Sangreal

In Progress
Action/adventure, Drama, Romance
Daniel/other, other pairing
Season 3

Disclaimers:

Stargate Sg-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, The SciFi Channel, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is written purely for my own entertainment, and that of anyone else who may happen to read it. No infringement of copyright is intended. It is not intended and should never be used for commercial purposes.

The original characters, situations and ideas contained within this work are the property of the author.

Author's Notes:

Part 2 of a two-part fiction, following Lapsit Exilis

Acknowledgements:

Blessed be Sho, who beta read this bloated monstrosity.

Sangreal

Logres (P2C-441)
Carndeinol
1999

"Murderer!" Teal'c waded across the trembling ground and swung the butt of his staff weapon into Cathbad's sternum. The Logrian warrior clutched at his chest, gasping and wheezing. As the earthquake subsided, the Jaffa leaned down and grabbed Cathbad's kirtle, lifting him up and hurling him to the ground again.

"Fools," Cathbad spat, blood bubbling on his lips. "You have lost!"

"You will not live to enjoy your victory," Teal'c promised, raising his staff weapon.

Jack pushed himself up from the shattered pavement, and as he did so caught sight of a movement behind his comrade. "Teal'c!" He called. "Look out!"

Teal'c seemed set on Cathbad's destruction, and did not look up. The tip of the staff snapped open, but before the Jaffa could fire a burst of electricity writhed around him, and he fell heavily to the ground. Still disoriented from the quake, Jack looked about for his MP5, but the Hound-masked Jaffa had their weapons trained on him, and there were too many of them anyway.

"You are now the slaves of Queen Mab," the lead Hound said. "Lay down your arms and surrender."

Slowly, Jack drew his pistol and laid it on the ground in front of him. He looked sideways at his allies.

Elowen, Queen of Logres, appeared to be in a state of shock. She had stubbornly led the defence of her city against Mab's ground troops, but the demonstration of the true power of the Goa'uld Queen's mothership had left Elowen appalled at her own temerity. Currently the only thing supporting her was the young bard, Taliesin, who looked to be in no better state.

"Surrender," the Jaffa repeated. "You will be held until you submit to Mab in the main square tomorrow, when Cathbad ap Karas will replace you as ruler of Logres and vassal of the Faerie Queen."

"Wen?" Taliesin asked, uncertainly.

"Find who you can," Elowen said. "Never give up." She kissed him gently on the mouth, then stepped towards the Jaffa, interposing herself between their weapons and the bard.

"Elowen?"

"Run, Tal," the Queen said. "Run!"

Taliesin turned and fled.

"Shoot him!" The Hound commanded. "Shoot him!" The Jaffa obeyed, but the youth had already vanished into the wreck of Carndeinol. "Summon the surviving Hunters," the leader snarled. "Find him and destroy him."

"First Prime," one of the other Jaffa said. "The Hunters have been forbidden to enter the city. They have sworn to destroy these interlopers, and Her Majesty wishes them taken alive."

The First Prime swung his fist, knocking his subordinate to the ground. "Then mobilise the third battalion," he ordered. "Comb this city, stone by stone. Find the boy; find the other interlopers; and find the Scroll of Ages. Queen Mab commands."

*

Trevean
984

The man woke, slowly and painfully. His head was throbbing, his vision seemed blurred, and his hand stung.

"He's awake!"

The man cringed as a sharp voice sounded right by his ear. "Agh!" He cried. "No I'm not. Pay no attention." Slowly he focused, and saw a rough shape sitting by his bed. No, he thought. Not my bed. The shape was golden-haired and blue-eyed, with pink skin and grey clothes, but that was about all he could tell. He reached for the side of the bed, feeling for...something.

"Where are...?" He paused.

"All your things are here," the shape assured him. She sounded like a young girl. "Which do you want?"

"I...I'm not sure," he said. "My eyes..."

"Oh! I think I know." The girl ducked down beside the bed, then straightened again and reached for his face. "Hold still," she said.

The man felt a cold frame being slipped over his ears, and suddenly all was clear. The girl was perhaps twelve years old and pretty. The room he was in looked to be far older and less pretty.

"How do you feel, Deinol?" The girl asked.

"How do I feel what?"

"Deinol. You said it was your name?"

"I did?" He tried to think. "Deinol. Deinol...ap Jago," he muttered. It had a familiar sound.

"I'm Rhynne," the girl said.

"What am I doing here?" Deinol asked.

"You saved our daughter's life." Deinol rolled over, and saw that the new speaker was a red-faced, red-haired, handsome man in his forties, standing in the doorway with a thirty-something woman who was clearly Rhynne's mother. "I am Roth Goch," he said. "This is my wife, Ara Wen; Rhynne Velyn you have met already."

Deinol sat up, swinging his legs out of bed. "And how did I get here?"

"I carried you in after the battle."

"Battle?" An image came back to him; a man in red and black falling under his sword. "Vex," he said.

"That's what they called him," Rhynne agreed. "Did you know him?"

"I don't know," Deinol admitted. "I can't remember much." He raised his left hand and tried to scratch it, but saw that it had been bandaged. He could feel a binding around his head as well. "Ugh," he groaned. "I've lost my memory from a bump on the head? What a horrible cliché; Jack would be disgusted."

"Your father?" Rhynne asked.

"Father...No," he said, trying to put a face to a name he had used without thinking. "I think...a brother? I don't know." He shook his head, and immediately regretted it. "What about Vex and his men?"

"We buried the Buccan and his Changeling warriors," Roth said. "To kill four faeries in open battle, you must be a master swordsman. Where did you learn such skill?"

"I wish I knew," Deinol replied. "Although...I think a lot of credit must go to the sword."

"It looks to be a fine weapon," Roth agreed. "But surely no weapon can be better than the one who wields it?"

"I just get the feeling I'm not a fighter," Deinol said.

"Rhynne would disagree," Ara assured him. "She says you are quite the hero."

"You were incredible," the girl agreed, leaping to her feet. "With the spinning and the cutting and the schak!" She accompanied this description with an impromptu demonstration, swinging an imaginary blade about her head and matching her final onomatopoeia to a backspin that left her reeling into a small table. She stumbled away and sat down with a thump, tears glistening in her eyes.

"Oops," Deinol said. "Careful there." He got up, then knelt beside the girl. "That was a pretty accurate performance," he told her. "As I recall, I ended up falling down as well."

Rhynne laughed, the pain and humiliation forgotten.

Deinol looked up at Roth and Ara. "So tell me," he said. "What is happening around here?"

*

Carndeinol
1999

Sam emerged slowly and warily from the spiral staircase into the Great Library, but despite her fears the structure of the chamber was undamaged. Many of the shelves had fallen over, and Daniel would have wept to see the precious antique documents strewn higgledy-piggledy across the floor. Daniel was not there however; Daniel had vanished, and while it was not the first time he had gone missing, he usually did not literally disappear before Sam's eyes.

Sam tried her radio. "Colonel O'Neill? Are you there?" She got no response but static; the library must be too enclosed. That was understandable of course. She had deduced that the entire palace was in fact a spacecraft, and so it made sense that the walls – the hull – would be highly resistant to EM radiation.

She picked her way carefully across the piles of books and scrolls – not wanting to have to face Daniel if he returned to find she had crushed one of the old parchments to powder – to the staircase which led to the ground floor. She would have to go outside in order to contact the Colonel, and find out whether the strange distortions of space-time which she had experienced in the drive chamber of the palace had been felt in the city at large. Certainly the rest of the palace had been affected, as tapestries had fallen from their hangings, and torches lay guttering beneath their wall brackets.

"Major!"

Sam turned and saw someone approaching. "Taliesin," she called back to him. "What happened?"

"Mab came in her sky ship. She made the earth tremble and the sky fold," the youth replied. "Come; see." He led her to the nearest window and peeked carefully out. "Look," he told her, "but do not stay too long in the opening; there are many Hounds about."

Sam looked out, and was appalled by the scale of the devastation she saw. The palace must have been protected from the disturbances, she realised, probably by automated systems designed to compensate for high-velocity flight; she and Daniel had felt only a minute proportion of the effect, but nothing like this. The great city of Carndeinol had fallen, its buildings split and dashed to the ground in ruin. People milled around, aimlessly searching for survivors, except where patrols of Mab's Changelings had rounded them up and had put them to work. "What about the Colonel? Teal'c? The Queen?"

"All captured," Taliesin replied. "They are bringing them back to the palace. Only a few of the guard remain free and in hiding. We were betrayed by that cur, Cathbad, and now he is to rule in Mab's name. He has already disbanded the levies, the cowardly dog. My poor Wen..." he whispered, tearfully, his rage at the Queen's treacherous cousin dispersing in the face of regret. "I should never have spoken of the Sangreal; had Cathbad not reported that we were close to finding it, we would have had time to flee to the hills. Wen was right; I was a fool to believe."

Sam squeezed the boy's shoulder. "This may not be the right time to tell you then, but we found it."

"What?" Taliesin was incredulous.

"We found the Grail," she repeated. "We opened the Scroll, and found the Grail underneath. Although I don't know how it works," she confessed.

"What of Daniel?"

"Yeah," Sam said, slowly. "About Daniel..."

*

Trevean
984

Deinol sat at the table with Roth and Ara while Rhynne collected eggs from the chicken coops.

"Not that there will be much to collect," Roth sighed. "Since these disturbances began the hens won't lay, the cows give no milk and the sheep's wool is falling out in clumps. What the land does produce the Changelings take away from us, and if we have no produce to be taken, they take our children."

"Where do they come from?" Deinol asked, sorting through the objects he had found in the pouches of  his belt. One was gone already: a sticky, sweet-smelling bar in a shiny wrapper, that he had opened and given to Rhynne. The girl's parents had watched her enjoyment of the bar with undisguised delight – she had obviously not eaten well in over a week, let alone enjoyed a treat like this – and Deinol had regretfully admitted that he had no more. Despite the limited supply, Rhynne now seemed to have elevated him from heroic to divine status.

There were also a number of devices that he could not recall the names of, although he remembered how some of them functioned. There were two more weapons beside the sword: A knife and a square-edged, l-shaped object of black metal that sat with a lethal, brooding weight in his hand. With great care, Deinol had removed the box of metal missiles from the weapon and taken the whole thing to pieces. Later he would bury the parts and the missiles deep in the ground. He recalled that the weapon was both brutal and deadly, and without a better understanding of its function did not care to test his ability to use it.

"They come from Faerie," Roth replied, whispering, as though he feared to be overheard when he spoke the word. "At least their masters do, although they say the Changelings are born human. The Buccan – the Good Folk as we know them – come forth from the great ring in the ruins of Porthbucca, their ancient city. Once, so it is said, they ruled here and were benevolent, but those as come now are pure spite and malice."

"They answer to a Queen named Mab," Ara said. "A cruel and capricious immortal who delights in suffering and domination. The Changelings are bad enough, but it's Mab and her lords and ladies – the high folk of the Buccan – who are the will behind them. They send forth their soldiers and their red Hunters upon the land like a plague of wolves, killing and stealing; worse than wolves, for they do all this just to put the fear of the Buccan into honest folk."

"Does no-one fight back?" Deinol asked, rattling a small bottle. It contained tablets of a medicine, he realised. He had to take them regularly, and while he could not remember what would happen, he knew that he would be sorry when they ran out.

"How can we fight?" Roth demanded. "The Changelings have spears that throw flame as far as a bowshot. The arrows of the Hunters bring slow death, and the Buccan carry knives from which they hurl a crippling lightning. When the Buccan are angry, they can strike out at the very fabric of Logres itself, causing the land to shake and buckle. It happened not long before you came here, that the earth and sky moved at the command of Rawn."

Deinol stood and began to pace back and forth. "Who is Rawn?"

Ara shivered. "The general of the Changeling armies; a Buccan most favoured by the Queen. He is her consort and her warleader, and he has been charged with governing this land."

"He has set up his court in the ancient capital of Carngrysyl, and his warriors travel out across Logres; searching for something," Roth added.

"For what?" Deinol asked.

"Some say for the King," Ara whispered.

Roth snorted, disdainfully. "The King is dead!" He snapped. "Rawn killed him," he explained to Deinol. "He murdered King Duncan, Queen Igern, and all of their family in cold blood; cut them down like wheat before a scythe, even the little ones. He is a monstrous creature; cruel and barbarous."

"They say that one of the children escaped however," Ara said.

"Wishful rumours," Roth insisted. "I do not know what he seeks, but there is no King-in-exile."

"And if there were?" Deinol asked.

Roth sighed. "He would have my arm and whatever service of me he required to cast these bastards back into Faerie."

Deinol nodded, slowly. "Then why not act as though there were a King," he said. "If there is, then you aid his cause; if not...Well, you still aid his cause, because the cause is the same: To take back this land."

"We can not fight against the Buccan."

"But you would do it if the King needed you?"

"It..." Roth looked confused. "It is complicated."

Deinol smiled, and it was a dangerous expression. "No," he said. "It isn't."

*

Sam and Taliesin met up with Peran and those members of the Royal Guard still at liberty. The palace was divided between the great halls and the servants' passages, which ran behind the scenes in a twisting labyrinth. Peran – whose mother had been a cook in the palace – assured Sam that he could hide an army in the passages for a year without those in the halls ever knowing it. Several of the servants had joined the cause as well, and were able to serve as guides.

"Peran!" One of the younger guards ran up, excitedly. "We found them. The Hounds have converted the Crown Princess' chambers into a prison. Her Grace and the interlopers are there, along with six of the Guard. There are four Hounds on watch in the antechamber."

"Good," Peran said. "Well done, Ythel. We can reach the antechamber through the passages and have the Queen and your friends free before the Buccan know it."

Ythel sat down beside a young shieldmaiden and took her hand. They smiled at each other, supportively, but when she turned to face their commander the woman looked concerned. "Should we risk capture for this?" She asked. "The Queen's orders..."

"The Queen does not understand her own importance, Vepa," Peran said.

Vepa frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Taliesin, who had barely said a word since they found Peran's group, stood up. "The Queen believes – quite rightly – that she is of lesser importance than the land and the people. However, she does not understand that the people, and the land, still look to her as a symbol; as a leader. She intends to sacrifice herself, submitting to Mab in order to blind her to the continuing threat of the warriors of Logres. She does not realise that if she submits, the will of the people to fight will be broken."

Peran nodded. "Well spoken, lad," he commended. "What of Cathbad?" He asked Ythel.

"Closeted in the royal chambers," the scout replied. "He was badly injured, and is resting. The leader of the Hounds, a Buccan named Fearghus, has assumed command of this world under Queen Mab's dominion, until such time as the ‘King'" – he all but spat the word – "assumes his duties."

"I can hardly believe that Cathbad would do such a thing," Peran admitted. "Sadly, punishing the traitor must wait; our first priority is to free the Queen."

"How many staff weapons and elf bows do we still have?" Sam asked.

"Three and one," Peran replied. "Why?"

"If the guards are attacked with their own weapons, the Buccan might start to fear each other more than us," Sam explained. "For now, that's what we want."

"But they know we have faerie weapons," Taliesin reminded her. "We used them from the walls."

"True," Sam admitted. "But I know the Goa'uld. They don't consider humans a real threat, and that's our big advantage. If we give them the slightest reason to think that one of their own has betrayed them, they'll take it." She grinned at them. "Trust me."

*

Jack sat in the palatial ‘cell' to which he had been confined, idly flipping the cover of his watch. Teal'c was seizing the chance for a little kelno'reem, while Elowen was working on her stoicism. She seemed to have committed herself to martyrdom, believing that her sacrifice would ultimately make her country stronger. Jack thought she was nuts, but that loopy or not, no country would every be stronger for the loss of her.

"My rule led to this," Elowen explained. "Because I was not strong enough, Cathbad moved against me and the Kingdom of Logres has failed. Were I a stronger monarch – a more worthy Queen – then this would not have happened. Hundreds would not have died, and thousands would not be on the verge of destruction or enslavement."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe Cathbad being an asshole is his problem, rather than yours?" Jack asked.

"Of course," she replied. "But because of my weakness, his problem has become the problem of the kingdom. I should have listened to my father when he warned me not to trust Cathbad."

"Look," Jack said. "Cathbad sent his message before Mab ever showed. In order to find a Goa'uld teleball and work out how to use it he must have put in a lot of research time, so he was plotting this long before you came on the scene. He's a bad man, Elowen; and not because of you. He did this because he hated your father, and because he was weak; too weak to play the hand he was dealt."

"Perhaps if my parents had not married," Elowen suggested. "Perhaps what was best for them was not best for the land."

"Oh please," Jack snorted. "You know what I really hate about the whole idea of political marriage? It's stupid. Perpetually unhappy people make bad decisions; I truly believe that. If your dad had married some other woman for the sake of an alliance, he'd have been pissed off all the time and taken it out on the people."

Elowen looked at Jack in astonishment. "I do not think I have ever heard such a compelling argument against nuptial treaties," she admitted. "But sometimes a ruler must suffer for her people."

"Crap," Jack assured her. "Didn't you say that the king and the land are one? So what happens if the king suffers?"

"I..." Elowen looked quite taken aback. "You are a man of great insight, Colonel," she admitted.

Jack waved off the compliment. "Sometimes you just need a fresh eye for things to begin to change," he told her.

"Such was the case with Deinol ap Jago, so they say," she replied. "Unfortunately change takes time. People are afraid of it. Much as I hate to admit it, my parents' choice did weaken the land; many people questioned the marriage, and the kingdom was divided." She looked to Teal'c. "Is he well?" She asked, plainly seeking a change of subject.

"Oh he's fine," Jack assured her. "Although pretty pissed at your cousin."

Elowen looked down at her feet. "I can not remember a time when Tryfena was not around," she admitted. "She was my instructor-at-arms, and Peran's mentor. She was never Commander of the Guard, but she was well-liked. I doubt any of the Guard will support Cathbad, even the ones who made no secret that they felt me unworthy to take the throne."

They sat in silence for a moment; a silence that was broken by the sound of staff blasts and explosions from outside the door.

"What is that?" Elowen wondered.

"An old Earth custom," Jack told her, as Teal'c silently unfolded himself from his kelno'reem. "It's called a jailbreak."

The door burst open, and Sam hurried through. "Quickly!" She called, throwing Teal'c a staff weapon. She took a zat from her belt and proffered it to her CO.

"A pleasure to see you as always, Major," Jack said. "After you, Your Grace."

"If I go, my people will be punished," Elowen said.

"They'll be punished anyway," Jack assured her.

"They won't fight without you," Sam added. "You have to come with us."

"I can not."

Jack and Sam exchanged a glance. "I'm sorry," Jack said.

"It seems that this must be my fate," Elowen assured him, placidly.

"Not for that," Jack told her. "For this."

*

Jack deposited the unconscious Queen gently on a table in the staff kitchen.

"What happened!" Taliesin exclaimed, dismayed.

"She'll be fine," Jack promised. "She was being difficult about escaping with us."

"What did you do?" Taliesin demanded.

"I may have...zatted her," Jack admitted. "But just a little bit," he added, as Sam moved to restrain the youth.

"If you have hurt her..."

"What did you want me to do?" Jack demanded. "Leave her there?"

Taliesin fumed.

"Listen, kid," Jack said, gently. "She's a stubborn girl, and we didn't have time to argue. Just tell me: Would you rather this, or that she was dead? Because Mab would have killed her if she'd stayed."

The bard relented a little. "What do we do now?" He asked.

"First..." Jack broke a vial of smelling salts under Elowen's nose.

The Queen spluttered and choked as she came around. "What is that...? Where am I?"

"Rest easy, Your Grace," Peran said. "You are safe now."

"No!" She cried. "I must go back."

"You must not," Taliesin said. "You cannot. Your people will lose heart if you are taken from them, and the only other leaders they have to follow are Cathbad and Ossine."

"He speaks the truth," Peran confirmed. "Without you, all resistance ends."

"Please," she begged. "Do not put this on me. I am not strong; I will let you down." She looked around, her eyes pleading for someone else to take the responsibility.

"Don't look at me," Jack told her. "We're outsiders; we can't fight this war for you."

"You are stronger than you know, Your Grace," Peran assured her. "And I am sorry, but there is no other to bear this burden."

"I...I do not know what to do," Elowen confessed, in a small voice.

"Well, there we can help you," Jack assured her. "Now...Where's Daniel?"

"Gone," Sam replied, awkwardly.

"Gone where?"

Sam gave a helpless shrug. "I don't know. Just...gone."

"Gone? Like: ‘poof'?"

"Yes," Sam replied. "Although more of a ‘phoot'." She sighed. "We found out that this entire palace is a half-buried starship, perhaps adapted as a planetary defence. Probably it was stranded here millennia ago, and we think it is the Sangreal."

"You found it?" Elowen was incredulous.

"Yes," Sam replied, warily. "But when Daniel tried to activate it, he disappeared. He just lit up and then vanished. It was at the same time as Mab's spatial weapon hit," she added. "So whatever happened may – or may not – be related to the interaction of that effect with whatever the Grail was trying to do. Either way..."

"Either way, the Grail is not something to rely on," Jack agreed, briskly. Sam could see that he was trying not to deal with the possibility of Daniel's death while he still had work to do, so she did not contradict him. "Which leaves your people." He turned to Elowen. "Your Grace; you need to gather your strength. Go to people you are sure of and get together as much of an army as you can."

"Cathbad has sent the levies home and told the chiefs that the fighting is over," Peran said. "No doubt he will begin trying to bring them under his direct control as soon as he is well enough to ride out. With Mab's soldiers behind him, many of those who supported his ambitions before have declared for him already; including Ossine."

Elowen nodded. "Taliesin," she said. "I need to take word through the valley; will you be my bard and herald?"

Taliesin's eyes shone with pride. "Of course," he told her.

"Thank you." She turned to Peran. "Send your best mountaineers to intercept the messengers Cathbad has sent to the lords of Hyneth; if they do not hear otherwise they will still send their forces, and these can be met and readied in the passes. What of the Grail?" She asked, turning to Sam.

"That's a problem," Sam admitted. "I don't think we can seal it away without the sword, and that vanished with Daniel."

"The sword?"

Sam nodded. "It was identical to the one you carried," she explained. "It was..." She looked at Jack, embarrassed. "It was stuckinastone."

"What was that?" Jack asked.

"It was stuck in a stone; Daniel pulled it out."

"What is this?" Jack demanded. "Planet cliché?"

"I don't know what it means, Sir," Sam apologised. "If it helps, I really doubt he's rightwise king of England born," she added. "Your sword might work to seal the chamber again," she hastened to add, turning to Elowen.

Elowen shook her head. "Fearghus, Mab's captain, took it from me."

"We have to do something," Sam said. "Because at the moment the door is wide open, and it's only a matter of time before Mab finds it."

*

Mab, Great Queen of the Good Folk, Mistress of the Faerie Hosts, stood among the bodies of her fallen Jaffa with a cold twist to her blood-red lips. Nothing of her upper face could be seen behind the black veil which fell from the band of her silver crown, but her lips were full and expressive above a pale, angular chin, and what they expressed was a building of her slow, deadly anger. Her handmaidens stood back, fighting the nausea that showed in their expressions.

"Who did this?" She demanded.

"I do not know," Fearghus replied. He stood a few feet behind her shoulder, out of immediate striking distance. "I shall find out. All of the guards shall be questioned and..."

"Never mind that," Mab told him. "Execute the captains and promote their seconds, then bring in the Hunters. Track down those responsible. Find all those in this palace who oppose me and kill them."

"But...Majesty; by your order the Hunters are not to enter the city," Fearghus reminded her. "They seek the deaths of those you wish preserved, and you know how hard they are to control," he finished, apologetically.

Mab stroked her sharp chin with her gauntleted right hand. "Bring Pras to me in the throne room," she instructed. "He shall be...persuaded to do things my way." She watched Fearghus leave, once more considering whether she might do better with another as her consort and protector, but there were no likely replacements among her followers, and while he had a third rate mind, Fearghus was more loyal than most Goa'uld, and possessed a first rate body.

She sighed. "If you wish something done properly," she told one of the dead Jaffa. "Never leave it to a minion." She snapped her fingers as she strode from the room, and her handmaidens followed her.

*

Trevean
984

In the sheltered yard behind Roth's holding, Deinol moved through a series of parries and attacks against an invisible foe. He was not practicing, rather he was experimenting; trying to determine the extent of the swordsmanship he could not remember learning. He had been working at it for almost an hour now, and could only conclude that his skill with a sword was considerable, yet he felt that there was something too formal about the movements; as though he had learned but never used them. Rhynne – his reverent audience – seemed to harbour fewer doubts.

"Don't you have chores to do?" Deinol asked, when he paused for a rest.

Rhynne offered him a beaker of water in answer. "Mama says that you have a head wound, and I must watch you. Besides; if they come again, I want to be near to you. I'll be safe with you."

"I wouldn't bet on that."

"What do you mean?" The girl asked.

"I don't even know who I am," Deinol replied. "But I'm clearly dangerous."

Rhynne laughed, easily. "To Changelings," she said.

Deinol looked very serious. "I think that someone like me is dangerous to anyone around him," he told her. "I don't want to see you get hurt, and if you stay close to me I'm afraid that you will do."

"But if I go away from you, the Changelings will get me," Rhynne protested. "They will carry me through the Faerie Ring at Porthbucca, to the land of Faerie where Mab will mark me with her sign and make me hers forever."

"Not forever," Deinol replied. "Not always."

"I do not understand," Rhynne said.

Deinol sighed. "Nor do I," he admitted. "I just know that not all Changelings serve forever."

"Were you a Changeling?" Rhynne asked, in an awestruck voice.

"No," Deinol replied. "Of that I am sure."

"How many Changelings have you killed?"

Deinol grimaced in distaste. "Hundreds," he replied. "Thousands, although not all with my own hands."

"What do you mean?" Rhynne asked again.

"I...don't really know. I just have a memory, not of killing, but just of knowing that I had been responsible for a lot of Changelings dying."

"Did you destroy one of their sky ships?"

"I think...maybe I did." Deinol did not sound proud of such a monumental achievement.

"The warriors who passed through the village last week said that the Buccans' sky ship was the greatest threat. They said that it destroyed the capital city at Porthrahn; tore it from the ground and bailed it like hay. If you could destroy such a thing...You must be a mighty warrior."

"I was lucky," Deinol replied, sombrely. "Luck can get you further than might or skill; but the trouble is that you never know when your luck might run out, and luck doesn't protect those around you. Stay away from killers, Rhynne; the best of them – the ones who don't mean you any harm – will place you in danger just by being around you."

"You protected me," Rhynne insisted.

"I can not protect you from everything, least of all from me."

Before Rhynne could offer any protest, they were disturbed by cries of alarm and panic.

"Stay here," Deinol instructed. "Go inside, and hide until someone you know comes to get you."

"But..."

"Go!"

Deinol hurried out of the yard in the direction of the cries. In the street he met up with Roth, who was carrying a rusted axe. The smallholder was coming back towards his home.

"Changelings?" Deinol asked.

"Yes," Roth confirmed. "A trickle of refugees have been filtering up from lower down the valley. The Faerie Host have been following them, burning and destroying, and now they are almost upon us. We are preparing to meet them where the pass narrows before it reaches our fields."

"Wait," Deinol said. "Meet them?"

"In battle," Roth explained. "Our warriors may have been called to fight and die at Porthrahn, but we will not surrender without a fight."

"And you intend to meet a Changeling host head on?"

"Yes," Roth replied.

"You'll be slaughtered," Deinol announced. "You can't take them face-to-face; you have to be sneaky."

"Sneaky?"

"Yes," Deinol explained. "You can't fight as well or as hard as Changelings, so you have to fight smarter, and the first thing to do is never try to match them in open battle."

Roth looked confused. "Then what do you suggest?"

*

The Hounds of Mab were half way across the fields surrounding Trevean when the villagers erupted out of the high wheat. There were only a few archers, but those there were took advantage of the confusion to thin out the ranks of Changelings with deadly accuracy. As the Hounds began to rally, the villagers closed in with axes, spears and scythes. The press was too close for the warriors to bring the fiery blasts of their flame spears to bear, but several had the presence of mind to draw their heavy knives, and while the Logrians were victorious, they lost seven of their own.

Roth found Deinol standing among the slain villagers who had been laid out for burial, his bloody sword in his hand.

"You were right," the farmer said.

"Yes," Deinol agreed, in a flat, emotionless voice.

Roth laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "They knew the risks," he said. "We are a warrior race, and most of these were old men who had lost all hope of dying in battle."

"I should have...Maybe there would have been a way..."

Roth shook his head. "It is a war. People die."

"But I sent them to their deaths."

"No," Roth corrected. "You saved my life. You saved his life," he added, pointing to one of the younger villagers. "And his, and his; not to mention the lives of our families."

Deinol looked down at his sword, as though noticing for the first time that it was red to the hilt with the blood of Changelings, and streaked with blue. He leaned down and wiped the blade on the grass, before sheathing it at his side. "Thank you, Roth," he said, feeling a little comforted.

"The people will want to celebrate tonight," Roth went on.

"Celebrate?"

"The village is saved," Roth explained.

"No," Deinol replied. "Not yet. You will have to leave for a time. Take what can be carried, drive a few of the stock, and hide in the mountains. The Changelings will come this way again, and in greater force. If Trevean is to be saved, it will not be today or tomorrow, and it will not be without a great deal more bloodshed."

Roth sighed. "I had feared as much," he admitted. "But I hoped that we might be left alone now."

"Never," Deinol assured him. "You defied the Buccan, and that is the one thing they do not forgive." He paused. "Actually, there are a lot of things they don't forgive," he admitted. "Failure, disobedience, running in the corridors; looking at them funny. But defiance is way up on the list and they only have one punishment for...well, anything."

"What punishment?"

"Total annihilation, usually following a campaign of terror and torture."

"What can we do?" Roth begged.

"I told you," Deinol replied. "Gather your families, gather your provisions and the possessions you can carry, and go up into the mountains. Find caves where you can hide from the Changelings, and remember that they can spot you from the air. How many fighters are there in the village?" He asked.

"We had thirty-six levies in the last counting, but only ten remained to defend the village when the muster was called; three of those died today. There are also twelve lads among those in training who are old enough and skilled enough to hold their own, and nine veterans still young enough to fight."

Deinol nodded, slowly. "How many of the veterans have families?"

"Myself and three others."

"That should do. You and the younger trainees will be responsible for the safety of your people. The rest – if they're willing – can come with me."

Roth looked confused. "To do what?" He asked.

"To fight."

"But you said that we could not fight them."

Deinol gave the same deadly grin that Roth had seen on his face when he suggested fighting for the King, and which he had worn all through the battle. It was a terrifying expression, because the maniac smile did not touch the man's eyes, which remained empty of sentiment behind their glass covers. "I said we could not hold them at the village."

Roth shivered. "What then do you intend?"

"We will take the fight to them," Deinol replied. "On our terms."

*

Carndeinol
1999

Fearghus was a good and devoted protector, and so, when the alpha male of Mab's Hunters was led into the throne room, he was escorted by half-a-dozen Jaffa; no smaller number would have sufficed. The Hunters were an ongoing experiment, created by Mab's black sorcerers using human hosts, altered at a cellular level, and genetically engineered Goa'uld symbiotes. Their sensory acuity was second-to-none, and their skills as trackers unparalleled in the Faerie Queen's vast experience. They were stronger and faster even than most Goa'uld, but they did not last as long; so far the sorcerers had been unable to eliminate the side-effects of the engineering process that caused the Hunter-symbiotes to bond permanently to a perishable host. The Hunters were loyal – to a point – but single-minded in the extreme, and not adept at following orders.

"Pras," Mab greeted the alpha. She was seated on her high throne, a massive edifice of obsidian and gold which had been placed in the throne room of the palace. The wooden chairs of the monarch and consort of Logres had been roughly cast aside, and lay at the foot of the throne in a gesture of dominion. Also at the foot of the throne lay the body of Reka, the alpha female. She had been Pras' mate before one of the interlopers had slain her, and her death had incited him to swear bloody vengeance against them.

"Reka!" Pras ran forward. The Jaffa raised their weapons, but Mab gestured for them to hold their fire. The Hunter dropped to his knees by the side of his fallen mate, and nuzzled the dead flesh of her throat, tenderly. "She was to be destroyed with honour," he said, accusingly. "Why does she rot here?"

Mab laughed, gently. "I can have her destroyed," she offered. "But wouldn't you rather have her back?"

Pras looked up, sceptically.

"You have sworn death to the interlopers," Mab reminded him. "If they die and you consume their hearts and brains, Reka is avenged. However, I want them alive, and since I can not ask you to leave your mate unavenged, I will give her back to you."

"The Cauldron of Arawn," Pras realised. It was unknown for Mab to bless a Hunter by placing them in the Cauldron's restorative belly.

"Yes," Mab replied. "I want you and your last Hunter to scour this palace from top to bottom. Kill any Logrian rebels, but their Queen and the interlopers are to be brought to me alive; or at least intact," she added. "I need enough of them to be revived by the Cauldron; that means no brain-eating," she reminded Pras. "Bring me at least two of the interlopers in such a state, and I shall resurrect your mate."

Pras looked down at Reka, her vulpine face so cold and pale, her tunic and torso punctured by the strange, sharp-smelling weapons of the interlopers, her delicious, earthy scent smothered by the sickly smell of decay.

"It shall be as you command, Mother," he promised.

Mab smiled, indulgently. Of all her children, only the Hunters were allowed to call her ‘Mother'; they seemed to feel more loyalty to mother than to majesty. She rose from her seat and went down to Pras, holding out her hand so that he could press his head lovingly against her palm. "How many warriors will you need to assist you?" She asked.

Pras snarled, offended, and pulled away from his mother. "Kraid and I shall bring death to Mother's enemies and deliver the interlopers. We shall need no others to help us."

"As you wish," Mab agreed. "However, Fearghus and his Hounds shall follow you, to secure the palace."

"Follow far behind," Pras insisted. "Their noise would give us away."

"As you say. I hear that Reka was not your only loss," she added.

Pras shook his head. "Nern was killed."

"If you succeed in your mission, I shall make you two new Hunters," Mab promised. "If you find a host to suit you, you may bind them and keep them."

"Thank you, Mother."

Mab smiled, coolly. "Nothing is too good for my brave boy," she assured him.

*

Trevean
983

Deinol surveyed the villagers of Trevean with a heavy heart. They might hail from a warrior race, but they were old men, women and children, and they were looking to him to guide them. He could not remember who he was, but he felt certain that he was not a leader, yet here he was, about to ask an ill-prepared assortment of civilians to join him in an assault on a heavily armed, fanatically-motivated army.

With his heart in is throat, he stepped up onto the back of a cart and turned to face them. They were in a highly agitated state, and it took them a while to notice him; he let them take their time, while he gathered his composure.

"You don't know me," he told them, once they had stopped talking among themselves. "I don't even know myself. You have no reason to trust me and every reason to doubt me. However, I believe that I have fought the Changelings before and won, armed with little more than we have here." He looked out at their eager, earnest faces, and felt a pang of guilt.

"This won't be an easy fight," he went on. "Or a clean fight, and it certainly won't be quick. It may be a long time before any of you see your homes again, and some of you may well never come back. Those of you who cannot fight, or who do not want to fight, should go into the mountains. There's no shame in it," he assured them. "The caves which become your new home will need protection, and those who come with me will need a place of security to fall back to from time to time. Neither choice will be easy.

"I will not force anyone to come with me," he said. "But I ask this: If you come, you must be prepared to fight and die and to finish what you start. Once a blow is struck against the Buccan, they will not flinch from slaughtering all of your kin, and if we let them regroup they will do just that. I will ask that you swear an oath to stick to this fight, to the bitter end. I will not ask that you swear any loyalty to me; your oath shall be to the King – if there is one – and to Logres.

"There are only a few of us, but I hope that in time we can gather more. If we succeed, then we shall draw others to our cause; if we fail, Logres is doomed. Those who are leaving for the hills, you should be gone within the hour. Those who are staying, join me at the mustering ground."

Deinol stepped down from the cart and walked away. Behind him, the crowd began to talk among themselves once more, and the sound was far louder than before.

Somewhat to Deinol's surprise, almost half of the villagers came to the mustering ground – the open space to the west of Trevean where all of the men between fourteen and forty-seven trained each week to serve as levies when called – and many of them were women. Roth explained to him that most of the women in Trevean knew how to use a spear, and some of them a bow, in case of bandit raids or attacks on the herds by packs of wolves or wild dogs.

One of the younger men – more of a boy really, fresh-faced and handsome – approached and handed Deinol a flagon of water. "Pardon my asking, Sir," the youth said. "But have you a page?"

Deinol settled his pack before taking the cup. "What?" He asked. "No."

"A leader of men like yourself should have a page, Sir," the boy insisted. "I would be more than happy to serve as such."

"What's your name?" Deinol asked.

"Mellyan ap Rhoddri."

"And how old are you, Mellyan?"

"Seventeen, Sir," the boy replied. Roth coughed, surreptitiously. "Next spring."

"You're too young," Deinol said. "Go with the others; protect your family."

"I have no family, Sir," Mellyan said. "My father marched to Porthrahn as the leader of our levy; my mother died bearing me. I want to fight, Sir. I'd be a good page. My Da always said I was hard working, and he taught me how to look after his kit. And I'm strong; I can carry your pack all day without complaint."

"I'll carry my own gear. You're too young," Deinol reiterated. "Roth; make sure he goes with you when you take the non-combatants into the mountains."

"Well, I would," Roth replied. "But I'm coming with you."

"Roth..."

"I am the youngest of the veterans," Roth said. "I would have marched with the lad's father but for the fact I was sickly the day they went out."

"That's not your fault," Deinol assured him. "You have nothing to prove, Roth, and you have a family to protect."

"I can better protect my family by fighting with you than by hiding in the hills," the farmer insisted.

"What about Ara?"

"She is a tough old girl, and she will have Rhynne to keep her company."

"Beg your pardon, Sirs," Mellyan said. "But no she won't. I saw Rhynne with some of the other girls, saying as how she was coming with us."

"What!" Roth bellowed.

Following Mellyan's lead, they located Rhynne, standing amid a group of women, all of whom had lost husbands, fathers or brothers at Porthrahn. Each of them wore a band of white crepe around one arm; the widows wore an additional band of black cloth. Rhynne had dressed herself in a jerkin of studded leather that reached to her knees and an oversized helmet, and she clutched a heavy spear.

"Rhynne, go home," Roth commanded.

"No!" Rhynne replied. "I want to stay with Deinol."

"No," Deinol told her, firmly. "It is too dangerous, and you would be in the way."

"I would not! I know how to fight," she declared. "Ask any of the boys."

"It's true," Mellyan admitted. "She has a vicious right cross. But listen, Rhynne," he said, kneeling in front of the girl, seemingly oblivious to the smouldering looks being cast his way by some of the other women. Deinol realised with a pleasant discomfort that he was receiving not a few similar looks.

"I won't stay!" Rhynne insisted.

"Then who will look after your mother?" Mellyan asked. "If something happens to your father, what will become of Ara if she does not have her daughter to console her? Or if the Changelings find the villagers in the cave, what will happen to them if you and the other young ones are not there to protect them?"

Rhynne shuffled her feet, uncertainly. "Well...I..."

"Go with them, Rhynne," Mellyan said. "Take care of your mother."

"I...Alright," she agreed. She turned to her father. "I am sorry," she said. "I was selfish; I just wanted to be safe, and I thought..."

"Go," Roth said, stooping to hug his daughter tightly. "I will see you when I return."

"That was well done," Deinol commended Mellyan.

"He has a way with women," the youngest widow commented, with a tone which drew a blush to the youth's fair skin.

Deinol smiled, some forgotten memory stirring at the back of his mind. "You dog," he said.

"What?" Mellyan asked, baffled.

"Never mind," Deinol said, no less confused. He unslung his pack and threw it to Mellyan. "Don't forget your own gear," he said. "The hours are long and the pay is lousy."

"Thank you, Sir," Mellyan stammered.

"My name is Deinol; and you may yet curse it."

Roth and Mellyan followed as Deinol moved to the centre of the mustering ground. This time, when he stood up, the crowd fell silent almost at once.

"This is your last chance to leave," he said. No-one stirred. "Alright then. I want the tallest men to report to Roth Goch; we have nine suits of Changeling armour that are wearable, and I don't intend to waste them. Anyone who does not have a weapon, or who only has a knife, report to Herrick ap Herrick. Anyone who isn't afraid to use a Buccan weapon, come and see me. We are at war now, and no weapon should be laid aside.

"Gather your gear and provisions, and everyone be ready to move at dusk."

"At dusk?" Mellyan asked.

"We move at night," Deinol explained. "We move in secret. We strike without warning, and retreat without engaging. If anyone has a problem with fighting in this way, you should have left with the others. Are there any problems?" He looked around at his army: Fifteen warriors, twenty farmers, and nine women; all angry; all scared. No-one said a thing.

"We move at dusk," Deinol said again, then he turned away from the crowd. "And may God have mercy on us all," he whispered.

*

Carndeinol
1999

Peran and his guards had broken into teams to gather supplies and weapons, in order that they could establish a base of operations in the passages. The first group had brought their burdens back and were sorting their haul of blankets and bandages when the attack came. The sentry at the door never had a chance to give a warning; an elf-bolt ripped through his throat, stealing his voice forever. Weapons were drawn as the young warrior's body tumbled into the room, but the Hunters were already inside.

Pras sprang at the nearest man, crushing the guardsman's throat with his gauntleted hand, while Kraid snapped out a kick that sent a Logrian warrior stumbling. Three guardsmen charged Pras, but the Hunter stepped easily to the outside of their pack and avoided their rush. He swept the lead warrior's feet out from under her, then continued in a spin which ended with his heavy boot smashing into the second man's face. In a single, smooth motion, he drew the seax from his belt and decapitated his third opponent. He let his momentum carry him through and released the knife with a flick of his wrist, sending it tumbling through the air to lodge in the chest of the final guard.

Pras felt his hunger tug at him, but before he allowed himself to feed he turned to the guardswoman he had tripped. She had fallen hard, but was struggling up, drawing her knife rather than try to reclaim her sword. Pras' lips parted in a vulpine smile as he reached down, seizing her by the throat and the wrist and hoisted her into the air. She clutched at his face with her free hand, fingers reaching for his eyes, so he slammed her three times against the wall until the strength was gone from her struggles and the knife dropped from nerveless fingers.

Pras looked up, and saw that Kraid had killed the remaining two warriors before laying into the servants like a fox in a henhouse. He was already feeding on the corpse of his first victim, cracking the man's sternum with his seax so that he could reach the heart. Pras looked to the woman who hung limply in his grasp and he smiled, enjoying the terror in her eyes. His only regret was that she was too beaten and weary to scream.

Peran's team were approaching the hideout with a cache of weapons when they heard the horrible sounds of crunching and slurping ahead of them.

"Commander?" One of the guardsmen asked, his voice shaking.

"Hunters," Peran whispered. "Run."

"But what if...?"

"Run!" Up ahead, the sound of feeding had stopped.

The guards turned and fled.

"Where are we going?" The guardsman asked.

"I don't know," Peran admitted.

"I know," Ythel said, with a cold anger in his eyes.

*

"Right," Jack said. "We can't blow up the Grail because it's a huge chain of naquadah reactors, correct?"

"Correct," Sam confirmed. "I wouldn't begin to know how to cripple it without turning a large part of this country into a smoking crater."

"Which, as a strategy, I'm against," Jack noted. "So what about this staircase? Any way we can seal that?"

"Maybe," Sam replied. "The central pillar is pretty strong, but it's carrying all the weight of the ceiling. If we put our C4 charges on here, we should be able to collapse the library. There's a risk we'll bring the palace down as well, of course," she noted. "The entire structure may be focused on that pillar."

Jack thought for a moment. "I'll take the risk," he declared. "If this weapon is all it's cracked up to be, I do not want a Goa'uld – any Goa'uld – getting their hands on it. Teal'c?"

"O'Neill?"

"Watch the door."

Jack and Sam went into the library and placed all of their C4 charges around the base of the main support pillar.

"Daniel would kill us if he ever found out," Jack mused, running his fingers along the scrollwork.

"Yes, Sir," Sam agreed. "Sir," she said.

"Carter?"

"You realise that...well, if the machine didn't kill him, it may be the only way to ever get him back. If we seal it away for ever..."

"I know," Jack said; the conflict in his eyes and voice were heartbreaking.

"Yes, Sir," Sam agreed, sadly.

Jack, Sam and Teal'c retreated up the stairs.

"This should do," Sam said, halfway to the ground floor.

"Are we far enough away?" Jack asked.

Sam shrugged. "Either the whole palace is coming down, or just the library; whichever way you slice it, a few hundred yards more won't make a difference. Also, these walls are very thick; I want to be sure we get a clear signal to the detonators."

Jack nodded. "Do it," he said.

Sam hit the button on the remote, and a sharp crack sounded from the library and echoed down the corridors.

"Well, the palace is still standing," Jack noted.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Sam said.

"I'll go check," Jack told her. "You and Teal'c fall back and join the guards; I'll meet up with you soon."

"Sir..."

"That blast is going to bring someone to investigate," Jack insisted.

"We shall remain and cover you, O'Neill," Teal'c said.

"One person can avoid detection better than three," Jack replied. "We can't fight every Hound in this palace, and besides, in case you'd forgotten, I am the ranking officer here; now get moving."

"Good luck, Sir," Sam said, giving in. "Be careful; the roof may be unstable."

"Well I'll...try to avoid taunting it," Jack offered. "Now go." With that he turned and headed down the stairs.

The view that met Jack's eyes as he entered the library shocked him. It was not the destruction that was startling, but the lack of it; a few of the central bookshelves had fallen down, but that was it. The pillar was completely unharmed, save a few scorch-marks on the surface, and even one of those came off when Jack wiped it with his sleeve.

"Oh fer cryin' out loud," Jack muttered. "What does it take?"

From the direction of the stairs, Jack heard voices calling: "Kree, Jaffa!"

"Oh, fine."

*

Tarnduh
983

The town of Tarnduh nestled in the mountains across the valley from Trevean. It was quite famous as such small towns went, for it was the highest settlement in Logres. From the dark-watered lake that gave the town its name, the Tarnbeck ran down through a narrow dale to the main valley. The fields of Tarnduh  spread across the floor of the dale, and flocks of sheep were dotted across the mountainsides. Ordinarily, the dale would have been quiet, but today it rang with the sound of sword on metal and the actinic hiss of staff blasts.

Deinol's warband had been travelling for six days when they came to Tarnbeck Dale, to find it in the middle of a pitched battle. They had been visiting all the small towns that anyone in the band knew of, recruiting some, sending others into the caves. Those who had yet to feel the wrath of the Changelings, or to see Deinol leading in battle, were slower to join him than the folk of Trevean, but that was all to the good in Deinol's mind, for the adoration he encountered still made him wary. Despite this reluctance, the band had more than doubled in size since the beginning.

"What do you make of this, My Lord?" Roth asked. He had taken to calling Deinol ‘My Lord' in order to impress the folk they encountered, and refused to stop. He stood by Deinol on the ridge above the dale, both men dressed in Changeling armour, hastily repainted in green and gold to match the livery of Trevean.

"Changelings fighting warriors with horses," Deinol replied, gazing through his seeing-things-far-away device. It was something he had found among his original gear; a pair of tubes capped at each end with glass discs like the ones in the seeing-things-close-up-device he wore on his face. "We have to help," he decided. "The warriors are outnumbered and out-gunned. Most of them have fallen back behind a cluster of boulders and dismounted, but a few seem to be trapped. Roth; organise three parties, one as large as the other two combined. The large unit shall engage the Changelings at the boulders, striking from the flank and rear. You and I shall each lead one of the smaller groups to relieve the isolated warriors: There and there," he indicated.

"Yes My Lord," Roth replied, and went to make the arrangements.

"They are not levies," Mellyan told Deinol. "If they are mounted then they are either household warriors or mercenaries. Probably the former; mercenaries would be unlikely to take a contract to fight Changelings." He shook his head. "But what would a force of household riders be doing in Tarnduh?" He wondered.

"Maybe the same thing we're doing," Deinol suggested. "I count thirty Changelings," he said.

"Thirty-one," Mellyan corrected. "You know, you said that we were not going to engage the enemy?"

"We're not," Deinol replied. "We're just going to kill them."

Deinol led his team through the fields, using the crops as cover, just as the warriors had done at Trevean. The squad of Hounds he had chosen to attack had cornered a group of knights at a small croft. The stone walls were providing adequate protection against the staff blasts for a while, but the thatch had caught fire, forcing the Logrians to abandon the building for the sparser cover of the enclosure wall. The Hounds were utterly focused on their quarry however, which meant that Deinol was able to come almost close enough to touch them before signalling the assault.

The attack was devastating, Logrian longbows and captured faerie weapons cutting down the Hounds in seconds. So quick was the victory in fact that the beleaguered knights did not at once realise that they had been rescued. As Deinol approached the wall, an arrow flashed from the corner of the wall and struck him in the gut.

Several of his warriors raised their weapons again, but Deinol called out to them to hold their fire. Luckily, the arrow had struck the plate which would have protected a Changeling's prim'ta, and had not penetrated his body.

"Prim'ta," he whispered to himself, wondering how he knew that word.

A warrior stood up behind the wall and called out: "Who goes there? Why are you dressed in faerie armour?"

"My name is Deinol ap Jago!" He replied. "My followers and I are short on weapons and armour, so we use what we take from the bodies of our slain enemies."

The warrior scanned the rag-tag row of fighters before him, counting. "You seem to have an impressive tally. Perhaps these weapons were gifts from the Buccan," he accused. "Tell me who you serve."

"We serve no-one," Deinol replied. "But we fight for Logres and the King."

A second warrior stood up beside the first, much slighter in build. The armour hid most of the signs, but even before this warrior spoke, Deinol knew that she was a woman. "Is that so?" She asked.

"It is."

"Did you not hear that the King is dead?"

"We did," Deinol replied. "But we also heard that an heir might have survived. In any case, we fight to keep this land free of the Buccan, and as the king is the land, we fight in the king's name."

The woman stepped up on top of the wall, then over. She approached Deinol's troops, and lifted off her helmet. Underneath she had long, dark hair, bound into a tight ponytail; her skin and eyes were also dark, marking her out among the fair folk of Logres, and Deinol felt a shock of recognition at the sight of her. She was probably about Deinol's age or slightly younger, but her eyes looked older. "Then you have the thanks of the King," she told them.

"The King is here?" Mellyan asked.

"You are the King," Deinol realised, taking a step towards her.

"I am Morwen," the woman replied, with a sad smile. "Last scion of the Royal Line and now King of Logres."

"You're not what I expected," Deinol admitted. Behind him, his followers had knelt in reverence.

"Which was?"

"A kid," he admitted. "Probably a boy, but definitely just a kid."

"And are you disappointed?" She asked.

"Most definitely not," Deinol assured her. "You are easily the most beautiful king I have ever met."

The warrior who had spoken first, a veteran with grey in his blonde beard, stepped forward, angrily. "Mind your tongue!" He warned Deinol, but Morwen only smiled a little deeper.

Morwen held out her hand; Deinol took it, and bowed low over it to brush his lips against her knuckles. Her skin seemed almost to crackle with force where it touched his, and as he straightened their eyes met, and a charge seemed to leap between them.

"I have set up my headquarters in Tarnduh, Deinol ap Jago," Morwen said. "We shall have to move now that we are discovered, but we shall not risk a march under the sun. Will you join me for the evening meal, so that we can discuss our strategy?"

"I would be honoured, Your Grace."

The evening meal was meagre fare, but still more than Deinol's followers had grown used to. Deinol and Roth joined Morwen and her general, the veteran, Goroyn, at the headman of Tarnduh's table. The headman and his family had fled into the mountains with the bulk of his people almost two weeks previously, and Tarnduh had been Morwen's headquarters since then.

"I am sorry that the food must be cold," Morwen said. "The Buccan have steel birds that fly over, and at night they can see a fire from far off, even under cover."

"We understand," Deinol assured her.

"We hoped to stay hidden here a few more weeks," she explained. "But we are not unprepared. We have made ready a holding in the mountains where the bulk of my forces are gathered; we shall just have to fall back there, although supplies will be tight. We are also short of weapons and gear."

Deinol nodded his understanding. "My people have already begun stripping the Changeling warriors; their gear will go a great way towards remedying that problem. We also have provisions, all that we could transport; enough to last my one-hundred-and-twenty for two weeks. If we repair those wagons I saw out by the barns we should be able to bring as much again from Tarnduh's stores; if they still hold that much."

"They do," Goroyn replied.

Roth spoke up. "Also, Your Grace, we know where the folk of three villages have gone, taking with them far more provisions than we could afford to bear. There's hunting in the mountains besides; I reckon we can last a month without once coming down from the hills, and I doubt we'll want to hole up so long."

"I agree," Morwen confirmed. "I have agents rallying support and scouting out the ground, but once they have returned we need to make a plan of action and move on it at once. Rawn's forces come to him through the faerie ring, and the longer he is secure here, the greater his army and the more secure his hold at Carngrysyl. For the last few weeks we have been gathering what warriors remain after the massacres at Porthbucca and Porthrahn, but we must strike soon or we shall lose the chance forever."

Goroyn nodded his support of his King's assessment. "Until now we have had the advantage that Rawn does not know that any of the royal line survived, but I fear that he may now know."

"We ran into a group of scouts in the lower hills," Roth replied. "We killed five Changelings, but their leader got away; one of those bloody red Hunters of Mab's."

"Most likely he was retreating to inform his lord," Morwen said. "And I raised the royal banner above this house; damnable folly!" She hissed.

"The people need to see that the royal line endures, Your Grace," Goroyn assured her. "They must know that you fight for them."

"He is right," Deinol agreed. "I only wish we could have taken the Hunter."

Morwen laughed, bitterly. "They plague us worse than any of the others," she said. "Do not blame yourself for failing to stop him; I have not heard that any man has succeeded in slaying one of those vile curs."

Deinol half-turned to Roth, but the old warrior was already speaking. "Then let me be the first to bring you such news, Your Grace," he said.

"Roth..." Deinol began.

 "No, My Lord," Roth chided. "If the people need to know that the King fights for them, she must know that they fight for her." He turned back to Morwen. "My Lord Deinol rescued my daughter from a Changeling patrol," he said. "He killed three Changelings and also their leader; a Hunter."

"You must be an exceptional swordsman," Morwen commended, warmly.

"I was exceptionally lucky," Deinol insisted, blushing. "And he was careless. But did you say that Rawn did not know of your survival?" He asked.

Morwen smiled at him. "I see you are clever with words, as well as weapons," she said. "But yes; so far as I know he was unaware that I escaped his slaughterhouse." Her voice wavered at the last, her smile dissolving. "Goroyn," she said. "Will you go with Master Roth please, and assess the strengths of Lord Deinol's armies. Perhaps you can acquaint him with our forces as well."

"As you wish, Your Grace," Goroyn replied, eyeing Deinol suspiciously.

Morwen waited until Goroyn and Roth had left before speaking again. "When Rawn entered the ruin of Porthrahn, he gathered my kin and their families and murdered them all," she told Deinol. "I had been trapped in the rubble during the destruction, or I would have died with them. I may have been counted among the dead by Rawn, because no hunt was made for me. I have no way to be sure, but I believe that my husband's sister died in my place."

"You are married?"

"I was," Morwen replied. "But he was killed shortly after the birth of our second child. Both boys died when the world was torn," she added, her voice going very quiet. "I try to be glad that they were spared that butcher's work. I am told that he tortured my family before he killed them."

"Did he want information?" Deinol asked. "Or was he just..." He swallowed hard in disgust before finishing: "Was he just having fun?"

"I do not know," Morwen admitted.

"I would not ask," Deinol assured her. "But we heard that Rawn's forces were searching for something. We though that must be you, but if he did not know that you survived..."

"There was something," she said. "I was my father's eldest child, but as a woman I was kept from his councils. However, I do know that when Rawn first came to Porthrahn he demanded something of my father. Father did not take him seriously – ‘looking for legends', he said – and he never told me what he asked for, but he sent him packing for his arrogance. We laughed to watch him rage at father, thinking him impotent. It seemed so ridiculous that this man would challenge the King of Logres.

"Then he returned, and we did not laugh." Deinol laid his hand gently over Morwen's. "Do not," she said, gently, although she made no move to take her hand away. "I am King, and should not be comforted."

"Why not?" Deinol asked. "Kings are human too."

"But they must be strong," she insisted.

"It isn't weak to be comforted," Deinol said. "Why is it," he asked, "that you are King and not Queen?"

Morwen smiled, wearily. "A Queen is a consort, not a monarch. In Logres a woman can not usually rule, but these times are not usual. If I am to lead the people however, then I must be King."

"I see," he replied.

"Alas, if I am King, then I can not afford to be a woman," she sighed, finally drawing her hand from under his. "I must be strong, and I can not allow myself to take comfort while my people suffer."

"Do not drive yourself so hard," Deinol said. "You will wear yourself out."

"I can not allow myself rest," Morwen told him. "I wish I could, but I do not even know what to do. How can we face the might of a faerie lord who can make the Earth herself tremble."

Deinol thought for a minute. "Clearly," he said, "there is something of great value to Rawn somewhere in Logres, and the Goa'uld value only one thing."

"Who?" Morwen asked.

"The Goa...The Buccan. The faeries. They call themselves the Goa'uld. I do not know how I know that," he admitted.

Morwen frowned. "And what is it that these Goa'uld want?" She asked.

"Power," Deinol replied. "Whatever they are seeking must be a source of power; possibly a weapon. If we find it first, then we may have a chance."

"What if it is not a weapon?"

Deinol shrugged. "Then we think of something else," he said. "But the first thing is to find out."

"And how do we do that?"

"Easy," he assured her. "We just have to capture a faerie."

*

Carndeinol
1999

Jack kept as still as he could, as he peered between the shelves of a bookcase at the Jaffa milling around the centre of the room. There were four of them, already rather more than he would care to take on single-handed, and that was before a Goa'uld arrived with five more Hounds. Jack had never seen the man, but he had the air of a lieutenant and wore Elowen's sword at his hip, and so Jack knew that this must be Fearghus.

"We have found it," the Goa'uld whispered, running his fingers over the surface of the column. "Go at once to Queen Mab," he ordered one of the Jaffa. "Tell her that I have found the ‘Scroll of Ages' and that I have found the Phosophos. You; summon Her Majesty's engineers." As the two Jaffa went on their way, Fearghus began to laugh out loud.

"Are you well My Lord?" One of the remaining Jaffa asked.

"Well?" Fearghus returned. "My so-worthy predecessor, the lamented Rawn, failed to find that which My Queen asked of him, and all the time he was on this wretched planet, he was living in it!" He laughed again. "I have never felt better."

"I am delighted that my thousand year wait at least brings you some amusement, my love."

Jack shifted a little to the right so that he could see the bottom of the stairs. Mab strode into the library, carelessly trampling the ancient tomes underfoot, flanked by Jaffa guards and four handmaidens. The Hounds had exchanged their battle dress for silver armour that was clearly ceremonial, the handmaidens were dressed in white, and Mab herself in gold. One of the girls scattered flower petals from a golden bowl before the Queen's feet, while the others bore a silver jug, a heavy sword and Mab's banner on a slender spear. The latter two handmaidens were blonde, like the bulk of the people of Logres, while the other two – the flower girl especially – had a darker colouring, most notably in their eyes, and looked a little bit familiar to Jack.

He wondered if he could kill Mab from his hiding place, but discounted the possibility. Such an attempt would give him away and besides, the Queen would likely be raised in a sarcophagus. He was also not entirely confident that he could make the shot without hitting the nearest handmaiden; the nervous girl with light brown hair and dark eyes who carried the pitcher.

"Forgive me," Fearghus begged, falling to his knees.

"Perhaps in time," the Queen murmured. She snapped her fingers, and a troupe of Jaffa went down the stairs, followed by two Goa'uld in unassuming robes. Jack guessed these must be the engineers. "Have this entrance guarded, day and night, and bring down as many Hounds as you need to make it secure. I have searched too long for this prize to have it slip away now."

"What is My Queen's desire?" Fearghus asked.

"Summon all of the engineers and artificers in my kingdom to work on this," she said. "Including Niamh."

Fearghus frowned. "But Lady Niamh is engaged in a project for the great Oberon," he reminded his mistress.

"I do not care!" Mab snapped. "Oberon no longer matters to me; can you not understand this. The vessel must be spaceworthy, its weapons operational, within ten days, or the engineers shall suffer greatly. If they have it working in five days however, they shall command their own rewards, for my generosity shall be boundless." She raised her hands, and lifted the veil from her face, revealing dark, bewitching eyes, which appeared almost unnaturally large in the pallor of her face.

"Three thousand years," she whispered. "Three thousand years I have searched for this vessel, and now it shall be mine at last." She smiled. "When this ship flies I shall forgive you Fearghus. When this ship rises once more into the sky, I shall forgive all past slights." She raised her hands towards the ceiling, caught up in her dreams of power. "For what matter will the troubles of a Faerie Queen be to me when I am reborn as the all-powerful goddess of destruction!"

Her eyes flamed white, the glow lighting up her ivory-pale face. Fearghus gazed at his mistress in slack-jawed reverence, and even Jack felt himself caught on the fringes of the pathos. It was at times like these he could almost understand how the Goa'uld came to be worshipped as gods.

After a long moment, Mab lowered her arms and replaced her veil, fastidiously rearranging her silver-blonde hair. She snapped her fingers. The girl with the pitcher produced a goblet from the folds of her gown and poured a drink of what certainly looked like water for her mistress. A pungent, heavy odour of alcohol confirmed Jack's suspicion that appearances in this case were deceiving.

"I shall await word from you in my new quarters," Mab said. "If this palace is the Phosophos, then I shall make it my home without delay."

"Yes, My Queen," Fearghus replied, with a low bow.

Mab returned the goblet to her handmaiden, and left with her retainers. After a moment, Fearghus led his warriors down the stairs towards the control room, and Jack took the opportunity to make his escape. He quickly ascended the stairs and made his way along the corridor to the nearest servants' door. A few hundred yards short however, he heard boots approaching from the other direction, and slipped into a side room to hide.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door, and Jack heard a sniffing sound.

God Damnit, he thought to himself. He waited while the Hunter outside sniffed the air, and after a moment the door handle began to turn. Luckily for Jack, the door opened outwards, and so he was able to throw his weight against it and then make a dash for the passages while the Hunter was still reeling.

The Goa'uld did not reel for long however, and Jack heard his feet falling lightly on the stones as he ducked into the servants' door. The Hunter came after him, and Jack risked a glance back, to see the red-haired, vulpine creature haring after him with an extraordinary, bounding gait, toes barely touching the ground. With a snarl the Hunter sprang, and Jack ducked, letting the Goa'uld sail over him, then took a quick turn down a side passage. Behind him the Hunter howled in fury, then there was only the tapping of his feet as he ran after his quarry.

"Sir!" Jack turned at the sound of Sam's voice, and followed it into yet another narrow corridor. Ahead of him he saw Sam clutching a small glass bottle; a group of guards stood behind her. As Jack approached, Sam hurled the bottle along the corridor, so that it smashed just behind him. Immediately, Jack's nostrils were assaulted by an acrid, powerful smell that made him stumble. He felt sure that the Hunter would take advantage of his surprise to leap on him, but instead when he turned, he saw his pursuer writhing on the ground in agony and confusion.

With a cry of rage, several of the guards ran forward and thrust spears into the Hunter, over and over again, until they were quite certain it was dead.

"That was for Vepa," Ythel snarled, spitting on the corpse. "And for all the others."

"Major?" Jack asked, baffled. "Is that...aniseed?"

"Yes, Sir," Sam replied. "The Hunters found the staff kitchen where we'd holed up and killed some of the guards and servants." She looked a little queasy as she spoke.

"Carter?"

"They killed and ate them, Sir," Sam explained. "The Hunters then chased Peran's group, but Ythel came up with the idea of using aniseed from the main kitchens to baffle their senses."

"It's an old poacher's trick," Ythel explained. "Throws the dogs of the scent. They keep some in the kitchens, so we mixed it up with anything else that smelled strong. It actually seems to hurt them to get a scent of it," he added, not without satisfaction. "We drove them off the first time and now...We will get the other one," he promised, apparently speaking to someone Jack could not see. "We will."

Jack looked at Sam.

"One of the guards was Ythel's fiancée," she explained, moving away so that the young man would not hear her. "There was nothing left of her; just her sword and some blood." She sighed, sadly. "Anyway, we've splashed Ythel's aniseed mixture around the passages enough that the Hunters should have a real problem finding us again, and we think there's only one left now."

Jack nodded. "So now we wait for Elowen to get back, and then we'll see what we shall see."

*

Bodwra
983

In the pale light of dawn, a squad of Changeling warriors filtered through the deserted streets of Bodwra, before gathering in the square before the great stone building that dominated the village. They conversed for a few moments, before their leader, a grey-haired veteran named Colwyn, returned to the outskirts, where his mistress waited with two bodyguards.

The lady had thick, dark hair and golden skin which looked completely out of place among the frozen mists of Bodwra. She belonged – Colwyn would have said – in a place of warmth and sunlight, where that rich, brown skin would glow. Apparently, the lady herself agreed, for she had wrapped a fox fur coat tightly around herself for warmth, despite her Goa'uld constitution. As the leader of her escort drew near she was sipping delicately at a cup of water from a nearby stream.

"Naquadah," she said. "It must come from the hills in the water." She turned to Colwyn. "Well?" She asked.

"The building appears undamaged," Colwyn reported. "The people of the village have taken to their homes. Shall we gather them, My Lady?"

"No," the lady replied. "The people are unimportant. Guard the door of the library and let no-one enter without my permission."

"Yes, My Lady," the Changeling acknowledged, but there was doubt in his voice.

"You take issue with my commands?" She asked.

"No, My Lady; it is only...This is not the ground we were assigned to search; Lord Rawn..."

"Is a fool!" The lady snapped.

"Why are we here, My Lady?" Colwyn asked. "If Lord Rawn discovers that you have disobeyed him, we shall all be killed; even you."

"We are here because – unlike Lord Rawn – I can read and understand complex sentences," the lady explained. "Trust me, Jaffa; we shall find the Light, not Rawn, for all his endless trawling of the countryside."

"I do not understand, My Lady," the Changeling admitted, as he escorted her to the great building. "Do you hope to find the Light within?"

"Not as such," she said. "But this is a library, and one more ancient than the people who now live here. If there exists a record of the Light's arrival on this world, then it shall be found here or in the library of Carngrysyl. Since Lord Rawn has sealed the latter, I am left with only one place to search."

Colwyn took a lantern, and followed the Goa'uld into the library. "Keep the rest of the Jaffa outside," the lady instructed. "The pages of the texts within are old, and may be very fragile. Hold the lantern for me, but touch nothing."

She approached the nearest shelf, and ran her fingers very lightly along the spines of the ancient volumes. "I can feel it," she whispered. "The weight of aeons lie upon this place." She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. "Oh, the knowledge that must lie within these pages. The power."

She led Colwyn around the great hall, until she found what she was seeking.

"Does that tell of the Light?" Her bodyguard asked.

"No," she replied. "This is merely an index volume." She set the tome reverently on a lectern, and cautiously turned the pages. "So beautiful," she murmured, although to Colwyn it seemed to be nothing but a dusty old book, its cracked pages filled with faded text.

The Goa'uld took a small device from under her cloak and slipped it onto her right hand. She held the device over the book, and a soft light shone down; where the light fell on the pages, the writing sprang suddenly into focus. She passed her hand quickly over the page, before turning to the next, treating the book with greater care and reverence than the Jaffa had ever seen a Goa'uld treat anything.

"You shall never speak of this place to anyone," she said.

"No, My Lady," Colwyn agreed.

"Mab may take the Light, and Rawn may covet this land, but this treasure will be mine."

"Yes, My Lady." He did not feel it was his place to note that neither Queen Mab nor Lord Rawn would be likely to want a collection of dusty, decaying paper. "It shall be as..." He turned, suddenly, drawing his zat'nik'tel as he shone the lantern into the corners of the room.

"Give me the light," the lady snapped, impatiently.

The Jaffa made no move to obey, and instead he set the lantern down on the lectern, and physically drew the Goa'uld away into the shadows.

"Let go of..."

"You must be silent, My Lady," he hissed. "I heard shots fired outside. If my Jaffa have not reported an incident to me, then they were overcome."

The Goa'uld shivered. She was very young for one of her kind, and had likely never faced the prospect of her own death before.

"They shall have to come through me to reach you, My Lady," Colwyn swore. "Come; let us seek a hiding place for you."

Together they moved deeper into the shadows, until the Jaffa found a little alcove where his mistress could hide. He was only just in time, and a few moments later he heard footsteps approaching. "I shall try to draw them away," he said. "So that you can escape."

"My blessing upon you," the lady said, in a small, almost human voice.

The Jaffa bowed his head, gravely. He moved back towards the entrance, and waited until the first enemies entered. They wore the armour of Hounds, but daubed in paint, and bore weapons of Goa'uld design. There were three of them, and they went straight to the lectern.

"A book?" One of them asked. "Is that what they were searching for?"

"Fetch Lord Deinol," a second man instructed. The third moved to obey, but before he could move Colwyn fired his zat'nik'tel three times, felling the three warriors.

The Jaffa made a dash for the door, knocking down the man who came to investigate the gunshots. Outside, he saw that his squad had been overcome by a large force of humans. He fired wildly into the human ranks before dashing off between the buildings, challenging them to pursue. He was an old and wily warrior; he would take a few of them with him before he died, and hopefully buy a chance for his mistress to get free.

"After him!" Goroyn ordered. "He must not escape."

"He won't," Deinol said. "The roads are covered. Pursue him, but with caution, and leave enough men to help me search inside."

"Surely we should find him first?" Goroyn asked.

"No," Deinol replied. "He wants us to chase him; that means that there is something within that he values greatly."

"What could that be?" Roth asked.

"His master," Deinol replied. He drew one of the faerie lightning knives – there was a name for them, but he could not for the life of him recall it – from his belt. "Roth, come with me; Goroyn, catch that Changeling."

"Yes, My Lord," Goroyn grumbled. He was not happy to be taking orders from Deinol,  but at the same time he was the one who had insisted that he should accompany Deinol's forces in their attempt to capture one of the Buccan.

On the way into the building, Deinol gathered a small band of warriors, and the enterprising Mellyan had managed to locate a dog belonging to one of the terrified villagers.

"What is this place?" The youth asked.

"It's a library," Deinol replied. "See if they're alright," he added, pointing to the fallen warriors while he examined the book. "This looks like an index, but the writing is somewhat faded."

"These three are alive," Mellyan confirmed. "But something has upset the dog."

Deinol looked up, and saw that the dog – a small, yappy thing with russet fur – was indeed agitated by something. It began to growl, and a moment later tugged its leash from Mellyan's hand. The small creature darted into an alcove, yapping angrily, then moments later came shooting out, whining pitiably with its tail between its legs. Deinol raised his lightning knife and signalled his warriors to move around, flanking the alcove.

As they drew near, a cloaked figure burst from the alcove and lifted her hand towards Deinol. Something stirred his memory, and he threw himself aside in time to avoid the wave from the Goa'uld's ribbon device. As she began to run, Deinol rose and fired once. Lightning arced around her, and she fell, hard. At once, Mellyan ran to see if she was badly hurt.

"Get back!" Deinol snapped, angrily, causing Mellyan to flinch. He knelt beside the woman and turned her on her back. He stripped off her hand device, removed half-a-dozen other devices from her belt, and also confiscated an emerald-studded choker and her silver and jet tiara. She began to struggle at the end, but he was able to back away and cover her with the lightning knife, and she settled for pushing herself up against a wall and sitting there, glowering.

The Logrians gathered around, staring at the lady in frank astonishment. Most of them had only ever seen the Changelings and the Hunters; a Lady of the Faerie like this one was no common sight, and she was unlike anything they could have imagined.

"Stay back," Deinol warned again.

"How dare you treat me this way," the lady demanded, in a cold, imperious tone.

"I will treat you any way I want to," Deinol replied in kind. "If you cause me trouble, I shall shoot you again, and we both know that would kill you. If you are helpful, I may be inclined to show you a little mercy, but I know that you are too dangerous to be held unless you can be of some use."

"My Lord?" Mellyan queried, clearly disturbed by his master's tone.

"Listen, Mellyan," Deinol said. "Clear your mind of anything you think you know about this woman. She is not helpless; she is not harmless; and she is most definitely not innocent. She has earned no kindness from us, and she will have to convince me that she is worthy of the least tolerance."

"I am your prisoner," the lady said. "I am yours to do with as you will, but I shall not betray my Queen."

"Restrain her," Daniel said. "Find somewhere secure to keep her, and have five men watch her at any time."

"Five?" Roth asked.

"She is stronger than any two of us," Deinol explained. "I won't take chances."

One of the warriors had apparently lost interest in the proceedings, for he reached out and picked up one of the books. It crackled as he opened it, the binding broke, and the pages fell to the ground where they burst into a cloud of dust.

"Don't touch those!" Deinol snapped, and was surprised to hear the Goa'uld echo his words.

"You are a scholar," he realised. "What was it you were looking for here?"

"I shall tell you nothing."

"Take her away," Deinol ordered. "I will speak with you later. I would advise that you tell me what I want to know before the King arrives: She has even less cause to be kind to you than I do."

"What should we do about feeding her?" One of the warriors asked.

"Mellyan," Deinol said. "See to her needs. Do not be cruel, but do not be kind either. The latter is more than she deserves, but the former less than we are worth."

"Yes, My Lord," Mellyan replied. "I believe that the town has a gaol," he added. "We can use that to hold...What is your name, My Lady?"

The Goa'uld smiled slightly at the appellation. "I am Vivienne," she replied. "And who, if I may be allowed to know, is my captor?"

"Deinol ap Jago," Deinol replied. He waved his hand, and the warriors moved to escort her.

"Wait," Vivienne called. "My tiara."

"What of it?" Deinol asked.

"May I have it?" She begged.

"Why?"

"My eyes..." She looked away, embarrassed. "They have an imperfection. The tiara is designed to allow me to see clearly."

"You have corrected vision?" Deinol asked, touching a finger to his glasses. "Doesn't the sarcophagus repair your eyesight?"

"Sarcophagus?" She asked.

"I...A box," Deinol said, confused as to where this knowledge came from. "It gives life, but destroys the soul."

"The Black Cauldron?" Vivienne asked. "Queen Mab controls access to the Cauldron very closely, and I have not been permitted to use it enough times to correct my sight."

"How old are you?" Deinol asked.

"Older than you can imagine," she lied.

Deinol looked her straight in the eye. "Answer me truthfully, and I will let you have the tiara," he said. "How many years since you first took a host?"

"Less than five years," she admitted. "My father filled my role before me."

Deinol tossed the tiara to Mellyan. The boy turned and face the Goa'uld. He looked into her eyes, and though he did detect a confusion, a lack of focus, he felt moved to tell her: "I see no imperfection."

Vivienne smiled. "My, you are charming," she commended. He slipped the tiara onto her head, and her gaze focused on Mellyan's face. She blinked twice. "And so handsome," she added, in a predatory purr.

"Mellyan," Deinol cautioned. "Do not let your guard down for a second. And you," he warned Vivienne. "If you hurt him, I will kill you."

*

Carndeinol
1999

The guards had been holed up in the passages for almost a week now, and Jack was beginning to get used to the constant smell of aniseed; it was probably better than that of unwashed soldier. The remaining Hunters – or Hunter, if Mab had brought no more from her ship – were clearly baffled by the pungent aroma, and so far the new headquarters had remained secure. By freeing prisoners they had bolstered their numbers, but their activities were becoming limited by the guards Mab was placing on the entrances and exits to the passages. It was the one drawback of the aniseed that the diffusing scent gave away every access point, not just to the Hunters but to anyone with a nose.

After the week, Elowen and Taliesin returned to the castle, and they brought encouraging news.

"Many of the lords still refuse to serve Cathbad," Elowen said. "Especially those who served in my father's Guard with Tryfena when they were younger. Word of the manner of her death has been suppressed, but enough now know to make things very difficult for him. We can count on the warbands and levies of Marasnan Woles, Porthnewth, Bodwra and most of the smaller towns and villages, and those who will not stand with us will not betray us either.

"I believe that we can beat the Changeling army on the ground," she said. "However...I do not know how we can fight Mab herself, if she has the power to make the earth move."

"The key to that has to be the Grail," Sam replied. "We know that it is a ship, like Mab's, but more powerful. Some time after its arrival here, the whole structure was built over with stone to hide the ship; even the interior walls have been clad in stone blocks. The ship is called the Phosophos and it has been converted into the defensive weapon you know as the Sangreal. With the power of this vessel, we should be able to repel any assault."

"But we do not have the Lapsit Exilis," Taliesin reminded her. "The Grail will not serve us."

Sam shook her head. "This is a space ship; a piece of technology, not a mystical chalice. It may take some time, but I can make it work."

"Are you sure?" Jack asked.

"The controls follow a logic similar to human design," Sam replied. "I can do this."

"I hope so," Elowen said. "Because without the Lapsit Exilis, or at least some idea of what that might be, you may be our only hope."

"Then why are you smiling?" Jack asked.

Elowen looked at Taliesin for a moment before replying. "Because I would rather place my faith in people than in legends."

Jack nodded his agreement.

"There is one more problem," Taliesin admitted. "Fully half the forces we can hope to command belong to the lords of Hyneth. The lords follow Osian, and while Osian does not wish to bow to faerie rule, he refuses to fight against Cathbad while Ossine stands at his side."

"Which means that we have to get Ossine away from there and persuade him to join us," Elowen explained.

"Did you try telling Osian that Ossine wasn't his son?" Jack suggested.

"It did not seem diplomatic," Elowen replied, sternly. "And it would do not good; Osian probably knows, but he can not disown Ossine without declaring himself a cuckold. I would ask you not to speak of the subject again," she added, with a meaningful look at the shocked faces of the guards.

"Sure," Jack replied. "Sorry."

Elowen nodded, gratefully.

"So what do you want to do?" Jack asked.

"I need to talk to Ossine," she said. "I am sure that, deep down, he is a good man; I just have to get him away from Cathbad." She looked up, resolute. "We have no choice but to abduct him."

*

Bodwra
984

"This is a bleak place," Deinol said, looking around the mist-shrouded town. "But I have to admit, the longer I stay here, the more I love it."

The followers of Morwen had made the haunted village their home since the capture of Vivienne sixteen days ago. Many of the soldiers felt ill-at-ease, but the village was secure from below with a concealed pass behind, and close enough to Carngrysyl to be a perfect base for their raids on Rawn's soldiers and supply camps. Moreover, the mist shrouded them from the steel birds that periodically flew over, and they even seemed able to light fires without being detected. Deinol was also keen to find out what the faerie had been seeking in the library, and he preferred not to take the risk of moving her.

So far, Vivienne had not been very forthcoming with information. Their other prisoner – the Jaffa – had recovered from the wounds sustained in his capture. He was as closed-mouthed as his mistress to start with, but Deinol's threat to harm the Goa'uld had loosened his tongue. Sadly, Colwyn could not reveal what he did not know, and he knew only that they were searching for something called the Light; a wonder of a bygone age.

While Colwyn's health had improved, Vivienne's appeared to be deteriorating. Somehow, Deinol knew that she was suffering withdrawal from the influence of the ‘Black Cauldron', as she called it, and that he had once suffered a similar malady. From his memories, Deinol knew that the Cauldron must be a kind of sarcophagus, a device for healing and restoring the dead. From Colwyn, he learned that – as a very minor lady – Vivienne was permitted only very occasional use of the Black Cauldron. Extrapolating, Deinol realised that Mab must possess only a single sarcophagus for her own use, and that for her servants it was a great privilege to be permitted its regenerative blessing. Deinol hoped that the withdrawal symptoms were peaking, because otherwise he was certain the Goa'uld would die of it, and he would need a new faerie to question.

"You can not keep her like this," Mellyan said. He was standing at Deinol's side, overlooking the town.

"I can and I will," Deinol replied. "Come; it's time we have another talk with the Lady Vivienne."

"Yes, My Lord,"  Mellyan grumbled.

Deinol was concerned by the youth's growing attachment to the faerie, but he still hoped that he might gain some information by using Mellyan as his ‘good cop'. Of course, he would have been more comfortable with this plan if he could remember what a cop was.

The ‘gaol' that Vivienne was held in had proven to be an old kennels, disused as such for some years but still retaining a canine aroma. She had complained bitterly at being housed like a dog, but gave up when she realised that Deinol was not going to be swayed by her protests. She was guarded by only one man now, with six warriors taking shifts throughout the day and night, because no others could stand to hear her piteous howls; not in this dreary setting.

As he usually did, Deinol allowed Mellyan to go in first and calm the faerie girl. She had stopped howling – she usually began shortly after midnight and ran out of steam mid-morning, which was why Deinol chose that time to question her – but a steady stream of moans came from the kennels. The guard opened the outer door of the kennels and let the youth in. Deinol stood outside, watching through a Judas window in the door.

The kennel was divided into barred pens, which was why Mellyan had mistaken it for a gaol in the first place, and Vivienne had been restrained in the largest of these. Besides the barred outer door and the cage, she was secured by heavy shackles on her wrists and ankles. Her hair was a mess of tangles and bedding straw, her make-up was gone, her cloak was matted from use as a blanket, and she was in great need of a wash and a change of clothing, but she was still beautiful. She lay on her side, staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling. As she often did, she had thrown her tiara aside, as though by making the world around her blurry, she could somehow change what it was.

Mellyan unlocked the cage, then hung the key on a hook beside the door before going into the pen. This was at Deinol's insistence; the shackles were locked with the same key as the door, and Deinol did not want Vivienne able to release her bonds were she to overpower Mellyan. Mellyan did not think she was capable of overpowering anyone in her current state, but Deinol was adamant.

"Vivienne," Mellyan said, softly. He picked up her tiara and approached her slowly, knowing that when startled she could be violent; if he ever seemed likely to forget, he had the bite mark on his left hand to remind him.

"Leave me alone," she growled.

"You know I can not," Mellyan replied. "Lord Deinol is here to speak with you."

"I do not wish to speak with him," she replied. "Let him leave me in peace, or else kill me."

"Vivienne," Mellyan murmured, moving close to her. He slipped the jet-studded band back onto her head, then wrapped his arms gently around her, as though she were a child. "Do not speak so," he enjoined her. "He will not kill you."

"He is killing me," she whispered. "The Cauldron sustains me; I shall die without it."

"I will not let that happen," Mellyan promised. "But you must tell Lord Deinol what he needs to know."

"If I betray my Queen she shall never let me enter the Cauldron again," Vivienne sobbed.

"Please..."

Behind Mellyan, the door opened, and Deinol entered the kennels. Even with the cage bars still between them, Vivienne shrank as far away from him as she could.

"My Lord..." Mellyan began.

"Leave us now, Mellyan," Deinol said, stepping into the stall.

"You are killing her," Mellyan accused. "You have to let her go."

Deinol's face darkened. "That is the one thing I can never do," he said. "Now wait outside."

"No."

"Go!" Deinol stepped forward, looming over the youth.

"I will not let you hurt her anymore," Mellyan said, setting his heels. "It is wrong."

"Hurt her?" Deinol asked. "I haven't begun to hurt her, and if you do not wish to see it happen, I suggest you wait outside."

"You would not!" Mellyan gasped.

"I am running out of time," Deinol said, coldly. "Your King and country are running out of time. I have no choice but to wrest the information we need from her, by whatever means necessary."

"The law of this land forbids torture," Mellyan protested.

"Only for humans."

"I won't allow it!" Mellyan clenched his fists, angrily.

Deinol struck the youth a backhand blow across the face, and he stumbled to the ground.

"No!" Vivienne leaped to her feet, suddenly more animated than she had seemed in days. "Leave him alone, I command you!"

"You do not command anymore," Deinol reminded her, nastily.

Mellyan pulled himself to his feet. "My Lord, you can not do this," he said. "I will not..."

"Leave us," Vivienne said.

"What?"

"Just...go," she repeated. "You can not protect me, and I will not see you hurt over this."

Mellyan looked confused and conflicted.

"Go!" The Goa'uld snapped. Stung, the boy retreated from the kennels.

"Do you expect me to feel sorry for you now?" Deinol asked Vivienne, contemptuously.

Vivienne scoffed. "I do not care what you do to him," she said. "I just do not wish to see it. It made me feel...uncomfortable."

"Listen to me, Goa'uld," Deinol said. "Because I am running out of patience. I have no past," he told her. "No true memories. I have nothing except the present, and these people, and I will do anything to protect them, however much it blackens my soul. If you do not tell me what you were searching for, I will have no choice but to hurt you, and while I might have baulked at torture, once upon a time, those restraints are forgotten.

"I will not let your silence hurt my people," he repeated, fixing his gaze with hers, and she quailed in fear from that basilisk stare.

"And you call me a monster," she accused.

"Would you do any different if I were at your tender mercy?"

"I would not," she admitted.

"Talk," Deinol said. "What is the Light?"

"In its makers' tongue, it is called the Phosophos," she said.

"The Light of Wisdom."

"Yes," she replied, impressed despite herself. "Forgive me, Deinol ap Jago; I had mistaken you for one of these barbarians."

"I am one of these barbarians," he assured her. "Go on."

"The Light is a spacecraft, built for one purpose only: To destroy. It is not a warship, it is a weapon; a mobile gun capable of shattering a planet."

"A sort of ‘Death Star'?" Deinol asked.

"A what?"

Deinol shook his head to clear another random memory, without useful context. "Never mind."

Vivienne shrugged. "The Light was – to the best of our knowledge – never used. Instead it was hidden away, concealed on a backwater planet; this backwater planet. Mab spent millennia tracking its known movements, charting its course, before she found this world and charged Rawn with finding the Light for her."

"Why not search herself?" Deinol asked.

"She does not like to stay in one place," Vivienne explained. "She has a fear of being waylaid, and prefers to keep on the move. Rawn is loyal to her, or as loyal as any of my kind ever are, and besides, he is far too cretinous to ever betray her and get away with it. He is searching for the Light by scouring this land, inch by inch; no method but slow elimination. I – on the other hand – realised that there might be a record of the Light in this ancient archive. If I can find it, then I shall be richly rewarded.

"Or I would have been," she corrected, deflating. "Had you not captured me."

Deinol shrugged. "My heart bleeds for you," he said. "Thank you for your help," he added. "Let me know if you think of anything else useful." He turned to go.

"No!" She cried. "I have told you what you wanted to know! You must release me."

"When this world is swept clean of Changelings, and there is nowhere for you to run but the Chappa'ai, then I might release you; not before."

He left the kennels, Vivienne's screams of rage at his back, and came face to face with Mellyan.

"She has done what you wanted," he said. "At least offer her for ransom."

"I will do no such thing," Deinol said.

"You are a monster," the youth accused. He turned on his heel and stormed off.

"Mellyan; wait!" Deinol called out, but the youth was gone.

Deinol climbed up to a little hut on an outcrop of rock above the main village and sat on the bench outside. Opinion in Bodwra was divided as to whether this isolated hut or the great stone library was the ‘witch's dwelling' that gave the town its name, but Deinol found them both rather tranquil and calming places to be. Soon he would need to go down to the library to follow up on Vivienne's leads, but first he needed a moment to get his head together.

"You seem tired, My Lord."

Deinol turned his head, and saw Morwen standing in the cabin door.

"As do you, Your Grace," he replied. "I did not know that anyone else came up here," he added.

"I like it here," she said. "It is peaceful, and it is surprisingly cosy in there still. What troubles you, Lord Deinol?" She asked, refusing to be distracted. "Beyond that which troubles us all?"

Deinol sighed, deeply. "I know that I am doing the right thing," he said. "That we needed to know what Mab seeks here. But it is hard for me to act this way. Sometimes I want to give in to my feelings; to comfort Vivienne, even though I know what she is. Other times, I find myself becoming what I pretend to be. I hit Mellyan this morning, and I meant it."

"No you did not," she assured him. "You could not."

"I'm changing, and I can't stop it. I don't have a sense of self with which to counter this."

"Keep away a few days," Morwen advised, coming to sit beside him. "Come back to it when you feel stronger, or she will take advantage of your weakness."

"I have what I need for now," he replied, gratefully. "I will be mostly in the library from now on, I think."

"That is good," Morwen said. "I hate to see you so weary. Also, I have been spending much time in the library; it will be good to see you there more often." She gave a tired smile. "It will be good to see you more often."

Deinol averted his eyes.

"What is wrong?" She asked.

"You don't know who I am," he said.

"I think I do," she replied.

"How can you, when I don't know?"

Morwen raised a hand to his face, and turned his gaze towards her. "I do not know who you were, Deinol ap Jago; but I do know the man you have become. He is a good man," she assured him. "A brave and stalwart man, who is prepared to do what he must."

"I'm a lost man," he replied. "I don't even think I'm a very good fighter. I know how to use a sword, but I feel like I haven't done it very often."

"You are scared," she said. "You have never led people to war before, and you are scared that you will get them killed."

"Yes," he admitted. "I am."

"So am I," she told him. "You are still a good man."

"I'm a...nowhere man."

"You are the man I love."

"I..." Deinol was speechless.

"Perhaps I should not have said that." Morwen blushed and broke eye contact. "Perhaps you feel you can not give your heart when there might be another with a claim on you."

"There is not," he replied. "I think that there was, but that there is not anymore is one of the few things I know for certain. I just never hoped...I never dared hope that you might feel the same way that I do about you."

"Then I am glad that I spoke," she said.

"I am glad also," he assured her.

They stood very close to one another now. Deinol paused for a moment, and when neither moved away, they kissed.

"Come inside," she invited, breathlessly.

"Are you sure?"

Morwen nodded. "I am sorry to seem forward, but you know already that I am no maiden, and I fear we may have little time together." She took him by the hand. "Come inside," she repeated.

"Alright."

In the village below, Goroyn watched, with a scowl on his face. The two figures disappeared into the hut; after a moment it began to rain.

*

On his way back to the hall where his troops were billeted, Goroyn saw a group of warriors approaching him. Seeking solitude, he turned and ducked into the nearest building; only once he was inside did he realise that he was not alone.

"Well, General Goroyn; this is an unexpected honour."

Goroyn looked over at the pen where Colwyn was securely shackled. His two guards huddled on the far side of the stable, sheltering from the rain.

"Get back to the barracks," Goroyn told the warriors. "I'll watch the prisoner until the rain passes."

"Yes, Sir," they replied, not stopping to question their good fortune.

Colwyn sat cross-legged, following Goroyn with his eyes but otherwise not moving a muscle. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" He asked. "I have not had such a distinguished visitor since your Lord Deinol was convinced that I had spoken all I knew."

"He is not ‘my' lord," Goroyn replied.

"I see," Colwyn said. "Your lord is the King; Morwen. You see Deinol as an interloper."

"He has the King's favour," Goroyn muttered. "It does not matter what I think."

"Of course it does not."

"What?" Goroyn asked, startled.

"Did you think I would try to convince you to betray your mistress out of bitterness and jealousy?" Colwyn asked, with a slight smile. "I am a warrior, like yourself; such behaviour is unbecoming in our kind. It matters not what you think of Lord Deinol, because you have no say in your mistress' decisions. Such is my lot, also. I have served Lady Vivienne less than a handful of years, yet I have come to care for her as both a child and a parent. Nevertheless, I can not sway her intentions; nor should I try. It is not my place, however hard it may be to remain a spectator."

Goroyn pulled open the door of the pen and went in. He sat down near to Colwyn, just out of reach, and pulled a bottle from under his cloak. He took a long swig and offered the bottle to Colwyn.

"It is not allowed," he replied. "But thank you."

Goroyn nodded. He fetched over a water jug and a cup for the Changeling, then sat back down and took another drink. "She has never fallen in love before," he said. "Her husband she loved, but she never fell in love with him, and she is thinking with her heart."

"Lady Vivienne is impetuous," Colwyn said. "She acts without her lord's leave, and risks his anger with foolish words."

"She will give herself to Deinol. He will become King and the land shall be in uproar."

"She will forget herself one day, and he will kill her; if Lord Deinol does not do so first."

"She is a woman, when we need a King."

"She is hasty, when what is needed is thought."

"Yet I would not have her any other way."

"And nor would I."

"Is ours a futile task?" Goroyn asked. "To seek to protect one who refuses to be protected."

"It is thankless," Colwyn allowed. "But by that very token it is the highest of duties. Even when they drive us to distraction, our reward is that they live to test us another day. Why do we let them do this?" He wondered aloud.

"Because they are the ones who move the world," Goroyn replied. "Would you follow a man like Rawn if he told you to disobey your orders and search a little village in the mountains?"

Colwyn smiled. "Would you follow anyone but her if she told you to fight against the faerie host?"

Goroyn shook his head again. "Here's to them," he said, raising the bottle.

Colwyn took a cup of water and raised it in response. "Here's to them."

*

Carndeinol
1999

Jack sighed. "I never thought, when I joined the SGC, that I'd ever find myself trying to kidnap a prince again."

"Again?" Sam asked.

"Never mind," Jack said. "Forget I said anything."

The two of them were lying in wait outside Cathbad's audience chamber. Soon after Mab made him King she had relegated him to a smaller suite of room, claiming the royal chambers as her own. He had continued to rule the country – or those parts of it that were prepared to follow him – from this minimalist court, and grown more and more discontented each day.

Ossine often bore the brunt of his mentor's anger, and so tended to emerge from his meetings with Cathbad ill-tempered and distracted, and this mood also infected his guards. For this reason, Jack and Peran had chosen the end of such an interview as he perfect time to seize the young lordling. Jack and Sam were waiting on one side of the hall, Teal'c and Peran on the other, carefully concealed behind a pair of tapestries.

After what seemed like forever, the door opened, and Ossine emerged, ranting away to his two guards. "He takes me for granted," he was saying. "That's what he does. If he had more faith in me we could have talked Queen Elowen around, I know we could, and the lords..."

Jack sprang out and drove a vicious cross at the first guard's chin, knocking him cold. The second man had a split second's extra warning before Peran grabbed him in a choke hold. His legs kicked out and caught the tapestry, which fell with a surprisingly loud crash.

"Help!" Ossine cried out, before Teal'c was able to seize hold of him. It seemed to be enough however, as the door to Cathbad's chambers opened, and four more guards emerged.

Without hesitation, Peran threw the man he had grappled into the newcomers and drew his sword. Taking this as a license to employ deadly force, Jack drew his sidearm, and Sam did likewise. The guards hesitated, aware that the interloper's weapons might not look like anything they knew, but they were just as deadly as swords and knives. Jack began to back away, but then a Changeling pushed his way out of the door, and the fight was on again.

The Jaffa warrior leaped forward, leading by example, and Jack shot him twice. Inspired nonetheless, the human guards surged out, to meet a similar fate courtesy of Sam's Beretta and Peran's broadsword.

"Quickly!" Jack exhorted, starting down the corridor, but it was too late. Whether the sounds of battle had drawn attention, or whether someone had been en route to visit Cathbad already, the sound of heavy Jaffa boots was now approaching.

"Through the doors," Peran said. "They can be bolted from the inside, and there is a servants' door. Cathbad had it sealed, but it should be easy enough to open from within the chamber."

They hurried through, and Peran manhandled the great beam into position while Jack and Sam covered the astonished Cathbad and his court. There were two guards left, as well as a young woman in a red dress.

"How dare you!" Cathbad demanded, fear behind his bravado. "I will have you killed for this!"

"Why not kill us yourself?" Peran asked, stepping forward. "Like you killed Tryfena!" The two guards looked horrified by this revelation. They turned to their master, their expressions begging a denial, but none came. Peran smiled, grimly.

"There's no time..." Jack began to protest, as the Jaffa pounded on the door, but Peran had already hurled himself at the usurper, sword raised.

"Stop him!" Cathbad yelled, drawing his sword and desperately parrying the commander's attack, but his own guards stood still. Clearly Tryfena's reputation had extended beyond the old Royal Guard. Cathbad scrambled clear of another lunge, his crown falling from his head as he struggled to find his footing.

"Carter; find the door," Jack ordered, tearing at tapestries himself. "Teal'c; keep hold of that kid."

"I've found it, Sir," Sam called back. She hauled on the top of a cabinet, and it toppled forward to reveal a servant's door, sealed with a mass of boards. Pulling an unlit torch from the wall, she used the metal bracket as a crowbar to tear off the planks and uncover their exit.

Peran beat at Cathbad's defences, and although the usurper was the larger and stronger of the two men, he lacked the commander's skill. Under the relentless onslaught, he backed away and tripped on his own crown, falling hard at the foot of his throne. Peran raised his sword for the killing blow

"No!" As Peran lunged, the young woman hurled herself across Cathbad's body. Peran desperately twisted his body to shift the line of the attack, so that the sword missed the girl by a handbreadth, striking the stone floor behind her back.  For a moment, Peran was desperately off balance, and before he could recover Cathbad had pushed the girl aside and thrust upward at his foe.

The attack had little power, and his Logrian broadsword was not designed to thrust that way, but the point of the blade had enough sharpness to pierce the commander's leather jerkin.

Peran reeled back with a cry of pain. He tried to lift his sword, but found that he lacked the strength and staggered backwards. Cathbad lurched to his feet and cut at Peran's exposed flank, but one of his own guards stepped up and parried the blow, while the other caught Peran's uninjured arm and helped him towards the door.

Jack shrugged. "Well, okay then," he said, stepping forward and raising his pistol. Before he could shoot Cathbad dead however, the girl in the red dress was in front of him once more, this time with a