Chronicle of Ages (7 page)

Cara nodded, pulling together the tattered remnants of her clothes.

Bryce looked about and spied a cape amidst pieces of Conan's discarded clothing.

Cara shuddered as he went to place it around her. ‘I would walk to Castle Dwyran naked before I would wear anything of his.'

Bryce pulled off his own shirt. ‘It got a bit wet.' He wrung it dry, shook it out and assisted Cara to put it on.

The concern and heartbreak on the young man's face and the gentle way in which he aided her in dressing renewed Cara's faith in humanity. ‘I bless the day the Goddess brought thee back to thy kin, Bryce, for thou art a truly extraordinary soul.'

Bryce's throat ached from holding back the tears of admiration he felt for this woman, and the strain of his restraint caused his voice to waver as he spoke. ‘Thou art the extraordinary soul, Lady.' As he felt the tears escaping his eyes, he placed an arm around Cara to help her to the ladder.

When Cara saw the slaughter by the dim torchlight on the deck above, she was awe-struck. ‘Bryce?' She looked to the young Prince, unable to believe him capable of such butchery.

‘Nay, Lady.' He flashed a grin at her misunderstanding. ‘This wast not my doing. An otherworldly army were the instigators … they cleared me a path straight to thee.'

Cara was enchanted by his words for she had
thought, only moments ago, that the Goddess had abandoned her. Visions of Conan's abuse brought her back to earth, however. Even if the Goddess had seen to her rescue, why did she not save her before the violation of her body, mind and spirit had taken place? Conan had copulated with her, more than once, and Cara shuddered at the thought that she may have conceived a child of his seed.
Spare me this, great mother, and my faith in thee shall be renewed.

 

Apart from Brockwell's concern for his boy, every other aspect of the remainder of the journey to Dynevor was enjoyable.

Trwst had set such an amazing pace on foot through the dark misty landscape that Brockwell had offered the lad a position as his personal scout. The lad had graciously declined the royal appointment on the grounds that his home was in Dyfed and that he aspired to be Vortipor's head scout one day.

‘Then, when this crisis hast past, I shall make sure that thy aspirations be closer at hand, Trwst.' Brockwell dismounted. Having nearly reached their destination, he wanted to stretch his legs.

‘I would be most indebted to you, Highness.' Trwst smiled to show that he would accept the latter offer.

‘Hold up.' Brockwell thought he spied something amidst the shadows of the forest. He swapped the reins of his horse for the torch his scout carried, and moved to take a closer took.

‘What hast thou found, Majesty,' Trwst inquired, as he moved to follow.

‘Stay where thou art,' Brockwell yelled back to the lad, for he could barely take a step without treading on a corpse or severed body part. The King could only assume this was the remains of Conan's force, although he was hard-pressed to imagine what had happened to them.

Guard thyself for true.

The challenge resounded in Brockwell's mind as a lone figure began to take form in the mist before him. The apparition was clearly hostile and bore all manner of frightening weapons.

In ten years as King and a Master of the Goddess, Brockwell had learnt a thing or two about otherworldly occurrences, and this certainly had all the telltale signs of one. An encounter with a griffin had taught him the first two rules when dealing with the Otherworld were to think only the purest of thoughts and do not draw a weapon.

‘Greetings friend.' Brockwell stuck the long torch stick into the ground and unfastened his sword and scabbard.

When Trwst saw the bright illumination filtering through the mists and trees in the direction the King had gone, his curiosity got the better of him. From the safety of some bushes the lad beheld the landscape of corpses over which the glimmering, fierce warlord resided. The diminutive form of King Brockwell stood before the apparition in defiance, and Trwst could barely believe his eyes when the King discarded his weapons.

Dost thou have a death wish?
The celestial warrior stared down upon the tiny King.

‘I want to live,' Brockwell informed. ‘And I do so to serve the Goddess in all things.'

A claim worthy of debate.
The ghostly challenger transformed into a ravishingly beautiful woman.
Perhaps I could interest thee in a different form of conquest?
As the celestial beauty floated down to stand before Brockwell her form shrank and manifested into a naked human female.

Brockwell was disturbed by this development, for as tempting as the offer was, he knew he must not accept it. ‘Thou art perfect in every way.' Brockwell lingered on that thought, unable to prevent himself admiring the beauty of the body being offered him. ‘But my Katren be fairer still.' He averted his eyes. ‘She would not hesitate to skin me alive for such a transgression either.' He winced as he imagined the reprimand. ‘Thus … I am afraid I must decline.'

What if …?
The woman touched Brockwell's jaw and directed his attention back to herself as she transformed into the image of Tory Alexander.

‘Now thou art being nasty.' Brockwell stepped away, seriously panicked about his capacity to retain control. ‘I know thou art not her.'

But look at me, Calin?
She brushed the long, fair hair back to expose her fully naked form.
Dost thou not want this body?
She ran her hands down over her breasts and beyond, inviting him to reach out and touch her.

Brockwell was spellbound a moment as fantasies from his bachelorhood came back to haunt him.

When their war band had first encountered the great warrioress from the future, Calin had wanted nothing more than to see her dead. For, having been unfamiliar with the ways of the Otherworld at the time, such
phenomenon had been his one and only fear. After being vanquished by Tory in hand-to-hand combat, a few days in her company found him more attracted to her than any woman who had gone before her. But then another woman had challenged him in single combat and won, this time with the hierarchy of four kingdoms looking on; his beloved Katren stole his heart that day and had held it from that day to this.

‘Nay,' he withdrew from the vision. ‘Thou art a boyish fixation from my past and nothing more!' he told the apparition firmly, whereby it vanished.

 

A mule was not the most comfortable or speedy transport for riding long distances, but in this mist Samson wouldn't have made his destination any sooner by horse. The sunrise would be a welcome sight, the Bishop considered, for the woods in this area were rather creepy to travel through in these conditions. It was easy to see why the locals avoided these parts as a haunt of the Tylwyth Teg. The atmosphere of the place was really quite unsettling.

An area of mist out in front of Samson became illuminated, and he thought the sun must have started to rise, but a brief glance around him told the Bishop this was not the case.

Guard thyself for true.

Samson held both hands to his ears — the command had come from an internal source. He looked to the ever-growing spectral light in his path to perceive it take on a form.

‘My God,' the Bishop concluded, falling off his mule and to his knees. ‘A visitation.'

The presence took the form of what Samson considered Jesus Christ would look like, and its hands were held out palms up to expose the wounds of the crucifixion.
My son,
the vision bethought the Bishop,
thou art sorely mistaken.

‘In what way, my Lord?' Samson wanted to know.

By allowing the contrived beliefs of mortal men to override thine own better judgment.

The Bishop was most confused by this. When had he allowed this to happen?

Art thou so arrogant as to assume that the beliefs of all the folk of thy native homeland be a falsehood, a connivance, and only thou dost have any knowledge of the divine and his dominions. Just because the religion thou hast chosen be more disciplined and organised, do not take this as verification of your presumption. It be only one of many narrow interpretations of the infinite power that mortal men have yet to comprehend … although some ancient cultures have come close. The true essence of divinity can only be discovered by the study of all beliefs, for the answers to the mysteries of the ages art to be found in every single factor of creation … it will take the combined efforts of every single incarnation of every being who has, does and will walk the earth to fathom it.

Samson rose from his knees. The wonderment had left his face and been replaced with a frown of caution. ‘Thou art the devil, sent to test my faith.'

Again, the contrived beliefs of mortal men override thy better judgment.

‘Show thyself for who thou art,' Samson demanded.

It shall be a great disappointment to thee.
The ghostly figure took on the physical presence of Gwyn ap Nudd.

‘Another deceit,' accused Samson, having his own ideas on what a devil should look like. The being before him looked more like an angel minus the wings than a hideous demon.

True, my realms art of chaos, but that does not make the inhabitants evil. For we dwell in the great scheme of things a level closer to the divine than ye of the physical world.

‘Art thou implying that thou art an angel?' scoffed Samson.

The Lord of the Night shook his head, amused.
Here thou art, accusing Maelgwn Gwynedd of weaving falsehoods to suit his own ends, when in reality he hast a far greater idea of the universal picture than thou dost. But then, one only despises another for that which one despises about one's self. Could it be perhaps that deep down thou dost envy the Dragon's open mind and capacity to comprehend?

‘Nay!' Samson blocked his ears in a fruitless attempt to block out the demon's tutorial. Why was he listening at all? Why were the words ringing true for him and playing on the strings of his heart? This test of temptation was truly confusing.

Thou art being tested, Samson, but not how thy head would have thee believe. Ask thyself what thy heart holds to be true and just. Hast this been an eye opening experience … or a mind closing one?
Gwen ap Nudd began to fade and the sun began to rise.
The rest of thy life can be a wonder or a farce, Samson, the choice be thine.

As the first rays of dawn filtered through the mist and onto his body, Samson stood dumbfounded. The Bishop found himself wondering why, if the apparition
had been the devil, had he left him feeling so inspired and at peace?

 

As the night shadows faded and the morn brought some light to see by, Vortipor realised he had reached the bay at Aberdaugleddau. Even here, there was not a breath of wind and the heavy mist shrouded the waterway from his sight.

Hungry, tired and tormented Vortipor climbed from his horse to walk along the water's edge. What was he to do now? To continue this pursuit would surely be a foolhardy indulgence with his kingdom in peril.

‘Nay, I must not believe that.' He adjusted his attitude. ‘I have come this far in blind faith.'
The Goddess will provide
. Vortipor began to look around for a means by which to continue his search when up ahead he spied a small rowboat that had been dragged up onto the bank.

‘Not exactly what I had in mind, but beggars cannot be choosers.' The Protector tied his horse to a tree to graze, and made a move to drag the boat into the water. As he grabbed hold of the stern, he noticed a couple of bodies curled up together within. Tears filled his eyes when he realised it was Bryce and Cara.

‘Dear Goddess.' He came around the boat to crouch down beside his sleeping wife. Her angelic face was so badly beaten that he began to openly weep. ‘What hast happened to thee?' he muttered softly.

Bryce's eyelids parted and upon spying Vortipor the Prince eased himself out from beside the Protector's wife, holding a finger to his lips so as not to wake the
ailing Lady. The lad climbed silently from the boat with the aid of the older man, and walked a little way with Vortipor to speak with him of the night's ordeal.

The young Prince had never imagined he could ever see the great Vortipor so broken and consumed by grief as he was upon receiving the news Bryce bore.

‘Thou dost have my deepest gratitude until the day I die, Bryce. I shall not forget what thou hast withstood this night for the sake of my kin.'

Bryce backed up at this point, rejecting his gratitude. ‘I should have gotten to her sooner … I could have!' he confessed, his face awash with the tears of his remorse. ‘The damn rocking of the boat put me to sleep —'

Vortipor grabbed hold of the Prince as the lad was going into shock. ‘If anyone be to blame, I am. I should have been with Cara and Bridgit, instead of —'

‘I am to blame.' Cara spoke up. ‘Had I not fancied myself as infallible, I would have had a guard with me.'

‘Cara.' Vortipor ran to support his wife's trembling form and wrapped her up with him in his cape.

Bryce backed away quietly. His quest was over, but he felt none the better for his deeds. In fact he felt worse. He was no longer remorseful about the life he'd taken; what disturbed him was the lingering mind torture Lady Cara would have to endure for the rest of her days.

‘Violent acts against women and children will be abolished in this land,' Bryce vowed to the Goddess there and then. ‘If I have to see to it personally.'

He considered that perhaps the reason the otherworldly spirits had seen him through the night's peril was so that he would reach this resolve.

‘Aye.' He decided it was. ‘Let every man think twice before contemplating such a woeful act for fear he shall fall victim to my sword,' Bryce stated aloud with much conviction, reaching for his weapon to hold it high and seal his pledge, but it was rather anti-climactic when he recalled that it was missing in action. ‘Of course, I shall have to get a new sword first,' Bryce explained to the Goddess behind the sunrise, only just noticing that he could now see it. The otherworldly mist was retreating.