The Book of Battles

SOUTHERN HALE

The bells rang long into the night, and one of the soldiers loaned out by Duke Richard had asked, “What in the world is that?”

“Those are coronation bells,” Edmund noted. “I remember them well.”

Allyn could not remember coronation bells. He had only been four when Edmund was crowned at Ambridge. Edmund had left Hale to the Herreboros and North Hale to the Baldwins. Now, Allyn thought this might have been unwise. Since Osric and Myrne had begun their conquest, cartloads of priests and bishops thrown inelegantly from their estates and cathedrals, carrying all the wealth they could, oil paintings and gold trimmed furniture, wagons piled up with rich carpets, had crossed the border. The border lords who had refused to bend the knee to the new regime were exiled with much less and filled the court of Ambridge with their grumbles of complaint as well as, Allyn noted, their empty bellies.

“We should camp down for the night,” Edmund said as the sun set.

“I wonder how they were crowned. After all, Svig destroyed the old crowns.”

But by the dying fire, as first watch was taken by Beaumond, Raymond and Alberic, one of the Ambridge guard born up in North Hale said, “The crowns were damaged, split into pieces, but gold cannot be destroyed. Just as the Wulfstans were not destroyed. Both were preserved by the same man.”

“Who?”

“Ohean Penannyn.”

Ohean Penannyn!

The name that was only heard, whispered about, moving through the south, sometimes at the side of the old king Anthal in Westrial, so it was said, the lover of Prince Anson, the would be king of Rheged who had left the throne to his cousin Idris for the sake of magic. But when Edmund had known him, he had been a boy riding with another boy, a handsome, cinnamon haired young knight, and though Ohean was not tall and in many ways not physically impressive, there had been something in his flashing eyes.

“Do you wish to be King?” Ohean had asked him.

“I hear you are a bastard prince with witchy powers.”

The young knight’s hand went to his sword, but Ohean had shaken his head.

“Surely that is not the only thing you have heard, you who are little more than a bastard yourself. Do you wish to be King or no?”

“Can you make me?”

“I can help.”

“You and the Baldwins.”

“Yes,” Ohean nodded. “They too.”

“And those who help raise you up can help tear you down.”

“Well, now that’s always true,” the boy Ohean had said, leaning down from his horse and smiling like a cat eyeing a mouse.

“It is said that after your nephew Eoga died,” the Marchman said politically, “his wife Cauda, fled to Ohean. Ohean it was who found the golden crowns. They were in he hands of Sweyn’s son, Tostig. He took them around the same time he defeated their fleet. Possibly the same time he met you, your grace, and he had them reforged.”

The whole time he helped to place a crown on my head, he hid the old crowns and my nephew!

Well, now, Edmund thought as he drifted into sleep, he was a sorcerer. That was the thing about those Royan witches. They might help you, but they always had their own ends, and often as not the ends seemed completely contradictory. After all, hadn’t Ulfin Baldwin sought help from the hags of the Rootless Isle, and ended up fathering that wood witch, Pollanikar who was, in the end, partially responsible for his death?

When Edmund woke he realized it was not his bladder. No. He had sensed a thing, as any good soldier would. He blinked. Allyn was standing over him.

“Come,” Allyn said. “We have to be on our way.”

“On our way,” Edmund grumbled. “You little fool, it’s in the middle of the—”

But then Allyn’d blade was to his throat, and his brother-in-law grinned down on him madly.

“Don’t make a noise,” Allyn hissed, “and don’t worry about calling Richard’s men. Just rise.”

Edmund was a mighty fighter, but here was the time to admit Allyn was as well. Carefully, Edmund stood, his back against the tree, the sword point at his throat. Edmund turned his head just long enough to see Raymond, legs out like a rag doll, head lolling, his neck glistening and red.

“Your cousins just had to insist on sending their men,” Allyn said. “Well, no matter, they will be buried with respect. No need for dishonor, but you are going with me. With us.”

Edmund could hear the other soldiers packing up the camp, and he said, “They agreed to this?”

“Oh, yes,” Allyn said. “These men are my men. I am the head of the Ambridge guard and they have been waiting for me to be King. I should have been King.”

While Allyn spoke, his brother-in-law disarmed him, removing every dagger Edmund had on him, and Edmund thought, “Why did I take him for a fool? Why did I forget he was head of the guard, an accomplished soldier? Why did I forget he was so strong?”

“I will be King,” Allyn said, shoving the bag over Edmund’s head.

“Now, let’s go.”

ZAHEM

TURNTHISTLE FARM 

In the night, while the stars passed over them, and now and again he saw the high hills in the distance, the mountains which made the pass into Daumany, Connleth Aragareth passed from sensation to sensation, exchanging kisses and touches with the two souled creature, the two bodies lover that was Ohean and Anson. They were one, but never a confusion, the softness of Ohean’s flesh could never be confused with the different velvet and steel feel of Anson.

While his teeth chattered, and his eyes rolled into his head, while he gave himself to the relentless bounding of Anson, the demon lust that followed after the gentle lovemaking, he remembered thar dark hut of initiation where Anson had remained alone, with no companions, and he head come to him as no one in complete darkness. The fucking had been like this, desperate, primitive, both of them losing their minds. Back then Anson’s seed had flown into him quickly, and the large man had buckled and cried out like a child. They had made love slowly after this, Conn knowing it was him, Anson knowing only that he was with the spirit of compassion, and while he slept, Conn had left and gone back to his room in the White Tower.

Tonight there were times when he lay with Ohean like the earth, like the Great Mother, holding him like a bed, while Anson strived over him, in him, lifting his legs and draping them over his shoulders, the sweet pressure of the lion prince pressing deeper and deeper into him as they strove together under the wheeling moon and stars, and there were times again when his face pressed into Ohean or when his whole body pressed into him, and he was caught in the mystery of that magician’s body, striving as Anson strove with him. All through the night none passed on the lonely road, their grunts or groans, prayers or shouts never went down the long path from the gate to the farm.

Once, on the Hidden Isle, Conn had seen on a wall the sign of three rabbits chasing each other in a circle, and it had been made so cunningly that though each of course had two ears, those ears fromed a triangle and there were, at true inspection, only three. The emblem had filled him with an almost dread, and Manwy, the Grandfather of Ohean, had said this was one of the oldest of signs. Now, as the three of them strove together, naked in the wagon under th stars, he knew they were this, the sign of ancient magic and lust and reproduction.

 The striving, the sweating was like a kneading, a creation. Need was being answered, pleasure given. Love was being made, but a strong magic as well, and like the strongest magic, where it began and to what end it would go, Conn could not say.

Moved through weariness, to rest, to something beyond both, in time they gathered their things and left the wagon, following the path back into the house and going through the great living room toward the stairs. Before the fire, on the great bear skin rug, the three of them watched Arvan and Austin making love, the firelight shining on their bodies, caramel and white, moist in the heat of passion. They watched with no lust of laughter and only compassion and it reminded Conn of being back in the Blue House where sex had the old innocence. But they were in their own innocence, mostly naked, but for the clothes they held, the blankets over them. Ohean, who wore nothing at all,  led them upstairs to bed, and Conn who had revered him, for the first time desire him, admiring his round heavty buttocks, sturdy thighs broad back, confident walk that held power when he held no staff save the one between his legs. The three of them piled into bed with a sigh and began making love all over again.

In the night, Conn woke, spraled on his face so comfortable, so at ease he seemed to be pressed into mattress and Ohean lay half snoring on his back, while in the little water closet he heard Anson pissing.

Just like that, his mind drifted and he remembered the first time with Derek, and the first time when he could listen to him relieving himself in the little restroom down the hall in the old Blue House in Kingsboro. He saw his brothers, Cal, Gabriel, Matt, at the festivals, dancing in their blue sarongs before the great image of Adaon with the torches, the light gleaming on their torsos, their eyes closed in devotion, the music played steadily as Quentin, with a leg that would not dance, lost himself playing the drums. Later they would go into the dark rooms behind that image, and without prejudice offer their bodies to whoever came to them to worship in the oldest of rites.

But now Conn understood that what he was seeing was not the past, but the present. Derek, Cal, Quentin and some of the new ones were leaving the house they’d made for themselves in Immrachyr. They had bought houses and a wagon, and they were heading south. But why?

In the norther Myrne and Wolf looked older. He was Osric now, and their was a crown on his head, and there was a proud wolfish man of late middle years before them both. But who?

And then Derek and Gabriel were riding in the night, at the head of several Blues, and Derek said, “I am coming to you soon. The Age of War is at an end. The Age of Love is about to begin.”

There was a jingling of bells, and people in saffron robes walking, many of them. Conn had seen them in Kinsboro before, and they were singing.

 

“Ahna Ahnar

Ahna Ahnar!

Ahna Ahnar

Ahna Ahuar!”

 

And there was a woman, head wrapped and body wrapped in orage, bracelets jingling from her arms as she declared:

 “I am coming to you soon. The Age of War is at an end. The Age of Love is about to begin.”

Conn wanted to say, “Wait! Wait! Who are you? What do you mean? What are you? Who are you?”

But it was as if his mouth was lead, like these simple words were too much for him to say, and then Anson was crashing back into bed, and the mattress sunk under the wait of his great, strong, lionish body, and his arms lays across Conn, dragging the younger man into his princely warmth.