Tag: fiction

Sarah:

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child that you have stolen.

For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great.

You have no power over me.

— “Labyrinth” (1986)

Conan:

It’s the leader. He’s a wizard!

[touches his empty sheath.]

My dagger’s gone. You kill him!

Malak:

Not me! It’s bad luck to kill a wizard.

— “Conan the Destroyer” (1984)

Thereupon Elrond paused a while and sighed. “I remember well the splendour of their banners,” he said. “It recalled to me the glory of the Elder Days and the hosts of Beleriand, so many great princes and captains were assembled. And yet not so many, nor so fair, as when Thangorodrim was broken, and the Elves deemed that evil was ended for ever, and it was not so.”

“You remember?” said Frodo, speaking his thought aloud in his astonishment. “But I thought,” he stammered as Elrond turned towards him, “I thought that the fall of Gil-galad was a long age ago.”

“So it was indeed,” answered Elrond gravely. “But my memory reaches back even to the Elder Days. Eärendil was my sire, who was born in Gondolin before its fall; and my mother was Elwing, daughter of Dior, son of Lúthien of Doriath. I have seen three ages in the West of the world, and many defeats, and many fruitless victories.”

— The Lord of the Rings, Book Two, Chapter 2

[Set sometime in the near future.]

Next morning, after the King’s staff assembled for their daily meeting, James announced his intention to host a slap-up Hogmanay celebration. “I want it to be a New Year’s Eve bash to end all bashes—sit-down dinner and entertainment laid on. Spare no expense. I’ve drawn up a guest list.” He slid sheets of paper across the table to Shona and Cal. “I want everyone on the list to get an invitation.”

“Mind if we invite a wee friend or two as well?” asked Cal.

“Got someone special in mind?”

“If you remember,” replied Cal, “I invited Izzy and her family up to the estate to go riding.” At James’ blank look, he said, “Isobel Rothes, remember?”

“Isobel, sure. Why not? Let’s cast the net wide,” said James. “The more the merrier.”

“Would I be right in thinking you had an ulterior motive for hosting this party?” asked Embries. He held his head to one side, regarding James shrewdly.

“All will be revealed on the night,” James told him. Eager to end the scrutiny, he rose abruptly. “Right! Everyone get busy. We’ve got a party to plan.”

James, like many Scots, considered Hogmanay the great event of the calendar, and the only fitting and proper way to usher in the New Year. Throwing open Castle Morven for a royal gala celebration—the first since Scotland reclaimed the throne—would, he thought, provide the perfect opportunity for the future royal couple to announce their engagement.

Cal and Gavin undertook the cleaning and furnishing of the great hall; Shona spent hours closeted with Priddy in the cook’s pantry, poring over the old Duke’s favorite recipes and drawing up a menu. Rhys, along with Mr. Baxter and anyone else who happened along, was press-ganged onto foraging and decorating crews.

A truck was driven up into the forest, and a load of fresh greenery cut and brought back to deck the hall. The Duke’s fine bone china—which hadn’t seen the light of day for thirty years at least—was uncrated, washed, and sorted into place settings; likewise the silver and crystal. Assorted salvers, bowls, tureens, and decanters were removed from display cases, polished, and brought back into service. Some of the pieces, so old and eccentric their uses could only be guessed at, provided a few good laughs and were swiftly snatched up for decorative purposes.

As the short winter days moved swiftly on, arrangements steamed ahead; everyone became caught up in the fizzing spirit of the occasion, and a harried conviviality set in. The night before the party, James went to bed exhausted, and with a mountain of chores left to do, but feeling that if this was to be the last royal Hogmanay ever to be celebrated, at least it would be one to remember.

On December 31, Jenny and her cousins, Roslyn and Cara, arrived in the morning to help with the final preparations. The Rotheses appeared just after lunch; Caroline and Isobel came bearing gifts, and Donald a briefcase full of unfinished business. “An MP’s work is never done,” he explained. “But I promised the ladies I would not keep my nose buried the whole time we’re here.”

Introductions were made all around, and Jenny, Caroline, and Isobel settled down to making one another’s acquaintance….

“We’ve got all night ahead of us.”

“Speaking of which…” Cal said, glancing at his watch. “You’ll have to excuse me—I’ve a few last-minute chores.” He grinned suddenly and confided, “Actually, I was thinking of maybe getting Isobel to help me raid the Duke’s cellar. How about it, Your Highness? Fancy a posh tipple for tonight’s revel?”

“I expect nothing less,” James replied with regal aplomb. “Those bottles have been gathering dust long enough. Bring ’em out, I say. High time they did some good for King and Country….”

Talk turned to other things then; tea arrived, the afternoon fled, and before long it was time to get dressed for the party. Jenny, aided by her cousins, arrayed herself in a long, low-cut, blue satin gown with long blue gloves; with a length of Ferguson tartan over one shoulder, and her long dark hair tied in a blue velvet bow, she looked every inch a Celtic queen. James dressed in his best kilt and jacket—complete with the Duke’s old belt with an enormous silver buckle, and his father’s sgian dubh tucked into the top of one wool sock.

As the clock struck seven, James took his place in the castle foyer to greet his guests. Besides Jenny’s immediate family and relations, numerous local friends had been invited: drinking buddy Douglas; the Reverend and Mrs. Orr and their daughter Janet; Malcolm Hobbs, James’ longsuffering solicitor, and his wife and children; Calum’s parents; Shona’s boyfriend; Gavin’s girlfriend; along with the rest of the castle staff and their families. It must have amounted to nearly half the town and surrounding countryside. They all came dressed in their finest: the men in kilts, for the most part; the women in ball gowns, many with gloves, and most with traditional tartan shawls secured at their shoulders with jeweled brooches.

James stood for over an hour greeting them all, and watching the foyer and corridors fill up. He had given instructions that the great hall was to be locked and no one allowed in until the dinner bell had been rung. The delay served to heighten the anticipation; unable to help themselves, the children took turns trying the door handles every few minutes to make sure the doors were still locked.

When the last guest had arrived, James signaled Rhys to sound the bell, whereupon the King announced that it was his very great pleasure to extend the hospitality of Castle Morven to all his friends. “Embries,” he called across the crowd, “open the doors and let the festivities begin!”

 

The two huge doors were opened to reveal a room fragrant with the scent of peat and pine, and glowing with candlelight and hearth fire.

Artificial light had been banished. Massive iron candletrees—rousted out of the stables and reblacked—were stationed in every corner, each bearing a score of candles; there were candles all along the center line of the tables and also in the high, deep window wells all around; huge cathedral candles and slender tapers. A log and peat fire burned lustily in the enormous fireplace, taking the chill off the vast, high-roofed room.

The old oaken floor had been washed and waxed, and the two long medieval banqueting tables as well; every surface gleamed with a dull, ruddy luster. Every knife, fork, and spoon, every salt-cellar and sugar caster had been polished; every plate, goblet, cruet, and bowl gleamed in the soft lustrous light. Ivy trailed in long garlands from the stag heads and ancestral portraits on the walls. Boughs of spruce were piled heavily over the mantel. A low stage had been set up at the far end of the room, and this was all but covered in ivy and spruce.

To step across the threshold was to step back in time. Simple, elegant, and inviting, the hall looked very much as it would have looked during the High Middle Ages.

The old Duke’s armor-wearing ancestors, my ancestors, would have seen the hall just this way, James thought.

A trivial thing, perhaps—the modest festive decoration of an old room—yet James did feel that in some way he was connected with his ancestry and lineage; he felt rooted. No longer a usurper playing laird o’ the manor, he was the laird. He was the King and, for the first time since assuming the throne, he actually felt regal.

This realization produced in him a peculiarly intense longing; the fiosachd tingled, and he glimpsed, like the ghosts of Christmas past, the images of all those lords who had preceded him. They filled the hall, welcoming him with satisfaction and approval, raising their bowls to drink his health. The phantom image faded as quickly as it had arisen, but the effect lingered long, lending the festivities a mellow, golden glow. Calum and Isobel had masterfully plundered the old Duke’s wine cellar, and the resulting treasures were lined up like soldiers the length of the two great tables; reinforcements stood at the ready on improvised sideboards around the room. There were other choices as well, from heather ale to sparkling apple juice, and as they entered each guest was offered a glass of whatever they fancied. Cal and Izzy drafted Gavin and his girlfriend, Emma, to help with the drinks, and all four worked the crowd with bottles in both hands, priming the celebration pump.

Children flitted around the room like fairies. Dazzled by the candlelight and medieval ambience, they darted among the tall folk, their eyes wide with delight. The girls in their satin and tartan dresses and velvet hair bows and the boys in their diminutive kilts and high socks looked like miniature, less-restrained versions of their elders, racing from one end of the hall to the other, hooting and giggling.

When everyone was assembled, the bell sounded again and the guests were invited to find their places at the table. Shona and Cal had worked hard on the seating arrangement, and their ingenuity took some capricious turns. Embries, for example, was paired with Malcolm Hobbs’ nine-year-old daughter, and Mr. Baxter was placed between Caroline Rothes and Gavin’s girlfriend. James could not help notice that although he had not been allowed to sit with Jenny, Shona had managed to save a place for herself next to Rhys, and Cal was pleased to find himself next to Isobel.

No sooner had the last guest taken his seat than the first course appeared: Priddy’s champion oak-grilled salmon with peppercorns and cream. A smallish sample only, James was resisting the temptation to lick the plate when someone at the end of the table set his crystal goblet ringing with a spoon.

The guests looked up to see Sergeant-Major Evans-Jones standing at his place. “There is an old custom in the valleys where I was born,” he announced, “that on gala occasions such as this, the chaps help out with the serving so the dear ladies are not left with all the chores.” He paused, and added with a wink, “It’s a long, long night, after all.”

Looking up and down the room, he called, “Are ye wi’ me, lads? Say aye!”

There came a chorused Aye!, and, the Sergeant-Major cried in his best parade-ground bellow, “On yer feet, men! Let’s show ’em how it’s done!”

The menfolk rose and began clearing the first course plates and carrying them to the kitchen, where a very surprised Priddy protested that she didn’t want a lot of clumsy men tromping through her kitchen—but Owen wouldn’t hear of it. In no time, the two of them had the next course dished up and served: haunch of venison, roasted with fennel and herbs.

Among the castle’s tableware, Priddy had found a half dozen silver platters large enough to hold an entire haunch, and these were carried out, with great ceremony, three to each table. Bowls of steaming vegetables followed: potatoes roasted in dripping, braised carrots and parsnips with coriander, and apples baked with cloves, brown sugar, and rum—all filling the hall with a magnificent aroma.

Six stout and trustworthy men were given the task of carving the haunches. The bowls were taken place to place, and plates were filled. The next hour was presided over by the clink of cutlery and the happy murmuring hubbub of conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter and much passing of bottles. Could the Duke of Morven’s worthy claret ever have been put to such a noble purpose, James wondered, or enjoyed half so much?

Cal and Izzy had plucked the best vintages from the cellar, and made sure the glasses were generously and regularly supplied. Once during the meal, Isobel appeared at James’ side with a bottle in her hand. “This,” she promised reverently, “is going to be magic.”

Gathering the attention of all the nearby guests, she proceeded to uncork the bottle. “Now, you’ll have to drink this right away,” she said, pouring a small amount into each glass. “It won’t last long, but it will be amazing.”

As soon as she finished pouring, she raised her glass. “Slainte!” She tossed it back in a single gulp, rolled the wine around in her mouth, and swallowed. “Oh, that is good.” Her smile was dizzy with rapture.

All followed her example, and drank it down.

“Well? What do you think?” she asked.

“It is”—James searched for the right word, the flavor still alive on his tongue—”utterly divine.” Others volunteered other words: rhapsodic, ethereal, bottled light, glorious, sublime.

“What is it?” someone demanded.

Lifting the bottle, she presented the label. “It’s a Château Lafite-Rothschild”—she paused, drawing out the suspense—”of the year 1878.” There were gasps of astonishment all around. “When I found this, I knew we had to have it tonight. Isn’t it spectacular?”

There was half a swallow left in James’ glass, and he took it. But the flavor enjoyed only seconds ago was gone. It was as if the liquid in his glass had turned to ashes—flat, muddy, dank ashes. He swallowed with difficulty. “Extraordinary,” he remarked. “It’s gone. Vanished.”

“I know.” Izzy sighed in commiseration. “Wine that old only survives a few seconds once the air touches it. But isn’t it a miracle while it lasts?”

Isobel moved on to delight some more guests. The glow of that rare magic remained, however, and those who had tasted it were warmed to their very souls. James exulted in die revelry. Everyone was happy and talking, life’s cares and burdens forgotten for a while. This was, he reflected, how a holiday was supposed to be celebrated but rarely was: friends and loved ones gathered around die table for a little foretaste of heaven….

— Avalon: the Return of King Arthur, Chapters 32-33

Auda Abu Tayi:

I carry twenty-three great wounds, all got in battle. Seventy-five men have I killed with my own hands in battle. I scatter, I burn my enemies’ tents. I take away their flocks and herds. The Turks pay me a golden treasure, yet I am poor, because I am a river to my people!

[His tribesmen cheer.]

— “Lawrence of Arabia” (1962)

Seth:

We are…pilgrims on our way to worship at the Temple of Ar.

Dar:

I’ve never seen a…pilgrim…who could use a staff the way you did.

Seth:

Ah, but, sir! All pilgrims share a deep love of life—especially their own!

— “Beastmaster” (1982)

“Your fief is increased from five hundred koku to three thousand. You will have control within twenty ri.” A ri was a measure of distance that approximated one mile. “As a further token of my affection, when I return to Yedo I will send you two horses, twenty silk kimonos, one suit of armor, two swords, and enough arms to equip a further hundred samurai which you will recruit. When war comes you will immediately join my personal staff as a hatamoto.” Yabu was feeling expansive: a hatamoto was a special personal retainer of a daimyo who had the right of access to his lord and could wear swords in the presence of his lord….

— Shōgun, Chapter 6

Emphasis mine.

Toda Hiro-matsu, overlord of the provinces of Sagami and Kozuké, Toranaga’s most trusted general and adviser, commander-in-chief of all his armies, strode down the gangplank onto the wharf alone. He was tall for a Japanese, just under six feet, a bull-like man with heavy jowls, who carried his sixty-seven years with strength. His military kimono was brown silk, stark but for the five small Toranaga crests—three interlocked bamboo sprays. He wore a burnished breastplate and steel arm protectors. Only the short sword was in his belt. The other, the killing sword, he carried loose in his hand. He was ready to unsheathe it instantly and to kill instantly to protect his liege lord. This had been his custom ever since he was fifteen.

No one, not even the Taikō, had been able to change him.

A year ago, when the Taikō died, Hiro-matsu had become Toranaga’s vassal. Toranaga had given him Sagami and Kozuké, two of his eight provinces, to overlord, five hundred thousand koku yearly, and had also left him to his custom. Hiro-matsu was very good at killing.

— Shōgun, Chapter 7

This character was my inspiration for Grimblade.

They came to the main court, which was elegantly furnished. Illustrated tapestries hung on the walls, and the floor was polished wood. Lord Bofort had excellent taste—and the ill-gotten wealth to indulge it.

“There are bowmen watching from concealed recesses,” [Jolie, the spirit of Parry’s dead wife,] said. “Crossbows.”

Parry reached into an inner pocket and took his large silver cross. He doubted that anyone would fire at him yet, but there was no sense in taking unnecessary chances. Fabiola felt the same way; she clutched her small cross tightly.

Lord Bofort awaited them at a great oaken table. He was a stout man of perhaps fifty, very well dressed with embroidered robes. “Welcome, Father Grief,” he said expansively. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit by a man of the cloth?”

“Bofort,” Parry said without preamble, “there is a warrant for your arrest for abuse of your power. I have come to take you to the magistrate.”

“Friar, you are overstepping your bounds,” Bofort said curtly. “You have no business meddling in my affairs.”

“I shall be satisfied to let the magistrate decide that,” Parry said. “I ask you to leave this castle and come with me now to the town, so that this matter may be settled.”

“Because of the reckless charge of a foolish young girl? Surely you know better than that, friar.”

“You were satisfied with her testimony when you meant to use it against your neighbor,” Parry reminded him. “Now we have ascertained that that testimony was purjured, the result of the torture and threats you made against her. She is a more credible witness against you than she was against your neighbor.”

“I think she will not be a witness at all,” Bofort said grimly. He made a gesture, and two guards stepped forward.

Fabiola straightened, and Parry recognized Jolie’s aspect [cohabitating with the girl in her body, again]. She lifted the small silver cross. “Creatures of hell, touch me not, lest you be chastened,” she said.

The guards hesitated.

“Do not be daunted by a superstition!” Bofort snapped. “Take her!”

The guards resumed their motion. Fabiola fixed her gaze on the face of the nearest and swung the cross, shoving it against his forearm.

The man screamed and fell back, holding his arm.

Parry knew that Jolie had drawn on an item of magic they had learned since her death: the mesmeric burn. The guard had not really been hurt, but he had felt the pain where the cross touched—because of the guilt on his conscience. He had known it was wrong to interfere with a witness protected by a friar. Superstition had indeed daunted him.

“So it is of this manner,” Bofort muttered. He made another gesture.

“Deflect!” Parry cried, warning Jolie.

Two crossbow shafts came down from the bowmen in the alcoves. The arrows swerved slightly and thudded into the wall on either side of the girl. Jolie had invoked the spell of deflection, causing the barbs to miss. Conjuration or levitation was difficult magic, but deflection was its simplest aspect, and they had had more than a decade to study it.

“If your guilt were in doubt,” Parry said, “that doubt has been resolved by your action. Come with me.” He strode around the table toward Bofort.

“Clear the court!” Bofort cried. “I will talk with this man alone.”

The guards and attendants hurried out, as did the bowmen. In a moment Parry and Fabiola were alone with Bofort.

“Who are you?” Bofort demanded. “I know sorcery when I see it!”

“I am sure you do,” Parry agreed. “You have practiced it for decades.”

“On behalf of the Church!”

“On behalf of Lucifer.”

“How dare you charge me with that? I gave invaluable magical aid to the [Albigensian Crusade]!”

“You systematically eliminated your competition—in the guise of that support. That was the work of Lucifer.”

“Who are you?” Bofort repeated. “I know of all competent sorcerers, and there are none among the monks!”

“I am the one that got away. You killed my father and my wife. Now I bring the power of that God you wronged, to see that justice is done.”

Bofort reflected. “There was one that escaped! A novice, a stripling, who murdered a crusader and slipped the noose. I had all but forgotten.”

“I had not forgotten,” Parry said grimly. “Now you will come with me voluntarily to the magistrate, or I shall reveal your nature to the personnel of this establishment. That will demolish your reputation as well as your estate.”

“You seek to make a deal, friar?” Bofort sneered.

“My calling requires mercy for the sinner, no matter how grievous his sins may be. Confess your sins, and accept your punishment, and I shall not add to it. Come with me now, and some part of your estate may survive.”

“I cannot come with you,” Bofort said. “You know whom I serve.”

“I serve a greater one.”

“No, you merely serve a different one.”

“Must we try our strength? My Lord supports me; does yours support you?”

Bofort thought about that a moment. It was known that Lucifer quickly lost patience with those who were clumsy in the pursuit or practice of evil. “Perhaps we can after all deal. I will give you information that is worth far more than I am, if you will depart in peace.”

“I seek no deal, merely justice. Come with me; perhaps you can make a deal with the magistrate.”

“The magistrate? He goes with the politics of the moment! You have incited the town against me; there will be no justice there.”

“It’s true, Parry,” Jolie said through Fabiola’s mouth. “The townsmen are massing now to march on this castle. It seems that quite a number of them have suffered at the hands of this man, and now they see their chance to bring him down.”

“So you are finished, sorcerer,” Parry said. “Come with me.”

“I tell you, you would be better off to make the deal,” Bofort said. “I can tell you of the greatest scourge ever to strike this fair land, now in the making. You may be intimately involved; what irony! You can save yourself and all you hold dear, if you know its nature.”

“I make no deals with your kind,” Parry said. “Now come; I will protect you from the malice of the throng.”

“Well, if I must,” Bofort said, and turned as if to walk.

Then a bolt of energy lanced at Parry.

It bathed him in fire, then died. He was untouched.

“So you are braced against physical assault,” Bofort said. “But perhaps not against this.” He made a sign.

Parry held up the cross. Something struck it, invisibly, and bounced back.

“Why you cunning—Hell and damnation! Damn, damn, damn!—rascal!” Bofort exclaimed. “You used a mirror spell to send the curse back at me! There is no cure!”

“Come with me,” Parry repeated.

“I shall not—God be cursed! Lucifer be worshipped! Damn, damn, damn!—come with you, friar! The peons would—animal fornication! Black Mass! Damn, damn, damn!—tear me apart!”

“Then I shall go without you,” Parry said. “Come, Fabiola; our business here is done.”

“For the love of—damn, damn, damn!—what do you expect me to do?” Bofort cried in desperation.

“I expect you to suffer to the precise degree of those you have afflicted with this curse in the past,” Parry said. They walked from the chamber, Lord Bofort ranting behind.

— For Love of Evil, Chapter 4

Now Fingolfin, King of the North, and High King of the Noldor, seeing that his people were become numerous and strong, and that the Men allied to them were many and valiant, pondered once more an assault upon Angband; for he knew that they lived in danger while the circle of the siege was incomplete, and Morgoth was free to labour in his deep mines, devising what evils none could foretell ere he should reveal them. This counsel was wise according to the measure of his knowledge; for the Noldor did not yet comprehend the fullness of the power of Morgoth, nor understand that their unaided war upon him was without final hope, whether they hasted or delayed. But because the land was fair and their kingdoms wide, most of the Noldor were content with things as they were, trusting them to last, and slow to begin an assault in which many must surely perish were it in victory or in defeat. Therefore they were little disposed to hearken to Fingolfin, and the sons of Fëanor at that time least of all. Among the chieftains of the Noldor Angrod and Aegnor alone were of like mind with the King; for they dwelt in regions whence Thangorodrim could be descried, and the threat of Morgoth was present to their thought. Thus the designs of Fingolfin came to naught, and the land had peace yet for a while.

But when the sixth generation of Men after Bëor and Marach were not yet come to full manhood, it being then four hundred years and five and fifty since the coming of Fingolfin, the evil befell that he had long dreaded, and yet more dire and sudden than his darkest fear. For Morgoth had long prepared his force in secret, while ever the malice of his heart grew greater, and his hatred of the Noldor more bitter; and he desired not only to end his foes but to destroy also and defile the lands that they had taken and made fair. And it is said that his hate overcame his counsel, so that if he had but endured to wait longer, until his designs were full, then the Noldor would have perished utterly. But on his part he esteemed too lightly the valour of the Elves, and of Men he took yet no account.

There came a time of winter, when night was dark and without moon; and the wide plain of Ard-galen stretched dim beneath the cold stars, from the hill-forts of the Noldor to the feet of Thangorodrim. The watchfires burned low, and the guards were few; on the plain few were waking in the camps of the horsemen of Hithlum. Then suddenly Morgoth sent forth great rivers of flame that ran down swifter than Balrogs from Thangorodrim, and poured over all the plain; and the Mountains of Iron belched forth fires of many poisonous hues, and the fume of them stank upon the air, and was deadly. Thus Ard-galen perished, and fire devoured its grasses; and it became a burned and desolate waste, full of a choking dust, barren and lifeless. Thereafter its name was changed, and it was called Anfauglith, the Gasping Dust. Many charred bones had there their roofless grave; for many of the Noldor perished in that burning, who were caught by the running flame and could not fly to the hills. The heights of Dorthonion and Ered Wethrin held back the fiery torrents, but their woods upon the slopes that looked towards Angband were all kindled, and the smoke wrought confusion among the defenders. Thus began the fourth of the great battles, Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame.

In the front of that fire came Glaurung the golden, father of dragons, in his full might; and in his train were Balrogs, and behind them came the black armies of the orcs in multitudes such as the Noldor had never before seen or imagined. And they assaulted the fortresses of the Noldor, and broke the leaguer about Angband, and slew wherever they found them the Noldor and their allies, Grey-elves and Men. Many of the stoutest of the foes of Morgoth were destroyed in the first days of that war, bewildered and dispersed and unable to muster their strength. War ceased not wholly ever again in Beleriand; but the Battle of Sudden Flame is held to have ended with the coming of spring, when the onslaught of Morgoth grew less.

— The Silmarillion, Chapter 18

Arthur:

Which is the greatest quality of knighthood? Courage? Compassion? Loyalty? Humility?

What do you say, Merlin?

Merlin:

Hmm? Ah, the greatest…. Well, they blend, like the metals we mix to make a good sword….

Arthur:

No poetry. Just a straight answer. Which is it?

Merlin:

All right, then. Truth! That’s it! It must be truth. Above all! When a man lies, he murders some part of the world.

You should know that.

— “Excalibur” (1981)

Ynyr:

We seek the Black Fortress.

Emerald Seer:

Such a vision will be opposed.

— “Krull” (1983)

Divination magic! And with complications! 😀

[…The three women who coexisted as the Incarnation of Fate] had lunch and adjusted a few threads, preoccupied. Then Clotho donned slacks, low-heeled shoes, and a businesslike shirt, and rode a thread back down to the dojo.

Mars appeared as she landed before it. He was garbed in a white gi. Niobe had never been certain how Mars traveled, but it seemed to be related to his sword. Each Incarnation had a symbol of office that was imbued with much of the magic, and the red sword was obviously Mars’ symbol.

“Follow me,” Mars said, handing her his sword.

Clotho looked at it. The thing was unsheathed—a massive instrument, with a handle almost too big for her small hand to hold, and a gleaming double-edged blade that glowed red from some deep layer. The whole thing had a magical aura of menace; it made her nervous. She held it awkwardly by two hands, the blade pointing straight down.

Even Niobe was astonished. What’s he up to? He never sets aside his red sword!

We’ll find out soon enough, Atropos thought.

The girl at the desk recognized Clotho. “Please leave,” she said. “You are not welcome here.”

Mars leaned over the desk. “I am her champion. Signal your hirelings.”

Two men appeared at the inner doorway. Both were in gi‘s and wore black belts. “The lady has asked you to leave, mister,” one said, stepping forward.

I think we’re going to see some man-style foolishness, Atropos thought with a certain relish. When they don’t have sex on their minds, they do like to fight.

“I have an appointment,” Mars said. He stepped into the man, caught his outstretched arm, spun about, and sent him rolling across the floor.

The other man turned—and Mars’ leg shot out and swept the other man’s foot from under him, so that he landed on the floor with a resounding slap.

“Now go in and announce me,” Mars said. “I expect a full turnout, and the courtesy of the dojo.”

Without further word, the two men hurried away.

“But you could have hurt them!” Clotho protested.

Mars walked back to Clotho and proffered his arm. “Not with a simple hand throw and a foot-sweep; they know how to take falls. I merely showed them a hint of my competence.”

She held his sword out to him, but he demurred. “I shall not be using that here, but cannot trust it to the hand of a mortal. Hold it until we are done.”

Clotho managed to hold the dread sword by one hand, and took his arm with the other. She walked with him through the bamboo curtain and down the hall toward the main chamber of the dojo. “Are you planning to fight all of them?”

“Certainly,” Mars replied.

“But—”

“I will run the line. Then it will be your turn.”

“But—”

“Do not be concerned, cutes. It will be all right.”

I hope so, Clotho thought nervously.

He knows what he’s doing, Niobe thought reassuringly. The three of us may not know what he’s doing, but he knows.

They reached the second curtain. “Take off your shoes,” Mars told her. He was already barefoot.

She took them off. They stepped through.

About forty students were lined along the far wall, standing barefooted on the edge of the big mat. They seemed to be arranged roughly in order of rank, with the white-belts at one end and the black-belts at the other. There were, she noted, several women among them.

In the center of the mat stood Samurai. He turned to face them.

Mars stretched out his right arm. A red cloth appeared in his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he wound this belt about his middle and tied it in place with the odd knot that martial artists used. There was a murmur of amazement from the line of students. It was as if they had never seen a red belt before.

Is something significant happening? Niobe thought.

Mars stepped up to the mat, and halted, and bent forward at the waist. He’s bowing to the mat! Atropos thought, finding it funny.

But Clotho had heard of this. “It’s the ritual,” she murmured. “Always bow when joining or leaving the tatami, the mat, for it breaks your fall and spares your bones. Always step on it barefooted.”

Now Mars stepped onto the mat. “You assume the belt of a Master Dan,” Samurai said, as if in challenge.

“You are observant,” Mars replied.

Samurai turned and walked to the black end of the line of students. He dropped into a cross-legged seated position.

Mars faced the class, and bowed to the line. The line bowed back.

Then Mars strode forward and took hold of the student at the white end of the line. This was a young woman, so small and light that her bare feet left the mat when he brought her forward. He can’t attack her! Niobe thought with horror.

Yet no one else protested, or even seemed dismayed. They merely watched.

Mars brought her to the center of the mat and held her by the right lapel and left sleeve of her gi. “Try a throw,” he told her.

The girl turned and hauled on his jacket. She got nowhere. Then Mars stepped back, drawing her along with him so that she had to step quickly forward to avoid losing her balance. At the moment her right foot touched the mat, his left foot swept against it. Her foot went up and she fell backward. She landed on the mat, her left arm outstretched, slapping the mat resoundingly, her right arm captive to his grip.

“De-ashi harai,” Mars said. “The Advanced-Foot Sweep. Remember it.” Then he let her go, and she scrambled up, bowed hastily, and returned to the line.

Mars nodded to the next student, a boy in white belt. The boy came out, took hold, and tried a throw of his own. It also got nowhere.

Mars drew him forward, as before, but this time set his left foot against the boy’s kneecap and hauled him into a tumble on the mat. “Hiza-guruma,” Mars said. “The Knee-Wheel. Practice your falls, son, or you’ll get hurt.”

“Yessir!” the boy exclaimed, scrambling up, bowing, and running back to his place in the line.

Mars nodded to the third student, another woman in a white belt. Again he gave her the chance to try to throw him, and she failed; then he threw her spinning to the mat with a hand-and-foot motion that seemed to be in between that of the prior two throws. “Sasae-tsurikomi-ashi,” he said. “The Propping-Drawing-Ankle Throw.”

There was a murmur along the line. “He’s doing the First Course of Instruction!” someone said behind Clotho. She turned to look. A brown-belt had come in behind her, off the mat. It was the instructor of the morning beginners’ class; evidently he had returned too late to join this one, so was watching from the side.

“Is that significant?” Clotho asked.

Now he recognized her. “You’re the—”

“The same,” she agreed. “I brought my champion to meet Samurai.”

“In a red belt!” he murmured, amazed. “That’s ninth or tenth Dan!”

“Is that good?”

“Oh—you don’t know judo?”

“Nothing,” she confessed. “I just came to talk to Samurai, and then things went wrong.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Just so,” he said after a moment. “Very well, I’ll be glad to explain. The master grades of judo are the Dan, as opposed to the student grades, the kyu. The Dan are black belt. But the very highest grades may wear the red belt. Normally such grades are only achieved as honors for service to the art, by masters who no longer compete. A competitor with a red belt should be the finest judoka in the world.”

“Oh, that explains why the class was so surprised.”

“It certainly does. As far as I know, there is no living, competing red belt today. So this man is bound to be an impostor.”

“He is Mars, the Incarnation of War.”

“Oh? Then maybe he—” The brown-belt shrugged. He returned to her prior question. “There’s nothing wrong with the First Course,” he explained. “They’re all good throws. But once people catch on to the order, they’ll know exactly which throw he’s going to do next. That makes it much harder. It doesn’t matter for the white-belts, but he’d have trouble throwing me with a throw I expected, and it would probably be impossible with a black-belt.”

Mars threw the next student over his right hip. “There’s the fourth—Uki-goshi, the Floating Hip Throw,” the brown-belt said. “I’ve never seen it done better. But I wonder where he could have gotten his training?”

Mars threw the next backward. “O-soto-gari,” the brown-belt murmured. “He certainly knows the basics.”

The next student fell. “And O-goshi,” the brown-belt said.

“Didn’t he just do that one?”

“No, that was Uki-goshi, a different throw. It looks similar and the footwork is similar, but the feel is quite different. Uke takes a much harder fall.”

“But I thought Uki was the throw, not the faller.”

The brown-belt smiled. “You really don’t know, do you? The one who does the throwing is always called Tori, the taker, and the one who gets thrown is Uke, the receiver. Anyway, the Uki-goshi is done stiff-kneed, while O-goshi flexes the knees, and—oh, there’s O-uchi-gari, the Major Inner Reaping! Beautiful!”

Clotho—and Niobe—were having trouble distinguishing the throws. They were ready to take the brown-belt’s word that they were being properly done. Clotho took advantage of his presence to ask another question. “What is this—this running the line?”

“Well, a challenger shows his superiority by defeating a number of others in rapid order,” the brown-belt said. “For example, a black-belt should be able to run a line of five brown-belts and throw them all, because his skill is greater. When the line is mixed, they do the lowest grades first, the Kyus, and work up to the Dans. Of course, by the time someone has thrown twenty or thirty people, he’s apt to be getting tired, so it gets harder both ways. No one has ever run our full line victoriously; if your friend makes it, he will have proved his rank. Some of ours are Sandans, and one’s a Yodan, and of course Samurai is Rokudan, the sixth level, and the champion of the eastern states. He’ll be world champion one day, if he decides to go for it.”

“He might not go for it?”

“Well, he’s getting old for competition, and judo is only part of his interest. He’s a master in karate, too, and aikido, and his specialty is the sword; no one can touch him there. He’s been searching for this mythical finger-strike, too— Say! Look at that Tsuri-komi-goshi! I’ve never seen a prettier throw! Did you see how he got full extension? I’ve never been able to do that on an Uke my own weight!”

The throw had looked just like all the others to Clotho and the other Aspects, but evidently there was a difference.

“But now he’s into the yellow-belts, and when he hits the green-belts he’ll have to work a little for it. Oh, nice Okuri-ashi-harai! That’s not as easy as it looks.”

Clotho was willing to take his word for it.

“God, I wish I was in that line!” the brown-belt said after the next throw. “It’s a privilege to be thrown by a master like that! Is he really the Incarnation of War?”

“Yes, he—”

“Oh, there’s the Uchi-mata! Samurai himself couldn’t have done it better!”

They watched while Mars moved into the green-belts. They were trying to throw him and failing as dismally as the white-belts had, and had no better success in resisting the return throws.

“That’s amazing!” the brown-belt commented. “I’ve never seen someone give them a chance like that; usually they put them away as fast as they can. He’s got a lot of confidence.”

“He should,” Clotho said, though she was amazed herself.

Then she saw Mars drop down. Someone had thrown him! But immediately the brown-belt opponent fell too. Both of them were lying on the mat.

“Yoko-otoshi! The Side Drop!” the brown-belt exclaimed. “Beautiful!”

“You mean it’s supposed to look like that?” Clotho asked.

“Of course. It’s a sacrifice throw.”

“Oh.”

They watched several more standing throws. Then Mars went down again. He had his foot in the other’s belly, and lifted him over so that he did a roll and landed on his back. “Tomoe-nage, the Stomach Throw,” the brown-belt said.

The throws continued as Mars progressed three-quarters of the way down the line. There seemed to be no end to them. But obviously the class was highly impressed.

“Soto-makikomi,” the brown-belt remarked as both men went down again. “I hate to take falls on that one! Of course it’s a power-throw; there’s not much stopping it once it starts. If he can do the next one, the Uki-otoshi—”

It seemed to Niobe that the brown-belt who was Uke at the moment simply threw himself on the mat, but the one beside her whistled softly. “Perfect!”

A black-belt came out of the line. Mars waited while the man tried a foot-sweep without success, then said, “Try another.” There was a chuckle along the line.

“What’s so funny?” Clotho asked.

“The situation. He’s up to the thirty-seventh throw in the Basic Forty. That’s Ushiro-goshi, the Rear Loin. It’s a counterthrow following an attempted hip-throw. Clyde didn’t try a hip-throw.”

Clyde tried a sacrifice throw, without effect; it was as if Mars were an immovable wall. There was another chuckle.

Then, moving like lightning, Clyde tried a hip-throw—and Mars picked him up and threw him to the mat. Clyde had gambled and lost. He got up, bowed, and smiled; he didn’t mind losing to an artist of that skill. “And he did it left-side,” the brown-belt murmured in awe. “Clyde tried to fool him, left-side, and he was ready.”

“Left-side is different?”

“And how! I really sweat on them!”

The last man in the line approached and took hold, but declined to try a throw. “Randori,” he said.

“What does that mean?” Clotho asked.

“That’s our Yodan,” the brown-belt said. “He’s a top competitor; he doesn’t like to do stationary throws. He prefers to counter, or to seize his opportunity. He knows your man will try the Yoko-gake, the Side Body Drop; he wants to make him do it in a moving situation.”

“Interesting,” Clotho said, unenlightened.

The two men moved about the mat, almost as if dancing together. Suddenly the black-belt screamed piercingly, his foot moving like lightning. But Mars’ foot moved too, just as fast—and they both fell to the mat.

The brown-belt shook his head. “Beautiful! He did it!”

“But how do you know who threw whom? And why the scream?”

The brown-belt smiled. “The scream was a kiai yell, to facilitate the throw. Didn’t work, this time. And sometimes it can be hard to tell, on a throw. I saw a match once where the award was given to the wrong judoka, before the judges corrected it. But this one was a perfect Yoko-gake, no question.”

Indeed, the class seemed to know it. Mars returned to the center of the mat, and exchanged bows with the class. It seemed he had successfully run the line.

“And he’s not even tired!” the brown-belt murmured.

Then Mars walked to the edge of the mat, stepped off, turned about, and bowed to it. “All right, girl,” he said gruffly. “He has to meet you now.”

“He what?”

“As your champion I conquered his class. I did not challenge Samurai himself. It is you who must meet him.” He took her by the elbow, urging her forward. “Honor the tatami.”

Bemused, Clotho bowed and stepped onto the mat….

— With a Tangled Skein, Chapter 12

Author’s emphases in italic. Mine are in bold.

“So,” Tomita said calmly as he kneeled again, “to the task at hand.” He sat up a bit straighter and said, “I am Tomita…”

“Formerly of the Kunaicho,” I interrupted, just to rattle him a bit. Some of the true danger in him shot out briefly from his eyes, escaping from behind the barrier he had placed there.

“I am a student of the Morita-ha Tengu-shin ryu. I am menkyo-kaiden there and a yudansha in Yanagi-ryu jujutsu and kendo. I have killed four men in duels. I request a lesson.”

It told me nothing, other than that there were more victims than we were aware of. I had never heard of the Tengu-shin ryu. Tengu are the winged mountain goblins of Japanese legend. Master swordsmen, in the old stories they sometimes teach mortals their art. Depending on how “shin” was written, it could refer to some sort of divine revelation, the heart, or a deity of some sort. All I really could tell was that the man before me had had a variety of training. And he killed people.

He bowed toward me at the conclusion of his recital. It was my turn.

“I am Burke,” I began. The Japanese tend not to use the given name in situations like this. “I am a student of Yamashita-ha Itto ryu. I am yudansha in Shotokan karatedo and Kodokan judo. I have killed no man in a duel.”

Tomita grinned ferally at me.

“Until tonight,” I concluded. His grin just got harder looking.

— Sensei, Chapter 18

Ben Cheviot:

Well, it seems I have little choice but to back you against the police. Provided, of course, that the charges against Carter are completely unfounded. What exactly are they, anyway?

Murray:

Credit fraud.

Ben Cheviot:

Credit fraud? My God, that’s worse than murder!

— “Pilot” – Max Headroom, Season 1 (1987)

[Ahmed rides back into the pallisade after taking a risk to rescue a child who fell behind the evacuation from the imminent attack by a proported fire-breathing dragon.]

Herger:

So you saw the fire worm?

Ahmed:

It’s cavalry.

Herger:

I rather prefer a dragon.

Ahmed:

Hundreds, with torches.

— “The 13th Warrior” (1999)

Herger:

The All-Father wove the skein of your life a long time ago. Go and hide in a hole if you wish, but you won’t live one instant longer.

Your fate is fixed. Fear profits a man nothing.

— “The 13th Warrior” (1999)

Emerald Seer:

The temple is at the center of the swamp where three trees grow as one.

Prince Colwyn:

How can anything grow in that place? It smells of death.

Ynyr:

Death and power are close cousins.

Torquil:

I don’t think I like your relatives, old man.

— “Krull” (1983)

That morning as they rode past a town, a grey-striped cat made his way through the stream of people coming to market. There were animals enough on that road in that hour: horses and mules of course, and donkeys, and dogs, and pigs and cattle and sheep being driven to market, and here and there a quick-witted cat. But this one came direct to King Malcolm’s riding, lofted weightlessly to Edith’s saddlebow, and yawned in her face.

The puca seemed quite as much at ease in this world as in the other. What he was doing here, she did not know, but from the way he curled on the pommel of her saddle, he was not about to leave.

Some of Alain’s Bretons slid eyes at him. So did a few of Malcolm’s Gaels. They knew what they were looking at.

The puca met their glances. They looked away in haste. It was never wise to question the whims of the Old Things.

Edith took comfort in this one’s presence. There were folk of air enough, some of whom had followed her from the abbey, but a puca was a stronger power by far. A power for mischief, yes—but also a faithful ally who had sworn to her his service.

— King’s Blood, Chapter 24

Emphasis mine.

There was a person in front of her. He was neither as tall as the fair ones who crossed the land in their ridings nor as small as the fey and lesser folk who populated both this world and the other. He looked quite human actually, if one disregarded the sharply pointed tips of his ears and the sharply pointed teeth, or the eyes as green and slit-pupiled as a cat’s. His hair was as brown as oak-bark, and he was dressed in green and brown.

“Puca,” she acknowledged him by name and kind.

He grinned and bowed. “At your service, lady,” he said.

She was very careful not to twitch. No word spoken in this world was heedless, and service promised was service given. “Indeed?” she asked. “Have I earned it?”

“Your destiny has,” said the puca, “and your magic. You’re blossoming into it, lady.”

“Like a nettle,” she said.

He laughed. He was not mocking her, she did not think. But then he sobered. “We’re not at ease with all of magic, either. Some of what’s been breeding and growing in Britain is frightening. Even the great ones walk wary of it.”

“The black places?” Edith asked. Even out of the body, the thought made her cold. “The places where it’s all rotted and dead?”

The puca nodded. “It scares us. It’s all wrong—and what ever it touches, it twists. It’s caught the Hunt; they’re ever turning on their own, and feeding on magic.”

“Won’t the rites of Beltane and Midsummer help?” said Edith. “Aren’t they supposed to feed the magic?”

“They do,” said the puca.

“You want me to do something,” Edith said.

The puca grinned. “Everyone said you had clear sight. Yes, we want something. We’re not sure what, yet. Just… something. Because you have so much magic, and your blood is what it is.”

“You want my blood,” Edith said. She was very calm. “Do you think it will help?”

“Maybe not that kind of blood,” said the puca. “We don’t know. Fate swirls around you—time comes to a center in you. But we can’t see how. Not yet.”

Well, Edith thought. She was born to matter: king’s daughter and descendant of kings. That she mattered to England came as no surprise.

“Britain,” said the puca. “You matter to Britain.”

“But England is—”

“England is a shadow. Britain was there before it and will be there long after it is gone.”

“I was born to England,” Edith said a little stiffly.

“Your mother was born to England. You are half a Gael, and all the magic is in you.”

Edith set her lips together. She did not know that she was angry. He was saying things she had thought for herself. But part of her was still her mother’s child, however little she loved the life her mother had meant for her. She had to defend it somehow.

“I won’t destroy England,” she said. “I’ll never agree to that.”

“We won’t ask it,” said the puca. Still smiling at her, he shrank and dwindled and shifted, until a sleek striped cat stood where he had been. His eyes were still the same, and his teeth not so different. He was purring loudly; his whole body shook with it.

Edith blinked. She had not expected that, even knowing he was a puca and therefore a shapeshifter. He crouched; she was prepared, somewhat, when he sprang to her shoulder.

His claws dug in, but gently. His purr was raucous. She caught herself smiling and stroking his fur. He was seducing her; but she did not mind.

— King’s Blood, Chapter 16

Emphasis mine.