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A five masted ship black in the hull, black in the sails. A woman carved as the figurehead, hands together in prayer, head bowed. Two white wings fully extended reach to the sides of the galleon. The metal feathers howl and sing with the air rushing through them. The name carved in white. ArcAngel.
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"Is there a way?" Morgan glared hard at the cleric of Morrigan.
"There is no way to stop the dreaming that we can find, lady." The cleric replied head bowed.
Morgan drew back, her hands spun in the air, magic floated to her fingertips.
"But." The cleric said slowly.
Morgan looked at him, hate and rage in her eyes, "But!" She spat at him. "But we can flood and twist those dreams. What she sees will be useless to her and her companions. If she follows the pattern of the Girl, her waking dreams will become more and more pronounced. Without her guide during the day as she has at night and even at night, we can distort those dreams. Though the guide makes it more difficult."
Morgan let the spell drop, "Can you find this guide of hers?"
"He only appears in her dreams, by day she travels with no one that fits his description, but he can be killed in the dream world."
"Then do so."
"We will try, lady. These powers are new to us and the clerics of Morrigan, it is not our specialty. But until we learn more, we will make her doubt everything."
Morgan waved him out of the room and smiled.
Modred sat on the edge of his bed, holding his hand over his right side. Blood welled through his fingers. He looked back at his bed, blood covered the sheets. A female Brigid cleric stood in front of him.
"My King, the blood from that wound no longer responds to healing. There are more mundane ways to seal it though. I don't know how long it will hold, lord. The stitches did not hold overnight. I can cauterize the wound. It will be very painful."
"Do what you have to." Modred replied through gritted teeth.
The woman crossed the room and placed a poker into the fire. She waited in silence until the poker became red hot. She crossed the room quickly with poker in hand. Modred nodded. She shoved the poker into the wound. Modred screamed and then passed out cold. A minute passed as the cleric, pushed the poker around trying to seal the blood still welling from the wound. Finally it slowed to a trickle that was manageable.
"The lonely light of morning, with the wound that would not heal It's the bitter taste of losing everything." The cleric recited, "It is beginning as Brigid foretold."
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Elata ran a hand through her blond hair , she was constantly flipping it out of her eyes. She should cut her hair one day, it would make her look less the child that everyone thought she was. Her day had been bad, news of Corison's death and the death of Brenna weighed on everyone. She thought that they were safe in Belfast, safe enough at least. That is not the case, someone got into the Temple of Epona, killed them both and then took both the bodies. The guards tried to stop this dusk-skinned warrior but he shrugged them off like flies.
A knock at her door had to be the paladin she was expecting. Elata wasn't looking forward to this conversation but it needed to be done. A Norseman walked in, he bowed slightly.
"Sir Torson?" Elata started.
"Sigurd. Sigurd Torson." He said sitting. Elata noted that with him sitting and her standing he was still at eye level with her. Tall man that's for sure, his arms looked like one of her legs, but he was looking at her like a dog waiting for commands.
"Sigurd, in light of the death of Corison, we are going to try a new tack. I have sent Callas the headmistress of the order a message about the death of Corison and Brenna. I have asked her to advise me on my next step. But the time lag is going to be a problem. I am going to give you a field commission rank of Captain, until such time as we hear from Gaviao your new Commander."
Sigurd nodded, long blond braids shaking around his head.
"I want you to assign a knight to each cleric of Epona. They are to protect the priest or priestess at all costs. I am assigning the clerics to do the same. The novices are going to mainly used to heal your knights, but the acolytes and higher will be able to help in combat. I want your knights to train the clerics how to fight on the road. We will need to group these combinations into groups of 10 or less to a group. We will then dispatch them to the forests of Ireland."
"For what purpose my lady?" Sigurd asked.
"Their mission is this. Find any druid or ranger of Succellus that has converted to Epona worship or not. Convince them as best that you can that they need to join us. Do not force them. Then once you have scoured the forests, talk to the villages and towns, find anyone that will join us, to either fight for us or to spy for us or even just pass on information that they happen to see. Make contact with all those people and send us lists of those people. If they want to fight for us, tell them to make their way to Belfast, we will offer them 3 meals per day, a bed and healing, plus standard pay for a soldier. During the time that they are doing this, I want them to strike at Morrigan clerics. Find a group of them, single is better. Cut them down, burn or bury the bodies in out of the way places. I don't want them found again."
"Lady?"
"You heard me. Wherever there is minimal risk involved. I don't want to see a Morrigan cleric standing. We are not going to fight them outright. We are going to hit and run them to death. If it comes to an outright war, then we will dig deep into our pockets and hire the Celts if we have to. I am meeting with my counterpart in the temple of Brigit. I don't assume that they will openly attack the Morrigan people, but I am hoping to at least use them for their healing abilities and as safe havens in case our people get into trouble."
Sigurd nodded.
"You have your orders, Captain. See that they are carried out." Elata turned her chair around, listening for the click of the door. It didn't come, she spun back around.
"Captain?"
"I was waiting for your dismissal lady."
Elata blushed, "Oh dismissed."
"I will return shortly with 2 others lady."
"Return shortly with others?"
Sigurd paused by the door, "Your orders were to assign knights to the clerics of Epona. You, lady are one such person. I believe that headmistress qualifies for at least 3 knights lady. We will be back shortly."
Sigurd closed the door.
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His eyes are very green, the green of moss that blankets trees and today they are very hard. He hears the twang of a thousand bows, the hiss of those thousand arrows slipping through the air toward him. His black hair swirls about his vision as he prays to Epona to launch his spell. A wave of energy washes into the air before him, each arrow that it touches, contorts and becomes living serpents. The air fills with the hissing of the snakes flying. Some impact the ground around him, with a soft plop into the snow, others explode as the bodies come into sudden and abrupt contact with stones and trees. A bloody fog of blood weaves around him.
His eyes sweep the field of battle. A thousand probably. Orcs in full combat armor. Just what was this Callas thinking in sending them out here to harry this army that is coming. This was just the tip of the iceberg, dragons flew the skies, blasting their ice from the heavens to send you all to hell. His orders were to harry them and harry them he will. Long steps took him from the trees into the opening where the orcs stood. Some of them grumbled, "Just one." "Let the new ones take him." "No fun, just the one."
Marcus swept his quarterstaff into view, pointed on both ends, he leveled it at the orcs. A great many of them laughed at the man with the pointy stick, until it spat lightning at them. The booms of the lightning, drowned out the screams of the dying. The orcs rushed, hoping to overwhelm him, but his damage was great. Bolt after bolt, spewed death to the orcs. His gloved hands smoked from the heat of the staff. When finally they reached him less than a hundred still stood. The staff became a blur, the point plunged from one orc to the other, leaving bloody openings in all of them. Forward and back, the staff moved in some primal patterns almost moving itself from target to target. A lone orc fled the battlefield, his commanders armor gleaming in the sun as he ran. Marcus's eyes narrowed as if to say, should I let him go? Then he smiled a small smile and heaved his staff through the air, it plunged through the orc's back and pulled the entrails out through the stomach. The staff stood like a javelin stuck in the soil, the orc held up by the weapon. Marcus walked to the still barely alive orc and taking a sharpened stake from his side, he plunged though the bottom jaw of the orc and pushed it deep into his brain. He spasmed and died.
Marcus swept his green eyes skyward, watching as a white dragon circled slowly. He retrieved his staff, slowly and noisily, then turned his eyes once more to the dragon. He seemed to be gauging the distance to the dragon. He pointed his staff tip toward the white speck in the sky and waited. Closer it came and lightning echoed through the trees again.