by A. L. Duncan
Bah Talah
Copyright © 2014 by A.L. Duncan
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Prelude
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part Two
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
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Ban Talah
by
A.L. Duncan
Mystic Books
by Regal Crest
Texas
Copyright © 2014 by A.L. Duncan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The characters, incidents and dialogue herein are fictional and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Print ISBN 978-1-61929-186-7
eBook ISBN 978-1-61929-185-0
First Printing 2014
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design by Acorn Graphics
Published by:
Regal Crest Enterprises, LLC
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Published in the United States of America
Acknowledgments
Thank you, Laura, for the ‘little god’ you are; if not for embodying the tender, fun-loving and noble Danann such a fine character would never be.
Dedication
To all women. Because all women are extraordinary.
Prelude
THE YEAR WAS 1166. Spring, the planting season. It was another day under the rule of King Henry II of England and another day in hiding for many still practicing Druidism under the very noses of the Holy Roman Church, as nuns and priests. Celtic-Christians, they were called. Spies had sent word to the Vatican concerning what was considered pagan acts. A Celtic-Christian was not a true Christian in the eyes of the church. Such a judgment drew the king’s Christian convictions to torture his own spirit. He had hoped a day hunting boar and deer in the forests of Kent would relieve his mind from scruples that still shook him. Unfortunately, being within the womb of nature itself, Henry’s disposition grew darker and weightier with gloom. It was as if the canopy of crows were cawing out prophetic plagues, emboldening his imagination to believe them impersonations of Church tongues. Messengers alerted the king’s entourage earlier that morning of the atrocious murder of priests from its Saxon church. It was one of many such reports within a nine-week period.
“What death!” cried Henry upon his approach, the dead respectfully hidden under blood-soaked cloaks, the only eerie vision of their fate. “Such a nature from man’s hand that should never be so twisted in the conscience. Priests? God, how foul. What a faint reflection now their voices, forever in one long sleep, never again to sing upon the very waking hours that trespass within silent cloister halls. It was the only sound that brought me to my knees before God.” Henry turned his horse away. “What stench. Somebody clean this up. They deserve better than to lie here, out in this unforgiving gout of rain like poached rats. What on earth was their punishment?”
“They were guilty of heresy,” barked a knight.
Henry slid from his horse and handed the reins to Sir Wayne and walked with him closer to the bodies. The old knight’s distaste reflected his own.
“My God, this weight is heavier to me than the crime of defending England by the blood of armed masses.”
“A draconian edict you agreed to, Sire,” Sir Wayne said.
“For God’s sake, man! I’m quite aware of my own edicts. Long before I had been conceived to ripen in my mother’s belly the blood of England flowed to the declaration, Defenders of the Christian Faith. Yet, here I now stand with a most regrettable heart.”
“And so will England stand, Sire,” Sir Wayne murmured, “unless your pen on parchment illustrates another law.”
“Even through wicked dreams and imaginative forces, I cannot concoct such a thing lest it set me apart from territories in France. I have bedded my fair share of nauseating principles until I’ve bullied and terrorized every bishop from here to Italy. But this, what in the devil am I to do with this? My very veins are tied in knots and my blood courses as the dying ox before the sacrifice.”
Sighing, old Wayne squinted a scrutinizing eye to Henry. “There was a time you were not so divided from yourself and your judgment, your majesty.”
“Always impeccable timing, being the harbinger of God’s wrathful sense of humor, aren’t you Wayne?”
Sir Wayne snuffed under his breath. “One should not tarry where illusion suits us best and the remembrance of a time not so long ago allows us a moment.”
Henry fit his gloves on tightly and snatched up his horse’s reins with a snort. “God grant me reprieve where my mind for too long has oppressed me with reflecting on the absence of my Scottish warrior. She, who would strike with punishment against all who would oppose my kingdom.”
“Not a more loyal subject to your majesty was Ban Talah, I am not ashamed to say,” agreed Sir Wayne.
“God damn them! I need my strength. I need my rock! Without her I find blood upon faces in my sleep and my miserable being whimpering under the covers from fitful storms. A dark day this has become to taste a banquet of war from the might of Christian Rome. A pity she cannot be summoned.” Henry added remorsefully, “If ever there was a time I needed such a leader for my armies, it is now. A warrior to call upon the heavens a most terrible and awesome storm of might.” He mounted his dark gray steed and turned an eye to Sir Wayne. “What would be the odds, Wayne, that a warrior such as she is alive?”
“Nay, asleep Sire, with Arthur and Merlin awaiting England’s greatest need.”
Henry twisted his horse about in heated aggression. “Then do what you must. Search the heaven’s firmament and restless seas. Awaken all the saints in Christendom and Celtic fable if you have to, but Ban Talah must be resurrected. Dear God,” he pleaded to the skies. “I know you haven’t forsaken me yet! Bring me someone that can battle this with me. I need that woman. Bring me Ban Talah!”
Part One
Resurgence & Death
Chapter One
HIDDEN FAR TO the north of England was Newcastle Abbey, a cloister nestled within a barren cliff side that overlooked a tumultuous sea. Within the church nave, a nun knelt in silent prayer. The amber glow of candles and the tendrils of frankincense incense filled the altar with unremitting solitude. These, her only companions. All, however, was not peaceful within her mind. Visions of twisted faces cried out to her in agony, shattering her quiet meditation. Priests, nuns, monks, and lay folk suddenly appeared from the darkness as they struggled to escape iron blades that raged down upon them under the shadow of a King’s crest. England’s crest. Rivers of blood flowed upon cold stone tiles, consecrating unholy acts beneath the dark eyes of the cloth.
The nun winced unconsciously at the images before her, feeling herself running through a forest pass, cold rain stinging her face. Her heart pounded at the encroaching soldiers as thunderbolts raged in the blackness of night skies. She struggled to escape. Calling upon all her strength to carry her onward, she tripped and fell against the damp carpeted ground. She struggled to her knees but not before eyeing the gleam of a polished sword as it swoop
ed down upon her. Lightning then flashed, startling her out of the vision. The nun collapsed before the altar onto the cold stone, blood seeping from a gaping wound at her midriff.
WELL KNOWN WAS the gift of prophecy that came to Isadora. After such meditations, it was certainly not the first time the abbess had been called to the presence of Isadora. Even so, such a vivid account of visions and things, however understood, still astounded the many faces of the cloister. Gasps arose from the lips of the nuns surrounding her as Isadora sat up and removed the sanguine-soaked bandages, revealing skin unscathed. A sight unbearable to most, they dropped to their knees and quickly crossed themselves. The abbess entered. After she comforted and lifted one of the sisters from her knees she quietly dismissed everyone from the tiny room.
Closing the door, the abbess sighed and whispered, “How many times does this make?”
With little concern to the discarded bandages, Isadora paused only to ponder. “Three times in two days.”
“Sister Isadora, no matter how hushed we attempt to keep this occurrence, you do realize this will eventually get out to lay folk and bishops as some sort of mystical miracle.” The abbess sat down on the bed and gazed warily into Isadora’s dark eyes. “Suspicions will arise.”
Solemnly, Isadora fingered the Celtic cross about her neck. “Those of harvest fields, those of ancient blood are being searched out and driven from their homes. Those who cannot flee are murdered. The sons and daughters of Danu, of this beloved earth. They have already found many. The air of England is thick with death. It is only a matter of time before we are discovered.”
“You frighten me, Isadora.”
“An enchantment has fallen upon the land and no caim, no protection, can stop it.”
The abbess clasped hold of her own cross, breathless. “I implore you to speak clearly of such things and this vision of yours.”
Isadora stood and spoke without hesitation. “A caim is a circle, a protective circle, performed in prayer to protect all whom it encompasses. It is a spiritual shield against all danger. The one surrounding all Celtic-Christians...” she tapered off in disbelief, “has failed.” Drawing up the visions again before her mind Isadora attempted to describe the prophecy. “The bloodshed has only begun. And blood shall spill ever more greatly in an attempt to cleanse away all our ancient symbols and those radiant in the pathway of our ancestors. This blood,” she added with animosity, “will be spilled by those whose lips caress the hand of the Pope.”
The abbess gasped. “How can this be?”
Isadora dropped eye contact in thought. “It is a force more powerful than all those that have thus come before it.”
“Sorcery in our midst.”
“Sorcery in the cloth,” Isadora corrected. The abbess drew back with disbelief. Isadora knelt to her. “Marion, listen to me. You and the cloister are in grave danger. You must leave.”
“We cannot possibly leave Newcastle Abbey. Can’t you do something?”
Isadora shivered at the proposal and raised herself. Pacing over to the narrow little window that overlooked the cold sea, she replied after a moment. “I cannot,” she said sullenly.
“Yes, you can,” the abbess insisted. “You are a warrior. You are Ban Talah!”
Isadora gazed blankly into the din. “Ban Talah is dead.”
The abbess stood and drew near. “Then why is it God so granted you the vision to see such atrocities if not to help defend those who so desperately need you?” She took Isadora’s hands in her own then brushed fingers over Isadora’s branded forearms. “How many can claim they were blessed to wear the symbol of spiritual medicine given by St. Brighid herself and possess the thunderbolt of wisdom from the Goddess Tlachtga?”
Isadora turned away, embittered by the taste of remembrance and wiped her arm as if it had been imbedded with dirt. “A disgrace. They are but scars upon a figure undeserving.” She closed her eyes, tortured by the release of a memory.
A small boy dangled helplessly out a tall castle window. He grasped onto Ban Talah with one small hand as she fought to save him and his father from conspiring soldiers ordered to murder the father. Blade clashed with blade as she fought off one, then another. The father stood nearby, already under the hold of two other soldiers, unable to free himself.
Drawing the sword from the belly of an adversary, Ban Talah kicked the chest of another, flipped the hilt about and threw the blade, embedding it in a soldier’s chest. Twisting about she reached down for the boy’s other hand.
“Quick, give me your hand!”
“I can’t!” the boy cried.
“Yes, you can! Do it!”
A sword tip had found its mark across her bicep moments before. Ban Talah was losing strength in the arm that held the boy. Blood ran fiercely down her arm, trickling over her holy symbols, the symbols branded onto her by the Goddess Tlachtga. Ancient symbols of the heavens never before worn by a mortal, yet, Ban Talah was no mere mortal.
“Ban Talah!” a voice cried.
She barely had the child’s other fingers in her grasp before a wounded adversary reached for his dagger. With a free hand she grabbed hold of a small pouch that hung around her neck. Yanking it from its cord, she flung its powdered contents at the soldier’s snarling features.
“I send you back to Hell!” she spat.
With a howling scream the man’s figure dissipated into a cloud of dust. The two soldiers holding the father released him and fled from fright. As Ban Talah twisted back and reached down for the boy’s other hand, she glimpsed a shadowy figure in the tower across from her. An arrow was shot and seared into her chest. The boy slipped from her fingers and fell screaming to his death far below.
Screams and shouts from the courtyard were heard. “The king’s son is dead!”
In misery and defeat, Ban Talah collapsed, her eyes barely acknowledging the king, who fell to his knees and sobbed for his son. The arrow in her chest was not as painful as believing she had betrayed the trust of her king. From that day forward, Ban Talah ceased to exist in Isadora’s mind. The Scottish warrior within her had died.
As Isadora relived the scene, the abbess embraced her from behind tenderly. “It is not for us to determine what lives God saves, Isadora,” Marion whispered. “This thatch of wounds you carry you have weaved yourself. The king has forgiven you. Forgive yourself. For the love of Christ, forgive yourself.”
ON A CLEAR night, when deep sleep came upon King Henry, Isadora journeyed in spirit to the foot of his bed. The king arose with a start to the misty figure before him.
Squinting at the bright white aura about the figure he said, “What devil are you to rise up?”
The figure’s aura softened and formed around Ban Talah as cloth and steel armor. Henry gasped. The familiar warrior who stood before him was six foot tall, her long black hair and piercing amber eyes replying to him a somber gaze. The king staggered to his feet, limbs trembling as if standing before a dreadful image. His unsleeping eyes winced.
“Damn this mind!” he shouted. “I have invented terror and murmurs which haunt my days and nights. The dreaded pale of remorse. Why the hell can’t I create naked women frolicking in frothy, warm waters and banquets brimming with exotic fruits and flesh? But, no, of all people I must have you. Dare I suspect you’ve come to me in dreams to disturb my judgments?”
“I am not a dream, my king,” she replied simply.
“Then, if not a dream...” The king held his breath and stumbled, circling around her in fright. “By what power have you come? After all these years you cannot be. Yet, a light shines upon you as I once remembered. How is it you’ve come to me now, an apparition, veiled in knighted color like a...less-than-decaying specter?”
“I am alive, my king. I come to you in perfect spirit as I once did. I am, and have always been, alive.”
“Alive,” the king balked. “Is this some trick? Have you come here to test me? What sorcerer’s bag of soot concocted you before me? There is divinity that shapes our beg
innings, liberates our burdens. Or divinity that plagues us like a black fire and consumes us in our ends. Which one are you?”
“I am here to neither give nor take away. But to question your reason of betrayal.”
“Betrayal!” Henry snipped. “How dare you abuse that word on me, your king?”
“I have protected you in loyalty,” Talah exclaimed, pacing startling close to the king. “I have sealed your crown in glory and Brighid has blessed your name. How then can you lead your Norman armies to slaughter the English souls that have made your kingdom whole?”
Two of the king’s soldiers stormed through the heavy wood and iron-clad doors and stared at the king standing in his silk ivory tunic, alone in his bedchamber.
“Leave us,” the king growled. “I don’t need you to fight the battles of my bedchamber.”
The soldiers glanced about the room then to each other in puzzlement.
“Why are you punishing my people?” Talah pressed her king. “What has caused your wrath?”
“Be it my balm or my plague I must do what I as king must do. Even if it means to tread upon heels to keep alliances with the Church.”
“M-Majesty,” one soldier hesitantly spoke. “Are you well?”
“Does my mind appear desolate enough to be of unsound mind?” Henry responded, drawing near.
“N...no, Sire,” replied the other quickly.
Henry wrenched a sword from the hand of one soldier. “Do you think I would waste my precious time of sleep on little trivial notions from some knave or useless ghost?”
