynisca wailed in agony as her child abruptly slipped into the world from between her spread legs.

Flailing out to slow his fall, the new-born boy grabbed his mother's already torn and shredded birthing veils, stripping her of them, unintentionally spinning them around himself like a protective cocoon.

Naturally, it wasn't enough to protect him from the attacking insect warriors. Cynisca dropped to the floor with him, wrapping her own body around him like an embracing sheath, shielding him from any of the vicious blows now raining down on her back.

Swiftly taking the towel from Cynisca, Charilaos used it as she had as a net, while continuing to strike out seemingly endlessly with the stallion at the rapidly enveloping horde.

Every now and again, through the force and weight of his body only, Charilaos would cleave his way through the surrounding warriors. He would hack, thrust, strike, slash, cut at them as if he himself were a great blade skewering and deeply penetrating the flesh of this enemy body.

Each time, however, the blade that was Charilaos' body was sustaining ever more gashes itself. He fell at last, throwing his dying body across the back of his wife, in his death hoping to offer one last layer of protection from the raining blows of the insect warriors.

Charilaos' flesh, muscles and bones were butchered across Cynisca's back, as if she were nothing more than a meat-seller's slab. She prepared to suffer the same fate, her own body being the sacrifice that would spare her son's life for as long as possible.

The blades, the life-sucking tongues, the riving incisors, struck at her back again and again. Yet still she curled her body like a protective sheath around her new-born child.

She was a living, breathing womb, the rivulets of blood spilling from her soaking and flooding into her child, just as the streaming blood of the dying Charilaos seeped into her.

Within the comforting walls of this new blood-enriched womb, their child, Teleklos, grew swiftly.

As a pupa first dissolves into a potent fluid, miraculously reforming within its embracing cocoon, Teleklos transformed immeasurably, growing serpent-like through a rapid series of shedding and changing of skins.

Even the apparently ever-expanding cocoon couldn't take it anymore. It burst, spilling Teleklos forth as a full grown, naked man.

Now the force of any new-born child being thrust into the world scatters a womb's waters in a drenching fountain – and so the birth of a completely mature Teleklos briefly scattered the encroaching insect warriors. Losing their footing, the heavily armoured soldiers fell backwards, crumpling to the floor.

Teleklos rose up from the midst of the fallen bodies, like a new foal still drenched in the transforming fluid. It poured down from him in a cascade, washing over the dead Charilaos, the sword that had protected him, streaming across the lifeless Cynisca, the sheath that had shielded him.

The cast-aside warriors watched, at first, in amazement. Then, collecting themselves, seeing he was naked, defenceless, they also each confidently rose to their feet.

With a clacking of pincers, the slithering of deadly tongues, a whispering of fierce talons rasping against each other, they began to move in once more.

The boy reached out to thank the dead Charilaos, the sword that had protected him. He reached out with his other hand to caress the lifeless Cynisca, the sheath that had shielded him.

The sword was made of a metal never seen before or since, a forging of life and death, the physical and the spiritual, flesh, bone and soul all welded into one.

The sheath was of many melded birthing veils, of the walls of the protective womb, of nourishing waters, of a life given up for those you love.

The sword sang with the joy of someone who lives to bring about death.

The sheath cried out in the pained ecstasy of ensuring life goes on.

How many warriors did Teleklos kill that day?

How many wounds did he receive?

The second is easy to answer; for nothing could harm him as he strode through the city, hacking through phalanx after phalanx of insect warriors as if they had become nothing more than an irritant that must be swatted aside.

The first question, however, has never been answered; for the number is so vast that, in every retelling of the tale, the incredulous storyteller invariably lessens the numbers to ensure his tale is believable.

It wasn't until the city was entirely relieved that King Teleklos sheathed Sparta's Sword, sliding him home into the loving embrace of his queen.

Sparta's Sword stayed sheathed, too, for a remarkably long time.

There was peace at last, for the wise queen knows the king is usually at his safest when he's persuaded against going to war.

When war is inevitable, however, even she realises she must, finally, release him.

And so they part again, when the charm is said, when those famous words are spoken once more:

'We must end our embrace.'

*

# Chapter 49

The warriors moved as stealthily as animals through the undergrowth: silently, swiftly.

There was just the odd click or clack of twigs broken underfoot, which any creature, even an insect, might make.

A hunter had told them of strange sightings in the forest; blood trails, of large animals such as deer and boar, dragged over a surprisingly great distance as if weightless.

Trails that led to a small house deep in the forest, where two girls lived.

The warriors now carefully, fearfully, surrounded that small house.

A lord and three of his most trusted attendants approached the door to the house, aghast at its carvings of bone, its walls of stretched skin and hide. They didn't bother knocking on the door; they forced their way in, swords already drawn.

Only one girl was seated there, skinning a rabbit.

Prytani had been expecting the warriors. Not because she had heard them, or because she knew they were in the neighbourhood.

She had always known that, one day, they would come calling

Fortunately, Sabea was out. Hunting for food.

'I think,' she said calmly, 'you have a slipper for me to try on?'

*

The slipper didn't fit Prytani's foot.

Prytani was young, but Sabea was part mermaid: the slipper was _ridiculously_ tiny.

She pretended, however, that the slipper was a perfect fit.

'You've found me,' she declared imperiously, standing up with the slipper painfully fitted to one foot. 'I am Princess Sabea, the werewolf you've been seeking.'

But the young lord had recognised her.

'She's not the wolf: she's the witch!'

*

# Chapter 50

Prytani wanted to warn Sabea that the warriors had set a trap for her.

But a sword was pointed directly at her throat. Another man, grasping her by her shoulders, was firmly holding her within her chair.

The other soldiers were well hidden, having camouflaged themselves amongst the surrounding undergrowth and thickets. All they had to do was wait for Sabea to return, and the men making up the teeth of the trap would close in around her before she even realised what was happening.

The air tingled around Prytani, the sign of an oncoming storm. Outside, the sky was swiftly darkening, adding to the nervousness of the men holding her. Soon, the only light came through the window, as silvery as an eerie moonlight, the white mistletoe berries strewn around the frame glittering like small planets.

Their own moon-like glow made her think of the lady, and her tower. When would her tower fall? When would she herself rise?

Sabea had told Prytani of her last visit to see Olwen, a strangely sad one.

It was as if, Sabea had said, the lady had already recognised that they wouldn't be meeting again.

And so Olwen had shown Sabea tapestries of the future: the boy's uncle arriving in his ship at the base of the hill, planting a new thorn; the glass hill becoming earth once more; the tower collapsing, falling.

It would be told that Olwen had fallen with it. In fact, however, as the last of the glass glowed like the gilded pinnacle of a great pyramid, she would rise as a benu bird. For a new tree has been freshly erected in Palestine: a tree of death, promising knowledge and life.

In the way you can sense the changing of the wind, Prytani sensed that Sabea was close.

Sabea swam endlessly through her mind, through her very blood, right to the ends of her fingers that so frequently touched and caressed that warm, soft flesh. The pertness, the ripeness, the deliciousness of her triple mounds. Her wonderful variety of sensations, given, shared, taken.

As the wolf, Prytani now realised, Sabea was equally magnificent. An element of nature that lived and moved through it like a wave moves through the sea: part of it, not distinct. Every creature was subservient to her, eventually willingly giving themselves over to her, for she needed food, clothing.

Did the men sense Sabea's presence too? Certainly, their edginess had increased, to the point where they looked about them endlessly, as if expecting a sudden, magical attack from any corner of the room. They glanced especially at the small shrine originally erected by the woodsman; one dedicated to the trinity of the Beli, and in particular to the carpenter and coming saviour of the future, Hesus.

The ghostly light entering via the window fell across Tamesis, made her glisten like a wraithlike alabaster. The silent, watery sheen reached out, flowing across the floor like a stream. It brought with it Tamesis's own swiftly growing shadow, like a giant wolf at the window.

Despite their edgy fear, the men were only briefly fooled by this apparition. It was enough, however, for the sword at Prytani's throat to drop slightly away. And that was enough for Prytani to leap up from her seat and run for the door.

Prytani dashed outside, looking out across the clearing for any sign of Sabea, whom she knew must be close.

Prytani was both glad and dismayed. Yes, Sabea was there! Stepping out of the dark embrace of the woods, dragging with her the gored remains of a doe.

Seeing Prytani rushing towards her, Sabea tried to smile. Then she saw the fear on Prytani's face, realised that she was shouting out a warning.

Just behind Prytani, warriors appeared at the door to the house, kneeling, raising their bows.

Their arrows were well aimed.

They both struck Prytani within her back.

Prytani arched forwards as the arrows sliced through her, the bloodied heads exploding from her chest.

*

# Chapter 51

Sabea couldn't believe, didn't want to believe, what she was seeing as Prytani crumpled to the ground.

Arrows and spears were coming in from everywhere around her now, all aimed at her. They thudded hard into her flesh, penetrating deeply and agonisingly.

She didn't care. All she cared about was Prytani.

Ignoring the arrows still speeding through the air towards her, Sabea dropped the doe she had been carrying and ran towards the fallen Prytani.

Even now, she was hoping that Prytani might still be alive, might still be saved. But the closer she got to Prytani, the more it dawned on her that this was a false hope.

Prytani was unmoving, perfectly still, the only sign of life that of the blood streaming from her skewered body. She had no chance of surviving arrows that had sunk so deeply into her delicate, beautiful body, Sabea realised with a sickening, heart-tearing sob.

The long, thick arrows striking her own, much more powerful body were gradually draining away her own life. Each excruciating blow was weakening her further, drawing more and more blood from her, ripping more flesh away, tearing into deeper muscles, shattering even bone. Some of the closely hurled spears – the men, sensing that the wolf wasn't prepared to fight back, stepping out from their hiding places – were even worse, thudding into her with a force that almost knocked her off her increasingly unsteady feet.

She toppled to the ground before reaching the fallen Prytani. Still, however, the men fired arrow after arrow into her, evil barbs transforming her body into a thorny bush.

The last element of her life was seeping from her, she knew.

She used that last element of life to reach out, to grasp and tightly hold Prytani's small, fledgling-like hand.

*

# Chapter 52

The bodies were left where they had fallen.

The men were too exhausted to carry them anywhere, their nerves too shattered by the fearful waiting.

They had considered beheading the wolf, parading her head in triumph around the villages. But the storm that had been threatening to strike now came at them as if nature herself were angry at their slaughtering of her strange creation.

The sky darkened, such that it could have been night displacing the day. Heavy drops of rain beat at them, making their heads ring inside their constantly pummelled metal helmets. The wind snatched at their cloaks, whipping them about the men as if transformed into scourges that relentlessly flogged legs, arms, even faces.

Soon, the men reasoned as they rushed away, the beasts of the forest would take care of bodies that were now nothing but butchered flesh. After the beasts would come the birds, then the insects, until not a piece of the two remained. Now they would serve as a feast for the animals who had so willingly given up their own flesh to feed the girls.

As the men emerge with sighs of relief from the dank forest, however, another enters. He follows the serpentine course leading him to the clearing, the storm rescinding. Rather than the sun, however, it is the moon that rises, casting out her own particular glow.

First, he steps inside the little house, picking up the clay Tamesis from the window sill. Stepping outside once more, he places this by Prytani's side (where, of course, Tamesis has always lain) before tenderly covering them both in the cloak of wren feathers he has brought with him.

Reaching beneath the veiling cloak, he pulls Tamesis out – and Tamesis smiles up gratefully if a little sleepily at the boy.

'We have much to do, little fox,' the boy says, grinning warmly.

*

The spears have to be pulled free from Sabea's body, and cast aside.

The arrows, with their evilly barbed heads, are harder to remove. So the boy breaks the shafts, his strength a surprise to anyone fortunate enough to have met him.

Similarly, he lifts and carries the huge wolf with surprising ease, Tamesis trotting faithfully and trustfully alongside his heels. He finds what he's looking for very quickly: a stream, gathering its waters into a pool.

He carefully tips Sabea's limp body into the pool, watching it sink, sink deeper than the pool itself descends, deeper than a body would naturally sink under its own ends.

'Cast away,' he says, 'whatever impedes the appearance of light.'

Tamesis watches too. She starts in surprise when, down in the darkness of the pool's underworld, there's a sudden, bright flash of colour. Emerald, sapphire. Flickering gloriously.

With a powerful swish of her glistening tail, the mermaid swiftly ascends, up and up, reaching for the clearer, sparkling waters of the surface. She breaks the surface, her wings already spreading, her feathers glittering with the hues of deep pools and the clearest sky.

The kingfisher rises, up and up, as if heading towards a welcoming Moon.

The boy smiles down at Tamesis.

'Come, little fox,' he says, heading back towards the track leading them out of the forest, 'we _still_ have much to do, you and I.'

Tamesis follows, but glances back towards where Prytani has been left beneath the cloak of wren feathers.

This time, she's not surprised by what she sees.

Like a flash of moonlight, the wren swiftly rises from the ground.

And, catching up with the soaring kingfisher, she also rises up and up, up towards a warmly smiling Moon, the Great Queen of Heaven.

End

The Halo Crown

The Teutonic Knights urge their strange, horseless mounts to move as swiftly as they possibly can across the vast, snow-ridden plain.

The thick, black cross normally worn on their shields is here stamped on the sides of these strange, mechanically powered carriages. The heavy armour the knights once wore has been magically hammered and forged to construct these wondrous devices, the men instead hiding away in small groups within them. The carts have innumerable wheels, so many they're set in overlapping rows, a segmented armour revolving around them, churning up the snow, even the ground itself.

The knights' warring against the Slavs, however, continues. Not so far off, you can hear the dull crumps of an endlessly falling Greek Fire, the blasts of hot flame turning parts of the evening sky a burning red Mars would be proud of.

On the horizon, the forest they're hurtling towards flows like a black serpent across the thick white cloak of snow. Without a break in their tremendous speed, they rush down a muddy track snaking through the closely-packed, branch-entwined trees.

It's only when they arrive at what, in this dense woodland, could be claimed to be a clearing that they at last slow their pace. The armoured carts slew to a halt, throwing up spumes of snow, their angrily growling voices gradually stilled one by one.

As if escaping from netherworld monsters forced to spew up the dead, the men rapidly clamber out. They nervously take up defensive positions around the clearing, their eyes wary, fearful.

Only one man remains in the clearing's centre. A man dressed unlike the others, who are similarly garbed, clearly soldiers.

No, this man has the long black coat, the large dark hat, the knowing smirk, of a wizard.

He approaches a large boulder, one strewn with mystical symbols, ancient carvings. Its top has been smoothly hewn and flattened, apart from a socket of about a hand's depth.

Reaching into a coat pocket, the man takes out an ivory flask. From this, he pours out a crimson liquid until the hole is entirely filled. As he does this, he mumbles a carefully practised incantation.

Then he waits, the snow falling gently, softly. Even the endless crump of Greek Fire, dulled to an infrequent thump by the surrounding trees, can hardly be heard here.

The only sound he hears is the uneasy fluttering of his own heartbeat.

He senses, though, the nervousness of the men around him.

They are deep within enemy territory. He has persuaded them of the importance of his mission. That, as he sincerely believes, it could turn the tide of war in their favour once again.

Even he jumps, however, at the abrupt, harsh clank of iron.

He glances edgily over his shoulder, looking back to where the noise had unexpectedly originated from.

Two sheepishly apologetic men have dropped one of a number of weapons they're unloading from the back of an armoured carriage.

The man whirls around as another sound draws his attention, this coming from the direction he'd expected, had hoped for.

Peering into the darkness of the impenetrable maze of interlocking twigs and branches is like staring into a pit of the underworld. There's no light there, not even a reflection from the all-encasing snow.

He can hear the twigs breaking, being broken. There's a low shuffling, like feet crunching step by slow step through the luxurious carpet of fallen twigs and snow.

Steps drawing closer. Heading towards him.

And yet, he can't see anyone.

Nowhere, in any of the legends he had avidly sourced, collected and read, had it said that the guardian was invisible! There were the heavy footprints, however, every closing step disturbing the snow, revealing the darker tapestry of twigs lying beneath.

The uneven, irregular cracking of the stems has become a rhythmic clacking. The crumpling steps are drawing nearer to him, unhurriedly crossing the clearing. Heading towards the centre, where he patiently, nervously, waits.

The footsteps of disturbed snow, the cracking and clacking, stop directly in front of him.

And _still_ he can't see him. He can't sense any presence at all!

The slithering whisper of shuffled branches continue by his feet. He looks down.

It's so horrific, he almost instinctively stamps on it, stamps it out of existence.

A steadily clicking black stag beetle, the size of a shovel's blade.

The clicking, the cracking, grows louder, the sounds of bones being painfully broken. The beetle shakes, vibrates, its many legs frighteningly extending, its body bloating.

It grows quickly, too quickly for the man to respond to his instinct to flee.

The creature rises swiftly on legs that are becoming more human, its already shell-like skin hardening all the more into plates like black iron. Two pairs of its legs entwine like sprawling vines, meld, becoming heavily muscular arms encased in a gruesomely barbed armour. As they sprout into hands, however, they continue growing, creating on one side a blade of whispering shadows, on the other a shield of impenetrable blackness. The beast's underside expands, transforming into a broad chest behind a thick breastplate, the head into a dark helmet, its heraldic device of pincered horns snapping angrily.

The face only partially revealed within the helmet's visor is only partially human.

Even so, it speaks with a gnarled, man-like voice.

'Who challenges me?'

The eyes behind the visor are dark, penetrating, as round and small as poison berries.

'I see no one in armour!' he complains furiously. 'No one mounted, ready to face me!'

The man facing him wonders who could ever hope to take on such a creature and win. The black knight is now far taller than him, and obviously incredibly powerful and muscular behind the covering plates of dark armour. No knightly weapon could prevail against such armour, with its whirls and whorls of barbed decoration, its barbaric skewering spikes.

'No one is here to challenge you, guardian of the greatest crown.'

The man had carefully remembered his lines. Every word is important. It's the only way to appease the guardian: to obtain his help.

'I seek only the Halo Crown. I seek it only for the challenge of kingship.'

'That is still a challenge,' the guardian rasps. 'A far harder challenge than facing me.'

'I know. Yet this is the challenge I wish to accept.'

The guardian nods his approval.

'Then follow in my footsteps,' he says, turning, heading back into the forest.

*

Passing through the tightly interwoven branches of the forest is like fighting through a dark thicket of thorns.

They snatch and tear at the man's coat, his boots, the skin of his face and hands. They whip off his hat, yet he leaves it lying amid the snow, fearful that the guardian – effortlessly moving on ahead as if the branches are magically parting for him – will leave him behind. His coat is quickly shredded, whole sections of it ripping off, draping across the branches that have claimed them as their own, like torn veils.

He hopes the handful of well-trained soldiers he'd ordered to follow on after him are faring better than he at making their way through this dark underworld of labyrinthine tracks. Behind him, he hopes, they're advancing through the black undergrowth silently, swiftly, as stealthily as animals. He's tempted to glance back, to seek signs of them: but he doesn't want to risk giving away their presence to the guardian.

At last the trees begin to thin out a little, allowing him to catch up with the unhurriedly moving guardian. Still, though, the trees blend into their surroundings, made partially invisible by thickly swirling snow. It takes him quite a while to make out the river lying ahead of them, its icy sheen making it as one with the sheets of snow settling everywhere about him.

He stops a moment, blinks his eyes, clearing them of the soft white flakes blocking his view. At first he'd thought it was a trick of the light, of his imagination, shapes forming in the rapidly whirling snow.

But no; he was right.

It's there, now, right in front of him.

Beyond the river lies the looming castle, grey as the sky, its unlit windows only apparent where ice patterns glisten, reflecting the stars.

*

The river isn't as easy to cross as he'd thought it would be, the ice thin, cracking wherever he stands on it.

The cracks rapidly spread, maze-like. The ice sheet breaks up into jagged pieces, floating on the water but precariously, delicately, unbalanced. He slips and falters a few times, loses his own balance. A few times, too, he nearly slides into the freezing water, where he would surely die.

He's relieved when, at last, he makes the other bank, the steadiness of the land beneath his feet suddenly seeming odd, weirdly unnerving.

Gazing ahead, he briefly holds his breath in his excitement: he's only a short walk away from the steps leading up to the castle's great doors. And, as so many of the legends he'd read had informed him, the foot of the flight of steps are flanked by life-sized statutes of ferociously leaping lions.

For the very first time, fear and doubt surges through him.

How many of those legends say that these lions spring into life, attacking the seeker of the Halo Crown?

How many say they are only figments of the imagination? That all you have to do is ignore them, and they will vanish?

Naturally, the guardian passes between them unmolested. He stops for the very first time, halting on the steps just beyond the roaring lions.

He waits.

So, _is_ it a test? the man wonders.

He hopes his men are close by. Their weapons, surely, could destroy stone lions far easier than the swords and shields their makers had thought they'd be facing.

The man warily puts his foot on the first step, ready to step back, to run if needs be.

Nothing happens. The statues don't move.

The guardian has continued on his way. The great doors open up before him, revealing a dark, unlit hall.

The man takes a few more steps. The lions still remain frozen, lifeless.

He trips along more lightly now, chasing after the guardian a little, who has moved far ahead of him. As he enters the darkened hall, candelabras against the wall blaze into life, their flames fluttering in a wind the man no longer feels.

Behind him, he hears the abrupt growling of lions, the shrieks of terrified men.

He risks a fleeting glance over his shoulder. His men are there, taking on the stone lions that have sprung into life.

The lions maul the men. The men aim spears that spit flame, that magically shatter the stone bodies of the lions from afar.

Even so, one man is dead, his blood spilling out, soaking into the snow, turning it a glorious pink.

The guardian seems or acts as if he's unaware of the attack taking place behind him. He leads the way up a narrow, winding staircase.

The soldiers pad silently through the open doors, spreading out, slipping into nearby rooms, prepared to kill anyone who resists them.

*

The top of the long, winding stairs at last open out onto a vast hall. The walls are decorated with an incredible array of shields, swords, spears.

A vast armoury of outdated weapons, the man thinks to himself with an amused smile.

At the end of the room, a huge window opens up onto a balcony. Beyond that, there is only the darkness of the sky, the white sheet of fallen snow covering a plain endlessly stretching out to meet that sky.

The guardian is standing on the balcony, waiting. The man joins him there.

Somewhere far in the distance, the falling snow starts to spin, millions of flakes drawing together as if caught in a whirlpool.

In the moonlight, this orb of snow glows. It could be the moon itself, fallen to earth.

The glow begins to draw closer, passing over the frozen plain, its own bright shine making the snow below sparkle as if the stars have been strewn across the land.

The closer the glow approaches, the more the man can make out its shape.

It's a crown.

The Halo Crown!

Where it has already passed over the land, the snow has melted in its ever expanding glow. Beneath the snow, there's a glass-like ice.

And beneath the ice, there lies the vast army of legend.

The Dead Legion, waiting for their new king to lead them to war.

*

The Halo Crown hovers in the air just out of reach of the man.

It sparkles like a hoard of purest white diamonds melded together, like a mass of rising bubbles within abruptly frozen water.

'Who serves the crown?'

The guardian asks the question. He waits patiently for the answer.

Inwardly, the man sighs with relief.

Yes, this was one of the questions that most of the legends had predicted would be asked. He gives the answer that had appeared in most of the texts he'd studied.

'The people serve the crown.'

'Whom does the crown serve?' the guardian asks.

'The crown serves the people.'

'How can the one that serves also be the one who is served?'

'The people and the crown are one and the same, each having no meaning or purpose without the other, and therefore can never be separated.'

The hovering, glistening crown trembles. Unhurriedly, it draws closer towards the man, rising slightly as it does so.

Below, across the entire plain of ice, cracks begin to appear, rushing outwards at a rapidly growing pace, like a vast tree swiftly sprouting crooked limb after crooked limb. The floes move, tip, the warriors from below the waters rising up and effortlessly climbing onto the shifting ice. There are warriors from every age; mounted knights, soldiers of the Great Empire, men garbed in similar jerkins yet carrying odd weapons.

Thousands of them, stretching far back across ice that is already reforming into a smooth plain beneath their feet, the hooves of their mounts, the great weight of elephants.

_Hundreds_ of thousands.

Far greater numbers than the man had ever possibly imagined.

The Halo Crown is hovering now just above is head.

It gently slips down, anointing him.

Hundreds of thousands of warriors cry out their approval.

'All hail the great king!'

*

The steady crumping of the landing Greek Fire grows louder, more frequent.

The flashes of flame that briefly light up great crescents of the night sky are drawing nearer.

The men left waiting in the forest clearing are becoming increasingly nervous.

They've had no word of the men sent on ahead to search for and capture the castle. They have been gone far longer than anticipated.

Finally, the commander decides he'll take two volunteers with him, make a last, quick search for the missing men before retreating before the swiftly encroaching enemy.

The tracks of the men who had gone on earlier have already been covered by the rapidly falling snow. The men the commander takes with him, however, are experts at spotting where twigs had been broken – and there are so many of them, even he can see where to head.

Making their way with incredible difficulty through the thickly set forest, they come at last to a wide river, offering them some respite from the clawing, riving branches.

Even so, on the other side of the river there's nothing but more dark forest, more endlessly intertwined, interlocking branches.

From where they are, neither he nor his men can see anything that looks like a track on the other bank. Either the other men have simply vanished, or they've made their way down the river.

The river has frozen over, the ice itself veiled by a thick covering of snow. Bending down, the commander uses a gloved hand to sweep away some of the snow, revealing the ice sheet below.

He leaps back in horror.

Just beneath the ice, staring blankly yet smiling blissfully, is a man's face.

'K...Klaus!' he stammers, recognising one of his men.

The commander and the two men he's brought with him begin to hurriedly brush more of the covering of snow aside.

There are more of their friends there, lying just beneath the ice, their dead bodies encased in a thick, transparent prison. The civilian lies alongside them, his dark, strangely shredded coat floating about him as if caught in a wind that blows only around him.

'Can anyone hear that?' one of the men asks the others curiously. 'Like a mournful singing?'

Even more perplexedly, it seems to be coming from beneath his feet.

Once again, he kneels down, sweeping the covering of snow away from the ice.

This time beneath the ice, there's another man, this one dressed in the garb and armour of a long past age.

Within his hands, he proudly holds a massive broadsword.

A sword that sings the saddest song ever heard, even in the cold underworld lying beneath the waters.

And high above, a wren flies across the face of a smiling moon.

End

If you enjoyed reading this book, you might also enjoy (or you may know someone else who might enjoy) these other books by Jon Jacks.

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

