Caledonian Britain, 161 AD
Taran mac Talorgan cursed himself for a fool on a fool’s errand. If there was no witch’s hovel on this moor by daylight, then there was no witch’s hovel here on a moonless night, and in particular on a moonless night when the mist that wasn’t quite rain was giving the autumn chill fangs of iron. Except, of course, that when you were looking for magic far stronger than disappearing hovels, you needed to be exactly that fool.
Taran’s own shadow appeared suddenly in front of him, and his hand dropped to his sword hilt as he turned toward the light source. He found himself facing an open doorway into a small building that had certainly not been there moments before. An old woman was silhouetted against the light.
“Well,” the woman said. “And what would the king of the Picts be wanting with the likes of me?”
“I seek a boon from under the hill,” Taran answered.
Taran couldn’t see the woman’s face, but he heard the smile in her voice. “Then you had best come in,” she said.
The witch’s house was warm and bright with light from the large stone hearth that dominated the wall opposite the door. The woman led Taran to a stool near the fire, then filled two mugs from a hearth-warmed jug and gave one to Taran. She seated herself facing her guest, and took a sip from her mug. She met Taran’s eyes and said, “So you’ve found you way to the home of Aethlan Goblin-child. Now tell me your story.”
“I seek a boon from under the hill, and you seem to be my best chance of getting it.”
Aethlan didn’t quite roll her eyes. “And the leaves turn red in the fall, and water is wet when it isn’t frozen.” She took another sip from her mug. “You’ll be wanting to at least taste that, by the way. It’s best when it’s either hot or cold, and there’s no point waiting until it’s neither.” She stared at Taran pointedly, and he took a sip of what turned out to be very good warm mead. “Now, here’s the way this works. You tell me what you want, and why. And IF I am willing to help you, we will negotiate the price of my aid, paid in advance. And once that is done, if we get that far, I will carry your request to the Queen-under-the-Hill, and if she grants me an audience, and she agrees to help you, she will set a price for her aid. And if and when you pay what she wants, you’ll get your boon.”
Taran almost smiled. “I pay in advance. Twice.”
Aethlan shrugged. “First, you tell me why. You have to make me interested, and you have to give me reason to believe I can make the Queen-under-the-Hill interested. So tell on.”
“I was in Eboracum… Spying, and thinking about ways to deal with the Romans that weren’t suicidal, when I chanced on one of my people– a Pict, but not a man I knew– arguing with a Roman merchant. The Pict claimed he had been cheated, and the Roman slapped his face, and the Pict punched the Roman in the mouth, knocking out one of his teeth. And then some soldiers stepped in, and questions were asked, and the soldiers led the Pict away. I assumed that… Roman city, Roman law, Roman citizen, but it was just a tooth. And the ancient law is an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. Except… the next day I found that same man outside the walls, tied to cross, dying of thirst and exhaustion.”
Taran took another sip of mead. “That man, whose ancestors have lived on this island since time out of mind, was executed as a slave because he did minor permanent harm to a Roman citizen. It has to stop.”
Aethlan shrugged. “You are a king. Bring your complaint to Rome on the battlefield.”
Taran shook his head. “Warriors win battles, but wars… Wars are fought in the heart.”
“So what do you want?”
“I want… The land below the old wall is lost, I think. But this new wall… The land between the walls is MINE, and I want them out of it. I want the Roman heart to fear the land between the walls in a way that makes them withdraw from it, and THAT can’t be done with force of arms.”
“I repeat,” Aethlan said. “What do you WANT?”
“I want the nice, new fortress in the middle of the northern wall to disappear into the earth overnight.”
Aethlan stared impassively at Taran for a moment, and then she began to smile, and then grin, and then she laughed. “You have large dreams for the king of a small country.”
“Is it possible?”
“Perhaps. But the more important question is, Is it worthy? I think it is. And, if you meet my price, I am willing to carry this to the Queen-under-the-Hill.”
“And we are back to price.”
“Indeed. Do you have any idea how alone I am, young King? My mother was a Pict, and my father was from under the hill, and I am welcome nowhere. I have minor magics, but I have no standing anywhere. I want you to change that.”
“I… will do what I can among my people, but… acceptance is not a thing that can be ordered. And I have no power under the hill.”
“Oh, but you do, Taran Pict-King. My price, specifically, is that you spend this night in my bed, and acknowledge the son that you sire as your heir.”
Taran’s mouth fell open. He blinked several times, took a long drink of mead, and eventually stammered, “Is that even possible?”
Aethlan scowled and said, “Close your eyes.”
“What?!?”
Aethlan sighed. “I am going to show you my true form, and it is not… healthy… to watch a glamour rise or fall. So close your eyes.”
Taran responded with a raised eyebrow, then did as requested. When Aethlan told him to open his eyes a moment later, he was facing a different woman. She was much younger, her pupils were slitted like a cat’s, her ears were decidedly pointed, her skin was somewhat darker, and her nose had a definite hook.
“This is who I am,” Aethlan said. “I do not age. I can walk the faerie roads. I have some talent for glamourie. And I have enough control over what takes place within my own body to ensure that conception will occur, and that the child will be male. The biology is trivial. The prize, the thing that will give me standing to address the Queen-under-the-Hill, is your oath that you will make my son heir to your crown.”
“That… is not a small thing.”
“I know this.”
Taran took a long drink of lukewarm mead and looked directly into Aethlan’s eyes. “But it is a fair price, and I will meet it. I so swear.”
Aethlan smiled. “Well, then, Taran Pict-King, welcome to my home, and the hospitality of my house.”
/////
Taran returned to Aethlan’s cabin two days later as the sun was setting. Aethan had told him that he would have no trouble finding the cabin, as it would recognize him, and seemed to like him. He told himself that he had concerns that were more important and less sane than sentient disappearing cabins, and convinced himself not to worry about it when her words proved true. Aethlan greeted him at the door. She was smiling, but there was sadness in her face. “Greetings, Taran mac Talorgan,” she said. “Come in, and be welcome.”
“Did the cabin announce me?” Taran asked.
“Perhaps.”
Taran took his place by the fire; Aethlan again served warm mead, and took her place opposite him.
“Well?” Taran asked.
Aethlan looked in Taran’s eyes, then looked down and spoke quietly. “I was given my audience, and made your case, and the Queen-under-the-Hill answered.”
“That sounds like a no.”
Aethlan shook her head. “She set a price that I don’t want you to pay.”
“Shouldn’t I decide that?”
Aethlan sighed. “My stake in this depends on your living long enough to pass your crown to our son. If you die attempting to meet this price, I will have nothing, and you will be dead, and the world will be poorer for it.”
“Again, my choice. And I would like to know what it is.”
“There is an ogre. He is a man-and-a-half tall, and weighs as much as six men. You must kill him and bring his heart to the Queen-under-the-Hill. But it will all take place under the hill, so all of your weapons must be living or once-living.”
“I need to beat him to death with a wooden club, and then cut out his heart with a bone knife?”
“Most likely.”
“And here I thought this was going to be difficult.”
Aethlan snorted. “It’s a fool’s errand. She is entertaining herself at our expense. You will die, and I will return to my exile.” Her head drooped and she stared into the mug she held in both her hands.
“The Queen thinks I can do it.”
“Excuse me?”
“She could have said no, or she could have set an impossible non-fatal task. An absolutely fatal task is a breach of hospitality, so she must think I can actually do this.”
“So it’s only highly probable that you’ll die.”
“I’m the king of an outlawed country on the Roman border. Highly probable death means not dead yet.”
Aethlan shrugged. “I should not complain. I had two days to dream of something better.”
Taran stared at her and stroked his chin for a long moment, then said, “Marry me.”
“WHAT?!?”
“It will spoil the Queen’s jest. You can put on a human face and be part of my family for several decades, at least. Our son will likely never be king, if I am dead, but he will have a home and a family, and so will you.”
“But… Why?”
“You’re intelligent; you didn’t lie about the Queen’s price when you wanted to, so you have honor, and you’re carrying my child. Why do I need more reason?”
“But you will fight the ogre.”
“It’s the path I’m on. It’s the right thing to do.”
It was Aethlan’s turn to stare at Taran, but he stared right back at her. Finally she said, “My husband is a fool.”
“But he is your husband.”
“Yes.”
/////
Several days were spent announcing the fact of Taran’s marriage, and introducing Aethlan, in human guise, to various people who mattered. Eventually Taran decided that obligations had been met, and it was time to address the ogre.
In spite of Aethlan’s misgivings, or perhaps because of them, she was meticulous in her planning. A block of yew was shaped into a well-balanced club; and the horn of an aurochs was made into a knife. A short leash with an eye at either end was made of braided leather cord. Aethlan put a great deal of effort into making a blindfold for Taran that was as comfortable and secure as possible, because mortal minds tended to break when confronted with the landscape of the faerie roads.
They spent several days wandering the faerie roads, looking for the ogre’s cave. They were always leashed together, because there was a good chance Taran would be lost forever if they were separated even for a moment, but they often held hands as well. They talked quietly and enjoyed each other’s company in spite of the circumstances. When their supplies were half gone, they turned around– and were back in the sunlit lands in half a day.
They were tired and sulky as they returned to Aethlan’s cabin. They ate a meal that pointedly did NOT consist of hardtack, jerky, and stale water, and they slept. Their morning meal was mostly silent, but when it was over, Taran said, “I think I know where we went wrong.”
“Do you, now?”
“You’ve said that the faerie roads– everything under the hill– work on will rather than substance. You find your way to a place because you WANT to find your way.”
“Assuming no counter influence, yes.”
“But you never really wanted to find the ogre’s cave. You don’t personally care about striking a blow against Rome, you are convinced that the ogre will kill me, and you very much want me alive.”
“That’s not… No, that is true. And the better I know you, the more true it is.”
“Your estimation of my chances is degrading?”
Aethlan didn’t quite snarl. “My fondness for my fool of a husband is increasing. Or it was.”
“Yes. But I DO want to find the ogre, and while we were wandering, there were many times when I felt the road pulling us one way when you took us another. And that stopped completely once we turned around and headed back to the sunlight.”
“So you think you can navigate the faerie roads alone, then? While blindfolded?”
“Of course not. But… When a ship is bound in for Londinium, she heaves to off the mouth of the Thames and takes on a local pilot, and the pilot navigates the ship up the river. The captain is still the captain, he is still responsible, but the pilot knows the hazards of the river.”
“So you want me to play pilot to your captain.”
“Yes.”
“Fine. It might even work. But first admit that you’ve grown fond of me.”
Taran smiled. “There is absolutely no one, under the hill or above it, with whom I would rather share a meal of hardtack, jerky, and stale water, while blindfolded.”
Aethlan threw back her head and laughed.
/////
“There’s a light up ahead, on the right,” Aethlan said.
“It feels right. That might be it,” Taran answered.
“What do your counting beads say?”
“Just over twenty-three thousand.”
“So not quite half a day. And we wandered for eight days last time.”
“Ambivalence is a lousy navigator.”
“So it would seem. I think we’re right. Put your hands on my shoulders to cross the threshold.” Taran did so, and they walked carefully for a half dozen steps. “Well, then. Let me take the blindfold.”
Taran opened his eyes carefully, and found himself in a round chamber about five paces across. The walls, floor, and ceiling were made of something that looked a great deal like Roman concrete, except that all of it was glowing faintly. There was an opening on one side which Taran’s helpful brain identified as “coffin-sized” that led to utter blackness, and an opening on the other side that led to a corridor made of the glowing stone. Aethlan indicated the blackness and said, “There are the faerie roads, so this,” she pointed to the corridor, “Must lead to the ogre.”
Taran nodded. “And if the ogre is as described, he won’t fit through that opening. Which means it’s lunchtime.”
“Is it now? Hardtack and jerky on the threshold of death?”
“Where better? Also, a swallow of brandy for each of us.”
“My fool of a husband is the soul of hospitality.”
“Your fool of a husband has greatly enjoyed being married to you, and looks forward to several decades of more of the same.”
Aethlan scowled. “Just eat your hardtack, and come back to me.”
/////
The corridor led to another round chamber very similar the first one, though it was twice as large and had only the doorway in which he stood. And, of course, there was the ogre sitting cross-legged in the center of the room, staring alertly at his new guest.
“Are you man or beast?” Taran asked loudly.
“I am Foolkiller, and I exist at the whim of the Queen-under-the-Hill,” the creature answered.
“What are you DOING?” Aethlan hissed over Taran’s shoulder.
Taran didn’t look away from the ogre, but said quietly, “Negotiating with my conscience.”
“Twice the fool, then,” Aethlan said.
“Perhaps. It is my road; let me walk it,” Taran said softly, and then, louder, “And what will you do if I walk away, and refuse to fight you?”
“I will wait, and kill the next the next fool that the Queen sends to me.”
“Happy now?” Aethlan asked.
Taran still did not look away from the ogre. “My conscience is satisfied. *I* am about to pick a fight with a half ton of ogre while I am armed only with a stick, so ‘happy’ is not my first choice of words.”
Aethlan made an exasperated noise and said, “Don’t die.”
“Not today,” Taran said, and crossed the threshold.
The ogre rose to his feet with a grace that belied his bulk, and Taran began a slow spiral to his right. Foolkiller knew exactly the speed and reach of his own hands, and Taran knew his own survival depended on learning those things without being caught. Eventually the ogre lunged, and Taran managed to strike one of the creature’s hands as he dodged.
The fight quickly became a well-defined dance. Taran would edge in, Foolkiller would snatch at him with one or both hands, and Taran would land a minor strike while dodging. Over time, Taran managed to strike hands, wrists, elbows, feet, ankles, and knees. It was clear that the strikes hurt, but also clear that they did no real damage. Foolkiller claimed that he would never tire, that he could not tire. Taran could only hope that the creature was lying.
As the dance continued, Taran took inventory. He had to land a blow that the creature cared about, and that meant hitting the ogre in either the groin or the head. The first was a suicidal target, and the second was out of reach… The only landmark in the arena was the doorway, which had several panels of decorative facing. Taran identified something that might be a knee-level step, and something else that might be a waist-level step, and if the ogre were in exactly the right place…
Taunt, dodge, strike. Strike, dodge, withdraw. Taunt, taunt, dodge, strike… Taran painstakingly led Foolkiller to exactly the right place, to the right of the door, facing right, just over one ogre-length from the wall…
Taran pivoted to the right and sprung to the wall, right foot at knee level, left foot at shoulder level, pivot right and leap, knowing that if he had guessed wrong the ogre would have him with both hands and the fight would be over. Fate was kind, and Taran landed a double-handed backhand blow to Foolkiller’s nose that absorbed all of Taran’s momentum, causing him to fall straight down.
The ogre’s hand’s went up to cover his injured face; Taran landed between the creature’s feet and rolled back onto his shoulders to deliver a double footed kick into Foolkiller’s groin. The creature doubled over, and Taran rolled to the side, sprang to his feet, and delivered a double-handed overhand blow to the base of the ogre’s skull, and the creature fell to his knees.
Foolkiller went limp after the second blow to the base of his skull, but Taran kept hammering until Aethlan shouted at him to stop, by which time there was little left of the ogre’s head but pulp. After Taran had caught his breath, they each grabbed one of the creature’s hands and pulled his torso back over his hips to expose his chest, and then Taran performed the grisly task of removing the ogre’s heart. Once it had been removed, the ogre’s heart obligingly transformed into a fist-sized lump of black rock, and the ogre’s body faded to nothing, leaving Taran still covered in ogre ichor.
“I think,” Aethlan said with a smile, “That this means we should go home and wash before bringing our prize to the Queen-under-the-Hill.” Taran just scowled in reply.
/////
The journey back to Aethlan’s cabin took even less time than the outbound trip. They had barely removed their packs when there was a knock at the door; Aethlan looked at Taran in alarm and said, “The house did not warn me that anyone was coming.” Taran picked up his cudgel and stood ready beside the door as Aethlan opened it.
The man at the door was tall and lithe; he had cat’s eyes, pointed ears, and a decidedly hooked nose. Aethlan stood back to let him enter, and Taran just stared. “I bring greetings from the Queen-under-the-Hill,” he said. “I have three tasks. First, to collect the Queen’s prize.” Aethlan stood staring, but Taran scrambled to retrieve the black rock from his pack. Once the visitor had the stone, he continued. “Second, to assure you that the thing for which you have asked will occur on the night of the solstice. And third, to wish my daughter congratulations on her marriage.”
/////
At midnight on the night of the winter solstice, the great stone fort in the center of the Antonine Wall, the largest Roman fortification north of Hadrian’s Wall, collapsed into a pile of loose gravel. The men at the gates, and the sentries on the walls of the fort, were able to get clear, but all of the men inside the fort were fatally buried alive. Once the dust cleared, the rubble was found to be piled in a disturbingly neat cone, and at the top of the pile was a large stone which had not been part of the fort. Inscribed on this stone were the words, Terra ipsa Romam odit. Which is to say, “The land itself hates Rome.”
/////
The Romans began construction on the Antonine Wall in 142 AD; they completed it in 154 AD, and abandoned it in 162 AD, leaving Hadrian’s Wall as the northern boundary of the empire. They never again tried to annex the land north of Hadrian’s Wall.
P.D. Haynie
November 11, 2022