Chronicles of Kells and Temra
The past few weeks went by slowly. Usually when held captive, Maeve made it her point to be as disagreeable to her captors as possible, but this time, she did her best to squelch her stubborn nature and try to get along with her captors. She did this because she still had hopes of escaping one day and ruling the island, but also because she knew her mere presence galled the Princess Deirdre and truthfully it amused her to watch the Princess get so enraged. It was a source of comfort to Maeve, the knowledge that no matter what, she would always be a thorn in the King's side.
She spent most of her time lying on her bed of straw, rubbing her broken leg. According to the Druid, it would be several weeks before she could put weight on her leg again and even despite his best efforts, she would always walk with a limp. This galled her, but it was one of those facts that couldn't be helped; she would have to be a Queen with a limp.
As she languished in the dungeons, she would strain her ears and listen to the sounds of the knights practicing in the courtyard, hoping she could hear something of her son. She wasn't a foolish woman; she knew that any ties between them had long since been severed, but in spite of everything, he still called back memories for her. He is more like his father than he knows, she thought.
She has heard all the stories they tell about her. The soldiers, while polite to her face, whisper about her when they think she isn't listening. They call her a witch and a whore among other things. Some of what they said was true, some of it wasn't, but she didn't care. Sticks and stones, sticks and stones, as her father always said. It was the one bit of useful advice he'd ever given her and she took it to heart. They could break all her bones, bury her in the deepest dungeon, but nothing they could do could ever take away her birthright. Even in rags and tatters she will always be a Queen and they will not.
There was a wisp of smoke. When the smoke cleared, she saw Mider standing in the center of her cell. "Mider..." She reached for a handful of straw and threw it at him, but it landed harmlessly at his feet.
"No kind words from my former employer?" Mider said. Maeve scowled. "I see," he said. "Well I just came to deliver a message for you from your former tutor."
"So you're Nemain's errand-boy now?
Mider stepped gingerly on the stone floor of her cell. "If you please, I would like to deliver my message."
"Just deliver it and crawl back into whatever hole you crawled out of," Maeve said.
"Very well then. Nemain is going to make her move soon and I thought you would want to witness it." He handed her a clear marble. "Look here and you'll be able to bear witness to the fall of Kells." He set the marble down on the stone floor and left, leaving Maeve alone in her cell once more.
Maeve picked up the marble and rolled it around on her palm. The marble was smooth and cold to the touch, but she was more interested in why Mider had decided to give it to her than its physical properties. Was Mider really doing Nemain's bidding or was this his own little trick, a mocking final gesture to his former Queen? Whatever this was, there was no way she would tell Rohan or anybody about this boon that had been given to her. They would never believe her and besides, she might be able to find a way to use this somehow to her advantage. She didn't know how yet, but there was a possibility it could be very useful to her.
Kiaran made one last check on his men. This was not how he had planned things to go—he would much rather spend more time training his men and building up their strength—but his majesty had given her orders and it was his job to carry them out. He was a knight pledged to Lady Nemain; he was her hands and feet. His duty was to obey. Still, the Lady Nemain did grant him the permission to choose the place he was to attack and plan the strategy; she was not one of those arm-chair rulers who thought just because they had played a few rounds of chess meant that they knew all the ins and outs of combat.
Though he was young, he had already been in too many battles to count and truthfully, war seemed a pointless endeavor: a tired old game, where men fight and bleed over land, while faraway nobles held balls and debated strategies. He wasn't looking forward to fighting another one but Lady Nemain, he knew, was far wiser than any noble he had met. If she was pursuing war against Kells, then she must have a good reason.
Kells…This island was a strange one to him and stranger still were its people. He had talked with his men, shared beer with them, and sweated through training with them; through this he had learned much more than just their names. One of the chief things he had learned from the Temran soldiers was just how deep this feud ran. It was more a family feud than really a war; two cousins had split from one another and ever since, there had been a border between Kells and Temra and nothing but hatred between the two kingdoms. The border had been set by nobles and diplomats without any of the knowledge or input of the Temran peasantry or the Kellsmen. As such, many Temrans had relatives in Kells and many Kellsmen had relatives in Temra. Though it had been over a century since the feud wrenched the island in two, many still spoke of kin that had been left behind when the border was laid.
The Temrans were a tough people—they had lived through hard times and it was seldom they cracked a smile—but Kiaran had found that they too, had their share of prophecies. While the Kellsmen, he knew, believed in the Draganta prophecy, the Temran peasants had their own version of the story told in whispers around campfires.
Ever since the feud began, they had whispered predictions about someone mighty and strong who would set Temra in order. They had held onto that hope with each subsequent ruler and spoke of it still. Nemain had done much to give the Temrans hope that she was the one mighty and strong; she had almost single-handedly lifted Temra out of the impoverished state the last ruler left it in. Kiaran wasn't sure if she was the one sent to bring Temra into order, but she was the first good thing to happen to Temra in a while.
"Shall we attack now?" one of the soldiers, Bran said. Kiaran looked to the sky. "No, not yet."
He had divided his army in two and set one half away to attack a fort on the eastern side of Kells. The object of that attack wasn't to win, but to serve as a diversion, to help stem the flow of Kells's soldiers as long as possible, while they, the main body of troops, attacked the West Somerfield fort. West Somerfield, was a more attractive prize—if they could take it, it would give them access to the river, which they could use to attack other forts—but even that wasn't the main purpose of the attack. While Nemain had ordered this attack in hopes that she would reclaim a small corner of Kells, what she really hoped to prove to the Kellsmen was that Temra was not some dead dog, lying prostrate after being run into the ground by its former leader, but alive and strong. To aid him, she had given him a new weapon, a black, spiked club. "I can think of no warrior more deserving of this weapon," she said, as she presented it to him. "To gain its true power, say, 'the shadows surround me' and it will aid you in ways you can't imagine."
The weapon still hung at his side but he was hesitant to use it. He didn't trust in magic; he had seen too many good soldiers ripped apart by spells. But he took the weapon anyway as a token of his respect for Lady Nemain. He owed her his life and therefore, he trusted in her judgment. He would use this weapon, only if the need was great, he decided.
One of the soldiers shook with nervousness, clearly a green soldier, who hadn't experienced his first battle. "Will the Knights be there?" he asked.
He did not need to reveal which knights he was talking about; everyone knew he spoke of the Mystic Knights, the warriors given power by the little people of Tir Na Nog. One of the things, Kiaran was trying to train out of his men, was the almost supernatural awe in which they regarded the knights. Not that he took them lightly—he knew their weapons were great—but take away the weapons and they were ordinary people, was his view. Magic was only as great as the people who wielded it and he knew from experience that people get exhausted, need rest and food, magic-wielding or not.
There was a flash and a great red streak, like a bird, flew across the sky. Kiaran knew this was the signal of the other half, that they were ready and in place. He turned towards his men and ordered the attack on the fort.
