An emergency war council had been
called-for in Caswallawn’s great hall and was attended by the five monarchs and
all the Gŵyrd of the alliance, as all had been drawn here to CaerGwlyb to
discuss this latest and most alarming intelligence. It came to be known, that a
huge Roman support fleet was about to set-sail for Prydein, with five complete
Legions and four thousand cavalry in the host. The rumours placed the legendary
General and Consul; Pompey at the head of this vast force, all of which was
about to sail from somewhere in relief of Caesar, but no one knew for sure where
or when. Brythonic spies had confirmed that Julius Caesar’s primary invasion fleet
was prepared and on the point of departure from Porth Bonon and many pigeons
had recently exhausted themselves carrying their messages to and from Gaul and
Prydein. A great deal had already been put in place for the defence of Prydein
against Caesar’s invasion force, but if this secondary and much larger fleet
materialised, this country would be doomed. Many of Prydein’s military leaders
had been hurriedly consulted by the ruling Kings at this shocking news and this
great war-council frantically convened in Casufelawny’s Capital.
The hulking, broad-shouldered
King Ederus of Galedon had spoken up in his growl, drawing everyone’s attention
to him, as he had remained stoically silent until now.
“I have a certain agent in the
field currently.” This infamous northern King told them lugubriously, eyeing
all around the huge table in Caswallawn’s Great Hall, whose thick, carved beams
above them were glazed a honey-brown from the smoke of generations. The huge
oak and iron-riveted door was coal-black in comparison but was locked and
guarded, with several armed guards stationed outside to secure their privacy.
“She is in the precarious but
established position, of being Caesar’s senior hospitality cook in Fort Bonon.”
The regal King of Galedon told them casually but the response from around the
table was far from casual, and he had to hold his hand up to achieve some
measure of silence to continue, from the babble of raised voices and questions
around him. “Please allow me gentlemen and I will answer all your questions as
they come. Firstly as to motive, our plan was to give Caesar a gwenwyn.” He said easily and the
surprise at such a bold plan to poison the General, was clear by the agreeable sounds
these warriors around him all made. “Through the offices of my ghost-warriors,
I was able to put this agent in position to be captured by Caesar’s forces, during
their conquest of Treviri two years ago and when they vanquished Dun....”
“Two years ago?” King Cridas of
Albion interrupted him in shocked surprise, his eyes wide across the table and
making Ederus chuckle. “Your guile and long-term planning shame us all good
Ederus, and I am so-glad we will soon be family!” Cridas added seriously,
making many laugh around this littered and beer-stained table but it was
short-lived, as all were on the edges of their seats at this revelation.
“Well further to this, we were
able to arrange it so that she was captured whilst demonstrating her immense
skills, in preparing a banquet of the most delicious food imaginable. Her wits
had kept her alive that day in the fraught early moments of defeat, as you all
know what happens when a Caer falls.”
All these men around the table
nodded at that dark remark, as most had experienced it personally although
mostly on the winning side, but they knew and had seen first-hand the horrors
which befall the inhabitants of a vanquished fortress.
“This lady had cooked for Kings
and Queens across Prydein and Gaul but is known also by some as Laryn, the wife to ghost-warrior Nêr
Fuanladd and she is our most accomplished agent.” He told them.
“Good Gods! Laryn has cooked for
us more than once at CaerUswer!” Bellnor spluttered. “She’s a spy? I would
never have believed it!” He declared in wonder, looking at the King of Galedon
in surprise.
“Rather the point, eh Bellnor!”
Ederus responded with a smile and a nod, and Bellnor chuckled, nodding himself
at his own blindness and tapping the table in approbation. “We knew it was an
extremely risky undertaking at the time but thought the possible outcome worth
the effort.” Ederus continued and all nodded in agreement at this too, as the
head of any snake is always the primary target for a quick defeat. “It was hard
on my man Fuanladd, as it was almost certainly a mission of almost suicidal
requirements.” He said this thoughtfully and more to himself, but he snapped
out of it and straightened in his chair. “Laryn of course made herself noticed,
by tempting a group of cavalry officers amid the bedlam with her delicacies and
as a result, some of the General’s officers had taken her captive as a cooking
slave. They soon came to rave about her cooking, so much so, that Caesar
himself had been tempted to try her food. All was going to plan surprisingly
well at this point and the General himself had become impressed with Laryn’s
skills, securing her safety and service. It took a great deal of time and
effort on her part to get his trust up, to a point where he no longer picked at
her offerings but ate enough that we may make use of it. However this has
proved far more difficult in reality, as the General is an extremely careful
man who has had attempts on his life by poison before, and so employs a number
of slaves to taste his food before he eats.” Ederus paused here to wet his
whistle, before continuing and his audience hung on every word. “The poisons we
have available to us are just too obvious and would never have got past the
General’s tasters, as they weren’t just employed to discover any poison by
dropping dead, they are all trained to discern the tastes and smells of a host
of other dangerous, but perhaps slower acting compounds and potions. All the
cooks are overseen and closely scrutinised and Laryn has never had the
opportunity of drawing near to the General for a suicidal attempt with a blade,
apart from the rare occasion he visits the kitchens to congratulate and reward
her. Even then he is always accompanied and closely guarded.”
Many faces were showing
uncertainty now around this table but Ederus pressed on.
“We were not the first to set-out
to poison the General that much became clear, and we are sadly certain now that
we cannot put our plan into action. Anyway, I won’t risk the life of that
marvellous lady for a forlorn attempt, and of course Laryn is still stuck in
the Wolf’s lair and forced to work in his service.” He finished glumly,
thinking of the long-parted couple and their sacrifice, but he was warmed by
recent reports. “We do also have contact with Fuanladd currently, as he is
monitoring the situation in Bononia for us along with another, long-established
comrade.” Ederus added casually. “So I have been planning to have her spirited
out of there any day now!”
“I bet HênDdu knows of a suitable
poison!” Caswallawn offered and then snapped his fingers. “What am I saying!
Here’s the man to ask!” He proposed, hiking a thumb at his brother who sat
thoughtfully beside him. All eyes turned to Lludd Llaw Ereint at this and he
looked up then, still clearly deep in thought.
“I have a cunning plan.” The silver-handed
King said with a smirk and you could have heard a beard-comb drop to the
doeskin rugs underfoot. Not only was this man High-King of all Cymbri, he was
the Prime Dewin of Prydein and possessed mysterious and unknown powers,
commanding their attention. “What if we change the target and the goal?” He
said sitting up straighter and signalling an arwein for more drinks. “Don’t
pull Laryn out just yet Lord Ederus, as we need information now more than
anything and although I am all for rescuing such a wonderful and forthright
lady, we may have work for her yet.” He said to Ederus, but his gaze was
focused elsewhere, as his mind stretched to the task.
“What would you suggest Lord
Lludd?” Ederus asked him following a brief pause and with a respectful bow of his
head.
“I have a number of…. compounds
in my chest, which may offer us a slightly different opportunity.” Lludd said
enigmatically, more to himself, but those distant, blue eyes were glittering. “Firstly,
we need to select a lesser officer than Caesar as a target, so that we are able
to get the first element into his food a lot easier. It will need to be someone
in a position to know about the existence of this support fleet of Pompey’s and
its arrival, if it exists at all and is not just propaganda or anecdotal,
confused gossip. However we all know too, that we cannot leave such a thing to
chance as our very existence depends upon it!” He told them seriously and the
solemn faces around him confirmed their agreement. “We simply must know, as our
plans will need to be completely altered if Pompey’s fleet of reinforcement is proved
factual. We will have to draw-down all
our reserve forces if we are to even survive!” He added darkly, and the full
ramifications of this possible arrival of over thirty thousand men, cavalry and
artillery struck these men now, with a cold certainty that this spelled doom
for southern Prydein, maybe even the country as a whole. “Even the werrin-army
may have to be called-out, as with the cleanest hearts and the best will in the
world, the chances of repelling this great and professional force are slim at
best and we may be forced to agree terms or be annihilated in this world by
that Roman….” Lludd bit-off the curse and took another drink.
There was a pregnant, ominous
pause following these foreboding words. Lludd paused here too, as his mind was
flashing through the details.
“This liquid I have in mind for
the first phase, tastes a little strange but is masked quite well with
mushrooms. This will make him very
ill.” He said with a dark and rather unnerving smile, and Bellnor was
transfixed to his chiselled, inscrutable face.
Since his honourable and much-appreciated
appearance in Breganta at his great military council, Bellnor had made a few
tactful enquiries about this impressive wizard-warrior of such note. Over and
above the lurid stuff surrounding his legend which could be heard in any tavern
in the country, he had discovered the real details about this fearless and
mysterious man who had trained at the legendary CaerBraint in Môn, all of which his agents had
gathered with the utmost care and secrecy. He had become even more impressed at
the truths of this man, with his impeccable lineage, his infamous silver hand
and ferocious intellect. He was glad to number such a man as a friend and
nodded his complete support now, to whatever Lludd Llaw Ereint came up with.
“This violent sickness will
come-on over a period of ten to twelve hours and will not only turn the bowels of
the victim to vinegar but will manifest itself in the most alarming blue
blotches on the skin, which will look like emerging blue flowers.”
Everyone looked surprised at
this, as it sounded like no sickness they had ever heard of. Lludd smiled at their
ignorance. “They will be equally surprised I’m sure!” He looked at each of them
in-turn, before continuing with that same enigmatic smile on his rugged face.
“We will make-sure that the rumours fly
among the captive werrin in that fortress, in that this is a peculiar disease
to northern Gallia and Prydein alone. It is transmitted by a tiny fly we shall
call the Dewin!” He said his grin widening,
and his listeners laughed at this irony and his play on words. “None of their
healers will have a clue and no matter what they attempt, the blue flowers of
the Dewin will continue to blossom and the victim will shit his life away!” Lludd
said emphatically.
“How does this aid in our quest
for knowledge brother?” Caswallawn asked him, wishing he hadn’t almost
immediately but Lludd didn’t even blink.
“Laryn will let it be known that
she can cure this ailment and will be allowed to forage for the things she
needs, as they only grow there, or here in Prydein. No-doubt she will be
guarded but I’m sure we can get what we need to her before hand through your contact
without too much trouble, just as we can get the information out.” He proposed
nodding at Ederus who agreed readily, and it was clear to all around this long table,
that this impressive King-wizard-warrior was still thinking through the details
‘on the hoof’.
“A certain infusion will seem to
cure this individual and he will have improved by the following morning to a
great extent, but he will still have to be under Laryn’s constant care, in case
of sudden relapse which is common. During this period of intensive care, she
will have the opportunity to carry-out the real
mission.” He told them with his enthusiasm rising, warming to his extempore plan.
Lludd had everyone’s undivided
attention now as their cups were refilled but from long practice and even
longer tradition, he waited for the servants to withdraw before continuing.
“I have another… formula.” He said obliquely. “Which
renders the recipient utterly unable to tell a lie or hold back anything of
importance when asked. It has the marvellous added benefit, of obliterating any memory of the period and the interrogation.
Hopefully Laryn can use this compound to extract the information we need and
then find a way of extracting herself, before the man has the inevitable
relapse about a day later, when he will die screaming and black blood will squirt
painfully from every orifice in his body!” The Dewin growled this and some here
swallowed noisily at not just his words, nor the manner of their delivery. It
was the bleak expression on Lludd’s harsh features at that moment and the
stark, pitiless look in his blazing blue eyes which had unnerved his newest
allies around this table.
“Fantastic idea!” Bellnor
breathed, voicing all their thoughts and the King of Breged had a look of utter
respect on his own, less terrifying features at that edifying moment.
“However it’s not without its
problems gentlemen, as the interrogation will have to be done in whispers by
necessity, but the man may continue to talk freely for some time after, which
may not be a problem in itself unless he starts to yell-out, which is highly
likely and would condemn our agent. As just being known to hear those
intelligences were they true, however garbled and fever-driven would put her
life in instant jeopardy. I’m not quite sure how those two compounds will work
alongside each other either!” Lludd said this to himself, his brow furrowed.
“There is no counteracting compound
to the truth potion unfortunately and it has to run its course, which from the
amount required will be three to four hours. However from what I know about
Laryn, she is ever inventive and may have to render the man unconscious after
the examination, but I think it might just work!” He said more hopefully,
looking up at his rapt audience. Ederus stood then and bowed deeply to King
Lludd of the silver hand and the scraping noise of wooden seating erupted along
with much applause, as these aristocrats rose to their feet in approbation.
“One more thing!” Bellnor called-out
and the cheering faded, all eyes turning to him. “I suggest we make thorough
enquiries as to the root of this rumour, as I believe our other little problem may well be involved!” The King of Breged
offered obliquely, referring to the rebellious Houses of Northern Trinobanta
and looking down his nose at them all. His friends, peers and colleagues all
nodded at his wisdom. “Speak to your Gŵyr and
track-down every single lead, find out who told who, and we may get a sharper
picture of the source of this rumour.” He advised, as they began to break up
and head for the door.
There was much consternation in
the senior Medicus’ tent of Fortress Bononia, where lay the pale, pain-racked
and sweat soaked body of one Titus Ocluvium Durum, Tribunus Equitarius of the Tenth Legion and one of Quaestor
Longinus’ favoured young cavalry officers. Born to a small and virtually unknown
Patrician family, the stricken young Titus was the last of his line. This
unfortunate young officer had been struck-down the previous day by a strange
and completely unknown sickness and now lay in a sweat-soaked funk on his
soaking linen.
Along with a joint-cracking
fever, his skin had blossomed in the most curious, flower-shaped blue blotches
which were incredibly painful to the touch. None of the Medics, the officers or
any of the men had heard of such a sickness and rumours of a deadly contagion
swept the camp, flashing through the soldiers like all bad news. However, the
Medics were sure that whatever this mysterious illness was, it was not
contagious, as no-one else had succumbed to its blue floral visitation. No
matter what they tried to alleviate the young officer’s pain and symptoms,
nothing had any effect whatsoever and they had thrown-up their hands in
submission, just as young Titus had thrown-up his stomach lining in agony.
His condition had worsened
throughout the day and if it continued unabated, the Senior Medicus was
convinced he would not survive until the next morning and with the invasion
apparent, it was a problem. Some bright spark had asked one of the Gallic
slaves about the curious illness of the blue flowers and had been informed
matter-of-factly, that it was a sickness known in this region but in Prittania
mainly. It came from the bite of a tiny sand-fly called a Devin apparently and local herbs should alleviate the problem. The
chief-cook was nominated as the best healer amongst them and Laryn had been
rushed into the sick chamber, where she had immediately confirmed that it was
indeed the blue-flower sickness of the Dewin
and that she would have to leave immediately, to try to find the necessary
herbs and roots she would need.
Due to the Tribune’s relative
importance and popularity, a dozen Auxiliaries were dispatched with this
well-regarded lady, to find these medicines as quickly as they could, and she
was loaned a horse with leather panniers, so they could complete this mercy
mission that much quicker. On returning two hours later Laryn gave her
instructions to the Medicus’, who were put-out by this healing coup-de-tat and put up much bluster,
until Longinus had been summoned. That imperious Patrician had torn such a
strip off each of them, by the time he’d finished with them the doctors jumped
every time Laryn asked them for anything. The delirious and fevered Cavalry
officer was carried in his sweat-soaked bedding, to a smaller isolation tent
with ventilation flaps and under Laryn’s personal care. She had forbidden entry
to all, nursing him herself and a guard was placed outside her door to enforce
that, and to fetch-and-carry whatever the great lady demanded.
It was just a couple of hours
later when the delirious shouts of the sick man had burst out, to shatter the
tranquillity of these hospital tents. Meaningless and fever-addled shouts of
‘Not true!’ and then just the shouted name; ‘Pompey!’ were heard before they
were curtailed suddenly, as if the poor lad had passed-out from his suffering.
When Laryn emerged exhausted a
short while later the Medics were amazed, as Titus was soundly asleep and
breathing heavily but with little sign of fever. They were astonished too, to
see that the blue stains on his clammy skin were abating noticeably. Longinus
was summoned once more, and the Legate was effusive with his compliments to the
nurse, cum chief-cook, promising that he would inform Caesar himself and that
she would be handsomely rewarded for her services. Laryn had given him her
sweetest smile in return, her lovely, intelligent eyes sparkling, and the tall
Roman officer had given her an altogether more appreciative look then, before
departing with a broad smile of his own.
A small group of servants left
the rear of the kitchen tents this moonlit night and headed for the eastern
gate, under the guard of a young soldier. Some carried a wooden bucket in each
hand to fill from the spring there and two male servants pushed a hand cart in
front of them. A large, dark-haired woman was in charge of these servants and
she walked along at the front, talking casually with their young guard. The
unmistakeable ‘clonking’ of crotal bells drew their attention then and their
supplier was thankfully there as arranged. The old goatherder which some of
these soldiers had seen around these lanes recently, stood bent-over by his own
hand-cart, which was piled with around a dozen carcasses of freshly skinned
goats.
This big, good-looking lady with
the clever eyes inspected these rather thin offerings, thrown onto this shabby
cart with little care and she curled her lip at their poor quality. She walked
around the crippled ancient’s cart, with its patched-up boards and
much-repaired wheels and was about to dismiss him and his paltry goods, when
she looked into the depths of his hood to condemn the man for bringing her such
underfed beasts, when she was shocked to the core!
A frisson of electricity flashed
through her body then and she froze, as this was not the spy she was expecting.
Her eyes flew open when she recognised the eyes that stared back at her. It
nearly undid all her self-confidence and bravado, and her knees felt suddenly very
weak. Her longed-for lover’s eyes blazed his adoration and support from this
filthy woollen hood and she was wide-awake now, her fingers trembling. Laryn’s
training and character kicked-in at this marvellous and enlightening moment,
but her eyes were wet and her breathing suddenly ragged. She took a deep breath
and seemed to gather herself, continuing her scowling scrutiny of this
goatherder’s meagre offerings.
“Hardly the succulent beasts you
promised are they, you old rogue? I’ve seen more meat on a chicken’s lip!” She
growled in the local dialect at the goatherder, and he bobbed up and down on
his staff in apology as best he could. “I suppose I can use them.” She said
begrudgingly, poking them with an accusing finger and was still poking them
when she brushed past him, slipping a small cylinder of bark shaving into his
hand and they touched, for the first time in almost three years. This most
fleeting contact was a physical shock to Laryn and her soul soared, making her
heart thump in her chest as she turned to the guard. “Pay him.” She said gruffly
and just nodded to the two male servants, who began to transfer the meat to
their own cart.
Without a backward glance, the old man limped away pushing
his cart, once he had his coin in-hand and the remaining survivors of his flock
followed him forlornly, their bells clonking softly.
“Feed those goats!” Laryn scolded
her husband with a shout, as the guard shut and barred the gate between them
and she stood there for long moments, reliving every fleeting moment with her
heart thudding at her throat.
Their enforced separation had
been one of the hardest things she and Fuanladd had been faced with in their
lives, but duty was all, and they had kissed that day for the last time. The
odds were so small of her safe return, they had both known that this mission
was very likely to be her last and it had made their parting so much more melancholy.
Laryn had sent regular reports home via the servant and slave network that she
was indeed still alive, but she knew Fuanladd would have gained no pleasure or
hope from those reports, as he had known what lay ahead of her. This cold understanding
had forestalled any flare of hope within that fatalistic ghost-warrior and Fuanladd
had thrown himself headlong into his duties from that day, but every now and
again she still wondered how he was. Now she knew from the evidence of her own
eyes, and those beautiful, hazel eyes glistened from this sweet knowledge.
The
ghost-warriors of Galedon had at-least twenty very different and irregular weaves
at their disposal, in their attempt at total invisibility in the line of duty.
There were some new patterns being designed every day in their tribe’s fine and
ancient, ghostly tradition. These were made by the women of the ghost-warriors
alone and they kept the patterns secret. All other Brythonic mantles and bracs
were designed and woven for colour and style, mostly in the simple plaid
patterns of the werrin, so their specialised clothing could not be
purchased anywhere and so needed be carried with them everywhere they
travelled. Much deliberation and design had been brought together to produce
the leather horse-luggage and satchels they required to do this effectively and
their amazing women produced these too.
To get the utmost from these
miraculous, sight-evading mantles, forward planning was also needed, but the
best advice always came from bird messengers from a colleague on the ground,
naming the best weaves for the conditions and terrain around. Each of the
twenty patterns had names; from ‘Summer Bracken’ to ‘Autumn Heather’ and they
must each choose the five weaves that will fill their customised panniers. When the weave of their mantles matched the
location to a high degree, they were a fantastic method of concealment and were
a big part of their success and fame, at accomplishing the most covert and
dangerous surveillance missions in their long and legendary history. Ghost-warriors
were believed to have the power of invisibility on command, due largely to the skill
and efforts of their women, like this incomparable and re-motivated spy Laryn.
Much later, and some miles east along
this coast, and some distance past the Roman Portius Ulterior lay the Môrini’s
north-eastern border with the Menapi. Here was a long crescent of gravelly
beach, which all the locals knew lay on the spit of land which was closest to
the shore of Prydein, across this the narrowest part of the great northern channel.
A small, twin-masted fishing boat bobbed away northeast from this beach,
heading for distant Prydein too, but would be there long before Caesar’s
lumbering fleet found its way there, like a blind man on a strange lane, if it
ever did.
The Gallic Captain of this little
trader and his brother the experienced Pilot, steered this sturdy vessel along
this intimately familiar route in the rising westerly. Their two hooded passengers
were still wrapped in each other’s arms in the stern, making up for lost time
no-doubt.
For several days following their welcome return home, Laryn and Fuanladd were nowhere to be found, however their confirmation that Pompey’s support fleet was
nothing more than an apparition, conjured up by Belgic propaganda-merchants and
given life by the gossip of their werrin was like a blessing from the Gods. The news had
swept Prydein like a tidal wave, flowing outwards like a flame-quenching ring-wave,
washing away their fears with the icy water of truth, being received by the thankful
werrin of Prydein as nothing less than a miracle. The doom
which had hung over Prydein at the stark and imminent arrival of an
overwhelming additional force, had been a black and fear-filled spectre
haunting their nightmares. All had come to accept that the successful
resistance of such a dual invasion, would take nothing short of a miracle
wrought by all their Gods in harmony and it had been gratefully received.
Should
Caesar have been joined by Pompey, and ten whole Legions of implacable, merciless
Roman looters come ashore at Caint’s coast, supported by thousands of the
finest cavalry in the world and led by those unmatched conquerors, all had
known Prydein wouldn’t stand - couldn’t stand. Now this appalling prospect
proved unfounded, it changed everything. Now honourable and imperative success
was back on the table and Arglwydd Prydein breathed the sweet, hopeful air of
reprieve, and her people’s valiant spirits rose to the heavens once more.
* * *
* *
Finally the die was cast, and
Caesar’s lumbering fleet of invasion battled into the teeth of a rising
easterly, to discover an unknown world, to repay the General’s debts, to repair
his damaged reputation and to change Roman history forever.
Titus Ocluvium Durum; ‘Tribunus Angusticlavi Equestris’, the well-heeled
and polite Junior Cavalry Tribune of Legio X who had been so unwell, died
shortly after the fourth watch. The young officer still felt ill when he
boarded the Staff Bireme but seemed somewhat improved, as he had eaten a good
supper and had embarked with little trouble. However, he’d paled as they were
lifted high by the first great, dark-green waves of the channel’s interior, and the
men and officers on Longinus’ Bireme had been concerned when the young and
popular Equestrian Tribune had begun to complain of stomach pains again. Their
concern turned to horror as Titus doubled-up suddenly and fell to the wet
decking in agony, screaming and clutching himself. Titus then threw-up a black,
blood-filled vomit to the deck, which stank of death and decay and which
repelled those around him. Everyone’s eyes were enormous, and the officers and
crew backed away quickly in fear, praying to their Gods at the horrific sight. Titus
screamed and kicked, as black stinking blood oozed from his eyes and ears, his
gums, nose and even his anus. He screeched and sputtered his life away on the
swaying, vomit splashed, sea-swilling bilges of this ship before everyone, clawing
at his guts. As this Bireme bucked and rode the waves under him, Titus
kicked-off his mortal coil.
After a short discussion by the
officers, his wasted, blue-flowered body had been cast to the sea amid much superstition and fear but inside the hour, the incident was virtually forgotten by those aristocrats.
“Bad fucking business!” A
Centurion spat-out, but these men stayed silent and wide-eyed, as the terrifying,
unholy death of the young tribune was still bright in their memories. “Don’t
let it fucking spook you! We’ve enough to worry about on this little trip,
without my best soldiers going fucking wobbly on me!” The Centurion growled and
the men began to respond, their heads coming up. “No-one else has caught this fucking
blue-flower sickness, so put it from your minds. Tribune Titus was just unlucky
is all.” He told them, looking at each man and assessing the morale of each
young officer. “More people die in these small hours of the night before it
gives way to day, than any other time. It’s just a fact of fucking life!” He
said pragmatically, before moving away in his swaying gait. This pale and
nervous group of young officers eyed each other in fear, as their grisly
Centurion departed like a drunkard, feeling not a fraction of his confidence in
this deeply terrifying, pioneering mission but there was absolutely nothing any
of them could do about it, except grit their teeth, hang onto the drenched
timbers and prepare themselves for the unknown.
The incomparable Laryn.
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