by Rex Sumner
Crom permitted the caress before raising her to her feet. “Come, we must get rid of these wet clothes.” He raised his hands to her chest, grasped the fabric of her ceremonial gown and yanked sideways, spilling her breasts high and proud. Susan gasped, as his movement continued down to the sides, removing the dress in its entirety, leaving her naked to his gaze. Crom growled, a deep and resonate sound exuding lust and need that pierced Susan’s soul. Her eyes fixed on his, she raised her arms and he swept her to the bed in the corner.
A few minutes later, a thought surfaced in her errant brain. “I am making love to a God,” she thought in wonder before the rapture took her.
Revolt
Bill sat with Burt, off duty but part of a 6 man detachment occupying a guard house in the middle of the city, not far from the Hanged Spakka. They sipped a cup of tea, a foul brew made from roots and leaves. Burt claimed it made him irresistible to women, something Bill thought more than a little dubious.
Jims, on watch, spoke. “Patrol coming in.”
All six soldiers sat up and watched four soldiers make their way to the guardhouse with weary steps. Bill added more water to the tea kettle over the fire.
A grizzled corporal led them in, accepting a cup from Bill before going to sit beside the sergeant who commanded them. Bill strived to hear him speak as he served the others.
“Pixie,” said the corporal and Bill’s sergeant stiffened. Burt hid a grin. “Coming down the Great North Road, bold as bloody brass.”
“Just the one? Did you arrest him,” said the sergeant, his voice low and brim full of concern, wiping the smile off Burt’s face.
“Yeah, just the one, thanks be to God. Arrest him? Not a chance. He looks at us like we’re dogshit and buggers off into the slum. Not following him in there.”
“If you see one, there’s a dozen at least,” said the sergeant, slumping back against the wall. “This city is like a keg of brandy on the bonfire, ready to explode at any moment. Who will you report it to?”
The corporal shrugged. “Not many of us old ‘uns left, sarge, who knows what a pixie means. None of them orficers know what I’m talking about. I ain’t telling any of them, they’d just laugh at me like your stupid soldier there.”
Burt rolled over, the smirk clear on his face. “No wonder, who wants a corporal or sergeant scairt of little blue kiddiwinks, hey?” He roared with laughter at his own wit, oblivious to the lack of accompaniment.
Bill plucked up his courage. “Um, corp, so what do you mean by a pixie if not one of those fairy things the kids play with at home, the toys, like.”
The corporal shot an alarmed glance at the sergeant, who shrugged and answered. “Some idiot made a doll, blue it was, and sold it as a pixie. Now all the kids at home have one and the minstrels make up silly songs about them and magic. Church is behind it, trying to pretend all the old gods’ stuff is so much rot.”
The corporal shut his eyes. “No wonder nobody understands the danger up here. Gimme a minute longer and I’ll go back to the Manor and report.”
The sergeant looked over at Bill, still waiting, and sighed. “It’s like this, laddie. There was a tribe here once, followed the Old Gods they did, called the Sidhe. Fearful warriors they were, big and ugly and vicious. Never were very many, but the local people worshipped them as if they were gods themselves.”
Bill was entranced. First time he’d heard this sort of story, and even Burt was listening. “What’d they look like, boss?”
“Dunno. Never seen one. Stories are they were tall and red headed, big buggers. Thing is, see, there is a bunch of locals who think they were so special they worship them to this day, shave their heads except for a stupid tail at the back and cover themselves in blue tattoos, pictures of these Sidhe. They fight like they’re bloody crazy, don’t care about getting hurt, strip arse-bollock naked and cover themselves in blue paint, called woad. ‘Cos of the tattoos, people call them Picture Sidhe, Picts or Pixies for short.”
The corporal sat up, and glared at them before getting to his feet and kicking his patrol into readiness. He delivered a parting shot to the incredulous soldiers. “So your little fucking blue toy is a based on a sodding great naked tribesman who paints himself blue and wants to cut off your bloody head and piss in the hole. He’ll do it too, if you ain’t careful.”
*
Jeremy was enjoying himself. He sat at a table, one arm around a girl while two more teased him. A bout with Mary followed by an excellent beef rib whetted his appetite for more girls, but he couldn’t make up his mind between Clare and Louise. He suggested that to help him come to a decision, they should feed him beer without using their hands. Clare thought this an excellent idea and loosened her bodice for the challenge as the door smashed open.
“Fuck,” said Mary, “it’s those arseholes from the Manor. Think they’re fucking soldiers and like to hurt girls, probably because they couldn’t hurt a Spakka if they tried.”
Jeremy checked from the corner of his eye, going still in his chair. Six men, all beefy. In some sort of silly uniform, no armour, but all with short swords. Unfit, except for one. Five would be slow, one dangerous. Things were looking up, this could be fun.
“Beer,” shouted the leader of the group as they took up a table, his tone angry, “and send some women over.”
A serving maid rushed over with leather mugs of ale, and a thin girl swayed her non-existent hips as she made for their table, a fake smile across her face. On the stage at the back a new singer made her way to the front, a tall willowy girl with long hair. She nodded to the fiddler and started to sing.
Jeremy jerked his eyes away from the soldiers to stare at her, and found her face fixed on his. Something about the song nagged at him, and he realised it was translated from the Elvish.
“Stay right where you are, Clare, you are not going to those men. Any of you know the singer? Who is she?”
“Her? Oh, she’s one of the Elves,” said Louise, flicking her long hair over her shoulder and smiling down at Jeremy, parting her bodice in the hope of tempting him to her room before one of the men claimed her.
“Elves?”
“Yeah, there’s masses of them in the Wall. Come for the fighting and the cattle. You can’t fuck her, though, she’s just a singer. Besides, what Elf has a pair of tits like these, hey?” She pushed her generous frontage forward.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” The voice shouted, loud and close. Jeremy removed his eyes and hand from Louise’s breasts and looked behind her, to see one of the soldiers swaying, angry and menacing.
“Were you?” Jeremy drawled. “I can’t imagine it was anything interesting or important.”
Dominic frowned, his hand on his sword but swaggering still as Jeremy remained sprawled back in his chair. This might prove to be just the entertainment he wanted, before the girls. His hands flexed. He needed to kill somebody.
“Yeah, sonny, well I’m taking these girls. There’s men here now so they don’t need kids.”
Jeremy uncoiled from his chair, revealing his lithe body to be a shade taller than Dominic, who backed up a step, uncertain. Jeremy debated with himself, unsure whether to head off to find his colleagues or have some fun. There were only six of them, just one dangerous.
The Elvish singer finished her song, turned and whispered to the fiddler.
“Did you pray this evening, soldier?” Jeremy opened his eyes wide and innocent. The other men watched, the dangerous one ready, the others leaning back and smiling.
“Pray?” Dominic was confused at this change of subject, as he steeled himself to attack.
“Of course,” said Jeremy. “You should go to your God with a clean mind.”
The words dropped into the silence from the singer, sending ripples round the room. The dangerous man stood up while the others spilt their beer.
Dominic took a step back. This wasn’t a loc
al, and didn’t know or care who he was. He looked tough, even he could sense that, and he wondered if he should call for back up. No, his back stiffened. He was the leader, the duke’s son, and needed to prove it, show what he could do.
The fiddler started up, a very different tune, and Jeremy jerked. The call to war of the Elves. The Elvish singer screamed, a sound vibrant and sibilant, redolent with hatred and death, which resonated with the music of the fiddler and caused many to clap their hands to their heads, turning to the stage in astonishment.
“Crom Brionne,” sang the Elf, “see them cry; Crom Brionne, see them sigh.”
Jeremy threw back his head and roared out a war cry at this call to him and his God, causing Dominic to rear back in alarm. Jeremy jumped onto the table and kicked, the toe of his boot going into Dominic’s throat. He fell back with a gurgle, the larynx crushed, a lethal blow, and the soldiers on their table reacted in different ways. One fell over backwards in his chair, two sat transfixed by the scene, confused, one with the thin girl on his lap, another managed to stand and the dangerous man came forward in a half crouch, to catch Jeremy with a testing jab as he landed, off balance.
Jeremy fell back on to Louise, who pushed him up in time to block the man’s overhand right and deflect the swinging left that followed it. The two blows were a mistake and Jeremy took the invitation, swinging forward with his head through the gap left by the attacking fists and feeling the man’s nose crunch under his forehead.
The man staggered backwards, blood streaming down his face to be replaced by the second man to stand, his fists up to guard his face, peering at Jeremy over his knuckles. Jeremy feinted at his eyes, the hands went up further and he kicked him hard on the knee, his hard boot heel crunching into the cap with a sickening sound. The girls winced and the soldier collapsed on the ground gripping his knee and screaming like a stuck pig.
The Elf picked up the pace of the song and Jeremy danced a jig for joy amidst the wreckage of the first three soldiers. Bouncers appeared and Jeremy retreated to his table, prepared to sit while they removed the soldiers, but the four hulking men ignored the soldiers and made for Jeremy, each with their own favoured weapon. A cosh, a billy club and a couple of knuckle-dusters. This, thought Jeremy, wasn’t fair and he realised they weren’t bouncers but more soldiers. He dashed a glance at the door, noting other bar patrons joining in the fun, fists and chairs swinging around the soldiers, as more boiled into the room, these ones armed.
One soldier moved to cover the door and the Elf changed her song, dropping the tone low and menacing. “Crom Brionne, time they die!”
Jeremy stiffened, his hand flicked and Billy Club backed up, hands on his throat and eyes wide, before slumping to the floor with his back to the bar. The knuckle-duster twins hesitated, not certain what had happened, and Jeremy danced forward, a knife out and visible now as he weaved in front of them. The first twin slumped to the floor as a bottle exploded on his head, a roar of triumph coming from Louise as a shard stung his face and he moved in on the second, knowing the knuckle-duster would come for his head and catching it on his knife as it did so. Number two screamed, pulling back his hand and holding it at the wrist, gazing in disbelief at the knife sticking out, two fingers flopping without the tendons to control them.
Jeremy glided over to the soldiers table, and found all three dead. The thin girl, whom he now guessed was an Elf, still sat on her soldier’s lap, one hand holding the knife she had rammed under his chin, the other checking to make sure he was dead. The other soldiers to have poured into the room lay scattered around while locals plundered their bodies for weapons and money.
The Elf song changed again, now light and happy, a victory song, and Jeremy found himself singing along.
The bar fight was over, the losers dead or gone, and now the singer approached Jeremy, her body swaying with her music till she reached him and knelt in obeisance, kissing his hand.
“Crom Brionne, you are here, as it was written. Now lead us, bring us to freedom and victory, destroy the tyrant, throw him down and release our brethren.”
The thin girl knelt beside her, taking her turn to press Jeremy’s hand against her forehead before she kissed it and joined the cry for him to lead them. More Elves appeared and humans took up the cry.
Louise came over, still excited over her victory, and she knelt to him, taking his hand in her turn. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you fight and you’re pretty. We can do this, the city is waiting for a leader and you’ll do.” Her eyes danced and he grinned, looking around the room as more people poured in. He could hear shouts in the street and the Elven singer was back on the stage, keeping a low, patriotic song going.
A huge, hairy Uightlander, whom he vaguely remembered laying into the late-arriving soldiers, pulled him in to a dance around the bodies while he belted out his own incomprehensible rebel song. Jeremy grabbed a bottle and swigged, the fiery uisge of the north, grabbing a girl and kissing her as he danced before switching to another.
Silence spilt across the room, easing into the corners and the singer faltered to a stop. Jeremy took his head out of Louise’s tits, from which he licked the uisge the Uightlander poured there, and found a tall, muscled, red-haired man standing beside him, bare chested, with a simple leather breachclout and a tunic cloak chained around his neck. A serious sword hung from a baldric as he eyed Jeremy with curiosity.
“The Crom Brionne. You are not what I expected, but I sense the fullness of this truth.”
Jeremy rose onto the balls of his feet, ready for danger, a flick of his eyes taking in the hulking pack behind this man, bulging bare muscles covered in blue tattoos, axes and swords in hand.
“A Sidhe,” he said, derision in his tone. “And where the fuck were you when you were needed? When I held the ford in your bloody name? When I led the Palace Guard up the cliff and we poured over the dark elves, the unbelievers, who only revolted because you bastards hadn’t bothered to come and turn up in too many years.”
Bile and bitterness welling up in his soul, Jeremy pushed forward, prodding the unfortunate Sidhe with his forefinger, while his face bore witness to his shock as he backed up under the barrage.
“You are their fucking God and where were you? You’re supposed to know how to fight, and where were you? The incomparable Niamh died because you did not come; she trusted you and held your shrine believing you would come. Your people worshipped you and they died, died because you did not come, died because they still BELIEVED in you, and it took me and my friends to kill the unbelievers BECAUSE - YOU - DIDN’T - COME!”
Conflicting emotions raced across his face as he backed up before Jeremy ran out of words and the Sidhe stopped under the last prod, as wonder replaced shame. The Picts arrayed either side also backed up, their faces in confusion. A couple drew their weapons and stepped forward, but the Sidhe raised a hand to stop them. He leant forward in wonderment, his forefinger capturing the tear at the corner of Jeremy’s eye and transferring it to his mouth.
“I was not there,” he nodded. “None of my brethren came, for we were not needed with Crom Brionne in our stead. I am not a Royal Scythian, a god. I am Midir, a traveller and warrior. I am returned from the far north where I fought with my brethren in the ice and snows. I travelled home when I felt the disturbance in the aether and followed it here.”
He turned towards his guard, his hand waving to encompass them.
“These fine fellows feel it too, and thought it was me. But it is you, Crom Brionne, who makes the call. It is Crom Brionne who rips asunder the ancient veil. Is is Crom Brionne who demands his God to come, and we for whom the blood sings, we come, we follow.”
Jeremy shrugged his shoulders, grabbed a bottle of uisge and stalked outside, followed by everybody from the pub, the Sidhe and the Uightlander at his shoulders. He turned to face the west and swigged from the bottle. Pulling back his shoulders, he roared at the late afternoon sky,
the evenstar peeking over the far mountains.
An answering roar came from the crowd, which swelled as more gathered to the call.
“Niamh! Cordach! Asward! Bren! Brothers and Sisters of the Royal Guard, I remember,” Jeremy screamed into the brooding sky and the crowd fell quiet as they listened. “We stood together at the ford and we died. We scaled the Cliff of Cormacha, never done before, and threw the dark elves to their deaths. And we died. We stood together against the unbeliever, a golden sword in the midnight dark and we threw them down. I remember you all, my brothers and sisters. I stood for you then and stand for you now.”
The crowd swelled around him, the Sidhe first to embrace him followed by all the Picts. Girls wanted to kiss him, bottles of uisge were pressed into his hand and the Elven singer brought back his knives, cleaned and oiled which she presented to him on her knees before singing behind him wherever he went.
The local people ripped off their shirts, and old ladies came running out with pots from which they daubed themselves with blue paint. Uightlanders mixed amongst them, still wearing their plaid while the Elves coalesced around Jeremy, all wanting to touch him, their large eyes alight with wonder. Jeremy’s shirt was tattered, so he pulled it off to reveal crossed belts studded with throwing knives and another two strapped to each wrist.
He could hear people asking about him, and the Elves explaining, the words Crom Brionne whispering along the street. The Elven singer, surrounded by Elves and her fiddler, launched into the Ballad of Crom Brionne translated into Harrhein, the street falling silent to listen. Jeremy sat on a table, for some reason dragged into the street, and waved at the crowds who fell silent. Louise pushed up beside him, wearing just a pair of knickers and her breasts covered in blue woad. She wrapped an arm round his shoulders while watching the singer. Another girl, one he had not seen before came up on the other side and her stickiness made him look twice. Stark naked, she appeared to have tipped a bucket of woad over her head for she was blue from head to toe, bright black eyes riveted on the singer and clasping his hand with a fevered grip.
