The Tattooed Woman Pt. 39

All the best to those following this story. Apologies for the delay in submitting. I hope you guys are doing well, and Happy Samhain!

Once again, thanks to Avicia (and others) for the editing and input.

The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 39: The Haar

The soldiers were nervous. The haunting mist that had been entwined about them for days seemed to be thickening. Its coiled vapours swirled and lurked like the breath of some great unseen serpent. The chill, almost viscous, miasma obscured vision and muffled some sounds while strangely magnifying and distorting others. A man might respond to a whisper seemingly uttered by his neighbour, only to find it was a frightened half-prayer spoken by someone a hundred paces away, and yet he might not hear the orders and commands bellowed directly at him by a nearby centurion. Sometimes, the fog would part for a little, but 'twas nought but an illusion of respite, for soon enough, it would come rolling in again, a shroud so thick that sometimes a man could barely see the warrior marching next to him.

The further into this hellish brume, the more fragmented and disorganised their formations had become. Innumerable torches had been lit, but all they did was create little puddles of glowing haze as if a train of fireflies and wisps were passing by on some lonely parade. Sometimes, from out of the gloom, came sounds of things moving and men huddled together, nervously clutching at spear and sword.

The Lord Marshal rode in the van with his knights, and about him came the reassuring jingle of armour and tack. Yet this unending oppressive murk played on his already frayed nerves and increasingly disquieted him. He took a swig from the flask hanging from his belt, hissing through his teeth as the fierce liquor burned its way down his throat. This campaign had started off as a splendid idea, a glorious dream of leading a victorious army along the old slaver roads and through the ever-thinning veil to attack the Fae. But that dream was becoming less beguiling with each mile he trudged through this cold, never-ending murk.

There were many tales and legends of the Veil, that strange barrier that separated the lands of the Fae from the realm of men. Some said it was a thing of the Old Gods, created with ancient magicks from long ago, and those who fell into its tendrils would be forever lost, beguiled and condemned to wander in hopeless search for an escape that would never come. But some wizards and other learned folk whispered that it was more, far more; that it was actually a shroud of sorts, hiding many roads. Even the secret paths between worlds.

The Veil had become ever more porous and dilute over the long years since The Morrigan's War, when the Gods had, by all accounts, abandoned the world of men, allowing raiding parties, monsters and the like to pass from one realm to the other. Such passage had inevitably turned these damnably remote borderlands into a fearful place, inhabited only by hardy or desperate crofters, moon-mad hermits, outcasts and bandits. It was an old land, filled with hidden glens, ancient battlefields and lost barrows, but the soil was soft, rich and loamy, the peat bogs a good fuel source, and the thick forests a seemingly endless supply of rich timber. Once The Fae were subjugated, the borderlands would be good land for farming, and the enslaved populace of the twilight realm would make for a handy workforce until, of course, the unholy things were properly disposed of.

His Magister had assured him that by merits of his art and craft, he could safely thread a way through this damnable mist and that the Dark Elves would be too busy with their own problems to mount a credible defence, allowing him to raze their forts and sack their side of the borderlands at will. The sale of the slaves taken alone, even after consigning the unwanted to the pyre to appease the Scarlet Order, would more than pay for the campaign. By thoroughly scourging the knife-eared bastards, he could end the threat they posed for good and all and expand his own holdings almost right up to the border while sending trapping and mining expeditions across the veil to strip the lands beyond.

He had sunk significant funds into the expedition, borrowing heavily against his own lands. His neighbour, Baroness Viridia Exala, who ruled the domain that bordered his own recently inherited Princedom, had flatly refused to weigh in with him, but of course, there were many rumours that there was more than a little "black blood" flowing in that bitch's veins, and stories aplenty that she regularly had consort with houries and succubae from The Fae. In truth, the old slattern seemed remarkably well preserved for her age, and her lands suffered less from the depredations of slave raids and border skirmishes than most. He knew the Scarlet Order chaffed at the poor welcome she typically gave them and would have long since sought to put her to the flame, but as sister to a Patrician of the Old Empire, she was nobilis and thus beyond even their reach ... for now.

But, of course, nothing was fucking simple! First, that homicidal old bastard, Chulainn, supposedly a warrior of legend and so-called hero, had ridden off, never to return, and then the Magister had disappeared soon after. Now, he had only his scouts to lead him through this damnable haar, and they were all superstitious foreign savages who would, like as not, cut a man's throat for a bag of magic beans. It was utterly galling.

His vexed musings were interrupted when the standard bearer riding at his side made a sound and gestured. Emerging from the mist up ahead came one of those very scouts. The wild, unkempt creature was a dark-haired northern barbarian, probably from distant Alba, given the kilt, rough furs and hides he garbed himself in and the blue woad he'd painted on his face. He carried a short hunting spear in one hand and loped silently over the heather with the feral grace of a prowling wolf. Fionn sniffed, "There's something almost Orcish about these savages: disgusting creatures."

The man came close and grounded his spear, pausing to unstopper his water flask and take a sip before addressing the rider, "Clearing up ahead, a glen of sorts, no mist."

The Lord Marshal grunted, "Hmm, a good place to camp then, methinks."

The scout shook his head, "Doesn't smell right. There's something there. Be best to go round."

"Did you see something?"

Shaking his head again, the barbarian looked over his shoulder, back the way he had come, and his brow furrowed, "No. I saw nothing."

"Tracks then? Some sign of ambush?"

The man grunted, "No."

The Lord Marshal made an exasperated sound, "Then how can you be sure?"

The scout fingered the primitive bone fetish that hung around his neck and sniffed, "Can't. But 'tis there just the same."

Wary of the looks his knights were giving him, the Lord Marshal shook his head with a weary sigh, "Savages..."

The scout stared off into the mist and ignored him.

"Methinks, barbarian, you have allowed this gloom to rattle your nerves. The men need rest. The cohorts have become dispersed. We shall proceed to this clearing and take stock. What say you?"

The scout shrugged, "A fool and his head are easily parted. I've said what I've said. I took coin to kill for ye and scout the land. The rest is yours."

More than one of the armoured riders bristled at the man's disrespectful tone, and a few went so far as to half-draw their blades. The Marshal waved them back with a gesture, but his voice was hard, "Indeed, you took the coin. So, find your manhood if you can and lead on, cur."

For a dark moment, the painted man looked up at the rider through hooded brows, and his fingers flexed on the spear he held. Then, with barely a nod, he turned and loped off.

Gritting his teeth in irritation, the Lord Marshal signalled to his herald and, with the sounding of horns, set his army in motion.

The glen, when they finally came upon it, did indeed look like a fine place to encamp and repair their scattered formations. A stream came down from the hills and fed a small dark loch, and, off a little ways, there was a wood which would provide ample fuel for the cooking fires. But, most importantly, it was clear of mist, as the ever-present shroud looked to be hanging back, lurking under the trees and creeping over the surrounding low hills. Overhead, there was a light covering of clouds through which lazy beams of sunlight dappled the landscape. All in all, it was a most pleasant vista, and he could see nothing that might have so unsettled his scout.

He paused and removed his helm, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath of cold, clean air, while around him, the cataphracts of his personal bodyguard held position and remained vigilant. Behind him, his troops began trickling into the glen, and he could sense their relief of finally being free of the mist, if even for a little while.

With a grin, he turned to one of his Captains, "Not so bad a place, and not a single bodach or goblin in sight," looking down at the scout, he snorted, "So much for your fears, little man."

The scout only shook his head and spat, "Be dark soon."

A Captain pointed, "Who's the woman?"

"What say you, man?"

Raising his eyes to follow the man's gesture, he saw her clearly enough, though it was bewildering how he could have missed her before. She was a tall thing with dark hair and pale skin. She wore a gown of darkest green and a cloak of black feathers. In one hand, she bore an oval battle shield of the old style, its bronze surface and heavy boss gleaming in the sunlight, while in the other, she carried a longsword, its leaf-shaped blade engraved with runes.

Striding towards him, she paused a few yards away, and he saw she was long-limbed, with a fine enough figure, though she was more striking than beautiful. Her eyes were as deep and dark as her gown, her smile distinctly vulpine, and her manner annoyingly haughty. Raising a brow, she regarded the riders before her, and if she was impressed at standing before such august company, she hid it well.

One of the bodyguards lowered his spear and moved forward to bar her way, but his horse suddenly reared and, despite his efforts, bolted off in the opposite direction, kicking and bucking in terror as it plunged into the woods, carrying the hapless man along with it. The woman shook her head, "I'd not fret. The cuddy will be fine," she smiled, "not so sure about the fellow riding it, mind."

Stopping, she gazed at the company before fixing her eyes on the scout. She spoke a few words in a soft, lilting tongue and looked at the man.

The swarthy barbarian visibly paled and, without a word, reached into his leathers. Producing a jingling purse, he dropped it on the ground, turned and loped off back the way he had come.

The Lord Marshal watched him go, and his voice was incredulous, "Where the Hell is he going?"

With a chuckle, the woman advanced, reaching up to stroke the mane of the horse he rode, "Off away home, I should imagine. If he's any sense, that is."

Looking down upon the creature, he sniffed his disdain, "And who might you be, wench?"

She grinned back at him, "I know not who I might be, only who I am."

He groaned, "A witch then, for that is typical of the cryptic dross they utter to the unwashed and ill-educated."

The woman's smile widened, "I am not a witch."

The herald made a warding sign, "She's a creature of the Fae, must be to be a-wanderin out here all alone."

Raising a brow at the gesture, she sniffed, "More the reverse, wee man."

Examining the sword and shield she bore, the Lord Marshal frowned, "You do bear a somewhat more martial aspect and seem at least a little more erudite than the usual warty hag or mad druid who oft lurks in such places. From where did you steal your blade? Have you been robbing graves, woman?"

"Och now, Fionn, there are no witches or druids anywhere near here," she grinned, "anymore."

Looking around, she pointed, "As for the sword, I borrowed it from Machlan the Skinwalker. He lies with his kin in a barrow a league or so yonder, just beyond the hills and the mist. I do not think his shade would begrudge me the use of such things. After all, 'twas it not me who put him in the barrow to begin with?"

"I see no barrow nor hills either. Yon hellish gloom obscures the view."

"Ach well man, they are there whether the likes of thee can see them or no," she hefted her sword with a shrug, "personally I'm more familiar with the spear than I am with sword, but I seem to have misplaced mine. Even so, no doubt I can still lay a hard dint upon those that vex me even with such a blade as this."

Turning back to her, he leaned forward in the saddle, "And is that why you have come, witch? To lay us all low with your mighty cleaver? If so, you'd have been better served having a few doughty fighters at your back than a pilfered falchion in your hand. Now, this is a fair place, but it looks to be nothing more than an island in fel surroundings, and, moon mad as you clearly are, I'd not turf a wench out to fend for herself in such hostile terrain. If you have a mind, you may share our company and join the camp followers. There's always room for an extra whore or two in the baggage train, and you might at least earn a crust, for you're still fair enough. I suppose a wee bit old for some, and I confess I've seen prettier, but you're not so unsightly that a lusty soldier would kick you from his bed for farting."

The woman threw back her head and let out a peal of laughter, and it was almost a minute before she managed to wipe the tears from her eyes, "Oh, Fionn, 'tis a pity you're such an odious wee eejit, for you would have made a rare court jester, truly."

The Lord Marshal snorted, "Oh, enough of this! Remove this creature from my path, and let us be about our business."

One of the knights nudged his destrier forward and tossed a couple of coins to the ground, "Here, lass, fetch yourself away, find my tent later, and I'll be your first customer. I have wine," he grinned and looked to his companions, "I like 'em tall, and she still looks like a fair tumble."

Looking down at the coins with a bemused expression, the woman shook her head, "Well, that's... different."

Turning her gaze back to the rider, she raised an arched brow, "What is your name, bold man?"

He stuck out his chin, "Gwynn, son of Brenin, they call me," he pointed, "my tent is usually to be found near the gate of our encampment, once the stockade is built, that is, for I have command of the guard. If you pretty yourself up a bit, mayhap tie up your hair at least, I might tip you another coin."

"Hmm, I'll remember you, Gwynn lad, though you and yours may not be glad of it come time."

Looking back at the Lord Marshal, she sighed, "My business here is not to be tupped by your paladins but to advise you to turn about and go back."

"Go back?"

"Aye. While the way yet remains open."

A ripple of laughter ran through the mounted men, and from the woman's mien, it did not appear she was used to mockery, for her eyes narrowed ominously, "Did you know I've just become a mother again?"

"My congratulations, but I fail to see how that concerns me."

"Indeed, 'tis a strange thing, but my trueborn child proclaimed the lass her sister and thus so it was. Then, when she asked if I was thus her mother, I did not refuse, so we are bound as kin, now and forever. Do you understand?"

"What?"

She frowned and spoke slowly, as though addressing the feeble-minded, "The girl is a human child. She is an orphan, and while she has no knowledge of it, she has other kin, human kin, and mayhap some of her blood marches in your ranks. She has not considered it yet, save perchance in secret hope, but in the fullness of time, I know she will seek me out and ask me what I know of her folk, and I would not like to lie to her about such things. Now, it is not usually my way to be so giving, but I do not think she would thank me for slaughtering what little family she has left, so I tell you now. Go back."

The horses stirred, and a few of the knights looked about nervously, for the sky had begun to darken, and, with the sun's setting, the mist had begun to encroach.

The Lord Marshal stilled his charger and snorted, "Oh, begone wench, I have no time for your demented ramblings. We shall camp here and on the morrow advance."

She sighed, "So, ye'll not go back?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"As ye will then."

The woman turned to go, but the Lord Marshal laughed, "What? No threats? No curses or invocations? No arm-waving histrionics? You make for a piss-poor witch!"

The Morrigan regarded him sadly, "For her sake, I gave you a chance, 'tis more than most get. As for threats? What more need I do? You are lost in the mist, man, and none of you will ever leave, for it is mine. In a hundred years or so, all that remains of you and your host will be sad stories, sadder ghosts, and moss-covered bones scattered hither and yon. Hard for the widows and children you leave behind, and mayhap hard for wee Cassie, but that is ever the way of things. Fare thee well, human."

With a snarl, the Lord Marshal drew his blade, but by the time the steel was bared, the creeping mist had swallowed the woman up like a shroud, and she was gone.

***

The city of Emain was the ancient capital of the Dökkálfar, named for their abandoned homeland, the hidden island of Emhain Abhlach, which long ago the warring Danu, Lugh and Manannan, had once fought over and brought low.

Since those lost years of war and fire, the Dark Elves had come and made their home in this great bay and with cunning artifice and magical arts now forgotten, they built a city. And while it was but a reflection of their sunk and blasted kingdom, they made it a fortress of strength, for they decided that never again, never, would they be driven forth and cast out! Not by man, not by beast nor God, and so they built their walls high.

For millennia, Emain had stood as a bastion, her walls and gates inviolate, and not since the days of the Morrigan's War had any besieger set hostile foot upon her battlements, for she was strong, and the Dark Eldar were not known to be kindly to invaders.

Dark walls, harder than granite, smoother than marble and taller than any mere giant, surrounded the city, and each gate was strengthened by portcullis of adamant and cold iron and warded by great watchtowers that loomed above and to either side like dour and watchful guardians. Ancient runes of warding, scribed and engraved on the stones and then built on and reinforced upon over long, long years, shielded the fortifications from magic and flame, and it was boasted that even Dragonfire would have little effect on such a citadel.

But, as their cursed bloodline had caused their numbers to dwindle, so too had the city's garrison, until barely ten score warriors and knights, mostly lesser daughters, from lesser Houses stood to post. The only other fighting force, other than the disparate free companies, mercenaries, footmen and the like, employed by the Great Houses, was the Matriarch's Guard who warded the Ebon Palace. At one time, a justly feared company, comprising the deadliest of Dark Elven swords and spellcasters, hardened veterans all, was now reduced to a mere handful of old myrmidons, well past their glory days.

Within the walls of Emain were other fortresses, like the mighty Slavers' Castle, the Tower of Elements, and, of course, the Sisters' Keep, that strange and foreboding manse that was the lair of the Assassin's Guild. All had their wardens and their guards and glyphs, though some were more feared than others.

Standing in its own grounds, surrounded by its own walls and protected by its own sentinels, both natural and arcane, stood House Varro, one of the thirteen Great Houses of the Dark Elves.